#if i had a nickel for every time they called the black man 'boy' i wouldn't be living in this fuckin' house that's for sure

[coelacat]

why must fandom be fandom. stop being obsessed with the yaoi brothers, start fangirling over the 100 year old bald man who's scarred half his body and transfuses his own blood into his fucked up science creations. he speaks in ominous metaphor and vague phrasing. what's not to love about him

[banditomojado]

Had an idea a while back to write a piece using the titles of songs I love. This is the end result:

The Playlist

Sitting on the mercy seat, writing the perfect sonnet.

The ideal husband, his lies shine bright like a comet.

Nine crimes spread out like a flower.

The agony burns a pitch black power.

An attempt to tip the scales failed,

And angels fell from the moon and got impailed,

On the razor sharp sins of us animals.

A wink and a smirk from the undercover cannibal.

At the bottom of everything, his ruthlessness is understandable,

But his redemption is quite laughable.

So catch me on the bad dream hotline

Whispering sweet nothings so sublime.

For a nickel or a dime, come waste your time.

I'll sing you to sleep, kind boy,

At the center of my void.

My sweet prince, brushed in red and living in black and white.

A love not so bulletproof, it gave out in the dead of night.

He has blue eyes like the devils water,

And black lipstick he stole from his daughter.

What shame, he could have saved himself.

But he buried himself alive by his bookshelf,

While the calander hung itself; All out of time.

Stuck between life and death, no reason or rhyme.

Cross out the eyes of the once and future poet.

Dance and weep for all the time stolen.

Hold the devil nice and tight.

Demons with halos waltzing through the night, a scary sight

I mean, what is adulthood if not disenchantment?

A careful dissection of all ten commandments.

"Do you feel real?" Asks the lonely dreamer

As long as I'm drowning in this dreamlike fever

Best believe I'm a believer.

Fake plastic trees decorate the lawn of the pastor.

The four winds rip them apart in defiance of his master.

He's a hipster charlatan!

"Let him burn!" screamed the faithful artisans

All while the golden prophet makes herself known

And the guilty conscience of all weak men is shown

A handsome stranger called death is summoned to collect our meager breaths.

And not a moment too soon.

Hate me and haunt me under this blue moon.

Heaven knows I'm miserable now.

I know it's over, so go ahead and take a bow.

In every dream home, a heart aches.

In all the smoke blown, a lung breaks.

In all the hate shown, the earth shakes.

In all the love sown, the sun wakes.

"Isn't life beautiful?" Says the lover I don't have to love.

The movement of the hand crushes the white dove.

No voy a llorar, i swear to god

Out running karma, what a facade

A paradise lost, a to-do-list uncrossed

But your lips, sweet like passionfruit

Save me from the wicked roots

Of internalized misogyny and poetic tragedy

Politics and violence and soul crushing apathy.

They say pretty girls put boys in cemetery's

Save that shit, womanhood isn't predatory.

They are divine, sweet wine from the vine

Skin and bones and superior by design.

But now I'm slow dancing in the dark

Star shopping by myself in the park.

Looking for a strange encounter.

One last night of being a fucking debbie downer.

So I'll walk away as the door slams.

"Why do I wonder why?" says the poor man.

[rikalovesrice]

Brother

A ficlet inspired by this thread on Twitter, some “Douxie During Trollhunters” stuff I was working on a while back, and my love for Douxie and Jim being best bros UwU

@aaronwaltke and @biancasiercke if you guys ever wanna give this a read (Absolutely zero pressure! Just sharing💙)

Also a big thank you to my good friend @nikibogwater for proofreading for me! ^_^

Please enjoy!

~ ~ ~

Douxie still remembered the day a seven-year-old Jim Lake Jr. came through the door to Benoit’s, tugging his mom in after him by her hand. His big toothy smile when he exclaimed that it was his mom’s birthday and that he was paying for all of it, even the drinks.

“Are you now?” Douxie asked, handing the pair of them menus. They’d chosen a two-top right next to the windows, the backdrop of Arcadia under a soft orange sunset in full view. 

“I helped mom clean,” Jim said. “Like a lot. So I have lots of money.” He crossed his arms, throwing his mom, Barbara Lake, a cheeky grin. His black hair was on the long side and messy, sticking up and flopping in various places including over one of his eyes, though it did virtually nothing to hide his pride and excitement.

“Can you believe he wanted to spend his whole allowance on me?” Barbara said.

“Uh yeah! You’re the best mom ever!” Jim leaned towards Douxie, feigning a whisper. “She’s the best mom ever.”

Douxie chuckled. “I’m sure. And it looks like she’s got a great son to match.” Jim beamed, though a hint of shyness bloomed on his face.

“I’m sorry, what’s your name?” Barbara asked.

“Oh, quite alright. You can call me Douxie. I’ll be your server tonight.”

“Well thank you, Douxie.”

“Mom, can I get a milkshake?”

“Why are you asking me, little man? You’re the one paying.”

“Oh yeah.”

One shared entree of well done steak, a milkshake, and two free slices of cake (accompanied by Douxie’s acoustic guitar and a birthday song) later, Jim caught Douxie by the hem of his jacket after he’d set their receipt down. 

“Wait, Mister Douxie I uh…” Jim dug deep into his pockets, rummaging with a look of determination.

Douxie smiled, kneeling down beside him. “What is it, little man?”

“Um, wait, wait I need to...Oh!” Jim smiled big as he pulled a single coin out of his pocket. He held it straight out to Douxie, his eyes seeming to sparkle. “This is for you! Mom said that you should always tip people.”

Jim placed the coin in the center of Douxie’s palm. It was a nickel, a small bit of rust darkening ol’ Tommy’s profile. Douxie glanced over at Barbara, who was gazing at her son with an expression nothing short of pure endearment, glowing with pride. Douxie closed his fingers over the nickel and held it to his chest.

“A fine tip, indeed,” he said with a soft smile. “Thank you very much, Jim.”

Jim beamed. Then he was springing out of his chair, giggling as he gave Douxie a hug. How long had it been since he’d been smothered by someone who wasn’t Archie? Maybe long enough, because Douxie’s brain stopped working at the gesture, as did his arms. It registered more with every second that passed, the feeling of Jim’s small arms wrapped around him and his head on Douxie’s shoulder. Even without seeing his face, Douxie somehow knew Jim was smiling into his jacket. Something welled up in his heart, warm and touched. Douxie hugged Jim back, one hand on his back and the other gently holding his head.

“You’re awesome Mister Douxie!” Jim said as he pulled back, his hands still on Douxie’s shoulders. “Mom was really happy.”

“Hey now, I’m not the one who bought her dinner tonight.” Douxie ruffled Jim’s hair.

“Alright, Jim, Mister Douxie has to go back to work,” Barbara said softly. Jim’s expression fell and he began to wring his hands.

“No worries.” Douxie gave Jim’s shoulder a squeeze, tilting his head to look Jim in the eyes. “Chin up, buddy.  Next time you come in, I’ll still be here.”

Jim beamed. “Cool!”

“Go on, then.”

Jim hopped to his mother’s side, taking her hand. When he was distracted by one of Douxie’s co-workers wrestling with a malfunctioning blender, Barbara reached into her purse and pulled out a bill. She slipped it into Douxie’s hand, silently mouthing a thank you. Then the pair were off, stepping back out onto the streets of Arcadia under a pleasant evening. 

Douxie unrolled the bill.

Twenty dollars.

His eyes shot to the window in disbelief, catching Jim giving him one last wave goodbye. A deep breath turned into soft chuckling. Douxie waved back.

See you, little buddy.

~ ~ ~

The morning Archie reported Kanjigar’s death, they’d booked it to the canal. The last thing they wanted was for the Amulet of Daylight to wind up in the museum or in some kid’s backpack. Douxie would pick it up and then head right back to Arcane Books. So a brisk ten minute walk later, they were peering down the deep slope of the canal and spotted what must have been the remains of the Trollhunter. A heap of broken stone, just out of reach of the shadow of the bridge. Douxie closed his eyes, taking a moment to honor the fallen Protector of Trolls and Man. Wondering if, somehow, Merlin was doing the same.

“Alright Arch, let’s go — “ Before they could take another step, what looked like a boy on a bicycle suddenly launched over the other side of the canal, suspended in the air before diving back down and landing on his wheels. The boy skid to a halt and turned to holler behind him, up from where he’d come.

“Jim?” Douxie whispered, recognizing that head of black hair and those skinny legs. “A bit late for school, isn’t he?” Then Douxie felt a pinch of panic seize him. He prayed the kid would stay away from that odd pile of rocks.

“Come on Tobes!” Jim hollered.

And not a second later…

James...Lake.

A deep, echoing voice rumbled out into the atmosphere, buzzing in Douxie’s ears. Shock and disbelief struck Douxie like a manticore’s tail. He and Archie shared a look. The panic spiked.

Douxie watched, his heart beginning to pound harder and harder, as Jim faced the stone rubble, slowly removing his helmet. Another familiar face, Toby Domzalski, came struggling down the canal, falling onto his face as Jim passed under the bridge and approached what was left of Kanjigar.

“Do you think he heard the voice?” Archie said.

“No...It can’t be…He’s not…” It couldn’t be. Jim wasn’t a troll. Jim wasn’t a troll. And yet —

James Lake.

The voice rang out again. Jim yelled and fell backwards in surprise. 

“That pile of rocks knows my name!” Jim exclaimed, scrambling closer on his hands and knees. Douxie stared, mind still suspended in shock but gut starting to sink with dread as Jim dug around the rubble, eventually unearthing the Amulet of Daylight, its distinct soft blue glow ever hard to miss. 

Everything in Douxie wanted him to somehow swipe it from Jim’s hands. 

Because not him. 

Not Jim.

But Douxie also knew better. 

“What should we do, Douxie?” Archie asked. They ducked behind a tree when Toby started shouting for someone to reveal themselves. Made sense he would think it was a trick. Only magical beings or the chosen could hear the Amulet.

Only magical beings.... Or so Douxie had thought. Jim slipping the Amulet into his bag was a nail in the coffin.

“Well...we can’t take it now,” he said, eyes still trained on the boys. “The Amulet... seems to have made its choice….”

In the distance, the school bell of Arcadia Oaks rang out. Jim and Toby hurried back to their bikes, quickly mounting and taking off. When they were long gone, Douxie stepped out from behind the tree without a word, sliding down the canal and standing over the pile of stones. He stared off in the direction the boys had left, his mind reeling like nothing else, trying to comprehend what he’d seen and what it meant. 

Why it had to be Jim.

Archie joined him, climbing up on and inspecting the rubble.

“I know...the Amulet doesn’t make mistakes,” Douxie said quietly. “But...a human Trollhunter? And he’s only a child…” His voice quivered, pangs of worry and dread striking his heart.

“It’s...certainly a first,” Archie said, leaning a paw on Douxie’s leg. “I’m not sure what to make of this myself.” There was a long beat of silence before Archie spoke again. “What do you want to do, Douxie?”

What could they do? Was there anything to be done now? That and there wasn’t anyone he could discuss this with, at least who would know more.

If only you were here, Master… Douxie thought, one hand balling into a fist. He stewed in his thoughts for a moment longer before scooping Archie up onto his shoulders and heading back up the slopes of the canal.

“Douxie?” Archie said.

“We’ll keep doing what we’ve always done,” Douxie said. “Watch...and protect.” He didn’t have any answers. But it was done. The new Trollhunter had been chosen. 

Something stirred in Douxie’s chest, growing stronger as he remembered the smiling face of a seven-year-old boy who’d tipped him a nickel. Stronger still because Douxie knew. He knew what it was like to be so young and have so much, far too much, thrust upon him. Having his hand and the growth of his strength forced. The secrets that had to be kept, even from the ones he loved most, for their own safety. Pain he hadn’t known was coming. 

The loss. 

The loneliness.

The weight of the world.

When Douxie retired to his cot that night, he approached the small shine of silver on his nightstand. No, he didn’t have a clue what any of this meant. But what Douxie did know was that he’d be Jim’s greatest ally.  

He picked up the nickel and held it tight, a promise burning deep within him.

I’ll protect you.

~ ~ ~

Author’s Notes :

So I imagine that Jim and his mother ended up not frequenting the diner as much since Barbara was always so swamped and Jim was learning how to cook more at home. So Jim eventually just forgot about his first meeting with Douxie. But Douxie of course still continued to look out for him as best as he could. And I believe this is why Douxie saw Jim as family, even though he seemed to have only known him for a short time. In reality, though, Douxie always loved the kid💙

God bless and thank you all so much for reading!💙

[the-queen-of-hell-666]

I really like your writing

This is my my first request and i hope i am doing it right

I was thinking of Bucky being a little bit overwhelmed by the Reader openly talking about her sex life , being kind of shy about what he wants because he is used the 40s. And they try a lot of their mutual kinks together

Maybe slightly dom Reader

I hope this is ok 😇

So I actually really like this idea. So thank you!

SMUT!!!! 18+!!! NO MINORS!!!!!

Please Send Me More Smutty Prompts!!!!!!

You were invited to have drinks with Sam, Steve, and Bucky. You dressed in a small black cocktail dress, a pair of heels, and light makeup. You grabbed your black leather jacket and walked out of your flat.

You arrived at the bar and walked in. You saw the three guys in a booth in the back. You sneaked up behind Steve and covered his eyes.

“Who’s strong and brave here to save the American way.” You sang in his ear, and the guys started laughing. You removed your hands and he turned around.

“I regret telling you about that,” Steve stated, and you chuckled and pulled him into a hug.

“I would’ve found it anyway.” You shrugged, then hugged Sam and Bucky. You sat next to Steve in the booth and Sam handed you a glass of scotch. “You remembered my drink.” You smiled and took a sip of your drink.

“Well, you only have like ten bottles of it in your apartment,” Sam said, and you chuckled.

“Hey, that’s for nights when I wanna get drunk and call over one of my boy toys.” You winked and finished off your drink.

“Speaking of which. I remember you sneaking in Tony’s new assistant to your room.” Steve stated, and you rolled your eyes.

“Oh, c’mon. Have you seen him? You could bounce a nickel off that ass.” You smirked, as the waiter dropped off another drink for you. You looked at Bucky and saw how tense he was. “Hey, Barnes, why you so tense?” You asked, and he looked at you.

“What?” He questioned.

“Take. That. Stick. Out. Your. Ass.” You enunciated, and he rolled his eyes and took a sip of his beer.

“He’s only tense because he hasn’t been laid since 1940.” Sam heckled, and you smirked as you saw Bucky blush.

“Seriously, Sam?” Bucky hissed, his eyes darting from you to Sam.

“Oh, relax, Buck. We can about shit like this with her. That’s why we invited her.” Sam said, and you smiled and lifted your drink up.

“So, Y/n, you left work early last week what’d you get pierced this time?” Steve asked, and you rolled your eyes and took a sip of your drink.

“Something you’ll never see.” You winked, and Steve chuckled as he took a sip of his beer.

“You finally got your nipples pierced,” Sam said, and you shrugged and looked down.

“That noticeable?” You asked.

“No,” Sam said, then looked down at your chest then back up. “Yes,” He nodded, his eyes a bit wide.

“Oh, lord,” Bucky muttered, and you chuckled and finished your drink, then stood up.

“I’m going to go get us shots.” You smiled and walked towards the bar. You came back with a tray full of shots. You sat down and took out a mirror and fixed your lipstick.

“You got free shots didn’t you?” Sam asked, and you smirked and you put away your lipstick.

“Man, that bartender can kiss.” You sighed and picked up a shot. Steve and Sam rolled their eyes and grabbed a shot as well. You looked at Bucky who looked unamused at your antics. “C’mon, Barnes. Take a shot.” You said and nudged a shot at him.

“You really have no shame.” He said and took a sip of his beer.

“Never have, never will.” You winked, and licked your wrist, and dumped salt on your wrist. You licked the salt off and then downed your shot, you grabbed the lime and sucked on it. Steve chuckled and downed his shot in one go. “How about we do body shots?” You asked, and Sam hooted, Steve rolled his eyes, and Bucky looked a bit shocked.

“Barnes, switch seats with her,” Sam said, and you stood up and Bucky sighed but switched seats anyways. You brushed your hair over your shoulder and Sam leaned down and licked your neck, then poured salt, then licked it off and downed his shot. You handed him his lime and he took it and chewed on it.

“Rogers, you want in on this?” You asked, handing him the salt shaker.

“No, I think I gonna head back to the tower. I have an early mission tomorrow.” Steve said, and you rolled your eyes.

“Which means you are going to go home and fuck Natasha’s brains out.” You stated, and Steve scoffed but blushed a bit. He stood up and you hugged him, and he and Bucky did one of those bro hugs, and he and Sam did the same thing.

“I’ll see you later,” Steve said and walked out of the bar.

“And then there were three,” Sam said in a spooky voice, you chuckled and took another shot. Bucky just looked a bit uncomfortable as he drank his beer.

“Hey, Barnes, let’s dance.” You said, and stood up and held out your hand to him.

“Yeah, no.” He shook his head, and you scoffed and pulled him out of the booth.

“C’mon, it’s just a dance.” You stated and pulled him to the dance floor. The song ‘No Lie’ by Dua Lipa and Sean Paul came on. You started moving your hips to the beat of the music. You pulled him to you and turned around, so your back was to him. You lightly ground on his crotch, and he finally stopped being so stiff and placed his hands on your hips. You felt his growing hard-on against your ass, you smirked and turned around. You placed your arms around his neck and he wrapped his arms around your back.

He realized that he had a massive boner and he quickly pulled away and left the dance floor. You pouted as you watched as he said goodbye to Sam and left.

“Damn.” You sighed and walked back to the table ready to get drunk.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

For a few weeks, Bucky ignored you. He didn’t talk to you, he avoided eye contact in the halls or in the lift. You finally decided to confront him about it.

It was about three in the morning when you walked into the gym and Bucky was pounding on a punching bag. You silently closed the door and locked it. You walked out of the shadows and dropped your bag on the bench. You grabbed your hand wraps and started wrapping your fists. You wore a pair of leggings and a sports bra.

“Hey, Barnes you wanna spar?” You asked, walking onto the floor.

“Can you take me?” He asked cockily, and he put up his fists. You smirked and put up yours as you two went onto the mat.

“I’m thinking I can.” You nodded, and you two circled for a minute before he swung first. You dodged his fist and grabbed it, you turned it to the side and you brought your legs up and wrapped them around his neck. He fell to the ground and you tightened your thighs around his neck. He grunted and tapped your thigh twice. You let go of his neck and rolled onto your feet, and helped him up.

“That was cheating.” He said and took a deep breath.

“How?” You asked, “That wasn’t cheating, baby. I was just better.” You winked and started unwrapping your hands. “So, you wanna talk about that night in the bar?”

“Not really no.” He said, walking back over to the punching bag. You slinked over to him and stood behind him.

“Why? Because I turned you on.” You whispered into his ear and smirked when his body went rigid. “I think it is.” You smirked, “I felt your hard cock pressed against my ass as we danced.” You stated, and reached down and placed your hands on his ass. “And to be honest it turned me on too, sweetheart.” You purred, and squeeze his ass loving the feel of his asscheeks in your hands.

“What a-are y-you d-doing?” He stuttered as you walked around to the front of his body. You dropped to your knees in front of his crotch.

“Helping you out.” You smirked and cupped his growing hardness in your hand. “Just tell me to stop and I will.” You said, and he ground his hips down onto your hand.

“God, don’t.” He groaned, and you pulled his shorts down as well as his boxers, and his hard cock sprang out onto his stomach. You took his cock in hand and slowly stroked up and down. You took the head in your mouth and licked the pre-cum out of the slit. The salty taste lingering on your tongue, as you took his cock farther in your mouth.

You gagged a bit around his length as it touched the back of your throat, but you relaxed your throat and took him farther. Your nose was buried in the dark curls at the base of his cock. You moved your mouth back and forward, running your tongue along the vein on the underside of his cock. He moaned and bucked his hips forward, thrusting his cock deeper into your mouth. He didn’t know what to do with his hands, so you pulled his hands to the back of your head. His fingers threaded through the strands of your hair as you licked and sucked on his cock.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He grunted like a prayer, you brought your hand up to cup and squeeze his balls, and that did it. He cried out as he came in your mouth. His warm cum filled your mouth and you swallowed every last drop. You pulled back and he let out a satisfied sigh. You stood up and locked eyes with him as you wiped the extra cum off the corner of your mouth, and sucked your finger clean, and moaned obscenely at the taste.

“So good.” You moaned and then smirked as he blushed a deep red. He quickly pulled his boxers and shorts back up. “Do you know when Steve is leaving, Barnes?” You asked as you walked over to your gym bag.

“How are you so casual after… that?” Bucky asked, and followed you over to the bench.

“Because I was just helping you relax.” You shrugged and heaved your bag over your shoulder.

“Wait, can we talk about this?” He questioned, and you turned around.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“How are you so comfortable when talking about your sex life?”

“Because I don’t care what people think.” You said, “Also it’s the 21st century, Barnes. There are so many people with open minds. I’m one of them. So if you wanna try some kinky stuff call me.” You winked and walked out of the gym leaving Bucky a bit speechless.

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Taglist:

@honeyel @randomuser0917

[youarejesting]

The Bomb

[Masterlist]

Beta: @juniethebug​ Rating: 16+  Pairing: Namjoon x Reader Genre: Mafia, enemies2lovers.  Trigger Warnings: mentions of Violence, Gore, Torture, Drinking and wetting yourself in public from fear and a full bladder during a gun fight. Character death. Words: 9.4k

Summary: The leader of a mafia should be calm collected and poised. He should live meticulously and know what he needs to do. Namjoon was that man, he had rules that kept his business running smoothly and nothing can get in the way of that. Can it?

[Part 2]

Kim Namjoon, the leader of the biggest mafia in Seoul, lived his life by many rules. His first rule, a man should only cry three times in his life. The first time is when a man loses his mother, the one who raises a man to be who they are worth mourning. 

The second when a man marries the love of his life and he shall weep tears of joy. The third and final time a man is allowed to cry is when he sees his first child born.

Pathetically sobbing against the dirty concrete while getting the life beaten out of you is not one of those three incidences. “I will ask you again, where is the payment I was promised?”

“He gave it to his daughter, used the money he was supposed to pay you, on his daughter; a beautiful emerald necklace. Something about it being her birthday and wanting to gift her with something as pretty as she is.” Yoongi scoffed, spinning the knife around his fingers a habit he had developed to keep his dexterous fingers busy.“Or at least that is what Hobi had to say after tailing the man all day. Just take the necklace from her pretty little neck; she doesn’t have to come with it.”

“The birthday party is tonight, a lavish affair for their daughter, every man, woman, and child from rich backgrounds were invited to the ball held at their Manor.” Jimin sighed, rolling some scotch in his glass.

“Be ready to leave in ten minutes.” Namjoon walked to the door, Jungkook opening it for him. A reminder of rule number fourteen; a powerful man never moves unnecessarily, which includes opening doors and stepping aside from someone.

Pulling on a black on black suit he fastened his Platinum Rolex to his wrist, in his classiest polished pair of dress shoes. Walking towards the front door, he stopped by the front door and Yoongi pulled open the suitcase, graced with the sight of two pistols both with a shiny custom nickel finish with gold filigree on the handle and barrel.

These were gifted to him by Taehyung, a man with an eye for the finest of arts. Just like the weapons he provided he was a beautiful young man with an innocent face. But he was a dangerous man and rule number ten. Never give the man who provides you with your weapons the chance to provide them for anyone else. Of course, naturally, that meant Namjoon hired him in an instant, not willing to let his enemies use his weapons dealer.

The boys were heading to the car; Seokjin was going to drive as he was the most sensible behind the wheel. Each piling in Namjoon looked at his watch and over the five individuals in the car.

“Should I tell Jimin to hurry up?” Taehyung said reaching for his phone, he was in the middle of texting when Namjoon placed his hand on the phone pushing it to his lap. 

“No need we leave without him, he knows the rules-”

“Rule number fifteen, a man is never late,” Jungkook nodded; he lived by Namjoon’s word and his rules. Knew them better than Namjoon did himself, wrote them down, and numbered them as the leader taught him each one.

The car door was shut by Seokjin who situated himself into the driver's seat and pulled away from the house. House may be a bit of an understatement even Namjoon thought so, officially titled the Kim Manor with four stories complete with east and west wings, staff quarters, elaborate gardens, and land. 

It was the picturesque home with lavish rooms headed to the front gates, a motorbike raced past and pulled up. Jimin climbed into the car with the others, grumbling about how the wind destroyed his hair. 

He ran his fingers through his hair trying to return it to its former perfection, once the gates spread open they headed on their way to the party. 

Each stepping out at the foot of the manor, fixing their hair and suits one last time before heading up the steps. “Your invitation, sir?”

Yoongi pulled out a gun and tapped it against the clipboard pushing it down so he could read it. “That's us there unchecked, sorry we are late, traffic is horrible at this time of the day,” the man swallowed thickly. 

“Of course Mr. and Mrs. Le pomme, you don’t look French?”

“It’s Ms. Actually,” Yoongi poked the man's chest with his gun. 

Namjoon turned speaking immaculate French to the young man and patted his shoulder. “Jungkook always learns a language, a man should never miss an opportunity to learn new things.”

