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delicrieux · 9 months ago

Text

. . . l'oeuf

˙⋆✮ summary. just another evening at henry's.

pairing. henry winter x f!reader warnings. smoking, swearing, mentioned drug use, bad aspirin use specifically, use of alcohol, +18 (p n v sex, no condom henry DOES NOT care, very minimal dirty talk), pretentiousness, an inkling of classicism, bunny™ wc. 6.9k ✧˖°.

author's note. happy october everyone ! i always wanted to write smth for the loml henry winter but i never had the patience to sit down and do it. well, now i did. this was written with prompt 1. thick, acrid smoke. feel free to rqs more for the prompty thingies! x . . . side note! the fic is named by this song since i listened to it while writing. you can draw a metaphor from it if willing

creds. hd., div.

mlist | buy me coffee ♡ྀ

it was at the start of october on that fateful senior year that you had found yourself in henry winter's illustrious townhouse. from the lacquered brazillian hardwood floorboards to the ivory plasterwork on the ceilings – every corner pertained a certain degree of finery that reflected poorly on the rest of its objects: a well-worn armchair perpetually stuck in henry’s physique and fraying at the edges, the trampled rug that snaked upstairs and held all of your secrets, the coffee table with too many wine stains. in the dim light, the dried rorschach looked like blood.

the present company consisted of six and was slowly dwindling. your dear friend francis, the only boy who had never cared to peek up your skirt in childhood tennis practice, was a moment from collapsing into himself like a weary, old star. holding a champagne coupe from which he exclusively drunk only campari, he had thrown himself over henry’s couch not unlike a discontent lead from a penny dreadful novel. his face kept twisting according to the sounds: bunny’s voice was met with pursed lips and a tightly shut eye (only one, closest to bunny’s person sat by the aforementioned coffee table), charles’ – with a look of defeated boredom, and in the odd bouts of silence and music, bliss.

you offered him a cigarette, and he barely managed to crane his neck to kiss the knuckles of a helping hand before he snatched it away and searched his pockets for a lighter.

sweet camilla sat by the fire, with her knees drawn to her chest. one black stocking was torn on the side, rippling up her calf and sneaking into her inner knee, an action bunny had noted and all had taken particular interest in. there had been a metaphor about literature resembling her glossy stockings – all that language and reference weaved into a fabric that stretched till it could no more, thus marking the end of innovation and intertextuality. a book can only fit so much, and as all of them cared for ancient greek only – a language that no one spoke, and so, could never refine past its perfect state – the topic soon waned in favor of more brandy.

bunny cowed a story about richard papen, the outsider that had joined their coterie, who was not present, as he had not been invited. he was a fine orator, had a specific sense of humor that, while not always understood, could charm an audience when fidgeted with enough. only bunny was too drunk, and his glass of whiskey kept spilling on his trousers till it left an undignified blotch crowned by cigarette ashes, which only painted him a blubbering buffoon. ‘the fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool,’ came to mind as you admired the embers dancing in the halo of his blond hair.

then, there was charles, drunk as always, who had opted to lay by camilla’s feet, the place where bunny’s drunken attempts of metaphor had landed him.

lastly, there was henry, your own personal virgil, who had not wanted you to come, but allowed it still. he looked tired from across the room, an arm thrown over the cushions of the armchair in which he sat. in his left hand he held a book, a cover and a title too out of frame for your eyes to see; amber reflected in his wiry glasses, the color of his brandy bottle (half empty) before the orange glow of the fire burned it copper. a plume of cigarette smoke curled into the ceiling from his two fingers. only he could have full concentration among the chaotic symphony in the living room.

the record spun to silence, and you quickly abated your seat on the windowsill to pad to the cabinet and change the vinyl. the collection of classics had not increased since your last visit, which was roughly a week ago, and it had not changed since henry moved out the dorms during the winter of your junior year. there were chopin’s nocturnes and etudes, beethoven’s piano sonatas, and wagner’s tristan and isolda, just to name a few. something lulling, quiet. you picked debussy and placed the needle. lilting, soft and steady, like you supposed love would feel.

instantly, you were met with bunny’s ire.

“no, no,” a wave and a body too weak to stop you. you ensured he was gifted your most sly smile, “no, woman, put on somethin’, somethin’ grand,” a larger wave, like a poorly coordinated conductor, he smacked his hand too close to francis’ head. a groan from charles, as if he had grown nauseous from watching the motions, “somethin’ for me and charlie here,”

charles tried to turn away in his discontent, yet did not manage. camilla, concerned, laid a hand on his shoulder, “should we go? i think we should head home.”

“see?” bunny’s accusing tone found you once more, “you’re scaring the guests. put on some real music. like the... the...” he trailed off, lighting another cigarette. for good luck, one could imagine, “like goddamn— listen to led zeppelin, man! the rolling stones!”

you glanced to henry and found yourself surprised. a shared look.

“no such things in our humble repertoire,” you stated.

“mile davis, at least?”

“no,”

“i don’t believe you,”

“you’re free to check for yourself.”

amidst this small argument, which was much too common when dealing with bunny, camilla had somehow managed to wrestle charles into standing on his own two feet. unstable, he leaned onto his sister, the added weight making her stagger.

“goodness, take care of charles,” bunny whined, though his complaints never amounted to more than simple sulking. you chose not to pay them much mind.

it was henry that helped, carefully balancing his book on the armrest and coming to take charles from camilla’s embrace.

“should i drive you home?” he asked.

camilla shook her head, en route to retrieve her red scarf and new coat, “no, no, we’ll call a taxi.”

it was always mildly fascinating watching the two interact. camilla, never able to meet his gaze directly and for too long, and henry, who only ever extended wordless aid without prompt or reason to her only. what had she done to earn such favor was beyond you – beyond everyone, perhaps – but you were certain you weren’t the only one that saw this careful act of piety and kindness.

you observed them shuffle out after moments on the telephone, camilla’s hand ghosting henry’s arm, or grazing the bend of his elbow, and only when they disappeared past the large door to wait for the taxi did you look away.

loving henry winter was a sisyphean task, unworthy of the effort which it required. you thought yourself too smart for it, and thus, never cared to entertain the notion, not even when he kissed you.

you caught bunny staring at you: not scrutinizing, not calculating – simply staring. a curious leer that often fell on you after some semblance of mirth had worn down. almost shy, somewhat longing.

“this richard of yours,” you began, helping yourself to henry’s lucky strike. out of all the brands that you had smoked, this was the most bitter and always left a tart taste in the back of your throat. you craved it, “papen, was it?”

“yup,” bunny mumbled into his glass.

“and how is he?” your gaze jumped from him to francis.

“poor,” bunny said.

“californian,” francis tacked on.

“but he pretends he isn’t,” bunny continued.

“californian?” your brows rose. the smell, the taste – too powerful, almost choking.

“no, no,” bunny shook his head, disoriented for a moment, “rich. pretends to be rich. see, i didn’t tell you this, but,” and he reached for henry’s cigarettes, too, even if his own pack laid abandoned, two-three left untouched. he did this, at times, this odd mimicry: you smoked, he smoked what you did, you drank, he drank what you did, you decided a getaway to italy was your dream destination for a week and later learned he had haggled henry into buying tickets for the two of them, “but i, you know me: never judge a book by its cover, i say. invited him to dinner. the usual place, the one on-”

“god,” francis winced, and if he could move, surely he’d flee, “stop talking.”

“the lady asked, am i to deny her now? i thought he wouldn’t show, but he does, doesn’t he? with a goddamned tweed jacket, like i wouldn’t notice,” he hiccupped mid-explanation, the liquor long congealed into his system, “and, you know, me, i know people. i know people. i see them for what they are, and i knew he was a no good cheat from a mile away, but hey,” a straight spine, a bit proud, “i think to myself, you know what, old man, i’m gonna give this guy a chance. pop’s always-”

“aspirin,” francis interjected, this time directed at you, “bring me some, would you, juliet?”

you snorted, “a moment,”

“thank you, desdemona. you’re a midsummer night’s dream,”

“she’s from othello,”

“my point stands.”

you sauntered off into henry’s kitchen and scoured his cupboards for painkillers. the layout of this place you knew too well – perhaps, even, if you closed your eyes, you could discern each obstacle and map it in front of your eyes with the grace and certainty of a guidebook. you did just that.

behind you, a sudden coldness pierced through the humidity and a door shut harshly. the influx of fresh air was a brief slap to the face.

it’s been silent for a while now.

“what are you doing?” henry’s voice, not close, yet not too far. always observing at a distance, since closeness was never his intention. henry winter. what a fitting name.

“looking for aspirin.”

the tick of an unseen clock.

“top drawer,” there was no urgency; something you didn’t understand was what made him hurry to answer, “i hid them there. bunny keeps stealing my entire cabinet.”

your eyes fluttered open, “my, my. what a snitch,”

“don’t give him the aspirin,”

“it’s for francis,”

“very well.”

an impasse. you closed the cabinet and thought against bringing water with you, knowing it’s unneeded.

“may i?” henry asked, and when you turned to look at him, he was as always – unbreakable, unmovable. expectant, perhaps, his heavy gaze a familiar pressure upon your cheekbones, the curve of your jaw, your swollen mouth (from biting, not being kissed).

“they’re yours,” you said easily, turning the cap and spilling a few into the bed of your palm as he approached, “here.”

to make matters harder, there’s but a foot of space between the two of you. the smallest separation, every part of him and every part of you entangled into one odd constellation. an immensity of motion before him and an immensity of energy after.

“water?”

“whiskey.”

“is it also hidden?”

“no.”

so you retrieved him a glass, and then the bottle, and lastly you poured the amount enough to swallow in one gulp. when he took and drank, and you watched his adam’s apple bob, you wondered, briefly and hazily, was your act in any way similar to camilla’s. a star that constantly drew him into her orbit.

“you didn’t leave,” he uttered quietly, tired eyes flicking to the maw of the kitchen opening. down the foyer, the firelight danced. bunny’s voice rose in a toast, no doubt to shake francis out of his stupor.

“i did,” you said, a slow smile curling, “what you see before you is a specter. the delirious imaginings of an impoverished mind.”

“ridiculous,” the quirk of his eyebrows: mock-offended.

“amusing,” the narrow of your eyes: contagious, “was everything my spirit foretold the same as you saw it unfold?”

weariness. you looked for it and found it easy enough. his fingers flexed, his tongue went behind his teeth. the cogs turned. for all his genius, henry was too susceptible to fable and entirely too superstitious. he could ward himself off it well, yet when his inhibitions were down, there was a hint of something else, a spark of pious faith in the impossible, what not might come next. he kept looking at you for an extended moment, until the corner of his mouth, minutely, drew up into a not-quite-smile.

“hermia!” came francis’ voice from the other room, “i’m dying.”

henry said nothing.

you expected bunny drunkenly swinging an almost empty bottle around to try and cheer up francis (it rarely worked, unless it was wine), and yet, he wasn’t there. the living room felt very big, somehow, devoid of him and the makings of his gullible heart.

“and where is bun?” you questioned, almost scolding.

“bathroom,” francis succeeded sitting up, yet only just.

you heard henry curse under his breath. he disappeared, and soon you heard the continents of a stomach emptying down the hall and henry’s monotone behind a closed door.

“time to end this sabbath, me thinks,” you said. francis took the pills with a fresh glass of campari, nose scrunching from the taste.

“d’you think henry could drive me home?” francis asked.

“do you trust him with your life?”

“do you think he’d let me die?”

“depends,”

“no. i’ll cab it,”

“wise decision.”

henry returned, seemingly exhausted from his small adventure. no one followed after.

“bun?” you asked again, which seemed to displease him. he only shook his head. passed out, then. unfortunate, yet expected. if bunny could somehow gain authority over all of henry’s things – even the minute ones, the ones that don’t matter and exist in the peripherals without henry’s notice – he would. it was the same reason francis once insisted that bunny had been in love with you.

the incident occurred during your first year of college in early november. a rather somber and chilly day with leaves sticking to wet asphalt and stone walls amidst the rainy season. a monday. bunny had broken his ankle and complained terribly about it, and henry, who had become his caretaker, was sick of it and instead abhorred him. by accident and complete mischance, the handling of bunny corcoran had fallen onto your graceful shoulders, and in a single day – full of obsolete complaints and impulsive questions – the theorized affection was born.

if there was a way in which bunny’s countenance had changed in your presence, it was lost on you, for your attention, at the time, was solely pilfered by charles. he was, back then, the most handsome of the greek class, and oddly enough, the only one pleasant, thus you sought his favor. but charles never returned your fondness, no matter how minuscule it could be, and he never gave the impression of fleeting interest. only sometimes, when he thought you would not catch him, he would stare at you for a bit too long. you never got to figure out what he had thought in those moments.

instead, you figured yourself an actor – a pretty one at that – and decided to ignore this indelicate sort of charm and pursue a new mark. there were many, of course, plenty of faces to consider, yet the outcome was always the same. as it were, they were all terribly boring and reminded you greatly of the peers you’ve encountered in private schools, the self-proclaimed intellectuals of the new age that had too much time and too much heartbreak on their hands. good looks aside, not the slightest hint of culture nor comprehension, just money and nothing to show for it.

and then there was henry, of course, so quintessentially different that his existence, still, was hard to define. something outside the realm of you. something above or beyond, or perhaps below – always somewhere you could not reach. there was an irrecoverable arrogance to him and in his aloof demeanor. an inviolable space that never invited others.

yes, there had to be some appeal to the strangeness of him, yet never could you put your finger on what exactly it was. at least, not immediately. at first sight, though, there were more poetic reasons to it – of the tragic and of the divine kind, yet that was no truth but some novel-born whim, a pointless obsession, some meager infatuation. an involuntary fetish. he had not wanted you, which only made it so that you wanted him in turn. it wasn’t an ugly thing – it simply was.

he must’ve known. henry always seemed to possess the knowledge of things you had never dared to question or to think twice of. or, perhaps, maybe not: but, despite your inability to identify the cause of it, there was a certain change to your disposition upon entering his shared room. one, maybe, akin to the sudden fear brought by dark enclosed spaces, though a bit more subtle and complex.

it was, ironically, a winter’s night.

when you phoned the same taxi and requested it’s return, francis spoke in a hazy murmur, sluggishly trying to shrug on the coat you brought him, “god, i really need a cigarette.”

“hm?”

“do you see mine anywhere?”

a rueful search, hands grabbing the scattered glass and hardbound that littered the surface of the coffee table. a valiant attempt to move the couch cushions and dip fingers into the cracks.

“no,”

“well, fuck me,”

henry offered his, but francis refused. the living room lit up in that thick, acrid smoke anyway.

the foyer echoed with your footsteps. outside the townhouse, rain had started again. a few drops at first, tapping the windows, before quickly it grew and gained weight. soon, it was battering against the glass.

with your scarf in your hands you suddenly found yourself unsure what to do with it. the taxi was coming and it was time to go home and plead to a higher power for reprieve from the headache you knew would cripple you in the morning. perhaps, an afternoon tomorrow to mull around, dazed. yet there was no respite in any of that. you realized, then, with this abrupt trepidation, that the cause of your discomfort, or the cause that exacerbated it, was within this confided space. a chasm-deep disquiet, like an open mouth of a ravine, dark and shadowy, or the pull of a tide at sea, which was, as they say, irresistible to even the most levelheaded.

somewhat uneasily, you lingered by the coat hanger, and when francis ambled over, tripping over his own two feet, he downed the rest of his campari and shoved the glass into your useless hands. then, he kissed your cheek, quick and wet, before ripping the door open and shoving it closed behind you, hence halting your escape.

the house was deafened, and your palms itched. the overwhelming urge to twiddle with your scarf became unbearable, or it was because a pair of eyes bore into you from the depths of the room. the closest thing you’ve ever considered to a tangible aura: the smell of ozone and rain water and tobacco.

“don’t suppose he’s waiting in the rain, is he?” you said.

“no, i don’t think he is.”

it didn’t make sense, none of what happened afterward – the decision to face him instead of making off into the chilling night. your arms crossed in a quiet and peculiar motion, clutching the coupe a bit too tight.

“whiskey?” henry offered, and you felt like the silly ingénue in some high-brow noir thriller donning all that cashmere by the door, “or bourbon.”

“fine.”

a crease of his eyebrow – the sole indication of surprise. your jacket found its rightful place on the rack along with that dreaded scarf. hesitance was unfamiliar to you, as you had not known it growing up – neither a sense of propriety nor a loss of footing. the dandy act had been adopted and perfected to such a degree that to relinquish the mask itself was oddly relieving, the discomfort born merely by knowing that francis was aware of your unusual situation and the upcoming events that would take place once the theater was done. there was a brief thought to how henry might’ve perceived you then. perhaps the removal of a layer of pretense might’ve intrigued him, if anything.

you remained at a slight distance and watched him traverse his domain, stepping around the askew items left behind by bunny and a bottle of gin haphazardly upended by charles, warm by the fire. there was an anomalous sort of patience to him. the silence was an abrasion. so often, you found yourself chattering to fill the void, even with other men who took the shape of strangers.

“there’s quite a storm brewing,” you said, only to be met with more silence. when your words simpered, the feeling they left was inexplicably ominous. ‘all that is transitory is but a symbol,’ yet only a bad poet would dare to draw a soliloquy from henry’s figure by the flames.

thus, you sat down on the couch, still warm from francis, and held up the beloved champagne coupe. henry’s hand did not tremble as it poured, but your fingers quivered when his attention fell onto you.

“is it good?”

you never felt the alcohol, only the burning in the back of your throat.

“very,”

he found himself beside you, not too close. the distance was not unlike orpheus’ journey, or so it appeared in the dim firelight – the familiar pangs of the unwilling, the sudden, selfish urge of wanting to see him in his entirety, his visage unhindered

“may i?” you asked, meaning, of course, his cigarette. he acquiesced easily. the only telltale of his everlasting unbothered mien: his focus had, and always seemed to be, too acute. it was enough to unnerve anyone. flattering, perhaps, if only you could tell what he was thinking, but you never could.

in your lap, the half-empty coupe. you left a smudge of your lipstick on the cigarette butt. henry inhaled. it was not unlike a kiss.

“francis mentioned you didn’t want to see me,” you said.

“i didn’t,” he responded.

“a lie, was it then?”

“you assume to know?”

“yes.”

another drag. smoke parted his mouth, slow as molasses and heavy as clouds.

“you’ve changed,” you said.

conversation with henry had always been difficult, before and after your frequent follies in the dark. if you did speak, it was never about one another, or anything that resided past skin and bone, nestled somewhere in the marrow, only felt. in instances where you did find common ground it was only ever art – literature, specifically, and when he was in a good mood, painting. henry only had one fascination and refused to entertain others; here lied his fatal flaw. thus, in a crowd of three and more, you could exchange remarks that would seem and sound important but held no real meaning.

“what sort of change have you noticed?” henry murmured. the lighting cast shadows. his hands twitched.

you were not sure, as you remembered him in much more detail and color. here, ashen-faced and obscured, all you saw was the ghost of his image, as though he had grown morose in a way that a single season could not alter. the greek class had often suffered for the aesthetic – self-imposed punishments of grandeur and excess that to everyone outside their circle seemed quite ridiculous, along with their dark clothes and mysterious miens and enigmatic jokes. some said they were haunted or blessed, but none envied them. alas.

troubled is the closest you could find, though if you were to voice it, he might take you for a child. it was never good to seek out his vulnerability. he would say you could never find it, and, inevitably, it would end up being the truth. henry wasn’t good at love. no one of were.

you shrugged, “you’ve become quiet.”

“am i, now?”

“more so than you’ve been,”

“perhaps you’ve just gotten better at listening,”

“unlikely,”

henry cocked his head. his hand, once again, twitched and there was an urge to reach out and grasp his fingers – some sort of absolution or at least a consolation for something neither one of you might’ve cared to mention. never did the man in front of you appear unsure, yet somehow, despite his best effort to the contrary, you felt a similar trepidation of an undefined thing.

henry was impossible to read. not just a mystery, but undeciphered in ways so beyond the mundane. over the years, you had collected enough clues to form a humble dictionary, yet much of what was missing could only be determined through his own misfortune and complacency – things which would, then, by nature and by fate, stray into your arms.

it did not matter, not entirely, at least. you did not love henry, but you thought that camilla did, and he, in turn, her. once you exhausted your inspection, perhaps you would pass that glossary to her, though you doubted that she would ever find any use for it.

“well,” henry said, “i suppose that’s to be expected. anything else?”

“would you enjoy a dissection?”

henry hummed, perhaps in agreement or curiosity, but it was very possible that he thought you foolish.

“no need,” he said, “yours is transparent.”

“really?” you countered, “they never are. people, i mean.”

“who are you thinking of?”

your mind drifted to bunny, likely curled on the cold tiles of the bathroom. with the first few buttons of his shirt popped and tie loosened, there was the picture of one not withering away but merely on the incline of a steep and lonely hill. all quiet in the dark of a windowless room from which he couldn’t even turn his head and see the stars.

it felt as though he would wake soon and interrupt. his presence always breached spaces he did not occupy, and the anticipation of his arrival always lingered in the air, unspoken but palpable. perhaps bunny would always exist in the shadowy corner-room between you and henry, because, if what francis said was true, henry was the first to know of it and had you, still.

you wondered if he regretted it, if he felt like brutus sticking the first knife into caesar’s rib, closest to the heart. you considered asking: in that moment, the urge felt insurmountable. instead, you said, “a little bit of everyone.”

inclined, you caught his gaze. an abysmal color and a disorienting shade, as deep and gloomy as the woods surrounding mount cataract.

“and me?”

“of course,” you smiled and slid a bit closer, “it’s not like you to ask. have you become sentimental?”

“not exactly,” his eyes moved to his hands. then, the flecks in the fireplace, the piles on the floor, “i’ve been thinking.”

“care to elaborate?”

“no,” he said. you understood his need for privacy, and a small part of you could appreciate his effort, or maybe, rather, that you got something of an answer at all. he did, occasionally, tend to disappear in thought. he remained, despite his reluctance, sitting with you. this, in a way, spoke more to you than the words that could never leave his mouth.

“this weather makes a body wistful,” you told him, “and the greek have always liked their tragedies.”

he clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth before lighting another cigarette, “what do you know of greek?”

always the same argument. always the same contradiction. your attraction was tempestuous, and so, it should have surprised you neither the sudden bite or the wicked sense of amusement.

“all that any student would, naturally,”

“so, nothing,”

“i suppose,” you would not admit, for he would win, “henry,”

something in his posture betrayed him, but it was not his eyes, nor his tone, “yes?”

you were close then, much closer than you were moments ago. his lips thinned in a brittle, noncommittal line and his eyes drooped – more of a warning than anything.

“are you going to kiss me?” you asked.

he wanted to, he must’ve, for it had been the only sensible action – you always pressed for what would hurt least. to drown and swallow poison. it was a favorite, and, for some reason, one he allowed, like an agreement reached. to your knowledge, he only ever let himself indulge in you.

henry only leaned in, which was enough for you. his mouth, a second, not any less tantalizing than the first. and you had kissed him with a brazen softness, enough that his hands snaked to grasp the back of your neck. another hit. the smoke and ash settled deep in your lungs. you had pushed it out in a groan when he dropped his hands to your thighs, pressing hard and confident as he had on those nights when you found each other too lonely. the ache he created was wonderful.

you grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled it until it untucked. he swallowed and whispered in a language you were familiar with but couldn’t speak, and lifted your skirt.

you kept the cigarette between your teeth as he mouthed down your jaw and neck. his finger traced the skin at the back of your knee and that tickling spot right below your ribs. goosebumps rose and followed his touch. he nipped at the crook of your neck and dragged you onto his lap.

“you are dressed far too heavily, and terribly,” you heard him say, and when his lips found the shell of your ear, you could not stifle the shiver. the whole room felt claustrophobic, hot and steamy, like the aftermath of a scalding bath. your breaths grew labored. you closed your eyes against it and clawed into his arm.

henry said, again, this time more slowly and with a dull emphasis, “terribly.”

“how dare you insult my taste,”

“would you allow for a remediation of my sins?”

“luckily, i’m in an agreeable mood.”

henry’s own sigh was long and somewhat labored, as though a great pressure had been taken off him. and his hands flexed, moving up and down your back. a rare instance, to find him restless. you could admire this in private.

the press of lips to your neck. the collarbone, jutting sharp in the firelight.

there was the urge, sudden and quite novel, to caress his face, cup his cheek, graze the edge of the scar of the eye that’s colder than its twin, that shrouds you in a mist. such an act was outlawed, naturally, thus, the opportunity came and went, carried away on a drafting wind of smoke. an irredeemable misfortune, and you flicked the cigarette into your abandoned coupe.

“are you comfortable?” the gentle cadence of his voice sent a wave through the warmest depths of your abdomen.

“yes.”

henry, having brushed away your stockings, stroked at the insides of your thighs. there was a light feeling in your head, an almost dizzying sway. a subtle rocking, like boats at port, from where the two of you were perched. his digits dug into the firm meat. beneath his hands, a stretch of burning skin and sinew. muscle clenched and quivered, “terribly inconvenient, by the way.”

“how do you mean?”

“all the layers,” he muttered.

“good,”

“never good,”

and then, suddenly: “are you wet?”

“if you touched me properly, you could tell,”

henry ignored your response. his hand climbed upward, and found a place between the gusset and the middle seam, rubbing, testing.

“recently,” you said, “i’ve become fascinated with joseph cornell.”

“you’re stalling,” henry informed you without inflection, slipping a finger through the damp center. a harsh noise of pleasure left you when his tongue slid between your lips. one, then two, circling and sinking with the utmost delicacy.

“why? are you not curious to hear what i think of his boxes?” you managed, halfway.

another stroke. his thumb rubbing, slow and considerate, in the spot that makes your toes curl, tight and demanding. when his eyes opened and found yours, it was almost comical – his fingers in you, mouth and mind on a completely different path, yet the connection was there all the same. even more so, while trying to be detached, fumbling over buttons and laces.

“no,”

“you might learn something,”

he quirked a brow, “you truly wish to waste time talking?”

“aren’t you?”

“i am taking an assessment of your willingness to submit,”

“are you certain it’s not the other way around?”

henry rarely responded with malice; each action was carefully devised and, in conjunction, quite merciless. in this case, he dropped his hand from the vee of your legs and tugged at his shirt collar. the emptiness was startling, as was the feeling of tension that coiled tightly in your gut. then, he grabbed his drink and sipped from the sparkling glass. petty revenge, something he always assured was beneath him.

sensing defeat, you decided to placate him. after a dramatic roll of your eyes, you slipped onto the ground and knelt.

“henry,” you began, and reached for the fly of his pants. the outline of his cock was obvious beneath the smooth fabric, thick and promising, “home ruler,” in one instance of drunken curiosity, the lot of you agonized the meaning of your names, that perhaps they, somehow, unknowingly dictated your fate, “unwilling to shed his crown. is the head not heavy? most kings lost theirs, you know.”

“flattery doesn’t suit you.”

“folly, then,” you replied, dragging the flat of your palm across his groin and taking pleasure in the strained hiss, “are you going to let me do as i please?”

“i think that is,” at the peak of his inhale, you reached into his trousers and curled your fingers around his stiff cock, “quite apparent.”

you grinned, lazy but triumphant, thumbing the blunt ridge. smudging the dribble of white at the leaking head and reveling in his restrained reactions: the minute tremors, the twitch of his jaw, a gasp caught in his throat. you would have kissed him, again. his face might’ve twitched, something uncontrollable that would’ve given away his longing, if only he hadn’t pushed it down.

with a slow pump, your hand traveled. the size was admirable, familiar, nearly to the point of nostalgia. henry had touched more parts of your body than some of the lovers you took as an earnest attempt for passion. you had begged him once, half-gone, half-wild with what you thought was need and impatience, to only fuck you – without his clever mouth and his careful hands, but he hadn’t said yes, no, had only grabbed your jaw and pressed a sucking kiss to the soft and sensitive skin beneath your ear. a promise, almost. and in a way, it had been.

“you remember?”

henry’s voice snapped you to attention, and when you looked up, his expression matched his darkened eyes, intense. something flared hot and needy in you, and with it, the desire to be open and dripping for him. he curled a hand in the small hairs on the back of your neck, stroking the skin there and, even briefly, allowed himself an indulgence in the pleasure he could get from a single touch, and rocked his hips.

“vividly,” you told him.

the flames, behind you, cast him entirely in silhouette, and his shadow projected forward and rose tall, stretched. a ruler, indeed.

his chest moved slow and purposefully, and when he released your hair, the lack of contact felt like a shock to the system. his hand closed around your forearm, “come here.”

the tone, hoarse and hushed and so quietly demanding, startled you, and you stood up so quickly that your head spun. henry placed his hands on your hips, steadying, ushering you back to where you belonged.

“just there.”

legs, parted, framing his waist. fabric, bunched between your thighs. breathing, slowed. a firm, calming weight, pinning you down. the firelight glinted in his eyes.

“henry,” you called. and the only thing to signal his movement was a bob of his adam’s apple. the cufflinks of his sleeves swayed and flickered. he hummed, neither affirmation nor disagreement and entered you with a grunt.

more. skin flushed. eyes crinkled and tightened. more. nails curled and scrabbled for purchase.

there, your name on his lips. it was disorienting – not so much a cry, or a whisper, but something between the two. henry always spoke carefully, as though each word should carry the most weight, so each syllable, in turn, he would construct and cut, meticulous and mathematical. but here, breathless and wanting, they rolled out in a steady litany, never faltering.

all fire and scorching, the pitch of it high and needy. to thrust and bruise, the idea fizzed bright and brilliant at the apex of your spine. with each snap of his hips, a part of him carved a piece of you out, and each ragged noise shook loose a piece of your skin. it would fit him perfectly. then he would slide right into those hollow spaces that swelled and throbbed, expanding beyond tolerance. in moments like these, you loved him – his body, his touch, his face, everything that could not be articulated.

“please,” you begged him, trying to curl around the ache, “i want-”

“i know, i know,” he murmured, with a tilt of his head. his hair, you noticed, had lost its immaculate shape, wild and frazzled by your fingers. your heart swelled and contracted: you wanted to do it again, over and over until his whole countenance resembled nothing more than that of a ravaged man. your power, the only thing you had over him. henry closed his eyes.

“spread your legs a little wider,”

a moan slipped when his tongue flicked and curled against the side of your neck, wet and sloppy. the sweet roll of his hips, his fingers pulling at the buttons of your attire and squeezing the fleshy swell of your buttocks. it was always too much.

you licked your lip, shaking when his teeth gently pinched. and, for a moment, the smell of pine permeated the room. as though it were his own sweat and the heady musk of his natural scent, and not a waning bottle of cologne.

“hold onto me,” henry whispered and allowed for nothing more, driving the movement out of your hands. the tempo spiraled upward. at the center, the tension was building. there was a moment of vertigo.

and it was easy enough, as things had always been between the two of you, to ignore the disjointed voices in the back of your mind. how when you two first kissed, it’d been without grace. how the rain fell, trickled, all around you, drowning the dryness in your throat. how the next day, he asked if you would regret what you’d done. and here, now, a different but striking feeling: the warm haze brought on by alcohol, his palms were hot, slick with sweat, his belt digging into you.

henry grunted and swore to a god neither of you had put much faith in. the flush on his cheeks was impossible not to reach out and touch, his eyebrow scarred with the same sort of smooth texture and fading red, his lashes, long and fine, flickering against the high edge of his cheekbones. i love you, you wanted to tell him, but the high struck you ruthlessly, turning you to liquid.

in the aftermath of this brief paradise, you shared a look.

“i still despise this weather,” you said.

henry’s mouth quirked. and what had been the impulsive dalliances of two desperate people became, once more, two lonely creatures with enough distance between to fill one of henry’s beloved epics. the quiet, in the wake of catharsis, was rather terrifying, and the clatter outside – the rain, the wind, and the cold – almost accusatory. he offered you a cigarette.

you took it without thank you and let him light it.

“should i drive you home?” he offered, voice raspy. his shirt had wrinkles and his collar sat funny. the skin beneath was pink, and there was the barest mark where you had sunk your teeth or dug a nail too hard. you bit the end of the filter, watching the flame waver before rising into ash.

“you’re drunk,” it felt necessary to remind him, though it never stopped him.

“do you want me to drive you home?” he asked again. a long pull and a thin veil of smoke.

“yes,” you said, “i’ll go wake bunny.”

“no,”

“no?”

“stop it.”

“stop what?”

“speaking of him,”

“has he done something?”

silence.

“henry?”

“leave it,” he said, but his tone was tight.

“alright. i’ll get my coat, then,”

“of course,” he murmured, standing slowly. you shouldn’t have seen him put his hand against the wall to steady himself, as though any drunken spell had fled, and with it, his equilibrium. the movement was both conscious and contrived, a fact of necessity, and not like the rest of him, braced by his surroundings and firm in stature. a self-constructed illusion, designed to project a set of attributes meant to create the atmosphere of authority. he embodied it well, but he was still, stripped of the mythos, simply human.

you watched him settle and raise his head with a gentle exhale. a mere lift of his shoulders, and he resembled a man in control, content, satisfied – everything henry was, and yet, within the façade, you could see the truth of his discomfort, recently, and without fault, brought upon by an uttered name.

in the upcoming months, you would understand and wonder if there was something you could have done or said to warn him of a future that was inevitable. no matter how many nights you had spent distressing over this question, the answer would always make itself obvious.

there was nothing you could have ever done.

thank you for reading !

#dark academia #the secret history #tsh #henry winter #henry winter x reader #henry x reader #henry winter smut #imagine #imagines #one shot #i always wanted to write smth for henry my beloved always and forever he did nothing wrong #💌 october #happy dark academia season everyone!#da

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dreamersparacosm · 2 months ago

Text

jeon jungkook - off the record (part three)

part three ; iced oat milk latte, no sweetener

warnings ; jungkook being a bitch, oc planning his murder once again </3

prompt ; in which you’re paired with your insufferably charming ex-academic rival turned coworker to cover a congressional scandal, and suddenly, professional boundaries becomes the only thing holding you two apart.

note ; hi, hello, bonjour, hola, ciao!!!! before we get into this whole mess, i want to start by apologizing for the hunger games reference… i fear i am rereading the series and all i can offer up is metaphors and similes having to do with katniss everdeen

anyway! we get a tiny tiny peek into a nicer jk (before he snatches that back up in his paw real fast), we meet monroe in all her political glory, and we also meet Rosalie!!!!! she is kinda maybe important (i mean, did you even look at the index… homegirl has an extra dedicated to her) so pay ATTENTION to those good ol context clues

ok that’s all i have to offer besides hugs n kisses. MWAHHH

playlist here

series masterlist here

Mondays in Washington D.C are a bloodsport.

You’re essentially Katniss Everdeen with a college degree, wielding a Macbook Air and a slightly chewed Pilot G2 instead of a bow and arrow, and tragically, there’s no Peeta tossing you bread.

You’ve accepted your role in the arena — not because you’re necessarily winning this specific Monday (though rewriting a headline three times while simultaneously ghosting two former sources does deserve some kind of medal), but because in this moment, you recognize just how good you are at your job.

This Monday, with Jenna sitting across from you in the cafeteria, a small, satisfied smile curved upon her lips and an iced green tea creating its own little puddle on the table, you feel like you’ve just shot an arrow through the Gamemakers’ roast pig.

“You,” she says, pointing at you with a manicured finger, “are single-handedly keeping CNN afloat.”

You arch a brow, leaning back into the faux leather chair, “Just me? Not the seasoned journalists or the guy in graphics who hasn’t taken a day off since the Obama years?”

“Okay, yes, but they didn’t just lock down the most exclusive interview of all time while also managing two live hits in one afternoon.” Her eyes are sparkling as she takes a sip of her watered-down concoction. “Honestly, if I were five years younger and less emotionally stable, I'd be deeply threatened by you.”

You grin, warmth flooding your chest. You’ve always admired Jenna; beyond her credentials, which includes three promotions before the age of 30, she also knows how to wield power with elegance.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was,” she settles her drink back down on the table. “You have been on fire lately. Monroe, the security reform story, that exclusive with Whitford’s aide… I’ve gotta say, you’re giving me a run for my money.”

The cafeteria isn’t busy at this time of day. There’s a few lingering presences, some interns loitering by the salad bar while they talk about happy hour plans neither of you will be invited to.

Your 1-on-1’s with Jenna have always been incredibly informal; the two of you opt to sit in the lunchroom, discuss any updates to stories you’re chasing down, and she pretends that she needs to edit anything you write even though she trusts you more than her own husband.

“Well, Monroe kinda fell in my lap,” you shrug. “Sheer stroke of luck.”

Jenna laughs, a full-bellied one that makes you feel like maybe you can breathe a little today. Hell, maybe you’ll take that “mental health walk” you keep scheduling on your calendar but happen to neglect every time it rolls around.

“I don’t even care,” she shakes her head. “I needed something real meaty this month. If I have to greenlight another story about the president’s favorite dog breed, I will walk into the Potomac.”

“Tell me again why you keep me around?” you tease.

“You might be the only person left who doesn’t make me regret going into journalism.”

