#you find a label and rock with it for awhile and then you’re like nah

[aimseytv]

when it comes to gender stuff the best way to explain it for me is i wanna look as androgynous as if a man and a woman had a baby ❤️

[floof-reppu]

Invalidity

[omg, so... I may or may not have written a first part to what I hope will be a long ass series... about a Villain AU Mt. Lady. I.. kind of ended up throwing my OC in there, but why the fuck not? anyways... if this is well-received, I’ll definitely continue it soon!!]

Word Count: 2.8k

“You’re absolutely disgusting. You’re a terrible person, and I never want to see you again-”

“You really believe you’ll never see me after this? Think again. I’ll be on the front of each and every published print in Japan, and then the entire earth. You’ll remember me as more than just a pretty face; you’ll remember me as your goddess.”

It was easy for Yu to get the upper advantage in a situation. On the streets during daylight hours, everyone knew her as the likable Mt. Lady. She was loved by all, children and adults alike. But the fame was beginning to get to her. If she wasn’t on the front page of every published tabloid and magazine in Japan, nobody was allowed to be on the front.

It was this ideology that made the pro into somebody sinister, someone who was willing to cross the lines between heroism and villainy alike.

Yu Takeyama wanted to make it bigger than every other hero, no matter what.

Even if that meant turning to crime as the answer.

...

Another day, another crime, another interview; the cycle always repeated itself.

Today, us as The Lurkers just so happened to have an easy criminal to apprehend. I sustained minimal injuries, even as I haphazardly took a chunk out of a nearby building without thinking and threw it at the villain. I was lucky I didn’t injure any surrounding civilians in the process with how forcefully I threw the concrete. Today definitely wasn’t the best of days. 

And to top it off, I was berated by Edgeshot and Kamui for acting recklessly. Come on, can’t you give a girl a break every once and awhile? I’m lucky the press showed up after the fact and had no clue of the… mistake I made.

“Mt. Lady, tell us, how do you feel about the rising crime rates in Japan? Do you believe that pro heroes such as yourself and your fellow members of The Lurkers are going to be able to keep up?”

Interviews were just another part of being a pro hero. The citizens always want to believe that everything is going to be okay, that every single villain that attacks the city is going to be apprehended. I always made sure to sugarcoat the truth in order to keep chaos at bay, because hell, I’m busy enough as it is.

“Of course! It’s our duty as heroes to keep crime at bay. Just because the rate is rising doesn’t mean we aren’t doing our jobs right.” Smiling at the camera was about all I could do to ease the nerves in my stomach. Was I scared? A little. The future of society was starting to become uncertain with the number of crime syndicates rising, as well as independent criminals.

Sometimes I question if what I’m doing is the right thing. But all I could do is put on a brave face and act like everything is okay, at least for the time being.

“I see! Thank you for your time!”

“We- ...I-It’s no trouble at all!” That’s usually not how it goes, at least most of the time. I’m sure there was a reason the reporter cut me off short. 

I took a look through the window of one of the nearby shops. 5:38 P.M. Damn, it’s already that late? I guess I was so caught up with the media that I didn’t really pay attention to the time, since I was technically done patrolling a little over a half hour ago. 

I really am an attention hog, aren’t I?

…

Do I ever go out during the night? It usually depends on how busy the day was, or my mood. Sometimes I’ll go out for a drink or two, out of costume of course (since if I didn’t I’m sure my reputation would be ruined if I was seen drinking in public), at one of the local bars near my apartment. It’s not uncommon for people to recognize me, but I’m technically off-duty when my entire costume is off and put away in my dresser. It’s always nice to unwind after a long day of doing my duties as a pro, alcohol or not. 

“Ah, come in for yer usual, Takeyama?” The bartender greeted me, grin plastered on his grungy face. You could tell that he spends most of his hours here, the disgusting five o’clock shadow dusting his jawline. 

“Nah, I’ll go for a whiskey on the rocks tonight,” I leaned across the bar and placed a thousand yen bill over to him, “and keep the change. Don’t get the wrong idea, though.”

“Aye, so are you really with Nishiya-”

“Not in a million years. We’re just good friends, is all. I’m as single as the next woman that walks into your bar for a drink.” God, how I hate this dumbass. Just ‘cause I’m on the same team as Shinji and we spend time together as friends doesn’t mean shit. 

I watched him grab a glass full of ice and pour bourbon whiskey over top until it was almost ready to spill over.

“Got’cha. Here’s your drink.” 

The cheap smell of alcohol flooded my senses as the drink was slid over to me. I took it in my free hand, pinky dangling over the edge, and went over to the darker corner of the bar to survey my surroundings. Sitting down in an old wooden chair, the bar was mostly empty, save for a few of the normal groups of coworkers who frequently drink together. You wouldn’t catch me drinking with any of my coworkers, though.

There was one man, however, who caught my eye. Clad in a nice shirt and dress slacks, it seems like he just came back from working himself, and you could clearly tell that he dyed his hair, white being the predominant color on top and neatly cut raven locks underneath. He looked quite familiar to me, but I just couldn’t pinpoint exactly who he was.

No better time like the present to find out.

“Hey, you.” I spoke in a monotonous voice, my face showing almost no emotion as I tried to get the man’s attention. He looked up from his smartphone to glance at me, but didn’t give me a second thought as he went back to what he was doing.

Oh, hell no. 

I stood up and started to march my way over to his table while resisting the urge to get up in his face and cuss him out in more ways than one. His grey irises were fixed on one of the many social media platforms installed on his damn phone, which was a bit aggravating, but I guess he was used to it since he was sitting by himself. 

“Did you not hear me? I was trying to get your attention,” I placed my palms on the opposite end of the table and leaned over, staring straight into his soul.

“I heard you, I’m just a bit preoccupied, lady.” 

“Then I don’t think you’d mind if I took this from you-” The classy glass of wine that sat on the table right next to him was wide open, so of course my right hand took a dive to grab it, but then out of nowhere it seemed to vanish and reappear on the other side of him. “Okay, what the fuck was that?!”

“Don’t you know not to touch what’s not yours?” The man grinned, finally setting his phone down. “Aren’t you Mt. Lady?”

“Wow, aren’t you smart.” I snorted, rolling my eyes and sitting down across from him. “What gave you that idea?”

“Platinum blonde locks of hair styled to look the way they are, hair all the way down to the top of your ass, the ‘give me attention’ attitude? Yeah, it wasn’t that hard.” He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest and gazing down to my hands. “I never figured you as the type to go to disgusting bars like this.”

“It’s my choice, not yours. Besides, you’re also here, right? Means you don’t think this place is half bad.” 

“You’re smart and intuitive. Shame that you’re going out with-”

“Don’t you fucking dare. There is nothing going on between Kamui Woods and I, thanks.” 

“Then let me be the one to introduce myself,” he stuck his hand out over the table. “Hayato Kurosawa. I’m a pro hero just like yourself, but you’ll just have to find out-”

“Chrono, right?” I should have known, especially with the way he made his drink disappear like that. His quirk is labeled as Time Manipulation, but I just call it plain trickery. I’ve only worked with him once on a mission, and I haven’t seen him since. No wonder I didn’t recognize him at first glance. 

“-damn, you remembered. It’s been awhile since we’ve seen each other, but even then we never got introduced formally-”

“Takeyama. Yu Takeyama.” I shook his hand with a firm grip, giving him the most genuine smile I could muster. Man, was his palm sweaty.

“Ah, well, er, it’s nice to meet you? Hahaha…” Kurosawa averted his eyes, a small blush creeping onto his face. Was this dude seriously flustered?

“Anyways…” I retracted my hand back to my side of the table, palm down. “Care to share why you were sitting alone?”

“Going to the bar with other pros is unethical, at least in my opinion.” 

That entire statement made absolutely no sense to me. How is going to the bar with a couple of buds from the hero biz unethical? I decided to stay silent and not voice my opinion, but something tells me that Kurosawa isn’t all that he’s cracked up to be.

“I have a question for you, Takeyama,” he started, folding his hands neatly on the table, “why are you so interested in the media?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Your entire costume, at least to me, screams sex appeal just as much as your hero persona. But yet you’re so much more relaxed and carefree now that you’re out of costume. Are you just trying to put on a show to get attention?”

I instantly froze up.

At first, I wanted to be a pro so I could not only make money and provide for myself and any future family I might have, but also so that I could help those who couldn’t help themselves. My quirk turned out to be more destructive than useful in an urban area, but that didn’t stop me from establishing my agency in the big city. If I had gone to a much more rural area, I would never have gotten the attention that I’m currently getting.

Am I being fake? 

I’d like to think that I’m not, but the more that I pondered this thought, the more that I came to the realization that I wasn’t being true to my purpose as a pro hero. Does that make me a hero, or does that make me, in theory, a villain? 

Honestly, I don’t know what I am anymore.

…

I went home that night with a few more glasses in my system. 

Kurosawa thankfully escorted me back to my apartment, as the post-it note on my counter-top claimed, along with his phone number scribbled hastily below. Honestly, I’m surprised he didn’t try to take advantage of me in my drunken state. It wasn’t the first time I’d gotten horribly drunk, but it was the first time that someone had thought to escort me back to my apartment.

I’m sure I told him where I lived while I slurred my speech or some shit. 

Waking up this morning was a nightmare. Immediately, I had to rush to the bathroom and vomit all of the contents in my stomach from last night into the toilet. God, I absolutely hate hangovers. After a solid minute of throwing up and wiping my lips off with toilet paper, I walked to the kitchen and saw the note he’d left for me.

‘Text me if you want to talk about last night, or if you’re bored.’ 

“What the hell…” Kurosawa is definitely an interesting man, and who knows what he might turn out to be to me. But right now, I should probably try to get rid of this nausea.

Grabbing a bottle of water from my fridge, my mind drifted back to the words he said last night. I couldn’t recall what I said after that, but chances are I avoided the question and started to drink my problems away like usual. I hate how I got so worked up over what Kurosawa said, whether his question was out of sheer curiosity or seriousness. I went to go sit on my sofa, turning on the television and opening the water bottle, taking a swig of it before screwing the cap back on. 

The interview from last night was on. My smile was forced, my words a lie... I was no better than the criminal I helped to apprehend. I’m still no better than them. I put on a brave face to hide my fear, even now my face was scrunched into an expression I couldn’t begin to describe with words. All the movements I made were exaggerated, exuberant, fake. I wanted the camera to focus on me, on what I had to say, not the damn reporter. It seems that the cameraman got the memo and zoomed in on all of the parts I wanted to be highlighted.

That’s why, when my phone buzzed, I didn’t know what to expect. It was my day off, after all. The name Shinji Nishiya flashed on the screen multiple times, and I picked up my phone.

“Yeah, what’s up?” I propped my legs on the coffee table, laying back on my sofa. 

“Yu, are you watching the National News?” Shinji’s voice was laced with concern, which made me worry.

“No, what’s on the National News?” I picked up the television remote and changed the channel, and instantly I dropped everything. What was the headline, you might wonder?

Mt. Lady: A Hero, or a Villain in disguise?

What the fuck. 

“Last night, civilians recall the pro hero Mt. Lady endangering the lives of innocent bystanders as she violently hurled a chunk of a nearby building at a criminal. While this managed to take said criminal out, there is no excuse for this kind of behavior as a pro hero.”

“That’s very true. If she had common sense, she would have never risked civilian casualties, nor would she have purposefully damaged public property.”

“She’s only in it for the attention. Either that, or she’s just that dumb.” 

She’s only in it for the attention.

Either that, or she’s just that dumb.

“Yu? Yu, are you-” I hung up on Shinji, tears forming at the corners of my eyes.

My career, my reputation as a hero, is ruined. One of those goddamn civilians said something out of spite, and now look what happened. I’m done for. 

I turned off the television and threw the remote across the room. The tears came flowing out like a waterfall, and I sobbed uncontrollably, head in my hands as I started thinking about what would happen next. I didn’t want this to be the end of my career, no, I wanted to make it big, I wanted to be the smiling face that people of all ages would come to love and enjoy. But it was all taken out of my hands as soon as that report aired. 

But I… kind of liked the attention that I was getting. I loved the way they talked about me as if I was famous nationwide, as if everyone in Japan knew my name. If they didn’t know before, they sure did know now. That’s when I knew it had to be true, what I had thought about earlier.

If I was willing to do something like that just for the attention, I really must be fake.

But... I’ll show Japan that I don’t have to be a hero to make a name for myself.

Fuck the system, I can do whatever the hell I want and get away with anything I want to. I’ll be on the front of every magazine, be the highlight of every news report, have entire articles about me, myself and I. Today, I was reborn as a different being. One that didn’t care what the media thought, and one who wasn’t fake, because I’m being true to my personal goals.

Because this is the real me, and this is who I want to be.

[primal-screamer-blog1]

Mutually Assured Destruction (Playlist Here) Rating: Mature Pairing: Nikki Sixx/F. OC Description: Growing restless in his discontent, Nikki Sixx is plagued with past anxieties that he never could find the courage to confront. He’d seen and done it all but when it came to Ruby Moon, he’d always felt he had unfinished business. Now, years after their tumultuous relationship had seemingly come to an end, Nikki finds himself compulsively recounting memories and asking questions only she would have the answers to. current word count 16,606

Prologue One : Red When I See You Two : Attention, Affection Three : Think About What You Know Four :  Patience A/N: This one took me awhile because honestly, it’s a bit light on Nikki. There’s a lot of exposition here but thankfully this will be the last chapter where that happens. We’re much closer to them being together than it may seem. Surprise feature in here. Hope you enjoy xo  masterlist.

