#dpr imagines

1986

When you and Ian go to a theater one day—one of those matinees in the middle of the week that only elderly people attend—and end up watching a random film that you didn’t know was a romance, you are startled when you have the sudden thought that you want him in the same way. That you wouldn’t mind him holding your face in his hands again but kissing you this time, or walking down a street hand-in-hand, or lying next to him in some stranger’s bed and listening to him talk until you fall asleep. You try to send those thoughts somewhere far away, but days pass and they keep coming back, and that wanting in your chest only grows.

* * *

There are fingers brushing across your forehead…then stroking the flesh of your cheek. 

They are harmless, but in your just-awakening state, your body interprets them as a bug’s legs, causing you to startle away from them and roll face-first into the grass. Maybe it’s just a grasshopper, or even a butterfly—but what if it’s some daddy longlegs or a palmetto bug? Shuffling onto your knees, you swipe your hands repeatedly over your face but feel nothing other than stray pieces of grass.

“Hey, you awake? Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

You relax at the sound of his voice, though your heart is still beating faster than normal. Ian kneels in the grass before you with his hair mussed by the light breeze, his muscle shirt drooping at the sides as he leans forward, revealing the tattoos on his torso.

“Obviously I am now.” You’d been lying under the shade of a wild blackberry bush to escape the intense sun. Small specks of light filtering through the leaves were the last things you saw before your eyes closed, akin to stars in the daytime. You only meant to lie there for a moment, to let your body rest and digest after you’d eaten a bunch of blackberries off the bush, but you’d drifted off instead.

“You were knocked out. It was pretty cute, but we wouldn’t want you to get eaten by a wild animal, would we, love?”

You can do nothing to stop the way your face flares with heat, even as you duck your head and give a response that’s as nonchalant as you can muster. “Thanks for saving me from certain death, I guess.”

When you and Ian first found this area, you’d walked into the woods near the little rundown shack you decided to stay in and discovered bushes with plentiful wild berries—edible ones. You’d both come back out today to pluck them off their stems and take them to the house, but you’d ended up eating half of your bounty, not thinking much about whether they needed to be washed first; you were hungry, and the food was free. Subsisting off of mostly gas station meals and chain restaurants for the last few weeks, you hadn’t eaten anything so fresh in ages.

“How’d you end up under there?” 

“Trying to get out of the fuckin’ heat, Ian. It must be at least a hundred today, and it’s hardly June yet.”

“There’s the river nearby.”

You consider it. You don’t have a swimsuit, which means you’d either have to get in wearing your underwear or nothing. The same would be true for him, you also know. That thought begins leading your mind down a path that is becoming increasingly familiar to you, to no surprise.

You make your decision. “Are you gonna come?” you ask, getting to your feet. You grab the bucket of berries nearby, which is only half-full. The bushes still have more berries to give, though, and you can pick the rest later.

You both make the short trek to the river, the sound of rushing water growing clearer as you walk. The glint of the sun off the river surface reaches you first, vivid from between the trees and striking your eyes brightly enough to hurt.

You set the bucket of berries in the grass and strip to your underwear on the riverbank, laying your clothes on a large rock nearby. It’s the height of daytime, and though you haven’t seen anyone else in this area since you’ve been here, you’ll skip the skinny dipping today just in case. You don’t look back to see if Ian is following your lead before stepping into the river. The sweat on your body is washed away by the river water as you wade farther in and swim through the calm currents. The coldness of the water sends a pleasant shock up your spine.

“Enjoying it all without me?” you hear him call from behind you. Before you can reply, you’re doused with water as he jumps in beside you.

“Jeez!” You turn your head to spit out the water that’s gotten into your mouth, though a laugh slips out with it. When Ian resurfaces you see that he’s down to his underwear like you, but there’s no time to take in the view as you send a wave of water crashing back toward him; your move starts a battle in which you’re both splashing each other like little kids, free to be as childish as you please—all adult responsibilities cast to the wind.

This continues until you have to beg him to stop, lest you succumb to the aching of your stomach from laughter. It’s been many, many months since you’ve laughed this hard at anything, and the realization is almost startling.

Body now relaxed, Ian floats on his back in the water, looking up at the sky. “This is one of the better places we’ve found. I mean, if we’re only counting the abandoned ones.”

You’ve only been here for a day and a half, but there are things you like about it more than previous spots. “Sure, it’s nice.”

“Would you want to stay here forever?”

You give a short laugh, thinking he’s joking, but his expression is thoughtful. “I don’t know. There’s not even running water in that shack,” you say, brushing off the thought.

“But if there were—if we had everything we needed here, it could be a nice life.”

Your chest tightens at the idea, and you don’t quite know what to say. “Forever” is a big stretch of future that you don’t contemplate if you can help it; it’s a long way off even for your mind that’s always getting lost in the distance. It’s too difficult to think about being this way forever. But it seems his idea of forever isn’t as tortured as yours.

Your movements send ripples through the water, and you watch the disappearing rings. “Get real. You like people too much, you couldn’t stay in some remote ass place like this for the rest of your life. Who would you interact with?”

“You, of course.”

“Other than me!”

“Darling, isn’t that enough?”

You make no effort to answer, throwing him a look and making a big show of swimming farther down the river and away from him. 

Isn’t that enough? 

You aren’t sure. The quiet tranquility of this place is nice, but too much stillness is dangerous—lets your mind go where you don’t want it to, even as you try your best to be more present these days. Yet your nightmares continue, and the horrific illusion of Alicia’s agonized face still plagues you. With all this bloody history, are you allowed to be happy—happy with him, at that—after having been the cause of such death? It seems like a betrayal of Alicia, and that twists your heart. 

You bob aimlessly in the water as his words rotate in your mind. Are you allowed to want what he’s offering, even if it was only a silly suggestion?

You spend all of 30 minutes in the water before the downpour starts, startling you out of your contemplations. It’s one of those unexpected rain showers that happens while the sun is still out, the rays slanting through the droplets pelting you. A few large clouds had darkened over the course of the minutes, but the sun still shone so brightly that you hadn’t expected rain to follow.

“Aw, fuck.”

