#is he somewhere else ? all alone? wearing a half black half white suit split down the middle? like a confused penguin?

[fisheito]

still thinking about those promo pics where they locked the tops and bottoms in separate rooms

[yeojaa]

feed me, fight me.

pairing.  boxer!jjk x f!reader.  rating.  explicit.  tags.  relationship issues, baby angst, comfort, unprotected sex (please be responsible!).  wc. 3.5k.  beta reader.  @hobi-gif​, always.  💖  author note.  i’m really into comfort fics rn so... 

What do you get when you mix a pissed off girlfriend with a neglectful boyfriend?  (Aside from trouble, that is.)

The answer is you - throwing punches far harder than you should be, completely disregarding the fact that you’re meant to be playing the part of perfect partner, meeting pads in the sequence he’s laid out.  It’s you throwing a hook when you should be swinging an uppercut.  It’s you, snapping your leg out with a satisfying thunk! of your shin when you should only be thip kicking.  It’s you, not giving a single damn as you take out all your frustrations on someone who’s growing increasingly more irritated by your childishness.  It’s you, blatantly disrespecting him in his ring - sending a reminder that there’s more to life than the four corners of this space. 

How can he blame you though, when he’s the reason?  When you’ve voiced your annoyance more than once - more than twice, more times than you care to count - and each time it’s met with a half-hearted apology (if you could even call it that)?  How can he hold it against you when you’ve asked, demanded, pleaded for more? 

“Cut it out,”  he seethes, quiet, under his breath, irritation igniting his expression, something hot and angry burning in the dark of his stare.  A withering wildfire in an empty field, smoldering coals flickering bright.  It presents itself in how his mouth curls, the hard line of his jaw as bone threatens to snap in half from the tension. 

“Cut what out?”  Your retort is punctuated by the smack of leather on leather, the worn edge of your boxing glove meeting the pad that Jungkook raises just in time to avoid a black eye. 

“What’s your problem?”  How he manages to snipe back - somehow sounding disgruntled by your behaviour - you’re not sure.  All you know is it boils your blood, searing heat within your veins when he effortlessly blocks your next jab.  He knows you well and knows the sport better, predicting each movement as if you’re telegraphing it all with a giant neon sign on your forehead. 

(You probably are.  You’ve never been good at hiding your emotions, pinning your heart on your sleeve, your sadness heavy in your mouth.  They wear you, rather than you it.  A weakness of yours.)

“You’re my problem.” 

“Shut up.”  It’s not the usual exasperated annoyance he levels you with, meaner and paired with a swat of your gloved hand.  He’s not supposed to be countering you, instead only blocking the punches you throw his way. 

(But then again - when did he ever listen to you?  When did he ever do what he was supposed to?)

(It’s not a fair assertion.  You’re just mad.  Livid beyond belief, standing atop this hill that you’ll happily die on.)

“Fuck you,”  you snap, offering the petulant comeback in the same instance you surge forward.  He blocks your jab - sees it coming from a mile away - and goes to block your hook. 

Except it never comes, your knee straightening out instead, hard edge of your shin slamming right into the side of his leg. 

He crumples more out of surprise than anything, eyes wide, all the anger swept away by something closer to astonishment.  It shines impossibly bright in his eyes, turning his entire expression upside down when his knee hits the ground.  By how he falls, you’re sure you’ve hit just the right spot, left his nerve endings buzzing uncomfortably as the feeling leaves the limb. 

“Are you serious?”  You know he’s genuinely baffled then, voice slipping, cracking in a way you’d normally find adorable.  (It goes to show how upset you are, the awkward split of his words doing nothing to soothe your temper.)  “What’s your issue?”  He’s still seated on the floor, rocking back on his heels, brow knit in consternation.  It’d take him seconds to jump up - to put you on your ass - but he chooses to remain where he is, staring up at you with that look on his face.

(That look you love.  That you hate.  That makes your insides turn to goo on his best days and misery on your worst.  That you’ve seen every single day for the last three years, as the first thing upon waking up and the last thing before passing out.  That makes you hesitate now, peering down into it.)

(Were you being unnecessary?  Unbearable?  Was this on you?)

“I’m going home.”  It’d be nice to tear your gloves off, throw them in his face and storm off in a huff.  It’d cause the scene you’re hoping for, push him to where you need.  (Because that’s the thing about Jungkook - he doesn’t react otherwise and you’re sick of it.)  Instead, you turn on your heel and slink away, silent as a mouse.  

You’re tired.  Too tired.  Why had you started something you couldn’t finish?

It shouldn’t surprise you that you’re home alone for hours that night, curled up in bed and half-asleep when light from the hallway spills into your bedroom.  It comes with hardly any noise, a tell-tale sign he’s trying not to wake you (or disturb you or get caught).  You almost let it slide when his figure appears in the doorway, broad frame swallowed up by the oversized sweater he wears.

He’s moving near silently, having already deposited his gym bag in the laundry room.  He doesn’t even switch the light on, moving around in the muted glow of the hallway, fumbling as he strips his clothes off and tosses them into the hamper against the wall. 

You expect him to head directly into the en suite, wash away whatever grime he’s accumulated throughout the day.  He’s always been this way, far too concerned with dragging in odour and dirt into your bed to do otherwise.

Except tonight, he doesn’t follow his usual routine.  Tonight, he makes a detour.

The bed dips before you realise what’s happening, grip on the pillow under your head tightening.  Words fit between your teeth, ready to spill out, lash out, tear out like a bullet deadset on landing a bullseye. 

“I’m sorry.”  Two words you’ve been waiting to hear, that startle you enough to throw your anger out the window, tossing them out with the wash.  “I don’t know why you’re upset but I’m sorry for whatever it is.”  He’s speaking into the quiet of your bedroom.  You can feel his hand settled on the bed, wrist somewhere over the line of your spine.  

Oh - he thinks you’re asleep.

“Things have been crazy.  I’ve been stressed.”  Here, under cover of night, he’s vulnerable, explanation tumbling forth uncertainly.  You can hear it in the way the words form, syllables slipping into each other - a sure sign of his exhaustion.  “I know that’s not an excuse, so I’ll be better.”  Though he readjusts, weight distributing differently over the bed, he isn’t touching you.  You can only imagine how he looks, the posture he’s taken on, arms leant over knees, hands twisting together in that way of his that begs a silent help me.  A version of him you’ve seen only a handful of times.  

(Jeon Jungkook does not let things get to him.  Never has, likely never will.  He’s immaculately put together, strung tight by years of growing up too fast, wanting too much and fearing it’ll slip away.  He goes and goes until he can’t any more and only then does he still, crashing headlong over a cliff of his own creation.)

It’s then that you realise while you’ve grown irritated with his preoccupation, coming second to the man you’ve only ever put first, he’s been suffering right alongside you.  Differently, certainly, but suffering nonetheless.  Holding his cards close as he’s always done, shouldering all the things on his own and hoping for the best.

Irritation flares first.  Anger at the fact that he hadn’t confided in you.  It burns bright, erodes everything else in its path.

And then it dims almost immediately, overshadowed by a tenderness that blooms in the small of your chest.  Rosebuds that fill the cavity and swath affection in broad strokes, colouring everything purple - a pretty mosaic made up of equal parts love and sadness.

“You should’ve said something.”  

Bambi-eyed baby is your nickname for your boyfriend - one he reluctantly wears, scowls at when you use it in public - and yet you’re still blown away by the glossiness of his stare, how wide it goes when you roll to face him, simultaneously flicking your bedside light on.  There’s embarrassment crowding his expression, lighting up every handsome facet of his features in technicolour.  He works to hide it almost immediately, moves back on the bed as if he might find himself a home in the shadows.

“I thought you were sleeping,”  he mumbles, not quite looking at you, stare focused on your pillow case, the white linen that you’d bought when you’d moved in together.  “Did I wake you up?”

Though his concern is real, you know it’s a distraction too.  His way of deflecting, shifting the focus back to you.  

(Jeon Jungkook doesn’t live in the spotlight.  Hates it, in fact.  It’s a curious combination - wanting to be praised, to show off, and yet fearing failure so strongly.  A worrying mix when he’s down and an endearing one when he’s up.)

You’re still cocooned, still held far enough away that he hasn’t run for the hills, locking himself in the bathroom to put a further physical barrier between you.  Should you move too fast, you know he’ll spook.  Push too hard, he’ll leave.  

“Couldn’t sleep without you.”  It’s true enough.  Dreams had evaded you for the better part of the evening, held somewhere by hands inked like his, blemished by scars and calluses like his. They’d been kept in his coat pocket, tucked behind his ear.  (So maybe it’d been anger, too, that’d kept you up.  That doesn’t matter now.)

The disbelief is evident, both in his words and the quirk of his mouth, bathed in dim light.  “Really?”

(You sometimes wonder how different the two of you see things.  What a day looks like from his point of view - whether he reads all of your interactions in the same way.  You’ve always been terribly incompatible in that way, opposites in so many respects that it’d frankly baffled your friends when you’d started dating.

You were intent - sometimes too intent - on resolving problems, never letting up.  Forcing conversations you felt you needed to have, demanding answers even before there was one.  He, on the other hand, was uncomfortable with conflict, choosing to ignore the things that bothered him until they went away.  It’d driven you absolutely insane at first, made you worry that it was you that was the issue, simply being too much.  

But over time - three long years, to be exact - you’d found a common ground.  Or so you’d thought.)

“Why are you so surprised?”  

“You were pissed earlier.”  There’s a lightness to his tone, careful consideration poured into each word he offers, as if he’s navigating a minefield.  You’ve had these kinds of disagreements too many times for him to believe otherwise, as if his caution is a part of him, stitched lovingly - forcefully - by your hand.  “Thought you wouldn’t wait up for me.”  

“I shouldn’t have,”  you retort before you can help it, still just a little childish, a little hurt.  “But you know I hate going to bed angry.”  Of course he knows.  He’s lost hours of sleep due to your insistence that everything be talked out. 

He hums a noncommittal sound - more of a grunt - and you know your window is closing.  Now that you’re not out for blood, he’s retreating as he always does.  Readying himself to rise from the bed, close this half-read chapter and move onto the next. 

You beat him before he can, curling your fingers around his wrist, over the dangling silver chain.  (His birthday gift this year, heavy metal that’s cold under your touch.)  

“Don’t.”

One blink.  Another.  Slow and confused - deliberately so.  Then he’s looking away, staring down at the ground as if you haven’t just read his next move.  The ring might be his domain but home is yours;  it’s the one place you hold the upper hand.  “What?”  

“Don’t leave.”  It’s easy to read the meaning in between your words, the unspoken request that might as well be brilliant red ink.  It’s far kinder than your usual demands, more pleading than begrudging, more need than want.  

“I need to shower.”  

It’s not a no - which you suppose is a win. 

“Just wait.”  Your request comes with an adjustment, whole tired frame rising from the bed only to sink back down - this time against your partner, your other half, your infuriating love.  He accepts you readily, dropping his ink-strewn hand over your covered thigh.  The weight is comforting over the warmth of the duvet, grounding you in the quiet of your home.

“I’m gross,”  he complains, though he doesn’t make to move away.  Stays right by your side when you drop your head against his bare shoulder.  “Now you’re gross.”

“We can be gross together.”  Because you’re not ready for him to leave you, to close the door as he so often does.  (And, for once, you’re not quite as angry, not seeking an argument that’ll give you the resolution you hope for.  You want communication, open and honest.  You want him, vulnerable and soft.)

A little sigh comes, a puff of breath that expands his doughy cheeks and sends wayward strands fluttering.  It’s less resigned and more endeared - you know how much it means when his acquiesces like this.  

Maybe he wants those same things, you think.  

“Do you wanna shower?”  You ask in perfect tandem, words folding together.  You nod in the same way.

Encased in the small space - it’s different.  He’s preoccupied, back turned to you, shielding you from the slow-heating stream.  It’s as if his mind is a thousand lightyears away, trapped somewhere with the stars as the water rains down around the two of you, fogging the glass and wetting his hair. 

“Babe?”  

There’s a delay before he reacts, peering over his shoulder at you, a faraway look in his eyes.  You wonder what he’d been thinking of, whether he’s still on the same page as you or if he’s skipped ahead as he tends to do.  When he speaks, you have your answer, his words flicking through paper to bring you two where you need to be.  

“Can you wash my hair?”  An indulgent treat he rarely requests, one he seldom allows.  He’s far too on the go, jumping from this to that to spend much time like this with you. 

It’s a sign if there ever was one. 

You reach for your shampoo bottle wordlessly, popping the cap and depositing sweet peach-scented liquid into your hands.  They fold into his strands carefully, tips of your fingers pressing into his scalp, delightful bubbles accumulating between your digits.  He doesn’t make a sound but you feel the way he relaxes, practically melting into your touch as you work the cleanser through his roots, careful to keep the suds from descending into his eyes. 

When was the last time you’d done this?  Weeks ago?  Months, maybe?  You honestly can’t recall.  (Not that it matters now.  You’ve found yourselves back here, terribly tender and intimate in the dead of night.  Almost as if no time has passed at all.)

Silence stretches between the two of you.  You don’t even need to instruct him to rinse, running seamlessly through the routine without hesitation. 

Conditioner replaces shampoo, deft fingers combing through the few knots in his feather soft strands.  Though there are hardly any, you know he loves when you take extra care, treating him in ways he’d never ask for otherwise.  He savours these quiet moments of almost-solitude, spoiled rotten by your familiar touch and comforting affection.  

You’d give it every single day if you could.  Had, in fact. 

That’s what’d brought you here, after all. 

“‘m sorry,”  he says - mumbles really - surprising you as you’re working your fingers into the nape of his neck, concentrating on the tension that’s carved out a home beneath muscle and sinew, turned bone iron-clad. 

“For what?” 

Any other time, it might’ve come across demanding, needing an answer that would soothe whatever inadequacy he’d somehow strung your heart up with.  Now, it’s genuine, asked more for him than you.  

You want to be let in.  Need it. 

“Being out of it, I guess.”  It’s a lot for him - admitting this.  “I’ve just been busy and I guess I kind of just—“  The imposing line of his shoulders rise and fall, a mountain range disturbed by the uncertainty in his voice.  

“Forgot about me?”  You don’t mean it meanly.  It’s a simple statement of fact, one the both of you have to face. 

“Yeah.  Something like that.”

You deliberate accepting the apology and moving on, sweeping it under the rug because he’s already come so much further than you’d thought he would.  But that’s not the kind of person you are, so you press just a little more, stand just a little taller. 

“I don’t think I ask for the world, Kook.”  Maybe more than some people.  Maybe less than others.  “If I’m being too much, I’d rather you let me know than shut me out.”

A sigh comes, so heavy you wonder whether he might be Atlas, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.  

“No, I know.”  

“Do you?”

(At some point you’d stopped massaging the conditioner in, opting to crowd your hands over his back, working into the knots that run beneath his skin.  He hadn’t been lying - he’s stiff as a board, entire broad form twitching any time you press the pads of your thumbs into a particularly sensitive spot.)

“I thought I’d figure it out myself,”  he reasons, in that oh-so impossible Jeon Jungkook way of his.  “Didn't realise it was taking a toll on you.” 

“On us,”  you correct, not at all tactful.  

“On us,”  he agrees with another sigh, smaller this time, tinged blue with something that feels like guilt and fills up the glass space. 

“We’re a team, you know.” 

(You know he knows.  You just have to remind him sometimes, anchor him with the knowledge that it’s not him against the world.  That you’re in his corner - always.)

“I know.” 

When he turns to look at you - doesn’t even flinch when the sudden movement has you wobbling on your feet, catches you when you stumble - you don’t doubt that.  He loves you just as much as you love him, sees the whole world in the small of your stare.  

“I’m sorry,”  he says again, two hands coming to cradle your face, palms warm over each cheek.  “Just give me some time.”  For what, you’re not sure.  You don’t mind waiting to find out though - willing to weather the storm just to see him happy.  

Jungkook holds you close, threads his fingers through yours and peppers love into the silk of your hair.  Dresses your skin in the heat of his affection and sears his signature into the velvet of your skin, teeth dragging, tongue gliding.  

“Is this better?”  He means how he holds you, how he treats you like porcelain as he fucks you slow and tender, keeps one leg hooked back over his own. 

