#office building turnstiles

[szrssecurityswingturnstile]

servo motor speed turnstile gates likewise called pedestrian swing turnstile gate, which comes from the access control system, is among the essential parts of contemporary entrance and exit control. The door wings are driven by the control system and open and close immediately. The operating mode can be selected through programming settings: As quickly as it is verified that the person entering is licensed, the door wings open instantly. It closes after a delay, and the delay time is adjustable. Typical servo motor speed turnstile gates are divided into scissor doors (city flap barriers door) and swing doors. (1) Scissor doors are frequently used in rail transit, and typical scissor doors are mainly used in subways and other locations. The door wings extend from the within the box, which can effectively seal the passage and play the function of gain access to control. In addition, an infrared picking up gadget is installed inside the door body, which can recognize the function of "someone, one card" for individuals to travel through. (2) The swing door appeared behind the scissor door and comes from the second generation servo motor speed turnstile barrier. Such dc brushless slim The characteristic of gates is that the door wings run in the front and back direction. The operation procedure is within the body's view, which is much safer. In addition, because the door wings do not require to be pulled back into package, The styles of swing doors are more different. Due to the above attributes, swing doors are typically used in banks, business structures, high-end office buildings, etc. Anti-trailing function: There is a total infrared light band detection area in the channel. The switch state can be changed by software according to the customer's precision requirements. The application of the light band to adapt to different requirements prevents the shortcomings of point-type infrared detectors that are quickly contaminated and impacts the reliability of judgment, and can effectively judge the future. Tag reader who reads the card. When the system figures out that tailgating has taken place, the system will respond based upon the place of the valid cardholder returned by the infrared detector. After the door opening signal is sent out, there are still some unusual usages that will set off an alarm.

[tripodturnstile]

RS Security Co., Ltd is a high-tech business with intelligent gate devices and high-quality services as its core. The business's primary organization is: building and construction site access control, face recognition Turnstile, Complete height turnstile, acrylic swing turnstile, movable turnstiles, tripod turnstile, basketball court paid turnstile, parking lot barrier gate, totally automatic hydraulic bollard, etc, with parking area management Counting on the research and development, production, sales and service of equipment, pedestrian gate management equipment, intelligent door openers and other items, we offer customers with thorough management solutions. Throughout the years, the company has actually concentrated on pedestrian tripod turnstiles gate, swing barriers door, city flap turnstiles gate, speedlane gates, gates, barrier-free systems, complete height turnstile gate, access control, and parking area systems, and has actually slowly enhanced the products of magnetic cards, IC/ID cards, barcodes, and infrared series items. Integrated application, through constant struggle and efforts, it has now become the most powerful supplier of smart channel gate products in the industry.

[bentwolioo]

Ok so why did Gerard wear the same costume for 6 shows???

Like a lot of people, I noticed the Aotearoa (NZ) & Australia tour drum head messages seemed to be about 9/11. The costume also tells a very specific story that lines up with this--and there was more to Melbourne Night 2 than Gerard deciding it was casual Friday. I'm gonna go through my personal interpretation and explain why I think MCR did this at the end of their tour. 

TLDR: This Is Not The End.

I will include image credits in the reblog since there are a lot!

AUCKLAND, March 11 2023

Based on the skirt suit and drumhead ‘FIX FAX FUCK YOU’, Gerard is dressed as an office worker. For simplicity I will refer to the costume as the Secretary, I see it as both a character and a metaphor. Auckland establishes the monotony and repetition of daily life prior to 9/11, ‘FIX FAX FUCK YOU’ showing an attitude of boredom unaware of the events to come. 

BRISBANE 1, March 13 2023

The main difference between Auckland and Brisbane 1 is the briefcase. This indicates the point in time--Auckland is the days before 9/11 and Brisbane 1 is the morning before the attacks begin. The secretary travels to work, thinking ‘Everything under Control’.

BRISBANE 2, March 14 2023

The drumhead message ‘Here Comes the AIRPLANE’ marks this as minutes or even seconds before the towers are hit. Brisbane 2 is the first time Gerard wears the coat, representing everyone taking cover. 

MELBOURNE 1, March 16 2023

I unfortunately could not find a good photo of Gerard wearing the coat from this show but you can see it on the floor behind him!

The Melbourne shows are as the towers collapse. Pretty straightforward from the Melbourne 1 drumhead ‘TERROR’. This show also had the only appearance of the umbrella, which I interpret as representing the rubble and destruction raining down. The umbrella is closed, showing the secretary is unprotected and ultimately killed when the towers fall. 

MELBOURNE 2, March 17 2023

It seemed odd at first that Melb 2 was the only show that Gerard didn’t wear a costume for, but I actually believe he still did. This is the key to my interpretation: Gerard is dressed as himself witnessing the towers collapse, on his way to work at Cartoon Network. This the only show on the Oceania leg where they played Skylines and Turnstiles*, the song Gerard wrote immediately after 9/11. The drumhead ‘BARK BARK BARK’ makes you picture, a chained dog, representing the powerless horror of only being able to watch as the destruction unfolds--the deeply personal experience that drove Gerard to form MCR. 

SYDNEY 1, March 19 2023

Blood!!!! At Sydney 1, we see the continuing aftermath of the 9/11 attacks. The secretary has died but keeps moving, picking up her briefcase and carrying on. This could be showing how a lot of people’s faith in the US government and in the world died, but life had to find a way to move on. 

SYDNEY 2, March 20 2023

At Sydney 2, the addition of Gerard’s white contacts shows the Secretary decaying--but she has not stopped. Frank changed the drumhead message from ‘UNKILLABLE’ to ‘UNKILLABLES’, expanding the meaning from the context of his accident in Sydney to include the band, the fans, and on a wider level everything MCR represents. 

I think all of this is a metaphor for the band’s career in multiple ways. Firstly, the Secretary being undead of course reflects MCR’s return, and her zombified appearance aligns with the imagery of their new era (decay, swarm, the destroyed buildings of the stage set). Secondly, it is very interesting to me that they did this sequence of costumes and drumheads at the end of their headlining tour, rather that at the start. The story they told seems to imply a rebirth--MCR was ‘born’ out of the trauma, pain and confusion of 9/11, so the fact that they represented the start of the band on stage signifies a second beginning. 

(Thank you for reading to the end and if I got anything wrong please let me know!)

*EDIT 1 (23/03/23): They actually also played Skylines at Brisbane 2. I do think the position of Skylines in the Melb 2 set is still significant. They played it as the first encore song which mirrors it being the first MCR song and written shortly after 9/11.

EDIT 2 (30/03/23): So actually 8 shows of Secretary Gerard when you include Japan! Tokyo and Osaka analysis here

[octuscle]

My boss has been giving me shit ever since I got this job. If I could just put him in his place for one day…

Your boss's day is off to a great start. Power cut. And the Tesla is not charged. The only way to get to the office is by bus and suburban train. He hates public transport. But what should he do? At the bus stop, he pulls out his cell phone to buy his ticket. All around him are schoolchildren and wetbacks on their way to work. Damn, did he pocket the cell phone of his cleaning lady from Colombia? All in Spanish. And the phone far from his own brand new show-off model. And already has a few scratches too... Maldita sea! Why can't he buy a ticket now? Tarjeta bloqueada. That's all he needs. His not-so-clean trousers hang low on his narrow hips. The waistband of his fake Calvin Klein briefs is clearly visible. When the bus arrives, he rummages in his deep trouser pockets for a few dollars. Just enough to buy a ticket.

When your boss changes trains, he realizes that his briefcase is gone. Where the hell did the hip bag come from instead? He looks inside. Tobacco, cigarette papers, a few crumpled dollar bills, some weed. And condoms. Lots and lots of condoms. His gaze falls on his reflection in the window pane. Mierda, soy un espalda mojada. ¡Un sucio y apestoso espalda mojada! Instead of his spotless white shirt, he wears a dirty wifebeater. And the jacket has become a sleeveless open plaid shirt. Not entirely clean either. His feet are in dirty biker boots. A couple of silver chains around his neck. Shit, something's not going well. When he arrives at the station, he walks towards the toilets. He needs a mirror. Sporty and dynamic, he jumps over the turnstile at the entrance. He has no more money to use the toilets. There are the mirrors. And that's no longer your boss. Okay, the other hustlers at the station all call Juan "jefe" because he has the biggest cock. But apart from that, he's nothing but a well-trained wetback hustler.

One of the other hustlers comes up to jefe and asks for a fag. Juan panics. Should he be nice to the scum? Juan will probably need help. On the other hand, the mere presence of this gay trash makes him nauseous. At least he speaks English. Juan decides to be friendly. And he tries to reply that they can share a fag. He replies in broken English with a heavy Spanish accent. The other hustler thanks him with a fist bump. He doesn't seem surprised by the language. Juan builds a cigarette, takes a first drag and passes the fag on. While they smoke in a corner of the train toilet, a punter wanders around them. Juan doesn't think much about it. He needs money. And it can't get much worse than this. His eyes and those of the punter meet. The rest happens without a word. A few minutes later, Juan kneels on the piss-strewn floor of the toilet and swallows the cum of a strange man. And he's a pro, he gets a hard-on even though the punter is rather disgusting.

It gets quieter from 10:00 onwards. The rush hour is over. There's nothing to do at the station until 16:00. Juan counts his takings. 120 dollars. Not bad. He joins the other hustlers at the kiosk in front of the station, smokes a cigarette and drinks a beer. He needs to get rid of that damn taste of cum from old fat white men. Then Juan has to go to the wholesale market and clean the market halls. He's definitely no longer the boss here. The job is also badly paid, but he has to prove he has a regular job so as not to lose his residence permit. And there are showers for the employees. If he goes back to the station sweaty and dirty, he can forget about good sales.

Juan is just getting out of the shower when a regular customer contacts him via Facetime. He asks how his favorite slut is doing. Juan poses a little in front of the cell phone camera. He doesn't understand English very well, but he knows that his customer gets horny when he shows off his hairy armpits. And the customer pays well. Most of the time, Juan even gets a bit to eat. And if he's lucky, he can even spend the night with the client and doesn't have to go to the dirty dormitory where Juan has currently rented a bed. But if he's not lucky, at least he knows where his place is.

Pic of your jefe found @marechais 

[ggidolsmuts]

건물 사이에 피어난 장미 (Rose in the Concrete Jungle) - H1-Key Riina

Another day at work, another day past the coffee shop, another day to grind. You trundle through the turnstile of your building, beep beep. You trundle into the turnstile.

"Sir, you have the wrong card?"

Ah damn, right, not your credit card, your employee ID.

"Thanks." You nod slightly to the security guard and keep moving. The elevator is quiet and stuffy, just like your cubicle, just like any other day. You nod and harrumph assent on various meetings, and before you know it is the highlight of your day—lunch time! You eagerly file out of the building and go to the local hotspot for you and your fellow colleagues—the cafe next door. Sandwiched between two large office buildings, the cafe served as a convenient place for informal meetings, to "take things offline", as it were. Of course, it also served good and cheap food, although that came at the cost of long wait times, it was a price you and many others were willing to pay—anything to delay going back to the office.

"Hey, the usual?" You had another reason to hang around and let your lunch hour drag as long as possible. The short-haired cashier smiles at you as she is already tapping the order in.

"You got it, thanks." You stand dumbly at the counter as you watch her work the coffee machine, a soft smile on her face when she hands you the drink.

"Here you go. Your food will be out shortly."

"Thanks." You grab your receipt and wait for your number to be called. The drone of the crowd is comforting and neutral, all is fine. You occasionally look up from your phone to see if your food is out, and what the cute cashier is up to.

"Sup man!" You wince internally as you feel a solid thump on the back.

"Hey Joonho." You greet your college classmate, an asshole through and through. He mellowed out slightly after graduation, joining a competitor to your company in a similar role before rising quickly in the ranks. You kept him at arm's length, but also within arm's reach as it was still good to talk shop with—he was best engaged in small doses. Thankfully at that point in time you hear your number called. "Sorry, let me get my food." Dodging through the crowd you make your way to the counter, and she's waiting for you there, pushing your order towards you as you approach.

"Hold on, let me get my order number..." you find yourself fumbling in your pockets, but you are delightfully interrupted by her.

"No need, I know your order, you get the same thing every time!"

"Do I now? One day I'll mix it up for fun."

"Doesn't matter, I'll know." You can hear the smiley face in her voice.

"Cool, thanks a lot! Have a good one." You look for Joonho to quickly bid him goodbye, but he grabs you by the arm.

"Do you know her?"

"Who?"

"The cutie at the counter."

"Oh, no, I just come here a lot."

"Damn, I should come here more often." He releases you and goes towards her.

"Hey there, what's your name?" Joonho asks directly.

"It's Riina," she responds, taken aback at the random question.

"Nice to meet you Riina, I'm Joonho. Say, when do you get off?"

"What? Uhh we close at 4 pm."

"Great, I'll see you then," Joonho says smoothly before walking away, leaving Riina with a confused look. Joonho pats your shoulder as he leaves. "I'll be there when she gets off work, and then there'll be more getting off, eh? Well she'll be getting on me, but I'll be getting off, something like that."

"Fucker..." you mutter under your breath, yep, still an asshole, and a dumb one at that. You take your food and coffee and find a table, digging in slowly as you sought to extend your lunch hour as long as possible. When you finish you spot Riina standing at the counter unoccupied.

"Hey, Riina right?"

"Yes."

"I couldn't help but overhear earlier, about that Joonho guy?"

"Who?"

"The guy asking you what time you get off work?"

"Oh, him, what about him?"

"Yeah, I would stay away from him, he's not good news."

"Oh I can tell. I'm getting off early today anyways, so I won't be here, thanks though."

"Yeah of course, bye." It is only later that you realize you didn't even give her your name, oh well. Maybe you'll bring it up somehow tomorrow.

Lunch time tomorrow is not at all peaceful, as you come in to see Joonho shouting at Riina.

"What the fuck, you said you get off at 4 pm! I even moved a meeting for that!"

"No, I said we close at 4 pm. I got off early."

"That's not what I asked! I needed to know when you get off!"

"And I don't think you need that information, you fucking creep."

"Come on, don't be like that hmm? I just wanted to have some fun—" Joonho grabs her wrist, and you were ready to step in, but it turns out the pretty rose has the thorns to go with it. She twists out of his hold and grabs his wrist instead, pinning it to the counter. "Ow what the fuck!"

"Keep your hands to yourself!"

"Fuck, okay, let go, let go!" Joonho starts shoutng and swearing even more.

"What seems to be the problem?" The manager appears on the scene.

"Your employee just grabbed my wrist out of nowhere!"

"Nowhere? You grabbed my wrist first!" Riina shouts back, outraged.

"Let go Riina." Not too gently she complies with the manager's order. "Go home for today."

"But—"

"No buts, we'll discuss this tomorrow." Riina stomps off without a another word, leaving Joonho with a smug smirk on his face.

"My apologies, please have something from the menu, it is on the house."

"Is it now? Good, that's more like it." Joonho takes advantage of the manager's kindness, and gets the most expensive thing on the menu. He leaves arrogantly, and in his wake you had to speak up.

"Excuse me, I saw the whole thing, he grabbed your employee's wrist first."

"I know, but this is easier, otherwise he would come back and raise more fuss, the last thing we want is a distraction every day, bad for business."

"You're not getting rid of her are you?"

"Riina? God no, she's our best employee. She needed the break anyways." You can't bring yourself to disagree with him, so you merely nod and make your order. As you munch on your food again you see Riina stomping out from the back, through the food hall. You grab your half-eaten bulgogi burrito and rush up to her.

"Hey, sorry about that."

"It's not your fault, you're not that spineless wimp. Do you know him?"

"Kinda? He's an old classmate from college, he was also an asshole back then."

"Huh, figures."

"Yeah, sorry, I should have spoke up sooner, I told your manager what happened."

"Thanks, I guess? And enough with the sorry, I'm just going to enjoy the extra time off. I'll be back tomorrow anyways." She eyes the burrito. "You really did mix it up huh?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah it was all so distracting, so I just ordered something random."

"Well, come back tomorrow and order your usual. I'll see you then."

"Good, it's a date then." You regret your words as soon as you said it, why did you say that?! Riina doesn't seem to notice, as she's already walking away and waving you good bye. But she’s smiling when she turns away.

Kinda cute, better than that asshole, that's for sure.

Next day you prepare a small note, writing your name and phone number on it. In the office you ponder over whether or not you should follow through and give it to her, and by the time you decide to do it you've missed the lunch hour. You breathe a sigh of relief when you see Riina still working the counter.

"You're late for the date," she chides you jokingly. "The usual?"