The raindrops roll off your eyelashes and obscure your vision; clumsily, you wipe your face and search for somewhere to take shelter. An overhang of thick tree foliage acts as a canopy along a stretch of the river, and it’s enough to give you cover while the rain falls. Some droplets continue making their way down to you, but it’s better than being outright poured on. Small branches scratch you and tug at your hair; you push them away irritatedly as Ian swims over to meet you.

“Is that enough water for you?” he asks with a chuckle, slicking his hair back with both hands, unbothered by the sudden rain. There’s adequate space for the both of you under this overhang, but your shoulders bump together as you huddle close. You turn to look at him, intending to reply, but your eyes catch and linger on the droplets that drip from his chin. Your eyes flick up to his lips, and for a second, as if outside of your control, you wonder how they’d taste if you touched them with your own right now. Like the river water? Rainwater? Or like the blackberries he’d eaten?

The thought goes as fast as it came, and you turn away a little quicker than you need to. “Yeah…it’s plenty. I’m glad we did this, though. It’s been a while since I swam.” It was actually last year during the campground visit, but you don’t mention this.

As the rain slows, you watch streams of rainwater pick up pollen from both riverbanks and send it into the river, coloring the water yellow in big swirls. You make a noise of disappointment as some of it reaches where you are and sticks to your skin. “We should get out before we’re completely covered. Our berries are probably drowned by now, too.”

“That means they’ve been washed,” Ian says, “which means less work for us.”

You laugh at the realization, the sound merely a breath rasping out of your mouth. “Huh, I guess you’re right.”

-

Lately, the onset of nighttime does nothing to cool the heat; the only difference is that the sun is no longer out to bake you alive. The humidity persists, making the air feel thick and close. And since this old shack has no functioning air conditioning—or power at all—it stays uncomfortably warm most of the time.

Sitting in a kitchen chair, you fan yourself with an old magazine as you try to distract yourself from the heat by reading an encyclopedia featuring a section on Arctic sled dog races—something you’d found on one of the dust-blanketed shelves in the living room. The kitchen window and back door are open in an attempt to alleviate some of the heat by letting in whatever small breezes disturb the night air. Small tea candles are set up around the house, along with some cheap lanterns you’d bought a while ago, to give you marginal light.

The kitchen still smells of the dinner you had earlier—cheap ham sandwiches and warm cans of Five Alive and chips you’d previously procured from a nearby gas station, plus the rest of the blackberries you collected for dessert. The meal took some of the edge off from the heat, which had worked you right back up into a tired and aggravated mess after cleaning all the pollen off your body.

Ian enters the room holding one of the lanterns now, setting it on the kitchen counter. You notice he’s wearing a shirt again, which most of the time he doesn’t even bother with; twice in a day piques your curiosity.

“Hey, so, I’m gonna go out tonight,” he announces, a hand finding its way into his hair as it often does.

You raise your eyebrows. “Supplies? I think we have enough, we just got some?”

“Nah, not this time. I’m getting hungry.”

Your stomach sinks when he says this. You’ve started to get more nervous whenever he goes out to eat—to hunt—alone, but the other alternative is for you to accompany him, which is worse for your sanity. It stirs a sickly guilt in you that you worry more for his safety than for whoever will end up being killed by him that night. But you’re reminded of the dangers every time you see the knife scar on his side.

This time of the month when he must eat always surfaces so many emotions in you, some of them nonsensical. You tend to feel somewhat angry at him for breaking the illusion. Of course, this is what you both have to do. But you prefer the rare moments when you don’t have to think about it deeply, or at all, and can act like you’re two people road-tripping across highways for fun rather than survival.

There’s a tense hesitation before you say, “Don’t get in trouble,” though the quip lacks adequate humor. You go back to your book, trying to will yourself to be less bothered by it all.

Ian crosses the room to slip into the chair next to yours. He reaches out with one hand, squeezing your cheeks as if you were a kid—because he knows it usually flusters you enough to distract you from your tragic moods, if only momentarily. On the surface, he takes your reactions for annoyance, though in reality it’s not that simple. “Of course not. Someone’s gotta come back to take care of you, babe.” 

You swat his hand off your face, trying and failing to meet the mischievous glow in his eyes as your own lamp sitting on the table illuminates his features. His words make your mouth turn down, reminding you of how much he has emotionally destabilized you since knowing him; there’s no hope of rationality when he makes you feel too much of everything all the time. Regardless of your half-hearted efforts, you’ve let yourself become so entwined with him. “I took care of myself fine before I knew you, Ian.”

His smile conveys a certain amused kindness. Cheek now resting on his fist, his only reply is, “I know.” A silence as thick as the humidity surrounding you ensues, and you don’t know what to fill it with. Is he waiting for you to bid him farewell? Shouldn’t he say it first? As you flip through a couple of pages in the encyclopedia without reading them, fingers itching from growing restlessness, you don’t understand what either of you is waiting on. You still don’t return his gaze though you feel him looking at you; his eyes carving into you makes you want to step outside of your skin, outside of your body. 

You will never ask him to stay when he goes off to hunt, because although you know he enjoys it, you also know it’s a matter of needing to do it, not just wanting. But in this hesitation before leaving, it’s almost like he wants you to express something other than your defeated acceptance and your urge to throw him out of the house so he can get this over and done with. Like he wants you to show concern with pleading eyes and mouth and say I’ll miss you, come back safe…or maybe your own sentiments are causing your thoughts to become too fanciful.

Jokes on him—these are words you locked away inside yourself long before knowing him, and they are too difficult to pull out on a whim.

Finally, he nods, perhaps a sudden acceptance of something you aren’t privy to. “Don’t wait up for me,” he says, getting up and heading for the back door.

You respond immediately with, “I won’t.” But you both know you’ll likely be awake when he gets back, the anxiety of whether he’ll return at all keeping you away from proper sleep.

-

You are still awake when he returns, the hands of the dusty wooden clock on the wall pointing toward 3 o’clock in the morning. Not for lack of trying, though; you are tucked in the bed, having gotten under the thin sheet hours ago, but sleep only finds you in small intervals that you can’t even distinguish between real sleep and the act of just resting your eyes for a few moments.