It’s not that this is the kind of lovemaking you prefer but rather the one you need, with him consuming you wholly, sweetly, filling you with each fluid roll of his hips and nothing else.  No elaborate dirty talk, no overzealous bouncing, just the two of you together, curled against each other like you might not survive otherwise.  

He’s not pushing you to your finish with deft fingers over your clit, not taking his fill with greedy hands.  He’s simply there, with you, feeling every curve of your body as he sinks into your aching cunt and sighs as if he’s in heaven.  (And maybe he is - because where he is could only ever be where you are and you feel like you’re floating, weightless and lovestruck, anchored only to your bed by the hand that squeezes yours and the mouth that purrs your name.) 

“Yes,”  you breathe, exhale in a breath that seems to take all of your effort.  It’s hard to focus when he splits you open so well, fills your pussy and your heart and makes your chest erupt with a kaleidoscope of butterflies. 

“I love you, sweetheart.”

When he says it like that - folds it like a promise and tucks it into the spot behind your ear - you know it’s true.  Even if you don’t always feel it, even if he doesn’t always show it, there’s not a doubt in your mind. 

In all the ways he can, he loves you.  And whether that means enough from one day to the next, you don’t mind sticking around to find out.  Not if it means more of this. 

(Of him, of you, of your life together.)

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi @codeinebelle

[shadowworks]

Look Inside

Pairing: Overhaul X Reader

Warnings: Dubcon-noncon, medical kink, drugged sex, mention of needles, mentions of blood, bondage, fingering, this is dark! 

Word Count: 3.8k 

A/N: I decided to try some creepy themes and give second person a try. So we’ll see how it goes. This piece is dark so please mind the warnings!

Huge shoutout to @present-mel for making the beautiful banner and reading over my fic you precious gem! Also thank you @thisisthehardestthing and @hisoknen for your feedback it’s so greatly appreciated! 💜

Someone had shut off the lights in the morgue. 

You happen to notice this when your eyes toil lazily between security cameras at the right time. You freeze on the spot, and quirk a brow toward the shadow. You expect it’ll brighten any second like it usually does, but after those few seconds tick by without change, a weight of dread sinks in your stomach.

Kai Chisaki put orders in place that if experiments are up and running the basement levels are to remain lit. Chisaki and his men are already down below, and the winding pale halls near the morgue are empty.

 You haven’t been called to notify cleaners about another bloody corpse still peeling off the wall, and you can’t find motion on the surveillance camera when you rewind the recordings. It’s in the lower right corner of the camera, and you note the light flicks off without warning. No one enters, no one leaves. 

You study the harsh glow of the screen for another moment, still in denial, still waiting for the lights to flicker on, and stand up from the chair in the office. When not a soul appears by the threshold, all you can do is lean forward with your hands pressed on the desk, dropping your head in defeat. “Seriously? Fuck you.” 

You don’t know who “you” was exactly, but it felt right to say. 

It takes a bit of time after departing the small office, but you find the proper hall in Chisaki’s deeply looping maze...It’s just you don’t want to step out from the elevator. You were ready before, but when the doors split open and the cool air ghosts against your cheeks, you pause. There’s a stillness lingering in the hallway; it’s far too quiet- except for the creaks in the elevator floor from your shifting weight...But, something seems off. 

  Your steps are tentative when you do slip out, peering down the drab hallway. You clearly see which of the rooms is buried in shadow, and frankly you want to whirl back around before the doors close. But you can’t, well, not yet at least. The tap of your shoes hits off the walls, while you tread along on stiff legs. Eventually you come to a stop having reached the doorway. It’s partly open, a slice of darkness hiding what’s deep inside. 

Hold on, this can't be right. The camera— A shudder trails up your spine. It tingles coldly.

You inhale a deep breath. Okay, just do it; just switch the lights back on, it’s fine. It’s fine. Besides, if it were you (which it is) you wouldn’t want to deal with Chisaki’s ill temper over something so minor as a light. 

He’s punished his men for incompetence before, and those who didn’t listen have smeared the walls with their blood, drenching vein red across white. Black-looking goops of muscle plopped on the floor...the consequences ranged based on severity of failure or how stressed he is, really. In fact, one man had the skin of his face torn off for talking back—wait, relax. Focus

It won’t happen. Kai Chisaki is somewhere else in the maze. He’s not aware of what happened.

There’s a member with a quirk which lets him melt through walls; the tiny one with a bone white mask. He probably slipped between the rooms and grabbed something then turned the lights off. But that didn’t explain the door...

It doesn’t matter.

You stretch an arm out, gently pushing the door further open, and light spills onto the tile floor. 

It’s a cold, vacant room. There’s a pungent scent of bleach still lingering from a cleanup, but it hits your nose almost like it happened recently. You can’t see much nor do you want to. And your hand reaches around the door frame, trailing gentle fingers along the smooth surface for a switch—

Only, there’s nothing on the wall. 

“Are you serious? Really?” you huff to yourself, stepping round to search for the light. Sure enough, your fears are realized with one look. 

You let out an annoyed groan, and a, ‘stupid switch’ under your breath. Who the hell designs a room and doesn’t put a switch by the door? 

Your eyes haven’t adjusted to the dark, so you can’t see the precise details on the walls. So this leaves you no choice but to step further in, allowing the brightness from the hall to guide you along.

It’s a moderate room with a vaulted wall filled with metal drawers, all large enough to fit an icy corpse in ‘til the yakuza dispose of them. Then there’s the silver surgical table in the middle of the room. It's empty, but the thing’s embellished. There’s protruding belts attached, and a tray on wheels is parked on the side. On top of the tray is a clean towel and a neat row of surgical tools lay flat across. 

Your brows scrunch together, studying the sharp gleam of knives and the sizes of needles. Why are these out? Kai’s an obsessive clean freak, every little thing needs to be put back and organized. All his masked cronies know this rule, so who the hell did this? That is, unless someone’s using them?

Your back is turned to the glow seeping in from the hall, so you don’t see a gloved hand press on the metal door. There’s a push, and the door slams shut. 

You let out a startled yelp, cupping your hands to your mouth. What the hell…! Your heart’s pounding wildly in your chest; for some reason the room feels colder, you feel colder. 

“I must say this is disappointing.”

Light floods the room from the panels above, flickering with a buzzing noise before they settle. You take a moment. A deep breath, a slow exhale. When the initial shock stops tingling in your muscles, you slowly drop your palms. The voice is male, his tone’s calm, ominous and it carries like chill over your shoulder. You know this voice; you know you have to turn around. But fuck, you can’t stop trembling. When you do, you see a tall figure looming near the wall, a gloved hand still on the switch.

Kai Chisaki. 

“I told Setsuno I needed him in the security room. Do you think it’s hard for him to follow directions?”

You stare at him, anxiously. He isn’t wearing his green coat with the violet plumage trimming on the collar. He’s in his iron pressed, black suit and grey tie; the trademark plague mask covering half his face. 

“Setsuno asked me to fill in. He said he wasn’t feeling well...I guess,” you manage to say it as steady as you can. 

The lanky blond hadn’t given you a clear reason when he staggered towards you near dawn. But if you’re being honest, you didn’t really care.You barely looked his way at breakfast, choosing to stare into your dark coffee cup than at the katana resting on his shoulder. The sword was still wet with blood, and you knew he’d been out all night. Though right now, you sorta wish you pressed him more for details.

Kai mutters something slightly bitter, words that are muffled against the material of his mask. But you hear him sigh, then his tone turns crisper. “No matter. It’s inconvenient, but I can work around these...changes.”

His arm drops to his side, walking from the wall. And unexpectedly- those peculiar eyes you see leering at his enemies, have now fallen on you. 

You seize up in mild panic, the pupils in your eyes shrinking; not knowing what to do. You take a scuffling step or two back on reflex—and knock your hip against the table corner. 

Oww—ow, fuck. Hold on, what’s he doing? Why—Your voice bubbles in your throat as you watch him draw near. Though it’s strange, for Kai doesn’t pull at the rim of his latex glove like expected, rather, the Shie Hassaikai boss happens to steer past you instead. 

...Huh?

Your neck cranes, loose hair spilling over your shoulder. He stops a couple feet away and tilts his head downward in front of the tray, no longer regarding your presence and focusing on his work. 

You stand there awkwardly, just listening to the clinks of metal fitting together in Kai’s grip. You’re not fully understanding though, should you leave? It looks like your job’s finished now that your boss is here. Besides, you’re pretty confident Kai doesn't want you here if he’s occupying the room. 

In the long pause between you two, your mind’s made up which prompts you to retreat back and aim towards the door. They’re slow, careful moving steps. 

“Well, you seem busy...I should probably hurry back and watch the cameras,'' you say dismissing yourself. You’re partial toward the comfort of the smaller office, and any chance you have of leaving the macabre storage space you will eagerly take it. 

You don’t make it to the gleaming doorknob—because Kai’s voice holds you still. It isn’t loud, but it grips the room. “No stay. There’s no need for you to leave so soon.”

A mix of fear and confusion read across your features. Kai has never spent a moment alone with you. In fact, you aren’t actually part of the yakuza. The only reason you’re associated with the fallen crime syndicate, is because the former boss offered you odd jobs as a favor. You needed some work to keep from struggling and he had taken a liking to you, sort of how he did with Kai. But then, the leader collapsed. 

Now you aren't sure where you stand. Chisaki is in charge.

“I believe there’s something you can do for me. Will you have a seat on the table?” 

You aren’t sure if you heard him right, or fully grasp what he means. He says it so casually-  but you know better; it’s a demand. You’re just not sure why.

“I’m fine. Really. I should be going-“

“Are you defying my order?” Again, he says it so nonchalantly. This time Kai turns his head over his shoulder; the look he gives is almost impassive, yet there’s a menacing gleam in the yellow of his eyes.

“What? No, I was…! Right.”

You don’t exactly drag your feet, but you do stand hesitant before the edge of the table where countless bodies have been dissected. So much blood, so many organs harvested on this very table.

“I won’t ask you again.” 

You turn around robotically, eyes pointed downward as you hoist your hips onto the metal. The table’s surface is icy, it numbs your fingers the longer you lean on it, which only makes you fold them against your thighs. 

“Roll up your sleeve.” Kai says by your right, holding up a purple band. Your gaze flicks up immediately, nervously, a silent plea for mercy. As if somehow your glossy and delicate eyes will make a difference. But it does nothing toward Kai’s stoic stance. He simply waits, and his own steely eyes narrow back.

You drop your head with a wince; just do as he says. 

You comply, pushing up your long sleeve. Though you make a point not to help much more than that, leaving your arm limp at your side. 

Kai doesn’t seem to notice or care and proceeds to wrap the rubber around your arm. You grimace, unpleased as his fingers skim your arm, and again when he brushes you with a wet cotton swab. 

“You need my blood?” You ask evenly. 

His eyes don’t leave your skin, “Not necessarily.”

“A lot of effort for, ‘not necessarily.’” You say, not too dryly. 

“You’ve seen my work before, you should know by now I take great care in everything I do.”

Kai rotates between you and the now rolled over stand, dismissing your light jab. He sets up the port for blood to flow; all in a well practiced motion. It certainly makes you wonder how many times he’s done this before. 

“I’m curious, when was your last doctor's appointment?” He asks suddenly, hands already prepping the next instrument. The other needle probably, but you don’t want to play as his patient. He isn’t your doctor, for fucks sake.

“A while.” You answer. 

“A while,” he repeats with a subtle chuckle under his covered breath,“Has anyone told you before you’re a feisty one?”

You bite your tongue and refuse to meet his side glance. When you don’t reply back, he carries on with a sigh. 

“I’ve had quite a long day you see, so I’m afraid I’ve exhausted my tolerance for stubborn little girls.”

Suddenly, his hand is squeezing your shoulder, and all too quickly you find yourself thumping against the cold metal, your horrified eyes staring up at the bright ceiling. The next thing you feel is buckles fastening, pinning you against the table by your waist and elbows. 

You're flooded with tingling panic, voice cracking from strain, “Hol—Hold on one second. Please, just one more—”

“—You know they say you should never let the lamb see the knife? Their fear tampers the meat, and ruins the flavor,” Kai gives a sharp tug on the last belt. “But I find yours all the more intoxicating, my dear.”

You stammer, words of protest mingle together as you attempt to be heard, “I don’t understand, why are you…Just stop. You need to let me go!”

Your teeth clench together in a rage that fills your chest. You’re not thinking rationally, your nerves are unhinged. And in your adrenaline high your leg curls up, thrashing a viciously blunt strike toward the point of his beak.

 Before it can connect and batter the bridge of his nose and mark his cheekbones, Kai’s arm flexes quickly. Your foot stops mid air as he catches your ankle with constricting force. 

“Do I?” He asks with a title of his head, there're subtle creases in the corner of eyes, you can imagine his mouth settles in a cold smile beneath. 

In that moment you freeze up. Your lash lines burn, stinging with fresh tears glossing your doe eyes. You don’t breathe, you don’t dare to expand your lungs. Your only thought is begging him not to burst open your calf. 

“You shouldn’t be giving commands. You work under me now,” his nails dig in your flesh, and you know those indents will marr your flesh.“Meaning you’ll have to bear with me while I continue.”

Kai doesn’t loosen his hold, briefly watching your pained expression. But he favors dropping his gaze below to study the stretch of your thigh, your exposed and parted groin. It’s then his nimble fingers reach to unclasp the button of your jeans and he gently pulls down the zipper. You cry out, jerking against the belts, but he isn’t fazed. 

“One of our new drugs is supposed to relax its victims...recently it’s been ineffective if the heartbeat’s racing too quickly, though we’ve made modifications to counter this. My plan was to stage a fight with Setsuno, until...you graciously took his place.”

Kai lowers your leg, both hands roaming across to the edge of your jeans. He still studies you, and decides to push up your ribbed sweater, letting the cold bite of the morgue chill your hips. His latex fingers trace lightly across your pebbled skin, skimming down the dips to your thighs. 

“Yes, this will do just fine. You’re pretty enough,” he muses, softly.

He then tucks his hands into your waistband, yanking them down your legs, before they fall to the floor with a plop. The seamless panties slip off easily, as well. This sends a small prickle through you, and, no, this can’t keep going! The fight in you surges, pushing your knees together to shield your groin. Only Kai doesn’t like that. 

There’s something cold and dangerous in his glare, a threat that twists at your stomach. He’s warning you; don’t make this worse for yourself or you’ll make him snap. And you didn’t want that...You watch both his hands clutch your knees, he doesn’t waste time and he yanks your legs apart, taking in your pretty cunt.

Angry tears trickle down your cheeks in response. Your throat burns from holding back a sob, “Chisaki, please. If you would—“

 Without a moment of hesitation, Kai knowingly finds where to touch you first. A little too skillfully for a false doctor, the pad of his thumb presses against your soft, sensitive nub, stroking tight circles with focus. Your breath catches, falling heavier while he sinks his pad deeper in the forming slick, building steady pressure.

“Still so stubborn, what good will that bring you?”

A broken moan spills on your shaky breath, all against your better decisions. His other hand settles between your legs, and a finger plunges inside your heat, curling upward and massaging the rougher layer of flesh. A sharp gasp inhales into your lungs. He isn’t stopping, no, Kai’s gloved finger moves with vigor the more your pleasurably laced cries pour out from your lips, how desperate they become.

He pushes in a second finger, and then a third thrusting in, stretching you and soaking your walls with your arousal. This causes you to push your hips further against his latex hand. 

“Kai, you fucking bastard!” you sob out, formalities be damned as your back arches. You can feel the building pulses in your cunt tense up, losing yourself to your superior on an icy slab in a fucking morgue. 

“You curse my name as though you’re not enjoying this,” Kai mocks.

 His fingers pump deeper, tightening your abs and your lips fall open. His matching rhythm on the bundle of nerves surges in a crash, sending a hard orgasm that shivers through your body. For a moment, just a little moment, your cares fade away. 

You're left breathing deeply, staring up at the ceiling as your chest rises and falls. The euphoria lasts a moment longer, but only for so long. Reality sets in as you lay there, and much too soon, the warmths gone. 

Kai takes advantage of this.