1983 Vince got put on the cover of Kerrang! Magazine. After that, every changed. The boys were hungrier than ever and still, no one would sign them.  They were too new and too much of a risk;  Nikki was lighting himself on fire every night while Mick was slowly locking in place.  But the crowds were becoming too much to handle.  They broke attendance records at clubs all over town and eventually someone called in the fire marshall.  But with no album, they were barred from access to bigger venues - no one was taking them seriously.  So they did it themselves. Nikki locked himself in the studio all summer with Motley Crue. Four long weeks, high on coke and shoved in a tiny recording booth with three other guys for seventeen hours a day, he was feeling tense and tight.  It was up in the mornings with cocaine and down in the afternoon with full handles of whiskey. Managing his stress, and therein his substance intake, became more important than staying fed so he was flat broke too. And then the album came out. People couldn’t buy Too Fast For Love fast enough. By the time the first pressing had run out, they sold out a 3,500 seat arena in San Francisco, a full 378 miles away from L.A. And the record labels took notice.  Elektra sent them on tour to Canada, footing the bill and signing them for the next seven years. The makeup, the stage show, the clothes, Tommy’s sticks spinning in the air; it’d worked. Motley Crue made it. And in the meantime, while Nikki was in and out the studio, up and down on planes and playing shows to thousands of people in another country, Ruby met someone. A few advertising executives from Palo Alto were taking the night off from their business trip in L.A. at the Seventh Veil. They were in L.A. because they’d just closed a massive deal with Calvin Klein and were contracted to run a billboard campaign. They were scouting locations. What they found, were models. Ruby and Roxanne could be seen topless, with their backs turned, fourteen feet high on five major highways in California. The girls were rendered in black and white, tight Calvin Klein jeans hugging their hips. They clutched hands, Roxanne looking down, her blonde hair splayed down her back, Ruby looking over her shoulder and smiling flirtatiously into the camera.   California Girls wear Calvins. For the two weeks following, The Seventh Veil received calls daily asking for Ruby. Plenty of local boys had come in to watch her and Roxanne, to gape at the girls they saw on the billboard, but the same guys started calling at least once a day. And every time her manager asked her if she wanted to take it, she said no. She didn’t want to be a model and so she didn’t want the attention. She wanted to pay the bills and that was the extent of her interest in Calvin Klein. The paycheck was more than she’d seen in her life, but she considered it nothing more than luck.  What she really wanted, one of the only things she cared about really, was to play music. She finally found a guitar player, a tall, skinny boy from Nebraska named Billie. Billie had shaggy black hair and was raised on classical music. He only wore black and when his fingers moved across a fretboard, his hands looked like frantic spiders, jumping and sliding across the guitar. He listened to DeBussy, read Fangoria and exclusively drank black coffee with a double shot of whiskey, no matter the hour. He also insisted that they were the Plastics and never The Plastix ever again.   Ruby introduced Billie to Alex, a teenage Mexican punk with a skunky two toned shag. Alex liked the Circle Jerks, double cheese pizza and banging on drums. He also liked Billie and Ruby. That was about it. They were missing a bass player, but together, they started writing songs in Billie’s basement apartment every day.  Ruby had no intention of losing focus. She was making money and making music. It was everything she had come to Los Angeles to do. So it was really frustrating for her when this guy kept calling. “Ruby, please just take it!” Roxanne begged her after picking up the phone. Roxanne had become paranoid with all the new found attention they were receiving. Ruby may have had her one persistent caller but when the guys came in, they wanted to see Roxanne. They were getting aggressive and it was beginning to stress her out. “Ruby if you don’t answer, he’s never gonna stop. Just take the call so he can leave us all alone.” Roxanne looked like she might quit right then and there if she didn’t. Ruby sighed. “What’s his name even?” “Says his name is Axl.” She raised an eyebrow. “Another fucking rock star?”  Ruby rolled her eyes. She grabbed the phone from Roxanne, who quickly replaced it with a drink and stormed off. “Listen to me, you little creep. I’ve been turning you down for two weeks now. What do you fucking want?” She heard a low, heady laugh on the other end. “How about you turn me down to my fucking face?” She didn’t stand a chance. Axl was gorgeous. He had long red hair, a big, wide mouth and intense, startling green eyes. He showed up in a tight cut off Iron Maiden t shirt, a red bandana tied around his forehead and torn up jeans tucked into heavy army boots with the tongues pulled out. A toothpick hung from his lips. “Your name’s Ruby, right?” “How do you even know that?” She shot at him, her hands on her hips and her mouth fixed in a scowl. A smile spread across Axl’s lips. He let out the same slow laugh she heard on the phone. “You’re even cuter when you’re angry.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “How did you find me, asshole? Only local boys know where we’re at, what’s your deal?” “Your pictures on the fucking 405, sweetheart. You’re not hard to find.” “Alright, great. Look, Axl, right? I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.” “There’s a company name on the back of the billboard,” He cut her off. “So I looked it up in the phone book and I called it. The guy on the other end told me he had no fucking clue who you were, but that I could call the ad agency and then he fucking laughed at me and was all like ‘good luck, kid’ as if I’m not standing here right fucking now. Fucking prick. Anyway,” Axl took a breath while he flipped his toothpick around. He either didn’t notice or didn’t care that he was rambling, his voice deep and his cadence slow. It was only hypnotic in that she had to try hard to pay attention.  She found she was more watching him than listening to him, his green eyes shifting about. “So I called the ad agency and they were like ‘that’s Ruby Moon. She’s fucking something, huh?’ I was like god damn right, man. Where the fuck can I find her? And so like, they just gave me your fucking information, which like, totally fucking warped, by the way. Turns out, I been living down the street from here the past six months. Fucking bizarre. So I figured I’d call you up and see if I could come talk to you.” “Yeah…fucking bizarre.” She trailed off, staring at him. He seemed frustrated about something, more than just a little cagey. He stood with his arms across his chest and though he went on in a bit of rigid tone, he looked at her like all he’d done was casually comment on the weather. But recounting his story, something about him seemed almost painfully sweet, if not niave and sentimental. She loosened up a little. “You really did all that?” “Yeah, I mean…you got eyes that knocked me the fuck out.” Finally, he smiled. She had to look away to keep from blushing. She felt embarrassed and flattered. She didn’t know why. She got asked out on dates constantly working at the club, but Axl didn’t seem all that interested in the strip club. He seemed interested in her. "So....what?” She almost stuttered. “Did you like wanna go on a date or something? Is that why you're here?" "Nah, I just had to come see what you were about." She tilted her head at him, confused as to what exactly he was here for. A slow look of realization spread across his face. “Oh, wait, would you go on a date with me?” “That’s not what you came here for?” “No fuckin’ way. You’d go out with me? For real?” She couldn’t turn him down at that point. Axl didn’t take Ruby out to dinner or for drinks like most guys did.  Instead, he bought two 40 ounces of malt liquor from the gas station and took her onto the public transit bus. She agreed to go out with him that night, his fascination with her quickly becoming mutual. It was 2:30 in the morning and she’d just gotten out of work. “You know, I have a car. I could’ve drove.” She told him, pulling a black denim jacket over her cropped tank top. “Get your own date.” He nudged her in the shoulder. “I’m not letting you hijack mine.” Axl told Ruby that he was from Indiana and, like many, moved here to start a band.  He wanted to sing. “My voice is kinda weird, not a lot of people really get what I’m trying to do.” He said. “I’m with these guys right now, Hollywood Rose. I don’t really know how long it’ll last. This guy Izzy is a fucking great guitar player though. I just want it to go somewhere.” She told him about the Plastics and their new direction with their new guitar player. “Kind of punk, kind of glam, but also, kind of not at all.” She explained it. They talked about influences from Kiss and Aerosmith to Velvet Underground and Patti Smith. Axl argued that punk was transgressive. “Devil’s Advocate.” He added. “I love punk rock.” “Transgression is exactly the point, right? Transgress in technology, you can progress in ideology.” She tapped a long finger nail to her temple. He almost laughed at her. “Why the fuck are you a stripper?” “Because I fucking love it, asshole!” “You sound like you went to college.” She laughed. She wasn’t about to tell him her life story. They got off at the last stop. They’d been on the bus for about an hour and the streetlights stopped appearing.  There was only one other person on the bus, a small old woman asleep in the front. Axl and Ruby sat in the back, each of their legs flung over the others and giggling while they traded a bottle back and forth. “Is this where you murder me?” She asked, peering out the window at the desolate road they plugged along, hills rising all around them. “We don’t have to go.” He said, looking concerned. “I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable or anything.” Ruby pinched her brows together, not used to hearing something like that come out of a guys mouth. For a moment she considered what he meant; she really had no idea who he was or where they were. “I’ll take my chances.” She grinned at him. He smiled back at her and put his hand on her thigh. She let him keep it there. When the bus finally stopped, they were on a wooded road at the last exit before the Hollywood sign. Axl kicked at the dirt under his boots and lit up a cigarette. Ruby looked up and down the road, cracked and covered with potholes. It was hard to see the night sky, tall trees stretching together above them. She could tell they were high up in the Hollywood Hills, the temperature having dropped significantly from when they left the strip. “Where are we?” She asked, joining him and lighting up her own smoke. “Mount Lee.” He exhaled. “C’mon. We’re not too far.” “We’re going hiking?” She asked him, watching him start to lead her down the road. “Not even. There’s a path right up here.” He said, sticking his hand out at her. “C’mon.” She looked at it for a moment, unsure of herself suddenly. “You want me to hold your hand?” “What are you, a robot or something? Yeah, hold my hand.” She thought about it for a moment. All the intimacy she encountered since she’d been in California had only taken place in someone’s bed. In a bathroom stall, up against a wall at a party, all the same; she realized this was the first date she didn’t feel any expectations. She felt that she could just as easily tell Axl no as she could take his hand and walk with him and it wouldn’t matter to him. So she did. His hand was big and warm. She smiled as he led her past a large wooden sign, Trail Marker 13.3 Miles etched into it. They went into the brush and down a small dirt path. She was thankful she changed into her street clothes before leaving work, dreading just the idea of walking around the dirt in heels. “How did you find this spot?” She asked as they weaved through the dark, trees and foliage closing in around them. “I was in a pretty fucked up place when I first got here.” He told her, pulling a branch out of the way and holding it back for her.  “I used to come up here and drink by myself when I didn’t have a place to stay. Just wander around in the dark feeling like a fucking wolf.” “Are wolves nocturnal?” “What?” “Like are they mostly active at night?” “I don’t fucking know. They’re always howling at the moon and shit, right?” “Yeah, I guess so.” “We’re almost there. It’s right up ahead.” The full silver moon above illuminated a small clearing of tall grass and purple wildflowers. Axl walked in ahead of her and sprawled out in the grass. She looked up and took a hesitant step in. There seemed to be a million more stars in the sky than there were in the city, the night a crisp, clean black and white. “C’mere.” Axl called out to her, tipping the bottom of his bottle up at the sky. She stepped all the way out into the clearing and he picked himself up on his elbows. She sat down next him and took the malt liquor, taking a deep swig of her own. “It’s really beautiful up here.” She told him. “You’re really fucking beautiful up here.” He said, staring back at her. She instinctively looked away to hide her smile, feeling on spot under his gaze. “No, c’mon. Lemme see it in person.” He gently placed his big, warm hand on her neck and guided her face back to him. Her smile fell slightly and she blinked up into his eyes. His wide grin came back. “God damn it.” “Why are you being so sweet to me?” “I dunno.” He shrugged and gave her a knowing smirk, keeping his answers to himself. His hand slid from her neck to her back and she pulled in closer to him. “Why are you so surprised?” He asked her. She nuzzled her head into his chest before pressing her lips softly to his throat. “I dunno.” He made a satisfied hum and worked his hand into her hair. He gently tugged it so that she looked up at him. He held her there for a moment and moved the loose strands out of her face.“Why’d you come out with my tonight?” He searched her eyes, the same color green as his. She caught her breath and let out a sound between a whimper and a giggle, feeling on spot. He let his hand fall and trace her collar bone with his thumb. “Give me a break. You know you’re gorgeous. That’s why you wanted to see me in person, right?” “Be for real.” He tried not to smile. She took in a deep sigh and looked down, needing a moment from his concentration. “Honestly?” She began, considering her words. “You seemed exciting.” “Bus ride change your mind?” “No. Not at all. Most guys just wanna go out with me so they can tell their friends they got with a stripper. I still don’t really know what you want.” She pulled his hand up to her mouth and kissed his knuckles. “Axl.” She murmured his name, glancing up at him. They both let their guards down. He pushed his mouth onto hers. She felt a warmth spread in her chest as she breathed in deep, pulling herself onto his lap. She draped her arms down his back, his hands holding onto her hips and grabbing at her thighs as his tongue opened her mouth. Beneath the moonlight, Ruby and Axl kissed and touched and rolled on top of each other until it faded and the sun took its place. In the vibrant orange and pink of daybreak, the crickets making their last calls in the trees, Axl pulled Ruby’s shirt over her head and kissed her breasts. She took off her bra and he took off his pants and a warm breeze rolled over them, until eventually, they were naked in the morning light. He held her tight and pushed deep into her until she squeezed around his whole body; his cock, his waist, his shoulders. Her nails grazed down his back, on top of her until she loosened again. She smiled in his arms and he kissed her forehead and her lips and her shoulders, pulling her jacket around her and laying naked in the sun until they heard a group of hikers falling in in the distance. For the next three weeks, Ruby had Axl in the morning, band practice in the afternoon, work at Seventh Veil at night and would be back in bed with Axl by the end of it all. They showed each other songs the other had written and smoked joints by the pool in her apartment complex. They sang duets in the shower together and sat in awe of the other’s voice. Izzy or Billie would stop by to shoot the shit and play guitar, exchanging ideas for the Plastics and Hollywood Rose. The diner down the street from her house had already taken note of her usual egg white and black coffee. Now when she came in, they had a cheeseburger and a double order of fries ready for Axl. They would eat, smoke and talk into the night until they found themselves tangled up in her bed again until the sun came up again. Until one morning her phone rang. “Ruby! We saw you and Roxie in a magazine in goddamn Canada! What the fuck?” Tommy’s excited voice came over the end. “Tommy?!” She gasped excitedly into the phone. She hadn’t heard from any of the boys in Motley Crue since they left for tour. She kept so busy, she almost didn’t notice they’d been gone for longer than they said they’d be. “I’m so excited to hear from you. Where are you guys?” “We’re in Toronto! We’ve been selling out every night, they had to add extra dates to the tour!” “No fucking way, that’s amazing! Are you loving it?” “I’m having the time of my fucking life, Ruby Red. I hope this tour never ends.” “I fucking hope it does. I need you guys to come back! I miss you all so much.” “I’m always missing you, California Girl. You’re famous now too!” He said, referencing the slogan on her ad. “She’s from fucking New York!” She heard Nikki’s muffled shouting over the phone. “Wow he’s just so supportive.” She said sarcastically. “Ah, you know Nikki. He’ll never be happy.” Tommy laughed. “Hey, fuck you!” She heard Nikki again. “Dude, take the phone.” Tommy rustled around and Nikki muttered something unintelligible to him. “Talk to Ruby, dickweed. Ow! Alright, well whatever. I tried!” “Don’t worry about it, Tommy, he’ll have to talk to me someday.” She joked. “Hey, we’re gonna be back in two days. The label is throwing us a party at Nikki’s new place and you gotta be there! I wanna hear all about how you got in a fucking magazine.” “I got nothing but time for you, T-Bone.” She hung up the phone in the kitchen, pulling her blanket around her naked body. Her bare feet padded across the black tile and into her bedroom where Axl still slept. She leaned against the doorframe and looked at his hair falling down his back, his shoulders gently rising and falling with his heavy breathing. He let out a snore and she giggled quietly before falling back into bed with him. He made a noise in his throat as she laid kisses on his shoulder blade. “Who’s on the phone this early?” He groaned and rolled over, pulling her on top of him, keeping his eyes closed. “My friend Tommy. He’s a drummer. They’re coming back from tour in a few days.” “Fucking lucky.” Axl pulled a pillow over his face. Ruby sat up and ran a finger down his ribs. “Hey Axl?” “Baby.” He sat up, hearing a slight rise in her voice that let him know she had something serious to say. He held back a yawn, trying to rub the sleep from his heavy eyes. She grabbed onto his hand - something she no longer found intimidating. “You mind if I just hang by myself tonight?” He quirked a somewhat spiteful smile at her. “You finally getting tired of me?” “God, no.” She laid a kiss on his shoulder. “I just wanna get some alone time before my friends get back into town.” “You’re just so popular.” He teased her and gave her nipple a hard flick before laying back down. “Get on top of me, popular girl. I wanna feel like a fucking football player.” “Oh my God, fuck off.” She laughed as he pulled her on top of him. He fucked her good and hard before kissing her goodbye. “I’ll call you in a few days. I gotta see Izzy anyway. Says he found this wild guitar player I gotta check out, so we’ll be tracking him down.” Ruby took the night off. The piping hot bath tub simmered as the bubbles grew taller. With a bottle of champagne and the local rock station playing, she slipped in for the night to clear her head. However the radio had other plans. “Ladies and gentlemen, exploding hot on the scene and closing out their first international tour, we have Motley Crue rocking the airwaves tonight with their first hit single, 10 Seconds To Love! Check this one out, listeners and stay tuned for your chance to win a signed copy of the record! Rock n Roll!” She popped the bottle and let the foam run into the tub. She wouldn’t be bothering with a glass. She hadn’t thought about Nikki since they left. She made an effort not to. Things had been strained between the two of them in the weeks before tour. Without seeing much of the other, their last serious conversation didn’t have much resolve. And how could it? She thought. She didn’t know where things were going with Axl. She knew that she really liked him, but she also knew when she told Nikki she didn’t want a boyfriend, she meant it. She drank from her bottle of champagne and submerged beneath the bubbles. She thought about Nikki. She thought about how much she missed him. One late night while the boys were recording, Nikki had shown up on her doorstep unannounced. His head was hurting and his stomach was growling. “I can’t get these fucking songs out of my head.” He sighed in the doorway, soaking wet from the downpour outside. She rushed him in and got him a towel while he dropped his sopping t shirt in a puddle on the floor. “Take a shower.” She told him, holding the towel out at arms length. “You stink.” When he emerged, clean and warm, his hair was wet and laid flat. He shivered in his briefs, joining Ruby where she sat on the couch. She was in a pair of sweatpants and an old high school chorus line t shirt, makeup wiped from her face and her hair pulled back. It was a rare sight for both of them to be seen like this. As he sat down, she got up and rounded into the kitchen. She came back with a heaping plate of leftover spaghetti in one hand and a bottle of rum in the other. “Eat up.” She told him, handing him off the plate. “Sorry for showing up so late.” He said, leaning over and scarfing down the food. “It’s fine.” She said, watching him with concern. “When’s the last time you ate?” “I don’t know.” “Jesus. You gotta take better care of yourself, Sixx.” “I gotta get this fucking record done first.” After a few huge bites, he took the rum from her and washed down his massive helping. He hadn’t realized he was so hungry. He sighed and finally relaxed into the couch. He pulled a wool blanket off the arm and wrapped it around himself. “Your place is so fucking nice.” “Having a job is nice.” “I’m gonna have a place of my own one day.” “Yeah you fucking are.” She grabbed the rum back from him. “This album is gonna blow people’s minds, Nikki. When you see that, you’re not even gonna remember nights like tonight.” He shifted in his place, hiccuping from how quickly he drank and ate. “I want to though.”  He chugged more rum. “Well, you’re definitely not going to at this rate.” He looked up at her and blinked hard, his eyes bloodshot through smudged eyeliner he wasn’t able to wipe off. He groaned. “Ruby, I’m sorry for being such a shit head.” “What ever could you be talking about, Nikki?” She smiled sarcastically at him. “You’re the worst.” “No, please, say it again. I wanna hear a long apology.” “C’mon, I’m being serious.” “I am too! Suck it up, Sixx. I’m gonna give you all the shit I can.” “Fine. Fine. Fuck. I’m sorry. I’ve been an asshole. You don’t deserve any of that.” He rolled his head on his shoulder to look away from her. “You’re allowed to do whatever the fuck you want. I can’t complain about you living your life. That’s fucked up for me to do.” “Nikki, you know I love you. Right?” “You do?” “Of course, I do. You know I do. Why else would I let you in my house at three in the morning?” He chewed on the inside of his lip, frustrated with himself and for some reason, still frustrated with Ruby. He meant what he said, it’d been on his mind all day. But hearing her say that she loved him somehow made him feel worse than before. He pulled his knees into his chest. “Yeah, sure. Love you too.” He didn’t mean it the same way she did. Not in this context anyway, and he knew it was the only context he’d hear it in. She pretended not to notice. “Nothing is ever coming between us, okay? I promise.” In the tub, she thought about Axl again as she remembered her words to Nikki. All she could do was sink deeper into the bubbles and hope it was true. Taglist: @triplehaitches @vamprlestat 

