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cosmicjoke · 1 year

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The Psychological and Emotional Impact of Levi’s Early Childhood:

I don’t think Levi’s early childhood really gets discussed enough in the fandom, or the ways in which those experiences in his formative years had to have impacted him. This could be because we don’t really get many panels depicting his childhood. Just a few. But those few panels show us enough for us to extrapolate plenty and form a pretty clear picture of what he went through.

First of all, it’s almost a certainty that Levi was born as the result of rape.

That’s something that I think everyone should let sink in.

He was born in the brothel that his mother, Kuchel, worked in. And “worked” is a relative term here. Kuchel was driven into the Underground as a result of persecution by the royal family. She was undoubtedly very young, she was alone, with no real resources or support or guarantee of safety or protection from anyone, in an environment of criminality and violence. There were likely very few, if any options available to her in terms of her own survival. Her becoming a prostitute wouldn’t have been any kind of a choice then, but rather a move made in desperation. And so I think we can also safely assume that Kuchel’s experiences working as a prostitute were tantamount to forced labor. In other words, a kind of slavery. She was almost certainly paid a paltry sum by the brothels owner, evidenced by the sorry, squalid and destitute state we see her and Levi living in when Kenny comes. She was likely afforded very few, if any rights or defenses against whatever her clients chose to do to her, as also evidenced by the fact that no one seemed to really know or care enough about her or Levi to even realize when she had died.

It’s impossible for me to define any of what Kuchel went through working in such a place as anything less than rape, then.

So, Levi’s very existence is one that is a literal product of violence. I’m absolutely sure that Levi himself is painfully aware of this, knowing that he was born out of his own mother’s pain and suffering. Going into the implications of this on Levi’s psychological health, I think you can safely assume this realization had a very negative impact on his own sense of self-worth. His mother was the only person in his childhood who we ever saw treat him with any kind of actual love or kindness. The only person who ever, actually wanted him. And yet, Levi would have seen demonstrated to him, every day, how his existence in his mothers life placed an increased burden on her, forcing her into increasingly more desperate circumstances, now having to feed two mouths instead of only one, and as a result, likely having to engage in increased, unwanted sexual activity with her clients. So Levi would be aware that not only was his mother, (again, the only person who loved and treated him with tenderness) being hurt on his behalf, but he also would have been aware, after witnessing the particular ways in which she was being hurt, that he himself was the result of that violence. Levi would have been shown that his very existence, then, was something which caused immense suffering and pain to the only person in his life who loved him. I honestly can’t even imagine the negative implications of something like this on a young mind. Only to say, it must have been horrific and resulted in lifelong trauma. Trauma which, due to the desperation of Levi’s life afterward, he likely never had any opportunity or chance to even address.

Now, moving on to something else. There’s a tendency by many to paint Kuchel as this sort of perfect mother figure. Someone who, through the power of her love for Levi alone, was able to overcome the trauma of their general circumstances, to negate the negative experiences he would have been exposed to, resulting in Levi becoming the kind and compassionate person he would be as an adult. But I think this assumption about Kuchel and their situation is not only unrealistic and idealized in the extreme, but also in its way, undermines the actual bleakness of their circumstances.

Again, we have to remember that Kuchel was driven into the Underground, and essentially forced, through lack of any other options, to become a prostitute. Calling her a prostitute is a nice way of saying she had to sell herself into sexual slavery. Kuchel’s own psychological and emotional trauma doesn’t often get touched upon or acknowledged when people talk about her and her relationship with her son, nor does the desperate poverty of their living situation. Kuchel died right in front of Levi, and we can assume with pretty good accuracy that she either died from a sexually transmitted disease, or that she died from malnutrition and starvation. These weren’t two people, then, who were living a comfortable or secure life. In fact, the very opposite. Levi was starving to death when Kenny found him. It’s easy enough to assume from his state of general neglect and starvation that Kuchel, at the very least, was struggling to provide for him. Not just food, but any kind of comfort or care. Clothing, warmth, protection, cleanliness, and very likely even, affection. This isn’t a knock on Kuchel’s worth as a mother, or her parenting. She was, undoubtedly, doing the best she could given the circumstances. But, again, this particular aspect of their lives isn’t touched on nearly enough. Kuchel died out of neglect, impoverishment, desperation and abuse. Given what we can assume her day to day life was like, having to let men come and sexually assault her just to keep herself and her son alive, one has to also consider the emotional and mental toll this sort of existence would eventually have on her. She had to have been exhausted, both mentally and physically. You add to this the always uncertain and present reality of whether either her or Levi would even be able to eat on any, given day, whether she would be able to keep her son from starving to death, and you can start to form a clear idea of how things like “playtime” or “fun”, or freely given and enthusiastic love and affection, would be, tragically, low on the list of priorities. Their situation was absolutely a situation of survival, first and foremost. Luxuries weren’t a part of their lives. Anyone who’s ever experienced extreme deprivation, poverty and desperation on the level in which Kuchel and Levi were living would know that those material realities absolutely have a negative impact on one’s ability to simply live. To be happy. To indulge in fantasy. To indulge in luxury. To indulge in any kind of relaxation or ease of living. It’s nice to imagine that Kuchel was always able to show Levi love and affection. To always be a kind, caring and generous mother to him. But that perception of their lives together ignores the bleak and harsh reality of what was really going on. More likely than not, Kuchel was often too exhausted and in bad, physical shape herself to play with Levi, to pay attention to Levi, to indulge in Levi. It was everything she could do, after all, to simply keep Levi alive, let alone healthy and happy. Kenny described Levi, when he first took him in, as the most unfriendly kid he’d ever met. We rarely see Levi speak at all in those early days with Kenny. That doesn’t speak to someone who is well adjusted socially. That doesn’t speak to someone who received a lot of open love and affection in the formative years of his childhood. Again, this isn’t to criticize or undermine Kuchel’s abilities as a mother. It’s simply acknowledging the tragic reality, that someone in Kuchel’s position, living the kind of life she was living, wouldn’t have had the luxury of being for Levi everything he needed her to be.

This also leads me into another point I don’t think I’ve ever seen discussed, and that has to do with Kuchel’s decision to have Levi at all, and how that choice is, simultaneously, both entirely selfless, and entirely selfish.

Kenny tells his grandfather that he tried to talk Kuchel out of having her baby, trying to explain to her how bringing a baby into the kind of situation she was living in wasn’t viable. It was only going to make, not only her own life worse, but in turn, the baby’s life was going to be awful too. We later see, in Kenny’s memories, a scene in which Kuchel is holding Levi as a newborn against her chest and crying tears of happiness. Kenny recalls this as part of his monologue about dreams, and the desperation of dreams, and the ability of dreams to corrupt us. This is important to acknowledge. Because again, while Kuchel’s intentions in giving birth to Levi were pure, and her love for him was absolutely pure and genuine, still, she DID bring him into a situation of extreme poverty, desperation and violence. In a way, Kuchel prioritized her dream of motherhood not only over her own well being (this being the selfless aspect of her decision), but also over Levi’s well being (this being the selfish aspect). She knew her own living situation was terrible, filled with suffering, cruelty and pain. She knew this, and she was aware, from Kenny’s own words, that bringing a child into that situation was only going to make things worse, for both of them. But she chose to do it anyway. She chose to give birth to Levi, and to keep him, knowing the sort of deprivation and desperation he would be exposed to. Knowing the kind of violence and cruelty and ugliness he would be exposed to, being born and raised in a brothel, in which she was working as a prostitute, relegated to a single room with him in it.

Chances are high, extremely high, that Levi saw his mother raped. Maybe she sent him out of the room when she was with clients. But maybe she wasn’t able to. We never see any evidence of Levi having ever left their single room as a child, and even if he had, the building they were in was a brothel, catering to men seeking and paying for the sexual services of women. It isn’t an environment that is, in any way, suited to a child, friendly to a child, or even tolerant of a child. It’s almost 100% certain that Levi was, at one time or another, exposed to sexual violence against women, whether it was his own mother, or someone else. He would have been exposed to violence in general too, because men who sexually assault women are also very likely to physically assault them. I don’t think it’s any kind of a stretch, even, to assume that Levi himself might have been on the receiving end of physical violence, at the least, in a place like that. Men who wouldn’t want some little kid around while they force themselves on the women there probably would have little qualm with hitting Levi to make him go away.

Again, going back to Levi’s “unfriendliness” when Kenny first takes him in, I think we can extrapolate that a lot of what Kenny was perceiving as unfriendly behavior was in fact just Levi being withdrawn. He seemed sullen and mute to Kenny. We see this in children who have been abused. They tend to go within themselves and make themselves as unobtrusive as possible, not wanting to draw attention to themselves, because whenever they have, it’s always resulted in them somehow being hurt. Levi’s body language when Kenny first meets him speaks to this as well. He’s curled against the wall opposite his mother’s bed, literally making himself as small as possible, his knees hugged to his chest, his head bowed close to them, etc... Like he’s trying to hide. Again, it doesn’t take a stretch of the imagination to assume that Levi fell victim to the violence of the men who frequented that place. The Underground in general was filled with violent and cruel men who made a living out of criminality, who in fact wouldn’t think twice about committing murder, etc...

This is the world Kuchel brought Levi into. A world of physical and sexual violence, a world of depravity and illness, a world of poverty and starvation. Kuchel loved Levi with all her heart. That isn’t for a moment in doubt. But by choosing to have him and keep him, she also trapped him into a life of pain and suffering of his own.

Kuchel had to know, if anything were to happen to her, that Levi’s chances of survival were next to none. He was helpless without her, and that too is evidenced by the fact that, when Kenny finds them, Levi is literally starving to death. He’s just sitting there, resigned to his fate. There’s no indication whatsoever that Levi ever even left their room to seek food, or help of any kind. He just sat there, trapped with his mother’s rotting corpse, waiting to die. And nobody there cared enough to even check on him or his mother in the span of time between when she fell ill and when she died. Nobody there cared enough about either of their lives to see if they were okay, and we can assume, because Levi didn’t seek anyone’s help, that he didn’t think anyone would help him, which tells us all we need to know about how he and his mother were generally treated in that place. Kuchel must have known, as she was dying, that without her, Levi was going to die too. She had no way and no cause to know or think that Kenny would come by to rescue him. And, indeed, if Kenny hadn’t shown up right when he did, Levi almost certainly would have died in that room with her. I can’t even imagine the pain this must have caused her, knowing she was dying, and knowing as a result, that her son was going to die too. It would have been unbearable. But again, this is also the risk Kuchel took when she chose to give birth to and keep Levi. She knew this was a possibility. That her child would die a slow and painful death without her there to protect and take care of him.

So this sort of sunny, idealistic picture that tends to get painted of Levi’s life with his mother seems both unrealistic and unfair to them in terms of understanding their actual situation. This wasn’t a happy or good life they were living together. It was a life full of misery and pain. Levi’s monologue later on to the 104th recruits, about not knowing if you’ll wake up and get to eat that day, or if your friends will still be alive, wasn’t just a reflection on their lives living with the threat of titans. It was a reflection of his own life living in the Underground, living a life surrounded by poverty and violence and uncertainty. That was Levi’s existence for the first 25 years of his life. That was Levi’s childhood. Violence and starvation, cruelty and deprivation. Kuchel’s love, as pure and as genuine as it was, wasn’t enough on it’s own to overcome the scars of all that.

One last note to end this on.

There’s also a tendency to paint Kenny’s rescue of Levi as this very heroic and selfless act on Kenny’s part. A moment in which Levi was pulled from the jaws of certain death and given a chance to live by his uncle. And while, yes, Kenny certainly did save Levi’s life and give him that chance, I think it’s also important to acknowledge that Kenny’s treatment of Levi was abusive, and ultimately caused him more harm than good. Kenny, we have to remember, went down to the Underground to rescue Kuchel. He went to that brothel with the intention of pulling her out and bringing her to live back up on the surface, able to do so now that he had ended the persecution of their family through his connection with Uri Reiss. But by the time he got there, Kuchel was dead, and she’d left behind her only child in Levi. Kenny could have so easily brought Levi up to the surface with him, the way he’d been planning on doing with Kuchel, and given him a good and happy life. He could have saved him from the hell of living in the Underground City. A world of perpetual darkness, a world of constant danger and desperation and illness. People talk about how Kenny gave Levi the tools to survive in such a harsh environment, and treat this as if it’s something to somehow be applauded and praised. But Kenny shouldn’t have had to teach Levi to survive in a cut-throat environment at all. He’d made it possible for those with the Ackerman name to live free of persecution up above. He could have easily taken Levi with him and given him a good, traditional education, fed and clothed him, given him shelter, given him the chance to grow up in fresh air and sunlight, given him a chance to make friends with other children, to learn social skills and just live a normal existence with the opportunity to actually be happy. But instead Kenny chose to keep Levi in the Underground, to teach him how to kill, to teach him to be violent, and not much else, before simply abandoning him there and never going back, forcing Levi to survive on his own in the most dangerous place inside the walls. What Kenny did to Levi wasn’t a kindness. A kindness would have been rescuing Levi from the Underground entirely and giving him a real life above. A kindness would have been Kenny giving to Levi what he’d planned on giving to his sister. But Kenny was too selfish to do that, and that’s the bottom line. He didn’t want to have to take care of and raise a child. He didn’t want the responsibility. Whether that’s tied to Kenny’s own, negative perception of himself or not doesn’t matter. He still chose not to take Levi with him and give him a real life because actually caring for and raising a child would have been too hard, too much work, too much responsibility. By leaving Levi there in the Underground, he sent Levi the message, clear as day, that he wasn’t wanted. And so Levi spent the entirety of his childhood, and a good portion of his adulthood, believing that, and living in the Underground, living a life of violence and desperation and suffering.

I don’t think the suffering Levi went through as a child gets discussed or acknowledged enough, or examined enough. I don’t think people often look at it with enough objective realism to realize the extreme harm and trauma Levi experienced and was left with. It’s genuinely a miracle that Levi turned out the way he did. That Levi is as good a man as he is. Nothing in his life growing up can really account for that. Everything in his life growing up would evince that he should have become the sort of man Kenny was, selfish and cruel. It’s truly against all odds that Levi became the exact opposite. Selfless in the extreme, kind, caring and compassionate above and beyond anyone else in the series. Someone who fights for and gives his life in dedication to the dreams and lives of others.

In many ways, Levi is, himself, the greatest miracle of all.

#Levi Ackerman #Kuchel Ackerman #Kenny Ackerman #meta #analysis #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin

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hanayumi · 1 year

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𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐤-𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐛𝐞𝐝

— bonten!sano manjirou x fem!reader x sanzu haruchiyo 🔞

part 2 of brittle to the bone || prev.

if mikey is harsh, imposing, unyielding, then haruchiyo is just that with playful charisma superimposed over cruelty.

wc. ~9k

tags/warnings noncon, predator/prey dynamics, yandere undertones, knifeplay, mild bloodplay, forced infidelity, self-harm, degradation, overstim, mind break, mentions of gunplay, minor character death(s)

notes he’s very mean

snapshot;

Soft. Soft.

Haruchiyo parrots the word in his mind. Almost as if within it holds the secrets to the universe — and that if he keeps saying it, keeps feeling the weight of this single featherlight syllable on his tongue, that it’ll give him a revelation of sorts.

Your skin looked soft and your hand was soft and he can’t help but wonder if every inch of you down to your bones is soft.

∗

Be good.

‘Be good’ — by which Mikey meant, you suppose, no speaking to others in the compound, no leaving the house, no stepping inside anywhere but the bedroom, bathroom, living room, and kitchen… all the places that you’ve been wandering in-between for years without ever going outside. Is there anything else?

Well, you can’t bother yourself to remember. It’s not like you can do anything in here that’ll piss him off anyway. The time you’ve had to spend alone has started to blur into an impalpable being — an amalgamation, of sorts — warping and slowing your perception of reality to a tenth of a millisecond whenever Mikey isn’t around to monopolise your attention.

