#world hard and cold. show hard and cold. coping

[iceglade]

[acid-ixx]

oooh so did we divorce Bruce, or is this an infidelity type of situation?

a loving family, an unpalatable desire: first meeting (unofficial)

— related post !

a/n: a tad bit nsfw. if this sounds messy, spare me. i'm running on like 4 hours of sleep and the will of a thirsty man in front of an oasis. i told yall im going insane for this plotline. ofc a&a still has my heart but I also love to occasionally write for smth else in the sidelines. send in more asks yall hehe.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

definitely an infidelity type of situation, anon! you see, the affair was caused by all mere coincidence. you were to attend with bruce in one of lex luthor's extravagant show of a gala, hold his arm for a brief moment when you walk out of the limousine, only to be abandoned right in the middle of the enormous room.

of course, the right reaction was to be pissed, to badmouth the very man who decided to court and entertain others in front of you; but you chose to stay silent, biting back choked tears by stumbling over the buffet table, only to be met with stupid, overbearing paparazzi and journalists.

so when clark kent rushes in to save you from stuttering over the dozens of microphones and cameras shoved right in your face, granting them access to your pathetic sobs— it's only right that your first reaction was to lean against his body, dismissing the hushed, harsh gossips of journalists.

it was at a time where you're not aware of his identity of superman. well, bruce barely permits you to enter the batcave, only if you stubbornly pester alfred does he let you, only to kick you, his darling spouse right out the moment you step on the cold, hard floors of the lair.

so it's not... a bad thing, right? your husband had a child with another woman, raised him as his own, didn't even bother to notify you with his infidelity— so is it your fault if you slowly start to fall for a man who promises you the world? who actually has the ability to give you the world in the palm of your hands? whose kid lets you pamper him without any fight?

sure, he's coping with... the loss of his previous wife but you're such a perfect spouse, so undeniably attractive, captivating in the hearts of many. your distant eyes, the way you bite the inside of your cheeks, the way your body sways back and forth as if begging for someone, your husband, to provide you a pillar of support in the suffocating heat of paparazzi.

he could be that pillar, could be your support.

when he first came up to you, his intentions weren't to obtain gossip about the oh-so silent spouse of bruce wayne. he didn't even want to acknowledge your marital status, palms already taking your wrist just so he could lead you off to somewhere quieter.

"it's an interview," he whispers an excuse to your reddened ears. but the buzz of his breath, the warmth, the caged arm on your waist tells you it's more than that.

but you don't fight back, you'd rather be anywhere than be the spotlight of a media that eats you up, makes you doubt your marriage even more.

so you're grateful that someone came to your rescue.

this would be the first time you ever saw someone as a savior, and it's not superman, no. it's clark kent, your resident, widowed, journalist.

and for clark's case, you warm his bed better than anything else. you allow clark this sense of respite, a break from heroic activities. allow him to be human, just as he allows you to play your fantasies of being a house spouse; you're perfect for each other.

to hell with useless marriage papers that don't even give bruce a sense of obligation to act as your husband, right? what can it do, when you're absolutely smitten with the current life you're living?

the first stages of your infidelity with clark is confusing, but very much welcomed into your already hectic life.

firstly, you convince yourself, it was all mere 'emotional cheating'. you began texting clark, he does too. an occasional greeting in messages, a passing congratulation for something, then the next it was good morning messages, 'have you eaten breakfast yet?, 'how'd the appointment go?'.

you don't know when it started, when your feelings started, when you began an intimate to romantic relationship with the man— all you knew was that the moment he revealed his superhero identity was the moment he decided to bed you for the night, the moment you grant the man, now your partner, access to every part of your depraved body, made him make you beg for more, giving him all the time in the world to kiss your imperfections, to fondle sensitive parts long untouched, to leave lovebites deeper and darker than the ones you caught bruce with.

you can't help it, he's unknowingly handsome, especially when he invites you over to his ma and pa's farm the next day, pretending to not notice the way your eyes hungrily flit over his topless body, sweat and budding pecs encased in a muscled form. over the course of dinner, you kept biting your lips, warm cheeks at the implications that clark merely wanted to sit next to you just so he could handfeed you, something about him being prideful that you'd definitely enjoy this week's harvest... but his fingers circling your thighs just seems to get you brain all haywired.

yet you stay, and continue visiting for long hours either way, enjoying the man's attention.

you know it's wrong, he knows it's wrong. but the way his son, jon looks at you like you mean the world, the way he's slowly starting to heal the longer you stay over at his place makes clark want to... what's the word? ah, he wants to turn you into his loving trophy spouse. all you need to do is provide jon with all the support in the world.

as for bruce... well, him and his family can deal with your absence for the first few months. but when the lingering feeling of emptiness becomes too much, when bruce no longer feels the worried gazes, or when dick can't hear anymore laughter in one of the supposed 'barren' rooms, or when tim's security systems tracked a missing device, one now in a completely different city.

that's when they start to yearn for someone they purposely let go

[notglue-9]

About My AU

This is about how 8 souls in Minecraft afterlife,try to live in peace and harmony.

Random facts about world/lore:

• You can’t stay at night for long as your own nightmares and fears will begin to haunt you.

• Catnap has had corruption three times. And each time it gets worse and more painful.

• on a full moon in Cartoon world, Catnap will turn into that same creepy version of himself from his past life.

• Bobby: mother/big sister figure

Bubba: Big bro/Father figure

Kickin: best Bro/best friend

Hoppy: best sister/best friend

Crafty: comfort shy bestie

Picky: the same kind aunt who will feed and take care of you/sibling figure

• Catnap lives with Bobby or Bubba.

The guys built houses for each other while they were in the afterlife. And they built a House for Dogday in advance.

• It hurts Catnap to show other emotions with his mouth, so he always smiles. But in the animation "Overnight" he was so upset that he didn't care about the pain and to show his sadness to Dogday he erased his smile

About Medallions

medallions are their souls.

Catnap collects the negative emotions of other critters. This makes his medallion increase. Although he helps others, it’s worse for him if he collects a lot of negativity within himself. He's in pain and reaaally Sick.💀

Each critter has their own cracks in their medallions. They show their emotional state.

Why is Catnap's medallion different?

it’s just that Catnap is punished for what he did in a past life. He pays back by helping and providing therapy to others there will be a rollback from negativity only if someone helps him. But no one will help him yet. The worse the Catnap medallion stage, the more his voice disappears, his beautiful lullaby voice becomes either mute or creepy.

The reason why Catnap is still cursed with this "therapy" ability. He feels guilty for all his mistakes. And it haunts him. His guilt hits harder than other negative emotions of smiling critters.

Sometimes a big red cloud hangs over him in the shape of his past life. And until he forgives himself and does not help others. He will be forever cursed and suffer

Cracked or Cursed Medallions symptoms

When Catnap is too overwhelmed with negativity. He coughs up Red Smoke.

But it doesn’t affect the others in any way. Although other critters are scared by this smoke. Especially Dogday.

Broken medallions.

These are souls that have not found peace, traumatized, broken. They feel bad mentally.

About ARCS.

Arc 0. - Catnap's Therapy. Pilot lmao

Arc 1. - Eclipse, nightmares and dreams,"I'm sorry"

Arc 2.- Corruption,Hey Dogday,,the groundhog Day,comics about other Critters

Arc 3- (Red crescent arc) - Your face,Camping, Theatre, others in future

Arc 4.- After prank, overnight,Moon's everyday Life.

Arc 1- Everyone hates Catnap. They shun him. Beat him,kick him. Bobby was the first to befriend him.

Arc. 2.Catnap helps them cope with their traumas that have begun to appear and interfere with their lives.

Arc 3.They are all more or less well. Some notice Catnap's strange behavior. Dogday has a hard time accepting Catnap. He already wanted to more or less make the relationship better. But the Red Moon appeared.

Their voices ,Their speaking style

Dogday: The deep voice of a veteran who went through a 100-year war. But sometimes it changes to squeaky if it experiences strong emotions. He remained expressive, but his face is always angry as if it would bite you.

Catnap: Actually he was mute. But he was given a voice in the afterlife. He still can't get used to it. His voice is very gentle, cold and pleasant to the ear, like the Cradle. His voice is also designed for singing.

Bobby: Calming tone, tactile when communicating. Sometimes she makes beautiful speeches. And very chatty. Loves to gossip.

Bubba: Monotonous and calculating Voice. He speaks briefly and clearly. And doesn't gesture at all and he is very passive.

Kickin: He deliberately makes his voice tone rougher to seem cool. He comes up with different slangs and often makes funny gestures. But when he's scared, his voice becomes very squeaky and he chirps like a Chicken.

Hoppy: She has a loud and confident voice, like a fitness club trainer. She will never tire of shouting motivational words at you. She often jumps and runs around you. She doesn't sit still while she chats with you.

Crafty: A gentle and sweet voice, like a princess. She is often distracted and has Daydreaming Syndrome.

Loves fairy tales and everything that is not from reality. She can debate her point of view about creativity

Picky: She has a very fun and playful voice. But sometimes you don’t understand whether she’s happy or ready to roast you in a fire.

A truly charming farmer and chef. Loves the Western theme.

About Chronology.

First arc - Catnap enters the afterlife. And everyone will begin to take revenge on him in their own way. Only Bobby will be there for him

Second arc - Catnap helps all of his friends to help recover from their traumas, and slowly wins their trust.

Third arc - Everything will more or less calm down. Only Dogday has the most difficult period of acceptance. There will be a lot of adventure beyond this. And only when Dogday wants to fix everything. The red moon appears on the horizon

(camping, theatre )

fourth arc - is Catnap's self-exile. everyone misses catnap

Arc five- blocked

Arc six- blocked

[catfern]

─ restless dreams.

in support of palestine ∙ the reality of tlou ∙ resources

pairing: ellie williams x fem!reader (?)

music: a world of madness - akira yamaoka

word count: 2.3k

summary: you're dead. with how ellie's been coping, she might as well be. that is, until she sees you, or rather, a woman with your face.

WARNINGS: heavy discussions of grief, illness, death. implied hallucinatory sequences, general themes associated with silent hill 2. smut, oral (r!receiving).

cat says ⎯ were ya'll waiting for pyramid head to show up?

if i could be … her.

but i’m not her

and she’s not me.

and you’re somewhere different.

on a different planet.

cold.

the merciless descent of winter had done nothing but bury ellie in a fog. a blur of forgetfulness, of numb reaction.

everyone had told her it would become easier. the festering pain in her joints would fade, the endless congestion in her head, like a dragnet of her slowed thoughts, would release.

“grief is just one of those things that you have to learn to live with.”

ellie wasn’t sure if she was learning. if she knew what that even felt like. what was it, to learn to love an absence? a gaping chasm, in one’s soul?

plagued. the sweetness of your voice lingered like stubborn molasses in her ears, a ghosting touch, nails scratching at her scalp, she could feel it. at least, for a few fleeting moments. in the sticky dark of her bedroom, memories of you clung to her back.

the pavement, slick with thin ice and dirty snow, echoed the song of her footsteps in the empty streets. she needed milk. a sick darkness had descended on the small space of her apartment, and her fridge stunk of something sour.

the hairs on the back of her neck prickled in the bitter wind. she hadn’t been sleeping.

she had thought, maybe, the chill in the air would help her. that the light would snap her from this daze, bring her to see this delusional miasma for what it was. but the wet sun, shrouded in grey, granted no such reprieve. she still saw you everywhere.

the shine of the linoleum tile seemed blinding in artificial light. ellie squinted in the change, her skin dry, pale and discoloured from weeks inside. 

she can feel the clerk’s gaze burning her through her clothes. she shakes the dusting of snowfall off her shoulders, and sees the tracks of mud she’s pulled in from outside. oh.

she scrapes the soles of her sneakers along the peeling grout of the tile, and shuffles her way along the aisles. the rows of fridge doors buzz in the dim silence of the store, there’s something metallic in the air.  

it was a dying habit, beelining for the skim milk. something you had put her on to, with your endless buzzing about dairy. it was comforting, following a path well-trodden through the small grocer, one she had so often taken when she had a softness to return to. her footsteps fell, heavy and loud and ringing her ears, empty.

ellie grunts a hoarse ‘excuse me’ to the woman standing in front of the milk fridge. she wasn’t grabbing anything, just standing … watching the milk as if waiting for it to move. so, ellie figured it was okay to push past. the woman moved back without a word.

the jug felt cool, and almost anchored, beneath ellie’s fingertips. something to latch on to, tangible in this maze of wretched passing time.

“sorry! i didn’t see you there.”

ellie bit so hard into her cheek it drew blood. warm, foreign in her mouth, an iron taste.

your voice was not an uncommon ringing in her ears, in these hellish pastimes. the open world teased her, so often she heard you in a gentle ripple of water, the humming engine of a passing car. but this …

it was you. ripped from fresh fucking dirt.

well, ellie wasn’t sure. a ghost in the corner store was not something she was eager to find, if that’s what this woman was. what you were. she could feel her hand twitching in her jacket pocket, an obsessive itch to reach out, to feel the tangible, the absent real.

your name slips past her lips like a familiar groove in her tongue, and the woman laughs. it’s deeper than yours, jilted, not sweet.

“are you confusing me with someone else?” she asks. no, no, she can’t be. it’s your face, every mapped detail from the haze of her dreams, ripped from your coffin and supplanted here. on this body, obscure.

it could be a mask. ellie could dig her fingernails under your pretty, unblemished skin and tear it off this creature, this … offence. would you bleed the same?

“i-“ the milk jug suddenly felt too cold, burning into the skin of her palm. she hesitated, joints locked, body aching. whatever frantic obscenities ellie had wanted to hurl at her, at you, for the affront of your very existence, dripped back down her throat, made her choke.

the woman tilts her head in anticipation. you don’t do that, you didn’t do that.

it’s not you.

“ellie? you told me you weren’t coming today.”

she can still hear the wheezing undercurrent in your voice, a haunting possession of the brilliance in your body. you weren’t meant to exist somewhere so … clinical.

“i .. wanted to see you.”

your hand ghosts her cheek, the prickling of neglected texture along the bone. she refused to touch you. not like this.

ellie’s breath comes heavy in the heady air of her apartment. she can smell the stale rot in the walls, consuming her with every struggling heave of her lungs.

she had left the fridge door open when she left, the flickering cold light leaving a staggering crack along the darkness. she slumps against the wall of her kitchenette, pressing her hands into her muddy hair, as if trying to hold herself together at the seams.

she was going crazy, wasn’t she?

you’re haunting her. ellie supposes that she knew you would. a spectre, a shadow tethered to her feet. she had hoped, she could push past it, cradle your tenderness close to her heart, lock away the rest. naive.

she had become too complacent with the shell of you that malady had created. she’d forgotten how angry you could get. even from beyond the veil of death.

but it wasn’t you. no, no, ellie reminds herself. that … woman, was a coincidence. a trick of the flickering, sickening lights. her grief had muddled her mind, made her see things that weren’t there.

maybe she so desperately wanted to see you. deep within the dairy aisle. maybe, she no longer had the strength to turn away from you, like she once had. maybe, she just craves something you can no longer provide.

three raps knock the wood of her door, and ellie shakes. visceral.

she doesn’t remember answering, but the threshold was there, her hand warming the cool bronze of her doorknob.

this was just cruel.

“oh! it’s you again!” her smile is a wicked caricature, something hollow. snow sits in her hair, and ellie is blighted with your warmth, ghostly in this empty winter. “sorry, my phone’s dead. i’ve been asking around, is everyone on vacation? you’re the only one that answered the door.”

“wh - what?” ellie couldn’t listen. 

you had broken your nose, as a child, a detail never lost on her in the intimacy of your nights together. she would trace her fingers over the bump the accident left, the irreverent flaws that endeared her, magnetised ellie to your person.

she studied this woman, her … perfections. the faultless slope of the bridge of her nose.

so … she was different? this wasn’t you. ellie wasn’t sure if the constant reminder was her anchor or her chain.

“can i use your landline?”

the question was simple, and ellie ached to oblige. invite her in.

“uh, sure.” it was a hoarse, quiet agreement. she shuffles to the side, carves a path for the stranger, who smiles at her sweetly, tight-lipped, in thanks.

her perfume was different. heavier, something darker. red fruit and earth. it caught in ellie’s nose, unwelcome. your name is a phantom on the dry ridges of her lips, and the woman snickers, the fur collar of her snow-dusted coat ruffling as she turns to meet ellie’s foggy gaze. the glory of what was once your gaze, now shared, was lost on this cheap copy.

“you keep calling me that. what, do i look like your girlfriend?”

ellie chokes on something that is not there.

“n-no, my late wife.” ellie could feel her gravity changing, re-centring. she crosses the floor slowly, listening to every creak of the old floorboards. reverent steps. “you … you could be her twin.”

she laughs, distant and deep, like a joke. like she couldn’t see the lines of desperation, of reaching hope that haunt the withering skin of ellie’s face. couldn’t she see? was she not aware of her own part she played in ellie’s torment?

or was she seperate from it all? was she simply passing through, a tourist in this purgatory?

the woman hangs up the receiver of the phone, having never called anyone. her eyes splay pity on this platter between them.

“i don’t look like a .. ghost, do i?” the teasing lilt in her voice was familiar. it was yours. she purses her lips. “maybe i shouldn’t have come. you’re clearly going through something.”

ellie’s hand darts out to ground itself on her skin, pressing into the bone of her wrist, the base of her body.

“ellie.”

she shook the molasses of your voice from her ears, pressed her eyes shut in beseeching of something free.

“please.” her voice was barely there, small in her throat, but enough to hear in the absence of wherever this was. wherever she has ended up. “you have to tell me who you are, if you’re real.”

the woman pouts, the way you did when you wanted something. her touch is soft, leading, like yours was, as it slips from ellie’s rusting grip and falls back, unceremoniously, onto the leather armchair in the living room. plumes of dust greeted her, only added to the stench in the air, the musk of unforgiving.

“it doesn’t matter who i am.” she says, and ellie almost stumbles after her, her knees aching as she falls, devout, ready to worship, if only this spectre gave her answers. “i know what grief’s like. and … i’m here for you.”

ellie breathes unsteadily, her hands shaking, cool sweat dripping down her back. the woman reaches out in the growing silence between them. her nails were bumpy, bitten down to the quick, covered poorly in thin, pink nail polish, as they scratch gently along ellie’s cheek.

“see? i’m real.”

an illness lined ellie’s stomach. wanton belief … this was real. there was a simplicity in this, in the dream that you had come back to her, after all. flesh warm and alive beneath her fingers, untainted.

“don’t you want to touch me?”

the image of you, of her, bleeds in ellie’s brain. you were asking with a sweetness you knew she could never ignore. temptation rots the soul, but hers had died with you. in your final breath, you had clawed it out of her.

there’s a certain cruelty to her touch, the way ellie splays her decay of passion upon this blank body. control is lost to her here, although a mirage of it echoes in her grip on your thigh, her nails ripping into the stranger’s skin, hoping to study whatever is beneath.