With your chin tipped up toward cabinets lining the ceiling, Kai unfastens his thinner belt. It’s only when you feel him hook under your knees and pull at your thighs that you snap your head up in startlement.

Kai’s venomous eyes stare you down, “I suggest laying back down little girl, we’re not finished yet.”

“Like hell!”

A second flare of rage strickens across your features, a hard glare that doesn’t unyield, especially as he unzips and withdraws himself from formal slacks. You know he’s relishing in your disdain for him, and this makes you thrash on the belts, hoping to force them apart. Of course, Kai did a good job of fastening these fuckers and simply chuckles at your attempt. 

“You’re still not understanding the position that you’re in,” He slips a hand in his pocket, and pulls out the wrapping of a condom. Taking his time, tearing it open, rolling the rubber down his thick length with precision.

 When Kai’s satisfied, his arms reach for you and grab at your hips, giving them a sharp yank forward. He leans in with a darkly low voice, “You can’t escape me. You’re mine to do with as I please.”

“...You lean any closer and I’ll spit in your face.” There isn’t any bite to it. It’s a calm, empty threat and loses all its appeal as a single tear spills down your cheekbone.

A huffing noise emits from his mask, with his lids narrowing in mild disgust. You catch the words “filthy woman,” rasped low and nasally before he does lean back, wrenching at the skin around your hips. 

When he’s all settled Kai lines himself to your heat, in a slow motion he draws himself inside. You almost don't hear it, but from the mask you note a soft hitch in his breath. He gives shallow pushes and pulls on your hips, an experimental dip that splits you in a painful stretch before he pumps fully into you. They’re slow, long strokes, filling you to the brim.

Another strained gasp rips from your wet lips, and your hands impulsively spring out, clenching the black cloth of Kai’s sleeves. His hips snap quicker, and your breath picks up with him. Heart pounding to his thrust; you can feel the beats in your neck. 

And all of a sudden you hear the sound of plastic clasping together, the squeeze of an injection clip the shell of your ear. Your eyes snap open in horror. What—?

Kai locks on your facial features, his deep pumps lessen though the slapping of skin doesn’t stop. “You’ve been too tense. Why don’t you relax for awhile?”

When did he..? 

He prepped it. The syringe must’ve been tucked away. He did have this all planned. You were just the unlucky one who walked to the table and sealed your fate. 

The serum he injected into your bloodstream has fast results it seems. The tension in your muscles slack against his thrusts, allowing him to carry your body closer and take more of his length. You feel the tension in your wide eyes soften, slowly falling half lidded and weak. 

“That’s a good girl, you're taking to the drug faster than I thought,” he muses a little breathless. Right after he sets the syringe back down, a gloved hand reaches for the strap fastened around his head and pulls. The mask slips off.

It’s at this point he hikes his knees up onto the table and pounds in deeper, letting your walls suck him in. Your body’s folded, and Kai treats your body in any way he desires.

You manage to pull your head from his sharp eyes, your cheek bouncing slightly against the icy metal to Kai’s rhythm. The drawers for the deceased are taken in.

You stare intently. 

“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”

“No.” He manages between breathes, his voice is heavy and laced with lusting growls, “This is merely a precaution. In the event...ah, in the event you overdose...well. You’re in the right place.”

Your head lolls back to Kai meeting his delicate face which is now flushed. You realize this is the first time you’ve seen him behind the mask. He’s beautiful. Soft featues that compliment him so well. If only he wasn’t so cruel...

“In fact, hah, if you survive...I think this will be the start of something new in my work.” He manages the last bit with a shaky chuckle. 

You see him smirk wickedly, and all you can do is watch, because it doesn’t stop. The only sound in the room is the liquid squish of sex, your mixed heavy breaths. And you hope, god do you hope in your hazy state, feeling a numbness taking hold of your body, that you leave this room alive.

[ectoentity]

Warped Mirror

Decided to write something based vaguely on the “Spork AU” idea. Instead of Episode 1 Danny meeting Episode 50+ Danny, though, I was curious about a Danny who never became Phantom meeting one who had. This first part is just establishing Human!Danny’s world.

I’ll post it to AO3 when I have the rest of it finished.

---

Three kids stood before a giant machine in the shape of a door. It should have been humming along and glowing green, with a great hole to another world in the middle. Instead, it was cold and silent. 

“They spent years working on it,” Danny explained, “and then nothing. Mom and Dad have been moping in their room all day.”

Tucker looked around at the portal and the hodgepodge of computer parts attached to it. “It’s probably a loose wire somewhere. I’m sure they’ll figure it out.”

“In the meantime, this would make for an awesome picture,” Sam said with a smile. She held up her polaroid camera. 

“Oh no, you’re not getting me anywhere near that,” Tucker immediately walked away from the portal.

“Come on! When they get this thing working we’ll never be allowed near it. Besides, it’s not like it’s going to do anything right now.”

“Then why don’t you get over there and let one of us take the picture?” Tucker asked.

“Because neither of you know anything about lighting or framing a shot. Please?” When she saw that Tucker was not going to budge, she looked over at Danny with wide, pleading eyes. 

He looked anxiously at the portal. So far none of his parents’ inventions had really worked, but that didn’t mean that they weren’t dangerous. Still, Sam was right. It was pretty cool, and getting a picture with the thing could be a good way to keep a memory.

“Yeah, okay, let me put on a jumpsuit in case there’s a live wire or something.”

Ten minutes later he was suited up in the white-and-black safety jumpsuit his parents had made for him. It wasn’t really a hazardous materials outfit - there was no full hood or respirator, or even goggles. It was made of something that was supposed to repel ectoplasm and certain chemicals that his parents used and was insulated against minor shocks, so it would have to do. 

“Oh, no no. I’m not taking your picture while you’re wearing that,” Sam announced. Danny was about to argue, but she reached over and pulled the sticker of his dad’s face off of the suit. “Now you’re good.”

Danny laughed. “Good thinking, Sam. Wouldn’t want to be immortalized in your photos with that on me.” He walked up to the portal. It was a massive piece of machinery, nearly six feet in diameter and deep enough to fit a car. He paused at the entrance. It was hard to imagine it as anything other than a creepy machine in the basement. If it had worked, it would have opened into a whole other world. 

Tucker, meanwhile, was watching while anxiously tapping a foot. He had expected Danny to give in to Sam’s pleas. He was so predictable and utterly clueless. One of these days they would both realize that they were both desperately crushing on each other and they’d-

There was something plugged into the wall. Tucker wasn’t sure what it was, but he had a bad feeling about it. 

“Hold up!” he shouted. Tucker went over and unplugged the cord from the wall outlet, and checked around for more outlets just in case. When he didn’t find anything else, he called back, “Okay, I think it’s alright now.”

“Good thinking, Tuck,” Danny’s voice echoed in the portal. “Hey, Sam, is this good?”

Sam set up her shot. “Looks great! Just hold there a second.” She counted down before the flash went off. The camera whirred and produced a polaroid. “Lemme take a couple more,” she said before swiftly doing so from slightly different angles. “That should be good!”

Danny started to walk out of the portal. Something caught his foot. He tripped and fell backwards, flailing his arms wildly in hopes that he would catch something. His right hand hit the side of the portal. It stabilized him for a second, but then the wall clicked. Danny stared down at his hand, a chill lancing up his spine. He hadn’t hit the wall. His hand was resting on a button marked “ON.”

“Oh my god,” he blurted.

“Danny? Are you okay?” Sam called. He could hear them both scrambling toward the portal. 

“I’m good! I just tripped!” Danny got out of the portal as fast as he could. “My parents put the on/off buttons on the inside! If Tucker hadn’t unplugged it…” All three teens stared at the portal. Danny could have died, just for tripping over a stupid wire.

Finally Tucker gulped and broke the silence. “Want to see if your parents can get it to work now?”

Danny shook himself out of it. “Yeah! I’ll go ask if they forgot about that.”

They all but ran out of the lab.

---

The Fenton RV sped down the street, ghost alarms blaring. In the back, Danny got his weapons together as quickly as he could with all the jostling and swerving. They’d let Dad drive; time was of the essence.

“A level six!” Jack crowed from the driver’s seat. “Maybe even a seven! How long’s it been since we saw one like that?”

“About four months,” Danny grumbled. He still vividly remembered when the town had been drawn into the Ghost Zone and besieged with an army of skeleton constructs. He was not looking forward to a repeat of that hell. The Fenton Blaster in his hands whined as he attached the power source. 

“We’ll have to be careful, Jack,” Mom cautioned as she always did. “We don’t have the Ecto-Skeleton this time.”

“Are you sure we shouldn’t call in the Guys in White?” Danny asked. They might not be the best ghost hunters, but they did have a lot more firepower.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Danny! I’m sure we can take care of this before they even notice something’s happening. Besides, your mom and I are still dealing with the paperwork from the last time they showed up.”

Danny shuddered. He was extremely glad that he didn’t have to deal with that aspect of ghost hunting. 

His dad pulled up to the mall with a loud honk of the horn and squealing tires. Danny and his mom ran out, blasters held at the ready. Dad backed them up with one of the Fenton Bazookas. 

The mall was already evacuated. Some people milled around outside, anxiously talking amongst themselves. In the year and a half since the ghosts had started attacking the town, people had gotten frustratingly complacent about them. The invasion a few months back had shown most people just how dangerous they could be, but a stubborn few always were more concerned with getting good pictures than their own safety. 

“Make way!” Mom shouted. “We’re here to take care of the ghost!” The crowd at least did part for them. A few people shouted at them. Some of it was words of support. A few tried to describe what they had seen - it was green, it was wearing all white, it was terrifying. Only a few made jokes or jeered at the Fentons as they passed. That was annoying, but it was a hell of a lot better than it had been a year ago. 

The deserted mall was an eerie sight. Everyone had left in a hurry, leaving lights on and store music still echoing through empty halls. The Fentons’ footsteps seemed far too loud. The weirdest part was that everything seemed intact. When the technology ghost raided the mall he usually left trails of rubble and discarded packaging everywhere. The box ghost would leave piles of everything that he dumped out of his beloved boxes. Various other ghosts had attacked the mall in the past, and they almost always left signs of their passing. Why was this one different?

“Come out, ghost!” Dad shouted, his voice easily carrying through the empty mall. “Let’s make this quick!”

“Curious.” The voice was quiet, but had the same unnatural echo of all ghosts. Danny held up his blaster, but he couldn’t tell where the voice had come from. Beside him, his mom turned on her miniature Fenton Finder. It beeped alarmingly quickly. 

“Two o’clock!” Mom shouted as she fired. Danny was only a moment slower, trying to fire a little ahead. The blasts didn’t connect with anything. 

“I mean no harm,” the ghost said. Its voice was way too close for comfort. Danny turned to his right and shot where he thought it was, but he still missed. 

“What do you want?” Danny asked. He didn’t really care. No matter what their obsessions were, ghosts only ever wanted to spread chaos and pain. Still, sometimes he could distract them by talking back. 

The ghost appeared in front of them. It was tall, with dark, green-tinged skin and a lighter beard. Its eyes glowed a soft yellow. A white robe and hood covered most of its body, rippling in a nonexistent breeze. 

A green beam from the Fenton Bazooka blasted towards the ghost. Its torso split apart to allow the beam to go through it. Danny grimaced. It was so gross when they did that. He followed his dad’s lead and started shooting the ghost. The ghost blocked all of his and Mom’s shots with a series of small green shields. 

“This is entirely unnecessary,” the ghost huffed. It had the audacity to look bored. 

“Then why not just go back to the Ghost Zone and leave us alone?” Danny shouted, annoyed. He ran off to the side, flanking the ghost. It finally started dodging the ectoblasts. If anything, though, the ghost just looked amused. 

“Oh, I shall. First, though…” The ghost flung its hand out towards Danny. He winced, anticipating the burn of ectoblasts. He took a step back and his foot sank. With a shout, he fell into the glowing green portal that had opened right behind him.

[shiro-naru]

Since all the Transphobic JKR shit is happening I thought I'd share this small drabble I wrote

Blaise touched their leather wristband anxiously. As they looked around all they could see was colour. There were so many people, some wearing little to no clothing, others wearing body suits made of a kaleidoscope of colour. They saw blue hair, green hair, pink hair, but what amazed them most was the faces of the people around them. Everyone was talking animatedly with each other, with so much love and happiness in their eyes, it made Blaise's breath catch in their throat.

Blaise looked down at their own clothing, a nice long dark grey skirt that had a side opening which showed that they were wearing boots with heels. It wasn't the most comfortable outfit to wear at Pride, but they had one chance to wear their clothing unashamedly and they were gonna take it, for Merlin's sake.

As they were contemplating whether to first get a drink or go look at the merchandise (they weren't leaving without at least a pin), Blaise heard an unmistakable ethereal voice beside them.

"Oh, Blaise, I didn't know you were attending this year's pride," she then seemed to take in Blaise's outfit and her smile became larger and softer. "I really like your skirt, it really suits you".

Luna was wearing a flower crown made from daisies, a thin dress that reached just under her knees with a flower pattern, and what seemed to once have been white converse but that now were a mix of different colours and drawings, as if a five year-old had been playing with them.

Still caught off guard, Blaise smiled at her with a small, tight smile. They could still remember the war when they saw people from Hogwarts. "This is actually the first time I come to one of these events. I can't really wear this around wizards."

Luna looked at them with a furrowed brow, and Blaise couldn't really say if they had seen that look on Luna before. "That is so stupid. It's not like wearing something or other changes anything. After everything that's happened, you'd think they wouldn't care". After a few seconds of silence she smiled softly again. "I'm actually with some other friends from Hogwarts. Why don't you join us?" Before Blaise could answer, she was already heading between the people, supposedly in the direction where her friends were.

Blaise couldn't actually remember the last time they had heard from Draco or Pansy. A year? A year and a half? It'd been three years since the war ended. Draco had moved to Muggle London, unable to take the judgment and insults everytime he left his home. Blaise had gone to Paris with their mother. Pansy, had supposedly stayed in Wizarding London. At first they'd exchanged letters, but as time passed they became scarce. Blaise had finally arrived to London three months ago. Before the pain in their chest got too much, Blaise decided to follow Luna. It was better than fumbling around Pride lost and alone. 

As soon as Blaise had caught up with Luna, she turned and smiled, as if she never had any doubt that they would be following. "What are your pronouns by the way? Mine are they-them."

That made Blaise stop suddenly. They had never told anyone about their pronouns, never said the words out loud. Luna was looking at them spectantly, as if she-they knew what was happening in their brain. "It's they-them too actually". There. They had said the words. A weight they didn't know they'd been holding suddenly disappeared, and they felt like they could breathe properly. Blaise's normally poised self couldn't control the joyful smile that appeared, against their will. "Are you non-binary too?" They tried to keep the excitement from their voice, but from the amused smile in Luna's face, they weren't very successful.

"I'm agender, actually. Gender feels like a big facade sometimes, and I can't say I understand it, so I just wear what I like and what feels good." 

Blaise looked at Luna, with their beautiful hair and dress.

"Can I ask why you wear a dress? I thought being agender you'd wear more androgynous clothing". At the look of confusion on Luna's face, Blaise felt themself blush. 

"Well, as I said, I wear what I like. I don't see how what I decide to wear is related to me feeling like any kind of gender. Also," their smile got bigger and more playful, "I'm not scared of nargles stealing my flower crown here." Blaise couldn't tell if Luna meant it as a joke or not. Their eyes were playful, but their tone was completely serious. Before Blaise could start asking the question, they heard a voice calling Luna. 

"Hey, where were you? We'd thought you'd gotten lost, and we were about to send someone to rescue you." Potter said with a smile on his face. He then seemed to take in that there was someone beside Luna, and that said person was Blaise Zabini. "Oh, Zabini. Didn't know you were... coming."

Blaise felt Potter's eyes go down his body, and when he took in Blaise's skirt his eyebrows lifted and his eyes got slightly bigger. If Blaise didn't know better, they would've thought a small smile curved the Saviour's mouth. Blaise felt extremely uncomfortable under his gaze. They rationally knew they wouldn't get any insults because of their clothing, being where they were, but it still made Blaise fidget under his gaze. "Yes, well..." They didn't know what to say to that, so Blaise decided to just look somewhere else. 

