#maybe it’s a stretch compared to murdering and then *framing* you and your friends for your fathers death

[2manyflannels]

In P5R, during the Akechi battle he was defeated by the Makoto/Haru showtime and I think that’s RNG giving me the best type of justice.

[spenciegoob]

Dethroned (Requested)

A/N: I know the request said the relationship between Reader and Luke is platonic, but I kinda dropped subtle hints that Luke is slightly pining for Reader... oop.

Request: smutty post-prison Reid being jealous. Like him just being absolutely in love with reader, like he had been since she joined the BAU but was too nervous to say anything so settled for being mega close best friends. Then when he returns from prison he finds out that her and Luke have become close friends whilst he’s been gone (its simply platonic though) and he ends up snapping and just absolutely annihilating the reader over her desk in the office after everyone else has left

Pairing: Post Prison!Spencer x Fem!Reader

Category: Smut

Content Warning: jealous!spencer, exhibition, hair pulling, degradation/praise, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, breeding kink

Masterlist

Word Count: 3.9K

______

It was a gradual realization on his part. Spencer was so overwhelmed with coming home, his mom and Cat to even really take notice in the shift of your attention from him to Luke Alvez.

It wasn’t like you completely ignored him since his return. You were Spencer’s best friend, the title he settled on all those years ago when you all but skipped into the BAU and into his life.

And it wasn’t like you didn’t have other male friends. Before his leave, Derek and you had gotten along pretty well right off the bat, and Spencer never thought about it twice. If anything, he was ecstatic that two people that were so important in his life were also important to each other.

But when Spencer was stuck behind physical bars that represented every feeling for you he’s tried to keep at bay, you found comfort in Luke. He couldn’t blame you for that either, especially when the first time you visited him all he could see was hurt in your eyes, and all he could do was stare back with the same expression.

The first time he noticed the shift was after everything had settled, and the groove of life, for the team at least, was back in motion. You all had decided to go out and grab a drink, and the second you agreed, Spencer was also on board. He would follow you just about anywhere if it meant the smile on your face when he said yes stayed forever.

Luke had whispered something in your ear, the music in the bar too loud for Spencer to catch what it was. It had to be hilarious by the way you threw your head back in laughter, Luke’s eyes immediately dropping to the newly exposed skin, before nudging his shoulder with yours. 

Spencer couldn't keep his eyes off the conversation in front of him. He should have when the grip on his glass was so hard it could’ve shattered. 

“You know, kid, if you talked to her, she’d know how you feel,” Rossi had told him that night.

“That’s exactly why I can’t,” Spencer thought in his head, but merely gave Rossi a whatever, and walked away to the bathroom. He stared at himself in the mirror that night, hoping the disgust he felt for how angry he got whenever he saw you with Luke was enough to make it disappear.

It never did.

Like right now, Spencer sat at his desk, a rubber band ball being suffocated in his hand as he watched you perch yourself on top of Luke’s desk. It was an innocent act on you part, but the way Luke leaned back in his chair, opening himself up to you, and allowed his eyes to flicker to your bare legs that were swinging back and forth softly was definitely not innocent... not in Spencer’s book anyway.

It came as no surprise to Spencer that Luke would at the very least find you attractive. You were, in every aspect. Spencer could stare at your for hours, and sometimes, he did.

He would look at the way your skirt hugged your curves in the best possible way, or he would stare at your neck when you leaned back to stretch out. He would watch the way you crossed and uncrossed your legs, a nervous habit you’ve always had. Spencer would think about how soft they probably were, like silk rubbing against each other.

But now Luke was also looking at you like that while you talked about what you were going to do this weekend. 

“If you’re not busy, you should totally come,” you told him, obviously excited with the idea of Luke tagging along to wherever you planned on going.

“Yeah, I think I can make that work,” he agreed, and when he did, you jumped up off his desk, enthusiasm practically dripping from you.

“Yes! It’ll be so much fun, I promise!” And then you did the one thing Spencer silently begged you would never. You kissed Luke on the cheek before scurrying back to your desk.

Of course you would kiss him on the cheek. To you, that was a seemingly innocent and friendly action, one that Spencer had been on the receiving end of for the past 10 years. 

But now, Luke stole his crown and was flaunting it in front of Spencer’s face like an older brother who just got an XBOX for Christmas. Okay, maybe Spencer was a tad on the dramatic side, but how could he not be when Luke all but physically railed you over his desk when his eyes unashamedly did?

There were many things Spencer could take and get back up like nothing had happened. He’s been shot, punched, kicked, framed for murder and hell, he even stabbed himself, but none of that compared to the deep rooted anger that blossomed in his chest like a flame to gasoline when the thought of Luke touching you swarmed his brain.

Enough was enough.

“Alright, you’ve all worked enough today. Please, go home and get some rest,” Emily’s voice traveled from outside her office door to the agents that still inhabited the bullpen like a second home. Most, including Emily in its rarity, gathered their stuff to finally call it a night.

“So, you’ll text me the information?” Luke asked you as he was putting his jacket on. You had yet to move from your slouched position over whatever paperwork you insisted on finishing before leaving. 

“Yeah, definitely!” You beamed up at him before returning back to your case file immediately. Luke walked away with a little more pep in his step than usual per Spencer’s analysis. 

“Hey, Spence. Do you think you can hang back a second and look over this for me?” You asked him, catching the attention of the stumbling genius as he tried to get back to his apartment as fast as possible and deal with his... issues with you and SSA Luke Alvez.

He was going to say no, really he tried, but when he looked up to your puppy dog eyes and slight pout, how could he? Spencer knew you were giving him that face on purpose, he had told you in the past that if you were to ever give him your best puppy dog eyes, he could never refuse.

Now it was coming back to bite him in the...

“Uh, yeah, sure.” Spencer made his way over to your desk that was piled high in paperwork more than anyone else’s.

“I took a bunch of work home, and I accidentally dropped all my files and they scattered every where. So now, all the paperwork is mixed up and Emily needs these by tonight. Basically I’m screwed, but I just wanted to make sure the arsonist in Kentu-”

“I’ll help you,” Spencer interrupted your rambling once he got a grip on himself after adjusting to being so close to you. The smell of your perfume wafted into Spencer’s nose and got him drunk faster than any alcohol could ever. 

“Oh no, Spence. Don’t worry I can handle this,” you immediately shut him down, but Spencer was not easy to convince, and once his mind is set to something, there’s no changing it.

“I want to, trust me.” Spencer had started to roll his desk chair over to you. You sat there momentarily stunned for two reasons:

1. He had dropped everything to help you.

2. He wasn’t affected by the close proximity of you two the same way you were, or at least knew how to hide it really well.

The buzzing of your phone on your desk pulled you from your trance as Spencer settled next to you and went to pull a new file from your overgrowing pile. 

You picked it up to find a text from Luke, opening your phone to a picture of Roxy enjoying the toy you got her last week.

Spencer turned to you to find you smiling and letting out a breathy laugh at your phone.

“What?” He asked, more sarcasm dripping from his tone than expected. If you noticed, you didn’t say anything.

“Just Luke and Roxy. I love that dog so much,” you said while putting your phone on silent and setting it face down. You didn’t look up at Spencer, but if you did you’d find him beet red with anger, and holding the armrests of his chair a little tighter than necessary. 

“Hm,” was all he mumbled in response. This, you didn’t ignore.

“Is something wrong? You really don't have to do this with me,” you fumbled over your words, worried that your clumsiness and disorganization was what was annoying Spencer.

“No no, it’s not this. I like paperwork, actually.” You finally looked over at Spencer to find him already staring at you. His gaze bore into you like a blade to the gut, his intensity something you had never been on the receiving end of. It would be a lie if you were to say it wasn’t making you nervous.

“Then what is it.” Your words were not meant to come out as a whisper, but with Spencer’s intimidation and the way it made your stomach flip, you were overwhelmed already.

“Nothing, just, uh,” his confident persona was gone just as quickly as it came. “You and Luke, huh?”

Now it makes sense. You couldn’t help the small smile that etched across your features at his unknowing admission. Spencer Reid was jealous, actually jealous.

“Yeah, he’s a great friend.” Your emphasis on the word friend did not go unnoticed by Spencer, but he couldn’t stop himself from letting the words crawling up his throat out.

“I’m sure he thinks the same about you. The profile in this case fi-”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Two can play at this game, and if it was going to end the way the two of you were unknowingly both hoping, you would have to succumb to the rules.

“Hm? Oh! So you’re oblivious to the way he looks at you?” Spencer spat back, jealous intimidation turning to full anger now.

“Jesus, Spencer. Of course I’m not oblivious, but that doesn’t mean I look at him like that.” At this point, you stood up from your chair, Spencer’s approach throwing you off and getting you more worked up than you cared to admit.

“Besides, I have eyes for someone else,” you mumbled quietly under your breath, but Spencer caught it. “I’m calling the night. I suggest you do the same.”

You picked up as many files you could, not wanting to reach over Spencer before turning around to make you descent home.

Before you could get far, though, Spencer grabbed your elbow and spun you back to crash into his hard chest. You gasped, not making eye contact and instead opting for staring at his lips.

“Who?” Spencer asked, also not looking up from your lips. Both of your minds swarmed with the desperation to feel each other’s against your own.

“You.” And that was all he needed to finally succumb to his mind’s wishes. Your lips moved together like a violin bow to a string, creating a perfectly conducted symphony of files falling from your arms and deep inhales of each other.

Spencer reached out behind you, never taking his lips off yours and pushed anything that was on your desk with a deafening crash. Pens, papers and tape now littered the bullpen floor, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care when all you could feel were Spencer’s hands gripping your waist as he hoisted you up to sit you on your now clear desk.

His lips finally detached from yours, the need for oxygen getting in the way of a kiss you wish could last for eternity. They didn’t go very far, Spencer attacking your neck with little nips, surely to leave incriminating bruises. Your hips started to involuntarily roll forward, searching for friction from his hardening member still constrained by his work slacks.

“Spencer, please,” you begged, needing to feel him, all of him at this moment. His lips abandoned your neck to slowly pull back and scan your body like a predator indulging in his final prey one last time before he answered.

“Please what, Princess,” Spencer whispered, his hands moving down to grip your thighs that were attempting to squeeze together at your new pet name.

“Please, fuck me,” you whimpered back. His deep chuckle resonated through you as he leaned closer until he was directly next to your ear, his hot breath fanning down your neck causing you to arch your back slightly.

“Right here on your desk like a little whore,” he whispered against you, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. Spencer shook his head slightly as he pulled back to grab your chin lightly with two fingers, forcing your head back.

He leaned in as close as possible to whisper against your lips one last time. “Only for you.”

Time stopped as hands sped up in a frenzy to rip each other’s clothes off, lips molding together like a lock and key never wanting to separate, and hips involuntarily grinding against each other in search for some friction in an overwhelming search for release.

Only when Spencer gave up on your shirt buttons and ripped the fabric apart, adding drums in the form of buttons hitting the desk and floor to the song you two collectively decided to dance to tonight, did he allow his lips to leave yours. Slowly, he nipped his way back down your neck, pushing you back softly until your body fully rolled down on the cool wood underneath you. 

Spencer’s eyes found yours again as his hands inched behind you, silently asking for permission to break down yet another barrier between your two bodies. After a pleading whimper from you, he unclasped your bra and slowly pulled it down your arms. 

Spencer maintained eye contact as he wrapped his mouth around your nipple, swirling his tongue around the peak before sinking his teeth in teasingly. Your back arched into him, a strangled whimper leaving your body as the heat between your thighs increased significantly.

“Spencer please hurry. I need you,” you whimpered softly, pulling his hair back from the top of his head in hopes of getting him in an area far more dire in need of attention. 

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?” Spencer mumbles in between kisses inching back up your body. His hands make their way under your skirt as he continues. “I want to take my time with you, but given our circumstances,” he paused to take a look at the deserted bullpen. “I’ll give you what you want, and fuck you like a whore.”

There was no other way to explain the way Spencer ripped your panties off so hard the lace snapped under his force than animalistic. He wasted no time stuffing them into his back pocket, and fully separating from you to stand straight and unbuckle his belt. Spencer’s eyes stared down at you, taking in every part of your body to file away in his brain in case he ever needs it. His once honey brown orbs were now absorbed with black, his pupils full and his eyes displaying a kind of fire only lust can fuel.

Once his belt was fully off, he smirked and folded it in his hands. Staring at the new object of his desire, he tantalizingly shook it back and forth slowly, watching the way it bounced with his movements.

“Should I gag you with this so you don't alert the whole goddamn building of how desperate you are?” Spencer looked back at you to find your cheeks a deep shade of red, partially at his degrading tone, but mostly at the idea of being gagged.

“No, sir. I wanna feel you.” The title slipped past your lips with no control or hesitation. Your cheeks burned further as Spencer’s movements stopped, his eyes widening slightly. 

“Fuck it,” he whispered before throwing the belt on the floor and unzipping his pants with more speed than you've ever seen him move. 

Spencer gave you zero time to even register his size before he was stepping in between your legs, lining himself up and slamming into you to the hilt with one hand, the other grabbed a fistful of your hair, pulling back hard, all while never taking his eyes off you.

You couldn’t stop the loud gasp leaving your body as Spencer groaned at the feeling of you around him.

“God, you’re so fucking tight, Princess,” he grounded out, the soft growl in his tone causing you to whimper and clench around him.

When he felt you start to squirm underneath him after adjusting to his size, Spencer started to move, setting a brutal pace immediately. Your entire body felt like it became engulfed in flames, the feeling of Spencer repeatedly hitting the sweetest spot inside you over and over with a force unmatched was too much to handle.

Tears started to well in your eyes as the soft whimpers and pleads left your lips. Spencer pulled himself from his position tucked neatly into your neck to stare down at you, never relenting on his pace.

“What’s wrong, Princess,” he teased, a smirk growing across his features at your tears. “Is it too much for your little cunt? What happened to the girl that begged to be fucked like a whore?”

Spencer let go of his grip on your hair to wipe the tears blackened with mascara that were running down your face. 

“So good, sir. Please don’t stop,” you mumbled, only half coherent. The only thing you could focus on was the feeling of Spencer filling you completely. His dark eyes flickered down from your face only for a second, but when he looked back up at you, excitement joined the lust in them, a swirl of emotions destined to destroy you in the end.

Spencer grabbed one of your hands that was gripping his shoulder, nails digging into the skin and leaving marks he wished would last forever. He placed in on your stomach, and confusion filled your mind for a moment until you felt the tip of his cock hit your hand.

“You feel that, Princess? You feel how deep I am? I’m gonna fill you up.” Your back arched, and you finally released a loud, wanton moan at his words. Spencer didn’t miss the way you clenched around him tighter at the thought. “God, I’m gonna fill you up with my cum, make you - fuck- carry my child. Make sure everyone knows who you belong to.”

You felt the knot in your stomach growing tighter with each word, and when Spencer lifted one of your legs into the crook of his elbow, hitting you impossibly deeper, you knew you weren't going to last much longer.

“Oh G-god, Spence. I- I’m gonna....”

“It’s okay, Princess. I’ve got you,” he groaned back, lifting two fingers to your lips before forcing them into your mouth. Instinctively, you hollowed out your cheeks and sucked on his digits. “Let go, Princess.”

All you needed was his permission before letting your orgasm rock through you, the muscles in your body seemingly losing and gaining all the tension in the world at once, your vision going white, and your mind blank except for one thought; Spencer.

Your loud moans were blocked by his fingers pushing deeper down your throat, catching them before any unwanted guests could hear. 

Your moans started to turn to whimpers around his fingers as the overstimulation kicked in. Spencer could sense it by the way you still clung to him as tightly as possible.

“Fuck that’s it. You’re doing so well, Princess, taking all of me,” he growled out, his hips losing their rhythm, signaling his own impending orgasm. Spencer leaned down further, pushing your leg farther up in the process, and again, hitting you deeper than imaginable.

Two more sloppy thrusts in that position, and Spencer was coming deep in you with your name and different praises being groaned in your ear. He bottomed out once more, coming to a stop buried deep, both of you trying your hardest to catch your breath.

When he started to pull out, you whimpered immediately at the feeling.

“I know, sweetheart. I’m almost done,” Spencer whispered, caressing your cheek as he fully unsheathed himself. The abandoned weight of him on top of you, and the loss of his cock filling you up left you cold as he went to rummage through your drawers for tissues, but all you could do was stare up at the lights hanging from the ceiling, your body still slightly twitching.

When Spencer returned to you, he sat you up and kissed your forehead before reaching in between your legs to clean you up. The second the tissue hit your sensitive cunt, you winced.

Spencer looked back up at you but before he could say anything, you cut him off.

“It’s okay. I’m okay,” you reassured him, smiling softly as you reached up to caress his cheek. Upon your approval, he went back to cleaning you up. “Actually, I’m more than okay. That was.. That was-”

“Yeah,” he said, chuckling slightly and shaking his head. “I know, right?”

“Maybe we should thank Luke,” you teased him. Immediately, his smile faded and he looked up at you with an expression that can only read “Seriously?”

You let out a full laugh now, obviously still entertained with the idea that the Dr. Spencer Reid was jealous of Luke Alvez.

“I’m joking,” you said, your smile turning from one of hilarity to adoration as Spencer straightened back up to stand between your legs and wrap his arms around your waist. “And Spence, it’s always been you. Not Luke, not anyone else. You.” You emphasized your point by jabbing a finger into his chest.

“Good, because that would make this really awkward,” he said back. You tilted your head in confusion to which he laughed at before continuing. “Do you want to go grab dinner?”

Your cheeks blushed profusely as he asked you out as if you didn’t just let him take you over your own desk at work. 

“I would love to say yes, but I still have to finis-” When you turned around to look at the pile of paperwork you had yet to complete, it was no longer on your desk, but scattered around it. During the rush of trying to feel each other completely, the two of you failed to notice the stack of files that started this whole thing had fallen all over the bullpen floor.

“Emily is going to kill me,” you said, turning back to Spencer who was still staring at the now empty spot on your desk.

“Actually, she has two reasons to kill us now.” You threw you head back in laughter, Spencer joining you at the thought of Emily finding out about the last 30 minutes. “But seriously, you go deal with the security footage, and I’ll deal with the paperwork.”

“Hmmmm...” You pretended to ponder the thought of not having to do all of that paperwork by yourself anymore. “Deal.”

“Deal,” Spencer repeated back, smiling softly before kissing you one more time.

__

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[angelguk]

what happens in this section is entirely a result of what guys voted please do not! come for my head in my inbox im begging. very sad in general like Angst with a capital A with a sprinkle of despair and pain. listen to mess it up by gracie abrams. roughly 2k.

(titled — out of line)

You thought Lucas would help, the warmth of his body a distraction from your aching heart, but he didn’t. Not the way you needed him to. He was sweet enough, made you giggle endlessly before finding his place between your thighs. But even with his tongue on your clit, your (now usually sober) mind still lingered on Jeongguk, his memory a stain on your soul. It didn’t help when you spotted him with a girl hanging off his arm, her bright eyes stuck on his face, soaking him in like the earth does the sun. You didn’t know her name – Chayoung took the liberty of whispering it to you after your biology lab. She was Hyeri, a sophomore with a delicate laugh and graceful disposition. That vile vindictive black thing that now inhabited your chest swelled, brain already comparing the differences between you and her. Your clumsiness suddenly felt like a curse, even though Jeongguk had countlessly said he loved you for it (or did he say that just to ease your worries?). Insecurities spring forth like weeds and you don’t have the capacity to keep the careful garden of your heart tended. 

They take over slowly, your eyes stinging whenever you see them huddled together in the quad. Bitter tears blinked back, your blinkered senses overlooking how Jeongguk’s quiet gaze followed your figure whenever you turned your back to him, even with Yoona yapping at his ears. 

Perhaps the despondency that clung to your bones is what led you here, face planted in the musky scent of Namjoon’s sheets, your heart throbbing funny. 

“Can you even breathe?” He questions. The timbre of his voice washes over you, familiar and somewhat reassuring. You twist upright to face him, eyes squeezing tight when the bright fluorescent lights in his room assaults your vision. 

“I was hoping my heart would give up if I held it in long enough.”

Namjoon stills, brown eyes flitting over you. He coughs like he’s working through various sets of words before he decides what’s most suitable. “And then what? I get framed for murder when they find your body here?”

You laugh, and it hurts. “Maybe. My body is very portable though, did you consider first burying me in the backyard?”

“Rookie mistake,” Namjoon returns. He rises to fetch the mugs of tea sitting idle on a stool he’d dragged from the corner of his room. “The sniffer dogs would fly straight to that location. Also, I’d have to dig a hole big enough to fit your head in.”

“And why would the dogs find me immediately?” You say, shuffling upright, palms ready to receive the tepid heat that will seep through the ceramic the moment the cup settles in your hand.

“Your perfume,” Namjoon says. He hands you the mug, heat fulfilling its chosen purpose, the scent of gentle jasmine wafting to your nose.

You pout then, glancing at him. “My perfume?”

“It’s distinct. Violet, right? Maybe vanilla too?” Namjoon says it easily, sinking beside you, utterly unaware of the ticking in your brain. Your gaze falters then, shifting to his broad shoulder and thick biceps. The ivy shirt he’s got on barely contains all that muscle in, fabric stretched thin. 

You take a sip of your tea, and despite the period Namjoon gave it to cool it still scalds your tongue. 

“Why do you know what fragrance I wear?” It comes out accusatory, but Namjoon handles it well, laughing low.

“You’ve had the same one since high-school, I think. And I remember you telling me.”

The fingers around your cup squeeze tight, your brain unlocking a moment you’d forgotten in the wake of brighter ones. A quiet afternoon at the back of your high-school, Namjoon towering over you, his nose trailing the hollow of your neck, a stray comment about how you smelled good washing over you. It was followed by a flustered younger version of you deflecting, heart pounding wild when Namjoon drew back to look at you as you rattled off the different sillages that made up your favourite perfume. He’d laughed, low like did just now, before calling you cute and pulling you in for a kiss. 

“Oh,” you finally murmur. “I remember now.”

You were actually going to change it after your break-up with him, but then Jeongguk had mentioned how much he’d liked it and the bottle had stayed.

Namjoon hums, his gaze slow as it shifts around the room. It’s a space that screams of him, light wood tones and plants breaking from the pristine white walls. Space carved for nature, a grounding sensation living within these four walls – something that seems to live inside of Namjoon too.

“How are you?” He suddenly asks, turning slowly to measure your features. 

You blink hard, only realising then that you’d been staring at his face for a second too long. “F-fine. I’m okay. Just busy, y’know. Finals coming up, planning events; the usual.”

“I know,” Namjoon says with a ginger smile. “But that’s not what I’m asking. How are you? With Jeongguk and everything.”

“Oh.” You can’t answer that, his unexpected brazenness shocking your system. The smile on his lips fades, a solemnness in the brown of his eyes. His next words are earnest, and they settle in the pit of your stomach.

“Y/N, I know you didn’t just come here to chat for no reason. We can talk about Jeongguk, that’s okay.”

“N-no, we don’t need it. We’re over. It’s been two months already. We’re seeing other people and I don’t really want to discuss one of my exes with another one. And maybe I did just come to see you,” you tack on an empty laugh at the end, hoping Namjoon doesn’t read right through you.

But he does. Like a part of you hoped he would.

“I’m your friend, you know. We had something but nothing like what you and Jeongguk have. Two months isn’t going to make a lifetime disappear. It’s okay if you still feel bad.”

That’s what cracks you, a well-aimed hammer knocking your walls right down. You bite your lip hard, fingertips pinching the ceramic in your grasp, and swallow the tears looming in your throat with a choked laugh. 

“I’m fine, Namjoon. I feel a little like shit but I’m working on it. And Lucas is a great guy–”

“But he’s not Jeongguk.” The sentence feels heavy as if it carries the weight of many hearts on it. But it’s also a line you were thinking about earlier, even with Lucas pressed against you.

“That’s not what I would say–”

“But it’s what you were thinking,” Namjoon cuts. Maybe there’s a peephole in your head that only Namjoon has access to. “And that’s fine. It sucks for Lucas, though. But you shouldn’t feel bad for thinking that way. Especially when you know how special Jeongguk is to you.”

Special. The word is bright, glimmering like Jeongguk’s eyes do. 

“I-I just–it just–I don’t know.” The tears you’d attempted to seal inside burst, slipping down your cheeks quiet. Namjoon pry's the mug from your hand, replaces its warmth with his own, and for a split second things feel bearable. 

“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, a calloused palm on your damp cheek, his steadiness clearing away the gloomy skies in your head. But he doesn’t tell you to stop crying, doesn’t whisper that it’ll be okay. He just tugs you closer, rests your splinting head on his wide chest, and soaks up the tears on your face with his shirt. Like the earth does for the pouring heavens. 

You eventually hiccup the despair down, finding the words to explain to Namjoon what you were feeling in between the moments where breathing didn’t feel like a race. He takes the news of Jeongguk kissing somebody days after your break-up with wide eyes, his eyebrows drawing together. And then comes the second girl, you don’t even know her name but it still cleaves something out of you. And finally, Hyeri. Her name is a lament.

“And it sucks because he looks happy with her and I still want him to be happy because I still love him. I love him so much it hurts.”

Namjoon cocks his head then, his wide palm sliding down your back. “You think Jeongguk looks happy?”

“Yes?” But it’s a question, your upward gaze on his face imploring.

Namjoon shakes his head instead. You don’t hear it, the following words a deep muffled murmur, “Both of you are idiots.” But you see the twinkle in his eyes and it makes your back straighten.  

You want to pester but Namjoon pulls you closer, and you lose yourself in the feeling of him, before a question can register on your tongue. His arms are huge, like sturdy branches defying the blistering gales of your heart. He lets you cry for a little longer, listening intently to the continuing spew of words from your lips, until the storm quiets into a breeze. 

“Okay?” Namjoon asks.

You stick your head further into his chest, breathe him in deep. “Okay.”

When he shifts away your skin freezes, but then you realise he’s reaching for a blanket. He swathes it around you fondly, pulling you in for a swift hug before falling out of your reach once more. 

“Now, I think we both need a moment to process that.” He’s talking about but you’re not listening, your eyes on his face, gaze gently trailing the curve of his lips. “I also think we need food before we start unpacking the mess you’re in–”

You swallow the sentence with your lips, salt singeing the corners of your mouth. But your movements are not reciprocated, Namjoon’s mouth is still under yours. The soft hand on your neck guiding you away is what pulls you back, right out of that strange dark desperate ocean that held you. 

“Y/N–”

“Sorry, shit–shit, I shouldn’t have done that.” But there’s no use now, you can’t take it back. Namjoon is looking at you with those eyes, the ones that feel like pity. His sympathy suddenly makes you feel sick, and you wish the ceiling would give away and shatter your head. “I should go.” 

He tries to stop you, firm but gentle with his words and hands. But you’re a wild storm again and nothing can stop you from snatching your butterfly tote bag from the floor of his room and fleeing. The black thing that had been subdued for a moment reemergence with vengeance the second you hit the sidewalks, vision reeling. How could you do that? To Namjoon? To the stable friendship you'd created? But he felt too warm, too caring, too much of everything that you longing for and that Lucas could never give you.

Just a reminder of the swimmer's name as you skidding to a halt, the thump in your chest vicious. Maybe Jeongguk was right. Constantly painting yourself the victim while actively hurting the ones around you. Maybe you should have never let him kiss you again on that rooftop. Maybe you should have never tried to love him.

—

It’s silent in your head when you get back to your apartment. Sieun is home, finally back from her trip to her boyfriend’s parents place, so you’re not surprised to hear the soft hum of laughter filtering through the house. You don’t expect to find Chayoung there though. 

They’re huddling in the kitchen, drifting out cheery greetings when you trudge it, only to fall silent when you mumble back a hollow response. A gentle song floating from the radio fills the empty space, three bodies navigating something tense.  

“Were you with Lucas?” Sieun eventually pokes. She’s not a big fan of him. She’s not a big fan of the current break-up between you and Jeongguk either. She’s going to hate you for what you’re about to tell her.

“No,” you mumble. There are twenty notifications flashing across your phone screen, all from Namjoon. You feel sick, and you might cry again.

“Well? What’s with the long face?” Chayoung adds. 

You take a deep breath, gripping the marble counter tight before twisting around. Better to rip it off all at once right? And there’s no way you could hold this inside of you, not when there is barely any room for your broken heart.

“I kissed Namjoon.”

“WHAT?” Sieun’s jaw slams into the ground and Chayoung freezes beside her, like her joints have suddenly been welded together. They stare at you for long you might have grown a second head during it. And then the questions come, a torrent erupting. You blank for a second, and then the guilt crawls up your spine. It may only be thirteen past five in the afternoon but you definitely need a drink.

[sapnxps]

(WTL) Chapter One: Greg the Neighbor- Georgenotfound x Reader

If I knew that when I moved to London, I'd have two weird neighbors, I'd laugh in your face. Now I'm friends with an old cat lady. Now I'm enemies with my cute neighbor that's definitely not single, who also screams too much.

Even though he's a dick, why can't I stop thinking about him?

My parents told me I’d regret moving to London from the state before I left because I’d miss them and the US too much.

They were half right.

I’m sitting on a box messily labeled ‘kitchen’ in the hallway of my new apartment complex. I huff, wiping the sticky sweat from my forehead. The moving bill is almost 4 thousand dollars. If I knew moving would be this expensive, I wouldn’t have moved out from my parent’s house until I was 40. Sure, I moved a lot of my belongings across the Atlantic ocean, but 4 thousand dollars? Who do I look like, Jeff Bezos?

Today has been hectic, to say the least. Three of my boxes somehow drifted away to Spain. Don’t ask me how that happened, I don’t even know. I’ve been unpacking by myself all day. A box of my kitchenware got shattered upon arrival. I should’ve listened to my Mom on that one, she told me to just buy plates and glasses here instead of shipping them here. Big mistake I’m never making again. Finally, the biggest chunk of my problems: My apartment is full of boxes and I don’t feel like unpacking. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve been sleeping on an air mattress for two days, maybe not, but I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. If one more thing goes wrong, I think I might lose it.

Begrudgingly, I lift myself up from the box I was sitting on. It’s a bit dented now, but the way it felt on my ass, it’s just pots and pans. I open the door, pulling this box into my apartment. I weakly push it into the kitchen. It collides with one of the boxes filled with shattered plates. The sound of the broken glass sliding across the box sounded like nails on a chalkboard. I need to make a note to properly dispose of that. Turning my head to look around my new home, I feel my brain's short circuit. All these boxes unpacked, I’ve barely made a dent. This is going to take for-fucking-ever. Moving is modern-day torture. Oh, that’s funny. Remember to tweet that later.

The next three hours of my life are taken up by filling up my kitchen cabinets and drawers with cutlery and various kitchen utensils. The counter was now less bare, housing my toaster and breadbox. My Tupperware containers sat in a special place in the far-right cabinet by the sink. It looked like this home was lived in, as long as you didn’t glance anywhere else besides the kitchen.

I soon after tackled the bathroom, which was the less intimidating room compared to the living room and bedroom. I got the shower curtain hung up, which made it look nice. The rug found its way to the floor, protecting my feet from the cold, cream tile. The shelves were now stocked with a few fluffy peach towels and soaps. Underneath the sink had cleaning supplies as well as spare toilet paper. Living alone meant having nobody to give you another roll if you finish the other one. Kinda sucks. I had a boyfriend during high school, and two years into college. I dreamed of living with him, we planned it all out. I’d finish college, we’d move to a city and rent out the tiniest apartment we could find. We’d live it out until eventually we made ends meet and the rest would be. Dreams cut short though, he cheated. It’s part of why I left in the first place. Needed a change of scenery, new people.

That’s where I am now. New people. Stuck on that part. Haven’t gotten a chance to meet any, which is oh so tragic. I can’t decide if I want to introduce myself to the neighbors or let them come to me? I’m stuck pondering on the thought until I hear a knock at the door. I wonder if my lost boxes have mysteriously arrived.

Opening the door, I’m greeted with an older woman, holding out a small cake into my space.

“Hi dear, I’m your neighbor to the right. Heard all the commotion, saw all the boxes. I had to see for myself the fresh meat in the complex,” She paused before lightly tapping my arm with her free hand. “Just teasing! It’s great to have another lady on this level. The young man to your left, handsome fella, never comes out much though. Hopefully, we can have a girl posse or something,” Her posh accent made her much different than me. Is it wrong to already feel isolated?

I grin at her, moving out of the way to invite her in. “Nice to meet you, feel free to come in. I apologize for all the boxes scattered around, moving has been proven to not be quite my talent,”

The woman smiles brightly at me, shock plastered on her face. “You’re American!”

“That I am,” I chuckle. She hands me the cake, which I gladly accept. My diet has consisted of soggy hash browns from the complex lobby. She makes her way to what is settled in the living room, politely setting herself on my suede blue couch across from the large wall in the room. I place the cake on my counter by the stove, making a mental note to grab a slice once the woman leaves.

The shock never leaves her aged face, “Oh goodness! How amazing. I have a foreigner as my neighbor. You’ll find London quite lovely. I know how it feels to be isolated and removed from what you’re used to, but I promise you’ll fit right in,” She says as I settle myself on the loveseat a bit away from the couch.

“Where are you from?” I ask. She obviously isn’t American.

She smiles, “Just a bit east of Surrey. South of London. Beautiful area, grew up on a small cottage,” The woman was glowing as she spoke of her hometown. She was obviously proud of where she grew up. Compared to my southern Arizona town, this place seemed like heaven. A cottage? Sign me up.

“Sounds lovely,” I speak truthfully.

“Welp,” The woman slaps her laps, a way of signaling it’s time to end the conversation. Despite only speaking for a small amount of time, she seems like someone I can come to if I ever have questions about London or the terminology that I hear around the city. I’ll need to remember that she’s the neighbor to the right. As she began to see herself out, I remembered the other neighbor she mentioned. The young man to the left. I believe she used the term ‘handsome fella’ to describe him. Once she was out in the hall, I felt the need to find out more information.

“Oh!” I shout, hanging myself out into the hallway. She pauses her steps, turning back to me. “By the way, who’s my other neighbor? The guy you were telling me about. Does he have a name?” I ask.

“Greg,” She nods, resuming her short walk back to her apartment.

Greg. Ugly name.

I completely forgot about the conversation by dinner time. As I was munching down on my cake, delicious by the way, I heard loud yelling from my right side. I wouldn’t even call it yelling, more like high-pitched screaming. Who was my neighbor over there again? Greg? Greg. He was causing a ruckus and a mere heart attack at that. He was screaming so loud I nearly jumped out of my skin the first time I heard it. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he’s facing a very, very gruesome murder right now. Well, I guess I don’t know any better. I’m just wishing for the very best.

Another hour passes. The yelling never stops. It’s only 8, but my body is as awake as ever. I still have yet to get used to the new time zone. At times it was difficult, but I’m using it to my advantage now. I have some extra time to unpack and get my actual bed ready. My bed frame was put together professionally during lunch, so that was one thing checked off my list. The mattress I ordered was delivered yesterday. Now it was just the matter of putting the sheets on and preparing my duvet.

Fitted sheets fucking suck to put on a bed. I was currently struggling to put it on my nice mattress. It was edging close to 10 pm. The sky was dark, and I was stuck in some odd mixture of a starfish and the downward dog position. If this moment was a picture, it could be used for blackmail. The closer I got to finally getting the top right corner on my bed, the more stretched out I became. I was like one of those sticky hands you’d get in those toy dispensers at the grocery store. I was just about to get it, when another loud shriek could be heard. In shock, I slammed my head on the bed frame and lost grip of all four corners of the sheet.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mumbled underneath my breath.

Whatever. He probably has a greater reason to be screaming like this, right? Justified shouting, whatever you want to call it. My bedroom is closer to his apartment than the kitchen was. Is it nosey to try to figure out what he’s saying? I don’t want to be that type of neighbor. I’ll continue minding my business because I don’t want to find out some weird shit about Greg that I don’t want to know.

The screaming never stopped.

In fact, if anything, it got louder. And louder. And louder. Is it okay to call the cops here?

It’s midnight now. The next fucking day. And Greg is still screaming at the top of his lungs as if everyone else isn’t asleep. If I saw some normal citizen just trying to get some rest, I’d be fed up. Well, I’m still fed up. I’m also running on a messed-up sleep schedule, so it’s not like I was trying to sleep anyways. My bed is made now, and comfy as hell. I built a shelf to house some of my small decorations, with the entertainment of my noisy neighbor’s yells to accompany me. For some odd reason, it made me feel less lonely.

At about 2, I began to reject the company. I felt irritation grow in my chest as I heard the same high-pitched shrieks that I heard at 8. The annoyance that bubbled in me overtook my politeness. Before I knew it, I was up and in the hallway banging on his door. I didn’t have the time to care about my Daffy Duck pajamas sticking to my legs due to the heatwave hitting England right now. Before I even realize it, my fist is slamming on his door. I never knew I had the power to knock that hard, but my anger and blossoming resentment overpowered me. I continued banging until the door pulled away from its frame. Now I’m face to face with Greg.

Boy was he handsome.

I was met with a man, about 5 foot 9. His dark brown hair was disheveled. Strands of hair laid across his forehead messily. If he wasn’t screaming, I would’ve thought he was sleeping. He was wearing a fluorescent green hoodie with an odd smile plastered on the front. It was a bit large for his skinny frame, that’s unimportant though. His grey sweatpants were twisted on his legs. What the fuck was he doing? His face was delicately shaped. This jawline looks sharp yet fragile like it was constructed of the most fragile rose crystal I’d ever seen. His brown eyes reminded me of caramel, thick and way too easy to get lost in.

“Hi, uh Greg-” I start. I’m just realizing now how close I am to him. The scent of his spearmint gum floods my nostrils. It’s a bit powerful, crinkling my nose at the smell. It wasn’t gross, just very shocking.

