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#it had shaky foundations from the beginning

courtingchaos · 8 hours

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I’m just here as your friendly neighborhood podcast listener and current layabout with not much going on.

I’ve seen a few things about Eddie and the community turning on him quickly. I think a lot of things people aren’t remembering or realizing is just how prevalent the satanic panic was, and is, in the US.

Now there’s no chance that everyone in Hawkins hated Eddie and believed the satanic stuff. I mean, look at everyone in Hellfire. I guarantee parents were wary at first but then Eddie shows up like a goofball or has a string of ma’am’s and sir’s and they realize he’s just a kid with a lot attached to his name from a lot of terrible circumstances.

Anyways. A good thing to listen to is the You’re Wrong About podcast. Specifically these episodes.

Very first one of the podcast:

And then these two both have multiple parts to them, the first one is actually about the book that kind of jumpstarted the whole panic to begin with.

This also has multiple parts. This one is about someone getting seduced by a ‘satanic cult’.

These would have been books that while not everyone would have had one in their home, anyone who was devout or at the least religious, would have bought or read their own copy.

Basically all I’m getting at is that Eddie would have had a lot going against him. I know that a lot of people didn’t want to read Flight of Icarus but Eddie’s character is built on a very shaky foundation. The town dogpiling when the ‘Queen Bee’ gets killed, especially if they’ve already decided that he is a satanist? It was only a matter of time.

#Eddie Munson #Writing #also #Eddie doesn’t help his case by acting out #that’s not me blaming him because literally why join the bastards?#when no matter what you do they’re never going to accept you #so stick your tongue out and make horns at them because it’s gonna get you laugh #do you think he ever thought any of those things would happen to him?#god no #if he’d had even a bit of foresight into the events that would unfold I guarantee he would put his head down #or finally just dropped out #why would he willingly stick around a bunch of townies with no more sense between them than two rocks #I have a lot of feelings about this #because the satanic panic is like a really big thing in the US #was a big part of my childhood #I remember hearing about it all through high school and I graduated in 08 #so it hasn’t gone anywhere #it’s just mutated

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stickyspeckledlight · 21 days

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Waxing, Waning, My Unraveled Body Beheld By the Moon [Yan!Aventurine x GN!Reader]

The sun is not always shining. But the moon can only shine because of the sun. A companion piece to Sunrise, Sunset, My Destroyed Body in the Onset. This fic assumes you've read it, so I heavily recommend you read it first before reading this. It'll make more sense if you do.

Ao3

Word count: 15.6k

TW: Implied/referenced noncon, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt, mild gore, violence against reader, choking/strangulation, Stockholm syndrome, Aventurine's Past shows up, EXTREME tonal whiplash due to the beginning (but frankly it's so you can brace yourselves...the calm before the storm), Reader needs a hug, Ratio where are you my man needs therapy NOW, twisted "happy endings" my beloved

Note: This got so out of hand. Aventurine is the most potent brain worm I've had in a while. Poor reader though. They used to be such a cringefail, now they're a poor little meow meow 😔

(Written before 2.2)

You stand on the top of a tower.

It’s a modest and small thing, but every second and breath you’ve taken is in its service. Time is its mortar, and actions are its bricks. It is stable, with a wide and strong base, with little deviation. If it had a shaky foundation, then you wouldn’t even bother.

You have no plans to construct it into something grandiose and spectacular. It’s best to keep your ambitions realistic, for it is so very easy to use and dispose of those with dreams bigger than themselves and small enough to be crushed in the palms of those atop skyscrapers. Your tower is modest, and you will keep it that way. You will have to become a cog in the machine for that to happen, but you can meagerly control the stability of your cog.

It is cruel that it has to be that way, but you aren’t capable enough to change the way things are done. You might as well make the most out of this.

You know this song and dance, by now. The park is closed at this time of night, but, and it might be your greatest achievement of them all, you found a way to sneak in undetected. Granted, there weren't many people to stop you, but you’ll still take your W, thank you very much.

You park your bike, well hidden in the bushes and trees. This is the noisiest part of your visit since the bike is heavy and you can’t suppress your soft grunts as you weasel it into its spot. But it’s worth it. After that, you walk along the trail, and when you’re far enough away, you stop trying to silence your steps and enjoy the sound of your boots falling onto the dirt. It’s a soft but firm sound, and it brings you a sense of peace. You hike until you reach it: a little trail to the side. Few sets of feet have paved the dirt, and even those who decide to pursue it usually turn back at the impenetrable foliage. But there is an opening in the forest’s defense. It’s tucked away, discovered by a much younger and adventurous you. You’re not sure if you found this place because you wanted to pretend to be a fairy princess or a heroic knight who saves the princess, or if you might’ve always been a little bit lonely. Whatever the case, you found this place, and it has since been your reprieve whenever things become too much.

You know the area like the back of your hand, turning off your phone’s flashlight as you make your way. It’s a small clearing of forest, but it’s perfect. Bushes and trees surround you in a half-circle from behind, and in front of you is the ledge of a cliff. The sky is in full view here and lends itself to beautiful sunrises and sunsets. Sometimes, when your mind wanders, you wonder how long you’d fall if you tripped over the ledge. But those are just musings you have no intention of acting on.

The moon does not grace you with its shine, but that’s alright. You’re here to see the world that moonlight blankets, not to be a part of it. You’ll bask in the darkness, and admire the silver sheen on the rest of the world; the world which gets a fraction of the sun, even at night. You settle into your spot against the tree trunk, shaped so it nearly encircles you in its embrace. A silly thought crosses your mind: does this tree love you? Of course not, but it’s just that: a silly little thought.

You’re not here for any especially soul-crushing reason or anything. It’s the usual: schoolwork ramping up and deadlines creeping up. And the accompanying existentialism of what comes after. It’s just another peaceful night during a stressful time. It will soothe your soul, the comfort within shall ebb and flow, and then it will all fade away when you’ve returned to the world blanketed in the sun’s golden sheen. When it all piles up again, you know you can always come back here: your special place, where you can curl into yourself as much as you want to. And as always, you will fight the urge—so tiny that it’s insignificant but still so omnipresent—to sink your head fully into your stomach and become a mass of unthinking flesh. Becoming smaller and smaller until you aren’t even a speck.

The wind picks up. The cold doesn’t bother you much, but you’re still human. Instinct has you nuzzling into your cotton scarf. It does mean you have to wash it often, but the inconvenience doesn’t outweigh the comfort it provides. Yes, tonight will be a lovely one, spent doing nothing but staring at the moon from the shadows, alone with your thoughts and nocturnal critters that may tussle in the shrubbery. You hear a series of quick rustles—squirrels, maybe? Two of them, considering the frequency of rustling and the fact that it’s their mating season (well, you’re pretty sure spring is mating season. It could be wrong, but it’s useless trivia anyway, isn’t it? In the back of your mind, you imagine someone berating you). Another rustle plays, and you sigh wistfully. And then—

“…Hello,” A voice, shrewd and low sounds out.

Ink makes your vision go black and the only reason you don’t gasp or scream is because you’ve always froze before you ran. But even if you were a runner, where was there to go? You don’t know who this person is, where they are, why they are in your special place and why they’ve come here like a malicious boy kicking down a toddler’s sand castle or could they be here to prevent you from ever coming back to your special—

You swallow your panic and look for an exit before it forces itself back up. It’s not the first time someone’s noticed you, but you never really had to worry; you could just slip into here, and they’d give up when you couldn’t be found. But this is uncharted territory. More importantly, if anyone else were to know about this place, it would be a ranger. And you aren’t very interested in counting empty donut boxes and coffee cups during a run-of-the-mill interrogation.

Slowly, and as quietly as you can, you make your move. Your hands are clammy, and each step feels like it will cause the earth to crack and send you falling into its molten core. You’ll be melted down, and the idea that you may be reforged sends another surge of panic within you. You cannot let a single brick crack.

“I’m not here to hurt you if that’s what you’re thinking,” the voice says, much much much closer now. The words themselves should be of relief to you, but the fact that he’s closer means he knows where you are—in fact when you turn to look behind you, you can see a vague silhouette. Still, the few seconds you took to turn around also made it so that rather than relief and panic nulling each other, somewhat cool relief washed over you. Even if this entire situation is very, very, very weird. Maybe the relief you feel is a defense mechanism to prevent you from putting yourself in shit.

Should you just leave? He could just be lying to you. You weren’t great at figuring out people’s intentions, but you’d think that the most likely one in this situation leaned toward the malicious. However, you didn’t even notice his existence until he spoke. It’s the fact that he could weave through mostly undetected. If he could do that, then you think it’s not very likely you can just get away.

You accept that defeat, so you decide to do something a little stupid. You talk to the stranger. In the event he’s a serial killer or something, maybe a conversation will let you get a good enough handle on him that he might just…let you go. Your heart hammers and you want to do nothing but shake, but you will yourself into a blizzard. If you are there, then you might be able to freeze and delay the ink that begins to drip.

“I’m pretty shocked,” you mutter. Your voice is still a bit disconnected, still reeling, “I’ve never met someone here. How’d you find this place? Why’d you come to this place?” You ask these questions, and you won’t mind dying as much if they’re answered.

“Work,” he cryptically says. You just barely pick up on a sardonic lilt.

“So you’re a park ranger,” you deflate, and you nuzzle into your scarf as you brace yourself. But levity is powerful, and you’ll tap into it. “Here to arrest little ol’ me, then? You could’ve waited, at least until the moon started to dip. It’s a pretty solid night, methinks.” Your heart feels a little numb from hammering into your ribs so much.

The ranger hums, “Moon’s the moon. It’s not bad, but the sun’s always pretty nice. But you’re right. It would’ve been better to wait till the sunrise. Alas, my schedule as of late has been a horribly rigid thing. I’m sure you know how it is.”

“Hmph,” you frown. It feels like he’s a cat playing with a mouse. You sigh with defeat, “Oh well. I’m not exactly known for being slippery, so I’m not even going to try and outrun a ranger of all people,” you extend your hand lazily, “Just get the cuffs already,” you decide to pout, to turn the situation around to something more comical and less soul-crushing, “Any longer, and the suspense’ll bury me six feet under. The records might call that cardiac arrest, but I call it embarrassing—the thought of dying like that is a real heartstopper.” Ha, look at you! A true punster, you little rascal. There is no reason for you to defame or attack a guy just doing his job, so if you go down, you’ll at least go down with a slow-witted joke or two. Across from you is a law-abiding Joe, and you are the evil thief mothers warn their children about. Truly, it cannot be more black and white than this, so it’s best for everyone that you don’t make too much of a fuss. See? You are capable of ethics! Or maybe that was more like philosophy? Eh, what’s the difference? You’re still fucked, and you very much want to die.

“Arrest you?” The ranger’s voice teeters toward, um…you think it’s some mix of sarcastic, mocking, and—oh wait, you’d call it ‘teasing.’ “Do you want to be arrested?” He teases, but it feels like the way an owner would talk down to a beloved puppy. You don’t appreciate it.

You frown. “No. Why would I want to be arrested?” You deadpan, “Can you please stop skirting around the issue?” More ink blots your sight, as your palms start to clam with unwanted anticipation. You think they could be gushing with your blood, if this guy keeps dragging your arrest out like this.

The ranger laughs. Laughs. You aren’t sure if you want to join him or shove him off the cliff. Whatever the case, now you know that there is a nonzero chance this ranger has a bit of a sadistic streak. Instinctively, you take a few steps back, as if that could save you from disaster, from plummeting over the edge of your tower.

“…Please tell me you aren’t planning anything…” The words you were thinking of saying suddenly elude you, but you’re already speaking. You have no choice but to see what haphazard replacements you make, “…goofy silly. Or something.”

The ranger clicks his tongue. It seems he’s fully dipped into a playful veneer; whether that’s his true self, or the mask he thinks you’ll best respond to in the way he wants, it nudges you a little further to the edge. You defensively nuzzle into your scarf, trying but failing to calm your nerves. You’ll give yourself one point, though: you thought you’d be more inclined to be screaming or crying. That’s probably because you are technically doing something illegal, so there’s really no one but yourself to blame for this predicament. Really, why do you still come here like this, when you know it’s against the rules? It’s not the first time you’ve asked yourself that question, but it’s certainly the first time it feels sort of tangible.

“‘Goofy silly?’” The words seem all at once perfect and dubious when carried in the ranger’s voice, “Hm…you know what? I do feel like I’m in a ‘goofy silly’ mood!”

Oh. Well, guess you’re double fucked. It was a good life, the clean record, you suppose. But what is life if not change? You’re entering a new era now, you hardened criminal. Crime will be your lifeblood; anything scared shall disintegrate into something depraved at your touch. You’ll do it all: tax evasion, defamation, shoplifting, parking offenses. Society will not be free of your crime sprees—all will fear the Suburban Terror. Karens will cower before you, the neighbors will hate you, the teenagers will prank you, and the children will scream with fear at you. All because the consequences of your actions caught up with you at the behest of the actions of some guy who just so happens to be able to arrest you.

“So, about that arresting,” the ranger continues, “I won’t be doing that!” he peps.

Everything stands in place. “What?”

“I’m not gonna arrest you!”

“W-well, I heard that,” you stammer, “but why? You literally said you’re here for work!”

You can practically sense the ranger’s lighthearted shrug, “I am. And I’m not arresting you. Simple as that!”

Everything feels like it's going too fast and too slowly. Whiplash isn’t good for the soul, in your opinion. “But…but the law…”

“Who said the law needs to be followed?”

“The government and state…” and then something clicks, “Hey, if you’re a park ranger, then aren’t you working for the government? Is this corruption?”

You imagine the ranger smirks. “What is corruption but a tool of the game?”

“What does that have to do with this conversation?” You find yourself deadpanning. “And why aren’t you answering?”

“Life’s a game,” he breezily purrs, “and conversation is a part of life, so really, it has everything to do with this conversation.”

“I think I’d rather go through a physics textbook than deconstruct that sentence,” but you find yourself smiling. The ranger has a good sense of humor, you find. You take a few more steps, no longer teetering on the edge. In the back of your mind, you think that he could just be lowering your guard, but honestly? Maybe you shouldn’t doubt a person’s goodwill, even if it’s technically illegal. Well, you don’t care about what’s illegal and not; if hairless monkeys with godless monkey brains are imperfect, then the things they make are imperfect too. Regardless…you don’t know his face, and he doesn’t know yours either. In other words, you’re both complete strangers. If you ever meet each other, you won’t even recognize each other, won’t ever truly register each other’s existence outside this singular shared moment.

That anonymity, the opportunity to exist without future consequence…it entices you, and you’re drawn into it. Drawn into levity and shedding your superficial guard.

“Careful, you might insult a doctor of physics or two,” the ranger says with an insinuating lilt. Perhaps he knows a physicist or a student suffering with their doctorate thesis. Information that is all at once useful and impeccably useless. “You might just get a piece of chalk lodged in your skull.”

You shrug. “I’m living my best life while they’re stressing over the mechanics of a rat yawning and how that like. Affects the physics of the air or something.”

That gets a soft huff, like he breathed out a laugh, “I say that too, but then he starts going on about quantum mechanics and wormholes…probably a lot more than that, but the stuff’s so incomprehensible I tune out.”

“Your friend sounds…well, like a scientist,” you unceremoniously blurt. “Sure, they’re called nerds, but for good reason. They can talk your ear off, all the while you nod without understanding a single thing…and then they sigh to go talk to someone who actually knows what they’re talking about.”

“‘Talk your ear off’ is a bit of an understatement,” the ranger says, “though I think it’s better to say ‘gives a tongue-lashing.’”

You wince at the image. “Oof. Sorry about that.”

“I’m used to it,” the stranger says. “Besides, I have a quip or two to throw back.”

“Oh.” You aren’t sure how to react. “That…that sucks.”

“‘That sucks?’” his tone isn’t accusatory; it’s curious, with a hint of what you believe is wariness.

It flusters you a bit, for some reason. “W-well,” you stammer, “if you’re used to it, then that means you get, uh, ‘tongue-lashings’ a ton, right? I don’t think people should be getting a ton of tongue-lashings…”

“But what if I do things that deserve a tongue-lashing?”

“Well, then you’d get a tongue-lashing. But, I dunno. I don’t think people should be mean to each other all the time, I guess,” you try, practically rambling, “Maybe it’s just cuz I know I’d just be on the floor in a sobbing heap if someone so much as raised their voice at me…but…but…w-well, you know what I mean!” You raise your hands, making desperate gestures as if you could telepathically communicate with them. Unfortunately, you do not live in a sci-fi with magical reality-bending wizard monk powers, not unless you devote yourself to a singular concept. “There’s always plenty of room for, um. Positive reinforcement, yeah! In fact, let’s practice!” Shit, your cheeks are heating and at this point you’re just incoherently blabbering but now that you’ve started you just can’t stop oh dear Aeons save you— “Uh…you…you follow your heart! By choosing not to arrest me out of…out of principle or, or, or pity…um, well, point is, you have defied the law of your own choosing, which is a pretty uh, gr~eat show of your super strong will! Your beliefs! They say within all delinquents lies a heart of gold, after all! And you know how to be sneak of super! I mean sneak super! I mean super sneak! Urgh, I mean suppppperrrrrrr sneaky. And I bet that’s really nice and I know that’s really cool! It’s a super power on par with that of uh. Uh. An Aeon? Yeah, an Aeon!”

You’ve lost your steam, and now you’re left blinking. The embarrassment flusters you, and now you’re something in between a fish being choked in the hand of a cruel fisherman and a wonderfully eloquent failing car engine. You truly are the epitome of grace and elegance. There was no way the ranger wasn’t at least cringing. Maybe he’d change his mind and just arrest you; after all, how else to fix cringe if not rehabilitate it? Well, if he did arrest you over this, you’d be back to haunt him with like, cheese, or something. You’d jump that hurdle when you got there.

Hm…but you think you kind of wanna crawl into a hole and die…but that expression is too cliche, so instead, you think you wanna crawl into a hole and start a society of mole people. It’ll be like LARPing, except you wouldn’t be role-playing! …Actually, yeah…someone should just kill you right now before you start to laugh and then cry as your embarrassment transitions into self-conscious despair……..that’s how it usually went when you got like this….

It’s a good thing you can’t be seen.

You think the ranger will laugh, stand in baffled silence, mock you, or just walk away, but he chuckles. “Hmmm…you know, I could get used to this; hearing people stumble over their words to compliment me!”

You’re a little dumbfounded, but you’re decent enough at rolling with the punches. You can come up with a headcanon or two on the spot. “Yeah! That’s the spirit! Now that’s what I call some good old-fashioned character development!”

He lets out a soft whistle, “That so? What trope would you say I embody, out of curiosity?”

“Hm…” you tap your chin in thought. You’re in a forest, and there’s a moon, and you get an award-winning idea. “Maybe…hrmmmm…a mysterious vampire, here to whisk the unassuming protagonist away to a forbidden romance, sustaining your very being on their essence…”

“Oh? Am I really that charming even without a face?” He teases.

You laugh. “Well, you are pretty charming, but I was just kidding. I couldn’t just let that opportunity slip away,” your laugh calms into a soft chuckle. “No, I’d say…a mysterious stranger, with a past unearthed and a charming veneer, but beneath it all lay an affable man…who may or may not heed the word of law. A Robin Hood-esque character of sorts.” Sure, it’s cheesy, but you don’t care if he likes cheese or not. You like cheese, and that’s all that matters in this cruel world! If the world doesn’t like that, it can kiss your ass! (You think all of the is while very aware that the world can just as easily kick your ass)

“So…you’re just saying you don’t have a single clue about what my deal is.”

