#this is just 3600 words of filth

[trippydooda]

yeehaw here comes some good ol smut, prepare ur eyes. look at me, writing so much. sniff really brings a tear to my eyes

Rating: M so hard just like it’s M my lord

Word Count: 3,536

Because Jungkook’s life can never stay simple, the boys all invite him (and Jimin) out to a bar one weekend night. 

Jimin is thrilled to finally go somewhere interesting, and Jungkook chokes on the water he’s drinking when Jimin rounds the corner. He’s dressed in a low-cut silk shirt Jungkook forgot he even had, with tight back jeans Jungkook had picked up. Jungkook had frowned while holding them, felt a bit like a pervert when he bought them because he most definitely had a voice telling him Jimin’s ass would like rather lovely in them.

Well, he wasn’t wrong.

In contrast, Jungkook is wearing just a plain red and black striped sweater with his usual beat to shit jeans. Even Jimin’s shoes are better than his—Chelsea boots he had seen when Jungkook and him were at the mall, and his face was too much for Jungkook not to get them. And Jungkook… Jungkook was wearing the same pair of black Converse he has had since he was in middle school.

Jimin frowns at him. “Does this not look good?” 

Jungkook shakes his head so violently it whips some water from the corner of his lips. “N-No, you look good,” he says too quickly before gulping more water, turning around. Even with his back turned he can sense Jimin grinning wildly behind him.

When they get to the “bar” that Taehyung had suggested, Jungkook’s first thought is that it’s more of a club in reality. It’s dark with a heavy bass rippling throughout, and sure there is an expanse where it’s bars and bars and wow how could one place have so many bars? But in the middle there was also a grand dance floor, and it was packed. That’s his second thought: wasn’t this many people in one building a fire hazard?

Jimin stays cramped behind him, pressed tautly against his back as they weave through the crowds. It’s incredibly distracting, Jungkook soon figures out, but he can’t find it in himself to tell Jimin to back off or stop. He is, however, able to breathe easier when they find a space in the cocktail section where they can all sit at a hightop. Jimin, unsurprisingly, sits right next to Jungkook, and Taehyung sits in front of them. Jungkook swallows when he realises this is the first time he’s seen Taehyung since they kissed. Taehyung is eyeing him, no doubt still curious about the whole thing, but Jungkook tears his gaze away.

“How about a round of shots to get things going?” He hears Hoseok cheerfully suggest.

When he looks at Namjoon, his eyes are in the midst of rolling. “Shots and you don’t get along well, Hoseok.”

Hoseok lifts a finger. “On the contrary,” he argues, “They and I get along beautifully.”

“A match made in heaven,” Taehyung leans towards him and says, grin splattered on his face.

Namjoon sighs when he knows he isn’t going to be able to fight them on this, but still opts to get a beer while everyone else has a shot of tequila. Jungkook is all smiles when they are about to take the shot, but he notices Jimin staring at his, like they were caught in the world’s most intense staring contest.

Leaning down where his lips are almost right on Jimin’s ear Jungkook whispers, “Are you okay?”

Jimin, visibly startled, jolts slightly and looks at Jungkook. He looks almost stark terrified and it’s fairly amusing. “I—I haven’t had any alcohol in…” He stammers, making a frustrated clicking noise with his tongue.

“Since before you were a siren?” Jungkook says, voice uncharacteristically low. Jimin nods, so Jungkook takes his hand to rub affectionate circles on the small of Jimin’s back. “Relax,” he assures, “You’ll be fine.”

Jimin was fine. Was very, very fine, in fact. Jungkook thinks they’re all on the fifth or sixth shot, but Jimin’s cheeks are a burning red and he’s constantly caught in fits of laughter. Hoseok has him engaged in a very serious topic revolving around the proper ways to transport peaches and it really seems like Jimin is all ears. Jungkook is glad neither he nor Yoongi have said anything even hinting at Jimin being a siren, despite how absolutely far gone they all are—Hoseok especially. Jungkook has always been a heavy weight, but no one else is in their group, certainly not Jimin as well. Namjoon is the only other one not completely out of his wits (he’s stayed with beer) and he keeps sending Jungkook pleading glances. Jungkook responds by taking another shot.

“I didn’t think there was so much involved,” Jimin gasps, grabbing at Jungkook’s arm without looking at him. He’s no doubt referring to Hoseok’s utter bullshit properties of fresh fruit. 

“That’s how they get you,” Hoseok says, poking Jimin on the nose, resulting with a fit of giggles from both of them.

Yoongi laughs, but tries to play it off by rolling his eyes. “All it means is Hoseok has too much free time on his job.”

Hoseok pouts. “Not true,” he defends, “I never have time to take a piss.”

“Okay, too much,” Yoongi breathes out through his teeth, groaning. 

Jin’s infectious squeaking laugh erupts then, and when Jungkook looks at him it’s quite the sight. Despite being the oldest, Jin was easy to let his adult-facade fall and give way to a literal five year old. It was fine, because both Jungkook and Taehyung relished in it, much to Namjoon’s constant sighs of disbelief. 

A particularly upbeat song comes on and Jungkook feels a tug at his sleeve. When he looks down, it’s Jimin, who has the most pathetic pleading face on. “Jungkook,” he whines, “Can we go dance? It’s been—hic—so long since I’ve danced.”

Jungkook’s head is spinning but he can do little to say no to a face like that. He can feel the most ridiculous smile being etched onto his face when he agrees, sliding off the stool. Jimin follows suit, only he stumbles wildly and falls into Jungkook, laughing loudly. 

“Are you going to make it over there?” Jungkook laughs, stabilising Jimin the best he can.

Jimin absently waves his hand, smiling brightly. “Of course, of course, now come on,” he says, grabbing Jungkook by the wrist and leading the way out to the dance floor. When Jungkook’s gaze immediately falls on the sway of Jimin’s hips as he walks and just how nice he looks in those damn jeans, he thinks perhaps he’s too drunk for this to end well.

