#lurking background quail

[sarahwithtea]

I was looking for more fired pottery to post but...honestly I just have a cabinet full of unfired pottery. But remembered how much I like this very happy bat. 

[baepsaetan]

Inkarnate

Summary: Hoseok is a film student looking for muse, and Yoongi is a tattoo artist looking for money. When they meet, the two find that they could give each other far more than creativity and cash, but soulmate isn’t spelled p.e.r.f.e.c.t, and Yoongi’s tattoos cover up more than just his skin.

Chapters: pt.1, pt.2, pt.3, pt.4, pt.5, pt.6, pt.7, pt.8, pt.9, pt.10, pt.11

Genre: Soulmate! AU, Angst

Warnings: Swearing, implied alcoholism, implied past abuse, seriously a lot of angst, eventual smut.

Length: 6.9k

A/N: This chapter made me very soft and I enjoyed writing it quite a bit. I hope you all enjoy it as well, and drop me an ask or reblog to lemme know what you think!

The next two months tumble by so quickly they trip over each other. At any given point in time, Hoseok would be hard pressed to correctly guess the current date, plus or minus three days. School rises like a black tidal wave, and he barely makes it over the crest of each deadline and test. He does, though, and so do each of his roommates, each with their own typical style. Jimin is practically surfing, while Jungkook needs to go to doggy-paddling lessons to stay ahead of his practices and classwork. Taehyung has so many friends willing to help him out – and justly so, for he’s equally as willing – that he never seems to be in danger of drowning.

That’s enough as is, but Hoseok is also spending a lot of time on his project. Perhaps too much time, is Jimin’s cautious suggestion, but for once he ignores his friend’s advice. It’s comfortable to be consumed by the planning, the positioning, the infinitesimal little details that are going to make his film perfect. He schedules a lot of meetings with Yoongi – maybe, strictly speaking, a few more than necessary – but as long as the tattoo artist is giving his assent, Hoseok can stretch new reasons for showing up at Born Tiger. There’s always another new angle to pitch, a new series of shots to capture, a new question and a new answer, and if they don’t always talk about the filming, if their conversation strays into the territory of history and tears, hopes and fears, well, neither of them seem to mind much.

Seokjin and Namjoon come up blank on the soulmate front. He has absolutely no doubt they’ve asked everyone possible, but as time escapes, so too does Hoseok’s hope of finding whoever belongs to his tattoo. It’s a strange thing to look in the mirror every morning, his fingers tracing the clear lines of his tattoo, and give up more and more on the promise it’s supposed to represent. Even worse, slowly – so slowly he might not have noticed had he not observed it almost obsessively every day – the flower grows. It’s inching up his throat now, leaves unfurling further down his chest, and it seems healthier, too. Brighter. He’s not imagining things. Taehyung commented on it, just the other day.

And what does that mean? The tattoos change based on your soulmate, everyone knows that. The meanings aren’t always obvious, but in this case it seems pretty clear-cut. Somewhere, his soulmate is maturing or growing or doing something that’s making them better in general, and they’re doing it without him. It’s a bittersweet feeling to be happy for someone he’s never met, to be happy that they’re doing well with no help from him.

His own state makes it a lot easier to bear, though. Hoseok might not have bet on it, but he’s pretty sure that, whatever his tattoo is, it’s changed in the last few months, too. Or if it hasn’t, it’s not a very good tattoo. He’s – he’s felt… better, recently. Lighter. Like the people breathing down his neck have been unceremoniously shoved away, giving him space. Of slightly less comfort is the reason for that transformation.

Rearranging the camera for the fifth time, critically panning the screen to find the best angle, Hoseok glances down the hallway to where Yoongi disappeared. The artist had mumbled something about cleaning something for a few minutes, but it’s been more time than that. Well, if he’s learned anything – and he has, he definitely has – it’s that Yoongi won’t be rushed, and complaining will just make him more obstinate. So Hoseok hums instead, idly flipping through his notebook to study the series of questions he wants to ask during this interview. Most of them are technical or professional in nature – well suited to his film – though others touch on a more personal note that might not make it into the showcase.

It’s a pleasure to rewatch them later, regardless, and he tells himself it’s just a good way to understand his subject’s mindset a little more.

He stifles a yawn – he can’t be tired, they’re going out after this – and checks his phone. It’s 9:20, which means they’ll only have half an hour or so to get the questions done. It’s not a big deal, because Yoongi’s always fair about making up time if they start late, but he had wanted to work some more on editing over the weekend. Oh well. He’ll work with what he gets. Maybe his future hangover will be glad for the lighter load.  

“You coming?” Yoongi’s voice calls from the narrow hallway, and he startles out of his thoughts. Coming? As in… Cautiously he makes his way out of the office, checking both of the tattooing rooms – empty. The artist isn’t in the lobby, either, and it’s only when Hoseok starts back, eyebrows furrowed, that he appears – at the top of the stairs leading to the living area that Hoseok’s never seen before.

“Umm,” he says, thoroughly taken aback. His few attempts to earn an invitation upstairs have never panned out, and he’s never pushed hard about it, respecting Yoongi’s privacy. This is completely out of the blue, and part of him suspects a misunderstanding, which would be seriously, maybe fatally embarrassing if he started up and Yoongi called him out for it. With that lurking fear, he remains very firmly where he is.

“Come on, you can spare a few minutes,” the man says, his pale face unusually flushed. “I’ll just pull some overtime next session, promise.”

Still Hoseok hesitates, caught between a sudden, sharp interest and the lingering worry that he’s still not understanding properly. “You mean – come upstairs?”

“No, I mean stare at the wall.” Scrunching his face in a cute way that smooths the sandpaper dryness of his voice, Yoongi adds, “Yeah, I mean come upstairs.” A beat. “Please?”    

That’s about as open an invitation as he could hope for. Hoseok goes up quickly, his heart moving almost as fast as his feet. He’s been curious about this from the very first day, but his enthusiasm is more fueled by surprise that Yoongi’s decided to open the second floor up to him. Surprise and something warmer, something deep in his stomach.

When he spills through the doorway at the top – almost tripping on the last stair – he finds Yoongi standing in the midst of a largely empty space, hands playing with a loose thread on the baggy sweater he’s got on. He doesn’t meet Hoseok’s eyes, but mutters, “We haven’t figured out what we’re doing tonight, but if a few of you guys decide to stay over, you should at least have seen up here.”

Grinning, briefly resisting the urge to start looking around, Hoseok cocks his head. “I thought you said we’d sleep in the tattoo chairs?”

Yoongi jerks his gaze up, glaring threateningly. “Could still happen,” he says, but as Hoseok dramatically quails, hands raised placatingly, the glower breaks apart and he laughs. “Even if it happens, you can call first dibs on the couch. Make the kids grab the chairs.” Just a little more relaxed – although his cheeks are still stained with a hint of pink – he makes a short, hesitant gesture, an encouragement.

Hoseok doesn’t need to be asked twice. His eyes snap around the artist as he pivots, taking in the area, and it becomes immediately obvious he doesn’t need to fake any kind of reaction. In fact, he’s only partially successful in smothering his urge to gawk.

The living space is split into two separate rooms, as well as a short hallway, and from where they’re standing he can see into all three. On the right there’s a tiled kitchen with themes of white and brown. It’s simple, but someone with an eye for design definitely had a hand in choosing the slightly darker cabinets that compliment the counters, the slender fridge that doesn’t clash with the elegant dining table off to the side. There are two windows that, during the day, probably help to majorly expand the space and let in a lot of light.

In front of them, between the two rooms, the hallway leads to two closed doors, which Yoongi offhandedly informs him are a laundry room and a bathroom.

The other side of the hallway, led into by a light hardwood floor, is what really captures Hoseok’s attention. It’s an incredibly open living room, with the far left wall made almost completely of tall windows. There are several lights on right now, throwing the space into a soft glow in the night, but he can imagine how cool the room looks when the sun is out. Beyond a couch, a coffee table and a TV, there’s a ton of plants scattered around. Hoseok suspects Jin’s hand in that, but the green isn’t what holds his interest. Opposite the windows is a short black staircase that leads up into a half-room, loft-type bedroom. From where they are he can just barely make out the edge of a low bed, pressed against a black railing that lines the edge of the loft, though the rest is obscured by the height of the room.

“It’s not much,” Yoongi says from his side. “I dunno why you wanted to see it so bad.”

He knows, without ever having put it into words, exactly why he wanted to see it so badly. Amusement bubbles in his chest, and he shakes his head, walks a bit further into the area. “Hyung, I hate you,” he says, and, as the tattoo artist blanches and stops dead, he spreads his arms wide, encompassing the whole room. “Do you know how many cool interview clips I could have got from this? This is a good enough background to show on TV.”