[echoes-of-the-clockwork]

Detroit: Become Human Markus x Reader [Part I] [6]

There will be a second part in case I forget to label this part correctly! Love you all!!! (F/n)= Father's name •••••••••••••••• ~3rd Person POV~

"Finally," Carl muttered as Markus wheeled him out of the automated taxi. The duo entered the gallery that was bustling with people. The android glanced around the room, admiring the many beautiful pieces of art. "Let's find the lady of the evening, Markus."

The machine nodded and pushed Carl further into the venue. People chatted loudly as the man searched the crowd for his fellow artist and close friend. Spying (h/c) hair in the crowd, Carl was able to recognize the young woman from here. "Over there, Markus." The old man pointed to the figure in the crowd and the machine wheeled him to them.

The moment the young woman turned around, she was greeted by a smiling Carl. "It's been awhile, hasn't it, (Y/n)?"

"Carl! I didn't expect to see you tonight," the young artist smiled back.

"How could I miss it? It's your first viewing since returning from Europe."

"I was able to grab this venue at the last minute."

"How long has it been since I've seen you?"

"Eight long years. How about you two view my pieces while I deal with another buyer? I'll join you both in a few minutes."

Markus pushed Carl to the nearest piece, both mesmerized by the art.

The android's eyes widened at the beautifully painted scenery. Carl smiled as he examined each and every stroke on the large canvas. "She's outdone herself."

Markus stepped forward, now standing beside Carl. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the painting as his eyes bounced between the trees, river, and mountains. The old man saw the look in his eyes and chuckled. "It's beautiful, don't you agree?"

"It's more than beautiful," Markus replied.

"Let's go see the others."

An odd sensation rose in Markus' chest as he pushed Carl to the next painting.

As the machine's attention was absorbed by the piece, he failed to notice (Y/n) standing beside him until she spoke gently to him. "Do you like it?"

Unconsciously, Markus placed a hand over his artificial heart. His LED glimmers from blue to yellow then back to blue. "'Like' is the word I wouldn't use. It's another word, but I can't think of what it is."

(Y/n) tilted her head slightly. "What about the word 'love'?"

Markus turned his head to glance at the woman. "Yes. I love this piece."

Carl saw the interaction and smiled. He wheeled up to (Y/n)'s side and grabbed her attention. "I'll give you twelve hundred for it, (Y/n)."

"Carl, that's too much! The price I placed on this piece is five hundred."

"You need to value your pieces more, (Y/n). You're a young, prospering artist. I have a feeling that one day, these pieces will be in museums all across the world. You could be the next Picasso."

"Then, the piece is all yours, old friend. I've known you since I was a kid and you've been my role model since the moment I met you."

Carl then gave the painting another look-over. "I'd say you've surpassed me. You have a bright future ahead of you, (Y/n). Oh, and you better call me whenever you're going to hold another showing. I'd like to be present at every single one. I need more pieces around the house," the elder chuckled.

"You'll be the first one I call, Carl. Maybe I can get my parents to come up from Florida to my next showing. They'd love to see you."

"It's been years since I've seen those two. A small reunion would do the three of us well."

(Y/n) smiled and thanked Carl. He went to get a drink, insisting Markus to stay with the young lady. The android nodded and chatted with the artist beside him about what inspired her.

-An Hour Later-

"I'm glad to see my Autumn Collection has a big fan," (Y/n) beams happily. "Do you have anymore questions, Markus?"

"Just one-what will your next collection be named?"

"Hmm... not sure. I'll have to determine that when I start on it." Carl returned with a glass of champagne. (Y/n) smirked at the old man. "You get lost on your way back?"

"Nah. Just spotted another familiar face and we chatted for a good hour," Carl explains.

The three talked for another hour before realizing most of the guests had left. They headed to the back, where Carl paid for the painting. "Where are you staying while you're in town?"

"That... I have yet to decide. I'll probably get a ride to a nearby hotel. I didn't get to make reservations before boarding the plane last night. Currently, I'm working on two hours of sleep and that's from napping on a plane. Jet lag is the worst," (Y/n) sighs exhaustedly.

"Don't worry about finding a hotel. You're welcome to use the guest room at my house. It hasn't been used in years, but Markus keeps it clean."

"Thank you, Carl. I accept your kind offer," (Y/n) smiles. "It'll also save me money and I'll get to spend more time with you and Markus. I'll wrap up the painting, grab my things, and then we'll go."

-Manfred Residence-

"Markus, take (Y/n)'s things to the guest room," Carl stated.

"Oh, I can handle my own luggage," said woman exclaimed.

"Please, allow me, (Y/n)," Markus said, taking her bags. The woman followed the android up the staircase and to the guest room. He sat her bags on the bed while the young artist looked around the vast room. She admired the few paintings that hung on the walls, amazed at their beauty. "(Y/n)?"

The woman snaps her gaze back to Markus. "Yes?"

"Would you like anything to drink before you go to bed?"

"Oh, no. Thank you, though, Markus. I'm beat and definitely need to go to bed as soon as possible. I'll see you in the morning," (Y/n) smiles. The android smiles in return before leaving.

-Next Morning-

(Y/n) woke up around eight and searched the house for Markus, not wishing to disturb Carl this early in the morning. She wandered down the stairs and found the machine admiring her painting that Carl had bought last night. During the night, Markus had found the perfect place to hang it right in the living room.

"Good morning, Markus," (Y/n) cheerfully greets, grabbing his attention.

His head snaps towards her, startled slightly by her sudden presence. "Good morning, (Y/n)."

"I'm honored you love my painting so much. No one has ever gazed so passionately at my work for so long."

"Where were you when you painted this?"

"Austria. I was walking around the outskirts of Vienna in fall and came upon a stream. Luckily, I had my sketch pad and a pencil in my backpack."

"Do you plan on returning to Europe?"

"Not anytime soon. Those plane tickets aren't exactly cheap. I sold my apartment in Vienna and traveled to Paris just to get a better deal on plane tickets back to Detroit. Not the sanest idea, but I did save a few hundred bucks."

Just then, the sound of the front door opening caught their attention. "Dad?" Markus and (Y/n) recognized the voice that was calling out to Carl. Leo walked into the living room, his eyes falling on the two figures standing in front of the painting. "(Y/n)?"

