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retrievablememories · 2 months ago

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marrow | dpr ian

summary: you're not the only eater. many of your kind exist, but you have always tried to avoid them, continuing to play the charade of the normal, boring life that you can never truly have. until one day, someone shows up at your door.

pairing: dpr ian x black fem reader

genre: horror, angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn romance, bones & all au, 1980s au

word count: 22.9k

marrow (noun):

a soft, highly vascular modified connective tissue that occupies the cavities of most bones

the choicest of food

a/n: this is a “bones & all” au, so if you didn’t like the movie/book you probably won’t like this. based off both the book and movie but with some changes.

please heed the warnings; there are strong HORROR elements in this fic. (i mean, people are eating other people…) if you’re not interested in reading about these particular concepts, please just scroll on by, make use of your filter settings, or block me.

as we all know, this is just fiction...it doesn't claim to be an accurate/real representation of anyone.

dividers: here | here

1985

You smell him before you can see him.

It comes as somewhat of a surprise: You don’t realize you’re smelling something different, something other than Alicia’s perfume, the cigarette tray, or the stale, woody air of the motel’s office, until it’s right up on you. It makes your body stiffen with fear. Not that you have any right to be afraid.

After a few long minutes, though, no one walks in. You don’t see the familiar blinding sight of headlights flashing in the windows as a car pulls up. And yet the smell remains. Despite your apprehension, you get up from your chair behind the desk to see if anybody is outside, walking to the windows facing the expanse of the parking lot. That is when you see a figure lying on the ground, somewhat obscured by the shadows where the office’s lights don’t reach. It looks to be a man, though you aren’t 100% sure.

From what you can see, he’s covered in blood. Large stains of it ruin the white of his shirt and the blue of his jeans. You could guess that it’s probably not his own. Your mind jumps ahead of you, trying to create the image of him feasting on the body of some unknown victim, of him carrying a bloody bag filled with someone’s clothes and trying to find somewhere to hide it…

It’s a terrible thing to think. Maybe he’s an innocent person, severely hurt. He probably used what little strength he had left to drag himself here for help.

But the smell never lies.

You quickly grab a flashlight sitting in one of the cubbies on the wall. Then you open the door, the jingling of the bell loud in your ears, and give the parking lot a quick sweep before stepping outside, seeing nothing but the same cars that’d been parked at the same motel rooms earlier. With it being a one-story motel, there wasn’t much area you needed to scan.

Standing out here now and pointing the flashlight into the shadows, you can see he’s still breathing, at least. But now you can also see the dried blood around his mouth and down his neck, which makes you want to promptly walk back into the office and lock the door behind you. Turn out all the lights and pretend no one was ever here.

There’s a big blood stain in one area near his abdomen like he was stabbed; you can see that the fabric is torn. Whoever he ate clearly didn’t go willingly. But when do they ever?

Again you think about going back inside—maybe telling Alicia to call for an ambulance. You think of calling the police, and shame immediately follows. How could you call the authorities on him knowing you and him share the same crimes? You’re unsure of which action to take, but it’s a little late to make the decision now. You see him begin blinking from the light you’re shining directly in his face; you hadn’t paid attention to where you were pointing the flashlight as your mind raced with options. He raises a bloodied hand to shield his eyes, the movement causing him pain.

You shift the light away, pointing it in the vicinity of his torso again. Only now do you pay attention to the numerous tattoos covering his skin. Unsure what to ask or say, you can only come up with a broken “...Hey.” You haven’t used your voice in the last hour.

He doesn’t reply. Instead he pushes himself to sit up, his hand hovering over the presumed stab wound.

“What…uh, what are you doing here?”

He looks at you like he’s deciding whether he ought to be suspicious of you or not. The irony. “I need water,” he finally says.

“Water? I think you need a lot more than water.”

With effort, he starts getting to his feet, and you can’t help flinching away. It feels stupid to act this way, to still be so afraid. As if being afraid could allow you to pretend that you are more human than you really are.

And what timing—Alicia appears at that moment after being locked up in her room sorting paperwork all night. The door bell sounding off behind you makes you jump hard, the wooden beads on your braids all rattling against each other. You spin around to look at Alicia, who’s too busy staring at the man in front of you with concerned eyes.

“What the hell? Are you okay?” she asks, her voice loud in the relative quiet of the parking lot. The motel being located on a less-frequented stretch of highway means things are often quiet like this, with only the sounds of cicadas and frogs and occasional passing vehicles to fill the late hours.

“I’m fine,” he says, disinterested in her concern.

Her eyebrows rise at his accent. “You ain’t from around here,” Alicia says, as if that intrigues her.

“But you’re not fine. Haven’t you been attacked?” you argue, gesturing toward the wound he can’t keep his hand away from. He lets it drop to his side then.

“I’m fine. I bandaged it. I just need water.” His tone and the dark quality of his expression don’t leave much room for you to object.

You and Alicia look at each other for a long moment; when she sees the tension in your face, you both come to a silent agreement. Strange people and motels go together like thunder and rain, but that fact often keeps you in something of a hypervigilant state. Unbeknownst to Alicia, you are certain you know why this man has shown up here bloody and wounded, insisting he only needs water and not even asking for medical help—which would entail needing to be admitted to a hospital—and you conclude it’s best to get him off your hands as soon as possible.

Once you do, you can start trying to forget about him and the smell of blood clinging to him. After not encountering it for so long, its return makes that familiar taste of iron rise up on your tongue like it’s encoded in your DNA, activating your salivary glands from just the memory of eating, and you feel like an animal for it.

Alicia relaxes her shoulders and puts on a gentle smile. “Well, okay. There’s a bathroom in the office. You can get cleaned up in there. And we got plenty of bottled water too, though it ain’t the fancy stuff like Evian.”

So you let him in.

You listen to the water running in the bathroom while you sit with your back rigid in your desk chair, like you’ll need to spring into action at any moment. Alicia doesn’t bother to speak, knowing the walls are too thin to get away with it, and leans next to you to write on a page of your notepad instead. You watch her small lettering fill the white space:

He looks fucked. We’re probably more dangerous to him right now than the other way around. You think he walked all the way here from town bleeding like that? Maybe someone dropped him here.

You realize with a jolt that Alicia thinks it’s all his blood. You shake your head but give no explanation. After a pause, she shrugs.

Still, you know where the gun is.

“Please…” you choke out, not wanting to think about having to use it tonight—or any other night, for that matter.

You don’t know if he’ll be a danger, considering he clearly ate not too long ago. But you can never say that for certain. Every cannibal’s appetite and impulses are different.

When he comes back out cleaned of blood, Alicia casually slides the notepad out of sight and stands up straight again. The shirt he was wearing is balled up in his fist, leaving him standing there with nothing but his jeans and shoes on. Seeing people in various states of undress, especially in the South during the warmer months, is nothing new. Still, his nakedness feels oddly misplaced in this macabre situation, and you don’t know where to put your eyes. You end up fixating on the bandaging around his middle, which is all stained through with old blood. It needs to be changed, but that’s not your problem.

Alicia blinks for a moment, the side of her mouth quirking up slightly.

“Of course—silly me. You’re probably wanting some new clothes, ain’t you? We might have something in storage. I’ll just be a few minutes.” Alicia takes a pair of keys from one of the desk drawers. You want to grasp her arm and tell her not to go, but she just directs her eyes to the notepad; you nod reluctantly and watch as she heads to the back door of the office and out to the storage building a couple yards away. It’s a spacious outbuilding that holds everything needed in the running of a motel, including the commercial laundry machines.

Now that the man is somewhat calmer, he looks at you like he recognizes you. You turn away from him when you see the change in his gaze. It’s strange to be seen and known by another eater. Though it’s happened several times, it always unsettles you. You don’t know anything about him, but you’re suddenly, maybe irrationally, worried that he’ll reveal your secret to Alicia.

“I’ve never met another one like me,” he says.

There are several things you want to say. Why didn’t you say it sooner? Have you really never smelled another eater until now? Who did you eat? Will you just leave already? None of these questions are what comes out. “Never?”

“Never. But I suppose I don’t stay anywhere long enough to find them.”

Then please leave soon.

“When was the last time you ate?”

You bolt up from the chair. There’s nowhere for you to go, though, so you stand there wiping your sweaty palms on your pants and glancing at the back door, hoping Alicia returns soon. “Don’t ask me that.”

You still won’t look at him, but he tries and fails to meet your darting eyes. You find a different part of his body to focus on. This time it’s his hand resting on the desk counter and the intricately designed tattoo that covers it.

“You must get hungry sometimes.” He leans closer, but the tall counter overlooking the desk keeps you separated. “Are you gonna tell me you’ve never had the urge to have a bite of her?” He gestures his head toward the back door. “It’s so fucking lonely out here, maybe no one would notice if you did.”

“Shut the fuck up.” You surprise yourself with the force of your reply, though your voice shakes. “I-I have self-control.”

And then he laughs. Like you two are old friends catching up—like you didn’t just curse him out. It makes him wince immediately, and his hand goes to his wound again. He sighs. “Sorry, darling, but I don’t think it’s about self-control.”

You ignore the name, though it irritates you and reminds you of the sleazy men that often make their way to the motel looking for midday entertainment in harassing young women. “We’ve both been born infected with it,” you say, your voice tight. “It can’t go away, but it’s something that should at least be minimized—not just given into whenever.”

“Is that how you think of it?”

“How could you not feel bad about it?” Despite yourself, you feel tears stinging your eyes. “Each one of them was a person with a life and dreams. We’re the ones stealing that every time we give in.”

“Feel bad about it?” He seems to consider that for a moment, his dark brown eyes far away. “The only thing you can do is get used to it. I would think that at some point, after you’ve eaten enough, it wouldn’t be shocking if it didn’t feel wrong to you anymore. Or if you started enjoying it. You’ve never felt that?”

You don’t answer his question, too disturbed and mentally exhausted to continue arguing and unable to agree with him. You wish he’d never crossed into this part of town, that you’d never met him. His presence makes your head and your chest hurt. He is everything you are and everything you don’t want to be, facing you head-on so that you cannot ignore it.

He’ll go away like the rest have, you try to reassure yourself. You’ve never befriended any of the other eaters you’ve met; at most, you ran into them a couple more times but never saw them again after. But even as you think it, it feels like a lie.

You sit back in the chair with a stilted movement just as Alicia returns, feeling like the precarious little life you’ve built is suddenly on the verge of collapsing. All the effort you’ve put toward modeling the spectacularly average life of the everyday human being—gone.

“Sorry that took a while. I figure you can’t put new clothes on with all that—” she gestures to the bloody bandage “—going on, so here you are.” Alicia hands him a small stack of clothes and a first-aid kit. “I hope that’ll do you some good, mister….?” She looks at him expectantly, and you realize that you haven’t known his name this entire time.

You feel his eyes on you when he answers, but your mind is elsewhere.

“It’s Ian.”

—

The next time you’re struck by the familiar smell of another eater, it happens in the early morning hours when you’re helping an older couple check out of their room.

It causes you to stumble and break in the middle of your sentence as your mind blanks, and you have to take a moment to remember what you were saying. The two elderly folks look at you strangely, their previous neutral-at-best demeanor now giving an air of annoyance. But at least they’re on their way out. You tune out their unsubtle mumbling about young people and their drug use as they finish up and step out the door.

You watch the front windows with a rising panic in your guts, wanting to run and hide but unable to move your feet. What horrific luck do you have to encounter two within the short span of three weeks? It seems that whenever they smell you, they come to you—whether it’s to size you up or attempt to make an acquaintance.

And a few minutes later, there’s a beat-up sedan, a gray Renault Alliance, pulling up in one of the parking spaces.

What you don’t expect is for the person to be Ian.

The ground has been kicked out from under you. You think maybe you’re suffering from acute vertigo. Your breaths and heartbeats are simultaneously too slow and too fast as he gets out of the car, wearing a button-up shirt that he only bothered to button halfway and black pants. He’s pristine this time—no blood, no torn shirt with an open wound, though his movements hint that he’s still healing. His eyes are shaded by sunglasses, but he takes them off as he walks to the door, making eye contact with you from the other side of the glass. That look sends cold water down your spine.

In another life, if he wasn’t like you and you weren’t like him—if you both didn’t share this bodily pestilence, this cursed impulse—maybe you would’ve felt some spark of interest. Maybe you would’ve thought of him as handsome, giggled with Alicia about it later, a brief respite from your mountains of paperwork. But in this life, you don’t feel anything but repulsion and fear.

You’re momentarily blasted with the unbearable summer heat when the door opens. It’s quickly chased away again by the air conditioning, causing your skin to prickle. Ian gives a close-lipped smile as he stops in front of you.

“Why are you back here?” you whisper.

“Checking into a room. That’s allowed here, right?”

If he’s a paying guest, you can’t really turn him away. He hasn’t done anything yet to warrant that. Even if he does eat other people on a regular basis.

You look past him to the car sitting outside. “Why didn’t you drive last time?”

“I just got it.”

“From which dealership?”

He taps his fingers against the sunglasses and glances down before answering, his voice low. “I think you know.”

Some part of you wants to know who it was in a futile attempt to keep their memory alive if only in your own mind, but you don’t ask. You don’t even know what type of person they were, after all; maybe he’d rid the world of some domestic abuser. It could be…understandable, in that case. People die everyday, you try to remind yourself—a useless platitude you have always told yourself after the act is over. It never absolves the guilt. They would’ve died someday anyway only goes so far when their blood is underneath your fingernails.

“And why come back here, of all motels? There are others in this area that don’t have mold in the bathrooms and roaches in the walls.”

He pauses after hearing that information, like he’s trying to figure out whether you’re pulling his leg. “I thought I’d be in pretty good company here, you know.”

“I don’t want your company,” you say wearily, watching him as he starts taking cash out of his wallet. “Do you think I’ll let you stay here just because—?”

“Because we’re the same? Because you’d cover for me?” he says, voice even lower like he only wants you to hear. That doesn’t matter anyway. Alicia is busy cleaning and preparing one of the newly vacated rooms, and it’s just you two in the office. There would’ve been one more person present if anyone had answered your For Hire ad in the paper, but it still remains only you and Alicia running this joint. “My God, darling. Forgive me for thinking you’d have a little mercy on a fellow cannibal. Anyway, I wouldn’t be so obvious as to do it here.”

You give him a look of disdain. In all sensibility, you should turn him away. You have no obligation to help him or break the law in doing so. The circumstances of his last appearance were already outrageous, and now he shows up with a stolen car. Who knows if someone might come here searching for him and making you and Alicia complicit in his mess? And ultimately, you want nothing more than for him to stop bringing up the whole cannibalism bit. Deep down, you are afraid that these mentions of it—maybe even the simple proximity to him—will reawaken the urge you haven’t felt in over a year now.

You’ve stayed silent for a beat too long. In a mess of movements, he shoves his wallet back in his pocket, slips his sunglasses back on, and brushes a hand through his hair, disappointment visible in his expression. “Okay, then. I’ll go elsewhere.” Something about his reaction makes your stomach twist. Maybe the sheer resignation in it. You shouldn’t care where he goes after this, if he has anywhere to go. He’ll be miles away from you again, just like you want. But…

It comes rushing out of your mouth as his hand reaches for the door handle, and you have no idea why you say it. “How many nights?”

—

It’s been a few days since Ian checked into the motel and you haven’t heard anything from him since then, but sometimes you spot “his” car in its parking space when you go to see about one of the other rooms. Whenever it’s not there, you can’t help but wonder where he’s gone and what he’s doing.

Without seeing him, you would almost be able to forget that he’s there, if not for the smell. It constantly keeps you on edge, more than you already tend to be. Alicia picks up on your restlessness but of course doesn’t know the origin of it—meaning she’s left to come up with a new guess everyday.

“Well yeah, he was surely strange…but maybe he appreciated us helping him out and just wanted to return the favor?” she’d suggested on that first day when he returned and you’d let her know with a less-than-thrilled attitude. “It ain’t like he’s the first weirdo to come around.”

“Maybe you just ain’t getting enough sleep. That’s enough to turn anybody’s mind out. Hope somebody replies to that ad soon so we can have some more help…” she’d said the day after that.

“You missed him earlier, but he came by the office this morning. Had an extra one of those breakfast muffin thingies and left it here. Ain’t that nice? He’s pretty cute, actually. You sure you ain’t just crushing and feel weird about it ‘cause he’s a paying customer?” Alicia laughed one afternoon, the third day of his stay. “Worse things have been done at this motel, Y/N.”

“No, Alicia,” was all you could muster up, and your stiff reply was just as good as an actual confirmation in her mind.

Sometimes, even though you are deeply ashamed of it and try never to acknowledge these rare moments after they happen, you stare at Alicia with her long curly brown hair and her sinewy limbs and her shining brown eyes, taking in the full breadth of her humanness, and you wish she were like you. Even though it would take away her normalcy and happiness…if she could smell that blood-curdling aroma that only you can—if she could understand the weight of this secret—if she knew what it was like to feel the rough grind of bone fragments between her teeth—

—maybe everything could be easier. You wouldn’t have to live with an imagined cowl of judgment, which she had yet to even bestow upon you, always blanketing your mind. And though you’ve always thought it better to have fewer eaters in the world than more, maybe navigating this existence wouldn’t be so isolating.

—

One muggy evening, the motel office phone rings, and you see on the caller ID that it’s from Ian’s room. You have to take a pause to steel yourself, letting it ring for several moments before you pick up the receiver.

“Hi, how can I help you?”

“Hey, yeah, um, the sink faucet has started leaking quite badly…not sure how that happened. It wasn’t like that last night.”

You sigh quietly, knowing you’d suggested changing all the faucets to Alicia a while ago, but the budget wasn’t quite there to do so. The summer festivals will be starting up soon, though, and festivals mean a higher number of travelers, so maybe there will be more money for it by the end of the season.

“...I’m sorry about that. I’ll be right there.”

“Right. Thanks, dear.” Your mouth twitches, but you don’t reply; you just nod as if he could see you. Neither of you hangs up. For an awkward stretch of quiet, punctuated only by the shuffling sound of movement, it seems like he wants to say something else. There’s an intake of breath like he will. You slam the phone down before he can.

You find the toolbox in its usual spot and take your umbrella from the stand before heading out the door. It’s raining lightly outside, the force of the droplets picking up and then dying back again every so often, but the humidity is so high that you feel uncomfortably soggy by the time you get to his room.

When Ian opens the door, there’s a cigarette burning between his fingers.

“Um, hello.”

You don’t like the way he smiles at you—like you’re co-conspirators on some big scheme. “Hi. You know where it’s at, yeah?”

You resist rolling your eyes. “Of course.”

He lets you in and then leaves the door propped open so he can stand outside and smoke. At least he won’t be breathing down your neck while you work like some other guests do.

Some game show program is playing on the small box TV; it looks like Press Your Luck. The sound of the TV and the rain falling outside accompany you as you set the toolbox down on the sink counter and start making the necessary fixes to the faucet. Situations like this one, though annoying, do give you a tiny bit of reprieve; you become too engrossed in the work to think about all your life’s problems.

That is, until you realize the problem with the faucet is too convenient to be caused by any natural malfunction or wear and tear. No he didn’t…you think, though part of you is still trying to convince yourself that your eyes and brain are deceiving you.

When you’ve successfully repaired the faucet, you straighten up and are startled to find Ian already leaning against the bathroom door frame, the cigarette now gone.

“Uh—well…works like a charm now.”

He acknowledges your work with a small nod. Before you can say anything else, he immediately says, “How do you experience it? The hunger.”

You could swear that your heart ceases beating. Your words come out in a shaky rush of breath. “Please stop.”

“You’re the only other one I’ve met, and I have to know what it’s like for someone else.” His voice and expression are genuinely pleading, and this takes you aback. “Please try to understand where I’m coming from.”

You put the tools back in the toolbox with trembling hands, your mind racing with things you should and shouldn’t say. “It doesn’t happen often,” you finally admit, your voice so small that he has to step fully into the bathroom to hear you. “There are usually months or years between occurrences. But when it comes…it’s oppressive. It’s like I’m being gnawed on the inside, like I have to do it or I’ll die. The last time was before I met Alicia.” The blurred memory of it causes you physical pain; it’s impossible to escape the self-hatred and disgust you feel, enclosed in this small room with him.

“Who was it?”

You shake your head. The thought of recounting what happened—no, what you did—makes you shudder. You refuse to let the barbed words leave your mouth for fear of being cut by them and bleeding out, but you find yourself mentally back in the scene anyway; you can almost hear the lapping of the lake and the distant sound of her voice if you concentrate. “Her name was Marygold. That’s it.”

He nods, left to accept that you don’t want to talk about her. “Years…hmm. The urge comes every few weeks for me.” He smiles sarcastically. “Lucky one, aren’t I?”

“...I thought you said you enjoyed it,” you murmur.

“Look, dear: What’s not enjoyable is always having to cover your tracks—or making too big of a mess and having to leave the area because of it.” He crosses his arms. “The guy whose car I have? He was just some lonely grocery store worker. You probably want me to say something noble, like I ate a fucking axe-murderer or something. No—I just needed a car again, and he was convenient. That’s how it is.

Maybe I could try to ignore the urge, put it off, but I don’t. When I feel it, I just go and find someone to satisfy it. Does the average person debate about whether they should eat a meal when they feel hunger? No, they just eat.”

You groan, your stomach lurching as you clutch the edge of the counter. “I-I can’t believe you messed up the faucet to get me in here to talk about this. What if Alicia had come instead?” For a second, you allow yourself to consider the danger in that implication—if Alicia had been in here with him alone…

He gives an airy laugh at your mention of the sink. “So I wasn’t very clever, then.”

Trying to gather yourself, you pick up the toolbox and glare at him. “I’ve told you plenty. Don’t ask me about this anymore.” In reality, you haven’t said even half of what he wants to know about, but getting anything else from you is impossible at this point.

Ian steps aside to allow you to leave the bathroom. You grab your umbrella from where it’s resting against the dresser and hurriedly open it.

“Please don’t call again unless it’s a serious problem. One that you haven’t purposely fucking caused.”

He raises his eyebrows. “That’s unfair. Staying here means I’m also paying for your services, you know.” Then he adds, “Not that I believe in superstitions, but I thought it was considered bad luck to open umbrellas indoors.”

You roll your eyes, already halfway out the door. “That’s ridiculous. And it’s not like I was born with any luck to begin with.” You let the lock click behind you, not bothering with a goodbye or goodnight.

—

Guests continue to come and go as the season rolls into the beginning of July; they mostly consist of travelers from outside of the area, contract workers, and truckers. You and Alicia work yourselves to near exhaustion with upholding the motel’s operations. You have often thought it lucky that you found her when you did, as she’d just fired her previous two employees for stealing funds when you answered her ad. You don’t know how she would’ve done all this alone, owning and upkeeping this motel after her divorce from her husband; but she always carried herself as if she were just happy to be doing something entirely of her own volition, without him ordering her every move.

Amidst this rush, Ian’s been at the motel for several weeks now. You wonder if he plans on living here, as it seems he has nowhere else to stay. But he’ll need to eat soon, won’t he? Guilt begins gnawing at you as the days pass. You’re putting the other motel guests’ lives in danger just by having him here.

But he’s been doing this just as long as you have—and with greater frequency. He should know by now to avoid eating too close to home. In those quiet moments when you have more time to ruminate, you find yourself hoping that he’ll go somewhere farther out, maybe to one of the bars or a nightclub. As long as it isn’t here.

But you don’t know why you debate with yourself over this or wish such a morbid thing. Someone will have to die either way.

—

The last person you checked in had been hours ago, and the cut-off was at 10:00 p.m. No one else would be coming through here tonight. With that, you’d mentally prepared yourself for another night of getting things in order for the next morning. A half-empty cup of coffee sits on your desk as you go through the budgeting again, the computer’s light illuminating your face and straining your weary eyes. New bathroom faucets, I’m coming for you…you think.

Alicia’s floral perfume swirls around the room as she goes about tidying up the lobby area, switching out the magazines for more recent copies and sanitizing every hard surface with cleaning spray and a cloth. A couple with kids had been through earlier in the day to check out, and their kids had great fun making a mess of things, to the chagrin of their tired parents. Neither one of you had gotten around to cleaning it up until now.

You’re closing out of the budgeting spreadsheet window and about to move onto something else when your stomach twists and aches. It’s been so long that for a few precious seconds you don’t recognize the sensation, but then dread smashes into you when your brain registers it.

The smell of Alicia’s perfume is suddenly too loud. The smell of her body, soft and muscled and warm, is too loud. Your eyes drift to her tanned legs revealed by her shorts, and you’re overwhelmed with the need to sink your teeth into the fat of her thighs, the muscles of her calves. You swear you can already taste the blood running through her veins; you imagine how it’d feel on your lips. You want to sob from how badly you want it and how badly you don’t.

Your eyes sting with gathering tears as you breathe hard, your panic increasing. You should get up and go to the door, run outside and get the hell away from her. Even if you have to run into the highway and surrender yourself to death by speeding car, you should leave and spare her of this nightmare, but you’re incapable of making yourself move anywhere but toward her. Your body acts without your volition.

That’s how you find yourself rising from your seat, pressing your body against the desk counter as you take a couple of strained steps in her direction. Her body is angled away from you as she finishes wiping down an end table, and you see her cheeks rise as she grins in satisfaction at her own work. You understand innately that this smile will be the last, and a terrible ache swells in your heart. You know you’ll regret not seeing it fully so that you could imprint it in your mind.

“Alicia…” you moan, anguished.

She turns to you in alarm, and you want to scream when she walks over to you. “Y/N! What’s wrong? You look like you’re in a world of hurt.” Her breath is warm, and beneath the scent of spearmint, you can still smell a hint of what she’d had earlier. Some frozen TV dinner of mashed potatoes, meatloaf, and peas. You yearn to share her meal—suck her tongue into your mouth, chew it into pulp.

The sights and scents are all too much, and you are so, so hungry.

“Are you ill?” Alicia asks, brows furrowed as her hand clutches your arm. In your hypersensitive state, you feel each individual finger, the lines on her palms, and the swirls of her fingerprints. Though they are hands you have thought about many times before, it’s as if you know them intimately now—like you formed them and carved all the lines yourself. “I knew it. I’ve been putting too much stress on you, ain’t I? You coulda told me, Y/N.”

Tears drip down your cheeks as you shake your head in denial of her words. “I...I’m sorry.”

Alicia’s expression is soft and remorseful, her mouth downturned. “I should be telling you that.”

Her selfless words only worsen your guilt, even as you lean forward—your body controlled by a force you can’t deny—and press your lips to her neck.

When it’s over an hour later, the only things that remain are her bloody clothes. Physically, you feel frighteningly satisfied with your hunger now alleviated. Your reward for it? A shower of blood. The vinyl floor surrounding you is covered in red. Drops of blood streak down the front and side of the wooden desk, with more on the wooden wall behind you. There are probably more microscopic drops of blood all around the office that you’ll never be able to find. The air is filled with a mingle of odors; the cleaning fluid she used earlier, your unfinished coffee, iron and flesh, the ever-persistent woody, rustic smell of the office itself—and much farther in the background, Ian.

From your place on the floor, you drag yourself up onto your desk chair and fumble the phone receiver with slick hands. It’s difficult to see the buttons with the tears blurring your vision, and you futilely wipe them away, which just smears more of Alicia’s blood across your face. You have to think for a moment to remember which room number is his, and you desperately hope it’s correct as you punch it in.

You think you could faint when you hear his familiar accent. “Hello? That you, Y/N?”

“Help me,” you cry, your voice strangled from the tears and hyperventilating. “God, fucking help me!”

He hangs up a second later. You don’t know what you expected, but that wasn’t it. You begin resigning yourself to your fate as you slump into your seat, the receiver clattering on the desk. Some guest will find you here tomorrow and call the police, and you won’t be able to prove either innocence or guilt. What could you say—I ate her, all of her? You could open my stomach for the evidence; I don’t want to live anymore anyway? Despite what you tell them, the police will think you insane and continue searching for a body that no longer exists. That’s how it often is; another eater had told you this many years ago.

A fresh wave of tears bursts forth, and it causes you to miss the figure rushing past the windows and flinging the door open.

When Ian comes up to you with concern in his eyes, his hands reaching out to steady your shoulders and hold your bloody, tear-drenched cheeks, you don’t know whether he’s your demon or your savior. You feel a perverse relief at his presence, knowing that only he can understand your situation; and you resent him enormously for the casual way he can do the same thing and hardly think of it. It’s this curse you share, borne differently.

“We can clean this up,” he insists as he kneels before you, eyeing all the blood around him like he’s done this a hundred times before. You shake your head and begin to mumble a rebuttal, and he grasps your cheeks more firmly to regain your focus. “Darling, listen to me. It can be like it didn’t happen.”

“It did happen,” you retort, voice strained with anger. “Even if no one else knows it, I will. I can’t stay here and work here everyday knowing I—” your words break, “—that I killed Alicia.”

“You can do it, Y/N. You can get used to it. You have to get used to it, learn how to clean it up and move on. You don’t want to live a life constantly on the run—believe me.”

You practically snarl at him through the tears. “I can’t run a fucking motel by myself.”

He pauses, and then says, “I could do it with you. It’s not like I have shit else to do.”

You scoff. “And what when you need to eat? What then?”

“I could—”

“Start eating the guests, and this will become known as the motel where people go to disappear. How long do you think you’ll get away with that before the authorities come?”

“I’ve already told you I wouldn’t do that,” Ian insists. You think he might continue trying to argue with you, but then he says, “Okay. Okay. If you want to be done with all this, then we have to get the fuck out of here.”

“And leave it like this?” you groan, glancing at the bloody floor.

Ian finally lets you go so he can stand up. “Of course not. We have to clean everything. How many hours do we have until this office is supposed to open?”