“George,” He spat. That’s fucking embarrassing. I’m meeting him for the first time and I got his name wrong. I’m not taken aback for long though, because his attitude oozing from his simple correction was enough to disgust me. I’ve done nothing wrong to him, except maybe get his name wrong. Was my moving too much of a nuisance to him? Poor little British thing, he can deal with it.

I cringe, “Oh, um, sorry.”

He leans into the door frame, sweatshirt adjusting to the movement. Forget a tiny bit large, he was swimming in this thing. “Yeah, no problem. Can I help you or are you selling girl scout cookies at,” George checks his watch. “2 in the morning. If you are, I’m not interested, sorry ‘bout that,” His outfit makes me feel a lot less aware of mine. Despite his face being rather attractive, the outfit makes him look like he just rolled out of bed.

“Oh, yeah. I was wondering if you could lower the volume a bit, please. Or just stop screaming entirely, if possible. I don’t know if you have some weird shouting fetish, but I certainly don’t,” I chuckle. George, however, doesn’t chuckle. Actually, he looks rather unamused. If a human was an art museum, it would be George. Curling into a ball and falling into an endless void doesn’t sound too awful right now. I think I’ll add that to my itinerary. I’ll do it in my bed so I’m at least comfortable while I’m drowning in my own self-pity.

He grimaces, “Yeah. Sure.”

He’s blunt. Got it.

The second I turn my back to the door, it slams. Wow. What a cunt. Shaking the interaction off, I begin to feel the wear and tear of the day beginning to hit me. Moving all those boxes made my muscles ache. The solution to all my problems today seems to be going to bed. Not that I’m not okay with that, just funny. The day before I left for London, you’d think I was shocked by lightning. The electricity that was running through my veins was no match for any ADHD medicine the FDA had ever approved. Now, my body is beginning to fall victim to the earlier time zone. Not that it was a big deal, it was going to happen eventually. These next few days would just entail a difficult sleeping schedule. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.

I quickly find my way back to my own bedroom. The yelling was quieter, but I could still hear George through the thin walls. He was murmuring to someone softly. This apartment complex was all 1 bedroom apartments. He didn’t live alone. How lovely! I made a fool of myself to him, and he was most definitely telling his partner right now. Talk about dignity, am I right?

I scrolled through my phone for an hour, before the screaming returned to its original volume. Would it be overdramatic to say I felt my face go red with anger? I don’t think so. I think I handled the situation as politely as I could. Hell, I even cracked a joke so he could know I wasn’t that upset over the situation! If I knew he was going to resume his disruptive noises, I wouldn’t have been so nice or absolutely hilarious. Nobody that douchey gets my amazing humor. He didn’t even laugh! I hear another shout followed by a slam to a desk. What the fuck is wrong with this guy?

Welp. Welcome to London!

[snapplejaxs]

Locked The Door Behind Him

Dean Winchester x reader  SUMMARY: Dean accidentally wakes the reader, trying to sneak out of her apartment. smut, fluff // 3k wc. 

*a/n - (y/f/n) = your friend’s name 

♡︎  •  ♡︎  •  ♡︎  •  ♡︎   •  ♡︎

The loud sound of Bucky's picture frame hitting the wooden floor shakes you out of sleep. You open your eyes to a dark apartment and a dim light reflecting from the half pulled curtains. You blink, trying to adjust to the sudden awaking, but your eyes are heavy and your thoughts are confusing. You give in to the drowsy and shut your eyes. You didn’t need to get up and investigate the noise. You can recognize that sound in your sleep. Literally. You know it's that old photo of your departed dog because it's always falling off your nightstand. You keep making a mental note to upgrade the frame to something new and sturdy but it seems like the least important thing to do during your busy day. But tonight, the damn thing sounds like an old civil war cannon it's so loud.

“Shit.” You hear Dean whisper to himself.

Your consciousness returns. Along with a shudder up your spine. You lay perfectly still and keep your eyes closed. You can't see him, not in the dark anyway, but you know he's looking at you. The room got dead silent when Buck's frame fell. You imagine him pausing in one spot, watching you to see if you move. It's what you would do if you were in his position of trying to sneak out of some stranger's apartment at 4am after a bar hookup.

When you don’t respond to the loud slam, Dean continues dressing. You hear the quiet sound of denim sliding over skin. You picture him balancing on one of his, surprisingly smooth and hairless, legs while trying to get his jeans on as silent as possible.

God, this is not how one night stands are supposed to go. You were meant to thank him for the great time, made sure he got in his car safely, lock up your apartment, and then go to sleep. Not fall unconscious next to some man you don’t know. Sure, you might have just fucked him but that doesn't mean you know him.

What if he's stealing your expensive jewelry? Or digging around in your drawers for panties to take home because he's some weirdo, like that guy from that episode of SVU you saw the other night. That woman got murdered by her hookup. Maybe you should get up. Dean could be in your kitchen looking for the biggest knife right now.

Peeking an eye open, you look and see Dean’s silhouette thrashing around inside his t-shirt looking for armholes. There's no knife or panties in his hand. You feel a little better at that. You open both your eyes to try and see better in the dark light. But still, you barely see him.

Your apartment got pretty dark at night. And you made sure you turn off all the lights before you left to meet up with (y/f/n) to go drinking. You didn't plan on tonight going the way it did, bringing a man back to your place and all. You just wanted to put on a little tight dress and enjoy your weekend off with your best friend.

But then you saw Dean.

Or more like, Dean saw you. You and (y/f/n) were on stage, in the middle of tipsy karaoke when they started poking at your ribs and signaling at the bar. You looked over and saw Dean. Turned around in his chair, eyes glued to yours, and nursing a bottle of beer. He stared at you like you were a Super Bowl game. Like if he turned away for just a second, he’d miss something he didn’t want to miss.

When he brought his beer down from his mouth, he gave you a toothless smile and a wink. Ho-lee-fuck was it the hottest wink you have ever seen. He never took his eyes off you as you stood on stage singing off-key. He licked his lips while looking straight at you. He made you feel nervous. An entire room full of people and just one person made you feel nervous.

When the song ended, you didn’t know what to do with yourself. Of course, (y/f/n) whispered nothing but the dirtiest advice in your ear. 

'You’re a single and sexy adult.'  'You make your own rules.’   'It's been months, and you need to get back out there.'

And then there was the one that sold you.

‘It’s just one night.’

You bought all the naughty advice from your friend. Took a shot for good luck, And approached the winking stranger. You thought he was sexy from across the bar with stage lights burning in your eyes, but nothing compared to when you stood face to perfect face with him. He had gorgeous green eyes, flawless freckly skin, and a flirty smile. He introduced himself in a gravelly old movie narrator voice.

"Dean."

You couldn’t believe he was an actual person speaking to you in a small town bar and not some actor on TV. Dean unmistakably had a face for the cameras. But he told you he worked a regular nine to five and was just in town on business.

(y/f/n) made an excuse to leave and you stayed behind for a few drinks with Dean. The two of you drank and flirted for about an hour, before talking turned into a public makeout session in a secluded booth near the bathroom. There was some under the table leg touching and lots of tongues. Things got so heated that the bartender had to hit the table and tell the two of you to, 'take it to Motel-6.'

Not ready to say goodnight, you boldly suggested an after party back at your place. And Dean wasted no time. He grabbed your hand and dragged you to his car.

The kissing only intensified when the two of you were alone. His hands massaged at your knee. Then crept up to squeeze at your thigh. When you felt his hand crawl up your leg even further, you didn't argue. Instead, you found yourself spreading your legs to welcome him under your dress. He rubbed the outside of your panties until you were damp and swollen. It felt damn good. But you needed more than his soft little circles. His hand went lower, sliding over your clothed opening. You moaned into his mouth, and wrapped your hand around his neck, stroking his soft hair. His finger slipped inside your panties. You gasped and broke the kiss.

"Dean, my place." You remind him.

He nodded. "Which way?"

"S-swain." His finger roamed up and down your swollen lips. "Take Swain un-, until Courtland Ave." You reached down and guided his finger inside of you. You felt his thick fingers stretch you. "Just don't stop."

Dean started his car. A loud rumble came to life. His headlights lit up the parking lot. It excited you. Hearing his car, seeing the lights, it all made you realize how real it was. You were really leaving a bar with a man who didn't even know your last name. He knew nothing about your job, your family, your breakup a few months ago - nothing. And yet, he was knuckle deep inside of you.

You heard the wet sounds as he slid them out and rubbed your wetness all around you. He teased at your clit with his slow circles and then sped up his movements. After a few minutes of his little pattern, he dipped back into you again. You purposely clenched down on him. Dean curled his finger and went faster.

"Shit." You threw your head back against his seat and cried out. "Fuck." You held his wrist. You could have cared less about keeping quiet or cool, your body was on fire. You had never done anything like that in your life. You got fingered by a guy after you shakily gave him directions to your apartment. The same apartment you were about to fuck him as soon as you got there. So scandalous and out of character for a working girl like you.

Dean suddenly stopped his thrusting. You felt his hands pull away from you and it made your eyes open. You look around confused about why he stopped. You were so close.

"Is this it?" Dean asked nodding towards your building.

"Yes." You panted. "You can park here. It's fine." It was your turn to grab and pull. You yanked Dean out of his car, into your building, through the elevator, and into your apartment - kissing and grinding the whole way through.

The thought of fucking a stranger made you so eager to hop in bed that the lights were the last thing on your mind. No, 'take your shoes off' or 'get comfortable.' You kept everything the way it was as the two of you tangled each other and raced to get undressed while walking towards your bed.

You kicked off your pumps and slid your drenched panties down to toss away in the darkness and sat on your bed to watch Dean's shadow outline drop his pants and boxers. You had no idea what to do next.

"I've never done this before." You confessed. There was a small pause.

"I know." He snorts. "Do you want to stop?"

"No."

Dean stepped back to roll on a condom. You didn't even notice he had one in his hand or saw where it came from. This might have been your first one night stand, but something told you he knew his way around these pretty well. You laid back and let him take the lead. And he did.

Once he was secured, Dean hovered above you. He dipped down and placed a single kiss on your lips. Re-positioned himself. Then kissed you again as he slowly pressed himself down on top of you. He balanced on his elbows and deepened the kiss with a lip bite. You invited him in. His tongue was warm and active. He rolled himself into you, his tip hitting you just right as his mouth explored yours.

He slowly slid himself inside, inch by thick inch. He was big, and your body knew it. There was some natural resistance. Dean brought a hand down to massage you, his way of saying 'relax' without speaking words. Dean kept massaging until he was able to keep pushing through. It was a painful stretch, but at the same time felt good. Feelings you haven't felt in months.

Once he was fully in, he pulled away from you to breathe. “You okay?” He whispered. His voice was close. You liked that he was so close, it sent shivers down your spine.

You responded with a nod, then remembered he couldn’t see you in the dark, so you hummed out, “mmhm.”

Without another word, Dean reattached his lips to yours to continue where he stopped. His hands floated up and down at your sides, then rested at your waist to hold. He pulled out almost entirely, only to slide himself back in with more ease. You whined into his mouth. You wanted to scream, but he wouldn't let go of your lips. He felt good sliding in and out of you. He was hard and warm.

Dean continued rocking, nice and slow. His hands left your hips and found yours in the dark. He laced his fingers into yours and held them as he kissed you. You wanted to feel more. You wrapped your legs around the middle of his waist and pressed him in even further. Trying to give him the hint.

Dean pulled his knees up and picked up his movement by only a little. He slid your hands up as far above your head as they could go and you used the opportunity to lift your hips to push yourself against him.

"More," you spoke against his lips. "Please. More."

Dean let go of your hands and wrapped around your lifted waist and hosted you up with him as he sat on his knees. You gripped his shoulders and threw your head back to cry at the ceiling. He felt so much deeper in you. Dean attached his lips to your exposed neck. He wrapped an arm around your bare waist and pulled you close. You placed your legs to his sides and straddled him, starting your own rhythm as you rode him.

Dean separated from your neck and hissed into the darkness. You wrapped a hand around his neck and squeezed, choking him. He cursed in the darkness and you felt his arms hug you tighter, he liked what he was feeling. You rode faster. He felt so good. Each stroke made you crave for the next, deeper and harder.

The room filled with your in-sync heavy breathing and moans. You dropped your head down, in an attempt to look at him in the dark, but met his lips. You let go of his neck and dug your nails into his back, scratching and pinching. He grunted inside your mouth.

You smelt the cologne melt off his sweaty body that rubbed against your layer of sweat. You were high off of him. Your clit rubbed up against him in just the right way. You could feel your body building an orgasm from deep within you, and slowly rising up. You pushed away from Dean.

"A..ah...aah..." You sing into the air. "Dean," you squealed out at the intensity of your orgasm traveling throughout your body. You fell limp on his shoulder and let heat and pleasure overcome you. “Holy fuck.” Escaped your lips in a whisper as ecstasy ripped through you in waves. Dean pecked kisses at your shoulder.

After your twitching stopped, Dean carefully lowered you down on your back and planted himself back on top of you. He kissed your jaw, your neck, your shoulder, and moved down to take one of your nipples into his mouth.

"Hmm." You arched up. He sucked and nibbled, starting a slow thrusting pace. He pulled off one nipple and moved to kiss and suck the other. His hand rested on your waist and held you gently as he started speeding up. You hugged his sweaty back, lazy running your fingers through his hair as he chased his own release.

"Dean." You turned your head towards him and his lips collided with your swollen lips, that he loved to kiss so much.

Dean's hips stilled. He drew his lips away and let out a shaky breath. He buried his head on your shoulder as he jolted, and bucked into you. No words came from his mouth but breathless grunts, whipped against your neck, before a sigh of relief.

He came.

He kisses your shoulder once more. You feel a wet residue as he lifts his head to find your lips. Dean kissed you a lot. You didn't expect that from him.

You weren't expecting some rough hookup, but you weren’t expecting him to be so tender either. He was a tall guy with a deep manly voice. So where did the vanilla come from? Dean didn’t fuck you like you were the chick at the bar he just winked at and fingered in the car. His touches were soft, his kisses were sweet. He even held your hand at one point. Was it you? Did you put out the vanilla vibe? Not that it bothered you. You weren’t complaining because it was still good sex. Amazing sex.

Even after he finished in his condom, he kept a slow pace of thrusting. Like he couldn't get enough of you. It made you feel good. Not just physically but mentally and emotionally good. You’ve been in actual relationships with men and no one fucked you like Dean Winchester.

When he finally stopped shuddering, he rolled off of you. Not far. You felt his hot arm next to yours. Still physically touching you.

It was silent. But a good silent. A bittersweet silent. A silent you were gonna miss when Dean was gone. And the silent is still there. And more lonely.

"You sure you've never done this before?" Dean laughed in the dark.

"Haha." You chuckled. "I'm sure." You could have attempted to joke back to him, but you didn't want to hear whatever he had to say in return. You knew this wasn't his first time. Not with the way he acted. Dean was too comfortable with a stranger's body. He came prepared for it. There had to be other girls. You weren't his first and you aren't gonna be his last. As soon as he leaves here. He'll be in another town. At another bar. Winking at another girl. And you'll still be here. In the silent.

Your stomach started to hurt. But you're 99% sure it's from the stretching Dean gave you. You rolled over to the side, looking for some type of relief. your arm stopped touching Dean's. he said nothing. made no attempt to get up and leave. He just laid there. the two of you did. That must have been when you fell asleep.

You didn’t remember falling asleep. But obviously, you did. Because here you lay now. Pretending to be asleep while watching Dean tiptoes around your studio in the dark, holding his breath, and collecting his clothes one after the other like an arcade game. It’s late. Maybe you should just tell him to stay for the night? Would he if you asked?

Abruptly his cell phone starts ringing.

You slam your eyes close when you hear Dean’s feet patting across the floor. His ringer shuts off and the room instantly falls quiet. You don’t have to see to know Dean is, once again, stuck in place and staring at you for any type of movement.

With your eyes still closed, you reposition yourself and tuck further into your blanket with a sleepy sigh into your pillow. Just to sprinkle a little Meryl Streep into your fake sleep performance. He must buy your act because you hear the wooden floor creak as he starts to walk again.

You peek an eye open to see where he is. You catch Dean slowly pulling the front door open with one hand and holding his heavy boots in the other. He slides out of your apartment, reaching around the door to lock it behind him, before closing it little by little. He was gone just like that. Your apartment falls silent.

_________________________

Likes, re-blogs, and feedback are encouraged.  Plagiarism is not. Please don’t. ♡ 

[dadsbongos]

Brother’s Keeper

Movie/Game/Show: The Boy Dynamic: Brahms Heelshire/Reader (Platonic) Warnings: idk The Veldt spoilers if you’ve never read it (it’s really fucking good), the parents suck and they’re emotionally manipulative Summary: Brahms likes to play with his baby sister. ~~~

“What a pouty little face you have,” Mrs. Heelshire pinched at her daughter’s cheeks, stretching them upward, “Come on, let me see a smile.”

(Y/n) swatted at her mother’s hands, “I don’t want to.”

Brahms adjusted his tie as best he could for the family picture, letting his father take over after a minute of fumbling, “She’s not going to smile; little brat.”

“Hey!” the three-year-old girl whined, lips pulling into an even deeper pout, “You can’t be mean and the birthday boy at the same time, it’s not fair!”

The boy rolled his eyes, “You’re just upset your birthday isn't for five more months.”

~~

“I’m seven, I’m too old for dolls,” (Y/n) muttered, not wanting to mention why exactly she didn’t want the porcelain doll, “Besides, he’s too fragile, if I drop him he’ll die.”

Death was a new fascination with the young girl after the incident. Though, to be fair, most fascinations didn’t last four years nor did they start with the horrific death of your older brother.

“Nonsense,” her father grinned, taking the doll from his wife and holding it out to his young daughter, “he was Brahms’ favorite.”

Brahms was a word that had become similar to “fuck” in the parents’ minds. Off-limits by the punishment of spanking or grounding unless you were one of them.

“Oh,” she murmured, carefully taking the toy and holding it to her side, “I never saw him play with it…”

“Too scared to break the poor thing,” Mrs. Heelshire reasoned easily enough, “Named after him.”

(Y/n) looked at the glassy object, “Why do I need to have him?”

“You’re going to take care of him, Brahms would want you to,” Mr. Heelshire brushed the girl’s hair from her forehead before leaving a small kiss to the patch of skin, “Be good to him, sweetheart, won’t you?”

Mrs. Heelshire nodded from behind her husband, “You wouldn’t want to disappoint Brahms, would you?”

She glanced between her pleading parents and the doll, pursing her lips before hesitantly nodding, “Alright, I guess…”

~~

By the time 1999 rolled around and the only living Heelshire child was to turn eleven, there were no more friends to play in the house with. Emily, who in many ways had been an older sister to the girl, was murdered by some sick monster who lit the playhouse she was inside on fire. Well, maybe the killer didn’t light the playhouse on fire.

“You’re three, how are you going to take it from me?”

Instead, (Y/n) was left to play with her doll. With a party hat on her head, courtesy of the new grocery boy, Malcolm, she wandered aimlessly through the halls. Birthdays were no longer a celebration in the manor; unless it was Brahms’, of course. She held the doll to her hip, looking at the series of paintings decorating the wall; most of them portraying her big brother.

She frowned, settling a hand on the wall just below the largest mural in the hall. Her fingers brushed upon a small crevice dip in the split of colors in the striped wallpaper, brows furrowing at the ledge. She curled her fingers around it, beginning to pull when suddenly it popped apart from the wall. A panel opening up in the middle of the hallway, she looked down each end before climbing through.

Her eyes adjusted quickly enough, arms squeezing Brahms tighter to her form. She began creeping down the secret passageway, not noticing the sounds of her parents screaming her name.

A sudden turn and she took it. A curve in the path and she rounded it. Losing herself in the hidden walkways within her home. It was only when she realized how lost she was that panic settled in, “Mama…?”

She held Brahms even tighter, freehand leaving the doll to bang on the interior of the wall, “Papa! Mama?!” 

It was half an hour before the panicking parents found their weeping little girl hidden behind a panel close to the fireplace. She was crying into the sweater on her doll, cheeks heated in the force of her tears. Not even Mr. Heelshire’s gentle hugging and cooing could relieve her of the emotional aches.

“You’re to never go in those walls again, do you hear me?” her mother grit through clenched teeth.

Never? As much as (Y/n) wanted to be on board with the idea, she wasn’t sure about never being able to go in again. Maybe… maybe she just had to be older, more mature - yeah - that sounded about right.

“Just once more,” she immediately calmed down, now speaking through a raspy, whiny post-crying voice, “I won’t get lost this time, I promise.”

Mr. Heelshire looked over to his wife, “Just one more couldn’t hurt, she should learn about the walls, shouldn’t she?”

As soon as the words left her husband’s lips, Mrs. Heelshire shook her head, “Not a chance. Haven’t you read The Veldt? That’s how the parents die.”

(Y/n)’s eyes widened, glancing between her parents as tears began springing into the surface, “You guys will die if I go in the walls again?”

Neither parent confirmed it, though they didn’t deny it either, before sending her off to bed with Brahms. Leaving her to question what the walls were in the dark solitude of her lavish bedroom; empty winnings for a girl who felt guilty enjoying them.

~~

By fifteen, there was an influx of nannies coming in and out of the Heelshire home to care for a supposedly haunted doll. She wasn’t sure if she believed it but the messes and thumping and flickering lights were beginning to be too much to ignore. They all started after the wall incident - the second incident she could add to her fault - and she was forbidden from going back inside.

Panels were left open and soft, high-pitched whines ringing from behind them; it was more terrifying than alluring. 

With no more Brahms by her side, in the real body or in doll form, (Y/n) was left to wander aimlessly down the halls thinking about how unfair it was of her parents to rip the doll away from her. All due to the walls’ tunnels.

They handed her a memento to her older brother - they used her guilt; her fault against her - just to steal it away eight years later. She hated her parents for it, no, not her parents. Her mother. Mrs. Heelshire barely even let the nannies do their job half the time, she just wanted Brahms all to herself. She gave that doll a surplus of her attention and countless replacement caretakers and never even gave (Y/n) the acknowledgment of their shared grief.

Barely gave her the mind to say, “It’s not your fault.”

Whipping around at the frail whisper, (Y/n) peeked around every visible inch of the hallway to see if one of the nannies was following her or her father was finally ready to free her of guilt. Yet nobody was there, no mouths to whisper and no audible drafts to blame.

She turned back around and continued walking down the hallway, not as alone as before.

~~

“I’m nineteen, don’t you think I should, I don’t know, explore the real world?”

Mrs. Heelshire simply shook her head, “You can’t leave us!”

“I won’t be leaving!” (Y/n) tossed her arms out in a display of exaggeration, “I just can’t be in this house for the rest of my life!”

“So you will go eventually,” the older woman huffed, crossing her arms, “Brahms and now you.”

That made the teenager freeze. Nothing like the mention of her dead brother to make her question herself. She pulled back from the yelling match to judge and critique every inch of herself. Her leaving the nest wasn’t comparable to dying - and Brahms didn’t abandon them, he couldn’t control the flames. It wasn’t like he purposefully lit the playhouse on fire at his own birthday party.

No, but she could’ve stopped it. She knows she could have.

“That’s not fair,” (Y/n) muttered, though it sounded less like a genuine response and more like she was trying to point it out to herself.

“You know what else isn’t fair?”

“Don’t.”

“Having two kids and the only one alive wants to abandon you.”

Mr. Heelshire watched from the kitchen table, sipping on his afternoon tea quietly to give more space for the sound of his wife and daughter’s argument to permeate through the room. Through the room and into the walls where even the biggest rat hiding inside could hear.

(Y/n) rubbed at her arm, regretting her decision to even bring the topic up, “I’m sorry…”

“Oh, honey,” Mrs. Heelshire cooed, cupping her daughter’s cheeks and pulling at any fat her fingers could get to in the pockets, “It’s okay. Don’t be so pouty, it’s alright.”

She didn’t bother pushing her mother’s hands away this time.

~~

(Y/n) silently dipped her paintbrush into a dollop of vibrant, cherry red on her palette, glancing over her canvas to the muse every so often.

A house can appear incredibly eased and soothed from the frontline and nobody would ever know that inside a family of four was being murdered. They wouldn’t know until the corpses were discovered and the extended family was beating at each other. Vultures flocking to the values left to them by death.

Maria, the newest in the line of nannies, was holding position rather well for somebody who’d never modeled before. Clutching Brahms to her hip with a bright, pearly-toothed smile.

“I saw a few of your works around the house earlier,” the black-haired woman spoke, “Impressive for only twenty-three.”

“Thanks,” (Y/n) strained a grin, she didn’t necessarily prefer silence - you could hear the walls whispering when it was silent - but sadly, her focus wavered with noise, “I just like to paint the nannies; don’t like to forget them so quickly.”

“Oh,” Maria awkwardly chuckled, “well, that sounds nice of you…?”

“Just a personal thing,” the young woman shrugged off before catching something in the frame of her eye, “You’re about to drop Brahms.”

“Shit!” the other woman murmured, readjusting the doll in her arms, “Thank you so much.”

“My mom will go crazy, I don’t want to watch her yell at somebody over nothing,” she pursed her lips, “Not nothing; just something small.”

~~

“Are you serious?” (Y/n) narrowed her eyes at her mother, “You and Dad are leaving for a two-month vacation right before my birthday?”

“You’re turning twenty-eight, dear,” Mrs. Heelshire smiled faintly, “I think you’ll be fine, now if you don’t mind, I’ll go downstairs and teach the new nanny how to properly care for Brahms.”

(Y/n) crossed her arms, watching her father continue to pack his bags, “You’re really just letting her drag you out of town right now?”

“She didn’t drag me into anything, honey,” he sighed, whether he knew how much it hurt her feelings to hear that or not didn’t exactly matter.

“Fuck you,” she grumbled, rushing out of the room and down the stairs, the twenty-seven-year-old woman went into her bedroom, fully prepared to ignore her parents and the new nanny. Blissfully unaware of the pest in her walls, watching with sad eyes and wanting to see her smile.

~~

“Knock it off!” (Y/n) cried out to the man swinging the doll around - a protective instinct burning at her gut as she thought of him breaking it. She immediately regretted the harsh tone when Cole’s furious gaze snapped back to her, “Please… just give him back…”

“Watch it,” Cole threatened, holding the doll further away from her than before, “Pull any funny shit and I’ll break in your pretty little face.”

Yet another mistake against the brute, not that anybody but the secret rat was counting. The first, of course, being his arrival. The last, naturally, was bashing the doll’s head against the lip of a seat.

(Y/n) hiccuped wildly, her burst of tears nearly choking her as Cole shushed the room during one of Brahms’ fits. She’d experienced countless ragers with that doll to blame but this was the worst. Cole put a finger to his lips, commanding the people behind him into silence as he went to the wall, knocking a few times with his ear pressed to it. He went to the mirror next, grinning slightly, “There’s something- “

Before he could finish his sentence, the glass burst apart and forced him onto his back.

As Greta screamed and (Y/n) held her head in her hands in the midst of her hysterics, Malcolm called to the two women.

Large hands pulled onto the mirror frame first, then out came a fully grown man. Brahms Heelshire was alive - and he was big.

(Y/n) fell onto her ass, watching as her previously dead big brother stabbed Colt in the neck with a piece of his broken doll. Brahms lunged for Greta only to be beaten down by Malcolm and when the two were away; (Y/n) did not leave.

She crawled over to his sprawled out form, taking his shoulder into her hands and shaking him slightly, “Brahms…?”

He jerked once - then twice, then pushed himself up, taking a moment to look at his little sister before standing. In a fashion similar to when they used to sneak around the manor as children, he pressed a finger to his mask’s lips before running off.

~~

“I came back for you, Brahms.”

(Y/n) fiddled with her fingers as her older brother was swept upstairs by Greta, following after them like a lost puppy. As Greta pulled back the covers, (Y/n) felt her heart thump wildly in her chest.

Of course, it never helped when he threw a woman across the room.

“Brahms!” (Y/n) shrieked, latching onto her brother’s back and attempting to pull him off Greta, only succeeding when he fell back from his own stab wound.

Greta stopped at the doorway, turning to watch as the Heelshire girl cradled her big brother’s head in her hands in her panic-rich state, “(Y/n), come on. We have to go.”

Looking between Greta and her brother, (Y/n) felt the memories creep back up from the dip of her spine.

“Is that Papa’s lighter?”

Emily nodded slightly as Brahms watched the flame flicker, the little boy speaking up first, “I was interested in it, I’m sure he won’t mind.”

(Y/n) clutched at a lock of her own hair, “You better give it back or I’ll take it myself!”

“You’re three, how are you going to take it from me?” he scoffed before shooing her out of the playhouse, “If you tell Dad, I’ll break all your toys and cut up your dresses.”

She hadn’t told Father - she didn’t take the lighter.

Shaking her head, (Y/n) looked back to her older brother, burn scars on the visible half of his face and suddenly the guilt was rising to her throat again. Her hands smoothed over to the clasp of the mask, carefully unclipping it as Greta ran off to find Malcolm. A wicked sob racked her throat, her voice squeaking up soft and whiny, “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”

A hand came up to brush her tears away, Brahms watching his little sister continue to cry, a small, childlike voice peeking through his lips, “Please don’t cry, (Y/n)… I don’t want to see you cry…”

Calming down only slightly, (Y/n) helped her brother sit up, “I’ll stay, I’m sorry.”

Brahms continued to watch his sister’s tears spill, “You’ll stay.”

It wasn’t a question, he barely even bothered to disguise it as such.

“I’ll stay…”

She didn’t really have a choice, not when her parents kept her under lock and key so strictly. But maybe they anticipated Brahms coming back; maybe they wanted her to have no independence so she wouldn’t leave her big brother.

Not that she’d be able to ask them.

[the-jade-cross]

Burning Water - Chapter VIII

Chapter 8

Maya knew that one day her family would step foot in Kings Landing and she would have to make the choice to either remain hidden as a serving girl in a brothel or to emerge. Ever since she had arrived in Kings Landing, Maya had imagined this day over and over in her head. As she got older and her powers became stronger and more easily controlled, the more times she thought about leaving the brothel as the long lost Mayaka Tyrell. All her secrets would remain locked and guarded in the heart of Zarina. Now, as she stood staring down at the single handbag she had packed with her special keepsakes, she realized just how real her dreaming had become.

FLASHBACK. 4 HOURS PRIOR

“Maya,” Zarina chirped as she entered the washroom with dirty linens, “There is a lady requestioning you.”

Maya raised her eyebrows, “Since when has a woman ever wanted to see me?”

Zarina shrugged, “Never. Except this isn’t a woman but a lass. She couldn’t be older than you. And I don’t think she is looking for a lay.”

Maya nodded and tossed the handful of linens into the wash basin. “I’ll take care of it.”

Maya wondered as she walked to the front parlor, who it could be. It couldn’t be Zarina’s cousin Zinnia who would visit often. Had someone discovered her identity? Or worse, was it Lillia? Out of all the friends Maya had made, Lillia was the last one who should even be near a brothel, much less inside one. When Maya rounded the corner, she was relieved to not come into view with curly blond hair, but her relief soon washed away into stunned shock. Short brown locks cut just above the shoulders, contrasting like caramel and cocoa with the deep sun kissed smooth skin that was delicately garbed in deep orange clothes. Anyone would think the girl was unarmed but Maya could recognize several daggers hidden beneath the clothes. One on the side of her sandal, one over a thigh and the other up the lacy sleeves. The girl turned and brown met blue as the two girls glanced at each other.

“Nan?” Maya breathed.

The other girl grinned widely and rushed over before grasping Maya in the tightest hug the girl had ever had.

“I wasn’t imagining things,” Nanteza sighed as she took in the view of Maya, “When I came by earlier to find my uncle, I knew I had seen you, but I thought it was too good to be true.”

“What on earth are you doing here in Kings Landing?” Maya insisted.

Nanteza frowned, “You didn’t know? Maya…. Margaery is set to wed King Joffrey at the end of the week!”

END OF FLASHBACK

Maya sighed. Of all things to make her choose to leave the brothel, it had to be her little sister marrying a tyrant. Nanteza was presently waiting outside, having sent a message to Lillia to prepare a room for Maya without Cersei Lannister knowing. Maya reached beneath the mattress and pulled out two slender dual swords that she had kept hidden there. Both had zig zag razor like edges that made them fit together, so they looked like one sword when they were actually 2.

“what do you do when it rains?” a girl’s voice asked from behind Maya.

She hadn't heard anyone approaching, which was a first, so she spun around and raised her hands defensively but froze. Sitting in a crouched position on the wall of the roof like a gargoyle on a Castle wall was a dark figure. Garbed completely in black and dark Gray with a hood that concealed everything and a mask that only revealed the eyes. the person's hands were gloved in black while one rested on their leg the other held a massive bow of iron. Maya had heard tales of the Warlock which had spread like wildfire over Westeros since the first viewing when the Warlock rescued Jaime Lannister and Brianne of Tarth from the Boltons. Maya's hands instinctively tightened around the hilt of her sword when she noticed the person's eyes. framed by long black lashes with the Faintest of red tips like flame were two Golden orbs. There had been only one person Maya had ever met who had eyes like liquid gold.

“Evelyn Stark?”

The amber eyes crinkled as the person smiled and one pale white hand reached up and pushed the hood and mask back. If Maya thought Nanteza had grown since she last saw her it was nothing compared to how sweet rosy Evelyn had changed. Her smooth features had sharpened, and her pale complexion accented her straight nose, firm smirking lips and sleek black eyebrows. Her cheekbones were defined and her eyes more wise than mischievous now. Evelyn hopped down from her perch and began to scan the roof thoughtfully. Maya’s first thought was to wonder why Evelyn seemed standoffish but then it dawned on her that Evelyn had not been in the friendly company of anyone in almost two years.

“when Nan said your sister was marrying Joffrey, I thought you might emerge.”

“what are you doing this far South?” Maya inquired.

Evelyn smiled. “I had to go underground for five months till little Robb was well enough to travel. when that happened, I couldn't help but want to journey a good distance to stretch my legs.”

Maya chuckled. “you have definitely stretched them.”

“and I wanted to make sure there was no attempted murder on Cersei Lannister.”

“Correct me if I'm wrong but I thought Cersei was on the top of your hit list.”

Evelyn chuckled. “death is too merciful and peaceful for her. but over a dozen houses in one place with Cersei as host… I wouldn't blame your Oberyn Martell for dropping some venom in her wine.”

Mya went to agree when she paused. “he's not my Oberyn Martell.”

Evelyn smirked and Maya realized it suited her just like the wide smile suited Lillia and the calm expression suited Nanteza.

“where are the little ones?” she asked, looking around for any sign of a horse, owl, dire Wolf or little person.

“I left the boys in the Woods with Zinzi and lady. when Rob is old enough to walk, I will start bringing them on face-to-face encounters. Chance is out grazing, and Ace is below keeping an eye out.”

Maya smiled. Evelyn had made a pack for herself.

“And your training with Brisingr?”

“complete.” Evelyn replied. “I can manipulate fire as a basic, but I must understand the three other elements if I want to conquer my soul flame. Brisingr has sent me on a mission to find my next mentor but I thought a pit stop was in order.”

“a six-month pit stops.” Maya teased.

the flapping of wings interrupted the two girls and Ace appeared landing on Evelyn’s shoulder.

“I should go.” Evelyn explained.

Mya nodded. “me too. Nanteza would chew me out for making her wait.”

Evelyn resituated her hood and mask back on her head. “Maya.” she stated. “it was good seeing you.”

Maya smiled. “you too Eve.”

the Stark girl hopped onto the ledge and made to leave when she turned back to Maya.

“what I said about someone murdering Cersei… I have a feeling that there is a real possibility.”

“a gut feeling?” Maya asked .

Evelyn nodded solemnly. “but I'm not sure if it is directed at Cersei.”

********

“No absolutely not, there is no way!” Maya objected.

Lilia and Nanteza stuck out their bottom lips in a pout. They had pushed Maya through a serious bathing of oils and soaps and all kinds of perfumes to find the right aroma before bringing in a seamstress to have outfits made for her to fit . And by outfits, Lillia insisted on a riding outfit, 5 nightgowns, three ball gowns , four party dresses, 6 everyday dresses, two fighting outfits and six entertaining dresses. Maia agreed hesitantly on the agreement that all of them would be either lined with chainmail or easy to fight in. Preferably both. Now after having her endure that they had dressed the girl up and we're presently pushing her to go greet her siblings whom she hadn't seen in years.

“I promise your father is not in there!” Lilia assured her. “Only Margaery and Loras.”

“Why do I get the feeling that you're lying?” Maya asked through narrowed eyes.

Nanteza shrugged. “maybe because she hasn't blushed like a rose at the very mention of Loras's like she used to?”

Both Anne and Maya looked to Lillia for an explanation, but the blonde shrugged and bit her lip to hide the sad look on her face.

“What is the point of wanting someone you could never have and could never love you back because you are lacking in a male body parts?”

Anne snorted at the girls answer while Maya raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Oh, I'm gonna kill him. Who are you and what have you done with Lillia?”

Lilia chuckled as she pushed Maya toward the door. “Oh, go on! Don't be a puffer fish!”

“Puffer fish?” Anne inquired.

Lillia nodded. “Instead of chicken, if Maya is ever scared, she's a puffer fish. Puff ! Puff!”

“But what the hell.” Maya sighed before pushing open the door.

Loras who had been trying to explain to Margaery why Lillia seemed so angry with him without revealing the content of the conversation they had spoken together, turned at the sound of the door and froze. Margaery rose to her feet and her jaw dropped.

“Maya?” She whisper screeched.

Mya smiled, unable to speak for fear that the tears would breakthrough. Margaery was across the room in a very unladylike speed and threw her arms around her sister.

“Oh, you're here! You're really here!”