"Yeah, sorry, yes please, just the usual." As you hand her the credit card to swipe you place the note on it too, holding it on the underside. Riina feels the different texture, and she slips the paper into her pocket before finishing the payment. She gives you a piece of paper in return—your receipt.

"Your food will be out shortly." Her expression is neutral, and with your heart hammering you nod and walk away like a fool. She's not there when you go pick up your food, and you sigh as you see her busy at work—of course she hasn't had a chance to look at your note! You trudge back to your office on a dour note, and the day drags on. It drags on so long that you almost miss the buzz of your phone—a message from an unknown number. You almost delete it out of hand before remembering that you had given Riina the note earlier today, and hurriedly you open the message.

*Hey there :)*

*Hi, Rina right?*

*Riina. At least I won't misspell your name*

*How do you know I didn't misspell my own name?*

*Surely you're not that dumb, you know how to spell your name. Anyways, drop by the food hall at 5?*

*Isn't it closed at 4?*

*Yes, to outsiders, and then we have to clean and do the receipts and close up, come by at 5 and I'll let you in*

Thrilled you agree, and time couldn't flow any slower. You make an excuse to leave early, and although you are greeted by the dim interior of the already closed food hall, you knock on the glass door. Riina smiles as she walks towards you and lets you in.

"Hey."

"Hi, I'm almost done with closing up, do you want to get something to eat after?" You are surprised to say the least, and you readily agree to her forward request. The date goes well, and in front of her apartment Riina pulls you in by your tie and gives you a daring kiss. It starts off as a peck, then another, and before you know it she's grabbing your shirt, pulling you close. You reciprocate in kind, leaning into the kiss more urgently, an arm wrapped around her waist, oh how easy it would be to slip it under— What are you doing?

"Whoa." You step back, and Riina releases her hold on you.

"Too soon?" She asks, her face flushed. There is heat between the two of you.

"A little? Just surprised, about tonight, about everything, you know? I just gave you my number today and here we are—"

"Yeah, this is just for fun okay? I like you, but I don't know where this is going and I don't want to think about it. Can you do that?"

"Mmhmm," you pull her close this time, kissing her lips before moving sideways, along her cheek, gently capturing her earlobe. No thinking, you say the first thing that comes to mind. "Can I come up?"

A whine of frustration says otherwise. "Roommates— I mean, housemates, sorry. Next time." The heat dissipates.

"Okay, I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yes, see you for your usual."

"Great." Riina waves awkwardly. She squirms as you walk away, a need taking root, her rose drenched. She starts to make plans, ways to get her housemates out of the place... She's going to need to take a shower first.

You see her at work the next few days, and things are good, Riina greets you with wider smiles, even giving you a free cookie. You still run into Joonho occasionally who takes the opportunity to bug you, but he gives Riina a wide berth. That is, until his order was messed up.

"I asked for oat milk, not almond milk! That's like giving me a bag of milk instead of a cup of milk!" He slams the cup angrily on the counter, and some of it splashes into her.

"I-I'm sorry sir, I'll remake your order right away."

"And I want that deluxe bulgogi sandwich, on the house! Get me your manager!" Joonho demands.

"I umm..." Riina looks for the manager. You hurriedly put a hand around Joonho's shoulder.

"Yo man chill, it's just a coffee eh? Come on, I'll get you the right coffee and the sandwich eh, how about that?" Delighted at more free food, he immediately forgets that he was angry?

"Hey I'll take you up on that, thanks!"

"Sweet, can I get two coffees with oat milk, and that bulgogi sandwich?" you ask Riina quietly, your eyes asking her the question you can't voice right now.

"Umm yes, of course sir, so sorry, it'll be right out."

"Great, thanks!" You hand her your card. "Hold on to it for me." You quickly drag Joonho away before he could raise more of a fuss. You allow yourself to endure him ranting about the difference between oat and almond milk, all while thinking that it's nuts. You heart twinges as you see the smile disappear from Riina's face, even when you go pickup your food. By the time Joonho thanks you for the treat and lets you go, she's disappeared into the back, so you settle for texting her in the office.

*You okay?*

*Yeah, thanks for helping out there, I'll pay you back!*

*No no it's okay, it's worth it*

*I'm closing tonight, come by later?*

*I can only get out at 6, is that fine?*

*Sure, I'll be there*

You nervously wait for 6 pm, and you're glad to see her when she lets you into the deserted food hall and seats you at a table.

"I'm quitting," Riina says bluntly as she sits down opposite you, and your heart drops.

"What? Why? That was such a minor error!"

"Yeah but I can't be bothered to deal with that anymore, done dealing with assholes."

"I... I understand, that's too bad. I'll umm, miss you."

"Oh, we're not seeing each other anymore?" Riina teases. "I wouldn't mind seeing more of you... Speaking of which, let's continue where we left off." She traces a finger on your hand.

"Where we... here?"

"Yes, just sit there, pretend you're eating lunch and drinking coffee." With that you watch Riina disappear under the table. You look down as she fumbles with your pants, and she looks expectantly at you when they are undone. You get up slightly, and in a moment your pants and then your boxers are lowered. You're a little embarrassed, but very turned on as Riina grips your shaft firmly. All thoughts of your usual meal is wiped away as she makes a meal of your cock, taking you into her mouth. She starts off tentatively, licking your tip and some of your shaft, but when she hears your stifled moan vibrating through your cock she becomes more daring, sucking on it and going deeper on you.

Anyone looking in would be wondering why someone is just sitting at the food hall after hours, so you try to maintain a neutral expression, to appear perfectly normal to anyone that might walk by. It gets harder by the second as the pleasure builds, and Riina seems to notice your throbbing, going faster now. Thankfully no one walks by, no one kills the mood, and so it continues, your hands forming fists on the table.

"Fuck Riina, gonna cum!" you rasp. You feel Riina murmur "Mmhmm" around your cock, and you only try to hold on a little longer. She takes you extra deep into her throat, and at that moment you burst. Your thighs flex and twitch, and a hand smacks the table not too quietly as you pour nut milk straight into Riina's mouth. When you finally finish you relax and half slump over the table, your hands barely working to do your pants up underneath.

"How was that?" Riina asks, smacking her lips delectably. "I hope there's more where that came from."

"Maybe I should—" you try to duck underneath the table yourself, but she stops you hurriedly.

"No, there's surveillance cameras here!"

"And you just blew me!"

"T-That's different!"

"Fine, let's go back to your place then." You grab her by the arm, but she doesn't move.

"No, housemates." Fuck, that's right. "Can we go to your place?"

"It's far, like almost an hour out." The need to be satisfied now weighed against her need to be satisfied thoroughly, and in the end the latter won out.

"Let's go then."

It was almost cute how Riina held your hand while the two of you sat in the taxi—if only it wasn't so damn painful as she squeezes you over and over.

"You okay?" you ask, worried that she wasn't feeling up for it.

"Hm? Yeah yeah," she dismisses you, choosing to look out the window instead. When you arrive you stop her before entering your apartment building.

"You seem really nervous, we don't have to do anything tonight if you're having second thoughts."

"What? Don't back out of this now!" Riina half shouts.

"You were squeezing my hand so hard on the ride over—" she take your hand and yanks it down, placing it between her legs. Just that touch alone is enough to make her hiss in pleasure—she's drenched.

"I need you so bad right now, I was this close to jumping you on the taxi!" At her frank admission you kiss her fiercely, and without thinking she jumps into your arms, wrapping her legs around you. Just like that you carry her into the elevator and then your apartment.

"Water?"

"What? No, I'm good."

"Have some water, sit down please," you command Riina, and she blushes when she realizes what you wanted to do. When you duck under the table you see she is more than ready to help you, her legs already spread, the button on her jeans already undone. You pull her jeans off her legs, and you could sense the heat coming from between her thighs. The panties she wore slide off her legs quickly after, and you pull the chair closer to you, trapping her between the table and the chair. She half slumps on the chair as you reach around and pull her hips to you for better access. Time to go to work.

"Mmm!" Riina's hand jerks and narrowly misses knocking the cup of water over as your press your tongue against her slit, coaxing her flower to bloom. Up and down you swipe your tongue, and Riina slides up and down on the chair, trying to feel more of you. Her whines and whimpers are heavenly as you find her bean, gently French pressing it with your lips and tongue, grinding the juices out of her. You run your hands up and down her thighs, and Riina's sinking down the chair, trying to push more of her into your face. Riina's toned thighs close around your head, an orgasm brewing quickly within her. She knocks the cup over, the water spilling from it and leaking down the table—your hair gets wet, which makes it easier for Riina to grip as she twists her fingers in them. She wants you to stop, she wants to cum on your cock, but her body has other ideas, and her hand shoves your face deeper into her.

"I, I— Ahh!" With a sharp yelp Riina orgasms hard, the built up tension from giving you a blowjob earlier finally released. Your head shakes as hard as she does, her thighs twisting and twitching against the sides of your head. You give her pussy slow licks to bring her down, her pink rose dewy and trembling—you had to have more. She lets out something between a cough and a moan as you do a French press and then a French kiss between her legs. A smack on your head stops you from making out with her pussy. You bang your head as you forget about the table above you, and Riina laughs tiredly.

"I almost did that earlier, but enough, I want more."

"I was going to, but you pushed me away."

"You know what I mean." Riina stands up and pulls your shirt open—she likes what she sees and rips it off completely. Her legs are wrapped around you once more, and your hands squeeze her ass as you carry her to the bedroom. It is feral the way she tears off the rest of her clothes before she jumps your pants, looking to strip you naked as quickly as possible. You overpower her, but Riina is the one in control as her legs hook around your thighs, making sure you don't stray too far.

"C-Condom!" You gasp as your shaft rests on her mons, but Riina's already grabbing and aiming for you.

"You're clean right?"

"Yes."

"Same, what are we waiting for." It's too late to turn back as your tip presses and pushes through her lips. Riina holds her breath as you oh-so-slowly fill her. "Fuck, don't tease me!"

"I— I'm not, you're so tight..." She helps and hinders you with that, her legs pushing you into her even as her pussy tightens around you further. You close your eyes to steady yourself, not wanting to give in to the intense pressure around your shaft. The sight you see when you open eyes doesn't help—Riina's tight body is below you, one hand on a perky breast, another hand on her belly, as if feeling how deep you're in her. And she's smirking.

"That good huh?"

"Yeah, fucking amazing," you admit. "You?"

"Even better."

"Doesn't seem like it." You lean down on top of her, and she wraps her arms around your neck as she whispers.

"Only because you're not moving yet, I'm barely holding it together."

What about now? That was what you wanted to ask Riina, but the answer is self-evident as she has to muffle a moan into your shoulder when you start grinding into her. All too quickly she's falling apart beneath you, like a bean that's slowly crushed by pleasure, threatening to burst. She allows you to prick her with your prick again and again, squirming against you, yearning for more friction. You draw circles with your hips and it makes your tip stir vigorously inside her, her clit stimulated after every revolution. Riina's gasping as she does a pourover on your shaft, but you needed more to finish making the drink. Your hands find her taut midriff, and you hold her still as you begin fucking her, replacing the grinding with some good old-fashioned pounding.

"Oh fuck that's even better, don't stop, don't stop!" You are as big as she is tight, and her body rolls in pleasure. You time your thrusts to hit her sweet spot, rendering Riina speechless. She's clenching around you randomly, and you watch her flat tummy flex and twitch. Your own endurance frays, and you slow your thrusts, much to Riina's annoyance.

"Don't, keep going! I'm going to cum so hard!"

"Fuck, me too!" You plan to pull out, but you needed to get her off first. You lean back down, capturing a breast as you start pounding her once more. You rock her body with each slam, and your teeth graze her nipple over and over. With one particularly deep thump you crush Riina's bean of pleasure completely, and she explodes.

"Oh fuck..." The explosion is nothing more than a mere whisper, but you feel her detonate around you, her walls suddenly milking you with desperate need. Riina's body is rigid, every muscle is tense, including the ones contracting around you. She relaxes for a brief moment, for one wispy breath, and then—

"Hnngh god!" She seizes up again, firmly gripping your cock once more. Each contraction tugs on you, stretching your endurance just a little too far. Fuck, you are right there.

"Riina—" You try to get her attention when she relaxes, but she's still in the throes of powerful ecstasy.

"Mmm yes!" Her walls slam against your shaft once more, and you are too far gone. You kiss her, and Riina moans and shouts into the kiss as you fill her up with creamy seed. Her pussy reacts to the sudden warmth, milking you rather than trying to crush your shaft, extending your orgasm. Mindlessly you return to grinding against her, squeezing every drop into her—Riina moans when she feels the hot liquid overflow, seeping out from the connection, and when you slip out a rush of it spills on to the sheets.

You collapse on Riina's limp form, your orgasms sapping any strength either of you had. You gently suck on her neck, and you feel Riina's lips on your skin too. Your arms wrap around one another, hugging each other tight as the high wears off.

"Fuck, I'm sorry..." you mutter.

"For what? That was amazing."

"I came in you, I didn't pull out in time."

"I... It's okay I think, I'll grab something for it in the morning." Riina says, albeit with some worry. You hold her close and cuddle her.

"I'll go with you, you can stay the night if you want." Surprisingly she blushes, and she gently pushes you away.

"No, I don't think I'm quite ready for that yet. I can get it tomorrow myself."

"Oh umm, okay, are you sure?" you ask, fearing that the whole night was a mistake.

"Yes, sure. Do you mind if I use your shower?" You give her a tower, and Riina excuses herself to the bathroom to clean up. You are clothed again by the time she exits the shower, and you walk her down.

"Riina I—"

"I'll be fine, I'm just not ready for, you know, staying the night."

"No, yeah I get it, things moved a little fast."

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"Aren't you quitting?"

"No, I kinda want to see more of you, you know? I'll see you for your usual." You can't help but smile as Riina gets in the taxi and disappears.

Since that night you look forward to lunch every day now, and Joonho pesters you about your hickeys while festering about those on Riina that you can't help but leave on her—somehow he never makes the connection. You drop by one evening, when you know Riina's the only one closing up for the day.

"Hey there cutie. Say, when do you get off?" You ask her in your smarmiest tone.

"God you are terrible at flirting." She winks and pulls you close.  "That depends, how fast can you carry me to the storeroom?"

Time for more grinding.

A/N: For those of you who don’t know, H1-Key’s Rose Blossom is the song the title refers to, the Korean title is the name of the song, go check it out. It went a little viral in Korea because it was one of the rare songs with no English in it. Anyways Riina immediately caught my eye, she’s cute with the short haircut but has an amazing figure midriff and thighs, so I always wanted to write her eventually. And when I took the title literally it worked out into this idea. She’s also in Queendom Puzzle so do check that out!

Finally another story too, I recognize that I’ve been taking longer between stories, and the quality may be more inconsistent because of it. Writing is a hobby that requires my brain to be on, and lately I’ve been gravitating to just playing games because I can turn my brain off. As a result the frequency suffers and the quality may not be as good, because I may forget writing themes and points I had used earlier in the story. It is what it is at this point. I still have ideas and random BFH ideas that spring to mind, but it’s just gonna take longer to post them. I might post a Yubin quickie because there is a particular outfit that is living rent-free in my head, but yeah, general output is gonna be closer to the 2 a month for the past few months rather than the near 1 a week from before.

As always, thanks for reading!

[halfagonyandhope]

ignite the stars │ch. 13

first chapter (x); previous chapter (x)

Satine Kryze is an internationally-recognized scholar in genocide studies who recently resigned from the Department of State over her concerns regarding the agency's ethics. Ben Kenobi is a tenured professor at Georgetown University studying the use of religion to justify military conflicts. Once high school sweethearts, the two haven't spoken since parting ways for university. That is, until Satine accepts a research fellowship - at Georgetown.

---

Satine steps on the newly fallen leaves aggressively, but it does nothing to satisfy the rage that is building within her.

It’s about a week past peak fall colors, and the leaves haven’t yet been cleared from the grounds of Edward J. Kelly Park. She paces through the piles of detritus, knowing she needs to head inside but also knowing actually going inside will lead her one step closer to surrendering her badge.

She looks up at the Harry S. Truman Building before her.

The Department of State had taken over the building from the Department of War in the 1940s, becoming its primary tenant and consolidating many of State’s once-dispersed employees into one centralized location. The Truman Building is State’s headquarters, and it’s been Satine’s home for the past five years.

She knows that will end today.

Satine sighs. She’d wanted to believe the change of employees in the 40s - from War to State - had been symbolic of the shift of business that occurred within the building’s walls. But the work she’s been doing there, the work she’d hoped to devote her life to, has convinced her otherwise.

The Department of War may have been rebranded as the Department of Defense and moved to the Pentagon, but its intellectual descendants still occupy the Truman Building.

