#the stories ALWAYS have heavy and sad similarities

[septembersghost]

Sometimes I think harry's explanation on fine line(having s*x and feeling sad) suits hs1 better simply because that's all the album is about. I always think about his 2015-16 and I can't imagine it being any other way. Like I think 2015 was his worst year . First taylor left him and showed up with her bf 3 months after leaving him. Then zayn left the band and he definitely hated(atleast resented zayn for that) . He was snarky everytime zayn was brought up. I also felt like the boys also isolated him and blamed him for z.In some bts there was ot3 standing close then there was.......harry. If louis blamed harry in 2019 for breaking band we can imagine how he behaved in 15. on top there was Robin's cancer. So he had a lot to deal with and he was only 21-22. I genuinely don't think I'll be able to go through all that unscathed. So he didn't have a silver lining to look for in that stage and he used sex as a defence mechanism. Taylor left him when he had a bit more less-messy life I don't think hs1 would be this sad and maybe would've been more positive. I felt like tay left him when he desperately needed someone in his life who truly understands him as a support system. While he wrote it as a heartbreak album there is a lot of underlying issues in it. While he asks 'take the pain away' he is not just talking about Taylor. He is talking about everything in his life. I think Olivia perfectly describes how much he needed her companionship at that moment of his life.

that explanation of fine line is so inaccurate, and i think he said that to try and conceal some of its heartbreak/darkness/vulnerability, but it does the record a bit of a disservice. it's much more than that. i do agree that description is more fitting for HS1, though he does tackle some of that in a deeper way there as well.

idk that i'd characterize his response to zayn as hating him, but he definitely was upset/annoyed and played that off with snarky humor. i'd imagine it also frustrated him that zayn expressed some dismissal of the band as a whole, since harry has always openly been very proud of their music and what they achieved and created, but naturally the two of them had disparate experiences and walked away with individual feelings. i haven't necessarily picked up on the other boys blaming him (although i have seen commentary about h being blamed for the "hiatus" and some of the resentment that went along with that, whether unfounded or not), but that could be due to seeing things in hindsight rather than as they happened. (niall and harry seem quite close to me in press for mitam!)

agree that was a very difficult and tumultuous time for him, and it's easy to forget he was still SO young. there's real grief tucked away on a lot of HS1, and masking that with sex is not at all uncommon. the sorrow and feeling of not knowing how to handle everything is probably clearest in ever since new york, especially since he's said that it's about that specific loss, but shades of it and that uncertainty and hurt show up in ftdt/mmith and even two ghosts as well.

keeping in mind she was also very unwell and in an escalatingly bad place at this time, it makes additional sense as to why they never found a safe moment to land or an ability to work that out. two young, adrift people just trying to hold on and make it through various terrible storms weren't going to be able to build a lasting foundation.

While he asks 'take the pain away' he is..talking about everything in his life. definitely. fame itself is such a monster to deal with and to survive, and to be thrown headfirst into that as a teenager and try to surface and cope with early adulthood and finding your sense of self and experiencing such formative events...the trade-off of success and money or whatever for sharing your creativity and talent being that intrusive, incessant fame is nightmarish to consider. the entire concept of scrutiny on that level fills me with dread tbh. and it's been challenging and hard from the advent of popular celebrity, we've seen its destruction on so many people, sadly. it's incredible anyone survives it with their minds and hearts intact at all.

[guiltyasdave]

sun is going down

chapter 1 • series masterlist

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

summary: An injured Joel and Ellie stumble into your home in the middle of the night. Against your better judgement, you decide to help them.

word count: ~2.2k

tags/warnings: post outbreak, slow burn, found family, age gap (sorry not sorry), able-bodied reader, angst, reader has a sad sad backstory and ptsd, hurt/comfort, fluff, eventual smut, vague description of an injury, blood, guns, i think that’s it?

a/n: i’m ridiculously nervous about sharing this story, it has been on my mind for over a year and i’ve been too intimidated to start working on it for the longest time. i really hope that someone likes it haha

follow @guiltyasdavenotifs for fic updates and find my full masterlist here :)

dividers as always by the lovely @saradika-graphics 🤍

The alarm goes off in the middle of the night. You shoot up, your body on high alert, your heart beating rapidly, before your mind is even fully awake.

Probably just a false one, you try telling yourself as you make your way to the office. You’ve never had a false alarm, but– one can hope, right?

The place is plunged into darkness, no windows for any moonlight to seep through. You turn on the camera feed, squinting at the grainy screen. There’s movement in the living room, two people, from what you can make out. Not infected, judging from the way they’re moving, but one of them seems to be injured. Please don’t be raiders. There isn’t much to loot in the house, but the anxiety is already settling in your chest, threatening to crawl up your throat.

You turn on the sound and a panicked girl’s voice rings through the room as if you were standing right next to her.

“Fuck, Joel, wake up. Joel, please–”

It’s eerily similar to words that you’ve said once, the memory still fresh, even now. You wonder if your voice was as thick with tears then as that girl’s is right now.

Not again. Not in this house, not while you’re watching, unable to do anything. Not again.

You still hear it, the echo in your mind clear as ever. Keep them safe. Promise me. The promise you failed to keep.

Unblinking, you stare at the screen, your mind running a mile a minute. This could be a trap. They could have been watching, could have somehow figured you out. Or, the tiny voice in the back of your head insists, or they really need help.

The girl is pleading for the man to hold on, to not fall asleep. The desperation in her tone is tearing at you, urging you into action. Fuck it, you have to do something.

You grab your gun from the wall and slowly make your way up the stairs, ignoring the anxious trembling in your hands. Maybe this is how you die.

Leaning your back against the wall, you take a deep breath, a fruitless attempt to calm yourself, and switch on the lamp outside. You can’t hear them anymore, but knowing that the living room is now bathed in light, you’re certain that they’re on high alert now. Shit shit shit. You steel yourself, undo the complicated lock and push the heavy door open.

Please don’t let it be a trap.

They’re both staring at you, a young girl standing in front of a man, lying on the ground, taking panting breaths. She’s pointing a gun straight at you, as if she’s trying to shield his larger body with hers. The weapon looks much too big in her hands.

The memory of a similar image tugs at the back of your mind, but you shove it away. Stay in the present, stay right here.

You clear your throat, raising your hands slightly. You don’t remember the last time you spoke to another living person. Your voice cracks.

“I– I don’t mean you any harm. I live here, I saw you on– on the cameras.”

The girl furrows her brow, her eyes flitting across the room.

“They’re hidden, you won’t– Listen, I just want to help, I promise.”

The sound of your voice wavers, almost unfamiliar to your own ears. The girl lowers her gun a fraction, but the distrust is written all over her face. You can’t blame her. You clear your throat again, willing your hands to stop shaking.

“Your dad, is he– has he been bitten?” Please say no, please say no, please say no.

She shakes her head quickly. An expression that you can’t place flies over her features. Thank god.

“He’s not my– no. He got– he got stabbed.”

You can tell that she tries to sound strong, brave, but you recognize the panic in her eyes. You see it often enough when you look into the mirror.

You take another steadying breath. You can do this.

“Okay. I can help with that, if– if you want. I have medicine, bandages…”

Hope flashes over her face, mixed with the obvious conflict of not trusting you.

“You can come downstairs, it’s safer there. I– I should turn the lights back off.”

You’re painfully aware of how bright the house must shine through the darkness, from how far away it’s probably visible right now. Your nerves are fluttering anxiously.

“I don’t mean to hurt you, I swear. Just– let me help you.”

She swallows, hard, and fixes you with a stare.

“It’s just you down there?”

You nod in silent confirmation, not trusting your voice on this. It’s the first time you’ve ever had to admit it to anyone but yourself.

The girl sighs, her head turning between you and the man behind her a few times, surely seeking guidance from him, but his eyes are halfway shut, his lips trembling. Your gaze falls on the dark red stain on his shirt.

Don’t look, don’t think- Just focus on this, right now, right here.

You tell her your name, promise again that it’s safe. Finally, she nods timidly.

“Okay.”

“Okay.” You nod back at her, give her a small smile that she doesn’t return. “I’ll come closer now, we’ll carry him, alright?”

The girl looks at the man again. Her body tenses when you near them, but together you manage to get him back on his feet and half walk, half carry him. You push the door open wider and heave him down the stairs.

In the back of your mind, you take note of the sound of multiple feet walking down the steps, and how long it’s been since… No. Stay in the present.

You prop him up on the couch, where the girl keeps hovering by his side while you rush up again to close and lock the door and turn off the lights. Next, you throw open the bathroom cabinet, gathering all the material that you might need.

You return and crouch down beside him, lying your things out on the table, and take a closer look, your fingers halting over him. He’s watching you through lidded eyes, a sheen of sweat on his pale face.

“What’s his name?” you ask, looking up at the girl.

“Joel,” she answers reluctantly. “I’m Ellie.”

“Hi, Ellie.” You hope your smile looks sincere, not betraying how nervous you are right now. How shaky the sight of his blood-soaked shirt makes you feel.

“Okay, Joel?” you address him directly. He only manages a tired hum in return. “I’m gonna clean this and try stitching you up. It’s gonna hurt, I have painkillers, if you–”

But he shakes his head, humming again.

“Alright,” you sigh, and get to work.

You explain what you’re doing with every step, to calm both their and your own nerves. You know how to do this, you’ve trained for this. The wound doesn’t look too deep and you pray that there’s no organ damage involved, because you don’t have the means to treat that properly, but it doesn’t look like it. There seems to be an infection spreading though, so you gather some antibiotics as well, hoping that they’ll still work the way they’re supposed to. Joel inhales sharply a few times, but seems to be out of it for most of the time, which you’re grateful for.

“How did this happen?” you ask, looking up at Ellie who’s still standing beside you, watching intently over what you’re doing.

“Raiders,” she mutters. “It was a broken baseball bat, I think.”

“Jesus,” you sigh. You wonder how they got out, your thoughts circling back to the gun in her hands, and you suppress a shudder. “Are you injured too?” you ask, deciding not to press her about the attack.

“No,” comes her quiet answer. You don’t catch the way she averts her eyes.

“Alright,” mumble eventually and straighten up. You’ve cleaned and bandaged the wound to the best of your ability and now you just have to hope that it will be enough.

“Do you want something to eat?” you ask the girl, who has taken to sit beside the couch on the ground, now that you’ve moved away from it. Her face lights up at the question and she nods eagerly.

You get two bowls of the soup that you’ve had for dinner for the both of you and she has already had a few spoonfuls before she eyes you warily.

“It’s not poisoned or something, is it?”

You huff a laugh and keep eating yours, holding her gaze with raised eyebrows. “Does it look like it?”

“Um, no…” she trails off, swallowing another spoonful and sighing at the taste. You wonder how long it’s been since they ate something. “You could have poisoned only mine though.”

“Well I didn’t,” you grin. It feels foreign, talking to another person, another child, but a warmth is slowly spreading through you that has nothing to do with the soup.

She wakes Joel and gets him to swallow a little soup as well as some water before he collapses back on the couch, his eyes closed and his breath evening out.

“Why do you… have all this?” she asks eventually, setting her bowl down on the table and looking around the room, the wood-covered walls and the multiple doors.

“My dad built it,” you reply, forcing your voice to stay neutral. “B–before.”

She hums in acknowledgement, her eyes still full of wonder.

“You’re welcome to stay,” you hear yourself say, “until he gets better, I mean.”

You don’t know if you’re being reckless, if this will be the thing that finally gets you killed, but it seems too elaborate to be a trap. And maybe, just maybe you like the idea of not being alone down here, even just for a short while, a little too much. She thanks you, her expression just as weary as you feel.

You offer that she can wash up if she wants, use the shower, that you could give her some clothes of yours. You’re still not sure if you’re doing the right thing, or if you’re just being incredibly stupid, but the sight of her worn down shirt and the way her hair is matted down with dirt makes your heart swell with the wish to care for her.

Her eyes flicker nervously between Joel and the bathroom door a few times, but eventually she agrees. While the shower runs, you settle down on the armchair across from the couch, sinking into the cushions, your knees pulled up to your chin, your eyes resting on the sleeping man. He’s huge, taking up the whole length of it, his feet dangling over the armrest, overwhelming even in his unconscious state.

You really hope that they’re good people. He could overpower you easily, there’s no doubt of that. You might not be a terrible fighter, but you don’t think that you’d be a match for him.

Your gaze lingers on his face, the strong shape of his nose, the pout of his lower lip, his brow furrowed even in his sleep. His fingers are twitching, one wrist adorned with a broken watch.

Ellie exits the bathroom again, clad in your old clothes, her damp hair dripping into the neckline of the t-shirt, like a younger version of you. It makes your heart ache.

Now that the adrenaline is rushing from your body, you realize how weird all this really is. You haven’t spoken to anybody in years and now there’s two people here, in your space. Maybe you’ve finally lost it for good.

You show her to the biggest of the four bedrooms, the only one that no one has ever slept in. It’s easier, opening this door, than the two other ones that you keep shut. You debate moving Joel from the couch to the bed, Ellie mumbling about his back, but ultimately you decide against it.

“Okay,” you hesitate, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m in the room right next to you, if you need anything… Just– please don’t murder me in my sleep, okay?”

She mirrors your wry smile. “I won’t if you won’t.”

You nod and leave the room, praying that you’re making the right call here. You’re doing something good, right? And no one would plan an ambush like this. Would they?

You heave a sigh and retreat to your own bedroom, your gun clutched tightly in your grasp. You doubt that it would save you, not against that man who’s currently softly snoring on your couch. Still, it makes you feel a little better. You turn the lock on your door too, just in case.

When you sink back under the covers, eyes still wide open and staring into the darkness, a small smile creeps onto your lips despite your worries.

It’s not the way it was, it will never be that way again. But not being the only soul down here fills you with the ghost of a warmth that you had thought you’d never feel again.

thank you for reading 🤍 if you liked this, please consider reblogging, leaving a comment or sending an ask, it truly makes my day every single time!

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Setting the Mood

Setting the Mood in Your Novel

Mood - goes beyond the atmosphere of your novel.

It is the feeling your novel inspires in the reader.

Whether your reader comes away from the novel with a chuckle, or a heaviness of heart—it’s likely to be the mood that’s responsible.

Mood can influence context, how you experience the story, and what you take from it. Example:

In a story where people are stranded on a desolate island, the mood could be Gilligan’s Island, or it could be Lost.

Similar circumstances, but the two stories produce a profoundly different emotion.

Mood Changes

Through the course of your novel, the mood will change.

It’s likely to shift, as the reader connects with the narrator, develops empathy for the protagonist, and experiences the ups and downs of your exquisite storytelling.

Your story’s mood can jump from jubilant to sorrowful and then back again.

Remember that mood doesn’t have to be constant, but it does need to be ever-present.

The Importance of Mood

You must create a mood that enhances the story you’re telling, whether that story is sad, terrifying, romantic, or joyful. When you tell a story, you want people to feel a certain way when hearing or reading it.

Example: If you’re relaying a funny story to your best friend--you want your friend to feel happy and even laugh while hearing it.

It’s the same way with a novel. You can do that by first striking the right tone, which will then create the right mood.

Mood also enhances the reader’s experience.

As a writer, your goal for the reader should always be emotional reaction.

The reader needs to feel emotionally attached to the story, the characters, the plot, and the possibilities.

The right mood will help the reader immerse completely into your world of characters. It will give them a personal and visceral connection to the story.

Mood vs. Tone

Mood deals with the reader.

Tone deals with the writer and/or the narrator.

The tone of a story is how the narrator feels about what’s happening in the story.

Sometimes, it can be connected to the mood, and in other times, it can be in stark contrast to the mood.

Example: You have an unreliable narrator who happens to be a serial killer. He or she may use a matter-of-fact, or even humorous tone when depicting events. As the reader, the tone may make you feel uncomfortable, unsettled, or weirded out-- that’s the mood.

And that’s also an extreme example.

Generally, if the narrator can be trusted, the mood and the tone will be similar.

Mood vs. Tone vs. Voice

Voice is different from tone.

Your writer’s voice is your own.

It’s the unique style in which you tell your stories.

You’ll carry your voice with you to every book your write.

It’s tethered to you as an author and doesn’t change. However, tone can change from book to book, character to character, scene to scene.

Remember the old saying “tone of voice”. Your tone can change, but your voice is uniquely and consistently yours, no matter the tone.

The Right Mood

What do I want the reader to feel when reading my novel?

Is the answer: Delighted? Suspenseful? Hopeful? Helpless? Desperate?

Whatever the targeted sentiment, be intentional.

Write towards that emotion.

During the self-editing process, check your work against that specific emotion.

After a peer critique, inquire about the reader’s emotion.

Is it the same as the emotion you were hoping to create?

If not, edit until you get the right emotion.

The Importance of an Emotional Goal

Emotions tie the reader to your story.

Finding the right emotion(s) will also strengthen your story, and make it more engaging. Without a defined emotional goal, your story will feel loose, unfocused, and unintentional.

4 Ways to Establish Mood in Your Novel

Explore Theme

The theme of a novel is its big idea.

It’s the meaning of your story, and the interpretation you’re hoping to communicate.

A few popular themes in literature:

The circle of life

Empowerment

Fading beauty

Love and sacrifice

Self-reliance

True love conquers all

Oftentimes, the theme of your novel can set a mood for the reader.

When you choose a story that focuses on the theme true love conquers all, your reader may feel angry, optimistic, melancholy, nostalgic, and ultimately gratified.

By focusing on the theme, you can create the right mood for your reader.

Use the Setting

Setting can set the mood.

Example: Your protagonist is lost. As darkness falls around her, she reaches...

A dilapidated mansion overtaken with weeds and ivy. It’s seemingly abandoned except for the one faint light the emanating from an upstairs window.

A well-built log cabin that’s nestled deep in the woods. Smoke billows from the chimney, and she can hear a sitcom playing in the background.

In both of the above examples, the protagonist reaches a house, but the mood is different.

You can use setting to make the reader feel a sense of foreboding.

Or the setting can suggest safety.

And depending on the journey you’d like to take the reader on, the mood you create could betray and misdirect the reader.

Choose the Right Language

The choice of words you use make a huge impact on how the reader feels about the characters and each scene.

Example: A character laughs.

You can choose a term like “cackle” or “giggle” to describe the laugh.

One (cackle) suggests a shrill, unpleasant sound.

The other (giggle) suggests an innocent, or even nervous, sound.

Your word choice directs the reader on what to feel about the character, the scene, and more.

Set the Pace

Pacing captures the energy of the scene.

Example: When you choose short, terse words and sentences, you’ll cultivate a rushed mood in your narrative.

You may choose short words to indicate a range of emotions from excitement to anger. Alternatively, if you use lyrical, long-winding sentences, you can cultivate a contemplative mood.

Wordiness will slow down the narrative and has the subtle power to make the reader feel hopeless, trapped, or completely immersed.

Source ⚜ Writing Notes & References Writing References: Worldbuilding ⚜ Plot ⚜ Character

[struggling-jpg]

Thoughts About the Potential Underlying Hidden Tragedy of Yanqing and Jing Yuan

that isn't just the "Yanqing will have to kill Jing Yuan eventually" red flags.

A relatively longer-ish post so thank you for bearing with me if you choose to do so!

I'd already been thinking about this whole mess of thoughts for a long while now, and so have other people, but the urge to write this came from a comment I saw on a post that mentioned how Yanqing had lost to "Jing Yuan's ghosts" and overall how it contributes to the dynamic of them being mentor/mentee + father/son. While the narrative seems to be leading to "Yanqing having to strike down a Mara-stricken Jing Yuan," there's just enough weird points that stick out to the point some alternative outcomes for Yanqing and Jing Yuan's fates to play out.

And while I anticipate HSR to follow that most expected point, I feel like there's enough there that could lead to a subversion or something more likely than that, an additional twist to the knife alongside the expected point.

Jing Yuan's Flaws as a Mentor and Father-Figure:

While most of us love the family fluff, I'm pretty sure we can all acknowledge the issues in Jing Yuan's approach and decisions in regards to Yanqing. Yeah, this is a fictional space game story where it's likely they aren't going to delve into the consequences of having someone as young as Yanqing be a soldier, there seems to be something there regardless. Like the brushes with death that he has and how we see him have to worry about the Xianzhou's security as a teen due to having a higher position in a military force. This is all set up for more of a coming-of-age type narrative for him, which HSR has done amazingly so far, but there are a lot of chances for this to explore something darker.

Among official media, the one time I could even remember the term "father" being used in relation to Jing Yuan is in Yanqing's official Character Introduction graphic:

Another notable thing that we see here is how we do have moments where Yanqing expresses thoughts and questions about his own origins and birth parents. The fact that even here, he wonders if the general is hiding something from him, sets off some alarm bells in my head. But he then brushes that off because he's always been with the General and Jing Yuan accepts him for who he is (which under the theory that Yanqing originates/is connected to the Abundace adds a whole heavy layer (this will be discussed in a later section)).

Yanqing does something similar in his texts:

As Huaiyan says to Jing Yuan:

"Yanqing can understand your concerns."

Alongside Yanqing generally being a considerate and polite boy, it can possibly be said that his eagerness to share Jing Yuan's burdens not only stems from his own gratitude towards him but possibly also Jing Yuan's distance.

As in, Jing Yuan doesn't really express his feelings so blatantly, and what we can clearly tell from when Yanqing first met "Jing Yuan's ghosts," neither does he speak much about his past too on a personal level. In Jingliu's quest, Yanqing says that Jing Yuan simply told him to forget everything he saw that day.

