#thin plank wood flooring

[francophilesuniverse]

Traditional Bedroom - Guest Bedroom - mid-sized traditional guest light wood floor bedroom idea with beige walls and no fireplace

[hayleymulch-art]

Traditional Bedroom - Guest Bedroom - mid-sized traditional guest light wood floor bedroom idea with beige walls and no fireplace

[moondirti]

𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑, 𝐈𝐈 [18+]

familiar! ghost × witch! reader

you are a witch trapped at home by a devastating blizzard. ghost is the demon that answers your call. ( 2 of 3 /PREV )

DEAD DOVE. RATED E. HORROR EROTICA. 9K. – AO3 heed the warnings below and proceed at your own discretion.

warnings: NONCON. graphic depictions of gore. injury. cannibalism. blood licking. slaughtering + ingesting animals. violence. degradation. body horror. hypothermia. isolation. manipulation. corruption kink. religious imagery. dark!ghost. female reader. i know i said 2 parts total but now it's a 3er.

additional tags: groping. tit fondling. rough oral (male receiving). face-fucking. cum guzzling + eating. it’s all a little disgusting and not in the good way i fear.

𝐈𝐈.𝐈

The cottage is halfway buried under snow when you run out of firewood. 

It should come as no surprise, though you stare down your emptied closet like the ground opened up and swallowed your remaining reserve. Out of body, you fail to confront the cold reality that has already seeped into your walls, freezing the splintered wood of your floors, instead standing stock-still as your mind sharpens its critical edge. 

Only there is no one to direct your reproach to but yourself. Weeks ago, your rune casts had predicted a crippling whiteout, thus you set out to collect enough fuel to last you the season. Yet as night waxed on the third day of your efforts, and your hands started tearing bloody from splitting hardwood all on your own, that resolve debilitated rather quickly. Like sugar steeped in tea; your will to live was already in a decrepit state, and indeed, eagerly unravelled at the first sign of adversity. Suicidal, with hindsight. A passive play at death of which you were too fearful to try and seek for yourself. 

It did not seem like that at the time, of course. Rather, you justified the fatuous decision to stop (after cutting down a mere three trees) by concocting an estimate of how long it would be before you could venture out for more. Based on absolutely nothing but a desperation to curl back on your couch, sore but sheltered, you gave it one month. One month until the storm would abate. Of restlessness, fermenting in a prison you call home. To your distorted sense, four-hundred pieces of firewood seemed plenty enough to get you through it, despite admittedly lacking even a basic working knowledge of wood arithmetic.

Counting the days now, you’re almost tempted to laugh. Almost. The shroud of horror that newly accompanies death since Ghost’s lesson triumphs, after all. You are more terrified than you would have been a week ago. Still, you were not wrong – the firewood had lasted a month – only the weather does not seem to be looking up, and you’re trapped inside a quickly cooling cottage with no source of heat to get you to the thaw. The possibility of fatal hypothermia looms closer, more dangerous. Eerily relevant–

(Just a year ago, you watched a man die from the warmth of your ancestral home, face down in fresh snow outside the parlour room window. Your ageing mother had invited the pastor’s son over to help repair the stairs left unattended since your father’s death, and the man had called your fascination with the corpse morbid, nail between two teeth as he hammered down a wooden plank. 

No use starin’ at a dead man, lass. Not for a bonnie thin’ like you.

But you could not tear your eyes away from his mottled skin, the blue-black ends of his fingers. Even at his burial several days later, his face displayed the same, blank expression, perpetually cast by that winter’s frigid storm.) 

You imagine yourself passing in a similar vein. It will take longer, you think. You’ll be dying for weeks as your blood courses slower through you, iced by the winds that howl down your chimney. Protected, but not enough, by these walls you have been banished to live within. Unable to get even a glimpse of sunlight before shutting your eyes for the last time, the snow packed up to your windows effectively burying you without ceremony. A forgotten tomb. 

You wonder if Ghost would intervene, yet your speculation is brief. His words echo like he uttered them only moments ago. Fight or die. He has long established the volitional aspects of your relationship – he owes you nothing unless you ask, and if you do, then you would rather wish you were dead in lieu of what he asks for in return. No. He will merely watch as you take your last breath, satisfied that he was right, then scavenge your carcass for his next meal. Fated to wet his mouth like the picked off crow. A long-awaited feast.

Curling in on yourself, it is all you can do to bury yourself in clothes. Your vulnerability is often a fickle thing, you find, ebbing and flowing like seawater tides gradually gorging on their shore. There are periods you feel invincible; a being made of eternal magic, unmoved by the shifts in nature bid by time. Some sequoia, whose roots pierce deep into the earth and drink from freshwater wells unacquainted with human touch. A thing truly deserving of the title witch. 

Other times – these times being of increasing occurrence since the arrival of your familiar – you cannot help but to shrink back into a girl again. Raw and tender and emotionally volatile. Naked, sore lungs, as you’re pulled from your mother’s womb and forced to embrace the harsh cut of air. Ghost watches from his usual corner, a spectre practically pulsing with this voyeuristic game he likes to play. You know he’s figured out the predicament you’ve put yourself in, can feel yourself quailing at the discredit his judgement affords. The layers serve a dual purpose, then – for warmth, and to grant brief reprieve from his gaze on your shivering form. 

Three pairs of socks. A tunic, a fleece, a cardigan, and a coat. Skirts over your trousers. Gloves and a woollen hat. 

By the end, you have a hard time moving at all. Certainly not enough to cook, or to try tunnelling a way out of the window. No point in reading if you can’t practise your magic, either; so you mutter a quiet ignition spell over the charred firewood from last night, hoping it lasts even half as long, before collapsing on the couch and willing yourself to sleep. 

Only sleep does not come. 

Or, it might. Yet your mind is so occupied with your condition that it does not allow you to fully lose consciousness. You’re attuned to every particle around you, overstimulated in the worst sense, still subjected to an unsettling sequence of half-dreams. Brain flickering through pale mirages of dead crows, ice floes, of capsized rafts in arctic waters, their hulls resembling slabs of marbled meat. As you drown, you shout for help and pique at the sound of it echoing in real life, tangible enough that it shakes you awake. You nearly strangle yourself trying to wind your quilt tighter around your shoulders afterward, burying your nose in a pillow and cupping your cheeks with frigid hands. 

Eventually, time joins the distortion, and you have a hard time discerning whether it’s been hours or meagre minutes. The only indication is the way in which your body starts to ache with a pain so profound, it is as though you’ve been beaten. If you weren’t frustratingly cognizant of your surroundings the whole night, your first bet would have been to blame Ghost, or at least the threadbare couch you’ve been using as a bed erring too long now. Unfortunately, the true cause of your affliction is hard to misdiagnose; a violent, merciless shivering, your muscles made to tremble as if compelled to by electric shock. The teeth chattering kind – and it is exactly the rattle of ivory against ivory that serves as a makeshift timekeeper. 

Click. Click. Clickclick. Click. 

It must be two hours later when you bite your tongue and jolt completely awake from the pain, swathed in your quilt like the nesting doll that sat on your windowsill back home. Though the appendage bleeds, spreading metallic bitterness onto your teeth, you wonder for a brief moment whether you are alive at all. Foggy vision. Taut skin drawing lines down your cheeks from either corner of your eyes. When you squint, it tugs tighter, and you realise at one point you had started crying. It’s hard to tell without your nose hot and runny, or your lips swollen like overripe berries. Instead, you’re rendered to a shrivelled reflection of yourself, dried tear tracks setting the image in stone. The shadow looming above you seems to agree. 

“Not dead yet. But only just.”

You wish you could say his voice is any softer than standard. That the stars aligned, or that this is an ideal world where the antediluvian creature occupying your home has tapped into his small pool of pity. But he nudges your knee with all the detached amusement he prescribes to most things, like he can’t understand why you’re so easily affected by the cold. 

“Ghost?” 

“Almost exclusively.” He mocks.

The couch dips near your feet. You do not register why until he scoops an arm into your quilt, pulling you from warm refuge and onto his lap instead. It isn’t in you to fight, merely mewling like a feverish cat as you reach a hand out to the cushion where you once lay. Wiggling your fingers, kicking your heels. 

He swats your arm until it flops back to your side. 

“If only y’could see yourself like this. Bloody pathetic, pet.” 

“I’m c-cold.” 

“Not doin’ yourself any favours, then. This,” He tugs at the coat barely hugging your shoulders, stretched taut over your bulky layers. “off.” 

When you fail to listen, he takes the initiative for you, pulling it down your arms and towards some distant corner. You don’t miss it, necessarily – it hardly did anything to keep you warm – but you protest the loss as you would have done anything else; noisily, sniffing to suppress the fresh bout of tears spooling over your vision. 

“Think you exhausted every option, hm? All you can do is curl over and cry?” With his hands now at your cardigan, thumbs hooked under the lapel, you search his eyes for indication of what he intends to do. Ghost is difficult to appreciate even on the best of days, but now, without the handy glow of fire or direct stream of sunlight, he’s practically impossible. Like two mountains stood tall with no valley in between them, no line of logic exists that can explain his actuality. 

(And you’ve never been the logical type – there is no precise science to why goat fat and cumin work together to lure someone into love, or why you knew to stay away from the pastor who kept your mother company. Some things exist solely in magical proportions; limiting yourself to rational thought would be doing a great disservice to what they have to offer.

But confronting Ghost on a plane where he has the upper hand is a daunting task, so you stick to what rationale can place.) 

“What are you–you doing?” 

“Shut it.” He folds the cardigan around your hips, clasping a colossal palm onto the back of your neck. Though you’re used to being scruffed when he’s less than pleased with you, the purpose of this is far from dissatisfaction. You know it immediately. His skin, flesh, is warmer than anything you’ve felt in a long time. A quality of comfortable, penetrating heat that sinks into your nape and slowly works to defrost your marrow, your limbs, the icy film clinging to your brain. Your eyes roll shut almost instantaneously, body slumping forward to sink into his chest. Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, where the relief of warmth has not yet reached, you worry that he’ll push you off. 

He does not. 

Instead, his other hand slips under your fleece and tunic, smoothing over the knots of your spine to reach between your shoulder blades. There, his heat sinks to swathe your chest, and the weakly heart somehow managing to do its job, pumping blood that tickles your toes and fingertips. It drips down to your tummy too, where it weighs heavy like a tangible mass, and brings your pulse to the bud between your legs.

His touch there doesn’t last long; he pulls away only moments later, a tightness newly lifted off your sternum. One hand still kneads your nape, effectively keeping your face against his broad shoulder, but the other moves to collect your slack wrists together. It strikes you as unusual, sure, yet you’ve since surrendered your inhibitions for sake of survival. A cavewoman tradeoff. Your body purrs at the satisfaction of your baser instincts, happy to resort to this primitive state of impartiality, if only it means you’ll stay snug throughout the winter. 

Yes. If anyone were to ask you right then, you would have seen it as not only plausible but entirely necessary to stay like this for the months to come. Sated and secure and just a hint impassioned, content to doze off on the lap of your tormentor. Already halfway there, lashes fluttering as you battle complete oblivion. 

Only that isn’t what Ghost has in store, and he seems eager to break the illusion you hold in such high regard. 

He releases your neck, guiding you to sit upright upon his tree-trunk thighs. When you object by reaching for his hands again, you find that your own are securely fixed behind your back. Completely immobilised. 

Sensation slowly trickles back to you. Once numb, your skin now comes alive with frayed nerve endings, crackling, hair standing on its ends. What you find, alarmingly, is your place within a twisted example of the lesson Ghost has been attempting to teach. The lightness on your sternum not as metaphorical as you had assumed – rather, the bandages binding your breasts have been unwrapped to treacherously hitch your wrists together. The rough fabric excoriates the surface of your forearms. 

Your breathing accelerates. If you’d been freezing before, you’re thoroughly iced now. Shock races through your system and persecutes everything that lulled you into this position. Stupid, stupid, stu–

“Ghost.” You hiss. “Ghost. This is-isn’t funny.”

He doesn’t respond, rolling your top to reveal the soft stretch of your navel. It involuntarily retracts when he flits over your belly button, dodging the unwelcome spread of his fingers. Your body's way of protesting, for all you lean into his touch. Too tempting not to, really. Something in him burns; perhaps a furnace in place of his heart, or a piece of hell he takes with him wherever he goes. 

That primitive voice grows louder, whispering deceptively in your ear that it’s fine, let him touch you. So long as you stay warm. 

You shake your head as if to jerk the instinct off your crown. Lips pursed tight now, the hand on your belly slowly climbing up. Up. 

“Stop it. Stop this, I d-don’t want it.” 

“I know.” He says, pressing his thumb into your waist. It digs until it hits a rib, tenderising muscle. You’re a lamb on a spit, spun slowly, roasted over an open flame. How silly of you to lean into the burn. Short-sighted to decide that it’s better than the cruel press of winter. You’ll be eaten like this. 

“Then g-get the fuck off me!” You yelp, swaying on your haunches in a bid to knock yourself off his lap. Your arms are useless, but that does not mean you cannot fight. “I order you!”

That pulls a laugh from him. Or, what sounds like a laugh. As with everything, it’s his estimate of a human one, like the cicada mimics the bird; not as melodic, rather striking you with disgust so potent you feel your nausea reawakening. You might just hurl.

“And wha’ will I be granted in return? Nothin’ you have that’ll convince me to unhand you, pet.” Ghost rucks your tunic to your shoulders at last, exposing your bare breasts to bitter air. Though he gives them no time to pebble up, large paws enveloping both mounds and squeezing until your breath syphons from your lungs. “Haven’ seen a pair of tits in decades. Suppose you humans do have somethin’ going for you.” 

Your words startle in your throat. Nothing about it is pleasurable, nor does he intend for it to be. His fingers take your nipples; rolling, tugging, pinching. Nails dig crescent cuts into the darkened skin there, perhaps searching for blood. He certainly treats it as though blood is the aim, and you wonder whether you’re to be hung from your bust to drain onto his waiting tongue. Just as one might press olives, no care for their pulpy bodies but only the rich oil they produce. Grease to slick their pans, to moisten their mouths. 

You’ll be eaten like this.

“Stop, please.” 

“Wonder what y’would look like plump with milk. Nursing my litter, rounded out with another dozen.” He sucks his teeth, contemplative. “Body wouldn’t handle it, f’you ask me. Stronger women than you ‘ave tried.”

Have. It hurts to think about. Hurts more when the insult of his words truly resonates. Stronger women. That is to say you have been exiled for nothing. That with a year of solitude and occult practice, you are just as feeble as before. Is this why he ate your crow? To prove to you that he could? 

The tide pushes back out. In a great swell of loam and brine, your hatred crashes vengefully onshore. You muster all of it, dipping pails into the water and letting it weigh heavy on your shoulders. It is almost negligible, you find. You scarcely feel its burden when fuelled by a focused point to your antipathy. Your teeth stop chattering. You glare daggers. 

“Let me go.” 

Your final plea rolls over him like all the ones before it. “But you’re a witch, aren’t ya? Brew up a little elixir to pull yourself through the whelping. Maybe then you’ll realise how much you long to stay alive.” 

Your neck snaps back. Before you can think it through, you thrust your head towards his face. There’s a crunch, a dizzying moment of choked silence, then a hot burst of moisture down your face. For a naive moment, you think you must have struck gold. You imagine drawing back to find his mask sticky with blood, or tar, or whatever demons have thrumming through their veins. A raw testament to your resolve, if he should ever underestimate it again. 

But the mirage is as naive as your mother. Eventually the pain catches up to you. You realise the iron-tang at the back of your throat is not the dreg of satisfaction. The tears slipping past your lashes no longer wrought from misery. Everything, rather, an immediate response to the sore condition of your nose. Misshapen and swelling already.

Ghost hums. You hoped to see him grovelling in pain by now. The battered expectation somehow makes his condescension worse. 

“Good to see y’find your spirit,” His head tilts, bullying yours into remaining still, fingers knitted firmly in your hair. “but it’s misplaced.” 

Given his derision, you know not to rejoice when his other hand leaves your chest. Your shirt slumps lamely back over your figure as he lifts the edges of his mask, folding it over his mouth. In the dark, it’s difficult to map the nuances of his exposed jowls. There’s a pale curve there, a disfigured line here. Your sinuses twinge when your stare narrows, cutting through murk to place the shape of his lips. 

It’s futile. You have no way to jam the gaps; no way of knowing whether he’s all man, all demon, or a foul mix of the two. 

The one thing that glimmers with definition is the string of spit when he unlatches his jaw, long tongue striking like a wound-tight cobra. You would flinch if you could, eyes pruning shut, but his grip keeps you steady in place as he laves a forceful path up your chin. Tasting the metallic leak of blood, all the way up to its source. 

You see it coming. Still, you can’t help but scream when he works his tongue around your nose. Loosed bones shift under your skin, steadiness fractured, cartilage support dipping inwards against the assault. He groans, and in spite of your impaired sense of smell, you get a whiff of rot-hot breath. It must all be a terrible dream, you think. The hardened muscle pressing against your inner thighs, the viscous web of saliva stretched across your face. It’s cold and you’re sweaty, and everything about the past month – the past year – seems like it has been especially curated to torment you. You would wake from this any second.

He gathers the salty drips off your eyes, the blood, every grief coating your skin. Agony blinds you – so profound it takes shape, colour. You squirm in your binds, ragged shrieks ripping from your throat. 

It echoes even after he breaks away. If it weren’t for the sudden coolness of spit drying within your cupid’s bow, you would think he was still making a feast of you. 

“Tha’ got you to settle, hm?” 

You shake your head, exhausted. “You said–” 

“I said fight, or die.” He huffs. You let silence swathe your lips, pursing them as thin as you can manage without exacerbating your injury. “Yer fighting to die, pet.”

“I just want to be left alone.” 

“‘N’ what d’you think will come of that?” 

“It shouldn’t m-matter.” Your conviction sound hollow when spoken aloud. If he hears it, he uses it as an incentive to strip your top back over your chest. Like a hot wire pushed through your ribcage, his warm hands toast you from the outside in. It is in your best interest not to shiver in delight; though you are still dreadfully cold, and your injury makes it difficult to pigeonhole any alleviation to your pain. “You can’t-t-t defile me on the grounds of greater good.” 

Ghost laughs again. “Ain’ pretending this is for the greater good, pet. The world will thank me if one more witch freezes to ‘er death.” You’re yanked further up his lap. “I let you go, you’ve got four, five hours tops ‘till your heart fails. You wan’ to live?”

You shake your head, fervent tremors batting your pout. A nonanswer seems the only manner of resistance, now. “Not like this.” 

“Clever. Tha’ still tells me you do.” He pinches the knotted peaks of your breasts, twisting until you buck wretchedly onto his pelvis. “And I wan’ to spend my evenin’ playing with your tits. A fair compromise, then.” 

What sort of familiar makes the demands? You contemplate berating him out loud, lunging for the dirty insult to beat at his status like he did yours. With no room for taking the high ground, you will do anything so long as you can later say you bared your claws. So you do not wonder, for countless sleepless nights, if there was something more you should have done. You will be mean. You will go low. You will condemn him to a fate of eternal dissatisfaction, so that no matter how much he eats or kills or takes, he will always feel his stomach a gnawing pit. 

Though something tells you he will not succumb to scrutiny against his honour. There is no code for creatures like him, who floss their teeth with crow meat and pluck the nipples of girls who grant them shelter. Nothing to hold them to expect the conditions of their summons.

Perhaps that’s just it.

You stir. It feels much like magic, when an incantation rolls off the tongue just right and the air shifts to accommodate it. Your heart vibrates behind your sternum, power bloating your veins, ricocheting within your skin. If Ghost feels it, he doesn’t falter.

“Be sure, demon.” You rasp, drawing your intent taut in your chest like a bowstring. He hums but does not stop, kneading your flesh to conform to the creases and calluses of his hands. “Be sure that’s what you want. I could give in without further fuss and be like a docile rabbit on your lap. That way, you will have taken two things from me tonight.” 

The liquid of his eyes shifts quick. You catch its gleam in the little light, and it pleases you enough to deliver the rest of your covenant.  

“By the spell that brought you here, you are bound to do what I sacrifice for.” You pause a moment. “In exchange for the blood you have ingested off my face, you will dig this house out of the snow. And for my virtue, this one evening allowance of which you have already taken upon yourself, you will collect my firewood until the season clears.” 

Ghost makes an indiscernible noise from underneath. You can not tell if he is peeved or pleased, and the ambiguity shakes you. You expected some sort of acknowledgment or counter to your trick. Instead, he does not speak on it. No pitch or complaint, protest or taunt. 

He just sits there, pawing at your chest like a satiated dog. 

(And come morning, when your breasts are raw and tender to the touch, he tunnels the snow around your cottage and returns hours later with a hundred cedar logs for the kindling.)

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈

She prefers him in the daylight

Sun floods her little home when it rises and keeps it bright until it sets. Whereas the dark plays tricks on mortal eyes, oil lamps flickering, casting shadows that always resemble something else. She likes training an eye on what he does in his usual corner; but come night, she can’t trust what she sees. Thus, her confidence strains. She flinches at every sound. Any movement will have her tucking deeper under her quilt. His empty-eyed stare glows more sinister, if anything is to be assumed by the way she will crack her grimoire open and mouth protective spells like prayers.

Perhaps she’s afraid she caused offence, that he mulls over a punishment to teach her not to make a fool of him again. Perhaps it plagues her that she cannot stop him if that is the case. He does not tell her that, already, the worst possible thing that can confront her has. Though of course she isn’t privy to it, it’s been a month since he decided against making a meal of her. Everything he does now is moderate in comparison. He’s being good. 

Good, yes. In the evenings, he will venture out to do her bidding. The timing grants her a few hours rest, then, and him an opportunity to hunt for his dinner. 

Good, because he waits until he’s a mile out to transform to his truer self. It is easier to strip trees of their branches and snap their spines when he stands over two metres tall. Not so easy to mend the fragile tolerance she’s gained for him, which is sure to shatter if she catches sight of his monstrosity. He eludes the possibility entirely, then. 

Good, because Ghost refrains from agitating her more than he already has. And his intention in doing so does not change that decency. 

That is to say, he hasn’t grown a heart. He does not care for the girl. But the passivity that necessitated his savagery has since come to pass. She’s grown claws. She fights for her say and punches through life with guile. Any more and he would be faulting her for it, like burning the meat he tumbled through mud to slaughter. It is down to him to take it off the roast, now, to revel in the succulent bite. He’s got her right where he wants her.  

With some brief tampering on his part – laying out the temptation like a breadcrumb trail into the woods – she broke her invisible vow not to ask him for anything. Has it not made her life that much simpler? Her hearth burns bright and warm everyday; she does not have to worry about keeping it lit for the remnants of winter. He picks cedar for its aroma, it's even char, and she would not have access to that if it weren’t for his ability to tackle the sturdy tree. All it took was her debauchment, the vitiating of character to match his. 

(And really, how debauched was it if she only endured his groping for one night?)

It isn’t too much to want, he thinks. 

She thinks so too. Or otherwise decides it's worth the risk. 

It is late into the evening and his dinner sits fresh in his belly, fire chewing away at the split logs he emptied into the pit earlier. The air is thick with cloying cedar and the mephitic scent of potion-brewing, his pet crouched over a bubbling pot. She has been at it for hours, the same nightly routine since she broke her nose. Tadpoles and feverfew and sage, chanterelle and wishbone and sand. Stirred, brought to a boil, thickened with spit. Then scooped out and smothered over her sore face. A modest poultice, turned cast, to help her mend correctly over weeks.

He wonders if she considered bothering him to heal her. He certainly can. But it appears as though she enjoys keeping her hands busy. Toiling through time, grinding away like water does the earth. In the aeons he’s been around, he’s seen mountains chipped away, rocks change shape, rivers bend over time – and it is always the same eternal petulance. Stubborn mediocrity built into something larger. Endurance over brute force. He doesn’t pretend to understand it, but he can recognise a reflection of it in her craft. 

But she is not eternal. Every mortal has their limits. 

Ghost sees the iron grow filigree in her eyes, calculations imprinting onto her resolve. When she stands and turns to him, he almost expects it. The past quarter hour has built up to this ambitious ask, whatever it may be, and he’s mapped every battle she’s held within herself over the course of it. She does not want like he does. It is only extraneous circumstance that would lead her to his service. 

“I started it later than I usually do.” She mumbles, lips twisting like maggots. The hollows under her eyes are prominent, both exhaustion and hunger trimming her down to a sorry state. “I need sleep, but this can’t be heated beyond a boil.”

His cock chubs up in his trousers, aching as an array of possibilities occur to him in that second. Would he split her cunt on his fingers? Would he make her set it down atop his tongue? Her skirt leaves much to the imagination, but he imagines it bright and faithful in his head. Darker on the outside than in, glazed with pellucid slick, and shrouded in a matting of hair. The thought alone funnels salivate to the underside of his tongue. 

He meets her eye, shoulders curving inward, poised to pounce. 

Then, her brow spasms, and the wolfish instinct unravels as fast as it materialises. 

No. He cannot push it too far, not when she asks for something so little. It took all her energy to come to him now. She will never consider it again if he exploits that beyond equal measure. 

So, Ghost stands, stalking over to the cauldron and his pet. He often forgets how small she is until she cranes her neck to look up at him, all owlish blinks and delicate fingers latticed together, anxious for his response. 

“I’ll wake you.” He says. The tension in her forehead ebbs immediately, eyelids sagging now that he confirmed her ingredients will not waste. Though she doesn’t move, and he makes her stand there until he determines on an appropriate return. 

Moments later, he wraps an arm around her. His hand finds the jut in her skirt, where it protrudes to lap over her arse, and squeezes around the fat of one cheek. Even with the layers separating them, she is supple like softened butter. She makes a sound like a trapped mouse, jumping to the balls of her feet. The noise doesn’t deter him; he holds it there until he’s satisfied his grip will bruise. 

“There we are.” When he releases her, she stumbles backwards to find her bearings against the cool press of the wall. Puts a safe distance between them. Yet her stunned silence is intoxicating, and he has to actively suppress the gluttonous urge for more. Nothing is sacred when he gets like this. “That’s us even, then.” 

She nods. It is a wonder she manages to sleep at all.

(Unfortunate that the potion to heal her broken nose steals stock from her kitchen shelves. Day by day, he’s watched her sacrifice her fungi and herbs to the cauldron, prioritising recovery over sustenance. Unfortunate that she is still unable to go out for more. The winter whips cruel and merciless winds for anyone who dares step out into its storm.

Unfortunate. But not moving enough. 

It is intentional silence on his part, then. For the day will come where she opens her cupboards to eat and finds them lined with dust.

And on that day, he will be there.) 

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈𝐈

Ghost takes his meals outside. 

That is, when he comes back lugging a dead beast and a tree behind him. You’ll watch from the window as he places the latter to the side, sinking to his knees to feast on whatever he caught that day. It always varies: hares, owls, rodents. An elk if he’s lucky. Today, it is a fox. 

Your heart knots with pity, mourning for the mammal who cannot grieve itself. Eyes blank and jaw swung open. Its fur, which typically strikes as a vivid red, can only look dull when set by the blood it leaves in its trail, tangled in the entrails bursting from its belly. The demon never minds the hair, nor the carnage. He balances on his haunches and pulls his mask up, sinking his teeth into the softest parts of his spoils. 

Though no one holds you to the frosted glass – chanting look, you have to look – you insist on bearing witness. The gore never grows easier to behold; everytime, it is the same revulsion that stews nausea at the sight. But you sit and suffer it anyway. If anyone were to ask you why, you would be hard-pressed to find an answer. 

Perhaps it is to build a tolerance for nature’s brutality. Ghost’s lesson with your crow has carved an irreplicable torment within you, revealing the jeopardy you face should you continue down your meek path. Exposure therapy is good justification, then, when your personal improvement thus far has only wrought merit. Your magic begets greater effect. You feel your self-possession flourish your spirit. Even your familiar has staved off the trouble, and you can not ask for a greater success.  

But that does not capture the core of the matter. Perhaps that is to be found in him, instead.

Because when Ghost eats, his visage will fluctuate. You do not think it is something he’s mindful of. None of it looks intentional – he does not bid whetted talons or teeth, features that would aid him in gutting the fox. Rather, they appear like fish beneath a rippling brook. Swift, transient flashes of another form. 

He sucks down an intestine, and his burly legs stretch so the joints are equidistant. They snap backwards, digitigrade heels extending, before you blink and they’re human once more.

He laps at a puddle of blood, and his mask parts to reveal two ivory prongs that steadily grow from his head. They curl, winding around his temples as ram horns do, only to disappear as your arid eyes burn. 

He tears into cartilage, and his exposed skin flakes like charred wood. The liver; his torso extends and thins. The brain; his breath condenses to black ash, as yours would ghostly vapour in cold air. None of it permanent. All of it haunting. 