It starts to drizzle, and Satine steels herself, finally heading forward. She crosses the street and opens one of the massive glass doors to State HQ. She shows security her badge - the last time she knows she’ll be able to do so - so that she can bypass the metal detectors, which are reserved for non-employees visiting the National Museum of American Diplomacy, a small exhibit in the first foyer. Then Satine enters the next foyer, taking her place in the line forming behind the turnstiles. When it’s her turn, she opens the gate using her badge, and moves forward.

Then she makes her way to the seventh floor.

The main elevators, of course, do not even stop at the seventh floor for security reasons, so she is escorted through a secondary elevator. The doors open, and she’s met with a view of the Secretary of State’s team’s main work area. It’s grandiose and designed to impress, with mahogany walls and portraits of diplomats she admires. It’s not her first meeting on this floor, but it will be her last.

Her escort - SecState’s Chief of Staff - walks her back to the Secretary’s office. Satine can’t help but notice the stares that follow her. The Chief of Staff knocks on the ornate door and shows her inside.

“Mr. Secretary,” says Satine, and the Chief of Staff exits the office, closing the door behind him.

Secretary Palpatine looks up from a desk that’s very likely older than he is. 

“Ms. Kryze,” he says, and Satine has to fight the urge to correct the honorific. “You know why you’re here.”

“Actually,” says Satine. “I’d quite like to hear it from you.”

Palpatine stands and walks slowly around the desk to lean back against it, staring her down. “You’ve been deemed a security risk by your superiors. They’ve recommended suspension of your security clearance.”

Satine straightens her spine. “On what grounds?”

Palpatine looks at her as though the answer is obvious. “The summary report you submitted for publication clearance. It is rife with misinformation. Misinformation that could damage diplomatic relationships with our allies.”

Satine had already worked this out for herself, of course, but she thinks she deserves to hear it out loud.

“Misinformation?” she says, taking careful pains to keep her voice level. “You mean my conclusion, based on literally hundreds of hours of key informant interviews, that the United States is committing genocide abroad and covering it up? I fail to see how that is misinformation.”

Palpatine steps forward, irate. “You misrepresented our military strategies.”

“I think I represented those strategies fairly well. How else do you spin blocking aid while simultaneously facilitating sales of fighter jets and missiles to the affected region? How else do you explain our military assisting the occupying military in the direct targeting of innocent civilians?”

The Secretary is two steps from her now, and she can see the wrinkles around his eyes, the lines that appear on his forehead, the gauntness of his eyes. “Your lies will threaten diplomatic order.”

“What you mean is that the truth is so powerful that it has the potential to fracture alliances. And it will.”

“Insolent woman,” spits out Palpatine. “The stability of the modern world is not for you to decide.”

“And it’s not for you to dictate!” says Satine.

Palpatine sneers at her. “I read the entirety of the report on the region. Claims of mass killings, bodily harm, sterilizations, ethnic cleansing, stealing children. All lies.”

“All statements were corroborated by multiple witnesses. All claims involved American military personnel.”

Palpatine returns to his desk to grab a stack of papers. He shoves them toward Satine. “My office has reviewed the report and redacted anything we consider to be highly classified.”

Satine glances down at the report, knowing what she’ll find. As she expects, the entirety of the report is blacked out. None of her analyses survived the publication clearance process.

She doesn’t reach out to take the papers.

Instead, Palpatine tosses it on the accent cabinet to his side. “We demand higher standards here,” he hisses. “Your badge.” And he holds out his hand, expectant.

Satine reaches for the lanyard she’s wearing around her neck, and then hands him both badges - the one she uses for entering the building, and the one she uses to log into her classified email account. She’d known it would come to this; she’d been preparing. It is why she has a backup plan and a backup plan for that plan, both of which she’s in the process of interviewing for.

Palpatine takes the badges and drops them into his breast pocket. “We have another matter to discuss,” he adds, his voice low. “Your op-ed.”

It had been published this morning.

It had lacked the teeth she’d wanted to give it, but she’d been limited in what she could say given the information that hadn’t yet been cleared for release to the general public. But she’d laid the groundwork, provided a roadmap, so that anyone else with concerns about the State Department’s ethics could put the pieces together for themself.

“It would be a shame,” begins Palpatine, “if your academic reputation were to suffer as collateral from all of this. I understand you’re on a green card? I’m sure you know that I’m quite friendly with the Secretary of Homeland Security. I mention this because if something were to happen to that reputation of yours, it may be difficult for you to find employment. And employment, of course, is necessary for you to retain said green card.”

Palpatine catches the way her shoulders sink a fraction of an inch. He smiles.

“Toe the line, Ms. Kryze,” he warns her. “If you cross it, I will know. And you’ll never set foot back on American soil. Or at another academic institution, American or otherwise.”

And it’s like he’s reached between her ribs to grab her lungs, lacerating them as he extracts them. For the first time since publishing her op-ed, Satine feels genuine fear.

Palpatine returns to his desk, sitting down. He doesn’t look at her. “My Chief of Staff will escort you out the building.”

Satine swallows the bile that rises in her throat, swallows any pride she has left, and turns on her heel.

---

“Satine?”

Ben’s voice is like a homing beacon, dragging her from the abyss of her nightmare.

“Satine?”

She sits up, suddenly far too warm, suddenly nauseated, pushing back from Ben’s embrace.

“I’m going to be sick,” she says, and she scrambles to her feet from the couch, racing for the washroom. She barely makes it before emptying the contents of her stomach into the toilet.

Suddenly, sure fingers ghost the back of her neck, holding her hair back from her face as her chest heaves. But there’s nothing left to empty, and Satine sinks onto the cool tile below her. “I’m sorry,” she whispers to Ben. “You spent a lot of time making that bibimbap.”

He ignores this. “Are you okay?” he asks.

“I’m used to it,” Satine manages to say.

“That didn’t answer my question,” says Ben, sitting down beside her and resting a hand on her knee.

“No,” Satine admits. “It didn’t.”

“How long have the nightmares been going on?” he asks. “You didn’t use to get them, back when we were young. I would have noticed.”

Satine just looks at him.

“Since you left State?” he guesses.

Her silence is response enough. Then she looks up at him weakly.

“I survived Srebrenica,” she whispers. “But the trifle of getting fired is what breaks me? It doesn’t make sense. Is this some kind of cosmic punishment for not being brave enough?”

She hasn’t been spiritual in her entire adult life, but she’s beginning to wonder. Could the nightmares, the panic attacks, the night terrors…could it all have been avoided if she’d been strong enough to choose the other path? If she’d spoken out regardless of the Secretary’s warnings, if she’d revealed the findings of her report to the diplomatic community? Is this the price she must pay for her cowardice?

She’d taken what she thought was the only option. If she’d spoken out, she’d have become unhireable. She’d have been deported. She’d have had no means of supporting herself.

But what in the hell is one supposed to do when the only option is the wrong one?

Satine can’t meet Ben’s eyes, can’t bring herself to see what he’s thinking. And she knows, knows deep in her bones - her soul - that she can’t ever tell him any of this. Ben fell in love with her all those years ago because she was forthright. Because she was brave. She’s not either of those things any longer.

It is, she realizes, the reason she’d agreed to their fake relationship in the first place - for if he knew the fear behind the façade, she knows he wouldn’t fall in love with her again. 

Shame threatens to overwhelm her as she examines all the ways she is inadequate of his devotion. He deserves better. He deserves a woman who stands beside her ideals, who is willing to give everything to defend them, who is willing to give everything to fight for them.

She is not that woman.

But she is selfish. And she’s scared. And Ben is a light in a darkness that is nearly all-consuming these days, and she can’t give him up, even if she knows she’s dooming them to a life of infinite sadness.

“Satine,” says Ben. “No, no, no. What are you saying?”

She finally meets his eyes, realizes she’s said too much even by saying so little. She bites her lip, refusing to reveal any more.

Ben clears his throat. “Look, Satine, I’m not a psychiatrist, and - even if I were - I’m a bit too close to the patient to make an impartial diagnosis, but you know you also have PTSD, right?”

His hand on her knee provides a welcome weight, a welcome warmth.

When she doesn’t respond, he asks, “Your previous therapist didn’t tell you?”

Satine stares at the wall over his shoulder, feeling her vision blur. “I haven’t seen that therapist since I lost my health insurance through State,” she admits. “And before I left State, I wasn’t having these symptoms.”

Ben nods. “When you were seeing your previous therapist, there might not have been anything apparent to diagnose.”

Ben leans toward her. 

“You said it didn’t make sense,” he says quietly. “So listen to me: trauma isn’t rational. It doesn’t make sense. You’ve survived more in thirty-six years than most people would witness in several lifetimes. That takes a toll. It accumulates. Your body is telling you now that you’ve reached your limit.” He reaches for her hand. “In fairness, I think your type of PTSD is probably due to many, many things you’ve endured rather than just one inciting incident. It’s called complex PTSD, if you want to do a deep dive into it on your own later.”

Satine sags against the tile of the bathroom wall, letting this sink in. It’s like whiplash between two horrible extremes, the way her thoughts swirl in her mind, and she can’t think straight, can’t find her bearings.

“I thought you knew,” Ben says quietly, “otherwise I would have asked you about it weeks ago.”

Satine wipes the sweat from her brow, then wipes at her eyes. 

“You think you can stand up?” asks Ben.

Satine squeezes his hand. “Can we just stay here for a minute?” she asks.

He reaches for her other hand in response, and doesn’t leave her side.

[bullet-prooflove]

TornApart!Series Part Six: Family - Jubal Valentine x Reader

Tagging: @crazy4chickennuggets @kmc1989 @oureternalbond @trublu2u @greenies-green @darqchilddaydreamz @proceduralpassion @burningpeachpuppy @evee87 @delightfulheroshoeflap @iworldlywriter @helsinkibaby @penguin876 @justamadgirlinabox @a-noni-love @brownskinbaby22 @oklahomapeach @yezzyyae @soultrysworld

Torn!Apart Series:

Part One: Nothing To Tell - Rina forces Jubal to make a choice.

Part Two: Pause - Jubal breaks your heart.

Part Three: One Sip - Jubal knows all it takes is one sip.

Part Four: Real Talk - Scola gets real with Jubal.

Part Five: Don't Lie to Me (NSFW) - Jubal comes clean about Rina.

Body language is important, Jubal knows that from the undercover work he’s done over the years. It’s the thing that lets most new agents down when they’re training for UC operations. He’s used to projecting strength and confidence, basic leadership principles however today he has to check himself because he knows that Rina is watching.

He pauses for a second before he steps inside 26 Fed. There can be no suspicion that he spent the night with you, no signs that he’s not the forlorn, heartbroken spectre that’s walked through the reception area these past couple of weeks.

He forces himself to forget the contented noise you made when he kissed you goodbye this morning, his hand smoothing over your hair as you lay twisted up in your sheets. It been before five and he’d needed to get back to his place to shower and change. Yesterday’s clothes would be a telltale sign, as would the scent of your shower oil. It’s little things like that can raise a red flag and he will not take a chance of compromising you.

He takes a deep breath, allowing the oxygen to fill his lungs as he adjusts the messenger bag on his shoulder. He thinks of the past few weeks, how empty his world had become, how devoid of colour. It dampens that brightness that surges through his veins at being reunited with you, pushes it down until there’s no echo of it.

He steps inside the building with his shoulders slumped and his head down, moving at his usual brisk pace. He can feel Rina’s eyes on him from the balcony above and it adds an extra weight. He thinks about everything that could go wrong, and it gives him that pinched expression, the one that indicates how stressed he is. He swipes his security pass over the machine before he passes through the turnstile and into the depths of the building.

When he reaches the JOC it’s quiet, he doesn’t expect any less. It’s too early for anyone else to be here, it’s become part of his routine in the past few weeks without you. Stay late, come in early, a way to get his mind off your absence. He has to maintain that if he wants to continue this charade for Rina.

He doesn’t realise Isobel is in, not until she opens the door to her office and indicates for him to come inside.

“Is something wrong?” He asks her taking up residence in one of the visitor’s chairs across from her desk.

“Scola informed me of your predicament.” She tells him before sliding a file across the desk towards him.

Jubal frowns as he reaches forward and picks up the folder. He isn’t surprised that Scola got there before him, the other man is practical, proactive. The longer this goes on, the more likely it is that Jubal will slip up and you’ll pay the price for it. The two of you had talked about bringing Isobel in on the whole thing last night, there’s no love lost between her and the Acting Director, Isobel has connections the two of you don’t. It made sense.

His gaze strays to the paperwork inside of the folder. He reads through the emails, his heart wrenching as he takes in the details.

“She’s already put the transfer through.” He says as his vision starts to tunnel. It feels like the air has rushed out of the room and he can’t fucking breathe.

“I’ve spoken to S.A.C Morrison, he’s fighting it but…”

“She’s the Assistant Director.” Jubal states, his voice rough as his palm rubs over his goatee. His world is falling apart, he can feel the whole thing shifting underneath his feet.

“I’m speaking to the other heads of divisions; we’re going to appeal to the Director to have her removed due to issues with operational decisions but that takes time.” Isobel tells him.

“So, this is it?” Jubal asks her, his voice full of desperation. “Stefani gets shoved back under?”

Isobel shakes her head.

“I had a conversation with Assistant Director of the Fugitive Task Forces, we came through the academy together. She says if one of her S.A.Cs puts in a request for Stefani and her expertise as a special assignment that would delay the transfer to Undercover Operations indefinitely.”

“Special assignment takes priority over everything else.” Jubal agrees, his brain stumbles over the details. “Rina wouldn’t be able to enforce it.”

“No, she would not.” Isobel says with the ghost of a smile. “Remy Scott sent the application through this morning, his team’s been a man down since Barnes went on maternity leave. He’s been looking for someone with the right skillset to fill the role. It’ll be a bit more travel for Stefani, but she gets to stay here in New York, with you.”

“I don’t know how to thank you.” Jubal tells her as he leans forward so that he can meet Isobel’s gaze. “You have no idea what this means to me, to the both of us.”

“I do.” She tells him honestly. “What Rina’s doing to you, it isn’t fair, and I can’t sit back and let that happen. The two of you were there for me when David Owen broke into my home, I will forever be grateful for that.”

Jubal swallows hard against the ache in his chest.

“Yea well, you’re family.” He tells her. “And family looks after each other, right?”

“Yea.” Isobel says simply. “They do.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[the-haunted-office]

The turnstile door is pushed open with as much force as it will allow, which isn't much considering it's designed to move slowly to prevent people from getting caught up in its moving mechanisms. It's happened before, with some of the other living buildings in the area, but this particular building doesn't want that, hence the slowness of the turning doors.

Stanley regrets his tendency to take well-worn paths, as he realizes after the fact that it would have been much more satisfactory to him to have been able to kick open a pair of doors, which he would have been able to do had he taken one of the emergency exits positioned at the end of the various stairwells around the Office.

Well. It's too late now. The slow-moving turnstile door is already spilling him outside into the hot, humid, end-of-summer air, hitting him in the face like a wet towel that's been soaking in a hot tub all day, and he is not going to go back into the Office just so he can stomp around and find a different set of doors to play out the grand exit he had in mind. So the man named Stanley briefly surveys his surroundings - surroundings which he has surveyed many times before, yet never taken much stock of - picks a direction, and just goes.

(Cut here due to length!!)

Like all choices he's ever made in his life, once he's made it, he makes it without looking back. It's not that there isn't any internal struggle or sense of regret, it's a literal lack of looking back. Stanley forges ahead, marking his path with only his footsteps left behind - that is, wherever the ground is impressionable enough to accept the indentation of his shoe prints. Anywhere else he is simply lost to the wilderness of the outside that is... the outside of the Office.

He's aware of just how dangerous this is. It's dangerous enough to be out here with a group of people, but to be out here alone? By himself? Just Stanley? What will he do should he encounter one of those slasher zombies? What will he do should he encounter a regular zombie? Or a streetlamp monster? Or even a squirrel? Those can be rather mean when caught by surprise, can't they? Stanley doesn't know - he's always had the people of the Office to defend him when he's caught squirrels by surprise, so he doesn't exactly know precisely how dangerous they are in this world outside of the Office, not the way the world is now, at any rate.

The world the way it is now is... exceptionally different than the way it was when he left it back in his own dimension. He might not be from this dimension, but as he understands it, from all he has heard from his Officemates, it once closely resembled the one he came from. He thinks. Stanley isn't entirely sure. All he has are clues, because you see, his actual memories of what his life was like before he came to be in his own Office are all faulty. Faulty, or fake, or manufactured, or altered, or... bastardized somehow. Point being, they're all missing and the memories he has of his life before can't be trusted to be real.