For Jing Yuan, the loss of the quintet is a grief that feels fresh in his heart, especially with echoes of them running around him. This is in the description for "Animated Short: A Flash":

(Will also talk about this in a different section)

While Yanqing learns about his General's past in a more direct manner (aka the people involved), it's sad how avoidant Jing Yuan is at times. While he's never been a upfront person, especially in the case of solving problems, I wonder if HSR would go as far as to show the negative side of that in terms of raising and teaching Yanqing.

History Repeats Itself (Sometimes It Don't Need A Reason):

+ the Jingliu parallels

Following up on that last image, Jing Yuan, especially in A Flash, has that whole "history repeating itself" thing going on for Jing Yuan. It points to Yanqing having to take down Jing Yuan but it also comes with a lot of its own possibilities and meanings.

It's blatant that Yanqing parallels Jingliu to an unsettling degree. Anyone who personally knows Jingliu and meets Yanqing sees her in him. Jingliu probably sees herself in him as well. Beyond powers and passion for the sword, her Myriad Celestia trailer shows that her principles before getting struck with Mara were the same as his. But it took her losing her dear friends in such a cruel and brutal manner (alongside how long she'd been alive) for all of that to fall out and form the version of her we see today.

And while it seems that Yanqing is deviating from Jingliu's due to the teachings he's learning, especially with Jing Yuan's effort, I feel like there's still a chance for things to go so wrong and mess with that. Yukong's line about him strikes me as concerning:

"A sword will vibrate and beg to be unsheathed if it is unused for too long... Once unsheathed, it will either paint the battlefield in blood, or break itself in the process..."

Even though I don't think HSR will go down a route of tragedy with Yanqing, like say, he gets Mara struck somehow or killed because that's not how Hoyo's writing has fully gone for playable characters (Misha and Gallagher aside in terms of death). Even in the most despairing parts for Hoyo's games, they're usually outlined and tinged with hope in one way or another. It's just that with what's been presented, there's got to be more here than meets the eye.

Yanqing's Origins - The Breaking Point:

From what we've been given, I think the number one thing that would have the potential of shaking Yanqing's entire sense of his life and the reality he lives in is learning where he comes from. Where he actually comes from has been a strange mystery since the beginning, how Jing Yuan getting him being recorded in the military annals of all places.

As shown from the screenshots of Yanqing's texts, he doesn't know and tries to brush it off because he's happy with Jing Yuan now. The choice to have this aspect here leaves a lot to ruminate on. What is Jing Yuan hiding? And if he really is witholding information, does he ever intend to tell Yanqing? If he doesn't and Yanqing finds out, how will it play out? And even if he does mean to tell him, depending on the severity, how will Yanqing take it?

It's why the theory that Yanqing is connected to the Abundance, possibly even coming from it directly, is as harrowing as it is.

With his arc in mind, will his development be enough to sustain him when he does find out the truth? If he finds out sooner than he should, will he be able to rise above it? And what of Jing Yuan? If confronted with a situation that's outside of his control again, what will he do and how will he react?

The potential in that scenario is so fascinating to me, because we can all anticipate the absolute gut punch that Yanqing killing his master would be. It fits Hoyo's writing style of something so sad but having a hopeful end for the future type beat. But the idea of that being twisted, that expectation being flipped on its head, could be so agonizing. It's not a narrative we see too often explored, at least in my experience, so maybe that's why I'm brainrotting over it so much lol.

[certifiablyinsanez]

Today, I want to talk about Charles and what is likely his own struggle with suppression and denial. Now I know I’m not the only one rooting for Charles and Edwin (Chedwin???), but I will put a disclaimer here that I will be pleased with whatever route their relationship takes. Because not every tale of unrequited queer love ends with a happily ever after, and the confession and the response from both Charles and Edwin was so beautiful and graceful that I can’t even be mad about it. So with that said, let’s talk about it.

Edwin and his case of suppressing his queer identity is blatant. He’s from the prim and proper era where queerness is so taboo that Edwin doesn’t even say “I’m not gay” but rather, “he is a boy and I’m a boy.” He’s likely spent all his existence not even knowing queer terms, but only that such things were unspoken and unacceptable. That it’s not even possible. However, he’s easily clockable and always has been. He is prissy and “unmanly” and is the spitting image of repression.

With that in mind, it makes it easy to overlook Charles. Who is a lot more modern compared to Edwin and less innocent (the handjob debacle), but we have to remember that he’s still pretty far removed from modern times. His story speaks to me in a way different from Edwin because in Edwin’s times, you simply did not speak of it. Charles is from the times of the front for gay liberation and the AIDS crisis (forgive me for not knowing much UK queer history), the point being that it was no longer hiding. But that means that it would be actively persecuted and snuffed out instead of swept under the rug. He’s an 80’s punk. You can’t tell me he doesn’t know anything.

His father reminds me of my own Uncle, who had three sons and thought a heavy hand was the best way to raise them. Now, all three of them are addicts in their 30’s with little accomplishments, but the story of my cousin is a sad one. His childhood could be summed up as a failure to “beat the gay” out of someone. I’d imagine Charles’ father would be quite similar. As of right now, we don’t have full reasons why Charles’ dad would beat his son so severely.

But aside from the idea that Charles would have had any gay beaten out of him, Charles was likely too caught up in his own survival to even consider the complexities of things like sexual orientation. It likely never crossed his mind. And it’s likely a sign of the times he was in, because while the 80’s are closer to now than the 1910’s, they still are far off in a progressive sense.

I’m curious to see the development of Charles in the next season, to see how he navigates these complexities, if at all.

[mariclerc]

Can you do a fic where the reader works for Ferrari and has been friends with Charles for a long time, and recently Charles and the reader have a friends with benefits thing going on, but the reader is actually in love with him. Then when Lewis moves to Ferrari, he takes an interest in the reader, the reader decides to give him a shot and stops the situationship with Charles and he realises he doesn't want to let her go.

thank you for this request, this was a little bit hard to make because i was looking at how to develop the story but I really liked how it came out, I hope you like it!

Confusions at work | cl16 & lh44

Summary: when you have feelings for your situationship but a new person gets in the middle of it. Warnings: a little angst, confused reader, and fluff at the end.

The garage bustles with mechanics working on the gleaming red cars. You lean over the table to see the monitor with the different strategies for the first practice session of the day. Charles walks towards you, a playful glint in his eyes.

“Looking stunning with that frowned face y/n... As always.”

You roll your eyes playfully, a smile tugging at your lips. You have known Charles since his great season in Formula 2 back in 2017, by then you were already working as an internal race engineer in the Haas team, you were practically like Sheldon from the big bang theory - a brainiac. Upon meeting Charles there was an instant connection, it was as if you had always known each other, eventually, you were promoted from Haas to Ferrari in 2019, just the same year that Charles was promoted to the red team too, and ever since then the easy camaraderie between you has turned into something more... A secret, friends-with-benefits situation that both sets your heart ablaze and tears it in two.

“Yeah, yeah, save it for the cameras, Perceval. You know perfectly well I can take you down with a bad strategy any day.” you chuckled.

Charles feigns offense, but his laughter betrays him. You share a comfortable silence, a familiarity that speaks volumes. The moment is shattered by the arrival of Lewis Hamilton, the new star driver at Ferrari. Arriving at that first meeting at Maranello his gaze settles on you, a flicker of interest igniting in his eyes. Fred had offered you a change of position with Adami to be Lewis' race engineer, but the comfort and confidence you already had working with Charles made you decline the offer, likewise, working with a seven-time world champion is a privilege, since you can learn a lot from him, but you and Charles had practically grown up together at Ferrari and out of loyalty to him you stayed with him.

-

The following weeks are a whirlwind. Lewis tries to get close to you, and as a result, you end up having some dates and night-outs with him. He is charismatic, attentive, you dare to say that he's a bit similar to Charles in so many ways since both of them treat you with such care and kindness. You find yourself drawn to his confidence and outgoing demeanor, a stark contrast to Charles' usual genuine and soft care towards you. Guilt gnaws at you, but the thrill of something new is intoxicating... And with a little sadness in your heart, you decide to end things with Charles... At least for a little while you try to understand what your heart wants.

One night you went to Charles' apartment, and you entered with the extra key that he had given you a long time ago. Charles' apartment is quiet, a stark contrast to the usual post-race buzz. You stand awkwardly in the living room, avoiding his gaze.

You gulped. “Charles... I think we need to talk.”

He looks up, a frown creasing his forehead. The air crackles with unspoken emotions. “Y/n what's wrong sweetie? Did I do something wrong?”

You take a deep breath. “It's about this.” you sigh. “This thing between us... It can go anymore.”

Silence hangs heavy in the air, Charles' frown deepens, his eyes searching yours. “Is it Lewis? Is this about him?” he asked.

The truth hangs on your tongue, a bitter pill to swallow. “Maybe, maybe not... The point is, things need to change... We need to take a break... At least for a little while.”

Charles stands abruptly, his frustration palpable. “Just like that? We throw away everything because of... what? Because some shiny new toy showed up?” His words sting, but there's a flicker of something else in his eyes - a vulnerability you haven't seen before.

“It's not that simple, Charles. You know it's... Complicated.”

Tears well up in your eyes, this isn't how you imagined this conversation going. You practically run out of Charles' apartment, frustrated because you don't know if you did the right thing and at the same time you don't know if being with Lewis is the same as being with Charles... Because at the end of the day, he somehow manages to see through you and understand you on a level that Lewis cannot.

-

Days turn into weeks, you and Charles avoid each other. The only words that come out of your mouth are simply a "hello" and a "see you later", occasionally long sentences when you're giving him directions during the race or at the team debrief, the air is thick with unspoken tension. The joy has gone out of working at Ferrari... You see the way Lewis looks at you, but a hollow ache fills your chest. At night you constantly think about what you would be doing with Charles at that exact moment, perhaps cuddling up watching a movie, or a normal date at his house eating pizza, wearing matching socks and playing Mario kart... And even though Lewis takes you to glamorous galas, lavish dinners and so on, you don't complain about it, on the contrary, you're grateful for it, but, there's nothing like that instant connection with Charles.

One afternoon, Charles corners you near his car. His eyes are stormy, a mix of anger and something else you can't decipher.

You hear him sigh. “I miss you y/n... Like hell.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You miss him too, the easy banter, the way he understood you without words, the way his eyes spark every single time he was next to you.

“Charles... I...” you say shyly but he cuts you off, his voice rough.

“Don't... Don't tell me you miss Lewis...because if you do, I'll understand. But at least know this – this thing we have, it's real, at least for me. It's more than just crazy strategies and stolen kisses after victories. Maybe I haven't said it, haven't shown it the way you deserve, but I care about you, y/n... A lot.”

His confession hangs in the air, raw and vulnerable, you've never seen him that way. You can see the years of unspoken feelings bubbling to the surface. Tears prick your eyes, blurring the image of Charles in front of you.

A million things fight for dominance in your mind: the thrill of the new with Lewis, the comfortable companionship with Charles, the undeniable spark you share with him.

Taking a shaky breath, you meet his gaze.

”Charles, I... I don't know what I want... I mean, Lewis is exciting, a new challenge. But with you... it's different, it's easy, familiar, it's warm. But it's also... frustrating you know? You never give anything away, never let anyone in all the way.”

A flicker of pain crosses Charles' features. He reaches out, hesitantly placing a hand on your arm. “I'm scared y/n... Scared of losing you, scared of letting myself feel something this real. But if you're willing to take a chance, maybe, just maybe, we can figure this out together.” he says softly.

The silence stretches, thick with unspoken emotions. You look into Charles' eyes, searching for a glimpse of the future you both could have. The weight of the decision settles on your shoulders. You glance around the garage, the familiar red of the Ferraris a stark contrast to the turmoil within you. Lewis' confident smile flashes in your mind, but it's quickly replaced by the image of Charles' vulnerability, a side you've never seen before.

Taking a deep breath, you meet Charles' gaze, a flicker of determination replacing your earlier uncertainty.

“Okay Charles, let's figure this out... Together.” you say softly.

A slow smile spreads across Charles' face, relief washing over him. He pulls you into a tight embrace, the scent of his familiar cologne grounding you, it feels like coming home.

“Thank you, y/n. Thank you for taking a chance on us.” he whispers in your ear.

You pull back slightly, a playful glint returning to your eyes. “Just don't expect me to lose in the strategy game anytime soon, Leclerc... This isn't over yet.”

Charles throws his head back and laughs, the tension finally breaking. He ruffles your hair affectionately.

“I wouldn't have it any other way amour... Wouldn't have it any other way.” he smiles. (love)

-

The garage and the pit wall is mostly deserted, the day's work winding down. You're packing up some of your things when Lewis approaches, a determined look in his eyes.

“Hey, y/n! Can I talk to you?” he asked with a friendly smile on his face.

You hesitate, then nod, gesturing towards a quiet corner. Lewis leans against a wall, his voice gets a little serious.

“I saw you and Charles... And I get it now, there's something there, a history I can't compete with.” There's a hint of disappointment in his voice, but mostly understanding.

“Lewis, I... I'm really sorry. Things just moved too fast too soon, and I realized what I was risking.” you say softly but Lewis offers a shy smile.

“No need to apologize, but follow your heart, y/n! That's all any of us can do... Besides, maybe next time on the track, I can finally knock your team off that top spot in the strategy battle.”

A genuine smile graces your lips. “Don't count on it, Hamilton. But hey, maybe we can grab a coffee sometime and hash out some friendly competition strategies. No promises on who'll win, though.”

Lewis chuckles, the tension dissipating. He extends his hand for a handshake. “Deal! And good luck with Charles. He's a lucky guy!”

You shake his hand, a newfound sense of clarity settling within you, he gives you a warm smile and a friendly hug. As Lewis walks away, you glance towards Charles, who's watching the exchange with a hint of possessiveness in his eyes. You catch his gaze and he winks at you, a silent promise hanging between you.

He walks towards you with a little smile on his face and takes you in his arms.

“So... How about we get out of here? I could use a real shower you know?” you say and Charles' smile widens, genuine relief washing over his features.

“Sounds like a plan. My place, or yours?” he asks softly.

The air hangs heavy with unspoken possibilities. You know this is a turning point in your relationship, a chance to rebuild something stronger.

“Your place only if you promise to make that killer pasta dish you always brag about.” you say teasingly.

Charles lets out a mock groan, but there's a twinkle in his eye. “Fine, fine. But you have to help me chop the vegetables! No bystanders in my kitchen, okay?” You laugh, the tension finally breaking. As you finally grab all of your things, Charles slings his arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. “Come on, sweetcheeks. Let's get out of here before someone challenges me to another mario kart race.” he smiles softly. “You know I can't resist a good challenge, especially when you're involved.”

You nudge him playfully, a warm feeling blossoming in your chest.

”Oh, I'm sure you can handle it, Leclerc. But just you wait, next time I'm schooling you.”

Together you walk out of the garage, the setting sun casting an orange glow across the racetrack. The future is uncertain, but with a newfound commitment to each other, you're ready to face it head-on. You and Charles head towards his car, the promise of a home-cooked meal and a chance to reconnect hanging heavy in the air.

[urcursebreaker]

burning body waiting. (ellie williams x fem!reader)

read chapters one, two, and three here.

warnings: 18+ content, canon-typical violence, gore, angst, graphic smut, scissoring, fingering, use of marijuana. | word count: 11.7k.

chapter 4: match in the dark

❝ the gentleness that comes, not from the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it. ❞ — richard siken.

. . .

The stories always say that love is something you fall into.

For you, it's always been a bludgeoning, throttling force, bone-shattering and breath-robbing; sudden and violent and jarring.

So why does this feel not like a punch to the gut but a slow and tortuous ailment of your health? An intrusion of sickness and vein-pulsing agony?

Instead of pummeling you with a lethal blow, your feelings for Ellie crept and slunk through your bones, a terminal parasite, malignant and festering inside. Until it was a sure thing. A cancer. Until your veins were blackened with heady need. Until there was a dark, frothing plague teeming from your heart, hammering to a consistent tune.

Ellie, Ellie, Ellie.

Or maybe you don't love her.

Maybe it's some third sinister thing. Living in the cracks of cruelty that stretch between friend and lover.

Last night, after baring witness to Ellie's breakdown, the sound of her wailing, heaving sobs followed you into a tenuous sleep.

You dreamt of a young girl, a smattering of freckles garnishing her sun-kissed face and arms, familiar, mossy blue eyes brimming with unshed tears. She clutched a watch in her fist, it's face splintered, cracks like lightening fracturing across the broken surface. She lurched it into the rapid waters of the river she stood before, her eyebrows pinched in earnest, chest heaving.

"Why are you so sad?" You had asked the girl, your voice a whisper in the wind, not fully belonging to you.

The girl only released a long, heavy breath and pivoted away, marching down an unmanicured path of ferns and overgrowth. She grew taller and leaner as she strode away, until the figure that dissipated through the line of trees was one you have slept beside. 

And now you are woken up in that damn 7/11 to that same girl firmly shaking you.

Except now she's older— and a new scar marred her lip. A new slit cleaved her brow. And a new, harsh edge of ferocity contoured her face— still so young, in a world that would never allow her to be.

She had to shake you a few times before you came to, snapping awake in a bleated panic, lurching up. She was huddled over you, a finger to her lips, a solemn alarm flaring in her pale eyes. The overhead vines careening from the high rafters billowed gently with the breeze; the serenity of it deceiving to what prowled the weeds.

"To the left," she mouths meticulously, and you nod, carefully slipping out of your sleeping bag, heart drumming ceaselessly.

She unsheathes her switchblade and slinks away, her eyes trained on the glassless wall as she stations behind a counter, distractedly gesturing for you to follow.

You slowly retrieve your shotgun from the littered floor and pocket a shiv you crafted the night prior, shooting brisk glances over your shoulder as you inch to Ellie's side. A faint whistle rises from the swaying grass.

Fuck. More Seraphites.

They must be tracking you, if they're spreading this far into Seattle. They tend to lurk on the outskirts, basing along the edges of the city so they can terminate anyone who attempts to get inside.

You never heard of them abandoning posts before. Killing over a dozen of them must have earned you their vengeance.

Ellie must have a similar thought, for when you reach her side, she whispers, "I should have gone to their base and killed every last one of them." Her face was grim and hard with fury, jaw barred, as she glared over the counter in the general direction of the whistle.

You follow her gaze and your muscles tense. The piercing afternoon sun glints off the metal tip of an arrow— aimed directly at you.

"Get down!" You shout jitterly, just as the potent snap of the bows tension unleashing splits through the silence of the day. You shove Ellie down and duck over her right as it spears loudly through the chipping wall behind you, where her head had been precarious seconds before.

She looks up at you with wide eyes, her knuckles gleaming white against the shine of her blade. Her momentary shock morphs into a scowl that manifests on her face.

She shrugs her shotgun off her shoulder and aims it for the weeds— blasting through the first outline of a human that she sees without a second thought. Thickets of seared, chunky blood burst through the air, followed by a series of sharp, undulating whistles. Your ears ring boisterously from the gunshot.

You sense movement to your right and crawl past Ellie— who clips another Seraphite, her body rocking with the force of the shot— to investigate. Fortunately, your backs are covered by two withstanding, cavernless walls, leaving only the hole to the right and the sizeable gap overhead.

Ellie seems to have the other wall covered.

You use a rusting shelf as a barricade, crouching, shiv in hand, the blade biting through the cloth you wound around the bottom. You turn it over in your hands, tongue prodding your lip, casting furtive looks above you every couple seconds to ensure nobody inflicted an unexpected aerial attack.

Arrows rain down, piercing the walls, clattering off the concrete. Gunshots boom thunderously, reverberating through the vacant city, paired with the guttural screams of those they met. You chance a peek at Ellie to find her completely unscathed, propped on one knee, squinting through the thick scope of her rifle. She must've swiftly exchanged weapons while you were looking away; always efficient.

You swivel back around and feel the tiny hairs on the nape of your neck raise at the shaved head poking through the whirling canary, only about ten feet away. You hold your breath and flush your back with the shelf, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

He slithers into the room, bow drawn, frame veiled by a cloak seeped with rain water. Brutal, discomfiting burn scars eclipse half of his face, as if he were lowered, sideways, into a pit of roaring flames.

Back at the Front, everyone always refers to the Seraphite's as Scars. It's starting to make sense why; you had never seen one this close before.

He puckers his lips to whistle, and you deign that as your opportunity, before he summons another Scar. You spring out from behind the shelf and drill your blade through the side of his neck, tearing through tendons. "Gotcha!" you breathe sardonically.

His large body crumples in your arms. You lower him to the floor with a dull, sappy thud, blood instantly pooling across the concrete, lapping at the tips of your boots.

An insistent whistle echoes closely from the weeds he emerged from, and you mutter a curse, hoisting up your gun and loading it with bloodied fingers. You're about to shoot the nearing figure when a brutish man descends from the crater in the ceiling— landing on top of you.

"Fuck!" Your scream of raw surprise rips through your throat as you plummet under his weight, your arm twisted unnaturally and agonizingly beneath his body.

He yanks you back by your hair, peeling your body off the ground with ease, and you wrestle with his unyielding grip, grunting as you squirm and peer at him over your shoulder. His eyes are crazed, a deep, rigid scar splitting his cheek, fatal determination overtaking his face.

You think fast, hastily fumbling for the blade in his companions sputtering throat, writhing under his formidable hold, your breathing sparse as he crushes you. "Feel Her love," the man growls in an accented drawl, his pick-axe reered back, poised to strike.

You successfully dislodge your blade just in time.

You arch your arm back as forcefully as you can from the obstructive angle, nicking him in the chest— just enough for him to stagger back and graze his digits over the superficial wound— and for you to crawl out from underneath him.

