#I cannot raise myself too it and I cannot quench it so fuck what is the point

[groupwest]

.

#So it’s me and my bfs one year anniversary today... can someone tell me what to do and how to do it #I want to be free and happy..... we are too different right now #it’s just not working #there are too many things I have learned about him that I just cannot stand #even just simply the way he talks about his mother #or anyone he doesn’t understand #the anger #we cannot fit together like this. we do not fit #I don’t and I never did have the strength to meet your hostility #I cannot raise myself too it and I cannot quench it so fuck what is the point #love is all too much. too encompassing. it’s all too much and I have never ever been enough #I feel like a wretch and I wish I’d never let myself do this. I feel so stupid

[homesoutofhuman]

Scarlet- Hannibal X Reader Part 2

A/N: I’m beyond touched by the comments on the first part of this story, I never thought something so dark and deep from my head would resonate with anyone else so here is another part, hope I didn’t mess it up, this is such a tricky subject.

Summary: You’re seeing a psychiatrist, Dr Lecter for your issues with sex, loneliness and hyperfixatons. Will he be your cure, or have you just met the man who will only make things worse?

Warnings: D/S themes, choking, slapping, smut...also this is way too long.

Hannibal opens the door to you and stands to the side so that as you walk by him into his office you’re forced to brush against his chest. You look up to find him watching you closely, analysing you. He shuts the door with a sharp noise and grabs your hand, bringing it to his nose and taking a deep inhale.

You stand, rooted to the spot, feeling your heart thundering in your chest. He releases your hand and shakes his head at you in judgement, and you avoid his gaze, thinking of every night since your text conversation that you’ve been furiously trying to get yourself off in the hope of quenching your insatiable hunger for this man. (You’re not sure if Hannibal is smelling your blood or your arousal, or both.)

From his boldness in touching you, you assume that he will bring up the incident straight away, but he follows his usual routine of asking about your week, an attempt to break the ice on previous sessions, but today an attempt to break the heated tension.

It doesn’t work. Having him so near to you, looking taller and broader than ever in an expensive tweed suit, the purples and reds if the fabric bringing out the tawny streaks in his eyes, is torture. You fidget in your seat while Hannibal scratches his pen against his pad, monitoring your nervous movements. Suddenly you’re angry.

“Dr Lecter…”

He doesn’t look up.

“Hannibal….” you whine, a desperate noise from the back of your throat, the kind you’ve been making every night this week.

His eyes are on you then. “Yes we should discuss…” he trails off and you pray he won’t apologise, please anything but that.

”...it was unprofessional of me and I have considered transferring you to another psychiatrist.” You wince but he continues steadily, either not observing or not caring to relieve your pain. “In my defence I find myself drawn to you, find you alluring, and I suspect my...proclivities, would align with yours.

“That’s how I was feeling” you whisper, voice tiny. Not daring to trust he is really agreeing with you

“You failed in your assignment.” he nods towards your hands which lay in your lap. Instinctively you clench them together as if in prayer.

“What do you think about? When you pleasure yourself?”

“You.” You say, staring down the barrel of the truth, adrenaline making you brave. “You fucking me.”

Hannibal raises an eyebrow and then you know for sure he is Lucifer in disguise when he calmly responds, “I need more detail than that (Y/N).”

He asked for it. “It’s rough, you’re always fully dressed. Sometimes you rip my clothes. You hurt me…”

Hannibal looks intrigued, and you crave his interest more than any drug.  “How do I hurt you?”

“Choke me, slap me, degrade me by pushing me on my knees.”

“Why do you think you want that from me?”

“I don’t know.”

“I could slap you.”

“Pardon?”

Hannibal moves to sit next to you on the couch. “An unorthodox method but I’ve found those to be effective. I will slap you lightly so you get a taste of what you think you want, then you’ll see, without the mystique it’s nothing so erotic.”

The way he says the word...erotic, you cannot help but sigh. If only he knew, his voice is so much of what turns you on, his accent with it’s smooth purr- a combination of clipped vowels and rich tones, a contradiction so like the man himself - pristine suits with a wild animal inside.

You nod, and he ducks his head to look into your eyes, making sure you are consenting. The angle brings his mouth close to yours, if you tipped forward just an inch you could kiss him. Hannibal seems to be having the same thought, his eyes suddenly dark, flick to your mouth.

“If you think about it, kissing is such an odd behaviour for humans to show affection. Why not, some other way?” his voice is velvet but his touch even softer, Hannibal brings a finger to your cheek and traces a line down to your chin, the path a tear would take.

“I’m sure there’s some...scientific explanation.” you reply, trying to follow the conversation

“Oh there is...apparently it helps us sniff out the perfect mate…”

“And do you like the smell of me?” you joke, an old habit, trying to break the tightness of the moment.

Hannibal brings his nose to your throat, taking an even deeper inhale than before. “You smell of bedsheets and cheap gin...loneliness if that’s not taking poetic license. It’s divine.”

You feel his tongue on your skin and have no choice but to close your eyes, even though you want to see, you want to be aware this is actually happening and not another of your fevered dreams.

“Are you going to hurt me, Hannibal?”

“Only a little…”

He cradles your head with one large palm and you nuzzle it briefly. His mouth quirks with a smile even as he scolds you gently. “Focus now.”

A stab of fear before you tell yourself, he’s a doctor, he knows what he’s doing. When he slaps you it doesn’t even hurt - the base of his fingers hitting the fleshy part of your cheek, perfectly planned to be benign it’s just a taste, a warning. Still, the flash of sensation is alarming, nothing you’ve ever felt before and it’s exhilarating to feel something new, a staccato on the frequency after years of monotone.

Hannibal is waiting for your response, his body language is tense, and you can tell that you’ve finally cracked that outer shell of his. The man has shown you a side of himself he normally keeps hidden from the world, and now you have the power, the thrill of it is intoxicating.

Holding his gaze you see him take a deep breath, beginning to panic, to cover for his actions. “Ow.” you say simply, bringing your fingers to touch where your skin sings with the warmth of his violence.

Hannibal gapes at you, then starts to chuckle, low and deep and you join him until you’re both laughing loud, the noise echoing around his office.

“What are you?” he murmurs, pressing those thin lips against your reddened cheek. You give an allowance for things lost in translation.

“Just like you.”

“Not like me, you’re, the other side of the coin to me.” Hannibal tilts his head and you see more than a psychiatrists fascination in his eyes. You feel like a butterfly pinned to a board, struggling to survive. It’s liberating.

