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socketz · 3 years

Text

Spencer Reid x Reader

Talking To The Moon.

Inspired by the Bruno Mars song, because it’s the one I listen to when I come up with my Spencer Reid fantasies😃.

Type : Angst (It’s just so fuckin’ sad, man)

Warnings : A LOT. Detailed mentions of r*pe / sexual assault, child m*lestation / assault / r*pe, physical abuse, physical fighting, broken bones, dislocated joints (Replacing them! Which is so disgusting, the thought makes me cringe), trauma, the usual Criminal Minds terminology (in terms of describing an UnSub), emotional breakdown, a lot of Death Talk™️ (which could somehow be perceived as suicidal, I guess?), and actual death, there is one (1) kiss. It is a PECK, crude language (profanity), and I think that’s it.

Word Count : 16.3K (this was NOT supposed to be that long, ohmygod)

Request : Not Requested. (This idea came to me in a really horrifying dream that I had, a few weeks ago. I always document my dreams, and this was... Well, it was more of a nightmare. I won’t share, but from the tone of the Fanfic I’m sure you can gather the terror that it endured.)

Summary : There’s a lot of plot for this one. The reader takes on a case (an unauthorised case, you understand), that she relates to on a very personal level. Determined to take on this UnSub, after observing his crimes within the media, and finding thelselves enraged by the Police’s futile attempts to make progress in his arrest, they search for him themselves, and they happen to forget every ounce of Federal Safety training they have ever experienced. Uh, Oh! Do I smell kidnapping? Yes, I do! The reader is kidnapped by the Unsub, and tortured for four days straight. The team are searching for them, but are they fast enough? Either way, Spencer will never forgive himself, and the reader isn’t sure they’ll make it out the other side, alive.

Authors Note : First of all, Baby Spence🥺🤚 the way he was RIDDLED with trauma?? PLEASE?? Got me out here trying to shift realities just to give this man a hug- like he really needs some love, y’know? I have other one shots in the works where he IS receiving his well deserved affection, but it’s not really this one (though he is comforting the reader. Well deserved, methinks)😭 this is perhaps the most graphic and depressing one shot I have ever written😃 I mean, enjoy??? I don’t know if that is the right word. Make sure you read the warning, man, the topics at hand are dealt with in depth and I do not want to trigger anyone!!!!!

Talking To The Moon, Spencer Reid x Reader

They say that the barrel of a gun is cold; that it seeps into the precipitation of your complexion, and the steel aches a circular coolness. They say that your life flashes before your eyes, and that your fight, flight, or freeze, kicks in, when the initial shock of fatality flashes, and blinds you for a defining split second. They say that in your final moments, you show who you truly are.

They are wrong.

The metal is warm, upon my forehead, as I blink slowly, a thousand thoughts - words, and probabilities; numbers, and statistics, and the thumping of my heart (thump, thump, thump; thump, thump, thump) everything, and anything; anything, and nothing - all find themselves meandering their way throughout my congested conscience. I think not of my childhood, the warm touch of my mother’s embrace, and neither the pride in my chest as I received my first ‘100%’, with a wonky smiley face, feedback for my very first official essay in school; not the swarm of flying insects, rampant within my stomach, as I first walked into the Behavioural Analysis Unit, of the Federal Investigations Bureau. I think not of Spencer, not of Morgan, or Penelope, Hotch, and Emily. I am… I am not…

The barrel of the gun is warm.

I blink slowly.

A sheen of smeared colour - like the pretense of a dull oil painting, perceived too close to the canvas - washes over my vision, steals the breath from my aching throat - thump, thump, thump, my heart cries; lodged beneath my tongue, thump, thump, thump - I swallow it back. Thickly, like treacle, and I… There- There is-

The barrel of the gun is warm.

I blink slowly.

I collect myself, in my throat, and I gulp with a softness that simply does not suffice. The flavour of something- of something burned, something charred, lies upon the dry thrum of my tongue, and I allow myself to taste it. Just for a- just for a moment. Just for a moment, I taste it, and it is charred- charred and metallic. The burned flavour of my chest, thumping iambically beneath my heavy-set jaw, wafts up, up, up, throughout my trachea, and it coils between my teeth. From the back, to the front, around, and around, does it crawl, and my heart thunders on in my thoughts; thump-thump-thump, thump-thump-thump.

The barrel of the gun is warm.

I blink slowly.

The same ache rolls around my motionless joints; it burrows beneath my stained complexion, and I do not flinch as something pop’s, and another bone crack’s. It is not- I am warm. An uncomfortable sense of warmth, that settles upon my grimy skin, and collects itself among my wounded figure, and- and it’s- and it’s hot. It’s hot, and it aches-

But the barrel of the gun is warm, and I blink slowly.

I blink slowly, and the barrel of the gun is warm.

I yearn to think, to obtain coherency, but the barrel of the gun is warm, and it hurts. Oh, it aches, and I- a shuddered breath falls from my unnaturally moistened mouth, tainted by the spill of internally displaced fluid, and I force my eyes to peel open. To unveil beneath their thick hoods, to dismiss the burning heat that flares from my slow blinking, to show him no weakness. I force my eyes to peel open, because, by God, if it’s the last thing I’ll ever do, I will look him in the eyes, and I will silently congratulate myself on my victory. I will not lose; I will not surrender.

And so I peel back my lids, and I ignore the sweltering ache that rushes upon my discoloured, broken, cheek, and I observe him with a gaze of (what I pray to be) great indifference. I slack my features, and I spare myself the wince, as the temptation of heat, licking away the wet droop of my bruised face, engulfs the structure of my poised, blank, expression. Dark, dark, circles; the kind of spherical matter that the mariana trench may find envy within, roam me. Thoughtlessly. Not a thing behind those eyes - no feeling, no rage, no pain. There is no tremble to his digits, as he holds the trigger of the sleek revolver, cherry-wood-handled, and there is no twitch within the muscular construction of his nonchalance, as it fades between four-a-piece, and a regular, blurred, arrangement.

This is it, I think, at last, and the silence between my irrevocably untelling orbs infiltrates its way through my subconscious. Soon - a mere matter of seconds, that spirals to the incoherent detailing of a slurry construct - there is nought but the mulling tone of my heart, thumping endlessly beneath my burning sternum, and I force myself to breathe evenly. In, my chest rises softly, and out, I exhale something shaken through my nostrils.

By God, I think; this really is it.

And the barrel of the gun is warm, as I blink up at him slowly, and I do not regard the noiseless sobbing of the child, to the darkest corner of the room.

This is it. It pounds within my ears, morphed upon the rhythm of my steady heartbeat; this is it, this is it, this is it.

This is it, and the barrel of the gun is warm, and I blink up at him slowly, and the breath on my tongue tastes like the charred meat of my steadily thumping heart, and I think of nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing, at all - nothing but the silent shake of a tear-stricken expression, caught beneath the dim lighting, as her circular, little, face, enlarges. Enlarges, and morphes, by shadows, and yellow light; approaching. I do not regard her, as she nears in my peripheral, and the curve of her small, fragile, shoulders tremble, and the flush of her moistened cheeks glimmer among the bulb’s reflection, but the burned flavour on my tongue ceases its subtlety, and there is a taught capture about the breath in my lungs. It is reeled back, and stored deeply beneath my broken bones.

And, suddenly, my heartbeat lurches into my throat.

I miss the warmth of the metal, as it flinches away from my bloodied forehead, and I miss the dark discs of his thoughtless eyes, as they leave me, and the ache of my tongue dissipates to a resolve of bitter dryness.

There she stands, beneath the weight of the revolver, with a violent shake to her thin figure, and a harsh, bruised, red, to her cheeks; puffy eyed, and traumatized. She breathes not a word, she expresses not a sound, and still his finger curls. Curls subtly, ever-so-gently, and my heart tumbles into my mouth, before I can drag it back down. “Coward.” It spits, unbearably rasped upon the echo of my dry, naked, throat; like wood upon sandpaper, it grits, and it grits, and the shavings collapse in my lungs, as they heave; in, I rasp; and out. “You’ll-” I gather my cheek between my jaw, and I nibble it tearsly, a deep, seering, heat erupting- erupting, and sprouting; multiplying, between my very cells. “You’re gonna shoot a- a little-” Another pained, hollow, heave; I clamber for steady footing. “Shoot a little girl?” Dark, dark, circles… no feeling, no rage, no pain. They catch within the light, and never before have I observed a shadow exposed by the sun, and still obtaining its darkness. But there they are, as they gaze unto my own, and I level our stare with ease. “Impotent son of a bitch.” I murmur, a mere breath upon the quiet.

Antagonize him, my conscious crows; rile him up, give him reason for distraction.

“That is-” I stutter in my respiration, and the wheeze of a wet cough finds the depth of my chest. It rumbles through the rasp of my throat, and a slick, metallic, moisture coils upon the flesh of my lower lip. The coppery taste ravishes my mouth, and I allow the liquid to spit between my words. “That is why you do it, isn’t it?” I say, no more than a whisper, gargled by the congestion of the red fluid pool, congregated about my tongue. “You couldn’t-” Another ragged breath, “Couldn’t perform. Not for the-” I swallow the metallic, warm, liquid, and it burns my aching throat. “Not for the pretty women. Hm?” He regards me, motionlessly, and the discs of irrevocable blackness roam my hot, burning, features. “So you too-” I gulp back the rise of blood in my throat, unsettled and naturally rejected. “So you took to little girls, instead, didn’t-” A softer, shallower, inhale, “Didn’t you?”

Silence. The iambic thrum of my heartbeat interrupts the depth of the quiet, but I push it down - down, down, down, beneath the crushing weight of my charred sternum, and I force myself to continue.

“Yeah.” I say, quietly, “You did.” I harden my gaze. “You do.” You take them, their vulnerable, defenseless, innocent, selves, and you steal their childhood; you steal their youth like the dawn to the night, and you rip the world from beneath their fucking feet. “They’re small.” I rasp. “Young.” I try not to think of the dry red, that - the dry, dark, blood, that stains her little thighs, and I try not to picture the tears on her cheeks, and the seeping crimson that cakes the lower quarter of her sweet, white, dress. I try not to entangle her contorted features with a familiar reflection, try to ignore the burning ache of my sweltering chest, as it burns, and it binds, and contracts so ferociously, and I swallow back the lump, riddled with- with- with something. (Bile, blood, bitten down sobs, does it matter? Does it matter?).

There she stands, with a violent shake to her thin figure, and a harsh, bruised, red, to her cheeks; puffy eyed, and traumatized.

“They’re small enough to-” I nibble my inner cheek, and the rasp engulfing my tone threatens to tinge with a bespoken darkness. “They’re small enough to feel you, aren’t they?” I say, and there’s something- there’s something that flashes, be it only a split moment, behind those unforgiving holes he deems the window to his soul. Black, and inhumane. Fitting. “They feel you enough to react.” The muscle to the corner of his left eye contracts, a mere millimeter, or so, but I catch it. Oh, do I catch it. “They cry.” I say, softly, and I hope that the girl holds any kind of oblivion she once may have obtained. “They scream. They bleed.” They die. “But, hey,” I murmur, “any liquid is liquid, right?”

It burns, and it aches, and I nibble the eroded flesh of my inner cheek, and I blink up at him slowly, but at least he is here. At least he is here, at least her blood is dry, at least she can walk. At least I can buy her some extent of recovery time. “You’re sick.” I spit, tone lowered significantly, but still strong. Somehow, I obtain my strength, and I continue. “You’re twisted, and you’re useless.” I say. “You’re nothing but a freak, a shrimpy coward with no sexual capability.” Twitch, twitch; the muscle of his left eye contracts, once more, with more force; more concealed rage, bubbling away beneath the surface. “Pathetic.” I continue, a mere grumble upon the thickening silence. “You couldn’t satisfy a woman if you tried-” The barrel of the gun is colder, now, as he forcefully presses it’s rim upon my forehead, but the steel soon begins to warm. I blink up at him slowly, and I prod. I prod, and I prod, and I wait for the sleeping lion to snap and bite. A breathy chuckle falls from my dry tongue. “There it is.” I whisper. “There it is- you’re an embarrassment, aren’t you?” I mock, tone thick with some kind of congealed, faux, amusement. I swallow back the uprising liquid, lodged thickly amongst my throat, and I offer him a blank, condescending, smile. Bloody-toothed, and bitter. “Tell me, Ben, can you even get it up, properly, anymore?”

SMACK.

I hear it, and then- then I feel it, and before I know what has hit me, he has. The tang of warm liquid, filling my mouth, is entirely indifferent to the coppery flavour I have grown to know, as of late, and I bite back the bubbling groan, a flare of burning heat traveling through the very cells in my ruptured cheekbone. Bruised, and tender; the flourish of agonizing heat pulsates, like the steady beat of my burning chest, and I regain my sturdy posture, gazing back unto the deep, dark, discs. Lifeless, enraged. I ignore the pulse in my features, and the thump of my circulation, gushing rampantly through my senses, as I adjust my blaring joints, and I maneuver my strung limbs. Wrists confined to the sufficient, tight, expertise of Benjamin’s personal experience, they hang perpendicular to my sides; expanded, outstretched, like the span of a bird in flight.

I hang from them, there, upon the wall, and I ignore the raging fire, engulfing my (dislocated) damaged shoulders. Slumped upon my knees, bruised and discoloured for all their worth, I tilt my head up, and I blink at him slowly. My eyes water, a natural reaction, and the sting in my cheekbone echoes with the afterthought of his gun, freshly stricken, throbbing. But still, I bore my gaze unto his own, and I force my jaw to loosen. “Touchy.” I grumble, bitterly. “What’s the-” I swallow the consistently uprising clump of blood, and of rejected bile, and I try again. “What’s the matter, Benny?” I press. “You insecure?” I say. “Ashamed?” Of course he isn’t, he’s furious. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. “Challenged?” The muscle of his left eye twitches, again, and I force a crooked, toothy, smile. “Yeah.” I say, “That’s it. You’re afraid.” Another twitch. “Out of your dep- out of your depth.”

“Shut up.” He snaps, “Shut up.”

My eyebrows raise, and I allow another breathy, rasped, chuckle to fall from my cracked mouth. “Raping little girls is one thing,” I continue, “But kidnapping, and torturing an Official Officer?” Another fleeting, thin, laugh. “Jesus. Who knows what they’ll do to you in there?”

“They worship Pig killers in that place.” Benjamin snarls, and, for once, I find myself smiling with an unmissable genuinity.

“Yeah.” I say, with a grin. “They do.” And I allow my humour to dance within my gaze, as I motion the man closer, with a subtle toss of my head. He follows, nose aligned with the warm barrel of the revolver, and I ignore the throb of my cheek, and the iambic scream of my heart. “But, see, Benny-Boy,” I whisper, my breath fanning his thin lips, “I ain’t no Pig.” I tongue the soft mutilation of my inner cheek. “I’m a Federal Fucking Agent.”

The breeze is not calming, as it brushes upon my face, and I throw myself forward, crashing my forehead upon the smooth curve of his foolishly close expression. A barbaric crack rips though the disturbed quiet, and the sudden splat of warm liquid dignifies itself upon my sopping complexion, as the muffled tumble of retreating, unsteady, footsteps echo clumsily around the room. I think I got his nose, as I fall back against the wall, arms useless, and I connect with the concrete behind me, dragging my bruised and bloodied limbs out, as they abandon their position of lying beneath me. I sit aloft the ground, and my legs roar with a thousand shallow wounds; pins and needles scattering hoarsely about the flesh of my weak anatomy. “Fuck,” I murmur, as I ignore the dizzying, blurred, contortion that warps my unsturdy vision. From a multiple of four, to adjacent and blurred, but singular, Ben scurries to his feet, displaced to an enclosing distance.

Thump-thump-thump, my heart cries in my ears, and the white noise of the blurred silence seems to hum along to it’s rhythm, thump-thump-thump, but I can’t leave her behind. I cannot bring myself to let her down - not again. Not again. Not again.

I can’t let her down - thump-thump-thump, thump-thump-thump - as the pins run up my limbs, and the needles pivot their course around, and around the flesh of my legs. Thump-thump-thump, thump-thump-thump, he draws closer. One stumbled step at a time; one step, two steps, three steps, four, I use the wall and bend my knees, groaning beneath the weight of my fucking agony, and I tear myself from the concrete ground, allowing the yell to rip from my moistened, raspy, throat. Thump-thump-thump, thump-thump-thump, he tumbles; closer, closer, closer, closer.

The cry that rips from my throat, as I throw my leg to his side, it bounces upon the thick walls. It mocks me, in my dizzy breathing, and it laughs along with his soft, quiet, grunt. I strike at his chest, with the ball of my foot, and I pray that my quivering muscles suffice. Ignoring the ambush of sweltering heat, coursing throughout my ankle, and the damaged joint of my knee, I tear up to his throat (his frame hunched, and breathless) with the inner curve of my ankle. SLAM. I revel in the slap of skin, upon skin, as his betrayed choking engulfs my rugged, teary, silence. Oh, how it burns, it aches, and I cry- I cry with such volume, as I draw down upon his cheek, as he falls to the ground, and I crush it beneath my aching heel.

His parted lips heave with an airy groan, and I force myself to repeat. To repeat, to repeat, to repeat, until the blood beneath my throbbing heel all but retracts my complexion’s grip. The flesh of my foot slips upon his motionless expression, the curl of his digits slowly unravelling, and I slam my limb down upon his broken, bloodied, face, again, and again, and I ignore the warmth of the tears upon my cheek, as they dribble their way down. I notice the first, and then the rest seem to follow, uncontainable and relentless, and still I pummel the structure.

Bruised, and toughened, the sopping entrapment of my wounded heel draws down upon his fractured features, and I release a withheld, shuddered, breath. It is warm, as it fans my chin, and I allow my legs to feather themselves unstably upon the ground. I stop. I pause, and I gather myself with brief collection. The tight stinging behind my eyes seems to worsen, as I force the lump in my throat to dissect, and to surrender to the flames of my burning, charred, sternum, but I swallow it all back, and I shake my legs loose, slowly dropping my frame back down upon the concrete below.

There he lies; still, and unmoving. Not dead, but not quite alive.

The girl. It rings in my ears, as my heartbeat settles to something familiar; the girl, the girl, the girl. The girl who’s name I have yet to learn, the girl I have failed to protect - the girl I must save. The girl I refuse to let down, again. “Hey,” I call, quietly, and I soften my tone with significance, just enough (I hope) to eliminate the threat of the glimmering, red, blood, that begins to dry upon my body. “Hey, sweetheart.” I shake back my hair, and I turn to face her, ignoring the glassy shein that warps upon my vision, as my body entraps in a wave of unforgiving warmth, and the hot, burning, sensation engulfes my entirety; running up, and down, from left, to right, in and out of my limbs, from my eye sockets, to the tips of my bloodied toes. It aches, and it burns, and I plaster on a kind, gentle, smile, and I observe the tears upon her scarlet cheeks. “What’s your-” I nibble the ruined flesh of my inner cheek, as a flare of something (something like agony) curls around the joint of my displaced shoulder, and runs sharply through my arm, “What’s your name?” I ask, quietly, and I try to bereft the strain from my tone.

But, oh, it aches, and oh, it burns.

“Alyssa.” She replies, quietly.

“Alyssa?” I try the name on my tongue. “Alyssa, Okay.” I say. “Alyssa, I need you to do something for me.” I tell her, “I need you to do something for me, is that Okay?” Her nimble, sad, face, nods, and I feel something shift in my chest. The burning increases, and the blood on my tongue tastes more like heartache, than of copper. “Okay.” I say, “Can you try to untie these ropes?” I nod gently to the strong grip of my wrists, entrapped within the beige confinement, and I hope - oh, how I hope - that her little fingers are good for something.

“Okay.” Alyssa says, softly, as she teeters a step closer, and she approaches the still figure of the bloodied, unconscious, man. “Is it-” She steps over his arm, “Is it painful?”

She reaches up to the knot, be it just above her head, and she works at the painfully tightened enigma. I hiss, softly, at a gentle jolt of my shoulder, and I ignore the loud pop of its agonizing displacement, pulsating with heat, as I murmur my quiet reply. “Only a little.” I lie. “Are you feeling okay?” I ask, tenderly, “Does anything hurt, down-” Another hiss, I swallow it back audibly, “down there?”

“Only a little.” She mimics, not at all unkindly, as she works at the knot, and she straightens her small, tear-slick, mouth. There is mulled silence, for a passing moment, and I tongue the rough complexion of my inner cheek. “I didn’t cry.” She admits, as though I should be one to offer my congratulations. “I didn’t fight him.” She says. “I’m a good girl.” I swallow the lump in my throat, and I blink slowly, as to diminish the sting of my eyes, and I allow my breath to fall shaky, and uneven, as I regard the girl with a furrow to my brow. I didn’t cry. I didn’t fight him. I’m a good girl.

“Alyssa, I-” I meet the sharp blue of her cerulean, glossy, gaze, and I observe the seeking ache behind them - the dull rim that seeps upon the light’s reflection. “Alyssa,” I whisper, “listen to me.” Her hands work at the knot, and the curl of it all begins to shuffle loose. “That man is a bad man.” I say. “He’s a monster. You know the kind you read about? In- In the- In the books?” She nods, softly, and I reciprocate her action. “Well, he’s one of ‘em.” I say, and her gentle expression of repressed agony crumples; dissolves to the pinch of a furrow.

“He looks normal to me.” She says.

“They always do.” I reply, with something like sympathy curled among my smile. “The monster lives inside them.”

“Like a house?”

“Sure.” I say, “Like a house.”

“I don’t like that house.” She whispers, hardly that of a breath upon the laboured quiet, and I feel the subtle breeze of freedom beginning to slither around my aching wrist.

The strong simmer behind my eyes seems to ignite a stronger burn, and the blur of colours coaxing my vision adheres to engulfing my senses entirely, a clamp in my jaw to withhold the overwhelming urge to burst out with some kind of vocal sob. I bite it back, gnawing softly upon the mauled flesh of my inner cheek, and I offer Alyssa a gentle, toothy, smile. “Good.” I say. “Good. You don’t have to worry-” A scream tears from my throat, and the barricade of blurring moisture spills over with ease. “Fuck!” I hiss, “Fuck- Shit-” My arm audibly slaps down upon my side, the wrist an awkwardly angled bend, as it cracks aloft the harsh concrete below, and the mocking double-act-popping makes its merry way through, the joint finding itself inverted and ajar, and, oh, it aches, it burns. It fucking burns, and I- “Do the other one.” I murmur, strained by the bite of irrevocable pain, as a teary eyed Alyssa forces herself to overstep Benjamin’s right arm, and to meet the limp hang of my dislodged limb, and her nimble little fingers get to work on the opposing knot.

I try to grind my teeth, try to swallow back the uprising sob that teeters thickly among my taught throat, and I try to focus solely upon the unmoving man upon the floor, as my arm hangs loosely at my side, and the pulsating ache rivets throughout my entirety; it swirls behind my eyes, and up, up, up, up around the iambic thrum of my cold, incandescent, mind, and down to the very tips of my sharp collarbones; to the steady rise of my chest; in, and out, in, and out, and I listen to the thump of my heartbeat, as it sings it’s hellish chorus in my ears, and it rings true for yet another second - thump, thump, thump; thump, thump, thump - and I pay attention to the melody, the sporadic pulse, the rhythmic reminder that: Here I Am. Living. Breathing (Barely?). With The Life Of A Little Girl In My Hands. There it is. There it is. The truth. There it is. And I listen to it, again. I listen to it again, and I look at her.

I look at Alyssa, with a violent shake to her thin figure, and a harsh, bruised, red, to her cheeks; puffy eyed, and traumatized, as she works at the knot, and she sniffles to herself quietly. I look at Alyssa, and she isn’t crying. I didn’t cry. I didn’t fight him. I’m a good girl. She is a good girl. I look at Alyssa, and I see nothing but a girl that deserves the world, and I know that she is a good girl, but why should she have to learn her worth in such an earth-shattering way? I nibble my inner cheek, and I digest the uprising urge to allow my eyes to water (excessively, for they have already washed the blood of my bruised, and broken, features, and they lay wet upon my cheeks), as I call out to her gently, and I watch her glimmering gaze remove itself from her concentrated scowl.

“Lissy?” I call, softly, with a furrow to my eyebrows. I meet her cerulean stare, and I observe the reserved redness that circles her glassy orbs, as she draws back her own impulse to cry, and I speak again. Quietly. Always quietly. “Can I call you Lissy?” I ask.

Alyssa nods. “Mommy calls me Lissy Doll.” She says, and the burning flavour flares up, again, upon the back of my dry tongue. I concentrate on it, as the heat of my dislocated shoulder begins to fade, and I suppose that the taste of charred flesh is better than the agony of broken bones.