But the clues are clues, after all. His Narrator came up with them from somewhere. The idea of the Office and the imagery surrounding it didn't just come from the mind of some mad cosmic alien god with nothing better to do than torment an Earth man he claimed to be in love with - those very specific ideas were plucked up from very specific locations, and Stanley couldn't help but have the uncanny feeling that they were specifically plucked from his life, from the life his Narrator stalked and destroyed, and then had the gall to rub in his face under the guise of it being his own ideas.

After destroying his memory of it all first, of course.

Just how much of this was intentional, Stanley has yet to figure out. He may not ever figure that out, and quite frankly, he's done trying, he just wants to live the rest of his life in peace from all of these damn Narrator fucking around with him, he's sick of it, and as he's walking along outside of the Office, getting a feel for where he's going, which isn't much of a feel at all, considering he has precisely no idea where he is going, all he wants is to avoid surprising any squirrels, he suddenly realizes that he isn't alone.

Someone has followed him out here.

He realizes this because his surroundings, being mysterious and unknown as they are to him, have nonetheless changed. And become more inhibitive.

Stanley doesn't know how to identify trees, but a good deal of them around this area are common in the American Midwest - sycamore, maple, Bradford pear, cedar, and some varieties of pine, to name a few. All of these, including various species of bushes and shrubs and brambles, have all suddenly gone from dotting the landscape to filling the landscape, and crowding in together. Instead of looking like what you would expect your average outdoor wildlife reserve to look like, Stanley's surroundings now suddenly resemble something more manmade, something purposely structured, purposely built, something like straight out of a sandbox game, like a person took a bunch of trees and bushes out of their inventory and stuck them all into the ground in rows to create a barrier or because they thought it looked nice. It certainly wasn't because it looked in any way natural, which is in direct contradiction to the fact that the trees and bushes are all natural things.

More to the point, the trees and bushes are all now boxing him in and preventing him from moving forward. The message is clear.

You can't go this way, Stanley. Pick another direction.

Stanley recognizes right away what has happened. Of course, he's seen this all before and has been in the middle of it.

He stops. Huffs. Folds his arms. Waits for the person to reveal himself.

And soon enough, he does. Of course he does. The man is too impatient not to.

It's just his voice, though. Just his voice. It fills the air around Stanley, like the voice is the air. Like it is the world itself. Stanley knows better, though. This voice belongs to a man, a man who may be a cosmic alien god to whom Stanley owes his life - but he is also the one who took his life away. And Stanley will never forget, or forgive, that.

"Where do you think you are going, Stanley?" asks the Narrator, who Stanley now knows go by the name of Arthur Wright.

Stanley doesn't say anything, either by sign language or by using his neural thought-to-speech link (which is something Arthur made for him - it's a useful device for speaking to those who don't know how to use sign language, but still a sore point for him, seeing as it's because of Arthur that he lost his ability to speak in the first place).

"Stanley... Are you really still going to give me the silent treatment? The... cold shoulder, as they say?" Arthur asks. There is silence for a moment, save for the wind in the trees. A silence which speaks for itself. "I don't know how many times I can apologize to you for my mistake. It was a simple one, although of course I understand the ramifications of it now. I can see it all now, and I understand it all perfectly, and I am sorry. I'm sorry, Stanley. Stanley. I'm sorry."

He still doesn't understand. Even now, he still doesn't understand, Stanley can tell. The Narrator still thinks this is all about how much cloning his body has hurt him, and nothing else. The Narrator has no comprehension of how much he has hurt him as a whole person, him, Stanley, Stanley's whole life, all that he's taken away from him. It's all just about how much he's hurt his body, his little puppet, his toy, his plaything. Outside of that, the Narrator can't fathom what he's done.

Stanley still doesn't react. Doesn't acknowledge the Narrator at all. He's not worth his acknowledgment anymore. Instead, he presses his molars together, lifts his chin, unfolds his arms, and keeps moving forward. Whether or not the barrier of trees and bushes will stop him, Stanley keeps moving forward. Because there is no point in looking back.

He reaches the line of trees, and there's a moment where he's sure they won't part. He's sure they will remain packed together, keep him prisoner, demand that he go back, keep him contained.

But they don't. They move aside. He swears he hears a sigh, and then the trees and bushes all spread apart, the way they were before, leaving him with the open landscape he was presented with when he first walked out of the Office.

The air is still heavy and humid and still feels like and wet towel fresh out of a hot tub has been dropped over his head. But it feels great.

For the first time in his life, Stanley is free.

[ficbandit]

Chapter III: Die Hard, Flirt Harder

(read this on AO3!)

Suga drags his eyes away from the man’s chest up to his face and, not for the first time this morning, wishes he was 6ft under.

Daichi Sawamura, partner at OKD Law and his boss, is halfway inside the doorframe, one impossibly toned arm stretched across the door, holding it open. His other is at Suga’s hip, steadying the both of them so they don’t topple out of the building. He’s so close that Suga can see the almost invisible scar just above his upper lip.

His very pretty upper lip.

“Sugawara,” the sound of his name in Daichi’s mouth—real and outside of his head—is enough to make Suga’s ears burn. “Good morning.”

Ever since he came to work at OKD Law, Suga has been resolute about avoiding the incredibly charming, impossibly attractive attorney in the office. Daichi is the kind of man who sweeps secretaries off their feet, takes clients out to dinners, and racks up crazy bills, who most definitely had women throwing themselves at his feet both at work and outside of it. It didn’t matter that Suga had a hard time looking away from the way his hair curled at the nape of his neck, or that whenever they made eye contact in the office Suga felt like he was going to spontaneously combust.

That definitely did not matter at all.

It had only taken him a few hours on his first day to decide that Daichi Sawamura was completely off-limits and out of his league, and he was determined to live by that rule for however long he worked at OKD.

I didn’t think I’d see him this morning.

The thought is so quietly genuine that it takes Suga a minute to remember how to put words together for a moment.

“Uh—good morning, sir. Sorry, I was just—my train was slow this morning, and my bike—and then I realized I don’t have my keycard—”

Daichi stays perfectly still as Suga stumbles through his sentence, his smile deepening a little as he rambles. Suga watches the scar above his lip disappear and his train of thought dissolves completely. He feels the urge to reach up and trace the edge of the nearly invisible mark with his finger.

“I think I can help you with that.”

 He’s so close—

Suga swallows thickly and steps back quickly, pulling out of Daichi’s touch. The thought dissipates like it never existed, and he finds himself missing the weight of it in his mind, unlike every other thought he’s heard this morning.

Suga wants to slap himself. This, THIS, is exactly why he can’t trust himself to be around Daichi Sawamura. The man turns him into some kind of mumbling, pervy mess, the kind that ogles straight men and gets reported to HR. And fired too, probably.

“Thank you, sir. Sorry for…for…” he gestures vaguely at the door behind him. Daichi watches him, slightly amused, and waves a dismissive hand.  

“My fault. I saw you coming, and I just…couldn’t stop myself.”

Silence falls between them again, and Suga finds himself staring up at him, wide-eyed, too caught up in the idea that Daichi Sawamura saw him coming and couldn’t stop, and whether the innuendo in that is as clear to him as it is to him. He feels his ears grow even warmer.

Suga really, really, needs to slam his head in the turnstile.

It’s Yui’s voice that draws him away from those thoughts, making them both glance over to where she’s been waiting, watching them with raised eyebrows.

“Suga, I’m going to head up, maybe grab you that coffee, alright?” She gives him a knowing look that makes his stomach flop. “Good morning, sir,” she gives Daichi a quick nod before escaping to the elevators, taking Suga’s last hope of a buffer with her.

Looking back, he shouldn’t have told her about his hopeless office crush on their boss. He’d known it would probably cost him one day, and it seems like that day is today.

“Should we…?” He seems unbothered, though, almost as if he’s willing to stand there in the doorway to the building for however long it takes Suga to collect his thoughts. His heart skips more than a few beats.

“Yes!” Suga nods and manages a half-choked laugh, spinning around quickly and beelining for the turnstile. “Sorry.”

He waits off to the side for Daichi to enter first, gaze resolutely fixed on the turnstile as the other man digs around in his own bag for his keycard, ready to tap them both in. He only looks up at him when Daichi freezes in place, hand searching a little more frantically in his bag before he sighs.

No way.

“I guess it’s a bad morning for the both of us, huh?” Daichi dejectedly zips his bag back up. “I’ll ask the security guard if they can let us through without a keycard.”

Suga follows him silently to the nearby security desk, trailing like a lost duckling. It’s fine, he rationalizes. Daichi Sawamura is a named partner of one of the biggest law firms in the city. He owns an entire floor of this building. They’ll let them in.

“Sorry, no can do,” the security guard mutters, not even looking up from his phone. “No key card, no entrance.”

Suga’s gaze flits to Daichi, his eyes widening at the flutter of a muscle at the back of his jaw. It’s hot, hotter than seeing your straight boss pissed should be—if you want to keep your job—and Suga tears his gaze away quickly.

“I understand,” Daichi says, his tone polite but edged with something sharper. Suga sucks in a quiet breath. “But can you maybe call up my office? My colleague will be able to confirm—”

“No. Can. Do,” the man emphasizes. He jams a thick finger at the sign to his right that reads ALL VISITORS MUST HAVE KEYCARDS OR PRIOR AUTHORIZATION TO ENTER. NO EXCEPTIONS. He goes back to his phone like they’re not even there.

Suga thinks Daichi might reach across the desk and grab the guy’s phone from the glare he gives him. He casts a frantic look across the lobby, searching for anyone who might be able to help, when he catches sight of the mail room elevator sitting across the lobby, completely open.  

Suga puts a hand on Daichi’s forearm, trying to subtly pull him towards the elevator when his thoughts hit him with full force.

Fucking prick, he’s muttering, voice low and dark. I don’t need this right now, not this morning, and not in front of him—

The hair on the back of Suga’s neck stands up at the sound of it. He’s surprised that Daichi would care so much about him witnessing this interaction, but he assumes it has something to do with asserting authority and dominance over subordinates and whatever else men in power like him worry about. Still, the sound of it makes his mouth go a little dry.

He has to clear his throat to speak when Daichi turns towards him, eyes softening a fraction as they slip away from the security guard.

“I think I know another way,” he hisses under his breath, his eyes flitting to the service elevator. He drops his hand and feels his connection to Daichi slip away. “Over here.”

He starts for the elevator, looking back only to make sure that his boss is following him, and that the security guard hasn’t picked up on anything. Daichi hesitates at the desk for a second, before he gives the man one last glare and follows him, brow furrowed.

His confused look doesn’t dissipate as Suga presses the button for the elevator and casts a wary glance back at the security guard.

“What’s this?”

“Service elevator,” Suga says under his breath, leaning in as subtly as he can. He gives Daichi a conspiratorial look. “No keycard needed.”

The other man blinks at him for a moment before a smirk curls the corners of his lips.

“Are you breaking into our office, Sawamura?”

Suga’s eyes widen a fraction at the subtle playfulness in Daichi’s voice and the way his smirk makes him look boyish—less like his boss and more like someone Suga might meet on a night out. Someone Suga might not mind seeing again after that, either.

“I…well, I don’t think we were getting anywhere with him,” Suga jerked a thumb back at the security guard. “We shouldn’t both have to clock in late because of him.”

Daichi’s eyes brighten a little.

“Well, I don’t exactly clock in,” he murmurs, leaning in conspiratorially. “But don’t worry. I promise I won’t punish you for being late. The breaking in part, though—well, I might have to call you into my office for that.”

All at once, Suga forgets about his bike and the train and his keycard and loses himself in the way Daichi is looking at him. His blood sings under his skin. His thoughts are a chorus of This is your boss, Koushi, stop it and Do not fall for this fucking straight man, but they dissolve into the horny static that’s replaced his brain. He thinks back to the tone of voice Daichi used with the security guard and wonders—just hypothetically, of course, out of pure gay curiosity—what he’d have to do to get him to use that tone with him.

“Well, I—”

He’s interrupted by the elevator doors opening in front of them, and the security shouting at them from across the lobby.

“Hey, you two! Get back here, you can’t use that!”

Daichi’s gaze snaps back towards the security guard, who’s now vaulting over the desk like he’s fucking John McClane. Suga briefly wonders if there’s anything in the entire fucking building that’s worth that kind of effort before he feels himself being dragged into the open elevator and pushed against the wall beside the panel of buttons.

Daichi is standing over him, one hand by his head and the other punching the button to close the doors like he can block the security guard from him somehow. They both watch as the man sprints across the linoleum, only to reach the doors as they close on his face. He slams a hand on the metal doors and Suga can hear his faint shout from outside before they start moving upward.

Everything is suddenly quiet, save for the whirring of the elevator and the sound of them catching their breaths. Their chests are so close that they nearly brush against each other as they rise and fall, and Suga tries and fails not to think about it. Daichi’s chest is broader than his, and this close he can see the cords of his muscles beneath that button-up, tense and coiled after their daring escape.

Maybe he should just hand in his resignation when he walks into the office. He could write it up when he gets in, print it out, walk to Daichi’s office, set it on his desk, and announce he’s leaving. He’d probably look up at him with that same look from before, that kind of confused amusement that makes his eyes soft and the scar disappear, and Suga would probably kiss him, just because he finally could.

All in all, it doesn’t seem like that bad of a plan.

“Sugawara?”

Daichi steps back, ducking his head a little to catch his eyes. He’s giving him that boyish smile again, though it’s tinged with a bit of concern. Suga swallows thickly and collects himself.

“Sorry…what?”

“Lost you there for a moment. Are you okay?”

He drops his hand from its place beside Suga’s head, taking a few steps back to set his back against the opposite wall of the elevator. The distance feels sudden and violent after how close they’d been, and Suga crosses his arms across his chest against the feeling.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine,” he manages to huff out a laugh. “I just…wasn’t expecting this much excitement this morning.”

Daichi gives him a nod, hands braced on the railing of the elevator behind him. He watches the number on the small screen above the doors rise slowly.

“I know what you mean,” he chuckles. He runs a hand through his hair and Suga follows the movement against his will. “My morning’s been hectic enough as it is without staging a Die Hard plot to get into the office.”

Suga’s eyes widen, and he smiles.

“Oh my god, I was thinking the same thing!” He laughs, forgetting his nerves momentarily. “Did you see him vault over the desk? That was insane!”

Thankfully, Daichi looks just as excited as he feels.

“I thought we were screwed,” he laughs. “Who knew he cared about his job that much?”

They both laugh, and the sound of it makes Suga go a little quiet. Something about it feels far more familiar and right than it should.

He watches the number rise above 25. They have a minute to go to reach the 48th floor, but Suga suddenly wishes it were moving slower. He has the intrusive urge to reach out and press all the buttons before their floor.

“We’ve never really talked in the office, have we?”

Daichi is the one to break the comfortable quiet, his eyes on Suga when he looks away from the buttons.

“No,” Suga scratches at the back of his neck, the question reminding him once again he’s with his boss. “I work on the other side of the office, with Oikawa-san.”

“Right,” Daichi nods, “that explains it then.” He can still feel the other man’s eyes on him. “Tooru’s mentioned you, you know,” he adds. “He says you do great work.”

Suga looks up at him then, surprised. Oikawa Tooru isn’t exactly one for praise—opting instead to point out mistakes curtly and assign extra work at terrible times—and Suga always assumed he just wasn’t on the man’s radar. He was a partner, after all, and the one who’d inherited the firm from his dad at that. Suga had always thought it was safer to work unnoticed beneath him than try for that praise.

Still, hearing it was nice, especially when it came from the man opposite of him. Suga gave him a genuine smile.

“That’s…good to hear. Thank you, Daichi-san.”

Daichi’s smile falters a little, his eyes hard to follow in the dim lighting of the elevator. Suga wonders if he said something wrong. Was he not supposed to thank him for that? Or was the absurdity of their morning finally striking him as horribly inappropriate for a boss and employee?

“Sorry, your…uh, your tie,” Daichi nods at his chest, “I think it’s a little. Here—”

He pushes off the opposite railing and steps back into Suga’s space before he can blink, his hands coming up to fuss with the botched knot at the base of his throat. He yanks at it a little, and Suga’s jaw tightens as his brain reduces to static again.

The only thing that cuts through it is a thought, warm and intoxicating in the way it settles into Suga’s mind like it’s his own. It’s so familiar that it takes him a moment to realize, with a start, that it isn’t his at all.

Sugawara Koushi.

The thought takes its time like it’s memorizing each syllable of his name.

Suga freezes.

Completely oblivious, Daichi finally finishes with his tie and pats his handiwork with a friendly hand, catching his eye.

“There you go.”

