#i think i drew like. well over several hundred pages of art for them and their relationship

[cosbeans]

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

YAHAHA u get a special one don't think i ever formally introduced my most beloved, shiye

theyre uh. yea they're the oc i made to ship with jhin HASJGASDJF theyre a vastaya (bootleg league furries) and i had written them solely as a character study to see under which circumstances love might just be possible for the man, and it kind of spiraled out of control from there <3

[focsle]

hello! i have a question: what draws you to whaling and that specific era of time in history? how long has it been an interest of yours?

Oh a much too big question for me to answer adequately in one ask. I’ve written tens of thousands of words on this history and the specific points of it that draw me. I’m pouring years of my life into a 400+ page comic about it. Catch me at 3am talking about reincarnation and how much I feel this all caught up in my soul-stuff. This will not be an answer that fully does my feelings justice. But I’ll link to some of my writings in this response that maybe do that better.

I’ve been deeply researching this history for over a decade, but I’ve always had a nautical bent to my childhood that probably sparked it. My grandfather was a Navy man. His house was covered in weird pirate sculptures and little creatures and art pieces he made out of shells and I think I inherited my sense of aesthetics from him. My mum was drawn to sea stories and things of that nature that was probably passed on to me in some way. Like most kids that sea bent manifested in an early interest in pirates, (tho the brief moby dick section of The Pagemaster was formative…it’s funny, I didn’t read Moby Dick until several years into my deeper dive into this history and then I was like ‘ohhhh….melville gets it). Learning about the Globe mutiny many years ago was a big spark to diving more specifically into said history. I first read a book about it where the writer’s (what I now consider, wobbly) thesis was that it was something about the industry itself that generated something within the perpetrator to choose a whaleship for premeditated slaughter, and the story was so rattling to me that I wanted to know what it was about that world that drove someone to something like that.

But instead I found a world that had so much humanity in it. It was one with a unique and isolated society that was unlike any other social sphere. Years on a ship that was a floating home, a floating factory, that had a relationship to the sea in a way that even other maritime trades did not. Fishing had/has some similarities, but not for the same isolating length or uniquely horrific and gruesome labor that whaling voyages held. The merchant trade had briefer voyages on more expected and well-trod routes. Even piracy followed the shipping lines of humanity more than anything else. With whaling your only destination was the sea, in a longer reach as the whaling grounds depleted and the industry stretched on to bring people to further and lonelier places. Where men would briefly touch land maybe every six months, and have liberty in port maybe even fewer times than that. That they were to go out there, and they weren’t to come back until they got enough oil to make the voyage worth it. It was an industry that drew men of so many different backgrounds and motivations, but the common thread tended to be that they were all very young, and that many of them were trying to find something in themselves or for themselves. An industry full of contradictions that I feel is most poetically expressed in scrimshaw, and one of the few places to see a preserved piece of art from an ordinary man. To see a small window into his emotional world and where his heart was in those long stretches of boredom. It was a space of brutal work, demoralizing work, and repulsive work, one where death was a constant shadow for both men and whales in a way that their lives were always inseparably on the same uncertain coin. But within that world, maybe despite that world, there was also a great deal of humanity, be it their music and sense of play, their whaler-specific social functions, their vulnerability. 

That whaling history luxuriously is a field where the words of hundreds of ordinary working class men have been preserved in diaries and logbooks means I get to know so many of them beyond statistics or names in a database. I get to learn about them on a personal level. I know what they worry about, what their favorite foods are, who they care about, when they have fun, when they’re miserable, sometimes what they find sexy, what makes them cry, and what makes them laugh, and what sort of man they hoped to be. In some of them I was reminded so much of myself, but in all of them I saw their unique and individual humanity, for better or for worse. So many of them carried a societal self consciousness within them that made me understand and feel for them. They often weren’t sure where they fit in a world that wasn’t a whaleship, even if that whaleship was a point of great hardship for them. So many of them wanted to be remembered in ways that they necessarily weren’t—few of them became historically important men, many of them died young or didn’t live to see home again, many of them may not have felt like they had anyone who cared about them, but they all had an existence they still clung to, that I feel compelled to try to honor and remember because I feel so much of them within me through that common thread of humanity.

This is a long answer, but as I said I still can’t express this in any way that isn’t shallow in this small space I have. It’s an interest that is both a personal, academic, and daresay spiritual one. I think to fully understand what draws me to it, you just gotta continually lurk in my awhalin tag and that ongoing comic of mine @goingtoweather. But hopefully this is a satisfying enough summary.

[detectivehannibal]

Pretty as a Picture

__

Hannibal Lecter x Fem. Reader

Warnings: Implications of smut.

A/N: Why do I keep disappearing from this blog?? I’ve had this idea for FOREVER. Fun fact about me, I sometimes recycle my works from other blogs. So if you’re curious, this is from my Harry Potter blog @seriouslysnape and here’s the original work.

Word Count: 1,738

“It’s not much...just a little something for your birthday.”

__

On the surface, surprises don’t really seem to come to mind when you think about Hannibal Lecter. The esteemed psychiatrist always came off to you as an open book. He was usually willing to share all aspects of his life with you, which naturally left you believing that there weren’t any secrets lurking further within himself. 

Oh, how wrong you were.

Despite all the things that you didn’t know about Hannibal, you knew him well enough to know the sorts of things that he has a fancy for and the things he doesn’t. As high maintenance and temperamental as he is, he is shockingly easy to please. It’s a bit of an ironic statement, but still the truth nonetheless. 

You could gift Hannibal with something as simple as a pair of socks or with something as extravagant as a brand new luxury suit, and he’d always have the same genuine, appreciative reaction. If something came from you, he would surely love it with his whole heart. 

This gift, however, was on a whole new level.

The idea had honestly come to you at random when you were brainstorming birthday present possibilities. Even though he would never admit it, he was a bit bored of you buying him a new tie for every occasion. He had a tie for every color, pattern, and even he could ever dream of. You wanted to think outside of the box this time. You wanted to come up with something that he would never ever think of. 

On the flip side, you also wanted to be sure that it was something that he could have for a long time and something that would have some real meaning to him. You could always go down the culinary appliance route, but he already had absolutely everything he’d ever possibly want or need. You were in a bit of a rut, but that’s when you got a wonderful thought.

Hannibal didn’t own many personal pictures. Most of the photos in his house were custom made art pieces that were worth more than the price of your left leg alone. Hannibal never struck you as the kind of man to have plethoras of pictures of loved ones, but you still found it odd. It’d be a win-win in your eyes. You’d supply Hannibal with some photos to hold on to, and it’d be a thoughtful gift.

Then your plan took a sultry turn.

You had picked out a large photo album that would match the aesthetic of his house, and an album that would have plenty of pages to fill up. You kept it stashed away in your closet until you were ready to put pictures inside of it when another idea came to mind. 

What if you made a sexy photo album for him?

At first, you were a little sheepish at the idea. Boudoir style pictures showing off only the dirtiest of contents? It seemed like that might be too much and even a bit weird. The longer you thought about it, though, the more and more the idea sounded good. Maybe Hannibal wouldn’t necessarily jump at the gift, but at least he’d have something to jerk off to when you weren’t around.

You assembled as many outfits as you could, some coming from your personal collection and some were purchased as a specialty to the production of the photos. You’d need some help actually having the photos taken, which is why you recruited one of your closest friends.

You could’ve had them professionally done, but you weren’t sure how comfortable you were with a photographer and group of modeling experts studying over your naked body for an entire day. Your friend was stoked for the project and dedicated a whole afternoon while Hannibal was at work to help you out. 

You took probably about a hundred pictures, all with varying poses, outfits, and locations around the house. You even took a few more innocent photos of you just smiling or doing candid things. You figured that you needed some sweet to balance out the spicy. 

You decorated the pages to add some pop and flare, ultimately thrilled with the final product. Hannibal’s birthday was only a few days away, and you were itching to show him what you had made for him. 

“You’re fidgety tonight.” Hannibal spoke from where he was laid out underneath you on the living room sofa. 

It was true, you had been extremely jittery for the last hour and a half, trying to compose yourself. Hannibal had told you that he had wanted nothing more than to have a quiet evening in for his birthday, which you found as a blessing because he’d definitely want to stay around the house after seeing his gift.

“Sorry. Just excited.” You admitted, seeing this as the perfect opportunity.

He raised a brow, looking down at your frame that was practically trembling with explosive animation. 

“I feel as if I don’t need to inform you that my birthday comes around every year,” He joked; “What’s gotten you so elated?”

You smiled up at him with a brightness that was almost blinding. You scrambled off of the sofa at your cue.

“Wait right here. I’ll be back.” You announced as you dashed up the stairs.

Hannibal chuckled to himself, already guessing as to what you were plotting. You returned shortly after with the picture book in hand, complete with a bow on top. You sat with your legs crossed in front of him, eagerly handing it to him.

“It’s not much...just a little something for your birthday.” You explained.

Hannibal sat up from where he was settled into the cushions, eyeing over the cover carefully. It was a beautifully crafted book, the dark leather was absolutely gorgeous. He pushed the bow off of the sides, opening to the very first page to see a sweet note you had written him, signed with your signature and all. He turned to the first page to actually contain photos on it, and a smile of pure joy spread on his face.

You had put all of the non-sexual pictures in the first two pages to disguise the actual reason for the book. You were smiling happily in each of the first several photos, wearing different casual outfits and in different places. 

“Darling, these are wonderful,” He complimented; “They’re stunning, they-”

His heartbeat quickened when he made it to the third page, and he noticed they had taken on a new theme. The scandalous photos were enough to knock him speechless. For the first time ever, you saw Hannibal’s cheeks break out into a deep blush. His fingertips trailed over one in particular where you were wearing one of his white work shirts with all the buttons undone. The only thing you were wearing underneath was one of his ties settled between your breasts. 

In other photos, you were wearing different sets of lingerie. There was one lacy, red colored set that almost made him faint right then and there.

He was knocked speechless, unable to string together a single sentence. You were beginning to feel a little self conscious, and you went back to your original worry that this was a bad idea. You had honestly expected him to completely attack you with feverish kisses or fuck you right then and there. The fact that he was completely silent was unsettling, because Hannibal Lecter always had something to say. 

Your voice was thick with uncertainty as you spoke to break the silence.

“Hannibal, do you...like them?” You wondered aloud.

His eyes never steered clear from the book in his hands and the photos presented in front of him. He turned to the next page, a rush of arousal flushing over him at one in particular where you were completely naked, stretched out on the massive kitchen counter and giving a look so seductive that it made his belly flutter. The sight of you naked in his culinary world where he spent so much time was a sight to behold.

“[Y/N], I love them. These photographs...they’re beautiful, well produced, and so, so sexy.” He breathed out.

You exhaled a breath of relief, feeling a sense of anticipation as he continued to rake over them. He turned to a new set of pictures, his hot blush growing even deeper onto his cheeks. He couldn’t look away from the scandalous photos, each one becoming dirtier than the last. He was riled up and he was already looking forward to having this book at his disposal.

His lips parted slightly ajar as he loomed over them. Your waiting was patient as he finished looking through them, his pupils dilating more and more by the minute. He closed the book once he was finished, his eyes finally flickering up to you. He had grown a very prevalent erection, and his eyes were filled with an intense amount of lust. Your suspicions had been correct after all. 

He was going to rock your world.

Hannibal usually didn’t try to make the first move. He always wanted you to initiate sex first. He believed that sex was a passionate, romantic connection that shouldn’t always be fueled by burning want and desire from outside resources. Based on the way he was looking at you though, you could tell that he wanted you BADLY. 

He nonchalantly rolled his hips forward to create some kind of friction. The sneaky grin on your face was almost maddening. The way that your body leaned in and your lips brushed over his just ever so was intoxicating. Your lips traveled to his ear as you purposefully let out a wanton moan to tantalize him. 

“Touch me, Hanni. I know you want to.” You coaxed.

That was all he needed. 

Hannibal lunged forward, smothering your body with his and suffocating you with hot kisses. He kept your hands pinned above your head, leaving open mouthed kisses on your neck as he intentionally drew the most wonderful sounds out of you. 

“What are the chances of you wearing one of those outfits under this sweater?” He said in a steamy voice.

You squirmed against his hands, but to no avail. When Hannibal didn’t want you to go anywhere, then you wouldn’t. You bit down on your lip in a seductive way, breathing out your response to send him into full on love making mode.

“Why don’t you find out?”

[missjanjie]

Better Than Revenge | Chapter 3

Title: Better Than Revenge Summary: Karma Inc.’s business structure is simple - clients hire them when they’ve been grievously wronged and they send one of their revenge mercenaries to right them. As painstaking as their efforts to remain ethical may be, that may be tested when former detective, Rosé, enlists the squad to pick up where she couldn’t on a much higher scale, with potentially greater consequences. Word Count: ~2.7k (this chapter) | ~8k (total) Relationship(s): Rosnali (Rosé/Denali Foxx), Jankie (Jackie Cox/Jan Sport), Halldoll (Nicky Doll/Jaida Essence Hall), Gimone (Gigi Goode/Symone), Gottlux (Gottmik/Olivia Lux) Rating: T

Read on AO3 | Ko-Fi

Chapter Summary: Rosé learns Gigi, Symone, and Denali's revenge origin stories

-

Woodstock, IL — 2016

Gigi took a deep breath as she stared at herself in the mirror. She could do this, it was fine. Every time her suspicions or confusion would bubble up, she forced them back down. Hannah was nice, she was different from the other popular girls. She didn’t see the ‘weird art lesbian’ with the braces and thick-rimmed glasses, who rarely got pop culture references post-1989, at least, that’s how she made her feel.

“I’ll text you in the morning,” she assured her mother as she threw her bag over her shoulder. “It’ll be fine, I’m just hanging out with a friend.” She was out to her mom, of course, that was her biggest ally. But she wasn’t ready to tell her that the head cheerleader had taken an interest in her. Maybe when and if they became official. Until then, she shook off the last of her nerves and drove to her house, only pulled from her thoughts by the time she was sitting on Hannah’s bed.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” Hannah cooed, batting her lashes and resting her hand on Gigi’s thigh.

If Gigi hadn’t been so blinded by her crush, she might’ve thought Hannah was laying it on a little thick, but she couldn’t act like she didn’t enjoy the attention. “Me too, a-about you, I mean. Sorry, I’m just nervous…”

“How come? I didn’t come on too strong over text, did I?”

“No, no I liked it, it’s just… I’m a virgin, like, I’ve only ever kissed before,” she confessed, her cheeks flushing rosy pink. She had talked a big game over text, but being faced with the chance of starting a physical relationship brought her back to reality.

Hannah pouted, rubbing Gigi’s thigh as she thought, letting her hand inch higher. “Well, you’ve got fantasies, don’t you? I know you’ve masturbated before. What do you think about while you touch yourself?”

Gigi hesitated, chewing on her bottom lip. The other girl wasn’t wrong, she did know what she liked, could conjure up vivid imagery to get herself aroused, but she had never said any of it out loud. “I like powerful, confident women. I guess that’s something that drew me to you,” she started, “I wanna just… give up control, be dominated.”

“Really? Tell me more,” Hannah prompted, kissing along her neck and jaw and slowly tugging Gigi’s shirt off in an attempt to coax her to continue.

When Hannah didn’t seem deterred by her confession, Gigi started to relax. “It’s just, I don’t know, I always feel the need to be in control of my life and with sex, I just wanna let go and give up that power.”

“So like, what would you want someone to do to you?” she asked, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips.

She bit down on her lip. “Um… tie me up, spank me, choke me, and I know it’s kind of intense but maybe something like cnc or—” the incessant buzzing of her phone distracted her and, concerned it might be an urgent call or text from home, she took her phone out. “Sorry, one sec.”

It wasn’t from home, she had two missed calls from her best friend, Crystal, followed by several texts.

Crystal: GIGI STOP Crystal: SHUT UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP!!! Crystal: She’s broadcasting you on IG live! Crystal: We can see and hear everything…

Gigi’s face fell, her first instinct to pull her shirt back on. Then she slowly looked up and in front of her, that’s when she saw it, nestled between stuffed animals — Hannah’s phone with an instagram live going. She didn’t say anything, just ran out of the house as fast as her legs would take her and through her tears drove right to Crystal’s house. That was when the two of them formed their plot.

In and of itself, it was simple. Gigi waited one day until Hannah was away for a cheer competition and went to her house. “I’m so sorry to bother you, Mrs. Andrews, but I think I left some of my homework in Hannah’s room, she just said to let you know so I can run in and grab it.” Once inside, she found exactly what she was looking for, sliding Hannah’s diary into her backpack and went right back out.

“This feels very Mean Girls, I love it,” Crystal remarked as they taped page after page of the diary on lockers, walls, anywhere they could.

“Well, plan B was to go the Heathers route, so let’s just hope it works.”

And to say it worked was an understatement. As it turned out, Hannah had written things far more incriminating, and because it came from someone of her social ranking, it made everyone immediately lose interest in Gigi’s livestream scandal, and she graduated with the anonymity she needed for survival.

Present Day

“I’ll be honest with you,” Rosé remarked, “it’s kinda hard to picture you as an ugly duckling, especially the way you described it.” Gigi was too pretty, too perfect. Something didn’t add up.

Gigi got out her phone and scrolled through her photos until she found one from her senior year. “Believe it, doll,” she said as she held her phone up. She watched with an amused expression as Rosé looked from her phone, to her, and back with her eyes wide and mouth agape. “Braces off, lasik, learned a lot about how to dress while going to FIDM, which is where I met Symone, who helped fill in the blanks.”

“And made sure she got to do all them things she listed to that bitch without feeling ashamed about it,” Symone added with a smirk, draping her arm around Gigi and pulling her close, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“Why don’t you tell her your story next, baby?” Gigi prompted.

Conway, AR — 2014

Symone watched her sister throw her bag over her shoulder and start to sneak out the window. “Look, I ain’t snitching or nothing, but I still don’t think this is a good idea.”

She and her sister, Lala, were close, sometimes referring to themselves as twins – they were only ten months apart, in the same grade at school. And until the summer after sophomore year, they had the same group of friends. But the crowd Lala ran with now just rubbed her the wrong way.

“You worry too much,” Lala brushed it off. “I’ll be fine, in bed by morning like nothing happened.”

But when Symone got a collect call two hours later, she found out things were far from fine. She drove down to the county jail as fast as she could without getting pulled over herself. Luckily bail was a mere fifty dollars, but once she got her sister back in the car, she looked at her incredulously. “What the fuck happened?”

“One of ‘em brought weed, another brought booze, but when the cops rolled up on us, they said it all was mine. And who was they gonna believe, me or three white kids?” Lala sniffled, wiping her eyes. “I don’t know what’s gonna happen to me,” she whispered.

“I don’t either,” Symone admitted quietly, frustrated at her inability to come up with an immediate solution. “But we’re gonna do our best to get you out of this, okay?”

The best they could do wasn’t easy. It involved a lot of legal maneuvering, meetings with one person in a suit after another. The end result wasn’t ideal, but it was far better than what could have been. Lala was fined three hundred dollars and put on thirty days of probation. In and of itself, it didn’t seem so bad, but the residual consequences took their toll.

“I lost my scholarship, ‘mone. That was my ticket into college,” Lala sighed. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I know I’m getting off with a slap on the wrist, but I really ain’t thrilled about taking out student loans,” she sat down on the floor beside the bed, head leaning against it. “Or maybe I’ll start with community college, I dunno. It just fucking sucks that they all got off with warnings.”

Symone’s brows knitted together, her lips pressed into a fine line. “Don’t you worry baby,” she said after a moment, “they gon’ face consequences one way or another.”

It had taken most of spring break, but Symone finally had all of the pieces for her plan. “Not the most convoluted thing in the world, but it’ll get the job done,” she mused.

Lala looked at her sister, then at her desk and back. “Do I even wanna know where the hell you got coke from?”

“No, you do not.”

Getting the drugs was the hard part. Getting into school early to plant the drugs in the lockers of Lala’s former friends was far easier, as was leaving an ‘anonymous tip’ from a ‘concerned student’ on the principal’s desk.

“God, I wish I could’ve seen them get hauled off in cop cars,” Lala remarked as she and Symone drove home from school. The three students were quietly escorted out of class and arrested, the school wanting to bring as little attention as possible. “Shame that they rich daddies will still get them off lightly.”

Symone sighed and nodded. “Sure, but they’re still gonna get something, which is more than what they got when they threw you under the bus. Bet they’re gonna think twice before they let someone else take the fall for them.”

Her sister smiled softly and shook her head. “You really ain’t gotta do all that for me, you know?”

“I know,” she hummed, “not gonna stop me, though.”

Present Day

“Wow, that’s both selfless and hardcore,” Rosé remarked with an impressed nod. “Did she ever find out where you got the coke from?”

Symone laughed and shook her head. “Nah, that secret I’m taking to the grave.”

Rosé jokingly put her hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay, fair enough,” she chuckled. After a moment, she turned her attention to Denali. “That just leaves you, princess,” she remarked, a slight smirk tugging at her lips. “What’s your claim to infamy?”

Denali tossed her hair off her shoulder and grinned softly. “Who, me?” she cooed, fluttering her lashes. “Well, it is kind of an interesting story…”

Nicky rolled her eyes and tossed one of the couch pillows at her head. “Stop flirting and get on with it already.”

Fairbanks, AK — 2011

Denali groaned when the sound of loud footsteps racing up the stairs pulled her from her quasi-asleep state, then pulled a pillow over her head when the door swung open.

“What the hell are you still doing in bed when the qualifiers are in two hours?” her friend, Kahmora, asked with incredulous horror. She yanked the covers off of her, but stepped back in concern when she finally caught sight of Denali’s face. “Oh god, you look like shit.”

She frowned and rolled over to face away from her. “I feel like I died and was in the process of being reanimated, then killed again,” she lamented. “It’s probably food poisoning… or maybe swine flu came back, I dunno.”

“Did you eat anything unusual?”

Denali furrowed her brows as she wracked her brain. “I mean, Tara gave me those brownies and I had one, but when she said they were ‘special’, I just thought she meant they had weed in them, but that sure as hell isn’t it.” With as much energy as she could muster, she sat upright. “Oh my god, do you think she poisoned me?”

Kahmora arched her brow. “I think that’s a bit much, even for her. Do I think she put something like a laxative in there so it’d take you out long enough that you couldn’t beat her out in the international qualifiers? Yeah, probably. She’s a cunt.”

The skater scowled, her jaw clenched. “She’s a dead cunt,” she corrected, then suddenly shot out of bed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she muttered as she raced to the bathroom yet again.

There wasn’t an obvious revenge plan for Denali. She knew that nothing she did would get her spot in the competition, and she wondered if it was even worth it. But her pettiness and spite won out and she began planning out her course of action.

“Remember,” she was saying, “if all else fails, we go the Tonya Harding route.”

Kahmora sighed. “For the last time, you are not whacking Tara’s kneecaps, now let’s go.” Despite some pouting from Denali, they went to get the gears turning in their plan. They got to the ice rink and slipped into the locker room without being noticed by Tara, who was in the middle of practice.

Denali picked the lock and took out Tara’s change of clothes. Then she reached into her own bag and pulled on latex gloves and a plastic bag containing several leaves of poison ivy. She turned the shirt, pants, and socks inside out and firmly rubbed the leaves against the fabric, making sure she left as little fabric uncovered as possible. “She’s lucky I’m merciful or I’d rub it on her panties too,” she remarked offhandedly.

Kahmora tilted her head as she watched her. “Do you actually think it’ll take her out of the competition?” she asked as her friend put the leaves and gloves into the ziploc bag.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I mean, it’s possible, probable really, that the constant itching might make it too difficult for her to skate. But this is more about getting even with her. I might not ever get another chance to compete for internationals. She’s lucky the only retribution she’s getting is a few weeks of itchy blisters.”

“Otherwise you’d Tonya Harding her?”

Denali nodded brightly. “Exactly! Now come on, we have to get rid of the evidence.” And with that, they scurried out of the locker room as inconspicuously as they’d entered it and threw out the evidence in a trash can several blocks over.

When the news broke that Tara had withdrawn from the competition due to ‘unexpected physical problems’, Denali did her best to feign shock and didn’t celebrate until she and Kahmora were alone.

“So, what do you wanna do now?” Kahmora asked.

Denali tilted her head in thought, then smirked. “Let’s go get brownies.”

Present Day

“Personally, I still think you should’ve busted her knees,” Mik mused offhandedly. “Like, I bet you would’ve figured out a way to get away with it, you conniving bitch,” he teased.

Denali shrugged. “Maybe, but it’s not very original and it’d look a lot more suspicious on my end.”

“I think it was pretty badass,” Rosé offered, making the other woman smile which, in turn, made her heart flutter — something she chose to actively ignore. Instead, she let all of their stories sink in. None of their reasons for revenge were out of line, none of their victims undeserving. And none of the consequences were as severe as some of the things she had seen in her time. “You all really know what you’re doing, huh?”

“We wouldn’t have been able to keep this up for three years if we didn’t,” Jan replied. “We had all of the potential on our own, but we make a difference together, and then we added Jackie to tie up the loose ends. It’s been smooth sailing from there.”

“Yeah, and now Jackie ties you up instead,” Nicky teased, earning an eye roll in response.

Rosé watched the group interact with a fond smile. She had assumed they all got along to be working together for as long as they have been, but she hadn’t anticipated them truly behaving like a family. It was a stark contrast to the constant coldness and curtness she had grown accustomed to, both in her previous career and in the environment she grew up in. She only hoped it would make the tasks ahead that much easier for them.

[scapegrace74-blog]

Do You Want To?

A/N The second prompt-inspired Metric Universe fic, this time in response to a request for Jealous Jamie/Claire by @stellarpuffin. Often we see Jamie being the jealous one, but this idea came to me fully formed. Set way back at the beginning of the Metric timeline, sometime between Breathing Underwater and Lost Kitten. Claire POV, and also just a hint of Jamie/John. Inspired by the Franz Ferdinand song and video referenced in the title, which is gloriously sexually ambiguous and can be seen here.

The entire Metric Universe is available on my AO3 page.

November 14, 2015

Village Underground, Shoreditch, London, England

"Are ye gonna bid on something?" Geillis asked as they made their way through a Tube car converted into an art installation space.

The friends stopped in front of a nine foot pastiche of rubber hoses, protrusions of oil paint and copper plating that seemed to be the artist's interpretation of what it might look like if a factory puked.

"I made my donation when I paid for my ticket," Claire replied. "Intriguing as these pieces are, if I don't mind every penny I'll end up homeless myself."