The first time you saw it, you chalked it up to phantasm. Lack of sleep, insufficient nutrition. Searching for monstrosity that would better connect to the horror unfurling before you. So you set out to observe. Incessantly. Again and again and again – validating what you saw, though you received confirmation upon the second instance long ago. Sure enough, each day he reveals different parts to a whole. Excrescent spines and lofty feet. Things that have been urging for a spot in the sun, pressing under his skin. 

It’s the nesting doll all over again. Little matryoshka faces, each opening to reveal a smaller version of itself within. If you are the innermost one, then Ghost is the sisyphean effort to close them over each other in descending order. Unfeasible. Too large to comfortably remain within his confines. The wood will eventually snap in your struggle, and all the painted pieces will scatter across the floor. 

(You remember him just then. Craggy charm and blue eyes. Crafty hand – the same to restore your mother’s staircase – whittling the doll when you suggested he couldn’t. He wore a cross no matter the day, a habit of his father’s doing, and the silver pendant would sway with the paring motion of his hands. Lustrous against tanned skin. No doubt forged by him, too.

He used to call you macabre. Though it was footling fun at the time, you can’t help but grasp at what he meant as you track the steaming slaughter outside.)

“Do you like it?”

Water rushes into a tin basin, its metallic clang a forceful, echoing percussion. The noise is insufferable, grating on your ears, but you would rather it than have Ghost tow the pungent smell of death into your home. With his back turned to you, he washes his hands and mouth of dinner’s remnants, faucet spitting frigid reserves into the kitchen sink. 

His head twists a fraction, pupils coasting to assess you in his peripheral. Small talk is not commonplace. In the weeks you have coexisted, you can count your conversations on both hands. They always seem to prefer the path of internal dissection instead, judgments flung at one another through glares and body language and not much else. 

“Be more specific.” He grunts, facing his task again. From your place on the couch, you can see the way he picks his nails for stubborn shreds of fat. 

“Fox.”

A sliver of pale skin, bared where his mask ends at his nape, twitches. “No.” 

“Why not?” 

“Ammonic. Greasy. Tough all ‘round. Slippery little fucks, too.” His voice is softer when he isn’t being caustic. Skipping over enunciations, the typical rumble in his chest quieted to a hum. “There are easier, more rewardin’ meals.” 

You imagine what he may be referring to. Of every creature on this earth, only one does not have the benefit of evasion. Predators are sheltered by hierarchical canopies, demons like Ghost so powerful that they do not have to watch their backs. Birds of prey have their wings, fish their slippery scales. Even deer – slender and pregnable – are granted fleet-footed instincts rivalled only by the Pantheon’s messenger himself. It is only you, human, that is condemned to spindling, slow inelegance. Perhaps it is why so many are intellectuals, worshipers, terrors – why you yourself are a witch, sapping nature for her wares of which you do not come by naturally. That is the way things turn. Assuming the offensive to offset one’s shortcomings.

And turn back again; your effort has only imperilled you further. There is a cannibal, a monster, a man inside of your home. And you beckoned him here. 

Even as the revelation occurs to you, you can’t stave your ambition. Of course you do not parley with Ghost for the sake of it. There is nothing this new knowledge grants. But since he left to do his day’s errands, your stomach has made its presence known. Opening up like an early grave, emptiness gnarled beneath a soil bed as with roots of a tombstone tree. Every moment, every word, you are reminded of its cavity. Too long, it says, you’ve ignored the pangs of hunger that seized this trench in an iron fist. Priorities, you would reply, as you surrendered food to brew your poultice. And so your nose is healed, great, but your shelves are empty and your head is faint. Hunger surplants the cold as your imminent killer.

“My mum taught me how to fix a good stew.” You begin, rolling your sticky tongue and tucking both hands beneath your bottom, cautious not to set this mousetrap off yourself. The pressure is grounding, at least; you match your breathing to the pulse you feel in your fingertips. “I trust it would be better than raw meat.”

A pause. Ghost’s spine straightens. Then, a panic. You’re thrown off your conviction when your chest flutters and you feel it in your brain. Where is that wily being? The woman who cheated her familiar into a season’s worth of labour? You feel as though you have regressed; screeching infant, lungs flaring with a rush of new air. You cannot face this, you think, but you’re already halfway out into the world. The sink squeaks off. 

You just pray your stomach doesn’t make noise in the new silence. 

“Is tha’ so?” He says, though does not turn to look at you just yet. 

“I could try.” The words bubble like bile in your throat. It is in your best interest to stay quiet. Say no more. He’s being ambiguous so you will reveal too much in turn. The game is transparent. You can see the water-worn rocks on the river bed, so clear it’s like they’re clasped between your hands instead. Yet– “If I had the ingredients for it, ‘course.” 

There. The lip of the cliff. How odd of you to see it only as you plummet towards a frothy scree. Ghost snaps, live lightning in heated air, or otherwise like the rocks that impale you on landing. In two strides, you’re cornered by a creature with scorn harrowing the space between its brows. You were stupid not to plan an escape route, stupid to arm yourself with nothing but flimsy subtlety. There was always the risk of it coming to this, you knew that. 

“You think y’can rummage for loopholes, hm?” He leers, eyes searing holes into yours. “A trick is only charmin’ on the first go, pet. More than once and y’start to stink of stale piss.” 

“I don’t–” 

He snatches your jaw, thumb and ring fingers digging an aching grip onto either side. Your protest warbles pathetically, dies, chokes you with its rot. It’s difficult, no– impossible to decipher what he's mad at. A small, fresh part of you actually hoped he’d see your cunning as artful. But it seems your station has come back to haunt you; another mortal whose brain cannot keep up with her heart. Even if one is in the right place, you will go about chasing it in the wrong direction. Artful is too shiny of a laurel, then. Trick, too, is being charitable 

“Do not play coy with me, girl. I do not take kindly to underhand deals.” Snarled right above you, spit spattering across your face. Your mandible squeaks, bone-deep pain flaring where he tightens the pressure around your face. Fox blood flavours his breath. There is a ringing in your head – shrill, like water in the tin sink. “If you need something from me, you will admit it and cope with the terms I have in turn.”

“I-I’m sorr-eeeee.” Your apology wheezes thin when he thrashes your head in place. It is either that or the relentless force on your jaw that tears a new world of pain down your neck. The tears are reactionary, then. Hot and foggy and not at all a sign of fear. “Ah- I’m sorry! I won’t– I didn’t mean to offend y-you.” 

“S’too fuckin’ late for that. You’ll follow through, before I take wha’ I want anyway.” He shakes his head. “Ask nicely for what y’need then, pet. Go on.” 

“Nothing! Nothing anymore, please. Jus’ let me go, Ghost.” Perhaps the universe disdains your insincerity, because in a hand dealt by its inexorable irony, your stomach buckles and purls a foul sound. Like it heard your words and protests the withdrawal, gurgling out loud to whoever will address it instead. 

And he does. He does. 

“You’re hungry, hm? That it?” He shoves your limp body onto the floor, dismissive of the pleas you now regulate to your feet, thrashed wildly to strike at his shin. Everything he does is callous, mean, agitated like the sulphur and magma that run thick beneath the earth’s crust. And though it is not your first encounter with a creature of that ilk – you have had your run-ins with over-excited men – the intentionality behind it has never been more flagrant. Ghost does it to hurt you. “Yeah, been neglecting you, haven’ I? Forgot pets couldn’ feed themselves.”  

“I’w scrounge somefing up mysef.” You struggle, speech impeded as he crushes your cheeks inwards. Pearl dust flakes your gums. 

“Should ‘ave thought of tha’ before. Even if I end up breakin’ every bone in that fine skull of yours, I won’t let up. Say it, then, you daft thing.” 

The scaling of your options is instantaneous. Even as your immediate conscious lags behind, activity lights the back of your head and cracks its way out of your mouth before you can catch it. It took weeks for your nose to heal, much less your skull. You’re consuming fuel quicker than you can replenish, running on a backlog of quick-burning fat. And all of it can be taken care of if you just give in, to what will likely only be a few hours of degradation. 

(Cavewoman. Primordial. Primitive impartiality, or survival of the fittest. The world has only come so far since then, and even within its concentrated civilizations, there is no aegis but for those who come up on top. You cannot expect your liberties to be met anywhere. That, you know too well.

But here, in this feral forest, at least you can use the violation to your benefit. At the very least, you will not be exiled, cast as witch for taboo of saying the greater word. 

You are already macerated on rock bottom. And at the barren abyss of all leasts, Ghost will not hang a cross pendant above you as he stomps it in.)

He must see the surrender wet your eyes, for the grip on your jaw lessens. 

“I am hungry.” You cry, finally, lashes fluttering shut so as to guard your tears. “I am hungry. This winter has dashed my garden and I do not know how to hunt. The cushions jab into my ribs when I sleep. I feel as though my stomach will consume me from the inside out, and I’m desperate. I am desperate, and I am so, so hungry. And I am asking for your help. Please.” 

If there was any part of you that still believed he would choose pity, it is muffled and killed. You hear the scratch of fabric as he undoes his pants. Final, failing. Rustled hand behind confines, stench of musk stiffening the air. For a few seconds, you opt to remain blissfully ignorant – keep your eyes closed and imagine that the presence before your face is something different. A purifying flame, tender cut of meat, a smiling face before things fell downhill. It all sounds too good to be true, and they are. Sooner or later, you tell yourself, you have to face the misery. 

So, you force yourself to behold it before he takes that upon himself. 

His cock is heavy. Fat and oversized, length not having suffered for its breadth. Ruddy where the head peaks from an uncut tip, hard already, but bowed under the weight of itself. If you had anything to expel, you would’ve done so by now. A thicket of hair fledges his groyne – a shade of dark that pales his scarred skin in comparison – and it reeks of sweat and miasma. 

He taps it on your cheek, prespend sticky and warm. You flinch as though you have been beaten. 

“Just one thing af’er the other with you, pet. Think this’ll give y’something to fix yourself on.” 

“I don’t– I’ve never–” His thumb hooks over your bottom teeth, prying your trap as wide as it can go. Drool slicks the cracked hinges of your lips. “Don’ know how.”

“Not what I’m lookin’ for.” He purrs, cruel humour gracing his tone. Somehow, it is not a reassurance as much as it is a snub. “Jus’ keep your teeth out of the way.” Humiliation washes your neck and ears, rush of blood like white river rapids behind your ears. It is the final swatch, trumpet to armageddon, before your ruin. You suck in a breath and bring your mouth to him.

Ghost meets you halfway, treating the crown of your head as an anchor to thrust forward. Immediately, you let slip his only rule, teeth snapping reflexively at the intrusion. You expect to be backhanded, have your hair ripped from your scalp in relation, or worse. It is a relief, then, when the only force you receive is a knock against your jaw. The rapping shakes your cotton-lined skull, snaps you out of your stupefaction, and you slack all muscles to accommodate his demand.

The mass feeding down your throat vibrates, an appreciative hum coursing through his body. “There you are, little jezebel. Look a’ you takin’ my cock so well.” 

You make no effort to glide your tongue along his veins. To make this pleasurable for him beyond what he takes for himself. True to his word, your familiar does not punish you for it. He knots his hands around your head and fucks your face, careless, cock rearranging the anatomy of your neck as it bludgeons a straight path down. You sway, ragdoll with the motions, knees rubbing abrasively across the floor as he slides you back and forth over it. 

Hypoxia spots your vision, lungs clenching furiously at the obstructed flow of oxygen. You would fasten it all shut, close yourself off from the world, but your eyes bulge a little at the edges, stagnant blood keeping them arid and open. It’s hard to dissociate. Hard to pretend that the steel-wool friction at the tip of your nose, the pendulum-consistent slaps on your chin, are not his pubic hair and balls searing unmistakable marks on your skin. And your series of gags are sloppy, lewd out in the confined air of your home. How could they be anything but damnation? There is no deluding the Maker. 

(No matter how fervently he tried. Marry me, proposed down on both knees. It’ll set this whole fankle right. We’ll hold hands an’ seek penance at the kirk before th’ceremony. My pa will officiate. Yer ma will be thrilled.)

Snot bubbles from your nose, cheeks slick with tears and wayward spit. When he batters forward, it amalgamates in the soft palate beneath your spasming tongue. When he draws out, he takes it with him, viscous strings of saliva bridging the gap. It streams down to your neck, glosses your lips, webs your lashes together. You feel buried beneath its stifling coat, set down into your grave at last. Maggots worm their way into the soft matter of your brain, eat away at the tissue until there’s nothing left but suffocation. Death. Throttling void. 

Your hands flail out, seeking an end to it, but all you find is Ghost.

He slows down once he nears his end. 

The bruising pace he set stutters, balls tightening against your submental. It catches you off guard because, for the past ten minutes, you accustomed yourself to the patterns of his push and pull. For every plunge, there is a retreat, where you will greedily feast on fresh air before being choked back down on his cock. It is a break of tide, an opportunity to paddle your way above water to clear sea-salt from your hollows. A bay to hold onto so you do not drown.

Until now; his forearms twitch and you’re kept in place, forehead squashed onto his mons. You panic, hold on your breath breaking. The heady scent of sweat sweeps over you, laced with the tart products of your mouth – saliva and blood from where your canine pierced your cheek. Prespend, too. The undiluted stink of him. Hair tickles your lips. Your cunt flares, sudden, slickening the chafe of your thighs, but the unwelcome arousal does nothing for you. 

He holds your head down and spurts his load into your gullet. 

There is no room to swallow. It goes in the wrong direction, then – upward – and out your nose. You squeeze your eyes shut, disgusted scream gargling around his throbbing appendage. Distress bloats your head, temples feverish and sweating, nails digging deep impressions into your palms. It’s futile. Useless. Nothing thwarts him but the last dregs of semen spitting out onto your tonsils, pumping himself dry until finally, finally–

Ghost pulls out. You collapse onto the carpet and hack up cum until your throat bleeds. 

The silence afterwards is mortifying, tension palpable enough to writhe up against. Drained, you’ve since pressed your cheek into the puddle of filth, urging pearlescent spend to seep into the fibres below. It'll be a nightmare to clean later, you process slowly. Perhaps you’ll use the bleach, and take the same sponge to your lips.

The monster above you tuts at the display, crouching to your level when you exhibit no interest in rising to his.  

“C’mon, sweet. Wouldn’t want to waste your dinner now.” 

But you’re too weak to lift your head. So Ghost gathers your hair, puppeteering – in a manner rather gentle for your assailant – until you can lap his essence off the floor. 

It tastes like raw venison. You snivel your thanks, and imagine it is exactly that.

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[cherryspicest]

Silent Desires

BLACKPINK Rosé x Male Reader 13.6k words

It took quite a long time before I managed to finish this. Kinda struggled with the smut part since I'm not really used on writing one and it was my first time. Of course, still learning.

Was also kinda lazy to proofread it since I have no much time left to do it. PC monitor is broken as well.

The house perfectly matched what you imagined back in Indonesia: two stories painted in blue, and visible wood planks on walls. That one alone window on the second floor must be your bedroom. It had curtains so you thought it might be. Black water filled the canals below and it stretched up to four blocks from your right. It wasn’t smelly, but sure was dirty. 

The driver helped carry boxes containing your stuff from home, some were heavy and not, and those light ones were under your carry. When you asked him to place it at the front door, he refused and insisted on placing it inside the living room instead. He was taller than you, a visible look of a state man on his face. Usually they’d wear red caps during work like what TV shows would portray. 

Amid work, you saw the neighbor on your right took out a black garbage plastic that was twice the size of her width, and she struggled to carry it inside the garbage can. She was slender, had her hair dyed whitish purple, and a hint of Asian in her eyes. She wore a white top with thin black sleeves covering her arms, and denim shorts that exposed her pretty legs. They were mesmerizing. But you didn’t want to look like a creep either. Seeing her glance at you, you waved your hands. Hoping for atleast a smile or a wave back, you didn’t get one. She chose to ignore your greeting as she headed back to her house. Maybe she was blind or her eyes were blurred, so you didn’t take that bad too much. But the feeling of rejection still hits you like a train. 

When all boxes were brought inside, the driver returned to his van and waved goodbye before pulling off. Took hours before every item from each box was pulled out, fixed in places and corners. Most furniture was made in tarnished wood. They were elegant.

The sun had started to set, you could see it by the orange clouds and vibrant violet skies outside your window. It was your first sunset in Canada and you loved the scenery. They seemed like perfect wallpapers you'd see on the Internet. 

You stepped outside for fresh air and saw the girl at the right house once again. She sat on the doorway stairs, shading below the black roof. She must’ve not seen your greeting awhile ago, it must’ve been an unintentional ignore. You were shy, everyone would do, but in fear of being a loner you chose to overcome it.

A grass field separates your houses, but only a few steps, like thirty or thirty five steps from yours. She kept her composure and watched your presence coming to her property, a toothpick in her mouth. Her eyes behind those specs remained unwelcoming and a lingering bitchiness within. 

“Hey there um. . . I’m your new neighbor by the way on your left so I guess it wouldn’t be bad if I introduce myself to you aye?” You began, keeping your tone calm and friendly. Behind you were nervous and shy.

She played with the toothpick with her tongue, moving it from the left to right corner of her mouth. Her eyes gazed into yours and there was silence for seconds. When you tried to talk again, she interrupted you.

“Too bad for you I don’t talk to strangers” She answered with an Australian accent, so she must be an Aussie.

“I mean like at least-“

“I don’t . . . Talk to strangers.” She stood up. She was slightly smaller than you, but she had the height. Walking slowly towards you, you began to step back. “Do I have to repeat it again to you Mister? I don’t have time for these corny things. If you’re a new bird here, keep it that way as long as you don’t bother me.”

“Alright chill” You raised both palms. “I’m sorry for disturbing you Ma’am.”

You began to walk away while she kept her eyes at you, standing firmly, watching you disappear on her property. You must’ve been so lucky to stumble upon a kind of person on your first day. They said Canadians are welcoming and appreciative, but it seemed it was all a scam. 

It was a slight struggle to forget that interaction, but soon you’ve moved on. Days continued with cleaning and adjusting to the new surroundings. The town near the village had good amenities and stores to buy goods from, and you realized the currency seemed low, then you also remembered it’s pricey when converted into your currency.

 Each day you’d walk past her house, you can’t resist looking for her presence. She was pretty, everyone would agree, some might not, but in your eyes she was, though her attitude said otherwise. 

Days continued with no interaction with the neighborhood. A day later it was time for the first day of class. You jumbled through your closet, finding your best outfit. You wore a simple black oversized T-shirt and cargo pants, like your usual outfit when going out on malls with your parents. But it was a weird feeling to wear civilian clothes on normal days of school. In your country they’d require you to wear a uniform in some cases.

The university looked like an old British house. The walls were made in bricks, and pillars were carved in vertical strips, colored in white gloss paint, that held up much of the entrance shade. Students walk past you. They were tall; it was expected.

The first subject was Science, and it took minutes before you could’ve reached your classroom. You had to ask some professors for the room direction, told you to walk 2 floors above, then turn right, saying you’d see a cone bush at the front of the door; which was on the corner near it. As you entered the classroom, you sat on the seat near the window, third row from the blackboard. Shelves stood at the back most of the classroom. Frames of old looking people hanging on the side walls with their names below of their faces. ‘Jonathan’ if you had read some of their names correctly.

It all started with introductions and knowing each other. Some were old students so they had formed a bond already. Learning you were from Asia, they seemed surprised. When you returned to your seat, someone had already sat beside you. His name was James when you asked. He was friendly, his vibe was cool enough to make you feel comfortable to talk. 

During break, he had opened up most of the happenings around the school, and some students you need to avoid stumbling into. Sounded like a cliche school scenario, but it’s the states. Three women walked over the corridor, catching most of the students eyes around the area, even the both of you.

“Who are those? They look Asian.”

“Like you, yes” James continued. “That’s Lisa, Jisoo, and Jennie. One of the popular girls around the campus, obviously. All of them were sophomores.” 

“So they are Asian?”

“I just said it a second ago.” He glanced at you. “There used to be four, until that issue happened. She goddamn disappeared like a rat from a cat.” 

“You know what happened?”

“I don’t know man, I ain’t touching other’s shit. But I’ll tell you, she’s hella pretty. That Australian ‘yaur’ and ‘wotah’ would make you impressed if you’ve only reached that time when she was here.” 

Once they disappeared on your sights, you both continued your way back to the classroom. 

You thought everything seemed to flow smoothly, until you met this group of boys who had entered the classroom late. They didn’t approach nor face you, but the way they gave you those eyes was enough for you to understand; not friendly. You didn’t mind and pretended they didn’t exist.  Few hours had passed, Monday class had come to an end, and you and your friend had separate ways at the intersection near the school.

On you walk home, you saw the neighbor girl once again. The sun had set down, but it was not hard to familiarize her face on the dim. She sat on the same spot, a toothpick in her mouth, and wore her thin framed specs. You wanted to ignore her presence but she’s just too attractive to resist, and when she caught your eyes, trying to land a quick glance at her, you just bowed. 

As usual, you received nothing but eyes and silence. 

Back in your house you finished the first assignments of the day, it was History and Science, so it took much time despite its simple instructions. You heard voices outside your window. You were confused. The moon had shone brightly between dark clouds, and it’s eleven in the night. You peeked over your window and saw a SUV parked in front of your neighbor’s house, its headlights lit. Three women stood and one of them rushed your cold neighbor into a hug. They wore fancy clothes, like in a club or party. 

You watched closely and realized they were the same girls you’ve seen back in the corridor. And when they all stepped inside, you finally pulled away. You remembered what James said, the girl who had left their circle and decided to not go to school anymore, and maybe she was that woman who chose to rot in her house instead. Maybe yes, maybe not. Questions lingered in your mind as you packed up your things for tomorrow, then later you found yourself sleeping in your bed. 

Tomorrow was the same usual day, but things went sideways when the arrogant looking boy group came to approach you while you scrolled through your phone on your seat. 

“Hey man, heard you’re the new rice eater around the campus again huh?” He grinned, his tone sarcastic. “So, how tho?”

“What how?” 

“I mean . . . How you get into this school? I don’t remember that it’s easy for people like you to attend  here.”

“Ah? By having a brain, I guess?”

He chuckles and looks back at his friends; who were grinning along with him. You reminded yourself to stay low and humble. You wanted to be known on campus, like a popular one, just like how you were known as the “Friendly guy” in your old school. And once you made a big mistake with these morons, it'd put you into a crumpled outcast inside the university. 

“Alright, they like your answer rice boy, but I don’t. ” He scoffs, giving light nods. “Here, if you’re trying to act cool and shit here, it won’t work. So don’t start something that people would  hate you for. I’m just reminding you boss, not threatening you. As long as you play with the system around here, you’re fine, aye?”

You nodded slowly, though deep inside you’re annoyed; you hated getting into a situation like this. You felt like getting controlled or so what, and for the sake of your positive look from the other people you just agreed to his terms. 

James accompanied you most of the school hours. The Math professor was absent today, so you found yourselves sitting on the bench outside, in the park.

“So you met Deandre?” He opened up

“Yeah, he’s the bully in the classroom right?”

“Sort of. Like man, that dude came from a wealthy family so of course his attitude would be obviously like that. You remembered what you saw yesterday?”

“The girls?”

“Yeah those fine ladies, he dated one of them. I don’t remember who, but he did. So yeah, he became more known to the campus until his ego just went” He mimicked a plane with his hand and raised it upwards, making a swooshing sound.

“Well about the girls, you told me that the woman who left was ‘Aussie’ right?” You remembered last night’s event. Jisoo, Jennie and Lisa, they were three, but still unsure. They had given the vibe. 

“I guess? She had the accent, so yes. Why?”

“Well I have this neighbor who speaks with that accent as well. She looks cute, and tall. You know these cute girls with specs.”

James scoff, shaking his head. “Nah man, I doubt it’d be Rose. She had left Canada already and maybe returned to her hometown.”

“Yeah, maybe I’m just assuming too much.” 

So days continued like this. James has been by your side most of the time, and you met some new friends along the classroom. Clifton, Julia, and Tyrone, that’s where their names are. They were old students who began here three years ago. They had formed bonds already, knowing each other before you could have, but you didn’t mind. Every new bird starts with this. 

Yet there were the morons who never stopped bothering you. During breaks, when you’re alone, they’d come and ask for some extra lunch or snack. It’s not a sort of bullying way where they’d punch you suddenly, but more like they’d threaten you when you don’t contribute; telling you they’d frame you up for stealing someone’s snack from their bag. James couldn’t do anything as well, as much as he wanted to help, he knew what this group of dick heads could do if you’d go against them. 

Remembering their words, just go with the flow. You’re not some sort of a main character where punching them would turn you into a superstar

As usual, there were no changes with your interactions with the cute neighbor. Every time you’d walk past her house, sometimes you’d see her outside on the usual spot she’d sit in. Exchanging glances on each other, you were used to it, and every day that passed by, having the same usual empty interaction, you began to feel tired of chasing your wanted friendship until you start ignoring her. 

One night you walked home late. You stayed in the library for a long time without realizing it. You also didn’t want to skip a gym session, so you worked out around seven in the night, then finished by nine already

You saw her at the front of her property talking to two guys, one stood behind her. They had bandanas around their forehead. They wore baggy denim shorts and some sleeves that had pockets on the chest part, where one pulled a cigarette box out from it. You walked slowly to watch the scenario, it’s strange to see her talk to someone else anyways. 

The guy behind grabbed her arm forcefully and she tried to resist but was not deemed enough to match a moron’s strength.  The man on the front lit the cigarette in his mouth, a hint of glow in the stick, and right as he came closer he blew smoke at her face. You kept your composure and thought she must owe them something, but then the discomfort in her eyes, pleading for help, left you no choice but to save her. 

“Yo leave the girl alone.” You said as you approached, your tone calm. A hint of frustration when they looked at you in unison, despite your neighbor’s arrogant attitude, you felt the sense of needing help in her eyes. 

“Who are you, punk?” The white man with the cigarette answered as he faced you, taking another in his cigarette. “Never seen your face around here yet?” 

“You don’t need to know who I Am bro, just leave her alone.” 

“And what will happen if I don’t?” He slowly clenched his fist, you noticed it. And as he slowly took a step forward, you reached out to your pocket and pulled out the butterfly knife you loved playing with. Their courageous eyes turned hesitant when they noticed, and as you spun and free styled the blade he took a step backwards. 

You took a step forward, and they flinched when you feinted them. Just a bunch of dick-heads they were, acting strong but lacking action. 

“You’re lucky, woman” The guy who held her arm said as they left the both of you, running across the empty street.

You watched them disappear from the darkness. Your neighbor slowly looked at you. Hoping for some kind thanks or appreciation for saving her life, well you didn’t get it, again. 

“I can handle myself, why do you have to butt in.” She hissed and walked back to her house.

“What’s your problem?” You raised your voice. “Thanking is the least thing you can do, why do you have to be this shit ass?” 

She ignored your words, shut the door closed, and the lights from her door disappeared. Guess helping her was not the right move to earn her trust. Since the start she was this toxic, she never changed, and to think she’s just alone in this house without anyone visiting her but her friends completely gives the reason. You’re tired of chasing her. She’s not worth it anyways. It’s better to be independent than to chase some person who doesn't give a single shit at you. 

In your bedroom, you were about to sleep. Move your circular pillow and unroll the blanket wide. You were still bothered by the past hour scenario and worried they might come back, so you took a quick peek at her house from your curtains. It’s just that you’re worried about some bad things that may happen during the night and who else could know what those assholes have been running in their minds right now. 

When you saw the lights from her bedroom shut, you finally laid back and slept the night away. 

The next day at the school, a seminar was held at the gymnasium where most students were required to be at the place. Chattering and noises filled the whole gymnasium. You and your new group of friends sat together at the upper box, third row, enough to see the announcer deliver his words from the court floor.

You saw the three ladies once again sitting in the same row as yours. The morons were there as well, staying by their side, one guy carried the short hair’s bag. Were they some sort of servants? No they were not when you saw the guy who threatened you rest his arm around the cat shaped eye girl’s seat. She was fine with it, smiling at him despite the corniest move a guy would do. 

Then you met them later again in the corridor as you stepped out from the male’s comfort room. The girls were with them, stood by their side and one behind. Your eyes met Deandre’s, it was full of wickedness, and a smirk forming in his lips. 

“Yo rice boy, what’s good? Can help me out for some slight extra money? You know it would be bad if I’m left hungry for the day.” He began. “Just a little you know? I mean not that I have no money, but at least . . . An extra?”

“Sorry bro, I can’t help you with that.” You forced a smile and began to walk out. Then he wrapped his arm around your shoulder, making you stop. 

“Come on bro” He softened his voice that only you could hear. “Remember what I said back then? I bet you wouldn’t like the consequences when you don’t provide something, right?”