…I’ll reward you like a good little bitch when I get back. Can you do that for me?

Don’t leave the penthouse. Don’t enter rooms you don’t know. Don’t speak to anyone other than Haruchiyo. It should be pretty simple. Yeah, you can definitely do that for him. You can be good. You can. You’ll show him.

(As long as Haruchiyo doesn’t kill you before you get a chance to.)

You close your eyes, an image of the man with roseate hair floating into your memory. His lilting voice, the rattling of his pills, the way he kissed your hand after introducing himself and the way he smirked when Mikey made his announcement. A prickling chill runs down your spine like cold water.

You clench a bundle of the sheets into your face, burrowing into the lingering scent of Mikey, and decide that you hate the way Haruchiyo speaks. In a slow, condescending drawl, smirk bared, revealing the carious fangs of a seasoned predator, the narrowed slits of his eyes scrutinising (for what, you have no idea) as if he thinks of your life as even more insignificant and disposable as the dirt between his shoes.

There’s another thing, too. Something that fills your little heart with enormous anxiety and forces you on simmering coals within his presence, even now when you’re all safe and sound in this room with its four white walls and thick, locked door.

You can read that grin like an open book.

He thinks that your relationship with his boss has an expiry date. That it’s only a matter of time before you’re disposed of, too. That, without question, you were only there as a form of stress relief, your sole purpose being to tend to his boss’ every need. An emotional outlet, of sorts.

(You hate it because you know he’s right.)

But you don’t tell him that, don’t want to offer him the satisfaction — instead you scamper from his gaze, always slipping out of a room just as he enters it, going as far as to strategically plan out your daily activities to ensure that you wouldn’t be catching any glint nor shadow of that vibrant pink.

And for the most part, it’s working. And even if it didn’t, he has a funny way of looking at everything and anything as if it were leagues beneath him, so much so that you find it easy to simply duck your head and deem yourself unworthy of staying in his presence any longer than you already have. It’s weird, how simple it is to evade him — how predictable, easy, like child’s play. When he has just about given you as much attention as one would to a stray twig obstructing a sidewalk.

So, just like every other nagging worry, you stuff Bonten’s-Number-Two-Sanzu-Haruchiyo away in a cabinet for safe-keeping.

Time without Mikey also means that you’ll at least get a bit more time to yourself (albeit a large portion of it would be spent calculating how to avoid the man he left in his place).

You’re using it wisely, you think — alternating between counting the grooves in the ceiling to toying with the strands of velvet rug in the middle of the too-spacious bedroom, to daydreaming until sprawling scenery of the outside-world blooms behind your eyelids… okay. So you haven’t been able to get anything truly productive done. So what? The word ‘productive’ feels alien in your mind — almost as if there’s something fundamentally cursed about its three syllables, as if it belonged in a realm unattainable to someone like you. You haven’t had to worry about being pro-duc-tive in years. It was always Mikey, Mikey, Mikey.

At some point, you think dismally, I’ll have to get up. But now is not the time. So you count, and count, until you feel your consciousness slipping away, and your eyelids droop, and you sink into a deep, dreamless sleep. Sleep that blunts the ache of isolation and the burning of your bruises, tip-toeing featherlight over your skin like a reminder of the person who left them.

(Mikey doesn’t leave sticky notes on the fridge telling you to remember to brush your teeth and comb your hair. Everything he gives you comes from himself: his flesh and bone, his pain, his heart, his bruises.)

When time meanders forward, and inevitably touches upon evening, and you stir from sleep feeling an unbearable feeling of emptiness in your stomach (almost as if a large cavity was drilled into your abdomen), you shake the drowsiness away starting to feel an oncoming panic that Haruchiyo somewhere somehow found a way to sneak something into your breakfa— oh. That’s right.

You didn’t even have breakfast.

Your gut howls in agony. Reluctantly, you unwrap the self-made cocoon of blankets, preparing the mental artillery required to slip out the bedroom.

Haruchiyo seems to be missing from the kitchen, which is a good thing, a pleasant thing — though you aren’t stupid to assume that he is shirking his duties as your ‘guardian’. Living in a sprawling penthouse with just two people, minus the seclusion, leaves you enjoying an overwhelming sense of privacy most of the time. But now? Now it feels like there’s bear traps under every tile in the floor, shuriken blades concealing themselves behind every groove in the ceiling (there were about 200 that you counted before dozing off).

It takes a few furtive glances down the corridor and you (fruitlessly) keep a knife within arm’s reach (‘I don’t know why I’m doing this it’s not like I’m even capable of wielding a knife’), but you get to work quickly, preparing a decent meal the only way you know how. The purple blemishes lining the expanse of your neck and thighs still throb in protest when you move, although now it’s become a dull, persistent, guileless ache. You’re all alone, since it appears that your housekeeper is nowhere to be found — got scared away, maybe?

Come to think of it, staff don’t stay for very long around the Bonten building (either that or the numbers are endless; every day you see a new face), and you were always too busy to pay attention to anything but the hulking man demanding your attention.

Even so, something about that particular woman made the word ‘bold’ pop up in your mind in thick, underlined letters.

She’s been around for a few weeks now, looking to be about the same age as you (maybe a little older?), and always wore her black hair pinned back neatly, revealing youthful and bright eyes. She isn’t permitted to stay long — no longer than when she finishes up cleaning and cooking food that’ll last the next few days — and neither of you know each other’s names. Though she did offer you the most sympathetic of smiles when the smell of good food left you poking your head into the kitchen. You think of it sometimes, when you’re lying in bed sleepless.

It’s been a long time since I’ve done this on my own, you frown, wiping sweat from your brow. Not that you haven’t cooked before, you have — you just can’t remember when. Your fingers curl feebly around the vegetable peeler, strips of potato skin falling onto the cutting board like ribbons. How long has it been, since you’ve put so much care into something other than Mikey? Again, you’re reminded of how much of your time that he eats up on the regular, like a blackhole both in his presence and absence; like a mechanical heart that your empty cavity of a ribcage can’t pump blood without. The thought alone should petrify you.

Don’t think about that.

There you go again, fretting over things that can’t be fretted about. You stubbornly follow the woman’s phantom movements from what little you gleaned from watching her from afar, guiding your hands over a boiling stove. The sizzles generating at the bottom of the metal pot reminds you of firecrackers. If your memory serves you well, there should be extra seasoning in the top cabinet. And you have to remember to work fast, too, just in case Haruchiyo decides to stick his head out in curiosity.

One by one, along with those forbidden thoughts, the various base ingredients are banished into the pot. Minutes later, you taste the thick broth with a spoon and damn, you realise, this actually tastes kind of good. This actually feels kind of good.

Yeah… yeah no, maybe you’re starting to get the hang of it. Maybe it’ll actually turn out okay after all — the next two days, your isolation, this makeshift stew. Not as good as the woman’s, but you reckon she’d give you a pass for trying. It’s only been a few days tops, but you cave and sigh; you kinda miss her presence. It gave you something to mull over amidst constant chao—

“What the hell are you doing?”

Your blood freezes.

At the doorway, Haruchiyo looks dishevelled, pissed, a single olive eye twitching. Your legs caramelise into a thick hardness, rooting you to the ground. The pot continues to sizzle above the flame. Since when did he…

“C-cooking?” you begin warily, glancing for the nearest exit, trying to keep an impervious look on your face even though every second that slips by a silent fear creeps up on you like a chokehold. You flinch as he stalks closer with the air of a forensic inspector, looking over the mess that is the kitchen, the wildly strewn pots and pans and utensils — all because you panicked and couldn’t find the ones you were looking for.

(Around the counter? No—that will take too much time. What if you shoved your way past him? No, god no—are you stupid? He’d catch you immediately—)

“You’re dumber than I thought,” he snarls, his mouth donning that prized scowl, leaning forward before you can react and jabbing a finger at the cutting board. “You don’t even know how to handle a fucking knife?”

“Wha—huh?”

You blink; the pellets of onion, potato and carrot lie limply on the scuffed wood. Misshapen little pieces, some thick and some way too thin. Your hands lie frozen in time, one grasping at a chunk of orange and the other gradually growing slick around the knife.

He clicks his tongue in disdain.

“At this rate, you’re going to kill yourself before I do.” Haruchiyo and the long tendons of his fingers pry the weighted blade out of the comfort of your hands. Insistently, in a way that tells you he’s mad—oh god he’s mad— but strikingly, without a touch of malice. Is he mad? Is he sober? He won’t turn it—the knife—on you—right? Your breath hitches.

“Mikey would maim me to a pulp if you succeeded in that little stunt,” he arches a brow, as if using Mikey’s name in such a manner left a bitter taste in his mouth. For some reason, blood rushes to your ears as you watch the man in an unbuttoned suit hunch over the cutting board. You give him space to examine the ingredients, biting your tongue in shame. “If you wanted food you could’ve just said so.”

You could’ve just said so.

Something doesn’t feel quite right about his words, but you’re too relieved to dwell on it. You are graced with a sliver of respite, a moment’s peace; at least you know Haruchiyo has no intentions of killing you. He can’t. Probably.

The silky-smooth incisions he makes on the vegetables and meat send a tremor down your spine, each chop bouncing around in your eardrums. He’s helping you and yet, you almost feel bad for wanting to run. You don’t want to know where he learnt to wield a blade like a razorlike extension of his fingers.

“You know a lot,” you whisper, biting your lip afterwards, minutes in when the aimless hovering becomes too much to bear. What the hell are you doing, trying to make small talk?

“I know enough,” he shoots back, long lashes fluttering like large silver fans as he turns around to squint at you. He likes to look at you as if you were some ancient vase excavated from the earth, you realise. Or like a fossil. As if you originated from a completely different time from him.

Nothing much of a conversation passes between the two of you after that; you awkwardly go through the motions, trying your best to stay away. He mutters some weird cantation under his breath as he sections off the potatoes from the carrots, moves them over to a plate as he readies the meat.

It’s almost faelike, how systematic of a man he is. How quick he is to catch on, requiring minimal instructions from you, despite seeming like a person of inferior culinary calibre.

When he’s done, Haruchiyo pats his hands on his thighs, breathing a sigh. His gaze mulls over the piping stew still bubbling with the newly-added ingredients, before plucking itself away and landing on the door to the study just a distance from the kitchen (his hiding place; his deep cavernous den). Just before he saunters to the room, twisting a hand on the door knob, he says, “I don’t cook, so don’t expect me to.”

(You didn’t.)

It was a brief encounter.

In the early dusk, long after your meal, you hear him crawl out of the study like an emerging creature of the night, and when you’re halfway through turning over a page in a novel (a dusty old one that you found hiding inside the drawers of the bedside table) you hear the sound of cutlery scraping against ceramic, echoing from where the kitchen must be.

It’s strange, the gladness that washes over you — you hadn’t really expected him to react, let alone try your cooking. Come to think of it, you weren’t even sure that he ate in the first place. (He said he doesn’t cook, but he knows the ‘correct’ way to use a knife? Odd.) You frown, none of the words on the page construing a decipherable meaning to you.

Maybe, just maybe, sharing the same space with Haruchiyo won’t be so bad after all (now that you know he eats and sleeps like a human being, is normal-functioning in most aspects of his physical body).

With this thought in mind, you carry on business as usual in your small corner of the house, lightly pondering which part of Japan Mikey has found himself embroiled in.

At nightfall, your ears unwillingly pick up loud thuds down the hallway, and you triple-check that the door is locked before climbing into the soft covers, stifling a shiver. Regardless of whether he’s been oddly tame or not, it’ll take a while to get used to this — the strange, unexplainable things that go bump in the night.

The bed… feels emptier. Desolate. Something feels odd, like the calm before the storm. It’s just your imagination. You close your eyes, falling asleep imagining Mikey’s arm around your hip. Ironically, you can’t seem to sleep well without him.

∗

What is this?

He’s felt like this before, of that he’s certain. A longass time ago. Judging from the huge blip in his memory when Haruchiyo tries to recall, it must’ve been eons since then. Eons and eons and then some, back when inactive volcanoes still spat real, smouldering lava — he’s sure it’s been that long.

It’s curious, and it amazes him more than it disgusts him. He should be disgusted, the logical part of his brain adds; he should have just minded his business and carried on as usual. He should have let you cut yourself in that dangerous manner (what’s a tiny cut going to do, add another notch to the scar-ridden pole?) — let you experience what it’s like to live life with an impish brain.

He wasn’t intending to interrupt. Ten, fifteen minutes must’ve ticked by, with him standing there in silence (you are quite the careless one). He couldn’t push down the onslaught of annoyance at the way you bent over backwards to reach the top shelf — are you trying to make his job difficult on purpose? Haruchiyo is a lawless beast, sure, but even beasts have their master’s orders to abide by, along with a special place in hell for those who don’t obey orders. Maybe that was your goal — maybe you wanted him gone. Maybe deep down you’re a spy sent to eliminate Bonten from the inside.

That is how he almost relished in pure excitement, at the promise of bloodshed regardless of how minor.

And yet, and yet, when he saw the flat silver falling just millimeters short of slicing into your soft digits, something compelled him to step in. (To help? Or to finish the job? No, he knows why. It was to chase this surreal, abstract feeling.)

Soft. Soft.

Your skin looked soft and your hand was soft and he can’t help but wonder if every inch of you down to your bones is soft.

He wonders how you had the time to teach yourself how to cook. Or if you’d already known before you were brought here (in any case you didn’t look very experienced). If the flavourful explosion in his mouth attests to his boss’ favourite dish. Comfort food, his brain supplies. What is that? He never understood the little nuances that people sprinkled in their vocabulary, though the terms lingered in his head like pesky flies. (If it’s shit, it’s just shit, right?)

He’d been so used to the staleness served at dilapidated bars that he’d forgotten almost completely what it means to have a proper meal. If it wasn’t stale or nasty it was too fancy for him to stuff down his throat — he has always been a picky eater, wanted things to be just right, but somehow the smell alone was enough to entice him out of the study.

And when he took the first bite, something strange happened. A feeling akin to warmth flooded his veins. (It’s amazing, isn’t it? It was like poison. His head started spinning and his mind morphed into a jumbled maze of thoughts; so deeply entrenched in its twists and turns he was, left palm slowly running across hedged walls, groping for an exit. Or trying to find whatever treasure, salvation, lied in the middle.) It never ever struck Haruchiyo that you might’ve snuck something extra into the food to incite this wild reaction in him. No— you’re too innocent for that. Kind. Warm. Trusting. Soft…

Not once did you knock on the door. Not that he expected you to. Not that he wanted you to. (You’re stupid but not that stupid.)

He must’ve been in there for hours, oscillating between the fabric of time and space, consciousness and unconsciousness blurring into one.

Flashes — funny things, like trusting someone, like cutting his fingers by accident as a kid, sitting outside the doctor’s office (“What are they going to do to me?” a young boy with flaxen hair whispered. “They will put you in stitches. It will not hurt. Just a few pricks, nothing more,” someone whispered back… who?) — materialise before his consciousness often. Uninvited. Unwarranted.

When he is awake they come to him like blessings, like offerings to a long-forgotten deity. When he is asleep they take on the sparkle and sheen of a fairytale — so blurry and blinding that he could never hope to brush his fingertips across such an ethereal feeling in his mortal life.

Because a common thread was that these recollections (or fairytales, or glimpses into the ether, or as he personally likes to call them, fever dreams) never lasted long.

The feeling always, always chose to leave last — that silent poking and prodding going on without his consent, shady dealings happening at the edges of his conscience that scream at him to mourn for a past innocence, something that he has no chance of ever recovering. Memory, in this way, comes like slippery eels in the palm of his hand: if he’s lucky, he’ll catch one. If he isn’t, oh well.

“Fucking hell,” he grunts, plastering his spine to the back of chair in hopes of relieving the pain throbbing behind his eyelids. Defeat tastes acrid, bitter, on Haruchiyo’s tongue; it’s no use fighting the waves of agony strobing like a heat wave.