You feel a little offended. In hindsight, maybe you wouldn’t have been great at terrorizing Karens. “I mean, I’ve only known you for like, half an hour. All that I know about right now is that you’re some flavor of anarchist. Probably. Maybe.” But the same applies to him! He knows nothing about you! “But if you’re so confident, then it’s time to prove your mettle!” You point towards him challengingly, even though again, he cannot see you, “You tell me what character trope I am!” (And you briefly realize that you feel light and happy, that your smile is wide)

And at that moment, just at the cusp of truly extraordinary conversation (a claim which may or may not be exaggerated), an annoying thing happens. Your phone vibrates and your screen lights up; your alarm has gone off. Your phone always has the best timing, and you don’t want to scream at it and crush its sorry little body into itty bitty pieces.

“Oh…” you awkwardly exclaim. You’re wearing a light jacket, so the ranger can see the soft glow just as you do. “That’s…yeah, that’s sorta…alarm. Yeah. It’s my alarm. Not me alerting the IPC or the CFSS or something. I…have to go.”

“I see,” the ranger’s voice is light and airy, entirely unaffected. “A shame. I really did enjoy our conversation.” Your mind tells you it’s all empty, but your heart is aching to soar to heights unseen. Because you are only human, those with lone hearts die first.

You want to ignore it so badly, to just converse with this ranger a little bit longer but…but you really can’t. You must abide by it if you want to mitigate your suffering in the morning (re: you’ve run out of energy drinks and coffee at home and it’ll be hell to start your morning without slugging around like a zombie). And just like that, the ranger and your conversation will fizzle away into a distant memory. And you’ll still live, the same as you’ve ever been. And because you’re both strangers, there is no reason to ask each other for anything. Because if you do, then you will both have to live with the consequences of your words. And who knows? Maybe the ranger has only spared you this night because he was in a good mood. Maybe he won’t be so affable the next time you meet.

But there’s something to it. Some allure—no, the same allure of your special place. So you offer something, and you think your face might melt off, with how your cheeks fluster to the point its searing.

“...I come to this place a lot. It’s like…my special little place,” you awkwardly offer. “If…if you were curious about that, er, sorta thing. Yeah. Bye, have a good night.” You stutter awkwardly, stiffly and uncertain. And then you walk away, simultaneously desiring and afraid of hearing what his response to that would be. Of having your fear being validated with rejection.

If there was one moment you could point to that sealed your fate, it wouldn’t have been that conversation by a longshot, nor was it your second, third, tenth, or even your final conversation before he revealed himself to you; it was your offer. After all, people only think fate is immediate whenever it comes to hit them straight in the face. In truth, fate is gradual, of many bricks stacking up into a skyscraper. That offer led you to swim in ink; to traipse into fields of cotton; to weather against frozen infernos; and then finally, to dance in a flowering meadow, your feet raw and bleeding, sanded against the soft blades of poison ivy and oak.

—

He sees you’re on the balcony.

(Only right after when he woke up and felt that you weren’t in his arms and nearly tore apart everything and anything with a scream and that you were gone and had left him like everyone else—)

He’s rather taken aback by this. He was sure you wouldn’t even be able stand come the dawn. But you still unwittingly find ways to surprise him even now. You should really give yourself a pat on the back! Even if it seems like you’re leaning onto the railing for dear life.

The moon covers you in its silken silver sheen. The breeze tussles your hair and makes your robes softly billow. It’s a heart-throbbing serenity, and he finds an iota of respect within him to make his ambush on you gentle. You’ll squeak, pout, insult him, banter, and hiss before you resign and then he can hold you in peace. It’s a predictable song and dance, but he hasn’t tired of it. Seems even he can surprise himself.

(But oh, it’s because it’s something resembling a warm thing he thought was lost to him…and a sturdy rock he can hold onto)

The smile spreads on his face easily (but whenever he’s around you, it’s a little less weighted, a little less about pitiful survival), “Sick of me already?” he adopts his signature lilt, albeit weighed by sleep, as his arms encircle your form. “We’ve only been a couple for a few of months.” You squeak, comically so, and violently flinch as he settles his head in the crook of your neck. Your reaction almost immediately invigorates him, like he’s wide awake in the sun. Your heart rate beats more rapidly, but your tensed muscles relax, just a little. You’ve been practicing, he thinks, to lessen your own burden rather than increase his pleasure. Maybe there’ll come a time when you can mold yourself however you please, and he’ll be none the wiser in your embrace when your hand snakes into his back.

(Don’t do that. Please, he just asks that you melt in his touch, melt right into him and stay—)

He inhales—his chest expanding into your back, and he feels your own breath hitch as if it slices into you—taking in your scent, all at once overwhelming and (newly) customary. A pungent ink comes to burn his nose at first, but underneath it comes moonlit snow, fresh and cool; dancing within a floral and earthy aroma, a dusty cedar scent with wilting flowers; and the afternotes of a decaying musk, passionate and vying for an end. He hums in appreciation, exhaling with contentment. You shudder in disgust because it’s him and you still aren’t used to the way his breath feathers and scratches your skin, over the bits of dried blood speckled over your neck.

“Aw, nuts…” you softly curse, but there’s no surprise to be found. Your words are laced with sleep, but there’s something else to them, he’s noticed. Your words still drip with vitriol (though it’s always been measured with ink, and it makes him purr in delight and it makes him feel even more empty—), but they’ve gotten softer, for lack of a better word. Exhausted, the same way one is when they’ve walked through a blizzard or sandstorm for long enough. How one gets frozen in the bowels of hell’s fires, or how one burns in solitary inferno in the frigid arctic.

And still, you haven’t reached your limit and killed him.

Surprisingly, you turn to face him, and he turns down the urge to lean in and kiss you. For now, at least. He’ll take it when you’ve said your piece.

You probably think yourself expressionless, but there’s a certain way your mouth subconsciously curls in displeasure like you want to scream or vomit your organs. Your eyes can host anything from enraged clarity to dull acceptance. The latter has only appeared a few times, but he anticipates that it will be a common sight as the months pass by. He wipes that look from his mind, and smiles wide as he looks intently into your eyes. The scent of ink burns his sinuses. Right now, your eyes are exhausted, disgusted, and a touch confused; nothing he isn’t used to. His smile goes soft, for he is more than willing to swallow the poison you gift him. And as lovers, you’ll have to reciprocate, won’t you?

(Stop. Let him apply thinner to that ink, let him wash it all away and please please stop drowning in it)

“I was sick of you the moment you revealed yourself as the orchestrator.” you bluntly say, as if it’s an obvious fact—it is—and for a moment he feels like he’s touching ice. You shake your head and sigh, looking back to the moon. You don’t want to discuss the matter, so you move on to another. “I just woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep. It’s nothing personal. Happens all the time.”

“‘All the time?’” He echoes and slides his hand into one of yours, where you lean on your arms against the railing. Your hands have been clamming; gosh, he really was something, to get you so worked up in a matter of minutes! His self-restraint is already on a thread when it comes to you. He gives in and gives you a chaste peck. Your lips slightly pucker with disgust, like you’ve sucked on a rancid lemon. But the kiss was meant to be brief, so that’s not an issue he’s too hung up on in the moment. He’ll just work on it with you, later. He trusts that you’ll cooperate, anyway.

(That you do not immediately hurl in his mere presence is miracle enough. He’ll take what he can get, and work from there. That’s how he got here)

He tilts his head boyishly and gives your cheek a playful pinch, “I mean…lately, you’ve been able to fall asleep without medicine—” your eyes widen and your cheeks flush as you’re caught off guard—but he doesn’t cut open your stomach or slice at your ribs to let your own body be the weapon which kills you—his goal is always to win, but that doesn’t mean you have to fight. Right now, he’s merely having a heart-to-heart with you, sweetheart. So he doesn’t bother to point out the red on your cheeks, because he knows you hate it. Knows you understand it on a logical basis but still hate it so, so, so deeply and intricately. He doesn’t mind pushing you, but he would rather not see you bashing your head on the wall, crushing your skull and mind into lumps of grounded flesh, to try and ‘fix’ it. He sees that you’re mentally dismembering yourself when you locate the opening you gave him anyway. He doesn’t really need to try with you sometimes. It’s not an insult, it’s the truth, and he still loves you so very much despite it. “These nighttime stirrings of yours aren’t going to be the norm, you know. If you’re able to fall asleep in my arms once, you can do so twice.”

Your eyes flit through a captivating kaleidoscope of disgust, intrigue, disgust again, pungent ink, and then victorious confusion. You scoff, but you don’t entirely deny what he said. “Waking up in the middle of the night and not falling asleep is a common thing. You shouldn’t misconstrue these sorta things y’know. Makes you seem desperate.”

“‘Desperate?’ Coming from you, should I consider that bonafide or just another desperate act?”

You frown. “I was only desperate because of you. The shit you pulled gave me no other choice.”

“Really?” He smirks, letting out a mocking huff, “You weren’t desperate before that?”

You scoff. “If you’re talking about school, then fine, I guess I was desperate to graduate as soon as possible.”

“Errr,” he mimics a buzzer, “two strikes.”

“Are you just projecting?”

“Make that three.”

“Bruh.” You deadpan. You’re quite amazing to be able to momentarily take yourself out of reality, he muses.

(He’s a bit jealous)

“I’m not desperate,” you insist, practically hissing the words.

“If you weren’t desperate, then why’d you blindly befriend someone whose face you didn’t even know?”

“…I don’t know my online friends’ faces,” you weakly respond. You’ve conceded. Your response was merely for show. For him or for you or for you both. He’s not sure either.

“Alright,” he pretends to concede, “Putting aside that they could just trace your information and learn everything about you…” his hand strokes your neck, goosebumps blazing in its wake, “They wouldn’t have been able to just…snap your neck, with you none the wiser,” He presses a kiss to your uneven pulse with a soft huff of laughter.

“It’s not like I didn’t think that,” you shoot back, “I figured at the time that if you could sneak up on me like that, then I’d be helpless to your whims.”

“Ah, but then…you offered me something: another night, in your special place, underneath the moon…who’s to say that I wouldn’t have been able to carry out any malicious actions? To continue to gain your trust and then stab you in the back?”

You frown. “Well…I…”

“Cat caught your tongue? Well, as I’ve said, the word you’re looking for is ‘desperate.’”

You swallow, and then you say, meekly, softly, like your voice is about to crack, “…I guess. And in the end, you did stab me in the back.”

He did, it’s true. That same iota of respect emerges, which makes him gently kiss you instead of speaking. Anything he’d say would only dampen your mood. You both may know about how disposable—

(Yet when it comes to you, something unpleasant twists his tongue, whenever he calls you disposable. He can’t bring himself to actually vocalize such a statement)

—the two of you are. Nothing more than dots in the universe, nothing more than pawns in another’s game. The hand that moves him is the IPC, and it’s only natural he’s found a pawn of his own: you. Even if you’re not particularly valuable on the grand chessboard.

[Do you even want them on the chessboard in the first place?]

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promises. But you don’t believe him.

“You can make it up to me by never showing your face to me.” Ice encases his hands, stabbing into him; but it also roots him right at his spot. He is unused to the ice’s painful cold, but for as much as it is a deterrent, ice has a tendency to trap.

“Hmmm…how about no?”

“You half-ass…” You groan, tired and defeated. He feels a thread fall. “Seriously, people like you who use others to make promises you can’t and don’t keep are just…well, you know just how much you disgust me.”

(But he admits. He admits that your vitriol is tiring. He admits that he wants to hear you whisper in his ear, the same way he does to you, that he wants you to harbor the same carnal adoration he has for you—that he wants you to tear into him and expose him and then kiss and embrace him and that he wants to feast on you devour you consume you infuse you with his heart and soul so that he knows you’re here and will always be h—)

His jaw expands and closes down. Blood spreads along his tongue like wine, bitter, salty, metallic, and well-aged. You let out a scream of pain, and he only bites harder so that he burns himself into your skin to prove that he has you and that he is hu—

“Ah—ow…ow ow ow owwww—” you hiss, muddied by a sob, “W-why…?” You whimper, “When you already—AH!” His mind is blank, excited by the sweet flesh, only focused on devo—

“S-s-stop! Please!” You beg, and he feels you struggle uselessly, “H-hurts! I-I, what d-did I do to—?! Gh!”

Satisfaction and triumph weave into him. Your screams mean you’re here, means he’s carved himself into you, means he’s indulging in wine.

(But that’s a bit of a leap. He wishes he was as calculated as he makes himself out in front of you when it comes to you)

He pulls away. You breathe laboriously, looking at him with hate and terror, cradling your weeping neck with your hand. You aren’t completely exhausted, but he has made you even wearier if such a thing was possible. “Sorry,” he emptily apologizes, and presses a soft kiss to irritated skin, before moving on to your tears. Blood quickly smears your skin.

You growl, the pain making way for your unfiltered words. “You keep doing it, and it’s always so fucking painful.”

“It doesn’t help with how irresistible you are, sweetheart,” he smiles, and you bristle. “You know it’s because I love you,” he says, to rile you up a little. It helps that he means it.

(So you don’t notice the fact that he was in a hypnotic daze)

“‘Love.’” Your voice shakes. Your eyes are wide, angry, disbelieving, and blank.

“Yep.”

You shake slightly with anger. “Eat shit.” You spit. “Whatever the fuck this is, don’t call it that. Don’t you dare twist that word like that.”

He blinks. It’s not the first time you’ve lashed out over the word or the admission, but he still doesn’t quite know how to answer you. He settles, then, for what he’s always said. “Then what is it?”

“I don’t know. Obsession. Hate. Sadism. Loneliness. Whatever it’s called, it’s one hell of an insatiable beast. All that matters is that it’s hurting me.” You grunt, and bury your face into your hand, sighing blearily. “It’s late. Let’s…let’s not,” you exhale, tired, “Let’s not,” you repeat as if it were all a hopeless prayer. It might be more fitting to see you as a beggar, however. Leave me alone, you beg. Get buried beneath the sands already you Sigo—

“Why don’t you come back to bed?” he softly mutters, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and presses a kiss to your cheek. The lingering blood on his lips blossoms into a weeping flower, a venomous and invasive species. They can be found throughout your skin, dried and wilting, but they’ll always blossom back. “You can sleep in.” Translation: he’ll still wake you up, but only for a kiss before heading to work. You’ll be free to do as you please for the day! Isn’t that just enticing? Though you’re still hesitant to exercise any bit of freedom he offers you. To be fair to you, you’re so very well aware of where your freedom and “freedom” lie. One has been crucified, and the other is merely its poorly preserved remains.

His mercy isn’t lost on you, but the hope in your eyes is quickly simmered by your hesitation and dread. You look away and grunt, likely hoping he’ll just shrug and walk away. Or at least delay the inevitable. You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for, you know. So painfully aware of your complete lack of power, so painfully aware that any outright resistance just isn’t worth it; isn’t worth risking the pain you fear so, so, so much. But that doesn’t mean that a reminder is remiss. Hesitation is fatal for the gambler, after all.

He hums and grins. You shrink, knowing he’s planning something. Like a little fawn, he muses, helpless without its mother. He suddenly pulls you back and flips you around so that your back leans against the railing, slightly hiked up so the tips of your toes just barely press against the ground. It grants him an unfettered view of your expression, almost comical shock morphing into fear as you register your newfound positions. You may not be entirely dangling over the railings…but you’re still at his mercy. You don’t hold onto his hand for dear life because that’s just what he’s decided. Simple instinct has you desperately hoping he doesn’t even fancy the scenario. He can so easily squash you between his fingers, and smear your remains on a handkerchief to be discarded: like a pestering fly.

[You mean…you want to point a gun into their heart, again?]

Fortunately, he has other plans. As much as he loves staring into your eyes, it’s not the only thing he likes about you. He moves his head against your chest, right against that sweet heart of yours. It misses a beat before it resumes its cacophonous rhythm. “Wha…what?” your mortified tongue manages to get out. “Put…put me down!” He gives a content hum in response, nuzzling further into your heartbeat, tracing patterns into your back with one hand and securing you by the waist with the other. His silence only intensifies the cacophony, but he could never bear to shut down any sound of yours. He chuckles. You shiver and let out a helpless sound, a cross between a cry, sob, and whimper. He can see you fight not to struggle, in fear that it would send you plummeting.

“It could be so much worse. You know that, don’t you? You live without chains and in a land where dawn shines, but that’s all my choice.” He finally speaks, when he’s decided you’ve had enough. Sure enough, the sound of screams and crumbling cities joins the cacophony. He pushes so he may discover all of the cacophonies your heart plays. He giggles, to twist the point further, “Relax! You haven’t done anything to warrant that! Yet.” You take a sharp breath. “But you still do things. Small things, but they’re still bad things,” you quiver. “I’ve had a few thoughts. Like a tattoo,” your heart skips a beat, “of a peacock’s feather, maybe, tickling your thigh, or an ace of spades. Nothing too extravagant. Hm, although,” your shaking has turned violent, so he moves his hand up to drift around your chest, clutching your waist tighter, “maybe we can just have my name, somewhere here…or…” he hums, for any and all matters pertaining to you need great care and thought, “....maybe we can just go with them all!” He exclaims.

(What is he doing what is he doing no he knows what he’s doing yes he needs to see and feel and taste your ink he’ll take what he can get but what is he doing why is he doing why why why is he doing but why is he asking it feels so so so good to be the one towering above to be the one pouring wine)

He resists the urge to look up at your expression. Not yet, he’ll save it for when it’s truly exquisite, for when ink burns up into his skull. “Oh, and now that I think about it, maybe something fancy on your back? Ah, haha, but it can’t be super big. It has to complement you, not overtake you! On that note, a piercing or two wouldn’t be half bad. Your ears are a no-brainer, but…” he takes on a teasing lilt, like he’s a boy unsure how to act around his crush, “...where~ else~ do we go? The belly button? That’d be pretty cute! Or…” his hand drifts further along your chest, “here…” he giggles, “that’d be so awfully adorable, wouldn’t it?” Your unease rolls out in waves. His grin widens further, foxlike. He silently thanks you for giving him so many openings. “Ah, but doing all of that’s like saying you aren’t enough, isn’t it? I’m sorry for implying that,” he purrs the faux apology, “and maybe those kinds of accessories would get in the way of your full resplendence.” He sighs, similar to the way he does whenever he’s done talking. That he’s done torturing you. That your feet will touch the ground. After a few moments, the cacophony quiets down, the ink merely stings, and your breaths steady ever so slightly. Awww…poor thing. He brushes your neck. You think he’s done? “Clothes, too.” Your heart plunges into the depths. His hand teases dipping into your robes, “Why have a wardrobe when it can’t possibly do you justice?” He clicks his tongue. “That just~ won’t~ do~,” he singsongs, and then transitions into a friendly tone, “and hey! You can just think of it likeeee…going full-on commando!” He feels you seize up with disgust drawn out from the very depths of your soul. “That’d be pretty fun, wouldn’t it?” He laughs, “And comfy. A self-proclaimed couch potato’s dream is to endlessly lounge away the days, right? So, then,” he slightly dips his fingers, featherlight against shadowed skin and bitten gifts, “you really should just spend all day in bed. It’s not like you could go outside anyway. And just think about it—” An image pops into his mind, widening his smile, “Wrapped in my blankets, tangled in silk, entrapped into a web of it…” he slides a hand around your trembling wrist, brushing his thumb over your thundering pulse, “this would look so beautiful, in red ribbon,” he presses a chaste kiss to your thundering pulse, “your ankles, waist…a mess of them over your chest, covering your eyes…” he sighs, but he isn’t a negligible man, drifting his touch to lovingly wrap his hand around your neck, “and that pretty little neck goes without saying. You’ll be just like a little gift all for me. And,” he chuckles, “I don’t imagine you’d want to leave, either.” You shudder, tremble, make a sound a cross between disgust and a gasp choking on ink. “Hm, actually, that’s a good question,” And then he finally looks up. He is not disappointed in the slightest. You are choking, and completely pale and the only signs of life on your frozen face are your infrequent blinks and quiet breathing. “Do you want to leave me?” He wonders: what will you do? Say? You both know the answer, but for him to ask it would have you second-guessing yourself on what to say. Should you be honest? Should you give him the answer he wants to be true? Should you merely say that the two of you know that already? Or do you just say nothing, as ink clogs your throat?