"Like I'd ever let that happen tae ye," her friend scoffed. "Let's head back tae the main buildin' then and make certain ye get yer money's worth in free food, at least."

Crisis UK's semi-annual fundraiser was a charity auction. Despite her jest, Claire was a regular contributor, having seen the physical and social toll of homelessness first-hand through her work at the hospital. The venue was a converted coal storage warehouse, renovated to the height of Functional Industrial Disrepair, and it echoed with the voices of patrons from all walks of life. Signature cocktails in hand, the two women stood to one side of the room and gossiped between morsels of finger food lifted from passing servers.

"Weeeel, if it isn't the wee fox cub," Geillis remarked with evil glee.

Muddled by several drinks downed in quick succession, Claire looked about for a stray forest animal. What she saw was nearly as unexpected. Standing out amongst the crowd of black dresses and expensive distressed jeans, Jamie Fraser's defiantly chaotic curls and trim navy blue uniform drew her eyes like a magnet. He was leaning down, listening in apparent rapt attention to a petite blonde woman with eyes take took up half her face and a crop top that started its life as a handkerchief.

"Thas' Leery Mackenzie," Geillis noted. "A more persistent flirt ye ne'er did meet, an' thas' comin' from me. Puir lad is in need of rescue."

In truth she barely knew the young fireman, besides having once been the only obstacle standing between his mangled body and the afterlife, but she found herself vaguely disappointed in his choice of company. But who was she to judge? Even heroes were entitled to an easy piece of tail now and then. After all, hadn't he dated Geillis once?

"Don't let me stop you, Duncan. I'll just stand here and hold up this derelict wall."

"Och, nah. Been there, done that. I think ye're the right woman fer the job, Beauchamp."

"Me?" she began to protest, but just then the background music ceased and a well-dressed man called for everyone to take their seats so that the auction could begin.

In addition to the art on display, a number of companies had donated services and experiences to be bid upon. Claire found herself wishing she could afford to indulge in the spa getaway package or a weekend for two in Margate. But then again, who would she take? Instead, she sipped on her drink and observed the crowd as item after item went on the block. Jamie was nowhere to be seen, but his blond friend sat in the front row, her bare shoulders glimmering under the bright lights. Who wore glitter to a charity auction, even in Shoreditch, she wondered uncharitably.

"Our next item on offer is sure to bring a smile to some lucky lady's face," the announcer intoned. "Lot 23 is an all-expenses paid night on the town with one of London Fire Brigade's bright young stars, Mister April himself, James Fraser. And here he is now. I'll start the bidding at fifty pounds."

Claire didn't know where to look first. Next to her, Geillis let out an abbreviated cry, sounding like a strangled goat. On the stage, Jamie had sauntered into the limelight, copperplate curls alight and tall, broad form neatly sheathed in navy blue. And in the front row, a glitter-strewn arm shot skyward before the auctioneer even named his starting price.

"Excellent, I have fifty pounds from the enthusiastic young lady in the front row. Do I hear sixty pounds?"

Hands were raised from elsewhere in the audience, but each time Leery answered with a higher bid.   Soon it was only the blonde tart and a slim dark-haired man with astonishingly long eyelashes who were bidding against each other.  

Claire watched to see if Jamie appeared uneasy with the idea of going on a date with another man, but he smiled easily any time the rivals outbid each other.  He wasn’t a vain man, in her estimation, but he wore his striking looks with an easy confidence that was undeniably sexy.  If you were into that sort of thing, that is.

“I have one hundred and sixty pounds from the young lady in front.  Do I hear one hundred and seventy pounds?”

The dark haired man shook his head, looking sincerely disappointed.  Claire felt a pang of sympathetic compassion.

“...once. Going twice. Final call.  I have one hundred and seventy pounds from a new bidder in the back!”

Every head swiveled around to where Claire sat, her arm raised on high.  Leery narrowed her eyes as though Claire had just cursed her lineage.  From the stage, Jamie made eye contact, instantly recognizing her. Perhaps she was deluding herself, but she felt he looked relieved.

“What happened tae livin’ on the streets?” Geillis snickered as the auctioneer recommenced the bidding.

“I’m banking on the fact that you took me in as a stray once before,” Claire retorted as she lifted her hand a second time.

When all was said and done, she ended up paying two hundred and ten pounds to go out on a date with a man she barely knew.  For reasons she couldn’t fathom, saving Jamie from Leery’s avid clutches was more important than her own ambivalence and enforced frugality.

“Ye never cease tae amaze me, Claire,” Geillis laughed after the auction concluded.  “Never in a million years would I have predicted ye had a crush on yon fox cub.”

“That’s because I don’t have a crush on him,” she denied.  “I just find the whole idea of a man, or a woman, mind you, selling himself like a piece of meat incredibly distasteful.”

“Oh, aye,” her friend grinned.  “Tis a noble deed ye’ve done, tae be sure.  An’ now that ye’ve saved him from the butcher’s block, whatever are ye tae do wit’ him?”

“I haven’t the faintest...”

“Good evenin’ tae ye, Nurse Beauchamp.  Geillis.”

The piece of meat in question stood before them, even more impressive at close range.  Just over his left shoulder she could see Leery looking on in disgust, a moue of despair painted on her ample lips.

After a few casual pleasantries, Jamie said, “Sae, Ms. Beauchamp, shall I give ye my number so we can arrange a time fer our wee outing?  I was thinking dinner an’ a show, but if ye prefer live music we could...”

“There won’t be any need to exchange numbers, Mr. Fraser.  Save your money, or better yet, donate it to the fundraiser.”

The look Leery gave her as she and a hysterical Geillis left to grab their coats was worth every penny.

[sstrongstyle]

𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐲 𝐚 𝐦𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Adam Cole x OC, mentions of Seth Rollins x OC 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: After nearly a decade of being the golden girl of WWE, Adaline Marin wants out. Their ring was no longer home, haunted by her first love and upon reaching her thirties, the face behind "Aspen Glory" wonders if the passion she once had was still ablaze. Instead, she gets sent down to NXT to join the Undisputed Era. The next three hundred and sixty-five days, all captured by cameras for the history books, become a year of revival, reinvention, and realization with her legacy at stake and a new flame from the past emerging. 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: All characters are referred to by their real life names (for the most part) 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: I love feedback! Please send some my way! <3 Very background heavy chapter, no real fun, but more to come. If you’re interested in being added to a tag list, let me know!

CHAPTER THREE.

June 8th, 2019

Adaline couldn't believe that she didn't just agree to this, but agreed for it to be done for an entire year. It wasn't like she cared about being in management's good graces and volunteered to do it, but she somehow got hoodwinked into agreeing to a 365 special on herself. She was the last person in the world to enjoy having cameras on her when she was out of the ring and no longer Aspen Glory. Doing interviews out of character for Adaline felt like pulling teeth. She avoided Total Divas at all costs. Even appearing on stuff like Ride Along and UpUpDownDown was difficult for her.

"Just call me the modern day Undertaker," Adaline rolled her eyes, but she smiled a bit, as she sat down for the camera.

She liked her privacy as much as any other wrestler that had cameras constantly on them, but especially since fans liked to pay extra attention to her life for whatever reason. Adaline attributed it to her once long term relationship with Colby, highly publicized at several points because of whatever dirt sheet rumours and private leaks that were thrown their way. She was quiet at all times, her Wikipedia page only covering her wrestling career, as she had been as vague about her childhood as possible in the past.

Raising an eyebrow at the producer, Craig, a few feet away, Adaline wasn't sure where to begin. "I can just talk about anything?"

Anything but the few things on the "no mention" list. Most were contributed by WWE, but a lot of other things were provided by Adaline. This included her past relationship with Colby outside of kayfabe and especially anything to do with Nikki Bella.

"Start with talking about your career so far. You can name drop companies and non-contracted performers, but only because we'll be editing whatever we don't want aired, anyway."

"Right," she shifted slightly, unsurprised. "Well, I'm turning thirty-two this fall, so this will be into my sixteenth year of doing this thing."

She wasn't exactly sure why the Network executives wanted to give her a 365 special. As far as she knew, most of the episodes were focused on wrestlers overcoming serious injuries or taking the next great step in their careers. Was this what NXT was supposed to be for her?

Craig's expression remained blank, as he pushed his semi rimless glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. "You started at sixteen years old?" His eyes never left the clipboard in front of him, where she assumed was a list of prompts to ask.

"Yeah, I dropped out of high school in the tenth grade and I worked retail and other random part time jobs for two years while training and working local shows in Toronto. Bingo halls, high school gyms, random parking lots, you know," Adaline explained further, still trying to loosen up her tense shoulders. "When I turned eighteen, I dropped everything and moved to the United States because I knew I was limited, wrestling where I was wrestling. I was an illegal alien with no plan and just a few hundred dollars—the dumb indie wrestler dream."

It'd been so long since she looked back at that time in her life. Once embarrassed by her roots, Adaline felt a warm, fuzzy feeling at the pit of her stomach and couldn't ignore the swelling of pride in her heart. She'd come far.

The look on Craig's face induced Adaline to continue, so she took a deep breath. "My early work happened in Pennsylvania, where I fought my way into gyms and I mean fought. It was really hard at that time for a woman to be taken seriously. It was guys like Drew Gulak and Jon—" Although Craig said that she was allowed to name drop non-contracted performers, she was positive that uttering the former Dean Ambrose's name wasn't worth it. "—um, who helped me learn the ropes and culture in that area. Chikara's Wrestling Factory really helped me out and I did stuff for them and other places like CZW. Drew was the head trainer at the CZW at the time and was one of the first mentor figures I had."

If Adaline had to put her money on it, she would have said that Craig was bored out of his damn mind, but then again, he had the same expression on his face ever since he walked into the room. "Did you just stay in the northeast for that portion of your career?"

"I ventured a bit more west as time went by. Definitely lingered around Illinois for a while, since it's where the top independent women's promotions were at the time. Funnily enough, I ended up living in Chicago for about ten years after that." To be with her boyfriend, but she didn't mention that. "I did some time on the west coast, not as much as I wish I did, but I definitely had some fun doing stuff in California and for a split second, Mexico. Three years into working in the States and I somehow, by a miracle, land myself in the locker room of Florida Championship Wrestling."

To this day, Adaline wasn't exactly sure how she got in. The tape that she sent the developmental recruits was god-awful and her tryout promo was more than cringy. However, looking at other people in her recruitment class, it was clear that officials and scouts looked at potential over everything—how well could they be molded into the WWE standard, the ceiling of their entertainment value. She wasn't sure if she should feel flattered that they saw that in her or not or if they simply saw that she could be easily manipulated.

"It was definitely a time down there. Difficult, yes, but I learned so much." Adaline could recall nights crying into her pillow out of frustration for where her training was going and how she was treated by the other talent. Girls often claimed how hard they were judged for being models and dancers before coming to FCW, but it was just as hard being an "arrogant indie schmuck." There weren't many women from back then who could relate to the garbage that she went through.

Craig asked, "Do you think performers then had a harder time in FCW than the recruits down in the PC and NXT today?"

She paused, taking the question in. "Not a harder time, per say, but the process is much smoother now, while being more of a burden. We have the state of the art Performance Center now, compared to that warehouse we used to train in. NXT gets so much more exposure now that it's harder to reinvent yourself at your own pace." Adaline said. "In a way, because NXT is now its own brand, I would say that talent from the FCW era were much more catty in the sense of starting drama and wanting to move up to get on the road with the main roster talent. The divas division back then was a very different culture to the women's locker room here at Full Sail, which is now very welcoming. Everyone wants to help each other, not drag them down."

There was nothing Adaline wanted to do more than expose certain names, but she held herself back. The catty environment, the hazing, the drama and sabotage, was too much for her. She was just glad that she move on from there quickly, as her memories in developmental hurt her as much as they did help her.

"And after FCW?"

Adaline grinned. "Oh, come on. Everyone knows what happened after that."

For the first few years, she was afraid that the only reason she got lumped in with The Shield was because she was Colby's long term girlfriend and that they assumed he would be most comfortable with her as their valet. After all, Adaline wasn't exactly progressing as a character in FCW. She was scared of that, and only being considered as eye candy and a side item for the boys. It took years of understanding from other people and seeing the product in the eye of the executives that they truly must have seen potential in her.

And if all of the above were true anyway, then Adaline made damn sure to prove herself to be otherwise in the past few years.

"My time with The Shield was everything I could ask for and more. I'm glad I spent that portion of my career with those guys, I don't think I could have found my way around without them. We were all definitely kind of lost, but we had each other, and we were really family." She wanted to say are family, but things were different these days.

Adaline talked to Joe the most, at least up until her move to the yellow and black brand. He texted and checked up on her often while she was off TV. Jon came here and there, but things were different. She only kept up with him through Renee, since the man clearly had yet to discover how to reply to a text.

Then, there was Colby.

Things were good the first couple months after the big finale. As fine as they could be, really. They were on different brands leading up to Wrestlemania, which contributed tremendously to the smooth sailing. After the Royal Rumble, though, things got. . . weird and of course, she hadn't known it yet, but it was around the time he started seeing Becky.

"Hey, Becks, some of the girls are going back to my hotel room after the show," Adaline had tapped Becky on the shoulder after catching her outside of the trainer's room during the later hours of Elimination Chamber. "You gonna come and kick my ass in Mario Kart?"

For whatever reason, Becky's expression dropped. "Oh, uh, actually, I'm just gonna head back to mine. Call it in early, y'know?" Tripping over her words, the fluster in her voice was a tad suspicious to Adaline, but she brushed it off.

She'd proceeded with her plans with Pamela and Leah, playing video games into the early morning. Adaline didn't even think of Becky and her obvious excuse until Leah mentioned that she ran into Becky on her way back to her own room.

"It was written all over her face! Someone definitely got lucky that night," Leah mused at the makeup table, two days later at Smackdown. "Who do you think the guy is? She's definitely not one for random hookups."

Adaline knew that she wasn't owed an explanation to Colby's new love life, but she was a little disappointed that she figured it out on her own. The little things, the rumours she heard backstage, all pieced together for her to realize what was going on between the two of them. Maybe Adaline wouldn't have felt so ruffled about it if it wasn't made to be so weird and secretive. She didn't tell anyone what she found out, keeping it to herself until they announced it themselves.

"Stop making excuses for him, I know why he's late." She didn't even look up from her phone, as she waited in the passenger's seat of the group's rental car. "He's with her, right?"

This was at the tail end of The Shield's farewell era in February earlier that year. Though, Adaline was not heavily involved in the storyline as some expected her to be—the escalation to her own Wrestlemania feud had been going on and she had duties to fulfill on the Smackdown brand. She wasn't there for the buildup throughout the month on Raw, but she was able to join the reunion at Fastlane. It was the group's last match together and the group begged personnel to let her be apart of at least the final moments.

Joe and Jon simply exchanged looks with each other in response. They clearly knew about the couple and probably found out from Colby himself. While nobody said anything to Adaline about it, deep down, they all knew that nobody needed to. She knew Colby more than possibly any other person in the world and the two weren't surprised that she figured it all out.

"Right." Jon was the one who chose to break the awkward silence. "Well, he can meet us there. Let's get this show on the road, we got some beautiful people waiting to see my beautiful face at that bar." It felt a little wrong to not wait for Colby on their way to the roster's "Goodbye Shield" party at a local watering hole, but even Joe was sick of waiting and started the engine.

"We had the time of our lives in that initial run. There's just too memories that I'll cherish forever, you know. But, my memory of all time is surprising the fans at Fastlane, when I showed up to accompany the boys to the ring one last time and having that farewell embrace as the show went off air." Adaline quickly blinked back the tears, as sensitive as ever, but she didn't like showing that side of her to the camera. "I swear to god, time seemed to just completely stop for those few minutes. It was out of this world, nothing like it."

The most magical part of wrestling was the crowd, there's no denying that. On the eve of Fastlane, Adaline felt mountains of love and excitement from the fans, knowing that they were witnessing the end of an era. All four of them knew it was the end of an era, in many ways more than one. Adaline and Colby, who were always known as a collective, rather than individually, were now apart and were now moving on from each other. Mox chose to chase his dreams elsewhere, away from the three that became his family. Joe's legacy in the industry was building and building, year by year. They were no longer the people they were in 2012, having finally gotten a taste of wealth and glory after early years of struggle when the four used to share a single hotel room to save costs.

She'll always be grateful for her run with The Shield. At the beginning, she was just happy to be in a main roster storyline. She was just happy to be able to maximize her time with Colby. Beyond that, Jon and Joe became her family. Bickering over who's turn it was to drive after long house shows, getting to know Joe's kids, playing video games in the locker rooms and every hotel room, and nobody leaving the trainer's room until everybody was clear. No one got left behind.

Back then, it was like that. Now? Adaline can't help but feel like she's come to that point, without any of the three by her side for the first time in a decade.

Craig sighed a little too loudly, rolling up his sleeve and glancing at the shiny watch on his wrist. "We're running out of time. We'll touch on your time with The Authority and everything since then for our next interview day, maybe also dig a little deeper into your new alliance with Undisputed Era." Adaline tried not to breathe a sigh of relief, already worn out from the questions. "Last thing. What are your expectations going into NXT, considering all that you've gone through in sixteen years?"

A question that she didn't know the answer to.

"It's good catching up with you. You have your locker number?" Coach Bloom stood up from his chair from across the desk, extending his hand for Adaline to shake.

She nodded, taking his hand. "Yes, sir. I'll be on my way, then."

Being called into the head trainer's office was similar to the feeling of being called into the principal's office and she had more fear in her body than someone who had just arrived should have had. That was the feeling that Bloom gave off to all NXT residents, but she knew that there was always care behind his tough demeanour. He simply wanted to welcome her properly to the PC on her first official day.

Meanwhile, Serena had been sitting to the side of the two of them and she couldn't confine the grin stretching across her face. When they had shook hands, she instead pulled her old friend into a tight embrace.

"I'm so happy you're here," she whispered into her ear, not caring that Bloom was rolling his eyes at them, mumbling about something for the two women to take it outside of his office.

They had only reunited so few times since Serena signed on as a coach for the Centre a year ago and it only made the moment feel so much sweeter. At the very beginning of Adaline's career, Serena had served as such a helpful mentor figure, even going into their short lived time in the FCW women's locker room together. To have their paths intersect once again, at yet another pivotal part in Adaline's life, seemed poetic in a sense.

Adaline walked out of the office, in tow with Serena. "I guess I'll be responding to your drills again, huh?"

"And you better do it damn well," she raised an eyebrow at the younger woman. "I'm still in shock that you're here. They really didn't want you going anywhere else, huh?"

Shrugging in response, the Canadian sighed. "I'm in shock, too—considering that NXT wasn't apart of the plan." Adaline was getting tired complaining about how the wool was pulled over her eyes during her contract negotiations, but it was starting to fully settle in. Meeting the guys in Hunter's office softened the blow. It was time to shut up and accept the facts.

"People everywhere watched what you did all over the world during those two years that you were gone. You don't need this company to be a star, they need you," Serena said. "Have you maybe considered that you're here because you did all you could do on RAW and Smackdown?"

Those words echoed in Adaline's head, as she trudged into the women's locker room.

It had almost ten years since she started this journey in this company and it seemed like almost everybody that started with her had already grown tired of it. Her first road wives, April and Celeste, were long gone. Danielle decided that she was worn out and was gone. Trinity had recently taken time off and wasn't sure when she was coming back to the ring. Saraya, someone who Adaline thought would be wrestling in her sixties, was retired. Even the goddamn Bellas weren't around anymore. Ninety percent of the division from a decade ago was gone. Wasn't she exhausted, too?

She envied women like Becky and Pamela, who were still hungry for more. There were others who had just made the main roster and some down with her in NXT now, who suffered through the struggles of the indies and were still ready to claw up to the top. Adaline wondered where that drive was for her.

Every locker was labelled by ring name, some with more long-standing plates—mainstays like Io Shirai and Bianca Belair. Meanwhile, others simply had a laminated piece of paper slapped on top of the metal. These were the recruits who had yet to prove themselves, the names that Adaline couldn't recognize.

A shiny, new plate shone on the locker that sat at the corner of the room. Aspen Glory, it read, in all of its permanent lustre.

She slammed her gym bag onto the bench, the impact echoing throughout the empty room. The process felt foreign, making a locker home when Adaline spent so many years travelling to probably hundreds of different arenas and treating each space and moment as temporary. She wasn't sure where to begin, as she unlocked the door and was met with a clean, baby blue interior.

There were some basic things that she brought, like extra socks, a water bottle, and shower shoes. Adaline quickly filled the locker up with these contents and it still appeared so barren to her. What the hell else was she supposed to put in it? She shrugged, not thinking too much about it. Then, she heard the door creak open.

Somewhat hidden away from the front of the locker room, Adaline could hear a distinct voice that seemed to be talking to someone over the phone and a smile formed, hoping it was who she thought it was.

"Yeah, that sounds good for dinner. I just got into the PC, I think Cheree's already waiting for me. You know how she is, she's always early. Alright, bye, Johnny, I love you. See you."

A flash of blonde hair only confirmed Adaline's suspicions. It was Candice LeRae, who hummed the melody of a 90s pop song and chewed bubblegum, as she strolled over without noticing the other female in the room. She easily unlocked her name plated locker, which was across from Adaline's, and nearly everything spilled out from it being too full.

She groaned. "Oh, crap," Candice said, trying to chase a bottle of dry shampoo that had begun rolling across the floor, only to be met with Adaline's bemused expression.

"Hi."

"Hey," Candice replied with a grin, a little perplexed.

Almost instantaneously, they pulled each other into a hug. Knowing that she would be diving head first into the unknown, Adaline was aware that she couldn't navigate all on her own. The two Breezango idiots were too busy figuring their own things out and she couldn't voice her anxiety to her new stable mates, wanting to give off a confident face. There were only so many people that Adaline could turn to outside of them, so she gave Candice a heads up that she was now reporting to the Performance Centre.

Adaline bent down and reached out for the lavender can for her shorter friend, passing it to her. "Your shit's a mess, girl."

"Yours will be, too. Give it a month," she rolled her eyes and peeked over her shoulder at Adaline's belongings on the bench. "You're moving in today?! I honestly did not expect to see you here so soon."

"I told you that I landed a few days ago, didn't I? I've been in meetings all weekend," Adaline replied with a groan. She had only been in Orlando for such a short amount of time and the amount of work and settling she had to do was taxing. The NXT tapings hadn't even begun, yet.

Candice said, "Yeah, it doesn't really slow down for another week or so. You'll love it here, I promise." As everyone else had promised Adaline, who clearly wasn't convinced.

The blonde turned around and put the can back into its place—if it even had one, in that mess of a locker—and began rummaging through her personal possessions. Candice let a out a soft a-ha! when she found what she was looking for at the back of the space, a Minnie Mouse hairbrush. Adaline chuckled softly at the sight and turned around, closing her own locker.

"Are you off to go workout?"

"Yeah, Cheree's wanted to get some cardio in. Any more meetings today?" Candice replied.

Adaline shook her head. "No, just moving in." She gestured to her gym bag and locker.

"Well, while you're here, the taping schedule is posted up by the west wing double doors, you know, the ones to the main gym. We can check it out together. Actually, would your name even be on there?" Candice thought to herself, considering that she was one of the few people who were made aware of Adaline's presence. The taping schedule wasn't usually subject to the change unless there was an injury, but producers were known edited the cards last minute to accommodate random returns and debuts before, at least once the talent found out.

The woman in question just shrugged in response. "Beats me. It doesn't hurt to look, right?"

"Then, we can check out the travel schedule. Ooh, I hope you're coming with us to the midwest loop at the end of the month!" Candice became giddy. "We'll hit the road together, no men! I wish we got to do that more often when you were in Cali."

Adaline didn't get the opportunity to do so often, but she loved wrestling in The Golden State and especially in PWG. When she worked with them in the past, she always travelled and hung out with Candice.

"I don't think so, but probably the next one?" she shrugged.

The two began chatting more for the next few minutes, mostly about Adaline settling in and her new house. Always the lazy type, she'd been procrastinating and the boxes in her home were left untouched, despite her promising herself that she would get it all out. The small talk about something other than wrestling for once settled the restlessness in Adaline, a small distract of sorts.

It wasn't like she disliked talking about wrestling, rather it was all that seemed to be on her mind for the past while since Wrestlemania. Somehow, it was the first time Adaline really took notice of that, considering she lived, breathed, and ate wrestling for the past sixteen years of her life. A part of her felt worrisome for the sudden awareness of it, wondering it had any relation to her other career concerns.

Unfortunately, the brief, sweet wrestling-free moment was cut short when the locker room door slammed open.

Everyone knew who Shayna Baszler was, or at least, every woman in the company did. After all, the current NXT Women's Champion was probably next in line to overtake your spot in the animal kingdom. Management wanted to push her to lead the division once she would inevitably leave NXT and become a box office draw for all of the big pay-per-views and tours and media.

Some said that Shayna was one of, if not, the most intimidating women on the NXT roster and bore a vicious gaze. Even upon entering the locker room that was nearly empty, her presence demanded attention. All eyes drew to her so naturally and so quickly as they tore away from her out of fear.

"Out of my way," was all she had to say to Adaline, not even flinching at the sight of the veteran and former women's champion.

Adaline zoned out for a moment, completely baffled by the attitude that she was just given. She couldn't help but scoff, trying to process the disrespect that was being shown to her.

She narrowed her eyes at Shayna. "The hell did you just say to me?"

In between them, Candice just sighed. It seemed like that she wanted to end what was going to be an ugly dispute early, but something held her back. Adaline hoped it wasn't out of intimidation by the former mixed martial artist.

Shayna stared back at the woman in front of her. "You think you can just waltz in here and act like you got this brand on lock? They get tired of you on the main roster and Japan couldn't offer you enough money, so you come down here to fuck around?"

Adaline wanted to find out how Shayna found out that she was going to be here, but that wasn't the main concern of hers. Her jaw nearly dropped to the ground, hearing Shayna's words. Clearly, she didn't like her or some rumours already began to float around backstage. Regardless, Adaline was already on the bad side of the de facto locker room leader.

With the fury running through her body, though, she didn't give a damn.

"I'm going to say this once, so you better listen up," Shayna began, "I think you're entitled. I think that you've ridden on the coattails of your ex-boyfriend for your entire career. So, I don't like you. Plain and simple."

"You think you know me?" Adaline's voice began to rise, but Shayna held up a hand and didn't let her finish.

She said, "Maybe for you, being here is like a little vacation before someone like Ashley Flair gets injured and creative will need another spoiled brat to bury their women's division with on Smackdown. For some of us, NXT is our entire lives. Don't mess that up for us."