“You desire me Hannibal, you admitted it yourself….” you dare to move closer, placing your smaller hand on top of his, bring your lips up to the elegant shell of his ear, “scarlet” you whisper and he grasps your hand, giving it a tight almost painful squeeze.

“We could take this treatment to it’s inevitable conclusion.” he says, voice hoarse even as he continues to try and sound professional. Hannibal clears his throat, annoyed at its betrayal and you hide a smile at his reluctance to appear weak. Despite his attempts to the contrary, he’s still just a man.

Your eyes stray to a picture on the wall of his office, the large gilt frame, the flesh of the girl, the feathers of the bird. It’s pure erotic violence makes you grasp at Hannibal’s shoulder, the fabric of his suit jacket unyielding and rough. You need to feel his skin to know he is human and you lay back, opening your legs like Leda.

“Are you going to take me on your couch Hannibal?”

He leans over you, pushing up your flimsy skirt and splaying his fingers over your thighs, clutching them hard enough to leave marks. Your head lolls back against the cushions, exposing your throat to him. Hannibal collars it with the web of his hand, his thumb tapping your carotid artery, his forefinger stroking your jaw.

“Show me….”

“Hmm?” You can feel yourself slipping already, your head growing dizzy as he restricts your oxygen. Hannibal loosens his grip and you slide your hand down your body and into your underwear, not even bothering to protest.

Hannibal moves to get a better view, pushes your head back against the cushions using his hand on your neck and stares into your eyes, watching them grow hazy with pleasure as you rub yourself wantonly.

He takes your hand from between your legs, brings it to his mouth and slides his tongue across the side of your fingers, tasting you. Then he replaces it, directing you with his strong grip, pushing two of your own fingers inside you. Your eyes widen and you gasp, wishing they were his. Hannibal appears to read your mind and nods, his face a mimic of sympathy.

“You think you want me instead?”

“I know I do…” your words are each a single moan as you never stop touching yourself. You’re sweating onto the velvet of his couch and you just don’t care.

“I’m not sure you’re ready for that…”

You make a noise of protest, attempt to reach out and touch him to show you are, but Hannibal keeps you captive, one hand encircling your wrist, fucking you with your own fingers, the other back at your throat.

“Watch what I’m doing...what you’re doing. This sexual act makes us like animals, no better, no worse. Does that bring you comfort?”

You can barely make a sound with him cutting off your airway but force a groan from your throat, ripping it raw. Nothing could be more humiliating than the way he is treating you, and yet you continue, touch yourself just the way you know will make you come hard, but it never felt like this, so visceral, so dangerous, with Hannibal above you, over you, threatening your life and sanity.

“Let it go….” he whispers into your ear, giving your neck one final wring as your body arches violently off the couch, the convulsions spasm your muscles so hard you fear they will be torn.  You hear Hannibal breathing hard beside you as you give in to the darkness, rolling your head on the cushions and moaning as if struck with fever. He relinquishes his grasp on you and lifts you into a more comfortable position, brings you a glass of water and helps you to drink, one hand on the back of your neck, supporting you like a newborn kitten. Slumping against him you pray he won’t push you away, and he doesn’t, lets you rest your head in his lap as he strokes your hair, making soothing noises, almost a lullaby, in a language you don’t recognise.

You turn your head to look up at his handsome profile, whispering, not trusting your voice “What are you saying?”

“Oh, you don’t speak Lithuanian?” Hannibal regards you with wry amusement and you laugh, the tension broken. “Don’t you worry...it doesn’t translate.”

“Teach me…” you urge, feeling soft and boneless, pressing your cheek against the cool metal of his belt.

“Not now…” Hannibal replies gently. “Your hour is almost up.”

Suddenly reality hits you like a cold flinch of water and you sit up, your head spinning. Hannibal grunts with displeasure and steadies you, pulling you back into his arms for a moment. His eyes flick to your mouth and you pray he will kiss you at last, but he resists, instead helping you up and towards the door.

“Next week?” you croak, flushing to realise your throat is sore both from screaming with pleasure and from Hannibal’s choke hold.

He nods and you back out of the room, lifting a hand to wave at him, you wish to signal peace in the motion. When you get to your car you sit for a few minutes, stunned. You press the knuckles of your hands under your eyes and wish you could cry, crave the release of  that pure, innocent emotion. You feel like you’ve left everything behind on Hannibal’s couch, and the emptiness is not as terrifying as you may have imagined.

---------------------

A/N the second: I’ve taken poetic license and put Hannibal’s dining room art in his office (he likes to mix it up). Also I did find a Lithuanian lullaby that is beautiful so I imagine that is what Hannibal was half-singing to her but we shall see...

Shit I forgot the tags! @diditpoof @johnwickthirstclub @thatlittlered @keanuincollars I’m tagging peeps who either asked or I would appreciate your feedback (but don’t worry if not), anyone else wanna be tagged lemme know ILY 

#wtf #hannibal x you #hannibal x reader #i love hannibal because it gives me license to be pretentious #scarlet #thank you for reading i have spent all day writing this and now i don't know what to do

[everlarkficexchange]

By the Book

Author: @hutchhitched

Prompt 94: Smut. Hot, sweaty, passionate, loving, smut. Everlark has to be married and it can only be the 2 of them. No three-somes or switching partners. [submitted by anonymous]

Rating: E

Summary: Peeta’s an author away on a book tour, and his wife Katniss misses him. When he returns, he finds Katniss has been reading a smut book during his absence.

 “Oh my God, Peeta! Listen to this.”

“Kat, sweetheart, I’d rather talk to you.”

“Shhhh! This is fantastic. ‘Esmerelda groaned as he parted her and slid inside, splitting her in two with his girth. She didn’t want to beg, but she couldn’t help it. She needed him to quench the burning fire in her loins with his drenching juices.’ What the fuck? That’s not even worth the dollar I paid for it.”

Peeta chuckles and shakes his head. “You’re right. That’s terrible. Don’t ever let me write something that bad, and stop buying books at garage sales thinking you’re going to find decent literature.”

“Deal,” I agree and throw the book onto his side of the bed. I hate that it’s empty, and I cannot wait for him to get home to me. “How’s the tour going?”

“It’s good. Really good,” he says. “I miss you, though. Wish you could have come with me.”

I roll my eyes and grin when he sticks out his tongue. “You know I can’t. I have a job. We have bills. We just bought a house. It would have been irresponsible of me to chuck it all and follow my husband around the country watching him sign books.”

