#the audience would be very minimal i imagine

[kaynothanks]

Romeo Died

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x fem!Reader

Summary:  You wouldn’t call Billy Hargrove a friend—but misery sure does love company

Warnings: NO, Billy doesn't die, it's just a title! (18+ mdni), swearing (like a lot), smut, thigh riding, billy being a lil bat shit (personality trait?) crying, angst, smoking, sad shit, domestic violence!, it's dark I ain't gonna lie

Word-Count: 25.9k (I don't know how this keeps happening)

To the vast majority, the very essence of childhood was encapsulated in a singular, formative memory—a bright, indelible mark upon the canvas of their existence. These recollections, oft recounted with a gleam in the eye and warmth in the voice, were predominantly woven from the fabric of joyous days. Days spent in the cherished embrace of dearly loved ones, under the golden sun of endless summers or amidst the cozy dimness of a family room lit only by the flickering images of a movie night. Tales of vacations painted in the vivid hues of adventure, of afternoons spent marveling at the wonders housed within the silent watchfulness of zoo enclosures—these were the stories shared, the common thread binding the tapestry of shared human experience.

Yet, amidst this chorus of reminiscences, not once did a voice falter, not once did the flow of memories stutter into silence—as if each story, each recollection, was a pearl, smoothly rolling off the tongue without a moment's hesitation.

You, however, found yourself adrift in this sea of shared nostalgia. When the spotlight of expectation turned to you, when it was your turn to pluck a gem from the treasury of your past, you found the vault seemingly empty. A heavy silence would envelop you, a thick, tangible thing, punctuated only by the expectant gazes of those around you. In those moments, a flurry of panic would dance behind your eyes, a frantic search through the archives of your memory for something—anything—that could pass as a semblance of the joyous tales so freely offered by others.

And so, you took refuge behind the facade of little white lies, crafting tales of your own. Tales that were never lived but painted with enough detail to pass as truth. You knew, instinctively, that these fabrications were necessary—not for your sake, but for theirs. To preserve the sanctity of their bubble-wrapped worlds, where the possibility of a childhood untainted by the same joys was unthinkable, a harsh discord in the symphony of their understanding.

Thus, you crafted a mask from the clay of necessity, molding an awkward smile upon your lips as you spun a tale from the threads of imagination—a story designed to dance gracefully upon the ears of your audience, a melody in the key of fiction they were all too eager to hear. Beneath this veneer of compliance, however, you waged a silent battle, pressing down the memory that surged forth with the clarity and insistence of an unwanted ghost. It was as if you were condemned to an eternal viewing of a particularly distasteful episode of a show, one that had been replayed in the theater of your mind more times than you cared to count.

In those moments, as the lie unfolded from your tongue like the petals of some strange flower, you were mercifully detached from the raw emotions that had once torn through the small, trembling body of your four-year-old self. You were no longer the child cocooned in the dubious sanctuary of a cabinet, its door cracked just enough to admit a sliver of the world outside—a gap so minimal it might have escaped notice altogether, were it not for the significance of the vantage point it offered.

From this slender aperture, you bore witness to a scene that would forever imprint itself upon the canvas of your memory: the harsh, unforgiving grip of your father's hand as it ensnared your mother's head, the violent arc as he brought it crashing down onto the unforgiving surface of the kitchen table. His voice, a thunderous roar that filled the room and set your very soul to trembling, was a soundtrack to the horror unfolding before your eyes, a cacophony that seemed to fuel your incessant shaking.

The final image that burned itself into your retinas, a haunting tableau, was of your mother's slow, agonizing crawl towards you. A rivulet of red, a stark contrast against the pallor of her skin, traced a path down her forehead, a silent testament to the brutality she had endured. And then, with an act of maternal instinct so profound it bordered on the prescient, she reached out to close the cabinet door, shrouding you in darkness. Somehow, she had known—known that even in this desperate moment, her first instinct was to protect you, to shield you from the ugliness of a reality no child should ever have to witness.

In the immediate aftermath, darkness enveloped you, a shroud of impenetrable black that seemed to swallow every shard of light, leaving you suspended in a void where time itself hesitated. It was a silence so profound, a darkness so complete, that for a fleeting series of seconds, you found space to draw breath—a brief respite in the eye of an ongoing storm.

Then, piercing the stillness, came a watery plea—a voice so drenched in despair it seemed to bleed through the air. This was swiftly followed by the sharp, unmistakable sound of a step, a harbinger of chaos yet to unfold. What ensued was a cacophony of crashes and screeches, each imbued with such terror that they seemed to vibrate within the very marrow of your bones. Abruptly, it ceased. The ominous drum of your father's steps receded, and the lament of your mother's cries fell silent.

Within the confines of that cabinet, your sanctuary of shadows, you remained hidden. There, amidst the dust and the dark, you had fostered a belief, a child's naive conviction, that no malevolence could ever breach your fortress of solitude.

Time, however, cared little for such beliefs. You had outgrown the cabinet, outgrown the illusion of invulnerability it had once provided. The specters of those bad things, those harbingers of hurt and harrow, had since learned to find you, to ensnare your mind with their inevitable grasp, to sink their cruel claws deep into your psyche, marking you with scars unseen but deeply felt.

This realization pressed upon you with a weight all its own as you stared into the fractured visage reflected in the broken wardrobe mirror. The spiderweb of cracks across the glass seemed to mock, to distort not just your reflection but the very essence of who you had become. With a heavy heart, you diverted your gaze, a tacit acknowledgment that the sight of your own battered being was a reality you were not ready to confront—not now, perhaps not ever. There was no need to etch this image any deeper into your memory, no need to prolong the inevitable reckoning with your reflection, with the visible manifestations of those all-too-invisible wounds.

In that moment of avoidance, of turning away from the broken mirror, you were confronted with a truth as shattering as the glass before you: the realization that some scars run too deep, their roots entwined with the very fibers of your being, a constant reminder of battles fought and yet to be faced.

With a precision born of necessity, you moved—a delicate ballet of careful contortions designed to avoid the sharp bite of pain that lurked, waiting to pounce with each ill-considered twitch. Bending with the grace of a willow swaying in a gentle breeze, you reached beneath the shadowed underbelly of your bed, fingers searching for the familiar, lightweight case of your first aid kit. The ease with which it came into your hands was a small comfort, quickly extinguished by the sinking realization that greeted you upon its opening.

Inside, the remnants of preparedness mocked you: an empty bottle of saline solution stared back, its purpose exhausted, alongside a few band-aids, torn and useless, victims of your past impatience. The other contents, like the tweezers, lay in wait for a need that did not currently exist. You allowed yourself a moment—a brief, piercing inventory of this inadequate arsenal—before pushing the disappointment aside and hoisting yourself back to a stand.

Clad in the remnants of a past encounter, a hooded jacket left behind by a fleeting connection, you approached the window. It was a silent affair, the window yielding to your touch with the stealth of a whisper, betraying none of the turmoil that brewed within.

The act of escape was nothing short of a physical ordeal. Your limbs, heavy with ache, maneuvered through the small aperture of the trailer window—a testament to both desperation and determination. Once outside, crouched low to avoid unwanted attention, the cool embrace of the night air greeted you. It was a balm, this newfound freedom, a stark contrast to the stifling confines of your room, littered with the debris of broken dreams and shattered expectations. The open air offered a cleanse, a baptism of sorts, from the relentless cycle of cleanup and repair that had become your existence.

Gone were the days of painstakingly removing glass from picture frames before their inevitable destruction; a ritual born from the foresight of their transient nature. The weariness for such tasks clung to you, a cloak woven from threads of frustration and resignation. Yet, here, under the cover of night, with the world stretched wide and open before you, the weight of that cloak seemed, if only for a moment, a little lighter.

As you strode past the silent form of your car, a sigh of irritation escaped your lips, its sound a soft testament to the internal debate you'd just settled. The decision not to awaken the engine into roaring life was not only a tactic to maintain stealth but a silent concession to the fact that walking might just offer the solace and clarity your tangled thoughts so desperately needed. Moreover, it presented an opportunity to prolong your absence from the confines of what was supposed to be home—a place you were increasingly reluctant to return to, especially tonight. He had played his part, an unwelcome performance that assured you of a temporary reprieve from his intrusions, securing you a night free from disturbances, free from his discovery of the emptiness that now characterized your bedroom.

With a sense of resolve, you drew the black hood over your head, plunging your hands into the depths of your pockets as if to anchor yourself to this decision. You embarked on your nocturnal odyssey, leaving the trailer park's dimly lit confines behind. Your path unfolded on the deserted street, feet finding rhythm and balance on the white lines that dissected the asphalt—a tightrope walker in the quiet of the night. A melody, the residue of days spent with the same song on repeat in your car, hummed softly from your lips, a solitary soundtrack to your solitary march.

The gas station, a beacon of fluorescent light in the darkness, promised to be your oasis—a mere thirty-minute pilgrimage from the trailer park. It was a sanctuary that never closed its doors, a constant in the fluctuating chaos of your life. Behind the counter, the night shift was personified by a young man, his attention more on the beef-flavored Space Raiders he chewed with open abandon than on any potential customer.

With your head bowed, a gesture born of habit more than necessity, you navigated the familiar aisles towards the back. This little corner of the gas station, with its modest array of medical supplies, had become an unlikely ally in times of need. The sound of the entrance bell, a faint chime announcing the arrival or departure of a soul, barely registered as you focused on gathering the items that would serve as tonight's band-aids for both physical and metaphorical wounds.

Items gathered in the crook of your arm, you made your way to the counter, a silent procession of one. The goods—a testament to the night's necessities—were unceremoniously deposited onto the surface, a prelude to the exchange of currency for what passed as care in the small hours of a world that never quite slept.

As the cashier busied himself with the register, a mechanical dance of fingers on keys, you cleared your throat to pierce the silence that had settled between you. "Can I get a pack of Marlboros, too?" The words hung in the air, simple yet laden with an unspoken tension.

He paused, his movements halting as his gaze lifted to scrutinize you. There was a moment, brief yet charged, where his frown deepened, a silent commentary on the obscured view of your face. Nevertheless, his hand moved with practiced ease, reaching behind without hesitation and grasping the familiar green box.

Your response was almost instinctive, an eye roll born of the assumptions wrapped around that particular choice. "Red." The word was clipped, tinged with a mix of amusement and annoyance at the stereotype you were unwillingly cast into. As you handed over the money, pulled from the snug refuge of your jeans' back pocket, his suspicion seemed to spike, eyes narrowing as if trying to decipher an unsolved puzzle.

Money exchanged and items clumsily gathered, you were ready to retreat into the night from whence you came. Yet, a thought anchored you in place, a sudden reminder of a need unaddressed. "Could I have the key for the bathroom?" The question, simple in its asking, seemed to hang precariously in the space between you.

"It’s out," came his reply, short, almost reflexive, a barrier thrown up with the ease of someone who had uttered those words too many times.

Yet, you stood your ground, nodding towards the key that dangled tauntingly over his shoulder, within reach yet seemingly miles away. "It’s right behind you." Your words, firm, carried a weight of certainty, a challenge laid bare.

His response was a study in stillness, a monument to inertia, as if the very act of acknowledging the key's existence was beneath him.

"I need it." The finality in your voice, a blend of resolve and a barely contained plea, echoed in the cramped space of the gas station, a testament to the myriad small battles fought in the dead of night, under the fluorescent glow of a whole other world.

"Toilet's broken," he declared, an excuse worn thin by time and repetition.

Indeed, that very toilet had clung to its broken state for a spell nearing two years—a testament to neglect. "I don’t need to use the toilet. I just need to use the room—” you attempted to clarify, seeking a foothold in a rapidly closing door of opportunity.

"Boss said to not let anyone in," came his rebuttal, a line likely recited from a script of convenience rather than concern.

"Dude—" The word hung in the air, a precursor to the battle you felt brewing within. You inhaled deeply, a silent prayer for patience, your teeth clenching in an invisible grip. "Never mind. Have a terrific night," the words coated in a veneer of nicety that you mustered with all your might, your smile, though sarcastic, was an attempt to bridge the chasm of your frustration, hoping its curve was visible beneath the shadow of your hood. "Dickhead," the insult slipped from your lips in a whisper, a secret shared only with the night as you stepped through the door into the embrace of the outside world.

Tired and tinged with annoyance, your gaze swept the vicinity, seeking a haven for the simplest of human needs—to get cleaned up. Then, like a beacon in the night, your eyes settled on a car stationed at the farthest gas pump. It stood solitary, a silent sentinel in the fluorescent glow. You cast a quick glance over your shoulder, a spy's caution, to ensure the car's owner wasn't lurking nearby. The coast appeared clear, save for the presence of the obstinate cashier, now dubbed the idiot in your evening's narrative.

By the dim glow of the gas station's overhead lights, you found a temporary sanctuary beside the car, a silent accomplice to your solitary ritual. With deliberate motions, you placed your newly acquired treasures upon the cold, unforgiving ground and crouched, your body tensing as you prepared to confront the reflection you had been avoiding. The side-view mirror, initially angled to capture the expanse of the road behind, was now coaxed into a new purpose. With a hesitant push, you angled it to reveal your own visage, a canvas marred by the recent past.

The act of lowering your hood felt akin to peeling away a layer of armor, leaving you exposed and vulnerable. What greeted you in the reflective glass was a mosaic of bluing bruises and angry red slashes—a testament to a tale you wished remained untold. A grimace twisted your features at the sight, your heart sinking. The reflection bore evidence of a fierce struggle, a physical manifestation of pain that made the concept of beauty a distant, unattainable dream.

With a sigh, you sought solace in the ritualistic lighting of a cigarette, a small act of defiance against the night's events. The pack crinkled as you extracted one, placing it between your lips with a sense of purpose. Yet, as you patted down your pockets in search of a flame, a sinking realization dawned upon you—your lighter was missing, presumably lost amidst the chaos that now defined your living space. Disappointment seeped into your bones, mixing with the lingering adrenaline and fatigue that clung to your skin.

Undeterred, you turned your attention back to the task at hand. The cigarette, forgotten for the moment, dangled unlit as you began to tend to your wounds with the care of a seasoned medic. Each touch to your skin with a damp tissue was a whisper of comfort, a gentle caress amidst the harsh reality of your existence. The application of Neosporin was a balm not just for the physical scars, but a fleeting attempt to soothe the deeper, unseen injuries that lay beneath

As you were about to seal the wounds with plasters, a testament to your resilience and a badge of your suffering, the tranquility of the moment was shattered. A voice, unexpected and jarring, cut through the silence, startling you from your reverie. The sudden intrusion felt like an invasion, a breach of the fragile peace you had managed to carve out for yourself in the shadows of the night.

"Antiseptic works better."

Through the mirror, you caught a glimpse of the silhouette that dared intrude upon your moment of vulnerability. The cigarette perched precariously between your lips bobbed as you spoke, your voice tinged with the weariness of one too acquainted with pain. "You’re wrong," you countered through the cigarette hanging from your lips after grabbing a second plaster and ripping its package. "In fact," you continued, pressing the adhesive over another wound, "there’s a chance it may damage the skin." Your expertise on the subject was born from necessity, not choice—a testament to the scars you bore, both seen and unseen. As you finished tending to your injuries, gathering your things with a finality that marked the end of the unwanted interaction, you turned to face the source of the unsolicited commentary.

The dim light revealed his identity—the new guy, an unwelcome disturbance in your carefully maintained distance from the world. You shot him a look that spoke volumes, laden with the exhaustion of a soul yearning for nothing more than the sanctuary of a warm bed, before you attempted to leave his presence behind. His voice, however, laced with an unmistakable amusement, halted you once more. "Hey," he called out, a grin audible in his tone. "I know you."

The assertion sparked a flicker of irritation within you, a flare in the dimness of your resolve. "You don’t," you corrected sharply and turned halfway, vexed by your exhaustion and the want for a warm bed. "You might have seen me around, but you don’t know me."

"Christ," he swore, wearing a shit-eating grin that made you want to pull out his infuriatingly long eyelashes one by one. "What pissed in your—"

"Bye," you interjected, rolling your eyes as you turned your back on him, the roll of your eye a silent rebuke to his unfinished query.

"You need a lighter for that, sweetheart?"

Your feet anchored themselves on the spot, your shoulders slouching just the littlest bit; you really, really did need one. Aversion in your bones, you slowly turned back to him. Keeping your distance, you placed yourself across from where he was leaning against his car.

The smirk playing on his lips stretched into a full-blown grin, a silent prelude to the audacity that followed. In one fluid, almost theatrical motion, he reached out, plucking the cigarette from your lips and putting it between his with an ease that spoke of practiced finesse. The silver lighter appeared in his hands as if by magic, its flame dancing to life with a flick that carried the flair of showmanship. The lit cigarette found its way back to his lips, and he inhaled deeply, the smoke exhaling in a deliberate stream toward you, enveloping you in a cloud of provocation as he gauged your reaction, almost baiting an outburst.

Yet, instead of the explosion he anticipated, you simply reclaimed the cigarette from his grasp, a silent acceptance of his unsolicited gesture. "Thanks,” you uttered, the words hanging in the air as you resumed walking, leaving the moment behind.

His voice followed, a casual offer laced with an undefined undercurrent. "You want a ride?"

Your steps faltered, a frown creasing your forehead as his words registered. "That is one hell of a random question to ask a stranger. As a stranger,” you retorted, the skepticism in your voice as palpable as the cool night air that enveloped you both.

"You want one or not?" His reply was curt, edged with impatience, a stark contrast to the mysterious offer he had just extended.

"Why would you offer?" Curiosity laced your tone, mixed with a hint of caution. Billy Hargrove’s reputation had preceded him, painting a picture of a Californian rebel whose actions were as unpredictable as the ocean’s waves, and certainly, acts of chivalry seemed as foreign to him as a language unspoken.

"Forget it." His dismissive gesture, a psuh from the car before he swung the door open, spoke volumes of his irritation. Yet, as he made to seal himself within the metal cocoon of his vehicle, your voice pierced the night, a decision made.

"I do want one."

The car door slammed shut, and for a moment, the only sound was the car's engine coming to life, a growl in the quiet. His gaze, sharp and assessing, met yours through the glass. A roll of his eyes served as his acquiescence to your unspoken plea for a ride. The door cracked open, an invitation as gruff as his tone. "Are you getting your ass in the car or do you need a written invite?"

His words, brusque yet oddly inviting, spurred you into action. The interior of the car enveloped you, the scent of leather and the undercurrent of his cologne mingling in the confined space. No sooner had you fastened the seatbelt than the car lurched forward, tires screeching in protest as Billy Hargrove accelerated into the night, propelling both of you toward the unknown that lay in the direction you had originally been heading.

"I live at—" you began, the words barely taking form before they were cut short.

"I know." His interruption was swift, a statement so sure and unfazed.

Confusion momentarily clouded your thoughts, mingling with a spark of irritation. How the fuck could he possibly know? The question danced at the tip of your tongue, but before it could leap into the open air between you, realization dawned. The company he kept at school, the circles he moved in—those were all the answers you needed. Billy Hargrove, with his effortless charisma and an air of danger that clung to him like a second skin, naturally gravitated towards and was embraced by those you had learned to keep at arm's length. Those very individuals, Carol Perkins, Vicki Carmichael, and Tommy Hagan, had painted your world in stark, unflattering colors, branding you 'trailer trash' with their sneers and jeers for a decade.

A bitter laugh threatened to escape, thinking of them, their cruelty a constant shadow over your school days. If only they knew the disdain you harbored, so potent and vivid. You wished, not for the first time, that their arrogance and aspirations could be forcibly fed back to them, a grotesque cycle that would see their malice choking them, expelled from their mouths like a vile confession of their true natures.

You adjusted the window, allowing just a sliver of the night air to slip through, and extended your arm, the cigarette perched between your fingers, embers dancing with each inhale.

"What happened to your face?" Billy's voice, laced with a curiosity that didn't match his usual demeanor, cut through the hum of the road beneath the car's tires.

"Fell from heaven, of course," you retorted, the words tinged with sarcasm as your eyes rolled, a silent protest against his prying. His persistence was like a thorn—unwanted and sharp. "Nosy much?"

"Catfight?" His guess was off mark, yet it pricked your patience.

You exhaled, a mix of frustration and resignation coloring your tone. "Ran into a tree," the lie smooth on your tongue, as you took another drag, the cigarette's glow a brief flare in the darkness.

He scoffed, disbelief etched in the sound. "And the tree beat you up for that?"

Your agreement came out as a hum, a playful note in the solemn night. "Had a mean right hook, too. Damn birch trees," you quipped, allowing a brief smile to dance on your lips at the absurdity of it all, blowing the smoke out into the night, watching as it dissipated into the cool air.

Silence fell between you, a heavy, tangible thing that seemed to swell with each passing second. It was an odd sort of discomfort, more unsettling than the exchange of words had been, wrapping around you like a thick fog. You found yourself almost wishing for his voice again, to break through the quiet that now felt louder than any spoken word. Yet, as the car sped on, devouring the road with eager haste, the lights of the trailer park approached, promising an end to the journey and the silence that had settled between you.

Suddenly, he extended his hand towards you, an unspoken request hanging in the air. You found yourself momentarily puzzled, your gaze fixed on his fingers before realization dawned. After taking a final, lingering drag from the cigarette, you passed the diminishing ember to him. With an effortless flick, he sent it soaring out of the window, watching as it disappeared into the night after taking it down to its last breath.

"Since when are girls like you smokers of the good stuff?" His voice was casual, yet loaded with an unspoken judgment that hung heavily between you.

The implication behind his words, ‘girls like you’ didn't necessitate an explanation. You understood perfectly—the label wasn't about you personally. It was a placeholder, a stereotype applied broadly to any girl who found herself in his car, a commentary not so much on the individual but on the perceived collective. The notion that somehow, despite the vast differences among individuals, there was a uniformity assumed among all those deemed ‘other’ by those who never bothered to look beyond the surface. It was a tired, worn-out perspective, suggesting that understanding, respect, and equality were territories too foreign for those entrenched in their own narratives.

"I'm not a smoker," you retorted, your voice steady, pushing back against the label he tried to affix to you.

He turned to you, an eyebrow arching in skepticism. "Sweetheart, I think the tree might have hit you in the head." His words, meant to tease, danced in the space between you,

"Special occasions only," you finally spoke, breaking the silence that had settled between you, thick with unvoiced judgments and assumptions. Your voice carried a defiant edge, a sharp contrast to the vulnerability you felt. "Also, fuck you."

Billy's response was a chuckle, the sound low and somewhat amused, as if your resilience added an unexpected flavor to the night's events. "What's the occasion?" he inquired, his tone lighter, yet carrying an undercurrent of genuine curiosity.

You found yourself hesitating, caught on the precipice of disclosure and reticence. The likelihood of crossing paths with him again felt as remote as the stars dotting the night sky above, their light distant and indifferent. You weighed the ephemeral nature of this encounter against the catharsis of sharing, even if just a sliver, of your reality. "Having choices," you said at last, the words feeling like both a confession and a declaration.

"What choices?" His question followed, simple yet laden with the weight of stories untold.

You offered no reply, merely a shrug, a gesture cloaked in layers of meaning. Your silence was your fortress, safeguarding the complexities of a life marked by pain and defiance. Within you, a habit had taken root, a ritual born from the ashes of violence at the hands of your father. Smoking had become your rebellion, your assertion of control in a life that often felt governed by the whims of a man whose presence was as oppressive as it was destructive. To smoke was to choose the manner of your harm, to claim agency over your own demise, however slow and insidious it might be. It was a twisted form of empowerment, preferring the slow burn of tobacco to the acute brutality of paternal hands. Crushing the extinguished remnants of your defiance under your boots served as a tangible metaphor, a declaration that the man who should have been your protector held no more power over you than the spent cigarettes you ground into oblivion.

Entering Billy's car that night, accepting the ride from someone enveloped in rumors and mystery, was a choice emblematic of your current state of being. Bruised, both physically and spiritually, by the very person who should have been your haven, you found yourself gravitating towards choices that flirted with danger. In the shadow of your father's tyranny, even the potential threat of an unknown like Billy felt like a liberation, a dare to the universe that tonight, of all nights, you were the master of your fate, no matter how recklessly that fate was courted.

Merely blocks away from the shadowed outlines of the trailer park, you felt the tension knot tighter in your gut, prompting you to instruct Billy with an urgency that surprised even yourself. "Stop the car here." It was a calculated measure, a bid to remain unseen should your father's usual stupor be interrupted by a rare moment of vigilance. You couldn't risk him spotting you from the confines of an existence you both shared yet endured on vastly different terms.

"Why?" Billy's inquiry sliced through the hum of the engine, a roaring beast that seemed all too eager to encroach upon the sanctuary you so desperately sought to protect.

"'Cause I said so!" The words burst from you, a mix of fear and insistence, as panic clawed at your chest with icy fingers when he veered dangerously close to the trailer park's entrance. "Stop the damn car!" The command was punctuated by the violent squeal of tires as they ground against the asphalt, the sudden deceleration forcing the seat belt to bite cruelly into your already tender flesh. "Thanks for the ride," you managed to huff out, a terse farewell as you swung the door open and exited with a haste born of desperation, the door slamming shut with a resounding finality. "Asshole," you muttered under your breath, a feeble attempt to regain some semblance of control over the rapidly fraying edges of your composure.

You had barely taken a few steps when a compulsion, inexplicable and unnerving, urged you to cast a glance over your shoulder. There he was, Billy, his gaze already locked onto your retreating form. Even through the cloak of night, his silhouette was unmistakable, and the distance did little to obscure the wink he sent your way—a gesture that felt both mocking and oddly comforting in its audacity.

With a swift turn of your head, you dismissed the fleeting connection, quickening your pace as if to outstrip the myriad emotions that encounter had stirred within you. The night air, cool and indifferent, seemed to whisper secrets as you disappeared into the labyrinth of shadows that promised both sanctuary and imprisonment.

In the sanctuary of shadow and silence, you made your way to the trailer that bore the dubious honor of being called home. The silver metal shell, tarnished by time and wear, loomed before you, a testament to a life far removed from the dreams you once harbored. With each cautious step, you moved with the stealth of a creature well-versed in the art of invisibility, ensuring that your presence remained undetected by Billy's lingering gaze.

Approaching the window to your room, the cool night air kissed your cheeks, a stark contrast to the warmth that awaited inside. Your hands, acting on the instinct honed by countless nights of return, deftly managed the small but significant task before you. The purchases, a meager collection of necessities and small comforts, found their way through the open window with a soft thud against the carpeted interior, a silent testament to your return.

With the grace of a practiced climber, you hoisted yourself up and through the window, your body moving with an economy of motion born from necessity. The interior of the trailer welcomed you back into its cramped but familiar embrace, the air tinged with the scent of a life lived on the margins.

That night, as the world outside continued its indifferent spin, you took a moment to secure the only sanctuary you knew. The lock on your door clicked into place with a finality that spoke of a desire for solitude, or perhaps, a prayer for safety. In the dim light of your room, surrounded by the humble trappings of your existence, you prepared to surrender to sleep.

The act of locking your door was more than a mere precaution; it was a ritual, a whispered plea to the universe for just one night of peace. As the shadows deepened and the trailer park settled into the quiet hum of the night, you lay down, your thoughts a tangled web of hopes, fears, and the stubborn resilience that had carried you this far. In the stillness that followed, sleep arrived, a reluctant visitor, to claim you in its embrace, offering a temporary reprieve from the trials of a world that waited just beyond the thin walls of your silver metal haven.

…

Dawn's first light crept through the cracks of the blinds, casting a muted glow across the room. You stirred from the uneasy dreams that had plagued your sleep, finding the morning's silence a stark contrast to the tumultuous echoes of last night. With a deep breath, you summoned the strength to face another day, one that began with the painstaking task of camouflage.

Seated before a mirror streaked with age, you embarked on the delicate art of concealing the evidence of yesterday's storm. Each brushstroke was a silent battle, each dab of powder a feeble attempt to erase the marks that pain had etched upon your skin. The bruises, a palette of purples and blues, refused to be hidden completely, protesting under the layers of makeup you applied with a desperation born of necessity.

As you dressed, a sharp twinge of pain caught your breath. The mirror revealed a ghastly bloom of purple spreading like a shadow across your side, just below the ribs—a grim reminder of the violence you wished to forget. A lie formed in your mind, a necessary deception for the physical education teacher, claiming the protection of a condition as natural as it was unrelated to the truth.

The ritual of preparing breakfast unfolded with a practiced ease, though your heart was elsewhere. You moved through the kitchen, your gaze carefully avoiding the man who sat at the table, expecting the service you provided as if it were his due. The sizzling bacon and the scramble of eggs filled the silence between you, a silence as heavy and uncomfortable as the bruises hidden beneath your clothes. His expectations hung over you, a constant reminder of the narrow path you were forced to tread to avoid further displeasure.

School offered no respite from the act you were forced to live. With your hood pulled high, you navigated the halls with a deliberate slowness, dreading the moment you would have to enter the classroom and face the day's challenges. The quiet comfort of anonymity was shattered when Mrs. O'Donnell's voice, sharpened by authority, cut through the air. Your heart sank as her words found you, a beacon spotlighting your defiance.

"I do not condone hats or hoods in my lessons," she declared, her tone leaving no room for dissent. In that moment, the weight of the day pressed down upon you, a reminder of the battles yet to be fought, both in the light of day and in the shadows of your own life.

The atmosphere in the classroom thickened, a palpable tension that clung to your skin as you stood at the precipice of decision. Around you, the collective breath of your peers hung suspended, their curiosity mingled with the anticipation of rebellion they'd come to associate with you. Yet, in that moment of scrutiny, you chose compliance over defiance. With a slow, deliberate motion, you slid your hood back, exposing the canvas of your pain to the voracious eyes around you.

A collective inhale filled the room, a chorus of shock and disbelief that painted you in a light far removed from the anonymity you craved. Even your teacher, usually so composed and authoritative, faltered under the weight of the revelation, her voice lost to the ticking clock that suddenly seemed deafening in the heavy silence.

She recovered, albeit shakily, her command to continue an attempt to restore normalcy to the disrupted order of her classroom. But the damage was done, the facade cracked. You couldn't wait to escape, and the moment the class was dismissed, your hood resumed its place, a shield against the prying eyes and whispered judgments.

The day unfolded exactly as you had dreaded. Each class became a battleground, your hood the flag of your defiance and your bruises the wounds of wars fought in the shadows of your life. The whispers followed you like a relentless shadow, and when lunch arrived, you sought solace in the solitude of the cafeteria's farthest corner. Surrounded by the outcasts and the unnoticed, you found a semblance of peace, even if it was the peace of a pariah among peers dreaming of revolutions they did not understand.

You observed them, the future rebels with their leather bracelets and spiky hair, their existence a stark contrast to the battles you fought daily. They wore their rebellion like a badge of honor, unaware of the true cost of surviving a war against the very fabric of one's life. And as you sat there, hidden in plain sight, you couldn't help but wonder about the diverging paths of those destined for a picture-perfect existence and your own, forged in the crucible of pain and resilience.

Stepping out from the confines of the school building as the day bled into the mellow hues of late afternoon was like shedding an invisible shackle, a temporary respite that made your shoulders relax and your breath come easier. This fleeting sense of liberation accompanied you, a silent companion that whispered promises of tranquility, until the familiar sight of the trailer park loomed ahead, shattering the illusion with the harsh reality waiting within.