As Potter started talking to Luna about one thing or another, Blaise's gaze fell onto Potter's body. He was shirtless, showing beautiful tattoos over his chest and arms made up of colourful flowers. He was also wearing tight jeans ripped at the knees and old running shoes. As Blaise's eyes went back to Potter's chest, to the beautiful patterns and details, they noticed something they had never before. Under his nipples where to thin scars, unmistakable by their location. Blaise felt themself take in a breath, and Potter must have heard them for he looked at Blaise with a comprehending and slightly pained smile. "I got these somewhere around fifth year. Never been happier" 

Blaise didn't know what to say. How had they never noticed? "I... I don't really understand how... Did everyone know?" There were so many questions going around their mind, and Blaise didn't know what to ask, how to ask it. Before the war they probably wouldn't have had a problem with prying, but now... The war had left them quiet and introspective, moreso than before. 

"Mione and Ron knew. And most of the staff, and my roommates and quidditch team. I didn't really want the kids at Hogwarts to know. I already got shit in the Muggle world, and with all that pureblood bullcrap already going on at school..." Potter grimaced a bit, as if trying and failing to make a memory stay back. 

"I understand" was all that Blaise said. And they really meant it. And by the way Potter looked at them, and the small smile in his face, they thought he believed it. After a few seconds where Blaise felt emotion swelling in their chest, they coughed a bit, willing the fullness to disappear and tentatively asked "What are your preferred pronouns, by the way? Mine are they/them." Blaise could feel themself blushing, trying to remember how Luna had said that, and they tentatively looked at them for reassurance. Blaise wasn't expecting the pride in Luna's eyes, which made Blaise's cheeks heat further. When they looked at Potter once again, his face was nearly radient. 

"He/him. Thanks for asking." Potter replied. After that they looked at each other for a few seconds. Potter opened his mouth, as if to say something to Blaise, but before he could even utter a sound, a pair of pale arms hooked around Potter's neck. "Darling, I thought I'd lost you forever." 

That was the voice of his best friend, Draco Malfoy, always the dramatic. Blaise smiled at that, unable to hide their amusement. If the way Potter laughed and sent Blaise a look meant anything, he was probably thinking the same thing. Draco's hair was slightly shorter than Blaise remembered, his eyes were still the beautiful grey, made even more striking by the winged eyeliner adorning his eyes. All his face was accentuated by glitter: his cheekbones, eyebrows, chin; there was even some on his neck and chest. He was wearing a shirt that was cut at its centre, showing off most of his chest, the most tight fitted black jeans they had ever seen, and striking black stilletos. Blaise wasn't even sure of how he was walking in those. 

Just as Blaise was finishing taking their best friend in, Draco's eyes finally reached Blaise. "By the Merlin, what are you doing here Blaise?" Blaise would have been offended by the way Draco said that if it wasn't for the face-splitting grin on his face. They felt an immense relief at that, just realizing how scared they actually were of where the two of them were standing with each other. "And in a skirt. I always knew you'd look amazing. If only you'd agreed to try with me in third year," Draco tsked at that, acting as if he really had been offended. 

Blaise started laughing at that, both at the memory and the comment, making them realize how much they had missed him. As they laughed, Blaise realized they hadn't laughed like that in a very long time. Maybe since before the war started. Seeing the answering smiles in Draco's, Potter's and Luna's faces, they couldn't help but wonder if they all knew, and whether they would have been happier staying here, with the rest of people from Hogwarts. 

The four of them started talking, about everything and anything. Blaise mostly listened, and offered witty remarks when asked personally. They had missed this. It felt like getting part of the old them back. A better, kinder version of themself, but the lifeliness they had lost at the war was slowly creeping out. Draco seemed to notice this too, for he was looking at Blaise with such emotion that they themself thought they soon might start spilling a tear or two. 

"Hey, dickhead," a familiar voice stole them away from their reverie, and as they turned they saw no other than Pansy Parkinson. The day really couldn't get better. "You  can't ask us to help you find a drink and then suddenly leave us, claiming that your dork boyfriend needs you. That's just rude," she finally stated, adding a vulgar gesture to add to the effect. Draco just pulled out his tongue as a response. Everything was so familiar and at the same time so much better and brighter than ever, that Blaise couldn't help the laughter that sprung out of them. Pansy's eyes then took Blaise in, finally noticing an extra presence. "Blaise..." 

Pansy only said that, looking at them as if seeing a ghost. "Hey, Pansy. How have you been doing?" Blaise added with a nod of their head. They weren't sure what else to say. What else was allowed. Had something broken over the months -years- they hadn't spoken? But before they could go down that rabbit hole any further, Pansy's arms circled their neck. She was wearing a black see through dress, that reached up to her knees, underneath a black bralette, and what seemed to be high waisted black panties. She was also wearing her signature black military boots. 

"I missed you, you doofus. I'm sorry I didn't answer your last letter. Everything was so fragile, I just..." She whispered that right into their ear, so no one else heard her. Blaise squeezed her back in response, assuring her that everything was alright. They all had gone to dark places after the war. Blaise had always been closer to Pansy than even Draco during their time at Hogwarts, and they had missed her more than anyone else. 

They separated from their embrace, though Pansy still stayed close to Blaise, making sure to brush her hand against theirs, as if making sure Blaise was really there. It was then that Blaise realized that there was a shorter person behind Pansy, and for a few seconds they didn't recognize her. "Granger? I nearly didn't recognize you." Instead of wearing her head completely free and unruly, she had combed her incredibly dark, curly hair into two buns on either side of her head. She had painted a gay flag on her right cheek, and a lesbian one on her left one. Granger was wearing high-waisted shorts and a maroon sleeveless shirt. Over her shoulders was a lesbian flag flowing behind her, making her look like a superhero. Blaise smiled at that, it really suited her. Blaise then took at Pansy's hand holding Granger's, and the bisexual flag painted over Pansy's right cheek. "How did that happen? And when?" Blaise pointed accusingly at their joined hands. 

Pansy just gave them a leering grin in response. "A lot of things happen in three years. I met her in the ministry, and couldn't make her stay away". 

At that Granger smacked Pansy's arm (pretty hard) and ignored Pansy's yelp of pain. "If I remember correctly," Granger cleared up, "it was you who spent nearly three weeks asking me for drinks and sending me flowers to my office. I just accepted to take you out of your misery." At Pansy's offended expression, Granger got on tiptoes of her high boots and pecked her. Pansy grumbled something in response, but seemed to accept the peace offering. 

"I'm offended I didn't get any kind of surprise from you, Blaise, when you saw me and Harry," Draco piped in while pointing at Blaise with one slender finger and pouting his mouth. Blaise lifted one eyebrow, making Draco blush. 

"Draco, you've been in love with Potter since first year. If you wanted me surprised you should be hugging Weasley." Blaise answered, making Potter blush and Luna, Granger, and Pansy start laughing. 

"Harry was no better," Granger confided with a knowing grin -God, Pansy and Granger were alike- "you should have seen him during Sixth year, always following Draco around." This made Potter blush, and Draco give his boyfriend a loud kiss on the cheek. "Also," Granger added looking at Blaise, "Weasley would never have accepted, sorry to disappoint." Her stare was so intense, that Blaise felt suddenly very queasy. 

"Where is Weasley by the way?" Blaise asked, trying to make Granger stop looking at them so intently. 

"Oh, he's with my partners." Luna said with a big smile, as if the mere mention of their partners made them incredibly happy. "That is, Ginny and Neville." 

This made Blaise stop suddenly. The three together? They had heard of polyamory (they lived in Paris) but had never thought any of their school friends would be in one. Though it shouldn't be that surprising, Blaise thought as they scanned the rest of the group, as they all seemed to be queer. The thought made Blaise smile, thinking about how much fun it would have been to know all of this during Hogwarts, or how dangerous, an unhelpful voice supplied. 

It was then that said three arrived to the group, Ginny eating what seemed to be a strawberry ice cream. She was wearing Levi overalls, with a yellow shirt underneath, and red converse. Neville, which seemed to have recovered some weight and looked much healthier (he had lost quite some weight during those last years at school and during the war, making him look sick and pale),was wearing a short sleeved purple shirt and black trousers. Then Blaise's eyes finally found Ron, who was wearing a similar flower crown to Luna's but made of violets. He was wearing a white sleeveless shirt with a print of flowers of different colors, fitted jeans, and brown boots. He would have seemed pretty common if he wasn't wearing the flower crown, and glitter on his cheeks. He was laughing at something Ginny was telling him, which made his blue eyes squint with glee. And then the blue eyes caught Blaise's, widening, which made the other two notice them as well. Ginny was the only one who addressed them, "Blaise Zabini. Who would have thought?" She said while laughing, and gesticulating with her arms, making Neville swiftly take the ice cream before anything bad happened. Obviously she was already ahead of the rest in the drinking department. Though Blaise was relieved, this was a much better reaction than they had expected. 

Blaise waved at the three of them as they finally got to the group, the rest adjusting the circle they had made to accommodate the group. Ginny gave Luna a bone-crushing hug, which made Luna laugh giddily. Neville kissed the edge of Luna's forehead. It was that moment that Granger decided to address the group: "Okay. So now that we're all finally here," she said that giving the last to come a pointed look, "we could re-introduce ourselves. Name, pronouns, and any other info we'd like to add." She paused at that, waiting for someone to start. 

She didn't wait long as Pancy started: "Pansy Parkinson, she/her. Bisexual a-f, and dating the most amazing woman ever." She gave Granger a kiss on the cheek, and Granger just answered with a loving look. 

"Hermione Granger, and everyone here can call me Hermione, or Mione," she said that looking at Blaise with a soft smile. Blaise really appreciated that from Gran- Hermione, given their pasts. "My pronouns are she/her and if you couldn't tell from my flag, I'm a flaming homosexual, as Draco would put it. And I'm the amazing women Pansy is dating," she said with a snicker, making Blaise and everyone except Pansy snort. Though Pansy was giving her a wounded, which was obviously secretly amused, pout. 

"Well, since my dear Hermione took my phrase, I'll have to stick with being fabulously gay. And my name is Draco, pronouns are he/him." 

"Just Harry here" to which everyone, including Blaise themself, answered with an obvious "Hello Just-Harry". Harry gave everyone a withering look before continuing. "He/him, and also bi." 

"I'm Ron, he/him. And err," he paused, looking at Blaise as if not sure he could trust them wholly, which Blaise didn't judge him for. "I'm genderqueer, and I'm demisexual." 

"I'm Ginny, she/her, polyamorous, and pansexual." She said this while moving between Neville and Luna, putting an arm over both their shoulders, which proved to be hard as she was quite shorter than both of them. 

"Neville, he/him. Also polyamorous, in a queer platonic relationship with these two incredible people. I'm asexual, and bi-romantic."

"Im Luna Lovegood, they/them, and im agender, aromantic and asexual." At that Harry shouted between his hands 'Triple A!' making Luna laugh softly. 

It was finally Blaise's turn and everyone was looking at them. Blaise decided to be 100% honest; this is what they had been looking for, people with who they could be themself with. "Well, I'm Blaise Zabini, would also prefer Blaise. My pronouns are they/them, I'm non binary, and demiromantic and pansexual." There, it was all out in the open. The words before today they had said allowd only once in front of the mirror, about 6 months ago. 

"Well," Pansy cut the silence. "Now that all the mushiness is over -Ouch, I meant to say necessary and appreciated mushiness," she added at Hermione's elbow. "It's time to drink, dance and have fun!" They all agreed with her loudly, raising their glasses. Blaise hadn't noticed, everyone having one, and they suddenly felt slightly naked. "Hey. I'll go with you to get something to drink," Pansy offered Blaise. They smiled at her and thanked her. 

They walked together, the few first seconds in silence, and then the conversation started slowly. It was tentative at first, each asking what had they had done during the last years. Pansy had studied journalism and had done an internship in the Ministry for about a year, which was where she saw Hermione again. Pansy said that after all that happened with Rita Skeeter, all the misinformation and the lies, she had swore to make sure to dig into cases and give people the real information. Blaise remembered how angry she had been reading Rita Skeeter's articles during Hogwarts. Blaise told her they had started doing Magical Law, but it had soon bored them, and they decided to drop out. After that they did a course on fashion and design, and had worked with amazing people in Paris. They were now finishing that course in London, having asked for a transfer after their mother's death. After that, Pansy and Blaise started talking about all kinds of issues, they couldn't even remember what they talked about, and before they knew it, they were back at the circle, Blaise with a glass of rum-coke in their hand. 

They were all talking, and they wasted no time in including them in the conversation. After a while they were all dancing. Blaise danced with Pansy, and Draco the most, but had also danced with Hermione, Luna, and even Harry. Now Blaise was dancing with Ron, both of them jumping around, holding each other by the hands, while the music blasted though the speakers, two Drag Queens singing and dancing along on the stage.

Blaise couldn't remember the last time they had been so carefree and happy. If someone had told them during their Hogwarts years that they would be dancing with the golden trio, Blaise would have laughed at them. But now, they felt so much joy growing inside of them, and as they looked at what could soon become friends to them, and the people dancing, laughing, and kissing around them, they felt truly, and unapologetically PROUD. 

[spiderman-homecomeme]

Day One - When in Vegas

Prompt: future!au

It’s cutting it close, but here is my first contribution to @spideychellemonth! I’m gonna try my darndest to keep up, but I’m so excited for this guys!! 

This is potentially going to be multi-chapter, mostly because it was getting too long and I was having just TOO MANY IDEAS lmao Let me know what y’all think! This is also based off of an idea an anon sent me a week or so ago about a marriage pact!AU that i just LOVED the idea for 

Basically, the 1.7k Waking Up Married in Vegas!AU nobody asked for pls enjoy! <3

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Fuck.

It’s the first semi-coherent thought that pops into MJ’s head as she’s dragged into a sluggish state that can barely be described as consciousness. Her eyes, feeling as if they might fall right out of her skull, squeeze shut in an effort to stop the sun’s merciless assault. The groan that leaves her mouth as she turns away from the window is almost inhuman, her tongue heavy and dry, throat feeling as if she’d just swallowed barbed wire. If she moves too much, she’s sure whatever concoction of last night’s activities currently residing in her stomach are going to end up on the floor. 

Three gin and tonics, two vanilla screwdrivers, and a few too many—who was counting, really?—shots of tequila seemed like an okay idea last night, at least past-MJ thought. 

That was a problem for future-MJ.

Future-MJ hates past-MJ.

It was true, it was all true, she reflects as her stomach gurgles violently, lurching into the back of her throat. 

It’s a simple explanation, really.

Over time, the enzymes required to metabolize all that booze have started to weaken, no longer breaking down toxins with the same vigor, leaving the elusive acetaldehyde to roam free. 

In other words, she’s thirty.

Gone were the glory days where she could drink the night away and wake up with just a mild headache. The days where she could have as many different cocktails as her heart desired and not wake up feeling like death itself. The days where she could drink just one glass of pinot noir and not feel like an angry bull is stomping on his hippocampus.

But it had been Ned’s 30th, one of her best friends since high school, a real cause for celebration. They were in Vegas, for crying out loud. Sin City. What was she supposed to do?

Not drink?

(Well, yeah. That would have been ideal.)

But where was the fun in that?

Her hand brushes across her bare stomach, and she realizes with a small start that she’s naked. 

She’s not sure if she’s ever been more confused.

Come to think of it, she’s not sure she even knows what happened last night. There’s flashes, very brief flashes of club music, Grey Goose, way too much glitter, and a lot of highly questionable, dumbass financial decisions involving slot machines and poker games.

She’s pretty sure she’s still alive, about 62%, but she’s also fairly certain that her brain has been replaced with cotton and sewing needles. An ache that starts right around her knees shoots up her spine, radiating throughout her body as she pulls the blanket tighter around her and buries her puffy face into the pillow.

When she realizes that any chance of sleep is gone for good, and that she can’t just will this splitting headache away with her own mind, she cracks an eye open. She immediately regrets that decision as soon as the harsh sunlight hits, shaking her head, throwing her arm out in some kind of half-assed effort to fight it off. 

Her heart nearly stops when her hand hits something soft and warm next to her. She yanks her hand back, eyes shooting open to see someone—a man—face down in the mattress, head of chocolate brown waves turned away from her. A rather uncalled for heat swarms her body as her gaze drifts to his exposed back and lingers on the taut muscles there, drifting lower, the thin stop-sheet just barely covering the curve of his—

What the hell happened last night?

