Murderer. Monster. Serial killer. Abuser. Freak. These are words you would be well within your rights to use when describing Bo Sinclair. But when a trip to dispose of a body doesn’t end up quite as planned and a nameless waif enters the picture, he might have to add one more label to the list: protector. How long can Bo justify the presence of a child who so critically throws off the tenuous balance of life in Ambrose? How long can he stand it?
CW for this chapter: canon typical darkness re: the wax sculptures, allusions to child abuse or neglect, allusions to child kidnapping, the r-slur used in a flashback by Trudy Sinclair, upsetting descriptions of relationships with their mother
Bo woke to someone jostling his elbow, a light but annoyingly insistent touch that had him grouchy before he even opened his eyes.
Shit. Fell asleep again.
He groaned, shifting the warm weight on his chest and waving a dismissive hand. "Vincent"—he didn't know how he knew it was Vince, but he knew—"leamme alone, I'm nappin'."
Vincent was persistent, though, grunting and nudging Bo's elbow hard enough that he swayed in the recliner. A streak of rage coursed up Bo's spine, and he opened his eyes to glare at his twin.
"Wh— Can I fuckin' help you? If you don't getcha hands off me..."
Vincent ignored his threats, pointing at the child in his lap. Bo's voice seemed to have woken her up; she was rubbing her eye with one little hand, Sprite can clutched in the other.
Bo glanced at her, then returned to glaring into his own perfectly placid, wax face. "What?"
"Shut up," Vincent signed sharply. "What do you mean 'what?' You said you would bring her to the police."
"Hey, watch ya mouth. You don't tell me ta shut up; you shut up."
But still, the artist persisted: "I don't need to tell you why keeping her around is a bad idea. I don't need to tell you why keeping her around is a bad idea. Bo—"
"I get it, Vin!" Again, Bo glanced at Bird before standing. Her eyes were glued to Vincent, watching his hands intently but not with the glint of curiosity. "Keep it down, will ya? She don't know sign and your flailin's scarin' her."
Vincent vented his frustration with a groan and turned away from the two momentarily, but he wasn't two steps into the kitchen before turning back to continue his lecture. "So what happened with the police? If you don't take her, I will."
Like hell you will. Bo might have mustered a cruel laugh if he wasn't so tired. Vincent avoided the outside world at all costs. He could hardly imagine him climbing into his little yellow tow truck and puttering up to Hammond PD.
He must have rolled his eyes or smirked or something, because Vincent snapped, "It's not funny, Bo."
Vin was so much like Momma sometimes.
Bo clenched his jaw until his teeth hurt, then released the tension. "Look, Lester said he'd ask around, see if he could find 'er folks. I figure if we c'n settle this without the cops, all the better—she don't like 'em and I don't wanna run the risk of 'em findin' us. It should be our last resort, right? So I brought 'er back." When Vincent responded only with a weary stare, he added, "Won't be more'n a week. We can keep a baby fed for a few days."
After a few moments, Vincent walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Bo took it as acquiescence, allowing his body to relax. He couldn't help but notice that when he relaxed, Bird did, too.
He sunk back into the recliner again, staring into the dead screen of the TV and listening to Vincent move around the kitchen. Bird didn't move an inch, resting her head on his shoulder. Eventually, Vincent emerged to shove a plate with a sandwich into Bo's hand. Bo's mind wandered as he disassembled it and fed Bird the bologna—his head was filled mainly with questions. Everything about her was such an enigma.
Vincent sat in the armchair next to them, hesitating before taking off his mask to eat. The girl watched him sidelong, only shifting a little uncomfortably at the sight of his profound disfigurement. Either way, Bo knew Vincent wouldn't care. At thirty-five years of age, the artist had grown used to making people uncomfortable.
They ate in silence, the three of them. Jonesy jingled through the back door and sat, sighing, at Vincent's feet. Bird's discomfort eased.
Vincent didn't clear his plate. He rarely did, a fact that had personally wounded Momma at every mealtime. Chewing hurt his face, and often, the medication he took made him nauseous. He and Bo had never talked about it, really, but there were some things they just knew about one another.
Bo always cleared his plate.
Vincent tossed Jonesy his crust, then, for the first time the entire meal, looked over. "Do we have any clues as to who her parents are yet?" he signed.
"Some drunk—see 'er face? Someone from this parish, I hope, 'less she walked a helluva long way. Guess that's possible." Bo considered her. "An' there's this thing she—"
"Pchhewww," Bird exhaled.
Vincent, too, considered her. He put on his mask. "Anything else?"
"Uhh ... naw. No one in Edward knew 'er or who she might belong to."
Vincent said nothing—didn't even look at her. He only stared at Bo. That fucking stare again. Bo clenched his grip on the arm of his chair. How could a guy wearing an unreadable expression at all times be so ... judgmental?
"She's leavin', Vin. As soon as possible." Bo had to believe he sounded convincing. "Lester'll figure it out."
It was Vincent's idea to go look at the new wax figures. Bo knew it had to be done—he had to approve the spot Vince had chosen for them—but he was wary. After all, there was a reason he didn't want Bird up and runnin' around the town. There was a chance she might see something that scared her.
Wait, he thought at once, why did he care?
Well, she could tell someone. She could ruin somethin'. The thought of her breaking one of the sculptures opened a pit in his stomach.
—BEAUREGARD Sinclair you goddamn RETARD, what did you DO—
She couldn't go around breaking things, ruining Momma's happy little town. She really couldn't. Momma did not like it when things weren't kept nice. She'd always said that, You just can never keep things nice, Bo.
He opted to keep her in his arms, on his hip, and instructed her sternly, "Don't touch nothin'. It's all fragile."
Vincent led the way to the chapel. Interesting choice. A biker and two tatted up chicks in a church? Bo wasn't one hundred percent on board yet, but he wanted to see where Vin was going with this.
As they ascended the stoop and entered the double doors, he watched Bird for her reaction. There was none. She looked at the church the same way she looked at any other building, equal parts wariness and passive interest.
What kind of people were her momma and daddy?
Vincent stalked silently to the front of the church and pointed to his newest creations. The man and two women were sitting expectantly and attentively in the choir pews, all gussied up in old fashioned blue robes. The kind of robes the choir in this kind of town should have, with a big white cross on each of their chests.
Bo studied them as he approached, not looking down at Momma. Not yet. He almost felt he had to save up the anticipation, let it build. Business first. "Huh. Where'd ya get the robes?"
"Made them. Remember the old choir?"
"Chyeah. How could I forget Mrs. Laeddis squawkin' every Sunday mornin'?" From the shadow he could see of Vincent's left eye, he knew his twin was smiling. "I mean, it's a choir, girl, not a competition. For th' love a' Chri— Well, you know."
"What do you think?" Vincent asked.
"Hm ... they ain't exactly the churchgoin' type. I expected you ta put 'em ... I dunno, near the gun shop or somethin'?" When Vincent said nothing, Bo looked the sculptures up and down again. "But, ah ... we did need a choir. Liturgical choir. Like a proper Catholic church."
Then, an idea occurred to him, and he laughed.
"I guess this is our way of savin' their souls, huh, Vin? Eternity stuck in a chapel. Sheep c'n always come back to the flock."
Vincent straightened a bit, nodding decisively. He liked it when Bo understood what he was going for with his art.
He'd never said that, but Bo just ... knew.
Watching Bo with the child was a surreal experience. As they chatted back and forth about the town's newest additions, it was as though the handsome twin forgot he was holding her altogether. He was focused on the choir, only the choir, mulling over their placement and styling. He hadn't even looked at Momma.
"When I die," Momma had said—years and years ago, before she had even known she was dying—"I want people to mourn. None a' this celebration of her life crap. I want y'all to wail in the streets 'n' tear at your clothes!" She'd give one of those white smiles, crinkle her nose, make her crystal blue eyes sparkle. Momma's face was beautiful. "Hire mourners if ya have to!"
And then they'd all laugh, although Vincent had never found it funny. Talking about Momma dying wasn't funny. It was terrifying. She'd told that joke well into their adulthood. Each time, he would glance at Bo and see worry nested deep in his laughing eyes.
Maybe, on some level, she'd known that, because she talked about it an awful lot, especially while angry: "I won't be dead five minutes before you ungrateful little shits forget all about me! Throw all my belongings away and forget all about me!"
As though she was Jesus Christ about to die on the cross.
And from that had come the idea of the choir. More mourners. He thought that'd make Bo happy. Sure enough, here Bo was, warming up to the idea.