“You’re just afraid you’ll punch one of the women you’re convinced is in love with me,” he laughs. “They’re not, you know. Besides, I only have eyes for you.”

“They’re not,” I scoff. “Bull. Shit. Bullshit, Peeta James Mellark. You are gorgeous, you write gorgeous books, and women fawn over you wherever you go. The last thing I want to do is rile up your fanbase. We need the income from your illustrious career, and having your wife on your arm doesn’t help sell books.”

“No, but it’d help me not have blue balls every night,” he grumbles. I pout at the phone screen for a second, but he’s not amused.

“Well, in that case…”

After carefully propping the phone of the bureau, I cross back to our bed and turn to face him. I pull on the tie of my robe, and it falls open to reveal the lingerie I bought after he left. It’s lace, sheer, and his favorite color—a lovely muted orange that glows against my dark skin. I know I’ve made the right choice when he stills and releases an elongated moan that makes me shiver.

“Oh, yeah,” he breathes, and I wink at him before crawling onto the bed and getting on all fours.

“I know you’ll be home on Friday, but I thought maybe this might tide you over for the next three days.”

He just nods as I arrange myself and pose for him. By the time we hang up for the night, I’m positive he doesn’t have blue balls, and I stay up half the night reading Esmerelda’s story and envying her for being in the same space as her lover.

****

“Yes, Prim, he’ll be home in a couple of hours,” I repeat into the phone for what seems like the fifteenth time. “We have dinner plans with his family, so I don’t have time to see a movie tonight.”

My younger sister chatters into the phone, but I’m not really listening to her anymore. I’m too busy imagining what’ll happen when dinner with the in-laws is finished, and I have my husband to myself back at our place. Despite mocking the smut book on the phone with Peeta, there were a few things near the end of the work that have inspired interest in learning some new techniques. I mean, really, I’m helping my husband with his craft. It’s a service to the world of literature what I’m planning to do to him.

I’m leafing through the final pages of Esmerelda’s sexual awakening when I hear what sounds like a key jiggling in the front door and immediately cut off Prim. “I’ve got to go. Someone’s here!”

With Esmerelda and well-endowed partner raised in my right hand as a weapon, I sneak toward the entry and screech when Peeta jumps around the corner and yells, “Surprise!” Startled, I throw the book at him, and he yowls when it hits him on his neck.

“What the hell, Katniss?!”

“I’m so sorry!”

He bends down and picks up the book. His brow furrows when he sees the cover. Raising it up so I can see, he’s incredulous when he asks, “You threw smut at me?”

We stand staring at each other for several seconds, and I have no idea how to recover from the surreal nature of his return. There’s clearly no other way to handle this, so I throw myself at him as well and kiss the red welt that’s sprung up on his neck. Dragging him to the living room, I disentangle myself long enough to lay down on the couch and bite down on my index finger.

“No, I threw the book at you. You should be punished,” I tease, and he suppresses his laugh. Before he left town, we did a little role playing with me as a policewoman handcuffing him for lewd talk and attempting to bribe an officer of the law.

“What are you waiting for?” I demand and pull down the collar of my t-shirt to expose the tiny amount of cleavage I have. “Get inside me. We’ve got limited time, and I’ve been waiting for you all day.”

He leans down and bites my earlobe causing a groan to fall from my half-open mouth. He shivers when my breath caresses his cheek, and I tug him toward me, anxious to feel his hardened length.

His stamina just pisses me off sometimes, and today is one of those days. He doesn’t give in to my rush. Not even close. Instead, he pulls me to my feet and backs me against the wall where he cages me in his arms. When I’m steady, he flips the button of my jeans open and slowly works his hand against my belly and under the fabric that separates me from him.

My knees weaken as the tip of his middle finger grazes my swollen lips. I choke on his name when he parts me to slide into the wetness there. He dips and strokes, incessantly, sweetly, softly, until I want to scream. When I finally do, he finds my clit and rubs it—feverishly slowly—until I’m trembling against him and promising him so many dirty things, I’ll be stained for life.

I’m dizzy with need and desperate for the feel of him inside me when he drops to his knees and presses his lips to the skin just above my panties. He breathes on me, searing my skin, and tugs the fabric past my hips and down to my knees. I pull my right leg free, and he palms my calf and pulls my foot to his shoulder. When I’m balanced, he pushes my knee against the wall and dips his head between my legs.

“Oh, hell,” I moan and close my eyes.

Peeta’s mouth moves against me, tasting and sucking, licking and nipping, burrowing deeper and deeper until his tongue’s inside me, touching my core. He growls the way an animal does when it eats something that sates its hunger, but mine only grows.

In and out. Mind-numbingly amazing. And then he mimics what he’s doing with his hands. His lips close over my clit, and heat scorches my insides. My hands tear at his hair, grasping his curls, frantic and greedy for all of him.

I’m incoherent when I climax, swearing and begging simultaneously. I can’t tell what’s from me and what’s his own saliva when he pulls away and looks at me. His mouth is slathered with moisture and his eyes hooded with lust. I’m so turned on, I can’t stay upright, so I slide down until I hit the floor.

“I want to fuck you so hard,” he murmurs, and my eyes flutter shut at the thought of it. I hear rustling, and I force them back open to see him naked and sprawled on the floor. His cock is rigid and weeping, thrusting upward from a thatch of dark blonde hair he grooms just the way I like it.

I know what he wants, and I can’t wait to give it to him. In seconds, I scramble over him and hover a few inches above his chest. Lowering my head, I trace his mouth with my tongue and grin at his choked response. I clean his face and savor the taste. He coaxed that from me, and I want to enjoy it again. His hands grip my hips, and I shift until I find his cock. I reach between us and rub his tip through my slit, covering him until he’s lubed enough to slide right in. I want to go slow, but a little voice gnaws at the back of my mind. We don’t have the luxury of time today.

“We have to meet your parents in thirty minutes,” I remind him right before we join. He groans, and I laugh at the way pain mixes with pleasure—sexual gratification combined with the reminder of familial obligations.

“Dirty move,” he grunts, and I agree. “Dirty…”

“You like it when I’m dirty.”

I rear back and ride him, and he can’t talk anymore. I know what he likes, and that’s what I give him. It’s hard, bruising, and definitely not something we can discuss at dinner later. When he’s almost there, I scramble off him and grab his balls. His cock twitches, throbbing and angry at the sudden exposure. Contorting myself, I lower my head to take him in my mouth while fingering him with my free hand.

