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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 7 months

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The Grey Zone 2

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, manipulation, age gap, bullying, toxic parental figures, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your relationship with your parents has never been good, and that with a family friend takes a strange turn(goth!reader)

Character: Lloyd Hansen

Note: It's a Monday.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you like I love turning intended one shots into series. Take care. 💖

You’ve always been the kid at the table of adults. Even now, legally of age, you feel like the same child forgotten on the sideline. The most acknowledgement you get is from your father when you thoughtlessly lean an elbow on the table or slouch. Sometimes, you think the fact that you’re still breathing is a disappointment to him.

“Thinking of converting the garage…” your dad says, “or we’ll wait till the kid is out and do something with her room.”

You don’t react. It comes up a lot. When you show him your pay cheque, he tells you exactly what to do with your money.

How much you should save so you can get out of his house. You’re not left with much else as he takes interest for your tuition; which he’s kindly allowed you to hold off on paying back until you complete your degree. It’s better than most people deal with, better than some debt collector chipping away at your credit.

“You’re a fucking busy body,” Mr. Hansen chortles as he stirs around with his spoon. You’re not a fan of the dish either. “You ever put any of that energy into, I don’t know, fucking your wife.”

Your spoon hits off your bowl but you try not to show your shock. Your father chokes and your mother guffaws drunkenly. Mr. Hansen is crass but usually when he doesn’t know you’re listening.

“At the table?” Your father huffs.

“He has a point…” your mother mutters.

“What? We’re all adults? I’m teasin’ you, Ray,” he insists, undeterred by your dad’s hot glare, “I’m just thinking out loud and there’s a tension here. Someone’s not getting fucked.”

“Lloyd, my daughter–”

“Oh, so you do know she’s here?” Hansen scoffs, “she’s grown. She can hear the fuck word a few times.”

Your father sputters, speechless. For once, he has no reprimand at the ready. He is a man who always has his way faced with another who can steamroll any refusal.

“Whatever, I was gonna ask you something important,” Hansen diffuses the conversation with the shift in tone, “I bought a lake house up north. I’m not handy, you know that. Not in that way,” he chuckles and your mother giggles into her wine.

Your father sighs and sits back as he lifts his chin, crossing his arms as he squints at his guest. That look doesn’t work on a man like Hansen. You look between them, waiting for either to explode.

Hansen smirks and sits back, mimicking your father’s posture but keeping his arms open. He braces his thighs as he puffs out his chest. You never noticed before the way his shirt perfectly fit him, clinging to his well-toned muscles.

“I’ll pay you. Same as any contractor. And you can bring the family to enjoy the lake,” Hansen counters, “enough for you to continue tearing this place apart.”

“Hmmm,” your father rolls his tongue under his lips.

“It’s a good idea,” your mother slurs, “it’s been forever since we went on vacation.”

“You just got back from Malibu two weeks ago,” your father chides.

“I mean, as a family,” she leans heavily on the table, her finger hooked on the stem of her wine glass, “I love the lake,” she looks as Hansen, pouting flirtily, “I just bought a bunch of new swimsuits.”

“Well, it gets pretty cold up there. Even this time of year. It’s why I bought the place. I hate the heat.”

“Oh, you seem to handle it well,” your mother winks.

Your father brings his hand down on the table, causing every dish to tremble. “I’ll think about it, Hansen. But you gotta think this out, materials and all that.”

“Zoning’s taken care of. All that paperwork bullshit,” Hansen says surely, “seems like it would be a good opportunity for you to get away and let go.”

You peer around the table. Your mom leans back in her chair, chin in her hand as she watches your father. Hansen takes his spoon again and smoothly stirs the bright broth. Your father shakes his head.

“Like I said, I’ll think about it.”

🖤

Despite how often you attract unwanted leers and looks, you have a knack for disappearing. As the adults leave the table, you clean up, fading into the background but not quite fitting into the pristine aesthetic of the house. Most of the bowls still hold a decent amount of the fishy bouillabaisse. It tasted fine enough but who likes that much fish.

You dump each and start washing out the dishes, putting away those pots and pans you dealt with before dinner was served. If you don’t do it, your mother won’t, and your father will chuck a fit about a single dirt dish left in the sink. So you go about the task, earbuds in, nodding your head along with the music.

Your dark nail polish flakes off in the warm water as your scrub with a sponge. It’s fine, it’s cheap. You want to try the new mystic blue you got anyway. You set a bowl in the rack and nearly scream as you feel a squeeze around your hip.

You splash water through the air as you spin to face your accoster. Mr. Hansen stands close as he holds an empty wine glass. Your mother’s lipstick stains the brim. You reach with a dripping, shaky hand to pause your music with a tap.

“I didn’t hear you,” you gasp.

“Oh? I thought you were just playing hard to get,” he twirls the glass, “your mom’s off to bed. Face down.”

“Um, okay,” you reach for the glass but he moves it out of your reach. You furrow your nose and retract your hand.

“So…” he wiggles the glass thoughtfully, his eyes clinging to you, “what do you think?”

“About?”

“The lake house.”

“Er, I don’t know. If dad wants to…”

“I don’t care what daddy wants, what do you want?” His blue eyes gleam, the dark outlines feeding the lustre of his oceanic irises, “seems like no one’s ever asked you, sweetheart.”

You shrug.

“Could be nice,” you say. You don’t get your hopes up. If your dad accepts, you think he’ll somehow manage to leave you and your mother behind.

“And… if dear old daddy did say no, and I asked you to come anyway…”

You blink, confused. Why would he do that? He laughs at you.

“Think about it,” he hands over the glass, “this place is a drag. Young girls like you need that distance. To find yourself.”

You don’t know what to say or think. You really don’t understand what he’s offering. You don’t get where his sudden interest in you came from. Mr. Hansen was only ever peripheral. He was there to give colour commentary and needle away at your father’s patience.

“I don’t know,” he backs up, “maybe they don’t make swimsuits in your style…” You hold the glass close to your chest, caught like a deer in headlights. “But it’s a private lake.” He pokes his tongue and winks before spinning on his heel. “No rules…” he calls over his shoulder as he passes through the door.

You shudder and turn back to the sink. You plunge the glass into the water and swirl it to rinse the residue of wine. Hansen is just like that. He’s always looking for a reaction. You suppose you’re old enough now that you’re a new victim for his jokes. That makes more sense. You’ve always made a good target.

You tap your earbud and drown out your racing thoughts with the music. Just finish this up and you can go hide in your room.

🖤

You shut off the kitchen light and quietly pad through the house. You climb the stairs as an eerie silence permeates the space. Mr. Hansen must be gone since your mother turned in. She often didn’t end the night without some grand finale.

As you near your bedroom door, you notice that it’s slightly ajar. That damn mechanism. Your father can fix every part of this house except for that. You sigh and push it open as you enter, stopping short as you find a shadow standing by your bookshelf. The coffin shaped furniture holds more than just books but some crow statuettes and deathly trinkets.

The glow of your lamp casts a purplish light over Mr. Hansen’s back. He hasn’t heard you. He closes the book in his hand and slides it between the others. He pauses and takes the deck of tarot before he can knock it over with his hand. He shuffles through and you flip on the overhead light.

He turns, unshaken by your entrance. He keeps the cards fanned out in his hands. He smiles at you.

“I never really looked close at these sorts of things,” he says as he runs his thumb over the emperor card, “they’re pretty.”

“What are you doing in here?” You ask.

“I got lost,” he says coolly, “can you read these?”

He smoothly pushes through your chagrin, sidestepping your question. That’s annoying but he’s older and he’s a guest. You didn’t need him ratting to your father about your attitude.

“Yeah, they’re really just for fun though,” you near him and reach for the cards. He claps them into a neat deck and keeps them away from you.

“I like fun,” he says, “can you read mine?”

“I don’t know. It’s late–”

“How much?” He asks curtly.

“What?”

“I’ve seen those ladies down at the market. What do they charge for a reading? I’ll pay you double.”

“No, it’s–”

“I’ll buy you some new boots or something,” he barters.

“Why?”

“I’m bored. This place is boring.” He says. You won’t ask why he doesn’t just leave. You inhale and clamp your lips tight. “You must hate it. So… I wanna know my future.”

“I… fine,” you shrug, “shuffle the cards.”

You look around. There’s really no good place to do the reading. He shuffles the cards and strides by you, brushing against your arm. He sits on the side of your bed. Alright, well, you guess that’s fine.

You move your laptop and books and climb up, smoothing the blanket before you. You sit on one legs and keep your fingers on the duvet.

“You need to ask a question?” You say.

“A question?”

“Yeah, like something about what you should focus on at work or in your relationships,” you explain, “something to guide the cards.”

“Hmm, oh, well, the second one.”

“Okay… any specific relationships?” You prompt, “like family–”

“With you.”

“What?”

“Me and you.”

“Uhhhh,” you drone, “that’s… alright. Focus on that then.”

You put your hand out. He hands you the cards and you fan them out. He watches, tilting his head as he brings his knee up onto the bed and faces you straight on. The strangeness of the situation does not escape you. It sears down your neck.

“Pick three cards.”

He does so easily. One, two, three. Most people would take their time but he is always straight to the point. You point to where he should place each card. The first there, the second next to it, and the third above.

“Alright, so,” you set the deck aside, “this is basic. The first card represents you, the second would be the other person.”

“You,” he smirks.

“Sure,” you say, “and the third, would be both together.”

“Hmm, interesting,” he rests his hand on his thigh, tapping his fingers.

“Alright then, flip the first one.”

He does as you say. You consider the card.

“Temperance, reversed,” you announce, “it means you like excess, you often go to extremes, so much so that your life often lacks balance and harmony.”

He nods and clucks, “I can’t disagree.”

“Second,” you direct him.

He flips it.

“Nine of swords, upright,” you utter. You let the air linger.

“Oh, what does that mean?”

“Anxiety, or sadness, dread,” you don’t look up at him, “so this other person… me, I guess, has a lot on their mind to worry about.”

“Wow, the cards really are magic.”

You wince and look at him. Is it that obvious?

“Final card.”

“Oh, I’m excited,” he turns it over, “what does fate have in store for us?”

“Page of wands, upright; represents exploration, excitement, and…” you pause as you search your mind, “freedom?”

“Sounds like a good time to me,” he snickers.

“They’re just cards,” you quickly gather up the trio. It means nothing.

“Do you read palms?” He asks as you put the cards with the rest of the deck and shimmy to the edge of the bed.

“No, I… no.” You eke out as you let yourself down to the floor, “look, thanks for humouring me but I’m tired–”

“Hard to tell with all the eyeliner,” he remarks.

You give him a sharp look. He smirks as he turns both legs over the edge of the bed and leans back on his hands. It’s almost a boyish expression.

“I’m pretty beat myself,” he says, “cozy.”

He lets himself fall onto his back. You put the deck back on the shelf and chew on the situation. What the hell is going on? He’s invading your space, mocking you, and you’re just letting him.

“Maybe you should go home–”

“Pretty big bed–”

“I kick in my sleep,” you go to the end of the bed and he turns his head towards you. You see that devilish gleam in his eyes.

“You bring a lot of boys in here?”

“What?” Your voice wilts out, barely rising.

“Easy enough to sneak em through the window. Got that tree right out there, they could just–” He motions with his hand, “zip right in.”

You let your anger burn through. You get that from your father. You fight not to let it win over but it rises so hotly that sometimes you can’t.

“I don’t appreciate this.”

“What do you mean?” He rubs his chest.

“You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m not,” he insists.

“You are. This is my room and I…” you swallow and ball your fists, “I want you to get out.”

“Sweetheart, really, I’m not–”

“You are. You can’t say or do anything that hasn’t been said or done before. I get it, okay? So please, I’m tired and I want to go to sleep.”

He blows out and turns his head straight. He deflates and reluctantly pushes himself up. He tidies his hair as he stands.

“You’ll see, baby doll,” he struts lazily to the door, “the last thing I’m doing is making fun of you.” he looks back at you, his lips slanting, “I’m out for a different sort of fun…”

You storm towards him and shoo him out the door. He cackles and you slam the door behind him. Out. Get out! You feel like you need to cleanse your room now. You hear his rocky laughter on the other side as he lingers, his hand hitting the door before dragging down it.

“Sweet dreams,” he calls through the door.

He pushes off, the door jolting in the frame, and his footsteps peter away. You huff and face the room. He never told you why he was in there. You cross to the bed and drag your laptop and books off. As you do, you smell a trace of his cologne disturbed by the movement. You turn away and stack them on your desk.

You are ready for the day to end, even if tomorrow holds little promise.

#the grey zone #lloyd hansen #dark lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #the gray man #series #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #au

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attractive-nuisance-esq · 7 months

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Ed’s journey this season is going to perfectly mirror addiction and recovery, and I am so fucking here for it. Watching these first three episodes of S2 was like watching a highly dramatized AU of my own descent into rock bottom (except everyone was dressed wayyyyyy cooler than I ever was), so I have a lot of thoughts, reactions, and insights that I want to share with other fans. I’m sure many of us who have struggled with our mental health connected with Ed in these episodes, but I think addiction is the most appropriate lens through which to view him because addicts (more often than people who struggle with other mental illnesses) so wholly destroy their own lives and utterly devastate those of their loved ones. I want to share - from the perspective of someone who has steered her own ship straight into a storm and woke up alone to face some very hard choices - what is going on with Ed at the start of this season and what I think is coming.

Let me start by saying that Ed isn’t literally addicted to any one thing, despite his heavy use of drugs and alcohol, but his goal is the same as that of all addicts: escape. He does not want to sit with the pain of Stede leaving him on an immediate, surface level; on a deeper, more habitual level, he doesn’t want to sit with the pain of his own self-loathing. Of course the two are related: the former brings the latter to a head. Stede abandoning him dredges up and brightly illuminates all of his insecurities, and now Ed has to run. Get out. Escape. Don’t think about it. So he is fighting, stealing, drinking, snorting, shooting, killing - whatever it takes to not think about it.

“Demon? I’m the fuckin’ devil.” People in recovery often talk about addiction as if it were a separate, sentient monster living within them. Ed taking on the mantle of demon - a creature known specifically for possession, for removing the host’s free will - is intentional. So is his insistence that he’s not just any demon but the demon. The worst there is. (More on that when we get to The Innkeeper.)

Izzy’s confrontation of Ed in the captain’s cabin and then on deck is a form of intervention. Izzy is trying to help Ed, but of course this goes terribly for him and for Ed because interventions (I cannot stress this enough) are maybe the worst thing you could do to an addict. All addicts know things are bad, but they cannot be pushed to change one single second before they’re ready. Ed knows things are bad. He’s well-aware of how he’s spending his time, how his crew feels about him, how disappointed Izzy is. Being confronted with all of those truths by Izzy was always only going to make him do two things: 1) dig further into his unhealthy coping mechanisms, never mind that they don’t have nearly the effect that they used to; and 2) lash out at the person who forced him to think about it. Izzy lost his leg the moment he stepped into Ed’s cabin.

The impossible bird. You guys remember the song Chandelier by Sia? The one about her addiction to alcohol? The whole thing may as well come right out of Ed’s mouth at the end of that first episode, because that experience is exactly what he’s trying to convey to Frenchie. Nevermind that Frenchie has the temerity to tell him the bird can’t exist, that it has to come down sometime, that flying forever isn’t sustainable. The bird can come down on its own terms, or crash… but Frenchie’s definitely not going to say that much. Still, “that sounds like something that can’t exist” hits Ed, and leads us to the next episode.

Now we’ve got Ed forlorn, heartbroken, almost catatonic while playing with his cake toppers. We don’t actually see him crying in the opening of the episode, which is the point. He’s done crying now. The impossible bird can’t exist, and Ed has already resigned himself to this. He’s decided to die. The only sure-fire permanent way to not think about it.

When next we see Ed, he seems to be doing better, but this is a huge red flag for anyone who knows to look. He’s giving away his responsibility to Frenchie; he’s cleaning the cabin for the closure. He knows the end is coming fast, and the relief that knowledge brings him leaves him weirdly at peace. It is he eeriest part of these episodes, IMO.

Then he goes to find his first mate, the person who knows him better than anyone else in the world, the man he just fucking shot and ordered killed. Ed needs his low opinion of himself validated, and of course he thinks he’ll get it from Izzy after everything he’s done to him. He wants the one person who has stuck with him through everything to confirm that he’s now irretrievably broken and no longer worthy of his love. Ed wants someone to tell him that he’s right: he should die.

He doesn’t get that from Izzy. Interestingly, Izzy doesn’t tell him he should die. He says “Clean up your own mess.” Izzy has learned the lesson now that Ed isn’t ready to get better and that he can’t make him be ready. (This post isn’t about Izzy, but hoo boy - I have big feels about that man.)

Ed has been indulging in various forms of self-destruction in order to not feel his feelings, and steering the ship into the storm is his worst indulgence yet. This is the worst of his crimes - not beheading or arson or a red wedding. It’s when he tries to bring down everyone who has ever loved him into his misery, into believing what he believes. The audience generally (and Ed’s audience of Stede specifically) can forgive him for hurting strangers and for the non-specific mayhem whose victims we’ve never met; but it is much less certain that anyone will forgive him for hurting the only family he’s ever known.

The storm itself is the perfect metaphor for Ed’s attempt on his and, incidentally, everyone else’s lives. One of the most common metaphors used by friends and family members of addicts is that of a hurricane: that their addicted loved-ones tend to destroy everything they touch, anyone who was foolish or brave enough to stick around. And, like hurricanes, addicts aren’t malicious. Ed’s primary goal here is to get himself killed, not to kill everyone else. He wants the ship to go down so his death is certain. His firing a cannonball into the mast and asking Jim and Archie to fight to the death isn’t malice: it’s utter and complete nihilism. Nothing matters anymore. Nothing and no one. The end is near, and he’s so fucking drunk and high off these distractions that he couldn’t think about it if he tried. He’s manic with relief. (See also: “Finally.”)

And now for the finale: Purgatory. Buckle up, because this is where the addiction analogy gets real *chef’s kiss.* Purgatory is the equivalent of the morning after the worst, most rock bottom binge night of your life. You wake up with no one for company but the ghosts of your former selves. Now what?

Well, first - who is Hornigold to Ed? Why is he the guy Ed sees? It’s because Hornigold is another addict, if you will, but one who is (in this Purgatory hallucination) farther along in his recovery. He can impart some wisdom from that place, but he can also stand in as someone Ed can loathe because they’re not as different as Ed once thought, even if Hornigold can say he’s grown.

Hornigold tries to give him soup. He tells Ed, “Gotta get these nutrients into you,” and then literally shoves soup down his throat. That’s what it’s like in rock bottom. You don’t want to take care of yourself, but some lizard brain survival instinct takes over and makes you drink water, eat a piece of fruit, take yourself to the hospital. These things don’t really happen voluntarily that morning after, but you can still count on that instinct to kick in with some damage control.

Ed telling Hornigold how he “got here.” Hornigold says “Mutiny. It’s always mutiny.” Ed insists his mutiny was special, worse somehow. This whole scene is exactly what happens in your first recovery support group meeting. You go in thinking no one has ever been as fucked and fucked up as you are, which makes you feel isolated and alone. But then you get there and everyone else in the circle has done the same shit, been through the same shit. Ed’s not actually the devil; he’s just another demon, like many demons before him.

Ed worries he’s insane when he reflects on everything he’s done. Hornigold’s reply that “Feeling bad isn’t going to rebuild an abdominal wall” is a concept that people usually learn a little bit later in recovery, so I expect we’ll see more on this theme from Ed. Guilt is a useless emotion that only serves to conversely make the addict feel better but doesn’t help the harmed party: the addict feels like their suffering is cleansing, but it’s not - feeling guilt is just more self-indulgence, more self-destruction. Hornigold - a fellow addict in this moment - is trying to get this lesson to him early. It’ll return.

“You’ve got to move on or blow your brains out.” We’re getting back to Purgatory as the metaphor for the morning-after rock bottom, because this is the exact calculation that every person in recovery has done. They all had to answer that one big question. Your whole life is a mess, and you made the mess. Do you want to clean it up? Or quit? (Or make some soup? Yeah. That big question can’t be answered without basic needs having been met. So let’s eat. Let’s start there. It’s easier.)

Now we have Ed’s fantasy about opening an inn: This is also a common part of the morning-after rock bottom. You start thinking about the wrong turns you took, the mistakes you made, the way your life was supposed to go and all the reasons you’re not where you wanted to be. (And all the people you can blame for the fact that your life didn’t go as planned.) And when that honest part of yourself starts telling you that actually it’s all your fault… well, a) you don’t wanna hear it, and b) you can’t silence (kill) that monster, no matter how hard you try. You’ve got to face it. Face all those truths you’ve been running from for years. Now you have to think about it.

So now the big question, the inevitable math. Hornigold suggests looking at the pros and the cons. That’s the easiest way to break the calculation into manageable variables. This is probably my favorite moment of the episode, because when you’re sitting there, morning after the worst night of your life, everything is fucked - these are the exact variables that go into your equation. Do I really want to live? You ask yourself that, and because your life is in fucking shambles, you come up with the stupidest goddamn reasons to keep going. You wanna see the next seasons of Good Omens and Loki. You wanna eat your mom’s spaghetti again. Sometimes it’s nice when someone hugs you. It’s never the big things that save your life; it’s a bunch of the littlest things. The smallest comforts. The big things… they’re too unattainable. They’re too much to hope for, and they’re more than you could possibly deserve. What are the pros of living for Ed? Warmth, good food, orgasms. This is a stunningly accurate representation of the things that will keep you alive once you’ve hit rock bottom.

And then the cons: “I don’t think anyone is waiting for me.” This is why addiction is the better metaphor. There is no human experience more isolating than addiction. You are alone in more ways than you’ve ever been before. You have pushed away or pissed off everyone who ever cared about you. And even the ones who will maybe still be there for you - they can’t help you clean up the mess you’ve made. You have to do the work alone, even if they’re still willing to stand next to you. And this con… it’s the scariest one. Your list of little pros looks so pathetic next to the horror of being utterly fucking alone. Who is going to brave that for some stupid shit like Tom Hiddleston sexily flipping his hair back in that Loki way he does? Why should Ed carry on just because blankets are cozy and marmalade is pleasant?

This is where we get to the moment on the mountain, and what Stede represents. Hornigold tells Ed “You’re unlovable, and you’re afraid to do anything about it.” Ed could do two things about being unlovable: He could try to fix it, or he could end it all. Hornigold represents the worst part of Ed: his weaknesses and cowardice. And if Hornigold is in the driver’s seat, he’s going to end it all. He throws the rock off the cliff, and Ed gets dragged down into the water to drown. (Let’s also talk later about how often addiction is compared to drowning, and how nothing else in the show actually threatened Ed’s life - not Izzy with a gun, not all the rhino horn, not Jim’s cannonball - like drowning in his own mind.)

But then there’s Stede. Stede is how the pros win over that one big, horrifying con. Stede is hope. Stede is just a glimmer of hope. Hope is the most important thing you need in the morning-after rock bottom. As much as I enjoy the idea that it was love that saved Ed, I don’t think that’s a wholly faithful interpretation. Because Stede’s love for Ed doesn’t solve anything, doesn’t fix anything - it certainly doesn’t fix Ed. It cannot fix Ed. Hornigold just told Ed that he’s the one who has to “do something about it,” because Ed is the only one who can save himself. But even if Stede’s love for him in itself isn’t what saves Ed, Ed’s trust in Stede combined with that love gives him hope. Stede loves Ed, truly loves him, came back to him even though he knows Ed’s nature, knows his list of crimes, knows what he’s done to Stede’s friends and family. And maybe Ed can find in himself what he trusts Stede truly sees. It’s a “maybe,” not a certainty. But it’s hope. Someone loves him. Maybe he can love himself, too.

This Woman’s Work: I read this song as referring more appropriately to Ed’s relationship with himself, in no small part because Ed literally made himself the woman in the cake topper couple. All the things that should have been done, should have been said - they’re things Ed needs to do and say to himself. He’s got a little life and a lot of strength left. The journey has just begun.

I want to pop back quickly to a few other moments in The Innkeeper that resonated, starting with Stede and Izzy’s discussion about what happened to Ed: “He went mad. He was a wild dog.” Izzy describes Ed’s breakdown as if he was no longer the same person he once was; this is exactly what addiction does to a person. Ed hasn’t been himself; he’s been held hostage by his need for escape, and he’s become something else. Possessed, if you will.

Izzy: “You and me did this to him, and we can’t let the crew suffer any more for our mistakes.” I’m not writing an essay on Izzy (yet), but this is a very interesting perspective that says a lot about Izzy. Stede and Izzy both owe apologies to Ed, but they are not responsible for his actions. I predict we’re going to see this theme explored in later episodes as a part of Ed’s healing process and recovery. And also hopefully in Izzy’s growth.

Frenchie’s line that “We’ve been living second-to-second for a while now” is a callback to the impossible bird idea. Which, again, is just Chandelier x Sia. “I’m holding on for dear life, won’t look down, won’t open my eyes, keep my glass full until morning light ‘cause I’m just holding on for tonight.”

So what’s next? For me, it was learning to sit alone in a quiet room with my thoughts. It was apologizing to the ones I hurt, because even if I didn’t mean to hurt them - even if I was suffering also and worse - they still got hurt, and in the end it didn’t matter why. It was developing the habit of liking myself, and acting on whatever self-love and affection I could conjure up. And yes… it was new seasons of Good Omens and Loki, my mom’s spaghetti, and hugs.

So I think Ed has a lot of accountability, reflection, and breaking of old habits in his future… but also warmth, good food, and orgasms. And good for him. That’s the beauty of recovery: we get to come back.

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min-gis · 1 year

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chapter two — ps. it meant something to me.

it's hard not to revisit a memory you wish to forget when you're constantly reminded of it. a memory you don't wish to revisit, a memory you do end up revisiting. a memory that doesn't stay just a memory. for better or for worse, you're not sure.

chapter one ! series m.list ! chapter three

pairing. model!seonghwa x fembodied!reader

genre. strangers to lovers

chapter word count. 11k

warnings. this is the calm before the storm tbh, alcohol consumption, smoking (cigarettes), smut ! mdni .

‘’I thought you said you’d stop smoking inside,’’

Your voice comes out mumbled and so does the dry chuckle that leaves the back of his throat. He coughs through the laughter, his pointer finger tapping against the cigarette placed between his thumb and middle finger.

‘’I did,’’ He mumbles back, ‘’But there’s always a new day tomorrow, no?’’

Right, there is. There’s always a new day tomorrow. A new day, for new possibilities, and as only Kim Hongjoong would say — a new day to stop smoking inside. You suppose he’s not really wrong, either.

There is always a new day tomorrow, and for Hongjoong — that day was another attempt to stop smoking inside.

For you, however? That day consists of a lot of realizations, and the eventually inevitable, shame. Kind of.