His arm adeptly loses feeling and the metal spoon crashes down onto the plate. It’s empty now, and his stomach is somewhat filled. Yet this shitty-ass migraine chooses to latch onto his brain like a leech. God. Can’t you just—I don’t know—let me off? This one, goddamn time, Haruchiyo curses. He’s pissed. He’s sure he left an extra stockpile of that good stuff somewhere…

Old habits die hard, but it’s difficult to dwell on it when all he can feel is gratefulness for his own foresight. Mikey finds ways to avoid him a lot when he doesn’t feel like entertaining his highs, kinda like throwing a bone to stave off a dog’s abundant energy. But for the most part, he lets Haruchiyo do his own thing — lets him chew on the proverbial bone to his heart’s desire. Thus, once again, Haruchiyo finds himself with a fistful of pills. (It’s the only way he knows to curb the pain.)

He’d really meant to pounce on you by now, he thinks, as he swallows another. Gulp. He meant to already sink his claws into your neck, the same way Mikey does. Gulp.

But he can’t. Right now he can’t even stand straight his head hurts so bad. As if something from within him wanted to turn his body inside out, displaying his innards.

And, fuck, when the itch resurfaces again like an old friend, there’s little he can do to stop it. (When has he ever been the type to argue with instinct, after all? If anything… he is a slave to it. It’s understandable. Mikey’ll forgive him. He’s too used to running free, veins pulsing at the first whiff of prey. It doesn’t do anyone good to cage a wild animal.)

Haruchiyo and his dimmed gemstone eyes, clouded over with a drug-filled haze — a comfortable, fitted collar around his neck and the leash held firmly within his grasp. A slave. A weapon to his own instinct. Nature proclaims that it’s law for predators to hunt prey. How many girls has he killed? How many that look like you and how many just to satisfy this instinct of purging prey.

Haruchiyo has lost count at this point. Everything blurs and twists into one: pill-shaped candy, the boy with pale hair, the warmth of the food that felt like a paperweight on his tongue… you clutching the tip of your finger, thick blood gushing out. (The ‘what-if’ that would’ve happened if he hadn’t interfered.)

Deeper and deeper, he starts to feel dizzy, as if he were plummeting down a rabbit hole. He stumbles from the kitchen and into the living room, heads towards the noise that made his ears prick up like a predator groping for blood. Thirst. He’s unbearably thirsty.

It’s not you— is that you? He goes rigid; blinks away hysteria. It’s you.

All he can think of is you— all he can think is, Mikey will forgive him.

∗

At an abandoned dock two cities away a figure sits patiently, embroiled in a decrepit darkness. Moonlight creeps across his hunched back like vines over a wall. Dark bangs fall messily across his face with some strands still matted in a sticky substance. Sweat, or blood. Mikey scrunches up his nose. If you were here, he wouldn’t have to worry about cleaning himself up.

But you aren’t. And the thought is enough to wind a bunch of thorns around his chest.

The cylindrical shape feels strange as heck against the insides of his mouth. He’s poked his tongue through the barrel a few times before, out of pure curiosity, like a cat toying with a ball of yarn trapped in its mitts. But the taste? Well, it’s just as he expected it to be — bland. Flavourless. Unappealing. Just as unappealing as life without you.

(The fuck? Takeomi called me all the way here just to deal with this?)

Then again, he did take a longer time than usual to exterminate the local pest populace. Mikey doesn’t know if this particular thorn in his side is exceptionally formidable, or if he is exceptionally off his game today. (Huh — no, that can’t be it. It’s not as if he saw hostile figures blurring into two then three then four like a cheap ninja trick, even as he struck them down unfazed; not as if, after the tenth one the blood got too heavy for him to focus, and everywhere he turned, intrusive images of your skin plagued his psyche like a disease… no, that can’t be it.)

(…Right? Right. No way.)

He’s miserable. He wants to go home. He wants to hold you and he wants to make you taste the barrel of the gun as he is now — make you run your tongue along its concave shape and ask if you can taste the gunmetal on your teeth and call you pathetic when you start trembling like you always do. Would you let him? (Of course you would. There’s nothing you wouldn’t do for him.) You are obedient, Mikey likes that about you, and you’re always willing to go along with his whims — though, he frowns, it’s mostly because you’re scared. Probably.

Somewhere in the dark a rat squeaks, scuttles into a crack, leaving the timid cry resonating within jagged walls. It reminds him of yo— he throws his head back and gives a long, hard groan, one that spirals in the stillness.

Okay that’s it. He clutches his head. I’m getting out of here.

“Oi. Come, Senju,” he calls monotonously, not waiting up before hopping down, setting his course deeper towards the direction of darkness. A barely audible pair of footsteps follow close behind. But Mikey’s thoughts are occupied; he thinks about the flat surface of the gun and what colour it’d make your skin turn, and he thinks about Haruchiyo sitting faithfully in the penthouse, doing his job. (He’s a little worried, and that’s an understatement.)

Mikey sighs, nose breathing in the musty, oppressive smell of the sea.

One more day and he’ll be back where he was with you; one more day and he’ll be home. But at the very least, he thinks, this little business venture has turned out to be the tiniest bit amusing. His first time exploring Japan in months and he’s already got himself a souvenir to take home.

∗

It’s… raining.

A fine, feathery, bountiful rain that’s only noticeable from ripples of water cascading soundlessly on the full-length window, and floating umbrellas shielding commuters from the downpour hundreds and hundreds of floors below.

From your bird’s-eye view, they all but resemble dewdrops of microscopic colour, so far away that you can barely tell they’re alive. You press your palm flat against the glass, feeling the heat of your own skin absorb the cool surface, feeling the tiny vibration brought forth by the morning raindrops on the other side.

How long has it been? Since you’ve been on that other side?

A backdrop of grey paints the city. A familiar view, but one that you’ve never quite gotten used to. It’s quiet. Way too quiet, at that.

Where is Haruchiyo?

The chill spreads to the tip of your toes when they meet the marbled flooring. You slip off the couch, contemplating the merit in searching for a man you would otherwise do triple somersaults to avoid. Is this a good idea? You chew on your lip. It’s not. But where is he?

You’ve been feeling uneasy for the whole morning. Earlier there’d been a crash (multiple) coming from the hallway, and besides making you drop your book it also brought with it a nauseating wave of anxiety. Not that you expected Haruchiyo to be quiet at all times, goodness no (last night was a test of your patience), but there was a certain instinct imbued into you that made the hairs on your forearms stand on end whenever things were a hint out of the ordinary.

A certain intuition that came part and parcel with living with dangerous, scheming people.

Why is he grunting like that?

(That was a grunt, right? No… no, it definitely was.)

There was the sound of something sharp, like metal, grating against the floor — what was that? You scurry over to press your ear to the door, listening hard for anomalies, trying to conjure up hypotheses in your brain that don’t equal to Haruchiyo throwing a messy fit or getting ready to jump you or — well, kill you.

A clunk. Several thumps. A knife, maybe? Or he could be moving furniture, or, or—he could be practicing with his rumoured katana (you’ve never seen it but heard people talk about it in hushed whispers) — there’s no way to know for sure. All these unidentified sounds send seismic fear rippling through you.

With Mikey there was no need to question anything, because it was only a matter of time until you found out. But now that you’re alone — alone and defenceless and the most vulnerable you’ve ever been since you were fresh out the womb — it strikes a waning courage in your steps as you venture into the unknown, sweaty palms encircling the cool metal door knob, trying your hardest to stifle the click it makes when it unlocks.

Slowly, you tiptoe over to the source of the sound. Because it couldn’t hurt to just take a peek. Right? Just to check in. Just to be safe. Just to make sure he isn’t putting funny stuff inside your cupboards.

And. Well. If you were being honest, being Mikey’s little pet must’ve changed you a lot.

Complacency that thickened your skin, artificial layers of cosmetics over baby-smooth doll fabric. The false sense of protection under Mikey’s invisible iron fist comes with its own, hefty price. It must have gotten to you somehow. It must have done something to build up that liquid courage in your veins, in its own twisted way, surely, because—because no sooner than when you poke your head through the doorway into the living room do you see it.

See them.

You stare at the pile of grisly red organs splattering the cold hard floor; stare at death itself.

And, on top of it, as if crowned the victor, no one but Haruchiyo hunches leisurely over the grisly mound of flesh. Cleaning the mess behind his fingertips with his tongue. Eyeing his handiwork. The glinting edge of the tiny scalpel in his hand still dripping with scarlet, sharp edge pointed towards god knows what’s left of that person ohgod—

Your gut drops to the floor in horror. That uniform. That’s her. That’s the woman. Shit—fuck. What was once a sweet young woman is now a mangled corpse by the hands of Haruchiyo. Something… something is terribly wrong. She doesn’t look like she’s been dead for minutes. No, her eyes are far too cold. Like gaping holes. There is blood from her mouth, no, there is blood everywhere —

Haruchiyo hums, his rosier-than-cotton-candy hair dip-dyed in scarlet. Drip, drip. “Looks like… ah, I’ve roused the attention of our reclusive little rabbit.”

It’s the same man who’d grasped your hand in a courteous gesture just the day before, who’d saved you from slicing your fingers, the same goddamn murderer who’s just got his hands on the only person in years to address you like a regular human being. Idiot. You’ve done it this time. You’re a fucking dumbass. He’s a murderer, murderer — he’s going to kill you.

You’re next.

“What’s wrong, little bunny?” His grin only widens at your stupor, your slow, petrified jaw hanging agape. “You look scared. Do I make you feel scared?”

Your legs won’t budge; you whimper.

Run. Runrunrun — your body is screaming at you, imploring you to hurry the fuck up and run for your goddamn life, but you don’t. Pleas fall on deaf ears. Your body is caught in a bear trap, forcing you to take in the gruesome scene before you. There is so, so much blood. More than you’ve ever seen in your life. And all of it, all of it, is hers.

Just the other day she greeted you with her usual warm smile. Just the other day she was a living, breathing human, who ate and slept and radiated heat.

“Your face tells me you want to run,” he trills, eyes narrowing into slits. “Gonna run away?”

His tone is shrill as a sharpened blade, deranged, with every word mounting into maniacal glee. “Run with your little tail tucked between your cute thighs, back to your big, strong Mikey?”

Bloodshot and unfocused eyes zero in on your face and his body convulses like a zombie erecting from the dead, joints creaking like bars of scaffold. Slowly, assuredly, he rises to one knee, he points the scalpel at his own collarbone, and wait, wait, why is he—

“Look here, little bunny,” he coos, a big wide smile twisting the scars on his mouth; his wrist twitches, yanks, the blade following suit, dipping obediently into his own flesh. His own skin. His own blood that leaks pure sparkling scarlet from a thin crevice.

A scream tears through the room, one you can only feel is yours from the vibrations ringing in your hollow throat — he doesn’t wince. Sheer horror sends your body flying back, hands clasped tight in front of your face to shield you from the deep dark red. This is a nightmare. This can’t be real. Red is matted to pink strands of hair, red is glittering across his mouth like the snout of a beast, red is slowly advancing across the carpet. Wake up. You tremble, whimper. This is bad this is bad this is bad.

A cackle rips into the air, one with a chilling, blood-curdling echo bouncing off the walls, and no sooner than when he takes a step forward does the impenetrable cement in your veins crack.

Fight or flight.

You turn and bolt, feeling the weight of your numb appendages carrying you as far as possible, away from that—that sickening blood, that red crawling ever so closely towards you like hot, molten lava—

You race, stumble, dive into Mikey’s room (Idiot! Mikey isn’t even here! The exit — you have to get to the exit!), managing to grab a spare key off the counter before fleeing like a bat out of hell towards the front door, salvation, the only way out.

“Where do you think you’re going? I’m not done with you yet.”

But then your back’s hitting the wall as you scramble to flee, jolts of the impact swelling up your spine as you hurtle into a dodge when Haruchiyo lunges, bloodied fingertips snatching your wrist and pulling pulling yanking, until the keys crash to the ground with a deafening clatter, until you’ve been sucked into the floor with a scream clawing at your throat, until you’re submerged limb by limb into that deep deep red that you hate.

“NO no no no no, letmego, letmeg—”

“Shh, shh!”

The cool tip of the blade drags along your cheek, thinly scraping against the surface, slicing into half the wet tracks that tears have left on your face so that slivered carmine wells up through the broken skin. His body has no right being this warm, pressed up against you, your knees and arms already going slick with blood. It’s over. He’s caught you.

Your eyes stay screwed shut amidst the barrage of hot tears bursting behind your eyelids. He has you pinned down for good, you realise, a strained whimper fighting its way in the back of your throat. There is no escape. The pain is real. You can feel the slim thread of blood rolling down your cheek, mixing with the tears — only for him to lean closer, lapping up the traces of it with a satisfied chuckle.

His saliva leaves a slimy, wet sensation on your skin. It’s the worst feeling you’ve ever felt in your life.

“Please… I won’t tell anyone… I won’t tell Mikey— please, just let me go…”

“Ah ah ah.” The man — Sanzu Haruchiyo — hushes you again, a finger on your lip, his shuddering breath fanning erratically on your face, his voice fading into yet another hysterical chuckle. But it’s deep, breathy, and taunting, thrumming loudly in his chest, and sending a tremor through your very soul. “I think you’re forgetting a teensy, tiny fact, little bunny— Mikey’s not here.”

Your nose fills with iron when he is this close. Haruchiyo’s eyes — those bulging, green masses of insanity — shift and convulse as if you were faced with the mouth of an abyss. His grip on your wrists tightens to an agonising degree the more you plead and squirm, leaving you with no choice but to hold your breath, hoping desperately that someone will come to your rescue.

Where is Mikey?

You’re going to die here. You’re going to die here… and there’s nothing you can do about it. Pushed up against this psycho killer, who’s just murdered a person innocent of all crime, an outsider who shouldn’t even have been here. Is this how you find closure? From someone other than Mikey?

Manjiro… the thought is enough to shoot a terrible pain in your heart, something unwarranted like denial, like indescribable terror, like—like regret.

I never told him I love him.

Twin dilated pupils absorb the sight of your writhing, suffering form, shuddering in their sockets from unmatched euphoria.

“Why don’t we play a little?”

∗

Truth be told, Haruchiyo doesn’t know what time of day it is, what day it is, and all he remembers is feeling fatigued with an indescribable, insatiable hunger. He thinks he’s never felt so dissatisfied in his entire life.

But this… this is nothing short of a feast, isn’t it?

“You…” he begins, seething through his ultra-wide grin. “You’re a huge slut!”

His hands, not knowing where to touch, land greedily on every inch of your traitorous skin. Groping, taking, as if the gates to heaven inexplicably opened; a creature of hell, he is — a pitch-black entity descending upon a fine-feathered angel. He can’t stop himself, not when you’re so helpless to fend him off.

“If I had known… that you would be going around getting wet at every man touching your little pussy like this…” He bites back a laugh, the scarred edges of his mouth contorting.

You look confused — terrified, but mainly confused. And scared as to why he hasn’t ripped apart your insides yet and god you’re fucking delicious. Your nightdress has long been torn to shreds. Blood — not yours — is splattered everywhere on the marble flooring. Haruchiyo’s obscene groans come like second nature at this point. It’s good, it’s too good — your cries, your shivering, your scent, the way that he can taste how salty your tears are and hear the wetness gathering at his fingers.

“You’re a damned whore, aren’t you?”

You look stunned, stupefied, as if your little brain can’t comprehend what Haruchiyo wants to do to you, as if the squelching noises coming from between your thighs are a mechanism separate to your conscious body — as if they don’t tell him all he needs to know.

“S-stop,” you snivel, wrists straining in his grip, though he thinks it couldn’t possibly hurt from the way you can’t help your half-moans, so delicate and frantic, flitting about in his ears like a pair of small butterfly wings. “Stop, please, a-ah, don’t touch me there—”

“Here? Oh, but what if I want to?”

