#i can perceive the truth: my girl is thick as all get out | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

whatifyoulivelikethat · 3 years

Text

bb / gg, m | jjk

pairing(s): jungkook x reader

summary: Jeon Jungkook is the lead singer in a rock band and failed his Biology class last semester, so he has to take remedial classes over the summer. You're the Biology TA, double major in Psychology and Biology, watching him freak out over his make-up exam because he had overslept. Both of you are surrounded by rumors. Does the title stand for bad boy / good girl or bad bitch / good guy? Who knows.

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; not the healthiest dynamic tbh; slight angst due to perceived unrequited love; smut (fem reader, D/s dynamics, begging, scratching / marking, choking, handjob (he is still wearing underwear), multiple orgasms, cowgirl, hair pulling, edging / orgasm denial, cock ring usage, m-masturbation, cum-eating); non-idol!BTS – rock singer, sub!Jungkook x studious, dom!reader

yes, it's SOWOOZOO JK, both the first yellow tropical look and the shredded black shirt look; for those who wanted him to be dom!JK, there is a moment when he is but not in the way you think because that's how I operate

Jeon Jungkook was a bad boy.

Wore too much black, dyed his hair too much, had tattoos, always had girls hanging around him. Sang in a rock band on the weekends, played electric guitar, played the game of how-many-numbers-can-I-get tonight? Never gave a girl his leather jacket to wear but was happy to buy her a drink and flirt with her until she got hot with arousal.

You were a good girl.

Always wore a blazer. Crisp white dress shirt and pleated skirt underneath, usually in a dark color. Sensible heels, but always heels. Did too many units a semester because you were double majoring in psychology and biology. Always arrived to class early, always turned in your assignments on time, always turned in your tests early and aced that shit. Took physics with calculus even though you didn’t have to because it was the harder one and you wanted a challenge.

Against the wall, shoving a fist into the neck, lips to lips, teeth snapping, hand travelling down, whimpering pleas and harsh growls, keep crying, I like it, ecstasy and pain, nails to skin. Tearing clothes off, biting, marking, I own you, and then, yes, you do, mouth and tongue, aching pleasure, cocked eyebrow, mocking the pathetic whines and cries, stopping right before the end, no, please, I’ve been good, and, you take what you get, hand fitting onto the neck, squeezing the sides, eyes rolling back, skin to skin, bruising slaps that would be seen tomorrow in the mirror, traced with shaking fingers and pants of an open mouth, moaning at the memory of sky-high pleasure while lightheaded and thoughtless, desperate to do it again.

There was a rumor.

Everyone liked Jeon Jungkook. He had two smiles, an endearing one and a teasing one. Both encapsulated the kind of person he was, honest and playful. He always sang with conviction, he rapped with savagery, and his lyrics were always from the heart. He always hung out with his bandmates after their performances at bars and interacted with those that came up to him. No one ever said Jungkook was mean or rude in any way.

And yet.

There was a rumor.

A rumor that Jeon Jungkook was taken.

He was the kind of guy that always made sure a drunk girl got home safe even though he didn’t know them. Paid for their taxi and everything. He focused a lot on his music and writing lyrics he thought would connect with others while taking into account his band members. He always told the truth if a girl confessed to him, saying he wasn’t looking right now, that he was very sorry if she thought otherwise, that there was someone he was already interested in.

“Oi.”

You slammed a hand onto the tabletop and Jeon Jungkook jumped, the shredded black shirt he was wearing falling down his shoulder, revealing his ink black tattoos on his tan skin. He was wearing a black tank top underneath.

“What’s with you? You missed the exam for your remedial class and you’ve spent the past ten minutes spacing out at your make-up exam,” you barked, pointing to his empty exam sheet. “You haven’t even filled out you name.”

Jungkook swallowed hard. “S… Sorry.”

You frowned. Why was he apologizing to you? Honestly, why did you sign up for this summer TA position again? Oh, right, money and credits. Hmph. It was really just an excuse for the professor to slack off while you did the tedious things like grading and watching over idiots that skipped class. Sorry, overslept. Hung over, probably, since this was the Jeon Jungkook. Rockstar, hottie, famous in his own way.

Whatever.

He could be Jesus Christ and you would still be scolding him for missing his remedial Biology exam.

“Fill out your name so at least I can fail you properly.”

Not that it mattered, since you knew who he was. He didn’t know you knew who he was, and you had zero incentive to inform him that you were indeed aware of the existence of black-haired, tattooed, chiseled-jaw, sparkly-eyed Jeon Jungkook, all due to the constant snide remarks that followed you in your wake.

You wouldn’t be such a bitch if a guy like Jeon Jungkook put you in your place.

Who the fuck was Jeon Jungkook?

This guy, this weirdo about to fail his fucking Biology exam in front of your face.

Impatiently, you rolled up the sleeves of your gray blazer and grabbed a chair, dragging it up to the table. You snapped the chair down and sat in it, smoothing your skirt. You liked to be neat. Even though university didn’t have a uniform, you liked to keep some sort of uniform for yourself. There was a sense of security in knowing you didn’t have to select an outfit every morning. Today, white dress shirt, gray blazer, pleated black skirt that hit slightly higher than mid-thigh. Every other outfit was some variation of this and, in the winter, you wore thick stockings.

You clicked your heels together under the table sharply.

He flinched at the sound.

Jungkook wasn’t looking at you. He was mumbling at his paper.

“I… I think I studied the wrong chapters…”

You clicked your tongue. Jeez.

His hand was shaking so bad that his pen was practically vibrating. You leaned over the table, grabbing his fist to still it.

“Stop.”

Your bare knees hit his bare knees, mostly because he was wearing black jeans with giant holes in them. Jungkook froze, head snapping up, silver earrings jangling, black hair flying, undercut visible for a second.

“You want to pass this class or what?”

He nodded quickly in response.

“Good. I want to get out of here. Keep your mouth shut. Answer to the first question is A.”

His eyes widened.

“Are you… helping me cheat?” he whispered, terrified.

You cocked your head, letting go of his hand. “You said you studied the wrong chapters. I’m not spending forty-five minutes of my life to watch you panic and then ten minutes more failing you,” you replied lowly, dangerous edge to your voice.

“I… couldn’t… I mean…”

You shoved his knees open with yours, narrowing your eyes as he yelped, pleading look in those brown doe eyes. You pressed your knees on the inside of his thighs, keeping them open.

“Answer to the second question is C.”

When Jungkook didn’t move, you reached over and cupped his chin. Felt his racing heartbeat pounding through his veins, coursing through your fingertips. Stared deep into those eyes, lowering the octave of your voice, keeping his thighs spread for you under the table.

“Listen to me,” you murmured softly. “Okay, Jungkook?”

“O… Okay…”

And he did.

There was a rumor.

Nobody liked you. Maybe it was because of your high scores ruining the class test average. Maybe it was the dismissive way you spoke to people, almost demeaning. Most likely it was a combination of the two. Students talked behind your back all the time, spreading rumors. Friends? What friends? You had an average of twenty class credits a semester. You didn’t have time to make friends. And besides, why try to make friends when clearly nobody wanted to be your friend?

And yet.

There was a rumor.

You ignored such things. You didn’t need such distractions.

“It would be too suspicious if you got full marks. This score is high enough.”

“O… Okay…”

“Get on the table.”

Jungkook scrambled on the wooden tabletop as you pushed his exam aside. You were still sitting in your chair. Your head tilted, eyebrow lifting at his speedy response to your rather suspicious request.

“You listened.”

He blinked at you. “Uh… yeah?”

Silence.

“Why?” you finally said.

Jungkook gulped. “Be… because you asked,” he mumbled, knees on the table, hands clutching his knees.

“You can just walk out and report me.”

He shook his head quickly, black hair flying everywhere. “I don’t want to.”

Your other eyebrow raised. He chewed on his lip, a flash of pink tongue in his movement.

“Tell me what you want. I’ll do it.”

Well.

You decided to test his conviction.

“Edge of the table. Spread your legs for me.”

Instantly, obediently, Jeon Jungkook surprised you by doing it, putting each leg on either side of you, chunky black sneakers hanging down. Shredded black shirt open, hands behind his ass, towering over you, and yet his eyes were watching you, waiting for more, begging for instruction.

“Hm.”

You raised your chin, seeing his impressively muscular thighs and body displayed for you to take. He was so close you could smell his clean, dreamy scent, like a meadow in summer dusk, surrounded by peeking stars and blinking fireflies. Interesting.

But you didn’t need the distraction.

“That’s it. You can go now,” you said dismissively, about to push your chair back.

His legs closed in, pressing firmly into your upper arms. Your eyes flickered up to him.

Jungkook shook his head very slowly.

“Do what you want.”

You saw his chest rise and fall, his silvery voice deepening, pupils expanding.

“I know you want to do something to me.”

His erection was bulging against the zipper of his black jeans. Your eyes went back to his face. He shivered at your sharp stare. All of this was happening in an otherwise empty lecture hall, with you and Jungkook at the very bottom.

Just you and him.

You placed your hands on his thighs. He jumped a little, but scooted closer to you. You slid your hands up. You undid the button of his jeans, scrutinizing those brown eyes. He raised his hips to help you as you pulled the zipper down.

“You don’t know me,” you finally said, no inflection in your voice.

He didn’t look away. “I don’t care.”

“Hmm.” You smirked. “Bad boy, aren’t you?”

Jungkook shook his head slightly, but didn’t break eye contact as you pulled his pants to his knees and reached for his black boxer briefs. “No. I’m a good guy. I want to give you what you want.” You hooked your fingers over the waistband and nicked his skin with your nails, making him gasp, the pleasure evident in his tone. He did not try to hide it from you. “I want to be good for you.”

“Why is that?”

He hung his head a little.

“Something about… how you make me feel…” he muttered. His gaze finally faltered. You reached up and righted his chin, forcing him to look at you. Saw that Jungkook had a mole under his mouth, perfectly in the center. He had a nice shape to his pink lips. You tapped his cheek, nudging him to elaborate. “You… You’re so pretty… and smart… Everyone looks up to you because you have such good grades…”

You doubted that.

Jungkook probably had no idea that most of the school hated your guts.

You didn’t have classes with Jungkook, but you were sure he knew your name because your name was posted on the Dean’s List of the highest-ranking students of the university every semester. Also, you weren’t hard to miss. Every student moved out of your way when you walked through the halls, whispering behind their hands.

Jungkook brought you back to the present.

“I feel,” he whispered, voice trembling, gaze locking with yours. “I feel like I want to be on my knees for you.”

His skin was warm under your nails.

“Like this is where I belong, in your hands.”

You stood up.

Jungkook started, turning into a tight squeak as you placed your hand on his chest and pushed him down.

“Lift up your shirt with both hands.”

He did was he was told, revealing his toned abs and the lower half of his pecs, biting his lip, clutching onto his tank top, ears turning red as he craned his head to look down at you. You didn’t give him any satisfying response. His tan skin seemed to glow under the overhead lights. You studied his face.

Reached up and began to rub his erection through his underwear.

“A… ah…”

“Gonna make you cum like this.”

He shook his head quickly. “P… Please, no…”

You felt him swell and twitch under your hand. He was pretty big. Thick. Pretty boy with a pretty dick, probably. You rubbed the head with your palm, feeling his pre-cum leaking through the thin fabric. He wasn’t kidding when he said you made him feel some kind of way.

“Why not? Make you cum in your underwear and then you have to go all the way home covered in it. All dirty, just for me.”

His handsome face twisted with sinful pleasure at your suggestion, whimpers in his throat. His cock jerked with need, wanting it.

“O… Okay. Whatever you want.”

So obedient.

“So obedient, Jungkook,” you purred, rubbing faster.

He nodded. “For you. Only for you. Just for you.”

Was it just saying those things because he thought that was what you wanted to hear? Or was that how he actually felt? Surely not the latter, considering he didn’t really know you. You leaned over him, placing your free elbow on the table to stabilize yourself. You hadn’t even kissed him.

“You’re so hard for me,” your drawled, lowering your head, letting your warm breath float down onto his skin. “You want to cum for me, don’t you?”

“Y… yes, please…”

“You want to be my toy?”

You pressed your lips to his bellybutton, feeling the smoothness of his skin, tasting it. He moaned at your kiss, your swift tongue flickering out to that delicious skin, whining when your teeth nipped at the softness. Fuck, he tasted so good that you wanted to mark him. Looked so fucking good that you wanted to mess him up, mar him with temporary imperfections on the perfection that was Jeon Jungkook.

“Yes…”

With breathless, lustful conviction.

You licked up his abs, increasing the intensity and speed of rubbing the engorged head of his cock, the pre-cum already soaked through and creating a slippery surface, turning Jungkook’s pitched whines to deep moans, a melody that filled up the entire lecture hall until was the only thing you could hear, Jungkook’s moans as you bit his skin, his moans as you sucked on his skin, moans as you kissed the hard muscle, cries for more at you left marks, pleading for you, sweet and beautiful, clutching his shirt so tight that his knuckles were white, the black tattoos of his right hand standing out, his cock throbbing in your hand, his hips rising to hump your palm, your name on his lips, over and over and over.

“Gonna… gonna cum…” he panted, sniffing slightly, cheeks flushing pink. “Gonna cum like how you want me to, all over my underwear…”

Your fingertips touched his side, seeing him stiffen and then shudder at your gentle caress.

“Do it,” you murmured. “Show me how good you are at listening, Jungkook.”

He bit his lower lip, jaw clenching, squeezing his eyes shut, tipping his head back into the tabletop, whining your name in his chest, your palm working him, slick and hot and hard, pulsating under your roughness. With a sharp moan, his lower lip popped out of his teeth, dark red and swollen, small mole quivering.

“F-Fuck…!”

You felt it and heard it, the unmistakable jolt and squelch as his orgasm splattered inside his boxer briefs, drenching the fabric, drenching your hand, his embarrassed whines as he realized what he had done but still humping your hand, forcing out every last twitch of dribbling cum, causing you to smear it everywhere, coating the sensitive head and adding to the pleasure, his cheeks flushed red, eyes squeezed shut to savor the pleasure and avoid looking at you.

“Shh…”

You crawled onto the table, still holding his cock through his soiled underwear, squeezing it, free hand slipping under his head and lifting him, his eyes weakly opening, scared and anxious, but all you did was lean down and kiss him, pressing your lips to that pure softness, exhaling his name into his mouth, his scent staining your hand, his cologne filling your nose, your whisper in his throat.

“Time for you to go home.”

Jungkook thought you would tell everyone.

You did no such thing.

Instead, you ignored him.

He would see you three times a week and, three times a week, you arrived with the professor and left with the professor. Jungkook tried much harder to attend classes, but you seemed not to care either way. He would come to the front and collect his assignment and find that you had marked it up exactly like everyone else, red marks all over his incorrect answers. You didn’t even look in his direction.

The next exam was coming up quickly.

Part of him considered skipping exam day to have one-on-one time with you again.

“Jungkook.”

He jumped, jerking his head towards the hall, confused. Somehow, he had heard your voice. Or rather, did he imagine it? His teeth sunk into his lip, placing a hand on his forehead, confused. His head was confused. He couldn’t think straight. Why had he done such an embarrassing thing with you? Even you had told him to leave and report you. But Jungkook just couldn’t. Not then and not now. He had asked for it.

He still wanted it.

Nobody knew. Everybody thought he was a cocky, womanizing playboy. And he was, but not because of the sex. It was only because he was bored and that was all he could get. There was power in being on top.

And there was power in letting go.

You were bad for him.

He was a good guy.

You were a bad bitch.

And nobody knew.

A hand slapped down on his shoulder and yanked him around, the loose short sleeves of his yellow tropical shirt flaring out, making his sunglasses rattle on his face. You narrowed your eyes at him. Instant shivers down his spine at your stern gaze.

“Are you deaf?” you snapped. “I’ve been calling your name for the past minute.”

“I… S-Sor–”

You waved a hand dismissively, grabbing his right hand and slapping down a post-it into it.

“Chapters for the exam, including the date and time. Do not miss it this time. I will not let you make it up and fail you on the spot.”

You turned on your heel, letting go of his hand.

His left one shot out and circled around your arm, his rings pressing into your skin.

“Wait.”

You jerked your head towards him, glaring sharply. “Don’t touch me.”

And you yanked your arm out of his grasp, but his legs made the choice for him, following your swift strides, his backpack hanging off one shoulder, clutching the post-it and his last strands of sanity.

“Please, wait.”

“What?” was your curt response, not looking back at him.

“Please do it again,” he gasped breathlessly, unable to stop himself.

“Do what?”

“Have your way with me.”

You stopped walking.

Jungkook walked straight into your back and banged his nose on your head. He winced, stepping back and rubbing it gingerly. He didn’t register you turning around until it was too late and you were right in his face. You raised your chin and eyebrow simultaneously.

“No.”

He blinked rapidly, his tinted sunglasses halfway down the bridge of his nose.

“W… Why? Did you not like it? Was… was I bad?”

You let out an amused scoff.

The side of your lips curved upwards.

He had made you smile, even if only a little bit. Just that small thing was enough to feed his courage.

“I…” Jungkook coughed, clearing his throat before he spoke again, voice still a soft whisper in his embarrassment even though no one was around to eavesdrop. “I can be better. I can do better.”

Silence.

He thought you were going to walk away again.

You reached up and plucked his glasses off his nose. Folded them neatly and tucked them in his tropical shirt pocket. Then your eyes found his again and he knew something was different. He could see you clearly now, his vision no longer clouded by sienna.

Now, Jungkook could no longer stop it.

He could feel it all over him, coursing through his veins, arousal like fire. Something about you and something about him. Jungkook could sense the danger, but he didn’t want to run even though he knew he should. He had heard the rumors surrounding you. They could be true.

And yet.

“I want it,” Jungkook breathed, inviting himself into the danger. “I want you. I want to be your toy.”

Your discerning expression didn’t change.

You reached up and gripped his chin, digging your nails into his soft skin.

He whimpered in his chest, moving closer to you.

“What’s my name?”

His brows furrowed, saying your name hesitantly.

You pulled his chin down so he was eye-level.

“Next time you say my name, I will be choking it out of you.”

Everyone thought Jeon Jungkook was the kind of guy to grip your wrist with his left hand and your throat in his right, his lips against your ear and his sweaty chest against your back as you slapped your ass into his crotch and fucked yourself with his rock-hard cock, his smirk in your ear as he provided you with a certain type of encouragement.

“That’s right, you want this dick, don’t you? Show me. Prove to me you want it.”

His fingertips tightening against the sides of your neck, listening to your pathetic cries and moans as you tried to squirm against him, brain running out of oxygen due to lack of blood, running out of thoughts, running out of pleas as Jungkook gripped your wrist, deep snarl against your hair as he roughly finished himself off using your body because that’s all you were, someone to be used by him and nothing more, neck suddenly released with a breathless gasp and shoved face first into the sheets with his right hand splayed on your back, his tattoos and your orgasm crashing down on you, his growls staining the air and a fierce jerk of his hips to spill into your tight hole and leave you moments after, nothing but a discarded toy in his eyes.

You thought.

That was what everyone thought when Jeon Jungkook stood on stage, flipping his dark violet microphone between verses and smirking like a devil, truly in command of every thought and every pair of eyes on him, surrounded by a heavy bass line and deafening drums, guitar solo tearing through the moment to emphasize the next of his lips nearing the mic again, entrancing the crowd with his beautiful lips and talented tongue.

No one knew.

You were riding him hard and fast, torn condom wrappers and used condoms littering his bed, back-to-back orgasms, his head pressed into his pillows, your hand around his neck, the other leaving long lines down his chest, scratching him so hard that it dotted red, blooming lines of pain.

“Don’t stop, please don’t stop, f-fuck…”

Jungkook was hoarsely whispering, clutching his sheets, black hair soaked with sweat, raising his chest to your nails, whimpering, punish me, punish me, punish me, and you muttered plainly with a sharp edge, you talk too much, your grip tightening again, pressing onto the sides of his neck, cutting off the blood flow, and Jungkook moaned gratefully, eyelids fluttering, the slap of your hips to his louder and louder, filling up his whole bedroom, rattling his bedframe, fucking him so hard he was slowly sliding up to his headboard.

Your name fell from his lips in pure ecstasy, back arching to shove his whole length fully into you, thick and hard and twitching with need, your slick walls clamping down on him, fitting to him with a hiss. He began to match you, breathless, lightheaded, world hazy, moaning from deep in his chest, I love you, and your reply was only tightening your grip, your hand and your pussy, harder, harder, harder.

“Aren’t you such a good guy?” you scoffed sarcastically, letting up for only a second to let him reply, blood rocketing back into his brain, flooding him with oxygen, and Jungkook sucked in a lungful of air, reeling.

“N-No…” he panted. “You’re the good girl… you’re always s-so… so good to me…”

His eyes locked with yours hazy with lust and love. You almost looked away out of instinct.

“You a-always remember… what I like…” he managed to choke out.

You left him when you were done using him.

You pretended he didn’t say those words to you. There was no point in acknowledging the nonsense that he said in the middle of being choked and barely functioning. You tapped your pencil against your textbook.

You caught yourself thinking about him.

Jeon Jungkook.

Your eyes flickered to the clock. Late at night on a Friday. He was probably at a bar. You watched the second hand of your plain silver clock tick, tick away. You never asked to watch him and his band perform even though Jungkook always made it a point to text you the address and the time.

It was obvious Jungkook didn’t want you to be his secret.

He wasn’t really your secret either. You just saw no benefit to letting anyone know there was a connection between you and Jeon Jungkook. After all, you were just using him.

You stopped tapping your pencil.

Stared at the second hand.

Tick.

Heard the voices of the rumors poisoning you, saying the things they said.

She thinks she’s so much better than everyone else because she’s a nerd.

The only reason she has good grades is because she fucked that one professor.

I heard she dated him.

I mean, there’s a reason he left in the middle of the semester, right?

He had a wife!

Snap.

Your eyes flickered down.

The tip of your pencil lead rolled across the page, leaving tiny pinpricks of granite.

There was never any evidence because nothing happened. Nothing happened between you and said psychology professor. He left in the middle of the semester because his wife had a miscarriage and he wanted to be with her. It had nothing to do with you. You had long discussions with him about life and existentialism, hanging out during his office hours.

Sometimes, you felt bad.

Had you kept him from his wife? Would it have not happened if he just skipped his office hours and didn’t spend them talking to you? These were irrational, foolish thoughts. They made you guilty even when there was nothing to be guilty about.

He was a nice guy, mid-thirties. Everyone liked this professor.

They blamed you because they didn’t know.

Only you knew, because he told you with tears in his eyes and thanked you for being his student.

You didn’t tell anyone, because he did not owe you an explanation and you were not going to divulge someone’s personal business that they had shared with you in confidence. You watched your reputation crumble and fall apart, watched friends ostracize you, because you didn’t tell them anything and they didn’t believe you. You watched yourself turn bitter and hateful.

Just tell the truth.

There was no truth to be told.

You put your pencil down.

Closed your eyes.

Remembered Jungkook’s face.

Your hands were in his hair, pulling hard. His hot breath was in your face, arms shaking as he held himself up, fucking you into his mattress with whines in his chest, begging you, begging you, begging you.

“P-Please… let me cum, please…”

You liked to watch the sweat clinging to his high cheekbones and neck, jaw glistening with tension, feeling his strong body between your legs, his twitching hardness sliding into you repeatedly in rough, hard smacks, squeezing him every time he was fully sheathed inside you, vibrations coursing through you every time he came down.

“Not until I’m done,” you growled and he whimpered, pleading look in those brown doe eyes, black pupils expanded, unable to cum because a vibrating cock ring was restricting his orgasm, keeping him hard but unable to climax, sending thundering pleasure through him and into you. He watched helplessly as you gripped his hair, hissing sharply as another wave of pleasure overtook you, closing your eyes to savor it, savor his swollen cock twitching inside you as he felt the intense massage of your pussy walls closing around him, throbbing around the head and driving him insane, moaning pathetically because he couldn’t follow suit no matter how desperate he was.

Jungkook didn’t ask if you were done.

He just kept going because you told him he couldn’t cum until you were done.

And you didn’t say you were done.

You stared into those brown orbs, hazy with lust and full of conviction to be good for you.

Desperate to be the best and the only one, not knowing there was no one else because no one else wanted you like the way Jeon Jungkook wanted you.

“Pull out.”

“B-But…”

“You heard me,” you exhaled, throbs of pleasure still trembling through you. Your hands slid down, cupping his chin, nails digging into his sweaty cheeks. “Obey.”

With a pained whine, Jungkook obeyed, pulling out of you, his cock covered in your juices, wearing a condom and the black cock ring. You reached over with one hand to press the button on the remote to turn in off.

“Take it all off. Let me see your cock.”

He reached down and slowly pulled the cock ring off, taking the condom with it, whimpering at the sensitivity, his tone hitting a lovely pitched groan as the silicone squeezed the base of the head. His whole body was shaking as it fell from his hands, the veins on his length standing out, head purple-red and angry, white pre-cum slowly beading at the tip, and his face, looking down at you, waiting for your next move.

