#listen these will be rough and ready and not polished at all

[sugarpasteltmnt]

Purgatory Paradise: 'Paradise'

[Read it here on AO3]

The first one-shot of “Purgatory Paradise”, the post-‘The Neon Void’ series has been posted!!

This series will be way more relaxed than TNV with no plot or posting schedule, but please enjoy the fluff!

[zara-renata]

Even the rocks on the roadside in the N109 Zone could tell | ao3 | part 11 the Sylus series

Summary:

"How could you tell I was nervous?" -mc, phone call with Sylus "Remote Support" Sylus makes one final miscalculation. You wake up from a nightmare in a place you weren't ready to revisit. Sylus has to reckon with the inevitable consequences of how he treated you when you first met him, but you're paying the higher price.

Notes:

Sylus x gn reader, Sylus x mc, second person POV, some Kieran and Luke POV Slow burn, enemies-to-friends-to-lovers This story contains: grief, angst, a panic attack, self-destructive behavior, threatened violence (both real [against other characters] and imagined [against mc]), reference to in-game violence on Sylus's part, mc with PTSD, mc with self-esteem issues and negative self-talk, hurt/comfort, a shampoo epiphany This is probably the lowest point in their relationship, and has the least amount of comedy of the series. But Sylus's bullshit from their beginning needs to be addressed before true love can really take off.

You’re here again. You think you’ve always been here, and any other memory is the dream. You have always been here, in this echoing house, the worn floorboards under your feet, still polished, still perfect for sliding along on socked feet, competing to see who can careen down the hall and hit the door at the end first. You have gotten so many bruises from slamming into the door at the wrong angle, but every one was worth it, to collapse with Caleb into a fit of laughter at the end. Even when he lost, and hit you instead of the door, slamming your body back into the door a second time—doubling your chances of concussion, as your grandmother would scold afterwards. But you’re not wearing socks now, and no matter how far you walk, the door at the end never comes closer. The closed doors lining the hall approach and pass with your steady booted stride, landmarks that offer no guidance at all.

You look back on the fever dreams of what you thought was your real life until you found yourself here, in this place again. The first time you reached out and clasped Xavier’s hand in yours, pulling him to his feet, trying to help him brush off the dirt from his beautiful white battle gear. Being held in his arms as the shimmering starlight of his evol lifted you both into the air to safety. Offering him a bite of your snack, watching his normally placid face light up with pleasure at the taste.

The first time you startled Rafayel off of his stupid, unsafe ladder. Walking barefoot with him along a deserted beach, the warm water sweeping over your ankles. Picking up seashells, and asking him if this one would fit in with his jumbled collection of knick knacks contained in his chaotic studio? Coming upon an eel trapped in the sand at low tide, the only sign of life an occasional gasp for oxygen—watching him carefully dig it out of the sand and release it back into the water. It swam away energetically. He said it was a dumb little eel, and would just get stuck again with the next low tide. You told him that you’d both just have to come back often to ensure that wouldn’t happen. 

The first time you saw Zayne again as an adult, crisp white lab coat over the broad shoulders of a man, so incongruous to your memory of the narrow shoulders of a little boy. His achingly gentle touch, when he listened to your heartbeat through the stethoscope, how he inexplicably held your wrist in his soft fingers to count your pulse instead of using the fingertip monitor. How he kept the flowers you gave him on the windowsill in his office and shook his head every time he had to stitch your wounds.

And … Sylus. 

The first time he held you bound before him, the glow in his eye blinding as he ransacked your soul with all the care of a corrupt cop. How his rough palm wrapped around your throat, and the paralyzing strength with which he tightened his hold. The suffocation, and the hate, and the fear, crushing your breath. The first time he called you a disappointment. All of those things, and everything after—the soft caress of his hand in your hair, his warm body wrapped around yours. Those achingly gentle faux memories, not even dreams, probably. Just daydreams, fantasies born from the pathetic need to be held gently again, in the way you hope someone held you as a child before you lost your memories.

Because you’re here again. And it feels so timeless, and so real, compared to these other faded memories. You must have always been here. You hear someone cutting an apple, the dull thunk of the knife hitting the butcher block, the juices misting with each snick. You press your ear against every door you pass. He’s so close. You’re sure of it. You lift your steel-toed boot and slam the flat of your foot into the next door in this endless hallway. It doesn’t even rattle. You kick it, again, and again. You’re sweating. Your head is pounding. You’re losing your breath and you can’t feel your legs anymore. You kick again. And again. And again. With what little breath you have left, you start to scream, the tears and the snot running down your face. He’s right there. If you’re strong enough. If you’re persistent enough. You can get to him. You can break yourself out of this nightmare, if you’re just enough. 

You scream, and you scream, and you kick, and you kick, until your throat gives out.

You wake up, and the scream from your dream is just a whimper in your throat. Your legs are asleep from how your body is folded in on itself, lying in what seems to be a bed.

You wake up in the dark.

You have no idea where you are.

Your heart is pounding in your chest, a jackhammer in the cracked cement of your body.

Your hair, your face, the pillow, the sheets on the bed you’re lying, what you’re wearing—wet. Sweat. Tears slipping from the corner of your eyes into the hair at your temples.

Where the fuck are you?

You sit up, wince at the tingling returning to your legs. Feel along the bed. Nothing. Your hand finally hits something smooth and hard. You pat around, find the base of what you hope is a lamp, let your hand drift up. You switch on the light.

Impossibly, your heart begins to beat even harder. No. No. You don’t want to be here. You aren’t ready to be here. As long as you see Sylus anywhere else—on the street, in a crowded club, in your apartment, even in your bed, you can keep the memories squashed deep, deep down with all the other things that frighten you, that cause you pain, and you can handle being near him. But you can’t reconcile your memories from this place with the memories of being swayed gently in his arms in a crowd, the tender touches on your couch, your bed, a glass of water held to soft lips, your head pillowed against a strong chest with a steadily beating heart as you fall asleep.

You can’t be here.

You crawl to the edge of the bed, land on bare feet on a plush rug over a cold marble floor. The room is empty. The bookshelves, the imposing desk in the corner, the chaise lounge at the foot of the bed, the black leather armchairs and marble topped coffee table. The dark walls, the record player. You recognize each and every object, although you have refused to return here in your mind since you were allowed to leave. You could walk through here blindfolded. You wish you were blindfolded.

The thin sweater you find yourself wearing is soaked through with sweat. You shiver in the air of Sylus’s silent bedroom. You swivel your head, searching for your own clothes. For your boots. Nothing. You don’t want to go deeper into his room, away from the door, an exit, toward the bathroom and his huge walk-in closet for your clothes, or even to borrow more of his. You want out. You can live without shoes. You can’t live if your heart explodes from the panic clawing its way up your throat.

You silently slip out of his bedroom into one of the echoing corridors of his base, with its deep maroon paneled walls and marble floors, the dense gloom of the N109 zone filtering through the huge windows lining this hallway. You remember every single detail. You hear nothing. Just the thundering of your heart. You stride through the labyrinthine halls, the high ceilings soaring above you along with the elaborate, savage designs of the chandeliers. You avoid going near the dining hall or the kitchen or the den or living room, sticking to the outer edges of the wing you know will lead you to the front door. To the way out of this place filling you with so much dread you could collapse under the weight if you falter for even a stuttered heartbeat.

Miraculously, you make it without seeing a single soul. You turn the gothic monstrosity of one of the double front door handles, fully expecting it to be locked from the inside, but it shifts easily in your hand. You open it only as far as necessary to squeeze your shivering body between the doors and let it close softly behind you.

The night is cold. It’s autumn now, after all. Since there are no natural trees in the N109 zone, the wind gusts unchecked against your already cold body. Sylus’s base sits on a cliff overlooking the valley of the N109 zone with its towering skyscrapers thrusting into the perpetual night like crystalline stalagmites in a vast cave. His house is accessible only by a long and winding road up the hillside. A proper villain’s lair. It’s going to be a long walk through the cold and dark if you don’t figure something else out.

You hate yourself, for your tendency to make assumptions. For not asking enough questions. For refusing to think about all the things that you should keep in the forefront of your mind every single second of every single day. Why had you assumed that Sylus was taking you to a hotel to wait for the evol linkage to dissipate? Why didn’t it occur to your stupid ass that he’d take you to his fortified base, where he is the safest, where it doesn’t cost him any money, where it is his home, since you were already in the N109 zone at Amnesia?

You just fell asleep in his big fucking tank like an idiot, without asking a damn thing.

You will deserve the walk ahead of you. Hopefully it will be what you need to never forget again that this man is using you for his own purposes, and probably every single thing he has done up to this point has been to further his goals involving his need for your resonance. After all, the shopkeeper made it plain from the very beginning: you can’t resonate with someone who frightens you. Someone you dislike. Someone who disgusts you. Sylus has never disgusted you. Quite the opposite, unfortunately. But fear and hate, individually, are probably sufficient to block whatever it is in you that allows you to connect to another in such an intimate way.

And what’s the best way to get someone to stop hating you? To stop being afraid of you? Determine what they need the most, and then give it to them.

Your insomnia. Your desperate loneliness, always there, under your skin, for as long as you can remember, but amplified in the aftermath of losing your family. Your craving for human touch and connection, the kind of touch and connection you can’t bring yourself to ask of your friends. That you can’t stand to seek in strangers anymore, after so many failures.

And of course, Sylus has known what you so desperately want, since the very first night you met him. Your mind drifts to your hand, wrapped securely in his. To him pulling you against him, and reading you bedtime stories about indemnification and allocation of risk and remedies in case of breach. To his soft kisses along your shoulder. How many times did he drop in at your place after he released you from his base? Three? It’s only taken three evenings to accomplish his plan that probably began with the deal about the brooch. Lull you into complacency, acquire your affection instead of your hate, and your willing help instead of your fear. Three evenings, to replace him choking you until you blacked out. To replace … everything that came after.

You look down at your bare feet and bare legs. You can survive this. You can survive anything.

You make an inventory of your current situation. You’re barefoot. Unarmed. Soaked in sweat, and the wind is gusting. You don’t have your phone. But you do have your Hunter’s watch. That’s enough. You’ll get far enough away from the base to avoid Sylus or his minions alerting to your absence and finding you outside, call for help, find some shelter, and wait for someone to come pick you up. You recall that the landscape along the winding road leading up to Sylus’s base is fairly isolated. You gamble that there won’t be anyone coming all the way up here at this time of night.

Once you’re home, you will be able to think straight. When your heart isn’t jackrabbiting in your chest. When this jittery feeling, like you can run a marathon without breaking a sweat, isn’t coursing through your pounding veins. When the lingering despair from the nightmare about your grandmother’s house has faded to the tolerable thrum of grief you’re used to these days. And you will uphold your end of the deal with Sylus. You meant it, when you let the coin decide. You can be as resolute in your decisions as he is. You will be his friend. Why, when you know that most of his behavior toward you is calculated, manufactured—a talented forgery? Because Sylus is very good at getting what he wants. He wanted your affection, and your willing help. And he has been successful in acquiring it, despite your best efforts to resist his charm. You’re honest enough to admit that to yourself. And what even is friendship, if you expect something in return? He may only be able to think of friendship in transactional, cost-benefit, return-on-investment terms, but you don’t want to live that way. Despite your best efforts, you like him so terribly much, and that’s the beginning and end of it. 

You will help him with his love, for whatever your help is worth, and you’ll finally wipe the slate clean. You just need… you just need your heart to stop for a minute. That’s all. And that can’t happen here, in the place where Sylus treated you more honestly than he has ever treated you since you were allowed to leave.

You take a deep breath and begin to jog. You can survive this. You can survive anything.

***

After being thoroughly entertained at Amnesia by Sylus’s Hunter, Luke and Kieran finally managed to dump Noah with Linda after settling the terms of their bet regarding how long they think it will take their boss to successfully woo the object of his unhinged obsession.

The one rule: no interference that could tip the odds one way or the other. Luke, Kieran and Noah must act as neutral observers of the hilarious conundrum their boss finds himself in regarding the highly skilled, highly oblivious Hunter not being able to see what is obvious to anyone who has the unfortunate opportunity of being within a five kilometer radius of the two of them: that Sylus is head over heels, and so is the Hunter.

Each concerned party committed to upholding this sacred rule of non-intervention. Each of them lied through their teeth while making such a commitment. But Luke and Kieran can tell that countering whatever Noah will likely come up with to drag out this complicated courtship will require all of their combined talents to ensure the odds remain in their favor, and that Sylus will convince the Hunter to accept him sooner rather than later.

Luckily for them, this shitshow is a win-win situation. As long as Sylus is happy, Luke and Kieran are happy. And they can tell, the Hunter is already making Sylus happy. They can see it in how drastically his mood has improved ever since the protocore auction. He no longer vacillates between the few emotions he has shown in the years they’ve known him—rage, utter boredom, and the worst: an unsettling blankness. A cavalier attitude regarding whether he lives or dies, whether he wakes up in the morning or not, whether his heart is beating or at a standstill. He’ll sometimes make off-hand comments about the banality of just… surviving, of waking up to find that he’s still alive and being utterly indifferent to that fact. Every time he says shit like that, shivers run down Luke and Kieran’s spines. They’d much rather he punch holes in walls in a fit of rage or blow up buildings out of boredom than encounter him when he’s at his most… empty.

But ever since the auction, the twins have seen a veritable rainbow of emotions clear as a Linkon City’s sunny afternoon on their boss’s otherwise impassive face. Amusement. Worry. Fascination. Yearning. Pining. Longing. Craving. 

“Luke, I’m truly proud of you for actually reading the thesaurus,” Kieran says from behind the steering wheel of their sleek, powerful muscle car. It was a present from Sylus. He claimed it was a bonus for their help in a particularly ugly business feud that ended up in more corpses than anticipated, but they both thought it was hilarious that the “bonus” arrived on the exact date of their latest birthday. Their boss really is the best.

“Thanks, man. It was like, really mind-blowing to learn how many words there are for Boss’s thirst for his pet.” Luke leans back in the sexy black leather bucket seat and enjoys the seat heating. Tonight is the coldest it’s been this fall. He fiddles with the sound system.

Kieran swats his hand away. “Driver’s choice. You know the rules.”

Luke pouts. “I’m not in the mood for Bach. Boring. I want Rachmaninov.”

“You don’t need to get wound up this close to home. It’ll take forever for you to settle down if you listen to Rachmaninov right now, and we really need to get some sleep. I have a feeling we’re about to get really busy with how distracted Boss is going to be with the Hunter.” He drums his fingers along the steering wheel. “He’s going to need all the help he can get.” 

“Ugh, fiiine.” Luke hunches further into the comfy seat and stares out the windshield, watching as the bright headlamps slice through the dark gloom, lighting up a swath of the deserted road leading up to their home. Suddenly, he jolts in the seat.

“What the fuck—”

“Is that—?”

“The Hunter, yeah—”

“And, what the fuck—”

“Yeah, no shoes—”

“Call—”

“Boss. On it.”

Luke already has his phone clutched in his hand, and the ringing fills the car through the sophisticated sound system Sylus ensured the car had, along with the fastest, strongest engine for this model on the market.

Kieran watches the Hunter disappear in the rearview mirror, while simultaneously slowing the car as quickly as possible without making excessive noise that could spook the Hunter.

Sylus’s deep voice suddenly fills the car. “Speak.”

“Uh, Boss?”

“Who else, Luke?” Sylus says dryly. “Speak.” 

“Do you know where your Hunter is?”

The line is silent for a beat. “I left Kitten in my bed, asleep, while I went to take care of some paperwork in the study.” He pauses. “Is there a reason you’re asking me this?” Anyone who didn’t know their boss like they do would think his tone of voice was indifferent. But all Luke and Kieran hear is a spike of worry.

“Uh, I’m pretty sure we just passed someone on the hillside road to base who looks, like, a scary amount like your Hunter. With no shoes on. Or coat.” Luke winces in anticipation of their boss’s response.

The line goes dead.

Kieran has slowed the car sufficiently to be able to pull a u-turn without tires screeching, and expertly swings the car around. He cuts the headlights, counting on the light from the blood-red moon to provide sufficient visibility. He then accelerates until he has the Hunter in view, and slowly follows the lonely figure, ready to provide protection until their boss can arrive and take the situation in hand. Luke and Kieran can tell that whatever you’re experiencing, this is not a situation that they are equipped to handle, and if they come up too quickly behind you, they’re worried you will bolt off-road and be even more difficult to collect again. They really, really hope you don’t notice their presence behind you until Sylus arrives.

***

Fuck. You’re being followed. And you haven’t found one damned area along the roadside that looks like it could serve as good cover since leaving Sylus’s long, convoluted driveway, because this region is a lifeless wasteland of bare dirt and rock and only small outcroppings of earth along the hill’s descent.

You didn’t remember it being so desolate. Probably because you were just so relieved to be escaping with your life, you were looking at the world through rose-colored glasses and failed to notice that the area leading up to Sylus’s base is as hospitable as the N109 zone’s red, red moon.

You had stiffened, almost pausing in your steady jog along the roadside as a sleek, sexy car that looked like it was built for racing came careening around a bend in the road, the two figures in it just silhouettes behind the blinding headlights as they roared past in a huge gust of wind and gravel. You had hoped, with all of your wildly out-of-control heart, that they were just business associates heading to the base for a meeting or something, and that whoever was in that vehicle wouldn’t recognize you or care about a lone nutcase going for a middle-of-the-night run in the middle of nowhere.

But you’re a highly trained Hunter, and you’ve gotten more sleep lately. Without turning around, you can tell that the same car is following behind you, which would be alarming enough, without the fact that whoever’s driving it is trying to be a sneaky shit with the headlights off. As if you can’t hear the purring of that sweet engine even over the strong wind. Idiots.

Your mind races. You have no weapon. You don’t even have shoes. Surprise is the only means of gaining an advantage. You half-turn, wrap your arms around your stomach and drop into a crouch, as if your stomach hurts and you can’t keep jogging because of the pain. Head down, you watch out of your peripheral as the car keeps slowly approaching in the dark. You let one arm drop from your waist on your side not in view from the car, and feel around on the ground until you find what you’re looking for. Then you wait.

When the car is only just a couple meters from you, you launch yourself from your crouched position and sprint directly at it. Its brakes screech as the driver is taken by surprise, but it’s too late. You’ve already vaulted from the hood onto the roof, and you’ve brought the heavy, dense rock clutched in your hand as hard as you can against the driver’s window. As it shatters, you reach through the now open space with your other hand and grab the driver by the throat, half pulling him out of the tinkling window frame. You hold the rock high above your head.

“Why the fuck are you following me,” you bite out through clenched teeth.

You hear the other car door open, but remain focused on the person you have by the throat.

“Don’t come any closer or I will make your friend unrecognizable for identification at the autopsy,” you snarl. You see the other person freeze in your peripheral vision.

You return your focus to the driver. Staring into his grimacing face, you see a young man, one you don’t recognize. He has a riot of floppy dark curls, shaved to a sharp fade on the sides and back of his head. His big dark eyes reflect the light of the red moon as they dart all over your face. He takes a deep breath.

“If I told you that you do not have anything to fear from me, or my brother, would you kindly put me down?” he asks in a voice that sounds alarmingly familiar. Your stomach cramps almost as painfully as your heart has been for the past hour. Without letting go of the driver’s throat, you turn and look at the man standing at the open passenger door, looking back at you with the same face as the man you have in your grip.

You let go, and Kieran sinks back into the car with a grunt. You scramble off the car roof and back away from it.

Just as you’re about to apologize, you see headlights cutting through the dark. You’re suddenly overcome with the wish that Sylus had killed you when you first met, because you can’t imagine how he’s going to react now, when he sees that you assaulted his employee and damaged his property with the rock that is now falling out of your nerveless hand.

You want to turn and run. You want to put this fucking night behind you. You hate that you’ve been thinking that so often lately. Every single time, you just want the night to be over. You’re so tired. Your heart won’t fucking stop doing that horrible thing in your chest, and you still feel like you need to run until you collapse to make it stop. But you’ve learned by now that there is no running from Sylus. Not in any way that matters. So you just stand there, waiting for the hammer to fall.

Thankfully, he doesn’t appear to enjoy toying with his prey tonight, because he quickly comes to a stop and parks the tank behind the twins’ car. He gracefully climbs down from the driver’s seat, slams the car door, and strides up to Kieran’s side, his black biker boots with the chains crunching on the broken glass. You wince with each footfall. He leans down and looks at Kieran. “You good?”

You can’t hear Kieran’s response, but you see Sylus nod and straighten. He gestures for Luke to get in the car, who obeys without comment. He then taps the roof firmly, twice, and strides toward you as Kieran pulls the car into the road, hangs an efficient u-turn, and disappears into the night.

You close your eyes and wait for Sylus to… you’re not sure? Hit you? Slam you with his evol? You brace yourself. Just because he’s been affectionate up until now, even through you throwing the duffel at him in front of an audience, doesn’t mean he’ll suffer you hurting his employees for no good reason. It doesn’t matter that this is the first time you've ever seen them without their masks on, and that it felt incredibly threatening as they followed you, for some unfathomable reason, with their damn headlights off.

Sure, you could fight back. Try to block his blow. But at this point, you feel like you fucking deserve it. You want to punch yourself in the face for hurting Kieran. You don’t know him, but he’s never been mean to you. The worst he’s ever done is give you a flare gun and pretend a pair of handcuffs could magically restrict Sylus’s evol. He didn’t deserve to be scared half to death and choked through a broken window because of his earlier prank. It occurs to you now that maybe stalking you with the headlights off was the twins’ idea of another prank? And you broke their car window and choked one of them. For fuck’s sake, at this point, you’ll welcome Sylus’s fist.

But instead of the hit you’re still bracing for, you jerk a little when you feel the heavy weight of a warm coat being draped around your shivering body.

You open your eyes. Sylus stands in front of you, wearing a thick cable knit sweater.

“If you wanted to go for a run, sweetheart, you could have just told me. We have a perfectly functional home gym, equipped with treadmills with big screens that make you feel like you’re running on a serene mountain path or along the beach. There’s no need to endure the desolation of the N109 zone’s ‘scenery’ when you’re here with me but want to work out.”

You just stare at him. 

“What’s wrong? Crow’s got your tongue?” One corner of his mouth lifts as he taps the corner of your mouth gently with his index finger.