As his twin got a closer look at the sculptures, Vincent watched the child. Bo had lowered her from his arms, but he still kept a tight grip on one of her hands, and she kept a tight grip on her empty Sprite. Despite a very obvious interest in the wax figures, she stood still, quiet, looking around with her big eyes. Drinking it all in.
She was unobtrusive in this way.
This way and this way only.
To Vincent, she was like ... a wild animal, almost. Unpredictable and strange. But even that wasn't an appropriate comparison. After all, when Lester had brought home Jonesy, Vincent had warmed up to her almost immediately.
A child wasn't a pet. A child was a human. A human knew to fear and abandon this place. A human told everyone the grisly truth. He didn't trust humans, so he didn't trust this child.
At length, Bo seemed satisfied with the quality of the work on the bikers. He looked down at the girl, hoisted her into his arms again, and finally, finally, turned to the casket.
"This is my Momma. Ain't she beautiful?"
Vincent's gaze slid to the wax-encased body cradled within the coffin. Momma wasn't beautiful. Not anymore. She was ugly, like him.
Every time he saw her, there was this voice in the back of his head saying, She would want you to make her a prettier face. She'd tell him jokingly to "tart her up." She'd be furious if he refused. She'd accuse him and ask, "What did I do to make you hate me so much?"
Guilt sunk venomous claws into his chest.
"One a' these days," Bo said at length, quietly, to the girl, "this whole town'll be filled, streets 'n' everything. We'll figure out some way ta keep the wax from meltin' in the sun, and the smell—" A heavy pause. "Trudy's Town of Wax ... that's what she wanted ta call it. She never could finish it."
Bo separated himself from the child, then, the hallmarks of an oncoming meltdown written in his features and movements. She looked up at him from where she stood, watching. Watching so closely. She was trying to learn, but she didn't know yet when to leave Bo alone—what to look out for.
Vincent knew. He snapped to get her attention and motioned her over to him. She came and slid her hand into his and, awkwardly, he let her. They left together.
He wasn't entirely certain what Bo would do in there. Scream, sob, hurt himself, break something? Sometimes he wondered if Bo knew what he did half the time, when he got like this. As a child, his eyes had glazed over, and you could tell—just tell—that little Bo Sinclair wasn't there anymore. Like a fugue. Momma had referred to that side of her handsome boy as a demon often, with varying degrees of seriousness.
As they'd gotten older, the fury had become far more pointed, focused, calculating. Except when it came to Momma. Then, he was a child again.
Acting like everything was fine when it was not came very naturally to Vincent. While the little girl glanced over her shoulder at the chapel, wincing at the sounds coming from it, he walked them calmly to the gritty concrete road. He reached into his apron pocket, produced a piece of chalk, and handed it to her.
Despite it now being dusk, she crouched and set to work, drawing what amounted to nonsensical scribbles. An abstract artist, then, he quipped to himself.
He wasn't sure how long he watched her draw. She completed what he thought must be a house, and maybe a car, and maybe some people? But it soon devolved into whatever uneven shapes struck her fancy.
Eventually, the chapel doors opened and slammed.
Vincent gave Bo a once-over as he approached them. His face was still a little pink. His wrists. His knuckles. The knees of his jeans were scuffed up. Nothing too bad. Nothing bleeding. Vincent averted his eyes.
The girl dropped her chalk and studied Bo, glancing at his twin before deciding it was safe. She walked into Bo's arms, and he yielded to her, though he didn't seem particularly enthusiastic.
Vincent swallowed. He wished he'd just stop picking her up at all. He wished she was scared of Bo like everyone else. Maybe he should have left her in the church, let her witness the real Bo. The "demon."
"You draw that?" Bo asked gruffly, squinting at the chalk scribbles.
"Hmph. Ya gonna give Vince a run for his money."
With that, he passed Vincent, trudging up the winding road toward the house of wax and their home. The masked twin bent, picked up the chalk, and put it back in his apron.
He straightened, turning expectantly.
Bo pointed with his chin. "The choir. Make the robes black."
"I'm sorry, sir, but are ya absolutely sure?"
"One hundred percent, miss. We haven't seen anybody by that description come in, with or without a li'l girl."
Olympia clutched the phone receiver tighter. Suddenly, the stale air of her mother's trailer seemed a lot staler in her lungs. A big, slimy rock had been dropped into her stomach. She suppressed a gag and swallowed.
"Are you sure?"
"Miss, I don't mean to be rude, but you're tyin' up the line. Now, if there's something you wanna report, you can come down to the station anytime an' we can—"
"No, thank you. Sorry for wastin' your time."
"Olympia!" Ma crowed from her bedroom. "Don't slam the damn phone down like that! It was your grandmother's!"
"Yes, ma'am," Olympia called back, happy that she couldn't quite hear what her mother mumbled afterwards. "I'm goin' out for a walk. I'll be back in half an hour."
"Go to Walmart and get some milk!"
She pulled on a hoodie and headed out the screen door without responding. Once she was a safe distance away and had a few gulps of good, fresh air in her, she murmured, "Fuck Walmart." God forbid she do something as simple as take a walk, have some time to herself. Naw, better do a chore at the same time.
Still, there was no excuse. She wished Walmart closed earlier than it did.
Olympia walked along the stretch of road, as close to the darkening swamp as she dared get. She gazed into the dusky gloom, like the answer to her troubles might appear before her.
He'd said he was going to take her to the cops. He'd said. He'd lied. She'd known he was lying.
I mean, it had all been so weird. The girl's shaven head, the bandages, the vintage clothes, her quietness compared to the man's too-friendly chatter. Something had been wrong, so wrong.
Was that poor little girl going through hell now, all because Olympia had been too weak to stop him?
But then, why had he brought her in in the first place? If a creep found some kid wandering around, surely he wouldn't want anyone to know. Surely he wouldn't want anyone to see them together.
Maybe he'd taken her to another police department? But that seemed so unlikely. Hammond was the closest, and it was a twenty minute drive from Edward. Maybe, by some miraculous turn of events, he had run into her parents?
But there was this sinking feeling in her stomach. Dreadful, gnawing. She didn't know why or how, but she just knew that wasn't the case. That man had taken that little girl, and Olympia was the only one who knew it.
She stopped at the edge of the swamp, trying in vain to see clearly through the darkness. Where did he live? Where had he taken her? Was it somewhere out there? How far?
The police wouldn't do anything; she knew that. There was nothing they could do, she'd been told, because no one had reported a missing child. But I'm reporting a missing child, she'd thought in the moment. She shoulda said it.
No parents. No police. She felt like a thread tethered her to that girl. Her only lifeline, her only hope.
If Olympia did nothing, she'd never sleep right again.
Antagonists, anti-heroes, and villains: A how-to (part 1)
Antagonists are what arguably drive a story. From facilitating conflict and plot progression, to defining and shaping the protagonist. A well written villain could turn your story from meh to unforgettable.
Good and bad isn’t black and white. A well written villain will bring intrigue to their points and make them appeal, even if you don’t directly support them.
For example, 1984 by George Orwell was greatly improved thanks to O’Brien - while I don’t think he is correct in anything he’s done, I was immersed in his reasonings and manipulative personality.
Taken from the book, I fully believe this following passage shows gaslighting and manipulative anti-heroes and the effect they have on the victim:
“...but the aim of this was simply to humiliate him and destroy his power of arguing and reasoning. Their real weapon was the merciless questioning that went on and on, hour after hour, tripping him up, laying traps for him, twisting everything that he said, convicting him at every step of lies and self-contradiction until he began weeping as much from shame as from nervous fatigue. Sometimes he would weep half a dozen times in a single session. Most of the time they screamed abuse at him and threatened at every hesitation to deliver him over to the guards again; but sometimes they would suddenly change their tune, call him comrade, appeal to him in the name of Ingsoc and Big Brother, and ask him sorrowfully whether even now he had not enough loyalty to the Party left to make him wish to undo the evil he had done. When his nerves were in rags after hours of questioning, even this appeal could reduce him to snivelling tears. In the end the nagging voices broke him down more completely than the boots and fists of the guards. He became simply a mouth that uttered, a hand that signed, whatever was demanded of him. His sole concern was to find out what they wanted him to confess, and then confess it quickly, before the bullying started anew.”