He yelps and thrashes, but he loosens just enough for me to penetrate him before his hips jerk violently and he blows. I gag and choke as the mixture of his cum and my saliva slithers in rivulets to puddle against his pelvis. When I pull back, he strokes himself, fluid squeezing between his fingers and over his hand.

“If you’re done, you better get in the shower.” I don’t want him to stop. There’s something soothing about watching him rub his dick, but we need to get ready if we’re going to make our reservations on time.

“I’m canceling,” he insists and fumbles for his pants. He pulls his phone free and unlocks the screen. He dials his dad and mouths to me, “Take off your shirt,” as the phone rings.

“We can’t cancel,” I hiss, but he ignores me.

“Hey, Dad. I’m sorry for the late notice, but Katniss caught a bug today at work. She’s not feeling great. Can we raincheck?” A grin slices across his face, and he wipes his soiled hand across his chest. The smear of his ejaculate on his pecs is too much for me.

Peeta ends the phone call before I have my shirt off, and he whistles as I slowly bare my chest. I didn’t bother to put a bra back on after I changed out of my work clothes, and my nipples harden under his gaze. Suddenly, I’m disgustingly glad my husband’s sex drive is so healthy.

“Table?” he suggests, and I nod. He helps me up and kisses my neck as he backs me toward the oak slab that graces our dining nook. He helps me perch on the edge of the wood and moves between my legs. He’s limp now, but I know it won’t take long for him to recover. Until then, he has plans, and I’m happy to let him fulfill them. I bend my knees and lock them over his hips. I can feel his heat against my pussy when I wrap my arms around his neck.

“I think I can get three inside you tonight.” His voice is husky, and it does things to me.

“I don’t think you can,” I challenge.

There’s just enough space between our bodies for his hand. Long, tapered fingers stroke me, and I catch my breath when one slides inside. His hips pulse along, mimicking what he’ll do when he recovers.

It doesn’t take long before I beg him to fill me tighter. He adds another finger and then a third. I want him deeper, but he curves inside me until I squeal. Sucking sounds mingle with panting, and I relinquish control and let him drive me past the brink as many times as he can. My eyes roll back in my head, and I slump backward onto the table. I can’t tell when he replaces his hand with his cock, but he must at some point.

I’m beyond reason when his pace quickens. He leans over me and drives upward, lifting me off the table with his thrusts. I know we’re loud, but I don’t care. We answer each other; our conversation in a language we only speak together.

I’m filthy when we finally finish. He pulled out and spilled on my stomach just for variety, and the sticky substance pools in warm puddles in several places on my body. He grins and traces patterns on my ribcage until it dries, crusting against my warm skin as a mark of his hold on me.

“And Finnick said we’d never have sex again once we got married,” he scoffs. He shakes his head and kisses both my nipples before finding my mouth and slipping his tongue inside to meet mine.

“If you tell Finnick you painted me with your cum, I’ll divorce you,” I tease and bite his lower lip. “I know he’s your best friend, but that information is off limits. He’ll never let that one go.”

Peeta heaves a gargantuan sigh. Huffing with faux frustration, he agrees to my condition. “Contrary to what you and your lady friends think, men don’t kiss and tell nearly as much as you think we do. I’m positive you’ve shared more with your BFFs than I ever have with Finnick.”

I snort in disbelief. My husband knows I hardly share anything with anyone but him. He’s posturing, and it’s highly amusing.

“You know what I want to share right now?”

“What’s that?”

“A shower. I am disgusting.”

“Disgusting? Covered in my cum? I am offended.” Peeta’s mock outrage makes me laugh, and I drag myself off the table.

“Get your ass in the bathroom, sir. I can’t take this anymore.”

I’m already under the spray when he joins me, and I laugh when he tickles my sides and kisses me on the neck. I love being married to him, and I really love the feel of his artistic hands washing me clean.

“I love you,” he murmurs against my lips, and I repeat his words.

I’m sated and limp when turns off the water, picks me up, and cradles me against his chest. He kisses my temple and carries me to our bedroom where he places me on the bed. He turns off the lights and lights the candles I keep on our bureau before slipping under the sheets and cuddling me to him. His legs intertwine with mine, and his palm grazes back and forth over my breasts.

“I can’t believe you canceled on your parents,” I yawn and close my eyes. I’m worn out, but I know he has more planned for us. I have more planned for him, too, but it seems he’s on a roll. My ideas might have to wait. Esmerelda will understand.

“We’re newlyweds.”

“Still…”

His hand moves from my chest to my stomach, and he trails kisses along my neck and shoulder. I’m soppy and tingling when he finds my slit again. He doesn’t push or rush, but he’s persistent. There’s just enough contact that I can’t quite forget I’m naked with my husband who can’t get enough of my body.

“They want grandkids, eventually. I bet they’ll forgive us,” he jokes, and I hiss as his thigh rubs against my crack. He’s teased me from behind before, but I rear against him. For some reason, the thought of him working me open makes me hotter.

“What I’m thinking about won’t result in kids.” My voice is deep and throaty, and he groans his approval.

Our mouths fuse together for several minutes. We’re skin against skin; connected only as we can be. When he pushes, I pull. When he asks, I open. When he thrusts, I take. When he backs away, I bring him closer. Sweat covers us. My back slides and sticks against his chest. His pelvis smacks my ass repeatedly. His fingers stroke in time in time with his cock, and I can feel him swell inside me.

“Oh my fu—” he groans, and I hold him as tightly as I can. He used to beg me to help him stay together, and he needs me right now. He clenches around me, and I won’t let him go. I fight my climax, but I’m too close. I warn him, but it rips through me and splinters into a million pieces.

It’s several minutes before I’m cognizant again, and the weight of my husband’s body feels delicious. He shifts and pulls free, and I bite my lip as another groan rips from my throat. Every nerve ending screams in the aftermath of our coupling.

“I’m never leaving you again,” Peeta grumbles and drops a sloppy kiss on my chest.

“Ooooooooor, you could go away all the time and come back to this.”

When he chuckles, it rumbles through my torso. He nuzzles under my chin and holds me as his breathing returns to normal. My eyelids droop, and his fingers glance over my rib cage and raise goosebumps on my skin. I love him more than I know how to say, so I don’t. Instead, I curl into him and fall asleep in his arms. I have only good dreams.