What the hell is happening? “Are you not mad at me?” you ask, completely at a loss.

“Why would I be mad at you?”

You gesture a little helplessly. “I hurt Kieran. I damaged your property. I interrupted whatever you were doing since you’re now out here instead of back at your home.”

“You didn’t damage my property. The car belongs to Luke and Kieran. Can I touch you?”

“What?” Your heart is a bloody, clenched fist, punching your body from the inside out. Sylus’s apparent calm in the face of all the mess that is you is making you feel like you’re insane.

“I said, can I touch you?” he repeats, as if he has all the patience in the world to repeat questions you clearly heard the first time.

“Like, can you hit me? Or strangle me? You want my permission to give me what I deserve?”

Sylus’ face changes. If you hadn’t been spending so much time recently watching videos on micro expressions and bluffing and acting, you might have missed it. He looks furious for a microsecond, and you want to take a step back. But you deserve whatever it is he’s feeling right now. You force yourself to stay still. You look up into his now neutral, lovely face.

He breathes in through his nostrils. “I will repeat this as many times as you need to hear it,” he says calmly, as the wind sweeps his silver hair across his forehead. Your heart is going to kill you, as you live through the eternity of the pause in this sentence. “I will never, ever hit you. And I will never think that you deserve to be hurt, for anything that you do, or don’t do.”

Okay. Okay, weird. He’ll strangle you, but he won’t hit you? He thought you deserved to be held captive for three days, denied food and water, forced to resonate, but he expects you to believe that he doesn’t want to punish you for fucking up as big as you did tonight? Where is the thin red line here? How can he say that he will never think you deserve to be hurt, when he hurt you so terribly during those first three days?

“Ask your question,” he says, but it’s not a command. It sounds more like a gentle invitation. What alternate reality have you stepped in tonight?

“I don’t understand how your mind works,” you say instead of obeying him.

“If you don’t ask, then you’ll continue not knowing how it works.” He still sounds infinitely patient. “As much as I’d like to, I can’t read your mind. Unless you ask, I won’t always know what you need from me.”

You shiver, even under the warmth of his heavy coat, but can’t bring yourself to answer. You close your eyes against the memory of his calloused hand around your throat. Of him tossing you in front of a huge mecha battlebot, sneering “You can handle it.” Of him telling you to survive the night, or else enjoy your last meal at his table. You open your eyes.

Sylus is watching your face, thumbs hooked in both trouser pockets. He shakes his head a little. “All right. I propose that we go back to the base, and you can pose all your questions there, no strings attached, without you standing out here freezing to death on your bare feet.”

This time you do take a step back, shaking your head. “No. No, nope, no thank you. If you could just dump me somewhere closer to the city, I can just get someone from the Association to pick me up. We can talk another time.”

He watches you closely, and you feel naked, with your heart a sledgehammer against the brittle framework of your ribs, and the sweat still soaking your hair. “Is there a particular reason you’re reluctant to go back home with me?” he finally asks.

You choke a little on a laugh. “You could say that,” you say dryly, with all the calm you can muster through the chaos in your chest.

“Care to share?” 

You’re so tired. You’re so, so tired. None of it seems to matter anymore—whether he hits you, leaves you on the side of the road, or splatters you onto the gravel with his evol. “Do you really not know, Sylus? With all of your insight, do you really need your aether core to figure out why I wouldn’t want to go back to your criminal headquarters?”

“I thought you were getting used to the idea of the criminal aspect of my life,” he says slowly, as if that’s the important part.

“You’re right. I care less and less, every day, that you’re a wanted outlaw. But I really have no interest in reliving the days you spent choking me out and trying to brute force your way into resonating with me,” you murmur, because it’s so hard to say out loud, let alone think about it. You’re shaking. You’re shaking so hard, your bones hurt. Your teeth are chattering. None of these things have anything to do with how cold you are.

Sylus becomes very still, with the red, red moon above him, the wind still gusting through his hair, pulling at his sweater, and the dead earth stretching behind his tall figure.

“Can I touch you?” he asks again. 

Can he touch you? Of course he can. All he has to do is what he has always done. He can just reach out and take what he thinks he deserves from you. As he has done since the first moment you met. But you don’t want to have to give him permission for it. You know you deserve it, but you still have enough of a sliver of self-preservation, or pride, or backbone—something in you refuses to give him this last bit of yourself by being complicit in whatever he wants to inflict on  you right now.

“Can I touch you? Not to hit you. Not to choke you. Not to cause you any pain, in any way, whatsoever.”

You’re so confused. “Then why are you asking for permission, when you’ve never done that before?”

“Because I can see that bringing you to the base tonight, without talking to you about it, when you haven’t been back since our first few days together, was a mistake on my part. I may be many things, but stupid isn’t one of them. I do not intend to make the same mistake more than once.” 

“I was stupid for not asking you where we were going,” you try to protest, although you don’t know why, through your clicking teeth.

“No, you weren’t. You trusted me to take you somewhere you would be comfortable. It was my fault for not considering that you would not feel safe in my home because of the way we began.” His voice sounds so resolute.

You just look down at your toes.

“Can I, please, touch you?” he asks, yet again, but this time he sounds a little strained.

Now that you know he’s not going to try to hurt you, you can finally nod. As soon as you start to bob your head, you feel yourself swept into the air, his strong arm under your knees, the other under your shoulders, and he holds you tightly, so that your face is tucked into his throat.

He carries you to the tank and manages to get the door open without letting you go, but instead of putting you on the passenger seat, he sets you on one of the bench seats further back in the vehicle, pulls the door shut behind himself, and sits next to you. He pauses, taking you in from head to toe, and then leans forward next to the driver’s seat and fiddles with something on the dash screen. He then sits back and pulls you onto his lap. Apparently, he hadn’t turned off the vehicle when he first arrived, because it’s so warm in here. He rests his hand, somehow still warm after standing out in the cold, against your heart.

“I know you want to go home right now. But it’s over an hour away. You need to get warmed up sooner rather than later. Do you trust me enough to allow me to take you back to base until you’re no longer shaking so hard it’s vibrating the whole armored vehicle?” he speaks, lips against your wet hair.

“It’s a tank, Sylus,” you protest, because even now you can't help yourself.

“Do you trust me enough to allow me to take you back to base until you’re no longer shaking so hard it’s vibrating the whole tank?” Sylus murmurs into your hair.

You don’t want to go back there. You just want to close your eyes, and be anywhere else but inside your body right now. Your mind drifts back to how thirsty you were in that house, the house he wants take you now. How thirsty you were, and no water was given. And when the terror would recede and exhaustion seeped into its place, the awareness of your hunger, and no food was given. How did you ever trust him to come near you again? How can he possibly ask you if you trust him enough to take you back there?

But being in his arms like this, despite everything he has done to you, his hand against your broken heart, is calming you in a way that makes trust and choice seem meaningless. You want to just stay right here, in this moment, where the past and the future are just fever dreams, and the only reality is Sylus’s hand, his lips, his chest against your shoulder and side. You want to carve your way into him, force him to carry you inside his skin so you’ll never be cold again. Even though he's the reason you're cold to begin with. You're so tired of this tangled, terrible bond with this terrible man.

And yet. Like always with him, when he's right here, holding you with such fierce tenderness, you find yourself surrendering to the temptation, to the seductive illusion that you’re safe with him, and you let him have whatever he wants.

You just nod, your cheek rubbing against the soft sweater over his clavicle. You feel his chest expand in what might be a relieved sigh, or just exasperation, and the vehicle begins to move. You startle, but he shushes you. “It’s in self-drive mode, we’ll be back in a few minutes.”

You relax again, and the way back is a blur. You don’t want to look, as he lifts you from the car and carries you through the underground garage beneath the base, into the elevator that lifts you to the floor on which his bedroom is located. The same expansive windows, soaring ceilings, subtle light in wall sconces stream by as he strides forward.

“I can walk,” you try to protest, but again, he softly shushes you. 

“No, you can’t.”

“I’m cold, not paralyzed,” you counter, exhausted, amazed you still have the capacity to argue with him.

“Yes, yes, but you haven’t seen your feet. And I have.”

“What?” you lift your head, but he presses your face back into his chest.

“You ran five kilometers without shoes on a semi-paved road, kitten. I’m pretty sure you’re not accustomed to barefoot running, based on the state of your feet.”

You shudder even harder. You hadn’t even noticed the pain.

And then, you’re back in his bedroom. You feel him shift, toeing off his shoes at the threshold. He passes the lounge area, his hulking desk, the bookshelves and the bed, and takes you into the black marble cave of a bathroom you recall from your hunt for the brooch. He sets you on the padded bench thingy that probably has a fancy name that you imagine every rich person has even in their bathrooms and then goes to the walk-in shower and turns on the water. Almost immediately, steam begins to fill the expansive space. He returns and kneels at your feet. 

“Your clothes need to come off,” he says softly, but loud enough that you can still hear him over the spray.

Since you’re back here, the place where you spent so long helpless and trapped, it’s easy to slide right back into that space, but this time you don’t have the energy to even try to help yourself—you just nod again, but don’t move.

Sylus pauses, but then slowly reaches out and slides his coat from your shoulders. Then, so, so gently, he lifts the lower hem of the sweater you’re wearing, knuckles drifting along the sensitive skin of your stomach, and gathers the material under your armpits. With his other hand, he lifts one of your arms and pulls it through and out of the sleeve, and gently rests it back at your side again. He repeats the movement on your other side, and lifts the sweater over your head. Then, with one arm, he scoops you from the bench, gently but efficiently peeling the sleep shorts from your hips and over your legs. You’re left in just your underwear.

He carries you to the shower, the steam warm on your skin, and lowers you on one of the marble benches built into the wall. The water streaming from the shower hits him full on, and his own clothes are soaked through almost immediately. He reaches behind himself and pulls the sweater and undershirt over his head and tosses them back into the bathroom. He then grabs his belt, unbuckling it in practiced moves. Unzips his trousers, slips out of them, tossing them behind him as well. Clad in only a black pair of boxer-briefs, wet hair tarnished silver, he sits next to you on the bench and pulls you onto his lap again, your back to his chest. 

And then… the two of you just sit like that, floating together in a timeless space composed of water, skin, and the steady shush of the shower water. His arms around you are as tight as a straitjacket, securing you against him as if he thinks you’ll dissipate like the steam and drift away if he doesn’t anchor you to his own body. He doesn’t say anything at all. He doesn’t ask anything at all. He just holds you, his cheek resting in your hair, and doesn’t let go.

Slowly, so slowly, your heart slows in your chest. Your body-wracking shivering ebbs in violence, until, finally, you are completely still. Now that your muscles aren’t locked into defending against the convulsions from the cold, and… everything else, you melt into Sylus, head lolling on his chest, the spray of the water soothing everything that hurts, and his steady heartbeat at your back soothing everything else.

But of course, because you’re you, and this life is your life, this peaceful emptiness doesn’t last long. You slowly become aware of the most terrifying need welling up inside you, one you’ve managed to resist since… now that you think about it, since the last time you were in Sylus’s home. You need to fucking cry. 

All of your efforts to avoid this feeling—the terrifying loss of control, the exposure of the weakest part of yourself to yourself, or to another—refusing to speak about the terror and the pain inside you, the terror and pain you carry through every minute of every day, to your friends, to your doctor—all in a desperate bid to keep the floodgates of your tears bolted shut, are crashing onto the shore of this ocean of need. The need to cry. You’ve tried so desperately to avoid it, because once you start, you’re afraid that you will never, ever stop.

But now, being held by this man, who is so deeply threaded into the source of this feeling, somehow triggers the switch in your brain that says safe, safe, you can release the flood behind the gates, and you will not drown, because he’ll hold your head above water, no matter the cost .

You have no idea why your brain thinks this. You can guess why your brain considers a gunshot the same as a bomb, or why your first instinct when approached from behind is threat threat threat, neutralize first, ask questions later . But you cannot fathom for the fucking life of you why your brain sees Sylus and whispers, Shelter. Sustenance. Safety.

You can’t help it. The first tears begin to gather at the edges of your eyes. Your breath quickens, your chest begins to heave with the effort of holding it in. Your face is hot. But despite all of your will focused on not. fucking. crying... the tears begin to fall. At first, silently, but then from deep inside your chest, the sobs clawing their way out of your lungs through your throat, and suddenly you’re howling.

It hurts. It hurts so much. You hate it. You hate that Sylus is here as silent witness to all the weakest parts of yourself. You twist in his arms, straddle his lap. You wrap your arms around his neck and bury your face in his throat, and then you weep. You wail, snot and spit and tears sliding down his chest, because you’re blocking the shower’s spray.

And Sylus? He keeps his arms wrapped around you, his cheek still in your hair, and doesn’t say a thing. After a while, you realize that he has started to shift on the bench, gently rocking you as you fall apart in his arms. One big hand, pressed flat on your back, runs firmly from the top of your spine to your lower back, and then back again. Still anchoring you to him. You feel a low vibration in your chest, under all the other sounds of the loud shower, and realize he’s humming very quietly. You have no idea if he’s humming something in particular. But the feeling in your chest is so soothing, eventually you realize that your sobs, and your tears, have slowed, just as the shivering of your body did while wrapped in his arms.

And then you’re done. You don’t have anything left—just the hollow relief of not being afraid, not shivering, not crying—the relief of not feeling much of anything at all. You try to hold on to it, grasp it in your fists. But like everything else, it slips through your fingers all the same, and you feel the shame come.

Miraculously, the shower water is still hot. It’s beating down on your back, your lowered head, still tucked under Sylus’s chin. You try to sit up, move away, but he just tightens his hold.

“Where do you think you’re going, sweetheart?” he asks, sounding like he has sounded since the end of the auction. Slightly amused. Curious. Infinitely tolerant. 

You can’t say anything. You’re so embarrassed that he just witnessed all of… that. You just want to escape now.

“Hmm?” he murmurs into your hair, to emphasize his question in the face of your refusal to respond. And then, “Why are you always trying to leave me?”

You’re so surprised by the raw vulnerability in his question that you pull back to look into his face. He’s still holding you so tightly, your noses brush. His eyes are wet from the shower spray, droplets clinging in his dark lashes.

“What do you mean?”

“You leaving the base without saying a word is the second time in just one night that you were considering leaving me, without even telling me,” he says evenly, big hand still spread across your back. “Why?”

Suddenly, you’ve had enough. You are so tired of not understanding him, of trying to decipher clues from his inexplicable behavior, the incongruous way he touches you, treats you when you’re at your lowest, compared to how he treated you when you first met. “Why do you even care, Sylus? No amount of utility that I may have for you is worth you putting up with… this,” you gesture to yourself, face twisted in disgust.

“Utility?” he repeats, tilting his head. The hand on your back drifts upward until he has his big palm wrapped around the back of your neck, thumb along the side of your throat, fingers plunging into your hair.

“The dating advice… the resonance,” you remind him, though you don’t know why. You assume he knows exactly what you were referring to, that he’s just buying time to think of an answer that will make you stop asking inconvenient questions.

“You think I’m… ‘putting up’ with you, as you so charmingly phrase it, because I want your help with convincing my beloved that I’m sincere, and because I want you to resonate with me again? Is that what you’re saying?” he summarizes your thoughts.

“Why else would you go to all this trouble to spend so much time on me, when at every turn I end up doing something ridiculous? First, almost having a panic attack at the auction. Then, the very next time we’re out in public together, I make a scene during one of your business meetings. Then, the same night, because I’m just that awesome, I have another panic attack and almost kill one of your employees because I thought they were some human trafficker thinking he had an easy target tonight.”

“Why did you think they were human traffickers?” Sylus asks.

“He was following me with his fucking headlights off in the middle of the night on a deserted road in the N109 zone! What would you have assumed?” you demand, forgetting the whole point of this conversation.

He tilts his head, makes a little moue with his mouth. “Fair enough,” he acknowledges. “And that’s exactly why I’m not mad at you. I didn’t believe for a second that you would attack him for no reason. And, neither did he, by the way. Which is why you’re still in one piece.”

You eye him. “What do you mean?”

Sylus considers you for a moment, and then sighs. “Do you think you’re up to getting washed up before we unpack what you just said? I’ll make us something to eat and we can talk about everything once you’re clean and dry.”

You look down at your fingers, and see that their tips resemble raisins. You’ve made Sylus sit in this shower for at least an hour while you lost your shit. Despite the rich bastard being able to afford never-ending warm water, apparently, you can’t imagine this is how he wanted to spend his version of his evening. You nod.

“Finally, some sense from you,” he smiles slightly, lifting you in his arms. He sets you gently on the shower floor, and grabs a bottle from the built-in shelving containing a bunch of shower products. He kneels in front of you, his broad back blocking the spray from hitting your face. Despite the heat in the room, you shiver as he reaches toward you, as you feel his fingers slide from your calf to your ankle. Your brain stalls out and you can’t bring yourself to protest as he lifts your leg and gently foams some fragrance-free soap, and as delicately as possible washes the now-stinging sole of your foot. He gently lowers it back to the shower’s marble floor, and does the same with your other foot. When he’s done, he simply holds your foot in his palm, looking at it contemplatively, thumb running along the skin near your ankle. 

After a few moments, he eyes your face, and then his gaze drifts to your hair.

“I probably suck at washing someone else’s hair. Can you teach me how to do yours?”

You start shaking your head. “I may have hurt my feet, but I’m still capable of washing my own hair. You really don’t have to do this for me,” you begin, but he shakes his head.

“Just indulge me. Please.” He looks steadily at you. Something about the way he says please, and the fact that it’s the second time tonight he’s asked you so earnestly for your permission to touch you, has you nodding, again. 

He gently squeezes your foot, and then moves to get a few more bottles from the veritable drugstore he has stashed in the shower shelves. He then kneels back at your side and shows you, to your amazement, the same products that are sitting in your own shower back home. “Show me how you use these,” he says.

You stare at the bottles. Then you stare at his face. His eyes seem to gleam through the shower steam.

“Why—?” you ask, but he just shrugs.

“I was hoping you’d visit me,” he says nonchalantly, like it’s the most normal thing in the world for him to stock all of his friends’ personal hygiene products in his bedroom’s en suite bathroom.

Your mind drifts over all of the assumptions you’ve held about this man since you met him. All of the assumptions that have been utterly incorrect. You think about your assumption that he was dreaming about someone else, as he was biting your neck. You think about your assumption that the person he was describing in the Lethe lounge was someone else—anyone else, either one of your friends, a fellow Hunter, or someone you don’t even know. You think about the deal he made with you tonight—the help he says he needs in convincing someone that his feelings are sincere. Someone who refuses to consider that he doesn’t have an ulterior motive in treating them with kindness. In spending time with them. In devoting his precious free time to caring for them. Your gaze drifts between the bottles of the mid-range shampoo and conditioner he’s holding in his strong hands, because you can’t afford the really fancy shit you would really like to splurge on but you have too much pride to just buy the stuff from the grocery store. 

You understand the nature of tools. You work with tools every day in your job. Your knives, your swords, your guns. You maintain your tools with a diligence that others may consider fanatical, but which you know will help you survive, in the end. A whet stone, to sharpen your blades. Gun brush and oil, to clean and ensure the weapon doesn’t jam when you need it the most. These things are essential in caring for your most useful possessions. 

If you are a tool, the only things Sylus needs to maintain your utility are an absence of fear, your willingness to help him, the strength of your body in being well rested and well fed. Everything he has done up till now could be interpreted as serving the purpose of maintaining a tool he intends to use in the future. But a tool doesn’t have to be attractive. A tool doesn’t need clean, well-moisturized hair to function. The cosmetics of the thing are irrelevant, as long as it can efficiently serve its purpose. But you also know that Sylus likes shiny things. He likes the best, finest things. But if he wanted you to be as attractive as possible for aesthetic purposes, he could have bought the expensive, top-of-the shelf products that you’re sure he buys for himself if he was hoping you’d visit and inexplicably be showering in his bathroom. But no. He bought the products that you use. That you’re used to. That he knows you like because you had bought them for yourself. You cannot understand how the presence of your own shampoo and conditioner in his shower could serve any of the purposes of an owner maintaining the utility of a tool. 

You look back up into his face, and he’s looking at you patiently, but also with an eagerness to get started on helping you with your hair. Aside from everything else—how you started, how he treated you in this house—you don’t dare believe that the assumptions you’ve been making up until now are wrong. You aren’t ready to handle the emotional devastation if you begin to hope that the person Sylus wants in his life is… not someone else, only to find out that such an assumption is also wrong. You can’t. You can’t, not yet.

So you just gesture at the shampoo. “I start with this.” 

He sets the conditioner down. You proceed to tell him how you take care of your hair, and he follows your instructions silently, with a clumsy obedience that is incredibly endearing. His fingers along your scalp are so soothing, you melt into him as he washes your hair, your back to his chest. When he’s done, he takes the same care with the conditioner, touching you like you’re made of the most delicate blown glass instead of the scratched and scuffed stainless steel you imagine yourself to be.

When he’s done, he withdraws his hands from your hair and says next to your ear, “I’ll leave you to finish washing up. Towels and clothes will be on the bench. Call for me, and I’ll bandage your feet.”

And then you’re alone, with the water still beating down on your chest and shoulders. You peel off your underwear, and just sit there, knees drawn to your chest, letting the soothing heat stream down your back.

Your mind drifts. Again, you think of his calloused hand around your throat. You think of him sneering that you’re such a disappointment. You think of the thirst, and the hunger. You think about him dragging you across the floor with his evol, every time you tried to claw your way of the room where he forced you to resonate, over and over again.

You think about his embrace as you danced at the auction, your clasped hands as he let you decide when to detonate the bombs before you slipped into a panic attack. You think about the first time you fell asleep with him, on the back of his motorcycle. You think of a pot of poisonous flowers, wine the color of his eyes in a glass held to your mouth, his hands in your hair tonight.

You know that you can’t continue like this. Something has to give. You can’t be his friend, while being terrified of your memories of him. You need to do what he has asked and ask him questions, so that you can finally reconcile the man who just washed your feet so tenderly with the man who suggested cutting off your hand to break the linkage between you the first time the energy shackles bound you two together. The man who brings you wine, and more food than you could eat in a week, with the man who starved you for days.