You two spend the next several hours meticulously scrubbing every surface in the office. You try to turn yourself into an automaton—focus on the motions your body needs to perform and empty your mind. You aren’t successful. Too many times, you find yourself sniffling and averting your gaze from Ian’s direction so he doesn’t see your teary eyes, which is ridiculous in hindsight; he’s already seen you sobbing and covered in someone else’s blood. Held your face while you did so, like you were a small child. It doesn’t get much worse than that.

When the cleaning work is done, you stuff Alicia’s clothes, your bloody outfit, and the stained rags and brushes into several plastic bags you dig out of storage. Ian promises to stop somewhere so you can burn them all later. Everything else you take is more clothes to wear, some essentials, and your birth certificate folded small and stuffed in one of the pockets of your traveling bag—your only form of ID, and the only memento you have left of your birth parents.

Before abandoning the motel, you remove Ian’s name from the guest ledger to make it seem as if he never stayed there; his motel room looks untouched by the time you’re both done getting his things out of it and fixing it back up. You return his room key to its designated place on the wall of keys and then hurry out of the office, unable to spare another look at the place you’re leaving behind. You and Alicia lived and worked here for so long, spent so many exhausting nights and early mornings keeping the motel going even when it seemed like it might not survive, but there’s nothing left for you now. In just one hour, you destroyed it all.

So in the early morning hours when the motel guests are still asleep and there’s no one to witness but the gradually lightening sky and the cicadas, you and Ian hit the highway in his stolen Renault Alliance.

Once you’re a few miles away from the motel, you roll the window down to get some fresh air, and the warm breeze is one of the few things that helps hold you together. You almost want to stick your head out the window. Maybe if you fill yourself with enough oxygen, it’ll replace all the remnants of Alicia inside you. But you don’t want that to happen, either; you have nothing else left to remember her by but some bloody clothes that will be destroyed anyway. Only the memories of her smile, her sunny demeanor, her melodious Southern accent, and her perfume will remain in your mind, vulnerable to the passing of time. And eventually, those too will begin to fade and lose their clarity, gone to the same murky place within you that the other victims reside in, revived occasionally by your unpredictable nightmares.

“Where are we going?” you ask, and it’s the first thing either of you have said since you left.

“I’ve already been through most of the North…and I’m not really eager to go back soon. So unless you want to hang around the South a bit longer, it should probably be out West.”

“...I’d prefer the South. What kind of trouble did you cause up North?” you ask, your voice devoid of any meaningful emotion.

Ian glances at you and taps his fingers against the steering wheel. “Some…people saw me eating someone. I took someone to this broken-down house, looked like it had been abandoned for years and I knew people rarely came through that area, so I thought it was safe. But some fucking teenagers came there to do their graffiti and shit, and…”

“What did you do?”

“I ran. I hid out in the woods until night, and then I got the fuck out of the state.”

“Which state?”

“Pennsylvania.”

You nod slowly. “And then you come down here and get yourself stabbed. By the person you were eating, wasn’t it?”

Ian chews on his bottom lip before saying, “Yeah.”

In another context, you would make some comment about him being sloppy with it even after his years of experience, but you’re too drained to engage in the back-and-forth that would cause. You sigh and sink deeper into the seat.

“I’m not from this town either, you know. I’ve already done my fair share of running. But with the urge being so infrequent, it’s easier to stay in one place for a while. And even if I do give in to it, sometimes…I can pretend as if I didn’t. Buy myself some more time. Not much evidence but clothes, after all. And clothes are easy to get rid of.” You’re silent for a few moments. “But Alicia…” You close your eyes. “I can’t pretend.”

—

The beginning of your new life is exhausting. You’d forgotten how stressful it is to live like this; you’d gotten used to having one place to live in, the promise of running water everyday, and consistent meals that didn’t come out of a convenience store or vending machine.

You gladly watch Ian flirt with waitresses or waiters at the restaurants you stop in so you can get discounted meals. It doesn’t take much negotiation for him to get cheaper stuff at the occasional farm stand, either; the vendors are quickly enamored by his smile and his charming manner and those pet names he likes to lavish on every living creature. You don’t know where he got all of his cash from—probably that poor grocery worker’s house—but you do remain cognizant of how much of it is left every time you both have to buy something. You haven’t even touched the money you took from the motel safe yet, but that won’t last forever either. Your mind always remains ten miles ahead of where you are in the present, making it harder to focus on anything.

Sometimes you find an abandoned or empty house to sleep in for a few nights, left standing alone by the homeowners who are on vacation—whether permanently or temporarily. Entry is easier thanks to your lock-picking abilities. But most often, you two sleep in the car. Ian lets you have the entire backseat, which made you feel awkward at first. “Are you sure?” you’d asked.

“Quite. Why not?”

“...You don’t have to be so courteous considering we still barely know each other. I mean, you…” you faltered.

He’d given you this sarcastic smile and said, “How sweet of you to think of me, darling. I could sleep back there with you so neither of us has to deal with the front seats—”

“Nevermind. I’ll take it.”

And other times, he chooses someone at random—a bearded man at a gas station, an older woman at a grocery store, some sluggish-looking twenty-something eating lukewarm scrambled eggs at a down-home eatery—and spends a few days watching their movements. He’ll follow them at an inconspicuous distance in the sedan and find out where they live; subsequently, there will be hours of mind-numbing car-camping nearby as you both wait to see their vehicle turn down the road at the break of dawn or the onset of afternoon. Another day means more opportunities for observation.

But not everyone owns a car. Sometimes he’ll become interested in someone who’s traveling on foot, and he’ll leave the car to you while he trails after them for hours. You hate it the most when he does this.

He has enough decency to tell you a specific place where you can both meet at again in a few hours—maybe a park, or a drugstore—or he’ll say something about meeting you back here later.

“Later” is an unknown to you. Not knowing exactly when he’ll be back and not wanting to sit in the same place all day drives you mad. You might go to a local trinket shop or an outlet store or some boutique downtown to try to ease your anxiety. But sooner rather than later, you end up in your agreed-upon meeting spot, watching for his reappearance in the side mirrors.

Whether he walks or drives, you’re always left waiting on him once he decides to eat them.

The very first time he played this game, he’d told you to “come back later,” front door open and one leg already outside the car. You’d both been tailing a man for a couple of days already, and he had been none the wiser. He’d just returned home from work not too long ago; the sedan had rolled in after, and you both watched his house from your distant spot among the trees—waiting for something to happen? You didn’t know. The sun was setting, making way for the dark of twilight to paint the world; through the trees, you could see the glow of the house’s lights in the distance.

“What? Wait, what are you doing?” you hissed. You impulsively reached for his arm to pull him back in the car and then thought against it, retracting your hand. But you didn’t need to bother with pulling him back, because he leaned into you like he was telling you something confidential.

“Trying to give you a break. I would ask you to join, but I know you hate this and all, so just come back in like, two hours.”

You were unsure how to respond. You stared at him, knowing what he was about to do and wanting to stop him but understanding that your efforts would be futile. “Ian, what if I can’t find my way back here? It’s going to be pitch fucking black.”

He took your hand in his and squeezed it. If this was meant to comfort you, it did nothing of the sort. “You will. Just remember the street names.”

Then he’d left. You didn’t stay to watch him approach the house; you climbed into the front seat and carefully navigated the car along the path that wasn’t really a path and back onto the road. You waited the two hours, your eyes twitching to the car’s dashboard clock too many times as you drove aimlessly around the town with your palms sweating, hoping not to seem suspicious. All the while, you repeated the street names in your mind so that you could get back easily.

When the time came, you did find your way back—just as he said. The door was already open as you walked up the grassy path to the porch, your legs trembling from what you might find. Ian stood there with the yellow glow of the interior outlining his form, and as you looked past him, you saw that there was nothing amiss inside. There were no signs that any death had ever happened here, carefully scrubbed and cleaned away.

And that is how you ended up with a new home to stay in for a little while.

You’ve never seen him consume anyone, and you don’t ask. But sometimes you wonder…after he makes himself known to them—what does he do? Force his way into their house? Play whatever innocent persona that would give him a good reason to be suddenly on their doorstep, in their driveway? Does he press his lips to their neck the same way you do, the last gentle touch before the ravaging, or go for another body part—or does he kill them through some other method before ever sinking his teeth in?

Deeper down, you always wonder if maybe this will be the time he fails. That maybe he’ll change from hunter to hunted, or that he’ll be caught again.

He seems to have a preternatural skill for picking the types of people who no one would really miss, though. People who live alone and often in homes or trailers that sit off on a densely wooded and scraggly piece of land, separate from any houses nearby. Too far away for anyone to hear screams for help. Sometimes they’re the type of people who’ve burned all their bridges with their loved ones and whose calls for a savior would probably go unanswered anyway. This ability of his deeply unsettles you, but you never admit this aloud.

Once, you ask Ian why he even puts in so much effort—why he goes this far just to find someplace for you two to lay your heads at night that isn’t the worn material of the car seats. You aren’t expecting some virtuous or sappy answer, but you don’t quite anticipate his actual response either.

He hesitates for a moment, as if wary of how you’ll respond. “I like it—that’s all. That slow pursuit and the inevitable ending…somehow, they taste better that way.”

—

Initially, you weren’t sure if it mattered to have some sort of disguise. You’d crossed paths with hundreds of people at the motel and wondered if you might someday be recognized, that they would somehow know what you’d done, why you left the motel, and expose you to the national papers. (Some regional papers had reported on the motel’s sudden and unexplained abandonment, you find out later, but they proffered no clear answers for it or your and Alicia’s whereabouts.) But you didn’t know if those largely brief encounters would be memorable enough for anyone to recall you months later.

Either way, you end up taking your braids out not too long after you’ve been on the road. They were beginning to frizz to an unmanageable level anyway, and your chances of having them continually refreshed is virtually zero now. In a way, it’s a relief to not have them anymore, as if you have somehow transformed into a different person—a stranger you could look in the mirror at and not recognize as an eater—by letting your hair free. You burn the hair and all of the wooden beads inside a fire pit at a camping site, watching them die nestled in the flames.

But there are always occurrences that refuse to let you forget. Because on that same campground, you catch wind of another eater a few days after your arrival.

Their scent makes your stomach drop, as it always does in the presence of another eater. You wonder if they have purposely decided to stay at this site because they smelled you and Ian, or if they’re merely passing through. How will the encounter unfold this time, with three of you present?

When you go to talk to Ian about it, you find him by the river, where he has managed to catch a few fish. They sit nearby in a cooler. The midday sun beams down on the both of you with no relief, and you have to shield your eyes from the water’s reflection.

“I hope you know how to gut those, because I’m not doing it,” you say, frowning.

“It’s fine, babe. I’ve got it.” You scoff and roll your eyes, unimpressed.

“Can you smell that?” you ask him abruptly, quieting your voice.

He looks at you thoughtfully, but you continue shading your eyes from the sun and trying to appear casual and not at all disturbed. The continuous tapping of your foot gives you away, though. Ian glances around to see that none of the others near the river’s edge are close enough to hear, and eventually murmurs, “Yeah, I can.”

“Okay. Okay, maybe—”

“You’re nervous?”

You return his gaze then. “You’ve never met other eaters. I have. Let’s just boil it down to this: It’s often better for us to stay out of each other’s way. Us being dangerous to everyone else doesn’t mean we aren’t a risk to each other, too. Not because we feel actual hunger for each other—I’ve heard that isn’t possible. More strange genetic shit no one can explain. But some will feed on other eaters just because they can.” You shift uncomfortably. “Some see it as like…a conquest, I guess.”

“Is that why you were so eager to see me gone back then?” You don’t expect him to say that, and it takes you aback for a moment. He smirks, but the expression doesn’t have a genuine quality to it—like he’s only showing levity because he assumes you will be repelled by him without it.

“No, it’s…not why.” The real reason feels too vulnerable to disclose, so you don’t. Again, you find yourself unable to meet his eyes, and you return your attention to the blinding waters. “Look, I just wanted to tell you so that you’re—aware. I’m not saying we have to up and run away, but…”

Ian’s face becomes hard to read; you don’t know whether he’s feeling apprehension or whether he’s neutral about the possibility of meeting another eater. Or maybe even fascinated by it. “I get it. Let’s just see if they make the first move or something. And if they show themselves as dangerous to us, then we can leave.”

You don’t love the idea of sitting and waiting for something to happen, but you aren’t fond of the thought of packing up and hitting the road again either. You are beginning to enjoy this campsite; it’s not so remote that you feel isolated, but all the campers are spread out enough so that you can avoid feeling crowded in or watched. Or like you’re exposing others to danger. “Fine. Let’s see.”

—

You and Ian sit outside at the fire pit after eating, listening to the cacophony of frogs at the river and other night sounds as your after-dinner entertainment. You hear a train in the distance and wonder where it’s going. You imagine hitching a ride on it and traveling someplace where you can settle down without the prying questions of new neighbors and the requirements of real estate agents—buy a house and live in one place for the rest of your life like normal people get to do.

You scrub your face with your hands and sigh. Ian perks up at your heavy exhale, a question in his eyes.

“When I mentioned genetics earlier…” you try to order your words correctly, “...I think I got this thing from my mother. I was told that I was given up for adoption as soon as I was born, as her parents didn’t think she would be fit to raise me, and they didn’t want me either. They didn’t specify why she couldn’t raise me, but I always assumed it was because of that.” This is more personal than anything you could’ve told him earlier, and you aren’t sure why it comes spilling out now. “I don’t think either of her parents were eaters. I think it can skip generations, but I’m not really sure…I don’t exactly sit and have tea and reminisce about family trees with other eaters.”

You’d been passed between many foster homes as an adolescent, never truly feeling like you belonged in anyone’s home or that any of your new “family members” loved or cared about you. At best, you were tolerated or left to your own devices. At worst…you’d once lived with a strictly religious older woman who was half the cause of your constant feelings of guilt. She never found out that you are an eater, but there was plenty more than that for her to convict you about. The lectures about hell and brimstone still come back to mock you if you let your mental guard down for too long.

During the time when you’d been traveling through the world on your own, you only took shelter in churches—abandoned or not—if there was truly no other suitable place to camp for miles. The large windows always reminded you of eyes peering down on you, seeing inside of your soul and cursing you for the blood you’d spilled.

Ian leans back on his hands. The flames of the fire pit illuminate his face, and somehow, he looks different. Like the act of reaching so far back into the past is making him into someone younger, softer, and newer to the world.

“...I guess it would be my dad, then. I never knew him, and mum would never talk about him. I don’t know anyone else in my family who would be. Family secrets always stay so well hidden.” He begins chucking little sticks and other debris into the fire pit, and you watch them spark as they hit the flames. “Mum tried to hide mine once I started, but I felt like such a burden to her…I just went out on my own as soon as I could.”

“So when did you start, then?”

“When I was starting high school. What about you?”

“I was still in the single digits…eight or nine, I think…” I’d snuck out to my friend’s treehouse at night even though I wasn’t allowed to, and the hunger came without a warning. Despite the blood inside the treehouse, no one could ever figure out what happened. The missing posters all over town haunted me. The finer details are gone now, but you still remember the basics of it. These things arise in your mind but you don’t say them, wanting to avoid the sting of voicing what you did.

“So it’s not the same timing for all of us? I’d thought it was some fucked-up symptom of puberty that none of the other kids at school had gotten or something…” Ian says, his voice trailing off. After a moment of silence, you laugh and keep on laughing, though it’s more an expression of your incredulity at this situation—at your lives—rather than true amusement. Ian laughs alongside you, though he sounds more light-hearted about it than you do. “I’m serious.”

“Ah…yeah. I guess it kind of is, in a way,” you whisper, just enough to be heard over the fire popping and the forest’s sounds. “A coming-of-age type of thing. You can never be the same after it happens.”

“That first time was scary for me, but mostly because of mum’s reaction when I told her.”

“What about before you told her?” you ask, wondering if you’ll regret this question.

Ian tilts his head back and stares up at the stars for a moment. “Physically, I felt…complete. Like…I don’t know, sort of like something in me had been starved and empty my whole life and I didn’t realize it until I finally ate.”

To your surprise, you feel some measure of envy at this, wishing it could be that straightforward for you. If you could eat only to satisfy the need, to achieve wholeness, and not feel any particular emotion about it—least of all the normal combination of negative emotions that crash down on you afterward—things could be so different.

This and all your previous conversations together might be the most time you’ve spent talking about the urge with any one person. That realization cools your blood and makes you want to draw back again. You’ve told him about your relatives and nearly spoke of your first time, and now you find dangerous words itching in your throat: I think I envy you. Maybe it’s all too much to lay in his hands and trust him with—even though you had no choice but to trust him with your life at the motel.

Trying to restore the emotional distance between you, you get up from your spot on the log and promptly announce, “I’m, uh, gonna go piss.”

Ian’s eyebrows crease in the middle, and a short laugh bursts from his mouth. “Uh, sure, be my guest.”

You walk off into the trees, trying to tell yourself that the physical distance is enough for now—even though you feel like you’ve splayed your chest cavity open before him and let him scrutinize your every cell.

—

You wake up in the tent alone the next morning, pulled out of sleep from the sound of voices nearby. It’s not unusual for Ian to wake up before you; with you not needing to get up at dawn hours anymore to run the motel’s affairs, you take every opportunity to sleep as long as you can.

Within seconds of waking, you realize the smell of the other eater is much stronger, which raises alarm within you. You peek your head outside the tent’s opening to see what’s going on, adjusting your scarf on your head. Outside, you see Ian talking to someone else at the picnic table—someone who you can only assume is the other eater. She has strawberry-blonde hair that reaches the middle of her back and skin that’s been tanned from weeks in the sun; there are freckles across her face and chest, and her eyes are a clear blue. She seems engrossed in the conversation, and though you can’t see Ian’s face, he must be the same way; this is the second eater he’s met after knowing none at all his entire life. You’re reminded of the almost desperate way he’d appealed to you in that motel bathroom, and all your internal organs wince at the remembrance.

And then she glances over his shoulder and sees you sitting there yards away. A small smile shifts her expression, but it doesn’t have the same energy of the friendly smile you get from a passing stranger in public. It says I know what you are, and we both know you cannot hide it from me. It creates that familiar unease in you.

Ian notices the change in her face and turns to look at you as she gets up from the table to walk over to the tent. “Hello there. We were just having a nice little talk; it’s not often I meet other eaters who’ve never encountered their own before. You caught yourself a rare one.” She smiles with her teeth now. “I’m Sherry. What’s your name?”

You tell her a fake name, still cautious about your identity. You wish you’d been awake earlier to catch the beginning of their conversation, but it’s too late to ruminate on that. “What did you talk about?” you ask, shuffling out of the tent now. You’re only wearing a tank top and sleep shorts because of how hot the tent can get when you’re both in it; you don’t know how the hell Ian puts out so much body heat.

“You know, the things every person talks about…the weather, things to do ‘round here, favorite foods.” Sherry cocks her head at the last phrase, as if amused by her own words. You’re unable to muster up a smile to match hers. “Personally, I like to feed every month…I think Ian would agree. It’s too bad you don’t indulge as often, I hear? You could eat plenty more—not just when the hunger tells you to.”

It’s clear that he’s said more than he needed to. You shoot him an annoyed look, and Ian smiles weakly before biting his lip.

“I’m fine,” you say curtly. “Really. A few times a year is more than I could ever have asked for.”

Sherry nods, her smile never becoming less amused. “You’re one of those eaters who’s not fond of the whole deal. That’s charming. Maybe you were gifted with more compassion than the rest of us. Or maybe you’re just…repressed.”

A blurred montage of all the people you’ve previously consumed flashes in your mind, along with the lives they lived, and you don’t know whether to feel angry or defeated. “Better some compassion than none, I would say.” Even with the annoyance behind your words, it seems useless to say this; there’s nothing you could say to make her see things your way.

“To each their own.” Sherry shrugs, nonchalant despite your irritation. “But I suppose I should be going now to get my day started, so—nice meeting you two.” You both watch her depart, Ian giving her a wave before she disappears into the trees. You sigh deeply, trying to tamp down the boiling in your chest as you begin picking out something to wear for the day from the small pile of clothes you own.

“Alright, look—she came up and said hello, said she had smelled us, and I…I was curious about her experience,” Ian says.

“I don’t know why you’re explaining anything to me; you’re grown and can talk to who you want. No one was chewed to pieces, right?” you say sarcastically. “That’s pretty much a win.”

“Because you’re obviously annoyed.”

You stand up straight now, gesturing angrily with your clothes as you speak. “Maybe because you should’ve left me out of your conversation. I didn’t even want to talk to you about this shit at first, do you remember? But you kept fucking begging me. Now some stranger knows about my situation without me ever sharing it with them?”

Ian smooths his hair back with both hands and sighs. “Okay, I can see how maybe that was fucked up. I shouldn’t have said anything about you to Sherry, but do you realize she would’ve known you’re an eater anyway?” You glare in response. “I’m sorry, alright? But it’s hard for me to get used to you being so closed-off about it when all I’ve ever wanted was to know I’m not alone in this shit. It doesn’t make any bloody sense to me!”

“Because I never cared about being alone in it,” you say, and a tiny flare of guilt pricks you from the dishonesty. “I didn’t think about who else might experience it. I was too busy trying to hide what I was. Even if I did consider it, I didn’t want to be around anyone else who could’ve been—like me.”

Deep down, you realize that despite what you’d sometimes fantasized about Alicia—that if she were an eater too, she’d understand you without judgment and you wouldn’t have to live under such stressful circumstances—the reality is nothing of what you thought it would be. Living your life with another eater hasn’t relieved you of the condemnation and shame you always feel, and you wonder if maybe the emotions have been ground too deeply into your soul to escape them.

The darkness in Ian’s gaze reminds you of the way he’d looked at you and Alicia when you confronted him in front of the motel office. “Stop bullshitting, I don’t believe you. People get lonely about smaller shit everyday, but you didn’t care whether you were the only cannibal in the world or not?”

Before you can respond, you hear the sounds of foliage rustling and feet shuffling; there’s a small group of people walking one of the trails yards away and laughing about something. You can make out flashes of their clothes through the tree branches and bushes. Sweat springs up on your body.

You lower your voice, hoping they haven’t heard any of your conversation. “I don’t give a fuck if you don’t believe me. Your experience isn’t the only one there is. Just stop telling others my business. You don’t have that right. For all I know, you could’ve slipped something about the motel.”

Ian’s eyes widen. “I didn’t say a damn word about the motel! All I mentioned was that sometimes the urge takes years for you, and that you hate it when it happens. You think I’m that unreliable, after all I’ve done to help you since then?”

You know he’s right about the motel, at least. You’re still somewhat incredulous that he dropped everything to help you clean up and escape unseen when he could’ve stayed in his room, acted like nothing happened, and left you to be hauled off by the law. But you’re angry, and though it may be petty, you don’t want him to be right about this. “What am I supposed to think of you? I don’t fucking know you like that. In case you forgot, we were perfect strangers not too long ago.”

“And I try to know more about you so that we aren’t strangers, but you never want to talk about anything. Last night was something rare, but does that even matter to you?”

Your conversation from last night is like a distant memory, the personal details you shared with each other now dust in the wind. You wish you could take all of those words back, embarrassed from the vulnerability you allowed yourself. You wish you’d never known about him being a kid in high school, not knowing what to make of the new life that was waiting in his DNA, and that you hadn’t felt some measure of sympathy for him after hearing that story. You wish you’d done a better job of keeping him at arm’s length.

You gather your clothes close to your chest and shove your feet into your shoes so you can head for the river. “I’m starting to think it was a mistake. That’s all I know.” You walk past him without waiting to see if he’ll reply, trying to ignore the hurt in his expression.

—

The next morning is similar in that you are awakened by the sounds of voices again, but this time they are alarmed. Shouting, searching. Farther away, but approaching your area.

Ian’s next to you sleeping this time, his back to you as you sit up; at the start of this camping excursion you both had agreed to sleep facing away from each other, mostly for your own comfort. But it’s also convenient in this current situation when you’re still pissed at him.

You climb out of the tent to get a better listen, standing in the early morning air that’s already becoming too hot. You realize now that the shouts are someone’s name—Michael. The distress and pain are palpable in the voices of the people calling for the presumably missing person, and your stomach begins hurting with dread as your mind fills in the blanks about what might’ve happened. Not in such a public space…

Ian pokes his head out of the tent a few moments later, his long hair covering his eyes. “My God, what the hell is going on?”

“How would I know?” you scoff, squinting through the trees. You see a middle-age man and woman heading your way; there are other individuals spread farther out in the forest, still calling that person’s name. You catch glimpses of them through the foliage, their hands cupped around their mouths and heads swiveling like owls. When the couple reaches your camping spot, you notice the tear streaks on both their faces.

“H-have either of you seen this boy between last night and this morning?” the woman blurts out, holding up a picture with shaky fingers. The person depicted is a gangly blonde boy with a bowl cut who looks to be fifteen at the most. His wide smile shows his metal braces, and he’s holding up a large catfish. “We can’t find our son, p-please. He l-likes to go out exploring by himself even when we warn him not to, even at night—and he didn’t come back this time—he must’ve went out last night and got hurt or something, b-because some other campers found a patch of bloody grass…” The mother collapses into incoherent sobs.

The father tries to pick up where she left off, though his brown eyes are also wet and red and troubled beyond measure. “S-some other campers found this area of bloody grass in the deep woods away from the marked trails, so we—we thought maybe he got hurt and wasn’t able to find his way back—this is our first time camping here—b-but…”

“There…there was so much blood,” the mother gasps, shaking her head and clutching the picture so tightly you think it might rip.

“I-I’m…sorry,” you say, your throat feeling choked with a guilt that’s not yours to bear. “We haven’t seen him, or anyone else. We went to bed pretty early and only just woke up, so…” You ate dinner in silence with Ian last night before heading to bed earlier than usual. He’d stayed out by the fire pit smoking a cigarette for a while longer before coming in beside you.

The father nods, though your words seem to be another weight on his shoulders dampening his hopes of finding his son. “Thank you,” he mumbles, gently tugging the mother along to the next camping area.

“Jesus…” Ian mutters. It’s hard for you not to get lost in a rabbit hole of thinking about that boy and his apparent love for fishing and what he might’ve become if given the chance and the time. If only someone had had some kind of mercy on him. If only some otherworldly force had saved him. If only someone had simply not chosen him as their meal.

You walk away from the tent, trying to settle your nerves and corral your thoughts. You don’t know where you’re going, and you don’t respond to Ian’s call of your name, but you let your feet carry you away until you’re standing at the shore, looking out over the river. You listen to the tiny waves splash against the shore and feel the cool water run over your feet and try to let it ground you.

Maybe you shouldn’t care. Not when you’re capable of the same; it’s too hypocritical. Still, you can’t stop thinking about it as you dig your toes into the mud, trying to block out the sounds of the search party in the far distance. You’re almost ready to crouch down and put your hands over your ears when a hand touches your shoulder. You whip around to see Ian behind you.

“What?” you ask, voice coming out louder than you intend.

“Relax,” he murmurs. “It’s not like anyone thinks it’s us.”

“Why would they? And who cares about that?” you snap. “A boy is dead, and you’re sitting up here—of course it wasn’t us. But we do know—”

“We don’t know that he’s dead, and we don’t know that either.”

“You don’t think she did it?”

Ian sighs. “Should we assume that? If she did—it was always gonna be someone, Y/N. If not him, someone else. No one gets spared when you have to live like we do, you know that.”

“You two seem quite similar, honestly,” you say, exasperated. “Maybe it’d make more sense for you two to be together like this instead of us. I just can’t understand how you think.”

Maybe you’ve made a huge error. Not by accepting his help, or even by renting him the motel room—you’d have to go further back than that. You shouldn’t have even gone out to check on him that night. You could’ve avoided this all if only…

One decision. The difference between you being in this campground-turned-crime-scene and you standing at the motel desk taking yet another stranger’s information was just one decision.

…But you still would’ve eaten Alicia, wouldn’t you have? The hunger is always beneath the surface, just waiting to reemerge. If not then, it would’ve been later.

You’re spinning out of control. The thought comes to you suddenly: There’s no way you can sustain this strange relationship with him, in which you travel endlessly with no destination and you try to pretend like he doesn’t eat other people and like you don’t have the same craving. Your talk at the fire pit should’ve shown you that; how can you ever be on equal ground with him in the way that another eater like Sherry could? And why should you want to? You’ve been trying to outrun this desire to consume for as long as you’ve had it; you won’t let him make you think this is normal.

Even if your thoughts are anchored more in your current emotional frenzy than in reality, you’re unable to regulate yourself to see things differently. A vise of panic grips your body and crushes you between.

There has to be a way out of this.

“Y/N. I don’t think you’re in the right state of mind right now,” he says more gently, noticing the frantic vibe emanating from you. “If you’re that concerned, we can leave, okay? Remember, we said we’d leave if things didn’t feel right?”

“Right…” you murmur, though your mind is elsewhere, planning. “Tomorrow. We can leave tomorrow.”

When night falls, Sherry returns to your campsite. To your knowledge, the search party is still out there somewhere, pushing out to the very edges of the campground’s boundaries to cover all the bases. All of the other campers who didn’t get involved in the search have either decided to stay to themselves or leave.

“Hey, friends. I come with gifts.” Her smile is big and white in the dark of night as she holds up some beer cans and a pack of cigarettes.

That’s how the three of you end up sitting around the fire pit, smoke from both the flames and the tobacco curling through the air. Your beer can sits nearly empty in your lap; you’d taken a few apprehensive sips at first, and then more, in an attempt to numb yourself out. Sherry leads the conversation, talking about her travels and the exciting things she’s done and never once bringing up anyone she’s preyed on. You don’t know if she avoids the topic for your comfort. You highly doubt she cares. You say little to either of them, too lost in your own mind to engage.

