#and ballpoint pen... i have no idea. its interesting to think that he was a part of mephone4 reminding him of the truth in the form of a +

[phonification]

II16 SPOILERS!!

ITS THEORY TIME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

about the big reveals, to what extent is the show made by mephone? aside from all the contestants, what about the islands where the competitions took place? what about non contestants like the uninvitationals, ballpoint pen, spoiled lemon, springy, ect?

FOR STARTERS, the reveal that 3gs actually ended up getting one of the eggs and how the whole mission happened was AMAZING!!!! after that its most likely that cobs is using the egg as a source of energy to power things like Melife and the rest of his creations.

so like, we know mp4 was the first mephone after the egg discovery, so what if cobs tried harvesting its energy/soul into his latest creation at the time, mephone4, but since this was his first time doing it, he went overboard and gave him too much power? mabye thats where his "gift" comes from..? after mephone ran away, i guess he decided against killing him and put everything in place to watch how far mephones abilities went??

we know that mephone knew everything that he had to do to set up a reality show, most likely from all of the shows watched during his time at meeple.. so mabye he consciously knew that the show was made by him, its was HIS. but he had no idea to the EXTENT of the things he created. subconsciously, mabye his system/mind is in way part mecanic but powered by organic energy from the egg? or just specific parts function on that energy? because whatever energy/soul they got from the egg had an influence in the subconscious creation of the show, i have no idea where else the egg looking mountains from the shimmer home planet wouldve come from if it wasnt that LOL (and it could explain why mephone was affected by the wailing from the other shimmer egg back in hatching the plan and mepad wasnt)

id guess cobs learned how to calcute how much energy he had to put into the future mephones to balance out their abilities, said abilities given by the energy of the egg being stuff like mepads teleportation, melife, mephones portals, and maaabye the item generation thing?? (if mepad also had "shimmer energy" in my system, mabye he wasnt glitching because he doesnt have that much of a dosis of it??? GOD THIS IS CONFUSING SOMEONE GET ME OUT OF HERE AUGH)

i have no idea what mephonex's deal is though. how the fuck is he doing that. all we know is that: he isnt physically there (i think), attacks via hallucinations and can uninanimate objects ...? i think it might be a weird thing with cobs messing with mephones head and it leaking into the other contestants???????? please give me your thoughts . im stumped . PLEASE

aside from that!! GOOD LORD THE FORESHADOWING WAS INSANE!! i think its really neat that cabby was most likely the most aware of her apparent memory loss, no one has actually realized up to this point unless its pointed out to them, I CANT WAIT FOR THE REST TO FIND OUT!!! IF THEY EVER LIVE TO HEAR IT!!!!!!!!

OH AND THE GLITCHES!!!

IM so hyped

[faeryblade]

|| The Ennui of Jonathan Crane || A Crane x Reader Slow Burn ||

Synopsis: It's just another boring afternoon at the office for Dr. Jonathan Ulysses Crane. Although, testing out his latest fear toxin is yielding some...interesting results.

Word Count: 5,534

TW: Dead Dove: do not eat. 18+ content, minors DNI. NSFW, SMUT. Gaslighting and manipulation. Mention of EDs. Degradation. Non-con. Implication of suicide attempt. Forced oral, anal. Use of aphrodisiac and fear toxin. Hallucinations. Power imbalance, therapist/patient. Age difference. Monster fucking (Scarecrow). Corruption. Ahegao. Creampie. Rick roll near the end.

Note: Uh, hi there. I got bit by a highly infectious idea and quickly developed super terminal Jonathan Crane!rot...which I guess I'm making everyone's problem now. This is the first chapter of a long Jonathan X Reader fic called: "Please, don't tell my psychiatrist-he'd kill me!"

Song: "Careful What You Wish For" by Jack Harris

Taglist: @caesariawritesstuff @greeneyedshooter @enochtopus-the-pressed

"I-I don't even know what I'll do. It's not like I can cancel now..."

Subject 76 picked at the fibers of her knit sweater anxiously, brows furrowed. There's a hitch to her voice. Her shoulders are slightly hunched over as if she's trying to protect herself from the topic at hand. Dr. Crane makes a note of this with a quick flourish of his ballpoint pen. Besides him, safe in her black iron cage, his pet crow, Nightmare, stares keenly at Subject 76.

"Plus, my friend has been planning this wedding for MONTHS and I'm her bridesmaid! I can't just not go to the wedding! I-I'd feel like...I dunno, like a bad friend-"

Subject 76 reached for the glass of water placed on the coffee table in front of her. She took a sip from it to settle her nerves before continuing to speak:

"Just the thought of letting her down makes me feel some awful way. Like, I don't know. I'm just, uhh. I'm just..."

"...Afraid?" Dr. Crane's smooth voice offers, almost seeming to reverberate in the air.

Subject 76 looked at her psychologist with a wide, doe-eyed expression. Her bottom lip trembled. It was a small, almost imperceptible movement that had Crane's pen scribbling furiously in his notes once more.

"No," Subject 76 denied immediately, then falters a second later, "Yes. I-I don't know, maybe??? I'm just anxious, I guess??? It's just that this wedding will be the first time in six years that I've seen my high-school friends. And I wanna make the right impression. I don't want it to look like I don't have my life together."

Subject 76 went quiet for a moment. Her gaze drew down to her wrists where thick, pink scars crisscrossed her skin. While the sweater she was wearing did its best to conceal them from sight, a few still peaked out and were clearly visible to anyone who had a wandering eye. Shame settled upon her.

"I've even started to...uhm. I..."

Subject 76 fell silent again. The woman returned to picking the threads of her sweater, tugging on its cotton weave compulsively instead of talking.

Dr. Crane glanced up from his notepad, peering over the top of his glasses to assess his subject. "Miss. Bree?" He asked, raising a single eyebrow. He waited for her to speak.

But Subject 76 pursed her lips into a thin line and ignored him.

Sighing, Crane leaned back in his chair. An edge of annoyance laced his tone as he addressed his subject...

"I don't think I have to remind you that the court has mandated your cooperation in therapy, Miss Bree. And...with anything I see fit to hasten your rehabilitation. Now, I wouldn't want to be forced legally to report you to your probation officer for resisting treatment. However, if I must-"

"WAIT!" Subject 76 cried out, terror in her eyes.

The smallest smirk twitched at the edges of Dr. Crane's lips, "Oh?"

Splitting open like a rotten pumpkin, the woman confessed that she'd started throwing up. 'Just small meals,' she'd elaborate further, attempting to lessen the impact of her words, 'Just the bad carbs and fats, nothing serious.' Subject 76 went on to talk about the dress she was trying to "look slay" for. How the bride had chosen a type of cut that left little to the imagination. And most telling to Dr. Crane of all; that she was frightened about what everyone would think when she wore it.

Crane placed his notebook and pen down on the accent table at his side, then steepled his fingers together, peering at Subject 76 with intent.

With hunger.

"Do you think your frankly lackluster endeavor to lose weight will be enough to stop the whispers and the gossip?" He asked off-handedly, making Subject 76 flinch in response, "And all the secret shared laughter at your expense?"

"W-what?"

"Just an observation, really."

Subject 76 looked confused. She blinked several times and wondered if she was hearing the what the doctor had said right. Or if somehow she was hearing him wrong instead.

"In fact, I doubt fitting into anything will improve your standing," Crane stated with a casual wave of his hand, "How do you know that you weren't invited to this...grand affair...as a joke?"

Shock spread across Subject 76's face.

"I-"

"If they were judging you in high school, six years wouldn't change anything substantial. They're no different than they were back then. Tell me, have you changed?"

Dr. Crane answered the question for Subject 76, not allowing her to explain for herself what he'd already figured:

"According to your records, you've been purging since middle school... And here you are now, still continuing to follow the same, tired, destructive pattern."

"Dr. Crane, I-"

Crane held up an authoritative hand.

"I digress, Miss. Bree," He said, "We've become a bit sidetracked here. Any form of eating disorder is categorized as self-harm. I cannot allow this to continue. As a mandated reporter, I'll have to tell your case manager. Unfortunately, I can judge by your previous history, that it's quite likely you'll be put on a 72-hour hold in a psychiatric facility. Probably here at Arkham. Contrary to Gotham's popular belief, we do treat normal citizens, too."

A fresh, new wave of panic bloomed on Subject 76's face. Tears welled up in the young woman's eyes. She shook her head, both hands rising up to clasp over her mouth, muffling the words she spoke and making them harder to hear.

"Hmm? What was that?" Dr. Crane nearly purred, making a show of leaning in closer to listen better.

"I-I can't go back there," Subject 76 replied with a choked stammering breath, "I just can't, doctor. I c-can't-"

Such marvelous fear...

Dr. Crane drank it in, savored it like fine wine. He wished he could bottle this moment to treasure for himself and keep forever. This was a human at their most beautiful.

"There is an alternative solution," Crane offered, only after Subject 76 looked about to vomit on his rug, "But I don't offer it to just anyone I treat. You, however, would be a perfect candidate."

"Really, doctor? I would?"

He barely suppressed his disgust as the woman shifted from fear-torn to hopeful at just the mere suggestion of salvation.

"Yes, but you'd have to submit to a new regimen and administration of medicine," Dr. Crane said, "Plus, we would be exploring novel paths of therapy that we've yet to approach in session. If I deem it productive, then I can forget about this reporting nonsense-"

Not to mention all the paperwork he'd have to go through because of it.

"-Does that sound amenable to you, Miss. Bree?"

"Yes!" Subject 76 answered brightly, "Anything to keep probation away!"

As if commenting on the woman's statement, Nightmare let out a series of loud, raucous caws that sounded strangely like laughter. Subject 76 glanced at the crow with uncertainty before Dr. Crane redirected her attention back onto him.

"Anything, hmm?" Crane asked curiously, taking off his glasses and tucking them into his breast pocket, "Well, that's good to know. It'll certainly make this next portion that much easier."

"Huh?"

Before Subject 76 knew what was happening, Dr. Crane was at her side; his hand gripping her ponytail and yanking her head back. She caught the sight of a spray bottle seconds prior to a strange, fine, orange mist enveloping her face. Crawling up the passages of her nose. Making her feel instantly dizzy and lightheaded. Sick.

"Yeeeah, that's right," Crane's voice cooed gently into her ear, "Breathe it all in, little lamb. Goood. Just like that..."

The effects of the toxin were instantaneous. With vested interest, Jonathan Crane watched as 76's pupils dilated until her irises nearly disappeared and her breaths came out in labored gasps that sounded painful. He grabbed the woman's wrist to check her pulse. His long fingers bit into soft flesh, leaving the crescent-shaped impressions of his nails in their wake.

"As expected," he spoke aloud, narrating more to himself than anyone else, "Patient is responsive to a 10 mg dose of K-series. BPM is at 125, within range of a common panic attack. Eyes dilated to 8 millimeters. Symptoms are much more evident than Batch 4. Most likely due to the introduction of fear prior to administration-"

A low, husky moan interrupted him:

"Mmmn, Doctor Crane. I feel so hot..."

Jonathan turned his attention back onto the test subject, who was trying to press her body to his in desperation. He felt his cock harden instantly. That spark of hunger he'd experienced moments before returned; but, it'd become ravenous now. Insistent. Snapping. It demanded to be fed. And this lost, little lamb was offering herself willingly to his opened maw. Who would refuse such a feast?

The darkness inside Jonathan took control.

Subject 76 gasped as his hand suddenly gripped her neck and pulled her closer. He grazed his lips along the woman's silky cheek, whispering softly into her ear-

"Hush now, child, your Shepherd God is here. All will be well."

-before blazing a trail of greedy kisses and bites down her shoulder, ripping off her sweater in the process. He threw it onto the carpet. Subject 76 hardly noticed. She was far too preoccupied with his explorations to care. Her eyes fluttered back into her skull as Doctor Crane teased the tender areas of her flesh with tongue and teeth. Searing heat coiled like a spring in the pit of her stomach. Another moan flew from her throat. Louder this time.

"Tell me how you feel?" Jonathan asked his prey with a commanding growl.

Subject 76 squirmed underneath his grasp.

"I-I need you," she replied, "Doctor, please! I need to feel you. I want your hands on me. I-I want you to touch me. Bite me. I need you-"

Jonathan Crane gripped her tighter.

"And how badly does that ail you, little lamb?" He crooned.

"I can't stand it!" 76 wailed out loud, tears rolling in cascades down her cheeks, "Everything's hot. I can't think straight! What's happening to me?!?"

A cruel smile curved along Jonathan's mouth. He could almost taste the woman's anguish. It was a delicious flavor. Irresistible, actually...

"You poor, suffering soul. Allow me to ease your troubled mind..."

Wrapping Subject 76's ponytail around his hand once more, Jonathan Crane seized control and dragged her face towards the bulge in his slacks. Surprisingly, she tried to resist. Visited by a brief minute of lucidity, the woman fought back on his grip, struggling (like hell) against the task he was setting her to. Jonathan scowled. He wondered if the toxin had worn off already? But another lusty moan from 76 indicated that it hadn't. It was just hitting her in symptomatic waves.

Whimpering as a new flood of heat overwhelmed her, Subject 76 wrestled with the metal buckle of Jonathan's belt and unzipped his pants. Her eyes widened upon seeing the monster that lay hiding in wait within his boxers. Huge, thick, and veined; the psychiatrist's dick eagerly sprang forth from its plaid, cotton bindings to greet her. It twitched with anticipation over what was about to happen. A sharp edge of panic sliced into her...

His cock was too big.

She wasn't given time to prepare herself. Crane's hand pressed down on the back of her head and forced his dick into her mouth. He slid his length as far as it could go, cockhead tapping the back of her throat before pulling out...then, slamming himself past her lips all over again. Each time, he pushed a little deeper, a little harder, until 76 was gagging and tears misted up her eyes. Jonathan let out a groan at the sight of it. The fear in those gorgeous, coffee brown depths made him want to fuck her harder and see how far he could push that mouth.

"Mmmff! Mmf-"

"Ahh, feels so good. Your pain is exquisite."

Subject 76 struggled as Doctor Crane increased his vicious pace and used her ponytail like a bar handle. He tugged, yanked, pulled, and directed every movement until she became nothing more than a living fleshlight. Forced to satisfy this tall, imposing beast until he was sated, 76 had never felt more helpless in her entire life. Despite that, a curious sensation was accompanying her loss of control; the enjoyment of his taste. A betrayal that she hadn't expected coming from her body! The doctor's musky flavor caused liquid heat to pool traitorously between her legs. As salty tang invaded her palate, a throb began pulsing upon her clit. Was she going mad!? How could any of this possibly feel good???

That's because you're a whore, sweetie.

The dulcet sound of her mother whispered softly into her ear. The tone was condescending, beset with mockery. Her father followed suit, his voice so clear (and vivid) that Subject 76 swore he was standing a few inches away:

We always knew you were a filthy pig, even as a child...

76 let loose a muted scream. Both her parents, in a unified chorus, continued their foul comments, prodding at every insecurity she owned while the only thing she could do was choke on Dr. Crane's dick and cry.

"Oh, you're in it now, aren't you?"

Suddenly, his movements halted. Subject 76 felt herself being hauled up by her hair to meet a pair of glowing eyes and a terrifying smile comprised of sharp, yellow fangs. She screamed again. This time, the sound was so loud it hurt her own ears. Gone was the famous psychiatrist, Dr. Jonathan Crane, and in his place...was a nightmare!

The monster seemed pleased by her horror. A dark chuckle rumbled from deep within its emaciated chest.

"My toxin has infiltrated your mind," It said with a relished growl, dragging 76 closer, "Past all your defenses. Can't you feel it tearing at your sanity? Breaking down your senses bit by bit? Reducing you to your most primal state?? Fascinating how a person can become so pliable with just a small amount of this in their system..."

Confusion washed over Subject 76. The monster was speaking eloquently. However, she could not understand any of it. Her brain had turned into a congealed soup-useless jelly-that sloshed inside her skull. Unable to make connections as it once had mere hours ago before she'd stepped foot in Doctor Crane's office. The ache between her legs was intensifying, the pulse tapping upon her clit less easy to ignore, and the sensitivity of her skin made even the smallest touch a torture. 76 cried out to God...

But only the God of Fear answered her: "Silence, lamb. Therapy is still in session."

One fluid motion was all it took for the terrifying beast to extract Subject 76 off the couch and up onto her feet. It dragged her across the confines of Dr. Crane's office, towards the gigantic curtain wall that overlooked Arkham Asylum's entrance courtyard. With a sharp and commanding tug, 76 was forced to stand before it, despite protest, so that she could see the goings-on down below. Another whimper fell out of her lips as her vision turned the gnarled trees and wrought iron fence outside into clawed hands. Five people suddenly stared up at the window from their spots on the benches near the Asylum's smoking zone. They looked so familiar. But, she could not remember why...

The monster slid behind her soundlessly. Its long talons crawled like many spiders up the sides of her arms. "This is who you really are inside, Miss Bree. Your truest self," It assured her, speaking in a matter-of-fact voice, making everything it said sound obvious and plain, "Just a trembling web of misfiring neurons in the amygdala attempting to rectify a reality too frightening to assimilate-"

The monster caressed her cheek.

"-I want to help you embrace your fear and truly understand it."

Those five people in the courtyard all raised their forefinger and, as one unit, pointed at Subject 76 with laughter twisting upon their lips. She shook her head. Averted her gaze. Took a step back to put distance between herself and the plexiglass window. Unfortunately, 76 was stopped by an unyielding wall of flesh. The beast's body was poised just a few inches away from her own and in response to her shame, it took a step forward, sandwiching her between itself and the tall, cold glass she sought to avoid. Subject 76 prayed to God again. This time, she promised Him that she would stop purging; that today was the last day she'd ever throw up her meals if He'd spare her life...

But only the God of Fear answered her: "What do you see, little lamb? What horrors keep you stuck in place?"

"I-I don't know!!"

Its spindly fingers roamed an idle path down her throat to settle upon her chest. She trembled as its razor-edged nails brushed against her nipples absentmindedly.

"I think you do," the monster insisted, "But you're resisting the awareness of it. We try to hide away from the shadows of our minds so we can live in peace during the day, don't we? It's only human. But you, little one, have nowhere left to scurry to. Nowhere you can run. The Scarecrow has come to show you the truth inside your fears..."

Allowing 76 no time to consider its words, it tore open her camisole top, exposing the bra that she wore underneath. The monster made quick work of the lace, discarding it into a pile on the carpet. Skeletal digits went seeking flesh. Subject 76 felt its boney hands grasp both her breasts and start to knead them roughly as panic washed over her. It pulled her nipples with hard pinches. First one, then the other. Then, both at the same time in a torturous rhythm that milked a lusty sigh from her throat.

76's eyes widened when she heard it. Had that perverted sound come out of her?

What a fucking slut!

That's the way she was in high school. We did it behind the bleachers, her ass was so fucking tight.

But she's so fat!!

So? The thicker they are, the thicker the juice.

Ugh, you're so gross, Mikey.

Voices from the courtyard outside intermingled with her litany of moans. The five smokers were talking, gossiping candidly amongst themselves, while they sneered at her from the benches they sat in. Subject 76 jerked away, tried to push off the monster so she could hide her naked chest and cover the shame that came with being seen. The monster didn't let her, though. Almost like it sensed her self-disgust, it pinned her up against the window glass and handled her boobs harder. Tugged and pulled them so that her rosy peaks stretched out. Pressed its throbbing, hard bulge into her ass so that she could feel it pulse. Licked a trail up the curve of her neck to taste the sweat on her skin.

The five spectators outside laughed in response to her struggles.

Pig!

Whore!

Slut!

Sudden recognition dawned upon 76. Those five, smirking people down in the courtyard were her high school friends. The ones that she would see at the wedding next week. The ones who hadn't seen her since graduation. Their blinkless stares drilled into soul her as if she were soft plywood. She could feel their scrutiny already. 76 let out a horrified scream:

"N-no! NO!!! Please! D-don't look at me!! Don't!!!"

Hot, fetid breath that smelled like decaying flesh tickled her ear when the beast spoke. "Ahhhh," It said with a sultry purr, "Scopophobia. The fear of being seen by others. Of having so many judging eyes on you. My, what a vain creature you are to think anyone would look at you? Well then, let's give your audience something...more substantial to gaze at-"

It yanked down her pleated skirt and pulled aside her thong.

"I want all of them to see and hear you sing hosannas of anguish to Scarecrow!"

Eagerly, the monster guided its cock to grind on the entrance of Subject 76's ass. And bit by bit, it pushed itself slowly into her tight, puckered hole. 76 clawed at the window as she felt this invasion begin to pump within her. Striking a curious spot inside her body that caused drool to trickle down her chin from the edges of her mouth. Each hard stroke that it gave Subject 76 made her cry, then moan, then scream, then beg the Scarecrow for forgiveness. But the monster continued to thrust (unempathetically) into her asshole without any regard. Bright stars exploded in rapid numbers behind her eyes. Building heat churned at the pit of her belly, threatening to combust. Her pussy became sopping wet as his busy hips smacked into her backside with more force, speed, and single-minded desperation than her mind could handle. 76 felt like she was going to go insane. If it kept pounding her like this, she would certainly die!

The beast let loose a satisfied groan as it tossed its burlap-shrouded head back, "Mmn, fuck, yes! Show everyone what a sick little dirty whore you are for the God of Fear. Let the many, many eyes witness your senseless fright, you pig!"

"N-nnnooo!! M'nuh a pig, d-daddy! I'm clean! I'm clean!!"

"You're as filthy as they come. There's no doubts about that," the monster growled low and darkly, clamping its taloned grip upon both sides of 76's hips to hold her steady while it readjusted inside of her ass.

Subject 76 squirmed.

"Be still, slut!"

This was the only warning she received before its cock went to work. Now, positioned at a different angle, the monster penetrated her ass deeper. A wave of euphoria and fear swept over Subject 76 as she felt sensation after sensation threatening to break her. In. Out. Faster and harder. Rougher. The sheer brutality with which it fucked her body senseless was quickly burning a giant hole in her psyche and rearranging her brain chemistry into a shape she didn't recognize...

A transformation, Subject 76 soon realized, that she was quite helpless to stop.

In fact, 76 found that she was starting to like this new state; moaning, panting, squirming, crying!! Begging for her life. Getting so thoroughly railed by the God of Terror that it forced her eyes to roll back and her mouth fall open and her mind to go completely blank with the only thought she had (or could adequately retain) being how amazing it was to have this monster's dick buried so deep inside her!! Subject 76 had even forgotten about the audience that was watching this.

Maybe she even wanted the audience to watch?

If she was honest, perhaps she'd always wanted that...?

"M'gunna c-cum!! I gunna-"

Something mixed between a scream and a moan flew out of her mouth as the monster hilted itself fully into her ass, sparking an orgasm that shook her entire body to the core. A moment later, heat spread inside Subject 76. Thick and gooey, it ran down her thighs and joined the nectar of her own cum. The monster continued rocking its hips and unloaded spurt after spurt of sticky warmth that never seemed to end. Aftershocks accompanied every lazy, squelching thrust. More drool trickled down her chin, more moans were wrenched from her throat. 76 was less of a person now than she was a fuck sock; mindless and wet and perfectly submissive. The terrifying beast that called itself the "Scarecrow" had freed her from all the worry and pain she'd carried inside and replaced it with inner peace...

And obedience to the God of Fear.

Dr. Jonathan Crane sighed.

The "Kappa Psi" series toxin was a success. After countless days and sleepless nights and seventy six clinical trials on his unsuspecting patients, Dr. Crane had finally created something even he was afraid of. The K toxin was a potent combination that fused Doctor Isley's plant pheromones with carbogen and cortisol. When administered, it'd attack the pituitary gland first. Then, hurry itself onto the thalamus, amygdala and prefrontal cortex, where it'd flood the victim in mixed signals that twisted fear and pleasure together. With the right type of psychological stress applied, a subject under the effects of K Toxin would be highly susceptible to subliminal messages. Dr. Crane had found on the third clinical trial that sometimes a complete and utter dissociation would occur where the subject was...altered after the toxin wore off. Around the fifth clinical trial, Crane discovered that he didn't need to do much to invoke that dissociative state within his subjects. He started feeling like a God who crafted his own men and women alike from the soil of fear.

But, after seventy-five trials, each one a success, he'd started feeling unsatisfied. Bored, even. And now, on the seventy-sixth trial, Doctor Jonathan Crane was ready to concoct a new formula. This time, perhaps, he would experiment with a toxin that'd stimulate a timed, cardiac arrest? It'd be a great way to study Thanatophobia.

"I-I obey...I obey fear..."

Interrupting his musings, Subject 76 muttered to herself on his couch where she'd been since he'd dosed her. Crane rolled his eyes. It'd been half an hour (already) and without so much as a touch or a whisper in her ear, the young woman had come undone. He adjusted his glasses, then peered up at the clock hanging upon his wall. He'd give 76 a grace period of ten more minutes before he used an antidote. After all, she seemed to be enjoying herself even if he wasn't. Her fingers ground into her groin while she chanted hymns to horror with tears rolling from her glazed over eyes. Normally, Dr. Crane would be enchanted. The K Toxin made his job as a practitioner of fear too easy, though. The finesse involved in scaring someone seemed almost obsolete, comparatively. A ridiculous and foolish notion but one that bothered him greatly nonetheless.

While Crane waited for the K toxin to subside, he scrolled through his unread emails...

Dr. Leland was requesting any and all additional files on the Page Monroe case.

Jeremiah Arkham had CC'd the entire asylum on the rules and guidelines regarding the treatment of patients. It was obvious this message was just for Bolton, however.

Dr. Bartholomew was reminding everyone who'd used the staff refrigerator in the past 24 hours to label their food containers and lunches to "avoid any confusion."

Mike Browne, a senior orderly who worked in the Intensive Treatment Unit, was reporting theft. A concerning amount of Propofol had disappeared from the medical supply.

And a "Mister E" had messaged him at midnight (three whole days ago) with an email that was mysteriously entitled: "Question."

Just as Jonathan was about to open the mystery email, a timid voice interrupted him...

"D-Doctor Crane...?"

Subject 76 was (finally) shaking off the effects of the toxin and coming back to reality. The woman looked confused, a bit scared as well. And when he met her stare from his spot, perched at the desk, Crane saw terror blossoming inside those doe-like eyes. But, other than that little detail, 76 seemed to have recovered enough for Jonathan to talk to now. Turning away from his computer and clearing his throat, he began to weave a web of (plausible) deniability that reframed the past hour or so in a positive light...

"Don't alarm, Miss Bree. You seem to have fallen asleep during our guided breathing exercises. It's a common thing that happens with patients who hold onto too much stress. Rest assured, you're not the only one of my clients who've passed out on that couch...and I very much doubt that you'll be the last."

Subject 76 immediately reached up towards her mouth, wiping it clear of leftover drool. Then, the woman moved on to smooth her hair and fix any wrinkles that she saw in her sweater. As soon as 76 felt put together, the woman risked peeking a glimpse at the doctor. That beautiful fear which he loved so much still clung to the edges of her gaze.

"So, all that was just a nightmare?" she asked Dr. Crane with a voice that said she couldn't be more relieved, "All the things I saw...they weren't real?? Even you reporting me?"

Jonathan raised a single, curious brow. He made a show of taking off his glasses, wiping them on the material of a handkerchief that he kept in his pocket, and returning them to his face before he answered the question:

"You had a nightmare, Miss. Bree? Well, that isn't all too uncommon, either. Guided breathing and meditation has been known to jog loose trauma from within our subconscious mind. That's why its use is so effective in a therapeutic setting," Dr. Crane said, then gestured casually over towards the wall clock, "But, I am afraid that will have to be a conversation for later. Our time today is up."

"Oh..."

"Let's schedule you for the same time next week. And perhaps this time, we can focus on staying awake throughout our session, hm?"

Embarrassment in the form of a rosy pink blush spread across Subject 76's cheeks at that small, wayward comment. She tried to hide it, though. Jonathan ignored this and led her over to the door, holding it open for the woman after she'd collected her things. As his patient walked by him, however, Crane froze her with an innocent question from out of left field...

"Before you go, Miss. Bree, I've been admittedly quite curious about something. It's my hope you can indulge me with an answer. What will you be wearing to your close friend's wedding, exactly? I'm not familiar nor particularly educated on the social formalities involved in such an occasion's dress wear."

76 paused, then replied as if commenting on the weather: "Oh, probably nothing. I want everyone to see my whore body. Wouldn't you, Dr. Crane?"

"Mm," Jonathan hummed in response before he closed the door behind her.

It'd started to rain outside. A light dusting of tiny water droplets were collecting themselves upon the glass of the curtain window beside his desk. Jonathan Crane could hear the pattering getting (progressively) louder by the second. He strolled over to his office chair, then sat in it. Watched as the storm rolled in from Gotham Bay and the icy Atlantic sea beyond it. Idly, he wondered if he'd ever meet a subject who could hold his interest? Or if The Batman, alone, would continue to keep that honor for himself?

Swiveling around to face his computer, Jonathan decided to open that "Mister E" email. He clicked once upon the subject line and was assaulted by bright green text almost instantly. A deep frown tugged on his lips as he squinted, trying to read the words despite wearing a pair of prescription glasses...

'Like a rhubarb, what also desperately searches for light in the darkest depths?

:3

I'll give you a hint: It doesn't crack or pop, but it can scream just as loudly in Arkham's basement.'

Underneath this was a picture of himself in a lab coat, administering a lethal dose of fear toxin to an Arkham patient who was strapped down to a surgical table. Another photo, in addition to this, was timestamped for a few minutes later, and it featured Jonathan wearing a badly stitched-up, burlap, respirator mask. The patient who was screaming in the bottom right corner appeared to be bleeding around the mouth and eyes. The final one was a zoomed in shot of his name tag while he was disguised in the mask: Dr. Jonathan Crane, MD.

He stilled.

Everything in the world went absolutely quiet. He could've heard a single pin drop. But the silence was quickly shattered by the sound of electronic beeping. Jonathan peered down at his waist belt to see that the Motorola pager he wore strapped to it was flashing him a message...

'9229.'

All the muscles in his jaw tensed.

Immediately, Jonathan turned off his computer and using a brass key (that he always kept close on his person), opened up the bottom drawer to recover a briefcase hidden underneath the cover of an internal partition. As soon as his fingertips brushed against the leather item, Nightmare let out three loud, ear-splitting caws from her iron cage. She spread her wings, then flapped them several times in apparent aggravation. The crow pierced Jonathan with a look that seemed to warn him of something that he couldn't logically discern. But, fear was not logical, he reasoned to himself...

...And the only thing there was to fear in Gotham City was the Scarecrow.

"Hold the fort down while I'm gone, Nightmare," he said to his bird, hoping that his request would help to ease her worries, "This'll only take a bit. It usually does."

Jonathan Crane strode out of his office with an incredible sense of urgency and ire. His old, leather briefcase was gripped tightly in his hands like a gun. Nobody blackmailed the Scarecrow...

Or lived long enough to tell about it.

[merakiui]

thinking about androids again, but rather than the plot seen in android jade,,,, consider android floyd who is being developed by tech genius idia shroud with input and funding from business magnate azul ashengrotto.

(cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, obsession, vaguely implied non-con/dub-con, android floyd)

He's designed to be a companion for those who are lonely and in need of the company (whether physically or socially). You're just a tired, overworked university student, so it's mind-boggling to you when there's a sleek limousine parked just beyond campus property. Security guards are insisting you come with them because there's someone who'd like to meet you.

In the limo, you find yourself sitting across from Azul Ashengrotto himself. He doesn't bother with flowery introductions, instead cutting to the heart of the matter. You've been randomly selected to help with a very important phase of his and Idia's project. The general idea is to test how well the android interacts with a normal, ordinary person in a monitored setting.

You're very confused. You never signed up for any lottery, and you certainly aren't affiliated with anything of that sort. You're just trying to get through your degree, survive two part-times, and hopefully make enough to keep afloat for another month. Azul tells you this isn't an issue; you'll be generously compensated for your time and efforts. It's only three months; you'll be permitted to live your life as you normally would, only now you'll be accompanied by a highly intelligent android.

Despite hearing all of this, you hesitate when he reveals the lengthy contract. As you flip through it, analyzing each clause and category, Azul says something that piques your interest. "We don't expect you to house an android in your little apartment. Goodness, that's simply ludicrous. We'll provide your housing for these next three months. After all, we must be able to monitor your progress."

"Housing? What do you mean?"