You slowly get to your feet, wincing at the pain in your soles. You must have cut your feet up pretty bad, but you don’t want to look. You hobble to the shelves and let your hand drift over the array of neatly organized bottles. Your hair products are the only familiar products. Everything looks fancy as hell, with minimal branding, dark and masculine. You find body wash, and squeeze some onto your palm. The scent of citrus rises to your nose—you’ve finally found the source of oranges you sometimes detect on Sylus’s skin. You eagerly lather the soap between your hands and quickly cover your body with it.

When you’re done rinsing, you hobble out of the shower and find the towel and clothes stacked neatly just as Sylus had described. You even find the same type of towel you use specifically on your hair. You wrap it around your head, slip into the silky tank top, shorts and robe, and sit for a moment, elbows on your knees. You see yourself in one of the huge mirrors above the large sink and counter. You look so fucking tired. It’s time. You can’t keep shoving everything down, down deep. You need answers.

“Sylus,” you call. You wait. He appears in the doorway, leans his long body against door frame, shirtless with black silken pants hung low on his waist, warm looking slippers on his big feet.

"Yes, my dearest treasure?"

You laugh a little at the absurd endearment. Somehow, even when you're feeling at your worst, he always manages to make you laugh. It would be so easy, to close your eyes. To pretend that the way you began with him was the dream, that his gentle touch and silly endearments are the real Sylus. The only Sylus. But you're tired of lying to yourself. If you try to shove it all down, down deep, what happened tonight will only repeat itself, in possibly worse ways. You need to find a way forward, a way to realign the conflicting images of Sylus, to sift through them like mirages in the desert. You'd rather see him clearly, from his most malignant to his most tender selves, than continue to be lost between your horrific memories from those first three days and how he's looking at you right now. As if you're somehow precious to him. You take a deep breath.

 “Can we talk?”

[blkgirl-writing]

hi!! i just read your massive headcanon list for gale (loved it btw) and i desperately need one astarion as well!! ❤️

Astarions Massive list of SFW and NSFW headcanons (Part 1?)

Literally of course!! I wasn’t sure the people wanted this so I was waiting for a request. I’m bundling a lot of my astarion requests in this one too so if you see an ask you did it’s probably inspired!

TW: Acended Astarion section, details on physical and mental abuse there. I will put a warning for where it starts and ends. Some headcanons are more illuded to "female" anatomy, not all headcanons will reveal much

Astarion is somehow so soft with his touch yet rough and almost feral when he really desires you

He will trace every inch of your body with such light, soft fingers, but grab onto your hips tight and nearly thrust you into him. Gently kiss you neck before sinking his teeth into your skin

Because honestly his true desires, wants, and needs, are unfiltered and less calculated than his normal affair

─── ･ ��ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

TW START

I do have to include acended astarion here because I don’t want to write him fully, so here’s that section. I feel like too many people want acended Astarion to be loving and caring. That unfortunately isn't the truth of the cycle of abuse

It doesn’t last, his love for you. It extinguishes fast, like water to a flame. He becomes cold and controlling

The only was I can see a happy future for tav and Astarion ascended is a Durge, where you rule the land together, ignoring the heart you once had together. It’s lots of bickering. If chaos is your turn on, this is it

Lots of hate sex and screaming matches. At least one per month where you both loose your voice before the argument ends and red marks across eachothers bodies

And honestly, I think one of you kills the other, in a fit of rage. But still whoever dies would get a grave stone. Small, unlabeled, a sort of revenge for the people who wanted it all. Forced in a common place with no success flaunted and easily forgotten

TW ENDED

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Astarion holds hand in his sleep, rather than cuddling

A hand is all he needs to feel like he’s in the safest place in the world

Full spooning is just too intimate and personal until much later In your relationship. He wasn’t ready for something so real yet

There's a lot of pushing and pulling til he gets comfortable, but he will always make sure you know that he loves you and wants your touch, there's a lot of learning along the way

He just hasn't experienced the seriousness of true love and compassion for someone he truly feels he can't lose. It's scary, loving so much that your death would lead to his emotional one, if not physically as well

Astarion would never admit it but he would do just about anything for you

he becomes somewhat soft, which, initially annoys him, but he finally accepts it after a few weeks

He realized when you looked at him, with brightness in your eyes, asking him something important, he really wasn't listening

All he could think was to never make those eyes cry again, he'd do anything to stop you from feeling like that again

Your first date isn't very planned

After a fun but quick night on the beach, you get clothed and Astarion stares at you, taking all of your skin in, as it slowly gets hidden by clothing. A bit of a shame, he couldn't see you bare all the time

There was a blanket and you both lay on it for some time, in silence. Slowly, you feel his pinky finger graise yours. You hook them together, and simply watch the moon in the sky, fading in and out of sleep. Astarion doesn't get any closer or further, but he does sigh a few times

And for the first time, when you wake up, he's still there

Your second date was much more of a traditional date, at least for you two

Astarion had the bright idea to sneak as much alcohol as possible from the inn

feet dipped in the cold water of the docks, four bottles of quality whiskey polished off, and working on a fifth, you were positively hammered

Astarions head was leaning on your shoulder, arm slumped around your waist

the laughing and mumbled words only get louder and louder with each sip, and at some point, Astarion looks up at you, a small glint of his sharp teeth peering out of a smirk, and he leans into you further, pressing his lips against yours doe a deep kiss

it was almost aromatic. A charm whispered in your ear that made his lips taste like roses and sugar, with a hint of copper, you feel your own tongue lick his bottom lip, needing more of whatever that taste was

the night was a blur, after that. Too drunk to really remember much the next day, but you both knew there wasn't going back after that. There was a bond, now, with feelings more than just lust and need

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Astarion fucking you feels like getting close to a campfire, warm, hot, even, like getting any closer may kill you, pounding and scraping, biting and bleeding, breath thick and hot

When you fuck Astarion, everything feels light, it flows like water over a riverbed, he lets you ravish him in a gentle, caring sense

His attention is all over you, but your neck clearly has his attention-grabbing the back of your neck, kisses down it, bite marks, hickeys, licks, even cum, sometimes, purposefully dripped on your face, but mostly on your neck and collarbone

It definitely also is just a very obvious placement, it can show that you fuck, he fucks you, and you love it. It gets to the point where there are faded bruises, bite marks, and scratches littering across your whole neck, it almost looks like tattoos, and a few passersby comment on it.

Astarion had a very smug smile on his face that day, and that night he ravished you with more passion than ever before

What else can I say, Astarion fucks, but I do think once you really start your relationship, there's a lot of re-learning of what he really wants

so sex starts off fairly vanilla, adding stuff in, changing it out, uses of safe words and communication being key, a safe, loving space between you and him where he is never used and he never uses you, it's just pleasure and ecstasy

I believe he'd be open to a closed relationship as well, at least for a while, especially if you choose the path of the underdark for your future

Literally not even once do you wear protection either lol

It's messed up so TW, I have a feeling Cazador made sure Astarion could never procreate, giving him an attachment to anyone is dangerous, and something to fight for even more so. Having his own offspring would never be an option for him

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

There would never be normalcy in your relationship, that's kind of the beauty of it

Every single day is different, there is never a moment that passes with Astarion that isn't unique

Especially when Astarion is adjusting to a life where he has to think and care for another, a routine isn't comforting to him, spontaneity is important in your early relationship

Astarion is still very romantic in his own ways, kissing your fingers hugs from behind, small, light touches across your whole body

The first time you nearly die? my god. He's incredibly distant for a few days

and when you ask what's up he would definitely blow up

like what were you thinking? Going in like that, you could have died! You could have left him alone again

He cries softly in your arms, then, repeats how you could have died. It seems like forever, that he stays there, tears dripping down your skin, cold

From then on he always looks back at you, in battle, before striking, to make sure you're ok, accounted for

------

hey! What other HCs would ya'll like me to add in the next part! I haven't romanced Astarion more than twice so I may need a little help there, haha. But thank you for reading!!

@shyminnie07 @makers-breath @claryvoyantfray @black-sapphic @fapqueen

(Consider supporting me on Ko-fi)

[fizziepopangel]

A Surprise For You, My Dear

* Author’s note: In this story, I’m going to interpret Alastor’s asexuality and aromanticism as more fluid than it seems to be canonically. Also, this is my first fanfic so please keep that in mind if it's shit... That being said, I hope you enjoy!

P.s. If you enjoy this fic, you can always request more with the Fic Request Form

Alastor. The radio demon. Everyone knew the radio demon, and though he had been gone for quite a while, most still feared him upon his return, but not me. Because he was different from me. Softer, kinder, more genuine. It wasn’t a relationship, at least I didn’t think it was, but I still enjoyed my time with Alastor; the dancing, the laughter we both shared, every moment left me in awe of the man that had come to be feared by so many.

“You gonna answer me or not?” Husk snapped, pulling me from my thoughts. 

I tried to cover my embarrassment that struck me when I realized that I hadn’t been listening to the old bartender at all despite having been the one that came and started conversing with the man. I sat up a little straighter and looked over at the bar cat. “Sorry, I… my mind was somewhere else. What did you say?”

Husk rolled his eyes. “I’m goin’ out with Angel tonight but that damn pig of his is sick. I think the little shit got into my whiskey when Angel brought him down here last night. Angel wants to know if you’ll watch him.” He takes a long sip of whiskey in his glass. “So you up for it?”

Although I loved Fat Nuggets and would usually jump at the chance to spend time with the sweet little pig, I shook my head. “Sorry, I have plans with Alastor.” I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face. “Al said he has a surprise for me tonight…”

“Right.” Husk gives me an unimpressed look that seems to say something along the lines of fuck you without outright saying fuck you. “Your boyfriend and your date night.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” I say awkwardly. “I mean.. I don’t think so…I mean, I… I just… I like him but its, it’s…” I sigh deeply, a heat rising in my cheeks. “Shut up, Husk.”

 “Whatever.” Husk says in his usual empty sarcastic tone. “Guess Angel and me’ll just stay in with the pig tonight…” I watch as he turns, grabbing a glass and beginning to polish it with a rag that ironically  didn’t all that clean.

“Oh… sorry, Husk…” I mumble awkwardly, suddenly feeling a bit like a dick for essentially denying the couple a night out. I knew they both deserved it but I just couldn’t bring myself to say that I would cancel on Alastor when he made the night out seem so special. “I…” I trail off for a moment, feeling the other demon’s judging eyes despite his back still being turned to me as he continues to polish glasses on the shelf behind the bar. “I’m gonna go get ready to meet Alastor. I’ll see you later, and maybe I can take Fat Nuggets another time?”

I receive a grunt in reply, but as I get off my barstool, I hear the old demon grumble under his breath…. A simple warning. “Just… Be careful around Alastor, kid…. You been having a rough enough time without his bullshit” He says, not even sparing me a glance as the words left his lips. I promise him I will, knowing that he’s only looking out for me… Husk always told me that, or at least something along those lines…. But this time felt different; this time it sent a spear of anxiety through my chest and made my mind wander to what everyone in hell knew about Alastor versus the Alastor that I knew. The Alastor that I loved despite knowing he probably didn’t and would never feel the same about me… when I really thought about it, I did wonder why the man had taken such a liking to me. I wasn't indebted to him, I had no real power in hell or the hotel, and even I knew that no matter what version of Alastor was on display, he didn't keep people around without a reason. 

My thoughts continued to wander from one shitty thought to the next as I went up to my room to change for our little hang out. I was so lost in the whirlwind of thoughts when a knock at the door jolted me from where I sat in my room.

“Darling,” Alastor’s cheery, sing song voice. “Are you ready to go?”

Despite the fact that I had just been questioning my entire purpose in his life and why my companionship was so valued by him, I practically tripped over my own two feet trying to get to the door. “Al!” I beam the second I see him. “I thought we were supposed to meet up? What are you doing here?”

Sporting his signature smile, the usually detached demon waltzed into my room, grabbing me and spinning me around. “I thought we could make our way to our outing together, hmm?” He says as I giggle. “What do you say, my dear? May I escort you to the roof for your surprise?” Alastor’s smile faded into a warmer grin as he held out his hand in invitation, waiting for me to take it.

When I took his hand and let him lead me through the halls of the hotel toward the roof, it felt as if all at once the anxieties that had been gnawing away at my gut just melted away ... it was like butterflies just swarmed my insides.

“What is this big surprise, Al?" I giggle as he whisks me up to the roof, stopping just outside the door. 

“Now, I know that you've had a rough week, and that you've been absolutely dying to see that new horror film…” He said giddily. “And I've set something up that I think you'll enjoy very much.”

A frown crossed my face for a moment. I had mentioned wanting to see the horror movie that came out last weekend, and I had been pretty having a shitty week, but I wasn’t sure where Alastor was going with this surprise since he wouldn’t dare touch a tv that would stream the movie. “Yeah…?” I laugh lightly as we stand in front of the door. “What, did you find someone to go to the movies with or something?”

“Not quite.” I can actually heat the excitement in his voice as he opens the door and pulls me through it. “What do you think?”

“Alastor…” I breathe, looking around at the rooftop. There’s twinkle lights strung up all over and blankets and pillows and wine sitting and a basket of my favorite snacks all sitting beside a projector pointed at the wall beside the door. “This is…”

“Oh, but wait, there’s more!” Alastor said, his shadow hitting play on the projector. The beginning sequence of the movie I had been dying to see popping up.

My eyes lit up and despite myself, I launched myself into the radio demon’s arms, eliciting a small ‘oof’ from the man before I felt his arms snake around me. “Alastor, this is amazing! I love it!” I looked up at the man who everyone around me seemed so terrified of, the man my friends warned me to be careful around. “Did you really do this for me?”

“Why of course!” The man smiled down at me, pulling me a bit closer than he usually did before his head dipped just a bit lower and I felt him place a soft kiss on my forehead. “I would do anything to make you happy, my sweet little radio wave.” 

My heart stopped for just a moment before it began racing, hammering against my ribcage as the butterflies in my stomach went wild. “Al…” Before I could stop myself, I found my lips connecting with his and despite his usual aversion to touch and romance and anything that could even possibly lead to sex, he pulled me a bit closer. 

When he didn't pull away, it felt like electricity crackling in my veins. I felt like every star in the sky aligned perfectly as he held me. It felt perfect, it felt right. 

Radio static cracked in the air around us and Alastor’s face was just a light shade of red, no doubt mirroring my own embarrassment at what I had just done.

“Well then, “ Alastor cleared his throat, the static seeming to fade a bit as he straightened his jacket and held his hand out to me. "Shall we sit down and watch the movie?” I take his hand and nod wordlessly, afraid that I would ruin what was certainly a perfect moment if I uttered even a word or asked him to define our relationship.

Alastor showed me to my seat on the blanketed area he had set up, I immediately sank into the soft pillows and blankets, and smiled as he sat down beside me. The movie began to play and as the opening credits began to roll, I knew I should at least thank him for all of this since I knew it was a show of care he reserved for only those he loved on some level, but before I could form a coherent sentence, I felt it… His arm snaked around my waist and pulled me closer to his own body.

“I don’t think I could’ve made this anymore perfect if I tried, Al.” I sigh softly, resting my head against his chest and listening to the quiet, steady crackle of radio static that always seemed to emit from the demon. Although he set this movie night up for me, I’m not even watching the movie, but rather, just trying to soak up this moment before it slips away. “Thank you.”

Alastor chuckles, his hand gently coming to rest on my chin. My breath caught in my throat as he leaned in, our lips hovering just apart from one anothers. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, my dear.” The static completely stops and his whisper tickles my lips as he catches them in another soft kiss.

The week had been shitty, but this… This was perfect.

Alastor Tag list : @writersonicfan91

[diamondheartyux]

Jason

Part two of Killer Climaxes

Read Pennywise here

Check out the playlist on Spotify

Mingyu x xreader

Genre: Horror, Smut 18+ only MDNI

Word Count: 8.1K

Warnings: Horror themes, aggression, dubcon\noncon, drowning, sharp objects, blood\possible bloodplay, Non HEA, death, dead dove.

You swung the car door open, stretching your legs as you shifted to scoot your body out of the car to stand on hard ground. You had been driving for hours with your friends. One of your closest friends got it in their head that it would be a fun idea to drive to the old Camp Crystal Lake for the weekend. Crystal Lake had been permanently closed for a few years after the mass murders that occurred over one night. No one survived and now the area was forgotten, the cabins and grounds overgrown with weeds and draped delicately with abandoned spider webs. Even better, there was no cell service or anyone around for miles plus it was Friday the 13th. Rumors swirled that the man responsible for all those deaths came back to the campground every Friday the 13th like clockwork, ready to slay anyone around. Of course, your horror obsessed best friend was all about coming out here to just see.. You lift your arms over your head, reaching up as far as you can to stretch the stiffness in your lower back out and sigh heavily. 

You turn at the sound of a car door closing and watch three of your friends pile out of the car you were in as well as another car loaded with friends pull up, the headlights causing you to squint lightly in the dim, setting sun. You walk to the trunk and pop it open before grabbing bags to cart who knows how far to a cabin. With now fully loaded arms, you turn around to face the car behind you as you listen to the sound of light chatter. Your eyes immediately find Mingyu and a smile ghosts your lips before you quickly straighten them out. He was out of your league. Ever the heartthrob. His skin glowed in the dusk with its golden hue. His wavy, onyx hair was messy, as if he had either just rolled out of bed or ran his hands through it numerous times on the drive here. His pale yellow shirt clung to his chest like a second skin ,the definition of his abs visible through the thin fabric and the entire look was polished off with a pair of jeans and pearls. Fucking pearls. The man was bold and beautiful and he knew it. Your body hums softly at the sight of him and you try to shake it off. Everyone was attracted to Mingyu but not everyone was lucky enough to be with him. You knew your place and it definitely wasn’t underneath him no matter how much your body craved to be. 

His laughter echoed around everyone. His smile is infectious, sparking a grin to splay across your lips again and this time you allow it. You watch him put another friend in a headlock, rubbing the knuckles of his closed fist rapidly against the boy’s head before he gets shoved to the side. You roll your eyes at the display of rough housing and turn to find your best friend, the organizer of this expedition. Her arms were loaded down with equipment: camera, voiceboxes, notebooks, candles, and various herbs. In true nerd fashion, she had a theory that the camp was actually haunted and she wanted to see if she could capture the spirit of Jason on camera. You shake your head as you watch her juggle everything in her hand before she nods in the direction to her right and stomps off.

You follow suit, your arms straining under the weight of the numerous bags you crammed in your hands. You refused to make this trip more than once and between the four of you in one car, there were a lot of bags to carry especially with Ghost Hunter McGee ahead of you. The sun sets deeper into the horizon, the shadows it cast dancing across the worn dirt path you followed. In the distance, the cabins began to appear. Their outlines grew solid the closer you got to them, the wear and tear evident on each one even from the distance you were from them. Your face wrinkles in displeasure at the sight of them. It was already unseasonably warm and just from the sight of these things, it was going to be even warmer inside.

Your arms throb in protest to the weight hanging from them as you approach the first cabin and you note the considerable distance between the five cabins. You drop the load of stuff in your arms at your feet and swing your arms to shake out the ache in them before you make your way around the side of the first cabin to take in the rest of the camp. In the swelling darkness, you can vaguely make out the one furthest away, its outline almost a speck against the horizon. You make your way towards the second cabin and it takes a few minutes before you grace its front door. You twist the knob on the door as it catches causing you to have to lean your body weight against it to force it open. You sigh at the entire ordeal before making your way inside. 

The stale air hits your nose immediately and you cough as you breathe in the dust you disturbed when you had to pry the door open. You pull your shirt over your nose as you wander further inside. There wasn’t much to the cabin. It was an open space scattered with old, rusty beds. The majority were laying on their sides with a few mattresses ripped open, exposing the springs so they were shooting from the tears. A chest of drawers lies on its side as well, with small end tables littered in the pile of forgotten memories. You shuffle around for a moment, picking up the threadbare blankets that lie scattered around the room before you make your way out into the near pitch blackness outside. You head back in the direction of the first cabin, following the thin beams of light now emanating from the front and side of it. 

You hold your hand up to block the light as it swings and lands directly on your face, the brightness making you squint your eyes. The light lowers and you can make out Mingyu’s outline in the reflection of it. He waves his hand toward you, gesturing for you to come gather with everyone else. Lights bounce all around as everyone comes back from their small exploration of the campground. You find your best friend again, always naturally gravitating towards her and stand to her left as you wait for whoever to start making sleeping decisions. You expected to be paired with your friend and another girl you knew pretty well and were comfortable with and that’s exactly who you ended up with. You groan in protest as they both suggest taking the cabin farthest away, the one closest to the lake. Something about needing to be close to the water to catch Jason's spirit since his body is supposed to be anchored to the bottom of the lake. 

You groan in protest and also make sure to verbally express how much you did not want to walk all that way in the dark. Your friend shakes her head and laughs as she treks ahead of you and after what feels like an eternity, you three make it to your cabin. Your best friend sets her stuff down and fights the door for a moment before swinging it out. She takes out her phone and turns the flashlight on, sweeping it across the dark room. This cabin was set up the same as the one you explored. Old beds and nightstands were clustered around the room, some tipped over and some torn. You groan again as you set everything down and walk to the mess of old, decaying furniture. You start to push everything into one corner, opening up the middle of the room. A chest of drawers sits against the far way, its drawers hanging out and some completely missing. You make your way to it, running your hand across the top and cringing as it comes back dirty.   

You run your hand across it to clear a spot to set a few things before going back to the luggage, rummaging to find your sleeping bag. Your other two friends flit around the room,  your bestie directing the other on where to set things up. You roll your eyes as you dig into your luggage again to find an oversized shirt to sleep in. Once you grab one, you quickly shimmy out of your day clothes, flinging your shirt off and stepping out of your pants as fast as you can. You unhook your bra and stuff your dirty clothes back into your belongings before grabbing a flashlight to have near you while you slept. A wave of relief sweeps over you at the freedom your shirt gives, the hem hanging a few inches above your knees. You want to take your socks off but the thought of  your bare feet touching the old, dirty floor beneath you makes you cringe so you slip inside your sleeping bag making sure to tuck your hair underneath you to keep it off the floor as well. You close your eyes and listen to the shuffling around you. You were no help to the paranormal tech master your friend was and you were tired, the hours in the car here having drained your energy. 