It’s not really shame, but almost. Because you’re not ashamed, but the creeping feeling of guilt lingers when you wake up the following morning. Not that it hits immediately, just like the wine you had drunk that night — it takes a while for it to set in. A while for the realization to set in.

The realization of Park Seonghwa.

And it’s not until you’re no longer in his presence you realize how funny the concept really is.

”I’m more curious about something else though,” His voice comes out mumbled, and he looks away from the TV for just a split second to look over at you. He’s curious, you can tell by the way he slightly raises his eyebrows. “Have you heard something from him yet?”

The concept of meeting someone and feeling so intrigued, so intrigued to the point where you’re ready to risk whatever, really. In your case, that whatever happened to be celebrating your own friend, which isn’t something you’re proud of nor do you wish for it to happen again.

You look over at your friend’s sprawled out figure and even though you know exactly who he’s referring to, you still ask. ‘’Who?’’

He’s not impressed by your answer, you can tell. You can tell by the way he lets out a scoff and the way he doesn’t tear his eyes off the TV as the name leaves his lips so effortlessly. Like it was obvious. Which it was, you just wish it wasn’t.

So you act like it’s not.

‘’Seonghwa,’’

You don’t wish for it to happen again.

You really don’t, you realize, and hearing his name acts as a reminder.

Because beyond the feeling of being intrigued and meeting someone who seems like a fresh breath of air, there really isn’t more to it. Something you realize when you wake up the following day, and you’re no longer in the presence of Park Seonghwa.

You wouldn’t call it a moment of weakness, because it wasn’t. You had been intrigued, and when you woke up the following day; you no longer were.

The parts of you that had slightly ached when Seonghwa had excused himself from the group the night before didn’t ache when you woke up, just like they didn’t ache like they did when he had slipped out of the front door.

“No,” There is a short silence as he waits for you to reply to his question, and you can tell he’s disappointed with your answer. “Never even got his number.”

Park Seonghwa was, and still is, a stranger. Even almost a week later.

It really is a funny concept, you think. How easy it was for him to hold you captive from the second he walked into the room, just like how easy it was for him to disappear. Like he was never even there, not leaving a single trace behind — and if you hadn’t known, you probably would’ve never even realized he was there to begin with.

Therefore, Park Seonghwa is a stranger — a memory, even — a memory you don’t wish nor desire to revisit. You think, at least. So you opt for a much more comfortable situation — next to a sprawled-out Hongjoong - in his quiet studio.

Hongjoong sucks air through his teeth, just before a small chuckle leaves his lips. Your eyes are back on the TV, not that you’re watching the show Hongjoong had picked out. You’re not sure if he is, either.

‘’Was he at least any good?’’ You can feel him looking at you in the corner of your eye, a look you don’t meet.

It’s not embarrassing when he asks, and you’re not sure if it should be. It probably should be, having such an intimate question thrown at you when you already feel guilty as it is — but not with Hongjoong. Never with Hongjoong.

So you chuckle, leaning your head against the back of his couch. ‘’You should really stop smoking inside, and probably get a new couch, too.’’

He doesn’t reply to your comment, and you can see him turning his attention back onto the TV. ‘’I’ll take that as a no,’’ He mumbles, only after taking another puff of his cigarette.

The problem isn’t the fact that he’s smoking inside and that his couch reeks of cigarette smoke, but that he’s wrong.

He wasn’t bad. He was far from bad, actually — but you don’t really wish to defend him. So you don’t, for now. ‘’Did you hear, or did you just figure it out?’’ You mumble back. You’re not sure if you actually want to know, but you still ask. Perhaps out of courtesy and maybe even pity, or maybe you’re just genuinely curious.

This time, the blue-haired man turns his whole head to look at you. You can only see him in the corner of your eye, but the small grin on his face doesn’t go unnoticed. ‘’We weren’t supposed to hear?’’

Perhaps asking was a bad idea. A terrible idea, even. We weren’t supposed to hear, and you realize the whole group really did know. Not only that, but they heard. ‘’I mean, not necessarily,’’ You chuckle, even though it’s not really funny. It’s not funny at all, you realize, it’s bizarre. So bizarre that you can’t help but chuckle.

You’re also going to have to be quiet, but I don’t have to tell you that, right?

So much for listening, you think. And so much for not wanting to revisit the memory.

Hongjoong just looks at you for a moment, shrugging his shoulders before his eyes are back on the TV.

‘’Ah,’’ Another puff of his cigarette and the sound of him pressing it against the ashtray placed on his stomach follows, ‘’Should’ve probably chosen a better location then, and better timing, probably.’’

Kim Hongjoong, as honest as ever. It’s kind of charming, you have to admit — even in situations like these. ‘’Probably.’’ You agree. You’re not sure if he heard your mumbled agreement, if he did; he doesn’t say anything. He stays silent, and you’re glad he does. The conversation ends there, and it was probably supposed to.

Because Park Seonghwa is a memory. A memory not really worth talking about, a memory meant to stay a memory and not meant to be a conversation. A one-time thing. Nothing more, nothing less.

I don’t do one night-stands.

‘’You’re right, though,’’ He sighs after a moment of silence, ‘’Should probably get a new couch.’’

It’s hard to keep someone as a memory when you’re constantly reminded of them, you realize.

It’s especially hard when your whole feed consists of the runway show taking place, a runway show your friend keeps talking about, a runway show your friend calls you to help him pick out clothes for.

A runway show you’re invited to.

A runway show you don’t go to.

No matter how many times you’re reminded, you don’t go. And if you ever even considered going, Wooyoung quickly makes you realize that you’re not really supposed to go. Because an hour into looking through his closet, he still hasn’t even mentioned the fact that you’re invited. If you truly were, Wooyoung would know — and make sure you attend.

He doesn’t. He doesn’t ask you where your clothes are when he opens the front door, just like he doesn’t ask if you should split the cab fare to the venue.

Because you’re not truly invited, and you realize Park Seonghwa lies a lot.

It’s not something you take to heart.

‘’How about the velvet suit Hongjoong got you?’’

Wooyoung’s bed is comfortable, and you don’t really need to attend the runway show, you realize. Especially not when Wooyoung had already been giving you your own personal show, in the comfort of his own bedroom. Not that it makes it any less special, though.

Running one of his hands through his black locks, Wooyoung lets out a low sigh. A sigh in frustration. ‘’That would work,’’ He keeps his eyes on the clothes laid out in front of him, ‘’But I can’t show up in a velvet suit when the dress code is business casual.’’

When Wooyoung called you in despair, pleading for you to come over and help him; you’re surprised. You’re surprised because Wooyoung, a man who pays great attention to every detail, hasn’t planned his outfit in advance.

But then again, Park Seonghwa is special. So special, that even Wooyoung is struggling.

You let out a quiet hum in response before silence engulfs the room. You’re not sure why Wooyoung called you over instead of Hongjoong, because you’re not certain if you’re to any help. ‘’I say just go with the black turtleneck.’’

You’re not sure if Wooyoung completely agrees with your pick, but he also knows he’s running low on time. So after a moment of silence, a moment to consider his options, he lets out a hum in somewhat agreement before he picks up the black turtleneck he had tried on moments prior.

You watch as he shuffles around the room, opening drawers to pick out jewelry. It’s silent, a comfortable silence — and you wonder if he’s finally going to ask.

‘’What are your plans for tonight?’’

He doesn’t ask, at least not directly. But you know Wooyoung, and it’s easy for you to pick up on the hidden meaning behind his words.

‘’I’m supposed to help Hongjoong look for a new couch, I think,’’ You mumble. It’s not a lie, but it’s not entirely true, either.

He had texted you earlier that day, asking if you were free later in the evening. Something about him having some time to spare, and that he truly did need to get a new couch. He doesn’t directly ask, he never does, because Hongjoong doesn’t ask for help. But he doesn’t need to, because you know him, and you know what he’s hinting towards.

You only reply with a maybe, though, hence why what you tell Wooyoung isn’t entirely true.

A laugh rips through Wooyoung’s chest. ‘’He’s finally getting rid of the old one, is he? God, I was wondering when he’d get a new one,’’ The last part of his sentence comes out mumbled as he shakes his head. ‘’It’s a nice couch, too bad he ruined it by smoking.’’

A chuckle leaves your lips, a chuckle in agreement. You go to verbally agree with him, but the man doesn’t give you a chance to utter a single word before he’s parting his lips to speak once again.

He fiddles with different types of bracelets, holding them up to get a better look at them when the words trail off his lips. Casual and unbothered. That’s exactly what Wooyoung is, and smug. He’s incredibly smug.

’’I assume that’s why you’re not going tonight, then?’’

He was waiting, you realize. He was waiting for the perfect timing, the perfect timing to drop the fact that you were, in fact, invited. And he knew you were. That he knew all along. Jung Wooyoung is smart, and even though knowing him for years, you’re still surprised when he proves to you just how smart he is.

He waits for the perfect timing, and in this case, the perfect timing is an hour before the show starts. He knows you don’t have enough time to get ready, he knows it’s practically impossible for you to attend now. Yet he still asks, because he’s curious. Curious if you actually will attend, despite the circumstances.

He asks to check just how much your encounter with Park Seonghwa really did matter.

‘’I guess so.’’

A scoff leaves his lips upon hearing your response. A scoff in almost disappointment. He expected more, he expected another response — he expected more of you.

He holds yet another piece of jewelry up, and you realize he hasn’t looked your way ever since he started speaking. Another hum leaves the back of his throat as he turns around, ‘’You think this will do?’’

You look at the jewelry before nodding your head. You don’t really know if the shiny bracelet he’s holding up will work, but you still agree, nonetheless. He wouldn’t have shown you it if it didn’t, after all.

Nodding his head back at you, he turns around to close the drawer he had just opened.

‘’You know,’’ He walks through the room as he speaks, ‘’I’m surprised.’’

Watching as he stands in front of his mirror, watching the way his fingers fiddle with the clasp of the bracelet, you wonder what he’s referring to. You’re not certain if he’s surprised you’re not going, or if he’s surprised you’re invited.

‘’How come?’’ You ask, shifting over so you’re laying on your side.

Furrowing his brows, he turns around once more. ‘’Can you help me with this?’’ He’s walking towards you with his hand extended, causing you to nod your head before sitting up straight so you can help him clasp his bracelet on. There’s a short silence as he watches you fiddle with the bracelet.

‘’I’m surprised he hasn’t even mentioned you yet.’’

Oh.

He’s not surprised because you’re not going, nor is he surprised you’re invited. He’s surprised because Seonghwa hasn’t even mentioned you. Perhaps you, too, should be surprised, but you’re not. Not really. You’re not hurt either, at least you don’t think you are.

But you must’ve seemed hurt, though, judging by your silence; something Wooyoung picks up on.

‘’Don’t worry too much about it, though,’’ He mumbles, his eyes darting to look at your face. You don’t see him looking at you, too busy focusing on clasping the bracelet around his wrist to notice. But you most definitely feel his gaze on you — and it’s a heavy gaze. ‘’That’s just how he is.’’

That’s just how he is. Secretive, and kind of an asshole.

That’s how Park Seonghwa is, you think. A light chuckle leaves the back of your throat as you successfully manage to put the bracelet on, letting your hands fall onto your lap before looking up at him. ‘’I don’t take it personally.’’

The gaze he gives you makes you wonder if he’s uncertain. Uncertain if you’re lying, or if he’s just trying to decipher if you truly don’t take it personally.

You’re not even sure yourself, so you’re not sure how he’s supposed to know, either.

Mumbling a ‘thank you’, his eyes dart down to look at the bracelet. Wrapping his other hand around it, he adjusts it — making sure it fits just right, so the light will reflect just right. Another way of showing everyone else he’s important, you think. Like his presence alone isn’t enough.

‘’I’d be more surprised if he did mention you, though.’’

You’re not sure if you wish to keep the conversation going, if the topic is anything you’d like to dive into. But a part of you grows curious, so you do keep the conversation going. ‘’He’s like that, huh?’’ Your question causes a grin to form on his lips. It’s a playful grin, something that tells you everything you need to know.

‘’He’s more than just that, trust me,’’ He quickly lets out, almost like he’s worried that you’ll think badly of him. You don’t, not really. ‘’He just doesn’t talk a lot about himself, personal things, stuff like that,’’

He knows Wooyoung, and you realize Wooyoung might not really know him. Perhaps that’s why he’s so special, beyond being another person in Wooyoung’s circle that’s extremely successful, because he doesn’t really know him. Wooyoung doesn’t really know him, despite holding him so close — and it kind of starts making sense to you.

‘’But then again,’’ Wooyoung’s chuckle brings your gaze back onto him, not that he’s looking at you. ‘’He did fuck my best friend in my bathroom, so you’d think he’d at least tell me. Out of courtesy, you know.’’

Another reminder. Not that it’s true, but it’s still a reminder. Like the whole conversation hasn’t been a reminder. You also wonder if it’s directed towards you, since you hadn’t really told him either.

‘’Well, it kind of makes sense if he hasn’t told you,’’ You let out, and his eyes meet yours. He raises both of his eyebrows, almost like he’s shocked. ‘’He didn’t fuck your best friend, so I guess it makes sense.’’

The shock that had just lingered behind his features quickly fades away when he realizes what you’re hinting towards. Instead, a small smile forms on his lips as he looks back down at his bracelet. ‘’Still, courtesy.’’

The conversation ends there. You stay seated on the edge of his bed as he changes, still tucking his turtleneck into his pants as he turns around so you can look at him. Judge him, rather said.

‘’Good enough?’’ He asks, looking up at you before looking back down at his outfit. You smile at him, nodding your head. ‘’More than good enough, I’d say it looks perfect.’’

He needs more than that, and you know that. So when he looks up at you with a small frown plastered on his face, you let out a chuckle.

Extravagant, over-priced, lavish. He looks expensive, and you know that’s exactly what he’s looking for.

‘’Expensive,’’ You tease, and the frown on his lips slowly fades away. ‘’You look expensive.’’

A quick stop at your apartment to get changed, and you’re walking through the busy evening streets. Most people are just getting off work — and some are on their way to start off their weekend — much like yourself, you realize.

You don’t go looking for a new couch with Hongjoong. Instead, he texts you asking if you’re up for drinks. That looking for a new couch can wait, and you know he probably won’t get around to doing it anytime soon. It kind of fits him anyways, you think.

Thrifted for less than fifty bucks, navy blue and previously owned and loved by someone else. Almost a mirror image of Hongjoong himself, aside from only being worth fifty bucks. Kim Hongjoong is worth more than that, even though he might not know it himself.

And with the cigarette scent embroidered into the dark fabric, it fits him even better.

‘’Should I just go back to being blonde?’’

You’ve barely walked through the doors leading into the bar when he asks you the question. Kim Hongjoong, observant and constantly changing.

‘’Hello to you too,’’ You chuckle, placing your handbag on top of the table before sitting down next to him. ‘’Tired of the blue already?’’

He doesn’t even look up at you, not even when you sit down in front of him. His eyes are glued to his phone, his bottom lip placed in between his teeth. He’s looking, no, observing something, you can tell by the way his eyebrows are slightly furrowed together.

‘’Not really,’’ He lets out as you shrug your coat off your shoulders, eyes still glued to the phone in his hands. ‘’But it’s hard to maintain.’’

Your eyes travel to his hair. Once vibrant blue, now faded into more of a pastel blue, and you hum in agreement.

‘’I was thinking of going red,’’ He continues, sighing as his thumb swipes across the screen. He’s looking at hair colors, you realize. ‘’But it’s just as hard to maintain, every color is,’’

You hum once again. There’s not really much you can say, expect that you think red fits him and that he would look good. You remember when he dyed it red the first time, last year of college. It truly did fit him, but you’re not sure if that’s what he wants to hear. So you keep quiet and just listen, for now.

‘’I have this exhibition coming up, and I think red would fit the theme,’’ He mumbles, ‘’It’s this, like, whole love theme going on, you know? But I don’t know if I can commit to it, it’s a pain in the ass to get out,’’

Observant, constantly changing and can’t commit. Perhaps the top three synonyms for Kim Hongjoong.

‘’Just go blonde,’’ You let out, causing him to tear his gaze off his phone to look up at you. ‘’Or black. Actually, I think black.’’

He looks at you for a moment, still nibbling on his bottom lip before a low sigh leaves his lips. The sound of him locking his phone echoes through the booth, followed by it landing on the table in front of him.

‘’Blonde, sure, but never black,’’ He shakes his head. ‘’Too plain. And also a pain in the ass to get out when I wanna dye it next time.’’

Too plain. The words cause you to chuckle, of course it’s too plain.

‘’I’m gonna go order something, you want anything?’’ You look over at the bar, placing your hands on your thighs as you get ready to get up. Hongjoong, however, is quick to stop you. ‘’Oh, no,’’ He lets out, shaking his head once more. ‘’I already ordered, I got you a beer, if that’s okay?’’

You look back over at him, a small smile forming on your lips. Thoughtful, as always. ‘’Thank you,’’ You let out, watching as he leans back in his chair; running his hand through his hair. ‘’It’s nothing, you were running late so I figured I’d order for both of us.’’

He’s not really asking for an explanation, yet you give it to him. Mostly in an attempt to apologize for making him wait. ‘’I was over at Wooyoung’s and had to change before I came here, I’m sorry if you had to wait for long,’’ Hongjoong ignores your apology, mainly because you have nothing to apologize about. He doesn’t care that you’re late.

Instead, he raises one of his eyebrows as he rests his back against the back in his chair.

‘’Wooyoung? Is he home?’’ He asks, his eyes darting over to look at the approaching server. You both mutter out a small 'thank you' as they hand you your beer, placing it in front of you. You shake your head, wrapping your hands around the glass.

‘’No,’’ You let out, bringing the glass to your lips. ‘’He needed help picking out an outfit. He’s going to Seonghwa’s show,’’

You don’t really think before you speak. You almost miss the words that had just trailed off your lips, and it’s not until Hongjoong cocks an eyebrow at you that you realize what you had just said.

He takes a sip of his beer before placing the glass back on the table, his eyes following his own movements. ‘’And you’re not?’’

His eyes are back on you by the time the question has trailed off his lips. Despite having already taken a sip, you keep your glass to your lips for a moment longer; mainly to figure out how to respond. You bring the glass back down before shaking your head.

‘’No,’’ You mumble, ‘’Why would I?’’

Hongjoong sees right through you, something you realize when he leans back in his chair once more. You can tell he’s trying to fight back a grin from spreading across his features, shrugging his shoulders.

‘’Don’t know,’’ He replies, casually, ‘’Thought you’d might want to see him again.’’

You ponder for a minute, ponder about his statement. You ponder if his words hold any truth, even though you’ve already established that Park Seonghwa is a memory. A memory you don’t desire to revisit. At least you think, and Hongjoong’s question made you wonder if maybe a part of you did, in fact, want to see him again.

You don’t know. You don’t know how to answer his statement, because truthfully, you don’t know yourself. It was a statement, not a question — yet you still feel the need to give him an answer. Like it was a question, even though it wasn’t.

So you decide to change the topic. Not really, because it’s still the same topic, just directing it toward him instead. Steering away from what your confusing feelings are, steering away from what you want before you can give it any more thought. ‘’You still worried about him?’’

Hongjoong just chuckles in response. Probably from realizing you didn’t have an answer to his statement somehow turned question, shaking his head.

‘’Worried about Seonghwa? No, I never was,’’ He shrugs, bringing his glass up to his lips once more. Even though you don’t agree with him, mind flashing back to the alleyway by Wooyoung’s apartment complex, you remain silent. ‘’I talked to Woo the other day, about him, I mean,’’

Oh. You slightly raise your eyebrows, something Hongjoong notices.

You’re curious, curious about what they talked about — more specifically, what Wooyoung had to say. Hongjoong, however, just shakes his head upon noticing your piqued interest.

He’s not planning on telling you, you realize. Fair enough. ‘’He didn’t say much, but I don’t think he’s bad news.’’

Wrong. If Seonghwa is anything, it’s most definitely bad news. How or why, something you can’t exactly pinpoint — maybe you did get more hurt by him not even mentioning you to Wooyoung than you originally thought.

So you let it go. ‘’That’s good,’’ You mumble, taking another sip of your beer. Hongjoong is quick to change the topic, going back to talking about the upcoming art exhibition he previously mentioned he’s attending and about the piece he’s contributing with.

You’re thankful, thankful that he changes the subject before you can dive any deeper into your own thoughts — thankful that Kim Hongjoong is your best friend.

Between discussions and Hongjoong going to order two more beers, the sound of notifications coming through on your phone echoes through the booth. You plan on ignoring it, and you do, until Hongjoong eventually chuckles.

‘’You’re allowed to check your phone, you know,’’ He lets out, nodding his head towards the phone placed on the table.

You sigh in response, shaking your head. ‘’No, I know,’’ You mumble, reaching for the phone to put it on mute, ‘’But I already know who it is, and there’s no point in replying.’’

You don’t even need to check to know who it is. You already know, because it’s not the first time it has happened. As a matter of fact, it happens almost every time he goes out and you’re not with him.

Jung Wooyoung, for someone so social, he sure does like to text a lot while attending social get-togethers, you note.

Hongjoong just snorts in response, wiping his mouth using the back of his hand before putting the glass of beer down. ‘’You should probably check, it might be important.’’

It’s not important. Both you and Hongjoong know it’s not important, that he’s just texting you about something that can most definitely wait. Wait until he’s no longer busy, wait until he’s no longer attending a fashion show — wait until he’s no longer in the company of Park Seonghwa.

But you still check. Even though you know it’s not important, with a sigh leaving your lips, you unlock your phone and you check.

Come to the after party? Please?

I’ll pay for your taxi, please?

I’ll do anything.

A chuckle mixed together with a groan rips through your chest as you scan the three last texts the man had sent you. Wooyoung, as persistent as always.

Can’t, I’m with Joong. Text me when you get home, okay?

You press send and before you even have the time to check if your text even got delivered, you lock your phone. You didn’t attend the runway show, and you most definitely weren’t planning on attending the after party.

One more ping from your phone, and you’re considering turning it off completely. But you don’t, you don’t turn it off — and perhaps you should’ve.

Fine, he asked about you. Do with that as you will.

Jung Wooyoung. Jung Wooyoung, and his never-ending tactics. You almost roll your eyes at the text, just almost.

You don’t know how much of what he’s saying is true, if it’s true at all or if he’s just desperate to have you there. It doesn’t matter, though. because your heart still skips a beat. Despite you not wanting it to, it does.

Maybe Park Seonghwa is a memory worth revisiting, you think.

Fuck. He most definitely is.

Send me the address.

Watching as your thumb press send, you look up at the blue-haired man sitting across from you. By the small grin on his lips, you already know you don’t have to explain yourself. ‘’So? Was it something important?’’

He knows. ‘’I think we’re going to have to reschedule this hangout, sorry,’’ He knows, so there is no point in dancing around it, you realize. Hongjoong, though, seems completely unphased by having to reschedule.

He already knows. And perhaps he already knew by the second you mentioned Seonghwa’s show.

‘’Go on then,’’ He sighs, a grin still plastered on his lips as he shoos you away, waving his hand in the air. ‘’Don’t wanna miss the party, do you?’’

Wooyoung is incredibly bad at managing time, something you’ve known for a very long time — something you only truly realize when he’s not standing outside the venue waiting for you when you arrive. He told you he would, so you’d be able to get in.

Yet he’s not.

As you wrap your coat closer to your body in an attempt to shield off the cold autumn winds, you wonder just what could’ve taken your friend's attention this time.

Someone offering him a simple ‘hi’ was more than enough for him to indulge in conversation, you realize. A conversation that could go on for hours if you knew Wooyoung as well as you’d like to think, a conversation that could possibly make him forget about his best friend he practically forced to be there.

That’s a lie. He didn’t force you, he simply just tricked you. Tempted, maybe. Baited. A bait you took a little too easily.

If it was a mistake coming or not, something you don’t get to ponder about. Not before a pair of shoes comes into your vision, stopping right in front of your own.

And just by seeing the black, shiny dress shoes you know excatly who it is. Funny, you think. How you don’t even need to look up at the person standing before you to know who it is. His presence is all that’s needed, and you already know.

‘’Not a party girl?’’

He doesn’t need to speak for you to know just who he is, either. Yet he does. And when you look up from the ground and meet his half-lidded gaze, you almost have to stifle back a laugh.

Ironic, you think.

Park Seonghwa, just as radiant and glorious as the memory you had of him. Perhaps even more remarkable. Something you didn’t even think was possible.

But of course, it is possible. Because he’s Park Seonghwa. The star of the show — he’s always the star of the show, you realize. No matter where he is, he’s always going to be the star of the show.

‘’I’m just assuming,’’ He continues, and you realize you haven’t said anything yet. You’re too busy studying him, taking him in. ‘’Considering you’re out here, and not in there.’’

He looks different, you note. It’s his bangs, you quickly realize. They’re not spread out across his forehead like they were last time you saw him, instead they’re slicked back. He looks different, he looks different now that you can see more of his features — he looks good. Breathtaking, even.

And there’s a cigarette placed in between his thumb and middle finger. You’re not sure what takes you aback the most, how different he looks with his hair slicked back or the fact that he’s smoking.

‘’You smoke?’’ You sound surprised, which you are. You didn’t take him for the type to smoke. But then again, Park Seonghwa is a total mystery to you.

‘’Sometimes,’’ He breathes, tapping his pointer finger against the filter of the cigarette. Something you’ve seen Hongjoong do more times than you could count, something that doesn’t look nearly as attractive when Hongjoong does it — something that looks incredibly attractive when Seonghwa does it.

‘’Never in front of Woo, though.’’ He continues, eyes darting to look around as he brings it back to his lips. ‘’I hate when he goes on a whole rant about how bad it is for you and how it makes your stamina worse.’’

You don’t tell him you’ve seen Wooyoung smoke multiple times. You don’t tell him about how he’s never told Hongjoong that, either. You just hum in response, like you’re agreeing with him, even though you’re not. His eyes dart back to the cigarette, exhaling as he does. ‘’Why? You surprised?’’

His question causes you to chuckle. ‘’I don’t know, I guess so,’’ You shrug. A small smile creeps upon his lips. A satisfied smile, a playful smile. ‘’Really? You think I’m too pretty to smoke?’’

His eyes are back on you by the end of his sentence. Park Seonghwa, so full of himself. He’s not wrong, though. Still, so full of himself — not that you’re necessarily surprised.

‘’Actually,’’ He continues before you can even answer. ‘’Don’t tell me.’’ His sudden change of heart causes another chuckle to rip through your chest, a chuckle in disbelief this time.

‘’What if I was about to agree?’’ You’re testing the waters. You’re testing the waters, to see if that’s what he wants to hear or not. It’s still a chase, you remember. By the growing smile on his face, you realize it’s not what he wanted to hear.

‘’I was just sparing you the hassle,’’ He lets out, his eyes back on the cigarette. Like it would be a hassle for you to call him pretty. ‘’I already know you do.’’ Perhaps it would be a hassle to call him pretty, after all.

It’s a chase.