"Hey, Leo. Haven't seen you in awhile," the woman responds with a small smile. She noticed the rings around his eyes and the sway in his step. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," he lazily responds.

(Y/n) raised a brow, noting the other signs of drug use. "Why're you here early in the morning?"

"Just... need a few bucks," Leo admits.

"For what?" (Y/n) crosses her arms in disapproval.

"For, uh..."

(Y/n) sighs in disbelief. "Leo, let's talk in private."

"Um, sure."

(Y/n) and Leo left, leaving Markus all alone. The android was worried about leaving her alone with Carl's son, but he shook the feeling away and went to wake up his owner.

After tending to Carl's normal morning routine, Markus made breakfast for both Carl and (Y/n). The old man sat at the table as the machine placed the meals down. "Have you seen (Y/n), Markus?"

"Yes. She's outside talking to Leo," he responds while pouring a cup of tea.

At the sound of his son's name, Carl sighed and leaned back in his wheelchair. "What is he wanting now?"

"Money."

Carl pinched the bridge of his nose. "He's not getting another cent from me."

After a short silence, (Y/n) entered the room. Carl and Markus glanced at the young woman, noticing the cut on her cheek. "Sorry for taking so long."

"What happened?" Carl questioned.

Markus sat the tea pot down before quickly tending to (Y/n). He took her hand and pulled a chair out for her as she spoke. "A small scuffle with Leo. He snapped when I told him to leave."

"I'm sorry about my son's behavior, (Y/n)," Carl apologizes.

"Don't worry about it." She winces slightly when Markus pressed a wet napkin against the cut. He dabbed the minuscule wound lightly, stealing a glance into her (e/c) eyes while her attention was focused on Carl.

The two ate breakfast once (Y/n)'s wound was cleaned. The trio talked non-stop for an hour before Markus cleaned up the table with help from (Y/n). As the two were washing dishes, the young artist glanced at Markus. "Would it be alright if you modeled for me?"

Markus met (Y/n)'s gaze, setting the dish down in the sink. "A model?"

"I'd like for you to be the center of my next piece. I also think it would be a great way to start my upcoming collection."

Markus agreed and after they finished the dishes, the duo headed to the studio. Carl gladly granted (Y/n) permission to use his supplies and any spare canvas she desires. The artist grabbed a canvas, a handful of pencils, and a stool. Markus helped set up the easel as she sharpened the pencils.

"Alright. I don't know what androids consider 'normal', but just be yourself. It's no fun drawing someone who's stiff as a rock," (Y/n) smiles.

Markus did just that. He acted like his usual self, allowing (Y/n) to sketch him. She didn't complain as he walked around the studio and cleaned up the various messes and organized the paints, pencils, paintings, and brushes. The woman was able to get the details of his body that she needed in order to complete her sketch, which took a couple of hours.

(Y/n) placed the pencil down, graphite smeared across both of her hands. "Now, all I need to do is paint-" A faint ringing came from her back pocket. (Y/n) pulled out her phone and saw her mother was calling. She accepts the call and Markus couldn't help but listen. "Uh, yeah. I can book a flight this afternoon. Love you."

Markus watched as (Y/n) slid the device back into her pocket before their eyes locked. "That was my mom. My dad's in the hospital and he's not doing so well. I'll need to book a flight to Tampa ASAP."

"I will book a flight for you, (Y/n)," Markus said.

"Thank you, Markus. I'm gonna go tell Carl."

The woman left the android in the studio. Markus did as he promised and booked (Y/n) a flight within minutes. After he was done with the booking, he wandered to the canvas and stared at the sketch. Markus' eyes widened when he saw himself, every detail perfect.

Ten minutes later, (Y/n) returned and Markus told her about the airline ticket to Florida. "Your flight leaves at five this evening, (Y/n)."

"Thank you for your help, Markus. How much do I owe for the ticket?"

"Do not worry about it. Carl wished for me to tend to your every need, even with transportation."

"I appreciate it, but plane tickets aren't cheap."

"(Y/n), stop. You don't owe a cent to me," Carl said as he entered the studio. "You can repay me by keeping us filled in on (F/n). I hope he'll be alright."

"Thank you for everything, Carl, Markus. I really was hoping to spend a few more days in Detroit before heading to visit my parents. I'll call you the moment I land in Tampa and update you on my father's condition. I guess... I should get my things together."

"I will help, (Y/n)," Markus said.

"After you've made yourself at home, you've got to pack already," Carl sighs.

"I'll be back in Detroit before you know it," she smiled.

(Y/n) and Markus headed upstairs and packed her things. Checking the time, the duo realized it was only fifteen past ten. The woman sighed. "My flight leaves in six hours and forty-five minutes. Could you... show me around Detroit, Markus?"

The android smiled and nodded. "Of course, (Y/n)."

-Four Hours Later-

Back at the Manfred Residence, Markus grabbed (Y/n)'s bags as she said goodbye to Carl. The android contacted a taxi for her and both waited outside for the vehicle to arrive. The taxi arrived a few minutes later and the android placed her bags in the back seat. "You can pick up your ticket at the service desk at the airport. What about your sketch?"

"I'm gonna leave it here and finish it when I return. Thank you for everything, Markus," (Y/n) beams happily.

He smiled back. "I hope to see you again soon, (Y/n)."

She nodded, her smile widening. "Me, too. I'll see you soon, Markus." ••••••••••••••••••••••• PS- Remember, there will be a part two!😄

[dahmer]

oh pi! at es. ples. ples.

Oh! just, subtle, and mighty opium! that to the hearts of poor and rich alike, for the wounds that will never heal, and for 'the pangs that tempt the spirit to rebel,' bringest an assuaging balm; eloquent opium! that with thy potent rhetoric stealest away the purposes of wrath; and to the guilty man, for one night givest back the hopes of his youth, and hands washed pure of blood.... qtd // thomas de Quincey // Confessions of an English Opium Eater

here’s a man, once ill-tempered of turks and trendsetting vices, speaking to the grand stage of the world fashioned in this season’s epide-mock. a warm, fuzzy coatish wear nestled in the covers. small american towns know these styles too well to count body bags, along cotton pads and china scabs, among mother’s basements and luxury high risers graduating all from the fancy-feels certificate of blues. those roxy pebbles, how they start us so--an endless invitation to long summer warmth that childhood bathtubs and lawn-mower sundays would once bring.

when did the foil side decision set in. was there truly a technique to not waste the evaporated smoke, or just somedaze endless-ego-talk of the mighty soldiers in the opium army of guilt. shame, yes sir! solute to toot, scrap the straw edges as the hours pass waiting for the guy with the goods. were you in california when fent came along, past the liquid patch of time-released days. the recents 16s, 17s, two thousands eighteens. labs grade, synthesizing variations to parade as china. “east coast man, east coast shit. it’s the best ever. no, nah nah bro, i got you. bud took one point, was on his ass for hours. nod on fire.”

did chemists know the china rhetoric will turn fent-for-all. markets of east coast fantasies, oblivious to west coast privileges. of potency. of people. of starry nights in smashing pumpkin music video dreams, riding through hollywood as a secret member of the powder variety. it’s a plague paraded as a epidemic because that word has no world of meaning to the good folk playing their igno-rent; recycling stigmas of junky choice rattling thrillists. despite the proof inside the bottles. the truth in every bottle. in every cabinet. of every person. with every doctor. who ever felt. the normalcy sensation of one of the most blanked words: pain.

pain is surely what that just, subtle, and mighty opium! creates in the hearts of the poor and rich alike. the rich die often in the experimentation state of emergency someone labeled as ‘the opioid problem’--problem? oh lily, you know as much as your wilted leaves and neighboring trees the silly stamp we slap when using ‘problem’ to critically deconstruct something magnificently complex.this ‘problem’ has destroyed empires for centuries. it’s notorious and makes no attempt to conceal its power in narrative recollections of the living  authors that have spoke the truths of humanity across language, land, and lives. yet big pharma pulled off opana and roxicodone in the last 20 years. if there’s any declaration of the fools ruling the castle in modern times, this must be the great exemplary act. the profit of pain, oh yawn. i’m sure the academic discourse that has capture this best is brilliant it construction and nature, but what difference does it make in an opiated masses?

i’ve not canceled my subscriptions to the periodical dual tragedies of the early 21st century, as they remain unchanged and unchallenged: (1) a sheer lack of empathy in the common man; (2) the curious and devastating complacency and lack of outrage to what seems to unfold before our eyes, rapidly and carelessly so now that it’s almost as if those navigating the unseen lines of powers that be mock us, appropriately so. if we’re no opiated, we’re not outrage or active either. generalization? yes. but for those who fall outside of this, fight causes that continually reveal themselves as premeditated chess pieces in the political playing field that has seep into dominating the social sphere that delivers use a constantly-running facet of media and targeted, privatized ads.

i am an addict.

i can clean. M knows. some family knows. the weight that has been lifted is ineffably enduring. i’m frustrated, naturally, at the golden years missed. the creativity, the goodness of my heart, kindness of soul, charity, intellectual ability, sincerity, and passionate interests. how they dulled and disappeared. the weight of their reappearance should be the least of my worries, and for now have been. i’m only a week into my methadone treatment program. but my partner knows now. and that was the missing link, that was needed for so long. he left. i stay in the apartment alone. had the worst week. four days into starting treatment, i get arrested on a fix-it ticket that never was completely closed in a difference country because the DMV didn’t inform the courthouse I’ve squared everything away. I was given a new court date to bring this documentation in myself after final payments were made and the matter seemed settled. but the letter was sent to my old apartment, so i was completely unaware a warrant in los angeles was issued. a few short blocks away from my new apartment in newport beach, where M returned for the first time since walking in on me and learning of the addiction that exposure so much (that was the most bittersweet, hard, important, thankful, and devastating night of my life--but revitalizing. I never realize how much everything rested on just M being told or finding out.). I’m almost home, about to see it, sirens go on. get pulled over. second car arrives. i’m in cuffs. call my works, and text M to say I wouldn’t be coming home to give him space.

at this point, i was told i would be transferred to LA that night, and see a judge in the morning. have everything taken care of. but orange county SA jail is notorious for lies and abuse. there was no intentions of this, and i went from holding cell to orange jumpsuit soon enough. smart this time, i disclosed my sexuality. was given a special block, with an actual two-person jail cell. like the movies. my cell mate was great. jason ciega. curious sexuality. talked heavily about girlfriends, but made subtle jokes that went: “when you’re expecting pussy, but life gives ya dick... but hey, there’s nothing wrong with that too.” He vaguely mentioned his sexuality was “whatever”--I respected and explained why I identify as queer. i have some hidden white china fent mix left i snuck in, even after the cavity search. I stressed needing the bathroom for diarrhea, in fear of the 4-6 gram rocks being found. they kept stressing if i had drugs, it would be another charge. but with my profession work title, they didn’t really consider that with me. i hated that i had to use again so early in treatment, but this avoided the sickness. and made me sleep through the day and a half before M bailed me out. when i got celled up with jason, he shared his rations he bought, like cookies and stuff. i shared my china, in very small doses. he still O.D.’d. turned blue and purple, unconscious, eyes behind head. he took off his shirt after sniffing the first baby bit. i snorted probably 30x what he did, and barely felt something, tolerance. his speck had him worried after 5 mins. “I don’t feel it”

I tell him it wait another 5-10 mins at least. he starts ripping up my mattress and sheet to make a pillow and bedsheet. at first i’m scared this would cause the jail keeper to punish or abuse me. i saw it happened. beds are supposed to be returned in the form they were given. but the special blocks for “protective custody” and queers were treated with more respect, out of fear I assume. The regular jail area is a massive shared space with dozens of rows of beds, and people organized and grouped by race and gangs that you must join right away. I was glad I didn’t have to endure that. I did briefly at 19 for an alcohol in public ticket. only spent 4-6 hours in actual jail-orange-suits area after 10-15 hours of hold cells then. realized how racially divided even jails were. but this experience was more pleasant, given the circumstances. before jason began nodding out, he was fun and talkative in an enjoyable well. he revealed a great chest and body--small frame, but bulky build with tattoos. an insecure boy turn nice guy that acts like one of the guys. referenced odd jokes that seemed code for him being a bottom, and wanting sexual companionship if we ended up bunking for awhile. mutual only, of course. i laughed these attempts off. jason was lonely, and i wasn’t there for inmate sex. i’m in love with M, and still spent every moment worrying and texting about him, and what i’ve done to him. how little he knows about this addiction, how much his family might enable him to think narrowly or ignorantly about the realities of this as a disease.

M abandoned me the day I began treated, 2 mornings after he caught me and everything in our lives froze. we sat on the bed that night, side by side, for hours. him crying in his hands mostly, for hours. me frozen in a wave of emotions. i was a fault. i was honest and told him everything. this was the only thing i kept from him, and told him why. the shame, the guilt. the fear. losing him. rejection of me, disposal of my efforts and love from him and his family. he said we needed time apart. i begged him to be there for me, no matter what the outcome was of our relationship, at least in the beginning. knowing this is the most crucial time to have a support system. he expressed things like believing I’ve just been high this whole time, and asked questions that extracted as much shame and guilt as possible. he had every right to. it’s all i’ve see him and his twin ever do. to the point of their older brother needing serious psychological helping, crying out literally shouting how suicidal he is, but they fail to understand how mental health works, how humor and jokes are masks that should be taken seriously. M was hurt most that I lied. I did lie. Not directly, but did lie at times when he asked why i was in the bathroom for so long. It was unspoken, so it didn’t feel like lying. More like protecting, but it was lying. And I will forever be in the wrong.