Maya gave up on her battle with her tears and let them wet Margaery's shoulder as she clutched her little sister to her. When the two sobbing girls parted, Maya approached her brother who was still gawking, and mile couldn't help herself . She grasped Loras's face and felt his cheeks, his hair, his straight nose.

“You are all grown up!” She choked out.

Loras is face scrunched to fight tears but let them fall as he wrapped his arms around maya's shoulders and buried his face in her red hair.

“You are so beautiful!” He sobbed.

The last time Loras had seen his sister, she had been pretty but still growing up and now, with the ripe glow of womanhood, he was proud to have her for sister.

“how have you been? Where have you been hiding all this time? Were you treated well?” Margaery clambered out in a rush.

Maya knew that the answers to those questions were not ones that her siblings would want to hear so she did something she had never done to her siblings. She lied.

“I have been well. Just hanging around in the shadows. People tend to ignore me which is nice.”

Margaery smiled in relief as she gripped maya's hands urgently.

“Please tell me that you will be at my wedding? I will be Queen even if I'll be married to a turd. It will be so much better if you were there.”

A wedding …with lots of people …talking …and Oberyn Martell ….hell no!

“She would love to!” Lilia announced when she saw the way maya's face was practically yelling in objection.  

“Indeed.” Nanteza hastily added. “We just ordered the seamstress to make her some outfits! She will be recognized as lady Mayaka Tyrell again!”

Margaery seemed satisfied with the girl’s suspicious intervention and clasped her hands joyfully.

“Wonderful! Every time I meet someone they ask where Maya Tyrell has been hiding ! It will be so good to not say that she is ill!”

Maya found herself chuckling, but she shot her friends warning glares that told them they would be hearing a lecture about their intervening.

“I have to visit the gardens again,” Maya apologized. “Kings Landing is so bright and high above sea level that I get dehydrated fast.”

The two Tyrells beamed. “Of course! We will be here all day.” Margaery assured her. “Will you join us for dinner? It is at 6.”

Maya smiled and nodded. “I'll be there.”

As Maya headed out toward the garden gates, she eyed Lillia and Nanteza coldly, “you will never do that ever again! Otherwise, I will send you to the deep North to find Evelyn and good luck with that!”

The two girls snickered in reply to her very threatening, possibly not so threatening, threat but Maya knew that they wouldn't do it again. She left them alone as she headed into the garden and Nanteza turned to Lillia.

“Now what? We have nothing to do for the next hour until dinner and I most certainly do not want to have to go off to look for my uncle because I know exactly where I will find him, and I would prefer not having to visit that place again.”

Lilia smirked, “we make sure no one disturbs them.”

Nanteza frowned, “them?”

Lillian nodded to the left and Nanteza followed her line of vision until she saw the all too familiar figure of her uncle heading into the garden, completely oblivious to the two snickering girls or to the fact that he would not be alone in the garden this particular afternoon.

[kpopchangedme]

Plot Twist [M] | Park Jinyoung

Being locked up until tomorrow morning with your biggest rival in the Archery team might not be all bad after all...

Protagonists: Park Jinyoung & You

Word Count: 5.5k

Genre: NSFW - Enemies to Lovers - Romance - Smut *explicit* - [Drabble 2k]

Prompt: “Dramas did not prepare me for this”

Requested by: @prettywordsyouleft, I hope you like this, even though, I’m sooooo sorry... I’ve made it smutty because I got carried away!!

GOT7 | M.list

There are a lot of things that you love about archery and only one that you vehemently hate. Perhaps that’s why you’ve been excelling at it ever since you first picked up a bow. As soon as you showed promising skills, your parents ensured you’d turned out to be one of the greatest. You’ve trained with the most successful archers, former Olympians... Won all the most important awards and competitions... Entered the most prestigious sports-study program on a full scholarship...

And look where all that got you… Stuck with the only thing you absolutely hate about it.

Fighting your suffocating feeling of helplessness, you kick the closest object on the floor. Whatever it is, it crosses the room in a blink, hitting a shelf full of supplies that then wobbles dangerously.

“I’d appreciate not being buried alive by dirty Football gear,” his voice cuts through the darkness and you turn to glare at him, “thank you very much.”

“Shut up Park,” your harsh reply is instantaneous, “or else...” 

Yes, literally stuck with him; Park Jinyoung, an archer almost as good as you, your nemesis, your relentless competition.

Locked in a dark supply closet, connecting to the Archery team’s interior training ground. You’re dumb enough to have let the door close behind you when you knew it automatically locked from the inside. Jinyoung is even dumber for having followed minutes after; probably curious as to where you disappeared. You didn’t manage to catch the door in time before it shut, condemning you both to each other’s company. Although you two usually train late at night in the gymnasium, you always ignore and avoid the other. It’s a safety technique you’ve developed, keeps you from ending up in jail for his murder, especially since you’re armed most of the time. Unfortunately, since you train alone, there’s no way of knowing when people will notice you’re missing, even less find you in here.

“Or you’ll make me?” Jinyoung snorts in distaste, “You always had a bias for the dramatic. What more can you do? Being here with your is already Hell.”

“Ha. Ha.” You furiously wipe the sweat from your forehead. He’s right, with this bad of a company and ventilation, this supply closet certainly feels like the burning flames of Hell.

“Why are you always such an ass? It’s not like it’s my fault you followed me in here.” 

There’s a long silence before Park groans, and thanks to the security light of the gymnasium, shining through the crack under the door, you see him rub his face with both hands. “I needed to borrow an armguard from here, mine’s busted!” Saying this, Jinyoung shrugs it off, throwing the garment across the room. You hear it fly by more than you see, rolling your eyes when it hits a wall.

“Whatever you say, stalker.”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You think everyone is obsessed with you!” He barks, clearly unpleased by the nickname. It’s something you’ve been calling him for years. You aren’t even sure when that even started, over ten years ago probably. All you know is that suddenly, an insufferable little boy started showing up every day to practice with you, and you had to share your trainers with him. He even got in the same exclusive program as you did, on the second scholarship. Much to your despair, he followed you everywhere, like a stalker. “All the guys from the team are wrapped around your little finger. They’d do anything to get in your pants.” Even in the darkness, you see Jinyoung’s eyes narrow, spiteful. “I’m not desperate enough to settle for you.”

“Of course not, Park.” You smile, pushing his buttons despite the fact that you shouldn’t. “You’re too frigid and boring for me. I bet you’ve never even gotten into any woman’s panties.” You’re not sure why the guys crushing on you are a problem to Jinyoung, but he sure likes to rant about this whenever he has a chance. As if you’re making them fall for you on purpose. It’s not your fault you’re the only woman who made the team.

He exhales audibly in frustration; “You’re so full of yourself, y/n. I’ve never met someone as disturbed and with an ego as big as yours.” 

“The feeling is mutual. Ain’t that a blessing, Park? That we found each other...”

“And contrary to popular belief, I’m not a boring virgin...” He says this out of nowhere and pauses to cough and peel his shirt from his body unsuccessfully. As soon as he lets it go, the cotton sticks to his abs all over again. The heat in here in insufferable, you’ll suffocate at this rate, and you don’t have any water. “I just don’t obsess over you or sex like the others. The WAC are all I care about.”

The World Archery Championships, the gateway to the next Olympic Summer Games. One of the reasons you’re looking forward to you two being (obviously) eligible to participate, is the idea of competing against Park. He might be training and living here, but he’ll get to represent his country; South Korea. You’ll destroy his team’s female archers; you’re way better than any competitors of your generation. Even Jinyoung can’t argue with that. It helps you train to have a goal, someone to tear down. You discovered that when you first met him.

“Good to know what you fantasize about...” You announce, giving up on any sense of pride and decency. It’s way too hot in here to remain proper. “At least you won’t ever gawk at me.” Struggling with the wet fabric, you manage to take your t-shirt off. There’s no way you’re staying here all night, marinating in your own sweat. 

There’s a scoff of disbelief, loud and clear. “Are you trying to seduce me?” You freeze on your knees, finally freed from the disgusting piece of clothing. You did not expect him to assume anything like that. “I mean… People do talk a lot about you crushing on me... But I just told you I’m not interested, y/n.”

“You wish, Park.” You spit through your teeth, “I’m just melting over here.”

“Why does this feel like the plot of one of your dumb dramas?”

“Trust me. Dramas did not prepare me for this.”

“Lock two people in a blazing room, wait for them to strip and they end up…” He completes his sentence with less than appropriate hand gestures.

“Ew, I’d sooner fuck Wang than you.”

“I hear you already did.” Jinyoung almost sounds vexed, but you’re too embarrassed to look his way and confirm. Sure, you have enough confidence to sit there in your bra, but it doesn���t mean you want to hold his gaze while you’re half-naked. “I’m probably cleaner than he is.”

“Probably.” You agree with a shrug. Why does he even care? “But the major difference is; I don’t hate Wang.”

A loud silence falls between you, almost deafening in the tiny space of the sealed off storage. It stretches, and it’s after five minutes or an hour of this that Jinyoung loses his mind. You don’t know, none of you has a phone; they’re prohibited during practice.

“That’s it!” Jinyoung barks, jumping to his feet. “I’m not spending all night in here, listening to shit like this!”

You watch, unbothered as he paces back and forth, eyes glued to the vent that is pushing warm air in. What is he planning to do? Crawl in there like a spy? Suddenly, Jinyoung takes off his own training shirt, and you try not to stare. Oh shit, he’s built, you hadn’t noticed before. Nice arms and shoulders, he’s an archer after all. He even has an amazing torso. Amazing? You blink, tearing your eyes away from his honey skin. What is wrong with you, are you having a heat stroke? That is Park Jinyoung! Your worst enemy; the boy who boasted about breaking your Target Archery long standing record after he only had been training for a year!

“10 bucks say you can’t fit in there.” Despite the situation, you want to further annoy him.

You visually compare his sculpted shoulders to the metal frame of the air vent. Huh huh. No way. Jinyoung doesn’t even bother acknowledging your bet. He’s busy rummaging through the stuff on the nearest shelf, emptying the content of plastic milk crates to pile them. He still has a long way to go through, that ceiling is high. 

“Come here, y/n.” He eventually requests, groaning as he pushes the shelf to make space.

You raise a brow in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

Jinyoung stands, raising his arms to the sky. “Come on, you’re right. I obviously don’t fit it there!”

“You want me to crawl into the hot air vent?” Your whole face twists in horror, the man must have truly lost his mind. “Who am I, Kim Possible?”

“Let’s spend some quality time together then… We have all the time in the world to talk things through… See where that gets us, maybe we can even become friends.” He leans against the shelf, tone dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, and I hope someone needs something from this storage tomorrow morning!”

Before he’s done with his sentence, you’re up next to him. “Ok, what’s the plan?” 

He shakes his head, probably impressed with his own convincing skills. “This obviously runs straight over to the gym, I’ll help you get inside. If you manage to find a way out, you can unlock me. If not… We’ll just be back to square one.”

You’re skeptical when you watch him get on the wobbly pile of crates and open up the vent, but you have to admit the risk seems worth it. You’d rather be stuck in there than down here with him anyway. Careful, you accept the hand he’s offering to help you up on the fortune pyramid. Once you’ve joined him, you’re closer than you’ve ever been before. Your mouths are inches apart. It’s the first time you smell the sweat on his skin or see him like this. You feel a shiver run down your spine, something instinctive that you push aside. Before you can wrap your head around this effect he seems to have on you, Jinyoung’s hands are on your hips. He hoists you up, using his bent knee as a step. Your legs stick to his damp chest, and he looks up expectantly. You’re glad it’s too dark for him to read your expression because he’d never let you live if he saw. You just discovered you find him attractive, and the whole situation is… Perhaps that’s because of what he said earlier about dramas, but…

“This is beginning to feel more like a torrid porno than a drama.”

You regret the joke as soon as you say it. His eyes go dark. “Good to know what you fantasize about... But I’m just trying to get us out of here.” You inhale sharply at his reply, brought back to reality. “Help me a bit, y/n,” Jinyoung asks, voice even more tensed, “with your arms...” 

Slightly out of it, you take your hands off his shoulders like he’s ardent. They treacherously found that support by reflex, to keep your balance when he grabbed you. Shit. Obeying, you reach for the metal frame to pull as he lifts. Faster than you expected, and with much ease, you find your way to the ceiling. Boy must have been working out. 

“Can you m-make it?” He grunts distractingly under you. Why are you even finding that sound sexy now? You really need to get out of this damn closet, or else...

“Yes, I think I… Let me just…” Arms first, you twist your way through the entrance of the vent. It’s scorching, hotter than you expected, and dark as night. Once you’ve managed to get your chest inside, you feel his hands slide on your thighs, almost on your-

“Park!” You shout into the echoing metal and he stops.

“Something wrong? You’re halfway in.”

Your mouth opens in awe, understanding he doesn’t care what he’s touching at all. Jinyoung might as well be frigid for real; you’re the only one affected apparently. He resumes pushing, fingers digging the back of your thighs, probably marking them. With his help, you worm your way inside, managing to win a few inches by twisting and wiggling. Trying not to think of his hands on you like that… It is way harder than you expected, even if you’re inside a disgusting enclosed space. What a sight this must be for him, your ass dangling like that.

“Shit.” You hear his muffled curse and freezes. Park Jinyoung never swears.

“W-What?” Sweat is dripping from your face, falling in the burning metal. If you stay here longer, you’ll roast like a chicken on a grill.

“Hum, I don’t think your as… Your h-hips aren’t gonna make it.”

“What? No! Push!” Squirming with a renewed fervour, you feel him directly press on your ass cheeks this time. Unfortunately, he’s right. Although you try your best, the metal frame only digs your hips dolorously. You give up after a minute; you’re completely wet by then. The air in there is barely breathable, and both the physical effort and the idea of his close proximity have drained you. “Get me out.”

There’s nothing, no answer.

“Get me out, please!” 

Your eyes round in horror, panic rising. Surely he wouldn’t abandon you like that… Wiggling, you try to back away, but you lack the support and strength to escape this Hell.

“... Park?” Your voice is nothing but a miserable whimper this time. You lay there, inert, halfway through the burning air vent. That’s the single stupidest thing you’ve ever done; trust him. “Jinyoung!” Your tone is shakier than you’d wish, but his muted answer finally comes.

“I was considering…” He clears his throat, clearly embarrassed by something. “What if you took your shorts off? I think the-”

“Please, get me out! It burns!” You beg, unable to tell if he’s joking. By this point, your naked skin is painfully sticking to the metal. It was the worst idea. You start to cry, tears stinging your eyes. “Jinyoung, please-”

“Ok ok! I got you!” His hands are back on your thighs, pulling you to him.

You back out as fast as you can, skin marking even if you’re careful not to get stuck and burned. It takes double the time as it took to get in. When you finally exit, your panic causes you both to fall off the pile of crates. Your breathing is erratic as you sit, back on the floor of the closet. You’ll be covered in bruises tomorrow, but at least you’ve made it out. You don’t even realize Jinyoung is the one who absorbed most of the drop. Running your hands over the wet hair that has escaped your ponytail, you try to calm down unsuccessfully. You thought you were going to suffocate in there.

“Hey, are you alright?” Jinyoung manages to sit. He winces, hands catching your forearm to better see one of the red marks in the dim lighting. “I didn’t consider how hot it’d be.”

“I- I- I t-thought,” you pant, half-hyperventilating, half-weeping. “You l-left me!”

Jinyoung’s face falls, almond eyes rounding. “I’d never, y/n…” He cups your cheeks, wiping your tears and sweat with his thumbs. “I didn’t think you’d get hurt.” He keeps stroking you, and you let him do it, forgetting for a brief moment that you hate him. Your breathing begins to slow down, matching his. “I’m so sorry it was a bad idea, but I’d never do this on purpose. Ever. Why would you even think that?”

“You h-hate me.” You whine and he scoffs, breath ghosting over your face.

“Whom would I fight with if you weren’t there?” Jinyoung chuckles still holding you like he’s also forgotten he’s not supposed to. You blink, unable to comprehend his words. You’ve known him for years; you’ve been playing this game for a long time. You know the rules. Trying to tear away, but he follows. Really, what’s with you and him tonight? You whine ever so slightly and the corner of his pout jiggles. “If this was a drama… That’s when I’d kiss you.” After this, he coolly sits back, leaning on his open palms and making his forearms flex. You stay there frozen still, in a daze. What was that? 

Annoyed, to be this affected, you turn to hit his arm roughly. “What’s with you and all these drama ref-” Jinyoung’s mouth muffles the rest of your scolding.

He’s kissing you. 

Park Jinyoung is kissing you, and you should fight back… Unfortunately, the only thing you do at the moment is laying on the floor, tugging at his neck for him to remain over you. Wow, that’s not what he expected. Jinyoung follows, apparently not minding your sweaty state and poor presentation. You’re not doing any better, fingers digging the muscles of his shoulders. You had no idea he was this sexy all along; it feels like you should’ve been made aware of this. If you had, perhaps you wouldn’t have been as surprised and overwhelmed tonight. You wouldn’t be giving in to this crazy urge of having him all over. Jinyoung’s mouth opens yours and your tongues meet messily. None of you cares or wants to retake control of the situation, you’re just going at it. Making the best of a shitty night. His left hand is between your head and the floor; the other one is caressing down your belly gently.

“I thought you weren’t interested...” Managing to get the words out, you feel his breath on your cheek when he chuckles. 

“Just this once, just now.” He replies, nose nudging yours. “I thought you hated me.” 

“I still do.” Your nails trace his spine, leaving a scratch behind. He rolls your lower lip between his teeth, straight up challenging. His mouth drops to your jaw, exploring down on your neck. You shut your eyes, feeling his teeth graze your collarbone. “Jesus.” Curving against his chest, you hush, and he hums on your skin, pleased by the reaction. Jinyoung’s hand drops from your stomach to your hip, then to your thigh and ass. It stays there, holding on tightly. That’s your cue to reach for a t-shirt that was abandoned on the floor earlier, using it as a fortune pillow. When he offers you a quizzical look, you smirk. “Who knows how long we’ll be here… Might as well make us comfortable. Oh, and tell me... What do we do to kill time, now that your escape plan has failed?”

His erection is already pressed on your thigh through his shorts, and there are goosebumps all over your body. You hate to admit, but you’re so turned on you want to take this further, and you hope he’s on the same page.

Nothing could have prepared you to his burning look right then. “I have a few ideas...” He says, clicking his tongue. Before you can question anything, his mouth is trailing down your body with an obvious end goal. He kisses your belly button and pauses there, thumbs hooked into the waistband of your stretchy gym shorts. “If that’s fine by you,” Jinyoung adds in a business-like manner. Count on him to be so formal even when he’s unmistakably proposing to eat you out.

Your hands are already in your hair to hold on to something, and you nod, gaze crazy. He smirks, tugging your clothes down. As soon as you’re exposed, his mouth resumes. You should probably be more embarrassed by this weird intimacy. You feel sweaty and disgusting, but Jinyoung doesn’t seem to mind so you quickly forget all about it. He grips your thighs to allow himself access. You arch, waiting for his touch, and he dodges your sex at the last second.

“Shit.” You swear when he keeps going down with his butterfly kisses, a chuckle shaking his shoulders. Jinyoung was never one to ruin an opportunity by shooting too soon, and apparently, he’s going to be the same when it comes to this. His lips are damp and soft, brushing all over the inner sensitive part of your thighs. Fuck, you’re already so ready. “J-Jinyoung…” You purr, wiggling under him for mercy. 

“Shit.” He seems to agree by echo, words muted by your skin. Leisurely, he comes closer to your sex again, like he’s got all the time in the world. He’s one Hell of a tease. Although you're not sure when you’ll get rescued, you’re pretty certain you’ll be dead by morning if he keeps this up. “You’re so pretty.” It’s so unexpected that you don’t know what to reply, so you don’t. Jinyoung presses the most infuriating kiss on your mons, making you tremble under him. Bringing his right hand under your ass, he spreads your labia, observing intently. 

“Jesus fucking Christ Park…” You whine, done with his antics. “Are you doing this just to make me hate you more?”

“But that’s my favourite part, y/n… Making you angry.” He smiles, smearing your arousal with his thumb. It’s clear he’s a little shit, even in bed. “I usually like to take it slow… But not you, no... You’re always doing things too fast. I bet you could already take my cock... Do you think you could?”

Ok, again, not what you expected from someone as buttoned-down as him. Your mouth remains ajar as you moan in reply, hips rising in hopes of pressing closer to his thumb. If you thought he was hot earlier, it was nothing; right now he’s the sexiest man ever. He has all the power, and you gladly let him have it for once. You want him too much to fight. Jinyoung eyes go dark once more, and he licks his lips. He lowers himself, but instead of pleasuring you, he takes his time to lick his own finger clean. 

“No arguing? Since where are you this horny for me?” Are you supposed to play along, is dirty talk his thing? How unexpected. It’s a fun new game. “I would have fucked you sooner if I knew.”

His words make your core clench on nothing. “Since you took off your shirt...” You’re a fast learner. “I’ve been dripping wet.”

“Locked in here with me...” Jinyoung sighs, gaze dropping to your glistening sex. “You said it felt like a torrid porno.” A sweat droplet falls between your breasts. “Those words coming out of your mouth… I’ve been hard since then.”

“Jinyoung.” You sing in awe, suppressing a shiver. You had no idea.

At his name, he decides he’s done enough teasing for now. He obliges after an eternity, licking up your slit. You gasp and he ends by pressing a kiss on your clit before doing it again. Shit. He repeats the gesture, tasting your juices one last time before concentrating on your bud. His tongue flattens, swirling and nudging your clit. It’s not long until he finds the perfect motion that has you jolting against his face. “F-Fuck!” You cry, not bothering to remain quiet when there’s no one to hear. He’s amazing. Shit, ‘not a boring virgin’ he said.

Running his fingers on your sex, Jinyoung smears your wetness until they’re soaked. Then slowly, he inserts one of them inside you to help his task. He doesn’t falter, obviously almost as heavily turned on as you by all this. Adding another finger, he keeps going, sucking more and more harshly until you’re practically dancing under him. The sounds filling the storage are filthy, but can’t find it in you to mind. You’re seeing stars, enjoying every single second as he eats you out. Jinyoung lasts longer than any guy ever, waiting diligently to build you up. He’s determined to show you he’s the best at everything, not just archery. This moment stretches out until you’re spent and clenching uncontrollably. He accelerates; not changing anything. He’s aware you can’t handle it for much longer and that it’s repetition that’s getting you off. Soon, your eyes roll into your head. You cry out his name as you come, thighs clenching around him. Your hips rise against his face one last time, and he sees you through your orgasm. Holding you until you’re done and clean before finally pulling away from your sex. 

Afterwards, you stay on the ground, panting, heartbeat deafening in your ears. You can’t believe you just came that hard on Park Jinyoung’s face. Jesus Christ. Shouldn’t you feel embarrassed? There’s no real reason to though, not when he’s the one who ate you this diligently in the first place. He clearly wanted it, asked. Unaware of your awkward train of thoughts, Jinyoung lies beside you, exhausted but still very smug of accomplishment.

“That was…” You begin shyly, but trail off. “I’ve never… With someone...” He rolls to kiss your shoulder, and h hard-on brushes you.

“Perfect.” Jinyoung simply replies, getting it, he’s even more pleased with himself. You turn to face him on the ground, breathing slowing down. Pecking his chin, you wrap your arm around his waist to pull him closer. You had forgotten where you were; in the gym’s dirty storage.

“Only many hours left ‘til morning...”

“Mmm…” He doesn’t pull away when your hand slip in his training shorts. “Due to an unfortunate incident, my schedule’s cleared tonight.”

“What are you saying, Park?” Tracing the outline of the strain in his briefs, you raise an eyebrow.

“I’m saying… I’m not too busy to make you come a few more times.” Jesus. He blinks, pulling you closer to add in your ear; “I’ve actually dreamt of having you like this for a long time.”

“Really?” You exhale, out of it. That’s impossible, you’d know.

“Sure. Every time the guys are around, you turn the charm on, but when we’re all alone...” The rest of his sentence is up in the air, but you get what he means. Jinyoung plops himself up on an elbow to read your reaction. “You never once wondered about what I think of your slutty training outfits? Then tonight you go and take your top off like I’m not in here. You’re always so mean to me, forgetting I’m a man too. ”

You cross the last barrier of fabric between him and your hand, smirking. Again, you had no idea he thought of you that way. Jinyoung immediately twitches in your palm, cock swelling even more at the skin-to-skin contact. He’s larger than you expected. “How am I doing now?” You coo, snuggling in his neck as you stroke him. 

“Better.” He admits, almost inaudible. Your hand tightens around his length and Jinyoung grunts. “Mean. I think I’ll have to fuck you hard a few times, teach you some respect.” With that, he rises above you and you laugh, helping to get rid of his shorts and underwear. When he’s freed Jinyoung lies between your legs, cock directly on your swollen cunt. 

You gulp, toes curling tightly from expectations. “How do those dreams usually go?”

Jinyoung’s jaw clenches in concentration and he rocks his hips, rubbing himself on your wetness. He breathes out haltingly, “Sometimes, you’re just bent over a chair at a championship, and I fuck you while everyone’s in the room.” 

“O-Oh!” Your eyes automatically shut when his tip brushes your clit.

“But more often, it’s like this; all sweaty after practice, no one else at the training ground…” His voice is strained, and you totally relate. Eager to feel him inside you already, you align him to your core. You can’t bear to hear shit like this anymore.

He doesn’t seem to mind the guidance. Almost instantly, he begins to push in. His head enters you slowly, and you spread your legs wider. You need him deeper, want him to fill you. Your tightened walls stretch around his cock until he’s inside you, throbbing. Jinyoung lets out a weird sound, almost breaking. He’s a lot less talkative now. Using your hands on his hips, you force him back and then forward, the friction nearly making you lose your mind.

“Shit.” Jinyoung breathes out, unstable. 

“Shit,” you confirm, word morphing into a groan when he moves again. He’s tougher this time, fingers digging your right thigh firmly.

He slides into you with ease, your core more than ready for his cock. Jinyoung finds a fast rhythm hitting you hard every time. You can’t believe how good it feels; letting him have his way with you like that. He thrusts powerfully for a moment before pulling out, much to your displeasure. 

“On all fours.” At his order, you hurry to flip while he observes, pumping his dick with your juices.

He’s back between your legs at once, spreading them with his own. Not wasting any second, he positions himself at your entrance. You fall on your forearms when he pushes back in, eyes rounding in ecstasy. He’s closer than before, cock fitting your core so perfectly you cry out. Shit. Jinyoung repeats his thrust, and you swear loudly, making him chuckle.

Again. Again.

He grabs your ass, sinking himself deeper, and with way more urgency. His balls hit you with every grind forward. Unforgiving, he keeps going until you’re on the very edge again, gasping. You arch even more, and when his hips meet your ass this time, you almost break. He hits something up your core that’s so intense it hurts of the greatest pain.

Again. Again.

You’re a mess, knees and ass burning, but you don’t want him to stop. You beg him to keep going and he does. Making sure to fuck you like no one has ever. Covered in perspiration, Jinyoung’s not holding back much better than you. He’s unsure if he’ll be able to keep pace much longer.

“C-Come!” Jinyoung requests with authority, and you whimper under him. “Come for me, baby!” 

As though his command is magical, you break apart; tightening and convulsing around him. He pulls out before being overwhelmed, letting you ride off your second orgasm on your own. It’s just in time because he comes right away too. Spilling on your ass with a shudder, unable to contain himself anymore. You don’t even seem to notice, head still in the clouds. He wipes off his mess with his briefs; not bothering to think about what he’ll wear later. Falling on the ground before him, you’re breathless and obviously completely satisfied.

This escapade will not help with his bravado when you’re back to reality. Jinyoung lies next to you, one of his arms under his head and the other one on your back. It’s as though he can’t stop touching you just yet. You are still too high to be self-aware and remember what you two are outside this storage. The silence that fills the air is nothing like earlier, relaxed and comfortable. It coexists with your breathing slowing down, yours and his almost synchronized.

It takes a long time for you to break it, unable to keep your train of thoughts to yourself. “What a plot twist to the drama.” Staring at the dark ceiling, you miss the smug smile on Jinyoung’s lips. 

“What is?” He asks, absentmindedly rubbing circles on the curve of your back to break the droplets of sweat accumulating there. 

“Us,” you reply after a heartbeat, “this.”

He snorts, “This isn’t a plot twist at all. Everyone saw it coming but you.”

Raising on an elbow to observe him, you frown in confusion; “Really?”

“Sure.” Jinyoung is smiling dumbly, an expression you have never seen him before. “What did you think all that sexual tension was going to amount for?”

You think for a moment. “Murder.”

He straight up laughs, loud and clear. “Jeez y/n. How can you be so dense...”

“Shuddup,” groaning, you nudge him and he catches your hand, “I hate you.” You both stare at your linked hands, not needing words to express your true feelings at the moment. “How many hours do you think we have before morning?” 

When you ask this, he turns to stare at you in disbelief. “Probably enough for us to die of dehydration if we keep this up...”

Smirking, you lower yourself for a kiss. “I dunno,” you murmur against his lips, “it’d sure be a sweet death...” Laughing quietly, Jinyoung pulls you over him.

You have no idea how long you’ll remain locked in this storage… But you’re certain you’ll use the time you have left wisely from now on.

GOT7 | M.list

[blackaquokat]

The Song You Might Have Been (Chapter 3)

Link to Chapter 1 and Chapter 2 here!

A/N: Should I be putting Trigger Warnings for Attempted Murders? In that case, there’s one for this chapter.

Also, yes, this story does actually have an underlying plot, and it comes into play now.

---

It’s not until the end of Week 2 that the first attempt on your life is made.

You’re working at the dishes, sweating in spite of the cold water. Overall it’s been a fairly normal day. You sent out another letter, chatted with Yancy’s gang, spent some time in the yard. You’re finally settling into a routine. That worries you. Does that mean you’ve been here too long? Should you be letting yourself get comfortable?

You’re so lost in thought you don’t notice the shadow growing across the wall in front of you until you're setting aside another dish. You spin around just as a hand gripping a shiv aims for your stomach. 

You grab at the hand by the wrist just in time, but your arms are wet from the sink water, so your grip slips. You manage to redirect the weapon enough that it just grazes your arm and then you punch the guy with your other hand. You aim a kick at his hand to knock the shiv out, but he moves at the last minute. When he tries to tackle you again, another figure barrels into him like a raging bull, knocking the shiv across the floor.

You go for the weapon as the other two struggle. When they break apart, your assassin punches at your rescuer (Yancy?!) and knocks him back to the ground with a bleeding lip. The assassin hurries to his feet, but when he sees you ready to cut him with his own shiv, he turns heel and starts running off.

A club comes from out of nowhere and cracks across the guy’s head. The inmate falls to the floor in a heap. 

You let out a shuddering breath and look up to see your terrifying boss guard of the kitchens, Rex, standing over him.

“Not about to let a perfectly decent dishwasher go to waste,” he comments with a twirl of his club. “Not when that dishwasher promised to include a new poetry collection in that library of theirs.”

A hysterical laugh bubbles out of you. It doesn’t stop until tears are running down your face (you almost died, you almost died) and that’s when you notice the throbbing in your forearm. You realize that the shiv cut deeper than you noticed before. Blood is dripping from your skin to the floor.

Shock, you think. I’m going into shock. 

“Hey, hey, Eagle.” Yancy climbs to his feet and approaches you not unlike one would a spooked horse. “It’s alright, it’s alright. Why don’t we get youse to the doc, yeah?”

You wipe away your tears with your unscathed arm and nod. “I...yeah.”

Yancy glances over at Rex, who twirls his baton again. “I’ll just take care of this guy. Permanently.”

“No!” you blurt out. When Rex and Yancy stare at you with blatant “have you lost your mind” expressions. “I don’t recognize him from court,” you explain. “Which means he’s killing me for another reason. I need to know why.”

Rex and Yancy exchange a glance. Rex shrugs. “I can live with that reasoning.” He grabs the unconscious inmate by the foot and starts dragging him away. “I’ll inform the warden of the near shish kebabing!”

Later, in the infirmary, after your arm is stitched and bandaged up, Yancy speaks up. “Youse would’ve let Rexy boy kill that guy if he didn’t have that info.”

You shut your eyes and sigh. “I...I guess so. Yeah.”

“Usually it takes more than three weeks before newbies are comfortable with murder.”

“Yeah, well, this isn’t the first time someone tried to kill me. Only that time there was no one to help, so I…” You flex your hand and cringe at the pain the movement elicits. “I took matters into my own hands.”

Yancy’s looking at you with contemplation, his hand stroking at his chin. There are tattoos on his fingers too. “Youse full of surprising depths, ain’t you, Eagle?”

“I threw boring out of the window the day I was born.”

Yancy laughs and shakes his head.

“So what the hell were you doing in the kitchens, anyway?”

Yancy’s humor dissipates. “I, uh...I was stealing some bread rolls for the group. Then I saw that guy tip-toeing about and decided to see what the hell he was doin’.”

“You saved my life.”

He shrugs, suddenly looking sheepish. “Youse were doin’ just fine without my assistance.”

“Yeah.” The two of you smile. “But I appreciate it nonetheless.” A beat of silence passes. “You planning on telling me what you know about my case anytime soon?”

Yancy looks around the room. The doctor had left a few minutes ago to tend to someone else. “Not here.”

“When we get back to our cell then--”

“No, not there either. I’ll tell you tonight in my, uh...secret place.”

---

That “secret place” turns out to be the rooftop of the prison in the middle of the night. 

“Shouldn’t there be guards up here?” you point out through chattering teeth. Most romantic and dramatic novels fail to mention just how damn cold it is on rooftops at night.

“I’m owed a few favors,” Yancy explains simply. “Nothing gets a system going like favors.”

“That is true.” You plop down onto the floor and cross your legs. You immediately regret moving so suddenly when pain shoots up your arm. “So what have you got for me?”

Yancy sits down in front of you, his knees bent almost to his chest. “That dead attorney youse told me about? The one youse were framed for killing? He’s been here before. Talkin’ to another inmate by the name of Louie Winfield. We called him Scrawny Louie.”

You perk up. “You’re kidding me. Is there anyway I can talk to--”

“The guy was found bleedin’ out in the showers last week. Dead ‘fore anyone could blink.” 

Your shoulders drop. “Of course.”

“That bein’ said,” Yancy leans his head into his hand, “when I heard youse’s story last week, I thought, well, there’s no such thing as coincidences, yeah? A dead inmate and a dead lawyer who’d been chatting it up for months? Another lawyer with a spotless reputation takin’ the fall? I didn’t look forward to havin’ another dead inmate on my watch, so I figured I’d keep my two eyes on youse and see what I could see, you know?”

Your elbows rest on your knees. “Are you...you’re saying there’s an inside man here? And that he’s involved in my case somehow?”

“I ain’t sayin’ nothin’. All I’m doin’ is pointin’ out a whole string of coincidences taking place in a very short amount of time.”

 “All these coincidences happening around the time I was investigating Connor Smith…” you bite your lip, “and Merrill Byron.”

Yancy’s eyes pop out of his head. “Youse just pullin’ my tail, right? Ain’t that the guy who runs that charity orphanage or whatnot downtown?” At your questioning gaze, he tacks on, “We get the paper every week, remember? I keeps up-to-date on the outside when I can.”

“He’s also best friends with the deputy commissioner and backs several other political campaigns in the city.”

Yancy slack-jawed gaze doesn’t let up. “Is youse crazy? Youse tellin’ me that’s the guy you was investigating that got youse in here?”

You lift your eyebrow by way of response. 

Yancy bursts into laughter and shakes his head. “Shit, Eagle, youse got a spine of steel, don’t you?”

You shrug and tighten your arms around yourself, wincing at the stabs of pain in your forearm. Damn, it is cold up here. “I have to. Someone like me, working with the District Attorney? The shit I had to deal with from the other attorneys in the office was worse than facing criminals in court.”

“Should I feels offended that criminals aren’t as much a bother as the people youse worked with under Lady Justice?”

The two of your share a laugh over that, before Yancy asks, “When we met youse mentioned that Byron was embezzling from that orphan charity of his?”

“And probably funding the newest drug empire in the city.”

Yancy strokes at his chin. Quite the habit of his, you’re noticing, for someone without much in the way of a beard. “That makes sense. Poor dead Scrawny Louie was a dealer on the outside and continued his operation on a smaller scale in here. Had to tell him to keep it on the downlow more than once, otherwise the Warden would catch on.” He must see the question in your eyes. “Not much for snortin’ myself. Makes me sneeze. I like to keep a clear mind, I do.”

A thought occurs to you. Something that somehow you didn’t think to ask earlier. “So what did you do to land in here in the first place?”

Yancy’s gaze darkens. “I thought we were talkin’ about youse and how youse ended up in here?”

Tender subject then. Maybe you’ll try to ask him again later. Or you’ll just look into it yourself when you get out of here. 

(You have to think in “whens.” The moment you start thinking in “ifs” will mean you’re starting to give up and you do not give up. Ever.)

“Okay.” Your shoulders feel stiff, so you roll them to loosen up the muscles and tendons. “So what do we do now?”

Yancy’s relief at your dropping the subject is minute, but you catch it nonetheless. “Well, youse came here to Happy Trails at an ideal time. Visitation is this Sunday. Youse could probably pass this information to whosever’s workin’ on youse’s case. Now, youse shiverin’ so much youse makin’ me cold just lookin’ at you, so let’s get back to the bunk, shall we? Next time we’ll bring blankets.”

“Next time?”

Yancy wiggles his eyebrows. “Youse think I was gonna let this slide? Nah, I’m gonna find the bastard who’s killin’ for the outside and make ‘em pay. I doubt your assassin is the only one in here.”

You can’t help the grin sliding across your face. “That mean you’re gonna help me out?”

“Our goals appear to be coincidin’, don’t they? May as well meet here to compare notes and investigative realizations, ya know?” He holds out his hand. “Whaddya say, Eagle? Youse too much of a goody-two-shoes to work with a criminal?” His tone is entirely teasing and it makes your grin widen. 