Jungkook was writing the new rule down following behind them, Yoongi pushed the gun into his waistband and the group entered the manor. Walking the floor as a small unit they began analyzing the ballroom. 

Jimin had disappeared and Jungkook smiled gesturing to the young woman who was mingling a beautiful emerald necklace delicately nestled against her decolletage. Namjoon looked her over. She was stunning with her smooth skin and gentle curls. 

She was nothing like he expected, Namjoon thought she would have a dark tan and bleach blonde hair, with extensions and the latest trending nails and jewelry and shoes. 

But this woman. This gorgeous woman had pale skin with sun-kissed freckles, her lips were a soft velvety crimson. She wore a simple black dress but somehow managed to still be the most beautiful person in the room. He could gaze at her forever and never get tired.

You smiled feeling proud of your outfit, it was such an elegant and complicated piece, a sweetheart bodice with off the shoulder lace straps it was a thin and long dress that fell to your ankles showing off a pair of thin heels. 

It wasn’t a famous brand designer, no, you made this yourself there were many little fun hidden details. You were speaking with your friends when he approached. 

He was handsome, his profile was strong one you would remember easily he had a small scar on his eyebrow but it added so much character to his image. 

“Ladies,” he greeted the small group with a short bow, his eyes flicking up and meeting yours full of confidence and you gave a small friendly smile back. 

“Shall we dance?” He asked, and you, never to be overdone, agreed. You had never been asked to dance before. Especially not by someone this handsome.

“My name is y/n. You?”

“You may call me Namjoon,” he smiled and you blushed, looking at his dimples, he was so charming and cute. But there was something about him he took the lead and guided you through a slow waltz. Something you couldn’t put a nail on. Something… sinister..?

You gasped clutching his bicep gently. He saw the emerald necklace secure around your delicate neck. Your breasts strained against your dress with every breath. 

“You seem to be out of breath miss y/n?” His fingertips brushing gently across your décolletage. He too was breathing heavily from the physical activity of dancing. 

“A testament to your dance skills,” you tried to laugh back. 

“Perhaps we should get something to drink,” he took your hand and weaved it so your arm wrapped around his, “we can chat while you relax but I do apologize for being too enthusiastic.” 

“No, really, it is okay,” you protested, not wanting to seem too affected honestly it was embarrassing to get tired after one vigorous dance. 

“Indulge me,” Namjoon’s raspy voice reverberated so low you could have almost mistaken it for a purr, “I would very much like to steal a few extra moments with you” 

“Well then, I shan’t protest,” you gestured towards the refreshment table where he handed you a champagne flute. The two of you drank slowly his eyes locked on yours. 

“Sir,” a voice called politely, you were both pulled from your intense eye contact to see Your father flanked by two young and very handsome men. 

“Thank you for inviting me to your party tonight, sir.” Namjoon shook his hand firmly, his voice made you shiver, it wasn’t as light as it had been before, there was something clipped in his tone. Your former suspicions returned to you. Hard.

“Ah, Mr. Kim, I am glad you could make it, I didn’t think you would come to such a small affair?” Your father smiled, he was sweating a sign he was nervous but trying to hold his cool. 

“Dad is everything okay?” You took your father's pocket-handkerchief and dabbed his forehead. 

“Darling I would like for you to get some pictures with your mother. It is your birthday after all,” you looked at him curiously and almost yielded to his request when a firm hand caught your wrist. 

“Just a moment I would like to give you your birthday gift,” Namjoon smiled reaching into his pocket, his next statement seemed to cause the young man beside your father to scribble in a notebook. “A man must never come to a party empty-handed, especially not a birthday party.”

“Oh it’s okay, I don’t usually get presents anyway,” you were flustered by the prospect you always requested not to get presents to spare people the trouble of spending their money on material things. 

“That is a shame a pretty young lady like yourself should be spoiled daily,” a hot flush pinked your skin and it crept up your neck. 

He handed you a box wrapped in a small ribbon. She opened it to reveal an emerald bracelet just like the necklace she wore and he helped secure it to the wrist and smiled. 

“Emerald looks brilliant on you?”

Namjoon looked your father directly in the eyes watching the man sweat. Would he sell out his own daughter for his own safety? “Well darling, mister Kim and I are just going to do a quick spot of business”

“Okay,” you nodded, Namjoon looked over his shoulder and made a gesture to Jungkook and Yoongi to keep an eye on you. While following your weasel-like father to his study.

“I know why you are here and I am sorry, I had the money ready to give you but it was my daughter’s birthday and I couldn’t turn up empty-handed,” Your father said “I will get you the money by the end of the week.”

“You will as I will have collateral just in case your daughter will leave with me.” Namjoon threatened before adding an afterthought “tonight”.

“Please don’t hurt her, I will get you the money, I promise. Please.” He pleaded, dropping onto his knees. Namjoon felt his eye twitch in disgust. 

“You will give me the money, otherwise you will never see your daughter again.” 

You were feeling kind of awkward, the two young men accompanying you weren’t awful company, they just weren’t very talkative. 

“So you work with Namjoon?” you asked 

“Mmm…” one so graciously grunted in response

“What do you do?” you swayed from foot to foot trying to strike up some sort of conversation.

“Mister Kim is an entrepreneur,” The taller man said excitedly. You nodded; he very obviously liked his boss.

“You seem to enjoy working for him then,” You asked happily and the two nodded going back to standing around.

“Ah, you must be the birthday girl?” A sweet voice called your attention, “Wah, You are so beautiful miss y/n?”

“Have we met?” Already knowing you hadn’t met any of these men they were way too handsome for you to just forget. He had long legs accentuated by his high waisted trousers, his feet moved one in front of the other with all the grace and caution like a model in a field of landmines. He scooped your hand into his grasp and kissed your knuckle’s eyes searching your person and the room. “Park Jimin.”

Beside him was a taller young man who was boyish with big rounded ears that added so much youth to his face. “I do not believe we have ma’am and that is a shame” He also kissed your knuckles politely and threw you a grin. “Kim Taehyung at your service.”

“Tell me, miss Y/n. Do you like Painting?” Taehyung asked with a grin and you nodded 

“Though I am not good at it, yes.” You sighed while playing with your lace sleeve, you were currently surrounded by these very tall and intimidating men. “Do you like painting?”

“I enjoy it greatly my dear, would you be interested in painting with me?” He smiled brightly and you grinned feeling more relaxed.

“I would love to,” you grinned and they all got a text to their apple watches that they read and quickly dismissed from view.

“Miss y/n, we would like to hold a toast,” Jimin grinned, handing you a champagne flute. You nodded and Jimin led a toast celebrating your birthday, ending his short speech with. “You have to all drink it in one shot for the best of wishes for the birthday girl” 

You drank heartedly watching them all drink as well, the conversation continued and you were happily chatting about all different things when you started to feel rather drowsy. “I think I drank too much.” You giggled, feeling tired, a warm coat was draped over your shoulders it was super roomy and you felt yourself drift off.

There were strange sounds and lights passing over you periodically, though it stirred you it wasn’t enough to wake you fully. Only when your body had fought the immense fatigue did you wake. 

Everything was stale, the air, the room, life, for a moment you didn’t move. Your body was heavy and your head clouded. Taking a deep breath you sat up the lush blankets in their covers making noise against the soft satin sheet. 

The room wasn’t yours, the furniture was all a dark almost black lacquered wood, the bedding was also all black. It was a dark room with thick heavy curtains. 

Swinging your legs over the side of the bed you gripped the fourposter frame and stood upright nursing a slight ache behind your temples. 

The floor was a white marble, searingly cold against your feet. You looked down at the sweet emerald négligée, your jewellery was placed on the bedside table. 

Where you saw a glass of water, taking the glass you took a few sips quenching your thirst and pushing the bile rising in your throat back down. 

Crossing the room, trying to find a bathroom you opened the first set of double doors and found a walk-in wardrobe. There were many suits inside and a door caught your eye, perhaps it led to the bathroom. 

Opening the door you saw for the first time in your life real guns and weapons on display, wherever you are it mustn’t be safe. You picked up a small handgun like the ones you had seen in movies. 

You moved on to the bathroom, your bladder was urgently requesting relief. 

Opening the next doors you came across a bathroom like no other. It was all the same white marble, the feature was a round shower located in the middle of the room. With two curved sliding doors one on either side of the shower. 

Between curved glass panels were stone pillars one which had been carved into as to create shelves with built-in product dispensers. 

You saw a control panel on the outside of the shower and you wondered where the water came from but looking up at the hanging gold shower head that was almost as wide as the shower. 

You could imagine how it would feel, like warm rain falling against your skin. On your right as you stepped in was a beautiful counter with his and her basins in front of a finely detailed gold framed mirror. 

On the opposite wall to your left were shelves of fresh towels and a few cabinets and a seated area with a lady might do her makeup

Walking around the shower along the walls of towels you saw the toilet the door was made of frosted glass and you at this point didn’t care if you were quick you wouldn’t be seen. 

You flushed and paused waiting for any signs of people coming to get you but you heard nothing. 

You stepped out and circled the shower the back wall had a brilliant window and four short steps to a lifted square seating area with a cushioned window seat that lined the three of the square walls. 

There was a small coffee table in the middle and continuing on the last corner of the room just between the sitting areas and the counter was a square bath fit for perhaps four people. 

“Shit, where is she?” The sound made your pulse skyrocket, you needed to hide. You stood behind one of the big thick pillars on the outside of the shower. Hoping they would glance over the room. 

You froze the gun behind your back and you waited. “Is she in here?” A voice said, “doesn’t look like it,” another said

“Where is she?” A raspy voice spoke. 

“We don’t know, sir, Yoongi was posted outside and swears she didn’t leave so she has to be in here.” 

“Y/n?” He called, “are you okay, you are a guest here I promise.”

You snorted, “that’s funny, I don’t remember being invited.” 

“You don’t remember what happened last night do you?” He asked and you saw movement in the mirror. You grabbed the shower door and opened it stepping inside and pressing your back against a pillar. 

The problem was opening one door opened both, you used your free hand to reach beside you and slowly close the glass door. 

He smirked, grabbing the opposite glass door with his hand, stopping it from closing and pulling the door back open. “You won’t shoot me, baby, you are too gentle, hand it over and we can talk.”

You took a few heavy breaths psyching yourself up before pulling the trigger. Eyes squeezed shut only to hear a click, “shit!”

“You got some guts, I will give you that. I am proud, the weak don’t survive” He grinned, reaching outside the shower to the control panel and grinned “but you didn’t put a magazine in your gun, I could show you how?” 

He pressed a button and cold water poured down, jolting you awake. You tried to avoid the water but you were soaked, he stepped inside and shut the door with his men standing guard either side. 

“When you shoot a gun don’t close your eyes, baby otherwise how will you aim?” His chest pressed against yours and he grinned, taking your hand. “Now let’s get you dressed, and we can have a late breakfast.”

You struggled to pull your hand free, “why am I here?”

“Because your father borrowed five hundred thousand dollars from me and didn’t pay it back in time,” he gently tucked your wet hair behind your ear frowning at how it stuck to your neck, how the small négligée clung to your skin and how your body reacted to the cold. “So I took you as collateral for my money. How very gentlemanly of you.”

He took the gun from your hand and grinned, “you are spirited and I like that, but do not worry my only intentions are my money no harm will come to you, you are actually really interesting I would like to get to know you more.”

“Come let’s have breakfast baby,” he said over his shoulder

You followed him obediently your goal was to play your way out, cooperation until they let their guard down. Stepping out of the Taehyung standing there with a grin, and he held up a bag, “Hoseok and I bought you clothes?”

You nodded while taking the bag pondering a recurring thought, “who changed me last night?”

“I did, love but do not fret, I am a doctor and I assure you I did nothing inappropriate, while you were asleep. I would never, it’s too much work?” the short black-haired man spoke twirling a knife around his fingers. 

“Seriously, I don’t think Yoongi is human, we have taken him to so many brothels and he doesn’t get turned on at all,” you made eye contact with Yoongi who looked away causing you to crease your eyebrows. 

“I respect women and their professions?” Yoongi sighed, and you nodded thoughtfully walking into the bathroom and staring in the mirror. Eventually getting out of the wet garment and into a beautiful sundress. 

Processing your thoughts meticulously. He said you were here until your father paid his debt. He said he wouldn’t harm you. You had many unanswered questions but you felt a little reassured by these factors. You were still scared out of your wits but 

When you stepped out of the bathroom fully dressed you felt much better. The room was empty except Yoongi and you sighed looking at him. “I really didn’t do anything.” 

“I believe you, do not stress,” you patted his shoulder and with a deep breath in, you puffed up your chest, square your shoulders, and strode forward to the door with a firm nod. Yoongi navigated you through the halls behind you trying to keep up but you didn’t slow down. 

“Through to the end room two double doors,” he panted as you lost him down the hall, throwing the doors open, guns were drawn and all your new found confidence dwindled. 

“Ah, my apologies we usually knock.” Namjoon smiled holding his hands out to his men to stand down, “it’s polite.”

“Is kidnapping me polite?” You scoffed stomping towards him. “You said I am here till my father pays his debt and then I am free to leave correct?”

“Yes, that is—”

“So am I a prisoner?”

“You are a guest,” he said.

“So I can leave?”

“No.”

“Do you happen to know the definition of prisoner?”

“I believe you are referring to the noun of a person captured and kept confined by an enemy or criminal” he sighed “listen would you like to see a real prisoner? I can guarantee you are treated better than some of our other guests in this house”

Taken back by his words you looked away and sighed slumping into the empty seat at the other end of the table “who are you really?”

“I am Kim Namjoon, also known as RM,” he looked down the table at you. You were silent while eating, pondering this information biding your time before you could ask some more. 

“Now for business?” Namjoon gestured for his men to start talking. 

“Uh about mister Lee, I have successfully um… spoken?” The word came out as more of a question as Seokjin side-eyed you, “with him and he told me where we can find the um...”

“Hey, whatever it is you can say it, I’m not going to be scared by mere words.” You scoffed, stabbing a piece of cantaloupe. Namjoon nodded, approving Seokjin to talk freely.

“I interrogated him and we found the children he was trafficking returned them to their families,” Seokjin said “He is seriously sick in the head” 

“You are sure he has told you everything?” Namjoon ate his eggs and toast watching them over his cup of coffee. 

“I think so but to make sure I might cut off his remaining fingers and see what he has to say,” Seokjin nodded, “if he says no more well then I guess he is finished.”

“Hoseok what do you know?” Namjoon prompted the next man to speak.

“I know that Mr. y/l/n is accumulating stocks and seems to be on the way to paying his debt,” Hoseok said, your head snapped to him at the mention of your father and he cleared his throat with an awkward twitch of his head. “In other news, there is a young man named David from America is here to discuss a transaction on weapons”

“Anything else?” Namjoon pressed on, studying the man's reactions.

“A few minor gossip aspects from last nights party” you blinked turning to Hoseok who continued, “nothing serious but I will file it away for possible use in the future”

“I took out Mr Roth last night at the party.” Jimin threw the paper down and Namjoon picked it up. “Easily fooled as always.”

“Was there any complications?” Namjoon asked placing the paper down on the table and you walked around picking it up standing beside Namjoon as you read the information on the front page. 

Mob Merrymaking

On the evening of the 13th of July, Y/N was celebrating her 21st Birthday. The night was full of dancing, gifts and esteemed guests. The night which was intended to be a beautiful celebration turned sour when a Local Gang drugged and abducted the young woman. Mr Roth a nobleman of 45 had been found in the bathroom, his death was determined as substance abuse.

Mr. L/n stated “She will be fine wherever she is, she is a smart girl and too pure to get herself hurt” He further implied “...I also have no ill will towards any gangs that would warrant my daughter being taken or our family getting hurt. She is a beautiful woman and I think he must have taken a liking to her which leaves me to believe he won’t hurt her.”

Kim Industries which deals with Construction, real estate, property investments, restaurants bars and even Casinos are implied to be the gang in question. Kim Namjoon, as the owner of Kim Industries, was happy to oblige to the police investigation allowing his home to be thoroughly searched by police for the missing young woman. The residence came up empty of any incriminating evidence.

Where did the young woman go? Who is she with? If you have any information contact the police.

You were told to wait in the house while they all went to meet this American man named David, you refused saying if they left you alone you would either run away or set the place on fire. 

Namjoon grabbed you by the upper arm, “You are a young lady, start acting like one, we have treated you well and you have done nothing but act like a spoilt child.”

You had never been reprimanded so directly and harshly before, you were somewhat sheltered and sensitive to anger. You turned your head away from him as a few tears slipped.

“Sir, would you like me to stay behind with her?” Jungkook asked, watching his leader take out a pocket-handkerchief and take the young woman's chin firmly between his thumb and crooked finger tilting it up.

“She will come along, she must learn the severity of one's actions and the business we dabble in, to know the true weight of her actions,” He sighed, wiping your eyes. “Always carry a handkerchief Jungkook, women cry.”

“Of course! This way Miss,” Jungkook smiled softly, taking out his notebook to write the newest rule as he walked, “Namjoon is never late for a meeting.”

Escorted to the car as they all checked their weapons discussing their plan of attack, the trip took longer than you expected and at least an hour and a half had passed. The large juice you had at breakfast was making itself known. 

“Uh, I have to pee?” You whispered to Yoongi who frowned patting your knee in consolidation. 

“Namjoon doesn’t stop for anyone,” he sighed, “You will have to hold it,”

“What is it?” Namjoon commanded, not liking the whispering you were doing with his doctor.

“Y/n said she has to pee,” Yoongi said, “and I told her she will have to hold it.”

Namjoon nodded unphased “You should have gone before we left. Always pee before leaving the house.”

“I am not a child,” You hissed “I know when I need to pee and when I don’t, I wasn’t told the duration of this trip, to know whether I should go to the bathroom, and if I remember correctly I was ushered to the car before I had a chance to question it.”

“Keep your emotions out of your argument, you really are starting to sound like a child,” Namjoon said turning back to the conversation, there was nothing you could do.

The car pulled up, at a small furniture store, the men walked in lead by Namjoon and you were to stay outside with Yoongi and Seokjin. 

It was supposed to be a peaceful meeting, but you really had to go to the toilet. The two men were leaning on the back of the car, Yoongi smoking slowly and Seokjin complaining that it was bad for his looks to be near smoke. 

“Then fuck off,” Yoongi growled blowing large wisps of smoke purposefully at the other. The two bickered like a father of three and his bratty child. 

You really needed to go, to the point that you were eyeing a couple of bushes and hedges in the area. You, a high-class lady were contemplating urinating in public, that’s how serious this was. 

You looked at the two bickering again, Yoongi smirked, blowing more smoke at Seokjin who started coughing open-mouthed at Yoongi not bothering to cover his mouth. 

“You're nasty!” Yoongi grumbled, you rolled your eyes and snuck into the shop, there had to be an employee bathroom. 

You found a door but when you opened it you were met with men and guns, you immediately froze, all the muscles in your body tensing up.“Darling come here,” Namjoon said, gesturing you over to his side, and slipping you under his arm. “What are you doing here? I told you to wait by the car?”

“I have to pee,” you whimpered.

“Calm your expression,” he held your cheek and brought your eyes to his, “by my side, you don’t need to be scared, no one can hurt you?”

“That’s right darling we are just having a discussion, do you want to wait outside again we don’t want anything to happen to a pretty girl like you?”

You don’t know who said what but shots we fired and Namjoon pushed you across the room behind some big cabinets. When your back hit the tall boy you felt your bladder relax and you looked down warmth spreading down the inseams of your jeans. 

You were shaking in fear as the shots rang around the room, some hitting the furniture near where you hid. But worse than all that you were embarrassed and shocked never in your teen and adult life had you ever wet yourself. 

You stood sobbing, standing in a puddle of your own liquids. You took off your sneakers throwing them aside and you looked at your clothes. 

“Namjoon, we can’t find Miss Y/n?” Seokjin shouted ducking bullets, and brandishing his own gun. The distraction allowed their enemy to escape. 

“She is here you idiots, I asked you to do one job and you couldn’t even do that?” Namjoon said “Jimin, good shooting, David won’t make it home”

“That’s my job,” Jimin said proudly and you had to pluck up the courage to talk to them, but it was easier to hide climbing into a cupboard. 

“Miss Y/n, are you hurt?” Yoongi asked “huh?”

“What is it?” Namjoon said 

“Oh no darling, I am so sorry?” Yoongi’s voice was solemn. 

“If she is dead I am killing you both,” Namjoon growled his boots hitting the cement as he stomped over. 

“Stay there,” Yoongi said with authority, the footsteps stopped “Jimin take off your pants?”

“What why?” Jimin asked confused as to why the conversation shifted to him and his trousers. 

“Just do it?” Yoongi growled snapping his fingers. 

“None of you will step foot over here until I say so, if you do I will happily sedate you all and turn you into eunuchs, and that includes you Namjoon.”

“I am your leader?”

“And I am your elder, go wait outside, all of you?” They all stepped outside and Yoongi sighed walking to the cupboard holding Jimin’s trousers. 

“Come here darling,” he said, taking your hand and guiding you to the bathroom he told you to strip everything off except your bra. you sobbed. “Don’t worry I got more enjoyment out of seeing Jimin undress than redressing you last night, if you understand what I am saying.”

You realized and wiped your eyes, he pushed you to sit on the bench and he washed your legs in the sink and asked you to wash everything else yourself. 

You felt better, he apologized for not having any underwear for you and you slipped on Jimin's pants and fastened the belt. The last thing you would need is to expose everything and Yoongi gave you his undershirt. 

He walked you out and Namjoon looked relieved when he saw you emerge. “Are you okay?”

“No I am horrified, I was in the middle of a shoot out and I quite literally pissed myself,” you shouted. Your eyes stung from the crying you had done, “Never in my coherent life have I disgraced myself like that.”

“I apologize,” he said, holding his shoulder you saw blood seeping through his fingers, you immediately felt bad for yelling and making it about you when he was in pain.

Jimin stood in just his boxer briefs. “I have nothing against the no-pants but can we go home?”

The only rational thing to do after the incident at the furniture store and warehouse was to seclude yourself in your room away from everyone else. Namjoon often visited and brought you your meals talking to you about things with no real substance. Mostly about his loathing of check ups, it seemed he was hiding in your room from Yoongi.

This happened for a number of days until Hoseok got bored, he wanted to gossip with you and Taehyung came along with paints in hand. His excuse was that you had promised him you two could paint together. 

Forcibly removed from your one-person pity party you sat outside painting and chatting about random topics. 

Hoseok wanted to know if you had any suitors and who they were, he asked what type of guy you liked and you hummed. 

“Someone kind and generous who gives back to others” you gushed about your tall dark and handsome and they laughed.

That night Namjoon knocked on your door and requested you come down for dinner, you agreed much to his surprise. He stammered obviously not expecting you to consent to his plan for dinner, he nodded curtly and walked off down the hall. Tripping in his haste on a small lump in the hall carpet and catching himself on the wall.

Wearing a pretty emerald green halter dress the skirts swished as you walked and your modest heels clicked on the timber. You heard hushed talking and slowed down, being so confined the past few days you were almost starved for conversation. 

“He is having dinner tonight, they will all be in the dining hall which will leave his office free, once I get the information I will get out of here before they find out.” The man had a weird moustache and a mole above his eyebrow. 

You tiptoed past holding your skirts from ruffling and keeping your heels from clicking you headed downstairs. 

Pushing open the doors a multitude of guns were pointed at you, “Miss Y/n I was told you were from a moderately high-class family you should know how to knock.”

You raced over to Namjoon and cupped your hand around your mouth leaning down. “I heard someone talking about breaking into your office, to steal information”

“Jimin” Namjoon beckoned him over, he whispered to Jimin who nodded and went out the back door. 

“Where is he going?” You asked and Namjoon stood up and walked you to the other end of the table and you frowned, “I don’t like this?”

“Sit relax, it is time for us to enjoy dinner.”

You sat for the briefest of moments watching Namjoon cross the room and sit at the opposite end of the table before taking your chair and dragging it across the floor slowly. 

You saw his eyebrow twitch as you did so and stopped beside him. “I would prefer not to shout across the table,” you smiled softly

“You are both a blessing and a curse,” Namjoon said, “dinner is now a minute late”

Dinner was unlike anything you had ever had before, you smiled and ate happily, “this is delicious”

“You should try the steak?” Namjoon smiled, you nodded, cutting some of your chicken and stabbed it with a fork. 

“Alright, I will try some of your steak if you try some of this chicken?” You held it out to him and his eyes were wide “it’s a fair trade”

He leaned forward and ate the small piece off your fork and he cut you a piece of steak and held it out to you. 

You leaned forward and took a bite chewing slowly, your eyes going wide. “That is delicious”

Namjoon leaned over wiping your chin with a napkin his thumb, your eyes were locked in a fierce gaze and he gave you a dimpled smile.

“Jin, try some of my chicken?” Taehyung asked, holding out his fork. 

“No, thank you?” Seokjin said, continuing to eat his steak ignoring the pouting young man. 

“But they shared?” He whined. This made you aware of how intimate your action was, your cheeks flushing dark at your forwardness.

After dinner you were being escorted back to your room. Namjoon was quiet the whole time, not for lack of trying. The amount of times you saw him open and close his mouth, as if he was trying to strike up something to say. 

Standing at your door he paused looking at you searching for something, you laughed opening the door, “Would you like to come in for a drink?” 