Cock waiting to be used.

You tapped your chest.

“Cum on my tits.”

“B-But–”

You cut him off.

“You’re going to cum on my tits and then you’re going to lick it off while I watch.”

He listened.

Jungkook straddled your waist with his thighs, muscular and defined, right hand wrapping around his cock, sweat making the tattoos on his forearm and shoulder glow in the low light, smelling like sex and musk, his core tightening as he touched his overstimulated length, using the lube of the condom and his own pre-cum to add to the pleasure as he began to stroke himself, moaning as you lifted your hands and cupped your breasts, pushing them together, his eyes on the curve of your cleavage and points of your hard nipples sticking out, and then your face, an indifferent look with a cocked eyebrow, taunting him, unimpressed by his timid grip on his cock, so he squeezed harder, tighter, embarrassing cries falling from his mouth, living for the smirk that slowly began to form on your lips.

It empowered him somehow, that smirk, the little inkling of satisfaction that Jungkook wanted, needed, craved, knowing he was doing well, being good, furiously pumping his aching cock over your pressed-together tits and he couldn’t last, couldn’t help it, too overstimulated and too turned on, too in love with this to prevent himself from tipping over with a hot gasp, spilling streams of sticky white lines over your breasts, spreading them everywhere, making a huge mess because he wanted a huge mess to clean up, shoving the head into your cleavage and shuddering at the sensation of warmth to his scorching heat, able to feel the pulse of the engorged tip dripping out what was left, shivers up and down his spine, the words falling from his mouth that he never stopped saying even though you never acknowledged them.

“I... l-love you…”

He stayed like that for nearly a full minute, but you didn’t tell him to get off.

His eyes were closed, savoring the feeling.

Slowly, Jungkook gingerly removed himself, lowering his body over yours, tongue sliding out, touching your skin covered in his cum, his taste, mine, no one else’s, him on you, lapping it up, salty and bitter and yet he loved it, loved that you told him to do it, loved that you let him paint your skin with his orgasm and now his saliva. He didn’t care that you never said anything to his I love you, didn’t care that you seemed to pretend he never said it, because he would continue saying it when he was with you, hopeless as it was.

It was the small things that kept him going, sucking his own cum off your nipple and wrapping his lips around it, hearing your soft sigh of pleasure, feeling the tap on his thigh that instructed him to scoot up, the small thing of your hand closing in on his spent cock, sending sparks of pain but also pleasure, moaning into your skin as you massaged his balls with your fingers, knowing that he could take more pressure and roughness because he had just came, the small thing of your thumb rubbing the sensitive slit, his face pressing into your breasts, smearing his cheek with his cum and saliva, sliding across your slick skin because of the intensity of the high it gave him, the pleasure and the pain, his right arm coming up to wrap around you, tattoos cradling your torso.

“I love you…” he whispered to your racing heart under his ear, lost in the rhythm of your heartbeat and the firmness of your touch. Jungkook did not care if you hated him saying it.

He would continue saying it as long as he was with you.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing…?”

“Hmm.”

He placed his hand over the bottom of his phone and smiled at the cute girl that was talking to him at the bar.

“Sorry. I have to take this call. It’s important to me.”

He didn’t hear her response, because he backed away, bowing lightly, pressing his phone back to his ear.

“Ah, never mind, Jungkook.”

“No, no. What is it? Tell me.”

“You’re at a noisy place. It’s Saturday night.”

Jungkook pushed through the people, mumbling his apologies and straining to hear your voice over the thundering bass. “I finished. Well, we finished. We’re only drinking. I can leave at any time. I’ll just text the guys to bring my equipment back for me. Where are you?”

“Forget it.”

He opened the door of the club as the dial tone rang in his ear.

Looked up.

Your hand dropped to your side. You were still in your white dress shirt and navy skirt, dressed exactly like you were when at school minus the blazer. Jungkook’s eyes widened. He was in a torn-up long-sleeve shirt with the right sleeve removed, showing off his tattoos. His black hair was wild and half-wet, and he was wearing tight leather pants.

You clicked your tongue.

“I said forget it,” you repeated hollowly.

You sighed and turned around, skirt swishing in your wake.

“Wait, I’ll come with you–”

“Go back to where you belong, Jungkook.”

His hand closed around your forearm, holding tight.

“I belong with you.”

You stopped walking, silent.

“What is it? Tell me.”

You scowled. “It’s dumb.”

“So am I, remember?” he chuckled, his hand slipping down, squeezing yours. “I’m not very good at school.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment. Cars and people brushed past, but Jungkook was focused onto on your stillness, watching your eyes seemed to be thinking about many things. You hadn’t pulled your hand out of his yet. By now, Jungkook knew that if you didn’t want something, you wouldn’t be shy about telling him right away.

You started walking again. Jungkook was still holding your hand.

“It was just a moment of weakness,” you mumbled under your breath.

“A guy…?”

You didn’t answer.

Jungkook squeezed your hand. “It’s okay,” he murmured tightly. “I understand.”

He did not. He wanted to cry.

Your eyes shot to him, pinning him in place. “You don’t understand, Jeon Jungkook. You understand nothing.” You pulled your hand out of his and Jungkook let go, trying to hold his pain, trying not to breathe because he was preparing himself for the inevitable, the moment you were going to break his heart and, if it was right here and right now, then so be it, because he had said how he felt repeatedly and there was nothing more he could do than that.

He loved you so, so bad.

Jungkook knew he shouldn’t, that it was madness, but he did anyway.

But you surprised him.

Your sharp gaze softened.

“You know what they say about me. You have to know,” you exhaled, shaking your head. “You must know the rumors.”

Good girl gone bad.

Jungkook frowned. “About you and the professor?”

He watched your jaw clench.

“Does it matter?” he asked.

Your eyes shifted, not quite looking at him.

“Whether something did or didn’t happen, what does that have to do with me?”

And now you looked at him, guarded, not letting him know your thoughts.

“You…” He swallowed, trying to press the lump down in his throat. “You’re just using me, right? It doesn’t… doesn’t really matter, because in the end I don’t matter to you anyway… right?”

He did not want to cry and yet he did, because he knew he loved you. It was the small things, the way you never let up on him even in class, the way you picked days that were never the weekend and never before exams, the way you would brush your fingertips on his knuckles before leaving when you thought he was asleep, the way on the last time, the last time you were together, that you pressed your lips to his forehead when you thought he was asleep, running your fingers through his hair.

Jungkook was standing outside this bar and there were people he knew walking past, seeing you and him, but he kept his eyes on you, because the only one that mattered was you.

The one he belonged to was you.

He had decided that when he climbed onto the table that day.

He stuck his hands in his pockets and let out a heavy breath. “If people say things about you, then they say things about you. Whether it’s the truth or not doesn’t change the fact I love you. It doesn’t make me love you less,” Jungkook said, speaking at his usual volume, because there was no reason to whisper the truth. “Even if it’s pointless and crazy, I want to be with you until the day you don’t want to be with me.”

His smiled and blinked back tears.

“Even if that day is today, I will never regret it.”

In this cruel summer, you could have ruined his reputation. You could have told everyone the kind of person he really was and you didn’t. You could have spread embarrassing stories of the things you made him do and you didn’t.

Even if he didn’t matter to you, Jungkook was confident that you weren’t a malicious person.

You rubbed your forehead. “The rumors will come to you.”

Jungkook laughed. “So what? I heard a rumor that I removed two ribs so I could suck my own dick. I admit, I considered doing it after hearing that.”

You scowled, but Jungkook only smiled in return. He could see the tension falling from your face with his comment. You clicked your tongue and tilted your head, as if to say, can’t be helped.

“There’s no other guy,” you muttered. “There’s just you and you’re dumb.”

Jungkook blinked rapidly, confused.

“You say it over and over and make me think about it all the time.” You sighed heavily, running a hand through your hair. “I’m not a good girl. People pushed me away and I stayed there instead of trying to repair the burned bridges. I don’t even think I want to repair them. Who knows what will happen next? I don’t think it would be a good idea to put you through that shit.”

You sucked on the inside of your cheek, looking at him apologetically.

“You’re not the bad boy everyone says you are. You’re a good guy. You should find a good girl.”

Is that what you think? Jungkook chuckled, taking out his hand and rubbing his nose thoughtfully.

“I don’t want a good girl.”

He stepped toward you, lowering his hand and his head so that he was eye level with you.

“I love a bad bitch who can push me around and makes me their toy.”

He tilted his head, small curve on those beautiful lips, tiny mole underneath appearing with every smile.

“Which can only be you, you know.”

Jungkook didn’t try to kiss you. He only wanted to look into your eyes so you knew his conviction.

“I love you.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I’ve heard you say it.”

He nodded. “And I’m going to keep saying it until the day you leave me.”

Silence.

Ah.

Your eyebrow lowered and you gave him an indifferent look.

“Hm. I wonder when that will be, Jungkook.”

You leaned in, but before you kissed him, he heard the whisper against his lips, felt the shape of yours as they brushed against his, words he prepared himself to never hear from you, words that he thought you would never say, and that was fine with him, because you showed it, and that was enough.

He thought.

“I love you.”

And then your lips on his and his tears fell onto your cheeks because Jungkook wanted to cry all this time and he could not stop now, knowing that he was so, so in love with you and you finally, finally said it back to him.

masterpost

#jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #bts smut #jungkook x you #jeon jungkook smut #jeon jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x you

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burningrebelsworld · 2 years

Note

Hey I hope I'm not too late for the fs exchange reading game! My sun sign is Gemini and my initials are M.K

Right off the bat I can tell your fs is a very mature and intelligent person and/or might be older or more mature than you, I got sooo many kings for this reading. My questions are the same as the ones below

First impression your fs has of you:

Your fs thinks of you as someone hard working, who doesn't waver and stands by their belief and a person who loves love in general

How will you recognise your fs:

You might find this person in the midst of a situation which isn't as harmonious as you want it to be or when you're really anxious and are overthinking something. This person is going to be stability amongst chaos and offer balance, probably financially between working to earn money and spending money on pleasurable objects and experiences

What do you need to know before you meet your fs:

Your fs might have had a failed relationship in the past, one or both of you will have to come out of your shell and explore new horizons, go out more, meet new people. A certain type of self imposed limit must be broken or a truth must come to light. I see recovery from a certain event that has transpired.

The journey:

Hardships have been overcome here in this relationship, you both will grow and learn lessons that make you stronger and more intelligent

Thank you

Hey there! I hope you're doing well! :)

Thank you so much for participating, I appreciate you. I apologize for the delay though. Here's your reading:

Your future spouse's first impression of you

Your FS is gonna see you as a wild child. I'm seeing a field of lavender, and a girl with a basket picking them up for a spell, perhaps?? Your FS is gonna see you as an optimistic person. Someone who is extremely happy-go-lucky, easygoing and has a zest for life. You're like a breath of fresh air to them. I heard 'sunshine'. They might call you sunshine hehe? They think you act first and think later. You put all your plans into action, and you take risks because you understand that's the only way you can be rewarded. You live in the present, and you do things that make you happy without having a care in the world. Very carefree, and untamed. They are overcome by lust the first time they see you. They perceive you as someone who is way too sexy and would probably have multiple suitors. I heard "vixen". They see that everyone wants a bite of you because you're so glamorous and confident, it turns them on. You could love socializing, or you could be socializing when they first meet you. They also see you as a hardworking person. You won't notice them when you both meet initially. They'll be checking you out from the corner of their eye.

How will you recognize your future spouse

You could be going through a rough patch where you've been lied and deceived and feel taken advantage of. I see you grieving some kind of an extremely toxic relationship. Emphasis on extremely, because I see that it will take strength to let this person go who's been manipulating you. {7 of swords, devil in reverse and magician in reverse} You'll recognize your FS based off how they treat you. When you start detaching from this toxic connection and feeling a sense of freedom, your vision will get clearer and you'll gradually overcome the brain fog. This is when you'll see how your FS has stuck through the thick and thin and been so caring and loving towards you while you continued to battle silently. They're going to be your wish fulfillment (freaking 10 of cups)

What do you need to know before meeting your FS

Your FS is extremely romantic, hopelessly romantic even. They love the sappy, the corny, and the sweet, soft things love birds do for each other. They could've grown up in a dysfunctional family and come from a broken home where their emotional needs weren't met and they were neglected as a child. Therefore, you might have to be a little patient with them as they let you in on the softer side of them. They are very caring and nurturing, they're a giver. They're very selfless in love. And their past has made them mentally strong.

The journey leading you to your FS

Spirit is not telling me enough about the journey because you will meet them at divine timing. Destiny is into play (if you believe in destiny at all). However, I'm seeing that you will meet this person when you transition from one phase of your life to another and undergo a major transformation as you heal and become a stronger and better version of yourself. It could be the relationship we earlier talked about. I see you moving or relocating (or simply transitioning even) say for example, graduating and taking up a job, relocating to a different country to pursue your passion etc. I have a feeling this person lives away from you physically. You'll bump into them when you're on the go.

I hope the reading resonates with you. If it does, please drop a feedback. I'll drop the feedback for my reading in your asks ✨✨✨

#future spouse reading #pick a card #pick a card reading #tarot reading #free tarot #exchange reading #free reading #tarot exchange #exchange readings #pac reading

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booksimp · 3 years

Text

Flame of Autumn - Part Two

A/N: Part two of Midnight at Rita’s is finally here, everyone! Sorry it took so long, I started a new job and I’ve been a bit overwhelmed. As you can tell, I’ve named this series something different. That’s because Midnight at Rita’s was supposed to be a smut one off, but it has a mind of it’s own and has become an actual fic. This will be part two of a series called “Flame of Autumn”. This fic is going to be quite long, and more elaborate than anything I’ve written here so far. I hope you enjoy!

“Oh, fucking hell.” I curse, clapping a hand over my mouth in shock.

Azriel chuckles sardonically, running a hand through his already sex mussed curls, puffing out a shocked breath. His cheeks are an adorable shade of pink, eyes wide.

“Well said.”

For a few moments, we just sit and feel the bond thrum between us, like the plucked string of a cello. We’re still flushed and dazed, our panting breaths the only sound in the room as we stare at each other.

A strange intermingling of emotion overwhelms me. Elation, joy, desire. A desire to take hold of Azriel and never, ever be parted from him. But all of it is entirely eclipsed by a sense of dread. It wraps itself around my throat, my heart, like a noose of ice.

A mate is just another person to lose, to endanger with my own existence.

The faces of all those that have suffered to protect me, that I ultimately lost, flash across my vision. A macabre version of a scrapbook. Just as easily as he perceived my earlier insecurities, Azriel notices the rising emotions in me. With the mate bond newly revealed, I wonder if the connection we’d felt all night had been the first clue. That, and his uncanny ability to read me like an open book.

“Sabine, I don’t expect anything from you. But I- I’d like to explore this. We can go at whatever pace you’re comfortable with.”

His face shines with hope as he takes my hand in his, squeezing gently. A hesitant reach down the bond caresses against me. His eyes are open and earnest, a shy smile on his face. The epitome of honest and trustworthy.

I wonder what he would think if he knew Sabine isn’t my real name.

A pang of guilt shoots through me, at the dishonesty of it, and it's suddenly hard to breathe. Lying to others has become disturbingly easy over the years I’ve been in hiding. I’m skilled at it now, diversion and distraction like second nature. But the thought of keeping up the ruse with my mate is unbearable. Having to lie every day, and to the person who should know the absolute truth of myself? I can’t do it. I won’t do it.

I’m opening my mouth to admit things I haven’t in years, when my mothers face flashes through my mind. She was the first to implore me to hide my abilities, and the first to die because of them.

“You threaten his crown. He will destroy everything you love to keep you quiet, my girl. You cannot give him more ammunition. You get close to no one. You keep moving. Don’t ever come back here.”

Her words ring in my ears like I’m hearing them for the first time. I shut my mouth with a snap. I can’t tell Azriel anything, for fear of bringing the wrath of my father down on him. Can I even stay in Velaris?

When I first heard of the hidden city of the Night Court, heavily guarded by the most powerful High Lord, I rejoiced. Isolated and with a varied population, it made the perfect hiding place. Not to mention that Velaris is far outside the reach of my fathers court. I’ve felt almost safe here, and the thought of leaving this city, of leaving Azriel, has my heart sinking into my stomach. Azriel slowly places a hand on my cheek, breaking me free of my internal struggle. Concern shapes his features, hazel eyes heartbreakingly gentle. He is too perceptive to not see the indecision and fear in me, bond or not. Without meaning to, I speak.

“Okay.”

A relieved grin graces his lips. I feel the apprehension fading from him, being replaced with soft joy. It makes my decision for me. Azriel is an Illyrian, not exactly an easy target. We’re in the safest place there is for me. If I guard my secret well enough, I can stay. Stay, and see where this newfound bond leads us. I pray to the Cauldron that I’m not making a stupid, selfish mistake.

“Are you sure?” His brow furrows, intent on my response.

In that moment, I know that no matter how strongly he feels, Azriel will let me walk away. If I decide he’s not what I want, he would honor my choice no questions asked. It only makes me more certain of my decision. I’ve never been one to tolerate a controlling male.

“Absolutely. Are you?” I ask, inching closer to him, still clutching the sheets against myself.

His eyes flicker down to my chest, and back to my eyes. When a faint blush paints his cheeks, I nearly drop the bedding in shock. So the confident male can get flustered. I file the information away for later, barely containing a smirk.

“Of course I am, I’ve waited almost six hundred years for you.” His voice is low, each syllable more sure than the last.

My heart soars inside my chest at his words. Depthless hazel eyes bore into mine, and his shadows brush against my bare skin. They send shivers all along my body, and I edge even closer to him. He meets me in the middle of the bed, his forehead touching mine as his gaze roves over me like I’m a precious, once lost jewel. I do the same, drinking in the sight of the magnificent shadowsinger before me. My mate.

Long ago, some inexplicable force decided that he belonged to me, and I him. I wonder what makes us so compatible, and I find I’m excited to discover every reason for myself. I want to know all the simple, small details of him like the back of my hand. I want to memorize the planes of his face, every color in his eyes.

If my mother could meet him, I imagine she’d remark on the beautiful grandchildren we’d make her. It's that thought, and the sudden realization that we are both very naked, that has a fierce blush coloring my face.

“Maybe we should get dressed.” I whisper, only slightly breathless.

Azriel’s eyes run along my sheet-clad form once more, before he pins me with that now familiar alluring smile.

“As you wish.”

He says again, only making me more flushed at the memory. Without an ounce of shame, the Illyrian rises to his feet and walks to the dresser at the other end of the room. He begins digging through the drawers, before selecting some grey sweatpants and a long sleeve black shirt for himself. I’m still wrapped in his sheets, attempting to not gawk at the unobstructed view of his ass, when Azriel looks over his shoulder at me. He smirks at my obvious observation of his body.

“Do you want something other than your dress? Something more comfortable?”

I look down at the rumpled silk garment on the floor and grimace. He’s right, the thought of shimmying myself into it right now is about as appealing as a cold bath in the middle of winter.

“Yes please. Preferably something a bit warmer.”

He nods, and picks a few items from his dresser. He places them on the bed before me and fixes me with a sweet, slightly shy grin.

“Are you hungry? I have pastries from the bakery down the street. I could make coffee?”

My ears perk at the mention of food, and my stomach grumbles in agreement. I like that instead of pushing me to continue our conversation about our future, he’s making sure I’m fed and comfortable. That warm, light sensation flutters in my belly again.

“I never turn down coffee or carbs.” I manage to get out, smiling coyly.

“Noted.” Azriel smiles again, a quiet amusement in his eyes.

He leaves me to change, heading towards the kitchen to start the coffee. I put on the sweatshirt and black briefs left for me. Both are too big, but they’re warm and soft against my skin. Worlds better than the dress. I pull the collar of the sweatshirt up to my nose and inhale his scent of cedar and moonlight and rain. Gods, what does he bathe in that makes him smell so good?

For the first time all night, I’m able to observe Azriel’s bedroom. My eyes widen as I take in the beautiful A frame ceiling with exposed wooden beams. The soft patter of rain on glass draws my eyes to the east wall, which is made entirely of paneled windows. Silver rivulets of water run down their surface, reflecting flickering beams of moonlight into the room. The floors are a dark oak, the walls a calming sage.

Candles burn on Azriel’s overflowing bookcase, and the fireplace crackles merrily on the opposite wall. I reach out hesitantly with my ability, and feel the heat of each flame flicker inside my awareness. For a moment, I watch the candle flames dance and twist under my will. It's rare that I ever have the chance to explore my gift, the small flames too often exploding into an uncontrolled inferno that attracts attention. But I can’t help playing just a little.

The sound of a kettle whistling startles me from my reverie, and a few tea lights extinguish entirely. I wince, and quickly light them again before following Azriel into the kitchen.

He’s at the counter, adding hot water to a french press. The earthy scent of coffee tickles my nose as he presses the grounds down, the muscles of his arm flexing deliciously.

“How do you take your coffee?” He asks, gesturing towards a pale box of pastries for me to choose from.

“Cream and sugar. Lots of cream.”

“You like your coffee sweet.” He smiles to himself as he pours extra cream and sugar into my cup, as if adding the observance to a mental list.

I pad closer and peer at the box of pastries over his broad shoulder. On the front it reads ‘Diana’s Bakery and Coffeehouse’ in elegant script. I bite my lip to keep from laughing as I open the familiar box, and take a bagel from inside.

He notices me smiling at the pastries and raises a thick eyebrow at me, the corner of his lip quirking up.

“What is it?”

“Nothing it's just - well I work at Diana’s.” I laugh, taking a bite of the magically warmed bagel after liberally smearing it with cream cheese.

“You do? But I’ve been in there everyday this week, I haven’t seen you.”

He passes my mug to me, filled to the brim with creamy coffee, and I take a careful sip. He leans against the marble counter, hazel eyes looking me up and down, that small smirk making an appearance once again. What is it about males liking us in their clothes? Not that I’m complaining.

“Well, you wouldn’t. I work in the back with Diana as her baking apprentice. I even baked those cinnamon rolls.”

I know they’re mine by the slightly imperfect glazing. Diana is meticulous and every single treat she bakes is always flawless.

He points to the icing covered cinnamon rolls inside the box, mouth gaping in shock.

“These cinnamon rolls? They’re the best I’ve ever had. I’ve been buying you guys out everyday.” Azriel exclaims, eyes wide and alight with surprise.

“Oh, so you’re the reason I’ve had to make twice as many recently?” I chuckle, pink staining my cheeks. The fact that Azriel loves my baking brings me way too much delight to be proper.

“I’m sorry, but Cassian and I can’t get enough of them. What do you do to them? They’re like biting into a cloud!”

“I can’t tell you that! It's a secret recipe!” I wink, a goofy grin on my face.

Azriel rolls his eyes and smiles, grumbling about how secretive bakers are as he deposits a large mound of cinnamon rolls onto a plate. A truly genuine smile breaks across my face at the sight. He collects his own mug and leads me to a comfy couch, where we both plop down and tuck into our midnight snacks.

I can’t help but watch him, completely mystified. This sexy, adorable male is my mate? I’ve never felt lucky a day in my life, but as Azriel finishes his third cinnamon roll, I can’t help but feel like the fates smiled on this one aspect of my life. Having finished my bagel, I sip on my coffee and relax into the couch. I’ve been running for a long time, keeping everyone at arm's length, never staying in one place for more than a few years. But maybe I can stay hidden in Velaris and keep Azriel a lot closer. Maybe I don’t have to be alone. I want that future so badly it becomes hard to breath.

“So you bake. You dance at Rita’s. What else?”

Azriel’s voice brings me back to the present, and I glance up from my coffee cup. Silent laughter dances in the hazel depths of his eyes, his plate of pastries discarded on the coffee table. Suddenly self conscious under his intent gaze, I reach a hand up to feel the tangled masses of my dark hair. I grimace when I realize what a mess it’s become. It will probably need to be dyed again as well.

“I play music. Mostly the piano. I write sometimes. And you?”

The admissions, however small, make my throat tight with anxiety. I haven’t told anyone anything true about myself in years, and I haven’t touched a piano in just as long. The feeling is nerve wracking, and I can’t help but feel exposed. My eyes follow the upward curve of his lips as he smiles at me, one arm draped over the back of the couch.

“I can see you playing piano. You have the hands for it.”

I blush at his statement, my gaze falling to my entirely ordinary hands. What does that even mean?

“I’m something of a homebody. If I’m not with my brothers, I’m probably here with a book. I train, I work, I come home."

That explains the mountains of novels all over his room. And the incredible body. He reaches over and runs a hand through my slightly curling hair, the hours I’d spent straightening it made useless. He curls one of the ringlets around his finger, giving it a slight tug, before he tucks it behind my ear. Every single nervous thought evaporates at his touch.

“I like your hair like this, especially since I’m the one who made it this messy.”

He murmurs, a sudden heat in his eyes. I feel my body warm in response to that look, and I have to divert my gaze down at my lap to keep from jumping him right there. Again.