And there you are, stupid enough to give half of your brought money in your wallet. Following the system, the same thing that runs in your mind over and over again for the sake of your dream popularity. Nice guy in a jean jacket, that’s what you wanted. Their eyes locked on you while you walked out, keeping your friendly vibe despite the anger boiling inside you. 

Days turned into weeks, and you received the same usual treatment from them all over and over again. You just seemed to be these morons play toy. Every time you’d walk back home, it’s always frustration that you’d bring, that you just wanted to beat them until they begged crying on the floor. If it weren’t for your scholarship that required you to behave and act like a chained goat around crocodiles, then you would have shown those morons what they deserved.

As well, you continued to ignore your ‘appreciating’ attitude neighbor. Between those days, you were used to it, and then you felt it’s something normal you’d do. Until one day, while walking back home, she approached you with crossed arms in the middle of the street. The sun had started to set down on the thick, dark clouds like it’s clinging on its own. She wore a simple black shirt and denim shorts.

She pulled out a few money bills from her pocket and reached it at you. “Here.”

“For what? ”

“For saving me last week.” 

“No need, thank you anyway.” You began to walk.

“I’m just returning what I owe you.” She continued, and you paused. 

“I don’t look like money, Miss. I just did what a normal person would do—help somebody who’s in distress. I didn’t do that to impress and such. Just take your money.”

“Every Monday, you’d walk past my house between five and six in the afternoon. Then, all of a sudden, you appeared nowhere on the street at nine? ”

“And you’re assuming I'm stalking you? ” 

“I didn’t say anything, boy?” 

You groaned. “You know what? A simple thank you will end this conversation instead. Besides, I won’t even have a conversation with someone like you anyway.”  

“Hm? Thank you, my neighbor superhero; that’s what you want to hear, right? ”She forced a smile, narrowing her eyes. “Plus, why do you even want to be friends with me in the first place? You boys are just the same. Tell me you’d be friends with me, then I get comfortable with you, let you inside my house, and then we wait to invite each other to fuck in each other’s mouths in my bedroom. That’s your plan, isn't it? ”

You scoffed. “This woman is ridiculous.”

“Don’t act blurry, Y/N. You guys have the same minds when it comes to meeting girls.” She tilts her head, keeping her gaze. Though she’s pretty and her pair of alluringly slender legs, it never came to your mind to fuck her somewhere else around.

“Alright, you're generalizing too much. Look Miss, I just want to be friendly to the people around me. You’re my neighbor ma’am. The lot on my left is empty, and you’re the only person I could talk to around this place. Isn’t that hard to understand?” You answered. “And, did you just call me by my name?”

She kept her composure, not even saying a single word. 

“See, I must be right, you are friends with the famous girls in the university. That night, I saw three girls visit you in your house. There are three as well in the school: Lisa, Jennie, Jisoo, and you’re probably the Rose that James was talking about.” 

“So what?”

“So what? It means that you’re just one of them. A bunch of assholes that make fun of students not popular as you all do, and abuse their souls out just because they don’t fight back.”

“Oh, I’m an asshole now?” She took a step forward and landed a push on your chest. “Talk shit at me if you don’t put your ass down when Deandre is around you.”

“I ain’t a coward around him, don’t you dare call me that.” You pointed at her.

“Then what do you call yourself then?”

“I’m doing it on purpose. I just want . . . “ You cut yourself off. Opening up your dream of being a popular boy in the university will just ruin your image more at her. “I’m doing it for my scholarship. You think I’d still be here if I punched him in the ground?”

“A scholar?’ She scoffed and glanced around her surroundings. “Poor for you, you have to endure that. So don’t cry on me that you’re experiencing those. You chose this University, face the consequences then.”

She might sound aggressive, but some of her words were right. Her last phrase ‘ you chose this university and face the consequence ‘ hit you. You wanted to experience life in the west because you saw how most of your relatives seemed to enjoy their lives here. Luxurious sedans, modern houses, that’s what you saw most in their pictures. Then you wished to apply your school experience here from your hometown thinking it’d just be the same. 

You had mixed feelings with your encounter with Rose; disappointment and excitement. She was fierce and straightforward. Up close, you wouldn’t expect such an attitude from her gorgeous visuals. You wondered if she had a boyfriend, or probably no one would even wonder with her arrogant attitude. 

She was annoyingly attractive. 

The next day, it was Saturday, so you had no classes. You finished all your assignments right away before so you wouldn’t worry about chasing papers to your professors. You went for a jog around the village, no streets were missed to walk into. Most houses were colored assorted but had the same design as yours and Rose’s. 

Finishing your lap, you walk past Rose’s house and see her garage door lifted open. It wasn’t hard to see her in the dim, and when you got close, just under the garage door, you saw her fixing a vehicle’s engine. The car was purple, you could tell beneath those dusts, and looked like a mustang built from 80’s

Black stains marked her arms and gray shirt. She wore baggy pants and a cap, her pony tail squeezed between the cap’s closure. She noticed your shadow from the floor and quickly looked back with her wrench pointed at you.

“What are you doing?” She asked in a warning tone. There was visible tiredness within her eyes. 

“Are you trying to fix your alternator?”

“Why do you care?”

“Maybe I can lend some hand for you, I missed doing mechanical work, especially with cars and stuff.” You leaned against the wall, crossing your arms.

“I don’t need.” She turned back and continued her hands on the engine. You just watched her, she said no and you wouldn’t want to be an annoying fly that would force yourself into her. 

Several seconds later, there was a spark and she squealed, pulling her arms away quickly and moving from a distance. Her eyes slowly looked at you, her face fresh from shock. 

“You just made the scenario worse.” You stepped in and took a look at her engine, where you noticed a red wire with little smoke in it. “Worse thing is, you’re trying to check every wire in here when this red wire has visible tears on it.”

“What are you saying?” She gave you a look as if you’re saying bullshit, still standing at the same spot.

“Your alternator is shorted. So you might need to get yourself a new wire for this.”

She slowly took her steps closer and stood beside you, picking the red wire where the smoke had fully disappeared. She watched it close, then her eyes shut as a sigh escaped her mouth. 

“You can buy some wires there in town. Just gotta tell the staff there this and that and you’re good.” You began to walk away 

“Shit.” She groaned, then turned to look at you. There was frustration in her tone. “Alright, can you do me a favor?”

“Favor? I thought you didn't need my help?”

“Come on, please don’t be dick head for now.” She hisses.

“I’m now the dick head between us now huh? After talking shit at me yesterday?”

“Y/n!” She widened her eyes, warning you.

“Now, you’re turning the tables again” You scoff, then reach your palm at her. “Money.”

“I don’t have cash right now.” She dug her hands in her pockets. “I’ll just pay you in some way, Just-“ She groaned. “ Buy me the wire for now.”

Well, you couldn’t resist her. She had this sort of lack of temper management, maybe only to you or   to everybody, but yet you still find it attractive and hot. The wire shouldn’t cost much of your cash so you agreed with her request.

It only took around ten minutes to find the exact wire from mechanic shops and later you arrived back at her house. The wire cost two and a half dollars. You bought two in case things went sideways, you knew how Rose would obviously act if it did so. 

“You sure this is it?” She looked up at you.

“Yeah. I told him my boss would kick me out of the house if he gave me the wrong one.”

She chuckles, it was your first time seeing a smile form in her lips and it was beautiful. You hoped you’d see more of it. You began to step out of her garage again and her face became intrigued, 

“Where are you going?” She asks.

“Home, why?”

“Did I tell you to?”

Your brows furrowed. “Are you my mommy or something?”

“No, but you can’t just leave right away.”

“Why not?”

She tilts her head, resting a hand over the car’s grills. “So you can just walk away from your asshole neighbor that easily?”

“Probably yeah, I hate assholes.” You grinned and she turned her back at you, continuing her hands on the car. You heard her talking with her head ducked inside the engine.

“Alright, stick with your decision then. ” 

You left out a quick chuckle at her before you walked away from her garage. The sun had shown a great promise above the skies where you wanted to get off right away under its burning rays. Before you would have reached the tree near your house you heard Rose make a loud “ow” that sounded like a moan and groan at the same time. It sounded good, you didn’t deny. There was this sort of excitement inside you when you heard it, but still it’s just bad. 

You ran back then found her at the same spot, her head still ducked in the car’s engine, and when she noticed your shadow she slowly looked back. 

“What happened?” You asked worriedly. 

“Why are you here?”

“I heard you just yell or so and I thought that something happened to you.”

“I thought you didn’t want to help me.”

You glanced away. “Human instinct bro. I mean come on, even a stray ass dog will come here when you yell like that. So what happened?”

She smirked and shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe I hit my head? Lost a finger, popped my eyeballs out.”

“What the hell is that answer?” 

She rolled her eyes and threw the wrench at your front. “I obviously need help, asshole. Why the hard to get behavior?” 

“I’m not.” You picked up the wrench and slowly stepped into her garage once again. “It’s you who’s doing it. Acting arrogant the whole time then turns into a little pup when things go down.”

She pushed your arm and it left a black stain on your gray tee. “Yah? Calling me a little pup as if you’re not one as well in your school, huh?”

“I’m just doing it for the sake of my scholarship and dream popular-“ You quickly stopped when you realized you slipped off your greatest secret, but it seemed too late already you saw her eyebrows raised and she chuckled.

“Popularity? So you want to be a popular guy huh?” She covered her mouth, and you watched her giggle in amusement. “This dude what the hell?” 

“Alright, laugh all you want.” 

She continued laughing at you, placing continuous taps over her car. You felt embarrassed that you wanted to squeeze yourself into a tin can, never to be found again. Was this a turn off? Nevertheless, you began fixing and removing the old wires of the alternator of her car, making yourself busy at least. 

“Yeah yeah.” She finally uncovered and heard her sniff. “Fucking hilarious, that is something that a nerd guy would dream in a high school musical. Damn boy, I never thought you’d be funny” She stood beside and noticed your silence. “Wait, so you’re not joking?”

When you didn’t answer, she placed another push on the same spot, turning the stain even darker. 

“Don’t make a fool of yourself, Y/n.” She said between chuckles. “Tell me that you need bitches without actually telling me you need bitches.”

“Hey?” You paused while ducking in. “That’s not the point why I want to be. To be honest, I don’t need one.” You lied. Though you wanted one, maybe someone like her or either herself. She gives this bitch vibe who’d you call ‘mommy’ and kneel upon while she verbally or physically abuses you. She’s hot as hell. 

“And that’s something a bitchless guy would say in a girl so he’d feel like ‘I’m manly and tough, I don’t need girls in my life because they’re bunch of useless beings’ “

 You tapped the battery with the wrench, sounding a ‘ting’, and you stood straight. “You know what, I’m done. Fix it yourself.”

“Oh no, baby boy is crying again.” She made a mocking sad face. “Did I hurt his feelings again?” 

“It’s just annoying that you’d always make me look like I’m some weak ass shit who couldn’t do anything.”

“I did not say you are, and plus I’m just stating the facts based on my experiences.” She snatched the wrench out from your right hand, then moved closer at you.”They’d tell me the same sentences all over again thinking they’ll impress me.” She squints her eyes, tilting her head. Her hair brushing over your hand. “But guess who’s falling into their knees at the end? Calling me ‘Mommy’ while I ruin their mental shits out and even with those they’d still always look for it.” Her voice became soft, a lingering mischief within her tone.  “Seems like I’m pretty irresistible right?”

You were frozen, and at the same time you’re lowkey enjoying the moment with her hidden side. 

“Why aren’t you answering, you know I hate these kinds of people who leave me hanging.” She added while she kept her eyes locked on yours. 

You shook your head to snap yourself back to reality, you were falling into her trap or some sort of hypnotism. She’s too alluring, every second you’d feel something pulling you into placing your lips on hers. 

“Whatever, I’ll just finish this” You ducked back below the hood, continuing your hands on the wires. “I still have a meeting later.”

She scoffed. “It’s Saturday dumb ass.”

“Meeting isn’t always related to school.”

“As if I knew it?”

So you stayed by her side most of the day, fixed her broken mustang’s alternator, then had small conversations with her. You were getting dirty every hour. The amount of dust, dried oil stains and burnt ashes all over, but you didn’t care anyways. She had treated you to lunch, surprisingly for her, and you’re starting to see her bright personality on every hour that passes by. You thought James lied. 

When you got some water inside her house, you saw notebooks and pens on her desk and the lamp light lit open. Most books had your university’s name on it.  A brown acoustic guitar with a capo stood beside the desk. She plays instruments? Damn she’s just attractive.

Finally, you had replaced all the broken wires with new ones and when you told her to start it up, the mustang came into life, roaring while the engine shook within the rhythm. She squealed in happiness. You saw her covering her mouth from the windshield while she enjoyed the view inside like a kid who sat in a Lamborghini for the first time of her life.

You stepped a few steps backward and enjoyed the view of her car that was revived from the dead. You let out a relieved sigh. You watched her step out from her car as she approached you with a light smile on her lips; now this seems sincere rather than a forced one. 

“Ko-ma-wo” 

“Uh, what?”

“It’s thank you in Korean.’ She answers. 

“Oh” You hesitated for a second, then gave her a quick bow despite looking stupid because you knew that’s what most Koreans do when receiving thanks. “No problem.”

“As I told you a while ago that I’m pretty cashless right now, I don’t know how I would pay you.” 

There were a lot of thoughts running in your mind, and obviously they were what a guy would like for a hot girl to do: free sex, having her knees down at the floor while she devours your cock, maybe a dog style on the garage, or maybe be his boyfriend. But you were educated, not some punk ass dude who’d treat them like objects. You knew the boundaries, so instead you just kept it to yourself. 

“It’s fine, you don’t need to. I enjoyed fixing your car anyways, so it’s more of my own liking rather than a forced work.”

“Well . . . I don’t think I can agree with that.” She looked skeptical. “I just don’t feel like living in a world knowing I’m indebted to someone.”

“It’s fine, Rose. I volunteered, so I don’t really need you to feel indebted just because of that. I told you myself, I don’t need it.” You emphasized the final three words, hoping she’d finally agree with your request. But it was not a request either. You’d call it a consolation thanking because she finally talked to you properly without being a bitch. 

She sighed, her eyes closing while she looked down. Both of you were outside the garage, but still under the lifted door that covered you from the blazing heat. 

“I’ll think about how I would pay you. But for now, thank you for your help.” She nodded lightly. The smile was still light.

“Alright, I’ll see you again.” You smiled back. “Take a shower already, you don’t wanna stink and get seen dirty by the neighborhood.”

“Yah? Even if I’m dirty like a beggar, I won’t stink.” 

“Of course, you’d tell me that.” 

So another point for your memorable interaction with the neighbor. She is Rose. You’d call her with that from this point. You remembered that moment where she was very close to you. And right, you were stiffing and yet you had to make yourself looked calm as possible because you didn’t want to look so weak and soft either. That voice while she tells how most of his boys called her ‘mommy’, was enough to make you gulp alone in your bed while leaning against the bed board with the blanket covering the lower part of your body.

 One final check on her wouldn’t hurt, so you did peek over the window—saw the lights shut on her bedroom—then laid back to your bed, thanking god for a great Saturday.

Sunday ran past as there wasn’t something to do. You just stayed up inside the house, fixed some things and arranged your items that didn’t need to be arranged, and yet you still did. After a while Monday has come so you’re back to reality. Faced with numerous seat works and homeworks, you were buzzed—but then you remembered you had inspiration—Rose. James never knew about her being your neighbor and decided to keep it first to yourself. She might not want others to know her presence and as you knew James thought she had left Canada.

Deandre and the gang were like hornets that had their hive touched by you, they just won’t leave and disappear at least for a day until they sucked out your resources. Most will be depressed, but you were smart—bought a pack of cheap cookies that only cost around five to seven dollars, and you bring one extra every single day for him. Perfect timing, that’s all what it takes—but not now. 

You washed your face in the comfort room. The water cold, it was refreshing. You were alone in the room and there was peace at least after a long day merging with crowds in the corridor and the room. The running water from the faucet. When you stepped outside, pulled the door open, a woman stood at the front leaning against the opposite wall. Her eyes on the left corridor and travels towards you once she has noticed your presence out. She had a good set of eyes—more of like a cat shaped and you realized then she was one of Rose’s friends. 

“Oh there you are.” She smiled. “So I think you’ve seen me already, probably.”

“Deandre’s girlfriend?” You didn’t hesitate. She was that girl on the court where his arms were around her seat. Was she this? Maybe not, but would it make any difference? 

She chuckled, covering her mouth. “Not really. How do you say so, Mr. New face?”

“Well, I just assumed? Just how he’d bring you with him taxing me for some shit everytime in the corridor?” 

Her chuckles sounded so expensive that you’d wish to hear it for an hour straight. And with that pretty fierce cat face, every boy would fall for it. 

“You're more confident than I thought so.” She smirked. “But anyways I’ll just get straight to the point why I’m here. It wouldn’t really sound good if rumors start to spread when that one popular girl is seen talking to a new bird like you right in front of the male’s restroom.”

“Yeah, they might think—“

“I gave you a head or such.” She interrupts you like she knew what was running inside your head. Never thought she’d be open minded. “So, do you drink or not?”

“Well . . . Sort of? Only at reasonable events and parties.”

She pulls out a card that was entirely white and blank. “Tomorrow, 10 pm in my house.”

“What’s happening? And what am I supposed to do with a blank card.”

“Show that to my guard at the front gate, and it’s a party.”

“Is this a dream or something? Are you really inviting a guy who you have never met before?” 

“Well I met you right now, plus it’s more of a friend’s request rather than my own. So are you going, or are you wasting the once in a lifetime chance?”

You were hesitating while her eyes were locked at you, waiting for an answer. But then, she’s right there in front and you wouldn’t want to make herself disappointed. At Least not waste her time inviting you just for you to say ‘no’.

“Alright, I’ll be there.”

Her eyebrows lifted and a closed smile appeared in her lips. “Okay great! Then I’ll see you tomorrow. Toodles.” She walks out, maintaining eye contact for a while while she waves her hand at you. She walks sassy—not in a way she’d wiggle her butt at every step—but more of reminding everyone that the prettiest is passing by. Almost nearing the class shift, it was time for you to head back to the room.

At the final break shift, you opened up the party invite to your friends. They were surprised, obviously. Not even expecting such a popular girl to come right in front of the comfort room to reach out for a party invite.

“Jennie herself?” Clifton freaked softly that only the four of you could see.

“Yeah, she reached me out this blank ass paper” 

Your friends studied the paper. There was just nothing, even you could think she’s just fooling out of you. Was she? Yes or no. She doesn’t seem to be the type of person. If she did make a fool out of you—can you even complain? 

“Probably invisible ink” Julia says while she tilts it back and forth. “Just not some ordinary paper card you’d cut out”

“Well what’s your plan then?” James asks. “Can you bring friends?”

You place your hand over your face. “Fuck, I forgot to ask. But do you think I can?”

“I’d say not, blud.” Tyrone answers while he pulls his bag from the floor, placing it behind his back.  “Those girls are just picky with the people they’re encountering. You're one lucky bastard.”

“How did you make her invite you?” James asks, his tone filled with confusion and curiosity. “As if you’ve done nothing and suddenly that girl just came looking for you . . . Right in the toilet? Pretty bullshit. ”

You shrug shoulders. “I don’t know. Ask her yourself. You know like when the nerd guy in a K Drama suddenly gets the popular girl’s heart?”

James swung his hand. “That’s some bullshit, you ain’t in a fantasy world bro.”

“Like I have the courage to talk to her in the first place?” says You. 

“Anyways, goodluck.” Julia raises her thumb. “You have the GC to chat on. If you need help, we'll be there.” 

“Thank you fellas.” You smile. Having these kinds of friends is like hitting a jackpot in a slot machine. Only the four of you, even though it might sound little, it was fine rather than a bunch of plastic backstabbers. 

Back home it’s the usual routine: gym and cardio. Finished by ten in the night and it was your most late one. You had eaten a set of combo meals in a fast food chain, and it felt like carrying a baby in your tummy as you walked a kilometer. 

You saw Rose outside, carrying another garbage bag to be thrown in the can at the front. When she noticed your presence on the street, a light smile formed in her lips, and of course you couldn’t help but smile back. She had a toothpick in her mouth—again. 

“Late night junk works.” You began and she chuckled while she pulled the toothpick out from her mouth.

“Late night walk back home.” 

“Quite a struggle to find a bus back to this town,” says You. 

She pushes the lid down. “Poor you. Why? Was the date so good?”

“Date? What do you mean?”

She raises her brows. Her eyes darted everywhere but you. “Date with your girl or so . . . “

“My girl?” You scoff. “Where did you get that?”

“ I — “ Her eyes finally met yours, and the feeling was different. You could feel it. “—I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking?” She rolls her eyes. “Such an asshole.”

“Well that wasn’t a question tho?”

She sighs, her eyes closing. You loved poking her with your unnecessary follow ups, and seeing her get annoyed feels satisfying— it’s like poking your cold crush back in elementary. You still did remember it.  Well, Rose is your crush, sort of? And since silence seemed to follow your words, you decide to add things more. 

“I went to the gym, never realized my rest was too long until I noticed the clock, then I decided to eat outside, and here I’am.” 

She nods lightly. Her mouth forming an ‘o’ then looks away. “Well, stupid you.”

“Yeah stupid me.” You chuckle, and you find yourself forcing a smile. She’s not even looking anyways so it’s fine. “Anyways, I’ll head home now. I have to rest. You should too.”

She tucks a few strands of her hair behind her ear, then gives a light nod. “Still have things to do. I ain’t like a baby kid like you who needs to sleep early.”

“Well you’re a baby as well: Baby attitude.”

She rolls her eyes; her face shows disgust. “As if I cry when I get real-talked?”

You resume your steps and pretend you don’t really listen to her words at all. Of course, she’d open that up over and over again, and she’ll always find a way to counter you. “Whatever, goodnight.”

“Yeah that’s right, walk away idiot.” She raises her voice, but not that loud for the whole neighborhood to hear. It was only meant for you. “He really always gets on my nerves. But, he’s goddamn kind at the same time. Fuck this, Roseanne.” She whispers to herself while she watches you in the distance. Then later, she heads back inside as well. 

Struggling to pick whether a stylish or a casual one, you still ended up choosing nothing. And not because they were your favorites, but because you were overthinking what people like them would wear on house parties. You laid back to your bed and watched the ceiling. What are you even supposed to do now? Countless questions appear every second in your head, and then you start to feel sleepy afterwards, until you drift into paradise. 

Tomorrow was just a regular school day. Finished papers and passed them to the professor, hanging out with friends during break, then later on it was wrapping up. Your friends remind you to at least enjoy and behave at the same time; you didn’t know what was about to come later as well. It was around eight and a half night when you got to your house, and surprisingly, Rose was nowhere to be found outside. Maybe she’s busy.

A black loose shirt with spread collar and khaki pants was your choice. It is stylish and comfortable at the same time, making it the perfect outfit for a whole night run with strangers. Assignments and projects were not something to be worried about, as you finished them earlier at the school during break hours. So, you’re currently stress-free—almost. And the only thing to stress right now is the later’s event. 

At the front of your house, you begin to book for an Uber. You know it’s costly —as if you have any other choice for it. Tapping the book button, you realized you missed a field to answer, and it’s the drop off location. Shit, you forgot to ask her, and Jennie never said the location either. The paper was blank, so you’re left clueless. 

A headlight shone at your spot from the right. You cannot see who’s car it was, but it’s annoying you. Its engine roared when it accelerated, sounding like an old car. As it parked at your front, you realized it was Rose’s, and you saw her when she rolled the windows down. 

“Get in.” She began. Her tone sounds like she’s been doing this for years to you.

“Well, I have a party tonight and—“

“And you think we’re not going to the same place either?” She tilts her head and checks her watch. “Almost ten pookie, you don’t wanna miss the party.”

What a savior. Even if she was an annoying neighbor, she was there to help you at the exact time you needed one. She was hot, and her outfit made her more. A black fishnet long sleeves that revealed more of her skin beneath while wearing a black crop top inside. She also wore denim shorts—as usual. This was the most alluring outfit you have seen from her throughout the time that you didn’t even realize you were staring at her throughout the time she was talking. 

“Yah!” She raised her voice, snapping you back to reality. She tilts her head with a face that reminds you she was talking. 

“Oh sorry.” You shook your head. “I’m just really flaky right now. Finished some assignments and stuff, yeah?” 

“Ah, weird for me to tell Jennie to invite a nerd for a party.” She scoffed.

“Do a nerd even wear like this, huh?” You show off your clothes. 

“And I didn’t know you could wear something nice at least.” 

“Alright, sure. So you picked me up just to insult me again?” 

“Just stating the facts.” Her lips form a smirk as she moves her hand over the gear knob. “Seatbelt, Mr. Crybaby.”

You shook your head in annoyance; there’s no absolute counter to her at all. Well there was, but you’re in her car, so as if you have the courage to speak shit at her. Once she heard the click from your seat belt lock, she accelerated the car; hard enough to push you back to your seat.

Throughout the ride, you and her shared a few conversations. Watching the lights across the town, it was amazing. The car ride vibe was entirely different compared back to your home country. You’d describe it way more peacefully by the few cars that came from the opposite lane.

Shortly later, she parked her car behind a black SUV. When she told you this was her place, you stepped out and stretched your arms. The walls were perfectly trimmed bushes that were almost thrice the size of your height, it was funny. Several parked cars lined up in the same direction where Rose’s car was, and most were luxurious ones, ranging from Chevrolet’s to Mercedes’s. 

She guided you inside, where you saw how wide the place was. At first, you thought it was some event place or house. But when Rose told you this was Jennie’s, it gave you another reason to believe your friend’s words that messing with them is the biggest mistake you'd make. 

The guard let you both in when he inspected your invitation cards with a small blue lighted flashlight. He was well built. The clothes shaped his width, reminding the ones who would want to trespass her place. Inside the house, it was slightly dim, and it gave a sort of club vibe where you have to walk through darkness before seeing the lights. Well you did, but instead, it was a living room with some people around. The lights were pinkish red. Few people were on the second floor while some leaned against the railings. 

“Rosie!” The short haired girl approached her. She was tall and was one of the three popular girls. “I like your outfit, so freaking bad.”

“Do you really have to glaze me that much, Lisa?” Rose grins while she holds her hand. Lisa’s eyes slowly land on you as her eyebrows raise.

“So, who’s this new face you’ve brought tonight?” asks Lisa. 

Rose looks at you, and while she says her words, she keeps her eyes at you for a while before looking back at her. “A kind guy who helped me fix my Mustang last week in my garage.”

“Oh, so we’re bringing strangers now?” Lisa looks at her while she lands a few glances at you. 

You felt Rose’s hands around your arm, and her thumb began rubbing shapes in your skin. “Darling, you really think I’m just bringing strangers here? Of course, you know the obvious."

Lisa’s expression turned bright as she nodded several times, knowing the answer through Rose’s actions at you. “You’re starting to keep stories from now, huh.” She pokes Rose. You didn’t even expect Lisa to reach her hands at you. “Lisa, by the way.”

“Y/n.” You accepted the hand offer. A judgmental person, that seemed what she is, and the courage she had to call you a stranger in front of you was bewildering. Good thing, Rose managed to play it off smoothly, and you didn’t expect her to save you at all, knowing she’s an asshole towards you.  

When Lisa walks away, you look at her. “Why did you save me?”

“I’m not entirely an asshole to embarrass a person who helped me as well,” says her as she meets your eyes. “Come, I’ll let you meet my friends.”

“Shit, that would be too embarrassing.” You slightly pull away. 

“I thought you wanted to be popular?”

“I do.”

“And I’m giving you the chance, yet you’re here with your baby attitude again.”

“Shit.” You sigh, resting your hand on your hips while you try to gather your courage to face such students like them. 

“Tonight, you’d be known as my boyfriend, and they won’t do shit about it.” 

“You’re my girlfriend?” You raised your brows. “How I wished to be.”

She tilts her head as her eyes narrow. “Just for tonight, idiot.”

“Oh.” 

“And yeah, keep wishing. As if I’d boyfriend someone like you.” She rolls her eyes and starts to pull your hand with her. “Come on, no time to waste.”   

Yeah, rejected as usual. You were just playing with it; you intended to act sad, but still it was quite painful to hear such rejection. She led you to a couch where her friends sat, and you saw a person that's always ruining your mood every time you see him. Deandre, he was there, at the couch sitting beside Jennie. And as Rose feels your sudden step aback, she grabs your wrist. 

“If I say you touch me, you will touch me.” She softly says while both of you approach. “No but’s and if’s.”

“Hey, baby.” Jennie stands and approaches her, kissing cheeks. “Quit late, huh?”

“Sorry darling, my boyfriend is quite a snail-head in times of events like this.” She grins, looking at you.