You place the flash light by your head just in reach in case you need it. You doubted you would but there was something about being in the open wilderness in the middle of nowhere that made you feel slightly uneasy. Your eyelids droop, growing heavier with each second as you settle against the cool floor. You drift into dreams quickly despite them being plagued with images of the golden skinned god snoozing in a nearby cabin. In your haste to get somewhere to sleep, you missed all the sidelong glances he shot your way, all the wandering eyes and the quickened pace of his heartbeat when he watched you, wishing to cling to you the way your jeans clung to your hips.   

In what feels like merely minutes, something startles you and your eyes fly open to find a darkness equal to the one behind your lids. You listen closely in hopes to figure out what roused you from your much needed slumber when you hear something. A creaking sound, like the wood of the cabin floors groaning in protest at the weight of an intrusion. You shift your eyes to the side, a sliver of moonlight seeping in through the crack in the front door. You freeze when you see an outline pass by it, your imagination immediately jumping to conclusions versus logically remembering there were five other people scattered across the area on this little trip. You work to keep your breathing even as you watch through your peripheral. A beam of soft light suddenly breaks the darkness and you squeeze your eyes shut at it before reopening them. 

You watch as the beam slides across the room, it stopping to illuminate your friend sleeping above you against the back wall. It sweeps across the room again and you shut your eyes as it looms closer before stopping on your face. You work hard to make it look like you’re sleeping as footsteps approach you, a figure now crouching next to you. 

“Hey.” A voice whispers softly. A voice you recognize. 

“Mingyu?” You answer in an equally hushed whisper. A grunt greets your ears in response and you open your eyes, bringing your hand to shield them from his flashlight. He switches it off, the darkness engulfing the room once more. 

“What the hell are you doing, Mingyu?” You ask curiously. You have no idea what time it was or how long you had been asleep just as you had no idea why this hunk was crouched next to you in the middle of the night.

“Hopefully you.” He says, the smirk on his face dancing across the words spewing from his lips. You cock your head to the side before you push yourself up on your elbows. 

“Wha-....” is all you get out before his lips find yours in the darkness. You don't fight it but instead melt under the touch. His mouth is gentle against yours as his body hovers next to you. He pulls back before crawling over you, his body straddling yours momentarily before he catches the zipper to your sleeping bag and tugs it down. It tucks himself inside the snug space before zipping himself up inside it and turns on his side to face you. His hands reach out, one landing on your right side as he tugs you towards him and the other coming to caress your face in the dark. The moonlight outside shines down on the high windows just enough to give you a glimpse of his outline. Your confusion is still present but with every touch of his skin to yours, it melts slowly. Did it matter why THE Kim Mingyu was zipped into your sleeping bag? No, all that mattered was somehow you got a chance you didn't think you had and you weren’t going to squander it. 

You allow him to pull you closer to him, turning your body to face him. His hand drapes across your waist as he brings his lips to yours again. His touch is gentle and tender, enough to ignite a flight of fluttering in your stomach as his mouth brushes your delicately. You pulled yourself against him more as you let your lips dance with his, your hands curled up between the two of you. You uncurl a fist and place it against his chest as his hand across your waist slides down to your hip. His fingers dance against your skin and you melt against his mouth. His movements were soft and gentle, your heart swelling before pounding harder and harder against your ribs. Your eyes flutter close and soon you lose yourself inside his kiss. The sounds of the dark night around you fade and the only thing that remains is him, the sound of his breathing, the feeling of his lips against yours, the way his tongue explores your mouth, the electric feeling his fingers leave behind every time they caress your skin. 

His hands begin to roam more, sliding down your hips dangerously close to the side of your ass before running up to stop at the end of your ribs. Your body begins to ache as the touch wakes as well as feeds a desire inside you. He pulls his mouth from your slowly and the sound of his soft panting dances between the two of you to collide with your own. His silhouette meets your eyes when you open them, the moonlight beaming behind him. His features were muted in the darkness but you could faintly see the corners of his mouth turning up and you could picture the twinkle in his eyes as the smile appeared.  

 “Hi.” he whispers softly with a small laugh and you mimic the sound with a small laugh of your own.

“Hi.” you whisper in return as you watch his shadowy features. Lust bloomed within you in the disguise of affection and you could feel the softness in your features as you watched what bit of his face you could see. Despite the luck of him being cuddled up next to you, you were curious as to why exactly he was here, in your sleeping bag and kissing you like he was your lover.   

“What was that about?” you ask quietly, your voice hushed not to disturb your friends, one of which was a very light sleeper. His fingers find your hips again and begin to caress them tenderly.

“Just something I wanted to do before there wasn’t a chance to anymore. Tomorrow isn’t promised you know.” he answers you and your stomach flips. Something he wanted to do? You had no idea he paid attention to you, much less wanted you in any way. You two were in the same friend circle but your paths rarely crossed outside of that. He was always included in anything you and your friends did and you always found yourself gravitating towards him before eventually, you had to admit you were crushing on him pretty hard.While you spent days and weeks in denial about how you felt, the small things you noticed about Mingyu and brushed away as your delusions were actually real interest. Stolen glances. His eyes naturally gravitating to you in a crowded room. The way he would try to be as close to you as he could be when possible. He was drawn to you from the moment he saw you and you never knew that he spent just as much time fighting what he was feeling as you did. 

 You blush, never having been so thankful for the lack of light as you were right then. Luckily, there was no need for you to think of a response because Mingyu’s face moved closer to yours again before his lips claimed them in another kiss, this one laced with need. You press yourself against his body as you return the near desperation with that of your own. Your lips clash with his over and over before his tongue slips through them to explore. Breathing turns ragged and his hands begin to wander your body, tracing paths along your sides to your thighs and back up to tickle right under your breasts. 

You moan softly, the sound dying between the melee of lips colliding against each other. His hands run down your side again before slipping underneath your oversized shirt. You gasp softly as his touch, his hands warm against your bare skin. His palm sits flat against your stomach as it glides slowly up, little by little, before he brings it to cup your breast. Mingyu paws it gently as he pushes himself against you more, the bulge straining the front of his pants pressing into your stomach. Your stomach flutters and a warmth blooms in your core, heating between your thighs. His mouth never leaves yours and his touch is tender, moving as if you were fragile and quite the contrast to the haste in his kiss. His fingers dance down your stomach, moving gracefully down to slip underneath the thin fabric of your underwear. You moan softly in anticipation of his touch, your core aching as you part your legs slightly. 

His fingers slip down between your folds, rubbing up and down softly before they come to rest on your clit. You sigh softly into his mouth as his fingers begin to draw slow circles, pleasure emanating with every stroke he makes. You push your hips up ever so slightly into his fingers in search of more friction before you grip his shirt in your hands.He dips his fingers down again, slipping them along the wetness of your folds before carefully pushing you inside you. You groan softly, your hips moving to meet his finger as he begins to push it in and out of you slowly. Every inward stroke is driven in as far as he can before curling his finger to swipe your sweet spot. After a moment, he adds a second finger, his strategy still the same. His fingers work in and out of you in soft, subtle movements before they coil and graze your walls. Your body buzzes as each motion strokes the warmth kinking dangerously in your stomach. The sounds he coaxes from you are muffled by his lips, each one jumping from your mouth to his before dying in his throat.

Just as you thought he was going to continue building the raging tsunami lying in wait inside of you, he pulls his fingers from you. His lips leave yours and you bite your lips to stifle the moan of protest dying to escape. He trails soft ,fluttery kisses down the side of your face and to your neck where he spends some time nibbling the spot below your ear. You shudder before leaning your head against his as he begins to continue his journey down your body. He peppers kisses from your neck to your collarbone before kissing a line down between your breasts. He lifts his head before reaching a hand up to unzip your sleeping bag. He tugs the zipper down and tosses the top off of the two of you, the cool air sending a chill across your exposed skin. His head dips back to your skin, picking up where he left off. He moves from between your breasts slowly down your stomach, bringing a hand to rest on your stomach after he pushes your shirt up.

He continues to make his way down, shifting to settle between your legs as he kisses to the top of your mound before he slips his fingers under the sides of your underwear and pulls them down. He tugs them off completely, helping your legs as he removes them before tossing them aside. His hands run up your legs before stopping at your thighs. His fingers gently spread your folds to expose your sensitive nub. He leans down and places a kiss on it before sliding his tongue across it. You shiver and gasp softly before bringing your legs up around his face. He holds you in place with a hand resting gently on your stomach before he dives between your legs and laps at you like he was parched. His tongue flicks across your clit greedily as he buries his face into you. You arch your back before bringing your hands into his hair, fisting tuffs of it in your grasp. You take a breath and hold it as his tongue dances across your clit teasingly. The touch was light but enough to drive you closer to the impending pleasure. Sounds accumulate in your throat, sounds you dare not even whimper in the room with your friends and you swallow them despite how fast they’re produced. Mingyu licks and swirls at your cunt before he brings a slender finger between you and him, sliding it slowly inside you. You gasp and whine softly as he pushes it in and out of you in rhythm with his tongue, playing a tune that brought you closer to the release you craved. Warmth began to boil at your core with every lick of his tongue and curl of his finger. Your hands grip his hair tighter as you buck your hips against his face.

 Your head falls back and your back arches as the pairing of his mouth and fingers stroke you closer and closer as you approach your edge. He moans softly against your pussy and the sound vibrates through you. You squeeze your legs around his head as he slips another finger inside you. He pumps and curls his fingers faster, his tongue picking up pace to match. You bring a hand to your mouth when a cry threatens to slip through your lips as the embers burning in your core erupt into flames, exploding inside you. You  clench his fingers as your body shakes with the waves of pleasure that course through you. His fingers continue as he watches you come apart under his touch. Your body shakes as the last tide washes over you, your orgasm finally subsiding. He pulls his fingers from inside you and brings them to his mouth. He sucks the taste of you from them before he groans softly. He reaches over to grab the sleeping back, folding it back over as he lies down next to you. He pulls your body towards him and you scoot closer. His lips meet yours and you sigh softly at the taste of yourself on his lips. When he pulls away, you snake a hand between you, traveling down to brush the front of his pants. His hand comes to yours, stopping you mid stroke. 

“It’s your turn.” you whisper softly. He kisses the side of your head before whispering in return.

“I don’t need a turn. That was more than enough for tonight for me. Now sleep, it’s been a long day, okay princess.” 

Your stomach flutters at the sound of his voice, the pet name, and you can feel your cheeks heat up. You nod your head in response despite wanting to protest before rolling over on your side to press your back against his chest. As soon as his warmth wraps around you, sleep begins to wash over you. You hadn’t realized how tired you were until after your release, the pleasure relaxing your body entirely. Mingyu’s presence envelops you, creating a safe and cozy atmosphere and within moments, you are deep asleep in his arms, your dreams filled with him and what your future could hold.   

For the second time that night, you wake up to a sound. There was something shrill in the distance and it takes a moment for your mind to register the noise as a scream. But as quickly as you heard it, it fades away. You sit up straight up and survey the room in the moonlight but with the low light, all you can see are outlines of everything. You unzip your sleeping bag and toss it to the side before bringing yourself to stand. You sock feet pad softly to the window across the room, using the moon to light your way to it. You peer out, checking every angle as you swing your head from left to right.The lake shimmers under the moon, its reflection glittering in the movements of the water. The wind kisses the trees causing them to shiver under the touch, their leaves rustling softly. When you don’t see anything, you turn around to return to your sleeping bag, passing it off as your imagination when your sock suddenly meets something damp. And warm.  

You curse under your breath and pad towards your luggage to grab a fresh pair because no way were you about to walk around here barefoot. You stop by your sleeping bag to snag your light and flick it on quickly, covering the end with half of your hand to help control the brightness of it so you won’t disturb your friends. You angle it downward while you walk and when your right foot comes into the beam one step in, you freeze at the sight of red. Your head tilts to the right as you stare at the spot on the toes of your sock and you bring your foot up to move it closer to you. That’s when you notice that everywhere your sock feels warm and wet is red. You bring the light to your other foot and find it red as well. You swing around quickly, dropping your hand from over the end of it and aim it to where you were standing at the window. Your friends' sleeping figures are lit up as the light washes over them on its journey. 

You walk slowly back to the window, your light trained on the dark spot pooled beneath it as a twinge of fear begins to bud in your chest the closer you get. Your first thought was blood but there’s no way, right? You try not to think the worst. You try to reason. An animal got in and left something behind but with your light sleeper friends, surely someone would have woken up to the sounds. You follow the pool with your light, tracing it back to your best friend’s sleeping body and you freeze when you see it surrounding her upper half. You rush to her side, kneeling next to her as you shake her body roughly. Fear buzzes under your skin as her body rocks under your hands. You call her name but she doesn’t answer and when you roll her over on her back, you see it. The wounds in her chest. The lifelessness in her blank stare.

A scream bubbles up in your throat and dies spilling from you in the form of tears on your face. Panic slams into you and your breathing comes in rapid pants. You scramble backwards, dropping your light in the process. Your brain races trying to make sense of what you were seeing. Your tears have turned into full on sobs as you sit frozen staring at the body of your best friend. You finally move after long, drawn out moments pass. You reach out to grab your light and shine it towards your other friend. A gasp leaves your lips when it illuminates her face equally as lifeless as she lays in a puddle of blood. You quickly push yourself to your feet, light in hand, and on shaky legs, you run to the door and pull it open before dashing outside. 

You close the distance between your cabin and the one closest to it quicker than you imagined you would. You swing the door to it open and shine your light around to find the same scene. Amidst the old, rotting furniture are the bodies of your friends, all lying in their own blood, slaughtered in their sleep. You check the other cabins as well, your vision now clouded by the tears pouring from your eyes. You’re met with the same scene in each one and panic surges beneath your skin. You turn and clear the side of the first cabin, unsure of where to go when you realize one person wasn’t among your dead friends. But where was he? Was that the noise you heard earlier? Was it too late? You push yourself back towards your cabin hastily, your legs burning at the exertion. The shimmering surface of the water dances in the breeze as you get closer and in the middle of it, you can make out a figure. A profile you would know anywhere. Mingyu. 

The wind bites your skin as you dash on your wet, socked feet. Your bare legs prickle in the coolness of the night as you run as fast as you can towards him. You don’t stop as the edge of the lake appears but rather than stop, you continue to run into the water until your feet no longer reach the bottom. Mingyu meets you at that moment and you throw your arms and legs around him before burying your face in his shoulder. He wraps his muscular arms around you and carries the two of you back towards the shore as he tries to pry what’s wrong from you between your heaving sobs. 

“Hey, what is it? What’s wrong?” he asks softly, his voice laced with concern as he rubs a hand up and down your back to try and soothe you. 

“They’re-” you force out between sobs. “They’re dead. All of them, Mingyu. They’re all gone.”

He places a kiss to the side of your head gently and squeezes you tightly against him. 

“It’s okay. I’ve got you.” 

You relax a little, despite the anxiety and terror that was still raging as your mind spit out too many questions for you to even keep up with. His arms relax around you as he peppers your head and the side of your face with kisses. You finally lean up to look at him with your tear stained face and something flashes in his eyes. Something you can’t read before he pecks your lips reassuringly. It was so comforting to you given the cocktail of emotions swirling within you and your eyes hold his before he leans in to kiss you again, this time his lips linger. His mouth dances against yours gently before it progresses into something more needy. 

Your lips dance with his as you melt into his body, his arms around you a comforting presence in the midst of chaos. Your hands slide up his chest before slipping around his back. You flex your fingers as if trying to grasp the skin of his back into them. He pulls you closer to him despite the fact that your bodies are flush, his hands roaming your curves. Your lips clash and your tongues intertwine faster with each breath. Your stomach warms with every flit of his fingertips across your skin as your desire buds in your core before pooling between your legs. You moan softly into his mouth and he laps up the sound greedily. Your hands slip from his back, journeying down slowly as you allow your fingers to trace the definition of his muscles that peek through the fabric clinging to his skin. You run them around his hips before gliding them over the round muscles of his ass. As you begin to bring them back up, you feel him tense up before your hand runs over something tucked into his waistband. Your kiss goes from desperate to slow as your fingers trace the object. The end was wide, wooden, and wet and the kiss of small, round metal bites in two small spaces. It curved on the inside before it made way to more metal. That’s when you froze. The realization of what you were feeling and what it meant to be feeling it. There were no knives left at the camp. It had been looted years before after the first set of murders by kids who thought it was cool to own memorabilia tied to tragedy. Your eyes widen as you pull back, your hands coming from around Mingyu’s waist but before you could pull away completely, his hand snaps out and his fingers wrap around your wrist. You stare up at him silently as you put everything together slowly and you begin to tremble.

His eyes flare, a hint of sadness buried within them as he stares down at you. His grip tightens around your wrist painfully and you wince. What you didn’t know was that he didn’t want to do this. No, he wanted to savor you, to have you for a little while to himself but watching you explore the cabins out here in his old campground and seeing you in the one he spent the most time in sent something through him. He thought he could have a taste of you without it awakening the blood thirsty driven lust that he fought to keep buried inside him. It’s why he denied you a chance to give him release because he knew he would topple over and the sadistic drive that bloomed permanently within him would awaken. He didn’t want that so he waited until you were asleep before he crept out silently back to the old kitchen to find the knife he hid in the floorboards the year before.

He snuck into each cabin one by one, shoving his knife into your friends while they slept, the arousal it gave him coursing like electricity in his veins. It would have been simple enough had one of them not woken up to the noise. He chased her past the window where you slept and into the trees surrounding the lake when he finally was able to grab her, her small, soft body rubbing against the aching bulge that strained almost painfully against his pants as she flailed in attempts to escape. Her shrill scream rang out through the night and Mingyu was absolutely certain it would wake you. You, the sole survivor. You, his prize. When it didn’t, he let his anger out on her, puncturing her chest over and over until well after she had stopped breathing. He dragged her body out to the middle of the lake after tying a cinder block around her ankles and he left her there, watching as she floated slowly out of sight under the ink black surface of the water. And that’s when he heard it, the cabin door flying open and so he swam as fast as he could back to shore to be there to swoop you up.

When your body crashed into him, Mingyu almost lost all control then and there. Everything was going so wrong and he was.... sad. But he couldn’t let you go now. He couldn’t let you spill his secret and jeopardize the cover he built for himself. Seeing you wet, your shirt clinging to you like a second skin and the knowledge that when he left, you were completely bare underneath surged his arousal. He pulled you close to him as quickly as he could, his hand still holding your wrist tightly. He leans in and presses his lips against yours forcefully, holding you flush against him as he grinds his hips against your body. You thrash in protest but his grip on you is too strong. When you don’t return his kiss, he spins you around to pin your arm behind your back as he brings his other arm to wrap around your waist to pull you against him. 

You continue your attempts to flee, his arm almost crushing you to keep you against him. He releases your hand to undo his pants and you flail your arms in another attempt. Before you can register what’s happening, a sting blooms in your cheek and you pause in confusion. Your face burns and you press your hand to it to feel warmth as it registers that his hand connected with your cheek. In the time it took for the slap to register, he had shrugged his wet pants and underwear down and his erection stands tall between the two of you. He forces you back against him again, his arm across your waist once again holding you as he uses his free hand to line himself up with your entrance. He uses his body weight to lean you forward as he presses himself into you slowly. A hiss leaves his lips as he slips deeper into you, your warm wet walls clenching him tightly. He groans loudly into the night air before he pulls back, his other hand coming to wrap around your waist. He drives back into you, not wasting any time as he begins to pump wildly.

You lean forward, your body moving under him as you try to fight him. Anger, fear, and hints of arousal swell inside you as they slowly rise in the form of water crowding your vision. You try to elbow him, try to pull away from him but his strong arms hold you in place. Every time you protest, you can hear the flair of his breathing in annoyance so you continue to struggle. His irritation builds and he tries to reel you in by adding more force to his strokes. When you don’t relent, a hand disappears from around your waist momentarily before it swings back around towards your neck. Something cold and sharp bites at your throat and the tears billowing in your eyes slowly begin to crash together as they make their way down your cheek. The action introduces conflict to the battle between your mind and your body. Mingyu rams into you, his knife digging into your throat a little more. His hand slips one time, the blade gliding across your neck a few centimeters and you hiss at the burning it leaves behind before you begin to cry more. He growls low at the sound of your cries and, in one swift motion, flings you around once more before pushing you down into the shallow water. 

You scramble backwards but not fast enough. He drops to his knees, straddling your body as his hand comes to grip your hair painfully. You cry out, more tears flying from your eyes as you watch his head loll back at the sight. His eyes roll and flutter before he rights himself and hovers over you. A hand comes around your throat and shoves you backwards, the water deep enough for your face to submerge if you laid down so you strain against his strength to keep yourself out of it. It laps at your ears, filling inside them instantly as he rams himself back into you. You cry out once more as he moans loudly. His free hand finds your hips and his fingers dig into your skin as he thrusts in and out of you. His hand around your throat squeezes tighter and you gasp as he slowly begins to cut off your oxygen. You look up at him and see the glazed over, dark stare in his eyes reflecting in the moonlight. The bloodlust he worked so hard to bury was winning with every drive he made deep inside of you.

His hand pushes against your throat, shoving your head deeper into the water around you and no matter how hard you strain, you can’t fight. You take a breath as the water pools over your face before you go under completely. His hand tightens, threatening to steal what little oxygen you have as he holds you under. Your arms thrash in protest, coming to claw at his hand when your lungs start to ache and right as you think you can’t hold your breath any longer, he pulls your head up. You gasp, trying to grab as much air as you can before he pushes you under again. Air flows forcefully from your nose as you try to scream despite your better judgment. He pulls you up again and you gasp before a sob escapes your lips. He pounds into you more, faster with each stroke. You claw at his hand and your nails dig into his flesh. He groans when they rip places, leaving white marks that swell instantly with red. Anger flashes across his moonlit eyes and before you can register anything else, he shoves your face back under the water. 

You whip your arms around, still determined to fight when his hand leaves your waist before a sharp, hot pain floods your senses. You scream instinctively, water flooding in your nose and mouth and you choke before he pulls you back up. Your body heaves with your coughs as you work to spew the water infiltrating your lungs while your stomach burns. You sob, the action uncontrollable as you peer down to see the knife you felt sticking out of you. His hand is still wrapped around the handle as he slides in and out of you faster. The sounds of him fill the air, his moans echoing against the slapping of the water against your skin. Your cries ring out in the otherwise quiet night, lost in the breeze that carries them away from the two of you. With each stroke, your will to fight dwindles until he shoves your head under the water again. Instinctively you try anyway despite the exhaustion creeping into your bones. He twists the knife in your stomach slowly, amplifying the burning that was calmed down to a dull ache.