But eventually, amid a lull in the talking, she sighs as if burdened and then smiles. It’s an odd contrast.

“I’ve always preferred to feed on males,” she announces. “I like to pretend each one of them is my father. I guess you could call it daddy issues, but I don’t give a fuck.”

Your heart quickens. “Your father?”

“‘Course. He’s the one who gave me this little gift. Then tried to kill me for it. Ain’t that something? Didn’t even do me the dignity of eating me; he tried to strangle me with his bare hands like some kind of brute.”

“That’s so fucked up,” Ian mutters.

“If I didn’t fight him like a bat outta hell, I’d be dead. I didn’t eat him after. I just ran away from home and never came back. But shit, sometimes I wish I had eaten him.” She chuckles, taking a drag from her cigarette.

“So, the boy…” you start, but don’t know how to finish.

Sherry leans her head against her palm and studies you before saying, “Take a guess.” Ian raises his eyebrows.

“But why him?” you ask, voice cracking. “Why in a place like this, with so many others around? Don’t you think it’s dangerous?”

“It’s not if you know what you’re doing.” Sherry shrugs. “Besides, he was curious, easy to lure, and outside at night when he shouldn’t have been. They never expect danger to come from a sweet little thing like me. You should take advantage of that.” Sherry gestures to you, grinning again. “Use your feminine wiles and all that shit.”

You pour the last bit of your beer into the grass and stand up from the log you’d been sitting on. “It doesn’t work like that for me.” You walk back to the tent feeling chilled despite the humidity of late August. You try to ignore the sensation of two pairs of eyes following you.

—

That morning, you wake up much earlier than Ian does. You check to make sure he’s asleep, his chest rising and falling evenly, as you crawl from under the covers. You’re as careful and quiet as can be as you gather your things in the tent and strewn around the campsite—though they are thankfully few—and shove them into your traveling bag.

Once you have all your belongings together, you slip back into the tent. Ian’s jeans are folded in the corner with his other clothes; you know the car keys are in one of the pockets. As you slowly search through them, you hope that he won’t awaken. You watch his face for signs of consciousness, and as you do, the sight of him lying there scratches at something deep inside of you. It arouses a sentiment you don’t want to think of as sympathy. Are you betraying him in some way by doing this?

The feel of metal against your fingers causes your heart to race. You slide the keys out with as much control as you can muster. Then you back out of the tent, telling yourself this is the last time you will see him, before letting the flaps close and obscure your view of him.

You don’t breathe properly again until you’re in the parking lot, clutching the strap of your bag and the car keys like you’re being hunted. You falter in your steps, however, when you see Sherry in the parking lot too, messing with something in her car—a boxy, dark red Chevy. She isn’t the only person out here—there’s a man and his small child at their own car, the man tiredly searching for some beloved toy in the backseat while the child whines—but somehow you feel cornered.

You try to ignore her as you shove the key into the lock and throw your bag into the passenger seat, scanning the trees as if Ian might be there, shouldering his way out of the foliage. There is no one.

“Leaving so soon?” You turn at the sound of Sherry’s voice, unsure when she got over here and how she moved so soundlessly. “It’s probably for the best; there’s rumors the park rangers are gonna be temporarily closing this site.”

You shrug, your body stiff. “And?”

Her eyes search the car as if looking for something in particular. “Doesn’t look like enough stuff for both of you. You’re leaving Ian behind?” She laughs, her face simultaneously surprised and amused.

You don’t owe her an explanation, you tell yourself. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I won’t. When I think about it…you two probably wouldn’t have made it very far together, anyway.” She throws her hands up in a casual what can you do? motion and makes for the treeline, calling over her shoulder. “Maybe you’ll change your mind about eating one day.”

“Maybe not,” you mutter, sliding into the front seat and starting the engine.

—

Summer fades into fall, though the weather doesn’t yet reflect this change.

You drive for miles and try not to think about many things—most prominently, Alicia or Ian. Yet, your version of not thinking about Ian involves a lot of ruminating on whether you should’ve left, what happened to him after, where he might be now, whether he decided to tag along with Sherry or just ended up alone again. You feel sick whenever the last possibility crosses your mind.

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. He was alone before me, and he’ll be fine after me. We were never really going to work anyway.

During your worst times, you wonder if you were purposely setting him up for disaster; you’d told him yourself how dangerous other eaters could be. You know you would never try to feed on him, but what about Sherry? The guilt threatens to make you implode; sometimes you want to fly back down the highway and find him again somehow, and say…what? What could you say to make it less horrible? Whenever your mind turns down that road, you attempt to convince yourself that it doesn’t concern you anymore. Whatever happens to him, good or bad, is no longer your business.

Not thinking about Alicia involves a lot more open wallowing and feeling sorry for yourself while simultaneously hating that you feel any pity for yourself. You deserve no one’s sympathies. But that doesn’t stop you from curling into the backseat and recalling past memories through sobs, dragging your fingernails down your arms until you bleed and scar. Even when you’re asleep, your dreaming brain conjures terrible scenarios in which everything is normal again, you’re working at the motel again and you’re laughing at some silly comment she’s made, shying away from her as she tickles your arm or pinches your side, and it feels so real that it’s physically painful when you awaken.

So you spend your days like this, hoping to somehow purge the trauma from your system by ignoring it—and doing a terrible job of both. You go entire days without speaking to anyone, walking through parks or down busy sidewalks without regard for the people around you who buzz with life and excitement. You count the money you have left every night and begin shoplifting to try to slow down your spending. You even consider finding a job again, though you still don’t trust yourself to be in such close proximity to other people for hours at a time; you just have to find a city you like enough to live in first. Somewhere populous enough for you to be insignificant, and fast-paced enough for you to have plenty of distractions from your oppressive thoughts.

You ponder this idea one early morning in a small diner; there are a few people here for their breakfast, but not an uncomfortable amount. The other diners are too sluggish or disinterested to regard your presence—or each other’s presences.

The atlases for several different states lie on the table in front of you; you flip through one on Georgia. You and Ian had collected many of them while traveling. Maybe you could work somewhere that doesn’t require you to be around too many other people. A call center, perhaps. But you’d still have coworkers. Maybe a typist job; you’d spend all day behind a computer filling in spreadsheets and taking tedious phone calls. It wouldn’t be much different from what you used to do. You could sew clothes in the backroom of a tailor’s shop, or take some mind-numbing factory job…

You just need something to occupy your mind. Being left alone with nothing but your thoughts and the road ahead of you is wearing you thinner each day. Was it even this bad during the time you spent alone after Marygold? You can’t remember. Maybe your brain is blocking the memories for your own sanity.

As you place your tip on the table for the waitress, she stops in the middle of gathering your dishes and observes your face. You catch her gaze and stare back, wondering if she knows you from the motel. You’re beginning to mentally spiral when she says,

“You look like a girl who’s lost to love.”

“Love?”

She puts a hand on her hip, looking at you like you’re the saddest thing she’s seen all year. It makes you uncomfortable. “You have that lovelorn look I’ve seen a thousand times before. Poor thing. Who would think of breaking your heart?”

Myself. “I don’t love anyone,” you mumble, chest aching as you say the lie.

“Everyone loves someone,” the waitress says. “I believe you’ll find someone new, if that’s what you’re yearning for. Don’t be so down.”

You shake your head, wanting to escape this diner and this conversation. “I’m a little too fucked up for that.” Your voice fractures on the last words, and you hold your body still in an effort to stop yourself from crying. If you hold your breath long enough, maybe your body will shut itself down and forget that it was about to break.

“Everyone’s a little fucked up, too, girlie. But that’s why you find that special someone who can put up with your crazy—or someone who has the same wild hair up their ass.”

You swallow hard and let out an exhale; there’s still a sheen of tears on your eyes, but the drops haven’t fallen. Your lips form a miniscule smile at her turn of phrase, amusement briefly flitting through you.

“Anyway, I don’t mean to be nosy. I just didn’t want you to leave here looking so depressed.” You probably look more disturbed than you did when you first entered the establishment, so you’re pretty sure that mission has failed. But some part of you appreciates that this stranger took the time to even speak to you, to care that you looked upset and want to do something about it.

She smiles and places her hand over yours. You allow yourself to take comfort in the touch for a moment; warmth spreads upward from where your hands meet, sparking something in your chest. But in an instant, the vault door in your heart slams back closed from where it’d cracked open, and the fears rush back in, spiking all your senses into anxiety. You’re soon pulling away, slipping out the front door and into the morning sun.

—

You’re not sure how to feel when you smell him again.

The scent comes to you while you’re in a grocery store, debating whether to pay like all the other customers or just steal the few essentials you need and leave. The end of October is days away, and the vibrant Halloween decor and packaging are in full force throughout the store.

Many emotions race through you at once. You become hyperaware of your increased heart rate and the sweat that prickles your body, and you can’t figure out whether you’re afraid of or angry at his presence. Or relieved. You wonder how he managed to find you again—probably the same reason why you know he’s here without laying eyes on him, though that seems unlikely. You don’t think any eater can pick up smells from that kind of distance. Then you consider that maybe this is just a coincidence, the two of you arriving in the same place. Or some sick variant of fate. Could the universe be that cruel?

You think about dashing out of the store before he can see you, though there’s not much point. Why should you run? You were here first. If so-called fate has decided that this reunion was always going to happen at some point, then you don’t want to spend the rest of your life running from him. So you wait for him to come to you, trapped in a tornado of emotions.

You’re in the vegetable aisle trying not to get sprayed by the misters suddenly cutting on when you see him. You shake droplets of water off your hand and then you glance up and he’s there, approaching you like he only intends to leave this store with one thing: you. For a split second, you wonder if it’s really him; his hair is unkempt under a baseball cap, and he’s wearing a pair of yellow-tinted glasses you’ve never seen on him. His bag is slung over one shoulder.

You can feel the anxiety pouring off of him when he stops in front of you; his fingers tremble as he fidgets with his rings. He has the air of an older brother—or what you’d imagine one to be like—annoyed and afraid after you’ve run off without him in the store and gotten lost, and you don’t know whether to laugh or cry or curse.

“Didn’t expect to ever see me again, huh, darling?” Ian keeps his voice mostly even, but it sounds like that requires significant effort. “Not the way you drove off with my fucking car, I bet.” It was never your car, you think.

“How did you even find me?” you ask, voice small.

“Think about it. The atlas.”

You do think about it. And then you remember; you’d talked about the next place you’d travel to after staying at the campground. You both agreed on a random town named Hendersonville, which is where you are now—but only after months of directionless hopping around from city to city. How would he think to come here now, months after the fact, when it’s possible that you could’ve already been through the town and long gone, or decided to never visit Hendersonville at all? Terrible fate…

Something else catches your attention before you can reply to this. Despite the agitated state you’re both in, you realize that you’re picking up on his scent and no others.

“Did you and Sherry…?”

“She’s dead,” he says.

That’s the last thing you expected to hear. “What?”

He pulls down the collar of his T-shirt. There are many scars along the junction of his neck and shoulder that weren’t there before, and it takes you a moment to notice that some of them resemble teeth marks.

“So…” Your throat seizes up, and you have to clear it a couple times to speak again, though you avoid speaking too loudly. “...she tried to eat you?”

He lets his collar go and nods with a jerky movement. “After only a month. I had to kill her or she would’ve done me in. It was close.”

Your words haunt you yet again. Us being dangerous to everyone else doesn’t mean we aren’t a risk to each other, too. And for that reason, you don’t understand why he’s returned to you, a fellow cannibal.

You are shocked again when you register that there’s a small part of you that feels sorry for Sherry. You think of how she tried to regain control after her father’s attempted murder of her by preying on so many other men, doing to them what she wished she had done to him, only to end up dead by another man in the end. There’s something terribly unfair about it all.

“I…see.” You realize you’ve been holding a bell pepper for an awkwardly long time, and you waffle between getting a plastic bag for it or setting it back down. Frustrated, you toss it back with the others.

“Then I ate her,” he continues. You resist the urge to recoil.

“And you’re back here in front of me because…why? You’re not worried I might turn on you the same? I did take ‘your’ car.”

His laugh is colorless and dry. “You’re fucking joking, right? I know how you are. You can barely stand to talk about it, and I’m supposed to believe you’d eat me?”

“Shut up.” You’re more offended by him saying I know how you are as if he understands you so intimately after only a few months. It angers you to think maybe he could know you—know all these unpleasant things about you and still want to return for you. You begin walking away from him then, though there’s no real urgency in your movements to get away from him.

“You shut up. You may have tried to throw me aside, but we both know we’re not finished with each other.” He follows you into another aisle; there’s an old woman pushing a cart coming from the opposite direction, and he waits to speak again until after she’s gone. “We’re some of the few who know what it’s like.”

You suck your teeth, feeling foolish. “But…that’s why I left you. Thought you’d gravitate to Sherry, fit better together.”

“You see how well that turned out. What does it really matter that we feel differently about it as long as we’re not trying to fucking kill each other?”

You don’t know how to respond to that, because responding would mean admitting you’ve put yourself through months of emotional torment on the basis of a false and impulsive assumption. You want to bury the guilt chewing at your organs but it only worsens when he says,

“I just—fuck’s sake. I don’t want to be alone again.”

You stare at each other as those words settle in the air, though you struggle to maintain eye contact and soon look away with a wince. The most unbearable part of it is the pain in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I fucked things up when I shouldn’t have. I…misjudged.” Your words fade at the end, as you are left with nothing else to say to remedy the situation. Ian rubs a hand across his face, shifting his glasses up as he does so, and you pretend like you don’t notice the redness around his eyes. The both of you continue walking down the aisle, slower this time, the silence between you thick. Neither of you feels any better than you did before this meeting, but at least there aren’t thousands of miles between you anymore.

Finally, he says, “So. Are you gonna get anything, or will we just walk around until closing?”

“Well…I don’t know. Do you have a car? How did you get here?”

“I’ve been hitch-hiking. And walking. But mostly hitch-hiking.” As if to prove it, he slides a wad of cash halfway out of his jacket pocket.

“Oh. I—was thinking of finding a job,” you blurt out. It has nothing to do with your current conversation, but you feel like you’ve lost your ability to talk to him in his absence. You reach for anything to stop from thinking about the reason why he was gone, why he had to hitch-hike with total strangers. “To get more money.”

“And staying here?”

“No…there isn’t anything in this town for me. But maybe somewhere else.”

“Gotta find somewhere to live, then. I’m guessing you aren’t counting on having a roommate.” His voice is cynical, and you know he probably expects you to abandon him again.

“It was just an idea,” you mutter. “I haven’t even tried to look for anything.” You find that you’ve walked back around toward the entrance of the grocery store. A life-size skeleton grins at you open-mouthed from where it’s been propped against a display bin, all 32 teeth showing. You shake your head and sigh. “Let’s just get out of here. I’ve been in here long enough.”

The sky is turning dark blue with the onset of night as you walk outside; the streetlights have already come on. You go to the driver’s side of the sedan and gesture for Ian to get inside. He hesitates for a moment like he might reject—your heart nearly ceases—then throws his bag into the backseat. Exhaling, you get behind the wheel. For a moment, you just sit there with your hands slack on the wheel as he gets in beside you and lights a cigarette with shaking fingers.

You almost miss his quiet words when he speaks at the same time you start the engine up: “Did you even miss me?”

You don’t know if you can admit that you did—or that “missing” him felt more like something had been scooped out of you, your insides painfully scraped clean afterward. You chalk it up to your inherent loneliness, the reason why you’re drawn to him despite not wanting to be. You wish your heart hadn’t reacted so painfully at the possibility of him deciding to leave you after all, and yet you have no one else. Not your grandparents who abandoned you, your cannibal mother lost somewhere in the world, or your father who died before you were even born.

“I…regretted it.” You don’t look at him, occupied with pulling out of the parking spot. “Yes, if it makes a difference for you to know…I regretted it all the time.”

He says nothing for a while. You wonder if your reply was enough, if he expected more. It feels like there’s a third thing in the car with you, sitting in the space between your bodies and preventing you from fully accessing each other—everything that remains unsaid.

“Where are you staying now?” he finally asks.

“An abandoned barn near here. Seems like the owners just up and left all their things. Still smells kinda like horse, but…the loft isn’t so bad.”

“...Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

—

“You never did tell me exactly how you showed up at the motel that first night,” you tell Ian. “I deserve to know that much, at least. What brought you into my life.”

It’s the second week of November, and you’re still in Hendersonville.

You gaze at the large pond before you, your view broken every so often by Ian walking through the overgrown grass around the pond—treading an aimless path but never venturing very far from the car. The engine is still warm underneath your butt where you’re half-leaning, half-sitting on the hood, and you try to enjoy the warmth while it lasts.

The pond is about 10 minutes from the barn where you’re staying, and you’d driven here several times when it was just you. But you’ve only been here during the light hours; seeing everything at night is much different. Something about it feels overly familiar in a way that unsettles you. The scene threatens to dredge up old memories of your nighttime swims with Marygold—right down to the nearly full moon, huge and clear in the sky. You have to fill the quiet with your voice if you have any hope of outrunning the dark thoughts.

Ian crosses his arms and sort of side-eyes you, like maybe he’s skeptical about you initiating a conversation like this after the fallout of the camping excursion, and you mimic him until he breaks with a small, barely-amused laugh. Better to focus on his past issues than your own, you figure—as fucked up as that may be. You don’t move your gaze from him as he tells the story, watching him continuously flick around a few loose strands of his hair on his forehead.

“Right. Well��I tried to eat this young farmer guy—saw him at this country bar, or he saw me, and I guess he liked what he saw…I ended up going home with him, because I was hungry. That’s why I’d gone to the bar that night. Told him I was living on the streets and had barely eaten in days. Made him feel sorry for me. And then I tried to eat him…but when he started fighting it, I didn’t realize he had a pocketknife, and he got me pretty good before I ended up killing him. Too much commotion alerted the neighbors. I only had enough time to try to bandage it before I had to get the fuck out. Walked through a fucking corn field…then eventually I reached the highway, and you know the rest.”

“So you killed someone and didn’t…finish them.” The thought of that almost bothers you even more than the eating itself. It just seems senseless. The man could still be alive now, but his life was ended and went to complete waste; his body didn’t even serve its purpose as sustenance. You realize that this isn’t even the first time this has happened, thinking back to that time he was caught while up North.

He doesn’t seem offended by your shift in mood—maybe just weary. He rubs his eyes. “It happens. But I aim to make sure it happens as rarely as possible.”

You turn away and look across the pond again, your mind getting lost in the dark copse of trees on the other side. Being outside at this time of night is not the most comforting thing in the world, but in truth, is your nature really that different from whatever dangers lurk in the woods? “I wonder, then…how are we any better than the average serial killer?”

“We kill because we have to.”

“Being chained to our physiology doesn’t get rid of our blame.”

“I never said it did,” Ian replied. “And that’s your problem. Eating doesn’t need to be innocent or pure or blameless in order for you to accept that it’s a part of yourself…it just is.”

You can’t muster the will to counter him, and he doesn’t press the matter, likely not in the mood for yet another round of verbal sparring. He resumes walking his circles, wearing trails into the grass. You continue sitting on the hood long after the engine has cooled, watching the moon’s reflection tremble on the water’s surface and imagining what you’d tell Alicia and Marygold and all the others if they could hear you, somewhere in the universe.

I’m sorry. It’s just who I am.

—

With Hendersonville behind you, you’re back to sleeping in the car many nights. Among the various things you see as you travel through urban cities and rural areas, fall festivals are common occurrences everywhere.

There’s one coming up in the distance now; you’ve been idling in evening traffic for minutes, and it becomes clear that this congestion must be because everyone’s heading to the festivities. You press your face closer to the car’s window glass to see. The bright lights of the numerous booths, rides, and decorations illuminate the late evening. Countless people walk or run around, some wearing elaborate outfits.

You’re just coming from a mom-and-pop restaurant where the wife of the owner had called you darling even more than Ian does. She’d assumed you both to be lovers and gave you a free slice of pumpkin pie to share, and neither of you bothered to correct her if it meant treats you didn’t have to pay for.

As you observe the festivities, you see that there are two booths set up on either side of the festival’s main entrance; one claims to offer some type of spiritual readings, denoted by a large sign of a purple crystal ball. But your eyes catch on the bone-white trailer sitting on the other side of the entrance. It has been converted into a mobile booth with a large sign with red and blue lettering that asks one question: Are You Going to Heaven? An older man with graying hair sits in the booth, hands clasped together as he watches groups of people entering the festival grounds. It’s too far away and too dark to be entirely certain, but you don’t think you’re imagining the cross hanging up behind the man on the trailer’s wall or the thick book resting near his hands.

“Looks like they’re having fun,” Ian says, face illuminated in red by the taillights of another car, one hand on the wheel.

“Mmhm…” you answer, your mind still hung up on that booth and sign as the car finally drives past. Memories of your former life knock at the door of your consciousness, but you don’t let them in.

You’re unable to ignore your discomfort later that night, though, when you and Ian return to the safe parking spot you’d found days earlier and settle in to go to sleep. The cold has finally become a permanent fixture as the months venture deeper into late autumn, and you clutch your blanket tightly to your body as you drift off in the backseat.

In your dreamscape, you wake up in Alicia’s bed in the living quarters of the motel office, blood dripping from every part of you—hands, arms, face, chest. The sight of your bloody hands splayed out in front of you makes terror spike through your body, your breaths coming short. As you turn to look at your surroundings, you see the remains of Alicia lying on the bed next to you, her torso almost completely hollowed out. Her brown hair is streaked with new and drying blood—same as the red-dyed ivory of her broken rib cage. Her dead eyes look at you with a frozen expression, pained and imploring. Begging, even. Why did you do this to me?

You have the sensation of screaming, feeling it emanating from your body and hearing the sound pierce your ears, but your mouth isn’t open. You try to scramble off the bed and away from the mess you’ve made of the woman you love, but no matter how hard you fight, you have no leeway; it’s like the sheets are holding your limbs hostage, sucking you in like quicksand. Sweat pours from your body and stings your eyes.

In the next moment, you’re no longer struggling, and Alicia is no longer next to you. You’re not in her bedroom at all anymore; you’re sitting at a kitchen table you don’t recognize. The kitchen has a rustic and homey appearance, as if it belongs in a country homestead. Lacy floral curtains frame each side of the window above the farmhouse sink, allowing the dark orange evening sunlight to stream in, and the black wood stove a few feet away from your chair has a steady fire burning inside of it. Someone’s cooking, then, or preparing to cook. Who?

Ian turns to face you from where he is standing at the counter—when’d he get there? You didn’t notice him before—with two porcelain plates in his hands and a delighted grin on his face. Have you ever seen him look so happy before? You smile back at him as your eyes shift from his face to the plates; balanced on top of each is a perfectly bloody heart, the muscle thick and hardy and still beating although it’s attached to nothing. The kitchen floor around you both is stained with large swathes of blood, which have sunk deep into the wood’s fibers, though you hardly notice this.

Ian sets the table and sits in front of you, and neither of you bother with utensils as you pick up each heart with your hands. You hold the heart against your lips, feeling the slickness of it and letting the blood smear across your mouth, marveling at the constant pumping motion of its ventricles. It’s endearing, you think. How it tries so hard to maintain life when it’s fruitless anyway.

Then you bite into it.

You both eat ravenously, blood staining your mouths and hands the deep shade of carmine. The taste of the raw flesh is better than any food you have ever consumed, and innately, you know this is what you were made for. You laugh at how good it feels, glancing up at Ian with pure mirth. The indulgence is so sweet that you don’t notice the wood stove growing hotter and hotter in the corner of the room until the wallpaper behind it catches fire.

By the time you finish eating and regain enough wherewithal to realize what’s going on, the entire room is ablaze, and you are alone. The fire crawls up your chair and then engulfs the table. There’s nowhere safe for you to run, but you try anyway as the flames catch hold of your feet and then your legs, eating their way up your body. You stumble through the house screaming, the heat raging around you at an incomprehensible level.

Your skin begins to slough off and you scream endlessly for it to stop, but it never does. There is always more skin to replace what’s being scorched off of you; it grows back with an unbearable itching sensation as it knits together, only to burn right up again. You collapse to the ground on your hands and knees, though it’s excruciating to put weight on any part of your body.

Through the brightness of the fire and the heat haze, you make out a strange white and blue pattern on the floor in front of you, and you realize that it’s shards from the porcelain plates. Together, the broken pieces spell out:

Are You Going to Heaven?

You wake up in a flurry of limbs and blanket, hitting Ian who’s sleeping in the reclined front seat. The accidental violence combined with the sudden rocking of the car is enough to startle him awake. His voice floats out somewhere in the chaos, but you don’t really register it as you fling the car door open and stumble out of the sedan. You walk a couple yards away from the car—just enough to let the cold night air spear through your skin and convince you that you’re no longer trapped in a much hotter place. You hear the front car door open behind you and footsteps on the grass as Ian steps out. He calls your name, and you pretend not to hear as you stare at the ground and then toss your head to the skies, hands on your hips for some sort of stability. Your stomach aches badly, but you can’t get sick now.

“What’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare?” he asks when he gets closer.

It takes you more than a minute to work up a response without the possibility of a scream or vomit tumbling from your mouth, and he waits patiently as you do. “Y-yeah. It’s…probably not that big of a deal…I was…” The next words spill out before you can think to keep them inside. “Just a bit…freaked out by a…sign.”

“A sign?”

“The sign at the…festival. The white booth…” You wave your arm, unable to say much more. A steady throb is starting to take over your skull, and it’s too much effort to keep talking.

Ian thinks for a long moment before he seems to realize. He takes another step towards you. “Babe, look at me; it’s okay. Nothing bad is gonna happen to you. You’re fine. I know it feels bad in the moment, believe me, but you’re here now, and you’re safe.”

“You can’t guarantee that,” you murmur. You can’t imagine the look on your face right now, but your eyes feel dry and painful, like you’ve actually been in a fire pit for hours. Maybe he can safeguard you against the physical dangers this world presents, but he can’t hold your hand into the afterlife. If there even is one.

He grasps your upper arm, but only lightly so as not to make you more distressed, and draws you into his side—his head leaning into yours, his hair tickling you when the wind blows through it. You find yourself sagging into him even though you hate yourself for doing so. You don’t deserve this show of affection, not after how you left him behind and not even before then; you desperately want to preserve the distance between you, and yet you want this touch, too. You’re unable and unwilling to tease apart those feelings, though, as the only things that register in your mind are that he is warm against you, he is doing his best to comfort you, and his smell—the smell of him, not of being an eater—has become familiar to you in a way that disarms some frantic part of your brain. Because of all those things, you allow him to put his other arm around you and silently hold you in that grassy lot.

And for the first time since you met in that grocery store again, you feel like whatever’s between the two of you isn’t broken beyond repair.

—

1986

The next time you eat someone, it happens at a nightclub in January.

Going to this club is Ian’s idea, although you agree to it when he brings it up. In hindsight, you can’t say what possessed you to do it. You’ve never been a fan of crowds of people because they could readily create a catastrophic situation if your hunger comes. Maybe it’s how fresh everything still feels after the New Year passes—the sensation of anticipation it brings. Maybe it’s the blanket of stars that appear extra luminous tonight, rivaling the shine of the city buildings around you. Maybe Ian has just gotten better at using his powers of persuasion on you, or his recklessness has rubbed off on you, similar to how you feared his desire for flesh would increase your own when you first met him.

No matter the true reason, you find yourself amidst a scene of sweaty strangers boxed in by the small club’s four walls. The other people’s proximity to you quickly spikes your anxiety, driving you away from Ian and back to the outer edges of the room, though he tries at first to persuade you to dance with him. You give him a slight smile and an eye-roll and let your arm slip through his tattooed fingers.

“Go dance,” you mouth to him before heading toward one of the many booths lined up against the far wall.

You sit there watching everyone dance for a little while, working up the nerve to rejoin the crowd. There are so many bodies, all moving to the sound of In My House playing over the speakers at what must be max volume.

“Did you come here alone?” a feminine voice shouts from your left, startling you. You turn to find a woman with softly-waved hair that touches her shoulders; she wears a dress with big swirls of color, the flared skirt stopping just past her thighs. Your gaze goes all the way down her pantyhose-clad legs to her high heels and back up again. The pink and purple lights framing her from behind make her seem like she’s glowing.

“Uh—” Awkward pause as you try to figure out how to respond. “I…didn’t, but the person I came with is just my friend, so…” You shrug. It feels somewhat odd to refer to Ian as a friend, even after all this time. You are two people traveling in the same direction, lashed together by your fatal flaw, but you suppose “friend” is as accurate as it gets.

She smiles amusedly, undeterred by your awkwardness. “So that means you’re free to dance with me, then?”

You think about how you rejected Ian’s offer and chuckle to yourself. Ironic. But you find yourself not wanting to say no to this woman with her sweet brown skin and dimpled smile, despite your inner sense of judgment trying its best to pull you back. So you accept, still feeling embarrassed as she slides her lace-gloved hand into yours and guides you onto the dancefloor again.

Her perfume contains different notes, but as you dance together to another uptempo pop song and the aroma encircles you, it reminds you of Alicia’s signature scent all the same. You try to put that reminder out of your mind, though it’s difficult. Instead, you make an effort to focus on her shining face under the lights, the long gold earrings dangling from her ears, the sway of her black hair and dress as she moves.

You Give Good Love comes on afterward, and before you know it her body is pressed to the length of yours, virtually no space left between you as she tucks her face into your neck. You put your arms around her and sigh at how she fits against you, thinking you might like to do something like this more often. All the time, really. It feels good in a way you don’t quite have words for, even though you’re still surrounded on all sides by a bunch of sweaty and excited people. Just by the movements of your bodies, you could close your eyes and be spirited away to some other realm where everything is right—where you are not the monster you’ve come to believe you are.