“Flattery gets you everywhere, Jenna.”

She takes the hair tie off her wrist and pretends to launch it at you, and you both fall into a fit of giggles before she sits up suddenly like she just remembered she left her curling iron on. “Oh! Before I forget, the gala’s Friday.”

You pause in your tracks. Full record scratch, pause, tape spooling, rewinding. “The what now?”

“You know, the White House Correspondents gala. Annual festival of denial. Open bar, basically prom for people who peaked at Model UN? Ringing any bells?”

It’s actually ringing so many bells you feel like you’re in church. It’s Washington’s annual act of self-congratulation. Officially, it’s the White House Correspondents’ Dinner Afterparty, but everyone calls it what it is: White House Prom. A glitzy, overfunded fever dream where senators and editors and press reps drink bourbon under chandeliers, interns get stuck holding coats, and everyone pretends they haven’t been arguing over bylines all year.

A night where policy meets pageantry and somehow always ends with someone crying in the bathroom over budget cuts.

You groan obnoxiously. “God. Is that already here? I thought we canceled it after last year’s incident.”

“You mean when a Reuters editor sang ‘WAP’ on a table? Yeah, no. Tradition lives on.”

“I swear if I have to talk to one more sweaty political aide about how much they ‘respect the hell out of my work,’ I’m going to fake an international assignment.” True story, unfortunately.

You watch behind Jenna as the interns file out of the lunchroom after playing with lettuce and gossiping for five minutes straight.

“Still at the Hay Adams?” you follow up.

“Ballroom this year,” Jenna confirms. “Bigger space.”

You nod, mostly to yourself. It’s not mandatory, but it’s expected. Like flossing. Or staying neutral on Twitter.

“Yippee,” you grit out in faux excitement. “Lucky us.”

Jenna hums, then leans in with the type of expression normally reserved for the latest staffer-on-staffer affair. Your spine automatically mirrors her posture, because this is Washington and you can never predict what’ll come out of her mouth, even if it’s just about someone's bad Botox.

“Also, I probably shouldn’t be saying this yet..” she trails off, inspecting her nail polish, then glancing around as if the interns never fled the room. “...But you’re being considered for the next internal bump.”

You blink. “Bump?” Cocaine at this hour seems like overkill.

“Promotion,” she clarifies. “Senior Correspondent.”

Your whole body locks up, brain short-circuiting for a second before kicking into high gear.

You can’t tell if this is because of the Monroe thing or the Whitford aide or the years you’ve spent out-scooping your colleagues while surviving on six hours of sleep. Probably all of the above.

Either way, your heart is breakdancing. You’re really trying to look like it isn’t.

“That’s…” you nod slowly. “Cool.”

Cool. Cool? That’s what you go with? Jesus Christ. You sound like a hungover intern.

“Would you want to interview for it?” she asks amusedly.

Would you—

Okay. No. No squealing. No weird excited noises. No blacking out. Breathe and say something coherent that conveys hunger, capability, and an IQ higher than 119.

“I’d be open to it,” you say, like a person who hasn’t already mentally rewritten her resume and picked out what she’s wearing for the panel interview.

Jenna smirks knowingly. “Nice. I’ll let higher-ups know.”

“Does… anyone else know?”

The question slips out before you can stop it. You don’t necessarily know who you’re alluding to. Maybe Emma, maybe that guy Paul who sits two rows away from you and is always blasting NPR in his AirPods.

“If you’re asking if we’re evaluating anyone else for this, the answer is I don’t know,” she crosses her arms over her chest. “But… they do need my approval to go through, and I haven’t put anyone up for review yet.”

The ‘except for you’ is silent.

She pushes back her chair, grabs her mostly waterlogged green tea, now just a cup of sadness and regret. You follow her lead, still feeling slightly shell-shocked in the best possible way.

Walking out of the worn-down cafeteria with her, shoes tapping against the tile, mind already spinning with possibilities, you feel oddly at peace.

And maybe that’s why you love Mondays in D.C so much.

Not because they’re easy or slow or remotely tolerable.

But because sometimes, they remind you of exactly who the hell you are.

And that, makes the bloodsport kind of worth it.

The chair squeaks every time you shift, which wouldn’t be a problem if it wasn’t the only sound in the room.

The White House has many rooms. Historic ones, important ones, also some where actual history is made. This is not one of those rooms. This is one of the weird, vaguely depressing interview rooms they trot out for second-tier people. You know, deputy communications directors, committee aides. That one Assistant Secretary who went viral for being hot, then immediately got canceled for a tweet he wrote in 2011 about dogs wearing pants.

An overpriced chandelier slightly swings above you, lighting the space aggressively. Your chair is wooden, tilted approximately 97 degrees like it wants you to develop scoliosis.

Still, you made it. You’re here. Not even fashionably early. Stupidly early.

You blame the adrenaline. Your meeting with Jenna earlier left you jittery, and no, it had nothing to do with the four Celsius’ you ingested. The notebook in your lap, which currently looks like it’s been through six war rooms, is overflowing with questions — some carefully workshopped with Jenna, others you came up with alone while brushing your teeth this morning.

Your leg bounces. You flip a page, then flip it back. Your eyes fight to look at the clock without looking at the clock.

This is fine. You like prep time. You thrive on prep time.

The door creaks open behind you, and your heartbeat does a weird little thump thump behind your ribs. Your body refuses to swivel in the chair in case it’s her.

Here we go. Monroe. Congresswoman. Possibly the key to that promotion Jenna has promised you on a silver platter. Maybe, if you’re really lucky, Jungkook got hit by a car and you’ll be running this interview slot on your own. Time to sit up straight, flash your professional smile, channel your inner Barbara Walters and—

“Wow. Early. Didn’t know that was your thing.”

You slump completely into your chair.

Did the car you just imagined hitting him take a wrong turn?

You don’t dare turn to look at him, instead pretending to be incredibly invested in the chicken scratch on your notepad. “Wow. Late. Makes sense that’s your thing.’

The door closes behind him, and you hear him set his bag down by the entrance. “You know she’s not supposed to be here for another five minutes, right?”

You roll your eyes so hard you give yourself a minor headache. “That’s five minutes of prep time.”

There are approximately seven billion people on this planet. This is the one you’re stuck sharing a congresswoman with.

God is testing you.

Jungkook rounds your chair, and for a moment you prepare for impact — some offhand comment, a smug smile, a challenge disguised as a compliment. Standard procedure.

But instead, something cold and plastic materializes right in front of your face.

You blink away the blurriness of the object in front of you.

It’s a coffee cup. In his hand. Inches from your nose.

“What the fuck is that?” you ask, recoiling slightly like he just tried to hand you a live animal.

He sets it down on the table in front of you with dramatic flair. “Your coffee.”

You stare at it. Then at him. Then back at it. “You don’t even know what I drink.”

He doesn’t flinch at that. “Isn’t it still that iced oat milk latte thing? No sweetener?”

Your soul briefly detaches from your body.

“How—”

“You used to order it every day before Public Policy, and then show up with it half-empty already,” He shrugs casually like that isn’t deranged information to remember. “It stuck.”

What the actual fuck is going on?

He takes a sip of his own drink — hot, probably black, the beverage of overconfident men who think bitterness builds character. “Still think you’re weird for drinking something that tastes like oat-flavored water with no sugar, but hey. To each their own.”

You’re still staring at the cup.

“Why did you bring me this?” you ask, voice flat, because this feels off-brand. He’s not… nice. He’s Jungkook. He’s that dude you just imagined getting run over by a car, and then the car backed up and ran over him again while you smiled gleefully. “Is it poisoned?”

“Yeah,” he deadpans. “I stopped at the cafe and asked for the rat poison special. It’s just a little something to take the edge off.”

You level him with a look. He grins wider, those two bunny teeth poking out beneath his top lip. Bastard. He’s so… so.. (and when you find the right words, you’ll scream them from the rooftop.)

Then he finally sinks into the chair next to you and stretches out like this is a coffee date and not a battle for professional supremacy.

“I want a fair game,” he states matter-of-factly, eyes flicking toward the empty seat Monroe will soon occupy. “Need you caffeinated for that.”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy internally malfunctioning.

Because here’s the thing: he shouldn’t know that. About the oat milk (or the existence of it in general.) The lack of sweetener. The whole personality trait of a drink you depend on like a life jacket.

He shouldn’t remember.

Yet there it is. Sitting on the table, condensation gathering.

You cross your leg over the other and force yourself to look unimpressed. “You really came in here with a performance-enhancing latte to try and make me nervous?”

He smirks. “Is it working?”

Absolutely.

“Only because I’m wondering when the side effects kick in.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, and you hate the way your stomach sort of flutters. Like it forgot whose side it was on.

You pick up the cup anyway. Take a sip. Might as well see if he remembered the extra shot of espresso—

Damn it.

It’s perfect.

It’s exactly what Jenna brings you each morning.

There’s so much more you want to say but it all shrivels up on your tongue and dies.

He nods toward the cup. “Well?” he asks. “Up to your standards?

You pause mid-sip, raise a brow. “It’s drinkable. Could use a little poison though.”

“That’s the nicest thing you ever said to me,” he smiles widely, although you and him both know that was the farthest thing from a compliment.

“Don’t get used to it.” You let the straw clack gently against the lid. “I’m sure you’ll say something idiotic in the next thirty seconds to cancel it out.”

You think he’ll fight you on it like he’s been fighting you on everything since the first time you met. But he just smirks, one side of his mouth lifting, “Probably. But you’ll still drink the coffee.”

“Mm. Haven’t decided just how disturbed I am that you remembered my order from college.”

“I’m disturbed you’re still drinking it,” he shoots back. “Sounds like it tastes like shit.”

You’re about to launch into some detailed rebuttal involving Jungkook’s questionable taste in everything from shirt choice to headline structure to coffee orders when you hear the rusty doorknob turning.

This time, however, it’s not Jungkook barreling through the entrance.

Congresswoman Monroe hovers under the threshold of the room, stepping into it cautiously. At the noise, you and Jungkook both shoot up from your chairs like students caught gossiping mid-lecture.

She’s maybe mid-40s, though her face suggests she made a very lucrative deal with time around 31. Her dark hair is pulled back into a low, sleek ponytail, wearing a navy pantsuit that probably costs more than your entire student loan debt.

She pulls off her Celine sunglasses in one fluid motion — what is it with people on the Hill wearing sunglasses indoors? — and tucks them into her bag, giving you both a long once-over. You feel quite small under her gaze, despite her being shorter than you.

“Wow,” she raises a brow, “Look at that. The youth still believes in chivalry.”

You want to extend a hand to her for her to shake, but decide against it when you calculate the distance still between you two. “It felt appropriate. It’s nice to meet you, Congresswoman. We appreciate you taking the time to talk to us.”

She snorts at that, clearly entertained, “Well, I believe it was my overachieving press rep who lured you here, not I. He seems to have a way with words to convince two of the biggest outlets to speak to me off the record.”

Ah, yes. Who could forget the ever-so-eloquent Mark? You hope he’s doing better than when you last saw him.

“It’s no problem, really,” Jungkook reassures. “I know this story is fresh, so we’ll take anything.”

Monroe seems to accept that answer, striding forward and taking her seat across from you two with ease. You and Jungkook share a quick look before sitting back down, both your notebooks flipping open almost immediately. You want to say you know exactly where to start, but considering the circumstances, nothing feels sufficient.

She crosses her legs, leans back in her chair and looks between the two of you as if pondering which one of you will be brave enough to speak first.

Clearly, it won’t be you.

“Let’s start from the beginning,” Jungkook’s fingers twirl around his pen thoughtfully, like he’s John Hancock about to sign the Declaration of Independence, “Walk us through how you and Delgado got involved in the first place.”

You resist the urge to groan out loud. Classic Jungkook; start at square one, build some cute little narrative arc, win hearts and minds while you’re over here looking like you’re the world’s most submissive little sidekick. He’s laying groundwork like this is some Netflix docuseries and he’s the charming narrator.

You have approximately twelve smoking-gun questions and a left eye that’s starting to twitch.

Before Monroe can answer, she raises a hand. “Confirming this is off the record, right?”

Both you and Jungkook shoot your hands up in defense, as to prove there’s not some top secret recorder clutched in your palms. You answer quickly, “Completely.”

She gives you a look like she doesn’t fully believe you, but she’s too tired to care. Then she shakes her head in approval, crossing her hands and placing them atop her knees like she’s preparing to read from some memoir. “Well, it started like they always do. Good intentions but terrible, terrible execution.”

You immediately start scribbling, handwriting resembling of someone who’s having a medical emergency.

She goes on, “He said he needed to review the vote count with me. Said it couldn’t wait. Silly me for thinking he meant actual numbers.”

Your brain is already fifteen steps ahead, questions lining up in your head like little soldiers. You’ve done enough research on the story to know this much is true: it was more than just one night.

“So.. you weren’t aware there were eyes in the hallway when you left his office later that night?” you cut in before Jungkook can deliver a follow-up, because no way is he getting the juicy stuff first.

Monroe snorts, “I was aware of a lot of things. Surveillance interns weren’t one of them.”

Jungkook glances up from his Moleskine. “Intern had good timing.”

“Depends on who you ask” she responds drily.

“So when did it actually start?” Jungkook shifts forward in his chair, picking up his coffee and taking a sip. “A one time incident doesn’t usually come with three months of scheduling overlaps.”

Jungkook: 2. You: 1

“It doesn’t..” Monroe pauses, half for dramatic effect and half for introspection. “But clearly you’ve had some time to look at my calendar, so why don’t you tell me when you think it started?”

“Honestly,” you begin, flipping pages in the back of your mind, trying to remember that article you read three hours ago that dictated the timeline with color-coded graphs and blurry pictures. “I think it was back in June? July?”

She doesn’t answer that, just hums thoughtfully.

“Care to clarify how far back?” Your hand betrays you, reaching for the iced coffee on the table in front of you that has boiled down to some sad mixture of water, oat milk, and espresso.

Her lips twitch. “Far enough that I should’ve known better.”

You set the coffee back down after a prolonged sip. Beside you, you feel Jungkook’s beady little eyes trained on you. “Who else knew?”

“And who else was covering it up?” Jungkook jumps in.

It becomes a full-on ping pong match. You’re not even waiting for answers before volleying the next question. There’s something about an agreement, about Mark having an inkling, talk of going public before actually getting the chance to. You’re incredibly disappointed this isn’t on the record — this is the spiciest conversation you’ve had in years on the Hill. Jungkook seems just as intrigued as you, his own notepad filling up faster than quicksand.

It’s a dual — a bloodless one, for sure, but still mildly entertaining. Your cramping hand and the part of you that wants to scream every time he throws in a follow-up that actually adds value makes things slightly more complicated, though.

Worse: he’s enjoying this. Visibly.

And, okay, you’ll admit this much — you’re enjoying it too. Just a little. In the way you enjoy debating and working with someone who’s actually worth your time. In the way your competitive little brain lights up like oh, this again? Yeah, let’s fucking go.

You ask something else — who’s to say what it’s actually about? You just had to get it out before he did — and Monroe chuckles. “You two always like this?”

She seems quite amused by the two of you.

You open your mouth to say no, because professionalism or whatever. But then Jungkook shrugs and replies, “Sometimes. We’ve gotten better.”

No, you haven’t, but right now that’s neither here nor there.

“Well, at least I know I’m in capable hands,” Monroe beams at you two, the first real sign of human emotion you’ve captured from her since she sat down.

Capable is one way to put it, that’s for sure.

He looks over at you again (you might have to get a restraining order. This is now the tenth time and you’re starting to get scared.) It’s more in a this is fun, isn’t it? way. Which, ugh. Maybe it is. You’d never admit it but the absolute thrill of chasing a story with someone who also appreciates the highs that come with this job, while still trying to one-up each other? Yeah. It scratches a very specific, very messed-up part of your brain.

Still, he doesn’t get to win.

You lean forward, diverting back to the story at hand. “Just to clarify, did he ever explicitly threaten you with exposure if you ended things?”

Monroe’s gaze sharpens. “He didn’t need to. You don’t get involved with someone like Delgado without knowing he’s always got a spare knife somewhere.”

You write that line down so fast your pen nearly flies out of your hand. Jungkook mutters under his breath, “Jesus.”

The buzz of a timer goes off, jolting you and Jungkook upright like someone just yelled “Ten-hut!” to both of you. Monroe seems satisfied with that noise, opening her bag and retrieving her sunglasses from the depths, perching them on the bridge of her nose. “Well, that’s all we’ve got time for today, I presume? I’m sure Mark will be in touch soon for follow-ups.”

In some way, you think you’ll miss her. She might be the only congresswoman on the Hill that doesn’t have some 30-inch ruler up her ass.

“Of course,” Jungkook stands up on command, outstretching his own hand for her to shake. You follow suit like a lost puppy. She shakes both of your sweaty palms before acknowledging you both silently and heading towards the door, slamming it shut behind her.

In unison, you and Jungkook slink back down in your respective chairs, still in some weird post-interview daze. You’re not even looking at him. Not even a glance. Because glancing means acknowledging, and acknowledging means reacting, and you don’t do that.

Except, okay. Maybe you glance. Briefly. It’s for intel.

Weirdly, you don’t hate the way it feels to share something with him this closely. You both got exactly what you needed — the honest truth, a story that’s so compelling Shakespeare couldn’t even spin up this kind of narrative.

You don’t dare acknowledge that thought either. You bury it deeply. Somewhere right next to the memory of him bringing you your coffee.

When it’s nighttime in Washington D.C, it’s like a different dimension opens up and swallows the Earth.

Bars are filled to the brim with overexcited interns and senators on the prowl for their next cheating scandal. Coats are tossed across barstools like forgotten souvenirs. Chalices of beer are raised in the air as if people returned from a long day at the frontlines.

There’s some kind of magic that comes with it, like anything can happen because you’re finally not at your desk.

You’ve just turned off the lamp on your desk when your phone starts buzzing with urgency. See: magical. Anyone who knows you knows better than to call on a weekday night.

The only person who doesn’t know better, would be Rosalie, your best friend from college. Even the buzzing feels distinctly like her. As in, it’s probably not life or death but it’s definitely dramatic and may or may not have some form of light alcoholism attached to it.

You glance down at your phone screen, contact photo still the same blurry selfie she took freshman year wearing a tiara and threatening to drop out because your dorm had “zero aesthetic.”

You hesitate for exactly one second. It’s late. You’re tired. Your brain still smells like that cursed interview room from earlier and your notes from Monroe are a chaotic mess of arrows, question marks, and multiple phrases in all caps.

But, then again, it’s Rosalie. And when Rosalie calls, something ridiculous always follows. Like night after day. Like impulse after Amazon Prime.

Plus, you kind of want to give into the magic.

You swipe to answer, pressing the phone to your ear and scooping your bag onto your shoulder. “You’re either drunk, shopping, or about to fake your own death again. Which is it?”

Her voice bursts through the speaker, words rushing out. “Okay, rude. First of all, I never fake anything except for, like, orgasms and excitement about family obligated dinners. Second of all, surprise bitch!”

You furrow your brows in confusion, moving towards the exit of the CNN press room. “What?”

“I'm in D.C!” She shrieks like this is some normal update and not a major plot twist.

“You—what?”

“Like right now. I’m here. I just landed. I’m with Daddy.”

The first time you met her, she also referred to her father as ‘Daddy.’ It deeply troubles you, but you’ve come to learn there is literally no other way to name the man who’s a diplomat with a literal castle in Scotland.

“You were in London this morning,” you deadpan, struggling to do the mental math on time zones and emissions and mileage. You step out into the hallway, leaning against a cold wall.

“Yes, and now I'm here, on the hunt for a martini. It’s called globalization, babe.”

You cover your face with one hand and let out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a snort. Rosalie has been your best friend-slash-financial cautionary tale-slash-roommate since freshman year at Columbia. Your first true peek into what money could look like when it wasn’t tied to survival. She grew up with private jets and trust funds and the kind of skincare routine that requires a prescription and personal esthetician.

You grew up with coffee from a deli and a FAFSA login engraved in your mind.

Somehow, your friendship works.

Maybe it was the way she made everything feel like a movie. Or the fact that she’d once threatened to sue your econ professor on your behalf because the “curve is misogynistic.”

But mostly, it was how she always made space for you.

Even if that space is currently filled with credit card debt, half-finished Master’s degrees, and a shocking amount of vintage Balenciaga.

You sigh, already smiling. “Rosalie, what the fuck are you doing here?”

“I just told you! I’m with Daddy, he had some kinda thing. International diplomacy or rich people drama, I don’t know, I tuned out. But I’m here, I miss your face, and you sound like you’re one day away from a nervous breakdown.”

She really does know you like the back of her hand.

“I literally am.”

“See? All the more reason to get drinks. I’m thinking an extra dirty martini for me, a vodka soda for you..” You can practically hear the puppy dog eyes she has on display right now.

“I could be convinced.” You readjust your bag on your shoulder, staring solemnly at the end of the hallway.

“Okay, this is me convincing you,” she pauses for dramatic effect. “I’ll pay.”

Perk #2000 of having a rich best friend.

“You got me there.” You’re now fully laughing, the sound echoing off the hallway, phone still pressed to your ear like you’re back in college, sneaking calls in between lectures to give unsolicited advice to her on her most recent love interest.

“Come onnnn, let’s be messy.” She pleads. You glance again down the ominous hallway. Your shoes are killing you today. Your brain is fried, eyes burning after hours of staring at words and headlines and formatting.

Still, none of it sounds that bad when you think of Rosalie and a really crisp vodka soda with two limes.

“Text me the place,” you’re already bracing for impact. “But if you order anything that comes with edible glitter again, I’m leaving.”

“You’re the best,” she exhales a breath as if she’s been holding it the whole time you’ve been on the phone, “Love you!”

There’s a disconnecting sound on the other end of the line, and you bring your phone down from your ear to stare at it in front of you. Nighttime in D.C always feels like this: the first lick of ice cream on a summers day, a comforting hug from a parent after months of separation, toes digging in the warm sand. Magical, and full of possibility.

The moose head is definitely judging you.

Mounted above the bar like a taxidermist’s wet dream, it stares down at you with cold, glassy eyes and antlers the size of a small aircraft. It’s wearing a sequined top hat for reasons unknown, and honestly, it’s the most stable thing in the room right now.

The bar name Rosalie texted you an hour earlier serves cocktails with unpronounceable bitters and has dim lighting that makes your outfit look ten times better than it actually is (and also doing a hell of a job at concealing your under eye bags.) The high-top table you two are perched at smells faintly of citrus zest, her YSL perfume and spilled liquor.

Even the leather booths and black matte menus screams place that is trying way too hard to stay afloat in D.C’s nightlife climate. There is a very specific brand of person who goes to these bars, and you and the moose are both trying to figure out if you fit the bill.

To your dismay, your vodka soda is alarmingly strong, which is unfortunate because you ordered it specifically as a keep-it-together drink. Sober-adjacent. Instead, it tastes like the blonde bartender at the front is going through the world’s most devastating breakup.

You’re a quarter through it and already considering whether food would be helpful or if you'll just end up eating three-dollar-sign fries you didn’t mean to order.

Across from you, Rosalie’s swirling her (extra) dirty martini, rambling on and on about her recent trip to London. Something about the fog or the rain. You watch her as she animatedly speaks, fur-trimmed coat moving with every flick of her wrist.

“Okay…” she says, one olive skewered dramatically on a stick between her fingers. “This city is like, aggressively serious. Everyone looks like they’re walking to a meeting even at 8 PM at night. What’s that about?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, swirling your own black straw around the rim of your drink, trying to dilute the vodka, “Probably some senate fundraiser going on a block away.”

Rosalie gasps, “That is so unsexy. Vibes here are rough.”

Only Rosalie would refer to the nation’s capital as ‘unsexy.’ You respect the brutal honesty; she’s not entirely wrong. The city is overrun by middle-aged fathers and misogynistic women. If that doesn’t scream unsexy, you’re not sure what does.

“You picked the place,” you mock, rolling your eyes.

“Well, yeah, but I was going for hot, mysterious energy, not—” she gestures wildly around the room. “—whatever this is.”

You look around. There’s a man in a vest swirling around an old-fashioned and a woman arguing with headphones on while sipping from a wine glass. “Rosalie, this is the most you bar I’ve ever been to.”

She almost turns as pale as a ghost. “This can’t be my brand.”

You can’t help but laugh, sinking deeper into your chair. It could be argued this is her entire brand; picking out places that will hand you a check worth more than your electricity bill for three months.

“So,” she begins, dramatically perching her chin in her hand, “how’s your glamorous life at the White House? Any closer to marrying a diplomat’s son?”

“Unfortunately not,” you take a sip of your vodka soda and grimace. “However the other day I did make prolonged eye contact with an intern. Although he might’ve been 20, so unsure if that counts.”

She nods like that checks out. “Oof. That’s not a good sign. Are you on any dating apps?”

Her expression twists in excitement, clearly holding out for some cute politically correct love story. You don’t have the heart to tell her that the only thing you’ve shown affection to in the past few months is a bottle of sauvignon blanc.

“Nah, you know me,” You stare down at your drink as you speak quickly to avoid her piercing gaze. “Enough about that, though. I heard you were maybe, kind of, accidentally starting a wellness brand?”

Rosalie perks up a little at that, although you can tell she doesn’t necessarily appreciate the segway from your dating life to her varying business ventures. “Well, Daddy’s investors wanted me to pick a niche, which is so toxic, because I believe in trying anything once.”

“I’m sorry—what?”

Rosalie’s business ventures have ranged from ‘mildly unhinged’ to ‘legally gray.’ In the last three years alone, she’s tried to launch a gemstone-infused bottled water line (now banned in three countries), an app that was supposed to match influencers with “friends” for Coachella, and a cashmere dog sweater subscription box that somehow lost her family $12,000 despite only having five customers — three of which were her own dogs.

It’s safe to say her being enrolled in graduate school was the unrivaled alternative.

She once asked you to invest in one of her projects. You bestowed upon her $5 and a random penny that had two heads on it.

“I’m a woman of many multitudes,” she explains with alarming speed. “You can’t put me in a box. One week I’m into adaptogens, the next I want to sell lingerie to housewives. You know how I get.”

“Rosalie,” you let out a noise resembling a snort. “This is all deeply unserious.”

“Exactly.” She plucks an olive off the wooden toothpick, popping it in her mouth. “But it’s fine. Daddy said if I stop spending money, he’ll really consider funding my wellness brand. So right now I need to chill the fuck out and realign my values.”

You don’t think she really understands what it means to realign her values.

“So… you’re basically unemployed.”

She gasps, slapping a hand over her heart. “How dare you use that word.”

You grin into your drink. It’s so easy to fall back into a rhythm with her. Even if she lives in a totally different universe. Even if she has never once felt the need to check her bank account before ordering a $22 cocktail.

Her lips press against the rim of her glass before she places it back down hesitantly. “You know, you really should get back out there.”

You should've known better than to assume this topic of conversation was done.

Out of the corner of your eye, you make eye contact with the moose. His (and you’ve decided it’s a male, bedazzled hat and all) eyes swallow you whole.

You tilt your head back towards the high ceilings to avoid catching Rosalie’s or the moose's eyes. “I’m perfectly fine in here.”

She doesn’t acknowledge your pun. “When’s the last time you’ve even had sex, you little virgin?”

Ha ha.

You actually laugh out loud. Which is probably not the response she was hoping for but — be serious.

When was the last time you had sex? Does emotional disassociation count?

Because if you’re going by strict technicalities, it was that one-night stand a few months ago when Emma dragged you out, told you to just “pick a guy,” and you went with the first one who made a semi-decent joke and could name one recent foreign policy.

It was… fine. Forgettable in the way dry toast is.

You’re pretty sure he called you babe halfway through and you pretended not to hear it because you were already nauseous from the amount of vodka sodas you consumed that night.

“Sex is a social construct used to avoid real human connection.”

You smile indignantly at your best friend, crossing your arms over your chest. There’s satisfaction rippling through your body. Try arguing with that one, Rosa—

“How long are you going to avoid real human connection before you end up all alone, surrounded by ten cats and all my wellness supplements?”

Okay, rude. A wake-up call at this hour isn’t really necessary. She sounds much too invested in this for your liking.

Statistically speaking, you are on track to die with your phone in one hand and a highlighter in the other. But also? You kind of don’t care.

You're good at exactly two things in this life: 1) your job and 2) being right, neither of which you plan on giving up any time soon. You’re not about to emotionally babysit a man who wears loafers without socks or tells you he’s “big on communication” but flinches when you ask what his ex’s name is.

Relationships are cute for people like Rosalie, who have time to dabble in them. You are booked out for the foreseeable future.

“You know I don’t care about that stuff.” You decide that’s an appropriate response to her worrying. “I just.. value my alone time. And you’ve seen how hard I work. I don’t have time to date.”

“What about your coworkers?” she muses casually. “Surely one of them, with the same work ethic as you, is a good option.”

You nearly choke on your drink so violently that the moose head looks concerned.

“What?” Rosalie blinks at you with full sincerity. “I’m just saying—it seems efficient. You could like, hold hands while rage-writing about the president.”

You stare at her blankly. “I’d rather go on a silent meditation retreat with Mitch McConnell.”

“You’re being dramatic. Walk me through the options,” She sits up straighter, voice rising at the end of her sentence.

“Okay…” you exhale, already regretting everything. “There’s Andrew, but he clips his nails at his desk and I can’t unhear it. It’s like ASMR for serial killers.”

She grimaces, tapping her polished nail against her glass. “Ew.”

“There’s Gavin, who’s technically married but also keeps asking if I’ve ever been to Greece in spring, so that feels like a no.”

Now that you’re running through the roster out loud, it’s pretty devastating.

“Paul.”

You say the name with hope attached to it, and Rosalie leans forward in anticipation, like she’s already envisioning her maid of honor dress and your pastel wedding invitations. “But.. he calls Slack ‘the Slack’ and that gave me the ick. Plus, he also listens to NPR, so that’s another minus.”

Rosalie groans and sets her forehead down on the table like this is your fault. “God, your workplace is bleak. What’s the point of being employed if you can’t seduce someone with a respectable title?”

“Believe it or not, I do actually work so I can get paid.” You take a sip of your drink, which has simmered down to a pool of vodka and watered-down soda.

She lifts her head from the table, “Not one hot little office romance? A private kiss in an elevator? Anything to feel alive?”

She’s really overestimating the Hill’s penchant for romance.

You give her a long look. “I write about current events. That is my version of a hot little office romance.”

She snorts, then tilts her head at you knowingly. Uh-oh. You know that look. It’s the look she gave you in college before she asked if she could set you up with her cousin, the 7th Earl of Douglas. “Wait.. do you still work with that guy?”

Your stomach drops. Like an elevator going down one floor too fast. “What guy?”

You’re playing dumb, which is not usually your move. But you are. Aggressively and visibly.

Rosalie shrugs like it’s no big deal. “You know, that guy from college. What was his name.. Jungkook?”

Damn her. You really need to stop telling her your work stories. Not that it matters anyway. She’s known him the same unfortunate amount of time you have.

You shift slightly in your seat. It’s a tiny readjustment but you’re fidgeting, leg crossing the other way, hand playing with your straw like it’s suddenly fascinating.

You absolutely do not glance at the moose for help.

“Yeah,” you say. “I do.”

Rosalie arches a brow. “He’s still as hot as he was back then. I saw his post on Instagram last week. Those cheekbones still working overtime, eh?”

You force a laugh, struggling to banish any and all flashes of his cheekbones that are currently flitting through your mind like pages of a scrapbook. They are oddly nice. But knowing him, he probably gets cheek filler or something. “I guess. If you’re into that whole overly symmetrical thing.”

“Who isn’t into it?” She picks up her martini glass, taking a massive gulp.

You can’t respond. You’re too busy hyper-focusing on your vodka soda and trying not to remember a very specific Friday night freshman year. One where you walked into some random room at the Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity house with jungle juice in one hand, only to—

Nope. Not going down that road.

Following in her footsteps, you take a big sip of your drink. Rosalie doesn’t notice the way your leg is slightly bouncing under the table. Or if she does, she’s sparing you the embarrassment. “I always thought he’d go into modeling or something,” she tosses her jet-black hair over her shoulder. “Didn’t peg him as someone who would go into politics.”

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, “even the devil wants press credentials.”

“Bet he still looks good in a suit though.”

Now it’s your turn to drop your head onto the tabletop.

Sure, maybe there are people out there with actual problems. Real ones. People who’ve lost their homes, who don’t know where their next meal will come from, who aren’t currently sipping overpriced vodka sodas while side-eyeing a moose in a hat. Compared to them, this whole moment is an insult.

And yet, in this precise, horrifying pocket of time, you genuinely can’t imagine a worse fate than Rosalie fawning over Jungkook like he’s a misunderstood bad boy.

If you’re being all Psychology 101 about your feelings (which you got an A in, so you are), you’re still annoyed about the coffee he brought you earlier. How dare he remember things about you like he’s some poor excuse of a friend. You don’t want to be seen, or be known, especially by him.

You lift your head up, sip the last of your drink, ignore the knot forming somewhere behind your ribs.

“Anyway,” you clear your throat and force the tightest smile your face can manage without cramping. “tell me more about those edible face masks you texted me about last week. Those sounded questionable.”

But Rosalie is a martini deep, so she leans forward across the table before you can finish the pivot. Her fur coat bunches against the edge, nails curling. “So, is there any chance he’s going to be at work tomorrow?”

“What?”

“Jungkook.” She looks at you like you're the crazy one. “Will he be there?”

You squint at her, like maybe if you narrow your eyes hard enough, the words will rearrange into something more coherent. “It’s a weekday. I assume so, unless he’s decided to pursue his dream of becoming a shirtless travel vlogger.”

“Perfect,” she leans back against the chair now. “I’ll be here a few more days.”

“I—what? Wait. Hold on. No.”

She pouts dramatically. “Why not?”

You sputter, and you feel your right eye beginning to twitch. “Wha—Why not?? Rosalie, what do you mean why not?”

“I mean,” she looks genuinely baffled. That makes two of you. “I’m single, he’s single, you work with him… you can’t not set us up just because you’re being weird.”

You’re about to flip this table over. “I’m not— what? I’m not being weird.”

She plays with the toothpick that used to hold her olives. “You do this thing sometimes where you act all chill but then your eye starts to twitch.”

You stare at her, openly horrified. “Rosalie, I do not. No—okay, look. First of all, I do not matchmake. That’s not in my skillset. I can barely order dinner for two without freaking out.”

You abruptly realize your hands are clenched in your lap, and the inside of your cheek is sore from how hard you’re biting it.

Okay — maybe you should let her fuck him. She’s an adult. You’re not her keeper, and thank God you’re not his either. You have no legal or emotional stake in this whatsoever.

But then you think about it for more than six seconds and suddenly the idea feels… bad. Like ethically bad. Cosmically cursed. Like watching someone about to pet a tiger because it looks “soft.”

Besides, why would you want to subject her to that kind of torture? Why would you offer her up to the emotional rollercoaster that is Jungkook when you’re barely surviving it yourself? Honestly, it would be cruel. A hate crime.

She gazes at you. You are going to start screaming spontaneously any minute now.

“Okay.. but like, why can’t you just help me out here?”

You sit there poker-faced. Your brain — already operating at half-capacity thanks to the vodka soda and the emotional trauma of this conversation — halts all function. You open your mouth, praying something logical will come out. A thoughtful excuse. A real reason. Maybe even a full monologue about professionalism or the fact that he drives you insane on a daily basis.

Instead, what tumbles out is, “Heard he gave someone on the Hill a STD.”

Silence.

It’s like every patron in the bar took a vow to participate in a well-timed moment of silence.

“Wait, what?”

You swallow thickly, saliva going down like molasses. “Yeah. I mean, don’t quote me or anything. But, you know how it is. Rumors.”

The words feel like wet socks in your mouth.

You eye her carefully, waiting for the inevitable laugh. But it never comes. “Oh,” she says, drawn out like she’s having a That’s So Raven-level flashback. “I mean, it’s not like we haven’t— “

She stops herself. Bats her eyelashes. Smiles quickly. “So, you were talking about my edible face masks?”

You go along with it. You’re not about to ask what she almost said.

You both brush past it like the moose above you isn’t watching in real-time.

Stirring your straw around the edge of your glass, you become aware of how warm the bar feels, how loud it’s gotten, how your face is doing that thing where it tries to stay neutral but ends up folding in on itself.

You don’t know when you became a liar. As a White House correspondent, your entire career was built on integrity and ethics. This is new territory for you.

Whatever. It doesn’t matter. She can obviously have him. She can have his cheekbones and his annoying woodsy cologne that makes you irrationally upset and his coffee-bringing habits.

Take it all. Godspeed, Rosalie.

Something about being in the office with a minor hangover feels like a crime against humanity. A petty offense punishable by being trapped under fluorescent lights while liquor seeps out of your skin.

Every time Paul from two rows over makes eye contact with you, you feel a fresh wave of nausea roll through your body like a bad remix of last night’s (multiple) vodka sodas.