“What a surprise, Y/n,” says Jennie. “You didn’t even tell me yesterday that our Rosie is your girlfriend already. Quite a mysterious transferee, huh?”

“Uh,” You stutter, and when Rose notices your awkward act, she warns you with her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Keep it lowkey, I guess.”

“Ah lowkey.” Jennie lightly nods and nudges your arm. “I understand, you know. Rose is quite a popular one in school, and I assume you’d hate rumors when they realize you’re a transferee.”

“Yo Jennie, why invite an outcast here?” His voice. Once again, you heard it, and it’s enough to ruin your mood. “Guess you got the wrong person. I don’t think he’d enjoy the party by reaching out for glasses and serving us like a waiter some shit.” You heard his friends share chuckles and laughs. 

“Deandre, what a fucker.” She whispers, rolling her eyes. She was still facing you.  

“Babe,” says Rose, enough for Deandre’s whole friends to hear. “Come sit beside me, I’m missing your touches quite fast already.”

So she called you babe, and hearing it was enough to make you blush deep inside. You’re just both acting. You reminded yourself, and this isn’t the best time to dwell into your feelings. You followed her request and sat beside her. As you sat, she rested her right leg over your thigh, and snuggled against you.

All of their eyes, even Deandre’s, were on both of you. They were silent, some looked away and pretended like they didn’t laugh at his joke. Rose enjoyed the view on their faces.

“Touch me, now.” She whispered while keeping an eye on them.”

And gently, you did. You placed your hand over her thigh and caressed it gently, enjoying every inch of her skin. It was smooth and soft. You could stay up the whole day doing this over and over again, and not get tired. 

Deandre was silent. Within those smirks and scoffs in his lips hides the embarrassment he feels towards the both of you. 

“At Least he could pull Rosie than you could do.” Jisoo teases. She was sitting on the right couch. 

“She just had no one to bring, trust me.” Deandre answered back.

“Not really, Drei. We both know I could bring any handsome guy in the school with a simple hi, right?” says Rose. “Just tell me you’re being a crybaby because you were not the one with me tonight.” She looks up at you; your faces are a few inches apart. “Right, babe?”

You were getting flustered, but it’s all just a plan, remember? Everything is fake. 

“Yeah, yeah.” You forced a smile. 

“Aww come on. What’s with those simple answers?” Rose pouts. “You don’t love me?”

“Ah, of course I do love you so much.” You took the courage to caress her cheeks, down to her neck.  “You’re so gorgeous tonight.”

Then, you felt her hand over your chest, where she unbuttons one, caressing the same ways as yours.  

“Thank you, sweetheart.” She says between. 

Your said so ‘cuddles’ was enough to shut Deandre’s mouth more. Another scoff from him, then a word never came out of his mouth again. He only watched both of you share cheeky moments together. His friends shut quiet, acting normal, some were on their phones. Deandre’s dogs, that’s what they are. 

The heat between the three of you has finally cooled down, they were avoiding their eyes on you, while Deandre would place glances sometimes. Jennie came back to the table with bottles on both hands: a whiskey and gin. Shit, liquors, it’s been awhile. You had the last of those during the post-prom night event, where you stayed with close friends, drank all night; not even caring about your haggard looks. 

All part of new friendship—you wanted this. Jennie insisted on pouring the liquor on your shot glass. You didn’t expect her to be this kind. You assumed she’s a two sided woman. 

It was bitter, felt your throat burn as the liquid passed down. You hid your uncomfort through closing your eyes and swallowing hard, while looking emotionless. It’s a tough battle. Shortly after a few shots, your body seems to condition the liquors, until you realize you’re starting to drink it normally. 

Looking at Rose, she’s hell of gorgeous. The way she sat, both legs over the sofa, her whitish purple hair free on her left shoulder while she rested her left hand on the cushion—was a sight to enjoy. Beneath those fishnet sleeves teases her curves and smooth skin. The world seemed to slow down, it was just her you see. As the pink light colors her face, there was the sense of allure and attraction within your heart.

You excused yourself for a bathroom break, they didn’t seem to care, so you went right away. Splashed cold water on your face from the faucet, that was it—you just wanted a refreshment. The bathroom luxurious. As you stepped out, you had to pass by several couples who were making out on the wall.

Back at the table, Rose had become quite more flirtatious. She was getting drunk; Jennie told you, and the fact that it was your first time seeing her act like this was a changing experience.  So you just let her be. It’s only a plan, something not to be serious about, and within her touches and snuggles lies nothing but falseness and showing off to people—she’s just helping you, remember. She’d never be your girlfriend. Smiles and laughter surrounded you, and you were just here forcing yours. 

You had decided to take fresh air outside Jennie’s place, right at Rose’s mustang. The sight was relaxing, though it’s nothing but a grass field. You stayed under a tree beside her car. The crescent moon shone between dark clouds, and there were the stars. 

You were drunk; you knew that, and as you shook your head more makes your vision get fuzzier—it was funny.

You heard crunches of soil near you, and behind you saw Rose approaching. She walked playfully, swinging her arms freely. “Hey baby.” 

“Stop that.” You forced a grin. 

“Why? Don’t you love it when I call you that?”

You walked towards her car, and leaned against the hood. “No.”

“No your ass, bitch.” She stood beside you and playfully pushed your arm using her body. “What are you even doing here?”

“Taking fresh air.”

She giggles and covers her mouth. “Just tell me you’re not used to crowds.”

“I’m used to it,” says you, “I’m just exhausted.”

“Ah.” She lightly nodded, and there was silence. It’s quite comfortable to have moments like this with her alone in a quiet night—wished you’d have another of this soon after. Soon enough, you didn’t notice she was looking at you until you glanced at her.

“I like your outfit.” She smiles lightly. “Not being an asshole, but it’s really nice.”

You were flustered. “Thanks . . . I just save this kind of clothes for times like this. But you know what’s nicer?”

“What?” 

“If I don’t have these on.” 

 You winced internally, almost wanting to run a kilometer away. Rather than a disgusted look, her face showed off more of a disappointed look. 

“That’s some corny ass shit, Y/n.” She scoffed. 

“Just kidding, forget about that.”

“I don’t forget corny jokes that easy, crybaby.” She tilts her head and teases you with a forced pout. 

“Well . . . I’ll be honest right now,” You say, “I like your outfit as well. Quite weird for me to see you getting attractive each day.”

You said it from the bottom of your heart. She really was. Everytime you’d see her outside her house, despite the same clothing style she’d still be beautiful. 

She seemed to accept your words. Then, she moved closer to you, her eyes gazing at yours. “You know what will be better?” She tilts her head, her body shifting at you. “And it’s when these are off from me, and it’s right in your hands. "

You froze, and found yourself staring back into her eyes while she wore that mischievous smile on her lips. She copied your joke, but why did it work so well for you. Her deliverance, not so maybe.

“Why is Mr. Tough guy silent, eh?” She leans, your face a few inches between, and grins while giggling mischievously. “Feels shocking when your words are thrown back at you as well, doesn't it?”

“Yeah, and you said it so well that it didn’t even sound like a joke anymore.” 

“Oh?” She tilts her head, keeping her face close at you. “Did I even say I was?”

Both of you were close, and the urge to kiss her lips, pull her into you, consumes your mind. Your heart was racing fast. This is the time, to take your chance, to finally fulfill that desire you wished. It didn’t take long enough for her to notice you glancing into her cute lips.

“Come on, do it.” She says softly, her breath hot on your face and smelled of liquor. “I could see it in your eyes, Y/n.” She moved even closer. “Do you need mommy’s permission again?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, hesitating. She’s drunk. She doesn’t mean anything of this, and you didn’t want to take advantage of her—even if your urge to do it was boiling inside you. Shit, whatever. You didn’t want to miss it, and you finally took the chance as you pressed your lips on hers. They were smooth like cushions. It all started off with just presses and touches of lips, and the play had changed when she placed her hand around your nape. You’re completely clueless with kisses and such. There you let her continue the kiss, feeling her pulling your lower lip between her lips, giving it a tender suck. Your heart was racing faster, feeling the excitement consume your body. But it’s right here—it’s happening. 

She slowly pulls away, tracing her hand on your cheek down to your neck. “Looks like someone doesn’t know how to kiss a girl, hmm?”

 You nod sheepishly and look down in embarrassment. Never in once you did have. Shortly, she lifts your chin back at her.

“Let me guide you then.” A sly smile appears on her lips “Inside the car.” She commands as she walks towards the driver door, biting her lips at you. 

As you sat inside, she pushed the retract button of your seat, then straddled herself atop you as the seat retracted full. She wasn't heavy at all, yet the feeling of her weight on top of you was euphoric. There’s no such thing as discomfort when an alluring woman is right on your front.

She flipped her hair to the right, then sensually slid her fingers from the side of her neck, down to her shoulder, where she pulled down her sleeve to expose her bare shoulder. “Am I pretty, asshole?”

“Yes, you—” 

She leaned and crashed her lips once again into yours, not even letting you complete such a compliment. The rhythm turns aggressive, and the way she’d devour your lips like no tomorrow excites you even more while her hands cradle your face. Her curves were delighting as you placed your hands on it.

You didn’t know how to answer her kisses back, and you let her control you. She wasn’t even complaining, seemingly enjoying the position she had, and as the make out prolonged, you began to feel her tongue between your lips, where you didn’t hesitate to welcome it as she explored your mouth. Your hand grips into her waist as you feel your body burning into excitement. 

She pulled away and sighed sensually, straightening her back. She licked her lips wet and bit her lip while she gazed into your eyes full of lust and desire. This is a drunk Rose. In any situation, she’d always look gorgeous—hot. 

“Ssibal , igeo neomu segsihae” She hisses, pressing her hands over your chest, then slowly unfastens your buttons. Contemplating decisions, she stopped when you grabbed her hands.

“Rosie, do you really want this?”

She scoffed, and pushed your hand away. “You really had the audacity to stop me when you can’t even kiss properly, huh?” She leans closer into your face, making sure you’d hear the following words from her hot mouth. “And I don’t want you calling me with that name. Wouldn’t it be better if you start calling me—“ She moves to your ear, whispering “—your mommy , hmm?” Slowly, she runs her lips into your neck. “You know I hate when something gets in my way, and you just went and did it. But lucky you, I’m not in my mood to give you pain. Now, all I just want is something inside me—and I think your goddamn dick is the perfect one.”

Your cock stiffened even more. Her words were not something you’d expect from that asshole neighbor weeks ago, with only eyes and gazed communication that became tiring every single afternoon. From giving eyes, to exploring each other’s mouth in her car—it escalated fast. 

She helped you pull her fishnet sleeves down from her shoulders, leaving only her black crop top and her delicate skin. Her hips began to rub into your crotch slowly, like she knows how much your cock wanted it—and you really did. A sly smile would form in her lips between grinds when she sees the enjoyment from your eyes. Your breaths and her soft moans fill the quiet surroundings.

Quickly pulling down the black crop top herself revealed a pair of tits that hid beneath the thin fabric. They were just enough for your palms to hold on; perky, petite, and soft. Her nipples hard, and while your thumb enjoyed caressing it, she’d arch her back and let out moans. Her hips continued to grind you. She went faster as you massaged her tits like it’s a separate thing from her.

“Fuck.” She moans and holds your hands, pressing it more into her breasts. “I need something more than this.”

The door clicked on your side and she pushed it open, welcoming the fresh air. You watched Rose dismount herself from you. There were no people around, and she wouldn’t be seen either as she used the mustang as a cover. 

“This way.” She pulled your arm, shifting you to face her outside while keeping your ass on the seat. She knelt down; you know what’s gonna happen next, and you were bracing for it. While she unbuckles your belt, she’d give quick glances at your eyes, her lips smirking like a girl unwrapping her Christmas gift despite knowing what’s about to show up already. 

Pulled your pants and underwear hard down to your feet, she let out a moan as she appreciated the view of your stiff cock. 

“How I missed this.”  She points it towards her mouth before her tongue darts out to give a wet lick  around your tip. A shiver runs down to your body; irresistible, sort of shocking yet you wanted it for long. It was your first time, and it is addicting. She teases you with her tongue licks around your tip, then shortly, she takes you into her hot mouth, pushing herself into your base. You gripped your hands behind, on the seat, clinging yourself within Rose’s devious act. 

The woman moans between swallows, her bobs going slower, then faster — then slow again. You closed your eyes to savor the sensations flowing outward from your crotch. Your hands are gripping the seat harder. You couldn’t help but get mesmerized by the view of her sucking your cock off while kneeling down on a rough concrete road outside, shirtless with her breasts exposed—nipples hard. 

You run your fingers on her hair, gripping a few strands as she pulls away. 

“Mind helping me?” She looked up at you with a provocative gaze.

“You can’t just suck my dick like this while being shirtless outside.” 

“Why?” She raises a brow while keeping a hand wrapped around your cock. “"Don't you want them to know that the guy who they think they can just boss around like a poor pup, is currently having his cock swallowed by the popular guitarist student of Chandelier Academy?” She gives your cock a quick swallow, leaving a slick sheen of her spit between it and her lips. “Are you ashamed of mommy giving his fake boyfriend a head?” 

“No.” You shake your head sheepishly. 

“Now shut your goddamn mouth.” Then the ravaging continues, slightly raising herself to face your cock down, pushing herself until your base. A moan escapes your mouth; it was sensational, and you’d  never get tired—wishing this would last until the morning. Your hands made way on a few strands of her hair while she gave your cock a deep throat, and sensing her struggle you gently pushed her further down, feeling more of her mouth’s insides. 

She gags; you were worried, and she felt it when you started to loosen your grip on her hair, so she grasped your wrist back and pressed your hand tightly once again at her hair—telling you to continue further—and so you did. All you could do was watch your arrogant neighbor take herself deep into your cock, and as well savor every delicious sparks of pleasure radiating from your shaft, up to your spine and into an overwhelmed brain.

“I’m cumming, mommy.” You hiss between gasps. It was near, and within these seconds you’d create a mess in her mouth. Rose responded by quickening her pace, up and down—fast. And you found yourself groaning, placing your hand over her head like you were clinging your life into it. No questions needed to ask whether you’d pop it out inside her mouth or not—that was the answer. She went faster every second, and shortly, feeling it now at the edge of your cock, you released it into the back of your neighbor’s needy throat. The sense of relief consumed you. All of that stress and hesitation turned into nothing but thick white semen inside her mouth.  

She finally slows her pace, her mouth still wrapped around you as a mix of your cum and her saliva glistens on your cock. Then she looks up at you.“I missed that, did you like it?”

Your nods formed a smile on her lips, and soon she stood up on her feet where she pushed you inside further. Closing the door with her, she moved to the driver seat, shifting her body facing you on the passenger side, where she spread her legs. Her denim shorts were still on, and when she noticed you just watching stupidly, she raised a brow. 

“I removed your pants myself, so are you,” stated Rose. This was the greenlight, your hands made way into the button of her shorts, unfastening it, and pulled it to her knees. Her black undergarment greeted your eyes; you kept it on for a while as you admired the view of her delicate thighs, running your hands on them. You’d tease her with your slight touches over her crotch area, where she’d let out a soft moan despite the black thin fabric that separates you and her skin. “You know how to make a woman wait, huh?” 

“I’m just making every second count,” says you between heavy breaths. “Might be the first and last.”

“And who said it would be?” Her fingers run on your jawline, as excitement fills you upon hearing those words. You heard it right— might not be your last ever; she said it herself and surely it wasn’t your drunk mind making up voices. “Now don’t keep me waiting before I change my mind.”

You placed kisses on her legs, up to her thighs, then to her belly. Her skin is soft, addictive. Running your hands on her hips while you plant those sweet kisses, she’d spread her legs wider, telling you she couldn’t wait to give in.

Pulling her black undergarment down welcomed your eyes with her delicious pussy, like a meal you’ve wanted for years. Your body burning with desire and lust, and you didn’t wait any longer to devour her cunt right away, latching your lips around her tender flesh. 

“Goddamnit.” She grunts, her hand grabbing into your hair as she watches you. Shortly, your fingers find her opening and slip inside, sliding in and out, as you lean towards her to suck her nipples. She was at your mercy, and the sensation was consuming her. 

“Faster” She let out a small whimper, her eyes shutting tightly. In response to her request, you quickened your pace, moving faster than usual. Your fingers wetter. “I’m near”

She’d keep her vulgar words until now, but that even made you like your work at her even more. Her hands were still over your head, her nails digging into your scalp. Pain was nothing but an obstacle, you didn’t really mind. 

(You quickened more)

At the final reach, she lets out a gasp as she orgasms; her slick wetness dripping into your fingers. Her breath quickened, and she closed her eyes in relaxation, then ran her hand over her messy hair while her desirous eyes gazed at you. Her body was irresistible. You’d take a curvy petite figure every night and day with you without getting tired. 

A sly smile spreads across her lips as her gaze settles on your cock. “Now for the exciting part.”

She pushes herself upright, wrapping her arms around your neck as she crashes her lips against yours, hungrily devouring the kiss. Your bare skin touches hers, and what excites you more is seeing her slender, naked figure right in front of you, her weight over your lap as you feel the heat of her body.

You let her do her work on your mouth. Messy? It was not for you— just entirely hot that you’d last forever doing this with her. She pulled away to position herself atop you. Your cock quivers with need. She grips your cock and gently teases it over her needy clit. Her eyes dripped with lust, mirroring the slick sheen of her body. 

A moan of pleasure escapes her lips as she finally lowers herself onto your cock—a sound that’s hot and bratty, just as you’d imagine. Her arms remain around your neck as you sit upright, her body pressed close to yours, with her long hair cascading over her face, hiding it from view— you know she’s watching herself. 

It started off slowly. You, who was your first time, found it slightly uncomfortable at first, but as time progressed, where she began to change her pace, made you forget such thoughts. Her hips grinding against yours was all that mattered; you loved seeing both of your naked bodies pressed together.

“ Jenjang Y/N. neo jonna himdeureo (Fuck Y/n, you’re so fucking hard.)” She muttered close to your ear, sounding very tired— though her pace over you said otherwise, grinding faster. You didn’t understood a single word from her, probably her dialect on Korea, but her tone was enough for you understand that she was enjoying it. 

Throughout it all, you’re fucking her inside her car, savoring the feel of her orgasming pussy wrapped tightly around your cock with each thrust. Your hands pressed against her curves, feeling the sweat of her body, and supporting her while she gives a nice ride over your cock. 

You’re nearing your peak again, and she’s grinding against you faster now, loud moans escaping her lips. One arm stays draped over your shoulders while the other runs through her messy hair and then over her head. You enjoy the view of her sweaty body, and your hands find their way to her breasts once more. Her lustful eyes lock with yours, and she eagerly devours your lips. Her body presses harder against you, matching the rhythm of her fast grind.

“‘Shit!’ Rose gasps, her voice trembling with anticipation and broken by breathless moans. She’s approaching her peak as well, her body tensing with each thrust. Just before you can release, she quickly pulls away, raising herself and stroking your cock rapidly. Thick, white semen erupts from you, spilling out with each stroke as it travels down to her fingers. At the same, she runs her fingers over her clit, her own juices mixing with the mess on the floorboard.

Her mouth finds its way back to your cock, swallowing it deep and then licking the remaining semen from around it. It glistens with her saliva and your cum, but what you appreciate most is the sight of her face beside it, a hint of your semen at the corner of her lips. Fatigue is evident in her eyes—she looks ready to sleep, or maybe not, as she hints at the possibility of another round.

“Like that?” she asks softly.

“Who wouldn’t?”

“My exes,” she shrugs, a smirk playing on her lips. “Maybe it was me, so I had to improve.”

“So I’m lucky to experience your improvement.”

“Kinda.” She rests her chin on your lap. “I’ve never slept with a guy without being in a relationship first. So, yeah, I guess so.”

[monster-disaster]

[tentacle] The monster under the bed

tentacle!monster x human!Reader Good to know: somnophilia, a bit of dub-con

Summary: Your aunt's house is not as empty as you thought.

A/N: For kinktober 2023, I have a new town full of monsters. Here is the masterlist.

The change in the air is thick and heavy after you leave the Welcome to Grimbrook sign behind you. You feel it in your core. It's cold and silent. For a second, everything goes quiet, and the time seems to stop. The rumbling of your car gets muffled, and the colors of the lush, green forest at your sides fade into a milky fog flowing above the ground. You can't see the tall mountains and their sharp edges in the distance anymore. The clear blue sky turns gray, and you can't find the sun anymore, either. Just a few dim rays shine down on the road in front of you, showing your way to the village next to the sea.

As you get closer, you can smell the salty scent of the water even through the closed windows of your car. It's heavy in your nostrils. The sound of the waves gets louder too. From the top of the uphill, you can see the village with its old stone buildings and the sea behind everything. It seems colorless, merging into the dark sky at the horizon. It is beautiful and terrifying at the same time. There is something in Grimbrook that you can't pinpoint but freezes your insides. The only light you can see comes from a lighthouse at the edge of a cliff. It emits a soft, rhythmic beam of yellow light that cuts through the heavy fog, casting eerie shadows over the still village. Seagulls glide through the mist above the white seafoam, waving across the dark surface.

"Okay," you hum, forcing your eyes to go back to the GPS on your phone. The blue line clearly shows your way to the house you have to reach before night falls. It leads you out of the center of the villages until you reach a small suburb with Victorian houses standing in a long row with grand iron gates and gardens.

The monotone voice of the GPS informs you when you reach the right house, and after sitting in your car for a few more minutes, you have no other option but to get out and make your way up to the porch. The wooden planks creak under your steps as you look around a bit better. The house is old, with tall walls, characterful windows, and a dark green door with a golden knocker in the middle. It's cold in your hold as you knock it against the door.

You don't get an answer, though.

The door opens, and you find yourself facing a narrow foyer with stairs on the right side. Pictures and paintings hang on the walls in dark wood and golden frames. You can see the entrance of the kitchen at the end. And on your left side, there is an arch that leads you to the living room.

"Hello?" You break the silence. Your voice is hoarse and quiet. You have to force your legs to move and not turn back to your car and leave this place immediately. "Somebody?" Your gaze lands on a small table in the corner next to the entrance door. There is a letter with your name on it.

Dear Cat, I'm sorry I can't be here when you arrive. Make yourself at home, and we will talk tomorrow. Delilah

"Great," you sigh, letting the paper fall back onto the surface of the small table.

For a second, you think about searching for a hotel or something similar to spend the night, but to be honest, it doesn't sound much better either. You know you should leave the town to feel better, but it's not an option. So you close the door behind you and wander further into the house.

You got a call a few weeks ago about your aunt you met long years ago. She died, and now you have a house. You can keep it. You can sell it. Whatever you want.

The house is old, with a lot of wood, dark colors, and golden details. There are still newspapers from months ago on the coffee table in the living room. The rug under you is faded and thin. The floor creaks every now and again. There are two rooms and a bathroom upstairs. The bigger room is still occupied with your aunt's belongings. The scent of her perfume still lingers in the air. You remember her when you were a kid. She came to your grandmother's funeral, and you never saw her again. Nobody really talked about her in the family. The only things you know are that she was kind but preferred her own company above everything else. She lost her husband in her late twenties but stayed in Grimbrook, barely leaving the town.

The guestroom is much more bare than the other parts of the house. A bed in the middle with two nightstands and a lamp. There is a drawer in front of it and a mirror on the wall. The window is slightly open, letting in the cold autumn breeze. You have a view of the street from here. It's calm and empty. The only reasons you know you are not the only person in the town are because you can see a few cars here and there and a dog barking in the distance. The fog is thick and heavy. You can't see the end of the street through it.

After wandering around the house some more, you decide to call your friend until you have no other option but to change and try to get some sleep.

Climbing up on the bed in the guest room, you settle under the thick covers. The scent of the linen is faded and mixed with dust and the night air coming through the window. It's dark outside, not counting a few lamps on the street. Their orange lights filter into the room. And everything is quiet. So quiet that your ears almost start to ring. You are not used to it. You live in the city with constant noises.

When sleep takes you, it's restless and everything but relaxing. You fidget and turn, trying to find a comfortable position as you balance between the darkness and the real world. Your head feels just as foggy as Grimbrook, and at some point, you can't decide if you are dreaming or not.

You are on your back, one arm on your stomach, and the other is next to your body. The autumn breeze caresses your skin, moving up from your feet to your ankles and calves. Shiver runs through your spine at the feeling. You want to reach out for the blanket, but even though your arms move, they do not obey your command. Something pets the thin skin of your wrist. It's soft and barely noticeable. You feel your muscles stretch as you reach up to the headrest of the bed, but you don't even know why. The cold moves up further on your legs. It curls around your flesh, spreading you in the middle of the bed. Your heels dig into the mattress. Your body tenses when your limbs don't do as you want. A frown deepens between your brows.

"What?" A hoarse grunt leaves your lips. When you open your eyes, you meet darkness, and you are not sure if you are really awake or not. Your eyelids are heavy, and not even a second later, you fall back asleep again.

The bottom of your pajama slips down on your legs. The waist stretches around your parted legs. Something slides up on your stomach under your t-shirt. It is slick and soft. A gasp echoes in your room when it flicks your nipple. The thing curls around the flesh of your tits, groping and caressing. Your nipples harden under the strange touch. Saliva? A tongue?

Where are you?

And there is something else between your legs. The muscles of your thighs tense, and the hold around you tightens.

"What?" You groan again into the silence. As you look down on your body, you see your t-shirt around your neck. Your breasts are bare. Something dark and purple curls around them, squeezing and licking. The teasing on your nipples is almost painful. At the back of your mind, you want more. Your head falls back onto the pillows, and you are asleep again.

The tentacles between your legs move up and down on your pussy. Your panties are ruined between your wet center and the slick touch of theirs. One of them flicks your clit. Your back arches at the feeling. The cold night air hits your aching pussy when the thin fabric is pulled aside. One of them stays around your clit, flicking and rubbing the hard bud. The other one goes straight to your hole.

You want to move. To get closer or farther away, you can't decide. The tendrils don't let you go anyway.

You break the silence with a sudden moan. The limb enters you slowly. It slips into you easily, stretching your walls until you can't take another inch. It fills you up.

"Fuck," you groan.

Your breasts are soaked. The slickness on your skin shines under the dim streetlights. The tentacles play with your flesh, rubbing and pinching your nipples. The pain takes your breath away every now and again until you feel dizzy.

The others between your legs move without pausing even for a second. Your clit throbs, and your walls flutter. Pleasure flares inside your veins, rushing through your body with such force you never felt before. Your lungs burn for air, and your muscles ache as you lay taut, panting.

When you open your eyes, you see the ceiling and the old lamp hanging above you. You want to force your mind to think, to panic, to do something, but your senses are full of pleasure. The only thing you can do is moan and grind against the tentacle inside your pussy. It pounds into you, reaching every spongy spot inside that makes you see stars and beg for more. The sheet under you is soaked with your mixed juices. You can feel it dripping out of your hole.

Fuck, you want to shout, but you can't find your voice. You just shake and tremble in the hold of the limbs keeping you in place on the bed. Every nerve in your body is on edge, and when it snaps in your lower stomach, you can't remember how to breathe. Your climax forces you down and stops you from moving. A thin layer of sweat shines on your bare skin. Heat burns you from the inside, and your pussy flutters and sucks on the tendril inside you. It still moves in and out. It twitches and rubs against your walls. And doesn't stop even when the darkness envelopes you again.

When you wake up the next morning, you need a few minutes to remember where you are. The sun shines through the window, casting an orange hue over the old rug in the middle of the room. As you sit up, your t-shirt falls back over your torso, but your pants are still around your knees.

"What?" You grunt out. The question is barely louder than a whisper. Your hand shakes as you reach down between your legs. Your pussy is wet, sensitive, and swollen. A moan escapes you when your fingertip slides over your slit.

Your dream is still vivid in your mind. You can feel the tentacle in your pussy, using your hole and rubbing your clit. Your center starts to throb with need at the memory. And your breasts. Your other hand grabs one of your tits. Your nipples are still hard peaks through the thin fabric of your shirt.

"Hello? Cat?" The sudden noise snaps your head up to the door of your room. The voice comes from the entrance of the house. "It's Delilah." "Hey!" You croak out. You are not even sure if she can hear you. "I will be down in a minute." "Great!" She shouts back. "I will make some coffee, and we can talk about your plans with the house." Your fingers sink into your hole. You are still stretched out. You move in and out of your pussy easily.

Yeah, you think, you need a few nights if you want to decide about your plans.