#Springtime Edition 2019 #submission #hutchhitched #prompt 94

[theoddcatlady]

Hickey

A great one night stand leaves two things for me: great memories and no strings attached. Bonus points is if there’s no evidence left behind. But sometimes one cannot get lucky enough for that bonus.

“Oooooh, someone got a little action this weekend,” Aisha teased as she slid over to my cubicle on her chair, grinning like a Cheshire Cat.

I laughed sheepishly and rubbed my neck, where the still prominently red hickey stood out from my skin, like a proud signal of ‘I got laid’. “Yeah. He got a lil mouthy,” I said.

Aisha laughed and slapped her knee. “Least someone around here is. Who was it? Was it Ben? Oh my god, Chris, it better have been Ben!”

“No, no,” I waved that off, Ben was straighter than a ruler and I was too impatient to try to change that, “some guy I met at the bar. Sexy as hell, name was uh...” I had to rack my brain for a few seconds, “Claud? Or something weird like that.”

Aisha wrinkled her nose. “Not something I’d imagine screaming, but eh, could be worse. What was he like? Appearance wise, appearance wise, I’m not interested in every dirty detail!” She raised her hands as if she expected to be physically bombarded with tales about exactly how big his throbbing dick was.

I had to bite down on my lip to stop from laughing too hard. “Uh, tall. Dark hair. Accent, I think it was Russian... Broad shoulders. Washboard abs. Really standoffish at first but I got him to warm up after a few shots. But yeah, super mouthy. You can’t even see the ones under my shirt, I look like I’m polka dotted.” I rubbed my neck again. “How bad is it?”

“Honestly, it can pass for a bug bite.” Aisha slid back to her desk. “I think I just saw Bianca, act like you’ve been working all morning.”

A good friend knew when to stop gossiping. The time to stop gossiping was when the bitchy boss came into the area and started stalking about like a wildcat.

About noonish, my mouth was dryer than the Sahara Desert. I reached for my water bottle only to find that I’d already emptied it. Super thirsty thanks to the dry ass air conditioning. I groaned and got up to refill it.

“Don’t be slacking, Chris,” Bianca quipped as she walked on by. I pressed my lips together, ignoring the urge to remind her that I could absolutely get up to get something to drink before walking to the bathroom.

Once I was in there, I decided to take a piss too- I’d seriously been downing water all morning.

I just finished pissing when the door opened. I caught sight of Ben walking into the washroom, looking like he’d just been told he had three weeks to live. I zipped up and went to wash my hands. “You look like hell,” I deadpanned.

“My wife just sent me divorce papers.”

Oooh. In my shock I accidentally turned on the hot water too high, burning my hands. I hissed and quickly added cold water. “Ouch. Um… sorry?” I was horrible for these kind of situations. Especially since Ben was ultra fucking sexy. Hard to concentrate on things.

“It’s… I just…” Ben ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t know what the fuck I did wrong, you know man?”

As someone with commitment issues, I could more along the lines of what Ben’s wife was thinking, but I knew that’d be a dick move to bring up. “She’s a bitch if she’s not even gonna try to make it work,” I said as I dried my hands. “You’re a great guy, she’s clearly fucking this up.”

Ben sighed and leaned back, but I caught a hint of a smile on his lips. “Thanks, man. I gotta get back to work… hey, is that a hickey or a spider bite?” His eyes landed on my neck and I cleared my throat and adjusted my collar.

“Former.”

“Nice, er… maybe not nice. It looks really uncomfortable,” Ben walked up to the other sink and splashed water on his face, “I gotta get back to work. Keep the divorce thing on the downlow, kay?” With that, he walked out.

Frowning, I examined the hickey in the mirror. It did kinda look worse than it felt, it actually looked a little… swollen. Weird.

The next morning I stumbled into the bathroom, wondering if there was anything nice I could say to Ben. I like the single and ready to mingle life, I don’t know how people tie themselves down to someone for a more permanent situation.

I stepped into the shower and looked down at my chest.

And then I screamed.

I leaped out of the shower, nearly slamming my dick into the counter. I looked at the mirror, wondering if it was just a trick of the light, but my stomach dropped so hard I felt myself nearly puke.

My chest was covered in what looked like swollen bug bites, bright red and irritated. I poked one and my stomach churned. What the actual shit. I sunk to the floor and touched the one just below my belly button, it looked like Rudolph’s fucking nose. It gave under my harder prods, like an oversized pimple.

I remembered Claud sucking extra hard right about there.

Shit. I had an STI. I was going to die.

The hardest one to hide was, of course, on my neck. Turtlenecks were not my style, but I did not want to show off my ‘hickey’. Aisha rolled over to my desk, her lips pursed in a concerned manner. “Whoa, Chris. What’s with the turtle neck? Getting tired of the hickey jokes?” She asked.

I swallowed. This was humiliating. “Um… yeah, sure. It just gets a lil old. Plus I might be visiting my mom tonight and she still thinks I’m a straight virgin. Can’t have her realizing I got my ass rammed by a hot guy Saturday,” I said, trying to keep my voice level.

Aisha was a good friend, so she knew something was up, but she was also a good friend who knew to back off. She chewed her bottom lip before she nodded. “Okay, okay. I can’t blame you. I’ll lay off too,” She said before rolling back to her desk. Right on time too, Bianca the Vulture was doing her rounds.

I kept my eyes glued to my computer until I got so thirsty my lips started to crack. I could feel blood welling up on the inside of my mouth. I got up and walked to the bathroom to refill my water bottle.

It was halfway full when I felt my neck twitch.

Gasping, I pulled down my collar to reveal the painfully large lump. It twitched again, noticeably, before it began to pulse.

The fucking STD pimple from hell was pulsing in time with my heartbeat.

I couldn’t breathe. I carefully prodded it with my finger and it squirmed. I jerked my hand away and nearly lost my balance. I couldn’t fucking breathe. What the actual shit was wrong with me?!

“There you are!”

Hearing a woman’s voice in the men’s bathroom is really not something you want to hear at the best of times, least when you’re me. And at this moment, I really wanted to tell Bianca exactly what I thought of her stupid bottle blond perm as she strutted in like she owned the place.

She set her hands on her hips as I slowly turned around, keeping the monstrosity of a bump on my neck covered with my hand. “You’ve been in here ten minutes and you’re just primping in the mirror. Don’t think this won’t turn up in your next review!” She shook a finger at me before she wrinkled her nose. “What the hell are you doing? Put your hand down, it’s creeping me out!”