Frankly, this is the most fun that he’s had in ages — your kitten-like mewls and crystalline tears, soft hips twisting fruitlessly and the friction only serving to make his blood rush south, adrenaline sizzling in his veins even more so than when he was in the midst of mutilating that dumb placeholder, that fake…

“You feel so nice and soft inside, little bunny.”

Haruchiyo shoves his fingers past the lips of your cute slit, prodding and poking like it’s his first time touching a virgin. Warm, tender, and suckling on him like a fawn to its mother’s breast… the gentle clasp of your pussy against his fingers feels like nothing short of heaven. God almighty, no wonder Mikey couldn’t keep his hands off of you. His cock becomes erect, the tip becoming sensitive as it strains against precum-soaked fabric.

He watches you squirm, watches as your tits heave with every breath you take. For the first time Haruchiyo is close to you, closer than ever before, to the point where if he brandished the scalpel now there’s no telling whether he’ll lose control and gouge your pretty eyeballs out in a fit of blind lust. Just like he did to so many others before you — just like those other porcelain, fragile, counterfeit dolls. (Except there’s really nothing that comes so close to perfection as the real thing.)

“What do you think is stopping me from killing you, hm?”

He poses this question in the midst of circling your shining pearl, bringing you closer and closer to climax, coaxing panicked moans out of you as if the realisation just hit you that maybe he will rip apart your insides after all.

Then, when you whine out instead of replying, Haruchiyo pauses, pressing his weight against your soft body for good measure, keening at your smell. He sighs—

“It’s because torturing you fucking turns me on.”

You used to smell like roses — like Mikey. But the you in this moment smells like sex, sweat, and potent iron, blood from his fresh killing and blood from his own flesh and bone; he has never felt such uncontrollable desire in his life. This is it, he thinks, this is the treasure waiting for him at the end of the maze.

His lips latch on and suckle on your exposed nipple, tongue circling and biting and lapping hard until it draws cries of pain. His face returns to your neck, a slimy tongue sticking out and coating you with saliva, feeling himself quiver with desire when your entire body convulses. His hard length grinds against your inner thigh like a mad dog, eager to insert itself into your warm and inviting hole.

But not yet. Just a little more.

He releases your wrists. Sharp nails latch themselves onto your scalp, straining against the roots of your hair to tug you eye-to-eye with his gaze. People like to say that Haruchiyo gets a spine-chilling, deranged gleam in his eyes when he’s in the middle of torturing someone — what do you see this time?

A monster? The devil himself? Or something more divine? Otherworldly? Something like a god?

His teeth sink into his bottom lip; not bad, he credits his brain, eyeing the tremble of your lip and the way tears cascade down your cheeks and jaw and drip onto your breasts, he might just crave to make you worship him. More than anyone else. More than his King; make you become his own private devotee.

“Does Mikey also do this?” Haruchiyo’s gravelly voice whispers filthy vice in your ear. “Does he? Tell me.”

Your back hits the floor. He sticks another finger, two, then three, inside your cunt, wriggling and feeling for the one spot that makes your toes curl and your back arch. Your non-stop whining, your incoherency, your lack of capacity for full sentences, all of it is starting to unravel his control — spilling out like a spool of thread underwater, dispersing never to be reeled in again.

“Tell. Me.”

“N-no!” you rasp, hips quaking.

“Liar,” he smiles. You’re a liar. You’re a filthy liar. He saw you. “What does he do to your little clit, huh? Rub, rub. Oh, you feel so soft and slippery here.”

“Stop, please, a-ah! It’s too much, it’s too much…”

“It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay,” he is quick to comfort, fingers speeding up, abusing your tiny nub, as if his ears were blotting out your frantic cries and tearful struggle. So, so sensitive. He almost feels like you’ll break. “Cum all you want. Again and again. We’ve got all day.”

He attaches his lips like a parasite to your cheek, licking at the small cut, sucking every drop of blood that leaks out, all while his fingertips never cease their momentum. You resist and jerk away from his face, only for him to wrench your jaw tightly in place.

“No, I don’t want to cum, I don’t—” You struggle like a rabbit with its hind legs bound, teeth sinking into your bottom lip in a feeble effort to mute your cries of pleasure. “I-I’m gonna—”

You cum without warning; a spray of liquid pools at your entrance, your thighs spasming under him as if charged with electricity. He coos as if to cheer you on. Fuuuck. He’s not done. There’s no way. Droplets of your juices taste like dews on his tongue; so much he wants to do, but he only has two hands.

As you reel, incapacitated with the afterglow of your orgasm, his palm lets go of your face to wrap around the flushed tip of his cock, giving a few sharp pumps, imagining what it feels like to be buried in your warmth. Well, he won’t have to imagine much longer.

“So pretty, you’d put every other girl to shame,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to your forehead, and another to your lips, silencing your whimpers. “I hated you, god, but turns out you’re good for at least one thing.”

“Let me… let me go…”

“Nah. But did it feel good?” He wants to break you. He wants to see you drowning in so much pleasure that you collapse and black out and crave nothing but his cock.

Your face scrunches up. You’re looking at him, he thinks. Though your expression looks weird, and you’ve stopped struggling.

“Mikey… Mikey’s gonna… he’s gonna be so mad,” you start to hiccup, tears dripping silently onto the marble, bottom lip trembling. Haruchiyo goes still, watching you cry at a loss for words.

He’s confused.

Mikey? Really? At a time like this? And he sees it again. That blatant softness that filters over your eyes — that ickiness. You’re so in love with his King that it’s pathetic.

It hadn’t been obvious before, but it is now. It’s thickening the skin between your heart and the outside world: it’s still there, the veins permeating the layer of visibility just barely, but the pulsing is faint.

And he sneers. Who do you think you are?

“You came because you’re a disloyal whore and you know it. Looks like you didn’t really love him after all, huh?”

At his words, you let out a hurt-filled gasp, as if they made their way into your heart and deposited lashes of agony there. Your mouth hangs open with tears still streaking down your face. The sight makes him want to coo at you.

“Look — you’re all messy and slick down here.”

Before you can tell him to stop, his fingernail scratches your abused clit, hard and fast as if trying to coax another orgasm out of you. Just one more. You can endure it, right? He’s watched Mikey do worse to you. He’s watched Mikey splay your legs open at his mercy and threaten to let every man in the room have their way with you.

Your body thrashes in retaliation but it’s no match for Haruchiyo’s strength, helpless to fight back as he pushes you further and further until you splutter and give a keening cry.

“What would Mikey think if he saw you like this?” he laughs, tuning out your pleas to slow down. “He’d fucking kill you.”

Another spray of your juices — another sharp scream of pleasure. By the third, fourth, your body starts trembling in overstimulation.

“I’m going to make you cum, again and again. Until you regret ever coming here. Make you regret trying to tempt my King.”

Haruchiyo mindlessly nibbles at your ear, before brutish hands reach down to force your legs wider. It’s about time, isn’t it? His cock throbs painfully at the wait.

“No, no, no… you can’t—”

He ignores you, rearranging his hips so they align with yours, gripping your abdomen like a vice as if trying to bruise. More, more, more. All his filthy fantasies start to spill out of the crevices in his brain. All he can do is watch the lavish black rush out in an endless downpour, and he, wrought with an incurable thirst, helps himself to your body, spellbound by the adrenaline you incite in him and the softness and warmth that you—

Ouch. He feels a prick.

From his shoulder, a tiny cut. A warm drop of blood beads at the broken skin. Ah. you’ve got your puny, trembling fingers on the handle of the scalpel.

How clever. A laugh bubbles from his throat.

“Oh, little bunny. Are you sure you want to do that?”

His hand removes itself from your body, snatching the blade out of your grip. You panic and try to retrieve it, but in your moment of desperation he chuckles and slides his cock in, stuffing you with inches of his length at one go, stretching you out like a cushy sleeve.

You yelp, foal legs kicking at air. Haruchiyo takes the time to tuck the blade away.

“Stupid, stupid,” he clicks his tongue as you wail in defeat, tiny paws padding at his chest like you want him to pin you down harder — like you crave for him to abuse your little hole until you can’t walk for the rest of the year. “You’re just a little stupid, aren’t you? Gone all mush-brained from me teasing you?”

He wastes no time in bottoming out, leaving the tip brushing against your womb, beating on the squishy walls again and again. His pace is manic, uncaring, straight from the get-go. Nothing can compare to you. Your tight, slick walls accommodate him so lasciviously, so perfectly, that he swears you know what you’re doing.

“You know what? I’m not even mad. Not when you’re the best fuck I’ve ever had.” His King has an eye for quality, he thinks, adjusting his grip so he can thrust deeper in you.

A mess of blood, cum, tears — a mess that he has made you, forced onto you like ink on a canvas, and he bled a bottomless black. You’re coming around slowly, letting the ink sink into your putty flesh and submitting yourself to the sensation, hips unknowingly rising to meet the timing of his thrusts. That’s more like it, he licks his lips. You’re cute. Obedient. He wouldn’t mind taking you home.

“Hey, hey. Here's—uh—an idea. Why don’t you become my own cocksleeve? I’ll tell Mikey that you—hah—fought real hard, but you just couldn’t resist putting a thick, hard cock inside you. I’ll tell him you couldn’t help it.”

Haruchiyo chuckles mid-pant, having grown rather fond of you and your insides. He’s heaving like a beast, sweat gathering at his forehead, eyes squeezing shut to ride out this pure bliss. It’s a first for him. Has he been doing sex wrong his whole life?

“After my King disowns you… after he throws you out on the streets… I'll pick you up and give you a home. this little pussy… I’m going to make it my own.”

“Ah, ah— sto— ah…”

You’ve gone stupid for good, now. Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, mindless babbling spilling from your lips (he can barely make out Mikey’s name in poor, broken syllables), your breasts bouncing and pussy twitching as it overflows with juices. All words are lost to you in this state.

And yet you’re still hugging his thickness diligently, just like a custom-made cocksleeve. He really ought to reward you. Haruchiyo reaches down to stimulate your clit and shudders at the feeling of you clenching tighter.

That far-off look in your eyes, your thighs periodically convulsing with spurts of cum spraying out pathetically between your folds — it’s almost too good to be true. You’re spent, brainless, mouth agape and tongue lolling out with drool overflowing from the sides when Haruchiyo finishes in you. He can make out broken parts of your speech: feeble efforts of voicing his name.

Not Mikey’s. His.

“You’re mine to play with now,” he says, throwing his head back in laughter at your pitiful mewls. “What do you think? You don’t have any objections, do you?”

Without thinking, with a heightened lust that betrays all logical thought, he sheathes himself again, all the way to the brim with a heady groan. The cum still potent and thick inside your hole spills out and paints his cock in a hot mess of liquid.

Your mouth opens in a silent scream, eyes glazed over with so much pleasure that you look as if you were far, far above the clouds.

“I'll take that as a yes.”

#tw yandere #tw noncon #tw overstimulation #mikey x reader #tokyo revengers smut #yandere mikey #yandere tokyo revengers #sano manjiro x reader #haruchiyo x reader #yandere haruchiyo sanzu #🐝; sweet syrup #tw bloodplay #tw degradation #tw infidelity #tw mindbreak #chiyu; dark #tokyo rev x reader

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mvybanks · 1 year

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Could you do one with jj and a mix of 62 and 139 from your prompt list #4? Pls thank you

the one where you buy lingerie (w/ jj)

a/n: 👀 hope you like this!

warnings: NSFW 18+!!, oral (f receiving) , fingering

prompts: 62 -> “bed. now” 139 -> “i bought a few pieces of lingerie. want me to model for you?”

my masterlist

you love your boyfriend, more than anyone and anything in the world, but lately you’ve barely talked to each other. you two live together in the small but cozy apartment you’ve been renting since you got out of highschool, and of course adult life is not as easy as you thought it would be. between work and taking care of a house, it seems impossible to find time for certain activities.

other than good morning and goodnight kisses, you can’t remember when was the last time he touched you and you miss him. that’s why when sarah almost forced you to go shopping with her and take a break from work for once, you couldn’t stop yourself from buying a couple of things that you know jj would go absolutely feral over.

when you hear him open the front door, you put the bags in your shared bedroom and decide to surprise him with your new purchase. the thought of his reaction was enough to make your insides feel warm.

“hi, baby,” he says walking into the living room, “didn’t know you were home already.”

he bends down to where you’re sitting on the couch and kisses your forehead.

“yeah, i got home early ‘cause sarah took me shopping.”

“did you have fun?”

he walks to your little kitchen and takes a beer from the fridge before flopping on the couch next to you. his arm falls carelessly on the headrest behind you and you lean into his side.

“we did,” your hand travels to his chest while you lift your head to look up at him, “i bought a few pieces of lingerie. want me to model for you?”

his neck twists to look down at your smug face. he knows what you want now but as much as he wants to get his hands on you right now, he’s curious to see what you’re up to.

“let’s see, then.”

his rough and low voice excites you and you almost run to your bedroom to change into the first outfit. the red lace hugs your figure perfectly, leaving little to nothing to the imagination, especially of your behind, completely exposed just for him.

as soon as you walk back into the living room, his eyes fall on your body and they’re hungrier than you’ve ever seen them. you can tell he’s missed you just as much as you did from the way he adjusts his pants and sits up straighter.

“well? what do you think?” you ask twirling around slowly.

he licks his lips and looks at your innocent expression, “you look beautiful, baby.”

he takes a sip from the drink in his hand and the smile on his face tells you that he’s not ready to break yet, but you know exactly what will make you win instantly.

“thank you, j. wait here, i got this other piece i’m kind of insecure about. i don’t know if i want to return it or not.”

this time, you run to change into the white lace lingerie. the fabric covers absolutely nothing, basically see-through, and you know that this was the best idea you’ve ever had.

jj almost chokes on his own saliva at the sight of you: your breast literally spilling out of the small bra, your perked up nipples that he can’t wait to suck into his mouth, your perfect ass naked in front of him. when he notices the necklace you’re wearing, the one that he gifted you once, with the initial of his name resting right in between your breasts, he feels like he’s about to burst, the confinement of his jeans becoming too much on his hard member.

“i mean, the shop assistant said it looks good,” his head whips up to look at your face, “but i’m not really sure i trust him. you think i should keep it?”

you must be playing with him. there’s no way you let another person see you in this set, let alone another man, but god do you know how to get under his skin and make him go insane.

“you don’t trust who exactly?”

he stands up, his beer long forgotten as he walks where you’re standing, a victory smile on your face.

“oh, just the guy that works there.” you shrug, as if you haven’t just made him jealous and hard at the same time.

his hands itch to tear the material off your body but he tries to keep that last bit of self control he has left to wrap his hand around your hair and force you to look at him, “bed. now.”

the growl in his voice makes you press your legs together. you smile wickedly at him, your arms loop around his neck to bring him closer to you and you press your lips right below his earlobe to nip at the skin.

“why don’t you bring me there yourself, j?” you whisper in his ear.

he groans and roughly throws you on his shoulder as you squeal from the sudden movement. the slap on your ass lets a shout of his name out of your mouth as he lets you fall on the bed, your back colliding with the mattress while you look up at him.

“gonna fuck that attitude right out of you, sweetheart.”

in less than a heartbeat, his mouth is on yours, hungrily kissing your lips like he hasn’t done in a while. his hands are all over you body, touching the naked skin until they fall on your breasts and start to knead the soft skin. your gasps are silenced by his lips while your hands pull on his hair making him moan in your mouth.

when his kisses travel down to your chest, his hands grab your thighs and wrap them around his waist as the prominent bulge in his pants sits right where you need him.

“j, please,” you breathe out, not even sure of what you’re asking. everything feels so heightened, and you’re sure that even just one touch would send you over the edge.