If it had been decades since Jimin had last danced, Jungkook sure as shit can’t tell. Jimin’s body moves like a river with the song, his hips dipping and swaying like his body was made specifically to dance to the song. Jungkook doesn’t even dance back, just stares dumbly, his mouth wide open. Jimin seems to take notice and saunters over, wrapping his arms around Jungkook’s neck and standing on his tip toes to reach his collar bone, nuzzling in the space there.

“C’mon,” Jimin says into Jungkook’s neck, hot breath ghosting on his skin. “Come dance with me.” Jimin pulls back then, the most sultry of grins on his face as he delicately spins, taking Jungkook’s hands and resting them on either sides of his hips as he begins to dance again.

And shit. Jungkook is only human. Jimin grinds up onto him, swirling his hips and tilting his head so Jungkook can see just how much he’s enjoying it. Jungkook starts almost moving on his own accord, and as he follows Jimin’s movements he wonders if this is somehow related to the whole “siren” dynamic, but he doesn’t care in this moment. The song changes but it does little to deter Jimin’s dancing, and when he pushes up against Jungkook the friction goes straight to his dick and breathes in sharply, biting down on his lower lip.

Jimin, the absolute shit, seems to have noticed this as well and keeps doing the same movement, even dipping down so he slides back up and right over where Jungkook is getting hard. Perhaps it was all the drinks, perhaps it was the same affect Jungkook has had before, but he’s starting to lose sight of everyone and everything around him, and can only see the pink haired beauty in front of him. He’s almost sure he’s fully hard when Jimin turns to face him again, canines showing in is smile.

Jungkook is definitely too drunk for this.

He tightens his grip on Jimin’s hips to the point that he’s started to untuck Jimin’s shirt. He leans down into Jimin’s face, foreheads touching, and despite all the alarms going off in his head, kisses him. Jimin jolts in a small surprise, but quickly relaxes and sighs into the kiss. Jungkook grips even harder onto Jimin, pushing his erection as far as he can into the smaller man, desperate to show him his need. Jimin gasps into the kiss, brings his hands up to grab hold of Jungkook’s face, and opens his mouth willingly. Jungkook slides his tongue in and licks at Jimin’s, feeling the heat that has begun to radiate off them both.

Jimin has started to grind against Jungkook directly, and Jungkook can’t help but break the kiss to utter a string of obscenities under his breath. Jimin just grabs at the nape of his neck and pulls him back down, eyes blown wide and full of want when he crashes their lips back together. Jungkook pushes right back, grabs at Jimin’s hair as he ruts against Jimin, completely forgetting there are people watching. His friends could be watching, even. He doesn’t care. Not at all.

Jungkook finally breaks the kiss, sees how swollen Jimin’s lips are, and despite himself blurts out, “Bathroom.”

Immediately Jimin seems to understand, and grabs at his wrist again, dragging him across the dance floor. They make their way towards the bathrooms when Jungkooks sees a door slightly ajar, and without thinking yanks on Jimin and swings them in. It’s actually a nice room, walls literally made of full velvet with a lonely leather couch at the end of it. He ignores the implications of it all when he shuts the door, frantically kissing at Jimin again.

“Jungkook,” Jimin breathes in between kisses. 

Hearing his name makes Jungkook’s skin crawl. “Please,” he says to Jimin, not even sure what he’s asking for.

Jimin seems to know, seems to have been waiting for Jungkook to beg, and breaks away from his lips to suck at Jungkook’s neck. Jungkook slams himself so his back is pressed against the door, and tries his best to hide the sharp inhale of breath that would give away his evident pleasure. Jimin releases the skin he had trapped in his lips to lick at the no doubt purple mark blossoming in its wake. Beneath him Jungkook squirms, hand going to grab Jimin at the waist as he tries to contain the little gasps threatening to break from his lips.

With one free hand Jimin reaches down to loop his fingers into Jungkook’s pant line, knuckles brushing against his bare skin. Jungkook shivers, knows what Jimin is getting at, and nods. He can feel Jimin’s lips curl into a smile on his neck when he releases himself, kneeling down to undo the first button of Jungkook’s jeans. Jungkook’s head is throbbing with an intense heat that he almost feels dizzy, watching Jimin unzip his jeans now. He does it without breaking eye contact, and that same golden glow has started to fill his irises. It makes Jungkook feel hotter, more desperate, and doesn’t even realise how hard he was until Jimin slides his jeans down past his hips.

“Jesus,” Jungkook manages to say, hands pressed firmly against the door. 

Jimin’s response is to hum against his erection, still looking directly at Jungkook. He presses his soft lips onto its silhouette and kisses it while Jungkook can barely keep his hips still. Without thinking Jungkook reaches out an unsteady hand and thumbs across Jimin’s cheek, lost in his want. He can barely tell there’s anything past where Jimin is knelt before him, lips on his cock, a look in his eyes that says he’ll do anything Jungkook asks of him.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, surprising himself. Jimin seems taken aback by the statement as well, golden hue in his eyes suddenly gone. It’s quick to return though when he tugs at Jungkook’s underwear line, to which Jungkook helps slip down, sending a small shiver over him when his cock springs free.

Jimin says nothing, just takes his tongue and licks up Jungkook’s length, a sultry hum emitting from him as he goes. Jungkook pulls his hand back, cursing under his breath, and once again uses it to brace him against the door. He can’t take his eyes off Jimin, not when his eyes flutter close as he licks a circle around the head before he sucks fully down. 

In an instant, Jungkook lets out what is no doubt the loudest gasp he’s ever had. It comes out more as a groan really, as he feels Jimin’s nose brush against his skin. His knees slightly buckle underneath him when Jimin slides back up, sucking in his cheeks as he goes, sucking hard on the head before sliding back down. It’s already too much, Jungkook is embarrassingly close already, but he tries his best to contain himself—it feels too good to let go now.

In this effort he squeezes his eyes shut as Jimin steadily goes up and down. He’s sure his knuckles have gone white against his grip on the door, and he’s biting down on his lip to not make noise. Even if he made noise he’s fairly certain no one would be able to hear him anyway, but there was something exhilarating about doing this all in public, and so the idea itself makes Jungkook want to be quiet. It’s certainly getting more difficult to, he thinks, with Jimin sucking on his cock like this, like his mouth was meant to be pulled against him all his life. 