You cry out again, water flooding your mouth again and you gag. Fear slams into you even harder as each breath you take becomes harder. His hand around your throat is so tight that if he doesn’t suffocate you soon then he would no doubt crush your hyoid bone. He rips the knife from your stomach and drops it in the water next to him as he lets up on your throat, pulling you from underwater while he groans loudly. His breathing comes in rapid, shallow pants as you choke and heave at the water flooding your system. Tears cascade down your face as you try to cover your stomach to staunch the crimson river flowing from the wound. Your fingers soon are coated with the warm sticky liquid when he rips them from the gash. He quickly shoves two fingers into the laceration roughly, twisting them around as he pounds against you. You scream as loud as you can, the white hot pain traveling through your system at lightning speed. Your head spins and before you can register it, you’re shoved back under water. 

You keep trying to fight but your system is overwhelmed. The pain, lack of oxygen, and the fatigue pile against you as more water seeps into your nose, crashing through your windpipe to settle in your lungs. His hand at your throat tightens and your vision begins to blur. His fingers come from the cut on your stomach and you can hear the muffled sounds of his breathing. His pants turn into quick moans as he pushes himself in and out of you faster, his strokes growing sloppy as he reaches his edge. The darkness around you grows heavier as Mingyu slowly begins to disappear, the darkness dancing around the edge of your vision creeping closer and closer. Water clogs your ears, further muffling your hearing and the sounds of his climax are muted but you can feel as he slams into you one final time. His head lolls back before it falls forward to stare down on you as his orgasm washes over him. His cock twitches inside you before shooting warm, sticky ropes of his release to coat your walls. His free hand comes to meet the one around his neck, joining its partner as he squeezes your neck as tight as he can before shoving your face under water one last time. The last thing you see is obsidian black around you. The last thing you hear is the muffled sounds of the last bits of your oxygen creeping from the part in your lips. The last thing you feel is the cool kiss of the water as the life left in you flees from your body. 

Mingyu grips your neck maniacally, a frenzied impulse overtaking him. He shudders from the tail end of his release mixed with the sight of your body growing limp. Your blood seeps into the lake around the two of you and he watches as your chest finally stops lifting and falling. Only then does he snap out of the trance he was in. He pulls his hands back quickly, conflict washing over him at the sight of what he did. Disappointment and anguish flood his system as he pulls himself out of your limp body. He works his pants back up painstakingly with one hand as the other holds you in place. Once his clothing is back in place, he reaches down and feels around for the knife. His fingers brush the handle and he snatches it up before pocketing it again. He drags your body back to the shore, leaving you to lie with your feet dangling in the waters edge. He wraps the knife in your limp fingers before he shoves the blade into his side, not deep enough to be fatal but enough to look like there was a struggle. He lifts it in your hand and runs the blade down his face, putting enough pressure on it for it to slice the skin slightly. He winces as it leaves a cut on his cheek but he makes sure it's not enough to scar his handsome face before he runs it against his chest. He frowns as it cuts through the fabric of his favorite shirt before he drops your hand, the knife cluttering to the ground next to you. 

He takes one more look at you, a pang of sadness blossoming before it disappears beneath his emotionless demeanor. He makes his way back to the cabin, rooting through bags and belongings before he finds a set of keys. He tousles his hair as he makes his way to the car, sliding into the front seat slowly. He checks the rearview, noting the cut on his face and smirking with approval as he turns the engine over. He throws the car in reverse, pulling out quickly before barely stopping as he moves the car into drive. He presses the accelerator to the floor, the tires digging into the dirt as he peels off. He flicks the high beams on while he flies down the road to the camp, tires squealing as he makes a sharp turn onto the highway. He heads towards town bypassing every gas station in sight as he makes his way right to the police office where he’ll throw himself from the car and inside with fake tears pouring down his face as he makes up a recount of what happened yet again at Camp Crystal Lake. They’ll wrap him in a cheap, scratchy blanket as he tells them how you killed all your friends on the anniversary of Friday the 13th massacre and he’ll live to repeat the tradition again next year.  

[beomiracles]

「 WATCH MY SIX 」 PART TWO

DREAM RECALL if asked the question — you would describe Hueningkai as beautiful. Not necessarily sexy or even handsome, simply; beautiful. You think it was his beauty that attracted you to him from the start. The day he introduced himself, the day it all began. 

pairings stalker!hueningkai x afab!reader warnings stalking, non-con photography, descriptions of masturbation, pervert!kai, descriptions of injury, descriptions of assault, kai has issues.

#serene adds ✎... ouu I have a love-hate thing for this chapter, but I tried something new at least >.<

› NOTE THAT THE FOLLOWING CHAPTER IS WRITTEN ENTIRELY FROM KAI'S POV !!

Kai didn’t think that he was a bad person, nor was he a violent one. He simply felt his emotions a lot more strongly than others. In a way it would make them the heartless ones and not him. No, Kai wasn’t heartless, his heart was alive and beating — and filled to the brim with his undying love for you. 

Kai knew that he would love you when he first laid eyes on you, he was good at telling feelings like that. It had been a mere coincidence that had led him to you as he on that day decided to cut through the large campus grounds. You easily stood out in the crowd, plaid skirt blowing softly in the wind as you hugged your empty book bag to your chest. Immediately, he knew that you were special. 

But diamonds didn’t simply present themselves as shining rocks, waiting to be found. No, one had to know a diamond when they saw it, claim it and bring it to its full potential. You were exactly what he had been searching for, a rough diamond, ready to be polished. He had to have you. 

“Hi, I’m Hueningkai”.  He approaches you before anyone else has the chance to. He can tell that you’re unfamiliar with the area, the way your eyes shift from the multiple buildings before locking onto his own. You seem hesitant, wary even, as your gaze flickers between his eyes and his outstretched hand. 

When you do finally shake his hand, Kai’s heart flutters, your skin is soft and warm, making it hard for him to let go. You introduce yourself. Kai thinks that your name’s pretty, it suits your delicate frame. 

He tells you that he’s in his third year, majoring in computer science, the lie easily slips past his lips. It wasn’t a complete lie Kai told himself, he had once too, been a student at your college. Before his controversial behavior had got him expelled. He offers to show you around; knowing enough about the school to be able to find his way without much trouble. 

He makes you laugh as he shows you his favorite spots around campus, warning you about certain teachers and the old janitor who seemed to have a thing for the first grade girls. But most importantly, he asks you questions about yourself. Kai wants to know everything about you, though he decides to start small: 

“What are your plans then?” 

Try as he might, to keep his voice from sounding too forward, too eager. You tell him that you want to get a degree in business. Kai admires your ambition but as he asks if you would want to open one of your own you suddenly go silent, chewing on your bottom lip before you give a meek shrug of your shoulders, a quiet “perhaps” leaving your lips. 

Unable to understand why someone as ambitious as yourself failed to have a motive for pursuing such a degree, Kai watches you intently. In fact, he often found his gaze wandering over your soft figure, he knew that you noticed it too, yet you didn’t comment on it. The way you brought your bag closer against your chest, biting the inside of your cheek in a nervous manner as your gaze wandered across the halls. Perhaps you wouldn’t need much polishing after all. 

Kai watches you that day, it’s the first of many days that he will. Walking past the window of your classroom, watching from afar on the court yard, sometimes he would venture inside the large cafeteria, listening to the way your laugh bounced off the walls. You had a very pretty laugh. 

One thing Kai did not like about you were your friends. It was foolish of him to think that he would be able to keep you to himself. People were easily drawn to you, who wouldn’t be? But he had known you first. Yet you seemed to welcome these unfamiliar people into your life without as much as a second thought. Your naivety angered him. Why was it that you wasted your time on such insignificant beings? 

He walks you to the subway, as he would everyday from that day on. You tell him about your day and he listens, your voice like honey to him. He asks questions that he already has the answer to, and you reply truthfully to every single one with much enthusiasm. Then you make your first mistake, you would come to make a lot of mistakes, and Kai would always forgive you.    

“I’ve made quite a few friends as well!” 

Your cheery demeanor is a stark contrast to Kai’s suddenly dark one. Your voice, once a soothing melody to his ears, suddenly sounded like glass being shattered mere inches from his eardrum. He did not wish to know about your friends. They were bad people, Kai knew that, but you didn’t, you were oh so naive. 

His silence makes you frustrated, he doesn’t care. Lips pressed to a thin line to prevent anything he shouldn’t say from slipping past them. He tells himself that you couldn’t possibly understand, that it isn’t your fault. “That’s nice.” Kai is unable to will any sort of emotion to show through and he knows you’re able to pick up on it. 

Upon reaching the small subway you seem awkward, your once cheerful persona tucked away behind the sheepish expression fronting on your face. As you bid him goodbye he stops you, it happens before he has the time to consider it. 

“Can I have your number?” 

Kai had seen you exchanging contact details with your so-called friends. He knew that he needed it as well. You seem hesitant, he doesn’t quite understand why, did you not get along just fine moments ago? He grins as he tilts his head to the side, the small action seemingly winning you over as you hand him your phone. Taking his time to type his number in, his eyes scan your already existing contacts. When he finds nothing out of the ordinary he hands your phone back, this time along with his own number. 

Kai returns home that day with a giddy feeling throughout his whole chest. Tossing his keys on the small table in the hallway, he kicks his shoes off. “Where the fuck have you been all day?” Soobin’s voice calls out from the living room. With a roll of his eyes Kai walks over to greet the older man. “Been running errands”, he shrugs as he rummages through the fridge. 

“I suppose none of those errands will help pay our rent?” Soobin grunts as his eyes remain glued to the Tv screen, fingers moving rapidly over the controller in his hand. With a heavy sigh he slams the door to the fridge shut, a beer in his hand, “I’m working on it”, he mutters as he walks over to take a seat next to the elder on the couch. 

Soobin and Kai had been roommates since Kai’s senior year of highschool, and while Kai tried his luck in college, without much success; Soobin had discarded such an idea years ago. In truth, the older man would be Kai’s only friend, if that was what you could call them. There was little to be enjoyed about Choi Soobin, he was lazy, ungrateful, and quite frankly mean. Spending his days on his ass, either playing violent video games or watching porn. Kai’s nose wrinkled up in disgust at the sheer thought of his roommate's antics. 

He himself was not like that at all, no, he considered himself to be much more civilized when indulging in such fantasies — the women in those pornos were far from realistic, Kai preferred something much more real, like you. He liked how easy you were, naive and dumb, displaying your emotions for the whole world to see, that was what riled him up. 

And as he snapped a couple of photos of you in class, he couldn’t help but marvel at how real you looked; hair pushed back from your face as your pen worked diligently on writing down the professor’s words. The way you bit your lip in concentration, blinked as things made sense in your head, raised your delicate hand to answer a question, lips moving in an inaudible way from his spot by the window. 

He swipes through the many pictures of you, pinching the screen as he zooms in. He would need to take more, but for now these would suffice. Quickly excusing himself to his bedroom, he shuts the door behind him. Kai masturbated a lot to your pictures, everything about you aroused him and it was hard not to. 

With one hand on the phone he finds his favorite photo as his other hand drags along his hard cock languidly. He often imagined the things he would do to you; like telling you about the pictures, even showing you them — he imagines your horrified expression as you find out that he’s been touching himself to your images, the ones he had taken without your consent. The thought of your disgusted face turns him on further. 

Hips stuttering as he spills on his hand, some of it landing on his screen, on your photo… It's mere seconds before he’s hard again. 

 

Kai would wake up early every single day, and every day he would make his way to your college, just to walk you to class. Sometimes he would linger around campus, gazing upon you from afar, other times he would find other ways to occupy himself; but he would always be back to walk you to the subway, every single day. 

You were persistent about introducing him to your friends, the mere thought plagued his mind. Could you not see how bad they were for you? 

“I was thinking…maybe…you would like to join us on friday, we’re going bowling.”

Your voice held a tinge of hesitance and as you spoke your eyes were kept downcast, avoiding his yearning gaze. He found your obliviousness to be endearing as your mind worked overtime to figure out why he avoided your classmates. Keeping a masked expression he wills his gaze to focus on the hallway ahead of you. 

“Who’s us?” he asks, though he of course already knows the names you are about to list. He watches as your expression flickers with a glimmer of hope, hope that he would agree — Kai of course, never would. You quickly hide said hope with a nonchalant shrug of your shoulders, “Me, Sun hee, Nari and probably Eun too”. He can’t help the way his face twitches at the mention of Nari. Out of all your friends, she was who he detested the most. Yet you seemed to be the fondest of her. 

 “I might be busy friday”. He watches you blink dumbfoundedly, a small sigh of acknowledgement leaving your lips. You were disappointed, you wanted him to be there, his heart fluttered at the thought. 

But Kai was indeed busy that friday. 

It turned out to be quite the chore, tailing you all the way to the small bowling arena. In the end he makes it, finding a secluded corner to watch you from. You were good, impressive even, easily scoring higher than your weasley friends. Kai notices that you look different tonight; your hair styled differently, a shiny gloss paints your lips — and you’re wearing a bold dress. Tonight you look far from your usual self and it makes you even more alluring to him. Bringing out his phone he snaps a few quick shots which he would go through upon returning home. 

He watches as you take a seat next to the dark haired girl whom he had quickly grown to loathe. The two of you indulge in a conversation he cannot decipher, casting quick glances toward your other friends in a mischievous manner. Suddenly your expression turns into a defeated one, curiosity tugs at him as he leans forward, peering at your shielded face. What were you talking about? He longed to know.  

Kai follows you home that night, walking a safe distance behind you, the hood of his dark hoodie limits his vision to only you. As the two of you walk together, unbeknownst to you, he realizes that this isn’t enough; Kai needs to get closer to you. He decides that his best approach would have to be a message. 

Setting up a fake identity was hardly troublesome for him, and with much anticipation he sent his very first text. “You looked good tonight.” He’s upfront, short but concise as he gets his point across with one sentence. In a way, it felt as if he was meeting you all over again — the feeling made him giddy. That giddiness soon simmered down to disappointment as he stared at his screen, awaiting your reply. It takes you 27 minutes to read his message, when you do, he immediately perks up. 

Pupils dilating as they follow the three dots moving up and down on the screen. “Who is this?” Your response makes him frown, he had expected a bit of gratitude back, perhaps even a thank you. Your continued obliviousness frustrated him and he began typing out an answer. 

“Did you have fun tonight?” No, he shakes his head as he rephrases the message. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it…” God no, Kai groans as he runs a restless hand through his hair. “I miss you.” “Do you not recognize me?” 

He cringes at his own words, deleting message after message before inevitably giving up. Of all questions you just had to ask that one. As he stares up at the ceiling of his dark room, he vows to keep his second identity a secret, at least for now. A small grin tugging at his lips as he imagines the way your face would drop when he did decide to tell you. It was a most pleasant thought indeed. 

That weekend Kai didn’t text you at all, not even once. It took every ounce in him to hold himself back, fingers instinctively reaching for his phone multiple times throughout the day. But he needed to put space between the two of you, last Friday had been one too close, and as much as he yearned for you; Kai wanted you to feel a similar sense of longing as you awaited his texts. 

But just because he couldn’t talk to you didn’t mean that he couldn’t see you. Kai often found himself lingering by your apartment, fittingly you rented a flat on the first floor, and you never seemed to close your curtains; how foolish, just about anyone could gaze upon you if they so wished to. And Kai did, more than anything. 

From the way you moved throughout the multiple rooms, dressed in nothing but your skimpy pajamas, you were such a tease. He often found his hands wandering down to grope at his hardening cock whenever you would walk around in nothing but a tight towel, clinging to your wet body. His camera roll flooded with images of you performing the most mundane tasks, oblivious to the way your every move entranced him. 

But most of all, he enjoyed seeing your reactions as he wrote to you, the way you chewed on your bottom lip, delicate fingers swiping over the screen as you stared at his message. You never sent a reply, he didn’t mind, at least you read them, it was all the validation Kai needed. 

It soon became a habit for him to check up on you during the day. He would make sure you ate, slept well, studied and so on… And as you never seemed to reject any advances made, Kai grew bolder. He couldn’t help the comments about your friends from slipping past his quick fingers on the keyboard. Besides he was only looking out for you, making sure you didn’t get into any sort of trouble. 

Kai would be lying if he said that the way you kept teasing him didn’t turn him on, immensely. The way you would read and acknowledge every message of his, though you refrained from giving him a reply — yet you chatted with him as if nothing whenever he walked you to class. This game the two of you played was most intriguing to him and the more time he spent in your presence the more he yearned for you when he wasn’t. 

Perhaps he took things too far on that fateful evening. His eyes lingered on your relaxed figure as your eyes lazily flickered across your Tv screen. He thought the message was harmless, the two of you would often discuss movies on your way to class, so what was the harm in doing it over text? 

“The Conjuring? I didn’t take you for a horror enthusiast.” 

His stomach tingles with excitement as he presses the send button. Your phone vibrates on the couch and you don’t hesitate to reach for it. Kai’s eyes remain fixed on your face, watching as your expression morphed from confusion to shock — to horror. Quickly he ducks as your frightened gaze flicks toward his window. This was by far the best reaction he had gauged from you yet. 

As he leans against the brick wall of your apartment, he reaches for his phone once more. But his next message doesn’t go through; you had blocked him. He frowns and as he casts a quick glance toward your window he finds the curtains drawn shut. 

Kai waits for you to unblock him, he waits patiently for two whole days. He’s certain that you will, perhaps a little too certain. Yet you seem completely indifferent as he walks you to class and back. Did you not care for the sake of his messages? This morning, Kai found it particularly hard to let go of you as he insisted on escorting you all the way to the door of your lecture hall. Without having the ability to text you he was forced to rely on the few moments spent in your presence. 

“You got any plans this weekend?” He knows that he has to see you, only you. But it was seemingly impossible; you tell him that you’re meeting up with your friends, those good for nothing lowlifes. They seemed to have laid some sort of claim on you, especially that dark haired one. Kai knew that they had to go, how else would he get you to himself? 

You offer him to tag along, he declines. He knows that his persistent rejections hurt you and he doesn’t want to hurt you, ever, it wasn’t your fault that you couldn’t understand better. That you didn’t know how bad they were for you, that you didn’t know how much Kai did for you. 

As he makes his way off campus he checks his phone once more, you had yet to unblock him and the more time you spent in your friend’s presence, the more he was starting to think you might never will. He’s had enough and as soon as the front door to his apartment slams shut he marches to his bedroom, earning a confused glance from his roommate on the couch. 

Upon opening his laptop, Kai rummages through all the pictures he’d taken of you. He chooses one of his favorites, it’s one of you cooking, wearing nothing but a tight top and a pair of shorts, he still remembers the night he had taken it. He sets up another number and before he has the chance to think he sends the picture. 

At first he’s unsure if he should add something, but what? Perhaps the message would be received the wrong way unless he clarified it somehow. In the end he writes, “Pretty.”, because you were — you were incredibly pretty. You would understand when you saw it; you would understand that he meant no harm. 

It doesn’t take long for you to open his text, his heart races as the small read notification pops up on his screen. You don’t reply, it’s okay, he hadn’t expected much more. What he hadn’t expected though, was the text you sent his usual number. 

“Spending the afternoon with my friends, you don’t need to wait for me after class :)”  

But Kai always met you after class, it was his and your thing. He doesn’t understand why you couldn’t wait to see them until later, why would you prioritize them over him. He had not been oblivious to the fact that your friends posed a rather large threat to his and your relationship, but it was now becoming evident that he had to do something about it. 

Unblinking, Kai stares at his screen as he waits by the gates of your school. Admittedly he was early, but as he scans the grounds once more he suddenly spots you. Clinging to the frame of your dark haired friend as she guides you off campus. He frowns, you look…agonized, pained, sad? The sight stirs an unpleasant feeling in his chest, a feeling he doesn’t know how to process. Why had you lied in your text? You were always honest with him — did you not trust him enough? What had he been doing wrong? 

That night, just like many before, Kai lingers by the outskirts of your apartment. It was nearing 9pm and you had yet to return home — it was a school night, how long could that friend of yours possibly keep you out for? You needed to rest. Soon he grows impatient as he begins pacing your quiet neighborhood. 

It takes about three laps around your building for the realization to dawn on him, but when it does, he feels his senses slipping. You weren’t coming home at all tonight, you were still with her, what the fuck had you told her? More importantly, what the fuck had she told you? 

His fingers work on their own accord as Kai sends message after message, unable to hinder himself, blinded by pure hatred and rage. 

“Why would you tell her about me? About us?” 

“Dirty bitch has nothing to do with it.” 

“Is that why you’re not at home? You’re with her aren’t you, that whore.” 

“You shouldn’t have done that, why did you?” 

“Are you fucking stupid?” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“You’re not stupid.” 

“She is. Good for nothing useless fucking slut.” 

“Come home again.”

“I miss you.” 

As soon as he calls you stupid he regrets his words, you weren’t stupid, you just didn’t see things as clearly as he did, it wasn’t your fault. He quickly apologizes and tells you that he misses you, because he does, more than anything. Kai almost drops his phone when the three dots start moving across the screen, indicating that you were typing. 

“Fuck off.” 

Fuck off? You never cursed. He doesn’t understand why he was the one getting backlashes. It was your friend who was the problem here, not him. Oh but you remained naive. He would have to show you, there was no other way for you to understand. 

And he would, he would show you. 

Kai doesn’t bother waiting for you that following morning, today he was set on a different target. Dark hair swaying in a most irritating manner as she walked, Kai kept his distance as he tailed your friend through school. It was a most tiresome task as the hours passed by slowly. He snaps a picture of her in class, with no additional information he forwards it to you. He would show you. 

3.31pm and she finally leaves campus grounds. How foolish of her to wander alone, Kai thought, yet he relished in how easy she was making things for him. He continues to document his process, it’s almost cinematic; reminding him of those wildlife documentaries. The final moments before the predator strikes the prey who’s blissfully unaware of its destined fate. 