“fuck, i missed these tits,” he mumbles before taking your nipple in his mouth without even fully taking your bra off, just taking your breast out of the cup, and a long moan escapes your mouth making him smirk against your skin.

your back arches, giving him even more access to your chest and he can’t take the pressure anymore as his hips start grinding into your barely-covered core. groans and moans are the only sounds in the room while his lips seem to never leave your nipple.

your hands pull his head back in front of you and you kiss him again, too eager to feel his mouth on yours one more time. his fingers play with the string of your underwear that sits on your hip, rubbing at the skin until his hand falls on your ruined panties.

he doesn’t say anything as he takes his shirt off and then lowers down to roughly throw your legs on his shoulders while a gasp leaves your lips. you moan out his name and his finger slides your underwear to the side, finally giving him the sight of your wet and aching cunt. he licks his lips and looks up at you again, panting for him to just do something.

“are you gonna be a good girl for me?” he rasps, his breath fanning out on your spread out cunt as your head falls back at the feeling.

“yes, please,” you whine out.

“what do you want, sweetheart? i need words.”

his hands open you up even more, almost drooling at the sight of your tight hole clenching around nothing. you feel lightheaded and his smirk tells you he’s enjoy watching you in this state.

“you. please, j. i can’t—FUCK,” your words get interrupted by his tongue licking a long stripe along your wet folds.

one hand falls to grab his hair, pushing it out of his face, while the other goes to your own breast, rolling your nipple between your fingers. jj begins to suck on your throbbing clit, moaning at the taste of your juices and the vibrations makes you grind against his face instinctively. his hands hold your thighs tighter, making it impossible for you to move, not that you would’ve.

when his tongue slips inside you, you don’t expect the loud moan to leave your mouth and neither does jj.

“you’re gonna drive me insane, you know that, sweetheart?” he all but growls against you before taking your clit in his mouth again and thrusting two fingers inside you.

the sudden stretch makes your stomach clench and your warm walls tighten around his fingers. when you try to move your hips to get his fingers deeper, his arm is thrown over your pelvis, keeping you in place and you whine, craving that sweet release that only he can give you.

“you only get what i give you. don’t you wanna be my good girl?” his raw voice turns you on even more and you can only agree to everything he says.

“yes, please. wanna be your good girl, j, please.”

your sweet pleas are music to his ears and he finally thrusts his fingers into you faster and deeper, hitting your g-spot every time. your cries are only egging him on and he can’t wait for you to do that on the hard and throbbing cock in his pants.

“c’mon, sweetheart. cum all over my fingers, wanna taste you on my tongue.”

when he adds a third finger you can only open your mouth with a silent scream, your eyes rolling in the back of your head as your release starts gushing out of you. his fingers never stop their movements, they only slow down as they ride your high out.

his tongue laps up at your juices, groaning against you as you try to push his head away. he licks up his fingers and the sight is so dirty and hot that you feel yourself getting wet for him again. you bring his lips to yours, tasting yourself on his tongue, as you give him a lustful kiss.

“‘m missed this,” you mumble against his mouth.

“me too,” he says traveling his lips to your neck, “but now i need you to cum on my cock until you can’t take it anymore.”

and thank god he’s always been a man of his word.

#jj maybank #obx #outer banks #jj maybank angst #jj maybank fluff #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank x oc #jj maybank fanfiction

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youngyoo-apologist · 2 months

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I will never forget how like most of the TCF cast never got to have proper childhoods, OG!Cale, Kim Roksoo, Choi Han, Choi Jung-gun, Alberu, Ohn, Hong, Beacrox, etc

Like most of these guys were either

A. Fighting for their lives(Choi Han, CJG, Alberu, Ohn, Hong)

B. Actively on the path to self destruction(OG!Cale)

Or just like having an awful time in general. Like it’s really sad how for a long time, none of them could actually act or be like kids due to the environment they were in.

Alberu being royalty and having to hide things about himself, and probably avoid assassination and kidnapping attempts since he was young.

Kim Roksoo and how he lost his parents at a young age and was abused by his uncle.

Ohn and Hong having to run away because the Cat tribe mistreated them, and they had to survive on their own.

Choi Han being taken away from his family and fighting alone for over a century in the dark forest where he had no one but himself and the monsters that wanted him dead to keep him company.

Choi Jung-gun also being taken away from his family, and losing people who took care of him again, along with like living a thousand years going through who knows what + whatever the hell the god of death made him do.

Beacrox losing his entire family except his father when he was no older than fifteen, and immediately having to live on the run right after.

OG!Cale taking it upon himself to protect his family, and essentially destroying himself because he didn’t know what else to do.

I think about Ohn a lot, like the fact that she was what, nine, maybe ten years old when she had to run away with Hong and make sure they were both okay. The fact that she was protecting him and herself at the same time, the way that she couldn’t ever play around or have fun when she was growing up because she had to make sure they were both okay. She took on as much as she could for Hong because that’s her baby brother and she loves him more than anything.

OG!Cale and Ohn and like, how they both did everything they could for their younger siblings, ohhhhhhh I’m crying I’m crying I’m crying donnttt even look at me rn

Also Hong and Basen, like being the little brother who watches your older sibling take on burdens alone and you want to help but at the same time your your sibling tells you it’s okay and that you should just focus on yourself… When the trope is older sibling(or family figure in general) taking care of younger siblings and they make sacrifices for them, I’m not crying, what do u mean? I actually do not care. At all. Not . One. Bit.

ALSO LOCKKK , TBoaH Lock they could never make me hate you I don’t care if you were annoying, whiney and a coward, if I was you I would be annoying, whiney and a coward too… he’s just thirteen and he lost all his family, obviously he was too scared to go out of hiding, ANYONE would be scared, he was just a young boy and he lost everything. He found people who cared for him, but he lost the person who resembled his uncle and that’s really when his world fell apart. It must have felt like the whole world was against him, that Lock could never have any family ever again.

Like I can imagine he’d probably have this underlaying fear when it came to Choi Han and Rosalyn,

“what if I lose them too?”

Maybe he hated himself for being a coward, for hiding, for not doing anything… maybe he hated himself even more because when he lost Pendrick, he wasn’t even sure if he’d be able to stop cowering and hide when there’s danger. The battle between wanting to be cared for and protected because the world is just too much and wanting to fight back and help because he doesn’t want to lose anyone else

This just makes me think about TBoaH timeline more oh it’s so tragic and sickening I cried

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cynautica · 3 months

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One thing that kills me about Alyou is that for their relationship to develop you kind of have to address and utilize the isolation that goes unsaid in the game.

Like, we know Robin isn’t some social outcast. She enjoyed her work and was pretty outgoing. The only live interaction we get to see with another human is with Hal where he says she’ll be missed. She quite literally abandons everything to investigate Sam’s death on a harsh alien planet on the far reaches of the galaxy. She chooses to make herself an outcast. Anyone close to her that hears that is counting the days before she’s assumed dead and missing.

Al-an on the other hand is actively seeking his own people. The entire game is him looking for the other precursors, a goal we can only assume extends well beyond the game. Of which for Robin we can only assume two outcomes: they find the architects within her lifespan or they don’t.

If they do find the architects, how does their relationship fair? Does Robin get sent back to human civilization a hero to architects but a nobody to her own people? There’s no guarantee if she wrote about the precursors anyone would even believe her. Or, doing so makes her and the architects a target for Alterra. There’s no guarantee she’d ever be able to find a job she loved ever again, or, best case scenario her writings about the species make her famous. What then? Sure she might have money and fame, but she’ll no doubt never be able to talk to Al-an again with loads of questions still unanswered.

But what if Robin brings Al-an with her back to the human world? She doesn’t seem to have a lot of faith in humans not acting terrible, trying everything from putting him in a cage to keeping him as a trophy. He might get a kick out of being a science subject at first, but we know he’s not quick to make friends. Maybe he shares some advancements with the humans? If he trusts them that is.

The same goes in reverse in what if Robin stays for some time with architect society? They’d no doubt want to learn everything they could about humans resources willing. However it took Al-an a whole game to understand the nuances of human socialization before they even let him near one. I can’t imagine Robin being comfortable in a whole society full of very tall, very advanced, and very nosey aliens. Best case scenario Al-an shares his etiquette and respect with the other architects or they mostly ignore her. Even with this outcome Robin is still in a world not built for her in mind. She can still make friends with the architects, but they’d no doubt feel clinically asocial.

Then of course the third option, both are fully isolated. They neither find the architects and Robin chooses not to return to human civilization. They both have eachother to keep company, but they’ll always be alone. Humans are designed to seek other humans, and architects no doubt feel the same being social creatures. Sure one another might be “good enough” but there will always be that unmistakable feeling of solitude. Alone together, till one of them dies.

Then what? Does the other move on, driven purely by their desire for scientific conquest on the far reaches of the stars? Adopt a pet and live their life alone like Maida?

The closest thing to a perfect ending is that both the architects are alive and Robin chooses to return to human civilization, but both species are able to build a good working relationship. Both Al-an and Robin are regarded as heroes on both sides and still have the ability to talk every once in awhile. It would be really neat to see precursors join the supporting cast for subnautica 2, being our access port for advanced tech. But then us Rob-an shippers have to face the idea that their relationship would probably end with just friendship or both would still be ostracized for being weirdos

In any solution though there has to be some compromise. A perfect ending isn’t necessarily possible.

This is why I think Alyou should officially be classified as tragic yuri send tweet

#al an x robin #headcanon #Need a cy ramble tag #I’m so normal about this #TBF: parvan exists #so we know the subnautica world canonically has xenophiles #that is a really funny sentence

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tamelee · 7 months

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As a beginner artist im only happy when people reupload and share my art. I don’t want to be arragont enough to think im like samdoesart or something and you’re not really on that level either no offense though your art is inspiring me a lot

Okay, I'll address this then... (Art-rant for anyone who cares;)

... no offense taken. I'm very aware of my (skill)’level' in art and definitely feel a certain type of way about it ;-; .... but that aside, what is your argument here?

Is anyone who doesn't want their art reposted or uploaded on other accounts considered arrogant? Is there some kind of popularity threshold you need to cross before you can request something as simple as this? And if so, what's that threshold to you? I'm genuinely curious.

When does someone become "good" enough to have the right to say that their art is theirs and protect it from being stolen or decide where it gets shared? Who has any say in it, other than the artist or creator themselves? Isn't that extremely subjective to base it solely on that?

Hm. If you're a beginner artist, I'd like to offer some advice....

It's entirely up to you whether you read it, give it any thought, or find it valuable in any way. I'm no Sam, after all. But there are plenty of ways for others to support your art, engage with it, or share it even in their own accounts without taking anything away from the original creator, whether it's art/writing or any other type of creation. However, it's also perfectly fine if you personally don't care about it or if someone allows it only with proper credit because that's your decision as.. you know- the original creator.

You mentioned that you're happy when your art gets reuploaded as a form of "sharing." But do you know what makes me the happiest as an artist Nonee?

Do you know what really brightens my day? 🥹

...It's knowing what people are saying about my work because I can read it on my own posts that are on my own accounts. When I can respond and take it in fully. When I see people using tags that make me snort my drink or when I have to stifle a laugh to the point I’m choking because it's just SO funny! (I genuinely need to make a compilation!!) Sometimes, I get comments that are cursing me out in a playful manner, and it's often followed by an incoherent keyboard-smash. I end up making embarrassing alien-like noises because of it that makes me more grateful than ever to live alone. Other times, I bawl my eyes out because someone left a comment or tagged it with something that just hits differently. A while ago, I got an ask that said I should stop saying 'thank you' on everything because it got repetitive/annoying(?), but I genuinely feel so grateful for all of it 😭!!

I get new ideas because someone suggested something different. I see friends having entire conversations under a drawing that I'm not even a part of because apparently, what I drew resonated with them personally, or it made them feel a certain way, which is oddly fulfilling with art ;-; Just so you know, I read everything... and all this feedback (because it's all feedback in a way) can be very inspiring, don't you think?

Honestly, when it comes to activities like drawing, it's true that it is better to never do it solely for the sake of engagement. Drawing, or more specifically, living as an (aspiring) artist is incredibly lonely.

So, so lonely...

Relying on engagement alone to keep you creating for hours, days, years, or maybe even decades is just not sustainable. It takes an enormous amount of time and dedication to practice, come up with new ideas, and endure the inevitable frustrations that come with it. With anything, keeping yourself inspired at times takes effort also because it requires for you to be in a state of mind that allows new idea’s in the first place which in itself takes practice because you won’t always feel like drawing. You might even encounter nasty comments or discover that something you poured your heart into gets criticized, YOU as a person may even be criticized because what you drew with your current skills (and such a journey is never-ending) in a single moment could get paired with your entire personality or even your humanly morals (ffs) to judge. Which can be more hurtful than you'd expect... especially in the beginning.

Although it may sound silly, the saying "the fun is in the journey” is very real and likely the most important thing to keep you going as an artist. No matter what, you gotta have fun or find a way to have fun.

Yet, even so, now more than ever, the process of creating is very underappreciated as many are looking for “content” that's quickly generated for entertainment. Tsk, some even call art “content” which, IT IS NOT. It's a proven fact that we, as humans, currently have become dopamine junkies with short attention spans. (I totally understand this – I was diagnosed with ADD, hence my extreme hyper-fixations also 😆 it's both a blessing and a curse, tbh.) So, right now, the very thing that can support artists (which means you as a beginner also!) on their creative journey is letting them know you appreciate their art in any way or just let them know your thoughts maybe even by specifying what it was you liked about it so they can carry that into their next drawing.. which is only truly possible through your own accounts y’know? :’) I'm being sincere when I say this really can help.

I get that many people believe that creating should be satisfying in itself, and everyone may expect you to think that way because, after all, you want people to see what you've made and a reposter ‘helps’ you with that, so, it should be enough and you should be happy and grateful actually. Anything beyond that might be considered "arrogant."

And... based on your ask, it seems like you might view having your art reuploaded as a form of 'help,' and if that's the case, it's totally fine. But I want to share a rather harsh reality, because even if those who repost your art provide credit...

They don’t do it for you and it’s not necessarily because they love your art so much 👀 rarely anyone cares to go through a description full with useless trend-based tags or promotive texts they always use only to put in the effort to find your name and most likely, if they follow such accounts there is zero connection with the original artist/creator which means it is WAY more likely in this case that the art you worked on for idk how long ends up becoming a forgettable blur as it is scrolled past 🤷🏻‍♀️

And even if the reposter likes your art personally, that's probably not their primary motivation to share it (except for a very few who are in it for a fandom, sns has a few also). Art that gets ‘selected’ for reposting is typically selected with a specific, often trend-oriented, goal that has little to do with the artist. It's frequently shared with the mindset of a rather poorly-driven marketer. Especially on platforms like IG- many of these accounts exist to benefit the account owner only by making high(er)-follower accounts that later get a different purpose. Many of these accounts will discard all art once it has reached an engagement goal to then move onto something new that's more financially profitable to the account owner, which original art by others is not. And yeah, a lot of these accounts are sold after. There are especially many now due to the IG affiliate program, and recently tiktok also. The same is quickly happening on X with its monetization... and guess what :’)!!! Although original art is hard to monetize, Ai is completely approved.... 🤨🙄 But I won't bore you with all the specifics any longer.

Me not wanting my art on other platforms/accounts, has little to do with credit nor do I think in the very least that I have some sort of control over it by making that decision... but still. I refuse to willingly take part in anything that currently takes ‘art’ (any creative form) and makes a mockery of it, using it for mere "content" or treats it as this ‘thing’ that appeared out of nowhere to then just use any way people like and participate in the narrative that gives the impression that investing time in creating something isn't valuable or a cherished part of human expression that brings and promotes joy.

Because rarely do people take the damn time anymore.