Colour rushing back into his face, Yoongi laughs too, and, as the lanky student turns to look at him, suddenly breaks into one of the smiles that Hoseok would sacrifice his favorite camera to get a video of. Gummy, wide, and open beyond anything Hoseok has come to expect from the artist, the first time he’d seen it he’d almost had a heart attack. Time and familiarity hasn’t really dulled the sensation, and he has to consciously beat back the impulse to clutch at his chest and make a sound reserved for the sight of kittens and puppies. He can’t stop the grin, though, and it only grows when Yoongi speaks.

“Don’t get too excited; it’s just a room. But – well, if you want some shots up here, I guess I don’t really care. I’m definitely not doing any tattooing, but I sometimes sketch up in my loft…” He subsides, clearly embarrassed by making the suggestion, but Hoseok could have squealed with joy at the rare attempt at really engaging with his project.

Actually, he does squeal, and Yoongi’s wince in response is clearly put-on. “Wahhh, good idea! Which way are the windows facing? Do you get a sunrise or a sunset? That would be such a cool shot!” A little pretentious, too, and he might not even use it for the project itself, but who could say no to getting a clip like that?

“You’re not catching me awake for a sunrise,” Yoongi replies, “but, lucky for you, yeah, you can sometimes see the sunset.” Before Hoseok can completely lose it in excitement, the artist hurries on. “Okay, okay, so, the closet over there has a bunch of extra blankets, plus a couple of pillows. The couch is a pull out, and it’s actually pretty comfortable. The fridge has got, uh… food… And, uh.” His hand finds the back of his neck, rubbing at it as he fumbles for something else to say.

“Hyung,” Hoseok says, “Even if we crash here, you’re going to be here too. You can tell us then.”

Yoongi scowls. “I know that, but who knows how drunk you idiots will be? Least this way part of the responsibility is on your head.”

“I didn’t agree to that,” Hoseok protests, and Yoongi just shrugs with a lazy, sardonic motion.

“Sucks, man.”

“Aish, fine. We can babysit the kids together,” Hoseok grumbles, and then they’re both laughing, breaking up any other words they might have said in a breathless wash of hilarity. The mere idea of either of them being responsible for anyone beyond themselves – not to mention that his younger roommates probably have their stuff together better than he does – is so ridiculous Hoseok can’t get his gasping under control, and Yoongi is in a similar state.

“Gee-zus,” the artist wheezes. “Can you – imagine babysitting – them? When they were – kids? Taehyung would be -” And then he’s off again, neither them holding out against the waves of mirth that make them lean against each other for support as they shake with laughter.

It’s in moments like this that Hoseok feels it the most, that gut-wrenching sensation that is in such blatant disregard of the fact that he has a soulmate. He can’t really kid himself about what it is – at best he can lower it to the level of an infatuation, although even that rings hollow. He doesn’t know how else to describe the feeling that unapologetically slams into him when Yoongi laughs, or explains a technical point about tattooing with so much enthusiasm…. Even when he says nothing at all, just sketches or sits quietly while Hoseok edits a clip, it’s there. Hell, even seeing Yoongi with his customers – which he’s done five or six times now - and the care he takes for their requests, the understated kindness, brings forward the demanding, steady emotion, and he’s helpless to make it stop.

He used to think you needed time to get to know someone, but it’s been all of two months and there’s a connection with Yoongi he doesn’t have with anyone except, maybe, Jimin. And if the way he catches Yoongi looking at him sometimes – a look quickly discarded with a scowl or a sarcastic comment – he suspects the feeling is mutual. That makes another question rise, one much, much harder to consider and that much harder to ask.

There are a lot of tattoos snaking across Yoongi’s skin. They’re almost everywhere on his body, a medley of colours and meaning and moments that mingle with each other in a tapestry Hoseok can’t quite read. But sometimes, sometimes… In a slew of confusion and self-derision and paper-thin hope, the kind that creases far too easily, Hoseok can’t help but wonder if it’s so weird to imagine that, maybe – maybe one of those tattoos, one of those moments, belongs to him.

He’s sobered, the laughter petering out, and Yoongi is staring at him, so Hoseok claps sharply enough that they both jump. “Yeah, well, it’s good we have a cool place to stay if we don’t end up taking an Uber. Still, we’ve got -” he checks his phone as an excuse to look down, “about twenty minutes. You up for a few more questions?”

The pause suggests his companion is considering something, but eventually Yoongi says, “I can’t believe you haven’t ran out of questions yet. Your movie’s gonna be seven hundred hours long.”

That’s a tacit agreement, and Hoseok takes one last look around the room before tramping back downstairs and settling down in the office, behind the camera he’s so painstakingly set up. The tattooist is a little more hesitant, but eventually he perches on the edge of the chair in front of the camera. There’s something incredibly endearing about his discomfort, even after the twentieth or so time being interviewed. To be fair, he’s gotten better; he doesn’t tell Hoseok to erase everything or edit out parts every thirty seconds anymore.

“Okay,” Yoongi says, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. “Lay it on me.”

Hoseok snorts in amusement, and then he’s fiddling with the stand-up camera, making some last-minute adjustments, lowering the saturation and upping the lighting a little. For all that his film partner insists to the contrary, Yoongi looks good on screen, even on the small side screen of the camera. Hoseok always uses the lighting and saturation to makes sure his tattoos pop, but its not the tattoos that have the engaging personality and intensity and tentative willingness to share an experience, so he’s mostly switched to focusing on his subject instead of the markings. Sometimes he worries he’s not focusing on the art itself quite enough – but that’s a hurdle to be leapt later.

Clearing his throat, Hoseok adopts a smooth voice that had been difficult to maintain at the beginning – especially for the few days when Yoongi had decided to start making ugly faces to get him to mess up. He’s not sad that that’s over, at least in a purely productive sense. They start where they left off last time, talking more about the history of tattooing and the ways that various styles have developed. Yoongi seems quite knowledgeable about it, and he’s leaps and bounds ahead of where he used to be; he barely hesitates or stutters, and there’s a distinctive confidence in his delivery that’d been lacking at the beginning.

Once they’ve covered some talking points, Hoseok asks his summary question, as is standard.  

“There’s really a lot of history behind tattooing, isn’t there?”

Head bobbing in agreement, Yoongi says, “Yeah, there’s a shiii – ah, super, um, lot of history.” The swearing is probably his biggest issue; though Hoseok’s told him a few curses here and there are fine, he seems determined to keep it as clean as possible. “I talked about how old it is as an art, right? Well, uh, that’s probably one of the coolest things about tattooing. For me, I mean.” He gives a short, deprecating jerk of his shoulders. “History is – it’s important. Tattooing changes a lot, its got tons of different influences, and even the reasons for getting tattoos changes. But at the end of the day – it’s a connection, you know? A connection that’s been around for centuries. Definitely something I try to remember, especially when I’m trying out a new style or whatever.”

Ah, there it is again. That tightness in his chest. Yoongi is just so earnest when he talks about this. Beating that back, Hoseok prompts the new conversation topic carefully, “So you do try out new styles? I thought tattoo artists usually develop one or two specific kinds they use?”

“I mean, I think we already covered that there’s no hard rule for any of this, but yeah, most of us do usually stick to a few types. For one, all artists – not just tattooers – have their own style that grows and develops over time, right? For another, it helps people who are looking for something specific to be able to see an example of our work and be like, ‘yeah, that’s what I want.’ If it was a huge mess of different styles – well, that wouldn’t be as easy.”

He hasn’t looked at the camera yet – that’s not new – but now Yoongi forces his eyes up, and Hoseok smiles encouragingly while the other swallows hard. “Uh, for me, though… I just don’t want to get, like, trapped in just one kind. Looking at other styles, even if its just sketching them instead of putting them on other people, it just helps me become better at my own stuff, makes me aware of all of the cool changes that are happening in our world.”

A pause while he gropes for more words, and Hoseok waits patiently, recognizing the signs of him searching for a way to say something. The pauses aren’t exactly great from an editing standpoint, but they’re as honest as anything can be, so he doesn’t care. Eventually Yoongi continues. “If – for me, you can’t ever really settle with what you’re doing, cause as soon as you settle, you’ve stopped moving. And you can’t do that. When you move, when you go to new places or try new things, you grow, and that’s what I – I just want to make sure my art keeps growing. That I keep growing.” He laughs, and the sound’s oddly bitter. “At least for as long as I can.”                

That’s another thing that’s popped up on more than one occasion, flashes of cynicism that Hoseok’s yet to find the full reason for. He understands why Yoongi would be bitter about his past, but it seems like he holds the future in contempt sometimes, too. Without knowing why, it’s not something he can incorporate into his project, and Hoseok realizes they’re edging close to the limit of their time. He stops the recording and flashes the artist a thumbs up.