I offer her a smile, though I feel it comes across more as a grimace than that of any reassurance, and I nod gingerly. “Alright.” I say. “Lissy, it is.” There is something like heartache, and like the dullness of doubt, that clouds the brightness of her young, infantile, orbs, and I force my lower limbs to shuffle, to face the readily repressing girl before me, as she holds back her upcoming wave of cries, and she swallows back her sorrow. “It’s Okay to cry, you know.” I say, gently, and she shifts her gaze to engulf my warm, piercing, stare, within her own, and the glassy shein begins to thicken. “It doesn’t make you weak.” I whisper. “I know it-” I force down the uprising lump in my throat, a sudden lodge beneath the muscle of my tongue, and I try again, with a tone somehow softer than before. “I know that it hurts, Lissy.” I say, “I know that you want to be strong, and that you- that you want to be a good girl,” A shaken exhale falls from my lips, “but, sweetheart, you don’t need to go through something like that to prove it.”

She nods, softly, and she purses her lips together, trembling and shaken by her trauma.

“Lissy, if you can-” I swallow back an audible groan, as I shuffle my injured frame, and the pulse of reconciling heat flares violently within the loose hinge of my displaced shoulder. “If you can untie me, Okay, we can get out of here.” I assure, attempting to convey something like promise with the stern stare of my unwavering eyes. I pray that Alyssa does not notice the tremble of my limbs, or the shudder in my ribs, as something crawls, and winds, its way between my shattered bones, and I pray that she does not notice the exhaustion behind my determination, that she does not catch wind of my growing fatigue, and the difficulty I face in trying to suppress my growing agony.

“Okay.” She murmurs, and I find myself deflating with a soft exhale, shoulders falling, and dismissing the grave pulsation of fiery heat that depicts its bitter eruption throughout the damaged nerves of my bloody anatomy.

“Okay.” I nod, attempting to compile any form of reassurance, as I tilt my head back, gentle as I can possibly muster, and I let the crown loll back upon the brickwork. It aches, and it burns, but we’re almost there. By God, we are almost there. “Alright.” I repeat, breathless in my movement, as her small digits begin to unwind the tight knotting of the rope. “I need you to-” A subtle jolt, as the rope loosens, sends a great flare of agonized heat throughout my limb, and the rumble of a deep-routed groan falls from the hollow of my throat; low, and honest. “Fuck.” I murmur, softly, as Alyssa wraps her grip upon the burning ache of my wrist, and she removes the restraint entirely, supporting the arm with minimal (though violently painful) adjustment. A roar of unavoidable flames engulfs the limb, as she lowers it gently, and she drapes the limp wrist upon the concrete. I suppress the bubbling hiss that threatens to fall from between my gritted teeth, and I gulp back the wave of nausea that grips me suddenly.

A swirl of something bitter, something terrible, begins its sultry dance among my stomach - empty, by a four day solitude - and I feel the burl of air, and of ingested blood, of salivation, gargle nastily toward the very pit of my protesting stomach. Still, I ignore it.

“Lissy, you need to-” I swallow the uprising concoction, warm and smooth in my throat, and I try again, forcing my words through a clenched jaw. “I need you to fix my arm, Okay?” I need you to re-locate my fucking shoulder, and I need you to do it now, before Benjamin wakes up. If he wakes up, I suppose. The slow, unstable, rise and fall of his darkly clothed back is difficult to judge, among my dizzied vision, and the blurred contortion of the world. I do not dwell on this. I do not have to tear my eyes away, they drift naturally, and there she stands; wide-eyed, traumatized, silently begging me to let out a sudden laugh, and to declare my insinuation a practical joke. “Now, Alyssa.” I say, with a sternness that I suppose she is not used to. Not from me, at least, as the glossy depiction of her wide orbs returns, and, again, I find myself unable to dwell on it, as I turn to where her hands hesitantly hover about my sagging limb. “Just-” I exhale a shuddered breath, because, Jesus, this was never in the job description, and I allow my head to fall back upon the wall behind it, as my eyes flutter shut, and I open my mouth to continue. “Just grab onto it - gently, for the love of God - at the upper- at the upper arm.” A small hand wraps around my bicep, and I flinch involuntarily. Oh Fuck, my mind chants, pulsing throughout my body; Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck. “Put your other hand-” I swallow back the bile concoction, “Put your other hand next to my shoulde- Shit!” She rips away the palm of her small hand, explicit with a short cry, as I yell out my curse, and the pulse of agony spreads upon the damn wound she placed pressure upon. Be specific, Y/N, my conscience scolds; she’s a fucking child.

It’s not her fault - not her fault, not her fault - but fuck, if that didn’t hurt. I let out a shaky breath, and I force the erratic respiration of my rising chest to calm the fuck down; in, and out, in, and out, and I offer her a tight-lipped grimace, as she regards me with wide, cautious, eyes.

“Sorry.” I breathe. “I didn’t-” Another groan; the pulse of my pain continues to mock me, to taunt me violently within the unsteady strum of my gushing ears. Thump, thump, thump, it cries; Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck. “I didn’t mean to yell at you.” I say, softly. “It just, uh-” I bite back another cry. “It hurts. That’s all.” She nods, timidly, and I observe the aggressive tremble of her hand, as she begins to re-insinuate her previous positioning. “Not there!” I splutter, abruptly, and she halts in her movement, “Not there, Lissy,” I murmur, as my head rolls back against the brickwork behind me, and I tilt it away from her. “Closer to my- closer to my neck, alright? Not on the shoulder, itself.” She murmurs a noise that sounds similar to some kind of agreement, and I clench my jaw. I clench my jaw, and the nausea bubbling within my stomach seems to heighten. Fuck. And I-

Oh Fuck. It pulses around my aching body; Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh- “FUCK!”

A loud, excruciating, crack, snaps out within the laboured silence, and I am submerged in (what feels like) the damned flames of Hell, licking and biting upon the sore flesh of my battered body, devouring my arm in sharp, agonized, nibbles; ripping chunks of my consciousness with them. “Jesu- Fuck. Holy fuck.” I murmur, slurred and messy, as a hot bout of drunken agony spouts throughout that damned joint. Up, and down, does it stumble; here, there, and everywhere, and I find myself unable to bite back the wave of tears, as they force themselves to grapple my attention, and to erode the bloodied concoction of fresh coating about my features, and I can hardly process the weight of their thickening moisture, as it gathers upon my cheeks, because - Oh, God, holy fuck - oh, I can hardly- It burns. It aches, and it burns, and it devours my limb entirely.

“Do the other one.” I demand, lowly, tone riddled with a rasp of violent agony, as the heat springs forth to my complexion in a tuft of dampening precipitation, and the salty layer begins to seep the red wash of my skin. “Alyssa.” I say, with a grave harshness to my tone, as she remains unmoving (sobbing silently, to herself) beside me. “Do the other one.” I do not dwell on her quiet crying, as she makes her way before me, and she nestles down at my opposing side, and I do not dwell on the ever-burning fire that seems to corrupt every living cell within me, swirling, biting, licking, ruining, me; running circles upon my exhausted frame. Exhausted. It paints the inner lids of my eyes, and the thought of rest seems so entirely delightful, that I have to peel them open. Exhausted. Exhausted. Exhausted. Exhausted. I resent myself for protesting my bodily wishes, and I heave the silent cry of my sobbing frame, denatured and entirely unaware. Unaware. Oblivious. Unfeeling, as another riveting POP echoes throughout the subtly disturbed volume of the room.

I feel it.

Oh, do I feel it.

But it does not register.

I am so alight, I am so wholly consumed, as the flames lick, and they engulf my frame; they wind brutally throughout the broken possession of my bone marrow, and they curve within the bruise of my jutting spine, my fractured rib; they grapple the cranium of my mind so violently, that I feel my slow blinking may rupture me an explosive head, at any given moment; they rip, and they tear, at the flesh of my muscles, running laps around, and around, my pain threshold; daring me, taunting me. Still think you’re winning? They laugh. Still think you’re winning?

But Alyssa is still here. Alyssa is still here, and Benjamin is still unmoving, at my feet, and I am still breathing. Alyssa is still here, and I am still breathing, and-

And soft, small, fingers wind through the matted knots of my bloodied, stained, hair, at the base of my neck.

I shift my watery gaze upon the girl beside me, stricken with a glaze of unforgettable, lurching, fear, as her blue eyes blubber silently, and she cries, and she cries, and she does her best to offer me comfort. She does her best to offer me comfort, and she smiles with closed, tear-tousled, lips, as I furrow my eyebrows, and I find myself bubbling with a warm determination.

Still winning, my heart thuds, still winning, still winning, still winning. Still winning, and I force my limbs to shift. To move an inch, or perhaps a mere centimeter, as that damned fire engulfs my arms, and it wraps them up, up, up; up, and down, spiraling throughout the system of my nerves. From the depth of the crook in my elbow, to the muscles hung loosely amongst my shoulders. Around, and around, but still, I try. “Come here,” I whisper, softly, and I motion with a nod of the head for Lissy to approach. She follows, a stumble or so trodden, and then she stands before me. I lift my arm - jaw clenched, swallowing back the rise of that bile concoction, and ignoring the violent flare of heat that deems eruption amongst the joint of my fucking shoulder - and I run my thumb along the red flush of her tear-stricken cheek. Trembling, though it is, I hold her face with soft assertion. “We’re gonna be just fine,” I say, almost inaudible beneath my bitten down cries, and I offer her a tight-lipped smile. “I promise, Lissy.” I say. “I promise.”

Alyssa doesn’t nod, she doesn’t offer me one of those (non)comforting, teary, smiles, that find my chest clenching with some sort of heartache, rather than warmth, and, instead, the girl furrows her eyebrows. “Does it hurt?” She asks, again, and I know that she is looking for honesty. That she wants the truth, despite her youth; that her innocence is gone. That whatever spark she once attained no longer resides within her cerulean orbs, and that they are darker beneath the dim yellow lighting. That they are darker beneath her trauma.

“Yeah.” I say, softly. “It does.”

“Can you move?”

No. “Yeah.” I smile, nodding gently, as I lower my arm, and I open my mouth to offer another white lie. “Just a little sore, that’s all.” I say. “Why don’t you-” I swallow the uprising bile that congregates within the over-salivation of my glands, and it scratches upon the ache of my tired throat. “Uh, why don’t you check- Check that, uhm-” I gulp back down my words, rearranging them upon my tongue, as the flaring pulse throughout my entirety finds itself momentarily blinding. Still think you’re winning? Still think you’re winning? “Check the door, Okay?” I say, quietly, and I do not dwell upon the observational quirk of her eyebrow, as Alyssa regards me cautiously, and she retreats her silent footwork. “Try and open it.” I offer her a reassuring (?) kind of smile, crooked, and bloody, but she does not seem to acknowledge it - not anymore - as she approaches the darkened corner of the room; the shadow of the great, steel, door. “Can you do it?” I call, tone impossibly rasped upon the echoing silence around.

There is the distinct sound of struggling metal, as the door jutts back and forth, stuck strictly within its positioning; locked. “It won’t open.” Alyssa says, quietly, and I wonder just how the little girl remains so consistently composed. Of course, her cheeks are littered with unforgiving layers of drying, and thickly moistened, tears, and her eyes are red raw, wide, and traumatized, but not yet has she… broken. Still, she speaks calmly; still, she bites back her loud sobs, and she contains the shudder of her frame. I can only assume that this gravely resolve will crack very suddenly, one day, and, much the same as the floodgates to an overflowing river, everything will come crashing down upon her city of composure. I do not allow myself to dwell upon this thought, however, as the pressing matter of escaping (preferably before Benjamin regains consciousness) thumps iambically throughout my bodily matter.

“Try the bolts.” I offer. “Are there any bolts?”

“No.” She says, distantly, with subtle strain, as though she is poised upon the tips of her toes, attempting to grapple the top of the door frame. “Nothing.” She says.

“Is there a keyhole?” I try, again, as I bite back a subtle groan. Fire. Fire. Heat, coursing throughout my motionless frame. Can you move? No. No. I cannot. I can hardly breathe, and I-

“Yeah.” She hums. “Right here.”

In, and out. In, and out. “Okay.” I say, “Keys in the door?”

“No.”

Fuck. There is no need for an IQ of 187 to figure out quite where the missing puzzle piece resides. Benjamin’s belt. The very same belt that he rather enjoyed wrapping around my throat, and observing the silent purple that flared upon the taint of my bloodied, fractured, face, just the evening before. Perhaps it was not evening - the concept of time has evaded me entirely, and I rely solely upon the scent of his breath, to know which meal he has likely devoured, before roaming his way within the… the room. Coffee, and something else particularly sweet (often a pastry, I like to believe) linger upon his words when he speaks, some days, and I know that it is morning. Sometimes the scent of seafood, or a cold sandwich filling, wafts upon my face, and the potent stench of a carbonated drink, with the distant flavour of a cheap beer, and I know that it is midday, or just after the fact. Warm, meaty, scents, with cheap red wine tend to find him delighted, by the time that dinner rolls around, and, I realise, that must mean that it is currently night.

Hours have since passed, from when he first entered the room, smelling strongly of a meat pie, and a three quarter bottle of cheap, red, wine, and, now, around twenty-five (or so) minutes have slipped through my fingers. Time flies when you’re in agony. Abiding by my own, personally devised, day clock, I might assume that I have been submerged within this room for four days. Almost five, I do suppose, should we not escape before the morning sun rises. Not that we may find out when that is, of course. There are no windows.

My capture had been no fault other than my own. The ‘case’ (Benjamin Fackle, a serial Child Molester, and Rapist, whom the media deemed the ‘Baby Raper’, and a creature the Police Department have been desperately searching for, for many a month) was not official. His name had not crossed my desk. The team knew of him - of course we did, he was a monster in disguise, and we ached for an invitation to work on the case - but, alas, our company was not beckoned for. I spoke to no one of my private research, my geographical profile, and neither my personal profile, but, with the aid of an unsuspecting Garcia (whom did not know the details of my expertly worded, and secretive, request) I had delved upon the narrowed depiction of three addresses.

The first, an Orphanage, which had since been demolished, and held not a single occupant, was futile. An easy occupation to discard from my list. And, then, came the second. In possession of my gun (and only my gun, my naivety be damned), with no vest, and no back-up-protection, I entered the grounds. That, among a conundrum of other things, was my first mistake.

There, waiting for me, among the looming shadows of night, was Benjamin Fackle. Crouched behind the door of an easily concealable blind-spot, I disregarded my Federal training, and I dismissed that damned corner. Always check your blindspots, Agent. I could hear the drilling tone bouncing around my mind, mocking me, much the same as that pulsating heat that continued to rivet around my conscience. You don’t check your blindspots, you’re as good as dead. You hear me? I heard him, alright, but that doesn’t matter, now. Not when it didn’t fall into practice, and I failed to do so when it mattered the most.

But I simply couldn’t resist it. Not this case. Not this kind of UnSub.

Not when he has been ripping the innocence from seventy-nine children (and counting), and disregarding them so heart wrenchingly. Not when he has been putting them through the same damned trauma I experienced, as a child. Not this case. Not this UnSub.

And so I force myself back, upon the brickwork behind me, and I ignore my burning frame with a foolish ignorance, engulfing the movement with stuttered fluidity, as the fragile joint of my wounded, bruised, knees, bend, and they shakingly heave my weakening body from the cold compress of the concrete floor. Up, and down, do the sharp pins flow; around, and around, do the needles pivot, but still, I force myself to stand. I force myself to stand, and my arms hang loosely at my sides; not dislodged, but still not quite intact, still burning violently, still thickly riddled with agony.

I stand, and I rest back upon the brickwork, and I heave my ragged breaths. In, and out, I stutter; in, and out. In, and out, but it aches, and it burns, and I blink slowly. I blink slowly, and I swallow back the protest of my uneasy stomach, that crawls within the salivation of my tight throat, and I force my stuttering frame to take a stumbled step forth.

Pushing from the wall, I tumble with heavy feet. Mulling within my agony; sharp, shallow, wounds, find themselves imprinting mercilessly about the trembling flesh, inflicting detrimentally upon the complexion, and I almost wish - just for a moment, just for a passing second - that I could halt my breathing. As my legs give out beneath me, and I crumble beside the shallow respire of Benjamin’s still frame, and I swallow down the loud cry that threatens to break through the tight catch of my teeth, as I bite down upon my lips, and I force it down - down, down, down - and I blink back the wave of tears (slowly), and I ignore the heat - God, the fucking heat - that dances, and grips, my aching muscles with piercing ferocity.

I crumble beside Benjamin, and I reach, with trembling, not quite numb, and paling, limbs, for his belt. The clink of the metal upon the stone seems to- it seems to- Alyssa. She lets out a quiet sob, from the corner, and I know what the indication sounds like, as a lump forms in my throat, and I can’t swallow it down, and I fumble with the buckle, and I hope, oh, I pray, that I can find those fucking keys, and I-

Jingle. I drag the metal back, and- Jingle, Jingle.

A soft, breathy, laugh falls from my mouth, as it contorts to the prologue of a violent sob, and I contort my features, I pinch them as tightly as I suppose that they may allow, and I hold it back- I hold it back, and I swallow the lump, and I press the cool metal of the keys to my chest, and I allow it to vibrate with the shudder of a hollow, dishonest, laugh. A laugh, to fulfil the urge of overwhelming moroseness, and exhaustion, that grapples me so aggressively, I find it difficult to breathe, with my head tipped back, and a glassy shein to my eyes, and I force myself to pull it together. I collect myself, there, upon the concrete, and I call out to the crying girl in the corner.

“Lissy.” I say, all too quietly for my liking. “Lissy, I’ve-” I swallow my words, as they threaten to exit in a jumbled mess. Oh Fuck, my heart thrums, with lesser the all-consuming fear, and more of the elation, the adrenaline, as the burning heat begins to dissipate, and I suppose that the adrenaline will not last forever. Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck. “I’ve got them.” I whisper. “Lissy, I’ve- They’re here, look, I’ve got them-” I stumble to my feet, riddled with the deafening thump of my heart, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, Oh Fuck, as it laughs within my ears, and it mocks my auditory joy. It doesn’t burn. It doesn’t ache. I can’t feel a damned thing - nothing but the dizzying beat of my heart, that pumps wildly in my ears. It won’t last long, I think, as I stumble unsteadily on my footing, and I make my way to Alyssa.

It won’t last long.

And so I do not bother to comfort the girl, as she cradles her head in her hands, and she ducks it between her bent knees, curled desperately upon the ground, beneath the door, and I do not bother to grow frustrated, as I try the first key of four, and it doesn’t fit. I try the second, and it jams within the lock - not that one - and then the third. The third - oh, the beautiful third - that twists, with jutted prosperity, and it signals the sequence of unlocking metal.

It doesn’t burn. It doesn’t ache. I can’t feel a damned thing, as I lower myself with unsteadying speed, and I scoop the light girl, trembling, and sobbing, within my arms. My bruised, broken, mangled limbs, and I clutch her to my chest. It doesn’t burn. It doesn’t ache. I can’t feel a damned thing, but I’m winning.

I’m winning.

I’m winning, as I stumble incoherently through the doorway, and I disregard the nauseating crack, when something collides with the steel of the door, as it chases me through, and I’m winning as I find myself shoving the damned key in the lock, and twisting, and twisting, and leaving it there to rot, and I trap that bastard within those damned, yellow-lit, walls, and I’m winning as I am tumbling through the misleading path of the unfamiliar home. Unfamiliar corners, unfamiliar rooms, unfamiliar sights. But I’m winning. I’m winning. By God, am I winning.

And I am still winning, as I collide with the front door, and I throw it open, thoughtless for the dutiful ache that is silenced by the thudding in my ears, and I make my way upon the pavement, concealed by the evading darkness that is night, and I begin to stutter my rugged footsteps - bare feet bloodied, and slapping down upon the walkway beneath me - and I hold the girl to my chest. I hold her, and I hold her, and I hold her, and I open my mouth to speak.

“We’re free, Lissy.” I say, quietly. “Look,” I point above her head, as I glance down upon her whimpering expression, “Look at the stars, baby.” I whisper. “We’re free.” And I know that we are not truly free, that, should my adrenaline, thrumming throughout my entirety, and consuming my conscience in a consistent hum of evading hope, ware off, should the pain settle back in, and the wind stop cooling the persistent burning that peppers moisture aloft my forehead, should everything fall to nothing, and should the morning sun mark the fifth day of my absence, we will not be free. That we will be, perhaps, as good as dead - Always check your blindspots, Agent - within the confinement of unfamiliar roads, and unfamiliar geography, and a town full of unfamiliar people.

After Benjamin had struck me over the head, a wound that soon sobered up, when he first began the beatings, he had locked me within the boot of his car. I was unconscious for most of the journey, and the back tail light seemed too difficult to kick through, at the time. He had weakened me, considerably, and I found myself unsure as to whereabouts it was that we were going. And, thus, I do not know our current location, either.

The low hang of the moon does little to console me, as the gush of my blood within my ears begins to slowly dwindle - thump-thump-thump; thump, thump; thump-thump-thump - but, with her cheek rested softly aloft my weightless chest, Alyssa stares up at it; bleary eyed, and consumed. Her stare of wonder gives little away, and I find myself praying, with whatever religion I have left in me, that she may recover. That this traumatic experience may dissipate beneath the life she has yet to live, and that, when the time comes, she will be able to face her trauma, and heal the wound indefinitely. That, one day, she may look up at the moon, and she may not be reminded of what Benjamin Fackle has done to her, and that she may capture the light of the stars within her blue stare, again. That she will regain a form of innocence, and that recovery comes quickly.

I know that it does not. I know that the pain never truly leaves you, but one can hope. One can hope, and while I am breathing, I hold on to that.

Just as I hold on to the girl, cradled to my chest, as the thinning beat within my ears begins to fade, and, with every passing second, I find my footing faltering ever-so-slightly. A dreadful kind of suspense begins to well in the pit of my stomach, as a creeping fire begins to erupt, deep within the soles of my bloody feet. It begins in my toes; travels up, up, up, to the uneasy curl of my ankle, the joint bitter in its inevitable damage, and I clench my jaw. I clench my jaw tightly, because I- because I knew that it wouldn’t last long, I knew that it wouldn’t last long, and still, I find myself surprised, frustrated, that the adrenaline is wearing. That, soon enough, I will find myself imobile, constricted by the worst level of pain I will ever endure. Bone, upon bone; fracture, upon fracture; the make-up of my anatomy begs for more adrenaline.

I push forth. Through the dim lighting of the streetlight - contorting to that of my aggressive dizziness, as the scene frame binds back and forth between the figure of four, and the singular, blurred, picture - I am able to… I can see a-

I sway in my footing, caught by the ferocious burn as it runs up, and it runs down, the joint of my knee; echoing around like the mocking laugh of my slow, steady, heartbeat. Still think you’re winning? It taunts, diving from one ear, circling my head, and protruding through the other, with a sickening giggle to warp it all in between. I grit my teeth, and I ignore it, inhaling shakily through my nostrils. In, I try, and out. But the burning ache has returned, and it drawls its slow, merciless, crawl, up, and up, and up, and up, my entirety; locking in the very cells of my biology, and taunting a dangerous song.

Oh, how it burns, I swallow thickly; how it aches.

It burns, and it aches, and I blink slowly, and I raise my foot - up, up, up - and I force it forward. A gentle connection with the floor holds no matter, I comprehend, as a thousand pins scatter about the marrow of my damaged skeleton, and a thousand needles pierce the tranquil complexion of a broken cohesion. It burns, and it aches, but I parry on. I parry on, and I delve myself yet another great number of unsteady stumbles; one foot, then the next, and then another few. I catch myself roughly as I groan out aloud, because, oh, it aches, and oh, it burns, and I blink slowly, and I entice myself to breathe, as I pause. In, my throat rasps upon the cool temperature of the night, and out.

“Alyssa.” I murmur, gently, as it fills the light air that surrounds us. The girl adjusts her attention, shuffling softly among my grip, and I am unable to swallow the cry that forces its way out, as she regards me with wide, watering, eyes, and I lower her (incautiously) to the ground. She lands with a thud, as her bare feet slap the concrete, and a subtle stumble, as I bend my frame, slightly, and I adhere to an unsteady lumber; contorted by the sheer ferocity of the flames, engulfing my arms with an unforgiving depiction. “Fuck,” I whisper, moreso for the expression, than for any natural effect, and I attempt to regain my posture. In, I rise to my full height, and I ignore the blasphemous heat that licks upon every morsel, every joint, and out. In, I ignore the blissful call of exhaustion’s lesion, as it beckons me slowly, and I flutter my eyes shut, arms hung limp at my sides, and out. I breathe, and I breathe, and I remain swaying in my place, silently wishing that the damned payphone was not fifteen feet away.