- Masterlist Grimbrook Masterlist Patreon

[heartelysia]

rich flex

"can you hit a lil' rich flex for me" ; in which you're nothing more than roommates

cw ; ooc leon, jealousy, panty stealing, panty sniffing, college au, re2 leon, use of sex toys, masturbation, creepy behaviour from leon

note ; this is also reposted from my ao3! college roommates au :3 [m.list] (i lovd leon n his little butt chin sm in re2 😭😭 its so cutw wtf) AND YES! THAT IS MANGA LEON KENNEDY!! ILLVE HM!!

she was the moon and he was the sun, polar opposites. she was closed off and reserved whilst the blonde wasn't much of an extrovert per say but compared to her, he shined much brighter.

people loved him and everything he had to offer but on her end, people would still ask, 'who is that?'. that was one of the many results of only choosing to attend night lectures or acting like a complete ghost during the semester.

she knocks on leon's door - if the crappy wood with a knob could be considered one - holding a half-full laundry basket in her other hand. a few moments pass, shuffling and the rolling of one of those wheelie chairs are heard through the thin walls. the door creeks open as a little bit of sunlight spill from the window in his room.

"oh hey y/n, whats up?", his soft, boyish voice rings throughout the hallway, his cheeks flushed a bright pink colour as his breath is bated with each second. you gesture to the laundry basket in your hand, holding onto your quiet demeanour. leon's eyes follows your movements before suddenly lighting up. "oh yes! it is my turn this week, thank you y/n!", he softly beams, fully opening the door as he grabs the basket from you and places it beside his stack of clothes.

you give the boy a simple hum before turning on your heel, heading back into your little man woman-cave. leons gaze lingers on you, watching the way you dragged yourself back into your cramped room. sometimes he wished he could hear your sweet voice more but we can't have everything we want right?

leon glances back into his room, glazing his eyes over each neat cabinet and organized stack of books before they land on the new addition of laundry. he hoped he didn't seem too off when speaking to you, after all, he still gets nervous around you despite being roommates. the blonde quickly brushes the thoughts out of his head as he grabs his pile of dirty clothes and dumps it onto your laundry, filling the basket to the brim before picking the heavy luggage up and waddling out of his room.

the sound of his footsteps reverberate against the crappy wooden planks as he awkwardly stumbles to the tiny laundry room. leon hooks his fingers under the lid, lifting it up as a scent of detergent pods hit his face. he quickly grabs the full laundry basket before tipping its contents into the washer before placing the empty basket back onto the floor.

he opens up one of the cabinets on top and grabs the detergent pods, popping one into its place. as leon is about to close the top and start the machine, something catches his eye, a frilly white pair of underwear. the blondes cheeks light up in embarrassment yet the familiar coil in his stomach grows as he feels his cock stir at the thought of your panties wrapped around his thick length.

leon swallows the lump in his throat, gulping as his eyes stay glued onto your undergarment. it was a morality debate in his head, he could either steal your panties or he would not. he gulps one last time before reaching his hand in and snatching the used underwear up, he scrunches the soft material up and shoves it into his pocket.

a small wave of guilt crashes into him but he brushes it off, closing the lid before turning on the washer, the water spilling from its sides as it dampens the fabrics. he places his hand into his pocket, clutching your panties in his hand as his breathing becomes ragged and his mind swirls with lewd fantasies of you.

a whine rumbles in his throat as the sound of your voice note plays in his headphones. with his cheeks flushed, ragged breathing and a fleshlight pumping up and down his length, his soft groans and moans fill the air. leon's leaky tip beads with precum as he replays the same voicemail you left him, stroking his fat cock up and down with the fake pussy.

leon suddenly pauses, he quickly reaches over under his pillow and grabs newly stolen pair of panties. his cock twitches once more, the knot in his stomach threatening to come undone from the thought of sniffing his beloved roommates used panties. he shoves the underwear into his nose, grunting gutturally at the scent of her, stroking his cock just a bit faster now. "f-fuck... you smell so good...", he moans, rutting his hips into the fleshlight as he takes a big whiff of her.

sure, the blonde feels somewhat bad... but he couldnt find his morality in him as of now, not when her delicious panties were pressed up against his nose. with each pump, his angry, swollen tip leaks more and more precum, the fleshlight picking the precum up and using it as lube, only adding to the fiery sensation leon is experiencing.

the knot in his stomach only gets tighter, ready to snap in half as the sound of your cold voice echoes in his ears. "oh fuck- fuck baby... sweetheart...", he grunts, bucking his hips uncontrollably into the fake pussy, wishing it was your sweet cunt he was pounding into. leon wondered to himself, would your pussy be wetter? would you moan uncontrollably as he jackhammers his cock into you? or would you be restraining your moans and making him fuck you till it finally spills out? it didn't exactly matter to the boy as his cock was speaking for him.

with one last final pump, his thick warm cum spills from his fat tip, followed by a series of depraved moans as he desperately grinds into the fake pussy, circling his hips as shots of thick cum come spurting out of his cock.

as he slowly calms down, gently pulling the fleshlight away from him, his ears perk up. a noise that didn't sound like it was from the voice message or one he made. maybe he was insane, maybe it was just him riding down from his high but he swore he heard a soft moan from the other side of the wall, the walls were thin... it could be him imagining things, after all, he still had his headphones on.

he really didn't like it, but what was he meant to do? she wasn't interested in him - at least to his knowledge. the blonde stares at the curly haired male following her from a distance as a look of hesitance was on the mans face.

"y/n?", the mans voice rung loudly, catching a few glances from passer-bys. the girl stops in her tracks, one hand resting on the strap of her shoulder bag, she turns on her heel to face the man. "carlos, what is it?", she softly asks, her voice hardly above a whisper but still rather blunt. the latin american grinned, handing y/n a few pieces of paper stapled together.

"its the draft i did really quickly, since I still dont have your number, i wrote mine on it so text me your thoughts about it.", carlos said, flashing the girl a charming smile. y/n simply hums as she takes the drafts from him, placing it in her bag as she holds the blank expression and mutters a small thank you. despite her lack of physical reaction, carlos seemed to light up a little more as he brings her into an awkward hug of gratitude.

when she pulls away, carlos seemed to look a bit more shyer than before as his cheeks were softly dusted with a gentle pink hue that doesn't go unnoticed by leon.

with his attention away from the lecture, the blonde clenches his jaw in frustration. she was merely a roommate, why did he care so much anyway. leon softly huffs to himself before turning away from y/n and carlos' small interaction and tries to focus back onto the lecture... keyword, tries.

as y/n returns from her lectures, the shared housing space is oddly quiet. leon would typically be cooking something up or playing music in the background. subconsciously, the girl had gotten so used to her roommates habits and routines, it felt weird and wrong without leon's presence made known to her.

despite the fact that they were polar opposites, she found comfort knowing leon was home but the fact that not a single squeak is heard unless it was from made her stomach twist.

"leon?"

her soft voice bounces off of the flimsy walls of the room, the sound of her voice actually audible unlike the multiple times she simply hummed in replacement of speaking. no reply, y/n softly sighs to herself as she drags her feet towards her cramped room, kicking her shoes off.

the girl enters her tiny room, throwing her heavy shoulder bag onto her chair as she slumps down against her bed, eyes closing from exhaustion. small grumbles and groans escape her throat as she rubs her eyes, expressing her distaste for the lengthy project.

she was too lost in her own train of thought that she suddenly jumped at the noise of someone knocking at her room door. when did leon get home?

"y/n, i got us takeout tonight, i hope you don't mind.", leons bashful voice leaks past the door, y/ns ears catching onto the sound of plastic rustling in his hand as she cracks open her door. peering at the handsome man through the obvious crack emits a soft chuckle from the blonde as he just lifts the plastic bags up, flashing y/n a glimpse of the food.

a waft of the scent of delicious chinese takeout has her fully opening her door, following leon close behind like a puppy into the kitchen. leon laughs at the way she gives into food so easily, a big grin tugging at his lips as he places the bag onto the counter. "you dislike my cooking this much?", he queries, taking out the containers one by one whilst staring at his roommate snatching the bamboo utensils from the bottom.

y/n shakes her head at his response, keeping her lips sealed. the blonde softly laughs before opening the food up, the smell of stomach-filling chinese cuisines filled their nose. "smells nice... good selection leon...", she softly mumbles, trying to hide the fact that her mouth was watering. red covers leons cheek as he sheepishly laughs it off, feeling the knot in his stomach once more at her praise, "really? uhm-... well time to dig in!".

y/n softly hums in response as she begins picking up sides into her bowl, "... thanks leon, you're really sweet.", she mutters lowly, slowly popping the food into her mouth. his eyes stay glued on each movement on hers. the way her voice rung in his ears was heavenly, the way her chest heaved faster than usual, the way her hair fell to frame her adorable face, the way her lips wrap around the utensil was so arousing...

fuck, he was hard again.

[kodared]

✰ Stanford & Borrower/Anomaly Reader ✰

fears not enough they have to tear him apart.

Chapter 2/?

Wordcount: 2,684 / 4,741

➤ Summary Based on the borrowers of many universes! I hope you enjoy it, and if you don't know about borrowers, let me be your guide into a world I've loved since I was young. ✰Written because I saw the severe lack of borrower content in Gravity Falls fanfic, i hope you enjoy <3 ✰ - ★Updates irregularly! I write when I want ★ ★ - Also on AO3! - ★

You had spent the better half of that night scheming of ways actually to put your plan into motion. Sure the basic idea sounded easy enough, but you were only about 6 inches tall. His journal might even be taller than you. You tried not to let that thought bother you. 

You had even turned the string lights in your makeshift home on. If you were to think of ways to get the page you needed a comfortable space. You never liked sitting in the dark. 

The only sound in your room was your feet hitting the wooden plank you used as a floor while you paced in a circle. It had to be late at this point, and you could check and see if Ford was still awake, but you knew he’d still be up. 

Once he was enamored by something he stayed up studying, it felt weird for you to be that something, but here you were. 

If you were to take the page out of his journal, you needed something sharp to rip it out. Your needle wouldn’t work, it would take too long to rip the paper. You weren’t too keen on the idea of being caught by the scientist. 

You needed something more similar to a knife a human would use. You knew better than to think of making your own. You weren’t much of a blacksmith or crafter, you tinkered with a lot of things sure, but nothing extravagant. 

Finally getting bored of the scenery of your room, you decided that if you were going to brainstorm anything it would help to look around first. 

You clicked your string lights off and set off into the walls. Your hand fidgets with the needle on your hip anxiously. 

You always had a problem with twiddling with things. Your mother even had to put poison ivy on your nails once so you’d stop picking them and the skin around them. …You still had small scars but you tried not to pick them as bad. 

Absentmindedly walking the dark corridors of the inner walls wasn’t bad now and again. The cottage didn't have any mice, so you didn't have to worry about predators or bugs for that matter.

You wouldn’t have minded befriending a pill bug though, those little critters were always friendly as long as you had a treat for them. 

Your dreams of settling down with a bug friend though would have to wait. Reminding yourself why you came here, you finally felt along the wall for anything that could help. 

You were on the first floor. Meaning you were on the right track to the perfect spot to go looking for scraps the human wouldn’t miss. 

Not that it mattered if he noticed items going missing anymore, he already knew you were here. It was always best to avoid confrontation though.

Gently tapping on the wall as you went, you felt your body stiffening and halting right as you passed the humans room. 

If that was the noise you thought you heard, maybe the plan would be put in action sooner than expected. 

Halting in your tapping you gently pressed your body against the wall, hearing the faint whispers of a snore from beyond the wood. 

Deciding to bite the bullet you pressed harder, feeling the thin wood bend so you could peek. 

True to what you heard, you could see the human, Ford. Passed out at his desk, and even better, the Journal. 

Unguarded and open on his desk next to his hand. He must have been taking notes and fallen asleep. 

If there was any time to waste you weren’t going to be the one to waste it. Quickly pushing off the wall you took off towards the storage room he kept full of random items. 

Usually just rubbish of whatever he was working on at the time, sometimes wires, and more than often boxes full of who knows what. But that didn't matter, because you knew what you were after. 

Cramming yourself against the wall once more you operated quickly. Squeezing through the small crack made by pushing you landed on a box. Quickly you brought your sleeved arm up to stifle your coughing from the sheer amount of dust. 

Would it kill him to dust now and again or was he only interested in studying???

Pushing past your internal cussing you scanned the floor for what you came for to begin with. A small black screw lay on the floor exactly where you recognized it being. Still sharp at the end from disuse, overlooked on the floor for weeks. 

Bingo.

You jumped off of the box, ignoring the protests from your still sprained ankle as you speed walked over to the screw. 

Picking it up it felt cool in your hands. A comforting feeling in the stuffy and still dark room. The only light was from the moonlight that drifted from the window up high. 

Sometimes you wondered if your family was still okay in the woods. If sometimes when you looked at the moon, they where looking at it too. 

You began the long trek back to the humans room, debating whether or not it would be worth it to go back through the walls or just walk on foot. 

Eventually, you decided to just go back through the vent. Climbing back up the box and weaseling your way into the wall would be too much work. Plus the vents usually were easy enough to navigate. 

You used the screw to pry the grate up ever so slightly before using your hands to pull it up the rest of the way. Your wrist also protesting from where you fell on it. You seriously needed to take better care of yourself once this was all over. 

Dropping down into the vents you made sure to pull the grate shut behind you before crawling through the cramped space. Even for you, it was a bit uncomfortable but the cold on your stomach was oddly comforting. 

You oddly preferred a cold room over a warm one, even better if you had a warm piece of cloth. Even as a kid you much liked it better in the early months of fall than in the middle of summer. 

Finally, you could hear the humans' faint snoring from above you, confirming the vents were a pretty straightforward path to his room. 

Taking a deep breath you pushed the grate up. Timing it with his deep snores to make sure he stayed fast asleep.

Clambering up into the open space you could see Ford sleeping at his desk still. His body was uncomfortably curled around and resting on his desk. 

You were no fool. You made sure to plan an escape route just in case he did wake up, quickly scanning the room you could see a small hole in the floorboard. Probably made by the natural cut of the wood, but perfect for you to drop into at a moment's notice. 

You then looked at his desk. Trying to figure out a safe way to travel up it without your fishhook and thread. When something caught your eye. 

The bastard had kept your fishhook. There it lay on his workspace, just barely discernable from your angle on the floor as it glinted in the moonlight. Almost as if it was taunting you. 

Suddenly all the nerves you had were ebbing away into frustration. Who gave him the right to keep your things. You worked hard on getting the proper supplies, and he never noticed. So what gave him the right to pocket it like he made it? 

You made quick work of walking across the floor and getting your footing on the desk leg. The unpolished wood was rough enough to support your hands and feet as you climbed. 

If you could get your fishhook back on top of taking the page you would be ecstatic. Then you could move without worry and find a new place to move into. This would all be behind you and you could talk about it like it was all some bad dream. 

Now was a time for the present though as you neared the top of his desk. You had almost forgotten the human was resting just beside you, frightening yourself as you pulled yourself onto the desk and saw his arm right next to you. 

…You almost forgot how large this guy was. 

He was tall by human standards, you saw him standing next to his assistant before. 

Pushing down your curiosity you peeled your eyes away from the human. 

Quickly scooping up the fishhook and thread that was so rightfully yours. You took one more glance at him to make sure he was asleep. 

By human standards he was attractive. Hell, even by borrower standards he was mildly satisfying. You weren't one of those borrowers who actively sought out humans, but you could admit when someone was pleasing to the eyes. 

He had short brown hair that slightly curled at the ends. His glasses were now crooked with how he pressed his face on top of his arm as a makeshift pillow. You allowed your eyes to scan over him a bit longer. 

Taking in his outfit as well, a simple brown sweater with a collared shirt poking from above it. His usual trenchcoat was hung on the chair he sat on. 

His hands rested on top of his forearms, which- 

… Don't humans usually only have five fingers? 

You could've sworn they had only five. Raising your own you looked back and forth at it. 

You remembered your mother mentioning humans were genetically very similar to borrowers. The only difference is the height, which should mean he would have only five fingers. Not the six he seemed to have on both hands. 

You were getting sidetracked. Soon you wouldn't even be living with this weird scientist, so why did it matter if he had an extra finger? 

Finally focusing on what you came for, you turned your attention to the journal. That cursed, stupid, red journal. The cause of all your anxiety for the past few days. 

He's lucky you're not just burning the entire thing. You weren't above arson, but you didn't want to kill him if the fire got too big. Despite how much you loathed humans. 

You walked over to the journal and skimmed over the page it was open to. To no one's shock, it was open on the page you despised the most. 

Over the top of the pristine white paper was the name he had given you and your species. 

‘Parva persona’. Whatever that meant you didn't care. 

Below it was a crude sketch of what you could only assume was your shadowy figure slinking off into the wall. You thought you dressed better than that in all honesty. He could have atleast drawn you in detail. 

Whatever. Didnt matter as long as the page was gone. He could always rewrite it but you doubt he would remember everything. 

And the more that was lost to time the better in your opinion. 

You placed your foot on the page to hold it down as you positioned the screw at the top of the page. Pressing your whole body weight on it as you dragged it down, it worked beautifully. Leaving a messy tear in its wake. 

You almost forgot about the snoring behind you. 

Until it stopped. 

About halfway through slicing into the cursed paper you heard it. The slight intake of breath. The stutter was all you needed to whip around just in time to catch the human sitting up slightly. 

His eyes were wide as he looked down at you, the holds of sleep still gripping him tightly as he moved sluggishly. 

Screw the page. You dropped the screw and took off to the side of the desk. Already planning on using the hook to drop off the desk and disappear back into the walls before promptly packing your bags and going back to your parents. 

As you were about to drop your hook and use it to swing off the desk, you felt the warmth of his hand on your back once more before those damned fingers curled around your entire being. 

The human wasnt speaking yet but you didn't want to wait to hear him. Thrashing as hard as you could you tried desperately to grab your needle on your hip, but his hand was quick to squish your arms to your sides. 

The dizzying feeling of being lifted off the desk was the next thing you felt. You felt nauseous at the mental image of being manhandled. 

The human was stunned into silence as you screwed your eyes shut, still desperately kicking at his pinkie that held your thighs down. His thumb pressed against your neck and shoulders, almost as if he was examining you. 

Finally, you opened your eyes, and you wished you hadnt. His other hand held his glasses up, pressing them firmly against the bridge of his nose, as if he was afraid he wasnt seeing right. 

His hair messily framed his face as his mouth hung open just a bit. Clearly in awe at what he was seeing. Your heart hammered quickly against your chest as you feared you might die from shock and horror. 

You were stuck. Trapped by a scientist. The most dangerous human to exist to your kind. 

His grip tightened ever so slightly as he tilted you to the left, looking at the items you had on your hip as he lifted his middle finger. Your thighs and shoulder are still pinned to his palm. 

His palm was uncomfortably warm against your back. You hated the feeling of his skin against your clothes. Absentmindedly he used his other hand to poke at the needle on your hip. You contemplated trying to bite him. 

Your blood was rushing past your ears as the effects of vertigo hit your body in full swing once more as he moved. His head tilted to look somewhere beside the desk before you heard him rummaging. 

It was a wonder you weren't passed out at this point as his hand swayed. The motion was natural to him, but entirely foreign to the small sentient being he held in the palm of his hand. 

His eyes focused back on your form as you felt him press something against your side, it was cold and plastic. 

Craning your neck you could see him pressing what appeared to be a ruler to your side. His thumb pressed against your shoulder moving to press against your neck as he held you straight. 

“...6 and a half inches.. That should be impossible..” 

His voice boomed in your ears as you felt the beginnings of a headache nagging at the back of your eyes. In all reality, he was probably whispering. It didn't matter though combined with the closeness he held you at. 

His thumb was beginning to press a bit too hard into your neck and you saw spots forming in your vision. Your body kicked up in squirms as you desperately tried to squeeze in another full breath of air. 

He was quick to notice as he moved his thumb back to your shoulder. 

“Sorry!- I didn't realize, maybe I could..” 

He sat down the ruler before taking a few quick notes. Your vision cleared as you sucked in precious oxygen again. 

Your vision was just starting to clear fully as your brain caught up with his rummaging. He was once again rifling beside his desk. When you saw him pull a jar up into your vision you felt your blood run cold. 

You did not want to be put in a jar. Going into a jar meant transporting you. Which meant you where going down into that lab. 

   “Stop!-” 

The frantic words left your mouth before you could stop them, and you felt the human practically completely freeze. His calculating eyes pierced into your very soul as you felt him grip you ever so slightly tighter.  “You can talk!”

-- --- - - - --

Hope you enjoyed!! Will ford be nicer next chapter? Who knows!! I sure dont!!! ✰ Let me know if you enjoyed in the comments!!! I love reading them :)!!! Feel free to send me any asks in my askbox if you want as well! ✰

╱|、♡ (` - 7 |、⁻〵 じしˍ,)ノ

[madaqueue]

eternally, yours

chapter 8 | patience

synopsis: 'forever' is a peculiar concept - how can something persist, unchanged, throughout time? when our bodies halt their aging, do our minds continue to evolve? do our hearts? choso was comfortable with his version of forever, one of solitary loneliness; that is, until he meets you. forced to confront the harsh realities of being human, the fragility of life, his definition of 'forever' changes as he stares down the barrel of eternity.

pairing: vampire!choso kamo x f!reader

themes/content: non-curse modern au. fluff, angst, smut. language, pet names (baby, angel, love), mentions of death/loss, blood drinking, depictions of motor vehicle accident. switch!choso, fingering, p in v (cowgirl). 18+, MDNI

word count: 5.4k

a/n: fun fact the last scene of this chapter is what inspired me to write this series hahahaha i can't believe we've already made it this far!!!! yeehaw

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You had never much cared for flowers. What was the purpose, after all? To rip something from the ground, taking away what it needs to survive, simply for your own pleasure? Melding the forces of nature to your own selfish desires?

And yet, in spring, you find yourself surrounded by bouquets, handpicked by cold fingers on Choso’s route to your apartment. Small daisies and flushed lilacs begin to fill your home, yet this time, they don’t seem to wilt quite as quickly as they had in the past. Maybe the act of his devotion, the quiet walks through heavy rain, wet soil lining the sidewalks, truly was protective after all, his love life-sustaining.

The days continue to lengthen, sun beaming through the increasingly sparse clouds. On the first truly warm day of spring, you and Choso take the opportunity and bring Megumi and Yuji into the woods, visiting the lakehouse Sukuna had offhand mentioned to his younger brother a few times. Despite their near-incessant arguing, you think they must nevertheless care about each other - after all, they couldn’t have lived this long together without something tying them together, right?

As Choso’s car pulls up the gravel driveway, the cabin blends into the surrounding trees, the wooden beams forming into an A-frame peak, stark against the blue sky overhead. Sukuna never struck you as someone who enjoyed connecting with nature, which is perhaps why everything inside is covered in a thin layer of dust, swirling in the sunlight filtering in through the windows as you open the door.

Megumi and Yuji immediately take off running, scouring to find the ideal bedroom as you and Choso haul luggage inside. “Dibs on the bunk beds!” their excited screams echo from upstairs as you make your way inside.

The first floor is utterly gorgeous, high ceilings constructed in oak planks, a fireplace tucked into the corner of the living room, overlooking the fully-stocked kitchen despite the fact that it seems like no one had visited here in years. Sturdy wooden steps lead the way upstairs, presumably where the bedrooms are situated, a large balcony overlooking the dining table.

Pulling your body into his, Choso’s arms encompass you. “Think we should let ‘em have the bunk beds?” he smirks.

“I dunno, I kinda like being on the top bunk,” you giggle, “it makes me feel tall.”

His deep laugh fills the space as footsteps pound upstairs, presumably from Megumi and Yuji racing through the unfamiliar space. Suddenly, it hits you: this feels like home. You and Choso here together, in the safety of a novel space, with your brothers playing upstairs: it’s everything you ever wanted.

Before you can complete the thought, the two boys appear before you, nearly slipping as they run down the stairs. Dressed in their swim trunks, they grab at your hands, desperately trying to pull you outside.

“C’moooon, let’s go to the lake!” Yuji whines.

“I wanna swim!” Megumi echoes, tugging at your arm.

“Give us a few minutes to get ready, okay guys?” you chuckle as Choso lugs your bags upstairs into the remaining master bedroom.

Once inside, he immediately locates the attached bathroom before stashing a small red and white cooler inside, the contents softly rustling against the foam interior. He prides himself on separating the dark parts of his life from you, hoping to avoid having your light cast upon them. Locking the door, he opens it quietly, listening for any sign of you from downstairs. His fingers wrap around the familiar plastic of a blood bag, crinkling in his grasp. Just as he lifts it to his lips, your voice calls from outside.

“Cho, I’m gonna get changed and meet the boys outside - they’re a little eager to get out there,” you laugh.

“Sounds good, be down in a minute,” he calls, desperately trying to hide the waver in his voice. 

The bag rustles in his shaky hands as he hears you rummage through the suitcases. Upon finding your swimsuit, he waits for your footsteps to fade away as you return downstairs and outside.

Finally alone, his attention returns to his meal. Just a precaution, he reasons, a way for him to ensure an internal peace today without having to worry about you seeing him for what he truly is. Fangs piercing the bag, he gulps the sanguine fluid down his throat, his body automatically relaxing as it courses through his veins.

Quickly wiping any remnants from his lips, he hides the cooler once again before digging through his suitcase and pulling on swim trunks to join you outside.

The sun shines brightly overhead, warming your skin as you saunter down the stone stairs towards Megumi and Yuji playing in the sand next to the dock. Before long, the sliding glass door from the cabin hits your ears as you turn to face Choso.

A smile immediately graces his face as he sees you, absolutely glowing under the golden hues above. His cheeks threaten to flush as his eyes trail lower over your body, perfectly outlined in your bikini. Get yourself together, he thinks to himself, shoving down his impure thoughts. But god, when he finally meets you by the beach, the scent of vanilla lingering on your skin as you stand beside him, you look absolutely tantalizing, his body suddenly uncomfortably hot.

An idea flashes across his mind despite the lust that clouds it. “Race you guys into the lake!” he shouts, garnering the attention of Megumi and Yuji who had been wrestling nearby. The patter of footsteps fills your ears as the three of them careen towards the lake, leaping off the edge of the dock. Each splash is met with a scream as the cold water hits their senses, giggles taking over in their place as the shock settles.

“I beat you!” Yuji yells.

“Nuh uh, I won!” Megumi retorts.

Choso easily picks up the boys in turn, tossing them high into the air before they land back into the water. Excited shrieks fill the tranquil forest before Choso turns to you, a devilish glimmer behind his eyes. “I don’t know who won, but I know someone who definitely lost.”

Your younger brothers giggle, dramatic “ooooh’s” leaving their throats as he hoists himself out of the water and onto the dock.

“No, no, no!” you yell, but your efforts are futile - Choso’s arms wrap around you, pulling you against his damp skin, before he tosses you into the air.

The water hits your skin, its icy tendrils covering you as you’re submerged under it. Breaching the surface, a loud splash echoes through the air before another cold wave hits you. Choso resurfaces a moment later, shaking out his dark hair and splashing you and your brothers from where you float in the lake.

It’s easy to be here with Choso, with your brothers. The sun eventually warms fatigue into your skin, drawing you all from the water and to the beach. Evening settles as Megumi and Yuji traverse into the woods to scavenge sticks for a bonfire, leaving you and Choso to collect marshmallows and chocolate from inside.

Upon reconvening, the boys dump armfulls of twigs into the fire pit before Choso pulls out a small box of matches. Flicking it against the rocks, it ignites into small sparks. There’s a momentary hesitation in his muscles as the flames glimmer against his irises, illuminating the midnight pools behind them. It’s brief, but you catch the way he tenses before tossing it into the pile, sparking the bonfire.

“Alright, s’mores time,” he weakly chuckles, an attempt to diffuse the swirl of emotions bubbling inside him.

Seating himself on the ground a few feet away, you let the boys tear open the bag of marshmallows and eat them raw as you plop down next to him, the sand digging into your thighs.

It’s just a second, he swears, but when the wood collapses under its own weight he flinches. Memories of that night flood back - the house collapsing, the smoke in his lungs. It feels like he’s choking.

But your hand rubbing along his spine tethers him, pulling him back to the surface of his memories.

“You okay?” Your voice is clear, cutting through the blackened fog in his mind.

You’re here. You’re okay. You’re safe.

Finally, he takes in a full breath of air, his ribs expanding easily. “Y-yeah, sorry,” he mutters, unable to meet your gaze. His thumbs rub together nervously before resting his head on your shoulder, dark hair still slightly damp from the lake against the t-shirt (or rather, his t-shirt) hanging loosely off your body.

Intertwining your fingers with his, you gently squeeze his hand, his skin unsurprisingly cool despite the heat of the fire nearby.

You’re here. You’re okay. You’re safe.

Before long, the boys’ screams grow quiet as they rest against each other in the sand, nearly asleep from the hours in the warm summer sun. Picking Megumi from the ground, he rests his head on your neck as Choso carries Yuji on his back up the stairs. After tucking them into their respective bunk beds, the two of you return outside.

The fire now dwindles, embers twinkling against the dark sky, your path illuminated only by the soft glow of the moon above.