You only make it up to your knees before the handle of his pick-axe is caging your throat, crushing your windpipes, a hoarse whine wheezing from your lips. He hauls you back, and you flail for the bar compressing your neck, feet aimlessly lashing and kicking the floor. "El—"

Dots swim and flood your vision. Your flickering pulse rattles droningly in your skull. You can't breathe. You're dying. You're going to die. You're going to—

"Don't you fucking touch her!" Ellie bellows.

Suddenly, the pick-axe falls from your throat, clattering with a resounding echo to the floor, and you drop right along with it. Through the haze of your disjointed vision you see the previous keeper of your fate— Ellie's switchblade protruding from his head, before he slams lifelessly to the floor.

You rake in breaths hungrily, the sudden, painful burst of oxygen blazing like fire through your lungs. You claw listlessly at your throat, as if that will stop the blistering burn, or vanquish the coppery tang of blood rendering your tongue.

Ellie then shoots his already deceased body twice— his immobile carcass lurching, jolting with the swift bullets— and doesn't spare the dead Scar a second glance before shooting the one approaching in the weeds with masterful precision.

He thumps to the ground with a muffled groan of anguish, and his departure is followed by a wave of dense, apprehensive silence.

Ellie lingers in that taut, defensive stance for a moment, her shoulders tense, face lined with concentration as she sweeps her gaze over the sprawling field. Eyes skittering over the towering buildings in a speedy examination.

And then her eyes fall to you, alarm leeching the color from her sharp face. She quickly lowers her gun and bunches her stiff shoulders. "Are you alright?" She demands brusquely.

You nod skittishly, chest heaving with your rapid, hungry breaths. "Fine," you croak out, voice hoarse and gravelly, scraping out of your raw throat.

She nods absently, slinging her gun over her shoulder and bending down to fist the knife puncturing the man's head. She gives it a forceful, ruthless tug, his upper body heaving off the blood-blemished ground. A harrowing crimson cascades down his skull, glistening over her fingers. She yanks it out of him with a second, ardent jerk, and he slumps onto the floor, his own gore splattering repellently through the air. She surveys the blood and bits of cartilage on her blade before calmly wiping it off on her pants.

You scarcely register the disturbing scene of the Seraphite's you downed together.

Ellie's callousness must be wearing off on you. The dark pond of sudsy blood gathering around your feet ignites only a faint ripple of disgust in you; and a hint of knee-buckling relief, that you had someone so unapologetically cutthroat at your defense.

She offers you a steady hand and you take it. She hauls you to your feet, and you waver, your grip unabashed and bruise inciting. "Are you okay?" You ask attentively, a tremor underlying your tinny voice as you eye her top to bottom.

On the exterior, she's untouched by harm, and the relief that floods you is instantaneous.

"I am if you are," she says with a dim smile, surveying you for injury in turn. "We should get the fuck out of here, though. You sure you're good?"

"I'm fine," you offer a meek, hopefully reassuring smile back, unhanding her. You clear your throat and discard your broken, useless shiv on the floor, your breathing evening out. "Lead the way, my noble Knight," you tease with a shaky grin.

She rolls her eyes with affection and mimics a flourishing bow. "Yes, my Queen," she snorts, before pivoting away, heedlessly overstepping the dead body of your attacker and trudging for the opening she'd been guarding, her backpack already slung over her shoulder.

Your scratchy, cackling laugh scorches your throat, but you stifle the dizzying pain, her responding laugh, breathy and chittering, making the hurt worth it.

It was the sweetest thing you have ever heard. So light and natural and opposing to the violence she had wielded mere minutes ago to protect you.

As you trail after her, trusting her direction without question, you think you'd let her be as mean to you as she needed to be if you could hear her laugh like that again.

Which may be the scariest thing of all.

• • •

ELLIE

Her resolve was dissipating through her fingers. Now particles, everything she fought for was reduced to inconceivable dust, streaking through the wind, escaping her clutches.

She had destroyed versions of herself, tapered off past selves, trimmed and manufactured herself into this precarious thing that she was now.

A shell, filled by a need to take back all that had been stolen; a vessel for her grief and anger. She felt like she lived and breathed the horror that clung to her insides, fermented and congealed, taloned rage clawing it's way out of her with every step she took closer and closer to reclaiming the vengeance she was owed; the debt that was due.

But now the calamity in her mind has quieted. Her pain felt distant and hushed; it watched and whispered. She was never truly liberated from it. Only when she's with you does she feel that boulder lift, that bone-crushing mass of misery eased off her soul. But it's hearty weight lingers phantomly, etching itself into her bones.

She glances at you through the waning firelight, your thoughtful expression dim in the flickering amber glow. Your eyebrows are skewered, lips pursed, eyes indulgently roving over the pages of the tattered book splayed across your lap.

She had no idea how you found the room to store useless objects. From your brothers stuffed childhood bear, a chunky, faded hot-pink cassette player, to a couple weathered, worm-eaten books, you seemed to carry only your indulgences.

When she was fourteen, her backpack was similar. It overflowed with graphic novels and worthless trinkets. Joel had everything they needed, carrying double his weight in supplies. Despite everything she'd seen, despite everything he did, he gave her a simple life. One she could not envision herself pursuing ever again, without him there to urge her on.

She wonders if your brother was that guiding light for you, too, a match in the dark, as Joel had been for her.

She looks at you, and she wonders if you have ever truly been alone.

You perform with a buoyancy and easiness she cannot replicate. Either you have never known suffering at all, a portrait of innocence under a brush of death; or you knew it too well, with an intimacy that left you unblinking and acclimated to its sharp edges. When it tried to cut through you, it's relentless knifing was fruitless, it's slashes meeting metal, sliding off the shine of your armor.

Do you even know it's there? That even though you are not brutal and unforgiving— as she herself had become— remaining steady and balanced under the ruthless beat of the worlds bitter drum was a shield in itself?

She both admires and envies your ability to let it all roll off your back as it's hurled at you.

"What?" You drawl at her notably indiscreet examination, amusement seeping into your tone like liquid gold, eyes unstraying from the pages— though she can see, even from the distance that separates you, that your eyes are bright and swimming with it.

For months now, she has locked her feelings down, imprisoned them behind walls of adamant, impenetrable steel. Had deliberately tailored a mask that would keep them from slipping through.

And then there's you. Feeling unabashedly and unapologetically and, unknowingly letting her know she can do it, too. That you see the wounds that gauge her soul and do not flinch at the sight of blood. That you see the hurt that shines in her eyes and do not pity the tortured girl, but embrace the wrath of the killer that torture had birthed.

Being understood was once something she ached for. But now that someone is starting to understand her, to see through the defenses she constructed, she is afraid. She is terrified of being seen, of being known.

Almost as much as she fears being alone.

She is facing that fear day by day, and it is just as fucking scary as she anticipated.

She was cripplingly alone, and she felt the aftershocks of it belting through her. She's a lost, untethered soul, searching for its other end, though the thread had severed and all that remained was remnants of fragmented, disjointed memories, and rippling regrets that would never be ironed out.

She has nothing to return to; no home, no person. Instead, she keeps coming back to that hollowness inside, where the grief is stored, and fed to the flames of rage that blaze there. It is the only consistency she knows now. Even you are not a promised thing. Not when you had a brother somewhere out there waiting for you.

And not when she had a list of lives to end.

You are not enough to mend the gaping hole inside of her; you will never match the shape of that gauge. No one will. No one can replace the things he taught her, gave her.

But at least now... when she lays her head to rest, there's a beaming voice, illuminating the shadow-shrouded void of her mind. Beckoning her toward the light.

And it's yours.

She fights the darkness. Wrestles out of its restraints— the guilt and sorrow that anchors her down— and runs to that voice, desperate for the sun.

But the darkness always seems to win in the end.

"Ellie?"

Your soft, tentative voice lulls her out of her clouded thoughts, and she averts her gaze from the fire to look at you. She blinks the dark specks away and discerns your earnest face. Your attention is honed in on her now, the book dog-eared and closed in your lap, head tilted inquisitively. "Where'd you go?" You ask quietly, your voice a whisper under the crackling embers.

She feels her head shaking before she even forms a response. "Nothing. Nowhere," she insists, blinking rapidly, stroking a spectral scar on her forehead. "I'm just tired. How's your book?" She urges casually, craning her head back and resting it on the tree stump of the sprawling oak behind her, studying you.

A big, unadulterated grin contorts your face. Your cheeks dimple, smiling teeth luminous in the firelight. Her heart skips a beat at the mirth glimmering in your eyes. "So good. It's my favorite. I've read it six times," you chuckle at the look of disbelief that slips through the cracks of her facade and continue, "My mom used to read it to my brother and I a lot when we were kids."

She nods, plucking the grime out of her fingernails, swiping her tongue over her teeth. She glances down at her hand to conceal the warmth rising to her cheeks at the sight of your infectious smile. There is no other way to describe it; it is debilitating, impossible not to mirror.

"What's it about?" She murmurs, ducking her head, her emerging smile evident in her tone. She hopes the shadows eclipse her face from your view.

"Oh, it's just a collection of fables," you sigh contently, wistfully, reclining back, clutching the fraying book endearingly to your chest. You sway your knees back and forth, feet planted to the ground, peering up at the star-speckled sky before tilting your head to face her. "Do you like to read at all?"

Ellie yawns gingerly, extending her legs out in front of her, staring down at her muddy, threadbare Converse. "I used to read comics. There was this series I collected... Savage Starlight?" She winces as she pronounces the humiliating name.

Your responding gasp is so sudden, an animal audibly skitters through the weeds. You lurch up in astonishment, wisps of staticky hair fanning around your shocked face. "Wait, really? My brother loved those!"

Ellie laughs, and you visibly loosen at the sound. She pretends not to notice. Just as she pretends not to feel the warmth budding and blooming in her chest, a sprout of something gentle taking root in her heart.

"Yes," she huffs out, rewarding you a vague smile. You were the only thing that made her feel like she could smile anymore. "I read them all. Probably more than 6 times, actually. So. I got you beat."

"Pfft," you bat a hand of dismissal, rolling your eyes playfully, laying back down— resting your head on a smooth, upturned rock, leisurely prying your book back open. "Does looking at pictures even count as reading?"

"Comics have words!" Ellie protests defensively, straightening.

Your boisterous laugh echoes through the dense forestry, booming out of you, as you drop the book and cradle your stomach, rolling over with the force of your guttural laughter. "You are so easy to rile up!" You cackle tearily, wiping your eyes.

Ellie snickers. "You're an ass," she chides, laughter bubbling in her chest, threatening to escape her sealed lips. She threads her fingers through her unruly hair, sweeping the russet strands out of her face. You jeeringly stick your tongue out at her, and she flips you off, earning her another one of your exuberant laughs.

"Read your book," she scolds with a raspy chuckle of her own, pointing at the now discarded fables. She rummages through her backpack, the sound of your stifled giggling following her as she fishes out her journal.

She waits a couple minutes, until you're helplessly engrossed with your novel, your brows once again pinched in concentration, before thumbing through her journal, flipping to that tarnished, browning page. Her eyes flicker over the names she memorized distastefully, that familiar anger burning bright.

Abby

Nora

Owen

Mel

Jordan

Manny

Whitney

She absently ghosts her fingers over that taunting, four-lettered name. Abby. Her throat swells with grief, searing-hot anger boiling in her stomach. The condemning red marks slashing through the names of those she already killed grant her only momentary satisfaction. It's not enough to quell the hatred the unmarked name at the top sparks within.

Nora she killed weeks ago. She let the spores smother her lungs, debilitate her of breath, ring her dry of any vitality and will to resist her tragic fate. Then she took a pipe to her head. Over and over. Just as Abby had done to Joel. Just as she would do to her.

Then she killed Nick, and Jordan, after the Wolves tailed and captured her. They beat and chained her to a counter, as if a pair of copper-rusted handcuffs would restrain her— would save them from her blinding wrath. The scar she brandished him with was rigid and pink and poorly stitched, dismantling his otherwise smooth cheek. She told him that stopping her from extracting her revenge would be futile.

Then she broke free and stabbed him persistently, with ferocious, vehement arches of her arm, until his blood had coated her face in fine beadlets and puddled in heaps that sapped her feet to the floor.

And, most recently, she killed Whitney. At the hospital, where she took you to bed and tasted every glorious inch of you, high with adrenaline, pulsating with want.

She told you she took out a few infected.

But it was only Whitney there, alone, guarding the sewage system, swaying to the boisterous music that reverberated through the concrete-walled boiler room. She slit her throat and kicked her into the murky, sludgy water. Then shot her twice just to insure that she did not inexplicably survive.

After the night you shared, a part of her was horrified of you unveiling the deplorable, merciless acts she committed. She did not know if she could face you. She slaughtered a person in cold blood and touched you with the stained hands that did it.

She left, just in case you found that bleeding body floating in the basement, and turned terrified, accusatory eyes on her. She did not know if she could bear your disdain. Or worse— you being disgusted by the harrowing life she has dedicated herself to.

Because she could not change.

She has a purpose, now.

To take everything from those fuckers. Leave them with nothing as they did her.

She's going to take and take and take. The life of Abby's friends, crushed and squandered beneath her foot. The solid foundation of security they built, ripped apart at the seams, until walls topple and plans expire— until all the Wolves are scurrying through the wastelands, tails tucked, howling for mercy.

She abandoned the safe, armed walls of Jackson for this mission. Nothing could jeopardize it; not even her captivation with you.

Fortunately, you never found Whitney's body.

She should've been relieved. But when she stumbled upon you again, in that blossoming valley, there was spite there, and for a completely different reason. One she never considered; that you were truly scathed by her abandonment. She thought you would be better off without her; better rid of the sucking parasite leeching the good out of you with each moment she spent in your presence.

"Hey, Ellie?"

She snaps the journal closed briskly, sucking in a sharp breath. She thought you had fallen asleep; you had not shifted or spoken for an impressive duration of time. Especially for you.

"Yeah," she responds groggily, scratching her head, slipping the journal back into her bag, the list temporarily forgotten. She glances up to find you gone.

She staggers straight to her feet, calling your name, her tone dripping with apprehension. "Where are you?"

"Shh," you instruct quaintly from the shadows, whispering meticulously, "Over here."

She peers through the darkness encompassing the camp you'd assembled together, trailing your voice, conveyed through the cloying, nectary wind. The warming spring breeze fetters her hair.

She deciphers your figure in the tall, swaying canary, your stature hunched and diligent. "Come here," you whisper urgently, loudly, beckoning her over fervently. She reaches for her gun but freezes when you make a noise of disapproval.

Instead, she follows your voice, curiosity and concern weighing the scale in equal measure. "What is it?" She rasps quietly, cresting your side. Your eyes are trained intently on a small, shapeless shadow, lithely prowling the weeds.

"Come here, kitty," you drawl sweetly, clucking your tongue, drumming your thigh. The small creature pauses its strides, slowly lowering itself to the ground, giving an impassive lick of its paws.

"It's a cat," you mutter to Ellie, as if she had not already gathered that.

She refrains from rolling her eyes. "I can see that. Why were you even over here to begin with?"

You pointedly disregard her, taking a heedful step forward, crouching to be level with your new feline friend. "Come here, sweet thing. Come on. It's okay," you lull in a reassuring tone, patting the ground insistently. The cat only stares at you.

You sigh, arms draped defeatedly over your knees, frowning. "Okay. Never mind. Go back, please, I think you're scaring it."

"What?" Ellie snaps, and the cat startles, bracing it's paws in the dirt, back arched. "No way. Animals love me."

"Kay, well, it was coming to me before you came over here, stepping on every single branch you could find." You argue flippantly, shooting her a glare.

"It's your fault, you're the one who called me over here, dick!" Ellie defends airily, waving her hands.

You clap a hand over your mouth to conceal your automatic chuckle. Your rumbling shoulders and escaping snorts give you away. "Okay, okay, fine," you chortle breathily, shaking your head. "God, that look on your face never gets old."

She groans out a husky laugh, falling back a few paces, propping a mocking, insulted hand over her heart. "You are evil."

You flash her a sinister, lippy smile, mischief twinkling in your eyes, before averting your focus back to the cat, who had inched closer while you argued.

"Yes, that's it. Come here, baby," you click your tongue in a series of encouraging noises, and the cat— ears perked, nose sniveling— prances over to you, as if you waved a heaping bag of treats.

You tenderly, dubiously scoop the cat into your arms. Though acutely tense, it allows you to hold it, claws hesitantly retracting from your sleeve, piercing green eyes slitted and alert. "She's hurt," you inform, scratching it's matted, furry back. You slowly ascend to your feet and nod back toward the camp, following Ellie as she begins to trudge back. "I saw her limp by and followed her over here. Do you have some more gauze?"

"For the cat?" Ellie drawls incredulously, shooting you a look over her shoulder, stepping over a cluster of unearthed roots.

"Uh, yes? She's small, it won't take much." You assert, hiking the cat up as it starts to thrash and mewl anxiously. "Please?"

She wanted to tell you no, but she found that it was impossible to form the word— especially when you were gazing at her with sheer hope, head tilted pleadingly. "Fine."

"Woohoo!" You exclaim triumphantly to the cat, softly stroking between its luminous eyes with your thumb, easing its trepidation. It whimpers, pink nose prodding your jaw, pawing at the latticed hem of your tank top. "She said thanks, El-Bell!"

"How do you know it's a she?" Ellie asks as you enter the fire-illuminated clearing, the light casting ominous, flickering shadows over the deep, towering pine trees.

You shrug, hoisting the cat by its underarms, promptly spinning it around and baring its tattered, grimy belly to Ellie. "Yeah. You were right. Girl." She concedes with a grimace.

Ellie resumes her original position as you perch cross-legged across from her, planting the knotted cat in your lap. She's coated in a sweep of sleek, midnight black fur, so sumptuous it reflects the moon's sapphire glow. Her green eyes are unnaturally bright against her dark coat, penetrating through Ellie as she unpacks her gauze.

"I'm getting it," she mumbles to it warily, and it pivots away from her with unnecessary drama, curling it's tail.

"Don't be rude," you reprimand the cat, who ignores your scolding and persistently licks her splintered paw.

"Here you go," Ellie says, tossing you the gauze and medical tape. "You better hope your little friend doesn't get hurt again. I don't have enough supplies to fix her boo-boos."

She swears the cat fucking glares at her, before curiously, reluctantly sniffing at the gauze.

You must have seen it, too, for you giggle smugly. "What was that about animals loving you?"

"Shut up," Ellie grumbles, leaning back, hiking her knees to her chest. Exhaustion weighs heavy on her eyelids. She surveys you, bleary-eyed, as you scoop the cat into your arms and gingerly pry the wound, a pained shriek tearing from it's tiny body.

"Shh, it's okay," you comfort genially, petting her back as you fumble with the gauze, lightly encasing her wounded paw. "See? Almost done, already."

The cat relaxes in your gentle grasp, allowing you to seal the bandage around her paw. Ellie herself is nearly lulled to sleep by the pacification in your tone— the soft, honeyed melody of consolation rolling off your tongue.

"All done," you state quietly, pressing a forbearing kiss to her nicked ear, delicately peeling her out of your lap and placing her on the ground. "Be free, little one."

The cat lingers, staring at you nearly contemplatively. She blinks slowly, languidly, before swiveling away and skittering through the craning grass, disappearing through the trees.

You watch her go with a bleak, placid smile, the wind whipping your hair. Then you turn to Ellie. "You sleep, I'll keep watch."

She opens her mouth to refute, but you slice her a cutting, silencing look. "You're actively falling asleep as we speak. I'm good. You rest. I want to read some more, anyway," you insist blithely, dusting off your pants and walking back to your previous spot.

Ellie merely mumbles a response, her head already drooping. She falls into a brisk, fitful slumber, so tenuous that the snap of a twig could send her lurching. For once, she does not dream. Visions of terror did not cleave her conscious or beat her breathless. She saw only the flicker of light through her eyelids, and the quiet fragility of her own mind.

Until a faint meow has her bursting out of her slouch, eyes darting frantically around the clearing.

The black cat has her uninjured paw primly resting on Ellie's thigh, peering up at her expectantly with eery, incandescent eyes. Upon her attention, she nimbly removes her paw and demandingly rubs her head against her leg instead, another tinny meow ringing out of her.

"She's back. And I think she wants to lay with you," you explain humorously over the pages of your book— now nearly finished.

"Oh?" She replies in bewilderment, as the cat spins and pads her feet a couple of times before nestling into her side, resting her head on her dark paws.

"Can I come lay with you?" You murmur sleepily, casting fleeting, cautious looks at her as you stow your book away. As if already bracing for the sting of her rejection.

Ellie's heart throbs perniciously in her throat; she swallows in trepidation, sweat gathering on her palms. "Yeah. Yeah, of course," she forces out, wiping them on her jeans, straightening. Even after viewing your body after dark and eating your pussy, you make her nervous as fuck.

Even more so now that she knows how good you taste. And how perfect you are. Now she's burdened the knowledge that she cradles something precious in her hands, and she could unintentionally destroy it.

"I added some wood to the fire," you announce wearily, words punctuated by tiny, bursting yawns, as you adjust your oversized corduroy jacket around your shoulders and clamber over to her, a sheepish smile transforming your fatigue-dulled face.

"Come here," Ellie finds herself muttering, mimicking your exhaustion, spreading her legs and gesturing to the grass-cushioned ground beneath her. The cat still pressed into her, undeterred by her shifting.