“You’re a shameless flirt, shadowsinger.” I mutter, playing with the silver ring of leaves on my finger, noticing that his thigh is now pressed against mine. When had he moved so close?

“Not usually, trust me. My brothers would be astonished.” He laughs, running a hand through his own messy hair.

“Not usually?” I trace a finger along the back of his hand, fascinated by the combination of scarring and complex veins.

He shivers slightly, and I smile in satisfaction. He’s not the only one who can play that game.

“I make exceptions for my mate.” He whispers, taking my hand from his and pressing a kiss to my palm, lips soft and warm.

“I was supposed to have drinks with my brothers. They must think I decided to stay in.” He laughs against my skin, kissing his way to the pulse point of my wrist.

“Little do they know, huh?” I gasp, made breathless by his ministrations and the thought of exactly why he’d ditched his brothers tonight.

“Little do they know. When you’re ready, I - uh. I know they’d love to meet you.” He looks up at me, cheeks filling with color as he straightens.

My stomach drops, and a bit of reality comes crashing down. A mate is one thing, but letting his family into my life? They’d be two more people to lie to, two more people in danger because of me. I avoid any straight answers, and decide to divert his attention elsewhere.

“Tell me about them?” I drink from my mug, using it as an excuse to break eye contact. I can’t shake the feeling that he can see down to the very truth of me when our gazes meet.

“Their names are Cassian and Rhys. Complete idiots. But those two have saved my life in so many ways.” His eyes glow with a warm, far away look, a goofy smile on his face.

“It sounds like you love them very much.” I speak softly, not wanting that radiant look to ever leave his face.

“I do. Do you have any siblings?” His eyes flicker back to me, the distance clearing from them.

“An older brother. Micah.” I try not to let my voice break on his name, the longing slamming into my chest like a horse at a full sprint.

I curse myself for using my brother's real name, a slip up I wouldn’t have made with anyone else. Azriel’s mere presence is enough to disarm me, and it's a struggle to focus with him this close. I haven’t seen Micah since the day our mother was murdered by my fathers sentries, and we both fled for our lives. In opposite directions. The day that started my life on the run.

“Are you two close?” Azriel’s shadows curl around me as he squeezes my hand in silent support, like he already knows the answer.

“We used to be, when we were young. Not so much anymore.”

I tense, hoping that he doesn’t push the subject. I can’t exactly tell him the truth of our forced estrangement. At least not yet.

“Where are you from?”

His tone is light, and I am endlessly grateful for the change in conversation. He doesn’t seem to miss a thing when it comes to me. The thought is a constant inkling of worry in the back of my head.

“Not Velaris.” I reply quickly.

It technically isn’t a lie, but the evasion feels even worse.

“I could’ve guessed that, love. I’ve lived here for hundreds of years, if you lived in Velaris I would’ve found you sooner. Are you from the Night Court?”

He chuckles, taking up another strand of my hair to play with. For a moment, I forget that he’s waiting on a response.

“No, Summer Court. Adriata. Did you grow up in Illyria?”

I attempt to change the subject, the subterfuge like spoiled milk in my stomach. I wish I could tell him all about my little cottage on the outskirts of the Autumn Court, about my mothers smile, and Micah’s penchant for getting me into trouble. Instead, I have to wriggle my way out of letting him get to know me. This is going to be harder than I thought.

“Unfortunately, I did.” Shadows rise from deep within his eyes, blotting out almost all the light in them.

I’ve heard many stories about the brutality of Illyria. Their perilous winters and sprawling mountains, the discipline that they ingrain into their children, how they throw themselves into the path of war. I wonder who put the scars on his hands, his wings, and I feel sick for an entirely different reason.

I search his eyes for answers, glimpsing an age old sadness there. I feel him trying to shove it down deep, but he can’t hide from me anymore than I can from him. A burning rage seethes in my chest at that sadness. It makes me want to grow claws and rip and tear, scorch those responsible with my flames.

He closes his eyes and rests his head where my shoulder and collarbone meet, a deep sigh leaving him. From the tension in his body, I know he wants me to let the topic drop. So instead of asking the questions on the tip of my tongue, I kiss the top of his head and stroke his back softly. He practically purrs, pressing closer, telling me to continue. I smile softly, trailing my fingers down his spine in slow circles. His back is deliciously firm, and rippling with muscles from his often used wings. Heat scorches across my face as I remember how I brought him over the edge just by kissing them, the absolute unleashing of it.

“I- I didn’t realize. That, well um- your wings. That they were so-“ I stutter pitifully, the blush spreading down my neck.

Azriel leans back to meet my eyes, a slight smile beginning on his face, previous troubles forgotten.

“You didn’t know?” He asks, disbelief in his tone and a glint of amusement in his eye.

“No, they just looked very kissable.”

He throws his head back and gives a loud, full belly laugh. I beam at the musical sound, satisfaction flowing through me. I want to make him laugh like that again and again.

“An Illyrian males wings are the most sensitive part of their body. If touched in the perfect spot, we can finish from that alone. As you saw. But they are also our greatest weapon, and we protect them accordingly. For that reason, I usually keep them far away from any - partners.” He explains after sobering from his laughter, voice soft and a slight blush painting his elegant cheekbones.

“But you make exceptions for your mate?” I ask, eyes downcast as I play with the cuff of his long sleeve shirt.

“I do. Only for you.” He takes my hands from his sleeve, and presses them to his lips once again.

I glance up at him, to find his eyes already on me. The warmth and tenderness I find there has my heart flying in my chest, and tears pricking my eyes. I blink them away hurriedly, looking to his wings instead of the intense emotion he’s showing me. For some reason, the adoration I see there has a small burst of fear running through me.

“I’m glad you let me touch them. They’re beautiful.” I whisper reverently as l behold the incredible expanse of his wings.

Vibrant plum and lavender, veined with maroon and the silver of scar tissue. I can’t even think of these beautiful, majestic wings being mutilated like that. My hands ache to touch them again, feel their silky warmth.

“You definitely showed your appreciation for them.” He leans closer, his breath fanning across my cheek as he whispers in my ear.

It sends shivers deep into my core, and I have to squeeze my thighs together and hope he doesn’t catch my scent. The confident, seductive Azriel of earlier tonight is back.

“Not yet I haven’t.” I murmur, emboldened by my renewed need for him.

The need comes quickly, overwhelmingly. Especially now that I know what being with him is like. Entirely world shattering. He may have ruined every other male for me. Again, not that I’m complaining. A low rumble comes from deep in his chest, and he wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me onto his lap with ease.

“Is that so?” There’s a sultry promise in his voice, and I feel him stir against my thigh.

The room is filled with our mingled arousal as he inhales against my neck.

“I still can’t believe I found you.” He groans, pressing kisses against my throat.

I let my eyes fall closed, shocked anew at how easily he reduces me to a gasping mess. His hands begin to roam over my hips and waist, his touch worshipping and disbelieving. When I begin to slowly move myself over his growing arousal, I feel a shift in him. His hands halt their exploration, and he tenses beneath me. I open my eyes to find his face veiled with worry, his brow creasing.

“You don’t have to, Sabine.” He cups my face in his hands, dark eyes gleaming with concern.

I try not to flinch at the false name, and I wonder what his voice would sound like saying the name my mother gave me.

Shoving those thoughts away, I shake my head, a small grin forming on my lips. Does he not see how infatuated I am already? Of course I don’t have to, but I want to.

“Az, you idiot.”

And with that, I plant my lips on his. He doesn’t need further convincing. His body responds to mine eagerly, a low growl building in his chest. My back meets the leather couch as Azriel maneuvers himself above me, his hands sliding under the hem of my sweatshirt. He is somehow gentle and commanding all at once, his skin burning hot against mine. I sigh into the kiss as I give myself to him, entirely content to do so this time.

“You are the most exquisite thing I’ve ever seen.”

He whispers against my lips, that reverent tone back in full force. My eyes prick as my chest fills with equal parts warmth and fear. I can see how easy it would be to love my mate. To fall fast and completely. And the part of me that’s been running scared from those I once loved is terrified.

“I’m scared.” I murmur back, surprised at my own honesty.

I feel his frown against my lips, and he only holds me tighter.

“I’m scared too, love. But I won’t ever hurt you. You’re - You are everything.” His eyes, soft and dark and endlessly kind, convince me.

I smile sheepishly at him, holding out my left pinky.

“Promise?”

Without hesitation, he wraps his finger around mine.

“I promise.”

The next morning, sunlight streaming in through the expansive windows wakes me. A sleepy contentment keeps me drowsy and warm, and I stretch like a cat after a particularly restful nap.

“Good morning.”

Cauldron, his morning voice is the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.

I blink my eyes open, the blurry image of a very amused Azriel coming into focus. His black hair is tousled and falling onto his forehead, and pillow marks color his cheeks.

Delicious.

I cuddle closer to him instead of replying, not ready to start the day yet. He wraps both arms around me as I bury my head in his very bare chest. Memories of last night rise to the surface, and I feel my cheeks warm. After his pinky promise, Azriel made love to me. That's the only way to describe the beautiful, tender way he touched me. He made sure every ounce of doubt was replaced with complete trust. It was the most intimate I had ever been with anyone in my entire life.

“Did you know that you talk in your sleep?” He asks, a teasing grin curling his full lips.

I can’t help but remember those lips on my body in the living room. And the bedroom. And the bathtub. Needless to say, we didn’t sleep until dawn.

“W-What did I say?” I can only imagine the mortifying things my sleep self has to say to this male.

“Just my name. Over and over again.” His voice deepens, eyes darkening.

“Shut up! I did not!” I hiss, giving his shoulder a shove.

He only chuckles and waggles a brow at me, before placing a kiss to my forehead. He smells even better in the morning, his cedar scent more potent. How is that even possible?

“How did you sleep?”

He brushes my hair over my shoulder, peppering even more kisses across my collarbone. I shiver under his attention, my eyes falling closed again.

“Better than I have in a long time.” I admit, my voice still raspy with sleep.

“So did I.”

He runs gentle hands through my hair, our legs still entwined intimately. I haven’t felt this safe and content in someone’s arms since I was a girl, when my mom would hold me after I woke from nightmares about monsters under my bed. Azriel already feels like home, and the thought doesn’t scare me as badly as it did last night. Thoughts of my father seem distant and insignificant now, chased away by the bright morning light and warmth of my mate’s presence.

“I wish I could stay here with you all day, baby.” He groans, a deep sigh leaving him. I can feel his reluctance in how firmly he presses me to him, strong arms locking me against his chest.

“Then stay.” I grumble moodily, a frown curling my lips downwards. I know we can’t stay sequestered in his apartment forever, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.

“I have to do some work for my brother today, but you’re more than welcome to stay in my bed. In fact, I hope you do.” Azriel chuckles, untangling his limbs from mine and kneeling before me. He drops a tender, lingering kiss on my lips before standing.

My cheeks warm as my blood sings in my veins, and my breath catches in my chest. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the way his touch affects me. I hope I never do.

“Oh? What kind of work do you do for him? Does he have his own shop or something?” I yawn my way through the question, cuddling myself into his vacated warm spot.

Azriel smiles over his shoulder at me, while sliding into Illyrian fighting leathers. My mouth goes dry at how the skin tight garment outlines his muscular thighs and powerful chest, accentuating the golden tones of his skin. Hubba Hubba.

“Actually, Rhysand is High Lord of the Night Court. I’m his Spymaster. I have spying to do.” His lips twitch as if he’s trying to not let the easy smile fall from his face as he continues dressing. He watches for my reaction intently.

The blood in my veins turns to ice, freezing my heart in place as my eyes shoot open in shock.

Azriel’s brother Rhys is... Rhysand. High Lord of the Night Court. All sleep leaves my body, and I have to fight to stay still. Every instinct is screaming at me to run, run far and fast.

Because Rhysand knows my father, seeing as he’s High Lord of the Autumn Court.

In fact, I know Beron has met Rhysand many times. He often spoke about the half breed bastard who challenged his authority at meetings.

I met Rhysand at Beron’s court once, when I was barely fifteen. It's been decades, but he could easily recognize me as Beron’s bastard daughter. And he could tell my father where I am, maybe even deliver me to him.

Even if he doesn’t recognize me, grown and changed as I am, Rhysand is a Daemati. He could rip the truth from my own mind with hardly a thought. And the High Lord of the Night Court has a reputation for finding pleasure in that sort of thing. The thought has me shivering despite the warm blankets tucked around me.

“Oh. You didn’t mention that last night.” I rasp, trying not to look like I’m about to throw up. My stomach roils, and my palms dampen with cold sweat.

“I forget that he's High Lord sometimes. He’s just Rhys to me.” Azriel shrugs, with his back now turned to me as he readies himself for the day. I thank the Cauldron for it.

I can only imagine the stark horror in my expression, and I take a few extra moments to reign my emotions in. Gods, no wonder Azriel can read me so effortlessly. It's not only because of the bond, he’s a spymaster. Reading people is his job. A job he performs for a mind stealing, murdering monster of a High Lord. Bile rises in my throat, and I feel my heart crack in my chest.

Azriel is not who I thought he was. The trustworthy, gentle male I spent the night with could just be another mask he wears. A tremble begins deep within me.

“When will you be back?” I try to sound eager, like I can’t wait for his return.

In reality, I’m trying to find out how far away I can get before he even realizes I’m gone.

“Tonight. I just need to visit some - colleagues in another court.” He says, while lacing his sturdy looking boots into place.

What court is he ‘visiting’? Will he be spying on other High Lords for Rhysand? Despite the new revelations about his dangerous brother, I feel a stab of fear for my mate. Any High Lord would slaughter him in a moment if they caught him spying on the Daemati’s behalf.

“Will you be safe?” I hear the worry in my own voice, and Azriel either hears it as well or can feel it from me. Damn mate bond.

The male perches on the bed next to me, a reassuring smile on his striking face. The two versions of him that exist in my head clash terribly; the vulnerable, kind Azriel of last night and the formidable Spymaster I’ve heard grave stories about. My gaze falls to the dark dagger strapped to his leg. Truth Teller. I try not to shiver as the light glints lethally off its razored edge. I wonder how many truths he’s tortured out of his enemies using it.

“Of course. Always, but especially now.” Azriel strokes stray curls out of my face, his eyes brimming with unabashed tenderness. He kisses me soundly, a promise to return.

My stomach flips and suddenly my heart is no longer racing out of fear. For a moment, I almost forget the hidden lethalness and only see Az. But that’s foolish. I can’t shiver at the sight of his famed blade and crave his touch at the same time.

“I’ll see you tonight?” I ask, mentally calculating how long I have to leave Velaris. I go through the well rehearsed steps of my escape plan, focusing on mundane details to keep the fear and longing from rendering me completely useless.

“Of course.” Shadows of worry cloud his eyes, and I can almost see the sharp, spy's mind calculating behind them.

Azriel kisses me once more, his lips hesitant for the very first time.

His mouth tastes like sorrow, and I feel a flicker of something down the bond. It's gone too quickly for me to decipher it. I curse internally, hoping he only thinks I’m intimidated by his brother’s position. Between the bond and his spymaster abilities, who knows what he can decipher from my reaction alone.

“I’ll be back soon, okay?” He stands, tucking his wings in close and letting his shoulders droop slightly.

He searches my face, lips slightly turned down at the corners, brow furrowed.

“I’ll be here.” The lie burns my throat like acid, and I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes.

Instead, I pretend to settle deeper into the bed, closing my eyes as I bring the blankets up to my chin. I don’t want to see the confusion and worry in his gaze. And I can’t watch him leave, knowing that I may never see him again. Azriel squeezes my thigh softly, whispering another farewell as he leaves the room with a sigh.

I wait until I no longer feel the thrumming current that is Azriel’s presence, when I know he’s well and truly gone. Then I spring into action. I burst from the bed, and head straight for Azriel’s dresser. I yank a pair of sweats from the drawer and pull them on hurriedly, shaking so hard it takes me three tries to get my legs through the correct hole. I practically run through the living room, propelled forwards by thoughts of obliterated minds and the dank cells beneath the Autumn Court.

I glimpse the forgotten mugs and pastry box from last night on the coffee table. Tears prick my eyes at the memory of the hope I felt during that meal. I told Azriel, my mate, more than I’ve shared with anyone in years. He let me see some of the anguish he carries with him, buried so deep it's become a part of him. I gave my body to him. And he felt like home. Can I really run from that?

Yes, I can. I have to. I was a fool to think that I could ever be outside my father’s reach.

On impulse, I hunt down a pen from the kitchen cabinets and scrawl a quick, cowardly note on a scrap of paper. Shame coats my tongue so thoroughly I think I may choke on it.

I’m sorry. - S

With the note finished, I raise the hood to conceal my face and tear down the stairs, avoiding the elevator Azriel first kissed me in. Soon enough, my bare feet are slapping against the rain slick pavement, my heart cracking with every step. I don’t stop to notice the people that watch me fly by, or the sun shining over the Sidra. I let the fear cloud every guilty thought, until all I know is adrenaline.

Once I reach my apartment, I change into clothes more appropriate for an escape attempt, and collect my emergency bag from beneath some loose floorboards. Not the most creative hiding spot, but it’s better than my underwear drawer.

Less than an hour later, I’m standing on the rickety, wooden deck of a foreign boat, sailing away from Velaris. Tradesmen man their vessel, hardly paying attention to me as I stare out over the water from their starboard side. I can imagine the mystery I pose. A lone, cloaked female, begging to stow away on their watercraft.

The money I slipped to their captain keeps the curious glances to a minimum, and I hope it keeps their mouths shut in the future. Either way, I won’t be settling where I first disembark. I’m not entirely sure where I’ll go yet, but maybe that’s for the best. If I’m entirely impulsive, my actions will be harder to predict.

I’ve run scared so many times over the years that I’ve lost count, but I’ve never been so conflicted. Every mile I put between me and the shore of the Sidra is another knife shoved up under my ribs, and it becomes harder and harder to breath. Eventually, the vibrant colors of the Rainbow fade from view and the citrus scent of the river becomes the salty brine of the ocean. Hot tears sting my eyes, and I let them fall. The hood of my cloak covers my face anyway.

“Goodbye, Az.”

#Azriel #azrielfanfic #acotar #acotar fic #acotarsmut #fanfiction #Feysand #nesta archeron #archeron sisters #nessian #fluff #Smut #angst #a court of silver flames #a court of wings and ruin #elriel #The Night Court #autumn court #velaris

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dreamingofmilk · 4 years

Text

SugarBabe

Word count 2.1k

Summary: What would it be like if Erik was your boss and you were both stuck in a really tough spot.

This is for @marvelmaree and her birthday challenge.

Another email buzzed into your phone, your fingers anxiously twitched around it desperate to answer and solve all your problems. But it was never that easy.

You were a headstrong and independent woman who always strives to take care of yourself without the help of anyone. You didn’t need anyone to take care of you, but the situation you were in right now made you consider otherwise.

You made phone call after phone call and nothing was working and soon you would be flat on your butt with nothing but your dream job to keep you up. But it really didn’t matter because in the end you would get everything figured out and back on your feet.

For right now you’d focus on your boss and helping him shop for his upcoming business trip. You were supposed to meet your boss Erik Stevens in the watch shop about ten minutes ago but you were a bit weighed down with all the bags you were carrying.

You stopped to rest on a bench, you had a few work calls to make anyway. A loud sigh of relief escaping your lips when the weight of the back. You were just catching your breath when you heard a chuckle come from the stand in front of you.

“It’s okay to ask for help. There’s no reason a young lady like you should be carrying all those bags by herself.” The older man smiled kindly at you. You smiled back and quickly got up from the bench, you didn’t have to explain yourself to anyone. Erik offered to join you to pick up his online orders, but you assured him that his time was better spent on the conference call that he wrapped up ten minutes ago, and that the bags wouldn’t be too much for you to handle on your own.

Eventually you make it to the watch shop, and made eye contact with Erik as you entered the shop loudly with all the bags in your petite hands. Erik’s eyes roll over your form, his jaw clenching as he sees the amount of bags in your possession. He quickly marches over to you and snatches the bags from you. Picking them up effortlessly he bends down to whisper in your ear.

“Next time, we go together.” His anger is thick and understandable, you quickly look away from his eyes and nod. Silence seems like the best response at the moment.

You stand behind Erik to watch him pick out another sharp looking watch. It was his obsession, he loved his watches. Sometimes he would send you to go get them cleaned or fixed but most times he’d rather go himself, regardless of how busy he was.

As his personal assistant he demanded you tag along, especially when times were busy like today. Most of the time he liked having you around for the company, but also because he says having a beautiful girl like you on his arm warded off the desperate attempts some women took to shoot their shot.

Erik was a well known CEO of a huge engineering firm, frequently recognized by business magazines and publications, he easily became one of the western world's most sought after bachelors. So it’s no surprise that women recognized him sometimes and approached him when they felt necessary.

Erik held conferences, did interviews, and held charity galas all the time, working for him paid well, and he treated his employees with respect and cherished anyone who worked hard with him. You admired him and truly enjoyed working for such a determined man.

Erik finished up with the clerk and got his items wrapped up. While waiting he watched how you nervously kept checking your phone. The nervous tick of biting your bottom lip was a dead giveaway. After 5 years of working together Erik knew you well. He could tell when things were bothering you, he trusted you to tell him the truth about his company and a lot of the decisions he made. So any look of unease had him on alert as it usually signaled something that could be a problem with the company.

Annnnd he had a bit of a crush on you, he knew you had a crush on him too, but it was quietly determined that the two of you would not pursue it. The mutual attraction was obvious between the two of you, but you worked hard to bury it deep. Mainly because you worked so well together.

Erik grabbed your chin gently, his thumb forcing you to release your bottom lip. You looked up at him with your eyes wide as saucers. The grip on your phone tightened when you noticed Erik lick his lips staring down at you.

“What’s the matter?” Erik nodded towards your phone. You were a bit shook and quickly pulled yourself out of his grip and closed your phone pocketing it and smiling up at your boss.

“Nothing! Are we ready to go?”

Erik’s eyes squinted at you and nodded as he held up his packaged watches. You lead the way out of the store and towards his car. He put the bags in the trunk and you quickly hopped into the passenger seat after he opened it for you. You quietly murmured thank you and pulled out your work phone to see what was next on the agenda for the day.

Erik has a huge business deal coming up that required his travel to Singapore. Normally you’d travel with him for deals as big as this one, but this one was so important that he would be gone for about 2-3 weeks, maybe having to be back and forth a bit longer if everything went really well… or really bad. This trip required a lot of preparation on his part and yours and he left in two days, so it’s imperative that he complete his travel shopping today.

Erik climbs into the driver's seat and pulls off from the curb.

“Okay you have an appointment at Grisham Mall for those suits, then-“ Erik cut you off and held his hand out for your phone.

“Give it to me.” His voice is deep and rough. You go to hand him your work phone confusion etched on your face. “The other one.” His eyes cut towards you. “I’m not playing with you.” Your brain shorts. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, you were used to Erik’s moods and for the most part they turned you on more than anything.

“Why! It’s not that deep Erik.”

“Then give me the fucking phone so I can see what’s got you so nervous. Or you could just tell me.” Erik’s face was serious, he could always tell when you were trying to keep things from him.

You sigh and hand over your phone with the email detailing your eviction from your apartment.

Erik’s face got tighter as he read the email, his jaw clenching and unclenching.

“How did this happen?” He glanced briefly at you.

“I think someone stole my identity.” The words slip from your mouth, you’d been trying to handle it on your own this entire time, but things were worse than you perceived them to be.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply, his frustration clear. "How long has this been going on?"

"About a month." You shrunk a bit under his intense gaze, embarrassed to give him the answer.

"You've been dealing with this for a whole month and didnt say anything?" Erik knew you were headstrong and independent, he just never knew how deep that went.

You shrugged, "I'm handling it. I just need to talk to my leasing office and ask for an extension on rent. It's nothing to worry about."

Erik chuckled, mocking you under his breath. “Nothing to worry about” Erik grabbed your wrist, "The hell it is." He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a black Amex card.

"Here, pay your rent and everything else with this. I'll get Marcus on the phone and have him figure out who stole your identity." He flicked the card at you like it was a $10 Walmart gift card. You instinctively tried to push it back to him, but thought better of it when you saw the glare on his face. It's best to pick your battles with Erik and now was definitely not a good time to argue with him. He hates when you hide big things from him.

You grabbed the card and gave him a small but genuine smile, the relief and frustration fought for domination on your face. "Thank you so much Erik. I promise I'll pay you back."

"Don't worry about it. It's nothing."

You shook your head vigorously. "Bullshit! I'm paying you back one way or another."

Erik rolled his eyes, but he didn't argue. You made your way to the mall. Erik was on the phone giving Marcus a rundown of your situation so he could get started. The two of you made it to the next mall to pick up the suits. Shortly after he hung up, his phone rang again.

He greeted them with a simple "Erik." You couldn't help but eavesdrop, hey some could say it was part of your job, especially when Erik's face quickly morphed into shock.

"How the hell am I supposed to do that?" He said.

There was a bit more conversation. “Why the hell did no one see this being an issue earlier. I specifically asked what were their core values!!” Erik's face grew more frustrated as it continued before he said a quick goodbye and hung up.