Another thought bubbles up, just as dizzying as the last.

I need to see you again. --- A/N: Surprise! I couldn't stop and got out another chapter lol. Enjoy! xx

[lavenderbexlatte]

legendary: chapter 12

stray kids 8.4k words female reader insert SFW

🖤 warnings: reuniting, horrible puns, complicated feelings and bad communication, bang chan’s problem with loyalty above all else, wlw antics but just a little bit, if you haven’t seen the Pokemon Indigo League episode The Tower of Terror i recommend it for spoilers 🖤

Legendary Series Masterlist

connect with me! / masterlist

Saffron City is the largest city in the entire region, and it shows.

All the other cities you've visited are similar, but this one is just so undeniably big. Densely-packed tall buildings, not so much urban sprawl with one specific highly-developed downtown but rather an urban center that covers many square miles, endless skyscraper apartments and office buildings. It seems that as the city grew, it grew up and out equally, height and circumference together.

It's stunning. If you like cities, that is, and you like them just fine.

Gorgeous, as the now very dusty SUV picks its way down one-way streets, as Matthew calls out directions from the passenger's seat and helps Somin navigate toward that address on that slip from Pallet Town.

"Do we know what we're gonna do when we get there?" you ask.

"No," says Somin, distractedly.

"Because we might need a plan."

"We'll just - damn it!" she hisses, as she hits another red light. "I hate it here."

"It's this next turn," Matthew reports.

Despite her complaining, Somin navigates easily into the correct lane, and it's only a matter of moments before the car is pulling up on front of just the most garish chromed-out building you've ever seen.

It's got an enormous logo across the top corner, the word 'KeyCorp" spelled out in golden block letters. But as you gaze up at it, as Somin parks and Matthew complains and J.Seph figures out how the parking meter works, you can see a different outline below those letters. The shape is stained into the paint, betraying that the building used to be called something different, belong to someone else. An S, you think. An I, an L...

The street address, written on the building's front entrance on a placard, fills in the blanks. 2 Silph Drive. This was SilphCo.

"What was SilphCo known for, again?" you ask.

"That's an old company," Matthew frowns. "Wicked old."

"The first Master Ball," says Somin.

"The only Master Ball," J.Seph corrects.

"I'm sure there are more, now."

"Maybe not. Ever seen one?"

"No," Somin replies, "But why would they make just one?"

"Experiment," Matthew says.

"If it's that powerful, I'm sure they would make more."

"Let's find out," you say.

The lobby is pristine to the point of abject inhumanity.

It's scrubbed clean, gleaming floors and security cameras in every corner and the distant clicking of shoes, somewhere. Elevator bays disappear into the higher reaches of the towering building, behind a row of turnstiles with scanners and a metal detector. A long, polished wood desk sits there in the entry before it all, manned by a bored-looking young woman in a pale gold uniform.

"Hello," she says, dully. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Yes," Somin lies.

"With whom?"

"With...Ms. Lee?"

The woman pauses, and then nods, returning her gaze to her computer screen. "Let me check her appointments for today to confirm."

You glance at her. There wasn't any plan in place. She's making this up on the fly, and though it's working so far, with her good choice of generic name, there's no telling how far the grift can carry you.

"It's such a relief to be back in the office, on normal hours," Somin says, conversationally.

"I'm sure."

"We've had such a long drive."

The receptionism tsks. "It's the worst, isn't it? A bad commute?"

Somin's simper doesn't fail. "It really is. After the Pallet Town assignment and all..."

She's scanning the woman's face carefully for any change in expression, at her name-drop, but the receptionist just hums noncommittally.

"What are you doing?" you hiss, as quietly as you can manage.

"Getting us checked in for our appointment," Somin replies.

All this time laying low and making plans and sneaking around to get information, and she just wants to boldfaced lie to get into the building like this. It's admirably ballsy.

"Um, I don't see any appointments with Ms. Lee today..."

The receptionist glances among the four of you, more than a little suspicious, like she's actually taking in your casual clothes and travel-ruffled appearances.

"What's your name, again?" she asks.

Somin looks at you. You look at J.Seph. He looks at Matthew.

Matthew takes off for the scanners, vaulting himself over the turnstile. "We're bustin' in!"

Crimes. He did say he liked the crimes.

The three of you have no choice but to follow.

It was an easy leap for Matthew, tall as he is, and J.Seph also clears the turnstiles easily enough, but you and Somin have to scramble overtop bodily. Matthew has already hailed an elevator by the time you're on the other side of the security unit, and you pile into the waiting car, the door sliding shut on the sound of the receptionist calling ahead for help.

"Four of them - kind of homeless looking, I don't know-"

"I looked so much worse than this when I was homeless," Matthew says, jackhammer-pressing a random floor number.

"Great plan, fuckwad!" J.Seph says, smacking Matthew on the shoulder. "Now they're after us!"

"Nah. We can get a good look around before they catch us, if nothin' else."

"Security is probably already coming," says Somin.

"We'll outsmart 'em."

"Got a plan, then?" you ask.

"No," says Matthew. "But we'll figure something out."

"We can't just wing every single thing we do!"

"You guys are so dramatic."

The elevator reaches the fifteenth floor, and stops.

Unfortunately for Matthew and his general optimism, there are people waiting in the hallway beyond, and they don't look all that friendly. Three of them, dressed in black and gold uniforms, each with a utility belt holding a row of Pokeballs, they're all but tapping their toes as they come into full view between the opening doors.

J.Seph lunges for the buttons to close the door again, but there must be a kill switch somewhere, because the lights inside the elevator click off and the humming of the motor stops completely.

"Seriously?" one of the security officers says.

"Are we really worth your time?" Somin asks, with a sneer.

It's moments like these when you remember that she's more or less a criminal for hire. The poise. The aura.

"You shouldn't be in here," the officer says.

"And yet, here we are."

"We're going to escort you back down."

Somin smiles. "I don't think so."

She's talking a big game for someone with no Pokemon, and you're fascinated. What if she can just talk her way out of this?

"Okay," the officer says, "Then they are."

He pulls out a Pokeball, and his companions do the same.

So much for talking.

"Round up these clowns," the officer commands, as he releases his Pokemon.

But as soon as the Pokemon emerges, it stops.

Coiled on the ground, intelligent eyes peering at the group of you, still pressed into the elevator together, it's simply watching. It barely fits in the hallway, it's so big.

"Arbok!" Somin gasps.

You nearly choke on nothing. "No fucking way it's the same-"

"Arbok!" Somin repeats, elated.

The Pokemon hisses, practically wriggling, and it lunges forward to nudge its giant purple head into the elevator car so that Somin can scratch it down the snout with both hands. It's her Pokemon, alright. Apparently taking away their assets and putting them to better use means relegating perfectly battle-trained and well-loved Pokemon to guard duty with a bunch of arrogant pig-

"Get back here!" the officer howls. "Arbok, Tackle!"

"Arbok doesn't know Tackle," Somin says.

"Well, they promised me a stupid fuckin' animal that knows-"

"I'm sorry, is that how we talk about Pokemon around here?" asks Somin, cool audacity in her voice.

He's in trouble, now.

"I'll talk about that thing however I damn please!"

"Enough of this," one of the other officers says, "C'mon-"

He lets out his own Pokemon, which is equally useless, because he lets out Weezing. J.Seph's Weezing. You know, because it immediately joins Arbok in trying to cram itself into the tiny elevator car to be close to its trainer.

Stunned, the final officer tries his hand, and the resulting Pokemon is so tall and heavy that it cracks a hole in the ceiling as it stands up fully.

"Golem!" Matthew crows.

Terrible, excellent dumb luck.

"Earthquake," the last officer orders.

But Golem ignores him. Obviously, these Pokemon aren't about to listen to anyone but their trainers. And their trainers are here, now.

"Team K," the first officer says, realization dawning on his face.

"Have we met?" J.Seph asks.

"I mean - we didn't - not officially-"

"Oh, I remember," says Somin lightly, edging around her Pokemon to step into the hallway properly. "You three were in the unit that came to repossess our pets."

You catch the unspoken hint in Somin's recognition of the men: you're in the right place. KeyCorp is the right company. The officers step back almost instinctively as Somin steps forward, her own gait slow and predatory.

"It's unfortunate that you did that."

"It was our assignment," he redirects. "Nothing personal."

You wonder if she feels the irony that you do, in that statement. You can't help but remember Somin saying the exact same thing to you, once upon a time. Nothing personal. It's never anything personal, is it?

"You could have refused," she suggests.

"Not a direct order from the boss, we couldn't."

"Then I have a message for your boss," says Somin.

They're just corporate security officers, which means they're plainclothes, no armor, no weapons. Just the Pokemon, and those have already been proven to be at least partially Team K's own Pokemon, stolen. She walks right up to that first officer, standing uncertainly at the front of his little squadron.

She's about a head shorter than him, but she sneers, winds up, and delivers an uppercut to his jaw that sends the man sprawling.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" his teammate swears.

Somin shakes out her hand, her knuckles already reddening. "Don't fucking touch my Pokemon."

For a second, there's no sound other than the security officer groaning in pain from the floor, the clink of his uniform badges against the tile, as he writhes.

And then Matthew whistles, admiring. "Minny, you're the man, for real."

"You wanna give the rest of their Pokemon back?" you ask.

"As if," the second officer says, but his voice is shaky.

You hum, reaching into your pack and taking out one of your own Pokeballs.

"I wonder who's better at battling," you muse, tossing the ball from hand to hand, "Us...or you."

The second officer scoffs. "We're not just going to give you-"

A clattering sound makes him turn, to see the first officer running down the hall, a spotty trail of blood in his wake. His utility belt, with all of Somin's Pokeballs fixed to it, lays on the floor where he'd been standing.

"Apparently, you are," Somin says. "Quickly, please, we'd like to be on our way.

Really, you think to yourself, as the four of you ride the elevator back down to the lobby, Team K with all of their recovered Pokeballs in their arms, this wasn't so bad. Maybe you should just do everything without a plan. It's worked well so far. It worked damn well here.

There are no other security personnel waiting on the ground floor, no city police. No sign at all that you just had a physical altercation up there, inside a swanky corporate building.

It's almost too easy.

"I think they're letting us go," you say.

Matthew makes a noise like he wants to disagree, but J.Seph nods.

"I think so, too."

"Why would they let us get away with that?" you ask, rhetorical but curious. "I mean, they know who you are, right?"

"Right," J.Seph agrees. "They know all the dirt on us. They might even be following us, after that."

"Think they could have been following the whole time?"

"No," says Somin. "It wouldn't have been worth it, before, not when we were regular contractors and especially not after they cut us off."

"But now that we've proven we're too much for them to handle..." J.Seph trails.

"Then let's do something normal to throw them off," you suggest.

"Like?"

You grin. "The Saffron City gym is all Psychic type. Wanna go play?"

----------

You're biased in thinking that the most beautiful gym in the world is Celadon Gym, but the gleaming silver columns and vaulted arches of the Saffron Gym are also stunning.

It's big. Really big, and gorgeous. For a gym in a big city, you're surprised there isn't more traffic in the area. Spectators, or tourists, if not trainers looking for a battle. Your own home gym has school groups touring it, and private lessons, but this place is austere, quiet.

The van is the only car in the lot, when you and the others leave it there and make your way to the front doors.

They open for you, motion-activated and silent. Unlike in Celadon, there's no welcome committee, nowhere for you to check in or ask questions. That suits you just fine, though.

"Better just find the staff," J.Seph mutters.

"Probably in there?"

Somin's probably right, considering the enormous glass-paned double doors across from the entrance light up even as she speaks, quaking with the force of a blow on the other side, the telltale signs of battling happening in the next room.

So that's where you go.

Most of what's back there meets your expectations.

It's a beautiful empty space, golden walls and marble columns, a clearly-marked battle arena on the floor. There are a few comfort features, some spare tables and a line of doors that must lead off into more functional rooms, but mostly it's an intimidating space.

There are trainers, most of them in similar deep green uniforms giving away their status as members of the gym. There are Pokemon, primarily Psychic types but also some others - you can spot a good number of Ghost and Electric types among them.

The thing that you don't expect to see is a familiar face.

He's not wearing the same uniform as everyone else, so he stands out regardless. You zero in on the streaked hair despite yourself, on the rakish grin as the trainer guides his Alakazam in a battle against a Slowbro.

"Damn," Matthew says. "They don't fuck around in here."

One of the uniformed trainers glances up at the sound of Matthew's voice, and nods politely at the four of you.

"One second," the trainer says, "Someone will check you in after this round."

"No trouble," J.Seph assures.

The Alakazam wins. The trainer pulls it back, victorious, and turns around presumably to speak to the uniformed staff who've been watching.

But he sees you.

"(Y/N)?"

His stupid face. You can't help but smile. "Seungmin."

The way that Seungmin jets across the battling floor and comes at you, there's a second where you think that he's going to hug you. But that doesn't fit his image, and he knows it, so he stops short just in front of you, surprise painting his boyish features.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asks.

"Getting into trouble," you say.

"It's good to see you, the fuck."

He's never going to instigate anything, so you reach out and squeeze his shoulder gently, affectionately.

"It's good to see you, too."

"He's one of the District 9 kids," Matthew says, like he's puzzling it out for himself.

"The one that lost to me," Somin adds.

Seungmin's expression sours when he takes in your companions. "Still with...them, I see."

"They're not so bad," you say.

"Working on your strategy, then?" Somin asks him, smirking.

"Right," Seungmin cedes. "We...had some downtime, and I figured it'd be good to work on my Psychic."

"Friends of yours?" that first uniformed trainer asks, joining the knot of you.

"She is," Seungmin nods toward you.

"Well, any friends of Seungmin's are welcome," the trainer says. "We can take, oh, half an hour break? Another round after, and then debrief?"

"Sounds good, thank you," says Seungmin.

There's more polite weight in his words than you've ever heard from him. Turns out he does know how to use his manners.

As permission is granted, the room relaxes. Staff trainers filter across the arena floor, talking, and some disappear behind the doors or take a seat right on the dirt to chat. It suddenly feels more like a gym, and less like a threat.

"Are you here alone?" you ask.

Seungmin nods. "Solo time. It's weird."

"Thought you were all about Ghost."

"Well, I figured if I master Psychic, I'll have two specialties, which makes me that much better," Seungmin says, with a sneaky grin. "Plus I'll know all the type weaknesses between the two, so I'll never lose."

"We can test that theory," Somin interjects.

He sends her a withering glance. "I'll pass."

"It really is good to see you," you say.

"We were gonna stop by and see if we could battle for a gym badge," Matthew says. "But this is kinda dope, too."

"Where are the others, if you're here?" you ask.

Seungmin sighs. "It was Chan’s idea. We're having some type-specific training time before we get back to the league. I picked Psychic, here I am, battling my way through all these guys about a million times a day."  

It’s a good chance to try and get some perspective on what Felix told you, so you press, "You guys have been in the league?"

He nods. "Nonstop."

"Why?"

"Dunno. New way of life, though," Seungmin says. "I'm here, Jeongin is training Fire down on Cinnabar Island, Hyunjin and Jisung took off to Cerulean Gym like a week ago, and Felix stayed home."

"And the others?"

The expression that crosses his face is familiar and unsettling, an evil hint of a smile. You know nothing good is coming.

"Changbin brought Minho and Chan to train at the Fighting Dojo," Seungmin tells you.

You almost don't want to ask. "Where's that?"

"Oh, here in Saffron. Like half a mile away."

Fuck.

"I'm really happy to see you, but they might not be, by the way," Seungmin adds.

"I don't blame them."

"They can't hold it against you, still," J.Seph says. "C'mon, that's ancient history."

"Not everyone forgets things so quickly," you say.

"Like you," Somin deadpans. "Try to kill a person once, and they never shut up about it."

"So you admit you were trying to kill me."

"Now is not the time for this."

"Hey," Seungmin cuts in, "They might be super pissed, but, like, do you wanna see them anyway?"

"I don't know if I should," you say.

"We prolly shouldn't stay in one place for too long," Matthew says. "If they're really followin' us, we should stay on the move."

"Someone's following you?" Seungmin asks.

"Yeah, it's a long-"

"I don't really care," Seungmin decides.

Still a shitty kid. You missed him.

"We might as well go," Somin says.

"I don't think we should go," Matthew corrects, pointing at himself and then around at Somin and J.Seph.

He's right, you realize. As much as it makes more sense to stick together, lest anything happen while you're separated, there probably isn't any good reason to make the boys reunite with you and Team K at the same time. Especially not with the history you've learned.

"Then you go, and we'll settle where we're staying tonight," J.Seph suggests to you.

"You sure it's okay?"