“I’m taking care of something,” I managed to say in a strangled tone, “I think I need to go home, I’m… I’m not well.”

“Bullshit!” Bianca strode up and ripped my hand down, her eyes turning baseball size when she saw the thing on my neck. “Jesus Christ, what the fuck-”

The lump exploded, yellow-green pus covering her face and wide open mouth. For once, Bianca had nothing to say, only to look frantically at the glob that had landed on her fingernail before my neck exploded in excruciating pain.

I collapsed back against the counter, banging my head as it felt like something was pulling on my neck. No, not on my neck. Inside. From the inside of my fucking neck. I couldn’t see it. I just felt it pulling itself from the newfound wound and in a dark blur launched itself into Bianca’s mouth.

Bianca gagged loudly before her eyes rolled back, the veins in the whites popping and flooding her eyes with blood before she collapsed on the ground, writhing like she was being electrocuted. My head felt light, I could only watch as her body twitched a few more times before going deathly still. No breathing. No movement. I blacked out after that.

I woke up on an unknown couch. The place was nice. Super nice. I sat up and nearly cried, black dots swarming in front of my eyes that forced me to lay back down.

“Chris? You okay?”

Ben walked into the room and I swore I was in heaven. When Ben dressed down, he dressed down. Sweatpants, t-shirt. Had a bleach stain on said t-shirt. Not gonna lie- it was fucking hot.

Memories of Bianca’s bloody eyes killed any thoughts of getting turned on.

Ben sat at the end of the couch, those perfect fucking eyes looking at me. He looked so damn worried.

“We found you and Bianca… well, Bianca’s body in the bathroom. Doc says it looks like she had an aneurysm burst. Ticking time bomb. I mean, I hated her, but Jesus, what a way to go. I offered to take you back to my place to keep an eye on you, you might have a concussion and we’ll go the hospital if you feel like you need it.” He reached forward and rested a hand on my knee. “What happened?”

I opened my mouth and made the least sexy gurgling sound imaginable. Fucking kill me.

“I’ll get you something to drink.”

Water! God, water sounded amazing right now. When he returned with a bottle, I drained the thing so fast it was probably embarrassing, water dripping down my chin. I cleared my throat, god. Still so fucking thirsty. “Thanks,” I croaked.

“Good thing I grabbed two,” Ben laughed as he handed me the one he’d taken a sip or two from. I sucked that one down at a more respectable rate, finally feeling a little quenched. I still didn’t sit up though. I learned my lesson.

“I… I think I’m sick.”

Ben’s eyebrows drew together and he leaned forward. “Yeah? What’s wrong?” He said.

God, he was gonna get freaked out. I whimpered as I pulled up my shirt, shuddering once I saw the ‘hickeys’. They’d gotten worse, some starting to turn purple at their tip and becoming cone shaped. Ben gasped and shot back, his face twisted with revulsion. “Fucking Christ! What happened to you?” He breathed out.

I sobbed as I began to pull my shirt back down. “I don’t fucking know, man. I was just… these all happened after…” I felt my nose start to get all drippy. Boy. That was sexy.

Ben stopped me and slowly touched one of the hickeys. It pulsed and swelled. He breathed in sharply, still obviously thinking ‘what the actual fuck?’ but also a little fascinated. “The time you got the hickey?” He guessed.

“Dude, I swear to god, I used protection,” I said, staring at the ceiling. “I’m not an idiot, I’m a fucking gay guy whose uncle died from fucking AIDs… the guy was all over me though. And I swear to god each one of his lil marks he left turned into… these...” I sobbed and covered my face. Ben was going to freak the fuck out. I was fucked.

Again, Ben touched one of the swollen lumps. “I’m not assuming anything, I promise, shit happens… but… what are they?” He asked.

“… This one,” I pointed at my neck, which had been bandaged up when I was out, “Something… something came out of it. And it attacked Bianca. And… and it killed her.”

Ben jerked back much quicker. “Fuck!” He eyed the hickeys again, clearly much more careful. “But… how… that’s not… they’re going to open soon?” He guessed.

I glanced down and saw that the one he’d touched had begun to twitch. I whimpered as I covered it. “Just go, get out of here. I’m fucking dead, man.”

Ben got up, looking ready to run out the front door… before he sat down and started to rub the lump. I gasped and swatted his hand away. “Jesus, what are you doing?!” I shrieked.

“… I mean. I might as well be dead too.”

Ben glanced around the room, his eyes started to seem whimsical. “We’d been married so long. Ten years this November. Highschool sweethearts. Prom King and Queen,” definitely not shocked he was Prom King, “and I was finally bringing up having kids… and she’s gone.” His chest shuddered.

He was crazy. He was fucking crazy. “Come on, Ben, don’t be stupid. Please. You have so much going for you!” Especially with Bianca having kicked it, he’d be in line for a promotion. Morbid way to think about it, but fair, I figured.

“No I don’t.” Ben sniffed and wiped his eyes quickly. “I… I really don’t. And hey, at least this way you won’t be alone?”

Alone.

I didn’t realize that once he’d left I’d be alone. With these fucking twitching lumps that used to be hickeys. And god, I hated being alone. I’d rather have my innards ripped out than be alone. And I’d especially not want to die alone.

I took his hand and sobbed. “God, you’re a fucking moron, Ben,” I said as the lump slowly began to swell.

He nodded before he brought his fingers up and like popping a pimple, squished the largest lump.

The smell of pus and rotten flesh filled the air and I started to gag. What the hell was wrong with me?! How had I not felt pain?! How was I still not in pain!?

The pain kicked in when the thing began to crawl from my ribs.

It was like a worm, a brown worm with yellow stripes lining its side. It probably wasn’t longer than a shoelace and didn’t seem to have eyes. It squirmed out from inside me, my skin making a squelching sound. Its parasitical jaws opened, three teeth from its small mouth extending out. Ben was frozen, staring at that thing.

Then he reached up and petted it.

I could’ve laughed if it didn’t hurt. Ben was petting a goddamn murderous snake-worm parasite that had eaten god knows how much of me. It was fucking crazy.

Instead of trying to rip his throat out though, the parasite seemed to croon, leaning into his touch. It rubbed against his fingers before its teeth set into his finger. Ben screeched as blood started pouring from the stub that was once his pointer finger. The parasite squealed as it crawled from my chest and dove for his stomach.