“Well, I’m in prison right now too, aren’t I?” You stretch your uninjured arm out and take his hand. “I know how to adapt and conquer.”

“That’s what I like to hear, Eagle.”

---

When you ask to interrogate your assassin, Yancy says it’s not necessary. 

“Youse let me worry about that amateur killer, hey Eagle? His face isn’t one you need to subject youself to again.”

Later, when he comes back to the cell with bloodied and split knuckles that you don’t ask about, Yancy reports that the guy was hired anonymously. A letter under his pillow with a bag full of contraband. The letter was tossed into the furnace, so there’s no chance at comparing handwriting or anything like that. 

Still, it’s something to report to Damien when you see him at Visitation.

“Somehow, I am not surprised to hear that you’ve managed to investigate your case from inside prison,” Damien says in response to your discoveries that Sunday  during Visitation. “I’ll pass it on to the people looking into your situation. I am, however, concerned about this attempt on your life. Do you want me to pull some strings with the Warden? Get you into protective custody?”

You shake your head. “It’ll be easier to gather intel if I’m out and about. No worries, I’ve got my own protection detail.”

Damien grins brightly at you. You hadn’t realized how much you missed your closest friend until now. “So you did manage to make some friends, huh? See, you don’t realize how likeable you are, my friend, I knew you could do it.”

His praise makes you straighten in your chair. “Well, I mean, it helps that I’m trying to get that library implemented. Which reminds me, are there any strings you can pull in that department to get things moving along?”

“It also doesn’t surprise me that you’re trying to improve a prison’s quality of life from behind bars as well,” Damien teases with a shake of his head. “I’ve put in a good word, made some members of the department read your appeals. You’ll be glad to know you are this close to annoying them into doing something about it.”

“That does make me happy.” 

“Even if you aren’t cleared for a full on library at some point, I’m sure you’ll at least get more books.” Damien gives you a knowing look. “Not that that’ll stop you from aiming for an actual library, I’m sure.”

“You know me.” You cross your arms and your ankles. “I’m all about an even distribution of knowledge across classes and situations.”

You and Damien sneak in a quick hug before a guard calls you out for touching the visitor. “Stay safe, my friend,” he calls out by way of farewell.

You wave until he’s out of sight.

“Ain’t that the guy gunnin’ for mayor?” 

You turn around to see Yancy staring at the space Damien just exited through. “Yeah. We’re University buddies. I wouldn’t be where I am today without him.”

“In a prison with a target on youse’s back?”

You punch him lightly in the shoulder (and then marvel at the fact that you’re comfortable enough to do that with him). “On the District Attorney’s team. I spent a lot of my time in law school in a nonstop puddle of anxiety, and he not only supported me through it, but he also put in a good word to the DA to give me a chance. It took a year and a half of interning before I got a job.”

Yancy stares at you as the two of you head for the yard. “Thought youse weren’t good at makin’ acquaintances.”

“I’m not,” you confirm. “But Damien is. He saw a lonely, cranky person who came from nothing and decided that person was worth getting to know. I didn’t trust it for a while, but eventually...I did.”

“How?” The pain in his tone throws you for a loop and breaks your heart at the same time. “How do youse trust that someone won’t leave you behind?”

You look at him. Hopefully he won’t interpret the sympathy in your face as pity. You heard that the last person who pitied him ended up bloody and bruised in the infirmary. 

“It...it takes a while. I’ve had a lifetime of experience with people leaving me behind in some way or another. I’ve only been able to really trust three people: my parents and Damien. There’s an element of...taking a leap of faith, when it comes to trusting someone. And I’ve hit the ground hard in the past.”

“What makes youse so sure you won’t hit the ground again?” Yancy challenges, insistent.

“I’m not.” You sigh and look out at the prisoners mingling in the yard. Yancy’s gang is in the corner, laughing and pushing playfully at each other. “But Damien’s been there for me for years. And...I realized how exhausted I made myself, waiting for him to let me down. But he doesn’t ask for my trust, doesn’t ask for me to give more of myself than I’m willing to give. He just...accepts me for who I am. Same with my mom. There’s not much more I can ask for than that.” 

You glance at Yancy out of the corner of your eye and pretend not to notice how misty-eyed he looks. “It’s hard to give yourself to other people. Especially if you’re used to relying on yourself. I have to say, though...I can’t regret finally letting someone in.”

Yancy doesn’t look at you. Probably doesn’t even realize you’re looking at him. Doesn’t realize what you’re saying.

I was you, once. Distrusting and isolated. Ready to leave people before they could leave me. I still am, in some ways. And that’s okay. It doesn’t make you broken. Just lonely. And you don’t have to be lonely if you don’t want to be.

“Yeah, well,” Yancy sniffles. Once again, you pretend not to notice. “That’s all well and good until it’s too late.”

You finally turn to him, the bitter sadness in his tone chipping at your chest, but when you reach out to comfort him, somehow, he pulls away and scurries back into the prison.

You can’t help but feel like you’re missing something important.

---

The fact that you don’t learn the reason behind Yancy’s imprisonment until you’ve been in jail for almost four weeks is impressive, honestly. 

No one is willing to talk about it. Not that Yancy is secretive. He’s blatant about so many of his crimes, from the murderous kind all the way to the not-so-harmful loitering kind, but funnily enough, Tiny is the one who finally clues you in when the two of you are alone in the kitchen together. Apparently Yancy thinks it’s for the best to have your inmate protection detail extend to your job, so Tiny has switched from laundry to dishes with you.

“He killed his parents,” Tiny tells you. “His dad was a piece of work, a total dick. Not sure about his mom, but...I don’t think she was supposed to die. I think she was collateral damage. It was a pretty bad situation. Not that he’ll ever admit that. It’s bad for his reputation in here if he’s seen as anything but the cold bastard who murdered his own parents.”

That...that makes a tragic amount of sense. (For all the other unfortunate happenings in your life, at least you had loving parents. Well, one of them. The other wound up six feet under far too soon than he deserved. But Dad was good to you while you were alive, and you never stopped missing his embrace.)

Tiny tugs on your collar until you’re nose to nose with her. “I wouldn’t mention that to him, you hear me? The boss gets really intense about his parents. It’s not pretty.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“And if you tell him I’m the one who spilled the beans, I’ll cut you myself.”

“My lips are sealed.”

She nods and releases your shirt.

You keep to your word and don’t mention your newfound information about the most important inmate in Happy Trails Penitentiary. But the information stays in the back of your mind.

You’ve already written up a mental list of things to do when you get out of here. Now you’ve definitely got one more thing, placed below improving the meals here in Happy Trails and getting that library implemented:

Find out what happened with Yancy and his family.

---

The prison mattress is not comfortable. At all. Most of your nights for the first few weeks involve staring at the springs of the top bunk and willing yourself to sleep.

At least Heap-Ass came through on the items you asked for. He slipped a bundle of ballpoint pens and paper under your pillow sometime when you weren’t in your cell. All it cost was six packs of cigarettes you’ve been hoarding. (It’s a good thing you don’t smoke, otherwise this form of currency would be much harder for you to handle.) Your lists are far more coherent, less smudgy, and less ink-splattered.

It takes about five weeks as well, since your arrival, to finally hear back from the state legislature about getting an expanded library collection. 

You’re summoned to the mail room by an equally eager Rex and grin like an idiot at the sight of four large boxes. Rex tears one open with extreme prejudice and the two of you stare in giddy delight at the books inside. You go for another box to open. 

“Is my poetry in there?!” Rex demands as you start sorting through the pile until you find the letter included with the packages.

“I’ve been asked to please stop my letter campaign,” you report to Rex. “And to stop heavily implying that I know enough dirty secrets to get some of them thrown out of the office, or at least in the tabloids for a few months.”

“Damn, Eagle,” yes, apparently the guards have picked up your nickname too, “you’re fearless, aren’t you?”

“They sure are,” Yancy declares upon his sudden entrance in the room. “So we got ourselves an expansion, huh?”

You victoriously hold up a copy of the Velveteen Rabbit. “I can’t wait to see Tiny’s face when she gets this.” You gesture at one of the still unopened boxes. “See if you find anything you like, Yancy.”

“What about my poetry?!”

“No worries, Rex!” You gather a pile into your hands and scan the spines. “Looks like we’ve got Pablo Neruda, T.S. Eliot, Yeats, oh!” Your grin stretches into something even brighter. “We got Langston Hughes and Edna St. Vincent Millay!” You pull out the Langston Hughes collection. “I wonder if I can talk them into sending over Lola Ridge next…”

“Wait, what?” Yancy steps up and pulls a copy of The Sun Also Rises from the box to examine. “Youse want more?”

“This is just the beginning, Yancy.” You take a moment to flip through the Langston Hughes book. “I’m hoping to get an actual library here, not just a bigger book cart or closet.” A page title catches your attention and you stop to read the contents:

“Hold fast to dreams

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams go

Life is a barren field

Frozen with snow.”

You don’t realize how quiet the room has become until you mutter the last word. You look up and realize your little reading attracted the attention of passing inmates and a few guards. Rex is looking into the distance with a dreamy, glazed look, the Pablo Neruda collection clutched to his chest. 

Yancy, meanwhile, is staring at you like he’s never seen you before. “What...what was that?”

You flash the book cover at him. “It’s called ‘Dreams.’ It’s one of my favorite poems.” When he doesn’t stop staring, you hand him the book and return to your pile. “I don’t read Langston Hughes all the time, but he’s definitely someone people should be familiar with.”

“Why’s that?”

“There are plenty of renowned old-ass white male writers,” you respond. “People should be just as familiar with the ones who aren’t white. Or male.”

Yancy shakes his head. He still looks rather wrong-footed. “I’ll take youse’s word for it.”

He says that, but that evening, while you’re once again trying to fall asleep while every spring of the mattress presses into your back, Yancy’s head pops down again and he drops a book onto your lap. It’s a book of Yeats poetry.

“Read it.”

“I have, Yancy--”

“Out loud,” he clarifies. After a beat of you giving him a stern Look, he tacks on, “Please?”

A tender smile grows on your face, while your mind ponders on how the hell you’ve gotten to the point in your life where you’re going to read poetry out loud to the most feared man in the prison. And how you’ve gotten to the point where you can demand he speak to you more politely than he deigns to others.

“Um...was there any in particular you wanted me to read?” you ask when he disappears into his bunk again.

“Dealer’s choice, Eagle.”

You flip through the pages until you find “Reconciliation.” Before you start reading you find yourself muttering, “Life is already so goddamn weird.”

“Some may have blamed you that you took away

The verses that could move them on the day

When, the ears being deafened, the sight of the eyes blind

With lightning, you went from me, and I could find

Nothing to make a song about but kings…”

The consistent mutterings echoing in the hallways quiet down as you read. If this kind of undivided attention keeps up every time you read out loud, it’ll get you spoiled for when (not if) you get back to the DA’s office.

“...My barren thoughts have chilled me to the bone.”

“...I don’t understands all of it,” Yancy says suddenly, when you finish. “But youse make it sound nice.”

“If it helps,” you reassure, “I don’t always read poetry for the deeper meanings. It gets exhausting analyzing literature. Sometimes it’s good to just read for enjoyment. Comfort.”

“...got any others in that book youse’s fond of?”

“Yeah, do another one, Eagle!” shouts Shithole Hank from three cells down. 

“Speak up! We can barely hear you out here!” Jimmy joins in.

Jesus Christ, you’re going to get even less sleep than usual at this rate. “Okay, fine. What about ‘When You Are Old’?” 

To your surprise, Rex is the one who answers back. “That’s a good one!”

Why am I more accepted in a goddamn prison than my own workplace? Maybe better not to read too much into that one.

You clear your throat and start reading again. 

“When you are old and grey and full of sleep, 

And nodding by the fire, take down this book, 

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look,  

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep…” 

---

Link to Chapter 4 here!

Thank you for reading! Please relbog/comment! If you want to be tagged/untagged for the rest of this series or this pairing, please leave a message in my inbox!

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[reach4themoon]

Ep 2: Seonghwa

↠ Genre: Mystery Thriller (occasional horror themes)

↠ Warnings: Trapped, loss of memories, screaming, handcuffs

↠ Disclaimer: This is purely fictional, the characters portrayed are not what the idols are like in real life.

↠ Episode 1 Choice: Hongjoong discovers Seonghwa within the first room

Seonghwa woke up with his ears ringing, he was laying on a lush queen-sized bed with the frame holding up matching red and ivory curtains. Pulling himself into a sitting position, he finally noticed his left arm was numb from laying on it and his wrist was cuffed to the black wooden bed frame. He hissed, tugging his wrist a few times before looking around.

The room was littered with newspapers all within the same year of each other and over the same topic of a series of murder taking place, the bedside table was made of black walnut with a single bracelet resting atop. With just the few pieces of furniture the room seemed bare compared to it’s large size and judging from the two separate entry ways it wasn’t meant to be a bedroom.

He tried to get off the bed only for his arm to burn as the cuff pulled his wrist, resulting in him glaring at the metal restraint as thoughts swirled in his mind over what to do. ‘Maybe the key is on the bed.’ He thought to himself, quickly removing the pillows and blankets in hope.

During his search he could hear the screeching of what sounded like metal, he shivered as chills ran through his body. The thought of someone else, possibly his captor, still around and roaming the building brought anxiety to him. He had to hurry.

Without much thought to the sharp tingles in his arm, he reached for the table and struggled to open the first drawer. “The key has to be in there.” His voice sounded hoarse out loud, reminding him of the amount of time he must have been here.

He continued reaching, stretching as far as he could, and just as he grabbed the knob he heard a soft beep followed with a click and the door opening. Fear surged through him, his adrenaline telling him to run yet he could barely defend himself with one arm pinned.

“Who are you?” The familiar voice shocked him but did nothing to ease his mind. Turning his head to peek over his shoulder, he noticed a shorter boy with a sand colored mullet and dressed in all black. He could see the curiosity and fear swirling in his dark orbs, something wasn’t right about it, shouldn’t Seonghwa be the afraid?

“I should be asking you that, seeing as you kidnapped me.” The harsh words only surprised the man and instead brought a small smile.

“I’m not your kidnapper, I don’t even know where we are right now.” Seonghwa watched cautiously as he moved forward, hesitantly grabbing the bed frame.

“Okay, what if I help you out of the handcuffs and we both can work together to leave? That way we can both get out of here- you’ll know I didn’t do this and maybe I can remember what happened. Deal?” Something seemed so familiar about him, but Seonghwa couldn’t remember how they would know each other. The more he thought about it, the more he realized how little he could remember of his history as well, all the memories seemed blurred and voices muffled only leaving him with his name.

He wanted to reject the offer but right now it was his only option, work together or be stuck in this room forever.

“I’m Seonghwa.” He gave an awkward smile, holding up his left hand in a silent plea for help.

“Hongjoong. At least I think so.” Grinning, he moved to the bedside table and looked through the drawers to no luck.

Seonghwa awkwardly watched his new friend drop to the floor and search under the bed, “What do you mean you think so?”

“I can’t remember anything from before, the only indication I have of who I am is the creepy letters spelling Hongjoong in the room I woke up in.” After finding nothing, Hongjoong began to climb out from under the bed, whining as his head hit the frame on the way out.

“Were we drugged?” Seonghwa mumbled to himself, it seemed impossible for both of them to not remember anything.

Hongjoong shrugged, bending down to look through the newspapers. “Wonder how old these are, all of them seem to be about the same event.” Grabbing handfuls of them and shoving them to one side of the room until the cement floors were cleaned.

“Might be because of our location, but that’s not important. Let’s just focus on finding the key and getting out of here.” Seonghwa shifted in his spot, slowly realizing what’s happening.

“I don’t have any other ideas-” Hongjoong plopped down on the bed, pausing for a second before correcting himself. “I think I found your key.”

Following his line of sight, Seonghwa looked up to find a thin string swaying above them, the end knotted around a small key. Hongjoong slowly stood up on the bed, holding his arms out to steady himself before hopping a little and jumping as high as he could. The tip of his hand barely grazed the key and made it swing more, huffing Hongjoong continued to jump and barely touch it.

The sight of his shorter companion barely missing the key made him laugh, it was cute how frustrated he got over the inconvenience.

At the sound of his laughter, Hongjoong paused and glared at him. “You might be laughing now but when I say I can’t reach the key I’m sure you will be begging me to find another way.”

“You have to admit, it’s a little funny. I mean, we’re both stuck here with no idea what happened or where we are and you’re having to jump on a bed to reach a key that might unlock the handcuff.” The silence between them didn’t last long as they stared at each other, grins growing wider until finally a bubbling laughter filled the air.

It took several minutes before they were able to calm down, finally discussing other ways to reach the key. “How about you get on all fours and I’ll climb on your back?”

“You’re wanting me to break my back so you can get me out of this?” Seonghwa looked at him in disbelief. When he only nodded with a smile, Seonghwa sighed and carefully climbed on his hands and knees so that his wrist wouldn’t get hurt.

“Let me know if it hurts too much.” Hongjoong replied just before climbing on his back, slowly standing straight and steadying himself. The extra height gave him plenty of room to snatch it just before Seonghwa pushed him off and fall onto the bed.

As the two fell on the bed, it slammed against the wall, the sound resonating within the building and making both men cringe. “You trying to kill me?” Hongjoong glared at him, sitting up to hand over the key.

Seonghwa mumbled a quiet sorry before taking the key, quickly reaching to unlock the cuffs and smiling triumphantly when it works. “Now we just need to get out of here.” He climbed off the bed, rubbing his sore wrist as he walked towards the unopened door.

Just before he reached them, a scream broke through the air. “What was that!” Seonghwa’s question came out as a fearful statement, both of them looking at each other then to the open door his companion entered from.

“I don’t know, I don’t think we want to know either.” Hongjoong pushed passed Seonghwa, reaching for the doors.

~ Don’t forget to vote!!

What shall they do?

[soveryanon]

Reviewing time for MAG157! ;___;

- … I’d been making fun of the fact that The Corruption was the unloved Fear of season 4, since we hadn’t had any statement since MAG103… and consecutively, we got a small talk about Jane Prentiss at the end of MAG152, a Corruption statement in MAG153, and now… another one, which dealt with an identified avatar, and was, I felt, the most gruesome Corruption one we ever had. Somethingsomething about how season 4 is the “be careful what you wish for” season, uh. (Well. You never wish for a Corruption statement, you mostly note that there hasn’t been one for a while.)

Jon was suspecting that Jane Prentiss’s attack on the Institute had been a ritual attempt:

(MAG152) ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] … It’s all that left of her now. Apart from a… jar of ashes in my desk. Just a circle of rotten stone on an otherwise… unremarkable wall. HELEN: More of a legacy than some people get. ARCHIVIST: … It was meant to be a gate, I think. A hole that she… rotted into The Corruption itself. Maybe the start of a ritual. HELEN: Hm. Not exactly impressive, is it? ARCHIVIST: Less complex, certainly. But I think that’s the thing about– … what did Elias call it… “Filth”. I don’t think it really plans much. It just starts to grow wherever it can get a foothold and… if no one stomps it out in time: Game Over. […] I’ve been wondering what they were doing down here.

And it’s a bit terrifying to think that technically, Jane Prentiss was quite… low scale, in the harm she did during the attack on the Institute, compared to what we saw in “Love Bombing” (a whole cult minus one getting eradicated) and Amherst’s actions (contaminating the entirety of Ivy Meadows, and it probably could have spread through Nicole Baxter if she hadn’t lost/cut her hand, and eradicating the entire population of Klanxbüll):

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “I knew at that moment that there was nothing that could be done to save the town. […] I found the source of this sickness in the Parkplatz opposite the train station. The cars had been pushed to the side, clearly at great cost to the bodies of those that pushed them. And in the centre was a figure from whom the rot clearly flowed. He was sat upon a most dreadful throne, formed from a dozen, two dozen bodies mixed together like putty, eyes staring out like horror-stricken stars twinkling in the night – and their hearts beating for all to see. A moaning came from that awful seat, voices trying to scream through things that weren’t their throat – and it is a sound I shall be glad to leave behind me when I go to my rest.”

What kind of music was Amherst hearing in his dreams, to go for mass-damage like this every few years? Ivy Meadows happened during summer 2011 or 2012 (dates were a bit inconsistent in MAG036 itself, Elias said in June 2017 that it had been “five years” since the death of Melanie’s father), Amherst’s actions in Klanxbüll happened in 2013, that’s… such a short span to cause so much damage… ;; Really hoping that this concrete lasts forever ;;

- Chronology time, regarding Adelard’s actions since we began hearing about him in season 2:

* 06/02/1991 or 06/07/1991: Adelard had left a statement about the “NotThem”, calling it as such. Although it was referenced in MAG077, Jon explained in MAG078 that he had found another statement in the file:

(MAG077) GERTRUDE: Based on the interactions and effects, I suspect this to be the creature that Adelard Dekker refers to as the “NotThem” in statement 9910607. […] Based on Dekker’s statement, it would seem Polaroids are also relatively stable.

(MAG078) ARCHIVIST: I found this in the folder marked 9910602, where Gertrude’s tape had indicated I would find the statement of Dekker himself. There is nothing else in there, but I think it tells me what I need to know. This thing, this… “Not Sasha”… it’s tied to the table.

(… With an inconsistency regarding the month. Either Gertrude messed up (unlikely.), either Jonny messed up, either Jon messed up in his panic and fortunately still found a Not!Them-related statement despite going for the wrong file with the wrong month.)

* Sometime between 1991 and 1996 (since Eric knew Elias but didn’t know he had become Head before his own quitting&getting murdered): Adelard was identifiable as Gertrude’s collaborator and, amongst other things, threw a “screaming box” in the Thames:

(MAG154) ERIC: She never played dumb when I was stalked by bloated, blood-sucking things, or told me I was “imagining it” when I saw your friend Adelard drop a screaming box into the Thames.

* 04/11/1996: Gertrude recorded Lucy Cooper’s statement (given in September 1994) about the Not!Them taking her mother’s place. In her Final Comments, she mentioned a statement previously left by Adelard:

(MAG077) GERTRUDE: Based on the interactions and effects, I suspect this to be the creature that Adelard Dekker refers to as the “NotThem” in statement 9910607. If the pattern of behaviour is consistent with what he establishes, then further follow-up on this case is pointless: the thing has finished with the Cooper family and will not be revisiting them. It rarely seems to stay in the same place or with the same people for long, though it’s hard to guess at its motives. Personally, I suspect it to be an aspect of The Stranger, though that’s entirely conjecture at this point. […] It is at least reassuring to know that magnetic tape seems to escape being overwritten, so if I get changed, you can be sure this is my real voice. Based on Dekker’s statement, it would seem Polaroids are also relatively stable.

* Shortly before 12/06/2001: Lawrence Moore’s statement described Adelard Dekker, binding the Not!Them to the Web table which had previously been in Raymond Fielding’s ownership at Hill Top Road until the 70s. We don’t know how Adelard acquired the table, nor what happened to explain that he left without it and that Breekon&Hope were the ones to retrieve it afterwards:

(MAG078, Lawrence Moore) “He was black, dressed in a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a thin necktie. For a moment I had the idea he might be a Jehovah’s Witness, but one look at his face dispelled that idea immediately. It was hard and stern, set in look of determination, and his short hair was iron grey. He was very thin, with aging skin stretched tight over wiry, corded muscle, and though he was slightly shorter than I was, it seemed like he towered over me. He asked if I knew the man who had left my house earlier that evening. […] At this, the old man’s eyes lit up with excitement, and I took an involuntary step back. If he noticed, he didn’t show it, walking past me into the house and ordering me to get any photos that hadn’t changed. […] He told me his name was Adelard Dekker, and that he was an exorcist, of sorts. […] Adelard Dekker stood in the corner. He was straight and motionless, his lips moving rapidly, though no sound came out of them. In the centre of the room, next to the empty box, stood a table carved from dark wood and wrapped all over with a sprawling, intricate pattern. And in front of that table was the thing that had said it was my cousin. It was long and thin, the tops of it bent against the ceiling and its stick-like limbs flailed from too many joints and elbows. Wrapped around it were thick strands of what I think was spider’s web, stretching back into the table, which I now saw pulsed along its carved channels with a sickly light. The face at the top of that gangly frame was like nothing on earth. […] I didn’t return to my house until the next morning. Dekker’s blue van was gone, and in its place was another one, dirty white. There was something printed on the side, but I couldn’t make it out under the grime. I watched two men in overalls carry that same box out of my house, load it up, and drive away. That was about two months ago, and it was the last time I saw them, the table, Adelard Dekker or the thing that wasn’t my cousin.”

(MAG079) NOT!SASHA: Once upon a time there was a monster, but no one realised. Sometimes someone did and then they were scared, so that was good. But one day a nasty man came along. A nasty man who tricked the monster and wrapped it all in webs and tied it to a table. So the monster got its friends to carry the table all around, and it still got to take faces and scare people.

* 22/01/2006: Adelard sent a letter to Gertrude regarding Garland Hillier’s disappearance in 1867 (the year of Robert Smirke’s death…) and describing Bernadette Delcour’s discovery of his old sealed flat, leading to an encounter with the Inheritors from The Extinction.

(MAG134, Adelard Dekker) “Sorry I can’t be there in person to go over all this with you. I still have a few things to clear off over here, but I thought it would be best to let you know as soon as possible. I am now certain my theory is correct: there is something new emerging. A fifteenth Power. […] Now I know what you’re going to say, Gertrude: odd doors are signs of The Spiral, empty worlds tend towards The Lonely, and eschatology is almost literally the study of The End. But this is different. I feel it. This Fear is new. This is a fear of extinction. Of change. It used to be part of The End, perhaps, when The End of humanity was to be the end of all things; but now, the fear is not of a rapture or a revelation; it is of catastrophic change. A change in our world that will wipe out what it means to be “us”, and leave something else in its place. […] These are new fears, Gertrude, and a new Power is rising to consume them. The Extinction. The Terrible Change. The-Future-Without-Us. […] I know you don’t credit my theories, and I’m sure you’ll have plenty to say on this one, but I’m going to need your help with this at some point – I’m sure of it. I don’t know how you can stop the birth of something that has no life, or mind, or… substance, but if anyone can figure it out, it’s you. I’ve never met anyone so gifted at understanding that… strange, dream logic of the Fears, and if what I suspect about this new Power is true, it could be catastrophic. Until then, I’ll keep searching for evidence, trying to find… instances and manifestations of The Extinction. I’ll keep you updated.”

* October 2008: Dekker had helped Gertrude stop The Flesh’s ritual – suggesting she use explosives? Providing them? Helping her set them up in the gnostic church?

(MAG130) GERTRUDE: When I heard there’d been survivors of “The Last Feast”, I was rather concerned that one of them might be able to positively identify me, [CHUCKLE] which could land me in all sorts of trouble! But she doesn’t seem to remember me at all. […] Dekker really came through with the explosives! It almost felt like cheating. Sad about the loss of history but Miss Wright didn’t seem to think the old Gnostic church got many visitors anyway. […] At least we know for sure that these “grand rituals” can be disrupted by conventional means, though a more… nuanced approach will be needed for some of them, I’m sure. Also… I can’t rely on having this much lead time.

* 04/01/2009: Adelard sent a letter to Gertrude describing an unnamed man’s experience in the Bright Lake amusement park in Colorado, with something Adelard identified as an Extinction occurrence.

(MAG156, Adelard Dekker) “Gertrude; I wanted your opinion on an encounter I’ve had described to me recently, and given your recent dealing with Viscera, I would very much value your input. Good job on that, by the way […]. So: what are your thoughts? I’m keen to hear your own interpretation of this account. My first assumption would have been The Flesh, based on the cannibalism and strangeness of the bodies involved, but… something about this idea of some sort of “famine world”, its location within a made-man ruin, the whole… societal aspect of it… I’d be inclined to chalk this up as a genuine Extinction manifestation. But I don’t know. Am I drawing wild conclusions, trying to fit the account into my own preconceptions? Keen to know your feelings on the matter.”

(* 03/10/2009: Gary Boylan gave his statement to the Institute, about the destruction of his village following a signal he had deciphered. No mention of Adelard Dekker in the notes.)

* Undated letter, likely circa 2012: Adelard sent a statement to Gertrude about an avatar of The End encountered when he was tracking The Extinction (without naming it), through a string of people dying by carbon monoxide poisoning in their sleep. Adelard also mentioned that Gertrude had asked him to move out some plastic explosives (he hadn’t been her provider, Gertrude had got them elsewhere).

(MAG113, Adelard Dekker) “I was pursuing my researches into the new emergence I mentioned earlier. I know you are dismissive of the possibility, but if I’m right, the sudden urgency of these “immediate dangers” you are so focused on could very well be a direct result. But that’s for another day, as this particular instance turned out to be unconnected. The point is, I was alerted to a series of deaths by a coroner friend of mine. […] I don’t know if my little “theoretical” is strong enough yet to start taking avatars, but this one, as you’ve no doubt guessed, turned out to be Terminus.”

* 13/05/2013: Judith O’Neill gave her statement about (mostly) unmoving creatures made of garbage, killing a researcher. Judith had been explicitly sent by Adelard:

(MAG149) MARTIN: There’s… hum, a, a note here as well. [PAPER RUSTLING] Looks like Gertrude’s handwriting? Start of a letter to… Dekker, thanking him for sending Judith to her, though… it doesn’t look like it was ever finished or sent. [PAPER RUSTLING] I assume this is another one he was trying to use to prove The Extinction? It… certainly has something in it. Mankind’s trash giving rise to something terrible. And again, fear of the other, inanimate humanoid figures. That’s all very… Stranger, isn’t it?

* Before August 2013: Adelard had apparently been the one to suggest explosives to disrupt The Unknowing. Gertrude made the following comment on 09/10/2014:

(MAG137) GERTRUDE: Another one to cross off the list. Doesn’t help with The Unknowing, though. [HEAVY SIGH] We still have Dekker’s back-up plan, of course, but… it’s very risky. To be sure, I–I think the detonation would need to happen from within The Unknowing, while it was going on.

* 14/08/2013: Adelard Dekker sent an email to Gertrude regarding his suspicion about an Extinction activity in the town of Klanxbüll, which turned out to be the work of John Amherst, from The Corruption. Adelard was poisoned during the fight, and told Gertrude what had happened and how he was choosing to die, ultimately expressing doubts about the reality or the shape of The Extinction:

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “You must forgive me, Gertrude, for any typing and spelling errors that might be in this message. My hands are shaking quite badly and my fingers… aren’t what they were. […] But I shall not wait for it to putrefy as the rot overtakes me. I have dragged those other afflicted I could find into the Parkplatz, laid them at the feet of that appalling throne, and… taken the last gifts of that… generous construction site: a dozen cans of petrol. I will sit upon that seat, and release these poor souls from their suffering. [INHALE] And hopefully make things simpler, for the ECDC clean-up crews. But it did not seem quite right to leave without letting you know what happened. And… Herr [Becker?] was kind enough to succumb to the sickness without signing out of his computer, so… perhaps you were right about The Extinction. I’ve been hunting it for decades now, and… while I have seen evidence of its influence in other Powers, I have never found anything to genuinely prove its emergence as a true Power of its own. Perhaps it is an existential fear that flows through the others like a vein of ore; or perhaps the birth of such things is longer and more complicated than I believed.  For all that though, I cannot regret the time I have spent seeking it. I have done my duty; and none may ask more of me.”

So… although he sounds absolutely dead-dead, I don’t think this is the last we’re hearing from Adelard. I guess it could be possible that he had just left the Web table binding the Not!Them behind him around 2001 (though quite uncharacteristic), but we’re still missing his statement from 1991, and given that Jon had acknowledged that he hadn’t found Dekker’s own statement, I think it’s safe to assume that we could be hearing about it later (in season 5? Or in MAG160, as a “closure” to Dekker’s own story and investigations, since he was quite important through season 4?), in a written statement or through a recording with Gertrude.

- I’m a bit interrogative about the way Adelard mentioned his investigations regarding The Extinction:

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “… perhaps you were right about The Extinction. I’ve been hunting it for decades now, and… while I have seen evidence of its influence in other Powers, I have never found anything to genuinely prove its emergence as a true Power of its own. Perhaps it is an existential fear that flows through the others like a vein of ore; or perhaps the birth of such things is longer and more complicated than I believed. ”

Because the earliest he tried to summarise and essentialise what he felt was the New Power, labelling it “The Extinction”, was in 2006 (MAG134), so only seven years before his death. Was he exaggerating when he said “decades”? Or will we learn more about his genesis, as an addendum, and it was truly a long-time conviction / a dissatisfaction with Smirke’s categorisation? I had already noticed that it was strange (ha) that, although the Not!Them presented itself as a creature from The Stranger (or at least allied to it), the earliest things we know about Adelard was that he was after it… when his description of The Extinction feels very close to some of the Not!Them’s effects (although in lower scales, for the latter); so maybe he had trouble categorising the Not!Them, back then, hence his conviction that a New Power might have been emerging…? Adelard also used some of the names inherited from Smirke’s work:

(MAG113, Adelard Dekker) “There was… an inevitability to his movements, and I think that is when I realised he was simply serving The End, which I won’t pretend wasn’t a disappointment.”

(MAG134, Adelard Dekker) “Now I know what you’re going to say, Gertrude: odd doors are signs of The Spiral, empty worlds tend towards The Lonely, and eschatology is almost literally the study of The End. But this is different. I feel it.”

(MAG156, Adelard Dekker) “So: what are your thoughts? I’m keen to hear your own interpretation of this account. My first assumption would have been The Flesh, based on the cannibalism and strangeness of the bodies involved, but…”

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “I’ve spoken before about how keenly I have watched news of possible pandemics, which is where I suspect The Extinction may pull away from The Corruption during its emergence. […] So, it seemed it was not The Extinction as I had anticipated but simply a new and awful strain of Corruption.”

But he was also occasionally labelling them in unique ways:

(MAG113, Adelard Dekker) “I don’t know if my little “theoretical” is strong enough yet to start taking avatars, but this one, as you’ve no doubt guessed, turned out to be Terminus.”

(MAG156, Adelard Dekker) “I wanted your opinion on an encounter I’ve had described to me recently, and given your recent dealing with Viscera, I would very much value your input.”

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “I have spoken to you before of Christabel, my… contact within the ECDC. She had a run-in with the Crawling Rot some decades ago, and has since then kept me up to date with any incidents they have encountered which display “unusual” properties.”

(Though that last one was also used by Arthur Nolan in MAG145: “Found a mass of the Crawling Rot growing, a while back. Managed to get a hold of the property before it became too big. Gotta wait ‘til it blossoms before we can properly burn it.”)

It is curious that, of all people, we didn’t get Adelard’s story of his first few years, how he came in contact with the Powers, with Gertrude, why/how he came to tracking down avatars, so I think there is a good chance we could get a statement about it, indeed. After all, we keep hearing stories of/from people who have been dead for a while; what I’m curious is when/how it could be done in a way that would “add” something else to the current storyline, if we’re done with The Extinction after the season 4 finale…? (Unless we aren’t.) Or it could be about categorising, or the concept of “Faith” against the Fears, I guess.

- There is something heart-breaking putting together his ways of addressing Gertrude in his messages:

(MAG134, Adelard Dekker) “Gertrude; Sorry I can’t be there in person to go over all this with you. I still have a few things to clear off over here, but I thought it would be best to let you know as soon as possible. […] I’ll keep you updated. Stay safe. Adelard.”

(MAG156, Adelard Dekker) “Gertrude; I wanted your opinion on an encounter I’ve had described to me recently, and given your recent dealing with Viscera, I would very much value your input. Good job on that, by the way; I’m sure the gnostic temple was a great loss culturally speaking, but I can’t help but admire your directness when it comes to dealing with this sort of thing. […] So: what are your thoughts? I’m keen to hear your own interpretation of this account. […] Keen to know your feelings on the matter. […] Oh – one more thing: if you do try to follow up with my source – and I know you have your own ways of finding him should you wish – please be careful. He told me, near the end, that he had recently been worried he was being followed. He keeps catching glimpses of a thin figure in the distance, or disappearing around a corner, and I can’t quite get past the detail that there was no reflection at all in the mirror he used to return. If my suspicions are correct, there’s little either of us could do for him; but do take care, should you make contact.”

(MAG113, Adelard Dekker) “Gertrude; It should all be here, though god knows I was tempted to take a block for myself just in case. […] Anyway, you owe me a favour. And… maybe another one once you read this. It might come to nothing, but it’s something you should probably be aware of. […] I’m sure you can take care of yourself, of course, but I thought it would be worth letting you know. Good luck, Gertrude. And enjoy the fireworks.”

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “You must forgive me, Gertrude, for any typing and spelling errors that might be in this message. […] This is the last time you will hear from me. You must trust me on that and not come looking. Not that you would; I know you’re too smart for sentimentality, especially after what I have to tell you, but I feel it worth saying nonetheless. […] I’ve wondered, Gertrude, whether you are truly as fearless as you seem; or if you are simply a master of disguising your terror…! I suppose I’ll never have a chance to find out. I rather hope it was the former. However much I disagree with some of your methods, it feels good to believe there are people in this world who can stare down the devil without flinching. […] But it did not seem quite right to leave without letting you know what happened. And… Herr [Becker?] was kind enough to succumb to the sickness without signing out of his computer, so… […] I am proud of the work we have done, and it has been an honour to do it alongside you. Goodbye, Gertrude. May you find your rest where no shadows are cast… and no eyes may see you slumber.”

Politely beginning all his letters with “Gertrude”, except for the last one, which began with apologies. Ending each ones with little words of encouragements and concern (“Stay safe”, “do take care”, “good luck”)… up until that “goodbye” in the last one.