‘’And if I was about to disagree?’’ You continue. Careful, yet straightforward. You keep your gaze on him, waiting for his response. The chuckle that leaves his lips as he brings the cigarette back to them, however, takes you by surprise. Almost. Because his reply is what really takes you by surprise.

‘’Then you’d be lying.’’

He really does see right through you. you think. Is it really that obvious?

You thought you had played it safe by not accepting his invitation to the show. But then again, here you are — despite not accepting his invitation. Perhaps it’s not necessarily Seonghwa that can read you like an open book — perhaps it’s you that give in too easily. It probably is. You hope it is.

Because frankly, it’s scary. Scary just how easy it is for a stranger to read you. No matter how scary it is, though, you know it’s not going to change. Seonghwa decides to prove that to you, prove to you just how easy it really is for him to read you.

‘’I didn’t see you,’’ He keeps speaking. He keeps the conversation going, so you don’t have the time to defend yourself. Not that you would, because he’s right. You would be lying. ‘’At the show, I mean.’’ He clarifies, like he needs to. You already know what he’s referring to.

You hum in response. ‘’I didn’t go.’’ Simple, you try keeping it simple. ‘’No, I know you didn’t,’’ He lets out, ‘’Wooyoung told me when I asked where you were.’’

So Wooyoung wasn’t lying, you realize. He truly had asked about you, and it shocks you — despite your friend already telling you — it shocks you. Because hearing it from him both sounds and feels completely different, it feels more important. Like you’re important.

‘’I was busy,’’ You mumble.

You know you don’t really owe him an explanation, yet you give it to him. He just hums in response, almost like he doesn’t believe you, flicking the cigarette away from him. You wonder if Wooyoung told him why you weren’t there, you hope he didn’t. Judging by his reaction, however, you think he might’ve.

‘’It’s nice you could come now, though,’’ He sighs while shoving his hands down the front pockets of his coat. “It’d be even nicer if you’d make it up to me, though. For not showing up for the main event, I mean.”

I don’t do one-night stands.

You know exactly what he wants. Perhaps you already knew how the night would end the second the venue came into your view from the taxi window. Not that you’re complaining. Perhaps that’s why you came in the first place, too. Because you knew.

And because one taste of Park Seonghwa simply just wasn’t enough, you decide.

You just stare at him. It’s not an uncertain stare nor is it a surprised stare, and Seonghwa knows it isn’t. It’s a stare in agreement, that it would indeed be nice to make up for it.

“Does my apartment sound okay? I make some pretty good drinks, too,” You ask, casually. As casually as you possibly can, and to anyone else it just sounds like you’re just bringing the party back to your house.

Like you’re inviting a friend over, to continue the celebration. The celebration you never even got to be a part of. A celebration, nonetheless. He lets out a light scoff, his teeth slightly showing as he grins at you.

He really is pretty. And he should definitely wear his hair up more often, you think.

“How am I supposed to decline such an offer?” You suppose you can just text Wooyoung later.

‘’Is that a yes?’’ You can just tell him something came up.

Seonghwa chuckles, one of his hands slipping out of the warmth of his front pocket before extending his hand for you to take.

‘’You know,’’ You can definitely just text Wooyoung to let him know you won’t make it, you realize as you slip your hand into his. ‘’A Martini doesn’t sound too bad, to be honest,’’ His words cause your already existing smile to grow.

Park Seonghwa, a memory you desperately wish to revisit. A memory too easy to slip back into.

‘’A Martini it is then.’

Hey, something came up, can’t make it. I’ll text you later.

With the keys dropped and long forgotten on the floor in front of your front door, you’re not too surprised you don’t get to make him the Martini he had wished for.

You know you won’t be making any drinks tonight.

Especially not when his hands are already on you by the time you step into the elevator leading up to your floor, and by the time you do reach your floor — your hands are already tangled in his hair, too preoccupied to even consider making drinks.

He didn’t really come over for drinks, after all, and you know that.

You’re not complaining. In fact, you couldn’t care less.

You wonder, however, if you should’ve put up more of a fight. Not necessarily a fight, more resistance than a fight. Chase, it’s a chase, and in order to chase — and to be chased — you have to resist. At least for a little.

You figure not going to his show was enough of a fight, though. Especially by the way he presses his lips against yours with such urgency. Almost like he’s starving, he kisses you — deep, passionate and hungrily.

Perhaps not showing up at all would’ve caused him to kiss you even deeper, more passionately and more hungrily. Something you crave, despite his lips already moving against your own with such desperation — you crave more. More of Park Seonghwa.

Fuck the chase. You’re done with the chase, you realize. You’re already done with the chase, and you wonder if he is too — especially when he grabs onto the sides of your face and his fingers slip into your hair.

Deep, passionate and hungrily. He’s intoxicating. Exhilarating, exciting, he’s something new.

A small whine threatens to spill past your lips into the kiss when your back collides with the wall by your front door. You’re not even sure if you managed to properly shut the door, not that you care. Neither does Seonghwa.

By the time he’s pulling away to press a messy kiss onto the corner of your lips before pressing another one onto your cheek, you’re already dizzy. If it’s because of the lack of oxygen, or if it’s because of him, something you’ll never know.

Probably the latter, though, you think.

Intoxicating, and breathtaking, in every way possible.

He’s using his grip on the sides of your face to slightly tilt your head, giving himself access to your neck. You let him. You need him. With his lips ghosting over your jaw, breath fanning across your neck, he’s the first one to speak up ever since you stumbled into the elevator.

‘’Expected more of you,’’ Funny, and true, you think.

Funny, because he doesn’t know you. Funny because he shouldn’t have any expectations, not from a stranger. ‘’You gave in too easily,’’

True, because you truly did give in too easily. He expected more of a fight, he expected more of a chase.

A chase you’re done with. A chase he knowingly got into, a chase he knowingly started — a chase you no longer wish to be a part of.

His lips brush against your skin and you tilt your head even further. Begging, almost. Begging for him to press his lips against your skin. He doesn’t, and you realize he’s just continuing the chase.

You might’ve given in too easily, but not him. While you succumbed, he’s not going to. Not yet, and maybe not ever, you realize. Park Seonghwa is a smart man, you think. And an incredibly agonizing one, too.

Perhaps even torturous, and it just makes him more intriguing. ‘’Did you think I expected you to show up tonight?’’

‘’No,’’

Your answer is vague, and not especially trustworthy, either. Because a part of you did expect him to expect you to show up, a part of you hoped he did. But a part of you also realizes, only now that he’s asking, that maybe he truly never did expect you to show up.

It was just a test. A test to see if you lived up to his expectations or not. A test you succeeded in, almost. A test you succeeded in, until you did show up; and while you might’ve not showed up for what he initially invited you to, you still showed up.

Therefore, you failed.

He hums against your skin, and he finally presses a wet kiss onto your skin. A kiss that makes you even dizzier, a kiss that makes you think you might faint if he doesn’t kiss you again. ‘’I didn’t,’’ He confirms with his lips still pressed against your skin, ‘’But I can’t say I’m surprised you did,’’

You’re done with the chase.

‘’I think I adore you more for showing up, though,’’

You’re done chasing him.

‘’Just shows you truly did understand what I meant when I said I don’t do one-night stands.’’

You can’t escape him chasing you. You don’t think you want to, either.

One more wet kiss placed onto your throat, and his lips are back onto yours. He doesn’t let you speak, not that you would have if he had given you the chance to. You just hope your thoughts are conveyed through the way your teeth slightly clash together and by the way you grab onto the roots of his hair to pull him closer.

It’s raw, the way he kisses. You, someone he doesn’t know, you, someone he’s only encountered once before — and he still kisses you raw.

You wonder if he’s kissed every person like this, just like you wonder if he’s chased every person the same way he’s chasing you.

Or if you’re special.

You guess that’s the charm of Park Seonghwa. The charm of never really knowing whether or not you’re truly special, or if he treats everyone like this.

Something you’ll eventually know, you figure. You’re not sure if you want to know.

The feeling of his teeth sinking into your bottom lip snaps you out of your thoughts, and you don’t realize that your heart feels heavy upon the thought. The thought of not being special to him. You don’t let it consume you, though.

Because just like you’re not important to him, just like you’re a stranger to him — he is to you.

‘’Couch,’’ You manage to breathe out as he pulls away, just for a split second before his lips are back onto yours. He chuckles into the kiss, ‘’Couch?’’ He breathes.

You know he’s mocking you, mocking you without even saying anything. He’s mocking you for being so desperate for him that you can’t even bother to move into the bedroom.

You don’t care, though, nor do you mind. You are desperate, so you nod. ‘’Couch, now,’’ You repeat, and even though it sounds like you’re commanding him — you’re not. He knows you’re not, hence the small grin that forms on his lips before he presses one last kiss onto your lips.

A kiss that continues as you stumble towards your couch, his hands leaving the sides of your face just to drop down to your waist as he tries to guide you through your apartment. For once, you’re happy your apartment isn’t as big as Wooyoungs. Because you’re not sure if you could handle stumbling through room after room — you need him, and you need him now.

His lips don’t leave yours until your back hits the back of your couch. The loss of contact almost has you gasping for air as you sink into the cushions, and you expect him to dive down onto the couch with you, to continue the heated kiss.

He doesn’t, and he’s not going to either, you realize as he hovers above you. He hovers above you for just a moment, before he’s sinking to the floor.

His fingertips ghosting over your thighs causes your eyes to flutter shut, letting your head sink further into the fabric of your couch.

You’re glad you went home to change, you think, because you wouldn’t be able to handle another second of him not touching you. Including waiting for him to pull a pair of pants down your thighs, and despite regretting picking a dress when standing outside the venue — you’re now thankful you did.

He doesn’t say anything like you expected him to. Instead, he just trails his hands up and down your thighs before slightly separating them, enough to reveal your inner thighs but not nearly enough for him to place himself between them — placing a chaste kiss onto one of your knees.

His hands comed up to slip under the hem of your dress and you feel your breath hitch in your throat as they do. Another small peek onto your knee, this time a little further up.

‘’Once again,’’ He mumbles as his hands come up to grab onto your hips behind the fabric of your dress, ‘’Gonna need you to tell me what feels good and what doesn’t, okay?’’

You just nod. You don’t know if you can give it to him, much like last time, but you still agree. You have a feeling you won’t, though, considering that you’re already having a hard time verbally telling him ‘yes’. Barely touched, and you’re already struggling.

He doesn’t reply to your nod, and you’re not sure he even saw it — until you feel his hands running back down the sides of your legs and his fingertips grab onto the hem of your dress, slowly pulling the fabric up and away until it’s rolled up by your waist.

You’re exposed, and you certainly feel exposed. But Seonghwa is an attentive lover, something you had gathered from your last and first encounter. So when he presses yet another kiss onto your leg, this time on your inner thigh and higher up compared to the last time, you realize it’s because he’s trying to comfort you.

His hands stay by your hips, rubbing circles over the fabric as he continues pressing kisses up your legs. Your eyes are still shut, and you don’t think you could ever open them. You’re scared that if you do, you might find it even harder than you already are.

Harder to not fall into the trap of Park Seonghwa. A trap you’ve already fallen into, a trap you fear you might not be able to get out of after this.

His warm breath fanning over your clothed core causes you to let go of a breath you didn’t even know you were holding, a breath that only dares to spill past your lips when you feel his hands traveling down your legs once more and stopping at your underwear.

‘’I’m gonna take them off, yeah?’’ His words comes out soft and you just nod.

A moment passes and his fingers are now hooked under the hem of your underwear, yet they’re not moving. He wants you to tell him. ‘’Yes,’’ You manage to breathe out, and as the word leaves your lips, he’s finally pulling them down your legs.

He’s slow, taking his time while letting the fabric come down your legs. He’s enjoying the show, you think, a show you’re not enjoying. He’s taking too long, and you let out a small whine. A whine to show him he’s taking too long. A whine he responds to by pressing yet another wet kiss onto your skin.

His hands are back onto your hips by the second your underwear slips off your legs and he slots his upper body between your legs, and you realize he now has full access to you. The thought makes you dizzy, the thought of him having full access to you — something he currently has.

So dizzy that you don’t even notice when one of his hands slips down your leg, the other one still gripping onto your hip in an attempt to hold you down. He doesn’t have to, at least not yet, yet he does.

It’s not until you suddenly feel one of his fingers run down your folds and a gasp leaves your lips you realize, and as your back slightly arches off the cushions, you realize just why one of his hands remains placed on your hip.

A low hum leaves the back of his throat upon your reaction, his finger slowly coming back up after collecting the arousal that had seeped out of your entrance. You almost shudder under his touch, something he stops by once again drawing circles over your hip.

‘’You like this?’’ He asks, like it isn’t obvious. ‘’Yeah,’’ Your voice comes out shakily, and he just hums in response.

‘’Then tell me,’’ He lets out, and by the time the words has slipped past his lips, his finger has trailed down your folds once again and his tongue is on you.

The feeling has you gasping for air once more, both from pleasure and surprise, your head sinking further into the couch. You feel him slowly extending his tongue, flattening against your clit and you realize he might be even better with his tongue than he is with his hands. One mere lick, and you’re almost certain.

You want to open your eyes and look down at him when he wraps his lips around your clit, something you decide against. You want to, but you can’t — because you know that if you do, you might actually pass out. The sensation has your fingers grabbing onto the fabric of your couch in an attempt to ground yourself, to not let the pleasure of the prettiest stranger you had ever seen eat you out consume you.

He makes it hard for you, though.

He maks it hard for you not to let the pleasure consume you, especially when he swipes his tongue against your clit and he makes it even harder when you feel the finger that had previsouly ran down your folds press against your entrance.

You’re not sure if you’ll last long with both his tongue and hands on you, you realize.

His finger slips into you without warning, something that causes a moan to emerge from the back of your throat as he curls it inside of you. He hums against you, the vibrations combined with his lips wrapping around your clit once more causing your back to arch off the couch. Just slightly, his grip on your hip prevents you from completely doing so.

‘’Good,’’ You stutter out, ‘’Fuck, good,’’ You try telling him, scared that he might stop if you don’t. It seems to work, as his finger slips out of you — just to add another one as he slides them back in.

This is a deadly combo, you realize. Park Seonghwa, Park Seognhwa with his incredibly talented fingers — and lips too, something you could now officially add to the list. He pulls away ever so slightly, his fingers moving at a fairly slow pace in and out of you.

‘’Do you want to cum like this before I fuck you?’’

The words almost have you unraveling right there and then. Do you want to cum like this before he fucks you?

The question causes you to realize that he’s going to fuck you. He’s going to fuck you, something he couldn’t — and wouldn’t — give to you last time, something he’s now going to give to you.

The thought of him taking you, right there and then, on your couch — causes you to clench around his fingers as another moan spills past your lips.

‘’I,’’ You let out, ‘’Please,’’

You’re begging. Not sure as to what, exactly, but you’re begging. Incoherent, but begging nonetheless — something Seonghwa seems to understand, though, even though you don’t really understand yourself.

‘’Okay.’’ Is all he says, and his lips are back on you and his fingers plunge even deeper inside of you, curling them.

It’s short-lived, not that you expected anything less, and neither did Seonghwa.

A few more minutes and your walls are clasping around his fingers, clit throbbing against his tongue as you unravel; your fingers digging even deeper into the fabric of your couch as moans spill past your lips. And just like the last time you came undone around his fingers, he rides your orgasm out by slowly pumping his fingers into you despite his lips leaving you.

You wonder if he pulled away to watch as you came. You don’t know if he did or not, your eyes still squeezed shut by the time you come — but you’d like to think he did.

You’re almost gasping for air by the time his fingers slip out of you, and you finally dare to let your eyes flutter back open. When your eyes land on him, however, you wish you had kept them shut.

His hair isn’t neatly slicked back anymore, gelled pieces falling across his forehead and his lips glistening under the dim city lights coming from outside. He just looks back at you as he brings his fingers to his mouth, the fingers that had just moments prior been inside of you, placing them flat against his tongue before wrapping his lips around them.

He hums at the taste, and his action causes you to slightly part your lips. In surprise, and in arousal. Something that despite just coming undone, causes a new wave of arousal to wash over you — and you no longer want to wait.

You want, no, need him. Now. You’ve needed him for a long time. A week, to be precise.

So you reach forward, grabbing onto the collar of his shirt before smashing your lips against his own. You can taste yourself on his lips, not that you care. if anything, it only makes you want to kiss him even more — your tongue slipping past his lips to deepen the kiss.

You feel, and probably look, desperate. Something Seonghwa confirms as he chuckles into the kiss, his hands grabbing onto the couch as you pull him towards you in an attempt not to crush you. ‘’That desperate?’’

You don’t respond. Instead, you smash your lips against his once more, your teeth clashing together as you do. One of your hands leaves his collar, letting it travel down his body before reaching the belt decorating his hips; frantically pulling at it in an attempt to get it off.

You don’t care. You don’t care how desperate you might seem, because frankly, you are. And Seonghwa is the only one to blame, you figure.

One of his hands suddenly grabs onto your own, stopping you from fiddling with his belt. He pulls away from the kiss, much to your dismay, placing his forehead against your own. ‘’Condom?’’

Fuck. A condom, something you hadn’t even thought of nor something you had. You part your lips, shaking your head. ‘’I don’t think I have any,’’ You breathe. He just stares at you for a moment, his eyes flickering up and down your face. Like he was trying to tell if you’re lying to him or not.

‘’Okay,’’ He breathes after a moment, ‘’You want me to fuck you raw?’’

Dirty. It sounds dirty when he says it, obscene even. Because it is, and you want it to be. So you nod. You do want him to fuck you raw. ‘’You’re all clean?’’ He asks, and you despite the current situation, you chuckle. A question you hadn’t even stopped to consider asking.

‘’Oh,’’

‘’Yeah, I am,’’ You nod. ‘’Are you?’’

He replies with a breathy chuckle of his own, leaning down to press a kiss onto the corner of your lips. ‘’I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.’’

His words cause a breathy moan to leave your lips, he wouldn’t offer if he wasn’t. Something that sounds so filthy, yet so tempting. Something that you need.

His lips are back onto yours almost immediately and your hands find their way back to his hair, letting your fingers slip into it. You both hear and feel him fiddling with the buckle of his belt, and for a second you think he sounds just as desperate as you.

His movements are quick and hurried, and it doesn’t take long for the sound of the belt hitting the floor to echo through the room.

He momentarily breaks the kiss to pull his dress pants down his legs, and you take the opportunity to look at him. Looks at what’s to come, rather said.

Despite you never turning the lights on while stumbling through the front door, you can still see the outline of his cock, buried behind the fabric of his underwear as he manages to pull his pants down. He’s hard, and girthy by the looks of it — something that causes you to clench around nothing.

He leans down to kiss you once more, a kiss you gladly reciprocate by slipping your tongue back into his mouth. He’s still fiddling with his underwear and you almost pull away so you can watch, but you don’t. You don’t think he’d let you, judging by how he’s kissing you.

Deep, passionate and hungrily. Like he’s the one who’s scared you’ll slip away, not the opposite.

The feeling of him rubbing his tip against your clit causes you to gasp into the kiss. Both from surprise and slight overstimulation, still coming down from your previous orgasm. Nothing that seems to stop him, nonetheless, as he runs his tip up and down your slit; a low hiss leaving his lips as he pulls away from the kiss.

‘’Remember, talk to me,’’ He runs his tip up your slit once more as he speaks, ‘’Tell me, speak to me, okay?’’

He runs his tip back down, this time stopping by your entrance. An answer, one simple ‘yes’ is all that’s needed for him to fuck you, you realize. So you give it to him, because you don’t think you can wait another second.

‘’Yes,’’ You breathe, and he slowly rolls his hips forward.

He slowly sinks into you, something you had been waiting for ever since he mentioned he’d fuck you — something you knew you needed, something you’re only now realizing you won’t be able to live without. Not now that you’ve finally gotten it.

You’re thankful he made you come before he fucked you, you realize. The stretch isn’t as bad, you think, as bad as it would’ve been if he didn’t. A gasp mixed together with a moan rips through your chest as he bottoms out, a low hiss leaving his lips before dipping his head into the crook of your neck.

You grab onto his shoulders, and he stays still for a moment. You’re glad he does as your walls clench around him, tightly squeezing him as you try to get used to him being inside of you. He presses a soft kiss onto your shoulder, so soft you almost don’t even feel it. ‘’You okay?’’ He mumbles against your skin.

You begin to nod, until you realize you have to tell him. ‘’Yeah,’’ You breathe, still nodding your head as you speak. he presses another kiss onto your shoulder, and another one onto your neck. ‘’Can I move?’’

Funny question, you think. Like you haven’t been desperate for him to fuck you for a while now, like him moving isn’t the only thing you want right now. ‘’Yes, please,’’

He begins to pull out, slowly, before burying himself inside of you once again. He hums against your skin, one of his hands coming down from the side of the couch to cup the side of your face instead. As your eyes meet his, a breathy moan leaves your lips.

With him inside of you, in such an intimate moment — he looks even prettier, you note.

There’s a slight glow to his skin, a glow you can see thanks to the city lights making their way through your windows. His hair isn’t as neat as it was the first time you saw him, nor is it styled the way it was when you arrived at your apartment.

It’s messy. Previously gelled back pieces now hanging in front of his forehead, his lips puffy and slightly bruised. He looks more breathtaking than ever, you realize. Like this, messy and raw, he looks the prettiest, you conclude.

You hope you get to see him like this again. You truly do.

His thumb comes down to your cheek, lightly stroking it. ‘’I don’t think I got to tell you last time,’’ He murmurs. ‘’You’re pretty.’’

You’re never escaping the trap of Park Seonghwa. Something the warmth that spreads across your chest tells you, and for Seonghwa, it’s the way you clench around him that gives it away. ‘’Fuck me, please.’’

You don’t need to ask twice. A small smile forms on his lips, and as his thumb comes to stroke your cheek once more — the warmth spreads even further.

It feels intimate, almost too intimate. Too intimate for two strangers. Too good to be true. Too good to be just a one-night stand.

I don’t do one-night stands.

It doesn’t take long for him to find just the perfect pace, a pace that has you moaning and low grunts emerging from the back of his throat. His hand stays on the side of your face, thumb occasionally stroking your cheeks as he fucks into you — your hand finding its way to his, grabbing onto his wrist for support.

‘’Pretty,’’ He mumbles into your ear, lips pressing onto the skin just below your ear, ‘’But fucking dirty,’’

And just like that, it’s no longer intimate. It’s back to being raw, and it’s dirty.

A moan leaves your throat as he thrusts into you. It’s harder this time, you note. Both harder and slightly rougher. And so is the grip on your face, his thumb pressing down on your cheek.

‘’Is that what you like?’’ He breathes into your ear, his voice hot and it feels almost heavy against your skin.

He continues thrusting into you, slow but hard strokes. It’s definitely not intimate anymore. You almost choke on your own words as he plunges back into you, nodding your head. ‘’Yeah? You do?’’ He continues. He wants you to speak.

‘’Yes,’’ Is all you manage to get out as his tip brushes against your g-spot. ‘’I figured,’’ He mumbles against your skin. You expect him to press a kiss onto your skin, he doesn’t. Instead, a gasp leaves your lips as you feel him nibble on your skin.

‘’Letting me fuck you on the couch,’’ The more he speaks, the faster you’re approaching your second orgasm. You kind of saw it coming, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re disappointed, though. ‘’Letting me fuck you raw.’’

You’re not ready for it, nor did you really see it coming, yet it happened. With a choked moan, you unravel around him — your grip on his wrist tightening as you do. To ground yourself, at least an attempt to. An attempt that doesn’t really work as you squeeze your eyes shut, letting the orgasm wash over you.

He fucks you through your orgasm, sweet nothings trailing off his lips as he chases his own orgasm. It doesn’t take long, a few moments later and he’s pulling out, hand coming down to jerk himself off until his release coats your lower stomach.

You watch as he does, taking in how he looks as his own orgasm washes over him. The way his eyebrows slightly furrow together, the way his lower stomach tightens and relaxes. The way his hair moves as he bends down, catching himself using one of his hands.

Park Seonghwa might be perfect. You might just be coming down from your orgasm, or he really is perfect.

Silence. The room falls silent, both of your pants are the only thing being heard — accompanied by the cars driving outside the windows. You want to keep it that way, you think. Silent. You want to keep it silent.

You don’t want this moment to end.

‘’Are you okay?’’ He’s the first one to speak up. He looks up at you through lidded eyes, scanning your face. He’s looking for signs that you wouldn’t be okay, you realize. A small smile forms on your lips, a smile to assure him. You are okay. You’re more than okay.

He really is an attentive lover, and a passionate one. He just nods in response. You don’t know if that’s the type of response you want, but you settle. It’s better than nothing, after all.

You stay in the same positions, spread out across the couch with your legs hanging off, as you watch him get dressed. The silence remains, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence. You think. It doesn’t feel like one, at least not to you. You’re not too sure about Seonghwa, though.

You’re just about to get up, when he suddenly breaks the silence once again.

‘’Let’s get to know each other.’’

You just stare at him. Confused, but mostly taken aback. It is a weird thing for someone to say after fucking them, you think, but he’s not wrong, either. He might’ve fucked you, but he doesn’t know you. Neither do you. You don’t know him.

You'd like to, though. You'd love to.

‘’Okay,’’ You breathe, nodding your head. He just looks at you for a moment, almost like he’s reconsidering the words that had just left his lips. And the look almost causes worry to spread across your chest, until a small smile forms on his lips. A smile you can’t help but mirror.

‘’Let me take you out for coffee tomorrow, yeah?’’

The chase is over, you think. ‘’Yeah, sure,’’ You try not to let your smile grow. ‘’And maybe dinner, too.’’ He continues, and you can’t fight back your smile anymore. ‘’Why not breakfast as well?’’ You notice the way his smile grows, as well. ‘’Only if I can spend the night.’’

And just who are you to say no?

#— ☆ seonghwa.#ateez smut #seonghwa smut #seonghwa hard hours #park seonghwa smut #park seonghwa hard thoughts #seonghwa hard thoughts #park seonghwa hard hours #park seonghwa #ateez hard hours #ateez hard thoughts #seonghwa x reader

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brokenjere · 7 months

Text

bad in the bones (ch.10) (c.f)

a/n:

“We have to get back,” Conrad says. My dress is still soaking wet, dripping onto the cement underneath me. Conrad’s hair drips water onto my forehead and I wipe it away with the back of my head.

“Do we?” He gives me a lazy smile and extends his hand to me. “They’re going to kill us.”

“And who’s fault is that?” He tilts his head to the side and I push my wet hair out of face. His hand finds my cheek and he presses his lips against mine softly. “I’m sure there are spare clothes somewhere around here,” he says. He leads me inside of the country club and instead of going down the hall, we take the stairs up to the second floor. “I think there’s a closet somewhere in here.” He pokes around the rooms, opening and shutting door when he doesn’t find what he wants.

“We’re leaving a trail,” I laugh, looking behind us at the water drenching the carpet.