"Is everything ok? Did something go wrong with the Singapore trip?" You waited a few moments before asking.

"That was Jeff. He was able to do the values and moral eval on the owners and it's about what we expected, except for the part where they truly believe a businessman needs to be married and involve his wife in the processes of the business. They like the idea of a family guy basically.” Erik rolled his eyes. “Some bullshit about how there might be another competitor with values that line up more. Jeff's suggesting I need to find a fake wife for the trip to stay in their good graces. How the fuck am I going to find someone suitable in 2 weeks?" Erik pinched the bridge of his nose, his nostrils flaring in frustration.

You immediately started racking your brain sifting through all of the women you knew who could maybe handle the job. It had to be someone who knew their way around a company, even better if they had experience in the types of mergers Erik did. They had to get along with Erik- which was pretty difficult once he got to know them- enough to convince the owners that it was a real marriage. They had to be free during the 2-3 week period he would be in Singapore, and be able to do all of this under short notice. Not to mention all of the other factors like facilitating business meetings, building rapport, etc.

Erik suddenly stopped walking, and you were so deep in thought that you ran into his broad back, almost knocking yourself to the floor.

He quickly wrapped an arm around your waist to steady you, pulling you close to his side. He smelled so damn good!

"That's it! I don't know why I didn't see it sooner!" Erik smiled brightly.

"See what?" You tilted your head in confusion. He smiled softly and moved a few pieces of your hair back into place. "You can be my wife. You know everything about the company, we've been working together for years so we won't have to worry about that. It's perfect!"

The thought of it alone brought a euphoria you've never felt before, which was terrifying. There's no way you'd be able to handle pretending to be Erik's wife! You barely held it together working alongside him these past few years.

You shook your head, "Erik, I'm sure there's someone else who would work better for this. Plus someone is going to have to handle your day to day operations while you're gone."

He smirked, "I'll have Gina take that over, no problem. Besides, weren't you just talking about how you were going to pay me back? Do this for me and I'll consider us even. Think of it as overtime."

Damn, he had a point. You would just have to guard yourself during this trip then. You can't allow yourself to get caught up. He was right though. He's done so much for you, it'd be nice to be able to help him out for once.

You looked into his eyes and nodded.

"Ok. I'll be your wife."

Taglist:

@aislinnsilver @marvelmaree @wawakanda-btch @chaneajoyyy

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thevirgodoll · 4 years

Note

idk if tou will ver reply to this but lets go

first off sorry for my bad english. I fell really insecure bc of my body. Im not skinny, im not fat, im not thick, im...a square, i dont have ass and got a huge belly. When i look sideways in the mirror i feel sick. But at the same time i dont wanna change the way i eat and live cause i hate this fitness lifestyle and i want to love myaself the way god made me... But i dont know what to do.

Ppl always tell me how georgeous i am, and they sey i look like a bunch of beautiful celebrities and i feel that like when i see my face on the mirror i just know im THAT bitch but at same time i always think ppl must be lying or that because of my body i dont get reconized enough? Like... Why dont boys ir girls want to get with me? Why dont ppl ask me to be a model or something if i look like other models and stunning singers and actress? What should i do?

Hi angel. Your English is fine. Never apologize for that.

You do not have to look a certain way first and foremost. People, especially women, are always under the impression that they have to fit a certain “mold”. You don’t have to fit any category regarding your looks...you just have to be yourself and own it.

If you are unhappy with the size of your belly, sure you can exercise and eat cleaner some days of the week. But overall, that won’t change the fact that you perceive yourself as less than. When people lose weight while maintaining a negative sense of self, they still have distortions with their thinking and low self esteem in the long run. So, altering your body is not really the solution...that should only come when you’re in a place of love and compassion for yourself and you feel the need to improve an area of your life, not conform or make yourself fit a mold. You have to ask yourself where this is coming from.

Questions to reflect on:

•Why do I feel inadequate when it comes to my body image?

•Where did these feelings originate? Is there a past experience I can pinpoint?

•Is it hard for me to be honest about these feelings? Is there trauma surrounding my self image or esteem?

•Who has given me the image that I feel I need to conform to? Is it social media? Has social media negatively impacted my perception of myself? How can I change this?

Answer these in a diary or document. Keep it to yourself to honor your experience and privacy. After answering these questions, you may find yourself feeling shameful or gross in a way. This is normal because you’ve tapped into uncharted territory.

What to do now?

Reshape your definitions and expectations. Challenge yourself daily.

•Confidence regarding body image is not the existence of perfection and need to control. It is the ability to appreciate your body’s value. The things that are uniquely designed, and make you YOU.

•How do you honor your body image when you express yourself via fashion? Have you allowed yourself to fully navigate your own fashion sense? Allowing yourself to do this will give you a sense of power and appreciation for your qualities. You will learn to dress for your shape, not cover and hide.

•Stop consuming unhealthy media that affirms your negative thoughts. Social media might be influencing your expectations and standards regarding image. Be honest with yourself, and know how to cater to your needs.

•Allow yourself to exist without condemnation. Judgment of yourself is condemning your existence, as if parts of you are a mistake or shouldn’t have been formed. Your thoughts are not facts. Call yourself out on your stuff. Say: “That is not true, actually. I know I am smart. I am worthy.” Refute irrational thoughts with things you KNOW to be true about yourself. List your strengths. Have you ever given yourself props?

•Treat yourself the way you’d like to be addressed. You say people say you’re beautiful. You should treat yourself as such and carry yourself with that importance. Why haven’t you ever thought of yourself in a high regard?

•Take other people off pedestals. It’s typical to put certain people on pedestals and glorify their looks, but it’s not helping you. It is time to focus on yourself and end the cycle of comparison. It is exhausting you.

•Accept some hard truths about yourself and the world. By that I mean, you have to recognize that there will be people evil enough to be jealous or make inflammatory comments. Maybe you’ve had that experience. But you should know something: not everyone has to approve of you. Their behavior is projection of their own issues. Stop living for other people’s approval and comments. It’s going to hurt you in the long run. And in general, most people are too busy with their own lives to judge you the way you harshly judge yourself. You don’t have to be adored by everyone, but you do have to be loved by yourself, understand your own value, and reshape your expectations. You do get treated different when you carry yourself like you know you’re something special. That is just a fact of life.

Above all, this is a process and you have to remember nothing in life is linear or clear cut. These are all things you have to do in order to work towards a healthier body image. Have you ever taken time to just create a pampering routine and dance and just let yourself go? You have to foster a deeper connection with yourself, rather than a connection with the world. What you wake up with is yourself, and what you go to sleep with is yourself. Your quality of life can improve little by little in the way that you address yourself in your head, treat yourself with your actions, and validate yourself with compassion and empathy. It will fail unless you believe in the process and get mad enough that you want to change. You have enough bravery by sharing, so you have to be even braver and address the things that are stealing your joy.

Sometimes, our biggest enemy is the way we learned to deal with our own pain and feelings. The way we learned to process information. The way we learned to navigate life through our past, and it attacks our self image and self perception. You’re working against yourself and your unhealthy mechanisms, not everyone else. These mechanisms have to change as we begin to grow older.

There are different versions of you looking at who you are right now, who you have potential to become, and who you will be. Remember this truth as you work towards a better you. The answers are within you.

#advice #mental health #body image

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ftb-writes · 3 years

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And the truth is revealed! I was waiting to post the Marvel fic for Captain Steve Rogers's birthday! Happy Birthday, OG Cap! And the next fic will be Skyrim!

No, but in all actuality, everyone. This was a really difficult fic for me to write, purely because it dealt with some darker themes, and very heavy-handedly. I had trouble writing this 'What if?' fic because it was so dark, and right from the get go. I had to put it down for a couple days at a time as I was writing. So, before you go into this, a few warnings. There is a bit of body horror, though I tried not to get too detailed. There is child death. There is implied (though not *directly* witnessed by the characters) torture. Of both adults and children. Admittance to suicide ideation. Implied cannibalism, and something that ended up sounding like a weird, pseudo-magical prion disease. Implied (though not stated) sexual torture/abuse. This fic is very dark. Please, proceed with caution.

*Please. Please, sir; kill me.

** Thank you.

It is dank in the cramped cellar-turned-laboratory of the crumbling Erskine estate. The age of the damp air hits Steven like a steam train. He chokes on the smell of death and rot wrapping cloyingly around him and the other Avengers. Next to him, Sam and Bucky are gagging, and he hears Tony curse quietly. For once, Steve lets the foul-mouthed inventor be -- the stench is bringing bile to the back of his throat.

The lights don't flick on, despite all the others in the abandoned estate working, and Steve sighs as he flicks the switch up and down a few times ineffectually. The agents with them silently pull out torches. Steve feels his mouth from a grim line as the artificial light washes away the perceived innocence of his old friend.

Abraham had shelves of jars lining the walls, all filled with formaldehyde and bits of human tissue, organs, even a whole fetus suspended in one. The cells on the other side of the ring of light the agents wield are rusty and blood-stained, and have rotting remains still trapped inside. Steve can't bring himself to look at the rib bones jutting up.

As they make their way deeper, the team quickly discovers that the celler opens up into a much larger space -- larger than was reported. They split up and begin to look around, and both the Avengers and the agents accompanying them are horrified by some of the remains they are finding. No one comments on how young the victims all are.

Steve steps around a shelf and notices another victim, this one tacked to the wall and opened up like an anatomical doll. He feels himself heave, and only just avoids puking. There's still some form, but she's mostly sludge by this point. It would have been a gruesome way to go.

To his horror, the girl lifts her head, and Steve chokes on a scream that threatens to tear out of him.

"Bitte," the little girl wheezes. "Bitte, Herr; Töte mich."*

Steve doesn't realize he's crying until after he's fired. He hears one of the nearby agents uttering a prayer for her. "This was a mistake," he tells the team. "We shouldn't be here. This place should have been left to hell."

No one responds.

A few minutes later -- and Steve's morbidly relieved none of the other victims still live -- Bucky mutters a curse of his own. "Stevie, you'll want to see this. Can I get a medic over here?"

Steve weaves his way around shelves, cells, and even a chain-covered operating table. Bucky motions him over to one of the cells, and Sam is just breaking the lock.

Inside the cage is Johann Schmidt, bound, bloodied, and bare. He barely reacts to their presence, but Steve can still see the small flinch. The German isn't looking at any of them, staring out the opposite side of the cell into the dark.

It's Steve's turn to swear. "Get a blanket," he tells the medic that's arrived. As they hurry off, Steve cautiously climbs in with Schmidt and starts cutting away the ropes.

"He's still alive," the German whispers. "Erskine. The fools used the wrong bullet."

"He's delirious," Sam huffs.

"That monster did all this," Schmidt continues, as if Sam hadn't spoken. "And now he's going to do it all to you, Rogers. You should not have come."

The medic returns at that moment, and Steve takes the offered blanket and wraps Schmidt up, before carefully lifting him. "What do you mean?"

"He's still down here," Schmidt breathes.

All the torches go out simultaneously. One of the agents yelps, and then gurgles. Schmidt begins to shiver.

"Please," he whispers. "Shoot me. I can't-"

Steve sets the German on his feet and draws his gun, but catches Schmidt as his legs give out. To see the once proud founder of HYDRA helpless -- Steve doesn't dare think what must have happened to him down here, alone and in the dark.

"Can you walk?" Steve asks, and Schmidt shakes his head.

"Can't feel my legs," Schmidt grunts, and Steve hates the spike of pity and fear that lurches through him.

"I'm going to get you out of here," Steve murmurs.

"I'm a dead man, Rogers. Finish the job and save yourselves. He's not even human anymore."

"What-" Steve starts to ask, and a massive black shape lurches out of the darkness and sinks long claws into the flesh of Schmidt's thigh.

The German screams, and as Steve empties the rest of the magazine into the thing's face, Schmidt pulls the shield free and slams it into the beast's chest. Sam and Bucky are shouting.

"I don't want to be hurt again," Schmidt wimpers, just loud enough for Steve to hear.

He reloads as best as he can one handed -- there's no way he's letting Schmidt go now -- and fires directly into the thing's wrist. It howls, but releases Schmidt and Steve scoops the German up and runs.

He can hear the thing barreling along behind him, whatever it is. Steve hadn't gotten a good look at it, but it reeks of decay, with a bleached skull for a face, and thick, dark fur. It looks like something out of a bad horror film, only real, and Steve can hear agents behind him screaming, and his team calling directions to the exit. Schmidt is sobbing like a child in his arms.

Somehow, in the dark, Steve manages to find the doorway, stumbles up the stairs, out of the cellar. Peter is right behind him, no doubt shoved ahead by Tony, and right behind Peter is the inventor himself. The rest of the Avengers make it out all right, but they've lost most of the agents, and the medic that had brought Steve the blanket. Thor slams the door shut, and the silence is deafening. The group slowly makes their way out to the trucks, stumbling over their own feet as the adrenaline wears off.

In the bright, summer light, Dr. Banner begins to look over Schmidt's wounds, and Steve asks about that beast.

"They have many names; none should be spoken aloud. They eat us mortals, Rogers. Erskine is a monster now. I came -- I was looking for signs of my son. For his sake, I hope the boy's long dead. I -- He-"

Bruce shushes him gently. "Once we get Erskine cleared out, you can search for his remains."

"Danke," Schmidt murmurs, "but he's probably been eaten."**

Steve shakes his head. "I'm so sorry," he tells Schmidt, and means it. "How long had Erskine been torturing people? When he-?"

"Even before he left Germany," Schmidt whispers. "That's why -- I wanted everyone to see what me and the others saw. They're all buried around out here, now. I'm the only one left."

"The others?" Steve prompts.

Schmidt swallows thickly. "When the Nazis were financing the super soldier program, and they had just signed Erskine on, there were about fifty-seven other kids that had been shipped out here. For… experimentation. I happened to be the most fitting candidate. So he didn't kill me, but I wish he had. I suffered so much under his thumb. Am still suffering."

"Other kids," Sam asks. "What do you mean, other kids?"

Schmidt looks at them in shock. "You mean, you didn't know? No one over there knew?"

"Knew what?" Steve hands him a bottle of water, and Schmidt sips from it before he answers.

"Rogers, I was only fifteen during the war. Three years younger than you. I was selected because I'd been an orphan for most of my life by that point. I arrived when I was, I'm not sure, maybe eight? By twelve, I already wanted to die." Schmidt seems concerned. "Did none of SHIELD really know how old I was?"

"No," Steve sighs, and he feels guilty now. If he'd known all of this during the war, he would have tried at least a little bit harder to de-escalate things between him and Schmidt. Maybe, the German might have been talked out of world domination. But then again, if he'd known all this during the war, a lot of things would have been different.

"I can see those sad puppy dog eyes from over here, Rogers. I assure you, nothing you could have said at that point would have stopped me. As I said, I wanted to die. At least as the Red Skull, no one would hurt me."

Before Steve can think of a response, Schmidt clears his throat. "We should come up with a plan. Before it gets dark. Things like that can't come out during the day. However, once it gets dark…"

Peter raises his hand quietly, as if trying to ask a question in school. "I'd rather not be eaten thanks," he admits, "I have a math test next week."

Schmidt laughs, surprisingly. "A good head on his shoulders, Junior," he says to Tony. "Now, do any of you have silver bullets?"

One of the remaining agents laughs, but as Schmidt silently turns his attention toward the agent, they realize no one else is laughing. The chuckles awkwardly trail off. No one actually answers Schmidt.

"Well then, the best thing we can do is leave to get some, and try to make it back before sundown. Otherwise he might just run off, and we'll never see him again."

"I'll go," Steve offers. "The rest of you, stay here and make sure he doesn't leave. Schmidt, you want to come with me?"

Schmidt hesitates, obviously a bit uncomfortable, but he shrugs and nods. "I'd rather be as far away from -- the thing Erskine has become as possible."

"We'll take care of it," Steve promises Schmidt, as the two climb into one of the trucks. "That thing, whatever it is, isn't natural. That's for sure."

"No." Schmidt shifts in the seat, clearly trying to get more comfortable while also favoring his injured leg. "No, it's not."

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reds-self-ships · 3 years

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🔍 The Adventure of the Detection Club

Chapter 12: Opening Arguments

Table of Contents & Trigger Warnings

⚠ Chapter Specific Warnings: Contains allusions to spoilers for The Great Ace Attorney 2, as well as passing references made to blood and gore.

The next morning Central Criminal Court, Old Bailey Defendant Lobby

Ryunosuke Naruhodo quickly sorted his way through a stack of papers that made up the official court record for the case, shuffling his way through at such a speed that he looked as though he was certainly doing his best not to drop any.

Redford took a long drink from the flash of cocoa that Iris had specially prepared for him, whilst Susato kept a watch over Ryunosuke.

The door swung open with a loud crash as Sholmes barged his way into the room. “Morning, folks!” he roared.

Ryunosuke gave a yelp as he promptly dropped the pages of the court record across the floor. “Sh-Sholmes! Look at what you made me do!”

“Oh I’m terribly sorry about that Mr. Naruhodo—”

“Just help me pick these up!”

Ryunosuke fell to his knees, along with Sholmes, frantically picking them up and trying to re-organise them, all whilst Ryunosuke swore several oaths under his breath in Japanese.

“Apologies if I sound rude or anything, Susato, but is Ryunosuke always so…‘jumpy’ before a trial like this…?” Redford asked quietly.

“No…well…at least not that I’ve ever seen before…” said Susato, carefully playing with a loop of her hair.

“Me neither,” said Iris. “Normally when he’s a little anxious, his eyes dart around the room like no tomorrow. But this is definitely a new one…”

“Well it explains the way he was acting during breakfast this morning. With the way his eyes were rolling about in his skull, I thought they were going to roll out of his head or something. If I were trying to maintain eye contact with him, I think I’d’ve ended up giving up.”

The bailiff suddenly appeared from the entrance and called: “Now hearing the case of Regina V. Ninate, will all parties please report to courtroom no. 3 immediately!”

Just in time, Ryunosuke managed to get the papers together and get the court record back into its cardboard folder again.

“That’s our cue, Mr. Naruhodo,” said Susato.

“Well, I’ll be cheering you on from the dock. Good luck, you two!” said Redford with a bow.

Sholmes flicked the front rim of his hat. “And likewise, we’ll be cheering you on from the gallery!”

Iris flicked the front of her own forehead. “Good luck, everybody!”

——————————

The judge hit his gavel several times to bring the chattering of the gallery to a close, before clearing his throat and pushing his pince-nez glasses up his nose.

“Court is now in session for the trial of Redford Ninate!” he announced.

“The defence is ready, milord!” exclaimed Ryunosuke with a start.

“The prosecution is more than prepared, milord,” said Abidon, looking over the top of his half-moon glasses.

“And you,” continued the judge, “our six members of the jury, randomly chosen from citizens across the city of London, are you ready?”

The first juror, a young woman with her short and curly brown hair tied up with a red and white spotted handkerchief, rolled up a sleeve and flexed her bicep. “Ready and riveting to go!”

The second juror, a rather frail-looking old man dressed in a black suit and tall top-hat, stroked his sharp triangular chin with a bony hand. “I’m ready to commit the facts of this case to loving memory…kept in the grace of God’s right hand.”

The third juror, a familiar-looking Japanese man in a brown kimono with messy black hair and moustache, with several cats climbing over him, struck various poses. “I! AM! READY! BANZAI!”

The fourth juror, a tall man with black finely-combed hair in a widow’s peak and an aquiline nose, removed a pipe from the pocket of his dressing gown and began to smoke it. “I am ready to perceive the truth behind this case.”

The fifth juror, a man in a black tuxedo, top-hat with a purple band and a matching-coloured waistcoat stroked his moustache after he fiddled with his monocle. “I, the great Horace Velmont, will give everything that I can to this case!”

Finally, the sixth juror, a young girl with a black and white striped sweater, a mask covering the top part of her face and a black knitted cap on her head, said: “Yeah! I’m ready to go, guv’na!”

The judge nodded his head. “Excellent. Prosecutor Abidon, isn’t it?”

“Yes, milord?”

“You may begin with your opening statement.”

Ryunosuke looked around the courtroom nervously.

(It’s been a while since I’ve last been here. I just hope I’m able to get Redford off of these charges…for his sake…)

He looked over to Redford, sat in the defendant’s chair in the dock. And as he did so, Redford winked.

(Oh my heart…!)

“Mr. Naruhodo? Are you sure that you’re OK?” whispered Susato. “You’re looking at Red in the face.”

“Eh—sorry?”

“I said: ‘Are you OK? You’re looking a little red in the face’.”

“Is everything alright, defence?” asked the judge.

“Defence, you are aware that talking over the prosecution whilst it is attempting to make its opening argument is rude, arrogant and something that could lead to you being removed from this courtroom for contempt of court?” said Abidon with a glare. “I’m not sure how you Japanese like to do things, but it is the way we British people do things in this sacred court of law, and it is to be respected and heeded.”

“Sorry!” exclaimed Ryunosuke with a start. “Carry on. As you were…”

(Oh great! A smaller, jumped up, discounted-version of Lord van Zieks…that’s just what we really need right about now…)

“As I was about to say before I was so rudely interrupted…” said Abidon as he unfurled a scroll and held it in front of him. “The victim in this case was a Mr. Harris Thomas, a member of the same organisation as the defendant—known as ‘The Detection Club’, an organisation for crime writers to meet and work on their crime novels I believe.

“The victim had been expelled from the club for missed payment of membership fees, and a new member, Dexter Collins, was due to be inaugurated into the club the day before yesterday through a special ceremony. A ceremony that the defendant himself was placed in charge of organising and arranging.

“The defendant arranged ahead of time that he was to meet with the victim to formally inform him of his expulsion at the same time as began these ceremonial preparations. The prosecution, therefore, asserts that the defendant did, with malicious intent and malice of forethought, met with the victim beforehand and killed him unlawfully.

“He did so by hitting him repeatedly over the head with this—” Abidon reached under the prosecution’s bench and took out the alleged murder weapon, holding it high for the benefit of the court. “—this skull, which serves as a mascot for the club, affectionately referred to as ‘Norman’.”

“Oh my! An actual human skull? How frightening!” exclaimed the judge. “Still, how can you assert that it was the defendant who committed this horrifying crime?”

“Because, milord,” replied Abidon, “the defendant was the only one who had a key to this locked room mystery—the only door to the room is several inches thick and designed to be entirely impenetrable, as is the rest of the room. The windows are only able to open a few centimetres in width, and the entire room is located on the third floor of a building on High Window Avenue. And a cursory investigation has proven that there is no way for anybody to hide themselves within the room.”

“Very compelling evidence, I must admit.”

“HOLD IT!”

“If that is the case,” said the second juror, “I believe that we may finally be able to put this matter to rest. Dearly beloved, let us join hands together in prayer to mourn this defendant’s hopeless case. A truly, tragic death, indeed!”

With a knock of his hand against the jury bench, a fireball flew through the air and landed into the “guilty” side of the giant set of scales behind the judge, tilting them towards the right.

(Yikes! Already it’s not looking good!)

“An excellent opening argument indeed, Sir Prosecutor, but not necessarily one that would be enough to force a conviction in my opinion,” said the fourth juror, tenting his fingers together. “However, I would wish to hear more on this matter. It is only whenever we have eliminated every possible lead that we may know for certain what, exactly, has transpired.”

“I am inclined to agree with Juror #4,” said the judge with a nod.

Abidon nodded back in response.

“I acknowledge that particular fact, milord. As such, the prosecution would now like to call its first witnesses to the stand—Detective Athelney Jones of Her Majesty’s Metropolitan Police Service and Dr. Yujin Mikotoba, the police’s current acting chief coroner and medical examiner.”

#the adventure of the detection club #stories #fics #self insert #OTP: Red Dragon

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wolfstar-recs2019 · 4 years

Text

Wolfstar Recs Collection 2019

Yay! Congratulations to everyone on the list!

Y'all are very talented people and made the year 2019 a blast!

Special thanks to everyone who took time to submit recommendations during last tree months! Also huge thanks to everyone who spread the word and cheered recommended creators! Please, go on and let all those amazing content creators know how you love what they do by leaving kudos, comments to their works and sharing personal recs!

We perceive this list like an approximate map of the starry sky area: some stars are visible with a bare eye, some need a telescope to be mapped and lots of others are hidden in the vast of space and haven’t been found by cartographers yet. This collection is a handful of many amazing works and talented creators, but so many more are somewhere in the vast of internet waiting to be discovered!

