#suicide trigger alert

[starkeygirlposts]

Goosebumps in my Sleeve V

This chapter has been a labor of love. I feel so lacking in creativity, but yet writing is all I can think about! Once I sit down to write, my mind goes blank. Anyway, this chapter is a little all over the place but I wanted to delve into some other topics/scenes from the timeline. I hope you enjoy this one! Please beware that this is NOT proof read and most likely contains several errors. I will eventually get around to proof reading it. Summary: You've been dating Rafe Cameron for 3 years, and one day Ward and your mom tell you they're getting married.

Pairings: Rafe Cameron x fem!reader Trigger warnings: angst, stepcest, drugs, swearing, pregnancy, smut(a whole drawer of warnings), discussion of suicide, swearing, domestic violence, mama and daddy kink, breeding kink, mention of abortion, talk of death and killing, idk what else lol 18+ mdni

SERIES MASTERLIST

THEN

To say that Rafe got possessive once you found out you were pregnant would be an understatement. Nothing you did was okay with him if he didn’t know about it first. No schedule change or unpredictable plans were allowed to be made without an argument ensuing and a slew of angry texts and missed calls.

You’d try telling him that you needed to keep everything normal and the same as it was before so to not draw any unnecessary attention to the two of you and your situation. But he’d tell you he "didn’t give a fuck”, and “that’s my kid you’ve got in there so you tell me this kind of shit.”

More times than not you’d wonder if you’d only become an incubator for his precious cargo. Whether or not he cared solely about the baby under your heart or also about its mother. So when you go grab tacos with two of your closest friends, you finally lose it when Rafe blows up your phone wondering where you are and why you didn’t tell him you wouldn’t be home. You’d left the house at 6:30, not knowing where Rafe was or when he would be home. Maybe it’s the sinking feeling in his gut when he silently opens your door to find your bedroom empty, his mind racing to the worse case scenario, or maybe it’s the demon buried deep inside of him needing to control your every move.

Your sat at the table at your favorite Mexican restaurant not even five minutes from tanneyhill, chip half dipped into the bowl of guacamole when your phone chimes. The conversation between the three of you halts, and you wave your hand, telling them to continue as you flip your phone over, already knowing who the alert was from. You try to keep a straight face as you read the message.

7:02PM Rafe: Where are you?

You look it over, re reading it three times before debating sending a simple reply, instead deciding to push the power button and set it back down on the table, flipping the silent switch before you do so.

You don’t exactly know why you don’t want to answer, as if the reply takes too much energy. But the two things that come to your mind first is that you not only feel suffocated, but you want to forget for just a moment.

Then at 7:08 he calls you. You obviously don’t answer.

7:08PM Rafe: This again?

2 more missed calls.

7:12PM Rafe: Am I really that shitty of a boyfriend that you don't even want to answer me?

7:15PM Rafe: You’re testing me aren’t you? Why?

7:19PM Rafe: You know I can see where you are right? You’re sharing your location with me.

You stopped sharing your location with Rafe.

7:21PM Rafe: Are you fucking kidding me? I swear to god I will show up there in 5 minutes and drag your ass out of there. Turn your location back on. I’m putting my shoes on right now.

You started sharing your location with Rafe.

7:22PM Rafe: So you can read all my messages and turn your location off and on but you can’t reply?

7:23PM You: I’m with my friends. Girl friends. I’ll text you when I’m leaving.

7:24PM Rafe: Yeah but that doesn’t work for me. I want you here now so wrap it up. If you need me to get you let me know.

You can’t help but scoff, raising your eyebrows which elicits a question from one of your friends asking you who’s texting you. You put your phone in your purse and try to forget about Rafe’s overbearing for an hour with your friends. Casually, you tell her it’s your mom going off about you not telling her you wouldn’t be home for dinner like you’re 14 years old. But when not even fifteen minutes go by and your friends are sat across from you looking over your head at what’s behind you, you ball your fists and finish the last sip of your drink before relaxing in your seat. You almost wish you would’ve just told them the truth. You can see the confusion on their faces as they blink from above you to eye level with you.

You can feel him next to you, but you pretend you don’t. Your friends mutter a confused “Hey Rafe…” before he’s bending down to your level to look at you. Reluctantly, you turn your head to look back at him and his brows shoot up. He silently places a $100 bill on the table and calmly tells you “Let’s go, we’re leaving."

You make the mistake of rolling your eyes, looking back to your friends.

“My friends said hello, Rafe. Why don’t you say hi?” You briefly look to both of your friends, hoping your gaze offers a silent apology.

He straightens back up, pulling your chair out for you. You finally look up at him, his eyes still locked on you as you now meet them with yours. “We haven’t even ordered dinner. I’ll be home in an hour.” You try to tell him, but he’s got your bag in his hand and his hand wraps around your upper arm, pulling you to your feet. His lips are next to your ear, hot breath casting a wind across your neck.

“Do not make a scene here. We’re leaving. Say goodbye.” He tells you, and you look back at him once more before looking down at your friends and telling them that your mom made your favorite and you’d rather avoid a blowout. The girls nod skeptically, looking at you and then at each other and then back to you.

“I’m really sorry, I’ll text you.” You tell them simply, before Rafe is tugging you to walk in front of him. His hand finds your lower back to guide you out of the restaurant and your phone vibrates in your hand. You glance down at it to see the name of you and your friends group chat pop up in your notifications. It reads a simple question.

“Are you okay?”

You take a deep breath, as deep as you can as you walk to Rafe’s truck before you type out a quick reply.

“Totally fine, so sorry. My mom’s been a maniac she Rafe’s just trying to avoid another explosion. I’m actually grateful lol"

Both girls love the message, and you quickly slip it into the pocket of your jeans as his arm leaves your back to open the door of the truck for you. You look back at him and he raises his brows, thrusting his hand forward for you to get in. You huff and relent, grabbing the inside handle and climb in.

You scoff and shake your head, pissed and upset as he climbs into the drivers side. He starts the engine and pulls into the street, not saying a word to you so you take the silence as an opportunity.

You don’t think before you speak, and you regret it instantly.

“Maybe I should’ve had an abortion."

The words fly out faster than you mean for them to, your tone dripping venom as you look ahead at the lit up road, totally vacant. He doesn’t respond, and you look next to you to him, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are white. His brows are furrowed and his lip is curled in disgust. You know he heard you when he cocks his head and swerves the truck violently into the shoulder.

“What the fuck did you just say?” His tone drips with hatred, his head cocked but keeps his gaze straight ahead. You’re watching him, turning your body fully in your seat. You wonder for a brief moment if you should grovel, mumble out a quick “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.” But for the briefest moment you wonder if you actually did…

“No…no, no. Say that again. Say it, I dare you.” He says darkly, finally turning his head to look at you. Your eyes connect and he’s staring at you so deeply you wonder if he can see the turning of your insides.

You’re silent, and his eyes squint like he’s trying to see better.

“Come on baby say it. Say it again. I want to hear you say that shit to me again.” You flinch when his hand jets out to grip the back of your neck harshly, and you cry out in surprise, muttering a “Rafe, stop.” before he’s dragging you closer to him, your belly jutting into the console. His nose presses against yours and he shakes your head as if to wake you up.

“Did you actually fucking say that? About my baby? Wish you would’ve done it, huh? You hate me that much?” He’s seething, seeing nothing but red, glitter sparkling his vision as he tries to focus on you. You try your best to pull your head back, but it’s no use as his grip is strong on your neck keeping you pressed to him. The bow breaks and you can’t help but shout;

“I don’t know, do you hate me that much?! It’s so fucking hard to tell!” Before you continue, his head cocks, his cheek meeting you nose as he takes a deep breath and laughs humorlessly.

“What the fuck? What are you talking about? Are you okay? I mean shit I know hor-"

You cut him off, pushing him back with your hands on his chest to be able to look at him.

“No Rafe! I’m not fucking okay! Thank you for finally asking! Why did you have to ruin tonight for me? Why wasn’t I allowed to get dinner with my friends? Five fucking minutes away from our house? Did you see any guys there? Any drugs on the table? Any alcohol? I didn’t even get to eat dinner! But because I’m having your baby it doesn’t matter right?"

He scoffs and furrows his brows in confusion, trying to get a word in but you slap him instead. His cheek burns, his lips parted in shock as he looks at you and rubs the mark. He shuts his eyes for a moment before opening them and looking at you with intent. Your chest heaves and your hand goes to cover his on his cheek and you can’t help but mumble a “sorry…I -"

He cuts you off, hand leaving his face to grip yours.

“I am fucking terrified, okay? Aren’t you? You’re not — you don't get it! Baby you don’t fucking get it. Listen to me…no, listen to me!” You try to wrangle your head out of his grip, but both hands reach over to grab both of your cheeks between his hands, forcing you to look at him. His pupils are blown wide, his chest rising and his nostrils flared.

“Look at me, you remember that night don’t you? I know you do. Look at me and tell me. Do you mean it? You wish you aborted the baby?” He asks you this rhetorically, but maybe you really do wish you’d just done what Ward told you to. You take a deep breath and fight the tears that threaten to spill over, and they do when you clench your lids closed in regret. Your hand subconsciously drifts to your middle and you shake your head in Rafe’s hands.

“Say it, I need to hear you say it.” His voice is soft now, coaxing you to open your eyes and when you do, he’s ducked his head to look as close at you as he can and you quietly say “No.” He silently nods his head once, and you can’t help the tears that fall down your cheeks and over his fingers.

You’re still shaking your head and you tell him again. “No, no I shouldn’t have…I didn’t mean it. I want her.” You tell him honestly and you see him smile for the first time in so long and he leans down to kiss you, pecking your lips deeply. Your body is rigid against his, sobs shaking your form as you say again “I didn’t mean it.”

“I know, I know you didn’t baby, it’s okay, I know.” He tells you like he’s comforting a child. “I need you to hear me right now, okay?” He asks, serious, pulling away from you to bring your head up to meet his gaze.

“I paid people so you’d get to keep the baby. My father will pay people so that we can’t. Whether that’s right back where we were, or ripping her from your arms. Tell me you understand that. You are not safe. We are not safe.” He says, shaking his head.

You look at him, silent for a moment, and your mind betrays you. You allow yourself to imagine the moment your baby comes out of you and instead of Rafe there, it’s Ward. And instead of your slimy baby being placed on your bare chest, they’re whisked away from you without any words exchanged.

Your hands absentmindedly find Rafe’s forearms that are still holding your face in his hands and you mutter a small “I understand."

“Yeah?” He asks you, and you nod and tell him again that you understand.

“Don’t bring me back there tonight, I - I can’t go back there right now.” You softly say, your mind mushy and your emotions ruined.

You see him nodding, and he calls Topper, asking him if you can use his pool house.

Next thing you know you’re pulling into Top’s driveway, his parents away on vacation and it’s probably the only reason Rafe came here rather than paying for a hotel room.

When you get inside, and the blinds are drawn, you settle on the edge of the made bed having kicked off your shoes and unhooked your bra. You’re watching him pace around to make sure the windows are locked and covered well enough, and when you assume he’s satisfied with the barricade, he finally looks at you. You and all your messy glory. But you’ve shed your pullover and now you’re just in a thin tank top, your bra removed and he looks down to your bump. It’s more prominent, unable to be hidden in regular clothes, and he laughs when he sees the makeshift hair tie closure on your jeans.

You can’t remember the last time you heard him actually laugh. Not laugh without humor, not scoff, but actually laugh with genuine joy. You can’t help but smile with him as he closes the space between you, brushing your hair back from your face and tipping it back so you can meet his eyes.

“Getting bigger, huh?” He asks, still smiling and you nod, hand resting on the biggest part of your belly. At 14 weeks, you were unable to wear most of your clothes, save for 2 pairs of jeans that still closed with a makeshift tie, and some oversized tops and sweaters. You were afraid that you were approaching the point where wearing sweaters in the heat of summer would raise suspicions. You mumble a quiet “mhm”. Your other hand drifts down to said makeshift tie to undo it, freeing your lower belly from the restriction. You shift so you can wiggle them down and over your hips, Rafe watching your movements. You move to stand in front of him and tug the denim all the way down to your knees, allowing them to slide the rest of the way off and kick them off with your feet. His hands drift down your neck, over your arms, to your hands and he grips them, bringing each up to his mouth to kiss each palm while watching you.

You’re watching him back, eyes glued to his as he presses slow, open mouthes kisses up your arm until he drops them and palms your lower back with one hand while the other cups your neck to tilt your head up so that he can crane his neck and press his lips to yours. It feels like too long since you’ve been kissed like this by him, your shoulders slumping in relief as his tongue slips past your lips to flick against yours.

You’re putty in his hands, kissing him back as eagerly as you can while your hormones rage and your emotions are tangled. Your hands rub up his back and around to his biceps, falling down to his elbows where your hands cup, trying to pull him closer to you.

As he takes a breath, you pull your head back to speak.

“You’re gonna love her more than me, aren’t you?” You ask shyly, unable to look at him when you ask, your hands falling away from his body to find the edge of the mattress, lowering your body down to sit.

You don’t see the furrow in his brow as he looks at you confused, his fingers reaching out to tuck your hair behind your ear as he cradles your chin in his palm. He moves to his knees before you, and you allow yourself to look at him as he does, looking at you with worry.

“Why would you say that? Gonna love ‘em just as much as I love you.” He tells you, trying to say the right thing. Truth be told, he did love the baby inside of you more deeply than he understood. But wasn’t that normal? Wasn’t he supposed to? Did he love the baby more than he loved you? How was that even possible?

“There wouldn’t be any baby in there if I didn’t love you as much as I do.” He tells you softly, and you nod in acceptance.

“Not just a way for you to continue your legacy?” You ask quietly and now he’s truly confused. He tells you to look at him, and you do.

“I’m gonna tell you this because I don’t want to hear any stupid shit like this again. M’kay?” He asks you, and you nod.

“If we didn’t make her, I don’t think I’d still be here right now.” Now its your brow furrowing, and your hands move to grip his, cautiously asking him what he means. He takes a deep breath and flutters his eyes closed like he’s ashamed.

“You know what I mean, baby. Don’t make me say it. Can’t live without you...you know that.” He tells you honestly and the tear that falls from his eye as he looks at you through saggy lids tell you everything you need to know.

You gasp without meaning to, and you can’t help the guilt brewing in your gut. The idea of a world without Rafe in it makes you want to throw up, your hands gripping his like a vice, and you beg him to never say that again.

“I can’t…I couldn’t do this without you.” You tell him, tears threatening to fall and he pulls you to him to cradle your head under his.

“You don’t have to. I’m here.” He says simply, pulling back just enough to lower his head and kiss you again, his lips soft and hesitant against yours like he’s asking permission, and you lean back on the bed in approval, relenting and his hands snake up to your bottom, fingers squeezing to drag you further up the bed, settling on his knees in between yours.

Your lips find a pace against his, allowing him to find clarity in your movements. Your hips mindlessly buck up against his and he breaks away from your lips to run a hand down the valley of your breasts down below your belly to the hem of your tank, pulling it up and over your head to leave you bare except for your panties that remain the only barrier he can’t see past.

Your chest is heaving, watching him hover above you, and your hands find their way to the hem of his own shirt, tugging on it trying to lift it but needing his help and he chuckles, pulling the shirt off from behind his head, throwing it to the growing pile of your clothing on the floor.

He watches your face as he drags his fingers past the top of your panties to use the tip of his pointer finger to brush down the middle of your panties, the pressure against your clit making you arch up off the bed to gain friction. You moan his name and look down at him. He’s leaning back on his calves, shirtless and watching you squirm in need of more.

“What is it baby?” He teases, cocking his head while he watches you in fascination, his fingers ghosting over your clothed slit, and you nearly cry in frustration. “Please don’t tease me, Rafe.” You groan, using your feet to try to tug him closer to you. But he tuts and tells you to “Relax”.

“Mama’s needy huh?” He croons, watching your expressions with lust, finally using his fingers to tug the crotch of your panties to the side so he can rub your cunt properly.

You throw your head back with a “yes!” falling from your lips. He uses his pointer finger to push inside of your gummy walls, his thumb coming to rub firm circles on your clit, the pressure tightening the knot inside of your gut. He adds his middle finger inside of you, curling his fingers upward to push at the spongey spot inside of you, knowing your body so well.

His other hand comes up to rest on the swell of your belly, your hand instinctively covering his and lacing your fingers through his. His fingers thrust in and out of you at a rapid speed, your hips bucking up off the bed when you’re about to snap. “Gonna make me cum Rafe!” You squeal, pushing out to feel yourself gush around his fingers, pushing up on your elbows to watch him. He’s watching his fingers fuck in and out of you, the wet squelch of you taking him in over and over. You collapse back against the soft mattress again after your chest stops heaving.

Rafe’s fingers leave your core and you can’t help the frustrated grunt that leaves your lips without intent. He climbs off the bed to unbuckle his jeans and push them down his hips to the floor, his boxers going with them. You lean up on your elbows again, watching him with hooded lids, heavy with bliss as he climbs back between your legs, using his palms to trail up your calves and behind your knees to press them into your chest, leaning down to brush his lips against your forehead.

“Such a pretty mama, doing so good for me baby. You ready for my cock?” He asks sweetly, trailing kisses down your cheek to your jaw and finally locks his lips with yours and pulls back to look at you. You nod at him meekly, looking up into his eyes and he tell you to “Use your words, pretty girl."

“Yes, yes please, need your cock. Please fuck me Rafe.” You ask with confidence, chasing his lips with your own, craving the contact. His hands tighten on the backs of your knees, almost folding you too tight. He’s careful not to rest himself on your belly, though. He locks his lips on yours as he lines himself up with your cunt, but collects your wetness on his mushroom tip as he lets go of one knee to guide himself up and down your slit before guiding himself inside you in one smooth thrust. He stills when he’s buried all the way inside and your mouth falls open in a sharp cry.

“Oh, fuck…so fucking deep. Oh my godddd”. You whine, craning your neck up to press your forehead to his, his bangs hanging in your eyes. He pulls back to rest on the backs of his calves, using both hands to once again press your knees beside you in a mating press and tells you to look down at yourself.

“Look how good your pretty pussy swallows me baby. She takes me so well. Shiitttt” You whine in defeat, trying to drift your eyes downward, but at this angle flat on your back, you realize your belly is too large to see past. You huff in defeat and tell him “can’t see, rafe…tummy's too big.”

Something snaps inside of him and he hastily brings a hand behind your neck to grab a fistful of hair from the back of your neck to crane your neck up at an uncomfy angle, and you try thrusting your head back, but he stuffs a pillow behind you instead, tugging your head up farther. “Look down baby. Look at yourself dirty girl. Watch daddy fuck you.” You whine a moan at the name he gives himself and you look down again with the pillow behind you, watching as his cock drags slowly out of you, shiny with your slick before disappearing again. It’s painfully slow and you groan out.

“Fuck, Rafe…so deep, hurts so goooood.” You whine out, hands finding his forearms to steady yourself. The pressure he’s building inside of you is becoming too much and you can’t help but clench around him. He feels it and chuckles, leaning down to breathe against your lips. “Noooooo baby, don’t do that. You can take it, you’re doing so good baby girl don’t push me out.” He’s speaking to you in a higher pitch like he’s coaching you through it, continuing "Just…fucking…take it” punctuating with each thrust his long cock makes inside you, bruising your cervix over and over. You whimper at his words, your nails digging half moons into his skin and you can’t help the mewls and whines that pour out of your mouth.

He starts to fuck into you at a brutal pace, his hips snapping against yours with lewd wet sounds, white cream forming around the base of his shaft as his sock leaks seed into you. “Fuck baby, m’gonna cum…need you to cum too. Can you cum for me?” He asks, lightly tapping your cheek with his hand, too fucked out to hold his stare. You look back down to where he’s disappearing inside your body, his thumb now rubbing your pearl and you clench around him before letting go, pushing out again and gushing around him. He groans and paints the inside of you with his seed, mouth agape with curses and moans pouring out like music to your ears. Hearing Rafe cum was one of your favorite moments together. Getting to hear how blissed out he was to be with you. How you were the one who made him fall over the edge.

He’s breathing heavily, hot breath fanning over your face as he all but collapses on top of you, pressing sloppy kisses to your neck and up to your ear lobe where he nibbles and whispers; “I love you so god damn much baby. Don’t ever wanna hear you question it again, kay?” His voice is lazy and groggy, but you nod eagerly and crane your neck so he’ll look at you.

You’re searching his eyes, finally telling him that “I love you…and I love her too.”

----

NOW

Rafe’s hand on your belly moves to leave your skin but the hand resting atop his keeps it where it is. You break your stare with Sarah to look over to him, his eyes trained on the road but you see the clench in his jaw and cringe on his face, his nose scrunched in revolt at having to listen to you describe that night to his sister.

Your other hand snakes around the back of his neck to cradle the cheek that faces the truck window and you lean into him, resting your head on his shoulder to press a gentle kiss his neck. You know how hard it is for him to relive one of the worst nights of his life, knowing that somewhere inside of him almost believes that it was real.

“I’m sorry.” You mouth against his neck and bring your cheek back down to rest on his shoulder.

Your eyes flutter closed before quietly saying “I think I’ve shared enough.” Before opening your eyes again and locking them with Sarah’s, her head nodding briefly and you can see the tears brimming her bottom lids.

It’s a sick thing to talk about, you know you’ve overshared, but it’s reality for you, Rafe and the little girl underneath your hands. It was the only way to really allow her to understand any of this. It’s hard to still give a shit about other people, but you think salvaging an aunt for your daughter isn’t beyond reach. So you’re trying. Whether that’s okay with Rafe or not.

His voice jolts you suddenly. annoyed and tired. “How much longer am I driving here, Sarah?” He asks while keeping his gaze ahead. She nervously fumbles her phone, stuttering with nerves, you watch her hands tremble as she turns her phone upside down and tap it back open. “U-Uhhh, it’s just straight ahead for another mile and then you’re turning left.”

He doesn’t acknowledge her answer, instead following John B’s tail closer, clearly antsy. He huffs out a breath, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel.

“Y/N and I are going to the Bahamas after your friends load the cross into that piece of shit. I need you to keep dad occupied until tomorrow.” He’s curt and to the point, looking over at her briefly, Sarah nodding once and saying “Yeah, yeah, okay. I can do that.”

You wonder if you’ve traumatized her, dragged her into your fucked up reality. How could you not have? It was not an easy pill to swallow knowing her father truly was a monster. You think that up until now she thought that family was above all else to him and that he’d prioritize herself and her siblings above all else. You’re a little bit sorry you had to be the one to crush that idealization.

Sarah’s telling him to turn left and as he does, suddenly questioning “Hey Sarah?” almost innocently. You look up at him in wonder. You couldn’t have guessed what came from him next.

Sarah hums as he asks almost petulantly; “You think dad would ever make you kill your kid?” He turns his head to look at her and she looks back at him sharply, sucking a breath between her teeth, taken aback. Your own head flies to look at him and you can’t help but rush his name out of your lips in a scold, and you tense, stomach clenching in unease, shocked tears forming in her eyes and she finally shakes her head. It’s a trap question - that you’re smart enough to know and you know she is too. He doesn’t expect an answer. Because he knows that she knows the answer and that he knows it all the same.

No. Ward would never. And that’s why he wrapped his hands around her neck that night and shoved her underwater. Ward seemingly took away his little girl, so he’d take his away, too.

You wince and it hits you hard that your daughter will not be having a relationship with her aunt. Not if her dad can help it. The hatred he feels for his own sister stems so deep inside of him that allowing the idea of his child to grow to love someone he so deeply hates makes him sick. He will not allow his own flesh and blood the chance to be rejected by her like he had been his entire life.

It was his way of telling you without telling you that no - Sarah would not remain in your life and more importantly, your daughters.

For the first time, you have no rebuttal. Because you finally understand how deep the betrayal and loyalties lie, and there was no way to explain it away or reason differently. And for the first time, you're okay with the outcome.

Please leave a comment, and reblog! I’d love to hear from you guys what you’d like to see in this story via ask box/requests. I will answer any and all submissions! NOTE that I will NOT add you to the tag list if you are only commenting to add to the list.

See y’all soon!

[abyss-seer]

*Trigger Warning*

Confrontational Pick A Card Read

What is the truth that you do not want to confront when it comes to realizing, your childhood desires ?

Trigger Warning, this reading is 18 + and contains themes of suicide and r@pe, Please read it only when you feel comfortable about it🙏🏽. And this reading of mine isn't going to be linear at all. It is just a read to channel out your anger, your fire, the inner Goddess Pele in you. So please take your time with this read. It covers a lot of vulnerable topics. If something triggers you then leave it and come back later.

USE YOUR DISCERNMENT. DO NOT FOLLOW ANYTHING BLINDLY.

*******INDIVIDUALS SEEKING LEGAL, MEDICAL, OR ANY PROFESSIONAL ADVICE ARE ADVISED TO SEEK PROFESSIONALS OF THESE RELATED AREAS. ********

THE GUIDANCE IN A TAROT CARD READING IS MEANT TO BE TAKEN AS A SECOND OPINION ONLY. THE GUIDANCE GIVEN IN TAROT CARD READINGS IS AN INDIVIDUAL OPINION THAT THE VIEWER IS ADVISED TO TAKE AS A FRIENDLY OPINION OR ADVICE OF THE TAROT READER. THE TAROT READER IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THE ACTIONS TAKEN BY THESE INDIVIDUALS.

Individuals seeking mental, emotional, or psychological attention are advised to seek mental healthcare professionals, or the National Health Care Helplines of their respective countries and consider the opinions, resources, and guidance of these professionals as their first priority and the tarot reader's words as a friendly opinion or as a friendly advice.

What is the truth that you do not want to confront when it comes to realizing, your childhood desires ?

Here are the three piles

This read has a ton of quoted words in double semi colon. They seemed channeled words to me. Along with what your cards were trying to tell me.

____________________

Pile 1

Its as if you close your eyes to them. As if you are blind to them. The thing that makes you blind towards confronting that truth within yourself is your guilt. That guilt of leaving someone who loved you or whom you loved in utter chaos and despair while they were "silently" calling onto for your help. They may have doubted you for being so siren-like towards them. (Seducing them and letting their ship sink). "You must have doubted them" it's as if you thought they were doubting you the whole damn time only to realize they were utterly devoted towards you. Hence letting their ship sink because you thought they knew how to save themselves. But the ship sank and "he" never came back. "Travis Scott", the name travis could be significant. This pile could be shy and they might hesitate a lot from confrontation and feel as if an attorney or judge is about to sentence them. They wanted me to jump to pile 3. So someone who also doesn't like being talked about that much.

"You are too close to the truth" I heard the spirit say. I asked "What do they need to realize?" I heard "Avoid, Avoid Avoid avoid avoid, danger alert danger alert danger alert"

I guess its obvious why you haven't got past this issue (or the way some of you like to refer it "this pu$$y / d!¢k " ) Its not the sexual attraction its the guilt. And your Avoidance plays a bigger role in it. You need to realise, this is it, you have done it, it your past karma, leave it behind for now. Leave this desire right away and move on.

Take it how it resonates I ain't forcing anything. Wait and come back again only if you want to with an open mind.

"This ain't nothing to be afraid of, nothing but solidarity is required for this sh!t" It came through.

"Sowing seeds" You are being asked to sow seeds for your childhood desires persistently. Swati nakshatra coming through.

Avoidance tactics are not gonna help you. Its only going to keep you stuck, not away from your feelings which you have tucked away already but from your future desires as well as your dreams of becoming successful as it weighs your mind over n over, like a loop, in repeated patterns of behaviour as an excuse to get by your past deeds. Its your mind that is doing this to you, guilt tripping to you that you do not deserve this anymore when you know more than anyone else how much you deserve it too. Then will you let one bad deed spoil your day or corrupt your soul. You don't need to take this tension. Leave this past deed behind for the past and save it for future lessons.

"Ooh she mine,ooh she mine - Party Monsters"

"Heat Waves - Glass Animals"

"Wildest Dreams- Taylor Swift"

Damn! The truth you don't want to confront is that you are extremely possessive of this person and obsessed over them coming back to you to take you back, you may dream or fantasize by Ariana Grande coming through or fantasize about this person's $mexy thingy all the time, even though you don't want to admit it too. And it hurts you, to have left them behind for no reason for no one for nothing only a piece of shreds in the name paper money in a bag.

You could be gaslighting yourself into thinking, you couldn't possibly like them or should like them. There's some taboo here or your stubbornness interfering, as you couldn't ever imagine in your wildest dreams to have this person like you back. The truth you didn't want to confront yourself is the fact that you sabotaged your widest impatient dreams of yours in just a second thought. Didn't even think twice about it. Someone's name could be Nick, Peter, Ronald. Reminds me of donald duck juniors. There could have been a lie in this relationship and lots of misunderstanding and supposedly a lot of 'misandry' 'racism' by someone who broke this relationship. ("Manager" i heard, "there's something they all must be saying or talking about" I can almost hear Daffy duck saying that, for being a bad ducky and getting offended with Rose, lily and jasper for snitching with sometimes rose, sometimes lily being the one snitching about them)

You might hate being snitched on yourself and hence might sometimes do more mischief or overnoise or shout and then shout at others for listening for voice. There's something about your phone card that you don't like.

It just seems as if your fear of being snitched or gossiped is just your controlling nature of buying other people's silence so that you don't get in trouble. Im getting fraud, embezelment, stealing intellectual property or province out of greediness and rebellion out of a tough provincial goverment or really bad or controlling leader. This seemed to have caused you a lot of pressure built up around you.

And your anger could be due to the fact that this stolen whatever this is could have called a heavy guilt and same making you feel as if you do not deserve the wealth, and you may get angry in life when you got to let go of the so called possesion that you might consider as your own possesion. When this was taken away from your life karmically. You got angry in your fate. And you might often hide your embarrassment and your shame by using a set of avoidance tactics. This was initially not a very long post till I expanded it and realized how sensitive this pile could actually be. Dear pile 1, yes you did wrong but that doesn't mean you need to be demeaned, belittled or fooled every single time by people who are now doing the same things that you once. I need you to take a quick look at yourself and confront yourself. Yes you were wrong and yes you shouldn't have cheated a person. But what has happened has happened so move on. Everytime you feel the anger seething in for some injustice or something bad that happened to you. Just cool down and think about the situations in your life that led you to this same action once and just try to understand this person's perspective for doing ill to you. You have to just come to terms with the fact that you will always be a villain in some people's lives, all you can do is just come to terms with it and accept it. Hence don't let the snitching get the best of you.

Another thing if you feel witchcraft being done on you or towards you by somebody or someone to change your fate and steal your money then yeah this is a confirmation as I was seeing a big troubled black genie like figure around me in my room. If there are a series of groundhog events in your life, then please cleanse your energy and clean your space from these unpleasant groundhogging (bad luck bringing energy). Hope this reading made sense .

Love you , Bye. Hope that helps :⁠-⁠)

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Pile 2

"My hands feel weak, it's probably not from that clenching fist in anger anymore." "Feeling a strong grip on my shoulders, my desires, my hands,.....they are slipping away right now those dreams and desires in my hands are slipping away from me, my budget, my plans for making up my dreams and now.... Iam currently holding onto the clutches that have long since taken away my pearls" "Very dreary, dreadful yet dreamy (wet) desires " There is a dread to your life, winnowing and drenching you in salt water lake isn't going to eat you away my child" It seems to be about drenching away yourself in your desires, only to come back alive to the shore. Pile 2 you are very very desirable and "passionate to the floor" like it doesn't matter to you if what or who you are passionate about or desire to have dissolves in your little salt lake or not, you desire them and that's it, you will have them, no matter. "Even when the sky starts fallin, even when the sun don't shine" I heard "the sky is not falling, drippin"

Idk why your channeled messages are going so straightforward. I'm channeling "Rumi".

"Then I looked in my heart and there I found Him— He was nowhere else" – Rumi

Iam imagining a scenario, a couple drowning in the middle of salt lake (Im getting Dal lake in Kashmir) suddenly it starts raining and the husband starts drowning, the girl could save herself, she could have survived, but instead she decides to stay there and die there "all alone". The husband and wife stayed with each other for the rest of their lives.

And that painful love is not what you desired for yourself in your childhood. The only thing you didn't desire was to not be sent alone, to be left out alone, and you are someone very very gorgeous as a human being with scars of loneliness. It's like if your person is gone you don't know who else to win over to keep over again in your life as there is no one that seems to appeal to you the way you appeal to them. Half way mistakes, meeting people half way in your journey only to desire for so much more. Pile 2 you had and still have so much more to desire for, so much pain, so much ecstasy, just like Chandeler (someone deflects with humour or has a humorous personality) so much suppressed emotions and anger (im getting chandelier mushroom meme) then why do you not let it out? Why don't you live them a little? It isn't all about romance, life isn't ending there. "Love isn't forever, every breakup doesn't mean patch up, then why?"

Why waste up your empty thoughts and desires on someone without waiting for a wait or a quick break? You're burning up yourself like a moth drawn to a flame, breaking up yourself, burning out again and again in this weight or desire of love or this person or these people. You need to decide which juniper berry (a cone that masks like berries) are you? The blue one, pine one or the christmas fake one? Someone here could be atheletic, maybe into sports or skincare and may use a lot of juniper cream, jojoba and eucalyptus oils and lactates on skins as essentials. Maybe they rub it on their skin for some properties. "This person does cream in their job" someone here owns or works in some sort of cremery whether it be body shop or eateries (whipped cream, icing) uses dollops of it everyday or has had it recently. Some March babies here.

Now I want to refer to you as Dear Creamery, this is definitely a past lover's message, or you might get his/her dreams (train dreams)(trying to catch the bus while trying this person out) to see him. Ok yall having some 18+ dreams right now

Dear creme Bruleé, you might be harsh on the inside to yourself a lot. (It seems your person knows how much of a softie you are and they really want to know, how to people end up projecting this harsh perception as a result of your of smooth finished outer core to an extent that you may end up taking it to the depth of your core, almost end up crashing and breaking your insides (ideas, fantasies) when its no longer needed. That's why they might think you are brutal to the core at the start as you loving and hating yourself manifests as loving and hating people for bearing habits or patterns similar to yours.

Remember everyone, each and every human is connected, you interacting with yourself in the harshest way possible results in you behaving the same way with other people around you with similar remorse for having acquired a learned behaviour from you after being with you for a long a time. "THIS IS NARCISSISTIC" just channeled that. Treat people around the way you would treat yourself. That means treat yourself nice and right.

Your person wants to tell you that you have so hard on yourself and to your inner child as well to a point and an extent to which you beat yourself up extensively, self harm or self hurt when you aren't able to have something that you desire to the extent that you even stop yourself from achieving it anymore that you take the loss to your head, aren't able to move on from it and then do something dangerously su!cidal to yourself so that you can stop dreaming and desiring it later on. What an intense emotion! For some you this could be due to the unbearable pain of losing a loved one (i heard to fire, idk, i'm really really sorry if that has happened with you) and now every loss in life has become so unbearable to a point that all you want to do it is k!ll yourself or something else at the slightest sense of loss or being left alone or all alone. You cannot deal with yourself "They cannot deal with themselves when that happens" Spirit is legit telling me.

It seems like there was a fight to which you lost yourself over and over again and again and now that has ingrained into your brain (Sheesh pile 2, im sorry i dont mean to sound condescending, but if this is what chain of events you are going through,I'm sorry, My spirit is channeling "I'm hardly negative on my readings but this time I channeled fire, I channeled what indestructible inner rage was like". Yes pile 2 this is what it is, I channeled the sacred rage through you, and it asks you to be brave, fierce, bold towards your dreams and pursue it. Wherever this fear came from, don't ever let it stop. There are asking me to burn the sacred fire within to ask you of this. "You are being bloodied and your blood has flowed and will flow thousand times over, will you not be bloodied in the battlefield,yes you are wounded and you will be wounded everyday, afterall life is a battlefield then why give up now? Whats there in being wounded once, are we gonna get scared and stay in our scars or should we move on, heal our scars, face our shadows, and take the time that it takes to feel closing up of our scars and experience our body heal. Is it that hard to experience the closing up of your wounds? Remember the first time you got hurt, it hurt but then once the wound healed, the pain was gone, only fear remained that all of it would happen again if not tomorrow. Why fear it? The next time you will stronger, smarter, and better than this. You will have improved. Then why fear it? You have survived the worst.