Something that MAG157 put into a new perspective, too: in MAG137, Gertrude had mentioned “Adelard’s back-up plan” to thwart The Unknowing. That recording had happened in October 2014; Adelard had been dead for more than a year at this point. When she sighed right before mentioning him, was it only a pragmatic sigh, linked to the fact that she was a bit at a loss to counter The Stranger? Or was it also because she had lost her closest ally, and someone she had been seeing as a friend despite herself, and who wasn’t there anymore…?

(And in the end, Gertrude didn’t have the time to stop The Unknowing and to follow through with Adelard’s plan. Jon, Tim and the others followed in her footsteps and, without knowing, also in Adelard’s, accomplishing the plans of two dead people…)

(- There is still The Mystery Of Gertrude’s Death and thinking again about MAG113 made me realise that, UHOH???

(MAG113, Adelard Dekker) “Anyway, you owe me a favour. And… maybe another one once you read this. It might come to nothing, but it’s something you should probably be aware of. […] I cannot make any guarantees Justin Gough will remain in the state I left him. And it seems that, as he deals in dreams, it may be worth your while to keep an eye on the statements you take, in case he finds his way here. I’m sure you can take care of yourself, of course, but I thought it would be worth letting you know.” […] ARCHIVIST: This was found tucked into a hard case containing… many blocks of plastic explosive, kept by Gertrude Robinson in a storage unit that I can only assume has… extremely lax oversight. It is unclear if she ever read it. […] I know there are more important things to be doing, but I did ask Basira to have a quick search for Justin Gough, see what might have happened to him. There are records of his residence in an East London care facility until 2015, when he disappears from their records. Several deaths among the staff apparently occurred at roughly the same time. And it will come as no surprise that the inquest returned a verdict of carbon monoxide poisoning in each case. I’m not too concerned, to be honest, my dreams are, uh... well, let’s just say I don’t think they're going be letting anyone else in any time soon.

… Adelard had explicitly warned her about an avatar from The End who dealt with dreams, who went loose again in 2015.

… And Jon wasn’t sure that Gertrude had read this message.

… And in March 2015, Oliver, End-touched person, soon to become avatar, had described his own dreams of Gertrude, terrified, being the target of the vines usually announcing people’s death…

We know that Gertrude didn’t die when she should have (she was still alive in April 2015, if she didn’t lie on the date), and Elias confessed to her murder, and she had plain mundane bullets in her body… But it’s actually extreeeemely suspicious that Justin Gough escaped the year she died? Was The End involved in her death a bit more actively than just through Oliver’s visions…? Or was Oliver’s vision the fate awaiting her if Justin had managed to kill her?)

- One Nice Thing (aesthetically) is that I really experienced Adelard’s realisation right along with him? I assumed that the town was under a new Extinction threat, assumed we were on the verge of meeting our first Extinction avatar… and then, as Adelard already introduced the idea that he had been Wrong and began describing the cause of the town’s downfall, I suddenly realised that OH NO, LANKY AND BROWN COAT, IS THAT–

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “No pale spectre in a lab coat, or twisted golem of petri dishes and test tubes. No; he was… lanky, wearing an ill-fitting brown suit and a smile. I’d never previously had the misfortune to meet him, but I knew the description well enough to recognise John Amherst.”

… and it was.

(MAG036, Nicole Baxter) “The door to the reception opened, and a tall man stepped out. He was rail thin and wore a faded brown suit that seemed to have been cut for a much fatter man. His eyes were a watery blue and his dark hair stood on top of his head in an unruly mess. He must have been around forty, but had a nervous sort of energy to him.”

(MAG055) JORDAN: He was tall, maybe 6ft5? But it was hard to be sure of his shape inside the huge, brown suit he was wearing.

(Extra funny thing is that “ill-fitting brown suit” + “a John” also feels really close to how Jon probably looks like from the outside.)

- I’m so sad for Adelard, but also so proud of him in a way?! It’s a really strange feeling because we’ve never heard him live (so far?), but he was still a reassuring figure in some way. I was anticipating that he could have snapped, because I Remember Oliver, but no: although he was giving up pretty fast when it came to saving their potential victims, Adelard was simply someone who would fight what he identified as evil, putting his life on the line when it came to stopping threatening avatars. It’s interesting to compare what we heard of him with Gertrude: Adelard was firm, a bit callous at time, but not keen on sacrificing people to reach his goals, and was personally involving himself in the cases he was investigating… to the cost of his own life, as it happened in MAG157. (So it was not “like Oliver”, it was “like Gerry”. If you like a character, and you feel like they could be helpful/do some good: either they’ve turned into a monster since then, either they’re dead. … Though, now: we… have no Characters Who Are Helping left still alive at the moment – hoping that it could mean that Team Archive will more or less try to go that way but ;; Not very optimistic about it.)

Adelard had expressed that he was afraid of the idea of dying in his sleep:

(MAG113, Adelard Dekker) “I’ll even make it a statement. Give your patron something to keep it satisfied. It’s not like I sleep enough to worry about dreams. […] It’s odd, isn’t it? Sleep. That you can never remember or fully pin down the exact moment you lose consciousness. Just lying there, waiting to find yourself in a dream without the first clue or interest in how or when you got there. Or to find your eyes closed and force them open to sunlight and morning, only realising that sleep has happened in retrospect. I wonder if… death is the same way? No clear dividing line, just… gone, only to realise after it’s happened, except for the fact that there isn’t an after. Is that a comforting thought or a terrifying one? Depends on who you are, I suppose. It bothered me when I was young. If I thought too hard about the concept of sleep, of exactly what it was, I would worry myself, and end up having to turn the light on, and read for an hour or two. Everyone always talks about how they want to die in their sleep, but honestly, I think that’s the death that scares me the most.”

So ;; Best outcome you can hope for really is dying on your own terms, uh. We got it with Tim, and Adelard got to face his own death awake, in a situation he chose to put himself in, also turning it in one last “good” action (putting an end to the suffering of the villagers who… indeed couldn’t be saved at this point):

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “This is the last time you will hear from me. […] Perhaps I’m simply prevaricating, trying to cling on to a few more precious minutes of life – but that’s not me. I know what awaits me, and must have no hesitation in going to my reward. [SCOFF] I know you’ve never had much patience for my faith, but perhaps it will provide you some small peace knowing I face my death gladly, knowing I have done my duty before God. […] For all that though, I cannot regret the time I have spent seeking it. I have done my duty; and none may ask more of me. I am proud of the work we have done, and it has been an honour to do it alongside you.”

“Faith” was present in more than one aspect in his last message: as his religion, which had driven him (and in hindsight, I realised that there had been a few words from that lexical field in his past statements) and in which he found comfort in his last moments; as his belief in Gertrude and their “work” together. And, in parallel, there was also a loss of faith, as he was hypothesising that he may have been wrong all along about The Extinction as a Fifteenth Power:

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “so… perhaps you were right about The Extinction. I’ve been hunting it for decades now, and… while I have seen evidence of its influence in other Powers, I have never found anything to genuinely prove its emergence as a true Power of its own.”

So, it was a bittersweet ending, but one that didn’t feel utterly crushing either. On the one hand, it’s still a death; it’s upsetting that Adelard died while neutralising a dangerous menace who had caused harm to many people, it’s sad that his death was caused from a Corruption avatar while Adelard had been running after The Extinction all this time – he did something brave and amazing in his last actions, but it would have had more meaning, for him, if it had been against The Extinction… and precisely, John Amherst was a tipping point making Adelard lose faith in his theory. But it’s still honourable, and fits Adelard well, as someone who made that world a bit less dark, who was keeping in mind circumstantial victims without always getting lost in the Big Plans and the Big Picture like Gertrude:

(MAG078, Lawrence Moore) “Then he instructed me to go to my bedroom, and not to leave until he told me it was safe. I did protest at that, and I asked him how my locking myself upstairs would help save Carl. There was no sympathy in his voice when he told me my cousin was dead, that nothing would bring him back, and that my best chance to not join him was to stay in the bedroom until everything was over. He did not seem inclined to tell me what he meant by “everything”.”

(MAG134, Adelard Dekker) “I may try to interview her again later, though I have my suspicions she may find herself disappearing. She has that… quality about her, I’m sure you know what I mean, o–of an unfinished meal. And I can only hope that when the second course starts, she can remember her way back to Garland Hillier’s apartment once more.”

(MAG156, Adelard Dekker) “… Anyway, I was following up on a young man who had apparently had a nasty experience whilst exploring the ruins of the Bright Lake amusement park in Colorado. You will forgive me if I withhold his name, as I have all the verification I need to be convinced he’s telling the truth, and I find it hard to believe any follow-up you’d be interested in doing would be beneficial for him. He’s earned his anonymity. […] He keeps catching glimpses of a thin figure in the distance, or disappearing around a corner, and I can’t quite get past the detail that there was no reflection at all in the mirror he used to return. If my suspicions are correct, there’s little either of us could do for him […].”

(MAG113, Adelard Dekker) “I think that is when I realised he was simply serving The End, which I won’t pretend wasn’t a disappointment. But still, I thought if I could deal with him and save a few lives, I might as well. […] I was not quick enough to save the man who lived in that house. Truth be told, I didn’t especially try. I didn’t think I would be able to move quick enough to do so, and was more concerned with being quiet and thorough. […] I knew it wouldn’t kill him, he’s too far from human for me to do so, but I thought that scrambling his brain a bit was probably my best bet. And I was right, as far as it goes. He survived what I did to him, and when the police picked him up after an ‘anonymous tip’ about a break-in, he was barely able to speak, and I very much hope I managed to sever his dreams.”

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “I knew at that moment that there was nothing that could be done to save the town. But I could perhaps identify the cause – and identify it I did. […] So, it seemed it was not The Extinction as I had anticipated but simply a new and awful strain of Corruption. Still. It was not something I felt I could leave to run its course unopposed. […] I have dragged those other afflicted I could find into the Parkplatz, laid them at the feet of that appalling throne, and… taken the last gifts of that… generous construction site: a dozen cans of petrol. I will sit upon that seat, and release these poor souls from their suffering. [INHALE] And hopefully make things simpler, for the ECDC clean-up crews.”

And it’s so soft that his last words were for Gertrude, not berating her, but almost… comforting her?

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “For all that though, I cannot regret the time I have spent seeking it. I have done my duty; and none may ask more of me. I am proud of the work we have done, and it has been an honour to do it alongside you. Goodbye, Gertrude. May you find your rest where no shadows are cast… and no eyes may see you slumber.”

(Wishing her the best, uh. I can read the mention of “shadows” as innocuous, but I also wonder if it might not be a direct reference to something of Gertrude’s personal history with The Dark?)

(- I also mean: gdi, what is it with season 4 and the way it’s offering me New Ships For Gertrude. We got Gertrude/Agnes, a bit of Web/Gertrude, I was wondering if she didn’t used to have some Feelings for Eric, now I’m REALLY digging Gertrude/Adelard, gdi.)

- Adelard died in August 2013, Gerry in late 2014. Gertrude had previously lost Michael sometime after late 2009 (MAG126 mentioned the upcoming “Great Twisting”), although in his case, she had minutely planned his sacrifice. I’m not sure Leitner was a good judge of character (was Leitner good at… anything.), but he had gotten the feeling that she was getting lonely:

(MAG080) LEITNER: I think she was lonely. I didn’t meet her until about six years ago, after she’d lost the last of her own assistants. She would mention them sometimes. I believe she missed having someone to talk to on occasion. ARCHIVIST: I… I didn’t know Gertrude had assistants. LEITNER: Of course. Three of them, each meeting an unpleasant end.

(During her last year, Leitner was apparently her last “ally”. That’s telling how low she was, and how bad the situation was, I guess.)

Those were rough years for Gertrude, uh? I wonder how much Adelard’s death impacted her – if she took it in stride, or if it almost made her crumble; they had been allied for at least twenty years, at this point, and it really sounded like she trusted him; there was a very specific enthusiasm when she mentioned the explosives stopping The Last Feast in MAG130?

… on the less bright side, I wonder if Adelard’s death was what pushed her to try and seek out Gerry? She had promised to find him in August 2008:

(MAG154) ERIC: I want you to find my son. If Mary is… if she’s gone, or worse… I want you to make sure he’s alright. GERTRUDE: [HUFF] I’m not exactly a mother figure. ERIC: You could hardly do worse than her. GERTRUDE: Fine. But I don’t know what growing up with Mary has done to him. If he’s… gone rotten, I can’t promise anything. ERIC: I understand. GERTRUDE: I suppose he might be useful. ERIC: Oh, sentimental as ever.

But we know she didn’t do it right away:

(MAG111) GERRY: In the end it was Gertrude who saved me. She came to me when I was desperate, nowhere to go, and she offered to help. […] I think you know the rest. I joined Gertrude’s work for a few years. Didn’t realise how ill I was until it finally caught up with me. Then I died.

Gerry mentioned that they had worked together for “a few years”, but Mary Keay ~died~ in 2008 according to MAG004 and haunted Gerry for “five years” according to him in MAG111, so that would put Gertrude finding him around 2013 – so, they worked together for a bit less than two years, before Gerry died. It could be that Adelard’s death was the reason why Gertrude finally decided to honour the promise she had made to Eric, and if so, yikes. Still utilitarian until the end, uh.

(Though: did Gerry remind her of Adelard, at least a bit, in the way he was waving his way through the Fears and neutralising supernatural occurrences and/or begrudgingly helping people to get out…?)

(- Adelard wondering about whether or not Gertrude felt fear reminded me of Arthur’s comment about it:

(MAG145) ARTHUR: [SCOFF] Yeah. … But you don’t actually care about Them, do you? […] All your energy is focused down here, on monsters and… murderers, and all the things doing the dirty work for Them Beyond. You know plenty, sure! But you don’t have that obsession, that stupid urge to try and understand and… classify things that use logic and reality like weapons. GERTRUDE: Hm. Per–perhaps. ARTHUR: [CHUCKLE] Always respected you for that. Takes a strong stomach to not give a shit. GERTRUDE: Eh! You’ll forgive me if I’m not overjoyed at the compliment?

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “I’ve wondered, Gertrude, whether you are truly as fearless as you seem; or if you are simply a master of disguising your terror…! I suppose I’ll never have a chance to find out. I rather hope it was the former. However much I disagree with some of your methods, it feels good to believe there are people in this world who can stare down the devil without flinching. [SHORT SNEER]”

And 1°) it obviously puts Georgie to mind, though in her case, her inability to feel fear was inflicted on her, and 2°) … Oliver had seen Gertrude terrorised in his dreams:

(MAG011, “Antonio Blake”) “Getting closer I realised that there was a person sitting at that desk and it was them that all of this scarlet light was flowing into. I could see none of the figure’s body beneath the flesh that enclosed them, but as I moved around I saw the face was uncovered. It was your face and the expression upon it was far more fearful than any I had seen in eight years of wandering this twilight city. That was when I awoke. […] If you do see this in time and read this far, then to be honest I don’t know what else to tell you. Be careful. There is something coming for you and I don’t know what it is, but it is so much worse than anything I can imagine. At the very least you should look into appointing a successor.”

… so I don’t think Gertrude couldn’t feel it, which means she was probably just really good at hiding it. On the other hand, creature and monsters feel fears and are fed by it, so would it even be possible to fool them if she wasn’t truly fearless?)

- ;; Something bittersweet, too, is that… Gertrude apparently Learned from Adelard and took a page from his book when it came to concrete:

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “I can’t deny some pride in my solution, Gertrude. In all our discussions of how to contain a being that we could not destroy… I’m not sure we ever hit on a method quite so neat…! I am no builder but, by the end, I think you would have been hard-pressed to criticise how well that concrete had been laid – and Amherst four feet beneath it.”

(MAG103, Dylan Anderson) “If you hadn’t turned up that evening, I don’t know what I’d have done. I know a monster pig wasn’t what you were looking for, but I do appreciate your advice. When you explained the situation, I hoped you’d have some special trick for dealing with it, but I suppose welding scrap metal around the pen and filling it with cement just about works, even if I do owe Mason a favour for borrowing his mixer. I’d have thought the thing would at least try to break free while I did it, but… thank heaven for small mercies, I suppose. A huge block of solid concrete. What ought to do with it? Some sort of engraving, maybe?”

Monster Pig happened in July 2014, so eleven months after Adelard’s message. And Jon had also noticed that Gertrude’s computer had receipts involving “petrol”:

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “I have dragged those other afflicted I could find into the Parkplatz, laid them at the feet of that appalling throne, and… taken the last gifts of that… generous construction site: a dozen cans of petrol.”

(MAG066) ARCHIVIST: There’s also the matter of the products she was ordering. There were several online orders of petrol, lighter fluid, pesticides, and high-powered torches. They are sporadic, but notable in that she did not drive, smoke or work in pest control.

… So maybe it was also an idea she got from Adelard’s last actions. Utilitarian, and/or an homage, in a way.

- I’m also HUMMMM re:Adelard, because if there is one thing that’s been recurring when he was depicted fighting avatars or monsters, it’s that he tended to notice what he could use in his surroundings and improvise a lot…

(MAG113, Adelard Dekker) “Truth be told, I didn’t especially try. I didn’t think I would be able to move quick enough to do so, and was more concerned with being quiet and thorough. The cutlery drawer was largely empty, but after a minute’s searching I did find what I was after: a long, metal skewer. Did you know there are certain forms of brain injury that cut you off from your ability to dream?”

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “At first, I was struck almost with despair, having nothing to hand with which I might attempt a confrontation with this creature. But upon retreating some ways, and considering my options, I realised I actually had… almost the exact resources to hand that I might need. A few minutes spent scouting the surrounding streets even revealed a small construction site, almost precisely suited to my requirements. I returned to the cordon and took what I needed: a stretcher, as many quarantine sleeves as I could carry, and a syringe. […] I loaded the gear into a wheelbarrow I had taken from the building site along with a thick metal chain, and began to head back towards the Parkplatz, stopping only to fill the syringe from a can of garden pesticide I had noticed during my earlier sweep of the houses. […] I dragged the thing over to the building site, and with the last of my strength threw him into the hole that had been left. By this point, the concrete truck I had turned on earlier had been mixing for some time, and it was a simple matter to open the pump and… pour the contents of its hopper down on top of him.”

And isn’t it a bit like Basira?

(MAG142) MARTIN: Would have thought Basira would’ve had more sense, though. DAISY: When Basira and I were partners, I’d see this happen sometimes. She can read a… situation like no one I know, always seems to know the right move, but for all her research, she never wants to put a plan together. I think she just hates all the unknowns, the… variables. [SIGH] Contingencies. If she spots an advantage, she’ll… grab it, and trust herself to figure out the details as she goes. MARTIN: Hm. DAISY: It’s worked so far.

- Aaaah, so confirmation/a few more things about The Eye’s effect!

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “My hands are shaking quite badly and my fingers… aren’t what they were. Even so, just knowing where this is going, this… statement [CHUCKLE], I can feel The Eye’s power on me, be it ever so slight. Steadying me; helping the words flow. Is it strange that… here… now… that seems almost a comfort…?”

I was wondering if something wasn’t at work in the same way as for live statements since people’s letters were so articulate too – it sounds like just being conscious that you’re sending a message to the Institute and/or an Archivist and/or to an agent of The Eye is enough to put you under The Eye’s spell, because your tale interests it? GOSH, it was so sad that Adelard was aware of it, but also that he was potentially stalling since, as long as he was giving a “statement”, he wouldn’t drop dead or reach a state of too much pain to continue…

I’m curious about the fact that the letters Jonah Magnus was receiving were of the same kind – clear enough to be read as statements. Was it “simply” because his penpals from the XIXth century were quite educated and used to sending long, articulate letters? Or was the fact that they knew they were sending them to Jonah influencing them? If so: was it because he was under The Eye’s effects… or because, specifically, he was an Archivist at the time…? (We still don’t know where Jonah fit, back then, if he was more like Elias, or more like Jon… He was collecting supernatural stories, at least.)

- More on the medium Adelard used to give this statement later, but it was explicitly an email:

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “You must forgive me, Gertrude, for any typing and spelling errors that might be in this message. […] But it did not seem quite right to leave without letting you know what happened. And… Herr [Becker?] was kind enough to succumb to the sickness without signing out of his computer, so…”

1°) It… worked on a computer. It went through. We only know for sure that statements don’t record digitally in audio form but I was wondering about written ones, whether they could be typed down… Not sure if that’s a confirmation that yes, they can; or if there is something wrong with this statement; or if it’s that somehow, “something” (Web?) helped Adelard’s message to go through.

2°) … There was no static at any point of it during Jon’s reading. I don’t know when statement-reading static has happened for the last time during narration, but there were many moments in this statement at which there could have been, when describing supernatural things…? Why didn’t the tape recorder react to anything at all during the statement, even though Adelard described his encounter with a very powerful avatar? There were no quoted words or verbal exchanges, yes, but the tape recorders don’t only go All Staticcy at those. Overall, I realise that Jon’s last readings haven’t produced a lot of static? Iirc, there was nothing since MAG148, except for a few lines in MAG153 (“Love Bombing”), when there were direct quotes. Is there something hidden in the fact that the tape recorders are reacting less lately…?

- Adelard’s death was Sad News, but I’m so glad that we learned that John Amherst was actually neutralised a few years ago… in the same episode in which we got confirmation that Melanie is alright, is not regretting her choice one bit, and that it didn’t go supernaturally “wrong” or anything.

(MAG157) ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] … No, you’re right, I’m sorry. A–are you alright? MELANIE: Yes! I’m, hum… actually doing okay…! ARCHIVIST: That’s good. MELANIE: [SOFT CHUCKLES] My therapist isn’t happy about it, you know? Uh, unsurprisingly. Tried to have me put away, but they, uh… they let me come here. It’s, it’s been good for me, though! I… I feel alright. I’m, hum… I’m not scared anymore.

I was so afraid that John Amherst would be re-emerging, thus giving Melanie an incentive to go back to business in order to avenge her father? But nop! John Amherst was sealed under concrete five years ago! We’re not safe from him freeing himself, but it’s a hypothetical, not an active threat. Melanie is just free to… enjoy her life. Really free from All That (at least right now), and she… really sounded like she had found peace ;w;

I do also like that it seems like she’s back to the world. The Institute was a closed universe, with its personal rules – only Section 31 officers go when something happens, the Archives team has been isolated (Jon also mentioned that the regular staff didn’t want to talk with him much lately); but now, Melanie is back to another world, with its own rules and workings. Yes, gouging your eyes out is self-mutilation, and means you need help (although in practice, institutionalisation can make things worse); yes, your therapist is going to get worried about it. (The fact that Melanie still said “my” therapist also said, to me, that she was still seeing her? But aouch for the therapist; she must be used to compartmentalising, she must be used to patients self-harming, but probably not to the point of what Melanie did…)

I’m not absolutely sure it was the intended impression, but I reaaally felt that Melanie was currently on painkillers and/or tranquilisers? Her voice sounded almost too relaxed, she sounded like she had just woken up together with The Admiral, and Georgie was insistent on her resting. Nothing negative there – I would find it a bit reassuring for her to be medically handled right now, actually! Doesn’t have to be forever, doesn’t invalidate her words about feeling fine. Just. Melanie is not isolated; she needed help, she sought it, she did something that is understandably perceived as self-harm by society, and she is being tutored to make sure she can relearn to function. (I also wondered, at first, if Georgie was talking to The Admiral or to Melanie because she sounded a bit too cautious rather than tender and concerned, to me? So that would fit, if Melanie’s under treatment right now, and really not needing the extra strain.)

- We lost Tim and he left… so many… Bi babies… in his wake…

(MAG157) ARCHIVIST: Look, is she here or not? She–she said she was staying with you. GEORGIE: Yes, she’s here. ARCHIVIST: Really? Where’s all her stuff? GEORGIE: Bedroom, why? ARCHIVIST: … No, I just– [STATIC] Oh. Oh! I’m sor– I didn’t– I didn’t realise you were… to–together… GEORGIE: That’s ‘cause it’s none of your business. Now leave.

(MAG086) MELANIE: Then there are some old cuttings about Robin Patton. […] Hmm, wasn’t bad looking, before… well… that.

(MAG106) MELANIE: I don’t think so; Georgie Barker? She does What the Ghost?. […] Well, she and Jon, they… dated. BASIRA: Yeah? MELANIE: I mean, it was years ago.

(That’s also putting another light of Melanie’s discomfort when she mentioned that Jon&Georgie had dated – I was assuming it was mostly because Urk, Don’t Wanna Think About Jon’s Romantic Life since she was Eww at the concept of thinking about him sleeping with Martin, but. (ALSO, the beauty that in the same breath, we had Melanie talking about Georgie, describing past Jon-Georgie, and mentioning Martin’s ~fussing~ over Jon.))

“What’s the Ghost?” is officially queer culture! ;w;

I’m SUPER GLAD for Georgie to get a girlfriend, very !! but a tiny bit less over Melanie&Georgie being together at the moment – but that’s mostly because 1°) I also REALLY love Deep And Very Important Platonic Relationships, and Melanie&Georgie had been that to me so far with Georgie helping her, and we… don’t have a lot of deep friendships at the moment (quite the contrary, we have a lot of pairs who are (not all confirmed but STILL) romantic in nature: Martin-Jon, Basira-Daisy, now Georgie-Melanie), and personal taste but I would have liked to hear about Melanie re-learning to function outside of the Institute before learning that she’s actually romantically involved with the person who had supported her in her steps towards recovery, 2°) … I’m super concerned about Basira&Daisy because, if one romantic relationship had to be canon-canonised, I was expecting them to get that first, and I’m Still Super Afraid About Daisy’s Chances Of Survival By The End Of The Season, so a bit heartlessly strategical here, but thinking that giving us Georgie/Melanie miiiiight be a way to not… destroy all the wlw romances. If Daisy dies, I’m also losing the only Intense Platonic Friendship we have at the moment (hers with Jon), so, sob.

… But then, Melanie is saying that JON IS A FRIEND

(MAG157) GEORGIE: Melanie, you don’t have to do this… MELANIE: It’s, it’s okay. He’s… welcome. As a friend. But that’s it. ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] … Right. MELANIE: But you’re not after a friend, are you, Jon?

AND I WAS NOT EXPECTING THIS NEW CHALLENGER!! IT’S SUCH A WILD DEVELOPMENT THINKING BACK TO THEIR FIRST INTERACTIONS…………………

(MAG028) MELANIE: I knew you guys were a bit… slapdash, but this is absurd. ARCHIVIST: No doubt you’re used to a higher calibre of equipment when pretending to see ghosts in old churchyards and mental institutions. MELANIE: People like a show. People like our show. And, even if we do ham it up a bit, even we do add a bit of sparkle, we’re still more respected and evidence-based paranormal investigators than you and your lot. [NERVOUS, DISPARAGING LAUGH] ARCHIVIST: We are not “paranormal investigators”. We are researchers. Scholars. MELANIE: Whatever. […] ARCHIVIST: Hmm. And you’re sure you weren’t… dreaming? MELANIE: Are you serious? ARCHIVIST: I just have to check every possibility. Obviously working in your field, you must have quite a powerful imagination. MELANIE: Great! Great! I should have known this was a complete waste of my time.

(MAG063) MELANIE: You look like hell. ARCHIVIST: It’s been a hard few months. Look, can I help you, because if you’re just after another shouting match… MELANIE: No! I… I actually do need your help. ARCHIVIST: Hm. Interesting. MELANIE: Alright, can you not be an arsehole about it? I just need access to your library. […] I don’t exactly have the “academic credentials” you guys demand. So I apparently need someone to vouch for me. And you’re basically the closest thing I’ve got to a friend here. ARCHIVIST: We’ve spoken once, and we ended up screaming at each other.

So yes, losing a platonic relationship but getting a new friendship in the process ;w;

- I’m not sure the scene actually played this way? But given how The Admiral purred:

(MAG157) ARCHIVIST: Ah– [DOOR OPENS] MELANIE: Oh? What’s go–, what’s going on? You… you woke The Admiral… GEORGIE: Hey, hey, easy; it’s–it’s alright, he was just leaving. ARCHIVIST: Melanie, I… MELANIE: Jon…? ARCHIVIST: Yeah, it’s… me. GEORGIE: It’s alright, Melanie. Jon, leave. [ADMIRAL STARTS PURRING] ARCHIVIST: I’m sorry, I just… […] I suppose not… GEORGIE: Okay [ADMIRAL MEOWS IN PROTEST], you’re done. [PURRING CEASES] ARCHIVIST: Yeah. [INHALE] Yeah, I am.

I pictured The Admiral rushing towards Jon as soon as Melanie opened the door, more or less climbing on Jon until Jon secured him in his arms. The Admiral’s purrs were loud, so he had to be close to the tape recorder, right? And given his protest when Georgie cut in, she removed him from a comfy place, so that wasn’t Melanie’s arms.

(So: I pictured it as The Admiral in Jon’s arms AND Melanie petting it, able to find him through his purr. Melanie’s voice sounded like she was doing something else at the same time, to me? So yeah. Very close, very intimate, very comfy.)

(Kudos to Georgie for stepping back once Melanie began to talk about herself, without interrupting! She’s a good! Jon also has learnt his lesson from MAG131 and did not interrupt, listened to her! Sadly, Georgie is losing Awesomeness Points because… she retrieved The Admiral before he was done purring? D: Kitty crime??? Georgie, how could you do that to the cat? D:)

- I found Georgie a bit less harsh about Jon, too: not saying that her stances in season 4 haven’t been valid, far from it! But she’s still fair, and she didn’t blame him for Melanie’s injuries, she only pointed out the sacrifice Melanie had to make in order to flee, and wanted to make sure that Jon wouldn’t undo it, which was… extremely legitimate.

(MAG157) [CLICK–] [MUFFLED SOUNDS OF THE STREET] GEORGIE: No, Jon, you’ve done enough! ARCHIVIST: I just need to talk to her. GEORGIE: What don’t you understand? She mutilated herself to get out of that place, and there is absolutely no way I’m letting you involve her again! ARCHIVIST: Look, is she here or not? She–she said she was staying with you.

(And she was right about Jon threatening to pull Melanie back in, since Jon acknowledged he wasn’t really after a “friend” in current circumstances.)

Since Melanie did acknowledge that it might have been hard for Jon to tell her about Eric’s statement, I wonder if Georgie won’t mellow down about Jon a bit, given that Jon has indeed been trying a bit more, lately…? That will depend on Jon’s state at the end of season 4 (are we “losing” him forever? Or will he still try to not totally give in to The Eye, without cutting their link?), but it could be a possibility…

(I liked what we saw of Jon&Georgie’s friendship in season 3 a lot é_è Jon had remembered their break-up as having been a bad one, and despite it, they were getting along in season 3, and Georgie could be harsh and fair with him, so… I still want to cling to the hope that they’d manage to get back on speaking terms at some point, if Jon doesn’t fall entirely and keeps trying like he has begun to do… Maybe there could still be a way for them to build something again… maybe…)

(- At the same time: yes, Melanie&Georgie are legitimate to want to stay out of the supernatural business and to not participate in it anymore.

… On the other hand: if “bad things are coming” and an apocalypse is launched, and the world is changed, and monsters are let loose into the world because what was left of Team Archive wasn’t powerful/competent/numerous enough to prevent it… they won’t have any right to complain about what happens. But that’s interesting, because still “nobody is right/wrong” in their situations, even when they’re not directly harming anybody; if nobody is there to stop powerful avatars, like Adelard did, or to prevent rituals, then what would happen? More victims, probably. So, at the same time, it feels like it’s nobody’s and everybody’s responsibility to step in when they can.)

- Okay, so Basira&Daisy were unavailable, and Jon didn’t have anyone else, but still SOBBING that “someone I can trust” turned out to be Melanie, because gnnn. After learning about Eric’s statement, they made different choices, but I’m so soft for the fact that Jon still valued Melanie’s opinion and…

(MAG157) ARCHIVIST: Melanie, I… MELANIE: Jon…? ARCHIVIST: Yeah, it’s… me. GEORGIE: It’s alright, Melanie. Jon, leave. [ADMIRAL STARTS PURRING] ARCHIVIST: I’m sorry, I just… It’s Martin. MELANIE: Jon… don’t… Please. ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] … No, you’re right, I’m sorry. A–are you alright? MELANIE: Yes! I’m, hum… actually doing okay…! ARCHIVIST: That’s good.

… wanted to make sure she was fine!!! Even in the midst of urgency, of the fact that Martin was very likely in Big Danger and Not Fine, Jon still took the time to ask Melanie about it!!

- Jon Learned but at the same time, so many poor choices of words…

(MAG157) ARCHIVIST: Look, is she here or not? […] Look after yourself. Both of you.

jON… Being an Eye avatar doesn’t mean you have to be insensitive about it…

- ;; Overall: I’m sad that… Jon has indeed learnt. He didn’t dash to the tunnels, trying to find the centre on his own, or to go fight Peter. He immediately understood he needed to think about the broader picture, about who could have wanted him to listen to the tape and read the statement, and his first instinct was to want to talk about it with people he could trust.

(MAG157) ARCHIVIST: Am I just hearing what I want to hear? I need a second opinion, but… Basira and Daisy are… “out”, somewhere. […] I need someone I can trust. [LONG SIGH] […] Please, Georgie, it’s not– … I just need to know I’m not overreacting to something, I need an outside perspective.

It’s mostly that, due to circumstances, all his options have been cut. The timing of Daisy&Basira leaving is definitely too suspicious to think that it was unrelated and had nothing to do with getting Jon isolated, worried, and prone to being easily manipulated into doing something… so I’m guessing that the point was that someone/thing (Elias, Peter or Annabelle) is trying to get him to reach the centre. But Jon did try, and indeed, what other options would he have at the moment? Waiting for Basira&Daisy to come back, while Martin could be getting sacrificed? With the current configuration, I can understand that Jon is not keen on risking it… although, yeah. It’s undoing all the “trust” he was forcing himself to give Martin from afar during this season – his understanding that Martin had a plan, and that Jon had to hope Martin knew what he was doing to ensure Martin’s success. Jon made a mistake once when he tried to “Know” about Peter’s plans at the end of MAG139… and is probably doing a new one right now, confused by urgency. (“A tiny… hairline fracture, which destroys everything.”, to quote MAG139 orz)

… and hum. You know what had previously claimed to bank on Jon’s worry for someone to get him to level up a bit more?

(MAG135) ELIAS: Fine. Consider it a test – things are… coming, things that will need Jon to be far stronger and more willing to use his connection to our patron. His performance during The Unknowing was… disappointing. I needed a way to force him to harness his ability more acutely than he had before. The coffin was a useful tool; Daisy an adequate bait. BASIRA: Then you messed up. Way he tells it, he doesn’t know how he got out of there. ELIAS: But he did. And his powers were no small part of it. Even if he required some assistance, they were what saved him. And he’s still achieved what no one – mortal, monster, or anything in-between – has ever been able to. He climbed out of The Buried. BASIRA: [DRY SIGH] What was the point? You won’t be getting your ritual off from in here so, what do you need him for? What’s so important you need him stronger?

Still squinting very hard about The Bastard and the concept that ~no, he’s not getting his ceremony off from his prison~.

- Amongst all the exchanges, this moment was probably my favourite:

(MAG157) MELANIE: It’s, it’s okay. He’s… welcome. As a friend. But that’s it. ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] … Right. MELANIE: But you’re not after a friend, are you, Jon? ARCHIVIST: I need an ally. MELANIE: Then I can’t help you. [SHORT SILENCE] ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] I suppose not…

Because it immediately conveyed that… Jon wasn’t seeking an opinion about whether or not to try to get involved and help Martin – that opinion would have been a “friend’s”. No; at this point, Jon had already decided to go in. And I like that Melanie, of all people, was immediately able to pinpoint that.

- Laughing forever, though, that YESSS, rule of three re:Jon and wlw:

(MAG089) ARCHIVIST: I just… er, you were a friend of Agnes Montague, correct? JUDE: She’s not one of your little stories.

(MAG117) ARCHIVIST: I think Basira is the same, she's coming along to back-up Daisy, or so she says. I–I– I don't quite get those two, I suppose. What they’ve done, seeing what they’ve seen… It’s a hell of a bond.

(MAG157) ARCHIVIST: Look, is she here or not? She–she said she was staying with you. GEORGIE: Yes, she’s here. ARCHIVIST: Really? Where’s all her stuff? GEORGIE: Bedroom, why? ARCHIVIST: … No, I just– [STATIC] Oh. Oh! I’m sor– I didn’t– I didn’t realise you were… to–together…

I can’t believe it took Beholding’s powers for him to realise. (Though, to be honest: he knew Melanie&Georgie were friends, Georgie was going on dates with other people in season 3, we don’t know whether Georgie is poly or not, so it wasn’t a given that they had gotten together sometime before this episode.)

- You know things are dire when, in the last few episodes: 1°) even Jon said “fuck”, 2°) Jon knocked on a door, not only once but twice.

(MAG146) [CLICK–] ARCHIVIST: [BREATHING HEAVILY, FRANTICALLY BANGING ON A DOOR] [A DOOR CREAKS OPEN] [DISTORTION SOUNDS, BRINGING CONSTANT STATIC] HELEN: You rang~?

(MAG157) [CLICK–] [FRANTICALLY BANGING ON A DOOR] [A DOOR CREAKS OPEN] [DISTORTION SOUNDS, BRINGING CONSTANT STATIC] ARCHIVIST: Helen…! HELEN: Jonathan~?

(Well. Banged on a door that wasn’t there.) Reminder that there is few knocking around Jon, and he still diiiiid it, times are… what they are.

(- When was the last time that someone called Jon “Jonathan”? I only remember Georgie’s “Jonathan Sims, are you trying to save the world?” from MAG093, and Elias in his first appearance:

(MAG017) ARCHIVIST: A complaint? I could just as easily complain about her wasting my time! ELIAS: That’s not how it works, Jonathan.

Helen had been generally replying to Jon on the same level when it came to names/designations, so was she just playful, or was this a way to point out that “Helen” is technically as formal as “Jonathan”, and not something someone close to Jon would call him? Even Melanie calls him “Jon”. Why “Jonathan” suddenly? Just for the variety?)