He seemed grateful for the excuse to stay in your company, after a drink of two you started talking about your most embarrassing stories. He was actually super clumsy for someone in the mafia and a complete goofball.

“And that was my first kiss, I haven’t really had many kisses after that and the few I can remember were just as bad” Your laughter was cut off by Namjoon who had leaned over on the small couch and pressed his lips to yours. Just as you felt your heart flutter he pulled away.

“It is getting late you should sleep” He stood up and placed down the glass, you walked him to the door and he froze. “Was that okay? I hope I didn’t overstep any boundaries, did I?”

“No it was nice really nice, you can do that-” He pressed his lips to yours once more and smiled whispering good night before walking off down the hall. With a sigh you added “Anytime you like.”

You didn’t hear anything strange from anyone or see anyone but you hoped everything worked out and the man who wanted to steal information ran away. 

You were trying to find Namjoon the next day and travelled downstairs looking in random doors. 

You reached the end of the hallway and found a door you heard screaming and knocked hesitantly on the wood, Yoongi stepped out covered in blood and gun in hand. 

“Oh, y/n now isn’t a good time?” Yoongi said, stepping out and shutting the door. “What are you doing down here?”

“I was looking for Namjoon, is everything okay? What are you doing?” You asked, concerned by the amount of blood on Yoongi’s clothes. 

“We are okay, Seokjin and I are just interrogating the mole, hey good spotting by the way no one knew they had snuck in,” your stomach dropped, this blood was from that man and it was all because of you. 

“Namjoon is in his office on the third floor from the ground west wing double doors on the left-right at the end of the corridor.”

You nodded, froze in place and Yoongi sighed “I have to go back in,” he went to pat your shoulder but saw his stained gloves and sighed ripping them off. 

He turned punching in numbers into the code lock. 7276. He slipped inside and you heard screaming, which was silenced immediately as the door sealed shut, you quickly ran feeling sick.

Racing up the stairs and bumping into Jungkook and almost falling, thankfully  he caught you, “hey hey, slow down what’s wrong?”

You were wide-eyed and scared and he frowned. “Did you go downstairs?”

You nodded and he led you down the hall, “you are scared and helpless, but the way to feel better is to get stronger. You won’t feel as scared if you're not so helpless.” Jungkook opened the doors to the gym. 

“Let me teach you how to fight,” Jungkook began teaching the basics and at another point, Jimin entered the two gave you pointers, their fighting styles. Jungkook was all power and strength and Jimin’s was survival. 

“Look all you got to know is how to break free so you can run away,” Jimin instructed. “Even someone like Yoongi can break out of Jungkook's grasp.” 

“That was one time and he refused to give me a rematch,” Jungkook wined. 

You were learning so much, and it was in a sense a little empowering. The two guys were good at what they did and the more you learnt the more you wanted to learn. 

Learning to fight gave you something to take your mind off what you had seen at least for the first two weeks but when you heard them relay information at breakfast you felt sick once more. 

“He refuses to speak,” Seokjin said 

“He will eventually,” Namjoon didn’t bat an eyelash. Two weeks of torture because you outed him. 

This was all your fault. He was suffering because of you. You left the dining hall unable to stomach the thought of food. 

Heading down the stairs you opened the door with the code 7276, you almost vomited, he sat there unrestrained and unconscious. His fingernails were removed and his face broken beyond repair. 

“Hello, sir are you alive?” You asked, he groaned struggling to move his head, coughing up some blood at the effort it took to move. 

“Who are you?”

“I am no one sir,” you breathed, “I can help you.”

He lunged hands gripping your throat and you fell back under the weight of him, you were struggling against him in panic. “Die you bitch, I know who you are, you're that monster's whore. He has never tried to protect anyone in his life and yet his soft spot is you. They are coming to kill you all.”

You struggled less hearing Jimin’s words in your head, “don’t panic” his voice would smooth as he held you in this position. “You want to panic but relax and fight back”

You did what he said, “your legs are your strongest so kick them in the chest” Jungkook would coach from the side, following their instructions you kicked the man off and ducked out the door pulling it closed. 

You were gasping and you ran up the stairs and into the dining hall gasping. Namjoon flew to his seat and scooped you up, sitting you on the side of the table. 

“Yoongi.” He commanded, he gently brushed his fingers over your neck, he looked upset, angry and sad all at once. The emotions were so strong it shocked you. Grabbing his gun, you pressed it into Namjoon's hands. 

“Kill him,” You wheezed, “slowly.”

“You went back down there didn’t you?” Jungkook sighed and before Yoongi could stop him Namjoon cocked the gun and stormed off. Seokjin followed after him and they all watched you trying to help. 

“Your throat will sting for a few days try not to talk it will help it heal,” Yoongi sighed 

“You just don’t want to hear me talk,” you joked, wincing at the pain. “Got it, no talking.”

Namjoon threw the man into the dining hall and dragged him by his hair across the floor, “the lady has requested you die and slowly.” 

Namjoon shot him six times in both legs, one in each foot, calf and thigh, the blood was pooling everywhere. You felt queasy, you wanted this but you weren’t sure you could stomach it. 

“If you can make it back to your people with these wounds I will let you go?” Namjoon put his gun away and the man tried to crawl away, losing strength as he streaked blood across the ground. 

The man was making horrible noises and you didn’t like it, covering your ears and Yoongi warned Namjoon who shot the mole in the back of the head as he reached for the door handle. 

Again the only thing you deemed appropriate after witnessing that sort of horrific event was to seclude yourself in your room. Yoongi visited bringing you soups to soothe your sore throat and his persistence and gentle nature was the only thing that got you to drink some of it.

You laid there alone when it started to rain. You loved the rain, but what surprised you was your new fear of the thunder rumbling in the distance sinister as if it was coming after you. 

You had never been afraid of storms you used to stand out on the patio undercover with your father and watch the lights flash and feel the electricity in the air. But now each flash had shadows in your window and was accompanied by gunshots that shook the ground.

You were a whimpering mess and you wanted to get out, you ran from your room and raced down the stairs and out the front door. You were in the rain running down the long estate driveway and you expected to be followed by Namjoons henchmen and dragged back and punished for what you didn’t expect was for Namjoon to be running after you. 

He grabbed you and pulled you to his chest hugging you gently and he started to sing in your ear, his voice was low and soothing. You found yourself easing into his chest and your erratic sobbing calmed some.

Forever Rain, Forever Rain, Forever Rain, Forever Rain, Forever Rain,

He repeated this phrase slowly singing into your ear holding you desperately and before you knew it, you passed out in his arms.

Namjoon was sweet, you woke up beside him, you were dressed in a button-up and nothing more and he was in his trousers that looked damp, he was sleeping above the blankets holding your hand as if he hadn’t intended to fall asleep beside you but to watch over you.

You brushed his hair off of his face and covered him with a blanket before heading to his closet, taking out some sweatpants and a plain white shirt. He stirred awake when you emerged from the walk-in closet. 

“Good morning,” You said softly

“You haven’t obtained any of my weapons while I was sleeping have you?” He asked, making you laugh behind your hand.

“No, someone hasn’t taught me how to use a gun properly, something about a magazine?” you said, trying to play coy. Namjoon laughed getting out of bed and taking your hand, dragging you into the closet and he began explaining all about guns and you listened he had all these amazing facts from when they were made to how they were made and how they fired and how far.

He demonstrated how to put ammunition into the magazine and the magazine into the gun. He taught you how to take the safety on and off and how to hold the gun being new so as not to accidentally shoot anyone. 

He led you to the balcony and smiled telling you to hold the gun and he corrected your stance and hold and he told you to aim at a tree and you did. 

“Now shoot?” He smiled encouragingly. You turned to him shocked, starting to protest that you weren’t ready. 

“You are just scared I promise nothing will happen?” He smiled talking you through it all again. 

He didn’t rush you and he didn’t laugh, he spoke the whole time about what you would like for breakfast. You fired a shot and bumped into Namjoon, he chuckled, “that was a good start. Did you close your eyes? Try again.”

It took a few goes and the boys busting in the room before you were comfortable with the weapon. Each had pointers and you felt empowered once more. 

“I can make you a pretty handgun,” Taehyung smiled and the group went to breakfast. 

“We have a meeting today, so dress pretty, it’s a good meeting, nothing scary, I think you will like it.” Namjoon smiled, making you nod and run off to get dressed. 

“Something Christmassy!” Taehyung shouted. 

This wasn’t what you expected when you heard mafia, usually you would think things like guns and drugs and women and violence and sure some of those things were true. 

But giving Christmas presents to an orphanage full of children wasn’t what you had in mind. You took a present and handed it out, “are you mister Kim’s wife now?”

You giggled at the children’s naive question and began thinking about what it would be like if you really were Namjoon’s wife. 

“Well, he hasn’t asked me so, no,” you laughed with the children some of the teens heard and began teasing Namjoon. 

“Why haven’t you asked her yet she is so pretty?” They said, “I would ask her.”

“Namjoon is shy, underneath the suit he is just a boy with dimples” Jimin teased earning a wad of wrapping paper at his head from the man in question. You had stepped outside into the snow watching it fall around you, Namjoon was eyeing you through the small glass window.

Excusing himself Namjoon left the children and headed out into the snowy garden, he shrugged off his jacket as he approached and slipped it over your shoulders. Clearing his throat “you shouldn’t be out here, you might catch a cold”

“Not with you here” You elbowed him playfully, he chuckled allowing you to lean against him, he didn’t tell you he was cold but dutifully stood there and kept you company.

“Thank you so much,” The woman said, as you all stepped out the front door, the boys all headed to the car and you were left beside Namjoon who had left his arm around your waist leading you to the car. “For the presents and the donation, the children and I truly appreciate it.”

“Y/n?” Namjoon said as you walked into the dining room to find it empty, the food was set and there were candles. “I wanted to speak with you privately.”

“Okay, what did you want to talk about?” You asked curiously, what was so important that his men whom he confided everything in were not present.

“Since I met you, I have broken so many of my rules, I have been late, I have forgotten what I have wanted to say, I have spoken without purpose, I have even broken the rule to keep speeches short and sweet.” He laughed rubbing the back of the neck. “I have enjoyed your company greatly and you have made me a better man because of it. Ever since I met you, I was enraptured by your brains and beauty. You are fiery and sassy and kind and real.”

“Thank you, I haven’t done that much though.” You weren’t being modest, you hadn’t done anything special to warrant his compliments.

“I wanted to ask if you would do me the greatest honour of marrying me?” He said, “I will keep you safe, you will never go hungry or cold, I will cherish you with every fibre of my being.”

“Yes,” You said in shock, you liked him of course, you had for a while now but the fact that he could get anyone and he chose you. That was what shocked you, you weren’t on the same status level. He was very high class and you were scrapping the lower end of high class.

The celebration was to be held at the grand hotel, the hall was booked and looking spectacular you were announcing your engagement. It was a real lavish affair and you were in the most expensive gown you had ever seen, feeling like a million dollars and wearing a million and a half.

It was all real, the shoes, jewelry, hotel, engagement and you couldn’t believe it. “Is this a dream?” the stylist shook her head.

You were trying to wonder where it had all come together; it was little gestures and actions. When the two of you met and he was charming and poise when dancing with you. The more you got to know him he was meticulous and sassy and strict, he didn’t miss a chance to correct and reprimand you. 

Somewhere along your journey he started to enjoy your company, he became more clumsy, and open to new ideas. He took a chance and started approaching you with his feelings and what blossomed between you was love.

“My lady, if you are ready follow us to take some photos with your fiance on the rooftop.” You were shaken out of your daydream and guided to the elevator headed for the rooftop, the two men were talking into headsets, “Everything is secure” The man said straight-faced, and the other man helped you hold the small train of your dress.

When you stepped out the men guided you across the rooftop and told you to sit in the chair while the cameraman finished setting up. You sat drinking, you only got a short way through it before you fell asleep.

Waking it was dark, you were strapped to the chair and there was something heavy and bulky on your chest. Eyes adjusting to see the glowing numbers on your chest. You started to cry, something was wrong and almost an hour went by before, you heard someone shouting your name.

“Y/N!” it was Jimin.

“Jimin!” You shouted and he raced over to the door but you heard the clanking of chains. You were locked in. 

“Wait here, I will get the others and something to get you out.” He was gone before you could tell him.

You heard more voices and Namjoon came over, you had ten minutes written on the digital clock on your chest, the numbers flickering down consistently. “Y/N?” Namjoon said, “Don’t worry, we will get you out?”

“Namjoon,” You cried from the seat, sobs breaking through your words, “There is a bomb.”

“Where is the bomb?” Namjoon said 

“It’s here,” Hot tears falling from your eyes stinging, “It’s on me, there is only nine minutes left.”

He swore, “Break this door down now, find another way in?”

They all began struggling and trying their best, but you knew it was useless. Namjoon, go, take everyone and go, there isn’t enough time?”

“No!” Namjoon growled smashing his fists on the door and throwing his shoulder into it, “I will get you out of it.”

“Namjoon, send the boys away don’t get them hurt because of me?” You whispered, “Go!”

“Leave us,” Namjoon said, his voice defeated.

“We won’t leave without you both?” Jungkook said, the timer said three minutes and you wanted to scream at them to go but the sobs took everything out of you.

“A man will follow orders to the letter Jungkook.” Namjoon said, sending the younger man away, “Get out of here.”

“Yeah rule number twenty-two, but what about number thirty-three take a challenge or thirty-nine finish what you start.”

“Jungkook, leave now before I shoot you, your orders are to get everyone out of the building, we will be down soon.”

Jungkook hesitated before running off. You called out to Namjoon begging him to leave but he refused continuing to try to break down the door blinking away the blur in your eyes from the tears you saw the time had only a minute left.

“Namjoon, there is only a minute left, please leave.” You pleaded and you could hear him on the other side of the door. 

“I am not leaving you,” He sniffed, voice watery and shaking with the sounds of his sobs. He broke the number one rule.

[Part 2]

If you enjoyed it don’t forget to Like | Reblog so others can enjoy it too.

[thiswasinevitableid]

87. you’re a P.I. my parents hired to investigate my fiancee and you completely ruined my engagement party with the dirt you found but I want to know all the details right now

Sternclay, sfw or nsfw, please!

Here you go! I went NSFW and set it in the same universe as this Indruck fill. The orc designs are once again inspired by @kriskukko, whose art everyone should check out

The air is grey and chilly, and his best coat is still a bit too plain for this affair, but Barclay can’t help but glow. His husband to be is using this engagement party to invite him into parts of society he’s only glimpsed from behind kitchen counters or through windows on his way home in the early hours of the morning.

He didn’t even have to cook the table of delicacies and warm punches, which is usually his entry fee into any social space not hosted by Mama or his other friends back at Amnesty Lodge.

“Are you alright my dear?” William touches his shoulder. He’s the height of fashion from the new stud in his nose to the cut of his suit. Barclay looks at their linked hands, marveling at how his tattoos and calluses contrast with the smooth, unmarked green of Williams' skin. It’s wonderful to know he can be part of such an unlikely match.

“I’m fine. I just wish Mama and them could be here too.”

“Barclay, I know you care for them, but they agreed with me that this is not a party they’d feel comfortable attending.”

If memory serves, Mama’s word choice was “enjoy” not “comfortable” but he’s distracted from this detail by the orc currently in a hushed conversation with William’s parents. His accent is American, the same as Barclay’s. He knows William has no friends or family on the other side of the Atlantic, and he’s too well-dressed to be an attendant. When William’s parents fervently shake their heads, the newcomer turns and strides across the floor, right to the happy couple.

“Mr. Cobb” he offers Barclay a slight bow, shows no deference to William, “My name is Joseph Stern. I’m a private detective hired by your fiance’s family. They hoped I would find reason for him not to marry you. I have.”

“I, I don’t understand. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“No, you haven’t. The reason I suggest calling off the wedding is that he” Stern indicates William, “is not the least bit interested in you. He chose you because he knew his parents would disapprove of the match, which would in turn make it easier for him to call off the engagement two months from now and, three months after that, propose to his lifelong friend, Albert Rothby.”

Gasps and whispers fill the room. Barclay looks to William for reassurance but can’t find any; William’s too busy trading alarmed glances with Albert.

Stern continues, “His parents would be all too happy to accept the orc they once rejected for being from a slightly less well-off family after the shock and scandal of him almost marrying a nobody cook.”

“Hey!”

“His words, not mine.” The detective turns to the hosts, “You don’t need to pay me for my time, since I didn’t give you what you wanted. Good afternoon.”

A thoroughly baffled servant hands him his coat and hat as he exits, the room overflowing with chaotic accusations behind him. William doesn’t say two words to Barclay, choosing instead to shout at his parents. Barclay pulls off his silver engagement band, shoves it into his now ex-fiance’s hand, and storms out of the room.

He intends to make straight for the train station, hide his tears and humiliation until he’s safe under Amnesty’s worn shingles. But when he spies Stern on the corner handing coins to an errand boy, his foolish hope gets the better of him.

“How do you know?”

“Excuse me?”

“How do you know that’s really what William planned?”

Stern hails a cab, motions for Barclay to join him inside it. When they’re seated, he reaches into his coat and removes a bound stack of letters.

“Albert’s arrogant and sloppy; all it took was five pounds to get one of the maids to fish these out of his wastebasket.” He passes the notes to Barclay.

Each one he skims is like slicing his finger with a meat cleaver. Not a single piece of his personality or appearance remains unmocked by the time he’s done.

“I was just a game to him.” He stares at William’s signature, the same one that dots a pile of letters he’ll burn when he gets home. When he looks up, Stern’s face is full of sympathy.

“I considered not saying anything. That even if the engagement ended, you might be able to tell yourself it was a true love that wasn’t meant to be. But the longer I trailed you...I saw that you deserved better than being a pawn in someone else's trivial chess game. I offered his parent’s the chance for me to have the conversation in private; they doubled down on their insistence that you must be secretly awful to have lured their dear son to you. Ruining their party seemed fair.”

“I guess.” Barclay’s lip trembles. What was it William wrote? That he was as tender and devoted as a lapdog and twice as fun to kick around?

Stern produces a monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket, holds it out to him, “I’m sorry. I know ignorance is bliss but, um, wasting your heart on someone like him strikes me as hellish.”

Barclay wipes his eyes, but the tears insist on flowing, “No you’re, you’re right, it just, I, I really thought he loved me.” He lets out a bitter laugh, “I really am more brawn than brain, just like he said.”

“No, you’re not.” The cab slows, and Joseph’s blue eyes pin the pieces of his crumbling heart together, “and even if you were every single thing he said you were in those letters, that wouldn’t justify his treatment of you. You’re a good man, Barclay” he smiles for the first time, “someone will treat you how you deserve one of these days.”

The driver announces they’ve arrived at Barclays hotel. He glances at Stern, surprised.

He opens the door for Barclay with a wink, “detective.”

-------------------------------------------------------------

Fall arrived on the first of September, meaning the business at Amnesty dwindles right along with leaves. They won’t see another flood of visitors until the winter holidays, when everyone travels up and down the country to meet with family. Barclay fills his days with work and tries not to think about how happy he was a year ago.

Dani has a cold, so he’s working the lobby counter until it’s time for him to start dinner. A chill and burst of nickel-tinted light announce a guest. When the orc approaches him, he drops his pen.

“Hello, Barclay. It’s nice to see you under happier circumstances.” Stern removes his hat, runs his fingers through his black hair, “would it be possible to rent a room here indefinitely? I’m on a case and I have no idea how long it’ll take.”

“Yeah, of course.” He pulls out the register to check which rooms are open, which would be easier if his eyes didn’t insist on flicking back to the orc in front of him. He’d noticed Stern was handsome before, in the same way he noticed the sky is blue or a piece of fruit was ripe. Now it’s all he sees; the cut of his clothes suggesting a trim, capable figure beneath, his clean shaveness showing off the angles of his jaw and cheeks. His tusks are the same size and not chipped like Barclays own. The cook wants Stern to sink them into his skin and not let up until he sobs for a kiss instead.

“Uh, here” he retrieves a key, “I can put you in number twelve. It’s upstairs, last door if you take a left.

“Great!” Stern takes the key, lifts his two bags, “thank you for accommodating me.” His gaze slows as it moves up to Barclays face, “I think I’m going to enjoy my stay.”

---------------------------------

Joseph hates the days where he has to wait for telegrams before proceeding with his investigation. It makes him feel like a dog gnawing its tail out of boredom. At least, it used to. Now that he’s at Amnesty, he’s never bored. It’s hard to be when the best looking orc he’s ever seen likes to talk with him while cleaning tables or making breakfast.

William Ashby is a fool. Joseph knew this when he watched him forgo a kind, interesting orc who was built like a god and had eminently kissable lips for the sake of some uninteresting upper class nobody. But now that he’s eating Barclays’ cooking every day, the opinion is twice as strong. No one should be able to make potatoes a divine experience, but his friend manages.

“No running around stuffy offices or abandoned houses today?” Barclay sits down across from him.

“Not until I get a telegram from that solicitor in London. Black or white?”

“White. Well, that’s good news for me, I get a chance to beat you.” He’s smiling, the firelight dancing in his eyes and off the copper in his beard. Joseph wishes he could mimic the light's path with his hands.

Instead, he grins as he lays out the chess pieces, “In your dreams.”

An hour and a half later, Barclay whoops, “checkmate” and Joseph falls even more in love.

-----------------------------------

“Barclay? Since it’s not raining I thought you might like to…” Joseph falls silent at the sight of Barclay sitting on his bed, facing the window with a defeated set to his shoulders.

“Sure, as long as we’re back before dark.” He shrugs and doesn’t so much as look over his shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” Joseph settles beside him, notices the handkerchief with his initials on it clutched between his hands. The tears on it are fresh.

“Nothing. Just, uh, just….this is the anniversary of when he proposed. Of when I thought someone loved me that way, of when I thought that, that...fuck, it’s gonna sound so silly.”

“You don’t have to say it but I, um, I hope you know I won’t judge you for whatever it is.”

Barclay twists the fabric, “I love my life here at Amnesty. I love Mama, all my friends, I love being a cook. But I’ve never been wealthy; Mama and I faced lots of hard times before coming here, especially when my folks died and she took me in. The Lodge does well but there’s always the fear that one day it won’t. I can be happy without fancy food or nice clothes or nights out but, uh,” he clears his throat, “that doesn’t mean I didn’t really like having them. I don’t miss him so much as I miss this feeling of being able to want without worry. Of, of thinking I’d get to do that forever.”

He lists to the side, rests his head on Joseph’s shoulder. He’s both taller and broader than Joseph, which adds to his charms, but right now the detective wishes he was smaller so he could gather him in his arms and protect him from the disappointing world. Give him what he’s missing.

An idea buzzes to the front of his mind. He rubs Barclays shoulder soothingly, “You have to go into London for some orders, right?”

“Uh huh.”

“I have to go in to deal with this case and check to make sure nothing urgent is waiting at my office. Do you want to go together?”

Barclay looks up at him, brown eyes glittering like precious metal, “I’d love to.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Barclay knows Joseph has wealthy clients; he’s starting to suspect he has even more of them than he lets on. They’re in London for two days, and every moment not spent sleeping or working is filled by Joseph taking Barclay somewhere. The meals are by far his favorite, but Joseph bought them tickets to the opera their second night. When Barclay worried he wouldn’t be well dressed enough, Joseph decided they could both do with new clothes and bought everything without blinking at the bill.

Now, Barclay is in a private box, belly full from their stop at Simpson’s and Joseph’s shoulder resting against his own. The music is beautiful, the staging intriguing, but he’s struggling to keep his eyes open, too warm and comfortable from the company and the darkness.

The port they had after dinner probably isn’t helping.

He rests his head back, let’s his eyes flutter closed. After a moment Joseph laughs softly and whispers, “A bit too full from dinner?”

“Mmmhmmm.”

“That’s okay. The whole point of tonight is for you to enjoy yourself. If that means happily lazing like a dog by a fire, that’s what you should do.”

Barclay tenses for a second, then relaxes. It’s not like when William kept referring to him as a dog; in Joseph’s voice it’s fond, like a master who knows he indulges his hound but doesn’t care.

“That’s me. Just a spoiled pet.” He murmurs.

Short claws trace across his upper thigh, “As it should be.”

His eyes flutter open; Joseph watches him in the dark, expression attentive and possessive. His fingers don’t move even a centimeter until Barclay nods. Then they finish curving over his thigh to stroke his cock through his pants.

No one can see them, but even so his eyes dart side to side before shutting once more.

“Good boy” Joseph sighs, “sweet boy.”

Barclay nods, squirms as the touches stay teasing.

“Don’t rush. We have a whole other act to go. Just keep quiet; you’re a big, sweet beast, I’d hate to have to” he presses his palm down, “discipline you.”

He bites his tongue to keep from groaning; when they’re back at the lodge, he’s going to misbehave so much.

Joseph keeps up his steady, calculated teasing, Barclay never moving past half-hard. He falls into an almost sleep-like state, feeling weightless and far away from himself yet completely safe in Joseph’s care.

Then swift fingers undo his trousers and a handkerchief wraps around his cock. He throws a palm over his mouth as Joseph jerks his hand up and down.