Author's note : (I would like to share this personal experience with you, once upon a time I was SAed brutally, had to get hospitalized in a near death condition, but I survived. That bs, and that mfer came back in my life once again and did it all over me once again but this time with a gang, but I had learned by then, my wounds healed (cause i gave myself enough time) and I was stronger once again, this time I did give my best fight, little did I know I would get overpowered once again and again and again and again all of this happened with me multiple times in a row, i didn't know what to do, i didn't know why life had given me all that, but each time I grew faster, sharper and manipulated my way out of all this. All I am telling you is I managed to find a good life after all that, nowadays I don't fear it or him anymore hence could suave my way through it all and could give a life sentence to him and his bunch)

"The worst will be dealt with the last, up closely" I heard spirit say, This tyrant will be dealt with, you are being asked to focus on yourself and deal with your own desires, "I heard that story". Iam really sorry if some of you are going through anything similar. Iam really sorry, but all Iam trying to tell you is if you have a story to share and you feel like no one is going to believe you then please talk to a therapist or a mental health care professional, or a trusted friend, family member or advisor. Let it out, take others support to heal yourself. Love yourself enough while going through the process of letting those wounds heal. You can tag your story, there are hundreds of communities, thousands of people, servers ready to help you, so please don't lose hope, you are right here, feel yourself while you experience the closing of those wounds. I understand its hard, it can be really really hard, and there are times you might want to give up and lose all hope. So ask for help, ask for support to help you heal. Please do it if you want to, if and only if you are comfortable to do so, please peek through that shell you have created around, there are so many people out there and yes there might be a chance where they may not be able relate to you. Yes there might be a chance you will feel paranoid, and lost because of this but trust me there are helpful people out there. Please try to talk to them. Please reach out. Seeking justice or not is your choice, and you don't have to do that if you don't want to do that. There is no judgement or shame in it. You can do whatever you wish to do with this and no one will question you for it. You are allowed to take your time to heal and come back in your sacred space. If you are already in this energy, please continue to do so. You are already doing pretty great. Know that there is no pressure on you to file a case, and not wanting to do so is fine. Its alright. You don't have to feel bad, guilty or anything for not wanting to have to do anything with that energy. Its fine.All you do right now is relax and do not let this fear judgement of shame get to you for deciding not wanting to have anything to do with a tyrant on a legal scale. Its your wish. No one is judging or shaming you for this.

Don't let this fear ever dictate your life ever again. You do not need to act like some suave or people please anymore, if there are people pushing you to do so, please push them aside and focus on yourself, you are your own biggest priority right. Love yourself like there's no tomorrow my love, you may feel like you are going through it at times but don't let this fear of "feeling this in my body again" get you, your present or your future ever again. Yes these are post traumatic symptoms but don't let these take over you ever again my love ever again. Don't ever lash out on yourself for not being able to avoid trauma symptoms and trauma pain. Never again my love, understood, Never again. Accept your now, the change happens, you are beautiful when you are who you are, and that person or that sense of identity you carried with you for all those years can change due to this kind experience, no matter what this experience was for you. Let the person within you emerge, stop immersing her back in those of suppressed depths just because you do not recognise who this new angry inner self is anymore. She is you and she needs her way out. Let her be assertive and set her boundaries, she is trying to protect you. Let your sacred fire to reach your desires come out, don't let this passionate fire born out of these suppressed emotions burn you from within. This fire within you doesn't deserve that. You don't deserve that. I hope you understand "Yourself". Love you so much. Bye my loves, take care of yourself.

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Pile 3

Forhead pain, feeling vulnerable body pain issues, severe body pain issues due to an injury, Someone's name could be "Casey, Casidy, Cassey" Maybe some disney character's name. Iam hearing " loathe and pain" being loathed on, hated, (almost witch hunted kinda stereotypes), someone showing someone their place based on caste, race, religion or gender, sect or creed or bloodline (im getting racial slurs and blood number, like blood donor's number) Iam getting Mr. Kim Taehyung, someone's own sibling or brother jumping death unscathed. Iam also getting someone's listening to their son's old recording, or a dead loved one's tape recorder, somebody listening to their older son's music and his creations, preserving someone's art, culture and his beautiful memories. "Creation process" "Young Haul" "stealing from young - a line from Sabrina Carpenter's because I liked a boy" "Homewrecker Homeboy" " threw it off the baseball track/rack/team"

"my homie stole me so now Im a good $lut" "stealing your childhood dreams" Iam also getting "shallow dreams"

Let's pause shall we now? Pile 3 whats taking you so long to confront this individual or these people, cause Im seeing a lot of demeaning attitude been projected on you. "Bean" "skinny brat" ok, who are these people? "I know these people are being converted, they really ruined my life" Im getting and channeling BANKS (Jillian Rose Banks), I also got Tyra Banks , but I think this can indicate someone being in the fashion industry, "method recording, method acting"

"you do not deserve to get this crustie musty baddie "alone". What I mean by that is stop taking racial slurs on your face. Time to Queen/King Up. Mostly gently raise the fires of hell and unleash those hound dogs you had been gatekeeping for so long. Whoever these people you need to proceed with them/in them with a gentler approach in life. I heard they are the ones gatekeeping you for so long shortly after xyz incident". " You do not deserve this Anjelly/Angelino/Angelic gel, suavé fontigo/contigo"

The truth is you are hiding behind the scenes, you have dimmed your light, you are working with a level of people who can't stand the way you have reached and processed your success by following a different approach and they cannot swallow the hard pills anymore. Its just too much unprocessed, unappreciated success that is being constantly disturbed, and disrespected along with constant social disregard of a saintly and lovely individual.( "I am getting Lively human being, so you could be someone very energetic, Blake Lively and her recent lawsuit, idk about what, I scroll past mood bummer headlines")

This is bad pile 3, "its the constant disrespectful attitude that has made me charge her/oppress her over some issues". Someone's dirty laundry is being made public. This is baffling. Its like you have got so many leeches and you are baptizing them right now. Iam getting "Trident" Idk I was getting more of a Poseidon percy jackson vibes. Silver screen,bad vibes overall. Idk what this is "idk why spirit wants me to refer you as Blake Lively" "friends are really short and brown haired, teen code 16-19, under 19, rule magazine, percentage book"

God don't even ask me what I was channelling "now Iam getting Brittany is embarassing, spaces, spheres and spades and shades and her work of art is debuted, attention bulborg" someone's name could be similar bull-bohr pronounciation, Stanley is a christian boy" "origin story". Some of you could have gotten bullied by people throwing glasses, at your face, or a lot of insects. Theres a lot of glass shattering noises here. Im sorry if you went through that. Dear pile please know that no matter what you through in life, you dod not deserve someone doing this batsh!t towards you and please know that they won't get away from that all so easily.

Oh my God pile 3, what is this extra surplus channeling. So many full stops, so many breaks, as I was getting before, I feel like someone's specific dyed brunette friend is actually blonde in her hair and has a short stature and height and she isn't like her usual behaviour anymore finally turning from a friend to enemy. This person has been envious of you is trying to push you off your chance, opportunity, throne whatever. But the thing is the position or "the place that everyone got in their was to be pulled down by their facade". So what facade have you been wearing. "Abby Winters, if that's a brand name, no gurl stop hiding behind materialistic heavy you won't even carry with yourself once your soul has departed" "stole a dollar store cash bank, Dylan" "ABBA could be someone's favourite"

Thatz it!!!! Iam done no more channeling. Why is there so much spying info here and really a lot a lot of unneccesary spamming, like some corrupted file or broken record. Gosh! Pile 3 do you often deflect with the truth by spamming or ranting unnecessarily. Cause that is a lot. I just realized I was manipulated into doing something or writing so many things about things which can be related to or unrelated to. But whatever it is, my intention is not spamming. This is time waste content. There's a lot of content on social media and apps, "dating love shows, comedian platforms, game shows" Its like a black hole to be. It seems like pile 3, you do not try to take yourself too seriously which is a good quality to have, not at the expense of your time and energy being wasted. Its okay if you don't bother with disrespect and don't wanna bother yourself with the hatred. But the main problem with you is (Twitter notification) NOOOO NOOO DONT YOU GO THERE. STAY WITH FOCUS LADY/LAD FOCUS!!!!!

Coping through information overload or causing diaspora for yourself because you cannot deal or confront yourself from facing these negative tides of emotions that sweep to you through other people,and you know its happening, but instead getting impacted by the overwhelming and overflowing waves and tides of these non sensical, wierd abrasive and rash self talk (negative self talk), sometimes even overcatastrophising assumptions and projections of what other people push onto you and making it your new identity to simply co-exist, you my dear pile 3 has compromised on your legacy, wealth, status and honour a lot many times cause people don't accept you, or your status and leave it unappreciated leaving you no room but to define your self worth (by prophesising things, some of you could rebuilding an ego using psychic business to define who you are) using productivity or wealth or something special enough to set apart from other people to feel good about yourself.

And whatever that could be, that could include doing something to feel special different and untouched despite feeling the initial hatred and despise for being left alone. This just seems like some "predator attacks prey" response, its as if you were witch-hunted, ostrasized, discriminated against, "im also getting k!lled, so maybe some of you, lost yourself and your personality in this process. So whatever that hatred was which set you apart from rest (im getting "against a wolf pack" "Dont Go Insane" by DPR IAN) was what became so comfortable to live with, without any company all on your own that now friends and good people seem alien to you. These people might try to help you, but you might guard up your wall against them in fear of getting hated on (Iam also getting "r@ped" someone could have gotten hate r@ped or something like that to shut them up as people around them did not like them) And dear Pile 3 if this has happened to you, this is straight up evil and devious. People know that you did not deserve this (Iam also getting Sun Bae and date r@ped) someone could have gotten threatened with embarrassing photos of themselves or even got harassed just for talking about their opinions. Gosh Pile 3 Iam so sorry for all the embarrassment and shame you went through just for sharing your opinions, and constant hate you receive for being the so called unworthy one to an extent where you start feeling like you deserved everything you went through, cause Iam feeling like someone feels that way, to a point where they get triggered talking to new people or making new friends cause they are scared that the new clash in opinions will again make them feel as if they deserved the pain they went through. This is so sad pile 3, I am so sorry that you had to go through this. Hope you are doing well. Please get yourself a psychiatrist's help if any of this has happened, please know that you never did

Dear Pile 3 , its giving and receiving love, that dream that you hold so dear to yourself, that you always wanted to have and fulfill despite that loneliness in your life was giving and receiving love and support through family and friends. Forming bonds, developing deep and close connections, building a shell for yourself and your family, protecting your loved ones. Harmony is all you could have ever desired while suffering alone in your lonely little shell. I feel so sad for you pile 3.

It just feels like a bunch of superficial family members or friends who could have gravely betrayed made you give up on your hope and dreams to ever find a family, good friend circle ever again which could have shredded your sense of confidence in other people and your self beliefs. Making you feel as if having a family, meeting good people or having a good friend circle is impossible. Not only that you feel as if people are constantly ready to sneer at you, make fun of you or actually demean you in front of other people which wouldn't even be that much of a big deal as the triggered sensations in your body might make you feel.

Remember Not everybody is here to exploit and have faith in yourself and others around. Try to set a strict set of a boundary as you can and do not let anyone cross. For example Don't go out with strangers at night, don't invite people in your house if you are all alone. Lock all the doors and windows before you sleep. If someone does call you out, it doesn't always mean they are suspicious, you can always tell them that you are uncomfortable to do so and if you are uncomfortable to do so all alone, try taking a neighbour or bring a tazer or self defense equipment just in case.

I'm also getting that some of you may not know the cautionary rules or were never taught so. You can always check safety tips for living alone or with a partner (Im getting Hannah Montana in my head, lots of Disney kids. Some of you could love rom coms and could have been disney binging kids,) You could be someone who upholds a lot of traditional values in general but could come off as the complete opposite to many who might think of you as someone not wanting love and harmony (for eg some people might think that feminism is all about fighting with the other gender which is nothing but a way of asking equal love and compassion and not being treated like an object) so yeah even though some movements may get a bad rep due to a select few, some people might assume you to be those few. Hence may have got misunderstood many times which is pretty sad honestly. Im sorry pile 3. You should check out pile 2 only if it calls you.

Now lets talk about the actual problem here pile3, you fear seeing your dreams come as you feel that it is impossible to achieve so in a society, friend circle, or family like this. No matter what that circle was it left you disappointed to the point that you stopped dreaming of it and may have started fantasizing or doomscrolling as a way to get past these disappointments and triggers you feel with new people. Your paranoia of having different opinions than others or being different could have just triggered these past experiences to a point and extent that you end up acting on your feelings and start hating people or isolating yourself from connection you would really crave or want. That's why learn to discern between your feelings and reality. Do some creative vocations like art, craft, music, sculpting to let these emotions out. Once you find a channel. Let your feelings get out of your system as there can be a lot of suppressed anger and hate that can lash out on others. Thats why wait, perceive your biggest unprecedented fears, and do not channel them/lash them out on other people. This is your message for the day. Please take care of yourself. And do not perceive yourself as all the traumatic and evil things that some people projected on you just because most do not agree with your opinions. Your opinions and your perception is unique on its own. Stay confident in yourself about it, You never deserved anything bad for having an opinion. Please know that. And I hope you understand that as well. Thank You .

________________________

[klemen-tine]

Glass Bones and Paper Skin Part 2

Platonic! Bruce x Model! GN! Reader

First Part

Part 3

Trigger Warnings: Hint at suicide, Body Issues, Eating problems (not a disorder), Child Neglect, stalking

This is more of the family side than it is of Bruce. Next part will be everyone.

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“Young Master Y/N, what a pleasant surprise.” Y/N smiled at Alfred, opening their arms and sagging in relief once they hugged the butler. The three hour car ride had been tense, with everyone asking questions and Y/N trying their hardest to be polite while not losing it. The fashion show still fresh in their mind, and the clothing Francesca had given them was gently folded and placed in the trunk of the car. 

“It is good to see you, Alfred. It’s been too long.” The old man huffed, “Indeed. A year of only phone calls and cards does make it seem like it was a century ago since I last saw your face… in person.” Y/N smiled, giving Alfred a playful look before remembering where they are and how they got here. 

The smile on their face became practiced, expression smoothening out as they turned to face the rest of the family who were all waiting patiently. Dick was smiling brightly, unraveling his scarf and walking forward, “Hey Alfie, you should have seen our Y/N walk. They really made the show.” 

“I find it insulting they made you walk last,” Damian chimed and crossed his arms. Y/N gave him a small smile, “Being a closer is as much of a compliment as being the opener.” The young boy scrunched his nose, “I preferred the show in Paris.” 

“Francesca Gabbana designed the piece, Alfred you’ll have to see it.” Tim was the one carrying the case that had the piece in it. The old man hummed, “I saw it on the television, but perhaps seeing it in person will be better.” Jason shrugged, walking in and gently nudging Y/N with his larger shoulders, “Although, did she have to make the Bat symbol just the front piece? It barely covered anything.” Y/N could see his jaw clench like the very thought of other people seeing Y/N’s stomach. 

Bruce was the last to walk in, shrugging off his coat and hanging it over his arm, “Fashion designers do not care about function, only beauty.” Y/N smiled tensely, “It is a form of art.” The older man smiled at Y/N, and the model couldn’t get rid of the image of the Bruce they saw backstage. 

“Of course it is. One of the most demanding forms of art as well.” Y/N couldn’t place the tone, but there was a sudden shift in the atmosphere. Alfred shuffled, “Well, dinner is almost ready. Young Master Y/N, if you want you can wash up in one of the guest bathrooms. Your room is currently being used as a trophy room.” Y/N chuckled, “Oh dear, you’re not hanging up my photos are you?” 

“I did tell you I would be.” Y/N shook their head, “Thanks Alfred, but I don’t have any clothes here.” An arm swung around their shoulder, and Y/N stiffened under the sudden touch. Jason was smiling at them, “C’mon Y/N, we have some clothes for you.” Y/N felt the sudden spike again in their spine, alerting them that something was amiss and only bad things would happen if they asked questions. From how everyone was looking at them, Y/N specifically, it was like they were waiting for Y/N to ask. Impatiently waiting for that landmine to explode in front of them. 

“How kind of you, I wasn’t expecting that.” Y/N jumped over it. 

“Of course! How could we not have clothes ready for when our younger sibling comes home. Even though it’s been almost three years, I hope everything still fits right.” Just to land on another landmine. Y/N kept the smile on, years of being talked down to by photographers have helped them create the perfect mask of politeness. 

“So, which bathroom in which guest room?” Tim stepped forward and gently guided Y/N out from under Jason’s arm and further into the manor. Y/N stayed half a step behind, taking in the gothic manor and the decorations littering the hallway. 

Out of all the siblings, Y/N is closest with Tim. Not really siblings, and not really even friends, but if his relationship could be described as a length rope attached to each person, Tim’s would be the second shortest. Right after Alfred. They are close in age, and Tim was the first one to comment on Y/N’s photo when Y/N had first started modeling. 

It was only once, and it may have been in passing, but Y/N had held that interaction close to their heart. The first and last comment from a sibling about their modeling. An acknowledgement of sorts, that made Y/N momentarily believe that they were noticeable, only for that to be squished that same day. 

“You’re photo in the Cosmetology magazine, it looks really good. Red suits you.” 

The way that color looked on Y/N was the same as how a red rose looked on a green stem; like it was always meant to be. Y/N has seen the comparisons between them and their mother. M/N L/N was a beautiful woman, with large eyes and pouty lips, the very definition of innocence. A puppy-dog look that fit so naturally on her face. 

A white rose. 

While Y/N had a more sultry tone, a more powerful presence, one that demanded attention. 

A red rose. Not so innocent, or pure, but who can be when you see your own mother dead in the bathtub. Drug allegations and the loss of her popularity caused her downfall, and she loved her popularity more than she loved her child. Y/N finds it hard to blame her, because after they have gotten a taste of what beauty can get them, they can see why their mother got addicted to the camera flashes. 

The assurance that yes, they are beautiful. They are beautiful and worthy of the cameras. 

But with every camera flash, is a terrible comment. A terrible blog, highlighting their faults and insecurities. Someone dissecting every motion they made, every microexpression, ever comment. 

“Here you are, Y/N.” Y/N’s attention snapped back and sure enough they were in front of the door. Tim waited patiently for Y/N to enter, “Thank you, Tim.” The young man shrugged, “Sure. Clothes can be found in the dresser and shoes in the closet.” Y/N nodded, waiting for the other to leave. Instead Tim turned around and faced Y/N, waiting for the other with a raised brow, “You’re not going to ask about the clothes?” 

Y/N gulped, “I feel like if I ask, I won’t like the answer. I’d rather live in ignorance for now.” They walked past Tim, opening and closing the door, but before they saw Tim grin and a smile played out on his lips, “Smart.” 

They locked the door, and when they turned around Y/N nearly collapsed. They pressed their back into the door as they stared at the room in mild terror. Their room from their condo, fully paid off condo, was present in front of Y/N. The same color palette, the same furniture, hell even the bookshelves are the same. Gulping, Y/N walked further in and when they opened the dresser, their jaw clenched and fingers shook. 

The exact same clothes. 

The bathroom was their saving grace, or so they thought. It didn’t look like their bathroom in the condo, save for the same colored towels. That was until they opened the shower and saw full bottles of the same brand soap, shampoo, conditioner, masks, everything. 

“Just like home. It is just like home, Y/N. Only in the Manor.” They mumbled to themselves, stripping in front of the shower stall and jumping in and not even waiting for the water to get hot. They wanted in and out as quickly as possible. Washing their hair, their body, and not even bothering to do the usual masks and scrubs. 

Jumping out, they quickly towel dried themselves and threw on the robe that was so familiar. 

“Routine… keep to the routine…” Body lotion, while the skin is still damp so it can absorb into the skin better, followed by an oil. For the face it was a double cleanse, first an oil based then water-based, followed by toner, retinol, serums, hyaluronic acid, moisturizer, and face oil. Teeth will be after the meal, but hair… 

“Moisturizer, blow dry, and then oil.” Y/N continued to mutter, trying desperately to not go crazy as the familiar brands flashed across their face and they had to use it like normal. They had too. Cause if they don’t, then Y/N knows that they will go crazy. 

They don’t bother to look in the dresser again, already on the verge of having a nervous breakdown, and instead they opted to flop onto the bed. Y/N buried their face in the pillow, and tried to not think about anything. They tried to force their mind blank, just how they did on the runway. 

“Y/N, are you ready?” Only it wasn’t working. Sitting up, Y/N stared at the door and contemplated answering. The carefully crafted facade was cracking and Y/N doesn’t know if they can keep the mask on any longer. From the multiple shows this week, to the shows earlier today, then this, the mask had outworn its use and now it is slowly begging to be taken off. 

“One minute please.” Only they can’t. Not here. Definitely not here. 

Peeling themselves off of the bed, Y/N stripped out of the robe and grabbed the first shirt they saw, underwear, and jeans. Their house slippers were right next to the dresser, and Y/N wanted to cry. All of it was getting too much and they're not sure how much longer they can be doing this. 

Opening the door, Dick and Jason were the ones waiting for them. Dick grinned, “How insulting of you to look so great in only jeans and a crew neck, making the rest of us look like toads.” Y/N chuckled, closing the door behind them, “I am a model, its my job to look good in every style of clothing.” 

Dick laughed, wrapping an arm around Y/N’s shoulder he pulled the other close. Close enough that Y/N could smell the detergent used on Dick’s clothes, and body heat radiating off of the other. They started walking, Jason keeping silent while Dick chatted to Y/N, catching the other up on the past year. 

“There are more to the family now, but they won’t be at dinner today. Cass is with Steph, Duke is studying, and Barbara has dinner with her own family to join.” Y/N nodded, ignoring the small sting that others can be welcomed in while they couldn’t be. Instead, they kept the conversation polite, “How nice! It must be worthwhile to have so many people here.” Dick grinned, and there was a type of sharpness to it that had Y/N squirming. 

“Yeah, but it was never really a full house because not everyone was here.” A jab at Y/N, who muscled through it, “Well, modeling is a travel-heavy job. There was no time to come back.” The brothers stayed quiet, leading Y/N to the dining room table where everything and everyone was sitting and waiting patiently. 

Bruce caught their eyes, and motioned for them to sit at the empty seat next to him, Tim on the other side. Y/N walked over, and took the seat graciously, trying to ignore the weight in their stomach that was making their throat close. Alfred emerged, and like the true butler he was, he began setting their plates in front of them. Perfectly made and being presented beautifully on the white ceramic plates with gold leaf designs. 

Their favorite meal, one that always had Y/N running down the stairs when Alfred would announce his plans to make it, sat perfectly in the center of the plate. Its been so long since Y/N had it, no one quite makes it like Alfred does, and plus its just not really in Y/N’s diet. 

But Alfred made it. Alfred put his time and effort into making it, and Y/N is not going to spit on that. Once everyone had their plate, the dinner table became loud with chatter. Just like hoow it used to be. Dick would carry the conversation for the entire table, Jason would make sarcastic remarks, Tim intelligent ones, Damian’s would be snide, and Bruce would look exhausted the entire time. However, he still partook in them, letting his kids have the family moment of conversing with their parental figure. Smiling and chuckling as he did so, Bruce tried to be that good father figure. 

And Y/N just sits there. They eat quietly and think about their next photo shoot, the next trends that they need to hop on, the workout routine they need to adhere by. Questions do not get thrown their way– 

“Now that fashion season is over, what are your plans Y/N?” E/C eyes blink owlishly, staring at Dick in wonder as all eyes focus on them. 

“Oh, uh, um, well its normally rest season for us, but I have plans to schedule a few photoshoots, commercials, and I know Maya has been talking about me becoming a brand ambassador.” Y/N wants to keep the momentum. Y/N wants to be kept busy to get and stay away from here. 

“You’re not going to rest?” Jason questioned, raising a brow and Y/N shrugged, “I plan to take a few weeks off, but modeling doesn’t really have a set time.” It isn’t a 9-5 job, or vigilante job. Y/N will have to make public appearances, showing up to Galas, grand openings, other fashion shows, fashion shoots, and a lot of traveling. 

Bruce hummed, “Sounds like you’re running yourself thin.” Y/N gulped, “It sounds like a lot, but most of it is traveling and getting ready. Besides, I like being busy.” In high school, Y/N would go from school the the modeling agency where they would schedule photo shoots and commercials. Then it would be meeting with dieticians, personal trainers, estheticians, and then more meeting for future goals. The next steps. 

Y/N was always busy, but so was their mother and she managed. She was a single mother and a high end fashion model. If she can do it, then there is no reason Y/N can’t. 

“But there are other stuff right? Like you need to get facials to make sure your skin looks nice, and working out,” Damian chimed in, and Y/N blinked in surprise at the youngest contributing to the conversation. They smiled, “That’s not really tiring, it’s just time consuming.” 

Alfred walked back into the dining room, a dessert platter in his hands, “Then it is good you will be resting here. Take a few days to enjoy being free.” A cheesecake was set down in front of Y/N, and Alfred pointedly stared at the half eaten meal. He gave Y/N a raised brow, and while the model would normally smile and reassure the man that they would eat later, their face was full of shock, “What do you mean a ‘few days?’” 

Bruce wiped the corner of his lips with a napkin, “A few days. Rest here for a few days, it’ll be good for you and for everyone else.” Y/N gulped, “Why is it good for everyone else if I stay?” 

“Of course it’s good for us. Family sticks together obviously, and with you running off, it really sent things haywire.” There it was again. The phrase ‘running off’ as if it was something Y/N actually did. They smiled, “You’re sounding like Tim. I did not run off, I moved out.” Bruce’s brow furrowed, “ ‘Moved out,’ huh. I didn’t realize moving out meant leaving without so much as a goodbye.” 

“The things you left behind, you scheduled people to grab them and throw them out. Alfred was the one to stop them from touching your room,” Dick stated. Those blue eyes keep Y/N locked in their seat. The smile on the oldest sibling’s face was anything but kind, “It’s like you wanted to erase yourself from this manor. You left behind almost nothing that would trace you to us.” 

“Not a number to call. We had to get it from Alfred,” Jason chimed, taking a bite of the chocolate mousse cake. 

“Or a letter explaining where you went.” Damian took a sip of the tea. 

“Or an address.” Tim gulped his cup of coffee, all of them watching Y/N. They way their sibling’s shoulders tensed and that fake smile became more and more downturned. Bruce spoke once more, “It seems like you don’t even want to be a Wayne. Taking your mother’s last name despite the controversies.” 

Y/N’s smile turned bitter, “I took her last name because Wayne is more influential and I wanted to start with as little influence as possible. Plus, legally my last name is still L/N.” Bruce met Y/N’s gaze, “And look how many speculations you got for drug use.” 

“...Since when did you read gossip?” 

“The moment my kid’s photo is attached to that piece of gossip.” Y/N is still aware of all the blogs accusing them of drug-use, the same blogs that accused M/N. People using her photos to compare their features and just cause more drama. 

Y/N took a bite of the cheesecake, and the tension at the table was thick. Usually it was between Dick and Bruce, or Jason and Bruce. Never between Y/N though. Although, Y/N never spoke at the table so maybe that is why they were arguing? Can this even be considered an argument? 

Alfred cleared his throat, “While talking is appreciated, arguments stay away from the dinner table.” So it was an argument. Y/N apologized to the man and took another bite of the cheesecake. Their mind filled with the workout they are going to have to do to burn this off. 

++++

Alfred watched the child he considered a grandchild drink their tea, brewed in the darkness of the kitchen and now sitting at the dinner table again. While a year may not seem long, for Alfred it was. Y/N, who had been there for half a decade, had been glued to Alfred’s side. The man always taking the teen to and from school, and then sometimes to their gigs. 

It was Alfred that took Y/N to their first audition to be a model, and it seems like it was only a few days before he received a call from a woman claiming to be M/N L/N’s manager, and while she may not be Y/N’s manager, her daughter will be. Alfred liked Maya. The young woman always let him know of Y/N’s gigs, she would pick the young teen up and drop him off, and she tried to be as helpful as she could. Maya was a woman born to manage models and their busy and demanding schedules. 

What Alfred didn’t like, was that Maya still had the old school model critiques. Alfred gaped at the woman when she handed him a list of diets for Y/N to ‘lose weight.’ A 15 year old Y/N, who was already slender, now being told they had to be skinny but toned. A child being told that ice cream was no longer an option, and their favorite burgers were banned. 

He furrowed at the training regime, wondering how agencies can expect a teenager to be toned like their already full adult models. Nonstop cardio, ab workouts, and toning exercises. Then strut practice, because if Y/N was M/N’s child, then they were made for the runway. Born to walk in front of cameras and audiences. 

“If Y/N wants to be a model, then sacrifices have to be made,” Was Maya’s response to Alfred's inquiries. She assured him that Y/N would still be eating, and she encouraged Y/N to eat, but now those meals were restricted to certain foods. 

Alfred watched as Y/N struggled at first, their own plate different from the others, and how the blisters on their toes and heels bled through their socks and bandaids. The old man watched as the training and strut practice became an everyday routine. Y/N walked on the wobbling plyboard, barely wide enough for one foot, and the amount of times they fell off of it. The books stacked on their head for good posture and balance, followed by walking on an incline in those uncomfortable shoes, then training the muscles to the point of exhaustion. 

He had watched the child-like baby fat on Y/N’s cheeks melt off and expose cheekbones that looked tight against the skin. Y/N still looked beautiful, not more or less, but Alfred could see the exhaustion in those young eyes and how Y/N juggles modeling and being a student. 

Y/N didn’t even go to their high school graduation, choosing instead to head to Paris for their first ever abroad photoshoot. That kickstarted the traveling and runway model career. Once Y/N got their highschool diploma, they were out the door and becoming busier and busier. 

“I see you still drink onion skin tea so late at night.” Y/N smiled up at Alfred, “Of course. I was shocked to see that you still keep the skins.” The older man sat across from Y/N, nursing his own cup of tea “Of course. In case you ever visited, I thought it would be great to have some in stock.” Y/N gave Alfred a ‘really?’ look, continuing to sip on the still hot tea.

“I saw the piece you wore today,” Alfred started the conversation. 

“It truly is a beautiful piece of work.” Y/N’s jaw clenched, “Did you know about-” Y/N waved a hand in the air, “- about Bruce calling to commission a piece?” The old man took a sip of the earl gray. Y/N shook their head, unable to be upset, “Alfred, a call about that would have been appreciated.” 

“An address would also be appreciated but seeing as you have withheld that information, I saw no harm in sharing Master Bruce’s commission.” Y/N deflated, rubbing their forehead with their fingers, “Alfie-” 

“You only use that name when you know you’re about to be in trouble, so you might as well just say it, Young Master Y/N.” Y/N’s cheeks blushed and their lips pouted, “Alfie, I told you that the reason I didn’t tell you my address is because I am always traveling. I’d feel awful if you showed up and I wasn’t there.” 

“There’s a wonderful contraption called a cellphone, Young Master Y/N. I would call before making that trek over.” Y/N groaned, setting his cup down and trying not to crumble in front of the grandfather figure. Answering to Alfred was always harder than answering to Bruce. 

“Alfie–” 

“Young Master Y/N, I understand your hesitancy is sharing in your life with others. Life was lonely here, and I understand wanting to forget that. However, having only a number to call you is terrifying. What if something happens and I cannot help you?” Y/N gazed sadly at Alfred, “Life wasn’t lonely, Alfie. I had you, right?” 

Alfred Pennyworth, Y/N’s saving grace and lifeline. The person who is proof that Y/N was not alone in the Wayne Manor. The butler always willing to lend an ear when Y/N vented their frustrations, and when tears escaped their E/C eyes. He is Y/N’s biggest supporter. Always buying a magazine that had Y/N in it, and he would listen to Y/N critique the pose and the facial expression. Then he would give Y/N a slice of cheesecake and compliment Y/N, in both the photo and in person. 

Always reassuring the other that a cheat day will not set him back, and rest is what the body needs the most. Reassuring Y/N that their mother would be proud, that Bruce notices them, and that Y/N’s siblings do in fact love them. 

“Besides, why would you even want to visit? My place wouldn’t be as grand as this–” 

“It would be to make sure your fridge is stocked and that you are eating. You have always been the worst when it comes to eating, and I worry that your fridge and pantry are empty.” Alfred doesn’t have to guess that Y/N’s fridge is empty, because he knows it is. 

He knows that Y/N’s fridge is empty besides some drinks, and that the pantry is only snacks. While Y/N may have the excuse of being gone for so long, traveling and whatnot, Alfred knows that Y/N does not spend a lot of money on food. Y/N spends more money on clothes, jewlery, facial and hair care products, than they do on groceries. 

Y/N doesn’t even look ashamed. Nervous, yeah, but not ashamed. They sip their tea without making eye contact. Time to change the subject. 

“Why is Bruce, and all the boys, all of a sudden interested in what I do?” Alfred didn’t Y/N out on the obvious change in conversation, but he let it slide. The old man sighed, “Why would a parent not be interested in what their child is doing?” 

“Alfred.” 

“Young Master Y/N, you have worked tirelessly to get to the position you are now. With no help from the family, you had spent your late mother’s money to audition, then to pay your managers, and now you are making it big within the industry. Is it wrong for a parent to congratulate their child?” Y/N bit their  lip, “So its because I’m finally someone now? Was I not worth attention because I chose not to be Robin?” 

“Young Master Y/N–” 

“I don’t care about that. Like I told Bruce, it wasn’t abuse or anything, he just simply didn’t have time for me and that’s fine. I’m not mad about that.” Alfred watched Y/N get worked up, and E/C begin to shift in nervousness, “What I am talking about is why did Bruce pay off my Condo, and why does he have access to my bank account?” 

Silence fell across the table. Y/N staring at Alfred expectantly, while the butler finished his tea. Once done, he grabbed his and Y/N’s tea cup and headed towards the kitchen. 

“Perhaps, that is a Master Bruce question.” Y/N made a sound of annoyance, throwing themselves back into the chair and scrunching their nose. Standing up from the table, Y/N said goodnight to Alfred, and proceeded up that stairs and into dark hallways. Y/N wasn’t ready to go back to the guest room, feeling their heart rate spike whenever they thought of the replicated room. 

Instead, they walked down familiar halls towards a room-now-turned-trophy room. They reached for the doorknob, but found themselves unable to open it. Y/N didn’t want to see all the photos Alfred had kept throughout the years. Rather, what caught Y/N’s attention was the lacking of doors in the hallway. There used to be two more doors on their left, but instead there was now one. The area where the second door was, was perfectly sealed and now blended into the wall. 

Y/N took a deep breath, and opened the door. They used to be guest rooms as well. The two rooms had queen-sized beds and armoires for the unexpected guests that popped up. Y/N’s room used to be a guest-room, but they ended up liking the privacy because no one else’s room was around their’s. In fact, it was the guest room across from Y/N’s room that they had turned into the practice room, seeing that no one came down this hallway. 

However, clearly people were not because of the renovation done. 

When the door opened, Y/N sought out the light switch. The room was pitch black, and the last thing Y/N wanted to do was trip over something. Feeling around the wall, Y/N rejoiced when they felt the familiar switch and flicked it on. Once the bright light filled the room, Y/N took a deep breath. They were expecting a game room, or an indoor swimming people because that seems like something a rich person would do. Turning two guest rooms into a pool despite it being on the second floor. 

Something not exactly normal, but expected. 

Y/N didn’t expect this. Gone was the wall that separated the two bedrooms, making it one long room, and all the furniture was absent. No more beds, armoires, and it looks like even the bathrooms were gutted and turned into part of the room. All the tables, rugs, sofas, everything that was once in those rooms, were now gone besides the chandeliers that hung on the ceiling. Filling the room with a bright light, that didn’t fit the manor aesthetic at all, and illuminating everything that was in the room. 

While the furniture was gone, the room was not empty. Mannequins lined the walls, on their own podiums and glass cases. While seeing them bare would have been scary, seeing them dressed in the clothes that Y/N had worn on the runways was more terrifying. Y/N, in the runway season alone, walked 86 shows. That is the runways season alone, not including the other smaller shows they have done since graduating high school almost a year ago. 

These weren’t all of the clothes they have worn, there was still a large amount and they were the most iconic pieces. Pieces that a designer would never want to give someone. 

Y/N walked further in, taking in the first mannequin on the right, and they noted that the mannequin looked eerily similar to Y/N. Only missing the facial features and hair, but it looked like the proportions were almost spot on. 

The plastic doll had on the outfit from a runway show earlier in the year, when Y/N walked for Versace. A simple long blazer with deep V cut, stopping mid-thighs where only an inch of skin was shown before thigh boots bedazzled in gold, diamonds, emeralds, and other precious jewels took over the rest of the legs. The earrings they wore were poked into the mannequin's own ears and the bracelets hung off the dainty wrists. In the glass case, next to the mannequin, was the photo taken of Y/N when they were walking. 

The next case was a piece they wore when walking for a newer fashion-designer, one that Y/N did for free just to get to their name out there, and the piece was a gorgeous suit, dyed a beautiful vermillion red that had the slighted shimmer of gold in it. Y/N’s runway photo was once again next to the mannequin. 

The entire room was full of these iconic runway looks, with Y/N’s photo right next to them, and they surrounded all sides of the room and some of them in the middle. Almost like an art gallery of sorts, and Y/N looked at every single one of them. Not in amazement or judgment, but more of horror. 

Y/N knows some of these fashion designers. They have known some of them since they were a child and watching their mom get fitted by these exact same designers. No matter how much she begged, they would never let her take one of their creations home. These clothes were meant to be either safe-guarded in a museum, in their own collection, or in some cases bought by a celebrity and worn to an award ceremony as advertisement. 

In other words, Y/N knows that some of these designers would rather gnaw off an arm then give away their precious creations. Yet, here some of those precious creations were, hanging on the mannequin shaped like the model. 

In the center of the room, like it was the main show, was the Batman-inspired piece. All that was missing was the photo, which wouldn’t be published for another few weeks. 

Taking a deep breath, they stared at the reflection in the gold-plated bat. They were trying to process all of this. It’s one thing to have photos, because Y/N is a model and photos are expected, but to have the actual clothes they wore. Clothes that Y/N knows the designers would kill for, dressed on mannequins that looked almost exactly like Y/N was another thing.

Y/N backed out of the room, turning the lights off and shutting the door silently. They stared at their own door, sweat beginning to break out on their forehead, and they went against their instincts and opened that door. 