Like clockwork she turns to shortcut through a narrow alleyway. It’s desolate and quiet, he seizes the opportunity. The knife he had brought along  glints in the streaks of sunlight invading the small alley, and as the blade pierces through the ample skin of her shoulder, its once clean edge turns a crimson red. The action rips a pain filled scream from her lungs as she stumbles forward. 

Kai wasn’t a sadist. He did not enjoy hurting others, yet he felt contentment flowing through his veins as the girl beneath him withered in pain. He knew that this was for a good cause, he was finally getting rid of the thing that had been in his way all along, and it left him feeling ecstatic. 

With the heel of his foot, he flips her over on her back. Her expression morphs into one of horrified recognition. She splutters and coughs, thick dark blood mixed with saliva trails down her chin as she wheezes out a raspy, “y-you…”

You had told him her name once, what was it? Ah, Nari. Kai’s expression turned bitter at the sheer thought of her foul name on your lips. Oh, but what a sight, to see her reduced to nothing but blood and flesh, clinging onto life as she pleads for mercy. He takes another round of pictures, making sure to capture the scene before him fully. Finally you would see, finally you would understand. 

It doesn’t take long for him to find you, and with the keys he’d retrieved from your friend’s limp body, he makes his way inside the apartment. The sight before him was almost too good to be true. Hurled up on the floor, your loud cries fill the flat and Kai hurriedly makes his way over to you. 

He pulls your shaking body into his arms, the way he had imagined so many times. Internally sighing as you grasp at his shirt, pulling yourself closer to him. Your lips are puffy, cheeks wet and eyes glossy. Kai doesn’t think you have ever looked more beautiful. Your sobs send tingling sensations through his body as he shivers, he would be lying if he said that the way tears spilled from your eyes didn’t stir a burning desire inside him. 

Carefully he wipes your cheeks, cradling your fragile body in his gentle embrace. Unable to hold himself back, he presses a kiss to your forehead, inhaling the sweet scent of your soft hair as he does. “It’s going to be okay”, he whispers. And it was, he had taken care of your problem, it was all over now, everything would be just fine, you would understand. 

“Kai, I…I think I’m being stalked.” Your voice is a shaky and uncertain as your teary eyes lock onto his. 

Stalked? He almost let a small grin pass his features at your words. You were far too oblivious to his love, it pained him. Kai had not stalked you, he had been confessing, all this time — now all that was left was for you to reciprocate his feelings.

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[krysalla]

vermilion

jonathan crane x f!reader

word count: 2.5k

read on ao3

warnings: 18+ MDNI, stalking, kidnapping, blood, murder, somno, drugging, noncon, masturbation, unfortunately crane is a fucking freak with no sense of boundaries, mentioned child abuse, crane and grandma keeny having a norma and norman bates type relationship, in no way romantic but crane thinks it is because he thinks reader is his twin flame, inspired by a slipknot song

You’re a creature of habit. You leave work at five in the evening, you take the same way home every day except for Mondays—that is when you do your grocery shopping for the week. You go to the library every other Tuesday, to the movies on Wednesdays, go out to dinner by yourself on Thursdays, go to the used bookstore and antique store and occasionally the zoo on Saturdays, and you spend all day on Sundays cleaning and getting ready for the start of your work week. Today is Friday and Fridays are meant for decompression from your week. Since he started watching you all those months ago, you have never once deviated from your Friday routine—you polish off a bottle of Chardonnay, sit curled up in the corner of your couch with a book and a stack of CDs next to you to listen to while you read. You call it quits around ten o’clock, run through the motions of your bedtime routine and slip into bed. 

It is now two in the morning and there has been no trace of you. 

His blood curdles in his veins into a thick sludge of anger and hatred. How dare you? Jonathan has been standing, waiting in this small closet for hours just for you. Have you no consideration for him? To just leave him here with no sign of where you will be going, no note on your calendar where you keep all your appointments, no egregiously long phone calls with your fickle mother or your simpleton friends. He will punish you for this. Remind you that, while his presence in your life may not be fully known to you, you are still his little mouse. 

Your bedroom door bursts open. He cannot see you through the darkness, but he can hear your breathing. You flick on the light and flood the room. Your blouse is hanging on by the hem that’s still tucked into your pencil skirt. He’s missed the touch of your skin, the softness of it, it’s the only thing holding him together now that the ire rising in his throat has been ramped down by the feeling of want. His blood still burns hot and thick. Yes, he can easily forgive you with just the flash of your skin. You’re giving him everything he wants, being a good little mouse. 

Your shower and nighttime routine is cut short by your tired and stilted steps. He can smell the faint traces of alcohol on your mouth when you pass by the slotted door he hides behind. You’re so close. He stills his hand before he can reach for the doorknob. He has been waiting this long, what is another fifteen minutes to the nine hours he has already spent here?

The lights go out and he continues to wait. 

Only when he can hear your even breathing does he spill out from your closet and into your room, slithering to your bed and inviting himself in. Jonathan sits beside you, carefully moving your arm into his lap to have open access to your lovely veins. He takes care not to blow your vein, a mistake he learned not to make again. It left your arm sore and tender and you had no explanation for it and made you suspicious. He is well versed in your body now; he knows how hard and rough he can play with you before he starts leaving marks. 

He breaks your skin with the pierce of a needle and floods your veins with the newest adjustment to his serum. You whine and squirm beneath the covers. It takes you a moment to settle. He pulls the needle out, thumb coming down to close over the injection site, the smallest trickle of blood circles the imprint of his thumb. 

Fatigue washes at the corners of his mind. He hadn’t planned on spending near this amount of time here. You’re lucky that he feels this need for you, this abhorrent need to possess. It disgusts and confuses and delights him. He’s never felt this way before. He’s looked past all other women, knowing they could never satisfy any need in him, too vapid to keep up with him and his desires and research. But with your sweet, little face and pliant body and mind, he can make room for you in his busy life. You and his projects. That hole that Granny left in his heart, that rotted and festered until his insides were all infected and black, can be filled with you. 

If you were anyone else, he would be done with you. Pump you full of fear toxin until you’re blue in the face and frothing at the mouth. Watch that light drain from your eyes and wait for the death rattle. 

Your breathing rapidly now, short and shallow like you can’t suck in a full breath. An unintended consequence. Your brow draws down and your lips go tight in a grimace. His hand wraps around your throat not to cut off your airflow but to feel the jump in your pulse. 

He wonders what you dream of now, what apparitions your mind has conjured for you in your nightmare. He hopes it’s him or at least the outline of him, something eclipsed in shadow, just a figure stalking you through the dark who watches and waits for the perfect moment to grab you up in his claws. He kisses you on your forehead, the bridge of your nose, and finally lands on your lips. He doesn’t mind the lack of movement. His tongue snakes out to push at the seam of your lips and uses his free hand to push against the sides of your mouth to open up your jaw. He licks into your mouth with caution—he never knows when you’ll bite back. And underneath the taste of toothpaste, he can trace the alcohol and cigarette smoke on your tongue. It’s disgusting. He’s never taken you for a smoker. In all his time with you, he’s never seen as much as a pack of cigarettes hidden in your purse. That’s something he’ll have to remedy. 

He pulls away from you, smug at the sight of his saliva coating you in shine on your face. His hands fall to cup your breasts. Jonathan is a greedy man. He can’t stop with just the look of terror on your face. 

Dirty, filthy, disgusting little boy! Granny used to call him. She would drag him out of bed by the hair of his head and put him over her knee, hitting him with a leather belt on the rear to drive the filthy sin out of him, the same sin his momma had. Should have beaten her like this. Wouldn’t have this awful excuse of a boy wandering around my house. She would beat him until his rear turned red and bled. Always have to clean up your messes, soiling your sheets with your filth. 

Yes, you are the same as him. Greedy, disgusting, filthy. You want this just as bad as he does. He sees your hips writhing and hears your pitchy moans. This is what drew him to you, your sickening mix of confused and fearful arousal. 

He slips his hands under your shirt and plays with your nipples. He tugs and tweaks at them until they are hard and you’re unable to stop pushing yourself into his hands. How beautiful, how sweet. His filthy girl. You are cut from the same cloth. Yes, he knows what you want but he won’t give it to you, that will be your punishment for making him wait. 

Your skin is soft to the touch, tempting him to venture further. He’s bolder now than when he first started this relationship with you. Jonathan moves easier, comfortable in his skin as he touches you. He had been nervous once, could still hear Granny in his head telling him how disgusting he was. The idea of touching your skin with his bare hand sent him reeling and after he’d finally squashed that voice in his head and touched you without the barrier of his gloves in his way, he couldn’t see you for a week.

You filthy boy! Filling your head with such dark wickedness, such perversion. I know what you wanted. You’re just like your mother–a whore!

He pushes a hand beneath the waistband of your underwear, fingers brushing over the thick thatch of hair before pushing them through your folds. Already so wet. You know he’s here and think he will reward you. You thrash in terror, fingers curling in your sheets, and sweat breaks out across your skin. You whimper in his grasp. He circles your clit with a steady rhythm until he has your hips bucking into his hand and wrenches his hand back when you start to seek out pleasure. 

He pulls his hand from your underwear and undoes the button and zipper of his pants. He takes himself in hand. It’s easy and quick, a few strokes and your pinched expression is enough for him. He spills himself over your thigh and smears the mess around. You’ll wake up hungover and won’t ask any questions, chalk it up to being too drunk and too clumsy for your own good. You’ll shower and move on with your day. You’ll go to the zoo and watch the bears lumber around in their enclosures and come home and make lunch to avoid spending more money than you have to. The first is right around the corner, your fridge and pantry will be a little barer for it.

One day, you won’t have to worry about that. He’ll take you away from this dingy apartment, away from everyone that could hurt you–something that should be reserved for him–and keep you. All you would have to do is let him fill you up with fear toxin and love him. Your life would be so much easier that way.

-

You’re a creature of habit. So why are you leaving earlier and earlier in the mornings and coming home later and later? He tries to map out this new routine you seem hellbent on making but he can’t pin you down. You no longer go to the store on Mondays, you don’t go to the movies or out to eat at your usual haunts. On the weekends, you’re never home. He waits and waits, feeling that hole in his heart begin to fester and ooze again. He cuts holes in your clothes and stretches out elastic, he shreds your books to ribbons, breaks your CDs in half. He burns your collection of ticket stubs from the movies and the zoo. He looks upon his destruction with glee and vindication. Jonathan hides back in your closet when he hears the door unlatch. He sits in giddy silence as you take in the mess of your apartment. 

You pick up the pieces with tears in your eyes and wretched, hiccuping breaths. 

It serves you right. 

-

It’s Friday again. You’ve been following your schedule again. You go back to your old habits but you’re more jumpy, skittish if you come home a few minutes later. You look over your shoulder for him, as if you would ever see him coming. 

It’s Friday night and you’re not home. 

It’s two in the morning on Saturday and you’re not home. 

He seethes and riles himself up in the closet. This is it. You’re no longer worth the hassle. There will always be another. (That’s not true and he knows it. You're one of a kind, he’ll never feel the same about anyone else again.)

The door unlocks. You’re giggling and trying to whisper, but he can still hear your drunk slurring. A man laughs. Which way to the bedroom?

Betrayal colors him. He hasn’t been as obvious with his ownership, his presence alone should be enough for you to understand that you belong to him and no other. Hasn’t he done enough? Given you enough? It would have been so easy to take you away from your job, your life, and tucked you away with him in his laboratory, safe and sound in your captivity. He wants you dead, he wants you all to himself. He’s given you too much freedom and he will have to clip your wings, remind you just who you belong to. 

You’re on your back intertwined with him, giggles breaking off into high pitched moans. It should be him making you writhe and moan like that. You belong to him. In the throes of pleasure, you drag the man to lay over your chest and reach up to kiss him. It’s sloppy and he can catch the shine of saliva on yours and his mouth. The petulant thought bullies its way to the front of his mind—that’s his toy, his little mouse, his his his.

Your head lolls to the side, peering straight through the slats of your closet doors at him. Oh and how he forgives you! You don’t know what you’re doing, too confused by your own need that you don’t realize that that’s what he’s here for. Poor, impatient little mouse. You feel the invisible chain linking you to him. He will help you. His girl with starry eyes and a pretty smile. 

He slips from the closet, no longer content to watch and stew in his jealousy. He grabs the fabric shears sitting on your side table and opens the blade. With a tight yank of the man’s shorn hair, Jonathan tugs him up from your chest and slices through the man’s throat ear to ear. He cuts himself on the palm of his hand as he guides the blade. You scream as blood washes over you, holding your hands out to protect yourself from the spray of it. The man weakly bats behind him, trying to get him but as soon as he starts, his hands are back down, hanging limply against his sides. The strong spray begins to slow as he empties himself all over your and your bed. The man gurgles. He throws him off the side of the bed and peers down at you through his burlap mask. 

“You…” you gasp. “You’re real.” You look up at him. Your mouth and chest shine with blood, your eyes wide and frightened. 

“Yes.” He straddles your hips and doses you up with a sedative. It will be dangerous given your alcohol consumption, but he will take good care of you. He always does.

“I thought you were a dream,” you whisper. You cling to his arm as you fade out of consciousness.

“I am. Sleep and continue to dream, little mouse.” He kisses your forehead. “You’re going home.”

-

You come to work with bags under your eyes and lethargy in your steps. You wave off the concerns of your coworkers and assure them that you had some trouble sleeping. They nod, knowing all too well of your sleeping problem. It's been going on for months now, but it’s starting to take a toll on you.

“Maybe Doctor Crane can prescribe you something?”

“Oh, no, I wouldn’t want to bother him.” You laugh it off, fingers crawling over your forearm to your inner elbow. You smile. “I’ll just get some melatonin and a white noise machine. I’m sure it’s just me taking on too much. Arkham needs another social worker, can’t keep doing this all by myself.”

[sweet-honey-tears]

Shouldn’t you Sleep?

Shinso x GN!Reader

OverView: Shinso starts feeling guilty at how much you stay up with him.

Back again! This was a request and I hope you enjoy it! I did go a bit off script but I hope that’s all good! I haven’t done a actual story in awhile- so it’s a bit rough but also works as head cannons. 🤍

How long can a person stare at the ceiling before their eyes shift the colors and shadows? Till they form shapes? ‘Maybe it's my quirk’ a younger you once thought. Oh how naive you where. But now, staring at your ceiling still, you kinda wish it where true. At least the ceiling would be slightly more entertaining. But instead, you sort through memories at 2am. Recalling a time in middle school where you turned to your stuffed animals, asking why you could never sleep.

Oddly, maybe due to your actual quirk, your dark circles never really showed. Sure they were there but you looked like every other teenager; dark circles from lack of sleep or bad allergies. Which maybe is a good things, you’re pretty sure people would start thinking your Azawias kid if they really showed.

Your work/patrol schedule didn’t help, always randomly studying, and taking any opportunity to work with your mentor- who only worked at night or early morning. You were all fucked up. Sometimes powering through days with energy drinks and random naps when Azawia would let you - somehow he knew. Maybe he could just sense insomnia in people…. Speaking of which

Denki was the one who introduced you to Shinso, a flirty introduction but also mentioning how the two of you always seemed to yawn at the same time….. and you hit it off. At some point, Shinso mentioned his trouble sleeping and you offered the option of talking whenever he couldn't sleep. And he took you up on the offer unintentionally.

Shinso called you, confused about something evolving he recent English homework, but it ended up with a long conversation. And then suddenly, it just stopped. Just froze. And when Shinso looked back down at his phone, he realized it was 11 pm. You school tomorrow morning and then patrol tomorrow night till early morning- you probably fell asleep on the phone or ended the call.

But then there was a knock at his door- which He didn’t respond to the first time , or the second, but pulled himself up on the third. His feet dragged on the carpet as he answered it. Peering down at you, his mouth opened slightly at your appearance. You were in Pajamas, a large shirt with Pink Floyd on it(some American band he's heard you listen to), and black checkered sleep pants. Around your shoulders rested a fluffy gray blanket and a dead phone rested in your palms.

“Sorry about that.” You had sheepishly said.

It started with you at his desk chair. Swiveling around as he leaned against his headboard. Both of you talking mindlessly. An occasional yawn slips past either of your lips. Around 3 am is when you fall asleep, passed out on his chair in the most uncomfortable position possible. How you managed to even stay asleep was a mystery.

This continued for a while till Shinso’s own guilt started to creep into his mind. You stood up one night, stretched, and wished him well. You had a patrol with your mentor in one hour and needed to get ready. You were gone for 6 hours… Then you came back that night to talk to him.

It didn’t help when he found you passed out in the common room or slouched against your desk asleep. Was he being selfish keeping you up to talk to him?

You were on Shinso’s bed, laying down as the both of you talked. Your hands were up in the air as you examined the nail polish Shinso used for you. A nice navy blue color, he muttered that it matched your hero costume kinda well. Shinso sat on the ground near the bed, picking at the dark purple polish painted on his fingers. His guilt picking away at him as you audibly yawned again.

“Y/N”

“Yeah.”

“You know you don’t have to stay up with me, right?”

“Hm?” You russel around, turning on your side to look at the tall purpled hair man.

“I mean you don’t need to have to stay up. You have patrol in the nights to early mornings, and I’ve seen you chugging those drinks( referencing energy drinks) too.” Shinso sighs, his head rolling back on the bed to look up at you.

“Oh… Shin, I…I got insomnia” you whisper out as if a loud voice would break the air. Shinso just stares at you, his eyes scanning your face for any hint of a joke. But nothing- absolutely nothing.

“I guess we share more in common than we thought.” Shinso sighs, a small smile tugging his lips. The weight on his shoulders seeming to evaporate at your confession.

Your hand sneaks down, combing through his purple hair before messing it up. A small laugh escaping your lips at the odd angle the hair sticks out at the end of it.

“I guess so”

@afterhourswjay

[yunessa]

Owlcattober Day 7: Lamplight

In my fanfic, Roan is the Necromancer cultist who resurrected the dead in the cemetery in act 2. Given a second chance he's working for the crusade. Some mild gore-y description below and pre-Leper's Smile spoilers as a warning.

“It is… day four into my imprisonment.” Roan’s rough voice spoke softly  as he worked. “No, not imprisonment- since I started working for the crusade. Day four since I started working for the crusade.” His acidic green eyes moved over the severed head that lay on the table. “And I am now working on severed head number two.” The lamplight in the tent was weak, but his eyes were accustomed to far dimmer circumstances to work by so he kept the lamplight dim.

A row of silver tools lay next to the head. All of them were cleaned, sharpened, and polished. Ready for his use much like the pad of paper and writing utensil on the other side of the head. When he pretended to be a tailor’s apprentice, Roan used his minions to perform basic tasks for him. But now, he was alone, forbidden from using his magic without supervision. The young crusader that had been watching him had grown nauseous when Roan had dissected the first head.

“The first head held no traces of abnormalities.” It hurt for him to speak. But there was a comfort to hearing his voice and performing tasks he was suited for in this camp. “It belonged to a middle aged man, cause of death not apparent.” His voice held no emotion as the silver tool flashed in the candle light. 

“Without the rest of the body, a certain cause of death cannot be certain. No blood remains within it, despite the head seeming freshly decapitated.” Without using a minion to write his words for him, he was slowed down in his investigation. But if it bothered the man, then it didn’t show. Nothing he did was alarming- he didn’t even try to slip the chains on his limbs, heavy and loud though they were.

He simply stopped using his tools long enough to write any findings he had in his spidery scrawl. In that he was professional, even when denied use of his magic. “There is no rot to be found on the second head, even when it is not preserved by any magic.” He paused. “Not any I know or would have used, though it is possible the fluid…” He trailed off. “I have no way to identify whatever fluid has replaced the blood. Samples will be taken and preserved under supervision when the crusader watching me has given permission.”

He set down one tool, picked up another with a wickedly sharp edge and silver pliers. “Now we shall-” He raised his head as he listened to footsteps crunch in the snow outside of his tent, placing a rag to cover the head in time for a blond halfling to poke her head in the tent.

“Heya! Oh- am I interrupting?” The halfling’s nose wrinkled and she held a hand to her nose. “I could leave if you were busy.” Her voice was aggressively cheerful. It grated at him.

Roan, standing behind the table, with his dirty mortuary tools and his hand over the severed head didn’t know quite what to say to that. “Am I being summoned by the Knight Commander?” He asked instead, not sure what to do with the brightly coloured halfling.

“Summoned? No! I don’t think so. I came to say hello! The name’s Nurah, Nurah Dendiwhar- I’m the crusade’s historian!”  She put her hand over her chest and beamed. “I know some of the crusaders aren’t being too nice to you- so I baked a loaf of bread for you! You’re looking kind of dirty. Did you need any soap or-”

“State what you want or leave.”  She was just a halfling, smaller than the human necromancer with pink and blue clothes and bright blond hair. But something about her entering his tent alone, with no fanfare or orders, set Roan on edge, full of suspicion. 

“That’s rude, you know. I was just trying to be friendly!” Nurah protested.

“And I’m dating the queen” He retorted. “State your business.” As Nurah pouted at him he rested one hand behind the covered head, using it to hide the way he gripped his mortuary knife. 

“Okay. I heard the crusaders talking about you. They sounded like they haven’t been treating you alright.” She admitted. “The guy that was watching you is trying to flirt with the Eagle Watch marksman so I thought I’d slip inside.” 

Roan remained silent and when it was obvious he would remain silent Nurah sighed at him.  She walked up to the table and set down a thick loaf of bread wrapped in waxed paper. It smelled strongly of spices, fresh.

“I thought you might like some warm bread. You don’t have to talk to me- but maybe I could put in a good word with the Commander if you help me out!” She beamed at Roan. “I’ve never talked to a real necromancer before.”

“Anyway,” Nurah continued. “Maybe next time we can talk.” Her expression twisted into sympathy. “I heard some of what they’ve been doing to you. Nobody deserves to be treated like that.” Her expression brightened and she waved. “Have a nice day!”

And just like that, Nurah turned, walking out of his tent as easily as she left it.

Roan exhaled slowly and waited several minutes before he turned his attention to the load of bread. Leaving the head for now, he moved to examine it. “Plain wax paper.” He whispered as he cut through the wax with paranoid care.

Inside was a nice roll of bread, smelling of cinnamon. The bread was still warm to the touch of his cold fingers, soft when he pressed his finger against the loaf. His eyes narrowed and with the same surgical precision he used dissecting the head, he now applied to dissecting the loaf. His suspicions were rewarded when the knife found something in the soft bread and he used his other hand to  peel the bread away.