“Hold your dress up higher,” he remarks. I do what I’m told but huff at him which makes him chuckle. “Here.” He opens the door to a dressing room. In the corner there are clothes hanging up on a rack with a row of vanities in the middle. “I think this is where the girls all got ready,” he tells me. I walk toward the row of dresses hanging up. They’re not all white, but most of them are which feels tacky to wear. Like wearing white at a wedding. “What are you going to wear?” I ask as he opens a wardrobe on the other side of the room.

“The boys dressing room is a few doors down. I’ll go find something.” He pulls out a purple dress from the wardrobe and holds it out as if he’s trying to picture me in it. “Put this on. I’ll be right back.” He drapes the dress over one of the vanity chairs and then disappears out of the room. I strip out of my wet dress, leaving it in a pile on the floor and slip on the purple one. It’s silky and hugs my curves exactly where they need to be hugged. It’s a perfect fit. I brush out my hair with my fingers and fix my makeup with whatever I can find on the vanity but nothing I do is going to make me look like I didn’t just jump in the pool, but it’s better than nothing.

I wander down the hallway until I find the only door that’s cracked open. I peek inside, trying not to make a noise. Conrad is standing in front of a wardrobe similar to the one he pulled my dress out of trying to untie his tie from around his neck. “Need some help?” I ask quietly. He smiles when he sees me and nods his head. He’s still wearing his wet suit, the fabric damp under my fingertips as I undo the knot.

“That dress looks beautiful on you,” he whispers. I drop the tie to our feet and work the jacket off of his shoulders.

“Thank you,” I whisper back without looking up at him. The jacket drops to the ground and I start undoing the buttons of his shirt. “We gotta get you out of these wet clothes, huh?” I can feel his heart beating faster under my hands and he nods slowly. He dips his head so our noses touch and then we’re kissing again. My fingers stop working out the buttons and instead they’re gripping his shirt and pulling him closer to me. His hands grip my hips and we stumble backward until we hit one of the vanities, the edge of it ramming into my lower back but I don’t feel it.

Conrad lifts me up and sets me down on the vanity, his tongue sliding into my mouth. I open my mouth and let him in, his tongue taking over my own. His hands slid up my thigh and under my dress, his fingertips pressing into my skin. I don’t bother trying to undo the buttons of his shirt anymore, I just rip it open and off his body, desperate to feel his skin on mine.

Conrad pulls away from me, leaving me cold and empty. A moan escapes my lips at his absence and she smiles, tracing his thumb along my swollen bottom lip. “I don’t have anything,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

I shake my head. “We should get back anyway, huh?” I ask. I think he can feel the disappointment in my voice because he kisses me once again, this time soft and sweet, and nods. “Then let’s get you changed.”

Our table is empty when we return. I stop just clear of the door and when it slams shut behind us, I feel the entire room looking at us. But they’re not really. They’re looking at our people - Belly, Jeremiah, Susannah, and Laurel. They’re all huddled in a group. Jeremiah and Belly’s backs are to us. Susannah looks like she’s crying. While my feet stay put, Conrad’s move him as fast as possible to his mom.

I can’t hear anything over the music but I can tell they’re all angry. Or sad. Conrad’s face is all scrunched up and he’s holding his hands out to his brother as if he needs to steady him but Jeremiah’s shoulders are tense. Belly’s shoulders slouch and Jeremiah yells, “you knew! You knew and you didn’t tell me!”

“Jeremiah,” Conrad says more like a warning than anything. Jeremiah’s hands are on Conrad before Conrad finishes speaking and they’re tumbling around, a mess of flailing limps. Susannah is crying and begging her boys to stop and I snap back. I was hoping I was imagining it all but the cries are real and the fists hitting faces are real.

“What is going on?” I ask Belly when I reach her side. I raise my voice above Laurel crying for the boys to stop. Jeremiah is on the ground with Conrad on top of him, trying to pin him down. Belly doesn’t speak. Her lower lip quivers and she looks like she’s going to cry but can’t do anything to stop it. I’m about to put my arm around her but then Jeremiah gets a punch in and now Conrad is on the ground and instead of my arms going to Belly, they’re reaching for Conrad.

Susannah grabs Jeremiah by his shoulders and he softens at her touch but when I grab Conrad, he jerks away from me. Our eyes meet and I can see him soften, just a little bit, but then his face goes stoic. “My mom is sick,” he says. “Her cancer is back and I knew this whole time.” I open my mouth to speak but he doesn’t let me. “Jeremiah just found out. While we were out there, in the pool making out, he found out.” He shoves a finger toward in the direction of the pool.

“I didn’t know,” I mumble, shaking my head. I reach for him instictively and he takes a step back, shaking his head at me.

“Of course you didn’t know. No one knew and he shouldn’t have had to find out like this. I should have never left with you. This was a mistake from the beginning, you even said it yourself.” I think my heart bursts inside of my chest. Cracks, actually. My heart explodes. Disintergrates. Completely combusts.

“You don’t mean that,” I whisper. I’m suddenly very, very aware of all the eyes on us. Belly’s eyes on us.

“I do.” He gives me a curt nod and then turns around and walks away.

I feel like the walls are moving further and further away from me and I’m left, all alone, in the middle of the dance floor. I feel like I did when we were in the boat, paddling through the water except I’m paddling alone and going in circles.

“You and Conrad?” It’s Belly that speaks to me first. At least, she’s the only voice I can hear. “You and fucking Conrad?” She repeats harder this time, spitting at me as she speak. I don’t want to look at her, but I do. I look at the tears in her eyes, the red flush on her cheeks, and her shaking hands.

“Belly,” I breathe. “Belly let me explain.” I start to beg her. I’m practically going to my knees but she throws her hands up and storms away.

I sat outside of Belly’s door all night. At first, I was knocking and begging for her to open it and let me talk. I begged her to listen to me. I could hear her shuffling for hours but eventually, it all went quiet and I was sure she fell asleep, but I kept whispering to her. Hoping that she would open the door. Eventually, she did. She opened the door so fast I fell backward, barely catching myself with my hands. “You’re still out here?”

“I didn’t think you’d open the door,” I told her honestly. She shrugged and opened the door further, silently inviting me in. I scrambled to my feet and went into her room and she shut the door behind me. “Thank you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She asked before I could finish my sentence. She crossed her arms over her chest, closing herself off to me almost completely.

“How could I?”

“You’re my cousin. My best friend,” she pleaded, dropping her arms at her side.

I stepped toward her but she stepped away so I stopped. “You could have told me.”

“You would have been upset. I didn’t want to upset you. I know how you feel about him.” I tried to quiet my voice to a whisper but Belly didn’t want to be quiet. Her voice was harsh and stern.

“I’m upset anyway. Were you ever going to tell me? Or just be with him behind my back until we went home? And then what? You’re my family but so is he.” I knew what she was insinuating. That I would leave him after summer was over and never tell her. “You should have told me.”

“You’re right.” I threw up my hands. “You’re right, I should have told you but I fell in love with him, okay? And I panicked. If I had told you and you told me not to be with him, I wouldn’t be with him and that thought alone scared me more than anything.” Belly’s face softened for a moment and I felt the breath I was holding in release itself. “I’m sorry.”

“You would have stopped if I asked you to?” She asked and I nodded. She sighed and walked over to me, plopping herself down on the bed next to me. I hesitated, but sat down too.

“Belly, you’re my family. I can’t help that we fell in love but I should have told you.” She nodded and then put her arm around me and it was over. Just like that. No yelling, no screaming. She was just my Belly again.

“I would never have told you to stop seeing him,” she whispered.

“Well, I’m pretty sure we’re over anyway,” I told her. I just kept picturing his face in my mind. The way he glared at me before leaving me all alone. “I doubt he wants anything to do with me. Besides, that’s the least of his worries right now. Me and him.”

I could see the way her face fell. I put my head on her shoulder and she put her head on mine and we sat there in silence for a long time before eventually, we fell asleep in her bed.

The sunrise woke me up the next morning. Belly was still fast asleep next to me so I slid out of her room quietly and walked down to the beach. The path to the beach is quiet and it’s not yet scorching hot out. When I reach the sand, I take my shoes off and that’s when I see him. He’s sitting in the sand leaning back on his hands and watching the waves crash. I almost turn around. I think I should turn around. But I don’t.

“Fancy meeting you out here,” I tease quietly, hoping not to startle him. He barely flinches. I stand behind him and wait for him to acknowledge me before inviting myself to join him. He waits so long to say anything I almost leave.

“You stalking me or something?” I think I feel a weight leave my shoulders when he talks. His voice no longer screams in my head in anger. “You can sit down.”

“I wasn’t sure.” I hesitate still but sit down next to him. “I don’t know what to say,” I admit. I want to put my hand on his shoulder. I want to look him in the eyes and see the same thing that I saw just yesterday at the pool but all I can do is sit as still as a statue and watch the water.

“I should apologize.”

Conrad stays quiet. I feel him breathing next to me. I know he’s thinking about what to say because his eyebrows are knitted together and he’s chewing the inside of his mouth. “I’m sorry I distracted you this weekend. I’m sorry that this was your last summer here with your family and I ruined it.” I rush out all my words before I can regret them. “I hope that you don’t regret us but we can forget this ever happened.” I stand up, shake the sand off my clothes and start to turn away.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” His words shoot through me like knives. “Forget this ever happened? I love you. I can’t forget that.” I don’t turn around because I can’t look at him. I think I might break if I do. He loves me. “You didn’t ruin this summer. You made it bearable. It’s not your fault I didn’t tell Jeremiah. Please look at me,” he begs.

“I can’t look at you because if I look at you then I’m never going to leave and I have to leave,” I tell him. Laying in Belly’s bed, I made the choice to go home. It’s already set in stone in my mind and I know that if I look at him, I’m going to change my mind. “We shouldn’t be together, Con.”

“Stay as my friend,” he rushes out. “I need you.”

“I can’t just be your friend.” His hand wraps around my wrist and he spins me

around so I have to look at him. I swear there are tears in his eyes that he’s blinking away. “I can’t be your friend,” I repeat. His eyes dance from my eyes to my lips and I know he doesn’t want to be just friends.

“Why can’t we be together?”

“The same reasons that we should never have gotten together in the first place. Belly and your mom and all this shit you’re dealing with that you’re not focused on because of me.” Conrad rolls his eyes and cups my face with his hands and I can’t help but lean into him, at least just a little bit.

“I need you,” he tells me again. “Please don’t go.”

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#conrad fisher #tsitp imagine #conrad fisher imagine #conrad fisher x reader #jeremiah fisher fan fic #the summer i turned pretty #jeremiah fisher #belly conklin #tsitp #jenny han

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bodybeyondstories · 3 months

Text

Just ignore it - 4

Lee and Armand try to get a handle on David's powers of suggestion before being interrupted by the delivery of yet another weird artifact. David goes for a bike ride to clear his head, only to end up complicating things further by causing some unexpected changes with some unexpected results.

1 | 2 | 3 (Previous) | 5 (Next)

MaleTF // Ass growth // Dick growth // Suggestion // nsfw

---

“You transformed Jamal? The new barista upstairs?” asked Lee.

“Isn’t that a bit much?” added Armand, arms crossed over his chest. “He’s already like nine feet tall or something.”

“Well yeah, he is now,” I said, exasperated by the disappointed parents routine I was getting back in the cleanroom. “But he wasn’t an hour ago. Or he was, in a different…timeline or whatever. Which is now this timeline. Or I was in a different timeline. Or the universe just sort of shifted or something, I don’t know.”

Jamal, to the best of anyone’s knowledge, was a possibly genetic, possibly magical anomaly who really did top out at just over nine feet. Why he insisted on keeping his barista job was even more of a mystery, but he was obviously a local attraction wherever he went, leading the coffee chain that managed multiple shops in town to rotate him around location to location, a boon to underperforming and under-trafficked franchises like the one in our building. The line was out the door whenever he was working, with people wanting a selfie, wanting to see him bumble behind the counter with surprising grace in spite of hands that made the espresso machine look like a toy, or just wanting a glimpse at the pipe running down his khakis that was conveniently around eye level and impossible to miss. If you were lucky, he liked you, and the timing was right, you could get an up close and personal experience. I was proud to say I was one of the lucky few ‘regulars,’ and in my recent metaphysically horny state, he had hit just the spot in one of the backrooms. Though it still, somehow, didn’t quite measure up to what Lee could throw down.

But now I was back in the evil snowglobe, feeling like I was facing punishment from sharing what I thought would be exciting new data.

“So, you just talked, and Synt followed suit?” asked Armand, jotting hurriedly into a notepad.

“Sort of? There was kind of a crescendo, maybe. Like Synt found a conduit through my vocal chords and we had to get into the groove. But I don’t think it’s automatic, like I couldn’t just say Armand grew–”

“Whoa whoa whoa, let’s slow down,” Armand cut in, hands splayed in caution. “Before you put a whammy on me, too.”

“I mean,” I gestured to his overstuffed crotch, “I kind of already did.”

“Oh! Oh wow,” Lee cut in, rubbing his chin as Armand stood speechless and gaped at his prodigious bulge. “But from your perspective, Armand, from both of our perspectives, it’s…”

“Always been that way,” Armand finished, cheeks reddening. “Or at least my entire adult life. It would make sense. I’ve never had a medical professional successfully explain my…condition. I just sort of got used to it, I guess. Or I was always used to it.”

“Exactly!” I exclaimed, clapping my hands. “So we’re getting it now. It’s all about multiplicities of temporal perspectives. We’re all just cosmic threads weavin’ around each other.” I tried to visualize this with a rushed jumble of hand motions, which unfortunately didn’t land with the other two. “But I could probably fix it. I think. Maybe. I don’t think Synt would be on board for a reduction of any sort, so we may have to strategize.”

“No, there’s nothing to fix. I mean, it’s a lot to deal with, but I really am cool with it. My dating life is a mess anyways, and once you get known as that guy with the sixteen inch dick, the luster kind of wears off. I don’t really know what it's like being…normal.”

“The methods are messy to say the least,” said Lee, “but we may be starting to get somewhere. As much as we would love to keep investigating, further tests might have to wait. The park ranger guys are sending over some artifact they found and I think they’re due any minute.”

As if on cue, a nervous tap on the door reminded the three of us that as much as we would like to play around with my shiny new body morphing, reality shifting chaos magic we all had other work to do. I was getting up to take the back exit and head upstairs when I felt a tug in the direction of our visitor. My attention was pulled by some strong magnetic force toward the door as whoever was trying to enter awkwardly began pushing it open. Unconsciously, my foot steps shifted direction as the attraction felt stronger and deeper. And oddly familiar. Eventually, I recognized this feeling as Synt having their interest piqued enough to guide me to physically move in that direction. I was not a fan of this new development in our dynamic, but decided to see where it led.

“You need some help?” I offered, trying to play it off as me moving to give them a hand with the door rather than me being compelled for yet another mysterious reason.

“Nah, I’m good,” came a familiar voice, and as the door fully opened, I recognized Blake’s ass as it entered the room before the rest of him. “It’s just hard to maneuver this thing.”

It took me a second to realize he didn’t mean the globes of his ridiculous bubble butt, becoming the undeniable center of attention as he backed through the doorway, but actually the cart he was pulling with him. As the door swung back and he casually bounced it away with one hip, I couldn’t stop staring. I thought at this point I would be used to comically ballooning backsides, his most of all, but it looked even bigger than it had last night. In fact, as he entered the room the rest of him looked bigger too. If the seams of his pants and shirt sleeves had been strained beyond all reason last night, then now he was one strong sneeze away from public nudity. I thought maybe it was just the change of scenery, like how fitness influencers will take advantage of good lighting to show off a juicy pump, but I was pretty sure he was…bigger. Lee and I exchanged glances as if to wordlessly reassure each other that we weren’t just imagining that Blake was noticeably taller than he had been last night. The subtle accusatory squint of his eyelids was returned by a sharp look of denial from me. This wasn’t me, I thought. Unless, possibly it was. Maybe the growth last night had a slow release function, or some sort of chain reaction.

I mentally relayed Lee’s suspicious squint to Synt, who responded with a deep rumble of appreciation. They had a fixation on Blake, I now realized, and those two teaming up could be a disastrous combination.

“You want this in the uh, special circle?” Blake gestured to the circumference of sigils which were now glowing with an even higher brightness and frequency. That can’t be good, I thought.

“Yeah, that’s fine until we figure out what to do with it,” said Armand. “What is it, by the way? The report they sent in was kind of muddled. But then again, so is everything from the Marshlands.”

That place again. I was transported back to some spot on the map that I couldn’t identify, felt pushed out of space and time. Threads weaving, fraying, overlapping, forming fractal patterns down to quantum scales, building higher dimensional frameworks of cross-temporal superpositions, all coming together right there–

“...so we couldn’t really even tell how old it is, which is where we hoped you guys would come in,” Blake was saying. “Palmer, you got any tips?”

I snapped back to reality at the mention of my name. I had spaced out again, unclear for how long.

“I, uh, need to get back to my office,” I said. “I can look into it once I have the preliminary analysis from Lee and Armand.”

“You sure?” Blake asked, in that way that wasn’t so much a question but an unspoken invitation. I found my shoulders relaxing and my mind wandering. His easy smile was so intoxicating, but there was also a glint in his eyes. A hunger, as he seemed to casually look me up and down, almost as if he was seeing through me. Synt was laser focused on Blake, a low pressure system of gathering power causing the sigils to change color, which I didn’t even know they could do. He clapped a strong hand against my bicep (when had he gotten that close) and said, “Anyways, always good running into you. Let me know what you find.”

Again, I felt that electric thrill run from his body into mine, except it was more like neurons firing. I had more clarity than last night and I could feel a complex undercurrent beneath that hunger, a need for something more, a vision of something bigger. The dam was once again threatening to burst, but I now had solid control over my own legs and began briskly heading to the door with a terse “Yep, I’ll keep you posted.”

I practically sprinted back up to my office, terrified of accidentally touching anyone for fear of producing another ten foot freakshow in the building for the second time that morning. My mind was a whirlwind of my own ever present horniness, mixed with Synt’s unrelenting power, and their clear frustration at being taken away from their favorite willing subject. Blake was becoming their muse, in some weird way, and we both needed a pressure valve. But underneath Synt’s frustration was something else. My own itch of power and possibility and the knowledge that I could so easily scratch it.

I tried to be productive at my desk that morning. My muscles would clench periodically as I held in waves of Synt’s magic, my body and mind fatiguing in the face of an unstoppable force. Taunting me, Synt would dangle images of possibilities so close within reach. How easy it would be for Blake to expand into a wall of juicy muscle, having to turn his body to get his shoulders through the doorway but having his bubble butt get stuck anyways. Armand was already cool with having a monster cock, maybe he’d appreciate an even twenty inches. That’d look amazing. And would it hurt to give Jamal a few more inches in height? Maybe even a foot? I imagined him walking into my office growing steadily taller, head bumping against the ceiling then punching through as plaster rained down–

I slammed my palms firmly on the table and stared for as long as possible at a wall of unread emails, comprehending not a single one.

“I need to get some air.”

—

I took the stairs and headed to the bike rack around the back of the building. Walking around aimlessly felt too risky in the state I was in. Too much proximity, too many opportunities for accidental direct contact. I had felt like I could see into Blake’s soul when he grabbed my arm, like I could’ve granted his wildest, horniest fantasies with a thought. I shivered at the knowledge that Synt would co-sign exactly this brand of recklessness. I felt like I was burning with static. I could practically see it dancing along my skin. I was in no condition to be milling about in a crowd until I got around to relieving even a fraction of this pressure.

“David!” hailed a voice nearby as I was squeezing on my helmet. I looked over to see Noah, my former student who had been blessed (or cursed) by Synt in more ways than one. Not only did he end up with a set of hips and ass cheeks that comically ballooned from his otherwise thin frame, but had also fallen into a pattern of stumbling into bigger and bigger dicks around town. I reasoned that the man with him was likely his latest beau, due not just to the hand wrapped around Noah’s tight waist, but the snake smuggled into his right pant leg. The spell, apparently, had not yet been broken.

“Noah!” I responded, “looks like you’re doing as well as possible after this last semester.”

“That’s one way to put it,” he said, rolling his eyes. “This reminds me, I need to chat with you again about that…positive feedback loop I’ve been dealing with.”

“I can imagine,” I winked, pretending not to notice the twitch of his acquaintance’s massive bulge as he shifted his hand down to rest on Noah’s round booty. Was Noah just magically happening on these already huge dicks or was he unknowingly bending reality every time he set his eyes on a new crush? Was there an upper limit? To any of this? Much to investigate, I thought, but resolved to cut the conversation short before my imagination once again got the best of me. “Shoot me an email, I’ve got plenty of time this week,” I said, speeding off away from campus.

I hadn’t had time to change into my cycling gear, not that those lycra shorts did anything to mitigate the size of my ass. I had made peace with the fact that my bodacious buns were simply always on display, in this instance encased in a skirt and tights, the bike seat completely disappearing beneath them. There wasn’t much I could do about it, and honestly, I liked the attention.

I felt free weaving through the city streets, regardless of the fact that I was fighting for my life against late morning traffic. It was a welcome respite from the stifling air of my office, the wind cooling me down and alleviating at least some of the magical irritation covering my entire body. I didn’t know where I was going, and didn’t really care. Plus, I was moving too fast to focus on any one person for long enough to give them an impromptu BBL. Instead, the cityscape just felt like waves of passing static, tiny glimpses of people’s fantasies and desires that were gone as soon as they were detected, with the occasional ping of attention from a pair of eyes that had locked on to my bubble butt as it cruised through their field of vision.

For the length of a few city blocks, one of these pings of focus didn’t seem to leave me, and as I came up at a stoplight I turned around to see another cyclist flashing me an awkward and quickly thrown together smile of greeting, as if to insist that he hadn’t just been ogling me up and down.

“Can’t blame ya,” I said with a smile and nod, plus a wink for good measure. He was cute. He looked like he was a bike messenger by the rectangular pack balanced behind his shoulders, the well developed forearms and quads, and a look of practiced exertion that said he wasn’t just out here for the endorphins. I was sure he was perpetually in a hurry, so I figured I should literally get out of his lane while on my metaphysically horny break from work.

I meandered right as he continued straight, letting my eyes linger on his meaty calves just long enough to almost crash headlong into a sporty coupe in a mediocre attempt at parallel parking. I swerved out of the way as he honked and yelled “Dick!” just loud enough for me to hear through the half rolled down driver's side window.

What I said in response was not my wittiest comeback or even the most well thought out public interaction, but I had to offer a counter while still within earshot. But as I yelled “Super dick!” back at the finance bro emerging from his car, I immediately regretted the decision, feeling Synt’s power slip through the ether.

“You know I didn’t mean that!” I said aloud to the otherworldly being in my head. “You don’t understand epithets? Metaphors and what not?”

They sent the impression of a lazy shrug.

“What does super dick even mean? Like what did that do?”

Another shrug.

I was worried. What did I just accidently curse this guy with? Should I go investigate? What would that even mean? I thought maybe I could fix whatever it was. Use some string of words to undo whatever it is I just did.

I circled the block, parking my bike in front of the fancy building my unsuspecting victim had presumably been about to enter. It looked like it probably had moderate security and I had no plan of entry, and was definitely not dressed like I had any important business downtown. Entering through the big glass revolving doors, I locked eyes with the security desk, trying to look as casual as possible on my approach while they gave me a bored once over. In my performance of nonchalance, I glanced to the left and breathed a sigh of relief as I spotted my mark at the register of a lunch place on the bottom floor. With a curt smile to security, I changed direction, slipping into the line of the sandwich shop.

In the bustle of the lunch rush, I spotted him sitting on a stool at the bar along the window, drinking a green smoothie, scrolling on his phone, and pulling out a small laptop. I kept my eyes on him as the line progressed, looking for anything out of the ordinary, but he was the image of business class normalcy, perched on his stool in a designer suit and tapping away at some spreadsheet.

I picked up my sparkling green tea and bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich (I actually was hungry) and found that one of the few available seats left was, luckily, right next to him.

Incredibly, he seemed to be unaware that I was the person who had almost taken off his side mirror with my right hip, studiously ignoring me as I ate my sandwich and glanced at my phone to see multiple texts from Lee. I opened the latest one but was interrupted by a grunt of discomfort from my new friend. He shifted in his seat and glanced briefly at me, his cheeks reddening slightly as he continued working. A few minutes later, another shift in position, chugging the rest of his smoothie before folding his hands into each other and resting his head against them. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead as he glanced around quickly and held himself in a tense position, trying to focus on his laptop screen.

When I was just about to return to whatever it was Lee felt the need to triple text about, he let out a heavy sigh as his breathing deepened, then glancing around again, carefully got up and turned towards me.

“Watch my stuff?” he asked tersely, the sheen of sweat on his face turning to visible beads.

That’s when I felt it. The now familiar resonant strum of reality warping magic that told me Synt’s power was at work.

“Uh, yeah,” I mumbled through bites of my sandwich, my eyes flitting down as I noticed a jump of movement along his pant leg.

“Thanks,” he grunted, turning to power walk to the bathroom, his bubble butt–which I didn’t remember being there before–swishing back and forth in his slacks.

I waited a solid twenty minutes–okay, more like fifteen–before following him to investigate further.

As I entered the bathroom, it was empty except for one occupied stall, the lemony scent of cleaning products overlaid with something musky and slightly metallic. There had been a soft moan coming from the occupied stall, which seemed to self-consciously quiet down in response to the sound of the door closing and my footsteps heading to one of the urinals. I did my business like normal as the moans slowly increased in intensity, interspersed with grunts and low utterances.

“Oof, fuck,” I heard a whisper, recognizing what little I had heard of the finance bro’s voice.

“Is everything okay in there?” I asked innocently with a light knock on the stall, knowing good and well some supernatural fuckery that I had personally caused was well underway.

“All good, I just–augghhhh!”

You’ll have to believe me when I say the stall door opened on its own.

My new friend was sitting on the toilet with his pants up and his fly open. He was breathing heavy and drenched in sweat, eyes widened in surprise as he saw me standing there, which shifted to a look of lust and urgent need as he drank me in. He seemed in visible distress, which probably had something to do with the rock hard dick that was reaching into the air just past his left shoulder.

“Sorry, I–” he was cut off as it seemed to jump up another inch, spurting a glob of precum that fell to the floor. His hands slid desperately up and down the length of his shaft, each one barely able to reach halfway around. With another spurt of pre, I noticed his fingers slightly pushed farther apart.

“It…it won’t stop until I…”

“Not my first rodeo,” I cut him off, entering the stall fully and closing the door behind me. “Do you mind if I help?” I asked, gesturing to his angry purple cockhead.

He nodded enthusiastically in relief and anticipation, his face contorting as another spasm hit.

Even with my repertoire of accidental and deliberate magical augmentations, I could only extend my jaw so far, struggling to make it several inches down his massive member, starting slow and building with intensity.