As you navigated the maze of silver metal homes, the sight of the lights blazing through the windows of your own trailer felt like a physical blow, a harbinger of the storm that was about to break. Your heart, a frantic drummer in the cage of your ribs, seemed to echo ominously with every step you took toward the creaking door that served as the barrier between you and what awaited inside.

He wasn't supposed to be there, not yet. The very thought was a cold hand squeezing around your heart, draining the color from the world. With trepidation lacing each step, you entered, your gaze flitting nervously from the desolate sofa to the ominously closed door of his bedroom. The strap of your school bag became a lifeline, something tangible to anchor you as you tiptoed toward the sanctuary of your room.

But fate, it seemed, was not on your side. The floor beneath you, a traitor clad in aged wood, groaned loudly under your weight, a sound so jarring in the silence that you couldn't help but wince, your entire being tensing in anticipation of the fallout. Time seemed to stand still, a suspended moment filled with the electric charge of impending doom.

Then, movement shattered the silence. The bedroom door was flung open with such force you half expected it to fly off its hinges, revealing the man who stood in the doorway. His presence filled the space, an imposing figure that you could barely reconcile as the one responsible for your existence. In that moment, as you faced the man who should have been your protector but felt more like a looming threat, you realized the fragility of the peace you so desperately sought in the confines of what you called home.

The utterance of your name, whispered with a darkness that cloaked the room, immediately heightened your senses, alerting you to the imminent storm. Instinctively, your feet shuffled backwards, attempting to put distance between you and the tempest that was your father. His voice cracked through the tension like a whip, "What did we talk about?" The words barely left his lips before your body responded with a quiver, the dread manifesting physically.

"You're just as useless as your bitch mother," he bellowed, his hand cutting through the air with predatory speed to clamp around your throat. Your legs struggled to bear the sudden weight of fear and despair as he dragged you, your resistance feeble against his force, through the claustrophobic hallway into the stark light of the kitchen. There, he released you not in mercy but to crash onto the unforgiving floor, his grip morphing into an iron band around your neck. "Now, I know you ain't the smartest but how can anyone be such a dumb cunt?" His eyes flicked toward the refrigerator with a menacing expectation.

Frozen, more by terror than choice, you remained motionless, inciting his fury further until he yanked you upward by the very lifeline he was squeezing. "Open it!" His command was a shout, propelled by anger, as he thrust you toward the cold metal of the fridge. With every fiber of your being screaming to comply just to make it stop, you mustered the strength to lower your shaking head and fumble with the fridge door.

"What did I tell you?" he growled, his breath hot against your ear.

"To take care of things," you managed to whimper, your voice barely threading through the tightness of his grip.

"That's right," he confirmed with a dark, rumbling voice. But his next words were like daggers, each one punctuating your worthlessness in his eyes. And then, with a brutality that seemed to echo in the sparse kitchen, your head was forcibly introduced to the side of the fridge. The sudden release from his hands felt as much a punishment as the assault, a clear message that you had once again failed to meet his expectations. "Fucking take care of it," he spat, leaving you with the pain and the cold echo of his disdain.

For a fleeting moment after his departure, you remained motionless on the cold kitchen floor, the echo of his retreating footsteps a temporary relief. As you coughed, savoring the rush of oxygen filling your lungs once more, you rose with shaky resolve. Closing the refrigerator with a soft click, you retrieved some cash from the hidden savings can, each movement automatic, driven by necessity rather than thought. Your feet carried you swiftly to your car, a sanctuary of sorts in the midst of chaos.

With trembling hands, you inserted the keys into the ignition, pausing as you caught sight of their unsteady dance. Just as you were about to press the gas pedal, a different sensation caught your attention. Blood, warm and unsettling, trickled down from your nose to your lips. Instinctively, you reached up to wipe it away, only for a solitary tear to escape, tracing a path down your cheek. In a burst of anger, you struck the steering wheel, imagining for a split second it was his face absorbing the impact, receiving the punishment he so richly deserved.

The drive out of the trailer park felt like an escape, albeit a temporary one, as you headed deeper into town. Your destination was the only supermarket in Hawkins that turned a blind eye to selling alcohol to minors. The cashiers, two souls long since resigned to the monotony and despair of their roles, barely registered your presence, their gazes fixed on some distant, unseen point beyond the walls of their confinement.

You found yourself wiping your face again, this time checking the rearview mirror to assess the damage. The sight of your bloodshot eyes was a grim reminder. Physical blows you had learned to endure, but the insults, the verbal lashings that cut deeper than any fist, remained wounds that refused to heal. The most painful barbs were those aimed at your mother, a woman who had possessed nothing in terms of material wealth but had fought valiantly, albeit futilely, to escape the tyranny of your father. She was a woman of courage, standing between you and his wrath, even as cancer waged its own merciless battle within her. Your admiration for her was boundless; on her deathbed, she had worn a smile, radiant and victorious, for in her passing, she had finally escaped the man who had sought to break her spirit.

As you entered the supermarket, you smoothly plucked a basket from the stack beside the entrance, weaving your way through the aisles with a practiced ease. With each step, you carefully selected items, filling the basket with an assortment of goods that you knew would appease your father's palate. The basket grew heavier, a testament to your meticulous effort, until you reached the final checkpoint: the beverage section.

The coolers stood before you, a chilled barrier between thirst and satisfaction. You reached for the door, the cold air brushing against your skin as you grabbed a six-pack of your father's preferred beer. It was then you noticed him, a figure barely three weeks familiar with Hawkins, yet here he was, navigating the town's veins as if born to them. His friends had evidently provided a thorough briefing. Your attempt at a discreet observation failed miserably, as his attention snapped to you, an unspoken acknowledgment between strangers.

Your brows arched in involuntary surprise, not at his presence but at the sight of fresh cuts and bruises marring his face — wounds absent just the night before. A silent question hovered on the tip of your tongue, but before it could take flight, he dismissed the moment with a roll of his eyes and brushed past you, leaving a trail of unspoken stories and a fleeting connection dissipated as quickly as it had formed.

The line at the checkout moved slowly, a trivial inconvenience, yet it granted you a few more moments of anonymity. The store's quaint little bell announced Billy's departure, a sound that seemed to echo the finality of a moment passing. When it was finally your turn, you engaged in the mechanical transaction with the cashier, your mind elsewhere. Stepping out into the waning light, the sight of Billy Hargrove, casually nursing a can of beer against the cool metal of his car, intruded upon your thoughts. His car parked nonchalantly beside yours felt like a deliberate coincidence. The brown paper bag, a temporary vessel for your burdens, found its place in the backseat as you closed the door, acutely aware of his gaze tracing your movements, an invisible tether pulling at the edge of your consciousness.

You cleared your throat, a prelude to breaking the silence as you stood by your car, the keys dancing a nervous ballet in your hand. "Birch tree got you too, huh?" The words slipped out, a tentative bridge spanning the gap between you two.

Billy's scrutiny lingered, a silent appraisal, before his eyes dropped to the testament of violence painted on your skin, eventually locking with yours. "You want a smoke?" His voice broke the tension, an offer hanging in the balance.

Surprised, yet intrigued, you glanced around before nodding, a silent agreement forged in the twilight. You gestured for him to follow, leading him to the supermarket's side where the guardians of refuse, a row of large dumpsters, stood in solemn assembly. Climbing atop one with an ease born of necessity, you found a perch, waiting for him to join you in this makeshift sanctuary away from prying eyes.

Billy, with a nonchalance that seemed to cloak him like a second skin, produced a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, its silver surface catching the last rays of the sun. With a practiced flick, he ignited a flame, bringing it to the cigarette perched between his lips. The glow of the ember briefly illuminated his face, casting shadows that danced with the smoke. Taking a drag, he then passed the cigarette to you. As you inhaled, the sharp, acrid taste of tobacco filled your lungs, a bitter reminder of choices made, of moments shared in silence and smoke.

As the minutes melted away under the haze of shared smoke and silent camaraderie, the cigarette passed between you became a temporary truce, an unspoken understanding in the twilight of shared solitude. Eventually, Billy broke the silence, his voice rasping slightly from the smoke. "You have blood on your nose."

"Yeah?" Your response was tinged with a nonchalance that belied the undercurrent of tension between you. You accepted the cigarette once more, its ember glowing faintly in the dimming light. "You have some on your lip." Another drag, a momentary escape, then silence enveloped you both once again. The final act of discarding the cigarette to the ground felt almost ceremonial, as you crushed the lingering spark beneath your boot, a definitive end to the fleeting respite. "See you 'round, Hargrove."

Your words hung in the air as you turned to leave, a tentative goodbye to a shared moment of vulnerability. His voice reached out, halting your retreat. "You hungry?"

The question paused you in your tracks, the afternoon sun casting long shadows as you turned to face him. There was something in his gaze, a reflection of weariness and something unspoken, that mirrored your own. For a fleeting second, pity stirred within you, its target unclear, as empathy blurred the lines between self and other.

"I am," you conceded, the admission heavy with an unspoken understanding of the complications it invited. Yet, the reality of your own circumstances pulled you back from the precipice of further entanglement. "But I have to get home, actually." Your smile was a feeble attempt at normalcy, a polite curtain falling on the scene. "Bye, Billy."

His acknowledgment was a silent nod, a mutual recognition of the distance being placed between you once more. As you drove away, the rearview mirror captured the solitary figure of Billy Hargrove, a temporary companion in your shared narrative of survival and solitude, fading into the background of your departing world.

…

An unsettling sense of change lingered in the air, a silent shift that had settled over Hawkins High like a thick fog, imperceptible yet undeniably present. This peculiar feeling began to wrap around you, a subtle yet persistent presence, in the days following your second encounter with Billy Hargrove. As you stepped through the school's doors, braced for the usual barrage of sneers and the biting sting of ‘trailer trash’ hurled in your direction, you found instead a surprising void where hostility once thrived.

This newfound anonymity was strangely soothing, a reprieve wrapped in the unexpected guise of indifference. For once, the hallways that had felt like gauntlets now offered passage free from judgment, allowing you a semblance of peace amidst the storm of daily life. It was an odd sort of liberation, moving unseen and unmarked by the cruel jibes that had once shadowed your steps. For the first time in your tumultuous high school saga, the final bell did not signal a hasty retreat but a deliberate detour to the sanctuary of the art room.

The art class assignment, a canvas awaiting the touch of inspiration, became your excuse to linger in the quiet aftermath of the school day. While your peers carried their artwork home, eager to splash their visions across the canvas in the comfort of their own spaces, such a luxury was a distant dream for you. Home was no haven for creativity; your trailer, a place where art met its end not in completion, but in destruction—torn, smashed, a casualty of the chaos that waited beyond the school's gates.

There, amidst the smell of paint and the soft light filtering through the dust-speckled windows, you found solace. The art room, with its clutter of brushes and the palette of possibilities, offered not just an escape but a moment of creation untainted by the harsh realities that lay in wait outside its doors. It was in these stolen hours, surrounded by the silent witness of unfinished projects and the ghosts of inspiration, that you dared to believe, even if just for a fleeting moment, in the possibility of a world shaped by the stroke of a brush, rather than the sharpness of words.

As the day waned into evening, the corridors of Hawkins High slowly emptied, leaving behind a tranquility punctuated only by the distant hum of the cleaning crew making their final rounds. The fading light cast long shadows across the halls, painting everything in a soft, melancholic glow. You glanced at the hallway clock, a silent reminder of the hours you needed to kill to ensure you'd return to an empty, quiet home, free from the looming presence of your father.

Chewing thoughtfully on your lip, you diverted towards your locker, thoughts swirling with the prospect of solitude. It was then that a wave of laughter and lively banter washed over you, as a group of jocks, fresh from the showers and glowing with the invincibility of youth, breezed past, oblivious to your existence. Their jubilance, a stark contrast to your solitude, left a fleeting shadow across your spirit, one you shook off as you reached your sanctuary—a small, metal locker.

The ritual was familiar and comforting: exchange the day's burdens for the evening's necessities. But as your hand lingered on the locker door, preparing to seal away the day, another hand, unexpected and swift, slammed it shut. Startled, you spun around, only to find yourself inches away from a familiar face framed by a blond mullet, a figure who had become an unexpected constant in the landscape of your days.

"That was rude," slipped from your lips, a feeble attempt to assert some distance between you and the uninvited closeness. Yet, Billy Hargrove stood unyielding, a smirk playing on his lips, evidently amused by the discomfort flickering across your face. The proximity was overwhelming; his presence, a force that seemed to challenge the very air between you. You yearned to retreat, to press back into the cold, indifferent metal of your locker as you had so many times before. But something within, a spark of defiance or perhaps a curiosity yet unnamed, anchored you firmly in place. His gaze, intense and searching, held a question you weren't sure you wanted to answer, igniting a silent standoff in the dimming light of the nearly deserted hallway.

"Oh, I might just disagree with you on that one, sweetheart," Billy chuckled. "In fact, I found it was rather chivalrous of me to spare you from having to close the locker." Billy's grin unfurled like a flag of both charm and challenge, hovering in the nebulous space between disarmingly sweet and maddeningly smug. It was as if his every gesture, every flicker of expression, had been honed to perfection before an audience of his own reflection, each nuance calculated for effect. Whether your suspicion held water mattered little; the notion that behind his practiced ease lay a carefully maintained facade wasn't far-fetched. After all, mastering the art of the mask was a survival skill in its own right.

You responded to his teasing not with retreat, but with a stance of quiet defiance, arms crossed as if to ward off the sway of his charm. Your chin lifted slightly, an unspoken challenge, while a reluctant smile threatened to betray your composure. "I was actually talking about you trying to scare me into having a heart attack, but sure, let's go with your excuse," you retorted, your voice laced with a mix of sarcasm and amusement.

His laughter, rich and unguarded, filled the space between you, a sound that seemed too genuine for someone so practiced in artifice. The hand that had been a casual claim on the locker next to your head shifted slightly, drawing your gaze despite yourself. It was an involuntary flicker of attention, pulled momentarily to the subtle play of his tongue across his lips—a gesture that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. In that moment, caught in the gravitational pull of his gaze, you felt a sudden, inexplicable connection, framed by lashes any starlet would envy. Yet, as quickly as it came, you shook off the allure, the momentary weakness. With a willful effort, you pulled away, stepping back from the invisible line that had drawn you dangerously close to his orbit. The air seemed to clear as you moved, dispelling the strange spell that had momentarily tethered you to him.

"Do you have any… plans for tonight?" His inquiry floated into the space between you, his hand retreating from the locker, leaving behind an echo of warmth where it once rested.

You found yourself momentarily caught in the headlights of his question. Friday evenings were the realm of raucous parties and cozy gatherings among friends, a social tapestry you found yourself conspicuously absent from. Your plans, if they could even be called that, consisted of nothing more than acquiring a solitary snack and retreating to the quiet of your car's hood in some forgotten corner of a parking lot.

"I'm more the spontaneous type," you offered, a deflection born of necessity as you idly scratched at your elbow. The admission of your solitude, especially in front of Hawkins' newest import, the effortlessly cool Californian, seemed a bridge too far.

"Good," he cut in, a word punctuated with decision as he turned on his heel towards the exit. You watched, a mix of surprise and curiosity bubbling within you as you followed him, your steps a beat behind, to his car. He performed the gentlemanly act of unlocking and holding open the passenger door, an invitation hanging silently in the air.

With a gesture towards the parking lot, you demurred, "I got my car here." Your thumb jabbed backward, signaling the aged Volkswagen that wore its rust and verdigris like badges of endurance, a relic from a bygone era now under the scrutiny of his oceanic gaze.

The tapestry of scars your car bore was a map of your tumultuous journey thus far. The rear windows, obscured by patches of duct tape, were a testament to a violent shove that had sent you crashing into them. The dented trunk narrated another tale of youthful recklessness, a collision with a telephone pole just weeks after your sixteenth birthday had granted you the freedom of the road. But it was the scar on your hip, hidden beneath fabric yet forever etched in your flesh, that told the most painful story. A vase, hurled in anger by your father, had shattered upon impact, embedding its fragments into your skin. Alone, you had navigated the sterile lights of the emergency room, weaving a tale of clumsy mishap to explain the glass shards that had to be meticulously extracted from your body.

Billy's gaze on you felt like a searchlight, probing for a jest or a convincing argument as to why you wouldn't abandon your car to join him. "I can’t just leave my car here, Billy," you found yourself protesting, even as part of you yearned for the escape he offered.

His response was a casual shrug, his posture relaxed against the frame of his open car door, the denim fabric of his jacket accentuating the lean muscles beneath. "Sure, you can," he countered with an easy confidence. "I can drive you back here after."

The word lingered between you, a mystery yet to unfold. "After what?"

Another shrug, the gesture becoming a signature of his nonchalance. "After." His reply hung in the air, an invitation to an undefined adventure, sparking a blend of apprehension and exhilaration within you.

The suggestion hung in the air, heavy with a dark humor that twisted your words into a sinister prediction. "You know, that kind of sounds like you are going to hack me up and then just dump my severed limbs here. After."

Billy's reaction was instantaneous, his voice laced with feigned hurt, "I would never do that." For a moment, you almost believed him, almost extended an apology, until the glint of mischief in his ice-blue gaze betrayed his jest. "You would get blood all over my car seats."

Your response was an eye roll, the tension easing into a grin at the absurdity of it all. "Fine," you declared, your resolve melting as you approached his car. "But don't you dare take me to someplace with all that healthy stuff," you added, a playful warning in your tone as he stepped aside, allowing you to claim the passenger seat as your own. Pausing, one leg already inside, you issued your culinary demands. "I want a burger, some greasy as fuck chili-cheese fries." You paused, a thought occurring. "And maybe a milkshake."

Billy's smirk was a beacon of complicity in the fading light, his teeth a flash of white as he gently closed the door behind you. Circumventing the vehicle with a swagger, he slid into the driver's seat, igniting the engine and bringing the car to life. The sudden eruption of Ted Nugent's distinct voice filled the cabin, the volume dialed to an almost reckless level. You recognized the voice, not out of personal preference, but thanks to a neighbor's musical obsession which had mercifully shifted from Nugent's raspy rock to the heady depths of heavy metal.

As the car pulled away, the world outside blended into a blur, the soundscape within dominated by Nugent's growling melodies. You found yourself enveloped in the paradox of Billy's world, where the threat of fictional dismemberment faded into the background, replaced by the immediate, vivid reality of a quest for the perfect greasy meal.

As Billy caught the wrinkled disapproval on your face, a chuckle escaped him, tinged with amusement. With a swift movement, he dialed the volume down, though the music still filled the car with a lively barrier against silence. It was loud enough to keep the void of conversation at bay, ensuring that the ride was enveloped in a continuous melody rather than awkward pauses.

You found a brief escape as you rolled down the window, extending your hand into the open air, mimicking the actions of your childhood adventures. The wind battled against your palm, inviting you to sway your hand rhythmically, an instinctive dance of freedom and nostalgia. Your eyelids fluttered shut, surrendering to the flood of memories that washed over you. Those adventures, as your mother had fondly termed them, were simple yet profoundly magical. They consisted of visits to art museums where she would craft whimsical stories behind each painting, imbuing them with life and laughter. There were hikes through dense woods, where she spun tales of bear hunts, making you believe in the thrill of the chase and the glory of imaginary conquests. On the rare occasion, she would navigate the aisles of thrift stores with you in tow. Financial constraints made these trips bittersweet, as the allure of unattainable treasures tugged at your young heart, a reminder of desires just beyond reach.

These excursions, modest in their execution but rich in imagination, formed a tapestry of cherished moments. They were escapes from the mundane, where every outing with your mother became a venture into the extraordinary, a testament to the power of love and storytelling to transform the ordinary into the unforgettable.

As Billy brought the car to a halt in front of the neon-lit facade of the arcade, you couldn't help but turn to him, an eyebrow arching in silent query. He responded with a heavy sigh, the weight of reluctance in his voice as he confessed the need to pick someone up. A brief glance at the digital watch strapped to his wrist revealed a clenched jaw, a silent testament to his impatience or perhaps something deeper, an annoyance or an obligation weighing heavily on him.

Before you could voice the questions dancing on the tip of your tongue, Billy's hand darted forward, retrieving a cigarette from the pack nestled within the confines of the glove compartment. The swift flick of his lighter brought the cigarette to life, its ember glowing fiercely with each inhalation, a beacon of his momentary escape. Exhaling a cloud of smoke through the window, he extended the cigarette towards you, a gesture of sharing in his solace, yet his eyes never met yours, as if the offer was made out of habit rather than genuine intent.

"I don’t smoke," you stated, a gentle reminder of your stance. His reaction was almost immediate, his gaze shifting to you, eyes searching for any sign of jest. Finding none, only the earnest clarity of your refusal, he muttered a blend of resignation and a half-hearted vow never to offer again, his attention quickly diverting to the arcade's entrance with a stare sharp enough to bore holes through the walls. "Are you trying to open the doors with your mind?" Your teasing broke the silence, a playful nudge against his intensity. As you sank deeper into the embrace of the leather seat, the corners of your lips tugged upwards. "I tried moving a pen once. I swear, I almost had it." Your words floated between you, a light-hearted attempt to pierce the seriousness that had enveloped him, inviting him back to a moment of shared levity amidst the unexpected pause in your night.

"She's late again," Billy grumbled under his breath, a tinge of irritation lacing his voice as his gaze flickered to his wristwatch once more, a silent sentinel of his impatience. "Little dipshit can skate home." His hand moved decisively towards the gear shift, ready to abandon the wait and drive off into the night, but you intervened, placing your hand gently over his, a silent plea for patience.

"We've been waiting here for barely five minutes." Your eyebrows knitted together in a mixture of concern and curiosity as you met his gaze, attempting to understand the rush. "We can wait a little longer. I don't mind." Your words were soft, an offering of compassion in the face of his growing frustration.

At that exact moment, as if summoned by your willingness to wait, a figure emerged from the glowing entrance of the arcade. A ginger-haired girl, her face flushed and breathless from her rush, her relief palpable as her eyes locked onto the familiar blue Camaro. With her skateboard tucked securely under her arm, she hastened her steps, almost speed-walking towards the safety and promise of a ride home that the vehicle represented.

As the ginger-haired girl approached, you smoothly exited the Camaro, your movements fluid and deliberate. Pulling forward the seat to allow her access, she clambered into the back with a graceless smile, her eyes flicking briefly to Billy with a mix of gratitude and irritation. You caught the exchange, a silent laugh hidden behind your facade as you adjusted the seat back into place and reclaimed your spot beside Billy.

The tension in the car was palpable, a silent storm brewing in the small confines of the vehicle. Billy's gaze, sharp and unyielding, found the girl through the rearview mirror, anchoring her with a look that brooked no argument, yet he made no move to merge into the street's flow.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled, her voice barely a whisper, a fragile attempt to quell the storm. Her eyes darted away, seeking refuge in any corner that wasn't filled with Billy's imposing presence.

"You remember what we talked about?" Billy's voice cut through the tension, clear and authoritative. His question, more an ultimatum than a query, hung heavy in the air.

"I said, I'm sorry," the girl retorted, her defensiveness surfacing with her words. A scowl began to form on your face, mirroring the growing frustration and discomfort that swirled inside you as Billy remained stationary, his focus unbroken.

His eyes never left her. "What did I tell you?" The gravity in his voice pulled at you, a painful wrench in your heart as you felt the weight of his words. "What did I tell you, Max?" At his question, your emotions teetered on the edge of a precipice, a quiver on your lip the only hint of the turmoil within.

Suddenly, the confined space of the car became too much, the air too thick to breathe. With a surge of resolve, you tore open the door, the sound of it closing behind you a silent scream for escape. Your hands balled into fists at your sides, a futile attempt to steady their shaking, as the silence from within the car enveloped you like a cold embrace, as his voice haunted your mind.

Billy emerged from the car, his silhouette framed by the setting sun as he rounded the hood with measured steps. You stood there, amidst the quiet chaos, closing your eyes to gather the shards of calm scattered by the storm. A deep breath filled your lungs, an attempt to cleanse the tumult within. When his voice broke through the silence, a soft yet piercing inquiry, "You all right, sweetheart?" it felt different this time. Where once the pet names he draped you in felt like silk, now they scratched against your skin like burlap.

The glare you returned was loaded with an unspoken dialogue, a debate raging within you about the wisdom of diving into depths where perhaps you had no place. Yet, the image of the girl, her spirit dimmed in the rearview mirror, tipped the scales. "You didn't have to berate her like that," the words tumbled out, laced with conviction, while your arms folded defensively across your chest. "She said she was sorry twice."

Observing him, you saw the muscles in his jaw clench, a physical manifestation of his rising defensiveness, and his nostrils flared, a silent herald of the storm to come. "How about you stay out of my fucking business?" The words were sharp, a dagger thrown with precision, meant to wound and warn.

As your scoff broke the tense air between you, it carried with it a bewildering sense of revelation. You found yourself staring, almost in disbelief, as the layers of Billy's persona peeled back to reveal the hot-tempered core you had only heard whispers of. Rumors of his impulsive shoves in crowded hallways and aggressive dominance on the basketball court had reached your ears, painting a picture of a boy who wielded his temper as carelessly as he did his charm. The teenage girls of Hawkins High had not been shy in sharing tales of his less savory deeds, and yet, in a strange twist of fate, they still crowned him with their affections, blinded perhaps by the handsome mask he wore. To you, until this moment, he had shown a different face—one that hinted at kindness beneath the rugged exterior.

"I don't think I can come with you. No, actually, I don't want to anymore." The words emerged from your lips, firm and irrevocable, sealing the fate of the evening that had taken an unexpected turn.

At your declaration, a storm seemed to gather on Billy's brow, his forehead creasing with anger as he teetered on the brink of letting loose a venomous retort. "Why are you being such a bi—" His words faltered, clogging the air between you as the realization of his near slip clamped down on his tongue. A sudden shift overtook his features, the anger washing out as if drained by an unseen force, leaving behind a pallid mask of instant regret.

"You know what, Billy?" you threw the words into the thickening twilight, not seeking an answer but rather casting them as a final verdict. Your feet started to retreat, each step a defiant dance away from the scene. "Fuck you. Oh, and while you're at it, why don't you shove those burgers up where the sun never shines, yeah?" With those parting shots, you spun on your heel, the world spinning momentarily before settling as you marched back toward the familiar silhouette of Hawkins High.

"You don't have your car!" His voice chased after you, a mixture of frustration and incredulity painting each syllable.

"And, still, I'd rather walk!" Your voice rang clear into the fading day, a declaration of independence. For good measure, and perhaps for the sake of your bruised pride, you flung one of your favorite gestures over your shoulder, hoping it would catch him in a moment of speechless observation.

Fucking men.

…

A month had woven itself into the fabric of your life since that tumultuous encounter with Billy Hargrove. His existence had become a silent shadow in your days, marked only by the occasional glimpse of his step-sister, a ghostly reminder of the confrontation that had severed whatever thread had begun to tie you to him. It was ironic, really, how the absence of someone could teach you so much about them. Your days flowed on, untouched by his presence, yet whispers of his life seemed to find you.

You learned of his origins, not through any desire of your own but through the idle chatter of classmates, their words painting a picture of a life you hadn't asked to understand. Billy Hargrove, the boy from California, now residing at 4819 Cherry Lane, wrapped in a scent that lingered in the halls—and apparently his pack—long after he had passed through. These snippets of his existence, caught in passing, seemed to stitch a portrait of a person you no longer knew, if indeed you ever really did.

Each revelation, each accidental eavesdrop, added layers to the image of Billy Hargrove, filling in gaps with colors you hadn't chosen. Yet, for all the unrequested knowledge that had found its way to you, the essence of the boy remained elusive, a puzzle pieced together from fragments overheard in passing. The tendrils of your past, entangled with dreams of a future beyond the confines of Hawkins, whispered to you in moments of solitude. Your aspirations reached far beyond the town's limits, aiming for the hallowed halls of college—a beacon of escape from a life mapped out by circumstances rather than choice. Each rejection letter that found its way to you felt like a door slamming shut, while the solitary acceptance, devoid of the golden ticket of a scholarship, seemed a cruel tease of what could be. College represented more than an education; it was your lifeline out of Hawkins, a chance to evade the shadows that lingered there, including him.

Financial realities cast long shadows over your dreams. The fruits of years spent toiling in odd jobs had been whittled away by the necessities of life and the unending demands of medical supplies, a silent testament to the sacrifices made. The money that didn't vanish into the bottomless pit of healthcare needs was swallowed by the mundane yet essential needs for gas and food, leaving nothing for the luxuries that others might take for granted. The memory of purchasing something solely for the joy it brought, something as simple as a new mascara or a piece of clothing in your favorite color, had faded into the realm of distant dreams.

Yet, as you maneuvered the car out of the school's parking lot, a resolve took root within you—a quiet declaration of self-kindness. The day's burdens lifted slightly at the thought of indulging in a small luxury, a token of appreciation for yourself after so long. The thrift store's familiar aisles offered sanctuary and the possibility of finding something uniquely yours. Amidst the labyrinth of second-hand garments, a splash of yellow caught your eye, halting your aimless search. Your fingers grazed the fabric of a flowy yellow dress, the color a vivid echo of happier times.

In that moment, a memory blossomed, vivid and sweet—a day at the lake with your mother, her laughter mingling with the breeze, her own yellow dress a mirror to the one now in your hands. Despite the harsh realities that awaited back home, her smile in that instant had been a beacon of pure joy, untainted by the shadows of daily struggles. The memory, so sharply beautiful, tugged at your heart with a mixture of longing and sorrow. For a fleeting moment, surrounded by the whispers of past lives encapsulated in the thrift store's treasures, you allowed yourself the luxury of reminiscence and the hope of brighter days, fueled by the simple act of choosing something that sparked joy in your heart.

Your fingers hesitated for a moment before firmly grasping the dress, lifting it from its crowded perch among forgotten stories and second chances. As you queued for purchase, the monotony of waiting nudged your attention toward the world beyond the thrift store's window. Your eyes traced the ebb and flow of life on the sidewalk—a tableau of youthful laughter and the disgruntled expressions of passing adults, caught in a silent battle over public decorum.

Your gaze was about to retreat back to the cashier's call when the distinct rumble of a familiar engine sliced through the ambient noise, capturing your attention. A blue Camaro, unmistakable in its assertive presence, blazed past the window, a fleeting shadow in your line of sight. The timing hinted at a routine you'd inadvertently memorized, perhaps Billy Hargrove on his way to collect Max from the arcade. Despite the distance you'd placed between yourself and him, his existence still managed to weave its way into the fabric of your thoughts, an uninvited yet persistent presence.

Groceries, bought with the remnants of your carefully hoarded finances, soon occupied the passenger seat of your car, a tangible reminder of the practical concerns that governed your life. You returned to the trailer park, your vehicle coming to a rest beside the rusted silhouette of home. The neighborhood was alive with the small, personal escapes of those around you—barbecues, beers, and the semblance of community in the individualistic survival of trailer park living. You offered a half-hearted wave to the scattered acknowledgments from your neighbors, a gesture of civility in the shared anonymity of your lives.