Other examples include Mother Gothel from Tangled and Light Yagami from Death note
Knowing the importance of a manipulative character, here’s how to write one:
Seclusion. By secluding and isolating the victim from other influences that can counter the scheming tactics. By taking someone away from familiar settings and people, they are more vulnerable
Guilt tripping and (mildly) degrading comments. Even minor playful ‘jokes’ or ‘teasing’ can contribute. By making someone feel worse or making them feel in debt, they feel morally obligated to stick around. Some might call this ‘playing the victim card’ (Some manipulators might switch between victimizing themselves and being the bully. Whatever is most convenient at the time)
Trust. There has to be a level of trust between victim and the character before they make any moves. Someone is more likely to overlook manipulative advances from someone who has helped them, shared moments with them, etc,. The victim will logically be more likely to trust a friend more than a stranger.
Remember, this doesn’t always happen immediately. Manipulators may be skilled in their craft, but they aren’t magic. It can take take days, weeks, months, or even years for a character to manipulate their targets.
base it off real life_.
A realistic character is always more interesting that a 2d one. People have layers, caked upon each other. If you're having trouble to write your antagonist - base it off real life.
E.g. You want to write a clown serial killer, base it off The Joker from batman, or "Clown Killer Gacy" (John Wayne Gacy)
THIS ISN'T AN EXCUSE TO PLAGIARIZE! (And you don't wanna get sued from making it too similar to a real character) read this post to learn about how to avoid plagiarism
(tw: don't google this next guy if you're not comfortable w gore + murder)
All villains have motive, taking the example of Blake Leibel - he tortured and murdered his fiance because their newborn daughter was taking away all the attention, as well as stress from avoiding Russian mob bosses that were trying to get money back from his brother.
Analyze villains you like from your favourite books, animes and movies. Delve deep and do research!
this was long, so i’ll make more parts to this and link them here. hope this helps!
What I hold true is this. The earth and the sky look best after a storm. I feel the most alive after I finish crying. The greatest songs have been written in agony and happiness is only thoroughly enjoyed because I know its adversary. If nothing terrible ever happens I will never know the meaning of survival. What do I stay alive for if not for love? And because I know love I will always say yes to suffering for it.
Los recuerdos son un doloroso ejercicio de nostalgia, son caminos que sostienen las huellas del pasado. Un recuerdo se reconstruye y se proyecta a través de sombras de otro tiempo, que existen ya como un reflejo lejano, al cual seguimos siendo fieles.
La verdad es que nuestra existencia es una travesía heroica, que va desde un ser angustiado al que desde pequeño le enseñaron que tenía que depredar a los demás para sobrevivir, hasta un personaje que construye su propio destino utilizando fuentes inagotables de optimismo, valentía y coraje.
La proeza de todo este cuento se inició hace unos dos mil millones de años, gracias a unos microbios, unos bichitos que encontraron el secreto del futuro, y que luego lo pasaron a plantas y animales hasta encontrarnos. Y así empezamos a vivir, a querer, a enamorarnos, a trabajar como locos, incluso a soñar con la felicidad sin entender muy bien lo que nos pasaba por dentro.
Nuestro itinerario siempre ha llevado consigo luz y sombra. Algunas veces nos amanecen días insoportablemente luminosos y al siguiente se tornan grises, fríos y se cubren de tinieblas.
Bajo el firmamento, uno se siente humilde y fugaz, como la más pequeña de las constelaciones, y también extremadamente sereno, porque te rodea algo inmenso, inmutable. No hace falta luchar, no hay nada que cambiar. Eres un destello de vida frágil en este planeta nuestro que, Carl Sagan, describía como el punto pálido y azul en el cosmos.
Es curioso que nosotros vivamos atrapados en esa paradoja, la de vivir a caballo entre lo inmensamente grande y lo inmensamente pequeño. Hay momentos en que a uno se le mezcla todo en la cabeza, las emociones y los pensamientos fugaces. Estos últimos me preocupan más: uno a uno parecen inofensivos y, sin embargo, todos juntos conforman un alarido interno que no calla jamás, ni cuando estamos dormidos. Podemos cerrar la puerta de la casa y darle la espalda al firmamento, pero los pensamientos que nos generan esas oleadas de emociones, nos asedian sin remedio.
Cuida tus pensamientos, decía Gandhi, porque se convertirán en tus palabras, tus palabras se convertirán en tus actos, y tus actos se convertirán irremediablemente en tu destino.
Pero, ¿cómo dominar los pensamientos y las emociones?
Las generaciones anteriores, nuestros ancestros, centraron todos sus esfuerzos en la supervivencia física, para ellos la vida se trataba de sobrevivir. Nosotros hemos aprendido a dedicar tiempo y esfuerzo a la higiene, a comer mejor, a protegernos del frío, a combatir enfermedades…, pero cuidar de las emociones parecía una frivolidad, algo que no estaba directamente relacionado con la supervivencia física, con el rendimiento profesional o creativo o con nuestras habilidades sociales.
Sin embargo, y gracias a esa obstinación que nos caracteriza por querer saberlo todo, un día, un pariente lejano de aquellos bichitos prehistóricos, descubrió que en nuestro interior habitaba alguien más, escondido, pero a la espera de ser descubierto: "el inconsciente", y que gracias a él, para mal o para bien, definimos nuestro destino.
Allí en el inconsciente se encuentran todos los sentimientos reprimidos, casi siempre adquiridos durante procesos de sufrimiento, allí están todos los impulsos y deseos que pugnan por salir, una salida angustiante y dolorosa, pero que nos ofrece la posibilidad de libertad.
Mejorar alguna parte de nuestra existencia, implica desaprender lo aprendido, cambiar esa senda física y emocional que trazamos con mil pequeñas elecciones, gestos rutinarios, hábitos, emociones... Poco a poco transformarlo todo. Es una llave de libertad que nos empodera, pero que cuesta, y requiere un grado notable de paciencia, madurez y valentía. Por eso cambiar se nos hace tan duro.
Abrimos viejas cajas polvorientas en busca de un documento, y aparecen entonces fotografías, objetos, documentos, ensayos universitarios..., tan intemporales como inútiles. Nos invade ese atisbo de melancolía recordando amigos, lugares, anécdotas, y lo que en otro tiempo parecía tan importante ahora se torna liviano.
Abrazamos muchas cosas que creemos importantes, incluso aquellas que nos causaron dolor, algo nos impide abandonarlas, porque el ejercicio de la libertad es complejo, y para conseguir que el pasado nos respete y nos deje en paz es preciso sosegar el centro de nuestra existencia. Llega un momento en la vida en el que, el tiempo y lo que creímos dejar atrás, nos alcanza, y para poder avanzar es necesario sobreponerse a la nostalgia. Es imposible evitar cierta idealización de lo que nos ofreció otro tiempo, por eso dejamos cartas y fotografías al resguardo, como un tributo al pasado o a lo imposible. Son un cordón umbilical que nos ata a ese pasado. Si lo piensan bien, es como tener un pequeño cementerio en la casa.
Cuando vencemos el temor a soltar amarras, cuando abandonamos las cosas con las que siempre nos ha engañado la costumbre, sabemos que ha llegado el momento para despedirnos de los recuerdos. Algunas veces les dejamos ir con alegría, pero casi siempre con nostalgia. Nunca dejan de sorprendernos sentimientos y emociones ante ciertos recuerdos y remembranzas, como un susurro del pasado, al que es necesario apagar suavemente como la llama de una vela. Con ciertos recuerdos es mejor dejar correr las aguas del olvido.
Vivir obsesionados por el pasado o por el futuro es algo que se le da muy bien al cerebro, experto en recordar y en prever. Cuando se vive en el presente, incluso en los actos más sencillos, como pelar una manzana o caminar, añade mucha felicidad a la vida de quien lo intenta. Es algo que se le da muy fácil a los niños, que tienen un cerebro inmaduro y logran hacerlo todo con mayor naturalidad.
Cuando uno abandona lo conocido, las pequeñas costumbres, los pensamientos de siempre, los recuerdos... de entrada hay mucha soledad. Cuesta confiar en que llegará algo nuevo que nos alimentará el cuerpo, la mente y el alma. La ironía es que, sólo el que desmenuza, se desprende y confía, puede volver a encontrar. Si no cambiamos nada, nada cambia. De momento seguiremos creciendo como marionetas del complejo y poderoso conjunto de emociones que nos habita, nos mueve y nos arrastra; hasta que las declaramos ciegas. Pero, los ciegos somos nosotros, porque no hemos aprendido a comprender la fuerza de sus mandatos y por eso nos vemos desbordados tantas veces por sus dictados.