“Nice, hyung. I’m gonna play around with that this weekend. Y’know, you’re getting better at this whole thing!”

“Hah. Sure. I just hope your teacher doesn’t dock marks for me being so ugly.”

There’s no point in directly contradicting him; while Hoseok still does, on occasion, Yoongi tends to shrug off his compliments and contradictions as easily as other people shrug off jackets. Instead, Hoseok says, “Nah, she’s going to give me bonus points for my brilliant choice to feature you.”

“I am brilliant, yes,” is the deliberately thick-headed reply – Yoongi enjoys being contrary almost as much as he loves insulting himself – and Hoseok huffs in disgust while the tattooist stretches with a self-satisfied, taunting smile. In another life, he’s pretty sure his film subject would have really enjoyed being onstage – maybe as a singer or something – but Yoongi tends to suppress that side of himself, and it only comes out in little shots of arrogance and smugness… like now.

Hoseok has no complaints. “We should probably head out soon, if we wanna get there around ten. Namjoon and Jin hyung are meeting us there, right?”

“Yeah. Your crowd’s already there?”

Though the disparaging title might have began as a purposefully mocking label, Yoongi’s eaten his words and then some by now. Hoseok’s younger friends have taken to Namjoon, Jin and Yoongi like ducklings to water, and indeed they often have plans with the older males outside of whatever outings Hoseok manages to scramble together. With a major in business, Namjoon has been a huge help with a lot of the courses Jungkook is struggling in, and the two grab coffees every Wednesday morning to go over notes. Taehyung, it turns out, has a passion for gardening, and he’s currently waging war on all the plants in and around their apartment, trying to get them to straighten out with Jin’s guidance.

More than a little to his surprise, even Jimin, who normally takes quite awhile to warm up beyond a shallow smile, has made it clear he likes the other group. He and Yoongi share an appreciation of the piano – go figure – and they regularly head to the park, where a free-to-play, outdoor piano passes an hour or two in between classes or clients. Yoongi can’t play, but he’s getting Jimin to teach him. Thinking of any or all of them together brings a novel kind of softness to Hoseok, a happiness he’s almost afraid of looking at too closely in case it blinds him or disappears; he’s never had a group of friends like this before.

That’s getting altogether too close to the line of panic, so Hoseok shakes himself, dog-like, and exclaims, “Our crowd’s already there, yup. Jimin texted me, said he’s saved us a spot.”

“Then what’re we waiting for?” His gummy grin crooked across his face, Yoongi urges Hoseok out of the office and then upstairs. “I just need to change really quick. Did you bring anything else to change into?”

“Nah,” Hoseok replies, hanging out at the top of the stairs while Yoongi goes up to his bedroom loft. “I’m just gonna wear this.” He tugs at the black t-shirt he’s got on, suddenly wondering if there’s something wrong with it.

Yoongi quickly dispels that fear. “’Kay,” he calls from above, short enough that he obviously doesn’t care what Hoseok is wearing to the club. “I’ll just be a sec.”

From where he lounges against the wall, the university student can make out his friend tearing off his sweater – and he’s not wearing anything underneath. His back is to Hoseok, and while the angle’s not ideal, he can still make out the tiger that lunges across his shoulder blades, done in the same blue and black colours as the tiger gracing the glass front of the store. There are a few other tattoos that are smaller, too far away to discern their shapes – and Yoongi is turning and Hoseok jerks his straining eyes down, a cascade of embarrassment falling into his stomach, hot with the knowledge that he wasn’t just admiring the tattoos.

The embarrassment doesn’t really do much to dispel the appreciation, unfortunately.

He busies himself with checking out the kitchen, determined not to cave in to the desire to look again. He’s not kept in uncomfortable agony for long; as promised, shortly his friend is trotting back into view, hands in the pockets of his blue jean jacket. That new addition, coupled with the bright blue beanie shoved over his blonde hair, is so striking that Hoseok forgets to look around for a moment and stares at the artist instead.

Who stares right back, his raised eyebrow sarcastic but his mouth softened by the barest hint of a smile. “What?” he asks in amusement, and Hoseok can feel a flush of heat crawling up his neck.

“Ahaha, nothing,” he says, and quickly flees downstairs. He pauses at the door, eyeing askance the backpack he usually sets near the entrance when he arrives. Damn. He doesn’t really want to take it – it’s got his more expensive DSLR camera along with a few specialty lenses – but if they do end up going home instead of crashing here…  

“Uh, Yoongi? You care if I leave my stuff here?” Hoseok asks, toeing the bag and wondering if he should feel more or less awkward about the question than he does. Given the reaction still churning in his gut, probably more, but he’d rather look beyond that. If they’re already planning to sleep here, what’s the big deal about leaving a few things?

If he finds the request significant, it doesn’t show on Yoongi’s face – but then again, Hoseok’s learning his new friend has got more than a slightly bad habit of hiding what he’s thinking. “Yeah, sure. I can pawn it in the morning to feel better about my hangover.”

“Ha ha,” Hoseok replies, and pulls on both a sweater and the winter coat he’d thrown onto the desk when he’d come in, adding gloves and a hat a moment later. “Are you going to be warm enough in that?” he asks, eyeing the thin jean jacket that Yoongi makes no move to layer.

Pulling at his beanie, the artist wrinkles his nose. “Yeah, mom, thanks. It’s not a far walk.”

His lips compress, but eventually he decides to leave it alone, and together the two of them exit out of the Born Tiger. He somewhat second guesses his choice only moments later; short walk or no, it’s freezing out. The dark street is crusted with snow and ice, and it’s snowing even now, flurries of white snapping at their faces and impeding their progress. If Yoongi isn’t cold, he’s not human. He clearly is, though, because he walks with his chin tucked to his chest, arms wrapped tightly around his body, and it makes Hoseok chilly just looking at him.

“You sure you don’t want to go back and grab something warmer?” the film major asks after only a few minutes. The glower Yoongi sends his way isn’t particularly off putting, given that his eyebrows and head are streaked with snow, his cheeks stained red and his teeth visibly chattering, so Hoseok persists. “Or, do you want my jacket?” Seeing his friend shiver is about as appealing as dumping a bucket of ice water on himself; in fact, it’s so uncomfortable Hoseok can feel himself beginning to shiver as well despite his many layers.

“No,” Yoongi replies, presumably to both suggestions, and it’s not like Hoseok’s going to manage to make him move once he’s decided something.

Still, there are other ways. Pulling off his gloves, he shoves them to the other man. Yoongi’s brow furrows, the suggestion of a scowl turning down his mouth, and he stares flatly at them. “My coat’s thicker,” Hoseok says, “and I can just put my hands in the pockets.”

After a moment his companion relents, takes them gently from Hoseok’s grasp. That’s been a pleasant and useful discovery in the last few months; Yoongi won’t accept bigger offers of help, but if you present something smaller on the heels of the first, he tends to fold.

Or at least, Yoongi never says no to Hoseok, whenever he finds enough courage to push.

His fingers flexing in the gloves, Yoongi’s voice is gruff with embarrassment but warm enough to drive away the stinging cold assailing Hoseok. “Thank you.”

The student beams and the warmth only grows. “No problem,” he says, and the next few minutes are easy silence and quick footsteps, both of them eager to get out of the weather. At this late hour, Skymont’s traffic – both foot and otherwise – has largely slowed, and he sees only a few people hurrying through the flurries, as bundled up as he is. His plan to keep his hands warm in his pockets isn’t quite working out – he forgot his pockets aren’t big enough to stuff his hands into – but it’s still better than the man next to him suffering.

There’s something intimate about moving through the falling snow, passing under the soft, muffled glow of the street lamps with Yoongi, like the scattered white is a screen between them and everyone else. It almost makes braving the freezing temperatures worth it.

“When is your last exam? Are you ready for all of them?” Yoongi speaks comfortably after awhile, softly easing aside the silence instead of breaking it. He doesn’t often ask after Hoseok’s life, his school or family, but every so often questions like these surface, sending unusual little ripples across their normally smooth conversation. It’s jarring because when he asks, he doesn’t withhold his interest; in fact, Yoongi listens so intently it’s like he’s giving himself permission to do something pleasant that’s only going to last for a second, and he wants to enjoy it while it’s there.

Which is probably a stupid sentiment on Hoseok’s part or something, because obviously Yoongi can ask whatever he wants about his life, whenever he likes. Hoseok is uncomfortably certain there’s nothing the artist could inquire about that he’d decline to answer, no matter how private or personal.

Well. This is just exams. “Last exam is Thursday. I actually already had one yesterday, but I think I’ll do okay on the rest.” He’s going to cram both tomorrow and Sunday (probably with mixed results, especially Saturday), but he’s already done a lot of studying and is pretty much prepared. That doesn’t stop the screaming test anxiety, of course, but it’s nothing new.