[Do you really think you’re playing a game? With them of all people? How do you think they even ended up here in the first place?]

The cacophony of your heart cracks and twists the earth into pieces. You shake like a leaf, slowly but surely devoured by a caterpillar. Soft and innocent at first glance, but it only knows how to feast and gorge itself. Your breath comes out in short gasps, as burning ink drips through them and into your stomach. It forces itself out violently, as your sensitive skin clams up, as it painfully inches out of your skull, to thrust itself out through your eyes.

You’re beautiful.

What an honor, he thinks.

(And stand so highly elevated)

Although your terrified silence was anticipated, he doesn’t quite appreciate having a one-sided conversation, sweetheart. It seems you need a bit of encouragement, but he’s more than happy to provide. Regrettably, that means fully raising his head, but at least he won’t have to strain his neck to get a look at your face. He hikes you up, and you shriek in with fear, vaulting to wrap your arms around his shoulders as you struggle in vain to give yourself any semblance of contact with the ground. But the tips of your toes just barely graze the smooth concrete. “Dar~ling~,” he sing songs, “don’t keep me waiting, now.”

He smiles kindly. He takes your left hand into his own, gently rubbing in soothing circles. Your heart beats louder, as you’re forced to rely on him even more. You take in a sharp breath, stifled by a flood of ink. He leans his head down, over that nigh-on unbearably beautiful mark on your neck, placing his lips on it like a fleeting feather brushing past. He looks up into your eyes, blackened and blurred, while his own are rounded and soft. He coos and kisses the few that fall, a delightful flavor of vulnerability flowering on his tongue that he can’t get enough of. He tilts his head when he’s done, his expression lovesick and deviously innocent, and goes caress your cheek, to chain you to place. You stay still so that it doesn’t go from choking to cutting. He gives your hand a maliciously reassuring squeeze.

“I’ve got you,” he reassures, “you’re safe, with me.” The words are heavy and loaded yet he says it like he’s holding you close in the afterglow, whispering sweet nothings that mean everything into your ear. Impressively, a scoff is drawn out of you, yanked out through a sea.

(It reassures him, in some strange way)

You clutch at him harder, almost pulling him flush against you in an effort not to fall. Adorable. You’re still enveloped in ink, so looking up at him, you seem little more than a trembling newborn fawn.

Something dark flickers in your eye; the same dark thing he saw on the luckiest day of his life, as the sun shined so brilliantly on the gun held against your forehead. That dark thing which he didn’t foresee, and hadn’t seen since that day, until now.

You tremble, but you purse your lips, and, as resolutely as you can, give your answer.

“Yes.” And then you lean back. Your feet do not touch the ground.

His instincts are honed in ways impossible for you to imagine. Pulling you away and into the room is a simple affair. You whimper in pain, struggling against his hold, but it only takes a slight twist to your wrist, an effortless suggestion, for it to cease.

(It’s his whole body that trembles, but you never seem to notice, when you tremble so much yourself and are so often a prisoner in your own mind)

“My friend,” he says, dropping any semblance of emotion in his voice. You nearly shriek as you’re engulfed in an inferno, hyperventilating in vain as smoke from your own burning body clogs your lungs. You’ve brought this upon yourself, though. Did you forget in that moment? There isn’t anywhere for you to go, trapped in the fox’s jaw. He smiles emptily, knowing that it makes you want to die. “Why don’t you come back to bed with me? And we can have a chat.”

(He hides his arm behind his back)

Just before he opens the balcony door, a drop of rain hits his cheek. The clouds obscure the moon, sealing its light shut. The sun will not shine on you two.

—

You aren’t shoved onto the bed, to skid across it like a sea of sharp rocks or a river of hot coals. That makes it worse, you think. Though, with how heavy your mind is, with how much ink fills it, you could see a blossoming flower and think that doomsday was nigh.

Trapped in his hold, out of endless possibilities, Aventurine elects to merely guide your forms to sit on the edge of the bed. He releases you, but whatever relief you felt is burned away when he slots your hand with his own, the other held behind his back. Like this, you two must look like a normal couple. One that had a fight, but then cooled down enough for them to sit and have a serious conversation; to communicate their feelings to one another, leading to a gentle reconciliation and promises to do better. Promises to never undermine the respect they hold for one another. But Aventurine…you’re sure that he holds a butcher knife, hidden behind his back, in moments like these. The hand which holds yours digs its claws, tearing into tender flesh so that you cannot rip it away; not if you’d like to keep your hand.

You almost don’t hear him over the pounding in your ears eyes heart and lungs and everything. “Just what were you thinking, acting like that?”

Thinking? Thinking? Why would you tell him that? Actually, thinking? Did you even think? You feel your hand get squeezed like a lion clamping its jaw into a gazelle. “I—I, I…I,” you stammer. Any word you can even think of instantly turns to ash.

“‘I don’t know?’” and you almost demand for how he was able to guess your answer. He hums and leans in further and further, boring those terrifying eyes right into you; you fear that he’ll bore a hole right through your eyes and fill it with himself. So that even in death, a part of him would always infect you.

Your mind, badly addled, nods.

He hums again, betraying no emotion, “I know what you were thinking. And you will, too. I’m sure the two of us are eager to get back to sleep, so it’s best to cut to the chase.”

“Cut…to the chase?”

“To the takeaway.”

It happens slowly, or quickly, or something, you don’t know you don’t really know at all everything drowns in ink—

He leans toward you, and gently pushes you on your back. You reactively scramble, but it doesn’t take much for him to make your struggle useless—and your neck is squeezed. Softly, then firmly, then roughly, and then air is gone. He doesn’t butcher you, doesn’t spill your blood, doesn’t dismember you and put you back together, doesn’t meticulously carve himself into your skin. He just squeezes. Nothing more, nothing less. No bloodshed to be seen. That might’ve been the truly shocking thing about this. But you can’t think about that when you breathe and nothing comes in. You gasp, but it comes out as a silent, dying wheeze. You kick, but it’s useless. Your legs drop to the bed like rotting sacks of meat. You try and pull his hands away. It’s about as effective as a mannequin trying to move on its own. Useless. Useless useless useless everything is useless your future and very being are an endless abyss devoid of hope and life and everything you do have done will do is useless meaningless meaningless meaningless you’re dying you’re going to die you are dead you are hopeless and miserable and scared and dying dying dying dying dying he’s bored of you sick of you hates you he hates you hates you hates you hates you hates you stabbed you in the back choking you choking you you cry cry cry cry cry but your tears are searing ink that burns your flesh you’re burning burning burning burning there is no sunlight or moonlight—

You think and think about everything and nothing. You think about your cotton scarf. You think about your parents. You think about your degree and how its been such an waste of time and money. You think about the tiramisu you made earlier, how its setting in the fridge so you could eat it come lunchtime.

But no matter what you think about, or what you stop thinking about, you cannot stop thinking about Aventurine. About who he was, is, and will continue to be. How he’s permeated himself into your life and very being. How your corpse will be in his hands.

It hurts, but you can’t say that. It hurts so much that you feel like your neck will be sliced off your head. You must look so ugly. You feel your eyes bulge, expand from out of your sockets, just a few seconds away from popping out and hanging by a nerve that could so easily be cut and gushing blood that Aventurine will lap up before throwing your corpse out of the window like trash. Your nose uselessly tries to inhale, but all it does is marginally slow the hideous mucus that leaks. Your mouth is equally useless, and it isn’t long until you give up and your tongue ungracefully lolls from your mouth. You feel all at once overwhelmed—the tears from your eyes burn your flesh, your eyes will become weights that shake with every movement, the snot leaves behind anguishing trails of acid, and your tongue feels like a dumbbell crushing your face—and in a weird way, you feel like you float. You decide to float. You think about your cotton scarf, nuzzling into its comforting—

You dimly realize you’re nuzzling into the grip that’s killing you.

Your body becomes lead.

Aventurine’s expression betrays nothing. But you feel something shake—your body? It’s surprising because you can hardly even blink, let alone move. It’s mostly around your neck. Maybe it’s the lack of oxygen. Your hands have gone limp, uselessly falling to the side, but you haven’t died yet. Aventurine is still busy killing you, and looking at you like you’re nothing and that he couldn’t care less about your reaction. You don’t want to look at him anymore. You don’t want to die with his face as the last thing you see. You’d rather die looking at the moon. But against his ironclad grip, your head doesn’t move. You struggle, but Aventurine’s face remains. Your eyes start to glaze, and your mind begins to fill with cotton, but it's burned away by a particularly forceful squeeze, which quickly lightens, but the damage has been done.

Your tongue is drying. Your vision spots. Not with black, not with the shade of ink you’ve grown used to, but it spots with light. Sunlight. You’re being cradled in the sunlight. Warm and soft, but you’re wretched out of that false sense of security when your body begins to blaze.

Something burning and cold and wonderful enters your nostrils and mouth—air, air, air air air air you need air air air air air—

The air doesn’t come rushing in like you’ve seen described in books. It painfully pumps into you, but it’s vastly preferable to the pain you were experiencing just a few moments ago. Your head slumps, turning to the moon's salvation—but you see only the clouds.

When your lungs stop burning, and your breathing returns to normal, Aventurine gently pulls you up into his lap, where he leans against the headboard. A single arm draped over your waist confines you to his chest. His other hand is out of sight. When he’s sure you aren’t getting away, he takes a breath, and his hidden hand comes to tip your head up.

His eyes all at once resemble an aphotic ocean and a flooding dam. You aren’t sure where it comes from, but you realize that, for this brief moment, he has dropped his facade.

“If you want to die,” he says, quietly, softly, almost vulnerably. You must have brain damage, if this is how he sounds. “this is how it’ll happen. By my hand. By my choice. And trust me when I say it’s infinitely better than anything you could do with your own hands,” he removes his hand from your chin to intertwine it with your own, all at once invasive and sweet, “I promise, (Name).”

Your chest begins to flood with a sob. It comes out wrangled and inhuman, but he only clutches you closer. Strangely, he doesn’t lap up your tears. Like many nights before and to come, you pass out, weighed by the agony of living with a man so obvious and indecipherable.

Your last thought before finally shutting your eyes is that Aventurine won’t be throwing you out anytime soon. You do not celebrate the thought, not entirely, anymore. It’s only much later that you realize why: he finally succeeded in forcing a small part of himself into you.

—

When you pass out from complete exhaustion, Aventurine quietly tucks your head deeper into his chest. He thinks about yanking apart his ribcage, forcing you into it, and then pinning you there as he forces it shut. It’s begun to rain outside. It pitter-patters, booming in his ears, and nearly shreds his ears apart.

[But a part of you likes it when you drag them down to your level, right, Kakavasha?]

—

His master swirls a glass of red wine. It may as well have been blood; bought by blood, drank in the wake of blood, and spilled into blood. Kakavasha pursues his lips, to not scream in agony as the wine sears his wound; but it will be okay. He is used to weathering the sun, trudging through heavy sand, with his mouth drier than the sand. He can withstand this searing heat. He’s already withstood iron-hot metal pressed into his skin for minute after agonizing minute, no matter his involuntary cries and tears and pleas to stop.

But that was an exception. The desert has long dried his tears.

Besides, this is a ‘reward.’ For triumphing yet again. For surviving yet again. So the master sees it fit to briefly lavish him in luxury. At least it’s fitting for the occasion, Kakvasha thinks, the wine puddling out like blood. He waits for it to end. He’s already battered and bloody, beaten down, and he doesn’t need his neck chaffed and bleeding. Every yank of his chain evaporates energy he cannot afford to lose, cannot sacrifice or else there won’t be a bet he can emerge lucky from.

And, he admits. He’s a little (no, very) afraid of being brought to the edge between life and death again. He doesn’t want to be chained to the wall again, and have the chain around his neck pulled further and further away—

A sneer that would get him tortured spreads across his face. His face is already forced to the ground, so he’s not too worried.

“My lucky hound,” his master drawls, “stay with me. You did pretty well; it’d be a shame if I had to reevaluate you if you pass out just from this. C’mon, gimme a lil’ bark.”

He wipes his sneer and looks up with a practiced expression: defiant, but sanded down with fear; feisty, but compliant. Just enough fight to entertain, but not enough to be a nuisance. “Alive and kicking,” he grunts. It’s a strange mix of genuine and manufactured, biting back his cries of pain. It took him a bit to figure out what his master liked, but all that matters is that he got there. It’s fine, he tells himself. He doesn’t need to know how much he’s using him, too. “And savoring your gift.” He’s sure it’s the right answer, but the slight tremor indicates the awful anticipation he has for the results. If it isn’t, then everything he’s done to get here would all have been for nothing. He cannot afford to fumble his gamble now.

Luckily (ha!), it was the right answer. He’s given something his master can poke and prod at, and he’s gladly taken it. “I thought I asked you to bark,” he snarls, and the flaming wine ceases. But it’s for a reason, for he soon gets a kick to the stomach. It knocks the air out of him, but if his master were truly offended, he would’ve done much, much worse. Kakavasha coughs, just enough to suggest that he’s sorry and begging for forgiveness, but not enough to seem desperate and begging for a release and to stop stop stop— “Speaking is for humans. Honestly, I don’t even know why you Sigonian hounds were born with mouths. Universe’d be a better place if slaves like you were born with their mouths sewn shut—by the Aeons, do you disgust me!” he scratches his chin before a smirk twists his face, “Though, ‘suppose that would mean I wouldn’t be able to hear the dogs whimper.” A shoe grinds into his stomach. He wants to see all of Kakavasha’s face then. “So, you gonna bark, or what?”

Kakavasha doesn’t need to act much, this time. His face falls into grim acceptance; the face he made when heat emanated from his neck; the face he made when the doors to his cell closed; the face he made when he saw the sand bury his sister’s body. Although the expression this time isn’t genuine, it’s not quite fabricated, either.

It’s fine. It’s fine. This is but one gamble. Acquiesce to his whims just enough, and then strike.

Soon, wine pools at his feet. But the wine in his master’s hand hasn’t all spilled, yet. Memories flit by in his mind: his master, flaunting his wealth in front of him.

“Humans wear clothes, accessories, and jewelry…dream all you want, but an animal can never become what it’s fated not to be.” His master’s voice echoes.

His limp and cold hand is adorned in rings. His still wrist holsters a beautiful watch and tasteful bangle. Kakvasha takes a sip of the wine. It burns, dripping down his throat. It leaves his tongue rancid and as dry as the desert.

He supposes that’s what it means to be human, then.

—

When you wake up, pain radiates throughout your neck and legs. Absently, your hand goes to your neck to relieve it but meets soft cotton. Gauze. He must’ve disinfected your wound (brand, that bastard branded me get him out of me I’ll—) when you passed out.

You close your eyes and try to fall back asleep but to no avail. With a moan, and then a hiss of pain, you roll over on your side. You see a note, a couple of pills, and a glass of water have been placed on your nightstand. With concentrated effort, you sit up and read the note.

Darling, dearest, love of my life, (you’d scoff if it didn’t hurt like hell to even breathe)

A painkiller. One every three hours. I suggest you take it if you want to get through the day comfortably, so please don’t spend your day staring at them in contempt like they’ve killed your dog. Contrary to what you might think, I do care for your comfort. (You feel a jolt of anger through your spine) I’ll try to be back a half hour or so earlier, but if fortune’s on my side, I’ll be back to you a full hour earlier. Wouldn’t that just be amazing? Actually, let me do a coin flip to gauge today’s fortune—oh! Look at that! Seems that it’s an hour. You won’t be lonely for long, I promise. (You frown) Business is wrapping up, so we’re leaving today, but I’ve already packed your bags. Focus on yourself, sweetheart, and get plenty of rest. And before you start overthinking things, I’m not worried at all. You won’t be forgetting anytime soon, and you’re not going anywhere. (You grit your teeth)

Use lots of ice on your neck! It helps a ton. And eat soft foods that go down easy; broth, oatmeal, the works. Now that’s what I call a good excuse to gorge on ice cream; not too much though, you *might* just throw up. And no, you can’t break the windows. Literally. I know you have your impulsive moments, but you’ve gotta be conservative with your energy today. I’ll make sure you are. If not…well, you like guessing games, right? Haha, now I really do have to go. I can’t believe you got me writing such a long letter! Alright, see you later, sweetheart.

Love, Aventurine.

You stare at the signature. Love, Aventurine sounding over and over in your mind, hitting the walls and coming back in a cracking echo. Love—a knife impales you—Aventurine—and you’re eaten alive.

Love, love, love, love, love.

You force yourself to look at the painkillers. You have no reason to believe him, but he doesn’t have any reason to lie to you. You decide not to take them.

Instead, you take a few slow sips of water, letting it coat your throat and tongue thoroughly. Then you force your sore body to the kitchen. You stumble, you trip, but you still make it to the countertop. It’s not complicated. Your mind can’t process complexity in its current state anyway.

It’s simple. You yank a knife from the block and plunge it into your chest, through your ribs, and into your heart. Blood gushes out like a waterfall, glistening like a ruby in the light of the dawn. You grin, pain wobbling your mouth, and swiftly cut open your stomach. Bile creeps up your throat as you gag violently, until you finally retch on the elongated mess of your intestines, unraveling into a bunch. You laugh hysterically when you notice that it looks like a horribly butchered plate of spaghetti—hilarious. It’s all nearly too much to bear, but there’s more work to be done. You’re still thinking; that just won’t do. You raise your knife, the tip shining in the sun and sparkling through your tears, and slam your forehead into it, finally putting an end to your existence.

That’s what should’ve happened. But the knife hasn’t taken that first plunge, yet. You will your arm to rectify the mistake. It only shakes harder. And then everything from the night before rushes to your head, and ink clouds everything and everything and—

You can’t do it. Not by your own hand.

You violently throw the knife into the sink and collapse to the ground in a brutal sob.

You never attempt it again.

—

He was wrong about something. Your shattered limit would never end with his demise—it was yours.

(Is he really surprised? Or was he in denial this whole time?)

He’s not sure how to feel, that you’d rather destroy yourself than kill when backed into a corner. But he can at least understand that urge of yours to take someone else down with you; only, that person isn’t him, this time.

The wall you have built crumbles, and he wonders if you care if your destruction ends up killing another unintentionally; if that part of yourself has been killed, or if it has been so twisted that you are born anew. But that’s a bit silly. You can destroy yourself, but you won’t ever lose yourself, even if you become fractured. That’s what experience has taught him, and it is both excruciatingly painful and relieving.

You’ve pinned him down. Your eyes are wide and dilated, and that spark of life within them is just nearly dimmed out; and yet, beneath that spark, something awful and alive pulsates. They hold an unabashed focus, yet they also look past him. For a rare moment, he is completely taken aback, and cannot conceal his surprise and dubious, almost hesitant delight. But he drops the hesitation. It’s fatal for him.