With that, Shayna bumped Adaline's shoulder when she walked away to the other side of the room and behind a wall to another area of lockers. All she could hear after was the stomping of boots and the slamming of a metal door open. Meanwhile, she was in complete shock of the conversation that just happened, wondering if she just imagined it.

Looking at Candice's sheepish expression, though, it confirmed that Shayna Baszler did indeed strut right up to Adaline and cussed out one of the scariest warnings that the latter had ever heard in her life.

"Honestly, she gives that talk to every new girl," Candice said in a low voice, as she ushered Adaline out of the locker room.

"You can't be serious," Adaline shot back, still worked up over what happened. It took all the will in her body to not barge right back in and swing at Shayna's smug face.

The target was now on her back and she had yet to even step into the yellow brand's ring. If she was being honest, it was definitely a wake up call to where she was now and the expectations weighing down on her shoulders. She didn't know what she was supposed to do. She didn't even want to be here. Adaline wouldn't admit it out loud, but she was terrified for the first time in years.

[adobe-outdesign]

The Draw of the Pipes

The ink is not alive, there are not voices coming from the newly-installed pipe in his office, and Grant Cohen is not crazy. At least, that’s what he tells himself.

Loosely based off of the DCTL lore, but modified to play nicer with canon.

(AO3 link here.

TWs: Unreality, suicidal idealization, accidental self harm, body horror, and some mild/unintentional ableism from some characters. This is a fic about someone with depression losing their mind, so there’s a lot of talk about mental health related issues. Approach with caution if these themes may bother you.)

__________________________________

Distribution fees, $9,842.31. Marketing and publicity, $10,372.12. Special projects, $64,921.98...

The door opens.

Grant sighs, setting his pen down neatly at the edge of the paper. “Mr. Connor, please knock before you enter. I’m in the middle of tallying this year’s revenue and I can’t afford any distractions.” And for that matter, neither could Joey.

“Sorry. Just came in to tell you you can move back into your office now.” The taller man leans against the frame of the door, removing his ink-stained gloves. “The pipe’s in place. We’ll need to put the wall back later, but it might be a while at this rate.”

Grant presses his hands against his temples, trying to fight off his incoming headache. “Remind me again why we’re wasting money doing this when we can barely afford to pay our taxes this year.”

Thomas shrugs. “I don’t ask questions, I just do the work.”

“I know. I was being rhetorical, see.” Of course it was Joey’s fault. When wasn’t it?

Grant stands up from his temporary desk, silently rounding up papers and jogging them into a neat pile before following the mechanic back to his usual office. He nearly winces as he enters the room, eyes going straight to the mess that the construction had left behind.

“You couldn’t have cleaned after yourself a little?” The entire back wall had been torn down, bits of drywall scattered about on the floor, with a massive pipe filled with black ink set back into the cavity. “Garish” would’ve been the nicest word he could use to describe it.

“No point when we have to reconstruct the entire damn wall again anyway.”

Grant just shakes his head, setting the receipts down on his desk. “I guess.” Maybe it would seem less intrusive if he just didn’t look at it.

Thomas turns to leave and then stops, standing in the doorway. “By the way, I should warn you that you shouldn’t get too close to the pipe. High ink pressure, exposed wall studs, that kind of thing. Could be dangerous.”

“I’m aware. I’ve already had to pay off several lawsuits from employees getting injured by exploding pipes.” He doesn’t mean for it to sound accusatory, but it probably did anyway.

“I already sent out a memo to the office telling everyone to stay out of the utility shafts. Nothing else I can do.” He pulls back on his gloves. “There’s a shut-off valve back by the right side, behind the drywall. You can use that to stop any leaks. Or refill your pens. But don’t-” Thomas pauses, looking back at the missing wall, as if there was something else he wanted to say. “Just don’t get too close to it unless you need to, all right?”

So am I supposed to touch it or not? Grant just shakes his head, too exhausted to discuss exactly what the mechanic meant by that. “Trust me, I have no intention to go anywhere near it,” he finally states.

Thomas nods, finally leaving, and Grant turns his attention back to the papers on his desk. He felt like something had been off about the conversation, but he didn’t realize what it was until later.

Not once during the entire conversation did Thomas look him in the eye.

__________________________________

Someone is knocking at the door, and it’s not making his headache any less painful.

“Are you still working?” someone asks, and he recognizes the voice of David, one of their auditors.

“I’m always working. You can come in,” he adds as an afterthought. David swings the door open with a bit more force than necessary, jacket already draped over one arm.

“Me and the fellas are headin’ over to Verdi’s to unwind,” he explains, leaning his arm against the back of Grant’s chair as he speaks. “You should come with! Bet they’ll be a lotta cute dames there.”

Grant attempts a thin smile, though it probably looked like more of a grimace with how much his head hurt. “David, I just got a divorce.”

“What do you mean, just? That was eight years ago!”

He ignores that statement but considers the offer for a moment. Going out for a drink certainly would be nice. Forgot all their financial problems for a bit, forget his headache...

“That doesn’t matter. Anyway, I need to stay here. I have to get these claims down to insurance by tomorrow afternoon or else we’ll all be in trouble.” In reality, he didn’t want to go because the last time he went out drinking he had ended up completely bent and crying into the arms of Toby, their paymaster. The man had acted sympathetic enough at the time, but Grant hadn’t been able to look him in the eye since.

“Your call. But hey, if you change your mind you know where to find us, okay?” David throws his jacket over his shoulder and leaves as quickly as he came in.

Time passes. Grant listens to the Bendy-shaped clock on the wall as it ticks down the minutes. God, he hated that clock. Joey had given it to him as a ten-year work anniversary present and had presented it as if it was a big deal, when in reality Grant was sure he had walked down to Heavenly Toys five minutes before to pick it up. Now it swings back and forth idly, as if mocking him.

Tick, tick, tick...

His writing was getting a lot lighter.

Grant leans back in his chair, looking at the pipe for the first time since he had fully moved back into his office. Thomas had said he use it for refills, but he had also said to stay away from it. Which one was it?

He studies it for another moment, contemplating and flipping his pen between his fingers, before sighing and getting up. If the damn pipe was going to be in his office, the least it could do was save him a trip up to the Art Department.

The pipe makes a strange groaning sound and he stops, remembering the multiple claims they had filed over the last few months regarding pipes exploding, but nothing else happens. It was just the glass creaking, he scolds himself.

He turns the shut-off valve slowly, and a smooth stream of jet-black ink flows from the nozzle and into the well in his hand. Grant returns to his desk, unscrewing the fountain pen. It was a bit of a hassle to refill it, but it was worth the effort - it had been a bar mitzvah gift years ago, and it was a finer pen than any others he had used over the years. He dips it into the well, twisting the end to draw the ink up into it, then screws it back together.

He takes out a handkerchief to blot off the top and somehow, while turning it around, stabs himself with it.

“Son of a bitch,” he breathes, holding his now-bleeding hand. He had refilled this pen hundreds of times before and had never managed to hurt himself with it. He wasn’t even sure how he had managed to do that.

He gently blots away the spot of blood, revealing a tiny puncture wound with a bit of black under the skin from where the tip of the pen had struck him. Grant shakes his head, annoyed at managing to injure himself while doing something so mundane, and goes back to his writing.

He had never written with ink that flowed so nicely, or looked so dark.

__________________________________

Grant swore his headache was getting worse, and the knocking at the door isn’t helping.

“Come in,” he calls out, lifting his hands from his head. The door opens a crack and in steps their file clerk, a timid young man in a cardigan holding a stack of reports.

“Your, uh, secretary told me you could take for a minute.”

“Yes.” He waits for a moment, but the man doesn’t seem eager to speak. “Well, go on. I don’t have all day. I have a meeting in 5.”

The man startles, like he hadn’t been expecting him to speak. “Uh, right. On these papers, sir, I think you got one of the numbers wrong?”

“What? Here, hand it over.” Grant briskly takes the sheet and sets it down, using his pen as a guide as he mentally calculates. $4,592 plus $319 equals $4911, that plus another $6,793 was $11,704, and that plus another $211 was-

$11,915. Not $11,825, as he had written down on the sheet.

“I’m- No, I’m sorry, that’s wrong.” He shakes his head and crosses out the number, recalculating the rest of the amounts quickly, the corrections looking bold and black compared to the rest of the ink on the page. He hands it back to the man. “Thank you for catching that.”

The younger man mumbles something about it being no problem and quickly darts out. Grant stares at the papers scattered about on his desk, head pounding.

He had worked at Joey Drew Studios for ten years, and had spent another 15 working in the finance business. He had never gotten a number wrong before.

__________________________________

“I’m not happy, Grant. Want to know why?”

Joey stands beside him, studying the “work hard, work happy” poster above his desk, which had partially fallen down at some point. The fact that he nearly had a foot and a half of height over Grant was intimidating enough, and sitting down only made the difference feel more extreme.

“Why?” he asks, not that he really cared but because he knew that that was what Joey expected him to say.

“Some people in the studio are starting to talk as if we’re in some kind of financial trouble! And they say they got that information from you!”

“Mister Drew, they were in overpay,” he explains patiently, scratching the wound on his hand. “I had to explain to them why we couldn’t provide them a check this week-”

“DAMMIT, THIS ISN’T ABOUT THAT!” Joey suddenly yells, slamming his hands down on the desk. Grant was very, very used to Joey’s sudden turns of mood, but somehow the sudden noise still manages to make him jump.

Joey takes a deep breath and is instantly back to his cheerful self, like flipping a light switch. “When people think there are problems, they start to get worried! And when people get worried, they start to leave! And if you don’t want to join them, you’ll stop talking about it. Got it?”

“I- Yes,” he breathes, looking down at his desk. Joey slaps him across the back, which was probably meant to be a friendly gesture but instead feels more like he just got hit.

“Good man! And make sure to make those Bendyland payments soon. Bertie won’t get off my back about it!” Joey chirps. He disappears out the door before Grant has a chance to object.

Well, it was official. His headache had been upgraded to a full-on migraine.

__________________________________

“I’ve told him before that we can’t afford to keep spending money like this. But he won’t listen to me, so there’s nothing I can do except cut the budget to other departments. And then that makes everyone blame me, see, even though I’m just trying to make sure we don’t all go bankrupt and end up out on the street.” Grant leans back in his chair, taking a drag off his cigarette. He didn’t normally smoke much, but right now he needs something to take the edge off. “And this migraine isn’t helping anything either.”

"Maybe you should take a break, sir. When was the last time you took any days off?” His secretary didn’t really need to sit there and listen to him, but she always did regardless. He appreciated it more than he tended to admit.

Grant sets down the cigarette in his tray, rubbing at his eyes. Why was he always so tired anymore? “I don’t have any more vacation days, if that’s what you mean. Used them all earlier in the year.”

“What about sick days?”

He scratches at the spot on his hand where he had stabbed himself absentmindedly. Was it just him, or was it bigger than it was initially? “I’m not sick, I’m just tired. Besides, I used all of my sick days up already.” He wouldn’t admit it, but most of those days had been spent on times where he physically couldn’t bring himself to get up out of bed. “And I can’t afford to take any unpaid ti-”

A thin, shrill scream cuts through the air, nearly causing him to double over in pain from his migraine. It was terrified and loud, like it had come from somewhere in the room with them. He jumps up from his desk - then stops, looking at Carol, who hadn’t budged an inch.

“What the hell was that?”

“What was what, sir?” She straightens her glasses, black curls bobbing as she looks around in confusion.

“The- What, you didn’t hear it?” No, she had to have heard it. It was so loud...

 She walks over to him and puts a hand on his shoulder, redirecting him to his desk. “Try to take a break and relax, Mr. Cohen. All of this stress isn’t good for you.” She says it kindly enough but there’s an edge to her voice, like she was concerned, or possibly even scared.

It was just stress. Of course.

__________________________________

At first, Grant thinks it’s an error. As much as he hated to admit it, he had been miscalculating things a lot recently, or maybe there was just an extra investment made at some point that he forgot to account for. He doesn’t start to seriously consider the debt a possibility until he recaculates everything, and even then he tries to convince himself there’s an alternate explanation, even though he knows it’s a lie. He stares at the papers in front of him.

$48,128 short.

Grant checks the numbers, checks them again, over and over until his vision is blurry and his head is pounding harder than usual. He may have made a mistake earlier, but not now. Between the overdue Bendyland payments, the taxes they still owed, and the massive amounts of money Joey had spent on that damn Machine, there wasn’t even close to enough money to possibly cover everything.

He scratches at the ink on his hand again, which removes the scab that had formed there. Grant was certain now he wasn’t imaging the stain getting worse - it had progressed from a small barely-noticeable spot into an ugly black mark about the size of a quarter.

As Grant stares at the final calculations he scratches at the spot more aggressively, digging his nails into it as hard as he can as he thinks about getting fired, about what would happen when Joey found out. He can feel the panic attack coming on but he can’t do anything other than hold onto the table for support. He’s sweating, hyperventilating, his chest hurts, his vision is swimming, it’s so loud-

1-2-3-4. He forces himself to breathe deeply, leaning back to stare at the ceiling, trying to think about anything but the debt. Slowly, the attack passes, and the noise that he had been hearing slowly dims and then disappears. He couldn’t afford a panic attack, not now. What he needed was a plan, something to tell Joey so he might not fire him on the spot. They could file a bankruptcy claim and see if they could win back enough in the settlement to pay off their investments, maybe try to save at least the animation department and work up from there...

But first, he’d have to tell Joey.

He continues to stare at the ceiling, listening to the clock tick on the wall.

__________________________________

One thing he had learned since he started working at Joey Drew studios was that everything was his fault.

Not literally, of course. His job was simply to budget the numbers as best he could and advise Joey on how to invest his money, which he never paid attention to anyway. No, it was the way everyone else perceived things that made him a scapegoat. If someone got an overpay notice and his name was at the top of it, they would blame him, simple as that.

That’s not to say everyone did. His fellow accountants knew he was just the guy trying to keep the company afloat. Some of the department heads understood as well, especially the ones who he had already spoken to, but even their sympathies dried up when the budget cuts started happening.

Grant leaves his office as little as possible, only darting out to use the bathroom or to grab his lunch. It’s still not enough to hide him from catching the angry expressions and whispered conversations in the break room.

“Company will go under any day now...”

“Finances slashed our entire department’s budget in half, yet we’re still expected to produce the same amount of toys! How do they think that’s even possible?...”

“I’ve been in overpay for over two weeks! I’m about to go down to Finances and strangle that Cohen guy myself, I tell you...”

He wanted to scream at everyone, tell them that he couldn’t do anything about the budget except tell Joey not to spend so much and that money didn’t grow on trees, and if it was up to him he’d give everyone a month’s worth of paid vacation and a raise! But he couldn’t do any of those things, so he just spends his time hiding in his office, waiting for the day to be over.

He was tired. He could barely sum up the energy to make something to eat - his last meal had been a piece of slightly stale bread from the fridge. He couldn’t bring himself to have any water, either. For some reason the thought of trying to drink it repulsed him.

He has so many meetings anymore. Angry face after angry face, demanding to know where their last paycheck was or why they had been let go due to downsizing or why they couldn’t hire any new help. All he can do is explain as patiently as possible that there’s nothing the Finance Department can do.

They think he looks terrible, he can tell just by looking at their expressions when they walk in. He spends all day sleeping, yet the constant nightmares keep him restless, jolting him awake. The one where he melted alive, that was a common one. The one where millions of finance reports pile up on his desk and cut him open when he tried to touch them, that was another. And of course there was the most common one, the one with the strange demon creature with overly long arms that either ripped him apart or dragged him under a pool of ink, depending on the dream.

“Why can’t you do anything about this?”

His head hurts, and he’s so, so tired.

__________________________________

Grant studies the memo in front of him. It was some sort of mandatory form to be filled out by all employees, and when he had first got it he had set it aside, figuring it was a standard evaluation form or something. It was only upon actually reading it did he realize how strange some of the questions are. For every straightforward question asking about how their experience in the office could be improved, there was a question about how often they worked late or how many family members they had.

Who is your favorite Bendy character and why? Choose from Bendy, Boris, Alice, or the Butcher Gang. Grant just shakes his head, wondering if Joey had finally lost it. Still, the question was marked as mandatory.

He tries to think back to the cartoons he’s seen. Despite working in the studio, he rarely saw the finished products they produced - the only time he bothered to watch them was when they were screened for the entire studio after completion. They were amusing enough, he supposed.

Grant rolls his pen between his fingers as he thinks. Finally he writes down “The little spider fellow. He’s charming in a way.” He resists the urge to write “Why are you making us fill this out?” under the comment section and instead folds it up, setting it neatly on his desk so he can drop it in the mail boxes on the way out.

As he sets the memo aside he notices that his injured hand looks worse than it did earlier. He holds his wrist, inspecting it under the dull glow of his desk lamp. The black area had gone from a tiny pinprick to a large black splotch covering most of his palm. It didn’t hurt, but it did feel slightly numb and cold to the touch.

Maybe it was infected. Could infections cause headaches? That would explain some things. He didn’t know much about medical care, but he did know that infections should be drained and cleaned thoroughly to make sure they healed correctly. 

He digs around in his desk, retrieving a letter opener from one of the drawers. It was one of the nice ones, with a carved wooden handle and a long pointed metal top. Almost more of a knife than a letter opener, really.

Grant takes out his handkerchief and lays it to the side of the desk. Cut open near the most infected part, drain any puss, and then wash and bandage the wound. Easy.

He selects a spot slightly above his palm and gently slides the metal point into the skin, wincing at the pain. He wriggles it a bit to make sure the opening is big enough, then sets down the letter opener and squeezes gently.

There is no puss, or any sign of an infection. What there is is a lot of blood. And then he realizes that his hand isn’t black, and it never had been - the wound was still a tiny pinprick in the center of his hand. What there was was now a much larger-than-intended cut on his palm, bleeding profusely.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters, pressing the handkerchief against the spot. It’s soaked through within seconds and he quickly pulls off his neck tie, wrapping it tightly around the wound. Stupid, stupid. What the hell was he thinking?

Grant darts out of his office and takes the back way to the restrooms, keeping his head low and his hand close to his chest to avoid any questions from onlookers. He carefully unwraps his hand as he slips into the men’s room, and for one terrified second he wonders if the bleeding will actually stop. He breathes a sigh of relief as he unwraps the blood-stained tie, revealing that the wound had clotted and dried.

He washes the area carefully, then splashes some cold water on his face. The previous injury was still just a tiny speck in the middle of his palm.

It was just a hallucination, he reassures himself, rubbing his face with a hand towel. He stares at his own tired eyes in the mirror.

No, only crazy people had hallucinations.

And he certainly wasn’t crazy.

__________________________________

Grant had long since given up on trying to get Joey to meet with him by asking him directly, as it was becoming increasingly obvious that the man was just flat-out ignoring him. He had instead tried sending a memo to his secretary, asking her to slot him in as soon as possible. Apparently that had worked, as Joey had unexpectedly barged into his office that morning, slamming the door open so hard Grant was almost surprised that it didn’t fall right off its hinges.

“All right, all right, I’m here. What do you want?” he demands, quickly brushing out his suit. He looked disheveled, and there was ink splattered haphazardly on his hands and face. “For all of your ‘time is money’ talk you sure do like wasting mine, Cohen!”

This was not good. Joey didn’t take bad news well when he was in a good mood - trying to talk to him about the debt when he was already irritated was sure to end badly. “Mister Drew, it’s about our current budget-”

“Hmm? The budget?” Joey licks his finger and rubs at one of the spots at his hand, not looking at the accountant. “I told you, just pull the money from the investors!”

This would be easier if it didn’t feel like someone was pounding a stake into his head. “Mister Drew, as I explained in my earlier memo we don’t have enough funds from the investors to-”

“Isn’t it your job to handle the damn budget? Pull the funds from Heavenly Toys, I don’t care! Just make it work!”

“You see, we can’t cut funding to the Toy Department because-”

“It’s always the same with you! Complaining about taxes and budget cuts and everything else under the sun! Stop dragging me all the way down here and do your goddamn j-!”

“WE DON’T HAVE ANY MORE GODDAMN FUNDS!” Grant screams, standing up from his chair so fast that it crashes back onto the floorboards. He stands there, breathing heavily as Joey stares at him.

He had worked at the studio for ten years. He almost never yelled at anyone, as he considered it unprofessional, unnecessary.

And he sure as hell didn’t yell at Joey Drew.

“I’m sorry,” Grant mutters, slinking down to avoid the taller man’s gaze. Joey was at least looking at him now - really looking at him, like he was just now noticing how terrible he looked, or the ink splotch that once again seemed to be covering his palm.

“No, go on.” He can’t read Joey’s expression.

Grant takes a deep breath. He had mentally rehearsed what he needed to say dozens of times, but his outburst had left him struggling to remember any of it. “We can’t pull funds from the Toy Department because there are no more funds, Mister Drew.” He pulls the piece of paper with the damning final calculations on it and holds it out to Joey, who grabs it with enough force to crumple it. “Couldn’t even cover it if I fudged the numbers.”

Joey remains silent, looking over the sheet. Grant clears his throat. “The best thing to do would be to file for bankruptcy. If we aim for a Chapter 7 case, we could have exemptions cover the debt, so we’d be able to keep the studio’s property. And it takes less time to complete than a Chapter 13 case, see.”

The other man rises from his chair, sliding the now-wrinkled calculations back onto Grant’s desk. He puts his hand on the shorter man’s shoulder, digging his fingernails into his sleeve. “How did this happen, Grant?”

Grant was used to Joey screaming at him. He could handle Joey screaming at him. This weird pseudo-calmness was not something he was used to. “I tried to warn you, Mister Drew. About the overspending-”

He stops speaking as Joey puts more pressure on his shoulder, making him wince. “You see, I’m not very fond of people letting other people steal from me.”

This conversation was not going at all like he expected it to, and the sudden twists were catching him off guard. “What? Mister Drew, I didn’t-”

Another squeeze on his shoulder cuts him off. “Oh, but you did! If I put someone in charge of watching my house while I’m gone, and they let someone walk off with my $3,000 Kandinsky, whose fault is it that my painting is gone?”

He leans down close to Grant, close enough that he can smell the aftershave he put on this morning. “Fix. It.”

Joey stands up and slams the door so hard on his way out that it sends that godforsaken Bendy clock smashing onto the floor, breaking it into a million tiny pieces.

__________________________________

“Be quiet,” Grant insists, even though logically he knows there’s no one else in the room with him. He can hear all kinds of noises though - people screaming, crying, whispering so quietly he wasn’t even sure there was any whispering at all. He struggles to focus on the typewriter in front of him, the words on the page blurring over.

“Be quiet!” he snaps at no one, and the noise seems to quiet down a little. He eyes the pipe on the back wall warily. It sounded as if the noise was coming from-

No, that was crazy people talk. There were no voices - he was just overstressed and tired. Grant takes a moment to rub at his tired eyes before turning his attention back to the typewriter.

We regret to inform you that Joey Drew Studios is going to be significantly downsizing within the next few months... 

His head feels like it’ll split apart completely if he doesn’t press his hands against it. Does the wording of this memo even matter? Everyone already hated him; it’s not like breaking the news that they’d all be out of a job soon would somehow make them change their opinions.

He turns his attention back to the pipe. The pipe... ever since that damn pipe had been installed he had been having these headaches, hearing the voices. But that didn’t make sense, did it? It was just a pipe full of ink.

“Stop it,” he hisses, one hand still pressed against his head. He uses his other hand to wipe away the sweat dripping from his brow as he stares down the pipe, as if expecting it to respond somehow.

The whispering... he can almost make out words, if he pays close enough attention. Something inside of him is pulling him towards the pipe, calling to him. He sets his head on the back of the chair, and as he does so he notices that his entire hand is black now-

Get outside. Get some air. Grant stands up unsteadily, knocking the chair over again and nearly tripping over its legs. The room swims unsteadily around him and there’s ink dripping down from the ceiling, from the walls...

The floor rises up to meet him and he grabs the trashcan from under his desk at the last second, retching into it. He takes a few deep breaths, trying to get rid of the burning sensation in his mouth as he opens his eyes again.

Ink.

There’s ink splattered over the inside of the trashcan, dripping from the crumpled papers inside and splashed up onto the metal edges. He wipes off his mouth and there’s more ink on the back of his hand, dripping onto his clothes. He can taste the saltiness of it in his mouth-

He might have screamed - he didn’t remember. Someone was grabbing him, dragging him away from the floor...

__________________________________

Grant wakes up slowly, waiting a moment for his eyes to focus. There’s wooden boards composing the ceiling above him. Still in the studio, then.

“Where am I?” he manages to croak. His voice is sore and his whole body aches. There’s something soft under him. A cot, maybe. A hand is holding out a wet towel and he takes it, pressing it against his head as he lies back down.

“You’re in the infirmary,” a voice he doesn’t recognize explains. “Your secretary brought you down. You have a fever.”

A fever. That was all?

He closes his eyes and goes back to sleep.

__________________________________

Grant spends the next two days lying at home in a confused, feverous haze. He can’t tell if what he’s seeing are hallucinations or fever dreams, if he’s awake or asleep. One minute there would be ink dripping from the walls; in another there would be a strange looking demon in the corner of the room. The pan he had dragged in by the bed yielded no more ink, just water and stomach acid. You’re not crazy, he reminds himself, staring at his mostly-black hand. You’re just seeing things because of the fever. The sickness was comforting, in a weird way, just because it gave him an excuse.

By the third day the fever has broken, and he checks the thermometer just to be sure. It yields a normal temperature, but instead of getting up continues to lie in his bed, staring up at the moulding on the ceiling. Part of him feels disappointed that he didn’t die from the illness, and yet another part feels guilty for thinking that at all.

The very idea of going back to work is overwhelming - even the idea of taking a shower feels like too much right now. But this was unpaid sick time, and he couldn’t afford any more of it. Skip the shower, he reasons, managing to sit upright. He manages a quick change of clothes - an undershirt and a vest, but forsaking his usual tie and sleeve garters. He doesn’t dare look at himself in the mirror.

Grant barely makes eye contact with Carol, just mumbling an apology for scaring her as he slinks back to his office. He eyes the trashcan warily, but Wally must have taken out the garbage since then, as there’s a fresh bag in place of the old one. He sits down, straightening the papers on his desk. There wasn’t any ink to begin with, he scolds himself, shuffling through finance reports and several statements from the IRS. Something dark catches his eye and he starts moving papers aside, sliding the page out from underneath the stack.