You are finally beginning to relax a bit when your stomach twists painfully.

All your organs freeze from the shock of this unexpected sensation. You have paused indefinitely, and you watch your body from above as you and the woman continue moving together, two dark figures flashing in and out of the strobing lights. And yet, you simultaneously feel yourself still in her arms. Her breath is on your neck, warm and smelling of alcohol and some fruit—lemons. The muscles of her back are beneath your hands; you want to peel her skin away and see what they look like underneath, run your fingers across the striations. Her soft cheek is pressed to yours, so soft that it makes you want to tear into it like the flesh of a plum and swallow it. Your mouth twitches with the desire to consume.

“No!” you shout, pushing her away from you so fiercely that she falls back into someone behind her. You turn and begin shoving a ragged path through the club-goers. The sights and smells of pure humanness are overwhelming, begging you to tuck your face into the nearest neck or arm joint and just bite. There are too many hearts beating in one space, too many lungs expanding with wet and bloody life. You begin to cry, but you force your body to continue moving until you’re stumbling through the club’s back exit.

In the dank alleyway behind the club, you splash through a puddle and collapse behind a dumpster, pressing yourself into the corner and hoping that the smell of garbage will disappear your appetite, though you know it doesn’t work like that. You tuck your head between your knees and try to breathe evenly. The music is only slightly less loud out here; whereas it was simply an overzealous volume before, you feel like you’re being crushed by the sound itself in your overly sensitive state.

You don’t know how long you sit there shaking, the hunger ripping your stomach apart and forcing a long whimper out of your mouth, but your whole body jumps when you hear the exit door slam open. When you look up, Ian’s stepping out of the doorway and fumbling with the limp body of a man, his hands clasped around the man’s arm and waist.

You watch with terrified eyes as Ian lowers the man to the ground in front of you, leaning him against the wall so that he won’t slump over. “No—what are you doing—”

The man in front of you is too drunk to put a sentence together and barely seems to know where he is. His sweaty brown hair flops in his eyes, and his bearded mouth moves with nonsensical speech.

“No,” you cry again. “I can’t do this. Don’t make me do this!” Ian crouches beside you.

“Darling, you have to eat.” His hand is on the back of your neck, not forcing you toward the man but trying to ground you in your body. He’s so close that his words reverberate within your nervous system. Eat. You shake your head, but you’re becoming lightheaded from the sheer hunger. The smell of alcohol from the man is overpowering, but underneath it you can still detect his vulnerable fleshiness, and you need to know how it tastes. As if once again disembodied, you watch your hands reach for the man’s shoulders, Ian’s own hand slipping away from your neck, and bring him closer so that his throat is bare to you.

You mouth at the sweat on his neck, the saltiness intensifying the taste of his skin; you lick his Adam’s apple and savor how the ridge of it slides against your tongue. Then you bite down.

The tears continue to roll down your cheeks as you devour the man. Ian doesn’t leave you to dine alone, however.

He reaches into the mess of the open chest, digs between the deflated flaps that are the lungs, and tugs out the man’s heart. Takes a bite of it. You watch as he does, horrified but unable to look away even as you crush part of a rib between your molars. He offers it to you—tears the muscle in half and gives you the unbitten part. You accept it with eager hands and eager mouth, chewing through muscle fibers like it’s a delicacy. Ian licks the blood from his fingers, a smile playing at his lips, and goes back for more.

It’s too much like the dream, and it frightens you. You half-expect a portal to hell to open beneath you both and send you free-falling into a lake of fire. But you are unable to make yourself stop. Neither of you stop until an hour has passed and the blood and a pile of crimson-stained clothes are all that remains.

You find a still-intact plastic bag in the dumpster and place the clothes into it before tying it thrice and shoving it as deep into the trash as you can.

Using an old rag from the dumpster and another puddle of water at the back of the alley, you both do your best to remove the blood on your hands and faces. It makes you feel disgusting, but it’s the best you can do for the time being, and you can’t go inside the club or onto the streets like this. Then you shove the rag back underneath the pile of trash, too.

As you and Ian emerge from behind the dumpster and walk down the sidewalk to find the sedan, despair envelops you. You accept it inside of you—let it spread throughout your bones and blood without much of a fight. You are defeated, understanding fundamentally that you can never be like the people in the club, the people walking these city streets, no matter how many of their human peculiarities and normalities you try to adopt. The knowledge hollows you out.

On the way back to the house you’ve been squatting in, you steal a cigarette from Ian’s pack and turn the radio to several different stations before choosing some talk show discussing nothing you care about. Emotionally, you’re floating somewhere in the space between numb and wounded.

But people die everyday, right?

Like with Alicia, Ian tries to prevent you from becoming lost in your grief about it. There isn’t anything said between you during the car ride. But once you get to the house, he wipes the fresh tears that spring forth, runs the shower for you, and makes sure you have clean clothes for afterward.

“Are you good?” he asks before you get in the shower, standing in the bathroom doorway with you. He brushes your cheek with the same hand that plucked the heart out. There’s still blood underneath a few of his fingernails and staining the cross on his ring. For a few seconds, you feel an unfamiliar comfort in knowing that he has seen you destroy another person and feels no animosity or repulsion toward you because of it.

“I’m fine,” you murmur, shifting your face into his palm. But the moment passes, and the chill overtakes you again. You step away from him and shut the door, letting the bathroom fill with steam.

—

Your feelings toward Ian have always hovered in an odd limbo, going from distrust to tolerance to something that can be called companionship. But just like the seasons transition into each other, something inside you starts to shift after that night at the club.

Your eyes begin lingering on him when he lifts his shirt to wipe away sweat or strips it off entirely when the heat becomes too much. Your gaze can’t help but be drawn to the way his long hair sticks to his damp, darkly-inked neck, or how his cigarettes fit between his full lips like they were made specifically for his mouth. When it’s the last few weeks of winter and you have no choice but to sleep together in the backseat for extra warmth—the car’s HVAC system on its last leg—being smushed into that small space with him isn’t unpleasant like you once assumed it would be. Far from it.

When you and Ian go to a theater one day—one of those matinees in the middle of the week that only elderly people attend—and end up watching a random film that you didn’t know was a romance, you are startled when you have the sudden thought that you want him in the same way. That you wouldn’t mind him holding your face in his hands again but kissing you this time, or walking down a street hand-in-hand, or lying next to him in some stranger’s bed and listening to him talk until you fall asleep. You try to send those thoughts somewhere far away, but days pass and they keep coming back, and that wanting in your chest only grows.

You’re reluctant to think of your feelings as love—at least not yet, with your heart still grieving the woman perished by your own hand—and you know he can’t save you from this reality that you must live in until your time ends. But as imperfect as everything is, you feel like he knows you in some inutterable way. You begin to believe that this could be enough. Maybe you’ve always subconsciously understood that the world of love is no home for monsters, proven by the multiple times it has expelled you from its viscera, leaving you shaking and bereaved. But maybe whatever this is now could be enough to escape its view and its judgment—two monsters together to leave the humans to their softer affections.

And though he doesn’t say anything outright, Ian notices your newfound attention, smiling knowingly whenever he catches you looking. His hand stays on yours for longer than it needs to whenever he passes you items, his fingers trailing away from your skin like they regret having to leave. When he shoplifts supplies when the money is low, he swipes silly little trinkets that he says he “thought you would like.” You catch the way he always presses his body closer to yours when you’re sitting together on a pier, on the hood of the car, on a random bench—anywhere. The tension builds between you for what seems like forever, drawing so tight that you’re almost afraid you both may get hurt when it snaps.

When it finally does, it feels natural to do, this dance that unfolds in the backseat of this sedan he stole over a year ago. You both know the hunger for flesh intimately even though you experience it in such different ways; instead of it being a grotesquerie that would repel a normal lover, it’s a bond that has inextricably tied you together, for better and worse. In that sense, the joining of your bodies is just another type of desire for you two to tease out the intricacies of.

The catalyst is one question posed to you on a humid summer night. “...Darling, answer me honestly.”

Ian’s eyes are heavy with some mix of want and curiosity when you turn to look at him. You’re both sitting in the backseat as you study a map from one of the atlases; you’ve spent a half-hour trying to figure out the best route for your next destination in Georgia, tracing the lines illuminated by the car’s dome light. Maybe you’ll both try settling down this time; find that new job like you said, and live in one singular place for a few months. Someone else’s house you can pretend is your own, someone else’s car you can drive around the city. Years are too heavy to think about, but months…you can do months.

But it’s clear your decision-making is over. Your attention had broken every time you sensed his eyes shift to your face and stay there for a little while, searching for something, before moving back to the map. Now, you let the map lie forgotten in your lap.

“What is it?”

“Would you hate it if I asked to kiss you?”

Your body temperature rises, but you reply to his question with a question. “Have you thought about that before?”

“Many times.”

You swallow hard. You want to ask him about the first time that thought crossed his mind—did he realize it around the same time you did?—but you say, “And why do you think I would hate it?”

“Things will change between us.”

“Things have already changed between us, several times.”

“This is different,” he insists, and you notice that the space between you has decreased, bodies subconsciously drifting even closer together. “If we go down that road, I don’t want us to go back. I don’t want you to have to wonder about whether I care for you. I want you to trust me.”

You lean your forehead against his, a small smile forming on your lips. “I already trust you, Ian.” You have never vocalized it before, but you find that you really do mean it.

Then you move forward, doing yet another thing that would’ve been utterly absurd to you this time last year—pressing your lips to his. Your insides feel like they’re melting, but not in the uncomfortable way that comes from the summer heat. It happens in a way that makes you think that, maybe if you both melt down into your very basic parts and become nothing but atoms, you might blur together completely. Ian’s reply is immediate in how his hand comes up to your nape, his mouth separating from yours for one painful second only for him to kiss you deeper. The map slips between you and to the car floor. It’s strange to indulge in this close proximity with another person without the threat of death, without the underlying worry that you’ll become hungry in the worst way, but it’s also freeing to a degree you didn’t know was possible.

That’s why you allow yourself to become submerged in his body heat, his mouth, his hands—everything.

Afterwards, you both climb back into your clothes only halfway; your shorts are left somewhere underneath one of the front seats, and Ian doesn’t bother putting his shirt back on—though it stays off most of the time anyway. Your bodies are sluggish but satisfied as you rest your head against his bicep, tracing your fingers along the tattoo under his sternum. They come away damp from the sweat that shines on his body. You still feel all the places on your own body where his lips and fingers touched, as if your skin has been imprinted, and you wonder if it’s the same for him.

The window is rolled down to let the smoke curl out as Ian takes a drag from a cigarette. A soft rock station plays on the radio, and he taps the beat of the song on your knee with his free hand. For the first time in many years, your mind isn’t crammed full with constant thoughts of guilt and contempt about being alive and being what you are. Even if it only lasts for tonight, for now, you can just exist.

#dpr ian x reader #dpr ian imagines #christian yu imagines #christian yu scenarios #dpr scenarios #black reader #x black reader #female reader #fem reader #black fem reader #x black fem reader

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sugar-petals · 4 years ago

Text

hey angel (m)

♡ sub!felix + reader

↳ The JYP Halloween party is ditched on short notice. That means: You have a down-to-celebrate boyfriend in full angel costume on your hands.

words. 5k

tags. domestic au, finger sucking, hickeys, latex, corruption kink, fingering, vaginal sex, footjob, harnesses, cunnilingus, kitten antics, edging, aftercare

★⎡CARO’S NOTE⎦› here goes the cutie on duty 👼

genre. domestic + smut/crack

„So sorry mate,“ Bang Chan’s voice resounds through the speaker. „I thought it could work but… We can’t celebrate tonight. Really sorry, Felix. Changbin and I already got dressed up too, but, you know things got shut down. JYP won’t let us with the Corona rules and stuff.“

„Oh no…“

„Yeah, man. Looks like we’ll have to do it next year.“

„You even prepared the food already, right?“

„We’re handing it out to staff and eat it at home. I know, it sucks. I spent half the morning in the kitchen. I can like keep the pumpkin cookies so you can eat them tomorrow after practice or so.“

„I feel so sorry Chan… and thank you.“

„I’ll be calling Hyunjin and Han now as well. Really sorry we’re cancelling short notice. I hope you’re still having a nice evening bro. Maybe we can make it happen for Christmas.“

„Okay. Cheers mate.“

„Yeah, cheers.“

Felix puts his phone down looking more than deflated in his angel costume, puffs out a big sigh. You can tell he really looked forward to this. Just an hour before, you bothered to sew the wings in place rather than rely on the wobbly back-pack like construction that came with it.

They’re firmly attached to his white top now, and all for nothing. He glued them together by himself with a pack of synthetic feathers ordered on Etsy for a ridiculous shipping cost, along with a little halo that he clipped into his hair. Which, because maybe it really does sense his mood, dangles low and even a bit lopsided over his head.

„It’s the party of the year,“ Felix flops down on the living room couch. “I can’t believe this.“

You sit down opposite to him, starting to clean off the table where masses of cosmetic products and leftover feathers have piles up.

„Next time, Lixie. We can keep the costume. Poor Chan, he organized the living shit out of everything.“

„I’ll just go and shower, get this off, and stuff,“ he points at his face. Felix applied his own makeup with a little help from you here and there, including some golden sparkles. Just yesterday, he bleached his hair. It’s sculpted down to every strand with hair spray now. Felix unties his sneakers with the little gold stars on. Just before he starts plucking off his halo, you get an idea, pick up your phone from the table.

„Wait— Let’s at least make some pictures with your phone, you put so much effort in this. You look so cute. The fans might want to see it as well.“

„Oh! You’re right,“ Felix stops right in his tracks. „For Instagram.“

After tightening his sneakers again and you making sure the halo sights right, Felix walks around your flat in search for a nice backdrop. You follow, quickly flipping through some filters to try, and adjusting the flash on the camera.

After posing at the fridge — strange idea — and in the bathroom turns out a little awkward as well, you decide that such an elaborate costume needs a themed background, and only the bedroom offers just that. You recently changed the duvet to sky blue sheets with clouds on them. The overall interior is mostly clean white as well, with some thrifted vintage furniture. Fairy lights, heavy curtains, a wooden ceiling. Perfect.

„We’ll caption it as… post your own stay-at-home costume, something like that,“ Felix plops down on the bed, acting as if he just took a seat on the cloud in the very middle.

„Sounds pretty good,“ you press release, and the first picture pops up on your screen. „Can you turn a little towards the light? That the sparkles are showing.“

„Yay, I love the sparkles!“

„Just like this, just like this. Don’t move. The sparkles!“

A five-picture series of more snapshots ensues, with you adjusting Felix’s face a few times by hand, even, turning his chin by sheer millimeters to find the perfect angle. He’s stunning.

„I have another idea.“

„Oh?“

„I remember what I wore for Halloween three years ago. The costume must be somewhere. I think it fits together with yours.“

„What, oh wow?“

„What was it again, wait…“

You already begin to sort through your wardrobe, checking each hanger, each drawer, end up where you store your socks, and finally pull out a larger plastic zip bag from the very depths of all that chaos. There it is. Nice.

„Lix, if you’d turn around for me, please.“

He immediately does. Blushing.

„Thank you, angel.“

You pull off your sweat pants, your grey shirt, socks, your bra. Time to dress up. Only your simple black panties stay on. On goes a pair of scarlet stockings, snug and high. Then, a dark red latex skirt that goes in big circles and flounces, down to the mid-thigh.

Added: A tight sleeveless peplum top that admittedly… and deliberately squeezes your boobs a little. Not too much. More important is that your nipples are showing right through, and the cleavage is sweeping, every demon would be salivating at your feet. If an angel does: Remains to be tested.

Around your waist and chest and over your shoulder goes a black harness, pulling everything together. Some very pointed, glossy pumps with thin heels complete the costume. They’re not crafted to be walked on in the very least, their balance is terrible. You’re planning something else with them. Cherry on top: Devil horn headband. Really curved and pointy, too. Can’t go wrong. You click your tongue and take a spin. The skirt flares out perfectly. Ready to go.

„Felix, time to turn around.“

He does. You can tell he didn’t cheat.

„You’re, you’re so hot in this,“ Felix buries his face right in the comfort of his sweater paws, hoping they would not give away his embarrassed little face. But — his voice does, effortlessly so.

„Come on, have a look at me. Real closely, angel, come. You’re allowed to.“

Felix gazes through his fingers with what sounds like a little meep! in a much more high-pitched tone than his usual speaking range. He’s cute.

„Hey pum’kin. Miss Lucifer speaking. Where’s the barbecue?“

Felix and you recently agreed that hell must be one big and extremely hot cave where everyone’s grilling and having a good time. Australia, essentially.

„Welp!“

„Damn right. Infiltrating God’s realm one cloud at a time. Any last words?“

„It’s so intimidating!“

Felix digs himself into a mountain of pillows on the bed, with only his eyes and nose peeking out. You shrug, adjust your horns.

„Hm. Time for my first satanic act I guess.“

„Oh no!“

„Wait just one minute, be a sweet and patient boy.“

You leave Yongbok confused given that you’re quick to hurry to the kitchen. However, what you return with puts a giggle on his lips right away.

„Boom. It is served.“

„Yes, yes, please!“

Poufy black cocoa cupcakes. The ones with the cute little ghost frosting on it, and the melted chocolate inside. Felix finds them irresistable since the last Halloween party, to the point where you bake them mid-July. The current set of cupcakes was meant to be a contribution to Bang Chan’s eerie and delectable buffet. As for now, they’re in deep need of someone hungry since you made a lot of them, assuming a post-workout Changbin would devour at least five or more.

„Good move,“ he admits, a little shaky, and you proceed to tray the cupcakes on the bed — stuffing Felix for a solid ten minutes until there’s chocolate all over his face. What you’ll be quick to confess is that you’ve been deliberately messy feeding him, with all the crumbs in particular.

„Spoiled honey bun,“ you plant a kiss on top of his head.

„These taste so good, I swear.“

Next up is Felix who has to carefully maneuver the sweet treats into your mouth without spoiling your outfit.

„If you get crumbs into my cleavage, I can’t put your face in there later you know.“

Fierce nodding.

„That’s the spirit.“

Under your eagle eyes, he proves to be an obedient little cherub doing his job pretty well. The cakes are delicious in how spongy they are, and the liquid chocolate warms up so well on the tongue, it melts even more. You’re more than pleased and have Felix store away the remaining four pieces only after quite a while.

„I’ll have them for Brekkie, woo!“ is what he’s fast to proclaim, and you agree he’ll need them the next morning. Once you’re done with him, that’s gonna count as a hangover even Chan’s wildest party couldn’t give him.

„We’re talking dinner first, Felix.“

At this point, all the sugar is kicking in. Or it’s the chocolate being some kind of aphrodisiac. Whatever, could be either, you’re feeling like you’re up there at the ceiling, and you’re not the only one. Felix coming back to the bedroom so bouncy and cutieful just gets you even more in the mood.

You sit at the edge of the bed, slanting backward just a little. „You look like you need some more corruption, I won’t lie,“ you pat your lap, beckoning. He can ditch wifi because this is his favorite hot spot waiting for him. Felix sits down looking tiny as ever, eyes full of anticipation and his pants full of… big fat late night erection.

„I don’t mind at all, Miss. I don’t, oh my god…“ he mumbles into his nonexistent Aussie trucker beard, and you’re clear that whatever the skirt did to him, his brain must be doing kangaroo somersaults right now. In the meantime, something very eager is poking right at your lower belly. Captain Boomerang already came fully armed tonight and the Suicide Squad isn’t even anywhere near to be seen.

„Oh hey hey, cupcake. Getting really big there,“ you wipe at the curled little corners of his mouth. Some crumbs come off. His lips already twitch the way you know they want to do naughty things on you. He doesn’t seem to notice. Autopilot Felix has already taken over.

„Don’t hurry with it,“ he stares, mouth half-open, but his little grinds prove him a dirty — in an entirely direct sense — fucking liar. Like he’s literally rubbing himself against your stomach.

„Boy oh boy. You’re not even trying.“

„I’m fucked!“ is what Felix soon realizes with the daggers you’re shooting at him through your hopefully very satanic-looking eyes right now. Alongside catching up with his darn hips doing their own thing.

„You are.“

„I’m sorry for grinding, God help me!“

„He won’t. Cuz I’m here on your cloud. Cue stage number two of my demonic plan. Safeword?“

„It’s chocolate!“

„Mh. Good pick.“

The rest as usual. Tapping the thigh, yellow for pause, towels plus water ready, and always double-checking the lube in case of Jisung putting a glass of vegemite under your bed as his latest practical joke. Yes, it happened. It’s a whole new level of demonic. On the other hand: perhaps Felix’ ass could’ve actually handled it, Made in Australia it is.

„Let’s go honey angel,“ you curl at his hair with a little finger just to tease him a little more. The answer is a little meow, at this point Felix’ communication skills have simplified to kitten vocabulary which always happens when he is nervous and looking forward to something.

Next thing poor Felix knows, his face has entered the scorching satanic abyss that is your cleavage. Literally, you’re burning up. It’s fucking October and Felix has you breaking a sweat from all your horniness (literally, your horns are just that chic) already. Twice the reason to punish the shit out of him. If that can be considered anything near a punishment.

A shower of various „Mh— nh!“ and mewling noises comes to rain down on you while Felix face takes a trip down mammary lane, and that, too, is literal. He’s salivating. So much about rain. Actually, great lubrication. Felix always does things best by instinct.

„Yes, good boy. Great job.“

Now that his mouth is wet already, you’re unceremonious about shoving your fingers right down his throat after he resurfaces. Blushed, hard, and ready to choke himself since he’s already running short on breath. It doesn’t take long until he’s gagging himself stupid and the sparkles under his eyes start running.

„Pretty, pretty,“ you lean down a little, kissing his nose. „Give me all you got.“

„Gh—gch—“

The answer is as slobbery and unintelligible as can be. To a normal human, at least. You’re a demonic top. That automatically means having an Ivy League major in gag noise translation.

„Oh yes, I know,“ you stroke his hair, using your free hand that usually rests at the back of his neck. „Talk to me about it. Exactly what I was thinking. Do go on.“

And he does, louder than ever. If there’s one satisfying sound, it’s this, that heavenly deep voice doing all kinds of nasty acrobatics is making you go crazy. That Felix is absolutely close to cumming in his angel pants is very much clear to you given how the veins and muscles on his neck are having a chaotic Halloween party on their own.

Which includes his tongue taking turns on your two fingers as well. And a wide-eyed Felix struggling, swallowing, holding on to your shoulders with his little feet twitching in their sneakers. Like mad… and you love it. But also — hopelessly sucking and moaning and slurping and squealing until his neck has way too much saliva on it for you not to make it your next target. Felix is so good at this. Way too good.

„Looks delicious,“ you lean in, your hair tickles his ears. And now, you’re busy nibbling, biting a little… and most importantly, giving Felix a wet hickey that will send his makeup artist — my God, you really torture the unsuspecting man almost weekly — into a meltdown. Rowdy and unholy is the look you’re going for.

In the meantime, Felix is still wrapped up trying to hit your fingers at the back of his throat. If his cute bouncy run and rude boner moment didn’t turn you on already, now you would be. The way he’s just sucking in his own spit makes you realize that you won’t ever need a fire brigade for your flat.

You emerge from his neck and raise your brows. Felix is just hard-wired to impress. „Just how much saliva can you produce!“

„Ch… Mnh— Nh…“

Hitting some more complex syntax and consonants there, is he.

„Oh, I get it now. You stayed hydrated during the day. Thanks for explaining, mate. That’s the secret.“

Whether that’s perfectly scientifically correct down to the enzyme theory and shit neither of you can google right now. At least you know that you’re both drenched on either end so that’s that.

Once Felix is so horny from deepthroating your damn hand that he has pull off and yellow-word, you’re already prepared for introducing a new position which you can prepare while he’s gathering himself and wiping off his chin. You hand him a second towel for his neck, and present him a little hand mirror to see how the hickey turned out.

„It’s shaped like, hm,“ he pants, words still slurring a little. „I dunno! It’s really cute!“

„Let me see… No doubt that’s a rice cake hickey. That’s the shape.“

„You’re right!“

And off he goes snapping a selfie with it while you get comfortable on your back, cleaning your own fingers.

„Just don’t upload that one to Insta instead of the cloud shots, we’re not gonna survive another Manager call at 1:15 AM.“

„Can I use your phone for it? That’s where it’s supposed to be on, anyway.“

Felix giggles a little. That cute brat. Always knowing how it’s done.

„Sure babe!“

And voilà, Felix is already occupied setting a good view of his new rice cake-shaped friend as your phone background. Good thing, helps his erection cool down a little, he was about to blow up his poor white pants. The acceptable unfair feat being that he’s just riling you up even more like that on the other hand.

„If you come to mommy now,“ you wriggle one foot in the air, the other splayed on the duvet, knee slightly bent. „Rubbing her pussy and doing your thing, you know how it goes.“

„Angel duties calling! What am I doing!“

At the speed of sound, Felix stores your phone back on the bedside table and crawls over in an instant. He props his chin on your abdomen and blinks.

„Sorry Ma’am. At your service. Never wanna keep you waiting.“

A big smile rouses his cheeks, and you boop them from either side. His peach fuzz is so soft and his eyes are so beautifully dark. You don’t waste any time keeping your skirt down for any longer. Another blink and Felix is already pawing — well, kneading and caressing technically — between your legs. He’s visibly understanding just how wet the whole finger sucking circus has left you now.

„What if I used my heels on your cock, boo. Still no cumming. Just my heels and my lil’ prince.“

Satanic plan stage number three. Felix has gotten to savor it last Christmas and for his birthday, and some time around the holidays in summer.

„I love it yay!“ Felix claps his hands. Baby, baby.

„C’mere then. Just keep on rubbing.“

His arms are fairly long enough. While you’re dragging the slender heels of either shoe right across the outlines on his crotch, Felix, eyes loosely closed, maintains a steady rhythm on your clit with three fingers lined up on the fabric of your panties.

„Oh fucking hell, Felix, shit—“

Whenever you masturbate, that alone would never do. You’d get frustrated after a while. Need more stimulation. But when Felix is on angel duty to keep your pussy soaked, it doesn’t need much to make your clit throb, even with your underwear still on. Guess that God’s little helpers know how to work their magic to make your head spin.

He’s hitting the right spot, with the right moves, and his other hand doesn’t miss out on a single opportunity to stroke at both the in- and outside of your thighs. The touch is so subtle, you twitch. Felix strokes on, delirious himself. His eyelids flutter.

„Fuck…“

Despite the little pause from earlier taking out most of his tension, your heels leave Felix with pants that are even more bulged out. That’s making it easy to direct your feet to jerk up and down at either side. You’d never know either of you would be so into this. Foot fetish and all.

Once he’s edged you to the point of moans, last thing you properly remember is calling it quits with the panties and telling him to line himself up. The heels kicked off, the skirt still on, you decide that unpacking your Halloween treat has been long overdue. You slide his pants down, roll down a pink condom, and grab his cock at the base to glide it all over your wet lips.

„Lix, come fuck me. You got me all horny. Satan is recruiting.“

„With me it’s not sinning,“ he smiles, brighter than the sun and you do right along. It’d be hard not to. Felix truly has the innocence of a virgin, the subtle confidence of an intermediate, the caution of a pro, and the kindness of a real veteran.

„You’re right about that Felix,“ you say, prop your entrance at the very tip, let the wetness do its job. „Come kiss your honey girl.“

And he does. Entering you with care for the right angle, letting your hip do the rest. What’s been circling and sucking your fingers so deliciously is now doing a hot job teasing and pleasing your tongue all over. His lips are amazingly soft and plump, they open so gently and feel electric on yours. A gentle squeeze around your left breast sparks a moan into the kiss from you. It’s Felix massaging your breasts while deepening his penetration, and you can tell the vegemite can stay under the bed today. You can tell Felix is getting more than flustered knowing it was all him who made you this dripping wet.

Even his dick seems to blush in sync. It’s fucking pink and red. Oh wait, that’s the condom. But knowing him and from your viewpoint, it’s still more flushed than before, no kidding. Faithfully pumping in and out of you at its full length now. You wrap your legs around his waist, the thrusts become deeper, shorter, parting you open much more, and filling you out so properly.

„So good. Right there, angel. Just right there. I’m loving that.“

Felix has a great dick. Best handy size, the girth’s comfortable, all nice and bendy, virtually no curve, you can always gyrate on it in any way and even take a complete 180 if you go from cowgirl to reverse (which you’d be doing right now but he’d crush his wings if he were on his back like that so no). Cherry on top, compact but soft balls that don’t steal the show but still do the trick during doggy. They’re whipping up the best cum in the world, so.

The slow kissing goes on and on and Felix tries to walk the tightrope of neither letting your pussy lips suck the orgasm out of him, nor making you cream his cock with shaky legs from all that gorgeous sloppy friction, and the kissing, and his sweet cherry shampoo scent that has your brain in absolute limbo.

With everything hanging by a thread like that, every kiss becomes special and full of a suspense that makes your lips tremble — either set, and Felix can hardly bear it himself.

His little halo is dangling back and forth, and you can tell by his face that all that thrusting has him in serious trouble. And you? Are fucking leaking and groaning, and that little shallow series of first contractions before your orgasm is already preparing you.

The sugar high from the cupcakes is fading, but your adrenaline is sure to replace it. You just want Felix to fuck you more and rock against him, and hold his head, and kiss him. God, his mouth is so warm and inviting, tastes so good like cocoa.

The pace joins yours without any effort, it adapts when your rhythm changes, and it stabilizes everything when you’re currently riding the high of his cock really filling you out so you can clench your muscles around him, feel him and tell him just you wait, I’ll milk you. He’s such a good kisser. You can feel all of your wetness running down your ass like it’s Christmas.