- SAD for Jon that his option as “ally” was… Helen, given what we’ve seen of her lately:

(MAG157) ARCHIVIST: I need to know that’s in there, what’s at the centre, it’s–it’s important, Martin… I need to know. HELEN: [CONTAINED TITTER] That’s a shame. Because I’m afraid I’m not going to tell you. ARCHIVIST: What…? Why not? HELEN: Because I have a good enough sense of what’s going on to know that it will be much – more – fun – without – my – involvement…! [HELEN LAUGHS AND LAUGHS, ECHOING] […] ARCHIVIST: Just tell me what’s going on – please! HELEN: Bad things, Archivist. [HELEN LAUGHS AND LAUGHS, ECHOING] Really – bad – things!

It sounds like she’s going full Distortion lately, uh? She seemed comparatively so stable and straightforward, in MAG131…

- AHHAHA, Helen had reminded Jon about her sharpness recently:

(MAG152) ARCHIVIST: Huh? You’ve got hands. HELEN: Sharp enough to pull out worms. Kill a few old men. Maybe stab an overeager Archivist… ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] HELEN: But my physicality is as much an illusion as everything else about me. Think of me… as a bear trap. Not a sword.

(MAG157) ARCHIVIST: I don’t have time for this! [STATIC] What is at the centr– [SHARP SOUND AS HELEN GRABS HIM BY THE THROAT] HELEN: No. We are not playing your game now. ARCHIVIST: [PAINED SOUNDS] HELEN: Don’t forget how sharp I can be, Archivist. Perhaps here, now, you’re powerful enough to learn what you want from me. But if you try, I promise you I will resist, and only one of us is going to survive the attempt. [SHARPING SOUND, RETREATING]

“Not a sword”, uh.

And we’re back to Jon getting whumped and threatened by everyone. It’s… interesting that Helen felt that Jon’s compulsion was an actual threat – it had annoyed Jude, too, but Helen directly went for the throat (… apparently, it was actually truly the throat in the script, Anil said). Would getting straight answers from The Distortion cause it harm on an essential level, like it potentially happened with Breekon when Jon “extracted” his statement and got to “know” him?

- Also interesting that Jon’s compulsion is apparently getting stronger? You would think that Jon’s powers would begin to crash and burn since he’s quit taking live statements, especially since Helen advised him to get a victim to replenish himself, but nop. Is it still from the power-boost Jon got when he chose not to die? Is it because of the new Fears he experienced over season 4 (Flesh taking ribs out of him, going and getting out of The Buried, staring at the Dark Sun)? Is it because we’re in 2018, and it’s supposed to be kind of a zenith for Beholding given that it’s the Institute’s anniversary…?

- … I was very scared that Jon might have forced a statement out of someone on the way to Georgie’s, but given how Helen invited him to find one right now, doesn’t seem to be the case!

(MAG157) ARCHIVIST: Fine. [PANTING] Can you take me there? To the centre? HELEN: I honestly don’t know. But I’m not inclined to risk it. ARCHIVIST: Damn you! HELEN: Run home, Jon. Find a victim on the way~ Chaos is coming, and I think you’d best be ready.

Which is a relief ;;

I’m… super worried about Basira and Daisy, who left Jon absolutely unsupervised, and with Jon proving that he is able to go outside. Melanie is not there anymore either to check on him, and Jon had told Martin juuust a few episodes ago that:

(MAG154) ARCHIVIST: Honestly: thank you. [EXHALE] It’s been hell, but… I–I did need to hear it. MARTIN: Oh, hum… Uh, g–good. Heh. Are the others… helping? ARCHIVIST: Oh! [DRY CHUCKLE] They’ve been keeping a… very close eye on me…!

… but no, it’s really not the case right now ;; And I’m worried again. What’s the point of Jon getting caught and made to stop in the last third of the season…? I still feel like if he makes new innocent victims, then it’s indeed over for him (there would be nothing to differentiate him from other avatars who feed and prey on innocents to stay alive); is his withdrawal a step towards something else…? Or is it to exemplify that there could have been another option, that Jon didn’t hold to it and crashed himself down in the end…?

- From their point of view, I’m REALLY worried that Daisy&Basira left suddenly, leaving Jon unsupervised and alone because… why would they.

(MAG157) ARCHIVIST: Am I just hearing what I want to hear? I need a second opinion, but… Basira and Daisy are… “out”, somewhere. They left in a hurry and didn’t tell me why; now, their phones are going to voicemail. Maybe they’re just… on the Underground, and probably th– … That doesn’t help me now. [SIGH]

The way Jon phrased it, it seems like he saw them leaving (it wasn’t that he couldn’t find them or anything), so? Why would they choose to not tell Jon? What could make them leave together, Daisy included, when Daisy was still “weak”? They could be trapped in Helen’s corridors right now (like Tim&Martin at the end of season 2), or in The Lonely because Peter wanted to get Jon absolutely isolated, but I’m still a bit baffled about why they would leave Jon unsupervised and without telling him anything.

1°) Is it that Basira managed to convince Daisy to Hunt again (nooo, Basira, don’t…), and to go after Trevor&Julia… ;; (Or Julia&Trevor were spotted somewhere, and they left to get them with Daisy trying hard not to Hunt.)

2°) Same thing, but with Annabelle Cane?

3°) Maybe they left for the tunnels on their own because something’s happening down there/Basira found something about it in the Archives, and it was really important to not talk about it (because Elias Watching, or The Web having its many eyes on him) and/or because Jon is still an avatar of The Eye…?

4°) Or plainly: they read Adelard’s statement, were the ones who left it on Jon’s desk, and are trying to stop Peter&Martin. … Would still be very stupid, tho, because OF COURSE Jon would panic about it ;; Unless they read it, hid it, and something else pulled it out to get Jon to panic. Could Martin have contacted them about something they need to do without Jon knowing? Basira knew that Martin was planning to go for a self-sacrifice; if it’s tied to this, it could explain why they didn’t tell Jon anything regarding their departure.

5°) … It would still go back in the “but why not tell Jon!!” category, but I’m really worried that there is something very wrong with Elias’s prison right now, hence why they left in a hurry – that either he has disappeared (and/or was “Peter’s map”, so Peter got him out), either the prison is unresponsive and it turns out it has been under Elias’s control for a looong while. He didn’t seem too upset about the prospect of going in MAG120, the Institute was built with strong ties to the Millbank prison (so it’s not an unfamiliar place for The Eye to thrive), and we still don’t know what he’s “eating” (/how come Elias is fine, as an avatar of The Eye, while Jon is suffering so badly from withdrawal? Is Elias himself really under withdrawal?)…

(MAG120) POLICE OFFICER: By all means, mister Bouchard: why don't you have a look in my head, and see exactly what will happen to you when you mess with me. ELIAS: [GRUNT] There will be no need for that, inspector, I’m sure we’ll get along famously. POLICE OFFICER: Good. ELIAS: Best of luck, Martin. Ah, let the others know I shall be thinking of them. MARTIN: [SIGH]

(MAG127) BASIRA: Can we cut the bullshit? ELIAS: What “bullshit” might that be? BASIRA: The part where you pretend you don’t spend your whole time watching us. ELIAS: … Sometimes I’m eating.

+ There is the fact that Elias spent this entire season in prison, and I have trouble picturing him still inside at the beginning of season 5. He’s getting out before that.

- ;; GODS, Jon listening to Martin&Peter’s exchange was so tense and heartbreaking… we knew that Jon had listened to previous tapes, but it was something else to hear his deep breathing, really heavy and conveying how much he was… upset? Worried? Angry about Peter?

(MAG157) [CLICK–] [VERY SHARP SQUEAL OF DISTORTION] MARTIN’S RECORDED VOICE FROM MAG156: “… Will I be coming back?” PETER’S RECORDED VOICE FROM MAG156: “You’re not going to die–” ARCHIVIST: [LONG, SHAKY INHALE] PETER’S RECORDED VOICE FROM MAG156: “–if that’s what you’re asking–” ARCHIVIST: [EXHALE] PETER’S RECORDED VOICE FROM MAG156: “–but… no. If all goes well, you won’t be.” ARCHIVIST: [DEEP, SHAKY BREATHES] MARTIN’S RECORDED VOICE FROM MAG156: “[LONG INHALE, EXHALE]” PETER’S RECORDED VOICE FROM MAG156: “How does that make you feel?” ARCHIVIST: [EXHALE] MARTIN’S RECORDED VOICE FROM MAG156: “… Nothing.” ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] MARTIN’S RECORDED VOICE FROM MAG156: “[SNORT]” ARCHIVIST: [LONG EXHALE] MARTIN’S RECORDED VOICE FROM MAG156: “Nothing at all…!” PETER’S RECORDED VOICE FROM MAG156: “Excellent. I’m so proud of you, Martin.” MARTIN’S RECORDED VOICE FROM MAG156: “I really don’t care.” PETER’S RECORDED VOICE FROM MAG156: “Perfect.” [CLICK.] ARCHIVIST: [LONG INHALE, EXHALE] This… tape was left on my desk.

1°) I was wondering, but Peter’s voice indeed records on tape!

2°) Complete with the squeal of distortions that are his trademark when we’re hearing him live. So it’s indeed something that tampers with the recording a bit, but not to the point of being inaudible.

3°) It was the worst pre- and post-supplemental to hear when it came to Martin… the one when he sounded the most “lost into the Lonely”…………. And he had said he wasn’t sure whether he still cared about ~Jon hearing his voice~ at the start of it…

And at the same time: given how Martin had been so self-aware of being recorded, of Peter being potentially in the room… the question is still open. Elias did acknowledge that Martin was manipulative:

(MAG138) MARTIN: … What? [HUFF] That’s it? No, no monologue, no mindgames? You love manipulating people! ELIAS: That makes two of us. MARTIN: [HUFF]

And was it only about keeping tapes from Jon behind Peter’s back? How much can we trust of what we heard from Martin during season 4? Even Jon had managed to hide that he had attacked people from his recordings; it took Jess’s complaint and Helen calling Jon out for him to admit what he had done. Does Martin truly not “care”, as Peter was glad to hear, or was Martin feeding Peter what he wanted to hear, too…?

(tl;dr Web!Martin is not dead as long as Martin is still alive :|)

(- I'm Still Not Claiming That It’s Romantic On Jon’s Part Until We Get A Very Explicit Confirmation Because I Wanna Raise The Bar Higher, but: Jon… Jon, you big worried bi…

(MAG157) ARCHIVIST: [LONG INHALE, EXHALE] This… tape was left on my desk. I don’t know by who, but to my mind there are… three options. Martin has left it here, to let me know that… whatever the situation is with Peter Lukas, it is entering its final act and he needs my help. […] This, uh… this changes things. I–I think. … If Martin found this, r–read it already, then perhaps he’s having… second thoughts about, about Peter and The Extinction, this… this could be a cry for help, his way of asking me to follow him without Peter knowing, or… [EXHALE] Or what? I don’t understand – Martin’s been quite clear he doesn’t want my help…! Am I just hearing what I want to hear? […] I’m sorry, I just… It’s Martin. MELANIE: Jon… don’t… Please. […] ARCHIVIST: I need to know that’s in there, what’s at the centre, it’s–it’s important, Martin… I need to know.

Urk… The fact that he went “Martin” first, before giving Helen a formulation that she probably wanted to hear (=> Jon as an Eye-avatar Wanting To Know…))

(- Last minute Extinction speculation, but I wonder if Adelard’s most important speculation in his last message wasn’t this one:

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “while I have seen evidence of its influence in other Powers, I have never found anything to genuinely prove its emergence as a true Power of its own. Perhaps it is an existential fear that flows through the others like a vein of ore”

… what if, indeed, The Extinction had never been a Fifteenth Power… but a kind of enhancer? Every time Adelard was prone to label an occurrence as an Extinction one, it felt like it was operating on a big scale. What if The Extinction is indeed something new, but mostly boosting good old Fears into something bigger, scarier, more effective – and a few of them, such as the Corruption, would obviously be more compatible than others?)

- There are indeed so many options about who left the tape and the statements, and why:

(MAG157) ARCHIVIST: [LONG INHALE, EXHALE] This… tape was left on my desk. I don’t know by who, but to my mind there are… three options. Martin has left it here, to let me know that… whatever the situation is with Peter Lukas, it is entering its final act and he needs my help. Alternatively, Peter may have left it here to… goad me into action? Or just to gloat, to highlight my helplessness and everything. [SIGH] Or Annabelle Cane is trying to manipulate me into thinking it’s one of the other scenarios. Previously, the Spiders have made their presence clear when they’ve sent me… “hints”, but I can’t take that for granted. I don’t know what to do…! [SIGH] There’s a statement with it. It looks pretty recent – hm! First time in a while I’ve been… wary of reading one. … Still. I guess… [LONG INHALE, EXHALE] [PAPER RUSTLING] […] This, uh… this changes things. I–I think. … If Martin found this, r–read it already, then perhaps he’s having… second thoughts about, about Peter and The Extinction, this… this could be a cry for help, his way of asking me to follow him without Peter knowing, or… [EXHALE] Or what? I don’t understand – Martin’s been quite clear he doesn’t want my help…! Am I just hearing what I want to hear? I need a second opinion, but…

1°) But Jon casually ignored the fact that the statement was a last message, sent to an Archivist, to say goodbye, and that… that could have been what Martin was aiming at. (I’m not really digging that Martin would have done that without leaving a message on his own, though; even if he were to stop caring about Jon, he would still keep in mind that Jon would be prone to doing drastic things to try to save people, or to run into danger. He got a whole discussion with Daisy about it in MAG142, and asked Basira not to tell Jon that he wasn’t planning on coming back just a few episodes ago.)

2°) The tape and the statement have been left by different persons/things, and had different purposes, and/or one of the factions could have subtilized something else to prevent Jon to connecting dots.

3°) A big question is also who was aware of Adelard’s last message (and of his death). I lost my bet that Peter had killed him, but still: it’s extremely suspicious that Peter never mentioned in front of Martin the possibility of getting Adelard’s own help… so he must have known it wasn’t an option. We never heard Martin questioning about it, so… Martin might have found out, or guessed about it, too.

4°) Adelard’s message was explicitly an email:

(MAG157, Adelard Dekker) “You must forgive me, Gertrude, for any typing and spelling errors that might be in this message. […] But it did not seem quite right to leave without letting you know what happened. And… Herr [Becker?] was kind enough to succumb to the sickness without signing out of his computer, so…”

… And Peter’s not good with computers:

(MAG126) PETER: Anyway, I’m very excited to see this rota you’ve put together. Never had much of a gift for– MARTIN: Okay. PETER: –administration myself; too many variables. Now, this box on the left, that’s the library stuff, yes? MARTIN: What? N–n–no, th–th–that’s, no, those are the dates, I– … Look, are you sure you don’t want me to teach you? It’s, it’s a very simple program– PETER: No. No. Can’t stand computers. Besides! That’s why I have an assistant, isn’t it? MARTIN: [SIGH] Yeah. I guess so.

Unlike Annabelle (who was very interest in the www in MAG123), and unlike Martin. Who printed it out? Gertrude? Or someone else, very recently?

- ;; Is next week Jon trying to reach the centre of the tunnels already (and unknowingly being Peter’s map, being tracked when thinking he was tracking Peter&Martin?), using or not using Leitner’s supernatural copy of The Seven Lamps of Architecture, or going to ask Elias for help because he’s desperate………………… I don’t see many more options for Jon at this point… There is still the Threat of Jon’s inner door looming here:

(MAG127) ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] It’s… hard. It’s like there’s a–a–a door, in my mind. And behind it, is… i–is the entire ocean. Before, I didn’t notice it, but now, I know it’s there, and I can’t forget it, and I can feel the pressure of the water on it. I, I, I can keep it closed… but sometimes, when I’m around p–people, or–or places, or… ideas, a drop or two will push through the cracks, at the edges of the door. And I’ll… know something. BASIRA: … What happens, if you open the door? [SILENCE] ARCHIVIST: I drown.

… and I’m dreading that yes, he would try to open it to find the centre, in order to find Martin… ;; (And that there is actually no centre; only Jon, with his sea of knowledge, in the middle, thus precipitating the bad things Helen was cackling about.)

- As usual: what are Elias/Annabelle/Peter’s plans and aims, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrgggg

(- Hi, guess who was there at every 38th episode of a season so far:

(MAG038) ARCHIVIST: Urgh. Urgh. [SOUND OF CHAIR SCRAPING] I see you… [THUMP… THEN SOUND OF COLLAPSING SHELVES] [NOISES OF EXCLAMATION] [DOOR OPENS] SASHA: Alright? ARCHIVIST: Ah… Yeah. A… spider. SASHA: A spider? ARCHIVIST: Yeah. I tried to kill it… the shelf collapsed. SASHA: I swear, cheap shelves are… Did you get it? ARCHIVIST: Ah… I hope so. Thinks so. Nasty, bulbous looking thing. SASHA: [CHUCKLES] Well, I won’t tell Martin. ARCHIVIST: Oh, god. I don’t think I could stand another lecture on their importance to the ecosystem.

(MAG078) ARCHIVIST: [WHISPERED] It is remarkably easy to buy an axe in Central London. Harder to sneak it into Artefact Storage but not impossible. I don’t know if destroying this is going to kill that thing… but I am damn sure it’s going to hurt. […] Hollow. Just cobwebs and dust.

(MAG118) DAISY: Shut. Up. BASIRA: It’s just cobwebs. ARCHIVIST: There’s no such thing as just cobwebs! I don’t like it. TIM: Tough.

MmMMmmmMMmmmMMMmm.)

Title for MAG158 is… ouft. F–finally, I guess?

So, hum. Beholding, I guess? (It would be the 5th one this season if we count MAG138 as mostly Eye’s… ;;) And probably tunnels stuff. Depending on how the groups are split, could be Peter&Martin, Basira&Daisy&Elias or Elias&Jon, I guess… I’m mostly expecting no statement and a two-part climax like in season 3, but if there is a statement, I guess it could be read/told by Elias, whether alone or ~in company~ (a letter to/from Jonah Magnus? Another thing from Smirke’s earliest days? Something related to [the title itself]?).

Regarding the… less concrete aspect of the title, it… could be either about Elias (is he really confined.), either about Jon and his powers, I guess……………… could be Jon opening his ~inner door~ to try to find Martin/the centre of the maze, too……………….

[wordsandwickedthings]

a Deadly tale of lies and betrayal: wrath

Once a year, the deadly sins gather together for a night of reminiscing and reunion; But this year, the night would also have a vote that would change the future of the sins forever. When one of the sins ends up dead though, the atmosphere quickly shifts to solving a murder and repairing the fractures of what the group was now.

I don’t know how this is going to do, i’m assuming eh, but I love it so I figured why not post it.

warnings: none

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“Darling, you’re chewing your lipstick off.”

Wrath whipped their head around, glaring at Lust – who was perched on their counter, tapping her heal against the cabinets.

“Also,” the sin smirked, pointing at the ground underneath her counterpart, “you’re wearing a hole in your floor.”

Wrath may have been pacing, and yes, maybe they had been chewing on their lips a bit excessively.

“that red you use dries out of my lips, that’s all.” They waved her off, going over to the oven she was next to, making sure in their state of panic they didn’t let the pastries burn.

They wrinkled their nose, examining the dough through the window.

“never insult the sultry satin of Diva. She and I have more in common than we ever will.” Lust threw her hands up dramatically.

The other sin stared at her for a second, before letting out a laugh.

Lust’s weirdness didn’t stop Wraths panic though. And Wrath was in a panic. A full on, horn pulling, lipstick ruining panic.

They had reason to be, too, or at least in their mind they did. It had been five years since they were the host of the annual dinner party among the sins. Something Envy had suggested (demanded) when he had learned humans had often had evenings like it.

It became like a holiday to the sins; a night to reminisce about old glories - or at least it was what it became when pride started talking. It was also a night to theorize about their future, a future Wrath was almost sure would never come. The sins used to be so powerful and now, because of the humans, they were exiles in the darkest parts of the downside.

And then the doorbell rang. And wrath could no longer ignore the fact that they had to be a host.

“oh,” Lust laughed, “should we guess who’s the first to arrive, I think it’s going to be -”

Wrath didn’t wait for her guess, swinging the door open to see Pride leaning against his door frame, his blue suit crisp and his short horns were painted to match his gold eyeshadow. His lion’s tale was wrapped around his leg, as if it was part of his outfit as well. Like always, he looked impeccable.

“Damnit!” Lust screamed from the kitchen, “that’s what I was going to guess!”

“Wrath,” Pride stretched his hand out, ignoring the screaming from the other room. “it’s been so long my friend.”

Wrath took the sins hand with hesitation, trying to match his grip as they shook hands – to no avail. Pride cared way too much about everything, and handshakes were no exception. “And yet someone it always feels like yesterday I saw you.” Wrath forced a smile to their face.

“that’s because you aren’t exactly a social sin,” Pride was smiling too, but wrath didn’t miss the way his voice pitched to annoyance.

Lust came in then, opening her arms wide, “hello, pride.”

He walked into her arms, kissing her on the forehead, “hello beautiful,” he said, “how have you been? Your freckles are finally back.” He tapped his finger against her brown cheek, freckles dusted across her skin like paint splatters.

“They are!” she clapped her hands, “I spent some time in the upside over their bright period. You would not believe how much things have changed.” she smacked Pride on the shoulder, “its so… modern.”

Pride laughed, “I’m sure. Did you go with her wrath? You two seem to be the best at staying in touch.”

“No, I -”

Lust cut them off, “they wouldn’t go with me! Said the sun was too much.”

“it hurts my eyes!” wrath threw their hands up in defense.

The female sin smiled at them, squishing her cheeks between her hands, “You couldn’t have endured it for me?”

Wrath came up to put their hand on her shoulder, messing with the collar of their red leather jacket, “how could I do that, when you already give me a headache.” Lust pulled away, making a strangled noise in the back of her throat, “it would have been a double whammy!” Wrath yelled after her, while she retreated in the dinning room. The other sin presumed to get a glass of wine.

Pride laughed, reaching out to pinch Wraths cheek. They dodge it in time, glaring at their fellow sin.

“You two are so cute,” Pride said.

Wrath rolled their eyes, heading towards the door that had knocked at the most convenient time.

It was greed.

Like pride she was over dressed for the occasion, her dress long and gold to match the ring on each finger – she was wearing diamonds around her neck, traveling from the top of her neck to where it met her collar bone, and when wrath looked closer they realized she wasn’t wearing a necklace, she had had diamonds embedded in her skin.

Wrath tried not to stare.

“hello, greed,” they smiled tightly, politely, “you rescued me from pride.”

She pulled wrath to her before they could dodge it, kissing their cheek.

“you’re oh so welcome, now could you get me a drink as a thank you.”

Wrath tried not to wince when greed’s dragon horns almost scrap their door frame.

Envy and gluttony were the next to show, crowding wraths porch when they answered the door. Envy was examining gluttony’s excessive number of rings and bracelets.

Both were dressed more lowkey compared to the other sins that had showed up at wraths door. Envy in a green button down and black slacks, and Gluttony in a purple dress with puffy sleeves. The only thing lavish about Gluttony was her jewelry, rings and bracelets and necklaces glittering against her olive skin.

Wrath worry about being the most casually dressed washed away.

“Wrathy!” Gluttony looked up, giggling when she snatched her hand away from Envy.

Wrath rolled their eyes, “Don’t call me that.”

Before they could move gluttony enveloped them into a hug, squeezing at their bones while wrath tried not to squirm in discomfort.

Envy comes up next to the unwanted hug and pats wraths shoulder, “hello, old friend.”

“hi,” they motion between gluttony and themselves, “could you maybe help me out here.”

The sin laughed, “oh no, no, I’m going to get something to eat. You did make appetizers, didn’t you?”

“in the dinning room.”

Gluttony finally released them after a second, “so,” she smoothed out their shirt, “tonight’s the night. Do you know how you’re voting?”

“why?” wrath asked, chuckling, “are you going to try and change my mind?”

She waved her hand, touching at her horns that wrapped around her head and ended against her collar bones. “of course not. Anyways I don’t have too, between pride and greed we know how its going to go.”

“well we’ll see when we vote,” Wrath said, and fallowed gluttony into the dinning room.

The other sins were lounging around the table, drinking wine and eating the food wrath had spread out. They were all laughing, recounting old stories about their times on the upside. That’s what happened at these dinners mostly, the sins recounted times of glory and victory – times before they were driven to the downside.

Wrath could still remember perfectly when the humans revolted. Before that, the sins had lived in luxury as monsters who whispered in the ears of kings to get what they wanted. Until the humans realized they weren’t gods, rather devils dressed up as a helping hand.

“do you remember Henry?” pride asked out of nowhere.

Greed made a groaning noise, “ugh that man! I gave him an army so big he didn’t know what to do with it.”

“you want to talk about extravagances?” gluttony said, taking a seat next to lust, “I gave that man more feast and gold than his subjects would ever see in their whole life.”

Lust downed the last of her wine, “and I gave him women. and he had the audacity to treat them like a breeding device! A good woman who will love and desire you is greater than any gift, and he squandered it.”

Wrath grabbed more wine for their fellow sin, “to hell with that king,” they said, “he was one of many and long dead.”

The sins raised their glasses, chanting all at once, “hear, hear.”

Pride shook his head, taking a drink. “I want a king again, I really do.”

“well they don’t really have those anymore on the upside,” Envy pointed out.

Greed smiled, “but we could make a fine one when we get up there.”

There was a pause that felt like it lasted an eternity.

“we haven’t voted yet,” Lust reminded her.

Gluttony frowned, putting her head in her hands. “where in hell is sloth?”

Wrath rolled their eyes, plucking a grape from a bowl, and said, “he’s always late, I don’t know what you expect. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

And then there was a knock at the door.

“he may be always late,” lust cackled, “but he has impeccable timing.”

Wrath didn’t have to open the door, sloth bursting through without a care. Wrath was starting to regret giving him a key.

“oh,” sloth says walking into the dining room, “everyone’s already here, perfect.”

“that’s because we all showed up on time,” greed said, looking at the standing sin.

Sloth shrugged, “I was busy.”

His tale appeared out of nowhere, wrapping around the wine bottle to bring it to himself as he grabbed a glass.

Pride and sloth were the only sins to have tails, and though a lion’s tale is prettier than a monkey, wrath couldn’t help but laugh at how pride got the short end of the stick.

“none of us are busy in the downside,” pride reminded him, “hence what this dinner is for.”

Lust frowned, leaning back in her chair, “this dinner is for us to reconnect as a unit, remember.”

“Yes of course,” greed said, “but this year it is so much more than that.”

Wrath rolled their eyes, “Yes, it is. But for now, lets just have dinner, I’m famished.”

[i-will-physically-fight-you]

18 for the fantasy writing prompts? :D

Prompt: “This dagger right here? Yeah? You see this? You see this right here?Guess what? I murdered your family with it.”

Summary: Virgil is a Guardian--those chosen by the Traveler to protect the remaining strands of humanity from the Darkness. Or rather, the numerous alien races running around hellbent on destroying what's left of Earth. Together with Remy--he runs recon missions for the Vanguard, the governing body of the Guardians.

His latest mission goes smoothly until a swarm of Vex shows up. So many blinking red lights headed straight towards him. Somehow, they know. The Vex know a lot of things. They were a ruthless hive mind with the access of time manipulation the likes of which the galaxy has never seen.

It isn’t too far-fetched to assume they know where he is based on the thousand other timelines they’ve already experienced. A thousand other timelines where they’ve already analyzed his fighting style and know what to expect. He is screwed.

Characters: Virgil Sanders, Patton Sanders, Remy Sanders

Word Count: 4481

Triggers: Non-graphic violence, vague descriptions of robot genocide, mentions of death

Apologies for the late prompt fill! I had to modify the prompt a bit for it to work, but trust me it’s in there!

 This is set in my Destiny AU, where you can find more details here. It’s essentially based off Destiny, the game created by Bungie but trust me you don’t need any prior knowledge to the game coming into this–I promise!

“C’mon, c’mon, pick up,” A man hisses.

 He’s alone in hisapartment, as the streets below swarmed with chaos. Even in such a civilizedage, humans are easily reduced to savage beasts. There is not a shred ofkindness to be found as humans fight tooth and nail to escape the coffin thatearth will become.

Oh, Earth is still humming with life. But there is a shadowovercoming her—and it is certain to bring an everlasting darkness with it.Death, to put it more bluntly. There’s nothing anyone can do about it—not eventhat damn alien sphere that brought in the Golden Age. Already this Darknesshas taken over the colonies on Mars.

The man is not on the streets. He knows it’s pointless totry and fight for a place on a spaceship. He’s accepted death. He just can’taccept death without knowing the fate of his baby brother. Eighteen years oldand halfway across the country at an university. He curses himself for allowinghim to move so far away. The thought of his brother being swept up with in themass panic terrifies him.

Finally, the phone stops ringing and he’s expecting to getthe voicemail for the hundredth time, when his brother yells out his name. Healmost weeps out of joy.

“Patton, are you okay? Oh my god, please tell me you’reokay.” The words spit out of his mouth immediately.

“Yes, I—I’m alright,” There’s a crack in theeighteen-year-old’s voice and the man inwardly curses because dammit legaladult or not he’s still just a kid. He shouldn’t have to be dealing with thisalone. The man should be there with him. He promised he’d keep Patton safe allthose years ago, and today he’s finally broken that promise.

“That’s good,” The man laughs in relief, slumping againsthis bed frame, “I am so glad to hear that.”

“What about you, are you safe?”

The man takes a sweep over the contents of his messyapartment. Safe is a relative term. He is safe from the chaos of the streets—heis not safe from the impending world doom.

“I’m okay now that I know you’re okay.” He instead tells hisbrother.

“I’m—I’m scared,” His brother finally admits, “It’s awfulwhat’s happening, and I just feel so guilty getting on a ship because there’sso many others who won’t—”

“You’re on a spaceship?” The man asks, incredulously.

“Yeah, aren’t you on a ship too?”

The man leans his head back, reeling from the information.His baby brother’s on a ship. His baby brother is safe. His baby brother’sgoing to live.

“il—you said you were okay—you got on a ship, right? Pleasetell me you got on a ship!” His brother’s voice takes on a hysterical pitch.

“Patton,” He says, asthe clouds outside grow dark, as his apartment shakes, “I love you.”

His brother’s pleas are the last thing he hears before hisworld is swept up by darkness.

-

He awakes, immediately shielding his eyes from thebrightness of his surroundings. He groans, stretching. He had that dream again.It is the only dream he ever has—and just like all the other times, his memoryof the dream is muddled.

He shakes his head as he rose to his feet.

“Rem, how are we doing?” He whispers.

His ghost materializes in front of him. Well, not an actualghost ghost. He’s not certain why they’re called that. Perhaps it had somethingto do with them being the last remnants of the Traveler’s entity. A big whiteglobe that had been the cause of Earth’s Golden Age.

Or maybe it had to do with the fact that they were eachtasked to literally raise dead people as a last resort to protect humanity.

Now, normally dead people weren’t notorious for beingdeadly. Sure, there are zombies in horror fiction—but zombies are only reallythreatening in large packs. But apparently, the Traveler thought it’d be agreat idea to infuse dead people with Light and make them nearly immortalwarriors. Guardians.

Personally, he didn’t understand why it was usually only deadpeople who became guardians. It made more sense to give that power to those whowere already living. Not to a being that has been dead for nearly severalcenturies. He’d been quite comfortable sleeping in his grave, thank you verymuch.

He didn’t remember being dead, of course. But he also didn’treally remember anything before being resurrected. Being dead for around twohundred years really messed with one’s memory.

“Atrocious. Can you believe that there isn’t a coffee shopfor miles around here?” The ghost whirrs. He’s unsure how to describe it’s appearance,except that it’s white and has a bunch of triangular sides. It floats at hiseye-level, barely the size of his palm.

He rolls his eyes at the ghost’s complaint, “You can’t evendrink coffee.”

“Physically? No. But I can live vicariously through you.”

Which he meant in a literal sense. Ghosts didn’t pick a deadperson willy-nilly and then moved on with their day. Ghosts spend literaldecades upon decades to searching for the right soul to become their guardian.Once they chose, ghost and guardian remained bonded for life. As such, theghost was pervious to all of his senses through their bond. Something the ghosttook full advantage of, constantly pestering him to venture into The City andvisit the coffee shops.

Although, personally, he thought it was a ploy by the ghostfor him to go out and socialize more. Something that he isn’t fond of doing. He’sa hunter—he doesn’t trust easily.

Hunters are about as feral as the wild lands they roam. Theyare always vigilant and suspicious of others’ motives. They prefer the companyof the wilds compared to the company of others. To be in the company of ahunter is a honor—for it is a sign of how much the hunter places their trust inyou.

It is better for him to be alone than to be withcomrades-in-arms. He doesn’t want another Moon Mission on his hands.

He rolled his eyes, picking up his knife to twirl around inhis fingers. Having something to keep his fingers occupied kept his nervesdown.

“Well, considering the Vex are sentient murderbots, I doubtthey have much need for coffee shops, so I’m afraid that’s off the agenda fortoday,” He says.

The ghost hums indignantly, about to reply, when it freezessuddenly. Immediately he grabs the Ghost and clutches it close to his chest toprotect it.

“What is it?” He whispers, his eyes scanning theirsurroundings. They are in the heart of Vex territory—Venus. He is on a scoutingmission to scope out the recent Vex activity on this particular sector ofVenus. He’s been at this for days, and still he hasn’t figured out why such alarge contingent of Vex split off from their stronghold at the Citadel.

Remy blinks out of existence, returning to the void orwherever they went when they aren’t in the physical plane. He breathes a silentbreath. Good. Nothing can harm the Ghost when it’s in the void.

All enemies of the Light know that to kill a guardian, onemust kill its’ ghost. Without Remy, he’d become mortal and lose his connectionto the Light. But it’s more than that—Remy is his friend, his confident. Thebond between ghost and guardian are so intertwined that to lose a ghost, islike losing a part of himself.

“Don’t freak out toomuch, but you might wanna take a look at your radar.” Its voice echoes inhis head.

As soon as the ghost utters that, the edges of his radarimmediately lit up like a Christmas tree. So many blinking red lights headedstraight towards him. Somehow, they know. The Vex know a lot of things. Theywere a ruthless hive mind with the access of time manipulation the likes ofwhich the galaxy has never seen.

It isn’t too farfetched to assume they know where he isbased on the thousand other timelines they’ve already experienced. A thousandother timelines where they’ve already analyzed his fighting style and know whatto expect. He is screwed.

“Oh my god, oh my god—”

“Hey, what did I sayabout freaking about?” Remy chastises, “Eyesup, guardian. We’ll get out of this—we always do.”

“R-right,” He swallows. He puts his knife away, pulling outthe scout rifle on his back, “Okay—can you beam us up, scotty?”

He doesn’t know why he says that. The phrase comes out ofhis mouth before he comprehends. It feels like a reference to something—perhapshis past self knew the origins of it.

“On it.” The ghostreplies, “Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh, what’s uh-oh?” He asks, scaling up a building togain a better vantage point. A storm forms about hundred feet away from him,fake and artificial. As energy arcs from its’ smoky haze, metallic figuresmaterialize in front of his eyes. The Vex.

“The Vex arescrambling signals—I can’t connect with the ship or your sparrow.”

“Fuck.” He mutters, heart pounding, “I guess we’re doing this the hard way then.”

He is going to die. He doesn’t even need the ghost’s inputto realize that—but Remy gives it to him regardless.

“Just so you know, ifyou die—I’m not sure if I can resurrect you here—the darkness is suffocating,”Remy shudders.

He peers over the ledge and sees the horde ofenemies—there’s Vex of every kind. Goblins, Hob-goblins, Harpies andMinotaurs—all here with the intent to kill him. Whether by the sniper fire of ahob-goblin or by the pounding of minotaur. It doesn’t matter—either way he’sgoing to die.

He had a few options. One, he could attempt fleeing. Withouthis sparrow—a speedy hoverbike that covers land distance at immensespeeds—that’d be difficult. Two, he could just stay up on this building andwait until they located him. Or three, he could fight.

He chose the third option.

The hunter summons his rocket-launcher and looks at thecluster of the Vex through its’ scope. He literally has one shot at this. Therocket-launcher will take too long for him to load it again and by that point,he’d lose his element of surprise.

“Here goes nothing,” He mutters to himself, his fingercurling around the trigger.

The rocket flies out with an alarming rate. The Vex catchsight of it and start to scatter from the blast zone. Unfortunately for them,it was a tracker rocket and it locked onto their location. Machine parts flyeverywhere—and the Vex that are hit are either dead or close to it.

Instantly, the Vex starts shooting over at the ledge wherethe Hunter had been standing. But he isn’t there anymore. As soon as he shotthe rocket, he starts his descent down the building away from the Vex.

His boots hit the ground, and he crouches—his blades inhand.

“C’mon, c’mon—” He whispers to himself, as he triesconcentrating.

There are three forms that Light manifests as; solar, voidand arc. It takes an extremely disciplined guardian to be a master of allthree. His specialty lies in the void—they call hunters like him Nightstalkers.

However, he can still pull from the other two forms, andthat’s what he intends on doing. At last, the arc energy ripples over him—cloakinghim from the visible world.

“What are you planningon doing?” Remy asks.

“Something either incredibly stupid or incredibly smart,” Heresponds.

With that, he rushes towards the Vex—his doom. He waitsuntil he’s in the middle of the Vex before he channels all the arc energy intohis blades, revealing his presence to the Vex. He immediately plunges a bladeinto of that a goblin—the foot soldiers of the Vex. As he pulls it out, he swervesaround its’ dying body and moves onto the other.

He is not a Titan. He doesn’t plow through his enemies withbrute force. Hunters are clever and crafty. They’re light on their toes andstrike when least expected. There is a reason why Hunters with an affinity forarc are referred by others as Blade-dancers.