No existe un manual de consulta que nos aclare cómo soltar y seguir adelante, por eso nuestras emociones nos hieren y nos sobrepasan.
Hay que encontrar el momento, dejarse llevar, sentir la tristeza por completo, dejar que cale hasta la médula y después abrir las compuertas y dejarla en libertad. Y confiar en lo nuevo que vendrá.
“Siempre somos mejores después de llorar nuestras lágrimas”, dice Charles Dickens, “me encontré mejor después de llorar que antes, más consciente de lo que fui y también desde entonces, más cariñoso. Ojalá hubiese llorado antes…”.
Y es que, en cada una de nuestras tristezas siempre hay algo rescatable.
Los ojos después de las lágrimas, son como la tierra después de la lluvia. El viento hace cantar una vez más a los árboles.
Después de las tormentas, se da uno cuenta que vendrán nuevos amaneceres y que la única manera de reconocerse en la vida es a través de un recuerdo hermoso.
A menudo nos vemos obligados a visitar el pasado o a que sea él quien nos visite, lo mejor es aprovechar la visita para decirle adiós de una jodida vez.
Las tristezas de nostalgia hay que enfrentarlas, sobre todo en este tiempo en el que la depresión parece una epidemia, y vivir en el pasado la nutre. La vida es una aventura que se realiza hacia adelante y cuando uno se instala en el presente empieza a asumir y a superar su pasado.
Cada uno es hijo de sus obras, dice don Quijote.
Para algunos, los recuerdos son caminos bellamente esculpidos, para otros, son una petrificación del pasado, una tumba llevada a todas partes, una tragedia perenne.
Desentrañar los recuerdos y sacudírselos, asusta y duele, pero es un sufrimiento útil, que nos permite emanciparnos emocionalmente y nos pone de cara al futuro.
“Cambia, todo cambia”, dice Mercedes Sosa, los cambios son propios a la existencia humana. El mundo cambia, va a toda velocidad.
El cambio es situacional, nos llega, pero la transición es psicológica. Sólo cuando se desata algo en nuestro interior, es cuando podremos sacar el máximo provecho de esa nueva situación.
Nada puede nacer si antes no muere, cada transición comienza con un final, aunque suene paradójico. Todo empieza en una especie de otoño en el que el mundo parece apagarse. Y eso es lo más difícil, porque todos queremos que el mundo cambie, pero pocos estamos listos para dejar atrás el equipaje que sobra.
Luego viene el invierno, que es como un periodo de calma, de reorientación, en ese momento empezamos a recalcular nuestra ruta.
Todo progreso, personal o colectivo, tiene más que ver con la forma en la que manejamos las transiciones que con lo ambiciosas de nuestras metas. Lo que parece un final no es más que el comienzo de un nuevo ciclo.
Luchar contra lo inevitable, ignorarlo, querer volver al pasado lo único que evitará es la transición, jamás el cambio, nos quedaremos atrás y el mundo seguirá sin nosotros. Crucemos el río, confiemos, porque, finalmente, “así como todo cambia, que yo cambie no es extraño".
Aprenderemos a mirar el futuro sin que nos duela el pasado, encontraremos la manera de cerrar heridas que antes parecían eternas. Abriremos caminos que ni imaginábamos para encontrar el alivio. Y poco a poco iremos soltando amarras.
Construiremos puentes sobre abismos insalvables, nos desprenderemos de todo lo que fuimos y empezaremos a pensar en todo lo que podríamos llegar a ser.
Abrazaremos nuestra nueva vida con todas nuestras fuerzas, porque al fin entenderemos que mientras nos tengamos completos a nosotros mismos, tenemos todo lo que necesitamos para ser felices, sólo hace falta que demos un paso hacia adelante para que se vuelva a abrir el cielo.
Tendremos seguramente momentos en que nos acecharán el cansancio, la desazón, la pereza, la sensación de soledad, de ser una gota de agua en la inmensidad fría…
No pasa nada con que nos equivoquemos, tropecemos o dudemos, hemos logrado sobrevivir gracias a dosis exageradas de optimismo y a la revolucionaria garantía que nos ofrece el futuro: se ha comprobado científicamente que hay vida antes de la muerte.
El pasado puede ser una fuente de sabiduría para las decisiones vitales de la existencia, no permitas que el tuyo se convierta en una larga y pesada sombra que te impida ver las maravillas del presente.
La vida no es sencilla, porque no está hecha a nuestra pequeña y subjetiva medida. Pero hay que afrontarla igual. ¡Qué reto tan extraordinario resulta intentar abrazarla y reconciliarla entera!
Hello darlings! Today's story was brought to you by Stella! Darling thank you so much for all your support!
Prompt: Pride of Place
Tilsie knew what she looked like.
She as a short, chubby cook, with hair that was fluffing out of her flour-dusted braid. Her shoes were sensible, and her dress was simple, with only a little embroidery around the hems to mark her position as the pastry cook of the whole castle. Her arms were thick with muscle, and her face was closer to round than it was to fine-featured.
When one was the chosen lover of the most beautiful woman in the world, such comparisons were inevitable, and while Atteila had made her opinion on Tilly’s body very clear, others were not so kind. Tilly knew she was a pretty woman, but she was the kind of pretty that married the miller down the road and put out a dozen children, not the kind that fell in love with a princess and spirited her and a prince out of a castle.
Now, however, it seemed that there was no time to indulge her own insecurities. Atteila and Hanver were counting on her. She couldn’t let them down.
So Tilly hastily pulled her hair free of her braid, shook as much of the flour out as she could, and shook out her skirts. There were some benefits to being clearly of the peasant stock. No one would mistake Tilly for a royal. She never thought she would be grateful for that.
The stables weren’t deserted. A pair of ragged men were rolling dice on a barrel, lazily guarding a handful of soldiers who sat in a line, bound and bruised from what had clearly been an attack they could not withstand. Tilly made eye contact with the nearest, a man named Nezza, who sometimes came to the kitchens when he had a free moment. Tilly slipped him the pastries that weren’t nice enough to serve the nobles, and in return, he went with her maids down to meet food deliveries for the kitchens.
His eyes went wide, but Tilly put a finger to her lips and eyed the two men, who hadn’t noticed her yet.
She wasn’t a fighter, but for Atteila, she would fight anyway.
Serving girls were never a threat. She didn’t walk like a soldier, or wear armor that would clank along as she walked. Skirts weren’t terribly convenient, but they were quiet.
The stove that warmed the stables was close to hand. The stove itself was cold, which was normal for summer, but there was always a small stack of firewood beside it. She took up a hefty branch, took to long steps out of hiding, and brought the branch down on the head of the nearest man. He dropped, unconscious in moments, and his friend staggered back, his eyes wide. He grabbed for his sword, but Tilly, armed and strong with terror, bashed him too. He tried to block, but bakers had strong arms, and he was off balance.
“Remind me never to annoy you, Miss Tilly,” Nezza said when she dropped her branch to untie him. “How did you get here? What are you doing here?”
“No time, are there more of them in the stables?” Tilly asked hurriedly and moved to the next soldier as soon as Nezza’s hands were free. He got to work on his feet and was soon raiding the two fallen men for their weapons. “How many came in the gates?”
“Close to fifty. A proper fighting force,” Nezza said grimly. He moved to the door and froze. “Get down; There’s someone in the bushes!”
“I know!” Tilly said and yanked him back inside before she hesitated. “You’re loyal, right? To His Majesty and the princess?”
Nezza narrowed his eyes at her but nodded slowly. Tilly waited another moment until the rest of the soldiers nodded too.
“Right,” she said, and whistled, three short notes that carried further than anyone expected. Perfect for catching the attention of a maid in a noisy kitchen. Or for calling two royals out of hiding. “I brought some friends from the kitchens.”
“Princess Atteila,” Nezza whispered, and knelt when Atteila and Hanver ducked into the stable. Atteila reached for Tilly’s hand and pulled her close when Tilly took it. “We feared you lost. How…?”
“We were in the kitchens when the attack came,” Atteila explained and pulled him to his feet with her free hand. Hanver joined the soldiers in getting everyone untied. “Tilly took us out through the scullery and into the gardens before we could be captured. Is there word of my father, the king?”
“None, your highness,” Nezza said, clearly uncomfortable but the highest-ranking soldier in the room. Two of his fellows dragged the men Tilly had knocked out into one of the stalls and tied them tightly. “We were taken before we could raise the alarm. Please accept our humblest apologies for our failure.”