A little help here? I asked Synt, who responded with gusto, my mouth and throat suddenly seeming to defy the laws of physics as I eased farther and farther down the shaft. Finance bro was blissfully unaware of the pocket dimension that his dick had now fully disappeared into as his head lolled back in ecstasy.

“No one’s…been able to do this…in so long,” he muttered as his breath became erratic and he began involuntarily thrusting into me.

I worked my way diligently up and down, now moaning along with him in pleasure as I swallowed his impossible schlong. His whole body began to spasm with burgeoning orgasm, blasting several shots of jizz directly into my throat that I hungrily gulped, hoping whatever this pocket dimension situation was could also handle his huge load.

I pulled myself off his dick, his mushroom head emerging from my lips with a pop. But as his eyes rolled back and his breathing continued to crescendo, I realized he wasn’t done. Those had actually been the initial volleys to what turned into a geyser of cum, gushing uncontrollably against the wall for at least another thirty seconds, rope after rope splattering behind him as he tried desperately to bite back a primal scream that would have definitely alerted the rest of the establishment (and maybe even the offices above).

Finally, he spent his load, visibly exhausted. He leaned his head back as his dick began to mercifully deflate, landing softly on his face and leaving a trail of slime as it shrank to a much smaller, but massive by any other standards, flaccid state.

I heard a loud gurgle emanate from my belly full of jizz, along with a wave of disorientation that left me leaning against the wall for support. Noticing this, he came back to his senses, his blissed out grin fading into self-conscious clarity.

“This uh, happens sometimes,” he said, with an air of comically misplaced masculine professional decorum that was so out of place I may have actually laughed out loud.

“Sometimes?” I repeated, as he carefully maneuvered his donkey dick back into what looked like a specially made pouch running along his pant leg. My stomach gurgled again, louder this time, and the wave of disorientation came along with a full body spasm. I felt my muscles tensing and becoming denser with muscle as my body stretched against the fabric of my carefully fitted clothes, my ass expanding to press up against the door behind me. When I came back to my senses, I recognized the wave of disorientation as a sudden growth spurt, leaving me a couple inches taller. This might as well happen, I thought, taking note of how the top edge of the stall was now right at eye level. During my brief ordeal, finance bro had jumped up to support me with arms that were much stronger than they looked, a bold move seeing as I had already towered over him.

“...Yeah, no idea,” he said, as if referring to a WiFi outage and not a magnitude jumping jizz volcano baseball bat dick that also apparently had its own growth powers. “Hey, uh, text me sometime,” he added, then materialized a business card in his hand, and slipped it into my pocket. “You were amazing.” He gave me a kiss on the cheek and a jocular pat on my butt, then turned to stroll out of the bathroom like he hadn’t just painted the wall with cum.

Men. I managed to be exasperated in spite of being wildly horny, not to mention mildly worried about the magic mega wang that I had accidentally set loose on the city. Maybe I should follow up with him, just to fill him in on this whole situation, I thought. But it seems like he’s actually doing fine.

Mmhm, came a self-satisfied smirk from my companion.

I cleaned myself up as best I could, debating whether I should leave a tip with a note attached apologizing for the large puddle of jizz in the middle stall. As I looked myself over in the mirror, I noticed that while I had grown, it hadn’t been by that much in terms of basic physical metrics, but I seemed…more powerful. Like inherently I knew my musculature was much more capable than it looked–and it looked like I was verging on pro bodybuilder. “Super dick,” I mused, with a wry smile.

I came out to see my bathroom dalliance strolling coolly down the sidewalk on the opposite side of the window, heading back to the pretentious coupe that started all this. I tossed what was left of my lunch, walked out, grabbed my bike, and resolved to make it back to the office without incident.

—

Incident came ten minutes later as I pulled up to a stoplight and found myself parked behind my cyclist friend. Now it was my turn to fall into a trance at the sight of his toned, heart shaped bubble butt.

“Can’t blame ya,” he said with a wink.

And now it was my turn to blush as I was caught staring. My encounter with the finance bro had left me even more riled up with still no release, and I was losing any cool I thought I had.

“We’ve, uh, gotta stop meeting like this,” I said with a nervous chuckle as I caught his gaze.

“No, we can definitely keep meeting like this,” he retorted.

“Cute and confident,” I said. So it was a meet-cute. “Aren’t you at work right now?” I teased. “Or is the messenger bag just for show?”

“For you, I’m on break,” he said with a defiant smile.

“Oh so this is just your workout,” I replied, deciding to test the waters for a little fun. “You’re not skipping leg day apparently.”

“Look who’s talking!” he exclaimed with mock surprise. “You sure you’re not an Olympic cyclist with those yams?”

“Yams? It’s all aesthetic, you’ve definitely got me beat.”

And there it was. I felt Synt’s power slip out, my eyes widening in realization. How did I not catch that? I thought.

Time–the relative timespace of this conversation between me and my bike messenger crush–seemed to slow down and shift textures. Through Synt’s extrasensory abilities, I could again see timelines breaking, shifting, and reforming in the space around the cyclist’s lower half. His quads, hams, and glutes–especially glutes, I noticed–seemed to pixelate and come back together as they found the path of least resistance to match Synt’s interpretation of my command. I stared, awestruck, as his musculature seemed to inflate in real time as it moved through temporal lenses, his cargo pants adjusting along with the growing shelf of ass overtaking his bike seat, until suddenly they were replaced with lycra, stretched tight across a colossal booty. Still the same heart shaped ass, just scaled up and disproportionately juicy on top of some serious hamstrings.

“Haha, guess so,” he said, with the air of someone used to people staring blankly at his huge cakes. “Honestly, I thought this bike gig would slim me down some, but it just seemed to make things worse.” He patted one round cheek, sending a jiggle through his lycra shorts that could stop traffic.

The light changed, signaling that the meet-cute was drawing to a close.

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” he said. “Name’s Devon.”

“Uh, David,” I responded, as he kicked off and cruised through the green light. I stood entranced by the ass I had just magically inflated, before I got myself together and headed off in a different direction back towards my office.

You know I didn’t mean that, I said to Synt, who didn’t seem to care.

---

I did feel somewhat relieved as I jogged up the stairs of my building, yet still in persistent need of some sort of relief. Finding the door slightly open, I was pleasantly surprised to find just the person who could tide me over.

“Lee!” I exclaimed. “Thank god you’re here. You down for a quickie?”

“That’s not why I’m here,” he responded. “But, I mean, yeah,” he followed up, long dick jumping down his pant leg in anticipation. Lee lounged against my desk, his lithe body posted up casually as he flipped through some book that he had happened to grab off the shelf, probably bored waiting for my return. Instead of the usual easy smile with an undercurrent of indulgent lust, he looked all business, like he had an important message. “Did you get my emails? My texts?” he asked. “We had some…interesting preliminary findings from the artifact that Blake brought in. Wait, are you taller?”

“Interesting how?” I asked, stripping off my leggings before remembering to kick the door closed behind me. “And yes, I’ll fill you in on the latest.”

He shut the book, leveling a look of tentative excitement in my direction, briefly obscured as he whipped his shirt off. “We need to go do some fieldwork.”

#male tf #ass growth #butt growth #dick growth

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writefightandflightclub · 1 year

Text

You look good

Santiago “Pope” Garcia x fem!reader

Summary: you and Santi have been dancing around This Thing between you for some time now. Is a costume party the place to make it happen? Even if Santi hates costume parties?

Genre: Some silliness, some steam, some fluff.

Rating: M (18+ only, minors DNI!)

A/n: this is a heinously late Halloween blurb I forgot in my drafts, pls forgive 🥹

Warnings: alcohol/party, teasing poor Santi, flirting and suggestive language, use of “bad girl”, mild dim/sub dynamic (sorta), making out.

Gif by @userpoe

“You didn’t even dress-up, loser?” Benny shouts across the now cramped space of your living room. Apparently even your prime real estate feels tiny with three burly guys and one Short King plus you in there.

“I didn’t have time,” Santiago yells back over the rendition of Red Right Hand Frankie is currently blasting through your Bluetooth speakers.

Benny takes a generous swig of his beer, which is cut short by an eruption of a hyena-like laugh from his mouth. “Bull shit. Look at you!”

Watching the exchange from a slight distance as you stir up the bowl of punch, you simply have to laugh. How many years has it been now, and he’s still so damn susceptible to being wound up?

It’s too easy.

Santi has an uncanny ability to look inordinately tense at times. This mother fucker is cool as a cat in the field, and yet when things cut loose sometimes he can be just a little… stiff.

Case in point - here he is, perching his generous ass right on the edge of your couch, looking all serious, despite being surrounded by Benny the zombie boxer, Frankie dressed as Woody from Toy Story, and Will as… whatever the hell Will is.

“Come on,” Benny continues, as Santiago becomes increasingly tetchy. “Like you didn’t spend two hours getting ready?”

“I don’t need that long to look good, dipshit.”

“You do look nice, Pope,” you compliment as you wander over, dishing out fresh glasses of punch. He does. Looks so good it makes your loins ache. Has you entertaining all sorts of fantasies you know will likely come to nothing.

“Thanks,” he responds bashfully, blinking up at you from beneath those impossibly long lashes of his.

“But, we were all supposed to be something.”

There he goes again, instantly on the defensive, his eyebrow arcing - all perturbed, like. “Why are you picking on me? What in the hell is Ironhead supposed to be?”

“Well… Will has a hat,” you defend, your nose crinkling since, in honesty, you’re not exactly sure. He has a point. Will looks at the floor and shakes his head, clearly disappointed that none of you dum dums get his niche references.

“You gotta dress up, pendejo,” Frankie slurs, mid-boogie.

“Is he drunk already?” Benny asks behind his hand as Frankie continues obliviously throwing shapes as the track skips on to Monster Mash. Looks like the infamous Five Drink Frankie is in town. Good - he’s a hoot.

“It’s rare that he has a babysitter,” Will rationalises. “He’s making the most of it.”

Five Drink Frankie pipes up. “Never fear Santiago, we can find you a costume.”

He waves his palms dismissively in front of him. “Eh, I don’t think so.”

“We can wrap you in toilet roll,” Will snickers, winking at you as you both watch Santi get riled up - with increasing amusement.

“No. Noooooo!” Frankie protests with gusto. “Tin foil. Gotta be.”

“Why does it gotta be, hermano?” A laugh bobs in Santi’s throat but it’s nervous. He scoops his palm around his stubbled jaw.

“Because you should be the tin man.” Frankie states, point blank at Santi, and for a long, stretched moment, the man shows no signs of humouring him. He’s obviously not getting the joke.

“Alright,” he finally concedes, voice taut amidst the rolling laughter of his companions in the room. “Hit me with it.”

Frankie winds up with relish. “You should be the tin man. ‘Cause you’re part silver and your knees creak if they’re not oiled.” He emits a throaty chuckle. “Oh and because you’re a heartless S.O.B.,” he adds for good measure, clearly in jest.

It’s funny. Frankie turns to high five Benny. Your chest tightens with mirth.

It’s funny, and it’s made all the more funny by the fact Santiago is not even remotely amused. For Christ’s sake - he knows fine well that Frankie adores him, and yet he still can’t mange to take it entirely on that perfectly sculpted chin.

“Ooh! But I do kinda like that idea,” you encourage with a shit-eating grin. You always did enjoy riling him. Had always entertained the idea that at some point he’d finally make you pay for it in ways you would enjoy. “We could wrap you in tin foil, you’ll be good to go.”

His dark eyes flick towards you, silently admonishing you for egging Morales on, and his stern look sends a flare of heat to your middle. “How about no.”

You jut out your lower lip and put on your best baby voice. “But you can cook like a little potato on the dance floor.” You jiggle your arms in a cute little dance.

Santi, for his part, squirms uncomfortably in his seat. “Yeah. Look. Costume’s just not gonna happen.”

You plonk yourself next to him on the couch, wrapping your arm around him and giving him a friendly jostle. Shit he smells good tonight. “Aww. Come on. Why are you being such a stick in the mud, Santiago?”

“I just don’t want to look stupid.”

“Like the costume was ever the problem there,” Benny snickers, and there is a resurgence of laughter in the room.

“Why not?” Will needles, evidently seeing a thread the rest of you have dropped. “Who you trying to impress, Pope?”

He tenses. Rubs his palms together like they’ve suddenly become clammy. Clears his throat several times and squirms a little in his seat. “N-Nobody.”

God you hope he’s trying to impress you. You and he have been skirting around this thing for months now, and you are practically begging that he’ll finally drum up the courage to make a move.

You all but beg him now with your eyes, flashing him a sultry stare. “Okay. Fine,” you drop your voice lower, leaning in to him. “Be a spoilsport if you like. But if you don’t dress up, I’m not putting my outfit on.”

His head swivels towards you, expression non-plussed. “I don’t care.”

You hold his gaze. “Oh, but you will. Because my outfit is very, very slutty.”

Santiago clears his throat again. Begins to nod, ever so slowly. Opens his mouth and closes it wordlessly, pouting his beautiful lips together.

“I’ll get the tin foil, hermano!” Frankie shouts jubilantly, seeing Santi collapse like a house of cards in the face of your expert negotiation.

“Nicely played,” Will praises as Santiago is frogmarched towards the kitchen, still grumbling but not quite protesting as much as he had been prior.

“Fashion him a little hat, Francisco!” Benny calls after him, face glowing with sheer, childlike delight.

“Fucking… Pendejos,” Santiago curses through his teeth as Frankie plants his hands firmly on his shoulders from behind, pressing him onward.

He pats him on the shoulder. “I’ve seen her outfit, man. Trust me. You’ll be thanking me later.”

With glee, you skip to the drawer and fish out the tin foil, holding it up with a giggle of delight.

He sighs, ever so reluctantly positioning himself in the centre of the floor, arms and legs spread out like a starfish, and resigned to his fate. “Come on then. Just do it.”

“Get him sorted, will you, Frankie? I’m going upstairs… to hold up my end of the bargain.”

You wink at Santiago as you sweep out, your chaotic laughter trailing behind you.

You do so enjoy riling him. You just really wish he’d finally do something about it.

***

You spring down the stairs as soon as Will calls to announce your Lyft is arrived, and you squeal as you see Santiago glinting in his aluminium costume, nestled amongst the throng of men gathered in your hallway.

“Haha! Cute!” you praise in delight, clapping your hands together with glee as you note that Frankie did indeed fashion him a little hat. You admire it, sat all askew and pointy on top of that bed of curls, secured under his chin with a piece of blue cooking twine. Damn. Frankie really got good at the crafting thing since his daughter started pre-school, huh?

Santiago swivels towards the sound of you, crinkling as he does so. And, when he sees you, his face drops in shock… and not in a good way. “Wait. Where’s your outfit?”

“Meh. I decided against it. A little too cold out there for something so skimpy.”

The other boys titter at how well you played him, and they begin to pile out of your door towards your waiting ride.

Santiago however, remains standing there, getting his little panties all in a twist. “Well then what are you? What have you come as?”

“Mmm,” you hum, sliding your body up beside him. Dipping your mouth all close to the shell of his ear. “What have I come as, Santiago?”

“Uh huh.” A hard swallow bobs down his throat as your breath fans against his neck. You know fine well that you get him all hot and bothered - a fact you take pride in.

You pause, lightly licking your lips for effect. And, when your voice comes again, it is dripping with honey. “I’ve come as someone that you’re gonna hook up with later. Is that alright with you, Santiago?”

The man is frozen -welded- to his spot in the doorway. Entirely arrested there, even as you sweep off down the path. You turn, watching him stupefied, and you offer him a cheeky, smug wink.

You can see the possibilities swimming in his lust-blown stare, but, naturally, the boys ensure he is torn all too harshly from his burgeoning fantasies.

“Shit!” Frankie shouts as he notes his buddy stood there, completely frozen. “Oil his knees! Somebody oil his goddamn knees!”

Laughter erupts again, and Santiago finally regains the power of movement as the undesirable teasing snaps him out of his stupor.

You take sudden pity on him, and you hold out your hand for him as he crinkles his way up the path. “Come on my little potato,” you encourage with a lopsided smile, even as the rest of the boys continue to rib him.

“Worth it.” He says through gritted teeth, as though psyching himself up for a whole night of this. “It’s gonna be worth it.”

You dip forward to plant a chaste kiss on his grumpy cheek and then you clamber inside, all of you taking your seats and clipping in.

You end up in the row to the front with Frankie and Will, Santi and Benny buckled in directly behind you. You can’t help but tune in to their conversation as the car pulls off, wheeling its way toward your destination.

“You look fucking stupid man,” Benny howls as he gets another fresh look at Santi.

“Right. And you don’t?” he bites.

“No,” Benny responds confidently, characteristically unphased. “Because I’m owning it.” You can’t even see Benny right now, but if you had to guess you’d say he’s likely flexing.

“Well whatever. Pretty sure I’m going to get the last laugh.”

“How come?”

“Because she says she’s hooking up with me tonight.”

Your lips curl into a smug grin, and you can practically feel those dark delicious eyes of his boring into the back of your head.

Oh he wants you, alright. He knows fine well you can hear him too. Such a tease.

“Aww buddy,” Benny consoles, tittering lightly and it’s not at all the reaction Santi was expecting - you can tell.

“What?”

“She’s said that to all of us.”

It’s true. You have. To every single one of them.

You’ve been bad.

Bad like you’re trying to get a rise out of him. Trying to piss him off. Is it really your fault if a lot of your fantasies are quite… specific? That you’d like him to… punish you a lil bit? You don’t think that’s so terrible, right?

You swivel in your seat, turning your head just enough then to see Santi’s aggrieved stare. You counter it, with a wolfish grin and a devilish wink, and he continues to stare you down.

“Oops,” you purr innocently, and you thrill as you watch Santi seethe, eyes blackened and brows drawn down.

Oh oh. Were you really so bad?

Sure you were. But is he going to do a damn thing about it? Probably not. He never does.

Safe to say, he’s pretty quiet for the rest of the journey.

You can only wonder what he’s thinking about, while you imagine kissing him senseless.

***

You pull up to the venue and you all pile out, already pretty raucous before you’ve even gotten inside.

That is, except for Santiago, who has become disconcertingly still all of a sudden. Unusually quiet, and even more intense than usual.

And, moments before you enter, lagging behind the group, your wrist is caught by the firm grip of his warm hand and he holds you back, guiding you towards the nearest wall. Walking forward until he pins you in place.

“You’ve been a real bad girl tonight, huh?” he purrs, the brown in his eyes engulfed by his lust-blown pupils. “You know that?”

“Of course I do.” You jut your chin out to him defiantly. “But what the hell are you gonna do about it?”

You challenge him. You look at his plush mouth. You drag your tongue along your lower lip, devouring him with your gaze. And in just a moment of you eyeing him hungrily it happens.

Happens like it always does. Unfortunately.

He loses his nerve.

In a split second, all of his bluster has gone. Collapsed. Evaporated. No more.

It’s… disappointing.

It’s less than ideal.

Of course, you could make the move yourself. Have entertained the possibility more times than you could count. But, considering the stories you’ve heard about him - the way he loves and leaves - you want him to be very sure about you. You want him to show you that he’s sure, and all you’ve had so far is him blowing hot and cold.

“Hmm. I thought so. Your problem is you’re all talk, Santiago. Like you were finally going to make an actual move on me? I should know better.”

His brows draw down, but other than that he has no response.

It’s always this way, and that’s just not going to work for you. You like a man who knows exactly what he wants. Who makes you feel sure he can handle you. Yes - even when you’ve been “bad”.

You press your palms against his chest and create some space for you to extricate yourself. “Always some excuse. This time it’ll be the costume, right?” You wait, but still he has nothing. “Foiled again.” Still nothing. You rap your fist on his tin man chest. “Your heart’s not in it.”

Still. Nothing.

Right. Okay. Figures. But he’s running out of chances. Does he want you or not? All signs point to yes, but it never quite materialises.

What’s stopping him?

You throw your hands up in the air dismissively, and you turn on your heel to walk away. Maybe for the last time. But, Santi’s small voice arrests you. “I should have come as a lion.”

You spin back towards him and fold your arms tiredly, stomping one heeled foot. “What?!”

“I should have come as the cowardly fuckin’ lion.”

You examine his expression, and he looks entirely earnest. Okay. You’re keen to see where he’s going with this. “Why? Is the tin foil too scratchy or…?”

“No, dumbass.” He walks towards you, and he gently unknots your arms, talking both of your hands in his. The warmth of his touch sends tingles snaking up your arms. “Because I’ve wanted to be with you for so long, but I’ve never had the courage to show you.” Your breath hitches in your throat as he powers closer, clear purpose and intention roping through his body. “Never had the courage to do this.”

“T-To do what, Santiago?!”

And, in answer to your question, he finally kisses you. It’s a sure kiss. Not a scrap of hesitation on the man any longer.

It is everything you have waited for. Dreamed of.

His broad hands are splayed and coursing up your back, to your neck, cradling your head as he dips his lips towards yours. You feel oh so secure and safe in his strong encircling arms.

His sturdy body is clamped close to yours, his torso arching and his tummy pressing up against you. His ample thigh is jammed in between your legs and offering an insistent pressure against your mound. You cant your hips against him and the shift sends a pleasant, resonant hum right to the tips of your toes. A warmth folding around your rib cage.

His tongue is leading, supple and confident and opening you up, the kiss deep and dirty and smug, delving into you with a promise that this is only the beginning. That he has a whole lot more to give.

He’s in control, and it’s all you’ve ever wanted.

You melt into him, into his form, liquid in his arms, and snake your fingers into his grizzled curls, pulling his kiss even deeper. His stubble grazes your cheek as his mouth works hungrily against you, and you deliver abortive, breathy moans into the cave of him as he devours you.

He overcomes you. His force, but also his tenderness. The way his sure grip offers a promise to take care of you but also to hold you safe in his arms. You feel weak, knees shaking with this energy. With the sheer possibility of it all, his kiss snaking under your skin like an electric current, bedding down into your centre. Blooming out to the far-reaches of your limbs.

You bury your head in the crook of his neck as you break for a more substantial dose air, panting gently and a buzzy feeling thrumming in your skull like he’s made you feel light-headed.

He moans. Moans for you and the way your contours feel as his broad hands rove over your body, seeking out every scrap of skin he can find bared to him.

He shifts, seamlessly tilting your head and baring your throat to him, and your stomach lurches pleasantly as you feel Santiago’s stubble graze the column of your neck, honey snaking down your spine and crawling into your bones.

“You have been a really bad girl, haven’t you?” he grits, his voice deep and dark as a pit. His tone heavy -burdened- with lust, and another rolling wave of warmth sinks right into the pit of you, your core becoming liquid.

“I know,” you manage to respond breathily as his teeth nip at your ear lobe. You whimper lightly into the air for him, coming completely undone, and yet you claw desperately for that upper hand. For some composure, and somehow, you find it. “But I’m confident I can get you to forgive me.”

He sucks at your throat, his tongue flattening over the cords of your neck, and it makes you shiver with need. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” you angle your hips against his, skimming the hard promise straining beneath his clothes. Looping your arms loosely around his neck you pull back, looking him in the eyes, his gaze heavy and half-lidded. “I think you’ll forgive me as soon as you see my costume,” you purr wantonly. “Like I said, Santiago. It’s very, very slutty.”

The broken groan Santi expels from his throat then might be the hottest sound you’ve ever heard, and, God. If you’re finally going to hook up with him tonight - if he’s finally mustered the courage? You want to make sure it’s everything you’ve wanted it to be.

And so, a gentle smile lilts over your mouth as you figure it out. If you want Santiago to punish you, you’d better be really bad first.

That shouldn’t be a problem. After all, he’s so easy to wind up.

You take a purposeful step back from him and hold your hand out for him to take, tossing your head towards the door of the venue, a playful smile dancing on your lips. “Come on then my little potato. Let’s get you inside.”

“You’re in for it later,” he promises darkly.

And finally, there it is. You’re about to have everything you want from him; and yet… suddenly that’s not all you want.

You realise that he has far more than that to offer you.

Santiago is looking at you some kind of way - a delectable heat sparking in his eyes. And yet, beneath that, something softer and far more adoring is dancing there. In the way he holds you. In the way his gaze flits steadily around your face.

You’ve always known the man was your walking fantasy, but you’ve done him a disservice. You forgot to see the reality of him too.

Still - better late that never.

You finally see it.

You think he finally found the courage tonight to live up to all your fantasies - true.

But you realise that -despite him being dressed as the tin man- you have never once doubted his heart. He’s never given you cause to.

Besides. Okay. He really does look cute in that little silver hat.

“You don’t look stupid by the way,” you intone softly, dropping the teasing edge.

“No?”

“No. You look good, Santiago.”

The softest smile claims him as you lead him inside.

For now, there is dancing to be done. And, later?

Well, later, you definitely intend to fulfil your end of the bargain and throw on something skimpy.

You finally think you’ve teased the poor man enough.

#santiago pope garcia x reader #santiago garcia x reader #triple frontier #just a quick one sorry if it’s bad

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gxilds · 1 year

Text

the borderlands

for dummies

I guess

now that we have reached the conclusion of the original manga series in the show, a lot of my friends seemed to be confused about the ending or what exactly the borderlands is. And while I haven’t finished the show (wether I am or not is debatable, granted i’m just dramatic and will get over my qualms with it fairly quickly) I have read the manga which gives you more clues as to how you should interpret it.

the mass majority of this post will be the last few chapters of the manga which stay relatively true to what the show has in it (other that some stuff that is not relevant to this post) so take that how you will.

this post will be divided into a few parts

what created the borderlands

what we can interpret the borderlands is

how it affected the players

in the last chapter we are met with this group of panels at the start

We are informed of a meteorite attack that happened two years prior to the events of this final chapter. we can grab two things from this:

this meteorite attack is relevant to the story

the story probably spans over two years

Using that first and second point, we can assume that it is not just relevant but that it is probably what the fireworks were in the beginning of the series was.

and in chapter 63 they also use fireworks for parallel as to them finishing all of them games and show is a meteorite hitting what we can assume to be shibuya

so a meteorite hit them? cool, I guess… what can we do with this information?

I’m so glad I asked, narrator me!

this leads me to the second question

how can we interpret this?

I guess… it’s more simple now that I put it into words.

Essentially,

it’s a collective state of limbo.

I guess?

It’s a point between life and death where it seems the borderlands are used to create judgment as to if the characters should really die or not.

in order to prove this we have to mix the third point into this

how has it affected the players?

in the end we find the players in the hospital with no memories of what happened in the borderlands but clearly affected

(For some reason I can’t find any panels online for this but I do still have the one of chishiya stocked up because I’m so not normal about him)

for example, Chishiya is affected emotionally and is left feeling better after his clear change of heart in the end of the series.

Niragi lays next to him burnt to a crisp and as far as we know chishiya seems to be hurt as well from the damage caused by niragi. so they’re all obviously somewhat affected by what happens inside when they leave.

Everyone else wakes up from their 2 year (supposedly) coma and is left without memory of the borderland but totally cool with each other. Arisu and Usagi ask each other out (my parents fr fr, thank you AIB Retry), Kuina is being my pookie and they’re all having fun… other than those who aren’t there.