But dread starts to mix with the nausea gripping at her stomach as she realizes something about the naked mystery man in her bed.

She knows that curly mop of brown hair.

Immediately, she shoots up from the bed, gripping the sheet against her chest. 

A big mistake.

The nausea finally wins the battle, and she runs to the bathroom, not bothering to cover up as she empties the toxic contents of her stomach into the toilet. 

It’s a wonder Peter doesn’t wake up from her violent retching. 

She forces out a harsh exhale as she flushes down the remnants of her night out, hand reaching out to grip the bathroom counter as she rises on shaky legs. She grabs the complimentary bathrobe—how fancy—and shrugs it on before turning to the sink to splash ice cold water onto her face. 

And that’s when she sees it. 

The gaudy, cheap, obviously fake rock sitting smugly on her left ring finger, staring right back at her slack-jawed expression. 

What the fuck?!

It all comes back to her. 

They’d been so, so incredibly dumb. 

Both of them.

Peter looks stupid good.

He always has, of course, she wasn’t blind. 

But his late-twenties seemed to have been incredibly kind to him. He still had that boyish charm she’d always secretly liked, but now… now there was just something about him, standing under these neon casino lights, wearing a plain black suit with a white tee underneath, that brought back years and years of repressed high school feelings. 

Mutual feelings that neither of them ever acted on. Only joked about.

They would never have worked as a couple, they’d always say.

It was a disaster waiting to happen.

So they both moved on. It was high school. They still had the rest of their lives ahead of them. 

Plus, the risk of ruining their solid friendship was just too great. 

So why, after nearly twelve years, is she having to actively fight back the stupid fluttering of butterflies when he so much as glanced in her general direction? 

It makes no sense. 

It isn’t like they haven’t seen each other since high school. Yeah, it’s been a few months since they last caught up, both of them being too busy with work and the like, but...

They were still friends—best friends, even.

She blames it on the second gin and tonic.

Yes, it’s the warm buzz of the alcohol running through her body that’s making her feel like she’s pretty damn close to walking on air. 

And she chases that feeling, returning again and again to the bar—sometimes with Peter, himself—giving up on actually counting her drinks after the first shot of tequila. 

Tequila was clearly not her friend in this case.

It could also have been the fact that she’s freshly single and she’s had to witness Ned and, now fiancèe Betty, making googly eyes at each other one too many times, and it’s entirely possible that she’s just feeling that creeping loneliness she’d tried so hard to stamp down.

She doesn’t know how they get here, maybe it’s somewhere between her second shot and her first screwdriver, but they’re alone in a booth in the corner. For the first time in a while, her liquid courage doesn’t help stave off the pressure of trying to come up with something cool to say, and she feels, once again, like she’s back in high school. 

It’s an incredibly frustrating feeling.

Peter ducks as he sees Ned looking for him, MJ snickering as she watches the whole ordeal. Ned’s drunkenly leading this poor, unassuming casino patron around, glancing around frantically as he wanders from room to room.

Odds are it’s just another person to try and hook Peter up with. 

Ned means well, he truly does, but frankly, Peter’s a little tired of the constant matchmaking. Yes, he’s been the perpetually single friend for a number of years now, but he seemed to be pretty content on his own.

And plus, he and MJ are having a pretty good time by themselves.

He doesn’t need anyone else.

“But, Pete,” MJ starts, words slurring ever-so-slightly, tone laced with sarcasm. “Everyone knows that being single in your thirties is one of the most shameful things in existence. It’s barbaric. You need to settle down, before it’s too late.”

He throws his head back, letting out an exaggerated laugh. “You’re right. My good years are gone.” 

She tsks, shaking her head. “Past your prime.”

“I’ve truly peaked.” He tips his glass to her, before taking a drink.

A smirk tugs at her lips. “What will you do now?”

“Well...” He laughs lightly, casually stirring the glass in his hand. He looks up at her, eyes glazed over, tilting his head as he fixes her with a fond, teasing smile. “We still have that pact.”

Ah, yes. 

The pact. 

The pact that they’d made—as a joke—when they were sixteen. 

It was simple.

If they were both single at thirty, they’d get married. 

That was the deal.

They even shook on it. 

But, official as that simple handshake was at the time for two hormonal teenagers, it wasn’t something that was ever in any universe supposed to be taken seriously.

Maybe it was just a ring, though. Maybe they didn’t get actually, legitimately, legally get married. They couldn’t have been that dumb. 

Or maybe this was some sick hangover hallucination her brain made up as punishment for drinking too much. 

The rest of the night is a blur, brief glimpses of drunken giggles, his hand in hers flashing through her mind. She vaguely remembers going somewhere outside the casino with him, stumbling through the streets as they pull each other along, bright lights dancing above them. 

Balloons everywhere. 

A corny chapel. 

A Tony Stark impersonator. 

Her expression is oddly calm, a contrast to the utter horror she feels in her gut as she stares at the sparkling ring on her finger. 

This isn’t that bad, she thinks. This can all be over in a matter of hours. 

An annulment was easy, right?

Right?

It’s not like they had sex or anything—

Wait, no, fuck, they did. 

Did they…?

Again, the later part of the night is fuzzy.

Another wave of nausea crashes into her before she has a chance to be confused, and in an instant, she’s hunched over the toilet again. 

And it’s while she’s puking her guts out, while she’s praying that the naked guy in her bed stays asleep where he’s supposed to be, does a boxer-clad-Peter step into the bathroom. He looks almost as wrecked as she is, his hair in wild disarray, bags under his eyes giving Gollum a run for his money. 

He hesitates, knocking gently on the doorframe. “MJ—?” At first, he looks as though he’s about to ask her why she’s in his hotel room, but his expression crumples into one of worry when he sees how sick she is. “Are you okay?”

She scoffs and gives him a weak glance over her shoulder, ready to throw a biting, sarcastic remark back at him, when she sees the way the color drains from his face.

He’s frozen in place, eyes wide, and she hesitantly follows his gaze, right onto that big, fake diamond on her finger. 

Fuck.

[cleverbroadwayurl]

Send My Love (To Your New Lover) (Jeremy Heere x Reader Pt 17)

Song: Send My Love (To Your New Lover) Cover by Sofia Karlberg

Word Count: 5804

Need to Catch Up? PART 1 PART 2 PART 3 PART 4 PART 5 PART 6 PART 7 PART 8 PART 9 PART 10 PART 11 PART 12 PART 13 PART 14 PART 15 PART 16

Want More? PART 18 PART 19

A/N: Oh my god I finally did it!! Yay!! I’m so excited about this and I know you guys have been waiting for like months to see this!! So yay!! I decided to keep voting open for a little longer because I know some people can’t be as active during the school year! So voting is going until tonight at 12:00 AM Eastern Standard Time (EST) Just a little refresher, two options can win so don’t worry if your pick is tied with something else! Uhh also,,, I’m not even a little bit sorry. 

Taglist: @be-more-heidi-hansen​ @retrogarden​ @catatonic-kuragin​ @scarsonthecuffsofyourjeans​ @bluhimaweirdo​ @stargirl-murphy​ 

Trigger Warnings: mentions of an abusive boyfriend, cuts, bruises, scratches, mentions of domestic violence, mentions of abuse, verbal abuse, mentions of the SQUIP, Jeremy crying, soft moments, mentions of blood, mentions of hospitals, mentions of nurses

“Jeremy Heere?” His head snapped and looked at the nurse who now stood in the middle of the waiting room. “Can you come with me? There’s someone asking for you.”

Jeremy blinked a few times, repeating the words in his head over and over again until it finally made sense to him. Someone had been asking to see him, at this time of night, somewhere in a unit that he didn’t have access to. He stood, still shaky from the news before walking up to the nurse, who was actually a lot less intimidating up close. She said something Jeremy couldn’t quite catch, something that sounded muffled as he walked through the halls, lights getting brighter and brighter as he walked through the dizzying halls, each room number being scrambled in his mind. Her pink uniform was almost nauseating, the color of something you drink when your stomach rolls. How fitting.  

Numbers went from simplistic and easy to fuzzy and indirect as she kept going. Twists and turns in the bright light made him almost as dizzy as the car ride over, the streetlights whizzing past still haunting him. Flashes of the night kept going through his mind: you, the car, the ride to Michael’s that felt all too familiar to this journey he was making around each corridor. The nurse said something, but all of Jeremy’s senses were captivated by memories up until they stopped. Not the memories, but the nurse stopped at a room. 216. Your name was lazily scribbled on the plaque outside, and the letters themselves started to get fuzzier and blurrier as he read over it again and again. He couldn’t tell if tears were welling in his eyes again or if it was just his head trying to process every event, every turn, every moment that he wished he could forget. He wished that instead his original plan had been executed, that everything would be okay somewhere stuck underneath the stars and surrounded by the safety of the trees, not this.

With a gulp, Jeremy wiped his hands on his jeans—or rather, hand, as it was this moment that he realized he was still holding the infamous blue sweater in his hand, too nervous, hand too clenched to let it go. He blinked several times, the hallway and room coming into focus, the mint that was originally on the trim around the walls now added with a sickening yellow. There was a moment that he had to swallow back everything: the sweat, the tears, the lump in his throat, the nausea, every word, every event, every little thing that made him tick in the last few minutes needed to be wiped away. This was you he was about to see. His hand reaches for the door, still a little sweaty despite him wiping it onto his dark wash jeans that Brooke and Chloe had insisted he’d wear. The baby blue shirt was stained no doubt, but he didn’t—couldn’t worry about that right now.

He almost pulls away at the cool steel his hand begins to grip, already shaking and unsure of what’s behind the door. He was sure a monster would be in there, although he didn’t know whether or not that monster would digitize into your boyfriend or if it would remain abstract, each mark on your body become a part of the beast that you—both of you would have to conquer. Because if he was sure of one thing, it was that he would not let you do this alone, even if it meant that he would stay until the early hours of the morning, maybe 4 AM or later, staying on the line when you were worried, or anything else. Literally anything, he’d have your back for. Helping you tell your parents about what was actually going on? He’d do that. Testifying as a witness in court? Hell, he’d buy a special suit for that. Hearing you rant forever about the things that have changed and the things you felt you couldn’t do anymore? He’d do that, and then some. But right now was about slaying the monster that was lurking behind the door.

And that was the other thing, he didn’t actually know how you were. No updates were given besides the somewhat good news from your parents in the waiting room minutes ago. And now there was the added fact that your boyfriend could easily be in there that had dawned on Jeremy just seconds ago when he thought about the monsters that needed to be sacrificed to some deity in your honor. Your boyfriend had walked right for your room after what Jeremy could only call a staring contest. And he could’ve inflicted more damage—mental, physical, emotional, whatever. Given that you already had your own room in the ER was a bad sign, knowing that he and Rich had at least shared a nurse, meaning that he was somewhat okay, but you had your own team with you, everyone keeping a constant eye on you. Every sign of you not being half dead and in some kind of deep sleep that he wasn’t sure you’d wake up from was gone. Every sign of okay and maybe being released soon was nonexistent, and he knew that from the minute he saw your car stuck in your driveway, frozen, almost like he was.

“I know it’s tough, but they really do want to see you, okay? Take your time, but just know that.”

With the nurse’s words, Jeremy turned the steel door, noticing how white his knuckles had been while he’d been preparing for whatever fresh hell he was about to endure. He didn’t have much strength, but the door opened anyways, a little wind hitting him in the face as he did so. The breeze wasn’t calming, the scent of ”sterile” hitting him hard in the face. Jeremy nearly closed his eyes before taking it in, but couldn’t bring himself to stop staring at you the moment his eyes had managed to focus enough to see your figure, still, unmoving.

A shaky few steps, and Jeremy’s inside the room; alone. It doesn’t take much strain to see that you’re asleep, or what Jeremy hoped was just sleeping, the damage on your face clear in the dimmer lights that washed you out much more than Jeremy’s comfort level. At least, he hoped it was the lights and that you hadn’t actually lost that much blood. No internal bleeding, no paralysis. But there were scratches. Some deep, others just grazing your skin, but you were covered in them. Little to long, each one adding a sickening flow effect to your hopefully sleeping figure. He takes another step forward, making sure to be quiet as he does so, sure to not wake you, eyes stuck on the pulse monitor. He flicks them back to you, seeing that the black circle that surrounded your eye wasn’t just the lighting. It had been a punch, a felony committed right there on your skin. On your other cheek was a red spot, one that brought him back to the first night you two had actually talked and he had figured out everything. If he could go back in time, Jeremy would be so much more helpful, tell of each situation, and help himself help you, no matter what it took.

There are two mint chairs beside him, he had noticed them when walking in, but now used one to throw the sweater onto. While you slept, something tugged at Jeremy. He knew he had to keep you safe and sound, comfort you and be there for you in ways that you hadn’t experienced all night, or even for this entire relationship you’d struck up what felt like decades ago. Another minute passes, still deciding on what to do, how to show that he’s there for you without crossing a boundary that you couldn’t give consent to while sleeping. He looks away only to sit into the other mint chair, the darkness now providing some kind of comfort, a soft glow to you.

Finally he looks at you again and realizes just how many marks litter your arms, one almost permanently around your wrist, a clear hand mark around it. He sees similar ones to weeks ago around your neck, and he finally makes a decision. With a clear stroke of clean cut confidence, Jeremy takes your hand into his and squeezes just gently enough to know he won’t wake you.  He exhales for a second, the world becoming still as Jeremy can feel himself break down in the chair, breath getting shaky as his hand unknowingly slightly grips yours.

A few seconds pass, and Jeremy jumps back as you begin to stir, eyes fluttering open, fear striking into your body but immediately relaxing into a soft smile as your eyes land on him. He’s still surprised, still worried, still in a state of shock as your pale face works its way into a look of adorable wonder at him. The usual stars in your eyes are dull, but they were still there. You inhaled, a flash of pain making its way across your face as you did so, making Jeremy’s heart break more than it already had. Breathing was a normal human function, something that was almost thoughtless and oftentimes looked over by people but now you were in pain as you did something that was usually so simple and easy. Your mouth opens slightly and Jeremy can see more of the damage done—it’s worse than he even thought as your bright red split lip comes into view in the dull but annoyingly white lights that ricocheted off the walls. He can see the strain in every moment that passes and all of the hurt that is still lingering as the corners of your mouth turn up and your and slightly squeezes his back. Jeremy can’t keep the tears from welling in his eyes once more as each action was executed, the entire world seeing irrelevant as your breath turns into an exhale within a second. “Hey,” the smile is more apparent and Jeremy’s tears stream down his face—you were okay. Not completely okay but at least enough to recognize him and know that it’s Jeremy, you’re safe, you’re sound, everything is going to be fine.

His mouth melts into a smile, tears still a steady stream down his face. “Hey.”

You inhale, pain flashing through you again, less this time as you wake up a little bit more. “I’m sorry I didn’t show. I tried, I really did.”

Jeremy shook his head, heart sinking as he did so. “No, don’t worry about it. You’re forgiven. Completely.”

“But Jeremy,” you began, concern invading your eyes as you watched him carefully. “I left you in the dark by yourself. That’s not fair and completely my fault.”

Using his left hand, Jeremy wiped his eyes before continuing, voice soft, “It’s not your fault. I promise.”

A sharp breath escapes you, and he can only assume that you chuckled at him, your smile only growing bigger. “You’re sweet.” Your eyes turn towards the ceiling. Another agonizing exhale escapes you, and Jeremy can barely keep still. This isn’t your fault. And you…you didn’t believe him. He sniffles a little bit, anger beginning to make an entrance as his eyes look towards his lap. But he controls it. Now isn’t the time for anger. It isn’t the time for revenge or any violence. Now is the time for comfort; anything he can do to help you feel better or at the very least take the emotional turmoil for a little bit.

“It’s okay, Jeremy. I’m fine. Look, I’m here, you’re here, we’re talking.” He feels you squeeze his hand and your eyes watching him. His eyes meet yours, and a second goes by, so many emotions are going through you at once, but the overarching one is still concern for him. Nevertheless, Jeremy nods at your statement, so relieved that your statement was right. You two were talking, you were coherent, and you were going to end up fine, no matter what had happened in the past was the past. This was now. And now you were okay, speaking, and reassuring him that everything is fine.