When Jimin makes the most obscene sound as he pops off of Jungkook’s cock, the latter’s knees buckle. When he finally dares to open his eyes, he sees Jimin grinning madly as he uses his hand to continue what his mouth was doing mere moments ago. Sweat beads have made an appearance on Jungkook’s forehead and the back of his neck, and he hadn’t realised he was panting until this moment. He just stares into Jimin’s eyes, the brilliant gold swirling around them, and unconsciously reaches down to swipe his thumb delicately over Jimin’s bottom lip.

“Where do you want it?” Jimin asks, voice hoarse.

Jungkook blinks dumbly. “Wh-what?” 

Shaking his head Jimin sighs. “Where do you want to come?” Jimin explains, voice taking on a sultry tone.

For some reason, Jungkook has the sudden urge to choke. He suppresses it while his cheeks become hot with a new flush that blooms over them. It takes him a few solid seconds to finally speak again, and when he does, his voice is shaking. “I…” He sputters, letting lose a small cough. Beneath him Jimin drums his fingers on Jungkook’s cock impatiently. “You…Your…” He’s getting dizzy when he realises he can’t remember the last time someone gave him head. Under Jimin’s firm gaze he can’t think straight, so he closes his eyes again and says all too quickly, “In your mouth.”

There’s a satisfied and slightly smug hum before Jimin licks up Jungkook’s length again and sucks hard on his head. Jungkook hisses, the pleasure becoming too much, and without even thinking as he flashes his eyes open, he grabs a handful of Jimin’s pink hair and clenches his fist. Jimin glances up as his tongue circles around Jungkook’s cock, making the latter almost whine the need to release.

He tightens his fist in a silent plea for Jimin to continue, and it seems to go over well enough. Jimin complies, picking up speed as he bops up and down with Jungkook forgetting he was trying to be quiet and letting out what are probably the most ridiculous whines and moans. He can feel the familiar tingle building up inside him and knows he’s dangerously close. He watches Jimin intently, his breathing becoming hard and heavy, and when Jimin gags ever so slightly it’s enough to send Jungkook over the edge.

He cries out what he thinks is probably Jimin’s name as he comes, but everything around him becomes muffled out. White sparks cloud his vision as he releases into Jimin’s mouth, and he thinks he might pass out when he feels Jimin swallowing it all down. The moment seems to last forever but not forever enough, and when Jungkook comes back to reality, comes back and sees Jimin slowly pull off, he simply collapses onto the floor.

He doesn’t even bother to fix himself, just watches in infatuated awe as Jimin licks at the corner of his lips, catching a droplet of come that never made it down his throat. They stare at each other, the only sounds that fill the silence are their harsh breathing and the ever present thump of the bass from the dance floor. The golden hue surrounding Jimin’s eyes has faded only slightly, and without a second thought Jungkook lurches forward, pins Jimin to the ground, and takes his lips into a desperate kiss.

He can taste himself on Jimin’s tongue when he wraps his around it, and can’t help but moan at the sensation. In hindsight he probably should be disgusted, but to know that Jimin was that close to him, that this really happened, makes Jungkook not give a shit. His whole body is still hot, he feels like he’s holding embers in his hands when he grabs at Jimin’s wrists, but it’s nothing compared to the pure ecstasy that is pumping through his veins. 

He ignores the thought that tells him this is how he felt when he first met Jimin in the ocean.

“I,” Jungkook breathes between kisses, “Want,” he sucks at Jimin’s bottom lip, “To take you.” He goes to bite harshly on Jimin’s neck, which warrants a yelp in response, one he’s not sure is from pleasure or pain. Maybe both. “Right here.”

Jimin visibly shudders underneath him. “I didn’t think you—ah—could be so bold,” Jimin says as Jungkook kisses and sucks at his neck.

Jungkook growls against Jimin’s skin. “I’d do anything for you,” he hisses.

If Jimin wanted to respond, he never got to. A shrill sound of what was no doubt a ringtone shatters Jungkook’s concentration and pulls back, cursing under his breath. Jungkook clumsily grabs at his back pocket, his pants still pulled down and making it difficult, and catches the call just before it rings out.

“Hello?” Jungkook says, voice low. He runs his fingers through his damp hair impatiently.

“Kookie?” Squeaks Taehyung on the other end. He sounds absolutely wrecked.

“Tae,” Jungkook breathes, willing his heart to stop beating so loudly against his chest. “What’s up?”

He hears the shuffle of fabric and the loud music in the background as Taehyung replies, “Where are you? We’ve been looking everywhere for you. Is everything okay?”

Jungkook sighs. “Yeah, yes, I’m okay. I’ll uh… Meet you by the entrance. You sound like you should go home.”

Taehyung giggles, ignoring what Jungkook thinks are his other friends demanding to hear what has happened. “Okay,” he coos, “See you then.”

When the line goes dead and Jungkook slowly lowers his phone, he finally looks down at Jimin. His face is absolutely red, there are no doubt marks on his neck where Jungkook ravaged him, and Jungkook notices he is completely straddling Jimin. His dick hangs, half hard again, and he doesn’t even think to see if Jimin is hard underneath him before a panic boils up his throat.

He lost himself again, like he did in the fitting room, and flies off Jimin and skids back until his back thumps against the door. He frantically fixes himself as Jimin slowly sits up, pushing himself up by his elbows. He’s regarding Jungkook with an even expression, one Jungkook can’t read, and he can feel bile crawling up his esophagus.

“I—”

“Don’t,” Jimin interrupts, crawling over to Jungkook. “Stop thinking you’ve done something wrong,” he whispers when he’s close enough, cupping Jungkook’s face softly. He rubs his thumb under Jungkook’s eye and smiles. 