“It’s almost over.” The detective murmurs, chuckles when Barclay crumples to hide his face in his neck, “that’s it, be a good boy and---oh, oh good lord.” He stifles a sigh in Barclays hair while Barclay cums into the cloth, saturating it embarrassingly fast. William once compared him, unfavorably, to a centaur in that regard. Joseph simply kisses his forehead and tidies him up. By the time they exit, the only sign of their dalliance is Barclays wobbly legs.

He fully intends to return the favor, but sex-drunkeness and general exhaustion drag him to sleep before Joseph is even in bed.

Their morning is a brisk packing up of things followed by a trip to the train station. Once they’re in their cabin, Joseph looks over the notes he made during his research.

“I just can’t shake the feeling Mr. Newton is in danger.”

“Giant cursed hound will do that.”

“I’m not so sure that’s it. I’m not ruling out the supernatural, but there are elements of this that feel distinctly orcish and very much alive in their threat. I’m glad he brought that friend of his with him; were he in Beacon House alone, he could be in serious trouble.” He closes his small notebook.

“I still can’t tell if he’s more than a friend.”

“They might not know. The few times I’ve run into Mr. Newton or Mr.Cold, they seem to be in stalemate, neither willing to make a move.”

“Good thing you don’t have that problem.” Barclay winks, then realizes he might be reading the other orc wrong, “I, uh, I mean, not that last night has to mean anything.”

Joseph unbuttons his coat, “I, um, I hoped it might.”

“Thankfuck.” Barclay slumps back, “me too.”

There’s a click of the lock, then Joseph stands and begins undoing his pants, “speaking of which, it seems to me a good boy would reward me for last night.”

“Yes, oh fuck yes.” He scrambles to get his cock out, stroking it frantically as Joseph rolls up his sleeves.

“You’re so eager to please, it makes me want to give you everything you ask for.”

“Please?”

Joseph, now bare from the waist down, bends to kiss him, “Please what?”

“Please let me fuck you, let me mppph!” His moan slips straight down Joseph’s throat as he sinks onto Barclays cock.

“Ohhhhhyes, ohmylord” the tips of his ears twitch as he rocks his hips, “you feel so good”

“Y-you’re one to talk, fuck, Joseph can I touch you?”

“Anywhere you waAAnt” he tips his head back, whisper threatening to break as Barclay drops a thumb down to rub his cock. He sets his hands on Barclay’s shoulders, “we, we don’t have much time, and I do need to review more of the case before we arrive, so be a good boy and let me ride you hard and fast?”

“Yes, yesfuck, ohyeah” A laugh catches on his tongue as Joseph, his dignified, debonair detective, sets to bouncing up and down on his cock with the kind of abandon he only witnessed when he used to serve drinks in a brothel.

Joseph grins, kisses him messily as their grunts meld with the rumble of the train. Barclay glides his free hand around to grope and paw his ass, savoring how it tightens with the effort of riding, of taking Barclay again and again. Curious, he gives it a light slap, wishing he could see a little pink bloom on the green there.

“Careful, sweet boy; if anyone’s ass is getting bruised it’s yours.”

“Tonight?” He smiles hopefully at Joseph’s flushed face.

“Yes, Barclay tonight. Tonight I’ll, ohlord, strip you down, let you rut on the bed like the needy beast you are while I turn your ass tender and red before fucking it, oh, ohshit, Barclay.” He smashes their lips together as he cums, Barclay whining with pleasure at the fact that he got him there. The detective doesn’t break the kiss as he pulls off, simply uses his strong legs to keep straddling him as he jerks Barclay off with one hand and rucks his own shirt up with the other. Barclay moans helplessly as he cums in large, white droplets all up his stomach and chest.

“You’re wonderful.” Joseph kisses his cheek.

“So are you.” Barclay holds him close, giggles adoringly when Joseph starts concocting theories while half-naked and cuddled in his lap. By the time they reach home, there’s no sign of their dalliance.

Except for their linked hands and matching smiles.

[shirtlesssammy]

2x09: Croatoan

Then:

Sam Winchester, Supernatural’s resident Clyde Bruckman

Now:

Sam has a vision of Dean in a room with a bunch of strangers. One man is tied to a chair and Dean has his gun trained on him. The man pleads that it’s not in him. He begs the doctor to tell Dean that. She can’t tell. Dean has to do his job --and we see him shoot. 

In reality, Dean’s just getting back from a Slim Jim and beer run. 

The brothers head out to the town that Sam saw in his vision. Once there, Sam notices a man that was in his vision. They approach him and pose as Federal Marshals. They ask about the other man in Sam’s vision. Dean sees a tattoo on the man’s arm and appeals to the fact that he was in the Marines. He tells the brothers where Duane lives. 

On their walk to Duane’s, Sam notices the word CROATOAN carved into a telephone pole. 

Then the history nerd Sam decides it’s his right to lecture Dean on not knowing what this word is. Dean was too busy saving the world to pay attention in history class, Sam. Get off your high horse. Also, SAM, they weren’t wiped out “overnight”, and in fact probably just integrated into local native communities. Okay, I’ll get off my own high horse now, lol. 

They decide to contact Bobby or Ellen for help, but their phones don’t get a signal and the conveniently placed pay phone doesn’t work. 

They head to Duane’s house. His brother greets them at the door and tells them he’s on a fishing trip. His dad then shows up at the door and lets them know he doesn't know when Duane will be back. They ask about the mother, but she’s out getting groceries. It’s clear then that the family is lying. 

It turns out, the mom is tied up in the kitchen. 

Sam and Dean bust in just as the son is dripping blood onto the mother. The dad charges them and Dean takes him out. The son busts through the kitchen window and runs away before Sam gets a clear shot. 

They head back to town with the mom and take her to the local clinic. Dean brings in the father, lol. The doctor patches up the mother, Beverly, while she tells her story. “One minute they were my husband and son, and the next they had the devil in them.” 

Dean and Sam wonder if it’s a mass possession. The doctor comes in and wants to know what happened --they just killed her next door neighbor. Since the phones are down, Dean decides to head to the next town for help. 

On the road, he finds a stalled car with a bullet hole in the windshield. The car is abandoned --with an empty baby seat, blood everywhere, and a knife outside the driver’s door. 

At the clinic, the doctor determines that the dead guy was fighting off a viral infection. She also notes a weird red residue like sulfur. 

Dean keeps driving and comes across a roadblock of people with guns. Totally COOL. A man surprised Dean at his door and asks him to step outside. Dean hits the gas pedal in reverse. Guns start firing. Dean drags the dude and does a 180 --getting out of there in time. 

The doctor tells Beverly about the virus and asks if she had contact with their blood. (I mean, just that LITTLE blood ritual they were doing before Sam and Dean popped in.) The doctor asks to take a blood sample. Beverly seems to acquiesce, and then goes full roid rage. 

Sam knocks her out with a gas canister. 

As Dean pulls back into town, the man they talked to earlier jumps out with a gun. Dean and him have a small standoff --each wondering if the other one is “one of ‘em?” The town is going crazy though. Dean suggests heading over the the clinic since there’s no way out of town. The man doesn't believe Dean but then decides to get in the car. Dean drives to the clinic with them both pointing their gun at the other. 

At the clinic, Pam, the nurse, wants to leave to check on her boyfriend. Sam convinces her that it’s safer in the clinic. It’s then that Dean and the Sarge show up. Dean and Sam discuss the virus --demonic virus. Sam read in their dad’s journal that John thought that Croatoan was a name of a demon. They have to warn people. 

They learn that Beverly is infected and, to Doctor Lee’s and Pam’s horror, Dean and the Sarge immediately announce their intention to kill her. But before they go to that drastic step, Sam interrogates Doctor Lee and asks her if she has a cure yet. The doctor gives Sam a PLEASE SHUT UP look because no, she DOESN’T have a cure for a brand new virus that she’s just discovered with her - checks notes - standard wellness clinic equipment. Long story short, the mom dies bloody.

Later, shadowy figures lurk outside the clinic. Inside, the Winchesters merrily prepare for war as Pam gets twitchy and drops infected blood samples. They decide to fight their way out of town, past the blockades. Sam “Don’t Look at my Browser History” Winchester’s eyes light on some chemicals in the office. It’s time to make some bombs.

Suddenly, someone pounds on the clinic door begging for help. It’s Duane, otherwise known as the man from Sam’s vision! He tells them he just got back from the fishing trip from hell, and he’d sure like to know where his parents are. UH....one of them is dead in the closet next to you? The doctor examines him and finds a wound on him. They tie him up while Doctor Lee drops a virus update. It takes three hours for the virus to incubate before sulfur starts cropping up in the bloodstream. She can’t test for the virus until it’s too late...and he goes full rage zombie on everyone.

Sam pulls Dean aside and begs him to wait to kill Duane. Dean’s against this plan, and Sam accuses him of acting out of character. LORD SAM if I had a nickel for every time that happened on this show! Dean immediately takes umbrage with...everything...and flees the conversation.  He also locks Sam in a room so he can pull off his execution uninterrupted. Dean BBY no.

Duane tearfully begs for his life while Dean confronts the monster within himself - and aims the gun.

“I got no choice,” Dean says while Duane weeps, and I weep for different reasons. Dean’s hand shakes. His lip trembles. Dean drops the gun with a curse.

Later, he unwinds while making bombs with Sam. The doctor announces that over four hours have passed, and Duane’s blood is still unsulfured. They decide to untie him. Sam asks why Dean decided to spare his life. Dean deflects because...of course, and Sam heads off for more supplies.

Pam locks Sam in a room with her and almost immediately shrieks and attacks him. She cuts Sam and slices her own palm, pressing into Sam’s wound. Right after that, Dean breaks the door down and shoots her. They wrap their heads around the fact that Pam bled on Sam.

While the extremely harried Doctor examines Sam, the others hold an intense standoff in front of Sam. Dean will kill anyone and everyone to PROTECT his brother, but the others advocate for immediate action. Sam tells Dean to hand a gun over to him and he’ll take himself out! And he doesn’t mean take himself out to a nice dinner and movie! GUH. Winchesters. 

Dean throws his car keys - BABY’S CAR KEYS - to the others and tells them to get the hell out of town. He plans to stay behind and watch over his brother for it is his SOLEMN SWORN DUTY.

Sam begs Dean to hand him a gun and get to safety. And that’s sad, sure. That’s tragic. But when Sam urges Dean to “keep going” Dean looks away. “Who says I want to?” he gets out.  Excuse me, I’m just going to fling myself off a cliff. 

“I’m tired, Sam. I’m tired of this job. This life. This weight on my shoulders.” Dean confesses that it’s not all about their dad’s death either… He was feeling this before their dad died. But JUST BEFORE we get to the core of Dean Winchester, the doctor knocks and tells them to head outside.

The town is utterly silent, everyone gone. The camera super-zooms in on the carved “CROATOAN” on the light pole. Dun dun DUN, etcetera. Why yes, Robert Singer DID direct this episode!

More time passes, and the doctor examines Sam’s blood sample again. His blood is still clean hours later. Sam’s baffled because he for really real knows he got Pam’s blood in his wound. SAM, YER A WIZARD! The doctor looks at the other contaminated samples for comparison and discovers that they’re entirely clean. 

In the morning, the doctor bids everyone farewell. She gives Sam a clean bill of health. Sam is predictably still puppy-dog-eyed baffled over it, but he and Dean head out regardless. Duane and Sarge blow town together. 

For Pretty Car Science:

Later, Duane asks to pull over. “I gotta make a call,” he says before rapidly slicing Sarge’s throat and filling a chalice with blood. He tells the cup that the testing is over. The “Winchester boy is definitely immune, as expected.” His eyes turn demon-black.

Elsewhere, Sam and Dean take in a nature stroll as delicate music plays. 

For Winchesters Enjoying Nature Science:

They moodily swig beer. Sam asks Dean to explain his woeful feelings from earlier. “We oughtta...go to the Grand Canyon,” Dean proposes, COMPLETELY failing to be honest about his feelings. He’d like a break from hunting. When Sam digs further, Dean finally spills. Before their dad died, he told Dean something about Sam. John Winchester, father of the year, told Dean he might have to………..

And we cut to black. I’m sure it was something nice, though, like buy Sam an ice cream cake!

Quotatoan:

That's not school, that's Schoolhouse Rock

Well, you are a handsome devil, but I don't swing that way >.>

You've got a neighbor named Mr. Rogers?

Night of the Living Dead didn't exactly end pretty

We're supposed to struggle with this. That's the whole point

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive! 

[wu-sisyphus-gang]

Motion Sickness Chapter 38

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"How long are you going to follow me, you mute bitch?" With her teleportation and illusions there wasn't much I could do about it. We both knew if it came down to it I'd win, though. I'd shown that earlier. But she could escape anytime she wanted so I couldn't chase after her and end it. I could activate my semblance and smash her around with my strength or speed and win by standing still.

But only by standing still.

I walked past a billboard proclaiming Mercury Black, Emerald Sustrai, Cinder Fall, Hazel Rainart, and the Scorpion as wanted. My friends lived. I'd go spy on them later, when Neapolitan wasn't watching. Just to check up on them. Then I'd head my separate way.

She rapidly poked one finger through a loop in the other hand. "Fuck," I interpreted. She pointed at me. "Myself."

She clapped her hands giddily in her approval and her eyes switched colors.

"I need money," I muttered. "And a new scroll. I don't suppose you have any ideas."

She reached out into an illusion and retrieved a red brimmed hat.

"Ones that don't involve Ruby. I really seriously don't know where she is."

She looked like she didn't believe me, eyebrows furrowed.

"Well tough shit. Unless you want to go another round." She rubbed her chest where I hit her. "I'd be all for that."

She just frowned.

"Fair enough," I said. "Why do you even want to find Ruby?"

She drew a line over her throat and fondled the red and black hat.

"You want revenge for Roman Torchwick."

She nodded.

"Ruby didn't kill your boss." I dropped the harsh news on her.

She cocked her head sideways at me as we walked together through Mistral. It was… it was actually nice to have someone to talk to. Talk at, even. Otherwise I'd be alone with my thoughts and that just wouldn't be good for me. I was still wishy-washy on ending my own life.

I deserved it too. I wanted to die for what I'd done to my friends. I was the culprit, the thief in the night who robbed them of the opportunity of ever being 'together, together.'

At least they were together in death, now.

"A Grimm got him," she frowned up at me at that. "You can't even get revenge." I laughed. "You poor bitch. Not that I'm any better." Who was I supposed to kill in my hunt for vengeance now? Me. And believe me I was thinking of ways of getting to that son of a bitch. Unfortunately he was running out of friends.

An alien goddess had control over my mind. I was little more than a puppet under the right circumstances. I suppose if I had been like a puppet, all uncoordinated, Ren and Nora might have had a chance at subduing me. Instead I'd acted more or less fluid. That was a little scarier. Or a lot.

She smashed one fist into the other.

"If you were going to kill me you would have done it back at the bar. Don't act. You can't pull it off. Not while I'm awake and I assure you I'll be on my guard while sleeping. You won't get it done then either, not with my aura level."

She gave me an adorable pout. Her pink lips pressed together and out. Her pink and brown hair flowing over her shoulders.

"I know how you feel. I need revenge against Cinder. You know her? Cinder Fall?"

Her grin stretched.

"Don't tell me you want to kill her too? Did she get your boss killed? Set him up?"

She nodded.

"That's as good as killing him, I suppose. I think we may be able to help each other. Ruby really didn't kill him. Ruby doesn't have it in her to kill somebody. She always goes out of her way to avoid it."

She frowned and pointed at me.

"She's not like me. I'm a murderous asshole."

She shook her head indicating I'd guessed wrong and pointed at me again.

"What about me?"

She rotated one finger next to her head.

"I am crazy. Don't even get me started. If nothing else I'm suicidally insane. And that doesn't even get to these bugs in my eyes."

She pantomimed doing a line of hyper. Pinching one side of her nose and breathing in.

"I'm not on anything. I'm just fucked up."

She touched the tips of opposite forefingers together.

"What's that mean? It's not the same thing."

We walked in two-sided silence for a few minutes down a rainy street.

"You know where somebody with a loose moral compass can make some money around here relatively fast?"

She pointed a thumb over her shoulder back at Malachite's bar.

"Yeah, I sorta burned that bridge. And it can't involve Don Corneo. I had him tortured. Killed a bunch of his men, too."

Her smile widened looking up at me.

"Oh is that how you get your jollies?"

She just grinned up at me.

"Well I suppose we could just do official huntsman work. That's always lucrative."

She pointed a finger between us.

"Yeah I thought you were following me. That makes it an us. Keep up. Plus I just might be your best shot at murdering Fall. I almost fuckin' had her. And I might know where she's headed next."

She looked at me in surprise.

"Yep. Her and Black, too. Fought them relatively recently."

She put a hand to her mouth and silently laughed at me.

"Yeah they lived. Go ahead and giggle. Next time I'll get one of them. At least one of them. Well, Cinder has the powers of the spring maiden now. It might be even harder than before."

She gave me a confused look. Hell, who was she going to tell? She was… easy to talk to besides. I wasn't sure if it was the muteness but it might be.

"It's a whole thing. Ancient powers passed along person to person. Myths and legends. It's fucking bullshit is what it is. Girls only club. So maybe you could get in on that action."

She silently snorted, full of doubt. A little air escaping her nose.

"It's true. You can be the one to fight her and find out the hard way or you can take my word for it. She's even more dangerous now. And she was already a heaping pile of it before. I surprised her yesterday and I'm only getting stronger from what I've seen but she just added a big helping of power to herself."

She pointed at herself then smashed one fist into her open palm to indicate violence.

"Could you beat her?"

She nodded. Letting me know I'd guessed right.

"Maybe. Maybe before but probably not now. You'd be in serious trouble. I'd be in serious trouble." I let that sink in, I was able to beat this ice-cream girl and if I was not able to beat Cinder that only meant she wouldn't be able to either.  

She made a complicated series of gestures.

"I didn't get that. But it doesn't matter, does it?"

She just frowned at me and I strode forward. She was practically jogging to keep up and I had no intention of slowing down.

The relic jingled by my side as I walked.

"You know maybe it can involve Don Corneo. You up for stealing from a mob boss? It might involve torture and death. I could use someone with your talents."

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Some broken limbs and I learned the news (Neapolitan had clapped at that). Don Corneo was holed up in his mansion with a whole lot of guards and probably a whole lot of money. Evidently he hadn't taken being tortured very well.

Go figure.

Neapolitan or just Neo was working beside me and honestly it felt good to have somebody watching my back, even if they were criminal scum. Which, I mean, beggars couldn't be choosers from their glass houses.

I needed a pseudonym. I could hardly keep calling myself Jaune Arc even though my weapon and face would be recognizable. I needed a haircut and makeover and a new name. I had to hide from my friends as much as it bit at me.

I was lucky they hadn't reported me to the police. The wounds on Nora and Ren's bodies would be unmistakable as coming from my weapon.

More importantly I needed the money to do all that. I was a long ways away from hopping on a horse and riding out to Merlot's laboratory, as much as I may want to. Instead I needed to stay in the city for a while.

That meant laying low and coming up with a heist. I needed money. Enough that I didn't have to worry about it for a long time.

I was struggling to come up with a new name for myself. That was always the hardest part. Names. I thought that as I broke one of Don Corneo's lackeys' fingers.

Neo and I had him tied down in a hotel room on the lower levels. It was dirt cheap and nobody would ask any questions. Especially if we left no body behind.

He screamed into a gag and it came out muffled. Nickel was the name we managed to get out of him.

"Shshsh." I told him. "You're going to tell me the security details on Don Corneo's mansion or I'm going to break every last bone in your body. If you scream I'll hurt you even more than that. Are we clear? Everything goes well and you get to walk on out of here. You might have to find a new boss but that doesn't really matter compared to your life, does it?"

He seemed to realize I was actually waiting for a response and gave a slow shake of his head. I nodded at Neo and she pulled out the gag.

"Now, what's the security look like?"

"He's going to kill you for this, he's going to-"

Neo gave a lecherous grin and stabbed him through the foot. Who was this guy fooling? He didn't even have aura. There was no way the Don cared about him a Lien. Not that we cared considering we were planning to rob him blind. She covered his mouth with the other hand, not that we really needed to down here per se, and looked him in the eye.

Her gaze flickered out like a hungry lizard's tongue to meet his eyes and devour all of the pain therein.

"Boy you don't even have aura. I can fix that for you. Unlock your aura and make it all go away." He was older than me, probably by a few years. Might be twenty-one, twenty-two. I watched him consider it. Aura was a game changer. A kid like him had to know what it meant, what it could mean. It'd mean a pay raise if nothing else. It meant increased survivability. It meant the power to fight back against those dastardly huntsmen.

"I can make the pain go away too. It'll heal you right up, even your broken fingers." They were tied behind his back. Nice and easy within snapping distance. "What's it going to be, my man."

"Fuck you, I ain't your man."

I broke another one of his fingers. Neo stuffed the gag back in his mouth while he screamed.

"We're not making much headway with this one. Might have to kill him and grab a fresh one. Start over." I said it clinically to Neo. Her eyes went wide at the thought of the violence. I even thought maybe the tips of her breasts were protruding more than before from the excitement. She gave a silent laugh and I hoped it was just my imagination. For my part I didn't have a carnage boner.

A murder erection I distinctly did not have. I wasn't a sadist. Just a pragmatist.

I had to admit there was a bit of an endorphin rush at the thought of snapping this guy's neck, though. With Neo's semblance we'd just walked up and grabbed him from the mansion and we'd walked away, under the cover of an illusion.

Suddenly I had some symptoms come at me and I blinked hard at the tactile sensation of bugs in my eyes until they stopped. Nerves firing which shouldn't have been.

"I'm thinking maybe we just hammer the place. Go all in and kill everyone in our way," I said. "Your thoughts, Neapolitan?"

She stamped a foot.

"Beg your pardon, I meant Neo." I hadn't but she seemed content to insist on it now that I'd figured it out. I took it as a good sign.

"M-m-m. M-m-m." Came from under the gag.

"Sorry, do you have friends in there? Some buddies perhaps?"

Neo pulled the gag out of his mouth. Nickel spat on the floor, very much not in our directions. He didn't want another broken finger was what that told me.

"You'll never make it like that. The Don has a safe room. A panic vault. You'll never get in and get what you want that way."

"And you've telling us this now because…"

"I want a cut. He's got millions stashed away. A-and I want my aura unlocked... And I walk free."

So that's how it is. Money talks, money talks. Apparently louder than broken bones could.

"Tell me about this panic room."

"It's got Titania walls and big electric locks."

"What kind?"

"The fuck should I know? It's like you see in bank vaults though. His office is in there. Or at least it is now they moved it from the second floor. He's been paranoid. There's been talk."

"Talk about how somebody got to him." I nodded. I put my face in his. "Somebody did. I'm going to do it again."

"It was you. It was you at the Honey Bee Inn." His brown eyes went wide.

"Maybe. Tell me about the mansion."

"It's built with choke points in mind. And places we're supposed to go to to lay down fire if there's an assault. It's all built around this central courtyard, too. It has mines in the walls, explosives at every corridor. They can be remotely activated by the Don. The whole place is booby-trapped. It’s supposed to be huntsman proof.”

“Nothing is actually huntsman proof."

He shrugged but the fact he was panting hard ruined the illusion of calm. "Couldn't say."

"Talk to me about the patrols you were on.”

“They’re fairly strict about it. Somebody will have noticed I’m gone, even. Every hour on the hour and through the center courtyard. Around the building, too.”

“How many?”

“A hundred of us at a given time, maybe."

A hundred could be a problem. Especially if they had proper choke points and the right hardware. Hard light weapons or magnetically accelerated rifles were huntsman level. There were also electric weapons which I was sure could find Neo, invisible or not. I'd seen Neptune use one. An explosion could also take me down. Limit was good but I wasn't invincible.

"Aura?"

"Some of us have it, some of us don't. The Don hasn't been in a position to be picky about his men. Not with his empire crumbling under pressure to the Malachites."

I leaned back and folded my arms. I exchanged looks with Neo. She flickered in and out of the visible spectrum and warbled a hand.

"Might be too many to just walk in to. Plus the explosives. They gonna be a problem for you?"

She waved her hand again.

"Samesies," I grunted.

I had him walk me through the layout of the place in enough detail that I was able to draw a map of the first and second floor. The panic office was on the bottom floor. A big, heavy thing like that couldn't be above ground.

Neo gave me a pleading look and I nodded. She walked behind Nickel and she bent down like she was going to untie him. Giving him one last shred of hope before she snapped up and slit his throat. I watched her take extreme pleasure in doing it.

She shuddered with the living corpse as his lifeblood drained soundlessly onto the floor. She looked ecstatic in the company of death. A low narrow smile on her lips.

It was clear to me. I just needed to give her lots of targets. It seemed like it had been a long time since she was able to indulge in such things. Heists. Murder. All of it. Money must trickle. The blood must flow.

Most importantly I needed to keep her focused on Cinder rather than Ruby. I think the message was starting to sink in but she could relapse. Besides, I wanted Cinder to die and another body wouldn't hurt.

I just needed to make sure she didn't run out of her little pleasures and it seemed to me like I'd have a loyal ally. Underneath it all it seemed like she was just lonely and scared. Especially without her boss. I think there was a part of her that liked taking orders.

And weren't we all like all that? I was like that without Ruby for one. I wasn't sure she would approve of this but she probably didn't approve of me murdering our friends either so there was that.