One neighbor, a boy around your age with a habitual distance from the trailer park's confines, returned your wave with a shy, fleeting smile. His presence was a rarity, his time usually spent in the freedom of friendships beyond the park's boundaries. A pang of longing touched you at the thought, a wistful wish for connections you hadn't the luxury to foster.

Stepping out of your car, the dress in hand and groceries by your side, you couldn't help but reflect on the paths not taken, the friendships not formed. The trailer park, with its rusted dreams and patchwork communities, held both the weight of your realities and the whispers of what might have been, had circumstances been kinder.

The descent of twilight had always carried a particular solemnity in the trailer park, a silent herald of the end of another day's labors and the beginning of the park's nocturnal repose. As you ascended the weathered steps, the weight of the grocery bags in your hands was a tangible reminder of the day's responsibilities, a mundane yet necessary burden. Your father's gaze, sharp and scrutinizing, met you through the window, his eyes flickering with a mix of wariness and disapproval between you and the neighbor boy who had offered a fleeting gesture of camaraderie. His expression, a familiar tapestry of anger and suspicion, caused you to avert your gaze and hasten your steps, seeking refuge in the relative safety of the indoors.

The call to the living room came at an hour when the world outside had surrendered to the darkness, the only witnesses to its secrets being the occasional flash of lightning illuminating the sky. The neighbors, those transient figures of your day-to-day existence, had retreated behind their doors, driven by the sudden onset of rain. It was in this secluded setting that your father awaited, ensconced in the worn embrace of his brown-leathered armchair, a throne from which he observed the small dominion of your shared living space.

You paused at a cautious distance, the air between you charged with an unspoken tension, a testament to the delicate balance of your relationship. In the dim light, your fingers absently traced the familiar imperfections in your nails, a diversion from the intensity of his scrutiny. Your father, a man whose actions were measured and deliberate, had managed to maintain a facade of normalcy to the outside world. Whatever speculations might have circulated among the neighbors about the dynamics within your trailer, they remained just that—speculations, with no concrete evidence to breach the veil of privacy that curtained your shared existence.

In that moment, standing in the living room's subdued light, the distance between you felt more than just physical; it was a chasm of unspoken words and stifled emotions, a silent battleground where every gesture and glance held weight.

"I'm very disappointed in you," he spoke, orbs glued to your face which was turned to the carpeted floors. "I give you so much and don't expect a lot in return, now, do I?" You closed your eyes, teeth catching your lips as you shook your head no. "That's right." He lifted himself up from his seat, stepping closer. You stilled. "What I can't have, is my daughter whoring herself out to some boys."

You flinched as a hand gripped your jaw. "I don't—"

His hold tightened, warm alcohol-tinges breath hitting your cheek. "And to have so much disrespect to lie to my face."

"Please, Dad, I don't even know his nam—"

"Shut up!" You winced at his harsh tone, a trembling falling into your bones. "How long have you been going around spreading your fucking legs, huh? You think you can just do that while you're living under my roof?" He shoved you back into the kitchen counter, its edges digging into your skin painfully. "Fucking whore," he hissed. "If I ever see you looking at him again, I'm not going to be so nice."

Your voice was a mere whisper. "But I didn't—" A slap echoed and a jarring stinging spread across your cheek.

"Don't you fucking dare to talk back to me!" His fingers dug into your skin further as he yanked you forward and smashed you to the floor. "Who do you think you are, huh?" He ripped you upwards at the roots of your hair, wrenching you across the floor to the front door. Your head smashed into the wood as your father tore it open with no regard for you. His hand fell from your hair as he shoved you forward with his foot. As you didn't do as he pleased fast enough, he kicked you onwards and again until you tumbled down the stairs of your home.

"I don't want no disrespectful whore under my roof.” The night air was heavy with the scent of rain, a foreboding cloak that seemed to amplify your isolation as your father's anger found its final expression in the harsh, definitive sound of the door slamming shut behind you. Stranded in the aftermath, you lay there for a moment, sprawled on the cold, unforgiving ground, every breath a testament to the throbbing pain in your ribs. Gritting your teeth against the discomfort, you managed to pull yourself into a seated position, the tears that you hadn't invited nor could contain stinging your eyes, mingling with the rain that began to drench you in its cold embrace.

The world around you felt alien, a labyrinth of uncertainties and fears about where the night might take you. Trust, a commodity you found in short supply, left you without a door to knock on, without a sanctuary in which to seek refuge. Even the shelter of your car was denied to you, the keys a distant, unreachable comfort. Your heart heavy, you stood, the direction of your feet a mystery even to yourself as you meandered through the dimly lit streets of Hawkins. It was as if some unseen force guided you, leading you on a path paved with desperation and silent pleas for solace.

Cherry Lane materialized before you almost as if by magic, the familiarity of the surroundings doing little to ease the tumult in your heart. The houses stood like silent sentinels, guarding the secrets of those who dwelled within, until the sight of a blue Camaro, parked with an air of silent expectation, caught your eye. It was a beacon in the gloom, a signpost pointing towards a possibility you hadn't dared to consider until now.

With hesitant steps, you ascended the porch, each footfall a declaration of your vulnerability. The house before you was a tableau of quiet domesticity, its windows glowing softly in the night, yet betraying no hint of the lives unfolding behind them. For a moment, you allowed yourself the small comfort of shelter, the porch a temporary haven from the relentless rain. Gathering the remnants of your courage, you reached out, your hand pausing in mid-air as you braced yourself to bridge the distance between desperation and hope, between solitude and the possibility of finding an ally in the most unexpected of places.

Hesitation gripped you as the absurdity of your situation fully dawned upon you. What madness had driven you to seek refuge here, of all places? It had been over a month since any words had passed between you and Billy, and the possibility of him not being the one to answer the door loomed large in your mind, a specter of potential embarrassment you hadn't fully considered until now. Imagining the awkwardness of explaining your presence to his stepmother or father sent a shiver down your spine. Perhaps the familiar discomfort of your own leaky porch, where sleep would undoubtedly elude you amidst the elements, would have been preferable to the risk of utter humiliation here.

As you turned to make a hasty retreat, a clumsy misstep sent one of the plant pots clattering to the ground, the sound of shattering pottery piercing the steady drum of rain. Mortification washed over you as you knelt, frantically trying to salvage the situation by scooping the spilled soil back into its home, muttering curses under your breath for your own clumsiness.

"What are you doing?" The sound of Billy's voice, laced with confusion and rising over the roar of the rain, caused you to startle, nearly toppling the pot once more in your sudden panic.

You stood, hands smeared with dirt against the fabric of your wet pants, words tripping over themselves in a clumsy attempt to explain. "I'm sorry," was the simple, inadequate conclusion you reached. A nervous laugh escaped you, highlighting the absurdity of your predicament. "I... I don't even know what I'm doing here," you admitted, your voice tinged with the realization of your own folly. "I—I'm going to go. Sorry about the plant."

Billy's gaze drifted past you to the empty street, a silent question in his eyes before returning to you. "Where's your car?" The inquiry was straightforward, yet it left you grappling with the decision of whether to fabricate a lie about its whereabouts.

"I walked," you confessed, the truth slipping out with a hesitance that betrayed your vulnerability.

"In the rain?" His question hung unfinished in the air as his attention abruptly shifted, focusing intently on your face. Whatever he saw there caused a transformation in his demeanor, his previously questioning gaze hardening with resolve. He swung the door wider, an unspoken invitation hanging between you. "Get in," he commanded, a mixture of concern and command in his tone. Your uncertainty was palpable, a silent question mark in your stance until his impatience broke through your indecision. "Do you always need a second invitation? Get inside." His words, more a directive than a suggestion, propelled you forward, his intense stare ushering you into the warmth and shelter of his home. No sooner had the front door clicked shut behind you than Billy’s hand enveloped yours, his grip firm and unexpectedly warm. He led you through the hallway with a sense of urgency, the sound of your sodden shoes squelching against the floor marking your passage. The door to his room was next, closing with a definitive thud that seemed to isolate the world outside. Releasing your hand as though he suddenly remembered the protocol of personal space, Billy turned his attention to the task of decluttering his room with an efficiency that left his clothes arching through the air to land perfectly in a hamper across the space.

You found yourself standing somewhat awkwardly in the middle of his room, the chill of your drenched clothes causing you to shiver uncontrollably. Instinctively, you crossed your arms in an attempt to preserve warmth, your gaze drifting downwards before curiosity prompted a survey of your surroundings. The room was a capsule of Billy's world – his bed, a stark island in the chaos, lay opposite the door, while a white dresser burdened with an assortment of items claimed territory to your left. A stereo system and a mirror positioned at the foot of his bed stood guard in front of his closet, serving as silent sentinels of his privacy. The walls were an eclectic gallery featuring a mix of band posters—Metallica's ‘Kill 'Em All’ and Tank's ‘Filth Hounds of Hades’ among them—and a singular, provocatively posed woman adorning a minuscule bikini set.

A cough from Billy broke the silence, his posture shifting uncomfortably as he planted a hand on his hip, mirroring your own awkwardness. "Do you wanna take a hot shower?" His voice, hesitant yet earnest, sliced through the tension.

You matched his earlier gesture, clearing your throat before responding with a nod, your smile timid yet sincere, a silent thank you. "If you don't mind."

His response was quick, almost reflexive. "I wouldn't be asking if I did." The briefest flicker of something akin to regret crossed his features, a look that suggested he found the current situation less than ideal. With a barely perceptible shake of his head, as if to dismiss his own thoughts, he guided you to the bathroom adjacent to his bedroom. Handing you a towel with an awkwardness that seemed out of place on him, he promised to find you some dry clothes, leaving you with the comforting prospect of warmth and a momentary escape from the night's chaos. Peeling away the layers of your drenched attire felt like shedding a second, clammy skin, each piece a testament to the frugality that necessity had imposed upon your life. The fabric, cheap and worn, clung to you with a stubborn chill, and even as you stood bare in the relative warmth of the bathroom, shivers danced across your skin, relentless in their embrace.

You stepped over the edge of the tub with a cautious grace, turning the faucet with hands that trembled not just from the cold but from the uncertainty of the moment. As the water sputtered to life, you drew the shower curtain with a swift motion, sealing yourself away from the world for a brief interlude. The array of bottles lining the tub's edge caught your eye, prompting an involuntary snort of amusement.

Billy, it seemed, defied the stereotype of masculine simplicity in skincare, the stereotype that suggested a preference for efficiency over variety. Your father, with his staunch allegiance to three-in-one products, had been your benchmark for male grooming habits. Yet here, in Billy's shower, was a collection that spoke of a different creed. You couldn't help but smirk, a playful curiosity lifting your brows as you inspected the labels one by one. Shampoos, more than one might expect, each bottle worn from use, nestled beside conditioners—one clearly favored, its contents more depleted.

The body wash, singular in its presence, was an olfactory enigma. Unscrewing the cap, you were met with an assault of scents, as if the essence of every cologne and deodorant had been distilled into this one vessel. The smell was overpowering, undeniably masculine, a concentrated embodiment of Billy's presence. You searched for the words to describe it but landed on the singularly fitting—manly.

As the warm water cascaded over you, washing away the layers of the day—the sweat, the remnants of makeup that had survived the downpour—you moved with haste. There was a keen awareness of not overstaying your welcome in this unexpected sanctuary. Gratitude for Billy's kindness mingled with a sense of urgency; such generosity was a rare currency in your world, and you were acutely conscious of its value. In these moments, under the stream of cleansing water, you found a temporary reprieve, a fleeting sense of solace amid the turbulence of your life. The moment your skin felt the cool air of the bathroom, a soft knock echoed against the door, a gentle but unexpected intrusion into your solitude. Clutching the towel around yourself with a sudden modesty, you cracked the door open just enough to extend a hand into the gap. Billy's presence on the other side was palpable, his chuckle a low, soft sound that fluttered through the air as he passed a bundle of clothes to you. "Thanks," you murmured, a rush of words barely escaping before you retreated behind the door once more.

Dressed in the clothes Billy had chosen—socks, boxers, sweats, and a shirt—you paused at the threshold of his room, suddenly conscious of the absence of your bra and acutely aware that he was, too. With a final act of tidiness, you folded the towel meticulously and flicked off the lights, leaving behind the sanctuary of the bathroom for the uncertainty that lay beyond.

You found yourself lingering in the doorway, arms wrapped defensively across your chest, the fabric of his shirt a poor shield against the vulnerability you felt. Billy's gaze upon you was indescribable, heavy with an unspoken expectation as if he wished to peel back the layers of your being and examine the hidden scars that lay beneath.

Mustering what little composure you had, you broke the silence, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry."

His brow furrowed, confusion and something else—was it concern?—etching lines into his forehead. "For what?" he queried, his voice a blend of curiosity and something softer.

You diverted your gaze, a sense of intrusion overwhelming you despite the sanctuary he'd provided. "Bothering you. It's late," you admitted, feeling the weight of your unwelcome presence.

The sound of his movement pulled your eyes upward, half-expecting, half-hoping he might bridge the distance between you. Instead, you were met with the sight of his back as he rifled through his nightstand, the tension in the room palpable. "Sit," he commanded, and though under any other circumstance you might have bristled at the order, the exhaustion and gratitude mingling within you coaxed compliance.

Without protest, you perched on the edge of the bed, a silent observer to his actions, the room around you filled with an unspoken dialogue made of glances and gestures, a fragile understanding hanging in the balance. As he pivoted towards you, a black box in his grasp, an electric tension filled the air. He chose not to sit beside you on the bed; instead, he knelt before you, an unexpected intimacy in the space between your parted knees. Your breath caught, a silent gasp lost in the moment, and irritation flared within you as you noticed the slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "What are you doing?" you inquired, a mix of curiosity and wariness lacing your words, your gaze sharply tracking his movements.

"If I remember correctly, Sweetheart, you gave me a lecture on using Neosporin or otherwise you get scars, right?" His voice held a playful rebuke, cutting off any response you might have mustered. "Let's make sure that doesn't happen, huh?"

His attention fixed on a spot on your forehead, drawing your own hand reflexively to the area he observed, only to flinch at the tender reminder of a wound you hadn't registered until now. The memory of the collision with your trailer door flickered through your mind, a painful blur in the chaos of the night. His touch was unexpectedly gentle as he attended to the wound, a carefulness in his actions that surprised you, challenging what you thought you knew of him. Despite the months you'd spent in his orbit, this moment revealed layers you hadn't glimpsed before.

"You don't have to do that," you found yourself saying as he procured a tube of Neosporin—a recent addition to his kit, no doubt on your advice. "I can do it, too."

"Never said you couldn't," he hummed back, undeterred as he meticulously applied the ointment, his focus undivided. With deliberate care, he placed two butterfly plasters across the cleaned wound, a silent testament to his unspoken concern. Gathering the discarded wrappers and used items, he compressed them in his hand and rose, moving to dispose of the trash. In that small, enclosed space, with the sound of rain a distant murmur against the windows, a different side of Billy was illuminated under the soft glow of the room's lighting — a side tender, careful, and starkly at odds with the rough edges of his usual demeanor. You cleared your throat, a gesture so small yet so loaded with the weight of the evening's events.

"Thank you," you managed to say, voice barely above a whisper. He paused in his motions, turning towards you with a smile so radiant it threatened to stop your heart in its tracks.

"No problem, Sweetheart," he replied, his voice a smooth salve over the jagged edges of the night. As he moved to dispose of the trash, a sudden, inexplicable tumult stirred within you. With a hand pressed against your chest, you sought to quell the storm brewing beneath your ribs, a futile attempt to calm the chaos his mere presence invoked.

Rising to your feet, you drifted towards the window, seeking solace in the steady downpour that mirrored your inner turmoil. The rain continued to fall, now more fiercely than before, a relentless deluge that held you captive in this moment. You felt his presence before you saw him, the heat of his body a stark contrast to the chill seeping through the glass.

"Didn't get much of this in California, huh?" you ventured, an attempt to bridge the chasm of silence between you.

He let your question hang in the air, unanswered, yet the fleeting shadow that crossed his face spoke volumes, a bitterness that matched the storm outside. His gaze shifted, momentarily caught in the past before refocusing on the present — on the wound that marred your forehead. "What happened?" he asked, the question simple yet loaded with unspoken concern.

You shrugged, a movement laden with the weight of untold stories. "Nothing," you replied, the lie slipping from your lips as easily as breath, a practiced deception you had mastered over time. "I tripped."

"And that had you walking through the rain in the middle of the night?" His skepticism was palpable, a challenge to the facade you'd constructed.

A battle raged within you, the urge to confess warring with the instinct to conceal. You bit back the tears threatening to spill, the pain of admission too great to bear. "I locked myself out and didn't know what else to do."

"Yeah?" he pressed, his disbelief a tangible force.

"Yeah." Your affirmation was a whisper in the storm, a feeble attempt to maintain the crumbling walls around your heart.

He moved closer, his presence overwhelming, trapping you between the solid reality of his form and the immovable barrier of his closet. "If you don't want to talk about it then say so," he declared, his voice a command that brooked no argument. "Don't lie and pretend to be fine when clearly you aren't."

In that charged moment, with the rain as your sole witness, the space between you became a battleground of unspoken words and concealed wounds, a testament to the complexity of human connection. Your jaw clenched tightly, a tangible manifestation of your frustration and defiance. The notion of receiving unsolicited advice, particularly from him, was almost laughable. Gratitude for his shelter in the storm did not extend to welcoming painful truths. "Oh, that's rich coming from you, Billy. It's not like you aren't just fine all the time," you retorted, your words sharp, laden with a bitterness born of too many hidden truths.

The shift in him was immediate, his anger dissipating as though your words had pierced a veil, revealing a glimpse of the vulnerability he so meticulously guarded. When he raised his hand, the gentle brush of his forefinger against the stray tear on your cheek sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. "I never said I wanted to talk about it," he murmured, his voice soft, revealing a hint of his own battles fought in silence. Your heart fluttered uncontrollably, his touch igniting a flurry of sensations, momentarily tethering you to a moment of raw connection.

The sudden crack of lightning, followed by the deep rumble of thunder, jolted you back to reality, breaking the spell that had momentarily bound you. The urge to flee, to return to the semblance of normalcy that awaited at home, surged within you. "I should probably go," you whispered, hoping against hope that your father's drunken stupor would erase the night's events by morning, that a simple act of domestic normality could smooth over the fractures in your life. "Do you have an umbrella or something?"

His response was instant, a resolute rejection of your plan. "Do you really think I'll let you get back there now? So, you can flash a cut lip and a blue eye tomorrow at school, too?" His words, though posed as a question, left no room for argument. In his refusal to allow you to venture back into the storm, both literal and metaphorical, lay an unspoken pledge of protection, a sanctuary against the tempest that raged beyond his door. "What does it matter?" you found yourself arguing, feeling the weight of your own arms as they fell limply by your sides. The sense of defeat was palpable in the air. "So, I stay tonight, then what, Billy? I'll have to go back eventually, and it's only until the school year's over. Then, I'm gone anyway."

His response came in the form of a growl, though you could tell his anger wasn't directed at you. It stemmed from a place of shared desperation, from having clung to the same sliver of hope himself. "So, you're just gonna let him beat you for the rest of the year?"

Your response was a snort, laced with sarcasm, as you tilted your head, challenging him. "Aren't you doing the same thing?" The silence that followed was telling, even if no words were spoken, until he dared to step closer.

"It does matter, you know," he said, his voice softer now, reducing the physical distance between you yet careful not to invade your personal space.

"Why?" The question came out more as a whisper of disbelief. For the past month, he had acted as if you were barely visible, and suddenly, he seemed to care deeply. "Why now?"

His hesitation was palpable, as if the words he was about to utter could scorch his tongue. "I like you." The simplicity of his confession hung between you, fraught with unspoken complexities.

You bit your lip, a sad, resigned smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as you lowered your head. "Don't do that to yourself." The words were barely a whisper, yet they carried the weight of a lifetime. Tears threatened to spill over, a testament to a sentiment you had never expected to receive. The idea that someone could not just tolerate but actually like you was foreign, almost too much to bear. All your life, you had erected walls to keep people at a distance, for their affection meant empathy, and with empathy came pain. The sight of your wounds would become their agony, and in a twisted way, their suffering would become yours, completing a circle of shared hurt you had always sought to avoid.

"Who do you think I am, Billy?" You backed away slowly, trying to maintain some semblance of distance between you and Billy, but the inevitable happened—your retreat was abruptly stopped by the wall. A wave of unfamiliar pressure washed over you. Was it fear? Or perhaps vulnerability? You couldn't quite place the emotion. "I'm not the kind of person to have around. I won't complete you, won't enrich your life,” you stammered out, your voice a mix of warning and fear. These words were your feeble attempt to shield him, to prepare him for the inevitable disappointment that seemed to follow you like a shadow. "I—I'm just so fucked up and stuck trying to put everything... everything broken back into place. I... I can't look for your shards, too."

When your eyes finally dared to meet his, you expected to see annoyance, maybe even rejection. Instead, what you found was empathy, his expression softened, recognizing the turmoil within you as something he too understood. "I don't want you to try and fix me," he said, his tone gentle, soothing the chaotic thoughts swirling in your mind. His hand reached for yours, not as a claim but as a gesture of companionship, of solidarity. "But searching for shit goes so much faster if you do it together." In the dimly lit room, where shadows danced across the walls with a life of their own, Billy Hargrove revealed himself in a way that words could scarcely capture. The man you thought you knew, encased in layers of protective anger and a cocksure swagger, allowed those defenses to melt away in your presence. It was as if he peeled back the veneer of bravado, exposing the raw, unguarded depths of his soul—a mosaic of past hurts and present struggles laid bare for only your eyes.

The moment his fingers brushed against your cheek, a cascade of sensations unfurled within you. It was more than a touch; it was an electric current that surged through your veins, rendering you speechless, breathless. As you locked gazes with him, drowning in the ocean of his bright blue eyes, the world seemed to pause. Every attempt at drawing breath felt like an insurmountable task, and yet, paradoxically, you felt more grounded than ever, as if an invisible force tethered you to the very core of the earth. Simultaneously, there lingered an exhilarating sense of lightness, a curious wonder if you might suddenly break free from gravity's embrace and ascend into the ether. The effect Billy had on you was profound, leaving you to ponder if perhaps, in some small way, you affected him similarly.

Did you trouble his thoughts as he did yours? Did your presence steal his breath and unsettle him to his core? Within the quiet chambers of your heart, a small, worn, and lonely piece of you clung to the hope that he might feel the same.

As his index finger traced the contours of your face with reverence, from the softness of your cheek to the furrowed worry lines on your forehead, and finally to the tender vulnerability of your lips, you sensed a hesitancy in him. His other hand, which had been a mere whisper away from yours against the wall, dropped slightly, fingers brushing against the fabric of the shirt he had lent you. With a subtle tug, influenced by a brief flare of his nostrils, it was as if he was battling a storm of desire within, restraining himself with a Herculean effort from crossing a line from which there was no return. In that moment, Billy Hargrove was no longer just a name or a face; he was a force, simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating, threatening to unravel the very fabric of your being.

The words stumbled from your lips, frail and unsteady, shattering the facade of indifference you had desperately clung to. "So—" you began, only to have your voice fracture cruelly midway, exposing the turbulence beneath your calm exterior. "You want to be friends…like officially?"

A crooked smile unfurled across his face, his deep-set eyes twinkling with a blend of amusement and an unexpected trace of shyness. His grip on the fabric of the shirt intensified, his knuckles whitening with the strain. "Trust me, Sweetheart, friends isn’t what I had in mind," he confessed, his voice a low murmur that sent a wave of heat cascading down your spine, igniting a flurry of desire that pooled in the depths of your stomach.

You stood petrified, a statue of anticipation, as an inexplicable longing surged within you, compelling your fingers to twitch at your sides. You yearned to weave your fingers through the silky strands of his meticulously styled hair, to explore the contours of his being with a touch. Yet, as he retreated, fishing a pack of cigarettes from the depths of his jeans, you found yourself anchored in place, watching him with a mixture of astonishment and burgeoning disappointment. It wasn't the withdrawal you had anticipated that took you by surprise, but rather the keen sense of letdown that he didn't pursue the tension crackling between you further.

When he turned his back to you momentarily in search of an ashtray, a childish pout began to form on your lips, a silent testament to your discontent. Billy, however, remained oblivious to your turmoil, opting instead to lean casually against the wall by the open window, exhaling smoke into the tempestuous embrace of the rainy night. You pondered over his actions, the deviation from his usual indifference to smoking indoors. The scent of tobacco, which had once been a source of discomfort, had, over time, woven itself into the tapestry of comforts associated with Billy's presence. It was an aroma that, in the context of his room—a sanctuary of chaotic tranquility—had become oddly reassuring. Mixed with the other, more elusive scents that lingered in the corners of his space, it crafted an ambiance that was undeniably Billy, and in that moment, you realized how deeply entwined your senses had become with the essence of his existence. The array of colognes that enveloped him carried none of the hallmarks of the cheap fragrances that typically permeated the crowded hallways of Hawkins High. His presence, and indeed his room, was suffused with a complex aroma—slightly woody, perhaps a hint of leather, and beneath it all, a subtle undertone of sweetness that floated gently in the air. It was an olfactory melody that intrigued you, a scent that you found unexpectedly comforting.

Wrapped in your own arms, you approached him, a silent figure against the tumult of your thoughts, pressing your back to the wardrobe adjacent to his window. Without a word, he offered the cigarette to you, a gesture that halted you momentarily. As you reached out, the brief touch of his warm fingers against yours sent an inexplicable shiver down your spine, a sensation that seemed to echo on your skin long after the contact had ended. Drawing in the acrid taste of the smoke, you allowed yourself a moment to indulge in the bitterness, your eyes lifting to meet his.

There he was, a grin playing on his lips, watching you with an intensity that rendered you momentarily breathless. The world around you narrowed to the space between you two, your senses hyper-aware of his proximity. The cigarette, now a forgotten prop in your hand, no longer demanded your attention as you found yourself irresistibly drawn into the depths of his blue gaze. An unconscious bite to your lip betrayed your thoughts as your eyes darted to his lips and back again.

He closed the distance with a single, purposeful step, igniting a trail of warmth that flickered to life within you. Billy leaned in, his breath—a mix of smoke and something indefinably sweet—brushed against your cheek, sending ripples of anticipation through you. His lips curled into a knowing smirk, his voice a blend of amusement and challenge. "You gonna smoke that, Sweetheart, or are you just gonna keep staring?"

In that moment, under the weight of his gaze and the heat of his breath, you realized the cigarette was merely a bystander in a dance of tension and unspoken desires, a dance that had you captivated and wanting more. A blush crept up your neck, a vivid testimony to the turmoil within, as you extended the cigarette towards him, a silent plea for normalcy. Yet, instead of simply taking it, he lingered, his chuckle a low rumble against the shell of your ear, sending a cascade of goosebumps down your flesh. He leaned back, his movements languid yet deliberate, eyes locked on yours as he accepted the cigarette, drawing in a slow, purposeful drag. Under the weight of his gaze, your heart raced, each beat a drumroll of anticipation. His lips twitched into a smirk, and in that moment, the tether of your restraint snapped.

Driven by a surge of boldness, you seized the fabric of his shirt, pulling him into a collision of lips. The world narrowed to the point of contact, where fear and desire mingled in a single breath. But as quickly as the impulse came, it retreated, leaving you to recoil in a mix of surprise and mortification. "I'm so sor—"

But your apology was cut short, his hand finding the nape of your neck, an anchor pulling you back into the storm. His lips sealed over yours with a fervor that spoke of raw need and simmering frustration. The sensation in your stomach exploded into a wildfire, racing through your veins, igniting every fiber of your being. His hands, emboldened and roaming, traced paths filled with longing and anticipation, his grip on your hip a silent command that spurred a sharp intake of breath. Yet, as Billy drew you closer, melding your body to his with a hunger that spoke of endless waiting, the kiss deepened, transcending the confines of time and space. The world outside this embrace dissolved into insignificance, leaving nothing but the intensity of your connection, a thirst quenched in the meeting of lips, finally stilled in the embrace of shared desire. Emerging first from the embrace, you found yourself ensnared in a heady daze, breathless from a mixture of oxygen deprivation and the intoxicating effect of Billy's touch. Your hands clung to his shirt collar, a desperate bid to maintain the closeness, the electricity that buzzed between you. Yet, Billy harbored no intention of releasing you into the cold reality just yet. As your eyelids fluttered shut again, his lips embarked on a fervent exploration along the tender expanse of your neck. Each kiss was a brand, igniting fires within your veins, stirring a wild rush of blood that screamed for more.

In his ministrations, Billy was anything but tentative, his actions painting the strokes of your silent wishes with bold, assertive colors. You reveled in the sensation, a glorious chaos made of his fervent kisses and the playful nip of teeth against your skin, eliciting a hitch in your breath that morphed into a soft whine. This sound drew a triumphant grin across his lips, a silent acknowledgment of the effect he wielded over you.

The moment shifted as he gently maneuvered you backward, only to ease himself onto the edge of his bed, pulling you into his orbit with an unspoken command. You remained on your feet, a silent statue, until he chastised you with a playful tilt of his head and a tug on the waistband of the pants he had lent you. "You do always need a second invitation, huh?" he teased, his voice a blend of amusement and desire.

His hands, firm and insistent, found your thighs, drawing you irresistibly onto his lap. Positioned intimately close, your breath caught as the proximity sparked a fresh surge of desire. Your gaze flitted over his features, captivated by the intensity in his eyes before inevitably being drawn to the smug curve of his lips. In that moment, caught in the gravitational pull of his gaze and the promise of his smile, you teetered on the edge of surrender, every fiber of your being alight with anticipation.

In the charged silence of the room, your voice was a mere whisper, a soft breeze that dared not disturb the delicate sphere of intimacy that encased you both. "Is anyone else home?" The words barely left your lips, a testament to the fragile moment you were so afraid to shatter.

Billy's response was a grin, one that spoke volumes of the thoughts he'd kept at bay, now unchained in the privacy of his domain. "No," he breathed, a single syllable heavy with unspoken promises. His hands, emboldened by the assurance of solitude, resumed their exploratory journey with renewed vigor. They ascended your thighs, ventured over the curve of your behind, and continued upwards until the rough warmth of his calloused palms met the smooth expanse of your waist. "Concerned you won't be able to stay quiet, Sweetheart?" he teased, a playful challenge in his voice that sent a shiver down your spine.

You shook your head, a flush of warmth crawling up your neck, betraying your inner turmoil. "Just curious," you managed to say, your fingers finding solace in the soft strands of his blonde hair. Under your gaze, something flickered in his eyes—was it adoration?—a fleeting glimpse into the depths of Billy Hargrove that few were privy to. The realization that you were witnessing the unguarded essence of the man beneath the facade was both exhilarating and daunting, a secret you cherished deep within your heart.