Still think you’re winning?

Fuck you, am I losing, I spit, internally, and I’m not quite sure who I am fighting, anymore. Benjamin Fackle? My pain? Myself? My exhaustion? Death? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.

I take another step, and I force myself to contain my expression of pain. I swallow it back, as the salivating gland to the inner corner of my throat begins to over-work, and the sleek bile concoction begins to trail its way up, up, up, through my esophagus, once more, and I feel it beginning to crawl through the burn of my throat. But the payphone is ten feet away, and fuck you, am I losing.

A rough swallow, and a softly hidden gip; I trudge another few feet upon the cold pathway bellow me, and I pledge my attention solely upon the approaching, smooth, steel of the payphone, enlarging, and imposing, as it draws nearer, and nearer, and nearer; one step, two steps, three steps, four, do I stumble, stuttering gracelessly in my stride as I go, and, oh, the phone is almost here. I reach for it, the sweet, sweet, plastic of bitter salvation, and a gentle cry escapes my mouth as I curl my digits upon it. I’ve got it. I’ve got it. I’ve got it. I’ve got it.

I’ve got it, and I draw it up, ignoring the flaring heat that roars throughout my entirety, and I allow my trembling grip to pale upon the device; gripping it, gripping it, gripping it, because Holy Fuck, I’ve got it. I’ve got it, but I- I swallow thickly, and I drag my burning frame that little bit closer. I’ve got the phone, and there’s- I check the credit, faintly projected beneath the dim light of the street, and another breathless laugh falls from my mouth, perhaps the first genuine smile gracing my lips, as an unnoticed trail of warm tears track their salty trace down my cheeks.

One Call Remaining.

One call remaining, I hover my hand above the metal keypad. I only know one number. I only know one number, but, as I smile, and I sniffle gently to myself, I know that it’s the only number I need, and I dial it - with shaking, aching, fingers, I dial the number, and I clutch upon the rim of the metal compartment with a wavering grip.

It rings once, twice, three times, and I pray, oh, to any God that may here me, do I pray that he picks up, as the echo of the ringing begins to sound less like the bells of a church, and more like the mocking laugh of someone poking me, prodding: Still think you’re winning? Still think you’re winning? Come on, pick up. Pick up. Pick up. Pick u-

“Hello?” There he is. Tone thick with sleep, groggy, and deep - down, I notice, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. He picked up. He picked up. “Hello?”

“Spence.” I breathe, as another humourless, teary, laugh trickles from my throat. “Oh, my God, Spencer.”

There is immediate shuffling, across the line, and I can only assume that he is sitting upright, frowning into the dark before him. Perhaps he has switched on his bedside lamp. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. “Y/N?” He rasps, softly, with such a gentleness, I fear that something else hides behind his tone. “Is that you?”

I pause, for a moment, as my expression pinches, and the crumble of agony descends upon my shoulders like the tide upon the shore, and the edge of my eroded cliff begins to fall. “It’s me, Pretty Boy.” I whisper, tone riddled by the repressed lather of edging tears; the misery that threatens to spill. I bite it back, and I relax my contorted expression. I hold it down, and my chest begins to burn, again. It burns, and it aches, and my body is on fire. But he’s here - my Spencer, my Pretty Boy - he’s here, and I am still breathing, and Alyssa is still here, and Benjamin Fackle is not.

I blink slowly, and I swallow down my silent cries, as the warm moisture of irrevocable tears fall solemnly upon my cheeks, and I sniffle it back, as the shuffling continues through the rough auditory of the responding end.

“Where are you?” He asks, a certain heaviness to his tone that has not been invoked by the influence of exhaustion. He sniffles, and I wipe my moistened mouth with the back of my wrist, ignoring the sudden flare of pain that engulfs my arm, my body, as a soft sound falls from my lips. I could hope that he did not hear it, that my quiet whimper slipped through the cracks of the terrible connection, but I know Spencer. Oh, do I know him, and so, when he gulps audibly, and he stutters over his words, I know that he is entirely aware of my pain. “I- I couldn’t, I’m-” He takes a shaken, deep, breath, and he tries again. “Where, uh- where are you, Y/N?” He asks, quietly, as the explicit ruffle of a breeze picks up on his end, and the distant slam of a door alerts me that he is on the move. I almost smile. Almost, if it were not for the grave buck of my knee, as it gives out, and I half-collapse, and an audible yell falls from my lips, the phone slipping from my weak grip, and tumbling to clatter with the metal of the side panel.

The sudden glare of invading heat, rupturing between this cell, and that cell, and every damned muscle in between, catches my body in a crampating hold; forcing me down upon a half-crouch, half-bend, as a forty-five degree angle courses through my hot, hot, agonized, frame. “Fuck,” I groan, as I slowly - oh-so-slowly, with a hiss here, and a quiet moan there - drag myself back up, and I place the phone back to my ear. Fuck. The incessant flourish of heat warps my limbs, carries them upon a throne of daggers, and of bruising pellets, and I find myself stifling back a sob, as he immediately interrupts my discomforted quiet.

“Y/N?” Spencer calls, no less a shout, than an urgent call. “Y/N, what’s going on?” He pleads, not quite bothering to mask the teary tone that he displays. I suppose that Spencer has always been like that - with me, at least - whereby his emotions are so raw, so pretty, that one cannot help being entirely enamoured by the way his tone thickens, and his lower lip trembles, as he forces back his tears, and I cannot help but allow my eyes to flutter shut; to envision his large, brown, eyes, so pretty beneath the glassy shein, and, for the second time, tonight, I allow a thumping thought to re-iterate itself among my pulse.

This is it, it says, and I am not sure if I am winning, anymore.

It just- Oh, Oh it hurts, and it aches, and it burns, and I- and I can’t tell if the moisture on my cheeks is from my silent tears, or the precipitation from my hot sweat, but it doesn’t seem to matter. It doesn’t seem to matter, because the urgent calls of Spencer’s thickening concern seem to fade - drifting, drifting, drifting away - and I lose myself within that certain void of semi-consciousness. Slumped upright, against the payphone booth, it pulses in my ears, and it aches, and it burns, and it hurts, and this is it. This is it. This is it. This is how I die, and I’m not sure if I am winning anymore, and I can’t hear my Pretty Boy, and I can’t picture his pretty brown eyes, or his pretty little face, or the soft embrace I could dare to call home, and I can’t think of anything. I can’t- it won’t- it aches, and it burns, and it hurts, and this is it. This is it. This is it. This is it. And I’m not winning anymore. I’m not losing, I’ve gained some sort of victory, along the way, but I can’t see the finish line, and I’m slowing down. I’m slowing down. I’m slowing down. I’m slowing down, and this is it. This is it. This is it. This is it.

This is it, and small, nimble, fingers, approach my peripheral. Like that slow-motion scene, with distant classical music echoing from the depth of another, airy, room; I watch it take ahold of the phone; watch it disappear, again, and the muffled tone of a child - Lissy Doll, little, little, Lissy Doll - soaks within my senses, devoured like the sweet scent of honey to a sore throat. I hear her, as I slide down the metal of the payphone, and I succumb to the desperate flames; I hear her, but I cannot bring myself to listen. Not as she speaks, with tears - I assume this is what I notice, glimmering upon her pink cheeks, as she cries beneath the moonlight - trailing her face, and she sniffles, and stutters, and she tries to reply as informatively to Spencer as she possibly can. I want to call out to her - want to inform her that this is why she is a good girl, that her unrelenting ability to do the right thing is what makes her good, not her lack of protest, and neither her silence, or her previously dry cheeks. I want to tell her that I am proud of her, as I lower my cranium upon the cold pathway below me, but I am tired.

I am tired, and this is it.

This is it. This is it. This is it.

This is it, and I know that Spencer will save her, now. That, although I am not winning, although I have not won, Alyssa is safe. Alyssa will grow to learn her recovery, and she will regain her aforementioned youth. And, as I roll upon my back, my body aroar with flames that ache, and that burn, and that taunt me desperately within my ear, that thank me, profusely, for my sacrifice, I stare up at the sky, and I smile, softly. Benjamin Fackle will be caught, should he catch his breath, and regain his consciousness, and Alyssa will recover. Her mother will hold her little Lissy Doll, once more, and she will be able to watch her child grow old, and she will know that in my death, her daughter found life. I suppose that death is not quite as morbid, when I think of it like this.

When I ignore the persistent nagging, in the forefront of my mind, as my eyelids droop, and exhaustion overwhelms me, and I pretend that in dying, I would not tear Spencer apart. I pretend, and I pretend, as I attempt to count the stars above me, for I know that I would shred him, limb from limb, and he would never recover. I am not so arrogant as to believe that I hold such power over any other, but Spencer is not just ‘any other’. Spencer - my Spencer - devotes himself, entirely, to the concept of love. He has never told me this - not in words - but- but I know. Love is not something you should ever find yourself questioning, and, if you are, it is not true love. I have never found myself questioning Spencer’s muse of adoration, despite his reluctance to openly admit it (all those months ago), and I know that I am lucky. That Spencer has known far too much pain for someone of such a golden declaration, and that his soul must be woven of the finest silk. There is not a single part of me - not a fraction, not a section - that does not know this, is not consumed by this. But here, as I lie upon the concrete, and Alyssa’s quiet crying forms a background serenade for my slow, painful, death, I wonder if my Pretty Boy would be alright.

I wonder if Spencer would recover, in time, much the same as Alyssa will, and I wonder if he will accept that it was my fault. That, ultimately, had I not imposed myself upon this unofficial case, and attempted to take matters into my own, foolish, hands, I would not be here, at this moment, dying. And he would not be awoken in the middle of the night, to an Unknown Number, and he would not be met with the pained cry of his tortured partner - a tortured partner that stares up to the stars, as they lay dying, and smiles because they are beneath the same sky as the love of their life, and, well, nothing seems to matter, anymore.

My body tingles - the kind of tingle that curls, and crawls, throughout your broken skeleton - and I let it dance, drunkenly, through the course of my very being. For when I remain motionless, it doesn’t quite hurt, anymore. Quite, because I am unsure as to whether the tingling is a symptom of forthcoming death - if I am numb, and unable to feel anything, anymore, but it doesn’t matter.

This is it, and it doesn’t matter, as I stare up at the night sky, and I sketch my Pretty Boy’s face among the stars, and I know that he fits right in, up there, with his soft chocolate hair, that swoops upon the right side of his face, and curls behind his ear; with his perfect little nose, that buttons, and finds itself entirely symmetrical, and the round, gently crinkled, expression of adoration within his wonderfully dark eyes - creased to the edge, as he smiles at me, and I lose myself in his adoration. And I think that if I am to die tonight, beneath the stars, with the vision of Spencer glancing down upon me with nothing but pure love, and affectionate warmth, I think that I am to die happy.

“Lissy,” I call, softly, and I hear her murmur something to my Spencer. I am unsure as to how long the credit will remain, though I assume it will not be forever, as Alyssa turns to face me, and I offer her a genuine, toothy, smile. “Can I speak to him?” I ask, quietly, and I can hardly recognize my own voice, beneath the rasp of my naked throat, and the relief that courses through my frame from the numbness that dying provides. “Please?” Please, may I bid my farewell?

Alyssa doesn’t say anything, with yet another sniffle, and she speaks another bundle of words that I do not quite catch, as she lowers herself to kneel beside me, the chord of the phone almost entirely outstretched, and she places the receiver to my ear, and the speaker to my chapped, smiling, lips. “Y/N?” I hear, as I see him amongst the stars, and my eyes crinkle at the notion, bewitched by a toothy, genuine, grin. The phone is cold, and I blink slowly up at the sky.

“Hey, Pretty Boy.” I say, quietly. “I miss you.”

There is hardly a pause, though I notice that the wind is no longer present upon the static of his end. “I don’t- I’m-” He catches his words, and he rearranges them. He doesn’t know what to say, but I let him take his time. “Why would you do that?” He hisses, softly, after a moment and there is a returning thickness that bubbles in his throat. I hear him swallow, but it doesn’t quite seem to do anything, at all, as he continues, and he sniffles back his tears, slightly. “Why wouldn’t you tell anyone?” He asks. Not scolding, not angrily, more of the bitter mourning, and the grief, that wraps upon his tone, and I find myself swallowing my honesty, for the moment.

“Can you see the sky, Spencie?” I evade, staring up at the constellations that form before me, as he shuffles, and his silence echoes back to me. “Can you see the stars?”

“Y/N-” His voice trembles, but I cut him off.

“I’m not winning, anymore, Spence.” I say, a mere whisper upon the silent street around us. “I’m not losing.” I continue. “But I’m- I’m not winning, either.”

“What?” He mumbles, voice thick with tears, and I envision them tumbling down his face. Another shuffle breaks forth, and I assume that he has wiped his cheeks. My chest begins to ache, again, as I picture the subtle furrow of his eyebrows, and the way his tongue will run over the pout of his trembling lower lip, as he exhales through his cheeks, and he sniffles with his pretty nose, and I smile, softly, into the night, and, despite the dense knowledge that I will not, I hope that I will make it. That this isn’t it. But, deep down, I know that it is, and thus, I continue.

“I want you to-” I swallow back the uprising hiss, as I move my jaw somewhat to animatedly, and a flare of heat erupts in my throat, and I speak quieter, as I try again, and I know that Spencer’s expression is pinched. “I want you to take care of Lissy, alright?” I say.

Silence.

“Spencer, promise me.” I whisper. “I need you to do that for me.”

“Why would-” He delves a shaky inhale, “Why would I have to do it?” He says. “You’re gonna be fine, Y/N.” He continues, a tremble to his tone, “You’re gonna be Okay. You’re gonna walk away from this, just fine, and Alyssa’s gonna have access to as much help as she needs, and we- and we’re gonna be just fine, Okay?” I want to shake my head, I want to interrupt his self indulged, dishonest, ramble, and I want to stop him - want to reach out, and hold him, and to assure him that he will recover - but this is it, and time is simply not on my side.

“Spencer.” I call, softly, and he falls to immediate silence; his breathing inconsistent, and shaken. “I’m not winning, anymore.” I repeat, and I know that he has gathered together the missing pieces. “I’m not.” I say. “And- and it hurts.” I whisper. “It hurts, and I’m tired-”

“I know, baby,” He says, gently, as he gulps in a trembled lungful of air, and he swallows down the lump in his throat, and he tries to speak again. “I know you’re tired, and I know that you’re in pain, but you can hold on. I know you can, Y/N, come on.” He says. “Fight.” And a quiet, almost silent, whimper leaves my lips, until the stars are all a blanket of ill-lit darkness, and I can hardly comprehend his grief as he speaks again. “Please.” He whispers. “You’ve gotten through the worst of it, and if you- if you don’t move, and you stop talking, and you preserve your energy, you’ll be fine. You can survive another three minutes, and twenty four seconds, can’t you?”

A breathless, teary, laugh falls from me, then, and I ignore the blistering fire that erupts throughout my body. “Calculated to the second.” I tease, softly, “How ingenious of you, Doctor.”

He reciprocates my watery laugh, though riddled with far less enthusiasm than I, and he mutters his quiet response: “I do have an IQ of 187, and an-”

“And an eidetic memory.” I finish, smiling toothily to myself, despite the chorus of flames that attempts to swallow me whole. “I know, Spencer.” I say. “And I know that you don’t think intelligence can be quantitatively measured.”

“No.” He says, “I don’t.”

“And I know that you-” I gulp back the concoction of bile, and I try it again, a certain hoarseness about my tone. “I know that you can read twenty-thousand words per minute, and that you don’t much like the taste of coffee, so you- you pour the whole bag of sugar in there-”

“I do not-”

“You do, Pretty Boy.” I smile, and, beneath the soft crackle of the reception, I hear a low rumble of agreement.

“She’s right.” They say, a grin to their tone, and I know that voice. Oh, I know it well.

“Is that Morgan?” I rasp, softly, and I smile up at the sky, as the man in question offers his greeting.

“Hey, Babygirl.” He says, with that same kind of warmth that Derek seems to consistently radiate. My chest aches, again, and I realise that I do not want this to be it. It aches, and the charred flavour of my burning sternum crawls back upon my tongue, and it nestles there, as he offers a question of less-than-casual-conversation. “How you holdin’ up?” He asks.

“Great, actually.” I joke, as I offer a kind smile to Alyssa, and she runs her nimble, small, fingers through my hair, and she reciprocates the gesture, ascending her gaze back to the stars, as she goes. “If you consider two-” I let out a low cough, as the concoction of bile seeps beneath my tongue, and it- I heave, abruptly, and I force myself to twist to the side, unloading whatever the fuck was left, rejected, amongst my stomach. The wet splatter of blood, and of bile, of mucus, and salivation, coaxes the pavement, a mere few inches away, as I retreat, slowly, back to the receiver of the phone, and I dismiss the neverending roar of flames, engulfing my body, still, as I sink back into my vertical position, and I return to the conversation.

“Y/N?” Spencer calls, a thickened tone of worry conveying about his voice.

“I’m fine.” I lie. “Just a little, uh-” I swallow back the coppery aftertaste, and I offer Alyssa another gentle smile. “Nauseous.” I murmur.

“Nauseous?” Spencer repeats. “Do you have a fever?”

“I don’t have the flu, Spence,” I dare to jest, “It’s probably just something to do with my two dislocated, and relocated, shoulders. Or, maybe my- maybe my (probably broken) ankle, and the-” Another strained groan falls from me, as Alyssa slumps herself down upon the pathway, and she (accidentally) knocks the jolt of my displaced shoulder, a great POP echoing out from such a sudden movement. Fire. Heat. Hot, hot, hot; it licks away at the joint, and I let out a great, stifled cry, as she attempts to place her palm upon it, and I- “Fuck!” I cry, “Don’t touch it, Lissy, don’t-” I swallow down another yell, as the fire runs up, and down, up, and down, the length of my arm; pins and needles carouselling their way about the wounded flesh. “Don’t touch it. Please.” I implore, quietly, as I attempt to return to the phone, and I retrain my gaze upon the stars, slurry, and unfocused, for all its worth, as I find myself woozy beneath the beckon of exhaustion, once more.

“What was that?” Spencer pleads, as he holds the speaker somewhat too close to his mouth, and my head naturally jerks away from the volume of his cry. Another rip of gravely flames engulf my figure, as I strain myself to lower the extent of my groan, but it- Fuck, does it hurt. It aches, and it burns, and it licks up the fruit of my torture. “Y/N?” He calls, again, “What was that popping? Was that a joint?”

I grit my teeth, and I exhale through them roughly. In, I breathe, and out. “My shoulder, Spence.” I murmur, “Fuck- Please-” I do not want this to be it. I do not want this to be it. I do not want this to be it. The thump of my heart begins to pick up, and I withhold the uprising sob that threatens to break through. I do not want this to be it. “Please tell me you’re bringing an ambulance.” I murmur, and I hope that my insinuation is correct.

“They’re on the way.” He says. “We all are.”

“All?” I mutter, quietly.

“All of us, Babycakes.” Morgan says. “Don’t tell me you thought we’d be able to sleep, with your face on the news, like that.”

“I was on the news?”

“Headlining.”

“Great.” I scoff, “My big media break, and it’s the one thing that’ll have me fired.”

“It was a preposterous idea!” Spencer cuts in. “Going in alone, like that. You know that above ninety-seven percent of women are sexually assaulted? In their day-to-day lives? Why would you purposely search for a rapist? Why would you do that without back-up? I- I bet, I bet with every fibre of my being, that you didn’t check your blind spot.” He says, and I feel a certified something stir within the depth of my stomach, and pool deep within, for, oh, he knows me so well, and, and I- “You never check your blindspot. I do it for you, because I know that you’ll forget, but Y/N- fuck.” He says, and his breath shakes as he releases it. “And you know, you know that you are required, by law, to wait for back-up, when you do not have your vest, or any other form of protection. Y/N, we didn’t even know that you had worked on this case, never mind that you had gone to visit the UnSub by yourself-”

“He was out of his depth, Spencer.” I defend, quietly. I say it quietly, because it aches, and it burns, and it hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts, and he listens to me, anyway, and he lets out a shaky inhale, as I speak. “It wasn’t in the Profile for him to do something that ballsy-”

“Well, clearly your profile was inaccurate.” He snaps, a certain edge to his tone that I find myself unfamiliar with, as I recoil, slightly, and I ignore the flare of heat that congregates about my body. “If you hadn’t-” He pauses, and another trembled breath is to follow: In, and out. “Y/N, I just- I’m- I’m scared, alright? I’m worried. I don’t know your physiological, or psychological, condition, right now, and I’m- it’s just-” Another stuttered inhale. “This isn’t easy, Okay?”

“I know, Spence.”

“I don’t hear from you for four days, twenty-two hours, and thirty-nine minutes, roughly fourteen seconds, and you’re the headline for the news. MISSING: Federal Agent, Y/N Y/L/N, Last Seen in Quantico Virginia, at the Behavioural Analysis Unit Headquarters.” He recites, and I know that it has plagued the back of his eyelids like a lingering, bad, smell, ever since. “You know where you were last seen, Y/N? You were last seen with me, that’s where. And I can’t forget what that headline says, it is biologically impossible, and I can’t stop seeing it every time I close my eyes, and I- and I can’t stop thinking about how, should I have stayed with you for another four hours, or so, you wouldn’t have chased this UnSub, and you would be here, right now, and I wouldn’t be turning down the street, to find you sprawled out on the floor - because I know that’s what you’re doing - in agony, and feeling as though death is knocking at your door, and-”

“Breathe, Pretty Boy,” Morgan cuts in, “Breathe.”

But he doesn’t pause long enough to listen. “And I can’t-” His voice cracks, slightly, and my chest burns, it aches, as the subtlety of silent tears stream down the sides of my face, and they pool within the roots of my hair. “And I can’t listen to you, here, talking to me like you’ll-” He grapples a broken inhale, and he stutters amongst his breathing, and I hear the tears on his tongue. I hear them. I hear them. “-like you’ll never see me again. Like this call is some sort of goodbye.”

“I don’t want this to be it.” I say, gentler than I feel I have ever spoken, before, and Spencer offers his words of protest.

“It isn’t!” He exclaims, with a thick bitterness to his tone. Not quite directed at me, though the agony to his own constricting chest is evident. I find myself accustomed to the flavour of my burned sternum, as it rests upon my tongue, and I do not attempt to protest amongst his continuation, as he cries, and he parries on. “Fuck,” He whispers, and I envision him wiping away the fresh moisture of his expression, once again, as a quiet shuffling invokes upon the line. “This isn’t it. We’re-” He lets out a breath. “Can you hear us?” He asks. “We’re almost there.”

The distant wail of crying sirens engulfs my senses, paired with the static white noise of Spencer's anticipation, and I find my mouth up-tilting, ever so slightly. “Yeah.” I say. “I can hear you.” And maybe, just maybe, this isn’t it. Maybe Spencer - maybe my Pretty Boy Spence - is right. He is rarely wrong, that much may I agree, but he is not always accurate in his future depictions. For once, I find myself thinking, I hope that he is right.

“Good.” He says, perhaps more so to himself, than to me, as he repeats the notion, and he steadies his erratic breathing. “Good, Okay. We’re turning onto your street, now.” He says. “Can you see us?” The wailing sirens approach, they engulf the silence of the night, as they blare, and they scream, and they fall louder, and closer, and louder, and closer, and the stars all morph together, into one illuminated band of darkness, and the sirens blare on, growing louder, and closer, and louder, and closer, and- “Y/N?” Spencer calls.

“The sirens.” I murmur, distractedly, as they ricochet around my mind, and they bounce from one fragment of my inner skull, to the other, and they roll impotently about the curve of the bone. “They’re-” Louder, and closer, and louder, and closer. “They’re noisy.” I say, and I doubt that he can comprehend the gentle tone to which I depict, as the wail of the siren cry calls out, and a sudden screech falls present upon their hellish song.

Spencer does not reply, and I listen to the white noise - the white noise that grows distant, as the wailing aubade of the ambulance approaches - and, then, a chorus of footsteps consume my auditory senses.

I know my lover not by his footfall, but by the way in which he collapses, immediately, at my side, and his large, warm, hand, cusps at my broken cheek, and he observes me closely. And it aches, and it burns, but, oh, there he is. There he is, with a furrow to his straightened eyebrows, and a glassy film aloft his beautiful, warm, orbs - reduced to circles of worry, of anguish, as he observes my… my state of being - and I measure the map of his features, I blister them among the roof of my mind, as though I have not looked upon them fondly a thousand times before, and I offer my lover a soft, closed-mouth, smile. I offer him a smile, and I ache to run my fingers across his parted lips, to recall the feel of his skin, his perfect, perfect, complexion, and the symmetrical span of his face. In this moment, I want nothing more than to feel the weight of his body, sprawled out upon me, as my arms wind around his neck, and I embrace my Spencer, and we pretend that all the trauma of the world does not exist, and we love, and we love, and we love.