A trophy room, Alfred had said. The walls are decorated in their photos, and the bed is still as immaculate as the day they left. Turning the lights on, Y/N couldn’t help but to smile as the time capsule in front of them. From their very first photoshoot, when Y/N was a gangly 15-year-old with still chubby cheeks, to the most recent photoshoot of a now 18 almost 19-year-old Y/N. Their confidence can be seen in their pose and gaze, something their younger self lacked. 

Y/N walked closer to the walls and looked at all the different photos. Some candid, some posed, some in the water, and there’s one where they are in Greece. Some had Y/N fully clothed with barely and inch of skin, and some were of Y/N with barely an inch of clothes. From makeup, to shoes, to perfume, to clothes, Y/N’s photo was pinned on the wall or framed. 

A photo caught their attention though. It wasn’t one from a website, or a magazine, but an actual photo. Y/N looked closer, and they recognized the set from when they were 16-years-old posing for an editorial magazine. 

However, the angle in which this photo was taken from, Y/N knows there were no cameras there. All the cameras were in front or on the side, not behind. Another photo caught their eyes, and it was the same thing. A photo from behind. 

Once they started looking for them, Y/N could begin to spot them all. Photos that they know no photographer took. There was one that had their blood chilling and fear rising in their chest. It was a photo, taken at night and through one of the windows in Y/N’s condo. Y/N had one wall in the living room that was basically all windows, letting in the morning sun and led out onto the gated terrace. It was high enough that they had no neighbors that could look through those windows. 

In the photo, Y/N was wearing their pajamas and their hair still looked wet. They were sitting on the counter of the island in their kitchen, eating raspberries and watching Youtube on their TV. It was such a close photo, close enough that the reflection can be seen in the glass. 

Y/N recognizes the blue and black, and when Y/N’s eyes drifted to another photo of them in their home, bile rose into their throats. The morning sun illuminated the warm neutral color palette in the living room, and Y/N was out on the terrace sitting at the patio table they had set up out there drinking a cup of coffee and reading a book. They had their shirt off, exposing ribs pulled tightly against skin and abs that remained toned even when Y/N wasn’t flexing. The shorts they had on exposing soft skin and pedicured feet, their slipped laid forgotten under the chair they were sitting in. 

They recognize that book. It was a book they read in the height of summer, meaning that this photo was taken half a year ago, when it was okay to sit outside in the warm summer mornings and let the skin begin to circulate. 

What chilled Y/N even more was that whoever took this photo was on their terrace with them. They were on Y/N’s terrace, and Y/N didn’t even know. The Wayne family has known Y/N’s address the entire time. They knew where Y/N was staying, they knew Y/N’s photoshoot schedules, and they knew Y/N better than Y/N thought they did. 

“I didn’t think you’d come in here.” Y/N’s head whipped around and there was Dick, or Nightwing, still in costume and smiling at them. 

“The hell is this?” Y/N held up the photo of them on the terrace, and Dick shrugged, “I’ll admit, those photos we took. But we didn’t take the other ones.” 

“What other ones?” “The ones of you at the photoshoots. I know you saw them, but we didn’t take those.” Y/N glared at Dick, and pushed themselves close to the wall as Dick walked in. Damian was right behind him. The oldest brother walked to the photo that originally caught Y/N’s attention, “You had a stalker, can you believe that? He took hundreds of photos of you, and all we did was make him stop.” 

Y/N’s lips pursed, “How do I know you’re not lying?” Dick unpinned the photo, and with Damian’s help, trapped Y/N against the wall next to the photo of them outside. He held up the photo, “Because, Y/N, as you can see we prefer more… candid photos then staged.” 

Y/N snapped, “There is nothing candid about that photo! That is an invasion of privacy! Trespassing! So is that one!” They pointed to one of them sitting on the counter. Damian grabbed their arm, and Y/N wanted nothing more than to shove the kid off. 

“And so is that one.” Dick pointed to one of Y/N wearing only a large shirt, a towel around their shoulders as they walked into their kitchen. 

“And that one.” 

“And that one.” 

“That one there.” 

“There’s that one too.” Y/N looked at all the photos, hidden next to the magazine photos, and they were all of them in their home. Horror morphed on Y/N’s face when there was one photo of Y/N in the bedroom, in the midst of taking their shirt off. 

Dick continued to smile, and Y/N could see Jason and Tim peeking in from the doorway. 

“You did a lot on your own, Y/N. You built a name for yourself, became a highly sought after model, it really is amazing.” Dick walked closer, “But you know what all of those photos have in common?” Y/N stared into blue eyes, terror swimming in those E/C eyes of theirs. 

“You aren’t even aware of your photo being taken.” The truth unsettled Y/N enough to try and squirm out of Damian’s grip and to get away from Dick. They didn’t need to be pointed out. Y/N is aware that in every photo taken without their permission, they were not once aware of it. Even when they looked like they would be only a few feet away, Y/N not once looked bothered. Y/N doesn’t even remember that feeling of being watched. 

Tim and Jason stepped in the room, making it seem crowded and even if Y/N got out of Damian’s grip, there was no way they were getting past all of them. 

Large hands gripped Y/N’s forearms, feeling like they would bruise the skin if Y/N struggled. 

“So tell your big brother Y/N, how do you expect us to trust you on your own when you can’t even notice someone on your terrace?” 

________________________________________________________

Part 3 is coming soon....

[smuttopiaa]

MUTUALLY PARASITIC #1 - Inspection

WARNINGS : Non-con, but kinda dub con, slight stalking, drug use, self hate, attempted suicide, mention of self harm scars, low self esteem, overdose.

Just a huge massive trigger warning! Please protect yourself.

-

Today was bleek, like the days blending into each other, similar to some painting being smudged slowly overtime, distorting day by day. The days blended into each other, everyday was the same. Awake by Four o'clock in the afternoon, high until you crash around Five AM, the only thing you chased was that high, that's all that mattered, each day pieces of you were being chipped away. Not that you cared. Your parents dragged you to an island, like that would fix your issues. But it only isolated you.

The only person you knew was Barry, your dealer. But he didn't count as a friend, although you chatted, but it was short chats.

Here you were again, at Barry's rusty trailer. The only place you knew on the island. You knocked on the door, and Barry let you in. The trailer was poorly lit, by orange light bulbs, and the pale moon that watched over the sky. You stepped in, seeing a face you've seen before, but never dared to talk to. "What you want today?" Barry asked, while the blond boy stared at his phone, "The usual,"

As the brunette stepped into the other room, you caught a glimpse of dark blue eyes, that belonged to the blonde. "Your new." He noted.

"Just moved here." you replied without looking at him.

"I'm Rafe."

"Y/n"

Barry waltzed back in the room, handing you a clear bag, the Xanax pills poking exposed to the whole world, while you handed him a fifty dollar bill. "You good, though?" Barry asked. "Yep." you lied before walking out, not even bothering to say anything to Rafe.

You entered your car, and zoomed off to the beach. It was you favorite place in the obx, parked in the parking lot, overlooking the dark waters, that were once so vibrant, colorful, and full of life, but now, all that life drained by darkness. It reminds you of you. The moon watched as you sat in your car, swallowed three pills. Then waited, but all that met you was self hate, tears pooled in your eye. "Fuck!" you screamed, hitting the steering wheel. On the dashboard you made eye contact with the small bag which contained five more pills. You didn't even hesitate, as you swallowed the all. Then silence, the buzz that drove you from your home, out to the cut was gone. You sat in your car, and waited.

Your body started feeling heavy, like you were floating on air, in the clouds where your shitty reality seemed fake, you felt at peace. You were nodding out, slumped over your car seat. But then the unexpected, a knock at your window. You jumped out of your haze, as alert as you could on a shittongs milligrams of Xanax.

It was the blonde. Rafe.

You rolled down your window, "Are you okay?" he asked, your brain was as slow as a snail so it was hard to interpret what he was saying. "Huh....? I um...yea I am okay." you manged to say. "Xannys kicking in huh?"

"What are you-How'd you get here?"

"Truth be told, I followed you."

"Thats not creepy or anything."you slurred. He chuckled more to himself. This should've been a bad sign, but your brain is fried, and you didn't really care." Right, mind if I hang out with you for a little bit? " which sounded more of a statement than a question." I have a feeling I can't say no." you shrugged. He so kindly opened the door, and you so intoxicatly stumbled out. You felt uneasy, like your legs were gonna give out, like the world was spinning on its axis and you were ammune to gravity. You didn't quite know when it happened, but you remember making contact with the floor, the cold pavement touched your face. Then darkness.

You re-gained concousiness. You were in a car, moving slowly. But you were too weak to say anything, too weak to move even. You were trying to keep your eyes opened, but you couldn't. Then that same darkness overtook you.

Again your eyes opened. Only this time, you were met with light, too bright of lights. And you were wet, the clothes were still on, and you seemed to be in a bathtub. The bathroom door opened, and in came that blonde. Rafe! You remembered his name, you opened your mouth to speak but you couldn't utter any words, shame, guilt. You felt like such a failure. A sob escaped your mouth as you tried to speak. "It's okay." He rushed over to you. Embracing you tightly, as you sobbed into his shirt, without a doubt staining it. "Shhhh. It got you." He said, gently runing his hands over your hair. You didn't know him at all, but in that moment you felt safe.

A few hours into the night, you memory was still hazy, but you remember being sat on his bed, you'd changed, into an ill fitting shirt, which you assumed was the blonde's because it hung losely on your frame. You were alone in the room, staring off into the distance, trying to make your brain work, but it seemed to lag behind. You heard the door open, Rafe stepped in, a warm smile plastered on his face. He silently sat next to you.

"Thanks." you said looking at him, In turn, he looked into your eyes, you felt captivated by his deep sea eyes, they grabbed grabbed you and held you. "Why'd you take all the pills?"

"I don't know." you scoffed sadly, in truth they were many reasons, you couldn't pick a single one out. "Is it for the same reason you cut yourself?" he said looking at your exposed thighs, you quickly put your hands over them in embarrassment. "No need to feel ashamed." He put his hands over yours, and you couldn't help but notice the size difference. "The darkness makes us do things, that we can't explain." He utters, his eyes deeply engraved into yours. His rough yet soft hands cupped your cheek, pulled you closer, so close you could feel his breath. "Don't hurt yourself, your too beautiful." He smiled. It was the first time a guy has called you beautiful.

Most of them opted to call you 'hot', 'fine' and other objectify names, but no one has ever used the word beautiful to describe you. You leaned in, smashing your lips against his. His other hand interlocking with yours. Quickly his tounge slipped onto your mouth, you could taste alcohol on him. He scooped you up, putting you on his lap, his hand on your lower back, the other cupping your jaw, his tounge intertwining with yours. Uncontrollably you started grinding on his, rising memeber. You could hear as he softly moans into your mouth. This seemed like a bad idea.

He threw you on the bed, stripped his shirt, before climbing back on top of you, slowly grinding into you. You could feel arousal pooling inbetween your legs. His cold palms, sneaking up your thighs, his digits sliding over your panties and Inside of you. A soft moan escaped your lips as he slid his fingers into your entrance, then slowly begnning to slide in and out of you. This was a bad idea. This shouldn't be happening. You tried to stop rafe's fingers, by grabbing at his wrists, but you were much too weak.

"Wait, this isn't a good idea." you choked out, but he seemed to be deaf to your protests. You attempted to push him off, but it didn't work. So you resorted to bitting his shoulder, "Ow what the fuck." he let up a little bit, you felt a sharp sting as he struck his hand across your cheeks. You used this opportunity to get out from under him, running into the bathroom, "Get back here." He screamed, running after you. You shut the door behind you, but before you could lock it, he burst right in.

He grabbed your throat and squeezed, his puplis dilated, like predator looking at it's prey. You clawed at his hand, at his chest, but nothing, he only squeezed harder. He shoved you over the bathroom counter, bending you over. "Please don't!" you screamed, resisting as much as possible, but only seemed to turn him on more. "Shut the fuck up!"

"Rafe please get off me!" you yelled, tears pooling into your eyes. You tears stream down your face as he slammed his cock into your vagina. Not letting you adjust to his length, before he began thrusting in an out of you. "Get off of me." you sobbed. "Aww are you crying, shut up and take it!" he thrusts into you. It was making you sick that your body was reacting to this, it felt good physically, not mentally. The harder he pumped into you, the closer you were to climax. "Come on baby, I know your enjoying it." He said after a moan escaped from your lips.

You could feel your belly tightening up, the coil snapping, he was pushing you over the edge. Your vagina pulsiated around his thick length. Your brain became foggy, thoughts unclear.

" Oh fuck baby! Your pussy is taking me so well. Good girl." He whispered into your ears. The room was filled with the sound of skin slapping on skin, and rafe's groans and dirty talk. You clamped up as orgasmic euphoria washed over your body, you felt rafe release inside of you. He paused for a moment, panting. Then he slides out of you. "Hope your on birth control." He shrugs, getting into the tub, drawing the shower curtains, and turning on the shower.

You slumped down to the floor. You legs were shaking. Your emotions heightened. Emotionally you felt violated, you sobbed silently on his bathroom floor. You felt disgusting. You were disgusting.

You managed to pick yourself back up. Putting on your soaking wet clothes. You walked out of the room, down the stairs and out the door. You didn't really know how to get home. You wandered on the streets for what seemed like hours, before eventually finding your way back home.

The front door was unlocked. You stepped inside, locking the door. Your heart froze as you heard soft footsteps behind you. You turned only to see your step dad, you scoffed and walked past him, saying nothing. But the look of confusion painted on his face lasted in your memory longer than you wanted.

You rushed to your room. Locking the door behinding you. You entered the shower, scrubbed your skin raw, hoping to scrub the flith off your skin. Tears rolled down your cheeks, as you came to the horrifying truth. You liked it.

I hope you enjoyed. Critisim is highly appreciated.

[scribbleseas]

Straight Laced, Chapter XI: To Be A Perfect Heroine…

Description: After the London’s Royal Ballet company’s prima ballerina goes missing within a string of mysterious disappearances among the ballet’s young ballerinas, you finally get your chance to debut in the leading role, taking on the position’s physical toil and immense social pressure. Although this role was supposed to be your grand jeté into the spotlight, it is quickly complicated when these disappearances catch the eye of Ciel Phantomhive — the Queen’s Guard Dog. He is a captious and shrewd man who also happens to be one of London’s most eligible bachelors.

For enough profit for you to secure your freedom for the first time, Lord Phantomhive double casts you as both his accomplice to solving these dancer disappearances and… his pretend lover. While debuting as London’s new prima ballerina, you must perfect a brand new routine: deceiving all of the nation’s polite society while actively searching for a serial killer — all while being an immigrant from France with a dancer’s reputation.

What could go wrong when you realize this off-stage performance of yours may not be an act at all?

Story Warnings: detailed description of gore, pain, and violence, detailed death, smut & explicit sexual scenes, allusions to non-consensual sex, objectification, prostitution, allusions to under-aged prostitution, smoking, drinking, eating disorder tendencies (food restriction, frequent references to wanting to maintain a certain weight, over-practicing & exercising), infidelity, fake courtship, swearing

EXTRA TW: MENTIONS OF suicide (just in terms of the Swan Lake storyline!) And again this is a reminder to read the general trigger warnings. This is a heavier chapter that hits MOST of those warnings and your safety and comfort comes before everything! Please don’t hesitate to reach out to me if you would like clarification about this chapter’s subject matter.

Author’s Note: Hi everyone! It’s been a long time coming for this chapter. I hope this one can finally answer some of the questions you’ve all been having…in more ways than one <3. I hope you find somewhere comfy to read this and get a snack because this baby is over 10,000 words. More than 18 pages, 11-sized font on my Google Docs. Some of these scenes I’ve had in my mind for 2 years!! Hope you love this one.

Happy Reading,

Dan

⇐ PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ⇒

MASTERLIST

November 11, 1895

The Royal Opera House’s Backstage, Your Dressing Room

Just as you warned the stubborn Earl, his insistence to speak with you made you late. If you wanted your makeup to be flawless for the final performance, you couldn’t stretch for your usual 30 minutes. And you did want your makeup to be flawless. It wasn’t an option, under Natasha’s leadership.

At least your pre-performance routine was just as ingrained into your subconscious as the show itself was. Every step you took to ready yourself helped you submerge deeper into Odette, a desperate attempt to comprehend the last two days of your turbulent life. Starting with your stage makeup, you spread rosewater across your face to rid it of debris. Natasha used to handle this routine for you, but Ciel asked you to start taking care of your own makeup, purchased by him. It was a precaution he insisted upon, given that Amelié died from a poison that invaded through the skin.

You made careful eye contact with your reflection in your vanity mirror, noting your bitten lips and tired eyes. You sighed, eyes darting to the clip of stationary attached to the corner of the glass. Ciel’s home number was still adhered there, the Earl adamantly refusing to remove it in the event of an emergency.

You pressed your face into a towel, drying it. The familiar smell of rosewater alerted your senses; awaiting the stage was like electricity crackling through your veins, despite your melancholy. Still, your mind was rightfully conflicted, overdrawn.

William Wood was not the killer you had been chasing all this time. Ciel suspected that Natasha was. Gwen had apparently lied to you to harm your relationship. But even still, Ciel once warned you that he was a liar. A manipulator who tended to work people like the game pieces his company manufactured. Only the best were so difficult to decode:

“I care about you more than you know, Y/n.” Ciel always sounded so at ease, so sure. You felt that he always had a perfect arrangement of words sitting on the tip of his tongue, to falsely promise, to serenade. To lie.

“You do not,” you had insisted, ignoring the earnestness in his sapphire eye. It couldn’t be real. You felt a flare of stubbornness in your chest, urging you to shove him away.

“I do.” He refused to blink. Adamant in spite of the weight that his accusation had.

Natasha Wood was one of the only people in your life that believed in you. He didn’t know her like you did.

Before Natasha, you had your mother… Until she died about four years into your studies at the Paris Opera School of Dance. You were nine years old. On top of your enrollment, she couldn’t afford the medication that the doctor’s prescribed for her cough. It had only grown more severe week by week, until she was coughing up blood and her lips tinged with blue. Your father only gave your mother so much money to encourage her to keep their rendezvous— and you, of course —a secret.

“Waste this money on my end of life care? When my shining star of a daughter has her whole life ahead of her? I will not do it,” your mother always insisted. You remembered how her cold hand felt against yours, it was iron, despite being clammy with oncoming death.

After she died, the dance school allowed you to continue studying there, your talent promising enough to be worth fostering. By the time you were fifteen (or fourteen, was it?) you were old enough to make the school a profit through its dance foyer to make up for your free education.

You’d never forget the final rasp of her breath.

Following the curve of your cheekbones, you highlighted your face with a soft shade of pink. The spotlight tended to wash out ballerina’s features. Now, you stared back at Odette, the White Swan. Y/n Y/l/n was the star hidden beneath, but no matter how seasoned a prima ballerina you were, not even you could shove the complete extent of your worries far beneath your costume.

You remembered the shock that pounded at your chest when Violet told you about William quite well, how most of her allegations were true. You thought you knew the owner of the opera house. Could you have been so misdirected by your mentor, too?

Until the second Ciel stopped you from entering the carriage, you had a practiced apology for Natasha waiting on your lips. You were supposed to be so sorry for not telling her about her husband’s infidelity and crimes, for your means of investigating her husband being so intimate. For imprisoning him without her knowledge.

Now? You felt as if you were prosecuting your older sister. Her every word, her every glance. Once it was in search of approval, now, it was for…bloodlust? You couldn’t see it. Natasha could hardly walk without assistance—how could she kill anyone?

Why would she hurt anyone? What motivation would Natasha have? Killing her own cast members? For her husband’s violence against them? It was unfathomable. No version of an explanation would stop bile from creeping its way up your throat–each new explanation that came to your mind was only more vile than the last.

Though, you had to ponder: why would Ciel make such a claim if he was not sure? Your mutual need to solve the case was one of the first feelings you had in common. You should have put aside your pride and joined Ciel to interrogate William, or at the very least, listened to the Earl’s concerns. He had something he needed to tell you, but you simply wouldn’t hear it, too occupied with your own hurt.

It was too late for regret, you supposed. You could only meet him after the show and hope for the best.

Mechanically, you rolled your performance tights up your legs, carefully inspecting them for pulls or tears in your body-length mirror. Satisfied, you slid on your ivory pointe shoes, ensuring they were straight laced and spotless, free of grime. Lastly, you stepped into one of your Odette tutus, this corset flaring into a feathered shirt with gold detailing lining the neckline and bodice. It only felt right to wear for your last Swan Lake performance— it was the first iteration of the costume you wore after inheriting the role from Janet.

Janet’s lifeless face flashed in your mind, painting over that fond opening night memory with a new coat of guilt. The young woman had been a beautiful dancer, and a nice person who provided for her family. And her sick mother’s prescription, you made yourself flinch, dry mouth relieved when you took a drink of Sauternes. You poured yourself half a glass, the previously unopened wine bottle a precaution you tucked in the back or your wardrobe for emergencies. If this evening didn’t qualify itself as an emergency, you weren’t sure what would have.

Perfectly on time, your dressing room door flew open, never following a knock. Approximately 30 minutes before the curtain ascended, Natasha always made sure to lace your bodice for you, always finding fault when another cast member did so. The director pushed the door open with the bottom of her cane, her cool seagreen eyes scanning your makeup, dragging down your figure.

Looking for notes to make, you noticed.

“It is good to see you, Y/n,” Natasha said, her expression unchanging from stormy indifference. You couldn’t place when the director had lost her supportive smile, the warm, yet authoritative way she would request for more—for better—and when a frigid insistence stiffened that inspiring patience. When did fear settle in your stomach instead of admiration? “I was worried about attendance today, after Maisie. Quite a tragedy—she was talented.”

The apology you practiced died on your lips, killed by your surprise and uncertainty. Until now, Natasha never addressed any company losses— she attributed them as disappearances from a ballerina being unable to handle the pressures of the industry. You had assumed she didn’t know better because the press was restricted from covering the mysterious company deaths, the Queen fearing public panic, according to Ciel’s acquaintance in the press. After Maisie Stannard died near the steps of the British Museum’s gala, the press had no choice but to cover the incident.

Therefore, Natasha had no choice but to address it with her employees. It was a loss to the company, now well-known by the rest of the country.

That being said, she certainly wouldn’t reveal that William was currently pacing the confines of a holding cell. All the public knew was that Maisie Stannard was killed—no one knew of any of the other company deaths. William’s arrest was only knowledge of Ciel’s (and his accomplices, of course), the State, and Natasha’s. You couldn’t imagine what the director told the rest of the company in order to explain William’s prolonged, sudden absence—especially after he’d only been back from France for about a week prior to you and Ciel arresting him.

Ciel suspected Natasha of shooting Maisie. Of poisoning Amelié, forcing Janet off of the Tower Bridge–you didn’t even know the gruesome details from Eliza’s body, when they found it. Your guilt for suspecting the currently lacing your feathered corset in her usual meticulous way was so consuming, you forced yourself to think of Violet’s distressed cries to remind yourself of who you were being cautious for. You had to solve this for the victims, their loved ones, preventing any more murders. You had to justify yourself—it was a serial killer investigation, after all.

You would have to touch base with Ciel.

“I cannot imagine who could have done this to her,” you mumbled evasively, finishing off your wine glass with a flourish. You welcomed the selection’s competing tastes of acid and sweet butterscotch, and tried not to lament over the untouched cigar in your drawer. The smoke would have done better to soothe your nerves, but arriving late had limited you.

“A young, beautiful woman, a ballerina who was married to a successful man,” Natasha mused purposefully, “you would be surprised, Y/n. Ugliness lurks everywhere and there are always sacrifices to be made. As Odette, should you not know that? The perfect heroine always does.”

Ugliness lurks everywhere and there are always sacrifices to be made. You were unsure of what to make of Natasha’s words.

Ciel once told you that you needed to make your target speak in an investigation. They already had their agenda—evading you—and sometimes, what they refused to say was more telling than what they did.

Natasha had to be aware of your role in her husband’s arrest; that to some degree, you were an accessory to the Queen’s Guard Dog’s investigation. She was gauging you— whether or not that was in defense of her crimes, as Ciel would have suspected, or looking to get a sense of what Ciel made of Maisie’s death. After all, they’d arrested William, in part, because they believed he was the killer. Was she attempting to learn if they had their suspicions turned elsewhere? If she was their suspect, she would want to know if her cover was still intact.

You needed to control yourself, put on the facade of a sad, yet trusting employee. Blissfully unaware and shallow—the purse dog of a wealthy Earl. Limited, materialistic, uncaring. Almost as if you were reprising the woman you were prior to starting this investigation. In your own way, you could be the perfect heroine.

“I do, of course,” you answered, double-checking the measured bow that Natasha pulled the lace into, each cross section between the eyelets matching perfectly. The director was nothing if not precise, now turning to fasten your headpiece’s clips into your hair, already twisted into a braided ballerina bun. “Odette is too trusting, putting her future in the whims of a man who only just met her,” you admitted, the words making you feel like a hypocrite.

“Speaking on the subject—unexpected ugliness—I want to apologize. I heard about Mr. Wood’s —” you started, deciding that the smartest way to protect yourself from Natasha’s probing was to behave exactly as you had initially planned to. Apologizing would convey the submissive guilt the director would have expected from you. In doing so, you would assure her that there was nothing amiss between you, shielding the fact that Ciel had cautioned you in the first place.

“Twenty minutes to Act One, I expect my company members to be focused on the show. Especially my principal dancer,” Natasha’s piercing eyes flashed, her words dipped in ice, no matter how she tried to inject warmth back into her face. She looked older than she did three months ago, her worry lines more prominent in her fair skin. Exhaustion showed itself in deep bags beneath her impatient stare.

“The Sugar Plum Fairy has the highest jumps, the widest turns. She is the embodiment of grace and poise. I would much prefer you to be spending your spare time on a barre rehearsing instead of surveying my personal affairs. You will be able to continue being my prima ballerina, yes?” She pulled her lips into a wry smile, an expression that was close to pity.

You didn’t expect Natasha to engage with you about her husband’s arrest, but you wanted to watch her. Decode how she decided to evade you, seeing that she didn’t so much as let the words escape your mouth.

Not to mention, you weren’t surprised that Natasha chose to demean your talent. She knew your dedication to managing her opinion of you well, having fostered your need to please alongside the rest of the company’s. All of this to say: Natasha chose to turn the focus of the conversation back to you, denying your disguised request to discuss William.

“Yes,” you repeated, forcing your gaze to fall downcast and self-consciously hesitate to return to meet her eyes. “I do appreciate this opportunity, Natasha,” you added pathetically, watching the director’s warm authoritarianism resettle in her face confidently, reinforced by your obsequious behavior. Her thin lips managed a smile. You had reassured her, and that in of itself, worried you. It proved she was hiding something. “You won’t hear anything more of it from me.”

“Focus is a crucial asset for ballerinas,” Nastasha assured you too brightly given her stormy entrance. She gestured to her cane with her chin—it leaned on your vanity behind you, since she needed both hands to tie your costume and affix your headpiece. You obediently handed the medical accessory to her, more than familiar with the director’s gestures.

“Remember to stop by Polly’s office after tonight’s performance. She wishes to triple check your measurements for a spare Sugar Plum costume. We were hoping to have these appointments finished after practice yesterday evening, but with you here now, I would like it complete,” Natasha said, plucking a stray hair of yours off your shoulder and letting it fall to the floor.

“Of course. I will see her immediately after the performance,” you answered simply, biting back your frustration at her dig. Natasha was subliminally critiquing your decreased amount of time at the opera house. Before Ciel roped you into his investigation, you spent most of your time in the opera house’s studio, fiercely guarding your promotion by rehearsing as much as you could manage. Now, you attended your mandatory rehearsals and classes, but nothing more. Instead, you opted to rehearse in the safety of the dance studio Ciel had Sebastian create for you.

“Do give tonight everything you have, Y/n,” Natasha pressed her weight back into her cane, giving you a final once over before she opened your door, preparing to leave. Each night, Natasha helped you with the finishing details of your costume and circulated through the rest of the company to solve any last-minute issues. “The end of this run also sets the tone for the beginning of Nutcracker season.”

“I will never give a performance that I cannot be proud of,” you replied truthfully, painting on an Odile-inspired devil-may-care smile for Natasha. “Allow me to remind you why you chose me for this role.”

“You know what I like to hear,” she answered, casting a wink at you from over her shoulder. She opened her mouth to speak again, but before she could, Antoine, the dancer performing as Prince Seigfried, interjected with a clear question on his face. Knowing better than to wait for Natasha, you showed yourself to the backstage wings.

In the chaos that took place backstage, you always focused on the excited chatter of the audience and the pre-performance orchestral music from the other side of the curtain to fuel your adrenaline. You could feel their energy, it radiated in waves. For the next three hours, you were Odette, Queen of the Swans, and Odile, the deceptive daughter of sorcerer Von Rothbart.

You could meet their hardships with the same honesty and emotion you faced your own, and step off the stage to put a real end to this investigation.

That was what set you apart as a professional.

Two Hours Later

The Royal Opera House’s Main Stage

This was the final scene of the show. The Lakeside, Odette’s last stand.

You were poised in the air, the music growing severe as Von Rothbart carried you, pulling Odette out of Prince Siegfried’s protective arms. Until this second, your characters had been entangled with one another, dancing intimately in forgiveness. The music had been soft, portraying a delicate, damaged love slowly on the mend as Siegfried pleaded with Odette, guilty of falling for Odile’s ruse at the ball.

Now, the dark stage flickered, illusions creating the look of lightning and crashing drums replicated rolling thunder.

You entered this scene with a heavy premonition in the pit of your stomach, and you allowed yourself to wear that alarm on your face like an accessory to better portray the story. You were just as distressed as your character, the innocent White Swan. Moments ago, she returned to the lake, heartbroken because Prince Siegfried professed his love to the wrong woman. He had been fooled, but the curse still forced Odette back into her swan form, leaving her to mourn her humanity with the rest of the cursed swans. In spite of her forgiveness, the damage had already been done.

The curse may never be lifted. They could never successfully be in love. It could never be—a sentiment that was familiar to you. Even so, it stung like a fresh wound, never seeming to dull night by night.

The lovers shared a brief dance, only to be torn apart by the sorcerer. Now, the prince reached, his fingers only managing to graze hers longingly. Your eyes followed the missed touch, your head jerking upwards as if you were further panicked by the failed attempt.

Now you were caught between both dancers, each hand held by opposite forces. Love and death, Prince Siegfried and Von Rothbart. At this point in the performance, Odette was dancing on the line between her life and death, breaking the curse and succeeding through love or not breaking the curse and succeeding through death.

Ugliness lurks everywhere and there are always sacrifices to be made, you couldn’t keep yourself from thinking over your old mentor’s words. You always thought of Natasha when you danced.

The woman was everything you wanted to be: a self-starter in spite of her immigrant status, a brilliant talent, thoughtful, confident. She had landed a marriage that had appeared loving and fair, and she was still a dancer, in spirit.

The foreboding melancholy settling on your shoulders, your Odette was more skittish than she normally was. She was rather unsteady as the two men guided and pulled her every which way, one trying to hold, one trying to capture. You allowed yourself to feel weightless: it was the best means for Odette’s dancing to look just as induced upon her as it was in the moment. You even allowed your head to fall lazily in line with your neck with every turn, constructing the facade of a woman succumbing to her curse, tired of begging for a way out of the cursed life that held her hostage.

For a moment, you let the tension leave your body, draping lifelessly over Von Rothbart’s supporting clutches. The sorcerer had successfully pulled the White Swan out of her prince’s hand. Odette was exerted within her life. She knew that her curse was permanent, and yet, she craved her self-determination. Her right to love. The right to live as she wanted to, everlastingly.

The perfect heroine? Were there truly always sacrifices to be made? You wondered, flicking your wrists and positioning your fingers as your Odette confidently broke free from the sorcerer’s grip and stepped up the short stairway. Without another second, she threw herself into the lake. The orchestra played dynamically, the swell of music portraying the death of Von Rothbart, the antagonist collapsing and dying from Odette’s sacrifice.

Their deaths left the prince to follow Odette, preferring to die and reunite with her in spirit rather than live without her. The cast of swans—the rest of the company—remained on stage, watching in equal parts awe and horror. Both you and Antoine, the prince’s dancer, jumped into a stage opening that the stagehands kept lined with mattresses to make the short fall as safe as it could be as the group had a final intricate dance number. You realized that this would be your last time getting back to your feet after making that show-stopping jump.

Now, you were made of energy as the both of you ran back behind stage to the wings to make your final entrance for the season. You could never see the audience under the blinding stage lights, but you could always feel it. The opera house always held its breath, the silences between Tchaikovsky’s masterful creations were always punctuated with quiet sniffles from the audience.

Swan Lake was a tragic love story, after all. You would know—you felt well-acquainted with the idea of tragic love. Falling head over pointe for a stone cold, callous Earl without ever meaning to. In fact, while trying not to in the midst of a murder investigation. The very investigation that you felt you were on the precipice of closing.

Would your story end like Odette’s? you wondered. A young woman making her final stand in the face of heartbreak.

You supposed, this performance was nothing more than a storyline. A fable. Nothing to build silly premonitions over, in spite of the danger of your situation.

After your music cue, the spirits of Odette and Prince Siegfried stepped back out onto the lit stage, hand in hand. You shared one last jeté, jumping across the stage in perfect sync, before the audience to show that their plan had succeeded, ending the show in each other’s embrace in the afterlife.

To signify the official end of the story, the stage lights faded out to allow the company to arrange itself for final bows alongside another passionate swell of Swan Lake’s theme from the orchestra. You and Antoine remained still until the stage was completely black, unwilling to ruin the intimacy your characters created for the audience. Lovers who couldn’t bear to be without one another.

Only when the lights flickered back on, the both of you faced the audience to accept their cheering with gracious smiles, wiping away the bittersweet beauty your characters evoked. The rest of the company quickly filed in around you, mechanically dropping into a curtsy on the same note. The minor characters took turns bowing next, including Wolfgang, the prince’s tutor; the Queen Mother, and the four little swans. In order of prevalence, the main characters swept into bows.

Following Von Rothbart and Prince Siegfried, you took five measured steps in front of the rest of the cast and swept yourself into a deep curtsy. The spotlight burned your skin, the hair pins that kept your headpiece fastened dug into your scalp, and your feet throbbed in your pointe shoes. Sweat rolled down your neck and your lungs felt as if there was fire in them, given how hard your chest heaved, but you were elated, nonetheless. A cheering audience was nothing short of a drug. All of these people were here to see you and your company dance. It was an honor, almost enough for you to ignore the disappointed sting in your heart that Ciel would never see you perform in these roles.

Still, stared into the crowd, beaming. You survived. Only now, another confrontation awaited you. One much more dangerous than a bit of acting.

You never thought you would find yourself cutting off a standing ovation on a closing night of a show. This moment, hearing the appreciation and wonderment you gave to legions of people was supposed to be one of the most euphoric parts of your career. Knowing that the hours of labor, exhaustion, and hunger could culminate into a moment this fulfilling. You had just closed a run of Swan Lake as London’s foremost company’s only principal dancer—by all definitions of the word, you were at your prime as a dancer.

But that didn’t matter to you as much, not at this moment. Instead, you righted yourself from your curtsy, blew the faceless audience a kiss, and exited the stage.

You had an investigation to solve, at last. This fitting would be the last step, you were as certain as Odette, though you hoped your ending might be more merciful.

In your haste, you didn’t bother to stop by your dressing room—there was no need.

Polly would have to make her rounds to collect all Swan Lake costumes, anyway, and by going to her office in this ensemble, you saved her the trouble of looking for one of your corsets. Besides, the last you wanted was Natasha in your dressing room to help you unlace it and there was no reason to waste time walking to the other side of the backstage wing. Especially since there was no possibility of Ciel arriving at the ballet tonight.

Entering Polly’s office helped settle your jumbled nerves, at least for a moment. The space never changed; the aging woman was extremely particular with where she kept all of her tools and materials. Each one had its own exact space in her workstation, and nothing was ever a centimeter out of place. As always, the costuming director’s frail shoulders were hunched as she counted silently to herself, measuring a piece of scarlett fabric. She counted to herself, meticulous eyes narrowing before she cut the piece off the rest of the fabric roll with sharp scissors.

“Hello, Miss Y/n,” she greeted you warmly. Her back was to you, but she always knew her visitor before she turned. “Are you well?”

Without this woman, there would simply be no ballet. In two weeks, she had five variations of Odette and Odile costumes for you each, all perfectly tailored to your dimensions. You imagined that the woman could give Sebastian a challenge in terms of clothing creation and tailoring��she was an institution at this ballet. Typically, no one could manage a lie past her.

You couldn’t settle on how to respond, the silence causing her to turn, standing from her short seat. Polly was short enough to have you looking down at her, somewhat.

“How are you?” you tried for a weary smile, knowing it was thin and unconvincing.

“You look like Natasha, when she was your age,” the woman commented, eying you skeptically. She gestured towards her full-length tri-mirror, and you obeyed, knowing the routine for confirming your wardrobe measurements well. You had to strip from your costume, and Polly took careful measurements of your body, well aware that these corsets had to forcefully enforce a ballerina’s trained body.

You felt yourself redden, uncomfortable with the comment. Until now, Natasha was all you wanted to be.