„Felix, I’m overflowing.“

„I’m so sorry,“ he whines into the kiss. „I’ll be washing the sheets.“

„Listen, baby,“ you break the tongue-on-tongue, „you doing laundry is really sexy. But the overflow is the best part. Just look what you’re doing to my body.“

You could ravage him on the spot. He’d probably lose it and cum in two seconds. Holding yourself before the edge is so tough right now.

„Shit… yellow again. Need a moment.“

Felix has to resort to a bit of cockwarming, and you use the little break to rid yourself off the harness. It’s not perfectly comfortable when you’re lying down. You’re about to fling it off the bed that Felix asks to wear it. Oh. Very well. It actually goes as a nice contrast on his white top, and the straps make it easy to adjust to him. And he wants it to sit on him really tightly. Oh again.

You realize—

On you, it’s only a fashion piece. Something random that came with the costume.

On him: It’s kinky.

„Hey hey. You look sexy, pum’kin,“ you pat at his chest. „Look at your waist, wow.“

Your sweet boy. It’s like it’s made for him. So cinched and the exact opposite of his costume. He’s a corrupted, dirty angel now, it’s perfect. With his pink neck and all sweaty face, and his little puppy gaze that will haunt you in your sex dreams because it literally just gets into your pants so much. Oh god, you just wanna cum. You have to distract yourself with chaste images of Felix washing the dishes or writing grocery lists with little hearts and emojis on them but that just makes it five times worse.

The way he puts the harness on with his dick inside you is so mouthwatering and cumworthy, you can’t wait to resume and switch your own brains off on that angel cock. Once Felix is ready to exit phase yellow and resume the session, your hands magically gravitate towards the straps of the harness at this waist.

„Can I?“

„M—hm!“

You have the time of your life grabbing and guiding him by the harness, controlling every thrust. Felix clenches up his teeth from how lavishly his cock is squeezing into your pussy.

„Oh babe,“ you groan out. „Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. Come on, angel.“

He’s not going to take it much longer. Felix is tensing all over, neck to the knees, it’s a huge shock wave in the making. That climax is going to be like a fucking punch into outer space.

„I’m really at my limit, I’m, I’m…!“

„Cum for me, angel,“ you reach to his neck to bring his lips down again. Your mouths going into shaky contact brings a big soaring moan with it.

„Ahn—!“

You lock lips, his face scrunches up, and you can tell that cum worth of three orgasms is currently pooling into the condom. You don’t belong to the mile high club, but going by how far up this feels, you might as well be. Those sweet shivers. And the little whines. It’s all too much for him, this one got him bad. Felix cumming is like the angels really are singing. With bells and harps and all that shit at once.

After pulling out, the ruined condom goes off lightning fast. Felix’ cock gets some much-needed cooling, but his face is on heavy duty. How he does it after almost getting his lights turned off, it’s a mystery, it must have been six whole loads he shot into you. You’d already be collapsing in his shoes. Felix still being able to put his mouth to work is an act of divine intervention. Honestly though, it doesn’t even take half a minute. Sloppy head from Felix is cryptonite, your stamina comes tumbling down. His tongue just knocks you out with an overwhelming rush of pleasure.

“Oh— yes...”

What is gravity? You don’t know what north and south mean anymore. He laps and sucks you through your high and your legs give up their soldier service. All you see it fluffy blonde strands of hair peeking from below your skirt, a glimpse of the harness, the rest is heavy growling and swearing from all of the contractions and Felix getting raw and dirty Down Under with no fears, literally none, to bury his face and move it around and let his tongue loose. Time and again Felix shows you he’s a swallower. Satanic agenda: success.

For tonight, your pussy will be nothing but glitter, cum, and spit. Swollen like crazy, properly fucked, and tipped to the absolute limit. Felix keeps on slicking up his face completely, and then brings you into the afterglow with his fingers. One at a time, barely adding stimulation. Just fetching you where you are and climbing down. Looks like you’ll share the cupcakes, this is a couple hangover in the making. In Felix’ case in particular. It’s like he signed up for testing a mad scientist’s latest designer drug.

„Wow wow… So you served me choco cupcakes and God’s menu,“ is the last thing he can say in his delirium before falling over. He’s so fucked out and went so wild on eating you, a part of the harness came off. Thank god his nose is so small, all that swiping could’ve broken the bridge and whatnot. And his lips, they’re twice as plump. You really have to compliment in on what his mouth has done today because that was some champ shit.

You’re both buffering on the sheets for a solid five minutes until you roll to the side. Towel… water… forehead kisses. Yes, forehead kisses most importantly. After gathering yourself a little, you pamper Felix into a heart rate around 90 rather than 120. And with the onset of exhaustion for the two of you, that’s not too hard after some minutes passing. Whispering sweet nothings and praise is all you do up until 2 AM and after. Felix is somewhere between worlds, one foot in the door of the dreamland, the other soaking up the care and the intoxicating, thick scent of the room that has a lot of cherry shampoo in it.

At some point. You loosen the harness, pull off his shirt with the wings attached. The halo you unsuccessfully try to spot in his hair. Turns out: It flew off. Felix really must’ve made Satan proud if it fell down just like that. Good job. Felix has earned a title of being a dirty angel now, and by the way he’s chugging water now, a wet one on top of that.

Five tons of spit, six, seven, who knows how many he’s afforded for today. A head pat is not enough, it has to be several, and Felix passes out onto the pillows. As good as you can, you wipe him down, bin the condom, get off his shoes and his half-pulled down trousers. After staggering to the bathroom, your skirt and peplum shirt follows, the stockings stay on, they’re cozy as hell. Last but not least, you remove your devil horns. It feels like they granted you the most unknown demonic powers.

Next time Felix is on his way to making you cum again, you’ll be wearing them, and you’ll last the way you did tonight. Meanwhile, Bang Chan is blowing up your phone because Felix pressed send by accident earlier, but you don’t notice. It just keeps on vibrating on the bedstand and Chris will have to riddle over the rice cake selfie for the rest of November.

Felix dozes with an angelic little smile on his lips and puffs his cheeks in his sleep, his makeup wiped and his hair truly messy. Instagram can wait. Maybe you’ll get to brush your teeth a little later, it usually takes some time until you wake up again and topple to the sink. You huddle together, tuck your sweet baby pum’kin into his second favorite spot at your chest. Ah, the glory of Felix little spooning.

As the last signature, you nibble at his ear, call him your cutie pie, and switch the lights off. You have to listen closely but if you do, it’s like Felix is purring in his sleep. Whatever your own dreamland is planning to launch on you tonight, you’re looking forward to it.

PS — oh, my good ole fellas, a last cursed disclaimer. i must insist on the following for obvious reasons. vegemite makes for some terrible strap lube okay 😂🇦🇺

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#felix x reader #sub!felix #felix smut #skz #stray kids #felix x dom!reader #skz smut #lee felix #lee felix smut #lee felix fanfic #skz fanfic #female reader #sub!skz #sub!stray kids #sub felix #sub skz #felix fic #original content #hey angel

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aquaticstyles · 4 years ago

Text

unchained

A while ago I was asked for a “Have You Ever Been In Love” sequel, and while this is probably not the direction you guys were expecting, this is what I came up with. Also, this one’s (loosely) inspired by the song “Scott Street” by the lovely Phoebe Bridgers (highly recommend listening to the spotify sessions version while listening). Fun fact, for forever I misheard the lyrics, thinking she was saying “unchained” instead of “ashamed.” After noticing that I have, in fact, been wrong this entire time, I realized I kinda liked my version better (sorry Phoebe). And, me being me, I ran with it and it spun into this quick, 1.4k part two. Reblogs + feedback help so much! Enjoy!! xx, Jane

“Have you ever been in love?”

Harry’s heart stops.

The question catches him off guard, and not just because he’s not used to interviewers asking such personal ones (he guesses this is what he signed up for when he agreed to be the first male flying solo on the cover of Vogue). It makes his heart stop because of his answer, because of the woman that had once asked him the same exact question.

Harry has never been one to linger in his sadness; he finds it unproductive, and quite honestly, completely depressing. After a break up, one can find the caramel-colored curls belonging to the world’s latest phenomenon sweating out his sorrow, or frustration, at the gym, pounding the boxing bag again and again and again. “Nothing another set can’t fix,” his trainer, Mike, would often tease the man in denial, knowing good and well by his posture upon entering the ring, slumped shoulders and an ever-present crease between his eyebrows, that another one had bit the dust the night prior. Mike had learned fairly quickly to never ask questions, to simply let Harry work out his emotions as he pleases, even if that means letting him walk out with wrapped fists masking throbbing, crimson knuckles.

Harry has never been one to talk about his sadness either; he finds it prolongs the pain rather than diminishing it, an annoying gnat swarming around an abnormally large bite from a crisp apple, halting his progression in enjoying his afternoon snack because he just can’t catch the bloody thing. His sister has tried to break him from his stubborn ways, even resulting to getting the lanky man drunk off tequila in hopes of him finally opening up about his incessant missed targets; however, that only ever ends up with Gemma’s arms holding up the giggling teddy bear and folding his bulky body into a taxi, mimicking cramming a cotton ball into a straw. Therapy was suggested and waved off with an inked palm, because if he doesn’t want to talk to his sister about it, how on earth is he supposed to talk to a stranger?

Never-ending claims of “I’m fine,” and “It just didn’t work out,” and “Don’t worry ‘bout me,” and “It wasn’t even that serious.” Sure, each breakup took a little something out of the man that insisted he was “fine,” but eventually, a couple dozen inked journal pages later, Harry would be back to his normal, happy-go-lucky, perfectly-kind self.

All of these rang true for most of Harry’s young adulthood.

All of these were common occurrences, that is, until Harry met you.

You were unlike anyone he had ever met. Selfless, but not in an over-bearing, walk-all-over-me kind of way. Funny, but not in an underlying-hatred, fake-laugh kind of way. Genuine, but not in a look-at-me, fake kind of way. Honest, in a I-want-to-know-everything-that-makes-you-you, ask-you-questions-until-the-sun-rises kind of way. Drop-dead-gorgeous in the most unbelievable, glowing, ethereal, kind of way that he constantly reminded you of. You were the perfect balance, the missing diamond to even out the coal on the other end of the scale.

Loving you felt like the ocean.

In the morning when there’s a hazy screen covering your lenses, clouding the soft sunlight in a muted, white-washed filter. It’s more gray, yet still golden as the shining mass of fire lazily rises from its slumber. It’s calm, clouds stretched apart like cobwebs in the faded blue sky above, waves leisurely, almost too relaxed, crashing along the bleached shore then disappearing back into the horizon. Still sleepy, still new, an entire day ahead of you.

In the afternoon when the sun is at its highest and hottest, radiating down ultraviolet rays that burn your skin, causing alarmingly red shoulders in need of aloe that soon progressively heal and turn into a bronzed exterior. Speckles of light dancing upon excited waves, similar to a neighborhood of children dressed in pink polka dots and orange overalls running towards the ice cream truck filled to the brim with dreams of sugary stomachaches. It’s saturated, every color its brightest and loudest, pops of cerulean and coral. It’s a blanket of comfort, a suffocating scarf. It’s sweet. It’s sour. A cool glass of lemonade sinking into a bed of quicksand. Annoying and astonishing.

In the night, when the yellowing presence is long gone in the awakening of the moon, the deepest indigo swirling in between pockets of stars dotted and flecked into the atmosphere like freckles. It’s black and blue. You don’t know where the earth stopss and the water begins, familiarity lost as the waves erase each new footprint in the sand. The tide is an abuser, sweet as it sings you in, terrifying as it pulls you under. Skinny dipping, vulnerable, exciting, adrenaline, heart thumping, diving, sinking, drowning.

The morning, the afternoon, the night. The happening, the honeymoon, the heartbreak.

Ever since it ended, everything Harry had ever known was cast aside, thrown out like a Gucci jumper from last season. For the first time in his twenty-six years of living, fourteen of those juggling the obstacles that relationships can and will bring, Harry was irreversibly numb, a pair of frozen, gloveless fingertips blue from the icy wind. Not only did he linger in the gut-wrenching grief, he was absorbed by it. Instead of waking up each morning tucked into the bare side of your body diffusing innocent warmth, sipping a steaming cup of black coffee received by hands much smaller than his own, he woke up with a stranger laying on his chest, cold, with a pounding headache the bottle of whiskey had gladly supplied from the night before. The days felt as if they lasted an eternity, time stuck in slow-motion, tick, tick, ticking, one second, one and a half, one and three quarters, two. He watched the seasons pass, the grass dying and regenerating into its natural emerald shade from his bedroom, dust pocketing in the corners of a picture frame containing two pairs of sparkling eyes and genuine, toothy grins sitting on the windowsill. Nights consisted of him lying sleepless on his back, eyes wide awake, thumbs twiddling as the echoes of helicopters overhead drone in and out. Dozens of missed calls remained unanswered: Mum, Gem, Mitch, Mike, Adam, Sarah, Mum, Mum, Gem, Mum, Mike, Mitch, Gem, Mitch, Mum…

He was stuck, a pancake glued to an ungreased pan, charred. It was when this melancholy had prolonged for nearly its sixth month, and all at home remedies (which included drinking, writing, drinking because he was writing, and writing because he was drinking) failed to provide any peace that he decided to give in to the recommendations from almost every single one of his friends: therapy. After the first session, he was ready to book it and sprint off to a deserted island with nothing but a coconut filled with rum to accompany his solitude. Turns out that one session was the mento to his coca cola of bottled-up emotions, exploding months’ worth of buried feelings and memories in an hour. It took the will of God (and Gemma purposefully lying and telling him they were going to get lunch) to get Harry back in the baby-pink-painted interior of his therapist’s office. After months of talking, sorting, compartmentalizing, yelling, crying, healing, unpacking, and reflecting, Harry tackled down the closure he had been chasing. A year and an album later, when he heard your name, he no longer felt trapped, heart beating rapidly, trying desperately to break apart his ribcage, he felt unchained—a prisoner uncaged, pounds and pounds of metal unlocked from his wrists, free.

Before, your name was paired with a colorless photo album, snapshots of vibrancy draining into black and white, frozen, lifeless, still.

Now, your name resembled a film reel of the best moments, your sweater hanging in his closet, your arm thrown around his mother’s shoulder in a polaroid candid, your laugh echoing in the acoustics of his shower after you nearly slipped on the lavender bubbles coating sudsy toes, your hands massaging his scalp, twisting curls into detailed plaits, your foamy lips smushing against a stubbled cheek, leaving remnants of peppermint mocha in the winter air, your satin skirt contrasting from his purple flares in his backyard, playing thumb war and whispering confessions in the moonlight. The good memories built a brick wall to block out the bad, dimming the light of your downfall.

“Have you ever been in love?” The question echoes again in Harry’s ears, causing a grin and a dimple to pop into his cheek. The fuzzies. Once, twice, three times. Click, shake, tape.

“Yeah, I have.”

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yeojaa · 5 years ago

Text

ANGELS & AIRWAVES (w. jjk)

He's never met you but you know how he sounds when he wakes up from a nap and his greatest fears. You know the way he sings after a shower and that he could be mistaken for a dying seal when he's laughing too hard. The best part? You don't judge him for any of it - including the fact he's a filthy Widow main. He might just love you.

alt summary. Jeon Jungkook has a big fat crush on a girl he's never met.

pairing. jeon jungkook

genre + rating. fluffy crack. general, for now.

warning / tags. long-distance relationship, crushes, canon compliant (ish), eventual happy ending, gaming, gamer!jungkook, strangers to lovers, friends to lovers, overwatch. tags are hard. :(

reading. n/a. a three part one-shot.

word count. ~3400

part i.

JUNGKOOK’S ROOM Sunday, 10 November, 2019. 2:13 AM.

It’s 2:13 AM when Jeon Jungkook finally finds a match, the familiar in-game sound dragging his attention away from the illuminated screen of his iPhone to the monitor before him. He studies the SR - 3779 and 3761, respectively - and skims burning eyes across the members on each team. Four rocks, including himself, and two Masters.

One of them has a strange name - BIGMELON - that he stares at until he's zoning out, trying to make sense of it. Was his teammate a pervert or just hilarious?

"Good luck and have fun, everyone!"

Your cheer filters through his headphones crystal clear but he's somehow still surprised, head tilting curiously to the side. He hadn't expected a girl to be playing Overwatch at quarter past two in the morning.

When there's no response - he notices no one else is in the voice chat, an oddity for such a high ranking game - he takes it upon himself to keep you company. His username lights up as his finger glides across the ALT key, sleep-worn words breaking the silence.

"Thanks, you too."

Nothing follows until BIGMELON appears once again in the upper left-hand corner of his screen. You have a nice voice, he thinks. "Are you sticking with Widow?"

Jungkook takes in the team comp: Sigma, Hog, Genji, and Lucio. A little unconventional but not wholly un-doable. They're on King's Row, too, which is one of his favourite maps. Balanced enough that people aren't too salty when they get headshot but with enough coverage that he can get clear picks.

"Should I?"

"If you want." A pause and your hero slot is filled with Mercy's portrait. "I can damage boost."

He thinks he can hear the teasing. It's soft and sweet and a little rough - like you'd just woken up.

"Who says I need it?" Comes his immediate response, question chased out of his mouth by a laugh he can't help. It echoes, filling the quiet of his bedroom. He hopes you don't take it the wrong way.

"O—kay, Widow main. We'll see if you get anything from me."

It's an empty threat because you're giggling along with him. It's distracting in the strangest way. The sound bounces around in his ears and he can't help but focus on it, realizing belatedly that he's still sitting in spawn as the timer runs down for setting up defence.

"Are you going to join us?" You quip, emoting right beside his stationary sniper. "I didn't queue just to have someone go AFK."

Mischief colours your words and he laughs again, snorting as he finally presses W. Two sets of footsteps echo in game and he presses SHIFT once he's hit point - and with just a few seconds left to spare - launching Widowmaker's body onto the balcony overwatching it. Mercy follows, Guardian Angel carrying her into the air to alight behind the blue-skinned hero.

As the timer hits 0:01, Jungkook right-clicks, scoping in on the second-floor spawn door.

BOOM.

The kill feed reads DDEOKKOOKI x STRIKER007.

"I guess you didn't need the damage boost."

He can't help the sound he makes - a marriage between a witch's shriek and a pig's snort. It leaps out of his mouth, louder than he intends, and he feels equally bad for you and his hyungs. He's definitely going to get an earful in the morning - or any minute now, when one of them bursts into his room to berate him for being so loud. "I told you."

"Yeah, yeah." The way you speak has him grinning from ear to ear, nose scrunching in amusement. Mercy is flying across the map, healing stream trained on Genji as the cyborg ninja just narrowly misses an errant Hanzo arrow and dashes back to point. "I'm gonna take care of the rest of our team. Let me know if you need anything, O' Headshot God."

You're clowning him hard but he knows it's all in good fun. Still, he likes the nickname and decides to keep it, effectively picking off the attacking team's stealthily half-hidden Junkrat and Ana right after.

"Show-off!"

Then he's dinked in the head - health dropping to 30 from the partially-charged shot. He needs heals like yesterday.

Unfortunately, Lucio is up at choke with the tanks, skating circles around the base of the statue as they hold point. Jungkook doesn't see you immediately - he’s scanning his screen for your witch skin (of course) - only realizing you've appeared at his side when his health bar begins to climb. "Try to stay alive, yeah?"

"My bad," he drawls, scoping in the same instant the kill feed announces two more enemy deaths.

There are only a critical Reinhardt and protected Zarya left. The former falls the moment he drops shield and her bubble doesn't reset in time; the Russian tank dies in the next instant, his charged shot firing the moment it hits 100%.

"Thanks for the damage boost."

"Any time."

Then you're gone, off to support the rest of your team again while he grapples onto a different ledge and continues his oppressive gameplay. He feels a little bad when the opposing team goes double shield tank and swaps their Junkrat for a Pharah. He feels less so when he's slept out of nowhere. Four seconds feels like an eternity when he’s out in the open - vulnerable as a baby lamb in a den of lions.

"Looks like you're really making them mad." You'd been relatively quiet when not tending to him - likely because it was only the two of you in voice chat - and he startles when your comment breaks the quiet lofi he has going in the background.

"I don't know why. I'm just having fun." He's lying. You're laughing.

"Too much fun, I think."

"Maybe they should be better." Jungkook says this like he's commenting on the weather or the colour of the sky - offhand and nonchalant. It makes your giggles come harder. He can hear the scratch of your mic as if you've doubled over and it's now pressed into cotton clothing. He can't help but pat himself on the back.

"Please don't tell me you're going to 'gg ez' them when we're done."

Now he's feigned offense, gasping at the mere thought. "Of course not. I'm not that rude!"

"Well, you never know." You're right. People could be the worst when it came to online gaming, spewing vitriol and hurling insults the moment their egos were bruised (or inflated).

"I promise I'm not an asshole." He's not really sure why he feels the need to make this abundantly clear. After all, he'd probably never play with you again. Korea's density of players was just too great - you were just one in hundreds, thousands, millions.

Still, he smiles when you reassure him you don't think he is. "I'm just teasing. You seem nice."

"I am nice." Spoken in the same instance he lands two consecutive headshots - one on the bouncing, wall-riding enemy Lucio and the other on the momentarily grounded Pharah. You must see that, because you're mocking him in that dulcet tone of yours, caramel coating words and turning them soft like toffee.

"Not according to them." And not that you mind, it seems, because you're damage boosting him as he catches their out-of-position Rein in his sight. He whoops in triumph, eliciting another bemused sound from you.

"You know they're going to do everything to counter you when we go on attack." Which was in sub-one minute, the timer counting down the last thirty seconds of your team's defense.

"Who says I'm going Widow again?"

You're scandalized. "You mean you're not just a filthy Widow main?"

For a moment, Jungkook wonders if this is how his older members feel when he (and Jimin and Taehyung) mercilessly rib them. He thinks it must be and oh, how the tables have turned. He decides he doesn't really mind, though. It's all innocent fun and it's keeping him awake, aided by the cold brew he'd chugged at midnight.

"Woah - says the Mercy player?"

"Mercy is a respectable support, okay!"

"Sure, e-girl."

"Take that back!" How the words explode out of his headphones makes him momentarily worry he might've overstepped but by the way your laughter chases it forward, he knows he hasn't. You can take it just as well as you can dish it.

"Okay, okay. You're a not bad healer." Because he hasn't died yet and last he checked, neither had your tanks. Genji had once or twice - to be expected, given his playstyle - and you had, but that was still pretty respectable.

He can practically hear you rolling your eyes. "Oh, thanks."

"Any time, BigMelon."

"That's ‘daebak’ to you, pal." Had he heard you wrong?

"What'd you say?"

There's a long pause - he's not sure whether it's for comedic purpose or something else. You sound muffled on the other end, as if you're repressing sound. "Because watermelon? Su-bak? So big melon is dae-bak?" Whatever you had stifled earlier disappears, torn away by the pride that shines bright yellow and boisterous in your peals of laughter.

It's such a bad joke that Jungkook feels like he's about to have an aneurysm. Were you Jin moonlighting as a Master support player?

"You're kidding me." He wonders if you hear him above your own glee, giggles making it hard for him to hear himself think. "What're you - a dad?"

You scoff now, parroting his words back to him. "What're you - the pun police?"

Another one?

He briefly considers ALT + F4-ing his way out of this match and away from your corniness. Considers it but ultimately decides against it, instead remaining stoically silent and choosing McCree when the hero selection screen slides into place. His silence will surely speak volumes.

"You know that was funny!" By the way he can practically hear your pout - it's endearing, much to his chagrin - he thinks you know where he stands.

"Not the word I'd use."

"You just have bad taste, McCree." You say it scathingly yet full of mirth, a sniff punctuating the end of your rebuttal.

"Do not!" He returns, just as quickly.

"Prove it. Laugh at my joke!" You're shameless, confident, reassured - it makes him chuckle.

You take it as his surrender though, your own laughter blending seamlessly with his. It goes on for longer than is strictly speaking necessary, crowding like cotton balls in his ears as you leave sprays of your hero - Ana this time - across the spawn walls. He wrecks every one of yours with his own, BAMF displayed in 1440p.

"Hey - stop that!" It doesn't matter that the round is about to start - you're spamming your melee button into him. He immediately does it back, toggling between that and his voice line.

The rest of your team is probably wondering what the hell you're both doing.

"Stop distracting me!" He barks into his mic, deep dimples on full display, nose scrunched adorably. He doesn't really mind - it's clear by his hyena cackles that follow - and he likes when your chorus of shut up's pitch and leap with your giggling.

As he navigates McCree out behind your tanks, he can't help but wish - maybe a little selfishly - that they'll lose this round and go into a best of three. When the opposing team's healers both die - one to Ashe's dynamite and the other to Zarya's high-charged beam - he knows that's not going to happen. Your team's going to cap point and then you're going to be gone - off to the next game and never to be matched with again.

"We did it, McCree." You sound deeply pleased as the last of the defenders fall, leaving point uncontested. The Lucio on your team lingers by the choke, ready to boop any last minute hoodlums; Echo hovers just above the enemy’s spawn, dealing damage the moment any hero comes in view. One of your tanks is already emoting.

VICTORY flashes across his screen.

"We sure did, BigMelon."

The cards come next - they're all for your team, though he isn't surprised. You'd gotten 37 defensive assists whereas he had 27% Infra-Sight uptime. He's sure you both vote for each other, the remaining four going to your other support's Sound Barrier casts.

"Thanks for the carry." He doesn't mean it facetiously. This is some of the most fun he's had in-game in ages.

"You're welcome," you chirp. He thinks you'll leave right after.

Instead, you both sit in voice chat in silence, watching the timer in the upper right-hand corner.

"Do you want to duo?" You ask in the same instance he does, breaking the both of you into a fit of laughter. It's more distracting than he realizes, the FINDING MATCH countdown replacing the end game statistics while you’re both still cackling.

Luckily, you invite him to a group right as he removes himself from queue.

JUNGKOOK’S ROOM Tuesday, 24 December, 2019. 11 PM.

It’s six weeks and a good three dozen games later - a feat for him, considering how much of his time is eaten up by literally every other obligation he has - when he asks for your name, not realizing the consequences of his action.

“Most people call me Jinny.” He thinks it fits you, bright and pretty and punchy. “What’s your name?”

Jungkook's unprepared for the question, though he shouldn’t be. Of course you’d want to know. Anyone would, if they’d already given their own answer.

He's silent for the longest time, quiet stretching on and on over group voice chat. He applauds you for your patience, how you don't press him on it when the hesitation has descended from appropriate to downright awkward.

"Uh." The word drops like a weight, crashing through the tentative friendship you've built over the past weeks.

"You don't have to tell me," you supply as softly as he's ever heard you. It's the first time you've seemed uncertain - and it bothers him that he's the reason. "I get that we haven't known each other that long."

As if that's actually the issue. He would've told you the night you spent four hours together, taking wins left and right, filling the time in between matches with silly banter that had his jaw aching from laughter. He would’ve told you on that random Thursday, when you’d listened to him talk about his busy day, effortlessly keeping him occupied - and amused - while your SR nearly descended below 3500. He would’ve even told you yesterday, when you’d said you were going to bed, only to be roped into another six games by Jungkook’s eagerness.

It has absolutely nothing to do with time - or the lack thereof.

But he can't say that - can't tell you who he really is - so he improvises as best he can. "My friends call me Jay."

"Jay, huh?" You turn the sound over on your tongue, like you're tasting it for the first time, trying to decide whether you love it or hate it. He hopes you don’t hate it. "Then I guess we're the best J-duo to ever exist."

"Woah, we?" He's only doing it to rile you up, finding it cute when you huff and puff and threaten to let him die in-game. You never make good on the threat anyway; you just like to see him sweat, watching as his health bar drops to measly single digits. "I don't think I agreed to that."

It's your turn to mock him, that same edge turning your words into sour candy. "Fine. You can find yourself a new healer. We'll see how your SR likes that, Bronzie boy!"

Neither of you really take the game that seriously but he gasps like he's been shot.

"No! Don't leave me with them!" The way he howls the plea is enough to return you both to your rightful place - one filled with boisterous laughter and things he never thought would see the light of day.

Because somehow, he's found somewhere he feels safe - a place he feels like himself, with no pretenses or expectations. It’s where he can rant and rave, bouncing from topic to topic like an energizer bunny with no end in sight. It’s, oddly enough, with you.

Connected through voice chat and built by an endless stream of communication - sometimes productive, other times not - the space you’ve carved out together has come to feel like a third home. It isn’t quite what he has with his family or his members but it’s just as nice.

Different, but nice.

"Fine. You're forgiven." You sniff in that peculiar way of yours and he snickers loudly. "How was your day?"

And this is why it is - because it's ordinary. It’s where Jungkook can rest his head and drift for a while without worry of what’s over the horizon, ready to swallow him whole the moment he takes his eyes off the calm blue sea. He's not raised on a pedestal with you, all the weight of his choices resting on his shoulders. He's just a normal guy playing games.

It might not make up for all the years of normalcy he's missed out on - the movies after school, the street markets on weekends, the holiday parties with classmates - but it's enough.

He eats it up like he's been starved of it.

"Busy. Really busy. I had dance practice all afternoon and forgot to eat so I'm dying now." There'd been a time - about three weeks in - when he'd chosen his words more carefully. He'd been worried he might let something slip but he's found what feels like the sweet spot now, where he can tell you about his day without thinking he’ll suddenly shatter the image you have of him.

It's not always easy - he has to remember to never mention names or intimate details - but it's better than nothing. He can finally tell someone about his day like he wants - all of the good and the bad, too.

"You should make something to eat!"