Jungkook doesn’t know what to say, just leans into Jimin’s hand and sighs. He’s fully covered again, pants pulled up and zipped, but Jimin still looks slightly a mess. He reaches out to tuck Jimin’s shirt back in, fighting off the sinking feeling in the back of his head. The feeling that none of this was real, that it was just all a spell, and the worst feeling was Jungkook wishing it wasn’t.

“We better get back before they call the cops on us or something,” Jungkook says quietly, trying to laugh. As they both stand, Jungkook swallows emotions he doesn’t even know the name for, opening the door that leads out.

#this is just 3600 words of filth #Top Sin™ #Jikook #Jeon Jungkook #Park Jimin #Jikook fic

[kaen-ace-of-diamonds]

Wandering Child

[AO3]

Word Count: 3600+ (oneshot) 

Genre: Family/Hurt/Comfort

Pairing: Emerald Sustrai/Cinder Fall

Characters: Emerald Sustrai, Cinder Fall, Emerald’s Mother (OC)

Summary: Companion to Phantom Thief. Emerald doesn’t like to think about the last time she saw her mother. But all that’s bottled up has to come out eventually.

Warnings for implied/referenced child abuse and emotional manipulation. Beryl Sustrai is not a nice woman and Cinder’s no damn prize either.

~0~

"Is anything better than finally finding your way home? Is anything worse than finally reaching home, and finding that you're still lost?"

- Matt Stover

~0~

The detachment of Emerald from home had been a gradual process.

She would do anything not to think about the very beginning of that process: unlocking her Semblance and getting herself quite literally thrown out of her mother’s home for it. There was about as much point to that as there was to taking a knife and slashing a stitched-up gash back open. Even all these years later, the shrill echo of the word freak still bounced painfully off the walls of her skull, and she could feel the sharp sting of hair being yanked from her scalp and the ache of a tiny arm being twisted and pulled by something much bigger and stronger. Better to run from that pain than to linger on it.

Even so, if she had been able to, she would have been able to pinpoint the stages she had wandered through since then. The layers of childhood naivete had stripped themselves away slowly, to be replaced by a solid guard of steel around her heart. First to go had been her hope that she would one day return home. She’d wandered the slums of Mitsubachi City with an unbearable tightness in her chest, imagining on loop that her mother would come running after her, scoop her up and carry her all the way back home, tell her how she had overreacted and how she was so, so sorry...a fantasy so stupid that it made her snort with derision now. Just the idea of the words, “I’m sorry, Emerald,” passing genuinely from Beryl Sustrai’s lips was laughable.

That stage hadn’t taken long to dissipate, in the long run. Only a few months. The next one had taken a couple years to let go of: the idea that someone else would one day come along to replace her mother. In the adventure stories and fairy tales she had read when she was little, if someone had a bad family, there would always be some great force of good that came to sweep them away, to someplace where they would be protected and happy. Perhaps her long-lost father, making his miraculous return to her life after going off to “work” one morning and never coming back. She still had one parent left, didn't she? He had said that he wasn’t leaving forever, hadn’t he?

It had taken her years to understand what her mother had known the instant she’d read his note: that it was all bullshit. Her father had abandoned them, thrown her away just as surely as her mother had. She knew she couldn’t call herself an orphan in the technical sense, but to have parents who wanted nothing to do with you had to be just as bad, the way she saw it.

The last thing to go had been something that Emerald hadn’t even realized she was hanging on to. Ever since being ousted from her childhood home, she had been roaming the streets of the city like a stray dog; sleeping on them, scrounging for food on them, and becoming intimately familiar with them. But that did not make them her home. For five years that stretched and blurred together into an endless torture, she had been operating under the impression that this was a temporary way of life. One day, far off as it might be, things would be better. Somewhere out there, was a place where she would be safe, where she belonged. There was someone who could find it in themself to love her.

How stupid she was. There was no person like that, and the only place that she would ever belong was the filth and hopelessness of Mitsubachi. Slowly but surely, her vantage points narrowed, until all that was left on her mind were surviving to the end of the day and finding a safe place to sleep at night. Tomorrows were both a luxury, and a cracked concrete road spiraling away into nothing.

So, on this particular winter day, that had begun no differently than any other, the only things Emerald had been thinking about was how to ease the ever-present pain in her stomach, and how to protect herself from the coming bitter cold. She wandered away from her usual haunts downtown, checking her red and numb fingers for signs of frostbite in between bouts of blowing on them and furiously rubbing them together. She knew, logically, that it could not set in so fast, but she had seen bodies, living and dead alike, with blackened and missing digits. She could not afford to take any chances.

This line of thought so distracted her, that at first she had passed by the alleyway completely.

She had entirely missed the puddle of fresh blood on the concrete, the shaking body curled tightly into itself against the brick wall, or the old backpack torn to shreds around it. It wasn’t the pained moaning and coughing itself, but the familiarity of it, that made Emerald do a double take and whip around to take a closer look. By now, she had come to pride herself on casting aside childish tendencies, and becoming as tough and guarded as any other criminal in this city. What she saw—what she recognized—at the end of the alley shattered all of that in a split second. The next thing Emerald knew, she was throwing herself forward and screaming, in a way she never thought she would again.

“Mom! MOM!”

The long brick alleyway passed in a blur, and she skidded to a stop, on her knees in the blood puddle. The part of her that was frozen instead of going wild with panic noted that Beryl Sustrai hadn’t changed one bit in the past five years. Same thinning, dark green ponytail curling over her shoulder, same worn-out jacket and faded jeans, same hissing of anger coming from between her clenched teeth, as she pressed down with both hands on her bleeding stomach. But when the woman lifted her head—blood trickling from her mouth down her chin as well—to see who was screaming for her, whose hands were pawing at her arms and shoulders, her dark eyes were shot wide with wonder and shock, both things that Emerald had never seen on this face before.

“E...Emerald...?” Breathless, as if she were seeing a ghost. “That’s...i-is that you?”

Tears were spilling down Emerald’s face now, as she looked through her mother’s fingers at the ragged bullet hole in her gut, but she was far too frightened to be embarrassed about them. “Yeah...it’s, it’s okay, Mom. I-I’m here. Who...who did this?!”