It was the jet-black ink from his pen, certainly, and it’s his handwriting. He can even pick out a few familiar sounding words from the scratchy jumble of words - “taxes”, “48,128 short”, “time is money”. The pen was pressed down so hard in some areas that it had torn straight through the paper. But he didn’t write it. He didn’t remember writing it.

Grant abruptly crumples the piece of paper and throws it into the trash can, pulse pounding. He forces himself to take a few deep breaths. I must have written that when I was ill, he rationalizes, but he can’t shake the uneasy feeling settling around his shoulders.

He leafs through the rest of the papers with a sense of dread, but there’s nothing but bankruptcy forms.

__________________________________

Grant hadn’t noticed it with everything else going on, but his headache had dulled considerably when he was resting at home. Now it was back in full force, and the ticking of the clock only seems to aggravate it.

He glances at it to check the time, only to remember with a start that it had broken permanently when Joey had slammed the door earlier. He shakes his head, combing his fingers through his greasy hair. Didn’t matter. He was pretty sure it was after five, at least.

There was screaming, and it was so vivid it was hard for him not to run off to try to find the source of it. It’s not real, he reminds himself, turning to glare at the pipe in the wall. No, don’t look at it. Focus on the bankruptcy filing, but the words blur and become meaningless the more he looks at them.

“Hello?”

Grant almost writes off the voice as another hallucination, but it sounds vaguely familiar, and after a few minutes of grasping at thoughts he realizes it’s the voice of Sammy, their music director. He didn’t know him very well, but they had spoken a few times about budget issues regarding his department.

“Can we talk for a moment?”

Normally Sammy’s voice was nice sounding, smooth and calm. Now it feels like every word is pounding a nail into his skull. He winces, clutching his head with both hands.

“Now’s not a good time. Come back later. Please.” Grant’s aware of how pathetic he sounds, but right now he doesn’t care. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to hold a conversation, not in this state.

“...Very well, then. I’ll be back later,” Sammy mutters. When Grant finally lifts his head, the room is empty.

Strange. He hadn’t even heard the door open.

__________________________________

“So we’re going to be keeping parts of the department, see? And if we’re keeping the animation department, we’ll need some sound to go with the cartoons.” Grant scratches at his hand, focusing on the papers before him. “We’ll need to downsize, though. Probably sell off some instruments as well…”

Jack leans back in the wooden chair, which creaks ominously under his weight. He takes a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow, revealing a rather obvious bald spot under his hat. “I guess. Never been very good at firing people though.”

“You’ll get used to it, don’t worry.” 

Jack leans forward again, resting his chin on his hand. His eyes drift downward. “What happened to your hand?”

“My-?” Grant holds the appendage up, inspecting it under the dim fluorescent light. It was completely black now, like he had dipped it into ink and the skin had stained long after it was washed off. He stares at the cut on his hand, a reminder that this was yet another hallucination, that there was no ink.

And yet Jack was staring at him, normally cheerful face lined with concern. What was he looking at? The original puncture wound, which had long since scabbed over? The cut across his palm? Or maybe-

“I, uh, cut it. On some glass from one of the pipes,” he mumbles, hoping that was a decent enough explanation for whatever Jack was looking at.

Jack shifts his weight uncomfortably. “Sammy had stains like that all over his body,” he confides. “Then he went crazy and disappeared.”

“Yes, well, I’m not crazy, so-“ Grant stops mid-sentence, suddenly taking in what the lyricist was telling him. Sammy had disappeared months ago - that’s why he was talking to Jack about this in the first place, because he was filling in in Sammy’s absence. How had he forgotten that?

“What?”

“Sammy. Sammy was in my office last night, he…“ Grant stands up to look over Jack as if he expected to see Sammy still standing there, but there’s nothing except for the pipe.

 Jack’s expression is somewhere between discomfort, concern, and fear. “Uh, no offense, but maybe you should consider taking some days off. I’m sure spending all day cooped up in here can’t be good for you.”

“He was here. He was here, I heard him-“ Grant looks around helplessly before slumping back down in his chair, holding his throbbing head. “He was here! You believe me, right? He was...”

__________________________________

The thing about rumors was that once they got started, there was no way to stop them. And after that meeting with Jack, there was all kinds of speculation being passed around that Grant caught in snippets and whispers in the halls. That he had gone crazy; that he had had a mental breakdown and that’s why he was out for a few days; even that he had rabies.

Perhaps the only thing worse than the rumors were the response people had towards them. Complaints and anger, that he could handle at this point. What he couldn’t handle was those complaints being replaced with sympathy or fear or sometimes both. People treated him as if he was fragile, like he would break if they said the wrong thing. Soft tones, simple wording, smiles from people who were supposed to be concerned for him but seemed to be more concerned of him. Grant hated that more than anything. He was not crazy, and he certainly wasn’t a child.

At their weekly department meeting, he puts everything into his performance. Dressing as best as he could, talking in fast tones and quickly and efficiently telling everyone what to do and how to do it. It was exhausting, but he was fairly certain he had convinced a good portion of the staff that he wasn’t crazy as they left the room.

“Nicely done, sir,” Carol greets, setting her ever-present clipboard down on the desk. Her appearance was impeccable as always, and it only made him look worse in comparison.

“You think so?”

“Better than your last few meetings have been, at least.”

“I’ll take it.” Grant rests his head on the desk, closing his eyes momentarily. “How many more meetings do I have today?”

There’s the sound of a paper flipping over as Carol checks something on her clipboard. “Six.”

Six meetings. He had only done one so far and he already felt like he was about to pass out; six was surely impossible. “Can you reschedule?”

She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “You’ve already rescheduled most of them earlier this week, sir.”

Grant sits back up, struggling to get the desk back in focus. “I know, I know. Forget it. I’ll try to figure something out.”

Carol studies him for a moment with her sharp eyes. She was all business all the time - it was almost impossible for Grant to imagine what she was like outside of work. “With all due respect, why haven’t you quit yet? It’s obvious you can no longer function at work anymore.”

Quitting. God, how he had fantasized about the idea of barging into Joey’s office and handing him his resignation, savoring the look he’d imagine he’d have on his face as he told him off for all of the terrible decisions he had made as a CEO. The very thought of it made him feel better, at least for a fleeting moment. 

“I have. It’s just...” he admits, then stops, not wanting to say any more.

“I take it that’s not an option?”

Grant remembers how proud his parents had been when they had heard what a high-end job he had snagged, how they had bragged about him to all of their family members. And he knows, deep down, that he simply will not be able to find another job as high-profile as this one, not like this.

But he can’t say that.

“I don’t think anyone will be eager to employ me after finding out the last company I managed financially went bankrupt,” he mutters, which isn’t a lie.

Grant sits in silence for a while, rolling his pen between his black fingers.

“I... I can hear things, sometimes,” he mumbles. He’s not really sure why he’s telling her this, other than the fact that she was there and listening and he felt like he needed to confide in someone. “It’s like the ink is... alive, or something. It wants me to be with it, I think, or a part of it-” He cuts himself off, burying his head in his hands. “Sorry. That doesn’t make any sense.”

There’s another uncomfortable bout of silence. Eventually Carol sits down on the edge of the desk, setting her clipboard in her lap. “Have you considered seeing a professional?”

She doesn’t say more than that, but he understands what she’s implying. “No, I can’t. If I told anyone else... they’d lock me away, I’m sure. I’ve heard of what goes on in those asylums of theirs; I wouldn’t make it out in one piece.”

“There’s no family members you can contact?”

He thinks about how disappointed his parents would be if they saw him like this, so tired and pathetic that he couldn’t even manage to do basic things like showering. He can picture the looks on their faces - his father’s stern look of disapproval, the disheartened look on his heartbroken mother’s face.

“No,” Grant mumbles.

She sighs, standing back up and straightening her pencil skirt. “I’ll try to clear your schedule for today.”

He nods, brushing his hair back. “Thank you.”

“And do try to at least eat something. You look thin.” With that she dismisses herself, leaving him alone in the room.

Grant stares at his pen, trying to remember the last time he had had a proper meal.

__________________________________

He was becoming increasingly good at avoiding people, slinking through the less-used halls and cutting through utility shafts to avoid the crowds. Now it’s inevitable that people see him as he shambles into the break room, and he does his best to avoid eye contact as he grabs a bag of nuts from the only non-bacon soup vending machine in the place. He fills a paper cup from the bathroom and finds a small secluded table tucked into the corner.

It couldn’t have been that long since I ate, or else I’d be dead by now, Grant rationalizes, but it feels like it’s been weeks since his last meal. Even when fasting he at least felt hungry; right now he feels nothing. In fact, the water seems downright repulsive, like a cup of lukewarm saliva. He tries to force himself to drink it, but a sudden convulsion causes him to gag and choke.

He straightens up, still coughing, and realizes that Thomas was watching him from the far table, with a look on his face that Grant couldn’t quite identify. As soon as they make eye contact Thomas looks away, quickly gathering his things from the table. But that one second is enough to know.

“Wait,” Grant manages to choke out between coughs. “Wait!” He abandons the table, scrambling after the mechanic as he darts around the corner of the hall. “What do you know about the ink! What-”

He stops short.

The hallway should have lead to the Art Department. Thomas should have been there. Instead he’s standing in an empty balcony in the center of a huge room with chains hanging from the ceiling. He brushes his fingers over the handrail in front of him, wondering if this was another hallucination, but it seems solid and cool to the touch.

Grant glances behind himself, realizing that the hallway leading into this room was completely different than the one he had just exited. Stop it, he insists to himself. Stop being crazy.

Cautiously he steps forward, walking around the perimeter of the balcony as he tries to get his bearings. There are no handrails in this section, just chains hanging down from the ceiling and descending into the darkness below. He leans dangerously close to the threshold of the wood, wondering what was so big and heavy to need that much support...

A loud grinding noise cuts through the air and he startles, stumbling back away from the edge at the last second. As the thing raises up, he notices the spicket first, then the pipes, then the ink flowing from it. The Ink Machine? He knew what it was - heck, he was the one who budgeted for all three versions of it - but he had no idea how huge this incarnation was. He leans closer, lost in thought. Why would Mister Drew spend that much money on something that just made ink? Joey’s spending may have been irresponsible and stupid, but he wasn’t irrational.

A cold sensation pulls Grant out of his thoughts, and when he looks down he sees that everything is covered in a strange black pattern, like spider webs. He runs his hand over the pattern on his clothes, but the darkness merely covers his fingers instead, like it was a shadow. No, no. Not now...

Grant takes a moment to breathe, willing the illusion away as he works his way back towards the hallway, dragging his hand against the walls to guide himself. The room seems to be getting progressively darker, and he can feel the hair on his neck standing up. Something was wrong-

He turns around.

It takes him a moment to realize there’s something standing on the other end of the balcony. Its body is emancipated, and so black it blends straight into the darkness, making only a few details visible - its face, its bowtie, the glove on its right hand. It looked like Bendy in a twisted way, like a terrible caricature.

It turns towards him blindly and starts slowly limping forward, one of its legs sticking to the floor and pulling away in long, gooey stands. Ink drips from it and puddles around the floor as it moves, the shadows on the walls seemingly following it. Run, Grant thinks to himself, knowing that he could outpace the creature easily. Instead he just stands there, paralyzed. He can feel something urging him towards the demon, the same strange draw he felt towards the pipe in his office. It was calling to him, and he couldn’t move-

Grant slumps down on his knees in a helpless panic as the creature approaches, getting close enough that he could see the drops of ink running down its skeletal figure. It tilts its head, its drawn-on smile vibrating, as if it were studying him. Slowly, it reaches a disturbingly human hand down towards him, sliding the ice-cold appendage under his head as he struggles to breathe. It curls its fingers, hooking its hand under his chin.

It turns its head again and taps his head up, once, like he was a child who had just said something amusing. It takes a step back, smile still vibrating, and walks directly through the wall beside him, the shadows vanishing with it.

Grant doesn’t remember how he found his way out of the department, or if anyone tried to stop him. All he remembers is running, running, running...

__________________________________

He had spent the weekend lying in bed, trying to lull himself to sleep, even though sleep just brought more nightmares of the strange demon creature. If he wasn’t asleep, he was crying; if he wasn’t crying, he was debating on overdosing on the pills in the medicine cabinet. The only real thing that stopped him was remembering that he had had the foresight to hide those pills on the top shelf when his depression had been less severe, where he would need a stepstool to get to them, and it was too exhausting to even think about fetching it from the garage.

And it was while he was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling with red-rimmed eyes, that he finally decided he had to quit. He simply wouldn’t survive otherwise.

The plan had sounded good in his mind - he would go into work on Monday, pack up his things, leave Joey a resignation notice, and check himself in somewhere to get help. It was only now, hitting the down button on the elevator, that he realizes that he couldn’t handle going back to work again.

As Grant steps onto the elevator, he notices the look the other occupant is giving him. Lacie, he realizes, one of the Bendyland workers. They had gone out drinking a few times before. Now she’s inspecting him with those sharp eyes of hers, taking a cigarette out of her mouth with gloves that were stained with either grease or ink.

You look terrible, he scolds himself, slinking into the corner of the elevator. When he was doing well mentally, he was an incredibly well-kept person - suit vests, ties, even taking the time to comb his mustache - because as far as he was concerned one’s appearance was as important to the job as their performance. Now he’s still wearing the same clothes he had been wearing on Friday, unbathed and unkept. Lacie continues to study him, as if she was debating on saying something, but the elevator screeches to a stop and she exits with commenting.

Carol doesn’t look the slightest bit surprised when Grant tells her that he’s quitting, nor does she seem bothered by him practically begging her to cancel his meetings for today. She just nods, her black curls bouncing, and he suspects she had already known this was coming for a while now.

Within the first half an hour of work he realized what a mistake this plan had been, and by the end of the first hour his head was pounding with another migraine. The walls swim dangerously around him as he pulls the cassette recorder from his desk drawer and sets it on his desk. Joey had distributed them around the entire office, claiming that they should use them to “express their feelings”, whatever the hell that meant.

Grant had only recorded one tape before, but now it seemed appropriate to do another, as surely a recording of his resignation would be better than a letter. He turns on the tape and tries to speak, but the words get lost among a sea of noise and screaming and he can’t remember what he needed to say or why he was saying it. He slams his hand down on the stop button and jerks around towards the pipe, which sits motionless in the wall.

“STOP IT!” Grant screams, even though he knows that the ink isn’t alive and that that’s crazy and everything he’s doing is crazy. He slumps down onto the floor, tears running down his face as he holds himself, as if he would fall apart into a million little pieces if he didn’t. “Stop it,” he begs. “Stop it. I don’t know what you want from me.”

The silence in the room is almost deafened by the noise in his head, but slowly he can make out a voice, a whisper, urging him to come closer. He can feel it, the need to be closer to it, to be a part of it. He shakily rises to his feet and stumbles forward, pressing his blackened hand against the cold glass.

The relief is instant - the overwhelming call of the ink is gone, the migraine suddenly subsided, and he understands that this is where he needs to be. He squeezes himself into the little cavity beside the pipe, curling up and resting his head against the glass. The noise is deafening, he can hear thoughts that aren’t his or maybe they were, but none of that matters anymore.

Grant drifts in and out of consciousness, struggling to keep some bearing on reality. He thinks he can hear the clock ticking but he has no idea what time it is, and it feels like it’s been days already but maybe it’s only been a few minutes.

He slowly comes to again and realizes that someone is standing there, trying to pull him out of the crevice. He struggles blindly against their grip. No! I need to be here! he wants to insist, but he can’t find the words. The figures shushes him softly and he hazily remembers how Carol had found him during his fever. Was he sick again?

He goes limp and the figure drags him out across the floor, propping him up against the wall. They roll up his sleeve and he can see that his entire lower arm had turned black, spreading out from his palm. His hand had tiny drops of ink clinging to the outside of it, and the veins above the area were dark. He wonders in a haze if the rest of his body was turning black as well.

“There, there, my sheep,” someone whispers, and some confused part of his brain recognizes Sammy’s voice again. His skin is icy to the touch as he puts a hand on the back of Grant’s neck, pressing something against his lips.

“Drink this,” Sammy insists, and he does so. The liquid is thick, salty tasting, and it burns his mouth slightly. He struggles to sit up, suddenly feeling a bit more lucid.

“Sammy...?” he manages to ask. The music director is covered in ink - it’s coating his entire body, dripping onto the floor, puddling around the Bendy mask he was wearing. Sammy merely shushes him again, wrapping his arms around his torso and dragging him to his feet.

“Can you stand?” he asks, and Grant nods, leaning against him for support. Sammy would bring him to the infirmary. He would be fine...

They walk slowly, Grant struggling to keep track of the hallways they were passing through. Some of them were familiar, some of them weren’t, some seem to lead to areas that logically they couldn’t connect to,

Finally they walk into a large open room, almost completely barren except for a few massive pipes running along the ceiling. Sammy guides him over to a nearby support beam and carefully pushes the other man away from him.

“Where-?” Grant mumbles, struggling to think, to processes what was going on. Something was wrong. They were supposed to go to the infirmary, weren’t they? Why were they here? He grabs at Sammy’s shoulder, only to recoil in disgust as his hand sinks into it, like he had just plunged it into a jar of molasses.

In one swift movement Sammy twists around behind the accountant, grabbing his hands and pulling them behind his back. Grant utters a protest and manages to pull free for a moment, but his movements are confused and uncoordinated and he merely ends up collapsing onto the floor.

“Easy, little sheep,” Sammy soothes, picking him up and dragging him over to the support beam, Grant struggling weakly as his hands are forcibly tied behind his back, then again against the pole. “Soon you will be in the hands of our Lord.”

Sammy seems to disappear for a few moments, and when he returns there’s a new voice with him. 

“...It won’t work anyway! And I don’t need another corpse on my hands!” Joey, that was Joey’s voice. Why was he here?

“He's already infected. We need to sacrifice him now, so our Lord can save his soul-”

“Damn it Sammy, stop talking like a lunatic!” Joey snaps. Grant can hear him pacing, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath his feet. After a few moments the noise gets louder as Joey approaches, kneeling and cupping the other man’s chin with his hand as he forces him to look up.

“Grant, look at me,” he demands. Grant opens his eyes slowly, struggling to get Joey’s face to come into focus through the haze. It was hard to breathe, like his lungs were filled with water, and he was so tired...

He gives up and closes them again as Joey removes his hand, mumbling something under his breath. The other man stands back up and is quiet for a few moments, the only noise in the room coming from a persistently dripping pipe.

“Do it quickly,” Joey snaps at Sammy as he leaves the room. “You know how I feel about this.”

Grant can feel someone tugging at the rope around his wrists, loosening it. “What’s going on?” he manages to choke out. Words seemed almost impossible to form, the sentences breaking apart in his mind and falling from his lips in confused jumbles. Confusion gives way to fear as he struggles against the ropes again, but he only manages to fall sideways, hands still bound.

“Don’t be afraid, little sheep,” Sammy whispers, grabbing him by the shirt collar. “It will all be over soon enough.” He drags him a short distance across the floor, then forces him to sit upright in a kneeling position. There’s a screeching noise behind him that stabs into his mind, sharp and painful.

In front of him is a vast black area, expanding endlessly outward, and it takes Grant a moment to realize that it’s not the floor that’s black, but rather a huge empty space that’s been completely flooded with ink. Looking up reveals the cause - a shattered pipe, dripping ink into the basin rhythmically.

Something slams into the floor behind him with a heavy crash and a burst of steam, and he manages to turn around enough to see the Ink Machine, lowered so it was sitting on the floor. It’s on now, and the noise it’s making is awful, like the machine itself was screaming.

Sammy grabs him from the back, forcing him to lean forward, and as he does so he catches a glimpse of some sort of strange symbol on the floor beneath him. The ink is less than a foot away from his face now - it’s impossibly black, blacker than anything he had ever seen before. The only movement on the surface is a few small ripples created by the tears rolling down his face, which are lost instantly in the black void. He wants to struggle but he can’t, not with the ink beckoning to him.

“Sheep sheep sheep, it’s time for sleep,” Sammy whispers, shoving him into the abyss.

The ink is ice cold, and the shock of it makes Grant involuntarily gasp, his last bit of air escaping from his mouth and disappearing up into the void. He can feel the ink getting into his lungs, into his throat, but he can’t struggle and it’s not because of the ropes binding him. His lungs burn, everything burns, and it was dark, darker than he would have thought possible.

He stops feeling the burning sensation after a moment, and then he stops feeling anything. He just keeps sinking, deeper and deeper...

__________________________________

It was cold. Cold and wet.

Someone was grabbing him, pulling him away from the wetness, and he squeaks in protest. It wasn’t fair! He wanted to go back to sleep!

He can hear the person speaking, but he can’t make out all of the words. Something about asking if he was awake. Of course he was awake! They just woke him up, didn’t they?

“Edgar?” they try again. He burrows his way into their lap where it’s warm and tries to look around, but he doesn’t have eyes yet. Whoever it was sounded nice, friendly, but there was a strange edge to the way they speak that he can’t place. He knew that voice, yet he didn’t.

The ink making up his body suddenly spasms, twists. All Edgar can do is squeak in pain as the ink contorts, warping itself into a different shape. His limbs stretch out, refining themselves into fingers, forming into bone and flesh. He stares, transfixed. Hands. He hadn’t had hands before, had he?

His thoughts are abruptly cut off as the figure swears, shoving him off of his lap. He hisses angrily, wheeling around to face them. Part of his face burns, and he can see now in blurry black-and-white. In front of him is a massive machine, spilling gallons upon gallons of ink onto the floor from its spicket. In front of that is the man, who steps back away from him, recoiling in disgust.

“Damn it, I knew it wouldn’t work,” he mutters under his breath, and Edgar recognizes the man as Joey, except that wasn’t possible. He didn’t know this person, did he?

Joey squats down on the floor, suddenly cheerful, holding out his hand in front of him. “Why don’t you come here?” His voice is friendly, but his face is not. Edgar backs away, dragging himself on his half-formed legs.

“Grant, come here.” The cheerfulness is gone now.

Edgar puts his hands over his head, which was pounding with a stabbing pain. He can’t think straight. Grant. That was his name, wasn’t it? No, he was Edgar, he had always been-

The pain reaches its peak as his head abruptly rips open along the top, forming teeth and a tongue. The human scream that spills from it isn’t his. He claws at the new mouth frantically, ink spilling into the floor. No, no, this was wrong-

“I said COME HERE, DAMN IT!” Joey storms forward, reaching a hand out to grab him.

He doesn’t have fangs anymore, but he remembers how to bite. There’s a metallic taste that fills his head and a sickening cracking noise as his teeth clamp down on Joey’s hand. He screams, recoling, then draws his foot back and drives it into Edgar’s side. The spider releases his grip as he skids backwards over the wooden floorboards, squeaking in pain.

“SAMMY!” Joey barks, clutching his injured hand and backing away from the inky figure on the ground. Edgar slowly lifts his head, looking behind him. Some sort of inky mass is rising from the sea of black in front of them, as if the ink itself were trying to escape onto shore. Slowly it refines into a masked figure, who lays another mass of ink on the ground gently. They slowly move whatever the thing on the ground was into a horizontal position, ignoring Joey completely.

“Sammy!” Joey snaps again, voice tinged with pain and rage. “Lock that... abomination up somewhere!”

The masked figure raises his head for a moment, studying Edgar through cardboard eyes before looking back down again. “Whatever form he takes, it is our Lord’s decision, is it not? It is not our place to go against His will.”

Sammy lifts some part of the mass up, and as the ink drips down Edgar can make out a hand. Sammy gently draws it across the figure’s chest, then does the same with its other arm. Edgar perks up. Someone dead? Some of his best friends were skeletons. Maybe they would want to play with him.

Edgar glances back at Joey, wondering if he would try to grab him again. Insead the man takes a few steps back, face contorted in revolusion, and Edgar realizes that he was scared of him, scared of his own creation.

He cautiously drags himself across the floor, unable to stand fully on his half-formed limbs. Unlike Joey, the masked figure doesn’t seem to fear him at all. “It’s okay, little sheep,” he murmurs, moving aside so Edgar can get close. “You can look.”

Edgar nudges the body once with his hand, then pushes against it with both limbs, trying to get it to wake up. But it remains motionless, save for the ink slowly dripping away and puddling down around it.

“This body was poisoned,” Sammy explains. The corpse’s mouth is still wide open, black even on the inside, and Sammy slowly pushes it shut. “You would have ended up like me. Trapped in the abyss, lost... But through the grace of our Lord, you were saved. Your soul was still there, so He graced you with a new body, a new form. You should feel very blessed... do you understand?”

He didn’t, not really.

Edgar stares at the corpse, transfixed. Something stirs in the corner of his mind, except he’s pretty sure it’s not his memory. He remembers it being cold, noisy, hard to breathe. He was drowning-

A body. A dead body. 

His body.

Both minds scream and claw at themselves in a panic, trying to get the ink off as it once again writhes and reforms. A searing pain shoots through the left side of their face, and half of the world is suddenly in color. Another throat and mouth form, this time in the correct spot, and they nearly choke on the excess ink. They manage to stand up as another limb forces its way out of their side, transforming into a gloved hand.

Get to the office, call for help...

Edgar isn’t sure why this is so important to his other mind, but he can feel his other self’s desperation as clearly as if it was his own. He rises to their newly formed legs unsteadily, his entire body aching. He looks around, half expecting Joey to still be standing there, but the room is empty save for Sammy and the Machine.

They stumble out of the room as quickly as they can, Sammy making no attempt to stop them. The winding hallways are strange and foreign to Edgar, but Grant navigates through them effortlessly, sometimes walking bipedally and sometimes scampering on all of their limbs. The halls swim around them dangerously, dripping ink - even their own body drips and leaves trails of it through the halls. They drag themselves through the doorway, eyeing the pipe on the wall uneasily, but the ink no longer calls to them. It no longer needed to.

Tape player. Use the tape player, call for help...

He grabs at his chair and uses it to pull themselves upward, blindly hitting buttons as another convulsion overtakes them. Grant tries to speak, but the noise catches in their first throat and comes out as nothing but a whimper. He starts tearing at the stitches over his mouth in a panic, a third limb starting to form out of their right side.

He thrashes around blindly in pain, unable to scream, knocking something off the desk and shattering it. Edgar is scared, crying, but the noise comes out as a strangled snarl. Ink separates from their back and starts to split down the middle to form two separate limbs, then stops. Grant struggles to stay lucid, to stop transforming, but he can’t do either.