“I would not expect any ten men to hold against fifty,” Atteila told him kindly, and squeezed Tilly’s hand. “We must retake the castle or escape, but I know nothing of war. Is the castle lost?”
“We outnumber the ragged lot a dozen to one if we can get to the barracks,” Hanver suggested, the only one of them who had actually been to war, and who had, despite his father’s opinion, a decent head for tactics. He shrugged one shoulder when Nezza looked at him questioningly. “The castle has a large number of soldiers assigned here on rotation. They must have been blocked into their barracks or they would have already taken the castle back. So where are the barracks?”
Her part done, Tilly wrapped her arms around Atteila and held on tight.
Perhaps it wasn’t so bad to be the one who faded into the background. Now, they might just have a chance to fight back.
Summary: Eddie Munson/Reader, a/b/o dynamics; Reader assumes Eddie is a Beta
Eddie Munson is a Beta; it’s why everyone is so relaxed around him, why despite his odd nature he seems to always make friends. You know the DnD group he’s formed is mostly Beta’s; most of Hawkin’s is; while Alpha’s and Omega’s aren't rare or strange to see in town it’s definitely not the most common and not many are open about their presentation. Which includes you; being an Omega isn’t something you’ve told anyone; even your friends assume you’re a Beta.
“Y/N; you okay?” Dustin frowns at you and you nod, standing up to let him sit in the seat; you know it’s where he normally sits in class; he preferred the window and you weren’t going to deny him it.
“Leave her be Dustin.” Eddie’s voice isn’t unwelcome, you're just confused, maybe he saw you slumped over, but he normally wouldn’t say anything.
“Eddie, it's fine..” You wince a little when your trip, rolling your ankle as you try to side step.
“Leave her Dustin.” It comes out as more of a growl and you shiver, looking at Eddie properly. He looks angrily at Dustin, a glare you've never seen on his face.
“Sorry Eddie.” Dustin doesn't look annoyed; in fact he looks a little smug and you debate asking him what's going on.
You catch him after class and nervously look around for Eddie before tapping Dustin on the shoulder to ask him.
“Earlier? Oh Eddie’s just been in a kind of grumpy mood; something about the scheduling issues with the next DnD game.”
“Oh, is there anything I can do to help?” You aren’t sure why you’ve said that; you know you can’t do anything for the rest of the week; not with your heat coming up. Dustin laughs a little.
“Actually yes; there is something; could you check up on him later? He’s pretty snappy at me; well any of the DnD club so sending you is our best bet to not get our heads bitten off.”
“Of course; I’m glad I can help a little.” Dustin nods and still has the smirk from earlier on his face.
“Eddie hey; are you alright?” You nervously approach him while he’s sitting on the grass, a notebook in his lap; he slams it shut and nods up to you.
“I’m fine Y/N, you okay?”
“Y/N?” Eddie frowns a little when you stumble into him; your head has been spinning for the past five minutes; and you just want to hold onto something steady so you grip onto his vest; the denim is thick and you feel it anchoring you to the ground. Eddie makes sure you’re still standing and nudges your shoulder; clearly alarmed when you sway more, his arm wrapping around your shoulders to support you.
“Sorry; dizzy.” You mumble and Eddie carefully walks you away from the school grounds, his hand rubbing against your shoulder. You realize you’re slowly making your way to what you recognise as the trailer park he lives in.
“Are you alright Y/N?” You can hear a slight panic in his voice and you sluggishly nod. You realize he’s been asking you the entire time you’ve been walking; you hadn’t responded. You recognise the trailer he’s standing in front of with you and you keep your hands tangled in his clothes trying not to fall over.
“Yeah just a little, you know; heat issues.”
“Heat issues. Yeah; okay; wanna come crash at my place.” He mumbles, you can hear more nerves in his voice and you nod again, trying to assure him you don’t mind anyone making comments about you being in his house; the fact you’re already standing outside sort of destroys any argument he could have thought of.
He still seems a little annoyed at you for some reason and you try to brush away your nerves as pre-heat issues. You still hadn’t figured out why he was so upset; why he seemed tense and annoyed, especially snapping at Dustin when he’d tried to help you.
“So why me?” He tilts his head at you where you’ve already curled on his bed.
“You’re safe.” You mumble, eyes darting around, trying to take everything in that’s around his room.
“Safe? As opposed to dangerous?” Eddie seems tense and you nod, before shaking your head.
“I mean like other people I’ve come into contact with, who know I’m an Omega haven’t been the kindest to me; it’s normal for an Omega; especially one with irregular heats.” You’re overexplaining but the frown that’s developing on Eddie’s face seems to make you want to calm him more.
“The only person I’ve had problems with is Jason, he’s an Alpha and-”
“Jason as in Jason Carver?” He growls a little, you knew he had a rivalry with him; well Jason seemed to have an issue with him at least.
“Did he hurt you?” You can see the way his back tenses.
“No he just..” Eddie scowls; sitting next to you on his bed.
“Y/N did he hurt you. If anyone..”
“Eddie I’m okay; he didn’t do anything; just called me a freak.” You placate him, but Eddie is still frowning and you bump your shoulder against his, trying to get him to smile.
“Eddie; he’s just like that, you know he thinks everyone is less than him..” You try to reason but Eddie still looks annoyed so you try to playfully shove him off of his bed. It sort of works; he’s unbalanced, but manages to grab onto the bed and you to keep himself steady. You’re surprised that you haven’t hit the floor, and you’re more surprised at how close Eddie is.
You blink slowly; your pre-heat senses throwing everything into overdrive; you swear Eddie’s scent has changed; what used to be a faint whiff is the only thing you can smell.
“Eddie, you smell good.” You mumble; not expecting the blush on his face.
“Could say the same about you..”
“I just smell like an Omega.” You grumble a little, sitting up slightly; Eddie still doesn’t let you go. You don’t squirm away from him; trying to figure out what has changed about his scent; why it’s affecting you so much.
“Eddie; I think my heat is a little further than I thought…. Eddie?” You glance up, a little shocked to see his pupils huge; he huffs through his nose and you squirm a little, his hands tightening around you.
“Eddie; what’s wrong…” You don’t really know what you’re saying; you know what’s wrong. Eddie Munson is an Alpha; and he’s in rut.
themes; modern aus, oral, established relationships, face-fucking, light teasing, cursing.
nsfw content | +18 only | minors dni.
when diluc had arrived home from a long day at work he had expected to fumble with that damnable alarm clock before getting a couple of hours of shut-eye before going back to his job. he hadn’t, however, planned on your proposal - which was something that you had been cooking up ever since he left for his nightshift. your proposal was that you’d be his alarm clock. the deal was so simple, to let you wake him up with kisses all over his body, all the way down to his... needless to say, the tantalizing idea alone caused him excitement which led to him agreeing; besides, you were far better than any cold, metallic machine that's ringing was the stuff of nightmares; however, while it was a simple idea in concept, now that it was time to execute such an idea his mind was completely blank except for his willingness to begin. he sat, propped up, half-awake, watching you with wide doe-like eyes as you kissed your way down his shirtless torso. your hands were already cupping his half-hard cock through his underwear as you smiled upon arriving at the last article of clothing he was wearing.
“your face is as red as your hair.” your words caused him to cover his face with his forearm and you couldn’t help but giggle at the sight of your blushing lover. “ah, so cute.” it was so much nicer to see him blushing and embarrassed instead of stressed-out and exhausted. you positioned yourself in-between his legs before slowly pulling his underwear down in an almost agonizing yet satisfying way. now with that little obstacle out of the way, his perfectly hard and ready-to-be sucked dry dick was out in the open. you hummed your enthusiasm since his body was clearly showing you his and even the chilly air hadn’t affected how turned-on he was; however, you did notice a small shiver run across his body, so you comforted him quickly, “don’t worry, it won’t be cold for long.” you clicked your tongue upon hearing a soft whimper from him, his eyes still covered by his forearm.
and with that comment, you began your task to both warm and wake him up. to start, you kissed the tip before moving your lips down the shaft, pressing against the skin in a series of light kisses. once you finished kissing all the way down, you brought yourself back up with gentle licks, tasting his cock as you went while warming it up with your saliva. you noticed his lip quiver and, just to make sure, you asked, “does it feel good?”
“g-good,” he responded before you even finished your question. with his confirmation, you began licking just under the head, which caused a lovely reaction from him in the form of squirming and hot, deep gasps accompanied with slight yet soft moans. you steadily brought the head into your mouth, letting it get used to the heat before releasing, licking once again around and underneath the head while your hands clasped together to stroke the base.