Choso’s eyes cover your body as you walk past him: the plush of your thighs, the swell of your chest underneath his shirt, your hair perfectly unstyled. Again, he feels the familiar ache within his bones. He craves you.

Being out in the sun does wear on him. He’s told you before it’s like the pounding in your skull right before a headache, or the total-body soreness after running a marathon. He’s always described it as exhausting in a physical sense, but held back the more psychological strain it places on him. Maybe that’s why he’s unable to hold himself back now, as though the poison of indulgence was finally beginning to wear against his cells, the only antidote being you.

As the sand shifts beneath your feet, carrying you around the fire, he can’t resist any longer: cool hands reach out and grab your hips, pulling you into his lap. The heat of the fire absorbed into the cloth of his t-shirt, the material now warm as you rest your chest against his.

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?” he murmurs, his voice low and gruff. Visions of you flash through his mind - you in that sinful bikini, you in nothing but his shirt, you below him, eyes closed and lips parted, mewling nothing but chants of his name.

The words, of course, go straight to your ego - unfortunately, he was just a little too fun to tease. “Oh yeah?” Rolling your hips forward slightly, you rub against his now-dry swim trunks, the material gliding beneath you. “Tell me, Cho.”

He groans your name, cheeks already flushing from the minimal stimulation. Desire builds inside him, eating away at the walls of his control. He needs you. “S-so beautiful,” he stammers as his hands snake beneath your shirt, your skin still warm beneath his palms. Trailing upwards, they grope at your perfect tits beneath the small triangles of your swimsuit top, gently kneading the supple flesh in his palms.

Feeling his cock twitch beneath you, you continue grinding against him, forcing a sharp inhale from his lungs. Burying his head into your shoulder, he weakly thrusts up into you, desperate for any source of friction. “H-hah,” he pants, “do you see what you do to me?”

The sound of your giggle is bright despite the darkness pooling around you as you trace your fingers to the back of his neck, gently carding them through his hair, currently down and cascading over his shoulders. “I dunno, Cho, I can’t see too much with those shorts still on you.”

And you don’t think you’ve ever seen him move so fast in your life. In one swift motion, he rips them down below his hips, his cock hitting his stomach before settling in the air. Saliva collects in your mouth at the sight of him, flushed pink tip and veins catching the dwindling light of the fire.

Your body, too, knows it needs him. Instinctively, your fingers trail down his chest before wrapping around his base, twitching in your palm. He’s practically shaking against you as you slowly, slowly stroke up his length.

“Much better,” you coo. Pumping your fist up, your thumb swipes below his tip, smearing the precum that had been leaking down as he shudders.

It’s sweet how little it takes to get him so needy.

“Aw, what’s wrong baby, you’re shivering - are you cold?” you tease as he begins trembling beneath you.

“Y-you - fuck - you know that’s not it,” he manages to huff out. At this point, he’s grinding up into you, his hips desperately trying to match your pace, pleading for more, more, more.

“Then what is it, Cho? C’mon baby, use your words.” A sly grin tugs at your lips - it’s just too easy. Your motions speed up, wrist twisting as you glide up and down his length, grip tightening slightly as you reach his tip, in just the way you know makes his head feel fuzzy.

“Nngh - just - shit - you’re gonna make me lose control if you keep going,” he barely chokes out, his waist bucking into the air, only held down by your weight on his lap. And he knows it, too, his thoughts beginning to cloud, already lust-drunk just from your hand.

He’s never been quite sure what it is about you that drives him so crazy, so far from his own humanity. Yet, it’s easy for you, reducing him to pure animalistic need with just your touch, sometimes just your fucking scent enough to hurl him into the depths of his own hellish desires.

His words should have been a warning, but the alarms his body sends off fall on deaf ears as your motions never slow, your own hedonism beginning to get the better of you, too. The little whines and pleas leaving his lips are too sweet, leading you further and further for just another taste.

Rubbing your thighs together, it does little to quell the warmth pooling inside you. Choso was always so collected, especially with you - maybe it was being out in the sun all day, maybe it was how you purposely wore your most revealing bikini, maybe he was just growing too taut under the ropes of his restraint - but you want to see what he’ll do, to drag him to the precipice of his control.

When your lips make contact with the skin of his neck, your teeth biting down just hard enough, that’s all it takes. With a sudden inhale, the sting of your canines attempting to pierce his flesh, the fight within him dies - he has absolutely, and utterly, lost.

The cool summer air hits your heat as he tears your swimsuit bottoms off, falling to shreds in the sand beside you. “S-shit, sorry,” he mutters into your skin, but makes no move to stop.

Then his hand hurriedly traces down your body, landing between your legs. “So fuckin’ wet,” he mumbles, mostly to himself, as his thumb roughly circles your clit. “You seriously - fuck - this turned on just from teasing me?”

Before you can respond with some sarcastic quip, one finger enters your core, then two. A moan bubbles past your lips as he curls his fingertips towards you, hitting the gummy spot inside that pulls you closer and closer and closer. “Need you to cum f’me, need it s’bad,” he slurs. Oh, he’s gone.

“C-Cho,” you whine as you come undone around his fingers.

Before you can come down from your high, he’s already moving. A low growl rumbles from his throat as he lifts you up slightly, your thoughts still too cloudy to realize what he’s doing until the stretch in your core is suddenly amplified. His tip presses past the first ring of muscles inside you as he whines. “Relax for me baby, please, need t’be inside you.”

Suddenly, his hands are on your hips, a bruisingly tight grip as he allows gravity to pull you down. When he bottoms out inside you, his head falls forward, buried into your shoulder.

“Too big, Cho, t-too big,” you cry, your body on fire from the way he completely fills you.

“It’s okay, love, y’can take it,” he coos - for your sake as much as his. “Please baby, please take it, be good for me, yeah?”

And you do - your walls perfectly meld around him, warmth enveloping and coursing through his body. It’s so, so fucking hot, sweat beginning to collect on his forehead.

Your head spins as the firm grip on your waist is suddenly being used to lift you up. With one swift motion, he drops you all the way back down his length. Up and down, each thrust knocks the wind from your lungs, soft repeats of “ah ah ah” forced from your throat each time your thighs crash against his pelvis.

“Can’t stop baby, fuck, need you,” he breathes, voice husky and dripping in desire. “Need you so bad, need you so, so bad.”

His abs flex and relax with each thrust under the slowly-ruining cloth of his t-shirt. Your skin is so soft in his grasp, his short nails digging small crescents into the plush of your hips. Your hands, meanwhile, are weakly holding onto his shoulders, yet they provide no stability whatsoever. It’s rough and desperate and exactly what he needed.

Fucking himself up on you, hoisting your entire body into the air before letting you fall back against him, your eyes roll back each time your skin crashes against his. When his hips begin to thrust up in pace, he somehow reaches impossibly deeper, tip bumping into your cervix having your jaw loosely dropping open.

“Cho, nngh, s’good,” you mindlessly babble. By this point your head is too clouded in pleasure to really process the words, letting him completely manhandle you.

“Shh, angel,” he purrs, “you’re bein’ too loud, gonna wake everybody up.” And in that sentence, a more cognisant person could tell that he’s just as gone as you are - Megumi and Yuji are fast asleep and too far away to hear you, but neither of you pay attention to that little fact right now. “Gotta - hah - quiet that pretty lil’ mouth of yours.”

Just as your lips begin to form into a faux pout, two fingers are shoved past them. The wet sound of your cunt covers the slight gags as he presses against your tongue, your taste still lingering on his skin. “T-there ya go,” he pants, “much better.”

It’s easy to forget sometimes just how strong he is, but as he easily maneuvers you up his cock like you’re weightless, it’s all too apparent. Just how much does he hold himself back?

His mind is swimming in pleasure, too afraid to lift his head from your neck for fear he would abandon any last shred of control. A sound that could only be described as a whimper leaves his lips as your tongue swirls around his digits, his motions momentarily stuttering.

It’s all too much, your walls begin to flutter around him as he ruts into you.

Parting your lips, saliva begins to collect at the corners of your mouth around his fingers as you mumble. “M’close, hah, m’gonna-”

“I know angel, I know,” he breathes. Placing featherlight kisses along your neck, only serving to further tease himself at this point, it’s a harsh contrast to the rough slapping of his balls against you. “Me too, gonna - shit - gonna fill y’up baby, yeah?”

The question is more rhetorical than anything, knowing you’re unable to answer with his fingers between your lips. Moans of your name fill the quiet air, drool beginning to dribble down your chin as he shoves further into your mouth, the arm around your waist tightening as he angles his hips ever so slightly, just enough to hit the spot inside you that sends you over the edge.

With one final thrust, you lose yourself, the waves of euphoria nearly drowning you as your body shakes in his hold. Choso follows shortly after, his cock twitching as thick ropes of cum shoot into you.

As his hips finally still, he rests both his hands on your thighs, his touch now purposefully tender. The embers behind you softly flicker across his face, concern painted on it as his eyebrows furrow, the dark tattoo along his nose stretched with his cheeks pulling down into a frown.

Did he hurt you? He’s not sure he could forgive himself if the lapse in his judgement, the weakness of his resolve, caused you any harm. He knew it was a bad idea, he tried to warn you, to hold himself back, but it’s so hard when you’re so fucking perfect. He should have been stronger, should have stopped, should have been more patient, more in control.

“Are you okay?” he pants, chest heaving as he desperately sucks in air.

All you can do is nod, pupils wide and eyes glassy as you pull his head from your shoulder. Even when he loses himself, he’s still so gentle, so careful with you. He would never hurt you, even after dragging himself to the limits of his restraint. He will always keep you safe. Placing a gentle kiss to his lips, his entire body continues to tremble beneath you as a lazy smile graces his face.

“L-love you s’much,” he slurs, still clouded in the ecstasy of your body and now comforted by the warm blanket of your wellbeing.

You giggle again, light and airy as always. “Love you too,” you breathe, pressing chaste pecks across his flushed cheeks.

Resting your forehead against his, you allow a moment to pass, the sound of waves lapping against the shore filling the peaceful darkness. Then, he easily carries you upstairs, helping you shower the sand and sin from your bodies before settling into bed. The sheets are soft against your skin before he interrupts the silence by rustling the blankets as he sits up.

One part of his body’s desires were satiated with yours, but there’s another part - a darker part - that still hungers.

“I’ll be right back, baby,” he hums, gently placing his lips to your forehead.

“Where are you going?”

There’s a sweetness to your voice, an innocence he can’t ignore, something he can’t bring himself to lie to. He hesitates for a moment before crumbling.

“I…I have to feed.”

His stomach drops as the words leave his throat, the seconds before you respond dragging on into a painful eternity. Every time he mentions his past, his true nature, he expects you to hate him, to reject him, to fear him. But when you simply tilt your head, there’s no malice behind your gaze - no, just curiosity.

“Can I watch?”

It takes him aback at first. Truthfully, you aren’t sure why you ask, but you can feel the pressure he places on himself, the desire to be some perfect version of ‘human.’ It weighs on him, and you hope this can lessen some of the burden, if even just a little, for you to see him as he truly is.

“Are you…sure?”

When you nod, a soft hum of affirmation, he can’t quite place the disgust he feels inside himself. Why doesn’t he want you to see?

When he doesn’t move, the muscles of his shoulders tightening as he stands in place, you continue. “If you don’t want me to, that’s okay too-”

“No, it’s not that.” Seating himself next to you, the bed bows under his weight. Sometimes, you do forget how big he is, how strong. “It’s just…” he trails off, “I don’t want you to see me differently.”

“Cho, I would never-”

“You know I’m not human. Sometimes it’s easier to ignore than others, but I’m not. I want to be, I want it so bad, but in seeing me do this, you won’t be able to forget it ever again. When you watch this, it’ll change you, it’ll change how you view me.”

Taking in a clear breath, you rub your hand across his back in reassurance. “Maybe it will.”

His entire body tenses, glancing at you from the corner of his eyes.

“Maybe it will change how I see you - but maybe I want that. I want to see you, the real you, the true you. I’ve never been scared of you, I’ve never hated you or seen you as anything less than the love of my life. And this…this is just a part of that life.”

Dropping his gaze to his lap, his head lowers, dark locks covering his eyes. A soft puff of air escapes his lips before they curl into a hesitant smile. “Okay,” he sighs, “if you’re sure.”

Reaching your hands into his, you squeeze them. “I’m sure.”

Silently, he rises, feet softly padding to the bathroom. When he reemerges, a red and white cooler hangs from his palm. He returns to his seat next to you on the bed, opening the container and revealing dark maroon bags carefully lined up in its interior.

The translucent plastic folds under the gentle grasp of his fingertips as he brings it to his lips. Locking eyes with you, the flames of fear behind his irises dull as you smile.

“I love you,” you hum, intertwining your fingers with his. And you do.

And it’s carnal.

But not violent.

He’s patient as his fangs poke through the plastic, his eyelashes fluttering shut as he drinks. It’s surprisingly quiet, the only sound a soft crinkling as the fluid drains from the bag.

When it’s completely empty, he breathes a sigh of relief, the static hanging around his body suddenly absent. You can feel it, too, the calmness spreading over him, the wrinkles of worry smoothing out.

Setting the empty bag into the cooler, he wipes the back of his palm against his mouth, removing any last trace of blood from it.

You’re not sure what draws you to do it - perhaps it’s seeing something so personal, so private, having glimpsed into the part of himself he loathes the most - but before you know it, you’re leaning forward, your lips crashing against his.

He tenses for a moment, afraid of what you’ll think, afraid of how you’ll react, before your tongue swipes against his. Eyes fluttering closed once again, he sighs into you, lips parting as you deepen the kiss.

There’s an unmistakable metallic taste lingering, but you don’t seem to mind - it’s so perfectly him.

He’s here. He’s at peace. You love him.

༝ ˚ ｡⋆ ༝ ˚ ｡⋆

You’ve always reminded Choso of the moon. Maybe that’s why he feels so calm under its gaze, as though it were you in the sky smiling down upon him, watching over him, patiently guiding him home. Home to you.

He wants to show you how he sees you, how beautiful you are in his eyes. As perfect as the moon.

Bringing you away from the city tonight, he hopes he’s finally found a way to do it. Your back lays upon the cool grass of the field, head resting against his chest as his fingers lazily draw circles along the small of your back.

“I’ve never seen so many stars,” you hum, gaze scanning the sky. “It’s beautiful.”

In the darkness away from the light of civilization, you can make out new constellations, entire galaxies reflected in the space above you. It doesn’t make you feel small, no - you feel connected. Every atom, every second in the universe’s creation led you to this moment, to be here, with Choso, with the love of your life.

It hits you, then, just how much time he’s lived, how much of the world he’s experienced. Squeezing your arms around his torso, you pull yourself further into him.

“You know,” he begins, and even though you can’t see his smile, you can hear it, “there were a lot of theories about the stars before we understood them the way we do now, before we could see them with telescopes and technology.”

Tilting your neck, your eyes land on his face, his black irises glowing in wonder as he focuses overhead.

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

He grins so softly, so endearingly excited to share pieces of his past with you.

“Well, one of them was that the darkness was a blanket over the sky. The sun was always there, but just covered up at night. The stars, then, were holes poked in the blanket that let us see the brightness through them.”

Humming, you pause for a moment. “I like that idea. It feels…safe.” Pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head, he allows you to continue. “It’s nice to think that the sun is always there, always protecting everything. Even when you can’t see its light, it’s only temporary. It will always come back.”

His hands run up and down your back slowly, tickling along your spine. “It’ll always come back.”

The drive back to the city is peaceful. The wind rushes through your hair, head resting against your palm next to the open car window. Music crackles from the speakers of Choso’s car, your other hand intertwined with his over the center console.

“Do you remember what you were doing a year ago tonight?” he asks, his low voice gently breaking the comfortable silence.

You shake your head, turning your attention to him.

“You brought Megumi into the hospital - it was the first time I saw you.”

Warmth spreads across your face, heart fluttering in your chest. Your cheeks push up into a grin, overtaken in adoration. “I thought you didn’t keep track of dates, Cho.”

That sweet smile begins to spread across his face as he shrugs, eyes still focused on the road ahead to not give away his own nervousness - even after all this time, you still fluster him so easily. “I guess I met someone worth remembering them for.”

And you think you melt right there on the spot - not from the humid air rushing past you, no, but from the tenderness warming his words.

He’s here. He’s at peace. You love him.

“I can’t believe it’s been a year since we met,” you hum to yourself, your voice quiet enough to nearly be lost in the buzzing background of the summer night.

He sighs contentedly. “It’s been the best year of my life.”

With a squeeze of his hand, you giggle. “And that’s saying something, because you’ve lived a lot of them.”

“Oh, are you calling me old now?” he chuckles - a sound you think you’ll never grow tired of, a proof of his happiness.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you smirk. Settling your laughter, your gaze meets his. “I love you, Cho.”

“I love you too, angel,” he hums, the dark circles beneath his eyes seemingly lighter as they crinkle.

Suddenly, everything goes white.

The sound of metal scraping fills the silence.

Then everything hurts.

Your body feels like it’s on fire, every muscle torn and burning.

There’s the smell of smoke in the air.

Choso’s voice calls out from…somewhere. Your vision is blurry as it settles on the scene around you: his hands hooked under your shoulders as he tugs you from the car, its shape mangled around another vehicle.

“Help! Somebody fucking help,” Choso cries into the darkness, his voice hoarse from screaming.

Glancing down, his attention locks on you. “Hey, hey, you’re okay, it’s okay,” he whispers. Something cool falls on your cheek - is he…crying? He must be, but you can’t quite make it out. “Stay with me, okay? I got you.”

Stroking your cheek with his thumb, it leaves a damp trail of blood along your skin - is it yours? You can’t tell.

“Somebody do something!” He’s yelling again, you realize. You’ve never heard his voice so loud, so broken.

He’s rocking your body in his grasp, but you can’t feel it, everything is too far away. You’re sure you’d be in pain, though. You’re sure it should hurt, but you don’t feel anything.

Just as your vision begins to fade into darkness, you hear his voice one last time:

“Do you want me to save you?”

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[dadsbongos]

The Lovers

word count - 4.8 k

warnings - ENEMIES to lovers..., non-graphic deaths and violence, i humanize and objectify pav in the same breath, fem reader (referred to by "girl" bc he's the worst)

first time capitalizing a fic title in months

DAY 2. NOON.

Blood splotches decorate the cobblestone floor, already drying into maroon against the wood planks of the train cars. The droplets lighten in shade the deeper into the train you go, and eventually, you find crimson. Pure cherry ink on dark wood. Cherry rots into a blackened smudge once again on the wheel of Olivia’s wheelchair. One hand settled over the thin black rim on her right, and the other twisting a roll of bandages around her fingers. She blinks up at you, bottom lip tucked so tight between her teeth that the rosy flesh is blistering white.

“I’m really sorry,” she sighs, abandoning the spool of cloth in her lap to push up her wiry glasses, “Terribly, I am, but I don’t- “ she pauses, “I’m worried that the others would be… biased in their care…”

Your gaze flits up from Olivia’s pensive face to the blonde man spread across the train’s cushy two-seater. His midsection is wrapped with reddish blooms vining all down the white crossings, arm bound in a sling over his chest. His eyes are scrunched up, brows furrowed towards the middle of his forehead; a fitful, delirious limbo overtaking him. Occasionally, he jerks himself awake in a wide-eyed panic before the pain knocks his brain topside again.

The Bremen lieutenant would hardly be a challenge to put down in his current state. You are one of few from the contestants that Olivia feels can be trusted not to undo her hard work of keeping the soldier alive. Combine your level-headedness with your lackadaisical attitude in searching Prehevil, and you make the perfect candidate to watch over Olivia’s patient.

Unfortunately.

“If he annoys me, can I press on his wounds?”

A wild grimace overtakes Olivia’s face, “No! No, please, please do not do that.”

“Fine,” you waltz past Olivia and study the blonde’s pinched face, “Go, go. I’ll watch the traitor.”

“Thank you!” she sighs in relief before exiting the train car, calling back hurriedly, “I’ll try to come with more bandages before sundown!”

When the lieutenant is not trapped under the rolling, ruthless waves of agony, you could almost mistake him for any other man. Maybe even a handsome one: with a strong nose and symmetrical bone structure. His lips are faintly the color of roses, too. Pale and pink. Dry, though. Not nearly as luscious as pretty petals.

Golden tresses, which you are mature enough to admit are alluring. His hat was off and his hair ruffled and fanning out over the magenta seat. Skin frail and pale - you could crush his ribs if you tried. Charming in a way you’ve only known real men to be.

Certainly, though, as soon as the pig squeals - the illusion of perky flowers and honey will melt away. Scorched by the moon as the villagers outside.

Foolishly, you agree to sit around waiting for the swine to be well enough to squeal. A smarter woman would’ve put it down (especially when it's previously shown a taste for blood), but you like Olivia and her tender heart so you do no such thing.

DAY 2. NIGHT.

As thanks for not murdering Pavel as soon as she’d turned her back, Olivia brought you fresh water and dried meats from scavenged homes alongside the fresh bandages. She left again soon after swapping the bloodied cloth for fresh ones.

“Do tell me when he wakes up,” she grins up at you. As if apologetic for having you carry out a duty you’d already agreed to, “I’m sure this isn’t an easy ask. I’m sorry.”

“If I wanted to make you feel bad for asking, I wouldn’t have said yes,” you wave off the concern, “Don’t die out there, Olivia. I’d miss you too much to do my job,” you gesture vaguely towards the immobile lieutenant.

She chuckles quietly before nodding, “I’ll do my best.”

Pavel’s groans are increasing both in frequency and throatiness - he’ll wake soon, you’re sure of it. He even turns onto his side, exhaling thickly - so harsh and ragged he actually coughs up bubbles of spit. Jittering with alert, he gasps sharply and rockets upward. Snapping at his waist and swiping out wildly with his unbound arm, clawing at the musty air directly in front of him; even attempting to swing out the arm wrapped and tied around his neck.

As soon as the hair-splittingly thin burst of adrenaline fades, he hisses in pain. Cupping the covered gash in his chest before curling his uninjured arm around the other, he throws his head back and gasps again. Suffocating under the re-stretching of closing wounds and fragile muscle.

Despite his uniform, you find yourself at Pavel’s side. You brush a hand down the length of his spine before patting between his shoulder blades, your other hand soothing down his navel to press him down into the cushions. Swiping aside curls of gold, you shush his groaning and search the care bag Olivia left behind. In your palm comes a bind of tobacco and a pipe that is smooth and cold against your skin.

“Quiet, quiet,” you coo, stuffing the chamber of the pipe with the almost sickly sweet, nutty-scented tobacco before raising Pavel’s head and sitting the lip into his mouth.

His eyes are still wrinkled shut, chest beginning to sporadically pop and shrink in a struggle to suck wind through his throat.

Part of you wants to tug his hair and call him stupid, but a larger part of you is consumed with pity. Pity for a creature so entrapped with torment that he cannot remember the second most basic function of his body.

“Breathe through your nose,” you continue to run your fingers through his sweat-matted hair while striking a match against the train’s floorboards and lighting the tobacco, “Smoke slow. It will ease you.”

Pavel’s neck cranes upward and remains there, head pushing against your stroking hand as he (rather noisily) inhales through his nostrils. Then, he fills his lungs with the sting of tobacco, blowing it back out through the pursed corner of his mouth.

Once you’re confident Pavel can breathe and smoke without choking himself to death, you turn again to rattle through Olivia’s care bag for herbs. Anything to aid the physical pain before the distraction of tobacco wears off.

Eyes fluttering open, Pavel stares down at you as he lifts an arm to pull the pipe from his mouth - blowing smoke down into your face. You pinch the exposed skin of his side harshly, only letting go when he jerkily arches his back to escape your cruel fingers.

“Unbelievable,” you shake your head, “No. A Bremen pig would, of course, disrespect someone trying to heal them.”

“If you wanted me dead, I already would be.”

“I still have time.”

You unplug a glass vial the shade of elderberries and press it to Pavel’s closed lips. When he stubbornly fastens his lips tighter, you glare directly into his eyes.

“Open. Or it’s being poured over your neck.”

Pavel groans in protest, but finally opens his mouth and allows you to dump the blue liquid into his throat. He gags at the bitterness of raw, untempered pressed herbs, almost gagging until he realizes you have no intention of stopping your pour. So he chooses to swallow down the vial as quickly as it comes instead of drowning to a mere glass of blue.

When you’re tucking the emptied glass away, Pavel replaces the pipe and huffs down at you, “You’re not a very courteous nurse.”

Instead of dignifying the jab with a response, you sit up fully on your knees to scour over the lieutenant below. From his tousled hair to his bloodied and wretched uniform to his muddied boots.

You reach up and contemplate digging a thumb somewhere in the center of his bandages before thinking better of it and snatching the pipe from his lips, “You should put away your breasts.”

Inhaling the smoke, you blow it down in Pavel’s annoyed face and grin when he coughs.

He glares up at you somehow harsher than before, “I could shoot you for that. I should shoot you for that.”

“Then who would protect you from all the other people that want you dead?”

Silently, he mulls over the question. If he reaches some sort of logical conclusion, he refuses to share. Most likely, though, you’re assuming he has no such answer. Aside from you, there is Olivia, but even she could not be swayed into staying on this train longer than necessary. It could drive one mad, bound inside this narrow tube of car after car after car with the same seats and floorboards and rolling rug. So she very politely requested you to stay behind instead.

You sit down on the hard floor below you, pulling your knees to your chest and winding both arms around your legs. Pavel turns his head to the side, lips in a pout. Drinking the blue liquid earlier has revived them, at least somewhat, they are even pinker. More full. Smoother. When you’ve had enough staring there, you stare at his eyes: so gray they shine like gun metal in the flitting moonlight.

Maybe Pavel would notice you examining him if he could tear his own eyes away from where they’re lingering by the sliver of exposed skin by your ankle. Classic: boarish pig lives up to his name. His gaze crawls up your shin to your bent knees, then a little lower as if to catch a glimpse of where your thighs and rear are squished against your chest and the floor (respectively). At least you have the decency to not objectify him during your observation - not that you even could. The lieutenant is leagues more off-putting than handsome.

Once he’s gathered the guts to bore his steely gaze into your face, he grins with a half-hearted shrug, “I haven’t seen a beautiful woman not kissing the piss lord’s ass in ages.”

You ignore the pass completely, “So, the temple square?”

Pavel sighs and extends a hand, palm up and fingers splayed wide in front of your face, “A failure.”

“You don’t say,” you bypass his hand and feed the lip of the pipe directly into his mouth, pressing it against his tongue and watching him firmly tuck it between his lips before letting go, “Why try?”

Puffing from the pipe, Pavel only shakes his head while exhaling thick plumes of slate-hued smoke. He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip and cradles the pipe in his hand, turning it delicately to inspect the body, “Why not?”

You make a show of looking from his face to his bandaged torso before snickering, “Serious question?”

Pavel takes one final draw of the pipe before balancing it atop the wooden frame of the seat. He lays his uninjured hand gently over his torso, blinking up at the ceiling with tired, wet eyes.

“You are cruel, you know this?”

“It’s a good defense,” you grin at the man innocently, “Especially against brutalist pigwhores.”

“Targeted,” again, he pouts, “Mean. You are a mean girl.”

“Maybe that’s what you need. I think Mama was too nice to you.”

Pavel withholds the wince at your words, merely pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth and inhaling through his nose sharply. He shrugs when he really wants to bite, “You think so?”

Hopefully, he muses, he can rip out your throat when he finally snaps back.

“I do.”

“You know what I think?” you merely fold your arms, so he continues, “Nobody put the spoiled girl in her place. Now she’s a confident woman full of hot air,” he smiles, “I don’t do well with confident women like that. Make me jumpy.”

You ‘hmph’, but respond with nothing new before rising from the floor and snatching the care bag to squeeze against your chest like a child would their stuffed bear. Laying across the unoccupied, opposite seat, you turn so that you're faced away from the lieutenant.

Pavel stares at your back. He hadn’t been entirely teasing earlier - he truly hadn’t found a woman beautiful in a long while. Not that it was a problem to admit a girl was pretty, but there was always some dull ache to accompany the thought. Women riveted by his status in the Bremen army disgusted him, and women disgusted by him and his status were usually unwilling to bend to his charms. Even then, if he met a woman who was nurturing and sweet, undeterred by his enlistment, he was consumed with revenge.

Now that he’s officially gone and tried and horrendously failed, he can at least swim in the delusion that there is a chance for romance. Besides, he is in his thirties, that’s about the time when people begin settling down, right?

He reaches up for the pipe but finds that it’s gone out. No more vermillion embers to offer comfort.

“Oi,” he calls into the night. Not even crickets sing back. He shifts as if to sit up, but his entire waist flares with pain and sends him crashing back into the velvet cushions. So, he settles on raising his voice, “Hey!”