“The way Jimin talks, you’ll do great,” Yoongi says, and it’s part question, part statement.

That almost makes him trip. He hadn’t really thought that they might be talking about him when they were hanging out. “Oh, ah, I dunno,” Hoseok laughs, his hands shaking fists tucked under his arms. “I guess we’ll see. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Yoongi glances at him sidelong. “You’re seriously not nervous at all? Hearing you guys talking about it so much this last bit, I think I’d be losing my shit.”

Shrugging, the student replies, “I mean, I think everyone else has a lot harder courses, so I can’t complain.”

“Actually, you can. Just ‘cause other people have it hard, doesn’t mean you can’t be having it hard too, Hobi.” Hoseok doesn’t know what to say to that, and after a pause, Yoongi forges on. “You don’t really ever talk about shit you’re going through, do you? And even when you do, it’s, like, not a big deal, and no one needs to think about it or anything.”

There’s that personal line they always end up crossing, and the stiffness in his fingers makes him flex them restlessly. His short laughter billows out white and cold in front of his face. “That’s because it isn’t a big deal and I don’t want to bother anyone. Besides, I’m so lucky with – with my parents and all – that it’d be stupid and unfair to ever complain.”

“You’re talking about money.”

The bluntness makes Hoseok internally wince, but he finds himself nodding, drawn out by the private cocoon of darkness and quiet. “Not everyone else has money like I do. You, Jimin, Kookie… you guys don’t want to hear me whine about something stupid like tests.”

Yoongi’s breathing is a gauge of his thoughts, slow, deep, pensive. He says, “Are you paying your teachers this semester? Getting them to give you better grades or something?”

“No!” The answer bursts out indignantly, faster than his realization of why the artist is asking.

Laughter rolls from his companion and Hoseok blushes at his indignant response having jumped straight into the trap. “So, if your money has nothing to do with it, then why shouldn’t you get to feel just as nervous about it? If it’s hard, or if you get a bad mark, again… Being rich has nothing to do with that. Don’t feel like we’ll hate to hear about it. You must know Jimin won’t, and trust me, neither will Kookie, or me… or any of us.”

He’s known Yoongi for a little more than two months and – and he believes him. Maybe time is exactly why. Jimin’s said that before, too, but Jimin is his childhood friend; Jimin is supposed to say that. The artist, on the other hand, is practically a stranger – except… not – and his words carry less well-meaning earnestness and more offhand truth. They have to. Why would some newly made friend say anything like that with anything more than disinterested sincerity?

The cynical calculation doesn’t account for the way Yoongi keeps looking at him, hasty, darting glances to check his reaction, and it doesn’t explain the way Hoseok suddenly feels lighter, eager, the drinking and dancing ahead of them abruptly a joy instead of a chore. Most of the math he’s tried to apply to their relationship doesn’t really work out the way it’s supposed to, but he guesses there’s a reason he didn’t go into the maths or sciences. Sometimes two plus two can’t equal four, even when it’s supposed to.

A shiver of appreciation glides down his spine, separate from the cold, and he tilts his head playfully. “Thanks, Yoongi. I’ll take you up on the complaining thing, sometime.”

“Mmhm. It’s probably less expensive than a shrink, too.”

“Probably?”

“What, you thought it’d be free?” They laugh at it, at an awkward social situation that’s quickly morphed into a joke. Hoseok’s positive that even once his project’s over, Yoongi’s not going to suddenly stop seeing him, and that makes the joking about money and cost into something enjoyable. As they simmer down, Yoongi tacks on, “Tell you what. I’ll give you a discount if you listen to all of my shit, too.”

He could have made a jab about the exchange not being even, but hearing Yoongi’s shit – finally, finally learning about the shadow that crosses his face so often – is something that Hoseok’s been yearning after for what feels like an eternity. “It’s a deal,” he says, fervently, firmly, and doesn’t miss the way his companion’s eyes linger on him, considering, before tearing away.

“It’s a deal,” Yoongi repeats, lightly ironic. “Before I die, you and I can swap our deepest darkest secrets.” He pauses. “Of course, I’m gonna be smashed at the time, so who knows? Maybe you’ll get lucky tonight.”

Hoseok wishes his mind didn’t immediately go where it does, but he can’t really fault himself for it. Flushing – and hoping Yoongi can’t see – Hoseok picks up his pace, not quite managing to leave the heat of that exact hope behind.

—

It’s a surprise, albeit a welcome one, when Yoongi realizes that what he’s said to Hoseok might actually have helped a little. Most of the time, when he attempts to give advice to people – and those times are few and far between, because there can’t really be a worse joke than that – it’s a shot in the dark. A “close your eyes and pray�� sort of thing. Judging by the way Hoseok’s smiling though, the curl of his lips obvious even in the dim lighting, his words actually made an impact. A positive one, even. That’s not how these things usually turn out.

Yoongi isn’t complaining.

Of course, this is all a joke, a scam, a story with the last few pages ripped out, but it’s just so hard to resist reading the next line, to stop his thoughts from jumping ahead to wonder “well, and how does this end?” Hoseok’s a book he can’t put down, one of those thrilling, heart wrenching paperbacks you find in some shitty second-hand store that you buy for the hell of it and never for a moment regret. Oh, he’s going to regret getting to the end – you always do, with a good book - but there’s already a part of him fighting the idea that it would have been better to have never met Hobi at all.

Sometimes you just have to accept you can’t be different than what you are, and Yoongi can’t stop wanting to be around Hoseok. That’s why he’s even here, that’s why he agreed to go out. It’s probably a terrible idea – him and people and alcohol and emotions don’t mix – but the way Hoseok had kept pushing, always hopeful, had made him think that maybe, for just a night, he could hold his shit together. That’s not too much to ask from the author of this messed up story, right?

At least he’s enjoying himself now, and even without the alcohol. “We’re pretty close,” he observes, and that’s a relief and then some. Hoseok’s gloves have done wonders for his hands, but the jacket really isn’t thick enough in any sense of the word. Not that he’s about to tell his companion that, and besides, the gloves make it bearable. He glances at Hoseok at the thought, well aware of the way his expression softens. The other looks like he just walked into a snowbank and barely made it out – not that Yoongi expects he looks much better – and he’s shaking as he walks, quick little shivers that seem to be a mixture of pent-up enthusiasm and cold.

“Are your hands okay?” he asks abruptly, and Hoseok’s steps falter, which is an even better answer than the way he blusters and says yeah. “Want the gloves back?” Yoongi already knows the answer to that; people call him stubborn, and he is, like a rock, but Hoseok is stubborn too, in the flexible way that water dances around an obstacle but doesn’t ever stop flowing.

“Nah, nah, you said we’re close,” the student says. “I’m fine.”

He’s not. It’s the bond, probably, but either way Yoongi’s absolutely positive his soulmate is very uncomfortable right now. He can practically feel the coldness as a ghostly ice against his own hands and fingers, and what’s the point of wearing the gloves if he has to deal with that? It makes it reasonable, logical even, to make the suggestion that he does. Totally logical.

“Wanna hold hands?”

All else aside, Hoseok’s reaction makes the request worth it on that alone. The lanky man almost falls backwards, he tries to stop so suddenly, and his breath explodes out in a white cloud that isn’t replaced for a few seconds as Hobi sputters. “What?” he croaks, and it’s that emotional honesty that Yoongi really likes about Hoseok. Sure, he tries to hide his anxieties, but most of the other emotions, enjoyment or disgust or disbelief, he wears them on his sleeve.

Or on his bright red face, in this case. “At least it’ll warm up one of them,” Yoongi says, straight faced, pushing away his own misgivings. It’s not like holding hands can make what he’s doing worse. He extends his gloved hand with a curt motion to keep himself from regretting it.

When Hoseok tentatively accepts, the regret washes away in a flood of soft satisfaction. Their hands don’t match perfectly, no fairy-tale shit like that – Yoongi’s is just a little bigger, and the glove makes it a little awkward at first – but there’s something unshakeably secure about holding onto Hoseok. About Hoseok holding on to him. The muted relief and delight on his soulmate’s face only pour cement onto the physical bond, and Yoongi tightens his grip, already dreading the prospect of letting go.

“Better?” he asks, a little mocking, because he’s supposed to tease his friend about this kind of thing.

“Better,” Hoseok agrees, a little breathless, because he wasn’t cute enough already with his abashed happiness.  

His fingers twined around his soulmate’s, a thrillingly light feeling unfurling in his chest, Yoongi lets himself believe that it is, against all calculations, better.

[clonerightsagenda]

The arc review continues.

Someone had to do the Chris Pratt velociraptor meme. We were willing to take on that burden if no one else was.

Deciding to be honest and doing it are two different things. You’ll notice Jade mostly avoids her biggest victims during the Derse plaza sequence and first talks to her partner in crime.