“All lovesick, is all I mean. Don’t you think William put her through it too? All men do it,” Polly said sagely, helping you unlace the tight knots Natasha twisted your corset into. “Especially with beautiful women like you, who haven’t lived here very long,” she chided, hanging the corset on a wire hanger for you.

“Lovesick?” Your mouth felt dry. Of course you were. You were just as confused about your feelings towards Ciel Phantomhive as you were about your thoughts on the true killer. It might’ve been Natasha. There was a chance, and the thought of such a reality took the air out of your lungs. “I am not,” you tried for another smile, laughing weakly. You always smiled. You always laughed. It was supposed to work.

But with Polly, it didn’t. Your weak smile flickered off, unencouraged by the costume director. Of course—she worked there longer than Natasha did. 18 years, you once heard. 18 years of handling fittings like these for stars on the rise, stars about to implode. Stars in the process of doing just that, leaving disappointment and heartbreak in their wake. An ache for what could have been. You suspected that without Polly’s comforting nature, the company would lose ballerinas much more often due to Natasha’s unfailingly brutal honesty.

In response to Polly’s raised, skeptical eyebrows and set line her mouth fell in, you sighed. Still, her eyes sparkled as if she was amused by something in you. That look made you think of Ciel.

You unfastented your head piece self consciously, “I think it may be Natasha, actually,” you ventured, using one of Ciel’s tactics, at the thought of him. “Share an insecurity, it will create a false sense of intimacy, and they might overspeak. People who feel comfortable with you are more likely to make a mistake.”

“I feel concerned about her,” you made a show of admitting, like you were guilty of mentioning her.

Polly also allowed you to undo your pointe shoes, giving you a spare pair of soft socks for your bare feet. They ached, as they always did after performances—sometimes they throbbed in protest to carrying your weight. At least the clean, soft material was more welcoming than the wood of Polly’s step riser would have been. You stepped up, only clad in your undergarments, but you didn’t mind with Polly.

“I thought she was certainly…spread too thin, but I thought she’s been quite well lately,” Polly answered ponderously. She wrapped her small measuring tape around your waist, pulling it in to match its perimeter. You tried not to think about what you ate that day—there were many more important concerns at stake. Polly knew Natasha better than anyone else, perhaps she knew something you did not. “She wanted me to keep this between her and myself, but I think that more of us oughta know the good news: she started massage and manipulation therapy for her hip.”

Massage and manipulation therapy? That was a practice where doctors had injured individuals strategically stretch and work their healed limbs after a long injury put them out of use. Only, you didn’t know Natasha’s injury was healed enough to qualify her for it—you were under the impression that the director could hardly stand without her cane, much less withstand massage and manipulation therapy. Her mobility was supposed to be almost entirely extinct.

“What use would Natasha have for therapy? I believe she cannot walk or stand without help,” you mused.

“Oh, no, dear,” Polly shook her head, writing your waist measurement on a notebook. She put the pad of paper back down before you could catch the number she wrote down. “She can walk and stand without a cane, and that is all. No running, no dancing, none of that, after what happened. The cane only helps her manage. Now she’s going three times a week to rebuild strength, she told me.”

“What exactly happened? Do you know?” You risked the question, your intuition begging you to press forward. You felt your palms grow sweaty with anticipation. This was what you were missing, you were convinced. One of your biggest uncertainties regarding Ciel’s theory was: how could Natasha manage to kill all of these people without being caught on top of mobility challenges? You tried not to seem too desperate to know, scanning over your curious expression in the length mirror. Polly was measuring the widest point of your hips.

“I tell you this as a warning, only. As something to learn from,” Polly insisted, meeting your eyes in the mirror. You gave her a resolute nod, taking an uneasy breath in. Natasha rarely spoke about her injury, its exact name, the incident that caused it. You assumed she considered it to be a weakness—a failure of hers.

“It was a complex hip labral tear. From over practicing,” Polly told you, noting down your measurement. She continued to repeat the process for the rest of your body. “She was the principal dancer in Sleeping Beauty, recently married to Will. Here all night, all day, few breaks. She was scared, I think, to lose the life she found,” she recalled, painting a fond picture of a dancer not unlike you. Hungry for her spotlight. A moment of appreciation. Wanting to love and be loved by everyone and more.

“But she wouldn’t hear anything about stopping—even after the doctors told her to take the rest of the Sleeping Beauty season on break. She refused,” Polly said, shaking her head. “And then, she tore her hip, ruining her range of motion. They told her if she tried to do anything more than walk, the damage could leave her in a wheelchair.”

A wheelchair. Your blood ran cold, chastened. Natasha was less than five years older than you; not even 30 years old yet. Technically, she would have had half a dozen more years as a ballerina, if she had been more careful.

Still, Natasha’s injury came in her prime. You couldn’t imagine the pain of being in the midst of your breakout role, only to have to stop for an unknown period of time. The thought of having to willingly surrender the euphoria of curtsying to a cheering crowd made your chest hurt. Natasha probably felt as if her life was ending. Dancing was the only part of your life that kept you alive, at least.

“But now, I suppose, she’s rested long enough to start getting help again. And as long as it’s helping her, I don’t mind holding down the costuming fort, so to speak,” Polly chuckled, wrapping her measuring tape around your shoulders. She always liked to ramble when she worked, and you didn’t expect it to work in your favor. You couldn’t believe you didn’t think to speak with Polly sooner.

“And she has three appointments in a week?” You asked, swallowing in spite of your dry mouth and throat. You thought of the calendar you saw at the Yard’s headquarters with Sebastian and Ciel. Where you noticed a pattern. The very pattern that you and Ciel had believed to implicate William.

Thursdays, Fridays, and Sundays. All days where the full cast and crew were at the most occupied with full-Nutcracker rehearsals. These were supposed to be nights where Natasha stayed at the Opera House late to handle costume construction with Polly, influencing every step from the sketches to the final clothing ensemble. Nothing went on The Royal Opera House’s stage without her approval, making her take the time to stay late so frequently.

Unless she wasn’t truly with Polly. William would otherwise have no way of knowing where his wife was if she wasn’t at home—he wouldn’t care to verify where she was, so long as he was confident she wouldn’t be looking for him. The only person in the Opera House after hours was Polly, making only her word Natasha’s alibi.

“Yes! He seems like a smart man, Doctor Wallace. She started seeing him in August,” Polly answered, blissfully unaware.

Unless she was truly pursuing physical therapy— which you doubted this timing — she successfully convinced Polly to maintain this lie for her. Telling the whole company that Natasha was assisting her these nights when she was either on a futile mission to restore her leg or killing her employees.

“So she has not stayed late with you since August?” You could have sworn your heart stopped, in that moment.

“She usually stops in one night a week, at some point. But otherwise, it’s just me. And that’s alright with me, dear, I promise,” Polly misinterpreted your indignation as frustration on her behalf. “More hours is more pay,” she gave you another laugh and wrote down another measurement, blind to your distress.

You felt Natasha’s lies crash down upon another like a house of cards. You gasped, feeling your heartbeat raise in alarm. The world seemed to stall for a moment, hesitating alongside you as your chest tightened with just as much rage as it did surprise. You could’ve sworn your reflection in the three-way mirror was shades lighter in panic.

“Polly, I need to leave,” you said urgently. Still in your undergarments, you pulled a robe off of a hook in the wall, tying it around your waist as you walked. You ignored the costuming director’s protests, her asking if everything was alright. You couldn’t falsely assure her. Not when you felt the sky falling down.

“I have something I need to do now. We can finish another time,” you could hardly recognize your serious tone, it was non-negotiable and about the angriest you’ve heard yourself. Tears brimmed your eyes.

You had to finish this. You couldn’t leave her office without finishing this. No one else was going to die in the hands of this woman.

In fact, you hadn’t thought through your destination until you found your knuckles rapping intently against Natasha’s office door, only several doors down from Polly’s. Technically, the space was William’s office, but he rarely used the space, causing Natasha to commandeer it for her own purposes. You were pleased she did—it wasn’t close to your dressing room, making the private space even more of an oasis free from criticism.

“Natasha! I need you. This is Y/n,” you said, knowing the director was there. She never remained in the foyer long. After she finalized patrons’ payment and ensured that each one was satisfied, she retreated into her office to analyze that performance’s sales revenue. She would stay until she finished adding those numbers to the opera house’s monthly financial records.

“You can—” she started from the other side of the door, but you were wiping your eyes, twisting the knob, and entering before she finished giving you permission. Startled, the director regarded you with irritation hardening her angular features. “Come in… You know to knock, please,” she reminded you, intentionally finishing the statement you interrupted. “Now what might I do for you?”

Being face to face with Natasha made the encounter feel all the more petrified. You felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. It was almost as if you forgot how to put your incensed words into English. You had so many accusations, so many questions to aim at the woman, you couldn’t decide where to start.

“I only… wanted to thank you. Again. For this opportunity,” you said, starting off the safest way you could think of, yet probe her as subtly as you could dare. “I would not be at this point in my career without you.”

Natasha tilted her head, setting her fountain pen down on her desk. You watched her wrestle with her response: acknowledging your gratitude, subtly poisoning your confidence regarding your career, wanting to gauge if you were investigating her, despite your efforts before the show. Of course. She had to be careful around Ciel Phantomhive’s partner.

“Y/n, you have to remember that you find yourself opportunities. Life is not kind to those who wait for opportunity. That is especially important for you to remember with Lord Phantomhive at your side, now. Never allow yourself to rely on anyone,” Natasha said, fulfilling your prediction and criticizing you. How did it take you so long to notice this pattern in your director?

“These rich men...they are never forever,” she snorted bitterly, taking an uncharacteristic drink out of a wine glass. You never saw Natasha drink. “They use you. And lie,” she continued, hesitating before fixing her posture and rising from her office chair. Natasha picked up her cane and used it to help support her as she walked to her cabinet and picked an open bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.

“Though we should commemorate the end of this season,” Natasha told you with a new degree of stiff friendliness in her voice. She poured some of the dark wine into a clean wineglass for you, offering the drink to you. “You worked hard to make yourself worthy of Odette and Odile. On top of this drama that Phantomhive dragged you into,” she said his name like a curse.

“I appreciate that, Natasha,” You accepted the glass, but you didn’t take a drink, wary of the wine’s contents. “I did work tirelessly, and–”

“And you do handle the scrutiny well,” your director continued, interrupting you. “Better than I ever did.” She only could have been referencing the disdain she faced for marrying William Wood, though he wasn’t a noble like Ciel, he was from an incredibly wealthy family. You doubted British elite society would ever treat a foreign ballerina kindly, much less five years ago.

You were silent, unsure of what to say. In just minutes, Natasha managed to gain control of the conversation, grabbling the upperhand from you. It was effortless for her. The woman was the very picture of composure. You couldn’t help but wonder if she considered herself to be the perfect heroine from her own description.

Was Natasha manipulating you now, too?

“I try my best to ignore them. They do not and will never know me, so I should not concern myself over what they believe,” you replied noncommittally, forcing yourself not to break eye contact with your director. The air was tense. You felt as if she could see straight through you, and right into the real reason you were there.

Natasha hummed begrudgingly, “it is big of you to know that, and so young. Not too long ago, I would have done anything to live your life.” Her smile unsettled you, and at this point, you trusted yourself more than you did her.

“Why don’t we toast?” the director asked, picking up her glass in one hand and again, using her cane to help her walk to you. “To your career. Your partner. Your success.”

“Fine,” you agreed hesitantly, tapping your wineglass against hers. You watched Natsha take a short sip of wine, but you couldn’t force yourself to do the same. There was no way for you to know it was safe.

Naturally, Natasha had been monitoring your hesitation, her smile—which started out thin enough for you to feel suspicious—wavered. “Is there something wrong?”

Your eyes darted to the office door behind you. Suddenly, you deeply regretted your impulsivity. You might have been out of your depth, confronting her without a plan or any support. This was what Ciel had feared when you were arguing with him about your plan to trap William: a situation where you were in danger with no easy way out.

“No! No, of course not,” you said unconvincingly, painfully aware of the symptoms of a long day beginning to encroach on you, as well. Your feet still throbbed, despite being in Polly’s soft socks, made specifically for aching feet. Your eyelids were heavy which was no surprise, since you hadn’t had proper sleep in days. Especially not last night— how could you have slept after Maisie? “I simply…do not feel much like drinking.”

“You? Not wanting a drink?” Natasha replied incredulously. “Come on. Have a toast with me. Why are you being so uptight with me, now? You do trust me, don’t you? I am your director,” Her long nails tapped on her glass, her face molding into hurt.

It was one sip. What was one sip? The wine bottle was already open—it seemed to be the only open selection in the cabinet. How would she only poison yours?

You paused, realization dawning on you. She was manipulating you.

You wondered if Natasha guided you into that line of thinking as she so often did, pointing out when a corset appeared tight on you to motivate you to eat less, asking you when the last time you considered cutting your hair was to inspire you to cut it. Telling you to enjoy Ciel as a subscriber as if sex work was your choice. All you ever wanted to do was dance.

“Are you the one killing us, Natasha?” The question slipped out between your lips before you could stop it. Tears welled in your eyes, and you couldn’t keep the tremor out of your voice. You stared down at the wine in your hand, a tear streamed down your cheek and made a ripple in the blood-red liquor. Your face felt hot.

“What are you asking me?” Natasha’s questioning laugh was hollow. She finished off her drink and left the empty glass on the desk. She was being clear: this was your last opportunity to drop the question.

“Did you kill the missing ballerinas? I mean they’re dying in other companies too, but m-mostly…this one,” forming words felt impossible. You didn’t know how you were controlling your tone so well.

She laughed again, tones of disbelief making the sound sound rough and condescending. Her eyes were ablaze with rage and disbelief. “After everything I’ve done for you, you accuse me of murder?” Her knuckles were white, fingers tight around both the cane and the glass in her hand. “I have half a mind to kick you out of my company right now for this insult!”

This was the only way, you braced yourself. You thought of the victims you were avenging, not of the danger that stood in front of you. And if you died, you were fairly certain Natasha had no way to evade the consequences. There was a backstage full of company members. You trapped her.

Still, you need to commit to guiding her rage. Natasha was too logical for a mistake. Her emotions needed to overtake her.

“I’m not sure why I just asked that, I’m so sorry,” you lied, “we can just forget about this,” you suggested, backing up towards the door. Your hand reached from behind you to blindly search for the doorknob, only for Natasha to put all of her effort in swinging her cane in the slim space between your fingertips and the doorknob.

You scrambled away from the swing—and from the doorknob, unfortunately. In your fumbling, you dropped your wineglass on the floor. The glass shattered on the floor, its contents spilling in a burgundy pool around the fragments. Only in socks, you stumbled on the spilled liquid, making it easy for the director to usher you away from the door. You struggled to stand back up, feeling the full impacts of your performance and the miserable way you treated your body, compiling and attacking you with just as much vengeance as your director did.

You were decently certain that all you had to eat that day was a quick slice of quiche and some fruit. That fuel ran out well before your performance’s intermission and was nothing but a distant memory to your body, now.

“No,” Natasha’s face was devoid of all kindness. In looking into her cold eyes, you had no doubt that she was a murderer. Not anymore. “You asked for honesty. How is this for honest?” She locked the door, continuing to back you further into the wall by the cabinet she took the wine out of, driving you away from the exit and further into the office. Silent tears fell down your face, but you refused to let her see you sob.

“I liked you, Y/n. I thought we were kindred spirits in a world of weak, spineless, nobodies, who want to try to become dancers when they cannot even stand up straight,” Natasha snapped. She didn’t bother using her cane to walk, merely holding it like a weapon. But she cast it aside once she had you against the wall—not unlike the submissive position her husband forced you into in your own dressing room.

You were approximately the same height—if anything, Natasha had a centimeter or two on you. She still had a bad leg, even though she could clearly walk, but clearly, she had a deep wealth of lethal knowledge.

“I never would have thought you would be one of them,” she continued, casting her cane aside for a pocket knife that she fished out of her skirts. You were strangely calm, despite the panicked, rapid pace your breath came and the hot tears that still spilled down your face. “But if it’s you or me, I will always choose me.”

That wine had to be poisoned. You thanked your instincts.

“You have made that outstandingly clear, Natasha,” you retorted. “You even managed to put yourself before your own interests by screwing yourself out of a career!” you yelled back at her, channeling your rage. Every time she snapped at you, each time she disparaged your dancing, the way your body looked, each time she prepared you for a new patron. “And now what’s left of you is nothing but a bitter woman past her prime. And that is your fault. But y-you take out your f-failure on us!”

“And you? You’re an ungrateful bitch,” Natasha hissed back at you, sliding a thin pocket knife against your throat, causing you to cry out. So close to her, you could smell the wine on her breath and her eyes looked bloodshot. Her pupils were dilated.

You needed to find help. Soon, if you wanted to live. Continuing to taunt Natasha in her office would surely end in your death. While such a sacrifice would surely be enough to convict her, you hoped to see it through. You, in your own way, were the perfect heroine. You knew there was a sacrifice to be made, but if you could help it, you hoped to live.

Swan Lake was only a story, after all.

“And you plan to try to kill me in here?” you asked, gasping as she pressed the blade deeper into your skin. You could feel the painful sting across your nerves, down to your fingertips and as pressure against your windpipe. “H-How will you… get away with it?”

“Shut up,” Natasha laughed again, catching on to your efforts to disregulate her. Painfully smart, she was.

You tried to speak again, but Natasha pressed the blade harder to discourage you. You were at a loss, having allowed yourself to get here by storming in with no plan. Fueled by nothing besides rage, betrayal, and regret.

She looked pleased, content with the way she had managed to turn your attack on her into your demise.

Until there was a knock at the door.

“Mrs. Wood? Is Y/n in there with you? I have been looking for her— I must escort her home.”

You would know that voice anywhere, anytime. No matter what. It made goosebumps erupt on your arms. Ciel had come to the opera house in search of you, despite your best efforts to push him away. Despite your best efforts to convince yourself that he was lying and he didn’t care for you, or anyone, save for himself. The accusation felt shallow, now that a real narcissist had you at knifepoint.

“Ci—!” You started, only for Natasha to shove her hand against your mouth before, forcing her to let go of the collar of Polly’s robe, which she had balled in her first to keep your neck close to her weapon. You had both of your hands to fight her knife hand, trying to pry the small weapon out of her thin—frustratingly strong—fingers. Your arms shook with effort.

“No, Lord Phantomhive, she is not here!” Natasha called over her shoulder, allowing you to use one of your hands to push her face further away, hoping her body would follow her head. You had no combat experience, limited to knowing choreographed fighting on stage. “Why do you have to make everything so difficult?” She mumbled in your ear, hardly having stumbled from your efforts.

The doorknob rattled as Ciel likely realized it was locked.

You had to get her off of you. Well aware that your arms were locked in a stalemate with her knife, you brought your knee up and dug it into her stomach, causing her to curse, holding her stomach in surprise. You used her surprise to push her away and take steps towards the door as quickly as you could manage, only for Natasha to catch your wrist and pull you back.

“Ciel, please!” A sob that had been building in your chest ripped out of you as Natasha pushed you back into the wall, only this time, you were poised on the wall next to the door.

“Y/n!” It sounded like Ciel kicked the door. “On behalf of Her Majesty, let me in there this instant, Natasha!”

“Get him to leave, or I will kill you. Here,” Natasha whispered, taking hold of your chin to force you to look into her eyes. This was the face that 11 ballerinas saw before they died. Natasha’s bloody hatred of you looked just like William’s, irate and predatory. You had no doubt that the woman would kill you.

“Y/n, do what you must to get her off of you! You can handle her!” You heard Ciel call to you, now that he was decently sure that you were with Natasha—against your will. “I need to break this door open. I don’t care if it’s your bloody director’s office—”

“Why are you doing this to us, Natasha?” You whimpered, repeating the question when she refused to answer. You felt blood bleed down your neck where she pressed the blade, but you couldn’t stop asking. You deserved to know. It didn’t feel as if she was pressing hard enough to kill you—you suspected she wanted leverage over Ciel.

“Why are you hurting us?” you demanded. “Why, why, why?”

“Because I should still be the prima ballerina of this company! Like the rest of you ungrateful whores! My husband should want me in the way he wants the lot of you! I should have my applause! My life back! Give it back!” Natasha yelled, slamming your back against the wall by your shoulder. Black spots danced in your eyes, from your exhaustion. Your head felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

“I want my life back! You don’t deserve my life! I’m brilliant. Bloody brilliant. The lot of you—you’re nothing, but me? Me? I am a real ballerina. You all are nothing, useless little rodents you all are! In spite of my best efforts to teach, you all can never just learn!” tears raced down Natasha’s face, as well.

Her words, her tears, ignited a fresh anger in you. You worked most hours out of the day for this woman’s approval, only for her to feel this much contempt—no, resentment, towards you. She tore you down at every step, masquerading it as support. And blamed you for her vitriol. From an injury she brought upon herself.

“I took nothing from you,” you rasped, “none of us ever did. We all worshiped you. And you kill us for it. You. Are. Deranged.” you said strongly, in spite of your pain. You used the rest of your strength to curl your hand into a fist and push it forward, aiming for her nose to stun her. Ciel, for emergency’s sake, took the time to show you how to throw a proper punch. You made certain your thumb was untucked and….

Immediately, your hand erupted in pain, starting in your knuckles and expanding outward. You felt her face yielding to the force more vividly than you thought you ever could, the sound making a dull thud. Clearly, however, Natasha was in more pain, the shock causing her to drop her knife.

Natasha swore in, presumably Russian, and doubled over. She held her face, recoiling with pain. You caught blood dripping down her lips, coming from her nose. Her face immediately swelled.

Before she could recover, you unlocked the door, revealing a panicked Ciel. He seemed to be bracing himself to kick it down, his left leg braced into the ground while he was aiming to drive his right heel into the bit of wood next to the lock. Of course, he knew how to kick a door down. You couldn’t keep yourself from laughing at how absurdly good the Earl was at everything.

You felt delirious, looking at Ciel with your director behind you, bleeding. Because you punched her. Because she was the serial killer you had been looking for all this time. The seriousness on Ciel’s face made your smile crumple, re-recognizing the importance of what had just occurred. You hadn’t stopped crying at all, your face was soaked with tears as much as it was with sweat.

There was some of your own blood smeared on your chin and cheeks from Natasha’s hands—you could smell the iron, you could see Ciel’s gaze investigating the stains to ensure they weren’t open wounds. He had already sized up the cut on your throat the moment he righted himself and pulled you into him, away from the director.

Immediately, you were safe in Ciel’s warmth, shuddering as he put his wool jacket over your shoulders. He was speaking to you, but you could barely bring yourself to register his words. Ready to collapse, your head heavy and gloomy. You hadn’t noticed you were shivering, and yet, he did. Ciel let you hide your face in his neck, the height difference between you was always minimal.

Sebastian stepped inside from behind Ciel, a pleasant smile on his face.

“Sebastian,” Ciel snapped, knowing the butler was behind him without turning around. He had his stare fixated on Natasha as some company members moved to restrain her, despite her cursing and thrashing. Ciel had made a scene in demanding the door be opened, and Natasha must have been loud enough for onlookers to hear. “Take care of this. I don’t want there to be a media scene. Find us in Y/n’s dressing room when you’re finished.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Sebastian replied. “Very well done, Miss Y/l/n,” he said, his dark eyes sparkling. He put his hand on his heart and bowed to Ciel, but this was the first instance he bowed to his master with you standing next to him.

You could have been persuaded that you imagined it.

“Ciel…” you spoke as he guided you away from the rest of the company, the arriving officers, and Natasha as she protested her arrest. You felt weak. Almost empty for idolizing a woman who hurt you and so many others. Who thought so little of so many who thought she was the template to success.

Natasha and William hurt you all, and without Ciel, you never would have come to know that. And he had warned you. But you didn’t listen, when you needed to.

“Thank you for coming here, anyway. I appreciate that you would…come. After everything,” you said, the apology was difficult for you to say, but needed. “I cannot know why you would be so kind to me, but you saved my life again.”

Ciel took your arm in his, more than aware that you were exhausted. “What do you mean you cannot know why I would be so kind to you?” He asked, an eyebrow raised at you. “I thought I was clear earlier today: I want to be with you. And I should apologize, too, honestly.”

“Mutual forgiveness and we can have another talk, later?” you requested, settling into your chair. Ciel locked your dressing room door behind the both of you for privacy’s sake. He pulled out your First Aid kit from under your vanity to start caring for your neck.

“Mutual forgiveness,” he agreed, settling down next to you.

[sevikaswifefr]

scared

pairing: vada cavell x female reader

warnings: school shooting, guns, suicidal shooter, suicide.

a/n: i’m in a writers block :/ i apologise if this is bad

vads <3

pls meet me in bathroom rn. dying from lack of kisses from my grilfriend.

*girlfriend

I roll my eyes at the message, two more coming in almost instantly after I had read the first ones.

I raise my hand, my teacher raising an eyebrow to glare at me. “May I go to the bathroom please? Girl problems.” I shrug and the teacher cringes nodding and ushering me out.

“Your so needy.” The bathroom door swings open as I walk in and scoff at my girlfriend who sits on the sink counter, legs swinging as she not so patiently waits for me to arrive.

“Ahh correction. I am so in love.” Vada wags her finger at me before hopping down and rushing to wrap her arms around my neck. “Kiss me.” She whispers and I obey, leaning down to the shorter girl and pressing my lips to hers earning a breathy sigh.

Vadas mouth opens as she pulls back, a mischievous twinkle in her eye as she goes to speak. But she doesn’t get to finish her sentence as a loud bang echoes through the hallway.

Vadas hand grips mine as we both freeze, eyes trained on the bathroom door waiting to hear the noise again.

And again it happens, multiple gun shots fired followed quickly by cries and screams, footsteps screeching in a panicked state outside the bathroom door.

Tears begin to fall down my face as I drag Vada into the end bathroom stall. “Get on the toilet.” I whisper shaking a scarily larger amount as I clamber atop the toilet seat. Vada follows suit, whimpers leaving her mouth at the sound of every bullet being fired.

My breathing is rapid, choked almost as I hold a hand over my mouth attempting to keep quiet as long as I can. Vadas eyes meet my own, both pairs glassy and swimming with fear, fear that one of us won’t make it out alive.

The silence after is almost worse than the gun shots and it doesn’t help the girl before me is shaking so hard I became worried she was having a seizure. Remaining silent I hold out my own shaky palm, Vada is quick to take it ignoring the clamminess and holding it extremely tightly.

“Is it over?” I manage to ask, my lips quivering as I dare to step down from the toilet.

Vada sobs into her hand. “I don’t know.” She whispers clinging tightly to my arm too afraid to open the stall.

Police sirens echo outside the building, a sliver of hope rushing through me. But that is shattered as the bathroom door bursts open, mumbled sentences being uttered as someone paces the floor outside the stalls.

Vadas eyes widen, hand pressing tightly against her mouth to stop her cries as her chest rises and falls so fast I had to place my hand against her cheek to calm her slightly.

I slowly attempt to clamber back onto the toilet, but of course nothing goes my way as my foot slips into the toilet water, the splash alerting the intruder.

“Who the fuck is there? I’ll fucking kill you.” His voice is psychotic, alert and fuming as he stalks towards the first stall and shoots a bullet through the door.

Vada and I flinch at the sound of trigger, his footsteps gradually getting closer to our stall as he sends a bullet through each door.

Closing my eyes and praying slightly I step down from the toilet and reach for the lock. Vadas hand is quick to latch onto my arm shaking her head frantically. Turning to look at her, I smile as best I can. “I’ll be ok.” I nod and blow her a wobbly kiss before opening the stall door and closing it behind me, keeping Vada safe.

“Matt.” I whisper, the shooters trembling body turning towards my own. In his hands lay an automatic, aimed directly at me as he seethes.

“Please don’t do this. You can’t come back from this is you keep going.” My voice betrays me, breaking multiple times in the single sentence.

Matt’s eyes are filled with tears but his grip on the gun remains strong. “I don’t plan to come back from it.” He replies wrapping a long finger around the trigger and shrugging.

A flood of what felt like fire burns through my shoulder, the force causing my body to smack against the tiled ground. Crying out in pain, my hands fly to my wound, coming back coated in my blood.

Matt stands frozen, his jaw clenched as he turns the gun on himself. I will myself to close my eyes, or at least turn away but it’s as if I’m frozen. Stuck.

And without a moments hesitation the trigger is pulled, Matt’s body collapsing beside mine, his blood mixing with my own as it pools underneath his body.

Tears cloud my view and my head flops against the tiled floor, weak and heavy. “Vada.” I breathe holding my shoulder with much effort as I could muster.

“Va-“ My vision goes black. A pair of creased jordan’s the last thing I see as I fade out of consciousness.

…

“-very lucky he didn’t get her any lower or she wouldn’t be here right now.”

Blinking against the white light I sit up to see my Vada talking to a nurse but as I stir the two turn to me.

“Your awake.” Vada is sniffling, tears falling down her cheeks as she walks over to my bed. “I’m awake.” I whisper grimacing at the pain of trying to sit up.

Vada remains stoic, a scary difference to her normal wild and very unserious attitude. “Your ok?” I whisper, the nurse leaving the room with a simple nod. Vada shrugs, her eyes blank. “I don’t know.” Her hand finds mine, intertwining her fingers in my own. “Get in.” I shuffle over giving her space to slip into my bed ignoring the throbbing of my shoulder.

“I don’t think either of us are ok. And I think right now. That is ok.” I whisper pulling Vadas head against my chest and kissing her hair.

She hums, finger tracing the exposed skin on my hip. “I’ve got you now.” I whisper, running my hand through her matter locks. “And I’ve got you.” She replies turning to look up at me as if reciting a promise.

Silence encompasses the room as darkness falls over the hospital. But my eyes don’t close, and I doubt Vadas do either. Yet I remain still, the only movement is my hand in Vadas hair bringing as much comfort as I can. “I love you Vada.” I whisper. Vadas figure shuffles slightly under my gaze, head leaning back to look up at me.

“I love you too.”

[wvbaandtheboys]

DREAMESCAPE: RE-DREAMED EDITION!

forthethirdfuckingtime-

Hey punchy peeps, yup it's me again I present to y'all my pride and joy, the Dreamescape AU! This time, redone with an idea I originally discarded when I was first making the AU, but I ended up using for the revamped version! Let's get into the ✨ lore ✨

THIS AU DEALS WITH DARK THEMES! BE CAREFUL TRAVELLERS!

This AU takes place in the span of the 1920s. The Macs live with their single father, Jerome/Doc Louis, having a docile and normal life. Their father works tirelessly to provide for his sons, being a middle class worker. With familiar faces surrounding their everyday lives, the family is content and lives out their days in joy. However, over a tense and perplexing time span, many people in their community begin to pass away unexpectedly with little to no closure on some of their deaths. Hysteria rises amongst the townsfolk; hysteria of a supernatural curse of well known origin, rooted in folklore, that threatens the adult population. And by proxy, the children of the town.

It is the Constellation of Shadows. An arachnoid, nightmarish entity that targets children through the adults in their lives. It invades the dreams of adults while they sleep, and takes them into its dark abyss of a web. It then mutates them, reforms them for its own purposes. Then unleashes them like wild animals to murder the children in their sleep.

Very few families have survived the Constellation's insatiable hunger for terror and demise: there are only two documented survivors of the Constellation throughout the years. Those families were never the same, suffering long term effects that led to either tragedy within them, or them disappearing from the town, never to be seen again. Hysteria once again breaks out, with the message to stay awake and alert at all costs and protect your children, as the Constellation cannot attack if you are not asleep or drowsy. However, it was only so long before the Louis household succumbed to exhaustion, and entered a deep slumber.

However, there is one hope. Father Dream. Father Dream is another folklore figure who, once upon a time, constantly did battle with the Constellation in order to uphold the safety of all dreamers. However, the feast of fear supplied to the Constellation allowed it to best Father Dream and trap him within his own seemingly unending slumber. However, Father Dream was still in control of some of his power. He blesses Mac with a special ability: the ability to resurrect the dead. Now, the Macs must face monsters of familiarity in order to make it out alive. And, in order to rescue their father before he suffers the same fate as the adults before him did. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ With the lore out of the way, let's learn about those adults: WII:

Joe - Chef (27)

Kaiser - Clockmaker (52)

Disco - Radio Show Host (25)

Hippo - Tribal King (50s to Early 60s)

Hondo - Photographer (33)

Hugger - Game Warden (44)

Tiger - Illusionist (31)

Don - Fisherman (26)

Aran - Dockworker (27)

Soda - Ice Cream Parlor Owner (41)

Bull - Priest (40)

Macho - Singer (30)

SUPER PUNCH OUT:

Gabby - Librarian (62)

Hurricane - Meteorologist (29)

Bob - Homeless (36)

Dragon - Lead Dragon Dancer (25)

Muscle - Doctor (37)

Heike - Unemployed (16)

Mad Clown - Clown (obviously shjsjs) (30)

Narcis - Nobleman (31)

Hoy - Retired Teacher (83)

Rick and Nick - Tailors (R - 28, N - 29)

Now, how did all of them meet their untimely demises? TRIGGER WARNINGS: DEATH, WRITTEN DESCRIPTIONS OF VIOLENCE/GORE, SUICIDE. PLEASE TAKE THIS INTO ACCOUNT WHEN READING FURTHER ON! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ WII: Joe - No one heard from him for a good while since his restaurant was suddenly closed, so it eventually drew the attention of police. When they went in, they found him in the basement of the restaurant, slumped against one of the walls and clearly long dead. He appeared to die clutching a kitchen knife in his hand. He represents Ataxophobia.

Kaiser - Kaiser’s somewhat anti-social personality did put some off from checking in on him too frequently, but they knew he was in and working when they heard the ticking of the clocks within his workshop. Concern arose when the ticking stopped. When concerned folks went inside the old man’s shop to check on him, They found him sprawled out on the floor, stiff. He was surrounded by clocks, all had their hands frozen at the hour of midnight. He represents Chronometrophobia.

Disco - Way too suddenly did Louie Brown's show get taken off the air. An announcement was made in the newspapers shortly thereafter that the host had passed away. Though they didn’t release details, he was found to have cords of recording machinery taut around his neck, still seated in the recording booth. And with the recording machine on, but thankfully not on the air. He represents Sedatephobia. Hippo - Hippo and his people (women, men and children alike) were quite sociable with the public. Seeing as they weren’t native to the town and after a great tragedy for the tribe, the king seemed to have a certain desperation to be accepted and gain a new home, considering what happened to them. However, the Hippoans were extremely generous and shared their culture with the townsfolk. But, they all just… vanished one day. It was presumed that perhaps Hippo had tried to guide them to live elsewhere, but no one can say for sure what happened to them. He represents Anthropophobia.

Hondo - Though nothing was visibly perturbing about him, laid on either a couch or his bed, his camera was in close proximity. When the photos recently taken on it were printed out, they showed cryptic, vignetted images of Hondo at angles that appeared as though another person had taken it. Though there were no signs that another person had ever been there. He represents Photophobia.

Hugger - He said he just felt tired, and was going to take the winter months to rest. No foul play, no signs of injury, no nothing. He just appeared to have passed in his sleep. He represents Nyctophobia.

Tiger - He was found with red scratch marks all over, which were initially thought to be self inflicted. However, the cleanliness of his fingernails and the angles of the markings made it almost seem like… something was trying to escape from his own body. He represents Rhabdophobia.

Don - He and his wife, Carmen, had been out all day on a lengthy fishing trip. Even when dusk had arrived and fog had started rolling in, the couple still hadn’t returned. Their fishing boat that came floating back to shore, belongings and equipment still on it, but they were nowhere to be seen. He represents Thalassophobia.

Aran - The last his coworkers saw of him, they say he was quietly sitting on the docks with his legs hung over the water. Something he readily instructed others to never do. The very next morning, he was gone. They never found him. He represents Megalohydrothalassophobia.

Soda - When the cold months came over the town, his charming little ice cream parlor closed for the winter as he said he was going to go for a trip to the mountains. After the winter was over, with no word or sign of the man, concern also arose for him. They discovered him a while after. He was completely encased in frost despite the warmth returning. He represents Cryophobia.

Bull - The toll of the church bells at night brought a sense of dread over all that heard it. He was found knelt in a praying pose at the front of the chapel. He was already dead, clutching the jewel of the necklace he wore in his hands. He represents Theophobia.

Macho - The singer known as “Deep Blue” by his many adoring fans had a dark cloud over his head. A rumor mill had churned much devastating gossip regarding his personal life. Some even say it drove him mad. Regardless of the true motive, the performer was found with a slit throat. Some suspect it was a suicide, as the letter opener that cut his throat was in his own hand. He represents Scopophobia.

SPO:

Gabby - Even though he was getting on in years, Gabby always said that there was never a time he felt alive, even since his youthful years, due to the plethora of health issues he had developed over the course of his life ever since he was born. “I don’t recall the last time I ever felt young and spry, if I even did in the first place. So, getting old really doesn’t feel any different.” As such, it was a well known rumor that Gabby read many books to cope, to feel some kind of whimsy in his ever shortening life. He was found dead in his sleep at his desk, an open book beside him. He represents Gentrophobia.

Hurricane - A thriving meteorologist, he loved the experiences of being up in the sky on hot air balloons. On an unsuspecting day during a storm, he suddenly fell unconscious mid flight. A bolt of lightning struck the hot air balloon he was riding and sent him crashing into a building. He died on impact. He represents Astraphobia.