His movements are fluid and graceful—the dance of death is somethinghe knows too well. He makes quick work of the goblins and harpies. The latterof which fly about and attempt lasering him. It’s the Minotaurs and Hobgoblinshe needs to fear most.

He hears the shot of Hobgoblin’s sniper knife a second toolate. The blast hits him point plank in the chest—causing his already weakenedshields to flicker.

“Gurl, get out ofthere!”  Remy screams inside hishead.

The hunter grits his teeth, allowing the arc energy to fadefrom his body and pulls from the Void. A ball of void energy starts to appearin his right palm. The second he feels it forming, he throws it onto theground. A grey smoky mist swarms the area blanketing the Vex in a momentarystate of confusion. The Hunter takes advantage of this, running as far as hislegs could carry him.

He ducks inside a building and breathes. He needs only a fewminutes for his shields to return back to full-strength. A few minutes seemsshort, until you’re thrown into a life-or-death scenario where every secondcounts.

Remy materializes in front of him. The Ghost scanned him afew times, fussing over the dents in his armor and the damage to his cloak.

“Good news, you managed to kill around thirty of them. Badnews, there’s still a like  two hundred of them out there.”

The Hunter cusses.

“Remy, please tell me you’ve figured out how they’redisrupting the signals.” He says, desperately. If they can restore the signalsto their ship—they can make it.

“I think I’ve identified the source of the disruption butuh,” The Ghost hesitates, “you’re not gonna like it.”

“What is it?”

“They got a Hydra with them.”

He cusses for the second time within five minutes.

Hydras are big bulky super-computers of death equipped withan impenetrable shield. The latter of which rotates around it, but there isonly a five second window for him to get a few shots in. Add the fact thatthere is about several hundred other Vex intent on killing him and he isdoomed.

Once his shields fully recover, he slips out of thebuilding. He can hear clanking nearby—indicating that they broke free ofconfusion and now they are heading straight towards him.

“What’s the plan?”Remy asks, resuming their role as the Hunter’s Jiminy Cricket.

“Don’t get killed.” The Hunter mutters.

“A solid plan!”Remy enthusiastically agrees, although the Hunter can pick out the nervousundertones in its’ voice.

He calls upon the arc energy once more—letting form a cloakof invisibility once more. He’ll be hidden from their radars, but he can’t domuch but sneak about in this state. The instant he starts shooting, he’ll loseconcentration.

Not to mention keeping it up for long periods of time isincredibly taxing on his Light reserves. It’s a good thing the Hunter specializedin speed, in both his training and armor enhancements. However, the invisibilitydoesn’t cloak his noise. He’ll have to be careful or the Vex will pick up onhis footfalls.

“I programmed thelocation of the Hydra in your radar—just follow the arrow and you’ll find it.”Remy informs him.

“Okay.” He mutters underneath his breath, glancing down atthe arrow that points northwest. They are in the ruins of what once had been acolony. During the Golden Age, colonies were planted all over the Moon, Venusand Mars. But they all fell, just like Earth, during the Collapse when theDarkness struck.

The colony is small, meaning the Hydra is only fifty metersaway from his present location. It just so happens that there are dozens of Vexstanding between it and him.

“Gee, wouldn’t it begreat to be on a fireteam just right about now?” A snarky voice taunts himfrom the back of his head.

He growls, and thankfully Remy keeps silent. The Ghost likelyheard the negative thought, but he knows better than to discuss it with theHunter. Especially not in the middle of a situation like this.

To be perfectly honest, he doesn’t have a clue of what to doonce he reaches the Hydra’s location. The concentration of Vex is probably thehighest around the Hydra. Meaning he would be walking right into the thick ofthings. Great.

When he catches sight of it, he almost drops hisinvisibility. The Hydra is much bigger than the other Hydras he’s encounteredpreviously. Just as he predicted, there is a ton of Vex guarding the Hydra. Hestands there, thinking for a long moment

“Not to sound like a Titan, but I have a strong urge topunch it to death.” He finally mutters, earning a chuckle from Remy.

“You need to have more confidence in yourself, I think yourfirst plan is flawless!”

“Really?” He asks.

“Hun, do I ever lie to you?”

“No,” The Hunter says without a beat of hesitation, “I just—I’llprobably die if this doesn’t work. But then again, I’m dead either way, aren’tI?”

He shakes his head, before focusing on reforming the arcenergy into something new entirely. As the energy reshapes to his will, his invisibilitydrops. He only has a few seconds until the Vex picks him up on their radar forthis to work.

Something tangible appears in his hands. A grenade made ofarc energy. He raises his arm and tosses it as far as he could away from hisdirection. The resulting sound of the nearby blast catches the Vex’s attention.A large portion breaks off to investigate—larger than he had anticipated.

With the Vex distracted, he pulls out his knives—prepared todo a repeat performance as a blade-dancer. He’s finding hard to get a firm graspon the power, as it flickers in and out like a dying lightbulb. He has reliedtoo much on his light already—it isn’t wise to use so much Light in such ashort amount of time. Especially in a dark zone like this.

He is close to burning through his reserves, and the only wayto restore them is to rest or take the lives of enemies. Neither of which areoptions he has. His body could burn up into pure light if he pushes too hard.In a safer place, his ghost could simply revive him. But he doesn’t have thatluxury here.

He continues to call out at the Light until the arc energy pulsesthrough his vein. In that moment, he is ethereal—he is a being of pure light. Witha simple flick of his knives, the arc ripples over him—rendering him invisibleonce more.

He dashes towards his target, sidestepping goblins and harpieson the way. They can sense him run past—but the time they start shooting, theyonly hit empty air. At last, he reaches the Hydra, hovering in ignorance.  He slips through the discrepancy in the shieldand jabs his knives into its’ interface. It lets out a pixelated scream. Ittries shooting him down, but its’ weapons are not made for short-distance combat.The other Vex attempt coming to its’ aid, but their blasts bounce off the Hydra’sshield.

He continues stabbing the arc infused blades into the Hydra,frantically. The Hydra drops its’ shield, but it’s already too late. The Hunterhits something vital and the giant machine starts to brightly as its’ systems overheat—

“Guardian get out of there!” The Ghost screeches.

He jumps off of the Hydra, but he only gets two feet awaybefore the Hydra explodes—knocking him off his feet. His ears are ringing, andhis vision is blurry, and he feels a lot less tangible than he should. Now thatthe Hydra is gone, he hears the whispers of the Light clearly. The Light is alwaysspeaking—not in words, no. But in feelings and images. It is usually a distant humin the back of his head. But now—now it is a roar.

The Light is calling at him, demanding he rise up and getrid of the Vex scouring the area.

The Hunter attempts to ignore it—all he wants at this pointis to lay down and accept his fate which is death. But a calling from the Lightisn’t easily ignored as an alarm clock that was shut off rather than put onsnooze. He does not own his soul—the moment he was resurrected it belonged tothe Light. He is a servant of the Light and he must stay bound to its wishes.

(There are guardians who denounce the offerings of theLight. There are guardians who say that the Light can’t be trusted as much asthe Darkness. There are guardians whose light are tainted by the Darkness, bothwillingly and unwillingly. But he is not any of those guardians in that moment)

Finally, at last he gives in, letting the Light consume him—andhe rises to his feet not out of his own vocation. Remy is saying something, butthe words are unintelligible to his ears. The arc energy crackles around himonly this time he is practically a storm system of his own. The abundance inlight heals his wounds and restores his stamina.

It is dangerous to channel this much Light—he can feel himselfon the edge of slipping away. But the Light has made it clear—he willannihilate all remnants of the Vex or face death.

So, he descends on the Vex, a maelstrom of doom anddestruction. It is the stuff of legends—unparalleled to all except the mightyIron Lords of old. He slashes and cuts and stabs, leaving nothing alive in hiswake. He continues to fight and fight until there only a single solitary dot onhis radar.

It is a goblin lying on the ground—its’ mechanical limbstwitching as it clings onto life. The secret about the Vex is that they’re notpurely robotic—they are a meld of mechanical and organic. It is likely thatalthough its’ circuits have shut down, the organic part is still living and breathinginside its’ husk.

It is hard to say how the goblin reacts to the Hunter’s presence.Its’ robotic face is incapable of expression and it does not speak the Guardian’slanguage though it can understand it.

The Hunter bends down and waves a knife tauntingly in frontof its’ head.

“Thisdagger right here? Yeah? You see this? You see this right here? Guess what? Imurdered the others of your kind with it.”

Withoutwaiting for a response, he plunges the knife into its’ stomach and the red dotdisappears from his radar. He is alone again in the abandoned colony. He attemptsstanding up, his strength has left him.  Thenat last the guardian’s world is swept up by darkness.

-

“andso, I failed because I couldn’t find the cause of their activity at Aenea.” TheHunter reports, avoiding eye contact with his superior, the Hunter Vanguard.

Heshould not be alive—he should have died out there. It is only by the will of theLight that he is still alive. Remy bumps into his chest, it’s silent way ofreassuring him. He clasps his hand around the Ghost, gently cradling them—his wayof acknowledging them.

Heis relieved that his actions hadn’t resulted in his death. Though it is rarefor guardians to die before their ghosts—there have been a few recorded cases.When it happens, the ghost’s grief is inconsolable.

“Failed?Guardian, you killed several hundred Vex—including a Hydra! That’s the oppositeof failure!”  The Hunter Vanguard exclaims,raising his arms to the side widely, “Dead Vex is always better than no dead Vexin my book.”

TheHunter Vanguard, Cayde-6, is one of the friendlier Hunters around. He is charismaticand witty, which plays well into deceiving others of his hidden depth and intellect.He is an Exo—a creation of the Golden Age. Exos are different than Frames—theyare androids who can think and feel and dream just as any human or awoken. Thus,the Light also recognizes them as also being eligible candidates to its’blessings.

“So,you think this mission was a success?” The Hunter eventually asks, his eyebrowsfurrowing.

“Ifyou asked either Ikora or Zavala, they’d say it wasn’t, buuut!” He puts up afinger, “I’m the Hunter Vanguard, not them. It sounds to me like you might’vewiped their operations entirely—or at least disrupted their plans. And whateverit was—we can know for sure it wasn’t good!”

“See,I told you.” Remy says, flying out of the Hunter’s loose grasp, “now we can wego to a coffee shop?”

TheHunter looks expectantly at Cayde-6, who laughs as he waves a hand.

“Goon, you deserve it! Personally, I’d go out for Ramen, but you do you!”

Henods his thanks and turns to leave when the Exo calls out,

“What’syour name by the way, Guardian?”

TheHunter freezes, the question triggering something from the recesses of hismind.

“Virgil! Pick me up, pick me up!”A child demands, making grabby hands.

“Now, what’s the magic word?” TheHunter’s own voice responds teasingly. It sounds so foreign and distant to himnow—as if it belongs to a different person entirely.

“Pleeeease on a cherry on topwill you pick me up?” The child asks.

“Okay, Pat.” He says, picking upthe child and securing him in his arms, “can you see better now?”

“Yup!” The child chirps, wrappinghis arms around the man’s neck, “You’re the best brother ever, Virgil!”

He doesn’tknow why he remembers that out of everything from his past life. But he doesknow he had a little brother once, and his brother called him Virgil. It is theonly thing he has left that is his and his alone, and he’s not going to give upit up frivolously.

“Idon’t have a name.” He tells the hunter vanguard, “You can call me whatever youlike.”

Withthat, he strolls out of the dimly lit meeting room of the vanguard and into theshining light of the outside world.

General Tag List: @karebearmay @punsterterry@cryingtitan@ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2 @usothemarshmallow@madly-handsome  @i-just-wanna-be-alone-blog @remy-alagaesias-dragon-queen @ashrain5 @otaku-marijane @pathos-logical  @moonstone-fox @fandergecko @themarijuanamason @impromptu-sanity  @a-pastel-pan @cyberchick56 @evilmuffin

[pjbehindthesun]

chapter 23: an hour and a half from now

Saturday, November 3rd, 1990

What does it say about me, that this is the most at home I’ve felt in this city since I’ve moved here? Leaning on a cold metal pole in the back of a shithole music venue by myself with nobody to talk to, just watching the people in the crowd who have no idea they’re being watched. Shit, I don’t mean it to sound all creepy like that, it’s just one of my favorite things to do: pay attention to people when they think they’re being ignored. That whole “dance while no one’s watching” idea? Makes for a solid evening of entertainment all by itself. Unless, like tonight, everyone seems to be here on a goddamn date. For the first half of the set, it’s just felt nice, the way no one’s bothered me all night, but it’s like a light switch flicked in my head and now all I can see is that everyone’s here with someone. Fucking great. Can’t even enjoy a show without reverting into a self-pitying, morose fucker. Maybe if I find a different spot in the club, I can try to force my attention back on the band. At least no one’s hassling me about shouldering my way forward. In a small enough place like the Off Ramp, no one really gives a shit.

Yeah, okay, this is better. The only people I can see are the handful of people directly in front of me and the band. They’re pretty fucking great, I never saw ‘em before… Jesus Lizard, I wanna say? Supposed to be out of Chicago, so we probably know a lot of the same people, although Beth was always way more into the noise rock scene than me…

Fuck. Stop it, Vedder. I hate this whole fucking break-up thing. Whose idea was it, anyway, not mine… I hate how everything reminds me of her. Or, I guess, I want to hate it. Truthfully, those painful little stabs of memory are all I have of her anymore, so I guess I should be grateful for them. I have a habit of hoarding them, like a collector, turning them over and over like cherished trinkets. How fucked up is that? Wait a minute… that’s not her, is it? There, the little brunette, up on the rail, in the white t-shirt that’s too big for her frame... fuck, it looks just like her from this angle, it’s got to be her… what the fuck is she doing here? She wouldn’t have come all the way up here, would she? For what reason? To tell me she wants to get back together? I shove between a couple of guys who are probably gonna murder me in an alleyway later, but it doesn’t matter, my hand’s on her shoulder, she whips around, and…

“M’sorry, thought you were someone else,” I mutter as the girl turns back to the music with a justified look of disgust, although there’s no way she heard my apology and definitely no way she cared. Of course it wasn’t her. What the fuck would she be doing in Seattle? What sense would that make? So fucking stupid. Doesn’t matter how many times I think I spot her in a crowd, it’s only wishful thinking. Stupid, invasive, immature dreams of her coming to find me, to tell me we’d made a horrible mistake. Just dreams. I can’t get myself outside the club fast enough. There’s a stack of the local circular on the counter by the door, so I grab one on my way out, hoping I’ll find something in there that’s actually worth thinking about, and shiver when I hit the damp outside air after escaping the stuffy club.

Maybe I should have gone out with Jeff and Mike after all, seen whatever show they wanted to see. Maybe I would have had a different set of distractions with them, done a better job keeping my mind off of Beth. Then again, seems like every time I go out with the guys, we end up hanging out with like a dozen of their closest friends in the music scene. Normally that’d be great, but I can’t shake the feeling that their buddies are always making fun of me somehow. I don’t blame ‘em, I’m probably fucking hilarious to them, a surfer in Seattle, a terrified frontman, the absolute antithesis of everything the guys had going on before, with Andy, just a…

...just a self-absorbed knucklehead whose problems aren’t shit compared to what I can see a little ways down the road from me. There’s a person, a woman, maybe, looks like she’s about my mom’s age, and she’s settling in for the night underneath the highway overpass. Okay, there’s one way I can quit being a mopey sack of shit and do something positive.

After giving her all the change in my wallet, the newspaper I wasn’t really reading anyway, the flannel under my coat, and the cut-off gloves I’d forgotten I had stashed in my pocket, I start back in the direction of home. Or Jeff’s apartment, I should say. Home’s a long way away. But I don’t get very far past the door of the Off-Ramp.

“Eddie?”

The door opens, carrying with it a wall of club noise and a familiar, mellow voice that makes me turn around.

“Oh, uh, hey Chris,” I greet him as he materializes out on the street, looming in all black. “You been here long? I didn’t see you, I woulda said hi.”

“No, you wouldn’t have,” he smiles, “but it’s cool, I probably wouldn’t have either. It’s just one of those nights. You probably know how that is. I figured you’d be over at Squid Row with Jeff and Cready.”

“Oh, uh, you know, I was just…”

“Hey, like I said, it’s one of those nights. I’m being an antisocial shit too,” his grin widens. “We could team up, you know? Twice the brooding.”

“The more the moodier,” I’m chuckling in spite of myself. Chris seems to do that -- put people at ease. If he wants to. I’m glad I ran into him.

“Where were you headed?”

“There’s this footpath over at Discovery Park, and it’s usually pretty kinda quiet this time of night. My wife, she’s a big fan of these ridiculous little dogs. You ever seen a Pomeranian?”

I squint, racking my brain. “Those the Chinese ones, the little ones that look like mops?”

“No, no, that’s a Pekingese,” he laughs at the characterization. “Poms are even less dignified, they’re literally just pom poms with googly eyes glued on. Anyway, Susan’s all about ‘em, and we just got one. Well, a new one, I should say, we already had one, so now they’re a dynamic duo. Kinda funny to watch them try and keep up with my shepherd in the mud,” he mimes short legs flailing and a tongue panting, and his long hair looks for all the world like a pair of poodle ears as it sways along, “so I go out there by myself with a bunch of shitty beer and watch ‘em run around until they’re too tired and I have to carry ‘em back, one under each arm. It’s really fucking therapeutic, you should try it.”

Is this guy serious? I know I’m new to Seattle, but you’d have to live under a rock to miss how big Soundgarden is around here. And this notorious rockstar spends his weekends roaming through forests like a lonely ghost with a pack of ridiculous hounds? That’s officially the coolest fucking thing I’ve ever heard another human being say.

“Well? You in?”

I bob my head once in agreement, trying not to smile like too much of a fucking maniac, and another easy smile spreads across his face.

“Yes! My car’s that one, the Galaxie. Fuckin’ radio’s stuck on a religious station right now, though, hope you’re feeling the right combination of gullible and guilty.” He points at something parked behind him on the corner before turning on his heels to head in that direction. A massive, battered, late ‘60s Ford land yacht. I don’t think I could feel more heartfelt and instant love for an inanimate object if I tried.

“Hey, if you’re into hiking, we oughta go tomorrow too, there’s that trail Cora and I were telling you about a while back, I don’t think she’d be too mad if we went without her… although on second thought, I don’t want her to kill either one of us, so maybe we should probably check and see if she wants in... ” he trails off as I break into a jog to try and keep up.

***

Sunday, November 4th, 1990

“Where are you off to at this hour?”

In the quiet and darkened apartment, Alex’s voice makes me bounce into the air from my seat on the couch where I’d been tying my shoe.

“JESUS! You scared the shit out of me!”

He watches me with a rueful twist of his lips. “It’s my apartment too, ya know. You got too used to it being empty while I was gone, huh?”

“No, it’s not like that…” ...except it’s exactly like that, I mutter to myself as I try to stop my heart from racing like a cornered bunny's… “I just didn’t think you were awake yet and I didn’t want to be the one to wake you. I figured you’re probably still tired. From your trip.”

“Nah,” he groans through a stretch, “wide awake. My body’s still on mountain time.”

“Hmm.” I return my attention to my laces in the absence of anything else to say to him.

“You didn’t answer my question, though.”

“Your…?”

“Where are you off to?”

“So long, Mom, I’m off to drop the Bomb...” I singsong absently while I finish tying the other sneaker’s laces. When I straighten up, Alex is looking utterly lost and more than a little annoyed.

“Come again?”

“Little bit of pre-nostalgia for World War III, that’s all.”

I bite my lip to shut myself up. Weapons of mass destruction and nuclear holocaust are maybe slightly less funny when we’re actually keeping so many secrets from one another.

“You’re so fucking weird.” Alex shakes his head in dismissal, not showing any signs of having gotten the joke. Stone would have thought it was funny. UGH, god damn it, speak of the devil. Why am I thinking about Stone? Stop thinking about Stone! Stop it! Quick, change the subject…

“Well, I was going to go for a run, if that helps answer your question.”

Alex nods and I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s the only excuse I can find for getting out of the house long enough to clear my head and sort through some of the chaos of the last 48 hours. Making sense of what Lucy was trying to tell me the other day. Deciding what to do about this gift Alex sent Patch. Figuring out what the hell I actually think of Stone now. It’s gonna need to be a long run.

“Can I come with you?”

“Are you feeling okay?” I frown as he circles his arms around me, my body staying stiff as he tries to coax me to relax.

“Better than ever. So can I?”

“You want to come with me.”

“Mmm.” He kisses the tip of my nose, and it's a struggle not to wrinkle it in response.

“Outside.”

“Unless you just want me to chase you around the apartment, I figured as much.”

“Run-ning,” I stretch my word out, unsure whether I've lost my mind or he has.

His bottom lip pokes out. “Don’t sound so shocked, you might hurt my feelings.”

“Sorry, I’m sorry, it’s just… I don’t think you’ve ever…”

“Who says I can’t start now?”

“No one, but…”

“But what?”

“I can’t guarantee there will be any bears or murderers chasing us, Alex, and I’ve never heard you say anything nice about weirdos like me who run for fun.”

“Are you impugning my athletic ability?” He laughs, grabbing my ass and making me contort away from him yet again. At the look of confusion on his face, it occurs to me that I'm being a colossal asshole.

“You really want to come running with me?”

“Mmhmm.”

“But… why?”

“Why what?”

“Alex. You hate running. And hiking. And being outside. And, like, nature in general.”

He shrugs and says, very simply, “yeah, but I love you.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” he grabs my ass again, and it’s all I can do not to grimace, “I missed you, okay? I kinda want to spend time with you.”

Well, it’s official, if I blow him off right now, I’m a sub-human. So much for my grand plan to figure out how in the world I'm supposed to tell him I don't really love him anymore.

“Yeah… okay. Let me, uh, let me get some stuff together and we’ll go?”

He lets go of me with a smirk and heads towards the kitchen, but pauses a few paces away and groans as he claps his hand over his eyes.

“Pull a muscle?” I ask, trying not to sound too hopeful.

“I don't even think I have running shoes.” He faces me with a sheepish look, pulling his hand back to ruffle his hair. That always used to make me melt, when he’d do that. Used to. Now it just seems like a juvenile gesture he drops whenever he’s trying to get out of trouble. I never used to understand how falling out of love with someone was possible. I dimly remember thinking Stone sounded like a total asshole when he explained having gone through it. But right now, he’s the only person I want to talk to about it. Which is deeply inconvenient when I’m supposed to be hating his guts. Stupid Stone. But on the bright side, now I have an easy excuse to go on that solitary run.

“Oh, well, that solves th --”

“I’ll call Brian, he runs, I bet he has a pair I can steal!”

Before I can finish my objection, he’s got the phone to his ear and has already dialed his friend. I sink back against the lip of the kitchen table while he and his friend haggle over a pair of stinky running shoes, his friend who he’s never introduced me to, his friend who suddenly symbolizes how thoroughly we established completely different lives the moment we moved to Seattle. Why did it take me so long to figure this out? Lucy’s been trying to tell me, even Patch tried to tell me… damn it, I should really call Patch.

“Okay, don’t move a muscle, I’ll be right back!”

Alex plants a slightly-too-rough kiss on my cheek before flinging on his coat and bolting out the door. I numbly make my way over to the couch to curl up and stare at the phone. This is as good a time as ever to call Patch, right? See what he really thinks about Alex’s $500 stunt? Make sure he isn’t going to hate me if I go through with breaking up with Alex? God, they’ve always been such good friends, how on earth do you break up with someone who’s become a part of your family?

But instead of picking up the phone, I pick at a loose piece of rubber on the sole of my shoe. I want to hear my brother’s voice, but I’m terrified that maybe, possibly, there’s a slim chance he’ll tell me exactly what I want to hear and then I’ll have nothing left to do but act. And anyway, as much as I need his affirmation, I’m afraid of hearing yet again how I’m making all the wrong choices. It’s not his problem to solve, any more than it’s Lucy’s. I can hear how exasperated they’re both getting with me. So instead of calling my brother, and bothering him with my bullshit and hearing his predictable answers, I sit in a giant pile of mope and pick at my shoes while I wait for Alex to come back.

A heavy pair of footsteps slows down as it approaches my door. That must be Alex. I don’t even look up. Until the owner of the footsteps knocks. Alex wouldn’t knock.

“Uh, it’s open?” I call from the couch.

When Chris cracks the door and leans to peer inside, his hair precedes him, cracking me up and shaking me out of my mopey idiocy.

“Smokey! Can I come in?”

“Always. What are you doing in this neck of the woods?”

“Funny you mention woods,” he smiles, bounding over to the couch. He hesitates for a moment at the pile of laundry I haven’t folded yet, which is occupying the entire cushion next to me, but after I shrug at him, he scoops it up and dumps it unceremoniously on the floor. One item, my favorite navy blue bra, stays hooked to the afghan, and I cringe as I watch him gently untangle it and set it down on top of the rest of my clothes, looking totally unfazed. He joins me on the couch, staring at the toes of my shoes and stretching his arm along the back of the cushion. “I’m heading out for a hike, just gotta pick up my date first.”

He reaches over and shoves my arm with his fingertips.

“Nuh uh, no can do.”

“Smokeyyyyy,” he whines.

“I have to study! And, uh, I’m waiting for Alex to get back so we can go for a run?” I wish I could have kept my voice from turning my statement into a question, because there’s a glint of understanding in Chris’s eyes that I don’t particularly like. But his voice is mild enough when he speaks. I like him for that.

“Sure, sure.”

“Okay, fine, I kinda don’t feel like being around people today, are you happy?”

“Hardly ever,” his mouth twists, “but I know the feeling. Kinda why we’re friends in the first place, right?”

The corners of my mouth tug up just as his have as I stare at him and reflect on how much he’s brought into my life since I scolded him on a mountaintop on a day when we both needed to escape into the woods. This friendship that has never demanded much at all, but always been easy to settle into again after a lapse. The reassurance that there’s always someone with whom I have this maladjusted ghosting habit in common. And the Mookie guys. I have him to thank for that too. I swallow the peculiar lump rising in my throat.

“So, what’s new with you?”

“Yeah, I miss you too. Not much. Just working on Temple stuff now that we’re home for the rest of the year.”

“Ah, right. How’s that going?”

“Excellent,” he enthuses. “Shouldn’t even call it working. Never quite done anything like it. Have you heard any of it yet?”

“No, not that I can think of.” I haven’t heard the guys play in a while, but I’m not about to go into that. “You guys have that show coming up?”

He nods. “Couple weeks. You’ll be there, right?”

I let out a sigh that I feel like I’ve been holding in for days and resume torturing my shoe. “Uhm, I don’t know, I’ll have to see, I might be working that night. What day is it?”

“The 13th,” his voice drops about an octave, “and just what the fuck do you mean, you don’t know? Stoney’s gonna shit a brick if you if you miss it.”

“Yeah, maybe.” I glance back up at him and flinch at his menacing expression. “I don’t know. Things are just... weird… there... right now.”

“You and Stone? Seemed pretty okay a few nights ago.”

I cringe in immediate regret of how publicly cozy Stone and I had gotten on Halloween. And if that’s all Chris knows, then he doesn’t know the half of it…

“Yeah, well, I don’t know, it’s weird now.”

“When was the last time you talked to him?” Chris presses, shifting his posture to face me more directly and still glowering at me.

“The other day, before he went home with the flu or whatever, Jesus,” I pat the arm of the couch, “is this a witness stand or something?”

“Okay, okay,” his demeanor relaxes. “Just be there, okay? This whole thing, I mean, the vibe of working on it has been really overwhelmingly positive, but it’s the kind of thing that’s still… I don’t know, it’s just important to me that you’re there, I feel like you’d get something out of it. And whatever’s going on with Stone, I’m pretty sure it’s important to him too.”

“Okay,” I mumble, fighting back the lump again, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Chris bobs his head. “Flu, huh?”

“What? Oh, right. I don’t know, he just looked like death warmed over and I’m pretty sure he went home right after we talked.” Another twinge of regret twists my insides, this time because it hasn’t even occurred to me in all my anger to check in on Stone and see how he’s feeling. He looked really, really terrible. Fight or no fight, he’s still my friend, and if I were the one to contract whatever bubonic plague is going around, I know he would be the first one to make sure I was okay. Especially since I think his parents are still out of town, which leaves him all by himself trying to take care of that dog and house. Shit, I should probably go over there.

Chris doesn’t point any of that out, though, thankfully. Instead, he silently looks around my apartment with interest, seeming very much all of a sudden like a cocker spaniel with a very short attention span. For everything this friendship means, it’s kind of weirdly emblematic that he’s never even seen my place before.

“Chris?”

“Mm?” he responds, not looking away from the bookcase in the opposite direction.

“You didn’t come all the way over here just to see if I wanted to go hiking, did you?”

“Nah, I’m actually here to pick up Eddie, he said he’d go. I think I finally sold him on our mountain.”

“Judas!!”

I aim a kick square at his hip, laughing as he intercepts my foot and disarms it by yanking off my shoe and throwing it across the room where it thuds against the opening door, missing Eddie’s face by inches.

“Whoa-oh,” he calls as he flinches, but his dimples dawn as a smile draws on his mouth, “who the hell throws a fuckin shoe?”

Chris grins back, yanking off my other one to lob it at Ed’s face, but it’s caught easily. Eddie throws them both back to me in a pair of gentle underhand tosses.

“So you coming with us or what, Cora?”

“Nah, leave her for dead, she’s a lost cause,” Chris chuckles as he stands up.

“Gee golly, mister, can’t imagine why I wouldn’t want to go hiking with you,” I drawl. Eddie’s eyes bounce back and forth keenly.

“Well, uh, too bad, maybe another time?” he says softly as plaintive wrinkles appear on his forehead.

“You bet. Just, you know, the boyfriend’s on his way home and we’re gonna go running, so it’s not a great time.”

“Oh, alright,” Eddie nods, but the wrinkles deepen in a way that tells me he’s about as believing of my excuses as Chris.

“No Jeff?” Chris asks as they head for my front door.

“No, he said it sounded cool but he said he’s gonna help Lucy do some stuff around the apartment today.”

“I bet he is.”

“Okay, you pigs, get out,” I shove Chris in the back toward the door, throwing all my weight against him, although he digs in his heels and I have no hope of moving him unless he wants to be moved. “You kill any more fucking time and you’re gonna lose the light, you know.”

“She’s got a very good point,” Eddie agrees, and Chris unlocks his knees, laughing as I stumble to keep my footing.

I’ve just shooed the two of them out the door when Alex comes home, carrying borrowed running shoes and still exuding the same smothering, sycophantic energy as when he left. I’m feeling extraordinarily stupid for not calling Patch to sort this shit out when I had the chance. Maybe after the run. On the bright side, Alex is in terrible shape for such a beanpole, and I’m confident I can outrun him, or at least make him wheeze enough not to have to worry about making conversation.

***

My head swims from the fumes as I take another deep breath and force myself to steady the paint brush, even though my arm is starting to ache from reaching so high, and my knees are getting sore from balancing on the sink basin. Whose bright idea was it to repaint a room with so much trim all by herself with no ladder? Oh right, that would be me. The white noise of the bathroom fan blocks out everything except the exertion of doing the work properly and the joy of seeing a new color stain a primed surface. Even if I’m not sure about the color just yet. I’m not really a blue sort of person. But this feels like a direction I wanted to follow. Any of the weird “improvements” I’ve done to this place, I’ve done by following that urge. I accepted a long time ago that I wasn’t getting my security deposit back. It’s fine. I’m not good at coloring in the lines or making up my mind. Let me make my messes and see what happens. It usually cleans up okay.

I crawl off the sink, hastily wiping the smear of bright teal paint off the porcelain with the damp rag tucked into the waist of my shorts, and look around. It’s… very blue. But the cabinet’s dark stain doesn’t look so dingy next to it, and I’ve got plans for the mirror that should warm the room up a little more. I’m refilling the tray when I hear the apartment door open and close, the sound of hightops being nudged off, and the familiar beat of heavy footprints padding down the hall to find me. Just the sound of him in my apartment has always made the place feel brighter.

“Whoa,” Jeff’s rasp reverberates off the walls, “you weren’t kidding, that’s… that’s fuckin BLUE.”

“Too much?” I spin around to study his face as he studies the walls.

“Nah, it’s cool. Vivid. It’s very you.”

“Ooh, your stock is falling, Jeffrey, I was just thinking to myself that it might have been the wrong color.”

“Why?” he pulls the headband out of my hair and begins to kiss my temple, the outside edge of my ear, and down along my neck to my shoulder. It’s a struggle not to wrap myself up in him, but my hands are still covered in paint. I manage to resist that temptation, but talking remains a challenge.

“Blue’s, uhm, it’s kind of a bummer…”

“No, no way, it’s so… like… sensitive, and strong, and… okay, I’m babbling, but can you blame me…”

“Yeah… but… like… the trim’s kind of glaring now, I don’t know what to do about it…”

Time to abandon any pretense of thinking straight, now that he’s got his nose in my collarbone like this. Maybe he won’t mind a little paint on his jersey...

“So this is you staying close to home, huh?”

“What?”

“Cora, all that shit. You bailed on all my ideas for plans, remember? Wanted to stay close to home?”

I frown at him, wondering where he’s going with this. There’s that neediness again. It’s not like him at all. So far, we’ve always been able to strike the right balance naturally, without putting any thought into it. We’re together when we want to be, we have space when we want it. And lately, Jeff’s been throwing all that out of balance. I wish he’d just tell me what the fuck’s going on… I wish he’d stop kissing my ear like that, or I’d remember to ask him about it…

“I still do… I think that’s for the best. But, uh, there’s a lot we can do at home, though, right?”

“I have some ideas…”

Before I can respond with some cute, pithy bullshit, he’s spun me around like I weigh nothing at all and pinned me against the wall, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it’s still dripping with wet turquoise paint. But I don’t give a shit either. I manage to reach my bare foot out behind him and nudge the paint tray out of our reach, ease him over so we’re both standing on the dropcloth, and give in to the full force of his kiss, trying to plant my feet as much as I can because my back’s slipping sideways in the paint. But my effort is unnecessary, because I’m not going anywhere in his grip. His hand lands flat on the wall next to my head before raking blue paint through my hair and dragging blue fingerprints across my throat, and it’s a race to see who can get undressed enough, fast enough…

*

Winded, and thoroughly slathered in turquoise, we splay out on the soaked dropcloth in a blissful, painted pile.

“Well, at least now I know what to do about the fucking trim color,” I nod at the formerly crisp, white door frame, which is now coated in Smurfy fingerprints from our failed efforts to keep our balance.

“I dunno, it’s a nice artistic statement when paired with your vertebrae sliding down the wall,” his fingers point out the trajectory of my body.

“I think I’ll just do the trim and walls and ceiling all the same color. You know. Very Masque of the Red Death.”

“Gothic, I like it.” He sighs, letting his head fall back and his eyes close. I squelch a little closer, remembering that we still have unfinished business.

“Jeff.”

“Present,” he sighs, not opening his eyes.

“Just checking.” Somehow, I still can’t bring myself to spit it out. “Uhm, you still willing to help me finish painting?”

“What else am I gonna do,” he muses with a contended smile.

After a farcical attempt at cleaning ourselves up, we continue to paint, halfway dressed, until the entire room is saturated in turquoise. My every pore and mucous membrane sympathizes.

“Anyone ever told you you’re a disaster with a paint brush?” he teases, watching me try to wash the paint from deep under my fingernails in the sink.

“Oh, yeah, it’s on my resume, actually.”

“Smartass,” he reaches out with a menacing blue paw, attempting to smear the arm I’ve just washed off, but I manage to dodge him.

“Missed me, missed me, now you gotta kiss me,” I taunt, feinting left and then right.

“Ugh, work work work,” he gives a gravelly laugh and abandons all pretense of not being able to catch me, wrapping me up once again and finding my mouth with his. But that annoying thought that there’s something we’re not saying still won’t leave me alone.

“Hey, hey, Jeff?” I kiss him back lightly but maintain my ground, until he finally quits and looks at me in confusion. “Why… uh, why don’t you just fucking say it?”

His grip on me lightens and his jaw falls slack, confirming that I was right to press the issue, that it wasn’t just my issue. I persist, “I know you’re all pissed about not making plans this weekend, I know you’ve got something you want to say to me, there’s some occasion you’re trying to manufacture, and either you’re really terrible at breaking up with me or it’s something I really want to hear, so either way, can you just spit it out already?”

Jeff’s shocked stare makes me wish immediately that I hadn’t said anything, damn it Lucy, things were fine, why did you have to put him on edge, here we go, the other shoe’s bound to drop, he’s gonna break up with me, come on, let’s just get it over with…

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” he starts to pull himself together, making my stomach lurch and my shoulders tighten as I brace for the bad news. “Uh, I just… I really fucking love you. A lot.”

Now it’s my turn to gape like a fucking idiot.

“You what?”

“Yeah, Luce, I love you, and I’ve been thinking it, like, forever, and I just… I don’t know why I didn’t say it already, maybe I just assumed you already knew or something, because we’ve been so good at like, not needing to say the obvious thing… but I’m kinda tired of not saying the obvious thing, because we’re not promised anything, and I’m tired of taking it for granted, so... I love you, and I don’t want to spend my time with anyone else, and I don’t want to have to walk downstairs to see you in the morning, it’s just too fucking far, okay?”

My mind is full of stammering thoughts as I turn over the logistics of what he’s just said, but all that I can manage to say out loud through the grin splitting my face is, “I love you too,” as I pull him into a still-not-quite pigment-free kiss.

***

This. This is what dying feels like. I’m sure of it. Oh, yuck, I’m pretty certain the color coming out of my lungs does not occur in nature. Dark. Why is it so dark in here? What the hell time is it? Jesus, I slept the entire fucking day, that's just grand...