“please, please…” ellie’s voice is soft, chasing a dead docility up the woman’s inner thigh, her tongue pulling a cotton trail into familiar warmth. “i’m sorry…”

your head falls back against the edge of the armchair, soft, sweet whines dripping from the woman’s lips like honey, ellie’s nose pressing into the silk of your cunt, her tongue dazed and ever desperate to taste you. to feel you like you once were, broken, made whole again in the creeping twilight of an oncoming snowstorm.

a low rumble pulls through both of you, her lips a current on your clit, a tremor in the key of her voice. she has to pull herself up on her knees, push herself into your presence, to keep herself there, within this second chance. her body shakes beneath yours, in wait, for something that had long since disappeared.

she groans, something deep and distant below her throat. her tongue dances along the warmth inside you, painting her apologies, her dying grievances along the soft expanse of whatever lay inside, forever unheard. her fingers grip bruises into your stolen skin, a rough yank pulling you towards her.

you had hated when she was rough with you, but were you really here to complain?

“please, i…” her voice is something dark, muffled against your skin. “i need you, i.. you shouldn’t have left me. i’m sorry.”

“that doesn’t matter now.” firm and bitter, dry, calloused hands pull ellie up from her home between your legs. she could nearly whine at the absence of warmth, if the vitriol freeze wasn’t something she had so long deserved, so duly needed. ellie’s touch softens.

“nothing matters now.”

your gaze, her gaze, is scrutinising, painful to hold in her eye. but she needn’t look away, she shouldn’t. otherwise, she was sure you’d disappear. she couldn’t let you, never again. she could keep you alive, deep within the ire of her eye, she could, she was so sure.

something stings within her. feeling, it prickles back into ellie’s body like she’d been long asleep.

“i miss you,” ellie’s voice breaks against the cool, unwavering hand of the strange woman, the absence of mercy she so desperately sought. a sob shakes, sore in the column of her neck. the pain was welcome. “so, so much.”

tears run hot, her spine crooked as she falls back, looking up at you with a newly discovered vulnerability. you look at her, your eyes cold with pity and hate.

“i love you.” she chokes, begging like you’ll listen. “come back to me, i love you still.”

you shake your head. you won’t. ellie doesn’t deserve that kindness. no longer, anyway.

your wife slumps forward, pressing her face into the softness of your thigh like that would mean forgiveness, like that would bring back the innocence she had sorely stolen from you. your hand, with jagged nails, runs through ellie’s hair. brick wall comfort.

when you speak, your voice lingers in her ears like a bad hangover. it’s not yours, not anymore. whatever was left of you was rotten, spiteful.

“are you afraid?”

ellie sobs, loud in the impending silence.

there was something here. it’s gone now.

tag list: @r3starttt

[ash5monster01]

Cold Spring Harbor

Chapter One - She’s Got A Way 🎶

Pairing: Steve Harrington x FemReader

Warnings: fluff, instant attraction, invisible string theory, mentions of childhood trauma, mentions of death, coping mechanisms

Summary: Just when Steve figures he’s bound to be alone the rest of his life, somehow he finds you, and for some reason just being near you makes him feel much less alone in the world.

word count: 2k

→ Two

Masterlist

Spring 1985

She's got a way of showin', how I make her feel

Steve hated being sad. Yet for the last six months that was all he had felt. He should be over it by now. He wished he was over it, but everyday he went to school just to see Nancy with Johnathon and know everything that he lost. He had given up his friends for her, and when she gave him up for Johnathon, he had no one left. No happy family to come home to, and no friends to spend time with, especially no girlfriend to love. Maybe that was why it was so hard to get over her, because she was the only person he had left and she left him too.

So he woke up on the first day of spring break, no parents, no plans, no one at all. It didn’t matter that the first warm sun was shining through his window and the birds chirped happily outside. He figured he would always be alone and he was still just as miserable as before. The only person he did have was Dustin but how many times can you ask a middle schooler to hang out before it gets weird? Steve didn’t want to find out.

He wasn’t going to last all of spring break like this so he was going to do the only thing that made him feel better. The only thing that gave him enough motivation to get out of bed and get ready for the day. So it’s not long until he is walking out the front door and towards his car. Yet before he unlocked it he stopped, eyes glancing into the bright blue sky, and deciding against the drive. It was sunny and almost seventy, plus a walk would be good for him. So he stuffed the keys back in his pocket and started down the road.

Town was half empty once he got there, signs showing that the new mall being built was already taking away business. It was sad to see the town that once was so busy become a shell of nothing. Kind of like him he supposed. Yet the sight of the familiar blue door eased his mind as he pushed in the one place he hoped would be here forever.

“Hey man, long time no see” Ron, the owner smiles from behind the register. Steve matches the smile right back even though he doesn’t feel it. He wished he did.

“Hey Ron, how’s business been?” he asks, eyeing the various shelves throughout the room.

“I wish I could say busy, but ever since word got out that Sam Goody was being built in the mall, no one really cares about Ron’s Records anymore” he says and Steve nods, his throat tightening at the thought.

“I’m sorry about that man, you know I’ll be a customer for life” he tells him and Ron nods, smiling at the boys kindness.

“You and your Grandpa both” Ron says kindly and Steve has to look away before tears form in his eyes.

“I’m gonna check some records out” Steve tells him and Ron nods as he moves to the section he knows it will be at.

Finally reaching the B’s his fingers start skimming the records. It feels like he’s passed a hundred Barry Manilow records by the time he reaches exactly what he’s looking for. Smiling to himself he scans which ones are there, determined what would be the best to listen to. Something that for an entire forty minutes could make him feel much less lonely in this world.

“Billy Joel huh?” Steve looks up and nearly freezes. There you are, the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, and something about the world stops. He’s not one to be shy but it’s as if the words somehow can’t leave his mouth. There was just something about you. “Since when do boys your age listen to Billy Joel?”

“Hey, he’s still rock n’ roll to me” Steve defends, and it’s cheesy. He knows that, but it doesn’t stop you from laughing. You’re wearing the most perfect smile he’s ever seen and he wants to make you do it again.

“I’m not saying he isn’t, just most guys these days don’t know good music anymore” you say, pulling the record out of his hands and he almost gasps at the way your fingers feel against his.

“Well good music to me is just Billy, always has been” he says and you give him a small nod, smile still on your face. He briefly wonders what it could be about you that makes him suddenly so content.

“Cold Spring Harbor? I don’t think I’ve ever heard it” you say and Steve’s heart clenches.

“It’s his first album, he was only 22 when he wrote it. It’s one of my favorites” Steve tells you and the mischievous grin you give him makes his heart stutter in his chest.

“Well let’s listen to it” you tell him, hand grabbing his own, and leading him to the front of the building. In the front window there’s two chairs and small record player in between. They had been there for as long as Steve could remember, he had sat in them hundreds of times. He sits in his, the one chair he always sat in, and you sit, well in the other. His throat dries as he sees you sit across from him in the chair that had been empty for many years.

“What’s your favorite track?” you muse, hands delicately working to pull the record from its sleeve and place it on the player.

"The first one, She's Got A Way. It was my Grandpa's favorite, the first Billy song he ever played me" Steve says, looking off onto the rows and rows of records. Remembering a time when he was just short enough to be the same height as them. Rushing around and looking for the most colorful covers while his Grandpa went straight to the B's. Then he'd sit in the very chair he was now, ankles just barely hanging over the edge as his Grandpa played him song after song, in the very seat you were sitting in now.

"So that's where it comes from" you muse, the record spinning as you turn on the machine. Steve watches as you set the needle on the record, sratching till it finds its groove, and fills the silence between you both.

"Why is it his favorite?" you ask after a few moments, watching the boy as he let's the words sink in.

"He claimed it was the only song he ever heard that perfectly described how he felt about my Grandmother. How the right women could completley turn you around and heal you when you least expect it" Steve smiles fondly as he repeats those words he hadn't in a very long time.

"A charmer, I'm sure you are too" you say and the shocked look Steve wears has you laughing lightly. It takes Steve only a second to laugh along with you, realizing just how quickly you had revealed him. It's when your laughter calms he realizes the smile on your face has eased his heart more in the last six months than anything else.

"If you must know" Steve says and you giggle again which has Steve wanting to spend more and more time with you.

"Where is this Grandpa of yours, I have a few questions for him?" you ask and Steve freezes, not expecting the words to leave your mouth. It takes him a moment to respond and you sense the discomfort and place your hand on his own. Steve nearly jumps at the electric touch that comes from it.

"He passed away when I was fifteen, right before high school" he tells you, throat tightening around the admittance.

"I'm so sorry, that's awful" you try to comfort but Steve just smiles.

"You would have loved him though. Everyone did. He was my best friend, the only family I really had that spent time with me. Since my Grandma passed when I was ten, me and him made sure to spend all of middle school together" Steve isn't entirely sure why he is telling you this, he just knows your the first person he has been this comfortable around since his Grandpa and he didn't even know your name yet. He didn’t know what it was about you but he figured there didn't need to be a reason.

"That's so sweet, he sounds so special" you tell him and Steve nods, recalling memories he hadn't allowed himself to think about for years.

"He was, just wish he was still around. He was the only person to ever be there for me, front row at every swim meet and basketball game. Was hard going through highschool knowing he was no longer in the stands, but Billy. Well that's all me and him ever talked about. So sometimes, on days like today when I miss him a little extra, I find him in the lyrics of a song" and your heart soars for the boy in front of you. A boy with a deep sadness buried within him. A boy the world hadn't given a chance yet.

"Is he there right now?" you can't help but ask, the last few lines of the song coming through the speakers on the machine. Steve listens, can practically see his Grandpa yelling at him for not making a move. ‘At least ask her name’ he groans and Steve chuckles lightly to himself.

"Yeah he's here. He always is" Steve says and you give him a smile that somehow heals him. "I'm Steve by the way"

"Nice to meet you Steve" you tell him before offering your own name and Steve finds it rattling through his head, the most beautiful name in all of existence, and somehow it belongs to you. The very girl who showed up while he was feeling down and has inspired him without a sound. The beginning notes of You Can Make Me Free fill the silence between you both and Steve sits up, realizing your hand is still atop his own.

"Sorry for spilling my guts" Steve says and you shake your head, wanting him to know that he had done nothing wrong this entire time.

"Don't be, it actually happens a lot. I seem to make people very comfortable. Guess I just got a way about me" and Steve agrees because somehow in just this short exchange you have inspired him to keep on going, reminded him that this is not the end and it won't be all bad. It is like you have some bright light around you and it gives him the strength to keep going.

"Would you maybe want to go get something to eat?" Steve finds the confidence to ask and you beam a smile brightly back at him.

"I'd love to Steve" you tell him, using his name like it now somehow belongs to you and Steve wishes it does. A million dreams of love surrounding you and for the first time since Nancy he finds himself feeling something for a girl he never thought he'd feel again. He just knows he no longer wants to live without you.

"Have fun you two" Ron calls out as you both exit, the record still playing as you both leave it behind. You talk the whole way to the small diner in town, Steve just smiles and listens, loving how everything sounds the way it comes out your mouth. It's as if every word lifts him up as you are walking.

For the rest of the day Steve does his part getting to know you. Making you laugh and flirting where necessary which never fails to make you blush. The sight of your red cheeks alone make his heart soar for you. It's cute the way you show it, exactly how you feel about him. In return you do find yourself charmed by the very boy you couldn’t resist talking to. You wondered where a sweet boy like him had been your whole life and for the first time you aren't as embarassed by the blush on your cheeks as you normally would be.

"I really like you Rosy" he says matter of fact, the nickname falling easily from his lips. You blush at his words again, shaking your head at the boy you figure you aren't getting rid of anytime soon.

"I like you too Steve"

Taglist: @slvtforstve @keerygal @goosy-goose @livsters @blckburd @loveshotzz @ohwauwdoritos @superblysubpar @southereads @amataadriana @violet2022 @mxrcjqckspnchqsc @madaboutjoe @thunderstomp-and-tequila @justdamnpeachy @micheledawn1975 @fangfatale @kingstevesgf @notlilyyyy @eddiesguitarskills @palmtreesx3

Comment if you want to be added to the taglist :))

[tickletastic]

Walls and How to Climb Them

Fandom: The Inheritance Games

Ship: N/A

Summary: Nash knows exactly how to calm Jameson down after an argument with Grayson. Big brothers always do.

Nash Hawthorne is not an enigma, he’s not a mystery or a big ball of trauma pretending to be a person– unlike his brothers. That means Nash has a healthy– as healthy as it can be given he grew up in Hawthorne House– relationship with his emotions, and an uncanny ability to see through the absolute bullshit his brothers put on when he checks in. 

When Nash is dealing with something, he talks to Libby. Or he goes out to a bar. Or he gets into a bar fight. Totally normal ways for a well-adjusted 26-year-old to take out his frustrations. On the bright side, at least Nash can actually acknowledge when things are slipping, when he feels things bubbling just under the surface. His emotionally constipated brothers had never been so lucky, yet another thing he could blame on the mystique and allure of their late grandfather. 

Still, somehow, Nash had his ways of getting his younger brothers out of their own heads. Pushing them past the ‘emotion is weakness,’ ‘boys don’t cry’ bullshit their grandfather drilled into them.

Xander was probably the easiest to crack. Afterall, their nearly ten year age difference was enough that Nash had always been closer to a father figure than an older brother. Nash could just saunter into Xander’s room, or the circular library, or his lab, and make things feel a little too serious for a little too long, and Xander would crack, spilling exactly what was bothering him or who Nash had to beat up. Nash would listen without judgment, even if the issue was as small as a screw not fitting into one of Xander’s new robots, and take him out for ice cream or cupcakes afterwards.

Jameson and Grayson were, obviously, much more difficult. The heir and the daredevil had far too much time collecting bad coping mechanisms.

Grayson, typically, wandered on the side of emotionlessness. Spit in his face? Grayson’s stone-cold exterior isn’t cracking. Threaten him? Steal from him? Trick him? Grayson would never show it, he’d greet every challenge with a tight-lipped look and a firm handshake. 

Yet somehow, Nash, with his older brother instincts and extra year with Grayson before Jameson was born, could always tell when Grayson was trying just a little too hard to keep his face blank. He could see the small wrinkle next to his left eyebrow, or the way Grayson would dig the nail of his thumb into the tip of his index finger. Grayson usually took a while to come around, and it would never be completely, he would never, ever, open up entirely. Nash still had ways of making things easier on him, and he never took his Grayson-reading skills for granted. 

Jameson, though, has always been a different story, His fearlessness, his borderline recklessness, was always rewarded, always nurtured. When he showed himself to be unwilling to back down from any challenge, their grandfather would reward him. His brothers might not have jumped from the top of the solarium to unlock a clue during one of their Saturday schemes, but Jameson would. His brothers wouldn’t wander into a drug den on the opposite end of the world to retrieve a singular coin, but Jameson would. The fear, the adrenaline of the chase, it took away from all the rest of it for Jameson. 

Jameson never let himself get still enough to think about the bad, and there was a lot of bad. He just spent his life running and running from the inevitable break. When Em died, there was a glimpse, just a sliver, of what Jameson was feeling on the inside, but it was covered up by his constant fighting with Grayson, the calloused shell he adopted like a second skin. 

But Nash knows. He always knows. When Jameson jumps a fraction too quick, when he rushes into things headfirst without giving things a moment to set in, when every challenge looks like a competition to him, that, that is when Nash knows Jameson is losing it. 

When those risks, that danger, isn’t close enough for Jameson to touch, or to throw himself towards, he goes to the rock wall.

Nash had always thought the rock-climbing wall was a bit silly, and he hadn’t been kind enough to his eight-year-old brother when he decided to pick it up as his skill that year, insisting instead that he could learn rock climbing in ten minutes at a playground. It didn’t matter now, ‘cause Nash quickly adapted to the rock wall, the incredibly dangerous heights Jameson would reach, serving as his younger brother’s coping mechanism.

It was better than climbing a real cliff, sans rope, afterall.

Nash preferred the rock wall now, as opposed to all the other options, because Jameson’s been climbing the thirty-five foot wall without protection since he was eight, he could trust that Jameson knew all of the risks, all of the possible outcomes. He just couldn’t always trust that Jameson would do what’s safest for himself. 

Given Nash’s amazing Big Brother Instincts, he also knows exactly when Jameson is using the wall to de-stress rather than channel anger, and tonight is one such night.

Things are going well. Well, as well as they can be going in the Hawthorne house, Avery’s keeping Jameson steady and everyone’s mostly getting along. Today, though, Grayson and Jameson got into an argument that even had Grayson losing his cool for a moment. 

Grayson and Jameson somehow manage to fight even when everything’s going fine, in fact, especially when everything’s going fine, and it usually took both Xander and Nash to get them to relax. So while Xander forces Grayson to join him in a baking lesson with Libby, Nash goes to the rock wall to find Jameson.

Jameson is exactly where Nash believed he’d be, halfway up the wall, eyes closed as he seemingly just hangs there, taking everything in. 

“Jamie,” Nash calls up, and he sees Jameson take out a wireless earbud and drop it in the pocket of his sweats. 

Jameson rolls his eyes, his teenaged-era rebellion always flaring its head when he Nash has put on his big brother hat. “What? Not baking bubblegum cupcakes and ice cream frosting with Libby?” 

"That sounds far too sweet, even for Libs," Nash says, his voice jokingly solemn, “besides, somethin’ tells me Xan’s got that handled.”

"What do you want, Nash?" Jameson asks, straightforward, annoyance seeping into his tone.

Nash grins, taking his cowboy hat off and setting it gently on the floor behind him, “You gonna come down yourself or am I gonna have to come up there and get ya?”

Jameson just rolls his eyes again, but begins to eye the height he's at on the wall. When Nash sees Jameson bracing himself to jump, he can’t help but yell back up at his younger brother “you won’t like to deal with the consequences if you jump down from that wall.”

“Like jumping from this height is even a big deal” Jameson responds incredulously, looking down, more than fifteen feet up the wall. “I’m not made of glass, Nash, and I’m not a child.”

“A child you are not,” Nash drawls, “but your knees will be sore like a motherfucker in two years time if you don’t stop jumping down from this damn thing.”

Jameson sighs, defeated, and makes his descent down the wall, much less practiced at climbing down than he is at climbing up. When he’s within Nash’s reach, Nash grabs him by the nape of his neck, and Jameson tumbles into his oldest brother’s arms with a sound he would definitely never refer to as a giggle. 

Now, Nash is no stranger to dealing with a devastated Jameson, but frustration is a much easier demon to fight, and he must admit that today he is glad it’s just frustration. He knows exactly how to deal with that.

Nash doesn’t waste a minute, he gets Jameson on the floor and pinned in the blink of an eye, fingers fluttering over his stomach in the way Nash knows drives him crazy.

“Nash!” Jameson screeches, trying to grab his brother’s hand, even though he feels his strength leaving with every ticklish touch. He’s making aborted snorting noises, scrunching his nose with the force of the threatened laughter. Usually Jameson was the hardest to crack, able to hold out for a while without laughing when someone tickled him, but Nash took him off guard, knowing it was exactly what they both needed. 

“What’s the matter, Jamie?” Nash asks, feigning innocence “something botherin’ ya?”

Nash forms his hands into claws and vibrates them on either side of Jameson’s belly button, and Jameson bursts into loud belly laughter, hands flying everywhere to protect from the attack. He’s arching his back in an attempt to dislodge Nash’s hands, but somehow, the longer Nash stays in the same spot, using the same technique, the more it tickles, and it’s driving Jameson mad already, when he knows his oldest brother has only just started.