Bob - An impoverished homeless man, he often wandered about with cigarettes on hand. He secluded himself far away from others while he smoked. No one has a clue what really happened to him, as he was discovered lying in the mud. However, it was suspected that he had asphyxiated. He represents Homichlophobia.

Dragon - The dragon dancer troupe traveled to the town from Hong Kong during Lunar New Year. He piloted the head of the dragon during the ceremony. How sadly ironic that such misfortune followed a dance meant to bestow luck. He was discovered slumped in a chair in the dressing room made for the dancers, with the headpiece of the dragon over his body.. and his own decapitated head in his hands. He represents Atychiphobia. 

Muscle - He was alone one night, and that was all that it took. He was discovered in the morning with slit wrists, surrounded by blood soaked gauze. He may have tried to save himself. He represents Hemophobia.

Heike - The once aspiring dancer faced the Constellation's wrath despite being a child himself as well. His limbs were bloody and twisted, yet he still held his signature fan in his hands, and wore his signature performing kimono. He represents Pistanthrophobia.

Clown - The circus was never the same without him. His face was painted half and half with his two circus personas: Serenata the Opera Singer, and Burlone the Jester. He represents Coulrophobia.

Narcis - For the short period of time that night, while his servants were not overseeing him, the Constellation struck. Though efforts were made to enter his bedroom as the realization dawned that he was in danger, the door did not budge until it was too late. He was found with the skin of the left half of his face completely removed. On his fractured bureau, there was a message written in his blood: “The beauty of my heart was never reflected in my face." He represents Cacophobia.

Hoy - The death of the dragon dancer deeply wounded the old man, as he was quite close to him. He died of a broken heart. (Broken Heart Syndrome) He represents Philophobia.

Rick and Nick - It seemed like death wanted to keep them together forever. They were discovered seated on chairs next to each other, their left hands sewn together. It was noted that when there was effort to cut the thread, the fingers of the brothers would twitch violently. They represent Thanatophobia.

[keiru-the-worm]

⚠️SPOILERS ALERT FOR THE NEW EPISODE OF THE AMAZING DIGITAL CIRCUS + TRIGGER WARNING FOR SUICIDE AND DEPRESSION⚠️

I'm so absolutely normal about the new tadc episode hah... anyway here's a huge rant about my thoughts on it, mainly on gangle because i relate to her in a painful level

i really enjoy how this episode talks about mundanity/routine, being a creative person AND neurodivergent in the world, masking your emotions in front of everyone. feeling like your dreams don't matter and you'll never achieve them, you'll just be forced to work a minimal job for the rest of your life and never do anything "meaningfull". and how easy it is to fall into routine and just get used to living in the auto pilot

this line in the start of the episode "it feels normal, in a good way" when gangle tries on the mask reads to me as masking to please everyone, feeling like you're"normal" for once

gangle being the one to suggest this adventure tells me she just wanted a bit of normalcy and routine, something familiar for once.

but once she actually gets to the adventure you can clearly see she HATED the routine back in her old life. the same "working all day, every day, over and over again". feeling isolated like you have no one ((big indicator her being the one to always close the restaurant alone))

the line pomni said about "having someone to talk about your problems" reinforces to me that gangle truly felt isolated back in life, like she could not be herself around anyone and had to, get this, put on a mask to feel "normal"

by the way she looked so upset when everyone told her they found her annoying or that they didn't like the adventure she suggested, it seemed she was actually """proud""" of being a menager back in life as seen phrase "being a shift menager was my job at some point" in the moment she sounds very confident.

this also makes me think gangle's coworkers might have not liked her back in life too, maybe she really had NO friends and people thought she was a bit of a pushover.

at end of the shift she seems so fucking EXHAUSTED, exhausted of pretending, she genuinely seems like going to "crack under the pressure" like everything has finally became too much

but when something finally changes in her routine ((pomni offering to end the shift for her)) gangle gets absolutely ECSTATIC, she was so absolutely out of it when exiting the restaurant

and in the end when she's smiling even with the tragedy mask and throws the other mask away to me it looks like finally unmasking. ((neurodivergency type)) that she no longer is "pretending" to be happy, pretending to be something she isn't, her happiness is so genuine here.

the truck hitting her and the phrase "going kooky and running into oncoming traffic" could very well be a metaphor to finally cracking under all the pressure and just giving up, believing your dreams are not worth following and not finding purpose in your mundane life anymore.

so many times, specially when she's alone and there's no one around, gangle is just stoic and emotionless, like she's just...dull.

end of rant/final thoughts: gangle is a neurodivergent coded character to me and VERY relatable as a neurodivergent artist who also hopes to make a living off of art. she is a very real character and an unfortunate but extremely common example of what so many of us go through specially recently that the industry has not been so great for us

[this-hopeless-war]

i haven't been online so here's some headcanons idk if i've posted before im eepy

(tw talking about sh, kinda dark so don't read if that's triggering, that part will be at the end and separated so you can easily skip it)

Ace fucking loves snow

Dallas has shitty vision but he doesn't want nor can he afford glasses (and let's be honest, he'd break em within a day)

When Pony turned 15 Soda started teaching him about cars and etc, when pony was 16 he got a job at the DX 

Due to them working together Pony started to like Steve more

Darry hates when it rains because it means he can't do his roofing gig and he'll come home stressed/grumpy over missing a day of his paycheck

Dally can go a scary long time without sleep, he'll be up for 2 days straight and still be socializing and shit

Dally and Two-Bit once had a drinking contest that didn't end well for anyone involved 

Two-Bit took high school drama (thinking about this is genuinely how I get through the day at school)

During the week Pony was gone, Soda vented to Steve a lot, they honestly grew a lot closer

The first time he was alone after Pony and Johnny got back, Steve cried from relief

⬇️warning here's where talk of sh starts (also added some resources at the end if you read them then feel distress😨)

Steve has had issues with sh (OUGH I love him)

And because of it being in an environment where mental health isn't really talked about at all or very understood, he doesn't really know that sh is, like, an actual thing, he just considers it a way to take out emotion when fighting isn't doing it

And no one ever really acknowledged it (they can see scars on his arm)

Though i'm toying around with headcanons for a bit in my head where (TW) he relapses at the back of the DX after a REALLY bad night where his dad said and did some not-so-handy-dandy things and Soda walks in (Spoiler alert: Steve gets a hug and cries but Soda doesn't cause he thinks he should be tough abt it or something, when he gets home he does though)

After that Steve is at the Curtis's even more and Soda even goes over to the Randle's a couple times cause when Steve is feeling really horrible he calls him up

I also have vague ideas for a bit with Evie

Where she, like, does smt abt it cause she's worried and he's always dodged questions

not 100% sure how it'll work yet though

This is a post of a list of hotlines for the USA, if you found this triggering or are in distress in general please message/call one

⬆️There are help lines everywhere, please done hesitate to search up the numbers for your country and call/text them

And here's just some websites or apps that can help you in times of distress

Have a handy dandy day!

[lovefrombegonia]

Mononoke Karakasa rambling (somehow even talked a bit about Pushpa 2):

SPOILER ALERT

tw: suicide, death, depression

So, I have come across two sources (an article and a video essay) saying that the regret of the karakasa was because the ooku was basically, killing all the women they would "fire" from the job, and throw the bodies into that well. But...I have watched the film twice now. Once in original language with english subs, and second time in hindi so that I can focus on the visual storytelling more. I thought that the women who died in the well were not directly killed. I thought all those women lost their identity in order to serve the higher authority (basically, the patriarchal figure head that is the king), they lost their own purpose to live, their drive. They lost themselves completely to become a simple cog in the machine. When they realised that, many couldn't face the reality of their despair. That they have given something so important to them, their identity, and couldn't live with it. Basically, an s-tier level burnout with no purpose, no hope, no support system, not even their own emotions to connect to. Basically, they were dried up flowers that couldn't get any rain of emotions and inspirations. So, many, many, many of them, including, Kitagawa, threw themselves in the well, committing suicide. It happened again and again and again, until with the last one, Kitagawa, the despair gave birth to the mononoke. I never even thought they were getting killed. The most I thought was the matriarchs of the ooku were throwing the dead bodies in the well (assuming those women killed themselves in some other way then jumping in the well).

It's why Kame getting hurt was what triggered Kitagawa the MOST. Someone so full of life and yet so eager to please. Someone who was very much like the woman she rejected and had thrown out of ooku. Neither Kame nor that woman were "good enough" to work in the ooku. But both became important to Asa and Kitagawa. And...let's be for real. Asa is IN LOVE with Kame. The visual parallels make it so fucking obvious now. Kame is the most precious to Asa now. Kitagawa realised it too, she is protective towards Asa but she goes batshit crazy when Kame is hurt because this reminds her of what she failed to do. To protect the ones she cared about. Kitagawa "dried out". She felt no purpose in life. We work to LIVE. We live because something drives us to live, and most of the time, that drive is some form of love. Love for people, love for principles, love for ideas, and love for art. That love was lost for Kitagawa, be it romantic or platonic. Now, Asa was giving up that love too for her ambitions. I don't think it is necessarily implied that Kame sees Asa's love as romantic but she does love Asa too. Seeing Asa give up that love in the end triggered Karakasa to manifest, in the rage of grief to destroy the very ooku and all its people, that it holds responsible for so much deaths and heartbreaks. It's why it went after Utayama, even though she directly didn't cause the deaths or separations.

At least, by the end of the movie, Kame has accepted Asa's love even if she couldn't continue the relationship. We see this cycle of grief seems to break. Kame now proudly wears a new shiny and beautiful comb. It's implied that Asa gave her that new comb, and Kame leaves the ooku, still smiling, hopeful, and still feeling loved (by Asa). She has accepted that this is not the place for her and that's ok. Probably the first time something like that happened there. Asa stayed to do her duty and pursue her passion to be the head scribe. She didn't give up her dream and continued to use her skills without any thought of pleasing the king only. And she still didn't give up the love she had for Kame, as she carried it with her, as Kame's old comb. I don't know for sure if some part of Kitagawa's presence is still left behind, looking after Asa. But that's what the doll seems to imply. The doll is also, no longer incomplete, it has found its beloved umbrella, perhaps showing the doll's identity and making it a bit unique.

We can see other characters like Awashima and Mugitani, too, were afraid to face the reality of their identities being lost with the kaleidoscope and the colorful ball, still appearing to them. When Karakasa's form was unleashed, the souls of all those lost in the well cried together, and tbh... that's when I started shedding tears. That, and the moment when Kame saved Asa from falling in the well. In the end, this is still a story of women's identity being lost and only being defined by what they mean to men (in this case, the king). It's a struggle we all know of. Even now, so casually we are lost in the eyes of others.

It's for the desi side of Tumblr but if you have watched Pushpa 2, you might know where I am going. Pushpa 2 is a sequel to Pushpa, and these movies are action-adventure crime lord dramatic saga of a man named...well, Pushpa. Let me be clear: yes, I did enjoy Pushpa 2 as a whole. I can't deny what I felt. I was shouting in the theatre when Allu Arjun was whooping ass. And yes, I did enjoy the prequel too. I still listen to the Srivalli song every now and then! Ok. Now, back to the point. There is a scene in the movie where after he finds out that Srivalli, his wife is pregnant, Pushpa (the protagonist and hero) performs a ritual dance to beg the Goddess Kali that the child be a daughter. Not a son. It's because...SIGH...it's because Pushpa is an illegitimate son who has no surname. This trauma has affected him deeply his whole life. Other characters in the film, including his own step brother had tortured him and his mother too, over being the son of a mistress. So that's why, he thinks that if he has a daughter, at least, she will have a surname as an identity when she gets married. But if he has a son, he will never have a proper identity. You can discuss whether, in the context, this is a good scene or not. I am not here to discuss the objective quality of that part of the film. I am here to tell you what this made ME feel, as a woman, as a daughter. Subjective. Ok? Ok. It made me feel like I can only be defined by what I am to a man, be it a father or a husband. I watched the film with my brother and even he said that the film shows how a man feels when his male ego is hurt and he has no identity. But the same respect is not shown to a daughter. A woman is not even to have the integrity to crave for an identity of her own? To even miss that she doesn't have an identity? Because she can be defined through a man. So, she doesn't need to bear that pain. A woman is not even allowed to yearn for being an individual. I think this thought never left my mind. It's why watching Mononoke Karakasa affected me, way more than I expected. Here is a demonic entity formed from not even being allowed an identity of her own. Of many "her own"s. And when the mononoke is finally laid to rest, how is that signified? By all the precious belongings, the tokens of all the women's identities lost, dead or alive, being thrown out of the well! Freed of the stagnant, rotting water. It was a violent outburst and it was beautiful as much as it was tiring. I can't wait more of this fucking amazing series to continue.

Note: so...P.S. I thought I lost this whole rambling blog post because I couldn't fucking see it in the drafts! The slow horrific realisation...now I imagined this but it's for the identity I built of myself for the last 25+ years of my life. And all that being discarded...to dedicate my life to be of purpose for a man or his family I barely know about... I can't imagine the suffocating torment I had to live with everyday.

[kaybreezy3000]

In The Flesh

Five Hargreeves / Reader Insert

Imagine that Five wasn't alone the entire time he was in the apocalypse...

-This is a special reader request for an extended scene from my Five Centric fanfic 'The Anti Hero's Pitfall of Arrogance.' Set during the apocalypse and Five is only 21.

-This request is a bit of a spoiler alert to the story that inspired it. It's written with a non-descript female character with no name, only referred to as she or her, so it's sort of a reader insert/you sort of vibe, or you can think of it as simply someone that Five loved. Think of it as you or someone else, either way, it's sad. 😭

Heed the warnings and click the link in the summary to read the full story if you want to get the full picture of what led up to this very sad moment for our favorite guy.

Warning: possible triggers, suicidal thoughts/behavior issues, alcohol abuse/excessive drinking, extreme grief/loss, graphic description of death/corpse, we get some Dolores in this, meant to be very sad, this fic this is based on is not all gloom and doom but it's clearly not all pretty either.

(5312 words)

In The Flesh

The funny thing about rock bottom is I’d thought I’d hit it many times before she saved me but really there is no depth far enough down to describe where I was after finding her body and where I would be for a very long time after that.

Like I’d done every day since I saw her favorite baseball cap bobbing on that partially submerged branch stuck out in the depths of the churning flood waters, I was out looking for her. On my endless searches, I would yell her name, over and over, till my voice was nothing more than a pained screech of air.

It was as I was scouring a new area that the water had receded that I went to shout her name again but stopped with only the first faint syllable. 

The moment I saw her distinctly colorful sandal and what appeared to be the discolored fragments of flesh still clinging to the bones trapped in it, the wind shifted, and my nostrils were filled with a pungent, sickeningly sweet, earthy odor.

That is what the smell of death is like if a body has been exposed to the elements for ten days or more. The anatomy and physiology decomposition literature states, a body exposed to the elements begins to decompose within less than 1 hour postmortem. That rate is accelerated if the tissues are exposed to other factors such blunt force trauma or heat and moisture.

She had been exposed to all of it.

I could still hear the ominous sound of the huge trees snapping and boulders grinding over things in the swift current as I walked along the road, just hours after she’d gone, only then, I didn’t know she wasn’t coming back. I didn’t know what was being done to her.

Now her body was there, under the hardened soil, but her foot was the only part of her that was visible other than her twisted tangle of hair wrapped around a river beaten branch. 

For the last week I’d been lying to myself, trying to hang on to the idea that she was still out there, that she was just too mad at me to come home. But really, in that time, she’d been first submerged in the torrents of flood water decimating that landscape, and then after, (not long based on the murky pool of muck and the very small cracks in the clay at my feet), she’d been there, encased in the ground. 

I cried out her name.

I dropped the stick I’d been using to poke and prod the underbrush, my body instantly disappearing for a fraction of a second into the snapping vacuum of my portal. Stepping out of it a few yards away, I fell to my knees, my trembling hands not knowing what to do or what was safe to touch. I moved to her foot, then pulled back as the tiny black flies that were startled by my presence flew up in an angry swarm.

The temperature since the day she disappeared had been colder but that had done nothing to prevent her rapid decay.

Entomology and Body Decomp 101: A decomposing body will attract all manner of life forms within 24 after death. If allowed access, scavengers are ruthless in their pursuit of the flesh of the dead. 

Having been well read prior to my time in the apocalypse and being well acquainted with death in the years before this, I was still not prepared for what I saw or had to go through over the next several hours it took to free her.

Her body was no longer her anymore, but I couldn't accept that. My mind told me she was under there and she was so scared. 

Frantically, I started digging with my bare hands. No matter how careful I was clawing at the clay that had molded her in the ground, anytime my fingers came close to her, they crushed her slick, wet remnants of flesh, tearing it through.

At this point, she had surpassed the early stages of decomposition. Gone was the bloating. The gases and liquids had mostly expelled, and her skeleton was letting go of her skin, though in some areas it remained in denser sections that were identifiable but mostly because her clothes had embedded in her. Her jean shorts made clear where her abdomen was, what was left of her chest was now part of her t-shirt.

What I was seeing and touching and smelling made my stomach heave over and over but still I had to save her.

She had needed me, and I wasn’t there.

Stage 4 post-decay lacks some of the first levels of putridity, but even though I had seen hundreds of thousands of faces of death, seeing hers will always represent the loss of everything; even more so than the day I’d foolishly ran into the future, lost my family, and found I couldn’t get back.

“No, no, no,” I sobbed, my filthy, bloodied fingertips inching along her face, or what should have been her face. “I am so sorry… Please!  No! God, please!”

The mouth I had cherished was gaping, her once perfect teeth were more exposed than they should have been due to the skin around them receding or simply just not being there at all. 

Her eyes…

Where once someone had looked back at me with so much love and endless understanding, now there was horror, both mine and hers. 

Sickness took me again.

Dizzy, I frantically scrambled back, away from where I had unearthed most of her, my stomach emptied, but nothing but acid spilled onto the scattering of broken foliage off to my side. 

My ears were filled with the evil buzzing sound of insects that were warming themselves in the open area around us as the sun relentlessly beat down.

I couldn’t take it.

A feral sound of pure agony crawled out of my chest, getting eaten away by all the nothingness.

“Please, I am so sorry… Please forgive me, I never meant for…” 

She wouldn’t except my words and I couldn’t blame her.

My broken cries were lost in my delirium. On hands and knees, I came back to her, lifting her to me even though I shouldn’t have.

The gruesome sound of parts of her stickily pulling free from the ground and the sight of the parts of her that remained in the soil were enough to fracture what was left of my sanity.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you, we can go home now,” I shushed her, in my head believing I had the ability to soothe her pain. 

She still said nothing, and I told myself it was because she was just too weak.

She just needed my help. She was just mad. She was just…

“You are safe now,” I said, my hand sinking into her, her spinal column hitting my palm not even enough to shock me back into reality. 

After cradling her for far too long, I said, “I am not leaving you here.” 

Lightly as possible, I let my shaking hand touch her hair, seeing but not acknowledging that it was starting to detach from her scalp. Without thinking, I forced the massive amounts of energy I needed for a jump, the blue power expanding from my hands, then around us. 

I only took us across the drying riverbed, up the steep embankment and up the hill to where the road hadn’t been washed out, and that was far, but it was not even close to getting us back to our cabin. For that, I had planned to teleport again and again, as many times as it took but when my feet smacked the ground the force of it made the tendons holding her right thigh to her hip give way and the length of her leg landed at my feet. 

“Fuck!” I screamed, slamming to my knees to grab her.

Like a madman, I could at least put together that she was falling apart and that this wasn’t going to work. Even jumping with her was too much. She was so fragile; she’d always said she wasn’t, but she was…

“I am so-ssss-sorry,” my voice cracked as I carefully laid her down again. 

The sight of those tiny black bugs as they fought to get a piece of the woman I loved, caused me to feel the burn of violent anger and that almost brought me to my senses, but even that too, I washed away with another imaginary idea, that if I just covered her, somehow all the severed openings that were now more her than anything else, would be spared from further ruin.

In a frenzy, I stripped off my shirt, covering her with it the best I could. The moment I was able to get to my feet again, I swayed, the world spun, but when it came back into focus, I could see again like lightning struck my head, brightening the gray world around me, making the colors of her bright sandals and her hair and the tattered remains of her clothing stand out in stark contrast to the deep darkened purple of her rotting body.

My filthy hand came up, rubbing my face and my blurred eyes, then my fingers tore back as I painfully yanked at my hair. 

I had done this to her.

Sniffling and on the verge of a full screaming fit of rage, I turned and started making my way up the road, a few steps away, my hands coming together, my fingers like claws, I tried to gather the light in my hands to blink again, but instead I was met with the impotence of the faintest swirls of azure static crackling to life then fizzling out. 

Turning back to the motionless pile on the ground, I again assured her I’d be back. Then in a haze, like a zombie on empty, I mindlessly made my way back, my mud-covered boots trudging up the steep hill, my balance faltering over and over as I’d tripped over the uneven surface.

If you ask me what I was thinking during that walk, I couldn't tell you. All I knew was that I was empty and that a horrible numbness was taking hold.

Even still, I came back fast, like I’d promised. First, I placed her in a thick blanket, sure to get every bit that was her that was there, anything that wasn’t, I never found.

“There,” I breathed, positioning her leg that had been torn off at the hip in such a way that looked less painful. Then flapping away any visible bugs from her, I covered her completely. Knowing that she was in the later stages of decomposition but that it was far from over and she was seeping fluids, I lifted her, and laid the cocoon of wool on top of a tarp. 

I could have carried her the whole way but not wanting to hurt her or break her apart more than she already was, I only carried her to the cart I’d brought back with me, then I carefully laid her in. 

Though she didn’t answer no matter how much I wanted her to, I spoke to her the whole way as I tugged the wagon with her in it up the hill. 

Getting back to our home, the mud encrusted wheels clattered to a stop in the yard right next to the chair I had been sitting in the day we had gotten into our fight. It was dead silent and getting so dark by that point that the stars were coming out but as if in a time loop in hell, I could still hear the cruel things I’d said to her on that sunny morning. 

Looking down at the small mound of blanket with her in it, I said, “You have to forgive me. I don’t know what to do without you. I don’t want to live with-”

My heart was racing, I couldn’t breathe. My chest felt a new tightness where before, since the hours after she’d gone and not come back, I’d only felt the stabbing pain of regret and fear, now it was like an aching void as if there were an actual hole inside me.

I stood there blankly staring at the door, then back to her, my mind not working at all but somehow still functioning enough to make the start of a string of very bad decisions.

Taking her up in my arms, we went inside. “We’re back. You're not alone anymore. I never meant to leave you out there like that. I tried so hard to find you,” I said, smothering my words against her wrap. “It’s okay now…we are okay…”

I kicked the door closed then I moved straight for our bed, and I would have laid her down in it and climbed right in if not for the fact that Dolores was sitting in the chair next to it, staring at me looking horrified.

‘No, Five, don’t!’

Saying nothing, I spun around to instead place the bundle in my arms on the couch in front of the fireplace. It wasn’t lit and it needed to be. That’s what she and I did at night. That was our other special place.

Memories of sitting there together, her behind me, reaching around to place my fingers correctly to play the chords she was trying to teach me filled my head. I could almost trick myself into thinking I could hear her beautiful playing and that I could hear her laugh at me every time I’d try to get out of my lessons.

“This is okay. I’ll fix this. We are going to be okay,” I said, as I started to unwrap her.

Dolores panicked at the sight in front of us. ‘Five, no. She’s gone. This isn’t right. What are you doing?”

I stopped, leaving her under wraps but I ignored Dolores’ s warning and started to light the fire. 

Again, Dolores asked, ‘Five, what are you doing? She is dead. You can’t do this to yourself.’

“She’s not dead!” I shrieked, my eyes filling with welling tears as I clenched my hands, my broken fingernails slicing half-moons into the flesh of my dirty palms. 

‘I am sorry, Five, but she is. You knew that after she didn’t come back.”

My head turned back and forth as I shook away a flood of tears threatening to come out and drown me like the water had done to all that I loved. I pinched my eyes shut, a broken whimper squeaking out of my throat.

‘Look at yourself, Five… You are not okay. That is why she can’t stay here. I love her too, but she is gone.’

I opened my eyes and looked at myself. I had no shirt on, my body was covered in mud and death. 

The smell of me… 

The smell of her poor body…

‘You need to bury her. She wouldn’t want this.’

“No,” I whispered as my body trembled and I stared blankly at the floor. “No,” I said again, then screamed, “Stop!!!! Just stop! Don’t you fucking talk to me! I didn’t ask for your help! It didn’t ask for any of this!”

Refusing to look up and see the hurt on Dolores’s face, I looked to the motionless pile of fleece blanket.

“I am not putting you out there all alone again, sweetheart.”

With that affirmation, and me placing a kiss to her covered face, the night did not get better.

In the light of the fire, I sat there on the floor in front of the couch as close to her as I could be without touching her. I wanted to protect her. I needed to keep my promise that I wasn’t going to leave her. 

So many times, she and I had discussed the possibility of me being able to jump back in time and the fact that doing so with her was going to make it all the harder for me to pull off. Even with the right math, and just me, the energy needed to do it was something I hadn’t figured out how to achieve. Even though she had said that me getting back was all that mattered, I refused to consider leaving without her. 

I couldn’t leave her, not then and not now; that was what I kept telling myself.

Sometime late into the night, slumped against the plaid couch, my head resting near hers though she remained covered, my demented and wrong train of thoughts slipped away, and sleep took me but in it l found no solace. 

~~~

As I came to in the early hours of the next morning with my body crumbled on the cold floor, I knew instantly that everything I wanted to believe was okay was not. 

The dimly lit cabin smelled of death and I was graced with the buzzing sound of a half a dozen or more flies that had found their way in somehow in the tiniest of cracks.

The decay had been clinging to me since I found her, but I refused to acknowledge it even as the putrid odor only added to my ongoing nausea. I clumsily reached for the stale glass of water I’d left at some point on the end table. Drinking it burned my cracked lips and the taste of it felt laced with a bitter acid. I wanted to retch but managed to refrain.

Then, wanting to remain living in the land of make believe, I got up, went to our small kitchen area, and proceeded to grab several bottles of liquor.

Dropping down next to her again, I twisted a cap, sloshing the clear liquid as I tipped it back, dumping the alcohol down my raw throat. 

It was awful but that was not the only time I’d drank to forget, or that I’d drank things that were questionable in their quality.

“Remember when we found that stash of cheap wine with the seals broken,” I quietly asked. 

I took a long pull at the bottle, then another as I peered over my shoulder at her laying there on under her favorite blanket.

“Smarter than me as always, you refused to drink any of it, but not me… Stupid as always, I gave it a try and boy did I pay for it. You had to baby me for the entire next day. God, I am such a lightweight. I’d be dead if not for you.”

I laughed, the sound of it thick with irony.

“You were always so good to me…”

Eyeing the dried mud and smears of her flesh on my pants, my eyes blurred. 

“I didn’t deserve you and you didn’t deserve this.”

I started to cry. Then I started to hyperventilate, my breaths coming too fast and my head spinning. 

Shuddering, I drank more and more but I could never turn the image of my girl’s face staring back at me from that riverbed into the beautiful living version I wanted so badly to believe was still with me.

Hours later, I was disturbingly drunk. 

One minute I was musing to myself about our better times, talking out loud like a maniac about something so wonderful, like one night that she and I were out scavenging too far to come back, and we’d camped out under the stars. I’d told her the names of all the constellations I knew and there were many. She’d quietly listened, cuddled up next to me, both of us just happy to be in love and together even if our world was a landscape of tragedy. 

Together, we could have done anything. We were going to save the world.

Now she was gone.

I had nothing.

She’d been everything and now I had no one again.

With the room spinning, I abruptly got to my feet, stumbling towards the window above the sink basin. The flies zipped and buzzed in front of me, landing in the vomit I had left there after I’d finished the first bottle of liquor. Knowing that those same dirty insects were landing on my beautiful girl made me quake with not just sickness but unmeasurable self-hatred.

I was a fucking mess, and I wasn’t doing right by her. 

Dolores was right. 

Glancing back to where I had abandoned Dolores almost two days prior, the room tilted in my vision. I dizzily turned back, clutching the white cast iron basin.

The light outside was fading. I wanted to go along with it. I wanted all the horrible pain and debilitating heartache to stop.

Laying on the butcher block counter space where we prepared our meals, was a sharp kitchen blade. With where my head was at, seeing it, I immediately thought of my gun and other times of morbid desperation. 

My tears burned down my cheeks.

I hated myself so much for what I had caused. If I had not yelled at her, and if I could only have seen through my arrogance and own my deficiencies, she would still be here. I didn’t and instead did what I’d always done and blamed anyone but myself for my problems.

I’d taken out everything on her, again…

If I’d only learned from my mistakes, things that weren’t okay never would have been said. She never would have felt the need to be away from me. She never would have gone for that walk, and if she had, I would have been by her side. If I had just agreed with her to go to the city to try something new, I may not have had the breakthrough we needed so badly but at least she’d be there.

Feeling on the verge of vomiting again, I wanted to disappear into an alcohol induced coma.

I pushed off the sink, staggering like a drunken idiot the whole way back to the dresser that was next to my side of the bed. In a blur, I saw Dolores sitting there on her chair, but she didn’t say anything. She looked every bit the inanimate object she was.

It was as if I’d killed her too.

I yanked the top drawer open, my hand tearing through the clothes to find the heavy black metal object that my fucked-up mind craved. 

My fingers grazed the cold instrument of death. I could feel the barrel of the pistol sticking down my throat, the oiled slickness of it slipping past my parting lips. 

Just the thought made me gag but with sick fascination, and I didn't’ stop thinking about it.

All it would take is one second and my finger on the trigger and no more guilt. My brain would be a splatter of nothing, painting the bedspread behind me. The place we’d slept and loved would be ruined just like we were.

Images of us, heated tangled flesh, together in those same blankets filled my mind.

To get away from the hurt that memory caused, I looked up, the weapon in my hand but my eyes aimed at the small dresser mirror. It was as if a stranger was looking back at me. My stomach felt like it was trying to crawl out of my mouth and my vision was closing in with blackness threatening to pull me under.

I was seeing things and hearing things.

The loud pop of the bullet; the sound of my body hitting the floor. 

I saw bugs crawling out of the jagged rotting hole in my skull.

Then I saw her face, only not the destroyed one that was hidden under the blankets on the couch. 

That was when I finally came back to myself. 

“Don’t you fucking do it,” I furiously screamed at myself, throwing the gun back down in the drawer.

My ears were ringing from my own terrified voice reverberating in them, then a few seconds later, the silence of death and that room returned.  

It was just me, the mannequin and the body.

Dolores was right, I needed to let her go. 

I had to bury her.

~~~

Over the next several hours, through the task of digging a hole in the ground, I sobered up significantly. Having done that, I re-entered the dank, horrid smelling cabin, removing the small pile of remains that had been the love of my life.

I was still covered in layers of filth and knowing that even if Dolores wouldn’t speak to me, she’d loved her as much as me and she’d want to be there to say goodbye, I quickly washed myself outside under the spout attached to the spring fed line that was rigged to the house. Splashing my face with a mix of soap and water, I cleaned my battered hands, and my arms, and I removed my soiled pants, tossing them in the woods. 

The water streaming down my body was ice cold and disgusting. My fleshly cleaned and very pale skin ran under my fingers, standing in stark contrast to the filth that I was and the sight of it only furthered the much-needed reality check I'd only recently found. 

Once I’d made myself somewhat more presentable, I redressed, then silently approached Dolores.

My voice cracked from being burned by stomach acid so many times and by my screams and lack of simply drinking or eating appropriately for days, but I had the strength and weakness to ask her for something I didn't deserve.

“Please come with me…I don’t want to do this alone.”

When Dolores responded with her softly spoken words of devotion, ‘You are never alone, Five. You will always have me,’ I was nearly beside myself with emotion. I’d thought I’d lost her along with everything else.

“Oh, my God, thank you,” I sobbed as I lifted Dolores up and carried her outside into the yard.

We approached the hole I’d dug. It wasn’t that deep, and it wasn’t that big, but it didn’t need to be. It was in front of an ancient but long dead ash tree that she had once told me had to have been something truly beautiful at one point in time when it was alive.

It was just like her.

The burial was silent, save for the sound of the blade of my shovel slicing through the softened pile of dirt I had removed and then replaced. 

The sky was getting dark, the woods full of shadows of monstrous things that looked like they could come out of the night and pull you away forever. 

I sat, folded in on myself at the base of the old ash tree, the disturbed soil at my feet as I looked up to the highest branches of the barren tree. Its flesh had been taken. Remanence of its bark were scattered all around me. It would someday be nothing but dust. 

We all would be, but it was not my time-yet.