Fun fact: Although I handled Roxy when she talks to betas, other logs between an alpha and a beta were drafted via msparp between me and Gill. This led to those logs being, on average, longer and more tangent-riddled. The worst offender is the Dave and Dirk convo. Often I sliced a lot out for the final version. We also often went off script on weird tangents (including me once threatening Gill while she was in the bathroom when she kept sending me metal gear memes). This log’s text file is referred to as jajane charades.txt because of one said tangent, which I will repost for your entertainment. This is the dvd commentary after all.

JANE: YOU SEE ]] JANE: WHEN A YOUNG LASS HITS YOUR AGE SHE STARTS GETTING... URGES ]] JANE: MY DAD TAUGHT ME THESE URGES MUST BE SUPPRESSED UNTIL MARRIAGE. ]] JADE: i have a cloning machine i am unstoppable ]] JADE: also jane sweetie we are going to have to talk about other orientations someday ]] JANE: I like men!! ]] JADE: yes but you see there is a whole broad world of orientations out there ]]] JADE: it is very simple ]] JADE: for example i am JADE: flails arms randomly ]] JADE: and john is JADE: crosses arms firmly over chest ]] JANE: Ohhhh. JADE: it is the all or nothing option] JADE: and the salad bar is calling your name ] JANE: And jake is... ]] JANE: Stares blankly into space. ]] JANE: Emits confused noises. ]] JADE: i dunno he had fake dates with dolls ] JADE: i have no word for that one] JADE: or gesture ] JANE: He did what? ]] JADE: lmao ] JADE: i suppose he had urges ] JANE: Well. ]] JANE: He is a strange, silly boy. ]] JADE: and a strange silly old man ] JANE: And the more things change the more they stay the same!! ]] JANE: Hoo hoo, and Dirk is quietly staring at Jake's rear end from the corner, while Roxy is rolling around on the floor laughing at everything, I guess. ]] JADE: dave: slightly different flailing motion ]] JADE: rose: waggles eyebrows at all women in the vicinity ]] JADE: ok i think this log is officially dead ] JANE: This is all bonus content ]] JANE: It must be seen I demand it ]] JADE: ok]

Ok now let’s get back on track

JADE: i dont know what it was like for anyone else JADE: but i guess for us that meant JADE: it was just?

Jane and Jade have no way of knowing that Aranea rigged the clock, poor things.

JANE: Of course, my death wasn't permanent after I died this time under similar circumstances. JANE: So perhaps we were victims of a Skaian clearance sale? JANE: Doomed timeline, everyone must go!

Tbh I feel like this would help explain some of the honestly sorta sketchy clock rulings. They’re already doomed, might as well keep ‘em down. That’s our justification about why Jane didn’t die in a similar situation in TLC. 

JADE: do you ever worry you dont feel the right way about your friends?

The core difference between John and Jade, at least in my interpretation, is that John represses a lot of things unconsciously, and Jade is doing it intentionally. Jade is fully aware of all her bitter, angry, or jealous impulses. She considers them all personal failings, and she tries to squash them. Unfortunately that just made them more nasty when they came out. I think if Jade hadn’t demonized every ‘bad’ aspect of herself so much, grimbark Jade wouldn’t have been so aggressive... she would have been more resigned and ‘guys if we just cooperate maybe fewer people will get hurt’ rather than ‘i’m gonna kick my brother in the gut’.

Speaking of kicking her brother in the gut, let's get to the first of those uncomfy conversations.

From Karkat's perspective, he got angry, sent some nasty messages to the humans for a few hours, and then cooled off. No real harm done. But from Jade's perspective, he bullied her for years of an already crummy childhood. Considering her typical attitude versus how hostile she is when he contacts her, he must've really gotten on her nerves. She had no real reason to kill him for a "demonstration". She did that out of vengeance, and now she has to admit it.

JOHN: i know you grew up alone for a while, and you let us see your house, but whenever we tried to ask questions you changed the subject. JOHN: what were we supposed to do? JOHN: i didn't want to pry! if you said it was fine, i thought it was. JOHN: and now you're mad because i didn't assume my sister was lying to me? JOHN: i guess i won't make that mistake again!!

The other kids on the ship must have learned at least some details of Jade's childhood. Again, it seems kinda unrealistic that they didn't ask *any* questions, but that's what I have to work with. John feels betrayed and frustrated that Jade is now punishing him for not magically knowing the things she tried to hide from him, which is an entirely fair reaction. Maybe he didn't pay as much attention as he could have, but she deliberately made it harder for him to notice, so they both have been contributing to damaging this relationship. Jade eventually admits that she fucked up. She felt they would like her more as the peppy, supportive friend, and maybe that’s true, but that has only made this revelation harder to swallow.

Karkat is bewildered in the background, because since Jade was pissed at him, she didn't care enough about his opinion to hide herself. Ironically, it's the people she doesn't respect who know her best.

KARKAT: SHE LITERALLY TOLD ME TO TELL HER WHEN I WENT TO HELL SO SHE COULD SET UP A REMINDER TO THROW A PARTY. KARKAT: THAT IS AN ACTUAL THING THAT HAPPENED.

That log is a riot.

There's an emphasis on everyone admitting that this happened and dealing with it rather than sweeping it under the rug. In canon, the implications of grimbark and crockertier kinda get glossed over, partly because it's unclear how much of their actions got retconned away. That suggests all that stuff is still festering. We wanted to make sure it gets talked about so it’s less likely Jade and Jane snap on their own later because they simply can’t take holding it in anymore.  

Jade and Jake! Another combo log that had to get sliced down quite a bit. This conversation is a lot more heavily tied to Jake's arc than Jade's so I won't spend a bunch of time on it.

JADE: i deserve some sort of update

I made some joke about this being @Andrew Hussie but considering the kinds of updates he finally gave the poor girl (get sexually harassed and stabbed! every girl’s dream) I take it back.

JADE: is the xenon inert?

If the girl's supposed to be a science genius I'm gonna bring chemistry into the story, ok? I HL’d in chem. I miss it a little. Plus, chemistry is directly relevant to the Alpha session. Noble gasses are inert and have trouble forming bonds without outside influence. It takes the addition of the Beta planets to create an octet of eight electrons around the Skaian nucleus, making a stable atom. Everyone hanging out on Jane’s planet probably got a chipmunk voice. The possibilities are endless. 

JADE: i think you have taken quite enough punches for the day JAKE: That one to the solar plexus really did smart... JADE: how about the villains take a turn for a change? JADE: that arrangement sounds good to me

In the future, Jake will get to punch himself as a villain. So best of both worlds, I guess.

Moving on to Davesprite... Jesus christ, this conversation. The one good thing I can say about it is it did generate this gem.

I used to test the text color code before we put it up on mspfa (these days I just say fuck it and we fix the errors when we see them). This effect doesn't happen on the mspfa page with the smaller text box, but I think it's a pretty good summary of the log as a whole. In fact I opened this log to look at it again, saw the wall of orange, and felt my heart quail within me. But this is an arc commentary which means I don't have to read it line by line if I don't want to. 

Anyway, this was a pain in the ass because Homestuck does not like to let people who are dating talk to each other, a phenomenon I tongue-in-cheek call the Homestuck relationship curse. Current couples almost never speak, unless it's part of a group conversation or they're breaking up. Go back and check if you don’t believe me. These two are even worse, because although Dave pre-split talks to Jade and Davesprite talks to Jadesprite, Davesprite-as-Davesprite never talks to Jade-as-Jade ever. Which makes it really fucking hard to write a whole thing about how stuff broke bad, let me tell you. I had about three sentences to go off of and so mostly relied on piecing best guesses together from general character analysis, which I won't go into in depth because no one asked for a DVD commentary for this scene in particular. This is another conversation that got overhauled once or twice - in earlier drafts Davesprite was a lot more passive, but I figured he's had a long day and is ready to snap back, and I needed him to because I was, after all, trying to call Jade on some of her shit too. This conversation essentially serves the same purpose as the one with John for Jade - she lets people know what's going on with her but is also faced with the fact that it's partly on her that she kept her mouth shut for so long.

The fact that he's lurking in the background of a bunch of panels is because I should never make idle comments around the artist. I made some joke about being afraid that your recently evil ex will just fuckin shoot you for talking shit and Gill took it upon herself to make that a reality. Same with John hiding behind a rock, or the entire existence of Janerezi in this household. I've learned to stop making jokes.

Then John fucks up with his power of mental association powers and teleports Jack Noir along with Jade to the green sun. Good job, John.

Jade's closure with her traveling companions mostly caps off the messiest part of her 'be honest with your friends' journey, although she still has Dave and Rose to talk to. The next bit is more focused on her working through the way she finds self-worth through being powerful rather than simply being, represented in her Green Sun quest. And that seems like a good place to break for a new post to ME.