You don’t even know what he wants. Maybe he heard how you eliminated him last night from your list of potential suitors at the office. He probably can also smell the vodka dripping from your pores but that’s a separate story.

Your night, as it would only happen, ended with four more vodka sodas after the first one had been downed and topics of conversation that should never be repeated in a public setting. Apparently you also tried to steal the moose’s hat. So, yeah. Not really doing your finest this Tuesday morning.

You try to focus on your inbox, which is currently ten emails deep and pulsing with the words URGENT and MONROE EDITS. Tentatively, you open one. Close it. Open another. Realize it’s the same email. Close it again.

All higher brain power has been disabled until further notice. It’s just rotating between memories of Rosalie’s fur coat, the moose head, and the vague threat of vomit in the back of your throat.

Unfortunately, Jungkook sneaks his way in there too.

Which, no. You are not going to sit and think about whether Rosalie ended up DMing him. You’re not donating energy to the possibility of her sliding into his messages with a “hey stranger.” You’re not even remembering the comment she made on the curb outside while waiting for her Uber about “needing to reconnect with old friends.”

Everything is totally fine. (And you’re on the right track — your Advil is starting to kick in.)

“You look like you died at a party and were revived by the ghost of hangovers past,” Emma says as she plops into her chair next to you, placing her chocolate chip muffin on the desk. She had already been here when you arrived ten minutes past 9 AM, but retreated to the cafeteria for a breakfast pick-me-up.

You can’t even crane your neck to look over at her. “I think I’m being judged by Paul.”

Emma leans to peek over her desk. “He’s wearing those weird loafers again. He doesn’t get to judge anyone.”

“I think I’m sweating vodka.” You keep going down your list of woes.

Emma snorts at that. “Rough night?”

Another email gets opened but promptly exited out of. “Very. Met up with my college best friend.”

“The rich girl?” She pushes her glasses higher up on the bridge of her nose, re-opening her laptop.

“Yup,” you sigh. “Still rich.”

“Goals.”

You nod in agreement, fingertips hovering over your keyboard. “I wanted to be her when I was 19. Still kind of do.”

“If I had her money, I’d have fake boobs and a villa in Greece. I’d never answer an email again. I’d float off the grid on a yacht,” Emma muses dreamily, placing her chin in the crook of her palm.

“Instead, I’m here,” your mouth opens with the beginning stages of a yawn. “Rotting, in need of electrolytes. If I know her as well as I think I do, she’s probably getting a massage right now.”

Emma lets out a noise that resembles the familiar sound of laughter, opening up a new window on her laptop to resume her previous tasks. You stare blankly at your own screen. It mocks you with a NBC article you plan to tear to shreds and a to-do list you’re checking off just to say you did something, like the sheer motion will jog your brain into gear.

The cycle goes as such: open a new tab, skim an article, close it, reopen it ten seconds later because you already forgot what was said.

There’s this new policy rollout you’re chasing that’s somehow both deeply boring and disastrous. Two weeks ago, you had dinner with Kara Devlin, a junior legislative aide and some overachiever from Brown, and you pried as much intel as you could from her like a raccoon rummaging through garbage. She had given you a whole lot of nothing, but there was one quote you’ve been holding hostage.

Your eyes brush past a few local blogs. The Times. Politico. That one freelancer who insists on formatting his substack like a ransom note.

And then, you land on Fox. It’s not like you’re looking for suffering, but you might as well round out the masochism.

Your finger slowly moves down the touchpad of your laptop, scrolling down. Half of your mind is still hungover, the other half is trying to remember if you actually did Doordash those electrolyte packets to the building or if you just thought about it aggressively.

The article’s whatever. The usual. Misleading title, blurry infographics, some ominous use of the word “patriotic.” You’re on complete and utter auto-pilot, eyes glazed over in mild disgust, until—

Jungkook Jeon, Contributor.

Your finger freezes on the scroll pad. Aggressively go back up to the top. You sit up so fast you nearly dislocate your vertebrae. Your attention is piqued — not because he has any insight you particularly care about, not for policy clarity, but so that later, you can roast the living hell out of whatever lazy, metaphor-mixing nonsense he’s about to pass off as journalism.

You reread the opening lines again. Something about bipartisan stalling, vague reference to committee strategy, a few recycled phrases.. blah, blah, blah.

There’s a giggle that’s threatening to bubble up from your chest. It’s like the universe knew you needed this. You leisurely continue to scroll, unable to control the smile on your face.

Wait.

What did that line just say?

Your brain turns on like someone flipped the light switch in a haunted house.

There’s a quote nestled in the middle of the article. In big, bold letters, signed off with the name Kara Devlin.

Your smile gets wiped off your face in three seconds flat. Leaning into your screen, you murmur the quote under your breath: “The strategy for the senate is not to all agree to the same policy, but see how many back out due to its democratic ties. That’ll reveal where everyone’s intentions lie.”

No, no, no. That’s your quote. That’s Kara Devlin’s direct words, told to you under the flickering lights of a diner in Maryland after acceptable work hours. It’s now sitting in Jungkook’s article, chopped up and thrown in like seasoning.

Your hangover drops so far down the totem pole it’s practically underground.

You sit back in your chair, hands firmly gripping the armrest, mouth slightly open like you just witnessed a murder but aren’t sure who to call.

Three things immediately occur to you:

The writing is fine. But you would have tightened it, maybe removed some passive verbs, flipped the framing..

His quote placement is clunky. It’s shoved in there as if it’s not the backbone of the piece.

WHAT THE FUCK.

You reread the quote so many times it burns into your retina. Fuck Kara Devlin. Even after you paid for her three appetizers and her milkshake, she turned around and gave it up to Jungkook. She’s a slut (politically).

Emma glances over. “You okay over there?”

You’re too busy calculating how fast you can walk over to the Fox press room without murdering someone on the way to respond.

“Helloooo? Earth to [Y/N]?” She waves her hand in front of your face.

Your voice takes a second to boot back up, like an old car on a cold morning. “He used my quote.”

“Who?” she asks, dropping into the tone she uses for gossip.

You reluctantly swivel the laptop screen towards her like you’re presenting the murder weapon. “Jungkook. He wrote this piece and used my quote from Kara Devlin.”

Emma narrows her eyes at the article, lips moving as she whispers the words on the screen under her breath. Once she’s done, she gasps in horror, “Kara? Like the girl you took out to dinner?”

“The very one.”

“Oh, god.” She pushes your laptop away from her in disgust. “Even after you emotionally groomed her into trusting you?”

“Okay, maybe don’t say ‘emotionally groomed.’ But yes. Her.”

“Are we sure it’s the same one?” Emma offers.

“Of course I’m sure!” You throw your hands up in exasperation. “I was sitting right there across from her as she droned on and on about some other policy issue until this just fell in my lap.”

“Damn,” Emma shakes her head, lets out a tsk.

“How the hell did he even get his hands on it?” You slump in your chair, hands now covering your face.

Emma shrugs unknowingly. “Did Kara get hacked? Maybe Jungkook planted a wire in your bag?”

Both are plausible.

You groan loudly, “It’s not even just the quote that kills me. The placement is ludacris. He just shoved it in there like it’s… like it’s a garnish. It’s chives, Emma. He used my quote like chives.”

Emma winces, “That’s deep.”

“Now his stupid little name is tied to that quote.” Not to mention, you’ll also have to go on a wild goose chase for a new one.

Emma begins to unwrap her muffin that was lying untouched, “Do you want me to go slash his tires? I’ll wear a mask.”

“I’m not saying yes,” you mumble, “but I’m also not saying no.”

She drones on about her master attack plan, while you sit glued to your seat. Fine, you’ll admit it — this little cat-and-mouse game you and Jungkook play has always been fun. It’s fun in the way verbal sparring is, or how lighting a match just to watch it burn could technically be considered a hobby.

It’s not like you haven’t gotten your licks in before — stolen a quote here, intercepted a question there, once maybe ‘accidentally’ deleted his name off a media RSVP list.

But Kara Devlin was yours. She was earned.

Emma is still mid-rant about slashproof ski masks and the technical logistics of a ‘light’ tire slash, when you glance at the clock in the corner of your screen.

And then time slows.

It’s 10:02 AM.

Ten. Zero. Two.

Your pulse spikes, hair on the back of your neck standing up. You freeze completely like maybe time will reverse itself out of pity.

“Emma,” you cut her off mid-sentence. “I gotta go. Meeting. 10:30 AM.”

She blinks at you. “Oh! What kind of meeting?”

You’re already shoving your notebook into your bag with the panic of someone being chased, breathlessly speaking. “Legislative aide. Some Senate bill, I don’t know. It’s across the lawn, you know how long it fucking takes to get there.”

Emma pulls a face. “Oof. That’s rough. If you speed walk, you’ll make it by 10:25.”

You stuff your laptop into your bag too, nearly drop your phone, do a full spin because you can’t find your badge and then find it pinned to your pants pocket like a dumbass.

“Okay,” you mutter. “Okayokayokay. No time to dwell. I’ll process the theft later, either in therapy or in the bathtub with wine.”

Emma’s holding back a laugh, “Well. Let me know if you need company while you do that.”

God, she’s great. What an upstanding woman.

With that, you’re gone, storming out of the press room. Your bag keeps smacking your hip, hangover faintly lingering. You speed past a group of interns who part like the Red Sea, interrupting their morning gossip session.

You are an organized and professional woman who has simply spiraled about a journalist stealing your source and forgotten about a government meeting. It happens.

Today is going great. Perfect. Fantastic.

You burst through the glass doors, sun suddenly too bright on your skin. The air smells like fresh landscaping.

Usually, you love this part. This little stroll across the lawn, the strut in front of a stunning backdrop of democracy and white buildings that gleam. Normally, you take it all in.

Not today though. Today, you are head down, hair sticking to the nape of your neck, puffs of air inhaled into your lungs at an alarming rate. You break into a half-jog across the lawn, cursing your choice of shoes and the existence of time itself. Somewhere in the distance, a tourist points at you, probably thinking you’re someone important. You are not. You’re just late.

You're almost there, you can see the building rearing its ugly head. You’ll have about five minutes to fetch some water but it’ll do. Honestly, you’ve made great time, so that’s something to celebrate.

And then — you hear it. Your voice, off in the distance, echoing across the expanse of the lawn,

Weird. Not totally impossible, but unsettling.

You blink a few times, slow your pace, and instinctively whip your head in a few different directions like you’re the supporting character in a horror movie who’s about to get the axe.

Did you die? Did the hangover finally win? Is this what the afterlife is, a loop of your own voice haunting you across the lawn?

It really does sound exactly like you.

You peer up at the sky, as if God or maybe Jenna is pulling some weird power move. Like surprise! Time for a self-awareness ambush. Let’s listen to you talk for a change!

You slow to a crawling speed, confused and slightly nauseous. This could be a hallucination.

But then… you see it.

On the steps of the west wing entrance, past the security gate, near one of the stone benches, you spot a man with broad shoulders, back facing you. Watching something on a laptop that contains your voice.

You walk even slower than humanly possible, tiptoeing as you get closer. You realize he’s watching the press pool from a few weeks ago. You don’t remember which one exactly, they all blend together.

The inconspicuous man chuckles to himself.

Who the hell is that?

You take a few half-steps forward like getting closer will make any of this make sense. Just a casual stroll, nothing to see here. A curious taxpayer.

Squinting a little harder as the sun hits at an odd angle, you see a notepad perched in his lap, pen in hand.

That’s kind of sweet. Someone clearly looks up to you. Maybe it’s that intern you made prolonged eye contact with.

Oh. Oh.

He picks up his pen again, and you see them. The tattoos that litter his knuckles, clear as daylight.

You know those tattoos. You’ve known those tattoos since freshman year of college.

They look a lot like Jungkook—

Jungkook is sitting on the steps of the West Wing in broad sunlight, watching your press pool questions on his laptop like he’s studying you.

A gasp escapes you, and you slap a hand over your mouth but it's too late.

His head jerks around so fast he almost flings the notepad off his thighs. Those eyes widen when he locks them with yours, like a deer in headlights.

There’s probably a good two seconds that go by where you just stare at each other. Frozen in this very weird, dramatic standoff. Stuck in that horrible moment of recognition, like when your ex appears in your Hinge likes or you walk in on your sibling watching a thirst trap.

“What in the fuck are you doing?” you ask slowly, voice sharp and cold.

He flinches at your tone. “Jesus Christ, could you not sneak up on me like that?”

You creep forward, inching toward him like you’re hiding a knife behind your back. “Sneak up on you? You’re the one sitting on the steps in broad daylight studying my voice like a weirdo.”

Jungkook shuts his notebook quickly, “I’m not studying it—”

“Oh, really?” you snap, marching closer. You’re hovering over him now, your shadow looming on his body. “So you just casually watch old press briefings, skip to my questions and take notes for fun?”

Jungkook stands now, placing his notebook next to his laptop on the step. “Okay, relax. I was prepping.”

It’s annoying how much taller he is now that he’s face-to-face with you.

“Prepping?” you echo. “Prepping for what, exactly?”

“I was seeing how you phrase your questions,” he replies flatly. “It’s not illegal. You’re not copyrighted.”

You laugh sarcastically. You don’t know what compels you to stand there and say more. By all means, you should flip him off and walk away. Let him watch. Never think about it again. But you do the opposite. “Are you kidding me right now? You stole a quote from my source —which by the way, fuck you for that— and now you’re out here trying to take notes on my question phrasing?”

He shrugs casually. “What do you want me to say? You’re good.”

Yeah, you know. It’s how you got into Columbia. This shouldn’t come as a surprise, and yet somehow it does because he’s the one saying it, enough to stun you.

“Oh, fuck off. You don’t get to plagiarize my source and then compliment me.”

He walks down a step, still towering over you. “I didn’t plagiarize. I just published what I found.”

Your ears are ringing. “That’s your justification?”

“Wasn’t theft, just initiative.”

And it’s the way he says things like this, like the world exists to conform to all his desires, that sends you spiraling into a cocktail of blind rage and envy. When you’ve been losing things to Jungkook for as long as you have, you live in a constant state of acceptance that never really ends. It’s in how you brace yourself whenever his name is on lists outside of bulletin boards, how you sometimes catch yourself expecting to lose before you’ve begun trying.

All you can muster up is a heaving sigh before you reach down and slam the laptop shut, pausing your own voice mid-question.

He looks mildly offended. “Was that necessary?”

You gape at him, words barely forming, because the audacity is just so constant with this man. “What are you even doing here?” you gesture to the area. “Sitting here like some creepy ghost?”

“It’s a free country.”

“Don’t you dare use the constitution on me right now.”

“I like sitting here,” he says innocently. “I think here.”

You deadpan. “You… think here.”

“Yes.”

“In public.”

“God forbid I like to remember what this place is supposed to be about,” He raises his hands in defense.

“Oh good lord.”

“It helps,” he continues, completely ignoring you. “When I’m burnt out or pissed off or just need a minute to think, I come here. It reminds me why I got into politics in the first place.”

You scoff. “Which was..?”

He looks back toward the Capitol dome, eyes squinting like he’s about to say something that belongs on one of those mugs from the White House gift shop that you got your mom four years ago. “To do something that actually mattered,” he says. “To write about the government in a way that reminds people they’re still human. That we’re all humans.”

Now this monologue reminds you why you hate the guy. Who cares if he’s handsome or insightful or tall? He has deduced your career to a Pinterest-esque quote about journalism.

“Wow.” You start to slow clap, the sound of your palms slapping echoing across the lawn. “So poetic. Inspiring, really.”

He cocks his head, waiting for you to finish being theatrical.

“And also,” you put your claps away. Better to save them for your chat with the legislative aide, which you really should be getting to. “to apparently steal my tone, quote my sources, and stalk my voice.”

He rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Like I said, you’re good. Sorry I noticed.”

You clench your jaw, body buzzing. “Whatever. Enjoy your little identity theft picnic.”

You spin on your heel and march off toward the building you were actually supposed to be at. Your steps are fast, eyes trained ahead.

Even as your fists are clenched, you can’t stop the thing rising up behind your ribs. The stupid, aching realization that Jungkook has been watching you.

Like you’re the only one worth keeping up with.

You hate it all. You should demand CNN to scrub all footage. But none of it really matters because what you hate most viscerally, is that your brain whispers something treasonous like: at least he gets it.

Your face burns, heart pounding as you push past the wooden doors of the old building in the West Wing.

You hope the wind swallows him whole. And maybe his stupid notebook too.

masterlist + ask

taglist ; @somehowukook @lovingkoalaface @moroe-blog2 @almatiarau @hanamgi @yooniepot @strawberryberrygirl @rossy1080 @libra04 @kenzierj11 @senaqsstuff @dtownbae @xumyboo @bellefaerie @chimchoom @satisfied18 @arcanekookz @vintagemoonsstuff @brokebitch-101 @taolucha @songbyeonkim @oopscoop @mochibites00 @whatevevrerr @lessthantmr @nesha227 @mar-lo-pap @jazzyb22 @lachesismoonmist @indyuhhhhh @sky-23s-world @swimmingweaselzineegs @jiminshi20 @khadeeeeej @withluvjm @anishasingh1233 @jksusawife @btstrology @youphoriajk @jadestonedaeho7 @diamondjeon @sharplycoldpaladin @annafarrr @tteokbokibyjk @prxdajeon @tatzzz-25 @magicalnachocreator @younhakim29 @purplelanterns @134340-kr @amarawayne

#jungkook #jungkook x reader #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook smut #jeon jeongguk #jjk #jjk x reader #bts #bts fanfic #bts x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff

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liminalmemories21 · 1 month ago

Note

for the prompt list, if you haven't received these yet or one of them intrigues you! ☺️

16, 44, 77

Two for one here. Post series time stamp for What binds the fabric together . Again, playing to our strengths here - @cecilyv brings the dog content, I bring the cat content. We both bring a deep appreciation for casseroles.

*****************

“What you did was stupid.” and “Drop the attitude.”

Tommy’s fighting wildfires north of LA, and Buck is talking to the animals like he expects them to respond.

Technically Tommy’s only been gone a week, but it feels like longer. Or maybe he just misses his man. He gets sporadic texts when Tommy gets taken off line so he can rest the required number of hours before they throw him back in the air. He sends more (so many more), all the things he’d normally text, plus all the things he usually gets to tell Tommy when he gets home.

Tommy’s the first partner he’s ever had who’s never complained about his texting habits. Maybe that’s how you know it’s true love.

He takes a picture of the standoff going on in the kitchen and sends it to Tommy, without expecting a response.

Puts his hands on his hips and glares at Dug. “What you did was stupid, and you know it.”

Dug slinks lower on the kitchen floor and looks guilty. He wonders if this is what Hen means when she says he’s got puppy dog eyes, because it’s really really hard to stay mad at Dug when she looks like this. Clementine makes a self-satisfied mewing noise from her perch on top of the fridge, where she’s looking down her nose at Dug.

He turns to look at her. “And you, you can drop the attitude. This is just as much your fault as hers.”

Clementine ostentatiously ignores him, settles in to clean herself, one leg up in the air. As clear a fuck you as if she could say it out loud.

He takes another picture and sends it to Tommy. / I’ve tried telling them wait until Dad gets home / …. / I don’t think they’re worried though /

Is so startled when his phone rings that he almost drops it. “What’d the kids do?” Tommy says on speaker, and Dug perks up and stands up to nudge at Buck’s hand when she hears Tommy’s voice.

“Broke a casserole dish playing chase me chase me.”

Tommy laughs. “So, doing what I told them then.”

He squints at his phone. “You told them to break our crockery?”

“Baby,” Tommy says seriously. “If you loved me, you’d never make me eat another casserole again. The kids are just making sure the marriage stays together. Nobody wants to come from a broken home.”

He snorts, and pets Dug’s head, and then reaches up to scritch Clementine’s ears, because it’s important not to play favorites.

“How’s it going?” he asks.

Tommy makes a rough noise. “It’s going.”

He flicks open the browser on his laptop. 35% contained. Better than it had been this morning, still not good.

“I wish I could tell you I was coming home soon,” Tommy says.

“Keep yourself safe,” he tells Tommy. “I’ll keep the homefires burning.” winces. “Or, you know, some other war wife metaphor that doesn’t involve flames.”

They joke about it more and more now. About being an old married couple. Someday soon, he thinks, it’s not going to be a joke. It’s going to be real. And he can’t wait. But first Tommy needs to get some sleep, so he can fly safe and put that fire out, and come home to them.

“I love you,” he tells him.

“I love you too,” Tommy says.

“The kids say they love you too, and to get some sleep.”

“Yes, Dad,” Tommy says and his laugh turns into a yawn halfway through.

Soon, Buck thinks when he hangs up. Soon. But first, there’s a broken casserole dish to sweep up.

#911 #buck/tommy #tumblr ficlets

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me-and-my-3lovers · 7 months ago

Text

First Time

Human!Sam x Alpha!Male!Reader

The world is split between ABO and normal humans. You are an alpha hunter with the Winchesters, and have been having a rough time with your ruts. This takes place around season 8, post bunker and pre trials.

MINORS DNI, 18+ ONLY

Word Count: 2700

Warnings: Self loathing, slight Dub-con elements, Angst, A/B/O dynamics, foreplay, oral sex, male fingering, male-on-male sex, knotting, scenting, no proofread

Masterlist

You were warm and happy and wanted to stay in bed forever. Unfortunately, your alarm clock was screaming at you. It was only 9 AM, far too early to wake up, but, alas, you were awake. You rose from your nice and cozy bed and went to the kitchen. When you arrived, Dean was making coffee and Sam had his nose in a book. You greeted them as best you could before grabbing a bowl of cereal. The first bite was delicious, the cereal was still crunchy but not soggy, perfect.

"How does your rut work?" Dean asked while putting away the milk.

"Dean..." Sam warned from the bar stool.

You paused, a spoon of cereal halfway to your mouth, "You have the internet; look it up." You savored the taste of the cereal, eager for the conversation to end.

"But isn't that like expecting sex to be like a porno?" You stared at Dean, taken aback by his metaphor.

You scoffed and rolled your eyes, "Of course, you find a way to bring it back to porn, Dean."

You ignored Dean's question and took another bite of your cereal. Dean sat beside you, staring as you shoveled the rest of the cereal into your mouth. The silence was deafening. The three of you sat, ignoring each other before you decided to get up and put your bowl in the sink.

"Why do you even want to know about my rut?" You asked, breaking the silence.

"We've been hunting together for years, and now we're living in the bunker, and we walked in during it..." Dean started scratching the back of his head, trying to find the words to continue.

"Ok, and?" You prompted.

"We had to call Cas in to stop you from dying." Dean blurts out.

You tensed at Dean's words. It wasn't untrue that your rut almost killed you last time, but calling Cas was unnecessary. Sam stared between you and his brother, waiting for any sign of violence.

"That was unnecessary." You started to walk to your room, not wanting to be around Dean anymore.

"I didn't mean it like that," Dean grabbed your arm and spun you to face him. "I'm worried about you, we're worried about you."

You glanced between him and Sam for a few moments. "Then you'll let me handle my rut how I see fit." You resume the walk to the safety of your room.

"That doesn't explain why you had a fever of 107 and were coughing up blood." Dean follows after you. Sam stood up and followed close behind, not trusting the situation to die down.

"I mean, heats and ruts are a reproductive thing, alphas and omegas aren't meant to go through them alone." You stop at the door to your room and turn back toward Dean and Sam. "Listen, I've gone through every rut since I was seventeen by myself and survived. Now if you don't mind, leave."

Dean scoffed and rolled his eyes before stomping away.

Sam looked at you with those puppy dog eyes. "What if you weren’t alone?" Sam asked.

"No, I am not subjecting someone, anyone, to me on my rut." You turned around to open your room. "If you think Dean is insufferable about the Impala..." you whistle at the end of your sentence for emphasis. "Like I said," you jump on your bed and face Sam, your hands behind your head, "I've been doing this for twenty-one years, I'm good."

Sam sat at the foot of your bed, resting his hand on your ankle. "You were screaming in pain."

"Sam, drop it."

"No! We came home and found you half dead! I won't let you go through that again."

You sat up, staring Sam dead in the eyes. "You weren't supposed to see that..." You flopped back down onto your bed, staring at the ceiling.

"Well we did see it, and you have been suffering like that for twenty-one years?" Sam sighed and hung his head "I care about you, I- I've cared about you for a long time."

"This is more than caring, Sam. The only way you could help me through my rut is degrading."

"If you think two men having sex is degrading, then I have some harsh realities for you in the twenty-first century." Sam scoffed and rolled his eyes at your antics.

"It isn't just sex, it's..." You couldn't find the right word to describe it. "You can't describe the violence of being with an alpha during their rut, you'd be subjecting yourself to my worst parts. It's not-" Sam's lips met yours, silencing you. The kiss was fleeting, over before you could react. Sam rested his head against yours and brought your hand to his cheek.

"You don't have to be alone, I'm here for you, always." Sam kissed your palm.

"You don't get it, Sam," you whispered. "I can't let you help."

"Why not?" Sam brought his free hand to rest on your neck, "I want to do this, for you."

You leaned into Sam's touch, craving more. "You'll never be able to look at me the same way again, and I don't want to lose what we have."

"But if you don't let me help then I could lose you forever." Sam kissed you as hard as he could, "I don't want to lose you."

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath in. When you opened your eyes again Sam had the best puppy dog eyes he could muster plastered on his face.

"You're trying to lay it on thick aren't you," you chuckle, knowing you couldn't say no to Sam's puppy dog eyes.

"Is it working?"

"If, and that is a big if. If I let you help me, can I call you Sammy?"

You'd been shifting your room around for hours, trying to make the perfect nest. You took a lot of Sam's shirts and blankets to place around your mattress on the floor, but it still didn't feel right.

"Not comfy enough... what makes... comfy?" you knelt in the middle of the nest contemplating.

"PILLOWS!!" San came barging in with what seemed to be all the pillows in the bunker.

"Pillows..." You nodded your head before taking the pillows from Sam and arranging them.

"This looks like a proper nest." Sam came up behind you and kissed your cheek. "I love it."

"Are you sure you wanna do this Sammy?" You asked, "You don't have to."

"I want to, I want to help." Sam moved to face you and kissed you.

You pulled Sam against you and lowered him into the nest.

"Your eyes, they're gold!" Sam said, bringing his hand to caress your cheek. You leaned into his touch.

"It's my rut, my wolf... it's trying to take over. I can make it go away, give me a moment." You closed your eyes and tried to focus on locking your wolf away.

"Don't, I like it." Sam leaned up to kiss you again, breaking your concentration.

Sam started moving his giant spider legs to wrap around your waist. You could his semi-hard boner through his jeans, as his ground up into you. You broke the kiss to rid Sam of his shirt and jeans. Once you and Sam were down to your underwear, you went back to attacking Sam's mouth with your own.

You kissed down his jaw, stopping at his neck, savoring the smell of Books and firewood coming off of him. It was intoxicating. You started sucking and nipping at Sam's neck, leaving deep purple marks behind.

"Ow!" Sam slapped you away, hard. "A little aggressive with the love bites," Sam grumbled.

"Sorry," You lifted your head to look him in the eye, "I can't help myself. An omega's mating gland is around their neck, alphas tend to fixate on that area." You tried to leave gentler kisses on his neck, moving down his body.

You gave a light suck to each of Sam's nipples, causing him to moan. You moved further south, nipping and licking at his stomach, making sure there wasn't a patch of skin that went untouched, stopping at the waistband of Sam's underwear. Catching your breath, Sam took that time to rid himself of his underwear. He was rock hard and leaking. You wasted no time sucking him down until you gagged. He fisted his hands in your hair, pushing your head down further. You sucked harder, using your tongue to circle the head of his dick. Sam tried thrusting up into your throat, but you pulled off him.

Flipping him onto his stomach, you separated his ass cheeks and licked a stripe from his balls to his asshole, causing Sam to shiver.

"Are you sure about this Sammy?"

"Yes!"

You dove straight in, pushing your tongue past the tight ring of muscle. Sam's moan was downright animalistic. You moved your hands to Sam’s hips, holding him in place while your tongue explored him. You worked your tongue deeper into his hole, getting him relaxed and used to the feeling.

"I'm ready for you, come fuck me, baby."

You withdrew from Sam's ass and flipped him on his back again. You moved up His body, trailing kisses from his stomach to his titties, sucking each nipple. When you got back up to Sam's mouth, you maneuvered both of you so you were sitting up and Sam was straddling you.

"What will it feel like when you... you know..." Sam made crude hand gestures to explain what he didn't say.

"When I knot you?" Sam nodded his head. "I don't know."

"How do you not know?!" Sam whisper-shouted. "Haven't any of your other partners described what it's like?"

Your body flushed under Sam's expectant gaze. "...I've never..." You try to look anywhere but Sam's eyes.

"Are you a virgin?" Sam asked, a teasing smile forming on his stupidly perfect face.

"NO! I just... typically, people aren't interested in..." 'Me' you wanted to say, "I've never knotted anyone," You mumbled, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. That familiar pang of rejection started festering in your chest. "If you don't want to do this, we don't have to. You can go now." You pulled away from Sam and turned over.

"No, no, no, I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"Go. Now." You growled out.

Sam grabbed his clothes and left your room without another word, leaving you alone as the pain of your oncoming rut and rejection radiated through your body. You could feel hot tears streaming down your face as you start tearing down the nest you made. You threw pillows and shirts out of the room, a dull ache settling in your chest. As more and more of the nest got thrown out, the pain became more distinguished. It festered in your heart. It was only when the last of Sam's scent was flung out of the room that the agony started. A dull throbbing in your heart turned into stabbing pain. You screamed, unable to hold it in anymore.

White-hot, searing pain ran through you, starting at your heart and radiating to your limbs. You felt like screaming, but the most you could muster at this point was a pained whimper, your vocal cords raw from the first few hours of screaming and crying. It felt like your heart was ripping itself apart while your body was attempting spontaneous combustion. You tried to rut against something, in a pitiful attempt to relieve some of the pain. Your body retaliated by sending another wave of pain through you.

'You deserve this,' you heard in the back of your mind, 'No one wants to be with a freak like you, a freak of nature. A sideshow attraction.' You whimpered again, the words cutting deep into your heart. You looked around the room; the scattered remnants of your nest stared back at you. 'It was stupid to think he wanted you,' the voice said again, 'All it brought you was pain and misery.' The voice was right; the rejection only made your rut more painful. As another wave of searing pain washed over you, you shut your eyes, and your mind curled into itself. Conciseness and thought gave way to animal instinct. 'A feral monster!'

A low, somber howl left your lips, one last cry for help, for a nonexistent mate to relieve the pain in your heart—the howl of a dying alpha.

"Shh, I'm here." Sam came into your room and crawled into the nest, pulling you closer to him. He kissed your forehead, "You're gonna be ok." Sam's hand petted your hair while he kept whispering assurances to you.

You stopped Sam's movements to kiss him. The kiss became more passionate and hungry when Sam didn't pull away. When you both had to pull away for air, you stared into his eyes. A whimper escaped your lips.

Sam shifted himself so that he was straddling you, "I got you." Sam affirmed, bending down to take your lips with his, grabbing the sides of your face and pulling you closer.

You bucked your hips against Sam's, causing both of you to moan. Sam started stroking your dick while stripping off his shirt and underwear. Very gingerly, Sam lowered himself onto you, hissing at the stretch. You sat up to rest your head against Sam's shoulder, mouth gently kissing the hickeys on his neck. Once Sam was fully seated your hands moved to rub circles on his thighs.

Sam took a minute to adjust before moving. He moved your hands to rest on his hips. You squeezed his hips harder as he bounced faster and faster. In a sudden bout of strength, you grabbed Sam and held him at the end of your dick. You stared into Sam's eyes before pulling him down to the knot.

"That's it alpha, come on baby," Sam whispered in your ear. Spurred on by Sam's words, you started trusting to match his bounces. Sam grabbed your hand and intertwined your fingers. Your knot began to swell and catch on his ass. "I feel it, so close." Sam tossed his head back in ecstasy as hot ropes of cum spattered on the both of you. While Sam got lost in his high, you slowed his bouncing until he was resting on your dick.

As Sam came down from his high, he looked at you, puzzled. "Why didn't you knot me?"

Your body started to hurt again when he asked that. You shook your head and whimpered.

"You need to knot me to feel better," Sam said, covering your hands on his hips.

You shook your head and whimpered again, trying to roll Sam over to lie down.

Sam held onto your shoulders and started bouncing again, trying to get you to knot him. "Come on baby, you need to knot me." You tried again to get Sam to lie down, but he was too strong. Once Sam had enough momentum he slammed himself down over your knot, causing you to cum. As your knot locked you in place you bit Sam at the junction of his neck and shoulder, trying to claim him.

Sam moved his hands to play with your hair as you lapped at the mark you made. "There you go, baby. You feel better now?"

You nodded and nuzzled into Sam's neck. Sam kissed your forehead and finally let you roll him over to lie down. "Goodnight my love."

You woke up surrounded by the scent of bacon and batter. You sat up; the heat from your body had subsided, and the searing pain had turned into a dull thud. Looking around, the room was cleaned up, and your nest was remade. You shifted in the nest, moving some things around when the door opened, Sam walked in carrying a tray of blueberry waffles, bacon, and orange juice. You stared silently as he walked closer, wondering why Sam was bringing you breakfast. He placed the tray in your lap and sat beside you, curling into your side.

"Dean made us some breakfast. He said it was a treat for 'being such a good boy last night' Can you believe him?" Sam scoffed.

You remained silent, staring down at the plate in front of you.

"The waffles are getting cold," Sam said after a minute, grabbing a waffle and eating it. You stared at him until he looked at you.

"What happened last night?"

"What do you mean 'what happened last night'?" Sam sat up and rubbed the crumbs from his fingers back onto the plate.

"I can't remember anything after you left."

#jared padalecki #sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x you #supernatural #male reader #sam winchester x male reader #alpha reader #omegaverse

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doodle-pops · 21 days ago

Text

Sweets and Treat

Fingon x modern human!reader

A/N: I have arrived with my beloved Fingon and another modern reader fic (*^▽^)/★*☆♪

Warnings: none, absolutely fluff and sweetness, modern human reader

Words: 3.7k

Synopsis: An attempt to bake your favourite treat, ends in burns, bandages and a sweet confession.

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The soft scent of crushed athelas and lavender hung in the warm air of the apothecary, mingling with the crisp breeze that filtered in through the open windows of Elrond’s homestead in Valinor, where ivy clung lazily to carved stone archways and light fell like gold through the treetops. There you stood elbow-deep in mortar and pestle duties, sleeves rolled to your forearms as you worked with slow deliberation to grind dried herbs into a fine powder after a long morning of bandaging over-eager hunting injuries and tending to minor wounds.

The healing house was quieter now since the earlier flurry of activity had dwindled to a few murmured conversations and the occasional bark of laughter from the ward beyond. Not too long ago, you had just begun to sort a small pile of freshly laundered bandages when you heard the sound of familiar footsteps, accompanied by the subtle rustle of robes and the telltale clink of vials in a tray.

“Is it safe to enter,” came a teasing voice from the threshold, “or will I be assaulted with flying gauze and foul language again?”

Looking up and arching a brow at Calwen, a fellow healer whose wry smile always hinted at mischief, and had taken to delight in troubling you at any available opportunity.

“Depends,” you replied, brushing a strand from your forehead with the back of your wrist. “Are you bringing news of another poor soul who mistook a sword for a walking stick?”

“Worse,” she said with a grin that immediately set your internal alarm bells ringing. “We’ve got a new patient in the east wing. Rather urgent, or so he says. Requested you specifically.”

That alone prompted you to frown. “Is it that reckless idiot who tried to cauterise his own arm last week?”

Tilting her head while her lips twitched, she bore a ‘clueless’ expression. “Couldn’t say. Though I do recall a certain someone promising to throw the next fool who lit themselves on fire into the nearest fountain.”

“Glad you’re keeping track of my threats.”

“Always. They bring such flavour to the place.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why do I feel like I’m walking into a trap?”

There was no reply, only a suspiciously bright smile as she handed you a rolled up parchment of paper and turned sharply on her sandals before disappearing around the doorway with the flounce of someone who knew far more than she was willing to say. You didn’t know what else to possible say or do. Being around a class of people in a league entirely above you, left you exhausted as you tried to understand their love for being poetical, theoretical, hypothetical and metaphorical. You didn’t have time for such a brainrot moment.

Keeping the last of your two brain cells sane, were your jot and comfort in this foreign land.

Sighing, you set aside your tasks, you wiped your hands on a cloth, and snatched up the parchment as you moved out of the back room and into the airy corridor that connected the treatment wards. The moment you stepped through, the lingering scent of sweet herbs gave way to a subtle waft of chocolate and something else…something suspiciously like burnt flour. It made you wrinkle your nose.

“Great,” you muttered under your breath as you stalked toward the east wing, muttering to yourself as though you were gearing up for war. Maybe you were because dealing with people who lived like ‘you only live once’ didn’t exist since they were allowed to have second chances. “If this is that same overconfident fool who thought boiling salve didn’t need gloves, I swear I’m going to light him on fire. One more elf walks in with a burn injury and I’m submitting a formal request to ban anything fire from existing.”