I watch the rapid descent of his features, and I gather that he wishes he knew nothing of my physiological well-being, if the subtlety of my pained cries aloft the phone were quite enough to reduce him to tears, and my fingers itch. They itch, they itch, and they itch, to run through the smooth flow of his hair, to brush it away from his pretty little features, and to assure him that: Hey, Pretty Boy, it’s alright. I’m alright. It’s going to be fine. Just fine, Okay? This isn’t it, I was wrong. I was wrong, Okay? This isn’t it, Pretty Boy. Come on. Come on, Pretty Boy, wipe those cheeks. It’s going to be just fine. It’s alright. It’s going to be fine, Pretty Boy. Okay? Okay.

But eyes, red raw, and leaking, stare down at me, and I know that to speak such words would be nought but a cruel spell of dishonesty. I’m not winning, anymore.

Trembling fingers work their way through the matted knots of my hair, brushing back the locks from my face, as they flail out upon the pathway beneath me, and Spencer shudders a quiet sigh. “Hey,” He greets, simply, as though he is not attempting to swallow his raging heart, that threatens to break through the lump in his throat. As though he is not on fire, with burning self-hatred (just like I know that he is), and gritting his teeth to prevent any upcoming sobs. As though I am not destroying him, as we speak. As though I am Okay, as though I am still winning. “Can-” Another shaken, stuttered, inhale, “Can you move?” He asks, and I gulp back the remainder of the bile concoction that has yet to bid me farewell. Can you move? No. No. I cannot. I can hardly breathe, and I-

I shake my head, gently, and I attempt to ignore the corrupting fire that, still, nibbles away at the aching flesh of my body, and I- “It hurts.” I repeat, no less than a whimper upon the business of the night. Blue light carousels around the darkness, illuminating the scene in an azure of flashing cerulean, but I see nothing other than the glassy brown of his wide, fearful, eyes. “It hurts, Spencer.” I say, and I am not quite sure just what it is that hurts, anymore, as my vision blurs, and the warmth of something hot, something wet, trails upon my broken cheeks.

“Shh,” He whispers, tone thickened by the tally of his own violent tear-shed, as he strokes the pad of his calloused thumb aloft my moistened complexion. “Shh,” He says, “I know.” But it aches, and it burns, and I can hardly breathe, once again. “I know, baby, it’s alright.” He says. “I’m here. I’m right here, Okay? Ri- right here.”

But that- it doesn’t- it doesn’t seem to matter, as he trails the dampness of my sopping cheeks, and his salty tears trickle down his throat. It doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, because this is it. And, as a certain warmth begins to sprinkle upon the curve of my toes, and the quiet patter of uniformed feet scurry upon the pathway, and the roll of a- of the- stretcher? Of the stretcher. Oh, the stretcher. It aches, and it burns, and Spencer seems awfully beautiful, beneath the gaze of the moon, and my eyes- they ache, and they burn.

The angel that hangs above me, my very own offering from heaven (an offering, a fraction, like the stars, from the sun) and I think he has never looked more bittersweet in his beauty, than he does tonight, displayed beneath the moonlight. Displayed beneath the moonlight, as though he is carved, sculpted, so effortlessly, by the most callous, talented, hands that the Gods ever did have to offer. I swallow back my prosperity, as the shein upon my eyes begins to dwindle, and I consider whatever religion I have left, inside of me. I consider it, and I come to realise, as my adoration for this angel, for this sweet, sweet, lover of mine, paints itself in poetry upon my tongue, that all of my religion is made up of him. That he tastes like the body of Christ, or whomever my heart has decided is unworthy of worship in the presence of my Spencer, and he has stained my lungs with the scent of his forgiveness.

He is the religion that I have left, and I fall to my knees before him. As he furrows his eyebrows, and everything seems to dim, and the stars lose their spark, and I am wrapped- wrapped up, up, up, in a tingling sensation, that crawls around, and around, my entirety, and dissolves the fire, relishes the flames; that runs its hand through my hair, and threatens to succumb me to exhaustion.

This is it, I think, and I bore my stare into the warmth of Spencer’s darkening expression. His mouth, that hangs open, and shapes the body of words I cannot hear, but look a lot like my name, and the sirens of the world around, they all fall to nothing.

This is it, and I am consumed entirely in something that feels a lot like him. A lot like my Pretty Boy. A lot like Spencer. For it is warm, and it runs a steady hand through my hair, and it caresses my cheek, and I am- I am Okay. Just for this moment, I decide, I am Okay. The dull shadow of my gaze seems to darken, and the world around collapses, and I hear nothing. But I am Okay. I hear nothing; no buzz, no fuzz of the white noise, but I am Okay, and, in a strangely comforting anonymity, I allow myself to sway along with it’s somber aubade. For what, in life, is more beautiful than the transition? Than the end?

This is it, and I am Okay, and it does not hurt, as I indulge a final glance upon my lover, before me, and I strain my arm - my somewhat re-located joint, that doesn’t ache, and doesn’t burn, beneath the symphony that is my love - and I raise it up, up, up, and I cup at the curve of his trembled, tear-stricken, cheek. I hear him not, as he whispers to me, softly, and I do not dispel the announcement of my adoration, as I draw him closer to me, and he follows without question. Without question, because my Pretty Boy is not naive. Because my Pretty Boy knows, all to well, the prologue of agony, and, as he leans in to the heart of my hand, and his sopping wet features pinch with the repression of bitten back sobs, and he approaches, and he nears, and his warm, trembled, breath fans my lips, as it all takes place, and the world falls away, my Pretty Boy knows that this is it. That I am not winning, anymore.

He knows, he knows, he knows.

He knows, and his mouth is warm, is familiar, as it peppers its soft affection upon the wounded pout of my lips, and he cries his salted tears, that melt upon my damaged complexion with anger, and with poorly consumed rage, and he damns the cruel taste of fate, as it settles within his lungs. He knows, as he withdraws his fragile expression, and a gust of cold, frigid, air, wraps upon the flesh of my parted mouth, and his tongue darts upon his lower lip, and catches a bout full of tears. He knows. He knows. Oh, how he knows. And, as those very same lips bless the blood of my forehead with a ginger, angelic, kiss, and they press upon the skin with shaken certainty, our notion of adoration feels more like a goodbye, than an ‘I Love You’. But there doesn’t seem to be much of a difference, anymore, as I watch, through hooded eyes, and a numb, drifting, body, and I observe the violent tremble of his frame, his hunched shoulders, as he looms above me, and he cradles my face within his large hands.

There isn’t any difference, because this is it.

This is it, and I stutter through my final breath, and my half-lidded eyes absorb the dark nothingness before them for one final time.

This is it.

This is it, and I’m not winning, anymore.

#spencer reid #baby spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader fanfic #spencer reid x you fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader fanfiction #spencer reid x you fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #oneshot #criminal minds

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savagetrickster · 4 years

Text

Paper Hearts.

D.Gray-Man | Lavi x Reader (NSFW)

Okay so, I accidentally deleted the original post of the ask - basically anon requested for a soft smut for Lavi where he knew he and his s/o shouldn’t be in a r/s at all because of who he is but still did hanky panky anyway. (that’s what i recalled)

Prompt #15 from the list of smut prompts here : “Spend the night with me?”

I tried to make this soft smut without making it too explicit and smutty (had to refrain from vomiting my perverted thoughts while writing LOL - i tried okay -_-)

so yeah, tell me what you think <3

themes/warnings: 18+, angst, breeding kink lol again....and hmm that’s it i guess?

In the still silence and darkness of the European branch, the full moon hung high in the night sky. The towering structure was quiet with sleep.

The hallway she stood in was lingering with airy silence. The rooms around her were quiet. Most of her neighbors were already asleep. Those empty ones belonged to those who were still out there.

Her lips parted with a dreary sigh as her eyes wandered to the floors below. Her limbs were heavy with weariness from the mission she returned from this evening.

But even as night fell and delved into the darker hours, she couldn’t sleep. Her helpless tossing and turning could be seen in the ruffled bedsheet of her bed in the room behind her.

This was nothing new. She always found herself looking down at the levels below, her hands relaxed on the railing separating her and the seemingly endless way down.

Her thoughts ran on nothing and everything. The darkness she stood in was comforting but depressing whenever a certain redhead came into mind. And always accompanied with wistful sighs when that happened.

Lavi.

He was her little secret. And she was his.

Their glances were always fleeting on each other as though there was a death warrant hanging over their heads if they were caught.

The brushes across each others’ hands were always light, quiet, and longing, fingers twitching with the urge to lace through each other.

And if they were standing near to the other, they couldn’t help being overly aware of each others’ presence, their skin tingling, and prickling in the warmth that seemed to radiate over them.

These whispers of their love were something that always made her heart ache almost painfully.

Knowing that they would be this way forever. A love always so quiet, hesitant, and afraid.

Being who they were, each had a duty bound to them for life.

A Bookman and an Exorcist.

They were meant to look the other way.

Placed into this world to face the darkness threatening to engulf it, Exorcists and Bookmans alike were the bravest, strongest of mankind to brave the horrors hidden within.

But ironically.

Her heart. Their hearts which wanted to...love-

They were so fragile, easily torn through like paper hearts.

Every time she managed to muster the courage to think about their future, her hands were always shaking and her parting lips trembling with a sobbing sigh.

Nothing was all she could see. Their future was-

Bleak.

Dull.

Cold.

She closed her eyes in anguish. The presence of tears she felt was threatening to fill her eyes.

She suddenly felt cold. So...so cold.

Was it the chill in the air? Was it the dreadful tingle sinking in her?

As if someone was eavesdropping her thoughts, a sudden warmth met her lonely back.

Strong, toned arms slipped around her waist.

Her head jerked up with a small gasp just as they pulled her back snugly against a warm breathing wall.

A slip of her eyes behind.

“…Lavi.”

Her heart soared, then fell - the sight of him was lifting but the nasty voice that always reminded her of their reality always sank her back down.

“...Why are you still up, princess?” A light kiss pressed to her temples.

Large hands pressed to her stomach and his lips inches above her shoulder, his green eyes were soft and gentle on hers.

“I just can’t fall asleep.” A soft smile quirked her lips but quickly fell. “But Lavi, You shouldn’t be hugging me like this.”

Her eyes shifted around hastily, “What if someone sees-”

“You worry too much,” His chest rumbled lightly to the chuckles tingling her skin. “Everyone’s asleep. It’s just you and me now.”

Her breath hitched.

“It’s just you and me now”- a hope tugging uselessly at her heart as her hand raised to her stomach to slide over his.

At the squeeze she gave him, he pulled her even closer to him with a tuck of her head against his neck, his tall and broad figure hanging over her like a protective coat.

A comforting silence sat with them as they relished the soothing heat they shared.

There was so much to say in this rare moment together.

Yet, because it was such a precious time for them, words seemed too cheap for this rare opportunity to just...hold each other.

Turning in his arms, she rested her head against his chest where she could hear his calm, beating heart and breathed in his warm, steady scent slowly.

“Spend the night with me?”

Her heart skipped a beat.

“You know we can’t, Lavi.” A sigh lingered behind her melancholic voice.

“Just tonight, princess,” His lips moved to press against her forehead. His warm breath brushing across her skin as he murmured, “...just tonight.”

In the soft glow of the moonlight cast into the room and onto the bed they shared, they talked, drifting aimlessly through topics.

Sleep was forgotten as they relished in each others’ presence.

Eyes staring up at the ceiling from their sprawled bodies, occasionally wandering over to each other as soft peals of laughter fluttered out of their smiling mouths.

“Lavi, what do you think our life would be like if we were not who we are?”

Pushing himself off the bed to lean over her, the sheets under them ruffled to his movement as Lavi propped an elbow under his head .

Intrigue lighting the green eyes hovering over her. “What do you mean?”

“You know,” She curled into him, her eyes roaming over his handsome face,

“If we’re ordinary people. You’re not a Bookman and I’m not an Exorcist. Like we have no obligations or duties.”

“Oh, so you mean just civilians.”

She nodded, smiling wryly.

“Imagine us living freely.” Her whispering voice shook out of her as her fingers splayed across his cheek, “You’d probably be a teacher and I’d probably be opening a little cafe.”

She sighed longingly.

A warm, tender look swept over him,

“I know what I’d do if we’re that,” as his fingers gently grasped her chin and tilted her face up to him.

Her heart gave a squeeze.

“...Wh-What?” Her eyes wavered at him.

His face drew close to hers, his lips lingering just above hers with a murmur barely above a whisper,

“I would marry you in a heartbeat.”

His lips met hers in a chaste kiss, gently prodding her open as a breathy sigh escaped her. His tongue slipped into her as the elbow under his head lowered to the space beside her head, sinking his forearm into the soft pillow.

Their breath mingled as he pulled away slightly.

"I'll be the happiest if you'd be willing to be my wife. And even happier if we could have some little ones."

"...Lavi," She stared with a wavering glint. The hopeful tugs in her heart made her breathless. "I'd love to be your wife and give you some. As many as you like."

A wistful hunger ignited a flame within him. "And you'd look so beautiful round with them."

His eyes danced back at hers as he leaned away to tug his shirt over his head to reveal a sculpted body rippling with his movements as he tossed the article aside.

His lips hovered over hers again.

"You'd make a wonderful mother."

There was a strain in his low, quiet voice.

“You’ve no idea how many times I saw you pregnant with my child in my head."

A carnal thrill ran down his body, tightening him in his pants.

"And how amazing it would have felt to run my hands over that beautiful bump." A tattered groan broke into his tender voice. "The idea of you growing my baby in your womb…"

The aching need cracking through his words shook a breathy gasp of her. "...I can't take it. It's killing me."

He brought her hand to his bare chest, right on where his heart was beating powerfully with his words. “This is how much I want to spend this life with you, if we could.”

She could feel the presence of tears lingering at the back of her throat at his words. They rang true with her own quiet ones.

Lavi slipped a hand down to press into her stomach. “If only I could put one in you right now.”

A bitter laugh left him.

“But I won’t, of course.”

Big hands moving up to caress her face, he shifted them, enveloping her in his heat and pinning her down with a tender, burning gaze.

“Oh, Lavi…” Her heart clenched in agony as a small sob wrecked through her words.

His lips descended on hers.

His head tilted as he pried through her, meeting her lips in a slow, deepening kiss as he pulled a hand away from her face to under her dress, deftly peeling off her panties.

Her fingers ran through his hair while her other hand found its place over his broad shoulders and onto his back, the taut muscle rippling lightly to their moving lips and his working hands.

A shuddering sigh panting out of her against his lips between the brief seconds they parted to catch their breath as his long, calloused fingers prodded and stretched inside her weeping cunt, prepping her for him.

The other hand left her face and slid down to tug his pajama pants off before slipping under her knees to push her thighs apart.

Lips leaving hers, he shifted up to press a long kiss against her forehead as he settled his knees in the space between her legs.

He knew she was ready enough for him when slippery, vulgar squelches responded to every movement his fingers made.

The wet stain growing bigger and bigger on the white sheets under her was the dead giveaway.

“I’m coming in, princess.” His lips nibbled her ear, his warm breath brushing against her head as he pushed himself in slowly.

Breathy moan shivered out of her as he parted her dripping folds and stretched her open, prodding in until she was pressed snug against him.

A fleeting groan escaped her, mingling with his shivering grunt at the electrifying jolt that came with their joined bodies.

She could feel him so clearly.

His thick girth was buried completely inside her, its whole length wedged fittingly between her throbbing walls.

Deep enough to bulge up against her stomach.

The hand clutching onto his hair throughout his careful penetration left to join her other hand on his back as fluttering blinks accompanied the sigh leaving her.

She missed this. The familiar, satisfying feeling of him snug inside her. Like the missing piece of a puzzle.

"...It's been a long time,” A satisfied wavering sigh shuddered out his lips.

His eyebrows strained on his forehead along with his voice. “...but you feel as wonderful as I remember."

Then he moved, his lips descending onto hers again as his hip rolled against hers slowly and sensually.

Each thrust carried gentleness and meaning, almost in sync with his pounding heart.

His lips on hers were deep and subtly powerful with his love for her swelling in the calm heaves and falls of his chest.

I love yous murmuring against each others’ lips, slipping out between every tilt of their heads.

The headboard of the bed underneath them bumping the wall behind each time he pushed himself into her.

His arms prodded at her sides shifted down to hook the crooks of his elbows under her parted thighs, spreading her until her bent knees hovered in the air. Almost close enough to touch her head caged between them.

Her whimper elicited past their moving lips at the big stretch tugging the folds of her heated core even wider apart.

The dull thuds of the headboard gradually became rattling light slams as his thrusts began to escalate to faster and curt ones.

Along with her moaning whispers and his grunting words muffled against each other, the squelching wetness he was hammering through grew loud enough to mingle with the dense heat on the bed.

Their lips parted with a loud sigh. Her delirious moans and his growling grunts freed into the room.

Small white flashes blinked behind her fluttering dazed gaze as a sigh sifted through her needy moans at his furious ruts.

Towering over her, his eyes were drawn to the slightly visible deep, fast prods of his thrusts pushing against her stomach.

He could feel himself growing thicker and thicker with the building pressure within his girth as the same few primal thoughts clouded his head.

"Tha-That's my girl."

Something stirred in his chest at the mere sight. "Taking me so well."

Of how she would look so precious rounded and bulging with his child if the load threatening to burst impregnated her.

The hunger gnawing at him made him stare heatedly at where he had always imagined his baby would be growing in, marveling at the way his passionate ruts into her could be seen poking out.

The furious prods were small but provokingly powerful enough to make him murmur his desire longingly.

"I-I'd really love to put our baby," His fingers rounding over her thigh to brush over the area. "...right here."

Those words, his fingers sinking lightly in the skin and the next thrust-

That was it. She couldn’t take it anymore.

Hand flying to her mouth, a muffled sob wreaked through her as a starburst of white pleasure blinded her as he sent her release gushing in her.

The sharp rips of her orgasm rippling desperately around him made him shiver with a moan hoarse and ending with a tattered gasp as his hips flew at the searing intensity of his own approaching one.

His hand on her abdomen hastily returned to its spot, mirroring his other hand holding her wider apart.

His eyebrows strained on his sweaty forehead as his heated eyes bore into the way he was furiously ramming into her erratically clenching heat.

A long hiss dragging through his gritted teeth as he relished in her greedy walls squeezing continuously around him, edging him closer and closer.

Slipping a glance up at the sound of her giddy whimpers, he instantly wished he didn’t as a strangled groan left him immediately at her helpless, flustered face blushing red at him.

The stir in his chest grew stronger with a craving ache. And his girth was becoming unbearably full with an animalistic impulse urging him to deposit every bit in her.

With a choked grunt, he mustered all his self-restrain to tug himself out of her in one hasty move, in time for white, rich load to spurt out over her.

“S-Sorry, princess…” Lavi murmured through his panting gasps as his hand gripped him in a pumping haste.

“...No, it’s okay, Lavi-” Her head shook weakly on the bed as a wavering sigh left her at the warm coat splattering over her.

“-that...that was amazing.”

#lavi smut #dgm lavi #dgrayman lavi #dgm smut #d.gray-man smut #lavi x reader #anime smut #d.grayman imagines

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ngame989 · 4 years

Text

SVTFOE: A Retrospective

Happy Mama Star Day!

OK, first and foremost, a quick update on TGG: I plan to have something ready for at least one of the major anniversaries coming up, and hopefully will resume slightly more regular updates from then forward. Thanks to everyone for your continued support, it’s been a rough year so far for me personally and for everyone in in the current pandemic situation. The anniversary of both STH and Mama Star seemed like a fitting time to get some things off my chest, both good and bad, so I’ll do that now and get it out of the way to focus on bigger and better things in the future. Fair warning, this is gonna be long and rambly and personal more than it is any sort of serious show analysis. If you’re looking for fun, feel-good celebration of what definitely were some of my favorite moments in the series, I’m not so sure this is gonna be the post for you.

It goes without saying that Star vs the Forces of Evil, for better or worse, is incredibly important to me and has been without fail for years. How are you supposed to feel when something that important lets you down so hard? Is having such strong, mixed emotions and attachment better than having nothing you care about at all? The past year hasn’t answered these questions for me, and this post certainly won’t either. There’s no thesis or likely any kind of closure here, just me baring a bit of my soul here on tumblr dot com.

It’s been a rough year or two for me. I don’t want to get too much into the specifics, but let’s just say I hit a crossroads where the entire path I’d envisioned for myself in life came into serious question, and I had been spiraling into depression and paralyzing anxiety over a complete lack of any fulfillment in my “professional” life for months before I even recognized it for what it was. Season 3 finished airing around the last few months of my undergraduate degree, which (while obviously it significantly emotionally impacted me) was a generally happy and stable time in my life. As things started to change and get worse for me, SVTFOE S4 was my ray of hope. I’m not kidding when I say that some days in the hiatus leading up to it, the thought of S4 delivering on its potential for emotional fulfillment and Starco goodness (consistently, not just at the end) was the only thing that got me out of bed in the morning and the only positive thing I could see in my future.

When we got the S4 we got, it shattered me, utterly and completely. This isn’t an attempt to dunk on S4 in some “objective” manner - hell, I even like a lot of the things about it that the fandom despises (the ending prioritizing character closure over lore, the upheaval of the political structure rather than just having Star become the Goodest Queen, etc). I’d still make the argument that a lot of the character development was very flimsy and poorly paced, a very clear effort to force the relationship resolution to be delayed until the end at all costs, but that’s not the point here. Life felt dull and lonely and warm fluffy Starco was my vicarious escape from that, and the season we got left me so completely hollow insid that it felt like I couldn’t breathe for its first more-than-a-dozen episodes, and I was so burnt out that I couldn’t even properly enjoy the parts that were genuinely good.

Even earlyish on, I was already fearing that things wouldn’t be resolved till the end and that there’d be almost none of the content I actually longed for from the show. As I’ve mentioned before, The Greatest Gift was born the morning after Lake House Fever’s late night release, out of salt and spite and a need to give myself something good to look forward to, even if it would be something I’d be making myself. I completely removed myself from even passing conversations with my best friends in the fandom because it hurt too much to even think about. I even had Seddm give me summaries of episodes before I watched them so I could take some time to emotionally prepare (at least until the 2nd to last week). And to the show’s credit, its last few weeks of episodes (with some exceptions) tried their absolute damnedest to right the ship (pun intended) and bring back the sorts of things I wanted with a vengeance. I was smiling like a complete fool for 12 hours straight after Here to Help. The ending didn’t fix my issues with the show, not by a fucking long shot, but it at least left me on a positive enough note that there was a feverish enthusiasm to continue it further on my own.

But it’s been tough. Have you or a family member/friend ever gotten bad food poisoning from a restaurant you really liked, and the smell of it makes you queasy afterwards even though you do really like it? That’s probably the best analogy I can draw to a lot of my relationship with SVTFOE since it ended. PLEASE NOTE I’M IN NO WAY TRYING TO EQUATE THE MAGNITUDE OF MY IRE WITH A CARTOON WITH SERIOUS DISORDERS THAT PEOPLE SUFFER FROM, but I’d almost be tempted to liken it to PTSD. Seeing reminders of the painful parts can put me in a bad mood for hours, and on some days even just dwelling on the show in any way will invite creeping negativity and “why the fuck couldn’t it have just-” types of thoughts taking over. There have been some days writing TGG where having to draw inspiration from or reference events/dialogues in S4 was so emotionally taxing that I had to stop writing for the night. I blocked Seddm’s entire askbox tag because I’d find my own emotions frothing into a rage over things in the show people would bring up. I’ve lost acquaintances and potential friendships over my bitterness. I instantly block anyone who posts even a hint of Tomstar/Kellco content in the Starco tags on any site because it induces such palpable negativity in my heart - I think I’m up to 1000 accounts blocked on Instagram right now, which is why Toxic runs the TGG page over there. If you’re one of the people out there that tried to strike up a conversation with me over a shared interest in the show and I vomited bile into your DMs, I sincerely apologize. And to anyone who got wrapped up in the brazen high hopes I put forth here every day as S4 approached and came crashing down with me as a result, I’m sorry for that too.