Something tugged at him, though. As much as he wanted to be completely convinced by your affirmation you’d given before, Jeremy couldn’t believe it himself. Whatever happened in the last few hours was enough nightmare fuel to keep bad memories, flashbacks, and whatever else alive and well for years. That, and there was the added fact of physical therapy, possible permanent injuries, and so much more. Your situation, your condition could change rapidly at any moment, and he could lose you. He could see the pain with simple tasks, bodily functions, and so much more. How could he believe that you were okay with everything that surrounded this moment? With another split second of confidence, Jeremy took your hand with both of his, each of his ten fingers grazing over your palm, trying to provide some sort of comfort to you. He focused on each curve of your hand, what this warmth was like compared to the cold you must be feeling because he definitely was, every callous, every scratch, every line.

“You probably want to know what happened, huh?” With a glance up, Jeremy could see one corner of your lip up, almost teasing about the events that unraveled. But stuck in your eyes, hidden underneath every joke you had, the truth laid like a sleeping dragon, ready to strike at the moment someone decided to awaken it.

“I mean, yeah, at some point. But for right now, maybe it’s best that you rest.”  

“Jeremy, it’s me. I’ll be fine. That, and you have a right to know why I basically stood you up.”

“It’s your choice, but seriously, I’m okay to hold off on it for now—”

“Look at me. I’m fine to talk about it, okay? You have a right to know and this might be our last private moment where we’re both protected by the people around us.”

“Just…keep yourself safe.”

“Always.”

A moment and everything stills. It feels like a painting almost, except instead of the glassy white sickening walls, everything is replaced with darkness, similar to the trees that would’ve kept you protected that night. The neon blue almost becomes the sky, the stars, and everything else in the universe; discovered beauties and undiscovered realities. If both of you didn’t know any better and blocked out the smell of the room, it was almost like stargazing. The world felt right, music playing in the background that on some level, each of you knew was just an old Friends rerun, but on another it was almost like Jeremy’s stereo playing out into the night. Comfort seeping into the crevices, the world fading away, almost like nothing could touch you as you inhaled, pain still relevant, but it fading away with each second, beginning the story that Jeremy wanted to hear, but at the same time wanted to keep you safe from.

“I was getting ready to leave when it started. I’d made some dumb excuse, something like my mom needing me. That’s when the arguing started.” Jeremy’s hand involuntarily grips your own, out of comfort and his own chills as he mentally prepared himself for where this story would take him. He’d seen the evidence, the aftershocks, but now he was getting every detail, every clue he’d missed before. “I was close to the door when he started accusing me of cheating on him, which isn’t really true, is it? And if we were, I wouldn’t come out and tell him when he’s angry like that, you know?”

Jeremy provided a nod, telling you he was listening to every word as it flew from your mouth and settled hard onto the ground. “Jeremy, he was going to hurt you. I had to stop him.”

“You don’t need to worry about me.”

“He was out for blood. I knew that when he stood up and ran for the door. So, I stopped him. And I don’t know one thing lead to another and suddenly he starting saying things. I can distinctly remember him saying something like ‘If you want to continue to side against me, go for it’.”

Jeremy’s mind paused everything around him for a second, familiar laughter tickling the back of his brain as the quote swirled around in his mind instead of directly hitting the floor. Each syllable, each phrase, everything about what you’d just said was almost a reenactment of the SQUIP’s logic and basic manipulation. The phrase coming from anyone else in any other circumstance would’ve been a terrible mental trip, but this, hearing it from you, was adding into his somewhat fucked reality. Your boyfriend wasn’t human, he was convinced. How do you claim to love someone and then have the capacity to tell them something so deep and twisted that they question their sense of reality and self? He could remember that feeling that everything that you were doing was stuck onto some scoreboard you didn’t have access to, something that kept track of every misdemeanor, every act that was seemingly against the other person until the world exploded. Game over, no more lives left. Jeremy unclenched his fist consciously, not knowing how it got that way in the first place, feeling himself break as it dawned upon him that this was happening to you. You, sweet, perfect, amazing, you. He couldn’t take the fact that so much was happening behind the scenes, so much pain and hurt that was undocumented, everything similar to something he’d gone through before—something he hadn’t wished on anyone. But that memory, the things he wished he could change, lingered in you and he wasn’t sure exactly how to take that other than plans to blow up your boyfriend and constantly check on you to keep you safe.

“But I don’t even know how I was siding against him for having a friend that isn’t him. And yeah, maybe I said some shitty things back, but I have never sided against him on purpose. Why would I do that? I’m his partner for fuck’s sake. I wouldn’t side against him even if I wanted to.”

“That’s not okay for him to say. I know how hard you work to make everything work. But I also know that what he said isn’t true. I hope you know that.”

“Jeremy, don’t worry. I know.” You turn away as soon as ‘I know’ leaves your mouth, almost ashamed of your own confidence; almost like you were lying and didn’t actually know. Something inside of you was forcing you to doubt yourself and the instincts you’d grown up with. And this was the moment that Jeremy’s mind became more active than it had been the entire night. It was a second that he realized this behavior, this idea that you had was a force that was causing you to not say what was on your mind, to lie, everything was a force of nature; something that had been learned, just like everything else that happened months ago. From the moment he saw you across the way in the cafeteria, to prom, to that first night, to the café, to other breakfasts, everything had been learned, forced, ingrained inside of you to almost come out as natural as you could make it seem, but there was still toxicity to it, something poisonous lurking in the limelight. “And then,” your voice waved into the room, almost ripping the edges of comfort that you’d had with him. Jeremy moved his thumb against your hand again, hoping to elicit some kind of comfort into your skin. “I don’t know, things got physical. He mentioned something about finding the sweater in my car after seeing it on you or something. I’m just so confused, I was so articulate, so careful. How did he—”

Your breath caught in your throat and tears streamed down your face. You pulled your hand free of Jeremy’s and wiped your eyes. His grip wasn’t that tight, the movement was swift and fluid, something that was so natural and repeated in your daily life that it was almost habit. He noticed the soft touches around your eyes, seeing how carefully your fingers moved around your eye with the all-too-perfect circle around it, gently wincing with each action and attempt to clear the tears. A “sorry” was murmured, but Jeremy couldn’t figure out what to do. His mind raced but was still. He made a choice; as soon as your hand landed safely back onto the bed, he’d carefully take it in his once again. But for now, the most he could do was loudly articulate to you that it was okay. So he did. He left you have the moments alone that you needed as your shoulders bounced and sobs thrashed your body around on the bed. As soon as three rang out, it was like something happened and you immediately calmed down. Another force of nature, Jeremy knew. While he knew that almost nobody saw this side of you, the hurt, the pain, the façade coming crumbling down as the masquerade ended, he did. And he knew you had trained yourself for it to be a maximum amount of time so no one could suspect a thing.

Your hand hit the bed, no sound coming from it as it did so. He took it in his hand, fingers barely grazing yours. As soon as your felt the contact, your hand squeezed his, completely holding his hand to ground yourself in a way you hadn’t seen in ages. He squeezed back, making sure you knew that everything was going to be okay, everything was going to be fine. But the action wasn’t enough. It was a halfway thing, a thing you never got, but still merely a 50-60% effort given. With an inhale, Jeremy finally spoke the one thing that had been on his mind this whole time: “You don’t deserve this, you know.”

He expected an ‘I know’. He expected another lie, another forced thing. But what he got was a truthful, quiet, “Thank you.” Your face went from sobbing in the car, asking yourself why this was happening to hard and stoic, protective and persistent. It pointed in a way that would allow anyone just glancing you over to assume you had everything in hand, under control, a face that was near wrong, blank and numb and staring at a specific point. Something that had been so practiced it’d become a part of you. Your face fit the mold that everyone expected that you had, and the only person who saw the truth was sitting beside you, gently squeezing your hand and giving it soft touches. Your eyes had a look that Jeremy had seen a few times before, but he didn’t have time to study it as words tumbled out of your mouth and covered up any white noise around the two of you, “How are you?”

“Uhh, good. Yeah, I’m good now.”

“Now? What do you mean?”

Fuck. Jeremy had to explain himself to you, this was the moment to be truthful and open. “I took the long way home and made a wrong turn. I somehow ended up on the street your boyfriend lives and I kinda saw the ambulance and stuff.”

“Oh my god, Jeremy, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for—Shit, I should’ve at least texted or let you know something. I’m so sorry for worrying you and fuck, for this disaster of a night. I’m sorry I didn’t—”

“Hey,” Jeremy interrupted the spiraling descent into some kind of panicked madness that he’d seen a few times before. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault. Don’t worry about me. Just focus on yourself for right now. Take some time to rest and stuff, okay?”

Jeremy knew he’d gotten through to you when you nodded at his words, your eyes looking blankly at the wall before shifting to the TV that was still playing late night Friends reruns, the night finally settling into something that both of you were a little bit happier with. For the first time that night, he refocused onto the small screen, watching you carefully out of the corner of his eye. You give a chuckle at one of Ross’ misfortunes, and Jeremy does the same, his eyes flicking at your light smile and seeing something he only had during your best moments together. The entire night was supposed to be these soft touches and light looks, but Jeremy was just grateful for this one not-so-perfect moment where you seemed happy—and not just happy enough. Genuinely having a good time and enjoying yourself. With another flick of his eyes Jeremy sees you relax into the pillows, eyes fluttering softly against your imperfect marks, everything cleaned as well as it could be. But the soft smile on your face has him melting, bringing something sweet to the otherwise upsetting situation.

“I never thanked you for being here. So, thank you. It means a lot.”

Jeremy made full eye contact with you, a soft “You’re welcome” coming from him. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. That, and I worry about you.”

“You’re sappy, but adorable,” you chuckle at him, eyes lazily shining some light into him.

Jeremy blushes before looking down at his lap. It’s a reaction, a reflex, something that he had always done. It’s natural, simple, and to him, completely unnecessary. But he can’t help it—the one person that he has the biggest crush on calling him adorable was enough to make his week, maybe even his year. He takes another inhale before giving the TV another glance, everything settling around the noise that it’s making; once white and now turning into the colors that you’re meant to hear. The room was still dark, but the moment between the two of you was so bright that it was almost like everything didn’t matter. This was the two of you being comfortable, being yourselves in an outside world that didn’t allow for things like that. He spared you another glance, this time melting at your closing eyes, the stumble and attempt to stay awake as the rerun played throughout the room.

Without really even realizing it at first, Jeremy got that moment he wanted to see before, the one that felt like it was months ago. He had longed to see you falling asleep on the couch from playing Life is Strange into the early hours of the morning, seeing small ticks of relaxation in your features and witnessing the most innocent and pure form of trust. He was kind of getting that now. Sure, it wasn’t Life is Strange, and sure it wasn’t the best place for it, but Jeremy was still getting it. It was a compromise, but a compromise he was glad he didn’t miss out on. Everything he imagined about you adorably falling asleep was correct, he made a few changes in his mind, committing everything to his memory. Your mouth wasn’t slightly open, it remained closed as your head leaned to the side, heavier breaths than he would’ve thought leaving you. It was a calmer sleep, more scheduled than he had originally imagined. While you sleeping was adorable and wonderful—and frankly, a relief to Jeremy all together—it was still in a hospital room that could’ve been completely avoided, in a situation that shouldn’t have happened, in a part of town that people only visited when things were going badly.

A sudden urge to leave washes over Jeremy, careful not to disturb you. You needed the rest now more than ever. There’s a pause, a moment of contemplation before Jeremy decides to do something bold, something he should’ve done months ago when everything had first happened. He leans over steadily, observing you relaxed, your chest moving up and down rhythmically. Without a second thought, he gives your forehead a soft kiss. As he retracts, he squeezes your hand once more before letting it go completely, letting you get some much-needed rest. He sets your hand onto the plastic-y bed, making sure that the IV’s wire isn’t kinked or disrupted. The tape is undisturbed, almost like he had never been there at all. With a breath, Jeremy stands up and watches you, making sure that you’re sleeping heavily enough where his leaving won’t wake you in any way, shape, or form. It’s now that he sees the bandages around your ribcage, your shirt lifted just enough so he could see the edge of the tape. Jeremy’s fists ball up for a second, knowing that this is what your parents were talking about when it came to internal bleeding. He assumed it was from some sort of kick to the ribs, which his mind couldn’t even bring the mental image up without him getting angry and disgusted—who does this to someone they claim to love? What kind of sick moment takes over enough for you to get violent? And to the point that they’re hospitalized? Before Jeremy could get even angrier and possibly wake you, he took a breath in, glanced at the sweater in the chair adjacent to him, and softened. This wasn’t about anything except you and keeping you out of harms way, secure, and alive.

A shiver runs down Jeremy’s spine and he realizes just how cold it is in the room. Even though the heat outside is enough to make anyone want to peel their skin off, the hospital itself is cold enough inside to almost need an extra layer, especially with the gown you’d been put into. A swift move, and Jeremy grabs a hospital notepad and a pen that had been resting on the nightstand. He scrawls out a note, something about how you can keep the sweater for a little bit longer; it’s cold in the room, you probably need it. He leaves the note attached to the pad so it doesn’t get accidentally blown away by someone’s movements, or if your status changes and nurses have to—help you quickly, it wouldn’t be lost in the process. He sets the pen beside the notepad and hangs the sweater off the edge of the chair so that you can see it when you wake up. Jeremy makes his way towards the door softly, making sure that his footsteps don’t cause any disruptions throughout the room. He moves the door handle gently, slowly, softly before slipping into the hallway, careful not to miss the soft smile on your face that had planted itself there after he’d kissed your forehead and made his way towards the door.

The bright white lights make him wince, but he exhales, relief flushing out all of the worry from before. A nurse looks up from the table and gives him a smile, almost knowing exactly what had gone in the room before he had made an exit. “Ready to go?” she asks, grabbing a clipboard as Jeremy nods, unsure of what to say. The nurse smiles wider, her pink scrubs that had once seemed menacing now providing a sense of comfort and relief to him. “Don’t worry about them, they’re in good hands,” the nurse notes as she guides him back into the large room from before. He nods again, still in shock about the things that had happened, the things he’d seen, and mentally preparing himself for what awaited him in the room he’d started this horrible process in.

Through the double doors they went, and Jeremy’s eyes land on his dad’s back. Michael makes immediate contact and gives his best friend a smile, “Jer!” Everything from then on is almost blurry, still in a happy daze at the events that had unfolded. The nurse, the kiss, the TV, stupid fake star gazing with one another. The only thing he could do without was the upsetting truth that awaited you outside of the exit doors. But for right now, everything would be fine. You’d be okay for a little bit. And for Jeremy, that was enough to let him soar through the once dreadful and dull room he’d sat in for hours.

He takes a few steps towards Michael, a watery smile breaking out onto his face. Jeremy gives Michael a hug, silently thanking him for everything he’d done that night, from reassuring him about the drive, keeping him calm at his house, to finally driving him here to see you without any questions asked. The nurse says something and your parents head back along with your best friend. They give Jeremy a look of sympathy, silently mouthing a ‘thank you’ to him as they pass by, almost hyperaware of each syllable that had been spoken into your hospital room. Almost like they knew that you’d want to see Jeremy. He supposed maybe they did know.

“Jeremy?”

“Sorry Dad, what did you say?”

“I said I’m heading home. If you boys want to spend the night, you can. I’ll get breakfast for you two tomorrow. Come home when you’re ready; you can tell me all the details that Michael wasn’t able to fill me in on in the morning.”

“Yeah, sure Dad. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Drive safe, okay?”

Michael and Jeremy nod almost simultaneously before Mr. Heere gives Jeremy a pat on the back. He leaves through the mechanical doors that now had a new light to them. The watercolor paintings on the walls had now become beautiful, the receptionist now less sinister than when they had first rushed in. Things are going to be okay. The mint chairs now were ingrained in Jeremy’s brain, but instead of horror and nerves associated with them, he thought about you falling asleep, leaving the sweater and the smile he’d seen while leaving your room. The old magazines didn’t seem out of place, and while the lights were still an eye strain, for some reason, that didn’t bother Jeremy as much as it once had.