In an unexpected move, he drew you against him, erasing any distance that remained. The gasp that escaped your lips mingled with the air as you became acutely aware of his desire pressing insistently against you. His lips found yours in a seal of fervent need, prompting an involuntary arch of your hips against his. A groan, laced with curses and unbridled yearning, vibrated against your mouth as Billy's restraint began to unravel. And then, with a fluidity that left you breathless, the world flipped—Billy loomed above you, a figure of strength and passionate intent, casting a shadow that promised an escape from the confines of reality. One arm kept him propped up above you, the other sliding beneath your butt, lifting you to meet his movements. A delicate moan fled your tongue, almost lost in the kiss as he sealed his lips onto yours, excitement thrumming in your core. As Billy's lips departed from yours, a reluctant retreat that sent a pang through your chest, you were left gasping beneath him, the room spinning slightly in the absence of his touch. For a brief moment, the world outside the cocoon of his room ceased to exist, leaving nothing but the sound of your mingled breaths hanging in the air. Your eyelids fluttered open only when the tender caress of his thumb traced your bottom lip, drawing your gaze upwards to meet his. In his eyes, a storm of emotions hinted at a struggle, a reluctance to break the connection that had so fiercely ignited between you.

Silently, he rolled away, the loss of his warmth immediate and stark. The soft click of the light switch plunged the room into semi-darkness, illuminated only by the moon's glow filtering through the curtains. "Night, Sweetheart," he murmured, a term of endearment that now seemed to carry a weight of unspoken words between you.

Your brow furrowed, confusion and a myriad of unanswered questions swirling in your mind. The impulse to voice your bewilderment, to ask why he had halted the crescendo of your shared passion, rose sharply within you. Yet, each time your lips parted, no words emerged, as if the gravity of the moment held your voice captive. With a heavy heart, you turned away, presenting your back to him, a silent testament to the tumult within.

As the minutes trickled by, Billy's breaths deepened into the steady rhythm of sleep, a testament to his drift into tranquility. Left alone with your thoughts, the questions continued to dance at the edges of your consciousness, unanswered, echoing in the quiet of the night. Despite the turmoil, the pull of exhaustion proved stronger, and eventually, your eyes closed, surrendering to the elusive promise of rest, even as the mystery of his actions lingered, a shadow at the back of your mind. Upon awakening, you found yourself momentarily lost in the fog of disorientation, the remnants of sleep clouding your senses. As your consciousness gradually sharpened, the events of the night prior began to piece themselves together, painting a vivid picture of unexpected solace. For the first time in what felt like eons, you had been gifted with the luxury of a deep, undisturbed sleep, free from the clutches of anxiety that so often held you captive. The sensation of safety enveloped you, a cocoon of warmth that was both foreign and immensely comforting.

As awareness seeped further into your waking mind, you became acutely conscious of the presence beside you. An arm, strong and reassuring, draped across your middle, its weight a silent promise of protection. A leg, muscular and firm, intertwined with your own, anchoring you to this moment of peace. The thought of disrupting this tranquil intimacy, of stirring him from sleep and thus dissolving the delicate bubble of comfort you found yourself in, was unbearable. So, you settled back down, surrendering to the warmth, allowing yourself a moment more of this rare contentment.

However, reality was never far behind, its relentless march signaled by the crimson digits of the alarm clock on his bedside table. A quiet groan escaped your lips as you registered the time—6:30 a.m. The demands of the day loomed large, a reminder that the sanctuary you found in Billy's arms was but a temporary reprieve. School awaited, a stark return to the routines and expectations that defined your everyday life.

The fragile silence of the morning was shattered abruptly by the growl of an engine cutting through the calm, a harbinger of the chaos to come. The sound of car doors slamming, followed by the rise and fall of angry voices, punctured the tranquility of dawn. A woman's pleading tones, desperate for discretion, clashed with the male fury, an unwelcome intrusion into the peacefulness of the early hours. Footsteps, heavy and ominous, approached the house, the finality of the front door slamming open a jarring wake-up call.

In an instant, Billy was alert, his body tensing as he sat up, the sudden movement a stark contrast to the gentle stillness that had enveloped you moments before. The reality you had momentarily escaped was crashing back down with undeniable force, the impending confrontation a stark reminder of the world waiting beyond the haven of his room. You cursed under your breath, a sharp departure from the warmth and safety that had enveloped you just moments ago. The bed suddenly felt too large and cold as you distanced yourself, your presence—a constant source of comfort—receding with each step you took. Alarmed, you propped yourself up on your elbows, watching your silhouette navigate the dimly lit room. You paused at the door, an unmistakable tension in your posture as you strained to listen to the cacophony of voices and footsteps echoing through the house. It was a dance of shadows and sounds, one you knew all too well, having played the same game of anticipation and fear in your own life.

The voices crescendoed then waned, the storm outside your sanctuary dissipating momentarily. A male voice, harsh and demanding, cut through the relative calm, summoning you with a ferocity that made the air in the room heavier. You watched as the boy before you transformed, your body stiffening, every muscle coiling in dread. It was as if you could see the gears turning in your head, a frantic search for any misstep that could have incited this wrath.

"What's wrong?" Your voice was barely a whisper, a ripple in the tense atmosphere as you moved to join him. But his arm shot out, a barrier between you, a silent plea for you to keep your distance.

The impending confrontation burst into your room with the force of a storm. Your father, a tempest of anger, filled the doorway, his eyes wild, the veins in his neck bulging with every shouted word. His rage was palpable, a living entity that sought to crush everything in its path. And then his eyes found you. In that instant, the fury that had contorted his features melted away, replaced by a facade as thin and fragile as ice over a winter lake. It was a look you recognized, one your own father adopted in the presence of outsiders, a mask that barely concealed the storm raging beneath. His gaze flicked between you and Billy, a silent accusation in the shift of his eyes.

"I thought we agreed on no more... guests?" His voice, though softer, still carried the undercurrent of a threat. You remained silent, a statue in the eye of the storm, your resignation more telling than words could ever be. Your father straightened, adopting a veneer of civility that did nothing to ease the tension clawing at your insides.

"I'm sorry, but my son isn't allowed nightly visitors. Why don't you show your lady friend the door, hm?" The words were spoken with a superficial politeness that did nothing to mask the disdain and control that simmered beneath the surface. It was a moment suspended in time, a crossroads between the sanctuary of the night past and the harsh daylight reality of your present. Billy remained motionless, his gaze fixed unflinchingly on his father. The silence between them was heavy, laden with unspoken threats and long-standing grievances. It was in this tense tableau that he uttered your name, a sound so rarely heard in such a context that it jolted you. “Why don’t you get dressed?” His voice, though soft, carried an uncharacteristic gravity.

With a nod that was more reflex than conscious agreement, you skirted past the palpable tension in the room, escaping to the sanctuary of the bathroom where your clothes awaited, still bearing the chill of being slightly damp. Once enveloped in the privacy it offered, the murmur of voices beckoned you closer, curiosity and concern pressing you to eavesdrop.

“You’re gonna say goodbye to your whore and then you and I are going to have a talk,” you heard, the venom in the elder Hargrove’s voice unmistakable.

Billy’s reply was a shadow of his usual defiance, “She isn’t—”

“What was that?” The threat in his father’s voice was sharp, a warning that brooked no argument.

Unable to bear the thought of the situation escalating in your absence, you stepped back into the fray, positioning yourself as a physical barrier between Billy and his father. The air was electric with tension, a tangible force that seemed to test the very limits of endurance. Yet, your voice, when it came, was steady. “Billy, you promised to drive me home.”

“I’m sorry, but Billy can’t right now,” his father interjected smoothly, a sneer barely concealed beneath his veneer of civility.

“But I have no other way of getting home, sir,” you countered, meeting his gaze with a defiance born of necessity.

“I’m sure it’s close enough to walk. It’s Hawkins, after all,” he dismissed, his tone laced with condescension.

“See, sir, I live just outside of Hawkins, actually.” Your reply was calm, measured, even as you laid bare the stakes of the situation.

“Is that so?” His skepticism was palpable, a challenge thrown down between you.

“Yes, and Billy assured me he would take me home, otherwise I’ll miss school, sir.” Your words, carefully chosen, were a gambit, one that played on his momentary hesitation.

The standoff that followed was a testament to the complex web of power and defiance that characterized the Hargrove household. Eventually, he took a step back, conceding ground with visible reluctance. “Now, we can’t have that, can we?” His once-over was dismissive, reducing you to nothing more than a problem to be solved, a nuisance to be dispatched.

“We will talk when you get back,” he finally said to Billy, his words heavy with unspoken threats.

“I’ll have to drive straight to school after dropping her off, otherwise I’ll miss first period.” Billy’s response was a careful negotiation, a bid for time and a brief reprieve from the confrontation that awaited him. His father’s glare could have scorched the earth, a silent vow of retribution that hung in the air long after he had left the room. Billy closed the door with a quiet click, sealing off the outside world. He leaned against it, a solitary figure momentarily bowed by the weight of his father’s expectations. The sigh that escaped him was one of relief, a brief respite in the eye of an ever-present storm.

"Are you okay?" Your voice was laced with trepidation, the words barely a whisper in the charged atmosphere of the room. A part of you feared his anger, worried that your intervention might have only served to escalate the already volatile situation. Maybe, in his eyes, you were to blame for exacerbating the tension. He turned to face you, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that halted your breath. The silence that followed was thick, a tangible entity that seemed to pulse with your racing heart. When he remained motionless, the void of his response sent a spike of panic through you. "I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to make things worse. I should have stayed quiet—"

But before you could further berate yourself, his lips crashed against yours, an urgent, fierce motion that swept away the remnants of the confrontation like debris in a storm. His arms encircled you, pulling you into the eye of his tempest, while your hands found the solid wall of his chest, a grounding point amid the whirlwind. Billy's grin, felt rather than seen, infused the kiss with a defiance, a silent declaration that no force, no matter how daunting, could intrude upon this moment he claimed as solely yours. His hands shamelessly groped at your hips and behind, tongue dominating yours. You pulled away in desperate need for air, panting and dazed. Billy’s lips fell to your neck, sucking and licking at the saltiness of your skin. “You have no idea how much I want to fuck you right now.” Squeezing your ass again, he let go of you and, with one last kiss, went to get dressed.

You found yourself adrift in the center of his room, each breath a testament to the whirlwind of emotions that had carried you from silence to this uncharted territory. How, you pondered, had the distance between you closed so swiftly, transforming into an intimacy that left you both breathless and bewildered?

Moments later, the bathroom door swung open, revealing Billy. His readiness was astonishing, his preparation swift beyond anticipation. With a nonchalant ease, he emerged, the very image of casual confidence. "Come on, Sweetheart, let's the hell outta here," he beckoned, his voice a mix of warmth and urgency. Grasping your hand, he guided you towards the promise of freedom beyond these walls. Yet, as fate would have it, his father's voice shattered the brief illusion of escape, calling out to him once more. Instantly, you felt the change in Billy, a tension coiling within him, visible in the rigid set of his shoulders. He closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, a silent plea for respite, an attempt to shield his spirit from the weight of reality. Casting a fleeting, half-hearted glance your way, his fingers slipped from yours, leaving a cold absence in their wake as he turned to face whatever storm awaited him.

Left in limbo near the front door, you strained your ears, hoping to catch a fragment of the exchange, but silence was your only companion. With a soft sigh of resignation, you turned your gaze outward, taking in the Hargrove residence bathed in the soft glow of morning light, nestled among the uniformity of Cherry Lane, Hawkins, Indiana.

The neighborhood was a palette of similarity, each house a variation on a theme, distinguished only by the creativity or neglect of its occupants. Some lawns bore the scars of a relentless summer, patches of grass striving towards life amidst the drought, while others lay untamed, a testament to indifference. The Hargrove's lawn, though touched by the season's harshness, was neatly trimmed, a small rebellion against the decay. The path leading to their home was worn, stones cracked and yielding to time, yet adorned with recent attempts at beauty—flowers and bushes planted with hope at their edges.

It was a scene markedly different from the chaos of the trailer park, where the dance of avoidance was a daily routine—sidestepping the debris of forgotten nights and broken dreams. Here, in the relative tranquility of Billy's world, such hazards were absent, a small mercy in the grand tapestry of his life. When Billy reappeared, his stormy demeanor spoke volumes before a word was uttered. The disheveled state of his collar hinted at a confrontation, a silent testament to his father's harsh grasp. He breezed past you, the air crackling with the tension that followed him, his gaze barely grazing yours. You trailed behind, a frown etching your features, though you kept your thoughts to yourself. Settling into the passenger seat of his Camaro, you fastened the seatbelt, a silent barrier between you and the world outside. The cozy sanctuary that had briefly cocooned you both seemed to dissolve into the ether, leaving a palpable distance. Billy had begun to wall himself off once more, retreating from the fragile bridge of intimacy that had been tentatively constructed between you. His words echoed hollowly in the cramped space of the car.

‘Searching for shit goes so much faster if you do it together.’

The Camaro's engine roared to life, its vibrancy a stark contrast to the quiet turmoil unfolding within. Your lips pressed tightly together, trying to hold back the surge of emotions that threatened to overwhelm you. The sharp pang of regret and what-ifs punctured your heart with relentless precision. Had Billy not halted his advances, you might have found solace in his arms, seduced by the illusion of safety he offered. Alone, you might have scoffed at your own gullibility, labeling it as sheer desperation or foolishness. Yet, it was Billy's words that had resonated so deeply with you, mirroring the silent pleas that had haunted your thoughts for far too long. The desire to escape the solitude that clung to you like a second skin was overpowering. You yearned for something more, something profound to anchor you to this world, beyond the fleeting dream of liberation that the future promised. You sought a connection that bore significance, a beacon to guide you through the shadowed corridors of your existence. With the final stretch of senior year unfurling before you, the promise of college lingered on the horizon, a beacon of hope that signaled a departure from the shadows of your past. It was a chance to shed the oppressive weight of your father's legacy, to carve out a space in the world where his influence couldn't reach. You clung to this future with a desperation that was silent yet palpable, the prospect of freedom a balm to the wounds of your upbringing.

Billy, however, wasn't afforded the luxury of such dreams. The grim reality of his situation was a constant companion, a reminder that not all paths led away from hardship. College, a beacon for some, remained a distant, unattainable star for him. Influenced by the harsh criticisms that had echoed from his father's lips, he had internalized a belief in his own inadequacy. Education, a potential key to unlocking doors to a brighter future, held little allure for someone who had been taught to expect nothing from life. Instead, Billy had embraced a different kind of dream—a painstaking accumulation of savings with the hope of one day returning to California, to start anew on terms of his own making.

Yet, a shadow lurked in the recesses of his mind, a specter of doubt that cast long, dark silhouettes across his aspirations. On some days, it was but a whisper, easily ignored. On others, it roared to life, a cruel reminder that perhaps his dreams were just that—figments of wishful thinking, doomed to remain unfulfilled.

The journey to your trailer park passed in silence, each lost in their own reverie. As Billy's car rolled to a halt, you murmured a terse ‘bye’ and exited, the finality of the gesture marking the end of an era. Retrieving your spare key from its hiding spot beneath an empty vase, you slipped inside, intent on changing clothes and gathering your belongings. You assumed Billy would have driven off by then, his presence a chapter closed as abruptly as it had opened.

However, upon emerging from your room, you found him rooted in place in the heart of your kitchen, his gaze transfixed by something beyond the window. The sight of him, so unexpectedly still and contemplative, caught you off guard. In that moment, the kitchen—a space so familiar and yet suddenly imbued with a new, unspoken significance—became a silent witness to the complexities of connection and the quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, some dreams refuse to be confined by the shadows that chase them. In the fading light of the afternoon, the question hung in the air, heavy and unexpected, "Doesn't that one drug dealer live around here?" It was an innocuous inquiry, perhaps, but in the context of your shared silence, it felt charged with an undercurrent of concern.

Billy's presence, both imposing and unexpectedly comforting, loomed beside you, a steadfast figure in the shifting sands of your tumultuous life. Your voice, laced with a hint of surprise at its own firmness, broke the stillness. "Why are you still here?" The question was more than just words; it was an expression of the myriad emotions swirling within you, a mix of confusion, desperation, and a fragile glimmer of hope.

He seemed taken aback, as if your tone had shattered an invisible barrier between you. The moment stretched, filled with an unspoken tension that danced in the air, palpable yet elusive. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a warmth, a promise, "I thought I had made myself clear, Sweetheart. I'm not gonna put you up to that shit alone anymore." His words, sincere and unwavering, offered a beacon of solidarity in the chaos that had become your existence.

You found yourself at a crossroads, teetering between skepticism and the yearning to believe in the possibility of an ally. It was a delicate balance, the choice to trust, to lean into the uncertainty rather than retreat into the familiar embrace of solitude. With a quiet resolve, you chose hope over despair. "Let's get out of here," you agreed, stepping into a future uncertain yet suddenly less daunting with Billy by your side.

The journey to Hawkins High was a study in contrasts, the roar of Billy's Camaro slicing through the quiet streets, a herald of change. Anxiety gnawed at you, the prospect of walking into school with Billy Hargrove by your side—a notion so fraught with implications, real and imagined. His presence was a double-edged sword, offering protection yet drawing attention, the weight of countless eyes a tangible pressure against your skin.

Yet, as you emerged from the car, Billy's protective aura enveloped you, his glares warding off the curious and the judgmental alike. He became your shield, a guardian against the world's harsh judgments, his reluctance to leave your side a testament to a burgeoning bond, forged in adversity and softened in moments of shared vulnerability.

The day passed in a blur, the rhythm of school life punctuated by Billy's steadfast companionship, a promise kept. And when the final bell rang, it was his car that awaited, Max in the backseat, a silent acknowledgment of the shifting dynamics of your intertwined lives.

The drive home was a brief interlude, a moment of calm before the next chapter. Billy's insistence on ensuring your safety, his promise to meet at the Hawkins Community Pool, was a new thread in the tapestry of your unfolding story.

…

The pool, a place of childhood traumas and lost innocence, loomed large in your memories. Yet, as you drove towards it, the realization that Billy had carved out a space for himself there, as a lifeguard, offered a glimpse into his own attempts at navigating life's turbulent waters. The parking lot was deserted, save for the familiar silhouette of Billy's Camaro. The unlocked gate stood as an invitation, a threshold to cross into a space that was both familiar and fraught with the echoes of past fears.

Yet, in this moment, it was not the specter of childhood bullies that filled your thoughts but the prospect of standing beside Billy in this quiet, abandoned sanctuary. It was an opportunity to redefine the spaces that had once defined you, to reclaim a piece of yourself in the company of someone who was, against all odds, becoming an integral part of your journey. As you navigated through the dimly lit gates, the air hung heavy with the anticipation of the evening. Your voice, laced with a mix of irritation and playful defiance, cut through the quiet, "Billy?" The words fell into the silence, unanswered, as you moved deeper into the shadowy expanse of the pool area. The setting sun cast a soft, yellowish hue over everything, the lights around the pool flickering to life in a welcoming yet eerie glow.

Again, you called out, a whisper tinged with exasperation. "Billy?" It seemed ridiculous, this cat-and-mouse game, and yet, there was a part of you that couldn't deny the thrill of the chase. Your footsteps echoed against the concrete as you approached the locker rooms, the sound a solitary reminder of your presence in the vast, empty space. With a mix of annoyance and determination, you halted, the frustration evident in your voice as you threatened the unseen presence of Billy Hargrove with playful retribution. “Billy Hargrove, you had better get your butt out here now, or imma kick it when I see it.” No sooner had the words left your lips than you found yourself abruptly pulled backward, a gasp escaping you as you collided with a solid, reassuringly warm chest.

"Damn, Sweetheart," came Billy's hushed voice, a smile evident in its timbre, sending shivers down your spine. "Didn’t know you would be so violent."

The annoyance you felt dissolved into an electrifying tension as you turned within his grasp, your gaze lifting to meet his. The grin adorning his face was infectious, his fingers gently brushing away a stray lock of hair from your forehead with an intimacy that set your heart racing. There he was, inches away, the warmth of his breath caressing your cheek in the cool air of the locker room. The proximity was intoxicating, a mere tilt of your head away from a kiss that seemed both inevitable and yet delicately suspended in the space between you.

You stood there, caught in his gaze, the world outside the locker room melting away. The anticipation was palpable, a tangible force that seemed to draw you closer without moving. It was a dance of moments and possibilities, each second stretching out as you waited for him to bridge the final distance.

In the soft, flickering light, the realization dawned on you how swiftly and completely Billy Hargrove had ensnared you, his presence alone enough to tilt your world off its axis. And there, in the silence that enveloped you both, you wondered if he too felt the gravity of this moment, this turning point that seemed poised to redefine everything. His hand, a warm presence against your skin, retreated, leaving a cool trail of longing in its wake. As he stepped back, the absence of his touch was immediate and stark, a silent protest forming in the back of your mind, yearning for the connection you were on the cusp of deepening. You watched him, a mix of emotions swirling within you. The situation had spiraled into a realm of the ridiculous—a term that barely scratched the surface of this intricate dance you both found yourselves entangled in.

"What are we doing here, Billy? It's still way too cold to go swimming." Your voice carried a hint of bewilderment, laced with a curiosity that refused to be quelled.

His response came with that signature grin, a look that promised mischief and excitement in equal measure. "Who said anything about hopping into the pool, Sweetheart?" The question hung between you, playful and inviting. As he pulled you along, a sense of adventure bubbled within you, despite the confusion that furrowed your brow.

The sauna loomed ahead, a promise of warmth and perhaps something more—an intimacy yet explored. Billy's excitement was palpable, his enthusiasm for the job and its perks infectious. "Since I'm going to be working here, I thought I'd show you what kind of privileges you could have over the summer."

"Privileges I could have?" The concept seemed foreign, amusing even. A sauna, of all things, wasn't exactly on your list of desired amenities. The skepticism must have been clear upon your face as you questioned the appeal, the idea of sweating in a small room hardly enticing.

"You'll see what I'm talking about," he assured you, his confidence unwavering.

As he opened the door to the sauna, a wave of heat greeted you, enveloping your senses in a cocoon of warmth that was surprisingly welcoming. The wood-paneled room, with its benches lining the walls and the gentle hum of heat radiating from the stones, offered a retreat from the world outside. It was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where the chaos of daily life could not penetrate.

Billy's hand found yours once again, his touch grounding as he led you inside. The door closed behind you with a soft click, sealing you both in this haven of warmth and whispered promises. As you took a seat, the heat began to work its magic, loosening muscles and easing tensions you hadn't even realized you carried.

The air, thick with warmth, seemed to draw you both closer, an unspoken invitation to explore the connection that had been building between you. Here, in the seclusion of the sauna, the rest of the world fell away, leaving only the two of you in a space where time seemed to slow, where every breath and heartbeat felt magnified.

Billy's gaze met yours, a question lingering in the depth of his eyes, a silent query if you were ready to dive into the unknown together. In that moment, the sauna became more than just a room—it became a crucible for whatever was simmering between you, a place where the heat wasn't just physical but emotional, a catalyst for desires and confessions yet unspoken.

The air vibrated with anticipation, each moment stretching, filled with the promise of revelations and a closeness that went beyond the physical. In the dim light and enveloping warmth of the sauna, you realized that this wasn't just about the privileges of summer or the novelty of a new experience. It was about discovering each other, about unraveling the layers of connection that had drawn you together.

Pent-up was merely one of many ways to describe what you were feeling, with his fingers dancing beneath your shirt and withdrawing as quickly as they had come—a teasing grin on his face, making you aware that Billy knew exactly of the effect he had on you. “You’re such an asshole, you know?” You hissed, frown deepening as he pulled his shirt over his head and put it down on the bench, using it to sit on.

He chuckled lowly, hands threading through his wild locks, tongue running over the sharp edges of his teeth. “’C’mere,” he simply stated, fingers moving in a lazy motion to accompany his words. You hesitated for a second, lips catching between your teeth as you moved forward and into his grasp. “You gotta be so hot, Sweetheart,” he started, fingers already working at removing your top. “Let’s take this off, hm?”

Words vanishing from your lips, just as quick as your common sense, you nodded, letting him pull the shirt over your head. You didn’t know where it ended up, didn’t—couldn’t—care when his hands started unbuttoning your pants with swift movements. The loose article of clothing fell from your form and Billy’s hands instantly went forward, grasping your thighs and pulling you closer. He groaned greedily, fingers digging deeper into your flesh as he nosed along your stomach and the line of your panties. There was an incessant fluttering in your stomach as his tongue slowly slid from your naval lower.

 “Billy,” you breathed, eyes fluttering shot, as his teeth pulled on the fabric of your panties, your hands falling to his broad shoulders.

“Yeah, Sweetheart?” He mused, fingers sliding to the sides of your panties, before hooking his thumbs in the cotton. Flashing a grin up to your dizzy frame, he started pulling the fabric down your legs. “S’there something you wanna ask me, baby?” You shook your head in answer, swallowing heavily as you felt the cotton drop at your feet. “Had me so hard the whole day,” he groaned, pressing a sudden kiss to your core and you went rigid in anticipation. Heat gathered low in your stomach, down to your unsatisfied center.

“Kept thinking ‘bout pulling you into the locker room and fucking you stupid.” At the moan that tumbled from your throat, a dark chuckle fell from his lips. “Yeah, you’d have liked that, Sweetheart, ain’t that right?”

You whispered again, “Billy,” you tone edged with want.

“Hm?” He hummed, raising a casual brow at you as though his fingers weren’t trailing along the seams of your core. Even if he seemed utterly unaffected by the moment, you noticed the slight shift in his hips, as he adjusted himself. You forced yourself to swallow, eyes straying to the hardening bulge in his tight jeans. So terribly affected by only the thought of him, another rush of heat slithered to the pit of your stomach and lower. “C’mere here,” Billy said again, leading you onto his thigh with a quiet wickedness that set your chest aflame. He chuckled at your hesitance as you slowly settled on his thigh, the pressure against your core immediately pulling a whimper from you. His rough hand slid back to your hips, gripping tightly as the other one found your neck and brought your lips to his.

Sweat was leisurely building at the nape of your neck, a result of not only the sauna’s heat but Billy’s unhinged action, as he started to move you on his thigh. You nestled your head into the crook of his neck with a low moan, desire overshadowing your humiliation as you started to follow the pressure of his hand. Your head was starting to float with pleasure when Billy lifted his leg a little, the rough material of his jeans hitting your small bundle of nerves. A whimper slipped from your lips and onto Billy’s glistening skin. His thigh beneath your core felt so thick and sturdy, as he was whispering words so terribly vile they shook your being. One of his palms snapped harshly against the bared skin of your ass, the slap echoing in the small confinement of the sauna.

“Look at you,” Billy cooed, moving you back on his thigh before he jerked you back forward, your chest flush again his as he held you still. “Making such a mess for me, Sweetheart.” With a particularly hard grin of your hips, you felt his bulge pressing into the side of your thigh, straining beneath the blue fabric of his jeans. You whimpered at the feeling, the graze pushing a low groan from Billy’s reddened lips. Trying to move again against his thigh, his arm gripped you closer against him, a broad grin flashing at the needy whine that came from you in response. “Tell me what you need, Sweetheart,” he hushed in such a sinister tone, the devil couldn’t have said it any sweeter.

“You,” you said with no second of hesitation. It wasn’t just an admission of the desire lingering in your core, but a promise of not wanting to fight the world alone anymore. You had done it long enough, both of you.

#billy hargove smut #billy hargrove x y/n #billy hargrove smut #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove #billy hargove x reader #stranger things #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson

[garpond]

if i had a great skill for making music and writing songs, i would endeavor to work myself into a position where i could create a piece of work that went viral on tiktok via a hit breakthrough track and garnered a large cult following of people who appreciate my 'singer songwriter aesthetic' and flair for thought provoking and unique lyrics. when said album came out it would be presented as a concept album with minimal information from me, but despite this, people would launch into it with their own interpretations; it would sell a lot of vinyl, people would start using the songs as sad audios about stuff like their best friend drifting away from them or their grandma dying or etc, there would be a trend of making OC or fandom animatics with one of the more popular audios that ffans of the music found absolutely obnoxious, people who'd listened since my humble beginnings would lament my sudden popularity, etc. but this album would endure, it would still be widely listened to and talked about among certain genres of human for many years. lots of speculation online about what the plot of the so called concept album is. i dont give them a lot of information to work with. i kinda dance around the question in interviews, i'm like, "oh you know i was just testing my storytelling skills here, i was just spinning yarns, it's personal to me but it's also not about me at all, use your imagination <3 i love hearing what you guys have to say about my work." so after a while it's taken for granted that we'll never know what I meant, and that's intentional. it's for the audience to interpret, to fit into the mold of their own lives. ten years later, i release an anniversary edition, to much social media celebration; i'm mentioned in hundreds of posts of people sharing their very personal connection with it. and a few ask me what my inspiration was, but i don't answer. nobody can answer. it's about everything and it's about nothing, and they will never, ever know that it's a long-form piece of RPF about Neil Young and Stephen Stills in musical form

[aeternallis]

The Third Song / Why Kim chose to rewrite Chay’s first song 

So one day, I was thinking about what happened to that song Kim was working on in episode 9. 🤔 The tune Kim strums and vocalizes to is pretty catchy, and so I also wondered about how we don’t get a lot of scenes of Kim’s creative process with his music in general, yknow?

I have a fic idea about this subject in the works also, so I figured I may as well write a meta too to get my thoughts in order. Haha!

But before I go on and start ranting, for the sake of this meta I think it’s important to establish the level of fame Wik already has by the start of the show. Admittedly, it’s quite difficult to do this since Kim’s persona of Wik hardly makes an appearance, and the show didn’t necessarily focus on Kim’s life as a celebrity. But from the minimal amount of clues, I think it’s okay to make an educated guess. 

From Chay’s shrine, we know that Kim has done at least one photoshoot with GQ (if memory serves me correctly), and a number of smaller publications. So he’s gotten some exposure already; his fame isn’t limited to the internet, in other words. Due to this, it’s most likely he does have a PR team of some sort, by virtue of being a public figure and most likely because he’s an heir to the Theerapanyakuls’ (very public) business empire. There’s no way Kim can afford to remain a private citizen, not only due to the notoriety of his family, but as well as his own celebrity status. 

Incidentally however, it’s also hard to look at the crowd size in the university during Kimchay’s first meeting as an indicator of his fame, because I imagine the school would have had to make it very clear to the staff that the performance was for prospective students only and perhaps have prevented non-students from entering the grounds to see his impromptu show. Furthermore, according to the trivia session at the time, he’s also starred in a number of MVs, and we know he has a recording studio of his own. 

Yet still, Ohm is not aware of who he is, and if we give Ohm the metaphorical role of being the outsider to all this, it would seem Kim’s fame is also somewhat contained. This being the case, I don’t think it’s unreasonable to say that Kim is also most likely under a label as an indie artist, since I feel like he does not yet have enough clout that he can move to build his career independently. 

So if I were to take a gander at Kim's fame, I would probably say it’s at the level of Jeff Satur’s just before he made his official announcement of leaving BOC–rising fame to come close to reaching national stardom, but not just yet to say he’s a true international (or even regional) star. 

(Arguably, one can also say that a good chunk of his fame is his good looks, but that’s a different meta altogether, lol)

Having established his level of fame for this rant, now I can maybe make a gander at tackling his creative/thought process. XD 

By the time we’ve reached past the midway point of the show, the audience sees that despite the level of success he’s achieved so far in his career as a musician, Kim is currently in a bit of a creative rut / writer’s block.