At least there's no one around to witness how pathetic I probably look right now. This whole flu thing's not very big on dignity. Although, who am I kidding, I'd wear a robe and slippers everywhere if it was socially acceptable, and I’d kill for someone to bring me a cup of tea so I don’t have to slither out of this bed and get it myself. My fever finally broke this morning, in a disgusting, sweaty miracle, which is a mixed blessing because it's nice not to feel like a shivery rag doll anymore, but now my sheets smell like gross fever sweat and not the much more pleasant smell left behind on my pillow by Cora the other night. I wish her hair didn't smell so damn good all the time. It's really fucking inconvenient.

Ow. Crap. Dehydration headache. One of the downfalls of attempted hibernation. With a chorus of my most pathetic whines, I manage to get myself out of bed and over to the kitchen to nuke a cup of water for some tea. Just as I’m steeping the bag, though, there’s a knock on my door. Fucking great. I wasn’t serious about actually wanting someone around… unless it’s…

“Hello?” I croak, wincing at my sore throat.

“Stoney! You live!”

“Cornell?”

“You gonna let me in or what?”

“I don’t know, how’s your immune system?”

“Strong, like ox.”

Laughing and coughing, I open the door to let Chris in. He shoves a box of tissues into my chest and blows past me to set a quart container of some kind of murky liquid, which I eye suspiciously.

“Hot and sour soup, from Grand Palace. Foolproof cold remedy, I’m pretty convinced this shit cures cancer, or at least ebola or something. Cora told me you looked like death warmed over. Girl doesn’t lie.”

“Oh, uh, you… you talked to Cora?” I pick up the soup and inspect it more closely.

“Yeah, I, uh, talked to Cora.”

“Hmm.”

“Dude, eat something, it’s not gonna kill you.”

“Doubtful.”

“Pansy.”

“Pusher.”

My laughter dissolves into a choked cough again as Chris saunters over to the cabinet like he owns the place and grabs a couple of bowls.

“Hey, let’s sit out on the steps, it’ll help the black lung.” He hands me a bowl of soup and, in no position to argue, I snag the blanket from the back of my couch to wrap around my shoulders as I follow him onto the landing outside my front door where we sit and dangle our feet over the edge, like little kids. I’m feeling too rundown to admit it, but he’s right -- my chest feels better within seconds.

“Eat, man, eat, you’re looking so thin you’re gonna blow away out here.”

“Who died and made you my grandma?”

“I prefer the philanthropic, mysterious stranger vibe, but have it your way.”

I try a bit of the soup, which sticks in my gullet after a day of not eating or drinking, and I sputter into another full-body coughing fit.

“Gahh, why’s it so… viscous??”

“It’s the viscosity,” Chris beams, slurping up another spoonful. “Coats the throat, or something.”

“Yeah, I bet you say that to all the girls,” I choke, but the soup’s actually pretty good and not too heavy, so I have some more. We sit in silence for a while, which is one of the things I’ve always appreciated about Chris, before I pipe up against my better judgement.

“So,” I have to clear my throat again, “uh, how’s, how’s Cora?”

“She’ll be alright, I think. Seems pretty unhappy with you.”

“That makes it a day that ends in -y.”

“But she’s fine. Tried to get her to go hiking today, but she was going running with that Alex guy.”

“You don’t say.” Alex and physical exertion? What the fuck? Is this a fever dream, still?  

“Seemed weird, I mean, he doesn’t really come along for a lot, she does a lot on her own. And she didn’t seem too excited about the idea of him tagging along, I dunno.”

“Would you be excited about trying to outrun a wart on your ass?”

“Ouch. So, you hate him, yeah?”

“It’s not that I hate the guy, necessarily…” Chris’s eyebrows shoot up as I continue, “...just… you know… kinda always wanted to buy him a toaster for his bathtub.”

He tosses me a pity laugh. “Yeah, well, she’s not an idiot, don’t think she hasn’t picked up on that. Whatever the hell’s going on with you two, you can’t ignore him.”

“You’re telling me.” I hold up my hand to shush him when I hear the phone ring, and we both listen as the garbled sound of my answering machine comes through the door, but there’s no message.

“Stoney, what the hell happened, anyway?”

I squint at his face for a moment, torn between not wanting to drag everyone into this little drama that’s been playing out with Cora and actually wanting to talk to a friend about it. Jeff and Cready were zero help, but Chris has always been a better listener for the heavy stuff.

“We… kinda… I mean, she stayed over the other night, and…”

Chris’s eyes widen and his jaw drops, although he can barely contain the laughter that accompanies his surprise. “Oh!” he exclaims with glee. “You’re idiots!”

“Okay, (a), thanks man, good talk, real supportive. And (b), why are we idiots, exactly?”

“You slept with her even though you knew it was a bad idea! That's not like you. That's like something Mike would do. Or me. You’ve always got all the angles figured out. And Cora, she's like, got her shit together more than any of the rest of us. She should have known better.” He frowns, drumming his empty spoon on his kneecap.

“Yeah, well, she's sorta… new at this. And anyway we didn’t actually sleep together, alright, I mean, we slept together but not like you’re thinking.”

“Reeeeal convincing, Stone,” he teases. “Whaddya mean she’s new at this? Haven’t she and that guy been together since, like the dawn of time?”

“Yeah, but like, that’s it, that’s her whole story, and I think… I think she and I have something really good, and I think she knows that, but it probably really freaks her out to think about ending anything that’s been, you know, such a fixture for so long. I don’t know, I’m probably not making any sense.”

“More than you know. Just give her time, man. She thinks the world of you, and it really pisses her off to admit it. That’s a good thing, it’ll still be there after she figures out the whole ‘first love’ thing.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I whine, which devolves into more coughing, which cycles back into even more whining.

“On the bright side, you’ve really perfected that Tibetan throat-singing technique,” Chris cracks as he stands up. “You’d better get back inside. Anything I can do to help while I’m here?”

“Nah, thanks, the toxic sludge seems to be working, I’m feeling a little better already.”

Chris claps me on the back, betrays the slightest slip of a smile, and starts down the staircase without another word. I let myself back inside, free to moan and groan as much as I like in the absence of anyone to make fun of me for it, and shuffle my way over to the answering machine. The first message is pure auditory chaos, but through the cacophony, I gather that Mudhoney’s on a tour stop in Tijuana and that my answering machine tape should probably be burned after I listen to the message so as not to implicate anyone in a felony. The usual. That’s got to have been from earlier today and not just now -- Chris and I would have heard that excitement through the door for sure, but I wouldn’t put it past myself to have slept through it this afternoon. Whatever. I delete their message and listen to the second, much quieter one.

“Hey, Stone? uh…”  Cora’s hushed voice is interrupted by Alex calling her name in the background. I hear her give a sharp inhale, followed by a click, and that’s all.

[devintrinidad]

Unfinished Business

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13015189/1/Unfinished-Business

"Hey, White Blood Cell." AE-3803 began in a cautious manner. While she followed her friend on his patrols around the body, she carried a basket filled with nutrients. At his nod of confirmation to affirm that he was listening, the erythrocyte continued. "I have come to the conclusion that your friends are weirdos."

"Oh." He peered down at her, his left eye looking down at her in what most would think was the creepiest stare that they had ever seen. However, since she was used to his taciturn disposition, she more or less brushed off his creepy aura. "Are we that strange compared to the red blood cells?"

AE-3803 shook her head.

"I don't mean it in a negative sense. However, while red blood cells and white blood cells grow up in the bone marrow and arise from the same progenitor cells, you can't deny that we're...very different." The red blood cell took a bite of her sandwich, smiled at the flavor, and gestured for the white blood cell to take a bite. "But, I actually admire you guys a lot, especially since all you do is ensure that the rest of us cells live a happy and healthy life."

"And I already told you," the neutrophil chided playfully, "you don't have to thank us. We are, after all, doing only our jobs."

The red blood cell swatted at his arm, but immediately sobered as she tried to press the topic that had been bugging her for quite some time.

"Well...I think it's mainly your friends that are the biggest weirdos in the bunch. Remember how one of them carried me to the lungs? Or how all four kidnapped me because they were bored?"

The first part of her statement rankled U-1146 a little, but the second part of what she said was new.

"Wait. What?"

"Yeah," AE-3803 continued, oblivious to how U-1146 froze at her admission. "They literally blindfolded and knocked me out after I traveled to the alveoli. Don't worry, though, 2001—I think?—led me back to the lungs. Do you know why your…"

The redhead's words froze in her throat as she saw that her friend looked paler than most neutrophils. His hat hung low over his face, his lone eye looked like he had seen the worst things imaginable, and he seemed lost in thought. Heavens above, did she break him?

"Ah, White Blood Cell!" She called out to her close companion. Perturbed at his lack of reaction, the red blood cell tried shaking his left arm a little. "Are you all right? Nothing bad happened to me!"

Laughing to alleviate the neutrophil's apprehension did nothing but raise AE-3803's stress levels.

"They kidnapped you?"

"Umm...did they not tell you that?"

U-2146 steadily held her gaze as he shook his head in what seemed like an omen for disaster.

"Er, that look of murder on your face doesn't look too good on you when you aren't chasing bacteria."

U-1146 looked down at her, his expression softening just a fraction.

"Noted."

And before the erythrocyte could say anything more, the neutrophil waved goodbye, migrated into the narrow crevices of a building, and vanished.

"Hey! White Blood Cell, please don't do something ridiculous!"

U-2001 moved through a narrow passageway that was mostly reserved for white blood cells. Although he was unhurried, there was still a sense of urgency. On one of his patrols, he had spotted one of his colleagues, U-1146, stalking off in a direction opposite to his. Because they were friends, 2001 made as if to wave 1147 over, but he had to stop. There was some kind of dangerous aura that emanated from his fellow white blood cell. Frightened, but still curious, he began to shadow 1146.

For some odd reason, the white blood cell that he was tailing didn't seem like he was doing anything out of the ordinary—not that 2001 expected him to do something illicit. Given the dangerous vibes that 1146 was emitting, any other blood cell would think that he was out for fresh blood—bacteria perhaps. However, given that both their receptors remained near the base oftheir necks, that probably wasn't the case.

So why was 1146 looking like he was about to blow up?

"Hello, Mr. Neutrophil!"

Startled, 2001 literally jumped from the shadows of the building that he had been spying his colleague from and onto the pavement. As he adjusted himself to his surroundings, he found himself staring up at an apologetic erythrocyte and an outstretched white glove. Recognizing that the erythrocyte in question was the red blood cell that 1146 had taken a shine to, he readily took her gloved hand and heaved himself off the ground.

Would it be presumptuous of him to assume that maybe she would know what was eating at his colleague?

"Ah, hello Miss Red Blood Cell," he greeted. "Did you happen to talk to U-1146 recently? I just saw him a few minutes ago and he looked...murderous."

"Really? I don't think I—" Suddenly, the questioning look that was on her face was replaced by one that was filled with fear. Her face paled, almost as if the hemoglobin had completely drained from her cytoplasm. "Oh gosh...I think I may have something to do with it!"

2001 grabbed her by the shoulders, fully concerned about his friend's wellbeing. What did she do? What happened?

"Tell me! Is it something dangerous?"

"Haha, yeah...remember how you guys kidnapped me that one time?" She mumbled, "And how one of you carried and launched me point blank at him?"

Abruptly, 2001 let go of the red blood cell as if she were some virus ridden cell.

Oh, no.

All of them, himself included, didn't inform their colleague of what happened. It wasn't a conscious decision; his friends certainly didn't meet up with each other and vote to keep the situation under wraps. It's just that...the whole kidnapping fiasco was so ridiculous and completely out of character for them, it just never came up in conversation. Their conflicting schedules and lack of imposing threats also led to the overall conclusion that maybe they wouldn't have to own up to having acted out of their duties.

Unfortunately, they never took into account that the red blood cell that they had targeted was the wild card.

"Umm, Mr. Neutrophil, I'm so sorry! I didn't realize…"

2001 immediately turned to her and immediately felt the cytosol drain out of his already pale face. Her lips were trembling and she looked so small under his towering frame. Her eyes met his and he was shocked to note that her eyes—hazel and all too innocent—glimmered under a haze of tears.

Back when he was a mere myelocyte, he never experienced the tears of a young girl. Most myelocytes were males, but those who were female mostly ended up as eosinophils. Even so, they were designed to be tough and showing weakness so willingly wasn't encouraged. (Training myelocytes to become the main defense patrolling the blood vessels wasn't as rigid as it was in the thymus, but it could be just as harsh in some regards to their training). So when 2001 found the guilt radiating in the young erythrocyte's eyes, he couldn't help but fidget with his hands and wrack his nucleus for the right thing to say.

Was there anything that he could say?

"H-hey! It's not your fault! Like I said, it was my colleagues and their weird meddling ways...d-don't worry too much about it, Miss Red Blood Cell!"

She seemed to stop her little spiel of crying—much to 2001's relief.

"A-are you sure? Because—"

He waved away her concerns before he awkwardly patted the strange divot that was on her hat in order to further calm her down.

"It's okay, Miss Red Blood Cell. At least, now we know that 2626's hypothesis wasn't all too far off…" That last part was mumbled, but the young erythrocyte happened to hear that last part.

"Er—"

"Ah...we should probably rectify the problem before something terrible happens, yes?"

"So scary!"

"Why does he look so murderous?"

"Let him be. Who knows what goes on in an immune cell's nucleus."

4989, a little perturbed by what numerous cells were commenting, asked, "Hey, are they talking about us?"

2626 shook his head.

"I don't think so. We've been at this cafe for a little while now. Must be a newcomer." As 2626 took a sip of his favorite brand of green tea with a side dish of some bacteria, he peered outside the cafe's windows. "Although, I wonder which one of us was so frightening. Some of the platelets are cowering in the corners!"

4989 toyed with the spoon that lay within his teacup, a bit bored with the explanation.

"Maybe it was a T-Cell. Those guys are always causing trouble for the normal cells whenever they're free."

"In the blood vessels? Remember your schooling, 4989," 2626 chastised as he chewed through a particularly fleshy bit of bacteria. "T-Cells usually congregate in the lymphatics unless called out by the Helper T-Cells for backup in the blood vessels."

"Yeah, yeah! I remember...but how can you explain the complaints from outside? It's been ten minutes and some of the red blood cells look like they're about to lyse themselves." Despite the annoyed front, 4989 looked anxious as he drained the rest of his green tea. "I think we should get back to patrolling instead of causing the locals stress."

2626 nodded distractedly—he was still stuffing his mouth filled with bacteria and washing it all down with green tea.

Within seconds, both of them were out the door and—

"Men, we have a problem."

"Geeze, 2001! Give a neutrophil a head start on PCD, why don't you?"

2048 lay in one of the marginating pools of a deep in a vein of the upper arm. For the time being, he allowed himself to rest and mentally prepare himself for his next round of patrols. He had been resting for quite some time when he felt his transceiver vibrate in one of his pockets. As he fished it out, he could hear 2001's voice urging him to answer right away.

"I'm in the upper arm. What's happening?"

"I'm trying to fix a problem that has arisen within our ranks."

Immediately concerned, he asked, "Should I be worried?"

"Very. Meet us at the lungs. Over."

"Uh, sure. Roger that."

As 2048 stretched his legs and hopped back onto the main roads of the blood vessel, he felt a great sense of dread. Kids what made 2001, a usually laid back white blood cell, act so...unsettled?

When 2048 met up with the rest of his squad, he took notice of 2001's grim face and the twin grimaces upon the other two neutrophils, he immediately felt like backtracking. However, he was still a white blood cell with a task to protect the body. Bravery and determination were only but a few of the traits that were needed to be part of the immune system. Therefore, against his instincts to turn tail and leave them to resolve their own issues—whatever they may be—2048 stepped forward and announced his presence.

"Yo."

"2048, good of you to come here. As you can probably tell, we've got ourselves a problem."

"And—"

"Just so you know, it's all 2626's fault!" 4989 interjected as he pushed his favorite colleague in front of him. "I was just supervising and 2626 took it too far!"

2626 rounded on his partner in crime, a wounded look on his face.

"Last I recall, you were the one who had the idea all along. You just needed my help to actually see—"

Before 2626 could continue on his hurt tirade, 2048 spotted the red blood cell looking at them with a look of utter confusion on her face. Unlike last time, she didn't look too uncomfortable in their presence. Understandably, though, she stood off to the side and watched them curiously.

"Miss Red Blood Cell! What brings you here?"

"Hello, Mr. Neutrophil!" Her face colored a little—presumably because she was surrounded by neutrophils. Still she pressed on with her greeting, completely ignoring 2626's look of utter bewilderment and abandonment. "I actually came with your colleagues. It was kind of my fault that U-1146 found out that you kidnapped me. I'm sorry!"

She bowed her head and seemingly held her breath.

Oh gosh.

She was so cute!

2048 already knew that the red blood cell was quite cute—he did carry her that one time, but he was distracted by thoughts of teasing 1146–but her display completely destroyed him.

She was almost cuter than the platelets.

Nervously, he laughed as he waved away her apologies.

"That's what this is all about? I was expecting something more devastating."

"But it is."

At 4989's somber tone, 2048 found himself looking away from the erythrocyte and into his fellow white blood cell's direction. 4989 looked tired; his face was ashen. It was very rare for the youngest nuetrophil in the group to be so serious unless there was a bacteria present.

"We think that 1146 might be plotting against us."

"Erm...he's too kind for that sort of thing."

"You should have seen him, though! He looked like he was about to phagocytize the platelets when he last saw him!" 2626 cried aloud. "The platelets!"

Oh.

That was bad.

It was decided that the erythrocyte would first approach their colleague. After all, she was still one of 1146's closet friends and well...it's not like he was mad at her. That still begged one question that had yet to be answered.

Just where was he right now?

They could contact him via transceiver, but…

"You never know, he could have learned how to phagocytize cell's via transceiver," 4989 helpfully supplied.

Not that it was possible, but one could never know for sure.

So, they took the next best option.

Following AE-3803 around.

"Hey," AA-5100 whispered conspicuously. "Is there a good reason why there are four white blood cells stalking you?"

"Yeah...best not to question it."

AE-3803 was on one of her scheduled deliveries, but she was deliberately taking her time. It had been decided by the neutrophils that she try her best to attract attention from as much bacteria, viruses, what-have-you in order to gain the attention of U-1146. So far, she had been attacked almost five times, got lost eight times, and had run into her mentor at least two times. Both times, her mentor had merely eyed her curiously before stopping at a tissue for her scheduled delivery, but now, the brunette erythrocyte wanted answers.

Her mentor took hold of AE-3803's shoulders, her eyes flickering between her mentee and the four intimidating males who were busy plugging up one of the crevasses between cell complexes.

"Are you sure you're not in trouble"

"Actually, they're more in trouble than I am."

"And they're not bothering you?"

"I feel like I'm bothering them by not doing my job."

Taking the hint AA-5100 moved away from her friend and hoisted her package against her hip. With a small murmur of goodbye and a promise that AE-3803 would tell her the entire story when they had coinciding breaks, AA-5100 left.

Once her mentor left, AE-3803 ventured towards the currently plugged up crevasse and tapped her shoe against the wall, looking like one of those stern hematopoietic stem cells whenever they were feeling irritated.

"Aren't you guys supposed to be more subtle than this? I thought you were all military trained so that you could ambush bacteria."

"Impressive. However, your knowledge is a little lacking," 2001 noted as he popped out of the thin space. "That's more of a Natural Killer Cell tactic. We just happen to get lucky whenever ambushes happen. Other than that, we're just as subtle as a cancer cell."

"I see," the young erythrocyte mutters more to herself than to her white blood cell companion. "Still, isn't it a bit weird that we haven't seen from him in ages? I think you guys should resort to just calling him."

"And risk him killing us all!" 4989 popped out this time—without help this time—and resisted the urge to shake the redhead's shoulders. "Trust me, Red, it's better to attract him via bacterial invasion with you as an intermediary."

"Careful, little white blood cell, you might just get what you were wish for."

AE-3803, if she wasn't so used to it, would have fainted at the sight of parasite looming over the lot of them.

In the end, a kind hearted eosinophil with pigtails came to save the day. With one strike from her weapon, the parasite exploded into scattered pieces that had to be carried away by several troops of neutrophils and macrophages. The excitement of that encounter was far from over. Within one of the backup crews that came shortly after the incident, U-1146 had arrived.

Stoic and impassive, he barely noticed his favorite red blood cell approaching him until he was knee deep into the parasite's undulating membrane. Well versed in how neutrophils would phagocytize their enemies—she had been hanging around the white blood cells for so long, she practically felt like them already—she merely sat back on her haunches and appraised her friend.

Focused.

Impassive.

And not as mad as what his colleagues made him out to be.

"Red Blood Cell," the neutrophil murmured softly. He wiped the back of his glove against the smeared cytosol that was on his face and offered her a small smile. "What brings you here? Shouldn't you be out on one of your deliveries?"

"Well...about that…"

Curiously, the white blood cell looked down at his companion as she stuttered out a hushed reply. As much as he hated to admit it, he couldn't make out a single word that she had just uttered.

"Do you mind repeating that?"

"Well, since you did mention that I was on delivery, I actually have to deliver something to you."

"I don't need oxygen."

"No, it's actually a message from some of your colleagues."

Carefully, the neutrophil kept his face as aloof as possible. After all, he didn't want to scare his friend.

"And what did they have to say?" He added a moment later, "And how come they aren't the ones confronting me?"

"They just wanted to make sure that you didn't phagocytize them first before explaining themselves."

"Phago—?"

"Please don't do it! If you do—" 4989 shoved 2626 and 2048 in front of him "—eat these guys first!"

"Oy, 4989—"

"Who gave you the right—"

2001, once again in charge of his companions' shenanigans, pushed himself to the forefront of the group and offered a sympathetic smile. Much to all the neutrophils' collective relief, 1146 nodded in return.

"We just wanted to let you know that kidnapping and overstepping our boundaries with your friend was completely all in good fun. However, we do realize that what we did was completely uncalled for and we all humbly ask for your forgiveness."

U-1146 continued to stare impassively at his fellow neutrophils before he took a step forward.

And another.

And another.

Until he was standing directly in front of them.

Even though neutrophils were usually the same height, for some odd reason, 1146 seemed to tower over all of them.

A beat.

"Oh, I already forgave you guys."

"WAIT WHAT?"

"WE'VE BEEN TAILING A RED BLOOD CELL FOR NO GOOD REASON!"

"WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL US?"

2001, clearly relieved, but still wary, regarded the eldest neutrophil. Something wasn't quite right…

"I just took a walk to clear my head."

"A walk?"

"Yes, I happened to visit Dendritic Cell on the way."

Oh.

No.

And with that, 1146 guided AE-3803 back to her scheduled route to the lungs.

"Oh, we are so screwed," 2626 breathed.

2001 couldn't have said it any better.

"Hey, White Blood Cell, what did you mean? What's wrong with going to the Dendritic Cell?"

"Oh...we just made a deal of sorts."

In one of U-1146's many pockets, a small sachet of photos lay innocently within.

[infinity-trials]

The Name Game

AN (Author’s Note): This is a prequel story of the Coven. This one-shot is based on their High School years, while the main plot takes place in college. It’s the best way I figured out how to introduce their personalities and their relationships with one another. And maybe a few quirks along the way. 

Characters: Hiromi Soule, Ronin Soule, Arcadia Zaal, Carmine Wallace, Destry Warde, Errol Krane, Phoenix Madsen, Larkyn Bruvold

________________________________________________________________

Hiromi stood impatiently about ten feet outside of their classroom, impatiently waiting for Errol to arrive. The second bell rang about a minute ago, signalling that they were both already late to class. It didn’t really matter to Hiromi at the time, Advanced Literature was an elective. Hiromi could afford being late just this once. 

Especially for Carmine. 

Hiromi craned their neck over the crowd of kids that were setting up surprise birthday balloons for their friend, searching for their darker skinned friend. Down the hall, Errol made small but quick movements towards them. Which, in another situation, would be quite humorous to watch considering Errol’s stature. He stood at six foot four, with an extreme muscular built. His long, dark dreadlocks at chest length flowing behind him. 

He looked over at Hiromi, a friendly, yet awkward smile gracing his features. Finally arriving at Hiromi’s side, he began with saying, “Please don’t shoot the messenger.” 

Hiromi’s eyes widened in slight panic, “Is Carmine okay?” 

“Oh yes!” Errol facepalmed, realizing how awful that started out as. “He’s fine, he just said he’s gonna be late.” 

Hiromi rolled their dark brown eyes, taking a deep breath. Carmine’s okay. They told themselves, attempting to calm down their racing heartbeat. “It would’ve been nice to know before school started.” 

Errol shrugged playfully, wrapping a huge arm around their shoulders. Simultaneously brushing Hiromi’s long, black hair with his hands in an attempt to soothe them as they approached their shared class. 

If this was a normal morning, the two would be able to charm Mrs. Robinson into understanding why they were late. If it was a normal day, it wouldn’t matter nearly as much because Mrs. Robinson knows about Carmine’s habits, and the fact that he makes up for it with his creative insights. But today, of course, their class had to have had a substitute. 

Hiromi and Errol walked into the stiff, and silent room. The substitute, a wrinkly old man that couldn’t have been taller than five eight, and looks like he had been balding since high school, stood at the front of the classroom. He scribbled his name down on the white board, Mr. Mercer. 

“Uh, hello there.” Hiromi shifted uncomfortably in the doorway. “My name’s-”

Mr. Mercer interrupted Hiromi by shushing them. “Sit. I don’t appreciate people being late to my class.” 

Errol stepped up, a kind smile despite the tough situation on his face. “We apologize severely Sir. But, if we could just point out our names on the attendance list, the morning will go much smoother.” 

Mr. Mercer sneered, “Are you suggesting that I am illiterate, boy?” 

Errol’s eyebrows arched, “No of course not!” 

“Sit.” Mr. Mercer snapped, more sternly now. Errol, coming from a more military family, couldn’t defy an order. He shuffled towards an open seat, with Hiromi following at his heels. “Now, let’s get on with attendance.” 

He carried on through the first couple students, then tilted his head at the first name he came across on the list. The platinum blonde boy, who had been hiding his handheld device underneath his desk began cringing. His crystal blue eyes looked up for the first time since he stepped foot into class. 

“Larkine Bruvold.” Mr. Mercer called. 

Larkyn scoffed, “Did you even try there? Because this is English, let’s go back to Grade One and sound it out. Lark-in Broo-vold.” 

Mr. Mercer seemed shocked by Larkyn’s sudden outburst. He was genuinely dazed by him. He visibly shook the outburst off and continued on with the attendance. Larkyn gave the class a cocky smirk before sinking back down into his seat to play Legend Of Zelda. 

Continuing on, Mr. Mercer called out a couple more names, and marked the absent ones down. Then furrowed his eyebrows down at the next name, “Errawl Krane.” 

Errol gave a thin lipped smile, “Not exactly. It’s Errol, like arrow except with an L at the end.” 

Mr. Mercer nodded timidly, and kept trudging through. For at least ten names, everything went off smoothly. Including, “Phoenix Madsen.” 

“Sup.” Phoenix replied, gleefully. She had tanned skin, that contrasted her golden blonde, shoulder length hair. Her light brown eyes shone in the bright lights. But her confidence was instantly squashed as her friends narrowed their eyes at her. 

“What’s it like having a name you can find on keychains?” Hiromi quipped, faking interest. 

Phoenix playfully flipped her off as Mr. Mercer continued. Once he reached a certain name down the list, he audibly sighed. Rubbing the top of his head, he began digging into the depths of his brain to pull a pronunciation out of his many years in the school district. “Miss Soule.” 

“Amazing.” Hiromi snickered. “It's Hiromi, like hero-me.” 

“Thank you.” He sighed in relief, before getting to the name right below it. “Ronan Soule.” 

Hiromi’s older brother, Ronin sighed lightly. He lifted his head off of his desk, stretching as if he had just woken up. The two siblings’ resemblance was uncanny. Same hair color, same eye color, similar faces. Ronin’s head sides were shaved, but the top was tied back in a bun. “Close enough, here.” 

At this point, the close group of friends were simultaneously getting headaches. Wanting this just to end, but they each knew the worst was yet to come. 

Mr. Mercer nodded, saying confidently, “Carmen Wallace.” 

Before anyone could respond, someone cleared their throat from the doorway. There Carmine stood, leaning against the door frame in grey skinny jeans and a navy blue hoodie.  His dark brown hair, a mess, and blocking any light from reaching his forehead. What you couldn’t see from beneath the sunglasses were his light green eyes, that probably had dark circles underneath them. 

“It’s Carmine. Like driving a car through a mine.” Carmine interrupted flatly. 

Mr. Mercer stood up from behind the desk, firmly spreading his hands out on the flat surface. “Mr. Wallace, you are late.” 

“Yeah.” Carmine responded, taking a sip of coffee before sitting in an empty seat next to Hiromi. “In my mind, I still had enough time to get Starbucks.” 

Ronin’s voice spoke over the room, in a mature tone, “Be happy he even showed up at all. Typically he’s bent over a toilet after a weekend out.”

 “It’s called having fun.” Carmine snapped back. “You should try it sometime.” 

“It’s called having a problem.” Ronin responded, sternly. 

“It’s called paying attention in class gentlemen.” Mr. Mercer interrupted. “You can continue this conversation, on your own time.” He sat back down, peering at the last couple names. “Destri Warde?” 

Destry, a light brown haired girl timidly put her hand up. Her deep blue eyes were the definition of gentle as she attempted to stay out of the crossfire her friends had put themselves in. She was better at staying out of the spotlight, not wanting to be noticed for her reputation that had been built over the past few months, or her weight. “It’s pronounced Des-tree. But it’s okay, you tried.” 

After this rollercoaster of a class, Mr. Mercer was more than happy to have a response so polite. He didn’t acknowledge it with anything more than a smile, then carried on to the last name. His face fell immediately, anger hidden behind his eyes. “Arcadia Zaal.” 

From the far back of the room, a hand lifted slowly. By far the most timid out of the rest, Arcadia shook nervously. Hiromi, being her closest friend, knew how she used look compared to how she was now. Her once red hair dyed blonde, and her freckles covered to the best of her ability using make-up. All these small insecurities sticking out like a sore thumb. 

Mr. Mercer marked Arcadia down as here, then slammed the book shut. He slowly raised from his seat, and began to walk up and down between the desks as he spoke, “Now that attendance is all said and done, I have a special lesson planned for today. Mrs. Robinson wanted you to work on your essay outlines on Shakespeare’s plays, but I wanted to reach out to the younger generations about more current events. The Witch Trials for example.” 

Hiromi, against their better judgement, spoke up. Sensing that he was about to target a student they were particularly fond of. “We aren’t allowed to discuss our political opinions in the class. It causes heated debates, and anarchy among students and staff.” 

“It’s all over the news dear, it’s all anybody talks about.” Mr. Mercer responded. “What about your opinions, Miss Zaal?” 

Hiromi stood from their seat and began to approach their substitute. “Sir, this is inappropriate.” 

Mr. Mercer ignored Hiromi, his attention completely focused on Arcadia, “You ever think that your parents are the leaders in one if the greatest mass genocides in history?” 

Arcadia’s emerald eyes went wide, tears beginning to form, “E-Excuse me?” 

Mr. Mercer gripped the edges of Arcadia’s desk, towering over the shivering girl, “They are leading the charge in a campaign, where thousands are being murdered each year. Have you not considered that?” 

Arcadia’s tears began falling, and all she could was respond logically, “Those numbers are overestimated.” 

Hiromi, seeing the tears in Arcadia’s eyes, attempted to pull Mr. Mercer lightly away from the desk. But, due to their power, it shoved him back into the student’s chair sitting in front of Arcadia. They placed both hands on each of the teacher’s shoulders, connecting eye contact. 

In the most threatening voice Hiromi could muster, they growled, “Listen here. You can’t do this. All of you teachers feel like you can abuse your power and that no consequences will come from it. Well, it's time for a reality check. I am your consequence, Mr. Mercer.” 

Mr. Mercer was able to shake free of their tight grip. However, when he attempted to speak, his voice caught in his throat. From the outside perspective, it seemed that he was too intimidated to speak up. 

Carmine, who among the rest of the class, watched the entire confrontation, decided to do something about it. He knew if Hiromi continued, they’d expose themselves as a witch. He acted on instinct, hopping out of his seat, running into the situation, and clocking Mr. Mercer right across the jaw. 

Down Mr. Mercer went, as Errol and Ronin grabbed Carmine by the arms to hold him back. Hiromi dropped to her knees next to Arcadia in an attempt to calm her down. Phoenix and Larkyn, well, they were being less than useful. Being the hype men for their friends in the altercation. While, Destry and Errol ran out of the classroom to go get a school supervisor, the classroom fell silent.

~*~

Outside of the Principal’s Office, there were two very different scene taking place. One, was a birthday celebration being held by a group of friends. The other, six students that were anxiously waiting for Carmine and Arcadia to be released. Hiromi was attempting to stay calm, Not in public. You can’t freak out like that. But, it was two of their most important people in there. Being ridiculed, being interrogated for doing nothing wrong. 

And for the love of God don’t call their parents. 

Interrupting Hiromi’s train of thought was their two friends exiting the office, one of Carmine’s arms slung over Arcadia’s shoulders. 

Each member got to their feet, but Destry was the first one to speak, “How much shit are we in?” 

Carmine swayed his head back and forth, a smirk slowly forming. “None.” 

Ronin, radiating anger throughout his body, responded through gritted teeth, “Bullshit.” 

“No, it’s true.” Arcadia reassured. “I mean, Carmine’s testimony alone was hardly enough to back it up. But Mr. Mercer admitted it, and went on this whole rant that really isn’t important. But it convinced Principal Truett enough to let us go with a warning.” 

Phoenix couldn’t help but bust out laughing, attempting to speak through her joy, “Are they fucking idiots? Or are we just the luckiest bitches alive?” 

Destry smiled at her best friend endearingly, “I’d definitely say the latter. Considering if they heard you speak like that, they’d be kicking our asses out of here.” 

Larkyn nodded, mirroring Destry’s expression, “Without a doubt.” 

Ronin pinched the bridge of his nose, and massaging his neck. “This is not the point. What were you thinking in there Carmine?!” 

Carmine rolled his eyes, detaching from Arcadia and pushing his way past the group, towards the doors. Hiromi, used to being the buffer between Carmine and their brother, began to follow him. Errol wasn’t far behind before Carmine snapped his attention back towards Ronin, “I wouldn’t have had to step in if it hadn’t been for Mi Mi, so don’t you dare lecture me Ronin.” He turned back and walked out of the school doors.

“Fine.” Ronin brushed off, all but chasing Carmine out of the school. “Let’s talk about your attendance, your grades, literally every other responsibility you’ve given up for drinking.” 

“Ronin!” Errol snapped, not in an angry tone, but more in shock and hurt. 

Carmine exhaled deeply before responding, “Why are you always trying to fix other people’s problems Ronin?! You got enough shit that you refuse to deal with in your own life!” 

“We’re not talking about me.” Ronin defended, attempting to deflect. 

“Then don’t lecture me!” Carmine yelled one last time (for today anyways). “You’re not my Dad, it shouldn’t fucking matter to you what I do with my life.” 

“I helped save your life!” Ronin countered. “Without the blessing ceremony, you’d be dead by now! I want to make sure it wasn’t wasted.” 

Carmine scoffed, “Maybe, you should’ve just let me die if I was going to cause you this much shit. It wouldn’t be half as painful.” 

Ronin’s hard exterior went soft for a just moment, if Hiromi had blinked, they would’ve missed it. Before he could respond, there was were screams coming from within the school. The Coven’s attention snapped, and they all ran back in. 

On the floor of the hallways, the birthday girl was being dragged by a seemingly invisible force. She was flipped onto her back, and her stomach was exposed to show paws making their way from the inside out. I looked around and noticed the balloons, all saying the number 17.

This girl is a witch, and she never got her blessing ceremony.

The girl began to seize as all of the students began to watch on in horror. The claws finally broke skin, and effectively gutted her. A pale, light blue spirit of a wolf began slowly making its way out of the girls mouth. And just as it left, the poor unsuspecting witch took her final breath.

The spirit swooped around, but stalked towards Carmine's face then dissipated just as it reached him. The secretaries dialed 911, as the principal came over the speaker calling, "Code Green. Code Green. Code Green." Which is the code that is used when it has been discovered that a form of magic is taking place.

People fled to the nearest exit, some honestly believing that witchcraft was contagious. Others thinking that this was just a good excuse to get out of class for the rest of the day. Students pushed past the Coven, as the group of friends just stood in shock.

As the halls seemed mostly empty, Ronin turned to Carmine for one last word, "That's what happens when a witch doesn't receive a blessing ceremony. What do you think is more painful? That, or being called out on your shit Carmine?"

Carmine scoffed, and made his way towards the classroom where they held book club. The rest followed, hoping not to get caught. Phoenix relaxed and dispersed her energy in order for uthem to make our way undetected. Her cat totem has pulled through for the Coven in many ways over the years.

The Coven reached the classroom without any interferences, and locked the door. Ronin approached the curtain hanging in the corner, meant for design purposes and knocked in a specific way. Many of the humans would think nothing of it. Not until Ronin lifted the curtain and revealed a portal to the bunker where witches are safe. A place that Mi-na, Ronin and Hiromi's grandmother who is also the Shaman of the Coven, made sure to never be found by harmful hunters.

Each of them filed in, one by one, Ronin sealed the door behind as to not expose anyone. Mi-na looked up from her desk, sadness in her eyes already understanding the circumstances. Ronin immediately went to her arms, and the teens all exchanged embraces in their own special ways. Some with longing glances (Carmine and Hiromi for example), others with holding each other so tight you might believe one of them was suffocating (Phoenix and Destry, only).

"We can't save everyone my children." Mi-na broke the silence, with a calming and nurturing tone.

"Yeah well," Carmine grumbled, hands shoved in his pockets, "We can certainly die trying."