Help, he tries again, but something is blocking one of their throats and he can only whimper again, gasping for breath. They clutch the table for support as the ink solidifies, forming flesh and bone, forcing them to cough up the thick ink that had been choking them. There’s excess ink dripping off of them, in their lungs, breathing for them. Edgar slumps forward onto the table, gasping for breath, mashing buttons on the recorder until it finally turns off. They lay there for a long time, Edgar crying, Grant in shock.

They start to write.

Over the walls, the floor, using the ink dripping off of their body. They write everything they can’t say, covering every inch of the surface, writing until their fingers are bleeding ink and they’re too tired to move. They write until the walls are as inky and black as they are.

It takes Edgar a long time to realize he’s screaming, and then he realizes that it’s his other mind screaming, the noise dying in their first mouth and coming out a nothing but a muffled whine. It hurt their throat a little, but Edgar just lies on the floor, not daring to move.

He stays there for a very long time, waiting patiently until the horror his other mind feels numbs back into shock, until the screaming quiets and then stops. He gets up slowly, cautiously, making sure the movement wouldn’t cause them to start screaming again. Their whole body aches, but he forces himself to move forward, slipping out the door.

This room gave them headaches.

__________________________________

Edgar was pretty sure that something was wrong with his other mind.

He doesn’t ask, of course, because Charley and Barley got annoyed with him if he asked too many questions. It was just a suspicion he had.

For one, his other mind had very confused thoughts, ones that didn’t make any sense to Edgar. Most of them were repeated, over and over; he couldn’t always remember if they were real or were just dreams. Sometimes he didn’t think at all, which was scary for both of them. On the other hand if he thought too much he’d send them both into a panic attack, so Edgar tried to distract him if he started thinking sad things again.

He pounces on a can of bacon soup, which he had been using as a toy for a few days now, because even though they were hungry Grant had refused to let him eat it. It springs out from under his hands and goes flying into the far wall, smacking Charley in the process. Edgar lets out a garbled giggle in delight, snatching the can from a distance before Charley has a chance to take it from him. Charley snarls, smacking his hand with his pipe in a rather un-Charley-like way.

Edgar had seen that kind of thing happen with his friends a lot. Suddenly they wouldn’t be his friends anymore and he’d have to wait patiently for them to wake back up, which wasn’t easy as he hated waiting. His other mind almost never forced him to do anything he didn’t want to, unless they were in danger or he felt Edgar was doing something foolish. Edgar suspected he was simply too tired to fight back.

He didn’t know much about his other half. He had learned from his memories that his name was Grant, and that he used to work here. He also liked numbers - he counted every day, keeping track of the minutes and hours as they passed, even though Edgar suspected he had lost count several times already. He wasn’t really sure why it was so important to his other mind anyway.

He tosses the can above his head with their mechanical arm, which ricochets off a rafter in the ceiling and clatters to the ground in front of him, and he stares at it, feeling inexplicably sad. His other mind was sad all the time - sometimes if Edgar was happy Grant would feel it, but sometimes if Grant was sad it would seep into Edgar’s feelings and make him sad too. And sometimes they’d even stare thoughts - he can hear him now in the corner of his mind. He was so tired. He needed to lie down, needed to rest...

Edgar stares at the can in front of him. It didn’t seem very fun anymore.

He picks it up carefully and sets it on one of the nearby hallway shelves, where hopefully it would be safe until he was ready to play again. He picks out a spot on a couch to lie down on, burying his head under his arms. His head hurts, which it does sometimes if he lets Grant think for too long, and he scratches at his second mouth unhappily before curling up to sleep.

Maybe Grant would want to play tomorrow. Maybe he wouldn’t feel so sad then.

Maybe.

[keelywolfe]

SOS Drabbles: Part 2

Note: Three more short drabbles for our boys! Our funny, sweet, spicy boys who are so much in love. I hope y’all enjoy them!

Part of the ‘By Any Other Name’ series

Read the first three here

~~*~~

For Part 2:

Starting here on AO3

or

Read them here!

~~*~~

Chapter 4: Science!

Ebay could be an incredible thing when it worked as it should.

Edge didn’t generally have much difficulty in dealing with it. After all, he’d spend the first part of his life learning how to handle cheapskates and swindlers, and that was only dealing with his brother. Underfell was a fine teacher in the art of brutal negotiation, a skill Edge brought with him to the Embassy and put to good use.

Today, however, Ebay brought him something on the more relaxing end of the spectrum. A package filled with old, broken action figures, ready to be cleaned up and repaired, returned to their former glory. A different kind of puzzle to be solved and he was sincerely looking forward to it.

Not even the fact that he needed to set up on the coffee table dampened his mood, although he did need to take an extra moment to find a way to situate his injured leg comfortably. Some judicious use of pillows solved that, along with one under him to cushion his coccyx from the hard floor, ah, he truly was getting soft. Once he was able spend hours sitting on the hard ground, even sleeping on it when necessary. It seemed those days were past and Red might have a few venom-laced words about it, but frankly, that wasn’t a skill Edge was interest in cultivating any longer.

There was room in life for being prepared for any eventuality and for keeping from having a sore ass.

The coffee table wasn’t quite a large enough space and Edge was forced to spread his tools next to him on the floor. He laid out a lint-free cloth across the coffee table and carefully set the action figure he was working on upon it, readying it for plastic surgery.

Heh. He’d need to remember that one for Stretch.

The arrangement worked, though it would have been easier if his tools were on the table. One of these days, he needed to set up a workbench, perhaps in the basement alongside Stretch’s laboratory tables, that was where he was right now and—

As if summoned by his thoughts, the basement door suddenly burst open and through it came Stretch along with an alarmingly acrid smell. He was wearing a pair of oversize goggles, a protective apron, and a pair of heavy-duty rubber gloves that went all the way up to his elbows, giving him the appearance of a deranged mortician or perhaps Doctor Frankenstein in his post ‘building a creature’ phase.

“absolutely nothing to worry about, no problems here, i’ve got it all under control!” Stretch said brightly, even as he heaved the fire extinguisher out of the closet, trundling back to the basement door with it. “it’s just a precaution, no need to panic! the overheads got it all, vents at a hundred percent, babe, promise!”

He disappeared back through the door and into the faint wisp of smoke that was starting to gather at the top step, before Edge could even say that worry and panic were both looking like very viable options and under control not nearly as much. The door slammed behind Stretch and left Edge sitting alone.

The entire exchange took perhaps thirty seconds.

Edge stared at the closed door. He looked back down at the much-abused action figure spread out on the towel, awaiting his care, his much safer form of mad science that only required a few small screwdrivers and a paintbrush.

Then he sighed and struggled to his feet, limping to the kitchen to fetch a fire extinguisher of his own.

As Stretch often said, science waited for no one. In Edge’s experience, neither did flames, but the coffee table would.

And when he did end up getting his own workbench, smart money was on keeping it upstairs.

-finis

Chapter 5: Ridiculous

It was ridiculous for Edge to be restless whenever Stretch went into Ebott these days and he knew it. Absolutely ridiculous. His husband went into town often, several times a week in fact, and had for years now.

To the Beanery to spend some time with two of his favorite kind of companions, disgustingly sugary coffee and friendly baristas. To the bookstore, where Jeff no longer worked but Thomas still did, and the old Human still had Edge’s email address from the first time Edge contacted him as a representative of the Embassy to verify his business was Monster-friendly and to inquire if he would be willing to display an official logo stating it as such. That was before he and Stretch were involved; Edge learned some time later that Stretch frequented the place and if he called for a more extensive background check after he did, not a single member of the Security team question him about it, although his brother did radiated a sort of smug approval that Edge refused to acknowledge. Thomas still emailed him occasionally, mostly around holidays with gift suggestions and once with information about a former employee of his that showed worrying tendencies towards prejudice against Monsters. He was an ally of the kind Edge preferred, friendly and useful.

Stretch also went to thrift stores in search of revolting finds to sneak into their home and to the small store by the University that sold laboratory supplies, ventured everywhere, anywhere, by way of the bus route, and aside from one attack incident, Stretch always returned home to him.

Absolutely ridiculous to be fretting about him now simply because Edge was at home rather than at work, with nothing to think about except that his husband was out there in the world where unfriendly Humans existed and Edge wouldn’t even be able to go to him if Stretch needed help, nevermind that he could call an entire Security team to him if necessary or that fact that most Humans were not only friendly but often fond of Stretch and easy laughter, along with his social media accounts. The lingering ache in Edge's leg was a reminder than most was not all and every week he was sent accounting of any incidents within the city involving Monsters. He knew all too well what could happen and the what if's and could be's were buzzing around his skull like angry bees.

Edge was reading a page in his book for perhaps the third time without the faintest idea what it said when the front door opened and Stretch walked in. All six feet plus of him, wearing one of the sweatshirts Edge gave him for Gyftmas last year, the one with an orange body and black arms, discreetly chosen to be slightly more fitted than he normally wore. There were two large cups from the Beanery in his hands, one half drunk, and a collection of bags hanging from his arm.

He managed to drop the bags in a messy pile by the front door without spilling either, toeing off his shoes and making a beeline to Edge to offer him the filled cup. Edge took it wordlessly, the cold sides damp with condensation and the ice dwindled from the long bus ride.

“hey, babe,” Stretch leaned down to give him a light kiss. “miss me?”

Then he let out a startled squeak as Edge pulled him down into his lap. A small wave of iced coffee splashed over his fingers as Stretch struggled not to spill it, dripping down on Edge’s trousers and he didn’t care, didn’t care that his husband was sitting on the book he’d been reading, crinkling the pages, didn’t care about anything but pulling his love closer to take a better kiss. When he finally drew away, Stretch looked dazedly pleased if a little confused.

“Yes,” Edge admitted quietly. “I did.”

That confusion softened, a smile lighting his pretty face and Stretch snuggled in closer, both their coffee cups carelessly set on the side table as Edge chose holding his husband close over the temptation of caffeine for the moment.

Perhaps it was Stretch’s understanding of physics coupled with his ability to teleport that made it easier for him to fold his tall, slender form so comfortably into Edge’s lap. He sighed contentedly and squirmed briefly, somehow finding a way to get even closer. “don’t need to miss me anymore, baby, i’m right here.”

“You are,” Edge murmured. Right here, safe in his arms, and those lingering, ridiculous worries evaporated under the warmth of his husband’s embrace.

They could stay like this, he thought, for a little while yet.

-fin

Chapter 6: Chores

Note: This one gets a little spicy, but nothing too adult!

Stretch generally kept up with most of the daily chores over the course of the week when Edge was at work. Not that Edge ever specifically asked for Stretch to do so; his assumption when he first asked Stretch to move in with him was honestly that it would be similar circumstances as living with his brother, taking on extra laundry and various trash removal. Even then he’d loved Stretch enough to willingly take on that burden and it was with no little shame that Edge learned very quickly that his assumptions were not only wrong but completely the opposite.

There was no question that Stretch’s housework wasn’t up to Edge’s exacting standards, but then, few would be. That he did it at all was welcome and humbling as he made the bed each morning, washing the breakfast dishes by hand, even taking care of what laundry he could, leaving aside anything that needed dry cleaning.

Once, Stretch admitted sheepishly that he’d learned very quickly to check labels when he accidentally put one of Blue’s wool sweaters in the dryer.

“should’ve kept it,” Stretch had said philosophically. “by the time i took it out, it would have fit one of the chickens.”

On Saturdays, Edge still did his own cleaning, following a mental list of things that needed done. for his own peace of mind. Part of him always wanted to apologize, to explain that it wasn’t that he didn’t think Stretch did a good job, but the one time he’d tried, Stretch only kissed him quiet.

“babe, you don’t need to explain,” Stretch told him, gently. “i get it. do what you need to do, okay?”

There were times that the word love was inadequate to describe his feelings for Stretch.

Like today. Edge finished scrubbing the shower stall and was heading back downstairs when he heard Stretch moving around in the bedroom. He looked in, absently thinking of asking what he was thinking about for dinner but he was barely inside the door when he froze.

What Stretch was doing was folding towels, but it wasn’t the chore that had Edge’s attention.

Stretch was wearing a set of oversized headphones and Edge distantly made a mental note to double check that he was not wearing that particular set on the bus, because the noise dampening effect seemed entirely too effective. That thought couldn’t hold his attention for long, not when his eye lights were firmly resting on Stretch’s hips.

For someone who had a unique ability to trip over his feet at any given time, Stretch could certainly dance when he wanted to. Edge leaned against the doorjamb, watching the sway of his husband’s pelvis with hooded sockets as Stretch gyrated to whatever song he was listening to, towels folded along with the beat.

He was humming along almost absently, Stretch had a lovely singing voice, but that didn’t catch Edge’s interest, not with the glimpses of pale, smooth bone winking out from beneath the hem of his sweatshirt every time he moved. That was, until Edge heard the lyrics.

“…sticks and stones may break my bones, but chains and whips excite me…” All sung throatily in Stretch’s deep, smoky voice and the sudden surge of heat that quickly gathered at Edge’s pelvis might have embarrassed him if Stretch hadn’t turned at just that moment and caught sight of him, startling so badly the towels in his hands were flung into the air, falling to the floor in drifts of terrycloth.

“holy shit!” Stretch blurted out, slumping back to sit on the bed. He yanked off the headset and tossed it on the nightstand, wheezing, “you scared the blue fuck out of me!”

“Did I?” Edge asked silkily. He stepped into the bedroom and closed the door behind him. “Well, we can’t have that.”

There was only time for Stretch’s sockets to widen before Edge caught hold of his soul with a gentle grip of blue magic, pushing him backwards and mussing the rest of the towels. Stretch didn’t seem to care about the loss of the fruits of his labors, wriggling around in the nest of cotton until he was comfortable.

Edge prowled over to stand over him, drinking in the sight. Halfway on the bed, his long legs braced against the floor with his bare toes already digging into the carpet. His sweatshirt was riding up, revealing tantalizing glimpses of the upper crests of his pelvis and the beginning of the line of his spine. Whatever greedy expression was surely on his face, Stretch only smirked, wriggling again and that sinuous movement was a temptation all its own. His voice was a low, husky purr as he asked, “and what do you think you’re doing?”

A demonstration seemed to be in order and Edge settled between Stretch’s spread legs, catching most of his weight on his elbows as he nestled their pelvises together. “You said I scared the fuck out of you. It’s only fair that I put it back where it belongs.”

Stretch’s laughter caught on a curse as Edge deliberately rolled their hips together, that low swearing breaking into a gasp as his hands scrabbled against the sheets.

A clean house was well and good, but as Edge leaned in to take his husband’s mouth in an eager kiss, his last coherent thought was that chores could wait.

-fin

[bymyside-fic]

Jinx (~1150 words) read on AO3 // AFF

- February 26, 2010 - 

Rain drizzled down the windows of the Great Hall, making everything seem colder than it actually was. The fire was roaring in the hearth behind Minho, Kibum, and Analecia, but even then, a shiver ran down Minho’s spine as he glanced back at the gray sky visible through the raindrops racing down the windowpane. He grabbed a still-warm scone and the butter dish, slathering it on the scone before he reached for the dirigible plum marmalade. 

Analecia and Callum were bickering about something, but Minho didn’t care enough to figure out what about. It was way too early for that shit. He let out a sigh that drew Kibum’s attention, and his eyebrow rose in question. Minho smiled back with a slight shake of his head, and after nodding, Kibum returned his attention to the argument. 

“I don’t see why it’s a big deal,” he said, scooping up more of his eggs. “It’s just decorations, right? Who cares where it came from?” 

“Thank you!” Analecia said. 

Callum shook his head, and once he finished chewing, he swallowed and said, “I mean, I guess, but it’s just weird, that’s all.” 

Minho sighed. “What’s this about again?” 

“One of the fourth year boys has some weird art hanging up in his room. I think his little sister made it, and the other fourth years don’t like it and want him to take it down. There was a whole shouting match this morning. Woke me up.”

“Yeah, it was quite the row.” 

“Is it offensive?” Minho asked.

Kibum and Analecia shook their heads, and she said, “It’s just weird. Very clear that some little kid did it.” 

“I don’t see what the problem is then,” Minho said at the exact same time Kibum did. “Jinx!” Kibum called out before Minho could, then laughed when Minho grimaced. “You owe me a butterbeer!” 

Fuck… He bit his lip, sighing and rolling his eyes when Kibum wagged a finger at him, and Minho scrunched up his nose in response, which only made Kibum grin wider. “Let’s be sure to include Minho in the conversation, guys,” Kibum said, laughing as he turned back to the others after Minho flipped him off.

For the rest of breakfast, Kibum, Aaron, Callum, and even Analecia continued to ask Minho questions while he silently ate, all highly amused that he couldn’t talk now. It was a Friday, which meant that a trip to Hogsmeade for butterbeer was off the table...unless he used the secret passageway. He’d rather not, though, and Kibum knew it, so he continued this onslaught of teasing after they had adjourned to the library to study before their Defense lesson. 

“Minho?” Kibum asked, his voice dripping with faux innocence. Minho’s eyebrows shot up, but he didn’t even glance Kibum’s way. Instead, he turned the page of his textbook and tried very hard not to smile. “Can you find where Inferi are mentioned in Confronting the Faceless and read it out loud? I’d like to check our notes.” Across the table, Callum snickered, but Minho just continued to ignore him, though he couldn’t hide his growing smile.

The gang of Slytherins kept hounding him until O’Neely descended from his office, all grinning at him as he shook his head with an ill-concealed smile. “Where’d we leave off?”

Priyasha raised her hand several rows ahead of them. “With imps, sir!” 

“Imps…” He unrolled his scroll a little further, nodding before he set it back down. “Let’s open Confronting the Faceless to page two-hundred forty-seven, please? We’ll begin our review on what we know about acromantula.” Minho turned, reaching for his backpack to grab his book. “Yes, Mr. Kim?” 

He sat back up, turning to Kibum, who was definitely suppressing a smile as he lowered his hand. “Sir, I was wondering if it’d be okay for Minho to tell us about his experience with the acromantula, given that he’s probably the only one here who has actually dealt with them.” 

Aaron let out a muffled snort when Minho scoffed and stared incredulously at Kibum. 

O’Neely seemed to be none the wiser, given how his response was: “Minho, if you’re comfortable with that, you can go ahead?” 

Kibum, somehow, held his mirth back behind a mask of quiet encouragement, belied only by the twinkle in his eye. Minho, trying not to smile, turned away and slowly stood. He ignored Analecia, Callum, and Aaron’s expressions as he cleared his throat. He opened his mouth but didn’t utter so much as a squeak. Instead, he snapped it back closed again, furrowing his brow as his bottom lip trembled. He covered his face with his hand, shaking his head as he sat back down. 

“It’s okay, Minho,” O’Neely said, his voice soft and comforting. Minho almost felt bad, but the shocked looks of the others were making up for it. “I think all of us can understand why you can’t talk about it yet.” There were some nods and murmurs from the rest of the class before everyone returned their attention to O’Neely.

Everyone aside from Kibum. 

Minho waited a few more minutes before he looked over at his boyfriend. His dimples were showing as he pursed his lips to keep from smiling, then he picked up the quill and pulled their notes closer to him. 

Well played was all he said, and Minho couldn’t stop smiling until the bell rang, dismissing them for lunch. 

In the hurry to get downstairs, Minho didn’t notice that Kibum wasn’t with them until they arrived at Slytherin’s table. He looked around, confused at where he could be, but when he looked back at Analecia, she looked confused too. Until, that is, Kibum appeared in the threshold, a bottle of...was that butterbeer?.. in his hand. He sat beside Minho, setting the butterbeer in front of him and raising his eyebrows expectantly. Slowly, Minho slid the bottle back over to him, 

“Fake crying? Really?” Minho burst out laughing. “The game is over now, you can talk now.” 

Minho sobered up enough to say, “I think you just missed the sound of my voice,” as he picked up the sandwich off of his plate.

Kibum scoffed and unscrewed the cap off the bottle as he muttered in Korean, “You’re saying shit that would stab the king in the ass.” 

Minho nearly choked on his bite of sandwich, but he managed to swallow it before he started laughing again. 

“Merlin’s beard, you two are noisy,” Analecia said, shaking her head in amusement. 

“How about this?” Callum said, leaning toward them. “I know how competitive you two are. Let’s see who can stay quiet between you the longest.” 

Kibum stared at him while Minho shrugged. He’d done it for a few hours already, what were a few more? “I lose,” Kibum said immediately, which only started Minho laughing again.

[ask-de-writer]

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to Flocking Bay

MET BY MOONLIGHT

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

5740 words

© 2017 by Glen Ten-Eyck

written 2003 by Glen Ten-Eyck

All rights reserved.

Reproduction in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the express written consent of the author or proper copyright holder.

//////////////

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Users of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story. They may use the characters or original characters in my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical compositions. I will allow those who do commission art works to charge for their images.

All sorts of Fan Activity, fiction, art, cosplay, music or anything else is ACTIVELY encouraged!

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These had been made with fine, supple leathers taken from the destroyed village of the Marquosts. They had originally held pictographs of things that the Shamans and Totem Society leaders had thought worth recording. Their pictograms, like Egyptian hieroglyph or Chinese ideograms were a genuine written language. That was one of the ways that the Marquost society had been more than a little different from that of the Indians about them.

The men had a Society of Shamans lead by the Great Shaman. They had the charge to do the mighty magics that needed the Blackwall and its power. I was descended from that tradition.

The women had charge of the assorted Totem Societies. Most Indians drew inspiration from their totem animals. The Marquost women did more than draw inspiration from their totems. They became them. They were not lycanthropes, cursed to change with the moon. Marquost women were skin-turners. They donned the skin of the totem animal and became that creature in truth but with a guiding human intelligence and cunning. They were lead by a woman known as the Mother of Change, who could become any animal from any of the Totem Societies — and if rumor be true — any other beast as well.

The High Shaman and the Mother of Change were the ones who wrote and decided what to write.

After three hundred years, their wisdom and spells were coming to light again on my computer monitor. As the English writing was subtracted from the Darkmoon palimpsests, I began to notice something else.

My hackles rose the way that they will when you find that something is very wrong. When I examined the original photographs of the book pages more closely, I found the cause. The originals were genuinely ancient. That was almost beyond doubt. When you are a Shaman, as I am, you get a feel for such things. The problem was in the handwriting. I had a three hundred year span of books open to me. Everywhere that I sampled the Darkmoon Dairies I found the same thing.

The Darkmoon Diaries were a forgery. A unique forgery. I was willing to give long odds that there was no other such forgery in the world.

Efforts to make the handwriting different from writer to purported writer had grossly succeeded. It was the little things that betrayed the forgery. The downstroke of the f’s and s’s. The loop form of the e’s. They were common throughout. It appeared that one person had written all three hundred years worth of dairies.

The most recent volume revealed the likely author.

Just as I was pondering the diaries, Allison delivered a note from Laelia inquiring about my progress and inviting me to assist with cataloging the Hilstrom house. I put aside my problem with the dairies for the more immediate one of helping with Hilstrom house and seeing what might be of use. A Shaman may benefit from much that the ordinary person might not even find interesting. There might be things in there that could lead me to other surviving descendants of the ‘Founding Fathers’ of Flocking Bay.

Because of the age of the Hilstrom House and the contents it was known to have, it was necessary to catalog everything. We would assess what to include in the sale or even if the place should be sold at all. Some of the contents, at least, would have to be auctioned off and some kept for the library and the Historical Society museum.

The Hilstrom House was worth putting aside my petty mysteries. It would be an easy restoration to bring the house back to its original state. Most of the original hand hewn planks and timbers were still there and in place. The electricity and gas had been put in with no attempt to hide the wires and pipes inside the walls.

The fireplace still had the original hand made crane to hang cooking pots over the flames. The andirons were a recent addition. The originals we found later, cast out into a bramble thicket behind the house.

The whole place could easily become a colonial museum. When I breached the idea to Laelia she agreed that it could be done at little cost. The only problem that she foresaw was the simple one of maintenance cost. Such museums rarely paid their way and the township was simply too poor to support another one in addition to the Historical Society museum.

“Don’t give up, though,” she said, patting my hand. “You can propose it at the township meeting. If it is approved, they will find a way to do it.”

I felt that odd hackle-raising twisting that tells you where magic is. It led me to a corner of the living room. There, in a window seat made to serve as a storage chest, were many papers and books … and the source of my feeling.

The old matchlock musket appeared to be in near perfect condition. It was mounted to a plaque with an engraved brass plate just as the diary had said. It read, “This gun won us the town now called Flocking Bay. Eben Hilstrom shot and killed the Shaman with it. The gun would never fire again after.”

Laelia reached past me and took the old gun. “The Historical Society will want this testament to the shameful deed that founded this town.”

I looked at her strangely. I was beginning to fear that Laelia might be a descendant of one of the Founders. A check of ship passenger manifests from 1645 through the end of 1648 showed none who could be Laelia or her ‘ancestress.’ Something would have been in those records even if she had been a stowaway. What did she have to hide? Several things that she had said before flitted through my mind. The unique forgery of the Darkmoon diaries. The Darkmoon crest. The timing of her ancestress’ arrival in Flocking Bay. The low price of the indenture.

With a winning smile, I said, “Laelia, I think that these papers will be enough to keep us busy for the rest of the day.” “Let’s take them back to your place where we can catalog them over some of your wonderful tea.”

We strolled back to Changer’s Court in a pleasant afternoon, with the wind playing with leaves and trying to steal our booty of history.

Back at Laelia’s cottage, I breached a different topic as she puttered about her modern kitchen with its gas range, making tea for us. “Laelia, I have some of the palimpsests done. I think that you will be interested. I found your indenture contract. You can even see where Eben Hilstrom altered it.”

The puttering in the kitchen stopped for a moment. You could hear the strained smile in her voice as she see replied, “You mean the indenture of my ancestress. I’m not THAT old.” She resumed puttering purposefully about and emerged with the tea tray.

As she set it down on the coffee table, I said, “I’m afraid that you’re not telling me the whole truth, Laelia. I can prove that you wrote all of the Darkmoon dairies and I can also prove their age.

“I need to ask you some questions about your origins. I can only think of a few reasons that a person might live so long.”

She let out a long sigh and leaned back in her chair. Resignedly she said, “Have some tea and ask what you will. It was a long run from Poland for my sister and I. She was killed in France. The Crest says it all, to those perceptive enough to read it, as you seem to be.”

I raised my tea to my lips and smelled the aroma. My hackles rose again. I could smell and feel the power. It was a familiar power, like my mother’s but stronger. I had my answer.

“No,” I said, putting down the cup untasted. “You have lied long enough. You are not a werewolf and you are not Polish either. Though being one would account for your age. I know who you are.”