"Sure, I'm sure. Don't break too many hearts over there," he winks, like the worst older brother in the universe.

"I'm done here in about an hour. Sooner, if we end this break early. Hang out until then, and I'll take you over," Seungmin offers.

He seems awfully insistent for you to go and meet up with his friends, again, and it makes you a little suspicious. Not that there are bad motives, or anything, but maybe that he's got a personal agenda. To make you see Chan again, you suspect, somewhere deep down.

Which is daunting. It would be daunting in any case, but after hearing Felix’s conviction that Chan has been looking for you, you’re more apprehensive than ever. But then, Changbin is there, and Minho...Minho, who you owe the world's biggest apology for putting him in harm's way when he was trying to help you...

You give in. "Yeah, okay. Sounds good."

-----

Team K are long gone, off to arrange a hotel or something for the night, and Seungmin's training session wrapped up a little while ago, and meanwhile you've had plenty of time to stew over what you're doing.

Here you are, back in the thick of it, in every which way. Back to all the ghosts of your past.

"We might have to sneak in," Seungmin says, as the two of you approach the sprawling traditional architecture complex that makes up the unofficial Fighting type gym.

You're suspicious. "Why?"

"Because they don't let people in without appointments, and even though they've met me before, they haven't met you," he reasons.

"So make an appointment."

"And," he adds, "If the guys see you before you see them, they might just take off."

That is very stupid and very possible.

"Fine."

Sneaking in, however, turns out to be easy.

The gates are unlocked, and you walk right in. The next door that you meet is also propped open, and the next after that, and the one singular trainer who sees you just waves merrily and continues on their way.

"Cocky bastards," Seungmin mutters. "What, don't need locks if your fists are hard enough?"

"Don't talk shit on their turf!"

"As if they care."

A few rooms in, you find what you're looking for.

A battle arena, not unlike the one in the official gym. But this one is partially underground; you and Seungmin emerge on a catwalk that runs around the perimeter of the arena space, and the actual floor is about twenty feet below.

That means you're out of sight, though, which proves helpful because the battle taking place down below is also exactly what you're looking for.

Ages ago, lifetimes ago, at the tournament where you'd met Team K again, you'd wondered out loud what Minho was doing with a Fighting type Hitmonlee. You'd been told to ask Changbin. You have more questions for Changbin, now, because it seems that lots of them have Fighting types.

The Pokemon in the ring are that Hitmonlee and a Hitmonchan, and the trainers are Minho and Chan.

Changbin stands on the sidelines, barking orders and advice and calling moves. There are other staff around, people in tan-colored shirts, but even these people whose job it is to train Fighting type can't stand up to Changbin's presence and - mostly - his loud voice.

"You call that a fuckin' High Jump Kick?!"

"I'm sorry!" Minho snarls back.

Hitmonlee ducks as Hitmonchan comes in with a new attack, flames up its strong bulbous fists, and none of that doesn't seem to satisfy Changbin.

"Chan, bitch, I keep telling you, if you lean that hard on Fire moves, you'll never fuckin'-"

"Quit backseat driving!" Chan snaps.

The worse part about it is the fact that you know for certain, despite the way they're talking to each other and carrying on, the three of them are having immeasurable amounts of fun.

Changbin is not deterred. "Look, just try-"

He's cut off by Hitmonchan catching Hitmonlee's attack and stopping the fight completely, just one Pokemon's strong leg held aloft by the other's strong arms. A stalemate.

"Oh. Ah."

"Can we call it?" Minho asks, panting like he's the one giving it his all.

"I guess," Changbin grumbles.

"Thank you. Fucker."

"But you're a couple of pansy-ass-"

"It's about time to wrap up, anyway," one of the staff members interrupts, before more insults are thrown.

"Besides," another staff adds. "We have company."

They jerk a thumb up at the catwalk, where you and Seungmin lean against the thick railing that rings the platform. Seungmin waves, and you freeze.

To your credit, Chan freezes, too. His Pokeball falls right out of his hand and clunks awkwardly onto the floor. Minho calls back Hitmonlee and stalks away, out of sight. And Changbin lights up like a firework.

"No fuckin' way!"

Changbin opens his arms like he expects you to drop the two stories right into them, and honestly, you're tempted.

But to spare yourself (and him) the broken bones, you just go for the stairs, taking them at a breakneck pace, skipping as many as you can without tripping. You're fully aware how silly you look, running to him, someone who you knew for (as you keep having to remind yourself) only a short while, a couple of weeks. You also don't care.

Loving harder is part of this whole deal. You missed him, and now you don't have to miss him anymore.

"I can't believe you - what are you doing here?" Changbin is asking, incredulous, as you reach the bottom of the stairs.

"Trying to fix things," you say.

His arms are still held open, patient and welcoming, and you can't help the way you run forward and don't stop until you're nestled against him, head at the crook of his neck and his strong arms around you. You've never hugged Changbin before, but it feels like you've done it a hundred times. He pulls you back to hold you at arm's length, just to look at you.

"Fuck, I didn't think you'd be back," he grins.

"I couldn't stay away," you reply.

Changbin just laughs, and lets you go gently.

Seungmin has made it down to the arena level, by this point, and you glance over to see him hanging over Chan's shoulder, looking more amused than he has any right to. Chan still hasn't moved, watching you with a slightly dazed look in his eye, like he's not sure what he's supposed to be seeing.

You charge on, giving him another moment to collect himself, and shoving Changbin lightly on the arm with a, "Look at you, calling the shots out here."

"They looked pretty good, huh?" Changbin says, with some of his finest bluster. "All my idea."

"What part?" you ask, amused.

"Them getting these Pokemon."

"You wanna spread the glory of training Fighting?" you tease.

"Nah, it's all for the bit," Changbin says.

Something clicks into place, and you cough out a laugh. "Wait - because - Hitmonchan?"

"Hitmonchan," Changbin agrees. "And Hitmonlee, as in Lee Minho. Funny, right?"

Well, mark that down as another person's last name you're learning way too late.

"It's so dumb!" you protest.

"That's what's great about it."

You really did miss him.

Figuring that there's no way to avoid it forever, you turn around fully to face Chan. He's stiffened up, shrugged Seungmin off his back and picked the Pokeball off the ground.

"Hi, Chan."

"Hi," he answers.

"How have you been?"

"Fine. I'm not about to make smalltalk with you," he says flatly.

"Then I'll cut the bullshit. I'm sorry, Chan."

"Sorry for what?" he asks. "Sorry for teaming up with your own enemies and putting the lives of thousands of people in danger because you couldn't control yourself?"

He's lashing out because he feels wronged, and you fully know that, but it still stings.

"For leaving without telling you, yes. For disappearing."

"You could have come back."

"I couldn't. You know I couldn't."

"You can do whatever you want. You make that perfectly clear," he snaps. "Which means you didn't want to come back."

"Chan, I'm sorry for-"

"For almost getting Jeongin killed, maybe?"

"For that, and-"

Chan holds your gaze coldly. "Or maybe for fucking Jisung and Hyunjin, when I thought...I thought maybe..."

Next to him, Seungmin winces.

"That's enough of that shit," Changbin cuts in firmly.

"Minho had the right idea getting the hell out of dodge, I can't do this," Chan says.

He turns, then, and walks away. It's not smart to follow him. It won't fix anything, mostly because he's asking you to apologize for things that you're not sorry for doing.

"You betrayed us," Chan says, pausing in the doorway. "We trusted you and you left. That's not what you do when you're on a team."

The heavy door into the next section of the gym slams behind him.

Changbin looks at you, crestfallen. "He doesn't mean all that."

"Yeah, he does," you say grimly.

"He'll calm down, though, and he'll talk to you for real. Minho, too, I'm sure."

"Don't push them. I get it."

It's just as well that you get a message then, telling you that Team K are outside the Dojo to collect you. A good buffer, a perfect escape right as things are getting messy.

"I should go," you say.

"You just got here," Changbin whines.

"And I should go."

"Don't make us wait around for you again. We'll miss you too much."

"I miss you guys too," you say, and your throat is tight as you do.

You let him get one good hug in, a tight squeeze that nearly knocks the wind out of you, and then you head for the exit again.

"Tell Chan I'm sorry, again. And Minho, too," you say, as you climb the stairs.

Changbin just watches, eyes sober. "They'll come around."

"I know they will. Bye, Changbin."

-----

Sliding into your seat in that SUV has never been more difficult than it is in this moment. There's an urge in your chest, not logical or practical but very much real, to go back in there and hold Chan and Minho close, to make them understand how much you care, how sorry you are. To crush them with how sorry you are, make them feel secure in a hug like Changbin can do.

That's not going to happen, though.

If they forgive you, someday, that'll be on their time.

"Did you find somewhere?" you ask Somin softly.

She hums, affirmative. "A pension. Kind of out of the way, in the next town."

"We thought you'd want some distance. Seems like that was a good call, huh?" Matthew says.

"It's harder to follow us out there, too," J.Seph adds. "If anyone is still following."

You nod. "Good thinking."

"I take it things didn't go well?" Somin asks.

"Not really. It's okay, though."

"If they're your friends, they'll come around," says J.Seph.

"It's my fault they're upset. They'll figure out if they want to make up or not, eventually," you say. "It's fine. I just want to go to bed."

The car ride isn't long.

This pension is in another little town, a misty and underdeveloped place with a crooked sign that you pass on the way in, reading Lavender Town. A huge tower looms over the small buildings that comprise the town proper, lit up but only partially.

"I don't think I like it here," you say.

"It was cheap," J.Seph dismisses.

"We'll be okay for a night," Matthew agrees.

It looks cheap, when you pull up to the tiny vacation rental home. Cozy, sure, but a little run-down, ivy growing up the wooden siding and overgrown plants in the front yard.

And there are only two bedrooms, when you get inside.

"Split up boys and girls?" Matthew suggests.

"You just don't want to room with me because of that time with the mask packs," Somin says.

"Damn right."

"Whatever option gets me to sleep faster," you say.

So boys and girls it is.

Each room only has one bed, because of course it does. On the one night you would really rather be alone, to cry, maybe, or at least to feel sorry for yourself, you have to be right up in someone else's business. And of course, that someone is Somin.

Matthew or J.Seph would leave you alone if you asked. Not her.

Somin bothers you right away.

You've both showered, and gotten into pajamas. She stands at the door, hanging up clothes on rack there, and you're under the covers, ready to roll over and not move for the next twelve hours, when she speaks.

"I know how you feel, you know."

"That's nice," you say, dismissive.

"I know how your friends feel, too," she says.

"Your whole career is self-interest and double-crossing, that doesn't surprise me," you mutter.

Somin scoffs. "You forget that the last person who I trusted wholeheartedly ended up leaving me, too."

"You trust people?" you ask, annoyed, sitting up again.

She matches your tone. "I did, once. And look where that's gotten us."

"You don't trust the guys, then?"

"Of course, I do. But they've known each other much longer than they've known me. It's different. But with her..."

Jiwoo. She means Jiwoo.

"I forgot," you say, softening again.

You forgot that Jiwoo isn't just someone who walked out of your life, whose new status in life is heartbreaking to you. You forgot, despite everything, that Team K lost her too.

"We really weren't close. Not like you were with her," Somin admits.

"That doesn't mean she didn't matter to you."

"I know that!" she snaps. "I know. We weren't sisters, or anything frivolous like that, but we were teammates. Friends, I think. I would have helped her with anything, done whatever she needed. And she still left."

"Yeah."

"So please believe me when I say that I know how your Channie feels, alright? I understand."

Her voice is constricted. It's the most emotion you've ever seen from Somin that's not anger.

"I'm...I know it doesn't help, but I'm sorry," you say.

"No," Somin brushes it off, "No, I just...wanted you to know. That I understand both sides. But it's not the same. Jiwoo and I were coworkers, cordial but trusting. You and Chan...it was different, wasn't it?"

"It was," you say.

She smiles humorlessly. "I thought so."

"But I mean..." you hesitate. "I've known you and the guys much longer than I ever knew him. If we're talking pound for pound, instance for instance, we're closer."

"All of us," she clarifies.

For once, you are brave. "And you and me."

Somin blinks at you. "Me and you?"

"We're close, aren't we?"

"I guess we are," she says, as if she hasn't thought about it.

"I haven't had that many close girl friends since I was a kid," you say. "I have some, of course. But I haven't had one good, close friend like that in a long time."

"I don't know that I ever did."

You stand up, leaving the warmth of the bed to go over to where Somin is still lingering by the door. "You should try it."

"Maybe I will."

The path from there, standing in front of one of the most perplexing people you've ever known, to kissing her, is hazy, but you traverse it nonetheless.

Because here you are, with Somin's body against you, her hair soft in your hand as you guide her, sucking her bottom lip into your mouth as she tugs on your clothes like she thinks you're going to leave if she's not clawing you ever closer.

"Sorry," she murmurs, "I don't think this is what friends do."

"It can be," you answer.

She hums. "Oh?"

"What's a little fun, between friends?"

She seems to take your words to heart, because she pressed another filthy, tongue-filled kiss to your waiting mouth before she drops to your throat, and bites. You yelp at the sensation, pinching at her side as if to get revenge, and she laughs.

"Should I stop?" Somin asks, her voice a low purr that sets your skin on fire. "I know you like Chan, I would hate to confuse things further."

Why does she keep bringing up Chan? Why can't she just let that go? Why can't everyone get over what happened?

Why can't you?

"I like Chan. And I like you, and I don't think we should stop this," you say, breathless, "But fuck...I feel like you need to know. I have to tell you. As a teenager, that whole time, I was always-"

"A little bit in love with Jiwoo." Somin finishes. "Yes."

Exactly the same, the two of you.

"I'm glad we met," Somin says, mouth hot against your ear.

You have to laugh at that. "Me too."

"And I'm glad that you think being friends, and having a little fun, are not mutually exclusive."

Somin, with her sharp feline eyes and her delicate face, her body in her skimpy nightshirt and shorts, her mouth still attached to the pulse point under your ear, could probably make you agree to anything right about now.

You don't know how far you would go with Somin. Or if it would change anything between you, despite what you've both said.

You don't find out.

There's a knock on the door, right beside the two of you tangled up together, and the loud sound startles you both so much that Somin jumps, her head knocking your chin and your arm crashing against the wall.

Luckily, you've moved far enough apart by the time the door opens.

"Hey," says Matthew, peering in, sleep-rumpled and totally shirtless. "Bad news. We got company."

"KeyCorp?" you ask, all attempts at having some fun forgotten.

"Not yet, but I think - well. I'll let them tell ya."

He heads back down the little hallway, and you follow, annoyed.

"What's that supposed to - oh."

The house is small, so you've already reached the living space and had your question answered.

Standing there uncertainly, still in their clothes from the day of training but now much dirtier, there they are. Minho, Seungmin, Changbin, and Chan.

"Well, hello," says Somin, far more cordial than you would have expected.

Changbin and Seungmin greet her back. Minho simply stands with his arms crossed and brow furrowed. And Chan...is looking very unsubtly back and forth between Matthew, who is mostly undressed, and you...you, with the brand-new hickey that you can now feel absolutely throbbing on the side of your neck.

Oh, God, he probably thinks-

“How’d you find us?” Matthew asks.

Seungmin, for his part, grins. “I had Gastly track you.”

Of fucking course he did.

“Then why are you here?”

"We got run out of the Fighting Dojo," Seungmin says.

"Pardon?" Somin asks, nonplussed.

"A bunch of fuckin' narcs in gold outfits came in and told us the place was shut down, and kicked us out," Changbin says. "Some of the staff put up a fight and they got straight-up arrested."

"Gold outfits?" you repeat.

"KeyCorp. They're really followin' us," Matthew says.

Seungmin makes a sound of disgust. "Their leader was this really bitchy girl - dressed in all teal, hair like a skunk..."

Somin wilts. "They sent her?"

"Then they're serious," says Matthew. "Shit."

"They sent Jiwoo?" you ask, praying you're wrong.

But of course, Somin nods. "If they sent her, they mean business. She has much more power in the hierarchy than the kind of grunts who came for our Pokemon last time."

"These people are following you?" Minho asks.

It's the first time he's spoken, and it's cutting.

"Yes," says Somin.

Minho turns his intense blank-eyed stare on you. "Then it's your fucking fault, again?"

"My fault?" you balk.

"Like every other fucking piece of bad luck that comes our way, yeah! Your fault!"

"Dude," Changbin says, "Calm down-"

"Fuck, no! If she didn't come track us down, these people wouldn't be after us, right now!" Minho snarls.

"Look, if we all stay here, we're easy prey," interjects J.Seph, joining the lot of you in the living room. "We have to move, now."

"Move where?" Chan rasps.