He smiles at you. Backdropped by leather interior, the lights casting odd shadows on his face, he looks near-sinister. But he leans forward to press a ballpoint pen into your hands and the illusion vanishes. "I think you'll find it quite to your liking. If you've finished your classes for the day, why not visit the property with me? Then you may decide whether you wish to participate."

You're not worried about that part. What worries you the most, however, is the fact that he's right. You are finished with classes for the day and you have nothing planned. You took today off from work. Your schedule is perfectly free.

But of course the Azul Ashengrotto wouldn't know that, would he?

The house is a smart home, equipped with every necessity and appliance. Everything's controlled by a remote here. It's not very far from your university either, built on a hill that overlooks houses below. It feels a little isolating and smells very new and clean. Like that fabled new car smell, only it's a house. But everything is so unique to you. Its minimalistic design is oddly cozy, and you can't help but feel enchanted the deeper you venture through the two-story home. It's all so unreal!

Azul gives you the rundown, explains how the remote and each button works. You can lock doors, open and close windows, mess with the thermostat, turn the home security on and off, and even start the oven. You hold the power to this home in the palm of your hands. It's immensely fascinating.

By the end of the tour, you're shaking his hand and signing his contract, agreeing to three months of study. Not only are you provided this nice home, you'll also be paid per week. And the pay is far more than you were making with your two jobs.

The android has a long, tongue-tying serial number, so to make things easier he's named Floyd. They even gave him a surname in preparation for the twin android who is being designed to complement and mirror him. He certainly looks human when you meet him, but there's this uncanny nature to his presence that slightly unnerves you. He's too perfect. Skin too smooth. Eyes too bright. Hair too soft. He towers over you, having to bend down to walk through the doorframe, and every movement he makes is very mechanical and stiff.

Still, you smile at him and offer your hand. "Hi there. I'm (Name). Your...housemate, I guess."

He nods, peering down at your hand before lifting his own. "Floyd Leech. At your service."

You were expecting to feel coldness, so you startle when his hand fits into yours and it's warm. It feels so very real. So deceptively lifelike. You wonder if he can regulate his own internal temperatures. Just how advanced is he?

"Right... Um, I look forward to getting to know you!"

He nods again, releasing your hand after a perfectly timed handshake.

Azul had given you a special number should you need to reach him or Idia. All you needed to do was phone it if at any point you were to feel confused or unsafe. "But I don't think you'll utilize it," he told you when you stood in the lab, watching Idia Shroud flit around to do final maintenance checks to ensure Floyd was ready for his first trial run. His eyes were open the entire time, two mismatched lights centered on you. His stare was listless, but somehow you felt as if he was looking through to your very soul. "He's very safe. In fact, he's programmed to assess and react appropriately to dangers of all kinds. You'll be safe with him around."

And safe you are.

You've always been alone, so it's nice to have a roommate, even if he only speaks when spoken to. It's awkward for all of one week until you ease into his pattern. From various vantage points throughout the house, Idia and Azul watch through hidden cameras. You cook your meals for yourself and Floyd watches, assisting when you order him to. You leave for class and Floyd waits by the door for you to return, standing stock-still for hours.

You lounge in the sitting room and put on all kinds of films. Action. Comedy. Horror. Floyd's eyes never leave the screen. But sometimes he watches you more than he watches the movie, noting all of your reactions. He doesn't understand why you get so emotional over sappy romances. So you explain it simply: "It evokes emotions. We all have emotions, and these movies make us feel them. Happy. Sad. Angry. Upset. Things like that."

But Floyd doesn't feel. Even so, he listens and he nods along, filing your answers away for later dissection. It's interesting.

By the end of the first month, Floyd's adopted new habits. Ever since you told him he's free to do as he pleases, he's taken to cooking your meals for you, doing your laundry, preparing your bag for the day. He's surprisingly good at it. He does chores when you leave for classes or work. And for the first time in a while you're excited to return home, knowing he's there waiting.

Floyd adds new words and phrases to his ever-expanding vocabulary. You watch a lot of TV together and he starts to use some of what he hears in his own speech. He picks up informal language quickly, and it isn't long until he's using words like sup or dunno instead of the rigid how are you? and I am unsure he was previously programmed with.

The first sign of unrest comes when you realize Floyd's also connected to the smart home. At first you didn't think it was a bad thing. After all, with him controlling it you won't have to worry about getting up to grab the remote if you've already sat down. Floyd can do that for you. But then the remote goes missing, later turning up shattered. You ask Floyd what happened and he looks at you and says, "Why use this piece of junk when you've got me?"

"Still... What if you're not able to help? What if you're in sleep mode and I need to open a window or something?" you argue, cradling the splinters of remote like they're an injured baby bird.

"That won't happen," he replies smoothly, issuing you a soothing smile. "I'm always gonna be here for ya. Count on it."

And you do because, by the time the three months are nearing their end and Floyd's developed into quite the companion, more and more human than he's ever seemed, you find yourself stuck.

No, not stuck. That's not quite right. You're more so trapped.

Floyd locks the doors, shutters the windows, turns off the lights. You're cowering in the closet, the only place that feels just a little safe in this moment. You can't reach Azul or Idia either. He's shut the power off, the internet connection, everything. The smart home on the hilltop feels like a tiny island now, and Floyd's the shark always circling it, waiting for you to dip your feet into the depths.

"C'mon, Shrimpy," he calls out, and it's a nickname you were once so fond of because he thought of it himself. "I already told ya I ain't gonna hurt ya. So just come out and talk to me."

You have no idea where you went wrong. Was it too many horror films? Was it the fact that you started to rely so heavily on him for companionship, ignoring your human friends in favor of staying in with Floyd? Or was it because he was blocking their numbers that you never received any messages and automatically assumed they were cutting contact? He said he'd always be here for you, so why to this degree?

The closet doors are thrown open. Floyd drags you, kicking and screaming, out by the ankles. Every camera has gone dark on Azul and Idia's end. All but one. The one in the bedroom. Floyd stares directly at it when he lifts you up and lays you on the bed, gentle and sugary-sweet.

He smiles and waves before that screen blanks out, leaving you truly trapped with him.

And because it's all experimental, morbid curiosity trumping ethical morals, no one comes to rescue you.

Three months is more of an indefinite forever in this lonesome smart home.

[yeojaa]

( NEVER LET YOU GO. )

You do things without thought, making impulse decisions that’d make Freud proud.  Sometimes they pay off, sometimes they don’t.

(or:  Jeon Jungkook’s just as impulsive as you.)

pairing.  tattoo artist!jjk x f!reader.

genre + rating.  slice of life fluff, light smut.  explicit (but only at the end). 

tags / warnings.  mentions of heavily tattooed!JK, casual drinking, tender lovemakin’, JK with the bad jokes, honestly just him being funny and chill like that one guy you never get over...

wc.  7.6k.

beta reader(s).  @hobi-gif​, @papillonsgf​, and @yeoldontknow​​ 💛 ty for always indulging me and most importantly, supporting me when i begin to spiral. 🤠

author note.  i got this idea into my head one evening in the shower and now... it is this.  it’s not your usual bad boy tattoooist!JK fic but i hope you enjoy regardless.  as always, feedback means a lot! 

You and forethought aren’t close friends.  You really aren’t even distant cousins, or part of the same family tree.  You consider it a stranger, wave loftily as it passes you by, squinting like you can’t properly make out what it is.  Careful consideration?  Thoughtful patience?  None of that exists for you.  At least, not when you really, really want something. 

It’s what has you here now, bumbling your way into the tattoo shop like a newborn baby bird.  

You wonder how it must look, whether the shop assistant is used to this.  Random girl shows up on a Sunday afternoon looking like a fish out of water, eager yet afraid.  By how she greets you - with a curious stare and not quite a smile - you’re sure she is.  

“Do you take walk-ins?”

You’d meant to make an appointment.  Had sat for hours on the shop’s Instagram page, combing through the residents’ portfolios, trying to decide who to reach out to.  When you’d finally decided, you’d realised books were a thing and most of them were closed.  (Just your luck.)

Still, it never hurt to try, right? 

“Everyone’s fully booked.”  The girl sounds bored, apathetic yet genial.  (You don’t blame her.)  By the way her stare swings over you, it feels like a dismissal.  You’re ready to admit defeat - head half-bowed, words draped over your tongue.  “But our apprentice might be able to squeeze you in.”

An apprentice?  Well— that’s not exactly what you’d been hoping for, but this shop is reputable.  Well-known.  Considered one of the best in the city.  Surely their apprentice would be fine.  Just less seasoned, not as experienced. 

You all but snap your neck nodding along, gratitude tumbling out in the form of awkward laughter.  “That’d be great!”

The girl passes you off with a nod of her head, gesturing down the hall.  “Last room on the left.  His name’s Jungkook.  His schedule says he’s all clear, but maybe knock before you go in.”  It’s not the sunniest smile you’ve ever received, but the small thing she offers helps with the nerves.  Stills them beneath your skin as you do as you’re told. 

“Jungkook?”  There’s not really anywhere to knock, every wall neatly frosted glass and no doors in sight.  (You had passed a few folding screens but otherwise, it’s open concept, each room offering a glimpse into the artist who works inside.)  It feels too disruptive to tap your knuckles on one glass pane, lest it interrupt someone else. 

(His studio is minimally decorated but inviting:  one big cabinet; two of those typical IKEA shelves in the 4x4 grid that every new homeowner and their mother have; and a shop table, upon which a black backpack sits.  Various plants dress the room - both hanging from the ceiling and along the window - and Polaroids string over walls, held aloft by twine.  A Roomba sits by itself in a corner and the tattoo bed dominates most of the space, positioned closer to the dividing wall;  one teeny tiny rolling chair sits beside it.  There’s a bench on your left, with a pair of Birkenstocks tucked beneath.  All in all, very homey.  Reminiscent of your own apartment.) 

Hidden behind the bed, crouched low to the ground beside the cabinet, is a head of dark hair that speaks, drawing your attention from studying the cozy space.  “Oh?”

You’re not expecting the face that turns to you, all big doe eyes and the sweetest dimples. 

For a moment, you forget what you’re here for.  Why you’re standing in the empty door frame, staring down at the guy like you’ve spent your entire life secluded and have no idea how to speak.  

The longer you’re quiet, the more his concern seems to grow, single brow disappearing into his inky fringe.  It hangs in his vision at certain angles, shields the brightness of his stare with each turn of his chin.  “Are you okay?”  He’s even risen - stopped what he was doing - so he can see you more clearly, without any obstruction in the way.  Good for him, but worse for you. 

He’s so cute.  Were you prepared to look like an uncertain idiot in front of this… angel?

“Y-yeah.”  You manage after what feels like forever, sweeping your nerves under the rug that sits on the floor, separates the sole of his sneakers from hard concrete.  “Um— I was told you might have some time?  For, uh, a walk-in?”

(Why’re you stuttering?  You’re never shy.  Or rather, you’re not this nervous mess.  People have always called you an extrovert, outgoing as hell, a social butterfly.)

(You aren’t those things but you appreciate the sentiment nonetheless.)

“Oh!”  Realisation dawns across his features, throws his kind smile into greater relief, and you have to actively tell yourself not to stare, tearing your gaze away to focus on the wall of stencils past his shoulder.  He moves into motion then, stepping around the bed to meet you still rooted in the doorway.  “Yeah, I’ve got time.  Come in.”  Up close like this - there’s only maybe two feet between you - you can make out the little scar on his cheek;  the tiny beauty mark below his bottom lip;  each individual lash that frames his Bambi eyes and flutters when he blinks.  “I probably can’t draw you anything new right now but I’ve got some flash, if you’re interested?”

Even if you weren’t interested, you don’t think you’d say no.  You were always a sucker for a cute boy and this Jungkook?  He was that.  In spades. 

“Sure.”

“Are you looking for anything in particular?”  He’s retreating back into the room, moving to grab his iPad off the far table.  It’s balanced on his arm when he swivels to you, prominent front teeth on full display.  “I’ve got a pretty big selection.” 

When he drops onto the bench - a wayward vine above his head tickling his cheek - he gestures to the spot beside him.  This time, you don’t stare for a stupid amount of time, instead taking up the seat without hesitation. 

“So—”  He’s swiping through the photo library with his Apple Pen.  You’re sure there are pretty sketches on the screen - you just can’t focus on them, too preoccupied by the artwork that crawls across his hand and into the sleeve of his oversized, well-worn shirt.  It’s an intricate chrysanthemum, impossibly well-shaded with bold colours that demand attention and stand out over his fair complexion;  it creeps halfway up the back of his hand to tickle over his knuckles.  He notes your attention with a quiet chuckle, fingers wiggling.  The ink moves, flows, ripples with the motion, before his hand relaxes, knuckles unravelling as he offers the limb to you and your curiosity.  “Do you like it?”

“It’s incredible.”  It really is.  You’ve never seen anything like it, as if a painting has been done across his skin, laid in watercolour rather than tattoo ink.  “Did it hurt?”

(You almost want to hit yourself for the stupid question.  Of course it did.  It’s a hand tattoo.)

Jungkook only laughs again, doesn’t hold it against you despite the verbal barrage you’re faced with internally.  “Like crazy, but it was worth it.  This was my first tattoo and all the rest have just sort of been—”  He shrugs, fabric of his shirt bunching around his collar.  

“A piece of cake?”  You can only imagine.

“Exactly.”

You nod thoughtfully, as if that means anything to you.  (It doesn’t.  You’re bare as a baby’s bottom, blemish free save for the occasional hellish pimple and the scar you have from surgery on your hand when you broke parts of it in sixth grade.)

If he can tell you’re talking out of your ass, he says nothing, redirecting your attention back to the iPad propped on his lap.  “Do any of these interest you?”  He’s resumed scrolling, swiping carefully through pages of flash.  There are assorted floral pieces (plum stems, lily stalks, fully bloomed mums) and various skeletons (what looks like a deer, a dragon, a wolf).  They’re mostly blackwork with fine lines and heavy contrast, so wonderfully detailed you spend too much time studying one piece before he’s flipping to the next.

“That one.”  It catches your eye more than the others have.  Likely because it’s one of the few pieces in colour, soft hues spilling over neat lines.  A pretty little cat with a braided collar, big golden bell centered beneath its head, unravelling petals sweeping around it.

“You like cats?”

You do.  “She looks like mine.”

“It’s settled.”  He beams then, rising so quickly you’re startled;  you watch as he moves around the space with decisive steps, putting your plan into motion.  A paper is pulled seemingly out of nowhere, laid on a wooden clipboard and offered with a blue ballpoint pen.  “If you can fill all of this out, I can get the stencil ready.”

Well, that was easy.  Somehow, you’d thought it’d be more complicated, a ton of back and forth and yes and no.  You can’t deny you’re nervous, staring down at the consent form.  

(It doesn’t mean you read it any more than you normally would, though.  You gloss over all the points, making note of what you’re agreeing to without really considering any of it.  You’ve wanted a tattoo for most of your life.  There’s really no going back now.)

(You just hope it turns out like you want - that you’re not just being blindsided by a sudden superficial crush and a lack of critical thought.)

“I think I’m done,”  you mumble, slashing the date into the paper with gusto.  

“Do you have your ID?”  You’ve got it ready for him when he returns to take both it and the form.  “I’m just going to make copies and then we can discuss more.”

He’s gone with that same smile, disappearing back the way you’d come. 

Alone, the nerves set in.  You’re actually doing this.  Getting a tattoo.  Putting something permanent on your body.  It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once, shaking your hands in your lap.  Maybe you should’ve eaten more before you’d come.  (You’d woken up late - had only shoved two pieces of raisin pinwheel bread into your mouth before you’d made up your mind about this.) 

(But had you really made up your mind?  Was this going to be it?  It feels mostly like yes, though the repetitive thud of your toe against concrete seems to indicate otherwise.  It’s as if you’re tapping out something in morse, telling yourself—)

“Okay!”  Jungkook’s back before you know it, driver’s license returned to you along with an unsealed envelope.  You eye it curiously.  “A copy of your form and an aftercare sheet.”  

He’s really thought of everything.  Or the shop has.  Either way, you appreciate that when you’re not so sure, caught somewhere between giddily excited and vaguely worried, as if someone’s pulled a weight off your shoulders, taken on some of the burden of this spontaneous choice.

“So, where do you want it?”  It’s like he has a one track mind, utterly focused on the task at hand.  (Probably a good thing, given you’re about to voluntarily let him needle your poor skin.) 

You hadn’t thought about that.  You’d always liked the idea of a back of the arm tattoo, positioned somewhere along your tricep so it could be seen while turned away.  “My arm?”

“Upper?  Forearm?”  There’s not an ounce of annoyance or exasperation or anything else negative.  He’s just genuinely curious, peering over his shoulder at you. 

“Tricep area, I think?  Would that look good?”

“If you like it, it will.”  Then he grins - beams so bright you half expect the sun to come zooming out of his mouth - and laughs, a funny little cackle that makes you do the same.  “I’m kidding.  That was cheesy.  But I’m sure it’ll look fine.  We can try laying it down first, so you get an idea?” 

“That sounds good.”  A lot better than endless years of regret for poor placement. 

“You’ll, uh— need to take your shirt off though.”

It’s then you realise your mistake:  wearing a turtleneck.  “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence passes, then another, and he smiles so kindly you wonder what your expression must look like.  Sour, like you’d sucked fresh lemon?  Awkward, as if you’d never worn anything less than double layers before (a proud Never Nude)? 

“If you’re uncomfortable, we can reschedule.  Or I can put a divider up so you don’t have to worry about being seen from outside.  Whatever you’d prefer.” 

The longer you stay quiet - a seemingly common occurrence today - the closer his brows furrow, preparations coming to a standstill.  You can tell he’s not trying to rush you, politely waiting for an answer with transfer paper in one hand and scissors in the other.  

(If only he could peek into your brain, see the whole reason you’re hesitating is because you can’t quite remember which bra you’re wearing, whether it’s the slinky black one that offers absolutely zero support or the lacy blue one with the cute detailing and practically see-through cups.)

(Did it really matter either way?  He was probably desensitized.)  

“It’s fine.”  You find the confidence somehow, nodding firmly.  Jungkook’s still studying you carefully, though.  Waiting as you strip your purse off your shoulder and reach for the hem of your sweater.  It feels funny in your fingers, more like steel wool than sheep’s.

One breath.  Two. 

You fold your turtleneck neatly, laying it beside your bag and turning back to face him.  “All right.  Let’s do this.” 

“So, which arm?”  He’s close now - crossed to you in two strides of his long legs - and holds up the stencil.  

Your right rises, fingers wiggling as if to say hello. 

He lays the design down, pats it into place with deft fingers.  You don’t realise the breath you’re holding until he pulls the sticky paper away, leaving neat line work in its wake.

“Oh.”  It slips out of its own accord, almost a whisper as you stare at the design in the mirror.  “It’s so pretty.” 

There’s pride in his eyes as he stares with you, bounces his gaze between it and your face.  “Thanks.”  He lets you linger, peering thoughtfully at your reflection before speaking, casually hopeful.  “What do you think?”

“This is it.  Right here.”

Maybe he’d fist pump, if he were any less cool.  As it stands, he simply nods, cheeks round like fresh baked bread, nose scrunched with glee. 

“All right.  We’ll shave you down and get started.  You like the colours, right?”  Once again, he’s buzzing around the room, gathering up all his materials and snapping black gloves on once everything is laid out upon his cart.  It’s heavily stickered, covered in video game vinyls and anime mattes.  (You recognise a handful of them, make a note to ask him where he got them from.)  He pats the tissue papered bed top when you make no movement toward him.  “Hop on up.  Face down, if that’s okay.”

You do as he says, climbing atop with minimal grace.  It takes you a bit of adjusting to get comfortable, folding your left arm under your head and allowing your right to simply dangle, uncertain of where it should be.  

“You’re sparkly.”

“What?”  You’d misheard that, right? 

“Your skin.  You’re sparkling.”  He sounds a little in awe, surprised as wetness spills across your arm, the edge of a razor following closely thereafter.  

“Oh.”  Heat creeps over your cheeks, slinks all the way up into your roots and has you chuckling awkwardly.  “It’s my soap.” 

“Sparkle soap?”  Whether he’s just making conversation or genuinely curious, you’re not sure.  He does seem delighted by the fact, though, as if he’s never seen a girl covered in glitter before.  (Which, fair.) 

“It’s this specialty holiday soap.  It has pigment in it.” 

“That’s cool.”  He’s laying the stencil down again, smoothing it over your now-hairless arm.  “It smells nice.”

Obviously, you agree.  It’s honey and citrus, brightly fragrant but not overpowering, lingering on your clothes like the subtle golden glitter does.  Still, you flush, heat crossing from a casual day under the sun to burning-on-the-stove hot.  “Thanks.” 

“Was that weird?  I hope not.”

“No, you’re fine.” 

He hums a tiny noise, something that sounds like understanding and appreciation all at once.  

Then the buzzing starts - a steady, inescapable brrrrrrrrr - and he’s gripping your arm, steady yet gentle.  “Ready?” 

Honestly, you’re not sure.  Hearing the noise makes it seem scary, has your entire body tensing up like Pavlov’s dog.  Your honesty can’t be helped, a nervous giggle chased off your tongue.  “I think so.” 

“I think so too.”

By the time you’re done - a good almost five hours later, your arm stinging so bad you wonder why you’d ever sat down in the first place - you’d fallen asleep twice, started drooling on your other arm once, and really, really have to pee. 

“All right—”“  The incessant buzzing stops.  Liquid spills where the pain centres, followed by rougher paper towel.  “You are finished.”

(You might be imagining it, but he sounds about as relieved as you.  Maybe because you’d been sitting for hours on hours, turning down his offer for a break because you just wanted to get it done and therefore forcing him to do the same.) 

“Can I see?”  You don’t want to leap to your feet - feel a bit too lightheaded for that - but you’re bouncing with excitement, the thrumming in your arm intensified when you shift to catch a better look at Jungkook’s face. 

“Yeah, go ahead.  Just be careful - you might be a bit—”

He’s right.  You nearly topple over the moment you stand, none-too-gently rolling off the edge of the bed and barely landing safely on your feet.  It’s only his close proximity that prevents you from falling to your knees, one degloved hand darting out to steady you. 

“Careful!”  It’s politely reproachful, coloured soft with worry.  

“Sorry, sorry.”  You seize the edge of the bed, gripping tight as you wait for everything to settle, the lightheadedness to recede.  Everything straightens out quickly enough.  “Got up too quickly.”

“Do you need a snack?”  He’s already up, moving faster than you, rummaging through the cabinet against the far wall.  “I’ve got seaweed and Choco Boys and shrimp chips and—”

You can’t help but laugh, hobbling to the mirror to inspect your new piece of art.  “I’m fine.”  That, and you’re too occupied with the ink that now sits embedded beneath your skin, a flurry of lovely colour and impressive line work.

“Choco Boys it is then.”  The familiar yellow package is thrust toward you, a pack of his own already ripped open.  Mushroom-shaped treats are tossed into his open mouth, lips curling around chocolate and his next words,  “it’ll help with your sugar levels.”

A thank you comes, fingers curling around the snacks, but you’re still in deep, so focused on the lovely hue that bleeds over your skin, marks up previously unblemished flesh and holds your attention.  It’s better than you could’ve possibly imagined, a piece of artwork forever yours.  It makes you giddy as you stare at it - almost reach for it, but stop when you catch the alarmed widening of Jungkook’s eyes.  

“You like?”  

“I love.”  You’d stare at it for hours, if you could.  Likely will, once you get home, sitting in front of the mirror like a zombie.  “Thank you so, so much.”

The brunet beams as he polishes off the last of his Choco Boys, tossing his dark hair back with a flick of his head.  Triumph rolls off him in palpable waves, sitting pretty in the lines by his eyes, the scrunching around his nose.  Seeing how it blooms in his stare is like a straight endorphin shot, as if you’ve done more than just be the canvas he’s laid all his hard work into.  “It was a pleasure.”

It’s a whole month later - enough time for the piece to heal - before you decide you want another one.  It’s not as spontaneous as the first time, instead led with an Instagram direct message to @jeonink.  (You half expect him not to answer;  you’re utterly delighted when he responds not five minutes later.) 

Maybe it’s fate or maybe it’s luck that has him with availability the same day you reach out, bringing you back to the studio three hours after you’ve messaged him.

He’s just as cute as before, black baseball cap pulled low over his ears, silver-lined ears twinkling beneath the shop lights.  

“So, what’re you thinking?”  

Truthfully, you hadn’t done much thinking.  Just like before, you’d decided you wanted a tattoo and, well, the rest had been history.  You figured you’d let him have free reign, given how happy you were with your first piece.  “A sleeve?”

That surprises him.  His whole face lights up, eyes wide, mouth rounding curiously.  “Like, a full sleeve?”  It’s not necessarily a no - more of an are you sure? he hides between the syllables.

“I think so.”

He nods slowly, knowingly, arms folded over his chest, expression suddenly unreadable.  “You caught the itch.”

Your own features twist, brows shooting high.  “The what?”

“The tattoo itch,”  he clarifies with a laugh, the sound sweeping your concern away like the sea.  “People say once you get one, you get addicted to the feeling.”  He’s extending both arms to you now, hands palm up.  For a moment, you’re note sure what he’s doing.  (In actuality, you’re distracted by the fact that he’s in a tee, muscle cording his limbs, undulating as he turns his arms over.)  “I got bit by it when I lived in Japan.  It’s actually what got me into tattooing myself.”

You remember what he’d said last time - how he’d spent a handful of years overseas, working in restaurants after having followed his last partner there.  He’d shared lots about his life, giving you the Sparknotes version while you’d ground enamel to fine dust.  

“I guess I have the itch then.”

“Guess you do.”  

Your dream comes to life in four excruciating sessions.  It’s some of the worst pain you’ve ever endured (you’re never going to get an elbow tattoo ever again) but you’d do it all again in a heartbeat, utterly in love with the mural that now lives on your skin.  A peony caps your shoulder while one runs halfway up your bicep.  Another takes up the entirety of your forearm.  There’s a darling little bird and delicately inked koi.  It’s breathtaking, greater than anything you could have dreamt up.  

You’ve been staring at it for at least three minutes now, tracing over the freshly laid colour with a tender touch.  You’re grateful for the SecondSkin, the clear bandage that wraps everything up and keeps it safe from your over eager hands.

“You did it.”  Jungkook’s grinning at you, feet kicked up where he sits, his usual bag of Choco Boys balanced in his lap.  “Big girl.”

From anyone else, it might sound condescending - might rub you the wrong way and have you glaring daggers.  Instead, you take it in stride, beaming at him from your seat.  He’s been there with you every step of the way, been there for every hour (seventeen over three months, to be exact) you’ve dedicated to finishing this beauty up.  Tease you as he might, you know he really is proud of you.  

“You mean we did it,”  you return, giddy like a child.  

“Ah, right.”  The chocolate-covered snack he’s devouring goes crunch crunch crunch before he speaks, mouth still full, eyes crinkled.  “I guess I did do all the work.”

“Hey!  Screw you!”  You’re glowering at him, middle finger raised in defiance.  

(How curious that your relationship has grown like this, turned from tattoo artist and client to what feels like more.  It probably makes sense, given the long hours you’ve spent together, the support he’s had to offer each time the pain has gotten this side of too much, chattering your teeth and dizzying your head.  Solidarity in pain and all that.)

(You really had tapped out once, when he’d crept his gun into the ditch of your elbow.  You’d asked him whether it’d hurt beforehand and he’d only laughed, shrugged off the question and continued with the careful shading to your inner arm.  That in itself had hurt like a biiitch;  you hadn’t thought it could get worse.)

(You’d been mistaken.)

“Am I wrong?”  He drawls, full of laughter and that big dumb smile of his you’ve grown accustomed to.  It eats up his cheeks and disappears his eyes, makes it hard to be mad at him when he looks so sweet.  

“Yes, you are.”  You’ve got absolutely nothing to back it up, but who cares.  This is the sort of banter the two of you have developed, like two old friends forced to spend too much time together.  (Not that you’d complain.  You’ve loved hearing his stories, all the tales he regales you with whenever you’re in his chair.)

A snort is his answer, the full roll of his eyes over-exaggerated and playful.  “You’re lucky we’re all finished or I’d sneak in an ugly fish somewhere on your arm.”

You think he’s kidding - know he takes too much pride in his work to do that.

Still, you stick your tongue out, hopping down from the bed with your freshly inked arm, hands clapping together in celebration.  “You wouldn’t dare.”  You’re confident, crossing to the bench to tug your flannel on, careful of the dull pain that throbs beneath the thin medical dressing.  

“Wouldn’t I?  I’m leaving anyway.”

You’re ready to call him out for it, insist he would never ruin the sanctity of his profession in such a way, when you realise the words he’s spoken, the casual tidbit he’s just dropped like it’s nothing.

“Leaving?”  

(Is it you or do you sound disappointed?  You can’t dwell on it for long, worried you’ll miss his explanation.  Had he mentioned it previously?  Slipped it in when you’d been delirious from pain?  No, you would’ve remembered that.  You swear you would’ve.)

“I’m moving to Tokyo.”  How he’s so casual, you have absolutely no idea.  You suppose it’s not a big deal for him - he’s not from here anyway.  Home is back in Korea, the place he’d spent most of his life before moving to Japan and then here, just two years ago.  (God, your memory is good.  If only you’d retained knowledge like this when you were in school.)  “My flight’s next weekend.”

Your face must be hilarious because Jungkook’s laughing, cackling like the evil villain in an anime.  

“Gonna miss me?”  

Would it be inappropriate to say yes?  Because you will, you realise the moment he’s posed the question.  You’ve grown to consider him a friend, someone who you send random memes to on Instagram (usually pertaining to #tattooartistproblems or one of your shared hobbies, like video games and finding the best noodle soup restaurant in the city).  

You go for the safe bet, answering with a question of your own.  “Are you gonna miss me?”

“I’ll miss your restaurant recs,”  he answers, offering honesty to your reticence.  “You can still send me funny photos though.”  

You can’t help your laugh, the tiny quirk of your mouth into a smile.  “I guess you’re right.  Will you still be tattooing?”  It’s an innocent enough question - you really do want to know.  You can’t imagine going to anyone else, even if it means you’ll be shelling out an absurd amount of money for a plane ticket.

“Yep, new shop.”  Something twinkles in his stare, has him giddy as he rises to his feet, tossing his empty packet of snacks into the trash bin.  “Actually, where I got most of mine done.”  You understand it then - that it’s a move of faith.  He’s finally come full circle.  You’re unbelievably happy for him, brimming with delight to mirror his pride.  

But you’re still going to give him a little bit of a hard time because you have to.  It wouldn’t feel right otherwise.  “Whoa, big shot.”

“I am actually,”  he sniffs, raking an ink-strewn hand through his hair.  It’s longer now than it was when you met him, curling over the tops of his ears, hanging in his eyes at every turn.  “You’ll be lucky if I remember you when I’m famous.”

“Famously lame, maybe,”  you tease, slipping your bag over your shoulder.  You busy yourself pulling your keys from the interior pocket, checking your phone as if you’re ready to go.  It’s only when you’re standing in the hallway - you have no real intention of departing like this and he knows that, considering you haven’t paid yet - when you level him with a half-formed smirk.  “But I guess I should take you for a drink?”  

His hoodie is on before you know it, yanked over his head and tugged into place as he joins you.  It’s become your regular routine - leaving together after your sessions, a perk of always booking the last slot he has available.  (Not that you relied on that, but simply because your work schedule didn’t really allow for anything else.)  “Obviously.”

Jeon Jungkook is a talented artist, a dedicated snacker, a lover of the colour black.  You discover, sitting on the patio of the nearby bar, that he’s also really, really good at holding his liquor.  

(Not that he’d ever indicated otherwise.)

“Do you think you’ll get anything else done?”  He’s on his sixth pint, casually leaned back in his chair as he picks at the fries you’d ordered but that he seems perfectly happy to help himself to.  (Payback for all the times he’s forced snacks on you maybe?)  “Like, a face tattoo?”

You scoff at the question as if greatly offended.  “You think I’d get a face tattoo?”  

While a little glazed in the eyes, you can tell he’s altogether coherent, grinning across the table at you.  “Hey, I don’t judge.  You like making surprise decisions, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Okay, so he’s got you there.  Used your own impulsive history against you.  “I would never.”  

“If you change your mind, do I get first dibs?”

“Dibs on what?  Tattooing me?”

He nods as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world.  “Duh.”

You can only roll your eyes, tossing a wayward burnt fry end at him.  “Yes, Kook, you get first dibs on ruining my face.”