Burying my head in my hands, I kept telling myself that. 

~~~

In the days that came after that, it rained and rained. My mind tormented me constantly with the flawed idea that she was trapped out there in the crushing wet ground. One second, I’d be haunted by images of her so scared and trying to breath and break free as then dirty water filled her lungs, and then the next, I’d come back to the dimly lit room I was in; Dolores worriedly watching me as I slowly organized things and cleaned up my many messes.

We couldn't stay there, but I couldn't bring myself to leave either, not when everything I had that she'd ever touched was right there. All around me were parts of her life that she’d shared with me. I’d clung to every trinket; every item of fabric that bore her scent. 

Lying in bed at night, I’d break down into sobbing fits of anguish with my face buried in her pillow. I could stay like that for hours on end, fading in and out, tricking my mind and heart into thinking I hadn't lost her and that she was right there in bed next to me. But it would never last because the damp coldness of the empty space around me that had once been warmed by everything that was her was an inescapable reminder that I had failed the woman I loved and who had saved me.

It was in a notion during one of these times of despair that I realized the only thing I could do to redeem what I had done was to fix this like I'd always promised her I would. Out there somewhere in time there was a place where the world was still alive, and she was in it and everyone I ever cared about was still flesh and blood and filled with life.

I had to get back.

The pain that happened here was real and always would be but somewhere out there, there was a chance of better things.

There was a chance of seeing her again.

That idea of saving her and my family was the only way, and it was my reason for breathing again.

Broken, but somehow still standing, my heart though not the same was still beating. The flesh covering my hand could still feel hers in it and it was while cherishing that feeling that I made the decision that it was time to go. 

On our final day, I got up like every day since I’d put her in the ground under that tree. I came outside, picking up the wildflowers I had left for her the day before, then I went for a short walk, talking to her in my mind the entire time, making my usual promises while I worked through ideas and math and things that gave me hope. Then I’d come back, refill her favorite vase with new water and place the colorful blooms there above her.

Alone, the sun shone down on me, my shadow stretching across the earth above her, giving the illusion that we were laying there together.  

“I love you,” I whispered, my eyes blinking back the enormous weight I felt from her loss and would always feel.

I liked to think I heard her say she loved me back, but I knew she didn’t; it was just a memory of her words tickling my ear as her lips gently kissed along my neck.

I shivered from head to toe as I felt the ghost of her touch but not in a bad way.

I smiled, sniffing like a baby as I rubbed my eyes.

Then, making one last promise I said, “You will be okay. I’ll fix this.”

Going back in the house, with Dolores watching all the while, obedient and loyal and loving with words of encouragement, I packed my final things.

I left our cabin spotless and set up as if we were coming back to it. It was as if I could see us in there again, spending our nights in front of that fireplace, laughing and endlessly teasing each other; our bed ready for us to lay down in and explore each other in new and exciting ways that only made our love stronger. I saw all that but in the back of my head I knew I was never going to come back to that place because it was gone, and if I did return, I may never leave her.

So, it was with that in mind, late in the morning, I loaded Dolores with our supplies, setting her next to the hard black guitar case that held her cherished Christmas present I'd given her and so many other things I couldn’t let go. I pulled a blanket around Dolores and the case, as if the instrument inside it had become something in a way of being the woman I’d lost, so much the way Dolores was a real thing that needed my care and love. 

I walked to the old, grayed ash tree, its wind worn and smooth branches shone in the warm sun as I looked down at the ground where I’d left a piece of my heart. I could almost hear the sound of her playing my favorite sone and I knew that when I plucked those strings, a piece of my heart would break a little more with each strum, but I’d be back with her.

My lower lip trembled, and my nose burned with the same heat as my eyes.

“Until we meet again, my love…”

Thank you for your support , this special cover art was made just for this and for you.💞 @groovydazephantom

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[dirtytransmasc]

TW: VERY DARK AND SUICIDE ATTEMPT (kind of)

Prompt :

He was six

Norm found him with his wrist slit

“Why’d you do this kiddo?”

“I wanted to get rid of the demon blood”

Jakes reaction

Neytiri stitched him up with an unreadable expression

IF THIS MAKES YOU UNCOMY

I UNDERSTAND, PLEASE DO NOT MAKE THIS IF ITS TO DARK!!!😭

oh my fucking god... it hurts so bad, but its so good. I love dark angst, there aren't many places I won't go, so have no worries anon.

head the trigger warnings above, I don't get super graphic, but I don't skid over any details either. disclaimer, mama!neytiri brain worms are liquefying my brain, so this is a little (a lot) neytiri-centric, cause I can't help it, its the worms I swear.

also, there are like 0 resources on na'vi medicine, so I'm just fucking winging it man, I'm gonna pull some shit out of my literal ass and we're all gonna have to just be ok with that. ~~~

norm wishes he could say he was shocked, surprised that this little boy wanted to hurt himself, let alone went through with it. he should have been gutted, more than he was at least, angry, put off, something. but not that its happened, he saw it from a mile away, he should have noticed, should have stopped it. all he felt was guilt, burning up his heart and knotting up his stomach as he put pressure on spiders tiny wrists, holding his lulling body in his arms. spider was just a kid, a baby, but he's muttering about 'getting rid of demon blood' and 'not belonging' and it being 'better off' if he was gone. it was somehow worse in his childish wording, his perfect innocence and naivety only just beginning to crack as the pain in his little chest began to swell.

it had been the odd quietness from spider's 'room' back in the cave marui's that alerted him to something being wrong. spider was quiet, in a way; when he was out playing with the kids he was loud, laughing, face filled with light and joy, even if something cold still glinted in his eyes. but when he was on his own, having been left behind or told off by some adult, human or na'vi alike, for getting in the way, he would sulk off to the little marui by the shack. but even if he would sit amongst himself, playing with the few figures someone had put time aside to make, attempting to weave a new piece of jewelry or basket, mending the sad little knife he wore on his side. he was always doing something, could be heard humming or sniffling, the sound of his knife on the wetstone or the clunking of wooden figures on each other were a constant. so when norm heard nothing but silence, his gut ticked up, the hair on his neck bristled, his legs carried him much farther they would on the average day until he was staring at spider and his little bloody arms and his little bloody knife and his sad little eyes.

it took only a split second for norm to come back to himself, to rush and pick the boy up before he had enough 'sense' to try and back away (spider never wanted trouble, never wanted to get in the way or be a burden, the fact he didn't try and hide worried norm more then it would of if he did, which was even more concerning in its own right).

he just held spider as tight as he could, his big blue hands easily covering his human wrists, trying to think of what he should do. he should say something, other then "its ok" but what does he say? what do you say to a six-year-old who just tried to kill himself, no, no, "get rid of the demon blood" coursing through his veins?

he wasn't going to lecture him, spider made it clear why he did it, comfort wasn't his strong suit. he could just look at his puffy little cheeks, one side of his mask blooded as he had attempted to wipe his cheek on instinct. so he just repeated a mantra of "I'm here" and "it's ok" and "your ok" until he reached the infirmary, trying to prtend he didn't feel spider slipping further and further away with each passing second.

in the flash of just a few seconds fueled by adrenaline alone, he knew he regretted everything. he was spider's caretaker sure, but he was no father, jake wasn't either, and the boy didn't have a single maternal figure to his name. no mother to kiss his brow at night or admire his accomplishments. he had no one, not truly, and norm allowed to happen, was not only complicit in it, but played a direct role in it. now he may not get to make that up, may not be given the chance to step up, to fix this.

he carried spider to the infirmary hut, knowing he would find someone, anyone, there who could help. part of him knew that mo'at had seen something in the child that brought some sort of pity from her, that maybe just this once, spider wouldn't be so alone in her presence.

when he entered the pod, he found mo'at showing neytiri something, explaining different herbs to her, though he didn't pay enough attention to it the lesson to pull out any identifying features of the herbs in question. both turned to look at him when they heard his rapid breathing, their gaze then shifting to the bloody boy in his arms, the ever-so-faint fogging of the glass that made up most of his exopack, and the ghostly parlor of spider's skin.

"put him down," mo'at commanded, before norm could even speak, clearing her pallet in an instant, "what happened to him?" her voice was firm, almost knowing.

"he...cut himself...intentionally...I don't know how long ago, but I found him in his pod alone and brought him right here."

"intentionally?" neytiri hissed, removing the boy from his arms when he couldn't get himself to comply with the order and holding him so she could listen to the weakening beat of his heart. she tied turniquotes around his upper forearm with the strands of clothing handed to her by her mother, absent-mindedly rocking the little thing where he rested held between her free-er arm and her chest, when the last bits of his consciousness were directed to fussing, no doubt from the pain. she couldn't bring herself to bind them too tight, just enough to control the bleeding, her hands and a bit of cloth could handle the rest.

(mo'at almost lectured her, but she saw that look in her daughter's eyes and knew it would be pointless, a mama bear gets what she wants)

norm had never seen the protective fire in her eyes, normally directed at her children, burn so bright for spider in the last few years she had known him. it scared him, it felt so unnatural that the very gaze he had learned to trust in most cases, froze him like a deer in headlights.

but that question, the tone of it, made his gut sink. how did he explain this, spider was just a baby, and he had slit his own wrists. that on its own was gut-wrenching, but the reason? Eywa have mercy.

"he said... he said he wanted to get rid of his demon blood, so he... he used his own knife and cut his wrists... its a common form of self harm back on earth, to cut yourself, but I don't even know how he would know to do that, why he would do it... I know why, but..." norm felt defeated. he should have seen something.

the look on neytiri's face made him want to tuck his tail between his legs and run off. she placed spider down as gently as one could, face scrunched up with pain and anger as she keeps pressure on both of spider's wrists.

"get jake, he is with the young hunters." she spoke quietly, her voice almost bitter. she didn't know if she blamed him, if she was angry with him, she barely understand how to feel about spider harming himself. all she knew is that he had just given her some of the most heartwrenching news she had heard in her life, so he was getting some of her mirth. norm nodded, racing off with his tail tucked between his legs, only hesitating to take another worried glance at the boy.

neytiri took a deep breath before turning to her mother. "he will need stitches, right?" she had never dealt with an injury quite like this before, the conscious effort in the wound made it clean and to the point, unlike a wound in battle. it strived to do quick, efficient damage, and now, either because she could barely let herself think straight, or because she genuinly didn't know, she couldn't think of the best way to treat it.

"yes, my daughter, but that is the least of his worries. he cut a large vein, those are very difficult to mend, stopping the bleeding will be difficult. he's already lost quite a bit of blood, so we need to be careful. the best thing would be to put a root paste to help clot the bleeding, wrap it up, and stitch it later." mo'at turned to her morter and pestle as she spoke, mixing different herbs, berries, and roots into a dark brown, almost purple, paste.

neytiri, nodded absently, while she picked through the basket at her side for bundles of lumped fibre and soft cloth to hold against his arms. luckily for him, while he did manage to do some damage and with the help of the tourniquets, one wrist had already stopped bleeding a fair bit, and the other was manageable.

in the silence of the hut, her mother working quietly behind her, turning every once and a while to check his breathing or giving her a tincture to clean his wounds with, neytiri was left to think.

demon blood.

he had done this because of the words she and so many spat at the sight of him. he had tried to rid himself of his sins, the sins of his father, the sins of his people; but were they really his to begin with? what had he done, in his six years of life, to have earned the hate he received? was the blood he carried in his veins enough to justify pushing a child to this?

no, she decided, no it was not.

seeing him so pale and lifeless in norms arms woke something in her, something deep in her gut, maternal rage coursing through her with something vicious, and even if she didn't deserve it after all she had done to him, pushed him to do, her heart was attempting to claim his as her own, and she didn't know what to do with that feeling. then she realized, that the maternal drive that prowled in her stomach like a thanator ready to pounce, not only saw the world as a threat, but saw her as a threat.

her mother handed her the salve and she was grateful for anything to do to take her mind off of the few revelations she managed to have while waiting.

"put more of the salve where the bleeding is stronger, then wrap it tight, be careful to not make it so tight it takes off his hand." the older woman guided, watching over her daughters work.

neytiri scooped it out bit by bit, slowing rubbing it onto the wounds while her mother blotted away the blood, her ears dipping whenever the boy his with pain or tried to pull away. she just wanted to make him better, to take him up into her arms and tell him it was alright like she would if he was one of her own children. but she knew she couldn't, he would wake up and see the monster who filled his little mind with such awful thoughts of himself, that he would be just as scared of her as he always was, and that she could bring him no comfort. so he was extra gentle as she finished off the paste, and held him like delicately as she wrapped the bandage around his wrists, gushing him gently each time he cried out, combing back his hair when she felt she was finished.

then jake came barreling in, breaking up the delicate silence that for a single second allowed her to believe it was just a normal day, that the new found fantasy of just being able to mother this child was true, that allowed spider to lay in peaceful sleep with her shawl over him. norm was trying to hush him, before he woke the baby, but there was no stopping jake, not when his face was full of pain and anger, looking as if he would plow down a titanothere just to get to spider.

neytiri knew jake had taken to spider more than he had let on, but the beast in her belly screamed that he hadn't done enough either, that he didn't earn the right to worry either. but she hushed it, knowing neither had the right to claim anything, not even over each other.

"ma'jake, quiet, or you will wake him and... he will be in pain. so let him sleep while he can," she attempted to soothe quietly, resisting every urge to just scoop him up when jakes loud entry did in fact stir him.

jake sat across from her, his hand resting on spider's chest, feeling the soft rise and fall of the boy's chest. "did he really?" he asked, eyes begging for her to tell him it wasn't true. she knew he would much rather hear of a freak accident over this, but she couldn't give him that mercy.

"yes, it would seem so." her voice was short, worn, despite barely saying a word this whole time.

jake crumpled a little, much more on the inside then he attempted to let show on the outside. neytiri was used to it, jake dealing with it all on the inside, bottling it up till he burst. she placed her hands over his, both of them being reassured by spider's breathing.

"but he is still here, we can and will help him. we will make sure he never feels this way again. I will right my wrongs, I will treat him as he has always deserved, and I hope one day he can forgive me. you will do the same. for now we just have to wait." she spoke gently, still worried about waking spider. she was partly talking to herself, making the promise she had worked her mind to final, she swore it on eywa. she saw jakes eyes finally close, knocking the tears he had been fighting to keep in down his cheeks.

he nodded, slumping into a lazy, defeated-looking, criss-cross position, talking spider's little hand in his, using the wet cloth from mo'at to clean the blood from his finger, the calloused palms of his hands, his muscle-toughened arms.

jake was no stranger to this, to harming yourself, even if he had never taken a blade to his wrists. trying to imagine that pain in such a little body terrified him. how was he supposed to wrap his head around little spider, the stray cat amongst the village, always smiling and laughing, always trying to help everyone, always up in trees or tussling with his kids, his blonde hair like streaks of the sun running about the village, battling such demons. he tried to imagine what he must have been feeling when he took his knife to his wrist. was he scared? relieved? confused? was he desperate and looking for a way out?

no, no norm said that spider wanted to get rid of his "demon blood" which as somehow more nauseating. it was their faults, him, norm, neytiri, The People. they hurt this child or they let it happen. they expected him to take every glare, every spit of acid, everything he was forced to endure, and to still remain a happy child. jake never once stopped to think what effect that may have on him, and now he was paying for it.

he ached, spider was small, he could fit in jakes hands even at 6 years old. he was drowning in neytiri's shawl even if on her, it would barely cover her upper arms, he had just started fitting his exopack a little less than a year ago. he was still just a baby, and they almost let his life end. had norm not found him, he would be dead, still and cold in his makeshift marui, in a pool of his own blood. the image that accompanied the thought that flashed in his made him feel sick. even with all that he denied feeling about the boy, no matter how hard he tried to push him away, no matter what he let him go through, the thought of spider dying, especially like that, alone and scared and in pain, terrified him. to have a child die for any preventable reason, was a disgrace on The People, especially their chief of all people.

chief.

he should have been the example. he should have led his people to find love for a defenseless child who wanted only to be loved and accepted. he had failed.

he let a finger caress the side of spiders face, along the edge of spider's mask, lightly pulling at the curly baby hairs that rested there,

"will he be alright?" he didn't know who he was asking, norm or mo'at. both would have very different opinions, norm more literal, mo'at more spiritual. he didn't know which he wanted.

"physically, yes. he is lucky, his blade was simple, his hand faltered, and he didn't seem to have a death wish. he didn't do too much damage, its manageable. emotionally jakesuli? time will tell." mo'at was the one to speak, the look on norms face spoke the his fear of setting neytiri off like he almost had earlier.

neytiri looked to her mother with a pain expression, her tail beating nervously where is laid near spiders head, ears still folded back.

"his mind is plauged with pain and desperation, things no child should even be aware of. he was driven to harm himself, in ways that will be permanent. it will be our actions going forward that determine his future. I fear if we do not undo the damage now, we will lose him in the years to come... what I fear more and that the damage has been done and cannot be undone. we can only hope for the former/"

neytiri damn near let out a cry, turning from her mother, eyes clenched as tears welled up in them. she found jakes arms, both leaning over spider like a makeshift shelter. just like they should have his whole life, they should have shielded him from the world, protected him from the hate of others. spider stirred once more, and this time jake couldn't resist the urge to scoop him up.

spider looked up at both of them, his little eyes tired and glossy, something small and painful in his gaze. he began to wiggle out of jakes hold, balling up nervously, but when neytiri grazed fingers through his hair, he stopped. this was the one thing he had ever wanted, deep down. not to be accepted, not to be one with the people, not even to be na'vi. he just wanted to be held, loved, by a mother, any mother. with his judgment too clouded by all his emotions, the desperation, the pain, even the blood loss, and maybe and even simpler reason being just being a child; spider let her hold him. he couldn't think about her years of neglect, the harsh words, and harsher glares, not in that moment, that could come later. right now, he needed a mother, and neytiri was willing, so he sunk into her hold, welcoming the embrace of either parent.

the road to spider's recovery would be long and hard. jake and neytiri had a lot to make up for, to apologize for, holding onto their guilt for years as they waited for spider to reach an age were their apologies would actually mean something to him. he would have to be watched constantly, habits would be broken, tears would be cried. things would never be 100%, there would always scars and phantom pain, but that was ok.

~~~

a note for my regulars; I'm back, maybe sorta kinda. I've hit a rough patch with my adhd, I can't do thoughts, or social interaction really, but I'm starting to bounce back, so more regular posting may return shortly.

[mania-sama]

leviathan, the tyrant, and the horse and rider

Where Is Your Rider - The Oh Hellos

➼ information ❧ Bungou Stray Dogs ❧ Pairing: Dazai Osamu/Nakahara Chuuya ❧ Additional Characters: Mori Ougai, Kenzaburo Oe (Original Character) ❧ Tags: angst with a happy ending, dazai-typical suicide mentions, threats of violence, threats of suicide, non-graphic gun violence, post-dead apple, explosives, mild hurt/comfort, mentions of cannibalism (unaffiliated with the cannibalism arc), canon-typical violence ❧ Summary: Chuuya shows up at the Armed Detective Agency threatening suicide under the pretense of taking a walk with a suicidal maniac. Mori pulls the strings on his puppet. Yet somehow, no one ends up committing suicide. ❧ Word Count: 6,077 ❧ Cross-posted from Archive of Our Own ❧ Original post date: 25 February 2023

Nakahara Chuuya had been walking for a long time.

He had stayed away from the main roads. The people that he did pass chose not to bother him, but he had seen their stares, worried whisperings, and faltering strides. He had not spoken to them, but he wished he could’ve.

When Chuuya stopped walking, he planted his feet carefully, side by side, both balancing inwards on his soles. He stared at the building complex, his heart beating so erratically in his chest that he was almost sure that it would throw him off balance, that it would cause his teeth to unalign and his fingers to twitch.

Slowly, as if his ability manipulated time and not gravity, he knocked on the door. On any other day, he would’ve walked inside without knocking because that was what any normal person would do. Unfortunately, Chuuya had been specifically told that he couldn’t set off the metal detectors just beyond the Armed Detective Agency’s beautiful wooden doors. So he knocked and waited.

He had blocked out the bustle of the street behind him. The longer he thought about it, the more the idea of screaming and running for help sounded appetizing. Thus, he redirected his mind to focus full-heartedly on tracing the intricate patterns engraved in the wood, ignoring his heart as best as he could while maintaining a steady breathing pattern. It was damn-near impossible.

It’d been a while since he’d been properly scared.

He had been at an interesting curve at the top of the double doors, his eyes straining upwards since he’d kept his head completely level, when it fell away to reveal a young woman dressed in the agency’s clerk uniform on the other side.

Appropriately, she shrieked. “S–sir! What are you doing? Please, don’t! This is not—”

“I want to talk to Dazai Osamu. Bring him to me, or I’ll pull the trigger.” His hand was trembling, but he pushed the handgun harder into his own temple regardless.

Her eyes were wide-open, showcasing the electric blue color that matched with her stunned expression. She nodded, taking a small step backwards into the lobby. “It— It’ll be a moment, sir.”

“I’ll be waiting,” he said, straining to keep his voice level. Normally, he would never wait for Dazai to come to him first. Yet most of the time, it was Dazai who was holding the gun to his own head. Suicide wasn’t really Chuuya’s thing, but he supposed there was a first time for everything.

The door was propped open with a wooden stopper, leaving Chuuya to be ogled at by the two poor souls in the lobby of the agency. Obviously they weren’t very busy, meaning it was possible Dazai wasn’t in the office at all.

Chuuya adjusted his grip on his handgun, his palms sweating underneath his gloves. His hair stuck unnaturally to his face. The boss said Dazai would be in office today, but if Chuuya knew anything about his old partner, it was that he could make himself scarce if he wanted to.

He would have to pray that Mori’s intel was correct. It was rather unfortunate that Chuuya wasn’t really the religious type, save for the god that lingered in his body.

A part of him didn’t want Dazai to comply with his demand, that the clerk had alerted that Nakahara Chuuya, a Port Mafia executive, was a threat and needed to be quickly neutralized. All of this waiting and wishful thinking that Dazai would somehow come up with a plan to get Chuuya out of this situation was killing him faster than the gun at his temple.

But there was only one other thing he knew better about Dazai than anyone else; if Chuuya wanted something, Dazai would do everything in his power to prevent him from getting it.

The demon himself ambled leisurely into the lobby, hands in his trench coat’s pockets and body relaxed. He turned to make eye contact with Chuuya, a cheerful smile on his face. His shoes clicked on the floor. “Chuuya! Have you finally taken a lesson from my book?” His lips tightened a little as he stopped in front of the executive, as though disappointed. “I have to say, shooting yourself is the least creative way to go. Though, I couldn’t expect more from someone like you.”

To the bystanders in the lobby, the detective was rambling nonsense to the suicidal man in front of him without a care in the world. To most people, Dazai looked just as insane as Chuuya did. However, nobody knew Dazai like Chuuya did. His life was resting in the detective’s hands, and it wasn’t for the first time, either.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t scared.

“You will follow me, Dazai, or I’ll shoot,” he said in response. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to be there at all , standing before the person that his heart couldn’t decide what it thought about him. Chuuya was afraid his heart wouldn’t have to make that decision anymore.

Dazai cocked his head. His gaze was intense, guarded and analyzing while keeping up the aura of complacency. Chuuya struggled to keep eye contact with him, but he kept his head level and kept his body as still as he could.

“Where would you take me? It’s too early for a nice dinner,” Dazai said smoothly. He was waiting for a signal, but Chuuya had nothing to give him. He didn’t have time to wait for Dazai to realize this.

He swallowed, carefully avoiding jostling the pill tucked against his molars. “When I start walking, you’ll be beside me. If not, my brains will be out on the street.”

They’ll splatter on the civilians around them. Dazai will watch as Chuuya commits suicide in the most unimaginative way possible. 

He turned around, counting in his head the amount of time it takes to reposition his feet. He paced his breathing evenly. Chuuya didn’t look at the people’s faces, nor at the sidewalk or at the skyline. He unfocused his sight, losing himself in keeping his feet titled in his soles and walking at the correct tempo.

He was aware that Dazai was keeping pace beside him on his right side, coincidentally the same side that Chuuya was holding the gun to his temple. He could sense the attempt before Dazai had time to do it.

This much he could tell his old partner. “If you remove the gun from my head, I’ll swallow the cyanide pill in my mouth.” It felt incredibly heavy against his teeth despite its small mass.

“That’s a little more creative than using the gun, but still not particularly creative and suffering-free. Tell me, Chuuya,” Dazai asked, his voice dropping an octave, “how did you get yourself in this predicament?”

That wasn’t something he could answer directly. The story wasn’t very exciting anyway—he simply hadn’t expected his own boss to use him like this.

Chuuya couldn’t see Dazai very well from where his arm was blocking most of his peripheral vision. It was hard to tell if Dazai needed the information to configure a plan to help Chuuya escape, or if he was only asking to help alleviate some of Chuuya’s trepidation.

The Port Mafia executive almost appreciated the incentive. Almost. His anxiety wasn’t cleared so easily. “If you’re thinking of touching me,” he started, because there were only so many words he was allowed to say. Warning Dazai of the things he couldn’t do in order to keep Chuuya alive made up three quarters of those words. “I will kill myself. No Longer Human won’t work.”

Chuuya held his breath for a count of three, approximately the amount of time it would take from the bombs in his shoes to detonate. On three, he released slowly. He hadn’t revealed too much information.

Beside him, the detective hummed a familiar tune. “Who said anything about touching you? I’m sure if I did so, I would contract the suicide germs that have infected you.” He paused, and then: “Maybe only short people can contract it.”

Silence greeted the unimpressive insult. Even if he could’ve responded appropriately, Chuuya couldn’t find it in him to take it seriously in the slightest. Gruesome images were running through his head, and all of them ended up with his own bloody death in one way or another. If he misstepped in any of his responses, those would be his endings.

He wondered if the boss was wrong. Mori’s assumption was that Dazai cared too deeply about Chuuya to let him die, leading them to their current situation. Chuuya had a hard time believing that Dazai had cared about anyone since Oda’s death. He’d left behind Chuuya in the Port Mafia; who was to say he wouldn’t do it again?

But even so, Dazai trod alongside Chuuya like a loyal dog. “Nothing to say back? Tough luck.”

The executive bit his tongue, cringing as the bottom of his feet pressed a little too hard on the C-4 packets. Dazai would’ve noticed his odd gait by now, but there was nothing the two of them could currently do about the explosives. The detonation device was remote, located with the boss at their final destination.

One wrong move. Chuuya straightened his back, breathed properly, and stepped accordingly. There was no room for error or miscalculation.

Chuuya turned into a side alley, getting away from the main streets where the police have likely already been alerted. A suicidal man and a suicidal maniac walking side-by-side in a congested sidewalk was sure to spell trouble, and any forward-thinking individual would’ve thought to get the proper authorities involved.

Dazai sighed. “You’ve got me stumped this time, Chuuya. At first, I was sure you weren’t being serious, but…” he trailed off. “I can see you mean it.”

What would kill him faster? The gun, the cyanide, or the explosives? He wanted to ask Dazai because surely he, of all people, would know. Instead, he kept his mouth shut and walked.

He’d been doing so for a very long time. His mouth was dry and his stomach hurt from anxiety and hunger.

“We have a long way to go.” His feet were hurting from the precarious position he had to keep them in so he didn’t prematurely detonate the C-4.

“I have no doubt about it,” Dazai said, the frown evident in his voice.

It was selfish of him, but he wanted Dazai to keep speaking, spouting irritating nonsense like he always did before he abandoned the Port Mafia. His voice was soothing, moreso in the dire situation they were now in. Chuuya wanted to look at him and drink in the waves of his hair, the shades of his eyes, and the stature of his body.

He wanted to lie down with his head on Dazai’s lap as he ran his fingers through his hair, just like he did after the chaos of the apple suicides. Chuuya would use Corruption a thousand times if it meant he could experience that euphoric tranquility each time.

If he used Corruption now, what would happen? The bombs at his feet would detonate, but his control of gravity in that state could swallow the blast. He would toss the gun or turn it on Dazai, but it was incredibly unlikely that he’d pull the trigger on himself. Corruption caused him to lose his mind, not become intentionally suicidal.

None of that mattered, anyway. He would chomp down on the cyanide pill in a heartbeat. It was tucked too far back for it to spit out quickly, and his Corruption form would mistake it for a piece of regular food. He could recognize a gun, not a pill.

There wasn’t any peace for him. His arm was hurting from how long he’d kept the handgun held in the air. Corruption wasn’t an option if the plan was for Dazai to come up with a solution to this mess.

‘You’ve got me stumped this time, Chuuya.’ Dazai had to have been lying through his teeth. Chuuya wouldn’t know what to do if he was telling the truth.

The quiet was worse than the nervous energy of the crowded streets. He could hear his and Dazai’s shoes echoing against the buildings’ exterior walls, the thumping of his own heart, and his breathing. Occasionally, Dazai would hum some familiar tune. It was an old song from the second world war—his old partner had mentioned in the past that he’d loved that time period’s music the best.

“People were scared during that time. The War to End All Wars had only just concluded, and a new one had already started?” Dazai said with a light chuckle, breaking his humming and startling the Port Mafia executive. He almost tripped. “The songs of the time were born of depression and dismay. They showcase a certain desperation that is hard to find in modern-day songs.”

Hope— it was all he had to stave off the pit of dread that had already enveloped his stomach. By showcasing his practical mind-reading capabilities, he was giving Chuuya that terrible hope. It did little to settle his nerves, for the more Dazai talked, the more chances that Mori would detonate the bombs increased.

“My favorite is There’ll Be Bluebirds Over the White Cliffs of Dover,” Dazai continued in Chuuya’s silence. “It’s English, but fittingly so. They’d been the only major world power fighting the Axis at the time."

They were desperate. Dazai sang softly, his voice winding its way through Chuuya’s heart like a stitch. If he closed his eyes for just a second, he could pretend the barrel at his temple was Dazai’s chest, and he could feel the rhythmic rumble of his vocal chords as his old partner crooned.

Then Chuuya stumbled over his feet, and his world went white.

With one hand grasping at the dark wall of a building to keep his weight up, and the other desperately pressing the weapon to his head, Chuuya heaved with a bright spark of horror. “I tripped! I tripped, I swear! It was an accident!”

One. No, God, please no. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare look anywhere besides the dirty floor of the alley. For how long they’d been walking, they couldn’t be far now. He’d been so close. Two. Mori had to have heard his plea through the tiny microphone on his collar. He had to have.

He squeezed his eyes shut as if it would save him for his burning demise. Three.

A count of three, a count of thirty, and there hadn’t been a detonation. It took him a half a minute to fully comprehend he was still alive, that he was still bracing himself against the wall and his heart was still beating in his chest. It tried desperately to escape its cage made of bone.

Chuuya blinked and looked up, finding Dazai studying him with an indescribable expression. His hands were still tucked into his pockets, but his muscles were taut like guitar strings. Lips drawn tight together, the detective took a dangerous step towards Chuuya.

“Stop moving!” Chuuya shouted. It was impossible to keep the shake out of his voice, given how it was no longer concealed in his body, either. Dazai halted with his hands up in surrender.

The executive pushed himself off of the wall, breathing heavily and keeping his head level with his direct line of sight. All of a sudden, he became acutely aware of the dryness of his mouth and the lack of food in his system. His tremors increased tenfold.

But Nakahara Chuuya walked, just like he had been, with bombs in his shoes, cyanide in his molars, and a handgun on his temple. Dazai walked beside him.

The detective wasted no time, recovering faster than Chuuya ever could’ve. “Where was I? Oh, yes; Tomorrow, when the world is free… ”

The Port Mafia executive stared straight ahead and let Dazai’s voice ease his trembles. He abandoned the useless fantasies, even if living in the present was harder. If he stayed in the daydream, he could make another mistake. It wasn’t worth it to risk the chance of never waking up again.

His finger twitched on the trigger. He’d almost pulled it when he fell.

Dazai had moved onto a new song by the time Chuuya stopped in front of a small warehouse. He hadn’t bothered to mention the name, but at least it was in the native tongue. His voice slowly lowered until it was nothing but an old sound on the wind. Chuuya inhaled shakily.

“Open the door and walk straight forward. I will follow behind,” he said. “Try anything out of line and I will kill myself.”

“You know, you don’t have to keep reminding me. The mantra gets boring after a while,” Dazai replied. Irritation laced his words, but he unlatched and pushed up the door without any unnecessary force. The screeching metal pierced through the executive’s ears, a sound familiar for a reason he couldn't put his finger on.

The cyanide pill made itself known, then, and he clamped his jaw firmly shut.

Walking through the dimly lit warehouse, Chuuya could hardly see Mori standing near the back. The boss had set up a meager stand consisting of a dark wood desk with a candelabra to illuminate the area. Once his eyes had fully adjusted, he noticed the men dressed in black surrounding the interior perimeter.

Chuuya would need a miracle to make it out alive. He glared at the back of Dazai’s head. If anyone could accomplish such a feat, it would be that bastard.

“Welcome, Dazai. It’s nice to see Double Black together again,” Mori said, lifting one hand in the air. Chuuya halted immediately, and so did Dazai.

“Mori,” Dazai greeted in return. His stance shifted to be more relaxed as if this was a game he’d been born to play. “I recognize this warehouse. It's one of the many places you forced Chuuya and I to train together. I hated every moment of it.”

Now that Dazai was saying it, Chuuya could barely glimpse the vague dark splotches on the wall behind Mori, and if he strained enough, he could spot them underneath his feet. Old blood. Despite it all, a grin threatened to spread across his lips. He didn’t have much time to reminisce on his first year in the Port Mafia, but he knew most of his memories were contained in this room.

Double Black may have formed during their first job together, but this was where they were honed into a perfect blade.

“Of course. You never stopped complaining about it,” the boss said. “But look where it has taken you now. I do say that I made you two a fine pair.”

It was rather unlucky that their blade had been fitted to Mori’s palms.

Dazai tilted his head back to Chuuya. His eyes flashed brilliantly, and Chuuya spent too long in this warehouse to not know what that meant.

Just how exactly Dazai wanted him to use Corruption was the issue. That’s what the executive had always hated most about working with the detective—if they weren’t in the thick of battle, he never knew what to expect next.

“I left the Port Mafia a long time ago and broke apart Double Black. Your craftsmanship could use a little work.” Dazai took his hands out of his pockets and absently picked at his nails. “I’m getting real tired of your voice, Mori. The sooner you tell me why you went out of your way to test your alliance with the Armed Detective Agency, the faster I can try this new method of suicide I’ve been looking at.”

Suicidal maniac. No matter how hard Chuuya had tried, he’d never been able to convince Dazai off of that shit. The agency hadn’t seemed to help, either. What a shame.

Mori laughed. It was a sick, cruel sound. Somehow, with the gun pressed to his head, Chuuya felt like he was fifteen again. “I want you to come back as an executive of the Port Mafia.”

Chuuya was fifteen. Mori told him the only way he could access the files on the experiments run on him when he was younger was to become an executive of this wretched organization.

Dazai was twenty-two. Mori told him that he wanted the youngest executive in Port Mafia history to return to his station, or else—

“At the threat of Chuuya’s life. Is that it?” His old partner scoffed. “It takes two to form Double Black.”

The executive narrowed his eyes. If Mori wanted the old Double Black back, then he would never detonate the bombs. Was he lied to so bluntly, and it just slipped right past him? Did he comply with Mori's demands like a brainless dog, thinking that his life was on the line when in reality, it was never really in danger?

Chuuya and Dazai were dealing with the Port Mafia boss. While it may be easier to fool Chuuya, the same couldn’t be applied to the prodigy of the mafia. There had to be something deeper at play. The power simmering beneath his skin was quickly shut down, violently shushing the ancient god stirring in his mind. Even though his anxiety and fear were quickly fading, he kept the gun to his head.

He couldn’t risk it. Not while Dazai was still making moves on this dark chessboard.

“I don’t recall a requirement for both the parties to be alive. It’s time you met a dear friend of mine. Kenzaburo,” Mori called, motioning with his other hand—the one with the accursed detonator—for the individual to come forward. “Please, join us.”

A man stepped out from the crowd, his stature rather unassuming and face particularly uninspired. What separated him from the rest, outside of his choice of a deep mahogany suit in comparison to the black ones surrounding him, were his eyes.

To put it simply, he didn’t have any. Bandages were wrapped around his head, but when it went over the sockets, the pure white was disrupted by a color the same shade of his outfit. Covering his eyes didn’t do anything if everyone could still tell he was missing them.

A strained hissing sound came from everywhere in the room, bouncing off of the warehouse walls until it came to a head by the man’s side. The vulture preened with its ugly, featherless head stuffed into its brown wings. It made another hissing noise, which sounded more akin to a cat than a bird.

Dazai startled backwards, landing himself close to Chuuya’s gunless side. His old partner’s face was an oil painting of consternation. The executive felt his heart drop in his chest.

He didn’t need to have a future-seeing ability to tell this wasn’t going to end well. Fear sweltered back into his body like a fire that couldn’t be doused. 

“It seems you’ve heard of him. Or at least, you’ve heard of his ability,” Mori said, stepping around his desk in perfect confidence.

Dazai panted heavily and clearly struggled to regain his own self-assured composure. Shit. “He was— he should be locked up! What have you done?”

The missing eyes and preening vulture were bad enough, but to have Dazai sputtering and stumbling over his words like a school boy with a crush was all he needed to know to feel terror. Along with that familiar spark of anger.

“It seems Chuuya here is uninformed. Dazai, would you inform him of his near future?” Mori was enjoying this far too much.

“Kenzaburo’s ability, Lavish Are the Dead, in… simple terms, allows him to control the dead and their ability if they have one.” Dazai wasn’t looking at Chuuya, but instead kept his gaze trained on the vulture. “When someone dies and his vulture consumes their flesh, he has to eat the regurgitated version of that flesh to gain control.”

“But you’re missing one part,” the man rasped. His voice was that of sharp nails on a chalkboard. If he listened to it for long enough, he was sure a migraine would kill him before Mori had the chance. Kanzaburo’s stringy black hair bobbed with the slight movement of his jaw. “The control goes to whoever consumes the regurgitated dead first.”

More grinned. “Dazai, you will be the one to necromance Chuuya.”

Oh God, he was going to throw up. From the looks of it, Dazai was no better off. He looked two seconds away from either hurling or killing the boss right where he was standing.

“You shouldn’t have released him from prison. He’s going to betray you, Mori,” Dazai’s voice quavered from a mixture of fury and fear, “You’ve doomed us all.”

“No, Dazai. I’ve saved the future of the Port Mafia.”

It was a losing battle. Chuuya couldn’t use his ability or Mori would detonate the bombs. Corruption would swallow the cyanide pill. His handgun was the most painless way to go out. He could see now why Mori ever handed him the gun in the first place. It wasn’t a matter of intimidation to get Dazai to come quickly and quietly–he’d given mercy to Chuuya.

There had never been any intention of letting him survive the day. Dazai slumped suddenly, all of his rigid tension dissipating from his body to display absolute defeat. He must’ve come to the same conclusion as Chuuya had.

Perhaps there wasn’t a way to save Chuuya, but he had no doubt his old partner would find a way to escape the Port Mafia without using Kenzaburo’s ability. It was the only solace he could carry with him to have peace in death. Although, it was hard for him to believe his soul would ever truly rest.

“I see,” the detective mumbled, his wrapped arms now hanging loosely out of his trench coat’s pockets. “If this is how it is, may I have a final word with Chuuya?”

Mori nodded, his lilted smile never fading. “Go ahead.”

Dazai turned to Chuuya, his lips downturned and eyes lacking the spark of ingenious it had before. They were replaced by a grief Chuuya had seen the day before Dazai had disappeared from Port Mafia and became completely untraceable. Except, it wasn’t really the same if one paid attention to the right details.

This warehouse had once been their whetstone. Chuuya began to understand Dazai a little better while standing over their cemented blood.

“I regret leaving you behind in the Port Mafia. I wish…” he choked behind his bandaged hand. “I wish I could’ve made different decisions. Things could’ve turned out differently for you. For us.”

The detective stepped closer, now invading Chuuya’s personal space. It was hard to keep his arm in the air due to the way it trembled from hunger, exhaustion, and worry. The hand that was at his mouth reached out and touched the executive’s cheek ever-so-gently, as though he was holding the stem of a flower covered with thorns.

“Take this as my apology, Chuuya.”

Dazai’s eyes fluttered shut and his hand wound its way through ginger hair. Chuuya froze as Dazai took his lips into his own.

It was nothing like how he’d imagined it would be. Mainly because almost as soon as it started, Dazai deepened the kiss and transferred a small object into Chuuya’s mouth, then almost immediately used his tongue to pilfer the cyanide pill from where it was tucked in his molars. It wasn’t romantic in any sense of the word.

Dazai was a real asshole for kissing Chuuya—for the first time, no less—like this. The familiar flame of anger, a fire so easily ignited by its predecessor called fear,   burst in his stomach and licked his lungs, and the god beneath his skin hummed in delight.

The hand that wasn’t in his ginger hair was gripping Chuuya’s collar, and with a crack broke the little microphone resting out of sight. Gently, as though he hadn’t violently oral-switched two pills without any help, Dazai pulled back and gave Chuuya a sinful grin.

“Go easy on the warehouse,” Dazai whispered. His eyes were alive in the way the only ever were when blood was going to be shed.

“I’m going to kill you, bring you back to life, and kill you again, bastard,” Chuuya whisper-yelled back, but Dazai was already moving. He twisted his fingers through Chuuya’s glove, pulling off the cloth and throwing the handgun at the same time. With his other hand, gone from the executive’s hair, yanked off the other glove.

“I’d like to see you try, hatrack.”

Chuuya let go of his tight control. The god awakened, and the last thing he witnessed was an explosion with Mori staring wide-eyed through the blaze.

Corruption.