See the list below ↓

Fanfiction

Author Of The Year:

@jennandblitz; @marlenemckinn ; @atyd-wolfstar; @lumosinlove; @curlyremus ; @letsdothepanic; @maraudererasmut; @ashes-and-ashes-dust-and-dust; @gooseberrybrains; @thehufflebean ; @sirius-black-killed-god, @remus-john-lupin

Headcanons Writer Of The Year :

@siriushpads ; @incorrectmarauders ; @goodboylupin ; @modern-wolfstar ; @maraudererasmut ; @confunded-gryffindor, @remus-la-swearwolf, @remus-john-lupin

Wolfstar Series Of The Year :

Rock 'n' Pole by @jennandblitz and @marlenemckinn; Marauder Ink by @jennandblitz; The Marauders' Map by @stonecoldhedwig; Blends!verse by rvltn909*; Chicken Man by @confunded-gryffindor; A/S/L by @maraudererasmut; Primaver(se)a by @quoththethestral; constellations universe by @curlyremus; Before the Thunder by CiciWeezil *, The men of number 12 Grimmauld Place series by Tedah*,

Wolfstar Multi-Chapter Fic 2019 :

Marauder Ink by @jennandblitz; Of Masters and Slaves by @jencala; We Were Infinite by @captofthesswolfstar; Distant Stars by @of-stars-and-moon; Solntse by @lumosinlove; Liebestraum by @quoththethestral; Taste by @jennandblitz; A/S/L by @maraudererasmut; IRL by @maraudererasmut; The Other Side of Sorrow by @thehufflebean; keysmash by @wishingitwerewolfstar; Dog Filled Days Aren't Over by @jlpierre; Dress up in You by @atyd-wolfstar; Tell Me How You Really Feel by @curlyremus; Constellations by @curlyremus; Troubles in Bed Sharing by @kattlupin; The Boy Who Killed God by @sirius-black-killed-god, Now I Wanna Be Your Dog by pixelated, Records With Sirius Black by @kattlupin

Wolfstar One Shot 2019:

The Treasuries of Firenze by @jennandblitz; Fire On Fire by @wolfstargarden; Temptation by @curlyremus; When I'm With You by @purplechimera8; Insomnia by @january3693; The Heir by @remus-john-lupin; Thick Ties by @letsdothepanic and @maraudererasmut; Heal by @nisargasinha, Summer Lovin' by Tedah*

Wolfstar Flash Fic 2019 (under 500 words):

Secrets by @evax3; The Watch by @maraudererasmut; Familiar by @yumenouveau

Wolfstar Collaboration Of The Year :

Rock 'n' Pole by @marlenemckinn, @jennandblitz; Sugar Maple by @maraudererasmut, @purplechimera8; Ain't Together by @marlenemckinn, @jennandblitz; Lost Without You by @dearsirius and @of-stars-and-moon; Thick Ties by @letsdothepanic and @maraudererasmut, Your friend, Remus. by @maraudererasmut and @tsundanire

Best Wolfstar As Secondary Ship In Fic 2019:

Maybe I Waited Too Long - A Marauders Medical AU by @blitheringmcgonagall; The Reclamation of Black Magic by @shayalonnie; Calamity's Child by @aibidil

Favourite Wolfstar/Anyone Pairing In Fic 2019 : Never Have I Ever... (Wolfstarbucks) by @jennandblitz ; I'd get on my knees (Wolfstarbucks) by @letsdothepanic, The truth is rarely pure (And never simple) (Wolfstarbucks) by @tsundanire

Wolfstar Canonverse Fic 2019: We Were Infinite by @captofthesswolfstar; We Can Be Heroes by @blitheringmcgonagall; Thick Ties by @letsdothepanic and @maraudererasmut, The Same Old Dogs by @remus-john-lupin

Wolfstar Magical AU Fic 2019:

Someone We Used to Know by @january3693 ; Runes by @YumeNouveau ; The Other Side of Sorrow by @thehufflebean , The Moon That Breaks by @thehufflebean , Every Rose Has Its Thorns by shadow_prince

Wolfstar Muggle/Modern AU Fic 2019:

Dress up in You by @atyd-wolfstar; Marauder Ink by @jennandblitz; Chicken Man by @confunded-gryffindor; Liebestraum by @quoththethestral; SHAME by @bringblackback; Primavera by @quoththethestral; Constellations by @curlyremus; Pas de Deux in the Upper West Side by @bringblackback; Fire On Fire by @wolfstargarden; Hepburn Avenue by @stonecoldhedwig; A/S/L by @maraudererasmut; Ain't Together by @marlenemckinn and @jennandblitz; Crash Into Me by @shadowprince27 , That Black Glitter by @tsundanire, Solntse by @lumosinlove

Wolfstar Cross-Universe Fic 2019 :

Excommunicado by @yumenouveau; The Treasuries of Firenze by @jennandblitz

Wolfstar Classic Tropes Fic 2019:

Insomnia by @january3693; Troubles in Bed Sharing by @kattlupin; Trust the Wolf to Bring You Home by @pancake-surprise, Scars and Kisses by RainShine

Wolfstar Comedy In Fic 2019:

Hepburn Avenue by @stonecoldhedwig; Caraway Street by @stonecoldhedwig; Life Finds a Way by @confunded-gryffindor; Totally Tropical Remus in The Caribbean by @wolfstargarden; Moony's Mattresses by @starstruck4moony; SHAME by @bringblackback; Black Valentine by @theprongsletthatlived

Wolfstar Angst Fic 2019:

Not Anymore by @holy-shit-its-wolfstar, Constellations by @curlyremus; SHAME by @bringblackback; The Treasuries of Firenze by @jennandblitz; Hollow by @letsdothepanic; The Moon that Breaks by @thehufflebean; Notes by @ashes-and-ashes-dust-and-dust; Not If It's You by estas_absentis*; The Other Side of Sorrow by @thehufflebean, Far too young to die by @tsundanire, Only In Dreams by shadow_prince

Wolfstar Fluff Fic 2019:

Til the Very End by @jencala; Wouldn't It Be Nice? by @marlenemckinn and @jennandblitz; It Takes Four to Tango by @magic-girl-in-a-muggle-world; Of Bookshelves and Baby Carriers by @poppunkpadfoot , Safe by @withrewings, Summer Lovin' by Tedah*, An Endless Account of First Dates Series by @kattlupin

Wolfstar Smut In Fic 2019:

Pas de Deux in the Upper West Side by @bringblackback; Primavera by @quoththethestral; My Own Secret Ceremonials by @jennandblitz; Subatomic @ebp-brain; A Night Out by @maraudererasmut; The Suit by @maraudererasmut; Black Glitter by @jennandblitz; A/S/L by @maraudererasmut; Of Masters and Slaves by @jencala; When Remus Learned About Quidditch (and Became a Successful Player) by @remus-john-lupin, Happy Birthday Sirius by @tsundanire, Moonstruck by @remus-john-lupin

Favourite Sirius Black Characterisation Of 2019:

Liebestraum by @quoththethestral ; Names by rvltn909* ; Taste by @jennandblitz ; SHAME by @bringblackback; The Boy Who Killed God by @sirius-black-killed-god , The Moon that Breaks by @thehufflebean, Summer Lovin' by Tedah*

Favourite Remus Lupin Characterisation Of 2019:

Liebestraum by @quoththethestral; Names by rvltn909* ; Pas de Deux in the Upper West Side by @bringblackback; A/S/L by @maraudererasmut; IRL by @maraudererasmut; Dog Filled Days Aren't Over by @jlpierre; Primavera by @quoththethestral; Marauder Ink by @jennandblitz; Constellations by @curlyremus; The Boy Who Killed God by @sirius-black-killed-god, How to succeed in love. A tried and tested method by R. J. Lupin, married man. by Tedah, Déjà Vu by @remus-john-lupin

Beta Of The Year : @jennandblitz, @letsdothepanic

Fanart

Artist Of The Year:

@yumenouveau; @gulliblegoldfish; @littlebitellie; @filesia; @meekinthedraw; @maraudererasmut; @art-of-ame; @gibbarts; @tamehill, @alessiajontrunfio, @thehufflebean, @art-of-ame, @thisalienartist, @wallopthewicked, @tonftyhw

Wolfstar Artwork Of The Year**:

A little fun in the common room by @maraudererasmut cw:nsfw; no title by @maraudererasmut cw:nsfw; illustration for Taste by @jennandblitz by @yumenouveau; <3</a> by @filesia; Kicking off pride month with some wolfstar by @gulliblegoldfish; always have, always will. by @breart, Illustrations in The Other Side of Sorrow by @thehufflebean, Wolfstar kiss by @wallopthewicked, Good Morning by @tonftyhw

Favourite Sirius Black Portrayal (character design) Of 2019**:

first war design by @meekinthedraw ; Padfoot by @franciswillmann; Padfoot by @wallopthewicked, Black by @vagueenthusiast, Sirius Black by @tonftyhw

Favourite Remus Lupin Portrayal (character design) Of 2019**:

Remus Lupin by @softsiriusblack; Gryffindors are cool and werewolves are even cooler by @gulliblegoldfish; Moony by @cynopoe; Moony by @wallopthewicked, Professor Remus by @tonftyhw

Wolfstar Micro-Story In Art 2019**:

‘lie low at lupin’s’ by @meekinthedraw; Prongs stop being salty you will get the girl (dialogue by @asktheblacksheep) by siriuslymischief (insta); au : photographer & football player by @modern-wolfstar; I call this catharsis by @art-of-ame; SB: He wasn’t aware we were on our third date! by @wallopthewicked, Ten points to Dumbledore! by @wallopthewicked, He wasn’t aware we were on our third date! by @wallopthewicked

Wolfstar Aesthetic Of The Year**:

Sirius Black and Remus Lupin by @malfoy

Role play/Cosplay

Shapeshifter Of The Year:

@softsiriusblack; @transaurus; @praecipiopatronum, @asktheboywholived, @ask-dromeda

Favourite Sirius Black Impersonation Of 2019:

Sirius Black by @softsiriusblack; Sirius Black by @megathy-two; Sirius Black by @mymischiefisnevermanaged; Siri by @askyourlocalhufflepuff; Sirius Black by @olivandersdaughter; Sirius Black by @asktheboywholived, Sirius Black by @slytherinsiriusblack, Sirius Black by @mymischiefisnevermanaged, Sirius Black by @the-ginger-magician

Favourite Remus Lupin Impersonation Of 2019:

Remus Lupin by @praecipiopatronum; Remus Lupin by @stjernfaerie; Remus Lupin by @tired-lupin; Remus Lupin by @jenlizrose; Remus Lupin by @megathy-two; Remus Lupin by @anarrayofwits; Remus Lupin by @prettylestrange; Remus Lupin by @ask-the--stars, Remus Lupin by @asktheboywholived, Remus Lupin by @askdeantheslytherpuff, Remus Lupin by @sparklyslytherin, Remus Lupin by @talesofafoolishboy

Wolfstar Gif Thread Of The Year:

Congratulations by @softsiriusblack, @bringblackback @nikkyzaziki @praecipiopatronum; Welcome aboard by @softsiriusblack @the-moon-and-stars-my-love @praecipiopatronum; Super blue moon by @asktheboywholived, In Art Class by @softsiriusblack

Wolfstar Best Script For Gif Thread 2019:

Congratulations by @praecipiopatronum; Welcome aboard by @praecipiopatronum; Mirror Mirror by @mymischiefisnevermanaged; REMUS! REMUS, I HATE THIS THING! PLEASE GET RID OF IT! by @olivandersdaughter, A Great Idea by @the-ginger-magician and @remus-lupin-is-my-type (2018), Yeah, we're best friends, but... by @owlswithfins Based on this chat post by @incorrectmarauders;

Most Hilarious Thread/Gif 2019:

Jumpers and Jackets by @transaurus @slytherinsiriusblack @prettylestrange @askyourlocalhufflepuff @amortentiando; The true-truth by @scamandergenes @megathy-two; Remus Brings Home A Pet… by @olivandersdaughter @sirussly; Remus’ Schedule by @prettylestrange, F**k my life by @stressedbi and @metamorphmagically, Puppy Love by @lifeasamarauder

Best Makeup 2019:

Remus Lupin by @jenlizrose; Sirius Black by @muirin007; Remus Lupin by @asktheboywholived, Sirius Black by @mymischiefisnevermanaged, Post transformation Remi Lupin by @klassikally

Best Costume 2019:

Pirate!Remus Lupin by @praecipiopatronum, Sirius Black by @mymischiefisnevermanaged

* - if you know the tumblr accounts of these authors, please, tag them in the comments

** - if you are the author of the recommended work and you don’t agree with the title chosen for the list (or have an alternative one), please contact us with your suggestions. We’ll gladly make edits

Congratulations everyone one more time! May the inspiration be with you!

Please, note that few creators removed themselves from the list (anyone can use this possibility by the end of January, just message us). So if you’ve recommended someone and they are not listed here, then they have decided to withdraw themselves from the list (message us if you have any questions)

Love,

Dumbledorks

#wolfstar recs collection 2019 #full rec list 2019

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we-live-in-a--society · 3 years

Text

El Nacimiento del un Hombre Nuevo

The Downfall of Humanity – obtusely poetic phrase, prolixity, without a direct meaning, without a place, without a purpose, only a forage for youth, blatant lies; in other words – not fitting his taste. Each time someone pours it onto his lithe frame, a flame is ignited, a flash of disgust running down his body, since he believes that being an idealist gets you nowhere, at least nowhere significant, only to the Place of Eternal Disappointment.

Where you suffer.

Making sure you shatter.

And then begin your slaughter.

As the years go by, the circle completes itself, from the Dawn of Humanity and the Killing Monkeys to the Absolute Disorder and the Rise of Rats, filthy, sinewy rats that pop out of their hideouts just to rip you apart, piece by piece. Rip or be ripped – a motto of the New Order – and those who are unable to comprehend it are meant to extinct – natural selection in its most advanced form, leaving only the strongest specimens.

The Survivors.

The ones that are left to roam the earth in search for hell knows what, with endurance being their main principle, their drive towards inevitable, towards the place of unknown. Years ago it would terrify him, but today he doubts whether this world has anything grisly for him to offer, anything that would shatter him once more.

He was born in the first year of Clinton’s presidency, death of Audrey Hepburn, soaked in his mother’s tears, and that Buddha album, full title lost within the depths of his mind. It seems so far away now, not because of the twelvemonths but the variety of events following his graduation – a new, foolishly hopeful, beginning, and oh, what a fierce one in his case, carrying an incomprehensible disaster that has shaped the post-apocalyptic world. All it took was a ridiculously minuscule creature, cause of the outbreak – a single word, carrying such a powerful meaning – albeit leading to more than half of the population biting dust within the first few years.

Unbelievable, huh?

However, as the time went by, so did the slaughters, with people taking matters into their own hands, and now, depraved from any actual data, he can only assume the number of deceased, not that it bothers him much anymore, since according to one famous dictator’s words: “A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic.”

When has he become this bitter?

Or more importantly, what is the point of asking a question if you already know the answer?

* * *

She feels numb, aching, detached from her body, yet present within, floating on a passage where she is capable of sustaining every single sensation, though unable to move, caught in a trap, too stunned and terrified to attempt any escape. At the very beginning she has made the following promise: I will not fall on my knees and beg, but the reliability of said assumption is not so zero-one anymore as she eyes her oppressors, standing tall and broad, with all the inglorious possibilities flashing through their minds, staring at her with full-blown pupils. The intensity of their gazes has her wanting to curl into a ball, hide somewhere deep within her soul, hoping it would ensure her safeness, take her back to a place where she would be floating free, deprived of all the unpleasant notions: trepidation, cruelty, and misery.

There were times when she did nothing else but wonder what it feels like to lose control over one’s body, forget how to fight, instead give in and accept one’s fate. She used to consider it as absurd, absolutely and utterly nonsensical

(“what if I slept a little more and forgot about all this nonsense”),

wafting on a whimsical cloud called Faith, like a thoroughbred hypocrite would, pretending that choosing to believe in certain absolutes is not, by any means, a form of enslavement, a prison with silk-upholstered walls.

And so, she has become the thrall of her own convictions – another hopeless idealist within this cruel world, idealists that are meant to extinct.

“Will you cry for me, sweet girl?” One of them asks all of sudden – the person she used to call Clay back in the better days – with a mocking laughter that sends a jarring shiver down her spine. Instead of bothering to form a verbal reply, she keeps staring at the dusty concrete, the tiny patches of grass now ridiculously absorbing; everything to not look him in the eye.

“Answer him, bitch!” Jarring voice that has her flinching in disgust, or fear maybe, frame shaking like a leaf in the dusty fall breeze. The ability to form words has abandoned her long ago, presumably at the time when they tugged her away in the alley, hence the lack of ideas what she is supposed to say under such circumstances.

He, however, is pretty far from deciding that it would be a way more sensible to let it go, and so grasps her by the neck, pushing her up against the brick wall. She chokes on her breath, head bumping into the hard surface with a loud thud that sends a reverberating ache through her body, dark spots marking her vision. With an innate reflex, she grips his wrist, trying to yank him away, but he appears to be stronger as he slams her head back, this time on purpose, to stun the girl and so put a halt to her pitiful escape attempts.

“Just don’t fucking kill her, dude,” Clay warns, his voice breaking at the end, as if his consciousness managed to spoke through the thick barrier of borne animalism. Her eyes prick with tears threatening to run down her cheeks, awoken by the icy cold tone of his voice, cumulating with the uneasiness in the pit of her stomach.

“Relax,” he chides, although lets her go, so she is able to stand back at her feet instead of the tippy-toes, “I’ve got it all under control. Won’t be any use of her if she is dead.”

“You’re right, it won’t,” he nods, as if attempting to convince himself, which is at least how she wants to perceive the whole situation, to think that Clay has been forced to participate in it, that all he is doing consists of blatant, sharp-edged lies, that he already regrets even considering it in the first place.

(I sincerely doubt he does).

“Fucking told you so,” he huffs – a mannerism of yet another expert in the infamous field of manhandling people – however still quick to dart attention back to her – tensed, albeit passive. His gaze remains focused solely on the girl in front of him as if he possessed an ability to drill into her soul, and so uncover all the layers of horror and hatred, break her down and scatter the pieces on the dusty concrete for the benefit of all the watchers.

To be honest, she would rather die than let it happen.

(You are wasting time, Fabienne.)

And so, accordingly to guidance of her inner consciousness, she aims for the only spot she could think of in such a state – crotch, obviously – not very ingenious, either way efficiently enough. As if on some comical command, he lets her go, groaning in pain as he curls into a ball

(oh how the tables have turned),

and she is left with nothing else than make a run for desired freedom, her rip from the pavement surprisingly graceful, deprived of any unfavorable tripping. However, Clay is quick to steady that matter with a harsh tug of her leg that knocks the girl over onto the ground, forcing a scream out of her throat, a never-ending cry of Banshee, in hopes that it will alert someone who cares enough to help her.

(… and other lies people keep telling themselves)

She attempts to wriggle away from his grip, crawling on the dirty ground akin to some grotesque snake, with a tunnel vision that allows it to strive only for the ally’s intel, gravel pricking the exposed parts of its skin. For a brief moment, she does nothing else but wail, like some wounded animal, as if she went completely mad, kicking anything within her reach, but actually aiming for Clay, or rather for sweeping him off his feet. Although it all appears as success-oriented pursuit, her attempts are soon to be rectified with a sharp jerk and crushing weight brought upon her shoulders, stealing another breath from the terrified lass who is now forced to face the predators as one of them flips her onto the back as if she was nothing more than a dainty ragdoll.

(Just close your eyes and you will be alright.)

(… and other lies people keep telling themselves)

* * *

Through his life, he has gotten a chance to discover that certain things never change, which might as well be yet another lie that has been made up to protect the weakest among from the crushing weight of truth. Either way, he has noticed that forming habits somehow helps us in the darkest times, when we are unable to focus on anything but the negatives: grief, longing, and abandonment; allowing us to complete essential activities, even if caught in some sinister trance where we are barely able to acknowledge what is happening around us. He has always considered it as some unconventional form of a blessing, a route to headway, an acquiescence for pursuit, and much, much more but unfortunately he has never been good with words, and accordingly so – incapable of verbal expression.

Aside from habits, he has discovered the existence of routines, something that helps him to lead a day to day life in spite of unfavorable environment, and so keep himself attached to reality – a factor that becomes rather important during survival struggles. One of them appears to be a peaceful meal consumption, picked up from home and still relevant today despite all eventual threats, something that brings back memories of the better past and faces that somehow manage to hunt him even these days.

Nonetheless, as the years pass by, he finds it harder and harder to look at himself in the mirror, knowing that he is getting older, that death is creeping closer and closer until it captures him with its icy claws, draining any remains of life out of him. If he believed in any holy spirits, it would feel relieving to think of it as a reunion with everyone that had been left behind, but he sincerely doubts it, expecting nothing but the End, la Grande Finale as his mother would say, the Downfall of His Existence – a peace-bringing denouement.

But what is it worth?

Certainly more than an interrupted meal, whereas the harshness of such severance still leaves a caustic taste upon his tongue, the one that will not last long, albeit enough to be acknowledged, and so remembered.

His ears prick up at the tearing noise: a scream, a wail, a whine of a wounded animal; loud enough to awoke a will to come up to the source and silence the person himself, but instead he wonders whether such altruistic jeopardy is indeed necessary in this case. These are not even coherent words, just a croaky, unrelenting shriek that cumulates with the pile of growing irritation, but also wakes up some contradictory inkling that he should come down and help.

Therefore, he is quick to raise from the seat, soon stepping through the doorway and down the staircase, cautious steps echoing through the empty space. Having casted an eye on the street, he walks out of the building, heading towards the now dulling sound in face of all inhuman amount of screeching, eyes following every of a few turns, immediate to reach his destination.

Peeping from around the corner, he witnesses an odd scene playing in front of him, as if meant to be regarded – two chaps, even if of relatively average build, failing to subdue no one else than a dainty girl. While waiting for her to quiet down, he wonders what would be the most beneficial way to handle the oppressors, since of course shooting them would do the trick, but the real question is whether they are worth wasting any bullets.

Ergo, he picks up a brick, testing its weight in his hand with a few careless tosses, before he hides inside the nearest building, and throws it somewhere aside, hoping that the sound itself would be enough to alert them, nevertheless remaining in doubt about its efficiency. However, and much to his surprise, their movements halt while taking a moment to inspect the surroundings, as if trying to determine whether they simply misheard something, or whether the noise was real, eyes meeting in the end.

“The fuck was that?” The taller one curses angrily, not quite managing to hide the hint of trepidation within his voice.

“Infected?” His friend dwells with a tensed frown marking his forehead, a word that never fails to settle an ominous notion in the pit of his stomach, even despite all those years.

“Fuck infected!” He exclaims in exasperation, backing up a couple of steps. “And fuck this, man! You convinced me to do all of it, and if I get to die because of you I swear I’ll-”

“Hush,” he silences the unstable lad, the one that appears as more confident and trenchant, maybe also the one that will get to live longer, who knows, “I’m trying to fucking listen, okay?”

“Fuck you, man!” He bawls, keeping up with the irresponsible person attire, much to the watcher’s interest, “I’m outta here and outta this. If you wanna take her, be my fucking guest but I don’t fancy getting eaten by any of those fucking beasts.”

His friend just shakes his head with ironic disbelief, hissing a bunch of incoherent words to the girl below him, before he lets her go and calls out to the already retreating one. “Wait!” He whisper-shouts, quite an odd speech manner if he was being honest, and springs up from the ground, quick to follow the taller one’s traces, and so disappear around the final corner.

Having waited for their voices to mold into silence, he jumps through the empty window frame, landing on the concrete with a loud thud that alerts the confused lass. In an attempt to get up and most likely run away, she somehow manages to drag her body up, but regardless of the effort trips once more and falls down on her knees, an act that is accompanied by a pained moan. He watches her with an odd concoction of pity and amusement playing upon his face until she looks up to him, scared and perplexed, eyeing him with a mistrustful gaze.

The initial notion that hits her in time with the first glance is simple – he looks older, probably on the cusp between thirties and forties, exactly like a rugged survivor would, with toned forearms and prickly beard. But what eventually captures her attentions is a jarring straight-shaped scar across his eyebrow and cheek, which gives her the impression that the past assaulter must have failed to slash his eye for less than an inch or so. Under any other circumstances it would whip up certain uneasiness within her, however this time she is swept away with a relief towards this stranger, fighting the innate urge to express her gratitude in a more intimate way, a hug maybe, since that would be rather irresponsible and quite childish if she was being honest.

“Thank you,” she croaks instead, barely managing to get the words out of her constricted windpipe, either way accepts the offering hand that he holds for her to help the young woman rise from dusty ground. An involuntary shiver runs down her spine due to the close contact, his pleasantly warm in contrast with the frigid coldness of her flesh, callous texture scraping over her skin – a notion that she finds oddly distracting.

“You’re welcome,” he replies, voice all gravel and sandpaper, letting go of her hand as soon as she stands up on her feet again, watching her wipe the dust from her clothes.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” she chuckles nervously, refusing to look him in the eye now, her gaze sweeping over the surrounding in an annoyingly swift manner, before she finally meets his browns, much to his relief.

“Then don’t say anything,” he shrugs, not a relatively nice phrase, but either way he has got a point and she feels obligated to bear with it. Being honest here, he appears to be one of those harsh, unpleasant people to spend time with, but she, in turn, seems to be deprived of any decent alternative, certain that she has to convince the stranger into taking her in, at least for a couple of weeks until they reach another city where new opportunities will drop, allowing her to depart eventually.