Beryl didn’t seem to be listening to her. She lifted one shaking, blood-slick hand to Emerald’s face, thin fingertips brushing her cheek, as though to make sure that the girl was really there. Her nails were just as sharp as Emerald remembered. “Oh, gods...you’ve grown up...”

The blood on her fingers ran four thick, warm-wet trails down Emerald’s face. The blood on her stomach was gushing like water over Emerald’s own fingers, as she ripped a large chunk out of her already-tattered pant leg to wad up and press against the gaping hole. So much, oh, gods please help her, too much...She had to get her mother out of here, she couldn’t save her here. She didn’t know where to go or what to do, but...not here, at least.

“I-it’s okay, Mom,” she choked out again, trying to slide her arms under her mother’s back and shoulders. But it was no good, she was too small, too weak, and Beryl was already deadweight. “I...I’m gonna help you...please, work with me here!”

Beryl made no effort to help Emerald by lifting herself off the ground. Though her eyes were quickly hazing over, there was a certain glint in them. Her blue-tinged lips pressed into the same thin, grim, but satisfied smile that they always would when a customer pressed Lien into her hand.

“Emerald...baby doll...” Not quite a soft, affectionate lilt, but it was Beryl’s best attempt at it.

“Don’t, no, don’t try to talk, Mom!” That was what dying—no, no, what hurt people were supposed to do, right? Save their energy? If it was, her mother hadn’t seemed to get the memo, still caressing her face and forcing more words out.

“Emerald. Sh-show me something. Make...make me s-see something.”

Emerald stopped short. “Wh...what?”

Beryl was still smiling blissfully. “Y-you can do it...make me see something. So...so it won’t hurt, wh-when I...”

Emerald’s blood ran colder than the winter wind around them, as the meaning sunk in. There was static in her suddenly-aching brain. For one long moment, she was eight years old again, tiny and terrified, her mother’s fury at her newfound ability a huge and monstrous thing. Her Semblance awakening had changed everything. She was no longer Beryl’s tolerated daughter, but a mind-altering parasite worming its way into her head, like her father before her.

(“You won’t ever do that to me again! I don’t care where you go, just get away from me!”

“Mama!”

“No! GET OUT!”)

She remembered being thrown against the wall, being dragged by her hair away from her mother and her home. She remembered sobbing herself sick, stumbling alone through the darkening streets with an arm that refused to bend with pain, just wanting her mama, wanting to go home.

She remembered. She always would, no matter how many walls she tried to hide the memories behind. Had Beryl thought she would have forgotten?!

Her blood was roaring in her ears, and she felt her fingers tightening on her mother’s shoulders, nails digging in hard. The smile was fading from Beryl’s face, replaced with a look of confusion that only enraged Emerald more. Her heart pounded painfully, and her head felt lighter with every second.

Now she was acting sweet to her?! When she wanted something?! After everything...After everything—!

Her lips curled into a furious snarl, and the voice that growled up from the back of her throat was more a beast’s than her own.

“You want me to make you see something?!”

She wasn’t looking for an answer. But if Beryl had tried to give one, she would never know what it was. The relentless pounding in her head and heart reached an agonizing crescendo, and before she knew what was happening, her vision went burning, blinding white.

She did not know how long it was before that whiteness cleared away, and she slowly descended back to reality. She blinked several times, feeling a strange numbness over every inch of her skin, as she remembered bit by bit where she was, and...what she had been doing...

Her hands twitched up in surprise, when she registered that there was still hard, bony shoulders under them. The heavy scents of blood and cold rushed up into her nose again. Without thinking, she looked down, and reflexively recoiled. Her back slammed against the brick wall at the end of the narrow alley as another scream ripped from her throat.

Beryl lay there on the concrete, like a car-struck dog on the side of the road. The flow of blood had stopped, but the stains were still wet on her stomach and hands. Her face was like a grotesque wax sculpture, twisted and frozen into a mask of utter horror, her dull bloodshot eyes bugging out of her head and her mouth stretched inhumanly wide open.

Every inch of her trembling, Emerald forced herself to creep back over to her.

“...M-Mom?”

She didn’t dare get too close. Arm’s length away, maybe a little less. She reached out to hold her hand out in front of the nose and mouth: no breath, no tiny clouds of warmth in the winter. Though every instinct she had told her not to, she leaned in to press her fingers to the neck, but the second her fingertips touched flesh, she scrambled back again with a shriek, heart racing again. She hadn’t been expecting a pulse, not really, and she had known it would be cold but she hadn’t known what it was like to touch something so—

Dead.

Emerald sprinted for the other end of the alley faster than she had thought possible. Not onto the street, no, someone would see the blood on her legs, her face, her hands, oh, gods, oh, gods, what had she just done?!

What did I make her see?! It’s my fault, it’s my fault, oh my gods, what did I do?!

Hide. Somewhere to hide. Nowhere was safe, she would never, ever be safe, but...somewhere to hole up for a while. Get this blood off of her, get it off, and then forget…. Sobs shook her body, burning her throat and wracking her chest as she ran. She had to forget, she had to make them stop, she had to get away...get away...

~0~

The first split second after waking up was one of stark, unthinking terror.

Emerald had no idea where she was, only that it was dark, her chest still hurt, and she was still sobbing her heart out. Gods, why was she doing that, a tiny, disgusted part of her brain protested, she hadn’t done that in—wait—how long had it—?!

There was something soft underneath her, and warm hands sliding under her shoulders that made her jump. She would have leapt up and bolted away, throwing up an illusion behind her to cover her escape, as she did every time she woke up to someone grabbing at her. But the gentle voice murmuring down to her grounded her firmly back in reality.

“Shh, Emerald, Emerald...”

A pitiful whimper came up from her throat, quite without her permission. She glanced down at herself. She wasn’t thirteen years old anymore, but sixteen. There were brand new clothes covering her skin, not blood. No blood. Not anymore. And she wasn’t alone, or in danger. It was Cinder next to her in their tent, Cinder’s eyes looking at her with concern, Cinder’s arm wrapped around her shoulders...