Michael looked at his best friend sharply, grabbing his keys from his pocket. “Ready?”

“Yeah. I am. Thanks from driving me.”

“No problem! We’re practically brothers dude. I’d do anything to help you. I thought you knew that because I saved you from…you know,” he tapped his temple got really close to Jeremy, almost like the action was a secret to everyone around them. It wasn’t, everyone could clearly see what he was doing, but even after all this time, Michael still wouldn’t even utter the word.

Jeremy gave a laugh for the first time that night before following Michael out through the doors they had before, high fiving and smiling all the way to the cruiser that had sat innocently outside the emergency room for hours. Yeah, things were going to be just fine.

[just-a-re-blog]

Invocation

Because Park Jimin is too good for this world, I finally wrote him in a role that suits this.

~HMR

Epiphany

The air tastes like salt and sorrow on your tongue as you scream down the highway with every window down, the speedometer swiveling to seventy-five. But it’s not fast enough. Not fast enough to strip away the troubles that you wear like a veil. Not fast enough to rearrange the particles of you into a new being with a blank slate and a clean start.

The land around you is spattered with ramshackle buildings that threaten to spill forth specters of crowds long past. You think they look like they’re crying, wooden planks of tears dangling from busted out, puffy-eyed windows, doors propped open in perpetual shrieks of mourning.

You put your hand on the radio’s dial and consider shuffling through stations to help you ignore the tragic ghost-towns, but every song you’ve heard in recent memory sounds contrite. You don’t want to hear a love serenade to be reminded of the empty bitterness that fills your chest. You don’t want to hear a breakup tune to be reminded of the friends who need your help that you are so readily abandoning. And besides, what do those celebrity songwriters with their silk gowns, lofty mansions, and silver spoons know about heartbreak?

You lose track of the minutes and hours somewhere in the slate gray monotony of the road. But eventually, your fingers ache from your white-knuckle grip on the wheel, and your vision feels dangerously unfocused. You don’t have a choice anymore; you have to pull over.

You take the next exit and hang a right, traveling down an insignificant, nameless town’s deserted main drag. Your dingy white Chevy pulls into a tiny parking lot belonging to a small, run-down church. You let the engine putter for a moment before your tired hand turns the key to silence the car.

You suppose it’s a cute little chapel—siding and steeple the same off-white hue as your battered vehicle. You have never been religious, but you always respected how awe-inspiring it was that religion could unite so many people under a common belief in a higher power, whatever label that power was given. It’s not hard to imagine close-knit families flowing out of its doors, little girls with yellow ribbons tied to ponytails frolicking out ahead of rambunctious brothers and parents drowning in adoration for one another. Suddenly in your mind, there’s an entire community milling around in the lot, hymnals and devotionals in hand, genuine smiles turning faces into suns bright enough to power a few galaxies apiece.

The falling of the tears takes a moment to register in your brain, and you can’t quite put your finger on exactly why they have appeared.

Something about the confines of the glass and metal makes you restless. You climb exhaustedly out of the car and eye the little church skeptically before trudging to its entrance and pushing at its wooden doors. A strange relief floods your being as they swing open under your weight; for once, you aren’t being turned away.

You stumble towards the pulpit, briefly wondering if this is trespassing but overpowered by the need for a break from running. You fall to your hands and knees in front of it, a cry for whatever higher power exists in the place—a cry for someone—to rescue you before you drown in your own hopelessness. Your eyes sting as tears well up and leak down your contorted face.

You don’t see the figure make its way in front of you, don’t see its shadow crouch before you. You only hear the high voice of the stranger when he asks, “Miss? Are you okay?”

You look up, startled, and a small scream escapes you as you instinctively back up. The boy’s dark eyes grow wide and he holds up both hands.

“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to scare you. I just…well, I was sitting in the pews when you came in, and you look so upset…”

You sniff and sit back on your heels, rubbing your face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize someone was in here.” You start to get to your feet. “I’ll leave you to get back to—”

He grabs your arms gently but firmly, inviting kindness in his small, thick-lipped smile. “No, you don’t have to go. You shouldn’t drive like this, okay?”

You should be wary. You should break free of this stranger’s grip. Alarm bells should be blaring in your head as he tries to convince you to remain lost to the world with him in a remote church that no one else seems to know about. This is how people go missing. This is how people get assaulted.

But you are so grateful he doesn’t want to drive you away that you accept his attempt to keep you here, sitting back down resignedly. He sighs, visibly relieved. He bites his lip in awkward silence for a minute while you struggle to stop crying.

“Do you…” he finally starts, “want to talk?”

You shake your head. “Not particularly.” Your voice sounds rough and thick with your tears.

He nods. “Okay. Do you want me to talk?”

You laugh humorlessly. “I guess. Why not?” You look around the church and take in its light oak pews and ancient, tacky green carpet, imitation marble aisle splitting the halves of the ghost congregation. “Why are you here?”

He smiles and sits cross-legged in front of you. “I come here a lot. I like to pray and practice my sermons in this old place.”

You scoff. “Sermons? You look a little young to be a pastor.”

Did his smile get bigger? Does this kid ever stop grinning?

“I’m a preacher’s kid looking to follow in my dad’s footsteps. I started training way before this.” He gets a faraway look in his black irises, fond sentimentality glowing in his features.

You purse your lips thoughtfully. “Did you want to be a preacher or are you doing it because everyone expects you to?”

He frowns. “That would be a stupid reason to do something.”

The simplicity in his words nearly bowls you over. “It’s not always that easy,” you respond a bit bitterly.

He runs a hand through his already tousled black hair as his eyes lock with yours. “I think it can be. You just have to follow what feels right in your heart, you know?”

And just like that, he is distracting you with pensive conversation of inner callings and fate. But he never crosses the line to become…preachy. He never backs you into a corner to confront you about the Lord and Savior he believes in so deeply. He never forces you to admit that you don’t buy into everything that comes with the package of religion.

All the while, your eyes are drying, and you start to see the boy more clearly. His eyes are actually a deep brown when the light hits them, bordering on colorless by the narrowest of margins. Every time he smiles, they almost disappear into the crinkled folds of his sun-kissed skin. His onyx locks defy gravity, piled haphazardly on top of his head in artful dishevelment.

After he allows the conversation to swell and fizzle out, he cycles back to your reason for appearing.

“So…may I ask why you’re here?”

A piece of you still wants to resist talking about such personal things. You have kept yourself bottled up in the far reaches of your own existence for so long you are not sure you even know how to uncork everything. But in this tiny place on the brink of oblivion where only one soul can hear your grief, you doubt you can ask for a better, more secure scenario.

“I’m lost,” you whisper. “I’ve been lost for a long, long time. I’m someone everyone can count on, but I don’t know what I stand for anymore. I don’t understand what they’re still counting on me for. I’m honored that they trust me, but I just feel so damn stuck—I’m sorry,” you chuckle. “I probably shouldn’t curse in a church.”

The preacher’s son smiles and shrugs, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Anyway, I just feel stuck. And I don’t know why. It just feels like I can’t stay happy, like I can’t find anything that’s worth being happy about. I don’t know, I just feel empty.”

He rubs his hands together slowly, a look of understanding on his face. “You’ve been so busy filling everyone else up, you forgot that you were donating from your own tank. I’m really familiar with that feeling. My dad goes through it all the time when he helps everyone before himself. It’s rewarding, but it can be draining, too. But listen, just because you don’t want to throw your friends’ trust in you away doesn’t mean you always have to be a rock.”

And those few simple words trigger something in you. Just knowing that someone doesn’t shrug off your nondescript call for help, just the fact that this boy knows exactly what you mean in your limited words, just the knowledge that you are valid in your grief—it changes everything.

Suddenly, you are not alone anymore.

You start to cry again, dropping your head. He hesitantly reaches out a hand and lets it hover beside your cheek.

“May I?” he asks quietly. You nod. His silky skin meets yours, and his thumb gingerly wipes away a few falling tears. You cry harder when he touches you. His hands move to the back of your head and your shoulder. He pulls you against himself in a gentle, tender embrace, and you let yourself be emptied of grief as he murmurs soft words of prayer into your scalp. And while you can’t quite call it being refilled, you know something more is happening than just the leaving of the sorrow; there is not a void left in its place. You can’t put a name to the new emotion beginning to let itself be kindled in the rubble of your chesty sobs, but it’s there nonetheless.

Twenty minutes pass before you manage to stammer out a thank you between gasps.

He gently pulls your chin up and stares into your red-rimmed eyes, the darkness of his irises swirling like ink in white quartz waters.

“What’s your name?” he whispers.

“Gwen…what’s yours?”

“Well, Gwen, I’m Jimin. And you don’t have to thank me. This is what I do.”

A half hour later, he is locking the chapel’s door and carefully examining your puffy but dry eyes in the sun.

“Are you sure you want to drive?” he asks again with caution.

“Mm-hmm,” you reply with a deep sigh and a small smile. “I should get going. I’m a long way from home.”

Jimin scrutinizes you hesitantly before pulling out his phone. “Here,” he says, typing in his passcode and holding it out to you. “Put your number in.” You comply and hand the phone back to him. He holds it up and takes a picture of himself. “Okay, I just texted you. Now you have my number, my contact photo, and a reminder that it’s okay to let someone else smile for you. If anything happens—you get too tired to keep driving, you feel like you’re going to cry again, tonight or any night—just call, all right?”

The drive home is uneventful, wind flowing over your face in breezes rather than gales. You click the radio on and flip the dial to a classical piano station to let the soft melodies seep into your car’s interior.

When you pull into your apartment parking spot at 10:43, you rummage through your purse for a moment before going inside. You pull out your cell phone and open your messages to look at Jimin’s picture.

You don’t always have to be a rock.

You save the number.

Baptism

You shut the door behind you and resist the urge to slide down the door like a love-sick girl in a typical romance movie. But you can’t stop yourself from skipping through your living room in total bliss.

When your body relaxes from the high that has become its new normal, you wander into your bathroom. You shake your hair free of its ponytail and smile at yourself in the mirror.

You like the way your smile looks. It seems you finally know how to wear it.

Changing into your pajamas, you reflect on the feeling of Jimin’s hand in yours, the way his service-calloused palms rubbed against the delicate pads of your fingertips. Pulling your scarf off, you realize it still smells like his cologne. You toss it onto your pillow with an inward guilty smile, briefly debating whether or not it’s creepy that you want to sleep curled up with your boyfriend’s scent. You decide it’s not creepy—it’s endearing.

The buzz of your electric toothbrush is too monotonous to keep your mind off your afternoon. Jimin had taken you to church again. You show up regularly now, though believing is still a little ways off for you. There are a few things you’re not ready to concede, a few stories that don’t quite line up with the facts you’ve based your life around. But you believe in the goodness of the people of your new congregation, the pure love and altruism in their hearts. You have faith in Jimin and his endless supply of compassion, and you can’t refute that meeting Park Jimin was more than a stroke of blind luck or random chance or serendipity—it had to be kismet, destiny, fate. And best of all, you believe that Jimin believes in you.

The kids at church had taken to calling you the “preacher’s wife.” Sometimes the older ones called you “Jimin’s girl.” The labels make you grin, make your heart pause for a moment before restarting with a burning fury. Being so inextricably bound to someone as to be known solely in conjunction with them is a new experience for you. That’s not to say you don’t value your own identity; at the end of the day, you know you exist in your own stunning capacity as a human being. You recognize that now. But it would be a lie to say you don’t enjoy knowing that there’s someone you can lean on as much as they lean on you.

Jimin had this habit of making you happy, of preventing you from burning out but without holding back his own struggles. He brought balance to the torrent of your emotions and, somehow, though you were a bit skeptical he was being truthful, you managed to light a guiding fire in his chest. Jimin seemed to be everything you had been missing when you stumbled into that near-abandoned chapel eight months ago—purpose.

You hold your left hand up to your mirror.

The preacher’s wife…could I?

Marriage always fell low on your list of goals. You spent many years unfazed by the prospect of being a successful spinster. You didn’t need all the stress that came with a relationship. But with Jimin…settling down in a home built from his love with children scurrying in and out of your legs shrieking joyfully for Mommy and Daddy to catch them, falling asleep to mumbled sermon practice, waking up to his soft lips parted peacefully in slumber, walking down an ivory aisle to be joined to him for the rest of your life—

For once, that didn’t sound like such a bad idea. For once, you wanted it.

In fact, you’d be more than willing to pray for it.

[donttelluswhattodo]

The Old Woman and the Bird

(So this story is from a writing prompt on the HitRecord website: https://hitrecord.org/challenges/4226504. All credit for this image goes to user headspacecanary who posted the original writing prompt. I just wanted to share the story I wrote on my personal blog. Hope you enjoy~)

Through glowing green eyes, a bird perched on top of an electrical line stared into a window located on the fifth floor. The bird cocked its head, just like a normal pigeon would, but unlike a normal pigeon, it was feeding a constant stream of information through a neural link straight into Dee’s brain. Dee watched patiently through the bird’s eye as he sat in a diner across the street, sipping black coffee and writing in a notebook.

“What do you see?” asked Moonshine, who sat across from Dee. Under the table, Moonshine shook his leg restlessly.

“Patience, man,” said Dee, taking another sip of his coffee. He called over the waitress and asked for a refill. As she poured, Moonshine stared straight into Dee’s face with eyes wide. He thanked her with a charming smile. When she was done, Moonshine gestured as if to ask Well?

“These things take time,” was all that Dee said.

Through the window, the bird could see two suited men speaking, one with his hair in a bun and the other bald. The man with hair was sweating, looking around the room and back at the bald man with a nervous look on his face. From outside of the bird’s view approached a woman dressed in a traditional Chinese Hanfu. She was short but imposed over them with force. In her hand she held a hammer, which she placed on the table between them. She left the room without saying a word.

“Follow her,” Dee said.

Moonshine, who by then had a mouthful of pecan pie, replied: “Follow who?”

“We’ve got her. Time to move,” said Dee, grabbing his coat and hat from the seat beside him 

“Can I finish my pie?” 

“If you don’t mind letting a man die.”

Moonshine put down his fork quickly, grabbed the pie and shoved it in his mouth. “Lesh gro!”

They burst into the room, guns brandished, as the bald man lifted the bloody hammer from the other man’s skull.

“NCPD! Freeze!” shouted Moonshine.

“Dammit, we’re too late,” said Dee.

The bald man stood up, blood dripping from his hands and face. 

“Put it down, Hammer,” said Dee. “No one else needs to die.”

The man dropped his weapon with a thud on the floor. He was breathing calmly; the curve of a smile forming at the edges of his mouth.

“You saying this is the Hammer?” Moonshine asked.

Dee said nothing, but slipped his gun in its holster and approached the large bald man slowly. From his belt, he pulled out a pair of handcuffs, and at that moment The Hammer rolled on to the ground, lifting the hammer from the floor with reflexes faster than his large size should allow, and slammed it into Dee’s temple. Sparks and smoke flew violently from his head and he fell to the ground. He turned and charged towards Moonshine.

“Dee!” Moonshine shouted, firing five rounds into The Hammer’s exposed chest. He dropped to the ground beside Dee, his large frame slamming to the ground heavily.

Moonshine spoke quickly into his mic, “We’ve got a man down.”

He ran to Dee and, without gentleness, flipped him onto his back. Dee had his eyes open and was blinking, staring at Moonshine with a calm, almost relaxed expression on his face.

“Are you alright?” Moonshine asked. He was breathing heavily.

“We lost her,” Dee said. He tapped the side of his skull where the hammer was still lodged, electricity crackling. “I lost the connection to my bird.” 

Moonshine let out a sigh of relief and laughed, “You stupid bastard.”

Dee was visibly disturbed by his own news.

“We got her once, we’ll get her again,” Moonshine assured him.

--

“What the hell happened in there?” shouted Captain Ericson. 

Dee calmly explained what had happened to the captain.

“This sucks,” he said when Dee had finished.

“Indeed, sir,” said Dee.

“So we got no leads on where to find this damn woman,” he said. “Please tell me you got something out of all this?”

Dee tapped his head. “I may still have her face in my internal storage, sir, but it’ll take a few days to repair my head and who knows if the information is still intact. Otherwise, I have a serviceable natural memory, but until then nothing we can upload to the forensics team until I’m repaired.”