His expression twists, mouth shaping around words he’s keeping caged behind his teeth.  There’s something he isn’t saying, a comeback he’s chosen to lock up.  You wonder what it is.

“Hey - nothing wrong with face tattoos.”  

“Really?”  You’re leaning forward, a clear challenge written across your face.  “Then why don’t you have one?”  He has a million others as it is:  a hand, nearly the entirety of both arms, his chest, his shoulders, one of his legs.  (You haven’t seen them all in person but you have seen them online, memorialised on his Instagram feed.)  

“And hide all this?”  One inked hand is gesturing toward his own face, gesticulating wildly as if that’ll drive his point further home.  “I would never.”

“That’s what I said!”

It doesn’t matter to him, not when he’s fully sober and most certainly not now, when he’s slightly buzzed, eyes glossier than usual.  “But I’m cuter.  It’d be a shame if it were me.  You…”  The way he trails off is suggestive, indicative of something mocking and mean.  (Except it’s never cruel - far too friendly and soft to ever hurt your feelings.)  “—not so much.”

Another fry hits him right between the eyes and then another disappears into the hood of his sweater, lost to the black fabric that bunches up around his neck and hides the flush he’s been battling since you two got to the bar an hour ago.

“Don’t be rude!”  

He beams at you then, so unnecessarily endearing you can only throw one more piece at him. 

“I’m kidding.”  You knew that already but pretend to ignore the pseudo-apology, choosing instead to polish off the last of your now-cold fries.  A bad choice, you realise when he continues, surprising you with the words that come out of his liquor-laden mouth so much so that you almost choke.  “You’re actually pretty cute.”

(So what if you’ve sort of maybe been waiting to hear them?  Wondering if the tiny crush you’d developed was in some way reciprocated?)

(Not that this meant it was.  Only that you perhaps weren’t alone in thinking he was the most lovable - and somehow simultaneously hot - person you’d ever met.  It’s almost rewarding to know the long hours together hadn’t left him unscathed.)

“You all good?”  The look on his face is worse than that smile he usually offers, instead a devilish smirk that makes him look like Satan himself.  

Were you?  You’re not sure.

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

“Really?  You can’t?”  You’re not sure what that means, whether you’re simply reading too far into it.  But then he’s dragging his bottom lip through his teeth, head cocked curiously.  It’s a bait, you realise—and one you’ll gladly take.

“Should I have expected it?”

Shoulders hike, rising up around his ears.  “I thought I made it sort of obvious.”  

Had he?  Thinking back on it, you can’t really recall.  Of course, he’d always been friendly, indulging you in your pursuit of body art, sketching up the loveliest things you’d never even think to dream of;  accepting your distracting Instagram messages without complaint, always tossing you a like or some sort of acknowledgement no matter what you’d send (and you’d send some random, random stuff).  Chatting with him daily had just become the norm, conversation flowing freely whenever you’d pop in for your next session.

But that was just because he was a nice guy - or so you’d thought.  You realise now how wrong you’d been, too occupied with your own crush to notice his (if it could be called that).

“You like me,”  you hum, surprisingly nonchalant despite the little pitter patter in your chest, the flutter of your heart within your ribcage.  

“I think you’re cute,”  he retorts, though there’s no real weight to his rebuff.  The two statements are really one and the same and you’re giddy with the knowledge, absolutely tickled pink.

Except for the fact that he’s leaving, fully prepared to start a new life in another city in just one week.  The irony isn’t lost on you, like fate’s laughing even as she offers you this little crumb.  (You feel like Oliver Twist, frankly.)

“Same difference.”

He huffs - you’re reminded of how adorable he is when he does that - and downs the lukewarm remainder of his beer.  “I take it back.”

“No, you don’t.”  Where the confidence comes from, who knows.  You grip it tight with both hands though, hold it snugly as you level him with a stare that has his own unwavering.  It’s almost as if you’re caught in a staring match, a battle of unspoken wits. 

It drags on longer than it should, just the two of you locked to each other with nowhere to go. 

Then he does the last thing you expect:  shoves his chair aside and leans across the table, stealing a kiss and returning to his seat, all in the span of time it takes you to blink.  

(His lips are so soft.  A little chapped, a tiny bit dry, but soft - deceptively delicate.  Bitter, touched with sea salt and something else distinctly him.  French fries and beer and his Chapstick.) 

(For the briefest moment, you wonder whether you’d just imagined it - if your imagination had truly gotten the best of you and you’ve absolutely lost your mind.) 

“You just kissed me.”  It seems like you’ve found your new favourite hobby of just repeating things, giving live play-by-plays like an awkward narrator in a romcom.  

“Yeah, so?”

“You’re leaving.”  Speaking the words into existence feels bad;  you see the way his eyes tighten, the subtle sobering of his expression even while he tries to keep his cool.  

“I am.”  At least he’s realistic.  It saves you from any uncertainty, keeping the what-ifs at bay. 

You suppose it means you have nothing to lose. 

“Do it again.”

And Jungkook does - over and over, sinking the taste of him almost as deeply as ink, offering a piece of himself you want to keep for just as long.  

It takes you longer to add to your collection of art, nearly four whole years before you decide what you want next.  (It’s a back piece this time - a full body suit from your shoulders down past your ass.  Another cat, dressed in traditional Japanese clothing and surrounded by flowers.  An ode to your first tattoo, to the one that had started it all.)

(You’re not sure you’re ready for the pain, though.)

“Lay down,”  the artist instructs, back turned to you, busy preparing his materials.  You’d stripped down while he was occupied, discarded all your clothes to the allocated basket and stood quietly in anticipation. 

You do as he says, dropping atop the tattoo bed with a quiet oof.  The stencil has already been laid, the entire outline ready to be inked into your skin.  You can’t deny you’re more than a little nervous.  It’s been years since you’d last gotten anything done, uninterested in finding a new artist since Jungkook had left. 

(Which he had, exactly as he’d intended, gone on a 6 AM flight that you’d driven him to, teary-eyed and embarrassed.  He’d laughed at you standing outside of the departure gate, his suitcase at his side, arms wrapped around your shoulders.  You’d refused to show your face, burying it instead into the warmth of his neck, into the familiar scent of him that was going away for who knows how long.

“Stop being a baby,”  he’d said, smothering you in kisses, the full weight of his laughter palpable through your close proximity.  It'd rumbled out of his chest all the way into yours, finding a home behind your ribcage, right alongside where your heart fluttered, shaded blue and sad.

“Stop being mean,”  you’d countered, petulant like a child.

It couldn’t be helped.  You’d had only one week with him - one glorious, chaotic week filled with eating too much junk, rewatching your favourite animes, and generally making up for all the lost time you’d never even known there was.  As amazing as it’d been, it still hadn’t prepared you for the goodbye.

That was your fault, though.  You’d wrongly entertained the idea that maybe things would work out, that he’d change his mind or ask to take it - whatever you had, that is - with him, keep it going somehow.  He hadn’t.)

“Do you have a preference where I start?”  You’re unbothered, hair loosely knotted over your shoulder.  Ready for the session to start - ready to feel the familiar sting again.  (You’re proud of that.  It might have taken you years and years but here you were, tackling something huge.)

“Nope.”  

“Sounds good.”

The buzzing begins and pressure lands upon the small of your back, a gloved hand laid over the centre of your spine.  You remind yourself to breathe in, out, focus on something other than the pain that fizzles over your skin and then ebbs into tenderness.  Where he’s started - just above the fattiest part of your butt - isn’t too bad.  Tolerable and yielding.

You can do this.

Your back aches in a different way than you’d anticipated, soreness buzzing beneath inflamed skin and making it uncomfortable to move around.  It’s not any worse than your arm had been - the lines along your spine had felt comparable to that of your elbow - but it’s fresh, not dulled by years like your sleeve now was.

The artist is stripping his gloves off, your back neatly covered and the bed stripped of its original tissue paper.  He’s leaned against the sink, onigiri held in his now-free hands, nibbling at the edge of the rice ball as you turn this way and that in the mirror.  “You did good.”

You’re still undressed, admiring the linework from different angles, shimmying closer to your reflection to catch the lighter inking that makes up the undefined edges of the various florals.  Something tells you that you should be shy - eager to redress after spending nearly five hours naked in the secluded studio - but you don’t care.  Your back is quickly becoming a masterpiece, something that might as well be hung in the halls of the Louvre.  You’re in love with it.

“Thanks.”

You mean thank you for his compliment but also for all his hard work, the long hours he’s put into bringing this beauty to life.  It means so much - like progressing to the next level.  

Which, you suppose it is.  This is a fresh start for you.  A new beginning in a new city.  

“Proud of you,”  he hums, suddenly close, broad palms searing heat over your hips.  He’s careful to avoid the edge of the bandage that wraps your back and holds you delicately, like fine china or the most precious jewel in the world, lips sweet against your temple.  

You meet his eyes in the mirror - the same sweet doe-eyed stare from five years ago.  A little darker now, aged by the hand of time but endlessly kind, shining beneath the overhead lights.

“Proud of you,”  you chirp, identical smiles spreading over your faces.  

Jungkook’s having none of it though, bratty as usual.  “Proud of us.”

You suppose you can settle for that.  You really are proud of the two of you - for how far you’ve made it and all the obstacles you’ve overcome.  From the first few weeks of sadness, all the melancholy that’d set in when he’d left, to exactly one month after, when he’d called you in the middle of the night, drunk and stumbling home.  

(It’d been infuriating at the time - incoherent and foolish as he was - but it’d bloomed something between you, something neither of you could ignore.)

Four years of miserable long distance had become this:  a love that's brought you back to his side, to a city you’re unfamiliar with but that he calls home; to a city that never sleeps, loud with pachinko machines and some of the best food you’ve ever had;  to the place you’ve been missing every minute you were apart.  

You’d never thought you would move for someone, uproot your entire life for a relationship, but he’d changed that.  Made it worth it in ways you had never considered.  Convinced you more and more with each trip you’d taken, two visits twice a year, for a measly two weeks at a time.

“Should we head home?”  He means your physical home - the apartment the two of you had decided on in Roppongi, the one you haven’t seen yet, that he’s had to move into all by himself.  It’s not quite as nice as the home in his arms.  

You say yes anyway.

“I’m so talented.”  The words come entirely too whole for your liking, loud somewhere above your head.

“Are you serious?”  You’re levelling your boyfriend with the most incredulous look, whole face scrunched up, hands fisted into his dark sheets.  It’s uncomfortable at this angle - kinking your neck as you look over your shoulder - but you really can’t believe he’s just said that.  He’s knelt between your legs, knees spread wide around his own, his hand halfway up your back and tracking heat over your spine.  

Somehow, he has the audacity to look surprised.  “What?”

“You’re really patting yourself on the back right now?”  Now, when he should be pounding you into oblivion, working that big fat cock of his through your fluttering walls, making you moan his name into his pillows like it’s his only job? 

(It truthfully could be.  You’d rank his skills in the bedroom on par with his skills in the studio.)

“Oh.”  All at once, he’s the devil - sin personified. Or would be, if he didn’t somehow still look infuriatingly cute.

The gentle touch turns bruising, heel of his palm pressed hard into the tender notches of your spine.  “You don’t like when I admire my own work?”  Asked as he shifts behind you, length dragging out of your dripping cunt to gently tap against your aching clit.  The head of it glides through your folds, mercilessly teasing but never slipping back in, never filling you whole like you need.  (Because you really do need it.  You haven’t seen him in six months, left to your own devices - literally.)  It feels like heaven and hell, too good and not nearly enough all at once. 

“Kook,”  you snap. Try to, anyway, his name far too whiny and breathless to hold any real weight.

“I’m just admiring you, sweetheart.”  He’s dragging the hand over your back, tracing all the lines he’s embedded into your skin.  They make up his favourite piece, inked permanently into his favourite canvas.  A testament to his hard work, his dedication, his love.

Any other time, you might not care.  Here and now, after not having felt his touch in what feels like forever, you’re burning from the inside out, a million volts of electricity tripping your circuits.  When you speak, it’s more a plea than a reprimand, uttered so sweetly you know he can’t deny you. “Admire me later.”  

“I’ve missed you” is his only answer, punctuated by a fluid roll of his hips, the heavy press of his cock back into your dripping cunt.  “I’ve missed this,”  he breathes out, sinking all the way in, so slow you can feel every ridge and vein as he fills you.  

“Missed you too,”  you parrot back, a little delirious now that you’ve gotten what you want.  

Now that he’s right where he should be - with you.

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice​​​ @youwannabelostandnotbefound​​​ @snackhobi​​​​ @codeinebelle​ @xjoonchildx​

[peachysamu]

A simple, grey journal is one of Akaashi’s most prized possessions, the pages are tattered and plump from use in an aesthetically pleasing sort of way. He makes a point to never travel without it, because as an editor and a hopeful author himself, inspiration is everywhere. Armed with a writing utensil -preferably the black ballpoint pen he accidentally stole from his local pharmacy- Akaashi is prepared for any fortuitous moment of creativity. There are days where his own palm sweats, steeping the pages with reminders of his hard work, but most days, Akaashi simply observes.

He recedes himself into a corner of a room and spends time distinguishing the minute details of human nature. Understanding human idiosyncrasies build relatable characters and Akaashi aspires to make fiction as realistic and relatable as possible.

In his journal are quick scrawls of passing statements.

Udai has a tendency to deflect whenever he is guilty of procrastinating his responsibilities. He likes to stall time by laughing, encouraging the awkward nature before changing the subject.

Naruse down at security may have a perpetual scowl, but he is a sincere man. Even when questioned about his day, the security guard purses his lips for a couple of seconds before providing a truthful and honest telling of his feelings.

Most pages are scribbles of almost incoherent thoughts, but lately, the last couple of pages have been written with meticulous care. He cannot help but include every superficial detail and polish his memory in script so that he may never forget the way his own heart feels. From the sound of your footsteps that make its way down the halls, Akaashi is enamored and torn into a frenzy. His poor, helpless heart patters whenever you greet him cheery and bright, as if you carried the sun in your smile and his head overheats as he tries to fathom how you could ever make him feel like this.

He slides his glasses back up, a mindless habit of his when you hold a palm face up.

Akaashi casts you a peculiar look.

“Yen for your thoughts?”

His head tilts in response. The action makes his glasses slip yet again.

“You’re always writing in your journal.” You smile cutely and take a seat. Akaashi doesn’t fail to notice how you choose the chair one seat away from him, granting him a privacy that he never asked for. But for now, your attention is enough. “I’d love to know what you see and what you’re thinking.”

Akaashi stutters for a proper response. How honest should he be? There’s no way he could tell you how often you occupy his thoughts, regardless of presence. But it wouldn’t be weird for an aspiring author to spend their time people watching. Would it?

“Just observations.” Is what Akaashi’s mouth decides to settle with. “People are interesting.”

“Ah, I’m sorry.” You chuckle at what feels like an inside joke. The humor is lost on him as he licks his lips. “I’ve made you nervous.”

The accuracy of your statement makes Akaashi’s palm sweat. His stomach swirls and swerves like a rollercoaster in the summer with saliva pooling underneath his tongue at the ready. Despite it all, he tries to mask it all with a questionable tilt of his head.

“I’ve noticed you have a tendency to look down to the right when you have to answer a question you’re unprepared for.” Then you touch the bridge of your nose, “And you poke at your glasses in the meantime.”

When was the last time Akaashi had felt like the main character? He had been lurking in the background, observing those around him and pushing them at the forefront of the stage, that now that the spotlight has been shone on him, he has no idea how to act as the protagonist of his own story. When was the last time he had felt the caress of care through mindful observations?

“I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” You tell him when stun leaves Akaashi speechless, “I just mean to say, you’re interesting too. And I want to get to know you.”

So Akaashi clicks his pen. He closes his journal and folds his arms. He makes himself present and gathers the courage to take the reins of his own story.

[dream-a-little-bigger-x]

Drawings on Ice (Part One) | Charlie Gillespie

Requested by anonymous:  I’d love for you to write a Charlie hockey fic. I’ve been hearing that heard a great hockey player so I need that in my life

A/N: this is going to be a two-parter! Hope this is what you imagined! 

Summary: You moved from the US to Canada, starting over at a new college. Your newest (and only) friend begs you to join her at her boyfriend’s hockey practice where you see Charlie for the first time. With his beautiful eyes and perfect smile and perfect facial structure, you become obsessed with drawing him. It’s been a habit of yours to draw anyone you saw with interesting bone structure. Though your friend warns you about the jock bad boy, you can’t help but be intrigued by him... 

Pairing: Charlie Gillespie x Gender Neutral!Reader

A/N: I hope I made this as gender neutral as possible! Let me know if there’s anything I need to change to make it even more inclusive for non-binary/gender fluid people. 

Words: 3,648

Warnings: Some curse words (bitch, fuckboy)

You’ve never been a fan of any type of sports. Your siblings used to play basketball and you had to go to their games, though you were always busy sketching in your sketchbook to really notice or learn anything about it. Then, you suddenly had to move for your mother’s job. To Canada, of all places. Canada, the land of maple syrup, brutally cold winters… and hockey. The only good thing about moving thus far, was meeting Andrea. Andrea is a preppy, happy-go-lucky kind of girl, and was the first one to talk to you on your first day at your new college. Always dressed in pink or purple, make-up done flawlessly and always so kind, you think she’s being fake. Normally, people like that scared you. Kids like that in your American High School were always the popular ones that bullied the antisocial nerds, which included you at that point. That’s why you’d avoided talking to anyone on your first day. Only Andrea was persistent. You could not for the life of you shake her off. 

So, instead of trying any longer, you embraced it and became friends with her fast. Thanks to her, you found your way through the buildings and all the classes. She even gave you tips on some of the professors you had. 

To be fair, Andrea did help you out a lot, so when she asked you to come along to her new boyfriend’s hockey practice, you had no other choice but go. You’d packed your sketchbook though, just in case you got bored. “So, which one is yours?” you ask Andrea when you sit down in the bleachers with her. “Number eight!” she says, pointing to one of the players skating in circles. He catches his girlfriend pointing at him and gives her a wave, which makes Andrea giggle. The boy with the number 10 plastered on his back, turns upon seeing his buddy wave to the bleachers. You catch his eyes and feel a shiver run down your spine. Even from afar, you can tell those are the most beautiful and enchanting eyes you ever did see. “Who’s number 10?” you ask Andrea without taking your eyes off the boy. Without even noticing, you start to trace his features on your leg with your finger, a habit you developed over the years. His chiseled cheekbones, his fine nose, the wrinkles by his mouth as he smiles up at her. “Charlie. Sam’s best friend,” Andrea explains while you try your hardest not to stare at the cute hockey player while you’re tracing him. “Wouldn’t get too close though, I heard he has a reputation of being a heartbreaker.” Of course. All cute boys have to be absolute disappointments.  Despite Andrea’s warning, you couldn’t help but think about Charlie every minute of the day. It was the smile and the eyes that haunted you through every lecture and every study-session with Andrea in the library. You traced his features on your empty papers on automatic pilot, not even realizing you were doing it until you were actually drawing him with a ballpoint pen. “Honey, no!” Andrea says sternly. The two of you are at the library, studying for midterms when the drawing on your notes starts to take shape. The shape of a certain hockey player. “I can’t help it, Andi! He’s in my mind and I just -- my brain just tells me to draw things and he’s been the only thing on my mind lately, I… I don’t know why or what it is, but I’m kind of drawn to him?” The girl in front of you shakes her head disappointedly. “Look at him!” she whisper-shouts, nodding her head to somewhere behind you. You slowly turn your head to find Charlie with one leg up on a chair, leaning his elbow on it as he’s flirting with a girl. “That’s number five this week… And it’s Tuesday.” You can’t help but stare at him though. His profile is impeccable. Before you know it, you’re back to tracing his features on your leg. “Y/N!” Andrea shouts in a hushed tone, capturing your attention again, ruining your entire mental picture of Charlie. “You ought to stop that, sweetie. I don’t want you getting hurt.” “Oh, I don’t get hurt, Andi,” you reply with a smirk, turning to face her again, “Being the antisocial kid in high school has its perks.” Andrea’s eyes widen at something behind you. “Time to prove it then,” she mutters. You quickly hide your drawing underneath your textbook and pretend to continue studying as Charlie approaches your table. “Hello, ladies,” he greets with a charming smile. Though on the inside you’re just about melting, your tough exterior doesn’t give it away. “I don’t think we’ve met.” He reaches a hand out to you. “I’m Charlie.” You glance up from your textbook, let your eyes dart from his hand to his face and turn back to your textbook. “Okay…” he mutters, feeling a little defeated by his first rejection. “We’re studying, Charlie. Can we help you with anything?” He glances over at you for a split second as he thinks about it. 

“Uhm, yeah. Are you guys coming to the game this weekend?” His flirty demeanor changes all of a sudden to someone less confident. You look up at him, wanting to break your antisocial facade because it never brought you anywhere in High School and won’t bring you anywhere now. “I might. If I don’t have anything better to do, that is.” You decide to run with the sassy-bitch inside you. Charlie actually looks disappointed with this answer. “Okay…” he turns back to Andrea, “You’ll come, right?” She nods her head. “Can you convince her?” You chuckle at his desperate attempt, which earns you a glare from him. “She can make up her own mind, Charlie,” Andrea replies, raising her hands in defense. Gruntled and disappointed, Charlie turns around and leaves the two of you alone. “Girl!” Andrea squeals once he’s out of earshot, and holds up her hand for a high five, which you giddily give. “Told you I could do it,” you shrug with an amused smile on your face. “That was very impressive. Did you see his face when you didn’t even introduce yourself? He was so disappointed his charms didn’t work on you!” she giggles loudly. The librarian shushes her, and she holds up her hands in defense before lapsing into quieter giggles with you. You can’t help but feel bad though. Charlie actually seemed incredibly upset by your lack of interest. It makes you wonder if he actually says who people say he is. On Saturday, you go to the hockey game anyway. There’s nothing else you can do, and besides, it gives you a chance to draw a little more of Charlie in action on the ice. The surprised smile on Charlie’s face is to die for. It makes you feel like you’re the only girl he sees, like he’s not the guy people say he is. You say hello to Andrea and some of her friends you’ve met before, and sit down on the bench, immediately getting your sketchpad and pencil out. You start on Charlie, but halfway through, Andrea asks you to draw Sam too. Deciding it would probably be less suspicious if you drew the entire team, you start on Sam. By halftime, you have about every team member on your page sketched out. None of them quite as detailed as Charlie, but you’ll get to that at some point. “We’re going to say hello to the boys, you coming?” Andrea asks you when you’re shading your drawings. You glance up at Andrea, then glance down at the rink where you find Charlie already looking at you. He cocks his head, beckoning you to come over. For a second then, you’re forgetting all about your antisocial facade and feel yourself heat up. You cough the feeling away and get up after stuffing your sketchpad back into your bag, following Andrea down the steps. “You came,” he states when you reach him on the side of the rink. “Are you always this attentive?” you ask with a hint of sarcasm flavoring your voice. His chuckle fills your ears like a beautiful melody. Why does he do this to you? There honestly are so many boys that could be so much better for you, but instead, you’re crushing on the campus bad boy. “Are you always this hostile?” You’re dumbfounded at his comeback. No one ever called you hostile. Antisocial, sure. A bitch, multiple times. But never hostile. “You weren’t paying a lot of attention to the game though?” he says, changing the subject upon noticing your reaction. “Well, neither have you if you noticed me not paying attention,” you shoot back, an amused smile tugging at your lips. “Touché,” he chuckles. “But seriously, what were you doing?” You open your mouth to say something, but are stuck on what to tell him. Do you lie to him? Or say the truth? “I--I’m an arts student, and I draw pretty much everything I see, so…” His eyes widen at your response, as does his smile. You’re not entirely sure if telling the truth was a good idea. He might just run off, like everyone in High School used to do when you told them you drew them, no matter how good it was. Everyone always thought it was creepy, so you tended to keep all your art to yourself. “Can I see?” he asks just as the ref blows his whistle, signalling the start of the next half. He gives me an apologetic look, thinking of a good compensation. “Stay after the game?” You know you shouldn’t. You know Andrea is probably right and he’s the biggest womanizer walking this earth, but looking into his gorgeous hazel eyes and witnessing his lips curl up into the most beautiful smile, you can’t help but nod your head. His teeth bite down his lip as he skates away, keeping his eyes on you. 

“What was that about?” Andrea asks you when you take your seats again. You let out a deep, confused, yet content sigh. “I have no clue…” For a while, you watch the game -- mostly Charlie -- and witness him making a goal. You, along with all the other supporters of the team, get up from your seats, cheering loudly. Charlie looks up at you, a wide smile plastered on his face as he points to you. Your heart skips a beat, not expecting him to do something like that at all. “Someone has a crush on you…” Andrea whispers in your ear, a teasing smile on her face. “No, he doesn’t! That wasn’t for me…” you try to reassure yourself, but fail miserably. That was for you, and you know it all too well. Another thing you know, is that this probably shouldn’t be quite as heart-melting as it is. “If that’s what you have to tell yourself…” Andrea mutters before turning back to the game. This is not what you thought would happen in your first month of moving to Canada and starting anew at another college. Not at all. 

The game is coming to an end now, and you’re still watching. Yes, you read that correctly. You’re still watching the game. A sports game. You! You never thought you would even last ten minutes watching, but somehow, Charlie made it all the more interesting. After every goal he’s scored, he pointed up at you, making you blush like crazy. You have absolutely no idea what’s happening or why he’s doing what he’s doing. All you know is that you like it. You like the way he makes you feel like a normal person for once in your life. Like you’re important. Like you matter. For once, it doesn’t feel like you’re the weirdo art kid that sits on the sidelines, drawing everything and everyone they see. “We’re going to go for some drinks with the team, want to come?” Andrea asks when the game is over and the players all head to the dressing rooms and the crowd files out of the bleachers. “Oh, uhm… I think I might stay a little while longer, you know? Work on my sketches,” you try your hardest not to smile like an absolute crazy person. Andrea raises her eyebrows at you, giving  you a knowing look. She can just about see right through you. “Just be careful, okay?” she takes you in for a quick hug goodbye and then leaves with her friends. You sit down again and take your sketchpad out of your bag to kill some time while waiting for Charlie. He probably has to shower and change out of his gear and talk to his buddies before coming out to find you. For a while, you just sit and stare at the drawing of all these boys. They’re scattered all over the paper, but only one really captures you, and that’s Charlie. He’s the boy in the center of the page. Somehow, you really managed to bring out his very best features. His sparkling eyes, his chiseled jawline, his sharp cheekbones. On that page in front of you is Charlie. Though the others somewhat look about right, Charlie really takes the crown in this picture. It’s almost like you’ve studied him so well, that you drew him this perfectly. Which is only half true. All it took was one look and you had him down. All of his features, all of his details. You had it all down from one single look at him. You’ve started adding some more shadows to his face, the world around you vanishing as those eyes stare right back at you. You’re so enthralled, you don’t even notice the real life Charlie walking up to you until his voice reaches your ears. “Hey, sorry if I made you wait long.” Your head snaps up and your eyes widen, almost looking like a deer caught in headlights. He places his bag on the bench in front of you before sitting down next to you. A scent of minty freshness and invigorating citrus meets your nostrils. “Oh, no. Don’t worry about it,” you tell him with a smile, carefully closing your sketchpad and sticking your pencil between the rings at the top. “That was a very good game,” you compliment him, nodding towards the rink to emphasize. “I think… Not really a sports person.” He chuckles at this, glancing down at the floor bashfully. “I guess I found my lucky charm.” The second he looks up at you again and those words tumble out of his mouth, you can feel your stomach do flips. To cover the way it actually makes you feel, you roll your eyes, smiling amusedly. “How many people have you said that too, hm?” you ask with raised eyebrows. His smile falters at this, making you realize that it might not be something he likes to hear. The same way you don’t like hearing you’re a creep or a stalker for drawing pictures of people. “I don’t know what people have said about me to you, but I really am not what they peg me for.” His voice is soft, and for the first time since meeting him, he sounds fragile. “You sleep with two different people in one week, and they have you pinned down as the campus’ man-whore.” You give him a sympathetic smile, even though he’s not even looking at you. “I’m not actually this guy that sleeps around, you know? Sure, I flirt with a lot of people, but if your reputation precedes you, well…” he trails off at the end, and then finally looks up at you. “I know how you feel…” you start carefully, which captures his undivided attention. “There was this girl in high school and she had the most beautiful features, you know? Sharp jawline, the deepest dimples in her cheeks when she smiled… I couldn’t help but keep drawing her. She just took so well on paper, and when I showed her, she called me a stalker and a creep. From then on out, I became the stalker creep from Valley High.” You roll your eyes at the memory of Kiara and everyone else at that school. “So, I have a reputation that precedes me too…” “It’s nice to know I’m not alone,” Charlie says with a light-hearted chuckle. “Could I… Could I look at your work?” he carefully asks, pointing at the pad in your lap. You wrapped your fingers around the leatherbound sketchbook, debating it. “Promise you won’t run when you see what’s in here?” You offer it to him, and he grabs it, but you’re holding it so tightly, he can’t take it. He raises an eyebrow at you. “What? It’s not like you drew me or anything, did you?” he jokes, to which you just press your lips together in a thin line. His expression softens in realization. “Oh…” You stare at him for a moment, both of you holding onto the pad. “I promise I won’t run, okay?” You slowly let go of the pad. He places it on his lap and starts flipping through pages. The first few drawings are random kids from campus, either studying in the library or reading a book underneath the big maple tree. Then follow Andrea’s drawings. She suggested being your model, she said you could ask her any time you wanted. After that, Charlie’s sketches follow. The first few are of him during practice with his helmet on. On the next page, are the ones you drew in the library. Some profile, some portrait. He then flicks to the one of all the players, and shuts it after finding empty pages after that. It’s silent for a moment, like he’s taking it all in. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have shown you that,” you quickly say and reach for your book, but Charlie has a steady grip on it. He finally looks up at you, a shocked expression on his face. “No. No, it’s just… I wish I knew the name of the artist that captured me so realistically on paper.” You swallow a lump in your throat as his hazel eyes bore deep down into your soul. “Uhm… Y/N,” you introduce yourself shyly. “I just have a habit of drawing people with really nice facial structure, I guess…” you add with a nervous chuckle, staring down at your fingers as they play around with the bracelets around your wrists. “Huh…” You look up at that, wondering if it’s a weirded-out ‘huh’ or something else. “What?” It comes out in an unwanted whisper. “No one’s ever given me a compliment about my facial structure,” he smiles down at you. It’s the most overwhelming feeling of warmth radiating through your body from that one smile. “It’s true though! If you check that last page of the whole team, the others don’t really have that sharp a jaw or chiseled cheekbones like you,” you state, pointing at the sketchpad. He opens it on that page and watches it for a couple seconds. “This makes me feel like the prettiest boy on the team.” He closes it again and hands it over to you, looking straight into your eyes again. You swear you’re going to faint one time if he keeps on doing that. “You are the prettiest boy on the team, Charlie,” you joke, grinning teasingly whilst clutching the sketchpad against your chest. Charlie chuckles at this, and you swear you can detect a slight blush on his cheeks as he looks down at his feet again. “You want to get out of here?” he then asks, “We could go to the coffee shop across the street to warm up? Get that little nose of yours back to its normal color.” He softly boops your nose, which is no doubtedly red from the cold from the ice rink. You giggle nervously, and then nod your head in agreement. The two of you get up from your seats and grab your bags. Before you even realize it, Charlie has grabbed your freezing hand in his warmer one, and guides you down the bleachers all the way to the café across the street. The warmth engulfs you like a welcome hug as the two of you take a seat in a booth by the window. “What’s your go-to coffee order?” he asks, perusing the menu even though he knows what he wants. You scan the booklet, looking for the one thing you always get.   “A cappuccino with whipped cream,” you reply, pointing at the order on the menu. “Ooh, good choice!” he agrees excitedly, “Would choosing a hot chocolate make me less cool?” You chuckle, “Well, it’s a hot chocolate, it’s bound to make you less cool.” He laughs at your joke, throwing his head back. You can’t help but laugh along, mostly at how adorable he is in a fit of laughter. “Good one, Y/N,” he says. You give your orders to the waitress, and lapse into a conversation about everything and anything. He asks you about your college major, and you ask him all about hockey. The way his eyes light up when he’s talking about the sport he loves, or anything he loves, is endearing. You can’t believe Andrea made you stay away from him for so long. Charlie really isn’t the bad boy jock she had him pegged for. If anything, he’s the opposite. He’s kind and considerate, and incredibly ambitious and passionate about everything he loves. You just want to know everything about him and spend as much time with him as possible. Without even realizing it, you’re tracing his features again on your leg, preparing for yet another drawing of him. Preparing for more adventures with him.