Neo didn't seem so bad. A bit of a sadist but hey, me too. There was a part of me that took sick pleasure in bringing ruin to my enemies. There was a sideways joy in delivering a boot to their faces.  

And my friends… if I ever saw them again they'd have to understand. I did what I had to to find out about Merlot… this… my father. I had so many memories. Like visiting Shion. We're they all fake? I had to learn more about myself.  If I had to shake hands with a few demons to make it happen then big fucking whoop.

Neo looked at the blood on her stiletto and wiped it off on the Nickel's clothes.

I could work with this. I could live with this. I just needed to throw away my pride.

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-WG

[blissicle]

I got chills, they’re multiplying Pt.1

(Plus a little bonus part)

Word count: a little under 1.7k words (bonus: 730 words)

Parings: Prinxiety, background moceit and intrulogical

Warnings: just one I think. Which is mentioned homophobia. But also cursing if you count “what the hell” as one. But let me know if there’s anything else

Note: hey! So this was inspired by @count-woe-laf ‘s idea of roman and Virgil working at a vintage cafe and just being gay with one another. I meant for it to be a quick little story, but I uh may have wrote a bit more than expected... also I wrote a bit of part 2, and figured I might as well include that too as a bonus. Anyways, I hope you guys enjoy this! It’s my first ever fic I’ve written, so it’s not perfect, but hopefully it will still be good. Enjoy!

——————————————-

“Alright I’m heading out” George declared while fiddling with the last button of his heavy coat, “make sure you close up the shop”

George strode over to the door, hand on the handle but paused looking back at the two, with a sudden looked fury, eyebrows burrow and mouth in a twisted frown with a cold stare that could kill, “and if I return finding a single object broken or a spec of grime on my establishment, I’ll kick ya out the door with no hesitation.” He spat.

And as quickly as it appeared, his frown turned into a sickly smile and George’s face instantly brightened, quite an unnatural and nerving quirk of his that roman has yet to get used to, “have a fantastic evening boys! And don’t take any wooden nickels!” George called back while pushing the door open, the wave of icy air flowing inside then quickly disappearing as the door closed shut from behind him.

Roman looked over to Virgil who shivered violently “Is that from the weather, or George?” roman asked amused as Virgil scrunched up his nose and grimaced “both”

Roman chuckled a bit at the response, as he himself felt the same edging nerves.

“He just gives me the creeps...” Virgil mumbled

“Hey at least he’s letting us host a movie night”

Virgil shrugged “yeah I guess” and stood up from leaning on the counter and walked over to the empty tables “come on help me stack up the chairs”

Roman nodded In response and look around the room with a pleasant smile. He always adored the look of the cafe, since it resembled the charming architecture of New Orleans quite a bit, but it looked even better when closing up for the day. The golden evening sun shone through the glass onto the light spring green of the walls, reflecting off of black and white photos and signed records scattered across the wall. it gave the accents made of dark wood framing the corners and ceilings a warm and tender graze too. He looked outside as the winter wind blew a few left over autum leaves into the streets as the occasional car came rushing by. roman sighed with a smile, feeling content with the calming atmosphere around him.

“Roman?” Virgil called back

Roman snapped back to reality “huh? oh right, sorry” And he promptly set to work, picking up a wooden chair from the near by table and setting it upside down on the table, as Virgil did the same across the room.

———————-

Despite his dislike for their boss, who in which Virgil often speculates to be a murder in hiding, Virgil actually enjoyed working at the vintage cafe. Well, the actual working part where he had to talk to customers wasn’t that particularly fun, but he enjoyed being there with roman. Roman always has infuriated him since day one, with roman singing any and every Disney song just to annoy Virgil (only for him to be humming it the very next day under his breath) ,or his insistence of being extremely extra any chance he got, he still somehow ended up being good friends with the insufferable good hearted idiot that is his coworker, not to mention have the same group of friends as him.

After the last chair was put up, Virgil sighed and walked over to said-idiot who was sitting at the counter. He looked up from his phone when Virgil sat down next to him. “So what movies did you bring to choose from?”

Roman perked up at this, “oh! hold on let me go get them!” He rushed to the back room and came out a moment later with a giant box filled with many many CD’s and set it on the counter, “before I left this morning I made sure to bring my fabulous collection of Disney movies, and a couple of other stuff” roman explained proudly,

Virgil looked at the box on the counter and then looked over to roman with a incredulous look on his face, eyebrows raised.

“What? I couldn’t possibly choose between any of my darling babies!” Virgil just rolled his eyes in response, trying to smother the fond smile peaking at his the corners of his mouth. After a brief moment, he looked back to roman who was smiling... at him for some reason. “...What?” Virgil asked smirking back at roman unable to hide his own smile anymore.

“It’s nothing I just...” roman doesn’t finish and seems to be spacing out again, a habit virgil has learned he does quite often, but he’s staring at virgil with a look of what he can only describe as admiration at the very least.

Roman’s jade green eyes are gleaming softly as he’s looking at him reminding virgil of candle light and the evening sun shines on his face making his small smile even brighter. Roman suddenly shakes his head dragging himself out of his thoughts, “Sorry, I- uh spaced out there for a second,” Roman cleared his throat, and started busying himself with taking the CD’s out of the box.

“It’s ok” Virgil responded and looked down at the floor. Then he glances back up a roman and He notices a single lonely strand of hair falling down on his forehead, out of place from the rest of roman’s bronze curls and waves on his head. Without thinking Virgil leans forward and raises his hand and starts playing with the loose strand, twirling it and wrapping his finger around it

“it’s kinda funny sometimes to see you space out anyways, you always have that stupidly cute smile on your face whenever you do,” Virgil mumbled under his breath still smirking, then glances down to roman’s flushed freckled face and-

OHGODWHATDIDHEJUSTDO

wait- WHAT THE HELL DID HE JUST SAY?

The sudden sound of the door opening followed by the wave of icy air against Virgil’s now heated face caused him to draw his attention away from the moment and instead to the man in the doorway, who worked at the family-owned library across the street. “Oh h-hey specs!” The flustered expression on roman’s face had turned into an awkward smile, face still pink.

Virgil cleared his throat uncomfortably, “...didn’t you have something to do with the debate team today?” He asked

Logan, observing the odd tension between the two but saying nothing of it, took off his heavy coat and hanged it up on the coatrack. “it was cancelled do to Mr. Wells catching the flu, and Janus who was planning to take me to the meeting, apparently has a cold due to the weather”

Virgil snorted and rolled his eyes “yeah like he’s not just faking it”

“Perhaps, remus has mentioned to me accounts of the past where Janus had successfully faked an illness” Logan considered, “but I highly doubt he can convince Patton” Logan strode over to the box eyebrow raised, “Roman, did you bring your entire library of Disney movies?”

Virgil respond before roman opened his mouth “yep.” Behind him, he heard roman’s offended stuttering.

“They’re not all Disney! I have other movies than just that, like-“ roman looked down and searched through the box “see? Like princess bride! Among other things!”

Logan sighed and took the box and carefully dumped it on the counter and began shuffling through them. Once again, came the sound of door opening followed by the wave of icy air that made them all shiver slightly.

“Sorry I’m late you guys!” Patton stood in front of the door taking off his scarf and cap, “Janus seemed to have a cold and I couldn’t have possibly left him there like that until I made him cream of broccoli... though i didn’t have time to make sure he was sick, but he didn’t seem like he was faking it”

Virgil saw roman make a gagging face at the mention of ‘cream of broccoli’ and kicked him playfully under the counter to get him to stop before Patton saw. Roman pouted and mouthed a little ‘HEY’ and kicked Virgil back. Which Virgil ignored him as he said,” it’s fine Patton” then turned to kick roman again, which prompted a kicking war as they both attempted to kick and deflect the other.

Logan rolled his eyes at the nonsense and turned to Patton,” well conveniently, you came in just in time. we were just in the middle of selecting what movie to watch”

“Oh, great!” Patton cheerfully walked over to the movies displayed as Logan explained, “Roman predictably brought an abundance of Disney movies, but of course in case one of us disagrees, I’ve separated the non-Disney produced films into this group here” Patton nodded and looked over all the selections, wall-e... sleeping beauty... Harry Potter...

“Wait roman you have Greece?!” Patton gasped and picked up the CD.

“Huh?” Roman turned from Virgil mid-kick.

“Greece!” Patton held up the cd, “I didn’t know you watched it!”

Roman, with a look of confusion for a moment, suddenly made the connection,” oh! that must’ve gotten mixed up with my collection of movies I took with me when I moved out with my step-dad, I think that may be my mom’s. Sorry padre”

Patton gasped again, “what? You haven’t seen Greece?!”

“What’s ‘greece’?” Logan questioned

“Oh my goodness! Have none of you guys seen it?!”

Logan and Virgil shook their heads, “I mean I think I saw my mom watch it once or twice but I don’t have a good memory of it” Roman shrugged

“Ok, that’s it. We’re watching Greece. You guys have to watch it!” Patton announced, despite the unsure looks of the rest, “Don’t worry! It’s a really fun and cheesy! So we can make fun of it! That’s what me and my aunt used to do all the time when i was younger!”

Logan looked to roman and Virgil,” do we all agree on watching Greece then?”

Roman shrugged, “sure!” followed by Virgil nodding,” yeah I guess”

Patton brightened, “yay! And don’t worry, I’m sure guys will enjoy it!”

Bonus:

“Have a wonderful evening Ms.Garcia!” Roman called to the exiting woman, who said nothing while looking down at her phone, but then waved a few seconds later, eyes still strained to the screen and left.

“Rude.” Roman mumbled, followed by a small snort he heard coming from his stormy knight in black leather beside him.

“yeah at least you didn’t have to deal with her order,” virgil grumbled, “where were you anyways? I thought we’d agreed to handle that homophobic prick together,”

“I was cleaning the sink!” Roman argued

Virgil eyed him, “it doesn’t take that long to clean the sink,”

“Ok fine, so I may have took my time with it..”

“Princey, really?!”

“I’m sorry! Look, I-“ roman wanted to say anything but the stupid truth that what he was actually doing was texting Remus for help on how he could smoothly ask the dreaded emo out.

As suspected, his suggestions were either too difficult to pull off, or inappropriate for freshman in high school like themselves. ‘What did you do to get Logan to go out with you?’ He remembered asking, ‘uhhhh I think I just asked him to do something with me that peeked his interest, like the first time we dissected a bunny-‘ roman refused to read the rest of the message from there on. Something that peaked his interests...

“How about this... if I let you choose a movie for us to watch together like a movie night of sorts, will you forgive me?” Roman suggested.

“Mmm...”

“Please my chemically imbalanced romance???,” roman pleaded, hoping the reference will help win him over.

“Ugh ok fine. Next weekend, Friday night. Ok?”

Roman brightened, “its a date then.” Roman agreed proudly. Virgil raised his eyebrows, oh god-, “like, you know, a friend date... with friends. Well, if you want to invite the others” please say no, please say no-

“Yeah that would be fun, let me text the group chat to see if anyone can make it,”

WAIT NO-

“Ok Logan and Janus apperently have an after school thing... Remus said he was busy.... oh cool Patton said he could make it” GAUH- WHY?!

“Sounds great!” Roman forced a smile. Maybe it wouldnt be that bad.. right?

——————————

It’s bad. It’s so so bad. He’s screwed. After excusing himself from the group to head to the bathroom, roman was finally able to think back and comprehend those few moments previous to Logan’s entry. Roman quickly shut the door behind him and leaned against. He took a deep breath and slid down to the floor, with a dopey grin on his face. It all happened to fast, Roman couldn’t help but notice the small shy smile coming from him, god it was so adorable. Suddenly Virgil looked over and caught the look roman gave him. Usually, roman would have covered it up, made a quick excuse, and he was in the middle of already doing so. But that gosh darn golden evening sun poked out of the clouds at the worse time possible. And roman was unable to think of anymore thoughts other than how incredibly breathtaking Virgil looked. The sunshine on his hair made it look so soft and messy and unkempt, his bangs failing to hide the absolute treasure that is his eyes. His eyes reflected the light, showing the streaks around his iris light up like brash elegant lightning. But even without the dramatic lighting, Roman has to admit his smile was absolutely the cutest thing about him, wide and joyful and just so full of pure happiness, rare enough to where anyone who was able to witness it must’ve considered themselves the luckiest human being on earth. Till he snapped out of it. He apologised, trying to act busy with moving cd cases around, but before he could even began cursing himself, Virgil leaned in closer to roman, which in fact has been the closest he’s ever been to him. Roman turned his head towards him, and the image of Virgil’s stupid gorgeous smirking face inches away from his, dark eyes filled with lightning, looking slightly above roman’s line of sight WHILE TOYING WITH A LOOSE STRAND OF HIS HAIR, is stuck in his mind on loop forever and forever. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the memory, he was saying something, wasn’t he? What did he say??

[cornwaiidesu]

a boohoo-y deep dive into my ~psyche~ cuz I had A Moment at work yesterday :P

I care too much about what people think of me. plain and simple. I have been this way since I was a little girl. my cousins would pick on me because I was the special baby girl out of the three of us and they were the two older boys. they would pick on me for being shy and soft spoken and liking girl things, and I wanted them to like me because I thought the two of them were the coolest boys in the world, so I grew to be a little tomboy. I wanted to like fighting games, and anime, and comics because those were "boy things".

but then when puberty started to set in, being a tomboy wasn't cute anymore. at least according to the bullies I had in middle school. usually boys who would call me a d*ke and make fun of me for wearing baggy t-shirts and loose pants and my dad's army jacket every single day of my life. "girls are supposed to be feminine" so obviously something had to be *wrong* with me and they would speculate shit about me directly in front of me. try to engage me in the conversation just to rub it in and of course that made me feel like shit.

so then in high school I try to flip the switch again. I start wearing tighter fitting clothes. I grow my hair out because I was constantly being dogged on my hairstyle even tho that shit was kind of REVOLUTIONARY FOR A 12 YEAR OLD LIVING IN IOWA. PROPS TO TEENAGE MRH. even back then I was a little punk. :3c I digress tho.

the beginning of high school was when I started my curse that lives on in me. I wear earrings every day of my life and I do because I convinced myself back then that I would be mistaken for a boy otherwise. and I still hold that fear because it was upheld! I started wearing dresses and skirts to school, but it didn't matter because dudes would still flip me shit and say that I was a predatory lesbian and strip me of my femininity. adults would still call me young man and sir despite being a 16 year old wearing make up, denim skirts, earrings, and covered in beaded necklaces. I would wear SO much jewelry to try to get it through people's minds that I was a girl.

but then through that came another weird thing where, like, though I was dressing ~feminine~ I was still "one of the guys" because I had a crude sense of humor and still liked comics and anime and wasn't as, for lack of a better word, "delicate" as my other (white) female friends. but then AGAIN I *couldnt* be one of the guys because it was a secret special task force essentially and I was just a stupid girl.

a lot of that fucked up my sense of self with my sexuality growing up too. I knew at a fairly early age that I was bisexual even though I didn't know there was a word for it, but I didn't want to admit to liking girls because that would mean my bullies were right about me, and if they were right about that then what if they were right about all the other horrible stuff they said about me being hideous, and gross, and weird?

because! if that was right too! a boy would never fall in love with me and have dance sex with me like Johnny and Baby do in Dirty Dancing! or would never save me from being sacrificed like Rick saves Evie in The Mummy! I'd be alone forever because boys would think I was big ugly butch with no value to them, and girls would think I was a predator and would always have to be on their guard to make sure I wasn't gawking and fawning over them. (and let's not even GET into how my religion fucked up my sense of morality about this. I have since grown out of it at least.)

every person I ever confessed to having a crush on has turned me down (mostly politely though, thank god) in my life except for one and a half. (one said they also liked someone else as much as they liked me, and since I had no self-esteem at 18 I was like "oh that's cool. let's date anyway." because I just wanted to have a boyfriend. that's the half.)

the other we kind of connected right away, whirlwind romance for me, but I don't think they ever quite felt the same way and that ended in an actual divorce anyway.

I've had three "relationships" my whole entire life and no more than that, and in my head i told myself thag was because I am fat, and ugly, and MASCULINE, no matter how hard I tried to be sweet and charming and pretty.

as I've aged I've learned about the systematic de-feminization of black women since all the way back to slavery times and shit and I won't claim to be an expert about that shit but it makes me cry that it's just ingrained into people's minds. it doesn't give us a single fighting chance from birth. it makes me feel like I'm going to be a lonely freak for the rest of my life because iowa is like one of the whitest places in the world, and my own internalized racism has convinced me all my life that I don't belong in black spaces because I'm not "authentic", I'm watered down. I've been called a half-breed and an oreo so many times.

I can't be black, I can't be white, I can't be a boy, I can't be a girl. I'm a copper penny in a jar full of nickels and dimes. I don't look the same, I'm not the same shape, and im not as shiny.

though I am attracted to women I have this OBSESSION with men, and to have a relationship with a man as PROOF. SOLID PROOF. that I am a valid woman, because there seems to be no other way for me to get the point across. and it's important for me to get the point across because I grew up with my business being the punchline, and curiosity of my peers, and the concern of my family. I couldn't exist without speculation from someone.

and then came a moment last year while I was at work, where a co-worker told me something that a person in another department who I did not get along with had told them. that I was a mean, jealous bitch who wanted them "out of the way" because they were getting too close to my friend that also worked at our store, and I was obsessed and in love with her and trying to stop a relationship from forming between the two of them. and it made me sick to my stomach. it was the thing I had been trying to steer clear from, from the moment I knew I was bisexual, but I hadn't tried hard enough. my anxiety shot through the roof. I had a panic attack. I broke down sobbing in the bathroom. this person was vengeful, I had nothing to do with them or that friend anymore, and I hadn't for months but they wanted to spread this rumor about me. and even if I truthfully denied it like I did, it didn't matter, because a person could take one look at me an think "you know, I can see that." because that's what people thought my entire fucking existence.

I cried off and on the rest of the day. I was too sick to eat dinner. I barely slept. and then I ended up puking what little food I had to eat that night anyway. I still barely ate the following few days I stayed home from work because I still felt so sick to my stomach with anxiety and at one point I got faint-ish when I had finally returned to work, and had to have help to get to the breakroom and force myself to eat. I bawled to my step-mother about it all, that I didn't feel comfortable at work anymore because it was just my words against theirs, and my bosses never held the person accountable for any of the other bullshit that they caused anyway.

it took me a VERY. long time to move past this incident. I think the only thing that ever ended up fully distracting me from it was covid and my uncle and my father's health both taking a turn for the worst last June. and even then, in between, I had such loooow moments. I self harmed and wrote mean notes to myself, stayed in bed for days. I wrote my own suicide note just to feel better, even though I knew I'd never do it. I was too chicken, but I just wanted to write it and pretend, just to release the depression pressure in my brain.

I've since been better for the most part. I know my parents love me and that I'm important to them, when just a few years ago I used to claim that I was an orphan because I was convinced that my father and my step-mother never cared to see me again because I was an ungrateful brat. I still get very lonely and long for a significant other but I'm kind of just coming to terms with the fact that unless I put myself out there, it won't happen, and im just too insecure to take the steps.

yesterday though, just for a second, out of nowhere, I thought about the claim that person had made about me even though the atmosphere at work has since changed, and things are patched up between me and my friend.

that gossiper is irrelevant now, but I couldn't help but have a little meltdown about it anyway because. like. apparently that's the vibe that I give off. because that's what everyone has said about me from day one of my life. and. I just. have to keep dealing with it. I'm stuck like this. and it sucks. and that little thought about it reminded me again.

[sugaxjpg]

04 | blank check; m

⤷ “Let me get this right, okay? You threw my name in as your fake girlfriend because you needed to prove yourself to your empty-headed friends, and now you need to fix it. Still,” you paused, raising your eyebrows, “your way of fixing is not to disclose it as a lie, but to cover it up with an even bigger and riskier one. Is that correct?”

⤷ PART 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | Co-written with @pantaemonium

✓ Couple: Jungkook x Reader | Fuckboy!AU & FakeDating!AU

✓ Filed under: smut, tragic comebacks

✓ Words: 6,892

Author’s Note: And here it is... whatever this is. Laura and I are sorry. Also, Part 5 will be a bit longer than the ones we have put out so far, so pls be patient!! It’ll come :,) 

Your debate class had its intense, hair-pulling moments in the past — from the dichotomy of the current political climate to philosophical dialogues about Descartes’ universal doubt — but, every once in a while, even your professor would get stressed at the constant bickering of his top 10 students and, instead, would chose a dumb theme that the class could find some sort of humor in. After some time, even that showed itself to be an obstacle, since most of your classmates had their head so far up their own ass that they forgot what the sun looked like, even less what it was to have a chill, borderline comical, conversation with another human being.  

And that was where you and Namjoon came in.

If you were to be completely honest, you could say without a shadow of a doubt that the two had a constant veil of bitterness floating between you. What could you do? Both of you were a bit more competitive than you should be, and the prospect of academic validation was far too tempting for you two to just let it slide. But, damn. If Dante Alighieri had the misfortune of meeting Kim Namjoon throughout his life, you were absolutely sure he would have added the man somewhere amongst his circles of inferno — because, Jesus Christ, was he a pain in the ass when he took things to his personal side.

“In synthesis, professor, I must conclude,” Namjoon started, leaning against the tall surface of his table. The copy of the discussed book was placed before him, and you could see that he had highlighted — and color-coded — at least half of it. “Bella Swan should have picked Jacob instead of Edward. The amount of danger she faced was ridiculous, and perfectly avoidable if she had chosen the one that was always there for her and, quite frankly, much more attractive.”

Subtle. Always so subtle.

With his feet over a nearby desk, your professor hummed, and used his cup of coffee to hide the smirk that creeped up on his lips. From your peripheral vision, you could see the other students exchanging animated glances, waiting for your turn to defend Team Edward. “Alright. Very good, Kim,” he praised, then turned to you. His mop-like moustache was stained by the brown coffee, and it looked more disgusting than it should. “What do you have for us, defense?”

You pushed your shoulders back and, without a missed beat, spoke your truth. “I disagree with Namjoon’s conclusion, professor. Edward Cullen cared about Bella Swan much more than Jacob ever did. He was only angry because he was thrown into the friendzone, and did not get his desires fulfilled by his best friend.” Your eyes darted towards Namjoon as you verbalized those words, wishing you were just as subtle as he had been — that is, not at all. “Edward protected Bella since the start, was patient, and didn’t force anything on her. With all due respect, professor.” You turned back to the class. “Jacob had no free-pass to Bella’s black lacy underwear just because he had been there for longer.”

“That’s irrelevant to this debate, come on!” Namjoon defended himself, blushing from the tip of his ears to — not that you had been looking before — the place where his tan skin disappeared under his shirt. The buttons opened, that would’ve gotten him a warning in high school—but in college it was the average cool dude uniform.  “Jacob was not as simple-minded as he’s thought to be. He may be a werewolf but he’s not stupid—”

“Well, I have to disagree. As you may have read — and I’m sure my opponent highlighted this part too—, in the fourth book of the saga Jacob imprinted Edward and Bella’s new-born baby, under the justification that, and I quote, everything he was—snip, snip, snip—floated up into space when he met the baby’s eyes, which are coincidentally very similar to Bella’s who happened to be at the moment, dead.”

“It is explained within the Twilight universe that werewolves often link themselves to their partners for life.” Namjoon barked back, although there was no confidence left within him when he opened the book, and started looking through his notes, wondering how he could’ve left the imprinting-the-baby topic out. What a mess.

Poor Namjoon had surely been very busy dreaming of your black underwear to finish preparing the debate and that, good for you, meant you had won — for once.

“My shaking jerked to a stop; heat flooded through me, stronger than before, but it was a new kind of heat — not a burning,” you read, trying to occult behind the pages the wicked smile invading your features. At the back of the classroom, your classmates started laughing enough for Mr. Moustache to turn around and shush them. Namjoon was paralysed. His projection into the Jacob’s character was not as funny anymore. “Around five minutes before he falls in love with the half-vampire parasite, he’s hugging Bella’s flailing body, forbidding her from dying. He’s not what I call… consistent with his feelings.”

Namjoon opened his mouth to talk, but all of the present souls knew that his chances of coming back from that annihilation were practically zero. With a smile and a resonating laugh, Professor Pornstache turned around to the class. “Alright, children of the corn, you all know how it goes,” he started. You had no idea how he hadn’t noticed the soaked mess that his upper lip had turned into, but that’s what botox injections can do to your overall sensibility, after all. “Write on a piece of paper who you think won, and then let’s do this as democratically as we can — even if we all know that the final word is mine.”

You rolled your eyes at your professor’s attempt at being Cool With the Kids. Mussolini over there — Mustachelini? Nah — constantly tried to sneak in references of popular movies into his every sentence, which explained his constant obsession with reviewing young adult novels. Next one up, according to him, would be something from Cassandra Clare, and you really didn’t think you’d be able to endure another painfully awkward love triangle discussion, even less the hidden incest.

With a few chuckles and guilty gazes crossing, the classroom was quick to pass the papers off to the front row, where the teacher’s personal pet — Jisoo? Achoo? Bless you — could organize and count the votes. You were lucky she was great at her job, for it took her less than five dragged-out, silence-filled minutes to have an answer.