I spoke in Marquost, the old Indian tongue of the area when I said, “Ask me what you want to know, Mother of Change. This Shaman will tell you truthfully what you wish to know without the power of that.” I pointed at the tea.

For a second, she appeared startled. Then she let out the same laugh that I had heard and liked earlier. She replied in the same language, “Your accent is abominable! Still, I haven’t heard anyone use this language at all for years!” Her speech was the utterly relaxed, easy flow of a native speaker.

“Near enough to three hundred years, I expect,” I said softly. “You must have been lonely, living among your enemies for so long.”

“Not so lonely as you might imagine,” said Laelia with that calm that comes only from utter assurance. “I have been stalking my prey. I have got to know them and listen to their Councils and give them advice. When the time is right I take one of my skins and turn it. Then an enemy suffers. That is when proper vengeance comes. They have suffered and must suffer for a long time yet to come. That is why your killing them is not to be accepted. Do not do that. It may put them on their guard.”

Startled, and just a bit guilty, I said, “Mr. Hilstrom was the last of his line. He was old and a bachelor. The Hilstroms are gone.”

Her cheerful laugh interrupted me. “Where did you get that silly idea? That was only the end of the male line. What is the true line of descent?”

I was dumbfounded. I had forgotten, been taken in by the white man’s patrilineal lines of descent. So proud of my own matrilineal descent from the last Shaman, I had used the white man’s genealogical rules to track my enemies! I would have to start my genealogical work all over.

I hung my head in shame. Determined, I raised my head looking Laelia in the eye. “A Shaman must acknowledge his error and try to remedy it. I must begin to search for the neglected lines of descent. Our enemies must die!” I said firmly.

She rebuked me gently but with absolute certainty. “They must NOT die! Death is the END of vengeance. I swore ETERNAL revenge to the Blackwall, pouring on it the blood of my foes. When the last of them dies, so do I!”

Smiling, Laelia said, “I help them in their need and see to it that they stay within my reach.” Her eyes going lupine, she added, “I stalk them down the trail of time. In each generation, they all suffer. A few die. They go on. And so do I.”

I looked at Laelia with new eyes and a heightened respect. I said softly, “Mother of Change, I am sure that your eternal vengeance is more suitable than my slaying. This Shaman opens to you the whole power of the Blackwall.”

—THE END—

<==Previous

Return to the Master Story Index

Return to Flocking Bay

This completes Met by Moonlight. If you enjoyed what you just read, please go to the Master Story Index for links to all of the stories that I have posted on Tumblr

[bangtan-gal]

Wet Cement

Wet Cement

Yang Jeongin x Fem!Reader

Warnings: fluff, angst, swearing, pretty basic, his is like, the most normal one, crack

Word Count:6.2k

Abilities: Empath, Charmer

Art wasn’t your thing, but you found yourself in the class when your best friend, Remi, dragged you into the slightly broken down studio. The first several classes sucked; the teacher droning on and on about different techniques, old couples slowing down the class as they had the instructor repeat the easy instructions, and all in all, you were forced to act like you liked something that you despised. Remi ignored your complaints and whines, telling you that it was a “learning experience.”

Yeah right.

When you stepped into class today, Remi was nowhere to be seen. Figuring she was late, you sat down at your usual table and drummed your fingers noisily on the desk as you waited. The class started and she was still nowhere to be seen. You frowned, half-heartedly accepting the piece of paper the instructor handed you. If she ditched you, there would definitely be a bloody mess somewhere.

Five minutes into the class, the door obnoxiously dinged. You ignored it as you stared at the paper and only looked up when the chair beside you became occupied. Instead of long, light brown hair, chubby cheeks, and shiny blue eyes, you were greeted by short and red-dyed hair, sharp cheekbones, and deeply colored eyes. Your gazes met for a moment and then you quickly looked away, cursing your stupid friend. Now you’d have to take this miserable class with some stranger beside you.

As you sat there, thinking of a million different ways you could murder Remi, the instructor talked to the newcomer.

“Yang Jeongin.”

His voice was sweet and out of the corner of your eye, you saw him flash a quick smile. Heat spread over your cheeks and you tried your best to focus on the paper before you. As class went by, your elbows kept bumping, knees kept knocking, and fingers would brush each time the two of you reached for the same tool. Neither one of you said a thing as you scratched and scribbled aimlessly on your papers.

“Well, good job everyone, I’ll see you on Thursday!” The lady chirped, clasping her hands together and sporting a smile that was way too big. You sighed and grabbed your purse, ready to dart for the door.

A tap on your arm stopped you.

“Is this class… like actually worth it?” Jeongin whispered, side-eyeing the teacher who was barely five feet away. You glanced at her and then back to him, shrugging. You were the last person to ask—you still hated art. You hated looking at it, attempting it, or just in general, thinking about it.

You loudly sighed, trying to embrace your inner Positive Polly.

“Y-yes?”

Well, that worked.

The red-haired boy raised an eyebrow at you. You pursed your lips together in an awkward smile and then started backing away. You maintained eye contact until you ran into a table, tripped, and then tried (and failed) to regain your footing. Your eyes pinched shut as you sat on your ass, on the cold, nasty art floor that was covered in dried paints, eraser shavings, and other shit.

It didn’t help that when you opened your eyes and saw that everyone who was left was staring at you. Jeongin’s face was squished up as he tried to keep his mouth closed and the laughter inside. When your gaze’s met, he looked away and a small bubble of laughter escaped which then turned into a whole fit.

You stood up with a groan, quickly whirling around and racing for the door. Jeongin shouted hey and as you stumbled out onto the busy plaza, the boy caught up and crashed into you. He caught you before you could fall on your face and you stood there, hands over your face and grumbles coming out around them. How was your life so unfortunate that you just had to keep embarrassing yourself in front of this cute boy?

“Cute?” You mumbled, pulling your hands away from your face. Where the fuck did that come from? He was annoying. He was the one who caused you to fall the first time and almost fall the second. But he also saved you from falling the second time. “Whatever.”

“Are you okay?” The boy asked wearily, leaning around you to try and look at you. You stared at him from the corner of your eye before you coughed and nodded.

“Just allergies.”

What?

He bit his lip and a soft gasp of laughter escaped him.

“So… what you said earlier sounded more like a question. Is the class really worth it?” He asked, waving a hand in front of your face. You blinked and then turned to meet his gaze. You exhaled again.

“I hate art.” Well, that wasn’t what you meant to say.

He opened his mouth, closed it, pointed to the building you just left and then to you, and then opened his mouth again.

“Okay, bye! Good to meet you!” You shrieked and then hurried off.

➻➻➻➻➻

When you woke up Thursday morning, you really questioned if getting out of bed was worth it. Remi had gone on vacation to 127 District and wouldn’t be back for a couple weeks. You hated the class, you hated the teacher, the other students, the creaky stools, the weirdly slanted sunroof, the outdoors, people in general, socializing, sunshine, hot weather, cold weather—

You were getting carried away.

(But the only thing you really liked was your bed because nothing could go wrong there.)

As you slugged out of bed and got dressed, figuring you may as well since Remi paid for the class, you prayed that Jeongin wouldn’t be there. That your weird answers would scare him away and you could just have your own table until Remi returned. You stepped out of your apartment, groaning at the heat that hit you.

The walk to the studio was miserable. It was hot and sticky and people kept bumping into you. For once, you were actually happy when you stepped into the studio, the AC running over your body. You moved down the aisle, going for your table and then stopped. A boy with red hair sat on one of the stools, head resting in his arms. You grumbled as you threw your purse to the floor beside the available seat and then sat down. When you looked at the boy, your eyes widened. He was deadass sleeping.

You looked around, almost as if to say: “does anyone else see this shit?” but no one else seemed to care. In silence, you set up your portion of the desk, your OCD kicking in as you straightened out the paper and pencils. You bit your lip, struggling with one pencil that seemed to decide that rolling around was a good-fucking-idea.

“That’s cute.”

You jumped, your knee smacking into the bottom of the desk and sending supplies flying. Eyes darted towards you as pencils and paintbrushes noisily rolled over the floor. You grumbled an apology as you slid off the chair to pick them up. Aggression roiled through you as you slammed them back down on the table and sat down with a huff. You turned to the red-haired boy with a scowl, which only deepened when he was making the same squishy face as yesterday.

“Don’t laugh at me, this is your fault!” You hissed, pointing a finger at him.

He giggled.

“How? It wasn’t my knee that bumped the table,” he pointed out. You rolled your eyes.

“Yeah but—”

You weren’t given time to rebuttal as the instructor started up class. You shot one last glare at the boy before you pretended to pay attention. When the teacher stopped talking and people picked up their pencils, you followed suit, and started doodling whatever came to mind. You’d done this the past several classes, and so far, you hadn’t been caught. Or at least, the teacher didn’t really care.

“That doesn’t look like nature,” Jeongin whispered as he leaned over to stare at your paper. You elbowed him.

“Nature can be whatever the fuck it wants to be,” you retorted.

“So you mean I could draw a dick on my paper and get away with it?”

You started choking on nothing, a mix of laughter and coughs escaping you. You hit your chest a couple times, sending an unimpressed look the boy’s way. He didn’t seem to care though as he leaned back in his chair, looking way too proud. You frowned and went back to drawing circles and sticks and other random things. You managed to ignore the boy for several minutes.

You lost your shit when you looked over at his paper by accident. There wasn’t just one dick on his paper, but a ton. Your mouth dropped open and you covered it as you tried to keep in your laughter. He finally noticed your stare and the two of you stared at one another, both of you trying to keep in your laughter. Suddenly, you didn’t have such an indifference towards the boy. You’d never met somebody with such lack of filter, such an uncaring attitude.

“I can’t believe this,” you mumbled and then giggled. He smirked and then chuckled as well.

You ended up surviving the rest of the class, a small smile on your face and it would widen every time you looked over at the hundreds of dicks on Jeongin’s paper. It got even better when you had to turn in your work. Jeongin proudly signed the page and then handed it into the instructor. You both watched as her eyes bugged out and then she accepted it with an unsure smile.

“So, no allergies today?” He asked, bumping his shoulder into yours as the two of you wandered along the sidewalk. You frowned.

“No.”

Jeongin snorted and then his attention was diverted to his cellphone. You shamelessly peeked over his shoulder, trying to read the text. The redhead glanced at you before he flicked your forehead. You backed up, pressing your hand to your face and sending an annoyed look his way. He typed in an answer to the next, a soft sigh escaping him, before he turned to you with a somewhat melancholy smile.

“Do… do you wanna go grab some lunch, maybe?” He asked, shoes scuffing at the cement. You raised an eyebrow.

“Is this how the boy, who drew male genitalia all over his paper and shamelessly turned it into the teacher, asks out a girl?” You scoff.

“Hey!” He huffed, “who said I was asking you out? You’re nosy and ugly!”

You wiggled your eyes and pinched his elbow before you skipped off. The boy followed you and the two of you argued over a place to eat. You blamed it on the fact that there were too many places to eat in the Upper City. He blamed you, saying that you were too stubborn for your own good.

“Whyyyyy, it’s good food though,” he whined as you dragged him away from the italian place.

“I want burgers dumbass,” you snipped.

He wrinkled his nose. “My fucking god—burgers? Why not chicken? Fish? Pork? You want a cow of all things. Fake beef is disgusting anyways. At least fake chicken is close to the real thing!”

You opened your mouth and then closed it. You tilted your head curiously at the boy, not caring that the two of you had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. People grumbled curses at you as they shoved past you. He stared back at you and then scratched the back of his neck. You’d never had the luxury of real meat or fresh produce. Who was this mysterious boy, who didn’t give two fucks about others opinions, laughed at strangers, and yet, lived the life of perfection?

“Yeah,” you said sarcastically, “fake beef is totally disgusting.”

He went silent and his gaze lowered to his shoes. You pursed your lips and the two of you stood there, letting the stream of people pass by.

“Sorry, we can go get burgers. I’ll pay.”

The boy turned and then reached for your hand, pulling you along with him. Butterflies erupted in your stomach as his fingers wrapped delicately around your hand. The two of you finally made it to the joint. It was mostly empty and the two of you sat down at the far corner, a perfect view of the busy street. The two of you were silent through most of the meal, not speaking until you had finished your burger and the redhead carefully poked at his.

“Are you from the Upper City?” You queried. You played mindlessly with the napkin in front of you, tearing it up and creating a little mountain on your plate.

He paused, eyes glancing down as he let his thoughts run.

“Well… I grew up in the Upper City, but I live in the Deepy City now,” he explained and when he looked up and saw your face, he rolled his eyes. “No. We don’t party there all the time. It’s actually a pretty chill place. Maybe you should come visit sometime uppity girl.”

You snorted and blew your pile of napkin at him. He swatted them away, running a hand through his hair, and then flung his straw at you. You giggled, catching the straw before it could get you.

“Isn’t the Deep City… like gang infested?” You stage-whispered, leaning across the table. The redhead sighed again, sounding thoroughly unimpressed.

“What is up with people and assumptions these days?” Then he trailed off, eyes glazing over. He shrugged. “I guess you’re not wrong. There’s a constant stream of crime, fights, and… depending on the day, it’s not the safest place at night.

“But, I mean, if you’re on the main street, it’s actually really safe. Most of the fights are on the outer edge and that’s just because territory is easier to control. It’s absolutely gorgeous at night. Fairy lights, every Friday there’s a live band, and the water features look really cool at night. Plus, the street food is fucking amazing.”

You nodded as you listened. The image floated in your mind and it sounded wonderful. When you were little, a carnival came to the Upper City from JYP and it was magical. It hasn’t come back since and you’ve always wanted to relive that moment. The Upper City was the “rich people” city of District 9, but it wasn’t pretty. Some houses and apartments were gorgeous, but at the end of the day, it was plain.

“You know… today is Thursday,” Jeongin hummed.

“Oh my fucking god, no way,” you gasped, “I better go put that on my calendar.”

He wasn’t a fan of your sarcasm.

“And that means tomorrow is Friday: possibly, just possibly, you could come down to the Deep City and experience the experience?”

The offer warmed your heart, but you would never let the boy in front of you know what a sap you actually are. So you rolled your eyes as you picked at your nails, pretending to weigh the pros and cons. The honest truth was that the only thing that filled your mind was pros and in some way you were scared of them.

Specifically the part where you brain decided that a pretty big pro would be spending time with Jeongin.

➻➻➻➻➻

You felt stupid. You’d spent hours trying to put out some cute, chic outfit in order to somehow flatter the boy. And then, when the two of you met up at the Main Plaza in Upper City, he stood in jeans, a t-shirt, and an old ratty flannel. It was awful sitting there in your fancy “beach” (maybe beaches existed before the Collapse, but now they were a figment of imagination) pants, a fancy, short-cut shirt, along with your nice pair of sneakers and some carefully picked out jewelry.

If Jeongin noticed your attempts, he didn’t comment on them. Nor did he make fun of how overdressed you were. It felt even worse as the two of you sat on the bus together and you swore to god that every-fucking-one was staring at you. Was it such an odd sight, the two of you? A pretty boy, who didn’t even have to try to look like he just stepped out of a magazine and some simple, psychopath that was you.

“Does that old lady really have to stare into my soul?” You whined to him. He glanced her way and then waved, a big smile appearing on his face. The lady looked away, skin turning an ashy white. Your jaw dropped open.

He raised an eyebrow at you. “Sometimes if you let people know that they’re staring, they’ll leave you alone.”

You just stared at him.

He waved at you.

You smacked his hand away. “Asshole.”

He laughed and the bus quickly came to a stop after, a scratchy voice announcing that you were in the Heart of the Deep City. Jeongin stood up, quickly grasping your hand and pulling you along with him. You stumbled off the bus behind him and glanced around.

The sun was just starting to set, casting a pink and orange glow across the towering buildings. Fairy lights were starting to flicker to life and you could see a faint glow in each of the fountains. People bustled about and you were glad to see that most of them were dressed like you. Now, it was Jeongin that looked like the idiot. You snickered to yourself, causing the boy in question to send you a weird stare.

“It doesn’t get good until real late, but until then, I can give you a quick tour,” he hummed.

The two of you made your way down the street. You passed hundreds of people and you saw a huge difference between the Upper City and the Deep City very quickly. Not just in setting, but in the people. Each one of them had something more different, more unique to them. Apparently, coloring your hair was a huge thing here. You rarely saw it in the Far Country or where you lived. You’d done it once as a kid and had been considered a sociopath, getting kicked out of class for the day, not allowed to return until it was back to its original color.

“Oooohhhh, this place is really good,” he said, pointing out a Korean grill. Then he leaned into you, “it’s run by a gang and they casually steal meat from the JYP district.”

You stared at him in disbelief and then back to the restaurant. It looked quaint—cute. You could faintly see a woman bustling around in there, looking too sweet to possibly work for a gang.

“You’re lying,” you grumbled.

“Nope,” he chirped, grinning like a maniac, “I’ll take you there someday and you’ll see: real beef. It’s a family gang, so they’re more friendly. But since you’ve already had dinner, we’re getting ice cream.”

You barely registered the last part after you heard the ‘someday’. The promise of a future had your heart stuttering and face heating up as the boy continued to drag you down the street. You didn’t fall this easy, you shouldn’t fall this easy. You didn’t know him that well—he was a total stranger—but yet, the idea of falling victim to his charms, wasn’t that bad. Because, as childish as it sounded, you could already picture a future with him.

The farther you were dragged into the city, the more shocked you were. Children ran around, dressed in bright colors and tossing around balls. Among the ocean of people, you barely spotted anyone that looked the same. There were carvings in the cement and a million apple blossom trees, that were just gorgeous. Fairy lights of various colors hung from overhangs and patios. Buildings made purely of glass sparkled in the dusk.

It actually felt… safe.

“This is crazy,” you mumbled as Jeongin stopped in front of an ice cream truck.

He grinned. “I told you. What flavor do you want?”

“Just chocolate,” you hummed.

He swiftly ordered and thanked the man once two cups were handed to you. He gave you yours and then led you down the street, where a bunch of stone benches surrounded a beautiful water feature. You quickly noted how small the bench was as you sat down. Your thighs pressed together, but you couldn’t squirm away without causing one of you to sprawl onto the ground. You tried to focus solely on your ice cream and not on the warmth that radiated from his body.

It was hard until the boy stole a scoop of your ice cream.

You blinked, mouth widening.

He sent you a cheeky grin.

“You dick!” You snapped, trying to cover your ice cream from any other attacks.

Jeongin didn’t reply as he simply dug back into his own cup, letting his eyes wander over the scenery around you. You followed his lead, watching as the world only became brighter when it should’ve become darker. As the sun sunk lower and lower into the horizon, the energy of the city went higher and higher.

It was all ruined when you noticed that Jeongin took another scoop of your ice cream, although this time some of his ice cream was on his spoon still.

You gasped, “did you just contaminate my ice cream?”

“What? Me? Never,” he exclaimed, looking around in horror.

“I can’t believe you!”

“I can’t believe whoever did this, either!” He mocked and then winked at you. You glared at him, grumbling as you handed him your now empty cup. Jeongin took it with a frown, mumbling something about how he wasn’t your slave. As he got up to search for a trashcan, he paused, almost as if remembering something, and then turned to you. “You gotta come with me.”

You stubbornly crossed your arms. “Why?”

“It’s a beautiful place, but don’t be fooled. People have been attacked during broad daylight here and other people won’t even bat an eyelash. Everyone’s number one priority are themselves. I’m not going to let you get jumped,” he said and held out a hand to help you up. You obliged, clasping his hand. The two of you wandered around until you found a trashcan.

As the two of you walked along, you stumbled across a part of the sidewalk that was blocked off. The redhead curiously glanced over the yellow tape and then sent a grin your way, pointing down. You walked over, noting the wet cement that lay there.

“Should I draw a dick in it?” He queried.

You opened your mouth, ready to protest, but the boy was already crouching down. You huffed and bent down beside him, watching as he poked in the shape. What was up with him and dicks? What was up with YOU and dicks? You crouched down next to him, ignoring his little work of art as you pressed your hand into the wet cement. It clung to your hand for a moment and then you pulled it back, satisfaction running through you at the hand print. Jeongin watched you and then placed his hand next to yours, a bigger handprint appearing in the cement beside yours.

“The perfect signature for our first date,” he declared.

“Yeah, sure” you huffed, wiping your hand off on his flannel and dragging him away. You wandered closer towards the middle of the city, wondering when the Friday night events would start up.

“A band should be starting up anytime now,” he mentioned and then you heard the start of a song somewhere nearby. Jeongin started sprinting and you raced after him, struggling to catch your breath once you reached the stage. You didn’t recognize the song and you weren’t sure if the redhead did, but he didn’t seem to care as he softly started to sway to the beat.

The mass of people was surprising. People bounced together in groups, hands raised, and joyful cheers filling the air. You kept yourself pressed to Jeongin, your body starting to sway with his as the two of you let the feeling roll over you. The band was perfect, but yet it gave you that impression. Giggles bubbled from you as the song sped up and Jeongin grasped your hand, forcing you to start jumping with the rest of the crowd.

You were so close at this point, your faces inches apart as the two of you bobbed to the beat. His eyes sparkled under the bright city light and his hair started to fall out of place, soft strands of deep red falling along his eyebrows. The urge to brush them out of his face was strong and you didn’t fight it as you reached up, your fingers running along his smooth skin. The two of you both ceased all movement, his dark eyes boring into yours. Your cheeks were the same color as his hair as his gaze dropped to your lips.

He licked his own before meeting your stare once more.

It was sweet and soft. His lips just barely there as he brushed his thumb over your cheek. You leaned into him, deepening the kiss as you did so. His hands dropped from your face to your waist and he pulled you tightly against him. It was no longer the two of you in a crowd, but the two of you in an empty world. He tasted like vanilla and his mouth was still slightly cold, a contrast to the warm press of his chest against yours. You carded your hand through his hair and when the two of you pulled apart, your eyes stayed closed for a moment longer, a soft breath puffing out between you.

When you opened them, you were greeted by the soft smile on his face. He rubbed circles on your back and your breathing slowed as you just let yourself fall into him. The two of you stood there, barely moving or breathing as you absorbed the moment. Then a soft laugh escaped him.

When you looked up, you were surprised to see white flurries fall down around you. You reached out, letting one fall on your skin and breathed out when a cold burst through the spot. It was odd, because as the snow came down, it was so warm. People’s cheers grew louder as the flurries fell upon them.

“How crazy is that?” You mused, reaching out to catch more and watching in fascination as they melted.

“Insane,” he whispered, but he was no longer looking at the sky. You refused to meet his heated stare as you looked up into the dark sky. You stuck out your tongue, giggling when several landed and then melted. “Truly insane.”

➻➻➻➻➻

Something took off between you two that day. The two of you hung out together almost everyday. Sometimes it was just lounging around in the Upper City and other times it was wreaking havoc in the Deep City. You also went to Memory Maze for the first time and after getting lost twice in a matter of five minutes and being on the other side of Jeongin’s teasing, you decided you never wanted to go back.

Just as he said, he took you to the Korean grill. Indeed, the food was amazing, and even more so, the beef. It ruined burgers for you and now the idea of eating whatever rubbery stuff they served you was awful. Sure, cows didn’t lead the lives of fresh air that they used to (although, you struggled to imagine what the world was like before the Collapse. Did animals really roam free? Were there actually creatures that could move through the sky?)

Art class became less miserable. Of course, it really helped that Jeongin continued to draw dicks on his paper and shamelessly turn it into the teacher. It was amazing, he got more creative every time. When you were told to draw a building, he very casually drew genitalia shaped bushes. The teacher stopped being surprised every time and instead just looked down right done, but it didn’t get any less funny. Sure, it was immature, but where was the joy in life if you didn’t act your age every once in a while? It’s no fun if you don’t drink before you’re legal.

Now the two of you sat in his room, giggling as he recounted his latest interaction with the mean lady who ran the convenience store down the street.

“She fucking told me that I look stupid with my dyed hair!” He groaned, laying on his back. You snorted, playing with his hair.

“How dare she,” you huffed, shaking your head. He sighed, looking up at you.

“She must be a psychopath,” he decided.

“There is no other reasonable explanation,” you agreed.

The two of you laughed again. Your head fell on his chest, still giggling. He rested a hand a top of your head, his laughter slowly dying down along with his rapid chest movements. You played with a loose string on his sweater, humming a song. He went silent beneath you and his hand stilled in you hair.

“I love this song,” he whispered. You looked at him from under your lashes. He stared at the ceiling, his eyes glazed over. “My mom used to sing it to me.”

You continued to hum the song, drawing a pattern along his chest. As you opened your mouth to ask a question, the door opened. You sat up on your elbows, meeting the gaze of a blue-haired boy. He paused upon the sight of you two and then shrugged.

“Jeongin, there’s dinner on the table if you want some,” he said and shot you one more questioning stare before he left the room.

“That’s Jisung,” he explained as he sat up. “You hungry?”

You nodded and followed him downstairs. As you walked towards the kitchen, your head lowered. Jisung sat on the couch with another boy and you could feel both their stares tearing into you. Just as you disappeared into the kitchen, you peeked a look at them. Jisung no longer stared, but the other one did, and you were shocked by the bright silver that gleamed at you.

“I see where you get your hair dye from,” you teased as the boy pulled a pizza box from the fridge. He chuckled.

“Yeah, runs in the family I guess,” he said and then paused. He cleared his throat and you didn’t question him on what he meant. From the sounds of it, he lost his own family, and if you were him, you would go looking for another one too.

The two of you ate it silence. You feeling too awkward to talk about anything with the two other boys right on the other side of the wall. Jeongin didn’t force you to talk as he mumbled about random things and occasionally ran his hand over yours. You ate your piece and then handed him the crust, snorting when he practically downed it. He paused to stare at you.

“What? I’m still growing,” he grumbled.

You laughed.

“Sure.”

You went silent again as the silver-eyed boy stepped into the kitchen. He walked over to the cabinet, grabbing a bottle of something and a glass. You pretended that you weren’t watching him as he poured himself a quick glass. As he brought it up to his lips, his sleeve moved, and your eyes zeroed in on the tattoo that rested high on his arm. A gray tiger. You’d seen that symbol a million times before.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” you mumbled to Jeongin.

“Down the hall and to the left,” he said as he shoveled another slice into his mouth.

You scrambled away, your heart racing and sweat starting to collect along your collar and hairline. You locked yourself in the grand bathroom, leaning up against the door. Miroh—that was a Miroh tattoo. Why was Jeongin living with someone apart of that gang? Did he know? He had to, the man didn’t try hard to conceal it.

“Most of the fights are on the outer edge and that’s just because territory is easier to control.”