A metal key came free of the bread and he studied the rough metal, turning it so it caught the lamplight. Breadcrumbs were still stuck to the metal from when it was baked into the loaf. “Simple steel key.” He whispered before looking at his chained hands. “But is it the key for me?” He slid the key into one of the locks and it fit like it was made for them.

His fingers began to tremble as he started to twist it. He could feel it as the mechanism inside the lock started to move and his heart began to race as he stopped. Pulling the key out, tucking it away inside his clothes in time for loud laughter coming from outside his tent.

He quickly scooped up the bread, tossing it away. “Nurah.” He repeated the name, committing it to memory, as his heart beat madly. “What is this for?” There was no answer to his whispered question in the tent. His hands trembled  but he pulled away from the tent entryway. 

Nurah’s gift of a key to his chains wasn’t a gift out of kindness- was it?  “No.” He whispered. “No kindness there. Not for no reason.” He moved to stand at the entrance to his tent, listening to the crusaders outside. He could unlock these chains…

Then, with effort he forced himself to return to the table, pulling the rag off the head. “No.” He said firmly to the severed head. “No.” He rasped as his voice threatened to break. “If I put my son in danger for this… no. Where was I? I remember. Samples. We will take samples once I have examined the teeth. From there we will progress to the eyes. I need to hurry to finish this examination before the commander comes to find me or- I don’t know.” His voice fell quiet and he grabbed more oil to fill the lamp with. 

“I must hurry. Pharasma look kindly upon my work.”

[astranite]

WIP Late-Wednesday

Scott needed help. Scott asks for help even if its just a little thing.

This is a part of a scene I've had in my mind for a while that follows my fic Close Call. Ao3. Probably is still comprehensible if you havent read it but like also look more earth and sky!! So here a rough partial version though its got a fair amount to it and words for a wip Wed so here!! Enjoy the earth and sky moment.

---

Scott let out a growl of frustration, flapping his hand about in an attempt to dislodge the tape. A foolish attempt, he found, as it flipped around and stuck to the other side of his hand. So now it was sticking! It hadn't before to the point and clearly the adhesive wasn’t the problem, it was very effective except at going where he wanted it!

He wadded up another ball of the athletic tape to join the other attempts. At this rate he was going to run out before he managed to get any to stick where he wanted it. He was trying to take care of his shoulder and do all the right things. He’d done his physio exercises each morning with Gordon after their respective swim and run so he wouldn’t forget and Gordon would tell him if he thought he was pushing himself too hard. He’d worn the sling, even though he hated having an arm immobilised. 

He really was for once trying to take care of himself  because he’d actually listened to Virgil even when it took both of them having a sobbing breakdown for it to stick, but the entire universe seemed dead set against it. The ugly, beige tape and bits of paper backing stared up at him from where they were strewn across his bathroom counter. A couple had even landed in the sink. Scott averted his eyes, same as he’d done from the mirror, staring instead at his bare feet. There was yet another failed attempt fallen down there.  The blue polish from when he’d let Gordon paint his nails was still stuck to them. He wriggled his toes into the fluffy bathmat in an attempt to distract himself.

As he rolled his right shoulder backwards, the joint popped and clicked. It had healed up alright after he’d dislocated it weeks back so Virgil and Grandma were finally letting him back on active rescue duty. Not just light duty protocols where he wasn’t even allowed out of One no matter how much he ached to help properly. Virgil’s firm commands and the memory of his terrified anger, along with the way John’s eyes had widened, expression crumpling the one time he’d almost moved had kept him in his seat.

Scott pulled his shirt back on. At least now he wasn’t gasping in pain every time he had to manoeuvre his arm into the sleeve. His shoulder was pretty much back to its usual level of dull hurt if he overworked it and sharp stabs if he did something really weird. Virgil had also informed him when he accidentally said this that it wasn't normal for it to hurt all the time at all without a current injury. So that was something too.

His feet took him to the lounge room where he knew Virgil would be painting right now, what was left of the roll of tape in hand. He let himself walk up to Virgil’s easel, like this was totally normal, like he wasn’t doing anything new, or unprecedented. There was nothing to be nervous about. He bit at the inside of his cheek.

A deep breath in, let it out. Then: “Hey Virge.”

Virgil immediately looked up from his stunning landscape of the island, brows nearly meeting in the middle.

Yup very normal, Scott. Virgil the musician totally wouldn't notice how his voice was a pitch higher than usual.

“What’s up?” Virgil began cautiously.

Scott balled his hands into fists before consciously relaxing them. 

QOUTE 

QUOTE

The memories played back in his mind. He could just ask.

“Virgil, I need your help?”

It came out as more of a question than Scott had meant. He was ready to stuff the words back down his throat in the second of silence that followed.

His brother stiffened minutely, grip tightening around his paintbrush. But then he smiled up at Scott, putting the brush into cloudy turquoise water in the jar.

“Sure, what with?”

Oh. 

Like that Virgil was ready to help him.

Scott head spun, he’d been holding his breath and he let it out shakily. Why the hell was this harder than jumping out of One? He was just asking Virgil for help with what was objectively a small task and it wasn’t like they didn’t ever help patch each other up and check over gear on missions. But this time it was him approaching and doing the asking.

“My shoulder, I’ve been trying to strap it up for today, like you said.” He waved the tape around vaguely.

Virgil settled a hand on his uninjured shoulder, grounding him with the weight. 

Scott let himself lean into it. Impulsively, he tipped forward so he could hug his brother press their foreheads together. 

Virgil’s deep brown eyes widened in surprise before softening at the edges.

He rested a warm hand at the back of Scott neck, smiling at him.

“I’m happy to help.”

Scott closed his eyes, letting the relief sink in and hope to fix this moment in his mind so next time it was something big he’d remember this.

[snail-eggs]

1.1 Saturday | film

synopsis: It hurts. 2,191 days later and it still hurts. Juno Connors is haunted by the death of her best friend. Haunted by the unfinished documentary Juno refuses to let die along with him. But it has proved difficult. The subject---washed-up skating legend, Ronnie Allen; her best friend’s childhood hero who suddenly went missing sometime in the early 90s---is less than cooperative. She spends months in London trying to get him to cooperate and she gets nothing for it in return. Nothing of value, nothing to make all the dollars and time spent worth it. Until she meets a young sergeant, that is. Juno meets Sergeant Kyle “Gaz” Garrick and sets herself on a course for healing through this newfound intimacy. It makes her think that, just maybe, she can finish this fucking documentary and never have to face Ronnie Allen again.

a/n: my god, there's no way it took me a year to polish this one chapter. anyway, here it is over 365 days later.

masterlist | warnings on ao3 | read on ao3 | read on wattpad | playlist | divider by @/cafekitsune

The air in Carlsbad is different. Tinged with a saltiness from the sea that Juno can taste on her lips, the breeze at the perfect speed, perfect temperature. She knocks on the rickety old trailer’s door, wishing that she had taken a fleeting moment to film this. This beach—it's gorgeous. Tucked away into its own lonesome corner with a view to die for. Given the chance, Juno’d retire off to here too. She sighs. Bites her lip.

It shouldn’t be her that’s doing this,

She’s staring out at the waves lapping at the shore, a half step off the trailer’s poor excuse for a porch, listening to the way they crash against the rocks and land. She doesn’t deserve to be here, in his place. The door swings open with a creak so loud, she swears it's about to fall off its hinges. Actually, the hinges themselves look more ready to fall off the frame than anything. Charming, she thinks. Gives the whole thing some real character—

“You lost?” —like it needs any more. 

Before her, Ralph DiMaggio stands in all his leathery, sun bleached glory. But burgeoning against his loud button up. But he looks at her softly—kindly, cutting through the rough image she had about him entirely and she can see it in his eyes, in his slight smile with a missing canine. He looks happy. Sober. Completely unlike how Fish described him in the notes he left. Juno feels half bad for expecting to find him at the bottom of a bottle, a mess. 

 “No, you’re exactly who I’m looking for.” She finally takes that full step up to the trailer, extends her hand. He takes it. “My name is Juno Connors—you met my partner, Hayden Fisher, like around a year ago.” Eyes empty, searching for something in the recesses of his mind, Juno can tell he doesn’t remember Fish. It hurts a little. “For the Ronnie Allen doc…” Now she’s searching too— reaching , hoping that he remembers. “He was, uh, a little obsessive about wanting to… to solve Ronnie’s disappearance from, well, the public and then probably never called you back?” She’s fumbling now. Feels like a fucking idiot.

And then it clicks.

“Yeah,” he moves out of the way, gestures for her to come in, “Yeah, no, I remember him, Kid was a lot.”

Juno laughs—well, breathes out a laugh more so than actually laughing. He’s right, he was a lot. Too much, even. She gets it, really, she does. No one could ever entirely stomach him quite like her. Supposes she’s just adept at tolerating the intolerable.

“Why didn’t he ever call back?”

“Thing is, he was going to but he died back in March, so.”

“I’m sorry.”

She gives a shrug that feels all sorts of wrong. “Yeah,”

Reaching into her bag, she flashes him a tight-lipped smile. Her way of saying It’s okay because she doesn’t really know how else to without making it worse, the awkwardness, or sounding like more of an idiot than she already does. Because she’s faced it now: Juno’s blowing this interview and it hasn’t even started. This isn’t her beat, isn’t what she does. No, her job was to sit there and point the camera at someone while Fish did all the heavy lifting. All the talking, But Fish is gone now and there’s still lifting to be done.

The lavalier mic is heavy in her hand, heavier than she knows it really is. She gestures vaguely with it. “I’m here now. For that interview—only if you want to, obviously.”

“Gotta be a little more assertive than that, Junie. A lot more.” He says suddenly like he’s known her forever. Her brows furrow. “Be a bitch, it's the only way you’ll get what you want from old pieces of shit like me.” Ralph eases himself into a chair that groans under his weight, points his finger at her. “That’s a fact.”

“If that’s the case, is this old piece of shit gonna give me what I want or did I drive all the way down here for you to waste my time?” Juno cocks her head to the side. If assertive is what he wants, it's assertive that he’ll get.

Ralph spreads his arms out, smiles wide—proud—missing tooth and all. “Mic me, Junie.” She can’t help it, she smiles too.

And she does—has him clip the recorder to his waistband right on the small of his back as she loops the microphone on its wire wire through the inside of his shirt shirt and settles it on the collar. The camera comes to her like second nature; the setting up of it is a process that doesn’t take all that much thought. Ralph watches her and she doesn’t give him so much as a glance. In her periphery, he’s merely a skin colored blob. She pretends it's Fish sitting there instead as she screws the camera onto the tripod as tight as it goes. It's locked. Ralph shifts around in his seat like he’s never been interviewed before. Juno suddenly realizes that it's probably been forever since the last time. Makes her feel a little better about her uselessness. 

The journal is the last piece. One she has to cross the room for—left it on Ralph’s kitchen counter before she mic’d him—her strides and the weight of her warping the vinyl flooring. It burns her hands when she grabs it. Impossible, she knows, but it burns them. With grief, with the corrosive acidity of expectations not met and even worse, expectations she’s not sure she can meet at all.

But she has to try, that’s what this is all about. She looks back at Ralph. Relaxes her shoulders.

“So, what do you know about Ronnie Allen?”

He nearly hits her twice.

Wild, drunk hands wave around mere inches from her camera. From her face. Juno is sick of looking at him. At that ugly mug of his, at the tattoos that have bled deep into every wrinkle and crevice of it. Like runny ink on shitty paper. She looks at him with loathing. Juno’s sick of London now too. She sets her camera on the bar, takes a lazy sip of her beer, and just looks at him. He’s all washed-up. Fucking pathetic now. He’s nothing. He stares back at Juno, like maybe she’s a little off, when she sets down the camera. His wild hands fall into his lap, his story stops.

The rim of the bottle is still at her lips, “Ron, that’s not what I asked you.” 

“What?”

“I didn’t ask you about the fucking glory days,” she’s heard enough about the glory days to last a lifetime, “I asked you about what happened after.”

He squeezes his eyes shut real tight, “After?” How he manages to slur just a single word so monumentally, Juno doesn’t know.

“Yeah, Ronnie, after .” It’s still not clicking. “Jesus, Ron—I asked about Merced.” The location rolls off her tongue but it's Ronnie’s face that twists into one of disgust. She can’t seem to break him. It feels like pulling teeth, trying to get him to talk about Merced.

She doesn’t want to feel this way. Not tonight.

Juno’s sick of it all. The poking, the prodding, when she knows—deep down inside, she knows —that he won’t talk. He’s a stubborn old fuck. Ronnie will keep her in the dark until she gives up because that’s exactly what he wants. He wants her to run home with her tail between her legs but she won’t. She cannot and will not let Fish’s life’s work collapse in on itself over a lousy drunk. She doesn’t care that the drunk in question was his hero once upon a time. He’s nothing to her and nothing he’ll stay if he can’t give her what she fucking needs.

It’s been six years that she’s wasted on this. What’s six more?

“You’re still chasin’ this shit,” 

“Trust me, I’m not happy about it either.” Juno doesn’t like the way her voice sounds. It’s quiet, comes from deep in her throat, all tired and flat. This isn’t her. But maybe it is now. After Fish, after all this mess, maybe this is who she is. 

Fingers twitching around the neck of her bottle, gripping it just a little too tight, Juno looks out over Ronnie’s shoulder. Out at the other patrons of the bar that are surely having a far better night than she is. And then she feels it. The burning of eyes fixated on her. Juno’s own scan the crowd again more carefully now.

“When’re you just gonna quit?” She doesn’t hear it, not really. All her attention’s focused on the other lonely soul across the bar. The bill of his cap casts a shadow over his eyes but Juno knows, without a doubt that he’s looking at her. Staring. So she stares back. Narrows her eyes a little—hoping that if she squints hard enough, she can bend all laws of reality and really see him. 

But she can’t. So she inches away from the bar, breaks his gaze for just a second to tell Ronnie plainly, and maybe even a little too loudly that “If anything happens to this camera, I’m never leaving you alone, got it?” And he shrugs. Waves it off like he does with everything else that she says. But he reaches his arm out to where Juno was sitting. Lazily slides the camera into his chest like he’s protecting it in his own half-assed way. Juno doesn’t hover.

Stands of fading blue fall into her face as she wades through the crowd that feels like its only getting denser by the second. She doesn’t bother to tuck them out of the way. Just keeps making her way through. When the crowd breaks, the air feels lighter, cooler; her lungs have room to expand. 

And, finally, she can see the eyes that gazed upon her from across the bar.

“You have a staring problem,” there’s a grin there. The most genuine one that’s graced her face in, hell, six years, probably. 

“You came all this way to tell me that?”

She shrugs, “And a couple other things.” Juno sits down right across from him. Feels kind of giddy talking to someone new, kiddy like knowing without any real proof that you’ve met someone good. Someone solid. “So, do you always look at random women like that or should I feel special?”

He, whoever he is, smirks a little. Juno can tell he’s trying to fight it but it comes through anyway. “Like what?” He's handsome. Soft behind the eyes. 

“Y’know,” she leans into the table, smile reaching her eyes now despite the subtleness of it. “Like there’s no one else here but me. Like I’m the only one worth talking to—and I am, by the way. I am so worth talking to.”

“Can’t have much of a conversation if I don’t even know your name.”

“Well, who said that?”

Words catch in his throat a little and Juno smirks. Bottom lip caught in her teeth. Just tell me your name.”

“Juno.” Said so quick she’s barely even sure he heard it.

“Like the movie?”

She gives him a look. It’s a yes and no answer—more no than yes. “Just the way it’s spelled. They named me after the place in Alaska, just wanted to feel special, I guess.”

“It suits you,” they haven’t broken each other’s gaze. Not once and Juno feels like she’s drowning in the particular shade of brown of his irises.

“I’d hope so, it’s the only name I got.” There’s more of a twang there than she’d like. She wonders if he’d be able to place it, her accent. Knows there’s no way in hell she could place his no matter how hard she tried. “What about you; what’d you get saddled with?”

“Kyle,” Juno nods. Her own silent way of telling him that she thinks his name suits him too. “Most people call me Gaz, though.”

“Why?”

“Haven’t got a clue.” He takes a sip from his glass. Juno wants to reach out and grab it. Take a sip from it too. The impulse is so strong and she’s not entirely sure why. Maybe it's one of those weird intrusive things. Or maybe, it's her desire for closeness that hasn’t been sated in years. Hell, she can’t remember the last time she hugged somebody—really hugged somebody; fingers gripping at clothes, digging into skin, a mouthful of hair. All that. The closest she’s gotten is hauling Ronnie into bed when he’s too wasted to do it himself. And sometimes she lingers. Lets him keep his grip on her wrist while he begs her for a glass of water. She supposes that she likes the warmth.

Oftentimes, she wonders what it’s like to be held. In all honesty, Juno’s forgotten it and so now she looks at Gaz, a stranger she’s shared but a handful of words with, and—more than anything—just wants a hug. Is that so much to ask for; to be held for even a fraction of a second?

She needs to go home, she thinks. Desperation’s not all that good of a look on her. 

Gaz’s eyes narrow in on her in a way she can’t quite read. The feeling of his gaze is sharper. Precise. Juno feels naked. Feels like he can read her mind. But it softens and suddenly she can breathe. He nods at her, lowers his glass. “What’s that about?”

And her brows furrow before he points at her shirt. Juno looks down. Lindsay Lohan’s mugshot is decorating her torso and she breathes out a laugh. He laughs with her.

“What, you don’t like it?” She teases.

“Never said that .”

“You could wear it if you want—actually, we might be the same size.”

“Yeah?” Juno nods when he says it, smiling so wide that her cheeks are starting to hurt. “I mean, we could test out that theory.”

The chatter from the crowd behind her is getting louder. Bar stools scrape against the ground with an ear shattering screech. Juno shrugs, smirking a little, “I’m down if you are.”

Then, a resounding crack. 

Juno and Gaz both whip their heads in the direction of the bar. Juno’s mouth gapes as she watches the bartender clutch his nose. Sees the blood on Ronnie’s fist. Her heart pounds. He can’t get can’t get caught up like this, he can’t afford it— she can’t afford it. Juno lurches from her chair, toppling it over as Gaz calls her name. She shoves and elbows her way through the crowd now surrounding Ronnie and grabs him roughly by the arm. Drags him with all her might and it doesn’t take much. He’s already long gone—the lights are on and no one’s home. So he stumbles on after her.

Juno doesn’t even get to spare Gaz a glance as she and Ronnie barrel through the door.

The mini-bar in this hotel is piss-poor, Juno thinks as she lines up the third tiny bottle of vodka on the windowsill. Really. She’s had better liquor from forgotten bottles in the back of Ronnie’s cabinets. Maybe he just has better taste than the hotel staff. Juno doesn’t really care either way. Her night’s over before it even started and she wishes she’d gone home with Gaz. He was cute, nice enough. Would’ve been a fun time, she bets, but instead she’s stuck here in her room emptying the mini-bar and wondering if this is just some ugly habit she picked up from six years and counting with Ronnie. Day in and day out. She grimaces. Takes another tiny bottle and sits on the bed.

She’s got more notes for this documentary than Fish ever had. It gives her a pang in the chest, the thought. Makes her eyes water. She breaks the seal on the bottle. The transcript for Ralph’s interview haunts her on her desktop, among others. Juno goes for her browser instead. Her fingers work quicker than her mind—she’s looking at departing flights before she knows it.

There’s a few she can catch before Ronnie wakes up in the morning and calls her asking why his knuckles are all bloody.

It isn’t the first time that she’s thought maybe she’s gotten all that she ever will out of him. Even figured out how to wrap this doc up in a pretty little bow without knowing shit about the why of it all. Ronnie Allen, ex skating legend, is a good for nothing drunk that fell into obscurity because he felt like it. There is no real reason, no meaningful moment that made him run from everything he had. He’s a good for nothing dunk that abandoned everyone he knew and seems to feel just fine about it. Sure, it’s bleak but people’d eat that shit up. She knows she would.

Fish wouldn’t, though.

He always wanted to look deeper than the other documentarians, it’s why he started this one. He’d lose his mind if he found out she ditched it before seeing it through completely.

Juno downs the fourth bottle in one go. Her throat burns.

When she wakes, there’s hair all in her mouth. The room smells overwhelmingly like Fish’s living room. Juno buries her head in the sheets and refuses to breathe.

[hanna-oc-irl]

Interruption

She was doing well. Or at least, it’s what she convinced herself into believing. Hanna had spent weeks battling the darkness she’d inflicted upon herself. She pleaded with it, she shouted at it, she imagined punching it’s face in when she’d train. She ran from it sometimes, going as far as ten miles within an hour. It was all Hanna knew to do.

Hanna laid in her bed, her blankets pulled up to her neck, staring at the Read message below the most recent message. Void, her cat was on the floor batting around a little stuffed mouse, the rattling filling the quiet of her condo. The people she would’ve asked, the people she wanted to ask weren’t talking to her. Still weren’t talking to her. She’d reached out to them, asking to have a conversation, begging to get the chance to apologize. But all she got was her worst fear.

Silence.

It was in the silence she fell deeper and nearly became consumed by the darkness. It’s soothing destructive power was alluring more than she’d ever felt anything else be. Well, that was a lie. Mints was soothing. Mints helped her. Mints listened to her. Mints hadn’t done that in weeks. It pained her to be so far apart from the person she loved. The person she cared for more then herself. Hanna shut off her phone and set it screen-side up on her mattress, deciding to watch Void instead. Her frown slowly became a small smile as the black cat got the mouse stuck under her dresser.

It was odd to her, how easily she seemed to be coping with all of the drama currently happening around her. Maybe it was because of the people she’s met here, or the new life she’s begun to create for herself. Her heart warmed at the memory of her.. yeah. Her friends. Unlikely for sure, a few months ago, Hanna would’ve said you were crazy if you told her she’d be friends with a former (?) villain. But now, she was thankful she had them, Echo and Lord Garmadon. They didn’t know it, but they were part of the reason why she was able to get a handle on the darkness.

When her phone dinged, Echo agreeing to allow Hanna to come to the monastery to paint younger Echo’s nails, her smile widened further. It had been a rough few days. Her and Mints anniversary was today. She hesitated standing from her bed at the reminder. If they were still physically together, they’d be cuddling and reminiscing on the past year. The ups. The downs. The wild turns that made them sick to think about. She felt sick. She wanted to tell Echo never mind and crawl back under the covers.