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[justkeeptrekkin]

@ariaste​ thank you for the Object Permanence prompt!

Meng Yao is only seconds away from snapping the pencil in his hand when the delivery arrives. He’s been sat on the phone trying to negotiate with the totally useless manager of a catering company; it’s really quite important that they get a good deal out of them, considering that this is for their biggest event yet. A charity event, no less, and so they have less money  to work with (and yet, somehow, more morons to deal with).  

And so, as he leans back in his desk chair and holds the phone to his ear with a pursed smile, the only thing that stops him from calmly breaking both the pencil in his hand and his phone is the distraction of the delivery man in the elevator doorway.

“Delivery for…” the postman winces as he looks at the name on the cardboard box in his hands. “Meng Yao?”

Meng Yao raises a finger to show he’s present, but remains on the phone as the catering company manager waffles on the other end.

“Ooh,” says MianMian. She stands up from her desk and rolls up her jacket sleeves before signing. “Thank you. Your timing could not be better.”

Su She is pretending not to be interested. He’s hidden behind his desktop, and is slowly to angling around the screen to view the cardboard box. Their office space is small and sparse, white walls and desks and very little else; Meng Yao watches MianMian’s short commute from the elevator doors to his desk, carrying the box with raised brows and a curious smile. She deposits it quietly on his desk and backs away.

“I understand that we hadn’t previously discussed the potential for extra guests, but as I’m sure you’re aware from your many years of experience, these things often change.” Meng Yao speaks down the phone and stands up, peering down at the top of the cardboard box. He can feel MianMian and Su She sending furtive glances in his direction. They don’t get deliveries often, and when they do, it’s either one of them who’s ordered it in for the office. “Customers change their minds regularly.”

Meng Yao takes a pair of scissors from his desk drawer. He presses his phone between his shoulder and cheek as he cuts through the brown tape. Had he ordered something for the office and forgotten about it? That feels very unlikely.

“Yes. Yes. I understand.” Meng Yao restrains a sigh and purses his lips. He suddenly feels a lot more dangerous with a pair of scissors in his hands. (There is a picture of Jin Guangshan’s face on a dartboard on the other end of their postage-stamp office. He could very easily hit bullseye from here.) “You’ll recall that this is for a charity event -- any reduction in price will not only be appreciated by the customer but also will reflect very well on you. I anticipate that we’ll be working with them often in the future. You would gain a lot of recognition from this if you were to agree.”

The whining voice on the end of the phone continues. Meng Yao opens the box and frowns at its contents. Plunging his hands inside, he pulls out from a cloud of packing peanuts a bouquet. A bouquet? No-- these aren’t flowers.

“That’s excellent news. It’s more appreciated than we can say,” Meng Yao consoles. “I know how much of a stress this is. Yes. I understand--”

It’s stationary. It’s a basket of stationary, arranged like a bouquet of flowers. And it isn’t ordinary stationary, either -- it’s artfully designed fountain pens; tastefully coloured highlighters that don’t immediately take him back to his university days of bright yellow ink leaking all over his hands; post-it notes with daily quotes on them; rose gold paperclips; fine ballpoint pens and file labels.

It’s so organised.

It’s Meng Yao’s idea of heaven.

For the first time that day, he finds himself smiling, despite the reluctant whinging going on in his ear. It’s a smile that makes his cheeks warm and his chest warm and the tips of his ears warm. “I’m so pleased we could agree on this. I’ll let the customers know. They’ll be very pleased. Yes. You too. Yes. Yes. Of course. Thank you. Goodbye.”

Meng Yao puts his work phone on the table and looks down at the basket of stationary.

“That’s so sweet,” Su She says. It sounds more jealous than anything. He’s eyeing the gift with his chin in his hands and a wrinkled brow.  

“I personally find it offensive that we didn’t each get one,” MianMian announces, leaning back in her swivel chair. “Here we are, all working like dogs, and Meng Yao’s boyfriend leaves us out on the stationary deliveries.”

Meng Yao doesn’t deign to give either of them a response. Instead, he dips his hand into the packing peanuts and searches for a note. He pulls out a little card.

This seemed more useful than flowers. :) Love, Lan Huan.

Fucking hell, he knows him too well.

***

The day didn’t get much better after that. In fact, he received several more phone calls which seriously challenged his patience whilst dealing with morons quota-- which is saying something, since he’d thought that quota was endless. It was made somewhat more bearable, knowing what waits for him at home.

Meng Yao lets himself into their house. It’s still in the middle of being unpacked. By the looks of it, Lan Xichen has done a fair bit today whilst working from home; the living room is almost entirely finished, except for Meng Yao’s books, which he had wanted to arrange himself. There’s the smell of something familiar and warm the moment he steps through the door.

There’s Lan Xichen, too, on the sofa with a laptop. He turns and looks over his shoulder when Meng Yao comes in. “Welcome home,” he says with that slow smile. “How was today?”

There are so many answers Meng Yao could come up with. He sorts through them, finds the one that fits best, as if he’s trying on a pair of gloves. “Oh,” he sighs, hanging up his coat, “it was fine, thank you. Busy and somewhat grating, but fine.”

“Oh dear.” Lan Xichen sits up straighter and puts his laptop on the coffee table. He views Meng Yao with a wrinkle in his brow. “Grating?”

Meng Yao comes round to his side of the sofa slowly. He looks down at Lan Xichen with a tilted head. “Nothing too challenging.” He steps towards him, leans a knee on the sofa beside Lan Xichen. “Is A-Xing asleep?”

Lan Xichen’s hand reaches to take Meng Yao’s. He’s looking up at him in gentle surprise. “Yes.”

Right, then. Meng Yao smiles, swings his leg over Lan Xichen and settles in his lap, a hand on either side of his face. Lan Xichen manages to smile back before Meng Yao leans in and kisses him. It’s the kind of kissing that they don’t often have the chance to indulge in and that he doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of: thoughtless and tangled up in each other. It makes him warm and heavy. It makes him want to go on forever -- kissing like teenagers, wrapped up on the sofa.

“I’ve always preferred practicality over sentiment.”

Parting for a moment to speak. “Your present made my day a lot better.”

Lan Xichen smiles against his lips. “I’m glad you liked it.”

Lan Xichen rests his hands on his hips, leaves a small kiss. “Mm. I’m not sure if that’s true.”

He kisses back. “Oh?”

“Mm.” Another small kiss. “You’re more of a romantic than you realise.”

Meng Yao goes to nuzzle his neck. He kisses him there. He lets himself smile and take fistfuls of Lan Xichen’s shirt. “I’ll take your word for it.”

[kyonetsu]

Okay: A Yugioh Fanfic

A/N: This is an old fan fic I wrote back in 2014 based on some real life experiences. I’ll probably be posting more of these later; hopefully no one minds! It’d be nice to get into a groove for writing these again, but for now I’m just gonna reread them and try not to cringe.

Warning: Depicts anxiety, depression, poor self talk

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Pairing: Hints at Seto x Katsuya

I won't break. I can't let that happen—not now, not ever.

Seto Kaiba stared down at his shaking hand and quickly stifled the tremor with a sudden grip to the wrist. There were so many emotions reeling through his mind and body, and he didn't know how to deal with them. You have to beat it. You have to, he thought to himself as he stared hollowly at his laptop screen. Familiar voices wafted into his ears and the trembling in his hand threatened to return.

I just have to make it through the day. Then and only then can I deal with this stupid... So stupid. Why am I being like this? I'm so stupid.

The brunet leaned forward to hide his face behind the screen as his eyes tried to focus, eyelashes fluttering and eyebrows tensing.

It hurts. Why does it hurt so much?

More students filed into the classroom where Seto sat in the very back. His eyes darted to the bottom of the monitor, noting that the teacher would begin the lesson in only a few minutes. That meant...

"Oh, man. I thought I was gonna be late," a grumbling and somewhat out-of-breath Katsuya murmured as he took his seat, a seat right next to the teen CEO.

Please don't look over. I don't want anyone to see me like this. No one can see. Only me. I don't even want to see this. I don't want to be this person anymore. I just want to be okay. I just want to be okay.

"'Ey, Kaiba. Ya got a pencil I can borrow?"

Seto's eyes widened at the sudden query and his mouth went dry. He pretended to be reading something on his laptop to avoid answering, but of course that would not work on the persistent blond.

"What, ya got cotton in yer ears? Hello?"

Seto gathered all the strength he could muster and turned his head to glare at the teen to his right. "Does it look like I have a pencil, Mutt?" he whispered harshly in return and went back to looking at his screen.

Good. That was good. Good and convincing.

Katsuya rolled his eyes and continued. "Okay, do ya have a pen? I bet all you big wigs have fancy pens."

The brunet scowled. "Fine, if it'll shut you up..." He reached down to his briefcase and pulled out a ballpoint pen, tossing it over to his classmate. Just as the object entered the air, his hand began shaking again. Instantly he slammed it down onto the desk with his other hand and mentally prayed that the other boy hadn't noticed.

"Thanks, man," Katsuya replied with a smile. The smile slowly melted into a slight frown and a hand reached out for the CEO. "Kaiba, what's wrong? Are ya okay?"

That question... Why did you ask me that question?

Seto visibly stiffened as the question swirled around in his mind. His eyes were wide with fright because he knew what was going to happen. He looked over at Katsuya as a single tear slipped down his cheek.

The blond stared dumbly at the sight. "Are you..." Before he could finish his question, Seto roughly pulled his arm away and wiped at his face.

Why did he have to ask me that? Why? Can't he see that I'm not?

The taller teen froze as a new thought occurred to him.

Can everyone see that I'm not?

A strange fear filled Seto Kaiba's chest as he abruptly slammed his laptop closed and shoved it into his briefcase. I can't let them see me like this, his mind screamed. I can't.

Faces turned in confusion as the young businessman rushed out of the classroom, the door rattling as it closed from the sheer force of its opening. Hush filled the room; the only sound that remained was the tick of the clock on the wall.

Katsuya blinked at the classroom door. "What just happened?"

What's wrong with me? Why am I like this? How did this happen to me? Why me? I don't want to be like this. I just want to be okay.

Seto raked his hands through his hair as he slid down the wall of the bathroom stall, more tears spilling down his face. He lowered his arms to his lap and stared blankly at the metal partition. His right hand shook as both rage and terror coursed through his veins and his fingers involuntarily curled to form a fist over and over again.

Why won't it stop? Why won't it go away? Please make it go away. I just want to be okay. Please.

"Kaiba? Kaiba, are ya in here?" Katsuya's concerned voice echoed through the men's restroom. He noticed that the very end stall door was closed and he could see what looked like someone sitting on the floor. The blond rushed over to the metal door, crouching down in front of it. "Kaiba, is that you?"

"Go away," Seto said roughly, his voice cracking and hoarse. "J-just leave me alone."

Katsuya knitted his brow, placing his hand on the stall door. "C'mon, ya know I can't do that," he replied. "Now how about ya unlock this thing and let me help ya?"

"No! No, just go!" the older boy shouted, his heart thumping louder in his chest than ever before.

Please, just go. Please. I can't let anyone see me like this—especially not you.

"Fine, then I guess I'll just hafta force my way in."

Seto's eyebrows lowered as he took in the other boy's statement. "What..?" His eyes darted to a sudden mop of golden hair inching in from underneath the stall door. "No! Get out of here, Jonouchi! Please, just go!"

"Nothin' doin'," Katsuya replied as he slowly pulled himself fully into the stall and sat up. His heart stopped as he took in his classmate's appearance. He was sitting with his knees up to his chest and his eyes were wide with fear. Even in the poorly lit stall, the blond could see the ruddy color blotched across Seto's face. He had been crying. "Kaiba..."

"N-n-no, stay back!" the young CEO pleaded, his hand shooting out as if to keep the other boy from approaching further.

"Kaiba, I'm not gonna hurt ya. I just wanna help," Katsuya reasoned and tried to get closer. "Just let me help ya."

The brunet quickly got to his feet and backed into the corner of the stall, his hand still outstretched. "You can't. You've done enough."

"What? What're ya talkin' about?" the younger teen asked, standing up as well. "What've I done?"

"Everything," Seto practically growled. "You... You did this to me. This is your fault! Your fault!" In one swift motion, he picked up his briefcase and hurled it across the stall, barely missing Katsuya's head. "Y-you... You did this..." he murmured as he slid down the wall once more, staring listlessly at the cowering boy across from him. "It was you. It's always been you."

Kaiba stared at the laptop screen as he typed out his thoughts. One of his therapists had mentioned stream of consciousness writing to help him sort out his feelings, and with much trepidation, he decided to try it. Words flew from his fingers and tears fell from his eyes as the thoughts he unleashed took hold of his heart.

"I gravitate toward him and I'm obsessed. He's there in my mind when I don't want him to be. I don't want him to get the wrong impression of me because that would be unfortunate. I want him to be my friend and I can't help flirting because he's so handsome. He's very manly and he's got this face that I'm drawn to. I can't quite put into words what it is but my eyes go to him. I think that he likes me and that's unfortunate, too. I don't want him to like me in any way more than friends but the idea of someone showing that interest in me is kind of invigorating. I'm still attractive. Why do I feel so ugly sometimes? I can't let anyone see me like this. I'm so ugly. My insides are rotting with these ugly thoughts. I don't want to die. I just want this to go away. I don't want to freak out anymore. I don't want to push anyone away anymore. I don't want to hurt anyone. I just want to be happy. It's so scary out there and in here. Why doesn't anyone seem to understand? I just want to be okay. I just want to be okay. Why can't I be okay?"

Seto stared at his words with a newly found panic.

I'm not okay.

[merakiaes]

Epiphany - Jack Thompson

Pairing: Jack Thompson x reader

Requested: Yes. 

Prompts: None.

Warnings/notes: In this, Chief Dooley is still alive even though it takes place after the events of Agent Carter. I haven’t seen the show in a while so sorry if it’s a bit out of character. I’m also extremely writer’s blocked, so yeah...😅 I’m feeling so unmotivated right now so please show some love, let me know what you think😭 NOT PROOFREAD!

Wordcount: 6405

Summary: Agent Thompson has never been anything but an ass towards you, but that’s all about to change. 

Being the younger sister of Howard Stark came with a lot of baggage, baggage that, at times, was far too heavy for you to carry.

The disadvantages were many and they were big, one of the biggest ones being that no matter how great and how many things that you accomplished in life, you never got recognized as anything other than Howard Stark’s sister.

That’s all you were, his sister. You weren’t (Y/N) Stark, you were just Howard Stark’s sister.

When you accomplished something, he was the one who got all of the attention, all of the compliments and applaud.

He was praised because obviously, he was the one who had taught you everything you knew, right? In no way could a woman, on her own, accomplish what you had. In no way could a woman be so smart.

And being the arrogant man that he was, he absorbed the praise like a sponge, leaving none of the spotlight to you; even when you were, in fact, the star of the hour.

His name, his fame and your kinship haunted you. When he did something good, you got told by everyone that you must be so proud to be related to him, and when he did something bad, well…

The time he got accused of selling off his inventions to the enemies of the state spoke loudly enough on that topic.

You worked at the SSR alongside Peggy and had been since the end of the war, in which you had both served side by side with Captain America up until his passing.

In the end, it became known that during all of the time your brother had been in hiding from the law, Peggy had been helping him in the shadows, in secret alongside his butler, Edwin Jarvis.

But despite it, you had been the one to be closely monitored up until that revelation.

Because of your kinship to him, the Chief and your fellow co-workers were suspicious of you and your every move the entire time they were chasing him, thinking you were just lying through your teeth when you said you had no idea about your brother’s whereabouts.

But you did, in fact, not have a clue as to where he was or what he was doing. Neither Peggy nor Edwin told you anything about their secret operation to clear your brother’s name, despite the fact they were both your closest friends.

When it was revealed that they had been the ones helping your brother and not you, you were happy to get Jack and the Chief off your ass, but that didn’t change the fact that your brother had trusted Peggy and Edwin over you, his own sister.

Having the same parents and being related to him did have its perks too, however; all of his personality traits weren’t bad. Most of them were, but not all.

You had both been blessed by the quick wit, intelligence, perseverance, confidence and loyalty. You were a very independent woman, sure of yourself, wise beyond your years, and you knew it, never settling for anything less than you were worth.

Luckily, you hadn’t gotten your brother’s arrogance and impulsiveness. You were the more analyzing, cautious, responsible and compassionate sibling, much to your own relief.

You were, however, just as sarcastic as him, if not even more. It was your biggest flaw and it often caused you to get in trouble, especially with your male co-workers as you almost always managed to out-wit them, making them feel threatened and like you were challenging their positions and superiority.

Which, in all truth, you were.

They were all sexist assholes, treating you and Peggy like brainless broads, as if you weren’t agents just like them.

Jack Thompson was one of the worst, finding pleasure and amusement in pissing the two of you, you especially, off.

You had disliked him all the way from the start but after the way he had treated you when suspecting you of helping Howard during his life as a criminal on the run, you could barely stand being in the same room as him.

You could barely breathe without it leading to some kind of sexist, oppressive comment leaving his lips and being thrown in your face.

Unlike other, well-mannered women who had known no other struggles than the ones of a housewife, you didn’t possess the power of self-restraint to keep quiet when being insulted or made fun off, and in the society you lived in, that wasn’t very ideal.

Especially not when your boss obviously valued the work of a man over that of a woman’s, too, no matter how much he tried to hide it. Needless to say, your big mouth and lack of impulse-control had put you in more than a few strained situations with your superiors at work.

Chief Dooley had even put you on suspension once when you had secretly gotten involved in a case that he had specifically forbidden you from partaking in. You really were your brother’s sister in those moments, and this time was no different.

Over the last three weeks, bodies of young women had been found all around New York City. The first week, five girls. The second week, four more and this week, two. But that was only so far, and the weekend still remained.

The girls all had their throats slit and their bowels brutally cut out. Being the serial killer-fanatic that you were, you instantly recognized the characteristics and realized in an instant that you were dealing with a Jack The Ripper copycat.

It wasn’t what the SSR usually dealt with but seeing as the killer had left a message specifically addressing you, the case was assigned to you.  

You knew you would have been able to help with the knowledge you had of Jack The Ripper, his strategies and his tendencies, but as usual, you were shut out of the investigation like you were with every case you showed the slightest of interest in.

One of the countless disadvantages of being a woman; you could impossibly have any information that the men didn’t already have.

So you were stuck at your desk, sulking and muttering to yourself while going through paperwork like every other day, slightly comforted by the fact that Daniel was willingly doing the same a few desks away from you, most likely having turned down any participation in the Copycat case out of pure pity for you.

It would have been a lot more tolerable if Peggy would have been there with you to keep you company, but for once in her life, she had taken the day off for the reasons she claimed and not because she was sneaking around poking her nose where it didn’t belong.

“Hey, (Y/N)! Bring us some coffee, will you?” A voice suddenly called out, breaking you free from your trance and pulling you back to reality with a jerk of surprise.

Your eyes instantly flickered over to the doorway on the other side of the room, completely oblivious to Daniel lightly snickering at your priceless reaction as your eyes found Johnson’s.

He was leaning back in his seat to be able to peek out of the office that him and the others who were on the Copycat case were currently residing, eyebrows raised and face pulled into an amused smile.

“Daydreaming again, are we?” He asked in a mocking tone and your face instantly pulled into a glare.

What the hell did he mean with again? You took your job more seriously than anyone, more so than him, more than Jack and possibly even more than Peggy. So what the hell was that supposed to mean?

You wanted to throw him a snarky reply but you stopped yourself, remembering that you were already on thin ice from the last time you had gone against the Chief’s orders.

So you sucked it up, breathing in a long breath through your nose and clenching your fists under your desks in an attempt to calm yourself, before forcing a smile onto your lips.

“Yes, I’m a bit distracted today.” You agreed with him through clenched teeth.

“I can see that.” He wasted no time in chuckling, raising his eyebrow. “So, coffee.”

The forced smile fell from your lips the second he uttered those two words, your eyes rolling. “Maybe if you ask nicely instead of bossing me around, then I could be so kind as to bring you coffee.” You replied.

As a response, it was his time to roll his eyes, before dramatically throwing his arms out and exclaiming loudly. “Oh, wonderful and talented (Y/N), please bring us some steamy, hot coffee so that we might behold your beauty if so only for a few seconds in these difficult times!”

You rolled your eyes once again, but nonetheless dropped the ballpoint pen that you were holding to the surface of your mahogany desk and stood up, brushing down your blouse. “I’ll be right there.”

A wide smirk spread across his face again. “Thanks, sugar.” He winked, and wasted not another second before leaning back into the room.

“Asshole.” You mumbled under your breath, shaking your head.

A chuckle came from down the room. “Duty calls, huh?” Daniel asked from his seat, where he had now turned away from his work to look at you with an amused expression on his face.

You narrowed your eyes at him, pointing a finger. “Don’t even start, Sousa.” You warned him, and turned around without waiting for a response to go bid to your co-worker’s command.

You put the cups neatly on a metal tray while you brewed some fresh coffee, pouring some milk into a small can and adding another small container with sugar cubes. All of that took no longer than a minute or two, so you stood there awaiting the coffee to be done impatiently the rest of the time.

When it finally finished bubbling, you took the pot and put it on the space you had saved on the tray and wasted no time in turning on your heel and heading for the open office.

The voices of Johnson and the two other agents in there became louder the closer you got and you quickly started suspecting that they weren’t working at all, something you got confirmed when you entered the room to find the case files pushed away on the table, the three of them instead flipping through a magazine.

The sight caused annoyance to bubble up in the pit of your stomach almost instantly and you had to quickly mask  your anger with a straight face when the three of them looked up at you at your entrance.

Putting the tray down in front of them, you nodded your head to the blue manila folders sprawled out on the table, raising an eyebrow at them. “Aren’t you supposed to be looking over the case files?”

They barely even acknowledged you, returning to the magazine with a wave of their hands. “We’re taking a small break.” They said. “We have a question for you actually.”

“That so?” You asked in a bored tone, paying them no mind despite feeling their gazes return to you, instead busying yourself with pouring them a cup of coffee each.

Johnson cleared his throat and as your eyes flickered up to look at them for the briefest of moments, you caught them exchanging glances while obviously trying to hold back smirks.

“Yeah, we were talking about our deepest, darkest sexual fantasies and how it would be interesting to know yours.” Johnson spoke and you raised an unimpressed eyebrow when the others attempted to hide their laughs by coughing into their hands.

He shrugged, the two of you now staring straight into each other’s eyes. “You rarely let on what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, makes a man wonder.” He smirked.

Your eyes narrowed into slits in an instant and you automatically put the pot back down on the tray, glaring. “I beg your pardon?” You scoffed and at that, Kesey leaned forward too, wearing a smirk to match his co-worker’s.

“Oh, come on, Stark. Don’t be a prude.” He said, causing the other two to chuckle.

You turned your attention to him. “He dies during foreplay and leaves me 1.3 billion dollars, that’s my fantasy.” You replied shortly, holding his gaze for a moment before returning your attention to the coffee.

They groaned, not at all satisfied by your answer. “No, but seriously.” They kept pressing and you sighed, once again lowering the coffee pot to look up at them.

“I don’t have time to ponder fantasies. If I want something, I go get it. I’m a go-getter.”

Johnson whistled, leaning back in his seat. “You know, you’re a pain in the ass, but… that’s kind of hot.”

“Wish I could say the same about you.” You fired back before you could stop yourself, watching as the smirk instantly fell off of all of their face.

“Why you always gotta be like that?” Kesey questioned, giving you an annoyed stare to which you only raised your eyebrows innocently.

“Be like what?” You asked, and he rolled his eyes.

“Sarcastic.” He replied. “You would be a lot more approachable and desirable if you just smiled more and talked back less.”  

“Yeah, because pleasing men is my main mission in life.” You rolled your eyes.

He glared right back at you but with a discouraging slap to his shoulder from Johnson, he just scoffed, turning his attention back to the magazine and allowing you to return to pouring them their cups of coffee.  

They started talking quietly among themselves, flipping through the paper that seemed to contain pictures of cars and women, but you managed to block their voices out for a good minute by putting all of your attention to the coffee, preparing it just the way you knew they liked it.

You were pretty sure you knew their preferences better than they did themselves at this point, and the same went for Peggy, with the ridiculous amount of times you’d both been forced to serve them like maids.

“God, what I would do to see her naked.” Was the first thing you heard when you finished pouring the coffee and zoned back into their conversation, looking up to see them looking down on a centerfold girl and wasting no time in scoffing, inviting yourself into the conversation.

“Do you know what I want to see?” You asked, holding Johnson’s eyes with a fierce glare when he looked up at the sound of the voice.

“What?” He asked and you scoffed again, putting the can of coffee down and shaking your head.

“A society in which the objectification of women makes way for gender-neutral interaction free from assumptions and expectations.” You threw a hand out to the folders of evidence lying to the side. “I can’t even begin to describe the density of illness I feel in my bone marrow right now, that is how appalled I am by all this. Women are dying and you’re supposed to solve the case, and yet here you are, wasting time and lookin-”

“Gentlemen.” Your rant was interrupted by Jack as he walked into the room, slapping another manila folder down on the table and raising his eyebrows at you in an easy smile. “(Y/L/N), you boring them with your feminist monologues again?”

“When is she not?” Johnson wasted no time in snorting back.

You glared at him, annoyed that he had spoken in your place, which only seemed to make Jack’s amusement grow. “What is with you and your constant preaching about the future being female?” He asked. “I mean, I know they say no dream is too big but come on, look around.”

He laughed and the others joined in immediately.

But you weren’t discouraged, crossing your arms over your chest and looking down at Jack who had now sat down in a chair, man-sprawling like his life depended on it. “You know, men who say that feminists want to overpower men probably know that there is already a gender imbalance and are threatened by the idea that gender roles will no longer be in their favor, so I’m only taking your insults as a compliment.”

Jack smirked up at you, nodding his head. “You do that.” He answered shortly and without even giving you a chance to reply, he turned his attention away from you like you were nothing, which only vexed you further.

“Any new leads on the suspect?” Johnson and the others turned their attention to their superior, all of them now ignoring you where you were standing with your arms still crossed over your chest.

Jack shook his head with a sigh, opening the manila folder he had brought with him and in turn urging the others to scramble for their folders.

“No, the lead turned out to be a dead end. This guy is good. We’ve had two new victims since yesterday and still no trace of him. He doesn’t leave anything behind, not a single fingerprint. It’s like he doesn’t even exist.”

“Whoa, whoa, woah, hold on.” You interrupted, holding a hand out and stepping closer to them. “Two new victims? Still all females? Why have I not been informed?”

Jack gave you an annoyed stare, obviously not happy about being interrupted. “You weren’t informed because it’s not your case, but yes. All female between the ages of sixteen and twenty-seven, all wearing uh…” He cleared his throat, averting his gaze from you. “Provocative clothing.”

“What does their clothing matter?” You scoffed. “They could’ve been strolling naked down the street and it still wouldn’t justify what happened to them. Women shouldn’t have to be modest to be respected.”

“If this is a Jack The Ripper copycat we’re dealing with then it does matter.” Jack looked back up at you. “Every victim so far have been women, dressed in suggestive, light clothing at the time of their deaths.”

“But none of them were prostitutes.” You pointed out, raising an eyebrow.

At this point, you were just talking back for the sake of arguing with him, knowing fully well that all of the evidence pointed towards a Copycat.

And Jack knew it. Not only because you had been the one to bring up Jack The Ripper in the first place, but because he also, no matter how much it pained you to say so, knew you and the way you functioned like the back of his own hand with how long you had been working together.

“No, but it’s obvious that their choice of clothing are provoking him. It’s the only thing tying them together and the only thing we have to go on.” He replied calmly despite his annoyance obviously increasing with every passing second.

You shrugged your shoulders, crossing your arms over your chest again. “Maybe he just doesn’t like blondes.”

“See, that’s what we thought at first, too. But the last two girls were brunettes, so there goes that theory.” He replied and you suddenly turned smug, realizing that he was giving you information on the case that wasn’t yours to possess.

But before you could dig any deeper, the Chief walked in with his own cup of coffee raised to his lips, and his eyes instantly found yours.

“Agent (Y/L/N), I thought I told you that you weren’t going to be on this case.” He told you, lowering the cup from his face and taking a seat at the head of the table.

“I’m- I was just bringing the hardworking men some coffee, sir.” You replied, clearing your throat, wiping your face free of emotion and uncrossing your arms.

He either didn’t notice the sarcasm in your tone or he just chose to ignore it, nodding his head in approval. “I left some paperwork on your desk and I need you to fill it out before the day is up because it needs to be posted to Los Angeles before the weekend. Each minute passing is a minute wasted so I suggest that you get to work.”

He waved a hand at you but before you could reply, Jack spoke up without looking at you. “And take your feminazi monologues with you.”

He was staring down into the case file, flipping through photographs of the crime scene, but it was clear that he could feel your glare burning into the side of his face with the way the corners of his lips tugged upward slightly.

You kept your gaze unwavering at him.

“The Nazis rounded up Jews, locked them in concentration camps, lined them up in gas chambers and performed genocide. When I’m asking, arguing and fighting for equal pay, equal opportunities, no judgement, and right over my own body, how is anything, apart from your fragile male ego, getting killed?” You asked, and he simply looked up at you with a wide grin, eyes squinted with mockery.

“Point taken, now go do your job.” He said causally and you could’ve sworn you felt your eye twitch right then and there.

But as earlier mentioned, you did posses slightly more control of your impulses than your brother, so you turned on your heel and walked out of the office with long, determined strides before you said or did something you would come to regret, closing the door behind you so that you wouldn’t have to hear their ridiculing chuckles.

“Well, I can see you’re not very happy but it was amusing as always to witness you in your natural habitat, so I hope it can provide you with some comfort to know that you’ve officially made my day.” A voice spoke not even a second later, and you felt relief flood your entire body at the sight of Peggy’s warm smile.

Your heels clicked against the wooden floors as you walked closer to her where she was leaning against your desk. “And what habitat would that be?” You questioned, watching as she raised an eyebrow.

“Putting disrespectful, sexist men in their place, rightfully so might I add, and being kicked out for doing so.”

“Yes, I fear it’s starting to become a habit of mine.” You chuckled, sinking down into your chair once you reached your desk.

Peggy pushed herself off the edge of said desk, uncrossing her arms and turning around to face her. “Starting to?” She asked, eyes sparkling with amusement.

You chuckled once more. “What are you doing here? I thought you took a day off.”

“I did.” She confirmed. “But my doctor’s appointment went quicker than expected so here I am.”

“Thank God for that.” You let out a loud breath, motioning with your hand to the large stack of papers now resting on your desk, looking at her guiltily. “Feeling helpful?”

All she did in response was smile, nod her head and pull a chair up to sit beside you, wordlessly grabbing the first paper.

With the help, it only took an hour to fill out all of the paperwork, but even though it would’ve taken much longer without the extra set of hands, you wished the time would’ve gone by quicker.

It was a Friday afternoon and there was nothing you wanted more than to go home, take off your heels, get out of your uncomfortable clothes and go to bed, and the last two hours of the day were always the longest, and hardest.

Once the paperwork was done, Peggy moved over to the breakroom to grab you a cup of coffee. She was the least exhausted out of the two of you seeing as she hadn’t been there the entire day and offered to do so, so that you could take a breather after the intense paperwork.

When she busied herself with that, you moved over to Daniel where he was still sitting at his desk, working hard.

You sparked up a conversation and became so engrossed in it you didn’t even realize another half hour went by and passed the end of your workday, also completely oblivious to the pair of eyes that instantly found you as the five men came out of the closed office.

Jack watched you laugh at something Sousa had said with an uncomfortable knot rapidly growing in the pit of his stomach, a sour taste growing in his mouth.

In a desperate attempt to get rid of the feeling of the anger bubbling up inside him, he raised his coffee cup to his lips and took a sip of the black beverage despite it having gone cold at that point.

He was so focused on watching you from afar, taking note of every move of your body and every flicker of emotion in your face, that he didn’t even notice Peggy coming up to his side until she cleared her throat and made her presence known.

Jack instantly tore his eyes away from you to look at the woman now standing beside him, only to find that she was looking straight at you, too.

“Why don’t you get off your high horse, swallow your pride and ask her out already?” She asked without looking at him, admittedly catching him by surprise.