You don’t realize how wired up you are until you hear the Renault pulling up, the engine’s sound distant and faint at first through the closed bedroom window and then idling in front of the small house before cutting off. Then, the familiar footsteps on the worn porch. The tension in your muscles drains like rainwater spilling off a roof. In a flash, heat prickles your neck in your embarrassment over how you’d worried. But it shouldn’t be strange to be a little afraid, you try to reassure yourself, after all the people you’ve lost through the years.

You wait for Ian to walk into the bedroom. Instead of going over to his side of the bed like you expect, he comes to you. He smells clean, not like blood or plasma or organ meat, though the smell of cigarette smoke also clings to him. His hair hangs in damp strands. Maybe he went with the person to their place, whoever it was, and took a shower there after it was all done—their blood swirling down their own shower drain with the same simplicity of rinsing off blackberry-stained hands. 

He places a hand on the mattress behind you, leaning over your body and peering at your face like he needs to verify for himself whether you’re awake. “Still up?” he asks, knowing full well you’re looking directly at him.

“No shit,” you mumble, blinking slowly. Now that the stress has left your body, you are tired and ready to drift off rather than sit here talking. You don’t really care to hear the details of the deed.

“Go to sleep, Y/N.” He smirks as if he’s amused by you not keeping your word and moves his hand to squeeze your shoulder. You close your eyes and simply nod, turning your face into your pillow. Because if you stare at him any longer like this, poised just a couple of feet above you, you’ll begin to imagine what it’d be like if he leaned just that much closer and erased the remaining space between you—and right now, you don’t have the energy to shove those thoughts away once they start. His fingers sweep down your bicep as he departs from your side, and it makes your skin prickle.

You lie there in a deceptively peaceful state as he strips off his clothes and gets into the bed on the other side. You don’t sleep the way you used to in the tent or in the car anymore, overly wary of the space between your bodies. It would be so simple to turn around and have his face be your last vision before sleep. But tonight, you don’t. You listen to him breathe and shift around as difficult thoughts make sleep evade you for a little while longer—about how his hands can be gentle to you but capable of ending another’s life. The dichotomy disturbs you and you don’t know if it’ll ever stop disturbing you, but the same type of dissonance rests in your own body.

And you wonder if you should be more uneasy at the fact that, alongside all this violence, you still desire those hands.

vile incarnation of consummated bliss (m)

pairing: dpr ian x black fem reader

genre: bones & all au, 1980s au, horror, angst, smut-ish

word count: 2.5k

warnings & tags: southern U.S. setting | mentions of elder neglect | feelings of loneliness and guilt | morally gray behavior | cannibalism | blood | gore | non-explicit sex

a/n: sorry, this fic is all over the place with the past tense and present tense. kinda threw grammar to the wind here.

this is set a few years after the events of the main story, marrow.

1989

The smell of blood is all around you and inside of you, bathing your nostrils and your tastebuds and the interior of your throat. The only sounds in the room consist of the last remnants of your chewing, your sporadic shifting around on the plastic tarp beneath you, and the radio playing oldies from across the room. There had been no thought given to turning it off before you started tearing into the old man Ian brought home, songs from faded decades serving as the background noise to your feeding. Some Johnny Cash song is playing now, and though you can’t remember the name of it, the twang of the guitar and the melancholy tone of his voice make you feel like you’re back on the highways again, driving past nothing but green and yellow fields for miles. 

Toward the end of your time on the road, the HVAC in your second car—the Renault was a memory at that point, finally abandoned on some dirt back road when the engine died and couldn’t be restarted—had long since given up, and you spent more time outside of it than in. The summer heat is just as oppressive here, made worse by a set of window ACs that only work when they want to. You long to open the rest of the windows in the small house, but doing so would send the heavy odor of blood swirling through the yard outside. The smell may not matter as much here in this tucked-away neighborhood, a patchwork of overgrown grass dotted with the shabby homes of misfit neighbors, but complacency has never served anybody. Plus, the lingering humidity from the earlier night rain would only amplify the tang of the blood.

(You can never complain too much about the state of this house despite its flaws, because it’s the first permanent home you’ve lived in in years, thanks to the landlord who’d taken pity on you and offered it up for affordable rent—low enough to keep you with a roof over your heads until you’d found steady work in the town.

Maybe it wasn’t too bizarre, because you’d smelled it on her during your first meeting and knew why she felt such a sudden kinship for two total strangers.)

Ian sits feet away from you with his back resting against the gray couch cushions, his eyelids low like he’s trying not to fall asleep. His previously white tank top is dyed all the way red, lying forgotten on a corner of the tarp in shades of drying blood. You don’t know why he still bothers with wearing white anything, knowing what will become of it eventually.

Over time, there are things you have gotten used to doing—covering your hair with a scarf, not just for protection when you’re sleeping, but to stop blood from soaking into it during the feed. Laying down the tarp and the trash bags beforehand. Making sure all the window curtains are pulled tight and the doors locked. Scrubbing at whatever blood leaks from the plastic tarp afterwards until your hands hurt.

You’re annoyed by your clothes sticking to your skin because of the blood and sweat, so you begin peeling them off until you’re naked. The blood that remains on your skin is somewhat disorienting yet gratifies you, reminding you that your stomach is no longer empty. You always feel surreal fresh off the act of eating, destructive and stranger than human. 

The guilt is slightly smaller now as time, the need to survive, and the constant exposure to violence wear away at your more human sentiments—not something that you wanted to happen but that you now understand was inevitable, living this way. You think about the victims and the stolen potentiality of their lives but don’t linger on it for ages the way you used to. The details of Marygold’s face barely remain in your consciousness anymore. Alicia, too, has turned blurrier with time, the specifics of your memories with her becoming more uncertain to you.

You try to frame this change in healthier terms—moving on, some would say. But even though it has shrunk, the guilt is always there. You continuously nudge it back into its assigned compartment when it spills over, forcing it to share the space it occupies with other things in your life. Distractions. 