With a grin that seemed to come out straight from a Monopoly live-action movie, your professor looked down at the winner’s name. “Oh, look at that,” he said. “Seems like we have a new name to pay attention to. Namjoon…” he dragged out his speech in a way that you swore the air had been sucked out of your lungs. Next to you, the boy leaned forwards, chest filled up with pride. “Better luck next time, kid. Y/N got the trophy. That’s ten points to gryffindor, and a nine for Team Edwards.”

With the weight of defeat dragging his shoulders down, Namjoon retreated to the back of the classroom, where the bad boys — you almost cringed thinking of him as one of those — sat and gnawed gum loudly trying to make the world believe their attitude would get there somewhere in life except, perhaps, jail. He plopped onto his chair, and let out a defeated sigh. If he couldn’t win a Twilight debate that meant his career was over, his reputation on the floor. It was a tragic defeat, one he had never expected.

Part of him, you thought, should be happy that it had been you the one to conquer the first place. It could have been someone else, like the guy from second row who carried an anime figurine around and ate his boogers when he thought no one was watching; or maybe, the resident weed-lover, who would probably rant for five minutes about the necessity to legalize marijuana, and avoid altogether the mundane problems of two-hundred year old bloodsucker hottie number 1; and very white, very anodyne Bella Swan.

“So, tell me, what kept you so busy that you couldn’t finish the assigned reading?” You questioned, rubbing — as they would say — salt over his overabundance of pride wounds. It was petty, but it was the funniest part of defeating the smarty-pants in the room. “Anything on your mind? Do you need a pep-talk? My therapist’s number, perhaps?”

Namjoon crossed his arms over his desk and laid his head over them, hoping the earth could just open up and swallow him alive. It crossed his mind that Jungkook probably didn’t even know which elements that are inside the Earth’s core — nickel and iron, for the ones wondering — even less which layer was liquid: internal or external. Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe you wanted someone that was more than brains, or maybe you could be searching for someone so dumb that would make you feel more confident at your own IQ — yeah, that was probably it. You wouldn’t pick anyone but Namjoon if that wasn’t the case.

But he needed to control the flux of his thoughts before it got the best of him, and he made the mistake of being a little bit more honest than he should. What could he do? His pride was completely shattered — over a Twilight debate, for fuck’s sake — and he was struggling to seat down after the catastrophe that had been that pizza. Never underestimate the enemy. Never underestimate cheese left out to rot for too long.

And, most importantly, never underestimate Jeon Jungkook.

“So, Y/N,” he started, raising his head from the desk. Two other students had already moved to the front of the class to start their debate on the powers of some of the secondary vampire characters, but he didn’t care about it — that one, he could win it in his sleep —, for his eyes were completely glued to your own. “You ran away from us that night at the party. Care to say what happened between you and your misunderstood knight?”

And god bless your winner high for not making your face crack under the sudden question. Even if the image of Jungkook rubbing his cherry splitter came back in a hormonal rush throughout your body and mind, the smirk in your lips lingered, and your inner despair did not drip through your words. “Nothing happened, we are perfectly fine,” you lied. “In fact, he invited me to go to Jimin’s pool party next weekend. Hope you don’t mind my company.”

It was ephemeral, but you saw the way Namjoon’s eyes widened for an instant — he was a mortal man, with simple mortal needs. Seeing glimpses of your black underwear? That was nice. Seeing you in full bikini? That was a miracle, and Kim Namjoon wasn’t someone to disregard a message from the Lord.

He cleared his throat, and looked towards the front of the class, where the debate was starting to heat up. One of the students claimed that vampires having weather-controlling abilities made no sense, for it was Twilight, and not X-men. He had to agree with that one. “That’s… something to consider,” he spoke. It was getting hot there? It was either you or the intestinal cramps from that forsaken pizza — how many days would it take for it to leave his system? God. “Never thought of you as someone who enjoyed… the outdoors.”

“I’m not the sun’s biggest fan, that’s true,” you acknowledged, “but that’s what relationships are about, you know? Making sacrifices, spending time with your boyfriend’s friends. All that.”

Namjoon, once again, lost his space to speak. As his eyebrows twitched together in a sign of his disbelief — and a bit of jealousy, let’s be honest — and his plump lips parted in a silent exclamation, the screen of your phone lit up, a loud ding! ruptured the attention of the class. From the front row, Pornstache asked for you to turn the device off.

“Won’t you look at that,” Namjoon complained, watching your fingers as you quickly placed your phone on silent mode. “Edward Cullen is here to save the day.”

There was a tinge of agony in his voice, that you interpreted as a silent hope that he could someday become the one to disrupt the class to send you, perhaps, a corny I miss you, let’s meet at the library after class, or a more saucy — and god knows you hate that expression — I’d love to be in bed right now, doing you-know-what. Namjoon didn’t strike you to be one to send a I’ll fuck you raw against the wall only because he would understand the physical limitations that would come with such statement.

“Edward Cullen is just trying to know if I’ll be going to your match next week, I think,” you lied. The phone vibrated against the table, insistent. It was like having Jungkook behind your back, saying whatever nonsense he had come up with that same morning. “Don’t you have something useful to do? I don’t know, start reading Cassandra Clare’s failed incest fanfic attempts or something?”

“Nah, you know what? I’m going to the bathroom. That pizza is still kicking my intestines, and not in a good way.” He smiled, and it was dashing. “See you later.”

“When you finish pooping.”

“Yeah.”

With raised eyebrows and the ghost of a smile lingering on your lips, you watched as Namjoon made his walk of shame towards the front of a class, then quickened up his pace suddenly. If you could go back to the night of the party and tell him about the consequences of his ridiculously high cheese consumption, you wouldn’t. It was too funny to just let it pass.

Your entertainment, however, was short-lived. As soon as you turned your gaze back to the device on your hands and actually read through the previews of Jungkook’s messages, you could tell that something was wrong.

Jungkook’s only neuron: [incoming video]

Jungkook’s only neuron: SHRIIRSHIT

Jungkook’s only neuron: NO DONT OPEN THAT PLEASE DONT

Jungkook’s only neuron: THAT ISN’T FOR YOU BABY NO

Jungkook’s only neuron: IM SO SORRY OMHFGF NPONONOONO

Jungkook’s only neuron: i want to die please dont download the video please i will do anything i will buy you milkshakes for the entire week plea...

But it was too late: you knew Jungkook was terrible at finding compelling arguments, but that was just too much. He knew you were curious, and his overwhelmed texts only increased your sadism to prolong his suffering. Of course you were going to see whatever the hell he had sent you, and of course you would make sure to tease him for it until the end of time. It was what he deserved after dragging you for yet another acting gig.

So, you unlocked your phone, and went straight to his conversation. Nothing could have prepared you for what you were met with — but one thing was for certain: you were so happy that you had brought your earphones that day.

Curiosity started to carve a hole within your chest. It started as a mere tingle, just below your breastbone, when you plugged in your earphones and starting downloading the video. Had Jungkook been a bit smarter that day — or just more technology-conscious — he would have remembered there was an option to delete his video. It would erase it from the face of earth, and with it the shame it would bring along. It was useless now, because by the time he understood the power he had allowed to slip away you would have already saved the thing in your phone. For blackmail purposes only, of course.

With absolutely no expectations, you pressed play. The condemnatory piece of evidence Jungkook had sent by mistake started playing on your screen, a vastness of black pixels and an eventual flash of light. It must be something huge, for him to panic — while sober — on the chat-room. And huge it was, although at first the image was without form and void. Darkness invaded the screen, like there was a towel or a shirt placed in front of the camera, and the only remnants of light that managed to filter in were through holes in the cotton.

Maybe Jungkook had finally lost his mind, and he had recorded one of those confession videos with huge cards. You are perfect to me, could have been read in one of those, scribbled with a Sharpie in his terrible handwriting. But Jungkook was not the romantic type so that would not be the case, he had a reputation to hold — surprisingly, he had not destroyed it yet.

And so the dumbass said “let there be light”, and there was light — and the most horrendous pink tiles covering the bathroom floor. He appeared into focus, clad in grey sweatpants and a tee shirt that you recognized immediately as part of the training gear for the volleyball team.

“Oh, god,” you muttered to yourself, watching him seat cross-legged before the camera. You had watched enough porn in your life to, at least, sense where this was going, but you were not prepared. Not at all.

When the boy — Jungkook, it was fucking Jungkook and you knew it — moved backwards on the shot, the entire scene came into focus, presenting you with the image of what you presumed was his bathroom. You would recognize that pink abomination anywhere, even if, the last time you witnessed it, you had not payed attention to the disgusting fact that the tiles were also a pallid tinge of roseate; the same color of the heat that painted the boy’s cheeks, all the way to the tip of his ears.

The image was slightly blurred still, but you could tell that he was sitting on the floor, back pressed against a bathtub. Jungkook had moved down on the shot enough so you could see up to his nose, but his eyes were still out of frame. It didn’t matter: you knew it was him, and you could not stop looking at the way his swollen lips were parted, glistening with the thin layer of his saliva. From in between them, came the weak, shy sound of a moan, and his body shivered in expectation.

Before you could even take hold of your actions, your gaze was already shooting downwards, past the droplets of sweat on his tan neck, and the obnoxious colors of his team shirt — for fuck’s sake, he was clearly not the brightest of minds, but, if he wanted it to be a bit harder to figure it out who it was, he shouldn’t have worn that. Dumbass. The hottest fucking dumbass you’ve ever laid eyes upon. Not the point.

Then, you saw it, and your mind went blank. Jungkook had one of his veiny hands placed over his hard member, its outline vaguely visible through the thick fabric of his pants. And, shit, that wasn’t the only thick thing in sight. But anyways. He was caressing it slowly, up and down, then rolling his palm against it slowly, dragging out the whines that broke upon his lips. Through your earphones, you could hear the fragile inflections of his voice against your ear, and you swore you could feel his raggedy breath hitting your skin at every new exhale.

On the upper part of your screen, another message popped up: I can tell you’re online!!!! it practically yelled, reeking of desperation and pheromones. You ignored it. There were more interesting things happening. Bigger things.

Jungkook pressed his palm down on his cock one, twice, but soon grew impatient at the lack of sensibility it provided. You tapped on the video and saw that it was three minutes long, which told you just how much he was eager to get straight to the point; and, much to your inner satisfaction, your hypothesis was quickly proved.

Almost timidly — who would’ve thought Jeon Jungkook could be any shade of timid, for fuck’s sake — the tip of his cock was released from the constriction of the elastic. He had been dripping enough to wet the fabric, and it elicited a thousand questions amongst which the idea of Jungkook cumming in his pants, unable to stop himself was primordial and very much overwhelming.

With more tenderness you had ever imagined he would be capable of, he pressed his thumb against his crown, smearing his slick all around. It ripped a long-drawled groan out of his throat, as he threw his head back and against the bathtub. Sweat started to pool in hollow of his clavicle when he dared move again, hand encircling his length.

That was the moment you understood the situation was serious in more than one way because a) Mr Pornstache was still doing whatever he believed was teaching, b) Namjoon had just crossed the classroom threshold and was about to return to his place by your side; and c) your panties were wetter that the goddamn Nile and it was Jungkook’s doing.

Way to start the week.

Then again, miracles can present themselves every once in a while and, for you, it was the fast-thinking that suddenly overtook your senses. Even if every fiber of your being begged for you to do otherwise, your fingers were quick to pause the video, block your phone, and shove your earplugs inside your jacket’s pocket before Namjoon’s gaze even casted itself in your general direction. Usain Bolt who?

You cleared your throat — was it hot in there?  “There you are,” you whispered as he sat down next to you. Namjoon looked one shade whiter and many years older. “Had fun?”

He rolled his eyes. “What kind of question is that?” You did not know. You weren’t thinking straight. You could barely recall your name amongst the echoes of Jungkook’s moans inside your mind, and it was driving you insane. “Anyways,” he started, “did I miss something important? Any big arguments to take into consideration?”

“The biggest argument I’ve ever see— I mean no, nothing,” you were quick to correct yourself. Your heart was beating so fast inside your chest that you recalled every medical drama you’ve ever watched, the movement of the defibrillators and the anxious screams of the doctors — charge it to 200; to 500… There’s nothing else we can do, we lost her. Jungkook strikes again. “You know what? This reminds me, I should go to the bathroom as well— To do… to… take care of lady stuff.”

Taken aback by surprise, Namjoon leaned back against his chair and raised his eyebrows in expectation, trying to predict where that was heading towards. He was clearly doubtful of your actions, and Mr Mustachelini was far too enrolled in the superpower debate to care about the way you roughly moved to your feet, almost knocking the desk over as you did so. Thank the heavens above that you didn’t wear a skirt that day, because the situation in between your legs was reaching critical levels.

“Lady… stuff?” he repeated slowly. There it was: the man you learned to fear in debates and in the court, with those piercing pupils and the expression that told you that there was no use in lying, for he already knew the secrets that you hid underneath your tongue. “Did something happen?”

You laughed nervously. “Absolutely nothing happened,” you lied. He could tell. Somehow, he just could. “I just have to leave, it’s gonna be really quick just… okay, bye.”

Namjoon moves around very slowly. The commotion of your sudden leave had probably pressed a slow-mo button he could not turn off. It was like all his energy was being redirected towards his brain, aimed at the gears you could almost hear rumble. It was just a bathroom escapade, it wasn’t that deep. But Namjizz was keen on discovering the secrets you were not skilful enough to conceal — at least not with the image of Jungkook’s swollen dick in his pretty hands still engraved in your brain.

“Bye,” you repeated, waving him farewell. Still perplexed he muttered something along the lines of: are you sure everything is alright? That you never responded to. All you could picture was the girls’ bathroom at the end of the corridor, the cubicle at the far left — the one less transited.

You had some dignity left inside, so you didn’t run. Instead, you walked as fast as your legs allowed. In hindsight, it was a ridiculous image, but you could only feel the weight of your phone growing heavier in your pocket, the wires tangling like serpents as some sort of cosmic punishment for your unspeakable crimes. As if it wasn’t enough that you had fallen for the local cliché; that you had been tempted by the one character in the comic you had promised you would only treat with disdain and, perhaps, some well-founded superiory.

Jungkook was an overused trope, that was clear enough —  thanks brain for the painful reminder! — but fuck, did he make you wet with only a few seconds of his blurry, leaked sextape.

Despite the late hour, the bathroom was deserted. You had been hoping to find someone there, someone disagreeable and nasty who would kill your libido with just a look. Coco would’ve fit the role. But there was no one around, and the cleaning lady had just polished the tiles till they shone like diamonds.

Weren’t you the luckiest girl in the entire university, huh?

Giving it no more thought, you locked yourself inside the cubicle. Your phone vibrated again, this time in your hand.

Jungkook’s only neuron: please Y/N  i didn’t mean to send that to you. it was a mistake. come back and call me a pig BUT DO SOMETHING. THIS IS LIKE POKING A STONE WITH A STICK

Jungkook’s only neuron: if you didn’t see it as I BEGGED YOU TO PLEASE FORGET I EVEN SAID THAT

He continued to rant into the group chat, monologuing about the many reasons behind your silence. It was — truth be told — abnormal of you to skip a chance to roast him, but there were more important matters to attend to. With a quick swish of your finger you silenced him, and with it the guilt that could come.

In movements far too quick to be your own, you plugged in the earphones in your ear, checked that they were well connected to your device — the last thing you needed was to interrupt the chastic beauty of that recently-cleaned bathroom with Jungkook’s devilish moans — and moved back to the video. The recording started over, but you were quick to move back to the time stamp you had stopped in — 1:38, precisely and, yes, you had memorized.

Now, that was when your morning started to go downhill, because it was when you decided to, as you had mentioned before, defenestrate the rest of your pride, and do the dirty work. Kind of: you were a bit out of your senses, but not enough to finger the baby maker in the middle of a public bathroom, no matter how clean it was.

So, you settled for the second best.

As the video resumed, you noticed the wetness that had spread between your thighs, only increasing as those lust-filled images flashed before your gaze. There was something alluring about the idea of the Great Jeon Jungkook playing with himself, allowing for his hips to roll against his hand as temptation overtook his senses; his legs so weak that he could barely move in that gruesomely pink bathroom floor. He was edging himself, that you could tell from the continuous biting of his lower lip, and the quivering pants that left his mouth, and he was adoring every second of his self-inflicted torture.

Moans and curses poured from his chest like ambrosia, and your other hand was quick to undo the buttons of your pants. You could see him, eyebrows furrowed and eyes closed, as his parted lips groaned for release, his muscles clenching again and again; cock throbbing in his hands. Perhaps, in an instant of patience, he would rub himself through his underwear until he was hard enough, or maybe he would grind against his bed until he could no long take the pleasure that monopolized his carnal desires.

Not that you were far away from that fate.

Hastily, you placed your hand in the space between your jeans and your underwear, finding your clit instantly. Your fingers traced circles over your sensitive spot, but the numbed feeling was awfully frustrating to endure. Just like the fucking video before your eyes was; the rise and fall of Jungkook’s abdomen as he reached for his own orgasm; the teasing of his thumb against the top of his member; the weak, whimper-like moans that infested your mind like a damn egyptian plague. Everything about that situation was frustrating, and it was tearing you from the inside out.

As he so tenderly caressed his length, you wondered at the rubor that had conquered his neck, the toned expanse of his chest. Jeon Jungkook had lost the intimidating arrogance that seemed to envelope his entire being. There was no arrogance in the curve of his mouth when opened his mouth in a whimper that broke before it could be captured by the microphone of his phone. There was no pride in the way he tilted his head back, fingers tight around his cock as he fucked himself relentlessly.

Despite the lack of friction, the sole image of his muscles tensing as he approached his release was enough to have you trembling. The memento of his hands roaming your waist was clear in your mind when you pressed your clit just a bit harder, wishing it was him the one to tease you with the same cruelly he was teasing himself. The wonders his fingers could do, his tongue. As his moans became louder, your movements turned erratic, almost desperate. It threatened to break you, but you could not find reason within yourself to stop.

Still, Jungkook wouldn’t be Jungkook if he didn't find a way to ruin your fucking day.

The vibration of your phone in your hands made your heart jump inside your chest and, for an instant, you swore you had seen the light at the end of the tunnel, and the angels calling you to join them above. But no — it was the human-shaped devil named Jungkook and he was, quite literally, calling you.

With a stressed-out groan, you barely thought about your actions before sliding to answer his call, his previous moans being immediately replaced by static. “What the fuck do you want, Jungkook?”

From the other sound of the line, you heard a shuffle. “Oh great, you picked up,” he spoke. You couldn’t tell if his voice was permeated by annoyance or by relief and, quite honestly, you didn’t give a flying fuck — you had your hands pressed against the soaked mess that had become your panties in a public bathroom, and the last thing you needed was to psychologically characterize his timbre based upon the inflections of his tone. “We have to talk.”

Honestly? Fuck it. The guy had already ruined one rub-out session for you, and he wouldn’t do the same thing again; not when the only detail you could think about had been the ridiculously hot video he had sent you. “No we don’t,” you threw back, breathing growing sharp as you continued your motions — slower this time. “This is not the time, and you have nothing—” You paused, biting back a moan, then masking it as a cough. Okay, you certainly didn’t think that through. “You have nothing to justify.”

“You know I do.” He hesitated. “It’s about the video.”

“Of course it’s about the fucking video,” you interrupted, throwing your head back against the wall. You were starting to get close, and you knew it. “Are you narcissistic enough to jerk off to a video of you... jerking off? This is the weirdest case of inception I’ve ever seen.”

Jungkook paused on the other end. “Inception? But that has nothing to do with my family.”

Good god, have mercy on your soul. “Inception, Jungkook.” You groaned. “Not incest.”

“Not the point, smart ass,” he was quick to reply and — fuck Jungkook and his honey voice — you could have sworn he had almost stuttered. There was no way you could have known for sure, for your own mind was wandering elsewhere and you were barely containing the tremors of your own voice. “I really need to see you and explain, so tell me where to go and I’ll be there.”

“Jungkook,” you called, and your brain thought it was a great moment to bring the images you had been trying to avoid, of Jungkook in-between your legs licking your wetness away as you whimpered his name. At the end of the line there was only static to match your error, so you rapidly added. “There’s no need to explain. I really have no interest in seeing you beat your meat to whatever Arctic Monkeys song you chose as your sex jam, so I don’t really care about your reasons—”

“It’s very normal to do something like this, okay? Some guys do it all the time. I do it all the time to, you know, see how I perform and everything.” You had long lost track of his explanation. The murmur of his voice was just an echo at the back of your head, for you had never stopped pressing your fingers against your clit, trying to subdue the sweet pain threatening to take over. Your brain was overworked — and overwhelmed — and Jungkook blabbing his way out of shame was not annoying enough to stop you. “It’s like monitoring yourself, and It makes me a better lover. A better partner, if you want. Y-you should be glad I’m doing this—”

As Jungkook ranted on, you couldn’t bring yourself to interrupt him, for you knew the moment you tried to speak only a moan would emerge from your throat.

Jungkook, however, took your silence as a punishment. “So you really watched it, huh?” He chuckled, humorless. “Guess I fucked up again—”

For fuck’s sake not now. The way he hesitated — just for a second — before he spoke and his voice refused to come out untainted but in a rough whisper, was the last thing you needed to complete your descent into Dante’s nine circles of hell.

Before you could notice, the faintest whimper dripped from your lips, a broken chord that sounded like his name.

Well, if you wanted to stop Jungkook from blabbering, that was the way to go.

Maybe if you had been a little more in your senses, the realization that you had just moaned out the fragmented syllables of his name would have seemed like an apocalyptic forewarning for the chaos that would ensue. But no: you were far too gone to care, and it had fulfilled your initial purpose of silencing the annoying insect buzzing in your earphones.

But of course, Jungkook wouldn’t let it go so easily.

On the other end of the line, he cleared his throat. “What… are you doing?” He paused, seeming to take in all the details he had ever so naively overlooked aforetime — the vague panting that departed from in-between your lips, the eagerness in which you rushed to finish your sentences. Something odd was taking place, and even his one living neuron could perceive it. “You sound like you just ran a marathon. ”

“It’s a debate class, genius, things got… heated,” and that had been the perfect word to use. “I’m not doing anything.”

There was a second of hesitation before he spoke up again. “Isn’t Namjoon in that class with you?”

“Yes. Congrats on the goldfish memory.” You breathed out — okay, you could maybe hold yourself back. You were getting close, for your legs were already shaking, and you could barely keep your eyes open for longer than a couple seconds and, if you had holden tight for that long, you could do it again. Just no more moaning. Not in front of him. Later, maybe.

“That’s weird,” Jungkook spoke. Fuck his voice, fuck the way his whimpers and cries for release still echoed inside your head; fuck the delicious sight of his head thrown back, and his adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallowed hard. Fuck him. Fuck you. Hopefully. “I just texted him and he said that you left to go to the bathroom. For lady pro—”

“—It’s a different Namjoon.” What kind of answer was that? You were barely thinking. “Listen, Jungkook, I’m not in the mood to talk, so maybe you could just… call later?”

“There’s only one Namjoon, and we both know his lame lactose-intolerant ass.” Jungkook could be sharp if he thought very hard. Maybe the ruptured thoughts crossing your mind, the weakness spreading all over your body, was what he had needed to fight on equal ground — and somehow you knew he would be very proud of this victory. “You received the video, and then went to the bathroom?” He was trying to organize the timeline of your befall, and for once his solitary neuron was cooperating, while yours were just running around, screaming like hippies high on acid. “Did you go to the bathroom… to watch it?”

“Jungkook, just drop it.” You whined, the sound needier than you had ever intended. “Let’s talk later, okay? I need to go back to class now. Call me later if you want and we’ll talk about the stupid party or your rampant narcissism, whatever you want.”

“I’ll wait for you after class—” He didn’t sound convinced. The raggedness of your voice was a good reason to be puzzled, but the guy was apparently too idle to hang up and do something useful. “We can go somewhere to discuss the party details if you’re up. You know, like a business meeting but in like a café or something.”

“I have a test tomorrow.” Holding to the last threads of rationality, you understood it was time to end the conversation. “Nice talking to you, Jungkook. Bye.”

Jungkook would have questions, of course, but you could only think of him, his hands, his soft lips against your own. Your hand returned to torture your clit, this time unrestricted by his presence on the phone. It was ridiculously easy to find the right pace, to bring back the memory of his weights pressing against your own, his tongue discovering your mouth. Jungkook could mess your existence even in your imagination and that was something you had to confess you had never expected.

Call ended, you allowed yourself to suspire in relief, dwelling in the absence of his frequent interrogations, and the pleasure that was overtaking your senses. The silence, however, was short-lived: you forgot you still had the video playing in the background.  

Now, some things in life are beautifully synchronized: the fly of birds as the sun sets; your favorite sad song playing while you’re driving in the rain… Jungkook’s dragged-out moans echoing inside your head the same instant you found your high. You know, the simple stuff. The kind of stuff that makes you lay awake at night in horror.

Your legs trembled when you reached your orgasm, waves of heat running up and down your thighs as you fought to suppress a prolonged whimper. On your hands, the device called for your attention, and your parted eyes barely got the glimpse of a smaller, digitally edited Jungkook covering his abs with the white strands of his own relief; hips rolling against his palm as his mouth, open, cried out in sheer alleviation. You loved that sight, and it pushed you even further down your decay into inferno.