You crawl delicately into the space between her legs, smiling through the yawn splitting your face, drawing a yawn out of Ellie, too. "Want me to keep watch again? You need to sleep some more," you say, reclining back against her chest and comfortably situating yourself, humming richly in unsuppressed delight.

Ellie wraps her arms around your shoulders, steering you back into her embrace, resting her chin on your mussed head. The affection should not come so naturally; she should not instinctively reach for you. It's not good.

Not fucking good at all.

"No," she whispers navally into your ear, eyeing the blazing fire through the tendrils of your unbound hair, that gleam with the dwindling light. "You sleep. You didn't sleep at all last night."

You tense fragmentarily in her grasp, muscles tightening under her arms. You hesitate, before craning your head back to face her, eyes searching. "You didn't either..." you whisper heedfully, lifting a hand and resting it on her forearm, stroking soothingly.

She had suspected you heard her cries last night. Instead of the confirmation making her feel ashamed, she felt... free. You saw the depths of her despair turn inside out and you did not cower at the hideous, wretched pain she unleashed.

"I never do," she replies baldly, swaying you gently, mouth hovering near the crest of your ear. Your thumbs tenderly caress the scars garnishing her arm, your eyes fluttering blissfully, your body sinking into her warmth. "Just sleep."

The lack of resistance proves just how desperately you needed it. You are whisked into a precipitated, fragile sleep, your breathing light and measured, your frame tucked up and slumped into her chest.

Her mind wanders only briefly to the violence lurking in its dark crevices, as she watches dense tendrils of smoke arise from the tamed fire, whirling and cascading toward the abrasive, glistening night sky, polluting her view of the stars.

She fantasizes of a smoldering house; a massive fire roaring from its pits, erupting in rippling flames that smolder the caving ceiling and dissolve the weak floorboards. She imagines the sear of blistering skin and the melting screams of anguish, of those who had incinerated her heart. She envisions all the relics and archives of her past being licked up by the fire and consumed by the glaring, ravenous heat.

Then she glances down at you, your blank, unconscious face illuminated by the flickering, dim orange glow. Something inside her softens, and she knows, grievously, that she has become malleable and pliant under your molding hands.

She stares at the slumbering, unbothered cat before returning her gaze back to you.

All of her hatred seems an afterthought to what she had right in front of her.

• • •

YOU

Blood pools on the fractured pavement. Firefly laps at it ravenously, her whiskers tinged crimson. "That's disgusting," you scowl disapprovingly, snatching her off the ground. She hisses in protest, clawing aimlessly at your sleeve, eyes crazed with hunger. You tap her bloodied nose reproachfully. "Bad."

She nips at your finger and you relent with a hearty sigh, placing her back on the ground. She skitters behind the rotting carcass of a clicker, it's head blown off in odious, blossoming cordyceps, pulsating dimly in a puddle of venomous blood. It's the first of hundreds.

You lift your head and examine the carnage that laid, revoltingly and obscenely, before your squinting eyes. Dozens upon dozens of butchered infected— cleaved into indistinguishable bits, sputtering blood, gushing decayed organs and crumpled flesh— piled in the lush street.

"What the fuck happened here?" Ellie drawls with a surprising amount of disgust, eyebrows furrowed as she ascended from her crouch, kneading a clump of clotted blood between her fingers.

You gulp down the thick lump of trepidation bulging in your throat, fretfully shaking the tremor out of your hands. "Don't know. It's gnarly, though," you respond, fighting the wobble out of your tone.

Truthfully, you recognize this distinctive gore.

After your parents tore each other to bits, Zander adopted a newfound disdain for infected. Before, he humanized the restless, ungovernable creatures— sympathized with their fucked up fate, to be killed and morphed into a monster.

But after the accident, he hated them. He found impressively disturbing ways to terminate them. Eventually he founded a signature method; to slice them into pieces as your parents had done, unbidden and under the influence of the infections debilitating madness.

This was him. You know, in the deepest caverns of your soul where your joint grief was stored, that this was his doing.

Not to mention the ragged Z carved into the blistered, yellowing flesh of one of the dead runners. You kick it's gnarled, unseemly body over to hide the exhibiting brand from Ellie, curling your lip with rehearsed repulsion. "Gross," you whisper, though internally, relief swarms your nerves, cacooning your apprehension in a warm blanket.

He is alive.

And the mark signifies that he is leaving signs for you to find.

"I'm just mad they beat me to it," Ellie complains under her breath, glowering at the expanse of cadavers cloaking the broken road. She tips your chin up, extracting your lingering gaze from the reeking bodies. "You good?"

You brush her off with a forced, invigorated smile. "Yep!" you chirp, nodding robustly, side-stepping a clicker. "At least we don't have to deal with all of them. Whoever did it, we should thank. Saved us some ammo," you craft your words meticulously as not to unearth your burrowed truth.

Ellie studies you a moment before dropping her hand. "True," she eventually yields, eyes wandering to Firefly, who was attacking a cord of muscle that protruded from the gaping stomach of a dead clicker, gnawing at the tough tissue. "Get your batshit cat. We're losing daylight."

"She's a perfectly normal cat," you retort, though your rebuttal is contradicted by the face you make. You grimace as she swats at a springing cordycep, growling ferociously. "Firefly! Stop that!" You shout, snapping your fingers.

Her ears twitch, head lurching up, green eyes wide. She is deathly still. You snap again, and she darts after Ellie skittishly, following her lead.

You chance another look at the wreckage, toying with the gold wedding band dangling from your throat. It was your mother's. Zander wore your fathers matching one around his neck. You usually kept yours stowed in the pits of your backpack, but you needed that touch of home.

Ellie had lifted your hair and gently latched it around you without questions asked, a hint of understanding in her eyes. You were grateful for her silence in that moment. Usually it unnerved you when she didn't speak. But in that moment it felt like a gift as opposed to a punishment.

"Where are we heading?" You question plainly, tucking the wedding band under your shirt, the memories a wild, unleashed zoo animal, tranquilized and thrown back into its enclosure. The ring is damp with your incessant, sweaty fidgeting.

"There's a place up ahead I like to go. Thought we could rest there for the night," she replies vaguely, glancing furtively at you, then the cat, her lip curling. "I still can't believe you named that thing Firefly."

"It's a cute name," you grumble back, sweeping your sweat-glistening hair off your neck and fanning the hot skin. "You could've come up with something too, you know."

This morning, you had awoken in Ellie's arms, jovial and recharged. For the first time in months, you had an uninterrupted, rejuvenating sleep, one that added a spring to your step and an effortlessness to your trekking. The cat was curled snugly in your lap, her affectionate purrs vibrating against your legs.

Ellie was stiff-necked and ill-tempered for the better half of the day, massaging the tension out of her shoulders and grumbling her responses.

"What should we name her?" You had asked, sprawled on your back, hefting the cat into the air as if she were a wailing baby in desperate need of motion and entertainment.

"Dramatic?" Ellie had quipped dully, and you rolled your eyes skyward.

"What about... oh!" You jerked upright in excitement, still cradling the cat in your arms. "Firefly."

An indecipherable emotion passed over her, tension lining the contours of her face. A hint of contempt glimmered in her eyes, and it felt like she was glaring down her nose at you, judging you like God weigh's pupils of sin, even as she sat at your eye-level. "Don't tell me you believe in that Firefly bullshit, too?"

Her reaction both intrigued and befuddled you. You possessed minimal knowledge on the Fireflies beyond the basics— that they were a reformed militia group that was majorly massacred by a man, who resulted in the death of Abby's father— and that she recruited a few friends to go after said man.

And someone was hunting them down for his murder. You had lost Nora and Jordan to the spiteful hands of his avenger; which is the only bright side to being excluded and shunned from Abby's circle— you were not involved in the man's murder, meaning you will not be involved in whatever vengeance they earned themselves.

Every now and then, back at the base, they get a few former Fireflie's filing in to join the Wolve's. Isaac— the focal overseer and governor of the WLF— was wary of stragglers that claimed past allegiances to the Fireflies, but welcomed them anyway, if they guaranteed to defend the base and protect his established citizens, as you and Zander pledged to do.

"No. Not at all. All of those stupid groups are bullshit," you agreed ardently, shaking your head in aversion, stroking Firefly's tummy. "I meant the actual insect, fireflie's. I just think they are so pretty at night. And I swear I could see the moon reflecting off her. Just seemed fitting."

Ellie had paused the sharpening of her blade. She analyzed you in the dewy, clouded sunlight, combating the interest off her face. But it flashed too late for her to conceal; her eyes lit up. "What other groups do you know about?" She asked carefully.

You shrugged, feigning indifference. "Like the Seraphites," you hummed, finger-combing Firefly's shiny black coat. "And I've seen another group around here. But I think they were just travelers."

Ellie said nothing, resuming her survey of her switchblade. She polished it with a tattered cloth and studied it, and that was that, the subject abandoned.

Now, Ellie snorts, peeling back a looming, overgrown branch to allow you passage. "Nah. That's your cat." She says as you saunter by, even as the cat pads after her, nose tipped to the air, breathing in the sent of damp soil, heady rot and the faint, sweet traces of a budding spring.

You trudge along the rocky, uneven path, bricks and shattered molasses-brown beer bottles specking the dirt, holding hope tight to your chest.

After stumbling upon Zander's mess, all the worry you harbored for your brother had ebbed away. He's alive. You hope the others are, too.

Even if you are not amicable with a large number of his group, a couple of them treated you fairly. Whitney was the closest thing to a friend you had there; she always tracked you down in the mess hall and shared her lunch. She even alternated her watch-shifts with Manny to join you on yours when she could, and shared her access card to the armory to practice shooting with you.

When you had first arrived, you scarcely knew how to use anything beyond a hand-gun. She trained you on a variety of firearms when your free time corresponded; you owe the new capabilities that kept you alive on this expedition to Whitney. She was the only one who never made you feel bad about it. She simply demonstrated for you without comment or judgement.

You hope whoever was sent to retrieve you— if anyone at all— was safe. Though, considering that Isaac didn't even send out a search party for Owen when he went missing, you doubt that he would gamble the life of his prized soldiers just to find a meaningless girl who was bullied and deluded out of his faction.

Clearly it did not stop Zander from looking for you, if the mutilated bodies of those infected were any indication. It could not be a coincidence. You know it was him. You just know it.

A strange part of you just hopes he doesn't find you yet. You have an intuitive, twisting suspicion churning in your gut, that this tenuous thing between you and Ellie will snap if anyone, or anything disrupts it.

You have a feeling that in finding him, you'll lose her. And you don't know what that means. You don't know where you're supposed to go from here; but you know that you can't just let her go.

With that, you saunter up to Ellie and flash her a winning, mindless smile, slithering your hand snugly into her back pocket. She tugs you flush into her side with a finger curled in your belt loop, and you stumble into her with a stunned laugh, Firelfy at your heels. You wish things could stay this easy.

You look at her and find strength beyond what had been forced upon you— a strength to fight for a better future.

• • •

Tangled, warm white Christmas lights dimly illuminate the abandoned teen-girls bedroom. Peeling posters are plastered to the walls, fraying with age and weathered by earth's course battering. A threadbare beanbag chair collected dust in the corner, the once vibrant purple now grimy and muted with time. Cobwebs edge the corners of the room in a luminous sprawl, their thick tendrils sparkling under the light.

You could see why Ellie found comfort in this place.

A black rack of CD's lined the desk, where the residue of ripped and prodded band stickers marred the refined oak. A thick coating of dust blanketed the surface. Your eyes flicker from the impressive album collection to the hot-pink poster board taped haphazardly to the closet with leopard print duct tape. Emboldened words scrawled in bright marker and glitter gel pens jut out in bubbled letters— MAISIE'S SUMMER BUCKET LIST 2003!

You avert your attention back to the desk, and the stack of mussed, tattered sketchbooks. The black covers are stained with charcoal and splotches of solidified paint, pages scattered. You rummage through one idly, thumbing through the doodles that range from gleaming sunrises to descriptive depictions of infected in a variety of stages, flowers blooming from their skulls instead of cordyceps.

You hum, grazing your pinkie over the elaborate drawings. "Have you seen these? They're..." you trail off in bewilderment when you glance up at what had captured Ellie's attention.

The dead body of a fallen solider.

Ripped camo dangled in tattered strips from the skeletal frame slumped against the unhinged door. It's jaw was missing, baring decaying teeth. Flies rattled in its hollow skull and buzzed busily about its frame. Ellie crouches and examines the chain enveloping it's neck. "They were a firefly," she informs you bleakly from over her shoulder, smoothing a thumb over the raised design etched into the pendant.

She rips it off it's neck sharply, and an involuntary screech bursts out of you when the head rolls off the body with a sickening crunch, thudding to the floor, sending up a cloud of dust. Ellie watched it fall with disinterest, holding the necklace up to you. "We should put it on your cat," she says, glaring pointedly at Firefly, who nestled herself into the bean bag and chewed on something dead she scoured, tail waving lethargically.

"Go ahead. I'd wait until she's done eating, though, or else she might maul you."

She releases a long-suffering sigh but ascends from her crouch, jingling the pendant tauntingly in your face, eyebrows raised. You laugh as she pursues Firefly with rightful caution. Her deliberate movements do not stop the cat from freezing and glowering at her, dark fur elevating.

"It's okay," Ellie drawls with no conviction. "Relax, dude."

Firefly makes to dart away, but Ellie swiftly wrestles her into her arms, holding her firm, as she hisses and screams in protest, squirming. "Come here, little devil," she grunts out harshly, sloppily clipping the pendant around her neck. Firefly swats violently, nicking her with a razor-sharp claw.

Ellie relinquishes her grip and Firefly wastes no time scrambling away, scurrying under the half-dilapidated bed. Her brilliant green eyes flare with menace from the shadows, narrowed at her.

"The shit I do for you," Ellie clicks her tongue and brandishes the furious scratch that superficially sliced her arm.

You ignore the jest. "Should we get rid of... of..." you stutter, gesturing at the body apprehensively, shifting from foot to foot. "That?"

Ellie nods, and you follow her to where it's rotting. She carelessly scoops up the skull and chucks it out of the gaping hole in the wall, before bracing her hands on the remnants of its body, leveling you with a look. You scramble to aid her, mustering a confirming nod back.

With joint effort, you shove it over the edge of the building. You peer over the jutted lip of the bedroom; numerous stories stretched between you and the pavement. Mist gathers in a dense, ominous cloud, shielding your view of the ground below. The bones clatter and deconstruct until they're engulfed by the haze. You were so far up, you couldn't hear them break against the earth.

You glance at Ellie to find her already observing you.

"What?"

She simply shrugs and rises, dusting the loitering essence of death off her hands, changing the topic with a fluidity that came with her consistent avoidance. "We can either try to fix that bed or sleep on the floor. Take your pick."

"I don't think Firefly would appreciate it if we took away her hiding spot," you quip, and it was settled.

The day was not yet done, but you set up camp regardless. Both of you maneuver in a pleasant silence as you unbundle your sleeping bags and roll them over the stained, carpeted floor. Ellie positions hers a whopping ten feet away from yours, the distance nearly offensive. "What are you doing?" You ask in disbelief, pausing your bed-making to gawk at her, open-mouthed.

"What?" She snaps in alarm, glancing around, looking for tangible evidence of her misdeed.

You point at her bed roll incredulously. "Why are you so far from me?"

She tenses and flicks her gaze away, her bag sliding off her shoulder and to the floor with a hefty thud. "I didn't want to assume you'd want to sleep by me."

You blink fervently. "Ellie."

She watches uncertainly as you punctuate her name and drag her sleeping bag next to yours, until they're close to overlapping. "You literally had your tongue inside of me. Stop being weird all of a sudden."

She visibly reddens, a vicious blush blotching her cheeks. You open your mouth to continue, adrenaline coursing through your veins, when she charges at you and cups a silencing hand over your mouth, a pained smirk tugging at her lips. "Just stop!" She hisses, her lips a wobbling line as she resists a grin of her own.

You chuckle and stumble back, licking her palm. She blanches and releases you, wiping her spit-damp hand on her jeans, her sudden movement sending you plummeting to the floor. You drag her down with you, your breathy laughs mingling as you collapse in a tangle of limbs onto the sea of slippery blankets.

You both burst into another fit of laughter when Firefly growls at all the commotion. She pads out into the foyer, swaying her tail with sass.

"Do you ever shut up?" Ellie mutters lowly, laughter clinging onto every lulled syllable, as she props herself on an elbow and gazes down at you, running a finger over your bottom lip.

You smile, and she traces the shape of it.

"Do you want me to?" You whisper humorously, and her thumb joins her finger in its exploration of the curves of your face, stroking your cheek with an unlikely tenderness that had the power to undo you.

"Never," she mumbles back, applying a chaste, shapeless kiss to the corner of your mouth. It's not enough. She deigns to pull away but you sling an arm over the back of her neck and hold her in place, lips seeking hers with repressed fervor.

She groans into your mouth, the decadent sound rumbling through you, alighting a glimmering need within. You increase the speed and intensity of the kiss— her noises an invitation for more— and propel yourself up with a hand plastered unsteadily to the floor, combing your fingers through her hair with the other.

Her hand rests on your throat, the pressure existent but not imposing, as she guides you into a languorous dance with your tongues. You buck your hips up to sate the craving for pressure and she slips a hand down to your waist, guiding you up and into her.

"I want you for real this time," she blurts breathlessly, words blasting into your tingling, swollen lips. Her eyes are teeming with earnest, pupils so dilated with lechery, they reflect you, doe-eyed and wanting. "No interruptions. I don't fucking care what it is... I'm not going to stop." She utters the words with quivering determination, fumbling with the button of your jeans.

You desperately nod your assent, arching up to assist her in removing your jeans. She brushes fluttery kisses to your exposed midriff where your tank top had ridden up, hurriedly tugging your jeans down, until they pooled at your ankles. She shucks them over your cowboy boots and hurls them to the side.

Your heart hammers with anticipation, core throbbing at the sight of her absolutely unraveled with yearning. Ever since that night in the hospital, you've wanted more. Needed more. You were just as fucked up by your need for her. It consumed you, ate you from the inside out, until all that was left was a thirst that could not be quenched without her hands on you.

"Fuck me, Ellie," you demand hoarsely, winding your hands up her thighs and shakily unbuttoning her jeans as she looms over you. She arches back and unabashedly shreds off her shirt as you hike down her jeans, unveiling small, supple breasts and hard, tantalizing nipples.

You kiss up her pelvis, across her toned, bruised abdomen and to her sternum, licking a slow stripe over one of her nipples and swirling it on your way up, eyes trained on hers lasciviously. You nip and suckle at a spot on her neck and she cranes her head back, hiccuping a sharp cry. She pants and lulls her head as you kiss and nibble the bared column of her throat, her hands roaming up the front of your body, palming your tits through your shirt.

She lifts herself off of you momentarily to kick off her jeans over her Converse, discarding them quickly, before she's back on top of you.

She's framed by the dying daylight penetrating the gaping hole behind her, her eyes flickering over you hungrily. She glides her hands under the hem of your tank top and yanks it over your head, tousling your hair, rejected with all the other articles of scattered clothing.

She pries your legs apart forcefully, and you squeak, as she pulls you closer to her. "How do you want it?" She croons gravelly, voice rich with heady desire, eyes honed in on your face with predatory focus. As if she could take every hint of pleasure you show and have it for herself. She straddles your pelvis and slowly, faintly swipes her pussy over yours, your clit throbbing at the contact. "Like this?"

She cradles your leg in her arm and drags her pussy across yours again, this time with more force. You bite your lip to suppress a whimper at the delicious sensation. "Or do you want me to really fuck you?" She thrusts against you hard for emphasis and you choke back a stunned moan, jerking.

"Yes," you breathe carnally, hair fanning around your head, mouth agape— all subtly gone with the wind that billowed through the room and cooled your slick skin.

"Yes, what? Use your words," she demands, hand encasing your throat, rocking into you with that same jarring force, another moan escaping you.

"Fuck me," you pant, nearly drooling, the husk of her words a fuel to the kindling that was her pussy moving against yours, "Please just fuck me. I need you, Ellie."

She smirks haughtily, wicked satisfaction gleaming in her blue eyes. "That's my girl," she praises knowingly, leaning down until her mouth brushes your panties. She sinks her teeth into them and tears them straight off your body, her hand never abandoning its anchoring hold on your throat. The movement was so effortless you could feel yourself dripping, the duality of this woman stupefying you.

How she could go from awkward at your flirting, to claiming your body as if it were a land she possessed and ruled in the matter of minutes.

You whimper unintelligible nonsense, unable to form coherent words to convey your debilitating need. Wanting her feels as natural and essential as breathing. Explaining it is nowhere near as simple.

She removes herself from you just to slide her own panties off, repositioning herself between your legs, holding your leg to her chest. She offers no warning before she grinds her bare, wet pussy into yours, the skin on skin making tingles of pleasure erupt through your core.

It was nearly too much.

You emit a shuddering moan and arch your back as she returns her calloused hand to your throat and slams into you, rolling her hips, your clits rubbing and chafing. "That's it. Fuck," she hisses out, her tattooed arm stark against your thigh as she hoists it to her, using it to drive into you with fierce precision, your pussy's slapping together stickily.

"Oh my fucking god," you mewl dumbly, tits bouncing, as she angles her hips and relentlessly drives her pelvis into yours, her breaths clipped and high-pitched. You undulate your hips and grind up into her, meeting the ferocity of her thrusts, your juices coinciding and glistening on your thighs. "Ellie."

"Fuck, yeah," she pants blissfully, peering down at you. "You feel so good."