[fiftyshadesofdimmadome]

Book 1; Chapter 18

Dr. Greene is tall, blond, and immaculate, dressed in a royal blue suit. I’m reminded of the women who work in Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome’s office. She’s like an identikit model another Stepford blonde. Her long hair is swept up in an elegant chignon. She must be in her early forties.

“Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome.” She shakes Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome’s outstretched hand.

“Thank you for coming at such short notice,” Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome says.

“Thank you for making it worth my while, Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome. Miss Steele.” She smiles, her eyes cool and assessing.

We shake hands, and I know she’s one of those women who doesn’t tolerate fools gladly. Like Kate. I like her immediately. She gives Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome a pointed stare, and after an awkward beat, he takes his cue.

“I’ll be downstairs,” he mutters, and he leaves what will be my bedroom.

“Well Miss Steele. Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome is paying me a small fortune to attend to you. What can I do for you?”

After a thorough examination and lengthy discussion, Dr. Greene and I decide on the mini pill. She writes me a pre-paid prescription and instructs me to pick them up tomorrow. I love her no-nonsense attitude she has lectured me until she’s as blue as her dress about taking it at the same time every day. And I can tell she’s burning with curiosity about my so-called relationship with Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome. I don’t give her any details. Somehow I don’t think

she’d look so calm and collected if she’d seen his Red Room of Pain. I flush as we pass its closed door and head back downstairs to the art gallery that is Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome’s living room.

Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome is reading, seated on his couch. A breathtaking aria is playing on the music system, swirling round him, cocooning him, filling the room with a sweet, soulful song.

For a moment, he looks serene. He turns and glances at us when we enter and smiles warmly at me.

“Are you done?” he asks as if he’s genuinely interested. He points the remote at a sleek white box beneath the fireplace that houses his iPod, and the exquisite melody fades but continues in the background. Standing, he strolls towards us.

“Yes, Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome. Look after her; she’s a beautiful, bright young woman.”

Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome is taken aback as am I. What an inappropriate thing for a doctor to say. Is she giving him some kind of not so subtle warning? Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome recovers himself.

“I fully intend to,” he mutters, bemused.

Gazing at him, I shrug, embarrassed.

“I’ll send you my bill,” she says crisply as she shakes his hand.

“Good day, and good luck to you, Ana.” She smiles, her eyes crinkling as she does when we shake hands.

Taylor appears from nowhere to escort her through the double doors and out to the elevator. How does he do that? Where does he lurk?

“How was that?” Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome asks.

“Fine, thank you. She said that I had to abstain from all sexual activity for the next four weeks.”

Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome’s mouth drops open in shock, and I cannot keep a straight face any longer and grin at him like an idiot.

“Gotcha!”

He narrows his eyes, and I immediately stop laughing. In fact, he looks rather forbid ding. Oh shit. My subconscious quails in the corner as all the blood drains from my face, and I imagine him putting me across his knee again.

“Gotcha!” he says and smirks. He grabs me around my waist and pulls me up against him. “You are incorrigible, Miss Steele,” he murmurs, staring down into my eyes as he weaves his fingers into my hair, holding me firmly in place. He kisses me, hard, and I cling on to his muscular arms for support.

“As much as I’d like to take you here, now, you need to eat and so do I. I don’t want you passing out on me later,” he murmurs against my lips.

“Is that all you want me for my body?” I whisper.

“That and your smart mouth,” he breathes.

He kisses me again passionately, and then abruptly releases me, taking my hand and leading me to the kitchen. I am reeling. One minute we’re joking and the next... I fan my heated face. He’s just sex on legs, and now I have to recover my equilibrium and eat something. The aria is still playing in the background.

“What’s the music?”

“Villa Lobos, an aria from Bachianas Brasileiras. Good, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I murmur in total agreement.

The breakfast bar is laid for two; Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome takes a salad bowl from the fridge.

“Chicken caesar salad okay with you?”

Oh thank heavens, nothing too heavy.

“Yes, fine, thank you.”

I watch as he moves gracefully through his kitchen. He’s so at ease with his body on one level, but then he doesn’t like to be touched... so maybe deep down he isn’t. No man is an island, I muse except perhaps Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, pulling me from my reverie. I flush.

“I was just watching the way you move.”

He raises an eyebrow, amused.

“And?” he says dryly.

I flush some more.

“You’re very graceful.”

“Why thank you, Miss Steele,” he murmurs. He sits down beside me, holding a bottle of wine. “Chablis?”

“Please.”

“Help yourself to salad,” he says, his voice soft.

“Tell me what method did you opt for?”

I am momentarily thrown by his question, when I realize he’s talking about Dr. Greene

visit.

“Mini pill.”

He frowns.

“And will you remember to take it regularly, at the right time, every day?”

Jeez... of course I will. How does he know? I blush at the thought, probably from one or more of the fifteen.

“I’m sure you’ll remind me,” I murmur dryly.

He glances at me with amused condescension.

“I’ll put an alarm on my calendar.” He smirks. “Eat.”

The chicken caesar is delicious. To my surprise, I’m famished, and for the first time since I’ve been with him, I finish my meal before he does. The wine is crisp, clean, and fruity.

“Eager as ever, Miss Steele?” he smiles down at my empty plate.

I look at him from beneath my lashes.

“Yes,” I whisper.

His breath hitches. And as he stares down at me, I feel the atmosphere between us slowly shift, evolve. . . charge. His look goes from dark to smoldering, taking me with him. He stands, closing the distance between us, and tugs me off my bar stool into his arms. “Do you want to do this?” he breathes, looking down at me intently.

“I haven’t signed anything.”

“I know but I’m breaking all the rules these days.”

“Are you going to hit me?”

“Yes, but it won’t be to hurt you. I don’t want to punish you right now. If you’d caught me yesterday evening, well, that would have been a different story.”

Holy cow. He wants to hurt me... how do I deal with this? I can’t hide the horror on my face.

“Don’t let anyone try and convince you otherwise, Anastasia. One of the reasons people like me do this is because we either like to give or receive pain. It’s very simple.

You don’t, so I spent a great deal of time yesterday thinking about that.”

He pulls me against him, and his erection presses into my belly. I should run, but I can’t. I’m drawn to him on some deep, elemental level, that I can’t begin to understand.

“Did you reach any conclusions?” I whisper.

“No, and right now, I just want to tie you up and fuck you senseless. Are you ready for that?”

“Yes,” I breathe as everything in my body tightens at once... wow.

“Good. Come.” He takes my hand and, leaving all the dirty dishes on the breakfast bar, and we head upstairs.

My heart starts pounding. This is it. I’m really going to do this. My inner goddess is spinning like a world-class ballerina, pirouette after pirouette. He opens the door to his playroom, standing back for me to walkthrough, and I am once more in the Red Room of Pain.

It’s the same, the smell of leather, citrus, polish and dark wood, all very sensual. My blood is running heated and scared through my system adrenaline mixed with lust and longing. It’s a heady, potent cocktail. Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome’s stance has changed completely, subtly al tered, harder and meaner. He gazes down at me and his eyes are heated, lustful... hypnotic.

“When you’re in here, you are completely mine,” he breathes, each word slow and measured. “To do with as I see fit. Do you understand?”

His gaze is so intense. I nod, my mouth dry, my heart thumping for a way out of my

chest.

“Take your shoes off,” he orders softly.

I swallow, and rather clumsily, I take them off. He bends and picks them up and de posits them beside the door.

“Good. Don’t hesitate when I ask you to do something. Now I’m going to peel you out of this dress. Something I’ve wanted to do for a few days if I recall. I want you to be comfortable with your body, Anastasia. You have a beautiful body, and I like to look at it.

It is a joy to behold. In fact, I could gaze at you all day, and I want you unembarrassed and unashamed of your nakedness. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?” He leans over me, glaring.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Do you mean that?” he snaps.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Lift your arms up over your head.”

I do as instructed, and he reaches down and grabs the hem. Slowly, he pulls my dress up over my thighs, my hips, my belly, my breasts, my shoulders, and over my head. He stands back to examine me and absentmindedly folds my dress, not taking his eyes off me. He places it on the large chest beside the door. Reaching up, he pulls at my chin, his touch searing me.

“You’re biting your lip,” he breathes. “You know what that does to me,” he adds darkly. “Turn around.”

I turn immediately, no hesitation. He unclasps my bra and then taking both straps, he slowly pulls them down my arms, brushing my skin with his fingers and the tip of his thumbnails as he slides my bra off. His touch sends shivers down my spine, waking every nerve ending in my body. He’s standing behind me, so close that I feel the heat radiating from him, warming me, warming me all over. He pulls my hair so it’s all hanging down my back, grasps a handful at my nape, and angles my head to one side. He runs his nose down my exposed neck, inhaling all the way, then back up to my ear. The muscles in my belly clench, carnal and wanting. Jeez, he’s hardly touched me, and I want him.