“NAHASH!” Jamie screeches, digging his heels into the ground when one of Nash’s fingers worms its way into his belly button, pulling at the sensitive skin. When Nash moves his other hand to just above Jameson’s hip bone, his younger brother can’t hold back a stream of snorts, and Nash can’t help but laugh along with him. Jameson’s laugh has always been the most contagious, and it doesn’t hurt that seeing his face scrunched up as his older brother tickles him is just too damn cute. 

Nash now vibrates both thumbs into Jameson’s hips and Jameson hiccups, throwing his head back while a blush climbs up his face. 

“Are you alright, Jamie? You’re lookin’ a little red,” Nash teases, grinning down at his brother. 

“Fuhuhuck ohohoff!” Jameson quips, and immediately regrets it when Nash reaches his hands back to squeeze underneath his knees. He lets out the loudest snort yet, shaking his head uncontrollably while he kicks out his legs in an attempt to dislodge Nash. Unable to even reach Nash’s hands to try to fight him off, Jameson winds his arms around his ribs, laughter catching in his throat “PLEHEASE!”

Nash snorts, but relents, moving his hands back up to Jameson’s torso, tickling his sides. “Begging already, Jame? I thought you could take more than that.”

“Ihihit-” Jameson squeaks when Nash’s hands hit his bottom ribs, “ihihit tihihickles soho bad!”

“God, you’re nearly as bad as Gray. Maybe it’s genetic? Where do ya think all this sensitivity came from?” 

“Ihihif it’s genehtic, Li- Lihihbby would wahahant to knohohow!” Jameson attempts to fluster his brother back, but of course, in his current predicament, it doesn’t work so well. 

“Or maybe I should tell Avery,” Nash responds, nonchalant. “If you can still muster the energy to be a smartass, I guess that means I’m not doin’ my job right, huh?”

Nash wiggles his fingers up Jameson’s ribs, already enough to make him scream, squeal, and thrash, before lodging his hands firmly under Jameson’s arms. His younger brother arches his back almost painfully, flattening his arms to his sides and effectively trapping Nash’s fingers in his armpits. None of those reactions, though, hold a candle to the ear-piercing squeal Jameson lets out when Nash’s fingers start to wiggle, worming around in his worst spot. 

“Ihihi’m gohohonna kihihill you!” Jameson screams. His smile is so wide it nearly splits his face in two, his eyes closed and nose scrunched while he throws his head back in ticklish agony. Part of him wishes Nash had chose a different torture method, anything would have been more bearable. 

“I’d hate to be the one to tell ya,” Nash says calmly, “but you’re not too intimidating like this, Jamie.”

When Nash starts to drill his fingers in, rather than wiggling around aimlessly under Jameson’s arms, Jameson’s laughter gets shrill and panicked, as his tired attempts at squirming become renewed.

“Nahahash! Mehercy! Uhuncle, PLEHEASE!” Jameson begs, bringing his hands up to cover his cherry red face while his elbows remain firmly pinned to his sides.

Nash wiggles one of his hands out to free it, rotating his body a bit so his other hand can continue under Jameson’s arm while the other can return to the soft skin under his knee. When Jameson’s laughter quickly goes silent, Nash pulls both hands away, rolling off of Jameson and sitting next to him on the floor.

Nash combs the dark, black hair out of his younger brother’s eyes while he tries to catch his breath, giggles and snorts peppered between laborious inhales.

When Jameson finally sits up, red with a goofy smile still on his face, he’s panting for breath, “you couldn’t have done that to Grayson?”

“He’s in the kitchen with Xander,” Nash stands up, brushing off his jeans, and reaching out to ruffle Jameson’s hair. Jameson ducks away with a playful glare, and Nash just snorts at his reaction. “Something tells me he’s probably gettin’ the same treatment.”

[silvabacca]

Spoilers for Dandadan ep 7

(Maybe someone already wrote about it, but idc I needed this, treat this as my coping mechanism)

How to accomplish a masterpiece? This word is used too often today, but it perfectly describes a scene we see in ep 7, I’m talking about a backstory of yokai woman.

In the whole scene there are a few words, but that’s enough, enough to tell the story. We get a beautiful combination of images accompanied by an amazing music. Every frame is vividly showing an emotion a scene is saying, for example before the woman opens a door to, as we can guess her apartment, everything is gray, dark and depressing. It’s depicting her life outside, her feelings when she’s not home, but as soon as she opens a door there is a bright beam of light and a first sound that isn’t a rain. We see a little girl, grinning from ear to ear and welcoming her mother home, it’s the first time we see this woman smile. This shows, in the most simple way, how important her daughter is to her, how the moments they share together are motivating her to keep trying.

We then see how her everyday life is going, from multiple jobs to spending time with the little girl. It’s nothing extraordinary, just a normal life. It’s hard, no doubt, we can tell that she is struggling, facing problems, fighting for their happiness, but that’s ok, because she has hope, she has her light.

The music is adding a great part to the story, it’s as if it’s holding our hand in a beautiful but difficult dance, it’s leading us, the characters and the story across the ballroom…

Then everything stops. The music, that was reflecting the feeling of their happiness, the delicacy of each frame, the warm and welcoming colors. It all disappears in a blink of an eye. The only sound that intensifies is rain, that same rain we heard at the beginning of her story and screams of her daughter.

The work of a camera in this sequence adds to the feeling of desperation. As if we were running with the mother or more like as if we were the mother, chasing after kidnappers that took our daughter. It’s chaotic, messy, foggy, not clear and scary. The panting, heavy breathing hits like a truck, everything combined is a true depiction of everything that any mother in her place would feel and do. As the screen stops at the blood in water and slowly goes dark, it than dramatically changes. There’s no darkness, no visible blood, no rain, but stars.

The night sky with a city view in a distance is overwhelming. It’s big, bright and breathtaking. This change from blurry, gray and messy sequence to this calm, quiet and bright view is another depiction of emotions. A couple of minutes earlier it was pure desperation and rage, now it’s…nothing. One big nothingness. There is a light, but it’s not for her, stars shine on the sky, but they are not as warm as the one she used to see. It’s all so pretty, but it’s also cold, there is not a single warm color, the whole palette is blue, purple and white.

Now…the dance. From what was shown earlier it seemed like the woman was sharing her passion for dancing with her daughter. Her posture, exercises and movement suggested that she knew how to dance or at least she had some acrobatic skills. But we didn’t see her dance, not until now. The music is again playing, the piece we heard earlier is now a mer memory of their time together. The woman stands on her toes and it begins. The most beautiful, well done, animated perfectly to the smallest detail dance scene. Not just the move, the way the dress flows, but also the angles, the camera movement and all of this on a peaceful city night sky. You know what is going to happen and you can’t prevent it from happening, but you can’t stop looking, you can’t take your eyes off of her, because it’s too stunning. And the final jump as the background changes perspective behind her and…the fall.

She lost everything that kept her alive, that kept her trying. Her little light, her little girl, her whole world.

[bamboozledbird]

IGNITE: A Teen Wolf S1 AU (Reader's Version) // Prev. / Chapter 4 / Next

Characters: Stiles Stilinski, fem!reader, Scott McCall, Lydia Martin, OMC Pairing: Eventual Stiles x Reader, but man are we talking slow burn Word Count: 4.5k Warnings: Canon typical gore/violence, parental death (rip to your fake mom), depictions of depression (apathy, dissociation, 'numb little bug' vibes), alcohol as a coping mechanism, season 1 Lydia behavior (her comments on addiction are wrong and insensitive and she's knows it) Tags: Canon has been lovingly scrapped for parts, author is a chaotic bi and it shows, prolific overuse of the em dash, the slowest of burns i fear

Summary: You can always smell ash long after the fire is gone. Perhaps, that’s why you still can’t breathe without choking on the past. It’s been four years since your mom died. Four years since she burned alive. Four years since you didn’t. You survived, but they must have buried your heart with her because most days you feel like a shadow, some horrifically sad creature caught halfway between a ghost and a lamb for slaughter. 

You can’t scrub the bitter smell of hospital from your memories, not even with denial. Maybe, that’s why death and disease follows Stiles wherever he goes now. It’s been eight years since his mom died. Eight years since he didn’t. Eight years since he decided that he wouldn’t let anyone he loved die ever again. He survived, but Beacon Hills’ bloody underbelly is making it pretty damn hard for him to keep his promise.

Time never stops turning. The grief never dissipates. Children soldier on—but in a town where all the monsters under the bed are real, and old family secrets rattle in every closet, how long can two fragile, breakable humans survive?

Maybe, the real question is: How long will they want to?

Chapter Summary: Your life somehow becomes further entangled with Stiles and Scott's strange secret world, and Lydia is concerned in her own aggressive way. 

A/N: this is in fact a scott mccall stan account. i love that boy like he's my own. you can also check me out on ao3 (dork_knight) for the full lore version!

The drive home was ultimately uneventful. No need for tasers, silver bullets, or wolfsbane goop. You would need to get gas before you left for school in the morning, but you supposed that was a relatively minor inconvenience when the other end of the scale was being torn apart by a fanged monster. 

Your jaw cracked with an aggressive yawn as you slowly stumbled through the garage door, fumbling for the light switch on the wall. You flicked on the light and paused, shivering a little as the cold air from the vent above your head skimmed over your bare arms. After a moment of hesitation, when that little persistent wriggling in your ear wouldn’t go away, you ducked back down the concrete steps to poke around the garbage can. Underneath a few Styrofoam take-out boxes, there were four empty beer bottles. The glass bottles clinked against each other as you nudged them out of the way, unearthing the real object of your paranoia. A drained bottle of 100-proof rye whiskey was cradled between two sacks of trash from the night before. You just stared at the bottles, heart and lungs wound tight, and then you dropped the lid back on top of the can.  

When you reentered the house, you were careful to keep the noise to a minimum. It wasn’t that late, only a little past nine, but you didn’t want to disrupt your dad’s slumber. Usually, he was a night owl—which, of course, was really just a pretty way of saying chronic insomniac, another thing you’d inherited from him—but it’d been a hard liquor night. Your dad always went to bed early on hard liquor nights. You didn’t know if he actually slept or if he stared at the ceiling, watching memories play on spackle until dawn streamed through the cracks in the blinds. Probably the first. You hadn’t ever heard him cry through the thin walls, not even once. You, however, couldn’t ever stop crying, not on the nights you trembled for something potent enough to mask the scent of the coconut oil your mom used to remove her makeup. The echoes of your mother had seeped into the walls, saturated the insulation with the faint sounds of the 70s pop rock vinyls she put on when she was in a good mood. They faded sometimes, but they always came back. You desperately hoped, and you hopelessly feared, that they always would. 

You rubbed at your eyes with the back of your hands aggressively and slipped under the covers, still in your plaid skirt and black t-shirt. Mascara smeared against your silk pillowcase, blurred your vision as it melted into your waterline. You stared at the wall until the silver swirls in the teal wallpaper started to sway. The teal was so dark it almost looked velvet with the lights off, and you had a heavy-eyed impulse to stroke it, but your hand was too leadened to lift. 

Your lids slipped shut, and in the haze between consciousness and slumber you felt the vague sensation of something solid against the back of your head. You murmured something incomprehensible and pulled your arms closer to your chest, taking in a breath of sharp whisky and a familiar woody cologne. You kept your eyes closed, and the warm weight cupped your skull for a moment. There was a brief kiss pressed against the top of your head and then the warmth was gone. Something large caught in your throat, and you squeezed your eyelids until your forehead wrinkled, forcing yourself to fall into a restless sleep filled with dreams of pancakes swimming in bourbon and howling beasts. 

Stiles was waiting for you by your locker when you arrived at school the next day. His friend—Scott, you reminded herself—was leaning against the locker next to him. Scott’s eyelids were heavy, and there was a coolness underneath them that stained his tan skin with a swathe of puce. Puce: From the French term ‘couleur puce,’ meaning ‘flea color.’  You dug your incisor into your tongue once you recognized that the intrusive internal narration was in Stiles’s voice. You didn’t even know if he spoke French, but it seemed like the kind of weird detail he’d know. You ran your tongue over your teeth and shoved your fists into your jacket pockets, thumb poking through the hole in the lining from previous twiddling—when the hell did you start thinking about the kinds of things Stiles would and wouldn’t know?  

You pivoted sharply, and your traitorous leather boots ruined your attempted exit when they squeaked against the freshly waxed floor. Stiles’s head popped up from his hushed conversation with Scott, and he waved vigorously when he made eye contact with you, “Hey! C’mere!”

You tipped your gaze towards the tiled ceiling and sighed. It was inevitable, really; you had to get your English binder before homeroom—homeroom, yet another reason to hate Wednesdays. It was one of your few classes with Lydia, and there wasn’t ever any actual teaching to distract you from the disgusting goo-goo eyes she gave her boyfriend. Studying was your only respite.

“Patience,” you nudged Stiles out of the way and spun your combination into the padlock, “work on it. It’s an essential skill.”

Stiles scoffed and leaned his shoulder against the locker next to yours, arms folded over his chest, “Essential. There’s nothing essential about wasting time. It’s actually unvirtuous if you think about it.” 

You swung her locker door open, blocking out Stiles’s frown, and rested your backpack on your knee so that you could unzip it. “Was there a point in there somewhere, or are you stalking me again?”

Stiles ducked around the locker door and placed his hands on Scott’s shoulders, shoving him a little closer to you, “Scott had a question for you.”

Scott’s eyes didn’t look so tired when he reared his head back to stare at Stiles. They had an intense conversation for a moment. There weren’t any words exchanged, but you got the gist: Scott was pissed, and Stiles was relentless. In the end, Scott lost the battle and swallowed thickly, “So, uh, you know a lot about supernatural stuff. That’s cool.” Stiles rolled his eyes and smacked the back of Scott’s head. Scott glared at him before mumbling, “Do you have any more of that wolfsbane…potion?” towards his muddy Converse. 

You directed your annoyance over Scott’s shoulder, more than confident that the real culprit of this request was the idiot avoiding your eye-line. “What? You already burned through your goo sample? Are the streets finally free from the demon beast of Beacon Hills?”

Stiles held up his hands and shook his head, “This is all Scott. See, me, I’m a fan of not being a greedy little bastard, but Scott—” This time Scott smacked Stiles with a resounding thwack. Stiles rubbed his shoulder, mouth agawk with indignation. 

“He…dropped it.” Scott glowered at the side of Stiles’s face, “‘Doing something stupid.” 

You smirked, “Sounds about right.” You shoved your binder into your backpack and brushed your hairs out of your eyes, “I’d give it all away for free, but it’s not up to me. Sorry.” Zipping your backpack shut, you slung one of the straps over your shoulder and shrugged, “You could always buy some more, but I’d strongly advise against such a dumb financial investment.”

Scott rubbed the back of his neck and gave you a smile. It was small but riddled with warmth—like he just couldn’t help it, like sunshine leaked through every one of his pores, and you were filled with the sudden urge to buy the stupid wolfsbane gunk for him. “That’s what I figured,” Scott looked at Stiles pointedly. His voice dropped a few octaves and a growl slipped into the end of his sentence, “But someone thought we should ask anyway.” 

The bell rang, and Scott flinched, smashing one of his ears into his shoulder. He turned around, a little dazed, and Stiles trailed after him after giving her a distracted wave. As you watched them leave, a parasitic impulse wrangled through your throat, prying the hinge of your jaw open as you shouted, “Hey!” The hallway was abuzz with various conversations and clomping feet, but your voice was still a bit too loud for the short distance between you and definitely too urgent for 7:45 in the morning. 

Stiles turned around first, almost tripping over his sneakers, and then he yanked on the scarlet hood of Scott’s jacket until he stopped too. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other and licked your bottom lip, suddenly realizing how dry it was. “I, uh,” you sighed and took a few steps forward so that you didn’t have to raise your voice, “I could talk to Maggie. I bet she’d cut you a deal if I asked.” You let out a little laugh and raked your fingers through your hair, accidentally dislodging the satin bow tying your hair out of your face. “I know, actually. I know she’d give you some for free. She’s a terrible business woman.” 

Scott’s smile put the moon to shame, and Stiles looked like he’d been waiting for you to change your mind since the moment you told them no—when the hell did he start thinking about what you would and wouldn’t do? 

“That would be awesome,” Scott ducked down to grab your black ribbon and held it out to you with an open palm, “thank you. I’d owe you big time.”

Stiles looped his arm around Scott’s shoulders and smirked, “We’d. We’d owe you. I’ll stop by the store and bless you with my scintillating conversation sometime.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” you smiled softly at Scott, taking your ribbon from his hand. You attempted to tie your hair back in a neat bow, but it was difficult without a mirror. You assumed it was halfway decent because Stiles didn’t take the opportunity to tease you—you, on the other hand, had no such qualms about mocking him. You smiled at Stiles, far too sweetly to be considered congenial, and sneered, “Seriously. Don’t worry about it.” 

Stiles’s eyes narrowed, face curved around a smirk that screamed trouble, and Scott slapped his hand over Stiles’s mouth before he could say something to make you reconsider, “Thanks again. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to pay you back. Name it, and we’re there.” Stiles winked at you with a glint in his eye that was as vexing as it was bright, and Scott rolled his eyes as he hauled him away by the nylon material of his backpack, “C’mon, dude. My mom’s gonna kill me if I’m late again.”

You watched Stiles’s buzzed head bob amidst the congested crowd of students, all shoving each other in their rush to get to class on time, until you couldn’t hear his surly complaints anymore. You rubbed your hand over your chapped lips, swallowing hollowly, like you could erase every impulsive word that’d spilt from your stupid mouth.

You were still thinking about what you’d gotten yourself into when you walked into Mrs. Farias’s classroom—and that must be why you forgot your copy of Metamorphosis in your locker. You groaned internally and dropped your forehead against your desk, bumping it against the cool laminate finish a few times, before ducking out the door with a hall pass. 

The halls were empty—silent too. You could hear your own footsteps and the tick of the large clock above the main office as you walked around the corner, and then, just as you approached the hallway your locker was in, you heard something else. Voices. Angry voices. One familiar—your face scrunched as the recognition wriggled through your ears to your brain—and one not. You cautiously glanced around the corner and frowned. Jackson, Lydia’s arrogant prick of a boyfriend, was talking to a hulking, leather-clad stranger—or rather infuriating him based on the murderous look in the man’s dark eyes. 

The stranger looked a good five years too old to be in a high school hallway, but the grown-out stubble and over-defined muscles weren’t of immediate concern. You were more focused on the color of his face. His skin was pale, clammy, and quite honestly a little corpse-like thanks to the purply-blue tinge carving out the hollows of his face. You assumed that he was too strung-out to care if anyone noticed their altercation because you could hear him from halfway across the hall. 

“Where’s Scott McCall?” His voice was deep and gravelly, as expected, but there was a desperate undertone you hadn’t anticipated.

You could only see the back of Jackson’s head, but you knew exactly what his face was doing when he puffed out his chest and folded his arms—no one else could make a smirk look quite so punchable. It was a gift, truly. “And why should I tell you?” “Because I asked you politely,” the man leaned forward, bared his canines, and you couldn’t believe that Jackson didn’t even flinch, “and I only do that once.”

“Okay, tough guy,” Jackson sneered, meeting the man’s challenge with another step forward and a shrug that reeked of false-superiority, “how ‘bout I help you find him if you tell me what you’re selling him. What is it? Dianabol? HGH?”