“What?” He asked, chuckling nervously.

At that, Peggy turned to look at him, scoffing and giving him an unimpressed stare. “Oh, please.” She said. “Don’t pretend that you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

His eyes hardened and his Adam’s apple bobbled as he swallowed. “I don’t.” He replied casually, taking another sip of his coffee.

But she didn’t believe him for a second, and wasted no time.

“One day, you’re going to see her holding hands with someone who took your chance. She won’t even notice you because she’s too busy laughing with the stupid jokes he makes. And it will burn your heart seeing that beautiful smile on her face and realizing that you’re not the reason. And then it will finally hit you that she’s always been the one.”

She smiled softly at him, eyes glazing over as she fell into deep thought at the last part, obviously thinking back to her time with Steve.

“Sousa and the others might be blind, but I’m not. I’ve seen the looks you give her when she’s not looking. I’m not stupid, Jack. But you are.”

Her words made his façade falter for the briefest of moments, but he quickly covered it up with his usual careless smile, raising an eyebrow. “And why would that be?” He asked.

He was appearing so sure of himself but Peggy Carter knew better; she always did.

“Because only an idiot would let a woman like her slip out of his fingers. And if you want to have a chance, you might want to hurry up, because you’re not the only one who’s got your eye on her.” She answered, nodding her head in your direction.

Jack turned his eyes back to you at the sound of her words, finding that Sousa was now nowhere in sight, the new intern now standing in front of you instead, the two of you conversing about something and both of you smiling.

He had been transferred to your unit only a few weeks prior, having fought in the war like the rest of you and lost one of his hands in the process, dooming him to a life-worth of desk work.

He’d had his eye on you ever since he arrived, something that didn’t go unnoticed by the rest of them; especially not Jack.

“It doesn’t make you any less of a man to let a woman shine, and you better come to terms with that before you even think about getting close to her.” Peggy continued. “Because she’s not a woman to be kept in the dark. She deserves better than that.”

Jack swallowed again, his eyes never leaving your form as Peggy spoke, and not when she turned on her heel and walked away, either.

He took a moment to regain his composure after the conversation he’d just had, his mind at war with his heart after everything Peggy had just told him. He stood by, sipping his cold coffee and watching you, until the intern walked away from you.

The discouraged look on his face made him feel smug in some way, and he quickly threw back the rest of his coffee, putting the cup down on the closest surface and wasting no time in heading over in your direction.

It took no more than a few long strides to reach you at your desk. He came up behind you, watching over your shoulder as you packed your things into your bag that was standing on your chair.

He leaned against the short side of the mahogany table, tucking his hands into the pockets of his grey slacks and glancing at you.

“An admirer, I take it?” He asked casually, watching your every move.  

You made no move to turn around to look at him, simply continuing to pack down the papers you needed to take home over the weekend. “Well, he tried. Didn’t have much luck but you have to admire him for his attempt.”

Jack snickered. “You might not want to be too picky, you know, or you’ll end up alone eventually.”

“I’d take that over ending up divorced after settling for less than I deserve any day.”

“Touché. But no matter how hard you try to deny it the fact still remains at the end of the day that every woman needs a man, sooner or later.”

“I don’t need a man.” You replied, closing the flap of your bag and grabbing your coat from the back of your chair. “I need a family sized tub of chocolate chip ice cream and a bottle of tequila to drown my misery of having to work from a desk every day.”

You hurriedly started to put your arms into your sleeves, wanting nothing more than to get away from the conversation at hand and go home.

When you grabbed your bag off of the chair and turned around to leave, Jack pushed himself off the desk, finally catching your eye. “Well, that’s a shame because I was thinking, when you’re done flirting with cripples who have barely gone through puberty yet, that maybe we could go out sometime.”

You instantly rolled your eyes, completely missing the fact that he, in his own way, had just asked you out.

“Do you ever take a day off from being an asshole?” You asked. “Does it make you feel good about yourself to talk down on everyone?”

“I think those may be questions best pondered over dinner.” He offered again, raising his eyebrows.

You could only snort and roll your eyes once more. “Funny. I know your tactics work on pretty much everyone else, but they won’t do any good with me. Good night, Agent Thompson.”

Without wasting another second, you hung the strap of the bag of your arm, walking past him and not looking back.

But he just turned on his heel and walked after you, walking by your side with his hands still tucked into his pockets.

“We’re not on the clock anymore, you can call me Jack.” He said. “And the dinner proposal wasn’t a joke.”

“What? You’re like, asking me out on a date?” You snorted, without looking up at him and without ever slowing down.

In the corner of your eye, you could see his head shaking. “No, just… causal dinner. But…” He trailed off, shrugging. “If we happen to have sex afterwards, so be it.”

His words instantly drew a scoff from your lips and you stopped in your tracks, turning to look at him with a glare. Before you could say anything, however, he continued.

“Having sex once or twice a week has been proven to boost your immune system to help fight colds and the flu and I don’t know about you, but I don’t really enjoy being sick.”

You weren’t impressed, not in the slightest, your glare remaining unfaltering. “It’s a good thing I have a perfect immune system, then.” You fired back and moved to keep walking.

But this time, he rushed up in front of you, blocking you from continuing. “Come on, I’ve run out of reasons that we shouldn’t, haven’t you?”

“No.” You answered without a single doubt in your mind. “In fact, I couldn’t even count all of the reasons on both my hands. I don’t have enough fingers.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but you quickly cut him off, raising your hands and beginning to count off your fingers.

“But let’s start with, uh, you’re an asshole. You’re constantly degrading me and treating me like I’m below you even though we have the exact same title and the exact same job. I’m an agent like you and yet, you treat me like I’m a secretary with no brains, like I’m not capable of literally everything you are. You’re a sexist pig and every day for the past two years, Peggy and I have been the targets of yours, the Chief’s, and everyone else’s oppression. So excuse me if I’m not jumping up and down with excitement at the thought of going out with you and becoming just another name on your endlessly long list.”

A long moment of awkward silence fell over the two as you finished your hateful rant. His mouth was opening and closing like a fish out of water. For the first time since you had met him, you had left him speechless and taken the last word.

You thought, at least.

“Ouch. That hurt.” He spoke after a long moment, chuckling awkwardly.

His face was pulled into an expression of genuine hurt and for a moment, just for a moment, you felt guilty for going off on him the way you had. But then you remember that it was justified, and that he had it coming.

So you just hummed in response, averting your gaze to the floor. While you did so, Jack took a step closer to you and caught both you and himself by surprise by reaching out for your hand.

Your head instantly whipped back up at the sudden touch of his skin against yours, a sharp spark going through your skin and causing you to flinch.

Luckily, he didn’t seem to have noticed it. Either that, or he just didn’t care, instead looking down at you with warm, genuine eyes.

“Look, it’s a man’s world. It’s been a man’s world for as long as history goes, for as long as you and I have been alive, and we’re still living in it. But…” He paused, properly taking your hand into his. “I’m willing to learn how to look at it from another perspective.”

Your could feel yourself melting into his touch, your eyes softening but your face remaining stoic. You weren’t about to let your guard down that easily.

“I recall you calling  that my monologues about feminism boring no more than an hour and a half ago.” You pointed out, and watched as a lopsided smile slowly made its way onto his lips.

“Eh.” He tilted his head, shrugging again. “Not everything can be interesting. But that doesn’t mean it’s not necessary to learn.”

“Wow, this is… not like you at all.” You pointed out, eyes slowly narrowing. You tore your hand out of his grasp, taking a step back. “What’s going on? Did you make a bet with the guys or something? Is that it?”

“Do you really think that little of me?” He asked, looking genuinely offended.

But you only raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms over your chest. “Is this where I’m supposed to lie to protect your delicate, fragile male ego?”

He closed his eyes, raising his hand to his face and pinching the bridge of his nose. “No, forget I asked.” He mumbled, breathing in deeply and lowering his hand again. “I had an eyeopener, that’s all. Realized that there’s always room for improvement in one’s character and view of the world.”

He was obviously dramatically articulating his words for extra effect, the sarcastic smile pulling at his lips only proving that further.

You gave him a doubtful once-over, but soon felt yourself relaxing, your arms uncrossing from over your chest and your head nodding slowly. “Well, whoever made you realize that you were being a grade A asshole, give them my thanks. I like this version of you much better than the one I’ve had to deal with every day for the last two years.”

He instantly raised an eyebrow at your halfhearted confession, lips once again beginning to pull into a smirk. “So is that a yes to the date?” He asked and you raised an eyebrow in return.

“I thought you said it wasn’t a date?” You teased.

He looked to the side briefly, smirking. “Well…” He shrugged.

You chuckled, nodding your head and biting down on the inside of your cheek lightly in an attempt to hide the smile threatening to break out on your face. “I’ll be ready at eight tomorrow night. I would tell you where I live but I believe you already know seeing as you and Johnson stalked me every night for an entire month when you thought I was hiding my brother from you.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise. “You knew about that the whole time?”

“I did, and you had no idea.” You chuckled. “The way you men think of us women as intellectually challenged works in our favor sometimes. We see so much more than you think.”

He grinned, unbeknownst to you feeling extremely proud of you in that moment.

Before he got the chance to say anything else, you gave him a nod of your head and offered him a wholehearted, sincere smile.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Jack.” You told him, and then pushed past him without waiting for a reply, walking away from him with butterflies in your stomach; the very same ones you had felt the first time you met him.

Before he opened his big mouth, that is.

But everyone was capable of change, and you silently thanked whatever person that had helped him on the right path to his sudden epiphany. 

Although, you believed you already knew.

Who else but Peggy?

Tagged: @corishirogane3​ @trenchcoatedwings​ @microwaved-timmies​

(If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, send me a message, ask or leave a comment)

[kylorengarbagedump]

Little Bird: Chapter 25 (NSFW)

Read on AO3. Part 24 here. Part 26 here.

Summary: All right, well, I guess no one's gonna go swimming in that pool, anymore.

Words: 6600

Warnings: cw--a kylorengarbagedump special: tons of graphic violence and gratuitous bloodplay

Characters: Kylo Ren x Handmaid!Reader

A/N: HI, HELLO, what the fuck am I doing! I'd like to give thanks to @faestae and John Wick for this chapter. Without them, I'd be completely fucked. For some reason, I keep writing shit that demonstrates how little I know about writing anything other than sex. Please let me know what you thought! I'm interested to see what people think about this bit.

I love y'all so very much! Thank you for always offering kindness and encouragement. <3

You hadn’t taken your eyes off of your Commander since entering the car, hoping that, if you stared long enough, you’d be able to identify any hint of emotion, any flicker of feeling in his inscrutable expression. But Kylo Ren sat, back against the partition, hands at his sides, a veneer of distance cast over his face. The harder you looked, the further away he seemed--like a void, emptying itself, slowly, of vulnerability. 

“Do you know how long I’ve known your Commander?” said Snoke. You felt his spider-leg gaze crawling over your figure. “Since he was a boy.”

Unsure if you were supposed to respond, you dipped your head in the tiniest nod you could muster.

“And there was a period where he disagreed, you know. With the idea of Gilead. Did you know that?”

Ren was solid, unmoving, staring through the back windshield. He didn’t blink, didn’t twitch. Swallowing, you allowed yourself to peer over at Snoke. He was watching you expectantly.

“Um.” To be fair, you did know that--you just didn’t know to what degree, and for how long. “I didn’t know that, no.”

“Well, it’s true.” His focus drifted back to Ren. “He was so unsure of himself, back then. Couldn’t ever make a decision. Afraid to let himself achieve what he was truly capable of.” A dark, breathy laugh escaped him. “He was so sensitive, so scared.”

There, right below his nose, you saw it--a twinge of muscle.

“But, thankfully, he’s resolved those doubts, now.” A wicked smile twisted through his skin. “Haven’t you, Ren?”

His eyes, like slate, met Snoke’s for a millisecond. “Yes.”

“Yes.” Now Snoke turned his attention to you. “He believes, like I do, in the roles of society. In the order we can provide by enforcing them.” A glance at Ren. “Isn’t that right, boy?”

“Yes.” His back straightened. 

“He agrees with me that Handmaids are one of those unfortunate necessities of society,” Snoke said. “If we had a perfect world, we wouldn’t need you at all.” He shrugged. “For now, both of you have your roles. Separate and equal.” 

Not that nonsense again. It sounded just as repulsive as when it had come out of Ren’s mouth. “I think we’re both more than that.” You peered at your Commander, who observed you with guarded confusion. “More than our roles.”

Snoke’s eyes sparkled with some sick delight. “Really, now.” He looked to Ren. “We have to make sacrifices, don’t we. To ensure our vision survives to the next generation.”

He averted his gaze, nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“You’ve made many sacrifices for Gilead, Ren.” 

Snoke’s hand laid on your knee, squeezing it, red fabric bunching in his skeletal grip. Your throat thickened with fear, your breath stolen. Ren’s chest filled with slow, tense air, his jaw tight. The knife in your sleeve seemed to sear you with its presence--you imagined whipping it out, swiping the button, slamming the blade right into the old man’s wrinkled neck. Instead, you sat there, watching his hand creep higher, your focus switching between his fingers and your Commander.

Do what you wish with it.

If you tried to attack him now, here, in his car, both you and Ren would end up dead. You shoved the urge into the bottom of your brain, chin trembling as the bony excuse for a hand grazed your thigh--Snoke’s eyes were trained on Ren, daring him to move. 

But he did nothing.

A whirr of a winding engine cut through the silence, and Snoke removed his hand--you sagged with relief. He rolled down the window, making a quick motion with his wrist, the limo stopping for a brief moment. Then it pushed forward, past a gated entrance staffed with at least two guards armed with rifles. Fear dug its claws into your chest. 

The limo coasted up a long, winding driveway, up to what you could only define as a mansion, and came to a halt. Snoke glanced at the both of you, popping the door open.

“We’ve arrived,” he said. “Come, now.”

Ren met your eyes for a brief, electric second before he exited the vehicle. Steeling your nerves, you followed, feeling significantly hampered by the rustling of your dress. As you clambered into the sun, you breathed the heavy summer air and glanced over the property.

A white stone gate with the pair of sentries encircled a ring of decorative topiaries, bushels of red flowers poking through the mulched landscape. The driveway looped like a racetrack through the yard, up to the bleached cement plaza that opened to a glittering fountain pond. The center of the fountain was dominated by a marble carving of Jesus on the cross, his head craned toward the sky, water gushing in clear, noisy rivers from his hands and crown. In front of you, the staired entrance led to a grand, columned pavilion that guided you toward the front door, a glass and iron arch with concentric rows of windows radiating out to the walls. 

All of this might have been beautiful, you thought, had you not been a slave, invited with your owner under the pretense of interrogation.

That, and the two guards coming to escort you to the entrance--also armed, of course.

They bookended you in a line--Snoke, Ren, and you--through the front door, into the vaulted foyer, ivory granite floors stretching out into a wide parlor room, light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Through them, you spied the backyard, complete with a glimmering Tuscan-style pool, enclosed also by that same white stone. And more guards marching in assignment.  

Silent, you kept close to your Commander’s heels as you all climbed the one of the two curved staircases, ascending past an enormous chandelier, tiers of glowing crystal casting flakes of light onto your skin. Despite its warmth, at the last step, you fell cold--there were still more riflemen at the top. The guards ushered you down an empty hall to an open door. They stood at either side of the entrance, and, blood escaping your face, you followed Ren and Snoke inside.

Cherry wood-panelled walls wrapped the oval stone floor, a circular Persian rug rolled out underneath a huge teak desk. It was accompanied by a tall Chesterfield throne upholstered in red leather, two smaller, sister chairs attending the sides. Behind the desk, built-in shelves were lined with heavy, hardbound tomes, all illuminated by two sets of double-necked glass sconces at the two ends of the room.

You stood next to Ren, hands strangling each other as Snoke closed the door and wandered around to the head of his desk. His stride was slow, deliberate, crossing the room like it was slick with molasses. Arriving at his chair, he opened one of the drawers, carding through it before pulling out a folder and plopping it on the flat surface. With precision, he plucked a few pages from it, pushing them forward. 

“Do you remember signing these, Ren?” 

Kylo Ren’s eyes flicked between the paper and his superior. “Yes.”

“Your very first acceptance to the order,” Snoke said, gazing at it. “The evidence of your commitment.” He turned his attention to you. “You said that you think you’re more than your roles. But I know that isn’t the case.”

You cleared your throat, spine straightening. “And I know it is.”

“You’d be wrong,” Snoke said. “Because Kylo Ren is a facade. An identity--a role. Just like yours.” He paused, waiting for Ren to react. He didn’t. “Before he was Kylo Ren, he was a lost, lonely little boy. Always winding up in fights. Parents too busy to care.” 

Ren rolled his tongue along the inside of his teeth, but said nothing.

“But I saw potential in him. Didn’t I, boy?” Snoke offered him a small grin. “I could see the greatness, the cunning, the power you could have.”

“You did,” Ren muttered.

“And this is all you’ve become. Your heart hasn’t hardened. You’re soft. You could never hope to be Kylo Ren.” He sighed, and leered at him. “And I’m disappointed to see that this is the case.”

He was silent, chin raising, stare toward the floor.

“You’re still fighting it, aren’t you?” When he didn’t respond, Snoke’s entire face twisted in a frown. “Answer me, boy.”

“I’m not.”

“No?” Snoke opened the top drawer of his desk and produced a massive silver revolver, tossing it on the desk with a thunk. “Prove it,” he said. “Shoot her.”

Your heart shot between your ears, eyes darting between Snoke, Ren, the gun, Snoke, Ren, the gun, Snoke, Ren, the gun. Kylo Ren was as unreadable as ever--he considered the revolver as if Snoke had thrown down a ballpoint pen. A tiny breath escaped him.

“Everything I’ve done has been for Gilead--my commitment has never wavered--”

“Don’t lie to me, boy!” Snoke’s gaze flashed with barely-leashed rage. “I see how you respond when I touch her, I can feel your weakness for her.”

Ren’s lip twitched. “Weakness. For a Handmaid.” 

“I know your mind, Ren. I know every little thought that goes through your brain. Your impulses are raw, you allow Gilead to suffer under your foolishness. This paper...” He held it up, pointing to the signature--beautiful, loopy letters that read Ben Solo. “The boy that signed it still lives. And he is weak.” 

Snoke pushed off the desk, stalked over to you--before you could even think to move, his hand gnarled in your hair, fingers scraping like screws over your scalp. You whimpered, thinking to scream, to fight, to beg--but worried Snoke would shoot you himself if you did. 

“Show me who you’re meant to be, Kylo Ren.” He ripped you to the floor, shoving you onto your knees near his feet. Then, at the back of your head--something hard. Cold. Another gun. “Or I’ll show you myself.”

In the back of your mind, it seemed strange--for all the scenarios you’d imagined being on your knees in front of your Commander, this had never been one of them. Terror shuddered you, but you stilled the quaking of your flesh, meeting Ren’s eyes, sticking your chin into the air. He stared into you and through you, hooking into your hidden fear, finding himself there. Your chests rose and fell with the same breath, lips parting with the same awful knowledge--there was no scenario where he could save you, no reality where your story could’ve had a different ending. For all of your emptiness, loneliness, wanton need, this was your destiny--two souls, desperate to know the other, denied for every unchangeable reason fate could offer.

Part of you knew that Ren had to kill you. Part of you hoped against hope that, somehow, he wouldn’t.

But then he moved. And he picked up the gun.

“Good,” Snoke said. “Good.”

Ren stepped toward you, face blank, and aimed the revolver until it was inches from your head. You gazed at him, thankful that you’d known relief at least once in the past few years, somehow more thankful that he’d been the one to give it to you. Heat stung your eyes. You wouldn’t cry, not now. You’d wished for death too many times at this point to begrudge its arrival.

“Good choice, my boy,” Snoke said. He jerked your scalp. “Would you like to have a prayer for your last words?”

He scoffed. “What use does a dog have for prayer?”

A hearty chuckle. “Oh, I’m nothing if not a man of God.”

“Last prayer, then.” Ren blinked. “Do what you wish with it.”

In your chest, breath hitched, your pulse flying. The switchblade. Swallowing, you glanced at the floor to Snoke’s foot beside you, then back up, meeting Ren’s eyes. A spark, a crooked crackle of light--you were seeing them, seeing him, seeing yourself, a reflection, an echo, pure resonance in the emptiness of his mind--and in that moment, you knew.

You knew him.

Clearing your throat, you began, “O, Lord Jesus…” 

You pressed your palms together, bowing your head to conceal them as you used the heel of your hand to guide the blade up your sleeve.

“... pour into me the spirit of your love…”

The handle poked through the edge of fabric, the wooden scales cool and smooth. Your tongue was paper, scratching at your mouth.

“... that in the hour of my death…”

With the switchblade fully encased in your hands, your finger dipped to find the safety and flick it free. Perspiration had it slip in your grip, and you flinched for only a second, pinching it tight between your palms. 

“... I may be worthy to vanquish the enemy…”

Your thumb fumbled for the safety, now, finding it behind your sweaty skin.

“... and receive the heavenly crown.”

Pushing it up, you drew a long, deep breath through your nose. Ren cocked his gun. 

“Amen.”

The blade sprung free, and you drove it, a stake, straight into Snoke’s hapless foot. He screamed, his gun clattering to the floor--in that instant, Ren cocked a brow, raised the revolver, and fired. Snoke blew back, blood spattering your crown, a crimson spray cast over the desk, onto Ren’s face, and the body hit the floor behind you with a fleshy thud. 

You blinked, gasping, trembling, too terrified to look behind you, too anxious to not confirm he was dead. A quick peek--a massive crater in the lifeless facade of his skull--and you swallowed, looking to Kylo Ren, without breath, without speech, without pretense. His eyes were wide and wild, his chest heaving with something like excitement--then, outside the study, the guards stirred. 

“Commander Snoke?” one asked.

Ren glanced at the door. His pupils swallowed his irises, and at the corner of his lips, a smirk. He tore off his tie, tossed his suit jacket onto the floor, back and shoulders swelling like mountains underneath his shirt. 

“We’re coming in, sir.”

“Get down,” he muttered as he cocked the gun, aiming it at the door. “Come in.”

You scrambled to the side of the desk and tore off your wings so you could see, curling over your knees, and the door squeaked open. The moment the guard’s head breached the entrance, Ren fired, and you jolted--blood spurted, painting the wall, the body dropped. A second guard flung the door back, rushing Ren before he could reload, but Ren threw his elbow into the man’s chin, wringing his arm around his neck and shoving him to the ground. He drove his heel into the guard’s neck before cocking the gun and blowing a hole through his face.

Heart flying in your chest, you stared at him, mouth open, almost unable to believe what you’d just seen. In the recording, you’d heard Snoke call him a warrior--you just hadn’t known until now what that meant.

“We’re moving.” Ren stalked over and snatched your wrist, but you winced. 

“Hold on!” You tugged away and snagged the switchblade from Snoke’s foot, sheathing it and shoving it back up your sleeve.

“Come.” He grabbed you again, leading you over the leaking lump of the guard and into the hall.

As you breached the threshold and crossed the hall, two guards turned the corner--the ones from the top of the stairs. Kylo Ren shoved you behind him, gunshots spearing your ears, a body falling; then he slammed you against the wall, the trill of wide rifle bullets whizzing by your skull. You screamed, covered your head, and Ren reached out, wresting the barrel of the offending gun and wrenching the guard flush with his chest--he shoved the revolver up to his chin and fired, viscera erupting from the man’s eye sockets and coating you both. 

You gagged, mind whirling--but Ren was crazed, rippling with the heat of exhilaration. He ditched the revolver and tucked the rifle under his arm, shrugging the body off and grabbing you again. Ren hugged you tight to his frame as he marched through the halls; panting, you gazed up at him, futilely trying to process that he had not only murdered his leader, but now apparently planned to gun down the entirety of this estate--when he all he had to do instead was kill you.

He cursed when you reached the steps. A pair of guards was posted at both sets of stairs--and, seeing you, they shouted and charged. Ren’s attention darted between them, landed on the chandelier. He shouldered you back, running forward and leaping from the banister. You squeaked, hands clapping your mouth--but he grappled the chain, feet stumbling over the metal frame as the crystal behemoth swung like a sparkling pendulum in the foyer. The guards hollered, racking their rifles--but Ren fired first.

Using the chandelier like an assassination assistant, Ren pinned the gun to his body and pulled the trigger, spitting a storm of bullets into the staircase, littering pockmarks over the walls. The guards quailed, ducked--Ren jerked the fixture’s chain, rolling his legs down, and he spun, a carousel of death, firing next at the guards climbing the other steps. These two were not so lucky--you caught hot streams of blood splash over the balustrade, and then Ren swung again,  crystals clinking like chimes as the chandelier bowed in wide arcs. Face tight with frenzy, he fired, and you watched the bodies crumple like marionettes and tumble down the stairs.

Bobbing in the air, he cast his gaze around the room, back hunched, an animal starved. You grimaced, crawled forward, gripping the banister, and when he met your eyes, he shifted, making to swing.

“Stop!” came a voice from the back of the home. 

From underneath the balcony, you saw two guards run forward, rifles pointed up--before you could shout, they fired into the ceiling, clouds of crystal fragments spewing into the air. Ren wobbled, dodging with surprising grace, then flung the chandelier back. 

You watched him, lids wide, as he stepped, one foot, another foot, skating over the steel and lurching forward, yanking on the chain like a rope and throwing his legs into the air. His other arm, still occupied with the rifle, swung down, and as he launched himself toward the banister, he fired, sparks snapping, the chain severed. Ren connected with the railing as the chandelier exploded to the floor, crushing the two guards in a splintering spew of metal and glass. Without thinking, you scampered to him, clutching his arms, straining as you helped haul him onto the balcony. He stumbled to his feet and ripped you up by your wrist.

“Commander--”

“Quiet.”

Adrenaline coursed through him into you, absorbed like warmth through your skin. He dragged you down the steps, tossing his current gun and grabbing a new one while you fled over the ragdolled corpses covering your path. In your dress, it was difficult to maneuver, but Ren pulled you through, jaw set firm, ravenous fury dancing in waves from his body. His eyes were focused and feral, a predator, a true, live killer, consumed with a hunger you’d never before seen--not up close. 

He led you toward the front door--beyond the mottled glass, you could spy a pair of guards sneaking close, decked in armor, guns raised. Cursing, he doubled back, your arm popping while he hauled you toward the other end of the home. Then two more guards, also in armor, crept across the pool deck in the same formation, heading toward wherever the back entrance was. Grumbling, Ren tore to the right, wringing you forward--you’d been thrust into a huge kitchen, replete with white quartz countertops and oak cabinetry. You had little time to admire it before he shoved you under the hood of the breakfast nook. Breathless, you pulled your knees to your chest, trying to become as small and unnoticeable as possible.

Slinging the gun over his shoulder, he grabbed two long knives from the butcher block on the counter, sidling up to the wall next to an archway that opened to what appeared like a mudroom. The first sentry peered around the corner, and Kylo Ren snarled, driving the knife through the man’s throat. He choked, gasped, writhing as he fell to the ground, rivers of blood spilling over the floor. The second guard flinched, went to raise his rifle at Ren--but the second of hesitation sealed his fate. Ren jammed his foot into the man’s chest, knocking him onto his back, and stomped his face before shifting the rifle into his hands and ending him with a pop, pop.

Flustered with fear, you made to move--and then spotted that the two guards from the front had made their way into the home, crossing into the kitchen. Before you could warn Ren, one fired, a quick burst, striking him in the side. He roared, crumpling to the floor, a bloom of bright blood staining his side--your body burst with fear, with rage, your mind making decisions without a second of uncertainty. 

As the guards pushed toward Ren, you threw yourself into their path, a human speedbump; they tripped, stumbled over you, over each other, trampling you as they both collapsed to the ground. You craned your neck to see your Commander--he seethed as he stood, punching himself in his wound, each strike punctuated with a furious grunt.

Kylo Ren flipped the free knife into the air, caught it by the handle, and sneered, stabbing one of the guards through the eye--his body jerked, twitched on top of you, and Ren rolled the other man with his foot, aiming his rifle at his exposed face and riddling it with holes. You squealed as his frame jolted with the shots, trying to scramble free--but Ren caught you by the arm again, prying you to your feet. He started toward the back door, but you jerked away--he spun, hair tossed in choppy waves over his face, teeth bared, entire form trembling with the throes of bloodlust.

“The--the front,” you managed to eke out. “You’re injured, let’s get out of here.”

He growled, seizing your wrist and tugging you forward. “We’re not done yet.” 

You swallowed. This was no longer about escaping. It was about revenge.

Led through the mudroom in the wake of his wrath, Ren discarded you to the side of the door and shouldered it open. Two guards stood, anticipating, at the exit, two more chasing around the pool. Your Commander wrapped one of the guards in a headlock, using him as a shield while he surged forward, facing the closest guard while shooting over his arm at the other two. They shook, barraged with bullets, toppling back until they both splashed into the pool, crimson fog weeping into the water. The guard in his grip kicked back, and he faltered--the man closest to him took this as an opportunity to lunge, and smashed into Ren, knocking him and his hostage to the ground.

Chest tightening, you made to move, but hesitated--what would you do? Shoot them? Your brain raced with the possibilities--at this point, you’d picked up a pistol, but you’d never pictured yourself as someone who could end a life. You’d also never pictured yourself as someone who would speak back to the lead Commander of Gilead, get belted over a knee, have her pussy stuffed with a gun, or feel worry for the man who owned her.

That last one caught you by surprise--you weren’t just worried, you were terrified. And not for yourself, but for him. 

Kylo Ren rolled as the other guard approached, his rifle raised--he ducked behind his captive, using him like a barrier and reached down to the man’s side, stealing a handgun from his belt. The other guard went to dodge, but was blasted in the face with two shots, raining blood over the brick patio, crumpling to his knees and smacking the ground. 

Caught in a struggle, Ren went to shoot his final victim through the skull--but the man had already produced a knife from the other side of his belt, and slashed up, ripping Ren across the shoulder and slicing his face. He howled in pain, and the guard took the opportunity to tear himself free, scurrying to his feet, reaching for the gun in Ren’s hand.

Something possessed you--fear, indignity, affection, something--and you dashed through the door, grappled a gun from the corpse closest to you, and cocked it. Maybe, before Gilead, you weren’t a person who could end a life. But now, you were a survivor. And you would be damned if you or your Commander would die here.

Taking the pistol in both hands, you aimed at the guard’s torso. “Hey!” you shouted for absolutely no reason. He glanced over, confused. “Fuck you!”

You pulled the trigger, ears ringing--the bullet nailed his chest, and he staggered, jaw dropped, perhaps wondering if he had really just been shot by a Handmaid. Ren, face smothered scarlet, swung to his feet, swiping the knife from the ground. He snatched the man mid-fall, hoisted him into the air and, snarling, shredded his throat with the blade. A geyser of blood gushed from his neck, bathing Ren in its fever, soaking his shirt, coating the curls of his hair. His shoulders crowded with the desperate cycle of his lungs as he loosened his grip, letting the body hit the ground, crimson bubbles seeping from the wound.

Hands quaking, you lowered your arms, dropped the gun. You couldn’t find your breath, chest fighting for air. Ren turned, eyes tracing the bodies, until finally, they landed on you. Heat hit you, strangled you, wrapped you like wire in a suffocating, powerful, need. Both of you, sprayed with blood, panting, aching--everything you had done, you’d done for the other. His transgressions faded to shadows in your mind. Against every single governmental pillar and logical instinct, you were alive because of him. And you wanted nothing more, now, than to be in his arms.

The word fled your lips, a caged dove. “Kylo…”

Kylo Ren threw down the knife, rushing you, and your feet moved too, carrying you on feathers to him, until your bodies connected, his arms coiling around you, his mouth bruising yours, the taste of iron fresh between your teeth. He was damp with blood, his skin spilled copper into your nose--but despite it all, you groaned, flooded with passion, burning in his embrace. Ren’s tongue drove into your mouth, his hand cupping the back of your head, wetting your hair as he crushed you to his frame. Thighs thrumming with desire, you kissed him back, nipping his lip, threading your fingers through his sticky waves--he moaned, crumbling to his knees, his hold taking you with him. 

“You saved me,” you muttered against his lips. “You saved--”

Ren silenced you with a kiss. “Little bird...” He nibbled the line of your jaw, jerking a fistful of hair and burying his face in it, inhaling deep. “Get these clothes off.”

You shivered. “Yes, sir.”