“You smell as divine as ever, Anastasia,” he whispers as he places a soft kiss beneath my ear.

I moan.

“Quiet,” he breathes. “Don’t make a sound.”

Pulling my hair behind me, to my surprise, he starts braiding it in one large braid, his fingers fast and deft. He ties it with an unseen hair tie when he’s finished and gives it a quick tug so I’m forced back against him.

“I like your hair braided in here,” he whispers.

Hmm... why?

He releases my hair.

“Turn around,” he orders.

I do as I’m bid, my breathing shallow, fear and longing mixed together. It’s an intoxi cating mix.

“When I tell you to come in here, this is how you will dress. Just in your panties. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?” He glowers at me.

“Yes, Sir.”

A trace of a smile lifts the corner of his mouth.

“Good girl.” His eyes burn into mine. “When I tell you to come in here, I expect you to kneel over there.” He points to a spot beside the door. “Do it now.”

I blink processing his words, turn, and rather clumsily kneel as directed.

“You can sit back on your heels.”

I sit back.

“Place your hands and forearms flat on your thighs. Good. Now part your knees.

Wider. Wider. Perfect. Look down at the floor.”

He walks over to me, and I can see his feet and shins in my field of vision. Naked feet.

I should be taking notes if he wants me to remember. He reaches down and grasps my braid again, then pulls my head back so I am looking up at him. It’s only just not painful.

“Will you remember this position, Anastasia?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Stay here, don’t move.” He leaves the room.

I’m on my knees, waiting. Where’s he gone? What is he going to do to me? Time shifts. I have no idea how long he leaves me like this... a few minutes, five, ten? My breathing becomes shallower, the anticipation is devouring me from the inside out.

And suddenly he’s back and all at once I’m calmer and more excited in the same breath. Could I be more excited? I can see his feet. He’s changed his jeans. These are older, ripped, soft, and over-washed. Holy cow. These jeans are hot. He shuts the door and hangs something on the back.

“Good girl, Anastasia. You look lovely like that. Well done. Stand up.”

I stand, but I keep my face down.

“You may look at me.”

I peek up at him, and he’s staring at me intently, assessing, but his eyes soften. He’s taken off his shirt. Oh my. . . I want to touch him. The top button of his jeans is undone.

“I’m going to chain you now, Anastasia. Give me your right hand.”

I give him my hand. He turns it palm up, and before I know it, he swats the center with a riding crop I hadn’t noticed is in his right hand. It happens so quickly that the surprise hardly registers. Even more astonishing it doesn’t hurt. Well, not much, just a slight ringing sting.

“How does that feel?” he asks.

I blink at him, confused.

“Answer me.”

“Okay.” I frown.

“Don’t frown.”

I blink and try for impassive. I succeed.

“Did that hurt?”

“No.”

“This is not going to hurt. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” My voice is uncertain. Is it really not going to hurt?

“I mean it,” he says.

Jeez, my breathing is so shallow. Does he know what I’m thinking? He shows me the crop. It’s brown plaited leather. My eyes jerk up to meet his, and they’re alight with fire and a trace of amusement.

“We aim to please, Miss Steele,” he murmurs. “Come.” He takes my elbow and moves me to beneath the grid. He reaches up and takes down some shackles with black leather cuffs.

“This grid is designed so the shackles move across the grid.”

I glance up. Holy shit it’s like a subway map.

“We’re going to start here, but I want to fuck you standing up. So we’ll end up by the wall over there.” He points with the riding crop to where the large wooden X is on the wall.

“Put your hands above your head.”

I oblige immediately, feeling like I’m exiting my body a casual observer of events as they unfold around me. This is beyond fascinating, beyond erotic. It’s singularly the most exciting and scary thing I’ve ever done. I’m entrusting myself to a beautiful man who, by his own admission, is fifty shades of fucked-up. I suppress the brief thrill of fear. Kate and Elliot, they know I’m here.

He stands very close as he fastens the cuffs. I’m staring at his chest. His proximity is heavenly. He smells of body wash and Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome, an inebriating mix, and that drags me

back into the now. I want to run my nose and tongue through that smattering of chest hair.

I could just lean forward...

He steps back and gazes at me, his expression hooded, salacious, carnal, and I am help less, my hands tied, but just looking at his lovely face, reading his need and longing for me,

I can feel the dampness between my legs. He walks slowly round me.

“You look mighty fine trussed up like this, Miss Steele. And your smart mouth, quiet for now. I like that.”

Standing in front of me again, he hooks his fingers into my panties, and at a most un hurried pace, peels them down my legs, stripping me agonizingly slowly, so that he ends up kneeling in front of me. Not taking his eyes off mine, he scrunches my panties in his hand, holds them up to his nose, and inhales deeply. Holy fuck. Did he just do that? He grins wickedly at me and tucks them into the pocket of his jeans.

Uncoiling from the floor, rising lazily, like a jungle cat, he points the end of the riding crop at my navel, leisurely circling it tantalizing me. At the touch of the leather, I quiver and gasp. He walks round me again, trailing the crop around the middle of my body. On his second circuit, he suddenly flicks the crop, and it hits me underneath my behind... against my sex. I cry out in surprise as all my nerve endings stand to attention. I pull against the restraints. The shock runs through me, and it’s the sweetest strangest, hedonistic feeling.

“Quiet,” he whispers as he walks around me again, the crop slightly higher around the middle of my body. This time when he flicks it against me in the same place, I’m anticipat ing it... oh my. My body convulses at the sweet, stinging bite.

As he makes his way around me, he flicks again, this time hitting my nipple, and I throw my head back as my nerve endings sing. He hits the other... a brief, swift, sweet chastisement. My nipples harden and elongate from the assault, and I moan loudly, pulling on my leather cuffs.

“Does that feel good?” he breathes.

“Yes.”

He hits me again across the buttocks. The crop stings this time.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Sir,” I whimper.

He comes to a stop. . . but I can no longer see him. My eyes are closed as I try to absorb the myriad of sensations coursing through my body. Very slowly, he rains small, biting licks of the crop down my belly, heading south. I know where this is leading, and I try and psyche myself up for it but when he hits my clitoris, I cry out loudly.

“Oh... please!” I groan.

“Quiet,” he orders, and he hits me again on my behind.

I did not expect this to be like this... I am lost. Lost in a sea of sensation. And sud denly, he’s dragging the crop against my sex, through my pubic hair, down to the entrance of my vagina.

“See how wet you are for this, Anastasia. Open your eyes and your mouth.”

I do as I’m told, completely seduced. He pushes the tip of the crop into my mouth, like my dream. Holy shit.

“See how you taste. Suck. Suck hard, baby.”

My mouth closes around the crop as my eyes lock on his. I can taste the rich leather and the saltiness of my arousal. His eyes are blazing. He’s in his element.

He pulls the tip from my mouth, and he stands forward and grabs me and kisses me hard, his tongue invading my mouth. Wrapping his arms around me, he pulls me against him. His chest crushes mine, and I itch to touch, but I can’t, my hands, useless above me.

“Oh, Anastasia, you taste mighty fine,” he breathes. “Shall I make you come?”

“Please,” I beg.

The crop bites my buttock. Ow!

“Please, what?”

“Please, Sir,” I whimper.

He smiles at me, triumphant.

“With this?” He holds the crop up so I can see it.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Are you sure?” He looks sternly at me.

“Yes, please, Sir.”

“Close your eyes.”

I shut the room out, him out... the crop out. He starts small, biting licks of the crop against my belly once more. Moving down, soft small licks against my clitoris, once, twice, three times, again and again, until finally, that’s it I can take no more and I come, gloriously, loudly, sagging weakly. His arms curl around me as my legs turn to jelly. I dis solve in his embrace, my head against his chest, and I’m mewling and whimpering as the aftershocks of my orgasm consume me. He lifts me, and suddenly we’re moving, my arms still tethered above my head, and I can feel the cool wood of the polished cross at my back, and he’s popping the buttons on his jeans. He puts me down against the cross briefly while he slides on a condom, and then his hands wrap around my thighs as he lifts me again.

“Lift your legs, baby, wrap them round me.”

I feel so weak, but I do as he asks as he wraps my legs around his hips and positions himself beneath me. With one thrust, he’s inside me, and I cry out again, listening to his muffled moan at my ear. My arms are resting on his shoulders as he thrusts into me. Jeez, it’s deep this way. He thrusts again and again, his face at my neck, his harsh breathing at my throat. I feel the build up again. Jeez no... not again... I don’t think my body will with stand another earth-shattering moment. But I have no choice... and with an inevitability that’s becoming familiar, I let go and come again, and it’s sweet and agonizing and intense. I lose all sense of self. Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome follows, shouting his release through clenched teeth and holding me hard and close as he does.