“Steroids,” the man’s voice was dry, and if he didn’t look like he was about to double over and puke all over the floor, you’d say the menacing glimmer in his eyes was a little amused. 

“No, Girl Scout cookies. What the hell do you think I’m talking about?” Jackson tutted, maddeningly haughty, and shook his head, “By the way, whatever it is you’re selling, I’d stop sampling the merchandise.” He let out a low patronizing whistle, and you kind of hoped that the stranger would suckerpunch him in the throat for it. “You look wrecked.”

The man didn’t punch him. Instead, he pushed himself off of the locker he was slumped against and started staggering stiffly down the hall, “I’ll find him myself.”

Jackson grabbed onto his broad shoulder and yanked. The veins in his bicep bulged with the strength of grasp, “We’re not done here.”

Your limbs suddenly remembered how to function. You ducked back behind the brick wall and closed your eyes, waiting for the inevitable sounds of bone colliding into flesh. Your right eye cracked open a sliver when the noise never came. Instead, there was a loud thud and the echo of clanging metal. You peeked around the corner again and froze, eyes wide and throat dry. Jackson was pinned against a locker by his neck. You’d already noticed that the stranger was tall, but you didn’t truly realize just how large he was until now. Jackson was a lot of things, but he wasn’t small. He was captain of the lacrosse team—everyone within a ten-mile radius knew that thanks to his constant reminders—and if anyone on campus was taking steroids, he would’ve been your first guess. But next to this sickly beast of a man, Jackson looked meek and mousey, and you didn’t even get to savor it. After a brief moment, no more than a second, Jackson’s assailant sniffed the air and slowly turned his head in your direction. It wasn’t an accident; he wasn’t surveying his surroundings. His eyes landed on yours, and he didn’t look the least bit surprised. 

The man’s irises were dark, nearly black, and they didn’t stray from your face. You forgot how to breathe, feeling distinctly like a rabbit trapped in a fox den as your heartbeat hammered against your ribs. He spared you after a few seconds of paralyzing eye-contact and turned his petrifying gaze back to Jackson’s neck. You recoiled, slipping back to your spot around the wall, and pressed your back against the bricks until the sound of your heartbeat wasn’t so loud in your ears. 

When you found the courage to look down the hall again, the man was gone, and Jackson was bleeding from the back of his neck. There were four distinct punctures along his cervical spine, trickling crimson droplets onto the stark white collar of his polo. The gouges were small, almost like…nail marks. Baffling. This town was fuckin’ baffling.

You poured over the incident all day, barely conscious enough to take down notes and roll your eyes at Stiles’s badgering and bad jokes. You’d never been more ready for the final bell to ring, not even during sex education with the extraordinarily sweaty Mr. Peterson. 

You twisted your pendant around its onyx chain as you walked out of your last period, winding and unwinding the charm over and over again as you mulled over your thoughts. Scott didn’t seem like he was on drugs. You didn’t exactly know him, but he was the least aggressive person you’d ever met, and he had to be eternally patient if Stiles was his best friend. You spun the medallion again and shouldered your way through the cramped halls to the parking lot, scolding yourself. What Scott McCall did or did not inject into his bloodstream wasn’t any of your business…even if his alleged dealer looked like he was on death’s door and had a habit of throwing teenage boys around when he got mad. 

You’d just convinced yourself that you didn’t care what happened to Stiles’s best friend when a discord of honking stopped you in your tracks. You flitted your gaze around the parking lot, searching for the cause of obnoxiously loud cacophony; your shoulders wilted along with your resolve when you spotted the guilty party. The man from the hallway was sprawled on the asphalt, and Scott and Stiles were scrambling to help him off of the ground. 

Your feet reluctantly trudged towards the peculiar trio, arms tightly folded over your cropped sweater. You would’ve laughed at how wide Stiles’s eye stretched when he finally noticed your presence, but you were a little preoccupied with the fact that he was currently trying to stuff a ghoulish grown man into his front seat. You watched him struggle to hold up approximately 200 pounds of solid muscle with his spindly arms, absentmindedly lamenting that you couldn’t truly appreciate the humor of the situation. “Hey,” you slanted your head and searched Stiles’s face for any sign of an SOS signal, “you good?”

“Ayup,” Stiles nodded emphatically, and Scott shot you a weak thumbs-up from his squat next to his tipped-over bike. 

You looked between the two of them, waiting for the truth to crack through the awkward pretense, and narrowed your eyes, “You sure?” 

“We’re good,” the man barked from inside the jeep, teeth bared. It was a little less intimidating now that he was slumped over and at the mercy of a sixteen-year-old with a dork complex, but you still flinched. You couldn’t help it. It was a small twitch, but Scott still managed to track the minute movement from his low perch. He glared at the man, shockingly firm for such a sweet-faced boy, until the stranger stopped scowling at you. Mr. Sour Face turned his head towards the window and stared intensely at the hazy tree line over the hill. Your fingers relaxed. You hadn’t even realized that you’d dug your nails in your palms until the stinging stopped. 

Scott jumped to his feet and pulled his bike up by the handles, rushing through his weak explanation, “Stiles is just…doing me a favor. Derek needs a ride, and all I’ve got is my bike.”

Letting out a flimsy snort, your brow pinched, “So…he walked here?”

“Uh,” Scott squinted, and Stiles nodded behind him, “yeah?” 

You pursed your lips, ignoring all the students who’d started shouting over the beeping horns, and watched Derek grit his teeth and clench his fists through the dashboard window. You looked back at Stiles and chewed on your lip. Stiles was taller than you, but he was on the scrawnier side of lean and wouldn’t stand a chance against a man of Derek’s size—even if he was barely clinging to the rapidly fraying threads of consciousness. “I could use a ride to work,” you pulled the backseat door open before you could talk yourself out of it. 

Stiles lurched towards you and slammed the door shut, narrowly avoiding your fingers, “Normally, I would seize any opportunity to have you further indebted to me, but—that’s Lydia Martin.” His eyes bulged out of his head, and he leaned against his jeep, slipping down the blue frame as his legs went boneless, “Walking towards me. Cool. Cool, cool, cool.”

The prospect of riding in the same car with Mr. Resting Bitchface was being more appealing by the second. Lydia didn’t even look in Stiles’s direction. Her cutting green eyes were fixed on you and you alone. “Are you an idiot?” Lydia snatched your wrist, mauve manicure digging into the delicate skin on the inside of your wrist, and yanked you back to the sidewalk.

“What?” you went brainless for a moment, taking in all the glory of an enraged Lydia Martin. 

Lydia’s cheeks were flushed pink from anger and adrenaline, “Or just suicidal?”

The shock had worn off. Now, you were thoroughly pissed, “What?”

Lydia’s eyebrows, perfectly tapered and freshly threaded, knitted together until she was in danger of developing a unibrow, “Do you have any idea who you were about to get in a car with?”

Your eyes flicked to the side, and it took gargantuan strength not to roll them too. “Stiles?”

“What the hell is a Stiles?” Lydia’s riptide of fury gave way to confusion, but her soft features sharpened abruptly when she returned her attention to your scowl, “I meant Derek Hale. Obviously.”

Your hip cocked to the side as you crossed your arms, “And?”

“And he’s a murder suspect,” Lydia’s lips curled into a vehement sneer. It was so strange to finally see it first-hand. Lydia had such a sweet face, cherub cheeks and doe eyes—a clever smile. She hadn’t quite mastered disdain when you were friends; the ice queen routine wasn’t performance ready until you’d drifted apart. It was an awful face, you decided; it completely erased the last few pieces of the Lydia you knew.

“In an animal attack,” you muttered under your breath. 

Evidently, it had been a long time since someone dared to disagree with the Lydia Martin because she was struck speechless. It didn’t last for long, but it was still satisfying. “He’s dangerous,” Lydia hissed. “He went completely off the deep end after his family died. Seriously, his life is like a textbook precursor to violent behavior; he’s a profiler’s wet dream.”

“Because his family died,” you repeated. The numbness eroded some of the snark in your voice. 

Lydia either didn’t notice or didn’t care about the glaze creeping over your eyes. She continued, barbarous and unashamed, “Because he watched them turn into charcoal, and his sister was just ripped in half. At best, he’s unstable—but his little hobby of trolling for minors is a bit of a red flag, don’t you think?”

“Charcoal,” you spoke—more of an echo really with its resonating hollowness. Your eyes were on Lydia’s face, but your mind was somewhere far away. A lifetime ago, with the ashes of everything you once knew. 

Lydia’s eyes went wide, and her mouth gaped into a perfect little ‘o.’ Her dainty fingers twitched by her sides, and then she smoothed out the non-existent wrinkles in her flouncy mini-skirt. “Most of his family died in a fire,” her voice was much softer this time, a bit of tenderness accidentally rooting through the cracks in her veneer. Lydia looked away and gripped the thin strap of her handbag, “Accidental house fire. It was all over the news like five years ago.”

You stared at Lydia, and for the first time in the last four years, you didn’t miss her. For the first time in such a mind-numbingly long time, your anger strangled your heartache with a wrought-iron grip that felt a whole lot like hate. It was always going to be like this, you realized. You would just have to walk around with all these what-ifs, if-onlys, and what-really-happeneds needling your heart with every thud—always. You had to learn to live with this: knowing that Lydia was never going to apologize and that there would be no closure. Ever. 

“Right.” You laughed, shark-like, with your canines on display. You hoped it would make all your constants sharper. “So he’s gotta be a lunatic now.”

“Y/N…” It was surreal to hear your name out of Lydia’s mouth after so long. You didn’t know if you liked it, and, currently, you didn’t even know if you cared. Lydia chewed off what was left of her nude lipstick and then squared her shoulders, “So we’re just going to pretend that he wasn’t completely strung-out and totally embracing the heroin-chic aesthetic?”

You slanted your head a bit and then let out another serrated laugh. There wasn’t any point in having it out, you decided, because Lydia didn’t care. She got to move on and erase your entire existence—live her perfect, popular girl life without all this suffocating quicksand binding her to the past. Must be nice, you thought venomously, souring your tongue, stinging your eyes. Showers were probably just showers for Lydia. She didn’t singe her skin until the water went cold, imagining what she’d do, what she’d say—how she’d hurt her back. Must be so fucking nice.

“Lydia, I really don’t think you really want to get into all the things we’re pretending,” your voice was tight, strangled at the ends. You would not cry. You could not cry. Lydia sensed weakness like blood in the water, and you refused to give her the satisfaction. 

“Fine,” Lydia’s curls spilled down her back like strawberry wine as she pivoted in her designer heels, “ride off into the sunset with a 'roid-raging creep. Don’t act surprised when you turn up dead in a crack den.” 

Truthfully, Lydia had a point, but at this moment being contrary seemed far more important than being right. “It’s kind of difficult to act like anything when you’re dead,” you called, eyes zeroed-in on the back of her head as she slid into Jackson’s Porsche with a sensual grace you would never possess. Lydia was too far away to hear your retort, but you felt a little less like punching something after you said it. 

You didn’t notice that Stiles and Scott were gone until the threat of bitter tears stopped burning your sinuses. The last thing you needed was to cry like this upset you, even if the only nearby witness left on the vacant sidewalk was yourself. You scoured the parking lot for even a flash of powder blue, but the jeep was nowhere to be seen. Probably long gone by now—your spat with Lydia must have taken longer than you thought. It was certainly louder than you meant it to be. Little clusters of ambling students were looking at you a little too long to be casual, and the indiscreet whispering once they turned back to their friends forced your legs forward. 

You didn’t know where you were going when you started your car, but far, far away sounded pretty damn good.

[emmitaaa4]

Elriels... I am sorry. I fear I may have come to my senses.

I hate to say it, but from my time in the fandom, it has become increasingly clear that Elriels tend to have superficial views of Elain and Azriel: when you actually deep dive into their characters, it's hard to ignore how toxic they'd be for one another. And they’ve been telling us:

"… Elain and Azriel are such different characters; Elain wouldn't understand Az nor fully accept him. After all, how could she deal with his darkness, when she couldn't handle Nesta's? They would stunt each other’s growth by enabling the other’s ‘toxic traits’—Az would coddle Elain and she would let him."

Right ?! I just—I didn’t want to see it, but their incompatibility is so evident.

I mean, it’s not like:

It’s not like they are both said to draw their strength from hope, even as the world holds that hope by the throat and tells them to despair.

It’s not like they both power through their lives quietly, not making too many waves as to not bother anyone: after all, they couldn't possibly both feel like burdens to their families, however differently they may cope with it... Elain hiding the parts of herself that do not conform to what others have made of her, while Azriel defines himself through his ceaseless work as the NC's Spymaster and torturer—for if he is needed, he cannot be abandoned.

It’s not like they both would do—and have done—absolutely anything for their loved ones, nor like they both tend to be overlooked amidst the stronger personalities of their entourage.

It’s not like they both explicitly say that they value fae traditions & celebrations for how they bring loved ones together.

It's not like they both seem to be a little lost in the world sometimes, Elain rebuilding her life & finding a home wherever she must, and Azriel saying he is unsure of where he belongs even after 500yrs. If at least Az didn’t already have an established place/apartment for himself in Velaris, I could maybe imagine them carving their own place in the world, where they are free to be whoever they want (wait—).

It's not like they both tend to wear a mask around others—one warm & pleasant, one cold & distant—nor like we see freer, more genuine sides of them when they are with people they are comfortable with. It’s not like they both reveal themselves through actions, gestures & well placed quips, nor like they both show their care through thoughtful gifts—imagine if even their gifts were complementary: one giving paints the other brushes, one giving books and the other a reading lamp… nah, couldn’t be.

…

Right ?

… Not to mention their lack of understanding:

If at least SJM showed that they understood one another despite all of the red flags described above, they might be able to grow together, but let’s be real, she just hasn’t.

She’s never pointed out that Azriel, like Elain, understands what it is like to struggle with rare, prized powers in silence; what it’s like to be othered by them. All that time together and he's never bothered to actually listen to her.

Those two can’t even read each other without words nor communicate with just a look, so how could they work? Anyways, even IF they could (which the bonus shows they can't), everyone knows that the basis of any healthy relationship is ceaseless friendly banter, so even then they make no sense. She doesn't even bring him joy, let alone make him laugh: even their senses of humor are incompatible!

Their powers are too different, and in no way complementary; she sees everything and he hears everything, that’s like, not even the same senses. He walks through a shadow realm and she Sees through a murky realm—not to mention that what she doesn’t See is all « mist and shadows », so obviously their powers could never work together.

After all, Azriel is a Shadowsinger, it’s not just some title people have made up, and honestly Elain would not understand that.

She’s never looked at his swirling shadows, wide eyed (with awe)…. nah she just ignores them. His shadows lightening at the sight of her smile has such a negative connotation, too.

All those visions she has, plaguing her mind, they’re just too dissimilar to the voices howling in his head, which is obviously why she hasn’t noticed his headaches. His head quieting around her is such a red flag, I’m sorry.

PLUS, don’t you guys remember all the times she’s flinched away from him? She won’t even see beauty in his scars, for Mother’s sake, how could she ever possibly love all of him? If you want to see all the ways in which Elain is clueless in terms of who Az is, check out this post (shoutout to my fellow enlightened Elriels, @nikethestatue and @rahjasmine).

I mean, does everyone forget that Elain even loses her newfound boldness around hi—

...

Like babes.

[alphabetboyluvr]

throttle | jjk - three

one / two / three / four / five / six / seven / eight / nine / ten / eleven

warnings - car sex (yay), talk of wet dreams, jaykay is down so incredibly bad, talk of buying a fuck toy just to cope with how much he wants YOU, reader on top, unprotected sex, huge cawk jk, missionary (in a car! very cramped!! but he does it for YOU <3), jk is chatty during sex (like, actually chatty), mentions of politics, mentions of drugs, the plot is plotting, jin is sexy, namjoon is a prick, jungkook is losing his god damn mind, OH and! the oc is given a nickname - she's CC (ceecee) he he he

word count - 7.5k

minors dni // posted to wp late 2021 // series masterlist

There's a symbiotic nature to the way in which your bodies move together.

You're the moon, Jungkook your tides.

You work in tandem to turn the earth, finding peace in the rhythm that you provide one another. He'll reflect your beauty back at you, and you'll drag him to the shores; offer him respite that he didn't realise he needed until you came around.

It's a fantastical way to think about it, whimsical and ridiculous, but it's the only way that any justice is given to it.

Foolish, some may say, to compare a man to such a vast and complex ecosystem, but you think that maybe there are worlds inside of Jungkook that nobody will ever get to know. Some that maybe he isn't even aware of - but you want to be. You want to learn him. What makes him tick, what gets those dimples of his showing.

It's a fantasy. A what-if. A world of possibilities in the vessel of an impossibly handsome man, carved of stone, filled with feathers. Gentle to the touch, hard on your heart.

Funny thing is, Jungkook kind of regards you to be a fantasy, too. Make-believe. A story told to kids about princesses so pretty they're put to sleep at the tops of towers. The unattainable elite, who are somehow a friend to all, and an enemy to just one.

Jungkook knows better than to let himself indulge in the fallacy of you. It's a misconception he's dreamt up; a romanticisation of the reality that he loathes so much.

He isn't really sure why he's letting himself get so caught up with you. Maybe he just thinks he can keep you at arm's length if he keeps you as part of his imagination.

Which is ironic, given the way his arm is tight behind your back as your hips roll on top of his lap. Can't really get much closer than his cock being inside of you.

There's just something about the way you look at him - the little glances beneath your long lashes and the roll of your eyes - that makes him unable to stay away from you. He keeps coming back for more. Again and again.

You're like crack, he thinks. He's never done it, but he's seen enough poor sods trying to ween themselves of it. The withdrawals are akin to the way he feels when you're not around.

He's always been this way; attracted to the things he knows he shouldn't be. You're not the first forbidden fruit he's ever tried, but he's got a taste for them now. He doubts you'll be the last - unless you're the one that finally poisons him.

As he breathes you in, lips on yours, a hand in your hair, the other on your hip, Jungkook knows that you could, in fact, very well be his last - but he doesn't care.

You're still dressed, missing the intimacy of his skin sticking to yours, but neither of you could wait.

The backseats are icy cold, so your tights have just been pulled off, soaked underwear pushed to the side so that his cock - which has barely been set free from the confines of his trousers, still at the top of his thighs - can push up into you as quickly as possible.

The way his hands grip onto your ass makes up for the lack of skin on skin. He's in control, pulling you up and down his shaft like his own personal sex toy.

Maybe that's what he should do, instead - get himself a toy. A fleshlight. Or maybe even one of those fake torsos, the ones with a perfectly hairless cunt and a bolted-on pair of tits, so that he can mimic the way he grips onto your waist as he does it. That'd solve his problems. Stop him from screwing you. Maybe.

He could fuck himself into it; the silicone a pathetic replica of the silky feeling your walls provide him with, and spill his seed into it while he thinks about you. He could even circle his lips around the plump pussy, have his tongue toy with the labia, dipping down into the leaky hole he'd have stretched out with his thick cock. Lick it all up like a good boy, like he did the last time - but you wouldn't be there to swallow it. He'd have to eat his own cum, and that's just never as much fun.

Plus he remembers the ways your legs clamped around his head as you came, so tight he swore his skull could have cracked.