Clothes abandoned, you crawl over to Ian and fit yourself against his side. He comes back alive from his post-feeding euphoric haze to wrap his arms around you. He turns his face to you, tucking his nose into the folds of your headscarf in search of your natural scent, but it’s eclipsed by the smell of viscera.

Would you dream a dream of me, wherever you may be? Goodbye, little darling, goodbye

The Johnny Cash song is short. Another song starts after it fades out—one that’s even older. The tinkling chimes at the beginning pique your recognition.

Dream, when you're feelin' blue Dream, that's the thing to do Dream, while the smoke rings rise in the air You'll find your share Of memories there

Maybe this oldies station isn’t the best choice. Your mind keeps drifting back to the elderly man. Did he listen to these songs as a younger man? In those days, did he think his life would turn out differently than it did? He must have. You didn’t know him well, but you knew he had no remaining family that cared about his existence. His few grandchildren had not wanted to deal with the expenses and hassle of putting him in a nursing home or letting him live with them, and instead had let him stay in his ramshackle trailer to live an empty life in this town. They and their parents had long ago escaped the confines of this place.

You never interacted with him in any meaningful way. You only heard about his story from the cashier at the nearby grocery store you frequented, but you felt some sense of sympathy.

(The cashier, you know, is an eater too.

You don’t typically go out of your way to speak to her, but you don’t try to avoid her, either. You both just eye each other in the store, a small nod or a smile—the expression a tad strained on your end—exchanged before moving on.)

You’d seen the old man a few times in that same store, shuffling about in a manner that reminded you of a ghost—not emotionally cold or senile in the way that old age brings, but largely uncaring of his surroundings. Like his mind had already detached and gone elsewhere, maybe to someplace better than here.

You thought about going to keep him company sometimes, or stopping by his home to see how he was doing. It was the kind thing to do for a neighbor, especially someone who had no one else making that kind of effort. And maybe it would help balance the scales—a small way to atone for all the carnage that enshrouded your existence. 

You never got around to it.

Now, you are ashamed of these poorly conceived ideas that never amounted to anything. Had you only conjured those thoughts to make yourself feel better in the moment? To try to remind yourself that you still have a human heart?

Before you devoured the old man, you and Ian nearly argued about it hours earlier—when he brought the man’s lifeless body into your home—even as your stomach was twisting itself into desperate knots. 

Your whole body perked up at the sound of the door opening, more of an instinctual reaction than anything else—because this sound meant that Ian was back, and with him would come nourishment. You stumbled toward the front room as your hunger made your limbs hard to control, but you halted in the entrance of the hallway, shaking and sweaty.

“What—what have you done?” you groaned, recognition of the body sending horror racing through your bones.

“What I needed to do. He was there—just ready to be taken—and I need to be able to feed you, darling. Would you rather wait here starving for days while I try to find someone else?”

“Is my life worth that much to you?” Your voice was rough, chest aching with contrition. Your eyes darted around Ian’s face as you tried not to stare at the small old man he held in his arms—mouth slack, pupils cloudy, and skin even more saggy and dull in death. “Does this make sense to you? He did nothing to deserve this.”

Even faced with your anger and the grotesque nature of the situation, Ian’s eyes were soft—and a tad melancholy. As if he felt bad for you. “My love, you still don’t understand that I’d do anything for you.”

A stilted laugh snuck past your lips. “That’s a dangerous way to be.”

He laid the body on the ground, the limbs and neck frail against the ridiculous blue tarp, and contrary to your instincts you wanted to shout for him to get it out of there. “Either way, it’s not about what anyone ‘deserves.’ When I came to him, he wasn’t afraid or angry. I didn’t tell him—not at first—but he suspected what I wanted and didn’t even care.”

“What? Didn’t care?”

“I mean, he wasn’t interested in fighting death like the others.”

In all your time of being a cannibal, you’ve never encountered someone who didn’t mind having their life stolen from them. 

You sank to your knees on the tarp, the hunger beginning to overpower your cognition and willpower even as you tried to focus on the conversation. You found one of the man’s hands and squeezed his fingers tight in your palm, as if trying to give comfort before the desecration. Even in your effort to show some tenderness, your senses zeroed in on how papery his bony fingers felt and the still-cooling blood dying in the veins of his hand.

Ian called your name, and you forced yourself to look at him. “The loneliness can be unbearable. We both know that.” This was his only explanation, but you didn’t need more context; you knew exactly what he meant.

Maybe if the man hadn’t been so neglected, he wouldn’t have forfeited his life so readily. But even if you wanted to, you could not dwell on your remorse any longer; the empathetic human part of your mind shriveled smaller and smaller as you closed in on the body, giving way entirely to primal appetite.

You dig your fingernails into your knees as the memory of your earlier exchange and the ensuing feast presses into every corner of your mind. “I need to stop thinking,” you mumble, squeezing your eyes shut for a painful moment, and you both understand what this means.

Ian kisses you then, his fingers on your chin warm, sticky, and tender. He hasn’t shaved in a while, and his stubble scratches you as your lips touch. It’s a brief gesture, only a glimpse of what’s to come and not quite enough. When he parts from you and makes to stand up, your hand slides down his bare stomach and to the waistband of his shorts, which stretch tight over the muscles of his thighs with his movements.

“You wanna do this here?” he asks, surprised. He doesn’t protest but watches your reaction carefully. You stare back, observing the mask of red around his mouth and the errant streaks of blood on different body parts—collarbone, sides of the neck, even near his hairline. You figure you must look similar.

“I do,” you murmur. “Just—please. I don’t know why.”

He leans in to kiss you again, his lips lingering on yours this time. “Have me then, love.”

In your normal routine, you always wait until the blood’s cleaned up and all traces of your crime are gone to do this—to wrap yourselves around each other as if it would help you erase your deeds. You let him kiss your lips and any tears if they come, though they are rarer now, as if his love is a salve you could use to heal your many wounds. They can never disappear entirely, but they hurt less after they have been touched by him.

With the evidence wiped away, it’s easier for you to indulge, to not second-guess yourself and wonder whether you deserve this affection, to have someone love you in spite of your vile cravings.

And so you aren’t sure what’s possessed you to make you want this now, when you’re still in the thick of the mess—sitting among the small remnants of flesh and bone shards that are the only reminders of what was once human.