She leans over you, slapping a hand next to your head, folding your leg up to your chest, the position allowing for better movement. She grinds into you from the new angle, your clits gliding and throbbing, and you feel yourself ascending higher and higher, toward that peak you nearly met the other night, at the hospital.

She fucks you nearly senseless, your frame wracking with her thrusts. She burrows her face into the crook of your neck, hot breath ghosting your skin, tiny grunts departing her lips. She grazes her teeth over the flesh and you shudder, her hand that was planted to the floor snaking up and finding yours, interlocking your fingers.

"I'm gonna cum," you whimper into her mussed hair, writhing beneath her, choppily grinding up, your muscles tight. You use the hand that's not intertwined with hers to fist her hair and reer her head back, until your faces are level, gazes locked. Both of you are heavy-lidded and pupil-blown, her eyes brimming with that same pleasure that was mounting in you.

"Cum with me," she orders breathily, your noses compressing, and on demand your body convulses and a blinding white light shreds through your vision, an uncontrolled moan belting out of you as she continues to fuck you through your orgasm.

"Fuck," she groans without restraint as your pussy's squelch, a cry leaving her as she reaches her own peak, her eyebrows furrowed, a dimple surfacing between her brow. She breathes into your open mouth, and you claim it as your own, granting her fleeting kisses through the aftermath.

Not a single thought filters through your head. Nothing beyond her drenched pussy, resting dormant upon your slick thigh, and her lips eloping with yours. You don't even know where to begin when it comes to processing the unprecedented feeling that roared throughout your body, or the swelling off your heart.

Neither of you say a word, your harsh, heavy breathing mingled and protruding the silence. Ellie peels herself off of you, her legs shaking as she thuds to the sleeping bag adjacent to you, her damp forehead pressed into your bare shoulder. She peppers a few kisses over it before falling back, expelling a deep, contented sigh.

You angle your head to face her, a dazed grin splitting your face. "What. The. Fuck. You've been holding out on me," you muse dreamily, playfully swatting at her.

She snickers huskily, scratching her head, propping it on an elbow. Her bare chest glistens and heaves with her labored breaths, as she reaches under the broken bed and slips out a shoebox. She dumps the contents out on her abdomen— a packet of finely minced weed, rolling sheets, a mini box of matches and one pre-rolled joint. "You smoke?"

"I have. Don't do it much though," you admit with a sheepish chuckle, watching her. She licks the length of the joint to insure its sealed before slipping it between her lips and lighting a match, bringing it to the tip. She waves out the tiny flame once smoke billows from the end, taking a measured, steady drawl.

She closes her eyes briefly at the sensation before passing it to you. Her lips quirk as you survey it dubiously before holding it hesitantly to your mouth, sucking in. Her smirk morphs into a resounding laugh when you sputter out a choppy haze of smoke, a profound burn blistering your lungs.

"That shits gross," you cough gutturally, passing it back, batting the swirling smoke out of the air. "You keep that stuff here?"

"No," she responds, smirking, inhaling another graceful heap of smoke. Exhaling slowly. You watch her watch the tendrils churn through the otherwise still air. "It was here when I found this place. Whoever lived here before was stashing it," she glances to the summer bucket list, "Maisie was a stone-er." She chides, flicking the ashes off and taking another hit.

She is noticeably put at ease. Her muscles are relaxed, and her smiles form innately and without dictation. As if all her worries have been laid to rest, now that she got to feel you.

It had the opposite affect on you.

The dark, possessive thoughts that have been circulating your mind like vultures preying on rotting roadkill did not flea at the taste of her.

All it did was amplify your morbid longing.

You snuggle into her embrace and rest your head against her drumming sternum, entangling your sweat-glowing legs together, fusing your bodies. She holds the joint to your lips and you take a drag, careful not to invoke another coughing fit, and she takes one after you, blowing precise, opaque O's with the smoke. She gently runs her fingertips up and down the length of your arm, clutching you to her.

"Can we do it again?" You blurt, angling your head up to face her, and she pauses her stroking. She says nothing as her hand winds down your arm, coasts over your hip, and creeps between your legs.

You suck in a breath when two fingers collect the wetness pooling at your entrance and drag your slick to your clit, rubbing delicately, the feather-light application of pressure evoking a whimper out of you. You squirm and rock into her hand, and she chuckles on a weed-laced breath, "Mm. You want me to fuck you again?"

You nod frantically as she works your pussy with her fingers. She sits up suddenly, taking you with her, until your spread in her lap. She holds the joint between her lips as she uses one hand to palm your breast and the other to expertly thumb your clit, smoke coiling from her nostrils. "Needy fucking girl," her approving groan is muffled by the joint, as she inches her fingers down your wet folds, teasing your entrance. "You want my fingers again?"

"Please," you whine, as reeking smoke tickles your earlobe and wafts into your face, the hand that wasn't easing fingers into your cunt slithering down to keep one of your legs spread, curling around your thigh, kneading and caressing, the joint between her massaging fingers.

You reach back to feather your fingers through her hair, riding her hand, breathy gasps escaping your lips. "Mhm. Good girl," she praises gravelly into your ear, curling her digits inside of you, stroking that sweet spot.

You tug helplessly on her hair and crash your head back onto her shoulder, arching desperately as she makes you cum for the second time, this time drenching her rough fingers.

She doesn't stop there. She maneuvers you out of her lap and sprawls you onto the bed roll, your legs spread, pussy gleaming and sated before her devouring eyes. She braces your thighs in her arms, takes a hit, and exhales onto your clenching pussy, the faint gust stimulating your throbbing clit. You moan and attempt to inch away, but she pins you down and eats you stupid, until her chin is dribbling with your juices, her sardonic smile highlighted by the cum glistening on her lips.

After she was done, she unburried herself from your legs and licked the juices off her lips, eyeing you sensually. She acted as if she were about to go right back down, when Firefly began scratching at the door insistently, meowing manically. Both of you redressed, hefting your tops and underwear back on.

You let the cat in and enveloped yourself in the near-translucent, cotton sheets, observing her as she tiptoes in, sniffing the air. She follows the scent to the crumpled joint on the floor, nosing it curiously. Ellie clicks her tongue in reprimand and tosses it over the side of the building before she tries to eat it. The last thing you needed was a high cat.

After discarding the joint, Ellie plops down on the hazardous edge, swinging her legs. She looks at you from over her bruised shoulder. "Come on," she urges, patting the space next to her.

You oblige, the sheet trailing you as you wander over to her. She takes your hand as you gingerly lower yourself beside her, effortfully prying your gaze from the dizzying height.

The mist had cleared with the days dissipating humidity, revealing the enchanting sweep of ocean that spread before you, dark waves emphasizing the curve of the earth. The sun gleams amber like a glass of whiskey caught in the light, painting the clouds a mass of colors, descending toward the seam of sky and sea.

You avert your attention back to Ellie. Her eyes are sealed, brown lashes fluttering with the breeze, tawny hair cascading with the salt-tinged wind. Her freckles are emphasized by the golden, showering glow, gilding her features. You sit on your hands to keep yourself from tracing them.

Firefly inches over, perching next to you, her green eyes mirroring the setting sun. You close your eyes and drop your head onto Ellie's shoulder, wrapping the sheet around her.

There's a prolonged beat.

And then she tilts her head and rests it on yours, hand gripping your thigh proprietarily. You don't even hesitate. You slide your hand over hers and stroke the bruises blossoming on her knuckles, smiling to yourself.

taglist: @elliesexual @jottedinklings @a-little-bit-of-everybody … let me know if you want to be tagged for updates

[weirdkpopgirl]

Love Heals | Jaemin Imagine #18

Title: love heals

Genre: college au, hurt/comfort

Warnings: mentions and graphic descriptions of self-harm, depression, blood, breakdowns. please do not read if any of these topics make you uncomfortable.

Word Count: ~1.4k

Author's Note: I guess I went from writing some sweet fluffy stories to sad and dark stuff again. I apologize, I know my lighter stuff might be what you guys like more. But whenever I write about this sensitive topic in particular, it means that my mind is spiraling again and I'm stuck in the dark place I've tried so hard to escape. And in this dark place, I write what I feel in hopes that I can comfort others who might be experiencing something similar. Please know that you are not alone, and there are so people that want to help and support you. If you feel like there isn't anyone in your life who can do that right now, know that God loves you and wants to help you get through this. Thank you for reading and I'm sorry ^ ^

𓆩♡𓆪༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚𓆩♡𓆪༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚𓆩♡𓆪༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚𓆩♡𓆪༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚𓆩♡𓆪༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚𓆩♡𓆪༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚𓆩♡𓆪

The heavy silence falls on your dorm room again, as you relive every dark thought that has ever entered your head. Once again, your mind attacked and you lost the battle. All the progress you’ve made to fight the negative self-talk is meaningless. Positivity, optimism, hope— are all strangers, fleeting and unreachable. Depression is the friend that you’ve become too attached to.

Sitting in your bed, you glance down at your arm, now littered with straight lines of red— the faint sting of them just starting to settle. They vary in length, most of them small but numerous. The cuts started just below your elbow, and stopped at your wrist. Somehow it has become your goal to ensure that no space of skin goes untouched by the razor blade that’s resting proudly on your desk. Each line seems like a scarlet promise— a release, a brief surge of something other than emptiness. And your mind echoes with the familiar justification: I’ll stop eventually…just not now.

The quiet creak of the door, left unlocked by your roommate, pulls you from your thoughts, and you know without looking who’s coming in. Jaemin. He’s always had a way of moving softly, almost as if he didn’t want to disturb the air. You’re grateful for it, but you wish he hadn’t come tonight. You just wish he’d go home and not see you like this. Yet, your boyfriend must have a sixth sense of something. Despite all the effort you put into hiding it, he seems to sense your sadness from even miles away.

“(Y/n)?” His voice is tender, but you hear the worry beneath it. 

Jaemin’s eyes sweep over you as he crosses the room, his gaze landing on your arm. Out of instinct, you pull down your sweater sleeve out of instinct. But you both know it’s too late— the damage is done and he’s seen it. Although you want to appear unbothered about it to him, your heart still clenches as his shoes come off and he approaches you cautiously.

He exhales as he reaches for your hand gently. “Princess…”

You want to pull away, to avoid his touch— another instinct. But his hands are so warm, so careful. You feel like you don’t deserve it, yet it keeps you from pushing him away. Jaemin turns your arm over, exposing the fresh wounds. His expression softens even more, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he crouches down under your bed, to open the bottom drawer where you kept the first-aid kit he bought for you after the first time this happened.

Silence lingers as he moves to sit beside you on the bed, the dark blue comforter from your childhood beneath you both. Without a word, he takes gauze from the kit, pressing it softly against the cuts to stop any bleeding before reaching for the antiseptic wipes. Jaemin cleans your cuts with the same care he always does— gentle, tender, yet heartbreakingly serious.

Although his focus shifts to bandaging your wounds, you still can’t bring yourself to look at him. You never can, knowing this has happened too many times by now. Shame bubbles in your chest and you bite down on your lower lip, trying to think of what to say. You search your mind for an excuse you didn’t use the last time. Coping with stress? Releasing anger? Punishing yourself? Wanting to feel something instead of nothing? Maybe all of the above, you suppose.

When the last area of marked skin is covered with an “extra large” Band-Aid, you finally dare to glance up at him. By now, you’ve learned that Jaemin doesn’t react with anger in general. Especially in these moments, he never raises his voice or uses words to make you feel worse. Instead, he simply lets you know that he’s here when you’re ready to talk, before asking if you’ve eaten yet. These incidents always end with a shared meal and cuddles in your bed or his.

But the way he looks at you now, with such concern and despair, chips at the wall you try so hard to keep up. Once the first-aid kit is closed, he holds your hand and brushes his thumb lightly over your knuckles. That’s when you notice his fingers are trembling.

“Jaem... are you okay?” you ask, though your throat was dry from staying quiet for so long.

Then you see water gloss over his eyes and this hits you. Jaemin never cries. 

His head drops and his hand tightens around yours, almost like he’s afraid to let go. “(Y/n)... I... I don’t know what to do.”

The quiet confession makes you hold your breath. You watch as his shoulders begin to shake, and he uses his free hand to cover his face. The first tear slips down his cheek, and then another, until he’s full-on crying, letting soft, choked sobs escape him. This is all the heartbreak you needed to witness for you to lean forward to wrap your arms around his broad frame. 

It hurts more to see his usual steady composure shattered. “I-I’m so scared, Princess,” he blubbers.

“Every time I see this—” Voice breaking as his fingers ghost over your arm. “Every time I find you like this... I can’t help but fear that I’ll get here too late. That... that one day you’ll just be gone.”

You haven’t been able to cry since you first picked up the razor blade today. But seeing your boyfriend break in front of you is enough to make tears well up in your eyes as well. You have never seen Jaemin like this before— so raw, so completely undone. 

All you can do is hold him a little closer as if that could somehow mend the pain you’re causing. He sinks further into your embrace, his body trembling against yours. You try to soothe him by stroking his hair, as you often did as a gesture of affection. But the brokenness in his sobs only grew louder.

His forehead presses against your shoulder as he clings to you. “I just... I want to see you graduate. I want to marry you, and buy a house. Have kids with you just like we’ve always wanted. I want to come home to you and the family we’ve made together.”

Your heart feels like it’s splintering. The dreams you both share weigh down on you, each one sharper than the last. Tears fall freely for you now as his own ones slow. He pulls back slightly to look at you with his red-rimmed eyes, vulnerability etched across his face.

“(Y/n), please,” he pleads desperately, “I can’t lose you. I love you so much... Please don’t leave me.”

Jaemin consistently shows his love in every possible way, whether it be through words, hugs and kisses, gifts, all of it. However, this is the first time you truly understand the depth of his love— the way he wants you here, not just in fragments, but whole, alive. A surge of resolve fills within you. 

As your fingers reach up to brush away his tears, you whisper, “I’m so sorry, Jaemin. I didn’t realize how much this was hurting you too.”

His leans into your touch, compelling you to cup his face in your hands. You feel the warmth of his skin beneath your touch.

“I’ll... I’ll get better. I promise, I’ll try for you. Because...,” you swallow, struggling to find the right words. “Because I love you too.”

Of course, you have returned those three words to him. But these ones in particular carry so much more to them. Although you may feel deeply trapped in Hell, your love for Jaemin is stronger than this punishment you’ve given yourself. He deserves to have someone he can give his love to and have every ounce of it reciprocated. And you want to be that person for him, you can be that person for him.

The calmness in him seems to appear, as his tears finally subside. He moves closer to let all of his emotions pour into the soft kiss he presses against your lips. “You’re not alone, Princess. I’ll be here with you, every step of the way,” he murmurs in assurance. 

A strange, fragile hope blossoms inside you as the two of you kiss again. For the first time, you want to believe there is something more than your own pain. If your love with Jaemin prevails, you have the will to heal. For him now, and for yourself eventually.

𓆩♡𓆪༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚𓆩♡𓆪༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚𓆩♡𓆪༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚𓆩♡𓆪༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚𓆩♡𓆪༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚𓆩♡𓆪༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚༝༚𓆩♡𓆪

previous masterlist -> current masterlist

[xoxo-suki]

my perfect noona. (jjk)

Pairing: Jungkook x female!reader

Rating: 21+

Genre: Smut.

Word-Count: 2.7k

Warnings: sadness, hurt/comfort, shame, crying, kissing, cuddling, breast play, missionary sex.

Disclaimer: Please note that the following story is entirely fictional. While some of the characters may have physical traits or names similar to those of celebrities, the connection ends there. I do not have any personal connection to these celebrities, and I do not claim to know their personalities, sexual orientations, or beliefs.

Copyright: I do not allow my work to be used or adapted in any way without my permission.

Shoutout to @saradika-graphics for the pretty divider.

She couldn't bear to see Jungkook like that. The impending bankruptcy was putting immense pressure on everyone, especially him. She could see bruises on him, old and new, from countless stunt rehearsals gone wrong. The punches were landing incorrectly, the stunt choreography was off, and the high tension had everyone on edge.

Jungkook sat in the kitchen, propped on a barstool, hunched over his sandwich. His eyes were unfocused and distant, lost in a world of worry and fatigue. She tried to give him space, hoping he could find a way to heal on his own. But as the minutes dragged on, his struggle became too hard to ignore.

She walked up to him and extended her hand. He looked puzzled but placed his palm in hers without hesitation. He followed closely behind her, as if her presence was a soothing balm to his bruises.

Did those bruises hurt? She wondered as he sat on the edge of his bed. Would he get new ones tomorrow? Her mind raced, each worry taking root one by one.

He pulled her closer as she stood in front of him and hugged her tightly, his head pressing into her ribs. When was the last time he had hugged anybody? She pressed his face deeper into her chest, feeling the warmth of his skin against hers as her fingers gently combed through his soft, dark hair. A shiver ran through him, a silent plea for more comfort.

He looked up at her with desperation, his eyes pleading for her to take care of him, to make his pain go away. Slowly, she undid his heavy silver chain, feeling the cool metal slip through her fingers, hoping that some of his burdens would come off with it. He pulled his tee over his head, revealing the contours of his chest, and tugged her closer.

Her legs buckled from the awkward position, the soft carpet slipping beneath her feet. He seized the moment, guiding her onto his lap with a gentle, determined motion. A small smile escaped her lips; despite his sadness, a glimmer of his mischievous spirit shone through. 

He buried his head in the crook of her neck, his breath warm against her skin as he clung to her. Her palms pressed firmly against his bare back, feeling the tension and knots in his muscles as she held him close. Slowly, he guided them onto the bed, their bodies tangling together like intertwined vines, seeking solace in each other’s embrace.

The fatigue returned to him, and his eyes lost their light once more. Who had taken his spark away? She wanted to find that person and make them pay. She placed a soft kiss on his temple. One on his nose. One on his cheek. And one on the mole right under his lips.

She placed a tender kiss on his lower lip and gazed into his eyes. They seemed to soften with a mix of relief and excitement. She sucked on his lower lip yet again, lingering, savoring, before releasing it ever so slowly with a soft pop. Her teeth grazed his upper lip as she kissed his cupid’s bow.

She had seen Jungkook work harder than anyone else, pouring his blood, sweat, and tears into his craft. He was too harsh on himself, always pushing himself beyond his limits. Tonight, it was her turn to be there for him, to offer him comfort he so desperately needed but never asked for.

He returned her kiss with tenfold intensity. One hand cradled her face while the other sneaked its way under her T-shirt, resting on her belly. Their kiss deepened, each touch and movement blending like a red stain on a white cloth.

It had been a tough day for Jungkook. He had worked himself to the bone, trying to create a novel stunt choreography that would surpass his already perfected routine. He was exasperated with himself. How could he be this incapable of producing original work? If he didn't come up with something, and the company failed to lift itself out of its current trench because of him, he could never forgive himself. This frustration had gotten to him, and he had yelled at his assistants over nothing. Seeing the effect his caustic words had on them only made him feel more ashamed of himself. 

The moment Aki walked over to him, he felt a wave of calm wash over him. The weight of his burdens seemed lighter with her presence. He couldn't bear the thought of not having her to hold him. His world would collapse. 

He thought it unfair that she could touch him but he couldn't reciprocate. With a determined tug, he pulled her T-shirt over her head, his eyes devouring the sight of Aki's bosom. The black satin and lace of her lingerie transfixed him. He could die with his face buried in it.

Unable to hold out any longer, he slid her thin bra straps over her shoulders and placed honeyed kisses over her flesh. Having exposed her perfectly perky, and naturally plump breasts, he couldn't resist but squeeze them in awe. He always thought her breasts wielded some sort of magic, and he was already salivating at the thought of harvesting it.

He enveloped her brown pebbled skin in his warm mouth, hardening her nipple instantly. Her fingers roamed his soft curls, as her back arched, pushing her soft flesh further into his mouth. Encouraged by her reactions, he licked and sucked on her sensitive bud, and kneaded the other between his thumb and index finger. He flicked his tongue rapidly, eliciting ecstatic hisses from her. He seemed convinced that if emptied her teats of their imaginary milk, his worries would disappear. He suckled on her bosom, switching between them for what felt like eternity. And she happily let him. She would give him her world if he so desired.

She loved that he chose her to take care of him, that he could be his most vulnerable self with her. She felt special knowing he wanted no one else. Her love for him burned like a fierce, unyielding flame, a beacon of unwavering devotion and a promise of boundless care. She wanted nothing in return, only to see him happy and at peace.

He lifted himself, suspending his body tantalizingly over hers. With a new kind of desperation in his eyes, he silently pleaded with her again. His half-lidded gaze begged for release, love, and comfort. She kissed him, giving him a green signal for whatever he wanted to do next. He seared her skin with a blazing kiss on her neck. She squeezed his tattooed, bulging forearms tightly. He secretly loved it whenever he could make her squirm like that. 

He sucked on the wet spot on her neck and bit her, breaking her skin, sending pain signals all over her nerves. This was going to leave a mark the next day, she thought to herself. She realized only then that she had closed her eyes. For when she opened them, she was greeted by a mischievous smile spread across her Bunny’s face. The light in his eyes had returned after all.

He bucked his hips rhythmically into hers as he kissed her yet again. His hardened bulge, his thrusts, the friction of her panties, and the wetness that had pooled in her core long ago, all became too overwhelming for her.

"Bunny..." she hissed and whispered.

He didn't respond, but he understood. He stilled and pulled her skirt down and threw it somewhere in the room. He eyed what he had just exposed. The perfect home for his dick, covered by the perfect lacy thong. He could die with his dick inside her.