A sex toy would never have him fearing for his life (although he would die from embarrassment if Jimin ever found it), not the way that you do.

In his sheets, in his car, in his life in general; you're a threat to it. To him. And the acknowledgement of this gets his cock all hard and angry - engorged, flushed red at the tip, leaky - when he's alone and thinking about you at night.

Wet dreams had been reserved for his teenage years, but he'd woken up to damp sheets twice since he'd met you.

The first time, about three weeks ago, he was confused; the head of his cock, still a little firm, peeking out the waistband of his Calvin Kleins, a puddle of his semen gathering in his belly button. He'd poked at it a little, his sleepy yet deliriously horny brain not quite awake yet. Tracing his toned chest with his fingers tips, he ghosted his abs as delicately as he wanted to touch your body - and then he realised.

Or should that be remembered.

Remembered the pair of eyes he'd seen as he checked the rearview mirror in his dream. Didn't matter that the car was somehow driving along that little damp area where the sand meets the sea, or that he also seemed to have been wearing inflatable shoes. It was the eyes - sultry and subdued, sunset catching in your irises - that had his cock getting plump in his sleep.

'Show me all of you,' whispered in a hushed tone, and followed with 'I'll show you all of me, too,' was the thing that had his stiff cock oozing onto his abdomen at four in the fucking morning.

The next time, last week, was a little less dignified. He woke up to himself rutting against his mattress, laboured grunts muffled info his pillows, a wet patch growing midway down the bed. There had been a rag left too close to his bed, the smell of gasoline filling his senses, reminding him of you. Hardly his fault. Did also concern him that he was beginning to get conditioned to developing a semi at the mere scent of gasoline.

It was pretty clear to Jungkook by that point, that if he couldn't fuck you, he'd simply die.

Admittedly, he hadn't expected it to happen so soon.

He also, thankfully, hadn't placed bets with Jimin on it, cause he'd have been out of fifty-thousand won if he had. Little fucker never gives Jungkook any benefit of the doubt. Always bets on him caving as quickly as he can. 'No willpower. All cock and balls, no brain.'

You're both Jungkook's proudest conquest and deepest darkest secret.

Can't be letting the boys know about you. Can't be sharing you with them. Can't so much as admit the fact he's been getting laid whenever they rib him for being celibate (which is a reach - he's only been out of action for, like, a month. Two, tops.).

If they could see the grip he had on your hips and the way your hand were locked behind his head, hair draping over his face, lips lost in his, they'd be asking for tips. Probably be wishing they had x-ray vision so they could see beneath the pooled clothes that protected both of your modesties.

But the windows of his car are clouded, the heat of the exchange between the pair of you preventing anyone from intruding. This is your safe place; with him.

He tightens his grip, but pulls away from your lips. You mirror his actions, curious to see why he'd be willing to leave such a warm embrace, your hips stalled by his hands. He's looking at you, blonde hair tangled over his eyes, the metal of his piercing reflecting tiny fragments of light that sneak into his windows. There's a silhouette to his face, beautiful and bold; the kind of art you'd find in the museum on the outskirts of town.

Maybe you'd go there together one day. Laugh at the pompous nature of it all, revel in the fact that you're both too churlish for all that shit. He'll make up stories for the people in the pictures, and you'll play along, narrating the lives of fictional people for funsies.

When you aren't looking, he'll take a picture of you in front of some drab minimalist piece. He won't show you it. Keep it to himself. A reminder of what once was; the beauty of a girl who could capture every ounce of his attention in a room of priceless masterpieces.

That was the thing that always puzzled Jungkook about artists; how did they know when to stop?

If the artist kept trying to blend out their muses' almond eyes, would they surely not become at one with their skin?

How much paint would saturate the canvas?

At which point would the brush stroke turn into nothingness?

He supposed the same could be said for the illicit embrace he was entangled in; how many kisses would it take for a casual fuck to turn into something a little more consequential?

If eyes are windows to the soul, would he be giving his up if he looked at you as he came?

At which point does a thumb in your mouth become a thumb stroking your blushed cheek, and does it really make as much of a difference as it feels like it should?

When you whine into his mouth, displeased at the way he isn't letting you bounce on his cock, he smiles, and knows that it's already crossed that line.

In fact, the lines are so blurred that 'indistinguishable' is the only appropriate way to describe them.

"I really did want to talk tonight," he hums quietly, pushing your hair back. It had been hot when he was covered in it, the scent of gasoline suffocating him, but he wants to look at you now. You hold up your wrist as he piles it all to the back of your head, his hips moving gently as he pulls the tie from your wrist and secures your hair in place.

"We still can," you say a little breathlessly. You're not exhausted, barely used any of your energy on the languid nature of the fuck you're indulging in, but the way he stretches you, cock thick and plump between your tight walls keeps you slightly out of breath.

"Now?"

"As good a time as any."

He smiles, pretty teeth resting on his bottom lip. Head shaking, a little bashful beneath the lunar light that peeks out from beyond the clouds, he lets his eyes rest on yours. They're inky, full of unspoken words, and you want to spend days studying them, just to decipher even a handful of words that make up who Jungkook is.

"Tell me about your life," he hums, head resting back against the headrest. There's an intimacy to this position. The way you're keeping his cock warm is something that's reserved for, well, no one. You've never done this before. Never shared anything other than your body during sex. It all feels foreign - but surprisingly, his stiff cock inside of you doesn't. "Your dream job as a kid. Your nicknames."

You smile, now, and the way your diaphragm tenses has his cock throbbing. "Vet. Popstar. The usual. One that stuck? Lawyer. And I never had a nickname. My family weren't really like that," you say, before rolling your hips, scared that the mundane talk would make him soft again.

Jungkook stills you. Looks at you with an expression you don't really recognise. His eyes are all hard, the dimple above his lips present as if he's thinking. A miracle, really, given most men's inability to produce a single thought during sex.

"You're smart," he assesses. Thinks that girls who dream of becoming lawyers always are.

"Was an overworked teenager. Burnt out. Flunked," you shrug, failing to disclose exactly why you flunked.

He nods, that fierce contemplative gaze still lacing his features. The pads of his fingers are delicate as he pushes your skirt a little further up your waist. His eyes are still on yours as his thumb hooks beneath the lace of the panties you're still wearing. He presses against your clit. It's only a little pressure. Just enough to have you gasping.

"Could always retake your exams now," he says, as if he isn't toying with your pussy like it's his favourite arcade game. Slow and steady. Easy does it. His eyes are wide. Doe-like. Incapable of committing any crimes, it seems. Innocent. "You're smart enough to do it, CC."

Your lips curl to the side slightly, head tilting, ignoring all of what he said except for those two little syllables at the end. "CC?"

"Everyone deserves a nickname."

"And CC?" You laugh, strands of hair falling loose, framing your face. Jungkook was right. You are a work of art.

"CC," he smiles, leaning a little closer to steal a tiny kiss from your lips. "As in, LMCC."

Brows raised, he's got you curious. "LMCC?"

"Little Miss Clutch Control," he grins, so proud of himself that you can't help but smile, too.

The pressure of his thumb on your clit gets firmer, and Jungkook lets his smile drop as your pout rests ajar, a small moan shaking from your very core. There's an intimacy to be found in the way Jungkook can procure such radiant happiness and sinful lust from you within seconds of one another.

He's harvesting for diamonds again. They're not in your eyes tonight. It's too dark for that. But they are in the hushed moans that let him know he's got a hold on you that no one else has. You could talk all the shit you liked about his clutch control, but if you even attempted to argue with him about his clit control, he'd just laugh.

"Thought you wanted to talk?" You say, though it comes out as a gasp. He's got a rhythm, but he isn't moving his hips. He's just feeling your walls tense around him.

"I do," he says with a shit-eating grin. He's too hot, you decide. So hot that you could never be with him, not properly. You'd probably lose your mind fearing he'd cheat. Boys that look like him always do. "Favourite food?"

The casual nature of his tone is a challenge. One that you accept. Even if your thighs are shaking.

"Don't have one."

"Any pets?"

"Family had a dog."

"Name?"

"Bingsu."

Jungkook is so pretty when he laughs. Cheeks all plump, the tip of his nose shiny from the moonlight his car is being bathed in. It's in his eyes, too, twinkling as if it's joining in on the joke - but of course, it is. You are the moon to his tides. Your happiness, for the moments of which you spend entangled in one another, is intertwined.

"Very original," he teases. He knew at least three girls who had called their pet rabbits Bingsu. Some cats, too.

"I was like 10," you defend. "Fuck off."

You say, as if you arent mounted on top of him.

"Favourite position in bed?" He questions, lifting your skirt so that he can see where your pussy meets his cock. He lets a small pool of spit gather in his mouth, before slowly releasing it, aiming for your clit. He spreads it around with his thumb, getting your pussy all nice and wet as he feigns indifference to the way your moans increase.

"How do you go from pets to sex?" You question, finding his method of enquiry maddening.

"Dog," he tilts his head from side to side. "Doggy. Very easily. Answer it."

"Missionary."

It's a lie. You just want to see how he'll react.

"Boring."

"Intimate."

"Old people position."

"Didn't we say we're already married? Perfect for us."

"We're still in the honeymoon period - and don't give me that bollocks about intimacy. I'd say that this is pretty fucking intimate," he protests, thinking that having you on his lap, warming his fat, leaky cock is far more intimate than any rendition of missionary he's ever had.

"And I'd say missionary is only boring if you don't like the person you're fucking," you bite back, just to be difficult. "I could force you to give up all other positions for lent, and I bet you'd still be dying to fuck me every single night, regardless of whether or not it was missionary."

"Yeah, you're right," he admits. Doesn't even find missionary that boring. Quite likes it actually. and he'd happily fuck you for forty days and forty nights. "I prefer morning sex, though."

"Fine," you shrug. "Missionary morning, noon and night."

"Three times a day?"

"Can you handle it?"

"Can you?"

"Only one way to find out."

"You're on," he grins. What he wouldn't give to be buried in your pussy three times a day. "Next question. Political stance?"

"Liberal," you respond instantly. "Left. Whatever you wanna call it. Also, this is terrible dirty talk."

"Good," he nods, as his thumb begins to brush at the hood that protects your sensitive nub, pushing it from side to side. Your toes fucking curl. "I don't fuck conservatives. And also? I can feel you leaking around the base of my shaft. You're still turned on, dirty talk or not."

You ignore his winning remark.

"What if I'd have said I was conservative?"

"You're on my dick in a car down a back alley of Daegu. You're not conservative in any sense of the word."

"But if I had?"

"I'd have probably carried on," he concedes. "Hate fuck."

"You're into that?"

"Not really."

"No?"

"I fuck girls 'cause I like them, CC. I don't really get those straight dudes who always go on about how much they hate women. Surely just fuck dudes instead? Regardless, if I'm fucking someone, it's cause I like 'em."

He says it without a single care in the world. Yet you feel like your whole entire world is imploding, in the best possible way.

"So you like me?" You question, all coy and a little shy. The tip of his cock leaks a little precum into you.

"My dick is in you, no?"

Touché.

And then your morbid curiosity makes an unwelcome appearance.

"When did you last like a girl enough to stick your dick in her?"

Jungkook laughs.

"Last night."

You're about to be offended. He can see it, the way your brows contort, a scowl forming - and then you realise. The smile you give him is sweet, but doesn't last for that long. He'd avoided the question, and you still want the answer. "Before that."

"About two months ago."

"She better than me?"

"I've only fucked you once. Not really a fair comparison."

Disappointing response.

"I'm fucking you right now," you remind him. "The correct answer was to say no."

"Actually," he argues, because of course he does. It's what the pair of you were born to do. "The correct answer is that you're incomparable - but the answer that you want? The one that means anything?" He pauses. Stops toying with your pussy, and pulls you in for a shallow kiss. It's fleeting, but enough. "The way I've been thinking about you doesn't compare. Been going insane thinkin' 'bout you, CC. Wrapped those pretty little legs of yours around my head and have been embedded in my brain ever since. Making me in-fucking-sane."

He's right. It is the answer you wanted.

"So stop asking me questions and fuck me," you laugh. "I've never met a more confusing yet straightforward man."

He ignores your statement, though he doesn't disagree with the sentiment.

"Am I comparable to your last fuck?" He asks, taunting you. He doesn't want to know, not really. But you asked first. He wants to see if there's a reason why; if maybe you're still harbouring some sort of attachment just like you're accusing him of having.

The way your body gets a little tense in his grasp confirms this. He notices. Hard not to when he's trapped inside of you. Thinks it's rich of you to grill him in the way you did, only to clearly be projecting your own feelings onto him.

But there's a look in your eyes that he doesn't like, now. The moon is hiding behind a cloud again, stealing the diamonds from his line of sight.

"I'm sorry," he says. The smile that had been on his face when he'd asked the question is gone, and he's looking at you like he's truly seeing you; the eyebrow hairs that need shaping, the pores that need cleansing and the flyaway hairs that land on the wrong side of your parting.

"It's okay," you say, because you should have expected it. The question was fair game.

Jungkook knocks his head to the side briefly as if to say 'no', but chooses against it. Instead, he pulls you in closer to him and kisses you tenderly, his hips pulsing upwards beneath your weight. His hands are in your hair, tongue in your mouth, and he's reminded again why the answer to his question doesn't matter.

"Let me fuck you how you like it, baby," he mumbles into your plump lips, his tongue flicking against the tip of yours as he speaks.

You question what he means as he grips onto your waist, elevating himself a little but keeping himself snug inside of you. He turns, restricted by the tight space in the back of his car. The movements are a little awkward, but it's endearing how he gets you on your back, sprawled lengthways across the back seat.

Your legs are bent at the knees, a foot resting on the ledge of the window while the other perches on the centre console. You're spread for him, but he can't devour the beauty of you blooming in such a way, thanks to the cramped room. He shuffles his jeans down a little, just beneath his ass, and strokes his cock; pumps it once, twice, as he lines himself up with your entrance.

The position is gonna be hellish for him, his backseat too narrow to really fit the both of you, but he figures if he hooks your foot resting on the window ledge over his shoulder instead, then it should be okay.

And so he does just that. You're surprised you can still bend like that, but you're also pretty sure your bones would turn to jelly if Jungkook asked them to. There's nothing that you wouldn't do to keep him close like this.

"Thought this was boring?" You hum, knowing that it doesn't really compare to standard missionary.

He's stroking the tip of his cock against your folds - and then he sinks back into you, a laboured moan hanging off the cushion of his bottom lip before he presses it into yours. His hips don't really waste much time, fucking into you slow and deep.

"It is," he groans, before hooking your other leg over his shoulder, too. You're a little tighter like this, the grip your pussy has on his cock akin to heaven on earth. "But you're not."

You go to say something, but he can feel you smiling against his lips so he tells you just to kiss him, instead. He rolls his hips into yours, resting himself a little deeper every single time. The tepid air in his car wraps around the pair of you like satin ribbon, tied in a pretty little bow where your bodies meet.

It's a gift, how well you work together. A blessing. A curse, too, but that only concerns Jungkook for now, and honestly, he isn't thinking about it. He's just thinking about the way your hair smells, and how much he wants to suffocate in your scent.

When Jungkook cums, the weight that eases off his shoulders settles in your stomach instead. It traps the movement of the chime that hasn't stopped ringing since he first stepped foot into the gas station that evening. He moans into your lips, tells you how well you take him, how much he likes it, likes you. "Think I'll die if we ever stop hooking up."

He asks if you came, but knows that you didn't. He remembers the way you felt the last time it happened - and as incredible as it had been to have your pussy wrapped around his cock, he knew that it hadn't throbbed in the same way that it had last time.

You shake your head, but you're already moving to sit up. There's something refreshing about your honesty. It's not that he doesn't want to make you cum, it's just that he's getting a bit of post-nut clarity and is highly aware that Namjoon could be around the corner. City isn't that big. Especially not this side of the river.

"Too cold," you smile, to which Jungkook responds with a small, confused hum. "Can't cum when I'm cold. Your car is fucking freezing, Kook."

The way you say his name has him wanting to blast the aircon just so he can get you warm enough to finish all over his tongue - but then you yawn, and he feels bad for keeping you out late after your shift. You're cute when you yawn.

Cute how your hand curls, eyes scrunching up tightly, shoulders hunching and then lowering back down again. He likes your shoulders. They're sloped, and petite, and a far cry from his. So dainty. Everything about you is. The way you look, your pretty lips, the earrings you wear. So pretty, and perfect, and in this moment, his.

Doesn't want the moment to end.

"Come back to mine," he offers, in a bid to elongate that feeling. "Stay the night."

"Again?" You ask, and your tone of surprise has him laughing.

"What? It's not like I'm asking you to marry me, C."

"I'd say no, anyways," you bicker back without even thinking about it.

"Thank God," Jungkook grins, rummaging about to find a packet of tissues he's sure he put in his car at some point.

He'd hidden them up after Jimin had teased him about having car sex like a fucking teenager, but Jungkook had waaaay too much pride in his car to do that.

The tissues are for when he gets greasy food from gas stations. Can't be getting the leather all fucked up, not after he spent so much getting it reupholstered.

"Ah, here," he pulls them from the back of the passenger seat and passes them over to you. Apparently, his mind has changed on the whole 'having too much pride to fuck in his car' thing. "Nah, I just-"

He pauses. Shrugs. Does his trousers back up, and doesn't look at you as you sort out the mess between your legs.

"I liked having you there last night. I'd like to have it again."

He glances over his shoulder, to find you looking at him in the very way he was afraid of. You look fond.

But so does he as he smiles at you.

"Plus, I kinda owe you an orgasm now, and my apartment is way warmer than this tin can."

You tuck the tissues back into the now-empty packet and scrunch your nose up, trying to fight a smile. He doesn't realise, but Jungkook does the same thing back.

Your legs hook over the centre console, and you plonk yourself back down in the passenger seat.

"I do actually wanna sleep tonight," you tell him.

Jungkook smiles, popping open the rear door, making his way back around to the driver's seat. The leather is freezing when his body falls into it, and he starts to realise just how cold you must have been all exposed like that.

He wants to get you home quicker than ever. Shower you in the warmth of his kisses, use his fingers like strike anywhere matches along your skin, igniting fires from the tips of your toes to the very centre of your core.

He'll get you warm.

Get you coming undone. Get you all sleepy and cute. Get you dreaming the sweetest dreams as he holds you close through the night.

"Me too," he says as the engine starts up, his motor purring almost as pleasantly as you do. And perhaps he's just a little cum-drunk, and doesn't realise the weight of his words as he knocks the car into first and heads in the direction of his apartment, humming softly: "Let's get you home."

────────────

When Jungkook wakes up at four in the morning, he's hot. Cheeks a little puffy, hands clammy, tongue dry. Hot.

Your lips are pursed and pouted, firmly shut, body curled up next to his. He wouldn't normally complain, but his arm is trapped beneath your body, and so he's fixed in position next to a girl who burns like the heat of a thousand matches. He'll get scalded, skin tarnished, branded by you, and yet he can't bring himself to disturb you.

He reaches for his phone to check the time, and you hum softly in your sleep. Wonders if you're dreaming; if it's about him. Hopes you are; hopes it is.

His voice is low as he berates himself, whispering to 'get a grip', rubbing his free hand over his face and pushing it back into his hair. It's a little brittle, in need of a deep condition, the bleach damage a small price to pay for the anonymity his hair gave him - until, of course, it became his trademark.