I want all artists/writers/creators/etc- to be acknowledged for their work in general, or, even in the least, acknowledge the work that isn't seen that goes into the final result for others to enjoy. I don't want to continually see art stolen and exploited so rapidly. This phenomenon enables tech bros who don’t have a single ounce of argumentative skill or self-proclaimed "entrepreneurs" to generate their little stolen jpg’s for their absurd 3 a.m. morning-routine videos and use them as banners on their get-rich-quick schemes, scamming the unsuspecting and spamming the internet with this bs, largely thanks to AI making this partly possible... for example. There's not a single platform left that supports artists or helps them fight for security and protection for their work. I know and I'm aware. At the very least, we can say 'no' to reposting because giving up completely makes no room for possible solutions... and then we can work from where we are at all times to find ways to protect a right (because it is) that some might perceive as trivial.

Nevertheless, it is a right, and it definitely isn't an issue of arrogance or skill.

#asktamelee #art talk #anti ai #personal #art theft

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edenfenixblogs · 6 months

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I don’t put my long posts about antisemitism under a read more because I don’t want it to be easy for y’all to ignore.

It is vital that y’all know we are living under a very real and very constant stochastic threat, not even including the Israeli Jews who are living under both stochastic and non-stochastic threat right now.

The only posts about antisemitism that I ever put under a read more are things that discuss the Holocaust in any level of detail, because it is extremely traumatic for Jews, still. Jews should have the right to avoid that content without having to hide all content about antisemitism in general.

Those posts are hidden under read mores for the benefit of Jews.

I wake up fearing the antisemitism I will experience every day. Yesterday, as I sat down to dinner with my family, I received a direct message from someone who would have very much preferred that I was not alive.

I sat through the whole dinner just thinking “wow. Someone actually wants me, personally, dead.”

Any website I go on. Any time I turn on the news. Any conversation with friends.

It’s inescapable. I’m either actively processing recent antisemitic attacks and rhetoric or on high alert for the next attack likely to occur.

It’s actual psychological torture. It is actually psychologically damaging to be this scared all the time. Especially while everyone outside my community (obviously not including Palestinians and all groups affected by Islamophobia, who I’m sure are also dealing with the exact same thing) is just living in a normal world. And I’m constantly gaslit about it.

I haven’t been able to sleep until 4am for the last several nights. I’m tired physically and emotionally. I’m scared. I want this war to be over. I want Palestinians to have equal rights. I want people to leave us all alone.

I need the hostages released and the bombings in Gaza to stop. Netanyahu’s ruthless response is making Jews all over the world less safe and obviously harming Palestinian civilians. It’s all so big and overwhelming and constant and I don’t get to look away, because people are literally advocating for the elimination of my entire people as a way to prevent the elimination of another culture.

None of this will stop until we are all on the side of achieving peace.

Here’s some ways to help Palestine: https://www.tumblr.com/edenfenixblogs/736824311149707264?source=share

Here’s some more great charities focused on individual groups you may want to help as well as ones devoted to facilitating peace.

Next time you want to spew hate at a Jewish person try donating or volunteering with a cause that will actually help Palestine AND not hurt anyone else.

Remember, we make peace with our enemies not with our friends. If you hate me that much, try even harder to find common ground.

I don’t get to look away.

You don’t either.

#antisemitism #anti zionisim #leftist antisemitism #Zionism #I/p #israel #Palestine #where to donate #how to help

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 years

Text

Wallflower 9

Warnings: age gap, creepin’, slow burn, stepdad-adjacent, possible noncon/dubcon, abuse, violence, self-harm.

Character: silverfox!Thor

Your mother meets a new man, but he doesn’t seem very interested in her.

Note: <3 Another erratic drabble series. Appreciate any and all feedback. Love you all.

“It was a great night,” your mother sighs, “but nothing happened.”

The other end of the conversation is unheard, contained in the tiny speaker of the cell phone. You’re not overly curious to hear it, actively trying to tune out your mom’s side as you try to fix a misplaced stitch in the pattern. She’s much too loud to ignore though.

“He wanted the brat along. I mean, it’s nice and all. Shows that he’s serious but it was our third date. Third… and nothing.”

She’s quiet as you hear her pace, the scent of her body soap wafting under your door. After you got back, she was quick to leave you, sinking into the tub with a face mask and even more wine.

As usual, you add no commentary to her life, she is old enough to know better. At least you would hope so.

“Oh, but get this, his brother owns a vineyard. That’s money money. Oh, yeah–” she pauses again, “I’m trying to convince him. It would be an amazing getaway and the wine might loosen him up. It might be a bit early but it’s all moving quite fast… well aside from that.”

You get up and turn on your speaker, searching through your playlists and hitting shuffle. You go back to your bed, the single feels bigger than usual, lonely. You already miss Fen and his warmth.

“I think I’ll surprise him. He works from home so I could show up in something sexy…” You roll your eyes and push your cross stitch to the other side of the mattress, pulling the pillow over your head.

You just want to forget it all. The night before, your mother, Thor. It’s all too much.

You just want to be in your room with your little things. Your safety, your hideaway. The only place that was ever your own.

🌻

The house is quiet and empty. Your mother is gone, she didn’t say where she was going but you know it isn’t work. You spend the rare solace wiping dust from picture frames with a cloth.

None of the pictures are of you. It’s your mother and her girls, or the trips she took on holiday, or the work events where she was awarded some commercial prize for her sales.

If anyone were to guess, they would think she lived alone. You’re certain she wishes she did, especially since that night with Thor. She didn’t let you forget how you intruded on what should have been ‘her night’.

You straighten the image of her in Paris as you hear a car door. Sometimes you forget there’s a world outside these walls but that reality only scares you. You don’t know why. All those strangers, all the uncertainty. It makes your stomach tangle up like a spider web.

The front door clicks as the lock twists back. Your mother’s back already. You carry on your tedious work, pushing your nail against the fabric as you wipe clean the edge of the console table. A heavy thwomp startles you and glass shatters in the entryway. That’s not good.

You crumple the cloth in your hand and gulp as you face the doorway. Your mother appears, fuming as she kicks over a chair at the table. It clatters to the floor as you flinch. Her eyes flare in your direction.

“You,” she jabs her finger in your direction, “it’s all your fault. You’re always in the way.”

“What? Mom, what’s going on?” You clutch the cloth, wringing it in your nervous hands, “I was just clean–”

“Oh shut up!” She storms around the table and you stumble back, her heels hammering on the hardwood. She wears a long coat tied at the waist. A glimpse of her thigh as she advances upon you, “you just had to come along and now, he doesn’t have the time for me.”

“What? I don’t know–”

She pushes you so you hit the chair beside you. The impact sets you off balance and you fall over the seat, taking the furniture down with you as you land painfully atop it. You whimper as the cloth slips from your hand. You drag yourself away from your mother as she shoves the chair out of the way.

“Mom,” you put your hand up as she bears down on you, “I didn’t do anything.”

“You did!” She stomps her heel into your stomach and you exclaim, quickly covering your middle as you cough, “you were born.”

You push away from her, huddling against the wall as you bring your knees up, the hot pain sinking into the flesh of your stomach. She snarls and turns to grip the table and shake it in her anger. She spins and swipes the picture frames from the console table with her arm so the clatter all around you.

“Look at me,” she sneers as she stands with her hand on her hip. Her face is done up with lashes and all and the coat shows a hint of the scanty outfit beneath, only a trim of lace along her chest and thigh, “how can he be too busy for this?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” you sniffle and slide into the corner. “I’m sorry–”

She huffs and pivots on her heel, “well, maybe next time. But.. ugh, that beast of his too, the thing would not shut up. Barking and snapping like I’m some monster.” She rants as she marches around the table, “this is your warning, the next time he’s around, I don’t want to see you.”

“Yes, mom,” you rub your stomach as your eyes burn. You can already feel the bruise.

“Clean this up, you’re always making messes,” she snarls as she passes through the doorway.

You nod and gulp out, “yes, mom,” as you get to your knees. You shake as you gather up the frame, checking for broken glass. You replace them on the console, barely able to balance them as you tremble with adrenaline.

You take the cloth from the floor and stand. You make your way into the hallways and see the broken key dish across the hardwood, shards scattered and sharp. You made that for your mother in art class years ago. You bend to pick up the bigger pieces, your initials carved into the underside.

You’re surprised it lasted even that long.

#thor #dark thor #dark!thor #thor x reader #wallflower #drabble #dark drabble #drabble series #dark!drabble #silverfox!thor #au #mcu #marvel #avengers

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sailorblossoms · 1 year

Text

Simon: hero vs boy

I started writing this without a point really, but I think I found it along the way… maybe. Anyway.

Simon goes along with traditional hero narratives by slaying monsters, especially when it’s linked to saving a damsel. His powers would make him comparable to superheroes – he’s practically perceived as such by his peers – yet he goes against it with the ease with which he kills. Saving the day (saving people) by itself meets the definition of a hero, and he’s genuinely good. But when you get down to it, why is he a hero? Because he was told to be one. Many get training and mentors, but there’s usually a calling involved, a struggle where heroism is an active choice they make. Simon doesn’t choose: he’s programmed to follow orders and rules, and he finds purpose by succeeding in his tasks. Part of it not being a choice is that Simon doesn’t believe there’s anything to choose. He doesn’t think there’s anything outside of the “golden destiny” … other than death. He makes sense of the world by reframing it into simplistic good vs evil, in the way he has been told to. In some ways, he gains the most when he thinks he has lost it all: it sends him on a path to truly find himself and choose, free of outside influence.

As readers, we don’t care about the nameless henchmen, the questionable nobodies with non-existent development, but the existence of Baz alone suggests both Penelope and Simon, in their role of heroes, have killed intelligent beings with “a soul” – murder more comparable to killing humans – without thinking twice. The story avoids ever questioning them in such a way (closest it gets is Baz acknowledging Simon can’t let himself think about everything/everyone he has ever killed) likely because they’re virtually brainwashed kids who don’t know any better, so the bigger questions are different (and the books tend to keep it light with that kind of thing, it's not a focus). It also avoids it by generally operating with action movie rules: action hero kills humans, sure, but we don’t care if Evil Henchman No. 5 drops dead – the only thing defining them are despicable actions. Simon kills Evil Monster No. 2 because it’s sexually harassing his boyfriend, and you were probably thinking “as he should” before you even finished reading this sentence.

In his chosen one days, Simon operates in a way that’s familiar to superheroes: saves the girlfriend from danger, but constantly “chooses duty” over “having a life” (with the girlfriend being “life”). There’s a lot at play behind the scenes when keeping a love interest around the hero, but here is them resisting the realization that they’re miserable and gay and directionless when they’re not doing what they’re told. It’s not Simon being a hero what kills that relationship – it was dead on arrival. It would have never worked regardless – Simon cares about what he thinks the relationship would give him rather than the relationship itself. It’s not his “duty as hero” what “pushes him to let it die.” (Also: the tropes and archetypes themselves are a big part of why that relationship existed in the first place)

However, as the structure Simon has been living by falls apart (starting from “his enemy” not showing up) things change. When Simon can’t listen to anyone and rushes to Watford toward the end of CO, that’s not a hero rushing to save the day. The hero believes he has just been told he’s the true villain of the story (he’s not) but at its core, this is just a boy who believes he did something horribly wrong, and that it’s up to him to fix it.

In his role of hero, Simon is quick to think the worst of Baz, because it has been decided that he’s his enemy (he's quick to reframe everything he sees about Baz, because he does see it, that indicates Baz is never truly bad). As he frees himself from roles and finds himself, and the wall that used to separate him from Baz falls apart, he sees him fully. He can’t think badly of him then. (He's ready to free all that information he already had on Baz, he has "observed his soul"). The chosen one would’ve gone for the less charitable interpretation of the events (Baz “purposely pushing him down the stairs”) but Simon sees him exactly for what he is (he’s just a boy, it was an accident) or goes for the kindest interpretation (supporting Penny in her refusal to judge Baz, seeing him as another kid being used by adults – just like Simon and her – with the Pippa incident.)

And speaking of it: Pippa’s “tell Simon I say thank you” stands out to me (thank yourself girl!) because similarly to Penny paying attention to her with her ring ready to strike, that’s a boy who would not hesitate to tackle her ass if she moved funny around Baz. As happy as having the role used to make Simon, he’s no longer defining himself as a hero. His priorities are not to be heroic (as shown by how he walks away from whatever the fuck happened with the Vegas vampires iirc) but simply in protecting his loved ones, and the people his loved ones care about. His image as hero likely remains in Pippa’s head – likely part of why she liked him, and perhaps reinforced in part by her getting her voice back (in more than one way) when he appears in her life again. But if it came down to it, the only thing that would have stopped Simon ("the hero”) from fighting/restraining her (”the victim/wronged party”) would’ve been Penny knocking her out first. He would not be on her side here. This is an “ugly” thing to consider in heroic narratives, but it’s a human thing. Simon is no superhero, nor is he trying to be: he’s just a boy.

Baz’s goodness and kind heart means he’s not going to put Simon in a position where he has to choose between what’s “good” and him regardless, it’s part of what Simon recognize's (Baz's goodness) as he falls in love with him (he has observed his soul, he refuses to let Baz think of himself as evil or monstrous once he’s no longer blindly operating as chosen one) (and Penny is right anyway). But this instance shows how Baz’s self-destruction means the people who love him, his chosen family (Penny and Simon) will do anything to protect him, especially when Baz is his own enemy. They will be fierce, and they will be selfish. They won’t leave room to consider anyone else – they will be human. In an ideal world, Simon will be left alone to live his life like a regular person (as regular as he can be, anyway) but I think the Simon he’s discovering is the type where what matters is not saving the day, but keeping his loved ones protected. More specifically, Simon has chosen Baz as his priority, and he has decided that keeping him happy and safe comes first. Heros might not prioritize the “love interest” (unless a specific story requires it, but that’s another conversation) they might sacrifice their personal lives for their duty, but for Simon, his relationship with Baz is what matters most. There’s no “duty” that comes before it. Sure, he’s no longer in a position where he has to choose, but if he had to, if he was pushed to think about what he wanted instead of what he was supposed to do, I think the choice would remain the same. The world can burn down, and maybe he can’t do a thing, but he’ll be alright as long as his loved ones are by his side (he says as much with "I have lost it all but I still have Baz, so I still feel like I got the better end of the deal")

#snowbaz #simon snow #baz pitch #baz grimm pitch #awtwb #carry on #simon snow trilogy #baz x simon #simon x baz #simon snow series

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stardustshelb · 1 year

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"Strawberry" Part Two

TW: Language and sexual content

Word count: 7,468

Chapter Four

“No! No, absolutely not,” Riley said with a concerned look on her face. I FaceTimed her as soon as I got settled in the Airbnb. Since I was the first one to arrive, I felt as though I should get first pick out of the four-bedroom house. This place was twice the size and so much nicer than my own home; no wonder the bill for the weekend was twice my monthly mortgage payment. I saved the master bedroom for Riley, but I decided to claim the room across the hall from the guest bathroom. While it wasn’t the biggest room in the house, it was definitely the most beautiful, in my opinion. I sat on the bed rubbing my hands across the satin sheets as I stared at my best friend’s worried face.

I pleaded, “Why not?”

She exclaimed, “Because he’s a stranger! Because you’re engaged! Because you’re alone! Need I say more?”

“He’s just coming over to cook for me. Nothing more… I haven’t even texted him yet,” I said.

“Look, you know Kenneth is literally my least favorite person on the planet, but you have to be smart about this. You’re normally so level-headed,” she said with a sigh.

“I wish I could explain the way Josh makes me feel. He made me feel better about myself in the hour and a half I sat next to him than anyone has in the past five years,” I said with a lump in my throat. It was true and I realized now more than ever why staying in his company was vital. I needed to be reminded of who I was, who I am, and who I want to be. Josh somehow had the ability to elicit that feeling with his endearing words and beautiful smile.

“Ouch,” Riley said with a disappointed look on her face.

“Riley, you know that wasn’t directed at you,” I said, realizing I should have chosen my words better.

“Listen. I love you. I am not letting your lapse in judgment impact this weekend. Please don’t text him. You have never had to endure the dating world because you’ve been with the same guy your whole life. Men will say anything you want to hear just to get inside you,” she said.