He pulls out of me swiftly and sets me down against the cross, his body supporting mine. Unbuckling the cuffs, he frees my hands, and we both sink to the floor. He pulls me into his lap, cradling me, and I lean my head against his chest. If I had the strength, I’d touch him, but I don’t. Belatedly, I realize he’s still wearing his jeans.

“Well done, baby,” he murmurs. “Did that hurt?”

“No,” I breathe. I can barely keep my eyes open. Why am I so tired?

“Did you expect it to?” he whispers as he holds me close, his fingers pushing some escaped tendrils of hair off my face.

“Yes.”

“You see most of your fear is in your head, Anastasia,” he pauses. “Would you do it again?”

I think for a moment as fatigue clouds my brain... Again?

“Yes.” My voice is so soft.

He hugs me tightly.

“Good. So would I,” he murmurs, then leans down and softly kisses the top of my head.

“And I haven’t finished with you yet.”

Not finished with me yet. Holy Moses. There’s no way I can do any more. I am ut terly spent and fighting an overwhelming desire to sleep. I’m leaning against his chest, my eyes are closed, and he’s wrapped around me arms and legs and I feel... safe, and oh comfortable. Will he let me sleep, perchance to dream? My mouth quirks up at the silly thought, and turning my face into Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome’s chest, I inhale his unique scent and nuzzle him, but immediately he tenses... oh crap. I open my eyes and glance up at him. He’s staring down at me.

“Don’t,” he breathes in warning.

I flush and look back at his chest in longing. I want to run my tongue through the hair, kiss him, and for the first time, I notice he has a few random and faint small, round scars dotted around his chest. Chicken pox? Measles? I think absently.

“Kneel by the door,” he orders as he sits back, putting his hands on his knees, effec tively releasing me. No longer warm, the temperature of his voice has dropped several degrees.

I stumble clumsily up into a standing position and scoot over to the door and kneel as instructed. I’m shaky and very, very tired, monumentally confused. Who would have thought I could have found such gratification in this room. Who could have thought it would be so exhausting? My limbs are deliciously heavy, sated. My inner goddess has a ‘do not disturb’ sign on the outside of her room.

Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome is moving about in the periphery of my vision. My eyes start to droop.

“Boring you, am I, Miss Steele?”

I jump awake, and Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome is standing in front of me, his arms crossed glaring down at me. Oh shit, caught napping this is not going to be good. His eyes soften as I gaze up at him.

“Stand up,” he orders.

I climb warily to my feet. He stares at me, and his mouths quirks up.

“You’re shattered, aren’t you?”

I nod shyly, flushing.

“Stamina, Miss Steele.” He narrows his eyes at me. “I haven’t had my fill of you yet. Hold out your hands in front as if you’re praying.”

I blink at him. Praying! Praying for you to go easy on me. I do as I’m told. He takes a cable tie and fastens it around my wrists, tightening the plastic. Holy hell. My eyes fly to his.

“Look familiar,” he asks, unable to conceal his smile.

Jeez... the plastic cable ties. Restocking at Clayton’s! It all becomes clear. I gape up at him as adrenaline spikes though my body anew. Okay that’s got my attention I’m awake now.

“I have scissors here.” He holds them up for me to see. “I can cut you out of this in a moment.”

I try to pull my wrists apart, testing my bonds, and as I do, the plastic bites into my flesh it’s sore, but if I relax my wrists they’re fine the tie is not cutting into my skin.

“Come.” He takes my hands and leads me over to the four-poster bed. I notice now that it has dark red sheets on it and a shackle at each corner.

“I want more much, much more,” he leans down and whispers in my ear.

And my heartbeat starts pounding again. Oh boy.

“But I’ll make this quick. You’re tired. Hold on to the post,” he says.

I frown. Not on the bed then? I find I can part my hands as I grasp the ornately carved wooden post.

“Lower,” he orders. “Good. Don’t let go. If you do, I’ll spank you. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good.”

He stands behind me and grasps my hips, and then quickly lifts me backward so I’m bending forward, holding the post.

“Don’t let go, Anastasia,” he warns. “I’m going to fuck you hard from behind. Hold the post to support your weight. Understand?”

“Yes.”

He smacks me across my behind with his hand. Ow... It stings.

“Yes, Sir,” I mutter quickly.

“Part your legs.” He puts his leg between mine, and holding my hips, he pushes my right leg to the side.

“That’s better. After this, I’ll let you sleep.”

Sleep? I’m panting. I’m not thinking of sleep now. He reaches up and gently strokes my back.

“You have such beautiful skin, Anastasia,” he breathes as he bends down and kisses me along my spine, gentle feather-light kisses. At the same time, his hands move round to my front palming my breasts, and as he does this, he traps my nipples between his fingers and tugs them gently.

I stifle my moan as I feel my whole body respond, coming alive once more for him.

He gently bites and sucks me at my waist, tugging my nipples, and my hands tighten on the exquisitely carved post. His hands drop away, and I hear the now familiar tear of foil, and he kicks off his jeans.

“You have such a captivating, sexy ass, Anastasia Steele. What I’d like to do to it.”

His hands smooth and shape each of my buttocks, then his fingers glide down, and he slips two fingers inside me.

“So wet. You never disappoint, Miss Steele,” he whispers, and I hear the wonder in his voice. “Hold tight... this is going to be quick, baby.”

He grabs my hips and positions himself, and I brace myself for his assault. But he reaches over me and grabs my braid near the end and winds it round his wrist to my nape

holding my head in place. Very slowly he eases into me, pulling my hair at the same time... oh the fullness. He eases out of me slowly, and his other hand grabs my hip, hold ing tight, and then he slams into me, jolting me forward.

“Hold on, Anastasia!” he shouts through clenched teeth.

I grip harder round the post and push back against him as he continues his merciless onslaught, again and again, his fingers digging into my hip. My arms are aching, my legs feel uncertain, my scalp is getting sore from his tugging my hair... and I can feel a gathering deep inside me. Oh no. . . and for the first time, I fear my orgasm. . . if I come. . .

I’ll collapse. Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome continues to move roughly against me, in me, his breathing harsh, moaning, groaning. My body is responding... how? I feel a quickening. But suddenly, Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome stills, slamming really deep.

“Come on, Ana, give it to me,” he groans, and my name on his lips sends me over the edge as I become all body and spiraling sensation and sweet, sweet release, and then com pletely and utterly mindless.

When sense returns, I’m lying on him. He’s on the floor, and I’m lying on top of him, my back to his front, and I’m staring at the ceiling, all post-coital, glowing, shattered. Oh... the karabiners, I think absently I’d forgotten about those. Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome nuzzles my ear.

“Hold up your hands,” he says softly.

My arms feel like they’re made of lead, but I hold them up. He wields the scissors and passes one blade under the plastic.

“I declare this Ana open,” he breathes, and cuts the plastic.

I giggle and rub my wrists as they’re freed. I feel his grin.

“That is such a lovely sound,” he says wistfully. He sits suddenly, taking me with him so that I’m once more sitting in his lap.

“That’s my fault,” he says and shifts me so that he can rub my shoulders and arms. Gently he massages some life back into my limbs

What?

I glance up at him behind me, trying to understand what he means.

“That you don’t giggle more often.”

“I’m not a great giggler,” I mumble sleepily.

“Oh, but when it happens, Miss Steele, ‘tis a wonder and joy to behold.”

“Very flowery, Doug Dimmadome, Owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome,” I mutter, trying to keep my eyes open.

His eyes soften, and he smiles.

“I’d say you’re thoroughly fucked and in need of sleep.”

“That wasn’t flowery at all,” I grumble playfully.

He grins and gently lifts me off him and stands, gloriously naked. I wish momentarily that I were more awake to really appreciate him. Picking up his jeans, he slides them back on, commando.

“Don’t want to frighten Taylor, or Mrs. Jones for that matter,” he mutters.

Hmm... they must know what a kinky bastard he is. The thought preoccupies me.

He stoops to help me to my feet and leads me to the door, on the back of which hangs grey waffle robe. He patiently dresses me as if I’m a small child. I don’t have the strength to lift my arms. When I’m covered and respectable, he leans down and kisses me gently, his mouth quirks up in a smile.

“Bed,” he says.

Oh... no...

“For sleep,” he adds reassuringly when he sees my expression.

Suddenly, he scoops me up and carries me curled against his chest to the room along the corridor where earlier today Dr. Greene examined me. My head drops against his chest. I am exhausted. I don’t remember ever being this tired. Pulling back the duvet, he lays me down, and even more surprisingly, climbs in beside me and holds me close.

“Sleep now, gorgeous girl,” he whispers, and he kisses my hair.

And before I can make a facetious comment, I’m asleep.