“Make sure you get that done immediately,” said the captain. “And you?” He looked at Moonshine.

“The Hammer was a high profile criminal and I managed to take him down before any further damage to Dee. His identity has been confirmed. He’s our guy. That has to count for something.”

“It doesn’t count for shit,” said the captain. 

“There’s something else as well, sir,” said Dee. Dee looked at Moonshine, widening his eyes and tilting his head to the captain.

“What? What the hell is it?” said the captain. 

“The only thing The Hammer had on his person was a business card.

“Why the hell didn’t you say that from the beginning?” shouted Ericson.

“Because it could be nothing,” Moonshine shot back. “The only thing written on the thing was a word…. or a name: Duke.”

“Hmm, ook into it,” said Ericson.

“Was already going to… sir.”

“And you,” he pointed at Dee. “Get to the infirmary, now!”

“Yessir.”

They stepped outside the office and Dee looked at Moonshine. “Why didn’t you bring up the card?”

“It’s not a strong lead. Ericson hates me enough as it is. Last thing I want to do is feed him another dead end.”

“But it could be something.”

“I’ve got some people I can ask.”

“People? What people?”

“Just leave it to me.” Moonshine began walking away.

“What people?” Dee called after him, but Moonshine said nothing more.

--

Outside Moonshine fitted on his helmet when he heard his phone ring. It was from Angela.

“Hey, babe,” he said.

“Hi Moon, where are you, sweety?”

“Still working, you know.”

“You coming home tonight?” 

“Not yet, babe, but I’ll let you know when I know.”

There was silence on the other line for a while and then: “You still love me?”

Moonshine laughed, “Always.”

Moonshine sped onto the highway, weaving between cars like wind through leaves. He arrived downtown and immediately went to work. He stopped at a drug den he used to frequent when he was involved in that world, asking his personal contacts one by one if they ever heard of the name Duke. And one by one they all answered negatively; if they were conscious enough to answer at all. Reluctantly, Moonshine went to his last resort - a man he knew would have the answers he sought, but without a price to pay. 

The man was an arms dealer named Samson.

“Well, if ain’t old Moonshine, coming back to his old ways, is it?” said Samson, a deep, charming laugh escaping from somewhere in his large belly. Samson was big; muscles bulging on every limb and a chest that rivaled a humpback whale. Worse yet, for Moonshine, Samson was intelligent; not just clever, but purely smart and ambitious. He had connections to every sort of low-life that walked the streets of Neon City.

“You’re the last man I wanted to see, Samson, but I need answers.” Moonshine took out the card and showed it to Samson. “You recognize this name.”

Samson thought it over, rubbing his chin for a time before answering. “Aye, I know the name.” 

“Tell me,” Moonshine said, his body tense and all his senses on high alert. This was not a safe place for anyone, let alone a police officer.

“I can tell ya, but it won’t come to you for free. You feel me?” 

“Haven’t I given you enough?” Moonshine was letting his emotions show more than he knew he intended. “I’ve looked the other way when your guns held up old ladies at liquor stores and banks. What more could you want?”

“It’s a dangerous game you’re playing, Moony, and these are dangerous times for a guy like ol’ Samson.”

Moonshine hesitated, looking at Samson for a long time, trying not to give anything away.

“What do you need?” he finally asked.

“I need a man taken care of,” Samson said. “Nothing serious, just a few bruises and warning: Don’t fuck with Samson.”

Half an hour later, Moonshine approached the man from behind. He wore a black mask with holes cut for the eyes and mouth. The mark was old, wearing what looked like an even older gray suit. He carried a briefcase with him and for some reason, at the sight of it, Moonshine felt sudden repulsion. You’re about to assault an old man, Moonshine. What are you doing? But the more he thought about it, the more he knew it needed to be done. His real goal was the old lady, not Samson, not the guns or drugs running the street and ruining lives like they once ruined his. No, he had a bigger target. Take her down and the rest will fall like dominoes. He secured the mask over his face.

Moonshine pounced on the man with a knee to the lower back. The rain had started to pour and the old man fell into a dirty puddle on the sidewalk. There was no one else around the witness his deeds. Moonshine was disgusted in himself.

Moonshine kicked into his teeth and the man cried out in pain. Two teeth spattered onto the pavement in front of him.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he called out when he had finished crying. 

“Listen here, old man,” he had to shout as the rain began to come down harder, rattling the gutters and street with a wash of white noise. “You need to learn to keep your nose out of this city’s affairs. Don’t fuck with Samson, you understand?”

The man said nothing, merely whimpered as he held his face. The contents of his briefcase had spilled out and Moonshine could see legal documents getting soaked with rainwater. 

“I said, do you understand?” he shouted and again kicked the man, this time in the rib cage. There was an audible crack coming from the soft body, followed by another crack as lightning split the sky. 

“Yes, yes,” he said. “I understand. Please don’t hit me anymore. I beg you.”

We’re on the same side, you and I. If only you could see that. This could just as easily have happened to me.

“The Duke isn’t a man, or a woman for that matter,” said Samson an hour later. “It’s a nightclub, a place upon 163rd. Belongs to The Grandmother. Grandmother Han.”

“That’s her,” said Moonshine, hope masking the sin he had just committed, but did not erase it. He felt like a man stuck a nightmare.

“Listen here, Moony,” Samson spoke in a whisper. “The Grandmother has no love from me, but we all serve her. No choice in the matter. She’s not one to be taken lightly. Watch yourself.”

“Then why tell me?” asked Moonshine.

“These things are like domino,” Samson said, amused. “Knock one down and it all comes tumbling over.” 

Moonshine felt sick, looking at Samson’s smiling face, his perfect, white teeth.

“And someone’s gotta be there to pick up the pieces, you feel me?”

Moonshine nodded, said nothing, and walked out. But Samson wasn’t done with him. He shouted after Moonshine. “Could be you’ll be coming after me next, eh?

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

--

Dee waited in his apartment, his head still in the infirmary. The top of his skull was open; all circuitry intertwined with brain matter. The piece that needed to be repaired was his left temporal lobe and, without it, he felt naked, exposed. He was embarrassed to walk around without it, like a child whose mother had gone to the grocery store for cigarettes and never returned. He lay in his bed, smoking an e-cigarette and reading Aristotle.

“The good for man is an activity of the soul in accordance with virtue, or if there are more kinds of virtue than one, in accordance with the best and most perfect kind.”

In accordance with virtue, eh? Dee had always tried to live a good life, to do good and mean good, but since becoming a detective, the lines had become more and more blurred. His partner was a good man, but not a clean one. Would I do the things he has done were I in his shoes? Dee couldn’t help but wonder.

He chose not the think of it too deeply. Just then, there was a tapping noise from his window. “Ah, Bentley has returned at last.”

He opened it and let the pigeon climb onto his outstretched finger. He pet Bentley gently, taking care to rub his head the way he liked it.

“You’re soaking wet, Bentley.” The bird was shivering in his hand. With a dry paper towel from the kitchen, he patted the bird’s wet feathers and sat it next to the heater. He brought Bentley a small bowl of dried corn and watched the bird eat and lit up a real cigarette. 

“These just feel better, you know?” he said to the bird, who cooed curiously. “Why am I explaining myself to you?”

Dee placed a record on the player, “Smutna Rzeka, your favorite.” The bird continued to eat. Perhaps it was just in Dee’s mind, but the bird always seemed happy to hear this particular piece. As the music continued to play, Dee fell into a sort of trance. He stared at Bentley as the bird ate, wondering what of all things a bird might be thinking. As the piano began to speed up and the sad piano gave way to lighter tones, Dee felt himself flowing gently on a slowly moving river. There was only one river that flowed straight through Neon City, and Dee never worked up to courage to leave the city.

He closed his eyes and Dee felt as if he and Bentley had become one; not of body or mind, but of pure essence. Dee was the bird, and the bird was Dee. He could taste the sweet corn in his mouth and the wetness of the cold rain which seeped down his into thin bones. It was not so different from what he felt when Dee opened up the neural link to Bentley, the one that allowed him to see through the bird’s very eyes. At first, it was difficult to get into the mind of an animal. Their connection would last only minutes before Dee was forced to disconnect, and even then he would be laid out for the hours, a terrible migraine penetrating the very core of mind. The first time he connected, he woke up in the infirmary, blood flowing from his nose.

But as time went on, the connection to the bird became stronger and easier to manage; the synapses and circuitry in his mind firing more rapidly. Soon enough, the connection was easy. Too easy. 

On some days, it felt easier to be the bird than to be the man, and when he wasn’t connected, he often felt a terrible longing for the freedom he had on those paper wings. Even now, with his circuitry damaged and completely removed, he felt like he could still connect into the small bird, though there was no actual digital connection between them. 

When the music ended and moved on to the next track, Dee said: “You know, we’re not so different, Bentley.” The bird, of course, did not reply. “We’re both living organisms made into products for human welfare.”

His phone rang. “This is Dee.”

“Dee!” It was Moonshine. He was excited. “I found the old lady. When is your head going to be fixed?”

Dee smiled. The time to move had finally come.

--

Three days later, outside of The Duke, Moonshine and Dee bid their time. Nearby was a SWAT team, waiting for the order to move. Sipping cheap coffee, a fully repaired Dee looked flew on Bentley’s wings. He drank the coffee automatically, neither tasting its watery bitterness nor feeling any sort of boosted vitality. At this moment, he was not the man standing next to Moonshine.

Bentley perched on a ledge, high up on the neighboring building of The Duke. There were no signs to mark the establishment, just a guard posted outside a large, steel door.

Grandmother Han saw it. “Well aren’t you a familiar little bird,” she said through crooked teeth. 

Han had immigrated to America when she was a child, seven years old and approaching her eighth birthday. As a gift from her father, she had saved the family by offering two fingers on her left hand. It was a token and a warning from the man who had lent her family enough money to leave China behind and start a new life. 

Her worthless father did not fare any better in the new country than he had in the old. When she turned thirteen, she was on the streets of Neon city, getting into cars with men who more than quadrupled her age. She did whatever it might be that pleased them and made them forget long enough to reach into their wallets and pay her a meager sum. It was never much, but it was enough. During those times, she would escape in her mind back to her home town, laying on the roof of her small home, staring up to the trees which seemed, to her young mind, to rise up into the low setting clouds, covering the surrounding mountains and her body in their cool, refreshing mist. It was a far cry from the flashing lights, honking horns, and busy, grime-covered streets of Neon City.

But those were old memories; memories that belong to a different person now. They didn’t matter. What mattered was that one day, she ran away from home and met a man who took her in and taught her the ways of the city. How to survive. How to thrive. She watched and she learned and she rose up to a position of power. 

And now here we are at the end of last.

It was never the power that she wanted. 

In all that time, she had developed a particular philosophy, an idea. It was a creed of liberty and freedom, where no man, woman, or child would ever bend their backs to men who thought they owned the world. Yet, despite everything, she had failed to stop the tide of filth that washed over the city. Instead, she had become a part of it, perhaps now its root cause. For better or for worse, this city was hers. She intended to take care of it.

“The lights of this city are certainly beautiful,” she said to herself as she watched the bird.

Outside, “She’s alone,” said Dee. “And she knows we’re coming.”

Dee and Moonshine approached pointed their weapons at the front door guard. He reached into his coat, but Moonshine was on him swiftly with a fist that landed him on the floor, out cold. They could hear the sounds of slow, thumping music coming from beyond the door.

“All units, move in,” Dee said into his mic.

The SWAT team came in, shouting at all of the club’s attendants to freeze, but no of them moved. They lay on cushions all along the dimly lit rooms, staring into space, eyes completely glazed, unable to see the men with large guns swiftly moving in, unable to hear the noise as gunshots exploded all around them, unable to see the violence taking place just over their foggy heads; all muffled noise, as if shot into pillows. 

Moonshine and Dee were in first. “Freeze! NCPD!”

The guards, unlike the drug-addled attendants, were sober. They drew their weapons and opened fire immediately. Dee ducked behind a nearby couch fired blindly over his shoulder. Moonshine sprinted to the right, shooting wildly at the guards. He hit one twice in the chest and jumped, taking cover behind a stone pillar next to the bar. 

The SWAT team moved in, using their superior firepower to quickly overwhelm their enemies. Their justice was swift and in the ensuing firefight they took down every last guard.

An officer was shot in the leg, but not a life was lost in the chaos. Dee himself had taken out two and in a blur of anger Moonshine quickly handled seven others. 

Moonshine approached one of the addicts. laying on the floor.

“Pathetic,” he mouthed under his breath.

The pair moved towards the elevators, telling the rest of their team to wait behind and secure the main floor.

“Twenty-seventh floor,” Dee said.

“Bently?”

Dee tapped his head knowingly, a smirk playing across his face. “We got her.”

When the doors opened, a silence louder than all the gunfire downstairs erupted around them. Moonshine could hear his heartbeat in his ears, could feel it behind his eyes. Across a large, executive style office lined with bookshelves on either side was an old woman. She stood behind her desk, staring through the window at a building across the street. Despite standing behind her, Dee stared straight into her eyes through Bentley. 

They trained their guns on her.

“Miss Han,” said Dee. 

“Yes,” said the Grandmother. Her voice was nearly imperceptible.

“You’re under arrest for crimes against Neon City,” said Dee.

“Yes,” she said again.

Neither Dee nor Moonshine moved, not yet lowering their weapons. 

Dee started, “You have the right to rem-”

“Do you understand what the hell we’re saying, you old bitch?” shouted Moonshine. “We fucking got you!”

“Moonshine!” Dee shouted.

“And so what?” she shouted back at them. “You think because you arrest an old woman, anything in this filthy city will change?”

They said nothing.

“You’re as naive as I once was, children in dress of man.”

“You’re the cause of all the filth in this city!” Moonshine was getting angry, his emotions welling up inside of him.

“Peace, man” said Dee.

For a time, no one spoke, then finally: “Your bird is quite beautiful,” she said. Silence again.

“Please sit,” she said. 

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Sit!” 

The men exchanged glances then, like children scolded by their mother, they sat down in the chairs across from Han’s massive desk.

“I want to tell you a story,” Han said. She recounted the story of her upbringing: the immigration, the fingers, the prostitution and her fight to end it all. From the beginning and to the end. In all that time, she never blinked or blamed anyone. She merely spoke as if recounting the story to old friends.

“Don’t you see?” she said. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve had to learn this the hard way. No matter how much I tried to save those children, somehow they would be back on the streets within days. Even when I took them in and tried to give them a more… well, honest… living, they would sooner or later return to their old ways, only now under my own employ. It seems like I’m not so different from the child that came here on the underside of a boat all those years ago.”

“Then why keep this up?” Dee asked. “After hearing your story, I believe you are a woman of virtue, but somewhere along the way those values became twisted, unclean. Why would you let it continue this way?

“I only wanted to be free, away from it all. But I failed. In order for me to be free, I had to stand on the prisons I built for those beneath me.”

“It didn’t have to be that way,” Dee argued. “You could have been someone good, a good woman. You could have done good by those who suffered.

Moonshine thought of the old man he had attacked three days before. He thought of the old man’s crumpled body, a bent-over man in the fetal position, reduced once again to a helpless child as blood spilled from his broken mouth.

His stomach turned in a nauseous knot of pain and he knew he would soon throw up if he didn’t do something soon.

“She’s right, Dee,” he said. The old man continued to appear in his mind. “But that changes nothing. You’re still under arrest, Grandmother Han. Your time, and all your chances, are over and done with. There’s no time to redeem yourself anymore.”

Grandmother Han laughed quietly. “Perhaps that’s true for me, but I venture to say the same could be said for you, young man.”

--

Grandmother Han died in prison seven months later, still on trial for her crimes. As she predicted, the crime rate of the city merely dipped before returning in full force.

Dee and Moonshine attended the funeral from a distance, watching as hundreds of people gathered throughout the cemetery to pay homage to their matron’s departed spirit.

“We did everything we could, Moonshine,” Dee said. He had decided to give up smoking six months ago, but he still held a cup of coffee in his hand. It was an expensive cup of coffee, from a nearby cafe, but nonetheless he couldn’t taste the bitterness. He watched with Bentley’s eyes as a throng of mourners wept for their mother.