Going to jail may have ruined any chance of him coming back. And I can’t stand that thought. He doesn’t know what I’ve been going through. How long it took to be honest about my addiction, what steps I took to try to get clean on my own, the lies you convince yourself off--that you can do it alone, that it’ll work out, that you’ll run out of money so you’ll have to stop. My only other treatment attempt told me I must tell M. He’s the closest to me that I love and trust, who is a good influence, not a user, and could be my support system that sees me through this, and can monitor me during the first 3-7 days that are most crucial. M mentioned how he could have come home to find me dead. O.D. we watched docs and podcasts on the epidemic, but they don’t go into how hard this experience is. How withdrawal is considered one of the hardest things a human can possible do in life, and takes incredible amounts of courage, strength, and dedication that M will probably never even experience in his life. The reports just assume people know this stuff. And under-represent who is most likely to O.D. I’ve never come close. I haven’t been high in, years. I used to stay normal. M, and others like him--those who don’t know--don’t understand that. I was never chasing the dragon. I hate the addiction, quickly. I was too smart for it. Too focused and dedicated to have this problem.

But I did, and unless I dose a certain amount, I couldn’t function. Bedridden in the worst sickness imaginable. To those who’ve experience withdrawal, it’s not just the constant, non-stop, extreme physical sickness. It’s the relentless psychological sickness. Torture. That doesn’t even given you a 30 second break. Hearing that your sick for 3-5 days might sound easy because we call it “getting sick” or “dope sick”--but it’s a far worse experience that can even be fatal for some. My finances and lack of wanting to be doped out, nodding and unproductive all day luckily allowed my addiction to plateau at taking a certain amount to stay well, and doing that everyday for over a year. Til I was caught. It would slightly increase, but fluctuate, based on product, potency, and source going around. I never shot. Only snorted, that was my ritual. And when I was stupid, I would smoke. It was a waste, that burned through product much faster. Which meant more money and time dedicated to staying well. The consistent tolerance and dosing makes my chances of O.D’ing incredibly low. If M knew me as an addiction, which he couldn’t--I never disclosed--he’d know this was hell. Torture. Something I spent endless nights up all night wishing, hoping, begging for change. 

The fright came from the Friday I got into a detox treatment program. I told him two nights before I needed him for supported. He made a sly remark about “what, you’re going to force me to stay around or you’ll OD and die if I don’t”--but it was among other things, so it was unclear what would happened. And days past, with little words exchanged, but M stayed around. When he returned from work, I was in bed and he has if I stayed treatment. I said yes, but didn’t explain or speak confidently out of fear of him not knowing what these treatments were, how much research I’ve done, how I picked this on purpose with a goal to get off treatment drugs soon too and never be dependent on a substance. He didn’t ask much questions. He shortly said it’s good, then revealed he’s packing up and staying at this parents for the weekend. I froze in silence. He packed and said some of the same narrowed perspective claims from the other night--how my sibling and her spouse are there to help me. M thinks because they’ve both been in AA, and one is an ex-heroin addict in healthy, long-term recovery that they can just drop their full time college, 3 jobs, and toddler to take care of me. They’re wonderful support systems, but the detox clinic described who needs to be around the first 3 days for my outpatient detox, and it perfectly defined M. 

But I must respect M’s decisions, feelings, angry, and pain. He has his own healing to do. All I said was that I need support more now than ever, so please don’t forget me. This was in response to him saying I could always call him if I needed something--which was worded in a way that read like ‘call in emergencies, but I’m out.’ So I went through it alone, all 3 days. In bed. I called a friend for xanax, even though you have to be very very careful taking both. I was, and needed to sleep if no one would be there to check on me. At this time, I thought either M felt his hurt and pain outweighed what I was going through, and that’s understandable regardless of my experience actually being a life-threatening disorder. What I wish he knew was that most people who O.D.--the ones on the news all the time. It’s most from relapse. Stopping, detoxing, getting clean. Then a trigger happens, or hope gives up, opportunity comes, or you feel alone and no one cares. Whatever the reason, you return to the drug and take a similar dose, or even smaller dose, than what you were doing before. But your tolerance fades as quickly as it builds, and is different for everything. So most O.D. deaths are simply from people relapsing and taking too much without knowing where their new tolerance stands. Any temptation or relapse could be my last breathe.

I still live in that fear, but I’m motivated and happy to finally get clean. It’s all I wanted, I just couldn’t do it alone. And knew this. The summer realized it most. I spent the summer trying to find the right time and opportunity to tell M. He has no idea how many plans and times and moments I wanted to. Even my trip to NYC. I wanted t come back clean so bad. It doesn’t work that way, You need those in your life who support and love you to help. That’s what a relationship is. It’s like if I was diagnosed with cancer. But social misconception and outdated conception allows this opposite, toxic reaction. Where now I exist in this constant mental cycle that centers on figuring out what to do for M. It would hurt my sister, so that would be my biggest regret, but I think M wants a gift from me more than anything; however, knowing him well, he’d never ask. If I just gave it to him, he’d be free. No more doubts or embarrassments or beating himself up about not knowing or what others would think. No more hating and shaming me. He wouldn’t ever have to deal with it, which is what I realize he wants in life. Where we disagree. I can’t play video games and ignore maintaining healthy efforts all day. He’s made great improvements, but blind to others that allowed him to say hurtful things like without even consciousness of it, but would be shocked and hurt if someone said the same back to him. This created a state where if anything that required him to get up from playing video games in his ‘free time’ (non work hours) is a drag that he resents or avoids at all costs. It cost the friendships built between my closest friends, who love him and he claimed to love them. This constant thread was something I battled with most. I would count the weekends I would spend doing whatever he wanted--hanging with siblings, friends, work functions, friends parties. 11 weekends go by, then one movie night with my friends and he wouldn’t even pretend to want to go. It hurt, but I learned other people’s needs are an annoyance or deterrent to his rightful ability to be glued to the computer. I know this was a big factor in never bringing up my addiction. Already he hated any serious conversations, even if I tried to make them positive about reaching goals. Even mentioning one would cause eye rolls and audible disgusts, vocalizing how he just doesn’t like them or “aren’t good at them”--which never made sense to me. I understand he didn’t like to have conversations that implied he’s less than perfect or right, but it creates this wall around you where no one will ever be able to grow or talk or really improvement your or our lives together. I didn’t think much of it. But now that I’m learning my triggers, I’m not blaming M. It will always be me. But I regret starting to pick up his habits in attempts to try and connect more with him, and be closer. I started playing video games more and more, and all my interests disappeared. There was never a time I played video games that didn’t require going to the bathroom and dosing. I couldn’t live that life. But I wanted to build a life with M. When he stopped talking an interests in sharing my activities, I doubled down with his. But things that felt non-productive and antisocial to me became triggers.

There are other issues that caused distance and perhaps his lack of interest or investment in my friends and desires. One, my addiction. Where my interests began to dull. A terrible cycle that grows like a fungus, and can stem from one activity to get closer, but affect another. Also, I gained a considerable amount of weight. This was before my addiction started, but at a time that M became less physical. Then associated it with my weight gain. This was always curious. All compliments, words of encouragement, positive reinforcement, or sexual intimacy ceased, yet I was expected to work harder on health. I should have, but I never went a period of my sexual life where exercise and health were part of my routine because it continued my ability to have a sexual life. In a serious relationship, taking this element away makes it hard to understand how or if anything would restore such intimacy sense there’s no expression, communication, or honesty from M. Just gestures and small hints. He experienced some weight gained, and when he finally got a job after college--after 8 months of playing video games all day as I worked 2-3 jobs 6 days a week plus went to the gym, cleaned the house, and made dinner most nights for him and our roommate--he took up the gym and has done a great job focusing on getting in shape. I expressed this once, and it was something that was some important and meaningful because it consumed by consciousness, but I still wonder a year later if he understood or truly took to heart pointing out that when he got a full time, professional job and began working out after work, he came home daily needing positive reinforcement, acknowledgement, and encouragement about his gym efforts. Even in the early stages when not much can be seen.

I expressed that before grad school, when I really gained the weight from the stress and demands, I too signed up for the gym after my first, full time professional job after college. On top of this, I continued working on Sundays at a restaurant doing back-breaking labor I underplayed because tips were good. My one day off--Saturdays--I spent putting our first apartment together, shopping, planning, going to every family event or friend invite he extended, while keeping up with cooking and cleaning. During this time, M never acknowledged my gym efforts, progress, or work. I think once he complimented me in a tank, but apart from that, I believe he saw that this was just my role. Expected and easy, like it was nothing to essentially try my best to be the best version of myself, be the best boyfriend I could be, build a relationship together, and not ask for anything in return. This felt like my nature, so I didn’t think much of it at the time.

It wasn’t until I started grad school, and he began what I had already gone through: entry level at first professional job. I don’t know why I’m writing about it now, but it hurt he was doing it in a way that made it seem I had no idea what this was like because of my current shape, and my support was expected, not appreciated. M has never been too expressive, but any acknowledgement or encouragement while attending Gold’s gym after work each day in DTLB would have done so much for my self-esteem, our intimacy, his care and support, or just mutual respect I guess when the tables turned later. I still continue to compliment and support. But the thought is always there. What is it about me and what I do, the effort I put in, that seems just expected. Demanded. Not a privilege or sign of care, affection, and love. But “do your damn job”--but then anyone who does the same or a fraction of the same things has the right to guilt or shame me in not being supportive or caring enough. Why do I just exist to replace the role of M’s parents, perhaps, but my efforts aren’t even acknowledged to the same degree in how M views what his parents do. 

The shortcomings are what he’s most expressive about. Like I have a savings account like him, and just not paying  for things I literally cannot. I didn’t have my parents pay for college, a car, half my rent, bills, and little things in life M takes for granted. I pay for everything. And even having one or two things taken care of by parents allow young adults to live remarkably more comfortable lives that they’re blind to. They don’t understand the luxury of saving every paycheck because their parents pay for everything else. Or maybe it’s me, and my fault for having interests, and occasionally spending money on exploring interests to acculturate my life. Understanding myself, people, and culture better. Be a strong global citizen,

I don’t know. A lot of these claims are unfair to M. He avoids serious conversations, but most of this has come up. It’s just been treated with silence. When he caught my addiction last week, he kept repeating how hurt he was that I lied about it. He’s right, but I couldn’t shake the feeling... when would I ever been able to tell you and you wouldn’t act this way? Was there a time limit when you would have been supportive? Where you would have stayed and ensured I didn’t die during the most crucial period? Would there ever been a time that you didn’t just dismiss it as all my fault, so shame and guilt are the only things I’ll get from him while I need to seek treatment options on my own. That’s not how treatment works. In everything I’ve read, it says the same thing. This is a family problem. You need support. Loved ones. Care. Compassionate. Understanding. If these were never things that would have been offered, why is the main drive of pain from me lying? I did lie, so that’s valid. But it hurts because I don’t know how he truly feels, and sometimes it just goes through my head that this is the reason he’s been waiting for. I haven’t lied or cheated or hid other things. I’ve talked to other guys online, but came clean when caught. And that did hurt trust between us. But I never lied or hid something when we talked about it.

I write all of this because last night he texted me asking to meeting up this weekend to talk. I get excited because it means, after a week, maybe he wants to just sit and ask questions or express anger or frustrations or what’s on his mind. I send him my availability all weekend, with details. He takes hours to respond, but around 2am he says he’s free Saturday and Sunday. This is Friday night, and I see he’s at someone’s house--probably a party--that I didn’t know of. So maybe he’s drunk, but oddly he responded to my availability with just saying he’s free Sat and Sun--not setting a day or time to meet and talk. I don’t respond. It’s late and he says he’s out with friends since I mentioned I was even free that night back when I responded at 9pm when he first asked if I was free to meet and talk this weekend.

Today the morning goes by and I don’t hear from him, but he sent the last text. S at Noon I ask: “do you want me to pick a date and time then?” No answer.

A couple hours later I tell him I’m going to the gym later, and an NA meeting the next day (Sunday) if he wants to join me at either of those for an alternative meet up option--hopefully implying if he doesn’t want to just chat face-to-face, we can do something healthy that shows him I’m working hard in recovery. No response.

Both texts show read receipts. He read that right away, and Find My Friends shows he’s still just at his parents house. Been there all day, but ignoring my texts. Perhaps he was drunk when he texted me Friday night saying he wanted to meet up. I ran with it too quickly then because I miss him like crazy, worry about it, and just think about him and this situation constantly. Plus he bailed me out of jail for $5K of his own money this week on top of all of this, and that’s the last I saw him. 

As the day progresses, it starts to dawn on me. Most of his stuff is still at our apartment. We still live here in how it’s set up, and how he’s briefly used it this week. But he’s mostly stayed at his parents, which is understandable since he needs time to figure out how to make sense of this or what to think... which is how I believe he worded it when he left the day I started detox. I think he said “because he feels conflicted.”

But if his stuff is still here, and he knows my schedule, and I know his, he knows we’re both mostly free Saturdays and Sundays. So he could come home either day and sit down to talk when he sees I’m home, Granted, he hasn’t asked about how recovery or detox is going, or shown interest in caring about how I’m doing. He’s not there, and clearly I’m in a state where I agree in the sense that I worry about him most. He doesn’t express his feelings, and this is not something he can just avoid or pretend to go away. He needs to face it. But then I realize what “we need to meet up and talk” means in a relationship after a major issue happens, and one person moves out for a week, leaving the status open-ended, stating we need time apart, and then gets stuck paying $5k while trying to distance (on top of all the money I own him for rent and impound fees last summer). This talk usually means one thing, and I start to panic. Even more so because he’s dodging my texts to follow up about setting a meeting time and date. If M had the liquid courage to ask, but not is faced with following through sober, it would be like him to just ignore me. And he’s definitely ignoring me. Maybe because he just wants me to suffer or leave him alone. But my fear and anxiety has skyrocketed since last night. I’m consumed in fear with the idea that he’s wanting to meet up to end our relationship. I would understand why, but I realize, despite everything, I really really am in love with Michael. My addiction made me not a great boyfriend to look at or be around I’m sure, but I’m confident the person I’m returning to now that I’m free and in recovery is someone that he would benefit from growing with. Many also have expressed they think  this process will help M in the long run too, as things became static and this may needed to happen to reevaluate things and take us to the new heights we wanted and deserve.