And yet... I can’t say there’s not a genuine love I still have for a lot of it. I still have my little shrine of stickers and pictures that I’ll sometimes just get let myself get lost in. There was a recent postcanon fic started by someone who just caught up on the show that brought such a depth of warmth into my chest that I’m smiling like an idiot just now thinking about it. I haven’t watched even a clip (let alone a whole episode) that Star and Marco’s voices in my head feel distant and abstract, but when I’m writing chapters I can still get emotional imagining them saying and doing things out of their devotion to one another. I’ve made no secret that I (to put it very very very lightly) have a strong distaste for the vast majority of this fandom, and yet the joy of knowing I could make people’s days or lives brighter gives me a satisfaction I can’t put words to. Don’t get me wrong, writing quickly just isn’t my thing normally anyway - I’m not trying to suggest that the sole reason for TGG downtime is that I’m driving knives into my own heart and pouring my blood onto the page. Just that that’s part of it, and it takes its toll.

The last few months, although I have missed the joy of brewing up fluff ideas and seeing them come to life, have admittedly been a welcome reprieve just not having to think about this stuff so much. In the last few weeks I’ve finally been coming around to a bit of a better place where the good bubbles up without bringing as much of the bad with it. It will likely still wax and wane, and I can’t guarantee if or when TGG will fully finish. And this isn’t my entire life - I have MMOs and card games and all kinds of other hobbies that suck up lots of my time, so don’t worry about me just lying in bed sobbing over S4 for 12 hours a day. I don’t know if the day will ever come when I can truly be at peace with it all, but I don’t want to toss out the good with the bad. All I can ask is for your patience as my own journey evolves alongside my writing, until the day comes when perhaps this story can finally come to a close. Thanks for reading, and stay safe.

Ngame

#starco #tgg svtfoe #ngame

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redevenir · 4 years

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to eat flowers and not to be afraid

woozi x reader

wc : ~ 7690

a/n : i first wrote this piece for @svtwritenight and i kept writing because it felt very nice. the title comes from this verse by e. e. cummings : « since the thing perhaps is to / eat flowers and not to be afraid » from voices to voices. I don’t think there is a specific warning here. There is only one sentence that I find disgusting, but nothing triggering. Vague references to past disasters and deaths.

« "Alas," he cried to himself in his dismay, "what ever will become of me, and how is it all to end? If I stay here upon the river bed through the long watches of the night, I am so exhausted that the bitter cold and damp may make an end of me—for towards sunrise there will be a keen wind blowing from off the river. If, on the other hand, I climb the hill side, find shelter in the woods, and sleep in some thicket, I may escape the cold and have a good night's rest, but some savage beast may take advantage of me and devour me." »

The Odyssey, Book V, Homer.

You put your hand on the doorknob. You’ve been sleeping here for a few weeks now. Compared to other places you’ve been before, this one is starting to feel comfortable. You can’t call it otherwise though. There are walls in your head, walls that you built when everything was falling apart. Vulnerability kills, you’ve learn it fast. You cannot afford to be sentimental, especially toward a mere concrete structure and yet, you’ve already overstep the boundaries you’ve set yourself. It’s not gratitude, it’s just… It’s nice. It’s nice that the two-story building is here. That it didn’t crumble like most of them, it’s nice that in what was barely a town before you’ve found it empty. That all four apartments were empty when you came in. That there’s a fireplace in each one of them. That the vegetation around has grown enough to hide most of the windows of the one you’ve chosen for yourself.

You remember the day you arrived there. Terrified of getting caught, you had rummaged through all of the apartments as fast as you could, storing all you thought might be of use. Then you had barricaded the three unoccupied ones, establishing yourself on the second floor. You hung bells behind the front door, bells behind the lobby door. Bells hung very low all over the staircase, so you’d know if someone was to come in. Nobody had so far. It was just you, day after day after day, and you were beginning to feel safe. Able to spend a few hours a day without worrying. A luxury. Just you, the bare trees around. Sometimes you’d see the occasional boars, down the road. How are they still alive? Don’t ask yourself, worries will come back. You know it now: you know nothing. You will never fully understand any of the crazy things that has happened so far, because most of them don’t make sense. Most of the time, you try – very, very hard – not to think at all. Just another way to stay safe.

You open the door to the shelter. You’re soaked, you’re tired, you can’t see a thing. It’s been a mistake, going out today, you realized. A useless loss of time and energy. You wanted to watch the road, see if there was anyone passing by. That was the first lie. No one was « passing by » anymore. You just wanted an excuse to go out. You’re being unreasonable. You know inside – you can’t even word « home » in your head, not now, not tomorrow, not a year from now – inside is safe. Home is too comfortable, too dangerous. Inside in the only safe. Home will get you killed. It will make you less and less careful. Exactly like today. You’ve been outside for hours, knowing from the start it’d be worthless. And if anyone had indeed walked that road, you couldn’t even know. The clouds were too thick and everything was too dark for you see a thing, and that was before the rain started to fall. But you stayed there. Almost confident in your warm safe place, almost looking forward to the fire you’d be lighting up to dry your clothes and warm yourself up. One might say – but there is no one anymore – you were already lucky it was just good old-fashion rain, not the burning, acid one. You tell yourself you’d recognize the deadly clouds. Maybe that’s the second lie.

Standing before the building’s door, you feel sick. It’s disgusting. All you have lost, all that is gone, for you to be this carefree. Nausea rises up your body. You shiver, close your eyes, breathe. Confidence is a concept of the past. Confidence will get you killed. Breathe in, breathe out. It is the only therapy left now. And now you’re scared. You put your hand in your pocket, touch the big rock you always keep in there. Heavy. Uncomfortable. You grab it, take it out. Breathe in, breathe out. You open the door, welcomed by the soft music of the bells. Quick, you check the entrances of the ground-floor apartments. Still barricaded, nothing has changed. Breathe in, breathe out. You climb up the stairs, as fast and as silent as you can, only to find the doors of your floor as closed as you left them. Breathe in, breathe out. You enter your flat. No harm done. Just as quiet as ever. Still, you don’t light up the room for a few days, except for the fireplace. Your shoulder hurts a bit, so you try to massage it absentmindedly. It’s winter, you assume, and you cannot afford to sleep without the warmth provided by the fire.

Summer is over, you realize, looking at the window, wondering how long you have left before all the leaves have fallen again. It’s the second time you’ll be watching them do so here. What’s exhausting, you think, is that you have no purpose whatsoever. You never left from your shelter. If you’re being honest, you haven’t even taken the time to consider it. You know you don’t want to leave. Leaving would be dangerous. You feel weak now. Your reflexes have dulled. What’s more, there is nowhere you’d rather be. And – this one, you can’t word, even in the heart of the night, even when you know no one has heard your voice for actual years now – you don’t want to see people. Either dead or alive. Enough losses, countless deaths. You don’t remember the last friendly face now, everyone has faded. Voices you remember, though. Heartless words, the various announcements of various Disasters. Now it feels as if all of it happened at once, but there is, buried in your brain, the memory of days longer than weeks when all people were doing was waiting, waiting for the news, waiting for an explanation, waiting for the way to defeat whatever force was at work against them. And then there were none.

Jihoon breathes. In, out. Finds a fix spot, focuses on it. There are blue flowers at the bottom of that small building. Keeps on breathing. Deep blue, five thin petals. Breathe in, breathe out. It’s borages, he thinks. They’re edible. Who’s eating them ? Panic begins to creep in again. Breathe in, breathe out. They’re in bloom, so it must be spring, right ? Deep breathe. He’s quite sure there is a way to make herbal tea of some sort with borages. He backs away into the woods. He’s not ready yet. He needs time to process the news. He walks deeper in the forest than ever before, tries not to overthink it, not yet, not while he’s moving, and exposed.

Later on, when he’s hidden behind branches and leaves, laying on the ground, he needs to breathe again. He feels his heart pounding in his chest, out of terror, out of anger, out of curiosity, also. Has he been seen ? And if so, who saw him ? Is he going to see the sun rise again ? And who is leaving here ? He assumes it’s a loner, for keeping a company is putting one’s self more at risk. He hasn’t. Breathe in, breathe out. Are they armed ? He barely sleeps that night. He does not lie to himself, knows he has to meet them. He simply wonders which approach will be best. Of course, he can’t just present himself, hands in his pocket. What would be the right way to make sure they’d see him as a peace-seaking stranger but intimidating enough that they wouldn’t try to murder him ? Jihoon feels a bit sick, that he has to think about it this way. It is sick. All of it is fucking sick. He doesn’t try to picture the stranger, for he knows his imagination would create a macabre mix of people he’s known and people’s he’s seen dead. He breathes. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’ll go, and knock at the door. On his guard, but decent. Tomorrow, he’ll be brave, and go to the two-story building.

Tomorrow lasts for days, he finds out, as he keeps weighing the pros and cons of knocking on that copper-colored door. Every day, he walks for a bit through the woods, close enough so that he can see the small building, and stay there. It’s a nice door. He likes the color. Once again, he lingers. And then, he remembers that it doesn’t matter what the outcome might be. He has nowhere to be, no one to see. There is no purpose left for him in this existence. He has no plan. Shit, he’s been sleeping in the woods for months now – he cannot admit to himself there is a high chance he has been doing so for years. It is for this exact situation that the saying « nothing to loose » has been made up – of course people back then had no idea of what it actually meant. Breathe in. It’s a friendly door, he decides. Breathe out. He stands up, and begins to walk what’s left of the way to the building.

And then he hears a crack and feels a piercing pain through his right hand. Before he can shout he’s punched in the face as he tries to turn around to see his assailant. He’s wrestled to the ground, all he can see is a messy mass of hair as they bring a hand – cold, small – to his neck. He screws his eyes shut. And nothing. Nothing happens, only heavy breathes. His, uneven because of the atrocious pain in his right hand. And the ones of the stranger who attacked him. Breathe in. He opens his eyes. They meet a furious gaze and overly frowned eyebrows. He doesn’t read anything out of it, and, as he tries to take a better look at the angry face, he realizes he’s almost surprised to see a human. He knew it, of course. Only humans use ceiling lights, as far as he knows. Still, he’s surprised to see a human face. Silence lingers.

« What were you doing ? » Your voice is croaky. He’s surprised once more. Curiosity oversteps and he wonders – when were your last words ? Clearly, he takes too long to answer, for you press over his wounded hand and he screams in both pain and surprised.

« I-i-i was going over to tha-aah-t building. To meet… who-whoever is living there. »

« Why »

Jihoon thinks, quick, quick. Breathe in.

« I figured – ahh – why not ? » Breathe out.

You remain silent.

You tell yourself you don’t feel bad, not a bit. Still, his hand looks ugly. Overall, he’s looking pretty bad. He smells of dirt, of mud. He hasn’t showered for a very long time, you guess. The air smells bad too. You look up at the sky, keeping your hand on his jaw, without pressure – you don’t want him dead, and his good hand is out of use. It takes you a bit of time but sure enough, you find the clouds. Far, but visible. You look back at the guy you knocked out. He knows. He’s been looking in the same direction as you have. You assume he can smell the air, too. Breathe in. You pity him. You sigh. You can fix this.

« Do you have anything of value nearby ? »

Jihoon screws his eyes shut, like you just slapped him. Shit. You take it as no. Take it as a they-re-way-too-far kind of no. You lift your hand off his jaw, stand up, and give it to him instead.

« Let’s go inside then. »

You’ve lit up a fire. You figured he deserved it. Hadn’t he just lost all his possessions, however meager they might be ? You try not to look at his face too bluntly, and you wonder if he’s holding up his tears. Instead, you let him walk, slow, oh so slow, around the room while you rummage among the branches of dry wood. Surely, you can find enough of them to make him a splint of sort. You’ve done it for yourself before – it did not heal as well as it should have, but it healed anyway. Without looking at him, you realize you know exactly where he is in the room. It’s been so quiet for so long, that even his soft steps are like thunder to your ears. You vaguely notice that he doesn’t go near the windows. Good, you think. Lesser chances of being seen – and you try hard not to wonder for how long he’s known about you being here.

Jihoon thinks he has rarely been this stupid, and he hates it. Turns out, he actually had things to loose : food, his clothes. At least he’s alive – but what for ? He looks at your back, annoyed, curious, still scared. You broke his hand, took him to your place and now you want to... fix... said hand - he tries not to think about the fact that taking him inside means saving him from a terrible pain - possibly lethal. He watches over the room, looking for any clue about the resident. He knows, of course, he won’t find any personal item – who has managed to keep one ? But, maybe, from the way you’ve organize the furniture – he notices the small heaps of stones under the windows. One of the walls is yellow, a bright yellow. All the others have this dull, white color to them but on this one, he sees traces of hands on the paint – the stores had been closed for a long time when you painted it, he guesses. Is it even paint that you used ? Breathe in. He remembers the bells that gently knocked over his head on your way up the stairs. Breathe out. Surely, it’s a friendly wall.

« Sit down on the chair. »

Again, it comes off wrong. A weak, faint, trail of voice. Jihoon wonders, had the situation been reversed, would you have been able to scream or shout ? He quickly decides you wouldn’t, and feels a bit sick when he puts it in the « good news » part of his brain. He does as said, sits quietly, showing his left side to the fire, while you sit down on the brown fabric sofa before him. It is massive, very long, and looks quite off. Who needs such a big couch? He gives you his hand. You take his wrist with caution – he tries not to remember when was the last non-aggressive touch he’s been given – look at his hand from every possible angle, change it when you notice him wincing. You remain silent for a little while, and organize the cheap, self-made sort of first-aid kit you’ve managed to assemble over time.

« Let me take care of that. »

You notice the brief look of surprise on his face. Of course, of course. He remains silent, however, and you start to fix up the mess you’ve made with your stone. As long as it takes, the two of you keep your words for yourselves. You don’t tell him you don’t really know what you’re doing. None of you mention the loud pounding of the toxic rain outside. You thank the men of old for inventing the concrete. Jihoon tries not to think of his stuff, doomed to rot. Fire warms up both of your faces as you work.

It’s very early – you know it, because the birds have just started to sing. You’ve put a new log moments ago. The intruder is dozing on the couch. You assume he’s had a long day, between your encounter, the broken hand – you didn’t tell him how bad it was, if he’s made it so far, he already understood. But you can’t fall asleep. You can’t think about falling asleep. You’re frightened. Of course, he can’t do you any harm. Still, it’s so sudden. When did you turn into this human-shaped scaredy cat ? You shut your eyes, open them up. Look away from the fire, to the sleeping form. Now you can take a good look at him.

A bit shorter than you are, around your age – maybe older, maybe younger? Hunger has a terrible way of making people look younger, you’ve found out. Yet despair makes them look older, so who knows. His hair looks as wrong as the rest. Dark, messy. You assume he’s tried to keep them on the short side by his own means. He’s underfed – but so are you. He looks fiery – dangerous, you think, if he’s survived so long, and come so far. Then it hits you. You’ve made it so far. You’re the one who found this removed place, barricaded it, you’re the one with a stock of heavy stones near all of you windows. You’re to be feared as much as he is. All of this has turned you into a cold-blooded huntress – or are you still a prey on the lookout ? Who will tell the difference now. Everyone who had once known the vulnerable you has disappeared. You feel the nausea creeping in. Breathe in. Tomorrow you will offer him to take a shower

None of you talk much. Jihoon notices how you keep avoiding to look at him straight in the eyes. He’s not much help, so he lights up the fire, cleans up a bit. Days are shorter now. If he comes near the windows he can feel the poor isolation. Still, he hates to do nothing, tries to keep himself busy. With the bunch of pens you’ve gathered as a reflex more than anything, he learns to write with his left hand. It is hard, and messy, and he’s glad no one will see it. The first conversations you have are about plants. It’s a safe topic, harmless, useful, and it appears you know as much as he does. Although, you can name them, whereas he had to learn to recognize them the hard way. You both list what’s growing around, exchange a few cooking ideas. You say nothing about his diet, but the first time you cooked meat in front of him you let him have it all. And the second time. The third time he asks you to stop, you retort he needs it. Jihoon really can’t do anything about it, but the first time you cut it in half, he smiles.

One night, as you’re both sitting in front of the fire, it escapes from your lips, like a confession held up for too long, you turn your head to your left to face him.

« I grew up on the coast, too. » He’s surprised, as usual, tries to look at your face from the side, and you see the outline of a smile, the light squinting of his eyes. « Is that so ? » You hum in confirmation, turning away to face the fireplace again. Jihoon takes his time, tries to list all the things he knows about you. From your accent – thick, slow-paced – he gets you’re from a different district than him. Obviously though, you’ve met people from his. How else would you know what he hasn’t told you? You’re good at hunting, at least good enough that twice a week you catch something for the both of you to feed upon it – mostly birds or rabbits. You’re generous, he knows that. His mere presence here proves it. You like the color yellow and don’t know the very basics of medicine. You’re taciturn – or cautious? There is no way of telling which was there from the beginning and which has come from a traumatic series of disasters. Not a fast runner. You understand his need for space – you never say anything when he closes the dark, old, heavy curtains during rainfalls. You still haven’t asked anything about him before. And this, as much as he’s thankful for it, makes him uncomfortable. Do you not ask because you don’t want him to ask you back? Obviously you have things to hide. You’re so well off here. No one can reach this level of comfort – isolation, warmth, food, even the amount of bells you’ve gathered is suspicious – without having some ugly deeds on their hands. He has too. Or maybe – he shivers – you don’t ask him because you suspect where he’s coming from? Or worse, maybe you just plain know it, and don’t wish to address it. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe you were just craving companionship as much as he was, maybe you don’t care, maybe you don’t want to care, and maybe he shouldn’t.

He must take it slow, not overwhelm you. He’s still worried you might send him off once his hands is all good – although he knows it will never be the same. Good at fighting, he adds to his list – or are you just good at ambush ? He finally settles for the next thing he wants to know.

« Have you read any of the books in here ? »

Safe, keep it safe. Be normal.

« Some, not many. Also, they don’t teach you that in school, where I come from. » Jihoon wants to slap himself. He knows that. Of course he does. The illiterate districts, how did he forget? Even after it’s all gone, inequalities remain. However alien it might look now, you are still walking on the ashes of the same damn country. He tries to contain his discomfort and remain casual. What will you do, when you find out – it’s not an if, he knows you will, he has no desire of leaving you now. Is he doomed?

« Anything good ? »

« The dictionary sure is handy. »

That’s the first time you hear him laugh. It’s light and bright, as he shakes his head a bit, and it makes you smile as well.

That’s the first time he sees you smile. It’s genuine and hidden, and he might have missed it if he had closed his eyes a bit longer. It’s a friendly smile, he decides.

He asks about the geography, and, as expected, he knows more than you do about this district. He tries not to feel the pain in his chest when he understands you’ve just walked blindly until you couldn’t anymore, as far as you could from the terrifying remnants of civilization, that you didn’t have a plan. He tries really hard, but still pats your head kindly, throat tight. All you’re really sure about is that you had never been this far north before, and that you didn’t know what true winter was. He should be used to it, by now. No one was prepared and yet every time it is a slap in his face to find out others have been through hell as much as he has. Jihoon is simple. He wishes no harm to anyone. He doesn’t ask for the specifics – not yet. He does not need to know much you’ve been screwed up – he doesn’t want to admit how mad it will make him. But he starts to teach you. He draws map on the floor, using dry leaves as borders. He rummages through the books, finds some he likes. He even asks you if he can go into the other flats, you know, in case there might be something he’d like. You say yes to everything, he finds out. You cut him out every time he tries to justify himself. The first time you tell him he lives here as much as you do is the first time he wants to smooch you.

It’s the middle of the night, and you’re trying to wake him up, hand on his mouth, tugging at his sleeve, when you realize you don’t know his name. He’s been there for weeks – the slow healing of his hands tells you that much – and not once have you asked for his name – you feel too guilty to realize he hasn’t, either. You’re already too scared to worry about it, and you shake his arm vigorously as your ushered whining intensifies.

« Wake up, wake up, wake up, oh please wake up, someone is near, someone is there I’m begging you please just wake up already. » Jihoon opens up his eyes in panic at the sound of your supplication. He whispers hurriedly to you, and it hits you once again that he is survivor too. At that moment, you see he’s ready for anything, he’s always ready for anything.

« Who ? Where ? How many ? »

« Just outside, I saw moving shadows at the edge of the forest. I think two, maybe three. » You’re a good huntress, he trusts your sight. But before your eyes you see the quick change in his attitude. From the serene companion to a determined fighter. He looks at you straight in the eyes, all sleep forgotten. « Do you think they’ve noticed us ? »

« I think the curtains do a great job at hiding us, we don’t have any light on... »

You both end up hiding in your bedroom, barricaded, doing nothing. What could you do anyway ? You’re no murderer – apparently he isn’t either. No bell’s melody is heard. The shadows don’t come in, you don’t come out. It’s the first time Jihoon actually comes inside your room. Sat on the floor, he says nothing about the bed, that clearly hasn’t been touched for a long time, judging by the layer of dust. He says nothing about his hand you’re holding. He notices your bag, the few clothes you’ve hanged. He’s grateful they also fit him, even if it’s probably unflattering. Otherwise he would have been stuck with what he had on his back when he met you – not much, almost torn to pieces. There are small lines drawn on the wall near the headboard, he wonders what you were trying to count, and how long you’ve done it before giving up. He jumps a bit when you tell him it’s birds – forgot you were watching him.

« They’re… Well. It’s uncanny. » You don’t look at him, you’re staring at the ceiling. He watches all of the signs on your face that tell him your fear, trying to learn your language, so that the slightest thrill won’t go unnoticed. You deserve it, don’t you? To be acknowledged. His hand tightens a bit around yours.

« Uncanny... ? »

« You know. What do they do when it rains ? » Jihoon misses a breathe. Oh my god. How, after all this time, can there be a new terrifying side to the Horrors ? He’s lived in the woods for so long, and not once has he though about it. He’s been worried for himself, of course. He stopped counting the sleepless nights he has spent anxiously hoping his little shelters, made of whatever he was able to find at the moment, would hold on. He’s been careful not to eat carcasses, out of fear they might be poisoned but this, this is new. This is a precise, specific aspect of terror. He feels dizzy and his train of thought is out of reach when you move to face him, close, hand on his face. Soft, gentle, even if he winces a bit.

« Hey, hey, don’t fret, you whisper. Corvids are super smart, and they’re the only ones I see here. Don’t overthink it. I stopped. »

He slowly catches his breathe, and says nothing as you keep holding his wrist in your hand.

You barely sleep for days after that, and Jihoon wonders if you’ve felt that way with him first. You ask him to keep you up and for the first time since the day he lost all of his remaining clothes and food – the very day he met you – he wants to cry. But he stays with you. You barely go to your room anymore, therefore when you pass out on the couch, exhausted, he stays with you, makes sure he doesn’t fall asleep, for he doesn’t want to loose your trust. He sees it now. You’re no danger. You’re terrified, and you’ve been alone for a long, long time. So he complies

« Can we build a greenhouse ? Or, at least, organize a garden? »

« I guess we could… But it’d be very obvious there’s people in the house. »

Jihoon shrugs. « Whatever. »

You look at him, startled. « Are you not worried ? »

« What else is there to do anyway ? I think it would be nice to have a project. And to achieve it. » You don’t tell him you need seeds for a greenhouse to be useful. You don’t want to argue, you want to trust him. If you’re being honest, you’ve been observing him since he first arrived. For a long time, it was anxious surveillance and side-eyeing. Like animals meeting at sunset, wondering how lethal the other may be. Now… Now, you wonder how bad it has been for him, so bad that he never brings it up. You assume he’s killed people, you fear he was among those who worked for a faster destruction of humanity’s ruins. Did he take part in raids over these little communities? Burn them to the ground, for the mere reason they were trying to keep a kind of society going? Was he – it’s hard to admit it’s a possibility – working for the government? You shake it off. You want purpose, and safety, and kindness, and Jihoon has been all of it and more – you cannot tell him yet how much you enjoy when he caresses your hand, you’re pretty sure he only does it when he thinks you’re asleep.

« Alright then. » You never tell him you’re not even sure there were trespassers that night.

Time passes, and he forgets there is a world outside of the one you both share. He forgets his life before you as he learns more about yours before him. Slowly, carefully, you tell him where you were, and what you were doing every time you heard the news of a Disaster. He holds you tight when you remember the nuclear one, more vividly than any other, for one of the bombings happened in your are. You heard it with your own hears, saw it with your own eyes, smelled it with your own nose. He apologizes and promises never to ask again. You brush it off, telling him he’s not the one who blew it up. You keep for yourself the nausea you never quite got rid off, the loss of balance when you run, the broken ankle you had to fix yourself. How sometimes you have to sit down under the shower, and bite your fist because your brain is confused between the toxic rain and the hot running water.