“Emerald, it’s okay. You’re okay. It was just a bad dream.”

Before she could think about what she was doing, she was throwing herself from the bedroll and burying her face in Cinder’s chest. Cinder allowed it, hugging her close with both arms.

“I...i-it wasn’t a dream! It really happened!”

“What happened?”

Emerald’s breath hitched -- there was so much to tell and she had never breathed a word of it to anyone, ever. But before the walls could come down over the memory again to stop her, it was all spilling out of her mouth like vomit.

“I, I, my m-mom, she...I u-unlocked my Semblance when—when I was little, and, and I was s-s-so happy, to show her...”

“I should hope so. You have a rare gift.”

What Emerald’s body did was supposed to be a laugh. She choked on another sob instead.

“She...She was disgusted by me. I tried so hard, but...n-nothing I ever did was good. My i-illusions scared her, a-and it made her s-so angry, that I could do that. She...” Her stomach swooped again, and she swallowed hard. “She s-screamed at me, hurt me, called...called me a freak, like my father. And...a-and then k-kicked me out and...I don’t...I don’t understand! What did I do wrong?! Why did she throw me away?!”

“I don’t know, Emerald.” Cinder’s calm and even tone, the hand running soothingly over her hair, only made her cry harder. Here she was, bawling and clinging like a little kid, but Cinder wasn’t angry at her at all. “It was a cruel and foolish thing to do.”

Emerald couldn’t seem to catch a proper breath. “She...she...sh-she thought I was a, a m-monster. And, sh-she was right!”

“Now, why would you say that? ‘Monster’ is the last thing I’d ever think about you.”

“I...” She had never said this out loud before, had barely even dared to think it, and it felt like choking up a sharp rock: “I killed her. I-it’s my fault, I killed her!”

Her eyes stung wildly, and she pressed her face harder into Cinder’s chest. For the next few minutes, she tried to speak but couldn’t, while Cinder continued to hold her close and stroke her hair. After that time, when Emerald’s breathing started to calm a little, Cinder gently prodded, “What happened? Was this when she threw you out?”

“N...n-no. I...I was eight when she d-did that. I d-didn’t think I would ever s-see her again, she...she told me to stay away, s-so I did. B-But...Three years ago, I found her, i-in the street. I—I was so scared of her, I hated her, e-ever since I got my guns I’d th-think about shooting her, a-and my dad, all...all the time...”

Cinder hummed sympathetically. “It didn’t happen the way you imagined, did it?”

“S-Someone actually shot her, r-right through her stomach. And it was cold, a-and there was so much blood, a-and I ran over, I...I just wanted to help...”

“If she was shot where you say she was, then there was nothing you could have done to save her. It isn’t your fault.”

Emerald shook her head frantically; Cinder wasn’t understanding.

“She...she thought there was. She...smiled at me. Told me I could...make her see something. S-So when she died, she wouldn’t know she had. She’d forget she was h-hurting. A-And I could have done it. I, I could have done it. B-But...” Cinder waited patiently for her to force it out. “I...I got so angry. I was hurting her, just yelling in her face, and then...Everything went all bright, and...Oh, gods, it hurt!”

“You used your Semblance, unconsciously. What did you make her see?”

“Th-That’s just it, I don’t know. I couldn’t see, it...knocked me out for a minute, I guess? B-But...When I woke up...She was d-dead. She was dead, and she looked terrified of something, a-and I, I know p-people’s hearts can st-stop, if someone scares them that b-b-bad...”

“Well.” Cinder’s voice was carefully level, as if she were trying not to laugh. “She did ask for it.”

Emerald startled slightly in her arms. “But I...She was dying, and she...she was m-my mom, I-I shouldn’t have, I should never have—!”

“Shhh...” Cinder was stroking her hair again, soft and gentle, and Emerald sank into her touch. So warm, so safe, she had never known an embrace like this. Not even her nights of sleeping in her mother’s arms, back in her very earliest memories, had felt like this. “Shh. Questions of should and shouldn’t aside, it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t realize what you were doing.”

“I...I...I should have controlled myself. S-Semblances aren’t supposed to do that...”

“It happens. Stress and trauma activating them is very common, actually. And such occurrences aren’t exactly voluntary.”

Emerald tentatively wrapped her arms around Cinder’s waist, and then tightened them into a hug when Cinder did not object. “It was my fault. I sh-should have...I could have just ran away then. Or...ignored her, and...g-gotten her somewhere, maybe. Th-there weren’t any hospitals nearby, and...I didn’t know any back-alley p-people, but...”

“Listen to what I’m saying, Emerald. It was too late before you even reached her.”

“I-I just wanted to help...”  

“If she wanted your help, she should have kept you, embraced you for everything that you are. But she chose not to.”

Emerald sniffled ungracefully. “I only wanted to make her happy...”

“Oh, I have no doubt of that. But you can’t help somebody who doesn’t want to be helped.”

She managed to stifle another whimper, and tried to tense her body up to stop its trembling, but that part wasn’t as successful. “I should have...I-I should have...”

“Shh, now. What’s done is done. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Emerald...wasn’t quite convinced of that, but didn’t want to push whatever vague points she’d been trying to make. Her head felt light and dizzy, and it felt like there was a hard rock in the pit of her stomach. And of course the stream of tears down her face felt as if it would never stop.

“I...I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she mumbled into Cinder’s chest. “I never...I mean, I-I try not to think about it, and I u-usually can. B-but I, I’ve never...just lost it like this. I swear, I’m not really like this. I haven’t c-cried like this since she...”

“I believe you, don’t worry. It’s because you’re safe now that you can talk about it like this. No one will stop you.” Cinder snickered softly, and added, “And the Grimm know to stay away.”

Emerald suppressed a shiver, remembering how Cinder had ordered the hunting Grimm in the woods away from her just the other day. There was no one like Cinder in all of Remnant, she had realized that day. It wasn’t just that she was fearless and strong, but that she had chosen to use that strength to take Emerald under her wing. She couldn’t imagine the warm hands stroking her hair ever yanking it, like her mother had, or the arms holding her so protectively ever turning rough on her. She hugged Cinder tighter; as long as she stayed by her side, she was safe now.