M would have a hard time standing up for himself and dumping me, so when I was asking him if I should set the date and time, I starting thinking.. am I actually having to plan getting dumped for him? That’s not fair. This is the most emotional fragile state I’ve ever been in, and although he has every right to make that decision, and reasons to back it up, and not care about actually exercising real support that couples give each other, that’s fine. I would have to just respect the decision. I fucked up. And I knew who M was before we started dating. I just always think.. is he going to find someone else who doesn’t care about wanting basic needs and emotions and thoughts exchanged, shared, and supporting in a relationship? Abandon me, but that wouldn’t make these issues go away. Anyways, no one around him can offer me insight to his state of mind. So I fear the most devastating and hurtful decision and experience of my life is around the corner. Maybe even tomorrow. And despite our lease tomorrow until April, and the life we built together, M may just walk away from it all. Claiming he can’t trust me anymore as the main reason. And that trust is solely from hiding my addiction. Something I see now, given his reaction, why I did. 

Jonathon Van Ness, in a recent podcast “Getting Curious” with an addiction specialist at UCLA discusses shame in addiction, and defines it as this idea where “if you knew this one thing about me, you wouldn’t love me anymore.” This definition makes a lot of sense, as to why I could never tell M. If he knew, I would lose his love. And his love was holding me together, and giving me hope that someday I can fix this, overcome this, get help, get better, get fit, be the best version of myself again and beyond.

But now I just wait by my phone, wondering if I should send a 3rd text. The last one was around 3pm, when my day was freeing up for the rest of the weekend. So he could have arranged to meet at any time. Maybe inviting him to the gym or a meeting was too off-putting--like i WANTED that or something. But I just want to give options since just asking for a basic plan yielded no results. I don’t know if I should leave him alone. If he needs more time. If I push, I push him farther away. Or if ignoring makes me feel insecure and think I don’t care or think about him. That I just think about using again or getting clean, and he’s not longer important. This is farthest from the truth. All I want is to not fall asleep alone in bed anymore. I want M back by my side, cuddling me and us to sleep. But even then, I fear or believe that M doesn’t feel he can do that and feel safe or comfortable anymore, even though I think he wants this again too. But the trust that’s missing is something that will come in time. Through my actions. Through my recovery. And if only he were here to hold me, he would understand that my recovery means everything. Not for him, for me. But I am his, so a better me is a better him. I just want him to know he’s loved and cared for. I don’t want him to feel alone, upset, and sad. I want him to ask questions, even yell, shame, guilt. Do what he needs to do. Isolating himself alone in his room at his parents house is not going to help him heal, with or without me.

And for some reason, as I heal, I need to know who I affected most is healing. Because the truth is: I can’t stop thinking about killing myself since this happened. Not because I want to, but because I think it’s the one thing that would end his healing process, and make his life better. Even if it meant I would lose mine. So be it.

[daebakinc]

Elision

Pairing: Chanyeol x OC Genre: Hybrid AU, Fluff Summary: You take in a down on his luck hybrid, never expecting him to burrow his way into your heart. Word Count: 6.1K          

 The first time you see Chanyeol is in the pub down the street from your apartment on the kind of rainy night that softens the street lights from harsh orange to quiet yellow.

           The Foxy Lady itself is one of those magical places where you always feel at home no matter what part of the world you come from. The kind of place that beckons to you like an old friend to come and sit and rest awhile, to let the world fly by this small corner of comfort. Inside the classic brick exterior, the space is one long, wide room with walls painted an antique green that hit just the right balance of bright and comforting. An old oak bar stretches comfortably along the wall and chairs and tables are scattered around, their surfaces worn to gleaming gold and soft with long and faithful service. A small stage sits in the corner farthest to the door, ready for the any of the city’s musicians willing to accept payment in steady drinks, rich food, and good company. The kitchen, hidden by a wall behind the bar, emits delicious aromas incessantly, sending smells as tempting as a siren’s call onto the street each time the door opens.

           Or perhaps it isn’t the building itself that creates such an ambience. It very well could be the bar’s owners, the inseparable husband and wife duo Jongdae and Sol. Between the two of them and their matching brilliant, teasing personalities, the sun never sets on The Foxy Lady. For reasons unknown, they’d personally taken you under their wing the night after you wandered in, forced out of your new grocery-scarce new apartment by the search for food. As you soon found out, any and all who walked through the door were treated with affable welcome by the stunning husband and wife. Everyone was a friend to Sol and Jongdae.

No one knows Sol’s real name because Jongdae doesn’t call her by anything else but the nickname he gave her, but one smile from her and you’ll forget you even had a question. But that smile always turns a thousand times brighter when she looks at her husband, and Jongdae’s return smile is no less adoring. If the two of them had lived hundreds of years ago, there would still be ballads and poems about the love they share. On your bad days, you’ll admit you’re a little jealous of that kind of bond, having never experienced anything close.

“Hello, gorgeous.” The smile Jongdae sends you when you slide onto one of the unoccupied barstools could win the heart of a stone. “How’s your day been?”

He doesn’t bother asking for your order, already scribbling it on a tab and adding it to the kitchen’s stack before reaching for a glass and filling it with your favorite, an elderflower Italian soda with a crazy straw.

You send him a grateful smile and take a long slurp from the straw as soon as he sets it in front of you. “Semi-productive. Got all my cleaning done for showing off the apartment to potential roommates next week, but then I lapsed and ended up binge watching half the season of The Flash for the rest of the day. That’s why I’m here. I didn’t realize the time and when I did, I decided I was too lazy to cook for myself.”

“You’re anything but lazy. You deserve a break.” Your friend laughs as he bustles about, transferring plates from the kitchen at each ding to a patron or to the server’s station for Jongin or Baekhyun to pick up. “Any promising leads for roommates?”

“No one stellar.” You shrug and sneak a mint leaf from behind the bar to pop in your mouth. “But I only put up the ad last week. Hopefully someone shows up, though Joy will be hard to replace.”

“We’ll find you a roomie just as good. Maybe Sol knows someone.” Jongdae looks over your shoulder as the bells above the door tinkle happily. His smile widens as he raises his hand to wave. “Hey! Glad to see you made it!”

Curious, you shift in your seat to look as well. When you do, you’re suddenly very glad you already swallowed your drink.

The stranger is one of the hottest men you’ve ever seen. Or do you mean cutest? At the moment, you can’t exactly tell. Even in a long tweed overcoat, his body seems to go on forever and the way the light is lets you see the shadows of solid muscles beneath his black turtleneck. His face is handsome as well, half in shadows from a wide brimmed hat pulled low, but his tentative smile, the smile of a child hoping he’ll be welcomed in a new classroom, softens your heart in the same way the sight of a puppy would.

“Hi, Jongdae,” he says, the baritone of his voice like a shot of dark chocolate to your veins. He shifts a guitar bag from one hand to the other with the care of a mother readjusting an infant. You can tell the bag is old, its once black color faded to a grey-green. “Am I on time?”

“You’re an hour early, Chanyeol.” Jongdae wipes his hands and rushes around the bar to engulf the other man in a hug.

You have to stifle a giggle when Chanyeol bends so he can put his arms under Jongdae’s even though he is significantly taller. It makes him look even more childlike.

Jongdae pulls away but keeps a hand on Chanyeol’s back as he brings him further into the room. “Would you like to eat first? We’ve still got awhile before the dinner rush.”

“I’d like to set up and I guess if there’s time, I wouldn’t mind something.”

“Alright. Don’t forget, you don’t have to play the whole night. You can take breaks when you’re hungry or thirsty, okay?” Jongdae’s voice fades into the white noise of other patrons’ chatter as he walks away with Chanyeol, his luxuriant fox tail draped over one arm to keep it out of the way, tapered ears flicking this way and that in merriment.

Your eyes slide away from Jongdae to Baekhyun and Jongin. Jongin’s round, soft umber-colored bear ears twitch slightly as he chats with one of the regulars, while Baekhyun’s ears are floppy like a beagle’s, his tail also cheerily swishing away. Hidden in the kitchen, Kyungsoo probably has his thick wolf’s tail neatly covered and ears tucked under a hat to keep his fur out of the food. Various patrons display the hybrid traits of animal ears and tails out in the open as well. The Foxy Lady is one of the few places you know several feel free enough to do so without fear.

When people started modifying their bodies with animal genes, people thought it was odd but accepted it with eye rolls and quick skitters across the street, labeling it a trend that would fade out. Then these people became parents and passed on the same physical traits to their children. For whatever reason, this was an entirely different matter in the eyes of many. The eye aversions became mutterings, and in the worst cases, the mutterings became violence.

Finally, humane and moral minds won out, leading to the ratification of anti-discrimination laws to protect and guarantee equality for hybrids. The passage of time has brought more societal acceptance of hybrids, but some still have issues finding jobs and housing, let alone decent treatment in certain pockets of the country, and unfortunately, in your city as well. You’ve seen Sol kick out a number of people for snide comments about Jongdae and the others. They got off lucky though; you’d heard a few of their remarks and they warranted a good bloodied nose in your opinion.

           A plate of steaming home fries, buttered asparagus, and sage-rubbed chicken slides beneath your nose. Wearing a yellow T-shirt that makes her dark skin glow even more than usual, Sol winks at you as she pokes your forehead. “You look like you’re thinking about something unpleasant. Need to spill?”

           You shake your head and smile reassuringly. “Nah, it’s nothing.”

           “Well if it is, nothing a little bit of Kyungsoo’s cooking can’t fix, so dig in.”

           “Who’s Chanyeol?” you ask, biting a stalk of asparagus in half and nodding your head in the direction of the stage. “I’ve never seen him before.”

           Even when Sol frowns, she’s beautiful. “Jongdae found him a couple days ago playing on a street corner. Poor thing just came to the city a few weeks ago and still hasn’t found a job. Jongdae convinced him to come here to at least get a good meal in him. The man’s too skinny.”

           Jongdae returns in time to hear the last part of Sol’s comment and grins, pecking her cheek as he scoots past her. “Not all of us can be as thick as your man, you know. Give me a week with him and I’ll have him looking like Pooh.”

           “You leave that to me. What should I fix for him?”

           “He said nothing yet, just wants some hot water with lemon and honey. I think he’s one of those ‘wants to earn his keep’ types.”

           Sol snorts and heads towards the kitchen. “He’ll get it, but he’s got another thing coming if he thinks he’s going to play hungry under my roof.”

           When closing time rolls around, you’re still sitting in the same place, nursing your fifth soda. You really had intended to get back to your apartment after you ate to continue cleaning. You really had. But you hadn’t counted on Chanyeol. Jongdae was a generous man, but he wouldn’t have let Chanyeol play if he wasn’t good. The problem for you was Chanyeol wasn’t just good. He was pretty fantastic.

           His deep voice became sinful liquid cocoa as it poured from his mouth through the microphone and into the room. Pair it with the rich honey tones of his guitar he plucked with the ease of hundreds if not thousands of hours of practice, and you were as hooked as a magpie who spotted something shiny.

           Some of the songs he played you knew, but some you didn’t. Given the emotion in his voice, the way he closed his eyes when he sang them, you’d bet good money they were songs he wrote himself. And he played everything, taking shouted requests from patrons, tickling the guitar strings to play American rock one moment and Spanish lullabies the next. A few times you felt your mouth hanging open as you stared. You’d shut it just as quick, but hard as you tried, you just got lost in the music and it’d happen again.

           The light flick of a wet rag on your arm snaps you out of it. Baekhyun snickers and uses the rag to wipe at a spot on the bar. “Alright, kid. We love you, but time’s up. Last call was thirty minutes ago. Some of us got places to go, people to see.”

           “If by places to go, you mean your bed, yeah, you’re right,” you tease.

           “Hey, my bed and I are in a very intimate and adoring relationship,” he retorts. “Don’t be disrespectful.”

           “My deepest apologies.” You glance around.

           You’re the last patron still sitting, the other stragglers pushing through the door into the misting night. Chanyeol is still on the stage, packing away his guitar, head slightly twisted as he speaks with Jongdae. You wonder what they’re talking about and if the tall, talented man will become a regular fixture at the pub. It’d be really nice if he did, you think. For a variety of reasons.

           “Yo, Y/N, you’re not drunk or something are you?” Baekhyun asks, looking concerned at your spacing out. “Jongin and I can give you a lift home.”

           “Sorry, just thinking.” You pat his hand. “I’m totally sober unless you count sleepiness as a form of intoxication.”

           “With some of the places I’ve found Jongin sleeping when he hasn’t had a drop, I might.”

           After a few more minutes of banter and catching up with Baekhyun and Sol, you finally slip off your stool and head towards the door. You notice with a small bit of disappointment Chanyeol is already gone. You’d wanted to compliment him on his performance, but you’ll have to wait until next time, you suppose. Hopefully there’s a next time.

           When you step outside the door, you find that in the time you spent talking, the mist outside had escalated into heavy-drop rain. Not a torrential downpour, but enough to have you looking like a drowned rat by the time you get home.