You contemplate the large pot of cooling water. It is routine now. Filling it up in the shower, boiling it, waiting. You don’t know if the running water’s infected, but what are the odds? It is already a miracle it’s still running, and quite clear at that. You remember the last time you saw a river after a downpour. Red from the blood of melting fishes. Sickening scent. Maybe that’s the reason why you’ve waited for so long to settle down – you’ve let your guard down, you don’t even realize it’s a home now, it’s good, you don’t know it yet, but it is good. It was the last sight of your agonizing town, when you ran, still in your work uniform, without a goal, without a plan. Away.

« How did you paint the wall yellow ? » He asks, as he plucks the petals of a heather sprig, a very satisfied smile on his lips.

It catches you off guard, as always. The first change you notice is his voice. It’s dulcet now – you remember the word, because it is in one of the few books you’ve read here. You like it. It is small and soft, and has a pleasing meaning. You look at your companion. It fits him well – you forget you first meant his voice.

« With great difficulties. Once I was done I realized I had no turmeric left, and I felt like an idiot. »

« It’s nice. I like yellow. »

You hum. « With a lot of madder we could probably get enough orange for another one. I’ll show you. »

It’s summer now. Days never get any warmer, and you both agreed to spend some time outside, enjoying the sun on your skin. You’re walking in the woods, Jihoon following you, as you’re both looking for dyer’s madder. Every few minutes he points out some plants he’s recognized, waits for you to tell him its name, and gives his verdict.

« Here. »

« Bear leek. »

« Grandiose. I respect them. These ones, on the other hand... »

« Fool’s… par… sley… ? » You, muse, unsure.

« Never. Eat. That. »

You raise a hand to catch a pear – pears are safe, pears are delicious – and Jihoon tries not to stare at your arm’s skin, bruised, torn by the fog – how long as it been ? Will it heal someday ? You know there are plants good for healing skin, but none of you knows which ones, and you’re both too afraid of making a severe mistake. Anyway, Jihoon has seen your body, as much as you’ve seen his, knows there are more like these, ancient. You’ve been caught under the rain more than once, and you’ve been hurt. Hurt by human hands. That he knows as well, you’ve been among those poor bastards used for testing, when the rain began to fall. He’s seen the little scars inside your arms, from the shots of whatever they put into your veins. It’s fucking disgusting. Jihoon wants to set someone on fire – he remembers, of course, there’s only you with him.

You watch as Jihoon opens and closes his hand absentmindedly.

« You know it will never heal properly, right ? » You ask, mouth full of big chunks of pear.

« I do, thank you. » You shut your eyes, and Jihoon feels guilty about the venom in his voice. Of course, he’s resentful, and, well you’re the one who smashed his fingers, but still, he hates the miserable look on your face. He watches as you breathe in. The pear juice drips down your chin. You swallow the last chunk.

« There’s nothing more I can do to fix it. But I-I can make up for your loss, you know, you breathe out. I can keep hunting, I can cook... » He softens, as you can’t finish your sentence. He let frustration take the best of him. He knows, he’s been replaying the scene over and over at night. He would have done the same, and it is worth it. Companionship. Having someone else around. It is so much worth it. His voice is but a whisper when he tells you « Okay, it’s okay, it’s neat, I understand, I’ll stay. » and he means it.

This is your first quarrel, but it is nothing, nothing compared to the next one, Jihoon ruminates. The second one is big, full of shame, of disgust, of anger and torment. It’s a hurricane of every frustration you’ve ever had in your life, hurled to his face. It was too good to last, he tells himself, but when you spit at his feet it still feels like a slap. He’d rather have you shouting at him. You’re just disgusted. He gets it, anyway, how unfair it must be for you. How iniquitous it is for you.

You come from a poor district, that much you knew. What you don’t know, and what he does, is that it was not only one of the poorest, but it was supposed to remain this way. Nothing was ever done to improve people’s life down there because the elites never wanted the scum to rise above their condition. Of course, he doesn’t say it like that, but when the « illiterate states » expression escapes him, he knows you won’t let it fly. So he tells you everything, and how things actually happened during the Fall. How it was no accident that the first bomb was dropped on the cities with the most workers. How they knew, up there, that no one will complain. How he heard, half-whispers in the streets, about the tests done far over there. Hopes of creating a vaccine against radioactivity – but were they, really? So little was heard, it was like a urban legend. That was when you spit at him. Of course there were testing. They had gone door-to-door, the doctors in their white coats, going through each household, claiming to offer a cure, without ever saying who were the actual guinea pigs. And anyway, they certainly weren't going to be able to work any more, so why not, what's the point of being skeptical now? You only stop when you realize it is over anyway. You cannot seek revenge nor destroy the government – it’s already a thing of the past. When tears run down your cheek in rage, he takes your hand and apologizes. Even though he wasn’t there, even though it wasn’t him. Jihoon feels someone has to make amends for you. So he does.

You say nothing of it after. What could he do about it. Jihoon is kind. Jihoon never hurt you. You let it go, like all the rest.

It is very early again, when you come back from your hunt, distraught, and hurt. It is the bells Jihoon hears first, immediately sitting straight, shaking the sleep off, adrenaline rushing. He runs to the door, checking it’s well locked, expecting the worse, a heavy stone in his left hand. It’s only when you try to open it, and pathetically whimpers it’s you that he opens, closing right after you rush in. You shakily make your way to the water, splashing it on your face as fast as you can.

Bad doesn’t even begin to describe how bad you look, holes in your clothes, shaking, is that blood on your shirt ? Nothing else looks like blood, Jihoon has learn, it is unmistakable. When he comes closer to you, you’re already trying to get a hold of yourself. He notices your fists moving slowly in the air, as you try to recover an even breathe.

« What… ? »

You face him and the end of his question is useless. It’s not that bad, but your face is marked, tiny bits of skin are missing, leaving your skin red and sticky. You reek of disease.

« Did it rain ? I didn’t hea... »

« The fog. » Your voice is breaking. « It’s e-even in the f-fog now. » You curl up on yourself, and Jihoon takes matters into his own hands. Puts them on your shoulders, guides you to the small bathroom in the corner of the bedroom. Helps you out of your clothes. He doesn’t want to invade your personal space, so he focuses on the sounds of water running. Gently pushes you inside, as your whimpering turns to wailing that you try hard, very hard, to silence. It’s crushing, really, that after all this time you still feel the need to hide your vulnerability from him. He takes your hand, comes closer to you, lets the shower soak him, and whispers to you it’s okay, really, you can let it go, it must be so painful, don’t worry and I’m here and don’t, oh please don’t worry. You hold him strong as you cry out loud for the pain, curling up again. It will never end. You’ve acted without caution and you’re a fool. As he washes you up you promise to yourself never to be this dumb again – you cannot let him down.

That night you sleep on the bed, and Jihoon realizes you’ve almost never done so since he’s here. He crawls in after you, laying close but careful not to touch you. He knows your skin will be sensitive for days. You fall asleep right away, exhausted, empty of all tears, without a word, and he tries to remember how it feels to be under the rain – it’s been a long time. He’s been relying on you for too long, it is about time he returns the favor. Tomorrow, he’ll be better.

He doesn’t let you leave the bed for days, doesn’t let you alone for more than a few minutes, he moves the sofa and the table to the bedroom. The only thing he cannot carry with him is the fireplace. So he wakes up, lights a fire, assembles a breakfast for both you to eat together, spends his day reading, talking with you when you can, whispering to you when you’re too tired to answer, napping, washing up, putting logs into the fire. The memory of a past convalescence floats between the sheets, a fossil from another world. How can you even remember it? It is there, though. The first one. You had just left the hangar for a few minute, to enjoy some fresh air after inhaling sawdust for hours. It was not a bad job, you’d tell yourself. Useful, crafty. The incessant creaking of electric sanders made it possible to have private discussions, which was already a luxury when you had started to work. When it rained for the first time on your small port town, a summer shower – you come from the sunniest of the districts, after all.

You’re chewing on leaves of mint, as you watch Jihoon tidying the room. You let your mind wander as he hangs your shared clothes in front of the fire to dry. Jihoon can stay still, you tell yourself. He can be quiet, and collected, but he needs something to do, something to think about, and unless he finds it he get antsy. You cut him some slack, remembering you’re quite similar in this aspect. That you were once calm and level-headed, until it was no longer manageable. However, there is a chance he has always been restless – maybe that’s why he endured better than you did before you met. Jihoon has the heart of a lion, and surely anything he’s done was for his survival or others’. You don’t doubt him. He nice, he is caring. He has this boyish, grumpy face, and he’s both knowledgeable and...

« What are you thinking about ? »

You jump, eyes wide.

« What ? What is ? »

« No-nothing ! You’re very reliable, that’s all. » He chuckles at that.

« Well, it’s nice to be acknowledged. »

You don’t answer, face burning hot. You miss Jihoon’s fond smile and the red on his own cheeks.

When you finally go outside again, buds herald the return of spring. You keep sleeping side by side, like it was never a question. It takes even longer for you to go out again, yet you’re terrified of Jihoon getting hurt alone outside. But he is careful, quick. When he comes backs, he seems even more worried about you than you are about him. Slowly, you sleep closer and closer in bed, like it would change something to your fate. Like it might make things right, after all. If you keep close enough, who knows, maybe you’ll be protected. Maybe no one will ever notice any of you. You never let go of Jihoon’s hand. And you say nothing when he starts to put his hand on you side to sleep, his breathe not far from your neck. It comes slow, and gentle, and tender. He is patient, and impatient, and what you don’t know is that it is as impressive, as intimidating for him as it is for you. What is he supposed to do when he’s holding you in his arms, when every time he’s been this close to someone was during fights – including with you?

So when you tell him you’re scared, but not of him, he understands. And so do you when he tells you sometimes when he wakes up he forgets you’re the one on his side. But surely it is okay there are burning butterflies in your belly when you feel his breathe on your ear when he tells you this and that. This time you notice the pink flush on his cheeks – he does not answer.

« You were right, it is very nice. »

« Told you. » He doesn’t even look at you and keeps drawing. He’s gotten a lot better, you’ll admit. Now, his handwriting is even better than yours – which probably has gotten worse, since you never write anything. You contemplate the small plant you managed to put in a pot, amazed that such a simple, delicate setting makes you feel so good. All you had to do was to pick a bit of fern and put it in a useless pot full of earth. With Jihoon’s drawings hanging on the walls – some of them drawn on the walls – you are now at home. You sigh in contentment, sinking deeper into the couch. This spring is cloudy, but the fire burning in this house is infinite.

«I feel blessed you’re here.»

Jihoon looks up, sees you spread out over the sofa. He already feels the blush on his face, but he is tired. He stands up, walks up to you. He kneels down by your side and takes your hand. He swallows his saliva as you sit up, looking worried. He pulls a little on your arm, so you’re face to face, and gentle, brave, insane, he kisses you.

Eyes closed, you reach for his hand.

Tomorrow means nothing now. There is no hope of anything getting better at this point, yet here you are, holding hands with him, waking up with him, making plans with him. Why not?

#seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #woozi imagines #woozi scenarios #woozi x reader #to eat flowers and not to be afraid #ljh #apocalypse au #my writings

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yeoldontknow · 5 years

Text

As Still As Sound: 4

Author’s Note: thank you to everyone who has patiently waited for this update. ive been waiting for it too. ily so much. i hope you enjoy <3 Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Songs Mentioned: From Her To Eternity - Nick Cave and The Badseeds / Cry To Me - Solomon Burke Genre: soulmate!au; angst; fluff; romance Rating (this chapter): R Warnings: some mature sexual themes; explicit language Word Count: 9K

masterlist

Months ago, the concert was your idea, a thing you suggested with fire behind your teeth and adrenaline in your veins.

You remember, now, the way your hands rushed to buy the tickets, typing passwords and entering pre-sale codes, telling Kate over and over down the phone that you’d pay for hers if you got in, that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity - that Nick Cave, more than anyone, had constructed your adulthood. In your heart, you carried him, the sound of his voice, and the words from his lips - a soundtrack of misery, anguish, and the fleeting experience of contentment that painted your journey into maturity red and red and red.

Months ago, Kate agreed, her excitement at the prospect of joining you almost wild and ravenous. Together, you’d looked forward to this, marked days on calendars and held the tickets in your hands in the morning before work, disbelieving and somewhat overwhelmed.

Today, the concert is her idea, a suggestion born purely from kindness; a friendly reminder you need to go out, away from your home and away from your constant, desperate soundtrack - released, finally, from your state of entrapment.

It is not, you imagine, that your anticipation of the show has ceased - far from it - merely that your anticipation and excitement has been redirected to a man whose voice is just as low, just as effective, and meant for your ears alone. The gravel nestled within Chanyeol’s voice is a chocolate honeycomb of affection, putting syrup and sweetness and devotion into your blood - a sugar rush upon which you get high; where Nick’s lyrics remind you of the heartbreak so unilaterally partnered with the act of living, Chanyeol’s words - simple and unpoetic as they often are - ignite the hope you had scorned and turned away, putting the thrill of living back into your lungs.

For weeks you have wondered if this is how people live now, if this is how people had been living long before the solar flare - endlessly searching and seeking, restless and waiting for the vibrancy of an overeager heartbeat; hoping and hoping and hoping to be touched and felt and needed.

Until Chanyeol, this was not you. These types of deep rooted, tenacious emotions carried with them an unprecedented sense of repulsion - not to the person, but to the intensity, and to, more than anything, the incomprehensible notion that you needed another person to feel whole.

Finding romance, for you, was a pleasure, and seeking pleasure in another person was a brief, impermanent adventure, something only slightly more transient than a roller coaster. Did people always crave like this? Did your parents want and need and yearn for one another long before they had confirmation they could? Was it not existentially exhausting to want and pine and wish, almost as compulsively as breathing, for the arms of another?

Would you, had you met Chanyeol on the street and not entwined or laced between your music, have felt such pining and longing for his hands, his voice, his breath as you do now? Would you, had you seen him at the shop, buying records and buying albums, unknowingly sharing his music taste with your cash register, have listened to all the same things, hoping to share a part of him as you do now?

In the end, it does not matter.

These questions do not matter because the cosmos has built itself around you and around him, twining your hearts together until the days have started to blur into one half formed and hardly tangible rise and set of the sun. In your efforts of hearing him once more, the play count and hours logged on your last.fm have reached new highs, an almost constant list of songs based on genres, artists, and decades you imagine he would like growing and growing until, for several hours, it stopped counting altogether, seemingly overwhelmed. Where before you listened to only one album, playing through enough Neil Diamond to feel as though his lyrics are the lexicon of your speech, now you have knowledge of a science and a pattern, but no element of control to manage your testing.

All you know is that you will meet him when you play the same song, and you have, and will and are, pushed yourself into obsession in the effort of meeting him again.

And so it is not that you do not want to go to the show any longer.

On the contrary, you find, as you tie the laces of your combat boots and check - twice before you leave and once after the tube carriage doors close - for your tickets, you are craving the thunder and violence of live music. Lately, you have needed to be rattled - shaken down to your core by something familiar, not something cosmic. Live music builds the person you are back up from nothing, the person you have lost after days and weeks and months of work, and family, and responsibility structured through a sound wave.

In losing yourself completely, surrendering to the passion and the energy and the noise until your mind is full of nothing else, do you find your true soul, remember who you are and what you are, someone who survives on the edge of existence and with a smile wide enough to hurt.

And so, it is not that you don't want to go to the show. You are adamant about this, reminding yourself that you need the emotional rest and that you crave this as you stand on the tube platform. An approaching train puts a warm breeze through your hair, the unprecedented loudness drowning out all other sounds and leaving you, momentarily, in a dull roar of silence. Grimacing, you step on the train, frustrated with the noise of the tube and the sense that you lose time every time you take a journey.

Time you could have spent finding Chanyeol.

Annoyed with yourself, you release a chastising laugh. It is not that you don’t want to go to the show, it is simply the hours with live music are hours without him, without an opportunity to find him, have him, hold him - three minutes amongst hours that slip through your fingers. Pressing your back against rough cushion of the tube seat, you raise the volume of the music in your headphones, hoping the sound of Etta James can slow your rapid thoughts into silence, a pout pushing at your lips in disdain.

You only ever have three minutes with Chanyeol, three minutes which seem to pass in seconds, time slipping through and around you as though you are both simultaneously part of the natural order of the earth and separate from it altogether. His voice alone renders time meaningless, a concept the air in his lungs blows to dust, lips kissing at words that become stars in your eyes and held together by the fabric of your ardor. Three minutes and endless seconds, hours missed and hours lost, and it is all completely unequivocally unfair.

Tonight, the tube carriage is full of people and strangers, some bonded, some free; some headed to the same show as you, evidenced by their band tee shirts and their jittery, shaking legs, and all, most likely, will get to experience the slow descent into love at a pace they have chosen to set. Chewing at the inside of your cheek, you bite back a frustrated sigh, willing your mouth to suck the bitterness from your tongue. The envy of their supposed simplicity sends your heart sinking, resentful and aware that you deserve nothing less than what you have been given.

Gifted to you, somewhat cruelly, is a love that appears only when you least expect it and always when you imagine it has departed from you entirely, a fluke or trick of the imagination brought forward by the human instinct to want a partner. Once more, you are reminded of Kate's words, her small laugh and the acknowledgement that this sort of connection is so like you, your inherent distrust of love resulting in a connection that feels incredible but seems to distrust if you were worthy of it.

But still, your hand grips your phone tightly, hoping that maybe Chanyeol is listening to Etta James too and that, even if you do not meet in these songs, he wants you, through and beyond time, and down to his very core.

Kate is waiting for you at the front entry of the Eventim Apollo, a delicate flush painted on her cheeks from the uncharacteristically cool night and a bounce in her knees, unable to keep still. A smile is tucked into the corner of her lips as she speaks on the phone, a secret affection given away by the glimmer of joy in her eyes. The surrounding city lights are eaten by the matte fabric of her burgundy coat, as though she absorbs the world and glows on her own. Hurrying through her conversation as you approach, she laughs, the sound adopting a musical cadence she only ever exudes when she is blissfully happy.

'Yes, I'll text when it's over and we're leaving,' she says, rushing through the words as she waves you over. 'Do you want me to call if they play Jesus of the Moon? Okay, love you too. Bye.'

Coming to stand at her side, you dig through your bag, smiling to yourself. 'Baekhyun couldn't make it?'

She slips her phone into her pocket, taking the ticket you hand her with a small pout. 'No, he couldn't find any tickets on StubHub or the forums. The prices were astronomical.'

Nodding, you walk with her to the queue, which has already begun to shrink. Doors opened twenty minutes ago, and while you both have standing stall tickets, neither of you had the energy to queue. It will be just as magical, you know, standing towards the back and letting the light in.

'I can't imagine the fans would be selling,' you muse, opening your bag for checking and offering a polite smile to the security guard who nods mutely in gratitude. 'I'm disappointed, though. I was looking forward to meeting him.'

'You'll meet him soon enough,’ she replies offhandedly, muttering a gentle thank you as security waves her forward. 'I'm impressed by you, though.'

Walking through the entry, you hand your ticket for scanning and cock a quizzical brow in her direction. 'How do you mean?'

Ticket scanned, she pushes it into her bag before gesturing her hands over her ears, giving the impression of ear muffs. 'You brought the small earbuds and not your big clunkers.'

Rolling your eyes, you purse your lips. 'I hate that you call them that.’

The slight irritation in your voice is undercut by the hum of people within the venue, some at the bar and others heading towards coat check. Glancing in Kate's direction, you find her eyes remain locked on the entryway to the stage floor, expression unfazed and unmarred by your displeasure. It does not matter if she heard you or not, she's had this conversation enough to know your opinion.

'They're studio headphones,’ you finish, unbothered by the petulant tone you’ve adopted.

She laughs, nodding at your clarification while she trains a focused stare on the sound booth and the surrounding barrier.

'There good?' she asks, pointing to the section just in front of the sound desk - a place for you to stand and lean if you grow tired. At your hum of approval, she beelines with you in tow, and continues where your conversation left off.

'Precisely zero people walk around the tube with those,’ she says, pride overtaking an edge to her voice, pleased by her success of finding a good spot.

'Fuck off,' you murmur, leaning back against the barrier and assessing your view of the stage. 'I just didn't want to bring a big bag. And,' you emphasize, turning to finally look at her once more, 'I'll have you know those headphones have incredible audio quality.'

'For music?' Kate's lip curls in a mischievous smirk, and your mouth runs dry in anticipation. 'Or for a certain someone?'

A small hiss of air escapes your teeth, bemused but unsurprised. For a moment, you let your eyes wander around the room, battling with yourself as you decide just how much you want to give away.

'And if I said both?' you counter eventually, voice bold and unflinchingly honest as you watch her expression immediately softens.

'Any luck the last few days, then?'

You shake your head, spine straightening as you roll your shoulders back, determined to appear decidedly okay. 'No.'

‘Are you certain he’s your soulmate?’

It is neither an insult nor an accusation, but still the air escapes your lungs, chest winded and pained by the unintended cruelty of her question. But then, you quickly realize the last she's heard is that you were uncertain - that you had no idea about him at all, meeting with her at the pub only to disappear for weeks, responding here and there through text. To her, your relationship with Chanyeol is as good as a science experiment. While you know for a fact you had lied, unwilling to admit, then, that you knew from the moment his first breath reached your ears he was yours, now she simply questions your diligence in an act of concern for her closest friend.

And so you smile, aware that the expression looks sad, unmoved in your effort to make someone else feel comfortable when discussing this topic.

‘I’m confident it’s him.’

The firmness in your tone as you say the words does not make up for the pain your muscles had taken on after you lied, but at least, in this moment, the weightlessness of such a melancholy statement gives your heart the sensation of floating beneath your sternum.

It feels good to say it, to admit it. It feels good to be claimed by him.

Warmth floods her irises, one of her hands coming to hold your arm in gentle reassurance. Empathy mixes with sympathy, shades of the Kate you remember pre-Baekhyun glossing over her current visage in a sort of time slip. It hits you, then, that she had felt this way, once. While she had a clear marker for her connection, a clock beneath her skin stopping the moment she came into contact with her soulmate, the confidence that she would ever be released from her own prison had never once been something she believed she could touch.

All at once, you are reminded of the months she said she wanted to bond even if she didn’t like it, just so that it could be over.

'You'll figure it out soon,' she affirms, the softness in her voice mixing with her stubborn determination. 'On the bright side, this is a vast improvement from believing you don't have anyone at all.'

'Is it though?' You don't mean for it to sound pleading, but the ferocity of your affection has taken hold of pieces within your soul you did not know existed. And, while you are confident you don’t wish to be freed from this new, uncharted intensity, you simply wish there was a logic to make the pain a little more bearable. 'Or am I simply driving myself mad, thinking and overthinking?'

'You do that anyway,' she counters, playfully, 'so I'm not sure the bond is to blame.'

Laughing, you nudge your shoulder into hers and release a groan of agreement, jostled by her honesty. Regardless if you had bonded with Chanyeol or not, your mind would have raced towards an infinite number of conclusions, exhausting your heart into a state of paralysis. Bond or no bond, your mind was never one to allow itself a moment of reprieve.

'Look,' she continues, cocking her head towards the stage in encouragement. 'Just forget about it for tonight. You need a break. No bonds. Just us and our first boyfriend.'

Kate’s advice is sound, and it works for a while. For a time, you are tethered to the moment by the strength in the hold of her hand, the way she holds you to her side and shares, with all of herself, the light and the sound and the feeling. But soon, her grasp on your hand turns your thoughts inward, in that purgatory of time between the opener and the main act, when there is little to do apart from buy another pint of cider, feeling the thrum of excitement down into your bones.

While she checks her phone for texts from Baekhyun, you wonder if Chanyeol is here, sharing this moment with you the same way you have been sharing songs. It would not be preposterous to assume he would be, the majority of London’s rock scene gathered to get high and get wrecked by a sonic release that will likely feel akin to something biblical. Craning your neck, you glance around the venue, hoping to be struck by him as if by lightning.

For weeks, you’ve wondered if you’ve passed him, shared a tube with him - if he’s even in London at all. Being separated by miles and seas from your soulmate is not uncommon; you would not be the first instance of such a curse, but still those couples found one another, and so you have not given up the waxy sensation of hope as it glides over your fingers.

But still, you may be the first instance of couple sharing song and sharing sound, only having minutes - perhaps less - to glean as much information from one another as you can. Those who hear one another’s thoughts coordinate meeting places, already knowing what and who they should be looking for; those with sensory loss and clocks have concise ways of knowing when and how to find their person, the earthquake of first contact partnered with a monumental change. Yet, there is no guarantee you would find Chanyeol even if he were here, no promise that you would feel him even if he were rows behind or in front of you.

And so you cling, in the end, to the prayer that tonight, even if he is not here, he finds his way to any of the twenty-six songs on the setlist.