Maybe it’s the haze. Your body still seems not wholly real as you lie on your back on the slick plastic and as Ian kneels between your legs and glides his hands over your torso, smearing the crimson. Your head feels like it’s submerged underwater as you wrap your legs around his lower back and his blood-slicked fingers make it further down, slipping between your thighs.

You press your mouth into his hair when he closes the distance between you, holding himself up over your body, and much like yourself, he smells like sweat and blood. Strands of his hair fall past your lips when your mouth opens in a gasp, but you don’t mind having more of him inside you. You close your eyes as he rocks into you, all your senses whittling down to this sensation and the sound of the radio somewhere in the background, as if miles away.

When the orgasm finally grips you, it empties your mind for some good long minutes; the flood of endorphins overtakes you completely as you tremble around him. Your embrace is desperate in how you cling to each other with no space in between, you turning your head to suckle at his fingers that grasp the side of your face. But eventually, you are forced to reckon with the truth of the blood coagulating underneath your back and making you stick to the plastic.

Afterwards, you both scrub away any escaped blood on the floor and get rid of the disposables and wash yourselves clean, and you sit on that same gray couch with the TV playing some late-night soap, assuming the ideal of being a normal couple with only normal needs and desires: food, air, water, sun, shelter, and never the taste of another human’s organs.

As the TV images flicker and you feel the weight of Ian’s arm around your shoulders, you wonder for a moment if the old man’s family would be glad to learn he’d been taken off their hands, or if they would feel any way at all about his disappearance. The ghost of his blood manifests in your mouth as if for one last haunting, and you savor the taste. Your stomach throbs briefly with shame.

After slamming your laptop shut for the umpteenth time, you groaned in irritation and took the last sip of your wine.

Your dream job was to write articles for a magazine, specifically inspiring stories about everyday life situations. You disliked writing about new cafes and hotspots to visit in Seoul, South Korea on a hot summer day. Your boss, Christian Yu, was someone you despised.

You let out a sigh as you leaned back on your couch, feeling exhausted from working for long hours and staring at a bright screen. Despite the fatigue, you were able to enjoy the peacefulness of your apartment which was quietly enveloped by the sound of light rain tapping against the tall windows that offered a view of the brightly lit city at night. The cityscape was a sight to behold, with buildings and cars stretching out as far as the eye could see, and you found it captivating.

It felt surreal.

You struggled with the idea of writing this article for a while, but now, as it is almost 3 am, you just want to finish it and move on, without having to worry about it anymore.

You worked tirelessly on your article all night, only the clicking of your keyboard keeping you company. As the sky began to lighten just before 5 am, you finally completed your 12th and hopefully final draft. After sending it to your boss, you collapsed into your bed, exhausted.

—>

“Wow, you look like shit.”

“Shut up, Dabin,” you scowled while you pointed a pen at him, almost as if threatening to hurt him if he said another word. “I was up late working on an article.”

“Again?”

As you nodded your head, a yawn escaped your lips, but Dabin didn't seem too impressed. He was aware of your writing skills, and he knew that Ian, his best friend, also recognized your talent. Despite this, Ian never allowed you to demonstrate your best writing abilities.

It annoyed him.

“Do you want me to speak to...“

“No,” you cut him off knowing exactly what he was going to ask. It was his favourite question. “It’s fine.”

Dabin suspiciously leaned over you, face a lot closer than you were comfortable with, and stared into your eyes as if they had a different answer to the one you’d given him.

It made you laugh.

“I’m fine, don’t worry,” you genuinely smiled as you pushed his face away from yours.

The two of you discussed where to go for lunch and what you were in the mood for, which varied daily.

“Y/N, can I see you in my office?”

The sudden voice behind you caused you to drop the smile on your face. You quickly locked eyes with Dabin before shifting to see your boss standing behind you.

Ian didn't give you time to respond to his question since he was already on his way back to his office. His strides were long and swift as you hurriedly followed behind.

A sigh escaped your lips as you thought about all the terrible things he might say about the draft you sent just a few hours ago.

Christian's office exuded a sense of sophistication and elegance with its predominantly black theme. The black furniture and décor complemented the black walls, creating a sleek and modern atmosphere. The aesthetic aligned perfectly with Christian's personal style, which is characterized by his sharp black suits, crisp white shirts, and multiple decorated tattoos. Overall, the office was a reflection of Christian's impeccable taste and attention to detail.

There’s no denying that he was a handsome man. 

“Do you enjoy working here?”

His voice was firm and almost intimidating, but it was nothing that you weren't accustomed to.

“Ye—“

“Answer me honestly,” he interrupted.

An exasperated sigh escaped your lips as he once again failed to listen.

It was annoying. 

You gazed out of the window, avoiding eye contact as the rain poured heavily over the city. It was ironic that you had just written an article on what to do on a hot summer day.

“Y/N—“

"Ian," you sighed, interrupting him as he had interrupted you earlier. "I don't hate working here, and I want you to know that. I genuinely enjoy the people and the work that I do. But it feels like you never give me a fair chance to show you how good I am, or how much I love being here."

As you stood up, your eyes met Christian's dark and mysterious ones. You never really understood him, as he always kept his distance. Even when you were dating, he never let you get too close.

His eyes reminded you of the heartbreak you felt when he told you he needed to focus on work and being a boss. There was no sadness or remorse in his expression. He was emotionless.

You subconsciously took a step back as he took one towards you, both caught off guard. You were afraid of falling for him again, especially after the pain he had caused you.

“I think maybe I should find another company to write for.”

“No.”

“Ian—“

“Y/N,” his voice was stern. Cold. “I said no.”

A deep chuckle reverberated in his office. You stepped back and crossed your arms, "It's not up to you. I can do what I want."

He knew you were right, but he didn't want you to leave. He had already given you up once.

Here's a clearer version of the text:

"Will you stay if I let you write your own story?" he asked, trying to offer a bribe.

"Why?" you questioned him, catching him off guard. He had hoped that you would just say yes and leave it at that.

There was an uncomfortable silence as he stood his ground, looking at you intently, but he didn't offer an explanation.