He's used to your reprimands but he still laughs, crossing his long legs beneath him as he readjusts in his computer chair. "But we're in queue."

"Jay!" It comes out devoid of static, clear as the waning sunshine that filters through his blinds and reflects particles of dust that drift lazily through his bedroom.

"I'll make something after we win." He knows what you're thinking - that he's gone and jinxed your whole night. You’re weirdly superstitious, something he's learned only recently.

As if right on cue: "Shut up!"

Your words sweep his expression up with glee and giddiness, like a kid on Christmas morning; lines dig themselves into the bridge of his nose and the delicate skin beneath his eyes. Jungkook tells himself it’s the usual pre-game jitters but he knows it’s more than that.

It’s you and that infectious giggle that careens through his headphones, making him see everything in a pretty haze of warmth.

He’s not sure when you’d started having this particular effect on him - maybe since the beginning? - but he feels it now, clearer than ever. Every tinkling laugh makes his heart speed up, thump around his chest like a baseball missing its mark. The sight of you logging in elicits the biggest, possibly dorkiest smile, all slightly too-big front teeth and deep dimples. You have him rushing through his post-practice showers and devouring dinner in half the time he usually would just to get online a minute more quickly.

There's just something about you.

And sure - a part of him wonders whether it's all in his head (as if it could be anywhere else). Wonders if he's seeing you through rose-tinted glasses, doing to you what so many do to him. Was he in over his head, praying to a deity that didn't even know he existed?

Sometimes it felt that way - a little out of reach, like childhood crushes and summer love and wishing upon a star. Certainly far too much for a blossoming friendship of just a month and a half.

But then you laugh and it's Pop Rocks fizzling in his stomach and he knows that no - it's there and it's real.

Jeon Jungkook has a big fat crush on a girl he's never met.

notes. i love overwatch and i love jeon jeongguk. what more can i say? :)

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river-bottom-nightmare · 4 years ago

Text

OXYCONTIN OXYCODONE (HCI CONTROLLED RELEASE TABLETS)

—tim grabbed the bottle from the stash of medicines in his apartment, shakily pressing down on the lid to open the locking mechanism.

OT00367K 300514-0H WARNING: OxyContin is an opioid agonist and a Schedule II controlled substance with an abuse liability similar to morphine.

—because thank god alfred somehow managed to keep the batcave infirmary stocked with many different drugs and painkillers. tim remembered the money making people blink, the professional suppliers delivering to an unknown location, leslie turning a blind eye, going so far as to help them sometimes. it gave tim access to whatever he needed to take for his own apartment.

Oxcodone can be abused in a manner similar to other opioid agonists, legal or illicit. This should be considered when prescribing or dispensing OxyContin in situations where the physician or pharmacist is concerned about an increased risk of misuse, abuse, or diversion.

—leslie had glanced at him strange, so tim took her into the medbay and pulled up his sweatpants. the swollen, bruised colour of his ankle was striking against his pale skin. to her credit, leslie didn’t even wince, just used firm hands and warm fingers to examine the wound. tim had asked her not to tell anyone, and the injury was minimal enough for her to purse her lips and nod. she demanded a checkup in a week. with some negotiating, tim moved it up to a week and a half. “be careful with those,” leslie said, gesturing towards the painkillers. “of course,” tim responded easily.

OxyContin Tablets are a controlled-release oral formulation of oxycodone hydrochloride indicated for the management of moderate to severe pain when a continuous, around the clock analgesic is needed for an extended period of time.

—tim leaned against the wall of his bathroom, finally gripping the hem of his sweatshirt and pulling it off. a myriad of colours greeted him, everything from mottled yellow to angry violet to the dark red of the blood flecked around the wound on his side. it was stupid, so stupid. damian had come out of that encounter fine, just a couple bruises to the forearms. tim, on the other hand, had to suffer a slice to the side with a knife, all because he’d hurt his ankle and ribs a day ago and hadn’t been able to flip out of the way in time. the pain had been unnoticeable yesterday, but today, it went past his entire body being on fire and instead felt like he’d been dipped in ice. tim was ready to claw his skin off his torso and fix his ribs himself, but he settled for tipping a couple pills into his palm.

OxyContin Tablets are NOT intended for use as a prn analgesic

—tim allowed himself a couple seconds, taking a few deep breaths, the way dick had taught him to push through the pain. then, pushing off the wall, tim stumbled into his bedroom. forgoing dinner, he shrugged his sweatshirt back on and collapsed onto the bed, letting out a hiss of pain when he landed on a bruise. he shuffled over to his favourite side, staying on top of the covers, moving his injured ankle into a somewhat comfortable position, and waited for the pills to kick in as he drifted off to sleep.

OxyContin 80 mg and 160 mg Tablets ARE FOR USE IN OPIOID-TOLERANT PATIENTS ONLY. These tablet strengths may cause fatal respiratory depression when administered to patients not previously exposed to opioids.

—when tim woke up the next day, it was hard to breathe. hypoventilation was nothing new with stronger painkillers, though, so tim groggily stood up and made his way into the bathroom. the bruises had darkened, and the wound was gaping. turned out tim’s initial assessment was wrong: he needed stitches after all. on the bright side, the pain wasn’t as bad today as it was yesterday. tim popped a couple more pills and took out his medkit.

OxyContin Tablets ARE TO BE SWALLOWED WHOLE AND ARE NOT TO BE BROKEN, CHEWED, OR CRUSHED. TAKING BROKEN, CHEWED, OR CRUSHED OxyConton Tablets LEADS TO RAPID RELEASE AND ABSORPTION OF A POTENTIALLY FATAL DOSE OF OXYCODONE.

—bruce needed his help with a black mask case, and he’d called jason in as well, because no one knew the villain like the former crime lord. but jason was also working a human trafficking case with dick, and while things were getting better, dick was still one of the people that routinely defied bruce’s authority, quieter than jason but much more intense. but damian had asked him personally to come (well, he’d said he wanted to show him how to groom alfred the cat, which was practically the same thing), and cass was visiting from hong kong. so, for probably a couple rare hours, everyone was going to be in the manor, and if alfred and cass had anything to say about it, peacefully. tim gathered the information he’d layed out, and made his way towards the manor.

Possible Side Effects of OxyContin include: Drowsiness and/or weakness,

—tim stopped in one of the sitting rooms in the manor, dropping onto the couch after feeling the ground sway underneath him. he probably needed to eat something. knowing what his family would say if anyone found him in this state, he used trembling hands to take his computer out of his backpack, and pull up some mindless case under the pretense of work. he forced his eyes open, letting the blue screen cut through his vision. he had a good night’s rest, so the last thing he needed was to sleep right now. besides, look at dick! the man could stay awake for days on end, or keep going for weeks on minimal sleep, never get slow or sloppy in the field with exhaustion, and kept a warm and welcoming smile on his face the entire time. the least tim could do was put his injury to the side and stay awake for the first few hours of the night, before everything delved into screaming matches and arguments.

dizziness that may be accompanied by a headache,

—tim could feel everybody staring at him. they were analyzing him, taking stock of his weaknesses, he just knew it. and he couldn’t blame them. he could barely keep his head propped up, sitting in front of the screen. he flinched every time a particularly sudden or loud sound cut through the air, making his brain scream and his face wince in pain. tim’s fingers were rubbing his temples, but the effect was laughable against the pounding in his ears, the pounding of his head. “tim,” bruce’s voice caught his attention, deep but not quite gentle. “why don’t you get some water, hm?” tim nodded, then went to stand up stumbling slightly and grabbing the chair for balance. bruce moved to steady him, but tim held a hand out to stop him. he was fine. the floor was moving, the walls were spinning, but he was fine. “just a little tired,” he waved off to bruce. “don’t worry. i’ll grab an energy drink or something later.”

nausea,

—jason’s brow was furrowed as tim forced another bite to his mouth. across the table, dick’s head tilted in question and he asked “i thought alfredo was your favourite?” tim’s smile didn’t feel all that forced when he brought it up, and he forced another bite past his lips. “i’m just not that hungry. i had a snack in the afternoon.” his stomach was rolling, clenching, sizing up and- “if you would like something light, master timothy, i’m sure we have some crackers and soup. you can eat the alfredo another time.” alfred really was too kind. tim’s hands were clenched around the fork, and it took everything he hand not to curl up on his stomach, to heave as he opened his mouth to say “no thanks alfie. i’m good.”

and vomiting,

—tim couldn’t take it anymore. he pushed his chair back and left the table, far more rudely than he’d ever been before, barring an argument at the dinner table, and raced upward, willing his uncooperative feet and busted ankle to cooperate no matter the dizziness. he could hear the confused cries of his family behind him, but ignored them. tim threw open the door to the bathroom, having the mind to close and lock it, before falling over the toilet, heaving up the little pasta he’d managed to force down. and when that was done, there came the fire. the pain in his stomach as he tried to throw up what wasn’t even in his stomach anymore and oh was that blood? that wasn’t a good sign.

among other side effects. For a complete list of all possible side affects, ask your doctor or pharmacist.

—there was pounding on the door, and tim heard dick’s voice calling out his name. “fuckin’ pick the lock!” jason’s voice was angry. of course it was angry, the one time his family hadn’t come to blows and tim had ruined it. couldn’t he have held it together for just a few more hours? suddenly, there was a loud crack. cass had kicked the door in. she leaped into the bathroom, immediately over to him, with dick hot at her heels. jason was leaning against the doorway, keeping damian or bruce from coming in.

Previous medical conditions, such as lung problems, head injury, liver or kindey problems, adrenal gland problems, convulsions or seizures, alcoholism, hallucinations or other severe mental problems, and past or present substance abuse or addiction may heighten the negative effects of the oxycodone.

—voices filtered into tim’s mind, but everything sounded like he was underwater. muffled, quiet. the quiet was nice. if only his headache could get with the program. there were hands on his shoulders, cupping his face. they were warm, and felt strong. he was safe. there was a part of him screaming, though. get up, open your eyes, stop being weak! stop being pathetic! the others could do so much more than you, so just stop acting like a victim and be useful for once! the voice was demanding, and tim tried to do just that, the dizziness had come back with a vengeance and the room was spinning. or maybe his vision was whiting out, because everything flared a bright, brilliant white before tim was plunged into darkness.

Pharmacist: dispense the attached Medication Guide to any patient taking OxyContin Tablets.

OT00367K 300514-0H

i don’t actually know how OxyContin works so all of this may be horribly wrong. this is just what the warning label said on a bottle i found in the medicine cabinet.

tag list: @comicsandhoney @birdy-bat-writes @elles-shitposts-personified @subtleappreciation @screennamealreadyused @pricetagofficial @catxsnow @astroherogirl @yesboopityboop @dangerduckjpeg

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sailtoafarawayland · 3 years ago

Text

Entwined: Family Outtakes Ch. 3

Summary: A little bit of Wish Captain Cobra bonding from early on in the Entwined universe.

Rating: G

AO3 - FF

Chapter Three: An Unexpected Emergency

Henry lunged forward, nearly leaving his seat on the couch as he slammed the joystick home and button mashed to gain the last kill of the round, letting out a whoop of victory. He scrolled through the stats while his friends went for another bag of chips, pausing when he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket.

Pulling it free and glancing at the screen, he saw the house number pop up under his mom's name. That was weird – as far as he knew she was at work with Killian, and Hook didn't typically call him. He frowned, immediately worried. They did live in Storybrooke after all, and even though things had been peaceful since the Black Fairy, there was always that lingering worry that any day the other shoe would drop.

“Hello?” he asked, raising the phone to his ear and moving from the couch to the window, pushing aside the curtain and glancing down the quiet street to make sure there were no signs of strange colored clouds billowing.

“I'm glad you answered, lad,” Hook's voice came through the speaker, his discomfort clear in the heavy exhale that followed. “I've a bit of an emergency at the house.”

“Have you called Mom?” Henry was already moving back through the living room, motioning to his friends that he had to head out as he grabbed his bag and shoved his feet into his sneakers. “Are you okay?”

“Perhaps emergency was a tad overzealous, but I – I didn't want to disturb your mother or Killian at work. Is there any chance you could stop back in?”

“I'm already on my way,” Henry reassured, wondering what could have gotten his...well, not his dad, and maybe not quite his stepdad yet, but Hook had certainly slipped easily into a space above 'his mom's boyfriend', and Henry knew one day he'd care for him the same way he did Killian, the man who had become a father figure to him. “Can you tell me what happened? This isn't like a curse thing or something, right? Because if it is, we should really – ”

“Not unless you consider this bloody machine accursed,” Hook spat on the other end of the line, several more curses that Henry was pretty sure his mom would not appreciate him hearing following alongside the sound of something clanging against metal.

“I'll be home in five minutes, okay?”

“Aye,” Hook sighed, “You've my thanks, lad.

Henry nodded and smiled even though Hook couldn't see him.

“Just try to keep everything in one piece until I get there. See you in five.”

Henry took the steps to the front door two at a time, the handle leaping out of his reach as Hook yanked it open, the muscle in his jaw ticking wildly as he ran his hand through his hair.

That was what made Henry notice the bubbles – clumps of frothy bubbles clinging to Hook's ear and streaks of them dissipating along the edges of his jaw and between the strands of his hair.

“The bloody washer box is possessed,” Hook growled, stepping back and letting Henry inside to shoulder his bag onto the floor, his eyes widening as he took in the steady stream of suds pouring out of the laundry room and into the hallway. “I thought I'd help with some of the laundering, and I've seen your mother do it often enough – put them in the front, pour the lye into the box, push the buttons, and then they come out clean.”

“Yeah,” Henry hesitated, stepping gingerly across the damp floor and peeking around the corner into the laundry room. “I guess you could say that's about how it works...how much soap did you use?”

“Your mother just pours it in, so I did the same – and all seemed to be going well until I came back down to this. I've pushed every button on the bloody thing, but it won't stop.”

The lights across the top of the washer were a steady blue, the drum still churning out an ungodly amount of suds that bubbled and fell from around the door seal, making their way across the floor. Stepping carefully, the tile slick beneath his sneakers, Henry made his way to the machine and held the power button, hoping that would solve the issue, but the washer ignored him, all of the lights staying stubbornly lit.

“I guess we'll have to unplug it,” he grimaced, glad that the cord was at least accessible above the unit.

“Unplug it?” Hook questioned, standing in the doorway, the bottom of his jeans damp from wading through the bubbles.

“Yeah,” Henry, muttered, heaving himself out of the water and entirely on top of the machine, making sure his sneakers weren't touching anything wet. “You might want to back up, so you're not in the water – and just, don't touch anything with your hook, okay?”

“Aye, that sounds simple enough,” Hook agreed, glad to be relieved of the burden modern technology presented. He backed across the hall and dropped to the bench seat, hook in his lap.

Henry carefully gripped the edge of the large plug and – after a tense moment of quiet prayer that he wouldn't get shocked – the rhythmic shushing of the machine came to a sudden halt, the bubbles crackling meekly from around the door as it stopped agitating.

“Well done, lad!” Hook called, getting up from his seat and peering into the laundry room, his hand running wearily through his hair and dislodging a few more bubbles. “I was beginning to think not even magic could have ceased its destruction.”

“No magic here,” Henry smiled, waving the gray cord in his hand. “Machines don't work in this world without being plugged in – this thing's kind of like its heart, so when you take it out, it – ”

Henry stopped as Hook's smile faltered and disappeared, his throat bobbing as he swallowed, gaze dropping to the floor and fingers tightening against his palm.

“Hook, I'm sorry,” he rushed, dropping the plug to the top of the washer and sliding back to his feet, feeling like the biggest idiot in the world. It wasn't as if he didn't know Killian's history, and he knew that Hook shared almost all of it – including the thing that had cost him his hand and turned him into a revenge-obsessed pirate for hundreds of years. “I shouldn't have...that was stupid, I – ”

“It's quite alright, m'boy,” Hook sighed, the tension slipping away from him as quickly as Henry's words had brought it on. “I've lost many things in my life,” he said, stepping forward and clapping Henry on the shoulder, “but I've gained much as well.”

He couldn't help but smile at the weight of Hook's hand and the way the sadness in his eyes was tempered by joy – it was the same look he'd seen so many times in his own mom's eyes, and Killian's as well.

“We're gonna find her, I know it,” he promised, lips tightening with determination. “My mom won't stop until we figure out how to fix your heart, and neither will Killian – it's kind of what our family does, we always find each other – and we've never let a curse stop us before. We are going to get her back.”

“I hope so – I think you'd love Alice. She has an imagination just as big as yours, and a love for books as well, though you'll have to explain the – what are they again, video games?”

“Yup, and I bet she'll love them too. I can't wait to meet her.”

Hook nodded, stepping back into the hall and surveying the mess around their feet once more.

“Well, I suppose I should see to cleaning this up, and you're free to return to your day off, lad – I can't thank you enough. Learning everything there is to know of this realm, it's not been easy, and I hate to be a burden.”

“You're not, you should have seen Killian and...well, a lot of other people too when they first got here. Maybe next time just, use less soap – like way less soap.”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Hook saluted, eyes narrowing as he stared down the washing machine. “I certainly never imagined I would lose a battle with the bloody washing box. I think perhaps I'll leave the laundering to either Killian or your mother in the future.”

“At least the floors will be clean,” Henry shrugged, grinning as he headed back toward the front door, Hook's dry chuckle following him as he picked up his bag and headed back out. “I'm gonna check in with Regina, but I'll be back for dinner...it's not fish, right?”

“I think by the time I'm finished righting this mess, it's likely to be pizza.”

“Perfect!” Henry called back, shutting the door and skipping down the steps.

There were no curses clouding the horizon, no Leroy running down the street screaming, no Black Fairy plotting to tear apart his family – life was good. It was better than good, and even though they'd yet to find a solution to Hook's cursed heart, Henry knew it wouldn't be long – he just believed.

END

Tagging: @justanother-unluckysoul @kmomof4 @the-darkdragonfly @teamhook @zaharadessert @xarandomdreamx @jrob64 @wefoundloveunderthelight @tiganasummertree @pirateprincessofpizza @lfh1226-linda @alexa-fangirl-forever @alifeofdreams @superchocovian @donteattheappleshook @hollyethecurious @caught-in-the-filter @snowbellewells @itsfabianadocarmo @stahlop @karlyfr13s @elizabeethan @rkrbirdgirl @batana54

#Captain Swan #CS fic #cs fanfic #entwined #sailtoafarawayland #wish hook #henry mills #wish captain cobra #captain cobra

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steve0discusses · 4 years ago

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S5 Ep6: Joey Wheeler is on Fire, Yet Again

Came down with a little sickness-not the biggie, just a little sly guy. But I took some meds, I’m a little floaty, I’ve only been listening to baroque music all morning for some reason? And I hate baroque music usually? But I’ll leave it to bro to tell me if this is fluid enough.

Just so you know, these caps were kind of a hot mess for a while and some of them read like that Garfield in of hot eat the food comic until...today. So pls don’t judge me, Judge my damn DMV where no one was following Covid regulations because I’m pretty sure that’s where I got this damn cold.

We start off with Roland getting more attention than he ever has in his entire life. Like honestly, I don’t know what Roland’s job really is...but he’s got a very diverse set of very useless skills. One of which, is knowing how to announce sports games that aren’t really a sport, while those games he’s announcing slowly fall into chaos.

Anyway, Roland’s taking so long cherishing his sweet time before everything goes to hell, that he’s boring Joey, who’s kinda turned into a ball of stress in the waiting room.

A lot of this episode is us watching them watching Joey having a break down moment by moment, TBH.

(read more under the cut)

Yugi telling Joey to study his cards and straight up--what?

Like at this point they know what’s on the cards, right? Like there comes a point where even Yugioh cards have a finite amount of words and I’m just going to assume that like...Joey probably knows them all in his own deck, right?

(bro note: they have no limit on what they will put on a card)

Then again, maybe Yugi doesn’t know what “study” means?

Also, appreciate how some artist crosshatched the hell on Joey’s nose there and I zoomed out and ruined it.

Now for some reason every duelist is hanging out in the duel lodge, including our current arch-villain guy who’s brought a book. I want to know what book this guy even reads so no one could suspect he’s actually a hacker who uses computers. He’s reading romance, right? And I don’t think he’d even be into Twilight, I think he’s straight up into hard core Mom romance like a lame ass Nicholas Sparks over there reading “Dear John” for the millionth time because he is completely un-phased by anything else happening in this room.

Joey, our hero, just out there being an asshole for no reason.

After Tea is pushed into a locker or something screaming about her need for female friends (which she screamed in earshot of Rebecca again, who I figured was on friends terms with her after last episode...but I guess not) Leon hops up to remind us that we should be caring about the fact that his character exists.

And like, I love Leon’s hair color--that’s a good choice, and legit that is the color I tried to dye my hair at the beginning of the epidemic (it didn’t work PS, my hair cannot take dye for the life of it) but also like...he just kinda feels like a weak Rebecca as far as characters go. He’s young, he’s good at cards...I think he goes to a private school? That’s all I can think of about Leon.

He mostly just reminds us that the big prize of this tourney is to duel Yugi, who anyone could have dueled at any point even without the tournament.

On the way out of the...duel room? lounge? Area? Joey decides to like...make peace with Zigfried, and I gotta tell you, I kinda have to side with Zigfried, because Joey spent the last ten minutes being a freak in the dressing room/lounge/bathroom and at one point looked like he was going to hold the entire locker room in a stranglehold.

I would also want some space from Joey Wheeler, is what I’m saying.

After insulting Joey’s style (which honestly, Joey...has a style? He pops his collar, that’s his entire style.) Zigfried assures us that Joey’s gonna lose and like...

...probably, right? Just looking at the plausible direction this season will go.

Anyway, Joey is such a mess (which is the theme of the episode, that Joey needs to learn to chill in order to win at card games) that Rebecca is like “I understand if all of you leave me to go help our poor baby Joey.” And no one felt bad for her.

Mokuba comes over to tell everyone all of the Kaiba family secrets because Mokuba has no filter.

Seto has devoted himself to staring at a computer screen for the rest of this episode. I guess he’ll put their names into Google, realize that social media hasn’t been invented yet, and then just lie his head down on the desk and take a power nap until the tournament is over. Much like I did after taking Dayquil this afternoon.

I like how Seto dressed for success and then locked himself in the server room for most of this arc so far. Maybe he’s just...really tired, I dunno. I don’t really blame the guy, he’s had a hard time.

And then Yugi was like “DAMN IT MOKUBA, JUST ONCE CAN YOU NOT INVITE THE ILLUMINATI???”

And we had a weird scene where Yugi just started talking to the ghost and it was while he was talking to everyone else, and the show didn’t treat it like that’s a weird thing to do...but it was a weird thing to do.

This show does that sometimes, where I guess they imply that Yugi’s Pharaoh conversations are split second conversations but...they’re not, right?

Also this chick ain’t gone yet, and Mokuba is just failing at his entire job for not zeroing in on vibes coming off this chick like stinky cheeseman.

So listen.

Did the Kaibas make like 3 types of Blue Eyes Caboose to one up Noah? Because Noah made one choo choo dragon, and then Mokuba and Seto were like “how dare” and then made sure that everyone ride every single version of the blue eyes caboose just to see how proud of them they were.

How many months of troubleshooting was the train? Like how long in development did Seto and Mokuba spend on these? A lot right? Like most of the time?

I did not check the subs to see if Roland said Jumping or Champion but I like to believe that Roland thought it was a cool new name he gave him.

Then these guys all showed up.

Hey so...can we talk seating arrangements?

Tea decided not to sit next to Yugi after complaining about not spending time with him for like how many episodes? Or was it too awkward to sit on top of what was probably Pharaoh?

Or did Mokuba go like “please, Tea, I cannot sit next to the others because I’m pretty sure one is a mole that is about to go cray” and was Tea like “Good, I need female friends, these ones are driving me crazy!” and then was Mokuba like peering desperately over the edge of his self made dragon train prison realizing he has to listen to Tea complain about boys for the rest of his ride across molten lava?

Headcanons abound about this weird seating arrangement that the animators drew for the reasons they did...but reasons I cannot fully understand. That and the Dayquil is making me overfixate on random stuff.

And also, Tea is kind of the Kaiba’s security’s understudy. Just there to always protect Mokuba with her ass because she’s the strongest woman alive.

PS I missed the tumblr wars because at the time I was trying to like...run a proper business on blogger. When Blogger died and I jumped over here it was like a weird ruin where everyone was like “tumblr is the most toxic place alive” and...I’ve had a really nice time here, actually. Completely missed that civil war period and I have no regrets.

Now I was there for the Petz wars (warz, I guess) where people were very militant about Petz abuse (abuze?) where apparently people were using the spray bottle on their catz too much and people were very, very upset about it to the point that they were like campaigning about it on their angelfire websites with the most bizarre grassroots campaigns that I still recall, to this day because they were like...well they looked like this:

PLAPA. Not only am I 100% positive that only this one guy ever called this movement PLAPA, but I’m 100% positive that not only are Catz not real people, but also this wasn’t actually happening and we never had any proof that it was. Either way, if people knew or suspected that you hadn’t deleted the spray bottle from your game (which at the time I had no idea how to do because I was a wee child) they would basically assume you were on a one way road to being a mass murderer in real life.

In real life we were 7 years old so like...thanks?

But that’s the closest I got to toxicity and at the time I was too young to make an email account and actually converse with these people. I was just there to download their Petz hexes, and I already made a post about how wonderful and incredible Petz Hexing was.

And y’all, I heard, just now after a little deep dive into the Petz Abuse debacle (which yes, is on the wiki), that apparently, like gardening, Petz Hexing came back in a big way during the epidemic--and I have found an active Petz forum in this the year 2021. The only problem is that I no longer remember how to use old timey forums...and I think I’m locked out of seeing most of these threads (and like this forum is so old I think I have to send them a letter in the physical mail to apply). But, I’m pretty sure they’re hosting a picture contest for who’s dogz poses the best. And I’m pretty sure someone created a hexxed Pickle Rick. Or it’s a photoshop that was made to look like a hexxed Pickle Rick.

Dammit why did it have to be Pickle Rick? That’s not worth re-installing Petz and getting it to run on Windows 10...

Guys is this the Dayquil? Is this really happening? I feel like I’m losing my mind for so many reasons...

Anyway, speaking about useless hexing it’s about time that our villain did something that was actually dangerous, so Zigfried decided to install a new virus that does more than turn off the lights. (it still turns off lights)

the Spreadsheet Virus!

Confounded by the spreadsheet software, it...um...it does this:

Straight up how does Excel make a volcano erupt? Is that why I have to pay for Microsoft office now?

All this because Joey made fun of Zigfried’s naturally pink hair? Which is the most normal hair on this series outside of like...Tristan?

Hey guys...Joey’s fine, right? Like how many times has Joey been on fire? And once in an iron cage next to like...a Fire Golem?

Joey’s fine.

MAN I miss Fire Golem. He had a good mug.

And then we just kinda watch chaos go across the park, chaos that includes: Too many ghosts in the haunted mansion (which honestly--you’ll get your money’s worth, sounds great!), the Ferris wheel goes kinda fast and thus might accidentally be fun, the lights turn off at some concert stage that only had 2 people on it (so it might just be motion detector lights and not even a virus), and um...literal fire and magma are going to set Joey Wheeler on fire.

Just...one of these events does not seem like the others. In fact most of these things sound like good improvements to the park and they should just hire Zigfried at this point.

Roland puts down his microphone and jogs across the stage, about a mile through the audience bleachers, and into the staff lounge, to go and bother Seto Kaiba, who is in a room that has a hi-def classical painting copy-pasted on the wall and I can’t look away from it.

I almost did a Google search on this painting but then thought better about it. There’s like...a billion classical paintings that look exactly like this, and they wouldn’t use like a Monet, they would have to do something that’s harder to catch to avoid copyright issues (because yes, even old ass paintings have copyright issues, but no one tell NFT’s which are going to be so freakin screwed and was such a bad idea, that I can’t even start).

Anyway, I have no idea who it is and it is legitimately driving me up a wall, but I’m on too much meds to do the effort of putting it in a reverse google image search.

Plus, a reverse google image search would only pull up Seto Kaiba.

So Kaiba takes us on a little flashback to his weird ass past, a weird ass past that just...doesn’t follow any of the established timelines, but I assume was shortly after adoption but before Seto got into a phase where he wore his school outfit everywhere and tried to shove his MMO off onto his Dad as a business model.

Seto is like 8 for some reason. I don’t know why, they kinda drew him younger this season anyway, like maybe they got a lot of fan mail and realized “Hey I think we made the 16 yo boy too sexy?” And they just toned Seto the hell down. That, and it’s a different animation team, and maybe they looked at Seto’s character design and were like “we don’t get paid enough to draw this well.” So...since Seto actually looks like a teen again, I guess his 12 year old self has to look like he’s in Elementary school.

Also, I only recognized this, because at some point in S3 as I was roasting Noah Kaiba’s weird fashion:

I remember distinctly roasting that little bow tie. I don’t remember when I wrote it, I think there was a version of this outfit that was in color...but I don’t remember where.

Anyway, it’s not the same jacket...but man that’s kind of awkward, ya? Like the maid who dressed Mokuba deffo got fired?

He um.

Turned the lights off a little bit.

Guys this villain is like...

...why does he think lights are scary? Like look at little Seto here. The boy is already bored. Seto duels on the edges of cliffs...he doesn’t care about the freakin dark.

We had a guy who killed everyone on the planet last season, and this season we have a little fashion gremlin standing in the corner and flicking the light switch going “wooooo you never catch me!” and it’s like...

...I’m starting to think this guy isn’t a witch.

Like we’re at Episode 6, there’s still time for this guy to be a witch...but I really am starting to think this guy is just...straight up not a witch. It’s everything Seto wanted, a rival who isn’t a freakin magic person...and sets Joey only fake on fire instead literally on fire like last time...

and Seto is just completely unhinged by it.