Soft fur against her leg knocked her out of her trance. Looking down, Void was rubbing against her calf, his bright green eyes pointed up at her with a little meow. Hanna chuckled softly and scratched his head. “Lets get ready, were going to see your sister, June, again.” Void mewed happily and trotted off, grabbing his mouse in his teeth. Hanna could cry about her heartbreak and guilt later, right now, she had to fulfill a promise. A promise about nail polish and cat siblings. She would’ve fulfilled her promise, Hanna’s hand grabbed the knob of her bedroom when everything went south.

It came from nowhere, overwhelming all of her senses all at once. She smelled fear, her ears rang, she saw red, she felt cold and hot all at once, she could taste blood. The blood; her own. Hanna’s teeth gnawed on the flesh of her cheek as the breath was knocked out of her lungs. “Let go Hanna, allow me to feel for you instead.” It told her, the voice a cold honey that iced over the burning rage of her wailing heart.

Hanna wanted to fight it. She wanted to go to the monastery and paint younger Echo’s nails while they watched June and Void play wrestle. She wanted to give in and not have to feel this guilt anymore. Her eyes stung with unshed tears and her knees ached from the impact of them on her wood floor. Hanna’s door creaked, she opening it as she fell. Hanna begged the darkness, begged it to let her go, to leave her. But it didn’t listen and her vision went dark.

Silence.

Hours later, Hanna woke back up, when she sat on her floor, looking over to her very confused looking cat, she chuckled. It didn’t sound like her. Her cat’s ears folded back as she explained such a simple concept. She was doing well.

[cherrygirlystuff]

The Return of Grunge Pop: Why the Early 2000s Sound Is Dominating Playlists Again 🎧

Hey babe, if you’ve been noticing a certain gritty, nostalgic vibe creeping back into your playlists lately, you’re not alone. Grunge pop, that perfect blend of angsty lyrics, distorted guitars, and catchy hooks, is making a major comeback. 🌟 It’s like we’ve hit rewind on the music scene, and honestly? I’m here for it. Let’s dive into why this early 2000s sound is resonating so hard with today’s generation and why it’s taking over our playlists again. Ready to get grungy? Let’s go!

1. What Exactly Is Grunge Pop?

Before we get into why it’s back, let’s talk about what grunge pop actually is. Picture this: the raw, rebellious energy of grunge, mixed with the catchy, radio-friendly vibes of pop music. It’s the sound of angst and heartache, but with a sugar-coated twist that makes you want to sing along even as you’re feeling all the feels.

Musical Elements: Grunge pop blends the heavy, distorted guitars and gritty vocals of grunge with pop’s polished production and memorable hooks. It’s the kind of music that makes you want to headbang one minute and dance the next. Think early Avril Lavigne, Garbage, or even No Doubt during their edgier days.

Lyrical Themes: The lyrics often dive into themes of alienation, heartache, and rebellion—but with a pop sensibility that makes them accessible and relatable. It’s the perfect soundtrack for those days when you’re feeling a little out of place but still want to have a good time.

2. Nostalgia Is in Full Swing

Let’s be real—nostalgia is powerful. The early 2000s were a time of chunky highlights, low-rise jeans, and, of course, grunge pop blasting from our flip phones. As we’re seeing a resurgence of Y2K fashion and culture, it’s no surprise that the music is coming back too.

The Comfort of Familiar Sounds: In a world that’s constantly changing, there’s something comforting about revisiting the sounds of our past. Grunge pop brings back memories of simpler times, and for many, it’s a reminder of their teenage years—full of angst, rebellion, and discovering who they were.

TikTok’s Influence: TikTok has been a major player in bringing back early 2000s trends, including grunge pop. Songs from the era are being rediscovered and shared by a new generation, who are putting their own spin on the sound while celebrating its roots.

3. The Raw Emotion We Crave

Today’s music scene is full of polished, highly produced tracks, which are great—but sometimes, we crave something a little more raw, a little more real. That’s where grunge pop comes in. Its unfiltered emotion and gritty production stand out in a world of auto-tune and synths.

Relatability: The themes of grunge pop—heartbreak, rebellion, feeling like an outsider—are timeless. They resonate with today’s listeners just as much as they did back in the early 2000s. In an era of social media perfection, grunge pop’s honesty feels refreshing and relatable.

A Break from the Norm: Grunge pop offers an alternative to the glossy pop hits dominating the charts. It’s a little rough around the edges, a little messy, and that’s exactly what makes it so appealing. It’s a reminder that it’s okay to not have everything figured out—and to sing about it at the top of your lungs.

4. The Artists Leading the Revival

It’s not just the old favorites making a comeback—new artists are embracing the grunge pop sound and making it their own. These artists are blending the nostalgic elements of early 2000s grunge pop with modern influences, creating something that feels both familiar and fresh.

New Faces, Old Sounds: Artists like Billie Eilish and Olivia Rodrigo are channeling that early 2000s angst in their music, blending it with contemporary production and lyrics that speak to today’s generation. Their music is raw, emotional, and full of the kind of energy that defined grunge pop in its heyday.

Collaborations & Covers: We’re also seeing a trend of artists covering or sampling early 2000s hits, bringing them back into the spotlight with a new twist. It’s a celebration of the past, but with a fresh take that makes it feel current and exciting.

5. The DIY Spirit Lives On

Grunge pop was born out of the DIY ethos of the grunge movement, and that spirit is alive and well today. In an era where anyone can record and share music from their bedroom, the raw, unpolished sound of grunge pop is more accessible than ever.

The Appeal of Imperfection: There’s something incredibly appealing about music that isn’t overly produced. Grunge pop’s imperfections—whether it’s a crack in the voice or a fuzzy guitar riff—feel more human, more real. In a world of perfect Instagram feeds and curated lives, it’s a reminder that it’s okay to be messy.

Empowering the Next Generation: Today’s young musicians are picking up where their early 2000s predecessors left off, using the DIY spirit to create music that speaks to their experiences. They’re proving that you don’t need a big budget or a fancy studio to make something powerful—just a lot of heart and a little grit.

Final Thoughts, Babe: Grunge Pop Is Here to Stay

So why is grunge pop dominating our playlists again? It’s a mix of nostalgia, raw emotion, and the appeal of something real in a world that often feels anything but. Whether you’re rediscovering your old favorites or falling in love with the sound for the first time, there’s no denying that grunge pop is having a major moment.

So crank up those guitars, smudge on some eyeliner, and let’s embrace the return of grunge pop—because honestly? It never really left. 🎸

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

“Anything”

Pairing: Meássë x Tulkas

Themes: Smut | Medieval! Ainur

Warnings: Kissing | Explicit language | Dirty talk | Foreplay | Rough Sex | Oral (Fem. receiving) | Cream pie

Summary: Meássë returns to explain her actions to Tulkas.

Word count: 2.3k words

Rating: 🔥🔥🔥 | Minors DNI. You are responsible for the media you consume. | 18+ |  Rules and tag form here.   

A/n: This is a continuation of this ficlet.

Tulkas stood beside the fireplace when she walked into the hall that evenfall. "Come for more, my lady?"

"I have come to explain." Meássë straightened her spine and looked Tulkas in the eye. She was not telling him how his kiss had preyed on her all day. "My kiss was just a means of distraction. That is all. Your kiss... it... it meant nothing to me."

Tulkas, pretending to be wounded, pouted before giving his favorite student a measured look. "Nothing, you say. However, you are different whenever we dine together, if we train, or if I am near you. You are quieter and more likely to listen and rein in your temper. I have not seen that in you when you are with anyone else. Not even your twin."

Meássë had the decency to blush. Tulkas, not wanting to press the issue, took pity on her and said, "Come. Dine with me. We can carry on like nothing untoward took place."

"You are not angry?" She asked, confused. Despite his ready laughter and easy smile, Tulkas had a temper and his pride.

"I am not Makar, my lady," Tulkas replied, and strode to the small dining table on the dais. "I will not hold a lady's refusals against her. I certainly do not believe in taking what is not offered to me freely.”

Meássë blushed again, this time with shame. Still, she followed Tulkas and took her customary place by his right hand. Her lord lifted a little bell by his side and rang for the food.

Tulkas knew how to set a generous table. It was in his nature to do so. Elves came into the Lord's Hall carrying polished wooden trays laden with roast fowl and olives and cheese and beets and greens, followed by little onion tarts and fresh river fish roasted with herbs and apples baked in cinnamon and sugar. Meássë was served generous portions of each dish, but found her usually hearty appetite deserting her. Every time she glanced at Tulkas, she found him gilded by the faint light of nearby candles. His hair was like new gold, and his amber eyes were warm and open. Her gaze drifted to his lips. Meássë blushed and turned away.  She remembered how her skin prickled when that thick, coarse beared of his brushed against her cheeks and remembered his kiss, how his lips simply crushed hers, how it set her body ablaze with hunger and need. Thoughts of his lips gliding over her skin slowly seeped into her mind. She turned to face Tulkas again. Her lord was studying her silently and intensely. 

"Leave us," he commanded. The elves gracefully curtsied and bowed before leaving the hall and closing the great doors behind them. He turned to Meásse as soon as the doors slammed shut.

"My kiss meant nothing, you say," he observed, drumming his fingers against his cup as he did so. "Then why do you look at me with such burning hunger?"

Meássë felt a flush creeping up her neck. "You imagine things, my lord," she mumbled in a rush.

"Do I?" Tulkas pushed his chair back and rose. He set his cup to one side and inched his way over to her. "Then why are your cheeks tinged in pretty shades of pink? Hmm? Why is your breath ragged? Your eyes too curious for their own fucking good?"

"I..." Meássë's tongue tied itself in knots when Tulkas curled his fingers around stray locks of her hair. "My lord..."

"Your hair," he coos, "How I have often pictured it spread all over my pillows under a spill of starlight."

"You have?" Meássë nearly fell out of her chair in her hurry to stand. 

Tulkas grinned in triumph. "Yes," he replied softly before letting go of her wisps of hair. "Many a moment when I lay in bed. I have seen your hair spread out all over my pillows. I have felt your nails raking down my back while I filled you with my cock and my seed. The things I have done to you in my dreams... Words alone cannot describe them."

"You are being impudent now, my lord," Meássë retorted, embarrassed by how easily her body prickled and heated at the thought of him bedding her. "I would be within my rights to strike you and leave."

"I am merely being honest." Tulkas simply smiled and spread his hands. "And as I said before, I do not take what is not given to me freely. If you do not wish to go beyond us sparring and sharing meals, you need only say the word, and this conversation will end here."

Meássë licked her lips and studied him. She wanted to say, "Thank you, my lord, but I must decline," and would have succeeded had her own curiosity not gotten the best of her.

"What do you do to me in these dreams?"

Tulkas did not answer with words. He grabbed her and leaned in, his lips possessing hers. Meássë suddenly found herself unraveling the same way she did when Tulkas kissed her the first time. Her entire body was aflame with raw, unbridled lust. Her eyes flutter shut when she felt him flush against her. Desperate to draw him even closer, she tried to throw her arms around his shoulders. Her attempts were a failure. Tulkas was tall, taller than even her twin. But she did not have to say anything. Tulkas crouched and slipped his arms under her thighs, lifting her up with ease. He growled when she returned his kisses with equal passion.

“Eager!" he laughed into his kiss and set her down on the table. "And so desperate. Will you let me do whatever I want to you tonight?"

Meássë found herself being pulled into a dark tunnel of desire. Tulkas was over her and around her. His kisses were rough, his lips greedy, and his hands gentle, despite being callused after years of fighting and sword use. White-hot jolts of pleasure licked up her spine when she felt them palm her breasts and play with her nipples over the fabric of her tunic.

"Anything," she pleaded, even as she surrendered and her body grew pliant. "You can do anything."

There was a sharp rip. Tulkas had shoved his hand down the front of her tunic and tore it down the center before tugging his own over his head and throwing it to the floor. Meássë whimpered when he drew her back into his embrace and she felt his skin over hers.

So warm, she mused, her mind growing hazy by the fury of his kisses. His skin is so fucking warm.

Tulkas shivered when she slipped her arms around his shoulders, and her nails gouged into his back. "Anything?" He hissed through his teeth. "Wonderful."

He dropped down to his haunches and went to work on her boots. One joined the growing pile of clothes on the floor. The other followed not long after. Tulkas rose again and loosened the lacings of Meássë's riding leathers, fully aware her eyes were on him the entire time.

His hair was like a river of gold now, and those tattoos of his—how they gleamed in the light. When they lay in bed, she thought to ask about them, what they meant, and touch every one of them. She could let her lips and tongue glide over them if he liked it. But that was all for later. When he said so, Meássë lifted her hips, and her leathers and small clothes were pulled down her legs and thrown along with the ruins of her tunic unceremoniously to the floor, leaving her exposed. Tulkas took a moment to drink her in: her alabaster skin, her seashell-pink lips, her thick, auburn hair. Then there were her eyes. They were sharp and a vivid green, eyes he imagined himself drowning in.

"You are a vision, my lady," he whispered in admiration.

Meássë blushed and looked away. There may have been others, but no one looked at her like Tulkas did, with eyes filled with reverence. It left her speechless. He gripped her chin, and his mouth opening over hers soon drowned out her thoughts. His kiss tasted of honey and cloves. The sweet, clean scent of him soon filled her with each breath. When he cupped her back her legs slid open and moved up his thighs before resting over his hips. Tulkas growled softly.

"When I take you to bed after this, I am going to fuck you until you cannot walk," he vowed, nibbling the shell of her ear.

"I will hold you to that vow," Meássë murmured helplessly. 

"I have dreamed of this," he said as he slid a finger over her slit, groaning when he found her slick and wet and ready for him. He tightened his other arm around her waist while slipping his finger into her hole, sending waves of unimaginable bliss coursing over her entire body. "And not just sinking my fingers inside of you, either. I want to feel you come around my cock."

"And as I said, my lord, you can do anything to me." Meássë was overwhelmed by what he was doing to her. Tulkas was exceedingly skilled, even when it came to giving pleasure. He made her feel like she was drowning and being pulled under the waves repeatedly. And he was so perfect. So utterly perfect. All through the day, all she could think of was his kiss. Now he was before her, making her feel pleasure she had never experienced before.

"Good girl," he whispered approvingly. Tulkas sank to his knees and pressed little kisses over the expanse of her legs. He did not stop until he reached the apex between her thighs. Meássë threw her head back and cried out softly, her hands digging into the edge of the table when he ran his tongue over her cunt again and again. She forced herself to open her eyes. Tulkas would grunt with each lick, his hands gripping hard at her flesh whenever he pressed deeper. She murmured under her breath. Her secret sweetness soon poured onto his tongue and lips and even his beard. He flicked his eyes at her and found her pretty green ones dark and needy and wanton. Meássë sighed and trembled. A sweet tightness grew in her belly. She was close. She could feel it. But it was not enough. His tongue, as sinful as it was, was not enough.

"I need you inside of me," she breathed, her voice hoarse and ragged.  

Tulkas did not have to be told twice. He stood up and moved his hands to his belt, tugging down on his breeches just low enough to free his cock after he undid the buckle. Greedy hands moved to her hips. He kissed her again, and Meássë could taste her essence all over his lips and tongue. His beard tickled against her skin just like it did while he was between her thighs. The prickling feeling proved too overwhelming, and she kissed him all the harder for it.

"Desperate little slut," Tulkas laughed softly against her skin. "Yes?"

Meássë, utterly lost in a red haze of lust by now, managed a weak, "Yes."

Tulkas laughed again, taking his time to kiss all over her throat before nipping it with his teeth. Meássë moaned softly when he guided his cock into her velvety core, prodding her open little by little. He felt thick against her walls and she squirmed as he moved inch by agonizing inch. When he filled her completely and started to move, she jolted. Pleasure and pain mingled in a heady mix while she shuddered and sobbed his name.

"You are so fucking tight," he muttered and slid his arms around her waist. The table slowly creaked every time he thrust and bruised the insides of her thighs with his hips. "So tight. And how well you take me. It is as if you were made for me."

"And you feel so good inside me," Meássë could not help but reply. Every time Tulkas found that place that gave her indescribable pleasure, it made her see stars behind her eyes. "My lord."

Tulkas whimpered softly. "Touch me," he urged, desperate to feel her hands all over him. "Please."

It was even better than his wildest dreams. Elegant hands glided over his arms, splayed over his torso and the small of his back, setting him ablaze whoever they touched. Meássë's skin was so soft, like her velvety insides. Tulkas groaned when nails raked through his hair and sinful lips kept seeking his. He grew drunk on it all and was soon lost in her flesh.

"Scream for me," he commanded when Meássë bit back her cries. "I want to hear you scream for me."

"But the elves… your attendants…"

"They will not say a word even if they hear. Let go. I command you to let go."

It was as if a dam had burst. Meássë’s cries spilled free and rattled around the hall. Tulkas thrust even harder, and new jolts of pleasure struck them both. He pushed her onto her back before quickening his already tortuous pace. The new angle he found sent her spiraling. Her back arched every time he drew his hips back and pushed them back in. Meássë had to grab at anything she could to try and keep herself steady. She knocked a glass over in her bid to hold onto something. It fell to the ground with a loud crash.  

“Mine," he groaned whenever her walls fluttered and grew tighter and tighter around his cock. "You are mine."

His words undid her completely. Meássë’s body shook as her orgasm ripped through her. Hot flashes of pleasure spread all over her while Tulkas thrust one final time, moaning deeply when he filled her with his spend, his nail digging into her hips. Meássë could not move and lay there, too lost in her own state of bliss to even care.

The world came into focus little by little. Tulkas pulled out of her, leaving her feeling strangely empty. Meássë tried to regain a sense of bearing and soon found herself being carried and covered in something incredibly soft. She opened her eyes. That something soft was a pelt finer than silk. Tulkas crooned sweet words of endearment into her ear while he settled into his chair, keeping her with him as he did so. He brushed his lips over her hair. She sighed wistfully and rested her head against his shoulder.

"Eat," Tulkas said gently, and proceeded to feed her with morsels from his plate. "You had so little during dinner. When you have had your fill, I am taking you back to my bed."

If you enjoyed this, please consider commenting/reblogging it!

tags: @cilil​ @asianbutnotjapanese​ @wandererindreams

[acacia-may]

9, 27, 69 and 83 for the ask game, please?

Hi there, friend! Thank you so much for the ask! I'd be delighted to answer these questions for you 🥰

9. In an ideal world where you’re already super successful and published, would you want to see a tv or movie adaptation of your work? why or why not?

Honestly, I'm very private about my original fiction and am not sure I would ever want it to be published, so I have never actually thought about this before, and I honestly don't know if I'd want to see it adapted for screen. I think a lot of book to screen adaptations aren't very thoughtful or respectful to the source material so I guess it would depend on who was making it and why. It would be flattering if someone loved my work enough to make an adaptation of it, but I think I'd only be okay with it if it was done out of genuine love for the source material even if our interpretations were different (death of the author and all that...😅) rather than just a soulless cash-grab.

27. Do you share rough drafts or do you wait until it’s all polished? And who do you share them with?

Yes. I always try to get someone to read over a rough draft before I post it anywhere, especially if I am feeling iffy about it. That's generally @randomsprinkles the world's dearest editor who reads most of my work even when it's in really rough shape and will always tell me what to cut out, change, or fix! 😊 I have shared some rough drafts (or snippets of them) with other fandom friends/fellow fic writers too (especially if they write for the same characters or relationships), and I'm very grateful for their feedback and always try to thank them in my author's notes. 💖

I'm not super protective or secretive over my rough drafts, but I do get embarrassed sharing them sometimes especially when they're not polished at all. I have had some ridiculous typos before and it's nice to see those get caught & corrected, but I always feel sheepish about the fact someone actually read that silly mistake. 😅

69. How do you write emotional scenes? Do you ever feel what the characters feel?

Oh absolutely. I think my writing tends to be deeply introspective when it comes to the characters, and it's always my goal especially when writing a deeply vulnerable and emotional scene to really get in touch with how that character is feeling.

I think when it comes to these really intense scenes, my writing process is a bit like method acting. I'll take a step back from my draft, close my eyes, (often times) listen to music that takes me to this particular moment in the story, and really try to get into the headspace of the character whose POV I'm writing in by pretending I am them in a way (like I'm an actor portraying them in a play) to get in touch with those deep emotions and purposely try to feel what they feel. I think I always personally feel emotionally moved when I write these scenes, but it take a very special one to earn real tears from me. But I have definitely cried a couple of times while writing, and I almost always take that a sign that the character whose POV I'm writing in is crying in that moment.

For example, there's a moment in "Am I Ready For Love? Or Maybe Just a Best Friend" where the POV character finally opens up about his deeply painful grief, but he's trying to be so strong and fighting back the tears. As I'm writing this scene, I get to this one line and just start weeping, and I stop and think to myself: "This is it. This is where he can't hold those tears back anymore and just starts crying because it's all so overwhelming." And that became one of my personal favorite lines I think I've ever written in anything (though it's probably more moving in context): "But…but mostly I think it’s just that I wanted to be with her forever, and”—there was a hitch in his voice as tears began to pool in his eyes again—“even now, all these years later, I guess I…I just still don’t know what forever looks like without her.”

In short though, I do think I empathize a lot with the characters that I write, especially when I'm writing from their point of view. Even if I haven't personally experienced their exact struggles. I feel their pain, and it deeply moves me. As a writer, I hope that I can convey that to anyone that reads my work and that they'll be moved to. I take no joy in making readers cry (and always try to apologize for it), but honestly, there is no greater compliment than knowing that something I wrote moved someone so much.

83. Less is more or more is more?

It really depends. I do tend to be really, really wordy so I suppose it would make me a little bit of a hypocrite if I didn't say more is more. But I genuinely feel that less is more in a lot of specific circumstances such as when it comes to descriptions of things. When I first started writing I would spend whole paragraphs describing people's clothes or the exact layout of the rooms they were in, but as I've grown as a writer, I have done less and less of that because I feel it's unnecessary and just bogs down my narrative. So it just kind of depends. But I do tend to ramble on and on so... 🤷‍♀️ I'm not sure if I have a good answer for this one lol 😅