Protesting like a lunatic to yourself as you marched through the hallway, your footfalls echoed faintly along the marbled floor. That glimmer of the halls glowing with that ever-present soft illumination that Valinor seemed to bestow on everything it touched, but you paid it little mind, too preoccupied with rehearsing a scolding worthy of the ages.

“I’m starting to regret opening my mouth and go “Hey, I know medicine!” the minute I dropped out the sky to save my ass. I should have let them throw me into the ocean or something.”

Rounding the corner with the intention of storming in, expecting the worst—probably someone trying to show off for one of the fair-haired maidens in the training courts again—and flung open the door, ready to unleash hell. But alas, it wasn’t some arrogant warrior sprawled dramatically on the healing cot.

It was him.

Fingon.

His dark hair was half-loose, braids falling lazily over his shoulders, the ends tied with a golden ribbons that looked slightly singed. From your angle, his cheeks appeared flushed, and fingers emerged in cool spring water which, from the look of it, had been mercifully given to him by someone with enough grace to buy him time but not much more. And then there were his robes, ever finely embroidered, were singed at the sleeve, and in his uninjured hand he held a covered dish carefully balanced on a folded towel.

For a long moment, you just stood there, the words you’d been crafting, caught somewhere between your brain and your throat.

Sheepishly he looked up, but hopeful, as though he wasn’t entirely certain whether you’d laugh at him or throw him out. “…Hello,” he said, with a slow dimpled smile that would do dangerous things to anyone’s composure. “I seem to have run afoul of the culinary arts.”

You blinked, dumbfounded. “You…cooked?”

Gently he lifted the dish. “I tried.”

There was a beat of silence passing before you exhaled, letting your shoulders drop with a quiet sigh of disbelief as you closed the door behind you. “Ah, uh, what, how, um—What did you do, throw yourself into the oven to see if it was warm enough?”

“Not at all,” he cheerily beamed, holding back a laugh, “just the tray. Though in hindsight, I do wonder if it had it out for me.”

Stepping forward, already reaching for the bandages and ointments, your eyes flicked toward the dish he held with curiosity now tinged with concern.

“Is that the dish? What did you whip up?”

There was a small puzzled expression crossing his face, resembling a puppy, before recognition. “A peace offering,” he replied shakily, as though all his confidence vanished at his pre-confession. “Brownies. I followed Glorfindel’s instructions. Mostly.”

There was a sudden pause as you looked him over, teetering on the edge of disbelief. “Glorfindel taught you to bake?”

Fingon nodded with utmost seriousness. “He claimed it was the quickest path to someone’s heart. Though he failed to mention how hazardous the process would be.”

And in spite of yourself, you laughed softly, like a bubbling spring because the image of the fierce and golden-haired Balrog-slayer teaching Fingon, High Prince of the Noldor, to bake brownies for the sake of wooing someone was so utterly absurd and endearing that you couldn’t help it.

Turning to set down your supplies, you shook your head. “Well, I suppose we should take a look at the damage. Your hand, I mean. I’ll see about the brownies after. Hopefully they’re still alive.”

“It isn’t burnt that terribly,” he whispered depreciated, feeling as though you might view his attempt as failure if you deem it needing ‘saving.’

As you began to gently unwrap the compress, your fingers working with the familiarity born of long hours spent in this house, you caught the way his gaze lingered on you with the an observational reverence of someone who saw more than what you showed to others.

It was the same look he always wore when he visited under the guise of wishing to see Elrond and learn more stories about Middle Earth through the ages.

Shaking your head at the notion, you drifted your focus to the warmth of his skin beneath your fingers—warmer than usual, reddened and delicate where it had come into contact with the offending tray. You handled his hand with practiced care, gently dabbing the cool salve along the burn in slow, even strokes, watching his knuckles twitch ever so slightly under the cooling touch. Callouses had decorated his broad hand from years of training, strong and sure in ways you had always noticed and tried not to dwell on.

The silence in the room shifted into something softer, the kind that always stretched between you and Fingon whenever he visited—full of things unsaid. It was filled with his quiet, steady gaze and the careful way he spoke around you, never too forward, always leaving space for you to step toward or away. His gesture always made you flustered and you hated how your heartbeat sped up at his nearness, how his mere presence made the room feel smaller, warmer. More intimate.

“You really burned yourself baking brownies?” you asked again, anything to resist awkwardness settling, though your voice had lost its earlier sharpness. “That’s a new low, even for you.”

There was a faint tilt of his head, and a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth, his gaze never leaving your face. “It is a rather undignified wound, is it not? Shall I conjure a better tale? One involving a great hunting tale, perhaps?”

“I might believe it more,” you airily chuckled, smoothing a salve-covered thumb across the edge of the burn. “You’d look more at home hunting than in a kitchen.”

“Then it pleases me you’re tending to me now. You’re far gentler than Glorfindel was with his ‘lessons.’”

That led to a soft snort. “I’m surprised he didn’t teach you with a sword in one hand and a spatula in the other.”

“You are quite the seer. That is close to how he appeared,” Fingon beamed with all the solemnity of someone recounting a great personal trial. “It was chaos. I nearly lost an eyebrow.”

You couldn’t help the grin that tugged at your lips, though you kept your head ducked slightly to focus on his hand. “Well, I suppose it’s commendable you’re still alive. And you made it all the way here without dropping the brownie, so really, you should be proud.”

“I am,” he whispered quieter, almost thoughtful. “Though I might be prouder if you agreed to share it with me later.”

That made you looked up slowly, your eyes meeting his, and there it was again—that look. As if he were studying something he didn’t quite understand but very much wanted to. As if the room contained only you, and nothing else in Valinor could possibly matter. You held his gaze for a moment too long before you cleared your throat and gently set his bandaged hand aside to retrieve fresh gauze.

“I’ll wrap this,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. “It’s not severe, but you’ll want to avoid using that hand for a few days.”

A silence fell over you two once again as he watched you work without flinching, unmoving, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, softer, almost hesitant.

“You know,” he murmured, “when I asked Glorfindel to teach me, it wasn’t only for the brownie.”

You paused, not looking up. “Really?”

“No,” he reassured, and now his voice carried a note of quiet conviction, the kind that unnerved you more than a storm ever could. “It was for the question I intended to ask you when I brought it.”

A pregnant stillness lingered in the air, forcing you to halt, fingers hovering above the bandage, your breath catching before you forced yourself to resume wrapping, slower now. “What kind of question?” you asked, though you felt like you knew, though you felt the answer humming under your skin already.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he flexed his uninjured hand slightly in his lap, his expression unreadable.

“You’re not from here,” he spoke up at last. “You’re not of Arda. Not even of the race of Men that my people once knew. And yet…you are here. Amongst us. Amongst me. And I find myself thinking of you more often than I ought.”

You swallowed, fingers tightening just slightly as you secured the gauze and fastened it in place.

“That’s not an answer,” you said softly, unable to stop the tremor in your voice.

He leaned forward, not enough to invade your space, but enough that you could smell the hint of chocolate still clinging to his robes, enough that his gaze became inescapable.

“I wanted to ask if I might court you,” he announced, simply. No fanfare, no embellishment—just quiet honesty. “Properly. Despite what separates us.”

You froze, fingers resting lightly against his wrist, your heart hammering as your mind tried and failed to conjure the right thing to say. There wasn’t a time when you had imagined this moment in foolish, lonely hours—always dismissing it as impossible, as something out of place and time. Because he was Fingon. High Prince of the Noldor. Reborn from the halls of Mandos, a song made flesh, heir to a house that shaped the fate of kingdoms.

And you were just…you. A human, displaced and strange, a creature of science and sarcasm, stitching wounds and fetching herbs in a world that still felt too luminous, too vast for your understanding.

Looking up at him slowly, words suffocating somewhere behind your teeth but refusing to come out. And he saw it—your hesitation, your disbelief. So he did what Fingon always did best.

He smiled.

“I know it is much to ask,” he said gently. “And I know our paths were never meant to cross. But they have. And I would not ignore that.”

You breathed out shakily, forcing yourself to step back and busy yourself with cleaning up the used bandages, because if you stood still any longer, you feared you might say something you weren’t ready to understand.

“Fingon,” you began, then faltered, eyes on your hands.

“I am not asking you to decide now,” he corrected quickly and earnestly. “Only that you think on it. That you know it is not a jest, nor some fleeting interest.”

Dared not to glance back at him, but you did and saw the sincerity etched in every line of his face, every soft curve of his lips, and something ached inside you, deep and old.

He didn’t press.

He only stood, slowly, cradling the brownies with his good hand and offering you the faintest of bows.

“I will return once the hand has healed,” he said, though something in his voice hinted he would return far sooner than that. “You may decide then whether to eat this with me…or scold me further.” And with that, he turned and left, leaving behind a strange warmth in his absence, and the faint scent of cocoa and burnt flour lingering in the air.

The healing house had grown quiet by the time the sun dipped low beyond the pearl-white trees and into the soft gold veil of twilight. Most of the other aides had long since gone home, leaving only a hush behind—the kind that settled thick over stone corridors and turned idle thoughts into wandering ghosts. You remained at your corner station, but your hands had grown still, unmoving for a while now, your mind elsewhere entirely.

You hadn’t been able to shake Fingon’s voice from your ears. The way he had said it—I find myself thinking of you more often than I ought. So simple, and yet spoken with the same conviction you imagined he might’ve once used before galloping into battle. No elf had ever spoken to you like that before, and certainly no prince. Not with intention. And definitely not after burning his hand trying to impress you with dessert.

A short, unwilling laugh escaped you at the memory.

He had really done that. The valiant, golden and hearty son of the House of Fingolfin had burned himself making brownies. For you.

When the door to the healer’s quarters creaked open, you were certain it was one of the senior healers come to check on late records. You didn’t glance up right away. But the moment you did, you found Fingon standing there again—cloaked now, though still informal, the hood pushed back to reveal the soft unbraided tumble of his dark hair, loose in a way that made him appear younger, more relaxed.

He held the same small covered dish in one hand. The other, the burnt one, was still wrapped in your handiwork. And you stared at him, stunned.

“You were meant to be resting,” you said dumbly.

“I did rest,” he replied, stepping inside. “Long enough to convince myself that if I waited until morning, the courage might drain right out of me. And then you’d be left with half a brownie and a full silence.”

You blinked. “Sooooo, you came back tonight?”

“I had hoped,” he said, a little more carefully now, “that you might be willing to share it with me. Now. If it’s not too bold.”

That should have been your cue to send him home. You should’ve told him you were tired, that it had been a long day, that patients were exhausting, that you needed to sleep and think and breathe—but you didn’t say any of those things. Instead, you stared at the hearty dish in his hands, the scent of sweet chocolate wafting from it as he stepped closer.

“Are you sure it is edible?” you asked warily.

“That depends,” he chuckled with a slight smirk. “Will you eat it even if it’s not?”

Your expression twitched. “If I die, Elrond will kill you.”

“Then it’s fortunate you are the healer,” he said, arching an eyebrow. “I assume you know how to revive yourself.”

You huffed, unable to help the small laugh that escaped as you shook your head and moved to the table near the corner hearth. Fingon followed, settling across from you as if it were the most natural thing in the world—as though he had done it a thousand times before and would again, for years still to come.

Producing two forks from the drawer, you slid one across the table toward him. He uncovered the dish with a flourish that would’ve been comical had it not smelled absolutely heavenly. You blinked at the warm, brown crust, bubbling edges, and faint caramelised glaze across the top.

“Well fuck me,” you muttered. “You actually pulled it off.”

“I am capable of more than I appear,” he proudly boasted with mock gravity, lifting a fork with the grace of someone raised to dine beside kings. “Though I dare say the presentation is Glorfindel’s doing. I only barely avoided burning it twice.”

Humming at his words, you took your own bite, and to your immense surprise, it wasn’t just edible—it was good. Warm and bright and syrupy with melted chocolate. You made a soft, delighted noise despite yourself. That response made Fingon’s eyes lit immediately. “That sound,” he said, too quickly, “—forgive me—it pleased me.”

Your fork paused halfway back to the bowl, and you looked at him across the modest firelight and shadows of the stone walls, feeling suddenly shy in a way that annoyed you.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” you reminded him. “I still haven’t agreed to anything.”

“I know.” He didn’t flinch. “I said I would wait.”

And he meant it. It showed in the steady way he looked at you, never pressing, never insisting, only offering his presence—his real presence—as if to say, Here I am. If you want me.

It had been a long time since anyone had made you feel like the choice was yours.

“I don’t know how it would work,” you admitted finally, the words barely above a whisper. “I’m not from this world. I say strange things, do stranger things. I don’t have kin here. No lineage. No...destiny. And human-elven relationships…” You trailed off, glancing away. “They never end well. You know that. You’re ancient, Fingon. I’m a blink.”

He didn’t reply right away. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, spoon still resting untouched in his bowl.

“And yet, for all my age, I have never met another like you,” he whispered quietly. “Not in all my days of fire and war, nor in all the years I have wandered since. You carry strangeness like a torch. You shine in ways that make my kind curious, and sometimes confused, but never unmoved. You remind me of the world we nearly lost—the one we fought for.”

You blinked fast, your throat tightening at the rawness in his voice. Then he placed his fork down, looking suddenly uncertain, hesitant.

“I do not ask for forever,” he said. “Only…for a beginning.”

And it was then—only then—you understood. It wasn’t just affection he was offering, it wasn’t about courtship the way your world understood it. He wanted to build something with you. Whatever shape it could take. He wasn’t afraid of the human-elf barrier because to him, the time he had now meant more than the memory of what time had taken.

You didn’t speak for a moment, only reached for his hand again—the one you’d wrapped in bandages earlier—and rested your fingers lightly over his wrist.

The gentle touch of your hand upon his, he looked down at the contact, then back up at you with a quiet, surprised hope.

“I’m not promising anything eternal,” you reminded, a smile tugging weakly at your lips. “But…we can start with brownies.”

Just hearing your response, accustomed to your playfulness, his laugher echoed softly, yet disbelieving, eyes shining in the firelight.

“I would’ve burned both hands for that,” he proudly stated. “And I’m ready to try another sweet.”

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comfortless · 1 year ago

Note

Hello! This is the Frankenstein anon back with more praise and another prompt that you might like. Again you are amazing and everyone you come out with stuff, I weep for joy! Please continue what you are doing because it is absolute art✨

Okay onto the prompt. So lately tiktok has been putting onto this telenova drama called Hilda Furcão which is pretty much this priest and prostitute fall in love but due to societal pressures, cannot be together. The YEARNING in this show is amazing and I can’t help but think of Priest Konig in this situation. Imagine he falls in love with reader who works at a brothel but because he’s a churchly man, he’s fighting demons in his head (and down yonder) cuz he YEARNS for her but the lord says no🥴

Please keep doing what you’re doing and I’m constantly cheering you on with your work! ❤️

In the Arms of Flowers

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. pining, lots of talk of religion/silly metaphors, fluff, ridiculous attempts at courtship from both, dark (if you squint), implied cyber stalking, violence/murder, minor character death, some angst, sexual violence (not done by König), König becomes horribly obsessed and reader is fine with it, virgin!König-> oral (both receiving) piv smut.

wc: 11k.

There’s a garden in the churchyard, one that’s always been, even before his vows were taken and the cassock was pulled around his shoulders.

It’s the very place that the arching den window in the clergy house faces out towards, and the very place that an angel descends from Heaven to stalk through night after night.

Even when the thunder clamors and rolls to light up the sky above, the pretty thing is there, kneeling amongst the blooming lilies. A listless sort of purity swallows over her, bathes her in the white of petals and the bright illumination of each bolt of lightning above, arcs a halo over her head like a proper mirage.

The whole town knows these doors remain open, but never does she even look toward the church or the home of holy men at all: only the flowers. The lilies and carnations seemed to be her favorite to haunt, weaving through the petals as they sway for her in breezes like whispers from the pouting lips of cherubim.

He’s prayed for this lost soul many times already; clutched the rosary between his fingers and whispered to the Lord to protect her, to heal whatever aches, to bring her wandering feet into the chapel one of these days. But as most lilies, this one’s beauty is gone away by mid-morning.

Tonight, he wills himself to bring her in for prayer and refuge from the coming rain. Its been a long time coming, and regrettably he’s hesitated at every other opportunity. Nothing’s changed, the scene was so commonplace even the others have commented on it prior.

Maybe he hallucinates her holiness; the halo has become made up of fallen petals now as they arch over the crown of her head where she’s found sprawled out amongst them. She raises herself to sit upright, dusts the dirt from her knees and offers a wary glance with each step he takes until his soles halt in soil that would soon be mire.

“I’m sorry. I’ll leave,” the angel breathes out with her eyes darting from his collar down to rest at the expanse of short blades of grass between them. “I don’t mean to cause you any trouble.”

She doesn’t meet the concern in his eyes, and König is no stranger to sin. To the shame and grief that he’s absolved from far worse than her in the stuffy wooden confessional.

“You’re welcome to stay.” A silent prayer rests there in his breath — please stay, though even he wasn’t certain as to why there’s a demand stirring in the pit of his stomach for this woman clad in a dirtied white dress.

She smiles then, gazes right up at him in such a way that immediately sparks something misplaced, something tucked away beneath studying scripture and kneeling before the wooden altar. A sin of the flesh, a heated poker jabbing at both his heart and his loins.

“No, I’m okay,” she assures with a slight dip of her head, already taking steps back to dart away, back to whichever gilded little nest of baubles and starlight she took flight from. “I was just heading home.”

And that’s it. He doesn’t plead for her to come inside, the offer has been laid out already. It’s not his job to force a belief that one doesn’t want, only lend a kindness and a cushioned pew, advice for the lost and a choir for bleating lambs.

He bids her goodbye and walks back to the clergy house, ignoring the strange looks of his peers as they all prepare to bed down after a nightly prayer. It’s rare to smile here, when sacred words are passed from the wrinkled, cracked lips of his seniors. But König does smile, the grin is as bright as the seconds of white lighting up the sky in intervals as he silently thanks God for such a sweet vision amidst such darkness.

The fixation does not falter for the following three nights. She doesn’t return to the churchyard to whisper secrets to the blooms, but the angel weighs on his mind so heavily that König finds himself convinced that she must have been his calling, a soul that he would assuredly save.

His sermons now lack their passion. The parishioners come to him with weighty hearts and misery in their eyes, but bless him all the same, even when he’s distant. Away with the fairies, some would say. He can’t help but wonder when one such service rolls to a closing prayer if whoever conjured such words had also been in the presence of a seraph.

“Do you need prayer?,” one of his fellow priests asks as the flock trickles out, worry clear in the wrinkles laden beneath this eyes and the way his lips draw down before pressing thin. “You don’t seem to be sleeping well.”

And König regrets the words he speaks next, when he describes the woman from the flowers in detail greater than necessary: how her eyes seemed so soft, her smile fragile, and her body language more docile than that of even a lamb. He mentions the dirty dress, the way she seemed to be trying to escape something yet refused the shelter he offered.

The other priest nods and sighs, his eyes squeezing shut in thought, and though König has not feared a scolding since he abandoned home nearly two decades prior, the way the ordinarily calm priest seems so frustrated by this sends a swell of fluttering anxiety beneath his ribcage.

“The woman you describe is a temptress,” his elder explains coldly. His sharp, dark eyes rest on König’s face as though the disparity in their height does not exist at all. “Best to let her be, she does not want our help. Leave it alone.”

“Ja. Verstanden.”

The warning is enough to dull the buzzing in his chest, the mush that’s been made up of his head until he sees her again.

The bakery in town regularly makes donations of pastries and thick loaves of bread for church goingson. It isn’t regular that he’s been asked to pick them up; the eldest of the priests usually does so, some blood relation to the owners that König has never cared enough to ask about. The old man never did well in the summer months, though, far too frail now to bear the heat snaking over his pale skin and leaving burns.

With the mistake of rambling onward about this perturbing fascination still grating at his mind, he doesn’t hesitate to volunteer, to take the old truck and step away from the stained glass and crucifixes for a brief outing. A moment of respite.

There’s a complimentary mug of coffee presented across the expanse of the counter when the cashier greets him with a smile so broad it seems faked.

König’s fingers twitch when he grasps at the handle; the uncertainty was something he had sworn he would outgrow one day with God’s healing, but it never seemed to stray far from him. It rests over the back of his neck like a feeding vampire when he takes his first sip, one that burns his tongue and stings at his eyes when he notices the woman seated at a table in the corner.

It’s her: temptation and fate packaged up in a loose fitting sweater that covers the pulse in her neck and a short skirt.

She holds her phone, not the mug stationed before her, staring down at the thing with the most somber expression he’s ever seen on a lady before. She taps her thumbs at the screen, talking to someone, but there’s a loneliness in her expression apparent like the rust on the old truck parked outside.

Poor little thing.

She glances up when his staring is detected, confusion stripped bare upon her with a pinched brow and a slack jaw. Then, follows realization and she offers the same smile she did that night, some seventy or so hours prior.

“Morning, Father.”

There’s not a fractal within König that wants to make the sweet spirit uncomfortable, but each step he takes towards her table seems to make her shoulders tense. She knows that he knows, sees that sympathetic look in his eye and hates it.

Maybe even hates him for the divinity he wears in the sable cloth pulled over his shoulders.

That doesn’t stop his approach.

König sits across from her with shaking hands and a forced smile like the one the cashier wears, drops his mug onto the table and offers her his hand. Fingers bending to graze the palm as though beckoning a frightened animal when it’s he who feels most afraid.

The angel merely eyes him cautiously for a moment before she takes the cup into both of her hands and gives him a fragile huff, dismissing his attempt to pray for her soul. Again. Yet, the sting he feels is not from a lack of a starved savior complex being satisfied, only… that he has yet to touch her somehow. That sudden thought stifles him in full.

But angels are nothing if not merciful and loving; she picks up on his dejection and speaks again in his place.

“How are the carnations?”

“Hm?”

“The flowers in the garden… the red ones,” she elaborates with a soft laugh, hides it behind the rim of her cup when it’s raised for her to take a sip. Her mouth looks soft, compelling, and he’s staring again. “I like them the most.”

He knows he should stop this, that what’s become of an innocent meeting has left him feeling anything but. There’s a howling chasm in place of the heart of a worthy devotee. She’s nothing like the women who frequent the church — the only other women he sees. Brighter at best and alluring at the worst.

“I thought the lilies were your favorite…” It’s unsuited for a priest and a man so tall and broad to sound so breakable, but his voice only comes in an hurried breath, embarrassed and small.

She shakes her head, tousles her hair in the process. “I like all of them. The ones at your church grow prettiest.”

“I see…”

The woman gives him an expectant look, as if prompting him to speak more, before her phone chimes and the air seems to shift from tentative yet sweet to something vast and cold. She doesn’t seem eager to be interrupted in such a way, either; her expression falls from that subtle playfulness to something akin to a regretful acceptance.

She stands from her seat abruptly and takes a step towards the door. “I have something I need to take care of.”

God gives and takes away.

“I can bring you some,” he offers, winding in the too-small wooden chair to face her. Too late to reel in the flirtatious nature of such an offering, too late to bite his tongue and remember the vows he had taken. The burden upon his heart seems far more pressing than any words from an old book. “Carnations and lilies… some of the others, too.”

The woman almost seems shy when she glances over her shoulder and offers him the most imperceptible nod. “Yeah, sure… I’ll see you around.”

His angel leaves him to rot in thought at that lonely table, in this tiny bakery. He does not think to repent for the way his temperature and pulse spiked in her presence, for the way he takes her empty cup and stuffs it into one of the boxes of baked goods to collect later.

Riding back to the church is dreadful, because she’s already fastened to his heart like a ribbon on a pretty bouquet. He’ll ask the sisters from the cloister to clip flowers for him, tie them up in a lace that will leave her face warmed and lips pouting.

When the people in the church have their fill of sweets and bread, König tells a lie, maybe several.

He claims he doesn’t know why that innocuous porcelain thing is resting where food once had, doesn’t know why the baker would have stuffed that in there too. He takes it to his room and claims that he would return it come morning.

The bed has always felt far too small for him alone, but he pictures her there with him, sat upon his lap when he brings the cup up to his lips with his eyes closed.

It’s cold and hard, difficult to imagine it to be a kiss at all, but he pretends her lips are upon him, eager and willing. It takes only rolling his tongue back to flick over itself, envisioning it being her own, for him to feel his trousers grow too tight. He doesn’t touch himself. He can’t bear the thought of it, not with the cross staring down at him from the far wall.

And finally, regret comes.

Shame, too, because König is aware he’s become a bit of a creep; enchanting himself with second hand kisses whilst his angel takes another man to bed. A man undeserving, but… he could be. He was deserving enough to become a holy man, surely she could see he was worthy of her as well.

The bed is too small even when he curls into himself and pulls the blanket up passed his eyes. Sleep is too skittish to come for him, even when he prays in a whisper to be absolved of his lust.

The dreams are only filled with images of an angel trapped in a rose bush, the thorns sinking into her wings until blood is drawn, but still she smiles. She reaches toward him with shaky limbs, whispers something so dreadfully mournful he knows to his very soul that she is his purpose alone.

It’s what wakes him in a fit, compels him to venture out through the yard with a heart set on seeking guidance. There are moonbeams above and animal calls from the surrounding trees. All of God’s creations are in perfect, dreamy harmony.

Why couldn’t he be the same? Always the outsider in one way or another; always the sore thumb rather than the loving green. Desolation is an art, a skill he’s learned to hide back: clenched teeth to still a wrathful tongue and a layer of muscle to guard that wounded thing in his chest.

There is no better peace than the quiet of the church in the late hour. Moonlight through stained glass and empty, antique seats that would make the worldly whip out their phones to snap pictures in a heartbeat. The doors are always open, for the sinners and the devoted alike, though the confessional is rarely touched when there would be no saint awake set on absolving.

Perhaps that’s why he takes to the booth he needs to make himself smaller to fit into: one shoulder and one foot first, then the next set. He’s never cared for it, left it to the better and smaller. The sound just past the thin partition rattles him. It isn’t the creaking of wood below his feet, but something softer. A weak sniffle. A cry from the other side.

“I’ll leave in a moment,” comes a voice, broken from tears and so horribly sad that the usual script entirely fails him. He recognizes the voice, though a bit warbled now. The voice that would make the choir pause, an angel’s sweet tone.

“Wait… no. You can stay. I’m hiding, too.” A breathy laugh comes forced and misplaced. Priest or not, König has never been the best at consoling anyone, let alone one so far above him.

“I’m not hiding,” she tries to sound braver now. He can imagine her chin tilted forward and that sweet smile trying it’s damndest to paint its way across her face. “But… why are you?”

“Don’t know.”

“Who are you?” The crying seems to have ceased entirely for now. Clearly whatever seemed to ail her could be remedied by her own curiosity. A cute, unorthodox little thing.

“König.” It served well enough as a confirmation name when he could not settle on one of the saints. King of them all, one of the other saved men had said in jest. Ironic, now.

“I like your voice, König,” she murmurs, deliberately testing the pronunciation on her tongue in such an alluring way that a small shiver runs its way down his spine.

“Danke… and you?”

God forgive him, he doesn’t even try. Doesn’t try to bring shame or guilt, read her scripture or pray for her soul. He only listens in silence when she tells him her name, beautiful and charming as he had expected it to be. The woman then tells him of her work, of the motel she ventures to at night… the troubles with money and even vaguely, some of the men she suffers through. This had been a bad night. Strange how a singular hour could have broken someone down to such a desperation to open up, to grasp for what small comfort they could receive.

But she came for him.

She must have hoped to see him.

He thanks his god for that.

— — —

“I bought a phone.”

“I see that.” Her fingers graze over the stems of the flowers, cleanly cut by hands more patient and stable than König’s own.

The angel isn’t looking up at him, not this time. There isn’t even a smile on her face when she cradles the bouquet close to her chest, petting over it where she sits upon the motel bed wearing nothing but some strappy, barely-there lingerie. Pure white with pink lace over the cups of her bra where her breasts swell with each shaky intake of breath.

In this week apart, he’s kept the device hidden in a loose pocket and spent many a night scouring the seediest websites looking for a hint of a body that may belong to her in this very area. Only one seemed to match. The messages exchanged were about hours and pricing, establishing a location, and terms he didn’t quite understand. He didn’t harp on the small details, but finding her messages to be so rigid and dry did surprise him. There were no cute hearts or winking emojis, it all felt horribly transactional.

Priests don’t make a lot of money, it all goes back to the church, but he’s thieved enough from the offering bowls to have a night with her alone. As disheartening as the lack of flirtations seemed, he hoped not to squander whatever opportunity this outing proved to be.

The balaclava covering his face wasn’t purchased with the intention of making her nervous, only… shielding himself from curious stares. The whole town knows his face, his name, the words he speaks so resolutely to his flock. Just as well as they know of who she is, what she does.

Even this knitted shield couldn’t hide himself from her, though. The very moment he entered this drab, modestly decorated room with flowers in hand she had only looked further lost.

“You look very pretty,” he tries as he removes the mask and drops it to the floor, kneels just a hair from where her feet dangle from the bed. “I’m glad that I found you.”

“Thank you.”

The flowers are placed on the side table, petals falling down to the thin carpet below. A cascade of red like blood and white like doves feathers. Purity and a wound in one.

The poor thing looks scorned when she does give him a glance then, but she forces herself into a position that stokes a hellish, unnatural flame within him. Her thighs part as her hands rest on the cups of her bra, pushing the thin fabric down to reveal areola, her soft nipples, sights that he had never seen before.

“You shouldn’t even be here, König,” the lady warns when his gaze sweeps over the innocent flesh laid bare before him. The angel isn’t even wet. Her panties are pristine over her womanhood, and it dawns on him that… she wouldn’t risk what he was even for the generous donation he had given.

“I don’t want to ruin you.”

But she should. Crumble him into salt, cast him away with the wind. Should.

She sees something holy in him too… albeit, not in the way that he would like for her to.

He swallows hard as he rises to his feet and sits next to her. The hands that were so accustomed to being joined in prayer find her breasts now with tentative touches, a curious squeeze, until he wills himself to readjust the fabric and conceal her properly.

“Ja, but… I just wanted to visit you.”

“You don’t need to pay me just to see me.”

The tension in the room finally begins to dissolve. Not by much, but when she sighs something that sounds like amusement, the restless throbbing of his heart does begin to settle.

As much as he would like to take her like some beast in rut, lay some claim to her in bursts of white seed, he doesn’t even know where to begin. Each curve of her body looks as though it would feel like a miracle beneath his palm, under his tongue.

It’s just that nothing is going to happen, not here, not now that he’s brought a prostitute flowers and revealed who he was to her. She sees something pitiful, where he only sees someone to love.

He can’t tell her that he dreams of her, that he views her in the same way he views his god. That would only scare her away, lead her to believe he’s a lunatic rather than a man only just now having his first taste of love.

“Then could I see you every night? So that you don’t have to…” His head dips, because no matter how he tries he knows any word he says is foolish.

This isn’t something she’s doing because it is fun for her; it’s a job just like his own. Flesh or words spoken… did it even matter? And yet, König could feel a malicious, gnawing envy at the thought of a bolder man taking his place tomorrow evening. That man wouldn’t hesitate to peel away her pretty lingerie and fuck her, shove his tongue into her mouth while his cock sat between her legs as if it belonged there.

“König,” she sighs next to him, pityingly.

His jaw tenses as his fingers curl into his palms. The hopelessness of it all crashes down around him as though sung out from the loudest of the choir. He hardly notices when she presses her head against his shoulder, only realizes how close she’s come to him when her hand curls over one of his own.

“You’re the strangest man I’ve ever met.” It’s not a compliment but it feels like one when she laughs like that, airy and soft. “The sweetest one, too.”

He smells her perfume from this close, something scented like fruit or maybe maple, sap-sticky and saccharine. All of her flesh feels warm against the plain t-shirt he wears, a warmth he would give anything to dive into, but not without her explicit command. A powerful seraph in the form of one painfully cute, gentle lady. If anyone could see what he saw now, they too would forsake those holy books and eat from her open palm instead.

“I don’t know what to do,” he confesses, a peculiar bitterness hanging on his tongue.

“How about a walk?”

He pulls the balaclava over his face again when they make their way out into the quiet, darkened street. Hand in hand. It’s not from shame, but a necessity, perhaps, because his pale face has only flowered into a lasting pink since laying eyes upon her on that mattress, sprawled out and waiting. The blush only deepens with every squeeze she blesses him with, every hushed word spoken as she tells him about her favorite places.

She’s dressed in the same white dress they had initially met in, now clean of the dirt from flower beds. Somehow even more radiant at this close, too.

The churchyard and the clergy house are nothing in comparison to the way the rest of the town feels when the moon rises. It’s a world all their own, a place where no one looks at her as if she were a simple harlot, but a queen amongst chipping wood and tarmac. There’s even a skip in her step as she walks ahead of him, her hips swaying beneath her skirt. All because there’s no one here but she and her most loyal and only acolyte.

He wills himself out of her grasp when they cross the threshold into the cemetery. The darkness there is enough to pull him back to earth; thoughts of how easily swayed he’s been linger in the back of his mind. The want doesn’t even begin to reel back its claws, but the guilt does sink its pearly fangs in alongside it.

“I get it. You don’t want to be seen with me,” she says a small step away, drawing her hand up to her chest. It’s the saddest she’s ever looked, and he doesn’t have the words to further explain that he has no god damn idea what he’s doing: here, with her, in the midst of something that feels so normal even though it should not.

“Nein! That’s not—“

“You don’t want to touch me. You barely talk…”

Because the words don’t come easy. Because he’s never felt such an overbearing devotion to anyone, anything apart from what he prays to. How could she… this woman that shared in such loneliness with him not see him for what he was, not see him in the way that he sees her?

“You’re misunderstanding.”

“You just want to… to convert me, is that right?,” she hisses, sounding more shaken up than he had ever hoped to hear.

All hesitation had to be swallowed back.

There was no other option. He could feel her slipping away, a pain he wasn’t prepared to face.

God gives and takes away, but König refuses to let go.

His eyes narrow, his breath halts entirely, and he cups her face in his hands as gently as he can. The distance between them feels like miles as he lowers his head to kiss her through the knit barrier. It’s flighty and petrifying on his side… he feels cold sweat wet his brow when the warmth of her pulls through.

She could hit him, spit her curses like a proper witch, and he would only fall to her feet and kiss her heels. But… she does none of those things. Whatever pain was brewing here is ripped away with the night breeze.

Her hands peel away the balaclava, discard it somewhere into the tall grass where it wouldn’t be found, and she grants him his first, proper kiss.

With only the cracked headstones and cemetery angels watching, what once was tentative becomes a full indulgence. König samples from her mouth as though it weeps honey when the gentle peck graduates to a parting of lips. His hands run down the length of her sides as she grasps at his shirt, they pull her in close until her chest meets his own and two pairs of eyelids flutter.

She feels more heavenly than his imagination could have prepared him for, her tongue hotter and her sounds… the soft sighs and shaky murmurs of approval that fill him with both a maddening love and an urge to burn everything away if only it would keep her safe and near.

The world ceases to be entirely, cast down with Lucifer to the sulfur and smoke. Her lips remain parted when they break apart, a haze over her eyes reflecting the veil clouding his own irises.

Was a kiss really forsaking his vows? Was that really such a painful treachery? No… no it shouldn’t be. The issue remains that he can not see her as just some woman. Something as small as this could consume him entirely.

The night is spent with an abundance of those shared kisses when they return to the motel. Tentative touches, too. He’s never held a woman, not in the way he gets to hold her then. She presses tightly to him, her back to his chest with her hand keeping his own in place over her middle. She’s so soft, swans down plush and smooth as silk ribbon.

There is mint lingering on her breath each time she speaks. No talk of her work, only… she confesses how she had feared him so initially, how she worried that a holy man stepping into her life would only be further condemnation: an angel terrified by a devil that does not exist at all.

He knows he’s lost a part of himself here when he tells her he wishes to meet with her again, that if the church is no longer the place she fancies to walk, he’ll meet her amongst the dead again and again when the old clergymen sleep. Those promises he had reserved solely for God turn on themselves now, when he reveres the idol he shares this bed with.

Though her hips press back against his groin when his fingers crawl up to her sternum, and the desire strikes up within him, his cock remains untouched here. He doesn’t whisper a prayer for forgiveness into her hair when he grows hard, just tucks her in closer and smiles where his head rests atop her own.

It’s the closest to bliss he’s ever felt.

— — —

“You weren’t here for morning prayer.” The voice isn’t accusatory, just observant. The nightly prayers were missed too, though a reprieve is granted by way of those remaining unmentioned.

But the guilt does eat at König when he sees the concern in this man’s eyes, splinters at his very soul until he asks in a fragile voice if he can speak to the old priest in the confessional.

Everything here feels much too small and the booth is more or less the same. The wood closes in around him, bathes him in a blackness that even the glow of candlelight within these walls can not reach. The partition separating them does not help bolster courage, it only leaves him feeling more alone.