We see perhaps a hint of it in episode 4 when he’s just nonchalantly strumming his guitar off camera before Big hands him Porsche’s bodyguard application, but we don’t see it explicitly until episode 9, when he’s visibly frustrated by the WIP song he’s trying to figure out:

So by this point, there’s technically two completed songs between him and Chay, as well as a WIP song that he was struggling with. For reference, I’ll refer to the songs between them as follows: 1stver.WDYS (ep 5), TSiCY (ep 8), Kim’s WIP song (ep 9), and Finalver.WDYS (ep 14). 

So knowing that Kim’s WIP song was partly inspired by Chay, knowing that Kim currently had a song in the works, why did he not choose this WIP song to sing to Chay in their final scene together? Why did he choose to rework Chay’s 1stver.WDYS to become his (Kim’s) Finalver.WDYS, when he already had a song up in his sleeve that was different from the other two? 

Why choose to re-write one of Chay’s songs, rather than use one of his own? 

Thematically and for their relationship, choosing to re-write 1stver.WDYS makes perfect sense. This is the song that holds the most weight between them, because it was the very first one they had worked on together (kinda, lol). It carries with it a powerful sense of nostalgia, of simpler times, and it’s a symbol of all that had been between them before everything fell apart.

Furthermore, Kim came into Chay’s life at a time when Chay had been vulnerable and very much alone. In a way, WDYS–both its first version and final version–is symbolic of Chay’s and Kim’s own narrative journeys, of their respective worlds expanding beyond just the simple (yet also very complicated) existence they’d been living up until that point, into allowing one another into their hearts. The yearning within Finalver!WDYS’s lyrics can apply to both Kim and Chay, which makes it all the more resonate with the audience. 

Yet still, this is only partly the point of view of the audience, not necessarily of Kim himself (although there is some overlap). 

So what would have been Kim’s thought process when he’d decided to rewrite 1stverWDYS? How would he have ultimately decided to willingly choose to steal from Chay? 

After all, Kim is a musician, an artist. One who is starting to grow exponentially in fame, but also one who does take his craft very seriously. Being as Kim is an artist, he would know more than anyone what it means to have artistic integrity in his field. Especially with how the music industry is nowadays, I would imagine that Kim is the type to do whatever he could to stand out, but not so much that he would be the sort to just copy someone else’s style. He has his pride, for one, and he wouldn’t have garnered fame the way he did had he been in the habit of copying. 

On top of that, it's not hard to see that music is very much personal to Kim; it's an alternative avenue for him to express himself and his thoughts and feelings.

In the end, the way I personally see it, Kim choosing to rewrite 1stver.WDYS was very much a calculated move, designed to break through Chay’s defenses, to illustrate his intent in getting Chay back, and what he’s willing to sacrifice and do in order to do just that. 

Nostalgia - This is the first song they ever worked on in the studio, and at least for Chay, carries significant weight emotionally. It’s a song initially about Porsche, and the impact he’s had on Chay’s life. Knowing that this song means so much to Chay, I don’t think Kim is above using that emotional significance and turning it on its head to change the meaning of the song: from Porsche’s influence in Chay’s life to Chay’s influence in Kim’s life, in order to bring Chay’s guard down.  (Sidenote: In a way, WDYS carries more weight than TSiCY ever did, even if that's the song that was meant to express Chay's feelings for Kim. TSiCY was straightforward, and accomplished what Chay set out to do: complete the homework Kim gave him, and express his feelings to his idol while he was at it.) During their final scene in episode 14, there’s hints that it's the first time Kim reaches out to Chay in a month, if not the first time Kim has reached out to him in this specific manner. If Kim has any hope of capturing Chay’s attention as soon as he catches him off guard and he clicks on that video link, Kim has to be able to not only grab Chay’s attention right off the bat, but also keep it. What better way to hold Chay’s attention than to serenade back to him the first song he ever wrote? When Kim chose to rewrite 1stver.WDYS, it wasn���t necessarily to impress Chay, but to grab hold of his attention with the least possible chance of Chay closing out the video and turning his attention elsewhere. 

Intent to show Chay that he wants him romantically - This is pretty straightforward, looking at the Thai version of the song, and its translation (Ex: Just you, just having you, no matter what. A world without stars but the two of us will move forward). It’s a song about yearning, of wanting Chay back in his life, of how much Kim has missed him.  Per Jeffy himself, WDYS is a love song. (credit to IYSmomo on Twitter for that translation!)

Sure, his delivery of the song in the video makes it sound like an apology, perhaps, but ultimately, WDYS is a love song–a most selfish one at that, and within the context of that final scene between them, also highlights Kim’s nature as a Theerapanyakul. This boy easily throws away integrity over his shoulder to tell Chay he’s in love with him. Lol If that isn’t in keeping with family tradition, I don’t know what does~  Could Finalver!WDYS act as an apology? Does Kim regret his treatment of Chay? Meh, debatable imo, considering his deception was meant to safeguard his family and figure out the mysterious circumstances surrounding Porsche’s swift employment. Sure, there’s definitely guilt, but regret? That’s up for interpretation. 

Intent to show Chay what he’s willing to give up - Oddly enough, Kim is completely honest with Chay only twice in the show: the first time they meet, as well as their final scene together. By the time Kim sends him the video link, the mask Kim wears as Wik has been completely discarded. It’s a bold and risky choice to get rid of this mask, even temporarily, because this is the armor Kim has in his sleeve that separates his life away from the mafia. And he does get rid of it, not only because he singles out Chay in that video, but by appropriating Chay’s song in the first place, had Chay been a lot more vindictive than what his disposition allows, this is incriminating evidence of his theft. Lol  But getting back on point: Wik is Kim’s livelihood outside of the mafia. Without this mask, is it even still possible for him to operate outside the mafia? It’s a dramatic question, but I think a legitimate one, considering he’s put quite a bit of stock and time in perfecting it, to the point he’s close to reaching national stardom.  Yet still, he gets rid of that mask when he sings to Chay of his feelings. At the very least, for Chay, he’s willing to drop that armor altogether to tell him he’s in love with him. It’s a powerful statement, and imo, shows the depth of his feelings for Chay, in that he’s willing to sacrifice it entirely, if it would mean being with him.

Writer’s Block / Chay is Kim’s muse – Of course, I don’t think we can dismiss the fact that Kim was going through a bit of a creative block during the time we see him in the show. Perhaps we can say that part of the reason Kim chose to rewrite 1stver.WDYS is because he couldn’t think of anything else. Lol Thinking of Chay was able to get him out of the block in episode nine, and he was able to figure out the chords for the WIP song. Chay is definitely a muse and a source of inspiration for Kim. Yet still, I don’t want to be too hasty in making the leap in logic that he couldn’t think of anything else, since we don’t see him past the point after he sings Finalver.!WDYS to Chay. We don’t know whether he continues to struggle with his creative block, or if he manages to get past it (especially for when he and Chay get back together--//hits).

Ultimately, Kim’s gamble to repurpose Chay’s song about Porsche–although he doesn’t know it just yet–works greatly in his favor, judging by Chay’s reaction in the end: Chay not only watches the video all the way through, he’s unable to click “Delete” right away, unlike the other times, when he’d blocked Kim without hesitation. 

The fact that Kim can make that decision to take Chay’s song to use it for his own purposes, the fact that Chay can listen to his own song that’s been stolen and repurposed, only goes to show that at the end of it all, they’re still very much wrapped around each other’s fingers.

#kimchay #kinnporsche #kinnporsche the series #meta #meta post #meta rant

[waywardsummoner46]

Eternity: Prologue

Pairing: Dark!Morpheus x (?)Reader

Summary: You should’ve known that running from your past would be your downfall… you just never would’ve imagined it’d land you right into the waiting arms of an Endless, one that’s been searching for you for eons. he may be trapped for now, but your new job at Fawny Rig may just be the solution for that. Heed the warnings: you took something from him and now he must consume you for himself…

Word Count: 619

Warnings: mind manipulation/control, possessive and obsessive behaviour, more to added with more chapters

A/N: I need to quit starting new series when I haven’t even finished one yet but here we are. This will progressively get darker and more intense as more chapters are written so beware. As always, I hope you’re alright and let me know what you think!

Strolling through a forest this late at night seemed to be a very bad idea… to most.

To you, on the other hand, you thrived and revelled in the peace of the night and mystery of the forest. It had become your safe haven ever since… well, no need to dwell on it.

The crunch of the leaves underneath your bare feet and the sound of your quiet breath were what echoed throughout the otherwise quiet night. Your only audience being the nature encompassing you and the stars that gazed down on you.

You continued to walk calmly through the trees, only stopping once you’d found a wide enough perch for you to mirror the stars’ inquisitive gaze. How does one describe the stars? There’s too much to say; you can’t decide to focus on their intricate beauty or their intense shine in the night sky.

After a while of merely admiring the stars, you heard the caw of a bird and your head darted in its direction. “Hello, little raven,” you whispered to it. The bird cawed once more.

“Care to join me?”

The raven shuffled closer to you tentatively, almost as though it was afraid of you - something you had to remedy immediately. “There’s no need to be frightened, little one. I won’t hurt you, come, sit on my shoulder.”

Obliging you, the bird carefully flew to your shoulder and curled its feet into your shoulder, appreciative of their sharpness.

Silence once again sat heavily through the night, a welcome, blanketed atmosphere. Just you and the raven and the stars.

… It began as a small, nagging feeling. Like an itch, ever persistent yet never in reach to dispel. Then it grew into something more, something akin to shivers running up and down your spine and when the feeling reached its climax, it was too late.

You finally understood why the stars felt like they were gazing down at you: they were. Eyes the size of planets dominated the skylight.

Then the stars started to move. To shrink into a constellation of a man who now stood in front of you. His pale hand was outstretched from his long, black, rich robes and his handsome and stern features were drawn into an intense look… a look that was directed at you.

The realisation that you could be in danger beyond your comprehension is what inspired you to do it. Stupid though it may be, you too cautious steps towards the ethereal being in front of you with your own hand waiting to touch his.

When your fingers nearly grazed his, he raised his head minimally and a delicate eyebrow rose song with the anxious parting of his lips. What would happen when you touched his hand? What did he want? Who was he?

You were in some sort of a trance. Indistinguishable whispers overwhelmed your hearing and the hand in front of you drew you in for an unknown reason. The raven was now on the being’s shoulder rather than your own but something told you that he was as transfixed as you were.

“Take my hand, my love, and allow me to care for you… for eternity.”

Eternity sounded nice… you reached to finally grasp his hand and when you did-

“(Y/N)! YOU’RE LATE FOR YOUR NEW JOB!”

You jolted up and with wide eyes (and a tingling palm), whispered, “Fuck”. Fawny Rig was your only chance to get away, you can’t lose it.

After speed-running your morning routine and shouting a goodbye to your roommate, you gave one last look at your itching palm before you caught a taxi for your new future, not knowing that the danger was even closer than ever before…

#morpheus x reader #morpheus #the sandman x reader #the sandman #dream of the endless x reader #dream x reader #dark!morpheus x reader #dark!morpheus

[pan-magi]

*posts random rukh thoughts over a month late b/c I forgot about it*

Are the rukh an actual light source? The things my mind gets stuck on repeatedly while working on shit.

The answer would appear to be yes. This is shown when there is enough gathered at one place, usually in a relation with one of the magi using enough magic and producing magoi at a rate to be visible to everyone who can't usually see them. With the exception of Judar, but I'll get to black rukh in a minute. This is usually conveyed through light even if the surroundings are dim. The first time Aladdin is seen really going off is one such occurrence.

I keep thinking to myself. How does rukh produce light when magi using magic isn't involved? Do magicians constantly see hundreds, thousands, of light sources no one else can see? Or is the light so minimal it doesn't make a difference? I like to know what light sources I'm dealing with.

The closest we get for this is with Baba. She sees the world directly through rukh; it is her source of sight. Though tbf, the anime doesn't really touch on her being blind outside of her interaction with rukh. The manga is only a little clearer. Point being, light source or not, it is a way to see and experience the world.

Does that mean that it acts as a sort of passive night vision outside of Baba? Who knows. The one time I can think of an example is that while exploring the fifth district there isn't much light shown outside of some lanterns and dim lights, but Aladdin, Titus and Sphintus don't seem to have much trouble. Meanwhile, Marga and the rest of the citizens there are used to the level of light and don't work really as a control group. So I dunno.

The other conclusion is that it's not the rukh that produce the light. It comes from the magoi that they produce. When Judar explains the magic system to Aladdin (imo, a condescending smartass doing an exposition dump is a surprisingly effective way to deliver information to the audience in a quick manner), he produces magoi to deliver his point. It acts as a bright beacon that everyone reacts to and sees, especially when Judar starts attacking people with it.

I don't really have concluding thoughts on this. It's more of a ramble dump. Good place as any to switch to talk about black rukh.

I kinda dislike in the anime that black rukh is also shown to produce light. A dim purple light typically, but a light nonetheless. One of the reasons I think of to why is so that each is distinguishable in a way. That a mass of black rukh isn't shown to be a massive black blob and nothing else.

(left about normal, right darkened slightly to show point of black blob)

It isn't how I ever imagined them to be though.

I'll end this on a headcanon of mine. I always thought it made more sense for the black rukh to absorb light or at the very least cast a massive shadow. The first impression Aladdin gets from seeing Judar is describing him like a black sun. What would be the cause for someone to come to that conclusion? Mine was that the overwhelming amount of black rukh from Judar would be a blot of darkness until Aladdin can focus on him properly. If it is only dozens of black birds surrounding the guy the description will be less extreme.

An eclipse (what I can attribute to being like a black sun, outside of blackhole) doesn't just cast ordinary shadows. It is putting out the main light source of the planet. It isn't a cloudy day, a storm, or night time during a new moon: the closest other comparison. The darkness of an eclipse hits different. Plus, when Aladdin gets memories about the fall of Alma Tran the sun there looks like it is permanently eclipsed. That's the quickest shorthand to show that it is nothing but darkness all the time.

Anyway, that is how I see Judar and the black rukh in general. They are opposites and out of spite literally and metaphorically counteracts the light from the white rukh.

Yup, no closing thoughts. Thanks for reading this word vomit if you did!

#magi #i wrote did photo edits and then completely forgot about this #uh so have a random post over a month and a half late i guess #magi: the labyrinth of magic #magi labyrinth of magic #includes photo edit #long post #i wanted to get edit of alma tran in there to show final point but just now thought about it #this has been sitting in my drafts for way too long anyway

[echoinghowls]

Why Dream has a healthier fanbase than JSchlatt: and why that sentence can never be true.

Continued beneath the cut...

Reason 1

Dream can't tell his audience "no".

This isn't completely true, I'll admit. He's very good about calling his audience off of his friends, and minimizing damage caused by his fanbase.

However, what I am talking about is the reason they have to be called off in the first place.

Dream has said yes to/ allowed:

Shipping between himself and friends

Smut (of him and his friends)

Fans (after his face reveal) to post his face/ make it their pfp

People to dedicate their entire life and personality to him

Basically, Dream just REALLY needs to set some boundaries. Of course it doesn't have to be a lot, having a super big/ active fandom must be fun (if a little scary)! BUT some healthy boundaries could be:

No Smut (people will make it anyways with shipping. at least someone won't show up IN REAL LIFE wearing a shirt of him FUCKING HIS BEST FRIEND)

Don't buy the L'Manburg flag (not only is it merch that all of the people of l'manburg could have sold together, but when people are treating it as another pride flag I think that's too far. ((Think of how a "Classic American" who loves the American flag thinks/ feels and multiply it by at least 10. that is how some of these fans are.)))

After his face reveal, ask people not to plaster his face everywhere. He didn't show it at first for his own reasons, and I can't imagine what it was like going from nothing to it being everywhere at once. That had to be overwhelming, and yet as far as I'm aware he said nothing.

Not everything he says is true! DEAR GOD!! People need to stop treating everything he says like it's religion!!!! Like, he's a great guy and a good content creator but seriously!!! Let him make a joke sometimes!!

Irl and Online are seperate things. I feel like Dream's fans aren't aware of that?? Like, Dream only shows you what he want's you to see. Like in his face reveal video, he sat at an angle the entire time. For no reason other than that was probably how he liked it the most! Because he didn't want to show us his other angles yet! And his videos? edited. shit cut out that he thought might offend people/ hurt people's feelings, or most likely because it was boring. Can you imagine how differently you would view him if you hung out with him as just another person? Imagine meeting Dream irl before the face reveal, and you don't know it's him and you guys spend a day together. You would probably not like him as much as you do online!! Because it's a persona!! Because it is so incredibly toxic to put every part of yourself online!!! Let him have some privacy and NOT ASSUME YOU KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT HIM!!!

Anyway.

You're probably wondering "why JSchlatt of all creators? he's the opposite of Dream!"

No, I don't think so. I think he just has boundaries. If he didn't like something someone in his audience said, he made a point of saying how much he dislikes the joke and, after poking a but of fun at him, his fans stop.

Because they respect Schlatt.

Dream's fans don't respect him, they obsess over him.

Remember when Schlatt mass banned people with a Dream SMP name from his chat?

He probably did that because it was funny.

But also because he didn't want people who don't respect a content creator's privacy/ humanity to be in his chat/ audience.

TL:DR,

Dream needs to set boundaries so that his fandom will respect him instead of turning him into some kind of God.

Also Schlatt is funny and says "no" to his audience all the goddamn time and nobody cares because they all respect him.

#dsmp #dream #jschlatt #dream smp #I really hope dream fans read this #at least one #I'm using these tags to get you to read this #if you have jschlatt muted you are the cause of the problem

[choccyhearts]

So No Sex Tape? // Kurt Kunkle x Reader (18+)

Note: There will most likely be a second part to this, I just dk when

CW: Talk of sex tapes/sex work, d/s relationship, dom!reader/sub!kurt, fem/afab!reader, kurt being the male manipulator he is

It's no secret your boyfriend is fame hungry. Fame starving, honestly. So the idea of sex tapes has crossed his mind several times, both before and after meeting you.

He's thought of solo videos but each time he gets ready to film he finds himself camera shy in front of an audience of 0 and chickens out. OnlyFans was an idea and he has set one up but no posts yet.

Until one night...

"Babe? I have, have, this idea I want to ask you," Kurt mumbles. You're both sitting on his bed, your computer on your lap as you do homework and he sits on his phone doing who knows what.

"What's up?"

"So, like OnlyFans has been, like, super really popular, ya know? And I was just thinking, I was wondering-"

"Do you want to make OnlyFans content?"

He pauses and his face slowly reddens, his eyes darting away from you.

"Well, yes, like technically, but-"

"I don't mind if you make it, Kurtie, it's your body your choice", you give him a soft smile, hoping to ease his anxiety.

"Well, like, what I really want is to make content with...with you, if you want."

"With me?", you raise your brow.

"Yeah, like a...like ya know, a sex tape." It's your turn for your face to heat up. You always knew this day would come where he'd ask this but you still weren't prepared.

You'd given it serious thought and your mind always came back around to declining. It wasn't easy saying no to your boyfriend's puppy dog eyes but you needed to stick to your boundaries. If it was a private recording for the two of you, that's one thing -- but this is Kurt we're talking about, hardly anything is private.

Maybe pictures would be a possibility, but even those would still have clothing, just very minimal. But Kurt loved showing you off and bragging. He does it all the time with both of you fully clothed, you can only imagine how hard he would plug your sex tape.

Your sexy times were intimate and something you enjoyed being the one thing private from the world...however, there had been times where you were so lost in the moment that you nearly begged Kurt to whip out his phone and start live streaming.

For the same reason Kurt got turned on by idea, you too wanted to show how much you love him to the world and brag about how good you make him feel.

"I don't know, Kurt. I've thought about it, but it's just not something I'm really comfortable about doing. I don't want my face out there with that kind of stuff, those times are for you and I privately. I like my body being a little secret for you and me to share."

Kurt nods slowly and hums in response.

"I truly don't mind if you want to make that content, I support you and love you just as much, but I just don't want to."

Kurt continues to look away from you. You pout and sit up, placing a hand on his bicep.

"Kurt..."

"So no sex tape?"

You bite back a giggle and shake your head.

"No, just...not right now."

Kurt nods, still stuck in his mind before sitting up and looking at you.

"Well, what if we just don't get your face in it? Like just position the camera certain ways and, and we can do only certain positions!"

You frown and shake your head, "Kurt, no, that's still my body being exposed to the world."

He droops back down again and nods. You set your computer aside and sit up, scooching next to his body. You pull him into your chest and pet his hair, his arms immediately wrapping around your waist.

"Aside from the potential to gain followers, why do you want to make a sex tape with me?"

Kurt nuzzles his head into your chest more, smushing his face between your boobs.

"Because...", he says like the baby he is. "You're my girlfriend and I love you and I want to show how beautiful you are and show the world even I can keep a gorgeous girl like you around. And, and, and I want to show how pretty you look with me inside you."

You flush at his words, leaning down and kissing his head.

"Oh, Kurtie..."

He continues to nuzzle his head between your boobs, essentially soft motorboating you. It's his favorite thing to do when he's either stressed, overwhelmed, sad or being a brat.

You just let him, continuing to pet his hair and thinking of a solution.

"Well, how about...", you trail off. "What if shoot it a bit more...artistic than a typical sex tape?"

"Mm?"

"What if set up some pretty lighting and film our silhouettes against the wall while we have sex? That way you still get all the nudity and everything you want, and my face and body won't be completely exposed."

Kurt pulls himself up and out of your boobs with a smile on his face.

"That's perfect! Yes! It sounds so, so, so um... erotic!"

You give him a smile and a kiss on his hand before pulling your computer back onto your lap.

"What are you doing?", he asks.

"My homework still?"

"No, I want to film it tonight, that's why I brought it up."

"Tonight?!"

"Yeah, of course!", Kurt gives you his famous adorable yet total male manipulator smile.

"That's a bit soon, I thought we'd do it like in a week or something."

"A week? But I'm horny noooooow", Kurt whines.

"You're always horny."

"But I want to nooooow." You close your computer again and pull him down by his shirt.

"Stop whining or we're not going to film anything ever, understand?"

Kurt quickly nods his head, "Yes, ma'am."

"Good, Kurtie", you say and peck his lips. "Why don't you start setting up the lights, pretty boy, and I'll slip into something a bit more comfortable?"

Kurt nods even faster and scrambles up like the little bitch boy he is. Anything for you, his highness...

#kurt kunkle #spree 2020 #kurt kunkle x reader #kurtsworld96

[my-mt-heart]

We know Carol’s bracelet and Daryl’s double capper are far more than just gifts to each other. They symbolize the strength of their bond, but even beyond that, they reveal both characters’ headspaces at crucial times when the other is absent. 

When we see Carol playing with her bracelet at Daryl’s camp, it’s easy to imagine her thinking of him, longing for his comfort, and regretting her actions that may have broken what they have between them. 

When we see Daryl gently placing the double capper on his desk, then later staring at them, we can assume his relationship with Carol is precious to him and his loyalty to her is unbreakable.  

TWD unfortunately misses a fair amount of opportunities to make the most of the objects it deliberately introduces. Leah’s knife is the first thing that comes to mind for me and while it isn’t impossible to rectify that, it feels like the time for it has passed much like the storyline that came and went with zero impact. Caryl’s gifts on the other hand seem more necessary than ever as they’re about to endure the most infuriating challenging separation of their journey.

Carol can’t be with Daryl in France which in itself defies the show’s own narrative logic, but one very simple way to preserve minimal integrity is to reveal Daryl has taken the double capper with him. This would reassure a very skeptical audience that Carol is in his heart, that he misses her, and that he wants to get back to her. And if/when he does reunite with her, she could wear the bracelet to let us know without having to take up time and space that she had kept him close to her the whole time too. 

Sadly S11 has completely shattered my trust. Caryl’s story was almost entirely abandoned in service of a clumsy plot and I don’t expect much different from le spinoff. I fear it'll be treated like a trip to Vegas, not because I think Daryl will hook up with random dancers in the sexy nightclub, but because the story could be mostly irrelevant to the one outside of the setting and vice versa. Which to emphasize again, is why I can’t watch it. I‘ll only be there if/when Daryl and Carol become vital to each other’s stories again, finally moving forward with each other. 

#caryl #darylneedscarol

[amaiguri]

Wanna see the business side of story-based games?

Me! I want to! 👋 Hi, I'm Amaiguri. I'm a full time gamedev and I've released two games before and correctly predicted how much money I would make each time! Wow!

I've been considering converting the webfic I write into a story game of some kind -- a visual novel or a RPGmaker game or maybe even a walking sim? But I didn't know what I wanted to make!

This story has been THE STORY of my early adult life here -- it is SO important to me. So, while I'm a huge advocate of making whatever you want, I wanted to ensure whatever I put my effort into would be VAGUELY marketable. (Because, lemme tell you, webnovels are not marketable XD)

Before I dive in too deeply, **BIG DISCLAIMER**:

I am not a business person. I am using big, wide guestimates to make non-essential business decisions with myself. BUT I want to share my learnings with you. So, take everything I say with a grain of salt and JOIN ME on this journey:

Earlier this month, I made a post about wanting to make a visual novel. Specifically, a kinetic visual novel where you don't make choices and you just read basically. SO I've now done research into how well they sold. I used THIS website to determine how much money each of these games made (VERY loosely):

Juniper's Knot: ~$4k USD

Higurashi (The Whole Series): ~$300k USD (Averaging like 400 reviews per game and $50 for the whole bundle)

House in Fata Morgana: ~$1 million USD

I picked these out mostly because these are the small handful of kinetic novels I have actually heard about. I'm not saying there aren't other, more successful ones I haven't heard about but I figure, if I'm supposed to be representative of my target audience, I'm as good of a sample as any for this wild estimation.

Besides, Higurashi has a whole anime -- it is definitely fair to use that as an upper end -- and Juniper's Knot -- a tiny game no one has heard of -- as the lower end. (I mean, $0 is the lower end, but... you know...)

This paints a pretty stark picture, honestly. Like, this is looking at 6 to 8 years of work for... maybe a couple thousand for me? Realistically? Maybe up to $300k if I'm super lucky and go viral? And I'm not saying that isn't LIFE CHANGING money but like in the MOST MIRACULOUS scenario here, I am compensated less than my current salary for my current magnum opus. But realistically, I'm looking at maybe $1-4k if I get lucky. I'm not a horror-writer and I'm not a romance writer -- I will not have THAT feral of a fanbase XD And on top of all of that, I don't even play that many kinetic visual novels. I'm barely in my own target demo here!

Now, compare that to the numbers I ran on RPGmaker games where you just do narrative and there is very minimal gameplay:

Rakuen: 4000+ Reviews, over $100k in profits estimated

To the Moon: $8 Million in profit

A Bird Story: Definitely sold worse than To the Moon, was cheaper to make and cheaper to buy -- estimated at $397k

Wadanohara and the Great Blue Sea: Dunno cuz it's free BUT its manga adaptation has 267 reviews on Amazon -- so the creator COULD have made bank on the actual game

See how much higher those are? Even when they're not as well known? And sure, the bottom is still $0 ultimately but the upper limit, with the most successful of these titles (and incidentally, the video game that convinced me to get into Game Design) is much much higher.

"BUT BELLE! Laura Shigihara did the music on a lot of those! You don't have Laura Shigihara!"

Ok BET! I'll hire her! The base industry rate for music per minute is $100/min. Let's suppose now she charge 10x that, cuz she's famous -- $1k/minute of music. I get her to compose a 3 minute song for $3k BUT she also brings over... say... 5% of her audience to check out my game.

That's admittedly, a high conversion rate so we'll just take 5% of Rakuen. Now, I'm imagining I'd charge like $25/copy of my game because it's gonna be like 300k words -- people pay $25 for a book of that length, so if I have art and programming also, I can do that. With just her 5% of Rakuen reviewers (21 reviewers of her 4.3k), that's like $7k USD. So, she'd probably just pay for herself and then some.

And to top all this off: I'm back in the target demo. I am ABSOLUTELY the kind of person who will play a solodev's RPGmaker game and forgive all jank and flaws and lack of gameplay if the story, art, and music are good.

That is, of course, making the assumption that I'll make good music and art 🥺🥺🥺

Now obviously, all this is WILD guestimates so like. You shouldn't make business decisions off this. I'm barely making "business" decisions -- I'm making hobby decisions. I have a full time job and I intend to keep it. BUT I think it's pretty clear where the potential money might be for me -- RPGmaker games.

Eris (Blinking): Thank you for reading!

#gamedev #story games #visual novel #rpg maker #rpgmaker #visual novel development #game development #game industry #indie dev #indie games #amaiguri

[jeskoholic]

A Heater for Her Thighs - Dreamcatcher Yoohyeon

Authornim: Yup, just a small piece with an idea that would be fit for this year’s Halloween. This is probably my most NSFW and explicit work to date. The tags as well as the TWs would give you a good enough of an idea about why. Please proceed with your own caution as the imageries and descriptions in this story are really not suitable for immature audiences. You have been warned.

This story was inspired by an existing song of which I am a huge fan of, translated and slightly altered to fit my personal narrative style. I’ll include the name of that song at the end of the story in order to avoid spoilers (the title is pretty much is a hint on the song though.). I understand that these kinds of stories are not for everyone, so no worries if you’re not comfortable and I’ll see you on the next update!

Once again, a very, very, VERY NSFW piece for Halloween… Let me know what you think once you’re done with it.

WORD COUNT: 12.6k

TAGS: Male Reader x Kim Yoohyeon, Fluff (?), Dark Fantasy, Supernatural Love, Twisted Romance, Love and Death, Body Horror (?), Zombies and the Undead, Horror Imagines

TRIGGER WARNING: Contains a lot of violent actions, Depictions of violence towards idols/women, Depictions of violence towards the main character, Mentions and implications of sex, Imageries of Hell, necrophilia, abuse, mental Illness, Imageries and descriptions of blood, Gore, Murder, Swearing, degradation (?), cannibalism, paranoia, Depictions of Death, Body Horror, Explicit language, Sadism, Very fucked up story overall.

Enjoy!

This was a bitch to write.

Happy Halloween!

Masterlist

---

You had your legs situated under the table of your old apartment, tapping the wooden ground endlessly in a quiet display of anxiety. The small décor you placed around the dining room was criminally minimal despite having a greater purpose for that particular evening, which explains the impending worry you had in your mind. Scent of molten wax lingered about the air as the candles danced clueless into the void; their flames echoing a soft illumination that joined the minimal lighting you arranged for that night. Your sole company for that worrisome approach were two plates of carefully cooked dinner as well as the euphonious rhythm of the blues and jazz you set as a background. It sure sounded romantic and invigorating and yet it did exactly the opposite to your feeble seated figure.

A sound of a door opening felt like a shriek that broke into the silence as well as your misplaced concentration. The stillness of your rising distress halted in one fell swoop the moment that the love of your life, your girlfriend of many years Kim Yoohyeon, entered the room. However, as much as Yoohyeon was the one who could keep you in upright and positive equilibrium, she was also the unwitting source of dread for that arrangement.

“Hello my love,” Your girlfriend greeted you as she sat opposite you on the humble dining table; her expressive eyes gazing at you with concern. “I’m sorry if I kept you waiting, but at least I took care of the things that we won’t be interrupted just like you asked me. Shall we start, my love?”