He hooked his fingers against the string of her black thong and slid them out over her legs. Cool air hit her warm core and goosebumps rose on every inch of her exposed skin. He then bent down and placed a kiss and a lick on her mound sending massive shivers down her spine. She instinctively crossed her legs, hiding her pussy from his intimidating gaze.

He took one look at her shivering form, and locked eyes with hers. Without breaking eye contact, he slowly unzipped his pants, his movements deliberate. As he slid his underwear away, his eyes crackled with electric intensity but she could see shadows of hidden troubles lurking right beneath the surface.

He hovered over her once again, his dick sliding shamelessly over her slickness. He kissed her deeply and before she knew it, he had thrust himself inside her. Her back arched and her mouth was agape with the shock and the pain of penetration.

He closed his eyes and a soft whimper left his lips as her tight cunt clamped around his length.

"Noona...", he groaned, his head hung low, shaky breaths escaping his lungs, unable to stay still for much longer.

His breath was hot on her neck, his hardened length deep inside her, and his skin sizzled on hers, making her wonder if she'd erupt right then and there. However, she found herself easing up, giving him a brief nod, permitting him to move. Relief washed over him and he moved gingerly. As badly as he wanted to keep moving, he didn't want to hurt her. He was afraid he'd break her if he made a single wrong move. Who would he have if he lost her?

The friction of his cock against her walls was raw, potent. As he thrusted into her cervix, she found herself becoming more and more wet. Obscene squelching sounds erupted in the bedroom as she matched his rhythm and bucked her hips into his.

Out of nowhere, she felt warm drops fall on her chest. Jungkook was crying. "Bunny..." She called out to him and stopped him mid thrust. Neither of them could figure out what had overcome him. Tears streamed uncontrollably down his face as he collapsed into her arms, his cock still buried in her.

She kissed his forehead and let him cry, holding him close. What had happened to upset Bunny so much, she wondered. She felt an ache in her heart seeing him so broken, his tears pooling on her skin. Jungkook was under immense stress, and seeing him like this made her want to shield him from the world. She wondered how long he had been holding it all in, trying to be strong. She decided she would ask him when he was ready to talk, but for now, she simply offered her silent comfort, feeling his sobs shake both their bodies. Her love for him grew even stronger in that moment, a fierce determination to be his rock no matter what.

She cradled his head in her bosom. Being held against her warm flesh, reminded Jungkook of where he was and what he was doing up until a few moments ago. With her pussy warming his now semi hardened dick, he suckled on her breasts once more. Licking and sucking and biting them brought strange comfort to him. Her breasts were going to be extremely sore the next day, she thought to herself. He cried and sucked and cried and sucked. And she let him. She wanted him to let it all out. If this was the way he finally lets his emotions out, so be it. She wiped his tears and placed soft kisses on his temple while continuing to hug him tightly.

"Sorry, Noona," he murmured, calming down and wiping his tears.

"My sweet baby. My sweet bunny. You never have to apologize to me for that," she whispered, her voice soft and soothing. She peppered his face with gentle kisses, each one a tender promise of comfort. As her lips brushed against his skin, he began to relax, his sorrows melting away. Slowly, he started to kiss her back, matching her gentle rhythm, losing himself in the warmth and sweetness of the moment.

She could feel him harden inside her. He didn't know why, but when she called him hers, when she called him her bunny, he felt a newfound excitement stir within him. And all of his blood rushed down to his appendage still nestled inside her warm and moist core.

"Noona.." he whimpered and raised himself up from her now numb chest. He hoped she'd keep calling him her bunny over and over again. He could erupt just by hearing her say that. As if she knew what he needed, she called out to him gently.

"My Bunny. What does my sweet Bunny need?" she asked, her voice soft.

Without responding, Jungkook slid his now fully hardened dick out and thrust inside her with renewed power. It must've been harder than it was before, because this thrust hurt like a motherfucker.

"Argh. Bunny..." she rasped, gasped, and moaned.

Jungkook whimpered, grunted, and started thrusting into her at an unforgiving pace. Jungkook couldn't believe he had let himself go like that, that too in the midst of such an intimate moment with her. Shame washed over him. All he wanted now was to make her feel good, to give her his very best.

She had no time to stop and ask him what had been going on in his head. She held onto the sheets to prevent herself from flailing all over. Her head hit the headboard every time Jungkook shoved his cock deep inside the remote regions of her cervix. Tae was never going to let her hear the end of it. She thought to herself, half embarrassed, half amused. He could definitely hear them from the other room, she thought to herself.

She was jerked back to reality when Jungkook almost folded her body in half pushing her legs so far back that her feet were near her head.

"Noona, focus on your bunny. I don't want anyone else in your head right now", his tone firm, a trace of jealousy in his voice. She didn't know how he knew she'd zoned out, but he did.

"Sorry. My. Sweet. Bunny. It won't. Happen Again." she said, strained, mid thrusts. "My. Bunny. Deserves. All my. Attention." 

Hearing her call him her Bunny again, stirred strange things inside him. Jungkook closed his eyes and as if it was even possible to go any faster, he pounded into her. It wasn't enough that her walls were already burning, he had to use his fingers to rub her nub as he drilled into her.

A dam within her was on the brink of breaking, unable to contain the surge any longer. Jungkook's maddening fervor pushed her past her limits.

"Bunny, I'm going to come."

" Aki. Noona." He grunted. Hearing him call her that, especially in that moment, was her undoing. What two peas in a pod were they! Her dam exploded and she came down with waves and waves of pleasure erupting from her. She must have clenched his dick hard inside her pussy, because he grunted loudly and he came just as tempestuously. Shooting ropes after ropes of his warm white seed into her uterus. Shivering, quivering, and panting, they looked at each other. Bunny flashed his mischievous smile and collapsed beside her, his penis still adamantly inside her. His body was covered in a sheen of sweat, his worries a mile away, while his dick, coated in their love juices softened inside her gradually. 

Bunny reached out and kissed her lightly. Both their lips cold, blood having rushed to their nether regions. 

“Kookie, is everything okay?” she asked, as they returned to reality, one worry at a time. “No, it’s not. But it will be,” he replied with a gentle smile and a sigh, planting a soft kiss on her forehead. He didn’t seem ready to discuss what troubled him, so she let it go for now. As waves of concern coursed through her, she was determined to get to the bottom of this. She wouldn’t let him endure this pain alone.

“I know you want to know,” he said, reading her thoughts. “And I’ll tell you. But right now, I’m just glad to have you next to me. My healer. My baby. My Perfect Noona.”

[alicerosejensen]

I love your page so much omg. I‘m literally obsessed with your work😭🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

Also I have this imagination in my mind going on about how Leon would try to help his girlfriend from recovering from her mental health issues since she’s always helping him. I was recently thinking about how he would react finding her not moving on the bathroom floor and trying to bring her back! I rewatched American horror stories and the scene with tate and violet in the first season episode 6 (ig?) is always in my head. I‘m still recovering from my past and my unhealthy habits and tbh recovery never felt better.

If this is too much for you or triggering please ignore this.🫶🏼❤️

I had a terrible period in my life when I was a few steps away from doing something like this in my life and unfortunately this shit often comes out. I'm not sure that such texts help me work through my psychological traumas, which were, in fact, inflicted on me and continue to be inflicted by close people who do not consider me a person, but at least such works help me to vent my pain, which I cannot permanently bury in myself.

I have been postponing this request for a long time because I was probably waiting for the right moment to write this text.

There are mentions of suicide, psychological trauma, severe self-doubt and anxiety, so if this is not acceptable to you, then please just block it.

Perhaps there is a similarity with my previous texts, but I am writing this with strong emotions now that I am trying to cope with it again.

the text is chaotic, I repeat, written while I was under the influence of strong heavy emotions. Maybe I'll delete it later, when my brain gets back to normal a little bit.

If a songbird doesn't sing well, they wring its neck.

Maybe it was the costs of Leon's profession and the result of his constant missions, after which something human is gradually dying in him despite the constant struggle to save everyone. Raccoon City was supposed to teach, if not to survive, then make him begin to understand that some are doomed to die.

Leon Kennedy was taught not to offend, but to protect the weak, especially weak women. But it is difficult to calm the flow of disordered thoughts and put aside the fear that has seized him in order to clamp bloody wrists and apply something to them to stop the blood. Leon knew many strong women: Ada was perhaps the first among them, he did not know either her past or her real name, only the present that pushed their foreheads against each other; Claire, a fighting friend of misfortune that he met in that ill-fated city; Ashley, who turned from a baby eagle into a proud eagle; Angela Miller and others…

Your strength dissolves in the water, coloring it scarlet while your heart stubbornly still beats, let the rhythm noticeably shorten.

In truth, over the past few months it became clear that this was the only way out. When even your loved ones considered you an expired product and did not hesitate to remember this and remind you every time. In the end, their words turned into an obsessive worm that settled in your head, slowly day after day, month after month, devouring you and the circumstances seemed to be not in your favor. Instead of support, you somehow faced reproach, as if the universe was screaming that you were an wrong person, nature's mistake who had no right to live.

Escape attempts were doomed to failure. At first you tried to suppress it in yourself, helping Leon, because, in your opinion, he was the only one who had the right to complain about life, although he did not do this in front of you, because everyone said that you had no problems: you have everything limbs, there are no fatal diseases, all loved ones are healthy and there is a roof over your head, as if this is enough to not fall for nonsense and not walk around forever with a sad face.

This was the last time you shared your experiences. You didn’t even bother telling Leon, but everything inside was torn from constant pain. The feeling was as if you were being beaten by two extremes that led you to the edge of an abyss where you ultimately voluntarily jumped.

no, you really loved him, it was just other people’s words and your own speculation that convinced you, despite your strong relationship with him, that Leon would find someone better, someone more confident in himself, someone who would not be you because you had already missed the chance for a good life because it moved too slowly. Ultimately, a couple of sips of alcohol with sleeping pills and a sharp blade in his hands simply promised to correct the mistake in the form of you with your own hands.

You didn't have the courage to do it any other way.

But you really didn’t think that if you could try to open up to your loved one, you would meet support and not condemnation. Perhaps in a mad world he would be the only one who would heal your wounds as you healed him in your time. Leon clenched his teeth, feeling tears flowing down cheeks, seeing these crimson stains, when he pulled your body out of the bath, holding you close to him, repeating “I’m holding you. It's allright"

He so carefully laid you on his lap, managing to pull out a first aid kit and then bandages to tightly, albeit carelessly, wrap them around your wrist in order to somehow stop the bleeding. At least you were still breathing, thereby giving him hope that everything could still be fixed. the darkness and emptiness came to life, calling in a whisper to dissolve into eternal silence where there is no pain or condemnation. Your body will be in a grave under a gray stone, while the remains of your soul will float like a small grain of sand in infinity.

For Leon, everything happens in a fog; he tried more than once to save people, but he had no right to lose in this battle, even if you yourself surrendered to death. Shaking his head, brushing away the tears, he wrapped your body in a large terry towel, kissed your temple and picked you up, trying to somehow warm you, pressing you closer to him. the ability to provide first aid in the field and pull suicides out of the other world is not the same thing. Leon would have thanked God if he had believed in him, convinced that blood loss was the least of the evils that you had caused yourself, until he saw the remains of some substance at the bottom of the glass that stood on the table along with an almost full bottle of alcohol.

You really didn't give him a chance.

The ambulance took several minutes, which seemed like an eternity. In fact, Leon wasn't sure if it was worth trying to make you vomit when you'd already lost so much blood that it was already seeping through the bandages. Surely you would need a transfusion and Leon is ready to give you all his blood if only you would wake up. Holding his breath, he carefully looked at your chest, watching whether you were breathing and fortunately, your heart was still beating, slowly, but it was still fighting for life.

He stroked you on the head, kissed you, promised that he would take you somewhere else, quiet, where no one would dare to offend you, even if it was your family. You could have just asked him for help, just cuddled up to him and he would have protected you from other people’s attacks, but you preferred to remain silent. Kennedy was tired of waiting for the medical staff to let him in, although relatives should be allowed to see the patient first, but the position of a government agent sometimes had its advantages, and they concerned not only the high salary. When he was let in to you, it seemed to him that you had become half your size while you were lying on the bed, curled up under the blanket. It didn’t work out to pull off a beautiful suicide, which meant that soon angry relatives would come here with new sweat of bile especially for you. They won’t care about your feelings, but Leon sat down next to you, trying not to intrude too much into the space in which you imprisoned yourself, as if this blanket cocoon could be a separate world where you could hide. He spoke to you carefully, hating himself for not being able to understand in time what was wrong with your behavior; perhaps if he had been more attentive to you, the incident could have been avoided. You would see a psychotherapist, take a course of medication, and your environment would definitely be taken care of.

You cry, not letting him come to you, hating how you weren't just left to die and how much you hate this world. Hysteria after hysteria, nervous breakdown after nervous breakdown, in the hospital you repeatedly tried to commit suicide, but the attentive staff managed to prevent this before you inflicted fatal injuries on yourself, and if after some time Leon still managed to carefully break through your armor, then your loved ones This did not concern relatives in principle. You only allowed one person to visit you while you were undergoing psychological treatment and you behaved calmer and calmer, listening to the velvety words that soon all this would be behind you.

“We’ll go home soon,” Leon smiled, gently holding your hand and kissing your forehead, just glad that you’re alive, that you’re breathing and that your psycho-emotional state is slowly but improving. “You know, I have a surprise for you, I think you’ll like it when we get home.”

Soon what happened will become another nightmare in his life, a blessing with a good ending, but for the sake of this happy ending, Kennedy is ready to descend into hell at least every day.

You nod at him and smile a little, fearing that the gift is some kind of party on the occasion of your discharge. In fact, the last thing you want is to see someone’s faces, especially those who diligently hammered into your head how insignificant you are. Why do you even hope that the doctor will postpone your discharge, but the plans for your further treatment were completely different.

On the other hand, after taking antidepressants and psychological help in a special medical institution, how many men are ready to stay with their girlfriends who have been there for several months? For Leon, it seems this was not a significant problem, or he simply carefully did not show it. However, there were no parties, no calls, you simply returned now to his home where there were new interior items. it became somehow more comfortable... but something else surprised you.

Puppy. A small puppy of a couple of months old ran towards you and Leon to meet both of them, but stopped and began sniffing your shoes, while something thawed in your heart.

“Animals seem to help us well, They feel when we feel bad, it seems to me a good idea to get us a little companion,” Leon said quietly, stroking your back while you were busy with the puppy, rejoicing at the little living soul who will love you with the same pure and devoted love.

Ultimately it should have a happy ending too. Leon is ready to go to great lengths so that his beloved songbird starts smiling and singing happy songs again, even if it is necessary to remove other birds from her family who sleep and see how to pluck all her wings again.

You and he also have a chance for a happy ending.

[garbinge]

You, Me, and Italy

Michael Berzatto x F!Reader From these August Prompts:  Italy Word Count: 3.5k Warnings: All my fics are 18+, angsty, mentions of suicide, death, grief, loss, broken heart, drug use, addiction, being high, someone close to ODing, uncomfortable, sad, mentions of sexual situations, it's based on canon mentions of suicide and death and grieving, but a little more in depth. So just be weary of any triggers one might have in reference to these things.

A/N: This is not apart of my Richie Jerimovich multichap. This is heavy. I try and steer clear of fics like this because of my own triggers and trauma around drug abuse and addiction but this just was an idea sitting in my head probably because of all that trauma. The Bear Taglist: @drabbles-mc @justreblogginfics @quixscentsposts @dadbodfanatic-x @adorable-punk-superheroes @lodeddiperrodrick @isalver @captainweasleybarnes @musicwithteeth @fancyvoidtragedy @shinebright2000 @knight4xmas

The kitchen was always your favorite place to be when you couldn’t sleep. Something about the ability to hear every single noise in a space where usually you’d be lucky to hear the person next to you speak at a normal tone. 

You had come in through the back, placed your stuff down in the locker that had your name written on a green piece of tape, your insanely patterned bandana was snug around your head just above your forehead, something you always wore when cooking. Now, the sounds of the water running as you washed her hands filled your ears and was followed by the clunks of pulling the knives out, the blade tinging as you set it free from its case. Now slicing, the quick quippy sounds of the thin slices of all the items you needed to prep. Basil, onions, garlic, fig, and parmesan cheese. All the ingredients you picked up from the grocery story that was still open this late. The chopping and the sizzling filled your ears in a similar way that music would fill someone else’s. It kept you grounded, kept you calm, kept you in the moment. 

“Late night snack?” A voice interrupted that tranquility but surprisingly, there was no reaction from your side. You kept steady as your hand tossed the garlic and basil in the olive oil, other hand equipped with a spoon ready to add in the parmesan ricotta mixture. 

“You’re lucky I don’t scare easily.” Your voice was steady as you focused on the pan in front of you. 

Mikey looked down and laughed before he made his way from the office over to his best chef and best friend. He leaned against the prep area, hands crossed as you had your back to him. 

“You should toast the breadcrumbs.” Mikey said as he took in what you were doing. 

Immediately, your head turned to look over your shoulder and shot the man a look. “I’m a one-woman show here, Mikey. I’m getting to it.” 

“You know, I can help you out.” He had crossed his leg over the other now as he waited for a response. “Only if you want to.” His arms were now uncrossed as he raised them in a surrender.

Your head tilted, the only invitation he needed to start helping out. 

“I’m making arancini, fig and garlic arancini.” You specified. 

“Rice balls. You’re making rice balls.” Mikey teased. “What inspired the fig?” He asked as he toasted the bread crumbs at the stove next to you. 

“Remember when we went to that bar the other night?” You looked up at him, despite being a few feet down from you, he still towered over you in height. “While you and Richie were off doing God knows what, I ordered shit from the bar. They had this fig, arugula, and goat cheese pizza.”

“Jesus Christ, what fuckin’ bar were we at?” Mikey laughed at the fanciness of how it all sounded. 

“That place, Porta. I’d say it was more hipster than fancy.” 

“God, I don’t even remember.” Mikey laughed before placing his attention back on you and continuing the conversation. “So the pizza was good?” 

“It was, and I just kept thinking what would go well with fig and landed at a rice ball.” 

“Arancini.” Mikey corrected you with the biggest grin growing on his face. 

A laugh left your mouth as you took the sauce off the heat, wanting it to cool down slightly before pouring it into the egg mixture that was already placed in the fridge. 

The silence fell over the both of you and you both continued to move around the kitchen. Mikey stood with the bowl of rice in his hands, resting it on the prep counter as you stood over and poured in the egg mixture. Mikey was whisking it around rapidly, that way the eggs didn’t scramble. The smell coming from the bowl was filled with savory scents of garlic and sweet touches of fig reduction. 

“You good, buddy?” Mikey was looking at you as he stirred everything around. It wasn’t so much in reference to your current state, which was focused as you concentrated on pouring the egg mixture in, but more in reference to why you were here late. 

Buddy. Such a Mikey term. The two of you knew each other for years, meeting when you were smoking in the back of the restaurant you used to work out. To put it in simple terms, he poached you. He had just grabbed a bite at said restaurant, with his brother Carmy, a detail you found out later since Mikey came alone to the alley in the back where you had been taking a break. He asked if you had made the slow braised beef and proceeded to tell you about his restaurant. You never walked back into that restaurant again and started at The Beef the next day. 

As time passed, things got close with Mikey. The two of you just fed off each other, you vibed effortlessly and one day that led to more. You spent a majority of the night locked in the office making a bed out of the table, the floor, the bookshelf, anything that had an inch of a flat surface, Mikey took you. That however, never amounted to more. It was always just sex. There was no label on what the two of you had, no real dates, no holding hands, just stolen moments around the restaurant, late nights in the kitchen, nights out at bars, and overnights spent at each others places. But that never made anything awkward because despite their being no label, everyone knew there was something between you two. It was impossible to miss. The way you two got along, the way you spent every waking moment together, whether you were at the restaurant or not. But what the real dead giveaway was, you two moved in the kitchen like you had perfected a choreographed dance, every, single, time. There was never any missteps, any arguing, no bumping into each other, you just glided by each other, calling out kitchen terms and directions. It was a sight to be seen, everyone thought so. Including the family. Sugar and Carmy were impressed when you came by for the first time maybe a month into starting at The Beef. Richie had already seen how the two of you worked together but both Berzatto siblings were shocked by it. 

“Hey, you good?” Mikey repeated himself and bent down a little to look into your eyes. 

“Yea, sorry.” You shook your head from your thoughts. 

“I don’t buy it.” Mikey pressed you again for more information. “What’s with late night rice balls?” 

“You ever feel stuck?” There was no point in trying to hide what you were feeling from Mikey. 

“Uh, just every day of my life.” You let out a breath through your nose in a sort of chuckle. “I just, wish I could get out of here.” The frustration was littered in your voice. 

“Where would you go?” He set the bowl down now that everything was stirred, and he turned to face you. 

“Anywhere.” You turned too so you were facing him. 

“So let’s go.” His voice raised, like what he said and meant didn’t need planning, didn’t need money, he spoke it outloud like it was the easiest thing to achieve. 

“Yea, where?” You were about to start naming off places around here in Chicago as a joke but he was quick to answer you. 

“Italy.” 

You frowned but a smile was growing on your face. “Italy?” You questioned. 

“Yea, let’s go to Italy, we’ll eat all the rice balls in the fuckin’ country, we’ll learn how to make ‘em like a true Italian. We’ll eat our way around Rome, Sicily, Naples, it’ll be great, just me and you and Italy.” He was so energetic in how he spoke, his hands were in the air, his voice was echoing off the kitchen walls. 

“You, me, and Italy?” You questioned him as your head nodded in agreement. 

“You, me, and Italy.” Mikey nodded with the biggest smile on his face. 