But, of course, the video didn’t stop there. It didn’t fade into black, as you had expected, because you deserved a plot twist to end the day. You had depleted your luck reserves long ago — probably during a math exam — so it was highly unlikely that the guy would just finish the deed and turn off the camera.

No, instead Jungkook continued teasing his cock until his thighs trembled with the excess of his own caresses; limbs flinching under the tides of his exaggerated stimulation. He could not bite back he suspires of despair as he rode a second orgasm and muttered an unintelligible prayer.

Wait, scratch that. You rewinded the video, to listen for a second time. In this occasion you closed your eyes, because his fucked-out face was far too distracting for your brain to keep up with so many stimuli.

It was, actually, very intelligible.

Jeon Jungkook was not praying, but moaning your name.

That, nevertheless, was a secret that would die with you. Or so you hoped.

[ducktracy]

126. the blow out (1936)

release date: april 4th, 1936

series: looney tunes

director: tex avery

starring: joe dougherty (porky), lucille laverne (bomber)

this is a cartoon i’ve been looking forward to reviewing for quite awhile—it’s certainly one of my favorite dougherty-era porkys. well, to begin, this is porky’s first solo cartoon! not a beans in sight (sorry, beans!). tex’s first interpretation of porky was a bloated, ravenous father who screams “WHOOPEE” a lot. now, he’s characterized as a cute, naïve kid, a role he’d make up in the large majority of tex’s porky cartoons. even as far as 1941, porky’s age is mentioned to be 7 years old in tex’s porky’s preview. also worth noting that the bomber is voiced by lucille laverne, who you may recognize as the evil queen from snow white just a year later. in terms of sunopsis: a hungry porky longs for an ice cream soda, yet he’s short on money. however, his prayers may be answered as he finds out doing favors for people earns him a quick buck. his biggest favor of all—returning a bomb to a mad bomber.

menacing music underscores an overhead shot of a local building. a sinister laugh offscreen is brought on by a mysteriously cloaked figure, who placed an alarm clock in front of the building. the figure darts away, the clock ticking forebodingly as a trail of smoke pours out of it. and, of course, BOOM. newspaper headlines pour in (with a keen eye, you’ll spot that they’re addressed to podunk journal, podunk express, etc etc) detailing the bomber’s acts, one newspaper gloating a $2,000 reward if captured. all the cop cars are called, phone lines and telegram wires burning up as the search for the bomber ravages on.

police sirens wail in the distance as a shot of a dingy old alley pans to an exposed basement window. zoom into the pitch black darkness, the same sinister laugh from before piercing our ears as a bat flies into view. the pans are very well thought out and well structured as we pan through the basement, finally getting a good glimpse of the bomber, hard at work.

if i had to make a guess, i’d estimate chuck jones does the closeup of the bomber making his time bombs (chuck liked to play around with shadows, and there’s a sinister shadow behind the bomber at work—it also aligns with his style, and he even gets an animation credit. i can identify the bob clampett scenes with certainty, his style really sticks out to me). lucille laverne provides a great, obnoxious, sinister voice... as she should, since she was probably recording for snow white around the same time. “a clock, a little dynamite, a black bomb, a few firecrackers, some lovely skyrockets, and ya have a little time bomb that will blow up a CITY!”

the bomber masks himself, draping himself in his black cloak and donning his hat. he does your stereotypical villain walk, covering his face—i love me a tex avery villain. almost always a very obvious parody. everything with tex is to be laughed at, to be funny, to be made fun of. the bomber ponders where he’ll strike next, scanning a city map. he circles off a random area, crossing over it for good measure, and he furtively creeps out into the street, ready to strike.

elsewhere, porky is deeply invested in an ice cream parlor, his face pressed against the window. a sign advertises an ice cream soda for 10 cents. inside, we get a good look at the frothy goodness as an offscreen waiter places a straw inside. another offscreen hand grabs the drink, and we’re met with porky’s smiling, hungry face, eagerly observing as the offscreen customer slurps away. porky’s face quickly turns crestfallen, and soon he’s frowning at an empty glass.

however, he’s undeterred. porky reaches into his pocket (literally just his own flesh, a reoccurring detail that i just adore) and pulls out five pennies, narrating “five pennies! just enough for an ice cream soda!” he struts confidently into the parlor with his outstretched hand, a lovely score of “fella with the fiddle” (his theme for this cartoon, also the name of a merrie melody and also whistled by porky as he gives a camel a bath in little beau porky) backing him up. he marches to the counter and asks “one ice cream soda, please!” unfortunately, the offscreen waiter has to break the news—“too bad, sonny. you only have half enough pennies for a soda.”

porky’s grin melts immediately as he dejectedly trudges away, hands in his “pockets”. suddenly, inspiration strikes, and our little haggler zips back to the counter, bargaining “well, how about a half of one, then?” still a no. having exhausted every option, porky mopes on the sidewalk. a passerby drops his cane, and porky halfheartedly returns it to him, not even realizing he’s done anything. the man offscreen expresses his gratitude by offering a penny to porky.

suddenly, porky snaps his head to the sweet copper that lies before him in an outstretched hand. he eagerly accepts the penny (“oh boy! a penny!”). bob clampett animates his little jig as he does a dance, throwing the coin up in the air, whirling around just in time to catch it in his back “pocket”. a reoccurring gag that’s funny every time, perfectly and sardonically capturing his glee. he rubs his hands together, scheming, almost making a “grinch face” (chuck jones will provide many a grinch face in his cartoons, as he should) as the gears turn. doing favors = money = ice cream.

thus launches a favor spree. tex’s strong sense of timing furthers the potential of porky’s motives and transforms a mundane idea into something hilarious and likable. who doesn’t want to see him get his soda? porky rushes in just in time to hand a woman her fallen glove, and sure enough she repays him. another penny earned, another jig performed. any subtlety at porky’s desire to earn cash is quickly dropped as he puts on his best “cute” pose, pulling in his body and closing his eyes like the dickens he is, putting out his hand. more subtlety lost, more eagerness gained as porky literally rockets forward at super speed to reunite a woman and her wallet. another victory jig. just as things couldn’t be any brighter, porky finds a nickel on the ground. a whole five cents, just what he needed! as he’s about to bend over, a scottie dog zooms forward and snags the coin, flashing porky a toothy grin and tipping his hat before walking away. porky simply stares back in bewilderment and grief.

now, we pan back to the dingy, dark alleys as a familiar snicker rings out once more. the bomber creeps around the sidewalk, hiding behind the “blotz building”. the coast clear, he sneers “here it goes!” as he turns the clock on, and foreboding ticking begins. he creeps forward, warily placing the bomb down at the front of the building. the bomber knows that his work is done as he hurries away.

what he DOESN’T know, however, is that he was a witness: a stuttering, chubby, porcine witness. porky is just tickled to see the bomber turn the corner. he scoops up the bomb, mistaking it for a regular clock, and approaches the bomber, who’s crouching behind the corner, eyes squeezed shut and ears plugged as he braces for impact. timing sharp as always as he slowly opens his eyes and spots porky holding the clock in front of him... and wastes no time screaming as he does a take. what a great juxtaposition—porky’s naïve oblivion, arms outstretched to return the clock like the good little civilian he is, and the harsh screech of the bomber as he recoils immediately, sinister and ugly and (relatively) smart.

a perfectly hilarious distance shot of the bomber making a break for it, zigzagging through the streets as poor little porky hobbles behind with such good intentions. i love that this is a precursor to tex’s droopy cartoons—largely relying on a little pest that follows you EVERYWHERE and is at every turn, no matter where you go (tex’s first droopy cartoon, dumb-hounded—which i highly recommend—is a glorified take on this cartoon). the bomber seeks refuge in a garage, sliding a door shut in front of porky. of course, porky pops in from the other end, proudly handing out the clock to the bomber who recoils once more and darts away.

the bomber scales a tedious amount of fire escapes, climbing to the top of a building, where he’s greeted by a familiar pig. back down the flights of stairs the bomber goes. laverne’s vocal characterization is side splittingly hilarious and obnoxious, and tex’s knack for humor and speed totally make this cartoon something great. it’s a basic plot, really, and could have been handled disastrously in the wrong hands (no offense to jack king, but i’m sure this cartoon wouldn’t have been half as funny or endearing if it were in his hands). porky greets him at the bottom, just completely clueless as to why this mysterious man keeps screaming “NO!!!!” at him. desperate, the bomber dives into a manhole.

you just can’t go wrong with this. the bomber creeps around in the dark, surely alone now. that little idiot couldn’t have possibly have crawled down in here. yet, a lit up sclera and the visible face of a clock (a clever creative decision that totally just sells the joke) prove him wrong once more. the bomber runs the opposite way in the darkness, and yet again he’s met with that stubbornly optimistic pig.

frantically, the bomber dives out of the manhole, diving into another, followed by porky. out once more, pinning the next manhole cover down so porky surely can’t escape. what he fails to notice is porky crawling out of another manhole in the foreground. instead, the bomber barricades the manhole cover with a traffic sign, snarling “now i’ll fix the little pest, so he’ll be blown to pieces!” porky is right next to him, both of them utterly clueless for different reasons. now, the villain whips towards the audience and sneers “WHETHER YOU PEOPLE LIKE IT OR NOT!” tex was famous for breaking the fourth wall for a reason. it works. similarly, a fourth wall breaking villain would be pivotal to the plot of tashlin’s the case of the stuttering pig.

porky latches onto the villain’s cloak, blankly staring at him wordlessly. he’s literally like a baby that will NOT stop looking at you, to the point of borderline uneasiness. it’s literally that, but amplified. and it just works out fantastically. the bomber is absolutely clueless to two things—his little parasite, and to the two police officers who recognize the bomber. police sirens scream, as does the villain. he runs as fast as he can, and porky holds on with an iron grip, just flailing along for the ride. a hilarious distance shot of porky flopping around behind the villain, the cops commenting “look, the kid’s got hold of him!” “yeah! the little fella’s got plenty a nerve to tackle a mug like that!”

thankfully for the bomber, the chase leads right into his hidey hole. he spends a great deal of time tediously locking a stack of doors, celebrating his victory. the coppers bang on the door as the villain barricades himself in, sneering at their futile efforts to get him out. great setup as his smile is quickly paralyzed, offscreen ticking growing louder. of course, pan over to reveal the unflappably optimistic porky beaming as he holds out the time bomb. the bomber throws aside his barricade and bursts out the door, diving straight into the police van.

porky rushes outside and drops the smoking clock inside the van where the bomber is locked up in. the cherry on top as porky facetiously poses, making a spectacle of himself as he coyly sticks out his hand and puts on his best innocent act. the car drives away... a bumpy ride ensues as fireworks explode one after the other, the car jumping and rocketing around.

back to porky, who’s still posing coyly for his earnings (now animated once more by clampett). a man says “here’s your reward!” as he drops a hefty sack of dough in porky’s palm. he buckled beneath the weight as he possesses $2,000 worth of coins in his grubby little hands. absolutely ecstatic as he tosses the bag into the air, doing his jig. the bag explodes on top of him and he’s covered in coins. a man walks up to him, paper and pencil in hand as he asks “what’re you gonna do with your reward, sonny?” porky inhales before launching into a quick, breathlessly excited “i’m gonna buy me—i’m gonna buy me—i’m gonna buy me—“

what else? he’s gonna buy him $2,000 worth of ice cream sodas, that’s what. porky slurps down soda after soda, a victorious “fella with the fiddle” blaring as an underscore. he pauses his feast to smile and wave at the audience—iris out as he sucks down more dairy goodness.

i love this cartoon, and this is my favorite cartoon we’ve seen so far. it’s such a feel good watch. is it stupid? absolutely. break it down and you’ve got porky running around for 4 minutes while a guy screams one word replies. yet it’s SO much more than that. porky’s personality in this short is more than all of the personality we’ve seen in the past 125 cartoons combined. he’s phenomenal (i may be biased since he’s tied for favorite with daffy, but...). tex perfectly captures his childish spirit. innocent, naïve, oblivious and bumbling, yet smart enough to know that if he can put on an act he can earn a quick buck or 2,000. timing is everything in this cartoon, and it works out just fine. the scenes never feel TOO tedious, though there are some that definitely lose just a little bit of their punch. not much, though. laverne’s deliveries are fantastically obnoxious. she definitely cheeses it up, and it certainly works in her favor. the villain is an obvious parody, and works exquisitely well as a foil against the brutally honest demeanor of porky’s. is this tex’s best? no, not at all. but it’s a memorable short that i always find myself coming back to, and it always puts a smile on my face. you DEFINITELY need to check this one out. it’s just too good!

link!

[saintorr]

The Most Beautiful Parts

by St.Orr c. 2017

             The most beautiful parts of myself glow when I have compassion for myself, for my pain, my joy and solitude; for the craters, bags and wrinkles that attach themselves to my face and body as I age. Along with these come the tears, smiles and feelings (stuffed and unstuffed) that constitute this lovely, divinely starborn (and sometimes stillborn) psycho-bionic being and oh so grounded human entity called myself. There are broken dreams and anger, the shadows of dark and the shadows of gold; both the ashes and the infinite parts of the pieces of the puzzle that make up the me, a man who thought he was a little girl, who then accepted the man he grew into, wrapped in all of the scars of that cocoon woven into a fleece of many colors, of many shadows, and seasons that make up a life.

            I can see the grace and beauty of those larger than life stars as they sit at their tables at the great awards shows, the Golden Globes, the Oscars, etc. I sit at home and watch and wonder at their flow, their luminosity, their electric energy broadcast through all the wireless waves and satellites and piped into my monitor; I feed on them, consume them and think to myself because I can see their beauty, their grace, that I have it too!  Because I can feel them glistening with unimaginable gentleness, grace, beauty and power, then I too must have those things in me. Or maybe some essence? Well, doesn’t every human being?

            When these luminous ones come together to make their art, they overshadow all the neurotic news of bombastic tyrants and terrorist statistics; they shine through the fear, bloodletting, violence and hatred of the current world, circa winter, 2017. But they shine their fake smiles on all the dreamers and poets who still scrawl, write, and scrounge through the bottom layers of silt seeking a chance at the glamour and the gold of this crap game called show business where beauty is elevated to an art form that can inspire and lift. Their beauty too can be a trap—for it is the A-list, in-crowd that the agents and managers feed on and fight over, the stars we worship and adore. For, let's face no one wants or cares to hear about the losers whose dreaming destroyed them.

            The only famous person I ever massaged was Clive Davis. Other writers have warned me never NEVER to use real names when I record my memoirs but here I go. My purpose is not to gossip or slander but simple illustrate how the high roads and pinnacles of great success can sometimes meet the everyday world of the common man and produce a strange concoction all its own. I was called to Davis’ black marble penthouse tower on Park Avenue late one Sunday evening. He was an elderly man, he owned his own massage table and after a very anti-climactic session he paid me partially in nickels and dimes. While I stood there, in his kitchen, receiving the coins in open palms, his sick, dying Cocker Spaniel had the audacity to throw-up on my shoe. I don’t think there were any pennies. Clive inspired me to write a song called “Park Avenue” which I later produced, recorded and played for him when he called me for a second massage. He didn’t seem impressed when he heard it. “Meh, it's not a killer” he said, shrugging his shoulders and curling his lips. So much for inspiration.

            There was one client who actually did pay me partially in pennies; a forgettable outcall in the West Village truly more deserving of the demeaning label of trick than that of massage client. Besides the backbreaking massage, this arrogant, cold-blooded white snake of a humanoid also demanded that I piss on him in his bathtub. I still recall the hideous, garish Kelly green and shiny silver wallpaper of that awful bathroom; and the urge to throw the carefully counted pennies that he doled out right back in his face as he paid me off, both of us standing by the door. God I so wish I had flung those pennies right back into his satiated, smirking face. This was after I rubbed him and worked him up to a sensual release as the bedside photo of his lover standing on some pristine Hamptons beach replete with foaming waves and pant legs rolled up in the sand looked on, a boyish smile sweetly singing into the camera.

            The little boy in me has followed the man to the places where touch replaced sanity as the ultimate actor's “Survival Job” and the worship of the ecstasy of the orgasm was all, was enough, was better, truer and more real than any other form of working in the mundane “real world” could ever be.

            Now, I am emerging from that cocoon. Emerging from all my years that are spread out like a long, murky dark night of the soul. Older, wiser, a bit slower and a bit less generous with my body and hands to the hungry, horny minions of men; for what choice does one have when the downtime waves come lasting for a week, two weeks, or two months? In years past, when I was younger, the downtime could be measured in hours or days, there was always an endless supply of male (and sometimes female) clients in and out and up and down the one flight of stairs leading to my one-bedroom East Village flat. Then I recall all the hours spent in spas, the Plaza, the Waldorf, the crème de la crème of the best hotels and spas in the city; those passive aggressive, peach and crème-colored torture chambers with their silken linen smells and serenely smiling blond aestheticians working the front desk, making bookings, taking payments, listening to the complaints of the rich and not-so-famous. How many times was I initiated into the true meaning of the embalmed slave-state of the so-called service industry mentality? The place where New age serenity smiles are glued in place like impenetrable plastic masks. Oh the ache of the pressure of hands on bodies, hour after hour, giving until there’s nothing left to give; to have to smile, to have to fight attitudinal managers over incorrect paychecks, explain yourself like a criminal when some cunt complains about something you did or didn’t do (“too much peppermint oil on my thigh, it started to burn!” "So sorry to rock your bliss lady, but the cap was loose and came off in my hand!” or “During the massage, his fingers felt much too close to my inner thigh;" or "he stole my Rolex watch”). Oh what joy to be jumping like a trained circus dog when the cruel but handsome, Latin bisexual manager snapped his fingers “Room 4-Go!” at the West Village “Nickel-Spa for men.” That was the summer of the blackout I remember. There, in a tiny massage room, in the dark, a client lay prone, waiting. And there, light from outside glowed through a slit in the door like some view into a World War II NAZI gas chamber that "Hector” would peep through to check up on you, his eyes searching and accusing, making sure you weren’t doing anything naughty! In the darkened room while you massaged, sometimes you fantasized about lunch, the end of the shift, fantasizing the clock speeding up so the hour would go faster. Also, sometimes there were mysterious energy shifts and exchanges. You would begin the massage with a sore wrist, back or an upset stomach and simply through the mindful meditation of touching--of giving--your malady would disappear. Miraculous. After many a massage too, the clients would reappear looking pleasantly-sleepy, refreshed and years younger. Healing hands are so underrated. There is a lovely Zen quality to simply touching and being paid for it. It’s a pure physical, intimate work on a much higher level than office 9-5 drudgery. I’m grateful too for all the joys the sexual release work have given me through the years. Talk about “sweet labors of love.” So it almost appears strange that after all this physicality and all this time I wonder why is it that now, when I find myself servicing a client’s sexual needs that an intense nausea rises in my gut and I’m forced to fight the almost overwhelming urge to vomit? Interesting that after what?--some thirty years of doing massage (I started in 1990) that this very ethereal thing called self-integrity that I thought I’d lost or abandoned years ago, (my lost soul perhaps?) has come back to own me with a vengeance. Or maybe I’m owning it, my dear, sweet self-soul, after all these years. Thank you, God. I guess there’s a point where every man grows into his skin and outgrows his tired, cock-heavy adolescence. It’s as if my gut is telling me “You HATE this.” But I ignore the feelings and my urge to puke when repulsion grips me. I know the hour will soon be done and this strange “stimulation/torture/meditation” meshing and merging of energies, fluids and fantasies called M4Mmassage will help me pay yet another month of my over-priced New York rent. In my new vision of this my “third ace,”  I see myself fleeing this inflated, over-hyped, hollow, over-populated and all-too-neurotic place called New York City. Please God, soon, I pray, just the vista of the ocean and a small garden and I’ll be fine. Oh, and no more massages please, unless he’s my lover and not a client.

[curationstationdc]

Woodcuts in suburbia: melancholy, nostalgia, and resistance

Selbstbildness von vorn, Käthe Kollwitz © 2019 Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York / VG Bild-Kunst, Bonn

I associate woodcuts with a particular aesthetic: they loom from their perch on the bookshelf in the den, next to a collection of Hans Christian Andersen tales, whose worn buckram binding is effusing that sapid antique book aroma which pairs so well with coffee and cake. In the corner of the room, above a worn black leather chair designated for tv-watching and reading, a pathos dangles from its pot, fed by gentle streams of light emanating from the canopy of shade sheltering the backyard garden. On weekends and special occasions, the clinking of cake forks against china is punctuated only by an occasional “delicious!” — direct and accurate. This orchestration produces a distinctly Germanic affect, and one that I associate with the elderly; the particular family room I’m recalling belonged to my next-door neighbors growing up, former members of the Danish anti-Nazi resistance who had emigrated in the early 1960s. While I can’t be sure there was any deeper meaning behind their affinity for the humble woodcut, I do recall the medium’s prominence in their home. For me, something as benign as a flock of geese is represented with a degree of melancholy in these prints' impenetrable black shadows — an inevitability in this generation’s Weltanschauung, that everything beautiful carries with it a degree of pain, a nostalgia for the idea of a more civil world.

These beloved octogenarians were my first choice of role models, and I insisted on seeing them almost every day for the first 8 or 9 years of my life. They were old-school Democrats (or at least, that’s how their values system translated into American) in a largely Republican suburb of a mid-sized Upper Midwestern city. I can still place myself their 1950′s minimal traditional home: running my hands along their walnut furniture with polished nickel handles, greeted by a different antique clock in every room, tick-tocking at various registers, my slippered feet shuffling along a dull, greenish-blue carpet so typical of that era. Nothing in that home was remotely as paired down as today’s sanitized mid-century throwback, and the old neighborhood still retained a smidgen of character unlike contemporary expressions of manifest destiny. Lovingly tended beds of roses, pansies, and bleeding hearts flourished under the shade of maples, walnuts, and red oak. 

A young family admires their new home. Between 1950 and 1970, America’s suburban population nearly doubled to 74 million Camerique Archive / Archive Photos / Getty Images

For my neighbors, woodcuts seemed to be a culturally relevant way of displaying eerie alternative landscapes: a flock of geese, a school of fish, a sunset laden with a certain degree of subconsciously expressed Weltschmerz. For me, these woodcuts were inextricably linked to their stories of brazen defiance in the face of terror, which they seldom shared, always with a degree of pain and even embarrassment. Their democratic ideals to which they so proudly clung were the real source of their identity; it was from them that I learned it was OK to be gay, that everyone deserved a home and access to healthcare, that one lives like a society like a neighbor rather than just an individual. But it wasn’t until years after their deaths that I detected any degree of paradox in their suburban American existence, was able to chuckle at their nostalgia for the old country as expressed in their grocery cart (tubs of frozen Coolwhip to be served generously with home-baked apple cake, slices of summer sausage or cucumbers served on squares of cocktail rye, a far cry from the bakeries and delicatessens of northern Europe.) 

A woman and a boy visiting a man in hospital. Woodcut by Käthe Kollwitz, 1929. Credit: Wellcome Collection. CC BY

While I may associate woodcuts with the interior design choices of an immigrant family in the middle of the last century, its origins predate my concept of history. Woodcutting is thought to be the earliest print technique, originating in 9th-century China, arriving in Europe sometime in the 14th century. Woodcut has been a staple medium for prominent Northern European artists like Dürer since the 16th century. To produce a print, artists carve their image into a block of wood, along the grain, removing the parts that will not carry ink. The surface is then rolled over with a brayer and the image transferred to a sheet of paper through a press. The result in works like Käthe Kollwitz’s Selbstbildness von vorn (1922-1923), pictured above, is nothing short of haunting — well-suited to the violently introspective tone of German Expressionism. If you’re curious about the process, here’s a short demonstration:

Phil Sanders, Director of the Robert Blackburn Printmaking Workshop, demonstrates the pressure + ink relief process

Woodcutting became a popular tool of activists in the 1910′s, when thinkers like Ernst Barlach were beginning to use reductionist, anti-naturalist figures to express their dejection at the rise of an alien world. In the case of Barlach, his art was often placed alongside politically charged writing in order to provoke emotional reactions to the realities of uprootedness, inequality, and disaffection in industrialized, urban Europe. It is Barlach’s rather proletariat answer to the questions of modernity, inspired in part by a kind of political realism emerging in Russia, that inspired German artist Käthe Kollwitz to take up the humble woodcut. 

Ernst Barlach, from an East German stamp, 1970. Would he have been pleased with his legacy?

I remember receiving a story on the couch in my neighbors’ den — I was about 10 or 11 — regarding the final days of the war: a fellow member of the resistance had suggested replacing the Dannebrog with the flag of the Danish Communist Party, the DKP, an idea that had shaken my neighbor to his core. For him, resistance had been an act of preservation, a defense of the right to be distinctly Danish, and all that it entailed, in an increasingly international world. How the inability to return to a Denmark before the crimes of Nazism must have felt, I can only attempt to imagine. To this day, I am astounded by my neighbors’ apparent lack of burnout in light of what they sacrificed, their resilience in living out their ideals and inherited melancholia with me under an umbrella on the patio. It seemed that, for them, past and present far outweighed considerations for the future.

My copy of Korsbæk Tidende (Korsbæk Official Journal), an educational accompaniment to the popular Danish 1970′s and 1980′s tv-series “Matador” about a fictionalized Danish town between 1929 and 1947. I inherited this collection of real newspaper clips that informed events on the show from my neighbor — I assume he loved the show.