“It’s a family gang, so they’re pretty friendly.”

“I won’t let you get jumped.”

“Yeah, runs in the family I guess.”

Was he apart of the gang?

You closed your eyes and placed your hand over your heart. You were impulsive and careless almost all the time, but you hated assumptions. They were one thing you tried not to commit to, because they ruined lives. You couldn’t just assume that Jeongin was apart of the gang. And if he was, it didn’t make him a bad person. If the person you’ve seen these past few weeks is true, he’s a better person than most.

So, you stepped out the bathroom. As you carefully made your way back towards the kitchen, you stopped when you heard voices. You didn’t want to eavesdrops, but you didn’t just want to walk in mid-conversation either.

“If she doesn’t know what you’re apart of, that means she definitely doesn’t know what you can do,” a voice snapped.

“Would you tell her?” It was Jeongin this time.

“If you’re going to go and fucking fall in love with her, you should!” A different voice this time, sounding a little bit like Jisung.

Was he in love with you?

“Goddammit, Jeongin, just tell her! She’s gonna find out about your abilities sooner or later, you may as well save this relationship before it all crashes and burns!” It was the first voice. You stood there, your heart stopping. Abilities? What the hell does that mean? What can Jeongin do?

Can they all do something?

As the three grew silent, you stood silently for a moment. You backed up towards the bathroom door, loudly letting it swing open. Then you padded down the hallway and slid into the kitchen, glancing around. Jisung and the other boy stood on the other side of the counter, both expressions blank. Jeongin, despite his face being completely blank, you noticed the way his fingers twitched and how his chest heaved a little faster than normal.

“Hey, let’s go upstairs to my room,” he murmured, wrapping an arm over your shoulder. You walked along with him, refusing to spare his comrades another glance.

When the door closed behind you, he sighed and sagged against it. He stared up at the ceiling for a while. You sat down on his bed, working on your lip. Then Jeongin looked down at you, a shimmer of tears in his eyes.

“We have to talk,” he sighed.

“I know,” you blurted out. He frowned. “You’re apart of Miroh, aren’t you?”

The boy stared at you and you just stared back.

Then he slowly nodded.

“Do you know… about the powers?” He whispered, approaching you. You were surprised he didn’t ask how you knew, but relieved at the same time.

“Vaguely.”

He sat down beside you, his hand reaching for yours. Nothing inside you begged to pull away and you realized that this new revelation meant nothing new. He was still the fire that burned in your lungs and you just wanted to have a future with him.

“It’s… it’s not really my place to talk of the other’s abilities and positions. I… I don’t really know how to explain it, but I um, I can sense others emotions and”—he cleared his throat, eyes searching yours—“control their emotions.”

You stiffened, but your hand didn’t move from his. If anything, it tightened. You opened your mouth, uncertainty flickering through you.

“I-I never used it on you, I fucking swear on my life,” he rushed out, “I… the weird thing about you is that I can’t even reach your emotions. Like, at all. That’s why I was so attracted to you when we first met and then afterward it was just… well just you I guess. But holy fucking shit, Y/N, I would never use my abilities on you even if I could. If I really wanted someone to love me, I’d do it the right way.”

You raised an eyebrow and then smirked.

“Do you swear on all those dicks you drew?”

He paused, eyes widening. Then he laughed loudly, nodding. “For fuck’s sake, yes.”

“Well, then, I guess I can’t question you, even if you are some unnatural thing,” you giggled and then pressed your lips to. When you pulled back, a wide smile on your face, he chuckled again.

“I’ve never fallen for others’ smiles before.”

➻➻➻➻➻

The two of you both ran away, struggling to hold in your laughter. Once you were several blocks away, you burst into loud laughter again. You slapped his chest, stumbling into him.

“I still can’t get used to you doing that, but that was amazing!” You exclaimed and then a snort of laughter escaped you. He struggled to catch his breath, leaning over.

“God, I hold too much power,” he gasped, “she actually fucking did it.”

Maybe you should’ve felt bad for the old lady the owned the convenience store that was only a couple of blocks away, but you didn’t. After endless slanted remarks at Jeongin, she finally got what she deserved. Or at least something that would make her look like a dumbass. Sure, it was immature to use Jeongin’s unicorn abilities to trick someone into dying their hair neon yellow, but who acted their age anyway? Age was like cement that was always wet.

[fantasyfandommaiden]

ML Counsellor AU: Chat’s Mentorship

Chat goes to Carmine for advice, or perhaps a kind ear a few days after Hero’s Day... however he gets so much more than that.

[[MORE]]

Carmine found herself once again enjoying the beautiful nightlife of Paris from her balcony, sipping her tea as she thought over what had happened not even two days ago. Hero’s Day had been a success, although it almost lead to Hawkmoth becoming victorious and gaining the Ladybug and Hawkmoth Miraculous.

The hero’s, along with Queen Bee, Rena Rouge, and Carapace, managed to win however and she couldn’t be prouder of them all.

Carmine felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, and after a quick glance around she saw Chat Noir standing on the ruff opposite of her, pacing and periodically looking at her balcony, debating with himself.

The woman raised a brow, before raising a hand and giving him a wave. He took that as an invitation and hopped on over. Carmine noted that he seemed depressed and wasn’t even trying to hide it as he sat down on one of her balcony chairs. “Hello Chat, to what due I owe this unexpected visit?” She asked, smiling at him.

“... do you think I am a good partner to Ladybug, or a good sidekick?” He asked softly. Carmine blinked at the question, looking at the teen with a curious expression.

“... what brought this on? You guys defeated Hawkmoth again today, despite all that happened.” She told him, placing her tea cup down as she turned her body to face Chat Noir, who still did not look at her, instead down at his feet.

“... Ladybug comes up with the plans, she knows all the other hero’s identities, where I only know Queen Bee’s. She gets to talk to the Guardian, where he will only come to me when he feels ‘it is necessary’, like I am some sort of after-thought, and I know Ladybug has been seeing him outside of getting the Miraculous during battles, she’s probably getting some sort of cool training.” Chat said sadly “I know it isn’t her secret to tell, and I get that, but we are suppose to be a team! We’re partners, two halves of a whole, but the more time passes, it feels like it’s less of two halves of a whole and more like two parts with one part taking up 80%...” he looked at Carmine finally, a sad expression on his face “I know that out of the two of us, Ladybug has a bigger job, What with her Miraculous Ladybug repairing the city after the attacks, but lately... I feel more like a sidekick than a partner.”

Carmine felt her heart clench as she could almost feel Chat’s sadness and grief at the thought of not being as important as Ladybug, and it would seem that what Pollen had told her about the Guardian not being as attentive to Chat as he was to Ladybug was true. She took a deep breath to calm herself and her thoughts before speaking.

“Have you discussed these feelings with Ladybug, or the Guardian?” She asked him softly.

Chat shook his head “No. Ladybug has enough on her plate to deal with, and like I said, the Guardian will only come when he feels it is necessary. I just... I want to feel like I’m contributing more, but the more I think about it, the more I feel like a sidekick!” He said, standing up “She has two powers, I have one. She comes up with the plans, I follow them. She knows everyone’s identity, I only know Queen Bee’s. She gets a cool mentor, and I have no one! Not even in my civilian life!” Tears began to Form in the corners of his eyes.

Carmine looked at Chat, her mind racing a mile a minute. He needed structure, to feel a purpose, to feel as if he belonged somewhere, that he could help Ladybug, and he seemed to express he wanted the same sort of relationship Ladybug and the Guardian had...

She sighed, feeling as if this situation could end up flavourful, or just prove to make things worse for the boy if her idea wouldn’t work. She stood up “... come with me.” She said, opening the door of her balcony and inviting Chat inside.

The cat hero blinked slightly, following Carmine in. Once inside, she closed the door, and drew the blinds to close as well. “I want you to look around this room, and tell me if you feel anything off about it.” She instructed simply, going to on of her chairs and sitting down.

Chat looked at her with a raised brow “... something off about it? How do you mean?” He asked confused. He thought she was going to help him with his problems, not give him some sort of odd task.

Carmine looked at him with a neutral expression “Humour me, what is odd about this room?” She asked him.

Chat continued to look at her for a few moments before shrugging and looked around the room. Her apartment had an open concept, with the kitchen, living room and dinning room all being in the same main area, and it was well furnished. Chat noted it reminded him a bit of Marinette’s or Nino’s homes, where it felt lived in and loved, as opposed to his own which felt dead inside.

He continued to look around, not finding anything off about it until his eyes landed on ottoman that was in the middle of the floor. He didn’t know why he felt drawn to it, it was the same shade as her couch, a dark grey colour with a padded seat on top, but something about it seemed... weird to him. Like it drew him in closer.

He walked over to it, glancing at Carmine who continued to have a neutral expression on her face as he opened the ottoman and saw lots and lots of blankets inside. He slowly took them out, careful to not get his claws snagged in any of the fabric until it was emptied. Chat scowled slightly, the weird feeling not going away, so he went to knock the bottom of the ottoman to see if it was hollow, the moment he touched it however it opened up as if by magic.

He blinked and slowly looked down, the bottom seeming to be much larger than it should be and saw several well worn leather books inside.

“Interesting....” Carmine finally said and Chat looked at her with a raised brow.

“How did it do that? What are these?”

“Chat, during the Middle Ages, when a terrible sickness spread across the land, it was known as the Black?” She asked suddenly, looking at him.

Chat blinked, looking at Carmine confused before slowly answering.

“Plague?”

“And were birds have talons, cats have?”

“Claws?”

“The opposite of out is?”

“In-“ Chat’s eyes widened in realization as the words left his mouth, the magic quickly disappearing as Adrien appeared where Chat once was, Plagg floating beside him. The Black Cat kwami gave a large stretch, looking around, seeming momentarily surprised, and opened his mouth to speak however Carmine cut him off.

“I’m the fridge in the cheese drawer.” She said simply, looking at Adrien with an odd expression he couldn’t place, it looked like her mind was going a hundred miles a minute before she finally spoke.

“Yes I’ve known for a while, no I haven’t told anyone, yes I know who Plagg is.” She said simply before standing up and walking over to where Adrien stood, kneeling down beside him she dug into the ottoman before brining out a leather book that seemed newer compared to the others and began to look through it, closing the ottoman before sitting on it. “How did you know this was there?” She asked him, still looking at the book, flipping pages seeming to be searching for something.

“Umm....” Adrien, still in shock about all of this, spoke slowly “I felt a pull... like something was weird about it, even thought it looked normal?” He said slowly.

“Interesting...” She said slowly, finding the page she seemed to be looking for and standing up “That means you have some magical awareness at least, whether that is due to a blood line or the Miraculous we will have to wait and see.”

“Wait and see what?” Adrien asked hesitantly.

Carmine looked at him, a serious expression on her face “... You are right that the treatment you have been receiving isn’t exactly fair, even if some secrets need to be kept, it’s not fair that only Ladybug gets the benefit of seeing the Guardian all the time and you don’t.” She walked over to the kitchen and Adrien slowly followed, still in shock at being found out so easily. He noted that Plagg was sitting on the counter, eating some Camembert happily. “I am not Guardian, however I imagine we had similar training in a sense.”

“Your a Guardian too?!” Adrien asked, eyes widened.

Carmine let out a low laugh, looking over her shoulder at Adrien with a smirk “Oh no Adrien... I am a mage. Mages are the reason the Miraculous came into existence in the first place.” She turned around to face him, smiling “And if the Guardian doesn’t feel the need to train you in the magical arts, that is his loss, for if you will have me, I will train you.”

Adrien’s eyes widened, looking at Carmine in bewilderment. He would get training and a mentor, he would have someone who knew his identity, who he didn’t need to hide from. Someone who could understand what he was going through without having to lie about the reason... he would be able to help Ladybug more!

He grinned widely, a feeling of excitement washing over him for the first time since the Hero’s Day picnic. He could do this.

“When do we start?”

[shock777archive]

I got this question on deviantart, and I felt like reposting my answer here, in case anyone is interested :P 

THIS IS GONNA BE A LONG REPLY BUT BEAR WITH ME LOL When I first started drawing/am I self taught : I've been drawing since kindergarten. Anime specifically, since I was about 8 years old. so that's been uh...18 years since I've started drawing in the anime-esque style? I am self taught on these areas. I picked up a digital artist tablet at the age of 13 or so, (it was a wacom Graphire 4 4x5 in) so it's been 13 years of digital art practice i've gotten in. I have picked up several how to draw books over the years until i surpassed some of them. But even now i'm constantly referencing tutorials and poses, looking for ideas and color palettes, etc. I have taken some schooling in college for art. I took beginner's drawing and color theory and maybe a little of art history but that's about it before i quit lmao What inspired me to draw in the first place/what I first drew: The thing that inspired me to draw in the first place was my favorite cartoons. from a very young age i knew that cartoons weren't real, but it fascinated me that actual people could create almost living people. I related to cartoons, and even though they were fake characters, I just loved the idea of creating a whole world of my own. So I took up drawing in kindergarten. First things I drew were flowers, rainbows, trees, etc. But My first biggest undertaking was powerpuffgirls. lol This was the series that started it all. Began drawing tons of powerpuffgirls stories and oc's. For the next few years I would watch different things like all the standard cartoon network shows. But I watched yugioh and dbz and other anime things too. What also got me into anime art style was the online game neopets lol Their faeries designs ( http://images.neopets.com/games/pages/icons/screenshots/586/4.jpg ) kind of had an anime resemblance, so I started drawing those for a while. When I was 8 or 9 years old my father bought me my first how to draw manga book (this one in particular: https://www.amazon.com/Art-Drawing-Manga-Ben-Krefta/dp/1841931713  ) looking back on it, this book is terrible and the anime in it is so ugly looking lol. However, i used that thing religiously and began making my own characters like a blue elf girl and a human friend of hers. ( in fact, here's the post. i tried redrawing them recently lol: https://shock777.tumblr.com/post/145898896143/finding-old-art-is-the-best-cause-you-can-redraw ) ...Then the real transformation began once I started watching Teen Titans when it aired in 2003. I was 10 at the time. That show started my love for japan. The language interested me and I began researching Japanese songs and trying to sing along to them. I didn't know what the words meant, but the artistic style and meshing of western cartoons and anime of the show really piqued my interest. My earliest drawings of them suckedddd XD; As Teen Titans drew to a close near 2006-2007 ish, I picked up Naruto and then it was all over since then lol my anime style and weeb days really came into full force lol I thank naruto though. I learned how to draw more realistic anatomy as opposed to cartoony anatomy. It was a very wild ride, but it's all documented here on my deviantart page as I got this exact account around the same time! I started posting my work in 2008, so you can go back far enough into my gallery and see the progress XD; I keep the old cringe up because it just motivates me and hopefully others, to keep drawing and keep going farther! :) PHEW lol long history there XD I do have some of my old art!!! If you wanna see some, I've posted a little here: https://shock777.tumblr.com/tagged/old-art plus I already said there's a few still on my dA gallery haha Tips I can give to you: 1. And I think this is most important, JUST KEEP GOING. It's soooo tempting to quit drawing when things aren't going right and when you're not happy with how your art looks. Trust me, every artist I've ever known including myself have gone through this. It's so easy to compare your work to someone else's. The thing is, we're all in this together. No one expects a newborn to be able to file taxes or drive a car lol. We all have to evolve and change, and that change comes from consistent work. Art isn't an inherent talent, it is hard work that is honed over several years of blood, sweat and tears lmao JUST KEEP GOING. as I've mentioned, my old cringe art is still on my dA page. Back then when I was younger I was less concerned with things being perfect and I spam posted almost every doodle. And I began a "fanbase" i guess because of those days and my consistent posting. I've had this freaking deviantart page for 11 freakin years. If I had stopped drawing whenever I felt my art was imperfect or not good enough, I would have stopped posting around 2009. so...just keep going. And I'd even dare you to post your "shitty doodles" that you think aren't that great. Because you never know what someone else will see in it that you don't. Be confident, and never give up! 2. Soak up any tutorial and really focus on studying your favorite artist's styles. If there's something you want to replicate in your art that someone else is drawing, try to see how they do it. sometimes artists have tutorials posted and sometimes they don't. I have a few posted on my youtube channel ( https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLRB9xQBsGpfetNJbmXWZ1fL9d5IlqQs1w ) and some in my gallery. Don't exactly copy some things stroke for stroke, but try to add your little spin to something. Like sometimes I will see art senpai drawing a specific eye style I wanna replicate, but I don't like one part of the process. So sometimes I'll just add my own little addition, or just omit that process completely. Usually though, if the art style isn't necessarily super unique, you can copy a lot of mainstream styles without anyone really griping saying "oh you're just copying so and so's art style". It's important to look up to art senpais i think. They make me want to try harder lol 3. Take an art class if you're able. Color theory really helped me grasp things that I never had before. LIKE REFLECTIVE LIGHT FOR INSTANCE. I never drew that shit but now I do because DUH it's so freaking obvious lol It also helps to learn what colors neutralize others, complementary colors, analogous ones, etc. It's nice to have an eye for what matches together and to know the principles of art. I still have a lot of work to do when it comes to perspective, which we did cover a little in class lol but work on your own pace. If your college near you offers a class for beginners, take it if you're able. it will help you view things differently. 4. Copy realistically. Like, I'm talking look at a freaking object in your room and try to draw it. Once you can draw it semi realistically, you can then add your own little stylistic choices to it. Like so many artists who draw chibis or cartoony things, they more than likely know the proper proportions of people and anatomy. But they draw the proportions all whacky and it creates their own style. However it does help to know how they work in reality lol 5. TRACE OVER POSES. Sometimes I do this. I'm not saying to trace someone's art, but if you see some kind of pose on say a google image, or a stock photo, try sketching over it to get a feel for where the joints connect if you're working on anatomy. It reaaaallly helps you memorize where the arm would end, or where the torso connects to the hips. 6. Take advice and criticism well. If someone sees something you don't about your art, they may be on to something. It's not wrong if someone gives you a heads up that a proportion seems lacking or something seems too big or out of place. It will actually help you to see what others see. Sometimes we get in the habit of drawing something a certain way and it's hard to break that habit especially if you've drawn the same thing several hundred times. It will help you in the long run to just accept that you're always going to be improving. You'll never be perfect at drawing, so what do you have to lose? Just keep walking forward and learn what you can. 7. Flip the canvas. This is more or less a digital art tip, but please flip the canvas to make sure the proportions are not off. lol A lot of professionals have to flip the canvas until they get a feel for where things are placed. Another good tip is to use a stabilizer of some kind to draw straight lines. Paint tool sai has one at the very top of the window. It helps tremendously. 8. Draw what you like and don't feel bad for not drawing everything everyone else likes. Don't sacrifice your morals or your personal desires for something everyone else likes. If you're paid to draw something you don't like, thats another thing. but don't let people pressure you to draw stuff that you don't want to. You'll be much happier, and build an audience that is much like-minded to you. Be considerate of what your audience likes, sure, but remember at the end of the day, art is something to express one's self. Art is not and should not be a job. Even if you get paid money to draw or design things, it's important to take a break and draw something for yourself every once in a while. Be self indulgent, and treat yo self from time to time :) And uhhh...that's all I can think of for the time being. :') let me know if you have any further questions or if I need to clarify anything :) Thanks again!

[flslp87]

This story and others can be found in the CSSB Vol 2

This story is a collaborative story written with @allofthismatters@flslp87 @ilovemesomekillianjones and @ohmakemeahercules and the art was created by @hopeandbeans

The Best in You

Summary: An introspective look at both Emma and Killian's thoughts from the time he leaves after not telling her anything about Ursula to the time her parents catch them. Rating - K

After leaving Pinocchio with Marco, Emma planned to make her way back to the station to continue looking through the ATM videos, but somehow her thoughts took her a different direction and she found herself at the docks. They had become a place that she gravitated toward whenever her thoughts were muddled and she needed to sort through something. Today, it seemed there were multiple situations that needed her attention, but none more so than her conversation. or lack thereof with one close-mouthed pirate. When he arrived at the station with her lunch, and she had immediately tested him about whether he was bringing her french fries or onion rings, she had wanted to kick her behind for continuing to put him through hoops; but when he had grinned and rubbed her shoulder, she had relaxed and silently promised herself to behave. Why then had she immediately put him on the spot about Ursula? Was she jealous? No, that didn't feel right, but something about his reticence to talk about Ursula immediately brought all her insecurities to the surface.

As she watched the birds fly over the water she thought about how free they looked and wished she could be as free with the giving of her trust and of her feelings. Her past still had a hold on her and those walls, while she knew they were falling down a piece at a time, and much of it was due to Killian's persistence, she also knew that there were some instances when it appeared to be one step down and two steps back up. Today's conversation with him left her feeling very unsettled as it was so different than most of their conversations had been recently. He was usually the one trying to get her to open up and this time, he had shut her down with, "I don't know what else to say." Why had she crossed her arms over her chest, her body position exuding mistrust and not shown patience with him like he has always shown with her?

~~~cs~~~

It was times like this that Killian longed for the familiarity of his ship most. He needed refuge from the onslaught of shame over the most current disaster he'd brought upon Emma, in the form of a sea witch who was only a danger because of what he did to her.

He sat on the beach and dug his nails into his scalp. He should be used to past misdeeds seeping into his present by now, but somehow, he was not.

He'd never get used to the way she shrank back into herself when she knew he was hiding something, how she stopped looking at him like he was safe, like she was preparing to be hurt beyond measure again. It undid him and made him want to hold her face and beg her to understand that he loved her so much his bones ache with it, that he'd spend his life proving he could be counted on, if only she'd be patient while he processed all this himself first.

But how could he think he was deserving of anyone's trust or patience, after what he did to Ursula?

He's committed horrors of all kinds, but his wrongdoings against the young mermaid made him feel especially unworthy of Emma's confidence. He'd made Ursula a promise, looked her in the eye and vowed that she could rely on him. And instead, he'd stolen her voice like it was nothing. He'd felt genuine respect and affection for her... her fire and ambition had reminded him of Milah a bit, and he'd turned her into nothing but a pawn in his own depraved agenda. Hardly better than the Dark One himself.

He needed to tell Emma, and he hated it. Hated that in his most recent conversation with her he'd been so evasive because she'd caught him off guard, and he simply had no excuse for what a monster he'd been in his long life. He was fairly certain she would forgive him, because she was so fiercely good, but whether he deserved it is another story. He wanted to be more for her than a constant parade of old sins needing absolution.

Sighing deeply, he stood and headed back to the station.

~~~cs~~~

A feeling of chagrin stole over her as she realized that she had treated him unfairly. He didn't deserve the brunt of her insecurities, he already had to deal with townsfolk not giving him the benefit of the doubt. She knew there was nothing going on between him and Ursula now. She also knew that no matter what had happened between them it would have no bearing on the man she knows now. It wouldn't change how she feels for him. In fact, of that she is positive, because no matter what, she's certain there is a line he wouldn't cross where a lady is concerned.

Thinking back on the conversation she'd just had with her parents it dawned on her that she needed to take a page out of their book. If they could choose to see the best in everyone, including villains, then it is the least she could do for Killian. Deep down she already saw the very best in him, she just needed him to know that. She'd let her self-doubt and emotions shake her faith in him.

Shit, she thought. She needed to fix this and fast, who knew when the next crisis was going to rear its ugly head. Emma took a deep breath of the fresh ocean air to center herself. Digging her phone out of her pocket she dialed Killian, then held her breath hoping he would answer. By the fourth ring she was losing hope that he'd accept her phone call.

"Hello."

"Killian!" she exclaimed into the phone.

"Is everything okay, love?"

"Yes," she said breathlessly. She'd held her breath a little longer than she'd intended to, and now she was feeling a little dizzy. It wasn't just the lack of oxygen though. It hit her then that she'd been more worried than she thought. Worried that this would be the time that Killian had finally run out of patience. That he was finally going to decide that her walls weren't worth scaling. She shook her head, refocusing and shooing away the negativity. "Would you be willing to meet me at the station?"

~~~cs~~~

Just as Killian resolved to set the record straight with Emma, his phone buzzed in his jeans pocket. "Bloody hell," he growled. He'd never get used to the sudden interruptions phone calls caused. Especially when he was in deep thought or concentrating, like now. He survived hundreds of years without being instantaneously accessible and quite frankly could do a hundred more.

Once he'd recovered from the shock, he glanced at the caller i.d., Emma's name appeared. He sighed. This was too coincidental. How did she know he was about to confess? Could this woman read minds, too? Don't answer it. Give her a taste of her own medicine. No, she deserves to know the truth at all costs. He drew a breath and answered, "Hello?"

"Killian!" she blurted out. She never said his name that way. Something was obviously bothering her.

He frowned. "Is everything okay, love?"

"Yes," she replied.

No, it's not Swan. You're worried; the anxiety is prevalent in your tone.

She continued, "Would you be willing to meet me at the station?"

"Umm, sure. Any particular reason?"

"I've had a lot on my mind today, and need to talk about it with you."

Uh oh, the dreaded 'we need to talk' line. In all his encounters with women over the years, he'd learned that phrase rarely meant good things, and the subject matter would be serious in nature. "Like what?"

"Certain expectations and being honest about them."

Now she's playing the evasive game, huh? "Okay."

"Just come over here as soon as possible. I'd rather talk in person."

"As you wish, Swan. I'll be there shortly."

"See you then."

Killian groaned as they hung up. One step forward, five steps back with Emma. Maybe she'd decided he wasn't worthy anymore. He was too broken, too far gone, too much of a monster to consider loving. Even if this was the end, he wanted to finish on the side of good. Damn, why did he have to be honorable now? Sometimes it was much easier to burn bridges and never think about the issue again. Alas, this was the path he'd chosen. Heroes always tell the truth.

He glanced up at the night sky. I hope you're proud, Liam. I'm becoming the man you believed I was. Now was the perfect time to prove him right, and Killian didn't intend to pass it up.

~~~cs~~~

After Killian had promised to come by the station, Emma hung up the phone and shoved it in her back pocket. Her palms were sweating and her pulse was racing and just sitting behind her desk made her feel she was going to jump out of her skin. Standing, she paced. Ten steps forward, ten steps back, over and over again until she heard the front door to the station open. Needing to look busy, she hurried to the filing cabinet, grabbed a file and pretended to look through it as she listened to his footsteps coming down the hall.

Taking a deep breath for courage, Killian rounded the corner into the station, "Well, Swan, why did you summon me?"

Here goes nothing, she thought as he posed the question. Making it her motto, she repeated, don't screw this up several times in quick succession before turning to answer him. "Because I know there's something about your past with Ursula you're not telling me..." she began.