He's looking only at J.Seph, eyes glued to him with an intensity that suggests he'll die if he looks at you, or Somin, or Matthew.

"We need somewhere with one entrance, that's easy to defend, and harder to destroy than a wooden house," J.Seph says.

You have the answer immediately. "The tower."

"That's a bad idea," says Seungmin.

"We don't have a choice. We have to go somewhere," says Somin.

She's already heading for the door, undoubtedly to check the perimeter before everyone charges out together. There's no one on the other side, once she gets it open, but in the distance, there's a flash of color, a shape, high above the trees.

Brown. Flying.

Luckily, you're not the only one who sees it.

"Is that Fearow?" Somin asks.

You don't trust your mouth. You just nod.

"The tower, then."

"I'm telling you, we don't want to go there," Seungmin says.

"Look, you're either comin' with, or you're dealing with these people that we know about and you don't, without us," says Matthew.

You and Team K hadn't even unpacked the car aside from your change of clothes, so sure that you would only be sleeping here and then moving on the morning, and that's all to your advantage. No wasted time repacking, no having to leave crucial things behind.

"I'll stash the car somewhere off the road so they can't find it, and meet you at the tower," says Somin.

"Take Seph. I'll go with these guys," Matthew says.

"That leaves the rest of us on foot," says Changbin.

You glance at Matthew, and at Chan.

"On foot, then," you say. "Let's hurry."

-----

The tower is much worse up close.

You understand why Seungmin insisted it was a bad idea to come here, the closer you get. It's several stories tall, sided with plate metal, reflecting every dim glow of the town in the distance, and there are two eerie projecting pieces on the sides and one on top that look like horns. Cartoonish, maybe, but unsettling, in the dark like this. Scary.

But you think you're right, too. It'll be easy to defend, once you're inside.

And if something happens to this decrepit old building, well. Much less your fault than if you destroy the rental.

Despite being the sole voice of dissent, Seungmin is the first one inside.

"Oh, the vibes are awful," he reports, from inside the creaky doors.

Changbin crosses his arms over his chest, as if to ward off the vibes. "Then why do you sound so happy?"

"Dunno."

"Y'all gotta hurry," Matthew says, following Seungmin inside. "If they catch us off guard out here we're toast."

The vibes are indeed awful.

You get the feeling that this is an old, old building. And you've been in more than your share of old buildings lately. The walls are age-stained, peeling wallpaper and gaps in the crown molding. Antique furniture, so old that it's crumbling to bits, sits abandoned. You can barely make out the shape of several large chandeliers, hanging down the length of the room.

"I would be careful," says Seungmin, as everyone joins him. "I don't think the floors are very strong."

"What makes you say that?" asks Chan, from the back of the group.

He points into the darkness. "That."

You see what Seungmin sees, after a second.

There's a hole in the floor. There's a hole in the ceiling, too, like something - or someone - fell through the levels of the tower all at once and ended up in the basement.

"Oh," says Changbin, uncertain.

"Scared?" asks Matthew.

"Yeah. Are you?"

"Fuck yeah."

"That makes three of us," Chan murmurs.

"What even is this place?" you wonder.

Seungmin walks gingerly near the edge of the hole. "Some of the gym staff were talking about it. I guess it used to be used for something? People are afraid to come in, so no one really knows anymore."

"Well, it's creeping me out."

"I bet people died here," says Minho.

Seungmin grins at him. "I bet-"

He stops, silent, at the sound of footsteps. Outside, on the dirt path that leads up to the tower. You watch as Minho's hand slips into his jacket pocket, and as Chan goes for his own Pokeballs in his backpack, before a figure stops at the door.

It's just Somin.

"Found you," she says, peering into the darkness.

J.Seph is right behind her, and the two of them come into the building after you. Nothing left to do now but wait.

"Hey, d'you think people died here?" Minho asks her.

"Probably," she says coolly. "You'll be next if you don't mind your manners."

The tower door chooses that moment to slam shut.

Screaming fills the room, and as Somin lights up the flashlight she'd brought with, like a practical adult, you can see who it is: Matthew, Changbin, and Chan, because of course.

"Shut up!" you hiss.

"Doors are not fuckin' supposed to do that!" Changbin insists.

It's not like you're not scared, yourself. On the contrary, you find yourself shifting closer to J.Seph, who's still just standing there calmly, wishing you could siphon his courage. Seungmin's eyes are fixed on a spot right beside the closed door, and the slowest smirk is spreading across his face.

"Are you a Gastly or a Haunter?" he asks.

There's a faint chuckle from nowhere, a gasping inhuman laugh, and then a pair of enormous white eyes materialize on that same spot.

"A Haunter."

"How-" Chan clutches at his chest, "How did you know-?"

"You think I don't know when there's Ghost types?" Seungmin says.

"Jesus fuck," Matthew swears.

"Hey, some people say Ghost types are just Pokemon that died, so in a way, you're right," Seungmin tells Minho.

"That doesn't make it better at all!" Changbin groans.

You're not bothered by the Ghost Pokemon here. There are Pokemon all over, and Ghost types are just another type, theories be damned. It's the reason that the Haunter felt the need to slam the door that concerns you.

Because not a moment later, there's a pop outside.

A window shatters. A dull thud.

Somin swings the flashlight around, until she spots it: a pitted hole in the wall, not far from where she's standing.

A bullet hole.

"Go," Somin urges. "In, farther, now-"

"Watch the floor," Seungmin yelps as he takes off.

Edging your way around the jagged opening in the floor, you keep your eyes on the faint outline of Seungmin as he heads towards the stairs on the far side of the room.

There's no way out if you go up, but maybe-

The door slams open again, so hard that the whole structure rattles, the chandeliers swaying above your head.

"That was a warning shot. Don't make me do it again."

"Fuck," mutters J.Seph, just behind you.

You know what he means.

That's Jiwoo's voice. Her accent thinner and less noticeable after all these years, but it’s her. You could never forget.

A man comes in first, and then another man, and a few more people, all dressed in the gold and black uniforms that the other KeyCorp security had worn. Some of them have Pokeballs in hand, but some of them have weapons. You don't know if you've ever seen a gun in person before, unsheathed and at the ready.

When Jiwoo comes in, it's like your mind goes to static.

She's dressed in a power suit, a blazer and shorts in a deep maroon color, and her hair is still dyed in streaks of black and white. Her dark eyes are ringed in makeup, the way she always liked it, but her stance is a hundred times as confident as it ever was when you knew her.

It's obvious that she's grown since then. So have you.

"Hi, (Y/N)," she says, voice deep and calm, just the same. "I have to say, you keep pretty interesting company these days."

You can't say anything. You just look at her.

"I mean, who would have thought? My old team?" she tuts. "And these new guys, too. They have a lot of cool tricks up their sleeves, if their files are correct."

"What's the deal, here?" Minho asks boldly.

"The deal is that interesting assets join KeyCorp, no questions asked," Jiwoo says.

"And we're interesting assets?"

"You are," Jiwoo nods. "You, your Pokemon, these degenerates..."

She gestures at Team K. Somin bristles.

Matthew makes a little noise of disbelief. "Woo, you can't fuckin'-"

"I can," Jiwoo interrupts smoothly. "So let me tell you how this is going to go. You all are going to come with me, and we're going to find a place for you in KeyCorp."

"Or?" Chan challenges.

"Or, nothing. There's no other option. You're coming with me."

She has all the strength she would need to make a threat. Come with, or die. Or something of that sort. But she's not doing it.

You wonder why.

"No," says Somin.

"I have to agree, no fucking way," says Minho.

Jiwoo sighs. "That's the wrong answer."

Seungmin is slowly, slowly ascending the stairs, and Changbin is right behind him. You think they could probably get away, but the rest of you are right out in the open. You and J.Seph are the closest to Jiwoo. But you're also some of the people who could distract her best.

"I don't see why you need all of them," you say.

"They're my directive right now. I follow instructions," she replies.

It's the stupidest possible thing to say, but you say it. "You've wanted me this whole time, haven't you? Since that first tournament in Azalea City? Take me, then."

It's Changbin who yells, "Don't-"

"I'm making you a deal," you interrupt. "Take it or leave it."

Jiwoo is actually struck speechless, looking at you as if she's not quite sure if you're serious.

"Me, or no one," you say.

You go to take a step toward her, to show that you're not bluffing, and that's where everything goes wrong.

You stumble.

In your haste, at some point during the journey, you didn't close your bag all the way.

Your Pokeballs spill out.

One of them falls right on the release button, and there she is, in the middle of this mess. Your baby.

You yelp, "Oddish, don't-"

"Catch it," Jiwoo orders, waving one of her henchmen forward.

No.

Frightened and in the dark, your Pokemon takes off, squealing. You dive after her.

Behind you, another flash of light, a Pokemon being released, and you hear the earsplitting bark of Chan's Arcanine. The building tremors again with the force of it.

"You're going to regret that," Jiwoo spits. "Do what you have to."

It all happens so fast that you don't have time to react.

One instant, you're chasing Oddish, her little leaves just under your hands. Another pop of what you now know is gunfire rings out. The loud creeeeeak and snap of wood letting go.

Somin screams something. Chan screams something. You look in the direction of Arcanine's fire, and something gold reflects over your head.

And then you don't remember anything at all.

[eryiss]

[Jet x Freed] Cubicle Capers - Chapter Four

Summary: Jet was meant to do more. He was meant to do something with his degree. He was meant to have a purpose. He'd taken a job at Grimoire Pharmaceuticals to work his way up into a lab position, but found himself stuck in a cubicle. Every day the same. At least he had a new boss coming. Freed Justine. He’d be like the rest, though. Boring, outdated and.. hot as hell?

Notes: Conflict. Forgiveness. Embarrassing pictures. All here right now. Again, this was requested by @jethro-art.

Links: Ao3, Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Epilogue

Chapter Four – The Argument

Jet

There were shit days, and there was the day that Jet was having.

Slowly, over the past few weeks, little things had gone wrong and he'd dealt with it. His coffee machine as home had started giving the beans a weird taste. The supermarkets had decided to change the layout and he had no idea where his usual brand of heavy-duty trash bags had ended up. The new neighbour across the street had decided he'd start making his front lawn look presentable, but had to blast out trance music at top volume to do so. Jet's nerves had already been grated on, even before the shit-show of the morning.

Speedster, his vintage sports car and only transportation, had decided to splutter and smoke and cut out. He tended to the car like a child, taking every precaution to make sure she ran like she was showroom fresh. He'd invested a fair portion of his meagre wages on her, and for no understandable reason, that morning she had died.

That would have been bad enough already. To deal with the fact his pride and joy was dead on the street would be difficult, not to mention the fact all the money he'd spent on her had essentially been flushed down the toilet. But then he had to navigate the streets – littered with trash since the refuge union were rightly, if annoyingly, striking again. Then the bus system, which had been underfunded since before Jet was born. Then the tram system, which as a cost cutting measure had decided to half the carriage amounts and force everyone into overly cramped and revoltingly sweaty quarters not fit for humans. They also were running late, and Jet hadn't known he'd had to contend with any of this crap before his normal leaving time, meaning he was late for work. Very fucking late for work.

He stormed into the building, cursed out the stupid turnstile which took three attempts to identify his ID card, and ran up the flights of stairs because it would be faster than taking the elevator. Sweaty and angry, he threw his bag down under his desk and let his expression harden. He would let himself be angry for a little while before he started; best not let that anger touch his scanning or he'd be pissed off all day.

"Jet," Laki said, head poking into his cubicle. "Freed says he wants to see you when you get in."

Jet ground his teeth together a little. "You think I could have a couple minutes before I go?"

She winced. "I don't think so. He seemed pretty insistent," she screwed up her face. "The phrase 'if he deigns to show his face' was used, so I'd probably go now."

He forced himself to unclench. He had wanted to get a mug of non-burned coffee, and maybe a chance to splash some water on his face, before he did anything professional. He wanted to not be pissed off at the stupid busker and his stupid crowd of watchers who had gotten in his way. He wanted a moment to get his heart rate down. He wanted a better goddamn job that might be worth the stress of a crappy morning.

But duty, and managers called, so he had to do as he was told.

This was Freed, though. In the half a year he'd been working there, Freed had never once been unreasonable. Jet was always punctual, and it was obvious this was a random occurrence. Freed would see reason. With two knocks, Jet walked into Freed's office.

"Hey man, I'm really sorry-"

Freed silenced him from behind his desk, not with a word, but with a raised finger. He motioned for Jet to take the seat opposite him, and Jet did so with a scrunched-up face. Freed seemed different.

The room was different, too. Freed's phone was lit up red on all lines, the pinboard beside his desk which previously had been entirely clear now was filled with spreadsheets and random charts, and a small collection of half drunk and discarded mugs of tea and coffee decorated his desk. Freed had always kept his desk clean and his office minimalist. He was a neat freak, Jet had assumed, and yet his office today looked cluttered and messy.

"I don't know what you think is happening," Freed said, and his voice had an edge to it. "But you cannot do this."

"I wasn't-" Jet tried again, but Freed shot him a look that shut him up.

"I am your boss and as such it is my responsibility to make sure you adhere to the company rules of employment. One of which – the most obvious, I would say – is that an employee must be in the office and working for the hours their contract dictates. Your contract states you should be in the office at eight thirty and leave at five. It's ten o'clock, and you've only just gotten here. That cannot happen. There is a small amount of leeway I can give you. An hour and a half goes far beyond that."

Jet knew that, and it kind of pissed him off that Freed felt the need to explain it in that condescending tone. "Yeah. Obviously, but-"

"I understand that perhaps I blurred the lines of proper conduct between us by our trips to the bar," Freed began, and Jet could see where this was going. Oh fuck no. Freed wasn't actually gonna do this, was he? "But, us having a friendly relationship outside of work does not allow you to disregard the rules of your employ."

"You're kidding me," Jet muttered, leg bouncing.

"If us meeting outside of work is going to give you reason to think you can come and go from work without care for the proper-"

"Are you fucking kidding me!" Jet snapped, and it might have been louder than he expected because Freed sat up a little straighter. Jet didn't care. If Freed was implying this, then fuck Freed. "That's what you thought this was huh? Me, cosying up to the boss so I don't have to come to work on time? That's my evil plan, huh? Make friends with ya then half ass this job."

"One and a half hours late-"

"Happens! Shit like that happens! You don't get to-" Freed didn't get to imply their meetings in the pub, which had been a weekly thing for them both since the first, were anything but two guys having fun. Freed didn't get to imply that Jet was going to the pub with him for malicious reasons. Freed didn't get to paint Jet in that light. But he couldn't say any of that. It all sounded too soppy and emotional. Instead, he stood up and walked to the door. "Fuck this."

"I'm not finished speaking with you Jet," Freed said in a voice that might have intimidated Jet if Jet wasn't sure he was in the right.

"Who cares?"

"We are going to have this-"

"HR's been on our asses about taking all our vacation days since that lawsuit. I'm taking mine. Guess I'm not late after all."

"Jet."

"Whatever you're about to say, I don't give a shit. Don't care about the words of a guy who'd assume the words of me," Jet shrugged. "In fact, take your words and shove them up your tightly wound, hypocritical, shitty at Donkey Kong asshole!"

He left the office, slammed the door, picked up his bag from the cubicle, and got the fuck out of there. If Freed wanted to yell at him tomorrow, so be it. That just gave Jet a full day to think of the ways to make Freed feel as shitty as Jet himself felt.

Fuck Freed Justine. Fuck him.

———

Freed

Exactly twenty-two and a half hours later, Freed had been given more than enough time to realise how terribly he'd handled the situation.

He could give himself excuses. He could say that before Jet had arrived, the CFO had come into Freed's office to discuss a matter, and had decided that because Freed wasn't drowning in paperwork and visibly stressed beyond functioning, he wasn't working hard enough. He could say that this had led to his phone being the go-to for all the questions that no department was specifically meant to answer. He could say that the reality of his office job had started to crush him, and for the first time Freed was considering quitting a job purely because he was struggling to handle it.

None of that mattered, though. Yes, he was a person who had flaws and bad days, but so were his employees. If he hadn't allowed Jet to explain his lateness, then Freed had no right to explain his unfair assumptions. He was wrong, he had deserved Jet's yelling, and the onus was on him to fix things.

As such, Freed had spent the morning waiting at the elevators, looking for Jet. He hoped he'd come in. He would come, wouldn't he? Jet hadn't quit, so he'd come back to work eventually. Right?

His question was eventually answered, when Jet trudged out of the stairwell beside the elevators, and Freed saw him from the corner of his eye. Jet saw him at the same time, and they looked at each other. Jet's posture was rigid and anticipatory, the very personification of someone waiting to close either fight or flight.