The clergyman listens in silence as König confesses that he has become weak. He does not mention the lady of the night, but there’s no need to at all: finding himself so captivated with a woman that he considered breaking every promise to the higher power was bad enough. He does not mention how he’s considered pleasuring himself, touching her too… only that they shared a night together embraced, counts the kisses that were exchanged with each digit of his hands.

There’s a pitying sigh from the other side before the man begins a lengthy prayer that König does join him in. With the “Amen” that follows, he’s told only to rid himself of those thoughts, to bury them with fasting and prayer. No more visits with this temptress, remain on the right path. The very, very simple things he must do to receive God’s forgiveness and favor once more.

“You are not a disappointment,” his elder reminds him with a small pat to his cheek and a smile. It’s more fatherly than the sparse affection he received from his own flesh and blood before coming here.

“Danke… thank you,” he breathes when his eyes bear the burden of tears.

God loves him and so do the sainted men.

But to never see her again would be worse than flagellation.

He chokes down the pain with more water when his stomach roars with hunger, hides the broken heart with smiles and prayer. Holy clothes feel heavier now. The money he stole to spend that night with her is returned to the collection pool in a week's time. The smartphone he had purchased is tossed out with the rest of the garbage in the bins. Even the cup is returned to the bakery after being rinsed in the sink.

Still not a part of him feels absolved from this torturous puppet show.

He thinks of her more than he ponders over his fear of Hell itself. God feels like an old memory as the days pass. He counts them in his daybook, an ‘X’ next to the dates he had gone without seeing her. Ten becomes twenty, and it becomes no less agonizing.

The prayers come easier, at least. He joins with his fellow men, kneels with his hands clasped before him, speaks such heartfelt words now that on more than one occasion he’s shared a healing tear or two with the other clergymen.

God is an old friend, yes, but that title is just a placeholder for the one his prayers are truly for. The little angel of the garden, the woman who has given him nothing at all but stole his heart all the same. Was she not the same as God from that aspect?

After a month, he’s finally given the privilege to stand before the altar and preach to the parishioners again. His sermon is directed by the other clergymen, a subtle admission of his own misdeeds as he guides the flock away from the sins of lust, of worldly pleasures that would steer them away from the right path.

Amidst the men and women crowding the pews sits a new face. She wears a hat, looking uncertain and skittish as a bunny amidst a pack of starved hounds beneath its curved brim. Her coat is tugged tightly around her where her hands grip to keep it closed and snug. No one is out to get her, not here, but there’s a purplish bruise on her neck. A sad stare trails up to meet his gaze when he stammers through the words of scripture.

Then, she smiles and his heart only feels full.

The sermon ends clumsily enough, but she waits for him in the center pew. He ensures the others have cleared out before he takes rigid steps toward her, where he sits a foot or so away on the bench; the feigned friendliness is only a front for the rapid beating of his heart and the way the blush upon his face paints up to his ears.

“I waited to walk with you… like you promised we would,” she says in place of a greeting. There’s no chiding in her tone, just curiosity. Gentle, like she’s speaking to a wounded bird, and perhaps that’s what he’s become: some big, ugly vulture. Holy in its love of everything from the sky to the rot down below.

“I’m sorry. I..,” he laments, grasping for an explanation that does not come.

“No, I understand. It’s alright, König.”

He knows he doesn’t deserve the gift of her redemption with how easily he turned away from her, from the blooming of… something. It was best not to use that word anymore.

“I just didn’t want to wait any longer. I missed you,” she huffs when the silence extends between them, breaks up the tension in the air but not what creeps over her own shoulders.

“Your bruise..” He wants to tell her of his sleepless nights, of how he pictures her in place of any old deity upon a throne in heaven, but settles for where his eyes linger on her neck.

No explanation is provided, but she lets him bring his fingers to it, ghost over where the purple melds to yellow in the shape of thick fingerprints. Add wrath to the ever growing list of his sins, because it’s all he feels amidst the envy and love.

His fingers dig into the plain back trousers when they rest upon his lap again, something foreign buzzes beneath his skin. The thought that any man would be brazen enough to lay hands upon his very own angel.. It’s unbelievable, unforgivable. His thoughts spiral so quickly it’s frightening. Timid things can become vicious, too, when backed into corners.

She manages to keep this growing storm in check when she stands and smooths her skirt, and offers to tidy up the church in an act of ‘repentance’.

The chores are simple and the sisters that linger far past service seem grateful to have her here as she takes up the broom and sweeps away at the dusty floor. They chatter away with her, take her hat and rest their hands over her shoulders when the cleaning winds to an end. His angel closes her eyes in prayer, doesn’t so much as open them to send him a knowing glance when they pray for her to find a good husband, someone who deserves such a lovely, godly woman.

She shares a meal with them while König keeps to himself with scripture in hand, mindlessly roving over the words even when his thoughts drift to the night of their first kiss.

He reasons that it’s only natural when she gives him such a display of acceptance too. It only solidifies what he knows already: this woman is no succubus— she has not crawled from the depths of Hell to drag him back with her, she’s only heavensent. An angel with a broken wing or a gaping wound somewhere… something to care for.

She’s encouraged to return by several fond voices. A few of the women even offer to walk her home, the daylight is dying and it’s dangerous for a lone lady out at night. The angel smiles at him then, sharing in the knowledge that she prefers the dark. Not the wicked things, but the peace and the beauty of the moon.

And she returns when he abstains from her.

She confides in him after each sermon that she does long to see him more often, but she likes the way he speaks of Mary Magdalene and the other women in scripture, pokes fun at the lilt to his voice when he notices her amidst the crowd of others. She says she likes him a lot before they part ways in the evenings, but she doesn’t tempt him with pouts or trailing fingers.

He thanks her for respecting his faith each time - despite being the one who crossed several boundaries initially. Though he keeps his hands to himself now, the looks he gives to her are pleading and soft. If she would pull him into a kiss now, he would let her have all of him. They could run away together, from the church, from her clients…

It’s on one of those cloudy Sundays that he does ask her if she’s stopped. He braves the look she gives him when his question comes as a hushed stutter. The comfort between them no longer feels tentative. It’s just there. Ever-present as the sky above.

“Well, you haven’t,” she whispers in response, propping her elbow up on the back of the pew. It’s as if she believes it could be so simple, but it’s not. Not for either of them.

The spiels of Heaven and Hell won’t reach her, so he doesn’t bother with those. She offers him an invitation with her words and the way she remains so open that it’s difficult not to take.

It’s been months since he touched her last and the love has only seemed to have grown. Strange. Perhaps he is as odd as she’s imagined him to be. There have been weddings in this very church, talks of long years of courtship, and even then what those men must have felt for their brides had to have paled in comparison to this. It had to.

“Tell me how to,” he breathes without any underlying thought. Saints don’t question their gods, they only serve them.

“You’re actually considering it…?”

“I might.”

The silence crowds around the bench while her fingers brush over the pages of a hymnal in repetition and his only inch closer to her clothed knee.

“You could meet me at the cemetery tonight… We could talk more there.”

“At night is probably not the best time.”

“Well, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

Friends don’t kiss. Friends don’t feel the way he feels now, or how he’s felt for the past few months. Platonic arrangements don’t require repentance. But, he bites his tongue and tilts his head back, lets it roll off the shoulder when his hand draws back to his lap. Another time.

Not where the Heavenly Father could see, if he were even watching any longer.

“… Tomorrow morning would be better.”

“Then I’ll come get you. Don’t you dare try and get out of it,” she chirps with the wildest glint of mirth alight in her eyes.

Stay.

If the church caught fire now and the rafters came to sink into the earth not a part of him would or could even care as long as she were just here. But he watches her go without a word of opposition, watches her nod toward the sisters standing out in the yard and clasp her hands in front of her, smiling to herself as though the world were made for just the two of them.

It stings during nightly prayer, and it burns when he lies in bed to wait for the morning. There are cicadas singing and footsteps on old wooden boards to remind him that he isn’t entirely alone, the scent of tobacco drifting from his window when another plaster saint hides beyond the veil of night to smoke. He doesn’t sleep, his eyes remain fixed upon the ceiling until the darkness of the room drifts to a dull gray with the sun’s slow rise.

And König does not wait for her to fetch him. Morning prayer dissolves into a mournful cry because there is no part of him that can fathom or interpret any of this. A trial should not feel like a blessing when he’s faced with it. God must be playing the stupidest game imaginable to test him with someone so lovable, so charming. Where the church leaves him feeling filthy with remorse, she purifies him with only a curl of her lips and starlight dancing in her eyes.

None of it is fair.

The guilt must be something obligatory, summoned up like puffs of dust from the floorboards. Worshiping idols is a sin, but it’s not the angel that feels like one, it’s the attention he pays to the cloud in his head that does. That’s the one that should go.

He grits through prayer with the other men, doesn’t chime in with unnecessary words of devotion this time. The coffee burns his tongue when he downs the mug and forgoes breakfast. There are dark rings beneath his eyes when he ventured to the washroom to brush his teeth, and there are whispers in the halls that the young priest must be either coming under a possession or God is preparing him for something. Something big and exciting. He ignores those and the stern glances from the little nuns in their robes, huffs something of a joke about a momentary sabbatical when he lumbers out of the walls of the church.

There are no new bruises this time, but König has the memory of the last ones stuck in his skull. A clear image of four small marks on the side of her neck, another on its opposite. Larger, more pronounced. Five marks from a hand that never belonged there. Kerosene and a match are what the thoughts running rampant in his head would look like to an outsider.

She tells him on the thin picnic blanket that she’s got a new client, that he gives her enough to where she doesn’t have to consider any others now. The man has a much stranger set of interests, ones she hadn’t delved into before him, but she’s merciful enough to withhold the details that would lead König to make the crucifixion seem a gentle affair.

She tells him because she wants him to be proud that it’s only one now. That she’s making some sort of progress for him. None of it is fair, and he knows without asking that she feels more akin to the way that he does than any of the holy men.

And still he can’t help but ask, “Do you love him?”

“Of course not,” comes her immediate response, and there’s a near imperceptible glare there, judging by the fire in her eyes. It’s cute… and he feels the world's ugliest fool for daring to ask for reassurance as though this relationship was any sort of normal. If it were even a relationship at all.

Their hands touch, reaching for the same flaky pastry in the basket she brought along and Heaven’s bells ring out in his ears when her gaze sweeps over him. Everything is sugared dough and right again. She offers him her lap in place of a pillow for his head when the clouds grow thick and gray above, feeds him from her own hand and runs her fingers across his face with the other.

“How did you get the sky in your eyes?,” she asks him, makes him blush so easily his heart stutters within his chest. He feels like a boy in her presence, and in a way, to her, maybe he even is just some inexperienced whelp nipping at her heels.

The angel does not judge, she softly rakes her nails behind his ear and neck until he shivers in her hold. His hair is next, a victim to her comfort as she tousles it between her fingers, strokes him like the smallest of kittens when he feels anything but.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he mutters, raising a hand to brush at her cheek. Warm as he expected, yet softer. There’s nothing wicked here, only a woman. A woman who loves him as he loves her.

“Your eyes are pretty… sad. I love them,” comes the sweet reply that reduces him to nothing but scattered feathers and a howling ache.

Did he even exist before now? Before her? This woman has filled him with such purpose, breathed new life into a stagnant soul. The church was a safe place for a man scorned by the rest of the world, but that blanket felt unnecessary now. He wanted to feel her hands move over him like this, smell the petals in her perfume, hear her voice speak to him, all of it. Forever.

“I think that I lose myself when I’m with you.”

“Does that hurt you?”

“Nein… I’m happier like this.” It’s the closest to a confession he can whisper.

And he returns to her, morning after morning König rushes through paying his dues to God and his men to return to her like this.

When the graveyard is silent and the dew still sticks to the blades of grass, her voice sounds sweeter somehow beneath the glow of the rising sun. The birds sing around them and often she pushes wildflowers into his hair, clasps her hands around his neck and teaches him to kiss.

Her tongue moves with grace, his is only a thing of greed. Each chaste peck is met with a hunger from somewhere so foggy and forgotten it never had a home at all, not before now. The angel needn’t show him where to rest his hands, they pry at every part of her: gentle brushes against her cheek and neck, kneading at her shoulders, further, further until he does finally starve off any lingering thought of what is good or evil to explore the curve of her lower back.

Most of the time words come in afterthought, once lips are wet and plush from this gentle devouring, after she steels herself from running her hands any further down than his stomach. He tells her in truth that he prays to her, not for. Not anymore.

The shadows cast from the aspens keep them tucked far away from sight, from God and his people alike. A temple for two without four walls to close them in. The only place on this earth that he’s ever found himself in perfect solace.

“I want to try something,” she breathes just when he’s prepared himself to leave. The tree at his back, knees parted, where she remains sat across from him. There’s nervousness there, not the fretful way she looks after a long night, nor the way she looked to him upon their first meetings. “Do you trust me?”

“Ja… more than anyone,” he reassures in a soft tone of voice, tipping her chin up with the tips of two fingers to further accentuate it. Her beauty and her uncertainty always strike a chord within him, a fire that never dwindles. When her eyes search his own, his breath catches.

He doesn’t say a word when she peels away the robes from the front of his trousers. Her hands linger on at the waistband for a moment, takes enough time to offer the gentlest peck to the side of his neck before continuing. It’s another first, being exposed to a woman like this when she lowers the band and has him shimmy backward to free his cock from his pants. Soft with shame or embarrassment, a concoction of other things he could not name, but the moment she looks up at him with pure delight he feels himself grow stiff.

“Wow… You’ve got a perfect cock,” she assesses with a laugh, finger running up the length of it as it twitches to life under her touch.

Scheisse.

He strokes her cheek with reverence as she bends down before him, watching him carefully through her eyelashes. Her warm breath drifts over his manhood and he’s already horribly aware that this would not last long. Another lesson, like the kisses, maybe. She could mold him any way that she likes and he would be pleased to play the role of her Adam.

The tongue isn’t what he anticipated. She flattens it against the tip, breathes a laugh when a keening whine is pulled from his throat. To see such an ugly, vulgar thing pressed to the beautiful mouth he’s kissed a dozen times now. It feels wrong. There’s no hesitation when her lips wrap around him. And then all of it— everything is just right. Every moment spent in this hazy, loving glow with her is right. If Hell were to come from this, then let it.

He can’t tear his eyes away from her, can’t bring himself to speak when he feels the way his cock hits the back of her throat, feels her swallow around him and make such a pleased noise as she wraps her fingers around the expanse she can not take.

Its pitiful, the way he must look: mouth agape, eyes lidded and heavy… He brings a hand to her hair, and runs his fingers through it as if she isn’t letting him fuck her mouth, but rather in the midst of something far holier, softer. Sacrilegious or divine. If God we’re watching, let him.

She pulls back a little, an obscene, wet sound in answer when her mouth is drawn back enough to merely press a kiss the tip, puffy lips glossy with drool. “Is this okay…? Not too much?”

“You are so pretty… it feels… just keep going.” His voice no longer possesses any feigned confidence, it begs like a wounded thing, chanting, “Bitte. Please…”

His hips tilt up when she parts her lips again, all trepidation be damned. This is something, something he’s aches for and never had the chance to feel. All of the ache, the longing to be diminished, to unite with the angel who fled Heaven for him. The cock pushes at her open mouth, smears thick beads of precum over her cheek, before she takes him in again with a delighted, muffled sound. Her soft mouth, the tongue that thoroughly laps at his shaft and follows her movements to wrap and suck at the head. Otherworldly, and… unfathomably bittersweet.

Her lips suction around him, the movements of her wrist only increasing, and with the second roll of his hips he feels his stomach begin to tense as pure heat rolls its way through him. A gentle coursing becomes a blinding inferno in mere seconds, and regrettably, instinctively, that hand so gently combing through her hair comes to snare it instead and force her down further.

His soft grunts and low pleading morph to something choked and almost agonized. It’s the purest rapture, a pleasure so absolute his eyes prick as he bows lower to cover over her as she swallows his devotion by mouth. The angel pants breathlessly when she pulls away with saliva and semen still stringing them together, cleansed by his thumb tracing over her lips, replaced so swiftly by his own mouth. The kiss is so chaste it feels misplaced here, but she nuzzles against him in this comedown from ecstasy, doesn’t even chastise how he lasted a mere two minutes.

And he vows, vows in the sweetness of her comfort and love that no one else will ever have this again.

— — —

Abstaining from meals during a fast is a struggle in and of itself; abstaining from her is some long-forgotten circle of Hell.

It’s not avoidance, but a necessity.

To think that his first sexual encounter would provoke days of concern, a wistful daydream about a future he never would have thought to have had otherwise. There was a desperate, starving desire to repent when he first arrived home after that, but nothing that a bottle of communion wine and a cold shower could not wash away. Repentance has lost its merit to him.

And after seven days, he’s perfectly aware of what he must do. To absolve them both from things where atonement seems far from a necessity at all. He folds his holy robes and leaves them on the bed in the room too small, set neatly next to his Bible. The rosary was the one thing that König could not bear to part with. The beads, red and shimmery, were chosen and strung together with him in mind. It’s slipped into the pocket of his jeans after the plain, black t-shirt is pulled over his head.

There’s a hammer in his gloved hand, and he doesn’t recall where he found it. Lying with its head rusted in the churchyard, perhaps half buried beneath the soil. Some of the other clergymen are talented at fixing things, but König’s never been very good with that. His first rosary was broken with a careless slip of his fingers, and he’s shattered more porcelain than he could count on accident.

Even communion wine can be a bit too strong, sometimes. Or maybe that’s only when the bottle’s been entirely downed. He’ll blame one of his betters when the stock is counted and one turns up missing, if they bother to come seek him out again at all.

The motel is dead at this hour, so late into the night. The few normal visitors have already been accounted for with watchful eyes, and the angel waits in one of the rooms on the second floor. He imagines the laces on her lingerie, the healing bruises on her throat, and that sweet expression upon her face. Or maybe that one was reserved solely for him. He prayed… no, he hoped so.

After tonight, there would be no more mercies for him. Or perhaps there would be an abundance, blessings from the vultures and the wolves and the maggots he would feed. New gods that were still far lesser than the angel who suffers men in sheets, but only looks to him with love.

And he doesn’t have to wait long, because the demon finds his way here with haste. Does he come here every night looking as proud as he does now? His attire even resonates with death, black with those white details, a costume that seems so fitting for one about to meet the very face he wears.

Killing someone isn’t so easy. Cain murdered his brother with a rock, described in such loose detail that one would think a playful throw led to Abel’s end. But it’s not so, not when the victim is hellbent on living.

The demon is smaller, but strong. He’s been in situations like this before, doesn’t have to spit the words to tell König so. They’re felt with each blow, with the sharp edge of the knife this bastard manages to dig into his side. Just barely, before it’s jerked out of his hand and thrown several paces away. The skittering across the tarmac is enough to chant doom.

There’s blood. More with the first strike of the hammer. It seemed so much easier in thought rather than practice. In his imaginings, the head would split with the first fall like an overripe apple, crumple in and the breath would leave the demon in an instant. Instead, it’s dozens. Blow after blow while the smaller man struggles below him.

A strange catharsis comes over him when his soul grows murky, when his hands are slick and the struggle comes to an abrupt end. The sobering only comes when he’s spent an hour driving down the most forested roads to find a place to dump the body. There’s no tact to it, laying a man to rest in shrubbery and dirt. With a head so collapsed it’s hard to think of this as a man at all. A corpse, something no longer simply human.

König does not pray for him when he rests the hammer in the deceased’s hands. Does not offer it more than a passing thought when he peels away back toward home. The deed is done and he’s free of those horrid burdens tainting his heart, keeping him held back on a short leash to divinity.

Like fate, she’s found out in the garden again after the bloodied shirt and stained gloves are discarded. The wound is patched with what he could find available, a hastily tied strip of gauze covers his side. A week or so at best until the gash would heal into an ugly, jagged scar. It seemed even a bastard devil’s blade couldn't be sharp enough to fell a Goliath when he’s caught by surprise and horny.

He feigns merely emptying the garbage into an outside bin, plays off the sting of the gash with a humble, lumbering gait. She beams up at him through lines of tears running down the sides of her face like small, silver streams beneath the darkened sky above.

He’s not a saint anymore, no… a guardian angel. The archangel Michael with his sword set ablaze and divinity scrawled into every scale of his chest plate. Something holy and glowing, unsullied and beautiful.

Like her.

“You’re crying…”

“Sorry… bad night. Client just ghosted me.”

No. This was good, couldn’t she see that? All the sleepless nights, the prayer and the constant, overwhelming longing. Everything he had suffered for her, and still she only comes to him with the thought of that horrible thing in mind.

“He’s dead.” Maybe it was just the fear of a loss of money. He had enough saved up someplace, and the collection pool would be beneficial enough to pivot them towards a new life. No church. No lonely motel. He had to test it, give her a trial and hope that she did not simply break.

The look that crosses her face is one of confusion… Then comes a strange twist of relief. Her mouth falls slightly agape and her arms squeeze slightly around his middle.

“We just spoke a few hours ago. How…?” Finally, suspicion.

Maybe he’s too drunk on playing God now to care, to realize this isn’t how a good man would have handled things. The only thing that holds any weight, that resonated with him any at all is the thought that he loves her, that he will protect her until his dying breath, pray at her feet and anything else she might ask.

That’s what pulls him to press her down against the bed of the truck, to kiss her with every lesson she’s blessed him with in mind. Tongue and teeth, fire and spit, she accepts all of it. She doesn’t beg him for an answer: she’s seen the worst of men, taken cocks far less deserving. Her hands find his hair as they drift away here, gives the strands a sharp tug to usher him closer, roll her tongue against his own.

The sheer tights she wears beneath her skirt are ripped at the seam between her legs by large hands, panties pushed to the side before she finally presses against the broad chest against her to gain some space. Her breath is shallow, face warmed and hair a mess, still the loveliest thing he’s ever laid his eyes upon.

“Are you afraid?” He tilts his head to the side, curious, as if there were no reason for her deny him of this now after he had just *killed for her*. After he forsook what once was all he knew all for her. He would do it again without question, with no gain at all, but the sting of rejection was not something he could entirely choke back.

But his angel never runs out of mercies, it seems.

“No… just give me a second.”

She slips her hand down between her parted legs, demonstrates for him just how to prepare a woman. He watches, mesmerized, as she circles the bud above her slit, dips her finger downward to spread wetness along her flesh. Dew over petals. A finger slips inside of her, and all at once is shoved aside.

“Let me,” he pleads, already pressing both hands to her inner thighs, tilting her hips upward as his head sinks between them.

“You don’t have to,” she whispers, but grants him his wish with feverish nods that betray her words, allows him to kiss her sex as he shifts himself into a better position.

There’s nothing to go off of but her sounds, the cries of pleasure when his tongue lolls out to lick at the nub where most of her reactions stem from. He mutters against her about her taste, something so ethereal he could not even begin to place. Her scent envelopes him in full, and he’s never felt closer to anything prior. She allows his clumsy licking, moans louder for him when he can’t stifle his own groaning. The pants are too tight around him, and patience is another virtue he finds that he lacks.

She doesn’t reach some fantastical height of pleasure when he presses a finger into her cunt, but her body seems to fit even that like a glove, squeezing around him as he lazily circles her bud with his tongue. She doesn’t come, but she tugs him by the hair to usher him back into another kiss, hands roving down his abdomen to free his manhood from the barriers of fabric. And finally… finally he’s granted entrance to Heaven.

The first thrust leaves him spiraling, lost into a world of silk and honey. And the angel does not give him any time to recover, she writhes beneath him, shifting her hips to pull him in deeper, muffles each whine and groan from his lips with her tongue hungrily lapping over his own.

He’s thought about having a woman many times, but never imagined it could feel this good. To be so complete, every woe or fear cast aside in the act of mindless pleasure.

He doesn’t know where to put his hands, to keep his eyes shut or gaze down at her and cease this assault on his mouth to tell her that he loves her, that she feels like pure fucking paradise and he’s already on the verge of coming undone. He settles for moving, dragging himself in and out of her in slow movements, turning his face away to bite down on her shoulder when the feeling of her walls cinching him like a vise threatens to spur him into finishing on the spot.

“That’s just… god… you’re good at this,” she gasps when a hand is sunk between their bodies, flicking at her clit as he spears her open. Her hands find his back, raking her fingernails down past his shoulder blades. It’s agonizing, trying to fight back the urge to breed her full, watch his come spill out from her perfect cunt until he finds himself hard again. The very thought makes him gasp, grind himself deeper inside of her as her nails dig into his back.

“Mein… this is… you understand…,” he’s babbling, hardly coherent, and she only seems to accept it. The angel chants her agreement amidst the beginning of her rapture.

She cries out for him when she comes, her sex pulsing around him as she shivers that all restraint is immediately lost. She hugs him so tightly, squirms as she hisses a curse into his ear.

It’s a miracle he’s even lasted this long. He halts his pace for a mere second to prop himself up, gaze down at her in absolute reverence before that fire swallows him whole. It’s unceremonious when he comes: a growl and a wail as he buries he face into her neck and pumps every last drop of his seed into her pussy.

He doesn’t want to pull out, doesn’t want to leave such a complete embrace. The world has already ended for him, a long time ago on the very night they met. There’s no need to drag out their ruin with whatever else occurs when she’s out of his grasp.

She strokes over the marks she’s made, gentle, tickling touches of her fingertips and shy giggles when their eyes meet again.

“I thought I would never get to do this with you,” she admits, quiet when her hands drift to cup his jaw instead. “You’re perfect, you know that…?”

He wants to cry, wants to fuck all of his woes away, kneel before her and beg that she find a place where they can never be apart. Steal her away to some cabin up in the Alps, where flowers grow in thick patches on the hillsides, a wild garden of her very own.

“… You should stay with me,” he huffs into her ear, fingers dimpling the flesh of her hips as he tries desperately to force himself closer to her.

“You can’t mean the church,” she giggles. “So where should we go?”

“We can figure that out in the morning, hm?”

#könig x reader #konig x reader

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crescenthistory · 5 months ago

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Helloooo mrs. carina!!!!! Hope you’re having the happiest of 2ks :))) I’ve been trying to summon up the best idea I could possibly think of these past few days for you and I’ve realized I have quite a dry imagination😭 but this is what I’ve thinked up

I’d like to request an analyze for Remus x ballerina reader… I think he especially would respect the control a ballerina would have over their body (not to be angsty but it would of course something he envies considering his situation)

mrs. carina?? thinking up creative ideas specifically for me??? oh darling you are the SWEETEST, thank you so much for this little gift<333 giving you a HUGE forehead smooch

✶・•・✦・•・✶・✶・•・✦・•・✶

i will ANALYSE remus lupin x ballerina!reader

carina's 2k celebration

✶・•・✦・•・✶・✶・•・✦・•・✶

cw: gn!reader, remus' mental health issues, implied reader mild mental health struggles, lycanthropy/chronic pain

remus lupin is a studious lover – once he falls for someone, he notices everything about them, down to the very details

with a ballerina!reader, this would include seeing ballet in everything they do

he is drawn to elegance and precision in an almost religious sense, viewing it as something holy and greater-than that he doesn't quite deserve to witness yet selfishly chooses to watch anyway

remus would notice how you flex your fingers a certain way, how you always position your feet as if you are about to dance

he sees the tension in your shoulders and thighs from practice, he sees how it went when you come back from it based on the minuscule tightenings around your lips and eyes

it would make him all the more infatuated

as if he is unearthing a treasure, peeling back the petals of a rose

remus in love always feels like he is holding something delicate and ballerina!reader would both prove him right and wrong

they would show him their elegance but also their inherent strength

he hates feeling as if he needs to be taken care of in any way, but butterflies would be going crazy in his stomach if you ever displayed that strength by opening a heavy door for him on a cane-day or by picking up the mountain of books from the library with ease

it is what would prompt him to start calling you dove – you're graceful and gorgeous, but highly intelligent and practical

there would definitely be a certain envy within remus regarding the precise control you exercised over your own body

not anything he held against you, more so against himself, comparing himself in ways that simply are not necessary or realistic

this applies both in terms of his lycanthropy and chronic illness in a muggle au

the envy is especially strong pre-relationship when he is admiring you from afar and it feels as if you have everything pieced together so perfectly

it is only when he gets closer to you and sees more of the immense pressures you are under and how you're both physically and metaphorically shaking beneath it, that he realises how much of a facade it really is

to see that it doesn't come easy to you either simultaneously heals something within him and encourages him to be even sweeter to you

you might have been concerned that remus realising that it doesn't come easy to you would ruin your "appeal" – that he wouldn't find you as mesmerising if he knew you had to fight for your achievments

but in reality, this is what would cement his affections as love

remus adores elegance and perfection, but he trusts the humanity behind it all, the chaos within

if he thought you flawless, he would likely never be able to feel entirely comfortable in your presence, as if he couldn't rest in the presence of a deity

with this new knowledge, he would still consider you perfect, though, because – as cliche as it might sound – you were perfect to him and something for him to worship

but now he could hold you in his arms and be assured that you were human

which meant you could be his

if you chose to continue pursuing ballet professionally, remus would be your biggest cheerleader

not to mention your biggest anchor, ensuring that you're checking in on your body and not neglecting your health

"you'll not get there faster if you overextend your knees, dove"

"they don't give out medals for dancing on broken ankles, my love"

he would come to your recitals, your auditions, would get the ritual down to a t for you

in a muggle au, i often picture him working within healthcare and he would use all of his tips and tricks on you

though, if you were to only keep doing ballet as a hobby or even retire, he would hold your hand through the process and support you in whatever you may need

he knows what it is like to grieve your body's capabilities, so if you one day couldn't continue anymore, he would help you navigate the pain gently

he would be the shoulder for you to cry on and the partner who explored new hobbies and passions with you

again, healing a part of himself through you

remus lupin would fall in love with ballerina!reader in school while admiring your elegance and grace from afar, but he would stay for the dove he found in your heart to cultivate a life with

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queerfanfiction · 5 months ago

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Request: ghost!Larissa appears to reader as a disembodied head in a crystal ball and gives them comfort?

Ghosting

Prompt is shown above. :) Thank you for being so very patient, @chromium-siren!

word count: 9.6k includes: angst, fluff; cw for death, emotional abuse, and ghosts

AO3 link

Reader POV

The weight of Nevermore’s legacy has pressed heavily on your shoulders from the moment you had accepted the role of principal. Its gothic spires and shadowy halls seem alive with the whispers of generations of outcasts who had walked those corridors before. You sought the position not out of ambition but necessity—to be close to your ailing mother, to spend what little time remains with her. What you hadn’t expected was to find a crystal ball tucked away in the floorboards of the principal’s office…

“Bathe the crystal sphere in sunlight or moonlight.” Hm, but wh- oh. Crystals feed on light, okay. Can do. You read the instructions from the large and dusty textbook that you had found stuck underneath another book in the Nightshades library. It looked like it hadn’t been opened in decades.

You peered out the window of your office, unable to see anything but darkness. Instead, you checked your phone only to find out there was a new moon that night. Just my luck, you thought to yourself. This would have to wait. You knew your current fixation on the crystal ball was excessive. Hells, you didn’t even know much divination magic; it had never been your forté in school. Something had to go your way, though. The past two weeks had been rough, and that was putting it lightly.

It was the end of your first week at Nevermore as the new principal. The students and faculty had been guarded and resistant to your efforts for camaraderie, and you couldn’t say you blamed them. Your stomach had plummeted when you first walked by the handmade memorial for their newly deceased former principal. Larissa, you had mouthed without making any sound. Her name had tasted unfamiliar yet weighty on your lips. You remembered passing her propped-up, framed photo in the hall outside what had once been her office—how her eyes had haunted you, how they had pierced through the glass with a look that had seemed both watchful and expectant. You had felt an inexplicable, magnetic pull toward her picture, as though a thread of fate had tethered you to her the moment you had stepped into her metaphorical shoes.

When you had arrived, the principal’s office had been untouched. Larissa Weems’ belongings had still been scattered throughout the office and living quarters, their placement a silent testament to her presence. Even the air had been filled with her lingering essence—opulent tuberose and jasmine, a scent so vivid it had almost made you falter. You hadn’t been able to decide if it was a comfort or a burden, the way the room had seemed to belong more to her memory than to you. Stepping into her role had felt less like an achievement and more like an act of trespass. Had she felt this way when she had first taken the position, or had her confidence always been unshakable, as it had seemed in every account you read of her? The weight of her legacy pressed heavily on you, and the room had borne it silently, waiting to see what you did next.

Feeling like a strange intruder, you had tiptoed around the rooms during the first day, nervous to upset the preserved and well-loved space. When you had finally tired of living out of your suitcase, you had perused the inherited items curiously. That had been when you had discovered the crystal ball, hidden beneath a wood plank in the floor to the right of the giant Medusa fireplace mantle. Once your hands had touched the heavy, cool quartz, a feeling of comfort had overwhelmed you. Your shoulders had relaxed, and you had felt as if you had slipped underwater. Everything had slowed and gone fuzzy; the hair on your arms had raised, sending echoes of energy along them. With your interest piqued, you had decided to display the crystal ball on a shelf in your office, not wanting to hide it away again.

Somehow, you’ve ended up here, sitting cross-legged on the floor of your office amidst an array of occult and divination books. The faint scent of dust mingles with the aroma of lukewarm IPA—the spoils of your most recent confiscation from a pair of unruly student werewolves. The surreal combination of academic pursuits and personal grief has felt as disjointed as your new reality, but you clung to it, if only to fill the void. You reached for your phone lying on your desk, checking it for any messages from your mother’s hospice nurse or from Alison. Alison—ugh.

You grimaced as you felt pain move through your chest. Heartbreak seems too cliché to deal with at this moment. You thought these kinds of things really only happened in fiction—to Callie and Arizona on Grey’s Anatomy. Ironically, you even remembered watching their breakup over moving to Africa with Alison. At the time, it had seemed too abstract and unbelievable that two people who loved each other couldn’t work it out. How naïve, you considered with a frown. You tried not to think about how Alison hadn’t wanted to stay with you, support you, or comfort you as you take care of your ailing mother.

It has been hard relocating to Vermont. Yes, you were thankful to have an amazing job in such a picturesque area, but it was still hard to get used to. It was hard sleeping alone again. It was hard changing your entire wardrobe due to a different geographic climate. It was hard not having friends to spend time with or a support system to lean on. It was hard transitioning to a smaller town. It was hard seeing someone you care for so deeply—your kind mother—become a shell of herself.

Unwilling to spiral into too much of a pity party, you decided to set up the mysterious crystal ball on the private balcony outside to let it absorb some light. I’ll check on you tomorrow night, you cooed, blowing the inanimate object a kiss. You then shook your head slightly, baffled at your silly behavior. Wow, and this is why I don’t drink beer… you lamented.

Exhausted from the day, you came back the following evening to find no changes in the crystal ball. You heaved a heavy sigh, not really sure what you expected. Carefully, you brought it in and set it back on display in your office. You plopped down on the leather chair by the fireplace with a soft creak, taking a moment to rub at your temples. Your eyes started to sting, indicating the welling up of tears; wetness threatened to spill onto your cheeks. You bite your lip in an effort to halt getting more emotional. Don’t break down, you pleaded with yourself earnestly. It had been a particularly difficult night at your mother’s house; seeing the reality of her health decline made you feel fragile and vulnerable.

The fire crackled in the hearth, and its warm glow danced across the crystal ball that was now perched on your desk instead of the bookshelf. Despite the object’s stillness, you felt as though it was watching you—or perhaps waiting. You shook the thought away, chalking it up to your weariness. You leaned back in the chair and closed your eyes, your fingers tracing idle patterns on the armrest. The soft leather felt comforting under your fingertips, but it hadn’t stopped the ache in your chest.

After those last few weeks, the ache in your chest feels like a companion now—a heavy, unwelcome shadow refusing to leave. Shifting uncomfortably, you pulled at the throw blanket draped over the chair and tucked it around yourself, seeking warmth. The silence of the room pressed down on you. It was a strange thing, the quietness of Nevermore after dark. It wasn’t peaceful so much as it was heavy, filled with the whispers of secrets too old and too dangerous to be forgotten.

You glanced at the crystal ball again, your eyes catching a faint shimmer within its depths. Probably just the reflection of the fire, you told yourself, though the thought did little to ease the odd flutter in your stomach. You tried to take a few deep breaths, but your gaze compulsorily wandered back to your desk.

The crystal ball seemed to gleam brighter then, its surface catching and refracting the light in a way that felt almost alive. A faint, pulsating glow began to emanate from within, soft and rhythmic, like a tiny heartbeat. You squinted to look closer, your breath hitching as the glow intensified, each pulse drawing you further into its strange, mesmerizing allure. You blinked, leaning forward, almost toppling from the chair. This time, you knew the shimmer wasn’t from the fire. You froze, and the hairs on your arms stood on end.

No, it must be a trick of the light, you considered. But the logical part of your brain faltered when the glow sharpened, coalescing into a distinct shape. A face. Pale, elegant, with high cheekbones and red lips pressed into a concerned expression. The eyes, illuminated by the glow, were an arresting blue that you now knew all too well—eyes framed in the tribute photo outside your office. That photo, capturing a poised yet enigmatic Larissa Weems, had always felt like it was watching you. Now, the familiar gaze sent a shiver down your spine, as if the picture itself was coming to life.