“There’s...a lot to tell. A-and it’s late, I’m sorry, I don’t want to keep you up...”

“Nonsense. You’ve clearly needed someone to lend an ear for a long time, haven’t you?”

“...I guess so. Yes,” Emerald agreed, already trying to organize all her thoughts so they’d come out the right way.

She felt Cinder smile against her hair. “So tell me. Anything you want. You mentioned your father? Why did she think you were like him?”

Emerald took a deep breath, and began...

#emerald sustrai #cinder fall #rwby #kaen's fics

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Enjoy An Exclusive Sneek Peek Of: The Art of Starving by Sam J. Miller! (Please Be Aware!! Contains Content Trigger!)

Matt hasn't eaten in days. The hunger clears his mind—and he needs to be as sharp as possible if he's going to find out just how Tariq and his band of high school bullies drove his sister, Maya, away. Matt has discovered something: the less he eats the more he seems to have . . . powers. The ability to see things he shouldn't be able to see. Maybe even the authority to bend time and space. Matt decides to infiltrate Tariq's life, then use his powers to uncover what happened to Maya. All he needs to do is keep the hunger at bay. But Matt doesn't realize there are many kinds of hunger…and he isn't in control of all of them. TRIGGER WARNING:

Eating disorders and body dysmorphia are recurring themes in The Art of Starving by Sam J. Miller. Please be aware if these are sensitive topics for you!  

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  TRIGGER WARNING:

Eating disorders and body dysmorphia are recurring themes in The Art of Starving by Sam J. Miller. Please be aware if these are sensitive topics for you!

Congratulations! You have acquired one human body. This was a poor decision, but it is probably too late for you to do anything about it. Life, alas, has an extremely strict return policy.

Not that I’m some kind of expert or anything, but as an almost-seventeen-year veteran of having a body, I’ve learned a few basic rules that might save you some of my misery. So I’m writing this Rulebook as a public service. Please note, however, that there are a lot of rules, and some of them are very difficult to follow, and some of them sound crazy, and please don’t come crying to me if something terrible happens when you can only follow half of them.

RULE #1

Understand this: your body wants the worst for you. It is a complicated machine built up over billions of years, and it wants only two things—to stay alive and to make more of you. Your body thinks you’re still an animal in the jungle, and it wants you to eat ALL the food, and stick your DNA up in anything you can hold down. Lust and hunger will never leave you alone, because your body wants you grotesquely fat and covered in kids.

DAY: 1 TOTAL CALORIES: 3600

Suicidal ideation.

When you say it like that it sounds soft and harmless, like laissez-faire or any of the other weird sets of meaningless words they make you memorize in school. The letter from the psychiatrist sounded so calm I had to read it a couple of times before I saw what she was trying to say. She didn’t quote me. She didn’t tell my mom I said, Sometimes I think if I killed myself everyone would be a lot better off or Five times a week I decide to steal the gun my mom thinks I don’t know about and bring it to school and murder tons of people and then myself.

Instead, the psychiatrist said a lot of scary things in very tame and pleasant language:

Recommend urgent action— Happy to prescribe— Facilitate inpatient treatment—

Poor thing. How could she know my mom hides from the mail, with its bills and Notes of Shutdown and FINAL WARNINGS? I didn’t want to go see the psychiatrist in the first place, but the school set it up for me because I am evidently an At-Risk Youth. At risk of what, I wondered, and then thought, oh right, everything. At risk of enough that one or all my teachers filed whatever due-diligence report they’re obligated to file on someone who is obviously headed for homicide or suicide, so his or her blood isn’t on their hands. And as soon as the psychiatrist’s report came, addressed to my mom, I plucked it from the mail pile.

I read it on my walk to school. My mom still thinks I take the bus, but I stopped around the six thousandth time someone called me a faggot and punched me as I walked through the aisle. That kind of thing can really start your day off on the wrong foot. Plus, walking to school makes it easier to get there late, so I’m spared the agony of playing Lord of the Flies while we all stand around outside waiting for the first bell to ring.

The branches were almost entirely bare overhead. Stark and black like skinny fingers clawing at the sky. One crooked tree still had half its leaves. Hunger rumbled in my belly, and I felt like if I reached out hard enough, I could stretch myself taller than any of the trees. Hunger is funny like that.

Anyway. I shredded the letter, let it fall behind me like a trail of breadcrumbs. Lesson learned: Don’t tell people you want to kill yourself. Although really I should have known that one already. If high school teaches you nothing else, know this: Never tell anyone anything important.

I slowed down. Savored my last few steps before the hill crested and brought me in sight of the school. Stared up at the trees, and down the garbage-strewn road. Stopped. Breathed. Wondered what would happen if I turned and walked into the woods and never came back. I thought about this a lot. I had plans. I’d hitchhike or ride the rails or follow the river.

Under my bed there was a bag, full of books and hoodies and diet soda from the vending machine behind the ShopRite, and one of these days I would be ready to sling it over my shoulder and run away for real.

But I wasn’t ready, not yet. As miserable as it made me, I had to go to school. Not because I cared about college or education or a career or any of that pig shit, because anyone who spent five minutes in a Hudson High School classroom would know there was no actual educating happening anywhere in sight. The reason I couldn’t kill myself, and I couldn’t stop coming to school, was because Maya beat me to it. Because five days ago, my older sister ran away from home. She called the next morning from somewhere on the freeway to assure us she wasn’t kidnapped, she was taking a week off (“or whatever”) to go to some studio near Providence to record her band’s first album, she’d catch up on school when she got back. We shouldn’t call the cops. Etc.

She says she’s fine. She says nothing happened. But I don’t think that’s entirely true. I think someone hurt her. And I know who. And I had to keep coming to school because I had to find out what happened, so I could hurt him back.