She's right, he thought, and once I tell you what it is, you will no longer wish to have anything to do with me. A possibility that had been eating at his insides since their earlier conversation.

And finished, "And that's ok." She noted the hopeful expression on his face and continued, "What's not ok, is you lying to me about it." She watched his face, seeing no change in expression except to note that whatever had happened, was not something that he seemed to want to discuss. Which when she thought about it was odd, as he had never been one to shy away from any of his villainous deeds, owning them completely.

His first thought when she said that she didn't care about this past had been that it was a trick, for that wasn't what had happened with women in the past. But then again, he should have known that Emma Swan was no ordinary woman and when you are in a relationship with a woman such as her, all rules were new, often being made up as the relationship progresses. Hearing that she is ok with my past as long as I tell her about the past is a new and unique experience. What to say?

"Aye, love, you're right."

She wasn't sure if he'd continue, and it almost startled her when he did.

"I haven't been entirely forthright with you."

Her gut churned at the mere words, an automatic response. How many times had she heard words like that only to have her life promptly uprooted and left in tatters because of someone's dishonesty? Enough that it drowned out the part of her that felt safe and sure of his devotion to her.

She fought down the cold panic creeping up her neck and wrestled away the persistent, cruel mocking in the back of her mind. You thought this one was 'different', didn't you? What good have you ever been at picking out the ones that'll stay?

"The truth is, I remember my history with Ursula. It was early." She tried to focus on his voice, but the pounding in her head only grew as he approached her. She steeled her face and threw the question at him without thinking.

"Did you break her heart?"

The question was so quick and direct that it felt like whiplash. He heard her real question: Are you about to break my heart? He hated having her look at him like that; like she was still afraid, after all they'd been through, that he'd turn on her. It left him with a sudden flare of red-hot frustration-what in hell was it going to take to make her understand how much he loved her—that was quickly quelled by compassion. If she was so willing to forgive his unspeakable deeds, he could certainly be patient with her freezing up and shutting down. In a way, yes, he did break Ursula's heart, but not in the way Emma meant right now, so he gave her the honest, plain truth.

"Worse."

He let the word linger in the air, and forced himself to meet her eyes and study her face. He looked for fear or disgust, but simply found resolve.

"Look, whatever you did, you're not that person anymore. It's not gonna change anything between us."

The enormity of her words didn't escape him. It was her heart and her blind trust, laid bare for him with a bravery that made his heart ache with pride in her. It was a gift which he both desperately wanted and wasn't sure he could ever deserve. Killian opened his mouth to speak, then paused, trying to comprehend what he was hearing. "That's quite a lot of faith you're putting on me, Swan," Killian pointed out. He shook his head as though doubting himself on Emma's behalf. Did he even deserve to hope that she might actually mean it?

"I know," she answered lightly, "and there's a reason for it." Emma took her baffled pirate's hand and led him to the couch. She hated that she had put that look of self-doubt on his face, that she'd made him question his own worthiness. That's why she was going to fix this.

"What's that?" he asked, still quite certain that regardless of what she had to say, there was no way she was forgiving him this misdeed. His stomach churned with the memories of what he' done to Ursula, all in pursuit of his damned vengeance.

"My parents. I had this moment today where I doubted them… said they were going for a hike, and I actually thought they were lying to me." Emma thought back to her conversation with her parents. She chastised herself for doubting them, and doubting Killian. She had to stop this pattern.

Killian didn't miss the look of disbelief in her own actions that passed over her features, and he yearned for her to have the same faith in him. Wished he'd earned the same faith. "Were they?" he asked, already knowing the answer. Their royal highnesses were above lying, they'd have to have something to hide. Now there's a dubious concept, he thought.

"No, of course not, my parents would never lie to me," she said, almost like it had been silly to think otherwise. "But the fact that I could think that they would it reminded me that I have this tendency… to expect the worst of people." Emma couldn't help but think of just how true this was when it came to Killian. He might be the person who'd bore the brunt of her doubt in others. She'd started their entire relationship on that path when she'd handcuffed him up on the beanstalk. Even though her lie detector had told her he was genuine, she'd still chosen to believe the worst. Shame flooded when she thought about the time she'd wasted since them. Time that they could've been together, really together.

Killian heard the dejected tone she took on when she mentioned how she tended to view the world, and the people in it. It broke his heart because he knew exactly where those feelings stemmed from. He knew what it was like to feel as though you couldn't trust anyone but yourself, and that there was no one out there for you. He continued to listen as she explained herself, still in awe of her turnaround, and hopeful for what it could mean for them.

"My childhood, people were always letting me down, and I-"

"Hey," he interrupted, needing to tell her that she couldn't categorize him with those who'd broken her heart throughout her entire life. Anger coursed through him, directed at all who'd hurt this tough lass. He wasn't that man, if he did nothing else right in his long life, he'd do right by Emma Swan. It only took looking into her eyes to calm the quelling emotions. "I don't intend to let you down," he vowed.

Warmth flowed through Emma's veins. No one had told her that before; life had merely handed her one hardship after another. Killian had proved himself worthy several times over, even when she didn't give him credit. "I know. And I know whatever happened with that sea witch, you can tell me on your own time. Because no matter what, I'm gonna do what my parents always do. I am going to choose to see the best in you."

I don't deserve this amount of trust. But I'll spend my life assuring your faith in me was correctly placed. 

He bowed his head and said, "And I with you."

The couple smiled at each other and leaned in for a kiss-

CRASH! Moment lost, Emma turned toward the station front. Her bemused parents stood in the doorway. Of all times to interrupt…. we were having a relationship developing moment. Could you have arrived five minutes later?

What the…? Perplexed her lips weren't on his, Killian opened his eyes and glanced at the intruders. Snow and David. While he respected the queen and king, they were the last individuals he wanted to see at the moment. Blimey, what's a bloke have to sacrifice for some privacy around here? Their firstborn child?

Emma smiled apologetically and mouthed, "Later."

Killian nodded. I'd like to have a word. No, this relationship is too new. I don't want to cast myself in a worse light than I already am or seem demanding. He bit his lips as Emma stood up and her parents walked in the room. David blatantly cleared his throat and Snow's cheeks flushed fresh pink.

"Sorry… we didn't mean to… interrupt," Snow stammered.

Emma's eyes narrowed. "So, you stood there awkwardly and stared at us the whole time?"

David sighed. "Sorry, but we have bad news. Cruella and Ursula were up to something. They've resurrected Maleficent."

"Wait. You mean that dragon I killed and took True Love potion from?"

The conversation shifted to Storybrooke's latest villain filled emergency.

Twenty minutes later, the couple was alone again. Emma noticed Killian was filled with tension. He wasn't the only one with unresolved business. To Hell with being the Savior, I want to kiss my pirate. "You okay?"

"Sorry Swan, I'm still vexed from earlier."

"I'm really sorry about that. I didn't know they were there."

"Not your fault. You don't control other people's actions. However, I worry it'll set a precedent."

Emma stepped forward, inches from his face. "What do you mean?"

"Say things continue to go well between us, it could escalate into more intimate activities. If caught, your father would give me a fate worse than death."

Emma nodded. She pictured her and Killian naked in her bed at the loft when David opened the door with a horrified expression. "Don't worry, I'll talk to them about boundaries. I'm sure magic has spells that soundproof rooms. Now, kiss me pirate."

"If the lady insists," he replied with a devilish grin. The kiss sealed the vows previously exchanged.

Afterwards, they pushed their foreheads together. "May I come back to your room with you?" she asked.

That can't be right. She's asking me. I should be asking her. "Are you sure, lass?"

Emma smiled. "I've never wanted anything else more."

~fin

[artificialqueens]

Better Than Revenge, Chapter 3 (Multi) - Joley

Chapter Summary: Rosé learns Gigi, Symone, and Denali’s revenge origin stories

ao3 link

Woodstock, IL — 2016

Gigi took a deep breath as she stared at herself in the mirror. She could do this, it was fine. Every time her suspicions or confusion would bubble up, she forced them back down. Hannah was nice, she was different from the other popular girls. She didn’t see the ‘weird art lesbian’ with the braces and thick-rimmed glasses, who rarely got pop culture references post-1989, at least, that’s how she made her feel.

“I’ll text you in the morning,” she assured her mother as she threw her bag over her shoulder. “It’ll be fine, I’m just hanging out with a friend.” She was out to her mom, of course, that was her biggest ally. But she wasn’t ready to tell her that the head cheerleader had taken an interest in her. Maybe when and if they became official. Until then, she shook off the last of her nerves and drove to her house, only pulled from her thoughts by the time she was sitting on Hannah’s bed.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” Hannah cooed, batting her lashes and resting her hand on Gigi’s thigh.

If Gigi hadn’t been so blinded by her crush, she might’ve thought Hannah was laying it on a little thick, but she couldn’t act like she didn’t enjoy the attention. “Me too, a-about you, I mean. Sorry, I’m just nervous…”

“How come? I didn’t come on too strong over text, did I?”

“No, no I liked it, it’s just… I’m a virgin, like, I’ve only ever kissed before,” she confessed, her cheeks flushing rosy pink. She had talked a big game over text, but being faced with the chance of starting a physical relationship brought her back to reality.

Hannah pouted, rubbing Gigi’s thigh as she thought, letting her hand inch higher. “Well, you’ve got fantasies, don’t you? I know you’ve masturbated before. What do you think about while you touch yourself?”

Gigi hesitated, chewing on her bottom lip. The other girl wasn’t wrong, she did know what she liked, could conjure up vivid imagery to get herself aroused, but she had never said any of it out loud. “I like powerful, confident women. I guess that’s something that drew me to you,” she started, “I wanna just… give up control, be dominated.”

“Really? Tell me more,” Hannah prompted, kissing along her neck and jaw and slowly tugging Gigi’s shirt off in an attempt to coax her to continue.

When Hannah didn’t seem deterred by her confession, Gigi started to relax. “It’s just, I don’t know, I always feel the need to be in control of my life and with sex, I just wanna let go and give up that power.”

“So like, what would you want someone to do to you?” she asked, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips.

She bit down on her lip. “Um… tie me up, spank me, choke me, and I know it’s kind of intense but maybe something like cnc or—” the incessant buzzing of her phone distracted her and, concerned it might be an urgent call or text from home, she took her phone out. “Sorry, one sec.”

It wasn’t from home, she had two missed calls from her best friend, Crystal, followed by several texts.

Crystal: GIGI STOP Crystal: SHUT UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP!!! Crystal: She’s broadcasting you on IG live! Crystal: We can see and hear everything…

Gigi’s face fell, her first instinct to pull her shirt back on. Then she slowly looked up and in front of her, that’s when she saw it, nestled between stuffed animals — Hannah’s phone with an instagram live going. She didn’t say anything, just ran out of the house as fast as her legs would take her and through her tears drove right to Crystal’s house. That was when the two of them formed their plot.

In and of itself, it was simple. Gigi waited one day until Hannah was away for a cheer competition and went to her house. “I’m so sorry to bother you, Mrs. Andrews, but I think I left some of my homework in Hannah’s room, she just said to let you know so I can run in and grab it.” Once inside, she found exactly what she was looking for, sliding Hannah’s diary into her backpack and went right back out.

“This feels very Mean Girls, I love it,” Crystal remarked as they taped page after page of the diary on lockers, walls, anywhere they could.

“Well, plan B was to go the Heathers route, so let’s just hope it works.”

And to say it worked was an understatement. As it turned out, Hannah had written things far more incriminating, and because it came from someone of her social ranking, it made everyone immediately lose interest in Gigi’s livestream scandal, and she graduated with the anonymity she needed for survival.

Present Day

“I’ll be honest with you,” Rosé remarked, “it’s kinda hard to picture you as an ugly duckling, especially the way you described it.” Gigi was too pretty, too perfect. Something didn’t add up.

Gigi got out her phone and scrolled through her photos until she found one from her senior year. “Believe it, doll,” she said as she held her phone up. She watched with an amused expression as Rosé looked from her phone, to her, and back with her eyes wide and mouth agape. “Braces off, lasik, learned a lot about how to dress while going to FIDM, which is where I met Symone, who helped fill in the blanks.”

“And made sure she got to do all them things she listed to that bitch without feeling ashamed about it,” Symone added with a smirk, draping her arm around Gigi and pulling her close, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“Why don’t you tell her your story next, baby?” Gigi prompted.

Conway, AR — 2014

Symone watched her sister throw her bag over her shoulder and start to sneak out the window. “Look, I ain’t snitching or nothing, but I still don’t think this is a good idea.”

She and her sister, Lala, were close, sometimes referring to themselves as twins – they were only ten months apart, in the same grade at school. And until the summer after sophomore year, they had the same group of friends. But the crowd Lala ran with now just rubbed her the wrong way.

“You worry too much,” Lala brushed it off. “I’ll be fine, in bed by morning like nothing happened.”

But when Symone got a collect call two hours later, she found out things were far from fine. She drove down to the county jail as fast as she could without getting pulled over herself. Luckily bail was a mere fifty dollars, but once she got her sister back in the car, she looked at her incredulously. “What the fuck happened?”

“One of ‘em brought weed, another brought booze, but when the cops rolled up on us, they said it all was mine. And who was they gonna believe, me or three white kids?” Lala sniffled, wiping her eyes. “I don’t know what’s gonna happen to me,” she whispered.

“I don’t either,” Symone admitted quietly, frustrated at her inability to come up with an immediate solution. “But we’re gonna do our best to get you out of this, okay?”

The best they could do wasn’t easy. It involved a lot of legal maneuvering, meetings with one person in a suit after another. The end result wasn’t ideal, but it was far better than what could have been. Lala was fined three hundred dollars and put on thirty days of probation. In and of itself, it didn’t seem so bad, but the residual consequences took their toll.

“I lost my scholarship, ‘mone. That was my ticket into college,” Lala sighed. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I know I’m getting off with a slap on the wrist, but I really ain’t thrilled about taking out student loans,” she sat down on the floor beside the bed, head leaning against it. “Or maybe I’ll start with community college, I dunno. It just fucking sucks that they all got off with warnings.”

Symone’s brows knitted together, her lips pressed into a fine line. “Don’t you worry baby,” she said after a moment, “they gon’ face consequences one way or another.”

It had taken most of spring break, but Symone finally had all of the pieces for her plan. “Not the most convoluted thing in the world, but it’ll get the job done,” she mused.

Lala looked at her sister, then at her desk and back. “Do I even wanna know where the hell you got coke from?”

“No, you do not.”

Getting the drugs was the hard part. Getting into school early to plant the drugs in the lockers of Lala’s former friends was far easier, as was leaving an ‘anonymous tip’ from a ‘concerned student’ on the principal’s desk.

“God, I wish I could’ve seen them get hauled off in cop cars,” Lala remarked as she and Symone drove home from school. The three students were quietly escorted out of class and arrested, the school wanting to bring as little attention as possible. “Shame that they rich daddies will still get them off lightly.”

Symone sighed and nodded. “Sure, but they’re still gonna get something, which is more than what they got when they threw you under the bus. Bet they’re gonna think twice before they let someone else take the fall for them.”

Her sister smiled softly and shook her head. “You really ain’t gotta do all that for me, you know?”

“I know,” she hummed, “not gonna stop me, though.”

Present Day

“Wow, that’s both selfless and hardcore,” Rosé remarked with an impressed nod. “Did she ever find out where you got the coke from?”

Symone laughed and shook her head. “Nah, that secret I’m taking to the grave.”

Rosé jokingly put her hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay, fair enough,” she chuckled. After a moment, she turned her attention to Denali. “That just leaves you, princess,” she remarked, a slight smirk tugging at her lips. “What’s your claim to infamy?”

Denali tossed her hair off her shoulder and grinned softly. “Who, me?” she cooed, fluttering her lashes. “Well, it is kind of an interesting story…”

Nicky rolled her eyes and tossed one of the couch pillows at her head. “Stop flirting and get on with it already.”

Fairbanks, AK — 2011

Denali groaned when the sound of loud footsteps racing up the stairs pulled her from her quasi-asleep state, then pulled a pillow over her head when the door swung open.

“What the hell are you still doing in bed when the qualifiers are in two hours?” her friend, Kahmora, asked with incredulous horror. She yanked the covers off of her, but stepped back in concern when she finally caught sight of Denali’s face. “Oh god, you look like shit.”

She frowned and rolled over to face away from her. “I feel like I died and was in the process of being reanimated, then killed again,” she lamented. “It’s probably food poisoning… or maybe swine flu came back, I dunno.”

“Did you eat anything unusual?”

Denali furrowed her brows as she wracked her brain. “I mean, Tara gave me those brownies and I had one, but when she said they were ‘special’, I just thought she meant they had weed in them, but that sure as hell isn’t it.” With as much energy as she could muster, she sat upright. “Oh my god, do you think she poisoned me?”

Kahmora arched her brow. “I think that’s a bit much, even for her. Do I think she put something like a laxative in there so it’d take you out long enough that you couldn’t beat her out in the international qualifiers? Yeah, probably. She’s a cunt.”

The skater scowled, her jaw clenched. “She’s a dead cunt,” she corrected, then suddenly shot out of bed. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she muttered as she raced to the bathroom yet again.

There wasn’t an obvious revenge plan for Denali. She knew that nothing she did would get her spot in the competition, and she wondered if it was even worth it. But her pettiness and spite won out and she began planning out her course of action.

“Remember,” she was saying, “if all else fails, we go the Tonya Harding route.”

Kahmora sighed. “For the last time, you are not whacking Tara’s kneecaps, now let’s go.” Despite some pouting from Denali, they went to get the gears turning in their plan. They got to the ice rink and slipped into the locker room without being noticed by Tara, who was in the middle of practice.

Denali picked the lock and took out Tara’s change of clothes. Then she reached into her own bag and pulled on latex gloves and a plastic bag containing several leaves of poison ivy. She turned the shirt, pants, and socks inside out and firmly rubbed the leaves against the fabric, making sure she left as little fabric uncovered as possible. “She’s lucky I’m merciful or I’d rub it on her panties too,” she remarked offhandedly.

Kahmora tilted her head as she watched her. “Do you actually think it’ll take her out of the competition?” she asked as her friend put the leaves and gloves into the ziploc bag.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I mean, it’s possible, probable really, that the constant itching might make it too difficult for her to skate. But this is more about getting even with her. I might not ever get another chance to compete for internationals. She’s lucky the only retribution she’s getting is a few weeks of itchy blisters.”

“Otherwise you’d Tonya Harding her?”

Denali nodded brightly. “Exactly! Now come on, we have to get rid of the evidence.” And with that, they scurried out of the locker room as inconspicuously as they’d entered it and threw out the evidence in a trash can several blocks over.

When the news broke that Tara had withdrawn from the competition due to ‘unexpected physical problems’, Denali did her best to feign shock and didn’t celebrate until she and Kahmora were alone.

“So, what do you wanna do now?” Kahmora asked.

Denali tilted her head in thought, then smirked. “Let’s go get brownies.”

Present Day

“Personally, I still think you should’ve busted her knees,” Mik mused offhandedly. “Like, I bet you would’ve figured out a way to get away with it, you conniving bitch,” he teased.

Denali shrugged. “Maybe, but it’s not very original and it’d look a lot more suspicious on my end.”

“I think it was pretty badass,” Rosé offered, making the other woman smile which, in turn, made her heart flutter — something she chose to actively ignore. Instead, she let all of their stories sink in. None of their reasons for revenge were out of line, none of their victims undeserving. And none of the consequences were as severe as some of the things she had seen in her time. “You all really know what you’re doing, huh?”

“We wouldn’t have been able to keep this up for three years if we didn’t,” Jan replied. “We had all of the potential on our own, but we make a difference together, and then we added Jackie to tie up the loose ends. It’s been smooth sailing from there.”

“Yeah, and now Jackie ties you up instead,” Nicky teased, earning an eye roll in response.

Rosé watched the group interact with a fond smile. She had assumed they all got along to be working together for as long as they have been, but she hadn’t anticipated them truly behaving like a family. It was a stark contrast to the constant coldness and curtness she had grown accustomed to, both in her previous career and in the environment she grew up in. She only hoped it would make the tasks ahead that much easier for them.

[extemporaneousmusings]

ok first off you're object canyon post was really interesting!!! secondly it got me thinking about sappho and her fragments!! all those gaps + mis/interpretations and there is this thing anne carson has said about the fragments and the spaces they make + cultivate almost that is so beautiful and interesting, like the way the poem breaks &leads to a questioning, enticing lack: "There is the space where a thought would be, but which you can’t get hold of." [also i feel this way thru my whole life]

Thanks for this ask, Anna! Sorry I’m responding a bit late, Iwanted to do it justice. I also apologize in advance for how long this got.

I’m really glad, and also unsurprised that you thought ofSappho/Anne Carson’s treatment of her fragments. Sappho is the postergirl for fragments in a lot of ways, and Anne Carson’sflexible and creative treatment of them engenders this spotlight of attentionto the idea of a Fragment. That’s the eternal appeal of Sappho in some ways,that her work can resonate so deeply, while being so achingly, visiblyincomplete.

I think that this idea of fragments, especially as they mapon to our own attempts to understand humans in the past, extends way furtherthan people often recognize. Sticking with literature for a moment (before Imove to material culture, bc I’m me…) we can consider manuscript traditions asan entity in and of themselves. Sappho is glaring and obvious, in the gaps. Butevery ancient text that we inherit has holes, or has been miscopied ortranslated at some point in time. They’re cobbled together from scraps ofpapyrus, manuscript pages, quotations inside other works of literature, etc. I’mcertainly no lit. scholar, but every text that we get has been altered in someway, even if it appears more-or-less whole in its presentation. When you readancient texts in in their original language, sometimes you’ll have theadditional suggestions/words listed in the footnotes, so the text itself seemssmooth but belies its patchwork reality. Other time you’ll have a pair of thesedaggers ( † ) which indicate that despite theeditor’s best efforts, the words/phrase they surround are nonsensical orextremely fraught, with no obvious solution. (In my undergrad Latin courses we’dcall them the Daggers of Despair/Doom).

But beyond manuscript traditions, everyone’s understandingof words and language is individually contextual. You build up your personalunderstanding of words and language through the ways that you see words andphrases used, and the ways they make you feel. The connotations of individual wordscan be so deeply personal, and dependent on where and how you’veread/heard/seen them. This is all even further complicated when you are workingwith something in translation, or trying to translate something yourself! SometimesI’m truly surprised that humans are even able to communicate with each other atall. This is all fragmentary in a way, in the sense that even if a piece ofwriting is completely unaltered from its conception, to publishing, toconsumption, different people can and will conceive of it in different ways.

I’m sure at this point, that I’ve made my own inherentbiases and opinions clear, regarding the deep subjectivity of language andliterature. I think that, because of the place that language holds in society,people can often and easily forget how flexible and fragmentary it is. Whentrying to understand things about humans who lived in the Classical world, Ioften find my colleagues who work on literary and historical problems (thatdraw heavily from literature) stating, whether explicitly or implicitly, thattheir evidence is more whole, more clear to understand or interpret than mine,because somehow their understanding of language provides them with more, ordeeper knowledge than what can be derived from material culture.

Obviously I think this is bullshit. In my Object Canyon postI say at the end that we can never recover the full depth and extent of the visualimagery that the die cutters (people who made the coin designs) drew upon andutilized in their compositional processes. That’s true! I don’t think I’ll everbe able to understand the full context and connotations that shapes, images,and objects meant to people in the ancient world. But I also think that I can tryto approach an understanding.

To give an example, I am working on an assemblage right now froma cave that was probably used as a votive deposit for several centuries. Of the several hundred sherds of pottery from it, I will show you just one.

What the fuck is that, you may ask. Great question. What I’mabout to tell you is knowledge I’ve accumulated over years of touching, lookingat, and thinking about fragments. It’s a small piece of a specific type of drinkingcup, called a kylix. It was made in Athens, probably during the 6thcentury BC. (Honestly I can probably narrow it down to a couple of decades butthat’s kind of irrelevant).

The black pattern you see ‘painted’ on it is the splayedhand of a figure, most likely either a human or a satyr. The little bit of black glaze at the bottom left is probably the tip of a beard. I’ve included aparallel from the Met’s collection that isn’t perfect, but is the right shape(a mid 6th century band cup) with a processional scene. 

Metropolitan Museum of Art, Rogers Fund, 1917, 17.230.5

Here is a zoomed in detail of one of the figure’s hands, which is similar, although not exactly the same as on mine. (note my dude’s ithyphallic genitals, pls. it’s irrelevant to this conversation, I just love dicks on pots.)

Usually youget this splayed, outstretched hand motion when dealing with either drunken satyrs in a Dionysianprocession, or drunken humans in what’s called a “komos”. Even though thecomparanda I’ve provided is an intact vessel, it can still be considered a fragment, inthat I don’t know where it was found, how it was used, and other pieces ofinformation that compose the reality of an object’s existence.

Beyond what my fragment shows,which is in all likelihood an extremely common scene for Attic vase painting ofthe time period, what does it represent beyond that?

Well, it’s extremely high quality, in terms of clay andproduction. You obviously can’t tell this from the photograph, but it’s verythin, which is an indication of skill on the potter’s part. It was found in acave that lies on the outskirts of the traditional extent of Athenianterritory. Therefore, it had to travel, probably 2-3 days walk from where it wasmade to where it was ultimately found, and up a mountain as well, whichindicates further effort on the part of whomever deposited it. There’s evenfurther information about the sorts of people who had access to this sort ofpottery, etc. but I’m not gonna go it to that here bc this is getting reallylong…

Aside from being totally self-serving and gratuitous, what evenis the point in talking about this tiny sherd of pottery? As an archaeologist,pretty much everything I deal with is unquestionably fragmentary. The degreesto which things are broken, and their original identity is obscured variesgreatly, but regardless of the medium or material, the passage of time hasfragmented the past in some way, and that is reflected in what comes onto mystudy table in the summer, or the readings I do for class. But we can still derive remarkable amounts of information from those fragments, and string that information together to form comprehensive, compelling, and consuming narratives. 

We will never be able to fully reconstruct the past, andhonestly, we can never have a completely whole understanding of the presenteither, given the individual nature of the human experience. So, everythingthat we touch, see, or hear is in one way or another a fragment. Once you acknowledge, truly and deeply, thateverything you’re ever going to work with, or look at, is a fragment in someway, the better you will be able to analyze it, on its own terms, as well asour own.

That can be difficult and uncomfortable, for sure. But italso opens the scope for creativity, interpretation, and ingenuity as well. And that’s definitely the space and mindset that I try to apply, always, even though it is a constant struggle.