Ben’s mouth opened in a silent scream as it burrowed in, I caught a glimpse of its fin like tail before it was gone. Ben’s eyes went glassy before he collapsed on top of me… and with his weight he successfully burst all of the remaining hickeys on my chest.

I screamed as the parasites erupted from my skin and punctured through Ben’s, Ben’s eyes going blank as they chewed right through his shirt and into his skin. One bit through his neck and blood spurted onto my face. I cried and clung onto the couch and squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for things to become dark and for me to finally just fucking die.

But that didn’t happen.

I didn’t lose consciousness. I didn’t start to go numb. Everything remained as sharp and painful as when it first started. And even though I thought I was stuck to a dead guy, Ben was just as alive as I was.

It must’ve been hours after it first started when Ben finally seemed to come back to life. He gasped and tried to pull back, only for the worms connecting our bodies to screech and their bodies to go taut. Ben cried out and fell back on top of me.

“… I think they’re eating me,” He gasped out.

I nodded and rested my head on his shoulder. “I’m… I’m fuckin sorry, man,” I whimpered.

Ben’s bloody hand reached up to my face and stroked it. “… Not your fault,” He groaned before passing out again.

Outside grew dark. I felt tired. Ben kept drifting in and out. I knew we had to die soon.

Then two of the worms flopped from our bodies and scooted to the door. No! I whimpered and reached for them as they squalled and made their way out of the house from underneath a crack in the door.

“What happened?” Ben slurred.

I cried. Not more people. Not more people.

The two returned back hours later, this time through the window. They had to break it, the shattering of the glass making me jump and the parasites complained about how they were jostled about. The two who returned were much fatter now, and as they squirmed in through holes in my ribs I felt something tear into my stomach.

And then I felt… better.

Ben clearly felt the same effect. He blinked and looked around, even a little color returning to his cheeks. “The fuck?” He muttered.

I reached up and gripped his bicep, pulling back as much as our torsos would allow. Our skin was flayed out, the holes passages between our bodies as the parasites dived in and out. Their squeals grew musical, like they were singing a song.

I laughed.

“They’ll… they’ll take care of us, Ben. We’re their home now. They’ll take care of us.”

#horror stories #scary stories #writers on tumblr #creative writing #sixpenceee stories #my stories

[penetrajeon]

some deleted ao3 story

Hoseok smokes.

But only when Yoongi isn't around to reprimand him for not taking care of himself, isn't around to remind him how much he should value his beautiful body, isn't around to keep his lips busy.

He has lived with so much toxicity that withdrawing from it for a day might just kill him, which is ironic because his daily intake of pollution and ugly things actually keep him alive. But if Yoongi's there, then it's different.

**

Hoseok smokes.

Even if it is in front of Taehyung. Because Taehyung does not nag, Taehyung does not run his mouth about his bad habits, Taehyung does not care.

They are always like this during their two-hour afternoon break, just lounging around at the smoking area of the nearest coffee shop. Taehyung would always talk about things that escape human reasoning, but Hoseok would always listen.

Nowadays feel different though. Taehyung would always talk about things he despised, as if he was doing it on purpose, as if he was trying to carve deep wounds into him. Taehyung would talk about his new boyfriend that he started dating two weeks ago, narrating their senseless exchange of text messages to him, planning their future together, and shit he can't stand listening to. Hoseok abhors this type of conversations so much, but he lets him speak anyway. He smokes as the beautiful red-haired man in front of him continued to bruise him mentally, and he tries his hardest to inhale every smoke from the cigarette. Not because he loves it or he is addicted to it, but because Taehyung reeks of someone else's perfume, and the scent makes him picture Taehyung being held by someone else, being kissed by someone else, being fucked by someone else. Taehyung is beautiful in every angle and in every aspect, but the image of him being held tightly by someone else that isn't him sends acids up to his throat and then and there he just wants to puke.

He was so engrossed in the ugly feeling of Taehyung's every word moving under his skin, from his toes rising up to his collarbone, until they suffocate him. He felt so alive feeling pain from Taehyung' harmless stories about his new man, that he was caught off-guard when the topic shifted into someone else. Someone else so fragile, that he's supposed to be holding dearly, but he isn't.

"So tell me about your guy, hyung. Min Yoongi, was it his name?"

"He is not my guy. We just hook up whenever we need each other. He isn't mine," he paused talking, but Hoseok left his mouth open as if arranging his thoughts in his head in order to say the right thing.

But he doesn't. He doesn't say the right thing. "or maybe he is mine, but I'm not his. I'm not Yoongi's."

This is the conversation Hoseok has been avoiding for a while now. He never meant for anyone to know about his casual fuck, and of all people, he wished Taehyung was the last to know. Yoongi was just there for Hoseok to quench his thirst or to scratch the itch. Yoongi gives him all the things that Taehyung has been selfish about.

As expected, silence filled the air for three minutes that felt like three hours. In that span of three minutes, they have exchanged glances that both meant they should change the topic and move on to something more fun like their nearing vacation trip or something boring like their company's new project. Something else other than this.

It was so tyrannic of Taehyung, because even though he understood what their intense eye contact meant, he chose to pry on, unconscious that this decision to talk about the same thing just opens up new scars in Hoseok's being. Taehyung opens his mouth to say something, but when the first syllable came out, he halted by poking his tongue towards the inside of his cheek.

Hoseok never understood, but Taehyung has this skill to turn his insides upside down in just his little gestures. Or maybe it was Hoseok that pays extra attention to his movements and gives them meaning, but still the circumstance left Hoseok feel weak in all his joints. He unconsciously gulps as Taehyung gives him the most curious and serious gaze, because damn, nothing feels as thrilling and as overwhelming as when the man he has always wanted stares into his soul.

Hoseok knows Taehyung would ask something he wouldn't want to answer, but he also knows at the back of his mind that as soon as Taehyung questions anything, like a Catholic child going through a confession, he would concede and vomit out the answers.

"Why? You don't love him?"

Hoseok leans on his chair, and he lets out one of the deepest sighs of his life. He proceeds to light another cigarette, as if it was his ritual whenever he has something to say that he knows he'll regret eventually.

"I don't. I can't."

Both of them know that those phrases are never enough to put this conversation to an end. Taehyung raised an eyebrow at his answer, as if demanding explanation, as if he is actually someone in Hoseok's life to know what's going on with his subconscious. And Taehyung is significant to Hoseok, really, in more ways than one; but he isn't someone to Hoseok, he refused to be, after all.