He was being stubborn.

After a while, you looked away from him and said, "I'll stay. See you around, Mr. Yu."

Christian watched as you left his office. He let you walk away.

Again.

—>

It was another late night in the office. Ian had finally given you the green light to write your own story - something exciting, new, and inspiring. However, you were struggling to come up with an idea. You didn't have any unique experiences to discuss, except for your own heartache and the pain you had gone through, along with the emotions you had felt.

It had been more than a year since Ian had broken up with you. Now, you were in a much better place emotionally, and seeing him around the office didn't hurt as much as it did when the wound was still fresh.

Your experience of getting over a breakup could serve as a source of inspiration for many individuals out there who may be going through the same thing. You could write about how you coped with the situation and be honest in your narrative. The idea is to make your readers relate to you and feel that they are not alone in the world and that going through a breakup is a common experience that everyone faces at least once in their lifetime.

As you were lost in thought, a voice interrupted you, asking "How are you getting on?"

You glanced up to see Dabin holding a box of fried chicken and a pack of four beers. You couldn't help but smile as your stomach growled in hunger. You were grateful for your best friend's arrival.

"Thank god for you," you exclaimed, feeling much better now. "I'm starving."

The two of you were quick to get settled into the couches in the staff room; away from computers and cubicles and depressing grey walls.

"This is delicious," you moaned as you took another bite.

Dabin laughed in return, "I'm glad I can help during times like this."

Dabin was a really good friend.

"So, how's your writing coming along?" He asked.

"Fine."

Nodding his head, he asked, "what's it about?"

You took a sip of your drink before turning to face Dabin. It was obvious what he was doing.

"You can let Ian know the article's content will be revealed in my final draft, okay?"

"How did you know I was asking for him?"

You lay back on the couch, sighing as your eyes stared at the plain white ceiling. Dabin followed suit, resting his shoulder neatly against yours.

It was quiet.

There was nobody else in the building except for the two of you. Normally, nobody stayed back late. However, you enjoyed staying late because of the peaceful and quiet atmosphere. The lights would turn off automatically on a timer, leaving you with a breath-taking view of Seoul from above.

Being on the top floor definitely had its perks.

"He didn't want to end things with you, but he had no choice. He misses you," Dabin finally spoke.

You avoided eye contact and stated, "Everyone has a choice."

You were in a three-year relationship with Ian before he broke up with you. As time went on, your love for him grew stronger and you were convinced that he was the one.

But no.

On a frigid winter night, he arrived at your doorstep and broke up with you. Declaring that his work was his priority and that he wanted to become a boss his father could be proud of.

So, he married his job instead.

It was a horrible experience that left you feeling utterly shattered. A heavy weight seemed to sit on your chest, and no matter what you did, you couldn't shake off the feeling. You cried yourself to sleep that night, and dealing with the aftermath was so difficult that you had to take a month off work. Seeing him again was too much to bear after feeling so broken.

"I thought he was the one, Dabin," you expressed. "But after he broke up with me, I realized that I didn't really know him. He never let me get close to him, and he never opened up to me. I was blindly in love."

Dabin looked at you with sad eyes; it was the first time you had openly talked about your breakup.

->

Saturdays were your favourite day of the week. You could sleep in as long as your stomach allowed before getting too hungry. You didn't have anything on your to-do list. It was a day just for you to relax, unwind, and not think about anything or anyone for that matter.

However, on this particular Saturday, instead of being awakened by hunger, you were awakened by the doorbell.

You were confused as to who was turning up at your apartment this early on a Saturday. You quickly got out of bed, grabbed your slippers and dressing gown and headed to the door.

You didn't think to look through the peephole before opening the door.

"Hey."

His voice was deep.

"What are you doing here?" You blurted out before thinking.

Ian.

He ran his hand through his hair.

Then sighed. Deeply.

"Can we talk?"

You stared at him, completely gobsmacked. What the hell was he doing here?

"Ian, please go home," you declared, your voice quavering. "I don't want to talk to you right now."

He didn't allow you to close the door as he barged in and let it slam shut behind him.

"Please," he begged.

You witnessed an unusual display of emotion in his gaze, something completely foreign to you in all the time you'd known him.

This was new, and you were in shock. It was so unlike him to do this.

"There's nothing to talk about," you declared, finally breaking the silence.

Ian sighed again, except this time, he sounded annoyed, "just give me five minutes of your time. Please."

Upon not wanting to argue, you silently nodded and sat on your couch, wondering what he wanted to discuss.

"Dabin spoke to me," he began. "He told me about how I made you feel."

"Okay? And?"

"Do you hate me?"

You scoffed. Was he serious? This is what he wanted to ask you?

"No, Ian. I don't hate you," you said honestly. "But I don't like you either."

He rolled his eyes, and you smiled smugly.

"Ian, please get to the point," you stated, your annoyance palpable. He was ruining your favourite day of the week.

"If I proposed, would you have married me?" Ian asked as he sat next to you on the couch.

The shock in your eyes didn't go unnoticed.

You let out a nervous chuckle and moved away from him. He was sitting too close to you, which made you feel uneasy. It had been a year since the two of you had been this close to each other, and you didn't like it.

"Ian, we're not a good match-"

"But would you have said yes?"

As you felt your heart beating harder against your chest, you began to feel nauseous and the sensation of wanting to throw up arose.

Why was he asking you this all of a sudden?

"Y/N, would you have said-"

"Shut up!" you snapped, taking a few steps back as you stood up. "You always have to have your own way, win arguments- even need to get the last word in. God forbid anyone says anything to you."

You were pacing the room, but he was listening for once.

He was actually listening.

"We were together for three years, I loved you unconditionally and fell more in love with you every day. It wasn't until you broke up with me that I realised I'd been dating a fucking rock."

"Y/N, I'm so sorry" he apologised as he stood up.

"Save it," you sighed.

His eyes searched yours, seeking answers, searching for any sign of love.

"I would have said yes. Of course, I would've" you told him honestly. His lips curved into a smile, but faltered when you added, "but not now."