“Y-yes…” you croak; the tapping that came from your leg seemingly became a lot worse when she finally arrived at the scene. You could not even figure out if you were doing it to quench your unbridled anxiety or your leg cramped entirely on its own.

“Are you okay?” asked Yoohyeon in utmost concern. You planted your eyes on her in response; a bit forced and divided whether it was caused by care or fear. “You look pale. Are you really nervous? This was your idea, my love. Please, keep calm and just let the moment flow with you. I’m here with you; don’t be afraid.”

As an act of control, you placed your hand heavily over your thigh; effectively stopping your leg from trembling before Yoohyeon could even sense the tension going on with your sorry being.

“S-sorry… you just l-look beautiful…”

Even with that mousy reply, Yoohyeon found the beauty in your words and sensed that something you planned was already in effect. You were never the type who could keep still when something was going on and having known you for years, Yoohyeon could already tell that there was something behind the scenes just by looking at your eyes. However, even if she had her hints she still elected to play along your little game and act blind with your plans. It’s not like going for a candle-lit dinner devoid of any occasion was not suspicious to her at all.

You sat there opposite her as you feel your heart about to burst out of your chest. You had Yoohyeon for years and years and this was the night you planned to tie the knot: you gained traction and finally decided to propose to her and make her yours forever.

It was time for you to marry Kim Yoohyeon.

“Yoohyeon … my love…” you began as you finally asked her to stand up. You ignored all sense of ceremony and formality inside your head and decided to jump the gun right away. The dinner was more of an afterthought; you only used it to lure her with you alone. At least then, if everything went with how you planned for it then you have something to talk over dinner.

You stood from your chair, carefully waltzed around to Yoohyeon’s position where she mimicked the same action out of confusion. She already supplied you with a tilt of her head, signalling her interest on what was to follow while you fished a small box from your pocket. There was no sense of build-up; no small talks between, no nothing. You were there and she was with you. You gathered the courage and it was your moment of truth. You gave her sharp eyes a final glance before you sank to the floor on one knee, prying open the box for her to finally see the diamond ring hidden within.

“Yoohyeon, my love, will you marry me?”

Then, silence.

Even with the gentle play of the music in the background, you never felt the atmosphere as dead as ever. Yoohyeon was frozen in silence, utterly shocked that you reached that degree or even the had the courage to ask her of it. The next minutes were torture to you. She never moved a single muscle nor twitched even a single bit of her hair after you asked for her answer. You were nervous as she never stood that emotionless than before; so dead, so expressionless and so dreadful. It was far worse than her having to reject you right on the spot; telling you that you made a mistake for asking her for marriage on that very dinner.

And yet what you viewed as worst, Yoohyeon did what was far more vile and cruel than that.

She laughed.

At first you thought that she was chuckling out of joy; that the love of your life found the small gesture thoughtful and that she was showing her appreciation for it. It would have been such an adorable conclusion; you would have been really stressed for nothing as she finally gave her confirmation and agreement to be your fiancé and later on your wife…

No, it was not. The laughter that escaped your girlfriend’s lips was maniacal and plunged deeper and deeper onto her mocking you, just the cackle continued on and on and on. You stopped dead; shivers ran down your spine as you witnessed Yoohyeon swat the ring out of your reach and set it crashing onto the ground. It clanged noisily against the wooden floor, bounced with every your hope and love lost with its wreck.

Once she was done mocking you for even daring to propose to her, she gave the answer that was the final nail in the coffin.

“No… why would I do that, my love? Why would I marry a loser such as you? There’s no way!”

And then she proceeded to guffaw as your entire body crumbled in desperation, losing the built-up confidence you took so long to prepare for that night…

---

“S-sorry… you just l-look beautiful…”

Even with that mousy reply, Yoohyeon found the beauty in your words and sensed that something you planned was already in effect. You were never the type who could keep still when something was going on and having known you for years, Yoohyeon could already tell that there was something behind the scenes just by looking at your eyes. However, even if she had her hints she still elected to play along your little game and act blind with your plans. It’s not like going for a candle-lit dinner devoid of any occasion was not suspicious to her at all.

You sat there opposite her as you feel your heart about to burst out of your chest. You had Yoohyeon for years and years and this was the night you planned to tie the knot: you gained traction and finally decided to propose to her and make her yours forever.

It was time for you to marry Kim Yoohyeon.

However, you saw things differently that felt like they were played out like a hole movie; they unfolded in your mind as if they were a premonition of your inevitable defeat and it drove you crazy from the inside-out. You were scared; no, you were terrified of how things would unfold had Yoohyeon decide to reject your proposal. You would lose your only world. You would lose the one thing that made things sensible for you in your unfair existence. You would lose Kim Yoohyeon, the love of your life, and you do not want that to happen ever.

You wanted to be with her forever; be by her side through thick and thin. If there was even a slight chance to get rid of the possibility, you were all for it. That was when your mind went black. You gave in to the demons that were telling you what you should do.

Eyeing the knife that lay on your plate, you shivered as you finally stood up in the imposing silence. Your girlfriend Yoohyeon lay confused at the sudden change of your demeanour as well as the expression that lay on your face. You used to be so pale and worried and now you look so eerily happy; in fact, the smile that was etched on your face was twisted and borderline sadistic and you were echoing a soft yet maniacal cackle.

“M-my love, are you o-okay?” she asked in fear, beginning to stand in reaction to your odd posture. The wooden chair creaked noisily as its feet got dragged across the tainted floor. “M-my love…?”

Her pleas dropped into nothing as your thoughts began fixated on to one thing: if she was the one who could rid of your love for her, then even your precious Yoohyeon should go. You intend to end all possibilities before they even became reality. You were not willing to take the risk only for you to break in the end.

You curved your lips into a deranged smile, grabbing the blade you prepared on the table and gave chase to your poor girlfriend. Yoohyeon looked at you in terror, struck in disbelief at the sudden change of the man she once loved. She did not need more than enough evidence to see that you intend to kill her; a goal that seemingly came off of nowhere. Regardless of the motivation, she scrambled to her feet in attempt to flee through the door of the house you two shared together; the raw thought of you chasing her with a knife seemingly silenced her due to her immediate trauma. She still lingered in disbelief that you could do something similar to her.

The length of your limbs gave you enough advantage that you were able to reach the door before she did, effectively shutting her off from the only remaining access to the outside. You stalked her like a hungry lion and aimed the sharp cutter up high, ready to inflict damage to the woman you once valued with all of your life at the first chance you could get to do it. All Yoohyeon‘s screams dissolved into the evening; the remote place of your house eliminated the possibility for her calling for help and that was what you needed. Eventually, Yoohyeon backed onto a corner… a wall that rendered her virtually unable to escape from your approaching and murderous visage.

“M-my love, please…” she breathed out in attempt to console to her lover within you. She was desperate as she sank onto the floor with her hands up high in surrender. Those small pleas served as the final words that escaped the mouth of your girlfriend, her life flashing before her very eyes.

Your mouth seemingly moved on its own, replying a set of words Yoohyeon never even imagined to escape from your lips.

“Come here my love~ come here you fucking bitch.”

You held on to Yoohyeon’s wrist with excessive force, denying any chance of the woman before you to even escape your clutches. With the blade that you held high on your left hand, you repeatedly released deep and piercing stabs that tore through her skin as the demon finally took over you. Her screams of agony were drowned in repeated struggle; you covering her mouth with you bare hands and her fighting to her best against it. All of that happened while your hand went to do the rest of your bloody work.

Yoohyeon’s pleas and fracas became more and more adamant just as the cold, silver steel continued to puncture her being further and further, leaving wounds all over her once-perfect body. You had nothing else on your mind but to kill; to murder the very girlfriend you were intending to marry mere moments ago, and even more so her appeals went to loose noise as her voice began to lose steam. You two were a scarlet mess with most of her blood splashing on the wall she was leading against. It was a lot of stabs that you lost count of our immense frenzy, and the fall of Yoohyeon’s body was evidence to that deranged trance you underwent in a split second. Her eyes; the very glassy ones that showed you love and affection were now ruined, only showing the terror that you, yourself, had given her poor and decimated soul.

The pair of you lay along the floor in a flood of crimson with you straddling the disembodied mess that was once the body of your girlfriend as soon you finished your work of art. You had no idea if she still had some life with her, yet her eyes were clearly full of sorrow and shock on her last moments. You knew that it was bound to come at that point; the fear caused you to think better of yourself and murder her then and there. However, even with that violent display your demons still were not contented. You wanted to humiliate her even beyond the grave.

Through the sanguine pool around you, you examined the unmoving body of your partner under you. Despite the savage display and the ripples of each and every blow you drove on her body, most of Yoohyeon’s beautiful features were still laid there as her face was left untouched. Bloodied, sure, but you could still make up the astounding features that made her so breath-taking. And then, with the rip that her clothes made you eyed the stab on her very chest, right above her heart. You don’t know what came over you, but you ripped her sternum open with brute strength. You were quickly greeted with the sight of her very heart only moments from losing the beating that gave her life.

That was what you wanted. You wanted her heart quite literally.

You ripped her heart out right before her lifeless eyes, and if ever there was still a bit of life left in her, that was surely the one that sent her to her impending death. It was so inviting; you finally had her heart on your hands and yet you still would not yield with your desires. Having someone else have her muscle on your hands would be your greatest nightmare you could think of. So the best course of action was to deny anyone from ever having it.

Never in your sane mind did you imagine yourself eating the raw heart of a human being, let alone your girlfriend. However, there you were tearing through the thick muscle with your bare teeth like it was nothing. The sheer contact your teeth made against the soft tissue felt immaculate while your taste fell numb. The way that the blood painted your face and body while you took your time consuming Yoohyeon’s heart would terrify anyone else unfortunate enough to walk into you, but you loved the idea that she was finally yours. You were quite lucky that no one else dared to even check on you, or they were just as twisted and heartless as you were for playing deaf with Yoohyeon’s cries of help.

Then again, every chew and tear you made with the mess on your fingers seemed to drive you deeper into madness. You eyed Yoohyeon’s dead body and there were still a lot more… perverted ways that you could do with her. You were essentially corrupted by your own carnal desires. There was so much free moments now that you were alone and even she could not stop you if she wanted to…

---

Days after your macabre art, you spent your hours locked in with yourself with the dead body of Yoohyeon being your sole company in your own twisted world. You cleaned and washed the blood stains off of your beautiful woman, carefully took care of her mangled body and moved to the next stage that your demented mind was telling you. Of course, because the hacks and stabs you made against her body left most of her limp limbs unsightly with the obvious tears on her skin and the occasional gaps, you beckoned yourself to sew her wounds back together with some makeshift needles as well as all the steel wires you could find around your rural household.

One by one, you took your time to secure the rest of her deceased body that she may be whole and functioning like she used to be. The loss of buckets and buckets of blood caused her skin to turn chalk-white, almost borderline grey, only complimenting the periodical stitches you gave her throughout her entire body. Once you were done, Yoohyeon was back to how you remember her being; albeit looking sinister with all the stitches that were distributed all over her body yet still managed that youthful bliss of her beautiful face.

However, even with that excellent display of your creativeness sometimes her body could only take so much. Parts of her body would often fall apart and all that was left to do was to sew them back together. You did not mind. In your head, she looked most perfect than ever. You even danced with her body along with the same jazz music that played while you killed her days prior, all to your hearts’ content. Even until Yoohyeon’s head broke off loose from her neck, you merely sew it back together and went on with your life. That was the celebration for the eternity you intend to spend with her, trapped on the same four corners you had to yourselves for years to come and it was just the first days before it all began.

Then again, you still were not satisfied.

You and Yoohyeon shared a bed a couple of times into your relationship and you were no strangers to the fantasies of sex. However, even with the pleasure and satisfaction you both gave to each other the weakness of the human body always offered a form of limitation. You always had to consider everything that would come every time you and Yoohyeon had sex and admittedly she would often cut you when you clearly wanted more of her. Now, Yoohyeon’s body was pendulous and yielding to you no matter what you wanted of her, and even if you took her to bed for the entire evening she would not complain whatsoever.

You had her dead frame all over your command and you intend to exert every limit you could with her desecrated frame.

As every day unfolded, you almost spent your entire day nude and constantly railing Yoohyeon’s lifeless and stitched body. You thrust your ever needy cock inside the cavity between her legs, feeling the immortal sensation of her naturally squeezing your length all throughout. It was just how she was when she was living, only with the exception of her cold body adding a sense of satisfaction whenever you heated her insides with your friction. You were relentless; intending to fuck her dead and flopping body all over the house to satisfy your needs. You railed her over the bed while you had her legs anchored around you, over the dining table while you positioned her like a dog and rammed her from behind, and even at the back yard whilst the moon and stars lay witness to your perverted and disrespectful ways. You never seemed to care. It took a good while to get used to Yoohyeon’s absence of moans while you continued to pound her but that was perhaps the best part; at least you could get to rail her even with your other neighbors passing by. They would never know what you were doing with her body under the table.

Countless number of times you defiled her dead body and the thrill was already getting to your head; raping her to your heart’s content that she could not even complain of anything with what you do to her even if it would normally hurt her human being. That was the best part. Kim Yoohyeon was your man-made sex-doll, customized and tailored to all your likings and fetishes that you dare not convey to her when she was still alive. In your eyes, you were still fucking Yoohyeon albeit she was on a deep sleep. You knew she felt every trail of semen you shot deep in her womanhood. The sensations were too real that you could sometimes feel a ghost of her moan escaping from her head mouth.

You repeatedly disrespected her body. You applied all sense of sexual fantasies you conjured up on your mind and you dared not to leave anything behind. You tied her; you fucked her from behind, rode her, fucked her mouth, fucked her standing, over the stove, over the dining table, strapped her on, pegged yourself and felt the satisfaction of having your hole expanded like hers… You did anything imaginable until you grew personally tired of her for the day and you would not even hear a simple complaint from her especially as you dumped all your cum all over her holes. You were fulfilled of everything that your warped mind was telling you to do so. You were creative on everything, sure, yet you were corrupted by your very carnal and hellish desires. Your debauched thirsts were more than just quenched, and then when days would pass you would still keep on thinking what else to do with her mangled form. If you had one, then you’d proceed to take her on towards your darker path once again. It went on and on and on until you cannot anymore.

Often times when you would not let Yoohyeon’s freshly fucked body alone on the bed next to you, you would place her on a standing and decorated coffin you made yourself. You made sure that you situated it right next to the television just so you can have a perfect view of her resting body while you enjoyed your shows. Despite being so horrid with her, you still loved the body of your girlfriend. You made sure to place and decorate her coffin with photos of you both, taken when she was still living and clueless of her eventual fate. You took care of her dead body to preserve her look exactly how appeared when she was still alive. It might be out of love that you were doing it and yet you also did not want her to look ‘lifeless’ whenever you engaged on fucking her once again.

That was how your life with Yoohyeon went as the days passed by. You kept her lifeless body preserved and looking young, occasionally taking her to your bedroom to spray on her youth from time to time. All was going so well.

At least, it was going smoothly until you left to gather supplies for your future experiments, refilling your stock as well as your own food. You secured everything in your house thinking that all was safe. Kim Yoohyeon was placed on her coffin just as usual, and you even bid a soft good bye to her body by giving a kiss on her cold lips. You locked your front door, placed a couple of chains and locks to prevent anyone else from discovering your little crime. At the end of the day, you still viewed her as your little treasure; your little piece of heaven.

However, on that silence and amidst the cold and dark living room you left Yoohyeon on, her dead white eyes fixated on the floor devoid of any pupils dissolved into a black mist. She stood there so still, leaning against the left side of your coffin when her body began to twitch and her eyes blinked back to life, hungering and more than eager to finally move at last.

---

The view of the sunset heading to your home was always immaculate. Having to see the final reaches of bright orange day as it fades onto a dark-blue twilight was always a treat considering you don’t get to see it that often. It did felt odd that you did not have Yoohyeon with you as you bring the groceries home for sure. However, the anticipation that her body gave you knowing she was just there waiting for the ‘new adventures’ you intend to do with her lifeless body was as immaculate as the sunset; you felt like a child heading home to your favourite toy. In a sense, that might as well be the case. Someday, you might even get the courage to take her out of your very home.

You quickly unlocked the multitude of chains you had to secure your front door up, eager to finally see Yoohyeon after a long afternoon of going around town without her. The scent that greeted you was different as it was very waxy. You went out a couple of times before and yet you do not remember lighting any candles before you left, so why was that the case now? The familiar burnt wax scent haunted your nostrils and it seemingly grew stronger and stronger as you became closer to freeing the door. You set the heavy chains beside the bags and swung the door fully open.

At first, you deemed the standing figure of Yoohyeon greeting you to be normal at first. It was about the same way that she greeted you whenever you came home from a long day. That heart-warming presence of your girlfriend was already in display, and you even can’t believe how lucky of a man you were for having her greet with you with such warmth and enthusiasm.

But then, there was something blatantly wrong with that.

Your heart skipped a beat as your eyes widened. Yoohyeon was not simply standing at the door’s entrance because you simply forgot to put her back on her coffin, but she was there staring at you with her glaring eyes. They were sharp, black and iris-less yet full of anger that joined the rest of her already ghoulish presence. The stitches you gave her body made her presence increasingly more sinister, quite obvious from the hanging tank top you had her dressed her before you left. You froze, eyes drifting towards the rest of her body in effort to make sense of what you were seeing. Yoohyeon literally looked like a monster that came back from the dead and you could not even move with all that was presented before you.

To your surprise, Yoohyeon’s head tilted gently to the side and that movement caused you to break your stupor and step back in quick and terrorized reflex. Slowly, her deathly visage mimicked the steps you made only hers was moving closer to you, in a still and fearful presence. You moved back further and further, trying to keep your eyes glued to her approaching figure until you eventually tripped on the chains that once held the door shut together.

You scrambled to your feet, panicking to get back only to fall once more. You rushed to fixate your eyes on Yoohyeon’s figure. She reached the door still in the same dead-pan pace while you crawled back using your legs and your hands. Then, your girlfriend’s head straightened again, her death-clad stare surely fixated towards you despite lacking any evidence of emotion before a sadistic smile curved on her pale lips.

“Hello, my love~” she echoed; her voice still had that sweet and sultry tone to her albeit lost in a faint yet monstrous growl.

Yoohyeon‘s body twitched as her movements became erratic… it was as if she was getting used to the new life she had as well as the body that served nothing but cum dump since she died. Each clockwork movement she made had an inch closer to your horrified figure. She was that; the very manifestation of the fears and misbehaving you concurred. You did not even think of how it was even possible for her to come back to life. The mess that was once your girlfriend was a heart-less body that was on its feet and clearly at a loss of all the humanity left. All you could do was flee. There was certainly no sense of trying to reason to a being you could barely even call as Kim Yoohyeon.

You were being chased by a relentless monster; a vengeful soul that possessed the body you repeatedly disrespected. Yoohyeon’s dead and jet-black eyes curved and flared with a murderous intent, and of course her only target being you.

Once again, you scrambled to get on your feet, sending dust and dirt to the air as your feet desperately tried to clamour over the pavement. You managed to gain ground by knocking over the groceries you once brought home, and they were unfortunately left in a tired mess in front of your doorstep. The heart beating faster inside your ribcage almost rivalled the pace that you took knowing your life was in danger. You glanced back once you felt like you gave yourself a decent distance from her, only to find Yoohyeon breaking in your pick-up truck of which you haplessly disregarded amidst the ensuing chaos and panic.

“Where are you going, my love? Aren’t you going to say ‘hi’ to me?” You heard her taunting call throughout the commotion as the truck roared to life, followed by the sound of her insane laughter. If you were not yet running fast, by then you surely were at the moment you heard the truck heading towards your direction. The limited heads and eyes of your neighbours were even discarded as you ran for your life, exiting the quiet and remote village onto the dirt road ahead.

Your legs brought you onto the nearby forest, exiting the dirt road once you heard the truck coming to a close. Twigs, broken branches, and shrubs rustled under your sprinting feet while you wade through the uneven terrain, making sure to give a good glance towards your back every once a while. You heard a loud crash, perhaps coming from the truck that Yoohyeon drove to get to you; but even with that you still kept your pace thriving deeper and deeper onto the jungle of trees and passing by overgrown roots as well as thickets.

Yoohyeon’s voice once again echoed as if she had the entire forest bewitched for you to hear her voice. It was either that, or the bone-chilling hiss of her vindictive expression was playing right inside your head. It was more than enough to slow you down, make your knees weak and yet you pursued for the sake of the illusion of escape.

“My loooooove~ Where are you my looooove?”

You lost track of the path you were taking on as the skies dissolved into the faint darkness of the approaching evening. All you saw seemed to have been in a deep shade of blue; all details of the forest vague on your bare eyes. The ground under you were barely even showing itself as you ran over it; torn between keeping the pace up with the noise of the twigs below you and keeping your journey as quiet as you possibly could. Even the presence of Yoohyeon inside the forest with you seemed to have been brought out of your system with you solely focusing your efforts on navigating the labyrinthine greenery.

“My loooooove~”

You immediately snapped your gaze on your back the moment you heard Yoohyeon l’s voice again, closer and quite approaching you that time around. You eyed every sliver of light you could make out between the trees, hoping to find evidence of her movement but to no avail. The night started to get deeper as the twilight bled onto the eventual evening. It would only be a matter of time before Yoohyeon’s possessed and angry corpse would be close to your disadvantaged mortal figure.

You hurried your attention back towards the direction you were running at, only for you to be stopped dead on your tracks by a deep and quick blow striking you right at the right side of your stomach.

It took a second for you to realize what even had happened. The sight of the deathly presence of Kim Yoohyeon l right next to you, all in her stitched-up and horrifying aspect, was the answer you were dearly looking for. You looked at her dead-on her life-less eyes; the void of her all-black sclera now appearing more sinister amidst the impending darkness along with the dreadful presence of her mangled body. You froze; it was as if all sense of motor movement on your body left you as you stared on Yoohyeon in disbelief. Her hand cradled the handle of a branch.

You began to shake as the blow felt more than connected to your own. There was heat; searing warmth that you’ve never felt before lay on the perimeter of the blow and it slowly became dead cold. You traced Yoohyeon’s outstretched hand and she held a thick and angled branch, its end pierced inside you with a deep wound.

Your eyes lingered towards Yoohyeon’s once again with your shocked gaze appealing to the sense of humanity in her. You hoped there were still some left inside her chalky anterior. However, Yoohyeon’s lacerated face supplied you with a grin; her lips curving from ear to ear accentuated by the small seams on her face. The horror began to bite in you; no sense of appeal to her would even get you out of that. The painful truth began to shed its face to you just as the pain of the wood against your bare skin began to manifest itself.

Yoohyeon, with utmost incredible force, pulled the thicket from your body and thrust onto you once more, sending a spurt of blood over her face. You screamed in agony and yet your voice was drowned amidst the dark trees. You felt strength leave your body, holding on to Yoohyeon’s free arm with a quick shake of your entire being. Your then-girlfriend held onto you in return, but she merely used your hand as leverage to pull the stabbed thicket out and pierce it through your body once again. On and on it went, Yoohyeon mimicking the same degree of savagery you displayed when you murdered her, but with her newfound strength it drove the feeling harder and harder for your body to tolerate. In moments time you were already falling down with weakness taking over you.

You had no idea at what point during her rampage that you felt numb to her forces. You might have been desensitized with the consecutive blows that came your way, causing you to lose ground and fall to your knees with the pool of blood showering beneath your feet. Your body became uncontrollable and you cannot help but fixate your eyes on Yoohyeon’s figure towering over your body as you fell on your back; knees still bent on that awkward angle.

You could not even speak as blood gurgled out of your mouth with your desperate attempts. You knew that you should have been dead by then, and yet as punishment for your previous deeds towards Yoohyeon, your senses remained well. You could still see her approach your body and kneel beside your destroyed frame. It felt like a fevered dream at that point; you were merely there to watch what she was about to do to the remnants of your body. You were quite literally unable to stop what she has in mind. If she was intending to inflict the same degree you did to her, you could only do so much and watch.

Yoohyeon raised her right hand, nails shining in the darkness like sharp talons, and quickly plunged her hand straight through your ribcage with one quick crack of your sternum and rib bones. All of her prior stabs that evening dissolved towards the end. However, it was that one pierce; that one particular that Yoohyeon did with her bare hands reaching for your heart, felt the most painful of them all. You watched in horror as Yoohyeon pulled your heart out right before your eyes, equally engulfing your body in a pool of blood under the moon and stars. You gazed onto her until the life faded out of your frame; the sight of your girlfriend with your heart on your hands being the last thing you saw before your eyes closed involuntarily. It was enough for you to see Yoohyeon devour and indulge on the heart situated on her very hands. You were dead. You know you were already dead and yet you still felt like you were falling onto a deep abyss after what had just happened…

---

The transition from your apparent death to what followed came quicker than you expected. There was nothing certain about what comes after death; it becoming the end-all be-all of one’s life might yield onto a promise of an immortal life. However, just as you felt falling to your death after just being killed by Yoohyeon. You felt like you entered a dream-like state that lasted for a couple of minutes followed by a quick state of stillness. Your consciousness was telling that you were falling beforehand and when everything came to a stop, you never felt your feet hit solid ground. The fall was a dream and you felt your eyes close while you leaned onto a desk.

All the thoughts of previous events were already behind you as it all dissolved into a fevered mush. You were seated and you knew it, feeling the hard wood that your head and body was dearly leaning on. In a quick rush, you opened your eyes and you were immediately greeted by a familiar sight.

The hint of burning candlewax lingered strongly onto the open air of your apartment, apparently still in pristine shape after all that misbehaviours you did previously. Even that was beyond you now. You only took what you were sensing for what it was. It was the apartment you and Yoohyeon lived on, only void of the obvious furniture that added a lot of space to it. There was only the empty table you were sleeping on, the wooden chair you sat onto, and finally the single piano that seemed to be playing the same melody on the evening you slaughtered and dehumanized your own girlfriend. Hearing that rang no real bells to you as confusion primarily ruled on your calm consciousness.

You began to stand up and take a feel of things, call for your girlfriend and ask her what was going on. However, you cannot move your mouth to even speak. You tried and yet there was no sound coming out. A small layer of panic began to coat over your questionable stay whilst you began to take a walk. However, you were greeted by a gruesome sight invisible to you when you first woke up from your bizarre dream, only now that it felt more realistic than any dream or illusion could convey.

The ground on your feet was filled in with burning wood. Charred logs lingered all around you upon the realization that the ligneous floor of your apartment began combusting onto oblivion; sending sparks and ash all over your surroundings. You ran your eyes towards the rest of the place and even the walls of your humble apartment began to combust and engulf the entire interior with angry, blazing fire. The walls, the table near you, even the chair that you sat on was burning with hot flames. What used to be windows of your cabin with Yoohyeon were now glowing with hot and resentful fire.

However, despite the abundance of blazing material around you the orange dance of the heat was nothing to you. There was no immediate reaction to flee or even the sensation of pain. In fact, there was no immediate reaction as you felt nothing with the inferno that surrounded you.

Confused and unable to speak your curious steps began to tread you closer towards the fiery glass-less windows of your apartment in the hopes that it might give you the answers you need. You came proximate and slowly peered through the fire and the flames, only for the silhouette of burning hands clawing at the surface of an ocean of heat to greet you; some even making their way towards the safety of your own cabin.

You tread back as you felt fear overcome your curiosity, not even minding the now-audible pleas and screams of help that came from the distance. Your eyes were not deceiving you and at that point you could have wished that they did. In that stillness and the retreat out of fear that you made from the door, your senses were greeted by an immediate presence lingering behind you. You never felt anything from the entity’s end and yet you already knew you were with someone, apparently appearing out of thin fire as the rest of the apartment seemingly came from. You quickly turned, noticing how even your own body appeared to be burning yet devoid of any pain or sensation on your skin as well, and fixated your gaze on the newcomer that joined your confused being.

It was none other than your own girlfriend and doomed fiancé-to-be, Kim Yoohyeon.

She stood there as beautiful as ever; her body restored to its former beauty before you ever desecrated her for your own sadistic purpose. Yoohyeon’s once paper-fair complexion was there once again as her skin was finally rid of the ties and stitches you did to put it together. Her presence seemingly glowed and radiated amidst the already bright and deafening place of your apartment ablaze. She was dressed on an equally dazzling white wedding dress, stretching from laced patterns that covered her sleeves and the long cloth that covered beyond her legs and feet. A veil separated you from ever witnessing the rest of her pretty face.

“Yoohyeon, my love… you look so beautiful,” you mused in awe and your loving girlfriend supplied you with a keen smile. You never knew you could even speak and seemingly the sight of your girlfriend already broke that curse within you. “You’re here… you’re with me. You’re with me, my love~”

You began to take your steps closer to where she was standing. There was that hunger, or rather desire, as well as elation to finally see her amidst the questionable place you were on. Aside from the familiar scenery of your apartment, Yoohyeon was the only thing familiar amidst the sea of hell that was lay outside of the door. Having the comfort of seeing her would be better if you could finally embrace her. You knew that you missed seeing her even if you had a vague memory of when you even last saw her.

You were about at arms’ length from Yoohyeon when you saw her face transition from her former stoic and emotionless smile to a face that was as long as a fiddle. For a moment’s thought, Yoohyeon’s gloom was evident on her figure before the rest of her body entirely combusts, engulfing her in a pillar of flame that sent you hurtling back towards the floor she found you on.

After that scramble, you brushed the relative smoke that formed on her ignition and quickly got to your feet with utmost effort. You scrambled to get up and finally fixated your eyes on Yoohyeon’s burning figure, only for the flames that hugged her body slowly disintegrate into thin air, leaving the sight of horror that was familiar to your ever-twisted memory.

Yoohyeon stood there on her true form just how you recalled when she killed you. Skin dead as snow, body full of stitches and ties that bound it together, and lips curved into a sadistic smile, and her blackened eyes fixated their void stare back at your mangled figure. The rest of her wedding dress was now burnt and singed all throughout, leaving you a more sinister and terrifying look at your dead fiancé. You were wide-eyed, shocked, and perhaps even fearful for your life. The horrors you left on your living body seemingly haunting you even in the afterlife.

“What’s the matter, my love?” Yoohyeon spoke in that same sweet and sultry tone dissolved into a feral and shadowy growl. “How come that little enthusiasm is now lost on your face? Do you not like me when I look like this?”

Your jaws trembled upon the presence of her. Your knees felt weak and unable to move; not to mention that the former chilling cold of the burning place now began to warm up to you. You stared on Yoohyeon’s figure dead on, terror and regret flashing on your eyes with her pitiful yet imposing figure.

“My love…” you began to squeak but even that ability to talk was lost on your fright.

“Do you not like me when I look like this, my love?” Yoohyeon repeated her question. Her body then rose from the ground and drifted closer to where you were standing, and you could not help but stand there in remorse with the sheer evidence of the lustful and criminal sins wavering straight at your fore front. You could not even look at Yoohyeon straight in on her blackened eyes.

Yoohyeon could absolutely kill you again with that stare of hers even if you’ve already died.

“How come you cannot answer my question? You were the one who made me like this, right? You’re supposed to love me now, especially when I’m shaped to how you desired. Why are you so held in disbelief?”

“My l-love…”

“ANSWER ME!”