“Um, okay,” she hums in agreement, still visibly tensed around him, which does not manage to slip past his attention. “Can we at least go somewhere less exposed?”

“We?” His eyebrow perks up – a display of partial incredulity. “I hate to disappoint you, but I’m going back alone.”

“What? Why?” She utters, anxious as ever, since he must be overreacting at least for a tiny bit. “I won’t bother you, I promise. It’s just- I’ll probably be dead by tomorrow if you leave me here, and it all would be for nothing.”

“No,” he refuses with blatant simplicity, another ugly, harsh word that almost causes her to burst into tears due to all the pent-up emotions.

“Even if I promised I would leave you alone in the morning?” She tries once again, barely managing to swallow the thick lump down her throat – a telling sign of an approaching cry.

(She won’t.)

“No,” he repeats, already annoyed and anticipating their separation.

“But-” she begins – a fact that remains seemingly unnoticed by the harsh man as he walks past her, aiming for the ally’s intel. “Oh, great.”

He leaves her no other choice than follow him, despite his surly attitude and moderate approach, in face of the inevitable death that awaits her somewhere in the creeping night’s shadows. She is well-aware of the fact that he was the one who threw the brick, and the action itself wakes up something within her – an emotion so intoxicating that it feels crushing upon her chest – unable to be named

(calm down),

but worryingly influencing.

Throughout all these years, spent in strangling solitude, she has felt some foreign urge to mate with someone, and thus create at least a makeshift substitute for so-called family, unable to resist another opportunity – genesis of her personal damnation, nail in the coffin, but oh so terribly desired. In certain moments she finds herself unable to resist the sudden temptations, driven by a distinct, innate urge to carry on, in search for the necessary fulfilment, safety, and peace, while other times she is swept away with a lancing wave of anxiousness, an inkling that it would be foolish to pursuit, harmful even, that she would regret it later on, albeit not today.

Today she wishes to make it all happen.

Therefore, she follows him, jogging by his side to match the strides, seemingly exaggerated in length but either way bearable, despite his unpleasant tendencies to ignore her, as if pretending he has gone for a pondering, lonesome walk. Being honest here, the assumption fits him perfectly – a forlorn wolf amongst many, the one that rarely bothers to utter a decent sentence, not to mention his disability to see her as a human being, a sensitive creature, instead of a harmful nemesis.

According to her observations, people these days seem numb, depraved of any actual feelings, focused and alert for any dangers awaiting in the dark, or just around the corner, hid in the depths of their weeping souls, begging for redemption, for mercy. Many times before, she has heard that world is a cruel, empty place, lacking in the aforementioned qualities, and so offering damnation only – a burden that comes with blood stains on their hands, with sleepless nights, delirious wandering, no purpose, no place.

And what for?

Lost in her own thoughts, she barely notices that he has halted in front of one of abandoned buildings, slightly lower than the rest, entrance unblocked, as if inviting the passerby with a promise of a satisfactory loot

(am I one of them?),

or right the opposite – yet another threat lurking in the shadows, waiting for its prey. A dreadful shiver runs down her spine at the sinister thought, an inkling existing only to be confirmed or denied, whereas the ingenuous parts of her are putting emphasis on the former – a trait that is determined to abandon her somewhere in the future.

“We depart now, kid,” he announces bluntly, pointing in the opposite direction. “If you head west, you’ll leave the city and reach the nearby woods. Analogically, if you go opposite, it’ll lead you to the center area, but I wouldn’t go there if I were you.”

“And why is that?” She inquires, frowning in confusion.

“The area is already occupied,” he explains, quick to add a brief, “not negotiable,” as if to clarify her visible doubts.

“Who lives there?” Another question leaves her lips, as if to prolong their hopefully brief encounter.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” he spats involuntary, another bitter manner to catch her off guard, not attentive enough to care about possible misunderstandings.

“I still don’t get it,” she shrugs, staring at him with silent anticipation, as if she indeed expected an answer, like it would astonish him.

“It’s from the Old World,” he attempts to cuts the matter short, but she is not yet to disappoint him even this time, another query following his lack of explanation.

“What does it mean then?”

“It means that in certain situations inquisitiveness might lead to a scrape,” he sighs in defeat, but bestows her with the simplest gloss either way.

“If you say so,” she huffs, clearly annoyed with his lacking answers, but is immediate to pursuit with the plot that has been left hanging for a brief moment. “Can’t spend a night here, though? Not negotiable too? Just keep in mind that by forcing me to leave you’re practically digging up my grave.”

Manipulating is a filthy practice, according to what his mother used to tell him on multiple occasions, that he is supposed to be a decent man, living a candid life of a meticulous and conscientious person, amongst other lies, with moral behavior on the very peak of her own Pyramid of Absurd. The rules might have applied to the Old World, but the New Order most certainly does not allow any nostalgia to blossom, a penchant for recreation, for rebirth, nipping it all in the bud, drowning their wicked souls in the tears of those who were perished.

Ironic.

“You think I’m some fucking charity, don’t you?” He chuckles bitterly, a nasty manner that sends a shiver down her spine in time with the newfound realization – of course he would want her to pay, what was she even thinking?

“What kind of payment are you interested in?” She gulps, instinctively backing a few step away from him, ready to run in case it will be necessary. “Sex?”

“Your dignity must have abandoned you long ago if that’s the first offer you pop out with,” he comments harshly, a hint of a mocking smirk playing upon his lips, which might as well be only a matter of her perception.

“Does it mean I can stay then?” She ascertains, not quite managing to hide the tremor within her voice, resolves running thin in face of his judgmental attitude.

“I guess so,” he nods, as if finally willing to admit that she is rather improbable to ditch said matter, “but conditions first,” he shushes her with a dismissive gesture. “I’m rather meticulous when it comes to my stuff, which means no touching, no snooping. What’s mine is mine, don’t forget that. If I catch you breaking the rules, you’re out. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” she confirms, opting for the simplest possible answer, since it appears as the most sensible too, a technique that would most likely talk some reason into him.

“We’ll see about that,” he remarks at last, and without waiting for her answer, he disappears inside the building, steps echoing in the empty space, which leaves her with no other choice than to follow him. She matches his pace, although remains a few stairs behind him, running her hand past the railing, as she climbs up to face the inevitable, with bits of dust covering her fingertips.

Moments later, they march through the door, only to be greeted by the sight of something that must have been an office installation back in the days, with a row of desks and a coach by the window, a furniture that is already occupied as if to line up with her expectations that concern the matter of being forced to spend the following night on the floor. In the meantime, he manages to barricade the door with a book shelf, now lacking in the better parts of its prior contents– void and deplorable – a flawless fit for the New World, waking up that peculiar longing for something she has never got a chance to experience but either way misses it – another exemplary paradox. She perches on the sofa, her spine awkwardly straightened as her eyes remain glued to him, a notion that he does not fail to notice, but ignores it either way, satisfied with the result of put effort.

They stick to the silence for quite a while, a time needed for her to relax on the seat, and him to eat in the corner, back supported by the wall – an action that does not slip past her attention, smell of food redirecting her focus to own discomfort. Nevertheless, she feels like it would be off top to come up and ask for a share, considering that he is more likely to refuse, not that she finds it hard to believe, but on the other hand at some point filling up her stomach would become an obligation rather than just an option.

“Hungry?” He asks, creeping in between her thoughts, much to her relief actually, in face of undisputable lack of ideas when it comes to figuring out the most efficient approach.

“Starving,” she affirms with a tiny smile tugging at the corners of her lips – a sign of nonverbal alleviation.

“C’mere,” he motions her towards with a universal wrist flick, and despite the innate uneasiness, she obeys, stomach acting as the eventual decision maker. She plops down on the empty space in front of him, good few feet away in case he might want to touch her for no actual reason, leaving him with no other choice than throw whatever he is having at her, partly impressed that she manages to catch it.

“Enjoy your meal,” he adds, a promise of something darker that is yet to come, “it might be the last.”

* * *

Over the course of time, he has managed to notice something distinctive about her personality, something that he is incapable of addressing, frustrating but ever present in the least convenient form possible, itching akin to an insect bite that calls for a scratch ever so often. In addition, the aspect itself is considered as something he was not fully aware of in the following years, but the Change has brought yet another conspicuous realization upon him.

He might be not as talented at reading people as he perceived himself to be.

At first, it appeared as a rather galling factor, a bookish example of noting more than a splendid mistake, but then it transferred into something else, something of entirely different nature – an awakening, utterly clarifying in its simple form. Swept with augmenting realizations, as sensible as any other person would be in a middle of a mental turmoil, he felt obligated to switch his lifestyle for obvious reasons.

Having someone else around is unerring to shift someone’s perspective, forcing him to adjust – a primeval tactic that comes with evolution, or natural selection, call it however you want. Nonetheless, in his case the whole process has formed some bizarre juxtaposition of two almost opposite factors – company and serenity, depraving each from the other, clawing until the bone peaks through the paper-thin epithelium. In one hand he can barely stand her presence, the fact that she is lurking behind him like a shadow, capable of remaining dead silent throughout the day, while in other hand she keeps asking questions, sometimes completely out of context, but he suspects each of them might lead to a greater goal.

Tonight has also been chosen for the former purpose, and while they are hidden safely

(more or less)

under the roof, the storm is raging around the motel, heavy droplets beating out a rhythm on the tiles – a melody of primordiality. It brings him certain solitude, a pensive longing for what he left behind – demons of the past that hunt him no matter where he is harboring, no matter where he is hiking, no matter where he is heading; always beset, caught in a trap. There are times when he craves for nothing else than hush their excruciating wails, strangle and watch them suffer for a change, switch the strict roles – a prelude for another thought to occur – if so, it would all be for nothing, all he has gone through, all he has done just to stand here today, bathed in the metaphorical sun.

All as simple as that.

“You’re quiet today,” he notes out of thin air, nevertheless drawing her attention, eyes flicking up to glance at him. She does not bother to answer, instead her gaze adverts to the side, focusing on the peeling wallpaper that for some reasons seems more bearable than the sight of him. “Are you even listening?” He repeats, a hint of annoyance lacing his voice, shaped by the blatant lack of reaction. “Fabienne!”

“I’m sorry,” she mutters under her breath, eyes meeting his for a brief moment, “I was just… you know, thinking.”

“About anything particular?” He asks as if only to carry on with the conversation – a meaningless pursuit, a silly trace picked up from society. For a brief moment, she dares to consider that he might, indeed, be interested in her pointless babbling, pursuit to reveal the answers, reasons why she is still here.

“Am I supposed to think about anything particular?” She retorts, voice distant and dreamy, detached from reality – a trait that is certain to get her killed one day. “I found some notes here while you were out, scavenging the store, and I… I can’t believe it. It all seems so absurd, like some tale that parents would tell their children, naïve and artless, unable to find a different meaning.”

“You can always just tell me what was in the notes,” he sighs, somehow fed up with her far-fetched responses as the one who rather stands for retrieving less complicated solutions, or simply forming an essential statement.

“Just a poem, but it’s so beautifully expressive,” she sighs, smiling to herself – probably without realizing it – an otherworldly, evanescent visage, “and some diary writing. Maybe it’s silly, but browsing through the Old World stuff always makes me better, like I’m capable of somehow sharing my life with them, transferring to their reality, and so become the person that I’ve always wanted to.”

“And why is that? Why become another person?” He queries bluntly, and even though she had a decent amount of time to get used to his mannerisms, he is still capable of throwing her off guard in certain moments.

“I don’t really know how to talk about it,” she admits, accompanied by a nervous chuckle. “To be honest, each time it makes me feel so empty, as if my whole life was lacking in something essential.”

Without a clue what to say, he only hums in response, a notion that he is all too familiar with, unable to depart, leave it somewhere behind, and gain that fluent speech manners that prompt suitable words when needed. He is partly aware that it is, indeed, the cause why she perceives him as a rude person, the one who does not give a fig about what she is willing to communicate, which might as well mean that her judgment is not as flawless as it appears to be in her eyes.

Why does it have to amuse him so much?

While they were talking, the heavy drumming of rain – a signature of the fall season – seemed to subside a bit, and now he can only imagine the fresh scent of concrete – one of few life’s aspects that he has always found quite pleasing. However, his attention is quick to switch back to her, now facing the opposite wall, back turned to him, curled into a ball, as it helps her to fall asleep – probably some sort of innate wont, or maybe trust issues that deter her from taking more comfortable position.

(You would want that, wouldn’t you?)

Maybe laying down next to her will be inappropriate, but in all honesty he has grown fed up with sleeping on the floor or armchairs anytime they doss in a place with only one bed, and since his doubts considering whether she will oppose are rather strong, he settles next to her, mattress dipping due to extra weight. She flinches as soon as she senses the shift, subconsciously dragging her body away from his arm range, but does not bother to object, right according to his suspicions. While his head is resting on the pillow, eyes close on their own, enjoying the serenity of late evening, along with the subtle moonlight peeking through the thin gap between the heavy curtains, oddly unprepared for what is about to come.

“How did you get these scars?” She asks out of nowhere, a question that hangs in the air for a longer while, as if waiting to be consumed, thick akin to a morning mist.

“Fell down the stairs once,” he evades, flashing her a brief glance, attracted by the sideways movement, which allows her to face him.

“You didn’t,” she chuckles, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“I did,” he counters somehow impishly, such an unusual occurrence when it comes to him, considering he has never struck her as a particularly easygoing man.

“I’m sorry if that was too interfering,” she elucidates, apologetic smile lacing her lips. “I didn’t mean to sound rude or anything. I was just curious, that’s it, and I perfectly understand if you don’t want to tell me the whole story, it’s just-”

“I think I was around sixteen when I got it,” he interrupts, rectifying her rushed explanation that, for some reasons, was considered as adequate in such case. “The thing is, at that time I used to ride a bike quite a lot, and by saying ‘a lot’ I mean every day on the route to high school and back. It was all peachy keen, until I got drunk one day.”

“Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve always wondered what it means to get drunk in the first place,” she admits, a shy smile, finely subtle, blossoming upon her face. “Actually I think it’s a perfect example of one of those things that you hear someone mentioning from time to time, but at the same time have no idea how it’s supposed to feel like.”

“Dizzy but in a fine way, and as you might know, people’s responses tend to differ,” he explains, a clarification that she surely does not find neither detailed nor specific enough. “I don’t think I have the capacity to expound it well, since-”

“Yeah, I know,” she shrugs it off, seemingly tired with his habit of developing quite a decent amount of exaggerated explications, “it’s one of those things you have to experience to know for sure.”

“Something like that,” he agrees, nevertheless immediate to get back on the formerly abandoned track. “Anyway, while I was trying to somehow make it back home, I… let’s say… crashed into a bus stop, the glass part to be specific, and as you might already surmise, some of the fragments cut my face, while others pricked other parts of my skin, forearms for instance.”

“What happened with you afterwards?” She asks, voice laced with some odd kind of compassion, the one that she is not supposed to feel towards him, as her gaze remains glued to his profile, while he, in turn, opts for the celling.

“Well, they patched me up, that’s all,” he shrugs, casting Fabienne a brief glance that has her own elude to the side, cheeks flushed with embarrassment each time he catches her stare by accident. He would be lying if he said it never amused him to see her in such a state – caught hand in a cookie jar – while the real question is how deep she has managed to dive, whether it is still enough to retreat or not really.

He will never truly know.

“I’m sorry,” she indicates, a worried frown making an appearance upon her face.

“For what? That I was a stupid kid who did nothing else than bring it down on himself?” He huffs, sometimes caught in doubt whether it is only a matter of compassion, or whether she seeks some gain within it. “I don’t think there is anything to feel sorry for.”

“Why do you always have to such a jerk?” She accuses, a little too blatant for his own taste, nevertheless immediate to catch his attention, especially when she shoots up straight, maybe in order to get the height predominance.

“Calling me names won’t be beneficial,” he states, so matter-of-factly and much to her upset, “considering I could walk away any time.”

“You’re-”

“Yeah, do go on,” he encourages, voice completely flat, deprived of anything that might be labelled as an emotional layer, something that never failed to amaze, or rather unsettle her. She sometimes doubts he is a human after all. “I ain’t stopping you.”

“What are you so afraid of?” She practically cries out, a turmoil of contradict emotions raging inside her, only to be fueled by his lack of answer – nothing more than a constraint to make her blunder more, dig up her own grave. “That you’d let someone too close and lose him afterwards? So it all would be for nothing?” Not a word. “Everything happens for a reason, why can’t you see it? Why do you have to be so blind?”

“Less effort means more effort,” he adds, a sentence that she has heard him utter on multiple occasions in the past, something that never fails to agitate her, and so desert of the possibility to comprehend its virtual meaning.

“So that’s all you have to say?” She spats, bitter venom lingering on the tip of her tongue, nevertheless not meant to surpass his.

Silence speaks a thousand words.

She feels like it might as well be his motto, words of wisdom that he keeps telling himself instead of forming a decent, verbal reply that would please the interlocutor – yet another futile pursuit in the eyes of this odd man lying next to her. She often dwells upon what life factors he actually perceives as important, meaningful, more or less significant, the ones that are probable to make a real difference, not a mere shift like removing a stain from a fabric. Therefore, at some point of their relationship she has managed to realize that the odd savior complex, combined with his reconditeness entices her more than she cares to admit.

Shame.

Since his eyelids remain shut, she gains a chance to watch him, at least briefly, caught in such a vulnerable state – not a day-to-day occurrence by any means – a single forearm draped over his face, blocking every mere gleam of moonlight – the guide of those who got lost within the dusky depths of night. His chest is raising and falling in time with each steady inhale, making her wonder whether it is nothing more than a false façade, a serenity that is meant to hide the turmoil inside, raging storm just below the surface.

Probably not.

She sighs heavily, a sound that is loud enough to draw his attention, one hazel eye falling open to meet her gaze once more that night. He keeps them locked for a brief moment, until she involuntarily adverts, escaping the privilege to maintain the contact for a little longer, and he only snorts in response – nasal substitute for a proper laugh. He is partly aware of the thoughts hidden underneath, but has never taken a chance to absorb them in any way, rather than pretend that they are non-existent, whereas this time seems different.

This time he decides to acknowledge that the girl is, indeed, ‘in love’ with him.

(Well, that’s too bad.)

Ironically, even a person like him – unable to comprehend the diversity of emotions, considering they do not classify as anything interesting

(we see what we wat to see) –

has managed to notice the variety of her acts, including the subtle ones, from the occasional, bashful glances to the unusual concoctions of words that carry one and one association only. Somehow, he pities her, although there is nothing to be done here, despite so many aspects that are scattered around until fixed, rather than wait for it to subside, or leave her hanging one day – an action that would lead to bilateral loneliness, something that he is not quite certain he is willing to restore. Maybe traveling with someone else is nothing more than yet another developing habit, paired with an urge to spend time with certain person, seemingly unable to switch back to the Life Before.

(People get used to everything.)

“I’m going to sleep,” the exclamation that slices through the mist of silence, thick, and laced with something that he cannot quite place, a hint of expectance maybe, so he remains speechless, allowing her to continue.

But it never comes, so instead he opts for the simplest, old-fashioned, “sleep tight,” immediate to turn around on the side, curling into a ball, more or less, since it helps to maintain body heat – something that he had a questionable pleasure of testing on the course of multiple freezing nights – eyes closing on their own.

(You know what they say, Craig...)

Silence speaks a thousand words.

* * *

A mere brush upon his shoulder, a faint shuffling sound, dim moonlight shining through the thin gap, or rather the concoction of three factors is what appears to be the cause of his abrupt awakening. He springs up in alarm – another habit developed throughout all these years – eyes scanning the room with meticulous precision, at least as much as the circumstances allow him to, in search for a factor that appears to exist apart of usual room components.

Unable to perceive anything significant, his gaze eventually lands on a silhouette beside him - a girl lying on her side, hand tossed carelessly on the spot previously occupied by him. He sighs in relief as soon as the newfound realization sweeps upon him, the one that brings final denouement – her accidental slap had to be the cause of said awakening.

With cleared out mind, he focuses more distinctly on Fabienne, lying on the side, face turned towards him - an unmissable opportunity to study her visage, since such behavior would not be tolerated on daily bases. At the current blink, she appears as otherworldly, lost within the depths of her own mind, somewhere far, far away, not that he finds it hard to believe, since it forms quite a common association – dreaming equals traveling.

Ironic.

At first, he considers, quite strongly, waking her up, but then another thought occurs, an inkling, driven by intuition, or rather opportunistic nature, that he might, in fact, abandon her now if he really wanted. She will not even notice his departure, remaining asleep, safe in her on dreamscape, left to uncover the truth in the morning as light paints her face, taking away all false beliefs.

Why does it have to be so tough then?

Stepping out if the door is almost effortless in physical matter, walking down the stairs also, heading down the streets joins the gathering, now of three. It is almost absurd, how incapable of admitting certain actualities he is, a grown-up man and still afraid of words – lines of letters on the newsprint. He is a blind man, a liar, lost within his own illusion, simplifications, an expert in covering up the verity, but what for?

Suffering?

No.

A feeling that is foreign, without a proper word to address it, impossible to be described, but ever present in his life, marking him like the glass once did.

(I don't want to die without any scars.)

(Sardonic, cynical, caustic…)

Ironic.

As if with a mind of its own, his hand hovers over her body, muscles twitching with anticipative tension, clueless about what he is willing to do, without a plan for a change. After a few haywire moments, filled with offbeat anticipation, his fingers twirl through her hair, carefully brushing out a few stray tangles. She flinches in response to the touch, and for one fatal moment he is certain she is just about to wake up, frozen on the spot, hand still in between her strands, nevertheless she is quick to relax, which prompts him to resume.

Truth to be told, he has always found her enticing – petite girl with delicate nose and nimble fingers – so innocent and even prettier, oddly fitting in his tastes. Over the course of time, he has learned to admire her as a woman, or rather not silence the encouraging whispers, whereas the desire to perceive himself in terms of a decent man, full of unspoken virtues, righteous and worthy, never made it less challenging. ‘Twisted morality’ is what some people like to call it – remaining pure yet flawed, endless attempts, frustrating pursuits, sleepless nights – and while it might be considered interesting, he has never been able to comprehend why. It carries the truth about him – he has failed and he has failed spectacularly, squandering many years of self-improvement and abnegations just to look twice at the wrong person that has never supposed to attract his attention in the first place.

Who would have told she would be the one to drag him down?

“First time?” A voice that slices through silence, exclamation in a quiet room, in the gloomy night, uttered for him and him only, and as any sane man in his place would, he almost jumps out of his skin, caught hand in a cookie jar. Without a clue about what he is supposed to say, he only stares at her as if he could not believe she was real, awake, and speaking – a passerby from a parallel reality.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” ah yes, back on track and as believable as always.

“Whatever, Craig,” she tosses him a careless glance, “you might as well keep lying to yourself, as you presumably have done your whole life, or admit what’s been on your mind all this time so we could have the ‘adult’s talk’.”

“Is that what you want?” He huffs, voice laced with a blossoming hint of impatience. “Are you even aware of what does it mean?”

“What means what?” She raises to his level, eyes locked, not the one to look away for a change.

“Doesn’t matter,” he sighs heavily, all of sudden reminding her of an old man, tired with temporal life, too yellow to end it albeit too exhausted to keep it up.

“No,” she shakes her head in disbelief, an ugly furrow marking her forehead; for some reasons he has never liked when girls frown, “it does, believe me.”

“That’s not a determinant,” he retorts drily, voice flat akin to his judgments, “since apparently everything matters to you. But if you-”

Before he gets a chance to finish his sentence, her lips are on his, kissing him with some unplaceable, fierce passion, all while he is too stunned to react, caught in delirious unawareness. Time seems to halt for a moment – parallel lines that collide – where impossible becomes possible, where everything melts together just to come into being as a formless… pulp.

Sounds lovely.

However, in reality it takes nothing more than a few brief seconds for her to pull away, leaving him in bewilderment , mouth agape as if he forgot shutting it lies within his abilities. He stares at her in disbelief, and she cannot help but look away, flushed in embarrassment

(what have I done?)

hands folded on her lap, akin to a child waiting for a reprimand. Whatever that display was, it is already gone, the confidence, the exasperation, the vehemence, and she is back to her old self – the rapid downfall following every climax.

“Why did you kiss me?” He manages to utter after a few longer moments of silence, no accusation, no vexation, just plain, old formlessness.

She gulps.

“No reason?” He reiterates, this time with a hint of annoyance lacing his voice, unusually expecting more than yet another evasive answer.

(We desire what we cannot provide.)

“What is it?” He repeats, bitter, impatient, awaiting. “Cat’s got your tongue?”

“I’m sorry,” she mutters under her breath, glancing at him as if to ascertain that he is still eyeing her with the same displeased expression, “I shouldn’t have. It was kinda inappropriate to say the least, and I’m just… sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he holds her gaze for a brief moment, a hint of what might as well be a smile lacing his lips, “you probably won’t like it, but we can always pretend like it never happened.”

“You’re right,” she agrees, “I won’t like it.”