(His heart nearly stops. Is he pinned to the ground, or is he looking into a mirror? He almost feels like he’s been turned inside out)

“What. Were. You. Thinking?” It’s your voice, but he can’t help but think it takes on a cadence similar to his own. He can see that awful creature brandish its claws.

As much as he enjoys seeing such a creature, he cannot allow himself to be ripped apart by it. He’ll assert his control, and you’ll back off, the same as it’s always been. But he doesn’t quite mind being pinned down by you, so he’ll allow it for the moment. “You watch me gamble all the time, dearest.” He tilts his head, knowing just how much it pisses you off. “I don’t see how that’s gotten you so worked up—and you’ve been so sweet lately.”

Your jaw trembles, like a dog, he thinks, on the verge of barking and biting an intruder. Yet, a part of him also tells him that isn’t quite right. “You played Russian Roulette.” Drip, drip, sounds the blood of his challenger, but such a sound has been white noise all his life.

He smirks. “Are you jealous?” he teases, “Did you want to kill me, or were you hoping to take the bullet yourself?”

You, ever so slightly, begin to shake. “No,” you respond, without any sense of the word. “Answer my question,” you demand. He’s a little surprised because you so rarely make demands. He can see the beast grind its teeth, gnashing at the mere idea of his flesh, drooling its filth in gluttonous anticipation. But he knows you so, so, so very well. He can smell your fear—but of what? Fear that you might not be able to personally exact vengeance? He’s a little lost, for once. But he’ll know soon enough, he supposes. He continues with his usual demeanor.

“Mmm,” he hums nonchalantly, making you shake in agitation. “Well, I suppose I’m in no position to refuse. It was a good gamble with a good thrill, of course! I thought you knew this.” He knows you don’t believe that entirely, having spent so much time with him. The look in your eyes tells him it was the answer you were expecting. But you still aren’t satisfied. You still haven’t strewn his guts about the floor, to join the foolish challenger.

You do not respond, remaining as still as you can be. He decides to encourage you; you can’t just lead him on like this, you know.

He cups your cheek. “What’s wrong?” he goads. “Or have you finally come around to just how irresistible I am?”

The blood’s aroma has wafted over. Your eyes glaze impossibly further. The beast breaks its chains.

“I want to hollow out your chest,” you admit. His heart stops, and it’s only through years of practice that his face doesn’t instantly break out in shock. “And burrow into it, so I can listen to your heartbeat and feel the expanse of your lungs pressing into me with your every breath,” you shake, near violently, and you take each breath as if it’ll be your last. His own heart begins to beat erratically; he’s excited, he doesn’t know what’ll happen, but whatever it is he needs to have have have it— “I want to breathe in your blood, taste your heart, blood, sustain myself on nothing—” Aventurine feels a thread be pulled apart. “—on nothing but you!” You cry out, leaning in closer as you collapse to your knees and elbows, practically exchanging air with him. You’ve finally begun to cry, and with it, the beast has come—

No, he thinks. It’s already ripping apart his flesh. Your tears fall onto his face. His heart beats faster and faster; just as fast as when he hid in those bloody puddles all those years ago.

“If you die…I might just join you, because…there’s really nothing else for me…” you sob, face contorting in a way he finds so breathtakingly pathetic and beautiful. For a moment, your mouth curls down, not maliciously, but with a determined promise. “If you die…I’m pulling the trigger, not some random sap in a casino.”

Oh. You…you remembered. Of course, you did. You never would forget. You couldn’t ever forget. His chest feels numb with how brutally his heart has beaten it.

He feels something cool seep into his pants and legs. Blood. So familiar it’s like a second skin.

He is well acquainted with the touch of ice. How could he not? The time spent with you feels like a (fragile) eternity, and in it, he has glued himself to you; and you’ve, however unwittingly, froze him in place. Even if he’s always been able to force you into the desert with him, there are still those moments when a nigh unbearable cold seeps down into his bones, threatening to kill him, to preserve his dead body to be dusted and ogled at whenever the master of the house needs to show off their private collection to guests. But he feels it melting. He feels the cold you’ve desperately embraced crackle.

You sob, a sound of euphoric despair that has him resisting his every urge to cradle you, and confess the truth; confess your want.

“I love you, Aventurine,” you take in a shuddering gasp.

His heart explodes. It is then he realizes that he, too, has gasped, and is breathing irregularly. That his composure has shattered without his realization.

“I love you…” you cough, no longer able to hold back your breakdown, the volcano of your emotions erupting in a destructive blaze that killed a part of you; the part of you that’d been holding on. Flora and flowers burn, snow becomes hellfire, and any and all life is replaced by a hungering beast desperate to keep itself satiated.

But only Aventurine can satiate it. A blush dusts his cheeks.

“I love you, I love you,” you hiccup and sob, repeating the mantra like a prayer (to a devil in velvet), “I love you I love you I love you I love you.” And then you finally collapse on him, a pile of bricks and rubble and dust. You curl into his chest, over his violet heartbeat. “Don’t throw me away…don’t l-leave me…” he immediately secures your waist. It’s a disgusting implication. Why would he do that to you of all people? “I need you,” and his heart soars. A smile finally cracks his face, shattering something deep inside of him.

[No, no, Kakavasha, that’s really quite wrong. You haven’t been whole for a very, very long time.]

And then something brief surfaces in you, a small piece of useless reasoning, “and it’s your f-fault I’m like this…” That’s very true, which is why he needs to take responsibility. Which is why he has to continue keeping you, caring for you, and brutalizing you. The blood has trailed down to his back.

And then you’re back to sobbing, and practically howl, “Please, please Aventurine, tell me you love me and won’t ever let me go!” you beg, and entirely break down into a concentrated sob, distant from reality. You blabber, likely unaware, utterly lovely and incoherent words. The blood has reached the back his head.

His entire body shudders, rapturing him into a pile of broken flesh. He can’t hold back. He holds you tighter than before. It snaps you out of your daze, your body instinctively flinching away, but his grip doesn’t cease; it can’t cease, because if it does you two may never truly meld with one another. He sits up, positioning you so you straddle and completely rely on him for support. He looks at you. His long-lasting appetite has finally been satiated, but now a new one takes hold of his shaking form, his excitement electric and bloody.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he shudders breathlessly, just barely keeping himself from pouncing, “that was beautiful—you’re beautiful,” he pants, as his hunger grows painful, “how could I refuse such a heartfelt and adorable confession? You’re so perfect. You’re the other side of my coin…”

[Took you long enough.]

“...yes,” he groans, “I’d love to bring you down with me, and to tear you apart if I’m back in that dawnless land.” Because you aren’t leaving him, nor could you survive if he plummets back into that land. But you’re still coming with him because you need him (and so does he).

The dawn shines on the two of you, and finally, he kisses you. You’re too dazed to reciprocate, but you offer no resistance at all. But it’s a (relatively) chaste kiss, as he pulls back to whisper against your lips, wholly reverent. “I knew you were the one,” he confesses, and he sees your blush deepen, your eyes widen, “Thank you, for destroying yourself for me,” he brushes your cheek, “It’s truly an honor, sweetheart.”

You blink, eyes wide with tears, and just as he’s about to caress them away your mouth twitches—almost like you’re glitching as if the very expression was some bug in a game—and then you laugh. And it isn’t crazed, it isn’t weighed by madness, nor does it carry that familiar undertone of despair and fear he’s become so used to hearing from you—it’s warm like the dawn has cut through the rain to shine on him.

It’s that lovely laugh which the sun shines overhead and erases any shadow of doubt:

You’re insane. You’ve frozen over in hell, and have shattered yourself into pieces to melt into it.

If ‘I love you, Aventurine’ was the straw that broke the camel’s back, then your laughter is what made the camel burst and seep into searing, soulless sand.

It makes sense. Only someone destroyed and insane could love Aventurine.

(Kakavasha was dead. His hands are sticky, his chains rusty with blood and his throat burns)

[Is he? Or do you just need him to be dead? No matter how you slice it, I still see that same boy who clung to his Big Sis till the very end.]

But he’s a selfish man. If you give him your love, then he’ll gladly take it.

[Tsk, tsk. A desperate man, Kakavasha.]

But more importantly, there’s a feeling in his heart. It’s the feeling of a peaceful day beneath the scorching sun, of when he wins a game, of when he and his sister were just themselves with each other. All of it coalesces into something he hasn’t felt in—no, something he may have never truly felt until now:

Happiness.

[The closet thing you can call happiness, you mean.]

And is that feeling that has him lift you up, and spin and twirl with you in his arms. It is sheer elation, a hedonism that is so self-serving yet selfless all at once—sheer bliss—that fills him. This: this is what he wants to feel. Your laughter is infectious, permeating his body and sapping it of rationality, but he does not try to fight this virus. For he is happy. The corner of his eyes crinkle; he is unused to the feeling.

He laughs and laughs with you. His clothes and shoes are tracking blood. Normally the thought of even rain getting on his clothes disgusts him, but now, all he can think about is basking in this crimson victory. The dawn shines on you both, commemorating your unholy union.

You really are perfect for him, he thinks. Because he must be insane too, when he laughs like a crazed dog—the same dogs he nearly drowned in bloodied water to get away from.

—

You both deserved a treat. He whisked you away to a room—he can deal with the casino room later, call on a few favors—because you deserve his utmost attention, as he does yours. The prospect of your complete attention, entirely unfettered, excites him.

It’s a fine room. The bed is large and soft, the bath is large and pleasant, and the view is utterly breathtaking. But neither of you cares about that. You could be rolling in sewage and shit and you’d still look at him the way he looks at you, still enter demented laughter and twisted joy, still parade under that veneer of love.

He gets his fill, as do you—but you both know neither of you will ever be sated, not when you two can’t be joined together in the ways you want to.

The dawn is rich and bright, shining on the waking and sending the begging crawling away into the shadows. You breathe softly, utterly exhausted. A complete 180 from just a few moments ago. Your arms wrap weakly around him, tucking yourself into him snugly. His kisses, imprinted with your blood, create a field of flowers on your face. As does his own. …He makes a note to tip room service extra for the bloodied sheets. There’s a reason he doesn’t dress (as) extravagantly for when he needs to get his hands dirty.

Perhaps after this, he’ll gift you something truly special, he thinks. His earring’s twin has just been gathering dust, and that just wouldn’t do. And it would be quite romantic to get your ears pierced by him, too. His heart beats at the thought. He’s sure you’ll agree to it if it’s by his hand; perhaps you can make a date out of it~? Maybe, after this, you’ll wear his gifts of your own accord. Small things, for when you go out, a modest bracelet or watch, a tasteful necklace (of ownership). Nothing overt so as to not draw any thieving eyes, but something to signify to those that know what to look for that you aren’t to be messed with. As for when you’re inside and home…he still remembers how red your face got, and the curses you threw at him. And then you’ll finally concede that his taste is actually pretty solid (don’t worry, it's not a sore spot in the slightest! He’s more mature than that).

He feels a bit of pride at your exhaustion, smiling as he recalls the beginning of your tryst:

“I…erm…wanna…well, I can d-do some of the work,” you said, flustered and embarrassed by the mere admission. He found it endearing, that you could confess your desire to burrow into him and then stammer when asking him for something. You really did hate the idea of using him, didn’t you?

(He doesn’t bother dissecting what kind of smile he makes)

However, a single moment is on repeat in his mind. His hand absently drifts to the crook of his neck, weeping but a few minutes ago. Your teeth, sinking in so deeply, intimately, just on the verge of ripping a chunk of his flesh out; you were practically dining on him. It sent him over the edge.

When you pulled away and looked at him, he was again taken aback at what he saw.

Your lips, slightly parted and utterly breathless, speckled with rouge. Your cheeks were red hot with adoration. Your eyes, brimming with love and care and everything he couldn’t believe someone besides his own family could direct toward him.

(But your love is very different from his family’s. They wanted to nourish. You want to devour. But he sees nothing to criticize there—indulge, and he will gladly indulge back, until there’s nothing left of either of you)

But what truly pushes him over the edge, is the smile you give, softly stained in crimson. It is pure and untainted, angelic and sweet, soft and warm like how the dawn kisses his cheek. It is as if this love of yours was born not of a tower’s rubble but of whispered secrets and touches shared in the shadow of moonlight. It’s as if the love you show him now would’ve been what he got if he was a more selfless man (if he were any other man). You both know he does not deserve the love in your eyes—it is the last thing you owe him. Yet you give it to him anyway.

You are utterly insane. And now that he knows what insanity on you looks like,

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

But before he can shut his eyes for an hour or two of respite, there’s something he has to do. He promised many things as you both feasted, but there are two absolute ones he has to reaffirm. Two absolute ones you wanted so badly that you unleashed a frozen inferno.

“I’ll never leave you,” he promises, “And never would. I admit, it stung a bit for you to fear that from me, but…I’ll make it up to you tenfold, sweetheart. I’ll make sure you don’t feel that way ever again,” He kisses your cheek gently. He pictures your response and giggles. “Yeah, I’m being sappy, but you’re,” he boops your nose with each following word, “just~. As~. Guilty~.” You stir with a soft groan, but it’s not enough to rouse you. After a short while, you nuzzle your head further into his neck with a sleepy sigh. Something tells him that even asleep, you’ll somehow know what he’s telling you. Your lips come to rest on the gift you gave him, as if even in sleep you’d rip him apart. His heart flutters. “You’re so sweet…” he exhales with a shudder, “seriously, how do you manage it? Not that I mind, of course…anything but…” he plays with a strand of your hair. Candy and clouds and raw flesh burst on his tongue all at once; a flavor of sickly sweet rot he can’t get enough of. He smiles, a soft and predatory thing, and his lips drift to his favorite spot.

But don’t get him wrong—every part of you is lovely and he would kill to vivisect you if only it didn’t mean killing you and putting you in extreme pain. It’s those two latter thoughts that largely quell his desire to do so.

(Maybe he would enjoy it, but only for a moment, only for so as long as the euphoria and awe of seeing all of you lasts. If you did die—especially with cries and shrieks of pain—he would sob, curling around your body…and then he would take you with him, so when he goes to that place, you’d be with him on that very first step)

It’s where he first bit you on the luckiest day of his life; a lucky charm. It’s bruised and tender, red and ugly and scarred. Renewed countless times, it is beyond repair. Moments ago it held a crimson sheen, but its been smeared throughout your collarbone and shoulder. It looks like a red mist, a curling wisp of smoke that dirties clouds and infects rainwater. He brings you impossibly closer, to keep you from becoming red mist. But he also realizes that should he squeeze too hard, you might end up as mist anyway. But if that’s how you become mist, at least you’ll have been in his arms; be with him.

(As if to keep you far, far, far away from the rainwater which had swirled with a thick, red mist—to keep you from breathing in it, from having to hide so you don’t end up like the cold bodies which float beside you)

His lips seemingly slot in with the spot perfectly. It only makes sense. It was today where you’ve melded yourself to him.

(And he’s melded himself to you for a long time. Against his better judgment and sense, he melded himself to you; at the time it was only the idea of you, but it didn’t take long for it to be you.)

He sighs in content, but he still has another promise to make.

“We’ll be together, you and I. Two sides of a single coin can face away from each other, but they can’t exist separate from each other. You’re pretty smart, so I’m sure you get it,” yes, he has plenty of faith in you, sweet thing, but he can’t help but ramble, “and it’s because I love you, (Name).” He says it so tenderly, your name, and unexpectedly (or very expectedly) something he thought he’d never feel ever again invades his chest, and it forces itself out, “I love you, I love you,” he thinks his grip has tightened and that his heart has started to race and that he’s shaking but he doesn’t care about that right now and he doesn’t care if he has been losing composure without his notice. “I love you I love you I love you. You have no idea just how much I want to devour you, just how much I want you tethered to me. How much I need you to be unable to live without me. If I’m alive, you’re alive. If I’m dead…you said it yourself. You’ll follow me. It just needs to be by my hand, and you’ll follow me. You won’t have to worry about being alone, being without me. And it’s all because…

I love you.”

He dimly realizes that something salty has trailed to his lips. Are you awake? Or are you having a nightmare? Either way, he moves like he has so many other times, to remind you that he’d be there, even at your most vulnerable. He goes up to kiss your eyes and lick your cheek, but nothing’s there.

Something flutters against his cheek. You’re awake, and he feels something warm and wet travel on his cheek. He’s not sure what he feels, when he looks up to you.

(What does his face look like?)

You blink, eyes bleary with sleep and weighted with content. But tinged with the sleep and contentment, there’s another thing, which makes everything within him burn. Which makes him shake and his heart nearly explodes.

Dimly, he realizes that the fallout of your destruction wasn’t just limited to you. He’s buried beneath the fire and rubble, too.

[And it’s lovely.]

And then (at that moment), for some reason (for all the reasons), he buries his head in your chest (into your heart),

To sob in the sunlight, soothed by the hands that unraveled him.

#yandere #yandere hsr #yandere aventurine #destroyed onset #aventurine x reader #yandere aventurine x reader #yandere x you #yandere hsr x reader #tw noncon #tw suicide #next fic is gonna be sitcom esque #the calm before the storm 😉#and also because i need to write the reader being happy in a #not fucked up way LMFAO

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hyunfilms · 6 months

Text

blue side of the sky (lmh) | 15.5 [cloudy days] kat

♡ spotify playlist | series masterlist

—15.5 [CLOUDY DAYS] kat's thoughts

—WORD COUNT: 0.8k

—ON ROTATION: i hate u - sza

Kat knew she shouldn't have done this from the beginning. It started off with a blossoming friendship that turned into something more, something unexpected. But, to be honest, she couldn't help herself when Minho started reciprocating the attention, the thrill, the excitement.

She knew she shouldn't, and she should've known that this was wrong— that Minho was wrong, that the both of them were wrong. This wasn't meant to be, even through the false sense of security he gave her.

She never had Minho in the first place.

Over time, she felt like she did. She felt like she had Minho, especially when he broke the news that you and him had broken up. That things had run its course, that he wasn't sure how to fix this; how to fix you. Kat genuinely wanted to be there for him first and foremost. She didn't know much about you, but she knew you were very well-liked and a top student. You were the girlfriend that Minho adored, that everyone adored.

Everything she wasn't.

Slight jealousy and envy could do so much damage, and Kat found herself spiraling deep into that mess when things got a little deeper with Minho. When she opened herself up, when she trusted him. But he never wanted her the same way she did. And she was hoping things could change. That maybe, if she acted a little different, opened herself up more than she already has— Minho would see her differently and change his mind. That maybe they could work. She couldn't see that she was just an after-thought, someone to get his mind off of things, someone he could use as a release. She wanted to fix him so badly, when in the end, Minho just wanted to fix you, to fix the relationship.

Not her.

Never her.

All of this wasn't genuine. And it hit her hard when she realized, finally fucking realized, that he didn't want her in the same way.

It was never her in the beginning, and she shouldn't have done this. Or else, she wouldn't be crying herself to sleep. She wouldn't be second-guessing every thing about herself every time she looks at herself in the mirror. She wouldn't be angry, frustrated, fuming. She wouldn't be wishing she did things differently. She fell way too deep only to be nothing in the end.

Because it was never her.

It was always going to be you.

You were always going to be Minho's and Minho was always going to be yours. There was nothing she could do to fix him, nothing she could do to make the outcome different.

It was always going to be you.

And she hates Minho for that. For causing all of this mess, for dragging the both of you into it. She couldn't help herself when she woke up that morning— already finding herself marching over to the café before she could think twice about her actions. Now, she's sitting here, mascara running down her cheeks, hair a mess; crying tears that she didn't know she still had because she feels terrible and shitty.