Larissa.

Larissa POV

The crystal ball was both a prison and a perch, a paradox that Larissa Weems was still coming to terms with. The inside was surprisingly spacious. Not physically, of course, but in that odd, liminal way one might feel in a dream—weightless yet aware, detached yet painfully tethered. Suspended within its shimmering, otherworldly sphere, she felt every movement of the world around her as faint ripples, like distant echoes of a tide. Larissa had spent an indeterminate amount of time there, waiting to reunite with the world beyond the glass and dark floorboards.

This failsafe is proving to be troublesome, indeed, Larissa thought one day. As if on cue, weight above her seemed to shift as Larissa heard wood creak loudly and scuffle against itself.

Finally! the silver-blonde-haired woman exclaimed to herself. Finally, she was being unearthed from beneath the floorboards. The discovery was almost anticlimactic—a dusty sphere wrapped in an old cloth, its surface dull until warm fingers brushed against it. Larissa felt a jolt then, a spark of recognition and connection. Hope. The warm, agile fingers continued to uncover the crystal ball.

“Oh, at last! Wonderfu—” Larissa paused abruptly, changing her tone from relief and excitement to one of confusion and impatience. She didn’t recognize the woman in front of her. She had been waiting for Wednesday, Enid, Bianca—anyone to decipher the clues showing that Larissa had found a way to temporarily cheat death. “And just who are you?”

Larissa’s question wasn’t met with a response. Rude. Her savior-turned-intruder ignored her. “Excuse me,” the former principal shouted. “Put me down at once!”

However, no matter how much Larissa willed herself to be seen or heard, the strange woman holding her remained blissfully unaware of Larissa’s presence. Instead, the woman tilted her head, examining the crystal globe, but her gaze seemed to pass through Larissa like sunlight through mist.

Over the next few days, Larissa grappled with a mixture of determination and desperation. She tried everything she could think of—whispering, shouting, even attempting to roll the glass ball off the desk in a moment of frantic frustration. Nothing had worked. Her voice was absorbed into the void, leaving her with a deep, aching loneliness she hadn't felt in years. The isolation gnawed at her, a relentless reminder of her severance from the world she had once commanded. Each futile attempt to physically interact with those outside the sphere—resulting in only faint, unnoticed vibrations—tightened the knot of frustration and yearning in her chest. She longed for the tactile sensations of life: the crisp rustle of papers, the smooth glide of a pen, the comforting weight of her tailored blazers. Gods forbid, even Enid’s excited muttering or Wednesday’s deadpan quips. Instead, she floated in silence, a spectator in a world that was moving on without her. She supposed it was poetic justice to be a phantom steward of the very institution she had once ruled with iron grace.

Still, she refused to give in to despair. If there was one thing Larissa Weems excelled at, it was adapting to the impossible.

—

Larissa saw the room, the polished wood of the desk, and the clean but casual order in which the new principal kept her belongings. She saw the woman, pacing with a furrowed brow, her lips moving as she muttered something about an upcoming staff meeting.

In her silent observation, Larissa has come to admire the other woman’s resolve. Taking over as principal of Nevermore Academy was no small feat, particularly in the wake of Larissa’s own tenure. The school has its quirks, its mysteries, its dangers. Yet, this woman seemed to navigate it all with an earnest determination that Larissa found both endearing and exasperating.

“No, no, no,” the woman had muttered once, crossing out a line in her notebook with sharp, deliberate strokes. “That’ll never work. Maybe if I rearrange the seating assignments…” She had flipped back several pages, her pen darting over the paper in quick, decisive motions.

Larissa had tilted her head, amused. “Darling, it’s a staff meeting, not a battlefield,” she had murmured, though she had known the words would not reach the other woman’s ears.

Still, her inability to directly communicate didn’t stop Larissa from meddling. It became a bittersweet outlet for her pent-up emotions. At times, her subtle interference felt like a lifeline, a way to reaffirm her presence in the world she could no longer touch. Other times, it seemed like an exercise in frustration, a poignant reminder of her limitations. Regardless, it gave Larissa a flicker of purpose, and for now, that was enough to keep her going. Her influence was subtle—books falling open to the correct pages, the faintest brush of wind guiding the other woman’s hand away from disastrous decisions. When the new principal stayed late answering emails, Larissa would nudge the clock forward to remind her to go to bed. When she hesitated to discipline unruly students, Larissa would whisper encouragement, even if the words dissipated like vapor.

Once, before becoming fond of the woman, when Larissa had found the new principal poring over the schedule for the upcoming Poe Cup, she hadn’t been able to stand it. “Not that team first, you fool,” Larissa had groaned, watching as the woman placed the Fangs in the first heat. “The Sirens will tear them apart. Have you no sense of strategy?” She had passed her ethereal hand over her face, only to remember—again—that her fingers weren’t solid enough to touch anything.

The air had gone chilly, and the younger woman sitting only feet from Larissa had suddenly frowned, looking up from her work. “Is someone there?” she had uttered, scanning the room. Larissa had frozen and felt oddly sheepish, not daring to breathe—not that she had needed to anymore. When the woman had risen from her seat to close the balcony doors, Larissa had focused all of her energy into pushing forward the Black Cats token instead of the Fangs. When sitting back down to work at the desk again, the woman’s eyebrows had knitted together in confusion. Thankfully, it had only taken a moment for her to place the Black Cats in the first heat instead. During another time, Larissa had even managed to make the crystal ball glow faintly, a soft white radiance that had been dismissed as a reflection coming in from the windows.

These small victories kept Larissa going, even as the days stretched into weeks. She watched as the younger woman slowly made the role of principal her own, balancing the expectations of the staff, the students, and the peculiarities of Nevermore itself. Larissa was particularly proud of the moment the new principal reorganized the curriculum for the history of the supernatural world. She had unknowingly scrapped the rote memorization that Larissa had always despised in favor of practical, interactive learning. “Well done,” Larissa had vocalized, feeling a swell of pride.

There were moments of vulnerability, too. Late at night, when the office was quiet and the weight of the day pressed heavily on the new principal’s shoulders, Larissa felt an almost unbearable urge to reach out to her. To offer comfort, guidance, reassurance… to tell her that she was not alone.

Larissa started to verbalize all her thoughts, taking comfort in knowing others would not hear her. She reflected on her past relationships and leadership, grappling with the contradictions between her rigorous expectations and the rare, fleeting connections she managed to forge. The memories surfaced unbidden—moments of camaraderie tarnished by misunderstandings, and alliances fractured under the weight of her perfectionism. Yet, in this peculiar companionship with the oblivious principal, she found herself revisiting those failures with a bittersweet clarity. Could this enforced proximity be a second chance, not just to guide but to grow? She never thought she could get along with someone long-term, especially living together. If this could even be considered living together, she pondered.

Past attempts at close companionship had always ended in disappointment, usually due to her own exacting standards. Larissa had always preferred the solitude of her own company to the vulnerability that came with sharing her life. And yet, now, as she observed the younger principal with increasing fondness, she wondered if she had been too quick to dismiss the possibility of connection. There was something different here—an inexplicable pull that made her almost relish the forced proximity, even if it was one-sided. Yes, Larissa liked her space, often putting up a wall with others. However, she found herself waiting for the new principal to return from meetings, wishing she could usher her through tough decisions and emotional turmoil.

Larissa’s favorite days were when the other woman placed her crystal ball on the office desk. This gives me time to read important administrative missives, Larissa tried to convince herself. While that may be true, she also found herself closely watching the other woman process information. Larissa began to memorize her facial expressions, like how she pressed her lips together in a line when she was concentrating. Or how her right eyebrow rose when she was suspicious of whether or not she was getting the entire truth from a student.

“You’re doing better than you think,” Larissa had said softly one evening, as the other woman had sat with her head in her hands, the faint glow of the desk lamp casting long shadows across the room. “You’re stronger than you realize.”

The words had dissolved into the ether, unheard and unacknowledged. Larissa had spoken them anyway. She had to believe that somehow, in some small way, they make a difference.

And so she waited, tethered to the crystal ball, watching and hoping. One day, Larissa told herself. One day, the woman in front of her would see her. One day, they would speak. Until then, Larissa would be the silent sentinel, the unseen guardian of Nevermore Academy and its newest principal.

Mostly Reader POV

Before you could examine the slight glow from within the crystal ball, the soft chime of your cellphone broke the stillness of the late evening. You cleared your throat briefly and answered, “Hello?” The word hung heavily in the air.

The pause on the other end was just long enough to spark unease in your chest. Then a gentle, wavering voice came through—a familiar voice. It was your mother’s hospice nurse, letting you know that your mother passed away peacefully after you left that evening.

The world tilted. A numbness settled over you, followed by a wave of disbelief so strong it threatened to swallow you whole. You barely manage to whisper, “I appreciate you letting me know” and “Thank you for your dedication to her comfort at the end of her life” before you end the call with trembling hands. Your phone slipped slightly within your grasp as the weight of the news sank in.

You fell to your knees where you were in front of the fireplace, and your breath caught. Tears spilled from your tired eyes before you even realized they were falling. Mom, you repeat over and over in your head. You remember her smile, warm and reassuring, as she had taught you how to braid your hair for the first time. Heard her voice, steady and patient, explaining how to face fear without flinching. You remembered the way her eyes had lit up when she had seen you in your cap and gown, pride radiating from her like sunlight. Each memory sharpened the ache in your chest, but you clung to them desperately, unwilling to let her go completely. The sharp-witted woman who taught you resilience was now silenced forever. The dark mahogany walls of the office seemed to close in. Grief poured out in quiet sobs as you rose and then slumped into the leather chair, your face buried in your hands. You didn’t even notice the faint glimmer in the corner of your vision—an almost imperceptible flicker of light from the crystal ball on the desk behind you.

“Oh, darling, I’m so sorry,” a voice called, soft and uncertain, carrying an ethereal echo as if it had been traveling across time and space. The words seemed to float in the air, wrapping around you like a fragile whisper, tinged with a strange warmth that sent flutters through your body.

You froze, your head snapping up. The voice wasn’t your mother’s, but it didn’t feel entirely unfamiliar either. Your eyes darted around the room before landing on the ornate crystal sphere. The smooth surface shimmered, a faint image forming within. A face. Her face.

“Larissa?” you whispered, your voice trembling. Inside the crystal ball, Larissa’s expression was one of concern, with an intensity that made your heart pound. The usually composed demeanor you often saw her depicted in was softened by something you couldn’t quite place.

You stood slowly, disbelief warring with the raw ache in your chest. “This can’t be real. I must be losing my mind.”

“It’s real,” Larissa replied gently. “I wish it weren’t under these circumstances, but it seems your pain has... unlocked something. You were unable to hear me before tonight.” She spoke her initial words of apology not expecting any sort of reaction or response from the other woman. She just couldn’t stand to watch you hunched over in despair. You were not able to hear her over the last few weeks, so she didn’t consider that this time would be any different.

You pressed your fingers to your temples, trying to steady yourself. The surrealism of the moment clashed with the grief still roaring through your veins. “I couldn’t hear y—… You’ve been here this whole time? You—” Your voice faltered, cracking under the weight of disbelief. Your stomach twisted as everything you thought you knew was flipped on its head.

A flood of questions battled for dominance in your mind—Why hadn’t I sensed her before? How much has she seen? What does this connection mean? But the words refused to form, tangling in your throat as a mixture of awe and fear gripped you. Finally, a hoarse whisper escaped: “How… How are you here? You’re—” You stopped short, unwilling to say the word aloud.

“Dead?” Larissa offered, her tone calm and almost matter-of-fact. However, her voice was edged with a faint hesitation, as though acknowledging the weight of the word might shatter the delicate connection forming between you. “Yes. Quite inconvenient, I must admit. But one learns to adapt.” You felt a flicker of unease at her candor but also an odd comfort in her willingness to confront the truth with you.

After a few moments of raw, pregnant silence, Larissa admitted, “I’ve seen you pacing this office, running this school, handling it all with grace—even when you were clearly breaking inside. I wanted to speak to you so badly, but I couldn’t. Not until now.”

The weight of the past weeks—learning the academy, grieving in silence for your mother’s impending death—weighed on you further, and you involuntarily let out a bitter laugh. “And now you can talk to me, just when I have nothing left to give.”

Larissa’s tone grew insistent, more reassuring. “You have so much left. More than you know. I may be trapped in this... cursed glass prison, but that doesn’t mean I can’t help. You’re not alone.”

You stared at the crystal ball, your heart a storm of emotions. Tears began to fall again. Despite the surreal nature of the moment, a sense of unexpected comfort washed over you. It was as if Larissa’s presence, even confined to the crystal, pierced through the isolating fog of your intense grief. Her calm reassurance felt like a lifeline, grounding you when everything else seemed to be spiraling out of control. You sank into your desk chair and let yourself feel it all—grief, disbelief, and that odd, unexpected reassurance in Larissa’s presence. For the first time since stepping into the role of principal, since moving to Vermont, you didn’t feel entirely alone.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, your voice breaking again. “I—I don’t know how to do this without her.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Larissa commented softly, her pale blue eyes holding a spark of warmth. “And I’ll be here to help you every step of the way.”

You nodded slowly, your fingers brushing the smooth surface of the crystal ball. The connection between you two felt fragile but real, like a thread binding you to something steady in a world suddenly adrift. The sensation was both comforting and strange, a bittersweet tether in an unmoored reality.

As the sun settled below the horizon, the two women sat together—one confined to a sphere of glass, the other drowning in grief—and for the first time, they began to truly see each other. You found yourself marveling at the unexpected solace Larissa offered, even in her spectral form. Perhaps this connection, however strange, was what you needed to navigate both the weight of your losses and the responsibilities ahead. A flicker of hope ignited within you, fragile yet persistent, as you resolved to face tomorrow with Larissa’s steady voice as your guide.

—

Days passed in a blur of meetings, morose reflecting, and an eagerness to learn more about Larissa. Though she remained confined within the crystal ball, Larissa’s voice became a constant in your life, offering advice, sharp wit, and occasional pep talks. You found yourself relying on her in ways you never expected. And when the question finally formed on your lips, it felt like a whisper of hope. “Is there a way to... free you? To get you out of the crystal?”

Larissa’s image flickered slightly, her gaze thoughtful. “Perhaps. Magic has its intricacies, but there are always loopholes. I learned of the possibility only briefly before my death. I suspect any true release will require both research and courage—two things you have in abundance.”

Her words sent a subtle thrill through you, a renewed sense of purpose. Late nights that once felt endless and hollow now found you reading over ancient divination texts and arcane tomes, searching for clues. Larissa watched, her ethereal presence a steadying force, offering insights from her time as an educator and leader. Together, you composed fragments of spells, legends, and theories, each discovery bringing you closer to an answer.

But life didn’t pause for mysteries or magic. The academy demanded your attention, and you refused to leave Larissa behind. The crystal ball found a new home in your bag, nestled among your notebooks and pens. You carried her with you almost everywhere—staff meetings, Jericho town halls, disciplinary hearings, even casual strolls through the campus gardens. It felt strangely soothing to have her voice at your side, her sharp observations cutting through the noise of administrative chaos and duties. Though, you often wondered if Larissa could even be stopped from giving her opinion—not that others could hear her.

“You can’t let the vampires out after curfew,” Larissa had tutted one evening, her elegant features shimmering faintly in the glass sphere. “They’ll claim it’s moonlight yoga, but trust me, it’s never just yoga.”

“Really, darling,” she had quipped a different afternoon as you had sat in a budget meeting, the crystal ball resting discreetly on the table beside your laptop. “Doesn’t he realize the importance of investing in the arts? Short-sighted, if you ask me.”

You had stifled a laugh, earning a curious glance from the finance director. “I’ll bring it up,” you had whispered under your breath, your hand brushing the sphere in silent acknowledgment.

Larissa’s presence transformed even the mundane into something meaningful, something you looked forward to. Her advice was invaluable, her perspective a steadying force as you navigated the complexities of Nevermore. And though the weight of grief lingered, the ache felt lighter with her by your side. You found yourself growing around your grief—finding moments of curiosity, camaraderie, and pure laughter with Larissa.

One evening, as you sat in your office with the crystal ball glowing softly on your desk, Larissa’s voice broke the silence. “You know, I never expected to become someone’s... travel companion. But I must admit, it’s been rather enlightening.”

You smiled, the warmth of her words seeping into your chest. “You know you’re more than that, Larissa. I’m not keeping you around for your advice, though it has aided me tremendously. You’ve become... indispensable.”

Her image in the crystal ball seemed to soften, a flicker of emotion crossing her features. “As have you. Now, let’s figure out how to solve this little predicament of mine, shall we?”

The determination and fondness in her voice mirrored your own. Together, you resolved to uncover the secret to her freedom, the bond between you growing stronger with each passing day.

—

The buzzing of your phone jolted you awake later that week. It wasn't the first time that night. The screen lit up again, the harsh glow cutting through the dim warmth of your bedroom. Alison. Her name flashed incessantly, each call and text a relentless assault on the fragile calm you managed to cobble together. Hells, she even emailed your Nevermore work email trying to get ahold of you. Of course, she’d try to get in touch now, after Mom… You didn’t want to finish the thought.

Her messages blurred together in your mind—half-apologies, fragments of accusations, and nostalgic jabs meant to, no doubt, undermine the distance you put between you two. “I just don’t understand why you won’t talk to me.” “I still love you.” “You don’t even care anymore, do you?” The collection of words seeped under your skin, reigniting old wounds you thought had at least scabbed over.

You hurled your phone onto the mattress, its glow fading against the rumpled sheets as you collapsed onto the bed. The walls seemed to close in around you, the muffled sound of students outside offering no comfort. Curling in on yourself, you clutched at the hem of your sweater, the fabric collapsing under your slightly trembling fingers. Your chest heaved, feeling renewed grief, exhaustion, and the sting of Alison’s unrelenting words—until it felt like the air itself was too thick to breathe.

The crystal ball rested on the pillow next to you, movement from within catching your eye. Larissa’s image appeared within the glass, her expression soft yet pensive. “Darling,” she said, her voice low and deliberate, “you’re carrying far too much alone. I’m here for you. Though, I wish I could do more to comfort you.”

You sniffed, swiping irritably at your tears that kept falling. “What else am I supposed to do? I can’t just stop. I can’t—I—” The words choked in your throat as another sob threatened to escape.

Larissa watched you quietly, her ethereal form radiating calm even as you felt like you were experiencing the aftershocks following a disaster. “Come here,” she purred gently. Without thinking, you clutched the crystal ball and pulled it closer, cradling it like a lifeline. The smooth surface felt cool against your hands, settling you and letting you feel in your body.

“You’re allowed to feel overwhelmed,” Larissa stated, her voice a soothing balm against the chaos in your head. “You’re not a machine, and no one expects you to be.”

“I’m just so… tired,” you admitted, the words tumbling out unprompted. “Of all of it. The expectations, the grief, the constant demands. And Alison—she won’t leave me alone.”

Larissa’s image sharpened, her blue eyes narrowing slightly. “Alison has no right to your peace, especially now. You don’t owe her anything.” Her tone was firm, a protective edge creeping into her voice.

You closed your eyes, letting her words wash over you for a few moments. “I know. She says she still loves me, but it doesn’t feel like love. It feels like… control. I mean, who calls someone they love selfish for moving to be closer to a sick family member?”

Larissa hummed thoughtfully, her gaze one of concern and care. “Real love doesn’t bind you or weigh you down. It lifts you, supports you—even when you feel you’ve reached your limit.” Her voice momentarily wavered, a glimmer of vulnerability crossing her features. “And you, my dear, deserve nothing less.”

The words seep into the cracks of your heart, filling spaces you didn’t realize were close to empty. Tears flowed freely from you now, unrestrained and cleansing. You pressed the crystal ball to your chest, as if hoping to absorb Larissa’s warmth through the glass.

“I wish you were here,” you disclosed, your voice barely audible. “Really here.”

Larissa’s smile was faint but achingly tender. “I’m here in every way that matters. And I’m not going anywhere.”

That night you allowed yourself to simply exist—no demands, no expectations, just the quiet relief of Larissa’s presence. As your breathing slowed and the restriction in your chest eased, you found yourself clutching the crystal ball a little tighter, Larissa’s soft glow illuminating the shadows of the room.

—

Over the next few days, you read up on crystals and their ability to hold spirits. In one text you had found in the restricted section of Nevermore’s library, you learned that crystal balls were used for scrying since ancient times. The theory was that crystals had a consciousness, and it was this energy that people connected with when they used them. Apparently, the energy could be used for spirit communication, seeing images from elsewhere, and even healing. Crystal balls were both transmitters and receivers of energy and could store information or be programmed for certain specific purposes.

Hm, does this mean a person could temporarily be stored in one? You pondered to yourself.

Later that night, the buzzing of your phone dragged you from a restless sleep again. Alison. The harsh light of her name on the screen cut through the dim warmth of your bedroom.

With a groan, you reached for the phone and silenced it, sitting it back on the bedside table. You rolled over, trying to ignore the churning in your gut—an uneasy mix of frustration, guilt, and anger. Beside you, the faint shimmer of Larissa’s presence filled the room. Though she didn’t need to sleep, she often offered to keep you company as you drifted off in the quiet hours of the night.

“She’s persistent,” Larissa uttered softly, her tone carefully neutral.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “She always was. Alison doesn’t like loose ends, and apparently, I’m one of them.”

Larissa’s expression shifted subtly, the faintest crease forming between her brows. “Do you want to talk to her?”

“No,” you maintained firmly. “Whatever she wants, it’s not about me. It’s about her. She’s… she’s looking for closure or maybe control. Either way, I’m not giving it to her.”

Larissa nodded, though the tension in her features remained. She did not press the issue, but the unease lingered between you, a silent weight neither of you could entirely shake. However, that tension came to a head the following day.

You were in the middle of a staff meeting when the door to the conference room swung open with a sharp bang. Alison stood in the doorway, her sleek, city-chic outfit and polished demeanor a jarring contrast to the gothic gloom of Nevermore. Her eyes found yours instantly, blazing with determination and expectation.

“We need to talk,” she insisted, her voice cutting through the quiet hum of the meeting like a blade.

The room fell silent, every pair of eyes darting between you and the unexpected intruder. Larissa, who had been observing the meeting from her usual spot by your bag, somehow straightened. Her translucent form seemed to tighten with tension, her gaze fixed on Alison with an intensity that made your stomach twist.

You stood slowly, your chair scraping against the floor. “Alison, this is neither the time nor the place.”

“It’s never the time with you,” she shot back, stepping further into the room. “Your mother is gone. There’s nothing keeping you here anymore.”

Larissa’s sharp intake of breath was almost imperceptible, but you felt it like a ripple in the air. Her ghostly form intensified, as if she wanted to step between you and Alison but couldn’t cross the barrier of her incorporeal existence.

“Alison,” you warned, your voice low and firm, “this is inappropriate. We can talk later, outside of—”

“No,” Alison interrupted, her voice rising. “You don’t get to brush me off anymore. I’ve been patient. I’ve waited. But this…” Her gaze swept the room, taking in the outcast faculty, the gothic decor, the very essence of Nevermore. “This isn’t you. It’s a phase, a distraction. You belong with me in the life we built together.”

Larissa’s image turned sharp, her usually composed demeanor cracking ever so slightly. She didn’t speak, but the intensity of her gaze conveyed everything. You felt her worry, her jealousy, and beneath it all, her fear. Fear that Alison would be right, that she might succeed in pulling you away.

But Alison was wrong. She has to be.

You squared your shoulders and pulled Alison out of the room. You met her gaze with unwavering resolve. “No,” you announced, your voice steady. “This is my life. I built it after you abandoned me. And I’m not leaving it.”

—

The days after the encounter stretched out like a taut string, each one vibrating with tension and uncertainty, like the lingering hum of a plucked chord. The air felt heavy, thick with unspoken words and the faint scent of lavender from the flowers Alison left behind afterward.

The following evening, Alison’s shadow fell over your doorstep. You didn’t answer the knock. From behind the curtains, you watched her stand there, shifting her weight from foot to foot, her hands clutching another bouquet of flowers.

The evening light filtered through her hair, casting an almost halo-like glow that made you want to laugh bitterly. After a few minutes, she left, the flowers placed carefully on your front mat. You didn’t pick them up. When Larissa asked about it later, her voice calm but probing, you shrugged. “I’m not ready.”

Larissa didn’t press further, but her gaze lingered on you, a mixture of concern and quiet encouragement. The flowers stayed on the doormat until morning, their colors dulling from the night’s chill. By then, the sight of them felt too overwhelming, and you tossed them into the trash without another glance.

The next morning, Alison’s texts grew more insistent. “Can we talk?” “I’m sorry.” “Please.” You read them but didn’t respond, the words blurring together as guilt and anger wrestled within you. You began avoiding your phone entirely, turning it face-down on the counter and letting its notifications pile up unchecked. Larissa’s voice hummed softly from the crystal ball as you paced in your office. “You don’t have to face her yet,” she cooed. “Or ever. It’s your choice, darling.” Her words were reassuring, but they also felt like a challenge—one that urged you to confront the raw wound Alison’s persistence kept reopening.

By the third day, Alison’s persistence began to wear at you. Each knock, each message, chipped away at the fragile wall you built to protect yourself. Guilt and frustration churned within you, an exhausting cycle that left you pacing your living quarters, unable to focus on anything for more than a few minutes. The pressure of Alison’s determination felt constant, as if she had found a way to exist in the very air around you. She visited again in the early evening, knocking lightly at first, then louder. This time, she did not leave flowers. Instead, her voice drifted through the door, muffled but earnest. “I’m not giving up on us,” she informed the unanswered door. You sat on the floor, your back pressed against the door, listening but saying nothing. You couldn’t decide if her earnestness was true. Her words hung in the silence, and they seemed to echo in your mind long after her footsteps retreated. When Alison had finally left, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, the pressure in your chest easing only slightly.

Larissa’s presence was a balm in the quiet that followed. She didn’t speak this time, simply watching you from the crystal ball, her expression unreadable but steady. You met her gaze and felt a wave of strength return. It didn’t last long, though. Messages and memories crept back into your thoughts the moment the room fell silent again. You wondered if it was possible to truly move forward when the past insisted on clawing its way back.

The fourth day dawned with a kind of weary inevitability. Alison’s texts came again, but this time, they were less frantic, more measured. “I’m not giving up… I just hope you’ll hear me out when you’re ready.” The change in tone unsettled you more than her earlier desperation. That evening, as the sun dipped low on the horizon, Alison showed up once more. Her knock was sharp, more demanding than before. This time, you opened the door, just a crack, enough to see her face. Her pleading exterior from the earlier days seemed to have worn away, revealing a bubbling frustration that she struggled to contain. She fidgeted as she talked, her voice louder than before, her gestures sharper.

“I’m not here to beg,” she expressed firmly. “But I need you to know I’m not the same person who walked away. Let me explain.”

You glanced back at the crystal ball, where Larissa’s image materialized. Her brow arched slightly, her silence urging you to trust yourself. With a deep breath, you opened the door wider. Alison stepped inside, her movements careful.

She set a small, weathered box on your desk. The box, adorned with faint scratches and a delicate floral engraving, seemed as if it held not just objects but fragments of something far more fragile—hope, regret, and longing all pressed into its corners. Inside, you found a collection of mementos—a pressed flower from a long-forgotten date, a concert ticket stub, a handwritten note you had once slipped into her bag. “I’ve kept these,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “They’re pieces of us. Of what I threw away when I let my fear take over.”

You were silent, processing her words and their intentions. “Alison,” you began, but she cut you off gently.

“I know I hurt you,” she admitted, her expression showing a battle between frustration and hurt. “And I’m not asking for forgiveness, not yet. I just want you to know that I’ve been working to be better. To be someone who deserves you.”

Larissa’s voice rang through the tense atmosphere, her tone measured as she asked you, “And what of the burden she placed on you? The hurt she left behind?”

Alison was not able to hear her, but the question lingered in the air, a reminder of the pain you carried. You met Alison’s gaze, searching for sincerity, for proof that her words weren’t just a temporary salve.

“I appreciate what you’re saying,” you said finally, your voice steady but guarded. “But this isn’t something that can be fixed with apologies or memories. It would take time. And I don’t know if I have that time to give.”

Alison’s shoulders slumped momentarily before a renewed irritability dominated her movements. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, and her breath became sharp and uneven. “That’s bullshit,” Alison blurted, her voice clipped and tense.

You glanced briefly at Larissa, the shimmering presence within the crystal ball radiating an unspoken concern. Confusion crossed Alison’s face as she followed your gaze, her expression morphing from irritation to something more unsettled. “What are you staring at?” she snapped, eyes darting to the crystal ball with a mix of disdain and confusion.

You stiffened at her tone, your fingers gripping the edge of your office chair. “It’s none of your business, Alison,” you responded evenly, though the slight tremor in your voice betrayed your unease.

Alison let out a short, bitter laugh. “Not my business? I’m here trying to fix this,” she gestured between the two of you, her movements growing more erratic. Her frustration was palpable as she continued, a storm of emotions building in the small room. “And you’re just zoning out, staring at a damn crystal ball?”

“It’s not a competition,” you replied defensively. Your gaze shifted involuntarily back to where Larissa’s calm, watchful presence resided. Alison caught the movement and followed your eyes, her frustration igniting into raw anger.

“Look at me,” she demanded, stepping toward the desk. “Look at me!” she huffed again when you didn’t respond immediately or the way she wanted. Without warning, Alison reached out and grabbed the crystal ball, lifting it with force. She brought it to her face, as though to inspect the source of your distraction. Her grip was tight, her knuckles white against the smooth glass.

“Alison, stop!” you said sharply, rising from your seat. Panic coiled in your chest as you took a hurried step forward, reaching out toward the sphere. “You don’t understand what you’re doing.”

She hesitated, her anger flickering with momentary uncertainty, but the tension in her grip didn’t ease. “What I’m doing?” she echoed menacingly. “I’m trying to get through to you, but all you care about is this… this orb!” Her voice cracked, and for a fleeting second, vulnerability seeped through her fury.

“It’s not just an orb,” you pleaded, your voice softer now but no less urgent. “Just put it down.”

Alison’s eyes darkened, her head shaking in disbelief as she considered your words. “Fine.” Her voice dripped with venom. Just then, with deliberate carelessness, Alison loosened her grip and let the crystal ball slip from her fingers.

Time slowed. You lunged forward, heart hammering in your chest, but it was too late. The sphere tumbled through the air, distorting the dim light of your office in fractured and distorted reflections. And then—

A dull, heavy thud as it struck the wooden floor, rolling a few inches before settling. The sound wasn’t sharp or catastrophic, but as you stepped closer, a dreadful chill crawled up your spine. A thin, jagged crack marred the smooth surface, a single imperfection that felt far worse than if it shattered completely.

You sank to your knees, hands trembling as you reached for it, cradling the cool sphere with cautious reverence. Larissa’s presence within seemed unclear, her expression unreadable. The air around you thickened, weighted with something unseen yet deeply felt. Your breath came in shallow bursts, shock gripping you in place.

Alison scoffed, crossing her arms. “Oh, come on, it didn’t even break.”

Your head snapped up, and for the first time since she walked back into your life, true anger burned behind your eyes. “You don’t get it,” you let out, your voice barely above a whisper, yet it carried, sharp and unrelenting. “You have no idea what you’ve just done.”

Alison shifted on her feet, her bravado faltering. “I was trying to get you to listen to me,” she insisted, but her voice lacked its previous certainty.

You exhaled sharply, pressing your palm against the damaged crystal as if you could will it whole again. “I was listening,” you voiced simply. Your gaze was piercing, and your eyes flashed a warning to Alison. “But you didn’t like what you heard.”

Before she could attempt to twist the situation further, you rose to your feet, carefully placing the crystal ball back onto its secured stand. Turning to Alison, you straightened your posture. “You need to leave Nevermore’s grounds at once. If necessary, I will have security escort you. And Alison—I don’t think you want to be dragged out by a golem.”

Alison’s eyes widened, startled by your decisiveness. She was not used to this version of you, the one who held firm instead of bending. “Why are you making this such a big deal?”

“Because I’m done,” you said with finality. “I don’t know what I ever saw in you, but I’m grateful I can see clearly now. Goodbye, Alison.” Your footsteps were firm, resolute, as you strode to your desk and pressed the button to summon security. You didn’t watch her leave. You didn’t need to.

Once Alison left, hopefully forever, you turned back to Larissa’s damaged vessel, heart pounding with unspoken dread. What does this mean?

“Larissa, how do you feel? Are you well?” your voice was tender yet tinged with panic.

For a moment, there was silence, and then Larissa’s voice rang out, exasperated yet reassuring. “I could use some red wine right about now,” she murmured. “I’m a little shaken up, but yes, darling. I’m okay.”

Relief flooded through you, but as your fingers traced the crack in the crystal, one thought lingered—what would happen if the fracture grew?

—

The day of the ritual dawned bright and cold, the winter sun glinting off the frosted panes of Nevermore’s windows. You barely slept the night before, poring over the ancient tome you unearthed from the academy’s restricted section. You found an obscure incantation tucked within a dusty tome in the library. The spell was a delicate one—more art than science—and it demanded precision. One misplaced word or faltering syllable, and you might doom Larissa to an eternity in the glass. You knew it was risky, but you needed an answer, something tangible to address Larissa’s crystal ball predicament. You decided you wouldn’t go another day with her sphere cracked, threatening the connection and manifestation holding Larissa to the glass orb.

“Are you certain about this?” Larissa’s voice remained calm, though her expression betrayed a flicker of unease. She sat—or rather hovered—within the crystal sphere, her hands folded in her unseen lap as though she were merely preparing for another faculty meeting.

Your heart clenched at the sight. You reached out, your fingers brushing the cool surface of the sphere. “I’m sure, Larissa,” you said softly. “I’m not letting you stay trapped in there any longer. Especially after Alison almost broke your crystal ball.”

Larissa’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “Very well. Just promise me you won’t do anything foolish.”

“Too late for that,” you muttered, earning a soft chuckle from Larissa.

The ritual was set to take place in the privacy of the principal’s office, with wards cast to keep any curious students or staff from interrupting. You meticulously arranged the necessary components: a ring of salt around the sphere, candles placed at cardinal points, and a single drop of your own blood—a symbol of the bond you formed with Larissa over the months.

As the spell began, the room seemed to hold its breath. Your voice was steady, each word of the incantation resonating with an ancient power that thrummed through the air. The candles flickered wildly, their flames leaping about as if caught in a storm. The crystal sphere began to glow, a brilliant light emanating from within, illuminating Larissa’s serene yet expectant face. As you chanted the words, magic crackled in the air, filling the room with an almost unbearable brightness.

And then, the shattering. It wasn’t the loud, explosive sound you anticipated. Instead, it was a soft, almost melodic breaking, like the chime of distant bells. The light intensified, forcing you to shield your eyes, and when it finally dimmed, you blinked rapidly to clear your vision.

Larissa Weems stood before you. The crystal sphere laid shattered on the floor, and standing in its place was Larissa. Her full height—stately, commanding—took up the room in a way you didn’t expect.

She was breathtaking. Her silvery-blonde hair caught the candlelight, and her storm-blue eyes met yours with a mixture of wonder and gratitude. She was tall—so much taller than you imagined—and every inch of her radiated the elegance and authority you came to associate with her voice. Her long, statuesque frame was clad in a white suit that hugged her in all the right places, her presence almost magnetic. Your gaze lingered, your breath hitching as Larissa’s lips parted, a small smile curling at the edges.

“Oh,” you said faintly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Larissa’s lips curved into a warm smile. “Oh?” she echoed, arching a graceful brow while brushing glass dust from her pristine white suit.

“You’re… you’re really tall,” you blurted, the words tumbling out before you could stop yourself. You had so many thoughts, and yet, that was the one that escaped.

Larissa laughed, a rich, melodic sound that had filled the room. “And you’re as charming in person as you were through glass.” She took a step forward, and your breath caught in your throat. “Thank you,” Larissa breathed softly, her voice carrying a depth of emotion that made your chest tighten. “For everything.” Her hand reached out, her fingers brushing your cheek with a featherlight touch that threatened to have goosebumps rise over your skin.

You could only nod, your throat too tight to form words. Larissa’s elegance, height, beauty… all of it left you breathless. The warmth of Larissa’s hand lingered, and the faint scent of jasmine and tuberose filled the air once again.

—

Life with Larissa no longer confined to a crystal ball was… an adjustment. For months, you were accustomed to her presence as a voice from your desk or a comforting shimmer of light on an eye-level shelf. Now, she was here—fully, gloriously here—and the height difference was only the first of many things you needed to get used to.

It started with small things—like Larissa reaching up to hand you a book you needed, only for you to realize you couldn’t quite meet her gaze without tilting your head back. This was a fact that Larissa seemed to find endlessly amusing, her eyes always sparkling endearingly. There was the way Larissa filled a room, her presence as impressive in the flesh as it was in the sphere. Or when Larissa leaned over you while you worked, her shadow cast across the desk like a protective canopy.