Smoke clouded his vision and his ears rang something awful. He collapsed forward, blinking away the sting of tears from the smog. Instead of landing on the hard floor of the warehouse, his face collided with a body. This was all-too familiar.

“Rest. You’ve done well, Chuuya,” Dazai said softly, his digits carding through Chuuya’s hair. His scalp tingled with his touch.

His scalp . “Where’s my hat?” He mumbled against Dazai’s chest.

The detective sighed. “You’re more worried about that tacky thing than whether or not Mori lived through your rampage.”

“It’s not tacky. You’re the tacky one,” he said, weakly pushing himself off of Dazai’s chest. At first, all he could think was that he was already missing the feeling of his hands in his hair. Then he looked up, saw the bloody gash that extended from the top of his forehead and over his nose—narrowly missing his right eye—and the gloves and hat neatly set on the ground next to them.

Chuuya narrowed his eyes and attempted to kick Dazai’s knee in. The detective sidestepped, blood dripping into his innocent smile.

“How long did you know?” Chuuya yelled while swiping up his missing articles of clothing. “Stupid bastard, embarrassing and kissing me like that in front of the boss!”

“I had an idea of what was going to transpire a few days ago when Mori broke that ability user out of a high-security gifted prison unit,” Dazai rubbed at his new wound with his bandaged arm, staining its pristine color. “I knew about the cyanide and explosives when the clerk told me you were requesting for me under the threat of suicide. Each weapon checks out for the other, and your gait confirmed that for me when we walked together. I am curious though; how did Mori manage to force your hand?”

“Everytime you ask me a stupid question like that, a dog dies. I know you already figured it out, ” the executive said, annoyed. With his hat and gloves safely returned to his person, Chuuya felt his control tighten over both the old god and his own thoughts. 

Dazai shrugged, moving towards the entrance they came from. Now that the smoke was clearing, Chuuya could see the dead mafia members riddling the scene. Neither Mori nor the necromancer were amongst the observable casualties. “It would’ve sounded better coming from your lips,” he responded dejectedly. “Let me see— you were unknowingly drugged yesterday during a Port Mafia executive meeting. When you woke up this morning, the bombs and pill were tucked into their respective places. Mori was by your side with the detonator, and you were given the ultimatum to bring me to the warehouse or face certain death.”

Turned out that ‘or face certain death’ had really been ‘and face certain death.’ Chuuya knew, as soon as Dazai kissed him, that Dazai had known all of the details from the motion and weight detector attached to the microphone on his collar to the meeting point in the warehouse.

“I wish whoever gave you that wound had finished the damn job,” Chuuya muttered. He kicked out again while Dazai was reopening the metal door, but it was to no avail. “Would’ve done me a great favor.”

“Who knew vultures were such good fighters?” Dazai chuckled, but it contained none of the mirth that was supposed to accompany it. “Mori and Kenzaburo got away. Our trouble has only just begun.”

The path of a Port Mafia member consisted of only blood and human entrails. Chuuya was not unaccustomed to gruesome death in a variety of inhumane ways. But there was something particular about Kenzaburo’s ability that made him want to empty out his stomach’s contents until there was nothing left but acid. 

Cannibalism and necromancy. What a pain in the ass.

“How did you do it?”

Dazai looked at him curiously, playing the fool’s card. The glare Chuuya returned to him could’ve cut diamond if it were a blade. The detective put his hands in the air in mock surrender. “I was careful, but the reality of the matter was that Mori didn’t put all of his efforts into finding and silencing me.”

“He was afraid of what you would do. One bastard scared of another,” Chuuya supplied. If there hadn’t been a god in his veins, Chuuya probably would’ve been scared of Dazai, too. Perhaps not during the first team-up, but definitely afterwards, when the Sheep and GSS were manipulated into casting out Chuuya by that little bastard. 

“Yes, and no. It was in his best interest to let me go at the time.” The demon prodigy’s voice was clipped. It was a change in tone that nobody but Chuuya could hear. “Your ability will make it easier for you, but you won’t know a single moment of rest until you get your ass out of Yokohama or they decide it isn’t worth chasing you anymore. The Armed Detective Agency won’t be a haven for you, either.”

“I never implied—”

“You wouldn’t pass the entrance exam.” Dazai said, eyes glinting in the sunlight cast over the buildings of the city. Chuuya almost retaliated that yes, he could pass any exam he so wished, shitty mackerel, if it weren’t for what he tacked on: “Not yet, anyway.”

Smoke followed them well out of the warehouse. They were headed the exact same way they came from. The Armed Detective Agency.

Chuuya had no interest in saving people like they did in their organization. At one point in time, Dazai had been the exact same way. Then something changed for him. He disappeared off the face of the Earth for two years, showed up as a new member of the Armed Detective Agency, and began helping innocent people.

“I have no place in the Port Mafia anymore, but that doesn’t mean I wanted to go running with my tail tucked in my legs to your sorry lot,” Chuuya bit back. But there was a request in his words. His pride would never allow him to say it directly, but he needed Dazai’s help if he wanted to leave the Port Mafia as easily as possible.

From the expression on Dazai’s face, it already looked like he had a plan. Chuuya had no doubt the next year or two of his life was going to consist of one migraine to the next.

“How about this: we stop to eat at the café on the bottom floor of the agency’s building, you pay for the meal and my currently existing tab, and I’ll help you retrieve your belongings from the Port Mafia before they burn it all. Deal?”

Chuuya could already feel the first migraine of his new life on the run begin to form. “You make me sick, old snake. ”

But Chuuya was starving. Not only had he not eaten all day, his Corruption form had consumed any last morsel his body had been saving from the other night’s dinner. Chuuya also happened to have eaten at that café before, and he knew just how good their food and coffee were. He didn’t argue against the deal Dazai had proposed.

And if he broke one of Dazai’s toes when he stomped on it after seeing the tab he’d built up in said café, well, it was nobody’s business. Neither was the kiss that still lingered in his mind after he’d found sanctuary in an abandoned warehouse just outside of the city’s limits, nor the personal belongings he’d stored around numerous other safehouses in Yokohama.

Whether or not he dreamt of old war songs sung by an old friend—someone that Chuuya wished was more—wasn’t anyone’s business, either.

[xerotiny]

COLD COFFEE ✦ JEONG YUNHO

"Hey, your coffee's gone cold." A tale of two love-starved souls, who would only ever meet over a cup of coffee.

1 in heartbreak series Not what you wanted to read? Click here 🤎

Mature: depiction of suicide

Word Count: 15,068

A/n: this piece of work is fictional, and does not relate to the idol in any sense, shape or form. It is one of the first angst stories I’ve ever written, so do not expect much from me. Do not copy or plagiarise my ideas. This work focuses on mental health and suicide; read on your own accord. Do not read if easily triggered. I’ve written this book in the character’s pov, and it’s kind of like a second person perspective. Enjoy!

[Lee Saeyan] 9th Jan 2023

          The night was cold. I watched it pass by me, standing behind the counter. Once bustling street was now deserted and vacant. Bored and exhausted, I started counting minutes until I would have to close the cafe and head back home.

         Brewed coffee has a significant scent, I had realised it that night. The musty, somewhat, bitter and earthy fragrance, uplifts your mood. Eventually, I began looking around, wondering about life, and all those little things.

          A bell chimed by the entrance. I was alerted to footsteps following its echo. You walked in, smiling and laughing, playfully prattling with your friend. I didn't pay attention to who it was, walking next to you, standing tall by your side. I didn't care, my eyes were only on you.

         With your smile-struck face, you stepped up to the counter, looked me in the eye and your smile widened. Marvelous and quite beguiling. The way your eyes crinkled by the corner, almost shutting themselves, brought new feelings to my heart.

        I awkwardly smiled at you, while you narrated your order.

        "One decaf coffee, and one strong," you spoke to me, staring down at the display of confectioneries below. "Oh, and a chocolate cupcake."

          You went on to sit by the window booth, your friend already in place, flashing you a smug smile. Minutes later, I stopped by your booth with your order, and I caught an eerie spark in your eye when you gazed at the cupcake. The decaf was for your friend, while the strong and bitter one was for you.

         I went back behind the counter, biting my lips as I stared at you. I wanted to adore you, your features, and how striking they appeared under the moonlight. I wanted to cherish your smile, or the toothy grin you offered to your friend.

         There were a lot of things I noticed about you that night; your big doe eyes encasing an entire universe, your lips always stretched in a warming curl. I observed you would twist the ring on your forefinger, frequently so. Is the ring significant to you? Maybe it is. You spoke to your friend with such enthusiasm, as if, it was the last time you'd meet him. It felt strange.

         At the end of it, I was left feeling empty. When you were gone, everything seemed futile. Biting away at my impassive self, I tidied up the cafe before leaving. In your booth, out of the two mugs, yours was full. The cupcake was half-eaten, while your coffee had gone cold.

[Lee Saeyan] 23rd Jan 2023

         Right after two weeks, I saw you make your presence again. You were alone. Your friend no longer by your side. With the sight of your face, my heart couldn't contain itself. The butterflies that would once flutter in my belly, had come alive in mere seconds, when you smiled at me.

         I noted down your order again, it was the same; a strong coffee with a sweet confectionery on the side. You opted for a strawberry cupcake this time. My body shuddered for a minute when your fingers brushed against my hand while you were handing me money for your order. I let my fingertips linger over yours for a moment, until, your touch was seared on my skin—you pulled away almost too quickly.

         You took your cup of coffee and the plate of cupcake, back to the window booth where you were sitting that night. Everything seemed similar to that night, the cascading moonlight caressing your face and embracing your smile. Except, this time, I had caught you in daytime, in the blazing sunlight. The haze of the sun spilled into your eyes; your brown eyes seemed like melted honey, slipping down over your cheeks.

          You had your laptop opened in front of you, fingers pressing keys and creating an euphony of solace. I could hear it through the chatter abuzz in the cafe. It was helping me keep my mind off things, things I didn't want to think about. We shared a couple of awkward glances; even so, your smile didn't falter for one bit. Confounded by your cherry glazed lips, your sun-kissed cheeks, and your nebulous eyes, my heart thrashed on about in its bony cage—it wanted to be set free.

         I averted my gaze then. Because holding your eyes was suffocating for me. Because whenever I'd catch a glimpse of your upturned lips, I'd freeze in my mind. Because, you were riveting, an enigma in the waiting, a mystery to unravel.

         Hours dragged on, you did not move a space in that booth, continuing to type keys on your laptop. Sun changed its position in the sky, once it hung over our heads now it was ready to disappear beneath the sea of clouds. The lushness of vibrant pink and purple in the sky was a reminder, a reminder of how it was blushing because of your smile. My cheeks were tainted in the same shade, flustered and soft.

        You waved me toward your booth, asking for a refill. You had munched on your cupcake, the plate displaying the remnants of gruffly crumbs. I held the kettle of coffee in my hand, but my attention was focused on you. The cause of my distraction was you; your long lashes fluttering at me, your lips still curled in a smile.

        I filled your cup with too much coffee, and watched the white ridges of it overflow with the drink. A murky mess of brown stained the tablecloth beneath, it dispersed along like a river underneath, till it touched your hand. I apologised, and you said it was alright.

        We moved on quick from the mishap. You laid a couple of tissue papers where the coffee was spilled, while I stood by you, wondering what you were up to. You peeked at me through your long lashes, and offered me a warm smile.

        "I write." You said, as if you had read my mind for the question to answer. "I'm a local author. A romance author."

         I went on to ask you if there was any work I was familiar with. You shook your head and murmured, "I'm yet to make a debut."

         "Good luck." I wished you with all my heart, and went back to the counter.

          Our conversation was small, a bit awkward but for me it was overwhelming. I kept replaying it in my mind, the sound of your voice, the way you pronounced your words, all of it. Night rolled around, and you were gone, evanescing into the cold of the night breeze. I came by your booth to clean the table. Your coffee had gone cold again.

[Lee Saeyan] 9th Feb 2023

      Another two weeks had passed. Eagerly, I waited for you to show up again. It became a habit for me, waiting for you every day till I realised your pattern. Two weeks apart. Always. This day however, I was not alone in the cafe. I was accompanied by my coworker. Jung Wooyoung, is his name. He's a little puerile, perhaps a little inane for his age. Either way, he's kind, compassionate about little things in his life.

      He was talking to me, eating my ear off about something. I never paid attention to him, I did not think of him to be worth of my time. Sometimes, I would register a phrase from him.

      One day he came up to me and said, "I don't sleep. My mind has the scary capability of being dark and demented."

      I asked, "are you afraid of your dreams?"

      "Yes." He said quietly.

      It made sense to me; Wooyoung's harrowing past keeps him up at night because of the frequent nightmares he has. His lack of sleep would be always evident in the morning, when he'd come to work with dark circles under his eyes, and his cheeks hollowed.

      Wooyoung was talking to me about something. We were back by the kitchen counter, leaving the register deserted because it was almost time to close.

      Out of nowhere, he blurted, "do you think the people who smile all the time have been hurt the most?"

      "Why would you say that?" my mind raced to you, to your thoughts. You smiled all the time. I wondered why.

      "It takes one to be brave to put on a front which says they're fine." Wooyoung continued, "these people have been hurt so many times that they don't care anymore. They want to spend rest of their lives with big smiles on their face."

      It got me thinking. Wooyoung's notions have always been thought provoking. They force you to ruminate, contemplate and consider. I was amidst in my speculations, when the bell chimed. And there you were, striding in with a delicate smile on your face. You plodded up to the counter and followed me with your eyes. I took your order; it wasn't different from earlier. A cup of coffee, the usual strong one. You asked for it to be strong and bitter, and unlike the first encounters, you didn't have any sweet to pair it with.

      You paid with cash, and let your fingers brush my palm. Your touch singed itself on my skin, gave me butterflies in my stomach. It was me who shied away this time, pulling my hand unconsciously away as if you were actually burning me. You found it odd, I know you did. Regardless, I shrugged it off and offered you a smile of my own, a little graceless than yours.

      You waved it off as well, saying, "accidental touches like these are bound to happen."

      I retorted, "you don't want anything sweet with your coffee today?"

      You said, "I need something as dark as the night, today. Nothing sweet." You paused to grab the takeaway cup from Wooyoung and then you smiled at me, "if the moon can hide behind the darkness of the world, then so can I."

      I didn't understand it at first. And it was too late to even ask you, because the moment your sound resonated in my soul, you were long gone, out of the cafe. I shared a glance with Wooyoung, biting my tongue, and he only gave me a stern nod.

      I knew it then.

     Your smiles aren't genuine, are they?

[Lee Saeyan] 23rd Feb 2023

           Two weeks. You were really proper and exact with the days. It was nighttime, nearing to closing hours. The night was beautiful today, full moon and stars; moonshine as bright as your smile, and stars glimmering like dust on a black canvas. You walked in alone, with a guitar strapped to your back. At least that was I could assume considering its case was hanging across your shoulder.

         You came straight to the counter, to me. Not ordering your usual, a decaf this time, you stood there, smiling at me. There was something you wanted to say. The way your face contorted; told me you had your words balancing by the tip of your tongue. But you didn't have the guts to make a sound.

        Wooyoung was with me today as well, he was at the back preparing a couple's order who were sat by the corner table. Your window booth was empty, clean and struck with moonlight. Your eyes seemed to adore it, as you went by to occupy it. Since Wooyoung was busy, I had to prepare your order. I stopped by your booth, noticed you had unwrapped your guitar from the bounds of its cover. It was a dark blue guitar, with the edges even darker; a butterfly was painted right below the bridge.

       I put your cup on the tabletop. I couldn't move my feet to walk away because I was enthralled by the way your fingers fretted with the strings. You strummed a low tune, and I was arrested in its dulcet harmony. Glancing at me, with your moonshine-struck eyes, you gestured me to sit in front of you. Hesitating a bit, I sat down anyway.

     You sang an original song for me. A song you wrote back in the days when you felt lost. I listened to it and found my heart growing heavy, my eyes a little blurry; the couple clapped along with me and Wooyoung when you were done with your song. Although, the others reverted back to their business, I stayed back and initiated a conversation with you.

     "Do you ever wonder if it really gets better or do, we just get used to it?" I was aware of what I asked you, it was pertinent to the song you sang.

     "Sometimes it gets better." You continued, "sometimes it doesn't. So, you're compelled to get used to it."

     "Does it have to be that way, always? Why can't we cling onto every littlest of hope to know it gets better," when I retaliated, you smiled at me, amused, "hope is a bewildering feeling. If you get too used to it, you try seeking it in every situation even when there isn't."

      "But Yunho. Hope is a good thing..." I spoke your name for the first time, uttered it delicately and felt my throat clench; my heart pounded wildly in my chest, I bet you could hear it.

      "Life's a little unfair sometimes," you murmured, shaking your head. Your guitar was back into its case, while you were collecting yourself, ready to leave the booth and me. "Hopefully, it isn't unfair on you. I pray to god it really isn't."

      You left me stranded in my spot, alone in the cafe; I had failed to notice the couple had left too. Wooyoung came by, informed me of his duties for the night before closing. I stared at your cup of coffee...it's gone cold.

[Lee Saeyan] 9th Mar 2023

           Fourteen days. 14 days since I last saw you, when you left me with a galling notion, the one which itched my brain in all the wrong ways. I thought about it. How you said you didn't want my life to be unfair on me. Why do you care? I don't care about my life myself. If it's unfair on me, I'll let it be. I'm past the point of living cautiously. If anything, I've become too careless and devoid of any responsibility.

          Reckless I was, I dropped out of college, gave up on making a career. You don't know that about me, you don't know many things about me. This place, where the cafe is, belonged to my father. I told him I wanted to open a cafe on this street, right by the intersection and opposite to the city park. My cafe thrived for years, and it still does; I've long forgotten about my decision of dropping out of college. You visit my cafe without having any knowledge of it—you don't even know my name. But I do know yours.

          Jeong Yunho, you're a conundrum for me, an enigma which stays under the pretence of being happy. Your fake smiles have cracks in them, your eyes veil endless spaces of darkness and your mind, you've given up on life. Yet, I wonder what you write. Your debut novel, I would love to read it. Because you have a way of perceiving this world, it is uniquely catered to you. I wonder how you perceive me.

          Wooyoung was talking about his insomnia, and his recurring nightmare. He blabbered on about, while I tried my best to ignore it. At the end of every day, when the ambiguous night dawns over, I take a gander at the street and then at the road. I liked to watch people walking, stumbling in their feet as they dragged themselves back home. As I did today. It was already past our closing time; everything was cleaned and tidied, preparations were already made for tomorrow. When I peeped at the street, I saw a glimpse of you impatiently checking the time on your wristwatch. I wonder why you were standing there, tapping your feet to the rhythm of your irked mind. Me and Wooyoung walked out of the door, listening to the melody of the bell by the entrance.

           I stayed back to lock the cafe behind me, while Wooyoung moved on ahead. He smiled at you, and you exchanged small yet heartfelt greetings; when he trudged along the street, leaving you alone, you stepped close to me. Nervously, you picked at the stray strands of your peachy hair, falling over your forehead. You then scratched the nape of your neck, lips trembling to speak. With the moon over our heads, and your eyes silently speaking of your intentions, I fathomed the possibility of you asking me out, maybe. Maybe.

          You were right, clinging onto false hope is certainly heartbreaking. Seconds ticked louder in my mind, and my heart raced. I was waiting for you to say something and then you did. You took a deep breath and spelt out the words stinging on your tongue.

       "Can I walk you home?"

        I thought it was weird at first. Why would you wait for me to get off my shift and ask whether I wanted to be walked to my home or not? But I shrugged it off, just as I did with my other concerns. I let you walk me home. It came to my attention that we shared the same route to our apartments, and then you went on to say where exactly you stayed; a block away from me.

       We talked about vague topics on our route. You asked me what my favourite cupcake flavour was. And I lied, saying it was cinnamon toast. We kept asking each other various questions, I got answers to all of mine and you to yours. I asked you a lot, from your favourite movie, to your favourite season. I realised you talked a lot. You liked talking a lot if you had someone to listen to you. I didn't mind it. I would listen to you forever if I could.

      You asked me my name. And I told it you. "Lee Saeyan" whilst trying to prevent myself from blushing too much.

      "Unique name," said you, who were staring up at the stars, "it means new and white. As much like the moon."

     "There's nothing new about the moon." I rolled my eyes, pressing down a scoff.

     "Oh, there is," you wanted to prove your point, "every phase of moon is new. You look up to the sky, you come across the same old phases, but are your wishes the same every day?"

     I quietly shook my head, and you carried on, "your wishes are new and they should be new."

     We walked in silence after that, under the doting moonlight. It didn't last long, however. You ached to speak, you ached to escape the silence between, because I did too. I wanted you to talk, keep talking. Between our synchronised footsteps and the hefty sound of our boots, you asked me something.

    "Do you have a boyfriend?"

    Maybe, it wasn't a false hope after all.

     "No." I spoke. I didn't tell you the whole truth; about my ex and how he was back in town, asking me if there ever was a chance to us getting back together.

     You believed me. Didn't pester me any further. I thought you'd press the question onto me, ask me if I was free tomorrow night, tell me you have a dinner reservation at some fancy restaurant. But you didn't and I knew why: you were waiting for the coffee to get cold.

[Lee Saeyan] 23rd Mar 2023

           I absolutely despised the waiting part. It was hard. All those days I'd only think of you, conjecture the basics: what were you doing? Where were you? Why aren't you in love with me? Yes, the basics. I also questioned why I liked you so much. Why did I want to seek out the truth veiled in your smile? Was your smile even genuine at all? The basics.

          Wooyoung took a day off today. I didn't feel his absence, but I felt the exhaustion from working and trying to fill in his place. I should hire one more person. Maybe I should, really. If I had thought about it earlier, I wouldn't have been complaining now.

         You entered the cafe with three of your work friends; an hour before the closing time, you promenaded inside with your friends following you behind. I knew one of them from before, the slightly taller with slanted eyes and really defined cheekbones who accompanied you on your first night here. Other two were strangers to me: one had his hair dyed red, and other, a pretty shade of chestnut. But none could compare to you, with your peach coloured hair—almost like a wispy blush of a teenage girl who found her crush reciprocated her feelings.

       Tentatively, I think I was morphing into a teenage girl as well. Always jittery when I saw you, always adoring a crimson fluster on my cheeks, and my mind filled with scenarios where you and I were always together. It'd be too stereotypical if I had a secret diary to write about you. Typical and cliche.

       I came by your booth, once the red-haired guy waved me down. A notepad was ready in my hand to note your order. Profusely, you gazed at me and smiled, giving me a giddy curve of your lips while your eyes remained half-lidded. I grew concerned. Were you drunk? I wouldn't know. And judging by the state of your friends, I didn't think you were. Yet, you hiccuped and burped softly; as the polite man you are, you apologised to me.

       "He's a little drunk," a friend of yours said, the one with fox-like features. "Don't mind him."

        The red haired added on, "I think a simple soda ought to sober him up."

        "No-no! I will have a cup of coffee." You giggled, and I bit down my own.

        "Sure," the red haired rolled his eyes, slapping your back. He sat next to you, keeping his alertness on you. "If you throw up in my car, I swear I'll make you clean it with your tongue."

       I coughed out a laugh this time. So, you were drunk. That explains it. But why were you drunk? I think I would've never known if your friends hadn't spoken on.

     "He's wasted. So much for being lightheaded." The chestnut-haired guy piped in; I stared at him for a minute longer, realising how alike you two looked. "But get the birthday boy what he needs."

      It was your birthday.

     "And for the rest of you?"

     "A latte for me," the red haired said, I caught up on his name later on: Hongjoong, Kim Hongjoong. He was your superior, the owner of the publishing company you wrote for.

    "I'll have a decaf, thank you." San. Choi San. I knew him. But it didn't click in my head right away. He's an author just like you. He wrote mysteries and thrillers, however. A big name in the town.

      The man sharing features similar to you turned out to be your younger brother, half-brother. "Can I get a lemon soda, please?" he said politely, and I could find your glimpses in him. Choi Jongho, I didn't know much about him because you never spoke about him. And I know you would refuse talking about him.

     When I brought all of your orders to the booth, I noticed how dazed you were, how beautiful you looked with the silver moonshine falling on you. I didn't let it distract me from what I had intended on doing. I placed the drinks first, then I placed a plate containing a single chocolate cupcake on the table. It had a little candle in the centre, waiting to be lit up.

      Your brows drew themselves together on your face and you pouted at it. I leaned over to light the candle, and your friends cheered you on.

      "Make a wish," I whispered to you, but you kept staring at me. I noticed your eyes were glazed with tears, and knew you were trying your hardest to hold them in.

        You did not utter a word and blew out the candle. Your friends chorused a loud and hearty 'happy birthday' while you were fixated on the cupcake in front of you. When you were done, I excused myself and returned back to the counter; I watched you from the distance then. You fell silent after that. But your friends didn't seem to notice it. I did, however. Observed you with an open heart, wondered what weighed your own this time.

         It almost brought me to tears. Thinking about how ignorant your friends were—or did they really not have a clue about your woes? I thought about it, when they'd actually acknowledge your solitude. But they didn't. Not for the night when you were sitting in that booth, saying nothing to them. Because they would realise it by the time your coffee had gone cold.

[Lee Saeyan] 9th Apr 2023

          The night was beautiful today. Weirdly alluring. Prepossessing scenarios in my mind; about us. You could drag me far away from this world, from my tensed reality, with your hand in mine, your eyes on me: I, hopelessly falling in love with you. Again, and again. No distractions seemed to work for me to bring me out of my reverie, my thoughts always circled back to you, to your smile. Though, I really racked my brain about us: would you really take me away from here?

          I didn't hate my life. But with you, I dreamt to live it a little differently. I pictured us together in a small apartment, lounging in the bedroom; you on the mattress we bought together, laying on the floor, drafting your novels on your laptop, while I read your books on a secondhand futon. Fairy lights would decorate the ceiling, a lot of them, changing colours as hours passed by. A pet fish, swimming in a fishbowl, perched perfectly in our bedroom window. The same window which would show us the city lights, the street downstairs, the buzzing of cars and pedestrians; we'd compose stories about them, about random strangers walking past our apartment.

           It came to me later on, how deeply invested I was in you. You—you had taken a part of me, and locked it in a cage, you wore it on your sleeve, kept me close to your chest. I had gotten so used to you, to you showing up at my cafe every two weeks, wearing your jubilant smile which held no flaws. I was so used to seeing you, it made me smile. But, what if I don't see you anymore? What if you disappear from my life forever? I thought your smile didn't have any flaws. It never could have any. But you do have your reasons to fake your smile. I wonder what all you could feign about, when your feigned smile is so genuine and easily to believe. You could lie to me straight through your teeth, and I'd believe you without blinking my eyes.

           So, tonight, when you walked up to me and held my hand out nowhere, and said you had to talk to me, I didn't question it. I obliged to you, as you dragged me out the cafe. I shot Wooyoung an apologetic frown, he understood and gave me an understanding nod. There was something odd about his smile though, as if he didn't want me to go along with you. I was foolishly in love with you, blind even. Because you showed me a lot of warning signs and I ignored them all.

           Your hand was snug in mine, warm and tight, our fingers intertwined. We crossed the street together, not having a care about any passing vehicles. A streetlight flickered when we turned a corner. You kept our pace steady, our feet falling in-synch. You brought me to the main gate of the city park; the huge metal gates, having intricate patterns meshed in. You knew a way to sneak us inside, a small opening in the wall on the east side.

          We ran through the lush landscape, along the yellow bricked pavement, under the desultory light of the moon; you brought me to the lake, it was ravishing. The scene in front me was gorgeous, absolutely stunning; moon reflected on the surface, surrounded by glimmering stars. Shadows of trees stretched out across, darkness enveloping both of us. You stood next to me, staring at the water, while I stared at you. You didn't care about getting caught, did you?

        Against the late-night breeze, we stood for a while; you kept me close to your side. A shiver forced me to wince, and I hugged myself close. Without hesitating, you shrugged off your jacket and slung it on my shoulders. I was wrapped in your warmth, in your scent: it was a lovely fragrance, a bit of musk and lavender. You offered me a smile, and I saw your eyes crinkling by the corners.

       "The moon's beautiful, isn't it?" you asked, as if it wasn't meant to be a question.

       I nodded, "it is."

       For some reason I couldn't get myself to speak, my sound kept hitching in my throat.

       "I know this is too forward of me, but..." you dragged your words with longing seconds, unsure of what to say further. "Can we be friends?"

        Friends. My heart cracked a little. I didn't let it show on my face. "Sure. Why not. I thought we were friends already."

       "I needed reassurance." You grinned, "so, are we friends?"

       "Of course." I assured you with a smile of my own. Silence settled in. It suffocated me again, just as your stare did. I wasn't mad about you asking me to be your friend, but I was mad at myself for ever imagining there'd be something more than friends between us.

       False hope.

       At least, in the moment, I thought about how heartbreaking it was. Somehow, you changed my mind. I didn't know what possessed you, but you cupped my face gently in your palms first. Then, you leaned in; my heart constricted itself from beating, I even forgot to breathe. When your lips touched mine, my concerns faded away. It was only you, and the way your lips wrapped mine. I kissed you back. Passionately. Hoping my kiss would change your mind. And it did, perhaps because you were devouring my mouth with yours. And how ironic, for the moon to witness our heated exchange.

       "Friends don't kiss." I stated, pulling away, not far back, but you rested your forehead on mine. The warmth from your hands still felt on my cheeks. "Friends never kiss each other like this."

        "Maybe we aren't meant to be friends, then." you answered my dilemma, with such ease. "What do you want, Saeyan?"

        "I don't want the coffee to go cold."

[Lee Saeyan] 10th Apr 2023

         It was a dream. I was dreaming. I even pinched myself to wake up. No, I was still here with you. In your apartment, tangled in your arms and the sheets beneath us. Yesterday we kissed, which didn't feel like a dream at all. Because it was surreal, our kiss. And that kiss led us to here, to your apartment, where we were a mess in your bed. I cannot stress this enough, I was in your bed, naked, with your arms around my waist, as you snuggled deep into the crook of my neck.

         Your snores brushed against my skin, tickling me. Your hair laid soft against my cheek, and your long lashes almost touched your cheekbones. I still remember how we spent the night; it makes my body shudder when I think about it. Our chemistry was unparalleled, our bodies fitting perfectly together like pieces of puzzle and our souls were enraptured by our desires.

        I feel your touch lingering on my skin, on all the places you kissed me last night. I feel my lips tingle, and my mind retraces back to trifling memories of last night. I turned around in your bed, prying your arms off of me. You didn't wake up. You were in deep slumber, and I took it to my advantage. I got dressed, without making a sound.

        Something made me gander at your nightstand, and then I saw it, the manuscript for your novel. The title read in bold letters atop the paragraphs: 'Before the Coffee Goes Cold'. A smile came to my lips, and I traced over the words, eagerly wanting to glance a little more of what you had written. I sat by the edge of the bed, the manuscript in my hands as I read. Delicate crinkles of paper were resonating in the humid room, while sunlight creeped in through the window just above your bed. It fell through, nonchalantly caressing your face.

         Your pale complexion was stricken with a golden glow. I shook my head, knowing there'd be other times when I'd get to admire your beauty. I got myself to read the first paragraph of your manuscript. It described how the main character loves coffee and owns a small coffee shop. It extended on for few more lines, with you writing about the character and how you perceived her. Female lead. I felt my stomach twist. Did you write about me?

         I pressed my lips together, preventing myself from making any sound. I was overwhelmed, deluged by the excessive adrenaline pumping through my blood. I was your muse. You perceived me as someone suitable for the character you designed in your mind; I felt good. I felt...

         The rustling of the sheets alerted me, you were waking up. I put the manuscript back on the nightstand and turned around to find you smiling at me, your eyes were merely squinted at the daylight flooding in. My heart fluttered a little, observing you, the pretty mess you were in the early morning.

         "Good morning." you wished groggily, your voice too deep and coarse.

         "Good morning," I chirped. "Slept well?"

         "I should be the one asking you that."

         "I slept great. Don't worry." I assured you. I caressed your cheek, dragged the tip of my forefinger along your nose and lips. "You're really pretty. God you're just...breathtaking." I blurted out, not realising I really had spoken the words trapped in my heart.

        You laughed, it was deep and symphonic. "I've been told. Some find my beauty intimidating. Did you too?"

        "I find your mind intimidating," I answered truthfully, reading your eyes, counting the specs of green threaded between the sea of brown. "The way you think and act; your smile, you hide a million things behind it. You're not true to yourself..."

        "This is a first," you muttered, bewildered. "Where many people look at my perfections and my appearance, you sought to the only thing I resent; my flaws."

        "Everyone has flaws." I shrugged, and you retaliated, "I was supposed to hide mine."

        "You can't hide them forever, Yunho." I sternly stated.

         You agreed, "that's true. I wouldn't want to hide mine from you."

         "Because I was the first to find them in you?"

         "Because you're the first and the last to ever see them." You murmured to yourself, making it incoherent. You didn't dwell on it, rather you smiled at me. "I am comfortable with who I am when I'm around you."

          I pressed my lips against your forehead, reflecting back on your smile with mine. "I would love to keep you around forever. I like you, Yunho."

          You acted as if you didn't acknowledge my confession. I knew the truth. I knew your heart had skipped a beat listening to me say it. I watched you get out of the bed. You pulled your briefs up and dressed yourself in sweatpants, fishing it out from your closet.

         "Coffee?" you asked me, running your hand through your disheveled hair.

         "Of course." I said and you disappeared from my sight.

          I stayed in the room, looking around. Perusing through, I found a blank sheet on your nightstand, under the manuscript. I found an ink pen in the drawer of your nightstand and scribbled my phone number on the sheet. I placed it above the manuscript. Because it didn't just have my number on it, there was something else, a message, a note, a sense.

          I found you in the kitchen when I got out of the room. You were humming a song to yourself while brewing the coffee. Your back faced me, my nail scratches on your skin red and irritated from last night. I sniffed the air, sensing a comforting whiff of coffee dawdling around. When you heard my footsteps against the creaking floorboards, you turned around.

         "I think it's better if I leave," I said with a heavy heart. "We can get a cup of coffee at the cafe."

         "Sure." You said without hesitating and blinked at me; your smile never faltering.

         As I was headed for the door, you stood in front of me. You grabbed your jacket laying on the ground, where you left it last night, and you handed it to me. I took it, not one bit wavering in my head.

       "Keep it. Please."

       "Alright."

       "Always." You warned me and my answer remained the same.

        You moved away from my way and let me be. I opened the door, ready to step out.

        But you stopped me in my steps, making me glance back at you. "Hey, Saeyan?" you called out.

       "Yeah?"

       "Don't let the coffee get cold."

[Lee Saeyan] 30th Apr 2023

            I hated this waiting game we played. I longed to see your face, your smile and listen to you talk. I yearned for your presence in my life every day, every passing minute of the day. But you didn't show up. You never did. Two weeks became four, four became eight and eight became sixteen. Sixteen weeks were gone, and I still longed for you. Even though I knew the truth, about you not showing up. It was heart wrenching, I felt myself shatter a million times, into a million of pieces. I missed you a lot.

             I would hallucinate sometimes. I would picture you sitting by the window booth, with your laptop, and a hot cup of coffee. The bitter kind. Your usual. I'd smile at you, but you never did. I wondered why. Until I'd wake up to the reality and find that booth empty.

             I missed you. I felt angry at myself for ever letting it happen. I should've...

             I would check my phone every once in a while, check whether you had texted me and I had forgotten to see it due to work. But, every time I saw the screen of my phone, I was met with disappointment. You didn't text me. You never did. And you never could.

            Your ignorance was like a dagger to my heart, and you were twisting it in deeper. Why didn't you...

             I recall the morning I last saw you, heard you talk to me, saw you smile, felt your warm skin against mine; the morning I left you a note with my phone number on it. Is it why you're avoiding me? Because of the note?

             I only wrote:

            "Keep smiling genuinely, Yunho. You've got a great one. I'll see you tomorrow, right and not after two weeks...?"

             Are you mad at me because of that?

             Where are you, Yunho?

             Why haven't you contacted me?

             Can't you see I'm driving myself crazy over you?

             I love you, for God's sake. Just, come back to me.

             But you were never coming back to me, were you? That, the morning you offered me coffee would be the last time I'd ever see you. You knew it. But you didn't tell me. You never let me know. I have only question for you, Yunho. Why?

              Regardless.

              One day, you'd come to me, I know of it. And till the day you come back to me, I'll keep a cup of coffee by the window booth. Every day I will. And I will vulnerably watch it go cold.

[Jeong Yunho] > 9th Dec 2022

     When I wake up in the morning, I look at my reflection in the mirror. Always. Everyday. Every morning. I stare at my broken self, wonder where it all went wrong. Then I realise, the downfall of my life was meagrely a fragment of my imagination. Was it, really? I don't know.   But, I was aware I started regressing mentally from today onwards. It came to me in waves, the dysthymia of knowing you're ebbing away from sanity. I kept straying and straying, till I realised I was long gone.

      I stood in front of the mirror, tried to force on a smile, tried to make it seem as genuine as I could. Many have fallen for my smile, the feigned one which stretches my lips so easily. They believe me without thinking. They believe I'm genuinely happy. Why wouldn't they? My smile can't be flawed, it can't show my weakness.