Keeping his gaze, you gathered the hem of your dress and peeled it over your head, his eyes leaping over every bit of exposed flesh as it was revealed to him. You tossed it and your switchblade to the side, his hands grappling with your hips, sliding up your sides, smearing crimson over your skin. Whimpering, you reached toward your feet, pulling your boots off and throwing them to the side, attempting valiantly to remain kneeling while you inched your underwear down your hips and over your calves. Ren watched, trained on your naked cunt, as you finally flung it behind you.

When you went to begin the arduous task of unhooking your bra, Ren growled, your knees scraping across the pool deck as he yanked you into an impatient kiss. You whined in pain, soothed by his soft lips working yours, new blood from the wound on his face dribbling into your mouths and over your wrestling tongues. He wrested your tits from your bra, dying them red, thumbs skating delight over your stiffening nipples. Moaning, you writhed into his chest, and he gripped your face, nails scraping your scalp while he pulled you closer, groaning into you, leaning--you followed him, chasing his kiss until he was on his back, your legs straddling him, palms planted on his chest.

A soft, anxious breath escaped his throat, and he swirled his tongue over yours before biting your lip and pushing you up, hands settling on your thighs, rocking you back and forth over his thick erection. He watched you, panting in rhythm with you, and you admired him--how fucking beautiful he was, even (or especially) doused in blood--his eyes stark with need, his mouth parted in open anticipation, his muscles tensing as he gripped and squeezed you, jerking his hips into your heat. If he was in any pain at all from the gash on his face or the bullets in his side, it didn’t show--he rolled into you as if he cared for nothing other than the sight of your body over his own. 

“Are you okay?” You placed your hands on his, squeezing them. 

Ren frowned and swatted you off, gathering both wrists behind you in a tight vise. “Interesting question to pose while you’re already grinding onto me.”

You blushed. “I just wanted to make--” 

He shoved two bloodied fingers in your mouth, depressing your tongue, cranking your jaw open. “Ask me again after I’ve fucked that little cunt raw.”

Shuddering, you clenched, and nodded.

“There we go.” He released your tongue, popping your wrists back--your tits swayed from the movement, and he hummed in satisfaction, kneading and groping at the flesh, teasing your nipples. “You’re gorgeous…”

“Oh…” Submerged in desire, you could barely process his words. He twitched underneath you, drawing another spasm from your core. “Kylo…”

He sucked in air through his teeth, digging his fingers into your breast. “You want my cock? Hm?” He reached down, brushed his thumb over your clit, and you whined. “You want me inside you, slut?”

“Fuck,” you whispered. “Fuck, yes, please.”

“Good girl…” 

Ren kept his grip on your wrists, working at his pants until he’d managed to pull his long, heavy cock free. You ached at the sight of it, wanting to slide it between your folds, feel it pulse inside you, bask in its swollen heat. Ren slapped it against you and shifted his hips, pushing you higher, hand stroking his length as he guided it to your entrance. Stoked on adrenaline, on some sort of intoxicating infatuation, you were wet and wanting and warm with need--you sank onto him, crying out when he broke you open, letting him drive deep into your belly. 

“God,” you hissed, “you feel so good…”

He throbbed at the base, rutting up into you and popping your wrists again. “Shh.” His free hand clutched your hip. “I’ll tell you when to speak, little bird,” he muttered. “Be quiet and take this cock.”

Ren’s strength overwhelmed you--he slammed you from below, fucking up into you, forcing gasps and squeals from your lungs. Bliss blazed through your blood as the force of his thrusts throttled you, body quaking, breasts bouncing. His face was screwed in a twist of lust and effort, lip furled, strangled growls escaping his chest--he pumped hard, fast, pinching you in his hands as his own pleasure built. 

“Fuck,” he growled, “that’s right--do you like that?”

“Yes…” The words were as unfiltered as you were. “I love it…”

“Good--good girl.” His stare devoured you while you rode him. “So beautiful… so perfect…” A hand glided up your side, cupping one of your tits. “And all mine…” He grunted, punished you with a particularly hard thrust--you yelped. “Say it.”

A twinge in your heart, distant and irritating. “But I--”

He yanked your wrists, straining your shoulders, branding a bruise into your breast with his fingers. “Say it.” His pace switched, and he rammed your cunt with brutal, deep strokes, striking your cervix with white streaks of pain. “You’re mine.”

“Kylo--”

Ren seethed, throwing you off of him and onto your back, wincing when he loomed over you, and he pounded his side, hissing in pain. Your eyes widened--in seconds, he’d spiraled into mania, his face wrought with possessive fervor while his fist pummeled his wound. If he’d looked beautiful before, now it was sinful: dark hair matted in messy clumps around his crown, his brow drawn in focus, his shirt, torn from the knife, flopping over to reveal his bare chest, showered with blood. He peeled your legs wide, ankles in his fists as he lifted your ass from the ground--and, sneering, he split you, cock cleaving your cunt. In pleasure, you sobbed. 

“Fuck,” he growled again. “You’re so fucking tight…” Ren started fucking into you, slipping in to the hilt, hips hitting yours with loud slaps. “You feel so good around my cock…”

Whinging, you lolled your head on the deck-- his words sent a torrent of yearning through your flesh, and your clit screeched for attention, but part of you knew that touching it yourself would deny you release altogether. So you stared at him, chin tucked to your chest, each stroke bringing new, desperate breath to your lungs as your back scratched the smooth stone underneath you. 

“Nothing to stop me,” he said, “nothing to keep me from you.” He jerked you closer, and you wailed from the depth of his thrusts. “You’re going to be mine…”

“Kylo--”

“No,” he hissed. “Say it.” He propped one of your legs on his shoulder, his hand diving between your legs to rub your clit, covering it in blood--you cried out, clenching, convulsing, pleasure creeping into your vision. “Say you want to be mine.”

The earth turned beneath you. Everything, all of it had been for you, but not in the way that you had hoped. No, it had been to alter the universe to his own whims, to construct a galaxy where he could possess you, keep you, trap you in a tiny, wire cage. His little bird. 

You wouldn’t accept that--not after today. You couldn’t.

“Only if--ah--you’re mine, too,” you replied. “I can’t just be yours! You--you have to be mine!” 

“What have I told you?” Ren groaned, deep and low. “If that’s what you want…” He gathered some of the blood from his face onto his thumb. “Then you’ll want for nothing.” He slicked your clit while he fucked you, the fluid warm and wet and spinning you to the height of euphoria. “Say it.”

“I’m--I’m yours!” You shut your lids, awash in the elated reality of his admission. “I’m yours, Kylo!”

“Cum then,” he ordered, “cum on this fucking cock...”

You were drawn and quartered by ecstasy, spine arcing toward the sky as your core clamped his dick, limbs shuddering with the waves of your epinephrine-injected climax. Ren growled, leaning over you to hammer into your cunt, strangling his groan as he poured his cum into you, rolling his hips until he was empty--empty of rage, lust, and energy.

Swallowing, you heaved, eyes fluttering open, seeking out your Commander’s gaze. Not that his position mattered, in this hazy purgatory of existence. In this moment, the laws and regulations of Gilead didn’t apply to you and Ren. You’d defied them, destroyed them all. Together. 

Something, some emotion you’d wrestled into submission so many times before slithered out of its grave--like hope, but more poignant, more powerful, not just the faith that you could survive. No, it was the dream that you could thrive, that Gilead would crumble underneath both of your feet, that--maybe--you could take a canvas and paint a future with him in it. 

Locking eyes, you spied it there, too, beyond the lowered shield of his anger: a mirror of your mind. His hand fell between your breasts, his lip quivering, fingers skimming down your sensitive, starlight skin. How long you laid there, you weren’t sure, but it was after his soft cock had slipped out of you, after your breath had leveled. Sweat glazed you both. 

“Why did you do it?” you asked, finally. You fumbled for his hand, laid yours over it.

Ren paused, staring at the image of your hand--so much smaller--wrapped around his, analyzing it in his mind like a puzzle.  His jaw tensed, and he pulled away. A piece of your heart wilted.

“I told you,” he said, beginning to adjust himself to decency. “Gilead is flawed. My vision will perfect it.” He met your eyes. “You’ll be mine. And you’ll want for nothing.”

“But…” You narrowed your lids. “You’re mine, too, then.”

“I am.” He stood, gazing over the carnage of the yard--the bodies, the blood, the dyed-red water--all of it turning rancid in the summer heat. “Your Commander.” 

There it was. The mallet of his intention, shattering your dreams to disasters. It was as if you had been thrust into the pool yourself, drenched in cold, icy admonishment. How stupid, how foolish were you to imagine that Kylo Ren could consider bringing Gilead down? How short-sighted had you been to believe, for one moment, that he would ever renounce his ownership of you? How horrible, how awful were you that the tiniest, most foolish part of you wanted to accept this--agree to his terms, as long as he’d stay, somewhere, in that canvas.

He held out his hand. “Come.”

Shaking your head, you grabbed your underwear and pulled it on. It seemed silly, getting dressed when half of your clothing would be muddied with blood. You glanced up at him, mapping the wounds in his body. He was hunched, but not hampered. 

“Are you really okay?” 

Ren still had his hand extended. “Yes.”

You frowned, slapped it away. His eye twitched, attention switching between you and his hand--and, to your surprise, he shoved it in his pocket. You grabbed your dress, tugged it on.

“Continue getting dressed,” he said. “I’ll contact my men and tell them--”

“Hello? Who’s out there?”

The voice, tight with fear, froze you both--Ren’s fists clenched, your heart falling somewhere into your ass. From inside the mudroom, a young woman cloaked in blue emerged, and you recognized her immediately. Snoke’s robot, er, Wife. Christine. She hadn’t spoken once at the dinner. 

Between the gloves, the hat, the heeled shoes, it was obvious she was just now returning home. As she surveyed the yard, her gaze fuzzied, and she tumbled into the threshold. Neither you nor Ren made a move to help her.

“What… what happened here?”

It was a fair question. But admitting you’d both participated in a coup likely wouldn’t go over well. You weren’t sure what Ren’s plan was, but you knew the Eyes could have you both killed if they learned this had been your doing.

“Commander Snoke is dead,” Ren said. “I killed--”

“The guard,” you said, glaring at him. “He killed the guard who killed Commander Snoke. After that, the entire place went up.” Looking back at her, you gestured to Ren. “You need to call an ambulance, he’s been injured.”

Christine, appearing dizzy, pushed off of the doorframe and nodded. “I’ll… I’ll get help. Just…” She waved her hands in circles. “Don’t move.”

With that, she stumbled into the home, the click of her heels growing distant. 

You sneered at Ren, pulling on your boots and stuffing the switchblade in your sleeve. “You’re welcome.”

He watched you as you stood, said nothing for a moment--a twitch of pain crossed his face. “When I’m taken to the hospital, you’ll be questioned,” he said. “Say nothing. I will handle this. And when you get home, bathe and get into bed.” His eyes raked over you. “Do you understand?”

You nodded. “Yes, Kylo. I do.”

Ren exhaled, drinking you in. “I’m going to contact my men before the ambulance arrives. They’ll have work to do here.” He reached out and cupped your face. “Be good, little bird.” He patted you on the cheek, and walked into the home. 

[winetae]

➯ a saint in her halo (m.) 10:21pm

↳  drabble; 2.7k

:: smut, college!au, sunbae!jin

:: phone sex, humiliation

beneath his immaculate appearance and flowery words, no one would expect such filth to spew from his lips

...

or; kim seokjin is simultaneously the best and worst kind of distraction

a/n : this is a sequel to a saint in her halo 3:49pm :)

Late at night, you finally give Seokjin a call.

.

.

The memory of your last encounter is still fresh on your mind. Even when you’re not consciously thinking about it - about him - your upper thigh burns like it still remembers the sharp dig of the ballpoint pen rubbing across your bare skin. The constant physical reminder of his touch makes it difficult to concentrate on your everyday activities. It feels like he’s branded you, burned his way into you and made you his. Each time you think you forget, your thigh throbs and heat simmers beneath the surface.

The scrawl of numbers has long since been smudged and erased. To the naked eye, your skin has become a blank canvas once more.

“Call me,” he had said. And God, do you want to.

You don’t work up the courage right away. How can you?

At the time, immediately saving his phone number into your contact list had seemed like a brilliant idea. Now you’re not so sure. Imagination and fantasies are one thing - but in the reality you live in, you aren’t half as bold or confident as you aspire to be. A million reasons stop you, not all of them unfounded - rationality, embarrassment, fear of rejection.

That doesn’t stop you from letting your mind wander, however. The possibility that the call might go well, that it might lead to something else... You sigh, stopping your thoughts before they have time to root themselves deep inside of you and grow into something you can no longer control.

Your friends attempt to urge you into action.

“He gave you his number. I doubt he gave it to you just so you could store it away for safe keeping.”

“What if I read the situation wrong?” You bite your nail. In all honesty, you’re not intentionally trying to be obtuse. Even if you’re unsure as to why, you know deep down that Seokjin’s actions, the way his low voice toyed with you and messed with your insides, are impossible to misinterpret.

“I get it. You like him a lot and don’t want to fuck it up. But if you don’t even try, you’ll never know - and isn’t not knowing worse?”

There’s logic behind the argument, you concede. As the rest of the week stretches on and your mind never fully stops revolving around Seokjin, you start to think that the strange limbo you find yourself stranded in can’t possibly be a crueler fate than rejection. At this point, you don’t feel like yourself anymore, constantly stuck in a phase of uncertainty and hazy arousal. Your thoughts are no longer yours; they belong to Seokjin. All of your half-hearted attempts to banish him from your mind prove to be futile. By diligently trying not to think about him, you only exacerbate the problem.

Perhaps it would be wiser to simply give into your desires instead of driving yourself half-delirious with desire.

Your thumb hovers over the call button more than once. Every time something stops you, whether it be the doorbell ringing, your roommate’s dog barking, the smell of burning toast. There’s always something, always an excuse to back out instead of taking the plunge. You don’t know if these interruptions are supposed to be blessings or curses in disguise. Maybe it’s the universe’s way of telling you that calling Seokjin is a terrible idea, one that should never be acted upon.

Against the universe’s wishes, you press call. The press of your fingerprint against your screen is quick, too quick to process and too quick to take back. You stare at your phone dumbly as it rings on. It’s finally at the third ring that something akin to panic snaps inside of you. What have you done? But before you can hang up and delete the number from your call log, he picks up.

“Hello?”

Your insides clench. Your thigh burns.

“Sunbae. Hi.” You clutch the phone as you press it against your ear.

“Oh?” On the other side of the line, he perks up, sounding pleased. You can hear him move around until the background voices become muted, like he’s secluded himself to talk to you without any distractions. Knowing that he’s focusing his attention solely on you makes your heart stutter pathetically. “I was starting to think you’d never call.”

“You know who I am?” Only then do you realize you had forgotten to introduce yourself.

“I don’t give out my number often. I remember when I do.” He doesn’t even give you any time to process his words, just proceeds to shamelessly continue on, his voice dropping an octave, “I’ve never - I kept thinking about last time. I thought you would call that night.”

“Oh.” There’s a lump in your throat you struggle to swallow down. “I was - busy. Had an assignment due. Sorry.”

“Don’t. I’d expect nothing less from a good girl like you,” he chuckles. “I’m happy to talk to you now.”

Your gulp is audible. There it is again - the praise. Except this time you can’t help but feel like you don’t deserve it. If he knew what sort of salacious thoughts ran through your head all day, maybe he’d change his mind.

“I’m not.”

“What?”

“I mean.” You backtrack, voice small. “I’m not as good as you think.”

“Oh?”

You shut your eyes tight. You’re so embarrassed you might die on the spot. Never in your life have you attempted to say something so brazen. While it’s definitely not as risqué as the pick-up lines you’ve heard your peers employ, it’s so out of character that your friends would probably all freak out if they discovered that you were flirting with Seokjin - one of the most confident and self-assured people on campus, who had a good half of its population chasing after him. In other words, not only is he not in your league, but you’re way out of your depth.

Seokjin gently coaxes you out your inner ramblings by saying your name once or twice.

“Are you alone right now?” he says, his voice smoother than the fanciest silk dress.

“Yes, I’m, um... My roommate won’t be home for another hour.”

You bite your nail, wondering why you would offer that last bit of information up unprompted. In hindsight, it seems awfully forward, almost like you’re hoping for something to happen. Are you? What do you want to happen?

He hums in response. Your heartbeat doesn’t slow down. You can feel it knock against your ribs, shaking your core.

“An hour is—” you stop yourself before you can finish. Can you really say this?

“Is?” Seokjin encourages.

Idly, you wonder how he’s able to do that - coax you out of your shell and get you to say things you’d normally never dare utter. Maybe hiding behind a phone call makes you reckless and brave. There’s no one present to witness you make a fool of yourself. No one except for Seokjin - but he’s been nothing but kind and patient.

You let out a shaky breath and steady your heart. Somehow, you know that even if you still lack the skills to pull this off, Seokjin will refrain from poking fun at you. That piece of knowledge is enough to steel your nerves and give you the final push you need.

“Is an hour enough to play with me?”

A more experienced girl would’ve made the phrase sound seductive and enticing. Your clumsy attempt is evidently less alluring than what you’d been aiming for but Seokjin, surprisingly, seems affected all the same.

He exhales sharply before chuckling, the rumbling sound doing strange things to your insides. “Cute.”

Cute? You’d been hoping for ‘sexy’.

“What are you wearing right now?”

The question catches you off-guard. You glance down and frown at the sight. You’d thrown on an old pair of shorts and a tank top as soon as you’d gotten home. Should you lie and say you’d worn a sheer negligee instead? You don’t want to ruin Seokjin’s fantasy but you have a feeling that even if you fibbed, you’d be found out in an instant.

“It’s really nothing special...” You squirm, limbs twisting in the sheets as you try to find a more comfortable position. Talking with Seokjin makes you restless. “Just a tank top and shorts. Ah, but—”

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. Maybe it won’t make a difference but you have nothing to lose at this point, right?

“I’m not - I don’t have a bra on.” In the back of your mind, you’re grateful Seokjin can’t see how flustered you are right now. You’re certain his presence would have made it worse.

There’s a brief silence, too long for your liking, before Seokjin finally speaks up.

“You said you wanted to play a game with me?”

“Yes.” Your throat feels dry. Although you suspect he already knows, you do your best not to gulp too loudly, unwilling to make your nervousness apparent.

Not even a week ago, you’d been just another girl he knew who admired him from afar. Too shy to strike up an actual conversation with him, you’d been content with attending the same class together. Who would’ve known you’d be here on the phone with him now? The idea is so surreal that you’re tempted to pinch yourself awake.

“Good. Why don’t you go ahead and tell me why you’ve been a bad girl?”

Coming from anyone else, the words would have made you cringe. You suppose that’s the main difference between you and him - he actually has the suaveness to pull such acts off.

“Well—” You can do this. You wet your bottom lip, aware of how chapped your lips are - nothing like Seokjin’s plump mouth, pink and lush. “I’ve been - I’ve thought about you a lot.”

“I’m flattered.” He sounds smug and not all that surprised. “What were you thinking of?”

“I -” A shiver runs down your back. “Just. You know.”

“If you want to play, you have to follow my rules,” he says gravely. “Tell me what you were thinking of unless you want to see how I deal with bad girls.”

Your eyes widen. Secretly, the promise of punishment excites you terribly.  

Seokjin catches on and laughs, short and airy. “You that interested in finding out?”

“I’m - no.”

He hums in reply. “Tell you what - if you really want to find out, I can show you. But I think you’ll find that the rewards I give are much sweeter than my punishments.”

You stretch your toes, silently weighing the pro and the cons. A selfish part of you wants it all - the rewards, the praise, the punishment, everything. You’d take whatever he’s willing to give, like a glutton with no notion of moderation.

“I thought of your fingers. And, um, I thought of them touching me. Under my skirt. Like last time, b-but —” Your fingers played with the wrinkles of your loose shorts. “Higher.”

Seokjin makes a pleased noise that vibrates low in his throat. “Good girl. Tell me more. Did you think of me touching your pussy in class, hm? Is the thought of me playing with your pussy in front of all our classmates what gets you wet?”

You moan, the sound surprising yourself. In the privacy of your shared bedroom, you close your eyes and let his crude words wash over you. Your underwear feels sticky already, and you rub your thighs together, hoping that it’ll somewhat alleviate the throbbing ache between your legs.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Seokjin groans, and with the phone pressed up against your ear, it feels like he’s right next to you.

“Yes.” Arousal clouds your mind and makes confessing easier. “I’d let you play with my pussy all you want.”

“Is that so? You’d let me use you? Be my good toy?”

“Yes!” You agree greedily. “Please?”

“Are your nipples hard? Can you see them through your shirt?”

You glance down, and, sure enough, your nipples are visible through the thin tank top. You tell him so, happy to listen to him groan in approval.

“When we end this call, be my good girl and send me a picture. I want to see you with your shirt still on, all horny from the thought of me playing with your pussy in public. God, that’s hot.”

“Sunbae.” One of your hands tentatively reach for the waistband of your shorts. “Can I - can you give me permission to touch myself?”

“Lose the shorts,” he agrees.

You hurriedly comply, wondering if he’s also going to touch himself. Or maybe he’s already getting himself off? The thought makes your cunt clench.

“Bend your legs and spread them wide for me.” He waits until you’ve assured him you’re in the position he wants. “Good kitten. Is your pussy wet? You can touch yourself but only over your panties.”

“Ugh, fuck.” Your legs twitch as you slide your fingers along your clothed slit. “There’s a wet patch. Ah!”

You’d always been sensitive, but never to this degree. You feel like you could cum from the slightest touch to your clit.

“You sound like you’re close. You must really love the idea of my fingers fucking your wet, little pussy. What would your classmates say if they found out such a sweet, shy little kitten was playing slut in the back of the classroom? Hm? They’d turn around and see you spreading your legs wide for me, riding my fingers desperately while wishing it was my cock instead.”

He paints the picture with such ease that you can’t help but wonder if he’s thought about it before - secluded in the back of the classroom, his fingers stuffed deep in your pussy as you struggle to muffle your sounds of pleasure.

“Oh, oh, I—” Your fingers dug into your sodden underwear as you imagined yourself in that scenario. Shit. Your fantasies seem tame in comparison to the filth coming out of his mouth.

“Gonna cum hard for me, kitten?” He asks. “What is it that’s pushed you over the edge? The thought of me using your pussy? The promise of my cock filling you up afterwards? Or is it the idea of everyone finding out that you’re not a good girl, but a desperate little slut who likes to be fucked in public?”

Maybe - maybe it’s all three. You don’t have time to analyze what the answer is. Seokjin barely finishes his sentence before your body seizes up in a long, hard orgasm that leaves the ends of your toes tingling. Your back arches off the bed, your hard nipples straining against the cotton material of your top. Through it all, you think you might’ve heard Seokjin reach completion, but you’re so wracked with pleasure you can’t be sure.

The haze doesn’t lift right away. You hear Seokjin’s heavy breathing in your ear and with your eyes closed it almost feels like he’s laying right here with you. Honestly, you don’t know what tomorrow will bring - if this game can continue or not. If he’d been serious about a next time. You know, however, that for you nothing will be the same as before. You can never go back to silently pinning after the popular upperclassman. Now that you’ve had a taste of him, you fear you’ve become addicted.  

[imjeralee]

Comfort in Despair: Chapter 6 - It’s You

Leon x F!Reader

Disclaimer: Do not own Pokemon

Summary:

Galar is rich in folklore and tales of the supernatural.

As a Pokemon Researcher who specialises in ghost types, this is a great opportunity for you to investigate and learn more about the paranormal.

Along the way, you meet Leon (in the most awkward way possible) who becomes embroiled in your adventures.

^ Basically this story is about ghosts :/

Rating: General/Teen

Warnings: Blood, also I think this chapter is quite dark

It's You

...

...

[Unused testimonial, submitted by Chief Inspector Chris Graves: She's used to dealing with death. It doesn't get easier, but it doesn't surprise her anymore.]

...

...

A droplet of icy cold water splashes over Leon's cheek, forcing him to stir.

Opening his eyes groggily, he lets his vision settle before he looks up and around, discovering that he has been brought to a cave and is lying on an incredibly chilly and hard surface. He doesn't see Charizard anywhere.

Surrounded by nothing but doom and gloom, Leon emits a groan as he attempts to sit up. He gathers as much strength as he can to his arms and eases his elbows backwards in order to push himself off the ground but discovers he cannot move; glancing down, he sees a sheet of ice covering his legs and feet, preventing means of escape. Although he's wearing clothing that would combat the cold to an extent, he finds himself shivering from the extreme frigidness of this cavern.

"Where am I...?" he mutters, before an eerie and ethereal wail shakes the cavern walls and Leon tosses a glimpse to the source of the sound.

A writhing, ghostly white figure bobs up and down over the cavern floor in the distance, bounding closer and closer to him.

It's a Froslass.

He's never seen a wild one in Galar before and unfortunately he makes eye contact with it and the Froslass trills happily when she sees that he is awake and floats over to him, reaching for him with her little cold and elongated white paws that are attached to the sides of her head. She proceeds to stroke his long hair and nuzzles her face over the top of his head and buries her cheeks over the scruff of his beard affectionately.

Overjoyed, Froslass releases him, turning away before quickly whirling round, revealing that she has brought a leppa berry for him and she leaves it on the ground near his right thigh. She continues to float around him daintily before heading to the far side of the cave to go through a collection of rucksacks and opening them happily one by one and emptying them of contents.

Froslass goes through them whilst singing unintelligibly, occasionally throwing away items that aren't of interest before she pulls out a packet of mixed mushrooms and holds them high in the air. She emits a loud squeal of glee and clutches the packet in her paws. Next, she finds a comb from one of the bags and returns to Leon's side. She nudges the packet for his taking.

With the comb, she settles beside him and begins brushing his hair, purring with affection.

She appears to be fond of him.

...

When Charizard brings you to the area where he had lost Leon, he lands in the middle of a lonely path hidden between a large cluster of trees and you hop off his back and onto the ground, the dirt scrunching under your shoes.

Charizard and Gengar watch you silently as you begin assessing your surroundings. You're aware Leon has a bad sense of direction and despite your warning, he's vanished in the Giant's Seat. They camped outside, but from what Charizard is attempting to tell you, Leon was lured in.

And the moment Charizard brought you here, you knew something was wrong immediately. The negative energy that lingers here is suffocating. To the untrained eye, it's a typical, clear day. However, you can sense that the atmosphere is heavy and thick as fog. There is a miasma that has taken ahold of the vicinity, filling it up with nothing but misery, fear and regret.

Gengar appears to sense it too for he shivers on his spot.

It's very late now and there is not a single soul in sight, allowing you to work quickly and silently with no disruption. It's too dark and dank here so you decide not to waste your time dressing up as a boy in order to get yourself captured or to look for tracks or footprints, granted if there are any. Finding Leon as quickly as possible is your priority here and you have a technique that would assist you here, therefore you hurriedly drop to your knees on the ground, grabbing your bag and zipping it open.

Charizard and Gengar move to your left and right respectively and observe as you pull out a small strip of clean bandages, a pouch containing a small blank piece of scritta paper and a swiss army knife with red handle.

"Don't look if you're squeamish," you warn them as you settle the piece of paper over the ground in front of you, using your knee to prevent it from flying away in the wind, but the Pokemon don't retreat in response to your words of caution and you swipe the blade over your left palm, drawing blood.

Charizard balks at your action but Gengar doesn't flinch at all and you dab your a finger into your bloodied palm and proceed to draw a symbol on the paper. When you're done, you quickly bandage your hand, pull your gloves back on, close your eyes and place the talisman over the middle of your forehead where it doesn't fall off.

You activate it with a murmured chant, re-open your eyes, and immediately the world around you has shifted; the woods are no longer empty but filled with several pale, humanoid figures that stand listlessly behind bushes and near the path. There is even one hanging motionless from a tree. There is also one standing on the cliff overlooking the horizon before it slowly shuffles away from sight.

The talisman helps weed out these weaker presences and you're able to focus on a stronger and sinister entity. Your eyes narrow once more as you hone in on the source of the overwhelming energy that plagues the entire area. It's a white and wispy trail that beckons you to follow the path before it disappears to the left, into the trees and towards the cliffs.

There.

That's where Leon was taken.

You get up to stand with Charizard and Gengar by your side.

"Let's go."

You use the talisman and the additional boon it has granted you to follow the trail that whisks you and the Pokemon far away from the gym challenger's normal path and towards the forest. Much like the haunted house case, no-one should be able to come across here unless they deliberately go off trail.

Your group continues to wade through the tall grass and through the undergrowth, trying to avoid disrupting the wild pokemon until you finally arrive at a steep and winding path that leads uphill. With a plethora of trees and bushes bordering everywhere you look, you realise you have no idea where you are. You've completely gone off track and you find yourself in a remote area devoid of anyone and anything. There are even no pokemon lurking about; you have no idea of how deep you are in the Giant's Seat.

The talisman's effect is beginning to wear off, the wispy white trail growing fainter and fainter, so you hasten your pace. The dwindling trail leads you to a powerful, rushing river and Charizard needs to help you out here. Once again, he allows you to ride on his back and carries you safely across whilst Gengar floats after you both.

On the other side of the river, a deteriorated path leads directly to the mountain that lines the border and once you reach this unknown new area, a familiar black cap sits lopsided near a berry tree. Eyes wide, Charizard zooms towards it and picks it up.

It's Leon's snapback.

"He's close," you tell him, and Charizard hugs the cap to his chest before handing you the cap which you keep safe in your bag. The talisman is showing you that the trail continues, leading further ahead into the mountain. "We need to go up."

Charizard nods and when you climb onto his back, he takes off to the sky with a huge flap of his wings. Once you're high enough in the air, Charizard lets you scan the horizon where you see a large gathering of the white wisp within one of the many small summits.

You ask Charizard to land and he does so; you hop off without much further ado once you're back on land and inspect your new surroundings.

It's a strange spectacle; the summit is covered entirely in snow and there are scattered remains of a campsite which have been completely frozen solid. The tent is still standing on its frames and zipped open, the flaps fluttering uselessly in the icy breeze. You're grateful you're wearing thermal clothes for the temperature here must be bordering sub zero.

Leon must be here.

"Leon!!" you call out, shivering somewhat, "Leon, can you hear me?"

Charizard roars and bellows for his friend, his fiery tail melting away some of the ice. You inspect the campsite but there are no footprints (aside from yours and Charizard's), it does not look like it has been subjected to a pokemon attack but it does appear someone was camping here and had left rather abruptly.

You see a plate on the ground near the tent, covered in snow and full of uneaten, rotten food which you suppose is curry. An opened metal flask stands beside it, full of frozen water. Then you check the firewood, picking up one of the pieces and you notice it is charred on one side, which indicates it had been burning for a while before eventually fizzing out. Whilst Charizard and Gengar look around, you step over to check the tent, pulling the flap down to see a pair of running shoes and rolled up socks stuffed inside, along with a sleeping bag and journal and a ballpoint pen lying near the pillow.

Gengar floats inside, picks the journal up and hands it to you; you thank him and read through the pages and discover it belongs to Maisy, the first missing victim and the latest diary entry is dated roughly three months ago as per below:

'Day 10. I'm still camping in the Wild Area, somewhere in the Giant's Seat. I found this neat spot in the mountain and I don't think anyone else has been here. It's awesome! It's like I have the whole place to myself! I've visited a few pokemon dens too but I kept getting tossed out. Can't stop thinking about that Watt Trader I met in the Rolling Fields either, he is so cute! Even Rookidee thinks so!'

The entry finishes there.

Closing the book, you gingerly place it down and move from the tent. Maisy was here but there is no sign of her anywhere.

"What happened to her...?" you murmur to yourself.

The effect of the talisman eventually wears off and your vision returns to normal. You pull it off your forehead and the little paper flutters limply in the wind and disappears down the cliff. You continue searching the campsite to look for clues until you drop to your knees, clutching your chest. A particularly oppressive force has wrapped itself around you and you struggle to breathe.

The negative energy appears to cloak the entire campsite. You move to stand, blindly take a step forward near the pile of firewood and the snowy ground underneath you completely gives way. You shriek as you fall, promptly dropping inside the small hole.

Gengar is quick to dive in, catching you in mid-air and he gently lets you down on the ground and onto your feet, the bottom of your shoes crunching under the snow.

"Thanks Gengar," you mutter and he grins wider.

Glancing left and right, jagged, sharp rocks surround you, covered in a slippery sheen of ice. You can no longer hear the howl of the icy wind outside and it is hauntingly quiet in this hole. Charizard arrives at the rounded entrance, resembling somewhat of a speck. He waves at you and you tell him you're fine, your voice echoing. It's a huge drop...a fall from this height would surely kill someone...