There were other moments, too—moments that made you realize just how much your dynamic has shifted. Larissa’s proximity was intoxicating, her scent enveloping you and making it hard to focus. All you wanted was to be near her now that you two could finally touch. There was an electricity between you two that neither of you were able to ignore, a magnetic pull that made every brush of fingers or shared glance feel charged.

And then there were the kisses. Oh Gods, the kisses. The first time you gathered the courage to kiss her one evening—emboldened by the soft glow of candlelight—you forgot just how tall Larissa was. You leaned up onto your tiptoes, wobbling slightly as Larissa caught you by the waist and cupped your cheek to steady you, her smile indulgent.

“You’re adorable,” Larissa insisted, tilting her head down to meet you halfway.

“You’re... tall,” you replied mousily and breathless once again.

“You’re just noticing?” Larissa teased. Her lips were soft as silk, and the kiss was slow and lingered. It left you wanting more. So much more. Larissa’s hands slid to your hips, her grip firm but tender, and you found yourself melting into her, your hands fisting in the fabric of her suit to keep steady.

“This would be easier if you were a little shorter,” you remarked against her lips, earning another laugh from Larissa. Mmm, I could get used to this.

“Or if you were a little taller,” she countered, her eyes sparkling with amusement. Larissa’s fingers trailed lightly along your jaw and then neck, her touch sending delicious shivers down your spine.

Over time, you found your own ways to adapt. You learned to stand a little straighter, to reach a little higher, and to embrace the moments when Larissa effortlessly scooped you into her arms with surprising strength. Larissa, for her part, seemed to delight in your determination, often teasing you with a raised brow or a playful smirk.

Beneath the teasing was a deep and abiding affection, a bond forged over months of shared secrets and quiet nights spent working together. Larissa’s freedom from the crystal ball may bring challenges, but it has already brought substantial joy—the kind of joy that made your heart swell every time Larissa’s laughter echoed through the halls of Nevermore.

And if you needed to stretch onto your tiptoes for the occasional kiss? Well, you decided, it’s a small price to pay for the privilege of standing beside Larissa Weems.

#request #requests #ghosting #cw mention of death #cw mentions of emotional abuse #cw ghosts #I don't think there is anything else to tag for content warnings?#fanfiction #fanfic #larissa x reader #larissa weems x reader #larissa weems #principal larissa weems #crystal ball

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ineffablecabbage · 2 months ago

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for the domestic prompt... Benton/Carter #47 🥺

(lol I was trying to keep these drabble, double drabble or triple drabble size. Messed around and fucked up. ~ 1459 words)

Jackie didn't like being wrong about things, but at certain point, she had to admit that Walt had the situation with John Carter figured out long before she ever did.

Neither of them quite knew what to think when Peter brought the gangly… young… white med student home for Thanksgiving dinner. But Peter had insisted that their mother had invited him - something that their mother confirmed once or twice, though her word in those days could never truly be taken at face value - and the kid had the look on him like someone had just kicked his puppy, so Jackie had served him a plate and tried not to ignore how … close he clung to everything Peter said or did.

"He doesn't know any of you, and he had a rough day," Peter told her in the kitchen. "Give him more of grandma's mac and cheese that you perfected, and he'll warm up to you."

Men always compliment you when they're up to something, Grandma had said once.

"That's true," Walt agreed. "White people do love their cheese."

And to his credit, John Carter did look up at her with those sad little puppy eyes and tell her how he'd never had anything this delicious in his life, and thank her for her hospitality, and well… it was easy to see why her brother and her mother had been so easily charmed.

Her brother would deny being charmed, but Jackie had known her brother all his life, thank you very much, and if anyone else had looked at him and said "I've never had sweet potato pie," he would have called them a tasteless heathen. Instead, Peter gave the boy two slices and told him not to insult anyone by telling them pumpkin was better.

"Pumpkin is a little heavier on the spice," John Carter had commented. "The sweet potato is lighter and sweeter. Some people might prefer the spice."

Walt had elbowed her in the ribs then, and she had told him to be quiet. "It's a metaphor, Jackie. We should tell Peter that he's just been compared to a pumpkin pie, so he can be furious that he got to be the inferior pie," he whispered, because Walt never listened to her good advice.

Later when John Carter listened to each of her children in turn talk their various levels of nonsense - despite the heavy lids that the carb coma and turkey were giving him - Jackie sat between her mother and Walt and listened to Peter cleaning up the dishes in the kitchen. Her mother patted her hand and said, "Peter has nice friends, don't you think, Jackie?"

Walt had chuckled, and Jackie had elbowed him and told him to be quiet again. "Yes, Mama," she'd said.

"Ate all his pie," her mother had said. "Cleaned his whole plate. You know, you and Petey were both fussy eaters. Gave me and your father such fits."

"Well, family takes all types," Walt said, and Jackie elbowed the man again, because he didn't know how to be quiet at all.

Later, after company had gone and Mama had gone to bed, Walt declared, "That man is gonna be coming to Sunday dinners before all is said and done, mark my words."

"You talk too much, Walt," she said. "And that'll never happen. Peter's never even dated a white woman, and you have him out here dating a white man. And a student at that. That boy can't be much more than what? 23?"

"He won't always be his student," Walt answered. "And it's the 90s, Jackie. Your brother works with white people in a white hospital all day long… to borrow John Carter's metaphor, maybe he might decide he wants to try a different flavor of pie."

"If you use that metaphor again, you're sleeping on the couch until next Sunday dinner," Jackie grumbled.

Walt had laughed, and they had dropped it.

~*~

Time passed, of course, and Peter decided to make all sorts of terrible choices in his dating life. First, he decided to date a married woman. Oh, Walt loved to talk about that. ("You suppose that little white boy was married?") Then there was Carla, and oh, Lord, she was even worse. That was a fact. Now, Jackie will always love her nephew, but his mother was an entire mess and a half. Walt loved to talk about that, too. ("John Carter never insulted your cornbread.")

And after that, Peter apparently decided to dance on their father's grave and date a white woman, after all.

On the day they found that out, Walt did have to sleep on the couch, he was so insufferable.

~*~

More time passed, of course, and eventually, little brothers left to their own devices will almost stumble into making the right choices. Peter even started to date a stable, sane Black woman for a while - a fellow doctor and pediatrician.

"She seems nice," Jackie told him, during a Sunday dinner in which they were actually graced with his presence for a change. "Couldn't she get the day off?"

Peter shrugged. "It seemed a little early to be inviting her to Sunday dinner, don't you think?"

Walt laughed, and as they were doing the dishes, Walt told her firmly, "That man is never inviting that woman to this house for Sunday dinner."

"Oh, he will too."

"If she ever shows up, I'm gonna ask her if she's ever met John Carter."

"You will not."

~*~

There were only a few times that Jackie remembered hearing her little brother's voice break, and those are moments Jackie didn't like to think about at all. So when the phone call in the middle of the night woke her, asking if she could keep an eye on Reese for the night, because "something has happened," she knew it had to be bad.

She knew, because her little brother's voice broke in the middle of his request; he cleared his throat twice trying to regain composure.

She gave him the dignity he was trying to get back. "Sure, Peter. It's not a problem."

Later, when he came to pick Reese up, he would tell her that John Carter was injured, but he wouldn't tell her how. He will tell her that John Carter's useless parents had stayed in Tokyo.

Now, Jackie couldn't imagine either going to Tokyo or staying there if one of her children needed her. If one of her children were hurt, she would sooner try to swim the ocean herself than stay away from them.

She hadn't seen John Carter in years, but did remember that sweet boy who had been kind to her mother, to her children, and to her, and she knew he didn't deserve any hurt. She also watched the way her brother's fists shook with unleashed hurt, fury, or a combination of the two as he clenched them during his retelling of the failures of these sorry ass parents that John Carter had been given.

"When he gets out of the hospital, stop by, and I'll fix him a plate," Jackie told him. "Nobody should have to go home to take-out."

The hug Peter gave her on the way out was as tight as the one he gave her at Mama's funeral.

Walt haunted the doorway while Peter poured out his heart. After Peter left, Walt didn't say anything, but he didn't have to.

~*~

It was two years and two deaths after that fateful night that John Carter did in fact show up for Sunday dinner.

Now, Jackie didn't like being wrong, but a lot of years had passed since that Thanksgiving evening. John Carter was still very gangly and very … white and very … male, but he was no longer very young. And their family had shrunk enough by that point that Jackie could not see the point in shrinking it even further.

Then, of course, there was Peter.

Peter, who looked so damn happy with John Carter by his side that Jackie could almost forgive the fact that her little brother had fallen in love with a man who had never had collard greens in his life.

Their father would be scandalized.

But daddy wasn't here, and little Reese was. Little Reese who was no longer as little as he once was. Little Reese, who sat next to John Carter after dinner and signed excitedly to him, the same level of nonsense that Jackie's own children had, years before - including the one who will never attend another Sunday dinner again.

"What did I tell you?" Walt said, triumphantly, after the three of them had departed for the day. "Sunday dinners, Jackie. I called it. Years ago, I called it."

"Yes, you did," Jackie agreed. "Looks like you were right."

"You aren't gonna argue with me about it?" Walt asked in surprise.

"No," Jackie answered.

She was not, because while Jackie didn't usually like being wrong… every now and then… there were exceptions.

#john truman carter iii #peter benton #the bentoncarter agenda #the bisexual carter agenda #nbc er #fanfic memes #domesticity meme #reese benton #jackie benton robbins #walt robbins

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r-i-03-17 · 1 month ago

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So idk if the #HiccstridhadZephyrearlyAU (basically Hiccstrid havebZephyr during the events of RTTE) is even still a thing anymore but I wanted to make a contribution to it. Hope you enjoy.

Living on the edge was difficult, you didn't have any immediate support from anyone other than the people there with you, and a pretty good distance from........well anywhere. But it was ok, the riders and dragons made it work with what they had, and it was pretty peaceful, until it wasn't, until Astrid dropped a (metaphorical) bomb on Hiccup "I'm pregnant".

The next 7 and a half months was interesting, everyone worked to try and baby proof the Edge, while also trying to keep Viggo and Ryker at bay. Fishlegs was busy building baby things, cradle, toys, etc. Heather was tasked with helping Astrid with whatever she needed, even though Astrid said she didn't need any help she definitely appreciated it, especially when her stomach got so big she couldn't see her feet when she was going down the stairs. Snotlout was tasked with building railings around the various decks and ledges around the edge for when the baby started walking so it wouldn't just fall off the cliff, as well as making gates in front of all of the stairs, just a little extra touch. Hiccup was busy patrolling with the twins making sure everything was secure and safe, as well as checking on Astrid every chance he was able to. As for the twins, Tuff helped wherever it was needed, either helping Fishlegs build the baby things, or Snotlout build the railings, or helping Heather if it was needed. But the one who REALLY stepped up was Ruffnut. Hiccup was the first to notice, Ruff suddenly offering to do things she wouldn't normally do with no prompting, and was willing to drop whatever she was doing whenever Hiccup or Astrid called to her, including the ladder she was supposed to be holding for Snotlout, which he then fell off of.

Astrid started to notice soon after Hiccup did, Ruffnut's personality switch, and soon after so did the rest of the riders. It wasn't so much that she'd taken on more responsibility, they all had, but it was more the fact that she started taking everything more seriously than she normally would. Fishlegs was still acting like his normal self, considerate and gentle. Snotlout was still his normal self telling Astrid to shut up when she made a joke at his expense, but also telling her to be careful not to trip on the boards he has laying on the ground for the railings. Tuffnut was still cracking jokes and goofing around while he was helping with everything, but Ruffnut wasn't joking around or making quips as often, she still did it, but not as much as she normally would. If Astrid or Hiccup asked her to help them or someone else with something, she'd give a quick nod, or ask for clarification, then just go do what they asked, it was a little weird at first, but it made the parents to be all the more grateful that they had this big extended family that cared about their kid just as much as they did, Astrid even tiered up a bit, probably just because of the hormones but still. But it wasn't until one night that showed how much Ruffnut had really stepped up.

That's what I have so far, I'll make a second part I promise but I want to know how you guys like this. Don't forget to repost and comment, see if we can get the #HiccstridhadZephyrearleyAU going again.

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cookietails · 3 days ago

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Happy Julance! 💙

I interpreted the prompt a little differently... 😉 Enjoy!

Day 2: Curse

The first time Hunk heard Lance curse, he almost dropped his space croissants as he pulled them out freshly baked from the oven.

He had to contain himself, find central peace, re-evaluate his mental state and restore balance in his hand-eye coordination to save the hot pastries when a surefire word was hushed as Lance walked past Hunk in the castleship kitchen and towards the fridge.

“I’m so fucking over it.”

If you know Lance McClain, family man extraordinaire, lover boy of the universe, happy happy joy joy man—he never curses. Never. You couldn’t find a bone in his body that would allow him to naturally swear. So this revelation was concerning to say the least.

“Uh,” he intellectually states, swivelling around in his direction with the hot tray in his mitted hands. “You… You okay, man?”

Lance yanks open the fridge, gets a water pouch, stabs it quite viciously, and slams the fridge shut with such a scary, neutral expression that if he wasn’t aggressively using all of his body language and you just looked at his face, you’d think he’d be okay.

“Fine, man.”

Clearly not.

“Are… Are you sure?” He digresses, coaxing him to speak up.

Instead, Lance walks away with a degree of sass—hand on hip, legs on a mission—that would scare off every individual within a five foot radius. “Never better, Hunk.”

Uh… Sure.

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

The first time Pidge heard Lance curse, it swept them off of their feet… quite literally.

They were both feeling a little competitive and on edge from a mission prior that almost had half of Voltron blown into smithereens, so Pidge offered to play a fighting game with him on the video game console they purchased at the Space Mall to blow off steam.

Nothing was out of the ordinary.

“Oh, come on!”

Except Lance was playing so aggressively that…

“Why?!”

…when Pidge won, he detonated like a ticking bomb. He stands up with the controller, incredibly pissed off, and literally sweeps Pidge off of their feet (“W-woah!?”) due to tangled cords and the unexpected flash of movement from Lance.

“What the fuck?! That’s so unfair!” He cries, almost screeching and shattering the metaphorical glass of the fourth wall.

If you know Lance McClain, and Pidge does quite well, he usually defaults to ‘what the cheese,’ or ‘holy crow,’ maybe a ‘holy cannoli,’ or some variation to which he doesn’t need to swear.

Pidge finally speaks up—a little unsure, a little defensive: “Lance…? Are you… okay?”

Being the king of avoidance when he wants to be, he throws the controller onto his bedroom floor, puts his hands in his pockets, and yells to no one in particular: “I’m checking on Kaltenecker.”

As the doors swooped closed behind him, only the sounds of the fighting game echoed in his room. Pidge was stunned into complete silence.

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

The first time Shiro heard Lance curse, it was at the Garrison when they landed back on Earth.

Coran and Allura were working on some Altean technology to get the Atlas ready for launch when Lance had exited Iverson’s office in complete rage. He was in tears as he power walked away from the office door and right into the lounge where Shiro was, playing Sudoku and trying to take his mind off of things.

Adam, the impending war, Earth being taken over, building the Atlas to go back into the void of Space; you know… Things™

He looked up at a sullen Lance and immediately put down the Sudoku book. “Lance? Are–”

“I hate this shit.” He huffed, seeing red like a bull meeting a matador.

Now, if you know Lance, he does everything in the book to avoid cursing and swearing inappropriately. He has a big family, a niece and nephew he hung out with constantly growing up. He wants to be someone they look up to.

So it takes Shiro by surprise that he just said the word shit.

Before he can say anything though, Lance storms past like a man on a mission to the door on the other side of the lounge, but not before he stops, sighs, and grabs the Sudoku book. Scratching his head, he passes the book to Shiro and simply says: “Four is in the upper right corner.”

He then walks out, moving on from his outburst and into the next room.

Shiro checks the book.

Huh.

He was right.

He writes the number four and wonders if he’ll be okay.

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

The first time Keith heard Lance curse, it was on the Atlas, after their private conversation in the boardroom (which he thought went pretty well, to be quite honest).

Scratch that, he was proud of himself. Both of them had made a gigantic breakthrough in their friendship. Lance has been struggling since they traverse Honerva’s mind, and they have no plan for the final battle. Feeling defeated and blue, he sat in a chair and vented to Keith about their line of action, and Keith actually got through to him, made him laugh, and they held hands.

Keith even gave him heart eyes, and he’s pretty sure Lance sent some in his direction too!

He really wants to fist pump to himself later in victory. Hell freaking yeah. You see, for Keith, making friends was like trying to get honey out of the carpet—not impossible, but very annoying.

…And look, they didn’t hug, but they’ll work on that. He’s sure of it.

Patience yields virtue, or whatever the saying is.

Just then, much to his surprise, he heard a sob as he walked through the halls, past their dorms, and past a little pocketed alcove amongst the walls. Leaning against the wall of the alcove is Lance, crying to himself in amongst the shadows surrounding him.

Keith leaned against the wall beside the alcove to listen in closer. His next words out of his mouth—so quiet and incredibly private—shakes him to the core, catching Keith off guard.

“...Fuck.” Lance whispers to himself, tears trembling down his cheeks. “I like him. I like him so much and knowing my luck, we’re not gonna make it home.” His lips wobble, a shiver of fear tingling his spine as he cries quietly in private. “Fuck, what am I gonna do about Allura? I… I-I like Keith?” A sob that sounds like it hurts ripples through his chest. “God, I’m so stupid.”

Unbeknownst to Lance, Keith pockets that information for later, but in that moment, his thicker brows furrowed in concern and a frown takes over the lingering curve of his lips. He wants to comfort him, reassure him, shelter him in that missed opportunity of a hug and tell him everything will be okay. But he can’t—he’s eavesdropping and it’s not right.

With blood boiling and determination ringing under his skin, he walks away, vowing in his mind for them to win. No matter what.

We’ll make it home. I promise.

*.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.*

The last time Lance heard himself curse, he was caught off guard by his beautiful Voltron family.

He honestly, genuinely forgot it was his birthday. Everyday blurs between each other post-war; post-integration back into society, and it’s been difficult to figure out what the time and day was anymore post-reality reset. He stopped attempting to.

So by the time it hit 7pm and he was eating some subpar pasta bake he cooked up on the fly (it was actually incredible, thank you very much), he heard a knock on the front door and jumped out of his skin, dropping his fork on the floor with a squeak.

“I got it, sit down.” Keith commands as he stands up from the opposite seat. All Lance can see is his exquisite lips and muscles ready to burst out of his tank top.

But all he does is blink, says “Mkay,” and stares absentmindedly into his pasta bake. He disassociates a lot.

Maybe, it’s the PTSD. Maybe, it’s the intangible feeling of his mortality shriveling away. Maybe, his therapist was right and he’s just depressed by the constellations of mental issues chipping away at his sanity.

Regardless, he hears a carnival of voices stemming from the front door, and then…

“Surprise!” Hunk and Pidge cheer from the open doorway of the dining room. “Shiro sends his regards from Hawaii,” Hunk quickly informs, with a giant box in his hands. Lance blinks in surprise. “Huh?”

Pidge pulls a popper in their hands, and out bursts a cheerful, colourful noise. “Happy Birthday! We brought you cake, and…” Pidge pulls out some presents, wrapped nicely in shiny wrapping paper and blue ribbons. “Presents!”

Keith smiles from the front door, walks back to the dining room and sits down besides Lance in another chair. He faces his direction, grabs his left hand and rubs soothing circles into his soft skin.

“Lance…” Keith begins with a cautious, genuine smile; no judgement, just warmth beneath his radiant, moonlit eyes. “You forgot your birthday, didn’t you?”

Oh my gosh. It’s his birthday. Keith hands him his datapad to his right, and he swiftly checks through. He hasn’t touched it since two days ago, and it’s filled to the brim with messages, voicemails, inbox notifications.

How did he forget his birthday? He loves his birthday.

Hunk and Pidge sit down opposite beside him, presents and cake in tow on the table, and as tears well in his eyes, there’s only one thing he can say in response as a broken sob breaks through the echo chamber of his chest:

“What the fuck.”

Tears cascade down his face as quick as lightning.

“How did I forget my birthday?”

Pidge chimes in at the ready, “We know it’s been hard for you transitioning back into this wacky sort of reality reset. It’s been hard for all of us, too.” Lance turns towards team punk in shock.

Hunk bridges the gap, extending a hand on Lance’s shoulder and rubbing his thumb into a pesky knot. “Just know, you’re not alone, okay? You can call me anytime, any day, heck, every second if you want to.” Lance feels the burning heat behind his own eyes grow with wonder.

“You know I love you,” Keith kisses his cheek with a big ol’ mushy grin and stands up, walking away towards the kitchen. Lance stares agape as he reappears just as quickly with a bouquet of worn, blue flowers and places them gently on the table. When did he get those…?

“But just know, we all love you.” Keith finishes, returning to his side to place a hand on his free shoulder. Lance notices that now Hunk is comforting one side, Keith the other side, with Pidge holding his hand—tight and soothing like a warm hug. It grounds him from disassociation nation.

“Every single part of you. Happy Birthday, Lance.”

His mind is a clean slate.

His tears are hot to the touch, treading streaks down rudden, red cheeks.

But, for the first time in a while, he smiles—laughs, even.

He feels fuller, lighter, softer, warmer.

He thinks he’ll be okay.

“Guys...”

They wait for his response.

“...Thank you. So much.”

They smile in return. He’s crying softly, so overjoyed to the brim and warm with love.

“I love you all so much.”

#lance mcclain #otp #vld fic #happy julance! 💙#julance2025 #julance #2025 julance #voltron #vld #national give lance a hug day

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zuureleena · 2 years ago

Text

i now present to you!!! NOCOVEMBER 2023

i decided to give you guys two options for each week this year and i wanted them to correlate to one another in some shape or form + an extra month to work on it!

the rules are simple!

⋆ use #NocoVember2023 and tag me when you post your art/story (i wanna see it so badly u guys 🥲🫶)

⋆ comment/reblog saying that you'll be joining and tag 3 people who you think might be interested (it is totally okay to still be unsure and not participate in the end okayyy :D)

⋆ you can pick one theme, both, or mash them together for each week! the choice is yours, and you don't even have to do all of 'em

⋆ feel free to post your work at any point in november (or if you want to do it a month earlier or later, it's up to you :0)

⋆ for the angst and older prompt, please don't do anything nsfw related. i'm asking you to not draw/write smut, but if you want to do something gory for the angst prompt, always put a proper warning!

⋆ remember to have fun, never hesitate to ask me questions, and don't feel pressured to join <3

each prompt is explained under the cut

Week 1 - Sun & Moon / Cat & Dog

these can either be taken literally (as in you make them into for eg; noah, a black cat, and cody, a golden retriever) or metaphorically (noah has moon energy so you include things that symbolize that, and same goes for cody with his sun energy)

Week 2 - Monsters / Angst

you can turn them both or one of them into (a) monster(s)! this could be tethered to the angst genre or you could make a completely different angsty scenario between the two of them

Week 3 - Older / Childhood Friends

they can either be in university, full-grown adults, or heck! even elderly men 😭 so how do they look now? what's changed in their lives and in their relationship? do they still keep in touch or have they strayed away from each other? who knows! it's all up to you

as for childhood friends? they could be toddlers like on dramarama, maybe prepebusecent teens? just make sure they are younger than they are on the show (aka 16)

Week 4 - Canon Divergence / Reality TV Duo

i wanna see you put these two nerds in a completely different reality tv genre! it could be a cooking competition, something like wipeout or love island, a quizz show! anything as long as it isn't total drama.

unless,,, you do want them to be a duo in TD then you could make a canon divergence situation where these two are the ones participating in ridonculous race, or write/draw them in a scenario that's based off any scene in total drama (one that either has them or has nothing to do with them whatsoever) and twist it in a way that makes Noah and Cody's relationship the main focus

PLEASE GO ABSOLUTELY WILD WITH YOUR CREATIVITY!!! I HIGHLY ENCOURAGE IT :D

#td #tdi #td noah #td cody #noco #noah x cody #cody x noah #td noco #total drama #total drama island #nocovember #nocovember2023 #art challenge #art prompt #fic prompt #writing prompt #total drama noah #total drama cody

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scary-grace · 8 months ago

Note

25 police lights flashing on concrete with shigaraki

thank you so much for the prompt! i wrote multiple different ideas for this one, all of which I hit trouble with, so if you end up hating it, let me know and I'll rev up another one of the ideas. I hope you like it! (dividers by @cafekitsune)

magnum opus

As a crime scene photographer, you're prepared to see some blood. But the crime scene you've just been called out to document is on a different level, and the longer you spend looking at it, the more convinced you are that everything about it is intentional -- not that you can convince anyone else. As you try desperately to raise the alarm, the man responsible for the murder grows more and more interested in you, and whether Shigaraki Tomura kills you or not, he'll be sure to show you things you can never imagine first. (cross-posted to Ao3)

You got the call at eleven-thirty, when you were already most of the way to bed, and by the time you get to the crime scene, the detective on duty is already pissed. “Took you long enough. The press is climbing the walls.”

“I got here as fast as I could,” you say, ducking past the tape securing the scene. “How long since it was called in?”

“Half an hour, but the press got here just as fast,” the head of the forensics unit – your boss – says. “It was all the responding officers could do to get the perimeter set up before they could contaminate the scene.”

“The scene contaminated the scene,” the fingerprint tech says. He looks grossed out, big-time. “I mean, look at it.”

There’s a lot to look at. So much that it’s hard to decide where to point your camera first. You usually start with the body, but the body’s not usually in so many pieces. The victim’s been gutted, and what was left after the murderer dug their innards out of their body cavity looks like it’s been drawn and quartered. And if you look away from the body, widening your vision to the scene as a whole, there are dozens of items that could be evidence. This is a construction site. Construction sites are a murder weapon all on their own.

Setting all of that aside, there’s the blood, a puddle of it beneath the body and enormous smears on the skeletal walls and concrete floor. It hasn’t congealed completely yet. When you crouch down to peer at it, you can see the flashing lights from the police cars reflected within it. Before you can think better of it, you snap a photo. “Hey,” the detective snaps at you. “This is going to take all night as it is. Let’s get a move-on. Start with the sketch.”

You wait for the sketch artist to step up, but nobody moves. You realize too late that they’re looking at you. “No,” you say. “I’m the photographer. Where’s Monoma?”

“Budget cuts,” your boss says. You wince. “Start sketching.”

It’s not a pretty sketch, because a) you’re not a sketch artist, and b) you’re rushing it. Forensics protocol insists that the sketch of the crime scene and all the photographs be taken before anyone else enters the scene, and with every minute that passes, you can feel your coworkers’ frustration growing. Once you’ve got rough outlines of where everything’s supposed to be, you set the sketchbook aside and pick up your camera at last.

You weren’t born with a metaphorical camera in your hands the way real, talented photographers are supposed to be, but there hasn’t been a point in your life where you weren’t more comfortable viewing the world through a lens. Maybe in a different life, you’d have been a fashion photographer, but in this one, you were plucked out of your university’s photography program by a criminology professor who’d spotted your photo essay chronicling the decay of a tanuki that was hit by a car. Patience, an eye for detail, and a strong stomach – according to Professor Sasaki, you were born to be a crime scene photographer.

Whether you were born to do it or not, you’re good at it, and you get to work documenting the carnage. It’s not like any crime scene you’ve come across before. The sheer violence of the victim’s death is startling on its own, but more than that, there’s something strange about the evidence that’s been left behind. The longer you spend looking at it, through the lens of your camera or with your own eyes as you add to the sketch, the more convinced you are that it’s not an accident. Nothing about this scene is an accident.

It looks that way, sure. When you were still a photography student, you got some practice setting up still-life shots, and you remember focusing on the smallest details, trying to make the scene you wanted to shoot fell into place naturally. You were good at it, but not good enough – there was always something that revealed the truth. No matter how realistic and accidental your shot appeared to be, you knew it was composed. Just like this crime scene is.

The arcs of blood spatter on the floor and the walls are too perfect. The dismembered limbs are cast out at artfully careless angles, hands arranged with palms turned up, fingers half-uncurled. When you’re photographing the victim’s head, you note the angle it’s been turned to – and when you zoom in, you realized that there’s something up with the eyes. The victim’s head is turned, and his eyes are focused on something that’s not there any longer. Is that where the killer was standing? No, you realize, it can’t be – in order to sever the victim’s head, the killer would have had to stand much closer. Which means the killer didn’t just turn the victim’s head. He moved their eyes, too.

You catch one of the fingerprint techs by the arm. “This is going to sound weird,” you say, “but you need to dust the victim’s eyes.”

“Huh?” Toru gives you a weird look. “Why?”

“I think the killer moved them.”

“Somebody like this? No way.” Shinsou, the detective in training, walks past, trailing after Aizawa, who’s actually in charge. “With this much violence and this much evidence and this dangerous of a scene? This killer’s out of control.”

“What if that’s what they want you to think?” You know it sounds crazy even as it’s coming out of your mouth, but at the same time, you’re absolutely convinced. “If a killer really wanted to, they could make a crime scene look like something it wasn’t. Like it was accidental, when really it was staged –”

“And why would they?” Aizawa turns around to stare at you. From behind him, you can see your boss, Sekijiro, looking up from the blood spray he’s been analyzing. “Why would an organized killer spend valuable time disorganizing their own crime scene? Why would they take that risk?”

“I don’t know,” you say. “I think there must be –”

“What is it?” Aizawa cuts you off. You don’t have an answer ready, and Aizawa takes it the same as if you’d admitted there isn’t one. “I would expect someone who works in forensics to know this already, but the business of finding and apprehending criminals has very little to do with psychology. The simplest explanation is invariably the best one.”

You know profiling doesn’t catch criminals. Evidence does. But you’ve photographed plenty of blood-soaked crime scenes in your career, and none of them have given you the same uneasy feeling as this one. “But what if –”

“Which answer is more logical? That an organized killer would waste time that could be spent escaping on making a mess of their crime scene?” Aizawa’s tone of voice makes it clear how he feels about the idea, as if his expression hadn’t told you already. “Or that a disorganized killer left a disorganized scene behind?”

You know the answer, but you’re not about to open your mouth again. Aizawa’s made his point. But because he’s a detective, and detectives can’t resist an opportunity to be right about something, he hammers it home. “I don’t give you direction during your photography. Don’t give advice about things you don’t understand.”

He goes back to talking to your boss, and you take the last few pictures you need. Then you step past the crime scene tape, find a place to sit on the hood of a cop car, and go back to your sketch. It’s hard to focus when you’re smarting over Aizawa’s comments, which sting all the more for the fact that he’s right. You don’t know anything about catching criminals. Your job is to gather the evidence and hand it off to people who know what to do with it, not to come up with crazy theories of your own.

Still, though. You can’t shake your certainty off. As you fill in the details on your sketch, you can’t help but feel like you’re sketching a still life of another still life. It’s a perfectly disorganized crime scene, but in your opinion, the only thing real about it is the body in the center.

Like any performer, Tomura wants to see the audience’s reaction, but showing up at his own crime scene is a beginner mistake. Thanks to the drone he planted at the scene before he left, he’s got a front-row seat to the early-stage investigation of his latest murder, and he was so excited to see what the cops think of the it that his hands were shaking on the controls. That didn’t last. He’s been watching for an hour, and he’s more disappointed than anything else.

They aren’t getting it. Tomura doesn’t know how to make himself any clearer, but they aren’t getting it. They’re getting distracted by the location. By the timing. By stupid shit like the fingerprints everywhere, which aren’t even his. Tomura picked this city and this precinct on purpose, because the detective squad here is supposed to be good at cracking cases. Not that Tomura’s looking to get his case cracked. He’s looking to get his point across. But this group of cops is just like the rest of them. They can’t see that Tomura’s trying to make a point at all.

Disorganized. Tomura fucking hates that word. It’s the word the cops use to write his work off every time, and once they get that word in their heads, it’s all over. The only person who even suggested that there might be something more to Tomura’s scene was the photographer out of the forensic unit, and the detectives ignored you completely. It’s too bad they did that. You were onto something.

In fact, you were onto something from the second you showed up. You took your first photo before you even crossed the police line, and Tomura liked what you focused on – not the body, but the pool of blood underneath it. Something about it got your attention, and Tomura doesn’t need to know what it was. All he needs to know is that when you looked at his crime scene, you saw something more than fucking disorganization. And once you saw that, you kept looking, catching details Tomura’s been waiting for somebody to notice forever. Tomura wishes he could get ahold of your photos. He wants to see what his work looks like through the eyes of someone with vision.

Right now you’re sitting back from the scene, finishing a sketch of it. Tomura manipulates the controls of his drone, edging it a little closer and zooming in on the page. He can tell that photography’s what you prefer. You’re a lot slower with the sketch. But there’s one detail that jumps out at Tomura, one that fills his vision and makes his heart lurch out of step. You noticed the way he turned the body’s head, the way he moved the eyes, and you drew that – and you drew a line of sight to the corner of the sketch, where you’ve already put an outline.

The outline is person-shaped, which is fine for now. Tomura doesn’t care what it looks like. All he cares about is the fact that you figured it out. His crime scenes aren’t disorganized. There’s a purpose to the things he does. He didn’t spend fifteen minutes screwing around with the position of the head just for fun. It was hard work, and you noticed it. As Tomura watches, you add a question mark to the center of the outline.

You want to know what was there. You want to see more. Tomura feels a grin break across his face, opening splits in his dry lips. He knew all it would take was someone to notice first, someone to spread the word and get the rest of the world thinking in the right direction. He’d just thought the person who noticed would be Aizawa, the lead detective, rather than the photographer from the forensic unit. And he thought they’d have a better idea of the point he’s trying to make.

But maybe that’s on him. Tomura frowns at the thought, but once it hits, it won’t leave. If you noticed that he’s trying to say something but couldn’t figure out what he wanted to say, he might need to make it clearer. For whoever comes next, anyway. It’s not going to be you. Tomura still doesn’t want to get caught, after all, and he needs another victim sooner or later. Given the message he’s trying to send, his victim pool is kind of small. If he branches out from cops and detectives and soldiers and prison guards, it might throw the so-called justice system off his scent. Or it would. If he had a scent, which he doesn’t.

Killing you wouldn’t help to make Tomura’s point clearer, and killing somebody off the forensics team feels less like justice to Tomura than he wants it to. When he set out to expose the falsehoods at the center of society’s moral code, he focused on the people who actually enforce it. Sure, forensic specialists are a cog in the machine, helping to keep it running, but a photographer like you is just the one who collects the evidence, not the person who looks at it and turns it into a lie. Tomura could kill you. But your death won’t matter to the world. Tomura needs to save his kills for when they’ll count.

And with that in mind – Tomura lowers his hands to the controls again, lifting the drone away from its perch and sending it further over the crime scene, focusing on the cops and detectives. He keeps a running list of potential kills in his head, and he likes to add a few law enforcement personnel from every crime scene. It’ll be a while before he comes back to this city for a kill, but when he’s ready, he wants to know exactly who he’s targeting.

Detective Aizawa was a disappointment, and he shot down the only person on the scene who had even the slightest idea of what Tomura was trying to say. He’ll do. In a few months or a year or two years, Tomura will come back to this city, and when he does, he’ll give you another crime scene to capture. That should give him time to figure out how to make his point clear. And give you some time to get better at your job, so that by the time he gets back, you’ll know exactly what every detail of his crime scene means.

When it comes to crime scenes, you hate the ones with living victims the most. Your job requires you to be dispassionate, not to linger on the horrors, and as terrible as it is, there’s some peace in knowing that the victim of a murderer will never see the aftermath, or have to reckon with what was done to them. Living victims make it harder. Living victims are haunted. Living victims stare at you and everyone else with blank eyes, empty except for the questions: Where were you? Why didn’t you save me?

Saving people isn’t your job. It’s not even the cops’ job, really. But that doesn’t mean you don’t feel sickeningly guilty every time you break eye contact, lift the camera up to hide your face, and turn back to taking pictures.

Today’s crime scene is what’s probably going to wind up being investigated as attempted vehicular homicide. Or a carjacking. Or both. In any case, the evidence is scattered across a busy intersection, and you’ve been crawling around for half an hour, taking pictures of body parts, smears of brain matter, piles of broken glass, and all the parts of the car that flew off when its bumper basically exploded on impact with an oncoming bus. You’re irritated, and you can’t figure out why. With every picture you snap, your frustration grows.

It’s so senseless. And random. A snap of unthinking violence and a bad decision, and now three people are severely injured, not to mention everybody who’s been traumatized by one look at the scene. There was no point to this, and there’s nothing to solve. You aren’t helping anybody by snapping dozens of pictures. You’re just creating a record of the worst moments of someone’s life, a record they’re going to see in court if they’re even out of the hospital in time for the trial. You might be good at your job, but sometimes you really hate it.

It’s a relief when your supervisor calls you away. “I appreciate your thoroughness, but someone else will complete the photography,” he says. “You’re needed elsewhere.”

“Why?”

“A murder’s occurred in a district without its own forensic team,” Sekijiro says. “They need a photographer.”

You’d love to get out of here, but – “Don’t cops in districts without a forensics team know how to do their own photography?”