She feels terrible for having unloaded that on you, but she felt like you needed to know. She couldn't stand seeing you walk on cloud nine, seeing life through these rose-tinted glasses. She knows you've been through a lot, but Minho needed to wake up. Jisung needed to wake up. Life was not what it seemed, and you couldn't stand on that shaky foundation forever.

She feels shitty because all of this mess, for what? Over Minho? Over stupid, one-sided feelings? For someone who would never see you in the same light as you do with them? After all of this, it still sings, but she knew it was time to finally close this chapter of the book. Move on, do better for herself. Find someone who could actually love her for who she is and won't treat her like an option, a convenience. Someone to fill the void. But until then, she'll pick her own head up. Pick up her own pieces. Seal the broken cracks on her own.

In the end, she still loses.

Never her.

It was always going to be you.

Though, this somehow [weirdly] feels like the closure she needed. The push that she needed to close this chapter in the book and move on for good. Minho wasn't good for her, he will never be.

But most of all, she hates Minho because she cares about him and she doesn't think she could actually hate him at all. She hopes he can be a better man for you now. After all, it's just another unfortunate story of hers— one where she tried to desperately change someone who never really wanted her in the first place.

And that's her own fault for letting herself settle.

♡ taglist: @ppiri-bahng @jihanlovic @meloncremesoda @sweetlikecherry @asjkdk @hoes4lino @skzddicted @skzho @edgaralienpoe @harui-zen @bestleeknowstan @havenwithleeknow @septicrebel @heesdazed @borahae-reads @yoontaethings @pearbunny @bintificreads @lukeys-giggle @ajxreads @everglowdaisies @allaboutsan @endzii23 @leeknowsramen @heres-your-ramen2000 @morningstardada @mal-lunar-28 @downbadreading @lilysophie @feelikecinderella @urmomma0324 @ddazed-lhs @djeniryuu @melanctton @i8rsie @maru-matt @sleepyleeji @taerifin @nattisbored @jisunglyricist @m111nho @drhsthl @nixtape-foryou @arminseas @guiltycoco @syuuji @sulkygyu @cadihyo @reianagarcia @leeknowyah @smndjdufuehr @dprkbyn @xxibreinaxx @mxnsxngie @reiheis @mellowmentalitydragon @vixensss

#lee know series #lee know fanfic #lee know fanfiction #kpop fanfiction #stray kids x reader #stray kids fanfiction #stray kids series #hyunfilms: blue side of the sky

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south-of-heaven · 10 months

Text

Can’t breathe || Rhea Ripley x Reader x Damian Priest

Summary: Damian and Rhea get home to find you mid breakdown, struggling to breathe

Warnings: Emotional distress, reader accidentally hurts herself with her nails

As Rhea and Damian step through the front door, their faces quickly shift from anticipation to concern as they find you in distress. Tears stream down your face, your breathing labored and uneven, indicating the depths of your emotional turmoil.

Without hesitation, Damian moves swiftly, taking a seat behind you. He gently tips your head back, allowing it to rest against his sturdy shoulder. His strong arms wrap around you, holding you close, while his other hand rests on your forehead to ensure your airway remains open.

Feeling the support and security of Damian's embrace, your breathing begins to regulate, albeit still shaky. The panic that had consumed you slowly subsides, allowing you to find some semblance of calmness.

Rhea kneels in front of you, her eyes filled with concern and determination. Her fingers gently trace the cuts on your legs, caused by your sharp nails digging into them, assessing their severity. With a soft voice, she reassures you, "You're okay now, love. We're here for you."

Using a damp cloth, Rhea tenderly cleans the wounds, taking extra care to soothe your pain and discomfort. Her touch is gentle, her presence a comforting balm that begins to ease your troubled mind.

As Damian continues to hold you, his voice breaks through the haze of your tears. "Breathe, love. Inhale slowly, let the air fill your lungs. Exhale, letting go of the tension. You're doing great."

His words of encouragement guide your breathing, helping you regain control over the overwhelming emotions that had overtaken you. The rhythm of his heartbeat against your back acts as a steady cadence, grounding you in the present moment.

Rhea finishes tending to your wounds, her hands resting on your knees, providing a gentle touch of reassurance. "We're here for you, every step of the way. You don't have to face this alone."

The weight of their support and understanding envelops you, offering solace and comfort during this difficult time. Their unwavering presence reminds you that you are loved, cherished, and protected.

As your tears subside, replaced by a sense of gratitude and relief, you find solace in the embrace of your two partners. With Rhea tending to your physical wounds and Damian anchoring you with his soothing presence, you begin to heal, both physically and emotionally.

In this shared moment of vulnerability and care, the bonds between the three of you deepen. The strength of your connection serves as a lifeline, pulling you through the darkest of times and reminding you that you are never alone.

With Rhea and Damian by your side, offering their unwavering support, you find the courage to face your struggles head-on, knowing that you have an unbreakable foundation of love and understanding. Together, you navigate the complexities of life, weathering storms and finding solace in the embrace of one another

#wwe #wwe x reader #wwe fanfiction #rhea ripley #rhea x reader #rhea ripley x reader #damian priest #damian x reader #damian priest x reader #damian priest x rhea ripley #rhea ripley x reader x damian priest #priestly

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itsjusthockey · 1 year

Text

When The Partys Over Pt. 2 - Jack Hughes

Here it is, my heart and soul. Enjoy.

wc:4,466 (credit to gif maker)(don't steal my work)

Content Warning: Swearing, major angst

Part 1 (read first)

Unpublished For Fun First Draft

But nothin' is better sometimes

Once we've both said our goodbyes

When the words fall from your lips, and the sentence registers in his brain, it smacks Jack harder than any hockey hit ever has, and even though you’re the one who’s wasted, he suddenly feels like he wants to pass out.

Instead, he pauses by the door, his entire body freezing, trying to register if he heard you correctly or if being around you just makes him crazy. For what feels like a century, he concentrates on his breathing skills, taking a shaky breath in and letting it go, hoping the extra oxygen will help his brain makes sense of what you’ve thrown at him. He knows you’re drunk, incredibly so, and you probably have no idea what you're saying.

He breaks his focus when he hears slight shuffling behind him, and even though he doesn’t want to, he slowly turns to face you. When his eyes land on your figure, you’re sitting up in his bed, his sheets pooling around your waist. You’re not looking at him for a moment, instead staring out his window, watching the world outside intently, but as if you feel his stare, you tear your eyes away from Jersey and allow your eyes to meet his. You blink slowly, once, twice, and a tear falls from your left eye.

“You fucked me up there for a while.”

You finish the sentence with a forced laugh, and you quickly wipe another tear away, almost seeming embarrassed. Jack feels his face flush, and his heart begins to pound. He can practically hear the thumping in his ears, and his stomach flips in circles. He can’t swallow; the lump forming tight in his throat won’t let him, and even worse, his hands start shaking. His heart is cracking, breaking into a million tiny pieces, and his body is letting him know.

The weight of your words stills time, and he feels like you’re both trapped in the suspended gravity of the moment. Your confession, clearly vulnerable and raw, reverberates through his entire being, continuing to tear him apart bit by bit.

Among the uncomfortable silence, the room grows smaller, almost suffocating, as Jack tries to find his voice. He wants to comfort you, hold you, reach out and understand why you feel this way and why he is the reason why. It’s only been seconds, but he’s trying to play out the entire last year, pinpoint the exact moment where he could have fucked up so badly to make you feel the way you do.

“Wha-what did I do?” His voice is small, almost pleading, as he asks.

You let out a shallow breath, and Jack can almost see the wheels turning inside your head. He has no idea what you’re about to say, and everything that has come out of your mouth is a whiplash, so he can’t even begin to guess.

Your eyes flicker with a mix of emotions—regret, longing, and a hint of resignation—as Jack watches you search for the right words to explain what you’re feeling. It’s as if you're carefully selecting each syllable, fully aware of the impact they will have on him, and you’re scared he’ll break.

“You didn't do anything wrong, Jack," you finally say, your voice soft but laced slightly with bittersweet sadness. "At least not intentionally, and not something you had any control over. My feeling are my own, and I can’t blame you for them.”

Your words hang heavy in the air, and Jack's heart tightens impossibly further as he tries to decipher their meaning. The knots in his stomach tighten with each passing second, and a mixture of anxiety, dread, and anticipation fills the room.

“Do you remember when we met?” You ask, your voice timid.

Jack's mind races, searching through the corridors of memories, until he finds the moment you're referring to—the night that he finally felt a spark of something real, which laid the foundation for the relationship. He nods slowly, his eyes locked with yours, urging you to continue.

An almost wistful smile crosses your lips, and Jack can almost hear the nostalgia coloring your voice. "The crowded bar, the 2000s club music blaring, that stupid fucking costume you were wearing, and it wasn’t even Halloween.”

As you speak, Jack's gaze softens, and the memory floods back as if it was yesterday—your infectious laughter when he’d made a stupid joke as he bought you a drink, the way your eyes sparkled with excitement when he told you he hated mushrooms too, and the genuine connection that bloomed from one single night.

“I think a part of me fell in love with you right away,” you continue, your voice tinged with a hint of vulnerability. "In the midst of the chaos, it seemed like we both understood who the person was beneath the facade we put on for the crowd.”

Jack comprehends the weight of your words, realizing that maybe, just maybe, It wasn't just one moment that "fucked you up," but rather a million things he never noticed right away.

“Jack?” You break him out of his headspace, patting the bed beside you. “You’re making this a million times worse just standing by the door looking like I’m killing you. “

Jack realizes he probably hasn’t moved an inch since you started speaking. So he swallows hard, takes a few hesitant steps toward the bed, and sits down. When he settles, you turn to face him and continue.

“It was my fault for getting attached to you so quickly," you sigh. “I think I knew it was too good to be true, and sex was all we would have. But I’d hoped that you were different from the way you looked at me; I’d hoped we’d fight against it, and somehow we’d end up together. “

Before he even knows what’s happening, his own tears are streaming down his face. He thought earlier, when he saw you cry, that nothing would hurt him more, but even though he thinks he’s going to die a lot when he’s with you, this might actually kill him.

A profound ache settles in his chest, intertwining with the shards of his own shattered heart. Your vulnerability cuts through the room, leaving him exposed and raw with emotions he didn’t even know he had. What makes everything worse? When you pause, noticing his tears, you grab his hand and intertwine your fingers through his.

“Anyway, after a while, I got really tired. Like all of a sudden, I was drained of everything I had. I was sick of trying to force something that just wasn't there. And after some major soul-searching and my friends helping me, it clicked. I had to remove my love for you. Tell myself that even though I thought you were everything, you weren’t. So I decided I needed to be done.”

Jack hangs on to every word.

“So I moved on, even though I kinda suck at it because look where I am. But I decided to finally try to allow my heart to let go, close this chapter of my life and start a new one.”

Jack's heart sinks as he listens to your painful admission. The grip of your intertwined fingers provides a fragile lifeline, a small, tenuous connection that somehow manages to offer a glimmer of comfort amidst his shattering soul.

Tears continue to flow out of both your eyes, intermingling with the unspoken words that Jack is trying so hard to find a way to say.

He knows beneath his own heartache; there is a sliver of understanding. He knows that sometimes, moving on is the only choice, even if it feels impossible. But he also knows that he loves you now, somehow even more than anything in the world, and he doesn’t know if he can live without you.

As silence stretches between you, Jack knows time is ticking, and he finally musters the strength to respond.

“I love you,” he whispers, admitting it openly to you for the first time. “I can't pretend that I don’t and that I can just walk away because, for that past half a year, you’ve been all I’ve been able to think about.“

His heart races in his chest, pounding with the force of his love for you. His voice quivers as he continues, desperate to convey the depth of his feelings for you.

“I am so sorry (Y/N), so fucking sorry that I didn’t see how you felt at the beginning. My life was a fucking mess. I hated hockey, I hated living here, and I hated myself. I only cared about a quick high to distract myself from my constant lows, and I couldn’t see anything past that, and I’m so so sorry.”

Jack tightens his grip on your hand, trying to bridge the distance that separates you. His eyes search yours, looking for signs of forgiveness and any chance he has for a future with you.

“You’re everything to me, and I’ve been trying to show you that, but clearly, we both just fucking suck at communication and feelings. But I want this (Y/N); I want you. More than anything.”

Tears are streaming heavily down both your faces, and Jack watches as you wipe them away with your free hand, gently sniffling. You’re both waiting, unsure of what to do next when you speak again.

“Well, this is not how I expected the night to go.” You try to joke, Jack letting out a small snort.

“I know, a lot of information just came to light.”

Jack glances at the clock and sees that it’s incredibly late, and when he peers outside his window, he sees that the city of Jersey is dead asleep, completely unaware of the mess unfolding in two of its inhabitants' lives.

“We should go to sleep, think about things.” Jack offers.

For the first time ever, when he’s offered you to stay, you do. You nod in agreement, wipe away the remnants of tears from your cheeks, and give a small, tired, and maybe still a little drunk smile. Both of you are emotionally drained, and the idea of sleep seems like paradise.

Jack helps you slide under the covers, tucking you in with gentle care for the second time tonight, but this time he feels an odd sense of clarity in understanding of you. He gets you settled, grabbing more water and anything else you could ever need before he moves to leave the room.

“You can stay, Jack; your couch sucks.”

Before he can stop himself, a laugh escapes him, and he steps back into the room. He isn’t sure if sleeping next to you is the best idea for his sake, but he also knows it would take a swat team to remove him now. Grabbing a few other things, he moves to the other side of the bed and settles in beside you, leaving a respectable distance between you for the moment.

His heart about stops, however, when your hands find his again as if you’re seeking comfort in the touch that connects you.

Jack's eyes grow heavy, and he’s fighting off the sleep demons when you take your hand out from his. For a moment, he feels a pang of loss when you pull away. But as if you’re trying to repair his broken heart, you gently shift closer to him. Jack wraps his arm around you instinctively, pulling you to his chest until your bodies are molded together, fitting perfectly like two pieces of a puzzle.

Jack has never felt more complete as he gently traces circles on your back, his touch soothing on your skin, healing the ache in his heart.

As the minutes tick past, Jack can beat your breathing steady out, and he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, a silent gesture of reassurance and affection for himself. He quickly feels himself falling away with the warmth of your body pressed against his and the immense amount of love that he has for you.

——————————————————-

When morning sunlight seeps through the curtains and almost blinds Jack, he awakens from the best sleep he’s ever had. His eyes peel open, and the events of last night flood his mind. He quickly turns, expecting to see you still by his side. But as reality sets in, his heart sinks when he realizes you're no longer there.

He sits up, his mind foggy with sleep, and rubs his eyes, desperately trying to shake off the sleepiness. He glances around the room and looks in the bathroom, searching for any sign of you, and that's when he notices a faint sound coming from the kitchen.

Curiosity tugs at him as he makes his way towards the kitchen, his unease ending as he finds you standing with your hands on your hips in front of his coffee maker. You’re still clad in his clothes, and you look so goddamn adorable; he wishes he could stay right here forever.

“Hey, morning, uh—,” you clear your throat, gesturing to the coffee pot. “Want some?”

Jack smiles and nods as you grab two cups. Seconds later, you place a steaming brew on one side of his table, and he sits behind it. He gives you a thank you as you fill your own cup, moving to sit down across from him.

You look up, meeting his gaze, and there's a hint of uncertainty in your eyes that cuts through him like a knife. He grows even more anxious when you take a deep breath and set your cup on the counter.

“I had a little time to think this morning,” you say softly. "I needed to think about the mess last night, which I’m really sorry about, by the way. I shouldn’t have blindsided you like that, but I’m not gonna lie, I’m glad I did because we’ve needed to talk for a while, and I haven’t been able to bring myself to do it. But now is the time, and we can end this here.”

End this?

You take another deep breath. "Last night...everything we said, it made me realize that I don't think you love me, Jack. I think you love an idea of what we could be rather than what we are.”

“No,” he protests softly, "I don’t know what you mean.”

A sad smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you shake your head. "I think you need to understand what I do, Jack. We aren’t meant to be. If we were, we would’ve. I loved you once, Jack, with everything I had. But it's gone now, and I don't think it can come back without killing me. I can't keep holding onto something that isn’t there.”

“What about last night?” He chokes out. “You didn’t feel that?

There's a painful silence between you, filled. Jack can feel his world crumbling around him after it felt whole for the first time last night.

“I'm sorry, Jack," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "This past year, we’ve had some great nights, but I can’t keep doing this to myself. We aren’t good for each other, and I think you know that too.”

You grab his hand once more, giving it a quick squeeze. As you both sit there, hands entwined and hearts heavy, realization washes over Jack. You don’t feel the same as you did once, but it’s gone now. You’ve moved on, and he’s holding you here.

Jack has never experienced true heartbreak, but he guesses this is it because it feels like a thousand knives are piercing his soul, and numbness spreads through his body.

You both sit in silence for a while, lost in your own thoughts and emotions, when you finally break the silence.

“I want you to know that I genuinely care about you, and I always will.“ You manage a weak smile before getting up.

“I should go.” You say, moving to gather the few things you had with you the night before.

Jack wordlessly watches as you leave him, his body staying trapped in this seat. He waits, and a few minutes later, you come out dressed in the clothes you’d had on the night before. He watches as you pick up your heels, grab your phone, and cross the room once more to where he’s sitting.

You pause in front of him, your eyes searching his for a moment before you lean down and press a gentle kiss to his cheek. It's a bittersweet kiss, filled with heartbreaking emotions and the weight of what could have been.

With that, you offer him one last small smile, straightening up and turning away from him. You walk towards the door and open it, turning around one last time.

“Goodbye, Jack.”

The sentence is final, and a hollow feeling settles in his chest as the door shuts quietly behind you, signaling your last goodbye.

Let's just let it go

Jack is distracted, and it’s all your fault. Well, it is, but it isn’t. He shouldn’t blame you; he knows that’s not the mature thing to do. But he is a simple man, and it’s easier to say his game is off because of someone else rather than owning up to the fact that he’s struggling.

For the past two days, he can't focus on anything else but you during hockey practice. Every move he makes feels robotic as if he's going through the motions without actual purpose. He misses easy passes, shoots wide on every attempted goal, and falls on his ass at each free skate. Every time he finally gets in the right frame of mind, his thoughts drift back to you, and the cycle begins all over again.

It’s about an hour into morning practice when Jack feels a tap on his shoulder. He turns to see Luke, looking at him with concern and a hint of annoyance.

“You okay?" Luke asks, “You seem a little…off.”

Jack has two options, play it cool, or get defensive. He chooses option two.

“Fuck off, just had a rough couple days.”

Luke rolls his eyes, clearly unconvinced, but doesn’t push.

“Whatever you say.”

Jack lets out an annoyed huff as it’s his turn to drill, skating away from Luke and running through the play. He makes it most of the way through with ease, but when it’s time for him to shoot, it hits the boards about ten feet from where he aimed.

Frustration wells up inside as he watches the puck slide to a halt. He’s been playing terribly. His brother knows it, his team knows it, and now he does, and it's eating him alive. Jack mutters out a few under his breath and skates back to the line.

Luke, ever observant and fed up, skates back to Jack with new determination.

“So I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but snap out of it. You're better than this."

It’s tough love, and Jack's jaw tenses, his pride wounded a bit. He doesn't want to admit that a girl is causing his downfall, that your absence has left a void in his heart and made him suck at hockey.

“I’m fine,” Jack finally mutters, "I just... I have to figure things out.”

Luke claps him on the back hard and nods. “Good, just let it go.”

Just let it go.