He didn't say anything except, 'sorry' before leaving, making sure to slam the door shut behind him. Except this time, he was the one who was walking away and you were the one who let him.

That night you decided to quit your job, there was no way that it was healthy for either of you to go on like this.

He didn't question it this time or stop you, he didn't even look at you. Your words had hurt him just like he'd hurt you. This wasn't what you wanted, but realistically what else could you do?

It just wasn't written in pages for you two to be together.

And maybe, that was okay.

->

You held the hand that was dangling by your shoulders and leaned on to his chest. “We’ll have to narrow it down to one to two places.”

The two of you always set aside time to explore in each stop of the tour. You tagged along the tour for work and to travel with Ian, which basically killed two birds with one stone. But time was always of the essence and you were always limited to visiting spots that were either near your hotel or the venue.

Ian thought about it as the two of you watched Dabin go through sound check. “We can still go to Coyoacán,” he suggested.

Coyoacán was home to The Frida Kahlo Museum and the National Watercolor Museum which were some of the museums you wanted to visit, and Cineteca Nacional which was on Ian’s list. It was also quite near the venue.

“The museums will be closed by then,” you groaned.

“A lot of places will be closed by the time the show ends,” Ian countered.

“I guess we can still walk around the neighborhood then maybe catch a movie at Cineteca Nacional. And then plan on when to come back so I get to visit all the museums I want!” you exclaimed, quickly recovering from the thought of not being able to visit the places you wanted.

“We always say that in every stop of this tour,” Ian said which made both of you break into laughter.

You broke away from Ian and proceeded to work. John took the videos and you took the photographs and the two of you were also in charge of uploading these contents into the social media pages of DPR.

The meet and greet photos were also taken by you and you loved how Ian doesn’t just smile at the camera, he’s smiling at you. It made you feel giddy inside but you had to keep it professional at all times.

During the actual show, you shuffled between the front of the stage and on the actual stage to snap photos, which was a workout in itself.

After the show, the boys took a quick five just to quickly hydrate themselves before going out to do the encore.  The boys usually took showers after the show and everyone ate dinner after while waiting for the crowd to dissipate before leaving the venue.

You and Ian excused yourselves and made your way to Coyoacán via train to get to feel more of the city. As you alight the station, you pulled up the maps app for directions. The two of you headed first to the Frida Kahlo museum so you can “cross it off” your list of places to visit as it was already closed. Then you walked further down the street to take pictures of the colorful houses before walking back towards Cineteca Nacional.

You settled on the last showing of one of the indie films that was being shown so you can also explore the outdoor forum of the Cineteca. You browsed the stores until it was time for the movie to start.

The movie had no English subtitles and you had to rely on the tone of voice and the acting to understand what was happening and you made a mental note to look up the movie later on to see if you understood it correctly.

“That was an experience,” Ian declared as the two of you exited the cinema.

“I’m still confused as to what actually happened in the movie,” you replied as you search for the plot online on your phone.

Ian grabbed your hand as you walked. “Where to next?” he asked.

You tuck your phone away. “Back to the hotel I guess? Unless you want to go for a quick drink? But we have an early flight tomorrow,” you reasoned.

“You’re right. Anyway there are other things I can explore,” Ian said while eyeing you suggestively.

“What exactly?” you asked despite already knowing what he meant.

He turned you to face him, and he cupped your face with his hands and placed soft kisses on your lips. “You,” he said in between kisses causing you to giggle.

“Stooop! We’re in public!” You whined as you playfully slapped his arms away.

Ian dropped his hands and grabbed yours as he headed to the street and hailed the first cab he saw. He behaved himself in the cab and so did you. You were in a different country and you were afraid to potentially disrespect the cab driver. However, he still found a way to tease by squeezing your thigh once near your knee and again closer to your crotch. He smirked as he saw you bite back your gasp, knowing well what his touch does to you.

He held your hand as you exited the cab and made your way to the lobby. The elevator was empty when it opened and you quickly pressed on the close button and your floor to make sure you got the elevator all to yourselves. Ian was latched on to your lips as soon as the doors closed, pulling your head up as he tugged on your lower lip, causing you to whimper at the roughness of his actions. He placed a hand on the back of your head to prevent you from hitting it as he pushed you against an elevator wall, grinding his hips against yours as soon as your back hit the wall. He moved to kiss your jaw then your neck, each kiss becoming sloppier than the previous. You gripped his sides as he kissed you then you circled your arms around his waist, closing the gap as much as possible as he grinded against you.

The elevator dinged, causing both of you to stop and check at which floor it stopped. It stopped just a floor below yours and the two of you had to compose yourselves as a group of people heading to the rooftop filed in. You instinctively stood in front of Ian to cover his budding erection.

You reached your floor and you pulled Ian along as you exited the elevator. You ran to your room once you were away from the elevators, Ian just behind you. You stood against the door as Ian fumbled his pockets for the keycard. He opened the door and he pushed you inside and pinned you against the nearest wall then kicked the door closed.

“Where were we?” Ian asked.

“Here,” you mumble against his lips. You cupped his face as you kissed him, Ian deepening the kiss immediately. You dragged one hand down his chest and abdomen, down to his crotch and you stroked him over his jeans causing a low moan to escape his lips. You continued stroking him as you held him by the shoulder with your other hand and turned him, reversing your positions. He let you unbuckle his jeans and drag it down to his ankles. You knelt in front of him and pulled down his boxers exposing the his entire length.

You ran your hand down and up along his length and your thumb traced lazy circles around his tip. He tipped your chin up and you were looking up at him as you placed kisses along his shaft before you enveloped him with your mouth, his breath hitching at your actions. You held his shaft with one hand and you took him by the mouth slowly at first then you began to increase your pace.

“Just like that, Y/N. That feels so good,” Ian groaned in satisfaction.

You continued bobbing your head while you hand pumped the base of his shaft, taking him deeper each time, obscenities leaving Ian’s mouth. Your hand rested on his pelvis as your index finger and thumb supported the base of his shaft and you took his entire length in, a low growl emanating from Ian. You released him and you wiped away the drool from the corners of your mouth. Ian bent down to kiss you and helped you stand up.