"Could I speak with you in my office please, Jet," Freed requested. The shift in Jet's jawline and the slight straightening of his back told Freed that Jet was ready for a fight.

The walk from the elevator to Freed's office was long, and Freed had to wonder how long it must have felt for Jet the day before, swirling with anger and annoyance and, if Freed wasn't deluding himself into thinking Jet saw him as a friend, a sense of betrayal. That made the guilt squirm harder in Freed's stomach. But he was going to make this right; or at least he'd do his best to try.

With the door closed firmly behind them, Freed took his seat behind his desk and gestured for Jet to take his own. Jet's leg was bouncing and his fingers twiddling. Jet was a fidgeter. A ball of energy. It must be hell to work in this office.

"Yesterday," Freed began, and suddenly, looking into Jet's eyes, the professional apology he had planned went out the window. "I behaved like a dick to you. I was unfair and presumptuous and put outward stresses onto you. I was rude, and I'm incredibly sorry."

Jet looked at him. His face portrayed nothing. Freed continued.

"For what it's worth, yesterday won't be removed from your designated vacation days, so you haven't lost any Holliday due to what I did."

"So I've got a full day on record without doing any work." Jet had muttered that. Maybe Freed wasn't meant to hear, but he had.

"No, your figures are entirely as they should be," Freed explained, and a look of panic flashed across Jet's face. Freed belatedly realised what that sounded like – like Freed had fudged the figures in a way that could come back to haunt them – and quickly spoke again. "I got your work done. I realised… fairly soon after you left that I was in the wrong, and that your professional reputation shouldn't be affected," his cheeks flushed a little, and he had no idea why. "I made sure all the scanning was done; you don't need to worry."

Jet looked at him. Stared him down. "What time d'you leave last night?"

"That's not important," Freed dismissed. He hadn't actually left at night. It had been a little after one in the morning. Saying that would be like pointing out a sacrifice he'd made, which wasn't fair. Recompense wasn't something that should end in pity.

"So I ain't in trouble, and I ain't behind on work, and I ain't missing a vacation day. That's all you wanted to tell me?"

"And that I'm sorry. I shouldn't have treated you the way I did, and I promise it won't happen again."

Jet kept staring at him. Freed could only stare back. Jet was clearly expecting something, but Freed had no idea what that was. If Jet needed something to forgive Freed, then Freed would get it for him no questions asked, but he really had no clue what that thing might be. Maybe Jet sensed that, because he spoke again. "You not gonna explain what was stressing you out? That you had your boss breathing down your neck or whatever, and that's why you were being an asshat."

"I've found that an apology followed by an excuse tends to not be worth saying," Freed met Jet's gaze. "I'm sorry, I was wrong, no amendments needed."

And, rather heartbreakingly, Jet looked like he'd been struck. Like such a thing was so unfamiliar in his life that it was worthy of a shocked response. Like he didn't think he deserved it. Like it was so out of the realms of possibility for Freed to treat him like a human being. Like an equal.

Freed really had fucked up. And Jet really hadn't been treated right. It wasn't appropriate for Freed to quietly think that he could treat Jet right. He could make the man feel worthy of all the apologies in the world. He could make Jet smile that sharp toothed smile.

"Oh, right. Thanks."

Before dangerous thoughts could persist, Freed pushed on. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, laminated card. "This is also a gesture of good will, I hope. It tends to make people laugh and, given you like making fun of me when we're drinking, I thought you'd appreciate it."

He placed the card on his desk and let Jet pick it up. He saw the moment apprehension gave way to amusement.

"You look like a jackass," Jet grinned. "What the hell made you do that to yourself?"

"A drunken mistake, I'm afraid." Freed glanced down at his old ID card from about five years ago, with his green hair buzzed short and looking entirely ridiculous. He had a face that served long hair, and certainly not an army style buzzcut. It was a point of consistent ridicule among his friends that he'd done that, made worse by the fact he'd done it days before a job translating for the king of Lichtenstein, his most publicised job. "It's ridiculous, I know. Feel free to circulate it around the office should you feel the need."

"Nah, I'll keep it to myself."

"Really?"

"Not a fucking chance. Gotta make sure this gets around. You okay with me doin' a scan of this and sending out a company wide email, make sure everyone knows."

"Do as you wish," Freed laughed. "But, might I ask, are we good?"

Jet paused. "I think we're good. I'm gonna stew on it a little longer, I think, but I think we're good."

"I'm glad," Freed smiled. "I've taken too much of your time already, so feel free to leave."

"Yep, got work to do," Jet agreed, holding onto the ID card. "See you later Bossman."

"See you later."

Jet saluted to him, and Freed leant back in his chair with a small sigh. The dampening of his nerves hit him suddenly, and he placed his hands on the desk to stop them shaking. It had been far too long since he'd cared like this about something.

Jet had called him Bossman. That was enough for now. That was a promise that they'd get back to where they'd been, even if Jet was still a little raw and likely to make some negative assumptions about Freed for a while. He could understand that. He could live with that. So long as it ended up okay, that was fine.

A little trill came from his PC, and Freed glanced over to it. An email, sent to the entire company list. The little fucker had actually done it. Brat. Freed had to grin. He really did love being in Jet's aura; the chaos was wonderful.

[tripodturnstile]

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[alicewhitesblog]

Short Story by © Alice White

Jack valued his lunch break. A complete hour without listening to his manager boring everyone about targets and profits. A complete hour taking a walk through the park near his office, watching the squirrels play and him smelling the flowers that grew along the path.

At the end of the park was always rewarded with a sandwich from his favorite deli and a sit on the bench nearby. After eating his lunch, Jack would spend the remaining time eyes closed breathing in deep the fresh air, before his walk back to the office with the afternoon much the same as the morning.

However, unbeknown to Jack. Today was going to be different.

Lunch time began in the normal way for Jack. As soon as he saw 11:58 on his computer, he shut down the laptop, grabbed his jacket from behind the chair and headed for the stairwell. Upon reaching the ground floor he swiped himself through the turnstile and out into reception. With a quick wave to Susan the receptionist he was out of the building and free for an hour.

His lunchtime walk look promising in the warm sunshine. Jack removed his jacket slung it over his shoulder and with a purposeful stride headed for the park.

The first person he encountered in the park was Maryland. It was the name Jack gave to the man he'd seen every lunchtime sitting reading a book as well as eating a packet of Maryland cookies.

Next, were the Pilates twins. Two identically dressed women stretching on their yoga mats. One looked over as Jack passed. He waved and both women acknowledged him with a nod.

The last person Jack met on his way through the park was Brooke who was one of the head gardeners. "Going to be a warm one". She took off her hat, wiping her brow with the back of her hand.

"Sure is". Jack answered. "You make sure you stay hydrated". Jack waved his water bottle at her. Brooke smiled, replaced her hat and went back to attending to the flower bed.

As Jack approached the end of the park he saw Sam's Deli and opposite his favorite bench and like every day it was free and waiting for him.

Jack always ordered the same baguette every day. Salami with a dash of Dijon mustard. Jack paid for his meal which included a cup of coffee and headed back outside.

Now, there was an unwritten law in the universe that the bench outside Sam's Deli on a week day was reserved for Jack Slater. Only today, someone didn't get the memo. To Jack's horror he saw a folded up newspaper sitting on his bench. He would have sworn that it wasn't there when he went into the deli. Which means someone had claimed his bench when he was inside!

Jack looked around. There was no one in sight who looked like they were making their way back to the bench to sit and reclaim their paper. Well, that was something. So, the newspaper must have been discarded by a passerby. Jack sat down, pushed the paper to one side and began to enjoy his baguette and coffee.

When he had finished he got up walked across the path to the opposite waste bin and deposited his rubbish. On his return to the bench he was reminded of the newspaper still sitting along side.

"Damn it!" He said out loud. "I forgot that was still there. I could have put that in the waste bin too!".

Jack sat back down and closely looked at the newspaper.

There was something about the newspaper that looked odd. On inspection there appeared to be only one thing printed on it. A crossword. No other news items, no photos. Just a crossword grid. However, even this looked strange. There were no clues printed alongside the grid. Neither were there any numbers on the puzzle that would have corresponded with any written clues. Just an empty crossword puzzle grid with occasional squares blacked out.

How bizarre, thought Jack. Who would go to the trouble of printing a crossword puzzle without clues? Then Jack thought. Maybe it's a prop from the nearby film studio. That was it, it was a film prop accidentally left by a stagehand.

Contented with solving this mystery, Jack closed his eyes and titled back his head for a few moments before he had to make his way back to the office.

He must have dozed off because he was suddenly awoken with a start by someone whispering in his ear. "Play."

Jack snapped open his eyes, heart pumping, anxiously looking from side to side. "Who, who said that?" But no one was in sight. Brooke was too far away attending to the flower bed and the other customers from Sam's Deli were sitting outside at their tables oblivious to Jack's sudden awakening.

Despite it turning into a hot afternoon, a chill ran down Jack's spine. He was about to leave the bench and return to the office when he glanced down at the newspaper. This time some text was starting to appear above the crossword. Black squiggles, like maggots, squirmed and wriggled their way to form letters and then words.

Jack grabbed the paper "What the...!"

The formation of the words finally stopped to reveal:

'Welcome to today's crossword puzzle. How brave are you to complete this conundrum? The prize on completion will be financial weath previously unknown to you. Remember, once started you have to finish or face the consequences. Some clues will be easy some will be hard. Are you ready?

Jack should have walked away there and then. There was something unholy unfolding before his eyes. Words don't write themselves onto a newspaper, not in this world and some of text seemed threatening. But something had now enchanted Jack. The idea of being rich beyond his wildest dreams was too much of a lure to him. He found it difficult to pull himself away from doing the crossword. Could he complete it in the time left on his lunch break?

He hunted for a pen. He was about to go and ask someone when as if the newspaper was reading his mind, a fountain pen materialised in front of him.

Jack took off the lid and waited for the first clue. The black squiggles appeared again.

Across: A vessel for drinking or a unit of measuring. 3 letters.

Jack thought for a minute, then wrote the word CUP. The letters fit the grid then suddenly disappeared in a puff of green smoke a sign he had answered correctly.

Down: A boys name in the middle of the year. 5 letters.

This needed thinking about. Time was running out and it looked like he had stumbled on clue two. So, the answer had to be in the five months starting from July. He read the clue again and wrote down the months: July, August, September. October, November. And there he saw it. Take the first letters from each month and you have JASON.

He penned in his answer and waited. To his relief the puzzle accepted his answer then as like last time evaporated into green smoke.

He was getting on well, but it was now time to go back to the office. He watched as the third clue appeared.

Down: Severe or a tomb.

Jack knew the answer but really had to get going. He grabbed the newspaper and left the bench. Quickly, he walked along the path back to the office. The weather by now had taken a turn for the worse, winds had picked up bringing heavy rain.

Jack held his jacket over his head. Brooke was hurrying to pack her tools away and Maryland was taking cover under a tree.

Jack made it to the park entrance only to find the gates locked! Why had the gardeners done that. Now in a hurry, Jack ran across the lawn head down and slipping on the wet grass. He continued, trying to find a way out of the park. Unfortunately, Jack didn't see the large hole in the ground up ahead. Wet and muddy he slipped and fell into the hole breaking his neck.

Jack let the newspaper fly from his hand. He hadn't completed the crossword and so the last clue had taken him. If only he had written GRAVE, maybe the next clue would have given him his fortune.

This is my latest short story. I hope you liked it.

[raccoon-writings]

The Effect of Cubicles  an essay about my chemical romances song cubicles:

My Chemical Romance released I Brought You My Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love in 2002. It’s a messy yet passionate start to kick off their catalog of concept albums. Lyrically, Bullets reads like an anthology. Telling tales of two lovers, addicted and infected, by pills and vampires, until death do them part when they are shot dead. It has a variety of stories and goes through many different moods. All set in a punk rock, basement recorded world.

---

Because of its variety, it's not uncommon to hear any of the songs off it as someone’s favorite My Chemical Romance song. Though one song always sparks controversy- “Cubicles.” It has a polarizing reputation, with one side loving its embrace of loneliness and the path to get there. The other side only hearing overdone emo whining.

The album begins with “Romance,” an acoustic guitar intro. From there, the second song builds with sharp distorted electric guitar and classic punk drumming, taking us into the terrorized, angry heart of the album. The records A-side follows two lovers fighting to stay alive in a world of vampires while learning to trust each other. “Drowning Lessons” shows these lovers as one kills the other time and time again. When we reach the end of the A-side we get the first song solely about this rough sketch of a main character, “Headfirst for Halos.”

Set with high pace anger and poignant quiet sections, the album has a consistent drama. Even though most songs are different in how they express that drama, the whole picture stays cohesive with its intensity. Two songs, “Early Sunsets Over Monroeville'' and “Demolition Lovers,” travel through crescendos that build slowly throughout the entire song. While others like “Our Lady of Sorrows” and “Headfirst for Halos” stay at an in-your-face tempo. The individual stories in each song are fully committed to. That consistent intensity is what makes Bullets work so well.

When the listener reaches the B-side, they find not another short story, but “Skylines and Turnstiles.” It’s about 9/11. It’s an offering of consolation with depictions of what singer, Gerard Way, saw that day. It's the only other song set unarguably in the real world. Yet it still fits it nicely into the album by staying with the drama. Additionally, its placement as the first B-side recognizes how different the story being told is compared to the others. It’s a thematic break, a checkpoint. The listener has to manually flip over the record and replace the needle to get to it.

After two more fiction-based songs, we now reach “Cubicles.” Placed right after one of the most genuinely happy songs, and right before on the most storybook intense songs. It’s the second to last song on the album. “Cubicles” is about the unnoticed writer and his crush. Detailing an office romance that never was, as the love interest switched jobs before the character has the courage to make a move. Its stakes are shockingly low as Way details photocopying and sterile views. Similar to the other two crescendoing songs, it too builds into a declaration of wanting to die alone.

“Cubicles” presents the listener with another tonal shift. It disrupts the onslaught of fantasy to show a dull reality. “Cubicles” romance is already on a small scale and when compared to the other songs, it’s almost comical. After it establishes itself as being lower stakes, the statement piece kicks in, “I think I’m gonna die alone.” It inflates itself by claiming that it is as big as the others. The other crescendoing songs had the stakes to pull this off, “Cubicles” doesn’t. It values this feeling, this longing and awkward pain, on the same level as loss and addiction. But maybe that’s part of the point.

The character realizes at the end of the song that these little life moments can be pieced together to be this overwhelming thing that takes over his life. He’s not just speaking about the one crush, it’s the many others that have also been replaced. While a lot of the verse lyrics focus on the daydreams of the writer, the chorus emphasizes what took away the love interest. It’s a short chorus with a subtle message about their non-stop corporate workplace. The three-by-four workers are constantly being replaced creating this emotional hole. “It happens all the time.” As Alice Maney puts it,

“Like to the system, everyone is just a cog in the machine, but for the people working in the system it matters who’s next to them, they create social connections that get ripped away and replaced.”

This gives the song more depth. It’s not just about insignificant crushes, it’s about the overarching nature of his workplace. It’s able to take something small and see the connections to the rest of his life.

Let’s look at Bullets without Cubicles for a minute. This makes nearly every song have a fictional or life threatening story to them. All of the songs are so saturated in theatrics that at some point it can become a blur. The intensity solidifies its identity but it also makes this high point of tension flat line.. There’s nothing to shock the listener back.

“Cubicles” shatters that and makes it bigger. Theatrical and down to earth. It’s the only honest song about a boring life. Where the romances aren’t star-crossed, they’re watercooler. Where they don’t end with being shot in the desert, they’re constantly ending when people quit and are replaced. It makes the album theatrical and down to earth.

“[It’s like] wanting romance and a real connection but everyone sucks and nothing ever works out so you just kill that dream but doing so you kill a large part of yourself and living doesn’t feel worth it anymore- and then it kicks into “Demolition Lovers”.”

Says Summer Johnson.

And yet these huge revelations about the character can be born out of his mundane job. Only then does the song aggregate into a complicated tragedy. We see a normal man descend into loneliness. This carries us into the grand finale of the album, a six minute epic where the lovers are murdered once again. “Cubicles”  amplifies the climax creating a certain kind of finality to the deaths that can’t be achieved without it. It breaks the cycle to prepare the listener for this instead of just having the last song glaze over.

“Cubicles” is a break from all of the fiction to hear about the guy who might as well be daydreaming the whole album. In comparison it might feel whiny but it breaks up the album to re-engage the listener before sending them off to the last song. It's not the most well-crafted My Chemical Romance song but it doesn’t have to be for its place on Bullets to be undeniable.

a/n: thank you for reading! quotes by me friendz <33

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