So I crested the hill and walked down to the squat sprawling one-story building, an ugly heap of aluminum and brick, cursing my abject failure at estimating travel time, for I had arrived too early, and they were there, my peers, my fellow primates, hooting and hollering, pounding chests and grooming each other.

My senses felt like they’d been turned up too high. Maybe it had something to do with skipping breakfast, with the churning engine of my empty stomach generating electricity that danced in my limbs, crackled in my head, but these people stunk. They spoke too loudly.

Their clothes and bags were head-achingly bright. It made every step toward them harder.

And there, at the door, arms folded like the bouncers outside a club in a cop show, they stood. Three of them: Bastien, Tariq, Ott. Hudson High’s soccer stars; the shrewd-eyed roosters at the top of our pecking order.

“Pretty,” Ott said as one girl approached.

“Not pretty,” to the next. Grinning hyena-style at how her face crumpled.

“Pretty.”

“Fugly.”

“Thinks she’s pretty.”

At this, they cackled. Everyone but Tariq. Tariq, with his perfect stomach and impressive chest and a beard thicker than any high school senior’s ever, Tariq of the dimples and broad nose, Tariq who could have stepped out of my computer screen, because he’d fit right in on the sites I spent all night searching when my mom was asleep. Pages packed with boys, beautiful ones—a secret nation to which I would never belong. Tariq, who somehow made me feel fat and scrawny all at once.

Tariq, who saw me and looked away as fast as he could but not fast enough to hide the guilt that soured his face.

We had both been crushed out on Tariq, my big sister and me. He wasn’t like the other boys on the soccer team, even if he did spend an awful lot of time with them. He wasn’t a bully. He was handsome and smart, and even nice, sometimes.

That’s what made him so dangerous. Everybody knows to steer clear of a bully. Maya would never have gone to meet up with Tariq in secret if he had already showed us all he was a brutal thug.

But he seemed . . . human. So she did.

He didn’t know that I knew. And, admittedly, I didn’t know much. Just that they met up that night. So maybe nothing happened. Maybe he just gave her a ride to Providence, to this recording studio I don’t really believe exists, or to where one of her bandmates lived. The fact that he gave her a ride that night wasn’t what made me suspicious. What made me suspicious was this: something shifted, in Tariq’s body language, after that night. He doesn’t look me in the eye anymore. He turns his shoulders away from wherever I am standing.

Like right then, as I approached the front door, where he stood with his best friends, staring at the ground with his perfect lips pressed tight together.

I gnawed my fingernails furiously.

My mom tells me it is a disgusting habit. She tells me to stop. I can’t stop.

It hurt, how much I wanted to smash my face against those perfect lips. I wanted it even though I felt pretty sure Tariq did something terrible to my sister. And the wanting got rolled up with the shame and filled me with a sputtering, stupid animal rage. How could it be, that in spite of everything, I still felt lust when I looked at him? Lust, and hate, in equal measure.

That’s why I’m writing this Rulebook.

Your body is a treacherous savage thing and it is trying to kill you. I am here to help you win. Together, we are both going to win.

Ott saw me stop and stare daggers at Tariq.

“You want something, Matt?”

That’s my name: Matt. I didn’t want to tell you, because I hate it.

A matt is something people step on. A matt is full of filth.

I debated lying. Making up something badass or manly, Damien or Colby or Barrett or Bo, something gay-porn-star-y. But honesty is important. I want you to trust me. Because pretty soon I’ll be telling you some things you’re going to have a very hard time believing.

So, Ott called my name. My whole body twitched with fight-or-flight triggers, but I knew either choice would be disastrous. If I fought, I’d get my ass beat, and if I ran, my limited ability to make Tariq feel uncomfortable, to apply pressure, would evaporate.

People were watching. If Tariq hadn’t been standing there, I’d have gone about my business, but he was my real audience. Ott didn’t matter.

I winced, tasting blood where I bit down too hard on the cuticle of my ring finger.

In movies and books, all you need to do to stop a bully is to punch them back. Bullies are cowards, the story goes; they can dish out violence, but they can’t take it.

This, you should know, if you haven’t already found it out the hard way, is bullshit. I tried it, in middle school, and it made things worse. Maybe it’ll work for you, if you’re stronger than me, or a faster runner, but it earned me a lovely session of puking up blood.

I knew that hitting Ott wouldn’t get me anywhere. But I did see something flicker in his eyes, something like fear but not exactly that, something bigger, messier: hate and fear all at once. I took a step closer. I took a deep breath. I smelled him.

And don’t ask me how, but I knew. I knew from the smell: I made him nervous. I terrified him. My existence, my gayness, threatened his whole way of understanding the world, what it meant to be the male of the species.

I’d never understood the word homophobia before— people who are homophobic are not afraid of gay people, they just hate them! But in that moment it all made sense. Straight men will insult and assault and beat and kill gay men because they are terrified. Because masculinity is the foundation they built their whole worldview on, the set of lies that lets them believe they are inherently better than women, and gay people expose how flimsy and arbitrary the whole thing is.

I turned to him and said, “No, Ott, I don’t want anything. I was just wondering. What about me?”

His mouth curled into a snarl. “What about you?”

“Which one am I?”

He unfolded his arms with a slowness that revealed his uncertainty. “Which . . . one?”

“Yeah. Am I pretty? Not pretty? I definitely think I’m pretty.”

A girl giggled. Even Tariq cracked a grin, though he turned his head to hide it from me.

I took another step forward. Ott’s lips parted slightly, and I saw muscles tighten in his arms. He was confused and getting angry: he sensed I was humiliating him, but not in any way he could reasonably understand. He was desperate for me to touch him, or explicitly insult him, so he could hurt me. I had planned to tap his chest with one finger when I delivered the finishing line, but that would have made Ott feel justified in a physical response. So why bother.

Seconds ticked away—

“You are Not Pretty,” I told Ott an instant before the first bell rang.

Then I slipped by him and walked inside.

TRIGGER WARNING:

Eating disorders and body dysmorphia are recurring themes in The Art of Starving by Sam J. Miller. Please be aware if these are sensitive topics for you!

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