He thinks about cutting it all off sometimes, but he's got a Samson complex. Fears he'll lose his strength without it. Wonders if one day you'll be his Delilah. Kind of already feels like you are.

You would never cut his hair off, though, purely for selfish reasons. Mainly 'cause the way it frames his face makes him look like art; but also cause you like having something to hold onto when things get a little rough (though his ass is also ideal for that).

He likes the way you always play with it. Knows you think it's a little sexy, all wavy (unintentional, just fried) and long. The roots are as dark as his eyes, though.

You romanticise it, in a way. It's like his true self is peeking through, and it makes you think that maybe one day you'll get to know who that is.

Jungkook isn't so sure.

In fact, he knows you won't. Sucks, but such is life.

It's not that he doesn't want you to know when his birthday is, or his favourite spot along the river to watch the world go by, it's just that it's asking for trouble. He gets into enough of that alone.

Still, he likes it when he's not alone. Likes it when you're with him - and so he falls back asleep, the beating of your heart soothing him into his REM cycle like the white noise he normally listens to instead.

It's gone seven by the time he wakes up again. 

He reaches out, strokes the mattress where you'd once been and sighs. It's empty, though a little warm. There's silence in his apartment, and your bra isn't hooked over the end of his bed anymore, so he knows you're gone. Probably just didn't want to wake him.

He's cold, now. Hates the fuckin' cold. Isn't made for the winters. His lack of body fat does a terrible job at keeping him insulated through the cold nights, and heating is a luxury that he can't really afford these days, not with the sheer amount of gas he funnels into that goddamn car of his.

You had been a welcome, warm addition.

He'd teased you about it, told you it was the only reason he'd invited you over when you cursed about how bloody cold it was - but then you reminded him that you couldn't cum cold, and it had him flicking on the electric fan heater quicker than you could click your fingers.

Bleary-eyed from the morning sun, his hair a haphazard mess falling over them, Jungkook makes his way to his bathroom. He trips on his jeans in the process, forgetting the way you'd practically stripped him of his clothes the night before. Insatiable, that's what you are - and he loves it. 

There's no coordination in his body as he walks, and he imagines a shower is the only thing that will really wake his body up - but there's no point. He needs to be out of his apartment within the next ten minutes. He's already running late.

His tardiness is noticed by everyone by the time he gets to the boxing club that morning.

"Here he is," Jimin grins as Jungkook avoids eye contact with every single fucker in the room. He slings his bag down and chucks his jacket on top, mask following. The room is cold, Old Man Kang not one for wasting precious profits on heaters. 

Cold? He'd say. Train harder.

"Sorry I'm late," Jungkook mumbles, head hung a little low, throwing his body down next to Jimin, into the empty seat of a tatty sofa that sits in the corner of the rest area.

Jungkook can feel Namjoon's eyes on him. They're as cold as the ice that's melting on the roads outside, a little bit of spring sunshine thawing what once was frozen. He twists his neck, bones cracking at the top of his spine. Rolls his shoulders back. Postures himself correctly - and only then does Jungkook look at Namjoon.

"Where'd you disappear to last night?" Jungkook taunts him. "One minute you were tailing me, the next?" He clicks his fingers and sticks his bottom lip out, eyes all wide and faux-friendly.

They're the kind of eyes that remind you of the summer before you started secondary school; warm custard on a sponge cake, served up in a yellow cafeteria. A little bit of colour, hundreds and thousands sprinkled on top, but overwhelmingly yellow.

All yellow. 

The school regulation sundress, the frills around the top of your socks. The highlighter stains on your fingers, and the rubber band charity bracelet worn around the wrists of every single boy in your class because it was 'trendy', not because any of them actually understood the concept of charity yet.

Yellow; canary, butter, midsummer Daegu sun. Lemon kombucha, mustard, and honey, too. In some lights, maybe even gold.

It curious how eyes so new, so foreign to you, seem to harbour memories of childhood that you thought had been lost. If not the memories, at least, the feelings; the notion that after the sunshine fades, nothing will ever be the same. Jungkook is the summer before secondary school, the final song of your favourite bands' encore, the subway doors closing at 11:57 pm. He's the end of something good, familiar, safe - but nothing great ever came from safe, now, did it? 

His eyes are nostalgic, served up with a side of the unknown. Promises. That's what they're full of. Or is it potential? You're not sure, but you're actively choosing to be naive to the fact that it all seems too good to be true. 

You don't know him like the boys in Old Man Kang's boxing club do. 

Jungkook's void of colour in there. His eyes are black when they look at Namjoon. There's no honey in them. 

They're bitter like black treacle, his disdain thick as it oozes over last nights competitor. 

"Bastard lights," Namjoon shrugs, his indifference not convincing enough to come off as authentic. "Bad timing. Those cars were all coming from CGV. The last film of the night had just finished. Wasn't expecting the rush."

Jungkook holds back a snort. Typical of Namjoon to go and check the fucking cinema listings, just so that he had something else to blame his poor performance on.

"I mean, I made it through the lights on time," Jungkook smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes. Treacle drips from his whole entire being. It's sticky, and it coats every single surface in the room. The floor, the ring, the people. All covered in the heaviness. Everyone can feel it; how uncomfortable the empty silence is.

"Alright, ladies," Seokjin breaks the tension. 

Shoulders broad, shirt discarded by the punching bag he's spent the morning working out his frustrations on, there's a sheen to his skin. It's damp. Salty, presumably, though no one in the room would dare lick his torso to check.

It's as if he's got sodium chloride crystals on his chest, glimmering when the light pours in through a tall window to the rear of the building. 

His muscles are made from clay, carved out so intricately that Jungkook wonders why he bothers training himself so hard when he'll never look like his mentor. Impossible. 

He's glad Seokjin has never stepped foot in the GS25 you earn your keep from. Thinks it will impact the way you look at him. Thinks maybe you'll start picturing Seokjin's face, instead of his own, whenever he takes you from behind in the future.

The thought unsettles him. Has him adjusting his legs, repositioning his cock so no one notices the fact it's a little plump now. 

What? He was thinking about fucking you. Bound to happen. He's only human. 

Male to be specific, with a libido to rival that of a bonobo. 

Sometimes, Jimin likes to joke that Jungkook's genealogy must be closer to them than it is to his own grandfather. Even made him watch a documentary about it once. Only difference between Jungkook and his distant primate relatives is that Jungkook prefers to keep his sex monogamous. 

He's made mistakes before; learnt the hard way that in order to keep things messy in bed, emotions have to run clean. 

"Kook?" Seokjin interrupts his thoughts. He hadn't even realised he'd zoned out, but everyone's looking at him now, thankfully none of them noticing the semi in his pants. "You listening?"

"Huh?" He mumbles. "Sorry, was thinking. What were you saying?"

"We're swapping you out. You've been working well -" Namjoon scoffs in the corner, but Seokjin ignores him "- but I want to see if Park can get things done a little quicker."

Oh, fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck. This will not do.

"No!" Jungkook shouts, before realising how out of pocket his tone was. Cringe. "I mean, uh. I just. I've been making good progress. She's a tough cunt to crack."

"Charming."

"Fuck off, Jimin - see, that's what I mean," Jungkook begins to over-explain his outburst. "She'd call me a cunt right back. She likes my sense of humour. It just takes a while for her to open up. Sending Park in would just put us back at square one all over again."

"Yeah, but what's better?" Namjoon interjects. "Square one, going nought to sixty, or square two, still, only going five miles per hour."

"I'm on, like, square ten, asshole," Jungkook spits, incredibly childishly. If he wanted to, he could get specific. Talk about a different game that requires squares. Bases. Tell them all that he hits home runs, and that he's getting pretty consistent.

But if he tells them that, he'll be stopped from playing the game altogether.

"Sure," Namjoon just smirks. 

Jungkook runs his tongue along his cheek, and looks at Seokjin, nostrils all flared, lips pouty.

"Calm down, Kookie," he says, and even though it's a little patronising, it has the desired effect. Jungkook respects him too much to fight against him. "I'll give you a week - and then you're swapping out with Park, alright? Get me something good. Something we can work with."

"I've got something," Jungkook shrugs. It isn't much but it at least confirms something they've theorised. "Asked her about politics last ni- last time I went in for gas."

"Casual kiosk discussion, seems legit."

"Do you ever shut the fuck up, Namjoon?" Jimin shoots him a glare.

"See, this is what I mean," Jungkook grumbles. "I can ask her shit like this 'cause I've built up a rapport with her. We talk." Fuck a little bit, too, but who's keeping tabs? "She won't be like that with Jimin."

She better not be.

Seokjin nods. He accepts what Jungkook is saying. Knows he's right - but knows that the lack of results is making his leadership look weak to Old Man Kang. "Carry on. What did she tell you?"

"She doesn't subscribe to her father's idea of politics. Didn't name drop him - never does - but she said she's left-wing."

"Performative," Namjoon scoffs, proving that no, he doesn't ever shut the fuck up.

"Or maybe she's the black sheep," Jimin counters. "The name change, the distancing herself from him-"

"Is all standard witness protection shit," Namjoon argues before Jimin can even finish making his point. "Her daddy is keeping her hidden so that he can keep her safe during the election campaign. Remember the amount of assassination threats he got during the last one? "

There's back and forth between them all, assessing how you ended up behind a gas station kiosk without a single link tying you back to your father. Most photographed man in the city, and yet you've been out of the pictures for a good three years, now. 

The four of them never would have known who you are, or how expensive that pretty little head of yours is, had it not been for Old Man Kang and the job he'd given them all a couple months back.

Jungkook didn't exactly lie when he told you he was between jobs. He's just got a little something part time going on, too.

"Well, how about this?" Jungkook interrupts them, cutting their discussion about you short. It was annoying him. None of them know you. Not like he does. He's the only one qualified to have an opinion on the matter. "Keep me on the job. I'll be able to find out far quicker than any of you fuckers."

Seokjin concedes. Accepts that Jungkook is the best bet they've got. Dismisses them all, but keeps an eye on Jungkook as he pulls the neck of his shirt over his head and tosses it down onto his bag. 

His composure is cool as he begins to wrap up his palms, but he's nibbling at his lips. Nose all twitchy like a bunny - and when he gets the bag he'll be working on, instead of testing the weight, he just hangs his head. Rests his forehead against it. Holds it. Taps it gently with his knuckles, before whispering a sharp 'fuck'. 

But then he's bouncing on his feet, squaring up, getting ready, as if he hasn't just very visibly gone through an existential crisis, of sorts.

He would ask Jungkook what's going on, but there'd be no point. He's as good at lying as he is at throwing punches - and he's got the best left hook on the team. Doesn't use it much - but never misses when he does. Lies? Yeah, he uses them a lot more. 

In fact, he's so good at fibbing, that Seokjin half thinks he doesn't even realise he's doing it a lot of the time. He cleans up the ink of his bad choices with white lies, and before he knows it, everything in Jungkook's life is grey. 

"Posture straight," Seokjin calls over to him. "Don't lose your form."

Jungkook grunts a response. Does as he's told. Stays in the boxing club long enough to convince them all that it doesn't feel like he's having a heart attack. Chest all tight and shit. Lungs twisting beneath his ribs.

He grabs his stuff as quickly as he can without looking like a mad man on a dash, and locks himself in his car, staring into the oncoming traffic. Hands on the steering wheel, his chest heaves. Up and down, in and out. Contracting and expanding in all different directions. 

The soiled packet of tissues is still on his backseat, your hairband looped around his gearstick. Your perfume spices the air, sweet vanilla and black cherry. He can only smell your hair when his nose is nestled in it.

Bizarrely, thinking about it doesn't make his heart race like it normally does. It calms it instead. 

Jungkook whines. Stomps his feet a little in his footwell, then rests his forehead on the wheel. 

"I'm so fuckin' screwed."

────────────

minors dni // posted to wp late 2021 // series masterlist

[ir-abelas-vhenan]

Did Someone Say Running Back to Fiction to Cope??

It's probably safe to call this Me Losing My Mind over Veilguard 5/??

One of the things upsetting me the absolute most is no mention from the Inquisitor about Varric's death. Perhaps the most integral storytelling mechanism and all around champion of reluctant heroes has been taken away from us, and one of the people he was closest to doesn't feel even a little compelled to discuss him with his apprentice?

I'm still a little dumbfounded, clearly.

Even if we as fans didn't deserve better, Varric deserved better. I've always believed that the better the character, the better a death they deserve when it's their time to go.

So anyways. In my smooth pea brain, I can't reconcile a world in which Lavellan shows up with her unconditional love blazing without first confronting and resolving the fact that her love has led to the death of one of her closest friends. So it's back to the drawing (writing?) board to soothe my disappointed soul.

I saw a version of Varric's letter to a Solas-mancing Lavellan that was datamined and ran with it.

One: All the Words Unwritten

Charter,

Yes, the trail went cold, but we haven’t entirely lost it. Solas left us a little farewell note. So I’m not giving up just yet. Maybe it’s gullible of me, but I know the Inquisitor feels the same: Solas isn’t too far gone to save. And she’d never forgive me if I didn’t try. But I don’t think I’m wrong here. Solas didn’t have to warn me and Harding off the chase when he could’ve killed us like the others who came after him. I don’t think he wants to do this. So, I’m taking the chance. Tell the Inquisitor…tell her I’ll bring him back.

—Varric

Her first tear spatters onto the parchment. The final sentence becomes an ink-stained massacre, and she throws it far away before she can lose any more of the handwriting she’ll never again see waiting for her above the seal representing his best friend’s house. Her palms bite into the unsanded wood, welcoming the bite of pain as she shoves back from the recovered tree stump she’s been using as a desk.

“Inquisitor.”

Morrigan’s voice doesn’t register, hardly rises over the sound of blood rushing through her ears like an open wound. Gods, wrong comparison . But there it is, playing out against the darkness of her eyelids every time she blinks to try and stem the flow of more tears. The wound in Varric’s chest, gushing with no one to hold pressure over it, to ensure the rise and fall of his sternum until help could arrive, no one to watch his back because the woman who did it best is no longer able to. This too, is her fault, and there has hardly been a conversation in the years that followed where she hasn’t looked into Varric’s quieter, sadder eyes and wanted to beg him for a forgiveness she knows he’d have frowned at her for needing. 

It had been her job to keep him safe now, her promise to Hawke that the choice to become another martyred hero in Ferelden’s bloody history wasn’t in vain. And here was the proof at last that she was every inch the fantasy-addled fool bards wrote about when inspiration ran dry. Here was the proof that her hope was a mantle, weighing down everyone around her until there was nothing left but blurred ink and bloodstained pages in the famed Inquisitor Lavellan’s wake. 

[thelonelysoulhome]

Doumeki is the first person ever to reach out his hand to Yashiro:

(Part 3)

When Doumeki first meet Yashiro he is a 36 years old man with strong anchored beliefs, that diged all his traumas deep deep inside of him, traumas that he nourished everyday for 26 years at this point. He suffers, but in silence,

he suffers, but nobody sees, cause he's really good at hiding, at faking, after all, people are actors.

Like I said before Doumeki is the first person ever to ask Y if he's okay and that on their first encounter.

For the first time in Yashiro's life someone try to help him.

And ask a question: are you okay ? Are you okay with what happening ? Do you need help ?

At this point it's not like Y could Say:

"Oh yes I'm deeply traumatised from all the abuse I lived as a kid and that never ended till now, I had to face everything alone and to endure everything, I had to hide the true me real real deep and live as a cold lustful maso cat seeking violent sex as a coping mechanism to protect myself from more external harm"

He's more like;

"Of course I'm okay dumbass... I like violent sex, I can't feel anything if it's not painfull, I always lived like this and it's fine, I don't need anyone, I'm alright as long as everyone treats me like they always did : badly, without care, like an old rag.

For Yashiro, the familiar feel safe, and the change feel overwhelming, frightning.

That how his distorted brain function .

It's in this state of mind that he come into the presence of Doumeki.

We know D always though that Y was beautyful, (he confess that to Y in chapter 1), and that the yakuza world could not be that bad if someone like Y was part of it.

But everything takes a big shift when Y help D to reconnect with his sister Aoi :

At this moment D understand that Y is more than what he just pretends to be.

Y is neither cold or cruel, he's the opposite of that, he's gentle, he's kind, he's sensible, he don't judge, he's strong, cause suffering is never a reason to pity someone, it's a reason to respect them, respect for their strenght to endure it.

Y never shows those sides of him, he try hard to burie them cause for him, they are weaknesses, and he can't take the risk to be weak again.

But it's too late, D already saw little fragmants of the real Y.

And now, he's resilied to stay by his side no matter what :

"I'll do anything, as long as I can stay beside you"

He'll do anything, but it's only a matter of time for him to no longer being able to bear the way people treat Y, and the way Y treat's himself.

D don't understand how kage dosen't notice Y like he does,

He is angry that nobody sees Y the way his eyes do it.

Haaa look at how he stare at his smile... He just want to see him happy.

(The world D use in japanese for 'beautiful' is "きれい" (kirei) that kinda mean beautiful but also clean or pure, meaning that he think Y is beautiful on the outside but also and mainly from the inside)

For him Yashiro is kind, strong and beautiful.

He keeps on by saying that he respect Yashiro.

He's attracted to Y in a way he never been before with anyone, and he sincerely care for Y.

He don't want to use him like a toy like misumi.

He don't pity him like kage.

He don't want him to be something else (a woman) like ryuzaki

(that a deeply dislike btw... And Y is so kind that he take risk to save his ass..)

He love's Y for who he trully is, and he want to protect him.

In this moment D is mad and frustrated, not because Y is having sex with another guy, but because he is being harmed by someone, again. He want's to deffend him but he feel powerless, and that hurt him a lot.

I see some people saying that D is possesive and jealous, and that he has no words to say about what Y is doing with his body, (and normaly I agree whit that) but we know Y's case is far from being normal. Y uses violent sex as a form of self harm to cope with his trauma.

All the men Y encountered always treated and abused him really really badly,

And Y let it all happen not by choice, but because he never lived something else, he been used his whole life, he never chosed anything that happened to him, he undergoes everything . everyone always treated him badly everyone neglected him; his stepdad, his mom, shcool, all the men he encountered, ryuzaki, misumi, they all abused him, and he is so deep in selfloathing that he dosen't care anymore. He's resilieted, he so damaged that his numb.

But D is not okay with that. Is that something this bad ? Is that this bad to want to protect someone you love and care for, from further harm and abuse ?

D is not just being possesive and jealous, he can't bear seeing Y being treated this way. Who could ?

If you saw someone you love and care deeply for, harming themself daily in front of you, you won't do anything ? You won't try to stop them ? You won't try to protect them from this harm ? You can't just say "oh I'm not interfering, their life their choices" when someone is consuming themself little by little in front of your eyes.

Yashiro did not chose this, he suffered, and then he made himself suffer, cause it's the only thing he knows.

No one ever tend he's hand to him, and told him that he doesn't need to treat himself this way anymore...💔

See you part 4.