Let me let you go

As if you dropped from the face of the earth, Jack hasn’t seen you. Not that he’s been looking. He hasn’t seen you at the bagel place, not at the bar, not at the library on your campus that he may have snuck into. You’re absolutely nowhere to be found.

He thinks you’re avoiding him, or maybe you just don’t care and forget he even existed.

Jack has no idea you’re in your own hell, going back and forth every day, debating if ending things was the right decision. You know it was, but it still hurts. You don’t check Instagram, you don’t watch hockey, and you stay away from all things that have to do with the boy you once loved.

Jack has no idea that you feel the heartbreak the same as him, and he has no idea that you watched him walk into the bagel place, head down, looking just as dejected as you.

He has no idea that you suddenly told your friend you weren't hungry or that you went home and cried again because even though you’re healing, you’re moving on, you still think about all the things that happened and all the things that could have been.

Jack has no idea it was just as hard for you to walk out the door, and that letting him go hurts like hell.

Quiet when I'm comin' home, and I'm on my own

I could lie, say I like it like that, like it like that

*two months later*

Two months have passed since you walked out of Jacks's life, and every minute he thought it’d get easier, it hasn’t.

But, as his mom, dad, and brothers have been telling him ever since he spilled the reason why he’s been a complete and utter mess, he has to move on with his life.

So, slowly but surely, he regained his focus and got back to his regular routine. He drowned his thoughts in the rink, and hockey, once again, became his refuge. Providing him with a sense of purpose and a distraction from the pain that weighs on his heart daily.

He still thinks about you every day, though. Thinks about the good memories and our bad, the inside jokes from the late nights, and all the what-ifs.

He wishes he could move on, he really does, but you invade his mind when he least expects it. He could be doing anything, and suddenly he’s daydreaming about you. But finally, he’s learning to keep those thoughts at bay, push them aside and bury them deep when they try to surface.

He knows that suppressing his feeling is bad and that, eventually, it will all bubble to the surface. But it’s easier this way to pretend you don’t matter and try to move on.

One day, after a particularly grueling practice, Jack decides to treat Luke to his favorite bagel place he’s been avoiding. It’s been months since he’s seen you, and what are the odds of seeing you there?

Apparently, really fucking high.

As Jack and Luke enter the bagel place, the familiar smell makes him slightly ache; he tells Luke about his favorite things on the menu. It isn’t until they order, step back and wait that his heart skips a beat and then stands entirely still.

Jack hears you before he sees you, your perfect laugh echoing behind him, his heart melting as you hiccup a bit, continuing to have trouble breathing between chuckles.

His breath catches in his throat, and he doesn’t want to look, but he turns around anyway. There you are, sitting in your favorite corner table. You look a little bit different but still just as beautiful, and every bit the woman he is still hopelessly in love with.

He almost lets a smile cross his face when it’s wiped away before it can even form.

You’re not alone.

You’re sitting across from a guy whose face he can’t see. He’s clad in a tight black t-shirt that shows off his broad shoulders and a backward cap that Jack knows is your favorite way men wear their hats. You’re laughing again at something the guy says, leaning away from the table slightly and rolling your eyes. Even though you’re playing to look annoyed, he can see how your eyes light up with genuine amusement.

Jack feels a million things at once, primarily pain, and it’s coming from his chest. His heart, after repairing itself bit by bit for two long months, is being ripped open all over again.

He genuinely feels bile rise in his throat when Luke nudges him, "Hey, are you alright?"

Jack is utterly speechless, and he can’t even begin to compose himself as Luke follows his stare, his eyes landing on you.

They both watch as the guy at your table leans in closer, his hands finding yours and intertwining them with his own. Jack's stomach churns again as you smile, blush, and laugh again.

Jack has to fight to keep upright, and he knows he has to get the hell out of here. He can't bear to watch any longer, to witness the love of his life be happy with someone else while he’s still broken.

Not waiting for anything, Jack breaks for the door and out into the open air, trying to get more oxygen to his brain.

The next twenty minutes are a blur, and they make their way back to Jacks's apartment. He’s silent, replaying the vision of you with someone else over and over again. He’s hurting harder than he ever thought possible. He felt he was moving on, making progress, forgetting about you. But seeing you with someone else has reopened the wound he tried so hard to heal.

Sitting alone in his room, Jack knows now that pretending you don't matter and burying his feelings deep inside is only a temporary fix. The harsh truth is that he still loves you,

and It kills him that you’re finally moving on.

He should be happy, you’re happy, and when you love someone, that’s all you want. It is for them to be happy. You got what you wanted, a clean break from him, and you found a way to repair yourself from the damage that the relationship has caused you.

An hour later, Luke walks into the room, making sure he’s still there.

“Are you gonna make it?”

It’s a simple question with an extremely difficult answer. He knows deep down that he needs to let you go, focus on himself, and let you be happy without him.

He owes it to himself to try to heal, focus on other things, and hope that one day, you’ll just be someone he used to know.

But for now, he’ll settle for the heartbreak, let his heart mend at its own pace, and think about you. For a little while longer, you’ll be the girl he’s in love with. The girl who made him realizes love is real. The girl who taught him love is cruel. The girl he’s trying to move on from, and one day will, but for now, you’ll be the girl who means everything to him.

“Yeah Lukey, I’ll be okay.”

I could lie, say I like it like that, like it like that

277 notes · View notes

xhoneygirlxx · 5 months

Text

warnings: angst, no happy ending. heartbreak/end of a relationship. Eddie and Reader are 20+

minors plz go away, this account is 18+ only.

this is inspired by Nothings New by Rio Romeo, the same song that’s been stuck on repeat for the past couple of weeks. I hope you all enjoy this <3

*if you see spelling errors/bad writing, pretend it didn’t happen

—

You both knew it was coming, a thought in the back of your mind that constantly ate away at you until it finally came true. There’s a moment in life when you just know it’s not going to work out anymore, that no matter how much you love a person it all comes down to a spark and when that spark is gone, so is the relationship.

It’s like a sandcastle right on the shoreline, you wait with bated breath as the water inches closer and closer to your creation and there’s nothing you can do about it because you’ve built it on a bad foundation. It’s like a balloon, it can only fly so long before the helium seeps out, one day it’s high up in the sky and the next day it clings to the ground where it will stay before it eventually deflates.

You nor Eddie set out to end like this, no one gets into a relationship in the hopes it ends but somehow, you ended up right where you hoped you wouldn’t.

I love you’s weren’t shared as much anymore, sweet kisses turned into chaste pecks on the cheek, and the closeness you both craved was now despised. A long fall from the pedestal your relationship was once held upon, now it was just an obligation that felt torturous to even continue.

The dinner on the table is perfect, the kind you would find photographed in some kind of home and lifestyle magazine, but the two people consuming it are anything but. A date night that was supposed to be fun and exciting felt like a job, a requirement that both of you had signed on for that you just couldn’t get out of.

Eddie looks handsome as always, a sleek button up adorning his torso and unruly curls are tamed down by the products in the bathroom that both of you share. He cuts his steak with tattooed hands, the same silver rings he wore in high school decorate his digits as well as the one you bought him all those years ago when you first got together. You look at the thick black band, the engraved lettering of your initials that go across it, and you wonder if he only wears it out of habit- something he only wears on his right ring finger because he would feel unbalanced without it.

Despite the crowd that sits at neighboring tables, it’s quiet, and not the peaceful kind of silence most people would imagine. It’s the kind that happens after a car accident when dust and debris settle to ground, the sulfur from the airbags fill the air, and the ringing in your ears are too loud to hear through anything else.

You poke at your plate mindlessly as you continue to look at him, trying to piece together where it all went wrong and why the two of you have let it go this far. A bitter taste fills your mouth, one that can’t be washed down by the red wine that sits in your untouched glass, making a ball form in your throat.

As you look at the man across from you, you don’t see the person you’ve grown tired of but rather the boy you fell in love with all those years ago. Wide eyes and dimpled smile, rosy cheeks and shaky hands. Memories of shy banter and longing stares fill your head. Two young kids so full of love and adoration for one another now sit silently as they ignore one another’s presence.

Your heart squeezes, painfully twisting in a devastating way as it prepares for what’s going to happen. A tear escapes from your waterline and you don’t fight it. As much as you don’t want to be the dramatic girlfriend in the middle of a fancy restaurant you allow yourself to cry, mourning the death of a love story that started with two star cross teenagers that lost their way.

Although he isn’t looking at you Eddie can sense it, the beginning of the goodbye he’s tried desperately to avoid. He sets his fork and knife down, swallowing his food down as best as he can while his throat begins to choke up in unshed tears.

There’s a pause in his movements, a delay from looking into the eyes of the one he promised to love until his dying day. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, reaching his hand out across the table in search of your own. Fingers interlace, palms touching for the first time in a long time and for once you both feel it, the spark you used to feel when everything was fresh and new- only it doesn’t linger, it slowly blows out and fades away into the cold night air.

Big chocolate eyes meet yours, the tears that brim in his tear ducts match your own, the shared sadness for the future you will no longer share.

“This is it?” Eddie’s voice is small, like he’s straining in the hopes the sobs won’t break out.

You can’t stop it, the wobble of your pouted lip and the river that falls from your eyes. There’s no words you can say, none that will capture the amount of pain this brings to you, so instead you just nod your head.

Eddie isn’t any better, eyes closing with the hopes that this will all go away when he opens them once more. When he opens them back up he doesn’t find a different outcome but instead the blur of the fat tears that cloud his vision.

“You know I love you, right? I always have and always will love you Eddie, but this isn’t good for us anymore.” It’s like you’re pleading, begging for all of the misery to end for not just yourself but him too.

The subtle nod of his head tells you all you need to know, he agrees just as much as you that this isn’t going to work anymore, that this is killing him as much as it is you and if it continues this way it’ll only be a matter of time before this slow and painful death creeps up on you.

“I love you too, always have.” Eddie makes sure to look you in the eyes when he says it, like he wants you to know that everything that’s happened was never intentional.

You give his hand a squeeze, an acknowledgment to his statement, he squeezes right back.

This was the end, in the middle of a fancy restaurant where families, couples, and friends laugh and talk over warm meals, you and Eddie slowly cut the string that’s been keeping you tethered together for more than five years.

—

#eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson x you

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reallygroovyninja · 2 months

Text

The Break Up

Clarke's finger hovered over the call button, hesitation flooding through her. She glanced at the clock - 10PM in California meant 1AM in New York. Was it too late? Lexa always told her to call no matter when, insisting that she'd always pick up. But things had changed between them over the past few months. The distance between the two coasts had created a chasm even their daily calls couldn't bridge.

She tapped the familiar icon on her phone, the rings seeming sluggish, amplifying her nerves.

"Clarke?" Lexa's husky voice was thick with sleep. A pang of guilt hit Clarke for waking her girlfriend.

"Hey," Clarke started softly. "Did I wake you? I can let you go back to sleep and just talk tom-"

"No, no it's okay. Is everything alright?" Lexa's tone shifted to concern. Even half asleep, she was still taking care of Clarke.

Clarke sighed, tears pricking unexpectedly. "Not really. I just..." Her voice caught. She couldn't bear to say the words out loud, couldn't voice what she knew they both were thinking. That long distance wasn't working for them. That as much as they didn’t want to admit it, they needed to have a heartbreaking discussion about the fate of their relationship and what came next.

The deafening silence on the line said it all. Clarke imagined Lexa on the other end nodding slowly, both reluctance and grief etched on her features even without seeing her face. Here came the conversation Clarke had been dreading for weeks. The distance seemed destined to end them despite their best efforts.

Clarke gripped the phone tighter, her knuckles turning white. She squeezed her eyes shut as the first tears escaped down her cheeks.

"I miss you," Clarke whispered, the words cracking with emotion. She missed everything - Lexa's smile, her laugh, the feeling of her arms wrapped tightly around her. Video calls and phone conversations were no longer enough. Not when there had once been lazy Sundays tangled together in bed and long walks hand-in-hand along the Potomac River without the pressure of time difference schedules.

"I miss you too, Clarke," came Lexa's shattered reply. Miles away yet connected by the slim electronic lifeline, Clarke could picture Lexa's stoic armor falling away, eyebrows knit together while she held back her own tears.

"But...I think we need to talk..." Clarke forced herself to say. The seven dreaded words no one in a relationship ever wants to hear. But the distance had strained them to a breaking point - separate cities, increasingly separate lives. As much as Clarke wanted to cling to what they once had, it didn't exist anymore.

"I think you're right," Lexa's voice wavered slightly despite the even tone. She had always been able to read Clarke so well. They had both known a reckoning was coming, as much as their hearts silently raged against the mere idea.

Clarke took a shuddering breath, wiping the tears from her eyes. She focused on the painting leaning against the bare wall of her apartment, grounding herself for the devastating but inevitable conversation about to unfold.

"I just...I feel like we're drifting apart," Clarke whispered, giving voice to the fears that had been plaguing her for weeks. "Like we're becoming strangers."

She heard Lexa let out a shaky breath. "I've felt that too. At first, I thought it was just starting new jobs and getting settled in our cities, but..."

"But it's more than that," Clarke finished for her. Long distance was supposed to be temporary - they had clung fiercely to that belief in the beginning. That after a year apart chasing career dreams on opposite coasts, they'd reunite and start building a life together again.

It had seemed possible when granted with everyday moments like Lexa's small, sleepy smile in the morning or the brush of her fingers along Clarke's arm. Things video calls failed to replicate at their now fractured foundation.

"Maybe if the distance was less..." Clarke's voice trailed off wistfully, knowing not even the entire breadth of the country could be blamed alone. Something else had fractured between them too. The easy affection, unquestioned devotion, shared dreams for the future...all casualties gradually inflicted not solely by physical separation but a growing emotional chasm too.

"I want this to work, I do." The catch in Lexa's words splintered Clarke's heart further. "I love you, I'll always love you. But wanting that doesn't change what's happening between us."

A lonely tear trailed down Clarke's cheek. The hardest relationships to end were often the deepest loves too.

A sob caught in Clarke's throat as the weight of Lexa's words sank in. She loves me. Present tense, not past. And yet...it still isn't enough.

Clarke blinked back the threat of more tears, trying to swallow the sadness rising within her. "I know," she finally managed to say. "I love you too." She poured every ounce of feeling into those four words, hoping Lexa could still sense her heart even so many miles away.

"But you're right," Clarke made herself continue after a painful pause. As agonizing as this conversation was, she owed Lexa the truth of her feelings, no matter how much the reality hurt them both.

"The distance, stretched over months...we can't pretend it hasn't changed things." Once upon a happier time, Lexa had felt like her anchor amidst any storm. But now Clarke only felt her absence, like a ship adrift without its mooring. "We've both got separate lives now. I barely know what's going on in your world anymore...and you in mine."

Silence stretched between them - Clarke picturing Lexa sitting on her sofa, shoulders slumped forward, dark waves of hair curtaining her face. She ached to brush those strands back, let her fingertips graze Lexa's cheek, re-memorize every beloved detail of her features.

Finally, Lexa's somber voice came, quavering on just two shattering syllables. "So...what happens now?"

The question neither one wanted to ask but had to, the one that would inexorably lead to goodbye. Because the only thing worse than the painful realization they had been growing apart would be denying it while staying together in name alone.

Clarke's breath caught in her throat at the question. What did happen now? The obvious answer loomed before them - the necessity of ending things if they were both feeling the relationship fracture.

And yet...the years of history they shared made the notion nearly unfathomable. How could she just cut the tether they had created day by day? Lexa had been her first love, the one who unexpectedly burst into her world and changed her entire concept of relationships.

Clarke pinched her eyes closed, forcing aside the fresh swell of tears. She focused on steadying her uneven breath, trying to calm the storm inside her heart.

"I don't know," she finally admitted, the words barely a whisper. Because the truth was she wanted Lexa in her life in any way possible, even if that meant redefining the parameters of their relationship. The title seemed insignificant compared to keeping Lexa's steadfast care and understanding rooted in her world.

"Can we just...talk? Not make any big decisions now?" Clarke asked hesitantly. She knew the sensible decision loomed before them, but the reminder of Lexa's love made her long to cling to these last lingering threads between them. Surely there was still something worth saving if they both still felt such depth of emotion?

The extended silence magnified Clarke's nerves. Would Lexa agree they owed it to their history to try talking first? Or had the distance grown so vast already that she would insist on a clean break? Clarke held her breath, praying Lexa's heart would echo her own in those agonizing moments.

Clarke heard Lexa take a shaky breath on the other end of the line. When she finally spoke, her voice was gentle but firm.

“I think if we’re both feeling things changing between us, then talking more right now might just prolong the inevitable,” she said quietly.

Clarke squeezed her eyes shut, feeling tears spill down her cheeks. She had feared Lexa would say that but still couldn’t stop the renewed ache in her chest.

“This is so damn hard,” Clarke whispered brokenly. “I can’t imagine you not in my life anymore.”

“Me neither,” Lexa replied, and Clarke could hear the barely contained emotion in her words. “But with how things are now...I think some space would be best. For both of us.”

Clarke nodded before remembering Lexa couldn’t see her. As rational as the suggestion was, the thought of losing even their nightly calls felt unbearable.

“Maybe one day, when enough time has passed...we could try to be friends?” Lexa offered tentatively. “But right now I think a clean break is what we need to heal.”

Clarke swallowed back a sob, wiping fiercely at her eyes. She had to be strong now, with Lexa’s emotions likely just as fractured.

“You’re right,” Clarke forced herself to say. As agonizing as this was, she knew Lexa enough to recognize the wisdom in her suggestion. “I’ll always be grateful for our time together.”

She left the ‘I love you’ unspoken this time, the finality of this goodbye conversation settling around her shoulders with profound weight. The first crack in her heart split wide open, and she could almost hear Lexa’s fracturing too through the phone pressed to her ear.

"So I guess this is it then," Clarke said softly, the words barely making it past the lump in her throat.

She was met with deafening silence on the other end of the line. Somehow Lexa not responding hurt more than if she had simply said goodbye and ended the call. Clarke could practically see her love struggling to maintain composure, emerald eyes glistening with restrained tears.

"Lexa?" Clarke prompted gently when the quiet stretched on, laced with unspoken hurt.

"I'm still here," came the whispered reply, Lexa's voice finally breaking on the last word.

Clarke's heart shattered at the sound. As stoic and measured as Lexa tried to be, she had always worn her emotions when it came to them. Another reminder of the profound connection now rupturing.

"I wish we had a choice other than this," Clarke admitted sorrowfully. She knew Lexa was right - some space was the only path forward - but every fiber of her being railed against losing her best friend and closest confidante.

"Me too," Lexa echoed thickly.

They fell silent again, thousands of memories passing almost tangibly between them through the phone line. Lazy mornings under the covers, hands clasped as they explored new cities, the brush of lips upon meeting at the end of long days...all memories now piercing them with bittersweet nostalgia.

Finally, Lexa cleared her throat. When she spoke, steel resolve underpinned her words despite the wavering grief.

"Be well, Clarke."

Not goodbye. Just a simple wish for happiness in their new separate worlds. Fresh tears flooded Clarke's eyes but she managed to echo it back, the closest they could come to closure.

"You too. Take care of yourself, Lexa."

A soft click echoed with finality. And just like that, she was gone.