Anyway, I’m off to go drink a bowl of soup and pass out. If you’re new here, this is a link to read these in chrono order.

https://steve0discusses.tumblr.com/tagged/yugioh/chrono

#yugioh #yu gi oh #ygo #S5 #Ep6 #Yugi Muto #Seto Kaiba #Joey Wheeler #Tea Gardner #Tristan Taylor #Mokuba Kaiba #zigfried von schroeder #rebecca hawkins #I talked about catz again #leon #but not the kings of leon guy #I mean he could be

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wiypt-writes · 4 years ago

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Riding On

CH7- Home, Sweet Home

Summary: Frank and Fliss find their perfect family home, but there’s something bothering Mary.

Warnings: Bad Language words. Discussions about suicide. A little bit of angst.

Pairing: Frank Adler x Fliss Gallagher

A/N: This is a bit of an emotionally charged filler chapter…and we move time on a little through to June in the middle. And photos of the Adler house are included at the bottom so you can visualise what I used for inspiration.

Disclaimer: This is a pure work of fiction and classified as 18+. Please respect this and do not read if you are underage. I do not own any characters in this series bar Fliss Gallagher and the other OCs. By reading beyond this point you understand and accept the terms of this disclaimer.

Riding On Masterlist // Main Masterlist

Chapter 6

You’re giving it another try, staring at the deep blue sky, and you say to the driver just drive, coz you never felt so alive.

April 2019

“Hey honey, you ok?” Frank juggled his phone, pinning it between his ear and his shoulder as he leaned over his computer in the office, scanning the database on the screen for a filter part they needed to order.

“No, I mean yes! I’ve just heard some awesome news!”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, so you remember the guy that bought the house that backs onto the yard when Old Man River died…” “That wasn’t his name.” Frank chuckled “It was Mr Morris.”

“He called himself River, it was funny and suited him. Anyway, that’s not the point. You know the guy who bought it…guess what I found out before?”

Frank stopped what he was doing and straightened up. He didn’t like that dick, one bit. When Mr Morris had died at the start of the year, Fliss had been quite upset about the news as the old man had been very friendly to her, often popping in for a cup of tea a few afternoons a week for some company. Mr Morris’ son had sold the house without them even knowing it had gone on the market, which was a shame as it would have been perfect for them given the location. The guy who had bought it, Frank didn’t even know his name, nor did he care because he was a dick and a pervert to boot. The way he looked at Fliss made Frank want to punch his face in.

“What’s Douchey Mc Douchebag done now?”

“You’re so childish.” she scoffed “Anyway, I was only commenting to Joanne last night that we haven’t seen him for like a month and she went home and mentioned it to her dad who works with some other guy in the property development business and the long and short of it is he’s gone bankrupt Frank!”

Frank laughed loudly “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy, babe!”

“I know right!” Fliss voice was gathering pace and pitch, the way it always did when she was excited. “So literally about half hour after she’s told me this, someone turns up and there’s a For Sale sign outside, the house is on the market!”

Ok now he was interested. Frank could picture the look of excitement on her face as she spoke to him and he felt the smile cross his face “No shit?”

“Yeah, I’ll send you the website to look at the photos but…oh God, it would be perfect! Some of it is really nice, some of it needs decorating but…”

“Ok, well, why don’t you call the realtor? Arrange a viewing” he said “Hopefully you won’t puke halfway round this one.”

“Ok, first off that wasn’t my fault. Bean objected to the smell. Who the fuck cooks eggs the day they know they have someone coming to view their house?” her indignant tone made Frank chuckle “And second off…”she paused “I already did. He said he can meet us at half 12.”

“Half 12? As in lunch time? Today?” Frank frowned.

“I know I just really don’t want to miss out on this one Frank, and you said you were gonna come up here for lunch and-”

“Ok, ok.” Frank sighed “I’ll shuffle some stuff around, work a little later tonight and take an extra half hour.”

“I love you.” she replied and he could hear the smile in her voice.

“Good job I love you too.” he said back gruffly “Because you’re a pain in my ass.”

He bid her goodbye and just as he was looking at the rota to make sure there were enough staff in to cope if he took a longer lunch, his phone beeped. He clicked through to the link Fliss had sent him and had a scan through the photos. To be fair the house didn’t look in too bad condition. It was deceptive from the outside, looked like a small farmhouse but they knew thanks to the extension Douchebag had put on the back it now formed an L shape and from the look of it, was pretty spacious. The kitchen was new, the main bathroom was new so the big work looked like it had been mostly done. The décor in some of the rooms was really old fashioned, especially the hallway you and the front reception room, but that was all cosmetic. What really grabbed him was the price. It was up for just over 320 thousand, which was a fucking steal considering the size, location, the garden and the garage/outhouse it came with.

“You ok Frank?”

He looked up and smiled as Alan, his boss walked in to the office. “Yeah, sorry, Fliss has found a house and managed to book a viewing for lunch time. Fucking 7th one in 2 weeks.”

Alan snorted “Keeping you on your toes I see?”

“Well I gotta say, this one’s looking pretty good. It’s the house that backs onto our Yard out in Pinellas Park.” Frank explained “It was sold not even 6 months ago to a developer and he’s apparently gone bankrupt so put it back on the market.”

“Huh.” Alan smiled “Sounds like it was meant to be. Take it you’re going then?”

“Yeah, Charlie and Gary are in all afternoon. I thought I could take an extra half hour, work it back tonight or…”

“Frank, when was the last time you actually took a full hour for your lunch and didn’t cut it short by 10 or 15?” Alan looked at him.

Frank hesitated “Yeah, but that’s-”

“No buts.” Alan shook his head. “Do what you gotta do.”

“Thanks Alan.” Frank smiled, “I appreciate it.”

Alan waved away his gratitude before he dropped into the chair on the opposite side of Frank’s small desk and gestured for Frank to sit down.

“I wanted to talk to you in person, before the news gets out. I’m looking at retiring Frank, fully this time.”

“That’s good news, for you I mean.” Frank smiled, taking his seat. “You must be happy?”

“Kinda bitter sweet.” He shrugged “But I hit 70 this year and bout time I let it all go. Bill’s already chomping at the bit to book damned fishing trips so...it’ll be nice to step back. But I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Shoot.”

“My son, James is going to be taking over, that won’t come as any surprise to you as you’ve seen him knocking around a bit and he likes you.”

“Good to know I’m not going to be out on my ass.” Frank smiled, breathing out a little.

“No, not a chance. I wouldn’t allow it.” Alan said “I’ll still be the owner, just stepping back from major decision making and day to day running. Anyway, the point is Frank, James needs a deputy. He is young and a little inexperienced. I’ve seen how quickly over the last year you’ve picked up rotas, staffing issues, dealt with the stock takes, haggled with the supply chain…I wondered if you’d consider it.”

Frank blinked “You wanna make me deputy manager?”

“In a word, yes. And I know you got your hands full at the moment and they’ll be even more full when that boy of yours arrives but the changes won’t come into effect until the end of the year so we got plenty of time to work out the details.”

“Wow, I err…” Frank shook his head “I don’t know what to say.”

“I don’t need an answer now.” Alan said, “Take some time to consider it. Talk it over with Fliss.”

“I will, I’ll give it some thought.”

“Ok, well, that’s all I dropped in for.” Alan said, standing up, groaning a little “Did you just hear my damned knees click?”

Frank laughed and shook his head “No, but to be honest mine click too so I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Getting old sucks.” Alan said, shaking his head “I tell ya, the minute I can’t enjoy the simple things in life, put a bullet in my head.”

Frank snorted as Alan shot him a wink and left him to his thoughts.

******* Frank glanced down at the wooden boards beneath his feet in the entrance hall. They were solid old wood, oak he thought, and with a clean and polish would look stunning. He looked up and saw Fliss talking animatedly to the realtor, a young man called David as he nodded and gestured to his left. Fliss opened the door and looked at Frank who followed her into the first reception room. It smelt musty, and there was an old sofa and threadbare carpet in the room but it was light and had a nice, airey feeling to it thanks to the large windows at the front of the house.

“New carpet and a bit of paint…” Frank mused nodding, “Be good as new.”

She nodded eagerly, her eyes shining a she looked around and nodded at the fire place “Really, in Florida?”

“It gets cold, as you know.” he teased “Besides, we just fill it with some of your million candles or whatever…”

She nudged him and they turned around, David watching them.

“So, you’re obviously in the older part of the house that hasn’t really been touched apart from upstairs.” he explained, “But if you follow me I’ll show you the extension which is all new and, well, to be honest, I think it’s stunning.”

The three of them moved back into the hall and through a door at the end which led into a huge open plan kitchen and living area. The kitchen was gorgeous. Sleek white units, modern appliances, marble tops, a huge breakfast bar. Douchebag had clearly spent a fortune doing this up. The floor was a light grey and white laminate which David pointed out was heavy wearing. To the left of the kitchen area was a huge space where Frank could clearly picture their sofas and TV, and then just off that was a door which led into another smaller reception room, freshly painted and carpeted. He was just pondering how they could turn that into a play room when Fliss gave a gasp and nudged Frank pointing to the large bay window at the back which had been converted into a seating nook of sorts. They made their way over and saw that the view extended right over their garden highlighting a small pool area which was surrounded by a low set of railings with a gate that were all painted a glossy black. The pool itself was sparklingly clean and clearly brand new.

“Oh wow… “ Fliss mumbled, looking at the sand stone tiles that surrounded the area and the rest of the garden.

“Yeah the rear garden loops in an L round the house” David said. “There’s a larger fence around this area to keep it private and separate from the land at the front that runs flush to the yard area.”

Frank’s hands dropping to her hips as he nodded to the right “Could extend that little patio area for a table and chairs, maybe build a brick BBQ. Couple of sun-loungers for that bit at the back of the pool.”

She nodded eagerly before they headed back into the hallway they’d entered into where the realtor showed them the little room that was to the right as you came in the door which held a number of shelves and coat hooks and a toilet and sink basin. They then headed up stairs to find 4 bedrooms. The master extended down the entire side of the house overlooking the main yard area of Sandybrook. It needed some work, the plaster and paint was peeling away in some areas, but Frank wasn’t worried at that. It was an easy job. What he was pleased to see was that the rest of it was in good condition. There was a brand new en-suite attached to it, housing a toilet, a huge shower and his and hers sinks. The room also had built in wardrobes and huge ceiling to floor bi-folding doors which opened up onto a small balcony. Douchebag had clearly been focussing on the big jobs first before he got into the cosmetics, which Frank had to give him credit for.

The main bathroom was in between the wall of their en-suite and the next bedroom, both situated at the back of the house over the extension and overlooking the fields belonging to the yard. The plaster was fresh in that bedroom but hadn’t been painted, again, not an issue, because Frank knew a certain little miss would be no doubt picking a colour as soon a she spotted this room.

“Bet Mary chooses this one.” Frank said, voicing his thoughts and Fliss nodded, smiling

“I would if the Master didn’t have that en-suite.” she grinned “Look at that view!”

“Yeah, who’d have thought you could work from home in the equestrian business” he chuckled as they then headed to the next bedroom on the opposite side of the landing. This was also rather large, but like the main part of the master bedroom, was clearly one of the original two bedrooms the house had and it needed some updating.

The 4th bedroom was a smaller one up a narrow set of stairs hidden by door in the hallway. It opened up into an attic room which tucked into the roof of the house.

The realtor then led them back down and the out to the outbuildings. There was a huge garage with a half- finished apartment of sorts above it that had been used as storage but could be easily a guest suite if they so wanted, and then the thing Frank had really loved was the workshop off the side of the garage, accessed by a small door. It was musty and full of crap but was somewhere for him to store all his tools and work on any side projects he decided to pick up.

All in all Frank was finding it pretty damned hard to pick faults in the place.

As they headed back to the main house and Frank asked David politely to give them a moment to look around alone and he nodded eagerly before Frank and Fliss headed back into the house.

“I’m getting good vibes Sailor.” Fliss said as she turned round, looking at the kitchen, once more heading over to the bay window seat, “really good vibes.” she spun back to him and he smiled at the look on her face. “I mean, ok, a few rooms need decorating and there’s some finishing off bits to do all over but it’s nothing that dad can’t help with and I’m sure-“

At that she stopped dead, and gave a little gasp as her hand flew to her bump.

“You ok?” Frank stepped forward.

“Yeah he’s…” she swallowed “Bean’s kicking, Frankie! Quick!”

He reached out with his hand and she took it, pressing it to the side of her bump. After a second or two he felt something wriggle a little under his palm and he looked at Fliss, his face cracking into an open mouthed smile as he felt his son move for the first time.

“Lissy…” he swallowed his eyes misting over. “That’s…oh my God!”

“You should feel it from my POV!” Fliss smiled her own eyes glassy too.

Frank didn’t want to take his hand away. Instead, he kept moving his palm, tracking their baby’s movements when eventually they stopped.

“I think that means BB likes the house.” Fliss looked at him.

Frank scoffed, shaking his head. “BB’s Momma likes the house.”

“Doesn’t his Daddy?” she asked, her hands sliding round his neck.

“Yeah, his Daddy does.” he replied honestly in a low voice as he looked around the large room. “In fact, I like it a lot.”

“You think Mary will?”

“Are you kidding?” Frank snorted “Soon as she sees that view and that pool, she’ll be packing to move in straight away.”

“Suppose there’s only one way to find out.” Fliss smiled.

So they did. They brought Mary back the next day after school. She had squealed at the window seat, yelled about the pool and as she had shot upstairs and headed into the bedroom Frank had predicted she would like, given a jump for joy as she realised from the upstairs she had a view over the tall picket fencing that shielded the private area of the garden.

“I can see Monty!” she gleefully pointed out before turning to Frank and looking at him then to Fliss, her hands on her hips “If you don’t buy this house you’re a pair of dumbasses.”

The same sentiment was echoed by Bill when he turned up fifteen minutes or so later and walked around with Frank whilst Fliss and Mary headed to feed the horses. He did exactly the same thing he had done when they had looked at the apartment, pointed out what they needed to do, how long it should take them to do, rough estimates of cost. Plus, he also reminded Frank they were in a great position. They could buy the place and then give his months’ notice on the apartment meaning they could stay where they were until it was finished.

So that was it. Decision made. The next morning they went in with a cheeky offer, some twenty thou below the asking price which was rejected instantly. Then they upped their offer by five…then an additional three to total eight, with the fact that they were cash buyers and not in a chain a huge bargaining chip.

It was later that evening, just after they had finished dinner when the realtor called back.

“Evening Mr Adler, ok so…I have spoken to the vendor. He says if you can up your offer by another two thousand then you’ve got a deal.” David spoke. At that, Frank let out a huge grin, as he looked out of the kitchen window at Mary and Fliss who were outside the apartment, both sat on a chair round the table. He and Fliss had both agreed they were prepared to go to the full asking price, in their mind it was worth it, but they were about to seal the deal here for ten thousand less.

“Ok, two thousand more.” Frank said, keeping his voice level “But the property comes off the market as we don’t want anyone else spotting it and offering him more before we exchange contracts.” he repeated word for word what Greg had instructed him to do when he had asked him to handle the conveyancing earlier that morning.

“Ok, so the offer on the table is Three-ten on the proviso he grants exclusivity…” David repeated. “Ok, leave it with me.”

Frank finished loading the dishwasher, and had just grabbed himself a beer when David called back not even five minutes later.

“Congratulations Mr Adler, you have a deal.”

He thanked him, and grinning ear to ear headed outside, jumping down the steps onto the lawn.

“What you looking so pleased about?” Fliss looked up at him suspiciously.

“David called… we’ve settled on three-ten plus exclusivity” he smiled

“What, you mean…” Fliss’ mouth fell open and Frank nodded.

“Yup, subject to contracts, the place is ours!”

Mary gave a loud cheer as Fliss jumped up and leapt at him as he smiled, wrapping her in his arms, swinging her up slightly.

“I can’t believe it…” she whispered. “Our own home!”

Fliss grinned and using the arms that were round his neck pulled his face down to hers and pressed a fierce kiss to his mouth. “God I love you.” she mumbled.

“Love you too.” he grinned, kissing her again, ignoring Mary’s fake puking noises in the background.

*****

June 2019

“Mr Adler?"

Frank stopped as he had been striding over the yard to collect Mary and turned to see Mrs McCarthy, her teacher walking towards him.

"Hi." He smiled, removing his sunglasses so he could look her in the eyes.

"I'm so sorry to bother you"

"No bother at all." He assured her "is everything OK?"

Mrs McCarthy glanced over to where Mary was stood talking to her friend, Rosie, and turned back to him

"Yes...nothing too drastic but I wanted to make you aware about a little incident in class this afternoon"

Frank looked at her, blinking "incident?"

"Maybe that's the wrong word." The older, blonde woman said "Look, as you know next week it's the end of year Gala, the fundraiser and we invite the parents to join us for activities.”

Frank nodded, wishing the woman would get to the damned point. He was hot, dirty and bothered after an afternoon of helping the team on a particularly awkward repair and wanted nothing more than to stand under a cold shower for an hour and flop down outside with a beer.

"Well, one of the girls asked Mary if she was bringing her mom and if they were making anything for the bake sale and Mary rather bluntly told the girl her mother was dead and then clammed up. She didn't speak a word for the rest of the afternoon."

Frank felt his chest tighten as he looked over at Mary who was now giggling with Rosie and sighed

"She didn't do anything wrong" Mrs McCarthy pressed "I was just a little worried."

"Thanks for letting me know, I'll talk to her later, make sure she's okay." Frank assured her.

The woman nodded and headed back across the yard as Frank gave a sharp whistle and slid his aviators back onto his face. Mary looked up and said goodbye to Rosie and came wandering over as Frank waved to Rosie's mom who tossed a hand in greeting in response.

"I'm not Thor" She fixed Frank with a stare.

"I know but I couldn't be bothered walking over." He replied honestly as they climbed into the truck

"You have a good day?"

"It was OK." She shrugged. Frank eyed her for a second before she pulled the car away from the kerb and set off down the road.

"What's for dinner?" Mary asked.

"Steak, baked potatoes and salad." He replies "Fliss' choice."

"Are you grilling?" Mary asked.

"Yup." He nodded

"Cool." Mary nodded "Can I go in the pool before?"

"Got any homework?" Frank countered with another question as he looked at her. Mary shook her head

“End of year next week and Uni didn't give me any summer work."

"Then yeah, of course you can.”

Frank didn't raise the so called incident, deciding to let her chill out a little bit at home first and digest how she felt. After 20 minutes or so of general chat Frank pulled up their driveway and stopped the truck next to Fliss' truck. As they hopped out Mary glanced across the garden over the smaller part of the fence where she could just see Fliss walking across the yard.

"Please can I go see Monty?" She looked at Frank and he nodded.

"I'll watch you." He agreed. With a grin she sprinted over the lawn, climbed over the fence and dropped over onto the other side. Thor gave a bark and Fliss turned round and smiled at her, before she waved at Frank. He waved back before he headed down the side of the house, through the gate in the larger fence before he unlocked the back door and stepped inside the cool air conditioned kitchen, kicking off his shoes and heading straight to the fridge for a beer. Draining half in one he stood, looking around and smiling. They’d finally unpacked the last box yesterday evening and Fliss was still in the process of moving things around their new home, positioning them where she wanted them.

True to Greg’s word, they’d had the keys to the house 4 and a half weeks after making the offer, and 2 weeks post that once the bedrooms and hall had been decorated with a lot of help from Bill, Verity and Roberta (who had been happy for them yet still cried her eyes out when they’d left the park, despite the fact they had assured her they would still come visit and she could also come stay with them too) they’d moved in. The only thing left to do was the reception room (which could wait, it was easy to just shut the door and pretend it didn’t exist) and Bean’s nursery, which he, Fliss and Mary had decided to do together as a project. Mary and Fliss had spent nights pouring over Pinterest for ideas and they’d finally settled on a scheme. Frank had picked up all the plastering supplies and the paint, the furniture was on order and should be arriving at any time that week now he thought about it…so hopefully that weekend they could get cracking. That might cheer Mary up now he thought about it.

Taking his beer with him, he picked up his boots and took them to the cloakroom/bathroom by the stairs. He trudged up the steps, shaking his head at Fred who was led at the top, his paws hanging over the edge of the step as he eyed Frank.

"You're gonna cause a fucking accident." He looked at the ginger cat who merely swished his tail in response. Frank headed into their bedroom, stripping off as he went, walking straight into the en-suite, turning on the shower, setting his beer down on the edge of the sink unit. He stepped in and under the stream of cool water, closing the screen behind him, his mind still on Mary and how he was going to bring up what her teacher has said. With a groan he opened the door, reached out of the cubicle for his beer, took another gulp before he set about washing the grime of the day away.

***** "Have you finished grooming him?" Fliss asked, standing in the doorway to Monty's stable. Mary glanced over from where she had been brushing through his white tail and nodded.

"Wanna take him to the paddock?" Fliss smiled. "Cap and Bronson are waiting for their little pal."

"Sure." Mary shrugged and Fliss frowned a little at her demeanour. She was quiet, which was unlike her when she was round the horses. She was normally full of excitement.

"You OK?" She asked and Mary nodded.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"You seem quiet, that's all."

"No, I'm good." She shrugged, before she tossed her brush into the little grooming box she had, closing the lid and passing it to Fliss. Fliss placed the box into the larger wooden one outside the stable before Mary put Monty's halter on and led him out of his stall. Fliss allowed them to walk ahead, her hand on her bump as she followed them out of the yard and down the little path to the gate that led to the paddocks. They reached the one were Monty was going and undoing the gate, Mary led him in. The white pony stood patiently for her to take his halter off before he stuck his nose into the crook of her neck and shoulder. Fliss smiled as Mary gently stroked his neck and then to her utter horror she saw Mary’s shoulders begin to shake as the girl started to cry.

"Hey, Mary..." she soothed, stepping forward as the small girl turned to her, wrapping her arms around her as best she could, pressing her face into her bump "Oh baby what's wrong?"

Mary didn’t reply, instead she continued to sob and Fliss felt powerless to do anything other than wrap her arms around her, one hand resting on her head, the other between her shoulders.

“Something happened at School…” Mary whispered and Fliss gently tipped her head up to look at her. “Someone said something and…”

“Ok, how about we go back to the office and you can tell me all about it ok?”

Mary nodded, sniffing as her sobs died down. Fliss held out her hand and Mary took it and together they headed back down to the yard. Joanne looked at Mary who was hiccupping slightly with her sobs and frowned but Fliss shook her head.

“Can you feed the top barn for me and then you can go.” she said to Jo who nodded. “I’ll lock up.” “Sure, see you tomorrow. Bye Mary.” she smiled. Mary looked at her and gave a small wave before Fliss led her into the office. She grabbed them both an apple juice from the fridge and then Mary sat on the chair at the end of the desk, wiping her eyes with a tissue that Fliss handed her from the box.

“You ready to talk?”

Mary nodded, and then she stood up and walked over to Fliss who made room for her to clamber up onto her lap. It was a bit awkward but after a little shifting around they found a way she could sit unobstructed by Boston Bean and Mary lay her head against Fliss’ shoulder.

“It was about the gala.” she sniffed “One of them asked me if my mom was coming and…”

“Oh sweetie.” Fliss sighed, rubbing her back. “I get that must have been hard.”

Mary shrugged “I told them she was dead.” she said matter of factly “I get that and I never knew my mom so I don’t miss her as a person…but then I started to think about why she died and I don’t understand.” “Understand what?”

“Why?” Mary looked at her. “Why would she do what she did when she had me? Why did she want to leave me behind?”

Fliss took a deep breath and cradled the girl as best she could, trying to think of a way to explain to which Mary could relate, and then it came to her, she could use her own experience here. There was no getting around the fact this was going to be a heave conversation, but Mary was a smart kid and deserved to be treated as such.

With another deep inhale, Fliss looked down at her, kissing her head before she opened rather bluntly "You know I tried to kill myself."

"You did?" Mary pulled back to look up at her "Why?"

"Because I saw it as my only way out." Fliss gently smoothing Mary’s hair back. "I was stuck in an awful situation. My ex-husband hurt me physically and mentally and I gave up. I wanted out."

Mary remained silent and looked at her.

"For someone to get to that point...they have to have hit rock bottom. Like there is nowhere to go. It's not their fault. And it doesn't mean they don't love the people they leave behind just that they're desperate to escape whatever pain they feel, be it in their head or their body or both."

"But I still don't understand." Mary shook her head.

"And you may never, not fully." Fliss sighed gently "And as horrible as it is that's something you are gonna have to live with but you have to remember that your mom was sick. And for whatever reason she saw this as her only escape. It wasn't Evelyn's fault, it wasn't Frank's fault and it certainly wasn't yours."

"But if she loved me like Frank says she did..."

"You think I don't love my mum and dad? Or Steve? Charlie, Joel?"

Mary blinked before she lay her head back against Fliss' shoulder. "Of course you do.”

"But I was still gonna leave them behind. I was desperate. And you wanna know the real stupid thing?"

"What?"

"When I got better I still went back to John. I went back to a real toxic environment and a man that abused me. Because I felt like it was what I deserved. And even though I left him way before I met you and Frank, it wasn't until me and Frank started dating that I really understood I wasn't to blame. I always thought I did something to make him hurt me but I didn't. Being with Frank, the way he treats me and loves me made me see that it was him with the problem, not me.”

"But that's different" Mary glanced up

"The trigger was, yes." Fliss nodded "But your mom, like me, was in a position so helpless, so unbelievably sad that she thought she was to blame and that the world, including you, would be better off without her even though she was so wrong."

**** Once showered and dried, Frank dressed in a pair of shorts and clean T-shirt before he headed back downstairs. There was no sign of Fliss or Mary but as he strode out into the garden he heard a car heading down the drive by the side of the house from the yard and correctly assumed it was Joanne leaving for the day. He opened the gate and just saw the tail of her car turn onto the main road as he headed into the garage for the charcoal to light the BBQ.

Once that was done, leaving the flames to die down he headed out across the lawn, vaulting over the small fence onto the yard. He headed round the barn and frowned as he couldn't see anyone. After a quick look round he spotted the door to Fliss' office was closed. He went to open it but stopped as he could hear the sound of voices. It was Mary and Fliss but he could tell from the pitch and stutters in Mary's that she was upset. He paused, hand hovering over the handle as he heard Fliss speaking to her softly. "Stack, you are so loved. Frank loves you, I love you, Nanny V, Poppa Bill, Uncle Steeby, Roberta, Evelyn...Thor, Fred and Monty..." she paused "You're such a special little girl and I know I'm not your mom but, well, I feel like I am."

"You do?"

"I'd do anything to keep you safe and happy. And so would Frank"

They both fell silent and Frank swallowed, the lump in his throat almost choking him.

"Don't ever feel like we don't" Fliss continued "and if I have to bake 200 fucking cookies for your Gala next week to prove it then I will."

Mary giggles "You know Bean can hear you swearing."

"Well I won't tell Frank if you don't"

"Do you think Frank feels like my dad?" Mary asked a moment later and at that point Frank really wanted to walk away. He couldn't listen to this, he didn't want to listen to this...but something kept him rooted to the spot.

"I know he does." Fliss replied.

"But he doesn't like it when people say it. I know that, I heard him talking to you. Bill’s not your real dad but you still say he is…."

“That’s slightly different sweetheart.” Fliss sighed "My real dad left my mom before I was born, so when he died. I didn’t even know him and I don’t care that I didn’t either. But your mom was Frank's sister. He wants to make sure you remember her, understand who she was. He could have easily just pretended to be your dad all this time, you would never have known any different but he didn't. Because he loves you and your mom too much. He's too honest and it’s important to him that you understand. But that doesn't mean he doesn't love you like he is your dad, or that you can't love him like he is."

Frank turned away from the door, looking up at the sky and taking a deep shuddering breath. Fuck, this was hard to hear. He knew Mary had been upset before but the thought that it ran this deep was killing me. Wiping at his face, his hands then dropped to his hips and he looked down at his sneakers before he turned to the door, reaching for the handle but once more pausing as he couldn’t face interrupting them, not whilst they were in the middle of a moment.

“I suppose that makes sense.” Mary continued “And I do love him like he is. And I love you like you’re my mom too.”

“Well that’s all that matters.” Fliss replied “It may be unconventional but we’re a family, and that’s the main thing huh?”

“Yeah, you’re right. Thanks Lissy.” Mary spoke.

“You’re welcome Stack” Fliss’s voice was soft and there was a pause as Frank could picture the pair of them hugging.

“Hey, did you now I’m going to be doing all the money stuff for the bake stall?” Mary’s voice was suddenly up beat as she switched topic “Because I’m good at maths they said I could be in charge of payments and handing people their change and stuff.”

“Nice work kiddo.” Fliss smiled, “Tell you what, we’ll put Nanny V on the case, her baking is way better than mine. We can get her over one night next week whilst Pops is helping Frank with the plastering in the nursery.”

Ok, that was it, safe to enter without interrupting anything. Frank gave a little knock and then opened the door, fixing a smile on his face.

“Hope I haven’t interrupted any girl talk” he smiled and Mary jumped up and ran to him, giving him a hug. He looked at Fliss who wiped her eyes.

“Ok?” he mouthed at her and she nodded back, her lips moving silently as she replied.

“Tell you later.”

“BBQ is lit.” Frank said, looking down at Mary “You still wanna play in the pool?”

She nodded and grinned. “Yeah.”

“Sounds like a great idea.” Fliss grinned “Let’s lock up and head home…oh wait, we don’t need to head home because…” “We’re already there!” Mary grinned, and then she spun round to see Fred peering round the door. “Hey, look who came to visit!” “Bout time he earned his keep.” Frank grumbled “Go catch some mice.”