Gengar gestures if you want to be brought back up but you shake your head.

"I think this is it," you tell him whilst Charizard tries to squeeze himself in but he is too big, unable to fit into the hole. You're quite certain this is a Pokemon den.

Gengar tugs on your arm and you turn to where he is pointing to.

There is a medium-sized hollow to your left that indicates an entrance of some sort and it appears to be your next destination. Thanking Gengar for his vigilance, you are about to enter only to be halted immediately by the faint stench of putrefaction which hits you square in the nose. You and Gengar turn to look at each other before you both throw your glance to the uneven level of snow beneath your feet.

"....Do you think...?" you croak out, and Gengar nods.

Dread begins piling in your gut as you lower yourself to your knees and begin brushing and shovelling away the snow. Gengar assists, uncovering as much of the snow as he can with his paws until you unearth a pile of jagged rocks of all shapes and sizes. Gengar helps lift them up and moves them to the side, revealing a dull pea-green, flimsy material with a broken yellow, plastic zipper and the symbol 'LASS'. You curl your fist and gently rap your knuckles against it; there is something rock-solid underneath.

Inhaling a shaky breath, you continue to brush away more snow until you uncover an eye.

Charizard growls loudly as you pause, wondering what you have discovered, but you quickly sweep the remainder of the snow away using the sides of your palms and soon, you have uncovered a pale, white face.

Her head is bent to one side, her eyes open and staring endlessly at the sky. Ice crystals frame her face and eyelashes, her lips painted an eggshell blue.

"Oh..." you murmur under your breath, "I'm sorry...I'm so sorry..."

Gengar watches you silently, then averts his gaze to the dead body. There's one more rock to move and he inches it out of its spot, revealing a dirtied bag crushed underneath and pulls it out. Holding it upside down, a crushed pokeball drops out and Gengar holds it up to you for your taking.

You're reluctant, but you take it off him and push the button and a red light fizzes limply, revealing a Rookidee... though it is unmoving as it lies on the ground, eyes closed. You reach for the little bird and cradle it in your arms, stroking its cold and limp feathers. It doesn't respond.

You look at Gengar and he shakes his head sadly.

It is dead.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you feel their loneliness, fear and pain and emit a hoarse cry from the back of your throat before you murmur a prayer for them under your breath.

However, Charizard growls louder, forcing you to place the little Rookidee beside its trainer. Your legs feel heavy as you force yourself to stand up and rub your eyes with the back of your wrist, inhaling a deep and heavy breath.

Turning to Charizard, you yell, "Go to Wyndon Police Station and find Chief Inspector Graves! Bring him here."

Charizard nods, takes off, and the silence returns.

The hole to your left is your next destination now and so without further ado, Gengar hitches a ride in your shadow and you climb inside, lifting your left leg first then your right, and you shimmy in as carefully as you can and try not to lose balance or else you risk falling and dropping on a sharp rock. You squeeze yourself into the tight and narrow passageway which is covered in cobwebs and frost, ducking to avoid jagged rocks.

You grab your torch and shine the light in front of you only to be greeted with darkness.

It's a long trip. You cannot see anything else up ahead except pitch black. With one gloved on the wall and another gripping your trusty flashlight, you continue in your journey, using the rocks as support and taking baby steps so not to slip or fall, until the area around you becomes colder and colder, your breath escaping into the air in the form of thick puffs of smoke.

Throwing your glance over your shoulder, it's an equally long trip back to the way you came from.

You can't stop now. Emitting a grunt, you push yourself forwards, squeezing through the narrow passageway.

Eventually, it comes to an end when you see the small, glimmering flicker of light and you are hopeful you have made it into the pokemon den. The light grows brighter and brighter, shifting to a slightly blue tinge and you arrive at a large and empty cavern with rocky, uneven walls that are completely frozen over with ice. It's even colder here than it is outside.

You're bathed in blue and your jaw drops slightly as you make your way further inside where you are greeted with the sight of huge stalactites and stalagmites.

The stalagmites are a beautiful, crystalline azure in colour and you inch towards one to peer into it, you see a magnificent rainbow of colours within as the light from your torch reflects off. It is as tall as yourself, stretching from the ground and creeping towards the ceiling where an equally impressive-looking stalactite points dangerously above.

You shine the torch around, not quite sure what you will find here until you spot a large assortment of random bags and rucksacks piled up in one corner, including many empty phone cases.

Next, you shine the long beam of your torch to the wall where the bags are and a peaky face encased within the icy walls stares at you from across the expanse and you realise it is one of the missing gym challengers. His eyes are open, mouth agape with unheard terror, his body lodged deep within a thick case of ice.

Shining the torch to his right, he is not alone. There is another body... and another. In fact, the walls are embedded with the bodies of the missing people you were looking for. Some of them are displayed far apart and appear to have been forced into a strange, outlandish pose, with their arms and legs splayed in odd formation. Their faces are etched with horror and agony.

Resembling grotesque, stringless puppets that have been casually positioned in a canvas of ice, you struggle to breathe again as you are hit with their terror and grief which overwhelms you; the atmosphere is full of anguish and you squeeze your eyes shut with pain.

Gengar emerges from your shadow and floats into the air, looking around cautiously and on high alert.

You did it.

You found the missing people, but...

Where is Leon?

You shine the torch everywhere, calling out for the Champion until you see a familiar figure reflected off one of the stalactites. He is lying on the ground near a particularly large boulder which would've been missed.

"Leon!” you yell.

You rush over despite the icy ground and Gengar trails after you as you struggle to maintain your balance, your feet occasionally slipping or sliding over the glacial floor; when you reach the boulder, Leon is unmoving on the ground, his body covered in a thin sheet of ice. He appears paler than usual and his lips are turning a shade of blue. It appears he is in mid-process of being frozen alive but his woolly sweats are still keeping him warm to an extent.

"Leon!" you exclaim with relief, dropping to your knees beside him.

You lift up his arm, pulling his sleeve to his elbow and applying two fingers over his wrist. You find the thrum of his pulse before lowering his arm back down and you gently place your ear over his chest. When you sit up, you notice he doesn't seem to be breathing.

Being a Researcher means you have to be well-versed with at least some emergency procedures and CPR is included, though you didn't think you would ever have to carry out CPR on the Champion of Galar.

Without further ado, you move the heel of your hand over the centre of his chest, then place your other hand on top and begin to routinely press down.

Gengar floats over and watches as you administer the chest compressions before you lean down and tilt Leon's head gently, lifting his chin up to yours and pinch the bridge of his nose carefully.

You proceed to press your lips over Leon's and provide two rescue breaths before you retreat and check if his chest rises. Nothing happens and Leon is still unconscious so you repeat the process a second time until Leon's mouth opens on his own accord, he inhales a sharp breath and coughs and you release him.

He slowly opens his eyes, those deep honey pools landing on your form and the corner of his lips tugs upwards into a wide grin.

“Leon, you're okay! Thank Arceus!!” you exclaim with relief.

You want to be careful with him as much as you can as it looks like he's in a lot of pain but it doesn't stop you from hugging him tightly; you wrap your arms around his head, bringing him into your embrace and holding him tightly, resting your chin atop his head and smoothing your hand over his hair.

Leon blinks sluggishly at you as you let go of him briefly, inspect the rest of his features by placing a hand over his icy cold cheeks. He watches you as you continue to hug him and croaks out, "...It's you..."

"Yeah, it's me."

"...What're you doing here...?"

"We came to rescue you. You got taken by a Froslass...Geez, you're freezing," you utter, before you gently let go of him to pull your warm coat off. You proceed to drape it around him, pulling the lapels tightly together, followed by your scarf which you fish out from your bag and loop around his neck again and again. Leon's gaze is fixed on you the entire time, watching you tear your gloves off your hands and ease them over his own. "Is that better?"

He nods as you sneeze, your teeth beginning to chatter. "Aren't you..."

"It's fine. I'm fine," you say quickly, before you encircle your arms around his shoulders once more.

"...I read your blog...You're so brave..." he mutters and when he notices that your exposed fingers are shaking from the cold, he reaches for your hand and entwines your fingers together. His hand is so much larger than yours, his fingers curling around yours, and he grips you rather firmly. He's grateful for your warmth, brushing his thumb over the back of your palm.

However, he runs his fingers over your bandages and along the middle of your palm where you had cut yourself. He looks up and you throw your glance down; your gazes meet and he says, "What happened to your hand? You're hurt..."

"It's nothing."

"...Nothing?"

"Yeah."

He blinks slowly at you and murmurs your name. "I really admire you..."

"Save your strength. You're delirious from the cold," you say to the woozy Leon.

"And you're pretty..."

"Now you're just delusional."

"Where’s Charizard...?”

"I asked him to get help.”

"...How did you find me?”

"Charizard brought me to the area where you went missing and I followed this trail and...”

You can’t tell if he’s listening but he appears to be studying you carefully.

"......Charizard let you ride on his back?”

”Yeah."

Leon says nothing and you wonder why he’s fallen silent until he suddenly points at something in front of you.

You quickly look up to see an intense flurry of snow materialising in the middle of the cave before you, hovering in the air in a tight ball.

The cavern's temperature drops even further and Gengar hastily stands in front of you and Leon protectively, ready to battle.

An unearthly, mournful wail rips through the cave and sends numerous shivers down your spine and rattles your very core before the hail of snow unravels violently, revealing a ghostly white figure within, her blue eyes glowing brightly under the dim light.

It's Froslass, and she's enraged that you've trespassed her home and found her prey.

"Gengar, use Dark Pulse!" you yell, and Gengar immediately leaps towards her, summoning a bright ball of purple energy in his hands before he shoots it at the pokemon.

Froslass avoids the attack with a dainty twirl and hurls a glowing white ball at him in response. It's a Confuse Ray. He avoids by leaping to the side and you instruct him to use another Dark Pulse attack whilst Froslass counterattacks, unleashing a barrage of icicles towards your direction.

You protect Leon from the frost by throwing yourself in front of him, shielding him with your body though your back bears the brunt of the attack and you squeeze your eyes shut, biting down on your lip to blot out the pain. Leon's eyes grow wide at your action and a vicious snowstorm brews inside the cavern. As you start to shiver and twitch furiously, Leon drapes his arms around you and pulls you closer to you to him and you open your eyes in shock, whipping your head up to him.

He offers you a gentle smile and as the snowstorm rages, he moves one hand to the back of your head and the other around your shoulders as you huddle together on the ground.

Gengar darts left and right to avoid the harsh snow and Froslass' incoming attacks. His eyes glow a bright red before he soars into the air and holds his arms out, circular beams of energy shooting out.

The snow stops at once, the little round particles frozen in mid-air, and you and Leon avert your gazes to the beautiful but deadly sight. Froslass looks confused until Gengar waggles his finger and the sleet returns to her, shooting towards her direction.

You're not sure what kind of move that was but it appears to be a psychic move and Froslass is battered by her own technique.

"Way to go, Gengar!" you exclaim as you look up, still shivering, "You're just full of surprises, aren't you?"

Gengar returns to land in front of you and Leon, turns to you and nods, grinning wickedly.

As Froslass reels from the impact, it's then you see various shadowy tendrils emerging from her weakened body and Leon loosens his grip on you so you can stick your hand into your bag, pulling out the Odd Keystone and tossing it upwards where it lingers in mid-air and begins to shake rigorously.

"In nómine Pátris, et Fílii, et Spirítus Sancti." you say aloud, aware that Leon is staring at you.

Trembling violently, a loud crack emits from the Odd Keystone and the fissure begins to glow.

The dark shadow is forcibly pulled from Froslass and the pokemon drops to the floor, severely weakened. The shadow screams agonisingly, the sounds echoing off the walls of the cave but the Odd Keystone continues quaking furiously, effectively sucking the shadow inside. Shadows also begin to arise from the multiple corpses that are frozen in the walls, a mix of contorted horrifying screams following as a number of dark, shadowy outlines become sucked out from the ice and towards the stone.

The Odd Keystone glows brighter as the shadows resist. It is futile, the keystone drags them in with a power like no other, the screams grows fainter and fainter until the dreadful sounds stop entirely, and the cavern goes silent and all grows still. The Keystone drops to the ground but Gengar quickly catches it in his paws and brings it carefully to you.

"Thank you, Gengar," you say, and he grins in response as you return the keystone safely into your bag.

Leon has been watching the entire time, eyes wide.

Averting attention to the downed Froslass, you take out a Dusk Ball from your bag, tossing it at the pokemon and the capsule smacks into the pokemon and opens, sucking the critter inside. The ball drops to the ground and wiggles for a few seconds before it successfully clicks shut.

Emitting a huge sigh of relief, you turn and bury your face in Leon's chest.

It's over.

You glance at Gengar, teeth chattering. "Gengar....can you check if...if Charizard's come back?"

He nods and heads for the narrow passageway you had emerged from, disappearing into the darkness.

It's you and Leon all alone again, and the temperature of the den is not improving; having given Leon your coat and other warm gear, you pull yourself off his chest to sit beside him against the boulder, though you still slink your arms around him, hoping to keep him warm until help arrives.

He reaches for your hand again, glancing up as you shake and your teeth chatter. "....You're cold..."

"I-I-I'm fine...don't worry about me..."

"The coat's big enough for the two of us." he utters, but you shake your head and pull the coat properly over him and zip it up to his chin. You let go of him, retreating your hand away from his and choosing to roll and curl up in a fetal position, clutching your bag to your chest for warmth.

“You need it more than I do, Leon…” you utter as you close your eyes, hugging your bag firmly.

A silence settles between you both and you don’t know how long has passed but the cold is getting worse; your fingertips are growing numb and you cannot stop trembling. You’re wondering what is taking Charizard and Gengar so long until you hear Leon fumbling around in his spot; you throw a cautious glance over your shoulder to see that he has pulled the zip down, unwrapped the coat again and he reaches for you, slinking his arms around your waist, pulling you into his embrace.

“…W-what are you doing…”

His lips tug upwards into a grin of reassurance. “It’s okay…”

You gawp at him but you are so cold, you cannot move, resist or protest, and so Leon attempts to sit up with you sitting limply in his lap. He also unravels the scarf from his neck and drapes it around you and you glimpse down at yourself. You're sharing the scarf now. The coat is not forgotten and he pulls and tugs the thick fabric to cover you before he settles his sturdy arms around your waist and you're instantly swept up by Leon's lingering warmth. He rests his chin atop your head, the scruff of his beard tickling your scalp as he emits a hum under his breath.

You're surprised by his bold actions but you feel at ease at once and you slump against him, your cheek smushed against his chest. “….If the press saw us, they'd have a field day…” you mumble under your breath.

He chuckles, his chest rumbling. "I know, but I wouldn't care and neither should you," he utters, "...Thank you for saving me."

"You're welcome, Leon."

"Is your back okay?"

You nod.

He gives you a tight squeeze and although you know it's to keep you warm, you can't help the frantic thudding of your heart as you consider how close you are and how tightly he's holding you to him. You wonder if he's feeling the same.

"So...so cold..." you croak out, your breathing laboured.

He glances at you in surprise, then rubs your arm up and down with his large palm soothingly. "Is that better?"

"...Yeah."

Leon throws his gaze to the ceiling as he continuously rubs your arm. It grows silent briefly until he utters, "Hey, I got a question..."

"What...?"

"Who’s Rosie?”

"...How...how do you know that name?"

"I thought I heard you say that name when we were camping."

"Oh..." you mutter, “Rosie is my little sister…”

“…Did something happen to her?”

You grow tense, squeezing your eyes shut and curling your fists. “……..You....wouldn't understand.” And you didn’t think you would tell Leon this, if at all. "...But if she was still here, she would've been Hop's age. She would've started her pokemon journey..."

There is a silence following your revelation, but Leon gives your waist a squeeze as he shifts his arms. You cannot tell if it was accidental or not but it makes your heartbeat soar.

“...I’m sorry," he murmurs.

You shake your head limply in response.

Before Leon can ask further questions, the cave begins to tremble and a muffled but loud noise is accompanied with a fierce roar; it must be Charizard. He is not alone, you can hear several voices echoing through the passageway.

"Mr Champion??" yells a familiar voice, "We have a team coming to get you, please sit tight!"

It's Graves.

You are saved.

...

Charizard has returned to the pokemon den with the Chief Inspector, who has brought a team with him.

Maisy's body and Froslass' victims have been recovered.

Leon is brought to the nearest hospital and so are you. You had spent the long wait in the Pokemon den huddling together until Graves arrived. The whole trip is a rather nerve-wracking one as you sit in the ambulance by Leon's side. He falls unconscious as he's wheeled in and fitted with a breathing mask but he holds onto your hand the entire time and refuses to let go, even when the paramedics attempts to split the two of you up.

Once you arrive at the hospital, you're forced to separate and Leon's fingers are pried off yours; you're extremely worried, watching as Leon is wheeled away by the medics out of the ambulance and into the hospital. He's taken to a private room away from the curious bystanders and journalists, whereas you're redirected to the main A&E area and forced to sit on a bed with the curtain pulled round, tended by a nurse on her nightshift.

Your shredded palm is properly dressed and she checks the rest of your body and back and then after that brief checkup, she tells you you're free to go. The coat is returned to you and so are the rest of your belongings.

When you return to the main waiting area, Chief Inspector Graves picks you up for questioning and to take some testimony off you which you do to your best ability.

You're dismissed a second time after a long and particularly gruelling session and you return to the waiting area again whilst he disappears to buy a coffee from the vending machines. You find the same seat again, sit down and spot a man in a white tracksuit, cap and sunglasses who passes you and realise it is Chairman Rose of Macro Cosmos when his stoic assistant Oleana strides beside him. Despite the late hour, they appear immaculate and they're heading towards the direction of Leon's room.

You attempt to follow them, albeit maintaining a safe and short distance away and they vanish further down the corridor and into the room, the door slamming shut. As you pass several rooms, you see numerous Lampents hanging outside, staring woefully at the patients through the windows.

It appears no-one is bothered by their presences but your priority is Leon. You want to see how Leon is doing, so you want to go with them but there is already a small crowd and the nurses are doing their best to disperse them.

It's not ideal to go see Leon right now; he needs time to rest so you return to the main waiting area where you find an empty seat and sit down, glancing at Froslass' capsule.

You're not sure what to do with her.

A short while later, a dark-skinned woman and little boy (with piercing golden eyes that resembles Leon's) enters the hospital and you hear them asking for Leon at the desk and you're well aware that this is his mother and his little brother, Hop. His mother's face is sagging with concern and fear whilst Hop hugs his Wooloo to himself tightly. You can't help but feel bad for them. You observe as they disappear down the same route Rose and Oleana had ventured to.

You still have Leon's snapback with you which you want to return to him, but you think it's best to return it to him the next morning when he's better and circumstances have cooled down.

The TV in the corner broadcasts a quick thirty second run of 'Breaking News' about eight bodies being found in the Giant's Seat that are believed to be the missing gym challengers. There are no news about Leon being part of the bunch and it shifts to a Turrfield Orchards commercial.

You sit in your seat, pondering to yourself.

You had found Leon in the nick of time. Froslass never froze him entirely because she became infatuated with him so she had spared his life. Also, his clothes were warm enough to a certain extent. He will recover but according to the Pokemon League's official website, his match has been postponed and Rose has to give him a week or so, maybe longer, to recuperate.

You can imagine what is most likely to happen.

The League will have to reassess the areas that can be explored in the Wild Area, due to the deaths of several gym challengers. You can already imagine the social media content that will emerge such as 'Galar's Gym Challenge and the Perils of the Wild Area: How Safe is Safe?' and 'The Reason Why I'm No Longer Going to Pursue The Gym Challenge, Read Full Article Here'.

The gym challenge won't be cancelled and will continue to exist but sections of the Wild Area considered dangerous for gym challengers such as the mountain summit and the pokemon den where you found Leon, will be sealed off for good and Macro Cosmos will introduce more Watt Traders to patrol so this wouldn't happen again.

You sit for an hour or so, waiting for further updates until you hear the sounds of footsteps approaching and you look up; it's Graves and another police officer, escorting one of your clients you had spoken to earlier on in the day.

She's ashen-faced and quiet until she spots you in your seat. "You liar! He's dead! My son is dead!" she roars accusingly at once, her eyes wild and full of hatred. She is quickly apprehended by Graves and the officer, blocking her from approaching you any further.

"Ma'am, calm down," Graves says and his stern looks and commanding tone serves to quell her anger in seconds.

The woman's furious expression crumbles and she begins sobbing loudly. Graves leaves the woman snivelling and wailing with the officer, heading towards your direction.

"Why're you still here?" he asks gruffly when he stops by your side. Despite the late hour, Graves doesn't look tired. He's used to pulling late night shifts just like you. "Leon's fine, if that's what you're worried about."

"...Are there any survivors?" you ask, "The Pokemon?"

Graves shakes his head. "Frozen to death."

You tense in your seat. "What about their Rotoms?"

"Gone."

...which means they're also dead. "Okay," you say quietly as you throw your glance to your lap.

"We can handle it from here, kiddo. I'm going to speak to Rose and we'll deal with the victim's families and the press. Thanks for your help; you did good. Real good. Your parents would be proud," he scrubs his face with his palm and says, "Go home, it's late. Magnolia will be worried."

You nod in response, Graves returns to the weeping woman and escorts her away with the officer. She's grieving so you don't blame her for her outburst. It's not the first time you have been called a liar anyway.

You let out a gentle sigh under your breath before you shift your gaze to the TV again where it's showing that Chairman Rose is supposed to release some formal statement first thing tomorrow morning. There's no further reason to linger anymore and even Graves is telling you to go home. Your work here is done so you should head back to Wedgehurst. You will try to visit Leon in the morning if you can.

You get up from the seat and Gengar suddenly appears from your shadow. You look at him with a smile and he grins in response. Together, you leave the hospital and emerge outside; it's foggy and cold as you step into the night.

A single light shines from the lamppost that stands near the exit, bathing you in a warm yellow glow.

You tug your coat firmly to yourself, glance up and around before you leave the light, disappearing into the darkness.

...

Instead of heading to Wedgehurst, you take a late night Corviknight taxi and ask if the cabbie can take you to Greyson's Cemetery which is close to the Meetup Spot but a mile or so past the Dappled Grove and Rolling Fields.

The cabbie wonders why you're wanting to go to such a spooky and desolate place at night but says nothing of it since you're paying for the ride after all. He and Corviknight carry you to the entrance of the cemetery where you hop out of the huge carriage and pay the fare.

Pained screams emit from within and the cabbie's face pales. "W-what was that?!"

"You don't want to know," is your reply.

He hurriedly hands you the change then flies off with Corviknight.

You watch them leave before you push open the huge steel gates and step inside, making your way down the worn path whilst the agonising howls increase steadily in volume.

The cemetery is hardly visited during daylight hours and even less during the night.

It's a gloomy and creepy place, covered in heavy mist and fog. Rows and rows of old, grungy gravestones poke out of the soil and up ahead, a single mausoleum stands silently in the middle with the door ajar. The light is on, indicating someone is inside.

As you venture further in, you glance at all the ghost pokemon ranging from Pumpkaboo and Sableyes who are hanging around and playing together. Gengar greets a few Ghastlys and Haunters who are lurking around the fountain that contains an old statue of an angel. Looks like they're having a party.

You leave Gengar to his own devices and stroll down the empty path, eventually arriving at the mausoleum and peer between the gap of the door. A dishevelled-looking man in a black duster, shirt, trousers and flip flops with an Absol beside him can be seen within, facing a woman who is tied to a chair made out of stone. She is drenched with water, hissing and spitting and snarling through gritted teeth, her eyes rolled to the back of her head.

Absol is first to notice you, leaving the man's side to trot up to you and nudge the door open to a small extent. You smile as you squat down, patting her on the head whilst the man chants under his breath, holding a silver cross up in his withered hands.

"Exsúrgat Deus et dissipéntur inimíci ejus: et fúgiant qui odérunt eum a fácie ejus," he mutters, stepping around the woman who responds with fierce gnashes of the teeth before she hurls colourful abuse at him in a deep voice.

He presses the cross against the woman's forehead and immediately, her skin sizzles and burns, smoke emitting. She begins shaking violently against the restraints, flailing in a frenzied manner, flinging her head side to side until her features resembles a blur.

The man is undeterred and continues, "Sicut déficit fumus defíciant; sicut fluit cera a fácie ígnis, sic péreant peccatóres a fácie Dei."

You decide not to intervene and find a nice spot by a random gravestone, waiting in silence and twiddling your fingers together. The noises from within become more and more animalistic, resembling feral growls and grunts before it grows silent and the door opens.

The man emerges, drenched in blood and what appears to be vomit.

Meanwhile, the ghost Pokemon behind you frolic and play, oblivious.

You stand up at once. "Ezra!"

He emits a wheezy cough, smacking a clenched fist over his chest repeatedly before he erupts into a violent coughing fit and turns to the side, spitting out some blood.

You immediately go over to help him stand, holding him up by the arm.

He says, "Hey kid."

"Take it easy..." you help him over the steps of the mausoleum and as Ezra plops himself down with a heavy sigh, Absol joins him and he pats her gently on the head. "What's going on? Do you need help?"

"It's fine, nothin' for you to concern yourself with."

You peek inside the mausoleum to see the woman is now sitting limply in the chair with her eyes closed. “She gonna be okay?"

"...Yeah."

"Who is she?"

"I dunno, she just ran inside screamin' and sayin' she been hearin' voices in her head....then she began speakin' in tongues." Ezra grunts, before he enters another harsh coughing fit. When he's finished wheezing, he grabs a cigarette from his pockets along with a lighter and lights it up, inhaling a deep drag and exhaling into the air with a deep but inaudible sigh. "Bring me a beer, kiddo. I left it behind that grave over there."

"Okay," you head over to where he's pointing to, pull out the aforementioned pack of six beers and return to his side.

"That's it, gimme."

Handing one to the old man, he flips the lid, brings the can to his lips and takes a messy swig before sighing with relief. You open your bag and pull out the Odd Keystone that pulses gently in your grip, "I think it's time I gave this back to you. Can you hold onto it for a while?"

He nods, you hand him the stone and he holds it in his limp hands. "Good job," he murmurs, and you know he's talking about the number of evil spirits you've collected, "...Looks like you got yourself a partner too."

"Yep. Gengar, this is my mentor, Ezra."

Gengar stops floating around the Haunters and hovers to your side, then glances at Ezra and Absol. Absol merely regards the shadow pokemon quietly but pays no attention and returns to lie down on her front paws. Gengar floats towards Ezra's direction and takes note of his rather bedraggled appearance, the blood and vomit, before he glances at the silver cross dangling off his neck. Then he notices the old man's pupils are dull, glazed and white. They don't react to anything in front of him, not even when Gengar waves a hand in front of his face.

Ezra doesn't respond, though his smirk widens and he inhales another deep drag, the lit end of his cigarette glowing brightly before the ashes flutter to his feet. "...Isn't that something," he utters, "You two play nice now."

"We get on really well. Right, Gengar?" you add, and Gengar nods as he returns to your side and floats behind you.

"So," Ezra begins, "Did you find the missing folk?"

"Yeah. It was a Froslass haunting the Giant's Seat. A gym challenger fell down a pokemon den during a snowstorm and died. She was crushed by rocks and so were her pokemon. She ended up kidnapping young men and using them as decorations in her cave. I guess she didn't want to be lonely," you emit a sigh and throw your glance to your shoes. "They were already dead. I was too late."

There is a brief silence following until he pats you on the shoulder. "...I'm sorry, kid. You know what it's like. You know what you signed up for. Most people walk in the light and then there's people like us, who tread in the darkness. This is the path you chose," he replies, "Don't be so hard on yourself. You did your best."

You don't reply to that but you gesture to the pack of beer, "Can I have one?"

"Help yourself."

"Thanks," you grab a can and pull the lid off, downing the booze in big gulps.

Ezra returns to the mausoleum, whistling loudly. "Absol, let's go." He mutters, and the dark pokemon stretches on her paws before she joins her trainer and Ezra closes the door behind them.

You're left on your own.

Throwing your glance up to the full moon, you think about Leon and how many worlds apart you are.

...

[rhetoricalrogue]

31 Days of Wayhaven, Day 23

Prompt: Decay Rating: G Words: 1,496 Characters: Cameron Buchanan, Nate Sewell Summary: Two research specialists in their natural habitat comparing technology. Note: Takes place a few months or so before Book 1.  Special appearance of @asaucyginger‘s Fiona just because.

For the @31daysofwayhaven event.

The Facility Archives was a vast expanse of knowledge.  It may not have the aesthetics of a well-stocked library, but the colder metal shelving held large amounts of books and the long tables were excellent for spreading out.  The cooler temperatures maintained the integrity of older books, but it did mean that sweaters were a necessity.

It was a good thing that Cam had plenty of thick, woolen sweaters to choose from when he decided to go on a research dive.

The table he had set himself up at was also occupied by one of his favorite fellow researchers.  Nate Sewell was a longtime friend of his and the two of them often bounced ideas off the other when it came to different avenues of searching.  The man was pleasant to be around and was an ideal research partner: even sprawled out, his books and notes were always kept neatly to his side of the table and he didn’t distract with unnecessary conversation.  

Cam’s thoughts went to Unit Zulu.  He wasn’t entirely sure if Agent Fiona even counted as a Research Specialist, he’d seen her moves in the training room and thought she was better suited as a Combat Specialist instead, but she was not keen on keeping her material or herself to one side of the table.  She had a fixation with his hair, her fingers always finding ways to play with the thick brown strands, and she tended to lapse into a sultry Irish brogue.  It was close enough to the Scots-Gaelic he spoke for him to know that she always gave him an open invitation to her bed, but he’d always politely declined.  Fellow agent or not, she was Fae and it never was a good idea to be impolite to the Gentry, even when they were your co-workers.  There were some things that you just didn’t want to bring HR into if you could help it.

“What are you looking for today?” Nate asked, the nib of his pen scratching faintly against the notebook he’d brought with him.  It was a leatherbound book, the pages thick and cream colored, which told Cam it was probably expensive.  It made the beaten up pocket sized black and white speckled composition book he kept most of his immediate notes on and the blue ballpoint pen with the missing cap look sad in comparison.

Cam looked up from his laptop.  There’s where he kept the bulk of his notes, his notepad only for when he was at the stacks and he didn’t want a thought to escape between where he was and his makeshift study headquarters.  He and technology worked virtually seamlessly together: he mostly had Nicky to thank for that, seeing as his friend was always on the cutting edge of any new thing.  He snorted: Nicky had been one of those people who had camped out for over two days to get the latest iPhone one time.  He’d been furious when he came back, phone triumphantly held in his hand, to find that the rest of his team was already updating their contact lists on the very same model.  He hadn’t known that the Agency had already scored the upgraded phones and had one set aside for him to use.

“Just some random things, mostly about bog spirits in Florida and Louisiana.  I’m trying to see if there’s any connection between them and the ones over the water in other countries.”

“Interesting, I know there’s a book over on the fourth row, over in that section,” Nate pointed over to a section of bookshelves to the left of their table and squinted, as if attempting to recall the exact position from memory.  “Possibly the second shelf, maybe the third.  Green cover, so I’d wear gloves in case it possibly starts to leach arsenic.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.  I’m still in the note-making stages of research, but I thought it would be best to start here, to let the books inspire me.”

Nate smiled and went back to his reading.  A curious look told him that he was looking at human physiology and something about genetic mutation.  “Working on that bloodwork case?” Cam asked.

He nodded.  “It’s just so strange.  I have no idea what a vampire would want with a human holding a mutation to their blood.”  He ran his hand through his hair.  “The last victim had enough blood left in their body for the science team to extract and sample, but I thought that maybe doing some of my own research would come up with an angle outside of the box, so to speak.”

Cam started to type.  Luckily, the Agency spared no expense and the internet was incredibly fast, even so far underground as they were.  “You may want to try looking at some non-supernatural reports.  If you want, I can work up a list of papers that have been done on the study of genetics and how certain mutations affect how organisms interact with their environment.” 

“Oh!  I hadn’t thought of that route.”  Nate scratched at his chin.  “It would make sense, seeing that beings evolve to overcome difficulties in their environment...hmm.”  Nate made a few notes in his notebook.  “Thank you for the idea, Cameron, but I wouldn’t want to drag you away from your own work.”