I knew she was probably right. I had zero experience dating anyone because Kenneth and I have been together since we were kids. I always thought marrying my high school sweetheart was bragworthy, but I feel the opposite now. I have had a secret longing inside me for so long, but change is scary.

“And what if I do text him? Will you still love me?” I asked honestly.

“Of course, but I can’t say I would support your decision. What’s his last name? Does he live in Nashville? What’s this guy’s deal? What power does he have over you?” she asked like she was interrogating me for a crime I had not yet committed.

“Ok, so I can’t answer the last name part but–” I began.

“Are you serious? You don’t even know his last name?” she interrupted.

“He said he would send me all of his personal information once I texted him. And I will send everything to you. I won’t give him the Airbnb address without receiving what I asked for first,” I explained.

“Text him right now while you’re on FaceTime with me,” she demanded.

“Riley, it’s only been one hour since I left the airport. I don’t want to look desperate,” I replied. I stared at her face while I could see she was thinking of what to say next. Was I really making a mistake by wanting to hangout with him some more?

“Ok, fine.But I want his full name, phone number, picture, social security number, a copy of his birth certificate, and a vehicle description within the next two hours, or I will catch the next flight to Nashville and come kick your ass,” she said with a scowl on her face.

“Within the next two hours…Yes ma’am,” I said with a salute. I ended the FaceTime so I could start to unpack my suitcase. I brought outfits for all of the activities on Riley’s weekend itinerary, something I had no say in creating, but I’ve always been willing to go with the flow. I didn’t bring any extra cute outfits because I expected to stay in tonight. And while that’s still the case, I especially didn’t expect to have company. Would Josh change his clothes before coming? Would it be weird if I didn’t? Why did I care so much?

My phone started to ring which brought me back to planet earth. Kenneth’s name was on my phone screen. He was the last person I wanted to talk to, but I figured if I didn’t answer his call, he would only continue to call me.

“Hey,” I said once I picked up my phone.

“Are you at the Airbnb, yet?” he asked.

“Yes, I’ve been here for an hour talking to Riley on FaceTime,” I said.

“Why didn’t you let me know you made it?” he questioned me.

“I honestly had so much on my mind that I intended to, but–” I started.

“Glad to know I’m not on your mind,” he said in an accusatory tone.

“Kenneth, I don’t want to argue right now. I’m at the Airbnb. I’m unpacking. I need to start decorating the house here soon before everyone gets here tomorrow,” I sighed into the phone.

“What are you doing about dinner?” he asked. Shit.

“I’ll probably DoorDash something local. I’m staying in, you know that,” I reminded him. “Can you send me a picture of Sassy?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

“Yeah, I will here in a bit,” he responded. “I think the guys and I are gonna go grab a beer after we get off work tonight,” he said.

“Didn’t you guys just go out last night?” I asked.

“Yeah, we’re still celebrating our big win for the company. Are you seriously questioning me when you’re the one in Nashville on my dime?” he asked.

“Just be safe. Don’t forget to send me a picture of Sassy, please,” I said in an attempt to end the phone call.

“Yeah, I will. Have a good night, I guess,” he said with the least amount of enthusiasm a human could have.

“Thanks, you too,” I said, returning the disinterested tone. I hung up the phone and stared at myself in the reflection of the full-length mirror near the side of the bed. How can someone who says he loves me make me feel so bad about myself? How can someone who I once loved more than anyone in the world make me feel like I am the unworthiest person on earth?

This feeling of despair solidified my decision. I opened my contacts app and scrolled until I found the name Plagiarism; as soon as I saw it, I let out a laugh. It felt good to laugh again..

Me: “Hey, it’s the girl who has no name.” I hit send without overthinking the text. What if he’s never watched Game of Thrones? What if he doesn’t get it? What if I look like a total idiot?

Plagiarism: “The smart, beautiful, arrogant one?”

Me: “I’ve heard that a couple times today.”

Plagiarism: “I was wondering if you were actually going to text me. I’m glad you did. What would you like me to cook tonight?”

Me: “Chef’s choice. Surprise me.”

Plagiarism: “Any food allergies? Likes? Dislikes?”

Me: “I’m easy to please.”

Plagiarism: “Noted. I’m going to run to the store because I’m low on groceries. I haven’t been home in a while. I’ll text you when I’m about to check out so you can send me your address.”

Me: “Remember I’m not sending you my address until you send me the safety precautions first.”

Plagiarism: “Right. As you wish…”

I stared at my phone screen waiting for the text bubble to pop up to show he’s sending me the information I’ve asked for. As I wish? What the hell does that even mean? I couldn’t stand waiting on his response a second longer, so I left my phone on the nightstand and began hanging up my clothes for the weekend. I opted to change into the comfy clothes that I brought to lounge in tonight after all. I inspected my hair and makeup in the mirror; I could definitely use a refresh. I carried my toiletries bag to the bathroom and began freshening up. Should I wear perfume? I wasn’t wearing any today on the plane. Would he think I was weird for wearing perfume in pajamas? God I hope he’s wearing that cologne again. Suddenly I heard my phone buzz. I ran to check the screen when I saw it was a text from Riley.

Riley: “Did you text him?”

Me: “Maybe…”

Riley: “Send me his number.”

I knew Riley wouldn’t try to contact him. She just wanted to have his information on hand in case anything were to happen to me. I copied the number I had saved for Plagiarism and forwarded it to her. I put my phone back down on the nightstand to continue freshening up in the bathroom when I heard my phone ringing. Who the hell is calling me?

“Yes?” I asked questionably.

“That’s not even his real phone number!” Riley exclaimed.

“What do you mean it’s not real? I have already texted him… Of course it’s real,” I explained.

“No, I just Googled that number and it’s a Google Voice number. That means he gave you a fake number connected to an app. I don’t like this one bit,” she said.

“Riley, you’re overthinking this–” I tried to respond.

“You’re not thinking at all!” she yelled. I sat in silence as I realized she may be right. All I knew about this stranger was that his name is Josh, he’s a concert photographer, he lives in Nashville, and he listens to a band named Greta Van Fleet. Oh, and he loves his mom. That’s it.

“Please be smart about this,” Riley pleaded, breaking the awkward silence.

“He just responded!” I yelled into the phone while I put her on speaker. I opened his message to find a selfie that I swear was taken by an angel. I stared at his photo for so long I wanted it burned into my memory. I could tell that he changed clothes too. Those sunglasses from earlier now hung around his sweatshirt collar. I zoomed into the background trying to find details but all I could see was that he was in the driver’s seat of a nice vehicle. His hat from earlier was gone unleashing curls styled into… Is that a mullet?

“Well what does it say?” Riley yelled to knock me out of my trance.

I read aloud his text to Riley, “My name is Joshua Michael. You already have my phone number. Here is a picture of what I currently look like. I just pulled into Whole Foods, so I’m heading inside to pick up some groceries for dinner.”

“He has two first names?” Riley questioned.

“You would focus on that,” I said with a laugh. I was too busy staring at the selfie he sent me. His soft smile hid the perfect teeth behind his full lips. His eyes were soft and inviting. I wonder if those are natural curls.

“What did you say he did for a living?” Riley asked.

“He’s a concert photographer,” I replied.

“Well, there’s a country music artist named Joshua Michael. He’s old. Let me search for his photography business–” Riley said.

“I don’t know if he has his own business. He could work for a company,” I said with an annoyed tone that she was still in her investigative mood.

“True. Send me his picture,” Riley commanded. I went back to my messages and saved the selfie he sent me. I texted it to Riley and waited for her commentary.

“Ohhhh, ok Joshua,” she said in a high-pitch tone. She got it.

“I’m telling you, his conversation alone is more enticing than his looks,” I said.

“I understand why you are willing to risk your life for a stranger now,” Riley said.

“He texted me again!” I yelped not acknowledging her dig.

“Read it to me!” Riley exclaimed.

“Ok, I am grabbing two bottles of wine. One red, one white. Unless you think I should get something else?” I read aloud.

“You don’t even drink,” Riley said.

“I drink!” I defended myself.

“Oh yeah, once in a blue moon doesn’t mean you drink. You better limit yourself to one glass. You know you’re kind of a lightweight,” Riley said.

“Oh, so now you’re ok with him coming over?” I said with a matter-of-fact tone. Riley had been so against the idea of Josh coming over for dinner until this moment. It’s the first time she sounded like she was in on the idea, so I knew I had to take advantage of it.

“He’s coming over regardless of what I say, so I might as well embrace it. Send me a picture of his vehicle when he pulls into the Airbnb,” she commanded.

“Yes, ma’am. Anything else?” I asked sarcastically.

“I want you to text me periodically through the night to check in, ok?” she instructed.

“Yes, ma’am,” I responded.

“Alright, well have fun. Be safe. I love you more than anything. Use your head. Drink no more than one glass of wine. Text me often and–” she tried to say.

“Ok, ok. I got it. I need to get off the phone to freshen up my makeup,” I interrupted. I said goodbye to Riley and hung up the phone. I went back to my text messages to reply to Josh; I wondered if he was annoyed that I hadn’t responded yet.

Me: “One bottle of white wine would be fine.”

Plagiarism: “I’m buying two just in case.”

Me: “It won’t be necessary.”

Plagiarism: “Then I’ll leave the unopened bottle there for you and your friends to drink later this weekend.”

Me: “How thoughtful.”

Plagiarism: “Always. I’m almost finished here. Can I have your address now or is my background check still processing?” I let out a laugh. Against my own better judgment, I sent him the address to the Airbnb. I couldn’t believe I was about to spend the evening with one of the most interesting, attractive men I have ever met. They don’t have guys like him in my small Oklahoma town.

Plagiarism: “My GPS says I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”

Chapter Five

With 20 minutes to spare, I took what my mother always called a “whore’s bath” in the bathtub. I continued to inspect my hair and makeup in the mirror. Why did I care so much about what I looked like? I brushed my teeth and reapplied my lipstick. I decided on a soft shade of pink to give my lips some color but not too much color. I stood back and examined my lounge set: I got this matching cropped short sleeve sweatshirt and pants on sale at Walmart, and this guy shops at Whole Foods. And he flies in Group A. And he has an assistant. I am so not his type. He is going to be bored of me within the first 10 minutes.

I put on another layer of deodorant because my nerves were starting to make me sweat. What am I doing? This was a bad idea. This was a stupid idea. I needed to text him right now and tell him I changed my mind. My anxiety was starting to get the best of me, so I started to remember my coping skills. I left the bathroom and sat on the couch in the spacious living room. Breathe. I opened my Spotify app and rather than listening to a familiar song to help calm my nerves, I hit a random song on the Greta Van Fleet playlist that Josh had downloaded to my phone. I closed my eyes and listened to music as I concentrated on my breathing.

“A beauty lives in every soul. The more you love, the more you know. They pass the torch, and it still burns. Once children then, it’s now our turn.”

This song was just what I needed to hear. Did Josh introduce me to my new favorite band? I continued to breathe and take in the beautiful lyrics when I heard a door shut. My eyes shot open and I jumped up from the couch. I glanced over the living room once more to make sure everything looked perfect. I peaked out the window to see him getting the bags of groceries out of the back of his Jeep. I quickly snapped a picture to text to Riley before he saw me. I continued to watch him from the window as he grabbed his final bag. Did he buy the whole damn store? I moved away from the window and waited by the door to let him in. I felt like I was going to pass out.

“Come on in,” I said as I opened the door. Somehow he looked even better than he did earlier. I glanced at his matching tan sweatsuit that complemented mine. His sweatshirt had a tiny triangular symbol with rhinestones, a symbol I did not recognize, sewn into it. He definitely did not get that from Walmart. I closed the door behind him as he carried what looked like seven bags of groceries to the kitchen. I followed him trying to appear calm, cool, and collected. I sat at one of the barstools behind the counter to watch him as he unpacked his purchases.

“Mrs–” he began.

“Miss,” I corrected him. He looked confused as he glanced at my engagement ring still on my hand. Why didn’t I take this off?

“Miss, I hope you like Polish food,” he said as he pulled out the two bottles of wine.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever had Polish food,” I said in a curious tone.

“I’m about to rock your world,” he said with a smile that displayed the gap that I will dream about tonight. I examined his hairstyle while he unpacked bell peppers, onions, carrots, mushrooms, various spices, and a package of beef. His hair was definitely styled in a way that Kenneth would die before wearing. It was a mullet alright, but not like any mullet you would see in Oklahoma.

“This is my grandmother’s recipe. Normally it simmers on the stove for several hours, but we don’t have that luxury. It will still be good. It’s my favorite comfort soup. It’s called gulasz,” he explained.

“Like goulash?” I asked.

“Similar, but this is the Polish version. Where are the knives?” he asked as he started to wash the vegetables.

“This is my first time using the kitchen too, so your guess is as good as mine,” I said with a nervous laugh. I got up from the barstool to start opening the plethora of drawers until I found the utensils he would need.

“So you’re Polish?” I asked as I handed him a cutting board.

“Yes,” he said with a sense of pride.

“Have you ever been to Poland?” I asked as I searched for two wine glasses in the cabinets. “One drink” I practically heard Riley’s voice in my ears.

“No, not yet. It’s definitely on my travel list when I go to Europe later this year,” he said as he stirred the beef inside the pot he found.

“I’ve never been outside of the United States. Hell, I’ve barely been outside of Oklahoma. By the way, why were you and your assistant in Oklahoma City anyways?” I asked.

“My who–Oh, yeah, he and I had a business meeting yesterday afternoon, so we flew back this morning. Our flight last night was canceled. We showed up to the airport this morning and asked for the earliest flight to Nashville, so we were limited to Southwest. But hey, no complaints now,” he said. Although his back was to me, I could hear the smile in his voice.

“A business meeting for your photography?” I asked as I watched him sprinkle paprika into the pot.

“Yes, something like that,” he said with a smirk as he glanced over his shoulder. “Do you live in Oklahoma City?” he asked.

“Oh, God no. I had to drive an hour and a half to get to the airport. My hometown is tiny. We don’t even have a stoplight,” I said.

“You still live in your hometown?” he asked. I watched him chop the vegetables with great focus. His knife work demonstrated that he was skilled. I gazed at the veins in his hands protruding with every motion. He dumped the sliced vegetables into the pot and covered it with a lid. I realized I had been watching him for too long and almost forgot what he had asked me.

“Yes, everyone left except me,” I said with a laugh to hide the pain in my voice.

Josh immediately stopped what he was doing and turned to face me. I could feel him studying my face as if he were trying to read me like a novel. He slowly walked over to me. I felt my cheeks get warm as he stood so close I could smell his cologne over the aromatic dinner on the stove.

“Are you lonely?” he asked with a look in his eyes I couldn’t quite place. Pity?

“Most of the time, yes. But it’s a feeling I’ve grown accustomed to,” I said with a shrug.

“I could sense that about you. It’s one of the reasons I didn’t want you to spend your first evening in Nashville alone,” he said looking at my mouth. Did I have lipstick on my teeth?

“Yes, I definitely appreciate the company. How long until the–what was it called again?” I asked.

“Repeat after me…” he said slowly. “Gulasz.” I watched his mouth closely as his tongue flicked between the syllables.

“Gulasz…” I repeated back to him.

“Good girl,” he said with a wink. I felt myself forming into a puddle on the floor. “It should be finished in about an hour and a half.”

I needed to distract myself from him. I moved around him to walk toward the counter where I had left the two empty wine glasses. “Sure, alcohol will help” I could hear Riley again. I realized the wine he had bought needed a corkscrew. The only wine I have ever had only had a twist top.

“This is one of my favorites despite it coming from a grocery store. If I had more time to prepare, I would have brought some bottles from my favorite winery,” he said as he began searching the kitchen drawers for a corkscrew.

“I’m honestly not a wine connoisseur. I rarely drink,” I said timidly.

“We don’t have to open a bottle if you don’t want to. I’m perfectly fine drinking water,” he said, putting the newly found corkscrew back in the drawer.

“No, no, I would like a glass,” I said with a smile.