"Because he isn't you Tae," Hoseok averts his gaze, pretending that he missed Taehyung's reaction, as if he did not see the younger's face fall. "He loves fucking me, and he fucking loves me. I have all his attention, and he spoils me so damn much that I'd sometimes contemplate what have I done in my past life to deserve him. Heck, he even doesn't like it when I'm smoking. Not because he can't stand the smell of smoke or anything of the like, but because I can't stand seeing me destroy myself."

Hoseok was not expecting an answer to his little monologue.

In fact, he was getting ready to leave. He packed his things, stuffing the change on the table inside his coin purse, unplugging his charger from the socket, winding his earphones that he was tempted to plug in while Taehyung was rambling about someone else awhile ago, and feet shuffling to the direction of the nearest exit.

"Maybe you should stop smoking then," finally the younger breaks the silence that filled the air for a good five minutes.

"What do you mean?"

"Drop your feelings for me," he coldly utters while staring at Hoseok's eyes, "I don't deserve any of them, not even an ounce."

Hoseok laughs in disbelief. How in the world did the cute Taetae learn to speak this bluntly? "In the four years we've known each other, this is the first time you actually told me what to do. Who would've thought that the first thing you'll ever ask me to comply with is to drop my feelings."

"And never in those four years it crossed my mind that you were this masochistic, hyung."

"Wouldn't the make the two of us?", he says as he puts the half-consumed cigarette on his mouth to take another drag.

Taehyung removed his eyes from the ground and decided to look straight to the breathtaking brunette in front of him. He's itching to disagree, but the hairs on his arms standing up just indicate how frightfully true Hoseok was.

He finally mutters up the courage to put up a cold facade, even though he knows it fools nobody. "Listen, I'm the one who hurt you. You wanted me, I lead you on. I fucked with your feelings, and if there's anyone suffering now —"

"It's you."

Hoseok finished up his cigarette, and possibly this conversation too. Taehyung was always bad at admitting he was wrong or admitting his weakness, and if anything, he's ready to leave the scene again. Hoseok cannot stand long periods of silence, especially when the air was this intense, was this polluted not by his smoke but by the haunting thoughts of the situation.

"You're right," once again Taehyung says something at the right second just to stop him from leaving, like it was a skill he mastered from being familiarized with Hoseok way too long. "I'm the one who's suffering. It was me who numbed you, that even if Min Yoongi patches up all the wounds I've left on you, you'd feel nothing. And up to this day, my conscience loves to plague me with thoughts of how much I broke you." His facade slowly cracks as he lets a tear run down his cheek, his lips shut tight avoiding making any more sounds that showed how helpless he was.

"Just that?"

"And I feel so fucking bad that I want you back now. Now that you finally found someone who could fill all the emotions you were missing when you were chasing me. And at the back of I mind, I feel so fucking happy that you won't let him open the doors to your heart. And I feel so fucking relieved that you still want me. But at the same time I feel so greedy and selfish, and hypocritical, because god, all I've wanted you to be was to feel loved and to feel delighted while being cradled in someone's loving arms, but I won't be satisfied at all if it is not with me."

Despite the heavy crying, he did not even stutter once. He meant everything, every syllable, every word. He spilled out the emotions he has been bottling up simultaneous to the way his arms flung angrily while he was explaining and spilling his drink on the ground.

"You may have hurt me Tae, but you didn't numb me. At this point of time, I still fucking want you so, so, so much. I love you so damn much."

"I love you too."

"Then there you have your answer. And my answer. Answer to this entire thing going on between the two of us," he bluntly blurts out, shrugging off.

"But I don't want to be unfair to my boyfriend."

"And it's okay to be unfair to yourself?"

"Yes."

"And it's okay to be unfair to me? For fuck's sake Taehyung you want me and I want you back. Even a child would understand that we should just get together and just cuddle with under the sheets."

"Yes I want you. No, a child won't think that, but yes, I want that," he finally lifts up his head, gathering courage to make eye contact with Hoseok. "But you cannot be unfair to Yoongi."

Just when he thought they were getting into a conclusion, he let it slip for a few minutes that Taehyung is actually the kind to run in circles. He stands up from his seat and strides accross the table, kneeling down in front of Taehyung. His fingers reach up to wipe the tears that continuously run down in Taehyung's cheeks. "Why is it so hard for you to grasp everything? God, I love you. I'd take in all of the good, the bad, and the ugly parts of you. You're worthy of all my feelings. All I've been waiting for is you, then you go around dating someone else thinking that maybe I'll do the same and find happiness in someone else too. News flash Tae, you're who I want right now, and that's what matters.

Something was so soothing yet authoritative in Hoseok's voice that Taehyung just nodded all throughout. He lets Hoseok's fingers travel to his own and rub circles on his shaky wrists. He then stands up and pulls in Hoseok for a tight hug, and in that moment he felt pure bliss. He enjoyed rubbing big circles in Hoseok's wide back, and he savored this moment so damn much like it was surreal – like he was hugging the sun. 

But that wasn't the only thing Taehyung felt. He also felt like drinking bleach. While he was pressed so firmly to Hoseok's body, it reminded him of his past deeds when Hoseok made love to him and he just saw it as casually fucking. It triggered the events when he thought he was so evil and undeserving of any love from Hoseok at all. His anxieties crawled all over his nerves, and he just pushed the man he wanted so bad away.

"I can't. No, sorry. I really cannot." He was so horrified with his own actions. He doesn't trust himself enough anymore to be worthy of holding Hoseok in his arms. He treats Hoseok ever so fragile, that just one gesture from him might break Hoseok into pieces he cannot put back together.

He rushingly packed his belongings, and stormed off. Hoseok didn't have his magic, after all. He wasn't well-versed in stopping people from leaving.

**

They let the distance between them grow. Sure, after two months, seasons still haven't shifted; but the circumstances changed, Taehyung did, Hoseok did.

Taehyung sits on another table at the smoking area of the same cafe, pulls out a stick of cigarette to light, and sips on black coffee. After all, the increase in pulse rate was the only thing keeping him from being completely numb. He at least needed his brain to function for his work, but nothing else. He utterly abhors it when his mind tries to process emotions, because he just wants to be numb.

And Hoseok. He still sits on the same spot of the same cafe, but just because he loves open air even if it's full of smoke. He takes out one cup from the paperbag, and inhales the coffee scent before sipping on it. He then takes out the other coffee cup out of the paperbag to hand it to the beautiful grey-haired man in front of him, intertwining their fingers in the process.

Hoseok no longer smokes.