____

Time might’ve passed and a lot of things might’ve changed, but sometimes stayed exactly the same. You were pushing through the back door of The Beef, bag and kitchen tools in hand as the clock ticked past 1AM. 

“Mikey?” You called out, expecting to see him appear in the kitchen. You called out again and heard nothing. It was odd, but also maybe not. He had been distant lately, you picked up on that when most nights he didn’t come back to your place. You knew things had been tough for him, he was having money issues and as a result moved back in with his mother, he was stressed. Every time you did get the chance to see him, he wasn’t fully there, sometimes you’d taste alcohol on his breath, others you could tell his mind was caught in a thought or 20. 

Moving to the lockers, you saw the door open just slightly and the lamp on illuminating a ton of paperwork. You saw his hand resting on the table and slowly peaked in. 

Now, you had your suspicions, they were probably more than suspicions, you knew. You knew Mikey was hooked on something. But you didn’t want to accept it. But there it was, slapping you right in the face. It had been functional, he had been functional, which is what made it easy for you to question, for you to say nothing. After tonight, you’d regret it, you’d regret staying silent, not giving in to your suspicions, voicing them out loud. 

You took in the sight of him, he was so out of it, you could see his glazed over eyes even from the distance you were at. The giveaway as if everything else wasn’t so obvious was the pills scattered all over the paperwork in front of him. 

“Mikey.” The urgency hit you just as much as the the scene of him. You were next to him in seconds, shaking him awake. 

The smile that filled his face as he stared at you, the smile that warmed your heart, the smile that melted you, the smile of your best fucking friend was breaking you. 

“What–what’re you doin’ here?” 

“How much did you take, Mikey?” You moved forward to the table to search for a bottle, a pill count, see how many were on the table, but Mikey’s hands began to grab your arms. 

“No, no, no, no, no. Stop, you’re ruining the fun.” Mikey complained, his voice was slurred. 

You pulled back immediately, uncomfortable and unsure what to do. Your heart was beating fast and before your tears could even start falling, Mikey started yelling. “You’re ruining the fun!!” It was a repetition of what he had said before and all it did was secure your feet frozen to the ground. “That’s all anyone ever does anymore. Ruin the fucking fun.” He spun in the swivel chair like a child and when it stopped spinning he looked at the bookshelf and began speaking again, but this time more at a whisper. 

“Even my own fuckin girl. I can’t have anything.”  

You snuck out the door, searching for your phone in your pocket. The irony that in your hastiness, you spent more time looking for it than if you searched for it with purpose and patience. 

As you picked your phone up to your ear, your hand was shaking. “C’mon, pick up, pick up.” You mumbled, taking your other hand to pick at your lip. 

“It’s 1 in the fuckin’ morning, I’m neck deep in shit diapers, if this is you and Mikey asking me to go out, I’m blocking your number for eternity.” Richie seemed stressed in a completely different way. 

“Richie, it’s Mikey, he uh, I don’t know, there’s pills, he’s awake–sort of?, he’s angry, I don’t know how much he took but he, he uh, I just need help, I need you down here, can you get down here, please?” The shakiness in your voice was the dam holding back your tears. 

“I’ll be there in 10 minutes. Keep him up.” 

With that Richie hung up and you were moving back into the office, you squatted down and turned the chair so he was facing you. “Mikey, babe?” You tried to keep your voice soft. His red, glossy eyes met yours as he plopped his head down to look at you. 

“My girl.” A little bit of hope filled his face, he reached his hand up to cup your face. The impulse to pull away was strong but you stayed there, you stayed there with him and let him speak to you. 

“You’re so pretty, you know that? So pretty. And you’re so talented, you can throw down, you know that? Best fuckin slow braised beef I’ve ever fuckin’ had.” 

The amount of compliments he was giving you, it should’ve had you elated, floating, with butterflies but instead it was making you sick–uneasy. And you just had to sit there and let him say it, over and over again. You were counting in your head, hoping that once you got to the 10th 60th second count, that Richie would be here. 

“Hey hey hey, you listening to me?” Mikey moved slightly to look at you, even in his fogged state he could tell your mind was elsewhere. 

“Mhm.” You nodded, tears welling up in your eyes as you stared into his eyes. 

“You, me, and Italy, baby. You, me, and Italy.” The second time he said it, it was in a whisper like he was desperate for it to be true. Like if he said it low enough the world would grant him the wish. That’s when you really saw him, saw what was happening in his brain. Alongside that hopeful look was one of peace and happiness. The absolute gut wrenching emotion you felt in your heart when you realized it. How being high set Mikey free, set him free from his demons, in some weird twisted way this was the closest you’ve seen Mikey to his usual self. 

Before your heart could break anymore, you heard Richie’s voice behind you and he was slipping into your spot and picking Mikey up.

______

“You know I remember this one time, we went over to Mikey’s place, the one on Courtyard, me, Carm, and Richie, and it was Sunday, Braciole night. We walk in, Mikey’s got the game playing so loud in the background, we start prepping, cooking. I remember he told me not to put raisins in the braciole even though that’s how mom did it. And he just, he had this smile on for those first 30 minutes, like he had something planned, like he was in on the joke. But the thing is none of us knew what the joke was. And then, the door opened, we were all confused at who it was and then, this woman appeared. Mikey introduced her to us, he was so happy, and we were like shocked, cause Mikey, our big brother, the player, brought this girl over to our fucked up family Sunday night dinner. She didn’t care that the TV was loud, that we were even louder, that Mikey and Richie would tell the most insane stories, over and over again, and in fact, she moved around the kitchen like, well, like she’d known us all our whole lives. I don’t know if I ever saw Mikey so happy.” Sugar was sitting in bed, her phone on speaker while you sat silent on the other line. 

“You at the restaurant?” Sugar cleared her throat. 

“Standing right outside it.” You spoke up, trying to hide your tears from the story Sugar just told. 

“I’ll be there soon.” There was rustling on the other side of the phone, like she had started to get up and get ready. 

“Sugar?” You questioned, worried she was about to hang up. 

“Hm?” She hummed. 

“Thank you.” It was two words but sometimes you needed to hear it. How much Mikey loved you, he didn’t tell you often, but you felt it, you saw it. But now, that he was gone, that all that was left of Mikey for you was the things he left at your place, the memories you shared, you took the antidotes Sugar occasionally told you and kept them someplace special. 

“I’ll see you in the chaos.” Sugar replied back to you in which you did the same. 

For a few seconds after the phone call, you stood there, staring at the gutted restaurant, staring at the mayhem happening behind the glass, which was normal for the restaurant, whether it was in business or not. But right now, standing outside, in the peace of the quiet reminded you of those late nights in the kitchen, and you were destined to hold onto that peace for just a few more minutes. 

Eventually, you joined the chaos. Greeting everyone as you made your way through the renovation. Finding yourself getting swept up into something in the immediate first seconds you entered the front door. After an hour or so, when you wrapped up your job in the front, you made your way to the kitchen.  

“What’re you doing?” You placed your stuff down in the office as you walked past Richie, Fak, and Marcus who were gathered around someone’s phone watching a video, arguing back and forth. Natalie stood up from the chair in the office and placed a hand on your shoulder in a half greeting and walked over to the arguing men. Your eyes lingered on the office table and chair a little longer than normal, letting the memories flood into your brain for a short few seconds before you turned to put your attention back on everyone. 

“Scraping and painting and fighting over moving the lockers.” Marcus spoke up. 

You turned around and stepped out of the office, staring at them trying to attempt to move the lockers. Carmy had appeared now, yelling at them to keep it down and when the mention of Mikey’s locker still being locked was announced, that’s when everyone silences. 

“Just fuckin’ open it.” Carmy spoke up. 

A hat. June 5th, 2010. Taste of Chicago. The booth. 

You smiled at that. You weren’t there for the booth, but you heard all about it. From the family, but from Mikey, it was one of the many stories he’d tell you over and over and honestly, you’d do anything to hear him tell it 200 more times. 

Carmy handed the hat to Richie, and as he turned around his eyes fell on your. 

“Yo, uh, I got something for you.” He said and walked right past you into the office, searching for something. As everyone went back to working, you turned and took a few steps towards Carmy as he moved the papers around looking for something. 

“So, uh, we’re sending Ebra and Tina to culinary school, for them to stay sharp, learn some new shit, and uh, I–we, Syd and I figured you didn’t want or honestly really need that, so uh–here!” He proclaimed the last word louder than the rest as he found the envelope with your name written on it and handed it to you. 

You looked down at it for a second and then back at Carmy, you two didn’t talk much in general, but you definitely didn’t talk much about him. 

“You and Syd…” You started to say as you mindlessly tapped the envelope against your skin. “You uh,” You wanted to say that the two of them reminded you a lot of you and Mikey, the effortlessness in the kitchen, the way their ideas just bounced off each others and how they brought this new sense of life to each other. But it was that last thought that weighed heavy on you. There was a point that Mikey brought a new sense of life to you and you did the same to him but unfortunately that emotion, that feeling, had changed at some point, at no ones fault but it didn’t stop you from not cherishing it more. “Just, don’t take it for granted.” 

“Yea, yea.” Carmy nodded, getting where you were coming from but also not really wanting to get into it and you were okay with that because you didn’t want to get into it either. 

Carmy’s eyes moved down to the envelope and back to you. Taking the hint you nodded. “Right.” You said quickly and began to rip the envelope open. As your hand reached in and pulled out the papers in the envelope, you saw the word United and then followed by a seat and time and that’s when you saw the airports. 

ORD – NAP

Naples International Airport. 

“Carmy.” You looked up, eyes shocked. 

“It’s what Mikey would’ve wanted.” Carmy nodded and walked by you, taking his hand to rest on your shoulder and then tap it as he exited the office. 

You stared down at the tickets, trying to take in everything. 

“You, me, and Italy, Mikey.”  

[andy-wm]

Aesthetic Emotions and the Catharsis of Tragedy

How I feel after watching Jimin's Production Diary - The Truth Untold.

Why do we feel so drawn to emotional outpouring of others?

Why does the suffering and pain of artists make 'meaningful' art'?

I'm going to tell you why I think Face is a Greek Tragedy and why, even though the album is a complete and perfect story, we still needed Letter.

You know how sometimes you just need a good cry? And afterwards you feel better, like a weight has lifted... that's catharsis.

Based on the philosophy of the ancient greek philosopers Aristotle and Plato, the catharsis offered by tragedy in art is good for your soul.

The tragedy I'm talking about is not like a natural disaster. Its not like an unfathomably sad real life situation such as war, or the failure of the referendum for The Voice to pass in Australia.

I'm talking about Tragedy as a literary and artistic genre.

Simply put, Tragedy as a genre is identified by pathos and passion. And the work must have a narrative structure - a beginning, a middle, and an end.

Pathos being the ability to identify with and pity a person going through hard times.

Passion referring to strong emotion (of any sort).

But how do we find the equivalent of that literary theory in work that's not a typical story? In a song, or in art?

In my opinion, we can see something similar in music if we combine literary theory and art theory. After all, what is a song but a story delivered with emotion through music, and experienced as art is?

There's a school of art theory called Aesthetic Emotionalism.

In a nutshell, this means that the VALUE of the artwork comes from the way it communicates or expresses emotion. Mood, colour, tone, language all contribute to the feelings we get when we experience that work, whether it's looking at a picture or listening to music. They help us pick up on the emotions the artist is conveying.

So what happens when you experience those emotions through art? What is catharsis?

The experience of tragic events in art, whether it's a heart-rending drama, or a beautiful sad song, or a dark and menacing painting, can give you access to emotions like fear, pity, and regret. Feeling those emotions through art lets you purge the heaviness of them from your mind and body, giving you a sense of relief. That's catharsis.

It seems counter-intuitive but ultimately the experience is uplifting. It's like having the benefits of a therapy session, but without having to face YOUR OWN demons.

Becuase of the narrative structure, and the resolution of conflict, there's always relief at the end of the story.

You feel cleansed of those strong emotions, reengergised and ready to go on. But you also feel a sense of calm understanding. The pathos part of the tragedy gives you insight into the suffering of the character in the story.

Think about the narrative structure of the album Face.

The album has a carefully planned narrative, and a sense of rising and falling energy with these songs that's strongly reminiscent of the structure of a Hero's Journey.

And think about the individual songs in terms of Aesthetic Emotionalism too ...how they convey emotions through tone, pace, language, colour etc.

I'm going to go ahead and say that the strength of the Aesthetic Emotionalism in these songs (and in BTS's music in general) is a major reason they have such impact even when you dont understand the lyrics.

Now let's combine them... look at the emotions conveyed in these songs and how the literary theory of a tragedy might apply to the album :

The first song is the slow and devastating Face Off, with its hypnotic rhythm and strange, discomforting sound effects. It reallly does transport us into a dreamlike/nightmare landscape. But the last few words of the song foreshadow that it's gonna be alright.

Then we have the surreal, melancholy Dive, drawing us further into this dystopian world. It also uses sound effects to make us feel like we are being pulled through time. Dive is reminiscent of a soundtrack from a video, but it's been separated from it's film reel, leaving the listener to guess and imagine the scenes unfolding. It feels like jimin has come untethered from his reality.

Like Crazy comes like rising action in a novel, and we get character development, a bit of plot information, and conflict. But the song itself is a viby dance track with a party atmosphere (if you don't look too closely) so we get a reprieve from the darkness of Face Off and Dive. Its hypnotic beat is enough to keep us locked in the surreal dreamlike world that's been built around us by the previous songs, and the lyrics echo that.

Alone takes us back down into the darkness of Jimin's state of mind, both lyrically and with its low tones and slow pace. We get the metronome, the marking of slow time.

Set Me Free has a totally different energy. Jimin's tone of of voice is much brighter, but hard and determined. Set Me Free isnt a request, it's a demand. The music is forceful. It's like a battle march. The story has reached its climax.

Returning to Like Crazy (English version) after Set Me Free, is like returning to a gentle refrain. Its so much softer and more plaintive than the demanding Set Me Free, echoing the earlier melody and words, but it hits sightly different in English. We are into the denouement of this story, the resolution has come.

But it's not the end.

It is not the end, because after a few minutes of silence, time to breathe, we get Letter.

Why is letter here?

Jimin could have released Letter on Weverse or Soundcloud or directly onto Spotify. But he chose to include it at the end of the album.

I feel this is so important, because the specific set of circumstances of this album means this Tragedy we've just experienced isn't entirely consistent with the literary genre.

FACE ticks all the boxes for a Tragedy in the literary sense, it has pathos and passion and narrative structure. If you were a casual listener and you got to the end of the album you would have a sense of catharsis, as intended. But there's a complication.

ARMY aren't casual listeners.

This is personal.

We know Park Jimin, the real person.

We know this isn't fiction. This shit is real. It was real for him when he wrote it and it's real for us now.

Achieving catharsis isn't that easy when it's personal. Not when the hurt is real.

That's why he gave us letter.

That's why he gave it ONLY TO US.

Letter is a soft sweet gift, a sentimental dedication full of reminiscences that only ARMY will understand. The melody is gentle, like a lullaby, and Jungkook's backup vocals are enough to make you weep, if you aren't weeping already.

(**I have a theory that jk either didn't know about letter or didn't know Jimin was going to ask him to sing. See this post for why)

Letter does exactly what it's meant to - it fills us with warmth. It makes us overflow with love. It's a soothing balm to heal our hearts.

And its everything we need in order to let go of those heavy feelings of fear and pity, of worry and sadness for Jimin that the album brought to the fore.

Jimin knew we would need more. That's why he he sent us letter, right at the very end.

"I'm sorry. Thank you," It says.

"Don't cry. It's gonna be alright."

[lara635kookie]

RIP Zayne being the oldest (27 years old) and the tallest (6'1"). Sad it's confirmed he's not Zayne's secret lost twin. That would be a hell of a story line. And let's face it, the two of them look alike. Not just in appearance(this man is literally evil Zayne with white hair you cannot convince me otherwise) but aesthetically. Xavier and Rafayel have more colors to them and more cutesy like moments. Zayne and Sylus have more dark and heavy moments where all you can see is black, ice blue and red(not complaining, I love it sm). Even their names follow a similar pattern(both have 5 letters and the letter Y in the first syllable). Even if they're not twins, I can settle for Sylus being an older brother lolol. No? Okay, maybe cousin? Maybe some sort of family connection? Maybe not a family connection just a regular connection? Also his evol is not blood but energy manipulation is just as good. Can't wait to see how it works! Imagine him tricking MC's Hunters Watch with fake energy fluctuactions. I always thought Zayne and Rafayel would be the "opposite sides of the same coin" situation because Rafayel's evol is fire and Zayne is ice but Rafayel likes water well enough lmao, and ice is literally solid water so please give me something with Zayne and Sylus, I beg. July 15th is so far away aaaaaaaahhhhhh

[echantedtoon]

A Lovers' Circle (Poly Haishira x Reader) Ch11 The Heart's Not Just A Muscle (plus QnA)

(Or alternate title Yn meets more future inlaws. Hearts conquered so far: Mitsuri, Kanae, Gyomei, Sanemi, and now Giyuu. You can also ask me anything about the au or story and I'll answer honestly next chapter. Also if anyone's confused about why Giyuu is acting like the way he is, in a similar way to Sanemi not being used to others treating him so openly kindly cuz of his appearance- Giyuu also isn't used to just having someone openly be kind and listen to what he has to say. Hope this clears that up.

Also I headcannon Giyuu's sis owns a small restaurant cuz Giyuu mentions her cooking for him in Kimetsu Gauken.)

Taglist: @shadyd3ar @jcrml @tengensangel

@miniverse-zen @mysteri0uz @jjamsbangtan

@the-unknown-fandom @lavenderdropp

@mimisweetz. @purplesoulsapphire

@kksmush @denkpanda18 @whomisi

@lessthanimperfect @silver-rin

Remember if you want to be added to the taglist lemme know

The sun was shining outside today. It was still a little chilly being October so you were dawned on a turtleneck as you walked down the street arm and arm with your boyfriend to where you promised Giyuu you'd be meeting him. 

The project was simple. 

You both measured something heavy you struggled to lift (in your case if your case in was the giant heavy sack of flour you always bought and struggled to carrying it all the way back from the store), film yourselves struggling with it, and then document yourselves doing various exercises for one hour every day until the day the project was due. Then you'd see if there was any difference in strength.

"The point is to see if the myth of exercising one hour a day is really good for your physical health," you explained to Gyomei as the two of you walked to where you both would be meeting Shinobu and Giyuu. 

After filming yourselves struggling to pick up something heavy the day after you both discussed the project, Giyuu suggested meeting him and Shinobu at the park the next day after classes to get started on the project. You agreed and now you were heading towards the park with Gyomei after you both got off work and waited for Sanemi to pick up Koto. The scarred man thanked you for the ohagi you have him the other day and asked if you wanted to join him for a movie night with Obinai and Tengen, but you declined explaining you had an important class project to work on. He seemed sad but understood. 

He really was a good man. Gyomei was lucky to have him as a partner. Maybe you two could even become friends!

Gyomei hummed as you two got closer and closer to the park. "Sounds like quite a workout."

"I don't mind! Giyuu seems like a really nice guy and I could use a bit of exercise."

"It's healthy to move around so I agree with you there." 

You both arrived at the park and it was like you remembered. Only the trees were starting to turn autumn colors like browns, yellows, oranges, and reds before falling to the ground. And waiting for you both near the entrance was a familiar couple. Giyuu and Shinobu was sitting on the park bench talking about something before Shinobu shivered causing Giyuu to tilt his head..A moment later he unzipped the blue jacket he wore revealing a sweater underneath, and just plopped it around his girlfriend's shoulders silently without changing his stoic expression. Shinobu didn't change her small smile but looked at the jacket around her shoulders before glancing up at Giyuu and her smile widened slightly.

The two seemed to understand each other without even speaking a word. It made you feel happy that their relationship was healthy in such a way that they understood each other so deeply like that. Giyuu saw you both first, turning to blink at the two of you approaching them. Shinobu turned next smiling happy at you.

"Ah! Right on time. Hello you lovebirds."

"Hi, Giyuu. Hello, Shinobu!," you greeted them politely. "Right on time!"

Giyuu nodded as both stood up. "Yes. And not a moment too soon. Are you ready to start the first hour of our project?"

You nodded and Shinobu smiled at you. "Great! We all can get started then!"

You blinked. "We?"

"Shinobu had to work a double shift Monday," Giyuu explained to you, "As there's an uneven number of people in health class, that's meant she had to either join a group or do a project herself." Oh that's right! Shinobu's studying to become a health teacher so she'd be taking health classes with Giyuu too! "I apologize for not informing you sooner. I hope you don't mind."

"No it's ok. What are you gonna do?"

"Well I was going to see if an apple a day really keeps the doctor away, but forcing myself to eat an apple every day for a month and a half didn't sound appealing. So I'm going to be the one monitoring your time and taking notes!"

"Joined without asking might I add."

"I didn't need to Ask permission." Giyuu gave her smiling face a tired raised brow look.

"Alright then! What are we doing today?"

As if to answer, she held up her hands which held her phone and a note book you hadn't noticed before, and a stop watch securely tied around her neck. "I'll be right behind you both filming the project, documenting everything, and keeping time. You both have the easy parts of moving around." Guess that made sense. She worked in an office so she'd be good at the documenting part. "Walking around the entire park takes about thirty minutes, so we'll have to walk around twice in order to make it an hour."

"Sounds like a plan!" You turned to Gyomei. "Do you want to walk with us?"