The lights dim at nine on the dot, carrying with it the familiar sensation of floating, the yells from the crowd swiftly wiping any further thought from your mind. You smile - you feel yourself smiling, and you are unsure when your cheeks had pulled back to reveal your teeth, but you do not mind. At once, the hairs on your arms stand on end, brought to life by the strength of adrenaline alone, the gooseflesh along your skin and sending a shiver down your spine. Kate’s hand squeezes yours, a touch and a hold that feels to you like a liveware, and you lift yourself taller, back straightening as though boosted by the roar of the speaker feedback.

The first notes hit you in the center of your chest, the kind of eruption that could leave a person winded, and the force of it does not seem to stop throughout the night. Eyes closed, mouth screaming the words, the only tether you have to the earth is Kate’s hand, rooting you to gravity. Tension leaves your jaw, the stress of existence seeping from your bones and leaving you weightless, skin tingling from the sudden relaxation. Throughout the night, Kate’s hand in yours becomes a comfort, a familiar sensation you do not need to focus on but recognize just the same, feeling safe simply because her own fingers press into your knuckles in delight.

And it is then, in the middle of From Her To Eternity, when you realize touch and contact carries with it its own set of rules, a logic and an understanding that goes far beyond conscious conception; a logic that need not be experienced in order to be conceived - you can feel the texture of silk just by thinking of the word; you can feel, rather easily, the cool clasp of a leather jacket, just by picturing the silver.

And it is then, in the middle of From Her To Eternity, that you think on Chanyeol, on the way he pulls at you and your soul, and suddenly, all at once, as if he had never been departed from you at all, feel him over and inside of you.

From out of the black, his hands tug at your waist, aching to press you flush against his body - seemingly disdainful of any separation. During the guitar riff before the chorus, you can almost hear him, cheering and singing along to the notes with an ecstatic sort of howl - one hand fisting in your shirt in an effort to make sure you experience him at the same time. Heart racing and blood rushing beneath your skin, you lean back into where you imagine his chest would be, careful not to fall or pull Kate with you. You take luxury in the peculiarity of this sensation, at a body without a body being at once behind and a part of yours. Almost instantly, you open for and open to him, begging him to stay, to never leave, to make a home of you, and you spread your legs a little wider hoping to feel his leg press against your thighs, encouraging him to bind his bones with yours.

A shiver walks along your nerves as his other hand glides up your extended arm, carding your fingers together as he sings - rich, and full voiced, and transcendent - all the lyrics you echo back to him, to Nick, to the atmosphere. The warmth of his aura floods your muscles, a small moan escaping your lips in the middle your favourite lyric, words garbled by the sudden overwhelm of heat. As badly as you want Chanyeol, so too does he want your skin, wants the prints of your fingertips smeared all over him, bodies thrumming from passion, adrenaline, and delirium.

The fabric of your clothes becomes tight, the denim of your black jeans feeling thin and damp around the curve of your ass; your shirt, wrapped in his grip and rubbing against your waist, is moist at the base of your spine, the heat from the crowd and the heat from Chanyeol pulling the wetness from your pores. His long fingers extend upward against your stomach, grazing the soft fabric of your bra with his nails - a sensation that tickles you, barely there and barely tangible, but felt all the same.

Looking up at your hand, vision blurred and lips pulled into a messy, lopsided smile, you suddenly feel dizzy.

This hand is empty. You know and can see that it is empty. Part of you does not question this because if he were here, if he were truly with you, the roughness of his skin would ignite the chemistry of your molecules, transforming you into something Other and something Unknown. You know your hand is empty, but still the haze of fingers and knuckles and the pink redness of blood at the fingertips takes shape. The blurred edges of this image make you feel motion sick, bewildered by the sudden trick of the light and the trick of your heart, blinking once and twice before it is gone altogether.

There is no hand holding yours, no fingers pressing hungrily at your breast, but you feel them - you still feel him, as though the seismic weight of your wishing has brought him forth, brought the memory of every other contact you’ve felt into the nerves of your palm and married it, desperately, with the malformed shadow of Chanyeol.

It’s difficult, you find, building a person around a voice or building a heart around sound, but then - isn’t that what a heartbeat is? A constant rhythm keeping space and keeping time, pulling you close and close and close, able to be recognized regardless of the cartilage that separates you from it.

Chanyeol holds you close, curled into you from fear that you will leave him, rocking into your back and pressing a smile into the skin of your neck as he sings and sings and sings. You’re vibrating, holding onto nothing at the same time as you hold onto Kate, feeling wetness pool between your thighs from the sheer magnitude of wanting without having, knowing how it feels to be pressed close to a body, the hardness of a person grazing your back and ass, and allow your mind to fill the missing pieces in on your behalf. The sound of his voice travels through your ears, your mind, and into your open mouth, tongue going dry from the sheer force of him.

Like always, he is a flood, a force of nature you absolutely cannot resist, soul surrendering, almost immediately, to the magic of his existence.

It could be the cider, you think, that elevates your heart rate and puts a rush of blood into your lips that makes them feel swollen, and full, begging to be kissed or bitten. It could be the crowd and their energy making you wish and crave for someone to share this intimacy with, the energy of the room pushed flush the chambers of your heart, and your brain ensuring the hazy outline of Chanyeol be there to deliver you to paradise. In the end, you decide it does not matter, the answers to these questions are not nearly as meaningful as the way he tells you this is his favourite song too, and you cling to the way he speaks and breathes; mostly, you cling to the way his lips seem to press against your ear, demanding you hear him and you do not forget.

And just as swiftly as the song started, just as quickly as the feeling came, it leaves you, the red flush on your chest lingering even after he is gone. The heat from the room sticks to your skin, much the same way Kate’s eyes burn into your profile. With vigor, she pulls her hand from yours, tugging it from your grip. In your peripheral, you watch the way she stretches out her hand and fingers, massaging the bones and regards you with wide, worried eyes that demand an explanation. Unsure what to say and unprepared to speak at all, you keep your eyes trained on the stage, watching the stage as it goes dark and waiting for the sadness of your loss to creep back in as it always does.

But this time, there is change. This time, you are left with a tangible residue to mark his presence, a sign that your overactive imagination was not alone in its efforts.

This time, instead of the loss and the torment of separation, you focus on the sensation of your wet underwear, a pulsing vibration from inside your core reminding you this was real.

This was real.

The deep flush of your cheeks and the dry skin of your lips is grateful for the chilly night air as you exit the venue after the show. Tonight, the sky of London is clear and black, stars swallowed by the street lights with only the glow of the full moon reminding you there exists a world beyond this, beyond the world you've fallen into with Chanyeol. Breathless, you stand outside and check the time, hands shaking from both adrenaline and memory. This late at night, the tube is still running, but you crave the open expanse of the world, synapses too flooded with desire to handle the closed tunnels of the underground.

Close quarters and tight seats would only make you yearn for the press of his hands and his groin into your lap, the longing to be handled brimming over in the heat of your blood.

‘What the fuck was that?’ Kate asks, the disbelieving nature of her voice breaking your thoughts.

Tearing your eyes away from the sky, you regard her, wide eyed and breathless. Shadows have been carved into her features from the Eventim Apollo marquee sign and the silver glimmers of moonlight, a darkness under her eyes and cheekbones making her look severe and unnerved.

‘What?’ The small, thinness to your voice gives away you know precisely to what she is referring, but you need her to say it.

You need her to say it and to confirm it.

‘You nearly broke my hand during that song.’ Neither angry nor upset, she simply massages her hand in concern, easing the lingering soreness. ‘I know its your favourite, but have some consideration for my joints, yeah?’

Looking down at your feet, your mind empties, mouth giving shape to apologies before your mind can properly form them. ‘Sorry,' you mutter, 'I didn’t realize I was squeezing you so tightly.’

Kate steps closer to you, bending down to study your face with a furrowed brow. ‘You’re all flushed, too. Are you drunk?’

You laugh, but you're not sure why. The sound is a faint whisper of humour carrying with it the turmoil of confusion, sounding, altogether, like you could be drunk. You might be, you think. He makes your skin feel just as edgeless as when you are too many ciders deep and telling London it is your only true, passionate love affair.

‘Maybe?’ you manage, the words little more than a noise of delirium.

‘You only had three ciders,’ she chuckles, yet her eyes remain guarded.

‘Well,’ you shrug, turning in the direction of the night bus. Your feet move of their own accord, not bothering to see if she follows. ‘Nick will do that to you.’

Pulling out her phone to presumably text Baekhyun, she hums in agreement, but still you feel her eyes bore into your back as you walk away, watching and watching, almost certain you might disappear.

You realize you never said goodbye.

The night bus home is difficult.

Normally, you relish this journey, take your time savoring the top level of the bus which somehow always feels reserved for concert goers. This late at night, their voices carry, domed around you as they discuss the show, the highlights, or, conversely, simply not talking at all, choosing instead to relive the show through their headphones. Tonight you join them, settling in an open row of seats next to the window and resting your head against the glass, seeking the refreshing texture in the hopes that it will cool your skin.

Tonight should be no different from all your other post-gig journeys home, excitement palpable in the almost thick heat of the bus and the way there’s a rush of emotion as the bus pulls away from the stop. This is when you’d smile, take your headphones out and play your way through the setlist; other times, you’d eavesdrop on the other conversations, smiling at their reactions and responses, turning inward and tuning out only after you cross the bridge over the Thames and the conversation turns a bit quiet, and a bit personal.

But tonight, the difference is in you - in the way you still cannot shake the feeling of Chanyeol’s strong hands and the thick cream of his voice, the memory of him seeming to overtake the memory of the show altogether.

Headphones wound in your lap, you regard them with a small pout. The ringing in your ears will do you no favors should you listen to any music, but your hesitation to touch and to use them runs deeper than the usual post-gig tinnitus. Even now, you can still feel him, the paradoxically smooth roughness of his palms as they moved over your skin, and the way his voice made you vibrate, trembling into nothingness in the effort of seeking more. Now, the white wires of your headphones pose an element of distrust and betrayal, the ground rules of your connection seeming to change just as soon as you understand them, and you wonder if you’re ready to feel him again, if you could, or if you’ve even stopped.

Turning to glance out the window, London seems to pass in a crystal haze, the lights from the city dotting the river like miniature spotlights, the city still alive and glittering. The vibrancy of London puts a smile on your face, the memory of the last time you rode a bus mixing with the memories of all the times before you’ve looked out at the skyline and wondered who was living, who was dying, and how many stories could be contained beneath just one streetlight. These idle thoughts always compelled you, your love for London and for the heartbeat of the city always overtaking your thoughts once the bus grew quiet.

Now, your imagination has become consumed with a man and the frequency of a voice that haunts you. Staring down at your hands, you study the lines in your skin and wonder what you felt - if you truly were feeling. Already a naturally warm person, the tender hold of his hand in yours put a rush of blood in your fingers, making them appear swollen and pink. And while you could see through and beyond him, as though he were an ephemeral mirage comprised of a longing that reached down into the chasm of your essence, for one moment you swore you could see the pink of his knuckles as he held you, clutching at your bones in an effort to stitch your bodies together.

Tonight, too, the steps up to your door feel endless, walls of the stairway closing in and becoming tight, compressed. Laughter echoes around you, strange for this hour of the night when your neighbors are usually asleep or out even later than you. It doesn’t sound familiar but it doesn’t sound foreign, the richness of the tone giving way to a younger Mr. Kim and a female voice you place as his wife, Aki. How many times had they walked these stairs, holding hands and kissing wrists, laughing and laughing until they silenced one another with kisses that seared against their smiles? How many times had they pressed one another against these walls, pressing fingers to lips to keep quiet only to fall into one another instead?

Were they soulmates, too, long before the world allowed for such a love?

The nostalgia of these unlived experiences burns against your throat, a lump forming that seems out of place and altogether irrational. A missing has taken root within you, deep down and all over again, though this time it is not for Chanyeol but for a future and a past running in beside one another in tandem. Do you miss the idea of youth, spending too much time with Mr. Kim and watching the way time eats at a heart and at a person? Do you miss the connection that comes from bodies? Your last boyfriend was years ago, just before the solar flare, and even then you had stopped connecting long before you called the relationship off. Even when you were together, pressed against one another in bed and sharing breaths, you weren’t really there, heart and mind going elsewhere to find pleasure.

Perhaps, in the end, you simply miss the happiness of coming home to someone, coming home to Chanyeol, or, most likely, coming home at all. Pushing through your door, the silence seems to swallow you, the quietness of your flat unfit for the energy pooling at your fingertips. Home hasn't felt like home for months, not since you first played Neil Diamond on repeat for days. Something about your flat has felt off, right in the ways that are familiar and wrong as thought something terribly important had been lost, or never found at all. Tonight, the quiet of it all eats at you, skin still stinging with the strength of Chanyeol's touch, and you find you need sound to drown out this loneliness.

Stripping off your clothes, the freedom of your removed bra makes you smile, suddenly hyper aware of the curves of your body. Embodied as you are, you find you need music to hold you together, to press against you the way hands should be - the way Chanyeol's hands would.

Solomon Burke's record is torn at the sides, the edges fraying and taped too many times for you to count. It should never have been left in a charity shop, but then, if it hadn't you never would have come to own it. Faded and worn as its sleeve may be, the record still rings clean and true, the pressed black vinyl glossy and glimmering in the low light of your flat. Uncorking a bottle of wine, your lips go numb as your heart begins to race, head tilting to the side in the expectation of a mouth gliding along your neck. The hair on your arms stands on end, the atmosphere suddenly full of static, electric as it kisses against your skin.

The world fades, the familiarity of this comforting and so unlike the illusion of his touch at the concert. In this, you ground, the world around you silenced except for the music and for him.

‘God, I’ve missed you,' you mumble, knowing he can hear you just fine.

Redness spreads across your chest, a flush of embarrassment at your admission painting you pink and pink. Silly, you think, for there was nothing to miss. You're certain he had never left you.

Chanyeol's laugh is low, a thunder roll easily missed if one is not hanging on every sound he makes. ‘I can still feel you,' he says, though the words come together behind a soft, impatient whine. ‘You’re driving me wild.’

‘Speak for yourself,' you snort, watching the wine as you pour it through half lidded eyes. ‘You’re the one that found me, and now I’m wearing you. I didn’t think we’d be able to...do that.’

He hums in agreement, pride evident in the smile you can almost hear him wear. ‘This, too.’

You knit your brows together, corking the bottle as you glance around your flat, confused. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s the first time I’m hearing you without headphones.'

Eyes widening, your gaze lands on the record as it turns and turns, the glimmers of light swirling over the record as it plays. Your headphones, earbuds and studio over-ear alike, are in your bedroom, packed away for their use tomorrow when you'll need them for your commute. Out of habit and the inherent human need for rationality, you look around your flat, feeling him close and hearing his breath as falls in a rushed, excited rhythm. Outside your window, the streetlights take on an otherworldly glow, the fabric of your couches, chairs, and curtains suddenly richer, deeper, your world coloured entirely by his presence.

Overwhelmed, you find all you can manage is the painfully simple, whispered exclamation, 'Oh, my god.'

He moves, that much is evident by the sound of his rustling clothes, and you turn around, looking for his shadow.

‘It’s the clearest you’ve ever been,' he says, sounding pleased. The joy of it, the joy and the shock and the clarity of him is heady, and you reach a hand out, gripping your counter. 'You’re surrounding me.’

Once again, he is not wrong, the sound of his voice seeming to fill the empty corners of your house and mind. Your grip on the counter tightens, joints aching from the effort of keeping still. If he were here, you'd reach for him, pull him to you and kiss him until your lungs hurt from lack of breath. If he were just as needy, maybe he'd place you on the counter top, spilling your wine as his hands massaged bruises into your thighs, leaving marks on your neck for the world to see.

It's shocking, you realize, what the sound of his voice can do. Just one laugh and already he stains the walls.

Swallowing thickly, you take in a long inhale, hoping to clear your mind and focus. ‘So you were at the show.’

It is not a question, just a statement of fact.

Chanyeol's laugh is one of disbelief and one of comfort, an odd mix of emotions you read so easily and find yourself getting drunk on just the same. Glancing down, you see the wine, untouched. ‘It’s so bizarre you just know it,' he says, breathless in his delight. ‘It’s like continuing a conversation we never started.’

‘So you were there tonight?’ you repeat, needing to hear his confirmation and refusing to let yourself run wild with the sheer magnitude of him.

‘Yeah, I was,' he admits. ‘I started feeling like you were there and...I don’t know.’ Chanyeol falls silent, but just as clearly as you can hear him, so too does your mind see him. He blushes, looking down at his hands and standing in the same place as you, sleeveless grey shirt revealing the muscles in his arms as he holds onto the counter. ‘I couldn’t help myself.’

The sound of your heartbeat fills your ears, and while you want to rush forward and talk and talk, for a moment you are speechless.

Chanyeol is in London.

There are no seas separating you.

Tonight, he was at the concert and just as easily as sharing a song, so too can you share the city. This kind of confirmation is worthy of a celebration, a late night phone call or text message to give an address, a number, a cab ride to a doorstep so hands and mouths can finally meet. But you don't mention it or expand on it, biting the side of your tongue in hesitation instead. Blood rushing in your ears interrupts all your fantasies, mouth unsure you're ready for your own admission to make it real.

When it's real, it breaks, and you're still unsure you're ready to be moved beyond the confines of the earth.

Blinking slowly, you ground yourself back in the deep breaths he takes to keep himself calm, and smile. 'I'm glad you didn't.' Once more, your eyes find your wine glass, hand reaching for the stem to swirl it around and around. 'It's been a long time since I've felt someone hold me so close at a concert. You were keeping me warm.'

Almost immediately, he replies. ‘Don’t talk about someone else's hands on you.' It is neither a demand not a command, but a plea. ‘I don’t like picturing it.’

Smirking, you cock your head to the side, the honey sweet drip of arousal running down your spine. ‘Possessive already?’

‘Yes,' comes his quick, unashamed reply. ‘Everyone before doesn’t matter,' he clarifies, eyes falling closed to keep himself calm, 'but I still can’t help it. My hands have been aching all night. I'll never have my fill of you.'

Uncertain how to reply, you simply smile. You smile straight ahead and at nothing at all, knowing that he can feel it. Nothing matters anymore, so long as he can feel it.

‘I wouldn’t have expected you to be there,' he says, words falling quickly in an effort of making the most of your time together. 'There weren’t many women, especially towards the front.’

Rolling your eyes, you sigh, tired of these types of gendered comments men so easily make when it comes to rock music. ‘Then you weren’t looking hard enough.’

Chanyeol, however, acquiesces easily. ‘True,' he affirms. ‘Though, to be fair, I was really only looking for you.’ You both fall into the memory, of the way you found one another in the breadth of a moment, in a setlist, and in the all encompassing ecstasy that comes from live music. ‘That’s my favourite song of his,' Chanyeol shares, sounding almost shy. 'From Her To Eternity is so powerful.'

Something about this makes you feel young, impossibly young and carefree, like your longtime crush has just admitted he likes the same things as you, and therefore it must be destiny. You laugh, feeling yourself go light headed from the force of it, and remind yourself that it is. It is actually destiny.

‘Mine too,' you agree, giggling. ‘It’s funny, people don’t mention that deep cut.’

‘Deep cut?’ he questions, and you have to stop yourself from sighing in deep affection at the image of his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. ‘Do you know something I don’t?’

‘No...just…’ Your words die, backtracking from your blanket statement. ‘It doesn’t get chosen very often as a favourite, is all.’

Seeming to realize that your time together is coming short, the end of side A looming closer, Chanyeol changes the subject. ‘I didn’t think I’d find you in this record.’

Humming, you look back at the record, and the torn somewhat bent edges of the sleeve. 'That's true,' you nod at no one in particular. 'It's a hard record to find, which is a shame because Cry To Me is the best part of Dirty Dancing.’

A small noise of uncertainty blooms from Chanyeol's chest, curiosity and interest blending together in one small, magical sound. ‘I don’t know what that is.'

Baffled and overtaken by skepticism, you laugh. Normally, such statements make you roll your eyes in disgust but there is something so wonderfully endearing about his joke you cannot help but smile. ‘That’s literally impossible. You’re such a guy.’

A low, slow rumble quakes in his chest, your eyes falling shut in preparation of the thickness of pleasure you know he is about to adopt. ‘If dirty dancing is what you want…’

‘Don’t start,' you whisper, mind replaying the sound over and over, addicted. ‘You’ve got me drunk on you.’

‘Speak for yourself,' he teases, mirroring your earlier statement.

For a brief moment, you can almost see him. Bottom lip caught between his teeth, his wide eyes look longing through you, hoping to find and touch and hold whatever part of you he can access. Like this, you both fall quiet, looking everywhere and nowhere for one another, and eventually, the shift of the earth on its axis makes your body sway, overcome by your unintentional stillness. Just like you could at the concert, you feel his hand reach for your waist, catching you, and it is this contact that makes you understand the difference between imagination and connection.

Where imagination is distant and feather light, a super imposition of assumption onto expectation, this is is a cosmic wave in which your drown, skin and soul and heart rattled by the impossibility and intensity of him. Neither fictional nor imagined, he is hyper-present and he is cosmic, a sunbeam trick that runs along the endings of your nerves.

‘So, do you like soul music, then?’ he asks, breaking your silence with an anxious tension at the back of his throat. His words are thick, heavy things that weigh against you, and you know he too is struggling to hold himself together.

A slow smile tugs at your lips, a lopsided grin of adoration. ‘I love it,’ you begin, pressing your tongue against your teeth unsure if you should continue. There’s so much on this you want to say, so much you normally give to other people with little passion returned. But he’s your soulmate, and if he’s really yours he will give back in spades. ‘Most days, I think it’s my favourite genre. It’s speaks of human connection in a way that I think other genres just can’t comprehend.’

‘Absolutely,’ he agrees, enthusiasm palpable in every syllable. ‘Their voices are full of the full spectrum of human emotion...it’s like they’ve felt so much more than I ever could. Every lyric is a love letter.’

Silently, you chuckle to yourself, eyes roaming up towards your ceiling in thanks to a God you never really had faith in. ‘Every time I listen to it, especially to an Otis song -’

‘God, I love Otis,’ he interrupts, over eager. ‘Sorry,’ comes his rushed apology, bemused by his excitement. ‘It’s just good to talk about it with someone.’

‘It’s okay.’

You want to reassure him everything he will ever say, every interruption is fine and good and gold, because you want, more than anything, to listen to him speak until the sun goes black. But Chanyeol remains quiet, impatiently waiting for you to continue, and you are so willing to give him absolutely everything he desires.

‘It’s so hard to explain…’ Your words fade, mind struggling to form a sentence that could convey the depth of your emotion. ‘He moves me,’ you finally announce, uncertain anything further needs to be said.

You have said this before. This thought and opinion is not unfamiliar or new. You have said as much to countless other people, people who simply laugh and tell you this thought is incomplete. Movement is born from a moment of pleasure, a spark and release of joy, and rarely is such a feeling understood outside of the moment in which it exists. To everyone else, this thought is illogical - not impossible, just unusual.

But Chanyeol sighs, a long exclamation of understanding, his heart and soul wilting directly into yours, finally witnessed. ‘Yeah?’ he swoons, urging you to continue with the force of his ardor.

Turning, you lean back against the counter, tilting your head upwards as though anticipating a kiss. ‘He was so young,’ you continue, voice small and distant, longing tracing every word on your tongue, ;but the way he spoke and the way he sang…’ You drift, trembling at the sudden sensation of a light touch ghosting along your cheek. You think it might be his nose as he runs it along your skin, breathing you in. ‘His music always feels like he’s lived three lifetimes, and loved, intensely, his way through each of them. I think I’d like to live like that.’

With his hands on you, you don’t even apologize for the slight stutter to your speech, affected.

‘Intensely in love?’ he whispers, and you lean into the sound, wanting.

‘Yeah.’

The sensation shifts to your other cheek, and you tilt your head in the mime of granting permission. Barely there grazes move along the edge of your cheekbone, tickling a phantom of wave of affection in its wake. But he remains silent, expecting and yearning for more.

‘For a long time,’ you manage, voice strained against your tight throat, ‘it was something I thought I’d ever want or need, that feeling of being loved through your humanity and into your spirit. I never thought I’d want it, because it couldn’t exist or, if it did, it was rare enough most of humanity shouldn’t bother trying to find it.’

‘A losing game,’ he clarifies, wistful and longing in his agreement.

Briefly reminded of Amy Winehouse, the distant melody plays in your mind. You wonder if he likes her as much as you. ‘But now -’ you raise your hands, curling your fingers and almost feeling the hard muscles of his hips as you pull him into you, ‘it’s like unlocking a door, you know? Stepping through to the other side and realizing, finally, what everyone had been singing about. I want that...to be loved so intensely, so in love, that it becomes the one thing I never question.’