He took a condom from his jeans pocket and put in on then discarded all of his clothing. He carried you bridal style and laid you on the bed. You unzipped your jeans and pulled them down, letting Ian pull it off the rest of the way as you removed your shirt.

“You’re so beautiful, Y/N,” Ian said as he admired your body. He climbed into the bed and on top of you, one hand cupped your face as he kissed you deeply while his other hand unhooked your bra. You pulled it off and Ian took one nipple in his mouth, circling it with his tongue before sucking on your perked nub, his hand palming and pinching the other.

He trailed kisses down your stomach and when he reached the waistband of your panties, he pushed your legs back and knelt in front of you. He pulled the crotch of your underwear aside, exposing your glistening core. He looked at you and maintained eye contact as he licked your entrance before sucking on your clit.

You reached for his head and pushed it lightly, encouraging him to continue what he was doing. You threw your head back against the mattress in ecstasy. “Oh god – Ian! The things you do with your tongue!” you exclaimed.

Ian grinned at your satisfaction and proceeded to slide a finger in between your labia, lubricating it before slipping it into your entrance. He pumped slowly at first then returned to lapping at your clit. His pumping became quicker causing your hips to buck against his mouth.

Sensing you were close, he released you and took off your panties. He climbed back into the bed and positioned himself along your entrance. He placed his arms on your waist and he bent his head down to give you a kiss, which you returned.

You guided him to your entrance and he started thrusting slowly, allowing you to adjust to his length.

“You good?” he asked as he brushed the stray hairs away from your face.

You nodded and Ian placed his hand back on your waist and started to quicken his thrusts. You held his wrists as you try to move your hips in time with his thrusts, pleasure building in your lower abdomen.

“Ian, I-, I’m close,” you whimpered.

He rested his forehead on yours as he continued his unrelenting pace to push you over the edge. You placed your hands on the back of his neck, cupping it as you leaned in for a kiss. You felt your walls tighten around him and you shuddered as you felt the oncoming waves of your orgasm, crying out Ian’s name in pleasure.

“Fuck Y-Y/N,” he screamed when he felt you tightening around his length, reaching his orgasm right after you and spurting his seed into the latex. He slowed down his thrusts before pulling out from you.

Ian cleaned himself up and returned to bed. He held you and nuzzled your forehead. You looked up at him and smiled, “How was your exploration?”

“You are my best adventure,” he declared causing a blush to creep on your face.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 

The question was quiet, your tone so soft it was almost a whisper, though to Christian it was as if you’d howled, the loneliness undeniable.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

It was a simple question with a complicated answer.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

When did he stop?

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

He couldn’t quite decide—to him there were many reasons; maybe it began with something as simple as finding you were hoarding his hoods, knowing he favoured them most.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

Or was it the way you always made too many portions of food that always went to waste, even when you knew how he felt about it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

It could have even been the way you used to interrupt him at his desk, nagging him until he had no choice but to put everything on hold to entertain you.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

When did he stop?

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

Was it after realising tha t your laugh had begun to grate his ears when it was once his favourite thing about you?

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

When did he stop loving you?

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

Christian ran a hand over his face and shook his head, not wanting to pick apart the small reasons that had snowballed into this moment, ‘I don’t know.’

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

He watched as you nodded, the spark in your eye long gone. He had expected you to cry, but you remained valiant despite your eyes not meeting his.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

The cafe’s music was quiet though it filled the silence between you two as you gazed out to the street, your shoulders slumped and your arms crossing your chest as if it were what held you together.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

Christian nervously bit at his nails as he waited for you to react, to scream, to throw water at him and curse his bloodline, but it never came.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

Instead, you reached across the table and pulled his hand from his lips, chastising him softly; ‘Don’t, you’ll damage your skin again.’

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

Christian pulled away as you continued, ‘I guess this is it, huh?’

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

You didn’t say much as you stood and told him quietly, ‘I’ll go ahead and get my things from the apartment. It’ll take a few hours.’

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

Christian’s chest tightened at your statement but he nodded in agreement. Before you walked away, you unexpectedly pressed your lips to his temple; it was swift and soft and oh so familiar—and then you were gone.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

Christian didn’t return to the apartment until midnight, wanting to give you as much space as possible, and give him time to process his ending of a 2 year relationship.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

The apartment was unusually cold when he walked in. Throwing his keys into the bowl, Christian headed for the bedroom, the strange feeling of sudden loneliness hitting him hard as he noted all of your bits and pieces that one laid around the house had disappeared.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

It’s for the best, Christian told himself, though he couldn’t help but feel overwhelmingly sad at the loss of his love. It was an unexpected emotion, having truly believed that he was happy with his decision.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

Searching the wardrobe, he noted that his hoodies that you’d claimed over the years were hanging among the rest of his clothes, hanging from one of the pockets was an envelope.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

It was so your style, never good with confrontation he had half assumed you would have left a letter instead; it was almost a relief to see he was right.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

Pulling on the hoodie, he noted it smelt of your perfume, familiar and homely. Opening the envelope, Christian took a seat on the edge of the bed and began to read;

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

My Love,

Thank you for the 2 years. I know it couldn’t have been easy doing this. To be honest, I’ve been expecting this for a while now, and I’m tired of having to laugh through the pain of knowing it was coming. Even if you no longer feel the same, my heart has always been yours.

I know you’ve probably already come to terms with our break-up, but I’m still getting there; I think I will be for a while. Even so, please make sure to take care of yourself now that I can’t. There’s food in the fridge, ready for you to eat. I made enough for the week because I know you’ll probably throw yourself into your work and forget. You always do. Make sure you take regular breaks too—I won’t be there to remind you to rest, but please try.

Forever yours,

P.S. I’ve kept one of your hoods. As weird as it sounds, it smells of you and helps me to sleep when you’re not by my side. I guess that’s something I’ll have to start getting used to…but until then...

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

He read the letter a third, fourth time, struggling to get past the blur of his forming tears. It was the first time Christian cried for you. Falling back on to the bed, he held the letter to his chest and mourned his loss, his heart aching for you who loved him despite it all.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

When did he stop loving you?

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

Christian had begun to fear that perhaps he never did.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