“Sleep, pig.”

“Pav.”

“Hm?”

“My name. My name is Pav,” he considers throwing the pipe at you altogether, but if the gold-encrusted bowl actually hits your skull then you’d likely leave and never return, “Call me by it.”

“Why should I?” you twist, scowling over your shoulder, “You signed up for the Bremen army, now take what comes with that in Prehevil.”

“You don’t strike me as a dull girl,” he grumbles, “So don’t pretend to be one.”

Suddenly, you’re sitting up again, the bag still clenched between both of your arms, “Do you know what the Bremen army has done to people? Has done to me?” you spit on the floor, right below where Pav rests, “Pigs! Horrible, wretched, rotten pigs!”

Pavel allows you to scream, allows you to finish, before returning, “Do you know what the Bremen army has done to me?”

He’s so quiet, he’s downright whispering. Voice husky and layered with years of buried terror and bloodlust.

“How should I care? You enlisted! Whatever they made you- !”

Now he cuts you off.

“They razed my home during the First Great War,” that once blinding sheen in gunmetal eyes is dark like obsidian, “My family. My mama,” he mocks you, “Dead. I joined to kill the Kaiser, I never wanted to be a Bremen pig. I never asked for this.”

“You came to kill the Kaiser as a lieutenant?”

“I did.”

“You must’ve known…” you swallow your words. A lieutenant to kill the commander? Even without the Kaiser’s other soldiers, Pavel wouldn’t possibly have been able to do that and get away with it. Not unless he wanted to hide out in Prehevil for the rest of his days.

“At least I will never die knowing I didn’t try,” he cackles sickly, “Great leader Kaiser spat the bullet out like it was nothing… Maybe he is some God sent back to torture us.”

“Maybe you missed,” you slump forward, elbows digging into your knees, “Couldn’t that be more likely?”

“No,” he looks at you with widened eyes, “No, no,” he shakes his head, “I don’t miss my shots.”

“If you’re sure,” you smile suddenly, shaking loose the stiffness in Pavel’s shoulders, “When you’re healed, we can try again, hm?”

“Really?” he’s shocked by the madness of your suggestion, “Did you miss the part where I said he took a bullet to the head and walked it off?”

“Apparently, we’ll die here anyway,” you shrug, yawning and fluttering back down onto the seat, “So, why not try again, Pav?”

A girl that nurtures despite his bloody uniform, and now despite his terrible need for revenge. You are as cruel as you are doting. Fiery and unfair and oh, he thinks he wants you to card your fingers in his hair again. Gentle only to him.

“As long as you don’t abandon me once you see for yourself,” Pavel can feel less burning in his chest when he breathes now, “Spat the bullet right out, I tell you.”

You shrug, “I guess I’ll die one way or another here.”

Pavel shakes his head, not bothering to tilt his head away from you as he drifts off.

…

DAY 3. MORNING.

He awakes to a great pressure around his throat. Snapping into consciousness, he finds you standing over him with shaking arms, and when he’s brave enough to follow the branches to where they’re stemmed - your hands are around his neck. Your breathing is shaky, and there’s wetness reflecting off your cheeks. Pavel claws at your wrists with his hand, twisting his body so his bottom half is hanging off the seat. Ignoring the scorching rage that sears over the fresh gash in his stomach, Pavel kicks out at you. His heeled boots dig into your gut, squishing intestines and fat and blood as he pushes you away.

Loudly, his boots thunk back against the floorboard when you’ve fallen away, throwing yourself dramatically across the opposite seat. Like a sick Europian lady from the Gilded Age, you drape over the frame with sniveling wails.

Pavel skims his fingers over where your own were clamping his throat shut as he shudders for breath. Ignoring your sobs, he shouts, “Did you hit your head or what?! Heal me, talk to me, just to end my life?! Are you- ?!”

“Enough!” you scream, voice snapping raw in the middle, completely fizzled out at the end. Wiping at the ceaseless tears gushing over your face, you scream again, “She should’ve gotten out of here! She should’ve gotten out and ran instead of… Instead of…” you cough out phlegm and despair trapped in your throat, “Instead of…”

Marina’s downcast face, moles decorating her frown as she twisted a cracked pair of Windsor glasses between her hands. She could barely look at you when she said it before handing over the glasses. I’m sorry, Marina whispered, Olivia… I just thought, maybe, you should know…

Pavel remains as he is, lumped against the back of the seat with both legs dangling onto the floor. Dried blood scraped up under his heels. He heaves for breath, watching as you cradle yourself in your arms and rock. You wither before him, babbling and wheezing and shrouded in shadow.

“What are you going on about?”

“Be quiet,” you snap, louring through puffy, red eyes and wobbly lips, “Be mournful. The woman that saved your life has died,” before Pavel can squeeze anything out from his gaping mouth, you stand and point down at him to command again, “Be nice. The war is over, and you’re not even a real lieutenant, you can show kindness when a person has died.”

He shuts his mouth. Opens it again. Shuts it. Then, finally,

“I didn’t know her.”

From the way you cross your arms and turn away, he can gather that that was the wrong thing to say.

“And yet she saved you,” your arms tighten around yourself, “She saved you, Pav… Be nice.”

You’re a sweet thing, Pavel thinks. You clearly hate him for not displaying the tenderness that you are around the woman’s death. At least at this moment, you hate him.

“I’m taking a walk,” you announce, flinging open the cabin door and slamming it behind you.

Pavel contemplates calling after you, but figures the sound of his voice could only make you stay away longer.

You’re a cruel, sweet thing.

Not even leaving the care bag closer for him to reach in and take from.

DAY 3. NOON.

When you return, the train car is silent sans the gentle hum of Pavel’s breathing. Almost reminiscent of clockwork, a well-oiled machine, his broad chest rises and falls smoothly as he’s rearranged himself sideways on the seat. With his slung arm over his chest and spare one tucked under his head as a makeshift pillow.

Having Pavel stretched out before you gives ample time for you to more thoroughly judge his physique - if you’d be able to strangle him while he’s awake. If he could fight back. If he could lift you with his pure muscle and restrain you with a single hand while the other…

Maybe, you think.

His arms are large, but not obnoxiously terrifying like the boxer. His waist is slim despite the broadness of his shoulders and chest.

Suddenly, he groans, nose twitching in his slumber. It draws your gaze up to his face. That unsettlingly symmetrical face with the strong nose bridge and soft, rosy lips.

Not to mention his flaxen hair - curled and tousled and forcefully in your sights with that Bremen hat off. And with his Bremen uniform (seemingly always) unbuttoned to his stomach, you make out his pectorals past his bandages. You make out two indentations over his heart: silvery scars.

He could almost be handsome. If he were more emotionally attuned.

You kneel by his side, swinging the care bag across the aisle and into your lap. His bleeding has visibly lessened, as only the lightest shade of pink has spread over the pale cloth. Sneaking scissors up by his soft skin, you avoid slicing him as you snip the bandages and begin unwinding them. Pulling gently so as to avoid waking the man, you successfully clear him from the restrictive cloth and assess his healing wound.

More coral pink than crimson red, now. You assume the mass improvement is thanks to the blue vial Olivia had provided. Even as the gnarly cut expands under Pavel’s breathing, it fails to start bleeding again. Which you’re grateful for since, as a precarious glance into the bag confirms, you have freshly run out of bandages. And you fear that snagging any old cloth from any old barrel could give Pavel an infection.

“What was it Alll-mer said? Pluck out your eyes if you cannot respect modesty?”

“I’m checking your wound,” you pinch his side. The skin is warm and fleshy and so, so soft between your fingertips. He whimpers and tries to evade your hand by squirming higher on the seat, “When did you wake up?”

“Not long ago,” he watches you reach into the bag and pull free another glass vial of blue liquid, “Only to see you ogling my body.”

“It’s a hideous one. Hard to look away.”

“You love to lie, mean girl?” he ‘tsk’s, “Shame. Lies are so ugly from a pretty mouth.”

“As if you would know.”

“Confident woman,” he sings to himself, grinning, “Confident, confident woman.”

Shoving the blue vial towards Pavel’s face, you square your shoulders and settle your face sternly, “Drink.”

“I liked it when you did it for me,” he opens his mouth then, refusing to break eye contact.

You comply, shifting onto your knees and pressing the chilled glass against Pavel’s lower lip; tipping it to flow into his warm mouth. He gulps down what you graciously offer, bringing his uninjured arm out from under his head and settling it over your hand around the vial. His thumb presses against your knuckles. You tangle your other hand into his hair and let the golden curls thread over your fingers. Once the vial is finished, you can’t explain it but there’s a sudden thundering in your chest. So vivid and hard in your ribs that it makes you nauseous.

Pavel blinks, lashes fluttering at you as his hand remains over yours.

Sunshine slants across his face. You see him more clearly now than this morning or last night or when he was wrought and warped with pain.

He looks pretty like this. Foul-mouthed and promiscuous and even forthright rude, but undoubtedly pretty.

His hand moves to your cheek, tenderly cupping the flesh with glass still pressed to his lips.

The thunder comes with lightning that strikes blazing fire. Heat fans through your chest and up to your forehead.

“If you want to go after the Kaiser, you should rest,” you whisper, as if speaking any louder could shatter the both of you from this moment, “We both should. Best to gather our strength before searching for him.”

Pavel shakes his head, obsessively smoothing the pad of his thumb over the apple of your cheek, “He will gut us both, cruel girl. I don’t want to see that for you. If I find him it’s alone,” he swallows thickly, “And I’m tired.”

“So,” you realize with a startled tremble that your internal combustion is affection for the former lieutenant, “you’ll stay?”

And with greater terror, you realize that you actually want to stay with him.

“I will die knowing I failed,” he sucks in a sharp breath, pressing his lips firmly before granting you sight of the rosy flesh again, “but I will have you to die with, cruel girl.”

At least even in humiliating defeat, Pavel can be loved.

“Are you scared to die, Pav?”

You’re a sweet one, he fondly recalls. Assuming he had much to live for outside his schlocky revenge scheme.

“Projecting, hm?”

You pinch his side. He lets you.

DAY 3. NIGHT.

“Now, bend it.”

Pavel hisses but manages to fully extend and curl his newly unwound arm with nothing more than a click in his elbow. He lays both hands in his lap as you bunch the bandages and sling into a ball and lay it off to the side.

“Good,” you utter softly, “You’ve healed a lot faster than I would’ve thought.”

“Right?” Pavel turns his head to stare down at you, tilting his head back, “You should sit with me.”

“You’re feeling charitable,” he scoffs at your tease, not moving to accommodate his invite, “Where should I even sit, then? You’re taking the entire seat.”

When he merely smirks, you get the idea.

“You’re gross.”

“Indulge me, cruel girl,” you rise to your feet, gnawing your bottom lip in contemplation, Pavel leans against the armrest and cinches his legs together, “Would you make a man die alone?”

“Yes,” you answer without hesitation.

But would you make Pavel die alone?

You swing a leg over his torso, careful to avoid the healing slash and straddle Pavel’s waist with both hands landing over his exposed chest. He cups your cheek again, now taking pleasure (and slight pain) in cradling your face with both hands. He hasn’t gotten to see a beautiful woman in ages, and he thinks maybe it isn’t so bad to go out staring at one.

Moonlight cascades over the both of you, so bright in the train cabin it almost burns.

“If we could still run, where would you go?” you ask.

“Where would you want me?”

“Flirt,” you’re leaning in, though, trailing a finger over his scarred chest. Your nails bite at the flesh, he grunts in disapproval, “How can I believe anything you say? You betrayed your leader. Would you shoot me, too?”

Pavel is sure you’re anything but serious in asking, but it's dangerous the way he feels compelled to answer genuinely, “Never. I’d miss your… What was it? Brutalism?”

“Enough,” the moonlight sears over where Pavel’s hands are curved around your cheeks. You lean down more until your lips brush his, “You call me rude, but you’re- “

He slices your derision short, pressing his petal soft lips against yours with a quiet, contented sigh.

Moonlight bares witness. And you cannot pull away even as the fire in your heart rages from affection to molten lava. You’re not even entirely sure you would want to.

…

Karin cannot feel her fingers as she stands in the open train car door. She’s seen many things - many terrible, awful things. Especially so in the past seventy-two hours than her entire career as a war journalist, but this may be what truly drives her mad. She can feel it - the need to retreat inside her mind and shut down completely; the need to give up hope of salvation. Maybe she can suppress it long enough to sit by that seashore, get a good view to wash out the image before her.

Wriggling on the train loveseat is a fleshy creature, almost like mushed peaches. Occasionally, pleased sighs and hums will escape one of its two smiling faces as the lumps slide and shift along the cushion. One face nuzzles closer to the other and the measly bread and meat Karin swiped from deserted kitchens lurches in her stomach.

None of the other monsters she’d encountered had been so undeniable in its previous humanity. It reminds her of the holed, broken, pliant corpses of uniformed soldiers dead in trenches, and it reminds her of the first time she ever saw a real dead body. She puked on its boot, unable to run back and spew bile elsewhere before it was spurting past her lips.

Karin’s stomach is stronger now, though. She has the time to turn and trudge on wobbly knees towards the seaside before she pukes - squirming flesh and smoldered limbs tangling in her mind.

Moonlight burns at the back of her neck as The Lovers moan and coo happily behind her.

[flower-yi]

my entry for @staarri's YOU'RE MY LOVER ! event (❁´◡`❁)

With eyebrows meeting in a crease on his forehead, Kaveh stands in front of the easel holding up the canvas he’s been working on for an hour.

Is this even right? The drover yellow he’s used for the nilotpala lotus doesn’t seem… correct. The painting he’s making has a set colour palette that called for vibrancy but not so overwhelming to the eye, but the shade of yellow left some sort of bad taste on his tongue. The lotuses were not the subject of the painting; a figure in the background he elected to add in because it happened to fit, and blended well with the rest of the  composition.

He can’t quite shake it off.

Biting down on his thumb, he leans in close to scrutinise the colour. The nilotpala lotuses were sketched somewhere close to the waterfalls in the backdrop, so detail wasn’t important. However—it’s not some yellow blob. Kaveh made sure the beauty of the nilotpala lotus was displayed, for it to be noticed by a pair of eyes that’d know its magnificence if one had seen it in person.

It'll be some secret he shares with the viewer; some hidden gem only few would appreciate.

Still, he can’t quite shake it off. When he looks at the painting as a bigger whole, his eyes are slowly drawn by the intensity of the nilotpala lotuses. It’s not annoying, per se, but…

Turning to his wooden palette, the tip of his paintbrush dips into a darker shade of yellow, and Kaveh replaces the bright hue with it.

Though it’d be just something hanging on the wall, he requires it to be perfect. Perfection is required even in something you might not accept, because if the Palace of Alcazarzaray was his magnum opus, this painting shall be his tour de force, his everything, his…

…painting. His painting on the wall.

Kaveh steps back with a sigh. He heard, once, while you were speaking to Cyno, that your favourite flowers were nilotpala lotuses. At that moment, it didn’t strike him as much. He encounters them whenever his path crosses with a body of water, and though they weren’t in full bloom during the times he passes by, their beauty can be easily recognized to those with an undiscerning eye.

You said you liked the shade of yellow the lotuses had, ignoring the brilliant blue its petals centrally flaunt. You were far more focused on the seedpods, and if he had half the manners his roommate has, he would’ve chuckled. Truthfully, it was more endearing than it was amusing. Most would appreciate the flower, beautiful as it was, but the seed pods caught your eye first. The details seem to matter more than the bigger picture.

…It was a painting, however. The subject was the meadow, and the lotuses were mere details in the background.

The rotting ends of his chair drags across the floor as Kaveh brings it back close to the canvas; wood creaking when he takes a seat. Where the edge of the meadow is, the canvas peeks through. The tip of his brush quickly fills in the gaps using hues of green mixed with speckles of black, mixing in seamlessly with the rest of the scenery. Thin strokes of hunter green create stems of the flowers…and he goes back to that drover yellow again.

He manages to stop himself, this time. Kaveh places his paintbrush down and brings a palette knife, scraping it off.

Another colour he won’t use, and if he remembers, he’ll place them in a container to use for another time. He sets the knife somewhere close to the other discarded shades, turning back to the painting to continue placing the final touches.

Thud.

Thud. Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

His brows knit. Is he hearing things? For every streak he makes, a noise follows. Maybe the neighbours are fixing that beam of wood on their porch that juts out every now and then. However, the sounds are… arbitrary. Not concise in the way Taghi hammers down the plank.

Is someone… knocking?

With the painting set aside, Kaveh quickly stands and enters the foyer. It’s times like these he wishes, as beautiful as they are, the sidelites weren’t patterned stained glass because he can’t quite make out the figure outside, and he’s stuck with the decision to open the door.

“Kaveh, hey. I’m not disturbing, am I?”

You’re the figure outside.

“Oh, hey,” you smile when he says your name. “You’re here.”

He tries not to let his mind wander looking at your dopey, lopsided grin. You’re dressed casually, and look like you’re not in a hurry, so, perhaps… “Yep! I’m here. You doing alright?”

“Uh!” Kaveh takes a quick look at the living room. Drat, it’s messy. “Yeah, I am. Hold on, uh… it’s a bit of a mess here. I don’t think it’s—”

“I can always help tidy up,” you offer, but take no step inside. “As long as it’s okay with you, of course.”

There’s not another choice he’ll make other than letting you in. It’s only instinct that pushes him into the kitchen, busying himself with preparing coffee for the both of you. While surprising, your sudden visit is not unwelcome—it only makes Kaveh wonder why you’ve suddenly decided to come, his thoughts becoming wisps in the steam rising from the coffee boiling in the dallah.

“You’re not busy with commissions right now?” When he takes a glance, he sees you’re quietly arranging and capping the tubes of paint on the small table he uses as a workbench. Kaveh’s eyes widen, guilty about the fact you’re cleaning up for him, but there’s a mumble under your breath—one, two, three, four—and his trowels and palette knives are delicately moved to the desk from the ground.

You’re always picking up his messes and putting them back where they belong. Somehow… it’s become routine. He could count how many times he’s seen you like this, and because of it, his feet no longer move. Guilt remains, but takes in the sight of you treating his possessions with utmost care.

Kaveh can’t stop the rush of something, in the back of his brain, when he watches you like this.

How much longer can he take, stifling this fondness inside of him?

“I-I am,” The question is innocent, but manages to stumble him; a nervous laugh bubbling out. “But… just, uh—you know how inspiration goes! Sometimes, I lose steam, and have to let it all out on another project.”

You snort. “So that translates to, ‘I haven’t gotten enough sleep for the past few weeks’?”

Kaveh sees you inspecting the canvases he’s placed by the wall. Your fingers slot between them, as if counting each one. If you asked him, he wouldn’t be able to say how many he’s discarded just for one painting. “Well… not necessarily.”

It goes quiet.

Your huffing breaks the silence. By then, you enter the kitchen, and Kaveh takes note of the frown on your face. He’s standing on the counter, blinking, as you approach him with a furrow to your eyebrow.

A hand lifts, and your thumb swipes over his cheek, just below where those dark circles lie.

“You’re gonna drink coffee with me when you have eyebags under your eyes?”

The action is unexpected, yet expected all the same, because Kaveh can’t stop his stomach twisting in knots, and the heat in his cheeks he wills himself to bury.

“It’d… be rude to let you serve the coffee yourself.”

It’s more than what a friend would do. However, Kaveh convinces himself you’re looking out for him because you go and wipe that finger on some cloth used in the kitchen, streak of paint on your finger leaving a stain.

He convinces himself to stay, and not sprint away, because he reasons, more to himself, “You’re the guest. It’d be discourteous to let you on your own.”

“I can’t refuse that...”

Your sigh is too soft to be mistaken as irritation. Your reluctance in letting him serve coffee bleeds into the heat of your stare lingering on the side of his face as you’re taking a seat by the dining table, gazing.

Kaveh wants to tell you that you should be waiting in the living room, guest as you are, but his head turns in the angle that meets your eyes, and stops.

Your staring drapes over him like a warm blanket. It is all sorts of comforting, heart-soaring, fucking fond and just tender, but its heat suffocates him. Understanding why you’re looking at him like that escapes him like a petal coursing through the wind, leaving his fingertips before he can even catch it.

“Uh… so, what brings you here?”

He can’t dwell on such feelings. His control, though, is tested, because you’re prone to soft exhales and laughter more than anyone else he knows when you’re with him, but it is tempered by the fact Alhaitham sees you like this. Kaveh will just ignore how much it happens with himself.

“Well, someone forgot we were going to hang out today,” The smile in your voice is so obvious. “But seeing as you’re working on something, I can let it slide.”

Kaveh purses his lips. Right. You’d normally drop by with a heads up beforehand, but you’ve visited home too many times that he’d let you in even without prior notice—he can hear Alhaitham in his head complaining about such a thing, but he throws that voice away without any second thought—and he didn’t even question if something slipped his mind.

“You… I’m sorry. Weren’t we supposed to go to Puspa Café today?”

“Yeah.” You answer, but assure him, “But when I got there, Gata was outside.”

“Enteka’s cat?”

“Mm. Cat was meowing to me as if to say they were closed.”

You sound like you’re just making him feel better that he forgot. His scepticism must’ve gotten ahead of you because you’re huffing and puffing. “I checked the doors, okay? It was locked.”

“Right,” Kaveh rolls his eyes. Is that the best story you can make up? “I never knew Sareh had a twin flame.”

“Sareh and I are soulmates,” Faux offence causes a hand to fly to your chest. “Don’t try to say it’s not true.”

“Right, and Lesser Lord Kusanali has a mother. Try making up a story that’s more believable next time,” Kaveh says your name, dripping with incredulity, and you laugh, and laugh; the sound is loud, bright, and just so familiar, like he’s heard it all his life. If he could just get more moments like this, where he’s in the kitchen and you’re just watching, then he can be content. He can be content as it is.

(He won’t have to dream about a day where you and him are lying in bed together, discussing whatever pops up into your mind in hushed voices, because in that fantasy, it’s early in the morning, and the home you’re both in is his. Yours.

“Ours...”

He won’t have to dream to feel how soft you are by his side, how your warmth drums under fingertips tracing absentminded patterns on your skin; just admiring how you’re here with him.

“...Ours.”

He won’t have to dream about something that’s beyond him, because he’ll be content with being someone you can laugh and have coffee with, and the painting won’t haunt him, because then it won’t have to be perfect.)

Your laughter slowly dies down, a smile remaining, and he finds that the coffee is done. With two fenjals in hand, and a dallah in the other, Kaveh hears you following him into the living room.

The table is set, and both of you are sitting on the same divan.

“Smells good like always, Kaveh,” A tip of your tone submerges itself into something like mirth, and he can’t help but scoff, about to say something, but—

“Hold on,” Kaveh rises from the couch. “I forgot something, give me a second!”

He returns from the kitchen with a few items in hand, and takes a second to pour your coffee first. In the order you always make it in, the sugar comes in second, dissolving in the heat, then with the milk; left-over steam turning into wisps from condensation.

You’ve always liked it cold, with inordinate amounts of sweetness in it.

“Here,” Kaveh hands your cup over. “Your coffee, just how you like it.”

Moving to take it, your hand loosely hovers over his. You freeze and pause, looking down at the coffee—did he make it wrong? Did he forget anything? Drat. Maybe there’s a new addition to your recipe—

“You remembered,” Your voice drops from an octave, grip tightening; expression pinched.

He… doesn’t understand what you mean. “Of course I would. You’d think I forgot?”

You laugh, but the sound is strained. “Not really, but…”

Contemplative silence falls onto you. Kaveh thinks it’s about the coffee, and that he’s made it. Something in his gut feels like the issue is not with him remembering, but another thing that’s gotten you like… this.

Just what is it? Kaveh wracks his brain. Several possibilities pop up, ultimately disregarded of how outrageous and unrealistic they are, but one sticks like an annoying fly he can’t catch.

…It flutters away, ultimately, because it’s a possibility he can’t entertain.

The two of you are friends… that’s what you both are, he thinks.

“Are you alright?”

You startle, head snapping towards him. The edges of your smile are forced, another faked laugh leaving you like it’s some practised assurance. “Oh, I’m fine. Just got my thoughts on things. Don’t worry about me, Kaveh.”

“If there’s anything bothering you,” Kaveh says earnestly, “I’m always here for you.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose, Kaveh. You’re busy, aren’t you?” He sees you quirk up and it feels the same. “Don’t act like I didn’t see the painting. I think a few worries and burdens on me won’t kill me.”

Would it, really? As far as he knew, you’re not the secretive type. You tell things as they are, so if you tell him you’re alright…

Then you probably are.

Still, he’s compelled to offer something in return. “You know I don’t mind if you use my shoulder to cry on.”

“You’re not concerned I’ll mess that pretty shirt of yours?”

Kaveh rolls his eyes, “That’s not what I mean.”

The banter falls into place, and he finds you’re chuckling heartily. “I wouldn’t want to ruin that expensively tailored shirt of yours. Seems like a waste to use it for tissues on some measly tears.”

“You need to tell me your tears aren’t measly?”

“Of course not, Professor Kaveh.”

“Hey! Are you mocking me?!”

The banter falls into place with puzzle pieces you fit and connect together with his, and for a second, he can forget how he’s neglected to pour a cup for himself; too preoccupied with tossing light-hearted comments to you like he usually does.

It feels right to be your friend, and just your friend only; it’s the only thing he feels familiar with. To toe the line between friend and lover is a delicate and risky choice, but it is so difficult to look away when he can’t help but bask in the fondness the sight of you brings. Kaveh can’t liken it to anything else but like watching the sun set and rise in a familiar motion, but this time, it is with the lens of knowing that there will be someone whom you will wait day and night for to appear. He can say he can watch people move mountains for others, but he’ll stick to what he knows: painting the sun rising and imagining it setting, because that’s what it feels with you.

It's as if anything he makes is for the purpose of attempting to grasp you in it.

.

.

.

Chatter between the both of you settles, eventually, and not one but three cups of coffee have been consumed. He eventually realised he forgot to pour himself one, and in some forward display, you offer to pour him his.

Kaveh didn’t have the heart to tell you it’s not really customary, because the eager look in your eye had him stuttering over his words, and now, more than five cups have been drunk.

“Think Alhaitham said it’s not proper to drink more than five,” you say, taking his fenjal away from him.

He baulks, mostly more from the fact Alhaitham’s told you about etiquette when he himself doesn’t practise it, and just watches you set aside the fenjals and dallah.

“Since when did Alhaitham even…?”

“Enough about him!” You laugh, patting his shoulder. “What’s that you’re painting?”

He follows the direction of your gaze that settles on the easel standing alone by the windows, most of the afternoon sunlight cascading through the glass panes. Suddenly, you rise from the couch, approaching the painting with childlike curiosity; it makes him gulp.

“Is this the painting you told me about yesterday?” Your fingertips graze the painting, but not so much to ruin it.

Kaveh can’t see your face like this when your back is to him. “Oh, I… uh, didn’t mean for you to see it.” Heat surges on his cheeks and takes a sip from the coffee to hide the flushing. Drat. You’re not facing him—why is he hiding when you can’t see it?

He takes a shaky breath, “I mean, it’s not yet finished—I-I’m planning to give it to you, of course! I wouldn’t hide things from you.”

“You made it? For me?”

“Yeah… I did.”

You fall silent for a moment.

All he can see is your hand still hovering over the canvas, and the little moments where your head tilts slightly to look up at the parts of the painting he normally can see with ease. Kaveh thinks you look nice staring at something he’s made.

He’s too busy admiring you to stifle the desire to take you to the lighthouse he’s helped restore in Port Ormos to take your breath away. The wind from the sea would course nicely through your air, and he can almost taste the excitement buzzing in the air when you lay eyes on it. If Port Ormos would take your breath away, then how would you react to the Palace of Alcazarzaray? He’s too busy staring at your wondrous figure in front of the canvas he’s preening like a peacock in attention to something that’s not even him, but some part of him.

“The nilotpalas lotuses are beautiful,” you murmur, “Is this the meadow you took me to that one time? You made it dreamier than it was.”

“…’Dreamier’?” your voice pulls him back to reality, a weary chuckle leaving him. “I thought it was already dreamy—the  sight, I mean.”

When your head turns, he can see the expression on your face and—

And his brain blanks.

“The nilotpalas,” The smile you’re wearing is bright, and if he looks too deeply, fond. “They’re my favourite part of the painting.”

Words feel heavy on his tongue. “Are they?”

You hum happily, “No matter how far or near you are looking at this painting, you can see them.”

What? That’s not… meant to be. “T-the meadow’s the subject of this painting. I might’ve failed in the composition—”

“It doesn’t take away from the painting, silly,” you cut him off. “You’d know more than me that it adds to it.”