“For an ordinary murder,” Sekijiro says. “This isn’t an ordinary murder.”

A chill goes down your spine, and it must show on your face, because Sekijiro sweetens the deal with zero prompting. “You’ll be paid time and a half.”

“Okay,” you say. “Where am I going?”

The site’s an hour and a half away by car, but that’s crucial time for a fresh murder scene, so Sasaki calls ahead and lets the traffic cops on your route know that you’ll be speeding to get there quickly. You get there in forty-five minutes – you did a lot of speeding – and check in with the detective in charge of the investigation, a big, friendly guy named Toyomitsu. “Thanks for coming,” he says. “We have a trainee photographer, and he was going to do it, but –”

He nods at a guy with spiky red hair who’s sitting on the hood of a police car, looking all kinds of queasy. “No problem,” you say. “Did somebody do a sketch?”

“My partner. He’s not half-bad.”

Detective Toyomitsu’s partner looks queasy, too, but you think his is more stress-related. You look over the sketch, then pick up your camera, duck the tape, and come to a dead stop at the edge of the scene.

It wasn’t a chill down your spine earlier, when Sekijiro told you about the case – it was déjà vu, because in spite of the fact that this scene looks totally different in its setup, you can still see how carefully it’s been arranged. The blood spray exiting from the victim’s open body cavity looks almost artful, a near-perfect fan rather than the splatter you’re used to. The limbs are more contained this time, hanging by threads but still attached, and the same goes for the head, held upright by a meat hook jammed through the back of the neck. And even from a distance, you can see that the head’s turned at an angle.

“Is there a problem?” Toyomitsu asks – not accusingly, the way Aizawa would. “Need help with anything?”

You shake your head, and try to stiffen your spine in the bargain. You have a crime scene to document, and you’re getting time and a half. And this time, once you’ve done your job, you’re going to follow the victim’s eyeline. This time, you’re going to see what the killer wanted the victim to see. What he wants the investigator to see, too. Maybe that will help someone catch him.

You’re back.

Tomura was watching a stagnant crime scene, with the detectives and forensic unit standing around uselessly after the trainee photographer took one look at the scene and upchucked, and he was having a hard time staying awake. Which is bullshit – laying out murders like his takes effort, and no one was appreciating it, courtesy of some kid who spilled his guts. Tomura was so annoyed that he broke his no-forensics rule to add the kid to his hit list. You didn’t waste time throwing up. You were focused on his work. On him.

And then, like thinking about you conjured you up, you stepped onto the scene. Just like before, you were thorough, capturing every detail of Tomura’s scene. Tomura was thinking you’d be better at it by the next time his drone captured you, and he was right. You’re not just better than last time. This time, you catch all the details Tomura agonized over, focusing on exactly the things he’d want someone to see. It made Tomura feel weird. Almost anxious, but not quite. Giddy, or something. Weird, but good.

It would have been enough to see you study his scene, trying to understand what he meant. But once you were done taking photos, you left the scene and followed the eyeline he constructed for his kill. And now you’re climbing up onto a pile of crates, looking for what Tomura planted there for anybody smart enough to find it. He should have known it would be you.

The trainee photographer is following you. Once you’re on a level with the nook Tomura tucked the hint into, you glance back at him. “Hand me the camera.”

“I don’t think that’s evidence,” the trainee says. Fuck him. He’s just moved up a spot on the list. “It’s way outside the crime scene.”

“So make the crime scene bigger. Camera.” You hold out your hand, waiting, but you lose patience fast. “Fine.”

You’re taking pictures with your phone now, capturing the hint Tomura placed from every angle. Tomura feels weirdly exposed, and it doesn’t go away when you stop snapping photos and put on a pair of gloves. You’re pretty thorough. It won’t matter – Tomura took care of his fingerprints before he made his first kill – but he appreciates the effort. At least someone’s paying attention.

He leaves the drone where it is and turns his attention to the camera, zooming in on the details the same way you do when you’re taking pictures of his work. Your fingertips carefully unfolding the newspaper article. The focus in your eyes as you read it. The way one of your legs is shaking from the awkward position you’re staying balanced in. Your mouth grabs more of his attention than it should, given that it’s got nothing to do with his crime scene, but Tomura gives it a second look anyway. Maybe a third.

You glance back at the trainee. “I need an evidence bag.”

“That’s not evidence.”

“You’re not a detective. We don’t decide what counts as evidence. We collect everything and let the cops work it out.” You hold out your hand, waiting, until the trainee hands you an evidence bag. You slide Tomura’s hint carefully into it, then hand it back to the trainee while you climb down. “Give it back. I’ll bring it to the detective myself.”

The trainee really doesn’t like your attitude. Tomura doesn’t give a shit. In his opinion, your attitude is right where it should be. You care about the truth. You care about seeing things as they really are. If there were more people like you around, Tomura wouldn’t have so many people to put on his kill list. At the rate things are going, he’s going to be killing people until he drops dead.

The detective doesn’t want Tomura’s hint. Fuck him, too. Tomura puts him on the list, but absently – he’s still focused on you. “Do you mind if I keep this?” you ask the detective, and Tomura’s face goes up in flames. “I want to look at it a little longer.”

The detective nods. He’s barely paying attention, too busy directing his tiny gang of borrowed forensic specialists to dust for fingerprints that aren’t there. You, though. You’re studying Tomura’s hint through the plastic, lost in thought. Because you get it, just like Tomura thought. Or at least you get him. Enough. Enough to understand that he wanted you to see something and actually go looking for it.

He’s been wondering why his message keeps getting lost, why no one understands when he’s being clear as a fucking bell about it. Maybe he’s been going about it the wrong way. He doesn’t need the world to understand. Tomura needs one person, one person who gets it and can spread the word. And you’ve just made yourself the first and only candidate for the job.

Tomura sits back in his chair. The satisfaction of finding an answer, figuring out how to stay five steps ahead of the cops while still spreading the word, is familiar to him – but it’s cut with something that isn’t. After six murders, Tomura’s finally gotten what he wanted, so he should stop watching now. Instead he keeps watching, some part of him still unsatisfied, even as you slide the hint carefully out of its evidence bag and start reading. You’ve found everything he wanted you to see, but he wants you to keep looking. He wants you to keep looking until he doesn’t want to be looked at anymore.

It's a stupid thing to want. Tomura switches off the drone, irked at himself. He wants you to keep looking? That’s easy. The next time he sets up a crime scene for you, he’ll leave enough hints to keep you looking at him all night.

You’ve taken pictures of four weird murders now, found multiple pieces of evidence at the sites, and you’re starting to see a pattern developing. A couple of patterns, actually. It’s not just the eyes that give away where the extra evidence might be – it’s the angle of the hands, whether the fingers are pointed or not, and on the last victim, the killer even took the time to point the toes. Or toe. He cut the other four off on each foot, leaving only the big toe to indicate where to find the other things he left behind.

He always leaves things just outside the radius of the crime scene, things the cops dismiss and things you know to look for. There are never any fingerprints on any of it, which means the killer’s wearing gloves, deliberately covering his tracks. That means he’s organized. That proves what you’ve thought since you saw the first scene: Nothing this guy does is by accident. What you or anyone else who looks at the scene sees is what he wants you to see. And he really wants someone to see the pieces of evidence he’s leaving.

Well, you see it. You even went back to the first crime scene to grab what he left there – a plastic police badge, a kid’s toy. At the second site, it was a newspaper article about abuses of power committed by prison guards. At the third site, you found another newspaper article, a toy gun, and a military training manual with every single page torn out. You found the pages at the fourth scene, crumpled up and scattered amidst artful smears of blood, and that wasn’t all you found, either. This time you found fake diplomas – four different kinds of fake diplomas – and a military medal that may or may not be real. You’re not a detective or a profiler or anything, but it would be hard to look at all of this stuff and not conclude that this guy has a serious problem with the system.

It's borne out in the victims, too. The victims take forever to identify, just because he puts in so much effort eradicating their fingerprints, faces, and teeth, but each victim has been somebody with authority. A cop, a soldier, a prison guard, and a detective from a jurisdiction on the opposite side of the country, which is worrying on a whole new level. Not only does this killer set up misleading crime scenes, he’s willing to transport victims across the country to kill them in the exact spot he wants them dead. You don’t know if there’s ever been a more organized serial killer.

You’re comfortable calling him that. Four murders of victims who share a particular characteristic makes him a serial killer, and when you searched missing persons records by profession, you found three or four more who fit the killer’s specifications. You found a crime scene or two that might have been his also – his before he got comfortable being so elaborate. The photographer and sketch artist on those scenes didn’t follow the victim’s line of sight, but you have a feeling they’d have found something if they had. You do, after all. You find something more every time.

You tried to bring it to Aizawa after the third crime scene, and he all but told you to drop it. You’re creating a pattern out of circumstance, or exaggerating your own abilities, or turning this killer into some kind of mythical monster instead of acknowledging him as the twisted freak he actually is. But you think you’re right. No, you’re convinced. There’s a serial killer haunting Japan, gruesomely murdering public servants and running marathons around the police, and you’re going to make sure someone’s aware of it, even if it tanks your career. You just need a little more evidence first. One more piece to tie things together, so that when you go up and over Aizawa’s head to the head of Investigations, he won’t be able to ignore what you have to say.

And if he does, you’ve got a backup plan. The evidence you’ve collected is yours. You got yourself on the record asking the detectives if they want it, and they’ve all said no. The research you’ve done into the victims is based on their names being released to the public, and the dots could be connected by anybody who viewed the same evidence as you have. If Head Detective Yagi won’t listen to you, you’ll go to the press and blow the whistle yourself.

It's a solid plan – two plans – but you can’t help but feel a little uneasy. You aren’t on Criminal Minds or anything. You’re more like the dumb reporter from Red Dragon, the one who publishes a bunch of crazy stuff and gets himself whacked by the Tooth Fairy. And at the same time, you have the sense that something different is going on here. The way the evidence has been placed at the last two crime scenes has felt – not deliberate, because everything this killer does is deliberate. Not deliberate, but targeted. Like he’s leaving evidence in places only you would look for it.

But that’s insane. The killer’s not coming back to observe his crime scenes – part of your job is to snap photos of any crowd that gathers, and you haven’t seen the same person show up at any one of them. There’s no way the killer could be watching, and even if there was, there’s no way he’d be leaving things specifically for you. You’re not Clarice Starling or anything. You’re the dumb reporter. You’re finding things because you know where to look. That’s all.

You’re sitting at your desk, staring off into space, when Monoma, who got rehired a while back, bangs on the wall of your cubicle. “New scene,” he says, once you’re done jumping out of your skin. “The guy who called it in said to bring a barf bag or four.”

“Yeah. Okay.” You gather your workbag, ignoring the knot of prickly anticipation that unfolds to wrap its tentacles around your ribcage. It’s not the serial killer. It’s been less than a month since his last murder. There’s no way he’s at it again. “If it’s as bad as they say, bet you six bucks Shinsou throws up.”

“Six bucks says it’s Kaminari instead.”

“You’re on.”

Neither you nor Monoma win any money, because you’re both right, and the bets cancel each other out. You’re feeling sick for an entirely different reason. This is the most elaborately disorganized crime scene you’ve ever photographed, and it’s got the serial killer’s nonexistent fingerprints all over it. You wait until Shinsou’s done throwing up, then ask him to ask Aizawa to widen the perimeter. You have to come up with a lie about extensive blood spray, but it works.

It's not even that much of a lie – the scene looks like the killer attached a garden hose of blood to a ceiling fan and cranked it up to maximum – but you still feel guilty. Less guilty when Aizawa expands the crime scene to include the radius where the killer likes to hide his clues. You take your standard series of photos, by the book as much as you can possibly manage, and once you’re done, you go looking for the killer’s clues.

They’re inside the perimeter now. Aizawa and the other detectives will have to take them. You document each one extensively first, dragging Monoma over to sketch their positions, too. Then you put on gloves and lift them out of hiding. “This is weird,” Monoma remarks, as you lift an article about a defense attorney’s series of victories in child abuse cases out of hiding and set it down alongside a printout of cops’ salaries. “Slasher types like this guy don’t have a reason.”

“He’s not – that. The violence is an attention grab. He wouldn’t do it if he didn’t enjoy it, but I don’t think it’s the whole point.” You slide the second article into an evidence bag, then follow the victim’s severed index finger to the next hiding spot. “Every crime scene has had clues like this. He wants people to find them.”

Monoma hums the Criminal Minds theme song. “If this guy’s smart like you say he is, why would he leave clues so we could catch him?”

“That’s not what they’re for,” you say. You’ve gone so far as to look for links between the cases the victims have interacted with, and you’ve found nothing. “He doesn’t want us to catch him. He wants us to see.”

“Sure. Maybe that’s how we’ll catch him,” Monoma says. You glance at him and find him smirking. “He’s going to want to know if the lambs have stopped screaming yet.”

“Shut up.” You elbow Monoma, then crouch down to take a picture and pry the next hidden object out of hiding. It’s harder to remove than usual, and it comes free in two pieces. One of them is the needle off a polygraph test, which you only recognize because you’ve seen them in the lab at work. “Okay. Maybe if we can figure out where this is from –”

You hand it off to Monoma to be stored properly, then turn your attention to the other item. Compared to everything else the killer’s left, clearly identifiable and clearly linked to his cause, a single bullet casing isn’t exactly a smoking gun. You pick it up with a gloved hand, upend it, and find that a piece of paper’s been rolled up and wedged inside. The handwriting on the paper is bad, and the sentence is only two words. Look up.

You do, out of shock more than anything else – first straight up, then up and out, then pivoting in a slow circle, trying desperately to figure out what you’re supposed to see. There’s nothing. Whatever the killer wants you to see – and you’re sure now that he wants you to see it – it’s beyond your vision, beyond your understanding. There’s one thing you do understand, though. The killer’s watching his crime scenes, somehow. And now that you’ve been at so many of them, he’s watching you, too.

Fuck, that’s it. Tomura takes a screen grab, and then a second, and a third, capturing frame after frame of you, making eye contact with the drone camera. You didn’t know it was there. Tomura knew you’d raise the alarm if you saw it, and he doesn’t want his view of his crime scenes to be cut off, so he camouflaged it better than usual. But you found his messages, just like he knew you would. You found his note, too. And you followed his instructions, looking up and at the camera just like he wanted. At the camera. At Tomura.

It's a dumb thing for Tomura to want – you, looking at him. You already look at him, every time he makes a kill and sets up a crime scene. You’re looking at his work, which is the most important thing, so important that Tomura doesn’t need anything else. Or shouldn’t. But no matter how elaborate of a crime scene Tomura sets up for you, no matter how much time you spend carefully documenting it and gathering his hints, you never look at it as long as he wants you to. Or the way he wants you to, even though you’re doing exactly what he thought he wanted in the first place. Like Tomura said – dumb.

Dumb or not, it’s been on Tomura’s mind, and worse, in his dreams. He doesn’t usually have dreams, and the ones he has are bad, so the fact that he’s started having dreams about you taking his picture is a sign that he’s put too much thought into you. Every time Tomura wakes up from a dream where you’re taking photos of him instead of one of his scenes, he tells himself that he’ll kill you soon. And every time, he – doesn’t.

Killing you is the right thing to do. You’re a distraction from Tomura’s mission. Time spent thinking about you, puzzling over his dreams, wondering why it’s not enough that you only see his crime scenes – all of that is time wasted, because he’s not spending it on planning his next kill or crafting his next message. You’ve served your purpose, too. Even as Tomura pulls the screen grab over to a second screen and refocuses on the video feed, he can see you talking to Aizawa again, making the case that Tomura’s crime scenes mean something. Unlike last time, Aizawa’s actually listening.

He’s listening. The story of who actually cracked the case will come out, and when Tomura kills you, it’ll mean something – you’ll be a real, visible member of the system, someone whose absence will be noticed. Tomura will set up his best crime scene yet for your body, and when he moves your eyes, he’ll make sure he puts something special there for you to look at. The idea keeps him happy for about six hours or so. Planning out a crime scene’s always fun – sometimes more fun than the actual killing, or it is lately. It gets less fun when Tomura realizes that you won’t be there to see it.

When the so-called peace officers hold their press conference, announcing that they’ve strung five of Tomura’s murders together and declared him a serial killer, you’re nowhere to be found – not on the podium, not in the crowd. You’re not visible. That means you can’t be on Tomura’s list, and Tomura feels an unpleasant surge of relief at the thought. Your photos are in some of the articles written about the case, though, and looking at those makes Tomura feel even stranger than he does when he looks at the still shot of you he’s taped up over his bed.

He’s done his research on you by now. He’s got files for all his potential victims, and then he’s got a file for you, featuring everything about you he could find on the internet. You’re Tomura’s age. You’re single and you live by yourself. You wanted to be a real photographer at some point, which is where you learned how to turn every aspect of Tomura’s crime scenes into a work of art. Tomura finds some of your old portfolio still kicking around a defunct Instagram account, and he’s impressed against his will.

Tomura’s a serial killer, not an art critic, but he spends a lot of time around blood, guts, and dismembered corpses, which means he’s qualified to judge the whole set of roadkill photos you took. They’re – good. Even before you came across one of Tomura’s crime scenes, you knew how to photograph disgusting things and make them matter. Tomura’s scenes already mattered before you turned your camera on them; you just helped expand his reach. That’s not why he’s interested in your art. He tells himself otherwise, but every time he catches a glimpse of himself in one of the cracked, filthy mirrors in his apartment, he lingers for a second, wondering what you would do with his reflection. What he’d look like through your lens.

Tomura gives you another crime scene to photograph, this time featuring the corpse of the trainee photographer who was giving you a hard time at the second crime scene of his you shot. He can tell that you recognize the victim. He can tell that it throws you. So does the message he left for you – another bullet casing, another instruction to look up. Tomura sees your shoulders stiffen, and he leans forward in his seat, tense all on his own. You look up again, and – that’s it. Fuck. Tomura takes so many screenshots that his computer freezes for a second, already planning where he’ll tape them up, convincing himself that this will be enough for him.

It’s not. Tomura dreams that you’re taking his picture again, but this time, it’s weird. The two of you aren’t at one of his crime scenes; instead you’re somewhere else, somewhere with good lighting, and you’re taking pictures of Tomura from every angle, not quite close enough for him to touch. Tomura’s not posing for you, exactly. He just awkwardly shifts position, and you keep snapping photos. It’s warm in Tomura’s dream. After a while he takes off his coat. Then his shirt.

You don’t lower your camera entirely, but Tomura can see your eyes, and you look – interested. He holds still, and you take another few photos. Then you stop. Tomura knows what you’re waiting for. He’s seen that expression on your face at every crime scene as you hunt for his clues. Focused, intent, engaged, and being the target in person scrambles Tomura’s brain. What? he demands, embarrassed without reason. Do you want to see more?

I see what you want me to see, you say. Your eyes drift over Tomura’s body, shoulders down to his hips, lingering somewhere in between that makes Tomura’s face turn red. Is there anything else you want to show me?

When is Tomura ever going to get a chance like this again? He unbuttons his pants, but you don’t lift your camera again. Instead your gaze follow his fingers as he pulls the zipper down, stays centered between his legs as he takes off his pants. His hands are shaking, like they were the first time he laid out a crime scene, and the feeling he’s had every time he’s watched you crawl over his scenes with a camera rushes through him, more intense than before. He waits for you to lift your camera this time, to take photos of him from every angle, but you don’t. Instead you set it aside. Then you reach out to Tomura and –

Tomura wakes up mid-climax, his pants and his sheets halfway to being ruined, his hands miles away from touching his cock. The first thought that punctures the fog is surprise. Tomura knows bodies do this – he’s not an idiot – but he didn’t think this was something his body did. He’s a serial killer. If he’s going to get off to anything, it should be his murders. He’s never gotten off to killing anybody. But the idea of you looking at him face to face, you reaching for him yourself instead of waiting for him to act, you putting your camera down because you needed something else more – Tomura almost loses it a second time.

You didn’t even touch his cock in the dream – your hand brushed against his waist, slid to his hip, fingers brushing his inner thigh. Even the thought is enough to make Tomura squirm, and for the first time since you set foot on one of his crime scenes, Tomura’s head feels clear. No, he can’t kill you. He doesn’t need to kill you. What he needs is more.

How much more? The question’s too much for him. Tomura’s hands slide between his legs, pushing himself past overstimulation, into near-discomfort. How much more doesn’t matter yet. He can figure that out later. Tomura decides faintly, as his hips jerk and he shifts away from the pressure of his own hands, that a close-up would be a good start.

You know something’s wrong the instant you wake up, even before the headache kicks in, because you can’t remember falling asleep. What’s the last thing you remember? You were on a walk, you think. You smelled something weird – something sweet, that didn’t make sense for the park you were walking through. A thought had crossed your mind, some dark joke about chloroform smelling better than you thought it did, and almost as soon as you had the thought, a mask was clamped down over your mouth and nose, the sweet scent flooding into both when you inhaled and opened your mouth to scream.

You remember a little more, but a little more doesn’t matter. You’re being kidnapped. No, you’ve been kidnapped. You open your eyes, shocked to find that you can see. You’re in a small room, light on one side, shadowed on the other, and you can see someone moving around in the light, making adjustments to things here and there. Stand lights. It almost looks like a portrait studio setup, except it’s in the grossest basement you’ve ever sprawled out in. Not that you sprawl out in basements for fun. You only do that when you’re on the job.

Your job. Kidnapped. You’re in someone’s basement and you aren’t blindfolded. You aren’t tied up, either – your arms and legs are completely free. You sit up too quickly, grimacing at the pain in your head, and the figure amidst the lights turns towards you. “You’re awake. I was worried,” he says. One hand rises from his side to scratch the side of his neck. “Usually when I do this, I don’t care how they feel afterward.”

“You do this a lot?”

“Yeah.” You can’t see your kidnapper’s face courtesy of the backlighting, and whatever he’s wearing to hide it. “You should know.”

“I should?” You’re confused, but you shouldn’t be. You know what’s happening here. Someone kidnapped you. Someone who doesn’t care whether or not you hear his voice or see his face. You’re in his goddamn basement. “Who are you?”

“You don’t know?” He sounds surprised. “Come on. You know who it is. Who else could it be?”

Someone who kidnaps lots of people, who’s interested in you – he’s right. That could only be one person, and as the knowledge you’ve been pushing back against settles over you more fully, your vocal cords constrict so badly that you can barely speak. “You’re the Symbol of Fear.”

“That’s right,” the serial killer whose crime scenes you’ve been shooting says. “But you can call me Tomura.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, even though it’s too late, even though you’ve seen more than enough. “Symbol of Fear. If they were gonna give me a name, they should have picked a better one,” the killer – Tomura – continues. “What would you have named me, if you got to pick?”

“Are you going to kill me?” As soon as you ask the question, you kick yourself. That’s what kidnapped people in movies always say, and it always annoys the killer into killing them faster or more or worse. “I mean, of course you are. That’s what you do. And you told me your name.”

“My name’s not going to help you find me,” Tomura says. So it’s an alias. Fine. it’s not like you’re going to be able to tell anybody either way. “I know your name, so you should know mine. You’d have named me something better, right? I would have gotten a name a lot sooner if the cops had listened to you.”

You hear his footsteps. He’s coming closer. If he’s going to kill you, why hasn’t he tied you up? Is he trying to trick you into running for it? “Hey,” he says. He nudges you with his foot. “I didn’t bring you here to kill you.”

Your heart is racing so hard you can barely breathe. “I bet you say that to all your victims.”

“Not really,” Tomura says. He crouches down next to you. “They need to know what’s coming, so they have time to think about how they want to die. If they want to put on a brave face or beg for mercy or scream the entire way.”

“Which one do you want them to do?”

“I don’t really care,” Tomura says. He pauses. “Maybe I would, if I was thinking about letting them go. But I’m not. I don’t tell my kills I’m not going to do it. So you can believe me when I say I won’t kill you.”

Part of you wants to believe. You’re desperate to believe that there’s some way out of here, but you know better. And if you know better, it doesn’t matter what you do now. “Then why did you bring me here?”

“I’ve been watching. Your work. You do a great job with my work,” Tomura says. It’s quiet for a second. You open your eyes, sneak a sidelong glance, and find him scratching his neck again. “Since you’ve been doing such a good job, I thought I’d give you a chance to shoot the real thing.”

Something taps against your leg. You open your eyes partway, without looking over at Tomura, and find yourself looking at a camera, identical to the one you use at work. “I set up lights and everything,” Tomura continues. “You can move them around if you want. I mean, you shouldn’t need to – my scenes always look good even when the lighting’s shit, but –”

“You want me to shoot you like one of your crime scenes,” you say. You see Tomura nodding out of the corner of your eye. “Um – why?”

“Can you do it or not?” Tomura sounds irritated. You risk a proper glance at him and see him looking away, his pale skin stained with a flush. His face is barely visible – not because of a mask, which would make sense, but because of a life-sized model hand, which serves basically the same purpose and looks ten times as weird. “I know you can take photos of other stuff. I looked you up.”

You can’t see his whole face. The name he gave you is fake. If you take his picture like he wants you to, he won’t have a reason to get angry, and maybe – no, he won’t let you live. He’ll kill you just like he’s killed everyone else. But like everyone else he’s killed, you’ve got time to think about how you want to die, and although you’re pretty sure you’re going to scream and beg like everybody else once he starts cutting you into pieces, you want to keep it together until then. Having something to do will help.

“You saw my other photos,” you say. “Were there ones you liked?”

“I like how you shoot my scenes,” Tomura says. “Just do it like that.”

He gets to his feet, then turns to face you, holding out his hands to help you up. The incongruousness of it catches you off-guard first, but only for a second, and it’s obliterated by just how strange it is to be confronted with his hands when you’re already so familiar with the terrible things he’s done with them. Tomura is a monster. His hands should be gnarled, clawlike, stained with blood. Instead his hands are clean, with ragged nails and a bad case of eczema, and they’re shaking slightly as he holds them out for yours.

You don’t reach for his hands. You raise the camera he got for you and snap a picture.

It startles him, and that means it startles you. “What are you doing?” he snaps. “Why are you taking a picture of that?”

“You’ve seen me shoot your crime scenes,” you say, thinking fast. “I take pictures of all kinds of things. Sometimes it’s just stuff that catches my eye. Your hands are like that.”

Tomura doesn’t answer. He takes one of them back to scratch the side of his neck, and you take a perfunctory grip on the other while getting to your feet under your own power. Tomura’s taller than you, and he doesn’t give you your hand back right away. You have to pull it free. “You can go stand over by the lights if you want,” you say. “Find somewhere you’re comfortable and I’ll adjust them to match.”

Tomura skulks over to the lights, and you take pictures of him as he goes, taking the opportunity to adjust the settings on the camera where you like them. Different parts of the Symbol of Fear come into focus as you take test shot after test shot – his blue-grey hair, tangled and worn to his shoulders, his red eyes, his dry lips – and you fix each of them firmly into your memory. Soon enough you’ll be able to describe him with your eyes closed, even with the hand over his face.

That feels good for only a few seconds. Just as long as it takes for you to noticed the bars on the inside of the basement windows and the barbed wire outside them, and to remember that you’re not getting out of here alive.

Tomura knows you like to take a lot of photos, but it seems to him like you’re overdoing it. You’re taking so many, and you’re taking them of nothing – in most of them, he’s not even looking, or his face isn’t in the shot. “Some of these are test shots,” you say, when he asks. “I’m seeing how the lighting looks from different angles, on different parts of your body. See?”

You hold out the camera for Tomura to check, and he looks away. He doesn’t like looking at himself. “What about the ones that aren’t tests?”

“Just things I’m interested in.” You let the camera fall to your side, then go back to messing with the lighting one-handed. “If you like where you are right now, you can stay there. I’ve fixed the lights so you’ll look good from every angle.”

“That’s funny.” Tomura snorts, but you don’t laugh. You look puzzled. “Me, looking good. It doesn’t matter where I stand.”

“If it doesn’t matter, then stay where you are,” you say. You lift the camera again, and Tomura ducks his head on instinct – and you take the picture anyway.

It doesn’t feel like it does in Tomura’s dreams when you take his picture, but Tomura’s willing to admit that it’s probably a good thing that he’s not affected so strongly. The thing this real-life photoshoot has in common with his dreams above all is the feeling of vulnerability, of exposure. Even with the hand over Tomura’s face, you’re seeing him. Like he’s been seeing you all along.

No, it’s not like that. He couldn’t talk to you through the drone like you can talk to him face to face. “Did you really not know it was me?” Tomura asks. You nod from behind the camera. He’s not even sure what you’re taking a picture of right now. “Who else did you think it was?”

“I didn’t know,” you say. “I knew you were watching the crime scenes somehow. I would have had to, after I got your message. I just didn’t think I was on your list.”

“You’re not on my list,” Tomura says. “Not like that, anyway.”

You nod. You’re adjusting your camera, and Tomura asks you another question. “Who do you think is on my list?”

“Cops. Detectives. Soldiers, prison guards, lawyers.” You take another picture. “People who are part of the system. Or adjacent to it. The guy at the last crime scene was just a photographer, like me.”

He wasn’t you. That was the problem. “I didn’t like his attitude. He was a special case,” Tomura says. “He got talkative towards the end. He was trying to figure out what I wanted to hear. By that point I just wanted him to shut up.”

“Is that why you tore out his tongue?”

You sound a little grossed out. Tomura thinks it’s fair to ask – when he’s arranging his kills, he tends to avoid sticking his hands in their mouths. “He bit it off, and I had to take it out so he wouldn’t swallow it. And since I had it, I figured I should put it to use.”

“The hear-no-evil, see-no-evil, speak-no-evil thing played well with the detective,” you say. You shift where you’re standing, and Tomura shifts to match. “No, stay there. This angle works.”

“Works how?” Tomura says. You shrug. “The three-monkeys shit is on the nose. You guessed way before that, didn’t you? You were paying attention. You always are.”

Tomura likes watching you work over a crime scene, but if he set up that many crime scenes, he’d get caught. Sometimes he watches you at others, car crashes or assaults or murders with no meaning behind them. They don’t deserve your attention, not the way Tomura’s scenes do. “It’s hard not to pay attention to your murders,” you say. “You make them flashy on purpose, but people get distracted by the flashiness and miss out on what you’re trying to say.”

“What do you think I’m trying to say?” Tomura asks, trying not to sound like there’s a lot riding on the answer. “I want to hear it.”

You take another picture. “You have a problem with the system as a whole, but the thing that bothers you is when people fail to do what they promised to do and don’t pay for it. Or people who protect the wrong people, like that lawyer in the article from the second crime scene. The rest of us ignore it, so you want to make us look. Or make it so we can’t look away.”

You take another picture – of Tomura’s face this time, which is bad, because Tomura’s face is heating up. You didn’t just notice that he was trying to say something, you got it exactly right. Now it feels like it does in Tomura’s dreams. His skin crawls in a way that’s better and worse than itching, and when he looks away from you, you take another picture, and another. The flash is off, but Tomura can hear the shutter click, every sound winding him a little tighter. He scratches his neck with one hand, pulls at collar of his shirt with the other. “Did it work on you?” he asks, forcing the words out in an even tone. “Could you look away?”

“Not really,” you say. Tomura breathes a sigh of relief that’s a little too loud, and it catches your attention. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Tomura says through gritted teeth. You snap another picture. “What were you even looking at this time?”

“You,” you say, and you turn the camera in your hand, holding out the viewscreen so he can look, too.

Tomura recoils from the sight out of habit, but he keeps looking, and the longer he looks at it, the more he starts to see what you were trying to capture. Tomura’s eyes are averted from the camera behind his disguise, but the light catches his face in a way that startles him. Even the flush on his face looks different – not disgusting and contagious, but natural. Normal. Some word that makes it look like it belongs where it is. Is this how he looks to you? No wonder he needed you to keep looking. Looking feels good. Tomura’s never liked himself better than when he’s seeing himself through your eyes.

Still, you haven’t seen everything, and he needs you to. Tomura reaches up and grasps the hand, ready to pull it from his face.

You avert your eyes in a hurry, then close them entirely. “I can’t,” you say. “If I see you, you’ll never let me leave.”

“I have to,” Tomura says. His voice is oddly ragged. “Nobody else gets it like you do. It’s better for me if you’re out there.”

You set the camera down without looking back at him, and his hands close over your wrists tightly. “We’re not done,” Tomura says. “Keep going.”

He’s getting off on this. You can tell by the sound of his breathing, the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, the way he’s shifting in his seat, and your instinct is to flinch in disgust. But you’ve been watching him closely this entire time, and you didn’t see this response when you were talking about his crime scenes. It’s not violence or murder that gets him going, so what’s causing this? It can’t be this simple. There’s no way it’s just because you’re taking his picture.

If he gets off, maybe he’ll let you go. “I’ll take as many pictures as you want if you leave your disguise on.”

“Done.”

You pull your hands from Tomura’s grip and raise your camera again, wondering how much you’re allowed to pose him. If you’re allowed to. “Can I touch you?” you ask. “There’s this pose I’m –”

Tomura nods. His eyes are closed, and you take another picture, this one of the scratched side of his neck and his shirt pulled to one side, before you think about how you might want to pose him. He’s seated. If you could find something for him to lay back against, that would be ideal, but there’s nothing. “Lean your weight back on your right hand,” you tell him, and he does. “Do what you want with your left hand. Tilt your head –”

It’s beyond uncomfortable to see him follow your instructions, given who he is and what he’s done. You take a picture or two of the preliminary pose, focusing on the new angles created by his extended arm and single bent knee. There’s an awkwardness to him, but there’s something compelling about the way his form and features come together. Maybe in another life he’d have been a model, somebody’s muse. Right now he’s the subject of what’s probably the last photo you’ll ever take.

Tomura’s hair is in his face. You say his name to warn him, then reach out and brush the strands of blue-grey hair out of his eyes. At first your fingers are against his forehead; then you let them drift downward, from his cheek to his jaw to the It’s a mistake. Tomura shudders at your touch, the arm he’s balanced on barely holding him up, and you take a picture of that, too, struggling to stay out of the shot while capturing everything that needs to be seen. Everything needs to be seen. The perversity of the Symbol of Fear, a man who’s thrown the entire country into terror, coming almost untouched and almost on camera, is something you can’t resist capturing forever.

And if the sight of him does something for you, too – if knowing that you and your camera can make him like this ties your chest in a knot and sends heat flooding through you – you don’t need to share that with anyone. You’re the photographer. You don’t matter.

Tomura fumbles at the hand over his face, and like before, you shut your eyes. “Don’t,” he says. “I want you to see.”

“No.” You shake your head and lower your camera, for good this time. “If you meant it about letting me go –”

“Knowing my face wouldn’t help you find me,” Tomura says with disturbing confidence. You wonder why he’s so convinced. If he’s right. “I have to let you go. Nobody gets what I’m trying to say the way you do.”

“You’re okay with that.” Why are you trying to talk him out of it? “You’re okay with me going out there and trying to track you down.”

“Counting on it,” Tomura says. A hand that’s ended the lives of at least six people that you know of lands on your shoulder, then drifts upwards along your throat to cup your cheek. “You’ll keep looking. You’ll know when you’re getting close.”

“How?”

“I’ll come find you again,” Tomura says. You dare to open your eyes and see him smiling at you, through the fingers of the hand. His smile makes your skin crawl. “And that time, I won’t let you go.”

He’ll kill you. Or he’ll hang onto you forever and make you wish you were dead. Tomura sits up, still moving awkwardly, somehow relaxed. You’ve never seen a guy who just came in his pants look less embarrassed about it. You can’t reconcile the two pieces of Tomura in your head – the murderer of half a dozen at least who’s planning to kill more, alongside the man who craves connection and understanding so badly that it’s become a turn-on. One of them is reprehensible, unforgivable. The other is just human. How can he be both?

You’re lost in thought, so much so that you don’t see the mask in Tomura’s hand until it’s descended over your face. Tomura pulls you back against him, holding you upright as you struggle for breath. His arm is secure around your waist, and his voice is soft in your ear, if still a little breathless. “I’ll be in touch,” he says. “Keep looking. I’ll see you soon.”

His dry lips brush against the corner of your jaw, too light to be a kiss, too lingering to be an accident. It’s the last thing you’re aware of before everything goes black.

When you wake up again, you’re in your apartment with another splitting headache and a single bullet-point of certainty boring into your skull. You will keep looking for Tomura. You’ll have to, to try to stop him from committing even one more gruesome, vengeance-driven murder over a wrong you can’t begin to guess at. You’ll come close to stopping him, and when you do, Tomura will come for you again.

The thought is nightmarish. He’ll almost certainly kill you then; he won’t have a use for you anymore. But even as the certainty settles in, you find your stomach twisting into a dark, heated mess at the thought that at least one more time before you die, you’ll see him in a way no one else ever will. You’ll have one more moment with your camera, and the Symbol of Fear undone before you. If it’s the last shot you’ll ever take, whether it’s tomorrow night or next week or ten years from now, you’ll have to make it count.

When he kills you, and he will, Tomura will make your crime scene a composition for the ages. It’s only fair for you to turn him into a work of art.

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