“So what do you expect me to do about it instead?” He inquires – a question with determined answer – locking eyes with her, and this time she does not attempt an escape. There is something offbeat hidden within her gaze, something that he has never seen on her, feminine but fatale in consequences, and part of him lives for it, soaks it up like a sponge. Thirst and longing is what speaks through him, takes control over his mind – the steering wheel – in order to crash the car if given half a chance – regret-bringing attempts, vain abnegations.

“I want you to…” she halts, as if pondering her next words, picky and never meant to be satisfied, “to, um… consummate our relationship.”

Euphemisms are useless.

“Foolish girl,” he jeers, but she opts for ignoring it, aiming for the long-awaited denouement rather than yet another argument, “you have no idea what you’re asking for, do you.”

Not a question by any means.

“Let’s just give it a try and see where it’ll take us, ‘kay?” She proposes, scooting a little closer to him, knees touching – the simplest of contacts that sends a subtle shiver down his spine. “Say something, please.”

“Okay,” he agrees carefully, slowly uttering the given word, “but I ain’t gonna fuck you, and you won’t ask for that.” Being honest here, she is not sure whether she likes the authoritarian order. “Am I making myself clear?”

“Crystal,” she nods, throat parched and mind foggy all of sudden – unable to come up with a more descriptive answer.

“Come here then,” he bids, patting his thigh – a non-verbal encouragement that might be required sooner than later – as he leans back to rest comfortably against the wall. She follows his command, inching closer and closer towards him until he is able to direct her the rest of the way, settling her on his lap with a bit of help from the girl.

He troubles with recalling the last time he had someone in such position, months maybe, her body heat prominent despite two layers of clothing, fueling him up more than he cares to admit. He should not have even considered it in the first place, agreeing to her proposition, laying down on the bed, letting her join his voyage – mistakes and misjudgments, piling up until he is incapable of seeing the very top one.

(You won’t see anything afterwards, we’ll take care of it.)

“How far are you willing to go?”

(Ha! How diplomatic.)

“I don’t know, really,” she chuckles quietly, or rather nervously, her gaze adverting to the side, “and honestly, I have no idea what ‘far’ means.”

“Fine then,” he brushes off, voice distant, as if the information was yet to reach his comprehension, while his fingers seem preoccupied with her hair again, combing it gently to the side. “Let’s try it differently. Will taking off your clothes be an issue for you?”

“Partly yes,” she admits, nevertheless immediate to rectify her words, just as he suspected, “but not entirely. You know what I mean, right?”

“Perfectly,” he ascertains, with a barely noticeable smirk playing upon his lips – a factor that changes everything about his visage, almost everything to be exact, the glint in his eye that she is unable to place, seemingly mere nuance, yet perspective-shifting. At this point Fabienne is positive she will never forget said countenance – a hunter within a dream, prayer of the night, craver of oblivion, wayfarer without a guide, guide of a wayfarer – one and one man only.

Craig.

The man that currently takes away her privilege to respond, kissing her once again, tasting her lips with cautious precision, as if he had every intention to memorize all those unfamiliar

(not for long)

parts of her, yet to be discovered. As the caress is deepening, his hands slide lower until they settle on her waist, squeezing the soft flesh with enough pressure to receive a breathless, feminine gasp that awakes something within him, a part that has been meticulously buried down, not meant to be dug out, at least not by her.

Despite being barely able to perceive what is happening around him, he still manages to sense how her hands glide smoothly through his longish hair, tugging at the strands for the slightest bit, most likely fueled by carnal frustrations, eliciting a muffled groan from him. The gesture, even if innate and quite hackneyed, is the cause of his abrupt lounge backwards, leaving her in bewilderment, caught off guard, as she keeps their gazes locked, ignoring the fiery blush marking her cheeks.

“Can I touch you?” he rasps, voice huskier than usual, a mundane change that appears to be enough for an almost foreign sensation to blossom in the pit of her stomach, something that rarely invades her body. At this peculiar moment he looks akin to a lunatic – delirious and mind-swept – with restless eyes, heavy breaths, mussed hair – a personification of lust-ridden instabilities that billow in the confinement of his soul, retreating his ability to think straight, to perceive the reality in the way he once used to.

He is a broken man.

(Was, is, and will be.)

She only nods her head, considering the ability of forming words to have abandoned her lately, to which he responds, or rather his body does, as if having a mind on its own, with one of his hands slipping underneath the beige sweater, eliciting a wave of goosebumps, as the pads of his fingers tease the bare flesh. He traces the protruding lines of her ribs, entranced with how they expand in time with each shallow pant, following the path up until he meets with one if her breasts, dragging the very pad of his fingers over the pert nub. She flinches at the contact, attempting to scoot away from him in the first reflex, but he holds her steady with a firm grip of her hip, drawing a breathy gasp from the lass that is immediate to transmute into a quiet, feminine moan.

“Do that again,” she begs softly, her voice small in the empty room, echoing through the long-lived walls akin to a promise of something fresh to perceive, something from the Old Days. ”Please.”

Mere word, breathless promise, bashful request – minuscule nuances that transfigure the whole concept, a potency of mysterious and misunderstood, never meant to be explained – something that remarks certain aspects of his life. She seems to agree with him on this one, idealism be damned, and in face of his lacking responses, she opts for taking the matter in her own hands, covering his own and squeezing afterwards, her eyes falling shut for a moment. Much to her relief, he decides to go along with her, showering her with variety of contradictory sensations, from gentle brushes to harsh tugs that have her squirming in his lap, as her hands ball into fists, clutching on his t-shirt.

She appears as desperate, beyond such to be exact, doe eyes staring at him, now filled with carnal admixtures, foreign in its salacious nature, irking him to pursuit, to break the promise, to take her as soon as possible, before she turns to dust; to relish the moment, and so finally be able to achieve the long-craved gratification. It takes a shorter amount of time than ever implied or expected for all inhibitions to leave his mind, to slip away through the thin gap that separates the door from dusty floor, float into the night.

(She is the devil.)

Gradually, he lifts up her sweater, exposing the sliver of flat stomach, pale skin contrasting with dim moonlight, while the other hands still teases the plush flesh of her breasts. She arches towards his touch, as if in an attempt to minimalize the distance, insatiable and aching for more – mercy that he is willing to deliver.

In accordance with the prior assumptions, he tugs the garment up, coaxing her to remove it the rest of the way, to which she complies, unusually so, tossing it aside on the mattress briefly afterwards. In a reflex that outruns anything else within the dazed man’s mind, his had traces the creamy skin, painting it with invisible strokes that only increase the burning in her core. Truth to be told, she is still a bit too skinny, nevertheless appearing healthier than at the very beginning of their

(damnation)

journey, with more flesh than bones to hold onto. She remains silent throughout the process, with mouth slightly agape and eyes half-closed, until his lips attach to the tender skin below her ear and suck, not enough to leave marks

(yet)

but to redirect her attention, to the point where she utters a soft gasp, tangling her fingers within his hair as if urging him to do pursue.

“I’ve always dreamed of something like this,” she admits, her voice distant, lost between the traces of past, somewhere far away yet ever present. Maybe she is expecting an actual answer this time, however he feels like it would be crude to break the silence, to wash away the calmness, to disrupt the night’s creatures, so he only hums in response, acknowledging that he is, indeed, paying attention. “Craig?”

(He’s not much attentive, isn’t he?)

“Any particular requests you have in mind?” He purrs against her skin, gruff, sending a shiver down her spine.

“Yes,” she nods, retreating a dash from him to meet his eyes, foreheads bumping as she leans into him, free and unrestrained, nipples brushing against his t-shirt distinctly enough to fuel the restless throbbing between his legs.

“Such as…?” He almost groans, all of sudden finding it harder to focus, caught off guard by a mere scrape – details that shift the whole perception.

“Fuck me,” she purrs against his lips, tongue darting out to taste the plush flesh – an act that he would consider ostentatiously vulgar under any other circumstances, however this time he catches himself wishing to experience it once again.

“No,” he counters despite the aforementioned impulse, left to watch how the alluring expression drain from her face, making a place for newfound frustrations and disappointments to blossom.

“Why?” She snorts, not bothering to hide the blunt disappointment as she departs from him, albeit remains settled on his lap for obvious reasons. “Because all of sudden you have some moral values?” No answer. “You think I’m some tart without a taste and self-respect that would jump into any opportunity to fuck someone?”

“That’s not the case and I think we both know that,” he evades, as smoothly as always, his hand brushing her hip in a manner that might be almost considered as gentle, or even sweet, distracting her for a brief moment.

“Then what’s the case?” She inquires, a hint of desperation lacing her voice, carrying all of her inhibitions, all resentments – the evidence of her frailness.

“I think it’s too soon for you,” he explains, all while his thumb is rubbing tiny circles on her skin, leaving a tingling trait behind that somehow manages to break the train of thoughts once more. “I’m not trying to say we can’t fool around from time to time, only that you should wait for someone else, someone more… meaningful to you.”

“You’re such a hypocrite,” she huffs in annoyance, swatting his hands away as she speaks. “Do you even believe in any of it? Honestly.”

“My beliefs aren’t important,” he sighs, suddenly giving her the same impression as before – tired and old, rugged and seasoned, already on his way to reach the inevitable.

“Then why you-”

Depraving her of any chances to finish the sentence, he joins their lips for what was supposed to be nothing more than a chaste kiss, but she manages to break his resolve once again that night, tongue darting out to get a proper taste. It is electrifying, rich, dazing, combined with the manner that she flicks her tongue over his, branding his mind more efficiently than any incandescent rod, a memory never to be wiped. He almost groans in relief when she throws herself into his arms once more, molding her body into his, breasts pressed against his chest in a way that must be painful for such a petite, tender girl, with only the thin cotton of his tee separating their heated skins.

Neither of them exchange a word

(they can only do harm)

after they break apart, and instead, his arms fly up to remove the troublesome barrier that is his t-shirt, exposing his flesh to the judgmental moonlight that only emphasizes the firm physique. Surely not the sublime built man, albeit slim, with nicely shaped muscles, enough to appear as fit and masculine in her eyes, creating an image of something that is certain to hunt her in the few following nights.

She wants to lick him all over.

But yet, she opts for running her hand down the freshly exposed flesh, enjoying the simplicity of said gesture, the smoothness of his skin, sparse hair slipping through her fingers as she rakes them down, scratching his skin as she goes. What bothers her more is the linear pattern of various scars, paining him like an inferior artist would, their texture coarse beneath her fingertips. She cannot help but wonder what kind of story they hold, laced with obnoxious dramatism, or maybe unobtrusive suffering – an answer that he is unable to provide.

(“Better keep our histories to ourselves.”)

Preoccupied with exploring what he has to offer, she fails to notice how his hands shift from the innocent place around her waist to the crease between her thighs, undoing the zipper of her trousers with a graceful flick of his wrist. Without giving her a chance to realize what is happening, as if caught in some lustful trance, he pushes past the fabric barrier, and she jerks at the contact, even if not direct, nevertheless not protesting.

Instead her arms fly up to grip his shoulders for more stable position, her hips raising up – a wordless command for him to push her jeans down the rest of the way. He complies without a word of protest, quick to toss the garment on the mattress, eyes glued to the smooth skin, the contrast it creates in comparison with the dark material of his pants.

“I know it’s ridiculous,” she interrupts herself with a flurried chuckle, “but I’ve never been this nervous.”

“Not much surprising, isn’t it?” He mutters into her hair, holding the trembling body in his arms, fingers grazing her sides in a leisure manner, until she departs from him on her own, doe eyes staring right into his own as if in an attempt to gaze into his soul, to uncover all the impure thoughts he had about her. “But we don’t have to do it if you’re not ready.”

“That doesn’t sound convincing,” she giggles – a reminiscence of all those silly, unstable girls he had a dubious pleasure to interact with multiple times in the past, “and I also think you know what my answer will be.”

“Should I take it as ‘yes’ then?” Nod. “Say it.”

“Yes,” she gulps, invaded with a notion that her declarations appears overly terminal for her own tastes, arising a wave of sudden uneasiness that never fails to sweep Fabienne of her feet.

“Then roll over,” he prompts with a subtle bow – an implication for her to move in a right direction, an inkling that she will feel more comfortable without looking directly into his eyes.

“What?” She shakes her head for the slightest, probably to meet with reality once again, to wipe out the hazy smile currently lacing her lips, unusually confused.

“Just face the wall,” he reiterates, to which she complies, following the path he has set from her, finally laying back to rest against his chest. His arms raise to encircle her waist, one hand settling on her hip, tips of his fingers dipping just below the waistband to tease the sensitive skin there, while she ignores the urge to jerk away from his grip.

She has never been this aware of her body, in a fragmental sense of course, perceiving each part individually, as if her skeleton was not a construction of two hundred and six bones, but instead each one of them was a separate organism. Probably the last aspect that sex is referred to on daily basis, but she has grown to embrace the occasional weirdness that is carried within her thoughts, pushing the unpleasantness in the back of her mind, burring it among other displeasures.

(Reality is a prison.)

While she is maneuvering between the cogitations, his fingers skim past the fabric until they reach the soft crease between her thighs, warm wetness that covers the very tips. She gasps at the alien sensation, fighting the foreign urge to jerk her hips, and instead opts for gripping his forearm, unnecessary tight, but the notion is yet to reach any of their minds, occupied with the Things of Greater Matter.

He is the one to come to senses first, woken up by an irritant stab of pain, caused by her nails, beginning with the simplest of touches, a mere brush over her clit that sends a jolt of electricity up her spine, a tingling sensation that spreads all the way to her toes. A quiet moan slips past her lips in addition, hips raising on their own, already asking for more, more that he is willing to deliver, evident in a way his strokes become firmer, albeit not much yet, since overwhelming her from the very first shot is not his intension by any means.

It feels odd to say the least, considering her lack of experience in said department, excluding those few incidents when she was lying late at night, devoting into aspects she barely had an insight into, out of plain curiosity, not to mention that they were nothing more than a child’s play comparing to this in so, so many aspects.

Begging with the reference towards his fingertips, or rather how much rougher, much more calloused they are than hers, providing a pleasant friction that surprisingly manages to surpass the disturbing embarrassment that blossoms somewhere within her mind. Then her focus shifts to the leisure pace that he has chosen for some reasons, a factor that is rather quick to appear as frustrating, meant to be rewritten – an idea he seems opposed to as soon as her hips begin to grind experimentally against his hand, smearing the wetness over the palm, something that he is supposed to find disgusting, at least according to common decency.

But not this time.

She, in turn, finds herself in a desperate need to speak, to verbalize her cravings, and so speed up the process, yet for some reasons troubles with doing so, throat too tight to let out any words. While he can undoubtedly sense the need, he decides against giving her the relief that comes with acknowledging it, much to her despair, lust-filled frustrations that lace her being into some grotesque knot, impossible to unravel. Not even once before she has felt something in such an intense way, resonating all the way to her toes, abounded in carnalities – the incontestable cause of said concentration issues.

While neither of them is willing to exchange a word, he allows himself to focus more on the girl atop him: her breathy sighs, quiet mewls, and urgent moans – attention that she does not seem to mind at the moment – a factor not as surprising as it may seem. Over the course of various sexual encounters, he has come to one, rather distinctive, conclusion: every woman driven past the very specific point is meant to forget all those make-believe assumptions, along with all of the shame, all of the worry that is carried within.

All in due course, of course.

(Patience is a virtue.)

“Craig,” she gaps in such a wanton manner, his name rolling out of her tongue, as if she was barely capable of uttering a different word, with a tunnel vision that shifts her entire perspective, “I need more.”

“Addictive, isn’t it?” He rasps into her ear, warm breath tickling the tender skin, as his fingers simultaneously pick up the pace, along with the pressure, hips pushing up on their own to meet his movements. “Christ, you’re so wet.”

For what has to be nothing more than just a split second, his exclamation reverberates underneath her skull, resonating all the way to her soul,

(bold to assume you have one)

painting it with wicked, sinful things that block the way back, never again meant to remain unchanged, pure, without flaws – yet another part of the ever-decaying matter. It may sound depressing if put this way, and yet appears as such a perfect match for this world – empty, morose, and dusty.

What has she become?

Apart from the sidetrack of thoughts, she can tell something is just about to happen, teetering on the edge, while bracing for a jump that is yet to come, presumably sooner than expected, insides coiling in anticipation. Vaguely aware of what is awaiting for her at the end of the rainbow, she arches into his touch, willing to speed up the process – innate trait that is carried within every carnal creature, rooted deep within the simplest of structures.

And then it comes, rapid rainfall, tidal wave that hits the shore, arching her back to the point where it becomes truly painful, and yet she is unable to care at the moment, her attention shifted solely to the burning between her legs. Nevertheless, the foreign feeling, impressive in its intensity, is quick to subside, so quick that for a split second she is invaded by an inkling that it was not even real, another creation of a person’s questionable mind, whereas the leftover tingling proves it wrong.

Lost in the delirious aftermath, she shifts in his embrace, locking his hand between her legs, as if to keep him connected, reassuring that he will not be able to leave her hanging there, caught in one of the most vulnerable states possible. Her mouth falls agape a couple of times, before she actually manages to utter a word, still high in the clouds, while the downfall is rather gradual for a change.

“That was,” she murmurs under her breath, barely distinctly enough for him to catch, “quite something.”

(No, it wasn’t. You just fingered a seventeen year old girl until she came. There’s nothing impressive about it.)

(Such a pathetic excuse for a male pride.)

“Wanna do it again?” He purrs, the hoarseness of his voice sending a rapid shiver down her spine, depraving her of any leftover sagacity, but she seems too delirious to care, or even realize.

Either way, she nods her head, spreading her legs again to give him a decent motion range, and as if on a command, he picks up where he left, fingers back to gliding over the swollen folds. This time, however, he reaches past the familiar area, the very tips getting introduced with the clenched entrance. She spasms promptly with the teasing touch, legs shifting in evident impatience, eyes glued to the peeling wallpaper, as if she was afraid to look at what he seems so preoccupied with.

Men are so predictable.

Truth to be told, as her height is gradually subsiding, she experiences some odd composition of contradict emotions that cascades down her, parallel lines that break the law, life-defining paradox. Deprived of any sensible analysis, she faces yet another profound challenge that requires creating at least a reconnection, something that will decrease the sharp juxtaposition, that will smooth out the edges, knock down the wall that separates all disturbing shame from the carnal craving.

Impossible?

Well, maybe.

“Wait,” she interrupts, hand flying to grip his wrist as a simplest move prevention, a tingle of urgency lacing her voice.

“What is it?” He asks, fingers stroking her inner thigh in a tender manner that is so unlike him, as if in an attempt to soothe her ragging nerves.

“I don’t know. I just… I feel so dirty, but at the same want more,” she sighs, her gaze dropping to the hand on her leg, observing how it glides smoothly over her skin. “Honestly, I had no idea it’d be this complicated.”

“Told you so,” he signifies, a dash insensitively, but it would be a lie to deny that over the course of time she has managed to grow accustom with more-than-occasional harsh manners. “But more importantly, do you want me to stop?”

“That’s not the case,” she counters, quick to roll over – a movement that catches him off guard for a split second, jade green meeting hazel. In order to gain some necessary stability, her hands settle atop his shoulders once again, while his, in turn take a steady grasp on her hips. As their eyes remain locked, a realization sweeps upon her, blunt implication that she has been aware of seemingly since ever, hidden in the depths of her soul.

“I like when you touch me,” she admits, her gaze dropping to his chest for a mere second, preoccupied with its rhythmical raises and falls.

“Do you now,” he replies teasingly, a hint of a smirk playing upon his lips – such an unusual sight to behold. “And what are you willing to do with it?”

“Bold to assume I have the slightest idea,” she murmurs against his lips, foreheads bumping into one another as she leans in, brushing his chest almost unnoticeably, and yet the skin-to-skin contact sets his core on fire. Depraved of an ability to speak, as her nipples graze his flesh – dance of death, sinful, macabre image, branded within his mind – a promise of something yet to come – he is only left to watch as she departs from him, longing burning deep within his soul, unusually quick to shred the remaining layer of clothing, tossing it aside carelessly.

Thud.

Although the noise is relatively silent, it snaps something within him – a frail reed – something that forces him to rearrange the grip around her hips to a more convenient one, reversing their positions, her back now pressed to the mattress. She squeals in response to the unexpected shift, then giggles – a girlish sound that he hates so badly, but somehow manages to tolerate under these circumstances.

(You are such a pathetic liar.)

“What are you doing?” She asks, amusement dancing behind her gaze, as she presses a whisper of a kiss at the corner of his lips, knowing well enough what it does to him, and most likely enjoying seeing him in such a state – hair tousled, breathing heavy, so hard it physically hurts. “Thought you said that you ain’t gonna fuck me.”

“Mmm… fuck,” he groans, dropping his head to her shoulder in some display of teenage-related helplessness, a heavy sigh billowing upon her flushed skin.

“Please,” she whines, wriggling below him in an attempt to grind against him. A heavy sigh slips past her lips as her clit catches the rough denim of his jeans, uneven nails digging into his shoulder blades in response to the intense stimulation. “Don’t you feel how wet I am?”

(I do, perfectly.)

“I’m sorry, honey, but the answer is no,” he demurs, with intents to sound apologetic rather than hypocritical, nevertheless managing to fail on every front possible. In face of a clear ability to sense his inner turmoil, her hands slips into his hair, dragging him down until their lips collide, hips grinding in slow, sensual circles, moaning into his mouth, as he responds to the kiss, tongue flicking against hers. Blushing at the thought that concerns what she is about to do, her hand reaches between her legs, tapping his hip on a way to redirect his attention, until her fingers glide over the swollen folds, eliciting a breathless sigh as an innate response to the gentle stroke.

Distracted enough, he breaks away, gaze adverting down, only to be greeted by the sight of her subtle caresses, something that sends a violent shiver down his spine, nevertheless subsided as soon as another thought occurs.

Cheap eroticism is what she indicates.

And he loathes cheap eroticism.

(Such a pathetic liar…)

She whimpers softly as his eyes skim over her form in a scrutinizing manner that she finds oddly arousing, ticking her nerves akin to grass while strolling through a lush lea, evoking an ephemeral shiver – dubious in its existence. What eventually forms an unsolvable conundrum is the expression marking his face – a countenance of contradictories – whereas his eyes burn with something that is supposed to be called ‘lust’ – a word that lays quite far from how she perceives it, hopeless idealist within her decaying habitat.

“Fuck,” he groans, a disclamation of fatigue that is gradually untying the strings of his being, “stop it.”

“What if I don’t want to?” She teases, vibrating with unusual confidence, most likely fueled by youthful greed that has every fiber of her body screaming for completion – a crack within his resolve.

“Won’t drop it, will you?” he huffs, lacing it with a hint of exasperation – an obvious attempt to sound steady and terminal, nonetheless entirely futile, considering the betrayal of his own voice: rough like a sandpaper, breathy at the end. “Fine then. I’ll give you what you’ve been bargaining for oh so desperately, but under one condition,” no answer, “You won’t pull that shit on me ever again. I’m genuinely fed up with your manipulative tendencies.”

“Anything, Craig,”

(Who is lying now, huh?)

she sighs, hands dropping on her stomach akin to some limp ragdoll, eyes piercing through his in a manner that almost causes him to snap back, considering all the entertaining features of the wall above.

Not wasting any more time, his hands reach the belt, fumbling with the tricky buckle for a few longer moments, until it falls apart with a soft click, soon to be abandoned on the floor. He has always considered such an act in terms of something terminal , how the clothes fall on said surface with a dull thud – transition between two phases.

Then come the jeans, all while he is standing up, especially for aforementioned act, watching her like a predator would observe his prey, gaze dark and heavy, burning into her flesh. She squirms slightly, in need to release some of the tension that he has brought upon her, as her legs close on their own, all of sudden bashful in face of inevitable. Lured by the shift, he glances at her figure, now propped on the elbows, quick to remove the remaining barrier, baring his body for her eyes to peek.

In the past he would considered exposure as a line-up for vulnerability, two equal functions, overlapping on the coordinate system, joined for eternity. However, due to the un-going process of so called growing up, or aging as some people might call it, he discovered that as every truth, it holds a subliminal lie.

(Exception proves the rule.)

Undoubtedly, some situations require a different way of thinking, specific approach, at times working out for one and one instance only – a factor that becomes a flawless example, not leaving any space for hesitancies that blossom within the insecure minds, invading them akin to excess weed on the rye field.

Whereas he is too old to hesitate.

“Spread your legs, Fabienne,” he prompts, hands resting on bended knees, the trembling of her frame now palpable on his fingertips. He gives her flesh a brief squeeze – an attempt of reassurance to which she complies, limbs tilting to the sides, inviting him in – a proposition that he gladly accepts, settling between the outstretched limbs. Her calves wrap around his waist, since she feels like keeping herself spread in such way is both awkward and rather inconvenient, the subtle flex of his muscles palpable upon her skin from now on, as he leans in more, nudging her folds in process. She is oddly afraid to look down, considering it is safe to assume that the sight alone is more than probable to scare her away – an opponent for the need to change something in her life, something significant, special even

(every snowflake consists of its unique pattern),

which might as well be yet another example of what the word ‘exaggerate’ really means.