(How many part I'm gonna write, bear with me lol)

[natsuki-bakery]

⁎˚ ఎ ICP Agere ໒ ˚⁎

Could you do Shaggy 2 Dope cg headcanons? ( Loved your other icp cg headcanoms btw! )

•Shaggy 2 Dope might not follow traditional caregiving rules, but his loyalty is unmatched. He’s the type of caregiver who shows affection in his own way, like surprising you with your favorite snacks, giving you his jacket when you’re cold, or making jokes when you’re feeling down. He may not always have the right words, but he always makes you laugh when you need it

•Coming from a rough background, Shaggy 2 Dope has developed a sense of street smarts and survival instincts. He’s extremely protective of those he cares about. If someone messes with you, he’ll handle it with his signature attitude, making sure nobody disrespects his loved ones. Expect a "you mess with them, you mess with me" attitude

•Shaggy finds comfort in the weirdest things, and he’d share that with you as a caregiver. Instead of the typical calm, soothing environment, he’d think a night full of horror movies and junk food is the perfect way to help you unwind. Whether it’s cheesy slasher flicks or cult horror classics, his idea of a good time is embracing the chaos and making the dark seem fun

•As part of the Insane Clown Posse, he’s all about humor and not taking things too seriously. When you’re feeling down, he’ll go all out with clownish antics, bad jokes, over-the-top pranks, and ridiculous costumes—to make you smile. He knows life gets hard, but he’s all about showing you how to embrace the absurdity of it all and laugh through the madness

•In the world of ICP, family isn’t just blood—it’s the Juggalos. Shaggy 2 Dope sees anyone he cares for as part of his extended Juggalo family. He might bring you to Juggalo events or the Gathering of the Juggalos, believing in a strong sense of belonging and community. He’ll make sure you feel included, no matter how unconventional the gathering is

•Shaggy’s idea of cooking for you as a caregiver would be unique. He might not be a gourmet chef, but he’ll whip up a meal with whatever’s around, think ramen noodles mixed with weird snacks or a sandwich made from unconventional ingredients. It’s not about the taste; it’s about the effort and sharing that moment with you

•As someone deeply connected to horrorcore, Shaggy uses dark humor to cope with life’s difficulties. He’ll joke about grim topics but in a way that feels strangely comforting, helping you to see the lighter side of even the most challenging situations. His jokes may be outrageous or morbid, but they come from a place of care, helping you laugh through the pain

•Shaggy is the type of caregiver who’d get you out of the house for late-night drives or adventures when you need to clear your head. He believes in shaking things up when life gets too heavy, so whether it’s going to an all-night diner or exploring creepy urban legends, he’s all about taking you out of your worries and into a spontaneous experiences

•As someone who channels his own feelings through music and performance, Shaggy would encourage you to express yourself creatively. Whether it’s writing, painting, or making music, he’d want you to let your emotions out in whatever wild, chaotic way feels right to you. He’d remind you that life is messy, and art can be a way to embrace that chaos

•Shaggy isn’t afraid to give you some tough love when you need it. He’ll be the one to call you out if you’re not taking care of yourself or letting things slide too much. However, his tough love comes from a place of deep care, and he’ll always be there to help pick you back up after. He’ll push you to be strong but will never abandon you when you’re down

•A signature aspect of Shaggy 2 Dope and ICP’s identity is their love of Faygo, those inexpensive soda they spray at concerts. As a caregiver, he’d always bring a bottle of Faygo to cheer you up, believing that it’s not about the price of things, but the fun and joy behind them. Whether it’s cracking open a bottle or spraying it during an impromptu celebration, he’s all about making the simple things in life fun

•With his background in professional wrestling, Shaggy might suggest something physical as a way to blow off steam. He could take you to a backyard wrestling match or playfully wrestle with you, teaching you moves to make you feel strong and empowered. It’s his unique way of saying that sometimes, you need to fight back against stress—literally

•Crying Age Regressor : Shaggy’s first reaction would probably be a bit awkward or panicked since he’s not used to emotional vulnerability. He might say something like, "Whoa, whoa, what’s this now? No tears on my watch!" But once he gets past the initial shock, he’d quickly switch gears, using humor to lighten the mood. Expect him to pull funny faces, do a goofy clown act, or tell ridiculous jokes to try to make you laugh

•After his humor routine, he’d get more serious. Shaggy’s got a strong protective instinct, so he’d sit down with you and make sure you know you’re safe. He’d offer his jacket or wrap you up in a blanket, saying something like, "No need to cry, lil homie. You got me lookin’ out for you"

•He might grab something random like a bottle of Faygo, a stuffed animal, or even suggest watching cartoons to distract you from whatever’s causing the tears. "Let’s forget all that noise and watch some shows, okay sweetheart ?"

•Shaggy might not be the most naturally patient guy, but he’s no stranger to chaos. When you start throwing a tantrum, he’d let you vent for a bit, arms crossed, waiting it out. Once things escalate, though, he’d step in, not getting angry but being direct. "Aight, lil dude, what’s all this about ? Talk to me, don’t throw stuff..."

•He’d pull out his signature move of clownish behavior. If you’re throwing things or yelling, he might grab an item and start juggling, purposely dropping things to make you laugh and break the tension. "See? Ain’t no need to be mad when you got a world-class clown in the house !"

•Once you’ve calmed down, he’d get down to your level, ask you what’s really going on, and listen. His tough-love attitude would show through, with something like, "We ain’t gotta be all mad and stuff, y’know ? If something’s wrong, you gotta tell me. We’ll handle it together !"

•If you refuse to sleep : Shaggy would probably try to make it into a game first. "If you go to sleep right now, I’ll let you pick out whatever candy you want tomorrow. Deal ?" He’d also throw in a bit of humor : "Besides, you need your beauty sleep, or you’ll wake up lookin’ like Violent J !"

•If that doesn’t work, he’d switch to storytelling. But don’t expect a normal bedtime story. Instead of fairytales, he’d tell ridiculous, made-up horror stories that are so over-the-top they become funny. "So, there was this clown who went into the woods, and guess what he found ? A fridge...full of Faygo !" He’d keep going until you were laughing or too tired to stay awake

•Deep down, Shaggy’s a softie, so if you’re really resisting sleep, he might sit next to you and just be a comforting presence. "Aight, I’ll stay here ‘til you crash. But you better fall asleep, or I’mma start singin’ ICP songs, and nobody wants that !" He might even hum a goofy, off-tune lullaby to help you relax

If you're in the basic criteria , are DSMP fans, vivziep0p fans , h0tel/h3lluva b0ss fans, Owl h0use fans, St4r butterfly fans, Ghibli fans, ddlg/abdl blogs, nsfw/k!nk blogs, anti-agere blogs, or anti Christians/Christianity blogs : just dont interact !

[myoddessy]

evermore. cl16

summary—you had fallen in love with charles to the sound of squeaking tricycles and high-pitched laughter. You'd loved him through every race, just as he'd loved you through every audition. Loving him had become as natural as breathing, so when he walks out the door for the last time, your left choked and alone.

what to expect—actress!reader, angst (lots of angst), based on a load of songs from taylor swift's evermore, mostly focused around charles' pov, slightly rushed/kinda open ending. for the sake of drama let's pretend that Monaco and Spa gps were in the same month in 2022.

word count—3.8k

He's a nice guy. You know it, he knows it, everyone who's ever heard of the name Charles Leclerc would know he's a nice guy. He was a gentleman. He followed the sidewalk rule, opened doors for you, practically threw his jacket at you the second you so much as shivered around him.

But more than that, more than the kindness that you could find anywhere if you looked hard enough, Charles understood you. He saw you, really saw you. He knew you as more than record breaker, more than a star, more than a lover, more than a friend. In mornings of intimacy and nights of passion, Charles had built you a home in his heart and swore you would always be safe there.

But now, as you stood in your kitchen, staring blankly at the empty chairs, you knew you could call Charles one more thing.

A liar.

You cursed yourself for feeling bitter, knowing he hadn't left your apartment that night unscathed either. You almost wished he had. Maybe if there was an actual villain in your story, it would be easier to admit that it's over.

If he wasn't such a nice guy. If he had screamed at you, demeaned you, equated your self to nothing, you could convince yourself you were better off without him. But you weren't. You know it, he knows it, anyone who met you before him knows it too.

You sigh and roll your eyes because you know as much as you try to hate him, you never will. He will never be your villain, so you'll just have to settle with him being nothing.

You'd faced heartbreak before, but those guys had all worked in your fairytale favour. Much needed antagonists, if you will. With every snide remark towards your success, they'd pushed you towards Charles' open arms. You'd learned how to cope with that pain, but this one was different. Nobody teaches you what to do when a good man hurts you, after all.

Some nights, when you woke up because of a window you forgot to close, you swear you can still feel him. Still hear the light hum of his sleeping breaths. Still smell the homely scent of his cologne. But then, when you turn to the other side of the bed, hoping all of this had just been a bad dream, your met with cold pillows and empty space, and remember that this is your life now, not what once was.

You had to break all your habits, forge new routines, because everything had been reliant on Charles. Instead of calling him as soon as you got back from set, you started running baths and catching up on episodes of shows you used to love that never suited his taste. Instead of carving days out of your limited free time to fly to who-knows-where for races, you explored the cities you were in and rekindled lost bonds with old friends.

Ever since Charles had left, on a surface level, you'd been thriving. Your friends admired it, saying you were strong and powerful for how you'd taken your heartbreak and turned it to success.

They didn't need to know about the slipping of your hand when you make enough dinner for two, or how you found yourself reverting back to the playlist of French classics he'd made for you whenever you felt particularly lonely.

It had been two months. Days ticked by and with every one that passed, you found yourself selfishly hoping that Charles Leclerc would disappear. From your memory, from your heart, from your world. Because every time you felt you were having a breakthrough, every time you made just enough breakfast, you'd leave the house and see magazine cover celebrating his success, every time you found a new song to listen to, you overhear a rumour that he took a model back to his hotel last weekend.

There was a time when you'd happily let Charles occupy your mind, but that time was long passed, and you needed it to stay that way.

No matter how well—or unwell—you handled it on your own, Charles couldn't say he fared much better. He still pulled out two wine glasses, still reached out to nothing in the dead of night, still heard the sound of your laughter ringing in his ears when the shrieks of fans should drown it out.

He swore he was going insane, but what a beautiful torment you were, and if seeing your shadow around every city street was his downfall, then hysteria was welcomed with open arms.

He wished he could say he didn't regret it. That ending things was what was best. He could say that at the time, but as days came and went, he found himself doubting. He had insisted that both of your schedules would be the death of you. With him flying around the world to race and to train, and you being flown out to anywhere and everywhere to film, and pose, and answer questions that he knew you hated, you had to fight tooth and nail to spend any time with each other.

Charles hated to admit it, but most of the sacrifice had come from you. You never complained, of course you didn't, you were nice like that. Loving, understanding. Of course you wouldn't tell him about the offers you declined and the covershoots you'd missed to visit him at a race. You never wanted him to know, but he found out anyway.

He was in the en suite, you were in the bedroom. Charles remembered that you'd gotten a call before he got in the shower, he had made note to ask why you looked so stressed when you answered. You'd kept your voice quiet, Charles only later understanding why.

So engrossed in the conversation, you hadn't noticed Charles shut the water off, nor had you heard him open the bathroom door. Your back was facing him.

"Viv, I'm sorry. You know I'm sorry, but I can't take it on right now. I'm booked to go to Spa that week, then I have to come back to Monaco, you know how important it is that I'm there." Your voice was soft, Charles couldn't tell if you were fighting tears or consoling someone. He could vaguely hear the person on the other line.

"Y/n, this is huge! I mean, come on, you've talked about wanting to work with Wes Anderson how many times? Can't you miss two races?"

"I know." Your agent was a tough woman to bargain with, but you knew she only ever wanted the best for you. "But I can't miss these, he needs the support. He deserves it."

Charles didn't hear the rest of what was said, moving into the bathroom again to look at his reflection with a wave of guilt hitting him suddenly. He splashed cold water on his face, preparing himself to face you and tell you that you needed to take the job. That, even if the luck that came with your presence pulled through, any victories would pale in comparison to how selfish he'd feel knowing what you gave up to be there.

But when he finally reopened the door, and he saw the happy smile you gave him with a small hum of good shower? the words died on his tongue. He would regret it for forever, but he didn't dare ruin the domesticity of the night with tears and arguments.

Now, three months after the split, Charles sees a tweet announcing a new film. Normally he ignored those notices, you always told him the important stuff anyway, but when he saw your picture posed proudly, he stalled. A leading role in the new Wes Anderson feature, set to start filming a month from then. He didn't feel sadness or jealousy at your ability to succeed, he smiled and carried on with his day.

The next time Charles was reminded of memories of you was a mere week after he saw the tweet, when he decided to take a run through the streets of Monaco. He passed a park on his way, slowing to a walk to admire the scenery. It wasn't anything abnormal, people walking their dogs, couples strolling with linked arms, kids screeching with joy as they ran around the playground.

But the one thing that made him stop was two children sitting on a bench near the gates. Their legs hung over the edges, swinging back and forth while they talked. The shorter one, the girl with twin plaits and a frilly pink dress had her head tilted to the sky, giggling at the clouds passing by, murmuring something about how they looked like bunnies. The taller one, the boy with a shaggy haircut and baggy clothes, however, had his eyes trained on her, nodding mindlessly while she babbled on excitedly, a noticeable blush on his face. And, suddenly, he's five years old again, playing with his toy car in the same playground with a bright-eyed girl in a pink frilly dress running up to him to tell him his hair is funny.

He remembers being offended at first, then falling into a fit of laughter to match hers. He didn't learn her name that day, nor the day after when they bumped into each other in the same way, in fact, it wasn't until a week after when he finally learned her name, and it was through pure chance.

It happened in a bakery, one he hasn't stepped foot in in three months. He'd been dragged along on errands by his mother, coaxed by the promise of pastries at the end. He waited impatiently on a highstool facing the window while she ordered, his head resting on folded arms. Then, after what felt like a century, he heard his mother come up behind him, a large bag of sweets in on hand, the other thrown around the shoulder of another woman.

"Oh my, he's grown so much!" The woman exclaimed. All Charles did was look at her funny, the only thing he wanted to do was go home and eat. The overhead bell rang as the door opened.

"Mama!" A small, high-pitched voice called. "Papa says we need to go or we'll be late to the shoot." A young girl walked up to the woman Charles didn't quite know. She wore a pink dress that Charles recognized in an instant—quite impressive for a five year old, he'd later brag. Oh, so you were always down bad, Lando would then chime in, and chaos would ensue.

She gasped happily. "Funny Hair!" She exclaimed, pointing at Charles. Their mothers exchanged confused looks. "Mama, this is the boy from the park. The one who let me play with the cars!"

Pascale saw the bashful face on her boy and smiled warmly, placing a hand on his back to help him off the chair. She nudged her head towards you, silently urging Charles to properly introduce himself. "I'm Charles." He mumbled, nervous under three pairs of eyes.

Dimples carved into your cheeks at your gap-toothed grin. "I'm Y/n." You reached forward and shook his hand, turning to your mother once more to politely remind her that you had somewhere very important to be.

With goodbyes and promises of coffee and lunch while you and your parents were still in Monaco, you left, leaving Charles with nothing more than a red face, a fast-beating heart, and a name to put to the girl who insulted his hair. You saw each other here and there after, your mothers dragging you both along when they met up until it eventually became you dragging them out the door in sheer eagerness to see each other again.

Many things changed since those fateful days in Monaco. You grew from TV ads to Hollywood leads, he grew from toy cars to formula tracks. You both stopped hating adults who kissed in your presence, and ended up being the bane of his cousins' existence. One thing that didn't change, however, was Charles forcing you to sit down and watch the, now old, Sky TV ad you were rushing off to film when he first learned your name.

Charles smiled at the sky as he carried on with his run.

Nobody could truly understand why you broke up, other than you and Charles. Beneath the adoration and pride, there was a hidden torment. A nagging feeling tugged at your heart every time you sat in Ferrari hospitality instead of curled up in a trailer, working on a project. A similar feeling washed over Charles every time he saw your shining eyes, knowing what should've been was forgotten so you could be here.

He hated what he was making you. He knew your career was your truest love and your dearest pride. He knew the blood, sweat, and tears you'd put into earing a name and a platform for yourself so you could support your family and help those who couldn't help themselves. He knew that your greatest joys would always come from performing, how you had a special smile reserved for when you saw the results of your work and dedication. He knew that, despite loving him wholly, you were changing who you were at your core to fit him.

He loved the sight of you cheering his name in a sea of red, but whenever he closed his eyes, he saw the way you looked when you turned down a job to support him, and feared that if it went on, you'd grow to resent him.

Above anything, his greatest fear was you seeing him as your downfall as opposed to your lover and, in the end, the only fate worse than being left in your past, was being someone you hated.

yourusername just posted !

Shit. Through everything, Charles had forgotten to turn off your post notifications. His thumb hovered over the screen, fighting temptation to see what you were up to. But, like he always was around you, Charles found himself helpless, clicking the banner and swallowing hard.

liked by zendaya, finnwolfhard, jennaortega, and 650,901 others

yourusername stumbled down pretend alleyways, cheap wine, make-believe it's champagne 🥂

zendaya babe you're glowing 🥺🥺

tchalamet 🔥🔥🔥

ynslover I WAS TAKEN BY RHE VIEW LIKE WE WERE IN PARUS

lecl3rcszn crying bcs y/n posts about being in Paris THE DAY AFTER I FLY BACK FROM THERE

On instinct, Charles liked the post, scrambling to unlike it with a sharp gasp moments later. He cursed himself for the slip of his thumb, praying nobody had caught it. But he knew yours and his fans well, and knew that at least one person had taken a screenshot in the time it took for him to realise his mistake. "Fuck." He groaned, tossing his phone across the bed and running his hands over his face, preparing for the media shitstorm that would come over the next few days.

You screamed into your pillow when you saw the notification. 

“Who does he think he is?” You asked the empty room. Standing up from your bed to pace around, your dog looking at you with a quirked head. “Don’t judge me.” You pointed at her. “I mean, seriously, who the fuck likes their exes post not even a minute after it was uploaded?” You chewed on the side of your thumb. “It was probably a coincidence, right? I happened to post just when he refreshed his feed. He definitely doesn’t have my notifications on, does he?” Again, you were met with silence. 

“Ugh!” You groaned out, falling onto your bed once again and covering your face with your hands. You thought you were over this shit, you thought you were over him. It had been months, you’d been on Vogue, you’d been on SNL, you’d done the interviews, and the ads, and the photoshoots, and you’d booked the role of your dreams, and with one stupid fucking like, Charles Leclerc had ruined it. 

All of your work, all of the hours you’d poured into TheWizardLiz and whatever ‘New Mindset, New Me’ creators you’d found, was now worth nothing because you were back where you were three months ago. Lying in your unmade bed with a heavy heart and a mind full of Charles. 

You wanted to cry. You’d tried so hard to put yourself and your progress in the forefront of your mind, but now all you could think about was the night he left.

He’d flown out to you in NYC, handful of roses and a pocketful of sunshine. You hoped he hadn’t come over with the intention of ending it. You didn’t know if you could handle him being that happy, all to break things off. 

It was on the last day of his week-long stay. He’d made you a fancy dinner, lit candles, set flowers. A foolish part of you thought he was going to propose, but when his hands found yours on the couch later that night, what he said was anything but romantic. 

The Dom Perignon on the table was long forgotten, the only sound between his words was the cracking of your glass heart. “It’s for the best.” You heard him say through the ringing in your ears. “We’ll grow to hate each other.” “I’ll always love you.” “Say something, please?” 