"You mentioned walking around the park twice right?" He calmly went to go sit down on the bench. "I'll wait here until you three are finished then we can get dinner together if you wouldn't mind that."

"Sounds great! Should we get started now?" 

Shinobu nodded already positioning her camera to record and setting up the stopwatch. "Uh huh! Ready? Start walking..NOW!"

The first day of the project wasn't so bad. It was just two laps walking all the way around the beautiful park as Shinobu kept notes and kept making sure to check the time on the stopwatch until a little bit before the second lap was over and the device went off signalling one hour. By then it was just a matter of meeting back up with your patient boyfriend. Shinobu just shoved everything into a bag before slinging it over her shoulder. That was it? Huh. This project might be easier than you thought.

"That was really fun! Are we going to do the same thing tomorrow too?"

"I was thinking we'd just walk around the first few days before switching up to something different, but as long as we're consistently moving around for at least one hour a day then it shouldn't matter what we do."

"Great! So where would you like to go eat?"

Giyuu blinked at you. "Huh?"

"Where do you want to eat?," you repeated politely, "We'll go where you want."

Giyuu's eyes widened at you before he looked at Gyomei whom still smiled, then at Shinobu who rose a brow but didn't react otherwise. "I-.." He looked back to you. "Me?"

"Of course! Unless you don't want to pick, you don't have to if you don't want to, but I figured since you've been out here longer, it's only fair you decide where we go. I'm fine with anything really."

Again he looked surprised but slowly his face relaxed again. "I see...Then would you mind if we go to a small restaurant on the other side of town? It's.. farther than most places." He hesitated a bit as if afraid you'd disagree.

"I don't mind."

"It's a seafood restaurant."

"Fish cutlets and shrimp tempura are some of my favorite foods!"

Again blue eyes slightly widened at your smile before Giyuu turned to Gyomei.

"That is fine." He answered happily as if sensing Giyuu's gaze on him. "The last time I had Shrimp tempura I wasn't able to finish it because of a problem." You lightly grimaced remembering Sunday's fiasco with Jake. "I think I know where you have in mind anyways."

Giyuu hummed. "Well..Alright then. I'll show you where it is."

It was almost like when you were going to meet Sanemi and Kanae. Once again following someone else to a part of the large town you've never been to before and to somewhere to eat,but this time instead of following Gyomei you all followed Giyuu whom remained silent and looked ahead-

"Giyuu, where do you work?" He jumped lightly in surprise before turning to your smiling face. "Shinobu works at an office building right? Do you work with her or do you do something else?"

He continued to gaze at your smile before becoming stoic again. "I work part time at MacDougal's." Ah! The local burger chain.

"Oh! I used to work there during summers back in highschool! What position do you have?"

"Janitor and cashier." He was blunt and straight to the point before looking ahead indicating that he might not want to talk about it so you were politely going to just drop the subject. "What did you do?"

You blinked surprised at him. But you weren't the only one. You didn't notice but both Gyomei and Shinobu's heads turned in surprise. However the blue eyed man looked at no one else and continued to walk.

"I actually had the same positions as you most of the time. Take out trash, mop the floors, clean the grills- I swear the worst parts was the bathrooms."

His face grimaced. "Tell me about it." Shinobu's brow rose further as he continued to openly talk with a groan. "It's disgusting."

"And how often the slushie machines 'breaks'?"

"You'd think they'd just admit at this point that  they're too cheap to buy replacement parts for all the old equipment. Makes things a hassle."

"Tell me about it. Is that why you're studying to become a p.e. teacher?"

"That and I think there's not really enough talk about health concerns nowadays. I don't really like fast food too often for that reason."

"That's valid. It's why I started taking cooking classes. A lot of things just taste better made from scratch." That single sentence got him to look at you.

"Someone I know says that exact same thing word for word all the time."

You blinked surprised. "Mitsuri right? She works at the cafe."

"Mmm. No but I don't doubt she'll like homemade things too. If we're lucky, you might be able to meet her at the restaurant."

Oh so he knew the owner! Or someone who worked there. Nice. It was a few more minutes of walking through the streets until you made it to where you needed to go. Only instead of a pub, it was a cozy little cottage looking building. It looked so much like a regular home that you didn't even realize that it was a restaurant until Giyuu reach out and just opened the door. Immediately you four were hit by a wave of delicious smelling shrimp, cooked catfish, and multiple spices.

Blinking you followed them in and was met with an absolutely adorable little shop! The front was all small tables and chairs crammed around and the smells came from a single pair of double doors on the far opposite walls. A little cramped but still adorable. One other single person was there, a woman sitting in the corner reading and drinking a coffee. However a small bell went off above you all as the generic restaurant goes and that signaled to whoever ran it that someone else is here. 

"I'll be there in a minute!," a woman's voice called from behind the double doors.

In the meantime you took notice of the cute lace curtains decorating the windows and the white vase of flowers every table had. It really looked cute and honey. After a moment the double doors opened and out came a woman a few years older than you all. If you had to guess she looked in her late twenties with dark black hair that went down her back in a braid, a bright pink bow in her hair, and striking dark blue eyes that looked familiar. She paused in the doorway, blinked, before smiled widely.

"Giyuu!"

"Hello, Tsutako." You watched as immediately the two people embraced each other. Ah! This must be the person Giyuu was talking about earlier. "I hope we didn't come at a bad time."

"Are you joking? You're always welcome here!" She broke the hug to smile at him brightly. "It's a slow day anyways! Your company is more than welcome! Are you hungry? You look hungry. I'll make you some salmon Daikin."

You looked between the two as they spoke and noticed the shocking realization of how similar they looked. The same dark black hair and the exact same striking dark blue eyes. Oh. You got it now. They were related definitely but you weren't sure how. Siblings?

"Tsutako, I want you to meet Y/n." He gestured to you and she looked at you. "I'm working on a project with her. She's Gyomei's girlfriend."

"Oh. So she's not one of yours." She already seemed understanding of the situation. But for some reason she seemed excited anyways. "So you made a friend!?"

"Friends?"

"Yes! We even share the same class."

Giyuu immediately looked at you surprised. "We are?!"

"Yes! Oh." You gazed up at him. "Would you like to be friends with me?"

Giyuu's surprised face still gazed at you before he opened his mouth, closed it, and then slowly nodded. "Y-Yes. I wo-would like to be friends very much."

"Then we're friends!" 

"Allow me to get all of you something to eat then!" She gestured to a table you all slowly sat down at. "What can I get you all to drink?"

"Water would be find, Tsu. We've been walking around all day, so it's best we get hydrated."

No one argued with Giyuu so Tsutako left only to return a minute later with four glasses of water and passed them around to you four.

"Thank you." You smiled up at her again. "Nice to meet you. Are you related to Giyuu? You both have the same pretty blue eyes."

A choked surprised sound suddenly came from Giyuu and any water in his mouth was spat back into the cup as he sputtered before looking at you wide eyed and jaw dropped. "P-Pretty?!"

Tsutako giggled at his reaction. "Giyuu's my little brother. But thank you. I'm sure Gi-Gi appreciates being called pretty too.~" She swore Giyuu couldn't get much pinker as he stared in flustered shock at you. "I'm so happy he's making more friends at college! He was always so shy as a kid."

"Tsu!"

She giggled once again before turning to Shinobu and Gyomei. "It's so good to see you both again too. I hope Shinobu's been treating you well. How's your sister?"

"Kanae's doing fine. She's working on a large order for a funeral right now."

"Oh I hope everything's alright."

You blinked feeling eyes still on you before you turned back to Giyuu who was still staring at you pink faced and wide eyed. You smiled brightly at him and he quickly looked down at his glass. Aw. He was so sweet when shy. Poor guy must not be used to making friends with people outside his social circle. It's alright. You'd happily become friends with him.

From that day forward you made an effort to go out of your way and be friendly to Giyuu starting the very next day at class. You walked right up to where he was sitting. Calling his name and waving causing Giyuu to jolt when you plopped down next to him all bright and happy. He seemed confused and slightly flustered as you continued to speak to him and continued the behavior. 

Sometimes it wasn't just you and him. Sometimes Shinobu was there and sat with you two. She didn't say much either but was very polite to you. Sometimes you three could only see each other for the one hour a day before you had to leave because themselves or you had something else planned. But whatever the case you'd see them both for at least one hour a day to exercise with Giyuu as Shinobu kept track of time and documented everything.

It was usually just two laps around the park if you all were in a hurry and had to be somewhere else but as the days slowly rolled past, you began to do other exercises. Once or twice yoga, and once you both did sit ups for an hour. Giyuu was an expert at this. Having no problems placing his hands behind his head and repeatedly raising himself up. Meanwhile Shinobu had to hold your legs and encourage you to keep going despite the burning ache in your middle and back afterwards.

Other than the project things seemed to be going well. 

Whenever you saw Giyuu around when not working on the project, you almost made sure to wave at him. He just looked away and sped up his walking the first few times but the more days that went by the more used to you he seemed to get. He'd nod to you or give a quick wave before leaving you to your business. 

Gyomei wasn't with you all the time outside of work either. He had other partners and needed to spend time with them and by himself too which you respected. So most of the time it really was just you and Giyuu and sometimes Shinobu. You made it a habit to copy your notes from health classes or get Giyuu to make you both copies of the lessons since you couldn't go every day with your job either. It surprised her the first time you gave her notes or offered to send her the recordings you took of you both walking around or whatever it was you two did that day. 

Sometimes you even visited Giyuu's sister's restaurant! Tsutako was a very polite woman and very polar opposite of her brother. While both siblings were quiet and reserved, Tsutako spoke more and showed more emotion. You learnt a little bit more about her too. She owned the restaurant with her husband who was the cook. You met him once too. Seemed like a nice guy. Loved to cook and was delighted to try out the breaded bass recipe you recommend to him.

October came and passed and with it Halloween. Then November came out and with it slightly nippier weather. You suspected you'd have to change in your jacket for a coat soon. It was one day pretty early in the morning after the two of you were just walking around the park again without Shinobu or anyone else there that you suggested to him going to Tsutako's restaurant again to eat if he wasn't busy.

"There's no need to bother her today as her restaurant is closed on weekends."

"Oh. Do you maybe wanna stop by the campus cafe again? I'm sure Mitsuri's said they're serving warm donuts with every purchase of hot chocolate."

"It's no bother," he assured you holding up a hand, "I'm sure there's something at home I can whip up."

"Oh! You can cook?"

"I only cook when I have the time and energy to do so. So I usually eat leftovers or whatever's in the fridge."

"Oh.. Doesn't that get tiring after a while?"

He shrugged. "Not that I'm sick or tired of that, but with so little change in my diet, I can feel myself being worn out from the usual things I eat."

"Doesn't your sister cook for you sometimes?"

He nodded. "She's always telling me to try opening up a little more to new things. I feel bad for making her feel more worried than she should."

F/c eyes stared at him for a long moment looking him up and down, before a smile spread across her lips as he blinked. "That's alright. Are you heading home now?"

Giyuu nodded. "I promised Shinobu I'd clean up the apartment after we finished today's part of the assignment. I'll see you tomorrow at the park again."

"Alright. See you later."

He went home and found himself just eating leftover MacDougal's takeout and ramen noodles again. Being a broke college student didn't really provide much outside of leftovers, ramen, and cheap groceries. That night consisted of him getting into a cold bed alone until a small warmth curled up against his back.

"Tough day?"

"Yes."

"Want to cuddle?"

".....yes."

Shinobu didn't change her expression at all when he flopped around and just buried himself into her warmth. "I'm sorry I didn't clean up like I promised you. Tired."

"It's ok. We can try again tomorrow. Don't worry about it now."

The next morning was better. He felt less tired and more energized than last night and was able to get some house chores done. At the moment he was enjoying the peace and quiet of the calm morning. Sipping on some coffee his girlfriend gave him and just all around enjoying not having to do anything else right now. 

That was until the doorbell rang.

DING DONG!!

The sound of it had both look up from the kitchen table and towards the door that was clearly visible from the kitchen.After a second he sighed and slowly made himself stand up. He'll get it. Shinobu was busy compiling the footage of their work so far and labeling the dates with the right videos. She was more tech savvy than him so she'd be better at doing it anyways. What he was expecting was someone at the door. What he WASN'T expecting was to open it and find f/c orbs smiling at him from the door steps.

"Hi, Giyuu!," you greeted from the footsteps before shivering from the cold. "Chilly today isn't it?"

He stared stoic but still lightly surprised. "Yes." Eventually he answered slowly raising a brow. "I thought we weren't going to meet until later."

"We weren't but I have something for you." He blinked as a giant paper bag was heaved up and into his arms. The paper crinkling with the shift of ownership.

He looked at it then at her then back to the bag. "..What is this?"

"Some new food you can try." Blue eyes shown up to her so fast. "You mentioned getting a bit tired with your usual food so I made you some new dishes to try out for a few days." Her hand gestured to the large bag "You got some saba no shioyaki, tonkatsu, a container of onigiri in there somewhere, katsudon, oyakodon, a salad, and some homemade taiyaki. Oh. I also made you some salmon Daikin and there's one container of ginger tsukudani for Shinobu. They might not be very good because it's my first time making them."

"Why?"

"Your sister mentioned that it's your favorite food, and Kanae told me when I asked about-"

"No. Just..." His face slowly slipped down to the bag again. Just staring at it. "Why?"

"Oh... It's because sometimes we all just need someone to reach out and help." Giyuu continued to face his head down at the bag but dark eyes reflected back warmth in a smile. "I've noticed that you've been stressed lately and it's fine that you don't want to talk to me about it, but if you'd ever like to I'd be happy to listen to you."

For a moment there was nothing but the silence of that cold morning. Nothing but the slow rising of a man's head and the beautiful warmth of the woman's smile reflected back off dark seas that made up eyes. Beholding each other with such drastic beauties. 

"You go ahead and take today off. I'll just do the project myself today and email Shinobu the video when I'm done walking around. Relax and get better soon. Ok? If you need to call me just ask Mei or Shinobu for my number. They both have it. And don't worry about my tupperware. You can give it back to me when you're all finished. No rush."

He continued to stare but flinched as a warm hand patted one of his still holding onto the bag before she turned and began walking away from the home. The chilly morning air not giving way to the pink warmth that rose up from his heart quickly spreading from his chest to his neck, face, and ears. 

[moontheoretist]

~ Shinobi602 on Twitter

Rook's blood interacted with the ritual so now they're tied to the Fade according to Solas (they can communicate with each other)

The two figures seen at the end of the demo are the Elven gods Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain

Solas is trapped in the Fade while the other two gods are now free

The Lighthouse (our base) is in the Fade, was Solas' home base and now becomes ours

We will use the Eluvians to traverse the world for missions similar to Inquisition's Crossroads

Bellara is next up to recruit after the opening events in Arlathan Forest

Bellara is specialized in electricity compared to Neve's Ice powers

Light and heavy attacks confirmed

Dash, parry, and charged moves

You can unlock additional jump attacks in the skill tree

You can set up different weapon loadouts to change mid combat

Can bookmark/pause combos by dashing and then resume them after which is apparently really cool

Rogue and Warrior can parry, but Rogue has longer window - no Mage parry but they can throw up magic shielda automatically as long as they have mana

Arlathan Forest's whimsy willy starkly contrasts to other areas. The promises some grim locations and even grimmer story moments

You rank up your relationship bonds with your companions by helping them on personal quests and taking them with you on main quests. How you help, what you say, choices you make, etc all determine your relationships

It's so ironic that Solas is now trapped. LOLZ. Anyway, I CAN LIVE IN THE FADE!? HOLY MOLY MACARONI I ALWAYS WANTED TO! A little sad at not Mage parry, but also relieved, because I suck at parrying.

I can already see Ghil Dirthalen being so happy their theory about who is Moonhead and Beetle being so correct. Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain enter the stage as the last Evanuris to be alive (?) as I suspect they were the souls of Archdemons Wardens kept butchering. Depending on your choices in DAO, Uthremiel, i.e. Falon'din may still be alive too, but they're trapped with Solas now, because Solas ate him when he ate Mythal at the end of Inquisition. I wonder if they'll get blighted considering that from what I remmeber Evanuris were sealed in the Golden City (Black City) and we know that this particular place is full of the goddamn Blight. Or maybe not, as Gameinformer claims that Solas was moving the Evanuris to a new prison during the ritual so he may have as well been sucked into that new space. Gameinformer is so juicy. I still didn't read it, but I will do so! *salivating here*

Also, Rook as the Veil whisperer was not on my bingo card. Or more like Rook being the Solas whisperer, as it's about Solas not the Veil.

[livlaughloveluke]

𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐞- 𝐞.𝐥

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you fall in love with a murderer, and have to choose between living a life with out him, or dying

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: HEAVY angst, no happy ending (sorry), ghostface au, little cursing, scream 6 spoilers ig, death :(

𝐚/𝐧: my first writing!! lmk what y’all think 👀 theme heavily inspired by @auras-moonstone, which go check her blog out if you haven't already! also story very similar to author on wattpad, forgot their name though so if you know, make sure to comment!

your feet ached from running, and with every step you took, it felt like your muscles were snapping into itty-bitty pieces. however, you had to keep running, for yourself, and for your friends.

you were currently being chased by two ghostfaces, who had just brutally murdered chad. it was painful to watch, since you had been attached at the hip since kindergarten, and had grown up together. 

he was always there for you, and was a great listener. he listened to you when you needed to vent about your shitty day, or when you were rambling on about how cute and thoughtful ethan was. 

you met ethan at the beginning of the semester, and instantly clicked. you constantly hung out, and the group liked to joke about your crushes on one another. you just thought it was playful teasing, although you had definitely fallen for ethan, hard. 

unbeknownst to you, he had felt the same. originally, you and him were never supposed to happen. the plan was for him to join the group through chad, and continue the family business from there. although, once he heard your angelic laugh and experienced your lovable personality, he knew the whole plan was fucked. 

however, none of that matters now, as you stand in front of detective bailey. he had just revealed himself as one of the heartless killers, and the other murders still had their masks on, and stood next to him proudly.

then, he took off his disguise. 

it was ethan. your ethan. the one who you baked cookies with only a few nights ago, was a serial killer, and wanted your blood. 

you couldn’t focus on the others words, all you could do was stare at ethan. he however, was to much of a coward to even glance your direction. he couldn’t bear the thought of your eyes being stained with sadness and betrayal. 

you were quickly brought back to reality as all hell broke loose. quinn chased after the sisters, bailey after kirby, and ethan after you.

you pushed your sore and aching legs down a dim hallway, only to find a dead end. it was over for you. no where to run, you turned around to look at ethan, and backed into the cold, concrete wall.

“so, this is it? you’re just going to kill me now, after everything we’ve been through?” you ask with an aggravated tone, your words still lingering in ethans ears, much after they were said.  

“i- i dont want to do this to you, y/n. but i have to. its for richie, for the family.” he grips the knife, and slowly brings it up to your throat. you tense up, and squeeze your eyes shut.

this is how you were going to die, bleeding out at the hands of the boy you loved most. it felt unreal, although you were starting to except your fate. you internally jumped at the feeling of the tip of the knife to your throat, and now you were waiting for him to end your life with one stroke. 

you kept waiting, for what felt like an eternity, but nothing ever came. you decided to open your eyes out of curiosity. he was standing still, looking down at the ground, deep in thought. 

“do it. please, don’t drag my death on. the least you can do is make it quick. kill me, ethan.” you say, the tremble in your voice very prominent. the sound of your whispers catches him off guard, and he looks up from the floor to make eye contact with you.

ethan broke upon hearing your pleads. what was he doing? he loved you, more than he loved his father or sister. you made him feel special, in a way no other family member could.

“I can’t do it.” he says, dropping the knife and beginning to sob into his hands. you look at him, both confused and distraught, until your attention is brought elsewhere. sam was covered in blood behind him, a knife in hand. she brought a finger up to her lips, signaling you to be quiet so she could attack him.

you didn’t want him to die, but you knew he had to. you quickly embraced him, arms around his neck, standing on your tallest tiptoes, due to his abnormally large height. 

you dig you head into his neck, between your arm, and began to cry with him.

“you dont know how bad i want this to be a dream.” you managed to choke out, in between sobs. “i wish i could wake up in your arms, and everything could go back to normal.” you say, still hugging him, for this would be the last time. 

you pick your head up to look at sam, signaling to her that it was time. you bury your head back into the crook of his neck, closing your eyes, waiting. you then hear the knife plunge into his skin, and you feel the vibrations of his muffled shrieks along your skin.

you decide to continue talking, trying to help him through the pain, while sam retracts the weapon from his back and goes to stab him again.

 “i wish i could wake up from this nightmare, and we could go back to studying econ on thursdays, and getting milkshakes at our favorite diner while we talk and laugh for hours.” you exclaim with a depressing and heartfelt tone.

“remember when you were walking me back to my apartment late one night, and we saw a stray cat? and you sat there for the next 10 minutes, feeding it scraps out of the palm of your hand?” you recite to him, and he nods slowly, while in pain. 

“thats the ethan i fell in love with. he would never do anything like this, and he was the most selfless guy i knew. he would spend hours researching the perfect flower to get, and would make sure to text me every morning and night to check on me.” you share, and start to feel his body go limp, and all color he once had, slowly drained from his soul. 

“i love you, so much y/n. i wish things were different.” he stutters out, before going unconscious. 

“me too.” you say, laying his body down on the ground. tears spilling from your eyes, and onto his lifeless cheek. 

that was it. there was no more ethan and y/n. you would have to live a life without him. no more sleeping in his bed while you ran your fingers through his hair, no more sweet messages, no more song recommendations. apart of you had died that day, and it killed knowing that he would never come back.