#this is the break up #this one has been a tough one for me to write for the oddest reason #the next section after this picks up 5 years later and its weird writing a story #where people have a history and know so much about each other #but at the same time they changed in that 5 years #you see glimpses of the person you knew but at the same time you don't #clexaweek

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the-holy-ghosted · 4 days

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*putting on a moustache and sunglasses*

So like what’s the deal with ghosted what’s that about

now see the deal with Ghosted is that it's not what happens within the events of the film that captivates me so much, though don't get me wrong i love this film to bits, but rather, it's the idea of what happens after the whole thing that makes me FUCKING NUTS

because the whole thing is relatively cut and dry in the sense that we don't have to guess about what happened before and we don't have to guess about how everybody is feeling in the present. we know (MOST) important characters backgrounds and what they're doing at Falkhill and slowly revealing Paul's context was pretty interesting if not a little abrupt at the end there but its the very last scene of this film down to the very frame that flips the whole hour and a half you just watched over on its head and prevents me from getting a good night's sleep because i can't stop thinking about it

ELABORATING WITH A LOT OF SPOILERS UNDER THIS

explaining the plot of this movie is hard without sounding like im writing a pretentious review and not just talking out of my ass on tumblr but for my followers who haven't watched this movie and dont care enough to: Ghosted (2011) is set in a british prison in which Jack (John Lynch) is a long time prisoner who's wife just dumped him apparently on the anniversary of their sons death (tough break) and is being advised by his friend and cellmate Ahmed (Art Malik) (who does NOT get HALF as much screen-time or plot relevance as he DESERVES,) to find something to put his mind to and be proud of outside of his failures Paul (Martin Compston) is a prisoner who was just transferred out of a Young Offenders prison AS FAR AS WE'RE TOLD... though its noticeable from the beginning that hes not a very good liar and his story is suspicious at best Clay (Craig Parkinson) is kindof The Guy of their prison wing whos dealing drugs to other prisoners and assumes the position of authority over everybody else, though compared to other inmates with bigger cliques, his foundations are shaky. the description of this film on letterboxd calls him "the wing beast" and i have never cried laughing so hard reading something in my life

Clay and Jack both hone in on Paul immediately for different reasons. Jack, after his pep talk with Ahmed, sees Paul as a source of "a little self belief, something to be proud of", but Clay scoops him under his wing for being relatively young and impressionable. This puts Jack and Clay at odds with each other. after some plot, Paul gets into very big trouble with Clay and after An Incident is promptly plopped into Jacks hands, who had requested Paul move into his cell earlier but didn't have a good enough excuse for it. Well You've Got A Bloody Good Reason Now ect ect

Jack and Paul buddy up immediately and its noticable that Paul is sort of filling in the empty space where a son would be for Jack, however we discover that Paul has been lying about his past to everybody, including Jack. he lied about his family and he lied about having only just been transferred from Y.O. and hadn't been telling the whole truth about his sentence. what the truth ends up being, in a nutshell, is that Paul is accidentally responsible for the death of Jack's son, having been the one who started the house fire he died in (we were never even told that Jack's son died in a house fire before this, we are only told this in Paul's flashback at the end of the movie and are supposed to act, like, surprised?? whatever). consequentially, Jack flips his lid and prompts my personal favorite scene in this film in which he beats the living shit out of Paul with his bare hands and immediately regrets it the second the adrenaline wears off, hitting an alarm button within the cell that alerts the guards.

the guards whisk him away and he is put in solitary confinement, which we find out was actually the first sequence of the film where hes shown with an absurdly long beard, and considering every other fucking scene he's in is of him shaving his face, i assume this is to show just how long he's been kept in solitary confinement, which quite honestly was kindof exciting to realize at the end of the film.

and then. the end scene.

after solitary, Jack is put in cuffs and brought to see Paul who looked Extremely Dead after Jack had him, but hes not dead! just almost dead. Jack is sat next to him and tries to apologize but starts to cry, reaching out a hand to hold Paul's but retracting it regretfully. Paul, having looked unconscious not five seconds before, moves his hand to place it over Jack's...

and then the movie ends. and i am left writhing on my floor in anguish BUT NOT BEFORE I EXPLAIN TO YOU THAT THIS

THIS is what the deal is with Ghosted

the pathetic gestures of "im sorry" and "its okay" are what kill me. sorry is nowhere near enough to justify anything that EITHER of them did, NOR should they be forgiven. AND YET.

and what gets my gears going is the thought of what everything looks like AFTER this scene. after they've bonded so close and after Jack already thought that Paul stopped lying to him, thinking that he could protect Paul from Clay now... after they started to fill the spaces for people they were missing in their lives... and after they've RUINED each others lives. They Have Ruined Each Others Lives and yet Paul probably would have had to DELIBERATELY ASK for them to bring Jack to see him because he just BEAT Paul within an INCH of his life and would NOT !! have brought Jack to see him upon Jack's own request!! Paul would have wanted to see him too!! after all this what does their relationship look like now... the image of father and son has been all but shattered in each other's eyes, one can assume, but are they still close... does the guilt and responsibility drift them apart or does it pull them inseparably together? Ahmed tells Jack that "there is no such thing as coincidence, only fate" but what does their fate look like... does it end here or does it mean that they're together indefinitely? the end of this film swings the door wide open and i think about it. way too often. unacceptably often, even.

all in all theres no reason that this should be my favorite film but it is. if nothing else it's made me look into the other actors involved and branch out with a to-watch list as long as my arm that will only get longer once i branch out from there. is it the perfect movie? no this film is mediocre at best. have i made a number of my friends sit down and watch it and listen to me yell incoherently about it? of course i have.

#the heron speaketh #ghosted (2011)#aheem heem whimper #john lynch #martin compston #craig parkinson #art malik #i dont know if art has much of a tag on tumblr but he gets a tag on this post #i wish ahmed was more relevant in this movie. sighs pitifully #ANYWAYS this ask has been sitting in my inbox for a couple weeks now and ive been slowly picking at it but NEOW im ready to post it #i should probably post this before i post the fanart/screenshot redraws i have sitting in my files anyways. only makes sense #i left out a lot of plot mind you just to get this out in a reasonable sized post. theres a lot of good stuff in here #“well theres all this but heron whats your url mean-” ill talk about that in a minute give me a minute #erin and i watched ghosted together on new years eve this year DRUNK off our asses and it has never left my mind since #i still have the empty bottle of captain morgan from that night too actually. for sentimental reasons. i was very hungover the next day #worth itttt #alright i have other shit to do im posting this and leaving gootbye

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spiriteddreams · 1 year

Text

tell me a lie prettier than you // i love you

Pairing: Kamisato Ayato x Reader Warnings: angst, hurt/no comfort Word Count: ~1k A/N: spirit comes flying back with more angst!! thank you @shiinleaf for beta-reading and brainrotting with me!!

“tell me a lie prettier than you.” in hindsight, your words were nothing but a joke. it was shared giggles, half drunk on love, half on the warm buzz of alcohol in your veins. you glance over at kamisato ayato, body lax and leaning against his as his hands, warm and teasing, trace along to wrap around you. he holds you closer, breath warm on your skin as he laughs. you feel the rumble of his chest against your back as he shakes his head and replies, “to lie to you would be a crime.”

you revel in the lies you tell one another. they are slippery and sweet off the tongue, said with such false adoration that you begin to believe them no matter how much you feel yourself becoming caught in a web of lies. ayato is well adept in the realm of politics, and the more time you spend around him, the more you realize he will use the same tactics in his relationships. it is a push and pull with him, a dangerous game where you must stay vigilant. and yet he is so easy to fall for, with kind words and loving actions, you let yourself think them to be true and you free fall simply because you are in love. and when you are truly in love you are warm and comfortable and blissfully unaware of the shaking foundation beneath your feet. you pretend it’s a game, a dance for two, stepping on feet and jumping over the cracks that begin to split the ground.

it’s easy to be in love.

and it’s just as easy to fall out of love.

“i just— i miss you, is all,” he swallows now. you stare at him blankly in return, standing across from him in the privacy of your own home. being in front of him is hard enough and you’re about ready to bolt the moment he tries to reach out. the fall was rough and sudden, emotions dangling your heart like a puppet to tug and pull in all sorts of directions until you really thought your heart was being torn out. and just as slowly as it felt to fall apart, it is just as difficult to move along when everything reminds you of him. how amusing, you think to yourself, that kamisato ayato, would be the one to seek you out first. his pride is a dangerous thing, one he covers up with a smile that holds an oasis of secrets. yet here he stands, ego aside for you.

“you are a liar,” you spit the words out. they are burning on your tongue, bitter and almost painful to voice. and yet the slightest hint of hurt stands out among all that anger. you let it coat the words like the sweetest of poisons and hurl them as hard as they can. “you are a liar! and every day you remind me what it’s like to feel so insignificant and small.” your angry, shaky breaths fill the silence that stretches between. your chest stutters in its rise and fall, blood singing to fight back at him.

“i hope that one day you realize what it feels like to hurt! and i hope it reminds you of everything you’ve done to me, you sick, selfish, bastard.” you punctuate each word, tie them to a knife and drive them home. he’s bleeding in front of you in the form of tears that spill down his cheeks. he doesn’t cry, he never has. he’s always scoffed and said that he doesn’t need to cry, that there will never be a point where he’ll ever be so hurt and yet here he is. the words are caught in his throat, stuck in the web of lies he had once thought were for the best. and yet this is the result. you are so angry, and rightfully so, and he feels the weight of two years slamming down on him. the look in your eyes scares him the most. your vision must be blurry with the way you so desperately try to hold in the tears, pooling in the corners and threatening to fall when you blink. they brim with anger, disgust, betrayal, all the words that he had sworn to never make you feel. they are filled with love and hate, and he doesn’t know which is worse.

his words come out raspy, on the verge of breaking as he whispers, “i’m sorry. archons, i’m so sorry and i know i don’t deserve your forgiveness. but just this once, can you just say it. i don’t care if you mean it or not, i just… need to hear those words.” his lack of composure is surprising. ayato has never been one to fully let down his guard and yet he stands here, a moment away from dropping to his knees to beg. he doesn’t deserve this, you don’t deserve this, and yet you both fall into this cycle of anger and unable to fully let go. perhaps you both need more time. for now, you let yourself indulge once more.

tell me a lie prettier than you. the words linger in the air. it is an attempt at closure, in the most unhealthy way possible. he is selfish and greedy and wants the words for himself. he wants to treasure them even if they are not meant for his ears. they could never and will never sound the same. you can feel the words on your tongue, bittersweet and full of emotion. there is honesty mixed with lies, a final repairing stitch ready to be tied off. you need this just as much as he does and yet you’re both going about this in the wrong way, the worst way. but the temptation is too great, the desire to fall into ease and take the easy and seemingly less painful way out is addictive. the tightness of your chest is suffocating and you nearly choke on the words as you whisper, “i love you.”

reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! <3 a/n: making up for this ayato angst by cuddling him :D

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #kamisato ayato x reader #ayato x reader #favoniuslibrary #astronetwrk #kamisato ayato #ayato #genshin impact angst #spiriteddreams writing #spiriteddreams

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kissporsche · 2 years

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I think Pete's resignation scene is one of the most important in the development of VegasPete's relationship even though they don't really interact, and Pete's character arc.

Now this scene is wonderful, for many reasons, beginning with Bible's acting when Vegas sees his father's body and it hurts to watch as he tries and fails to process the cavalcade of emotions he's feeling. Then Pete runs in, Pete who was just beating the shit out of Vegas and screaming in his face, who's anger fades away in an instant as he takes in the image in front of him and knows better than anyone how Vegas must be feeling. So wrapped up in his and Vegas's internal world, he barely remembers to raise his gun as a good, loyal bodyguard would do.

Because until this point 99% of Vegas and Pete's relationship has taken place alone, just the two of them. This is why I have compared KinnPorsche's ep 6 forest to VegasPete's safehouse: the only way they can truly be themselves and form a basis of a relationship is when they are isolated, away from external boundaries suppressing their individual wants and desires.

Vegas and Pete have based their entire selves around external validation: Vegas has been honed into a weapon for his father to wield against the main family, basing his self worth on unattainable love; and Pete has sacrificed most of his autonomy to be a bodyguard, who switches masks seamlessly to fit what he thinks other people want of him.

In the safehouse they have nowhere to go but to each other and they strip each other bare until they're both forced to reckon with the most difficult questions: without those external forces who are they, really? What do they feel? What do they want? They see each other truly but don't know if they can stomach being seen.

This foundation is still shaky by the time it is put to the test, this whirlwind between the two of them making contact with the outside world. Vegas the weapon and invisible Pete, being perceived by others but not understood; not as individuals, and perhaps especially not together.

The office scene is really the first where they are tested like this, and what is the first thing Pete does? He calls him Vegas. Not Khun Vegas, as he should, just Vegas. In front of Korn and Kinn and Porsche. A plea to be heard over the din of grief, already revealing so much of that internal world to their spectators. Whereas before he begged with Porsche to stop questioning him about what happened, now he allows it to show, knowing the consequences will be worse if he doesn’t. The potential of losing Vegas overrides his natural instincts.

Then, the other bodyguards storm in and guns surround Vegas, Pete's being the last to join the tableau. But when Korn stands them down, Pete is also the last to leave.

If Vegas still chooses to shoot Korn, he's dead. And he asked Pete to be the one to kill him if he had to die. And Pete knows he can't.

He knows that he can't pull the trigger as much as he knows he couldn't stand to watch someone else do it, and if his loyalty is tested there's only one side it could fall on. Pete suddenly sees there was never any question of what he would choose at all. Nothing else matters, but Vegas.

When Vegas shoves past him to leave, Pete is still trying to catch his eye (and continues to try up until the poolside scene, see rambling here) but can't. Vegas's world has just been ripped apart, he can't see Pete right now, because seeing Pete is seeing himself and his sense of self has just been shattered. Perhaps his self hatred is so strong he can't bear to see it relfected back at him in Pete.

So it’s down to Pete, who was the more conflicted, Pete who didn’t know what he wanted, Pete who couldn’t shoot and knew why even if he wouldn’t admit it to himself.

I love this little moment. Pete has to physically stop himself from running after Vegas then and there, he stops and squeezes his eyes shut for a second before forcing himself to turn back around and face the rest of the room.

He is left with only the external forces in his life present: Korn, who he has sworn loyalty to; Kinn, who’s orders he followed without hesitation; Porsche, who he risked his life for. And this is the moment Pete self actualizes. He does not make the decision other people want him to make, think he should make, the decision that would shove him back into the background, safe but unseen.

He chooses Vegas. He chooses himself. These are one and the same.

He strips himself of the external trappings of the main family, and is left just Pete, who knows what he wants and what he will give up to have it. Pete with Vegas's blood in his mouth, blood he put there, that Vegas kissed there. Just Pete who loves Vegas.

And he goes to follow his heart.

#kinnporsche #vegaspete #long post #kp meta #kp orig #kinnporsche the series #IS THIS WHAT I INTENDED TO WRITE? NO. I JUST LOST MY MIND AT 11PM AND THIS HAPPENED #i don't know if this makes any sense but that's okay <3 #can codependant autonomy be a thing? well it is now #pete saengtham #i simply must stop coming back to edit this huh

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purpleshadow-star · 1 year

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Here's the actual analysis as to why El is just as bad of a romantic partner to Mike as Mike is to her (and why they just don’t work romantically in general).

(this is going to include both reasons why El is not a good romantic partner and just general observations as to why Mike and El don’t work romantically)

Relationships work two ways. Mike and El don't work not only because Mike can't love El the way she wants to be loved but also because El hasn't ever proved that Mike can confide in her and be vulnerable with her, which is important for a relationship. We have literally never seen El comfort Mike about anything, or even ask if he’s okay or how he’s doing. We've seen Mike try to comfort El in S4, but we've never seen it the other way, not even in the slightest.

Let's start at the beginning.

This lack of mutual trust and this weariness to be vulnerable with each other stems from the fact that Mike and El never established a proper friendship before getting together. Friendship is where people get to know each other and learn to trust each other. Friendship is the foundation to any good romantic relationship.

Mike has proved that he can be there for El from the beginning. He took her in when they found her, he gave her a place to stay, and he protected her, despite the fact that it was dangerous for him to do any of this.

Mike and El met, knew each other for a week, and then were separated. During that week, Mike did his part to establish the beginning of a friendship. El didn't even know what it was to have friends, so obviously, she was slower in reciprocating the friendship completely.

El was able to establish the beginnings of a true friendship with everyone in the party, so they all considered her their friend, and she considered them her friends, but they never really got to know each other. Mike and El in particular were torn apart before they could get to know each other well enough to develop true romantic feelings, and it didn't help that people such as Lucas and Nancy gave Mike the idea that he should be interested in El romantically. The fact that Mike kissed El was a major setback for their platonic relationship.

Because they were never able to establish a good, strong, platonic relationship first, and since they never really go to know each other, this set up a very shaky foundation for any other relationship they tried to build.

During their year apart, El watched a lot of romance shows and movies, to the point where she could quote the TV. She gained this idea of love that isn't realistic, but since she and Mike kissed, and the people in love on the TV kissed, and she cared for Mike, she probably rationalized that her positive feelings for him must be romantic, just like the people on TV.

Because of this, when they reunited in season 2, El already had it in her mind that their relationship should be romantic. She wasn’t trying to be his friend anymore, not like with the rest of the party. She thought that they should be romantic. Boyfriend and girlfriend. Like the people on TV. This is shown when she tried to kiss him before she left with Hopper to go to the lab in season 2. El made that move, not Mike. Mike didn’t even lean forward. And then the Snowball happened, and Mike kissed El once again, and (presumably) that night, they established their romantic relationship.

(It is important to note that Max and Lucas also got together at the Snowball, and they had the same amount of time to get to know each other (About a week and the one month time skip at the end of season 2). The only difference is that we saw Lucas and Max actually talking about themselves and getting to know each other. We didn’t see that with Mike and El in season 1)

We really start to see the result of that shaky foundation in season 3. In the beginning, we saw Mike and El make out and seemingly have a good time together. Mike left, and then we saw that their make-out session caused Mike to be late to meet up with the rest of the party.

As the season went on, we saw how Mike and El’s relationship affected everyone else. We learn that they’d been ditching their friends (causing Will and Dustin to be noticeably upset), and they’re being disrespectful to Hopper.

We also saw that El didn’t really like Mike’s idea of fun. He tried to be silly and have fun in the first make-out scene, and she stopped him and pulled him back into making out. We learned through Will that they hadn't played DnD in a while, and he implied that they hadn’t really been doing anything fun lately. Mike had essentially given up the things he liked to do in order to hang out with El.

As far as we saw, Mike and El spend most of their time making out and not actually doing anything else that the two of them enjoy together, such as listening to music (to enjoy it, not just as background noise while making out), playing games (like El and Max do later), reading comics (also like El and Max do later), watching TV together, or even just talking. It’s almost like making out is the only thing they both know the other likes to do.

(Also note that a lot of this has to do with their age. For the most part, dating is the stage to get to know someone before making it official, but because Mike and El are so young, they don’t know this. They have a set idea of what dating and relationships means in their minds, and they don’t have the life experience to know that dating means getting to know one another, not just spending all your time together making out (especially El, who was in a lab for almost her whole life and mostly learned about other people and the world through romance TV). Usually, you go on dates, then, if you like each other, you enter a relationship. Dating people who you didn’t know before is basically the “being friends” stage. They seem to skip the dating part entirely, and they go straight into a relationship. For anyone, but especially kids that young, a good relationship needs to be built on a good friendship)

When Mike lied to El, she broke up with him, which was completely fair since he kept on lying. Then, she went on with Max and didn’t think about him too much after that. We saw that the breakup didn’t really affect her.