Yoohyeon’s sudden change in tone, her grotesque accent contributing to her already hideous appearance set you on your knees. You were weak; vulnerable in front of the woman you once claimed that you love. Yoohyeon had her long and sharp fingernails bared on her sides as she hovered over your small being. You had no idea what else she could do to you. She already killed you in cold blood, took your heart out, and ate it too to match your misbehaving with her body. What more could she do to punish you?

That was when the ground around you began to move. The burning wood that you remember you were standing on became a wide pile of skulls, each burnt black like charcoal in an open fire. Slowly, a combination of charred and burning hands began to rise from the hulk of death around you, reaching for you desperately as you panicked to get your feet out from their grasp.

“Fuck, no…! No please! Not like this!” You pleaded towards Yoohyeon’s waiting stance. She could only do much as watch you as you were slowly pulled in by the exposed arms.

Despite your struggles, the grasp of the undying souls were too much even for your fickle mind. You began to sink slowly onto the burnt skills as more and more burnt arms grab you from below, dragging you onto the eventual unrest that was a consequence of your actions from the world of the living.

“No, Yoohyeon, my love! Please…! Help me…! I’m sorry…!” You pleaded towards her once you were already waist-deep amidst the scattered bones. Echoes of disorder and screaming were audible from your ears, and yet Yoohyeon was there only to watch you get devoured by your own words.

The arms rapidly overcame you and quickly pulled on you down like a quicksand. You felt heat on your feet as hands began to grasp on your shoulders. It would only be a matter of time before you…

“Yoohyeon… please, forgive me! Please don’t let this happen to me,” you pleaded once more. Your entire body was already buried with the bones and the arms were rapidly overwhelming your head. One more arm and you can no longer see the floating figure of Kim Yoohyeon before you. “Please…! Yoohyeon! Please…! I’ll do anything for you to forgive me…! I’ll do anything to make it up to you, I promise!”

“What will you do, my love?” she finally asked. Your hands were desperately crawling for her, throwing the reaching arms off of your sight. The entire apartment was gone, and all you could see was Yoohyeon standing amidst the valley of bones with nothing but fire all around her. “What will you do to get my forgiveness?”

“I will do anything! Please, just give me one more chance and I will make it up to you! Please…. Don’t let me die like this… I will be with you forever just to make it up to you! I will take an eternity to even try and make it up for my mistakes, please!”

 “That’s not long enough.”

“My love, I will suffer for so long!”

“I pray to God that you do.”

You twitched as your jaw was attempted to be held.

“Please…! I’ll do anything then… I’ll do anything… I’ll do whatever you want me to do, please just save me my love… please!”

You were finally overwhelmed. You reached an arm out as your face and sight was covered. Yoohyeon was the final thing you saw before everything went black. You were counting on her final hold as you reached your hand out in desperation. It was a final attempt and yet it was proven to be futile.

And then, everything felt dead around you.

The force that was pulling you down the sea of bones was gone. You stopped from ever descending as your body was merely lingering amidst an ocean of skulls. You brushed the skeletal remains off of your face to provide you better sight, and once again you were inside that familiar empty apartment where you and Yoohyeon resided; the walls and ground were now black as if they were just extinguished from a previous burnout.

You crawled out of the skeletal pit and were immediately greeted by the sight of Yoohyeon standing before you once again. The entire apartment was dark, safe for the small glow that her undead body offered for you both.

“I will let you do that then,” she said while you went off and knelt opposite her. “Spend an eternity with me; trying to make up for all the sins you did to me and my life. I will let you do that because I still believe of your love for me. I’ll grant you… one chance. That’s all that I’ll give. And if it’s not enough…”

“If it’s not enough…?”

Yoohyeon drifted her figure close to you and pulled you by the collar of your shirt, and forced you inches above the floor. You could only do so much as to keep your eyes glued onto her immense visage; staring intently onto the grotesque figure of her eyes.  Both of her dead and blackened eyes were gazing back at you. Even through that void of irises you know that Yoohyeon was pleading to the little humanity left on your now repenting figure.

Slowly, her lips began to tremble. There was something definitely gruesome seeing how her lips curved and move this close, especially with the stitches around her beautiful face that added that level of sinister to her.

“You will try again… again… and again… and again... until the end of time. You will spend the rest of your soul’s existence trying to make up for what you did to me; to bring what you stole with everything that you got. You have to do this, or there would be no peace forever. That is what I want, my love, because in the end… you may have destroyed my humanity but I still love you. I still want to be with you forever, even if it means that we would be doing the same thing over and over again. If you really want to get my forgiveness that is what I want you to do,” she finished. Yoohyeon made sure to give you a small shake to emphasize her point. “It’s that or you can stay here and burn forever.”

You nodded without a second’s hesitation and even gave the most kind-hearted smile you could have ever given your fiancé even before you descended down to the path to madness. Even in that moment, despite all of your sins Yoohyeon finally saw the good in you. You were driven by fear; driven by the cowardice that led to both of your undoing. None of this would have ever happened had you not let your thoughts consume you from the inside out.

“I concur. I’ll happily take that if it means that I will be with you forever. I love you, my Yoohyeon. I love you forever.”

And then, Yoohyeon’s monstrous image produced a gesture you would not even think possible for a being like her. She shed tears. She wept.

You found a single tear drop from her eye. What normally would be a clear, tone of clear liquid that would spill down from a human being was pitched black from Yoohyeon. It should be petrifying to say the least, yet Yoohyeon’s jet-black tears coming from her equally jet-black eyes only emphasized her softness hiding amidst that tough and grisly shell.

You reached out to give Yoohyeon a tight hug despite being suspended in mid-air by her support. That action seemingly caught her off guard and yet she returned the gesture nonetheless. However, as much as you surprised her with your sudden intimate embrace, Yoohyeon returned the favour by doing something off as well. You no longer cared whether what was supporting you up or so; logic and realism were definitely not of that world. You let your hands go as you felt Yoohyeon snake her arms around your neck, engaging you in a deep and torrid kiss that would was rightful for the place that the two of you had for your own.

You felt the fire. The heat that once seared the surroundings was now adamant between you both. You and Yoohyeon burned; sharing a kiss that felt so long since you two both had for each other. Kisses after kisses were what spent the rest of your conscious self on that place. It was passionate, lustful and hungry even, and unbelievably very much full of love. You felt Yoohyeon’s burning presence as the fire consumed you both. It was the end of the road. You and Yoohyeon finally had a bond that tied you to each other forever.

The only thing left was to solidify your vows in a ceremony to make things official once and for all.

And as you and Yoohyeon made out in the middle of literal hell, you had your eyes closed with only one thing in mind:

It was finally time to come back.

---

Sometime after you and Yoohyeon’s doomed relationship spread through the local town like an urban legend, none of the townsfolk ever saw either the two of you to prove it false. That alone led then to believe that the rumours about you both were true; you both fell after being consumed by your own lust for each other and eventually died on each other’s arms without anything or anyone else. However, the impact that you two made on the local populace was strong as it could have ever been. It was suffice to say that there were still some of them that believed you two were prowling in the evening and the darkness, lurking in the shadows and looking for your next victim with the twisted, almost satirical premise they gave you both.

Especially since the local cemetery found an unregistered grave not that long ago. It was a simple pile of soil devoid of tombstones situated on a collection of stone enclosed graves. The eeriness of the appearance of said pile intrigued most of your local neighbours and yet no one truly had the courage to dig it up, fearing of what they could unleash from within. It was not a sound decision especially with your haunting rumour circulating around town.

You were glad that that was the case. It was the place where Yoohyeon put your mangled body after she claimed your heart for her own. It was a grave she expertly dug herself using her bare hands, hiding it from everyone after that fated night that you lost your first life. And now, Yoohyeon’s haunting figure lurked amongst the darkness of the quiet evening eagerly watching any display of movement from your grave. She knew you would come. Some way, some where you’d finally come back as you promised her. It was what was necessary to fulfil the eternal contract and bond of making it up for your sins.

And so, there was the sign she was dearly looking for. The grave she had your body on finally shifted; the first layers of soil above gently moving, dancing amidst the dead of the tombstones surrounding you.

You finally felt yourself jolt awake; the first signs of movement was to fish for a light coming from the faint moon. You felt the dirt all over your body as Yoohyeon never placed you under a coffin after all. You reached out and felt the incredible strength that the new life had brought with you, and slowly you made your way out of the solitary confinement. You repeatedly clawed your hands up from the ground until you reach the cold, evening air; the soft sounds of faint church hymns echoing amidst the distance.

Once you had the dirt away from sealing your body within the earth, you finally stood up and admired the new life you have been given. Your legs felt wobbly and unstable at first, and when you proceeded to look at your hands you finally found the answer as to why that was the case.

Your hands showed early signs of rotting flesh. Your hands were almost greenish-grey from being confined under for too long; your faded and filthy clothes even showed that time has passed since then. Some of your skin had already fallen off from your body. Your nails were dead as well, and yet you did not care. You were happy to even be alive once again even if just as a living and heartless corpse. You had that unwavering need; it was as if you had that insatiable desire to hate the living. Your now undead existence was dedicated to being with your Yoohyeon and that was all that you wanted.

And of course, she was there at the distance waving for you to come to her. She still had that same repulsive appearance and yet you now felt so belong with her. You became a monster as well. It was a small price to pay for your resurrection and you were more than willing to accept it. This was your form forever more; the form you would spend with Kim Yoohyeon until the end of time.

The distant church bells rang amidst the distance once again and you knew that it was calling to the two of you. You fixated your gaze onto her figure once more and she knew you had the same thing in mind. She waved the severed head of a guard she just murdered; ripped from the upper jaw away from the rest of his body while she smiled towards you. Despite the grotesque appearance, you were not fazed by it by any means. You even welcomed the sight as you felt an odd sense of satisfaction with how gruesome and brutal your fiancé was. After all, it was just the start.

And so, you and Yoohyeon marched closer towards the church to gate-crash an on-going night wedding. You held hand-in-hand, eager to seal the deal once and for all and intending to brutally murder anyone who stands on your way.

“I’ve come back my love,” you said, and even your voice has changed into a hideous growl. “We’ll live forever, my Yoohyeon. We’ll be together until the world falls.”

“You and I both know how we should start this,” Yoohyeon responded, locking her fingers on yours as you both walked the darkness after tossing the severed head aside. “Let’s have a wedding on that little church there. I bet there are a lot of people waiting for us inside.”

“We don’t need audience, do we? It should just be you and me. Let’s have a wedding and get rid of the rest.”

Yoohyeon nodded.

“Let’s start the killing then, my love. Kill for me.”

---

The orchestral sound of the town’s nearby cathedral was a testament to a wedding being held with the fall of the afternoon. The night’s peak was about to come and the evening could never have been better for the couple standing in front of the cathedral’s altar; music blaring all over its halls. Its blossoming and commanding rhythm drove excited anticipation amongst their colleagues and friends waiting on the benches. The ceremony has been done; all that was left was the vow that would seal them forever. The young man looked at his wife with utmost enthusiasm; even if they were separated by a veil, soon all would be gone and they would be one. The elderly priest beside them began to position himself for the final highlight of the evening when they heard the doors of the church close with a thud.

Each of the wedding’s visitors turned their heads towards the two figures holding hand-in-hand standing on the entrance. One was a rather tall woman with a bloody machete in hand. The visible stitches on her pale-skinned body sent shivers to them, more so emphasized once the people realized she had all dead black orbs for her eyes. Next to her stood a man that was about as tall as she was, skin already botched and greyish with some parts torn to show the dead flesh and muscle that lay beneath. You stood there with an equally imposing stature as Yoohyeon beside you; your eyes now devoid of irises as you had that lifeless white-eyed terrifying gaze. What caught your audience’s attention the most was the chainsaw you held on your hand, raising it without any sense of strain or obvious effort thanks to your undead strength.

“Should we kill all of them, my love?” You asked towards Yoohyeon, placing your arm on the crank of the said chainsaw. “We can make this place beautiful for our wedding, my love. We can turn this tawdry setting into red and you know it.”

“Do as you please. Red is a power colour, and I would love to see it as a motif,” Yoohyeon commanded. “Kill as much as you want, but leave the groom and bride to me. I have better plans for them. Let’s give them one killer show.”

You smiled as you watched Yoohyeon raise the machete above her head. She gave one quick swing and threw the blade all across the room, and thanks to her superhuman strength it flew towards the altar without fail. It spun in circles like a chakram while tracing its path, eventually making its way towards the groom with such velocity that it ricocheted towards the altar and fell towards the floor.

The spectators could only watch in horror as the groom’s head split cleanly off of his neck before rolling towards the floor, sending a flurry of blood and gore showering in front of the priest as well as the petrified wife next to them. His disembodied body began to limp forward and fall towards the floor, signalling the panic of the onlookers that came from the gruesome sight. The chairs were evacuated as each person attempted to flee through the side doors. Unfortunately for them, you and Yoohyeon took care of all the escape routes in silence while everyone was too occupied on the ceremony beforehand, and now all that was left was for the two of you to claim your victims on one impending carnage; the first mass-murder for your first night reborn.

You pulled the crank and your chainsaw roared to life; and you can’t help but grimace as the people flee at the sound of you, which is exactly what you wanted of them.

“We are tonight’s entertainment!” You taunted before you and Yoohyeon, plunged into the crowd to commit your mass murdering spree.

You swung your chainsaw through every single body that you could reach. You tore through their flesh like it was nothing, and that was thanks to your inhuman vigour. You bisected every person your blade could reach while you laughed in glee at your ghoulish artwork. It was suffice to say that you painted the rest of the chairs for that wedding day on a red motif, bathing the elegant ribbons and ties they set up on the grand aisles with a bath of blood from their own spectators. Man, woman, no matter how old or how young, you never gave any sort of remorse as you murdered through them all. You wanted them all dead for Yoohyeon to admire and that was precisely what you were aiming to accomplish. Your satisfaction relished on the amount of blood on the floor, the torn limbs you made and the screams that they gave before you took them out of their misery.

Your saw got jammed with the amount of flesh it ripped and tore through but even that did not stop you from continuing what you were doing. As far as you were concerned, that anger and rage was more than enough for you to do a lot of killing, even more so that there was too much to do during that point.

Yoohyeon, on the other hand, took on her share of killing by using her bare hands. She threw people with incredible brawn through the premises of the church. If that was not enough, she even made sure that she impaled a couple of bodies on the chandelier, hanging by their impaled heads and shaking the lighting of the wedding down to a minimum, and she made sure to do that while reserving her last kill of that evening for the bride.

Bodies upon bodies were lying mangled all over the cathedral’s vitiated and tormented floor. Broken and deformed benches were the testament to both you and Yoohyeon’s immense power. The once scream-filled inside of the church were now overwhelming with silence as you and your fiancé Yoohyeon bathed on the success of your mass execution. Even the body of the dead musician responsible for the orchestral tone of the grand piano was made sure to lie dead on the keyboard, echoing a long and lasting rhythm akin to horns that was sure to haunt the vicinity of that very cathedral.

And now, just as Yoohyeon had promised the only remaining person to butcher was the bride.

However, even if Yoohyeon had not decided to end her right away, she might as well be good as dead with everything that her eyes have witnessed. The human mind could only take so much, and the torment presented before her left her in a state of shock that she could barely even speak or think.

You positioned yourself on the bloodied mess of her headless-husband’s body, kicking him off and taking his place for your own. You made sure to give a soft, seemingly insulting nod towards the elderly priest who lay witness to all of your crimes yet did not seem to be very fazed by your very existence. All you did at that moment was watch as Yoohyeon finally approached the cowering bride’s figure, seated on the foot of the altar with her dress decorated with splatters of crimson sanguine. She had her hands over her ears but you were sure that she heard every single scream the dead produced moments ago.

“It’s going to be okay,” Yoohyeon mused towards the fearful woman, caressing her beautiful curls with her own, stitched hands. Your fiancé even more so did as much as to slowly wipe the tear on her cheek before she undid the veil that was on top of the bride’s head.

“I’ll put this to good use, I promise,” she added, carefully placing the blood-spattered veil over her own head and arranging it on a manner that was perfect for her. You watched as Yoohyeon carefully wiped the lipstick on the woman’s lips, smudging the hot red with her fearfully pale face. She placed her palm over the young woman’s forehead while she plunged two of her fingers inside the woman’s lips, grabbing her lower jaw for leverage.

Once quick rip followed by the sound of torn skin and broken bones equated to the bride’s head being severed by the jaw. The remnants of her head fell and rolled towards the floor like her would-be husband’s, and her headless body finally slid off towards the ground in a pool of scarlet life.

Yoohyeon dusted the small splash of her ichor on her body and moved to pick up the mess of flowers that the bride left beside her. With a smile, Yoohyeon finally ended the killing spree you both have started, and now finally stood in front of the altar with your waiting grasp. The elderly priest glared at the sight of two murderers in front of him.

“Sorry for that show there. We’re ready to be one. Bless us and we’ll make this quick and painless,” Yoohyeon said once she was in position. The audacity that the both of you showed, having murdered every single person in front of the priest was now evident, especially when you even asked the priest to bless whatever macabre goals you both had in mind.

Sensing his lack of choice and perhaps accepting that death was already knocking at his old door already anyway, the elderly priest shifted his eyes between you and Yoohyeon and finally spoke. The deep tone of the suspended music serving as a chorus as well as a rhythm for you and Yoohyeon’s wedding vows.

“Very well then,” the priest replied with a gravelling tone. He turned his attention towards Yoohyeon’s waiting figure and began to pronounce the words while he added a small modification to the standard vow:

“Do you take this man in death for the rest of your unnatural life?”

“Yes I do,” replied Yoohyeon while not taking her eyes off of your waiting leer.

The priest then turned towards you.

“Do you take this woman in death for the rest of your unnatural life?”

“I do.”

“I now pronounce you husband and wife for the rest of this eternity. You may now kiss your bride.”

“I love you, Kim Yoohyeon, in death, in unrest, and for the rest of this life forever.”

“I love you too; in death, in unrest and for the rest of this life forever.”

You blatantly ignored the compasses that the priest has given your bond, and you merely pulled the same diamond ring that was the root cause for all that happened between you and Yoohyeon. You knelt and finally, two lifetimes apart and one dead body on top of the other, you managed to slip the very ring onto Yoohyeon’s middle finger.

That was it. The unnatural union was done and there were no do-overs. The curse that you wrought upon each other was inadvertently the start for something that was bizarrely beautiful. The church murder was a testament; an undying proof of your never-ending devotion with the endless love for your now loving wife, Kim Yoohyeon. There were still a lot to do. There were still a lot of bodies left to kill in order to satiate your mutual desire for death and the union was there to begin everything in its proper place.

And just as you and Yoohyeon had your foreheads leaning onto one another, feeling the moment that took literally life and death to achieve once and for all, you realized you had to uphold her end of the bargain.

You took a swift thrust on your right without warning and quickly took the heart of the priest out of his own body. You both witnessed as the elderly priest supplied a look void of surprise as he clearly saw this coming with pure angry expectation. However, before his body fell to the ground and the final remnants of his life left the shell of his taut body, he was quick to give you and Yoohyeon a raised middle finger. That was something that both of you were amused on before settling on a quick kiss.

And so, the church bells rang along with the rhythm of the pressed grand piano. You and Yoohyeon walked one bloody hand on the other, waltzing with joy as the blood pooled on your feet and messed your steps with trails of crimson. Yet you both did not care. The town before you would have the night of their lives as the couple of you would bring the terrible rumour up to truth at last.

Your legend with Kim Yoohyeon lived up to its name and one could even argue that the story did not do you justice. The tale of two lovers who fell and came back now attempting to quench their never-ending thirst for blood, aptly called now as husband and wife. The church was just a small stage to set-up for your even greater audience. You spent the next nights and days terrorizing the local townsfolk; slaughtering each and every human being you could find in the most gruesome way you two could think of, and the killings brought joy to both you and Yoohyeon’s sadistic faces.

On top of that, you continued on to move and act like everything was normal; that you and Yoohyeon were just two newly-wedded people enjoying what the gore and the grisly has to offer. The disembowelled and dishevelled bodies of your victims were never left as is. You would often take their severed heads, internal organs, even eyes and limbs to pose for Yoohyeon to take a picture of before you mutually consumed them for your own satisfaction. Both of your favourite was drinking from a straw while it was pierced on a severed head, especially with its brains exposed for you to feast on. Then again, it was way too early on your twisted journey to settle for something you favoured in particular.

The physical absence of both your hearts caused you to stomach everything that you did but even then you knew that that was not entirely true. You had each other’s heart, for the most part anyway, and on that regard you know that you would never lose Yoohyeon again and so does she to you. It was one less reason to cry. Everybody had to die at some point and you two were never an exception. However, in that death you found the very thing that bound you together forever. You fell apart and that new life was your new start. After all, spending an eternity trying to find the satisfaction in the flesh and the macabre did not seem so bad after all, especially if you get to spend it with your love Kim Yoohyeon.

At least in that regard you could say that you and Yoohyeon lived happily ever after.

---THE END---

Authornim: Now that was a trip now, wasn’t it?

Like I said, this story was based on an 8-minute song called ‘A Little Piece of Heaven’ performed by Avenged Sevenfold. If you have interests on checking the song out and how it relates to this particular piece, I do recommend you watch the music video as it gives better context rather than just listening to the song as-is. Plus, it makes the song a lot better in my opinion. If you made it through the end of this story, then that animated MV would be fine for you.

Like I said at the beginning of the chapter, I did up tone some of the narrative here to fit my storytelling method. I guess you can see the comparison once you watch it.

Thank you so much for reading this particular piece and see you on the next update!

#yoohyeon #dreamcatcher #kpop smut #kpop fanfic #malereader #dreamcatcher yoohyeon #kim yoohyeon #thigh #spooky season #halloween

[morethanaloveinterest]

An Awed Review of Padme's Costumes in AOTC

Let's talk about the wonderful quantity of costumes Padme wears in Attack of the Clones and how it reflects the story.

Padme wears this in the opening scene when she is in disguise returning to Coruscant. She pilots her own fighter and it not revealed until the attempt on her life kills one of her handmaidens.

Female representation: 10/10 Her needing a disguise does not mean putting her in something out-of-character (as an excuse to be objectifying).

Practicality: 10/10 As a uniform, presumably, it is very practical for piloting.

She wears this gown when she and the Loyalists have an audience with the Chancellor. It makes sense for a Senator to wear - less ornate than the queen costumes and with a smaller headdress and minimal makeup. But obviously it is still a similar style. For Padme, it is also a more mature outfit than we have seen her in - unlike the high shoulders of the queen's outfits or the simple practicality of the handmaidens, this one is clearly the dress a mature woman would wear by emphasizing her figure.

Female representation: 10/10 Though it sets itself apart from the queen's costumes and shows her to be an adult woman (about to take part in a love story), she is not objectified in any way.

Practicality: 8/10 Obviously practical for having an audience with the leader of the Senate, but she would have removed a lot of it for her later action scenes while still being more practical than her queen's dresses.

This is one of the three nightgowns we see her wear (another in this movie I'll get to shortly). It is white and flowy, as nightgowns tend to be, and does not highlight any of her assets. It is less mature than the other ones she wears, which makes sense for this point of the movie.

Female representation: 10/10 You know I love a lady in a realistic nightgown. We only see her briefly in this, so I can't be sure how thin the fabric is, but it certainly seems to have avoided an excuse to show anything off to the audience while simultaneously showing a vulnerable side as the Jedi rescue her from the assassin.

Practicality: 9/10 I mean, it's a nightgown, so how practical can it be? But from what I can see, it looks easy enough to move around in and she could probably haven't joined the Jedi adventure wearing it.

This is the dress she wears to pack to leave Coruscant. While less complex than the previous Senator gown, it is still quite detailed. I feel that it is a bit more guarded while being more Padme than Senator Amidala - she is angry to be leaving and angry at Anakin for his part in that. So she is putting him at a distance.

Female representation: 10/10 It's really good, what can I say? Padme's costumes are awesome. It is less regal perhaps than her previous gown but just as distancing (unlike what she will be wearing soon).

Practicality: 8/10 Maybe more practical than her other gown but the skirt could definitely be a problem if she wanted to get up to any adventures.

Padme wears this while they are traveling as refugees to Naboo. There is also a metal headdress of the same shape that she wears for a few of the scenes. Both are referencing the Madonna, which makes sense for who she is in the series. The pattern is unlike what we've seen her in before, as is the color - this is also a disguise but it also shows a softening of her character compared to the previous two gowns.

Female representation: 10/10 As usual, it's great. Again, her being in disguise could have been used in all sorts of ways but she still looks more or less like the Padme we've known for a while now.

Practicality: 8/10 There are a lot of layers so I don't imagine it would be the most practical for adventuring.

This gorgeous gown is what she wears as they arrive in the Lake District on Naboo. It is not the best choice if you want to keep your handsome young bodyguard at a distance, though. Definitely the most romantic costume we see in the star wars universe.

Female representation: 8/10 I don't want to ruffle any feathers, but I do think the completely bare back is a bit out of character for Padme. Especially in this situation - she is feeling assassination, you know? And trying not to have her bodyguard fall in love with her. So I don't think she would wear something this revealing if she had a choice. Like, one thing that makes clothes sexy (at least in terms of costume design) is how easily they would be removed, and this is pretty much just a necklace with more steps. So as beautiful as it is, it is closer to the gold bikini than I would like.

Practicality: 5/10 I'm sure Padme could manage in anything she's wearing, but it's a good thing no adventures start while she's wearing this.

This is the gown Padme wears while having a picnic in front of some waterfalls with Anakin. As you do. She wears a lot of yellow in this movie, in contrast to Anakin's black but also as the idea of being what could save Anakin from the dark side. Potentially. While wearing constricting layers is not new for Padme, this is the first real corset we see her wear (usually it's a stomacher or whatever). This adds to the romantic situation she's in by showing how she is clearly an adult woman.

Female representation: 10/10 You might expect a lower rating after the last one, but this is a perfect example of how to get the sexiness across without exposing a lot of skin. The sheer fabric still leaves things up to the imagination and this is very solidly on her for frolicking in a field.

Practicality: 8/10 Realistically, no more practical than her fancier gowns but still something she could certainly do some running around wearing.

Padme wears this dress at the dinner with Anakin, followed by sitting by the fire without the feathered shawl. The necklace is certainly an interesting choice. Under the shawl is a black leather corset, and she keeps the gloves on with the necklace. It's also the only time, I believe, that we see her wear black - perhaps foreshadowing how she is actually a dark temptation for Anakin.

Female representation: 7/10 I feel it would be harder to get her out of it than the other gown, so it gets a slightly higher rating. But her shoulders and back are very bare by the fire. And the corset is definitely uh doing what a corset does, which was less clear with the previous one. I mean, I would wear this, but it would not be in a PG-13 situation. So I do have to wonder how much of this is fanservice vs what Padme would actually wear (or even own).

Practicality: 7/10 The feathered shawl is not practical and too much skin is showing underneath it. Plus a hobble skirt is called that for a reason - we do not even see her walk around in this.

Nightgown #2. And even though it has a robe over it, it is far more feminine and mature than its predecessor. She wears this to go talk to Anakin about his shirtless, sweaty nightmares, while he is wearing a see-through shirt and meditating. They both look hot in this scene, is what I'm saying.

Female representation: 10/10 I definitely believe Padme would own a nightgown with a V-neck and have her hair down to sleep. And she put on a robe, so like Anakin's outfit here, it seems more like an unintentional vulnerability than the previous revealing gowns.

Practicality: 8/10 Another nightgown, so presumably not the best for adventuring. There is a reason she changes before they go, after all.

Padme wears this on Tatooine as they search for Shmi Skywalker. There is a hooded poncho she wears over it while they are in town and she only removes it for dinner and to see Anakin off. It's a lightweight costume that is quite unlike anything we've seen her wear. But it does make sense for the desert setting and looks fantastic on her.

Female representation: 8/10 I adore this, but that's a lot of Natalie Portman's abs in a carefully designed belt area that points to her navel. Not what I would choose to wear when hoping to meet my potential mother-in-law, you know? I think she even wears this to the funeral, which is probably not what the always-sartorially-correct Padme would do usually.

Practicality: 9/10 Certainly more practical than her other gowns, especially for the desert, but bare midriffs are not ideal for the environment. Though the poncho helps, of course.

She wears this to comfort Anakin after Shmi's funeral. It is definitely inspired by real-world desert dwellers and I like that. The color is vibrant while the fabric is fairly plain under the embroidery. I'm actually surprised she didn't wear the previous number for comforting Anakin - this one is much more conservative. It is also similar to her second nightgown look, with her hair down and all, and reflects the vulnerability of the scene together.

Female representation: 10/10 It's a great costume for her to wear, feminine without showing off her assets.

Practicality: 9/10 I assume it is very practical for desert life. Though she would need a head covering.

Padme wears this for the battle on Geonosis. She soon loses the poncho and a monster even rips it to show off her abs again. It is very reminiscent of Leia's outfit at the end of ESB, no doubt intentionally, as both ladies have to kick some ass after their declarations of love.

Female representation: 9/10 I guess it should have a lower rating after the shirt rips, but it's still a pretty great costume for the love interest to be wearing in the final action scenes.

Practicality: 10/10 Obviously this is the most practical thing Padme wears in this movie (except the pilot outfit, I suppose). Though I must say from experience that the color of the sand on Geonosis would be a huge problem for wearing white and it would quickly become pink. But that's fine.

Padme's wedding dress! Isn't it lovely? I especially love the sleeve details. It fits well with Padme's other dresses while adding some elements of wedding dresses from Eastern countries as so many of her costumes draw inspiration do. It is much softer and more feminine than her other gowns while being just as complex.

Female representation: 10/10 A wonderful wedding dress, I'm so glad she got to have one (unlike, for example, her daughter, who presumably got married off screen).

Practicality: 8/10 It's perfect for a wedding, obviously, but I'm sure she's glad there were no adventures while she's wearing it.

If you enjoyed this, check out my Star Wars for the Girlies Series (New Padme episode out now!)

#padme amidala #padme naberrie #costume reviews #may the fourth #anidala #sw: aotc

[heartsleevemag]

Indie supergroup boygenius releases cyclical new EP, "the rest"

by Cassidy Byrnes

The boys are yet again back in town. Last Friday, indie trio boygenius released a new EP, the rest, after their astounding, widely accredited full-length album, the record. With their 2018 debut EP, boygenius, many of us assumed it would be their first and last outing as a group. But now, in 2023, we are all swimming in the sorrowful rock sounds of both the record, released March 31st, and the newly released EP, the rest.

I want to mention the significance, to me and to other fans, of releasing an EP rather than an extended or deluxe version of the LP. While I assume that the rest is composed of songs that were meant for the record, I think it’s wonderful to acknowledge, as an artist, that that album is complete. After listening to the rest an extraordinary amount of times, I can tell boygenius also believed that it was deserving of its own independent release because, like the record, it tells its own stories with its own conclusions. That’s not to say that I’m not a sucker for an extended or deluxe album (Taylor Swift, for example, can have all of my money), but understanding when a project is finished is something really special and noteworthy.