People who died in the borderlands seem to have not made it (Karube, chota, etc), which puts the limbo theory into prospective.

as for the collective part of it… I thought that was obvious

all the meteorite victims are in the borderlands with each other and interact in ways that leave impressions on each other

duh

Look, I know the way I word this makes the writers sound dumb but I actually think it’s creative and kind of refreshing. I half expected to have them turn this shit into as the gods will when I first read the manga…and then I would’ve been left disappointed. and while there is a sequel series to cover I’m glad there’s a happy (albeit, tentative and not long lasted) ending.

I don’t think they’re going to do the sequel manga in the show, sadly. I also feel like it goes without saying that if they continue the show without using the source material other than to give us tooth rotting chishiya fluff and him living his best life after the borderlands then I’m not tuning in 😮‍💨 sorry to whatever this joker bullshit is that i’m hearing about but… lawd 😭😭

🏷️: @clearskiesandmistyeyes @irehluvr

#alice in borderland #aib #borderlands for dummies

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mcflymemes · 1 year

Text

AS SAID BY VIVIENNE * assorted dialogue from dragon age: inquisition

what a clever device. let’s find out what it unlocks.

you always find such lovely places to explore.

the sooner we’re done here, the better.

i believe our work is done.

this can’t be all of them. there must be more further in.

the entire country reeks of wet dog. how charming.

i can’t do this alone!

don’t be stoic at the expensive of your health.

that would be foolish, wouldn’t it?

a bit late for that now.

there’s something strange about this place.

the cost of this war is staggering.

the deeper we go, the more oppressive it gets.

you really must stop assuming everything is about you.

hm. cover it in gold leaf and it wouldn’t be terrible.

this weather is not ideal for travel in the mountains.

do you expect cleanliness from a group of thugs?

if it crumbles beneath you, be ready to jump.

i’m overwhelmed!

i was just wondering how you imagined your future.

oh, aren’t you precious.

you must not blame yourself. you have done all you could and more.

just keep hitting things, my dear. don’t worry your little head about the rest.

will you put your shiel down? the light glinting off it pierces my eyes.

do make sure you’re still standing when the dust clears.

you have my condolences.

someone’s been busy.

you wouldn’t stand a chance against me.

so much is at stake. why would i leave any of it to someone else?

generous you, giving him a chance at redemption.

you’re a fetching couple, you know.

well, you two seem to make each other happy.

he does have a great sense of fashion, i’ll give him that.

let’s find them.

it’s just mud. mud bothers me as much as your clumsy mockery, which is to say, not at all.

there’s no need to tiptoe.

you presume to know my feelings?

it’s not as simple as you think.

i was concerned about you.

i shall try to suppress my shock.

i find that... peculiar, don’t you?

bathing shows common courtesy to one’s traveling companions.

it is so dry, my fingertips are peeling.

whatever magic rests here, it was drawn straight to you. it’s left you unharmed.

are you still talking?

one does not throw away a tool because it was misused.

it’s disappointing. but perhaps some battles should be left to those more suited.

you are very kind, but you needn’t concern yourself.

don’t be ridiculous.

we should find some way to slow it down.

you are naive and arrogant.

that which makes you different can be a burden or a source of strength. which is up to you.

you visit the most fascinating places.

we are having a perfectly civil conversation.

shall we go? this is a good place to be ambushed.

i hope you brought provisions.

we should proceed with caution.

i am not so quick to judge. see that you give me no reason to feel otherwise.

such snapping for a fish without teeth.

did you clean your weapon after the last fight?

look at all of this! what a pity.

you cannot go shirtless.

more questions. my, aren’t we curious today.

the game is played to the death. like it or not, you are part of it.

far as i’m concerned, my life began there.

one must never be too charming or people lose respect.

you’ve done a fine job thus far, but you could stand to be... slightly more amiable.

i should have brought my fur coat.

you sound as though you pity them.

the water was utterly dreadful, and the lighting was dreary.

every woman will want you. every man will want to be you.

i received a letter the other day.

why are we here again, exactly?

the bandits should thank you.

the trees are actually quite lovely.

it used to be beautiful here.

i assure you there are few pleasures comparable to restoring order with one’s own hand.

i was pleased to have even a small part in the endeavor.

you thought incorrectly.

take your victories where you can.

you really ought to have more fun.

this place has been corrupted. stay alert.

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4dudesfromthe0oze · 2 years

Text

Magic Training (Raph x Yokai Reader)

Romantic ❤️ (crushing)

tw: slight angst

word count: 2,098

You’re a Yokai so it would be assume you’re good with mystic powers… but that is incorrect. For whatever reason you’re not exactly the best with your powers. You find yourself training with the eldest brother, Raphael, to help with your powers.

You stare down at your hands, trying to use your magic yet you can only manage to get a spark out. You sigh in disappointment, closing up your hand and looking back up at the turtles as they train. Little did you realize one of them noticed your failed attempt at conjuring up your magic and came up with an idea.

The distracted turtle was quickly shoved to the ground by Donatello who quickly begins to gloat.

“Ha hah! Get bested by my tech-bo, Raphael! Told you guys that I don’t need mystic powers to kick serious butt!”

“Right right… Ya got me.”

Raph grumbles a little as Donnie puts his hands on his hips proudly before suddenly one of Leonardo’s portals opens beneath him and his falls in with a small yelp.

He’s spat out by another portal with a thud, noticing his weapon gone and glances around in confusion before spotting the culprit.

“Leo! Get your grubby hands off of my tech-bo!”

“Hmm… Nah I don’t think I will.”

Leo smirks a smug smirk, twirling the tech-bo in his hand before tossing it through another portal much to Donnie’s frustration. He grumbles a little before suddenly being put through another portal and out of the ring.

Raph chuckles as Donnie is transported next to him, crossing his arms and grumbling beneath his breath. Now it was just Mikey and Leo in the ring.

The brothers stare each other down, Leo’s smug smirk not disappearing as he waits for Mikey to move first. Mikey swings his weapon beside him as he moves around in place.

“Whatchu gonna do, Leo? I don’t need to get close to you but you need to get close to me to attack!”

“You make a fair point there, Michael, but none of that matters ‘cuz I’m still gonna win!”

Leo chuckles before Mikey swings his weapon at him. He opens up a portal that Mikey’s weapon goes through, the other end opening behind Mikey and hitting his head.

Mikey lets out a small whine, rubbing the back of his head. “Ouch! Cheap shot!”

He looks up to where Leo was before noticing he wasn’t there. He was confused before he feels his arm grabbed and pulled back. Before he even had the chance to recover he was already out of the ring.

“Aaaand the winner is… me! Neon Leon! Victorious once again!”

Leo does a little dance before taking a bow. Mikey grumbles a little as he gets off the floor, looking up at Leo.

“Those dang portals… Welp, GG Leo.”

Mikey raises his hand to high three Leo to which he gladly accepts.

“Thank you, dear Michael. You fought well but not as well as me.”

“Oh hop off your high horse.”

Mikey gently shoves Leo who shoves him in return, the two laughing as they go to their other two brothers.

“Good job on another win I guess. Even if you cheated your way to it.”

Raph mutters the last bit as he fist bumps Leo who smiles up at his older brother.

“I heard that! You’re only cranky that Donnie, of all people, got you out.”

Leo jokes, receiving a glare from Donnie that makes his smug smile widen.

“Scoff! The nerve, ‘Nardo, the nerve.”

The other three brothers giggle and laugh together. You giggle sweetly to which the brothers look over.

“Oh right! Y/N was watching the whole time. I’m sure you must be embarrassed, Raph.”

Raph blushes before gently elbowing Leo who chuckles. You notice Raph’s blush but don’t really question why as you jump down from where you were watching and going over to the brothers.

“No need to be embarassed, Raph. You’ll get ‘em next time.”

You smile up at him sweetly, not noticing his blush brightening as the other brothers giggle in amusement.

“How about we bring these rematch into the arcade, boys?”

Donnie gently shoves Leo who elbows him as he steps ahead.

“I’ll mop the floor with you in whatever game we play.”

Leo shrugs before Mikey jumps over his shoulder and causes him to stumble back.

“Well I’m gonna mop the floor with both of you!”

Mikey giggles before rushing to the arcade, Leo rushing after him and Donnie following behind. Now it was just you and Raph.

The two of you look to where everyone ran off before you look up at Raph.

“We should hurry up and catch up to them before they decide to not include you in the rematch.”

You start to walk off before being stopped by Raph addressing you.

“Hey um, y/n?”

You turn over slightly, looking up at Raph who you could see was kind of nervous. Your eyebrow raises curiously before he speaks up.

“I saw that you tried to activate your magic… Still struggling, hm?”

He asks to which your eyes widen a little. You glance to the side, a bit of shame in your expression before proceeding to nod.

“…y… yeah…”

You admit, scratching the back of your head. Raph didn’t like seeing your expression, gently placing his hand on your shoulder which gets you to look up at him.

“Maybe I could help? I mean… I’m not exactly an expert but I do want to try and help… That is if you let me.”

Raph offers much to your surprise. A faint rosy blush tints your cheeks that you hope he doesn’t notice. You think to yourself as you glance to his hand that was still on your shoulder. He moves his hand away when you look over, about to apologize before watching you nod with a warm smile.

“…Yeah… I’d like that… but how do you plan to help?”

You ask, watching as he thinks about it. He didn’t think he was gonna make it this far. Eventually you see his eyes light up with an idea in mind.

“Maybe we train. Me and my brothers train to sharpen up our skills so it should work the same with you.”

Raph suggests so he can see the doubt in your expression which makes him frown a bit.

“Ah… I guess it’s not that great of an idea..”

You tense up as he frowns before quickly shaking your head.

“N-No no! It’s a good idea! It’s just… Like you said, you guys train to sharpen your skills but… I can’t really sharpen my skills if they’re not… there.”

A frown forms in your expression, staring down at the ground. Raph shakes his head before proceeding to pick you up to his eye level. You were pretty short compared to him so the distance between you and the floor was pretty big.

“Ya do got skill! You’re pretty good at physical combat so we just gotta tap into that magic of yours and then bam! You’ll be a fighting machine! But we can’t do that if ya don’t have any confidence!”

Raph exclaims before carrying you over to the ring. You look at him silently, taking his words before your smile returns. You doubt that anything could help you use your magic but hearing Raph praise you made you feel a little hopeful.

He places you down in the ring before taking out his tomfas, whipping out his mystic hands and smashing them together.

“Come at me with everything you got! Just don’t try and stab me..”

Raph mutters to which you giggle to. You nod with a small ‘mhm’ before pulling out your weapon, a kusarigama. The both you back away little, bowing to each other out of respect before getting into a battle stance. You see him smirk at you, feeling small butterflies flutter in your chest before shaking them away.

You swing around the chain of your kusarigama, both of you taking steps around the ring to wait and see what the other does. Raph wasn’t exactly the most patient so he’s the one to rush in first, just like how you predicted.

A right hook that you manage to dodge sends you stumbling back before throw your chain at him as he tries to swing at you again. The chain wraps around his are, pulling him forward. He falls to the ground where you take the opportunity to back away and create some distance.

He pushes himself back off the ground, letting out a low chuckle as he dusts himself off.

“Nice job! Raph’s about to turn up the heat though!”

“Oh yeah? Well Y/N isn’t gonna back down!”

You respond as you cross your arms and smirking smugly, Raph looking offended.

“Ay! Only Raph gets to talk in the first person!”

Raph punches his fist together before charging at you once more. You rush at him in return, swinging your chain beside you. He swings a punch at the same time you swing your chain. Before you even notice it your on the ground, staring up at the ceiling blankly while Raph rushes to your side.

“Y/N? Y/N?! Are you okay?! Ah jeez I really messed up this time…”

Raphael carefully picks you up, you wincing a little in pain before staring at him in confusion.

“…What even happened…? We were both charging at each other and then suddenly I’m staring up at the ceiling…”

You let out a small groan as Raph carries you out of the training area, holding you close without realising it.

“I-I messed up... I hit you too hard and you went flying… I-I didn’t mean to hurt you Y/N, honest…”

Raph mutters. You could hear the anxiety in his voice which gets you to pat his head gently. He looks down at you in confusion before you start to speak.

“I know it was an accident, Raphy. You wouldn’t purposely hurt me. I’ll be fine, it’s okay.”

Raph blushes as you call him ‘Raphy’ though you don’t notice that as he tears up at your reassurance that everything was okay.

“…R-Right… okay… You’ll be okay. Lets find somewhere for you to lay down though.”

He sighs in relief before feeling your hand gently brush away his tears. His heart skips a beat before he giggles goofily as he glances away. You smile warmly at his behavior that you’d describe as cute, feeling him pick up the pace as he brings you to his room.

Gently does Raph place you on to his bed. It was big and comfy but it would not be an exaggeration to say you sink into the middle where the big guy would typically lay down.

“Is there anything I can get you? Water? Food? First aid kit?”

You look at Raph and giggle at him before you pat the spot beside you to gesture him to sit down.

“I’m fine, big guy. Just come sit and relax with me.”

Raph nods before taking a seat on the bed beside you. You gently place his hand on his, receiving a small blush from him.

“I’m fine. There’s nothing to worry about. My bodies a little sore but I’ll be fine in a few hours. It’ll be easier to recover knowing that you’ve calmed down.”

He stares down at your hand on top of his, taking a deep breath in before letting out a sigh.

“…Okay okay… I’m calm. But still… sorry for accidentally punching you into a wall.”

“Accidents happen, Raph. Besides I’m way too tough for you to seriously hurt me anyway.”

Your joke to which both of you laugh at together. A small rosy blush tints your cheeks hearing his laugh. Seeing him happy just made you happier before you gently intertwine his hand with yours.

He falls silent and stares down at you curiously, seeing your tired gaze before you make a request.

“…Take a nap with me, Raphy?”

Raphs heart thumps against his chest, you nearly being unable to distinguish the red of his blush to the red of his ninja mask. Unable to say any words he just nods before carefully moving to lay down.

You two faced and stared at each other in silence before you suddenly move closer and put yourself in his arms.

“…See you in a couple of hours, Raph..”

Raph stares down at you ask you close your eyes. He anxiously puts his hands around you before managing to muster out,

“R-Right… see ya..”

He mutters as you fall asleep in his arms. After a few minutes he manages to relax, staring down at you as he keeps his body as stiff as a board. He smiles to himself as he brushes your hair that got on your face before joining you in a cozy nap.

#rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rottmnt x reader #rottmnt raph x reader #rottmnt raph #my fics #rottmnt leo #rottmnt donnie #rottmnt mikey

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wordsafterhours · 9 months

Text

Songs About You - Chapter 14

Author's note: About time I got this done. I hope everyone who still likes this fic is around and will take time to enjoy this update. I made myself laugh, which is almost just as good as making someone else laugh.

*don't come for me at the end with pitchforks.*

Word Count: 3.3k

----------------------------------------------------------------------

She was floating somewhere between dreaming and unfortunate consciousness. Seeking to keep hold of sleep, Aelin flopped onto her side, groaning when she hit a dense mass instead of her usual plethora of feather pillows. Cracking a heavy lid, she peered at the lump. Dorian hadn’t moved, his soft snores unwavering. Least one of them was still delightfully asleep and unaware.

With the last tendrils of grogginess dissipating, a splitting headache became apparent. It felt like the bones were trying to crack apart in areas long knitted together. A dull sense of nausea was also floating around, but she was trying very hard to not acknowledge it, hoping it would sink away. Hangovers were merciless and never worth the night before.

Fleetfoot wasn’t bothering her, which likely meant it was still early or the dog was sleeping in as well. Whatever the case, Aelin decided more sleep would cure her ailment. Flipping over, she was met with brief surprise, again. Fenrys, a more eloquent sleeper than Dorian, was cuddling her stuffed animal, looking as though he was having the best sleep of his life.

Two attractive men in bed had to be somewhere on everyone’s fantasy list, likely even hers if she gave it enough honest thought. This would likely be a running joke in the days to come, but for now, it was comforting. One old friend, one new, both irreplaceable. After the events of last night, they had driven her home, whispered soft words as she cried, and offered to pummel both Rowan and Elide. It was exactly what she had needed.

Sinking into the mattress, Aelin closed her eyes, trying to calm her mind enough to fall back to sleep. But it was pointless. Her body was relaxed, the soft linen sheets caressing her skin, attempting to soothe her back to sleep, but her traitorous mind was in hyperdrive. It kept replaying the events of last night over and over, on a high-definition loop.

The betrayal was a feeling reminiscent of when she was a kid, and her mother would dab antiseptic on her cut. Except now, there was no one to blow on it, the stinging felt painfully in full affect. Rowan, in the days prior had eased it all, and somewhere in the depths of her disappointing sadness, there was a part of her that would fall at his feet, hoping he would do it again.

Aelin’s body froze momentarily, shocked, as an arm fell across her body, pulling her close. “I can hear you thinking from here and it’s disturbing my slumber,” the sleep-addled voice said against exposed shoulder.

“We cannot all be unbothered by the world, your highness,” she cheeked back.

He let out nothing more than noncommittal grunt. She would have thought him back to sleep if not for the occasional lazy circles he was drawing across her skin. This was their friendship, strong and ignorant of proper boundaries. To an outsider, they would appear like a couple, but having tried that once, it was evident friends was the better choice.

“I’m not sure if I should be turned on or jealous at the moment,” tutted Fen, his voice a little huskier than appropriate for morning hours.

Aelin cracked a lid, her bright eyes connecting with his appraising stare. He looked like the cat who ate the canary, and it made her face scrunch from a widening smile. “You’re just jealous that the stuffed animal doesn’t snuggle back.”

“Hmm, I don’t think it’s that,” he declared with a low chuckle.

“Aelin, where did you find this mannerless mongrel?”

“The same place I found you: the bar.”

“Excuse me, that is not where you found me.” She bit her lip, trying to hold in a laugh. She just knew his face was pinched in indignation. Dorian was known to be quite wanton in his behavior, but it wasn’t a topic of discussion. Everyone just knew and that was that.

“Is anyone going to invite the dog to snuggle or…?”

“I didn’t see Fleetf—” her remark stilted as a pillow collided with her face.

“Well, Dorian, you were right, he is a mannerless mongrel.”

“Fine! I didn’t want to cuddle with you two anyways. Wouldn’t want to give anyone fleas.”

Aelin let Fenrys roll almost out of bed before reaching out, grabbing his shirt beneath her fingers. “C’mere.”

The body heat from both men was almost too much to bear and she fought the comforter to stick a foot out for some relief. Contentedly, she relaxed, feeling unexpectedly safe in the current arrangement. She may not have Rowan and her best friend may have slit her heart from her chest, but in her bones, she knew Dorian and Fenrys would never hurt her. Perhaps, if she was less damaged, she’d let the blond seriously pursue her because underneath his cheeky persona, his heart was gold.

“Shhhh, you’re going to wake her up,” a harsh, hushed whisper grated across Aelin’s semi-conscious mind.

“I don’t even know how she’s sleeping through that loud banging.”

“I get the impression she doesn’t often sleep good.”

“Well, sleep is on the bottom of what’s important right now. If you haven’t noticed, it sounds like someone is making off with half the downstairs!”

“Buck up buttercup and put on your big boy pants. I think two of us can take whoever it is,” Fenrys claimed, sliding from the bed and into his discarded jeans from the night prior.

“I know we just met and all, but confronting robbers isn’t in my area of expertise. I have a full security team at home.”

Aelin, who had been listening to this entire exchange, was two seconds from losing all sense of decorum and giving up that she was awake. Dorian sounded so panicked, surely his eyes were the size of saucers, and he was likely clenching her comforter tight. He lived a far more sheltered life than she had, despite also growing up in the public eye.

“Dorian, get up!”

“You can’t just order me about.”

The bed jostled followed by loud thump. That’s one way to do it, she amusedly thought to herself. Cracking a lid, Aelin could see Fenrys holding out Dorian’s clothes with an annoyed expression.

Dorian huffed, his face matching Fenrys’, as he took his clothes and started to put them on. His lean arms slipped into his shirt, but he paused, angling his head—clearly he heard something she did not. Fenrys froze, too, his stance stiffening as he stared at her bedroom door.

Worry hadn’t been present before because if it had been anyone serious downstairs, Fleetfoot would have barked her head off. More than likely, the boys had heard the dog causing chaos downstairs, and not people. But now, doubt was filtering in.

The bedroom door flew open and before Aelin could even process what was happening, Dorian was running full speed and tackling the intruder, landing outside in the hallway. Fenrys froze in a shock, arm still raised, a heavy book in hand.

“GET OFF ME!” screeched Manon.

“Ah gods,” Aelin muttered, immediately springing past Fenrys.

A pant-less Dorian was moving to stand, and Manon was flat of her back, white-blonde hair splayed out on the wooden floor, red faced and angry.

“Hey M,” she supplied coolly, extending an arm to help to help her up. Manon waved her off, too busy staring daggers at Dorian, who looked like he was wishing he could be anywhere but here.

Aelin could feel Fenrys standing behind her and she leaned into him, enjoying the feel of his warm skin against her shoulders. Truthfully, an angry Manon scared her, and she wasn’t afraid to seek Fernys’ protection against her.

Manon sat up, her piercing gold eyes roving over each of them, no doubt cataloging details and mustering up ideas.

“Before you jump to the wrong conclusion, it’s not what it looks like,” Aelin rushed out defensively.

“So, you didn’t all come out of the same room in various stages of undress? No shirt, no pants, and don’t even get me started on the amount of skin you’re showing.”

The tips of her ears burned in embarrassment.

“I swear, it really isn’t what it looks like.”

“Somehow you saying that just makes it that more unbelievable. Everyone knows how you are.”

“Manon,” Aelin chastised. Dorian may have been a flirt, opportunistic in bedding people, but it didn’t warrant his feelings being stepped on because she someone was angry.

“You act like what I said isn’t true.”

“That may be, but it isn’t true in this moment. We don’t know one another well, but they’re both being honest when they say nothing is going on. Please don’t make either one feel bad for something that’s strictly innocent in nature.” Fenrys brushed passed Aelin, extending a hand to the woman still laid out on the floor. Manon took it, rising to her feet. No thank you was given and the four stood in silence.

She wanted to ask what Manon was doing there and why there was an almost musical banging coming from downstairs, but at the same time, she was tired of being talked down to. Self-conscious, she pulled down on her tank top, eliminating the skin showing above her sleep shorts. The pair of golden eyes missed nothing, zeroing in on her movements.

Fenrys noticed, stepping a few paces and giving her shoulder a soft squeeze in reassurance. “Manon, how about we go downstairs and get you some ice.”

“What for?” she sniped.

“To cool you off.”

“I’m not hot.”

Regret colored her face the minute she said she wasn’t hot, and Dorian looked too pleased with himself when he followed up with flirty statement declaring otherwise. Manon rolled her eyes and headed back to the first floor, taking the stairs two at a time.

“Does she eat children for breakfast?” Fen asked with shiver.

“With a side of kittens,” Dorian confirmed, his blue eyes watching the stairs, as though he were waiting for her to rush back up them and give another lashing.

“I think I’ll get dressed,” Aelin said to no one in particular, ducking back into her bedroom. The two boys followed, each grabbing their missing clothing and shrugging into them.

“We’ll see you down there, ‘kay,” Dor declared in parting, Fen hot on his heels.

With a resigned sigh, she flopped back into mussed bed covers, all will to change clothes dissipating. She grabbed the stuffed animal, sitting him on her chest, “Did you enjoy being cuddled by Fen, Mr. Snuggles?”

She manipulated the bear into nodding, smiling to herself at her antics. “That’s great, me too.”

“And here I thought I was the only guy that had been in your bed lately.”

Aelin let out a surprised shriek, throwing the animal at the intruder without a second thought. The attack was easily deflected with an arm wave and Mr. Snuggles fell to the ground with a soft thud. His large, tanned hand scooped him up and tossed him back on the bed, a predatory glint in his eyes and a pleased smirk affixed on his perfect face.

The embarrassment and anxiety coursing through made it feel like her stomach was in her throat, about to jump ship at any moment, and her lips pressed tighter together as though they could prevent it from happening. Women her age weren’t supposed to sleep with animals, much less talk to them, and now she’d been caught red-handed. How was it this man consistently had the worst timing?

Maybe if she closed her eyes and pretended he wasn’t there, he’d just poof into thin air, leaving her and Mr. Snuggles to their conversation. Squeezing them shut, she waited, listening intently for his departure, but in didn’t come. Fighting against her better judgement, Aelin kept her lids tightly shut, refusing to give him another ounce of her time.

Unreliable. Hot. Cold. Friend. Foe. The push and pull dance weighing down an already exhausted soul. It had been pretty clear last night where they stood and why he was here, she had no idea. The “why” bothered her more than his actual presence if she was being truthful. Nonetheless, she dug her heels in, refusing to inquire, refusing to acknowledge.

A gentle yet firm pressure forced her knees apart. Rough fabric skated across bared flesh, goosebumps raising in response. The bed dipped beneath new weight. The very distinct smell of Rowan wrapped around her.

“Aelin,” he said lowly but in a way meant to command attention.

Childishly, she turned her head to the right, eyes still screwed tightly shut. Her lungs were screaming in protest, fighting for her to release the breath she was unconsciously holding. A traitorous breath whooshed out, the subsequent inhale assaulting her senses again in pine and snow.

The bed dipped more right and the feeling of rough fabric became more pronounced as he shifted. Featherlight, the unmistakable feel of a calloused finger traced the bridge of her nose, across the light smattering of freckles decorating her high cheekbone, ending with a careful tuck of hair behind her ear.

Still, she didn’t move. He loosed a frustrated breath.

Fingers threaded throughout her hair, as though he’d done it a million times before, his thumb coming to rest just in front of her ear. “Ace, please,” he begged, just barely more than a whisper. The defeated tone wilted her fortitude. He sounded so desperate and while Aelin shouldn’t care, she did. He sounded like she felt.

“Why are you here?”

“I won’t tell you unless you look at me.” His thumb skittered across her cheek in a circle, a silent imploration meant to chase away the rest of her resolve.

“You’re not an any position to be making demands.”

“No, but I’ll get on my knees and beg if I must. It’s just five minutes of your time and I can leave when I’ve said what I needed to say.”

Rowan on his knees sent her brain sideways, as she allowed for a momentary glimpse of it under much different circumstances to play out in her mind. But as quick as it had appeared, she pushed it aside, returning her thoughts to the present.

His eyes were brilliantly green, every color of the Oakwald forest interwoven within their depths, but they stood out more than usual because the dark circles beneath his eyes. Rowan looked the roughest she’d ever seen him. Handsome, painstakingly so, but tired, sad, and something she couldn’t place. His silver hair, usually plaited and put up, was messily loose, like the day she’d seen it when he was cutting wood.