To an extent, I have inherited their idealism, an obsession with a bleak past used to check the present, an index of unwavering values to be accessed at any time. It is only through a sense of history that I’m able to make sense of the communicative power of images today, how calculated distortions of reality made ubiquitous through mass production can make us more empathetic, braver in the face of a not-so-distant future. It's a future that cannot be understood with the tools we have been given, that will almost upend our perceptions and unsettle us, a future that demands our bravery. More than ever my beloved neighbors ever could have fathomed, the possibility that our sacrifices will be bastardized in the name of another cause is unparalleled in the digital age. And even more than they experienced, we have the incredible opportunity, and challenge, to transplant our ideologies across ecosystems, upending heir original contexts.

Simultaneous calls for universalism and individual freedom, the appeals of difference and homogeneity, the cogent argument of moral relativism against the call for a shared global narrative will, no doubt, continue to shake us in an era of unprecedented displacement and global climate change. Among other things, these challenges call for an art that, like the pervasive woodcut, infiltrates our purviews, and is attuned to the affect of contemporary life. It should carry with is a melancholic nostalgia, demand our empathy, blemish our idealized beauty.

If I limit myself to woodcuts, I'm reminded of the works of William Kentridge, Beatriz Milhazes, Leonard Baskin, Alison Saar, Irving Amen, Tony Bevan, Katsutoshi Yuasa, Assadour Bezdikian, Elizabeth Catlett, Lou Barlow, Leon Gilmour — I'm sure I'm missing countless others.

Retrospective Exhibitions on Käthe Kollwitz

Käthe Kollwitz, National Gallery of Art, Washington, D.C., 1992; Käthe Kollwitz: In Celebration of the 125th Anniversary of the Artist’s Birth, Galerie St. Etienne, New York City, 1992; Berner Kunstmuseum, Bern, Switzerland, 1946; Retrospective in honor of her 50th birthday at Paul Cassirer galleries, Berlin, 1917

Selected Bibliographies on Käthe Kollwitz

Knesebeck, Alexandra von dem. Käthe Kollwitz: Werkverzeichnis der Graphik. Band I & II. Bern: Kornfeld, 2002.

Prelinger, Elizabeth, ed. Käthe Kollwitz. Exh. cat. Washington, DC: National Gallery of Art, 1992.

Rix, Brenda D., and Jay A. Clarke. Käthe Kollwitz: The Art of Compassion. Exh. cat. Toronto: Art Gallery of Ontario, 2003.

Selected Bibliographies on Ernst Barlach

Laur, Elisabeth. Ernst Barlach: Sämtliche Werke, Werkverzeichnis I. Die Druckgraphik. Leipzig: E. A. Seemann, 2001.

Paret, Peter. An Artist Against the Third Reich: Ernst Barlach, 1933–38. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002.

Selected Bibliographies on Ernst Ludwig Kirnchner

Dube, Annemarie, and Wolf-Dieter Dube. Ernst Ludwig Kirchner: Das graphische Werk. 2 vols. Munich: Prestel, 1980.

Gercken, Günther, and Magdalena M. Moeller. Ernst Ludwig Kirchner: Farbige Druckgraphik. Exh. cat. Berlin: Brücke-Museum, 2008.

Krämer, Felix, ed. Ernst Ludwig Kirchner: Retrospective. Exh. cat. Frankfurt: Städel Museum, 2010.

Lloyd, Jill, and Magdalena M. Moeller, eds. Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, 1880–1938. Exh. cat. Washington, DC: National Gallery of Art, 2003.

Wye, Deborah. Kirchner and the Berlin Street. Exh. cat. New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 2008.

[ausp-ice]

Apparitions, Scene 2: Revelations Characters: Wren/Incisura (mine), Wenzel/Raffle ( @the-valiant-valkyrie​ ) Words: 2400 Archive | 1 2 3 4 5 6

Here’s the second installment of my RP with Sav

It was some time before they crossed paths again. Incisura had awoken alone a few hours later, only slightly cold despite napping on the cold roof. They had returned home, taking the following few days off to recover, only to discover that they felt fine after just one day.

Curious.

A week later, they once again stood upon the roof of a building. No big fights tonight as of yet, but they made it a habit to wander the city every now and then.

It was an absolute miracle Wenzel wasn’t caught after the slip up... He wasn’t quite sure how he managed it- especially when giving his luck away. If he was caught, he probably wouldn’t have been able to get out of the house; nor would he have been able to waltz himself down to the corner store and pick up the sandwich he currently held. He meandered without much of a care, eating, tapping idly on his phone... Couldn’t quite sense anything as of yet.

Looking down at the street, Incisura spotted someone remarkably familiar. "...hm. I did say that his costume didn't do much to conceal his identity." They muttered. "Then again, I can't exactly wander the streets like this..." Luckily (hmm), the building they were on was stocked with various coats, scarves, and hats. They were out of season... They'll put it back later........... A few minutes later found them on the street, mask and cloak stashed somewhere for a coat and hat instead.

Wenzel didn’t quite notice them at first, what with his tip-typing on the phone, and his jaw going back for more of that sandwich (turkey swiss on rye, lightly toasted, added salt and bacon crumbs, for the crunch, of course), but eventually he blinked, tilting his head up. Curiosity overtook his expression, and he looked around a moment, as if someone had called his name.

"Greetings." A voice popped up right behind him, remarkably familiar.

He jumped, again, clutching tightly to his sandwich as he wheeled around. His head tilted in confusion at the stranger,

“Uh... Hey, there...”

They smiled lightly. Most of their face was cast in shadow, and the collar of their coat was pulled up high, but their icy eyes were still quite visible. "It's been a week, but it is good to see you again... Raffle." The last word was uttered quietly enough that no bystanders would hear.

His eyes first flickered with fear, before realization slowly melted in its replacement. He looked left and right for a moment, as if to ensure no one had heard the cryptic greeting, before falling pack into pace again,

“Good to see you’re doing well after last time...”

They laughed lightly, as they continued walking with Raffle on the path he was on before. "Remarkably so. The fortunes seemed ever in my favor this week. Usually I'm lethargic for a few days, but I was fine after one! Among other happenings. It was very curious. But how have you been doing? I've wanted to check in on my pati- on how your injury has healed. Has it bothered you at all?" Ah, calling them patients was such a force of habit.

“Oh, yes, It’s healed quite well, in fact...” He wiggled his shoulder just as proof, “You could barely tell I ever wrecked it in the first place. Sometimes it stings a little, but considering the circumstance, it’s pretty cool. I guess we’ve both been pretty lucky as of late, then, huh?”

"Ah, excellent! I'm glad." They glanced at Raffle. "Did you... hm." They lowered their voice. "Did you have anything to do with that? The... luck."

He chucked, giving a light nod as he took another large bite of his lunch, chewing for a while before granting a response,

“Uh huh. Pretty neat, huh?”

"It is indeed fascinating!" They put a hand on their chin. "Does it have limits? Can you give endlessly? Is it only good luck or also bad luck? Does it tire you out or-"

“Well-“ Yet another bite of his sandwich, “It’s weird...” He let his voice fade to a gentle whisper, “I can exchange it... Good luck for one person, bad luck for another. Can’t have one without the other. Depending on how intense the luck is affects how much it tuckers me out... Comes in handy in a scrape, or something.”

Incisura nods. "Mmmmm yes, yes, I see- wait." They squint at him. "Did you give me your luck?"

“For a little while, yes.”

"It did not affect you too badly, did it?" They were disturbed by the thought of inconveniencing another.

“Oh, no. I didn’t take enough for anything bad to happen to me. And besides, you pulled ice from my shoulder- it was the least I could do.”

"Ah... Thank you, then." They bowed their head.

“It’s no problem at all.” He gave a faint smile, glancing to his phone for a moment as it buzzed gently, but seemingly whatever he was told wasn’t too important.

"Ah. I'm not keeping you, am I?" Their steps slowed at the end of a building, streetlights casting the nearby alley in darkness.

“Oh, no, it’s just my...” He mulled over the right word for a moment, “It’s nothing, just an update from family. I’ve all the time in the world, granted that time lasts until...” He checked his phone again a moment,

“Two.”

Incisura opened their mouth to respond, but at that moment, a scream echoed from the alley. They jerked, head snapping towards the shadows.

Wenzel had flinched a second before the sound anyways, but the noise in itself forced a wince from the boy. His head turned immediately to the source, fingers twitching in indecisiveness.

They looked back at Raffle, noticing his wince. "I will investigate. Stay here, if you wish. Follow, if you wish for that instead." They stepped towards the alley.

There was no hesitation as Raffle tailed along behind. There was no way he could possibly... Leave the trace of danger there when he could do something about it. Especially if he had company, which could also do something about it- meaning in total they could do about twice as much thing about it.

A thud echoed from further in. Incisura exchanged a look with Raffle and ran towards the sound - until they came across someone standing over a body, bloodstained knife in hand.

"Oh crap-!" It was barely a whisper under his breath. Raffle was far more used to supersized predicaments. This person was... Stabbed! Just clean through assaulted! Were they even still alive?!

The person with the knife seemed to panic, holding the knife towards them. "S-stay back! I'm, I'm not afraid to use this!" Incisura tilted their head to the side slightly. What to do... They supposed they should help the one bleeding out on the ground, but they didn't particularly want to use their powers in front of some petty criminal, and while all they were wearing was a hat to conceal their face...

Wenzel didn't quite seem to think that through too much. In an instant, the poor soul on the ground was glowing a faint pale hue, and the sod with the knife a red one. Another red glow came from underneath the bangs of his hair, though he carefully pulled up his hood as to not so easily reveal this,

"Just drop the knife. Drop it."

He tried to make his voice a little deeper than it was.

"W-what's happening? What are you doing?" He frantically glanced at himself and the poor sod. He gripped the knife tightly. If he could knife both of them and run, maybe he could get away...

"I said put it down!" He pulled his phone from his pocket, waving it as if it were a detonator to a bomb, "I can call the police!"

"Th-th-then I'll just be gone by then!" He ran towards them - making the mistake of aiming at Incisura, who caught the knife in their bare hands. "Hmm..." They frowned, watching their blood drip. The man's eyes widened, but he couldn't seem to pull it out of their grip.

Feverishly, Raffle had opened his phone, scrambling to type the numbers in. He only paused when his screen went black, eyeing his friend sheepishly,

"My, uh... My p... My phone's dead-"

Incisura sent him a Look. They sighed. "You have to remember to charge your phone every day. You know, so you can call someone when people are getting knifed in back alleys? Well," they gave a half shrug, reaching into their pocket. "Use mine. You can call the police without unlocking it, while I'm dealing with... this." They tossed it towards Raffle.

He grabbed it, hastily dialing, cupping his mouth to the phone so one couldn't hear exactly what it was he was saying. Even though the criminal was apprehended, his hands still shook like a leaf. Just so long as he kept all his luck focused on that one guy.

In meantime, Incisura had jabbed the guy in the eyes and knocked him out while he was screeching. They looked at the person bleeding out on the ground, then at the bloody knife, and stuck the knife in their mouth.

Raffle eventually turned around after a while, looking first at the man at the ground, and then at the knife, half stuck in Incisura's mouth,

"That's... Thats weird, but you just... You do what you have to-"

They popped the knife out of their mouth, shrugging. "Hey, I can only help them if I've ingested their blood." They looked towards the person. "I've stopped the bleeding, and removed the contaminants from their blood. Once help arrives, they'll be fine." They looked back at the knife. "... Maybe I should hold on to this. Now that it... kinda... has my spit all over it........"

"You probably should..." He replied, inhaling deeply and stopping the glow, letting the alleyway fade into darkness yet again,

"Gosh, I hope they'll be alright... A stabbing's never good..."

"Worry not! It's only a light stabbing." Before long, an ambulance and police car pulled up to the scene. Incisura jerked, cursing under their breath. "Fudge nickels. I did not think this through." One of the paramedics ran up to them. "Wren? What are you doing here?"

Raffle castes a glance between the paramedic and his ally, blinking in confusion,

"Wren?"

Wren tsked. Well, it's probably fine. They took off their hat, revealing their face. "Yes, I'm here, someone got knifed, the criminal is there, the knife is gone forever, that person's stabbed and you might want to help them."

Raffle nodded a couple of times, stepping back and gesturing to the previously knifed man on the ground,

"Please help them- it looked pretty bad..."

The paramedic nodded, and approached the prone man. Wren sighed a little, gradually releasing their hold on his blood. It wouldn't do for that to be revealed as well. "Who's he-" The paramedic asked, as he tended to the victim. "Just a friend." Wren said curtly.

"Hello..." He waved, sheepishly, "I... I was the one who called..."

"Well, it's good you did. It's a deep wound." The paramedic's hands glowed golden for a moment. "That should be enough to stabilize him. Unfortunately, I can't do much." The paramedic called others over to help put the victim on a stretcher, carrying him to the ambulance as the police detained the assailant. "I'm surprised, though. You never talk about having any friends while at the hospital." Wren sighed. "Go do your thing. Can we leave now?" The officer seemed to protest for a moment, but they cut him off. "We're going, contact me if you must. You have my number. But, places to go, things to do." With that, they grabbed Raffle by the shoulder and waltzed out of the alley.

He winced slightly at the contact to where such a serious wound would have been, even despite the fact that it had more or less healed, but Raffle took the hint, waking at their side as they exited the alley way,

"... Who was that...?" He questioned after a while, glancing behind him

Wren hmm'd. "She's Aria, someone from work. At my... day job. She has the power to slow the progression of wounds for a bit."

"Oh, that sounds quite helpful..." He noted, casually, before trailing off for a little while,

"Wren's your name?"

Wren paused for a moment, contemplative. "I suppose it's time I properly introduced myself." He seemed like someone they could trust with the info, somehow. They lifted their hand to their chest, bowing slightly. "Wren Curtis, surgeon of the Aeon Hospital - at your service." Raffle almost automatically jolted back, as if Wren were as hot as white coals,

"Surgeon? Like.... Doctor, snippy snippy, surgery surgeon?"

Wren raised an eyebrow. That was quite the reaction.

"Yes... They call me in to operate on those deemed to be lost causes. Not that they'd know, but I occasionally... use my abilities to my advantage."

"I... Mmn..." He hummed, quietly, rocking back and forth on his heels, before finally granting them a sheepish nod,

"That... That's pretty neat, I guess... I'm, uh... Wenzel... Just Wenzel."

"Nice to truly meet you, Wenzel." They gave a light smile.

A long moment passed, before they spoke up again. "Do... do doctors make you uncomfortable?"

"Well... Maybe a little... But that's a long story..." He shrugged, a stray hand scratching the side of his head

"Ah. My apologies. I do not mean to pry..." Wren brought a hand to their chin, before pulling out a business card from who-knows-where. "My number. I thought that perhaps I should get out of your hair for tonight. The hour is late."

The boy blinked, surprise and intrigue lining his features at the little trick, carefully accepting the card. He scrutinized it for a second or two, before tucking it in his pocket,

"Oh, thanks... If you'd best be off, I better not hold you."

"Indeed. May we meet again. Now, I've got a coat and hat to return!"

He took a glance at the clothing, but figured he better not comment on it anymore than they already had, taking back off into the security of the streets.

Wren promptly returned the coat and hat back to precisely where they found it, donning their mask and cloak once more before returning to their lair home.

[mxliv-oftheendless]

Way Down Hadestown

So brief explanation for this: my latest obsession has been the song “Way Down Hadestown” from the musical Hadestown, and one day I was listening to the song, and the sudden image of KISS singing this popped into my head. So I decided to write it out. I took some inspiration for a couple small things in here from @cosmicrealmofkissteria‘s KISSteriaverse (go read her drabbles, they’re awesome!), but everything else in here is mine. 

I apologize if this is shite, but I had to get it down and I wanted to share it with y’all. If you’ve never listened to “Way Down Hadestown”, I recommend listening to it as you read the story. 

So without further ado, enjoy!

Aucoin’s Tavern bustled with life. Crowds of people filled the spacious tavern, people wishing to drink their problems away or simply wishing for a good time with friends.

Seated at the bar was a man with the latter wish. He was slender man with long black hair, fair skin, and dark eyes, currently lit up with a joyful gleam as he and others at the bar laughed loudly at a joke.

“That deserves another round, I think,” he said aloud. 

“Aw, c’mon, Vin, you’ve been payin’ all day!” Catman protested.

“At least let us pay for one round,” another called the Fox insisted.

The man, whose name was Vinneketh, or Vinnie to his friends, shook his head. “Nonsense. I know none of you could afford it, whereas I can.”  

“Well, one of us could,” a man, Bruce, stated from where he was at a table with two men, Tommy and Eric. “But we all know he would never do it.”              

All the men turned toward a man with curly black hair and white facepaint with a black star sat a table alone by a window, sipping his drink and watching the scene.

Vinnie grinned teasingly at the man. “Well, we all know how fiercely protective Starchild is over his inheritance,”             

Starchild shrugged, smiling. “Guilty. But I’m simply not as ready to spend my wealth as you are, Vinnie,”               

“How wealthy are you, anyway, Starchild?” Fox asked curiously.

From where he was seated beside Catman, a lanky man called Spaceman laughed. “Bad question ta ask, Foxy; Prince Starchild of KISSteria hates talkin’ about his wealth.” 

Starchild rolled his eyes at Spaceman. 

“Why don’t we focus on the next round, hm?” Vinnie skillfully changed the subject. He waved to the bartender. “Bill, another round, if you don’t mind!”

Catman grinned and raised his glass. “Ya spoil us, Vinnie!”            

The jovial atmosphere was suddenly broken by a loud train whistle from outside.

Immediately, the entire tavern went silent. Vinnie froze, the smile slipping off his face. His dark eyes, now wide, turned to meet Starchild’s, quietly begging him to please tell him it wasn’t what he thought it was.

Starchild stood from his chair and opened the window beside his table, then stuck his head out. His star glowed faintly purple as he looked toward the set of train tracks that were outside. There, magnified in the far, far distance, was the small form of an all-black train, rumbling towards the tavern.

Starchild pursed his lips, then opened his mouth and sang, “On the road to Hell, there was a railroad track,”

The desperate look on Vinnie’s face instantly dropped away, and his eyes clouded with anger. “Oh, come on!” he groaned.

“And a train coming up from way down below,”

Vinnie raised a finger toward Starchild. “That was not six months!” he insisted.

Starchild turned to Vinnie, shrugging apologetically. “Better go get your suitcase packed. Guess it’s time to go.” 

Scowling darkly and eyes blazing with anger, Vinnie nonetheless got up and stormed off.

Spaceman shook his head sadly as Vinnie exited the tavern. “Too fuckin’ bad,” he lamented.

Fox approached Starchild, who had returned to gazing out the window. “What did you see?” he questioned.

Glancing at him, Starchild jerked his head to the window. “C’mere and take a look,”

When Fox had stuck his head out, Starchild pulled a dollar bill out of his pocket and threw it out the window. As Fox followed it, he saw it was blowing on the wind in the direction of small curling wisps of smoke on the horizon.

“Follow that dollar for a long way down,” sang Starchild behind him. “Far away from the poorhouse door. You either get to Hell or to Hadestown; ain’t no difference anymore. Way down Hadestown, way down under the ground.” 

Fox curiously pulled his head back inside. “What’s Hadestown?”

“Used ta be run by Hades himself, so they say,” Spaceman piped up, ignoring Catman’s sour expression. “But then it was taken over in a coup and now it’s run by who the boys call Demon.”

He set down his drink. “Hound dog howl and the whistle blow,” he sang. “Train come a-rollin’, clickety-clack. Nobody knows where the old train goes. Those who go, they don’t come back.”

“Way down Hadestown, way down under the ground!” the patrons in the tavern chorused.

Music suddenly started up, and some of the crowd moved onto a cleared space to dance to a jazzy rhythm. Those who weren’t dancing clapped their hands to the beat.

The crowd on the dance floor suddenly parted to make for the return of Vinnie, who trudged back into the tavern. He carried bags in his hands and wore a coat over his clothes. His face had changed as well; what had once been fair skin was now chalky white, with black lips and a golden ankh from his forehead to his nose. There was also a very sour expression on his face.

“Winter’s nigh, and summer’s o’er,” he sang, frustration seeping into his voice. “Hear that high and lonesome sound, of my husband comin’ for, to bring me home to Hadestown.”

“Way down Hadestown, way down under the ground!”

Vinnie trudged over to the bar, where Starchild was waiting for him, and plunked his bags on the surface. “Down there, it’s a bunch of stiffs. Brother, I’ll be bored to death,” he lamented to Starchild. “Gonna have to import some stuff just to entertain myself.”

He snapped his fingers at Bill. “Gimme morphine in a tin. Gimme a crate of the fruit of the vine. Takes a lot of medicine to make it through the wintertime.”

“Way down Hadestown, way down under the ground!”

Bill glanced over at Starchild, looking unsure. Starchild sighed and nodded, and Bill accordingly went off to grab what Vinnie requested.

“So I guess Hadestown is a bad place, then?” Fox asked from where he was now sitting.

All of them grinning, Bruce, Eric, and Tommy went over to Fox. “Everybody dresses in clothes so fine!” Bruce sang.

“Everybody’s pockets are weighted down!” Eric added.

“Everybody’s sippin’ ambrosia wine,” they all harmonized, “in a gold mine, in Hadestown!”

“Way down Hadestown, way down under the ground!”

Catman scoffed. “Now that’s some bullshit and you know it,” he said to the three. He downed his drink and stood up. “Everybody hungry, everybody tired, everybody slaves by the sweat of his brow. The wage is nothin’ and the work is hard, it’s a graveyard in Hadestown!”

“Way down Hadestown, way down under the ground!”

Bruce, Eric, and Tommy shrugged, still wearing shit-eating grins, and went over to surround Vinnie, who had uncorked a bottle of wine and was drinking straight from it. “Every little penny in the wishing well,” they sang. “Every little nickel on the drum,”

Vinnie raised his bottle, giving an unenthused smile. “On the drum!”

“All them shiny little heads and tails—where do ya think they come from?”

“They come from way down Hadestown, way down under the ground!”

The jazzy music swelled again, and the patrons in the tavern left, running outside to dance once more. It was rather ironic to see them dancing, as it was a rather somber occasion. Vinnie just continued to drink from his wine bottle, until he had finished and threw it off to the side.

“How can he drink all that?” Fox whispered in awe.

“He’s got a high alcohol tolerance,” Starchild quietly explained. “Which helps for where he’s going.” 

The train whistle suddenly blew again, much louder this time, and everyone felt the ground rumble under their feet. When they looked, this time the train could be seen, without the help of Starchild’s eye, as it moved along the tracks, getting gradually bigger with every passing minute.

Catman glared at the coming train and spat on the ground. “Mr. Demon is a mean old boss,” he spat.

“With a silver whistle and a golden scale,” Vinnie agreed, still looking very annoyed with the whole thing.

“An eye for an eye!” Bruce, Eric, and Tommy shouted.

“And he weighs the cost,” Starchild cut in.

“A lie for a lie!”

“And your soul for sale!”

“Sold!” all four shouted.

“To the king on the chromium throne,” Vinnie sang morosely.

“Thrown!”

“To the bottom of a sing-sing cell!” Catman belted.

“Where the little wheel squeals and the big wheel groans,” Starchild sang out.

“And you’d better forget about your wishing well,” finished Vinnie.

“Way down Hadestown, way down under the ground!”

The rumbling reached its loudest as the train began to slow down. Slowly, the train rolled to a stop, with a first class train car stopping right in front of the group gathered on the side of the tracks.             

“On the road to Hell there was a railroad car,” said Starchild quietly. “And the car door opened and a man stepped out.”

As he said it, the car door opened, and a pair of black boots appeared on the step.                

“Everybody looked and everybody saw, it was the same man they’d been singing about,”               

Then the Demon himself appeared to them all.

He had huge, frightening appearance, with the black marks on his snow white face and his yellow cat-like eyes making him ever more so. His eyes scanned the crowd of people, everyone avoiding his gaze. 

All but Vinnie, who stepped forward holding his bags. He looked at Demon with a look of irritation and anger. “You’re early,” he said simply.

Demon’s black mouth curled into a smile, the kind of smile only a serial killer could pull off. “I missed you,” he replied. His low voice sent cold shivers up everyone’s spines.

“Mr. Demon is a mighty king,” Tommy sang quietly. 

Eric and Bruce joined in. “Must be makin’ some mighty big deals. Seems like he owns everything.”

Fox mused aloud. “Kinda makes you wonder how it feels...”

He trailed off. For one tense moment, there was silence. Then, desperate as everyone else to get Demon on his way, Starchild shouted out. 

“All aboard! A-one, two, a-one two three four!”

“Way down Hadestown, way down under the ground!” the crowd sang, as Vinnie sighed and resignedly walked toward the train. Demon’s smile widened, though now it looked more like a smirk, and disappeared back into the train car.

“Way down Hadestown, way down under the ground!”

Vinnie climbed the step, then paused. He looked over his shoulder at his friends, who simply watched sadly. Spaceman gave him a somber salute of farewell, and Fox apologetically waved goodbye.

“Way down under the ground!” 

Vinnie turned back and stepped onto the train. The car door closed behind him.

The train began to move again, gaining speed until it was chugging away, nothing more than a wisp of smoke on the horizon.

“Way down under the… ground!”