           With a sigh, you walk to the edge of The Foxy Lady’s canopy and tug up your hood, tying the strings together. Mentally mapping the neighborhood, you figure if you keep to overhangs and sprint between the breaks, you can reach your apartment with minimal soaking.

           You arrive at the street corner with only a few scatterings of rain on your shoulders and head. Your shoes, however, emit sloshing, squishing noises with each step after an unfortunately placed puddle. Looking across the street, your apartment door within view in all its tempting dry socks glory, you brace yourself for the final sprint.

           A sniffle alerts you that you’re not the only person taking shelter in front of the department store. You cautiously glance to your side. A tall figure huddles against the concrete wall, the wet canvas of the overhang touching the top of his hat and drops of water dripping off the brim onto his shoulders. A stuffed brown paper bag with The Foxy Lady’s logo sits beside a beat-up looking bookbag and an old guitar bag. Even in the shadows, you recognize him.

           “Chanyeol?”

           The man jumps like you prodded him with a stick, nearly collapsing.

           “Hey, sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” you quickly apologize, throwing your hands up, palms out.

           “Do I know you?” Chanyeol asks. He inches towards the bags as if afraid you’ll snatch them.

           “No. I’m sorry, I’m Y/N. I was at Jongdae’s earlier and I overheard your name. Bad eavesdropping habit. I listened to you play the whole night. You’re really good,” you offer with a tentative smile in case your apology wasn’t enough.

           “Oh. Thanks.” He smiles a little, sending a little flutter through your chest. “You’re a friend of Jongdae’s?”

           “Him and Sol.” You don’t comment on the once over you notice him give you. “They were my first friends here. Are you waiting for a ride? You can wait in my apartment if you like so you’re out of the wet; it’s just over there.”

           Maybe you’re a little crazy offering to let a strange man into your apartment, but Chanyeol looks like a lost puppy and only a heartless person would leave a lost dog in the rain.

           “Um, I’m actually just trying to figure out where to go.”

           “Like directions?”

           “No. I- I, um,” Chanyeol ducks his head and mumbles, “I don’t actually have a place yet. Haven’t found one I can afford, you know. There’s a shelter over on 7th I could go to, but things didn’t go so well last time…”

“The shelter’s that bad?”

“Sometimes.” His tone doesn’t encourage questions about his experience with them.

“Why not call Jongdae?” you ask, knowing he and Sol would let Chanyeol crash on their couch without a second thought.

Chanyeol shakes his head. “I wouldn’t want to get in their way and Jongdae already lined up a few gigs for me so I have a some money. I can’t ask him for more than that.”

His eyes move away from you to gaze out on the street. You recognize the defeated slump in his shoulders and the downward set of his mouth. It’s the look of someone who’s talking themselves into going through a repulsive experience because there is no other choice. You’ve made that kind of decision before.

Before you realize it, you make another choice. “Why don’t you stay with me while you get on your feet?”

Chanyeol’s eyes shoot back to you, so comically wide they remind you of Kyungsoo’s. “What?”

“My roommate had to move back home unexpectedly, so I’ve got a free room and month paid for the next two months, so it can be yours if you want it.”

“Really? You really mean it?”

           “Yeah. I have an extra room, you don’t have a room at all. Jongdae trusts you, so I figure you’re a good guy. Not like you’re going to attack me in the middle of the night or something, right?”

           “No. I’ve never hurt anyone intentionally,” he says in a rush.

           “I wouldn’t think so,” you laugh.

           “But you’d really do that for me? A complete stranger?” he asks as if giving you a chance to take your offer back but hoping you won’t.

           Your smile fades a bit, unpleasant memories lurk towards the surface of your mind. “I promised myself once that if I ever met someone as down on their luck as I was at the time and I was in a better position, I’d do what I could to help them.”

           Chanyeol picks at a lose string on his sleeve as he thinks your proposal over. You wait, shuffling your feet so they don’t get cold.

           “You should know something about me first,” Chanyeol says softly. Avoiding your eyes, he slowly reaches up and takes the brim of his hat between his fingers. After a second’s hesitation, he takes it off.

           Two bright wheat gold colored ears perch on the top of his head, pressed against his hair in anticipation of being rejected. If Chanyeol expected you to be surprised, he’d only be half right. You’d had your suspicions given Jongdae’s special attention and how he never took off his coat in the pub despite the heat that came with a room full of warm bodies.

           “They’re very pretty,” you say.

           Chanyeol lifts his eyes, his fingers stilling from crumpling his hat. You can read the shock there and want to hunt down whoever put that fear and expectation in his head. You also want to hug Chanyeol, to take away some of that hurt, but you’re afraid that may be too much for the poor man just yet.

           When he doesn’t move, you walk over and shoulder his bookbag. The lightness of it makes you feel worse for him, but you mask it quickly. You hate being pitied.

           Instead, you tell him, “Grab your other stuff and we’ll make a run for it, okay? It’s the brown door, right beside the lamppost.”

           Clearly in a daze, Chanyeol picks up his guitar and bag of food, and runs after you across the street, up the stairs to your apartment, and into your life.

           The first time you kiss Chanyeol is on your couch on a warm spring Sunday afternoon made for new beginnings.

           All is quiet when you return from the grocery store, the only sounds drifting inside from the open living room window. Birds chirp as they industriously build a nest on the outcrop of the building roof, cars hum and chortle as they pass below. Spices from the Lebanese restaurant down the street and sugar from Kyungsoo’s Sunday pies at The Foxy Lady mix with the half-pot of coffee you made earlier.

           The grocery bags crinkle loudly on your arm as you step around the pile of shoes in the entryway. Your flats and boots a tumbled mess with Chanyeol’s sneakers and loafers in a cozy, domestic scene that makes you smile.

           That night you let Chanyeol sleep on your couch, you hadn’t expected he’d stay long. Every day he went out looking for work, only to return empty handed. But he never showed his disappointment, shrugging it off with an addictively wide smile and promising to try again the next day so he could start supporting himself. Chanyeol insisted on earning his keep by fixing things around the apartment and occasionally cooking despite your protests that he didn’t need to do anything.

A week turned into a month, a month into two, two months into just over half a year. After Chanyeol found a job at a music store run by Jihoon, a lemur hybrid, it made sense for him to just stay. Your apartment was already home.

           You like having Chanyeol around. He always makes you smile. Every day you come home, he greets you with perked ears and feathery tail wagging. He listens to you talk about your day, sportingly joining in your complaining even though he has no idea what you were talking about or celebrating with you on a raise or just a plain old good day. Then there’s the music.

           There was always music in the apartment with Chanyeol. Every day is an auditory adventure. He has some favorite songs you’ve learned to love too, but otherwise there’s always something different playing. Classic rock, house electronic, acoustic ballads, bubblegum pop. You name the genre, Chanyeol plays it. Your favorite days are the ones the music is Chanyeol’s own.

You’ll bundle yourself into a blanket burrito and sit on his bed to listen to the new songs he composes and records on an old computer. If you are really lucky, Chanyeol plays the songs for you himself on one of his guitars. You’d bought him a new one for his birthday, and he collected broken guitars to fix from work. There’s at least one in every room, even the bathroom for some reason.

By the time you put the groceries down, Chanyeol is still nowhere in sight, but bits of him are spread throughout the apartment.

           The Ironman cookie jar you bought for him at the same secondhand store he bought his bed and desk. The black hoodie haphazardly laying across the back of the couch because although it’s his, you wear it just as often. The cheap neon yellow picture frame he won at a carnival last summer, a picture of the two of you from that same night inside, both wearing matching grins and arms around each other.

           Your eyes slide to Chanyeol’s still closed door. It’s not abnormal for him to sleep late on a weekend off, but after last night, you’re worried.

           It began innocently enough. Dinner out at The Foxy Lady because it was board night, an hours long board-game competition Sol held at the end of every month. You lost horribly to Chanyeol at Sorry in round three, but you had your revenge when Baekhyun beat him at one of the most intense Bananagrams games you’ve ever seen, spectators loudly cheering for their chosen side until they were drowned out by Chanyeol’s agonized losing howl and Baekhyun’s ecstatic victory yips.

           Chanyeol was still sulking when you left, fluffy tail dragging on the ground. “I still say ‘quartzy’ can’t be a real word,” he muttered as he held the door open for you.

           “Jongdae found it in the dictionary, Chanyeol,” you reminded him gently.

           Your friend snorted before looking at you intently. “You’re going to help me practice for next month, right? Like every day. Next time, I’ll be the champion.”

           “We’ll see.”

           “Come on, Y/N,” he whined. He threw an arm around your shoulders and hugged you to his side. “Please? Pretty pretty please with a strawberry on top?”

           You cursed your heart for still beating faster and your nose for wanting to bury itself in his chest. You buried your feelings for Chanyeol a long time ago when your friendship became one you couldn’t live without. But you’re only human and they sometimes pop through. You suspected deep down that they were the reason your dates rarely got a second chance.

“Isn’t it supposed to be a cherry?” you asked wryly.

           “But you don’t like cherries. You like strawberries,” he replied, grinning down at you.

           “Fine, I’ll help. Can you just slow down a bit? I feel like I’m being decapitated.”

           “Oh, sorry.”

Chanyeol shortened his stride to match yours, but kept his arm in place, his hand curled around your arm in easy familiarity. The gesture was almost brotherly in nature and while it wasn’t exactly what you truly wanted, you love physical contact as much as the hybrid beside you.

As you walked past a group of men standing at the street corner and smoking cigarettes, an anonymous voice not so quietly sneered, “Freak.”

The rhythm of Chanyeol’s wagging tail skipped a beat and you felt his body stiffen beside you.

Your temper flared. It had taken a long time for you and the others at The Foxy Lady to help convince Chanyeol being a hybrid was nothing to be ashamed of with as many setbacks as leaps forward. You weren’t about to take some random asshole thinking he was being funny and better by insulting your friend.

You slipped out from Chanyeol’s arm, ignoring his soft murmur of your name to march back to the group of men. “Which one of you said that?”

“What’s it to you, sweetheart?” one of them asked. He sent you a smile you supposed he thought was charming. “Why don’t you lose the mutant and come home with me?”

“The only freak here is you, jackoff,” you hissed. You stepped close enough that discomfort flashed across his face. “You think you’re a big badass man calling another human a derogatory name? Newsflash, you’re not!”

You pointed at Chanyeol who still stood frozen where you left him. “That man is better than you’ll ever be in every single way. Every way, you hear me? All you’re doing by insulting him is proving you’re the subhuman piece of trash who thinks just because someone’s different, that makes them unworthy of common decency and respect. Go home and pick up a damn book so your brain might grow enough to be a human’s.”

For good measure, you plucked the cigarette from his hand and stomped it into the cement before tramping back to Chanyeol.

“Hey, bitch!”

Heavy footsteps came behind you, a hand roughly grabbing your shoulder to spin you around. A raised hand caught the streetlight. Heart stopping, you screwed your eyes shut and brace yourself.

The expected smack never came, a strangled cry sounding instead.

You opened your eyes to Chanyeol’s back. His tail stuck straight out, stiff and unmoving. Peeking around him, you saw your would-be assailant on his knees with Chanyeol’s hand clenched around his wrist.

“Touch her,” Chanyeol growled, the veins in his arm straining against as he tightened his grip, “and I will make sure you regret it.”

Chanyeol waited until the man gave a weak nod, then tossed him aside. He turned away, pausing when his eyes met yours.

An anger hotter than you thought your friend capable of was fading to embers, replaced but another emotion you could not place. When he didn’t move, you grabbed his hand and towed him along behind you.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Chanyeol whispered when you got to the apartment door.

You took a deep breath, so your voice and face were calm when you turned around. Meeting his eyes, you said, “Yes, Chanyeol. I did.”

You hadn’t spoken really after that, both going to your own rooms to mull over your own thoughts. You don’t regret standing up for Chanyeol, but you’re worried you made him uncomfortable.

Tiptoeing to his door, you press your ear against it. There’s not a sound except the soft piano Chanyeol plays to help him sleep. You open the door wide enough to slip inside.

The only thing you can see of Chanyeol is the top of his head, dark hair contrasting with his white blanket and pillow. Carefully, you ease yourself down on the bed beside him and drag the covers away from his face. His Rilakkuma doll is still tucked safely in his arms, squished against his cheek.

Affection rises in your chest, tickling your mouth into a smile. “Chanyeol,” you murmur, reaching out to card his mussed hair.

He grumbles something under his breath but doesn’t open his eyes.

Your fingers continue combing his hair, working their way up to one of his ears. You rub the silky fur between your fingers. The gesture is as much for your pleasure as his. A moan rumbles from deep within Chanyeol’s chest and he leans his head into your touch.

His gaze is blurry with sleep when he opens his eyes, but they quickly focus on your face. He smiles. “Morning,” he mumbles, voice deeper than normal with sleep.

“Try afternoon,” you chuckle. You can’t bring yourself to reclaim your fingers as Chanyeol props himself, and continue to ruffle his hair and ears. “I got everything to make your favorite for lunch if you’re hungry. Tonkatsu.”

His smile immediately grows. “You’re the best, Y/N. I’ll help.”

When he grabs the blankets to toss them back and get up, you put a hand on his chest. “No, it’s alright. I’ve got it. You can go back to sleep if you want. I’ll get you when it’s ready. I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“Alright? Why wouldn’t I-” His confused expression falls into a frown. “Oh.”

“The guy was being a dick to compensate for his not having a satisfactory one, you know. You are not a freak.”

“I know.”

“Good. I’d do it all again, Chanyeol, and I meant every word. You are incredibly important to me.”