Does he? He thought the lotuses were distracting. What did you mean by no matter the distance, you’d still see them? The purpose of changing the shade used for the lotuses was to hide them, fading it into the background. It wasn’t on purpose that it was supposed to be noticed. Should he just remove them all together? Should—

“You accept suggestions?”

Kaveh startles. He blinks. “What?”

You repeat with a laugh, “Do you accept suggestions? Touch-ups?”

“O-of course, yeah!” Kaveh leaves the fenjal on the table, going up to where you are in the living room. He’s already picking up his paint brush, “What should I change?”

“Hmm…” Your hand moves, looking for the spot you wanted to be touched up, and then you’re leaning in… absurdly close to the canvas?!

“Wait, is this some kind of joke?!” Kaveh reels you back and sees that stupid mischievous smile on your face. You erupt in laughter, “No, wait! I just forgot what spot I was talking about.”

He can’t even summon the usual irritation he feels that appears when talking to Alhaitham.

“No, but, seriously…” Your laughter dwindles into giggles, but Kaveh busies himself in scanning your face for paint on the tip of your nose. Good that there’s none, he’s not sure if the paint’s body friendly… “I wanted you to touch something up.”

Kaveh finally meets your gaze, “Well. No more jokes, if you’re serious about it.”

“Psh, okay.” You roll your eyes. He’s… not seeing it, is he? The fondness in the gesture?

Kaveh looks away, chewing on his lip.

“Can you change the colour of the nilotpalas?”

“Oh,” Kaveh says intelligently, snapping back to you. “The… nilotpalas?”

“They already look nice, but…” You point to the palette knives. “I see some nice shades there. Varying degrees of yellow, but I think… hmm, this one would look nice for the overall colour scheme of the painting.”

The drover yellow enters his sights again. You’re pointing at it.

“Oh, all of that is for the kalpalata lotuses,” Kaveh explains quickly. “Not… for the nilotpalas.”

You look at him, surprised. “I thought you were all using the same colours in different ways? You said that to me, once.”

His eyes widen. Archons, he did. Now, how is he supposed to say No, it’ll look ugly with the rest of the painting, in the nicest possible way?

“Also…” You scan the painting with a confused look on your face. “There’s no kalpalata lotuses in this painting?”

Wait, there’s none? Kaveh quickly searches for them, but finds nothing. “Oh, uh. I—I… I’m gonna add them in once I get the chance.”

“Oh, where?”

“Here, I think…” He tries to find an appropriate spot—

You lower the hand holding his paintbrush, eyes narrowed.

“Kaveh, I upset you…” Your eyes search his face for something he doesn’t know what for. “…didn’t I?”

He licks his lips, swallowing the lump in his throat. “No… you—you didn’t.”

How could you? Yet, you’re looking at him like you don’t believe him. Kaveh is certain he is not, because it’s just some little detail that he shouldn’t be hung up on a painting you won’t probably accept. Why should he be upset? It’s a painting, something hung on the wall; meant to be passed by and ignored. It’s nothing. It’s absolutely nothing. It’s—

“I’m sorry, my suggestion probably didn’t—”

“The… the painting. It doesn’t look ugly, right?”

Kaveh doesn’t understand why you don’t agree with him when you say, “No, it doesn’t?”

He calmly places his paintbrush. “The painting. It… the nilotpalas. It looks good?”

The face you make causes him to think that his question is strange. It isn’t, right? The painting is for you. It has to be perfect. The nilotpala lotuses distract from the main subject, the meadows he’s supposed to capture in the same way you both saw it that day—

“It looks good,” Something warm wraps around his arm and he flinches. “I love it. Your attention to detail never ceases to amaze me.”

It’s your hand, Kaveh belatedly realizes. The palm of your hand is warm over his long sleeves, rubbing circles over his skin, and it causes him to choke on his spit.

“I love how, despite them being in the background, you can see it clearly.”

“You do?”

You grin, “Of course I do. It’s the way every part of the painting has been given utmost attention. I mean, if it was someone else, they wouldn’t have given the nilotpalas a second thought.”

That’s how he’s meant it to be—how it’s supposed to be. Though, he can’t really escape your sights, can he? You… you just disregard all pretense and get to the point. Focusing on all detail, and nothing else.

Unlike him, you choose to enjoy the details; not to stress over it.

“But I like the way they’re sort of hidden,” You continue, some sort of a trance overcoming you. The look in your eyes makes his heart stutter—Archons, he’s dreaming it, he is. “It’s like some hidden gem only people who really look at a painting would know.”

His throat seizes up; eyes stinging. Kaveh calls your name, but you don’t stop.

“And then,” Your hand ghosts over the Sumeru roses sparsely placed in the meadow, “You can clearly see each petal on this. Your brush strokes are so fine that the detail is insane, Kaveh.”

Whenever you speak, it’s as if there’s a million things running in your head. The absentminded slight caressing of the painting is proof of this, and the gentle sparkling of your eyes supports this. You are entranced, and he cannot do anything to stop it.

Why? Why the nilotpalas, and not the entire painting?

“…Can I ask you why you like the nilotpalas?” His question is said in a whisper, teeth gritting against each other. Kaveh feels the question is out of his reach, and there’s someone dangling the answer right in front of him. All he can muster is a stupid, little question that might have a reply that’ll tell him he’s idiotic.

Your head slowly turns, eyes meeting with this, and there’s that soft look again.

Undeniable, yet unattainable.

Something like madness surges right through him because, Archons. Has this painting consumed him, to some point of insanity? He feels like tearing up over this. And for his object… object of affection to say they like a part of it he loathes—

He needs an answer. He has to ask.

“I don’t know who told you, but I like nilotpalas.”

A wry grin lifts the corners of your lips, and your hand slowly slides down to his fingers that’re calloused; nails that’re chipped and have paint underneath them. Your hold on them is so gentle the feeling of helplessness engulfs him.

“I love them, even.” You squeeze his hand. “I don’t know how many times I’ve travelled to Sumeru just to see them. It’s so hard to grow them back home, so to notice one in a painting is like… a blessing. And it’s in a painting made by someone who notices the little things.”

Yet, you’re answering his question with such kindness.

Your gaze flits to his, pausing.

Are you…?

“Yeah,” he croaks out. “It’s okay.”

Kaveh feels his throat drying up, and Archons, the tender lift of his hand to your lips is what does him in.

Celestia, your lips are so soft on his knuckles it drives him up the wall.

He blanks in real time. The subsequent warmth rushing from his fingers to his whole body is all he can focus on, and you.

You shouldn’t hesitate, the wisp of something in him ugly whispers. It festers in him; desperately hoping for something more. Do more, I’d let you. Heck, there’s nothing I won’t let you do. 

What’s gotten into him?

“I think nobody else would’ve kept in mind how much I love nilotpalas, and tried to squeeze them into a painting anyways.”

“It’s not squeezing them in,” Kaveh defends, a touch a bit exasperated, “It’s adding something you– you… you love in.”

Only then when those words stumble out of him, he understands what you mean. Oh, how he wishes he could laugh it out right now–because what he’s realised is that the meadow needed no nilotpalas. It was perfect as it was, and the entire painting was based on the sight he took you to once—there was no nilotpala in sight, and yet, in knowing that the painting was for you, he had, without giving too much thought, added nilotpalas in because you loved them. The painting was made for you, in mind, and in his desire for it to be the perfect painting, he added a thing you love.

Nilotpalas.

There’s a knowing look in your eye. Had you known of his feelings, before, and indulged in them to say as if, I like you too?

You know he’s made such a realization, because the soft curl of your lips is one he knows to be happy.

Then, soft palms make their way up to his face; cupping his cheeks with a gentle hold. The happy smile on you turns a touch bit tender, and your voice turns into something warmer.

“I think nobody else would’ve noticed the way I like my coffee—cold, with milk, and sugar on top.” You laugh, but he doesn’t find the topic amusing.

 “It’s only normal I should remember it.” He says seriously, eyebrows furrowing. “You come by so often I can’t help but remember it.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “I also remember you told me, once, how much you like organizing things; cleaning them up—you said it was… therapeutic.”

But despite the revelation, despite all he knows, despite the love he knows is mutual, it nags at him persistently. The answer why is in his grasp, but remains evading reason, and he chooses to ask for an answer, in all of his confusion—“But I could never understand why you’d never clean up after Alhaitham.”

Your answer is a reasonable one, accompanied with a scoff so fondly exasperated, “It’s because he can clean up after himself like an adult.”

“Then, why’d you do it with me?” Kaveh questions, voice above a whisper.

No surprise washes over you this time. Just a simple little chuckle, and a smile.

“It feels as if I’m tracing your path, as if I’m following the footsteps you’ve left behind and witnessing another path I’ve never even thought of discovering.” your voice goes so soft, “I had so much fun imagining what you did with those paints and why you’ve set those trowels and palette knives aside. It felt as if I was there with you, painting.”

“…and if I was painting you?”

It leaves him before he could stop it.

“Then, I’d be able to see what colours you associated with me. I’d be able to know how… you see me.”

It’s simple, the answer. He sees you as if you’ve hung the stars, made the sun set and rise, and controlled the winds and the breeze.

Kaveh doesn’t know what possesses him to step forward, nearly nose-to-nose with you. Your head tilts up to meet his eyes so sweetly, he feels himself melt. Now, like this, he can see how gently you look at him–how the usually bright, wide eyed disposition melts into the fondness he’s mistaken for something else.

“Can I–” his voice breaks, slightly. Kaveh takes a moment to settle his voice, breathing in and exhaling deeply, before he properly asks, “Can I show you how I see you?”

There’s no hesitation.

“Please,” you say–no, ask. “Feel free to show me, Painter Kaveh.”

The press of your lips against him is soft. Eyes fluttering close, the rhythm between the both of you is tentatively explored–you’re trying to see what he feels through this kiss, aren’t you? 

But Kaveh confirms what you’re thinking, anyway; other hand snaking up to cup the back of your neck, holding you closer to him. 

Faintly, he tastes the coffee he’s made for you. The sweetness of the sugar and milk combined is intoxicating, and yet, it feels like bliss. Is that what would life be like with you? Just sweetness, and saccharine? 

Then, slowly, as if not wanting to break away, you pull back and watch him with a clear look in your eyes; somehow firm and resolute, as if that kiss proved everything to you. Did it? Did it prove how miserably he pines for you?

“I like you, Kaveh,” you breathe, a laugh bubbling out of you. Archons, he wants to hear that sound every day. “I like you very much.”

With a hand gently caressing the pulse of your neck, he says, in reply, “I’ve liked you, too, for a long time.”

“Me too, then,” you admit easily, leaning into his touch.

His cheeks heat, and this time, he doesn’t suppress the urge to hide in the crook of your neck. You welcome this with a loud, warm laugh that he can feel shakes your shoulders–and you welcome this change so readily with your arms wrapping around him, abundant laughter turning into giggles.

Kaveh does agree with you, but he thinks he doesn’t need to say it. You know, in the way you begin embracing him, and all he feels is you.

[copperbadge]

lustfulpasiphae

What do you mean when you say birch sheets? The cabinets in my apartment are kind of rough inside and I've been trying to find better liners than the kind of rubbery stuff

I hope it's okay that I pulled this out to turn into a post of its own, because I took some photos to share :D When I say "birch sheets" I'm just referring to thin 1/8" (3mm) sheets of birch plywood, cut into planks. Here's what they look like installed:

[ID: Two images of cabinets in my home; one, stocked with toilet paper, the other with a large bin in it. Both have long, thin planks of wood covering the original floors.]

I was having an issue with my bathroom cabinet (on the left) because the bottom of the cabinet was water damaged before I moved in, and wasn't molding or anything but had begun to sag. I wanted some stiff thin boards I could pop into place to make a clean, flat floor without having to replace the entire cabinet. I found these birch sheets that were the perfect length, but I had to order like 10 of them and only needed 3 for the bathroom, so I put the rest in a cabinet in the kitchen that happened to have an ugly-looking floor (and apparently misplaced several, not sure what happened to them). It really spruces up the look of a grotty cabinet.

Anyway, this year I was contemplating re-lining my upper kitchen cabinets; I put paper liners down when I was renovating before I moved in, but those only last so long and that was five years ago. I thought I'd install some birch sheets instead, which wouldn't warp or shred the way the paper liners have. My plan is to cover them in freezer paper, pop them in, and then just pop them out every so often and re-line them, which is easier than trying to put the paper straight into the cupboards (awkwardly located for that kind of work) or trying to remove the shelves.

I ordered the ones for the cabinets from somewhere new to me, so can't vouch for the quality yet; I was able to order them custom-cut to the size I wanted at that page, and while it's slightly more expensive per piece, I also only have to buy as many pieces as I need and they should fit snugly, so it's less expensive overall as a purchase. I'll post up when they arrive and I install them!

[silovsmenot]

The Toolkit | Lukas Reichel

Requested by @creativewritersposts...

Lukas Reichel wants to construct you something like a shelf but is the worst in it? Like funny and fluff?

WARNINGS: None, it's pure fluff. PAIRING: Lukas Reichel x reader (f! implied). NOTES: A short and snappy one, but still just as wholesome. WORD COUNT: 586

It was just a few shelves — and he’d assured you that he had it sorted. But as the hours passed and the hectic sound of tools fell silent, you began to become suspicious. A part of you wanted to leave him to it, knowing that he wouldn’t to admit defeat, but you let your curiosity get the better of you.

“Lukas?” You called out through the silent apartment as your head stuck out of the bedroom. When no response came, your curiosity only peaked further. What could he be doing?

With quiet steps, you tiptoed through the apartment which you shared with your boyfriend in the heart of Chicago. And you couldn’t help the small bought of laughter that parted your lips at the sight of it all.

A multitude of tools lay strewn upon the floor, with shelves and their instructions in the lap of your boyfriend who looked simply dumbfounded. Upon hearing your laughter, his head quickly turned with hands pushing everything from his lap. He rose with the sheepish smile that you saw when he was unsure what to say to you.

“If you were struggling, Luke, why didn’t you just call me?” Your voice gently sighed, grin remaining at your lips as your head gave a light shake. He didn’t know how to answer, other than with a small shrugging of his shoulders.

He bent down and collected up the instruction pages with a defeated look, holding the thin paper across to you. Quietly saying a ‘thank you’, you sat upon the apartment floor with hands collecting up what was needed for the first section while your boyfriend watched closely.

“I got as far as this bit,” Lukas groaned, pointing at the page where, granted, things did get a little confusing with pieces of wood that looked exactly the same. “But that doesn’t fit there, and that plank is too long.”

You couldn’t help but smile with how defeated he looked by the whole situation, a small pout resting at his lips as he simply stared at you. You knew he wanted to do this alone, to be ‘the man of the house’, but there was nothing emasculating about asking for help.

“Okay, so let me help you do it.”

He gave a small sigh, the smile beginning to return to his lips as he collected up the small bag of screws.

It wasn’t long before the bookshelf as starting to take shape, you would read through each step and hand Lukas each piece that he would need. You’d occasionally have to redo steps as things were done upside down or in the wrong place, but the pair of you never stopped laughing.

And as you both rose, hands on hips in triumph, he pulled into him with a sigh.

“You’re a pretty good co-builder.” He hummed, pressing a kiss upon the top of your head. You grinned wide as your head cocked, eyes glancing up at him just in time to miss the cascade.

The shelves, evidently not screwed in tight enough, collapsing from the centre as the bookcase separated into two sections and clattered upon the ground. You both jumped back in alarm in silence, wide eyes upon the pile of wood and screws before you.

“Or not.” You whispered through panicked gasps for air. There was silence for a moment, both of your gazes now upon the other before you both broke into fits of laughter that would bring tears to your eyes and your body entangled with his.

[rookthorne]

⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ 𝐃𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐞

You knew very well that your husband was up to something ever since he woke up before the crack of dawn to sneak out of the bedroom, but he wasn’t alone — there were two trouble makers in on the mischief.

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ☼ Farmer!Husband!Bucky Barnes x Wife!F!Reader

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕 ☼ 800

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 ☼ Fluff, Bucky is the best husband, Bessie and Bubba are the cutest babies

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 ☼ For @sgt-seabass and @buckets-and-trees, who both sent me the same tiktok within hours of one another, I love you both. 🤭

჻჻჻჻჻჻჻჻ 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒕 ☼ @rookthorne's Merry Buckmas — Masterlist

𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 '𝐧 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐑𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐡 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Yellow and gold rays casted their light over the frosted grass; fences were topped with a thin dusting of snow, and the sky was clear. A perfect morning, even if you were up at the crack of dawn to see it. 

Bucky had woken up much earlier than usual, and you watched him while he shuffled around the bedroom to get dressed, an unusual pep in his step — one you had seen only a couple times before. 

He was up to something; you were certain of it.

The bedroom door swung open, creaking loudly from the cold, and you closed your eyes just before you heard Bucky whisper, “Shit.” You could feel his nervous gaze as it drifted over your supposedly slumbering figure, and when you didn’t shift or rouse, he blew out a breath before he tip-toed down the hallway to the kitchen. 

“What are you doing,” you mumbled, and you allowed yourself to drift off for a few more minutes…

A hand, warm and strong, rubbed up and down your arm. “Baby?”

“Hmm?” you mumbled, blinking awake. The room was bathed in light. “What time is it?”

“Still early.” Bucky’s face loomed into view, and he was smiling. “Time to get up—got a whole day planned.” 

You huffed and rolled over to burrow back into the covers, but Bucky only chuckled and pulled the blankets off of you and the bed. “I said g’up, angel, I promise it’s worth it.”

“Ugh! Barnes–!” There were fast footfalls down the hallway, retreating from your grumpy state. “Ugh.”

When you finally made your way into the kitchen, dressed and ready for whatever was in store, you found Bucky in the living room. He was looking out of the front window that faced the front lawn, where the dogs were yapping and playing to their heart's content. 

He looked over at the sound of your footsteps. “Good mornin’, angel.”

“Mornin’,” you said sleepily, and you kissed him on the cheek. “Let me get my oomph for the day and we can get started.” 

Bucky nodded and walked over to the front door, where he turned to face you and said, “I’ll get Bee up.”

A few moments passed; the sound of the chickens clucking and cows lowing in their pastures filling the silence, when a loud yell shattered the serenity. “Peach! Peach, baby, c’mere!” 

Bucky’s shout almost made you drop the milk jug in fright. Your feet, clad only in socks, skidded over the floor as you ran towards the front door, the panic of such a tone made you only run faster. 

“What! Bucky—baby, are you alright?” The porch planks were cold under your feet, and the wood creaked as you dashed down the steps into the yard. “What’s wr– What the?”

The two calves you adored with your whole heart, Bessie and Bubba, were standing either side of Bucky; only tall enough for their heads to reach his belted hip. 

Around Bessie’s neck was a red, plaid handkerchief, the words Santa’s Little Elf embroidered in white. There was a Santa’s hat on her head, between her big, floppy ears. 

Bubba was dressed up as a Christmas tree, her fluffy body covered in a green coat with lights embroidered in neat lines; tinsel strung above each row. Between her ears was a bright, golden star — stitched onto a green headband. 

“Oh.”

Bucky beamed at you, his eyes and smile as bright as they were on your wedding day all those years ago. “Surprise, Peach!”

The calves bounded forward, tossing their heads and snorting their excitement. You fell to your knees in the frosted grass. “Babies!” They collided with you, bowling you over with their strength and you couldn’t help but laugh as they snuffled at your hands and face. “Bucky, how–?”

“May helped me out—she’s the one that told me it was a good idea when I asked ‘er,” Bucky said, walking towards you. You looked up at him; his eyes were so bright you could feel yourself getting lost in them, and the way his smile made your heart flutter– “She made ‘em up and that day I took the babies out for a drive?”

“You said you were taking them to see Peter?”

Bucky blushed and his hand moved to scratch at the back of his neck. “That wasn’t entirely a lie…”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” you gasped. “You were taking them to May!”

He nodded, and he started to laugh. 

You looked back at the two insistent calves, their tongues running over their noses while they demanded your attention. “Oh, I love them. I love them so much—Bucky, I really do.” 

The smile you received in return could have shifted the world off of its axis; melted the snow that covered your farm wholly. “You’re welcome, my pretty Peach.”

⠈⠂⠄ 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱 | 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 | 𝐚𝐨𝟑  ⠄⠂⠁

⠈⠂⠄𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ⠄⠂⠁

[goodoldfashionedengineer]

Bruce and Jasoncs first meeting- Transcribed!

Hello, I transcribed part of Batman #408, aka. Bruce and Jason’s first meeting! I did it so I would have an easier time writing my fic, like copy and paste certain dialogue, and thought that it may be useful for some others too. Each paragraph is describing one panel.

The Batmobile is parked in an alley. Three tires are missing.

Batman: I don't believe it!

Narrator: And Batman does something he has never done before, in Crime Alley

Batman: *laughs*

Batman: *kneels on the passenger's seat’s side to inspect the tires* I have to hand it to ‘em - it takes stones to rip of the Batman’s buggy

Jason is seen going to the Batmobile while looking over his right shoulder. He wears a red long-sleeved shirt, red jeans and a black vest.

Narrator: And as Batman kneels to appraise the situation, a criminal returns to the scene of the crime

Batman is still kneeling, but now Jason has walked around the car, standing in front of Batman.

Batman: Well- Come to finish the job, boy?

Jason: Whoops.

Batman stands up, Jason quickly hides the tire iron behind his left thigh.

Batman: *scowls* You’re going to give me back my tires

Jason: Who says I took ‘em?

Batman stems his hands into his hips. Jason has the tire iron perfectly behind his back. His right hand indicates that he’s nervous.

Batman: What else is the tire iron for?

Jason swings the tire iron right into Batman's right side, onto the ribs.

Jason: This!

Batman clutches his left side with his right arm. Jason is running away.

Batman: You little son of a gun

Jason: Come and catch me, you big boob!

Jason runs into an alley across from the Batmobile.

Batman looks around the corner of said alley.

Batman: I could stop him easily enough, but maybe I should let him lead me to my whitewalls.

Jason is seen climbing the fire escape of a condemned building.

He closes the door behind him. He is now in the hallway of said condemned building. There is a bottle and trash on the floor, graffiti and other writings on the walls, the ceiling has a hole in it. At the end of the hallway is a window. It seems to have been barricaded with wood planks once, but only the top ones remain, the ones on the bottom have been destroyed.

Jason walks into a room across from the door he just closed. The green paint is missing here and there, leaving patches that reveal the wall material. There is a thin, rugged, yellow carpet on the floor. In the corner across from the door is a mattress on the floor. Two pillows are at the head of it that is touching the wall and a blanket is covering neatly the rest of the mattress. Next to the head of the mattress where the pillows lie is a pile of comics, the top one being “Ape-man”. A few feet in front of the mattress on the left side is also a passageway to the next room. When you enter the room, there are two tires leaning against the left wall. When you enter and look to the right, there are two tires stacked on top of each other with a third leaning against them.

Jason is now sitting on the mattress, about to light a cigarette. Batman is standing right behind him in the other room, a corner of his cape goes around the passageway. On the wall to the left of the mattress is a poster with a skull, the words “Poison Idea” written on it. On that side is also a stereo on a shelf, which also hosts other things, probably cassettes (as CD’s only became popular in the mid 90’s and this comic was published in 1987), maybe some comics and books too. On the wall behind the mattress is a poster of a man with the words “Eric Peters”.

Batman steps into the room Jason is occupying, standing in front of the mattress.

Batman: That’ll stunt your growth, kid.

Jason is standing up and pointing at the two tires leaned against the wall. His right hand is balled into a fist.

Jason: Take your lousy tires, already, and go- just lemme alone!

Batman spreads out his arms

Batman: Son… do you… live here?

Jason: Yeah! What of it? It’s mine and I like it.

We get a wider shot of the room. The mattress is at the left back corner. In the right back corner is an armchair propped against the right wall. Right next to it’s left is a small carton or shelf and next to it are stacked multiple cans on top of each other. On the right side of the armchair is a barricaded window, beneath it is a heating. There is not just one side board shelf on the back wall where the mattress is, but multiple. All filled very neatly. Next to the last shelf are again multiple cans which are stacked very neatly together.

Jason is scowling, having his arms crossed. Behind him on one of the shelves is a frame, in it the portrait of a woman.

Batman: And your mother?

Jason: She’s dead. She got sick. Okay? Now get outa here!

Jason turns towards Batman and swings his right fist at him. Batman has his left arm outstretched and put it on Jason's head in order to keep him away from him.

Jason: Or do I have to make you leave?

Batman picks up Jason by Jason’s left wrist, lifting him into the air.

Batman: You’re a scrappy one, I’ll say that much for you.

Batman is standing at the ground, at the bottom of the fire escape. Jason is letting a tire down from above, the tire being tied on a rope.

Batman: I’m afraid it isn't enough to just give me back my property

Jason and Batman are walking side by side, Batman having clutched one tire under his arms, Jason rolling a tire in front of him.

Jason: You’re gonna fink to the cops, huh? Figures.

Batman: Not the cops. I think we do have to tell the juvenile authorities about you…

Jason is still looking forward, while Batman is looking at Jason.

Jason: I can fend for myself just fine! I know how to make it on the streets - and I like it there!

Jason is looking up, pointing with his right thumb at himself. He seems determined.

Jason: I don’t want to wind up in some crummy orphanage. Or some foster home where I’m somebody's pet charity case. I’m my own man! Me, Jason Todd!

Jason is kneeling down and mounts a tire onto the Batmobile, Batman standing next to him.

Batman: Jason Todd, huh? Pretty fancy handle for a street kid. How long was your mother sick?

Jason: Over a year. I found her food and stuff - kepr her warm - and alive… long as I could

Batman is standing behind Jason now and puts his left hand on Jason's shoulder.

Batman: What about school, son?

Jason: I graduates a long time ago - from the streets of Crime Alley.

There is one more page which I didn't transcribe because it’s about Batman bringing Jason to Ma Gunn’s School, something which I won’t include in my fic. Feel free to check out the comic tho, I highly recommend it. Especially the next one too, because Jason helps Batman take down the headmaster in her crime scheme!

[thatndginger]

first day I've actually felt like writing in the past two weeks (thanks work 🙃) and dammit I'm proud of this revised intro for Into the Storm so I'm gonna show it off

I'm arguing that re-writing the intro is justified in this instance because this is a *new* chapter, not just a re-write of a previous one. I'm trying to maintain that whole "no editing while drafting" thing, after all

Transcript under the cut:

No one pays attention as Kerr McKay slips through the door. He turns a few glances as he slams the door closed on tepid summer air and rainwater, but they don't linger. He's not the kind of person that attracts attention. With one of those faces that doesn't look much like anything, brown eyes, and brown hair, the only thing that keeps him from being decidedly average is his short stature.

As far as ‘defining features’ go, it’s not the worst to have.

Kerr takes a moment to survey the bar from the relative safety of the entryway before he wades in. Alibi is cramped, dingy, and possibly older than most parts of Moressau. It’s got all the typical hallmarks of a dive bar: random, sometimes confusing decor on nearly every free inch of wall; a wood plank floor covered in a thin layer of something that sticks to the soles of one’s shoes; a mirror the stretches nearly the entire length of the long-and-narrow room behind the bar; and a varied array of regulars haunting the torn booths and wobbly barstools. There’s enough space near the back wall for a single pool table, which happens to be the only thing bathed in something stronger than faded red neon light.

A large, weathered-almost-to-unreadability metal sign hangs over the mirror, lit by it’s own light, reminding all patrons:

HOUSE RULES 1. NO COPS 2. NO FIGHTS NO EXCEPTIONS

Kerr’s only seen the rules broken once in the last two years, Alibi is one of the few places for those who live on the wrong side of the law to drink in peace. No one’s quite sure what deal the owner, Mags, must have struck with the cops to keep them off her case, but no one’s complaining either.

Tonight seems like any other. Including, to no one’s surprise, the energetic shout of Kerr’s name that overpowers the jukebox limping through hits from two decades ago.

[laelior]

Periapsis Chapter 2: Plunge

Mass Effect Kaidan Alenko/Beth Shepard Rating: E (eventual smut) Chapter 2/6 Periapsis: The point at which two objects in a binary system orbit nearest to each other. a.k.a., the Shenko shore leave fic that's been plaguing me non-stop lately. Ao3 Link

Shepard was awake before the sun. The first morning light was merely a suggestion on the eastern horizon, sending hazy motes spilling into the gaps between the wooden planks in the roof. Kaidan still slept peacefully in his sleeping bag, across the room from her, one arm thrown over his face as if to keep the anemic sun from disturbing him.

Quietly, so as not to wake him, Shepard extricated herself from her sleeping bag and carefully tip-toed across the creaky wood floor to the door. The mountain air stung against her skin so she found and threw on her boots and flannel jacket before heading down to the lake. She quickly surveyed the environs in the new morning light. The sun hadn’t quite touched the lake’s surface yet, leaving it shrouded in a thin mist that obscured her view of the far shore.

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