“if you keep teasing like that-” his barely audible voice had a shake to it which you liked hearing from the usually straight-forward and stern man.
“you’ll come? oh, we can’t let that happen before it gets a good feel of my mouth.” you taunted.
“w-wait are you going to take it all in- ah!” he groaned loudly, suddenly gripping the bedsheets below with both hands as, with a snicker, your whole lips wrapped around the tip of his member before sliding the length inside your hot mouth. your tongue danced with delight as you brought your mouth up from his length before plunging back down, sucking determinedly as you went. the groans from the otherwise soft-spoken man along with his pulsating cock and slightly-salty precum were all enough to know that you were making him feel damn good, which, in return, made you feel damn good as well.
you kept your pace steady even while he wriggled around underneath you. to see how much pleasure just your mouth alone caused him brought you glee, and you smiled around his dick while going back down on it, a long groan following your movements all the way down. as your head bobbed back up once more you felt his legs try and close in around you. he said something in a faint hiss that you weren’t able to understand; however, you immediately realized it must’ve been a warning of his orgasm as he released his load into your mouth. your eyes widened, surprised by the sudden mouthful you got, but you were far from unhappy - no, seeing him, his back arched, jaw opened wide, and the softest little growl coming from his throat as he orgasmed inside you was a sight to behold. you continued to suck and lick while he came, wanting to taste every last drop of him. he no longer was squirming from your sucking but instead laid perfectly still, his legs squeezing around your body as his moans started to become quieter and less frequent. with one last swallow, you pulled yourself off of him, a trail of saliva still connecting your lips and the tip of his cock before breaking. his chest rose and fell with heavy breaths as you moved to cuddle beside him, kissing his bicep as you laced an arm around his. once you settled down he asked you in a quiet voice, “can we stay in bed a few more minutes?”
“i think your alarm clock can allow that.”
at the start, kaeya had handled his job’s stress quite well. he’d come home and, in an overly dramatic yet fun way, tell you all about his day and what he might have ‘accidentally’ overheard from his coworkers or even boss. however, his attitude soon changed as the work he was assigned became more paper-based and less people-based - at least, this new workload should only last a few months according to his boss; however, even though it was temporary it affected him negatively. you noticed that his mood had become sour to the point where you rarely ever saw him smile or make sarcastic comments anymore. he’d come home and complain about the paperwork and how his boss constantly was nagging him about how many assignments he finished in a day. often, he’d bring his work home with him and try to get his numbers up instead of doing any of the things he used to enjoy. this new routine of work, eat, work, sleep, repeat had worn him down to the point where seemingly nothing the two of you did could help alleviate his stress.
that is until you got an idea. an idea to help him get through these awful days until his work went back to normal. you’d give him something special every single morning that would aid in relieving any leftover stress from work and, hopefully, help him get through the next day. of course, as soon as you brought this idea to his attention he readily agreed, never shying away from an opportunity of exploring new sexual activities with you. the way you intended for it to happen involved him relaxing and letting you be the initiator who did all the work; but, the first morning showed that he just couldn’t keep his hands off of you.
the first morning went by helping him wake up with a much-needed blowjob, although he was half-awake before you even began since he was far too aroused to stay asleep for long. since you were the one in control currently, your movements were slow as you purposely teased his cock with your tongue by sliding it down his stiffening shaft, all the while not taking your eyes away from his own. you didn’t stop your descent downward, bringing your tongue against one of his balls while cupping the other softly in the palm of your hand, letting the warmth envelop it. you watched his reaction, his breath hitching in his throat as you dragged your tongue upward, letting the testicle jiggle slightly from the movement. you couldn’t help but grin against the sensitive skin that your tongue and mouth were toying with, all the while making sure the other got some time with your hands. of course, all this attention to his testicles was making his dick jealous and a few drops of precum that dripped down onto your nose and cheeks let you know that it was time to give the main attraction more attention. with a few kisses goodbye to his balls, you licked your way back up his dick, stopping to flick your tongue around in circles at the head before stopping to smirk at him, “what a perfect little plaything you are for my mouth.” you brought a hand up to grasp his length gently, using your finger to play with the frenulum which caused his whole body to jerk and toes to curl, a little gasp escaping from him. “just a dick for me to enjoy.” he raised an eyebrow at you, a smile dancing on his mouth as you felt brazen from your taunts - usually, he was the one to tease and taunt you, but for now you wanted him to think of anything but work, and if being your plaything, your cock to suck, would keep his mind away from the stressful day to come, then so be it. once he knew his place you removed your finger from his frenulum before gradually taking him in, letting your mouth feel everything as you go: the texture, the veins, the taste, all welcome inside of you. you started off leisurely, your hands holding onto his lovely thighs while your head slid down, swallowing his dick entirely in your mouth in one go before pressing against his thighs to help yourself push back up - all the while making sure your tongue lapped and felt every inch it could access.
once his dick became slicker, your motions became quicker, and you felt his fingers run through your hair as you slurped around his cock. his breathing was speeding up by the minute and you wondered if he was close; but that thought quickly disappeared as, suddenly, he grabbed your shoulders, pushing you off with a wet ‘pop’ sound. you weren’t ready to stop, your mouth felt empty without his dick or seed and you let out a small whine of disapproval. he chuckled at your whine, standing up from the bed with his hard, wet cock in his hand. “want it? c’mon, get on your knees, love, and i’ll give it all to you.” ah, he was definitely wide-awake now. you cleared your throat and eagerly slid off the bed and onto your knees, wanting his cock in your mouth already. he smirked down at you, letting you know who was in charge now by softly slapping his cock against your cheek which caused a mixture of your own saliva and some of his precum to stick to your face. “open wide~” he said in a sing-songy voice. you did as you were told and opened your mouth, pleased with the thought of him thrusting into your throat to make himself orgasm, even if that wasn’t what you had in mind when you first planned this exchange. without much pause, he stuffed his dick into your pretty little mouth. he sternly gripped the back of your head and, once he made sure both you and he were stable, he thrusted into your mouth while also pushing your head forward onto his dick. you writhed from the thrust, tears forming in the corners of your wide eyes as you felt the tip of dick that you had kissed and licked every-so-lovingly press into the back of your throat. he watched you with adoring eyes as you tried to take him all in without choking around his girth. after a while of sitting still, letting you get used to it being so deep inside, he pulled his hips backward, patting your head as he let out a sigh, “what did you say earlier? just a dick for you to enjoy, right? well, then, enjoy it in its entirety - all the way down your throat.” you gave him a nod, bracing for the next couple of thrusts which came faster than before now that the two of you were comfortably situated.
after a little while, his own thrusts were accompanied with grunts that escaped through his clenched teeth. “ready?” he asked, his hips bucking slightly into your mouth without his prompting. you looked up at him, giving a slight nod in his direction. he smiled down at you, patting your cheek, “good baby,” with that, his thrusts became wild as each thrust felt like he was testing to see how far back he could get. every single time he went further and rougher and you wondered if you’d reach your limit before he orgasmed but, with one final thrust, he came. one hand gripped the back of your head, some of your hair held tightly in his grip as he kept you still, shooting his cum into the back of your throat. you choked around his cock, gripping his thighs with both your hands, nails digging into his flesh, a few tears dripping down your cheeks and smearing with the dried precum still there. obediently, you did not move away as he gently pulled his hips back and forth, rubbing his orgasm out entirely using just your mouth alone. a shudder rocked his whole body and you noticed his knees buckled ever-so-slightly. once he was finished using your mouth, he pulled his dick out, not even a drop of cum left on the tip.
he dropped back onto the bed behind him, pulling you up into his lap so that he could cuddle with you and kiss you all over. he wiped the small amount of mess that had been left on your cheeks and chin before wondering out loud about your little arrangement: “if i can have this every day then surely i can get through this tough spot at work. and if you don’t think you can take me every day in that smug little mouth of yours, well, there are other ways to play with you until it’s ready again.”