You gaze into his eyes, trying to make sure he knows how sincere you are. The plan backfires. You’re suddenly far too aware of him. The depth of his chocolate eyes with golden flecks reflecting the sunlight. The smell of his cologne saturating the blankets, the room. The heavy beat of his heart beneath your hand on the firm muscle of his chest.

Snatching your hand and mind back, you smile and hope Chanyeol didn’t notice the growing charge. “I’ll get you when it’s ready, okay? Go back to sleep.”

Because you need to prove to yourself you’re in control, you lean down to kiss his forehead just as he shifts his body upward, saying “It’s okay, I’ll help.”

Your lips hit his lips instead of his skin. The contact lasts a second, but it leaves both of you frozen, staring at each other.

You scramble for an apology, the power to laugh it off, anything but the silence.

Chanyeol’s eyes flick from yours to your mouth. You have no other warning before his hand shoots up to cup your jaw and drag your lips back to his.

Chanyeol is kissing you. Chanyeol is kissing you. That’s all you manage to think before your body takes over. It sinks against him, seeking his scent, his taste. A high whimper of desire fills your throat as his mouth moves against yours, soft but starved. Kissing him is all you imagined but better. So much better.

With a gasp, Chanyeol pulls away, his hand staying in place, hot against your skin. His chest presses against yours with each pant. “I- I’m- uh…” he blinks several times. “I..”

You surge forward, kissing him again, and draw back just enough so your noses brush. With your eyes closed, you whisper, “You better not be about to say, ‘I’m sorry.’”

“Okay,” you feel him wet his lips, “I was going to say… I’m, um, surprised?”

“You’re surprised? You’re the one who kissed me on purpose first.”

“Oh, yeah.” Chanyeol laughs and falls back onto his pillow, a hand over his eyes. He peeks between his fingers. “I did, didn’t I?”

“Yeah.” You swing your legs up and lie down on your side next to him. “Is that something you’ve been wanting to do for a while?”

“Kinda.”

“Since when?”

“Since that night a few months ago when you fell asleep on me while we were watching El Dorado.”

You remember that night. A little. El Dorado was one of your favorite movies and Chanyeol was a quick convert. But it had been a long week, and one moment you were watching Chel seducing Tulio, and the next you rolling over in bed to sunlight peeking through the window. You thought you’d just walked yourself to your room in a stupor, but maybe not.

“I didn’t even notice you were asleep until your head hit my shoulder,” Chanyeol continues. He glances up at you, then away with a gentle smile. When he speaks, there are many little pauses, as if he’s lost in his own memory and has to savor it. “Then I looked down and… I don’t know. It was like I was seeing you for the first time. I couldn’t breathe. You were soft and perfect and beautiful. Your lips had this little pout, like you were upset at yourself for falling asleep during your favorite movie. All I wanted to do was kiss it away, but…. I didn’t. I just picked you up and tucked you into your bed.”

“And didn’t say anything after?”

“You’d just broken up with what’s-his-name, the freakishly tall one obsessed with Harry Potter. I’m not a jerk.”

“Seungjun. And he was the same height as you, Chanyeol.”

Chanyeol shrugs it off.

“Would it freak you if I said I started liking you that first night at The Foxy Lady?” You chuckle at his dropped jaw and perked ears. You close his mouth with a finger. “You were super cute and talented; can you blame me?”

“Do you still think I’m super cute and talented?” he asks, glancing at you through his eyelashes with a teasing smile. He whines when you smack his shoulder.

“What do you think? I kissed you back, didn’t I?”

“Yeah.” Chanyeol laughs and flips onto his side as well. His eyes roam your face and his voice lowers. “Yeah, you did.”

           “What?” you ask when the corner of his mouth twitches.

           “I’m just now remembering something Sol said.”

           “And what did Sol say?”

           “She caught me watching you one night and you know her. She got everything out of me. When I told her I wasn’t going to say anything, she told me impossible things have a way of happening anyway. Guess she was right.”

           “Sol’s always right,” you giggle. “I’m really glad this wasn’t her exception.”

           “Me too. So… why didn’t you say anything?”

           “Well, at first it was because I didn’t want you thinking I was trying to take advantage of you or something and you were still getting your life together; you didn’t need a relationship to complicate that even more. Then, I just didn’t want to risk losing you.” It’s a relief to get it all out, like a flood finally released from a dam.

           “I didn’t want to lose you either. You’re one of my best friends.” Chanyeol tentatively reaches out to outline your face with a finger. “Guess I’m lucky I’m in love with my best friend.”

           “Lucky by Jason Mraz and Colbie Caillat.”

           He laughs and tugs you into his arms, rubbing his cheek against your hair. Your hands slide behind his back and curl up to his shoulders, your leg hooking around Chanyeol’s hip to bring him closer. His tail brushes your calf as it gleefully thumps against the mattress.

           “You remembered,” he says.

           “You only play it like every other day,” you retort.

           “I do not.”

           “Okay, maybe it’s one of my favorites to hear you play then.”

           “I’ll play it every single day if you want.”

           Laughing and shaking your head, you wiggle enough to tilt your head back and look at his face. “You could play anything and I’d love it.”

           “Anything? Even ‘It’s a Small World’?” Chanyeol grins playfully and squeezes you. He starts singing, “It’s a small world after all, it’s-”

           His voice goes immediately silent when you press your lips against his again. But you become as lost in the kiss as he is, the leisurely rhythm of it more addictive than any song you’ve heard. Pressed against his warmth, sinking into it. When you sluggishly pull away, his eyes are still closed, mouth slightly parted.

           “Any song but that one,” you whisper lightly.

           Chanyeol’s lips slowly curve in a smile and his eyes open at the same speed like a lazy dog waking up from a nap in the sunshine. His fingers tap a beat against your spine. “I think one’s coming to me right now. If I’d known kissing you would be conducive to my composing, I’d have done it a long time ago.”

           “Then kiss me again.”

           Chanyeol is humming when your lips meet again, some melody that’s new and exciting and somehow, it’s already your new favorite song.

[canoncannon]

Almost missed this prompt because it was in a comment! Here you go @waytoooldforshipping, sorry it took FORever. I doubt you even remember prompting it :-P

I used 89, “You’re not interested, are you?” The ficlet also responds to an anon prompt, but I pasted that one at the end. Trigger warnings are also at the end of the fic.

Looking down into unfocused dark eyes, Daryl has to fight back a tear. Herschel has his daddy's eyes--what Daryl once would have labeled 'squinty' and now can only think of as beautiful. The newborn's hair, such as it is, is also dark, but Maggie told him that could change in the coming months.

Maggie's fine, but good lord, the screaming had been hard to bear. Tara had had to stop him from bursting into the medical trailer more than once to demand just what the fuck that quack doctor was doing to her and where he'd gone to med school, if he even had. Not that Daryl knew the difference between the good schools and bad ones, but he hadn't exactly been rational after listening to Maggie holler bloody murder for several hours. Finally Rick and Michonne had shown up from Alexandria and assured him it was all normal--that helped some. Michonne went in to give Enid a break, Rick forced some liquor into Tara and Daryl, and an hour or so later they were meeting the newest addition to their ragtag little family.

It's late now. Maggie's getting some well-deserved rest, and he's in charge of watching Herschel while she does.

He finds he can't bring himself to put the baby down, so he paces the library with him. Herschel's quiet, blinking occasionally but mostly napping.

"I hear we're going to be co-godparents."

Daryl startles badly. Fortunately the baby doesn't seem to mind, just blinking again at the unexpected jostling.

Spinning around, he sees Jesus leaning casually against the door jamb.

"Where the fuck have you been?"

"Maggie sent me to find a, uh, breast pump," the scout answers. "We had a hand operated one, but apparently those suck compared to the automatic pumps. Or, uh, I guess they don't suck enough, actually."

The joke falls flat. Neither man is great with all this birth- and baby-related stuff.

"Wouldn't have gone if I'd known I'd miss this little guy's grand arrival," Jesus says next, nodding at Herschel. "May I?"

Grunting, Daryl carefully hands the tiny baby over. Paul holds him gingerly and sits in a large leather chair, smiling down at his godson.

Stomach flipping, Daryl turns away, fiddling with a random book on the wall.

"I also picked up some childcare books... for me, not for Maggie. You’re not interested, are you? Or did you also get plenty of practice on Judith?"

The hunter just grunts again, noncommittally.

"You're going to have to talk to me again eventually, you know."

"Talking now." The book's leather cover is flaking a little. He picks at the binding, tearing off a tiny strip.

"Daryl..."

"What, you want to have it out here, with him?" Turning, Daryl gestures at the child in Jesus's arms without looking directly at the other man.

He has no intention of being dragged into this conversation.

He also isn't going to leave Herschel, though. He'd told Maggie he'd stay until she needed to feed him again.

Jesus quirks a sad half-smile. "I don't think he'll spill our secrets to anyone." He lays his head back in the chair, seeming exhausted all of the sudden, his hair glinting golden in the low lamplight. "Just tell me how to fix it, ok? We don't have to talk about what... what happened, if you don't want. But at least tell me how I can make it right."

"Didn't do nothing wrong," Daryl corrects before he can think twice about it. Damn Jesus's manipulative little tricks.

"You were drunk and you didn't want it, you've made that abundantly clear, so I must have-"

"Man, you were just as drunk. And I- I did." Looks like they're doing this now. Daryl grits his teeth. "You didn't fucking... take advantage, if that's what you're thinking. I'm a grown-ass man. And besides, it was just a damn kiss. Ain't some big deal."

"Then why-" Jesus bursts out. Then Herschel lets out a little whimper and he immediately shuts up, focusing on gently bouncing the baby in his arms for a moment. He begins again, more calmly. "You haven't said more than ten words to me since that night. You're avoiding me. You won't even look at me."

Defeated, Daryl sits across from him. His heart pounds unpleasantly. He knows Jesus isn't an asshole like some of the guys he's had this talk with--he knows it. He won’t wake up to find his business, his defectiveness, spread all over Hilltop.

But he also knows that Jesus will probably still be angry. He’ll feel deceived. Because kissing a guy the way Daryl had kissed him has implications, ones Daryl won't be following through with.

Bracing himself, he stammers, "I don't do... that."

"You don't make eye contact? Or talk?" Jesus says, sarcastic.

It takes Daryl a moment to figure that sentence out. "Nah, like... kissing and shit. Anything like that. I don't."

"You did a really good impression of it last week."

"I mean... look, anything more than that, I just... don't like it." Hearing ghosts from his past and their million objections, Daryl adds quickly, "I've tried. Sex just ain't- like, my dick works fine, but- and I know it ain't normal, but nothing I try ever-"

Goddamn it. Well, this is going great, Daryl thinks as he stops for a breath. Just peachy.

"You're asexual," Jesus blurts out, like it’s some big revelation.

Daryl stares blankly at him.

"Sex isn’t something you enjoy. Not for a medical reason, not because something's wrong." Daryl stares some more, and Jesus adds weakly, "It's- it's an orientation."

Daryl hadn't known there was a word for it. He hadn't known there were enough people like him to need a word.

"Yeah, that," he says, to cover.

They're quiet for a moment. Jesus hums a little to Herschel while Daryl squirms. The younger man looks thoughtful, which is better than the laughter or disbelief Daryl's encountered so often in the past, but it's still a little disconcerting.

"Yaint gonna say nothing to nobody, right?"

Jesus's mouth pulls down on one side. "No, I won't."

Quiet again. A clock ticks so loudly that Daryl wonders how Herschel can sleep through the racket.

"Did you like kissing me?" Jesus asks.

"What?"

"Kissing. Do you like kissing, or was that- was it because you thought-"

"Already told you I did."

Frowning some more, Jesus goes back to humming for the baby, rocking him gently.

It dawns on Daryl then, what's probably going on in Jesus's head. "I didn't mean to lead you on or nothing, alright? I was just drunk, and I guess I got caught up. But I shouldn't have-"

"You've liked me for awhile now," Jesus interrupts. "You have a subtle way of showing it, but... yeah, I'm pretty sure I'm right. You like me. And you don't just want to be friends, you want... more."

Daryl's mouth bobs open like a goldfish. "But I can't-"

"You like me, and you like kissing me, you just don't want to have sex. Correct?" Jesus doesn't wait for him to reply. "Because I can do that."

"Do what?"

"A relationship, with you, without sex. I can do that. I want that, if you're interested."

This isn't a possibility Daryl’s ever considered. "Why in the hell would you..."

"Why wouldn't I?"

Again, the older man is speechless. It's so goddamn obvious why he wouldn't, too obvious to bother with an explanation, and yet Jesus doesn't seem to be messing with him. He looks deadly serious about this half-baked idea--he looks happy, even, like he's pleased with himself for solving some kind of riddle.

"Think about it, ok?" Jesus says, meeting his eyes.

Daryl nods dumbly.

On cue the baby starts crying, rescuing him. Both men are distracted by trying to comfort him until Maggie calls softly from the next room for them to bring Herschel to her.

The two men awkwardly look away while she breastfeeds, and they all agree Jesus will take the next shift watching him while Daryl gets some sleep. Daryl’s too exhausted and confused to try to argue, and besides, he knows he can trust Jesus to take care of their godson.

In the hallway before Daryl can walk away, Jesus catches his hand and slowly raises it to kiss his knuckles.

Nerves buzzing, Daryl crashes into sleep almost as soon as he gets to his room, a tiny smile clinging to his lips.

(TWs for acephobia and mention of sexual assault. The other prompt was for ace!Daryl/Jesus. Not something I’ve written before, hopefully it’s ok. I want to clarify that Daryl’s internalized acephobia in no way reflects my opinion of asexuality, and his “I’m a grown-ass man” moment in no way reflects my beliefs about men and sexual assault.)