Dropping his hand from her face, he shifted, resuming likely what had been his initial position: a hand on either side of her shoulders, one leg resting against the bed between her knees. Unable to resist the urge, she raised her hand, gently brushing against his side to grab a piece of silver that had fallen forward. She swore he shivered but it had been such a quick response, it could have been entirely imagined.

Idly, she twirled the lock with her finger, waiting for him to divulge the reason for his forced presence.

“Lyria’s pregnant.”

A million and one reasons could have come out of his mouth, but Aelin would have never thought that’d be the one. The feeling you get from dropping great heights on amusement rides could not compare to how she felt in the moments following his admission.

Space. She needed space. Breaking out of his embrace, she was on her feet halfway across the bedroom before turning to face him. His eyes looked glassy, his proud shoulders rounded and sagging in defeat.

“How long have you known?” Aelin wasn’t sure why she asked. In her bones she already knew the answer.

“After I left here that morning. Lyria was waiting for me in the driveway of my house.”

Life was cruel. Or the gods were. Had she wronged the world so in her past life and was thusly being punished in this one? He had become a bright spot in her life and now, reduced to another pile of ash. Hiding her anger, she turned and stared into the empty fireplace, a too literal example of how it all felt.

“Say something.”

“What do you want me to say, Rowan? That I understand why you stopped answering my texts and made me feel like I wasn’t worth your time? That I understand you’re doing the best you can?” She clenched her fists and turned back to look at him, face red, lip quivering with emotion. “Because I don’t. I feel hurt and let down. Gods I’m so furious with you.” Her voice cracked and it only made her more mad at this entire situation.

“I’m sorry. I’ve spent weeks trying to decide how to tell you that I can’t be here for you like I promised. I want to be right here Aelin, and I just….,” he raked his hands through his hair, messing it further, “I have to be there for her and for my child. I won’t be someone who shirks their duty because it’s not convenient for me.”

“What about me?” she hated how small and pitiful she sounded. Selfish even. But she had to ask it. Where did she fall in this fucked up situation?

Somehow, in two strides, he had crossed the room and was holding her in a vice grip to his chest. “I won’t give you up.”

“You just said you can’t be here because you have to be there. I don’t understand.”

“It’s been hell, but I was respecting the boundary Lyria set as my girlfriend and mother of my child, but then last night, when I got a glimpse of how it felt to not have you at all… watching you crumple because of me, that’s worse than anything I’ve had to deal with since losing my parents."

Rowan’s strong arms held her tighter as he continued, “I can’t be here like I promised, like I want to, but I still want you in my life, Aelin. You’re my friend and you’re about to go through a very hard time. I won’t desert you when you need people on and by your side.” His assertion rumbled against her, putting to bed some of the crippling sadness he had descended on her only moments ago.

Ever a glutton for punishment, Aelin squirmed in his grasp, until her arms were free to wrap around him. She splayed her hands against his back, enjoying the feel of his strong muscles ripple beneath them. Rowan rested his cheek on the top of her head, neither ready to break the contented silence they found themselves in.

The pair stayed like that for some time before Rowan made to step back but was quickly stopped when the blonde let out a warning huff. His chuckled bounced her head albeit not in an uncomfortable way. “I was going to show you your surprise, but I guess not.”

Aelin tipped her head back to look at him, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“I think I’ve had all the surprise that I can handle for today,” she fired off, still looking up at him.

He smiled, one that reached his eyes, as he lightly thumped her nose. “You’ll like this one, Ace.”

“If it’s not a hazelnut chocolate cake from Emrhys’, I don’t want it.”

“Gods woman, it’s amazing you don’t weight 300 pounds with all the sweets you devour,” he teased.

“I have a great figure, thank you very much.”

“I’m not going to touch that statement with a ten-foot poll.”

“You sure?” she asked suggestively, giving him a once over with a raised brow.

“I’m leaving, see you downstairs,” he said hurriedly retreating for the door.

Not even waiting to see if he had left the room completely, Aelin chanced it and slipped her sleep cami over her head. A choking sound covered by a cough and subsequent slamming door let her know he’d seen something and that warmed her with satisfaction. If she couldn’t have him, at least she could bother him, and that would have to do for now.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Tag list:

@theresyourfireandblood @backtobl4ck @leiawritesstories @morganofthewildfire @rowaelinismyotp @jorjy-jo @theresyourfireandblood @numbers-colors-fashion @swankii-art-teacher @whispers-in-the-darkest-heart @stardelia @astra-ad-mare

#rowaelin #rowan whitethorn #rowaelin au #throne of glass #rowan x aelin #songs about you #slow burn #bury me in angst #Lyria #fenrys moonbeam #dorian havilliard #Manon #rowaelin fanfiction #throne of glass fic #I like to be sad

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truly-sincerely · 3 months

Text

Dark Star Falilng (9 of 9)

Part of Darling wants to just let him do whatever he will. Let him destroy them. A large part. They’re pinned down and Enver Gortash is forcing a leg between their legs, pressing down on their pelvis with a knee. Darling has never been more ready to get railed, but it feels like a test.

There’s a kinesthetic memory that somehow wasn’t lost when Orin skewered their brain, or maybe Bhaal gave it back to them when they arrived at Wyrm’s Rock. Their story, told in a thousand corpses. Nothing concrete, just a feeling that it is correct. Tearing each other apart and then putting themselves back together so they could do it all over again. Darling had found a serenity with Astarion in being gentle or being the recipient, but seeing Gortash, getting close enough to read his scars, made them feel something altogether feral.

But it has to go both ways. They’re equals. Heads of their churches, the Chosen, fallen from grace, famous and infamous. They have to be equals. He wants Darling to fight back. He wants them to overpower him, or at least for them to try. They can sense his trepidation. They want to give him what he wants so badly.

“I can’t,” Darling says thru their teeth. “Balthazar’s fucking myrkulite chaff vivisected me I don’t know how many times. I’m not strong enough.”

“What can you do?,” Gortash’s disappointment is palpable.

Darling is hesitating because they know exactly what they can do, but they don’t know if it will ruin this. Finally, they decide they would rather hurt than disappoint him. Their voice reverberates off the stone walls, “This is going to be mean.”

Gortash makes a confused noise in his throat, but doesn’t have time to process what’s about to happen. Which is the point.

“Your parents never respected you and now they’re dead.” Sometimes when they use vicious mockery on someone or something, they just have to guess at an insult and hope that the mockery does the rest. In this case, even the surface insult is probably enough to screw with him, but there’s another layer underneath. Within the vibrations he knows Darling met his parents, spoke to his mother. The cruel things his mother said about him.

He recoils in pain and just a touch of fear, releasing one of Darling’s arms to clutch his head. Darling uses their freed hand to dig their claws into the tendons of his other wrist and he collapses on top of them, which is a bit of a backfire, but they’ve evened the odds, at least. They start wriggling out from under his body when he recovers enough to get his good hand around their throat and squeeze.

That squeeze is so much meaner, in the sense that he is both pissed as hell and that he intends to crush their windpipe. They don’t want to destroy his other wrist if they don’t have to. They think they’ll want him to still have manual dexterity when they’re done with him so they refrain from using their claws again. It occurs to them that they can’t remember which of his hands is dominant even tho they’ve seen him writing.

Without his accessories he’s just got stubby little human nails, filed all the way down, but he still manages to do some damage as he’s thrown bodily away from Darling’s throat. Impressive grip strength. They imagine a black and purple hand print and are excited to look at it later. He hits the ceiling with enough force to break something, but they can’t tell what over the roaring of the spell that sent him up there. The center of the thunderwave was aimed at his abdomen, so it’ll probably be ribs. If vertebrae are the problem they can heal him before permanent damage sets in.

They scramble to their knees to see if he’s getting back up. He’s on his elbow, clutching his torso. This is ideal. Darling slides over and shoves him onto his back. He makes a sound like a dying cat. They climb on top of him and rasp, “I like this. Are you having fun?”

He’s bleeding profusely and has pained tears in his eyes and it takes him a moment to fight thru the brain fog. Darling picks up his arm and licks the blood from it, humming just enough Weave to make the wounds scab over.

He mumbles something and then tries again when Darling doesn’t react, “Why’d you stop?”

“Renounce Bane,” they reply. “I’m not going to risk killing you as long as you’re his.”

“Threatening not to kill me. That’s a new one,” he laugh-wheezes. He’s not going anywhere like this so Darling sits up, pulling their trousers off.

“I don’t belong to Bhaal anymore,” they say into the empty air.

“I had that impression.”

“Renouncing Bane won’t kill you. You aren’t His son. You aren’t anyone’s son,” they argue as they settle back on top of him. “He saved you, tho, didn’t He? That’s why you’re so loyal?”

“What do you know,” the little tyrant sulks. It’s funny seeing him sulk. Two days ago he was the most powerful person in Baldur’s Gate. Now he doesn’t have to wear that mask anymore. “I wasn’t saved. I escaped.”

“No, I meant… from yourself. From self-destructing. He gave you a purpose. Taught you how to cope.”

“All He wanted in return was the world,” Gortash says and covers his mouth with a hand.

Darling is pulling his shirt open. “If we couldn’t give Him that, no one can.” Gortash looks up in surprise. Darling glances at him, “Stay down. I’ve got plenty more mean things to say.”

“For example?”

“You want me to open all of your old wounds and stick my fingers into them? Who am I kidding, of course you do. I can do it with or without the headaches.”

“You’ve become very strange.”

“I think I was always strange. I must have been better at keeping it to myself.”

“You should never keep your strangeness to yourself, darling. It’s one of your best qualities,” Astarion cuts in, appearing in the doorway. Darling, half naked, gives him a little wave. He adds, “one of the spawn said they heard an explosion.”

“Thunderwave.”

He spots the bruising on Darling’s throat and frowns. At least the fresh blood he smells isn’t theirs. “You’d tell me if you weren’t all right?”

“I have domesticated the Archduke,” they declare triumphantly. Gortash folds his arms behind his head and keeps his opinions to himself.

“So you have.”

First - Previous

I'm calling it done.

#dark star falling #bg3 #bg3 spoilers #durgetash #durge #gortash #astarion #it's okay astarion he's human he'll only be around for a few decades and then you'll have darling all to yourself forever #I know writers who use subtext and I'm one of them

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everygame · 6 months

Text

Until Dawn (PS4)

Developed/Published by: Supermassive Games Released: 25/08/2015 Completed: 04/10/2023 Completion: Everyone survived. Trophies / Achievements: 80%

It’s spooky season, so I thought I’d play some scary games and for whatever reason Until Dawn happened to be the one that bubbled to the top first.

I think when I was a kid who loved graphic adventures, I think this is what I thought video games would be. Cinematic experiences where you’re constantly making choices that have a meaningful (or not) effect on how the story goes forward. With Until Dawn, the tropes of horror are a perfect setting to ensure this kind of design doesn’t get out of hand: you can limit things almost to: who lives? Who dies?

Of course, there are still, simply, limitations to the form that I don’t think I was thinking about when I was 8 or whatever. Even if you stick close to the traditions of horror and make your cast an interchangeable group of arseholes who the player will be happy to see get offed, there’s only so much branching you can do, and then you also have to put in some stuff the player actually… plays. Which usually means… quick time events.

Isn’t it weird how they’re a thing? They’ve essentially existed since Dragon’s Lair in 1983, where you had to make a (barely) educated guess about which direction to push or which button to hit, and the main (only?) innovation in the last 40 years is that you know get told exactly what to do. And that happened literally about a year after Dragon’s Lair!

Does anyone like them? For me, they’re just an annoying bit where I have to remember which button is where on the controller. In an action game where succeeding at them matters, they are legitimately the worst way to engage me with the action–I’m not watching the cut-scene, I’m waiting for a horrible pop-up–and in a game like this, I think… why not just replace them with more choices? Choose if character A manages to perform the task or not because you want to see the story go one way or the other.

(And while you’re at it, only offer me the choices that are interesting. There’s a hilarious amount of climbing involving QTEs here to stretch things out.)

When I think about QTEs, I think it's telling that this was originally more focused on motion controls; I can imagine QTEs being more successful by actually going back to being more like Dragon’s Lair when played with (say) modern VR controllers. A character leaps to grab something, you throw your hand up and grab. Like Dragon’s Lair, though, that becomes complicated when there’s more than one option (do I do the motion to unsheath his sword, or run away? etc.) and here you just get stuck with Heavy Rain-style “Push R2 to open this door” and then you watch your hero awkwardly move their hand towards the door until you slip off R2 and they stop, creating the world’s most unconvincing human behavior.

Anyway, outside of QTEs, the play here largely features you… walking about slowly, usually following another character, and optionally picking up lore items (if you find them). Also something that feels like it could be almost entirely excised!

The thing about Until Dawn is, though, that the junky plot of “teens go to a cabin in the woods where a tragedy had previously occurred” is easily understandable and, dare I say it, enjoyable. The archetypes and tropes are all on show, and it’s actually fun to try and maneuver through the plot which is never really that surprising, but you don’t really need it to be. In fact, if if wasn’t for all the bits where you actually have to play it rather than making choices it’d be such a breezy wee experience; unfortunately, rather than going for a nice movie length it’s somewhat over-extended into ten episodic chapters, and I was disappointed when I finished it to have absolutely no hunger to play it again to see different things happen.

I suppose also, probably, because seams of the branching become a little too apparent towards the end. There’s a couple of characters who seem destined to die simply because the plot doesn’t do anything with them, and in the final sequences there’s only one character that really matters.

This is still pretty fun for a single run through though, and I imagine it’s much more so if you play it with a group and just see what happens. There’s a lot of jump scares, comedy gore and even a few moments of actual tension.

Will I ever play it again? I won’t, but I’m already considering running through The Quarry, which isn’t supposed to be as good, but there’s something enjoyable sometimes about playing games which are so “low effort” (well apart from the bloody QTEs.)

Final Thought: I wrote about Supermassive Games’ Hidden Agenda six years ago and gave it an absolute kicking–a game which I did play with a group. Should have played Until Dawn back then instead…

Support Every Game I’ve Finished on ko-fi! You can pick up a digital copy of exp. 2600, a zine featuring all-exclusive writing at my shop, or join as a supporter at just $1 a month and get articles like this a week early.

#gaming #video games #games #txt #text #review #ps4 #playstation 4 #until dawn #supermassive games #2015

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moregraceful · 1 year

Note

aaron / tristen, “sweat”

"200 words" i said

featuring: william eklund, known instigator, and aaron dell's general unknowable aaron dell-ness

;;

A bad game gone good, for once, eking out a win at home to a sleepy weeknight crowd. Thrilling game, but Wednesday nights are a hard sell in any California city. Tristen wishes they could have these kinds of games on weekends when the Reef is more than half-full, but a win’s a win even if the place is sparse.

Back in the locker room, the boys are buzzing. Rasky and Buchi are talking about going out for drinks; Zino and Sieloff are already making disappointed faces at them across the room. Tristen’s powerplay buddies are deep in an argument about something Tristen missed and doesn’t care about.

Tristen watches Aaron undress, layer by layer. The mask first, revealing tangled, sweaty hair, then jersey, then pads. Skates, leggings, shorts. Underarmour. Cup. Tristen wants to put his entire mouth on the back of Aaron’s neck when Aaron turns around to set his mask on the top of his stall. He laughs as he says something quietly to Mäki and Mäki grins. Tristen wants to climb up his back and suck on the junction of his shoulder blades to his spine, push his face into Aaron’s hair and feel how wet it is on his lips.

“Bordy, shut up, I’m right,” says Ekky. Bordy squawks indignantly. Eks slams his hand against Tristen’s shoulder so hard that it knocks the wind out of him. “Robbie, why the fuck are you still dressed?”

Tristen bats him off and starts to undress hurriedly. Ekky pokes his cheek after Tristen untangles himself from his jersey and pads. “You’re going out, right?”

“Sure, whatever,” says Tristen. He glances at Ekky. “Wait, what?”

Eks looks around the room and says, “oh, okay. I got it.”

Tristen takes the tape from his leggings and smashes it on Ekky’s bare thigh. Eks makes a face.

Aaron walks past them. He glances down at them, smiles his pleasant Aaron Dell smile. He’s so everything that Tristen feels his want deep under his skin. “Careful, boys,” he says. “Chafing’s no good that close to your dick.”

Eks grins. “You have to be careful, Robbie,” he says. “You could have taken my dick off.”

“Well, not exactly what I meant,” says Aaron, shaking his head.

Tristen is torn between hitting Eks in the face and asking if Aaron will let him bite his jaw. It takes him so long to decide that Aaron makes the decision for him. Aaron nods at them both and goes into the shower room.

Tristen hits Eks in the face. Eks cackles and gets up. “I’m telling Jmac on you,” he says and disappears into the shower room.

Tristen sits in his stall in his Underarmour and doesn’t move until the room clears out. Aaron’s one of the last guys out of the shower as usual and he frowns at Tristen when he sees Tristen sitting in his stall by himself. “You all right, Robbie?” he asks. “You had a good game. Maybe it didn’t show on the scorecard, but you held up the powerplay.”

Tristen’s skin feels thick. “Thanks,” he says. Water is dripping down Aaron’s ear, like he missed a spot when he was toweling off. Tristen wants to drink it.

“A win’s a win, but you’re doing great personally,” says Aaron. “I’ve been watching.”

Tristen blinks. A smile is pulling the corners of Aaron’s mouth, like he has a secret. Tristen wants to press his fingers in Aaron’s smile and drag the secret out.

Tristen texts him almost every day because Aaron responds the most regularly. Tristen thought maybe it meant something that he felt comfortable subjecting Aaron to his random waking thoughts every day, but maybe it means something, too, that Aaron would respond nine times out of ten.

He licks his lips, testing a half-formed theory that just came to him. Aaron’s smile grows a little wider.

“I’m not going out,” says Tristen.

“Yeah?” says Aaron. “I don’t think I am either.”

“Okay, good,” says Tristen. “Also, I have a roommate.”

“I don’t,” says Aaron mildly, which Tristen already knew. Tristen curls his hands around the seat of his stall so he doesn’t touch Aaron when Aaron smiles just a little bit wider. “You carpooled with Ozzy, right? I don’t mind giving you a ride home.”

Whose home, thinks Tristen. Not his home. Aaron’s home.

“See you in ten,” says Tristen. He strips off the rest of his clothing as fast as he can while Aaron laughs. He stands up, grabs a towel, and glances over at Aaron.

Aaron is watching him, looking pleased at the sight of Tristen’s body in his own way.

Tristen’s feeling better about this night already.

#unfortunate birdcage fanfictions #SOOOOOOO good thank you

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charmsandtealeaves · 1 year

Note

For the wip game snippet from boots??? And the revenge sweetness??? I’m intrigued

Okay I am currently somewhat overwhelmed by the level of love Brown Boots & Breakfast Bagels has been receiving. I woke up to SIX comments this morning after posting chapter 3 last night. Which to me is absolutely insane. So here's a little snippet from the upcoming chapter 4 (which may or may not come out later today 😉).

“You say it like I don’t already know all this Ali. I want a serious relationship! I want someone who I’m happy to come home to everynight and eat dinner with. I want to go to bed feeling safe and warm and loved and all the shit you’ve got with Frank. I’ve tried. I tried with Benji, I tried with Amos-” “No Lily. You didn’t.” Alice interrupted sternly. “You picked men who weren’t ready for serious relationships. You picked men in their mid twenties who still act like teenagers. You went on a few dates and you shagged them. You wanted to fix them up the way you wanted but they didn’t want to be fixed. And when they didn’t want that you didn’t want them. So you dropped them and moved onto the next thing or went back to Snape for a pity fuck. I love you Lily I do. But you’re not going to give Caradoc a proper chance until you’ve settled whatever it was with James. For whatever reason you opened up and trusted James and you feel like he’s thrown it back in your face. You’re angry and you’re hurt. I can understand that. But you don’t just get hurt and move on. You get hurt and try to cause more hurt or shut down. You gotta rip the plaster off this time girl. Confront James, have it out with him and then seriously give it a go with Caradoc. Fuck this ‘don’t screw the crew rule’. If it works out, that’s great. If it doesn’t it just doesn't. He’s already shown he can be mature about it after all the times you’ve rejected him previously. You know how to remain professional so just take the bloody chance will you. You deserve to be happy Lily more than anyone I know. But being happy starts with YOU.”

As for Revenge Tastes Sweeter. I've hit a bit of a slump with that. I originally planned to have a fair amount written before I started to publish it, but I think I might just roll with it and start publishing it because clearly I can be motivated to write by kudos and comments 🤣

It's an extension/sequel to one of the pieces I wrote for Jilytober Fest, Bad Taste. It's essentially a Jily fake dating fic which I only wrote because @joyseuphoria suggested it. I know I've shared a snippet of it previously but I can't for the life of me find the post (can you tell I'm bad at tagging things? I'm trying to work on that). So here it is again:

James stepped forward and bent down to kiss Lily gently on the lips. The hem of her school skirt touched him just below the knee. Her lips were soft and melded nicely with his. Though only briefly, before he pulled away. She looked up at him slightly disappointed. “What are you doing with your hands Potter?” James looked down at his hands which he’d firmly put back into his pockets prior to kissing her. “What am I supposed to do with them?” “Oh I don’t know. Touch my face? The small of my back? Something other than just shoved in your pockets.” Lily suggested. “Well I don’t know do I? I don’t exactly want a hexing for putting my hands somewhere they shouldn’t be.” He replied exasperated.

So maybe two fic chapters will be coming out this weekend... watch this space.

#ask answered #snippet: Brown Boots & Breakfast Bagels #Snippet: Revenge Tastes Sweeter #Coming Soon: Revenge Tastes Sweeter #jily fic

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liber-what-ia · 2 years

Text

The crooked kind (Part 8: The eleventh hour) {Uncharted - Rafe Adler x Nathan Drake}

Summary: Rafe is a riddle to Nathan – a potentially dangerous one. And nothing calls to Nathan Drake like some good, old-fashioned danger. This time, though, his luck might be running out for real. (Or, some alternate version of what happened in – and after – Panama).

Warnings: language, light smut, psychological trauma, grief (warnings change according to the chapter).

Word count (current chapter): 6.8k

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38081011/chapters/95921929 feel free to leave kudos if you enjoyed the read ♥

⪼ Previous Chapter – Next Chapter ⪻

DO NOT REPOST – REBLOGS ONLY

“Then you put this end over this other end, you see? You slide it in the loop and you pull, firmly, and you’re done. See?”

Nathan raises his head and sees that Sam is still struggling with his piece of rope, his fingers flimsily trying to follow the steps.

“No, no, you have to hold the loop, like this, alright? Or it’ll… exactly, fall apart.”

Sam pulls too fast, the rope slides all the way out, and the knot comes undone in his hands.

“This is wicked hard and useless,” his brother laughs in exasperation and tosses the rope off the bed.

He rummages in his pockets to find his beaten-up lighter and lights himself a cigarette, as if he deserved one just for the stress he's been put through.

“Why would I need a noose anyway? Isn’t it kind of grim?”

Nathan shrugs, still sitting cross-legged on the bed. He gives the cigarette the evil eye, but doesn’t say anything, even though Sam had been adamant about “not taking up the habit”. Yeah, right.

“It is useful. It’s a strong knot, you can lift heavy things with it, you can rope a ledge to pull yourself up… and it’s very easy to make once you master it. You just don’t have the patience.”

Sam holds up his hand, brushing his comments aside: whatever, I could care less, he can almost hear him say. He puffs out a small cloud of smoke and it disperses quickly under the warm, humid breeze coming in from the window left ajar.

Sam suddenly rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, looking distressed. It makes sense: it’s a hot spring for Boston’s standards and he’s just come back from a job in Mongolia – sick trip, that one. Sam has a new story for him every night. Nathan, on the other hand, feels completely at ease after suffering Colombia’s tropical heat. It’s even a bit chilly for his taste, and he keeps his brother’s old baseball shirt on.

Sam puffs out a very remote attempt at a smoke ring, grimacing and squinting at the sorry result. Nathan holds back a giggle: he looks like an annoyed cat when he makes that face. Sam notices his reaction and scrunches up his nose, probably considering the idea of shoving him off the bed for “lese-majesty”, as he likes to call it.

He doesn’t, though, and Nathan is almost disappointed. In the last few days, Sam has been unusually quiet and almost secretive about what he's actually thinking – which isn't really out of character for him, but he's been hitting a new extreme here. And he’s thinking a lot, smoking one cigarette after another. It surely has to do with the fact that he decided to look for Sir Francis Drake's ring by himself. He can tell exactly when Sam gets offended, and even though he was ultimately happy with his recovery, it's clear he would've liked to be an active part of it.

Nathan starts fidgeting with his noose. He holds it up and closes one eye to look through the loop. It’s a bit askew but way better than the sloppy first ones he’s made under Sully’s guidance.

“Victor taught you that, right?” Sam asks all of a sudden, as if he read his thoughts.

The way he almost throws away the question tells Nathan he’s not actually throwing it away. Just like his "okays" are never just okay.

“Yeah. Sully was in the Navy. He knows dozens of knots.”

Nathan shrugs again. He doesn’t like the way Sam keeps calling Sully by his first name. It’s like he purposefully wants to keep himself at a distance from him, even though he saved his little brother’s life. He sounded almost pissed when Nathan called him to tell him he was coming back from Cartagena in a few days and that he had company – reliable company. And he barely greeted the man at the airport when he came to pick him up. Sully had seemed a bit taken aback by Sam’s cold attitude, then he just walked off without as much as a reproach, shooting a gruff see ya, kid behind his back.

After one week, Nathan still has to build up the courage to call Sully’s home number just to know it’s legit.

“So you’re gonna learn them all, are you?”

Sam’s voice brings him back to the present. Nathan shrugs for the third time in a row, and this time his hand goes to tug at the newly acquired ring dangling from his neck, thumbing the inscriptions on the inside and outside.

“Why not? I always learn everything there is to learn.”

“Don’t I know.” Sam pauses, scoffing under his breath. “Seems like Victor is a better teacher than me anyway.”

A loaded silence stretches between them like a panther ready to pounce.

Nathan frowns, then sighs as quietly as he can, even though he’s really feeling under stress. It’s not only because he thinks Sam is overstepping his boundaries – he is, but he also knows exactly how his brother is feeling. They’ve been on their own for over two years, but it’s only lately that Nathan has begun to actually feel lonely. Disconnected from the world, as if they’re living in a separate bubble from all humanity, drowning in dead people’s tales and lost treasures.

Nathan has never felt like a people person, but maybe he’d like to be one. Maybe he would already be, if only he didn’t grow up in a secluded catholic orphanage, and if only there were other people around them. A grizzled, cigar-addicted conman and treasure hunter is probably not a fourteen-year-old’s first choice for a friend, but it’s better than no one at all.

Sam doesn’t think it the same way. It’s like he believes everyone will try to snatch his little brother from him. Nathan knows it should anger him, but it actually saddens him more than anything.

“Sam, I’m not… replacing you. I like being with you, I just like being with Sully too. You know that, right?”