      Just another peaceful morning, birds chirped by my window, trees swayed to the bubbly morning breeze; I was elated. It lasted for a short while until I grasped onto the reality of my life. Awoken by the morning haze of the sunshine, creeping in through my window: my dreams were left incomplete today too. I took a deep breath, tried on a different shirt, ran my fingers through my hair and brushed it neat—I wasn't ready to face the world, not yet.

      I spent my hours reading a book, trying to scour a plot line for my own. I write. I am yet to write, to be fair. Being an author tests your patience. I was patient enough. I jotted down a few points in my notebook regarding the book I'm supposed to work on. I wasn't on clock. I was free to use as much time as I needed to. But I rather get out of this slump as soon as I could.

      I left my apartment with keenness; I was apprehended by my fears and deteriorating mental state. It took me a few minutes to reach the bar I usually go to—I needed a drink to help me keep my mind off things I didn't like pondering about. In the cold night, I hugged myself tighter, felt the warmth of my cardigan. I sat in my usual place at the bar. The same bar which is always warm and reeked of booze and tobacco. The bartender made his way to me soon enough. He handed me my usual drink. Whiskey neat.

      I was going to wash my concerns away, I was going to forget about everything—about what happened a month ago, about the text I received early in the morning today from my best friend. I liked the way alcohol burnt my throat, I loved how it left a pleasant aftertaste in my mouth, which might or might not helped me in forgetting about my woes.

      The bar serves a lot of people, there's always an eerie buzz in here. It annoys me. It infuriates me. Amidst the chaos of senseless chatters, I heard your voice. You were talking aloud, as if you were taking a stand, as if you were... You were sitting a little away from me, a colourful drink in your hand and a raven haired man sitting next to you.

      "We can't be together anymore, Hwa." You said, "we don't make sense anymore. We've ran out of time."

      "Saeyan, babe, listen to me," your boyfriend, I assumed he was your boyfriend, retorted. "I can work it out, we can work it out. It's not the end for us, is it?"

      You stayed in silence, letting it make your point. I heard your name for the first time then; peculiar and quite inveigling. You were breaking up with your so-called boyfriend. But you had no tears in your eyes. Vaguely, you reminded me of her. The woman I was in love with two months back. The woman who chose my best friend over me. The woman who hurt me in every way possible.

      There was no use in remembering her. She was long gone, one with the earth, probably in heaven singing with the angels. A month back, late night, I received a call from the cops, about some accident at the freeway. It was her. Crushed to death by a truck colliding into her car. Me and Mingi, her so-called husband, were summoned to the police station. We came to know her last call was made to me.

      Mingi blamed me for her death: she was heavily intoxicated by alcohol, and her phone log had been full with attempted calls to me. I blamed myself too. If only had I been sober that night... if only had I answered at least one of her calls...

      It's been a month. I still remember her. I can still picture her smiling at me. But, for the moment my eyes landed on you, from across the bar, I forgot about her. It was only you in my eyes. There had to be something to it. Who were you? What were you doing to me?

[Jeong Yunho] > 9th Jan 2023

      The curve of my lips was a little different today. It felt indistinct to my intentions, to my eyes—it seemed outlandish. I smiled again, thought it would make a difference. It didn't. I could tell it's feigned. If I can, then so can others. Till now, no one had ever seen any disparity in my smile. No one tried to scrutinise my smile that much to know it was fake.

      I wonder if San would catch up on it. I'm supposed to meet him for a drink; talk about the usual things, maybe get wasted by the end of the night, and regret ever going out. San had been my friend for a long time now. He is an author like me. Although, he writes mysteries and thrillers, his works are renowned in town. We've been friends since senior year of college, we had the same major. I can rely on him the most out of anyone I know. He knows some of my darkest secrets, some moments I didn't share with anyone else but him.

      I splashed enough water on my face to melt my despair with the coldness. I had no use for warmth. I didn't deserve warmth, or affection. A few drops of water trickled down my face, leaving behind a trail of gelid tremors across my skin. My hair got wet, stuck to my forehead; I was getting tired of it, the trite tuft of black. I should dye it. I really wanted to. I did act up on the blurred thought I got. I opened the cabinet under my sink, found a box dye. Peach. Slightly inclined towards pink. I don't remember seeing or even buying this. When did I buy this?

      It didn't take me much time to dye my hair—to pat it dry, to style it the way I preferred; I parted my hair in the middle and let it frame my face. I was tired, oppressed somewhat. Wearily, I got dressed. Threw on a shirt and paired it with loose trousers; I grabbed my jacket off the coat rack and marched out of my apartment, locking it behind me. I skipped one step at a time, eager to meet San, and drink some Chardonnay. I could feel it trickle down my throat, the taste of the white wine.

      I met San in the lobby of my apartment complex; he seemed jubilant, as he always does. He offered me a smile, and I reflected back, hoping I was faking it good. He patted my back when he hugged me close to him, the smile on his face never straying off.

      "Change of plans Yun." he said, "there's a good cafe nearby our publication. You know the one by the intersection..?"

       "What about it?" I asked, as we continued walking out; strolling on the bustling street, past the people. I've heard about it, apparently San really liked to visit it during his break time.

      "Let's give it a shot, today. Try something new." He hesitated when he suggested, "I heard the place is warm and cosy. Besides, you need to take a break from drinking too much alcohol."

      "So, caffeine is the way to do it?"

       San scoffed, "everyone needs a change of pace. I'm not making any promises but I need you off the..."

      I knew what he meant. I always looked for a way to consume alcohol, and it would always be whenever I retraced my memories back to all the worst experiences of my life, my childhood, my family. Yoonjung's death, my mom's raging alcoholism, Mingi's conniption—my own inanity of being happy.

      Night dawned over our heads, miles and miles of darkness stretched above with a pocket full of stars scattered haphazardly; I found the night sky more inviting than the daylight. Everyone wants to be a sun in someone's life and share their brightness. But I want to be someone's moon—someone who would shine in your darkest moments. Maybe, I was looking for a moon of my own. And I hadn't realised that until I stumbled across you. 

      San and I had been arguing about a particular issue which I don't seem to recall anymore. I walked in, and he was in my pursuit. I saw you then, standing behind the counter; apparently bored out of your mind. I saw the exhaustion on your beautiful face, I was captivated by your alluring presence. You had lured me into you the moment I laid my eyes on your that day, at the bar, when you were breaking up with someone.

      'Saeyan.' That's your name. I heard it that day. You were seeking out an opportunity to connect with me, I could tell by the way you frequented your awkward glances my way. I was sitting by the window booth with San sitting opposite to me, he was busy sipping his decaf, while I thought about drinking my coffee. I didn't like coffee. I never did. Seemingly, coffee is not a proper replacement for alcohol. So, I just watched it go cold, while I composed a little theory about you. About my moon.

[Jeong Yunho] > 23rd Jan 2022

      I was pacing back and forth in my living room. Anxiety trickled my skin, my mind was in an overdrive; panic-stricken I bit my tongue, I nicked at the cuticles around my nails. But one habit still stays with me forever: I keep fidgeting with my ring, it adorns my forefinger perfectly. I twisted it, pressed my thumb against the cold metal. The ring was passed onto me by my mother, saying it belonged to her father. I always kept my grandfather's ring on me, it was a memoir.

      In the middle of the living room, I stood frozen, staring out the window just opposite the couch. The daylight haze was tempting me to stay inside; warm sunshine cascaded across the floor, along with faded shadows of twigs and branches which stretch peculiarly over the floorboards. Birds were singing along the pulse of people walking down on the street, while I was counting down the minutes until night struck the sky. Nighttime was more peaceful than the daytime, less buzz of people who had something going on in their lives.

      Lost in my own fugue state, I failed to hear two knocks sounding loud on my door. When I woke up, I found myself staring at the lifeless tree right outside my window. I wasn't expecting anyone. I never expect anyone to show up at my doorstep. I don't like company. I prefer living alone. The resounding knocks are yet to dither to silence when other two knocks reverberate. Whoever stood on the other side of the door was a little too impatient, a little too eager to meet me. I have no such people in my list, no one wanting to meet me with such anticipation and excitement.

      I dragged my feet across the room to open the door, hesitating for whiling seconds when I wrapped my hand over the doorknob. It was someone I least expected to show in front of my door. What was he doing here? I had several questions circulating in my mind, concerned even. But I ushered him inside.

      "What brings you here?" I tried to sound a little tender, hoping to swallow my hostility.

      He sat on the couch, hands joined, fingers intertwined. The way his back was lurched over, he was disheartened. "Yunho, please, visit her once."

      I know what it was about. "What good would it do if I did?" I retaliated, "why should I when it would only bring me pain."

      "She wants you to forgive her." Mingi gulped, "it's been too long, forget about the past and the anguish she brought upon you. Just...visit her once. Please."

       "You don't understand, Mingi," my voice raised, full of rage and my eyes teary. "She has always been dead to me, Mingi."

       I saw the calm in his eyes, an abstruse flake of equanimity studded in his brooding brown eyes. "Yunho, you..."

      "No, Mingi. I have nothing to do with her or you." I looked around, rummaging my eyes to spot my laptop. I picked it up, held it close to my chest and glanced back at Mingi. "Yoonjung doesn't exist in my life anymore, neither do you." I sighed, opening the door, ready to step out. "Make sure you lock before you leave."

      I only had one destination in my mind. You. I wanted to be where you were, Saeyan. Under the blazing sun, I made my way to you, to your cafe, knowing you'd be there. Of course, you'd be there. You had to be there. I stopped my steps right outside the entrance, took some time to collect my nerves before entering. And when I did, I smiled at you. The fake one. I didn't know if you believed it or not, since I wasn't in the state of mind to fake a smile.

       Either way, you smiled back at me. And that frail curve of your lips appeased a part of me. I was no longer thinking about Mingi, or Yoonjung, or the fact that I was thinking of... All seemed bleak the moment I let Mingi in my apartment, but it didn't seem like the end of it—because your calming touch brushed against my fingers. I found it strange regardless, found myself flinching away from you when I needed you the most.

      I sat down in the window booth, opened my laptop and started writing. I didn't care for the coffee, or the cupcake I got. Minutes passed, and the cupcake had disappeared, with only a few sips left of my coffee. I called you over for a refill, and I was dazed by your beauty again. I noticed a silver chain around your wrist; little blue butterflies dangled from it. You were lost too, staring at me, trying to unravel me. But you can't unravel me, Saeyan. I'm not easy to read.

      You spilled coffee over the table, and I was awoken to the hot sear of the liquid bruising my fingertips. You apologised, but I shrugged it off. It was accidental. Not intentional. However, you were curious to find out what I was doing on my laptop. You pressed me the question, and I answered. We had a small conversation, and then at the end of it, you wished me luck. That's when I knew your voice was my favourite sound.

[Jeong Yunho] > 9th Feb 2023

      Another morning, another struggle to get out of bed. But today I didn't struggle at all, I was forced out of bed by one phone call. It was my mother, the raging alcoholic. I remember seeing the time on my alarm clock, it was 8:50 in the morning. The moment I pressed my phone against my ear, I heard her scream. She wanted money. She always did. She always called me when she ran out of money for booze. I transferred enough to her account, enough for her to leave me alone for a few weeks. I even had to make sure she didn't pester my brother, since he's an university student. Jongho was my half brother, but we never let that aspect love us each other any less. Never did.

      My past is a mess. I'm fucked up in many ways, Saeyan. Would you like me for who I am? For the past I've lived through. For the imperfections you could discern in me, would you love me for my flaws, Saeyan? I keep wondering about you, making up stories in my mind about us; just the two of us, living together, in some apartment having an ocean view. I may be crazy to picture it all, to imagine my life living with you in a cosy apartment. I rushed out of bed, no point in staying-in since my mind had been weighed down by the early phone call. I made my way to the bathroom, and stared at my reflection in the mirror—the curl of my lips was genuine, I wasn't even trying to smile. It was you, Saeyan. The thought of you, the notions of us living together, brought me sheer peace.

      For the rest of the day, I found myself smiling, unconsciously. It would waver on my lips for a counter second before I'd catch myself thinking about you. I thought about you when I wrote, you were starting to be a muse for my character. I thought about you when I made lunch, when I ate it, when I made myself a cup of coffee. I was sitting on my desk, sipping coffee, and drafting the manuscript, when I realised how different this coffee tastes. The one I brewed myself. I had grown accustomed to the taste of your coffee, it was bitter yet sweet in a way. In some way, I can't get any words to describe it.

      Sun was climbing down the steep slopes of clouds, disappearing behind the horizon. It painted the sky in its enticing hues; a blend of orange and red, gradually merging with the dense purple of the night. I really wanted to see you, talk to you, maybe. So I got out of my apartment and headed straight to your cafe. You were standing by the preparation counter, with another man accompanying you. At first, I felt a sting of envy strike my heart, weighing it down till I could get a clarity of perspective regarding him.

      You two seemed close, I assumed from your body language. At the same time, you were distant enough for me ever conclude you'd be more than friends. He was your coworker, his name tag pinned by his chest over the grunge red apron he wore. 'Wooyoung'. He seemed like a good person regardless. I gave you my order and told I didn't plan on sitting-in today. I didn't want to, not when there was another man in your presence. I might sound toxic, and stupid even, but I couldn't bear the thought of you being anyone else's other than me. I would drink this coffee at my apartment, drafting my manuscript and perfecting it. Just as the other day, we two had a small conversation—I initiated it this time, noticing you had shied away from my touch when I purposely brushed my fingers against your palm while paying for my coffee. I found it odd. You shying away from my touch; was it because of the guy you were accompanied with?

       In a minute's time, Wooyoung emerged from behind you, with my go-to cup of coffee, and I took it. I walked out of the cafe, stared up at the dark sky for a hot second, recalling your words from before. You asked me why I didn't want a cupcake today. I gave you a vague answer and hoped you'd believe me. I don't like sweets, I only longed for those cupcakes because they were made by you. Today, I wanted to regress my sweet tooth; there's nothing to celebrate about in my life. The moon was hiding behind a dark sheet of cloud, it provoked my anxiety—an illusory feeling became heavy on my mind. You didn't believe my smiles were genuine, did you?

[Jeong Yunho] > 23rd Feb 2023

      I stared at my guitar a minute longer than I should have. It reminds me of my broken past and an era when I was at my lowest. Many situations have tested my nerves, but nothing did as much as the one related to this guitar. Every object has an backstory, every person has a backstory; why wouldn't my guitar have one? 

      This story dates back to the time when I was in college, attaining to graduate and earn that degree in literature. Although then, I had a knack for singing. I would spend days and nights composing music on this very own guitar, scribble lyrics whenever I had the time to. I mostly wrote about what troubled me—what scared me at times.

      The morning started off great with a little excitement but it plummeted to its death when I saw the guitar lying under my bed. I wondered if I could still play it, strum a few strings and sing a little. The only time I sang my heart out was a day before my graduation; the day I felt truly lost in a maze of unknown sadness, the out-of-nowhere anguish of nothing. I was drowning, but hoped someone would throw me a line to help me out. No one did. No one does. No one understands me. No one understood me then too. 

      I remember it clearly, the sullen moonlight peeking over ambiguous clouds of dust and smoke, a shine cascading across and falling all over my guitar; the night I played a few chords and sung the lines which first popped into my mind. The reason I was troubled, was a certain person—my father. After separating from my mother, my father chose a different life for himself. He was abusive before and after they divorced, he cared very little about me either way it didn't matter to me who got my custody. But for a five year old to witness such a horrible experience, it was unlikely of me to ever be normal.

      My father wanted me to work for him, work for his company he built with hard work and booze—no dedication, if the man was ever dedicated to something, it'd be alcohol. I was starting to believe, alcoholism runs in our family. First my dad, then my mom, and now me. I hated my father for all he's done in my past, all the suffering he's given to my mother. He deserves to be alone and treated the same way as he did with me. I could proudly say I have no father.

      Reminiscing always gets me in a foul mood, it disperses deep and spreads out in waves over my soul, traps me in a dark labyrinth of scourge. Amidst the chaos and dark, I see a light at the end of it, and it's always you, Saeyan. You're like a North Star to me. I let the morning drag on, spending the time mostly drafting my book and reading. The same doleful night dawned over the window, reminding me of the time I spent with you at the cafe. I walked through the street to get through to you; exhilarated by the thought of seeing your face. Although, I brought my guitar with me, strapped it to my back while leaving my apartment.

      Things go as usual, I give you my order, you smile at me and I go sit by the window booth. You brought my order to me, gazing curiously at the guitar I had gotten out of the case. You were observant, eyeing the twee butterfly I had painted below the bridge. I showed off my skills on the guitar, fretted my fingers with the strings to produce a sound. You were lost, listening to it and I gestured you to sit in front of me.

      I sang you my song, the one I wrote before the day I graduated—the same one laced with agony and despair. I hadn't realised I had an audience, the couple sitting a few spaces away applauded me when I ended the song. I didn't care about them, all I cared about was you, marvelling at me, moonstruck eyes twinkling with affection.

      You hanged back, and spoke certain words to me, "do you ever wonder if it really gets better or do we get used to it?"

      "Sometimes it gets better, sometimes it doesn't. So you're compelled to get used to it." I remember saying it to you, but couldn't really convince you otherwise.

      You countered with your thoughts, retorted with something about hope. And I smiled, "hope is a bewildering feeling. If you get too used to it, you try seeking it in every situation even when there isn't."

      At that time I knew, you were different. Just something about you made me fall in love with you, even deeper and wilder. My heart was trying to compose itself from your voice, when you suddenly uttered my name, frustrated and irked because I was being a pertinacious fool.

       I couldn't bear being around you anymore; affected by the way you had enunciated my name in your delicate voice. It shattered a part of me, knowing I won't be here forever to listen to you say my name. I wish I could. I really do. When I walked out, with the guitar on my back, I suddenly realised: I let the coffee get cold again.

[Jeong Yunho] > 9th Mar 2023

      "If you really like this girl so much, you gotta make a move before it gets too late," San chirped, sitting next to me on the couch. "She's not going to wait for you to make a move."

      I took a sip of my beer, "I really want to. I want to tell her how I feel about her, but it's..." sighing, I gulped down the entire bottle before turning to him, "I'm scared, a little nervous and a coward to express how I feel about her. The fear of rejection never leaves me alone."

      "You don't have to make any grand gestures. Little things can go a long way." San suggests, taking a sip of beer from his bottle, "be a gentleman, and I know you are, but show it to her. She's a lady, walk her home, give her a hand at the cafe, help her and try to understand what she needs."

      "Walk her home?" I mused, eyes straining to catch the time reading on the clock. Mere minutes before you closed the cafe and made your way home. I needed to get my move on if I wanted to walk you home.

      I got up from the couch, ran a hand through my hair to fix it, and chewed on him to get rid of the stench of beer I drank. I rushed out of the apartment, leaving San behind to fend for himself. I heard a few curses leave his mouth from behind when I closed the door.

      I was in time. Fortunately. I had ten minutes to spare, so I spend them while standing outside the cafe, tapping my feet and glancing at my watch every now and then. The frequent glimpses of you through the glass windows caused my heart to burst into flames. And then, you walked out, with Wooyoung in your pursuit. You stayed back to lock the doors, while Wooyoung marched on his way.

      He stopped a step short to me, offering me a delicate smile, he greeted. "Oh, have a great night."

      He continued with his walk, disappearing around the corner. In ticking seconds, under the haze of moonlight, I felt myself drawn towards to you. I was nervous. Anxious of what to say and what not to. I had to choose my words carefully. But mustering some courage from my heart, I spelled out the words wrecking havoc in my mind.

      "Can I walk you home?"

      And we were on our way after. You were shy, timid to talk about yourself or to even initiate a conversation. So I broke the ice and soon, I learnt a thing or two about you. It was an awakening revelation to know you lived close by me, meagrely a block away from my apartment. All this while, we were so close to each other, yet so far. I wanted to confess right there and then, albeit, I knew so little about you. Thinking, we talked vaguely, searching basic questions and answering them honestly. There were times where you lied to me; those were trivial questions however, and I didn't care.

     "I never learnt your name..." I trailed off, whispering my words into the dead of the night and wondering if you'd believe me. I knew your name, Saeyan. I heard it the day I first saw you at the bar breaking up with your boyfriend.

      "Lee Saeyan." You were holding your blush in, trying to avoid getting flustered in front of me. I held back every urge to cup your face and bring it close to me so that I could kiss you wholeheartedly.

      I told you I found your name unique, told you how I resonate your name with the moon because of its meaning. You were confused, bewildered listening to my explanation; but then I had to make it clear to you, why you were so significant to me and why your name was beautifully meant for me to call out. Silence took over soon, but I gushed in my mind, replaying the sound of your soft giggles and the way you uttered your own name, the picture of you blushing had already burnt in the back of my mind.

      "Do you have a boyfriend?" I ask regardless knowing you had broken up.

      "No." there was more to it, the way you eyes turned away from me, the way your lips moved under the moonlight—you were hiding something.

      But I hadn't forgotten about your response. It gave me hope. Only, I really hoped it wasn't the false one.

[Jeong Yunho] > 23rd Mar 2023

      It was that day of the year. My birthday. I don't find any excitement in celebrating my birthday; and before you say "he's a wannabe who wants to stand out from the crowd" I'll tell you why I don't like my birthday. This deeply rooted resentment towards me, and everything tied to me, started when I turned eighteen. It was a phase where I was supposed to go through metamorphosis and conquer the world like an adult. I absolutely despised being an adult—people had expectations from me, they wanted me to become one of them. And when you've grown up with a really shitty father and a credulous mother, you don't know what is right and what is wrong. I was messed up in my own ways; mostly in my head, hearing voices echo all the time.

      The morning of my birthday was benign. Like any other day, the sun rose up against the clouds to shed its shine to the once darkened world; the sky allured with shades of blue and orange, hues blending perfectly to concoct an illusion of perfection. I woke up to heavenly scent of food, and a few minutes later, I heard it sizzle. I was deep in my sleep, snuggling with the blankets till I comprehensively opened my eyes to the world and jumped out of bed. In the kitchen, I saw his silhouette, his back faced me, and the sound of humming filled my ears.

      "Good morning," I groggily greeted him, walking into the kitchen. "You really didn't have to do all this."

      "It's our tradition, how can I let it die?" he replied with a gushing laugh, turning to look at me. "Happy birthday, brother."

      Half-brother. I thought. "San and the others are meeting for drinks later tonight, you can join us if you'd like to."

      "Sure," Jongho replied, "someone needs to take care of your drunk ass; you get quite foolish when you're inebriated."

      "I guess that runs in the family," I laughed it off, "I'll freshen up quickly so we can have breakfast together."

      We ate breakfast together, engaged in a small talk; it was mostly me asking him about his studies and the university, rarely about mother's health. He visits her whenever he gets time from university. He even carries my apartment's spare key with him, he's welcomed anytime here. We talked for a little while more, when he decided to leave. Regardless, while leaving, he said he'd come by at night to have drinks with me and the others.

      I let the day drag on after he left, feeling a little lonely, and consumed by despair. I played a little game: whenever I felt depressed, I swallowed down a bottle of beer, preferably any kind of alcohol. It was alcoholism. I really need to get a grip on my life. But the thought itself was far-fetched because I'm long gone from reality.

      Sometimes, the moonlight alludes you to engage yourself in your darkest desires—my darkest impulse is to drink till I couldn't anymore. I pictured myself lifeless, free from every responsibility; I am tempted to, tempted by the devil on my shoulder, who only curses my demise in my ear. Drinks after drinks, I was starting to wonder what I was doing with my life. We were all gathered at the same bar I witnessed you breaking up with your boyfriend. The same bar I frequented every alternate day because I was addicted.

      "My man's got a huge crush on her," San laughed, passing on the comment to Hongjoong and Jongho who were laughing along with him. "Seriously! He hates coffee and sweets yet goes there every two weeks to meet her."

      "And he's celebrating his birthday here?" Hongjoong smacked my arm, "buddy, you need to be there, with her."

      "I don't know," I mumbled, reading their faces glazed with anticipation. "Come on, guys. I really think that's a bad idea."

      "Spending your day with someone you love doesn't make it a bad idea; neither are you too selfish for having that thought," Hongjoong explained, "we won't take it personal, just say the word and we'll take you there."

      "Seemingly, I wouldn't want to waste this chance on meeting the woman who has made my brother fall in love with." Jongho remarked, putting his shot glass down and letting it clink loudly with the table. "What are we waiting for then, let's go!"

      It was almost the time for you to close the cafe when we arrived; little dimly lit, and scent of coffee remnant in air. We sat by the window booth. You took our orders, realised I was drunk. I wasn't really drunk, I was a little tipsy and just like that, I couldn't grasp onto my understanding too well. I deemed myself lucky for not acting out and doing anything that would embarrass me in your eyes. 

      This was the first time you were meeting my friends; Hongjoong and San introduced themselves, but Jongho held back. I had a feeling why he did, but I couldn't justify it. I introduced him to you and felt a pang of bitterness burning my heart when I said he was my half-brother. Jongho would glee with joy when he'd have to introduce himself as my half-brother to others; but ironically, I was just as ashamed to utter the word out with scorn.

      I really despised celebrating my birthday: it reminded me of my struggle growing up around a failed marriage between my mum and dad. Every time on my birthday, I would have this severe urge to disappear. But you, you made me want to stay and watch the night unravel an enigma of mine. The little gesture of yours, a small cupcake with the tiniest of candle on top of it—you made my birthday a little less shitty.

      Blowing out the candle, I wished, I made a wish for your well-being. My wishes have always been yours to keep; they're always about you. I wish I could wait a little longer. But I have to go. I drowned out the noises, stared at the cupcake, reimagined my life with and without you. I was close to crying, and I didn't mind shedding a few tears for you. Too dazed to figure my way out of my trance, I let it deluge me in deeper; lost again, the light at the end seemed bleak. You were dithering from me, away from my hold, away from my touch.

      The coffee I ordered had gone cold.

[Jeong Yunho] > 9th Apr 2023

     "A little getaway?" Hongjoong repeats my words, shaking his head in disbelief.

      I pouted a little and whispered my words, "I want to take her by the hand and drag her someplace quiet."

      "You've come to me for advice?" he laughed; it was sarcastic.

      I was at work today. Quite unlike me, I guess. But I had a reason to be here today; I came to turn in my manuscript for the book I had been working on. I stayed back for a bit since I wasn't in a hurry to be at home. Not that I had a choice to go back, cause Hongjoong wanted to "talk" to me. We were discussing a minute detail of my life, purportedly, about you. Lee Saeyan, you were taking up every fraction of my mind.

      I leant back in the chair and skeptically casted my eyes over him for a short second. "I know, you're the least romantically inclined person. But San's not here and I need someone's advice."

      "The fact, being your second choice already makes me feel great." He rolled his eyes, and heaved out a sigh, "quiet you said? I know a place."

      My ears perked at his words, and I lurched forward over the table separating us two. "Nothing too cynical right?"

      "Oh yeah, I was thinking about the woods and how quiet it is at night; maybe take her there and confirm yourself to be a serial killer," he deadpanned. "No idiot! It's the place right across. The city park. You've got your way sneaking inside. Take her to the lake and since it's a cloudless night, you can gaze at the stars."

      "Not bad. Pretty amazing for a suggestion coming from you." I joked and he glared at me. "Alright alright, I'll take her there."

      "And make sure you don't do anything stupid; you've got the reputation of ruining good things." It came out wrong from his mouth, the words—every syllable brought back immensely painful memories from past.

      I held back, and offered him a dainty smile, "I know, but I'm way past that. I won't ruin what I have with her."

      I really hoped I didn't. Hongjoong and mine interaction compelled me to think about you; think about ways wherein I don't come off too strong with my confession or my feelings. When I was walking to your cafe, when I opened the door, I believed I could never ruin my chance with you. So, I took a deep breath, trudged behind the counter and grabbed your hand.

      You were taken off guard but were so willing to follow me. You didn't resist, you didn't pull your hand away from mine; I liked the way it fit so perfectly in mine. Our hands were warm and snug, an embrace lighting up several shivers on my spine. I took you to the park, to the lake, walking on the yellow bricked promenade along the trees of nothing and dark.

       Hongjoong was right, the lake was insanely romantic at night; the shuddering ripples of falling leaves on the surface of water, the stretched-out silhouettes of trees, and the glimmering scatter of stars reflecting inside. A heaven. But you were my paradise, your eyes shining with the stars, holding them in their brown terrain—moonlight kissed your lips first, before I could have my chance. You were breathtakingly gorgeous.

      "The moon's beautiful, isn't it?" I never meant to imply it to be a question.

      You replied nonetheless, "it is."

      Your voice soft and delicate, enrapturing my senses and soul. I didn't want to say wrong things, so I hesitated and my mind glitched. I asked something so stupid, something Hongjoong had already warned me about.

      "Can we be friends?"

      Can't believe these words came out of my mouth. I could hear your heart breaking in your chest, and I could feel myself falling down a void of displeasure. You didn't want to hear it, did you? Because you were already thinking of us to be something more than friends.

      "Sure. Why not. I thought we were friends already."

      We are. We are friends. But I want to be more than friends with you. If you could only listen to my heart, hear its plea and forget what I said.

      I had to play it out, but I kept saying stupefyingly insane words which would only drift us apart. Eventually, I got the courage somehow; I turned to you and cupped your face in my hands. My palms laid soft on your cheeks, fingers caressing the hair framing them. Leaning in closer every second, I felt my breath hitch. I kissed you without hesitation, the rationality out of the window for the time being. I kissed you passionately and it ignited something in me when you kissed me back.

      I wanted this kiss to escalate, but you pulled away to rest your forehead on mine. You stared into my eyes, while I kept caressing your face.

      "Friends never kiss each other like this."

      You were right. Do you understand my yearning now?

      "What do you want Saeyan?"

      "I don't want the coffee to go cold."

      I chuckled softly, feeling my heart palpitate with an eldritch desire, an impulse taking over my conscience. I smiled at you, genuinely. I leaned in again to kiss you and kept it short this time. Because there was something I needed to say, something troubling my mind.

      "What if I say I don't like coffee and only drink it because I get to see you?"

      You laughed, nudging the tip of your nose with mine. "I'd still say I wouldn't want the coffee to go cold."

      "Do you like me, Yunho?" You asked.

      I felt lightheaded. "More than you know. I've fallen in deep; you should know."

      "I think me too." You whispered and kissed me again. We kept kissing, as if our lips weren't sated yet, wanting every minute to taste them. "You're a mystery. I find you so odd, and different. Our relationship would be soul-searching."

      "Then I guess there's no harm in giving us a chance."

      Sadly, that was the beginning of our end.

[Jeong Yunho] > 10th Apr 2023

      After you left, I was sipping on the coffee I had brewed for you. I don't understand why you left so abruptly, but you must have your reason. Agreed, it wouldn't have been ideal for you stay back for coffee or even breakfast, considering we hadn't yet defined our relationship. I thought we had. I thought we had taken over the tags of boyfriend and girlfriend, but it wasn't clear from your side.

      I didn't feel disappointed. Not at all. Because the night I spent with you, was truly magical to a point where I believed nothing could break us apart. Being intimate isn't just sex; I think we were rather intimate in the morning when you questioned the darkest parts of me. You see through me so easily, Saeyan. As more days would pass, I would unravel all of me to you, let you see my scars and heal them, only if you want to. I don't want you to think it's your responsibility to fix me just because I'm broken, and you have the ability to help me. I can't pin that responsibility on you. Getting better at life, mentally and emotionally, is my job. It's my responsibility to give into sanity and not stray away from it.

      I was happily sitting on the couch, phone in hand, shirtless, contemplating calling San and telling him all the details. I had to bite back on that urge when I saw Jongho's call coming through.

      "Hello little bro—"

      My cheery voice died quick when I heard his panicked one, "—Yunho, mom...mom—she's—she's...she's hospitalised. Liver failure...just, just come."

      And that call shattered my heart forever.

Jeong Yunho > 13th Apr 2023

      I found your note the other day. It was wedged in between the rough draft of my book; I read it over countless times, until I realised what you meant by it. It made me think. It made me laugh. The life I was living, it wasn't for me. It was all for others, trying to please others.

      I never earned for myself. I never wrote for myself. I never smiled for myself. I never... I never wanted a literature degree. I never want a broken life. I never wanted my parents to separate. I never wanted this life.

      What was I living for? I wasn't living for myself. It struck me in different ways, how vulnerable I was to please others than myself. My priorities were others, not myself. The thought of disappearing forever was a force of habit, and this time, it had taken all over my body. Who would even care if I was gone? Quite frankly, everyone would. Because they depend on me. You do too, Saeyan. You depend on me to make your life better, but in reality, you're depending on a person who needs to sort his first.

      I should've been more upfront with you, should've told you my reasons to end it this way. I feel so helpless all the time, and it gets worse every time I see your face, Saeyan. Cause I'm just another failure in your eyes. We could've worked things out between us, for the better. Sorry Saeyan, I have to go. But promise me, you'll look up at the moon every night and make a wish. I won't force you to think about me, think about crucial things, think about people important to you.

     Everything came to me in the form of waves, and those waves climbed higher and higher up my soul till my mind was plagued. I laid in the bathtub, filled to the brim with water; crimson slashes along my arms, and a lifeless plea stuck in my throat. "Goodbye."

     There's a piping hot mug of coffee on the table and it's gone cold.

Lee Saeyan 4th June 2023

          San asked me out for a cup of coffee today. All while till I got to the coffee shop, I wondered what it was about. It's been a few weeks since I sold my coffee shop; if there's anything I'd want to do is to forget all about you, Yunho. So, I abandoned the only place where we kept our cherishing memoirs.

          Do I feel bad about it? Maybe. But the sting in my eyes is better than the pang in my heart; it's easy to give up on memories, but holding onto them is delusion of grandeur.

          A few days after I got the news of you...after knowing you had left me alone forever, I made myself believed it was all a joke, that you were playing with my mind, wanting to know how much I loved you. The reality broke me in so many ways when I watched your casket buried six feet under. I couldn't believe it; you were gone.

          When I got to the cafe, a minimalistic one, only one street down from my own, I found San sitting by a window booth. His weakened smile pained me, it hid many emotions; and he kept his broken smile all the time we talked.

           He handed me a book wrapped in a coffee-stained paper. I looked at it inquisitively and pondered what it was. Of course it was a book, but what was the point of it?

          Eagerly, however, neatly, I unwrapped the paper. A breath hitched in my throat when I saw it was your book. Your name printed on top in such an elegant font, and a little below was the title of your book; cold coffee. You changed it, didn't you? You named the book after our odd-struck nuances. We always let the coffee go cold.

          It's gone cold too now. Staring at the cup of coffee in front of me, San began with his broken voice, "he left it for you."

          "A sole copy," he continued, "he made only one copy and wanted you to have it. I didn't read it, well I couldn't—'cause it's his love letter to you."

          I felt my throat suffocate me. "Thank you." I squeaked out somehow.

          "Hey, if you need anyone to talk to—" I shook my head, interrupting him, "I'm good, San. How are you?"

          "Everything's okay. Got a new thriller project to work on." He said, his lips kept moving but all I kept thinking about you, Yunho.

          We had a short conversation before I excused myself. I got to my apartment, alone again because Wooyoung moved out last week. He's seeking help for his insomnia apparently. When I sat down on the couch, with your book in my hand, I let out a sob.

          On the first page of your book, you wrote, "don't let the coffee go cold, Saeyan."

YOU HAVE FINSHED READING COLD COFFEE • JEONG YUNHO Read the next work in series here. Read other works in the Heartbreak Series here.

Thank you so much for reading!

[voidsentprinces]

Alright since no one else is fucking doing it, let me alert y'all.

IF YOU'RE GETTING INTO DANDADAN THE FIRST EPISODE HAS A SCENE WHERE THE MAIN CHARACTERS ARE ASSAULTED, DISCLAIMER BUT THE FEMALE CHARACTER IN PARTICULAR IS PUT IN PRECARIOUS SITUATION! The sexual assault doesn't happen and this is the only time something like this occurs in the story thus far in the anime. It is also implied to of happened to male lead but its offscreen. Which I am not sure does the story any favors. Viewer discretion is advised.

In the manga, thus far as I have read, this happens a second time in another precarious situation that...skeeves me the fuck out. To illustrate a group of villains and criticize how cults also harbor sexual predators. Thats...about as far as I've read. The anime WILL eventually adapt that part I believe since a core character in that cult arc appears in the opening?

SINCE NO ONE ELSE IS APPARENTLY LETTING PEOPLE KNOW, IM USING MY LITTLE REACH TO WARN Y'ALL THIS HAPPENS AT LEAST TWICE!

So there we go. Get into Dandadan? Heads up.

ADDITIONALLY, all story arcs that are being adapted by the anime involve triggering subjects: Turbo Granny arc mentions the assaulting and murdering of high school girls, Silky Arc implies and briefly depicts human trafficking and sex work to pay off debt, Nessie Arc talks about military drafts and indentured servitude in order to deal with medical costs, Cult Arc mentions suicide, as well as attempted assault and depicts ritual murder. BE ADVISED PLEASE!!!!!

[clangenrising]

Heavy Content Alert

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Tomorrow's piece contains content related to Intrusive Thoughts.

A more detailed warning (with more explicit spoilers) is below the read more.

Heavy Content Includes:

Mystique's POV where she experiences self loathing throughout and several times has thoughts that border on suicidal ideation. These thoughts do not involve any realistic methods, instead being somewhat hyperbolic, but they may still prove triggering.