Cam grinned.  “Actually, this is mostly an excuse to hunker down.  Nicky decided that it would be a good idea to have a…” he searched for a word.  “Fling with one of the admin secretaries and it turned messy.  Like hunt him down and make him suffer messy.”

Nate winced.  “It’s a good thing that he can’t technically die,” he joked.

“Yeah.  I think she’d be happy killing him and then calling it even when he wakes back up, but still.”  Cam shook his head.  “I really wish he would pick his dalliances better, especially when it comes to supernatural women.”  Part of Cam had a thought that Nicky chose the people he slept with on purpose, hoping that one of them would finally kill him for good and that he’d be able to rest in peace.  He wasn’t immune to the fact that Nicky put himself into danger the most out of everyone in the team and had a fatalistic viewpoint when it came to death and dying.  It was a morose thought, and one that he’d brought up to his friend before.  Over the years, he learned that it was best if he left the subject alone.

“But back to your research,” he said, shaking his head and pulling out his phone.  “Give me a few and I can send the list to you.  A couple are behind paywalls, but I’ve got yearly subscriptions to a few places and a few connections to get behind the ones I don’t, so just let me know which ones interest you.”

Nate looked up from his book and smiled.  “Thank you, I really appreciate the help.”  He gave a glance towards Cam’s laptop.  “You know, I prefer more…”

Cam grinned as he typed.  “Archaic?”

Nate rolled his eyes.  “Personal methods of research, but I do have to admit, having information at your fingertips like this does cut down on time.”

“I could show you how to do this, you know.  I’m pretty sure IT has a spare laptop they can assign you.”

He shuddered.  “No, I have one, it’s…” he took a breath.  “Let’s just say that technology and I don’t mix.”

Nicky’s words came to mind.  Those of us who resist change are bound to decay with time, my friend.  Besides, it’s fun to look back and see all the changes we’ve adapted to over the years, no?  Cam wisely kept those comments to himself.  “Well, the offer still stands.  If you ever need something looked up quickly, just let me know.”  He jumped as his phone began to vibrate at the table.  Picking it up, he saw that Winona had texted him.

Nicky’s dead again. Help me collect his dumb, horny ass from Hallway D-4.  He owes me a drink when he wakes up from having his head thrown down the hall.  Ew.

“Well, I’ve got to go,” he sighed, putting his laptop away in the bag he’d brought with him.  Luckily he hadn’t gotten around to pulling books out yet, but he slid his notebook back in its usual spot in his back jean pocket and the pen in an unused pocket of his laptop bag.  “Hopefully Helen will call things even now that she got her hands on Nicky and we can get back to business.”

“Good luck.  Give my sympathies to the cleaning staff.”

Cam waved as he left, shouldering his bag and wondering about how big a mess someone could make of a dead man without a working circulatory system.

Then he sighed.  As Nicky’s Commanding Agent, this was going to be one hell of an accident report he was going to have to write up.

[josephmyplace]

ART EVALUATION - MULTIVERSE ASSIGNMENT

themes of the assignment

The multiverse assignment took us through a variety of artistic styles, drawing, printmaking, typography and collage, but there was also a narrative element introduced through the penguin book, we were tasked several times to draw inspiration from narrative elements from the book, or to depict scenes from it, this I felt was similar to fine art, however while on the computers we worked on 'postcards' (personally though I always felt their purpose was more like covers for our books), which again had inspiration taken from the book, this reminded me of graphic design; we were attempting to express a product through a visual means.

the three ‘postcards’ that had text added to them, overall i find that the first one below is my favorite, the central image i feel is a strongly emotive one, figures shrouded in darkness, almost in solidarity over some tragedy, which is why i annotated it “a reminder of better days”, as a reference to how i felt the image was tragic. 

this image i annotated it with words associated with god, the drawing i used because i wanted it to resemble an old medieval representation of an angel, which i feels far more visually interesting, and below it is the shattered sky and broken buildings, riven by strange flames, all part of the ‘wrath’ and ‘profound fear’.

here was see the hand receiving what should cause ‘the rapture’ i used the sun as the object because i felt as though the sun’s connection to the heavens, and it being unreachable was going to add to the piece. i also inverted the colours of each of the annotations, to draw contrast between the statements.  

This all being said I'm confused over how the multiverse plays into this, the assignment was about creating art based around a narrative, not around other universes.

Two artists I felt influenced the art I made during the assignment were Brooks salzwedel and pokras lampras, Brooks' art I have already examined, still,  he depicts floating land masses, and strange forested scenes obscured by mist, while pokras lampras is an asemic writing artist, his particular

Brooks salzwedel

style was structured and merged aspects of Cyrillic, English, Greek and Arabic creating an interesting visual style.

Pokras lampras

What did we learn in lesson

This assignment did not focus on new artisic methods (in comparison to the last unit we learnt screenrinting, intaglio, chalk, graphite etc.) but rather ways to express ideas through it, in this case through the aforementioned narrative.

Animation:

animation is relatively simple, animations are composed of several frames, then the amount of frames per second will determine how the animation plays put, generally the higher frame rates are used for smoother, more high effort animations, 24 fps (Frames Per Second) is industry standard.

In a programme the last frame can be viewed to better let the animator decide where they want to go with the animation.

Light box art:

our light box art used tracing paper, each piece of paper was drawn on, the penned, the most 'misted' paper would be at the back, giving an impression of dictance, the paper in fromt would similarly appear closer to the veiwer.

Though as for what we used, screen printing, digital, painting, drawing were all used, of note was the continued use of animations in digital atr.

the use of light boxe was interesting particularly the use of layered tracing paper to create a obfuscated image, though I personally wonder how I could use them in my own art.

Out of lesson

digital art became my focus, I've found my transition from traditional methods difficult, lines are less stable, and dealing with  confusing interfaces has proven itself difficult.

The quality of my artwork has been reduced as a result, but this is expected when moving to a new, unfamiliar medium.

Though digital art has allowed me to use colours freely, which again is difficult, as I never developed any real sense over how to use colours using traditional drawing methods.

Inspiration

Additionally I asked each individual artist the same three questions about their work, which were

what is your source of inspiration? (meaning what initially inspired you and what continues to)

how did you start? (what did you draw initailly, when?)

what processes and materials do you use?

void_illustration - Richard Saunders Illustration

Richards art either is obviously biological, where a creature is depicted, or has a distinctly biological edge to it, metals seem to bend,twist and stretch like flesh, nothing seems to be truly just a machine or device, rather every ridge, bulge and groove hints at a more organic truth to his figures and objects.

1. im inspired by so many things, its good to pull from a wide range of inspirations.

2. Ive been drawing for a long time, im not professional but im hoping to change that, most of my work forms into narrative universes and then develops on from there.

3. For materials I use a range. My 'bio warrior' series is mainly pencil sketches with marker colours and white paint pen highlights. My brown paper dragons are watercolour on strathmore toned tan paper, lined digitally, though I will layer them up further with paint and markers.

Fuelstains - Nikolay Georgiev

His work similarly to Richard's trends to directly be a creature or rather, monster, these organism often have strongly textured skin, often appearing to have many grooves, showing the musculature underneath, then there are his mechanical pieces, either directly depicting a machine of some kind, such as a robot, or depicting a human who has been massively altered by technological augmentations.

1.I was initially inspired by comics, as a kid, stuff like spiderman, bat man and transformers, but later on it could be anything that inspires me.

2.I started in primary school and it was mostly superheros or stuff from movies.

3.Pencil, ink fineliner, brushpen, watercolour, ballpoint pen, digital.

Milesr.art – Miles R art

miles' art focuses on creature drawings, particularly drawings of alien life, creating some truly bizarrely fascinating, most bearing little resemblance to earth organisms, if any. Another aspect of Miles' work that I appreciate is that it seems grounded, the animals, in spite of their bizzarreness still seem like they could exist.

1.some of my biggest sources of inspiration:

- C.M koseman, Brynn metheny, and dougal dixon are some of my most inspiring artists

-just thinking about the natural world in general like on our planet

2.what initially inspired me to draw and that goes into number 2) in kindergarten I saw some kid drawing a honey comb pattern with neon markers and was like huh okay im going to do that but better.

And I always drew monsters and characters, always becoming more based on science overtime, and here I am now.

3.Now I exclusively  make finished things digitally with my ipad pro and apple pencil using procreate, but I often make sketches on post it notes with just regular pencil. In terms of processes I feel like I just do what I do it, its hard to define ones process.

[landeg]

31 Days of Apex: A Retrospection

I participated in the incredible #31DaysOfApex challenge hosted on Twitter, where fans created new content for every day of July based on a one-word prompt. I’ve signed up for/started lots of similar challenges in the past but always ended up having to drop out or trail off before the end... but this time, I managed to complete something for every day of the challenge!

My only goal was to make something by each day’s deadline, and it was a really interesting exercise both in technical skill and also in my management of not only my time, but my expectations and energy. Below, I go into more detail behind each piece.

To preface; the beginning of this challenge coincided with the beginning of a new personal time-management exercise where, for 5/7 days a week, I would only go on the computer at night. Combined with the deadline, this had an interesting effect on my time management and the quality of certain pieces.

Day 1 - Memory

From the start, I wanted to use the challenge as an opportunity to do more studies and to push myself wherever possible. This was the first piece I did and I had more time to work on it, so I used it as a digital painting study. I still think it’s a strong piece and it’s probably my favourite of the month. Symbolically, this character’s backstory doesn’t match up with her own memories, so the idea is she’s missing information she can’t quite place or remember, and this both scares and comforts her.

Day 2 - Blood

Another digital painting and lighting study that didn’t work out as well as the first, mostly due to time constraints meaning I couldn’t scrap it and start again. While I don’t like how it turned out, I did learn a lot. The character on the right is a field medic, and my intent was to show the calm after a successful rescue.

Day 3 - Mercy

Some days I relied more on the humour of a piece’s concept than the skill of its execution, though I also liked how this piece turned out artistically. After two days of intense studies, though, this was very quick and easy for me to turn out as it relied on existing skills.

Day 4 - Prize

This one thankfully came together very quickly, which I credit to the two previous painting studies making it much easier to achieve what I wanted. The character is searching for the disembodied head of the man who killed her parents, who is now acting as a robot, hence the vaguely half-machine-half-human silhouette in her hand.

Day 5 - Family

Another quick, simple illustration under a time crunch. The character framed by the nameless foreground figures has no memory of herself or her family.

Day 6 - Noise

For some pieces where I was under a time crunch, I experimented in an opposite direction; instead of studies, I played loosely with different techniques/brushes/etc to see what came out. This was a lineless style I ended up employing a lot when short on time. The piece pictured here was just one of four alternate colourways, presented in a pop-art style. The character is almost always depicted with thick coverings over her ears, so I thought she might be sensitive to auditory overload. This particular piece was retweeted by the character’s voice actress!

Day 7 - Mask

More relying on humour for lack of time/a better idea. A fun experiment in colour, though.

Day 8 - Healing

Another technically “easy” piece but with a stronger concept. It was actually pretty hard to get the reflection & condensation elements balanced right. The character pictured has a narrative thread relating to an old ex he has trouble moving on from.

Day 9 - Weapon

While obviously another joke, and made to be finished quickly, it was surprisingly difficult to get the duct tape and knife to read clearly without over-cluttering the lineless image. This little ‘bot is a drone used by one of the playable characters to hack areas of the map; it’s not NORMALLY an offensive weapon. This image was promo’d in a video stream by the character’s voice actor!

Day 10 - Truth

I only had less than an hour to finish this one by the deadline, but I still tried to experiment with silhouette and colour. It was surprisingly hard to get the interior silhouette to be legible. The outer silhouette is a playable character (not easily readible unless you’re familiar with his design) and the inner silhouette is his sister, whose disappearance he is trying to investigate.

Day 11 - Shield

A fun, self-indulgent one. Had a blast simplifying the game’s characters down into little caricatures. The character in the centre has abilities related to shields and protection, so many other people were drawing him for the prompt; I wanted to try and flip it, so I picked other characters he would be friendly with, and picked a non-lethal, lighthearted setting.

Day 12 - Ruins

Short on time so did a quick lighting study. A recent game plot has changed one of the areas of the map, submerging it in water and leaving it to “ruin”.

Day 13 - Hero

Another painting study. Really didn’t like how this one turned out, but had to turn in something, and I did learn a lot in the process. If I’d had more time I probably would’ve scrapped it and started again. This characters had recently been revealed to have been manipulated by another character who used gas-based offenses, whom she admired.

Day 14 - Rest

I was going to be away from mt computer until after the deadline, so I decided to make a traditional piece. I ended up enjoying it so much I tried to take the time to do a few more traditional pieces later. This piece was sort of a comedy of errors; I had to do it while I was out, and the pen I had brought with me to ink my sketch ran out, so I had to make do with a blue ballpoint pen, and I was missing several colours of coloured pencil. I think the finished piece reflects how rushed it was, and it did’t meet my concept, but I do still like it.

Day 15 - Skull

Another quick one but I wanted to experiment with a different line style. Wanted a sort of “graffiti” effect. One of this character’s skins includes a skull-shaped mask.

Day 16 - Growth

Extremely quick play on words because I didn’t have the time to work on anything meaningful and couldn’t think of anything better!

Day 17 - Home

Another traditional piece, this time by choice and with more time. Markers. It looks extremely like some janky art school homework on 2 point perspective because it extremely is. Perspective and backgrounds are very difficult for me - they just don’t “click” - but I had a lot of fun with this one. I kept my mistakes intact because I didn’t want to edit it too much. A lot about the technical perspective is wrong, but I think I achieved the “mood” I wanted. This location is a bar owned by one of the player characters where many of the other characters are shown to meet.

Day 18 - Sky

Very happy with how this one turned out, even though there are still lots of problems. Markers again. There’s a lot I would fix next time, and I think technically it’s lacking, but there are some specific areas I feel happy to have achieved, such as the almost brushed texture of the curved metal above his shoulder and the values of the shadow/reflections on the underside of the head piece. I’m also happy with how I was able to draw from my shoulder rather than my wrist when inking the curved lines, something I struggle with.

Day 19 - Target

An experiment in pushing the lineless style I’d already been playing with for a stronger likeness. The pose and expression in this could both be pushed more but I like the result. This character had just learned that one of the other players, whom she had trusted, was actually sharing her secrets with her enemy, and she didn’t know which one it was.

Day 20 - Friendship

I had this one concepted from when I first looked over the prompts. It was a fun challenge trying to simplify all the elements into the lineless, blocky style while being legible. This character has a strained relationship with one of his friends, and finally pushed her too far with his selfishness, and she now no longer responds to him.

Day 21 - Scar

Quick joke. This character was introduced briefly as a red herring for another character before being killed off. He was stabbed through the chest by another character’s hand, hence the scar pattern.

Day 22 - Dream

I wasn’t sure about this one while I was making it but I ended up liking how it turned out. I wanted to capture the character’s robotic legs bent at an unnaturally straight 90 degrees, like a Barbie doll. The flat background and lighting make it feel like an indoor stage. The little “electric sheep” are inspired by iDogs.

Day 23 - Meal

After a few days of not having time to really spend on any piece, it was fun to get to spend time on concepting and composing this. I always admired these kinds of watercolour-like food illustrations and this is the first time I’ve had any success in creating one myself. I concepted and sketched out the individual items traditionally before working out the composition within the box digitally. Each food item/utensil is inspired by the different characters’ design elements. Only two of the now-current characters are excluded due to plot reasons. In particular, I like how one of the character’s dome-shaped shields acts as the base and cover of the box.

Day 24 - Hobby

Wasn’t a fan of how this one turned out. I think the likeness is a bit off, and his facial anatomy is skewed. But I also like how the general composition, tone, and bee turned out. This character’s concept art originally imagined them as a beekeeper who would use smoke to fight.

Day 25 - Fear

An incredibly rushed piece that I intended to go back in and add more detail to, similar to day 4, but I actually took a step back and decided I liked the blocky, flat-colour version. This character is the youngest of four, all of whom are MIA or worse, along with his father, and his mother is losing her memory. He’s talking to her through a handheld holographic device. This piece gained more traction, most likely thanks to the subject matter since this is a popular character.

Day 26 - Holiday

I didn’t want to do a religious holiday like Christmas or Easter. A lot of other people also interpreted the prompt as a vacation, but I had already done a sort of “beach vacation” piece for day 11, so I instead went for a “public holiday” and chose NYE/NYD. This was fairly quick but the lighting was an interesting experiment. I knew this one wouldn’t be as popular because it wasn’t as “flattering” but I personally really like it. The girl on the left is kind of goofy and completely un-self-conscious and I think it’s captured here.

Day 27 - Music

Really didn’t like how this one turned out. I don’t think the likeness is good at all, the lighting is poor, and the gold detailing feels lazy. But I liked other elements, such as the pose and the clothing.

Day 28 - Treasure

This is my least favourite of the entire month, but I also had the least time available to work on it before the deadline so I had no opportunity to scrap it and start over, which I sorely wanted to do. The likeness is terrible, but more than that the base anatomy is off, the pose is stiff, and the lighting/colours are cheap. I wish I could’ve done better by this character; but, I am glad I had something finished at all.

Day 29 - Skin

This was probably my third attempt at this picture and I’m still not happy with it, but again, I had to finish something. I almost considered scrapping the concept entirely and choosing something easier but ended up seeing it through. The concept itself is actually recycled from an older piece of mine for an entirely different fandom, because I didn’t think I did it justice then, either. Would still like to revisit this concept with this character and take more time.

Day 30 - Trust

After a few days of feeling really dissatisfied and uncomfortable with the art I’d been making, I finally more time to dedicate to a piece, and I’m overall happy with how this one turned out. I decided to go for a different medium entirely with pixel art, which also gave me the opportunity to try and animate it. I started off confident and then started to get worried towards the end, but all the elements came together when I added the portal colour effects. This is an alternate reality version of one of the player characters, who appears through a portal and allows that character to escape the facility she’s being kept in, encouraging them to trust the “voices” she hears which are actually versions of herself trying to help her. This piece was retweeted by the official Apex Legends Twitter account!

Day 31 - Freestyle

I had this planned out early in the challenge and I’m really, really happy with how it turned out. It’s probably tied with my favourite along with the very first piece (how fitting). I was worried about how I was going to capture the movement without over-complicating the lineart, having so many people in one image, etc. before I realised the focus was entirely on gesture, and then everything clicked. I went for a thicker brush, which forced me to conserve my lines, and tried to simplify each character down to the bare minimum needed to recognise them. They’re also all wearing new non-canonical outfits so I used their familiar colour schemes for the same purpose. It’s not perfect, but I love it, and it’s everything I’d hoped I’d be able to end the challenge on.

I really, really enjoyed the entire month and the way it tied in with my new time management schedule. It gave me some achievable short-term goals which added up to this long-term achievement I can now look back on; I learned a lot both about balancing my energy and about technical skills, I found ways to stay motivated, and most importantly I learned to not get caught up on the individual slip-ups and pieces I didn’t like as much and to instead focus on the bigger picture. Thank you to everyone involved in organising and supporting this event! I found so many other incredible fanartists, writers, and content creators through this challenge and I can’t wait to see the bonus content released over August!

[rational-mastermind]

A/N: Hey!! Everyone wants more Quinnvoyant right? Right?? Well too bad, it’s all I have. And an au! Soulmate au where if you write on yourself, it’ll show up on your Soulmate.

--

  Everyone knew that if you wrote on yourself, it would appear on your soulmate as well. And Chris Quinn was no exception to this. Though, for a long time, there was only cute things like drawings of cats and rainbows and stars. Cute poems. Reminders. It was fine enough when he was a kid but as he got older it was just embarrassing. So he would wear long sleeves and hide the writing as best as he could.

   Sometimes he would talk with her, but she was too shy to reveal where she lived or who she was. Which kind of annoyed him. Wasn’t the whole point supposed to be that they would meet?

   When they got to high school, they talked less. Life got busy for her. Life was busy enough for him as well. Sometimes they would check in. Sometimes it would be reminders of homework assignments, or notes in class. Just kind of easily forgetting the other can see what they wrote.

   Then one day, his skin started getting covered in words, very quickly. Bright red marker showed up all over his arms and hands and it crawled all over his body. The same words over and over and over.

   “FREAK”

   “PSYCHO”

   “CREEP”

   “KILL ME”

   None too surprisingly, the only place she didn’t write was on her right arm. She was too busy writing, after all.

   Chris found a nearby ballpoint pen and began writing.

   “Et tu?”

   The scribbling suddenly stopped. For a moment he was worried. But then the ink began running off. It looked wet and began to run down his arms.

   Tears.

   After watching it a moment he began writing himself.

   “What happened?”

   “Bullies.” was the eventual reply.

   “Why?”

   “Cause it’s true.”

   “Same.”

   “What do you mean?”

   Chris sighed. He knew he wasn’t like other kids. They would all avoid him, be afraid of him, or talk about him weird just cause he talked about blood and death and demons and stuff that went bump in the night. He wasn’t gothic. Not by a long shot. He just...liked gore. He liked pain. He once got into a fight. One of the kids had a knife.

   He couldn’t stop giggling.

   There was something so...so thrilling, when he saw the red.

   The voices in his head only encouraged it.

   “I’m a psychopath.” he wrote.

   “I don’t think you are.”

   “That makes one of us.”

   “Well what makes you so weird?”

   “I… hear voices… And… I see things.”

   “Really?”

   “Yeah. But I’m told it’s not-”

   “Me too.”

   Chris stared at the two simple words. Somehow, it utterly stumped him. He felt...weird. He wasn’t sure why though. But he wasn’t entirely opposed to it.

   “What kind of things do you see?” he asked.

   “It’s hard to describe. Sometimes it’s people. Sometimes it’s just screaming. Or loud talking. Sometimes it’s colors and random pictures. What about you?”

   “More about dogs and demons and the end of the world and shit.”

   The rest of the writing on his body started to disappear. She was wiping it off.

   “Can we switch brains?”

   “Yeah, yours sounds more fun.” he chuckled to himself. After a moment’s thought he ventured forth to ask. “So what do you imagine I’m like?”

   “I don’t know. When I try to read you I get this weird image of something dirty and gritty like a horror movie. But at the same time, I also get this...warmth.”

   “Warmth?”

   “Like a towel out of the dryer. It’s warm and soft and it feels like home. It’s funny... Reading your words…”

   Chris felt a bizarre fuzziness grab hold of his brain. The world seemed to darken around him as she continued to write.

   “I can almost see you

   Christopher Quinn”

   Suddenly Chris felt very uneasy and quickly began rinsing off their conversation and scrub the words away. An unsettling chill surrounded him. It was weird. It was creepy. It was...sexy?

   Chris then proceeded to dunk his head under the sink and run cold water over him as well.

   They stopped talking after that.

   Chris got into writing. Finished high school and began making his living.

   Then the asylum.

   Then the Shadow.

   Then the Ministry.

   Chris went through so much hell. Of course it had its positives. There was Trilby and kicking demon ass. A good use of his psychotic tendencies. Making the world safe from the Shadow and keeping magic a secret. The people around the Ministry weren’t too bad. Yarrow was a bit...boring. But Jim was fun to mess with. And Claire was fun. There was always something to do, even if that something normally made Trilby roll his eyes.

   Then one day, well… It was bound to happen.

   Trilby was going to be out of action for a while. A mix up with a vampire left him incapable of going on assignments with Chris. But anyone who ever called Chris a “loose cannon” would recommend that he got someone to tag along in place of Trilby. Someone responsible and level-headed.

   Well who better than the absent-minded psychic he was pounding in the off hours?

   Yeah they were knocking boots. Nothing to get too attached over. It’s not like Chris got to know her life story or anything. Just letting off a bit of steam whenever they could hook up. All he knew was that she was very very much a psychic. Something he found interesting and she found best kept swept under the rug, much to his own disappointment.

   At first she seemed hesitant to go on a mission with him, but after some convincing, and a lot of unusual head shaking and slicing motions from Trilby behind her, she finally agreed.

   It was a simple mission. Done and over in a day. Of course it was the traveling that took the longest. It was on the farthest end of Ireland, naturally. It had some cultists and brainwashing and something to do with summoning a pagan deity. Claire was a natural and it was actually kind of fun getting to do work stuff with her.

   They were traveling back and Claire was already writing up their required report on a notepad. Chris couldn’t help but notice the way she gnawed on a pencil as she tried to focus. The way her fingers drummed through the air like she was at the computer back at HQ, if not fiddling with her large, round glasses. The way the air around her became still and focused as she accidentally projected her feelings about them. Chris could practically hear the gears grinding away in her brain as she tried to recall every needed detail.

   He chuckled to himself and it instantly snapped the tension in the air as her brain derailed.

   “What? What’s funny?” she asked, looking up.

   “Nothing. Just.. I dunno.” he shrugged. “You’re so focused.”

   “Well… I mean..” she shrugged as well. “It gets kinda hard to report faithfully.”

   “Eh those pricks in the higher-ups always find flaws in our reports. No matter what.” Chris rolled his eyes.

   “Hm. True.” Claire sighed. “But it’s not just them. You go looking through so many different minds, so many different vibes and lives it’s kinda easy to forget what’s happening in the real world. You know?”

   “Well.. No. I wouldn’t.” Chris glanced back at her.

   “Oh.. yeah, I guess you wouldn’t.”

   Chris chuckled again.

   “Hey by the way, you were pretty great back there.”

   “Hmm.. I wouldn’t say that.” Claire shrugged.

   “You kidding me? The way you fucked with that one-”

   “Ummm.” Claire interrupted and Chris noticed she looked horribly uncomfortable as she fidgeted with her glasses more. “If.. If it’s all the same Chris.. Can we not talk about...that?”

   “Oh.. Right. Sorry. Forget that makes you uneasy.”

   “Just…something drilled into me, I guess.”

   There was a moment of silence. Then Chris spoke up.

   “Hey um.. Can I...ask something?”

   “If you wanna know if I can predict the future, the answer is no.” Claire rolled her eyes.

   “Damn.” Chris clicked his tongue in disappointment. “....Did you always hate your powers?”

   “Mm..” Claire was quiet for a moment before she shrugged and looked out the window of the car. “What was there to like?”

   “Um, cause it’s fucking psychic powers.”

   “Yeah, exactly.” she sighed. “They always got me in trouble.. It.. Creeps a lot of people out.”

   “Come on. It couldn’t have always been that bad-”

   “No. It was.” Claire growled, her voice taking on a tone akin to earlier that day, but somehow lacking the same venom behind it. “It was always that bad. It was awful. You’ve no idea.”

   “...Well… Like what?”

   “....Like earlier.” Claire shrugged. “But.. By accident. I would...hurt them.. And scare them.”

   Chris frowned. Claire was normally so bubbly, happy, a bit forgetful, but chipper despite the depressing and horrific nightmare that their livelihood was. He hated seeing her this downtrodden. It was wrong. Like on a fundamental scale, this was just wrong.

   “...Did.. Something traumatic happen?” he asked. “Something that made you hate it so much?”

   Claire gave a dry chuckle before replying. “I wouldn’t say...traumatic but.. Well.. It did drive a wedge between me and some really important people.”

   “Was there a guy?”

   “....Yeah…”

   Chris felt something grip him. A sudden kind of deep-rooted anger. The kind akin to staring down a vampire or some other unholy abomination. Not counting Trilby, of course.

   “Who-”

   “Should get some gas. Before the ferry.”

   Chris sighed but found a station and pulled over. Clearly she didn’t wanna keep talking. While he was filling up, she went inside to use the bathroom.

   “Look over the report. Jot down anything I missed, got it?”

   “Yeah..”

    Chris felt crummy and stupid and angry. Claire was a great person! Why would anyone hate her for having psychic powers? Okay yeah so she kind of really mentally fucked with that one guy. And yeah okay so maybe she kinda caused another to have an aneurysm. Yeah sure that might’ve been a more common problem when she was a kid and yeah it might’ve been like Stephen King’s Fury, but so?

   And it’s not like Chris would’ve hurt this guy…. Much.

   He growled and kicked a tire before getting back in the car. He sighed and leaned against the wheel, waiting for Claire to return. That was when he noticed Claire’s notepad left laying on the space between their seats. Oh right.. Reporting.

   Chris sighed and grabbed it. He looked over the notes. Everything seemed in order. She left off at the part where cultists were about to start sacrificing the local children but she’ll likely finish jotting down the basic plot when they got back. Chris grabbed the ballpoint pen she had been using and was about to go back and fix her grammar when something caught his eye.

   A small doodle Claire had in the corner. It was a cat.

   Chris squinted and looked it over carefully. It looked familiar.

   Suddenly it dawned on him. He had seen this before.

   Chris’ mind started racing, putting all the pieces together. But.. But how could he prove it? And how could he prove it without worrying Claire?

   Chris then looked back at the pen in his hand and had a perfect idea.

   Meanwhile Claire was hiding in the bathroom. She knew this was a bad idea. She knew this was gonna be horrible! She knew this was gonna happen and she just had to keep playing with fire, didn’t she??

   “Stupid stupid stupid!” Claire banged her head on the wall. “Listen! To your! Intuition!!”

   Of course she knew who he was. Ever since the first day Trilby introduced him at the STP.

   Claire and Trilby were discussing the differences in using iodized salt compared to sea salt, though ultimately, they both knew pink Himalayan was best. But then Claire felt it. A familiar presence.

    She suddenly felt an oncoming wave of giddy excitement that made her almost tremble. And a familiar warmth that quickly wrapped around her like a towel fresh out of the dryer.

   “Claire? You okay?”

   “Think someone’s-”

   “Trilby! We gotta go do a thing with cake- Oh. Hey.” Chris had rounded the door to Trilby’s cubicle but stopped short seeing Claire.

   “Hey.” Claire waved.

   “First of all, never again. Secondly, I never introduced you two, have I? Chris, meet Claire. Claire-”

   But she already knew who he was. But a deep anxiety prevented her from saying anything. But after getting to meet him, within all of five minutes she forgot entirely, simply living in the moment. And then she forgot again when they agreed to meet up after work. And she kept forgetting to a point it would’ve felt awkward to start saying anything then and gosh dammit.

   ‘Claire, why do you do this to yourself??’ she sighed and stepped out of the bathroom. ‘Always have to make everything awkward and weird…youfreak Can’t just remember to freaking speak up and say what’s on your mind?’

   Claire only hoped Chris would drop the subject and they could return to their normal status quo. At least she got to see him. At least they got to talk face to face. It was better than what most people could hope for. After all, some people never find their soulmates.

  ‘But they write every day.’  her unhelpful thoughts reminded her as she returned to the car. ‘When was the last time we wrote to each other?’

   She opened the car door and-

   “I KNEW IT!!!”

    “Aah!”

   Claire stumbled back, tripped on her heels and fell backwards onto the pavement.

   “What the hell, Chris?!” Claire scolded as she picked herself up.

   “Take a look in the mirror!”

   She got up and looked at her reflection in the window. She gasped, seeing a rather crude doodle of a cat across her cheek. She looked through the window only to find Chris with a matching mark and a wide grin stretching from ear to ear.

   “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?!” he asked.

   Claire stammered, laughed, and ended up crying. Her heart was pounding, she felt scared and worried. Chris’ smile disappeared and he got out of the car and came around to her.

   “Hey.. Hey hey hey. Hang on now.” he came over and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “What? What is it?”

   “I thought you’d hate me.” Claire managed to get out with a hiccup.

   “I know.. I’m sorry.. I didn’t hate you. I never did! I just.. You…”

   “Scared you.. Like.. I scare everyone.” she sniffled.

   “No! You didn’t scare me! I just.. I.. I dunno.” Chris shrugged. “I was a dumb teenager. I didn’t know what I was feeling.. I’m sorry.. I’m so sorry…”

   Claire simply shook her head. Chris ran a hand through his hair and thought for a moment.

   “...If it’ll make you feel better I could still kick my ass.”

  Claire laughed. She choked and then giggled some more and finally started wiping away her tears.

   “Please don’t.”

   Chris smiled and hugged her tight. She weakly hugged him back.

   “I’m sorry.”

   “I know..”

   After that, they began writing to each other more and more often. Little notes, here and there.

 “That was a lot of fun last night.”

 “There’s coffee in the breakroom.”

 “Fought a ghost. It was gross.”

 “Kissed one the other day.”

 “I’m stealing the last slice of cake. Don’t tell Trilby.”

   It was nice. It was fun. It was one thing that Claire would say was normal about their lives.

  “You wanna do something else after work tonight?”

 “I got a new cat figurine!”

 “Got to see the sunset while on the job. Reminded me of..”

 “Hey you’ve been quiet. You okay?”

 “Can I tell you something?”

   “I love you.”