“Don’t look so scared,” he adds, a ghost of a soothing smile passing his countenance, or maybe the result of yet another make-believed creation of her mind. “I don’t intend to hurt you.”

“But it is going to hurt anyway, right?” She ascertains, her lips sewed in a thin line, cheeks flushed, nails digging into his sides in anticipation.

“It varies how much,” an explanation that clouds her brain with even more unsolved matters, rather than satisfy her, but she takes it anyway, deprived of a better alternative.

One last glance is thrown over her, one eyebrow perked up in query – all it takes for her to give a brief nod of reaffirmation, followed by an even softer “yes,” slipped past her trembling lips. To say she felt nervous would be a mere euphemism, her stomach doing somersaults, anticipating the inevitable – yet another paradox, to be afraid of what one wants.

Absurd.

Seemingly out of nowhere, his hips snap up, forcing a choked cry out of her throat, nails clutching at his sides, hips withdrawing from his in a reflexive reaction to the sudden intrusion, nevertheless the sting appears as not quite willing to subside, at least as willing as she would like it to be.

“’M sorry,” he groans, gravel and sandpaper, rough and guttural. “Too fast?”

“Yeah,” she agrees, troubling to catch her breath, lungs seemingly unable to fit all the required air inside, so she gladly accepts the merciful halt – an opportunity to enjoy the moment, or rather examine all the merest sensations that come along: a scrape over her inner walls, fluttering pain that follows, and the pulsing fulfillment, so foreign in its nature.

To say she wants more would be a mere euphemism.

“Craig,” she gasps, engraving his name in a manner that sends yet another electrifying shiver down his spine, caught in a breathless anticipation, “do something, please.”

And who is he to deny her anything?

His hips rock forward, experimentally still, intending to check her reaction, to ascertain she is, indeed, ready to pursuit, to which she responds with a movement so innate, flawless in its borne simplicity – a push towards his body. The whole act seems so surreal to him – a throwback to the teenage years – as if he could not believe it was real, as if it was yet another dream, supposed to end up in no time – sharp, blinding finale – while he is wishing for right the opposite. Nevertheless, the conclusion is evident, maybe off-top but still obvious: the damned lass has a vice tight grip, so unfitting to the fragile exterior – a threat to blow it all up embarrassingly quickly, something that he is determined not to let happen.

“You gotta relax, darling,” he hisses through the gritted teeth, failing to contain the trembling of his own muscles – an evidence of his efforts.

(Easier said than done.)

She only manages to utter a soft hum in response, eyes shutting tight, as if it was supposed to help her focus, ribcage rhythmically expanding with each cautious exhale. Briefly afterwards, she regains the partial control over her own body, dubious in its effectiveness, however lacking in a better alternative. Still and all, her muscles relax around him, as if coaxing him to move, and he complies without further objections, hips snapping forward with a relieved groan, forcing a feminine squeal from the woman below.

The sensation is odd to say the least, revoking contradict reactions; in one hand her body welcomes it, relieved and thankful for the long-craved stimulation, while in the other she cannot help but wonder how close is the correlation between this and being ripped in half – the neighboring house or just the room? In spite of that she somehow grows accustomed with the unusual stretch, still in genuine hope that what now is just a dubiously comfortable fullness will transform into the so-called pleasure sooner than later, or more straightforward – that her suppositions are meant to be confirmed.

One thing for certain – Craig seems to enjoy it more than she does, in fact his countenance speaks for itself: eyes half-closed, not quite meeting hers, mouth slightly agape, labored breaths audible in the empty room. Nevertheless, he utters almost no sound as he rocks into her, not that she finds his manner surprising, rather predictable, that he will not outstand the day-to-day lack of words, if not for the occasional grunts she would suspect the deafness. The previously so-called ‘soft baritone’ has managed to transform into something gravelly, guttural – a change that is gradual, yet evident with every following groan, scratching her ears in one of the most pleasant way.

However, as the time passes and her focus shift more towards the commencements of something that might as well be the pristine bliss, so fussed-about, her insides coiling in a telling way, relish flicking over her nerves. She arches toward him now, determined for an increase, whether in pace, or depth – a gesture that he takes for granted, relieved to hear her subconscious purr.

“Mmm… give me more, I want more, please,” she chants, voice betraying her akin to a pack of cigarettes hidden insides teenager’s wardrobe, tremulous and desperate. Urging him to react, her nails dig into his sides, drawing a pained hiss from the man above, who is quick to grasp her by the calf and drape one of her legs over his shoulder, forcing a surprised cry from the brunette below.

As if on some grotesque command, all of the purpose air leaves her lungs, refusing to get back inside, insides clenching around him uncontrollably, to the point where he suspects he might have overestimated her for quite a bit – a matter that she is quick to rectify with the simplest of acknowledgments – a kiss, a slow, sensual kiss. Another mellow, feminine mewl slips past her lips, as if meant for him to swallow, something that still lies beyond her self-control field, and being honest here, she has been wishing to make it happen for quite a while – allow herself to be vulnerable.

The last liberty that this world tolerates.

While with him it all seems possible, at hand, licit when accompanied by him – foolish, silly lies, a factor that remains unnoticed for her own good. By any means, it is not sub rosa that she often find herself stuck within a constant dream, dream that considers aspect beyond her reach, aspects that do not fit the New Order by any means, but lead an ever-present life rooted deep within her consciousness.

Someone to love.

(Long live the idealists!)

Back in the temporal world, his lips detach from hers softly, drawing her back from the alien reverie, as they linger for a bit longer, brushing the plush bottom lip with such tenderness that it catches her off-guard for a brief moment. However, he is immediate to strive for the contrast, picking up the pace seemingly out of nowhere, eliciting a reedy whine from her that, in turn, makes him twitch in anticipation for more – a craving not willing to subside just yet.

While she writhes below him, attempting to match his pace, he takes his time to eye her once more that night, gaze fixated on the subtle swings of her breasts, desire-awoken flush covering her neck, all the way up to the glassy eyes, staring right at him. He maintains the contact, tongue flicking out to moisten his lips – a gesture that she subliminally repeats – as his grip around her thigh perceptibly tightens, fingers digging into the flesh, muscles flexing with effort.

She is able to sense the change lingering in the air – a prove that something is lurking in the shadows, just around the corner, waiting to be discovered, prearranged for her and her only – a notion that has never supposed to be awoken in the first place. Another shiver runs down her spine, as his pupils dilate even further – two pools of pitch black, surrounded by the thin rim of hazel – mesmerizing, yet malevolent – crossed by the protruding scar that has never appeared as more ominous before.

His vicious tendencies has always been quite obvious to her – nothing more than survivor’s traits that are incrementally developing as they descend further into madness, or as some prefer to address it – pursue with life. Nevertheless, the raging ardor, shadowing his gaze, evokes a wave of goosebumps upon her skin, to the point when she barely manages to fight the urge to look away, and it creeps her more than she cares to admit. The thought itself sends an excessive shiver down her spine, and while she is expecting the shift sooner than later, she sincerely doubts he is meaning to hurt her in a severe way, although is well aware that whatever is slinking within the deeps his soul lies beyond her comprehension.

However, the aspect itself might as well be labeled as two-faced, consisting of twain seemingly contradict components: trepidation that has never supposed to be a turn-on. It is ironic, indeed, but at the same time factual, more than she cares to admit, partly wishing it have never occurred in the first place.

(Some things are better left unsaid.)

(Craig?)

She would have to be blind to miss it – the glimmer hidden behind his gaze, sinister, ominous, maybe also be the closest to his true form she will ever get, the intimidating, dark, and mysterious alter-ego that might be just another prove of her dramatic tendencies.

She almost screams when he pushes her leg away and his hands settle on the junction where her neck meets the shoulder, more than certain that he is just about to crash her windpipe, and yet nothing like this happens. Instead, his mouth falls open, incoherent words rolling down his tongue, some barely audible, outshadowed with delirious passion, one of a kind and only for her to catch, to irk her ears in the most sinful way – a promise of what is just about to come.

He wishes he would be able to determine for how long he has been wanting to make it happen – another immoral craving within this rotten world – and truth to be told, he is barely capable of containing his rapacity, not only in the physical sense but also spiritual, excitement evident within his movements. Aside from that, he can sense how close she is, clenching around him rhythmically, hips raising on their own to meet his thrusts, and when their mouths collide, she utters a relieved moan, her insides spasming for the second time that night, seemingly more violently than before, which might as well be yet another exaggeration. Sadly, this is not the right moment to get lost in the sensation, since impregnating

(such a loathsome word)

her is the last thing he aims for, and accordingly so, he pulls out, painting her chest with a splash of whitish liquid.

Still lost in the delirious, post-orgasmic bliss, she barely acknowledges the change, lying boneless and spent on the old mattress, mind numb for the first time in quite a while, which might be the real reason why people are so attracted to anything sex-related – a moment of obliviousness – willing to pay even the most ridiculous, sky-high price for the shortest of intervals.

“Pretty auspicious bargain, isn’t it honey?”

* * *

A letter is all she left, a promise of a better world, carried within a fragile sheet of paper, last promise she wanted to verbalize – harsh words for such a tender lass. Ironically, she seemed secure for the first time in her life, blunt edges of defined characters burning into his skull, whispers of life that she had left behind.

They held no pain.

No, they were soaked in it, ‘hold’ is a mere euphemism.

For years he thought he could felt nothing, not a mere scrape of sorrow, fear, desperation, but also some distant felicity, distant calmness – something that she has brought upon him, priceless gift for all their years together. Still in the Old World, she used to claim ice-cream truck music was her favorite sound, always the one to stand first in the queue, while he never had that particular fondness towards the cooling treat, nevertheless accompanied her every single time in case she would hurt herself.

She was always so clumsy.

Not a fit for this world.

So similar – an explanation point,

Reason why he is fond of Fabienne.

Melodic voice, jade green eyes.

“What are you thinking about, Craig?”

The Downfall of Humanity.

Created: 07/26/20

Completed: 11/01/20

Edited: 11/03/20

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ears-awake-eyes-opened · 4 years

Text

Haymitch, Effie, and Hayffie

(Musings, character analysis, my headcanons about their backstories and forward stories, especially about their relating and relationships. I felt like I needed to think through some of these ideas before writing more fics. These reflections got incredibly long, and I considered just keeping this in my drafts for myself, but maybe something here will resonate with someone else too, so here we go.)

I’ve been writing about Hayffie for a month, and I have some thoughts about their relationships/sexual histories both individually and together. It’s film-Hayffie that I’m into, so some of my ideas might conflict with what’s canon in the books, which I haven’t read in nearly a decade. When I eventually reread the books, I may feel differently, but these are my musings for now.

Haymitch:

We know Haymitch had a girlfriend when he won the second Quarter Quell at age 16. Snow had her murdered along with Haymitch’s mom and younger brother, so I’m guessing Haymitch loved her, otherwise Snow wouldn’t have bothered to have her killed since Snow always kills with intention.

Haymitch I imagine has probably always been good-looking-enough, but not extremely handsome. (I say this despite the big crush I have on Woody). I can see Haymitch as a kid having been witty, reasonably athletic, reasonably popular, a class clown and fairly obnoxious. As a teen without a father present/alive, home would have been a place of hard work, so school was likely Haymitch’s primary outlet for fun. I figure that particular girlfriend may have been his first serious love (and probably his only love).

I think he and she had some experience with sex but not a lot. They probably explored each other and discovered things together. They may have had sex only soon before the reaping, just in case the worst happened and one of their names was pulled. I’m remembering the guy I dated when I was 16. I loved him, but I didn’t want to have sex with him. However, if it had been the feeling of the end of the world, I probably would have slept with him. So, logic tells me they did.

Fast forward. Traumatized post-Games Haymitch wouldn’t have been with anyone else for a long time. I think it may be canon that he refused prostitution because he had no loved ones left to lose, but even if Snow did prostitute him, it would have been maybe once when Haymitch was still a minor, like Snow’s last nail in the coffin of crushing him. But Haymitch would have ultimately proven himself to be too much of a loose cannon/liability for Snow to use in that way.

So I imagine Haymitch has some history of sexual trauma. First in the intensity of sex with his beloved girlfriend within the feeling of coercion (let’s do it now or maybe never). Then with being prostituted to likely some wealthy middle aged woman. Rather than being the prostitute of a man, I think Haymitch would have killed the man or killed himself, depending on his trauma state at the time. So I don’t see sex with men, forced or otherwise, in his history.

It’s canon that Haymitch is basically a loner/shut-in who doesn’t like people in his house and sleeps holding a knife (when he’s able to sleep). I see him having the potential to be quite desirable to women and the potential for being a player. But trauma put a damper on those potentials. I think he could have sex whenever he feels like it, but for a couple of decades after his Games he just doesn’t very often (on average over those years once or occasionally twice a month maybe) because women are too much of a hassle, and they aren’t the love he lost. Alcohol is strongly his drug of choice over sex.

When he does have sex, I believe it’s one-night stands or casual sex with women who are players themselves and probably who he mildly dislikes. He steers clear of relationships that seem at all likely to become emotional. He firmly does not want to get attached to anyone again. Liking people is something he perceives as risky. Loving people is something he perceives as suicidal.

Haymitch is perceptive. Over the years, he’s learned some basics about what feels good to women physically. Pleasuring women has never been his first priority during sex, but I see him as the kind of guy who gets off on them getting off, so he would have made an effort to experiment a little and pay attention to the results. Unfortunately, alcohol often gets in the way of really focusing on women while he is with them. Which is one of the reasons Effie likes him better sober...

Effie:

I like to imagine Effie in early life, 0-9 maybe, with a very old great-grandmother in her 80s-90s. This great-grandma had memories of growing up in a free-er nation before the dictatorship gained in intensity, before the first revolution, before tyranny. I imagine she told Effie folktales that Effie remembers as bedtime stories. Those appeared to be fictional but were filled with archetypes and the roots of humanity. Her great-grandma was careful to protect the family, so she never spoke openly against the Capitol, but she understood and communicated deeper truths which shaped Effie’s heart/unconscious mind. I like to imagine Great-grandma offered Effie a reflection of the girl’s authentic self and offered her a small taste of empowerment. “Never forget you’re more than a pretty, well-mannered girl. Your wit is sharp. You have the capacity to be so much more than a face and a body bending to someone else’s will.”

To Effie’s controlling parents, and even to Effie herself in time, the great-grandma would seem eccentric. I envision her telling Effie that a woman doesn’t need a man to please her or to achieve greatness, and teaching her that she can please herself in all ways including financially and physically. Those lessons sunk in. I see Effie’s great-grandma having possibly been widowed young and surviving on her own awhile, with kids including Effie’s grandparent. In many ways Great-grandma was a self-made woman in her time.

Effie lost most of that connection to antiquity and to her authentic self when her great-grandma died, and she had nothing substantial to shield herself against the tight control and will of her family and Capitol life.

I imagine Effie mostly complied with that control but claimed autonomy in subtle ways. I think she had sex throughout the second half of her teens and throughout her 20’s, always being discerning, discrete, and selective about partners, rather than *sleeping around.* She had an intention behind each conquest. These conquests often had to do with aspects of self discovery, the desire for validation, and facilitating what she wanted in life, especially the ability to project a certain image in order to get where she wanted to go.

Did Effie fall in love with some of those young men? Probably, because underneath her thick facade, Effie has a tender heart which the facade protects like armor. Did she ever have her heart broken? Seldom. For the most part, she inherited and practiced ways of staying in control of her emotions within relationships. Most men thought of her as a desirable pain in the ass, but worth the high maintenance because she knows how to pleasure a man, she gives that focused attention during significant times including sex.

Did she ever experiment with sex with women? Possibly at some point out of curiosity and in seeking validation, but I don’t see women as her jam. Pretty and popular in childhood, she got along with girls in school. Later in her teens and adulthood, women mostly resented her natural beauty, fashion sense, drive to achieve, ability to attract attention, and her perfected facade. I see Effie feeling wistful at times for the quality of connections she had in youth, but her understanding of survival in Capitol society dictated that image and career-based connections were more important than purely emotional ones.

By age 30, during her years as an escort, Effie is quite singularly driven. She knows her body well, but there’s a veil over much of her inner self. The facade she’s built up is so thick that she doesn’t know much anymore about the vulnerable self beneath it. Haymitch can see the softness in her, whether he’s sober or drunk. She is both terrified and thrilled by his capacity to see the self she hides.

Hayffie:

I picture Haymitch as one of the first crushes Effie can remember having. I think of her as 8-9 years younger than him, so she would have been 7, nearly 8, when he was in the second Quarter Quell. She would have been quite taken with the way he held Maysilee’s hand as she died. Just as Effie was genuinely touched by Katniss caring for Rue as she died.

I see Effie having only been an escort since maybe the 72nd Hunger Games — long enough for the District 12 folks to know and mock her, but not too long. She had ambitions to move up in the districts, and she was on her way to proving herself as an effective tool of the Capitol: looking, sounding, and acting the part she was playing, and keeping herself veiled to the injustice of the Games and of tyranny in general. She was brainwashed by a lifetime of coercive propaganda, not because her mind is weak, but because the propaganda was so prevalent and multifaceted, including coming directly from her primary caregivers.

I think she probably expressed interest in Haymitch early on in their work together, seeing him as his idealized younger self. I think he turned her down then, in part because there was something about her that he enjoyed too much, even though he may not have been able to pinpoint what it was, because in the beginning he perceived her to be mostly ridiculous.

I see Hayffie playing cat and mouse for a few years — teasing, taunting, holding each other at bay and not doing much beyond tormenting one another during games 72-74, and learning each other’s nuances along the way. Effie would find Haymitch’s uncoothness off-putting and his wildness tantalizing. He would find her poshness annoying and the woman underneath all those layers a sensual curiosity.

The third Quarter Quell effected a personal transformation for each of them. Haymitch accepted the reality that he was caring about people; he couldn’t stop those emotions, even with alcohol, and he really didn’t want to. Effie’s eyes were opened to the injustice of the Games through her deep affection for her team of victors. Her armor came down enough to experience heartbreak — a related heartbreak to what Haymitch was experiencing as he lost old friends, like Chaff and Mags, and as he cared for Katniss and Peeta and helped launch a revolution.

I see this as the vulnerable time for Hayffie when their personal games of cat and mouse would pause, and intimacy would creep in and feel scary. They’d banter it away for a while but by then they’ve seen each other’s heartbreak, and the contents of a heart once seen, can’t be unseen.

In the absence of liquor for him and in the absence of facades for her (i.e. in District 13), hiding authenticity from each other would be tough. The taunting chase would continue in spirit, but physically they’d be ready to catch each other and play with that physicality if for no other reason to provide distraction.

“Let’s keep this casual,” they’d say. “No strings.” But the tapestry that had been weaving so long would take shape nonetheless. Strings would be everywhere, drawing them together faster than they could cut them.

Sex between them, after years of avoiding it with each other, would feel easy and alive, like breathing. Their bodies would fit well, so neither would have to work too hard to pleasure the other. I can see that sex between them has the potential to be very rough at times, though always with mutual consent. They both would be this interesting mix of selfish and giving. Their parting and coming together I see going on for years with feigned casualness. Cat and mouse again. The lightness would become more and more of a lie. Sex with other people would eventually whittle to nothing without much discussion about it.

They’d meet themselves in time as free individuals, and they’d realize they had fallen for each other all along, despite everything and because of everything. They would keep trying to stop it, and they’d keep failing miserably until finally moving into acceptance.

I don’t picture them ever married. Haymitch would want no government or religious bullshit in their personal business. But I see them eventually sharing their lives with increasing intimacy, how ever that might show up. I’m not sure yet how it would show up, though I like to think that several years down the road, Effie will move to District 12 “as the place becomes more civilized,” and when she perceives that there is meaningful work for her there. I also believe Effie’s perception of “meaningful work” will shift in time, initially out of necessity and then organically as she reconnects with her deep self and reclaims it.

I don’t picture Hayffie with kids. Okay, that’s a lie. I totally picture them with a kid and would have a blast writing the humor, affection, and angst inherent for them within that choice, but I don’t think that choice is in character for them. If they conceived a child, that would happen inadvertently. They’d both be terrified of parenthood, given their histories individually and together. Most likely Effie would terminate the pregnancy, but she’d be conflicted. And the more opportunity Haymitch would have to think about it, the more conflicted he would be as well.

The Hunger Games takes a toll in both ways. Kill a fetus to keep it from being born into a world where they’ve participated in and witnessed the killing of children? Or let the fetus become a baby with traumatized dysfunctional parents and hope for the best? I think they’d see it as a lose-lose, but also would feel so much tenderness about the possibility, especially if it happens years down the line in the feeling of “let’s do it now or maybe never.” Sound familiar? There’s some trauma reenactment there.

Trauma bonding and secure attachment:

I think that Hayffie could fall easily into reenacting trauma with each other. Here are some ways I see that playing out...

Haymitch experienced severe attachment trauma while still in early life, losing his parents and everyone he loved. This was on top of the trauma of being hunted and killing and witnessing death within the Games. This trauma was inflicted directly or indirectly by the Capitol. Haymitch has a lot of unresolved anger at the Capitol. Without integration there’s no healthy way for someone to cope with that severity of trauma. Hence, his addiction/alcoholism.

From the perspective of dysfunction, I can see him drawn to Effie because she’s a Capitol girl, controlled/controlling and emotionally abandoning. She doesn’t show up all warm and fuzzy and “talk to me, honey.” She shows up with open criticism and disdain for him. On the surface, she has those fundamental qualities in common with the primary abuser throughout his life (Snow). So through the lens of trauma reenactment, it makes perfect sense that he’d want to fuck her.

I imagine Effie experienced early life trauma that was more subtle but still impactful. She grew up in a place where one misstep could lead to her family’s ruin. She grew up with parents who likely demanded no missteps and were emotionally unavailable, being so focused on achievement over emotional health. To keep her parents’ approval Efffie needed to do everything precisely: appearance, manners, attitude, performance. When she didn’t exceed par, I imagine she was criticized and chastised. When she exceeded par she was praised. (Intermittent reinforcement.) Throughout her early life, she marinated in rigidity with constant reminders of what happened to people who were imperfect. Effie became an attention seeker and a people-pleaser. She sought validation from not just the masses, but also specifically from people who were the most critical of her and dependent in some way upon her *performance.*

From the perspective of dysfunction, I can see her drawn to Haymitch because he doesn’t offer her consistent validation. Even his *compliments* are teases, taunts, and mocking sarcasm. His alcoholism makes him emotionally unavailable and at times intermittently reinforcing. In moments, he’ll look right into her with unmistakable genuine attraction, and she’ll feel high when he does. The high comes because the attention is intermittent and unpredictable. In that state of emotional drugs flowing through her, it makes total sense that she’d want to fuck him.

Their potential for trauma bonding will make their relationship at times explosive and volatile, not overtly abusive but with sharp tongues and intense physicality that at times borders on punishing. Their desire for each other grows like wildfire, their bond tightens, and sex between them is compelling and delicious in a way that I don’t think either of them has experienced before.

I like to believe their potential for trauma bonding is only part of what draws them together.

I think Haymitch’s compassion in the second Quarter Quell touched young Effie’s heart very genuinely, and her young heart was also shaped by her great-grandmother’s unconditional love. With that heart, she in time grows deep affection for “her victors,” not just as validations of her self-worth, but as people who are truly deserving because of who they are, not what they do.

I think Haymitch has the capacity to see through Effie’s walls of makeup, clothing, and attitude to the heart of the girl who has watched him kill but doesn’t regard him as a murderer, rather she sees him still as the boy who held his friend’s hand in death. I like to think of him seeing that core aspect of himself through her eyes. Each time he sees it, he forgives himself a little more for the responsibility he feels for the death of his loved ones and everyone he ever killed in order to stay alive, and evey tribute who died under his mentorship. Haymitch carries impossibly heavy burdens on his shoulders, hence the alcoholism. Effie’s regard for him as a victor, a victor who showed compassion to Maysilee, to Katniss, to Peeta, and so on, lightens more and more over time the burden he carries.

I think their relationship is an interesting mix of dysfunction and healing. It’s raw and messy, and Effie desperately needs raw and messy, even though she fights against that a long time. Their relationship also has the capacity for deep tenderness and connection, and Haymitch desperately needs tenderness and connection, even though he fights against it a long time.

I so want to see Effie raw and messy. I so want to see Haymitch tender and connecting. That’s the unfolding I write for them together. It’s tough not to rush it, because it’s so interesting, and I want to see it all so badly.

After all these years, I am adoring Hayffie in this unexpected way. This ship is surprisingly intricate and beautiful.

P.S. If you made it this far, wow, and thanks for caring about the characters enough to read my extended ramblings. Comments welcome. I love to hear other people’s thoughts about Hayffie.

#hayffie #hayffie musings #effie x haymitch #haymitch x effie #effie trinket #haymitch abernathy #thg #hunger games musings #the hunger games #hunger games #character analysis #trauma reenactment #attachment trauma

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