“I s’pose.” He pulls a tense, apologetic smile, flicking the cigarette off the bed and then into the ashtray on the floor, as if he's not in the mood for smoking anymore. “It’s just hard knowing that you can manage without me. At this rate, who knows how long you’ll still need your big brother, right?”

He smiles, but his eyes don’t light up. How can he think so low of himself?

“Bullshit.”

Nathan wishes he had something heavier than a piece of rope to throw at his brother. He hates when he guilt-trips him like that. And he's looking at him with the intense, warm expression that never fails to remind him of their mother. Nathan ducks his head in disbelief, refusing to watch him in the eye.

“I am not going to leave you behind. I would never,” he says, and it’s barely a whisper, but he pours every ounce of firmness into it.

Sam chuckles. There’s something pointy and sharp in that laugh, like metal shards rattling against each other. The light in the room starts to dim – a cloud must be passing outside.

“You’ve always been a lousy poker player, little brother.”

Sam’s voice suddenly sounds rougher, deeper. Nathan doesn’t immediately raise his eyes, still dead set on staying angry at him. The light is so faint now, it could be dusk already – but it was late morning not even two minutes ago.

“Why would you say that? It’s the truth,” he mutters, feeling his voice wavering.

Just then, Sam’s hands come into vision under his eyes, resting beside his own, and there are faint scars and calluses on them that weren’t there before. They seem bigger, stronger, with nicotine-stained nails, hardened knuckles, and a hint of hair on his wrist.

Nathan blinks hard.

He raises his eyes and looks straight at his brother – then he pauses, gaping in puzzlement. Sam is older, his hair longer and combed back; there are more wrinkles around his eyes, there’s a sharper curve to his nose, and a more marked shade of beard on his chin. He’s smiling in a sad, soft way that gives him the creeps.

“Sam...?”

His hazel eyes don’t see him, he realizes. They’re opaque, filled with gossamer and dust.

Nathan feels something choking the air out of him.

A trickle of blood suddenly stains Sam's lips and chin, dripping into nothingness – it’s pitch-dark around them now, it feels cramped and it smells of wax and incense.

Nathan jumps to his feet – the noose falls from his hands, lands at Sam’s knees.

His brother is still smiling, his eyes still blank, dead, yet so pained he can feel their stab directly in his chest.

“Then why did you leave me behind, Nathan?”

△

Nathan jerks awake in a pool of his own sweat, gasping for air.

His lungs hurt, his chest heaves as if he’s been underwater for too long. He lets out a strangled pant and rakes his hands on his damp face. The bruise on his cheekbone shoots a pang of pain through his nerves. He stays like that for several seconds, maybe even minutes, feeling the nightmare clawing at the back of his mind, trying to break loose into reality. He shuts it out, bolts the door, seals it away for good. That memory is stained forever.

“Fuck,” he breathes against his palms, struggling to breathe normally.

He eventually cracks his fingers open and his surroundings slowly come into focus, albeit shrouded in a greyish light, eerily resembling the one in their room back in Boston. He’s still on the boat. The quiet rocking and the slush of the waves should’ve given that away, along with the smell of salt. He can make out the wavy line of the horizon outside the nearest porthole. The sea is calm and still leaden, the sky gives off the faintest hint of daylight.

A soft snore to his left catches his attention, and his still half-covered eyes pin unexpectedly on Rafe’s lying frame. He’s sleeping beside him on his back, with one hand on his stomach and the other bent above his head, breathing through his slightly-parted mouth. He looks peaceful, for a change, even though there are dark rings around his eyes. He obviously has a very deep sleep, or he would’ve been startled awake already. Or he's simply exhausted – Nathan didn't hear him coming to bed, but it can't have been that long ago.

Nathan holds back a shiver, suddenly aware of the boat’s chilly temperature against his still damp and exposed skin. He cowers under the blanket, trying to even out his erratic pulse. He’s wondering if he should wake Rafe up – weren’t they supposed to set sail at the break of dawn? – when the shrill, piercing ring of an alarm blares over the quietness.

Rafe grunts and stirs on his side of the bed, blindly waving a hand to his left until he finally smacks the alarm clock on the shelf into silence. He cracks an eyelid open and blinks repeatedly, still looking more asleep than awake, then he sits up with a sudden movement, forcefully rubbing his face to drive the sleep away, as if he could just doze off again in a matter of seconds. He glances at his side, finding Nathan’s half-hooded eyes.

“Ain’t you a ray of sunshine,” he mumbles, voice still husky from the night.

“You should see yourself,” Nathan shoots back, croaking a bit himself.

Rafe takes a look at the alarm – it blinks a merciless 4:30 am – and his expression darkens even more.

“I slept for maybe two hours. I had to keep the boat into safe waters,” he groans then, as he throws his legs off the side of the bed and stretches his back – something pops quietly and they both grimace.

“I could’ve helped you with the… you know, sailing stuff,” Nathan says, slowly sitting up as well.

He feels a little dizzy. Maybe he should eat something, but the thought of food still makes his stomach clench. It’s down to only water again, it seems. He's handled worse.

“I had it under control. I’ve been doing ‘sailing stuff’ since I was old enough to tie a knot,” Rafe shrugs, mocking him a little as he stands up with a disgruntled huff.

Nathan holds back a wince at those words, as if a needle just pricked his skin. He stiffens, as blurred images from the dream waver like mirages in front of him – nooses and knots and incense, only this time Sam’s face is a blotch of white, shapeless paint, no features, no eyes, no nothing – because how can he still have a face after that fall, after his body crushed and splintered…

He finds himself gagging abruptly and he presses a palm to his mouth, stifling a horrified gasp. Rafe turns to him with a jolt.

“Nate?”

“I’m fine,” he manages to say, muffled by his own hand, the other one strangling the covers. “Just… seasick.”

He doesn’t fool him, of course – he’s always been a lousy liar after all, isn't he? – and next thing he knows, Rafe is standing at his side, a look of peeved concern scrunching his eyebrows together. He considers him for some weighty moments, before speaking in an all but appeasing tone:

"You said you didn't get seasick."

"I am now, okay?" Nathan snaps, his voice tensing around the words.

"Well, get over it. We're not on vacation here."

Nathan shoots him a sideways glance, actually grateful that his stomach is an empty chasm, or he might've already thrown up everything and then his soul.

"Why don't you go doing your 'sailing stuff' and let me breathe for a sec?" he all but snarls, making to shove him away and completely missing him.

Rafe scoffs, still hovering over him, not making the slightest gesture to heed his request.

“Whatever happened to staying focused?”

Nathan whips his head up, rage building inside him as if a match just fell into a pit of fuel.

“You think this is easy?” he says through gritted teeth, forcing himself to pull the hand away from his mouth despite the queasiness.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Rafe bites back, and he suddenly seizes him by his wrist, forcing him to turn around and abruptly leaning into his space. “You think you’re the only one having a hard time here?”

Nathan can feel his eyes widen in disbelief as he tries to snatch his hand away – but Rafe's hold just tightens, cutting the blood flow in his arm. Nathan only now realizes just how weak he feels, his muscles all jittery and feeble, unable to fight against his grip.

“I just lost my brother, goddammit! How could you–”

“I know, and we’re both fucking dead too if we screw up!” Rafe cuts him off, shaking him by his wrist and sending a jolt up his arm, and he’s practically in his face now. “You wanna end up like Samuel? ‘Cause I fucking don’t!”

Nathan was about to come at him full throttle, since he seems so keen on flipping out first thing in the morning, but he stops before he can even begin to talk. Because Rafe Adler is screaming, and that’s something subverting some unwritten law of nature.

Yeah, they yelled at each other the night before, they almost came to blows too, but Nathan had been the one doing most of the screaming and most of the fighting. Now there’s a wild, frenzied look in Rafe’s sleep-deprived eyes, a twitch in his set jaw and features, more wrinkles than ever on his furrowed brow. And he's going to sprain his wrist if he keeps holding it that tight.

He’s scared, Nathan realizes at that very moment. Rafe is scared of dying – and he should be as well, if only life didn’t start to look meaningless from the moment Sam’s hand slipped from his own.

“I don’t want to die here either,” he tells him instead, not knowing if that’s the actual truth or just something he’s making up in his mind to retain his sanity.

Rafe abruptly closes his mouth, killing off his momentum and all the words he was about to spit out on him. He was probably expecting another aggressive comeback. He’s slightly panting through his nose now, but his tensed-up features smoothen out as he regains his control. He doesn’t let go of his wrist, but his grip slackens, going back to a simple hold. His face is still hovering inches away from his own, and Nathan can see the weary, almost febrile film in his eyes.

“Then you know what I need you to do. I can’t keep functioning for two here, not when there’s a manhunt on us and you’re the one who knows how to wriggle away from a tight spot. We’re going to get ourselves killed if we don’t both stay focused.”

Rafe is probably trying to force him to keep his head in the game, but he sounds as if those words are addressed at himself as much as they are at him. There’s still that fleeting gleam of confusion in his eyes, his pupil so shrunken it almost gets lost in the thin brown ring encircling it. Nathan feels like they're both only now grasping the complexity and dangerousness of the situation – and they're both breaking under different kinds of pressure.

They could die in a matter of hours. They could be thrown back into that prison. He can almost feel a noose around his neck, now suddenly aware that his luck might be running out for good – but maybe Sam was his luck all along, and he’s left him behind, he’s–

Nathan takes a deep breath, feeling splinters in his lungs. They're really going to get themselves killed if they don't relieve this unrelenting pressure, and there's only one way he knows to work for sure for them – just like it worked last night.

“Let’s stay focused, then,” Nathan hears himself say, killing his thoughts off and tugging at Rafe’s hand, still clamped around his wrist.

It’s enough to throw him slightly off-balance, causing him to lean forward. Nathan steals a brief kiss from him. Rafe draws back almost immediately, straightening up and looking dumbfounded – but he still lingers in his space, still doesn’t avert his eyes. It’s as if he can’t really find any good reason not to indulge in Nathan’s invite. Did he look that desperate too, last night?

“We don’t have time,” he mutters then, still way too close to him to be even remotely convincing, one hand still holding his wrist as the other comes up to his nape.

Nathan shifts to the edge of the bed, looking at him from below, eye-level with his waist. His hands climb up to Rafe's tights, crawl under his shirt and come to rest on his lower back, bunching up the hem to uncover his abdomen.

"Nate..."

“Let me return the favor, okay?” he whispers on his skin, just as Rafe whispered to him last night.

Rafe swallows audibly and stays silent as Nathan noses his way down to his waistband, under which a bulge is beginning to strain against his boxers. He teasingly nibbles on the hem, then dives beneath it, brushing his lips along his length through the thin layer of fabric, a small, damp spot already sifting through. Rafe inhales sharply, biting on his lip and then slightly parting his mouth. His eyes lose focus when Nathan tightens his grip, digging his fingers in his back and pressing his erection against his mouth.

Then Rafe mouths a distinct fuck it and dives onto him, catching him in a messy kiss, practically manhandling him back on the bed.

Nathan feels the world blur once more around him, smothered by the spikes of excitement and pleasure running wildly under his skin as Rafe gropes every inch of his body and latches onto him. The nightmare is losing shape, dissolving like blood into flowing water, and what’s to come looks like a far-away speckle on the horizon.

Rafe bucks against his mouth when Nathan presses him at the bottom, not making the slightest move to withstand his initiative – Nathan can feel him giving way under his pressure, slowly loosening up as he lets him take the lead this time. His skin feels a bit too warm to the touch, with the occasional shiver coursing through his body. Nathan tries to be gentler, to hold back on the urge building inside him, but it's an already lost battle, and Rafe doesn't seem keen on slowing down, even though his quickened breath almost turns to a wheeze at some point.

Nathan drags his teeth on his neck as he goes for his pants, pulling them down and taking a firm hold of his erection. Rafe’s breath hitches, then tumbles down in a moan and he starts writhing under his touch, his fingers now digging into his scalp. Nathan is already halfway down his belly, when Rafe finds just enough voice to speak:

“This is not what I meant with ‘staying focused’,” he breathes, gripping the hair on the back of his head.

Nathan shoots him one last look from below, briefly finding his misty eyes before going down on him.

“Then you set a really bad example, Rafe.”

△

“Let’s go over this again.”

Nathan sighs, feeling like when Sister Catherine would call him to the board and make him repeat the daily Bible verses he obviously never cared to learn. The sudden image of Rafe dressed in a nun’s tunic sits somewhere between hilarious and horrifying, but he’s starting to become accustomed to his brain’s recent misfires.

“I get in, show the fake ID if they ask for it, go up to our room, collect our stuff and come out from the back door right there. No sweat.”

It still feels strange talking in plurals when it’s just his room, now, his stuff. He shakes that consideration away. His brain really doesn’t seem willing to cooperate today.

“You need me to collect anything from your room?”

Rafe nods a no. “It’s nothing that can’t be replaced. Just be discreet, I don’t want to resort to plan B.”

He shoots a glance at the car’s glovebox, where a gun is sitting as a last-resort measure.

“Then don’t, I’ll wing it if things go south.” He notices Rafe’s withering glare and he rolls his eyes. “I’ve been doing this longer than you have, right? We– I’ve been in worse situations.”

“I honestly doubt it.”

Nathan considers him for a long second, then finally finds the will to utter his next words:

“Sam hasn’t always been there for me, you know? I had to make do without him more often than not. I’ll manage.”

Sure, he managed just fine that one time when Sam had been on a job, and he had the brilliant idea of going to Colombia and look for Drake’s ring alone. He managed so fine that an army of English thugs almost shot him and dumped his corpse in a ditch in Cartagena, had Sully have not been there to save his skinny ass – and all the times after that first one.

He can look after himself, as long as there’s someone else looking after him when he screws up. Just peachy. Nathan avoids Rafe’s gaze, feeling its weight on his skin, as if he’s able to sense the half-lie behind those words. Then his hand catches his wrist, building a firm pressure around it.

“Are you focused?”

Nathan turns to look at him, and he thinks he can glimpse flashes from this morning in his clear irises, in the way they hone in on him. When, within the tangle of half-naked limbs and moans they became all over again, he whispered those same three words on his lips – are you focused now? Yes, yes.

He swallows on his tongue, his skin subtly prickling. He's been keeping an eye on him, but Rafe seems completely lucid now: the mild stress-induced fever from this morning seems to have broken, leaving him simply very tired and in need of a good night's sleep. There’s no trace of tease in Rafe’s voice now, no glint of mischief in his eyes, even though the grip on his wrist clashes with that appearance, charged with more than one meaning. There's the faintest red ring on his skin, where he got a hold of him this morning.

Nathan steals one last glance at him – takes in the hint of sunburn on his cheekbones, the way it makes his light eyes stand out even more, the fine grains of salt stuck in his hair and the faint marine scent he gives off – then he nods jerkingly. He tries to see those details and not the whole picture, ignoring the whole, terrifying mess they're wading through right now. He just has to keep his head just above the water.

“Yeah. I’m focused.”

“Good.” Rafe retreats his fingers, leaving a warm impression on his skin. “Now go, we’re sitting ducks here.”

Nathan gets off the car and into the half-deserted street. The wave of appalling heat crashes down on him like a mallet, even though it’s barely nine in the morning. He pinches at his brown Havana shirt, fanning himself to no avail – and cursing Rafe for imposing that atrocity on him along with the matched linen shorts – then he starts off around the corner, leaving the hotel’s back door behind and heading for the main entrance.

Rows of colorful Hispanic-style houses seem to follow his steps through their run down, flaked shutters. It’s like they’re trying their best to be appealing, but they only manage to paint a rather stilted image of a lively neighborhood. Their hotel is in the town’s port area, after all, and he doubts it gets to accommodate many tourists throughout the year.

Nathan turns around the second corner, skirting along the wall to stay in its thinning shade. He wipes off the sweat from his palms, and it has nothing to do with the temperature. He can’t shake off the feeling that he will somehow screw this up. His brain is not really helping his case as it fires off thought after thought, smothering the background noise – Sam, Sam, Sam – and trying to keep him on track, focused.

According to their cover story, they’re American businessmen looking to strike a deal with some Panamanian export company. Nobody cared to inquire further, and Rafe’s bribes covered for any inconvenient questions. They didn’t even take any mugshot of them back at the prison, thanks to Vargas’ intercession, and of course they didn’t give their real names.

No one could even recognize them or put out a warrant unless they took a very good look at them during their brief detention – which he doubts, given how the guards seemed to treat every inmate with the same degree of contempt, as if they were just sacks of meat ready to be beaten on a whim.

Then again, they were the only three gringos back there. And now they’re down to two, and how can this be not suspect. They know that Sam––

Nathan feels a thin layer of cold sweat breaking out on his forehead as he struggles to breathe normally. His hand trembles when he pushes the hotel’s main door – he barely realized he walked up the short cobblestone path, went up the front steps and crossed the narrow porch.

He tries to stay focused, but how can he be focused and not think at the same time?

“Buenos días,” he hears himself say, as he walks into the small lobby.

The receptionist, a short, curly woman he’s never seen before, barely glances up from the ledger she’s writing on and answers in kind with a polite, unassuming smile. She quickly returns to her job until he walks up to the counter.

“Uh, quería la llave por mí cuarto, por favor. Harrison, 215,” he asks, in what he hopes is a decent Spanish.

Judging from the amused quirk of her lips, it isn’t, and he probably messed up the room number too, but she seems to get it all the same. She gives him the room key with a melodic, r-rolling here you go, looking him straight in the face for the first time.

A wary look blooms in her dark eyes and for a second Nathan is sure she is about to snatch the key back. She glances behind him, as if she were expecting someone else to be with him, and she seems confused. That reaction manages to shoot an uneasy feeling up Nathan’s spine. He takes the key and offers her a quick gracias, then he starts off to the stairs walking as fast as he can without breaking in a full run.

“Crap,” he curses under his breath as he shoots up the stairs the instant he’s out of sight.

She wasn’t there when they first arrived. Maybe she’s covering for one of the bribed employees and she’s wondering why on Earth only one of the three wealthy Americans staying here shows up alone after almost one week of unexplained absence. And then, he realizes, he’s sporting a shiner and a split lip, a literal eyesore on the wealthy businessman’s façade. That’s, like, the definition of hinky, as Sully would say.

He can already picture her calling her boss to ask for further details about the whole matter – and who knows how far Rafe’s bribes can cover their asses. He’s rich, but is he rich enough to cover up a jailbreak and avoid a possible extradition from the States – provided they can even leave the country unnoticed?

He reaches the room, and he has to go through four attempts, before he can lodge the key into the keyhole, feeling like a drunkard coming home after a bender. The jingling keyring echoes like a metallic noisemaker in the quiet corridor.

Focused, stay focused.

The door swings open, he steps in side, and every semblance of self-control crumbles apart as soon as he sets his eyes on Sam’s sunglasses, pinned on the small wall pocket by the coat rack. Nathan shuts the door behind him, eyes fixed on that single, completely normal object. He presses his back against the wood, feeling the need to sink to the floor.

His breath dwindles down to a feeble draft of air.

He can’t do this. He can’t do this – why does he even have to do this, actually?

Because he doesn’t even have a proper body to weep over. The thought shoots through his brain like a lightning bolt and it hurts just like one. This is the closest thing to a funeral wake he’s going to get right now.

He steps away from the door and reaches for the sunglasses. He picks them up, slowly, expecting them to turn to ash in his hands. They stay solid, listless, just like any pair of well-worn sunglasses.

Nathan wipes the tears from his face, not even knowing when they started coming. He can’t deal with his malfunctioning emotional system, right now, so he just lets them run down undisturbed as he slips Sam’s sunglasses in his shirt’s pocket and takes a few more steps in their– no his room.

It’s a mess. Clothes scattered all over, personal effects sitting in every corner, crumpled papers everywhere. They’ve never been the tidiest people. Even their flat looks like a bomb just went off in the middle of the parlor, and it made for more than one fight about who was on cleaning duty. In this moment, though, it all feels particularly aggravating.

He takes a deep breath, sniffles in resignation, and starts by recovering their duffel bags from under the beds. He carefully sets Sam’s blue one on his bed and tosses his own on the floor. Sam’s things come first. Nathan meant for this to have some kind of significance, but he finds himself just going through the motions, his heart drumming away with the fear of some catastrophe ready to strike him if he dares spending here more time than necessary.

Focused, he needs to stay focused – and, deep down, he's glad to rush this. It feels so wrong, so uncalled for, to mourn Sam in this miserable room at the end of the earth. There will be time later, he keeps droning to himself, barely looking at what he puts in Sam’s bag. He’s so quick that he actually has time to pack his bag too, so he doesn’t have to buy half of his summer wardrobe again.

And the ring, goddammit, he almost forgot about it. He pulls out a section of the wall's baseboard, right at the corner beside his bed, revealing the small niche where he shoved Sir Francis Drake’s ring. He almost drowns in relief when he sees it’s still there, untouched.

As he’s putting it on again, feeling as if the tiniest weight shifted back into place, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he nailed it effortlessly, when the sound of steps in the corridor suddenly spikes his anxiety. He tries to be reasonable. They’re just steps, and it’s a hotel, of course there are going to be people around – but his brain is currently busy turning to mush as he finds himself almost hyperventilating in the small, cramped room – what if the girl called the cops, what if they are already onto him?

The steps stop. Nathan is not sure, but he believes they’re right in front of the door. There’s no knock though, no shuffling of feet, no jingling of keys. Just dead silence.

Nathan swallows so hard he almost chokes on his own spit. He opens the window – that’s pure body memory, if the door is blocked, go for the window – and cranes his neck outside. He can see the small back garden, all patches of dry grass, stunted bushes, and withering flowerbeds. Those could make for a soft landing.

A sudden creak nearly makes him jump out of his skin, but it’s just old wood readjusting under a temperature leap – it must be, right? Or maybe they are forcing the door? No, why would they, employees have a master key, it doesn’t make any sense –and what if that was a gun’s safety, what if they’re aiming right at him right now–

Crap, he can’t think straight, he can’t think. All possible, absurd scenarios flash behind his eyes in a chaotic jumble, he can’t think–

He's a single thought away from a complete meltdown, and he wills his brain to just shut the hell down. That's when it decides to just strike him with the final blow, the one thought that's been chasing after him since he woke up this morning.

At this rate, who knows how long you’ll still need your big brother, right?

Nathan digs the heel of his hands in his eyes, exerting pressure as red blotches stain his vision. He muffles a sob in the back of his throat, drawing a wet breath. He wants to scream and cry and punch something at the same time.

“I need you now, Sam,” he whispers into thin air – that's the first sign of crazy, stop it, stop it.

His hands come down from his eyes and clasp around his nose and mouth, pressing together to stave off the sobs. He feels like he’s praying, maybe for real, for the first time in his whole life.

“Please, I need you now, you big dumbass. Please, please, just– come back.”

His voice breaks, barely audible. He almost expects him to open the door at this very moment, sporting one of his wiseass smiles and asking him what the hell he is crying about. But Sam isn’t coming, and Rafe is waiting for him, risking his life for this senseless endeavor, and Sully is a whole continent away – he doesn't even know about all this – and his luck has run out, if it ever existed.

He’s on his own.

He lets his hands fall down. One goes to grip his chest, right where his brother’s sunglasses are. The other presses against his ring, almost driving it into his chest.

He needs to stay focused.

He blows out a trembling breath, wipes his eyes and nose and chooses a course of action – no second thoughts, no hesitations.

You can’t hesitate when you throw two bags out the window and then vault yourself over the balcony landing to climb down a rickety drainpipe, scraping your knees and elbows against the rough, chipped wall outside – because you're so weak you might just faint under the scorching sun.

You can’t hesitate when you sneak your way to the bush where the bags landed, recover them – they’re heavier than they look, but you can’t slow down, you're carrying your brother's body – all while keeping an eye on a potentially police-swarmed building.

You can’t hesitate when the thought of making your way through the ground floor and to the back door becomes unbearable and you just opt for climbing the back wall directly into the street, hoping that nobody sees you or mistakes you for a thief and decides to put a bullet into you for good measure.

You can’t hesitate, when you skirt along a shady-looking slum acting like you’re supposed to be there, even though you probably look like a lost and beaten-up kid who’s trying to find his way home.

When Nathan all but tears off the car’s door handle, he feels like he’s just had an out-of-body experience, looking at himself through a spyglass as he somehow managed to get out of that trap in one piece.

“What the hell?”

Rafe’s startled voice brings him back to reality, as well as his sudden, dangerous hand jerk towards the glove box.

“Spare the bullets, it’s me.”

Rafe sighs, releasing some tension, though his eyes still dart warily to the street.

“I was expecting you to come out that way,” he huffs out, pointing at the hotel’s back door.

“I took the scenic route,” Nathan quips, shoving his own bag in the back seat and struggling to settle Sam’s in the footwell.

Rafe starts up the engine, quickly driving into the street. Nathan is aware of the furtive looks he’s stealing at his face, but he has the decency to keep his mouth shut about it – at least until Nathan notices he’s looking at him through the faint reflection in the window. He looks daggers at him, and Rafe clears his throat, going back to driving.

They both stay silent from then on, with bated breath, feeling like something could go awry at any moment – a police car coming out of nowhere, a gunshot breaking their windshield, a chopper flying overhead. When they finally take the highway leading to the airport, it feels like the oxygen is flowing into the car again. Tropical trees line the horizon, covering the sea view as they speed outside the windows.

“Were they after you?” Rafe asks after a while, and it's clear he's been holding back any questions about what the hell happened at the hotel to upset him so much.

“I don’t know, I just…” Maybe there's an elegant way to say he panicked. “I got a bad feeling and bolted from the window.”

“From the window?”

Rafe averts his eyes from the street to shoot him an incredulous look. Nathan shrugs, lazily signaling him to keep his eyes on the road.

“What can I say, it was the fastest way out.”

Rafe scoffs.

“So much for ‘discreet’.”

“When they notice that something’s off, we’ll already be in the air,” Nathan shoots back. “I don’t think anyone saw me climbing out. I'm good at sneaking away.”

“Let’s hope so.”

He sighs loudly, combing his hair back with his free hand, eyes trained on the now bumpy road ahead. Then he clicks his tongue and stays silent for a couple more minutes.

“You got everything?” he asks eventually, in that particular tone that seems to fight with itself to soften down all the edges it usually carries.

Nathan looks down at his own hands, not sure he can hold his gaze without bursting into tears again. His eyes thankfully stay dry.

“Yes. All that matters, at least.”

“Good. Then let’s get out of this goddamn country.”

Nathan nods – he couldn’t agree more. He realizes he’s tugging at Drake's ring in that nervous way of his. He perceives the weight of Sam’s sunglasses just beside his heart, the soft shape of Sam’s bag wedged between his feet. It’s all that matters, right there.

His throat tightens with the awareness that he’s leaving Sam behind for the second time.

⪼ Next Chapter ⪻

#uncharted #fanfiction #fanfic #rafe x nathan #rafe x nate #nate x rafe #videogames #smut #mm #angst #slash #sensitive topics #a thief's end

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