“Black Hole” starts off this EP with a staccato piano and an entrance of vocals from Julien Baker, where she is describing a night spent on a porch smoking cigarettes. Then a rhythm line comes in along with a more chaotic piano beginning to drown her out. Then enters Lucy Dacus with a smattering of nouns and adjectives that seemingly have no connection to Baker – but I’d like to imagine they are sharing a phone call where they are discussing these things, “Sometimes, I need to hear your voice,” Dacus concludes.

Dacus also brings us into the next track “Afraid of Heights.” This track has a very light acoustic feel with some steel guitar, until the final 40 seconds where a steady bass line joins and increases the gravity, making you really take in the story that Dacus weaves. Throughout the track, she describes a relationship with someone who pushed her to her limits: “I know I was a disappointment / Know you wanted me to take a risk / Not everybody gets the chance to live / A life that isn’t dangerous.” She has this amazing ability to make the listener believe everything she’s telling them, almost like they lived it themselves. The chaotic nature of the relationship and the slow, explanatory narrative by Dacus gives the song extreme emotional depth. They even snuck in the word “entropy," which seems to be the perfect encapsulation for this relationship.

We haven't heard a lot from Phoebe Bridgers yet, the third member of boygenius who is known for her wispy vocals and brutal lyrics, but the third track definitely showcases both. Opening with a humming harmony from the boys, “Voyager” pushes the audience into a story led by Bridgers; “It’s a hundred and three in the Valley / Blacktop is meltin’ on our shoes.” She tells us about a relationship that has ended, that was seemingly romantic but toxic all at the same time, and Bridgers still feels some sort of possession over them. This groundless notion is what drives the track – one moment she is reminiscing about spending the day in bed with this person, and the next she’s telling us that they “stepped on the gas” and asked her if she’s ready to die. While I hope that’s figurative, it gets the toxicity of the relationship across without it slapping the audience in the face. The production of the track is very minimal, with a plucky guitar line and the harmonies of Baker and Dacus.

“Powers” ends the EP and lets us hear from Baker one last time, where she is questioning her origins. Baker discusses her “powers” and where they came from with a sort of disdain, even relating her existence to a cockroach. This track’s lyrical allegories are great and the harmonies from the other boys offer a nice place to land, but the majority of the production, to me, was a little lackluster. But, again, the final minute of the track offers an undemanding trumpet solo accompanied by some strings which is a delicate way to lay the EP to rest (haha).

The entirety of this EP seems to be a conclusion of sorts. Each song is discussing the end of something and the acceptance that often accompanies endings, giving the title, the rest, a whole new meaning. The exceptional thing is that all of these tracks blend perfectly into the next; even the closing track blends right into the opener. Listening to it the first time, I was questioning where one song ended and the next began. I can only hope that this cyclical feeling was purposeful and that the boys, like this EP, will likely end but will begin again.

#music #heartsleeve magazine #boygenius #the rest #phoebe bridgers #lucy dacus #julien baker #the record #new release #music publication #new music friday #new releases #new music #music review #review #release #by cassidy byrnes #Spotify

[crusherthedoctor]

It's been a long time since I've last seen Secret Rings' story but if I remember correctly the issue I have with the whole deal between Shahra and Erazor is that while yes it was handled in a somewhat tactful manner for a game mainly directed at younger audiences, it also felt... sorta thrown in like that?

Of course the game couldn't have delved too deeply into such a relationship, otherwise it would have delved into uncomfortable territory for the franchise's standards, so from a Sonic-storytelling point of view it works...but from a more general storytelling point of view it feels cheap to only scarpe the surface of such a sensitive matter (for instance I don't believe we're ever told what it is that she sees in the guy, what kind of positive facade he must be using to manipulate her, hence kind of undermining the entire crux of a toxic relationship like that) and only treat it in broad scopes.

I'm not saying we should've had scenes of Erazor being explicitly abusive towards her, God no! Just that I feel like that whole subplot felt somewhat unneccessary? Like it's so minimal that you could scrap it from the game and very little would change

If we're going to criticise things that are seemingly inserted for its own sake in Sonic stories, we'd be here all day. And I don't just mean comic examples.

Yeah, the story as is could have probably worked decently without it. But considering how much focus is given to Sonic and Shahra's growing friendship, I think it provides a strong contrast to drive home the difference in how they both treat Shahra as a person and as a genie, on top of fleshing out Shahra and Erazor at the same time, as well as justifying Shahra's inner conflict in the endgame. I also don't think there was anything cheap or insensitive about it just because it wasn't shown overtly.

What Shahra had previously seen in Erazor is certainly a mystery, but since the game doesn't dwell on it much, I think it's deliberately left to the player's imagination, since all that truly matters in the present time of the story is that they once had a history together, things went south due to Erazor being a dipshit, and Erazor is now exploiting their past history for his benefit. Sonic himself doesn't dwell on it and respects that she must have had her reasons, so it seems that was the intention. By sharp contrast, '06 spends a lot of time trying to convince us so badly that Mephiles is the ultimate chessmaster, and Silver falling for his obvious bullshit is somehow understandable because Something Something Desperation.

IMO, adding something extra to a story/character, even if it's not 100% necessary, doesn't hurt as long as it still has a purpose for being there, and doesn't take away from anything else that's already been established.

#Crusher's Asks #Opinion #Sonic the Hedgehog #Shahra the Ring Genie #Erazor Djinn #Sonic and the Secret Rings

[starswallowingsea]

Book Review: Kaikeyi by Vaishnavi Patel

I ended up giving this book a 3/5 star rating based on just a craft perspective but as soon as I finished reading I ended up looking at reviews by Hindus online and well. Let's discuss below the cut.

So Kaikeyi is a retelling of the Ramayana from the perspective of Queen Kaikeyi. The Ramayana is a very important text in Hinduism and thus, assuming that Patel grew up in a Hindu household, one would expect her to be familiar with it in the same way I, as someone who grew up in a Catholic household, am familiar with the Bible.

Before I get into all of that, I would like to actually talk about the content of the book, since I am the target audience as an outsider to Hinduism looking to learn more about the stories that make up its foundations. I don't know anything about the Ramayana and I found this retelling to be very off, at least from a historical perspective.

One of the biggest issues I have with historical books is that authors really love to put their modern, 21st century views and ideals onto the narrative. It happens on all sides of the political spectrum and as a historian it makes me want to tear my hair out. I know it's unavoidable that our own perspectives shape how we write, but I wish that more people would take a step back and see how their ideas of feminism, in this case anyway, would actually have looked in the time period their book is set in.

Kaikeyi is the third wife of Dasharath and gives birth to his second son, Bharata, whom has been promised upon their wedding to ascend the throne. Kaushalya, Dasharath's first wife, also gave birth to his first son, Rama, of whom the Ramayana is actually focused on. However, while their children are growing up, we get a lot lot lot of the pushing of 21st century ideals in a historical setting. Kaikeyi is very invested in the ideas of women's rights which is fine? I guess? But it is very very hard for me to believe a woman of her standing, quite literally as the Queen of her nation, would be so class conscious and care this much about the average woman in her country without much reason.

Every single time Kaikeyi devolves into a rant about the Patriarchy and Feminism, it feels like this book would have been better suited to a modern retelling of the Ramayana rather than a historical one, though I can imagine it would still come with a lot of the same baggage re: an apparent lack of understanding of anything in the original Epic. The whole thing feels forced and like if Kaikeyi doesn't care about all women then she can't be a feminist character or reclamation or a "girl's girl" as the kids on tiktok are saying these days I think. Honestly I'd rather have a meaningful examination of her biases that are certain to actually be there if she were written to be like a person rather than a perfect ideal of Patel's feminism.

The first 2/3 of the book also felt like everything was just handed to Kaikeyi on a silver platter with very minimal pushback which just made her such an unbearable character to be in the headspace of for that period. I feel a lot of that space could have just been used better to show her stubbornness in the face of adversity that shines towards the end of the novel rather than just. Letting her passively have all of her goals handed to her with very minimal work on her part.

As a reading experience, the last 150 or so pages were probably the best to read as Kaikeyi's actions finally have real, tangible consequences for her but this is also the point where I saw a lot of Hindu readers had such an issue with this retelling of the Ramayana. Rama being portrayed as a misogynistic, war hungry prince and the erasure of Ravana's history of raping and kidnapping women were the two biggest points of contention for Hindu reviewers. I don't see why either of these changes were necessary to adapt this story for a modern, Western audience. By doing this, I believe Patel, intentionally or not, is playing into colonialist narratives about Hinduism rather than fighting them. It's also a disservice to present the Ramayana this way to both Hindu and non-Hindu readers, given that Hindus will be able to spot all the changes and disregard them, and non-Hindus are none the wiser to all the liberties Patel took with her retelling and are bound to spout them as fact if they don't look into the original.

I'd probably skip this book unless you're really into hashtag girlboss feminism retellings of fairy tales and myths, since so many of them miss the point of the original story. I can see the potential here for Patel as an author and am on the fence about trying her book coming out next month as the writing itself wasn't awful, but I'm not sure if I trust her with another myth retelling. At the very least, I suppose I can thank Patel for making me interested in reading the Ramayana at some point in the near future, so this review might have an update eventually.

#shay speaks #book reviews #bookblr #booklr #kaikeyi #i read this in like 3 weeks i'm kinda shocked #the prose reads very easily but its very insufferable to be in kaikeyi's head sometimes #i do want to take this book in good faith in that patel didnt mean for it to come across like this but. #also someone on goodreads said it felt more like reading a medieval european fantasy instead of something set in india.... #god yeah it felt like that it was very. untethered to its setting. #anyway i'm tired and hungry i'm going to maybe eat in a bit here.

[thiswaycomessomethingwicked]

For the piping hot asks: Grima + 👃, 👂, 😍, 💋, 🔥, 💞, and 💌, please!!

Thank you sooooo much for this!! Apologies in advance for the novel I wrote you. But this is Grima and you were so very generous in asking me many things! 💞💞💞

[Qs from the Piping Hot OC asks]

Does your OC smell good? Do they have a signature scent?

Does.

Grima Wormtongue.

Smell good?

Finally, a question I have been asked!

Everyone in Rohan has an Odour. No one smells good by our standards. Not Eomer. Not Eowyn. Not Theoden. Not Theodred. Not Grima. No one.

Just saying.

These people aren’t bathing every other day. The very wealthy are bathing maybe bi-weekly? Weekly at most and that’s a hell of a lot of work (for the servants, to be fair. Since these are posh nobles who don’t labour for themselves. Since really, the only commoner among them who has probably drawn his own water and heated his own tub at a regular basis at some point in his life is Grima). This is all presuming that Rohan has a pro-bathing culture and doesn’t believe hot water opens your pores into which illness descends and gives you plague.

Just context setting.

Anyway.

So ok look, I understand why Peter Jackson took the approach he did for Grima in the films—he needed to make him visually distinctive. He had a lot of characters who kind of looked the same (I remember the first time I watched FOTR and I couldn’t tell Boromir and Aragorn apart) and he needed to make sure the audience was able to swiftly look at a scene and go a) New Person! We haven’t seen this one yet! & b) He is Clearly Evil. We can tell by his appearance alone. He doesn’t need to speak, we can just tell that he is evil.

(There’s so much to unpack about why we associate those visual markers as evil, but that’s for another time.)

However, when we look at Grima as a character—where he is positioned in society, his role, his rank etc. etc.—then the greasy, probably-gross-to-be-near, implied-minimal-personal-hygiene persona doesn’t make sense.

I am perfectly willing to have Grima be visually ugly in his base appearance (his face should be weird and unappealing). I’m fine with that. In fact, that’s how I want it. But he is a man with no family standing, no land, no title, his entire fortune and position is dependent on the good graces of the king.

Within the court he’s a distinguished enough figure that he is the king’s chief advisor. [I talk about the roles he might have played elsewhere on my tumblr.] And he is close enough to Theoden that he sits at his right hand and holds enough power to speak plainly to titled men and distinguished guests without needing to bow too low to the ground.

This means he has standards of appearance and self-grooming that he would be held to and expected to fulfill. The social (and personal, political) cost of not meeting these expectations would be high and Grima is a climber and a survivor therefore I see him as being dedicated to meeting the standards others impose on him.

He also is clearly someone who values wealth, nice clothes, displays of power etc. and that includes bathing and primping and preening and all that good stuff. The fact that he has time and financial means to Look Fancy says a lot about his position within society—even if he doesn’t have a nice title or whack of land to go along with it.  

All of this to say—by the standards of Rohan, yes. He smells good.

Does he have a signature scent? I don’t know if Rohan has a perfume culture that would enable the idea of a signature scent, but he’d probably have some form of soap and such that he’s partial to. Also does Rohan believe in miasma-theory of disease spread? Because if so, Grima totally wanders around with a clove studded orange.

Could I have answered that in two paragraphs? Yes. Did I choose violence instead? Yes.

2. Does your OC have an attractive voice?

As it’s not described in the books, so far as I can remember, I tend to flip flop on how I imagine his voice to sound. There are days when I head canon it as resting higher up in his throat/nose – so it comes out a little nasally.

Then there are days when I head canon it as deeper and he can speak quietly, when he wants to. The sort of weighted quiet that you have to really stop what you’re doing and pay attention in order to follow him. Which is a good way to ensure his audience is focused on him, and him alone. (I had a director at work who did that and I remember it being very effective during negotiations.)

Looking purely at canon, I lean towards the latter option since he is clearly positioned as the mini-version of Saruman, so to speak. He’s meant to have abilities that mirror the wizard’s but aren’t equal to him. Saruman’s Voice is infamous, therefore as a scaled down version, it stands to reason Grima’s voice would have been pleasant to listen to.

He's definitely a good public speaker, as we see in that battle of the wits with Gandalf (in the books, as the films cut 95% of it). Gandalf obviously wins, but Grima definitely holds his own. Also, he comes from an oral tradition society where rhetoric and public oration are highly prized, so he’d be well versed in it. Also song is a huge part of Rohirric culture so he’s likely able to hold a tune, at the very least, if not know how to properly sing.

So yeah, I would say I generally view him as having a pleasant voice to listen to. When I’m not leaning into the slightly whiny version, but that’s just me and not based in canon.

--

3. What does your OC find irresistible in others?

Smarts and confidence. 100%. Intelligence and willpower and a strong personality that conveys “I’m in charge, I know what I’m doing, and I am strong in my sense of self.” Grima is one of life’s followers, that boy don’t lead, and I think he finds highly confident and intelligent people very attractive. Power is also irresistible to him—so someone in a position of wealth and power who throws their weight around, is clever and wise, and conveys an air of “I’ll walk on you, but it’ll be sexy”—that person would be Grima’s catnip.

I personally write him as having a thing for people who could physically break him. Like Eomer could bench press that man. So could Eowyn, for that matter.

Grima: It’s so hot that you could kill me.

Eomer:

Eomer: right.

--

4. Is your OC a good kisser? How do they do it?

I think he’s tolerable. Not someone you’d write home about but he’s not terrible. He’s not like, trying to chew your face off.

As in life, in this he is more of a follower. So, he might start instigating something, but he’ll quickly want the other person to lead. I mean, look at the (attempted) seduction scene in the movies with Eowyn. I think he was hoping, “if I lead us to a certain point in this dance, she’ll take up the reigns from there.”

(To be fair, it is hard to say how much of that was him as a person and how much of that hinged on class and rank issues. She’s the daughter of kings, he’s a nobody. He can’t touch her without her consent without serious repercussions. I know he was controlling her uncle and some of the court, but there are certain social and class rules that he wouldn’t be able to squirm out of and I strongly believe “the commoner laid a hand on the noblewoman and she didn’t want it” is one of them. It’s that sticky thing of—he might be a man in a very, clearly patriarchal society—but it is also a classist and rank-focused society wherein she’s the niece of the king, sister to the third marshal, cousin of the second marshal, and descended from the house of Eorl on both sides of the family. She outranks him to an insane degree. And again, his power and position is by the grace of Theoden alone. Her power and position is by dint of birth.)

In terms of approach, I think he goes from gentle to rough pretty quickly—depending who the other party is depends on if he wants to be hurt or do the hurting.

--

5. What’s a surefire way to make your OC get flustered?

Lord, I have no idea. I think it would depend on the person and the situation. He’s quick witted, we know, so I suspect he just defaults to sarcasm whenever presented with something unexpected, even if it’s sentimental or heart-felt from the other person.

I always think it’s interesting how taken aback he is in the Eowyn-Theodred-Death-Bed-scene when he’s doing his “oh you are alone” shtick then she says the famous “your words are poison” and storms out. I can’t tell if he actually thought she might be swayed and is surprised that she’s not or if the words hit home (I don’t think this is the case, for some reason). I’m not sure what to make of that scene in terms of his expectations and reaction to the outcome. Regardless, he’s clearly flustered/surprised.

For more sentimental things, I think if he was keen on a person and they complimented something he took real pride in, he would find it surprising and might be taken aback. Then he’d go through his paranoid-politician brain of: what do they want? What are they trying to get from me? what’s the secret motive? Etc.

He might, eventually, come around to realizing there isn’t a secret motive and someone was truly just being nice to him. This is a rare event and should be documented with the same intensity as once in a lifetime meteor showers.

--

6. Do they treat sex casually or do they view it as something with a lot of emotional weight?

This is another hard one. I suspect that he’s very all or nothing. So, if he’s decided this is a casual fling, he will be ruthlessly cold and distant. He and that person will fuck then they will put their clothes back on, not talk to each other, and go on their way for the remainder of the day. It would be short, too, and likely transactional in nature—either explicitly or implicitly (e.g., he and Person A shag—Grima gets jollies and maybe something else from it and Person A, in turn, get their ale licence renewed).

However, if he does the daft thing and develop emotions for a person it’s very intense. “I’ll set the world on fire and kill everyone for you” sort of thing. Even if that person never asks it of him. Which can, uh, cause problems. In these situations yes, sex carries emotional weight though I suspect it would be less than other aspects of the relationship. I think he would take any sort of oath or troth very seriously and would expect the other person to do as well. Which is a funny thing, coming from the King of Oath Breakers over here. Sex would be meaningful, and would be used as a way of confirming that oath or troth or understanding between the two of them. I suspect it also might be important in a reaffirming way since I don’t think Grima would be very secure in any sort of relationship—barring marriage, perhaps, since there are legal aspects to hold people in place—since I run on the belief that he assumes everyone is going to leave him at some point.

--

7. How would they plan a romantic evening for a significant other?

Meticulously. And, to a certain degree, earnestly.

Yeah, I really think there’d be a weird, earnest, sweetness to it. Weird being a word that carries a lot of weight in that sentence. I suspect there would be a few disquieting aspects as well, since I don’t believe Grima does anything quite the way the average person goes about activities, but he’d put a lot of effort into it.

This would also be the point when that person would realize that Grima has memorized all they’ve ever said about themselves and has, possibly, been spying on/stalking them and so knows everything about their likes, dislikes etc. Which, Grima, honey, no. Don’t do that.

I haven’t thought through Rohan’s courting and marriage culture so I don’t have much to say on that front—nor have I thought through Rohan’s view of non-marital relationships. As I have their spiritual life being not a religion, and more just a mental landscape of the natural world and it happens to be animistic, marriage as an institution has no faith-based implications to it. Having a mistress isn’t offending god, so to speak. Therefore, like in so many places, it’s an economic and social custom meant to cement bonds and alliances between families (and countries, for the Eomer and Eowyns of the world).

That said, Tolkien was a Romantic in many respects and his view of the world had a lot more “they married for love! They also happened to both be nobles and their marriage happened to also be a great alliance” than is reasonable.

I’m not sure where I’m going with this—I suppose, a musing on the role of romantic love in Rohan would be separate from courtship/marriage and therefore how you romance a potential mistress might be different to how you romance a potential wife.

Not to mention if it’s same-sex wooing, since I don’t believe Rohan is at all chill with anything approaching homosexuality. They seem pretty firmly patriarchal, binary in their gender roles, and idealize militaristic masculinity. Therefore, Grima trying to plan something for a man would be different than for a woman.

Regardless the complicated social layers, that man would be meticulous and if it were for love reasons he’d be sweet and earnest, if in a disconcerting and possibly creepy fashion.

-------

Thank you again! This was a blast to write, and I enjoyed it so much. ❤️❤️❤️

#grima wormtongue #ask meme #reply #lord of the rings #lotr #lotr ask meme #anon #ask #eomer #eowyn #does. grima wormtongue. smell good #something I thought about while I made dinner before answering this ask #as an FYI anon #my dinner thoughts: does he smell good? what is rohan's approach to miasma theory of disease spread? what is their bathing situation like? #what's their infrastructure? limited I imagine. So bitches be hauling water and firewood to make sure them nobles are clean #grima thoughts

[redinbluee]

Sayonara Eri Analysis- a series

(feel free to skip the following intro)

Hello, I have decided that I will begin writing a series about Tatsuki Fujimoto's Sayonara Eri- I have been wanting to commit to writing about this oneshot for a very long time and I have finally managed to muster up the energy to properly write about this story. I hope you will enjoy this series (which will probably consist of roughly five parts, more or less), and I will try my best to update this as much as I can. I apologise in advance for my poor grammar and my rant like writing style which might be difficult to read. I'll jump right into it now.

Sayonara Eri was the first Fujimoto manga I have read, I still remember skimming through it quickly on the bus with low expectations in mind, but it ended up absolutely destroying me and consuming my brain. Since reading this oneshot, I have absolutely fallen in love with his manga, (thus my obsession began) and I immediately read Fujimoto's entire collection which became my biggest hyper-fixation. I would highly recommend you to check out this oneshot if you haven't yet (because it is that good). Even if you might not like it as much as I do, it is surely an experience of a lifetime. I won't waste time introducing the story as you can easily find a good blurb online, but I will conduct a deep analysis on every detail within this oneshot (because I am insane). I'll shut up now,

--------Spoiler warning----------------------------------------------------

Sayonara Eri, part 1

Most of Sayonara Eri's panels fit in the 2.35:1 widescreen cinemascope format with the exception of a mere few (depicting Yuta's true pov instead of from his smartphone camera). This form of panelling was crafted by the one and only Fujimoto which worked out beautifully and effectively- depicting Yuta's unhealthy habit of viewing his life through an outside perspective since the very start. The cinematic panels also allow the reader to almost "watch" the manga like a film- one of the main messages in the oneshot was to portray how one may alter their entire existence through technology through the power of deception. We were viewing Yuta's edited, romanticised film form the very beginning- already fallen straight in this false trap.

It can be observed from the beginning that Fujimoto has poured his heart into perfecting every minor detail in the story so his message could be delivered clearly (both visually and through language). I seriously admire him so much, he works incredibly hard and truly dedicates himself to his craft.

Yuta's childish, goofy nature is so precious. It's heart wrenching to see his playfulness slowly disappear through the story. Fujimoto excels at crafting realistic and truthful characters, Yuta speaks like a real person, you can imagine his mannerisms and tone just through the drawings and written dialogue- it's expressive, genuine, raw. I love it. Not every manga needs paragraphs of complicated, descriptive dialogue- Fujimoto excels at show, not tell. A lot of his messages are delivered visually (through facial expressions, background details or character mannerisms) or even through the tone in which the characters speak in (suggested through punctuation and word choices) This further increases the degree of realism in his stories- people normally converse using quick, simple language. Fujimoto doesn't fall into the trap of overexplanation or writing complicated, relentless dialogue that bores out his audience. It makes the story feel believable and truthful- allowing us to truly connect with it to an emotional and personal level.

After reading though the oneshot an embarassing amount of times- I managed to truly grasp onto the characterisation of Yuta's mom which I think was amazingly executed through the minimal screentime she had. It was obvious from the start that the visual appearance of Yuta's mom heavily resembled Makima- which I think was intentional. They also share an insane about of similarities in their personality and mannerisms. For instance- their manipulative, forceful nature, their role as an unhealthy motherlike figure, using others to fulfil their selfish desires, the way they were both introduced as "good people" in the beginning of the story- which was then revealed to be untrue. I found this detail very interesting. I feel like both Yuta's mom and Eri are figures who both represent the true nature of many human beings- how many of us are in fact self absorbed and untrusting- utilising deception to get by in life (to build an admirable self image, real or fake) and fufil our selfsh motivations through the use of people we surround ourselves with (without considering the consequences our actions have on others). Are people naturally selfish? It's scary to wonder how the people we trust might be constantly faking themselves and putting up an act. From what we learn from Yuta's mom later into the story, we get a glimpse of her true nature which was hidden behind closed doors. Left unrecorded on Yuta's glorified, romaticised movie footage. This made us pity Yuta even more, not only was his mom dead- she was also abusive, aggressive, foul mouthed and dismissive of her son's wellbeing. She was revealed to be a terrible mother.

This says a lot about how deceptive social media is- for instance. Yuta had the choice to include his mother's unappealing footage that revealed her true nature to the public- but he chose not to, and instead- he used the movie to remember her fondly through the minimal, heart warming moments he captured. Through just a phone, one's identity may be altered greatly, so much to the point where they might appear to be presented as almost a completely different person. Although Yuta had to live the remaining of his life bearing the suffering of his mother's death and abuse- he was able to offer others a glimpse of her beautiful moments, fulfilling his mother's wishes and allowing her to be remembered by others in a positive light. While Yuta remains to grieve in silence, he was able to spread a false impression of his mother who died tragically, so at least others could remember moments of joy, happiness and beauty that is precious. As Fujimoto once said- "ignorance is a bliss", sometimes it's better to not know a reality so one can live a more comfortable life, clouded by positive thoughts. This was what Yuta was able to spread to others through his highly edited film. It's undeniably untruthful, but it did leave a positive impact on the world. Without the movie, he wouldn't have met Eri as well (despite the fact that it could be argued that she was very toxic to him) but Yuta did manage to gain a fair share of beautiful memories with her as well. Sometimes, it really is better to be a bit optimistic and view the good in others- I think that I would rather live a life clouded by false joy than to be sunken into a depressing and brutal reality.

Yuta lived a terrible life, but he was able to fufil the wishes of the people around him and pay homage to the people who he appreciated in life. It's incredibly sad, but also heart warming.

One thing I found interesting was Eri's mysteriousness. She was portrayed to look dream-like, literally mythological. She has no last name, we know nothing about her character background and we don't see her interacting with people other than Yuta and his father- not even her other close friend who was briefly mentioned separately. It then almost makes us question- was Eri even real? This is the result of highly editing and altering one's life to the audience- for a good length of the story, we were only faced with Eri's more admirable qualities, we truly know nothing about her. Just like how we might actually be viewing a false identity of an online celebrity. It's good for the audience- being able to be influenced and faced with such an attractive figure, but it's a different story when we are confronted with a reality told through a person who had the opportunity to truly witness their true character. I feel like Eri's overall "fakeness" was successfully executed through the vagueness of her character- we as a reader was able to fall in love with her quickly and easily, just for this impression to be broken into pieces once Fujimoto shoved us with a reality. Through just this repeated scenario, Fujimoto successfully reinforced his message to the reader.

Following onto the analysis of Eri's vague, mysterious character presentation- I would like to further expand on her arc. I'll answer a few commonly asked questions.

Was Eri really a vampire?- I think no

Was Eri really ill- I think yes

Did Eri really die- I think yes too,

Did Eri really like Yuta's movie- Most probably, no.

I'll answer the first two questions on this post, then the next two on the following post. On the third post, I am planning on further expanding on the symbolism of the explosions in the story along with Yuta's attempted su*cides.

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

Was Eri really a vampire?

I vaguely answered this on a reddit post, I'll paste it below-

( I personally think that Eri’s identity as a vampire and her “immortality” is the metaphorical representation of how her existence is preserved through Yuta’s memory and his movie despite the fact that she is deceased. Eri befriends Yuta with a clear motivation in mind- to be remembered fondly. Vampires feed off the vital essence of the living, and this dynamic can be vaguely seen in Yuta and Eri’s relationship. She fears to be forgotten, and wishes to be depicted in a way where she is lovable and admirable.

Yuta’s presentation of Eri was revealed to be overly idealistic towards the end of the manga, and I learnt that I was completely fooled by this twisted representation of this “dream girl” who was devoid of any flaw. There was no visual evidence of Eri’s true nature that was viewed through the perspective as an outsider- we only manage to perceive her through the lens of one singular person (plus Eri’s other friend, but there is no visual evidence of Eri’s interactions with her). Eri’s legacy is preserved after death through Yuta’s movie- even after many years, Eri’s youthful footage in the movie acts as a time capsule, preserved like a vampire while Yuta grows older and lives. Without Yuta (the living), Eri’s existence will only continue to live through the memories of Yuta, and her legacy will die and disappear off the face of the world- like Yuta’s mother, she is self obsessed and manipulative, using Yuta (a submissive and lonely boy with attachment issues) for their selfish wishes- (to be remembered by others beautifully, even through the heavy use of deception). The first Eri was the representation of her true existence while the second Eri comes in the form of a preserved memory, symbolic of the way how Yuta has never fully recovered from her passing. The explosion in the end is intense and cathartic- truthful and passionate, unlike the explosion in the first movie that was obviously edited in, leaving no damage on the hospital. However, the ending explosion actually caused wreckage. This marks the point in life where Yuta finally moves on and disassociates with his past in a positive manner- facing the reality of his situation and dropping the unhealthy habits of escapism that persisted through his youth towards adulthood.)- I hope this was clear

(*side note, there is no need for you to agree with my take, I'm just sharing my opinion)

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

Was Eri really ill?

Yes, I believe that Eri was ill. There is clear evidence to my take on this answer that was there since the beginning of Eri's character arc. Looking back all the way towards her introduction, we can recall that Yuta met Eri on the hospital rooftop. There is a high chance that Eri was at the hospital for checkups, something of that sort. She had no reason to be loitering on some hospital rooftop if she was not a regular visitor or a patient. A hospital scene is also difficult to script in real life (for a low budget movie), Fujimoto obviously likes to add tinges of fantasy to his work, but he only does that if there is a clear message/reason behind it. I don't see why a hospital scene, (in which Eri looked clearly ill) would be fake/ scripted for the movie.

I think it has to be true that Eri was ill- all this time, and it can be guessed that Eri had clear desire in mind from the beginning, which is wanting her death to be captured as beautifully as the way Yuta did for his mother. I doubt Eri really cares about Yuta, she is an incredibly self obsessed character.

Yuta was emotionally destroyed by the news of Eri's declining health. The entire point of Eri (also being ill) was to highlight Yuta's journey of reliving his childhood trauma, making his character arc even more tragic. This highlights the detrimental psychological effects one would have to endure after- growing to be attached to someone just to have the relationship crumble right in front of you and to also unwillingly be forced into a situation that brings a great deal of trauma... while Eri remained to be uncaring of Yuta's wellbeing, just like his mother. Eri most likely knew how much Yuta was affected by his mother's passing and the way others responded to his movie (Eri literally saw him try to jump off a roof), but she didn't care a single bit- instead, she dragged him into the same situation all over again, (probably planned from the moment she met him) just so she could fufil her personal desires.

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

Thank you for reading! I apologise for my low quality writing, it isn't my strong suit. Stay tuned for a new post!

#goodbye eri #manga #sayonara eri #goodbye eri manga #manga analysis #chainsaw man #tatsuki fujimoto #csm #CSM #Chainsaw Man #oneshot #Sayonara Eri #Goodbye Eri analysis