During the rest of the season, we saw Mike in danger multiple times. We saw Mike get concerned for El, but we never once saw El ask Mike how he was doing. We never saw El check up on Mike. Not like how Jonathan checked up on Nancy after she was attacked by the Mind Flayer, despite him having been injured to the point that he almost passed out only a few minutes prior. Not like how Joyce was concerned about and took care of Hopper after he was beat up by the Russian soldier.

At the end of season 3, El told Mike that she loved him and it was heavily implied that she said this because she overheard Mike say it in the other room earlier in the season, but Mike didn’t say it back.

Mike never told El he loved her to her face. She was the first (and only) one to say it face-to-face.

Remember that.

In season 4, we learn from El’s letter that she was lying to Mike. She was completely lying, not just leaving out the bad parts of her life in California. When Mike arrived in California, we saw that El was a bit upset with Mike for writing “From Mike” on the flowers instead of “Love Mike,” but she brushed it off. Then, the roller rink happened, and El’s lies were exposed. Instead of coming clean, she even tried to convince Angela to play it off as a joke. Then, later that night, she retreated, and she isolated herself.

The next day, we saw Mike try to comfort El. He didn’t get upset about the fact that she had lied to him. He simply asked for an explanation. He tried to help her feel more comfortable telling the truth by reminding her that he’s been bullied his whole life. He told her he understood, and he opened up to her and reminded her about his own traumatic memories, only for her to tell him that he didn’t understand. She disregarded his experiences and said that he didn't understand, even though she literally watched him almost kill himself because of a bully.

And still, even after she dismissed his experiences with bullying, he didn’t get mad. He asked for her to explain. Then, she opened up about her own insecurities, and she said that she thought everyone, including him, looked at her like she’s a monster. When Mike tried to reassure her, when he told her he cared for her, El decided to move the conversation off of herself and onto Mike.

Mike is understandably taken off guard by this. El then proceeds to insist that, just because Mike didn’t write the word “love” in his letters, that meant he didn’t love her, despite his reassurances.

Now, obviously, Mike is also in the wrong in this conversation. He lied and said that he did say that he loved her when he didn’t, and he really didn’t handle the situation well after they moved onto the topic of him loving her (ex: saying she was being ridiculous, etc.), but that doesn’t change the fact that El continued pushing this topic that he clearly wasn’t comfortable with. She never considered that maybe he wasn’t ready to say it yet. Again, remember, Mike hadn’t actually said he loved her to her face yet, so really, there should not be any expectation that he should be saying it to her face, or even writing it, right now.

All in all, so far, we’ve seen El lie to Mike, not apologize for lying for months, invalidate his bullying experiences, and get upset with him for not saying something that really shouldn’t have been an expectation yet.

None of this got resolved.

El got arrested. Then, when they reunited, there was no time to really talk about the fight until they made it to Surfer Boy’s Pizza. That little talk they had before Argyle came with the pizza would have been the perfect time for El to apologize for lying and for what she said about his bullying during the fight, but that didn’t happen. So, El never apologized for lying, even after Mike apologized for not saying he loved her more.

None of this means that El is a bad person. El and Mike just don't work romantically because they aren't able to be vulnerable around each other. The one time they talk about how they feel with each other, they end up with a fight that never truly gets resolved. It wasn't resolved with the monologue, not only because Mike’s truthfulness in the monologue was questionable, but also because the argument started with the fact that El lied to Mike, not the issue of Mike not saying he loved her, and that never got resolved.

El hasn’t once shown Mike that he can confide in her, and that, along with many other factors, is why their relationship isn’t going to work out. They needed to establish that platonic bond first. They needed to establish a friendship to fall back on when things in the romantic aspect of their relationship got shaky. If they had established that friendship first, they would be more comfortable going to each other and opening up about their troubles.

With a more solid friendship, they would have been able to go to each other for comfort or reassurance, the same way Mike was able to go to Will, his best friend first and foremost, and talk to him when he was upset and feeling insecure. Also, the same way Max went to Dustin, her friend, when she was worried about the Eddie/Chrissy situation instead of trying to go to Lucas.

Max and Lucas had the same amount of friendship time as Mike and El, and even though they had a better pre-romance friendship, it ultimately wasn't enough to save their relationship. The difference is that Max and Lucas spent season 4 building their friendship back up and solidifying that foundation so that when they do get back together, they’ll be stronger than ever. Mike and El (well, mostly Mike) spent season 4 trying to save their romantic relationship, which is why it still isn’t very strong, even at the end of the season.

Again, this doesn’t make either of them awful people. This all just shows that they are not good for each other romantically, and they never really have been.

So, to conclude my long rambling, as much as Mike idolizes El and her powers, as much as Mike can’t tell El he loves her to her face or without being prompted, as much as Mike can’t show El that he loves her and make her feel loved, El also is completely uninterested in the things that make Mike happy, El never apologized for lying to Mike for months, El invalidated Mike’s traumatic experiences with bullying, and El has never shown Mike that he can go to her for comfort and reassurance.

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kaiyaki-sano · 1 year

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Lend Me Your Voice(band!AU Eren x fem!Reader) pt.1

It’s been so long since I posted anything, and I had this sitting in the archives for a million years.....my bad y’all. Basically, Eren is a douchey frontman of the rock band “Titans”. This will be a 4 part slightly angsty mini-series, with a shameless little self-insert as Eren’s sister in part 2 bc I have no self control when it comes to Levi~ I hope you enjoy it!!

MINORS DNI!!!!

TW: sinful foul smut in the beginning, Eren is an asshole to reader, very minor character death for backstory purposes, swearing/dirty talk

It was your own damn fault this happened, and you knew it. There was no way you didn’t see this coming the second you were invited onto the bus and no way you didn’t see it when he buttered you up with praises while he was gripping the headboard to ram his hips at the right angle to get that sweet release he’d become addicted to in his new lifestyle.

“Fuck!! Just like that, squeeze on me baby girl-” His ragged breathing was deafening, the nefarious and sinful harmony of slick skin slapping mixed with the creak of the shaky tour bus bed’s foundation was exactly the soundtrack he needed to get to the edge.

And sure, Eren Yeager was an asshole and a douche, but he was no monster, who prided himself on his partners having equal pleasure too. After all, he knew it was gonna be the best moment of their peasantry lives, so he had to make it memorable. It was the very least he could do for his adoring fans. Reaching down between your legs from his position behind you, -because of course this man would have you face down, ass up like a two-bit tavern wench- and used those talented calloused fingers to toy with your throbbing clit. “C'mon, pretty baby, cum on my cock, s’what you always wanted, ain’t it? Be my good girl, lemme see you lose it.” Who were you to deny him? Clearly, you were special, so you had to obey. “F-Fuck, so good, feels so good ‘Ren, please! Ah- I’m gonna- ngh!!” It was so good, he was so god damned talented, touching and fucking you as if he’d spent his entire life learning how to please you. Of course, you came, just like he asked, all over him with your thighs quaking. You’d do anything for him. “Such a good fuckin’ girl, so good for me, might be my favorite groupie, might have to keep you-” He babbled, his usual bullshit script, whatever got you to keep squeezing his cock the way you were, just like all the ones before you, and the ones that’ll undoubtedly come after.

He carelessly, shamelessly painted your walls white, biting down harshly into your shoulder to leave a mark that would last at least a couple of days, or weeks if you were lucky. How nice of him to leave you with a little reminder of the blessing he gave you, the blessing of his time and his nut.

You, you poor poor thing, sighed happily next to him, convinced he was being serious. Even made the grave mistake of trying to scoot in and cuddle with him. “Fuck you doin? Leave.” He snorted, gently pushing you right away and pointing toward your clothes as he grabbed his phone to scroll through his social media, “Your shit is right there, get dressed and leave.”

How could he be so cold to you? Poor y/n, you’d only wanted to cuddle, how were you to know he was this much of a tool? “Eren…why are you being so mean? I thought…you said-” “And you believed that shit?? C'mon, did you really think you were that special? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I think you’re hot as hell, wouldn’t have fucked you if I didn’t. But baby girl, you’re all a dime a dozen to me, at least a hundred in every city we hit,” He chuckled heartlessly, looking at you with no remorse and no emotion, “what use do I have to keep you around? Now, get your shit and get your pretty ass off my bus.” So you did. You gathered your clothes, what was left of your dignity, got dressed, and made your way out of the back bedroom of that bus. That proved to only make you feel worse, now being face-to-face with his band members, all of them giving you the same sympathetic look. Despite Eren’s words, there was something different about you, something wholesome, and you deserved better as an adoring fan.

“Listen,” The first to speak up was Connie, their drummer, “don’t let that asshole bring you down, alright? Here, just to make him look dumb, I’ll give you a VIP pass, it’ll get you backstage to any of our shows. It’ll get you into the show too, so don’t freak out about tickets. VIP has its own section.” He gave you a dazzling grin, tilting his head, “I know I’d like to see you there!” You wondered how many of these they’ve had to give out, just to save face for the band, to right their cunt of a frontman’s behavior. But, you smiled, nodding and thanking them as you gave him your email to print out the pass. You didn’t have the heart to tell them, that you were simply no longer a fan. “I hope he starts to treat his fans better, thanks for your kindness.” With that, you walked off the bus and began the journey back to your car in the venue lot.

#attack on titan #aot #aot au #aot x reader #aot x reader smut #eren yeager #eren aot #aot eren #eren x reader #eren x reader smut #eren yeager x reader #eren jaeger #eren jaeger x reader #eren jaeger smut #eren yeager smut #aot smut #kaiyaki-sano original

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lanawinters-ily · 1 year

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You're My Baby, Say It To Me

Your mental health has taken a dip again. But it is okay. Mama Ally is here to pick up all the (literal) pieces.

Pairing: Ally Mayfair x Teen!Reader (Gender neutral)

Word Count: 1300

Warnings: mental health themes, collapsing, themes of s*lf-harm

Yes, if you can believe it, I did write this fic as less bad than the true story ouch.

It was getting bad again.

Though, this time, you weren’t entirely sure if you had ever gotten better in the first place.

The feeling deep in your chest was heavy, and with every step you took, it became harder to not sink right into the floor.

Through the tile, through the foundations, through the dirt.

To bury yourself in this depression that had built up around you.

It was different this time.

You felt as if you had talked too much, shared too much. Everyone was so so worried, but even their concern didn’t seem enough.

No one could touch you when you had already blocked them off before they even tried.

University had failed. It was supposed to be a new start, but somehow you had fucked it up even more than at home.

Now that was impressive.

At least you had your mama.

It was just you and her, and she had struggled when you were gone.

The house seemed so much emptier, and she was looking forward to having you home for the holidays.

But not this early.

Unfortunately, we are beginning at the day after Ally had to collect you from university, after a friend has called her expressing serious concerns over your mental health. She had rushed straight over and bought you home without hesitation.

But you were yet to open up to her.

Ally wanted to give you space, though her maternal instincts were screaming to pull you close and hold you until every problem faded away.

She wanted you to trust her, to come to her in your time.

Perhaps that was a bad idea.

—

It had been another rough evening, though your emotions seemed slightly off. You couldn’t place the difference, but it made you uneasy.

Today had been good. Your mood had lifted a little, and you had even managed some low-effort chores. This kind of day was unfamiliar for you, and often didn’t have the desired effect.

After one day of slight positivity, your depression tended to come back with full force. Like, slap-in-the-face kind of force.

You had convinced yourself that this mood was different, and would last.

Well, sorry to spoil, but it did not.

As you were getting ready for bed, nausea started rising in your throat. The familiar feeling of anxiety shot through your body, not creeping up like usual, but pulsating into every limb in an instance.

This was not going to end well.

“Sweetheart, would you make me a cup of tea?” Ally’s voice called up the stairs.

Shit. You had to pull yourself together quickly, take drastic action to save face in front of your mother.

Swallowing down bile, you took a couple measured breaths and walked down the stairs.

All you had to do was boil the kettle, pour it into mugs and say goodnight to your mama.

Easy, right?

Wrong.

With shaky legs you stepped into the kitchen, filled up the kettle and put it on. Took out two mugs, two teabags, and a teaspoon.

It was then when things began to get hazy.

Your ears were ringing, and the kettle looked like it was floating. Spots took over and a strange grey haze coloured your usually bright kitchen

Something crashed to the ground, and it took you a couple of seconds to realise you had dropped a mug.

The last thing you heard was a distant scream of “Sweetheart?!” before everything faded to black.

—

“Sweetheart? Baby?”

You could hear a faint muttering. Never in your life had you felt so disorientated. Hard floor under your back, a throbbing in your head, and a sharp pain on your arm.

And who was talking?

Squeezing your eyes, you tried with all your energy to force the lids open.

“Baby? Can you hear me?”

A groan that you didn’t even recognise as your own slipped from your mouth. Eyes wandering the surroundings you realised you were on the kitchen floor, with your mother hovering over you.

She’d never looked so terrified in her life. Ally Mayfair did not do scared.

But it was different with you. Her baby.

You couldn’t speak, so just looked at her and made a noise in recognition that you could hear.

“Oh my baby.” Ally let out a huge sigh of relief at this sign.

“Stay down here for a little bit love. I don’t want you collapsing on me again, okay?”

You just blinked, pretty sure that you couldn’t even imagine sitting, let alone standing right now.

Your body felt as if you’d somehow doubled in weight, heavy heavy heavy into the ground. As if you’d break through the grey tiles and fall forever and ever.

“Sweetie.” Ally said in a somber tone, making you look back up at her.

“You were bleeding pretty badly from your wrist. I thought it was from the mug, but when I looked, I could tell it was something different.”

Sure enough, you looked to see your wrist securely bandaged.

Huh.

That must have happened during the panic attack. How weird. You’d never done that without even thinking before.

Maybe that’s why it was worse than normal.

“When did this start again honey?”

Your mother peered down at you with sad brown eyes, tears peeking out from behind eyelids.

Energy was needed for this conversation, and energy was certainly not what you had in that moment.

So, you just made another noise and shrugged, hoping that Ally would sense that you wanted to move away from the subject.

“Alright love.” She squeezed your hand and sighed, looking briefly at her phone.

“You were out for about five minutes, which is not ideal darling. I called an ambulance while you were unconscious. They weren’t too concerned, but a crisis team is going to call us soon. Is that okay baby?”

Tears filled your eyes as your lip wobbled. You had really fucked up this time.

“My baby,” Ally mumbled and gently guided you up into her embrace.

She rocked you back and forth while you sniffled, not even having the energy to form sobs. You sat like that for a couple of minutes until you had quietened down.

“Let’s get you up and comfy sweetheart.” Your mama said.

As desperate as you were to move off the cold, hard floor, your body was still in shock-mode. As Ally carefully pulled you by your hands upwards, your knees buckled, sending you back towards the ground.

“Oh!” Ally gasped, grabbing you as you fell. You both ended up on the floor again.

“Let’s try that again. I can hold your weight darling, you can always lean on me.” Your mother said softly.

You knew this was a double meaning, and made a little smile in recognition. Working together, you and Ally managed to make it into the living room and she laid you on the sofa.

She sat beside you and soft hands stroked your pale face.

“We’ve got this baby. Me and you, against the world. All the bad, that’s staying outside this room. In here, it is us. I’ve got you, sweetheart. Please lean on me.”

And for the first time in a while, you felt a stir of hope in your chest.

“Thank you mama. I love you.”

“I love you baby. You’re my everything.”

Taglist: @sweetestberryofthebunch @dreamypqulson @ahsfan05

(I just tagged people who I knew wanted to read this bc my other taglist is so out of date haha)

#ally mayfair richards x reader #ally mayfair richards #sarah paulson x reader #sarah paulson #ahs fandom #ahs fanfic #ahs #american horror story #ahs cult

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love-minor-poltergeist · 2 years

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Howdy! Could I request some HCs for the Devil with an S/O who is very cuddly and affectionate, but can’t stand the natural heat his fur retains/radiates? -🎃

A/N: Have a boyfriend who’s a walking space heater, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. They don’t account for hot Hell is and how hard it’d be to cuddle your demonic boyfriend because of it (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞ I had a lot of fun with this prompt! I may have gotten a little bit carried away, though (again..) (*ﾉ∀`*)

┍━━━━━♥♠♣♦━━━━━┑

The Devil x Affectionate! Reader:

Adoration– pure like freshly driven snow– is rare in Hell. Most relationships are ones built on the foundation of convenience or lust for power.

The Devil, at first, had assumed your affectionate behavior had meant that you had wanted something from him. It’s a bit depressing, but love without anything in return was a foreign concept to him.

The first few times you gave him sudden kisses or gently massaged his shoulders, he had turned towards you with lidded eyes and a small questioning hum. He had assumed the affection just meant you wanted something; it was easier to catch flies with honey, after all.

Imagine the confusion this poor man went through when you told him you just wanted to be sweet to him. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had loved him so tenderly. Let alone treat him with genuine kindness (well. Save for his family, and we all know how that ended-).

Once he gets the memo, though, the Devil becomes putty in your hands. He’ll let out tiny chuffs like the overgrown cat he is at the sight of you, accepting any and all kisses or head scritches you offer his way. Once he REALLY gets into it, the Devil’s tail will begin to wag as he rests his body on top of you; his engine-like purring rumbling in your ears.

He gets so spoiled by it that the demon begins to expect it everytime he sees you! Which is really cute for you in private, but embarrassing for him in public. It’s hard to maintain a terrifying reputation when onlookers catch the way his pupils dilate and his ears perk up.

The Devil wants any and all crumbs of affection you offer him… Which makes it all the more a slap to the face for him when you begin to weasel your way out of his grip during your nightly cuddles. On the outside, the Devil is letting out a displeased hum; tail flicking in agitation. On the inside, this man is so UPSET. Where are the cuddles and snuggles that he craves from lover? He thought you liked him?! You cruelly neglect your lonely husband? Jail! Jail for lover for one thousand years!

It’s not too far off from an unhappy cat being overdramatic when you try to nudge it out of the way.

He’s not completely devoid of reason, however. Oh, you just don’t like how uncomfortably warm he is? Sure, that’s fine. He absolutely gets it! He’s still unhappy that he can’t just hold you for eternity for as long as he desires lest he wants you to pass out from a heat stroke.

He’d relent if you gently tell him to let go after cuddle sessions or squirm away once you get too warm, but that doesn’t mean the Devil would stop being greedy. He’ll quietly let out displeased mrrs until you move to massage his temples or rub the place near his horns just right.

The Devil may even try to barter for more cuddle time if he’s in a more persistent mood. Well, the word ‘barter’ is used loosely here. It’s more so he’ll try to bribe you to hold on a little longer.

I.E. “Honey, I need to take a breather. It’s gettin’ a little warm-”

“‘ts fine, love. I’ll send one of the boys over to fetch you some ice water for you.”

“...Baby, that’s not what I meant.”

The natural heat he exudes doesn’t just stop at his fur. Even his kisses feel like your lips are being embraced by a roaring fire. It can get overwhelming rather quickly! The Devil would pull away if you tap him. Though he’ll still rest his forehead against yours as you take in shaky breaths, his hooded gaze greedily drinking in your flushed visage and his purring loudly sounding off in your ears.

May the Lord have mercy on you. The soul is willing, but the flesh is weak... And your beloved is a man a bit too okay with letting you cook for a while if it meant he could squeeze out all the love he can get from you.

┕━━━━━♥♠♣♦━━━━━┙

#my writing #requests #cuphead #cuphead dont deal with the devil #cuphead: ddwtd #cuphead: don't deal with the devil #cuphead show #self ship #x reader #reader insert #gender neutral reader #gender neutral imagine #ch the devil/reader #the devil x reader #cuphead the devil #sfw #cuphead headcanons #headcanons #cuddle headcanons

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