Drowning in one another, you let yourself be held, body warming to a temperature that makes you crave the refreshment of air conditioning. Your skin is flushed, cheeks and neck and knuckles a reddish pink from both heat and desire, the rhythm of your heart putting a sheen of sweat at your brow. You don’t know when you got so warm, when he became a fire for your hands alone, but you don’t mind. If having him means burning, you don’t ever want to be cooled.

‘I want that, too.’ His forehead rests against yours, the last force of a touch you know is about to fade. ‘I want to give that to you.’

And with that, he is gone. The record stops, apartment quiet enough to make your teeth and ears ache, Side A complete. Normally, you’d whine and let yourself grieve, screaming to yourself that you want it, god how you want that, too, but tonight, for some reason, there is no place for such woe.

Chanyeol is in London.

Chanyeol is in London and now you have both heard and felt and learned him.

Chanyeol is in London.

It won’t be long now.

#chanyeol x reader #chanyeol fanfic #exosnet #kpopwonderlandtag #prettyboysnetwork #chanyeol scenario #chanyeol au #chanyeol fanfiction #exo au #exo scenario #exo fanfic #exo fanfiction #chanyeol fluff #chanyeol romance #park chanyeol

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sachiwrites · 6 years

Note

I actually would really LOVE to see something about Crowley educating someone he sired. It would be great if you considered writing it!! Thank you so much ♥♥♥

the hardest thing about writing this vampire dynamic is projecting emotions without actually connecting them to sincerity. but thats also what makes this series to much fun to write for because there are a lot of moods for vampires to not harbor any.

anyway ! thank you very much for inspiring me. i hope this is up to your expectations

Was his smile…

You imagined it to be more painful. The changing that is. You’d read about it more than once, been warned about the debauched act enough times to fear the transition. In hindsight, it ended up being surprisingly temporal, though wasn’t soft by any means.

The sharpness of his fangs pierced you like any blade would have, drying a brief cry from your lips. He told you beforehand that it would be an exchange. An equal sharing of souls. Or perhaps this is where they were lost.

The agreement is unspoken and with little room for change when his hand finds the back of your head shortly after pulling away, already guiding you in instruction. He encourages you to bite hard, the notion of breaking the skin highly encouraged.

You suppose it’s then that you realize the first enthralled of the upcoming change. Even in the passions of bodies you’d never been able to inflict any damage, bit even the indent your teeth as evidence.

It’s still not a simple task. Rather than the smooth cut of butter it’s more like a bite of tough bread, a necessary addition of force Judy do find the right grip to tear away.

The first taste is bitter, not at all what he described or any indication sun if the supposed elixir all vampires praise. It’s metallic and the taste of copper rings on your tongue like a dropped coin. Yet there isn’t much to overwhelm your palate when so much is being washed over your tongue. In this moment it’s less about equal sharing and more about filling you up.

He means to drown out your humanity and leave nothing but the taste of himself in your essence.

The last time you wake up is to a glass of blood and a plate of fruit. Instinct drives you toward the later and the consequence is the opposite of the sweet blend you remember.

Crowley watches it all with a raise brow and an expectant smile. Amongst your hacking you reach for the glass, liking the intent of it to a cool glass of water to soothe your ache. The outcome is more than enough, the vicious red bleeding into your veins like a life stream. You finish the glass within moments but he doesn’t produce another instead offering a hand that you grip as you have many times before.

He doesn’t expect the grace of Horn or the unyielding force of Chess, but he does envision loyalty. It’s made apparent the most among other vampires. You may have upgraded from livestock but you’re still a step below the rest. You were a mere follower yes, but his follower.

He truly didn’t ask for much. Satisfied with his two aides, intrigue in Ferid’s whimsical stratagem and you. Was your devotion much more in comparison ?

It’s not a seemly transition from the notorious trinity to the expected quadruplet you were projected to create. Crowley was more reserved of your presence as a new vampire than he had been in your human identity. You had a place near him, but not quite at his side.

A place you’d earn, he informed you, with a bit of tutelage.

There was one thing you’d gotten wrong in your new life. Actual dirt tasted much worse than the equivalent you thought the once beloved human delicacies sampled of.

“You’re way too slow.”

The snarky snip of Chess’ voice sounded almost gravely as your conscious wavered briefly upon impact. She’d been relentless, no less than obedient under her Lord’s orders.

Eternity was already a forbidden gift, you suppose strength and stamina would have been a stretch even for the gods. Fortunately, or supposedly the opposite with how your body was straining under the training, Crowley was more than adamant on preparing you for the war to come.

He’d single-handedly seen to Chess and Horn’s lessons to develop them into his formidable left and right hand. The trio were already legends in the making, a historians dream of war and fatigue. Still, in between uneven breaths, you wondered; with two hands already accounted for, where did that leave you?

“She said you’re too slow. Why are you still lying around?”

Crowley was a picture of barely veiled disinterest, his crimson gaze already dulling behind the murky thoughts of schematics and strategies. He hadn’t even entertained the idea of bringing his sword along, the infamous companion likely lying haphazardly out of place in his office. At his side stood Horn, patiently waiting to intervene when advised.

Gritting your teeth, eventually your knees found their place beneath you and your feet following shortly. You certainly endured more than what you could have while still hanging on to humanity, but this was still a tier too many out of your league. You voiced as much with a bitter tongue,”I didn’t realize you were changing me to fight your war. If I wanted to be a soldier I could have done as much with my own kind.”

The fleeting glint of annoyance was your own warning before your back spasmed from a second impact, this one significantly more distressing with intent. While gloved, his grip was no less threatening, tightening gradually with every vexed word.

“I see I misinformed you of my tolerance of your brattiness in the past. You were too fragile to curb the habit without the misfortune of killing you. I won’t be as lenient from now on.”

His form takes up all the space from every angle, not that his gaze would allow you to focus on anything else. There is a tendril of fear, just a flickering reminder of the truth you already knew when you’d accepted this dance. One would think you did so blindly to so willingly fall in line with a vampire.

“Everyone has their use here. I will only give you so many chances to learn yours before I give up altogether.”

The courts were still a mystery to you. Not that you would have seen the inner structure even if you had been more versed. The hierarchical composition of the vampire race was becoming more complex than any of your former counterparts were aware of. Their numbers were small, but as a society they were a functioning force and there was no question of how they managed to enslave the world and reduce it to shambles.

“But if you’re a low-ranking vampire and I’m a low ranking-“

His voice is as cool as it is crisp, cutting off your speech. “I may be low amongst others but I have a rank. You have none.”

You’re both settled in his study, situated snug behind his desk while he overviews the current reports of the Progenitor Council. Horn and Chess left to their own devices hours ago, bored of their games and in seek of other alternatives. For a while you were torn, too transparent of the mundane lesson plans but craving his touch.

“Even as my sire?”

The history was murky but you suspected Ferid to be his sire by the associations they promoted. Amongst shared lineage they also harbored a near equivalent status. But apparently there were more steps slipped in your thought process.

His voice is bare to the stickiness of humor as it latches on to his words,”. You were but a human not long ago. You have much to climb.” Your curiosity permeates the air and his nose twitches at the stench. He cuddles you with a light kiss to your hair,” You’re mine. That’s a mighty social climb for any vampire this young. “

But you’d always been his, from the moment he ensnared your interest. A mere pet to most, but Crowley’s high regard for your existence spoke volumes with your transformation. You’d learned that the privilege of become a Sire was only predestined to those slated to be nobles. The knowledge made the silly childish free of being kidnapped and turned against your will nothing more than a scary story before bedtime.

They would much rather kill than sully their bloodline.

You watched as he discarded the report among the others, only losing sight of his hand for a short moment before you felt is curve under the line of your jaw.

“When I changed you, it was not without purpose. You will become someone worthy of my presence.”

“Easy, easy. I don’t care if they die but don’t make a mess.”

You refused to look them in the eye, not able to witness the sin of it even when you didn’t have the resolve to let go. Crowley had been meticulously with this lesson in particular, pulling strings in the shadows without your knowledge.

It had always been possible for you to obtain your own food in his manor. It never came from the source but a glass was only a request away. Still you suppose you’d gotten spoiled by the luxury, only receiving when it was offered directly from his hand. It was pure ignorance that subdued the infrequency that lead to your near starvation until a new spring was presented before you.

Crowley had guided you without instruction, silencing the warm body with a simple look. Without words, incomprehensible whimpers were fictitious in contrast the roar of your hunger. They didn’t have a face or a family. It was almost too much to even consider them human.

His unreserved touch is at your throat, coaxing the red essence down without a battle

The habitual warmth of mankind never felt so foreign, even as it ran cold.

It would take some time, but Crowley would mold you into a vampire fit to stand at his side.

Even if it made you a monster too.

- was his smile ….

always so cruel?

#phen0l #owari no seraph imagines #crowley eusford x reader #crowley eusford imagines #seraph of the end scenarios

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stunudo · 6 years

Text

BAU Prep School AU: Class of 18

Welcome to the Frederick Buchanan Institute located in scenic Quantico, Virginia, a senior high academy that shapes the best and brightest minds. Its motto is “Behavior, Analysis, Unity,” the mascot the Submariners, colloquially “the Unsubs”. The small school supports the most accomplished faculty from across the country. (image link)

2016- 2017 Class of 2018 Previous Chapter: Adjustments

Sidelines

February 14, 2018 4:08pm

The daycare was just North of their place, but it also happened to be the opposite direction of the Institute. JJ had insisted on driving separate since soccer season was coming up and she didn’t want to start a routine to have to adjust it in two weeks’ time. Which left Emily with pick up duty. It was a brisk afternoon, winter lingered, and she made her way in towards the infant pick up desk. Emily hadn’t told JJ, but the staff were always rather short with her. Perhaps because she wasn’t Henry’s biological mom or because she wasn’t a semi-famous athletic model type, either reason she chose to kill them with kindness in return. Let them deal with their own baggage; she had a baby to snuggle into his seat.

It was Valentine’s Day, a milestone that hadn’t escaped her radar, despite having had a rather romantic weekend at home with JJ. This was their first Valentine’s after everything that happened last year, and Emily had a few tricks up her sleeve. Henry would just have to accompany her for the final details.

JJ had been itching to get the field prepped and try out exercises nailed down, but the weather was not cooperating. She ran sprints in the gymnasium, using the bleachers for extra resistance. She was excited about the coming season, knowing her veteran players would be solid leaders for however many new faces made their way onto the roster. She had stayed in her capris, sports bra and over-sized tank top from her eighth period Yoga class. Something she never thought she would be enjoying teaching, reiterating that self-discovery is a never-ending process.

When she had scribbled enough notes on her clipboard and her own stink started to overwhelm her, she headed home. Windows open and music loud, she invited the chilly winter air as she thumped her palms against the steering wheel in time with the drumbeat. Her sweat had frozen in against her forehead by the time she got home, the bags and clothes slung over her shoulders as she stomped up the steps to their home. Emily’s car was already in the driveway, JJ silently begged she had cooked. She was assaulted with heady scents and spices; the kitchen was filled with food. A tired, yet appreciative smile grew on her face as she spotted Henry in his high chair.

“Hey! You’re early!” Emily accused, but smirked as JJ snaked an arm around her waist.

“Pretend I’m not here, I need a shower, but it smells fantastic.” JJ kissed Emily’s cheek before slipping away from her girlfriend at the stovetop.

A half hour later and they were seated at the table with wine in hand and easy smiles. Henry had fallen asleep in his spot between them, but they didn’t want to move him and risk waking him, yet.

“So, you cooked?” JJ raised her eyebrows.

“Yeah, well… Yes, I did the heating, but it was from one of those prep stores.”

“I would have settled for leftovers, Em. Thank you, it was a good idea.”

“We’re going to see each other a lot less soon,” Emily mused. “And since it is Valentine’s Day, we figured we’d surprise you.”

JJ laughed at Emily using Henry as a co-conspirator. Their eyes locked across the table, bright and playful, yet feelings that ran so deeply just below the surface.

“We should clean up,” JJ sighed.

“We should, but not now,” Emily stood, pulling JJ from her seat and walking her upstairs. As soon as their mouths broke apart, she reassured JJ, “I left the baby monitor on, he’s fine, love.”

Monday Feb 19 7:25am

Hotch opened the door to his office to an unexpected visitor, “Good morning, Alex.”

“You’re usually early, Aaron,” she didn’t get up or seem upset. Her large lips full, holding back an immeasurable amount of ammunition. His guard was raised, but she didn’t strike, she sat quietly as he settled in for his morning, sipping her coffee from home. He sat down, her eyebrows were ticking upwards, the impatience no longer masked.

“What brings you by, first thing, Monday morning?” He bit back a smile, knowing she was not amused with his overt friendliness.

“Why did you keep Simmons on staff after Coach Jareau came back?” She came out of left field, but it wasn’t aggressive, it was as if she were a prying psychologist or a detective. The bell rang out across the grounds, the school day at begun, but she had no class this period.

“The Board and I agreed we need to continue to expand our courses, Matt Simmons has a breadth of knowledge that is crucial to building future leaders. Is there a reason his permanence upsets you?” Hotch countered, cool and thorough.

“I was curious, he seemed kind of like a dark horse of a hire in the first place. Not like Luke, stable,” Alex was saying more than the words she used.

“It’s been a while since a new position was created, but that probably wasn’t wise on our parts. Are the students questioning the changes, I know you hear more than they think you do” Hotch asked, genuinely concerned now.

She gave him a half smile, “More than anyone thinks I do.” She sighed, placing her empty cup upright into her bag that leaned against the leg of her chair. “I have not heard any negative comments from students on the changes or on his placement.”

“So, these are personal reservations?” Hotch leaned forward, eyebrows cinched.

“Perhaps.” Alex popped the p’s, face indifferent and calm. They regarded each other, her a vintage beauty with untapped mental capacities and he a golden boy champion of underdogs. The uncertainty in her motivation left him searching, she stood and grabbed her things.

“Staff meeting still three weeks out?”

“Yup, have a good one,” Hotch replied, sitting back in his chair, amused by and questioning her mercurial nature.

Tuesday, March 6, 4:01pm

The fields were hard, and the grass was a dull blanket across the grounds. Their breaths clung to the frigid air, layers insolating, to be discarded the longer their bodies burned. The girls came in every color and shape, their voices distinct on the carrying breeze. He never got tired of watching a pass connect from seeming impossible gaps in space and time, Jareau ran her team with unwavering support and structure. Luke Alvez stood mesmerized, watching girls that usually refused to answer a question aloud dive for the sidelines, charge the defenders and spin around to do it over again, never stopping or backing down. The playing field was an entirely different universe and he was proud to be part of a program that brought out the fighters in the students. The tough-as-nails tenacity that the world would test over and over again, alive and thriving in pure competition.

He wore a fleece zip up and his pair of uniform pants from the boys’ season, he felt naked without shin guards on, but warm. He knew Grant hated how early she insisted on using the pitch, as the seasonal weather hadn’t let him get it up to standard. He smirked at the distressed expression he had been given when he told his boyfriend that he was going down to check out the lady Submariners. It was the cusp of Grant’s busiest stretch of the year, so Luke knew not to linger when Grant would have dinner waiting for them.

Hannah was the clear leader both on and off the field, her midfield position perfect for mediating and observing. They were running passing drills, weaving in and out of each other in twos and threes to help navigate their lanes and ball handling without looking down, too often. He heard more enthusiasm than he thought a bitter afternoon could muster in those usually prim and coiffed teenagers. Cissy helped Maya and another freshman by explaining the drill on the sidelines before their turn in the rotation.

A terse whistle blast sent the group sprinting to the top of the slight hill, Jareau’s voice carrying as they got their rhythm down. Luke shuffled back towards the pathway towards the main buildings and away from the football field. A well aimed ball hit him between his shoulders as he strolled off, he tensed but turned with a big grin.

“Hey, walking here,” he teased, tapping the ball back to Coach Jareau.

“Yeah, like what you see or just miss the action?” she volleyed, juggling the ball as the team continued behind the adults.

“A little of column A, a little of column B. Why?” Luke’s chin jutted out, sensing a reason for her pursuit.

“Can I ask you a favor?” JJ’s eyes melted into hopeful groveling.

“Shoot.” They talked and passed the ball between them as the plans began to solidify. The team bored with the drill started on a new activity without their Coach or teacher noticing. Hannah and Cissy guiding the girls into groups and worked on headers and controlling the ball with other parts of the body.

Friday March 9 3:13pm

Elle answered the phone with a quick apology to the clients in front of her.

“Tell me again, we’re doing the right thing,” Spencer’s voice croaked in a rushed whisper. She smiled into the mouth piece, rolling her eyes gently.

“Spence-,” Elle began, but was quickly cut off.

“No, I know it’s the right thing for us and I like to think it is the right thing for her too, but, ignore me. Only child guilt slipping through, it will pass, and come back eventually in passive aggressive banter and indigestion.” Spencer looked out across his A.P. Physics glass, watching their faces contorted in misery at the equations in front of them. Pencils and erasers rustling against the quiz sheets.

“If you’re having second thoughts, we don’t have to do it this weekend,” She also whispered, not wanting to pressure him, yet slightly worried he would back out of their plans.

“It’s more like five hundredth thoughts, but no, rethinking hasn’t done anything to change my decision. I just seek reassurance because I don’t want to become my father.” Spencer swallowed, trusting Elle like he had no one before.

“None of that. Two different circumstances entirely. I have clients, but I will call you on my way?” Elle gave the people waiting on her an apologetic glance, their half hour appointment slipping away with each minute of her conversation.

“Sounds good, love you.” Spencer hung up the old phone on the wall.

“Back at you.” Elle sighed, bringing up the case file and applications back to the center of her desk. “Gracias por esperar. Su reunión con el abogado está programada para la próxima semana. Continúa como has estado y tu solicitud se procesará en dos o tres meses.”

The rest of her day was a paperwork and following up for clients’ services. She hurried out of the small office building as the Friday night commuter traffic groaned to a halt on the overhead interchange. Elle sat in her car and dialed Spencer’s new cell phone number.

“I’m going to be late, backroads will be quicker, but I wanted to warn you.”

Spencer paused, checking his watch, though he knew the time from both the phone’s screen and his innate internal clock. “Take your time, we have all weekend to get her settled, I just thought she would like to ease her way in.”

“How are you holding up?” Elle put her keys in the ignition and let the car’s warning bells whistle as she waited to put on her seat belt.

“Better, thanks.”

“And Diana?” Elle followed, listening to his breaths and hesitations as scrutinous as his words.

“She’s watching Jeopardy and laughing, it’s like it doesn’t faze her or she hasn’t realized its happening.”

“Spencer, stop worrying, I’ll be fine.” Diana’s voice jeered from the background, he squinted his eyes, he hadn’t realized she had heard him.

“Maybe you should listen to her,” Elle taunted.

“It will be so much easier when you don’t gang up on me all the time.” Spencer muttered. “Drive safe.”

Elle hung up and got settled, mirrors and belt in place before creeping into the soul-sucking reality of bumper to bumper traffic. Just two more days and she and Spencer would be living alone, the last thing she had hoped for during the past year of recovery. Sometimes miracles do happen.

Mon, March 12, 7:28pm

They really didn’t have much to go over, Hotch just kept talking. He did this sometimes, drawing out the agenda until people’s minds wandered enough to bring up tangential concerns or frustrations. Once the teachers relaxed, he could really gauge how their semester was going. Call it a calculated observation or an interrogation technique, but it worked, nine out of ten attempts.

“Plans for Alumni Association Gala have started, and I think it is going to be quite a surprise for everyone, really,” Penelope offered. “Besides that, I am not really working on much, personally.”

“Let us know what you need and when, Penelope,” Headmaster Hotchner offered, giving her a supportive nod. “Stephen how is everything on the entertainment end of the Gala?”

“Good, yeah, the kids really don’t start their numbers until after Spring Break. But we have a good assortment this year. Should be another fun night.” Stephen’s deep voice replied, “I don’t know about you, but I am just looking forward to the food.”

Everyone laughed, agreeing in various exclamations. “Lord, keep that man from retiring for as long as possible.” Jordan Kyle added, drawing everyone’s attention to a shared look between her and the Band Teacher.

“Uh, you can’t say something like that out of the blue.” JJ tisked.

“I mean, in general,” Jordan tried to down play it. “Look, if anyone is due for retirement around here, it’s me. But that is not happening anytime soon, these kids aren’t getting off that easy.”

Stephen cleared his throat as the speculative stares bounced around the room. “Anyway, the Gala is gonna be lit, as the kids say.”

The moment passed with patchy relief laughter, Hotch making mental notes to follow up with more than a few of his staff for one-on-ones.

March 15th 12:48pm

The muted clacking of fingers on a keyboard wafted through the half-open door. Michel knew that meant she was there and willing to see anyone, especially them, but they lingered just outside of the guidance office during sixth period lunch. There were four unopened letters in Michel’s backpack, from places near and far. Places that meant so much more than D.C. suburb of white bread snobs and politician spawn; places that meant escape. That was why they had waited, because the possibilities were scarier than Michel had imagined. Now that the answers had arrived, decisions would have to be made and the inevitable fork in the road would be taken.

“I can see your blazer, just get in here already,” Penelope snarked. Michel sighed, a soft huff of a laugh burst through their lips as they turned around, dramatically entering with their head held high. Penelope snickered, “Why were you being all creepy out there? On your phone? You know Hotch would snatch it if you took too many selfies in one of his blessed hallways.”

“Selfies need better lighting than this school provides,” Michel replied, falling into their usual spot on the couch of contemplation. “Guess what happens to be torturing me at this very moment. I will give you some hints: Ivy, Beach, Paris and Apple.”

Ms. Garcia’s face twitched with each word, until realization dawned on her contoured features, “You got your acceptance letters?!”

“Well I got letters, I haven’t opened them yet. I have been stalling, but should I?” Michel looked to their dear confidant and inspiration.

“Of course, you should, but don’t you want to do it with your parents, at home?” Penelope gaped, exhilaration getting the better of her composure.

“Nope, don’t need their opinions clouding my mind, thank you very much,” Michel held up a hand as if to block the imagery.

“Well?!”

In a tizzy, Michel tore open all four envelopes without looking at them, eyes scrunched shut until Ms. Garcia came over to take one at a time, like the final puzzle prize envelope on Wheel of Fortune. Four letters, four acceptances, four shredded envelopes littering her office floor.

“I am so proud of you! You can go anywhere! I need pictures, no matter what.” Penelope demanded, holding their sweaty thin hands in hers.

“Of course, oh my gosh, I can’t believe it. Sweet freedom is coming, I can feel it!” Michel stood up, clutching the papers to their chest like a favorite stuffed animal. “I don’t think I am going to ever throw these away, they will be buried with me.”

Penelope stood and hugged Michel, swaying slightly until the bell broke their revelry. In a flurry the letters were tucked back in Michel’s messenger bag and they waved a brisk farewell. Penelope watched wistfully as her favorite student, though she wouldn’t admit it to anyone but Derek or Michel, headed to Emily’s class with a bright future at their feet. She squirmed on the spot as it began to eat away at her. She shuffled over to her desk and dialed Kate’s office on the internal phone lines.

“Kate? Can you be my shoulder because I am kind of having a moment and I don’t want to bug Derek and Hotch will question my professional stability?”

Wed. March 21 4:12pm

Midterms were right around the corner, sending the weekly tutoring sessions into a near panic. Spencer and Derek were fielding questions for a half hour before they got some unexpected help. Sr. Alvez stopped by because he had wanted to see if his students that were hovering at the low end of the grade borderline had taken his advice. They had not, but that didn’t stop one half of the foreign language department from sticking around.

“You guys do this every week?” He asked impressed, yet slightly pitying.

“Uh, yeah, how do you think I manage to have a full roster every season? This is a year-round effort.” Derek explained slyly.

“It’s nice to see you, Luke, though I do wish Simmons would stop by, Korean is not my best language and that’s the biggest concern for half of the new faces this month.” Spencer nodded to the table that was obviously housing everyone but athletes.

“Wait, you speak Korean?” Luke ducked closer to watch Spencer’s eyes spark and eyebrows hitch.

“Barely.”

“And Russian.”

“I read Russian, I haven’t spoken it aloud in four years.”

“Quomodo ergo tu Latine?” Luke bated the science teacher.

“Honestum,” Spencer didn’t miss a beat.

Derek eyed the subtle yet star-eyed soccer coach and the bean pole Brainiac. Suddenly, he somehow felt like a dumb jock in this scenario and he didn’t like it. He decided he was being petty, and walked it off, ducking down to overhear students while he paced the library. He caught the librarian smiling briefly at him behind a shelf, but she was gone before he could even return the gesture. Something weird was going around.

Next Chapter: The Scavenger Hunt

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