a mixture of the coldness of an empty bed, curse words whispered under one’s breath, and the creaking of old floorboards underfoot caused you to awake from your light slumber; however, you weren’t surprised. no, you weren’t surprised at all when you saw his shadowed outline barely illuminated by the streetlight outside your tiny bedroom window. tartaglia was pacing back and forth, whispering to himself so quietly that you couldn’t make out a single word. you watched him, part of you wanting to try and comfort him as you’ve done in the past, but the other half of you just wanted to bury your head back into your pillow for you knew that he’d just shrug off whatever help you tried to offer him. this occurrence had become regular ever since the two of you moved into this hovel you both called home. just to afford such a crummy apartment you had to take on multiple jobs and he, well, the only thing you knew about his job was that he called it ‘unsavory work’, but it ultimately paid far more than your multiple jobs combined, and yet, it still wasn’t enough. it never was. when he first started working he faked his mentality so well; always putting on a small, mischievous grin and while seemingly keeping his spirits high, but as the months went by and the two of you continued to try to save up enough to find a different place and different work the light in his eyes dimmed. but even on days when he came home with a limp in his step and new scars and bruises across his body, he continued to keep you in the dark about his emotional state. only at night, behind closed doors, when he thought you were asleep and the nightmares became too much, he’d let whatever he bottled up out in small, quiet bursts.
tonight, though, seemed worse than most. so, giving in to the angel-on-your-shoulder, you decided to try and comfort him instead of going back to bed. he was by your side as soon as he became aware that you were awake, sitting on the bed next to you, rambling apologies for waking you up. you gave him a small kiss to show it was alright, and he smiled as usual, but when you tried to ask if there was anything wrong he cut you off with a short-yet-stern comment about how he was fine and didn’t wish to discuss his own well-being since only yours mattered to him, after all. ignoring his lies, you traced the bags under one of his eyes gently with your thumb. as you did this, his grin disappeared, and he took your hand in his, bringing it away from his exhausted face. “you know you can tell me anything that’s bothering you, right?”
you were met with silence. you wished this was a rare occurrence, but you had gotten used to either silence or empty answers to your direct questions. with a weary sigh, you pulled away from him, turning your back to him as you lay down on the bed once more. you waited to see what he would do, and, after a few minutes, you felt the bed dip as he laid beside you without a single word. the only sounds you could hear were the buzzing of the streetlight outside and the distant barks of a dog, but the otherwise tense silence was eating away at you. every second felt like an eternity as you kept replaying different arguments, different nights, different discussions, replaying all of them in your head and you began to wonder if you could’ve done anything better. but the more you thought about the situation the angrier you became - at yourself, him, his job, the damn hellhole you two were stuck in - not to mention it felt like the air was becoming hotter by the second and all you wanted was to feel him against you like in the past. you could’ve continued to lay there and let the anger boil and fester as you’ve done before and let another night become meaningless, but instead, you turned to him and whispered, “i don’t want us to go to bed angry.” it took him but a moment before he turned to face you and, without speaking, he pressed his lips to yours.
for a few seconds, it felt like old times again, back when you two regularly spoke and told each other everything. but, just as you began to enjoy the kiss, he broke away from you. you stayed still, your head tilted slightly, mouth ajar, and he looked at you sadly. “i’m not angry. i could never be angry at you.” he closed his eyes, shaking his head slowly, “but you have every right to be mad at me.” your mouth shut into a grimace at his comment - didn’t he understand you weren’t mad at him but mad that he kept trying to hide whatever was eating him away from you. your eyes narrowed, trying to think of what to say or what the right thing to say in this situation would be but your thoughts were coming up empty. without knowing what to say you decided that maybe words weren’t the answer in this situation and, before he nor you realized what was happening, you pushed your own mouth against his, grabbing a tuft of his hair in your hand while pulling on his shirt, forcing him back down on the bed. he wasn’t allowing words to comfort either of you, so instead you’d see if actions could. his hands pulled you closer to him, but instead, of leading the kiss into a full-on make-out session, you broke it so that you could pin his arms above his head, feeling a brief exhilaration upon seeing him below you and under your control. you nibbled across his jawline before letting your teeth sink into the side of his neck, his nails trying to claw at the hands that kept him pinned as he gasped out loud. you made sure that your actions would leave a noticeable mark before kissing the reddening area, licking at the teeth marks you had left. once satisfied, you sat up, straddling him, your breaths hotter and heavier as he stared up at you with half-lidded eyes.
with his eyes on you, you began to take your own shirt off. no need to beat around the bush here, you were overheated and needed something to aid in releasing your frustration, and pleasuring him was the quickest way to do that. “this will relieve some pint-up stress for you, at least, for a day or so. since you won’t open up to me about your feelings... it’s the one thing i can think to do to help you since you won’t talk to me. if you want to, of course.”
“go ahead. we haven’t done anything in a while, due to my... work and the... toll it takes on me, from time-to-time.” upon hearing him say ‘from time-to-time’ you scoffed, knowing he suffered far more than that. still, that was the most he had told you about his work and how it was affecting him in a long time. while you wondered if he’d say anything more, your fingers practically moved on their own, hooking underneath both his pants and underwear’s waistband, tugging on them to show him what you wanted. without speaking, he lifted his hips up and you lifted yourself onto your knees so that you could yank his clothes down to his knees with a little grunt. now that he was exposed and relaxed against the bed one more, you leaned down, taking his cock into your hands. to get him more excited, you pressed it against your face, rubbing it gently against your cheek, the heat you felt before was growing and you wanted nothing more than to go down on him. his cock twitched from your actions, and you were able to feel his own heat radiating off his member. you smiled at his reaction and the lustful dazed look he was giving you as he watched you start to kiss the head of his dick. his eyes widened with interest as you brought yourself back onto your knees, leaning forward so that you could bring your hand to his face once more. he waited for you to trace the bags under his eyes again or trace the wrinkles he had gotten from the stress of his work, but instead, you pressed your fingers to his lips. wordlessly, he opened his mouth, and you pushed your fingers inside his mouth. he closed his lips around them, curling his tongue around each finger gently and you watched intently. once your fingers were coated with his saliva you pulled them out. you leaned back down and brushed the tips of your now wet fingers against his cock before wrapping your hand around the base, stroking gently. while your hand stroked, the other explored his body - something you hadn’t done in a long, long time. you let your fingers feel every inch of his skin, the bumps, freckles, moles, bruises, scars new and old that decorated him, all beautiful in your eyes. upon feeling him thrust his hips against your hand you realized that your stroking and tracing had caused his cock to jump to life. he no longer was watching you and had turned his head to the side; his mouth was open just enough to let a little drool trickle from the corner of his lips. he was ready for you, and you were ready for him.
once done exploring his torso and thighs, you brought your lips to the tip. he was already leaking precum, and you lapped at the salty liquid before wrapping your lips around the head. your cheeks were puffed, full of his hardened cock. it was difficult to maneuver your tongue around his dick while it was in your mouth due to the size, but you tried your best. you held onto the base, stroking gently while beginning to bob your head. occasionally, you would bring one hand to stroke his balls, or even flick them to cause a jerk reaction from him and a sharp moan which only made you snicker against the member deep in your mouth. once feeling the need to pause, you sucked a breath in, your mouth closing in around him as you waited a few seconds, resting before starting once more. you noticed that he was now looking at you again, a hand covering his mouth, stifling his moans. your eyes locked as you continued to bob your head up and down, stopping only to rest with his dick still deep inside your mouth, pressed against the inward of your cheek. all the while, your other hand was cupping his balls, making sure to not neglect them. he moved his hand away from his mouth quickly, his moans echoing loudly in the room now that they were no longer being stifled. “n-no, i’m coming, wait-!” he pressed his palm against your forehead, pushing you off his cock just before squirting his cum onto your face in a failed attempt to come elsewhere. his whole body trembled around you, his hand sliding down to your cheek, his nails scuffing the skin just barely. “s-sorry...” he stuttered out before clenching his teeth. a little smile crossed your face and you shook your head while watching his lovely o-face disappearing, the expression only made your lower region tingle with want. you licked your lips of the mess that was on them, but he spoke hastily in response, “ah, no, wait, let me help you clean up.” his voice was more stable than before as his orgasm began fizzling out. he moved to stand, and then joked, “if there’s anything i learned from work, it’s about cleaning stains.” your eyes perked up at him - it had been a while since you’ve heard him joke about anything, and his laughter, you hadn’t realized just how much you missed hearing it. perhaps, you thought to yourself as he left to grab a wet towel, with time and continued interest that didn’t include prodding, he’d open up to you in increments.
being a writer is having your search history consist of excessive baby name sites and wikipedia rabbit holes about witchcraft and mythology and murder and having people watch you research the above with growing concern
maybe love can finally stay — lee heeseung. exes to lovers. angst to fluff
synposis. love retests the waters when you and your ex-boyfriend heeseung finally talk about why you broke up in a beach house reunion after putting your love to a rest four years ago (2k words)
It’s 2am and you can’t sleep.