“So we’re over? Just like that?” For the first time since he’d met you, the loud, vivacious girl he’d grown to love was nowhere to be seen. Your voice was hushed and small, your shoulders were hunched. You were making yourself small and it was his fault, the fact made him sick. 

“I’m sorry.” His voice was gentle, their was a crack in his words and tears in my eyes. You sniffled and wiped your eyes with the back of your hand. 

“I- um- I think you should go.” Your voice was thick with tears shed and more welling up. Charles sighed and nodded in understanding. “I’m out tomorrow for lunch with Timothee and Saoirse at 1 so you can get your stuff then, if you want.” You mumbled out, barely audible as he stood by the door. 

He halted halfway through the threshold, and the young girl in you with a pink dress and pigtails hoped he was going to turn back and kiss you and say it was all a dream. But he didn’t. He did something much worse. 

“I really do love you, you know that, right?” A beat of silence. “And I really am sorry.” 

That was when you knew you couldn’t hate him. Because you did know it, you knew he loved you. You knew this wasn’t what he wanted, but it was what you both needed. You could hear him crying on the other side of the door, him resting against it for a minute or two before finally leaving. 

He repeated a mantra in his head as he went down the elevator, It's for the best. Sometimes giving up is the right thing, he told himself as his footsteps echoed through the parking lot. Sometimes to run is the strong thing.

As he turned on the car and drove far away from his true home, he prayed that was true.

It had been 9 months since the break-up. Your feet ached from the heels you’d been wearing all night, and the comfort of your apartment had never been more appreciated. You really did it. The premiere was everything you could have wanted. The afterparty had stretched into the AM, and praise had been thrown at you for hours, much like the drinks. 

But as early morning moonlight still lingered through the windows, you didn’t want the champagne, or the glitz and glamour, all you wanted was a nice, home-cooked meal. You sat up from the couch, stretching like a cat, designer gown still hugging your figure as you shuffled to the kitchen, rummaging through your cupboards to grab some pasta. You pressed shuffle on a playlist of your current favourite songs.

New York had never really been strange to Charles, whenever he visited, he always had an A-class tour guide in you. But as he wandered through the streets in their 4am glory, alone after Pierre abandoned him for some reason he couldn’t quite remember, he knew he couldn’t feel like more of a tourist if he tried. His eyes were hazy with sleep and a mild buzz from the club he’d just left, but his mind cleared when he looked up to the gleaming billboards and saw your face. 

He smiled, continued walking, and thought about the times you’d practically pulled his arm off to show him around whenever he visited. He didn’t really know where he was going, but with the certainty in his heart, he knew his hotel must be somewhere near. 

“Shit!” You cursed, your hand slipping for the first time in months. Enough pasta for two. At least I’ll have some left over for tomorrow. You thought with a huff. You swayed along to the music gently, humming the lyrics to invisible string with a content smile. 

25C. That seemed right. Charles felt around his pockets for his keycard, grumbling indistinct complaints when he remembered he left it in the hotel room with the intent of using Pierre’s after the club. He raised his hand to knock, hoping his friend wasn’t too tired, or too occupied elsewhere. 

A knock made you jump in your skin. “Who the fuck makes house calls at 4:30?” You asked yourself. You wiped your hands down with a cloth and walked to the door, too hungry to bother checking the peephole.

"Oh."

"Oh." Your jaw slacked and your hands grew clammy. You hid them behind the lavish ruffles of your dress.

Charles was knocked back to sobriety, wide awake, and heart thumping out of his chest.

"What are you doing here?"

"Would you believe me if I said I was just in the area?"

You huffed out a laugh, Charles joined, and it soon transcended to a small fit of giggles.

"I think I'm a bit lost." He admitted sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck.

"You think?" You teased, and a small part of you was screaming at you to stop joking and slam the door, but the rest was elated in the comfort of the ease in which you talked.

He wasn't a stranger to you. He never would be.

You wondered if you'd regret what you were about to do when morning came.

"It's late, if you need a place to stay, I still have that extra room." You but the inside of your cheeks when his eyes widened. "And I accidentally made enough food for two people, so the choice is yours. We can catch up."

Charles looked to the apartment behind you, then back you, then back to the apartment, a silent game of tennis to see if you were really serious.

When you smiled at him and stepped aside, showing him the opportunity was his, all he had to do was grab it, he nearly jumped for joy. But instead of screaming and kissing you then and there, he just smiled with his usual boyish charm.

"I'd like that."

[badaziraphaletakes]

Somebody pointed out that it's rude to call out other fan's headcanons and call them untrue or worse. However, I feel like there is a subtle difference in, this is how I perceive the canon story and its characters, and this is my own take on something within the story. Am I being an idiot? I've never been a member of a fandom before, Aziraphale is very dear to me and I feel hurt when he's misunderstood and mischaracterised. I'm not saying I or people I particularly like have a direct view into Neil's brain, but we do have the right to defend how we see him, right? Cos if I see one more take on how Az should suffer in S3 cos he didn't suffer enough, he's never felt the kind of loss that Crowley felt when he walked into the bookshop... or when Crowley was heartlessly told 'I forgive you'... etc etc, I'm going to honest to God cry.

In general, yes I agree that critiquing other people's interpretations of the characters is rude. One of the most beautiful things about this show is that the characters are so relatable that they can be seen in hundreds of different ways, and that is valid.

HOWEVER.

There's interpretation, and then there's completely flat-out ignoring both the show itself and the cold hard statements that the showrunner and the actor who plays the character have both made, because you didn't like the way season two ended. Michael Sheen never said "Aziraphale loved Crowley as an angel." He said, "Aziraphale loves Crowley." He said this dozens of times, in dozens of ways. Neil Gaiman said that it's a love story, and that they love each other. There's not a lot of room for interpretation there. And that's not even including the dozens of looks and touches and statements that Aziraphale has made all through season two. In no objective reality do the show or the storytellers tell us that Aziraphale only loved Crowley as an angel.

I feel like it's a subset of Perfect Victim Syndrome to make statements like this about Aziraphale. We see PVS all the time in real life when the victim of a crime (especially when committed by someone in authority) is analyzed and scrutinized by the public to decide whether they did something to "deserve" it. I feel like people are giving Aziraphale some of this same treatment when they say things like "He needs to suffer in season three" or "He needs to open his eyes" or "He didn't love Crowley enough to stay with him." Because Aziraphale said strange, inexplicable things that hurt Crowley's feelings in the Final Fifteen, suddenly that justifies not sympathizing with him on what has got to be the worst day of his existence.

It's easy to blame the victim when bad things happen, because it helps us maintain our illusion that the world is just and everything bad happens for a reason, and furthermore bad things won't happen to US, because we're Not Like That. It's harmful in real life, and it's hurtful when it's done to a fictional character who is an important coping mechanism for many of us.

(Oh, and if your brother ever kisses you like that, you should call somebody.)

[rwtimejuncture]

Rained World Rascals - About the Slugcats

So, I figured since I've seen one or two AU's do this by now, I should toss my hat in the ring and show off what I've got. I've got a little bit of time to kill before I sleep, so I'm gonna write about my beloved little alternate-universe slugcats here.

ALL INFO UNDER THE CUT

(All slugcats use they/any)

SURVIVOR

Age upon arrival: 19 moons

Known as "Viv" only to their closest friends, Survivor is a painfully average slugcat, even average to ENOT. And NOBODY is average to ENOT. Assertive and opinionated, even when they don't intend to be, Survivor is nothing short of a very natural slugcat. Even in their own biological family, they're the most average one. Despite their brutal honesty, Survivor still strives to protect those who are close to them, especially their younger sibling Monk, and their auncle/guardian, a 67 moon-old Gourmand.

Living in a grand tree in Outer Expanse, Survivor grew up with a grand and expansive family. After a tragic incident deep in the expanse led to young Survivor and Monk being orphaned, old Gourmand took them in as their own. Despite having everything they needed, Survivor still felt it a major responsibility to be there for their younger sibling, even when the going got rough for everyone. In a twist of fate involving an attempt to conquer their fear of heights, Survivor plummeted into a pipe which led to an unknown area beyond the retaining wall, after which they ran into Hunter.

MONK

Age upon arrival: 13 moons

As the youngest of the bunch, Monk is a youthful and spritely spirit who savors the world around them. Against all odds, Monk always finds a way to appreciate the world around them, be it a Squidcada or a Red Lizard. They're so intensely appreciative of the world around them that it's not uncommon for them to have made a new wildlife friend when they're out and about. Despite them being a friendly and social person normally, however, they tend to bottle up their emotions to an unhealthy degree, becoming cold and even volatile when provoked about emotionally difficult subjects. They take it upon themselves to never show emotions and be strong, just like their older sibling was when they were younger. They show a great resolve and work as hard as they can every day to contribute to their group.

Monk had to cope with the loss of their parents at a much younger age than Survivor, which led to them walking in their stride of not showing much emotion in difficult moments. Monk's version of this was pushing away those who cared about them and seeking quiet, lonely places to not be seen crying. Regardless, they still grew up moderately happy with love and support from Gourmand. The real damage came when they thought they had lost their sibling to the massive gaping hole that was the pipe. Late at night, after overhearing a conversation between the colony elders including Gourmand about potentially surviving a fall into the pipe, Monk raced out on their own and jumped in after their sibling. They sustained a black eye, but they survived and ran into a strange, younger version of Gourmand in the Outskirts.

HUNTER

Age upon arrival: 27 moons

Hunter is a lively, spritely person, always looking to have fun and enjoy life. They're also a greatly skilled and acclaimed fighter, always discovering new and creative ways to deal with opponents. Out of the whole gang, they are the most childish, petty, and hot-headed. They're prone to angry outbursts, but they're rarely ever actually fueled by anger--more so by passion than anything. Their humor is rarely mean-spirited, though it can reach a paramount of genuinely dubious intent. It's never malicious though, and is certainly a facade for a deeper, darker existential dread that they refuse to put upon anyone else, lest they try to help...

Hunter seldom talks about their past, but they do volunteer the fact that they were one of the few in the group raised, partially or wholly, by an Iterator. Given NSH's temperament, however, "raised" is a generous term. "Crashed with" is more appropriate. While NSH did indeed raise Hunter, they treated them less like one of their own progeny and more like a roommate. But in the end, NSH was still there for them, even in their darkest moments. But still, nothing could save them from what was yet to come. When time was finally reaching its end, Hunter decided to use what little power they had to commit a noble act. At least, that's how it was supposed to go...

GOURMAND

Age upon arrival: 34 moons

Gourmand is a champion of relaxation. Tied tighter to the material plane than any other member of the group, Gourmand takes great pleasure in finding new ways to enjoy their existence. Whether it be a new food or a new sunbeam to lie in, they always find ways to indulge in the new whilst also appreciating the old, and they take even greater pleasure in sharing these experiences with anyone willing to engage in them. They rarely ever raise their voice or get angry, only getting sad or disappointed. They are still honor-bound to defending those they care about, and have the ability to do so. They are not as skilled of a fighter as the other two leaders of the pack, but they still earn their mainstay as a strong and unyielding defender of the group.

Gourmand's past is possibly the most normal one out of everyone in the pack. When they were younger, they were an explorer, searching out places beyond their own expanse to widen their worldview. They found themselves mostly alone for their whole life, helping guide the occasional slugpup to a safe and bountiful location for them to sustain themselves. But just when they were headed home, thinking they had seen everything there is to see in this world, one strange step in Outskirts had them waking up in Shaded Citadel. Continuing mostly unfazed back in the direction they were headed, they eventually ran into another slugpup--a small, yellow one. But unexpectedly, this one seemed to know their name.

ARTIFICER

Age upon arrival: 38 moons

On the other far end of the age spectrum, Artificer is a much more jaded, violence-oriented, earthbound spirit. They're abrasive, rash, quick to annoyance and anger, and truly assert their dominance as a leader of the pack. To say a soft center lies at their heart would be a cruel lie--their soft center is guarded by numerous layers of rock-hard trauma and moons of horrors. Despite all of this, it's still not wrong to say there is one. It's just that... well, it's easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle. And much like a camel passing through the eye of a needle, you need to play your cards right. Someone succeeded, after all. Their outward attitude may be cold and quiet at best, but their desire to keep what is sacred to them safe is unmatched. They will go to great lengths to protect those they consider to be important to them, using their strange combustion-controlling powers to assure that no foe lays a finger on whatever they hold dear.

Artificer is highly cagey about their past. It's all so traumatic to them that they'd rather not remember a second of their life from moon ages 20 to 31. But the evidence they left behind is still there--a new despotic ruler of the scavengers on top of the superstructure without a drop of royal blood in them, a building missing from the metropolis, the strangely large shelter hidden in Outskirts with evidence of numerous slugcats having lived there once, the occasional mutter of their "apprentices" that they always seem to emphasize in such a way that indicates they caught themselves from saying something else, their "ex"... it all fits together, like pieces of a puzzle piece. But lest their redemption in a moral sense be of any concern to you, they'd do everything they could to keep you from finding out.

RIVULET

Age upon arrival: 25 moons

Rivulet is a strange character, simply put. They're dormant for most of the day, sleeping for longer periods of time than anyone else. But when they're awake, their agility and speed are second to absolutely none. Their speed is comically fast, and they can stay underwater for longer than anyone else. They're also highly intelligent, knowing how to work with Ancient-level technology and how to fix Iterators, a talent that landed them the role of pack nurse. Despite living life in the fast lane, they still appreciate the moments when they get to relax and be immature for once. Monk is a good friend to them and enjoys getting to play games and small sports with them. Their inner child truly gets to shine through, and to them it's a much needed break from the constant maturity life demands from them.

Rivulet comes from far, far away, descended from lands still yet to be discovered to most lifeforms on Five Pebbles' side of the world. Their upbringing was natural, with their bodily modifications appearing over hundreds of thousands of moons of evolution. When they came across the Retaining Wall, the rains were harsh and frequent, which led to their slumberful sleeping schedule. With their experience, aiding the surrounding Iterators was no difficult task, with their abnormally high capacity for speed and their gathered intelligence from their experiences across the world. The hardest part was what happened afterward, as they travelled into Outskirts and took one wrong step...

SPEARMASTER

Age upon arrival: 29 moons

Spearmaster, the self-proclaimed master of spears, is... a genetic nightmare, to say the least. Without a mouth, their speech is muffled and they often have to resort to slugsign to make their voice truly heard. Fortunately, Artificer knows pre-collapse era slugsign the best, and can account for this difficulty. While the objectively disgusting ability to excrete bone-like spears out of their tail is an interesting hallmark of their character, they make up for this weird factor of themselves by being an all around pleasant person to be around. They're a good listener, and they make sure that everyone gets what they need. They offer support when anyone needs it, and they make sure that not a soul goes unhealed, alongside their compatriot Rivulet. They're also insanely physically strong despite their gangly stature, using the incredible autonomy over their body to enter hysterical strength mode at will. These valuable qualities enable them to be the third leader of the pack.

A dutiful soldier, Spearmaster was the seventh in a line of genetically-weaponized slugcats who functioned as expert messengers. In a time where communication was severely limited due to a certain Iterator's desperation, Spearmaster helped deliver a message to the culprit, earning a now barely-visible scar on their chest, thanks to their abnormally quick healing ability. Even though the mission didn't go as planned, they still chose to see it through to the end, determined to be the messenger they were always meant to be. However, as they completed their mission and were on their way home, they found themself in a place they didn't quite recognize. It was certainly somewhere they had been before, but everything looked... different. After a run in with a strange, angry maroon slugcat, they looked off in the direction of their former mission goal only to see that there was one less Iterator than usual.

SAINT

Age upon arrival: 22 moons, but... it's complicated.

One of the most enigmatic slugcats of all, Saint is an omen of cycles and moons yet to come. Their speech is often very verbose and elongated, asserting themselves as a rather intelligent slugcat, maybe more so than even Rivulet. They seldom show emotion, and are barely ever seen opening their eyes, only doing so when using one or more of their wide array of powers. The only special powers they have consistent access to are flight, ascension, and teleportation. The powers which remain outside of their control, though, are plentiful, and include but are not limited to powers such as telekinesis, time control, gravity control, and karma manipulation. The names of the regions they use are strange and don't make sense to any of the other slugcats, expressing great shock that "Silent Construct" doesn't seem to exist as they know it.

Saint's past is one shrouded in mystery, but it's no greater mystery to anyone but Saint themself. They can't recall ever being a pup, nor anything about their life since the loop began. They do, however, recognize every other slugcat from images recorded by an old blue robot's overseers. They especially liked the white one and the dark one covered with blue and orange spots. However, after being trapped in the loop for so long that they not only went completely insane, but then became sane again after becoming bored of being insane, they were hoping, praying, wishing that something, anything would be different on one of their loops. It was not a great prospect, but it was the only thing they had left in their life anymore. They were a broken, mentally-scarred, omniscient anomaly who was unable to die. The least they could've hoped for was a change. And to their credit, after billions of loops, leaving them mentally millions of moons older than any other living thing, a fateful trip through Suburban Drifts would leave them waking up in the warm, wet lands of Sky Islands. Out of all the slugcats who "arrived," Saint was the only one to react to the world around them with tears of joy. Something was finally different. Something was new around them. Something was unfamiliar. And just like that, they had a reason to live again.

ENOT I. SOFANTHIEL

Age upon arrival: 21 moons

In a pack full of anomalies, ENOT is weirder than the others by miles. Covered with brightly-colored spots and donning a pair of thick eyelashes, ENOT is a peculiar-appearing slugcat. But the strangeness doesn't end there. ENOT suffers from hallucinations due to a chemical in their blood acting as a hallucinogen, which presumably was given to them as a defense mechanism against predators. But when they're not being attacked, they're forced to wade through landscapes of nacho cheese and rainbow pipes, while having to take refuge in a shelter full of demons and monsters, the most terrifying of which being a pup-shaped and pup-sized black mass with a red face. Fortunately, this little nightmare's older sibling Survivor is far more attractive. ENOT has a tendency to be consistently flirtatious with their colleagues, vainly hoping to form romantic connections. They don't seem to be aware they're doing it, however, and are even more effective as a romantic being when they're simply being genuine. It is very odd that they seem to be unaware that they're flirting, though. Very weird. What's even weirder is that the period they come from on the timeline is completely unplaceable, whether that be due to their unreliable testimonies on account of their hallucinations, or something else...

????

Nothing makes sense.

NIGHT

Who is "Night?" Why, nothing more than a slugpup's cautionary tale. Right? Surely, the story of a rogue, zombified slugcat who sits outside of the cycle and steals any slugcats' arms for the karma symbols stuck on them in a vain attempt to re-enter the cycle is nothing more than a tall tale written to scare young slugpups into sticking with the pack and going to sleep on time, right? Yeah. That's all it is. Nothing more than a tall tale. Nothing more than a spooky campfire story. Nothing more, nothing less.

Of course, that doesn't stop anyone from being afraid. Some even say that in the dark of the night or the rain-filled clouds, they can spot something moving. Nothing like a lizard, or a lost scavenger. Nothing like anything they've ever seen before. A pair of eyes, maybe a glint of teeth or two. Nothing confirmed, but it's troubling to say the least. Still, nothing but a rumor, right?

...hey, anyone else see that?