“Are you sure? I would never ask you to do anything you didn’t feel comfortable doing,” he said. His face looked so genuine that I wanted to take a picture to remember it.

“I’m sure,” I said, holding the glasses out to him. He took them from my hands but never broke eye contact. I couldn’t stand the tension any longer, so I walked into the living room and waited for him to bring us the glasses of wine. I glanced at my phone to see two notifications from Riley and 49 from Nashville Babes. I cleared the group text notification and opened Riley’s messages.

Riley: “Ok, so he drives a nice ass Jeep. Slay.”

Riley: “I need a check-in soon or I’m booking a flight.”

Me: “All is good. Dinner is cooking. I haven’t even had a sip of wine yet.”

I put my phone away as Josh sauntered into the room carrying two glasses of white wine. I placed two coasters on the living room table for him. He took a seat on the couch next to me while handing me my glass.

“Cheers, darling,” he said, holding his glass out.

“Cheers,” I said with a nervous laugh. We clinked glasses and took a sip of the wine. I could feel Josh’s eyes on me but I refused to look at him. I scanned the room looking for something to initiate a conversation.

“Have you always lived in Nashville?” I asked him.

“No, I’m actually from Michigan. I moved here about five-ish years ago,” he said, not breaking his gaze off of me.

“I’ve never been to Michigan either. I’m sure that doesn’t surprise you,” I said timidly.

“I bet there is a lot about you that would surprise me,” he said with a wink. I took another drink of my wine to hide my smile.

“Tell me about that ring on your finger,” he said candidly. Ah, the elephant in the room.

“This is my engagement ring,” I said looking down at my hand. I used to love this ring. I hate that I don’t anymore.

“When is the big day?” he asked.

“There isn’t one,” I said. “Not yet.”

“Marriage isn’t for me,” he said with a sigh.

“Why not?” I asked.

“I just don’t see the purpose. I can love someone, or multiple people in my lifetime, and I don’t need a piece of paper from the government to signify that love. I think society has a twisted expectation with matrimony. If I find someone with whom I want to share a connection with, I will focus my time and energy on that person for as long as I can,” he said finishing his wine. He placed his empty glass on the table next to mine that was still nearly full.

“To each his own,” I said, eyeing our wine glasses.

“I don’t mean to offend you,” he said.

“You didn’t. I think you have some interesting ways of looking at the world. I’m sure that comes with traveling so much with touring,” I said. Josh looked at me like I had just said the raunchiest curse word he could think of. His shocked expression quickly faded.

“Yes, photography. Touring. Right,” he said as he stood up and made his way into the kitchen. That was weird.

I watched him check the gulasz on the stove before grabbing the opened wine bottle and bringing it back into the living room. “You need to catch up. I’m starting to look like a lush,” he said while pouring himself a second glass.

“I told you I’m not much of a drinker,” I said, grabbing my glass from his peer pressure. I took another drink as he sat back down on the couch.

“One more glass and I’ll show you that exotic dance routine,” he said, wiggling his hips. I busted out laughing.

“Hold on, I’ll need to go get some dollar bills out of my purse!” I said jumping up. Going along with the joke, I polished off my wine and placed the now empty glass back on the table. I scurried into the bedroom in which I claimed earlier to find my purse. I was looking through my wallet when I heard Josh enter the room.

“So this is your bedroom for the weekend?” he asked, looking around. He walked over to the nightstand and placed two full glasses of wine on it.

“I’m not drinking another glass of wine,” I said.

“That’s fine. I’ll drink both,” he said with a smile.

“Joshua Michael, you are a lush,” I said with a giggle. He walked over to where I was standing with the dollar bills in my hand.

“Are you going to tell me your name?” he asked.

“Do you normally go over to strange women’s houses when you don’t even know their name?” I asked.

“I don’t kiss and tell,” he said with a wink. He moved closer to me. My breathing became short and I found it hard to stay standing. “Honestly, it’s probably best if I don't know your name.”

“Really?” I asked.

“This right here,” he said, reaching out for my hand and toying with my ring. “This right here tells me I don’t need to know your name,” he said. “You will only be here for the weekend and I’m just here for the moment,” he said, still holding my hand in his. “No name… No strings attached,” he said before letting go of my hand. I watched him walk over to the night stand and grab his glass of wine. He was no longer looking at me but I couldn’t stop looking at him. He was waiting for me to make the next move.

Chapter Six

I walked back into the living room, leaving Josh and the wine glasses alone in my bedroom. I could feel the effect of the wine starting to take its toll on me. My lips were tingling with a numbness that was always the first sign of feeling buzzed. I grabbed my phone and texted Riley:

Me: “I’m still good.”

Riley: “What was for dinner?”

“You know you don’t have to go to another room to text him,” Josh said as he walked into the living room with his now empty glass in his hand.

“I’m actually texting Riley to assure her that I am still alive, thank you very much,” I said with a hint of annoyance.

“Tell her I’ll put the leftovers in the fridge for her tomorrow,” he called out as he walked into the kitchen. I looked up from my phone to watch him stirring the contents inside the pot.

“It smells amazing,” I said.

“It will taste even better. It probably needs another 45 minutes. Can you wait that long?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” I lied. I hadn’t eaten since I left the house this morning. The aroma was making my stomach growl in anticipation. I walked back into my bedroom to grab the new glass of wine that Josh had poured me. I took a few sips to try to trick my brain into thinking I was eating something. Alcohol on an empty stomach. That’s a good idea.

“I thought you weren’t drinking anymore?” Josh asked from the doorway.

“I changed my mind,” I said, taking another sip.

“The bottle is almost empty,” he said with a laugh.

“Well, that’s not because of me,” I said, sticking my tongue out.

“It’s rude to stick your tongue out at people,” he said walking into the room. I tried to think of something witty to say back. The alcohol was definitely in my system now. I wasn’t drunk but the buzz was nice.

“I’m not sure how much longer I can wait before dinner,” I said honestly.

“How about I take your mind off of dinner for a bit?” he said, closing the space between us. I gasped when he stood so close to me I could smell the wine on his breath. He took the wine glass out of my hand and placed it on the nightstand.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked me while staring deep into my eyes like he could glimpse into my soul.

“I–I don’t know,” I said nervously.

“I’ll wait until you say yes,” he said, giving me a light kiss on the cheek. At that moment, I felt every nerve in my body combust. I was no longer solid matter; I was a liquid. Without hesitation, I grabbed Josh by the waist and pulled him into a kiss. His full lips kissed mine back and I felt his tongue make its way into my mouth. I pulled him tighter and felt his hands move up my back and into my hair. Every part of me was in this kiss. I lightly bit his bottom lip with my teeth and heard him let out a slight moan. I felt his hand grab the back of my head as he gently guided my body to the bed.

I began kissing his neck, the same neck I had admired so much on the plane. I tasted his scent and licked the mixture of cologne and sweat off of his neck. He began to remove his sweatshirt and pulled it over his head. I inhaled suddenly when I saw his perfect chest. I moved my lips down from his neck and began kissing his pecs. I continued to make my way down to his stomach until the peach fuzz below his belly button tickled my chin. I looked up at Josh and saw him smiling as he watched me work my way back up to his lips. He pulled me in for another kiss and I whimpered as he moved his hands all over my body.

“Can I kiss you all over?” he asked me as I tried to hide my grin.

“Where did you have in mind?” I asked playfully. He moved his fingers across my collarbone.

“Here,” he said. Then he moved his fingers lower to my breasts. “Here,” he said again. His fingers began to move slowly downward until they stopped between my legs. “And here,” he said with finality. I removed my sweatshirt over my head and threw it to the floor. I began to unbutton my jeans when Josh’s hands stopped me.

“Let me,” he said in a seductive whisper. I moved my hands to allow him to remove them for me. He pulled my jeans down so slowly I thought I was going to melt into the bed. I could feel my panties sticking to me. He worked his way back up to my upper body and toyed with the clasp of my bra. With only one hand, he swiftly undid it and exposed my bare breasts. He’s definitely a pro at this.

“Wow,” he said while admiring my body. I moved my hands over my face to hide my embarrassment.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, still covering my face.

“Move your hands. I want to see you smile when I kiss you…all over,” he said gently. He moved his face back to my neck and I could feel his tongue swirl against my skin. His facial hair tickled my neck as his mouth moved to kiss my collarbone. Per his request, I moved my hands away from my face and placed them in his hair. I twirled my fingers through his curls as he brought his lips to my breasts. He took my nipple into his mouth and I let out a moan against my will. This noise that escaped me made him even more eager as he sucked and swirled his tongue against me. His free hand grasped my other breast and he moved his mouth to show it the same attention. I looked down to see him to find him staring at me as he moved his mouth even lower down my stomach.

“Can I remove your panties?” he asked.

“Yes,” I sighed. Just then, I felt his hands gently pull the sides of my lace underwear down my legs. He moved his body to the floor and pulled me to the edge of the bed. He went to place his mouth against my entrance when I squeezed my legs together and pushed him back with my hands.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked.

“It’s just… I don’t…” I said embarrassed.

“You don’t want me to go down on you?” he asked.

“I…I’ve never had anyone do that to me before,” I admitted.

“I want to show you what you’re missing,” he said, teasing my thighs with his hands.

It’s not that Kenneth and I aren’t sexually active. Well, scratch that. I wouldn’t say we’re even active anymore, but we’ve had sex. We’ve had the same sex since we were teenagers. In the ten years we’ve been together, he has never gone down on me; I guess I’m too embarrassed to ask him.

While he was still kneeling on the floor, I looked into Josh’s eyes as his head was positioned between my thighs. I gave him a nod and laid my head back to stare at the ceiling. Before I knew it, his tongue began licking my entrance. Oh my God. I felt his tongue work its way up to my clit where he took his time. With each movement of his tongue, I felt my legs twitch out of my control. He continued to grasp my legs with his hands as my body writhed on the mattress. “Oh my God,” I moaned aloud. My thoughts were escaping me as I felt like I had lost total control of my mind, body, and soul. It felt like he was consuming me with every stroke of his tongue.

“Oh my God,” I practically screamed as I felt myself cum. I tried to squeeze my thighs together but he held them firm with his hands and continued to lick my clit. This feeling was nearly leaving me no longer conscious. “Fuck. Josh,” I moaned as I pulled his hair into my clenched fists. He continued to lick me until I could no longer stand it. I let out another scream and squeezed my thighs together so hard I thought I may kill him. He slowly pulled back and I could see his facial hair was dripping wet. Was that from me?

He kissed the top of my entrance one last time before sitting back on his hands and feet. I laid still on top of the bed, nearly unable to move as I tried to process what just happened.

“I’m going to clean up in the bathroom,” he said, waiting for me to respond before jumping up. I still couldn’t formulate a single word so I laid there waiting for my senses to come back to me. I heard him laugh as he left the room. I scrambled to find my bra and panties while he was gone. I can’t believe that just happened. I can’t believe what I’ve been missing.

I went to find my phone on the nightstand to see Riley had sent me a series of texts. I skimmed through them and tried to hide my laughter as I sent another check-in text:

Me: So. Much. To. Tell. You. Still alive and very well.

I hit send and put my phone back as Josh entered the bedroom. He found his sweatshirt and began to pull it over his head. He climbed into bed to lay next to me.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked softly as I could feel his gaze on me.

“What are you thinking about?” I returned his question with a question.

“I’m wondering how someone could be engaged to be married, yet they’ve never experienced one of God’s greatest creations,” Josh said with a laugh.

“Ken–He just never has,” I said as I stared into his eyes.

“He’s a moron. You deserve to feel that every day. I love providing that service,” he said with a smirk.

“I can tell you know what you’re doing, but I don’t want to know about your history,” I said, biting my lip.

“Your taste in particular…” he began to say.

“My taste?” I asked as my cheeks began to redden.

“You taste bitter and sweet… like a strawberry,” he said. “It’s incredible.”

“A strawberry?” I nearly squeaked.

“It’s now my favorite fruit,” he said as he kissed my forehead. He got up from the bed and handed me my clothes from the floor. “Dinner should be ready now,” he said with a laugh.

After freshening up in the bathroom, I made my way into the dining room to find Josh had already made us plates. The room smelled amazing. He opened the second bottle of wine and was pouring us new glasses when I took my seat at the table.

“This looks incredible, thank you,” I said as I waited for him to join me.

“It’s been simmering for a while,” he said with a wink as he placed my wine glass in front of me. He took the seat next to mine and handed me a spoon. I took a bite of the gulasz and fought the urge to moan again this evening.

“Oh my God,” I said.

“I’ve heard that before,” he said with a smirk. I reached out and pinched him on the arm as he playfully pulled away.

“This may be one of the best things I’ve ever tasted,” I said as I went for a second bite.

“I used to think that too before, well,” he said, raising his eyebrow at me.

“Shut the hell up,” I said laughing.

“So I saved your number in my phone as Strawberry,” he said with a wink. Should I ask him about the Google Voice thing? No, I don’t want to look crazy.

“You think you’ll need my number after tonight?” I said a little too bluntly.

“You’re still here for a few nights. Maybe we can do this again,” he said with a wink.

“I’m going to be too busy with bars, karaoke, dancing, and strippers,” I said with a smug look on my face. “I won’t be thinking about you.” He can tell I’m lying.

“Thank you again for dinner and for keeping me company,” I said as I collected our dishes to take them to the sink. Josh was searching the cabinets for plastic containers to package the leftover gulasz in.

“It was an honor,” he said with that brilliant smile of his. It was getting late and I had yet to decorate the Airbnb before the girls’ arrival tomorrow. I was in so much bliss that I had forgotten why I was in Nashville in the first place. I needed to clear his lips, eyes, smile, voice–everything about him from my mind. This was supposed to be Riley’s weekend but thoughts of his tongue consumed me. I walked Josh to the door as he moved in to kiss me goodbye.

“If I texted you, would you respond?” he asked with one foot literally out the door.

“I might,” I said as I bit my lip.

“I’ll take my chances,” he said as he walked out into the dark driveway. I watched him from the porch as he jumped into his Jeep to leave. I heard my phone ringing from the bedroom. I closed and locked the front door and then took off in a sprint hoping to see the name Plagiarism across my phone screen. Nope.

“Hey,” I said as I answered the phone with a heavy sigh.

“Why do you sound like you are out of breath?” Kenneth asked.

“I just had to run to the bedroom to catch my phone,” I said. “Why are you still up?”

“What did you have for dinner?” he asked instead of answering my question.

“I DoorDashed some pasta from a local Italian place nearby,” I lied into the phone.

“Really?” he asked.

“Mhm,” I said wondering why I felt like I was being interrogated.

“Then why is there no history of any orders from tonight on our DoorDash account?” he asked. Shit.

“I mean I called the restaurant and ordered over the phone. They delivered it,” I quickly added.

“Oh, and thanks for not leaving me anything to eat in the house,” he said.

“I went grocery shopping before I left. There are plenty of things in the fridge–” I began.

“Yeah, it would have been nice to have some leftovers, but instead I have to cook for myself,” he interrupted. He sounded drunk.

“Look, it’s late. I’m heading to bed. I’m tired from traveling and decorating the house, so if there’s nothing else you have to say to me,” I stated. Kenneth immediately hung up; my brief moment of boldness must have pissed him off even more. I shot Riley a quick text to let her know that I was alone, alive, and going to bed so she wouldn’t be worried before I left my phone on the charger.

I was desperately tired but I needed to decorate the Airbnb for Riley’s bachelorette weekend. I carried the packages of penis and hot pink cowgirl-themed decorations to the living room to begin. To stay awake, I turned on the TV to pull up YouTube to play some background music while I got busy. With the remote, I searched for my possible new favorite band, Greta Van Fleet. I scrolled through the first couple videos until I recognized the face on the thumbnails.

“What the fuck?” I yelled.

#josh kiskza fanfic #josh kiszka #joshua michael kiszka #greta van fic #greta van smut #greta van fleet

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