Fred stalked past him into the office, looked around, before he sauntered back out, clearly not interested.

“He’s a lover not a killer Frank.” Mary grinned, as Frank watched the cat walk off into the evening sun.

The three of them locked up before they headed back to the house and Mary shot upstairs to get changed.

“So, how much did you hear?” Fliss turned to Frank as he pulled a beer from the fridge along with a bottle of water, sliding it over to her.

“Enough.” he sighed “Her teacher collared me before. Said that one of the kids had asked about her mom in class and she’d gotten upset.”

“She asked me why Diane did what she did.” Fliss sighed, “Why she left her behind if she loved her so much.”

Frank swallowed. “What did you say?”

“I explained about why I tried to kill myself.” Fliss shrugged “Told her about the desperation I felt…but that didn’t mean that I didn’t love my family just that I saw it as my only way out. I know it was heavy and maybe not really the right thing to do but...”

She was cut off as Frank stepped forward, taking her face in his hands as he kissed her, hard. It took her a moment to catch up but once she did she melted into him, her mouth opening to grant him access as he ran his tongue along her bottom lip.

“Thank you.” He said gently as he pulled away, his hands still cupping her face.

“What for?” Fliss asked, reaching up to gently wrap her fingers around his wrists.

“For loving her as much as you do.” he shrugged. “For loving us both as much as you do.”

“Oh, Sailor.” Fliss’ eyes brimmed with tears “How could I not?”

***** Frank didn’t sleep particularly well that night. Mary’s conversation with Fliss was running through his brain and every time he drifted off he would wake about an hour or so later, fresh worries and concerns running through his mind. In the end, at just before 5 am he gave up and climbed out of bed. He grabbed a T-shirt and a pair of sweats and putting them on he headed downstairs. He flipped on the TV in the hope the early morning new would distract him, but it didn’t.

It was clear to him that Mary was struggling with where she was going to fit in the family dynamic. He hadn’t really worried much up to that point, being convinced by Fliss that if they kept her involved with stuff to do with Bean she would be ok but this went much deeper than the fact they were expecting a baby.

He’d be lying if he said the thought of him claiming to be Mary’s Father had never entered his mind. It would have been a lot easier but out of loyalty and love to Diane he had wanted to make sure she knew about her mother, and understood the truth because in the end, a lie would always come round to bite you on the ass. It wasn’t that he had a problem with people assuming he was Mary’s father but…

God what a fucking mess.

“Hey…” a soft voice drew him from his thoughts and he looked up to see Fliss stood in the doorway, his T-shirt she was wearing now hardly covered the top of her thighs thanks to her Bean bump.

“Sorry beautiful, did I wake you?” he asked.

“No.” she shook her head, dropping down next to him. “I got up to pee and you were gone.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” he shrugged.

“What’s wrong handsome?” she lay her head on his shoulder and he took a deep breath.

“Just thinking about Mary that’s all.” he shrugged. “She’s always asked questions about Diane but not like that.”

“She’s getting older Frank.” Fliss said, her hand reaching out for his as she began to play with his fingers “She’s bound to start thinking about things differently. She was ok last night after she talked to me, and then later you when you tucked her in. She doesn’t keep her feelings bottled up, and that’s good. It’s a testament to you that she feels like she can talk to us about things.”

“I know.” Frank looked down at her, kissing her head “I guess I just worry Lissy, worry about how she’s gonna feel when Bean is here and he’s calling us mom and dad and she doesn’t.”

“Frank.” Fliss sighed as she sat up straight. “Mary knows we love her. And what she calls us doesn’t change a damned thing. You’re worrying unduly now. We can’t do anything about that other than-“

“Yes, yes we could.” Frank looked at her. Fliss took a deep breath as his eyes locked onto hers, instantly understanding.

“I thought you said you’d never even consider adopting her?”

“I never thought I would.” he shrugged. “But it’s been playing on my mind after what mother said and then after last night…” “Why? What did Evelyn say?” Fliss asked.

“When she was here last, she told me that Diane’s memory wouldn’t suddenly fade if Mary called me dad…” he licked his lips “It was almost like she was giving me permission to do it…you know? Not that I need it or really give a shit what she thinks.” he paused, taking a deep breath “If I’m totally honest Diane isn’t the only reason I said I didn’t want to. I just never thought of myself as being dad material. I was such a screw up until I met you and I thought that by staying as her Uncle, it would give her that distance, you know?”

“Not dad material?” Fliss looked at him, shaking her head “Oh Frank, you idiot. You’ve done an amazing job with her…and you will do with Bean too.”

He smiled at her, sniffing slightly as she continued.

“But there is one person who’s opinion counts most here.” Fliss said gently “And that’s Mary. If you’re serious then you should ask her if it’s what she wants. Because after 9 years of calling you Frank…”

“I know.” Frank agreed, “And I agree, completely. It would have to be her decision. But at least if I ask her if she would like us to then-“

“Us?” Fliss looked at him, blinking. “You mean you want me to?”

“Of course I do.” Frank nodded, before he frowned slightly “But if that isn’t what you want, I understand. It’s a big-“ Fliss cut him off by pressing a kiss to his lips “Of course I do Frank. I love Mary like she is my own anyway so…” Frank beamed at her and wrapped his arms around her, kissing her head. “So, we’re agreed. We ask her?”

Fliss nodded and pulled back, her hand resting on his cheek. “We ask her.”

Chapter 8

#riding on #frank adler #frank adler x ofc #frank adler x oc #gifted #gifted fan fic #chris evans #chris evans characters

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my-own-oracle · 4 years ago

Text

Loving you- requested!

EDIT: this has been re-uploaded since my account was deleted! I am sorry for the inconvenience.

Tfp bots with number 42-"I have never loved you as much as I do right now."

@a-bitchtm I love your enthusiasm, usually have a limit on the number of bots I have per request. But because I made you wait so long and I had a lot of fun with it, I did four of them. If you want to see any more, let me know.

Ratchet

Ratchet was usually quite hard to approach: his no-nonsense demeanor often left interactions with the bot feeling flat, and with much to be desired. But he had been appointed your guardian, and a stubborn mech like the doc required a stubborn companion.

You often spent your days at the base, watching the giant doctor work. But the evenings we're where the battles of stubbornness were indeed waged.

You had been studying a map of your home city, it was only a state over and the proposed location of another artifact. You had been looking for a site that could hide, or be built around a 'mystical' cybertronian object. You had accepted this task, earlier this afternoon, but you still felt like you nad nothing.

Ratchet was standing not far off. Mumbling to himself as he worked through the lines of gibberish, you recognized as cybertronian. You had tried to convince him to take a break and recharge a few hours ago, but he insisted he was fine.

He wasn't. You could tell he was tired. His frame sagged, and his mumbling and squinting of his optics gave it away. A yawn caught you off guard as you checked your watch. 2:39 am. You had decided to keep him company. After all, you had work to do too, but your body was beginning to protest. Another yawn, you turned back to the maps laid out in front of you.

"You need to go and sleep." Ratchet's voice filled the empty air, but his attention was still on the large screens.

"So do you," you watched his helm shake slightly.

"No, I have to much to do."

"And taking care of yourself is also on that list." Ratchet turned to face you, and his optics looked dim. "Your tired, your frame is sagging," you raised a finger with each point, "your eye -ah optics, are dim and your starting to sway"'

"You're infuriating. You are no better. You've yawned 36 times in the past two hours. Almost cycled off in to recharge 5 times in the past thirty, and if you want to call my optics dim, I would say yours have been snuffed out." His voice was firm, but it lacked its usual snark.

"Since when do you keep such close track of me?" You stood up, waving your hand at his monitor. "You're always talking about how much more important your work is, but you're willing to use brainpower to keep track of the number of times I've started falling asleep?"

"It's my job to make sure all members of this team are in top form."

"All members?"

"Yes, "

"Then that includes yourself" He stammered a moment. Another sign to add to your ever-growing list.

"Since when did you start fretting over an old mech?" A giant hand placed itself next to you, a silent offer. You climbed up, opting to sit in his open hand rather than trust your legs to hold you steady.

"Since the day I met you, Ratchet." He mumbled a response. You didn't quite hear it.

"One more time, "

"I have never loved you as much as I do right now." You smiled, and so did Ratchet. You loved his smile, he should do it more.

"Then love me enough to go to sleep; if you go to bed, I will too." Ratchet grumbled and smiled. With a few taps to his computer, he turned off the monitors and headed off to his hab-unit with you in hand to get some rest.

Bulkhead

Today had played out so differently in your head. The dream had been waking up to no excitement. There is no need to storm an energon mine, no world-shattering event to stop. Thanks to a school-wide trip, no teenagers making errors could cause huge problems. At the end of this uneventful day, you would have all the time in the world to go out and watch the meteor shower that was occurring at 2am. Instead, you had been sent out on a mission with Bulkhead only to discover at its end, that the ground bridge wasn't working.

"Why did we allow her to come again?" You turned and watched Miko as she played a game on her phone in the back. She was sprawled out in the back tired out from the rock show she performed for you on the drive up and the hiking around during recon.

"Because her school trip got canceled, and I have a hard time saying no," Bulkhead's voice quietly filtered through the cab. You chuckled, Miko seemed lost in her own world at the moment, so you decided to give her space.

"You are wrapped around her finger" You all round a bend before you talk again. "How far are we from the base?"

"A good day's drive. Maybe more if we want to avoid major cities." You feel like sulking, you were definitely missing that meteor shower. "What's wrong, did you have a hot date tonight?"

The eye roll was a gut reaction, as was your smile. "You know I don't have time for that; besides, you're starting to sound like Wheeljack."

"Seriously then." you sighed, shifting to slouch lower in your seat.

"There's this meteor shower tonight." You didn't know how much of this Bulkhead cared about, but he had been the one to ask…" I was going to spend time researching the best possible location to watch it from and see if I could bribe Ratchet to bridging me there and back."

"But now you get to hang with us." Miko injected, while Bulkhead realized the source of your frustration.

"You'd rather be watching it, hm?"

"Don't take it as I don't want to spend time with the two of you," you gesture to the cab, "It's just since I was little I've always wanted to watch the 'falling stars' my mom talked about seeing once."

"It sounds nice," You leaned deeper into Bulkhead's seats.

"More like boring, but hey, to each their own." Miko flopped forward over the center console. "Hey, let's play a game while we drive." You smiled as Miko tried to describe her road trip game to Bulkhead. You spent a moment pushing the meteors out of your head; after all, it was not every day you got to spend quality time with these two.

"(Y/N). Can you wake up?" The question was light. Bulkheads voice breaking the silence during another of Miko's and your naps. The sun had set at some point, casting the day into a soft and comforting darkness, illuminated by the milky way's thousands of stars. "(Y/N), wake up." Your head jerked awake at Bulkheads prodding. When had you fallen asleep? You had wanted to keep the giant bot company through the night since he was determined to drive as long as possible.

"Is everything ok?" you started looking around. Outside looked peaceful, and inside was quiet except for the snores emitting from the teenager behind you. "Has Miko been asleep the whole ride?" You looked back in disbelief. It looked as though she had moved, but you had no evidence that she had woken up.

Bulkhead chuckled, "You're delusional if you really think Miko would sleep for the majority of a day." You swatted at the headrest of the seat next to you. "Ok, ok. She was awake for a while after you fell asleep. I tried to keep her quiet."

You were touched at the effort that must have taken. Miko was loud and brash, keeping her occupied and quite must have been a handful to do while trying to drive them home. "Thank you, Bulk." you shifted to lean against his door. "How far out are we?"

The sound of tires on the paved road filled your ears, and you watched as the wheel moved to keep them steady. "Not too far, but I'm taking a slight detour." He sounded guilty,

"What was going on?" Slowly, being careful not to jostle the cab, Bulkhead pulled over to the side of the road. You felt the locking mechanism move under your back. "Step out, will you?" You eyed the dash, curious as to what on earth Bulkhead could want this late at night.

"Bulk what's-" a man materialized in the seat next to you. He was a big broad-chested man with dark skin and an Autobot tattoo on his right shoulder. His black wifebeater and green cargo pants screamed military and soldier in your mind. His body had materialized with his hands on the steering wheel, his arms relaxed, and his eyes gently closed. He was still for only a moment, and in that moment, your heart sped up. From what you couldn't tell, but it was hammering.

His eyes opened to reveal an unusual blue color, one more resembling the color of the bot's optics than any blue you had seen in a human. The man wasted no time opening up the driver's side door and stepping out. Hesitantly you followed. "What-"

"What do you think?" The man kept his head upwards towards the sky, his voice was Bulkhead's voice, but softer... almost. "The lights from all the major cities are far enough away you should be able to see this meteor shower you wanted to see."

"Who-"

"Then again," Not-Bulkhead surveyed the flat landscape. "Miko had said you probably wanted to watch from an elevated area." He hurried past you back to Bulkhead's parked form and began climbing the back to reach the roof. Watching this man climb up, your close friend snapped you out of your shock.

"Just you wait one moment-" you grabbed the back of his shirt. "What's going on here?" you tried to pull the man down "Bulkhead-"

"Come on (Y/N)," He reached down gently, swatting your hands from his shirt and finishing his brief climb to Bulkhead's roof. Turning to offer you a hand up. "You didn't want to miss this, right?" the way he said your name, the gentle giant way he was caring about you, this was Bulkhead. This was Bulkhead trying to show you the falling stars you had always wanted to see.

"How do you know we'll be able to see them?" You took his hand and let him haul you up into his arms. Letting him guide you into sitting in his lap.

"I had Miko call Raph, and he looked up on his computer where we needed to be." His voice rumbled from his chest into your back. You knew you had to be smiling like a crazy person. "Look," one of his hands, previously holding him in place as he leaned back, was thrust forward-pointing up to the sky. You caught the tail end of it. The fading streak across the sky. It was followed by another, then another, soon enough, the sky was full of streaking silver light, and your heart was swelling. You laid back, eyes never leaving the atmosphere above you.

"Bulkhead, I've never loved you as much as I do right now." His arms moved to wrap themselves around your waist. Together, you stayed there, watching the sky until the last one had sailed by, before moving back into the cab and starting off to finish the rest of the road trip home.

Bumblebee

Bumblebee loved Fridays. It was the best day of the week, especially since you had moved to the base. Every Friday morning, without fail, you would wake up at 7am and head out to the roof of the base. There you would lay out a massive tarp and roll out an industrial-sized shop vacuum you had bought off eBay. And it always leads to this.

7:30am

Bumblebee sat in the morning sun, his doors open to the world. You sat in an old pair of jeans, your knees on the metal roof vacuuming out his interior. To Bee, this was the most relaxing feeling in the world. You meticulously vacuumed his seats, driver's side, the back then, passenger side, afterword focusing on the floor mats. That's what you were currently on. Woking the vacuums brush against his transformation seams. Dragging out a week's worth of sand, dirt, and grit.

He always told you it was unnecessary to clean him this thoroughly, but you insisted.

"Bumblebee, you drive Raph and me everywhere. We, all though unwillingly, fill you with all the nasty and dirty particles of everything we walk through in a day. The least I can do is clean you out."

After nearly two months, the strange feeling of the vacuum had become comforting. The feel of the brush, relaxing. The young scout would never admit this to anyone, but he especially enjoyed what came after.

The vacuum shut off, the silence overtaking the air. You stood up, pulling a small white rag from your belt. You dipped it into a bucket of warm water, wringing it out before slipping off your shoes and crawling into his cab.

The rag ran down his dash, cleaning up the oil and dirt that came off human fingers. Your hand pressed delicately against his leather interior, studying yourself as you worked.

"Everything alright?" you were scrubbing a little more forcefully on his steering wheel.

"Yes, There's just something a little sticky, I bet it's from a soda." you sighed, shifting to sit in the seat. "I can't believe you let me and Raph eat in here yesterday." You took the dry end of the rag, tracing back over every spot you cleaned with the damp side.

"I knew you would be careful and take care of me later." You climbed out, chuckling at his comment like it was a joke. Throwing the now 'dirty' rag off to the side in favor of a new one, dipping it in the same warm water you had before.

He shut his doors, he could feel you as you sat down next to him. Your presents brushing against his EM field; his door sensors, the ones that made up his 'wings' as you called them, lighting up at the gentle touch you had as you worked off scuffs and paint from other bots and cars alike.

The strokes began to blend together as his processor slowed down; he wanted to stay in this moment forever. The chilly desert morning and his (Y/N) cleaning off the grime from the week.

"I have never loved you as much as I do right now." He knew it was a strange thing to say, and an even more unusual way to thank you for all the work you were doing. But it didn't make the statement any less real.

"I love you too." Bumblebee could hear the smile in your voice. Yes, if he had to pick any one moment to live in forever, this one was most definitely number one.

Wheeljack

"I can't do this anymore." Wheeljack looked over, the thick book on your lap slamming shut registering in his audials. "This assignment doesn't make sense, this professor is a moron, and my school is a joke." Your hands were gripping the hair on your head. Wheeljack was no expert on humans, but he felt that that wasn't a good thing. "I'm done, I can't do this." he laughed to himself as you began shoving everything into the bag you took with you everywhere. "I can't do this, I can't. I'm done. I'm done." Your human optics are leaking a little. He watched as your face turned red, and your head shook back and forth.

He recalls Bulkhead explaining that leaking optics are a terrible thing for humans, It means there's something wrong. A soft whisper is let out amongst the noise, a whisper he wouldn't have heard if he wasn't so in tune with you.

"I'm a failure,"

Wheeljack was on his pedes faster than he had ever thought possible. You were hunched over that stupid bag, shoulders shaking. He had to get you back. He didn't know what exactly got you this upset, but he knew it had something to do with that university you kept complaining about this week.

"Alright speedster, enough of that." As gently as a wrecker could, he picked you up. Dropping you from one hand to another. "No wrecker gets to sulk while I'm around, Stop your crying and brace yourself." The bot looked over to Bulkhead and the other humans as he walked to the center of the base. "Tell Prime: I'm going out."

Wheeljack gave you a soft toss upward, you yelped as gravity pulled you back into his open servo. "Ready?" You tilted your head, something he found cute but swore never to admit out loud.

"What-what are you-you doing?" you stuttered between your tears.

"Fixing that look on your face." Wheeljack nodded to Bulkhead, who opened the base doors. Your bot tossed you up again this time a little higher, lurching forward he transformed around you, landing with you in his front seat. Before you could blink a seat belt was strapped around your torso. The two of you flying out into the desert. You watched as his speedometer climbed, 30 to 40. 50 to 70. 80 to 100. You were no longer on the road; instead, Wheeljack had turned out into the desert. The world was a blur out of his windows. He dared to look inward for a brief moment to check on you before returning his optics to his driving. Your soft hands were holding onto the seat and door. But the tears had stopped flowing, and a small smile was spread on your face.

The wrecker pushed himself to go faster, he needed his speedster back, the one that laughed as he drove at unhuman like speeds that begged him to try and go even faster then he could go safely with you.

150.

He was, for your sake, slowly climbing in his speed. Your grip loosened on his door, and he tightened the belt across your torso.

170

Your body was shaking again, but not from tears, this was a familiar shake. This was you teetering on laughter. This was a shake Wheeljack loved to feel against his seats.

190

"Wheeljack!" you were laughing. "I know you can go faster!"

200

"I promised Ratchet I would go over 200 with you, he says it's dangerous." You hear the smirk in his voice.

"Since when do you listen to the Doc-Bot?" Both hands were on his seatbelt, "I'm safe with you, come on, Faster!"

"I need you to say something first," He slowed a little, enough so he could glance inward again. "Tell me why you, of all people, would think you're a failure." Your face fell, not good, but necessary.

"I don't understand the work, my teacher wouldn't answer my questions." Your head sank. "She said I shouldn't be asking too many questions."

"Well, Frag her. She doesn't know what she's doing. It's obvious she's just bad at her job." you smiled again, "Now, if that's the only problem, I think we ought to see how fast we can outrun it."

He gave a little yank on the strap, making sure your body was flush against his seat.

He'd never tell you, but Ratchet had really freaked him out about hurting you.

"Floor it!"

He complied.

It was late in the evening, you both were tired, and your adrenaline had worn out, and Wheeljack knew he had burned through more energon than he should have.

"We should call for a bridge." The car around you rumbled for a moment.

"Yeah, I'll patch us through." The two of you sat in silence.

"Are you even calling them?"

"No." You reclined his seat back. And listened to his engine idle.

"Thank you for making me feel better."

"No big."

"Seriously. I have never loved anyone as much as I love you right now. Thank you."

His spark practically jumped, but he was grateful you couldn't see his faceplates. It would be nice to spend some more time with you, so you two sat in the quiet desert.

Happy and content.

Don't forget to share your thoughts with me!

#tfp wheeljack #ratchet tfp #tfp bulkhead #tfp bumblebee #transformers x reader #transformers prime

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s-k-y-w-a-l-k-e-r · 4 years ago

Photo

The people have spoken! I’m going to show you how I do my

ADJUSTMENT LAYERS

Curves are awesome but we’re not using them today

I’m obsessed with Vibrance layers right now and I figured out that using them in a specific way actually brings up darkness in super dark things like Mr. Robot!

You may already know you can have multiple sharpening layers but maybe you didn’t know that you can alter their opacity?

Color balance isn’t always ideal but it’s great when the footage is already well-lit (like with the footage we’re starting with)

The best thing this method does is that it will make the light and colors in your gifs POP.

Full disclosure: this is best viewed on a desktop—it almost made my phone’s Tumblr app crash. Lots of media under the cut!

Disclaimer: I use this method of making gifs and you will need a passing understanding of Photoshop and adjustment layers, which I did attempt to describe how to use. Not going to describe it here, but click the link above or DM me with questions.

Here’s what it looks like already resized from 1080p video down to Tumblr width of 540px. A bit dim, no clarity.

An image like this deserves to pop! So! We’re going to make heavy use of Vibrance adjustment layers.

Basically:

1. Create a new Vibrance layer and bump the “vibrance” slider all the way up. Then change the blend mode to Color Dodge. Chances are good 100% Fill is way, way too much—but take it all the way down to 0% and then bring the slider up until the highlights begin to jump out. 28% worked here.

2. Make a Copy of that Vibrance layer! (Drag the layer down to the little + in a box button at the bottom right of the layers.) Then change the Blend Mode to Screen and move the fill percentage around until you’re happy (40% in this case).

This is my new TRICK and it does amazing things to brighten up dark footage. It’s great because it is less likely to create mottled color noise.

3. Make a Copy of THAT Vibrance layer and keep the blending mode on Screen! I did this by accident once and realized it does such a nice job of building on the subtle brightening the previous layer did. In this particular gif, I took the fill percentage way down to 8% and the change is almost negligible so I’m not including a screenshot.

4. MAKE YET ANOTHER COPY of the Vibrance layer! But instead of going brighter, we’re now going to bring back the blacks. Change the Blend Mode to Color Burn. Then bring the Fill way down and slide it back up until you’re happy that the darkest tones in your image look substantial. In this case, it was 10%. With the Color Burn Vibrance layer, a little bit goes a long, long way.

5. Finally, create a new Color Balance adjustment layer and fiddle as needed. In this case, I kept the adjustments from a previous section of the video that was very red—so I worked to dial back those reds by incorporating more cyans/blues without letting it go too green.

I only adjusted the Shadows and Midtones here, not the Highlights (because that’s where his skin tone, in this lighting, needs to remain the most natural—remember to respect and work WITH people’s skin tones, never work to “correct” them!).

The difference is subtle and I’m not sure it makes it better but it certainly makes the colors more... separate.

That’s it for adjustment layers! Here’s what it looks like as you turn on each layer. I’ll show you my sharpening method after this!

Sharpening

So I’m using three sharpening layers (technically not layers, but smart filters) these days. It can take longer for the computer to render it, but I’m loving the results.

As long as whatever is in the timeline is currently a Smart Image, then you can turn them on and off and change their opacity and this is a powerful way to make sure things are both smooth and not over-sharpened!

Here are the specs for each of the sharpening layers in the order that I usually turn them on:

Sharpen.

Smart sharpen. [Amount: 500px, Radius: 0.3, Reduce Noise: 20%, Remove: Gaussian Blur]

Smart sharpen. [Amount: 10, Radius: 10.0, Reduce Noise: 4%, Remove: Gaussian Blur]

But here’s the deal: those will over-sharpen and no matter how you move the sliders, you’ll find there’s nothing you can do. SO! You just tone down the overall effect by clicking on the icon to the right of the sharpening layer:

And then you can change the blending mode and opacity of each sharpening layer. I keep all of the Blending Modes on Normal, then change the opacity:

Sharpen. [Opacity: 64%]

Smart Sharpen. [Opacity: 100%]

It’s possible you’ll move these opacity sliders all over to make this look good! Always depends on how much of the image your subject is taking up and how good the quality of the original footage is.

And then of course, here’s the final product!

And...

If you want an example of what this Vibrance layer method can do for dark Mr. Robot footage, check this out:

Hope that gets the gears turning for y’all. I’m looking forward to seeing what you guys do, and if you have any cool adjustment layer ideas that come about as a result of these, please share! I love seeing new, experimental ideas!

cc: @ilygwilym and @xmxisxforxmaybe who said they’d be interested in this 😀

#tutorial #gif tutorial #creator tag #photoshop #my gifs

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what-is-your-plan-today · 4 years ago

Text

Riding On Ch7: Home, Sweet Home!

Summary: Frank and Fliss find their perfect family home, but there’s something bothering Mary.

Warnings: Bad Language words. Discussions about suicide. A little bit of angst.

Pairing: Frank Adler x Fliss Gallagher

A/N: This is a bit of an emotionally charged filler chapter…and we move time on a little through to June in the middle. And photos of the Adler house are included so you can visualise what I used for inspiration! Chapter Song: Kill For A Dream by Beady Eye

Series Masterlist // WIYPT Masterlist

You’re giving it another try, staring at the deep blue sky, and you say to the driver just drive, coz you never felt so alive.

April 2019

“No, I mean yes! I’ve just heard some awesome news!”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, so you remember the guy that bought the house that backs onto the yard when Old Man River died…” “That wasn’t his name.” Frank chuckled “It was Mr Morris.”

“He called himself River, it was funny and suited him. Anyway, that’s not the point. You know the guy who bought it…guess what I found out before?”

Frank stopped what he was doing and straightened up. He didn’t like that dick, one bit. When Mr Morris had died at the start of the year, Fliss had been quite upset about the news as the old man had been very friendly to her, often popping in for a cup of tea a few afternoons a week for some company. Mr Morris’ son had sold the house without them even knowing it had gone on the market, which was a shame as it would have been perfect for them given the location. The guy who had bought it, Frank didn’t even know his name, nor did he care because he was a douchebag and a pervert to boot. The way he looked at Fliss made Frank want to punch his face in.

“What’s Douchey Mc Douchebag done now?”

Frank laughed loudly “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy, babe!”

Ok now he was interested. Frank could picture the look of excitement on her face as she spoke to him and he felt the smile cross his face “No shit?”

“Yeah, I’ll send you the website to look at the photos but…oh God, it would be perfect! Some of it is really nice, some of it needs decorating but…” “Ok, well, why don’t you call the realtor? Arrange a viewing” he said “Hopefully you won’t puke halfway round this one.” “Ok, first off that wasn’t my fault. Bean objected to the smell. Who the fuck cooks eggs the day they know they have someone coming to view their house?” her indignant tone made Frank chuckle “And second off…”she paused “I already did. He said he can meet us at half 12.”

“Half 12? As in lunch time? Today?” Frank frowned.

“I know I just really don’t want to miss out on this one Frank, and you said you were gonna come up here for lunch and-”

“Ok, ok.” Frank sighed “I’ll shuffle some stuff around, work a little later tonight and take an extra half hour.”

“I love you.” she replied and he could hear the smile in her voice.

“Good job I love you too.” he said back gruffly “Because you’re a pain in my ass.”

“You ok Frank?”

He looked up and smiled as Alan, his boss walked in to the office. “Yeah, sorry, Fliss has found a house and managed to book a viewing for lunch time. Fucking 7th one in 2 weeks.”

Alan snorted “Keeping you on your toes I see?”

“Huh.” Alan smiled “Sounds like it was meant to be. Take it you’re going then?”

“Yeah, Charlie and Gary are in all afternoon. I thought I could take an extra half hour, work it back tonight or…” “Frank, when was the last time you actually took a full hour for your lunch and didn’t cut it short by 10 or 15?” Alan looked at him.

Frank hesitated “Yeah, but that’s-”

“No buts.” Alan shook his head. “Do what you gotta do.”

“Thanks Alan.” Frank smiled, “I appreciate it.”

Alan waved away his gratitude before he dropped into the chair on the opposite side of Frank’s small desk and gestured for Frank to sit down.

“I wanted to talk to you in person.” Alan said, “Before the news gets out. I’m looking at retiring Frank, fully this time.”

“That’s good news, for you I mean.” Frank smiled, taking his seat. “You must be happy?”

“Kinda bitter sweet.” he shrugged “But I hit 70 this year and bout time I let it all go. Bill’s already chomping at the bit to book damned fishing trips so...it’ll be nice to step back. But I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Shoot.”

“My son, James is going to be taking over, that won’t come as any surprise to you as you’ve seen him knocking around a bit and he likes you.”

“Good to know I’m not going to be out on my ass.” Frank smiled, breathing out a little.

Frank blinked “You wanna make me deputy manager?”

“Wow, I err…” Frank shook his head “I don’t know what to say.” “I don’t need an answer now.” Alan said, “Take some time to consider it. Talk it over with Fliss.”

“I will, I’ll give it some thought.” “Ok, well, that’s all I dropped in for.” Alan said, standing up, groaning a little “Did you just hear my damned knees click?”