It may or may not be because of the simple fact that you were in a beach house, seven years later in a reunion with your old friends from high school.
And it wouldn’t have been any trouble - it all should’ve been fine. Except for the minuscule detail that your ex-boyfriend whom you’ve known for almost the entirety of your life was present.
Inarguably, you should’ve been able to move on by now, but how can you when everything you see is the slightest reminder of what could have been?
He’s almost everywhere, on the tabloids, on your television, even your co-workers are talking about him, and you find that you can’t escape someone who had claimed a huge part of your life since your first year of high school.
The cool breeze of the ocean is enough to calm your raging thoughts for now.
The moon has quietly taken over the skies, offering you company as you sink into the cold sand, settling with the sound of the waves crashing into the tides. The air is cooler and the breeze stirs your thoughts away for a moment, lulling them to sleep and giving you a short moment to breathe.
Soft whispers are being carried by the wind, and the moon is asking if you’re okay as if it can feel the sharp pain in your sternum. And you want to tell her that nothing’s been fine for a while, and you miss the time when the blanketed sky didn’t remind you of Heeseung’s arms the night he had kissed you for the first time.
It only reminds you of him.
Through nights like this, Heeseung would’ve held you safely in his arms, kissing you over and over under the endless skies and the twinkling stars. His mouth would’ve spoken words of comfort, and you wouldn’t have been feeling this way.
And you think the moon is calling you stupid for being hung up on the boy you’d broken up with years ago, but you reason with her. You ask her, how could one not have loved the greatness in his eyes.
And as if she was granting you one final wish, quiet footsteps are heard, contrasting the crashing of the waves. You think you might be losing your mind when the silhouette draws closer and it reminds you of the familiar form of someone you had once called your lover.
Barely seeing through the darkness, you feel your chest tighten from the way his eyes are so easy to recognize, even in the inky night, and it’s still able to peek through the wall you’d been desperately trying to put up the moment you laid eyes on him again. You couldn’t move, not when he’s moving to sit beside you with his knees brought up to his chest.
“Look, you don’t have to talk to me. We’re all leaving tomorrow, and we can just forget we ever saw each oth-”
“I couldn’t sleep.” is all he says.
He doesn’t tell you that the reason why he can’t sleep is that, through nights of endless stars, he’s reminded of you. He’s reminded of the times he’d tried to reach out after the breakup. The unanswered calls and the unreturned efforts of seeing him when he came home from Seoul.
He’s reminded of when all he could do was chase the love he no longer had.
He breathes intensely, sitting there on the sand, the ocean and the moon and the sky blurring into the background the moment he finally looks at you - the way he’s been avoiding in fear of losing his composure. You don’t catch the way he’s gazing at you as if you weren’t real.
The last time he saw you were through blurry eyes and broken stares, almost four years ago. No one can blame him for thinking that the sight of you so near him might as well be a figment of his imagination.
“Guess your thing for the ocean never left, huh?”
Heeseung’s almost relieved at the thought of constancy. He couldn’t explain the immense emotions that coursed through his veins at the thought that he still knew you. Even after all these years.
Sure, you walked with a broader back now, a new sense of confidence surging through you, and you might have new sleeping patterns, new routines, new taste in music, but you still loved the ocean the same. You still wore your hair up the way you liked when you were with him, still leaving out the peas in your vegetables.
Love was still the same.
“Are you okay?”
He loses himself in your words, and he’s not sure if it’s from the way you said it, but something about the way you were looking at him, with the softest look he’s seen in a while, gives him the confidence to answer your question.
It’s a question he’s heard plenty of times before. It was one his friends (and his members later on when he had told them about you) had religiously asked him when you two had broken up. It’s a question he’s never learned to properly answer, stemming from when he’d overwork himself back in high school, he’s still being asked now. And he still doesn’t have an answer.
But he gives one for you. Albeit not accurately.
Heeseung can’t tell you that his soul is not satisfied that it has lost you. It’s not right if he says he’s been wondering, for the past four years, if things would have been easier if you were still by his side. Would it be okay if he told you that there’s been a burn settling in his heart that only started sparking again the moment he saw you at the reunion? Could he say he’s been wondering why you two didn’t last?
“I will be.” It’s an honest answer.
Heeseung knows he’d be fine in time. And you agree silently with his words, mirroring his position and bringing your legs towards your chest, chin tucked gently on it as the wind continues to blow through the two of you.
“Why didn’t you fight harder?”
He catches you off guard, and it’s a question you thought you always knew the answer for. And the look he gives you is almost as if he’s not expecting an answer, just pleading for relief. Anything to finally explain why it had ended the way it did. “I didn’t want to get in the way of your dreams.” It was the memorized answer sitting in the back of your head, but Heeseung’s pleading eyes weren't satisfied.
The break in his voice didn’t disguise the pain he was feeling. Then again, It’s the first time you two had talked about it after the breakup. “You were part of my dream, you know that. We could’ve pushed through anything.”
“I didn’t want it to come to the point where you’d have to choose between being an idol and me. I already knew your answer. And pushing through everything seemed so difficult at the time.” Your voice was a whisper, even when Heeseung needed it to be shouted at him.
“I never said it’d be easy to overcome, but I knew that if we tried, we would’ve been able to make it. You could’ve waited.”
“I didn’t want to put my life on hold. I didn’t know when you were going to come back, or if we’d be the same when you were away in a different city with a completely different lifestyle than mine.” You think he’s said enough, Heeseung’s let out everything he needed to tell you, but you didn’t know the last pain you’d have to suffer was reserved for today.
“I was going to ask you to marry me.”
And the thought that you’d let marriage with Heeseung slip away as quickly as you did with your relationship absolutely breaks you, especially when he’s looking directly at you, shedding tears he wasn’t aware were rolling down his cheeks. The crack in his voice tampered with the peace the evening breeze was trying to offer to the both of you.
You’re made aware of everything you’d decided to let go the moment you walked out on him four years ago and a sob itches at your throat for the life you could’ve had. When the first set of tears escape your eyes, Heeseung’s quick to pull you in his arms, hands finding the familiar path of your back and tracing the patterns he knew were quick to calm you down.
“I didn’t mean for us to end like this.” The words he’s hearing from you are heartbreaking. You sound utterly horrendous, defeated even. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t think we’d end like this either. I just thought we would never end. I thought we’d be able to do anything, follow each other through everything, and that’s that.”
Your heart is a large weight in your chest, and you think the weight of it would drag you straight down to the bottom of the water and drown you. It hurt you to know he was so willing to make things work with you.
“I’m so sorry.” He shushes you, bringing your cheeks in his hands and using his thumb to wipe away the tears that refuse to stop running.
“I’m proud of you, you know, for all that you’ve accomplished. I just want you to know that I’m so proud of you for reaching your dreams.” It’s the only time you’ve said those words out loud and it almost felt cathartic to finally be able to tell him how proud you are of him, especially with how much effort he’d put into his passion.
It's the first smile of the night, even when it’s mixed with messy tears and puffy eyes, and he smiles right back at you. Heeseung’s glad that, in a way, your heart still thinks about him. And he's left to wonder if you notice the way he kisses the necklace you had bought him on your first year anniversary every time he’d perform - without a fail. His lips always make contact with the metal, a reminder of the person who stuck with him through cruel training and took care of him when he overworked himself.
The feeling of you close and the sight of a smile on your lips is something Heeseung never wants to go away. “I wish we could start over. But the universe just doesn’t work that way, huh? Soon, we won’t see each other. We’ll leave this place, and that’ll be it.”
“But what if we could try again? What if this time we wouldn’t end?”
You notice how his eyes travel from your eyes to your lips, then back at your eyes. And the sight of his quivering lips, the most vulnerable you’ve seen him, has you sucking your breath.
“Do you think we’d be able to make it?”
The thumping of your heart grows louder when he’s leaning in, and you can feel the moon and the wind trying to calm the both of you down. When his forehead touches yours, you’re convinced you no longer knew how to breathe. “We’re worth a try.”
When his hand finds home on your cheeks for the second time that night, your eyes flutter closed and you allow your lips to meet in a slow burn of yearning. It’s slow, and deep, every possible emotion expressed in the way you two were kissing each other. Your touches take precedent in both your minds until all you know is each other.
In the distance somewhere, someone is singing at the two lovers, kissing under the same night that had blanked the same trees when they shared their first kiss, the same endless stars, the same people (albeit a little grown now).
In the distance, hope is revisited, and love gets a second chance.
note. posting something before exams next week :]
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