#tatter icons

[badtz-web]

⠀ֵ⠀⠀⌏⠀ׅ 🎧 ⠀ׂ ⠀ֵ⠀◌⠀ׂ⠀𝖻⍺ׁ݀𝖽𝗍𝗓-𝗐ᧉb 𖹭𝗇 𝗍ᴜ𝗆𝖻𝗅݀ฯ⠀ׂ⠀⠀ֵ⠀

⠀ ⠀ׄ⠀ׅ ི🍥 ᜓ̶ׄ ׄיִ 𝗅݀𐔎𝗄ׄᧉ 𝄒 ⠀᜔߭ 𖹭ฯ⠀ ׄ߭⠀ฯᧉ𝖻𝗅݀𖹭𝗀⠀ ׅׅׅ ⎯⠀⃘ೄ

[trinaedits]

tatter ( dancer ) — moodboard icons

▌  ·˚ ༘ ミlike or reblog if you save or use it

⌗ ᎒ 𔘓࣪ ˴ samsung emojis : ⛽, 🏎️, 🏁

[miquella-everywhere]

sPEAKING OF POOKIES

MY MAN GOT OFFICIAL ART

AAAAAAAAAAH 😭💜💜💜💜😭

[pybun]

me in high school: anime has given me unrealistic standards towards relationships

me today: anime has given me unrealistic standards towards gender affirmation

[girlmaykill]

@wayward-sword - cont.

" . . . " Well, she supposed that eating his food out of the blue would make him upset, but she didn't expect the sudden physical contact. Her cheeks are squished as her vacant eyes stared, soft chewing noises leaving her lips as she continued to finish his meal.

" I'd rather get you something else that is not dry. " Even the texture felt strange in her mouth. " I can take you to a restaurant if you'd like. I can afford it. & get you an actual burger. "

[cadavercowboy]

You'll Ache To Know My Name

Pairing: Art The Clown x Reader

Summary: Your Halloween night is about to take the spookiest turn of all: having an interaction with a man. Lucky for you, along comes a mysterious clown who won't stand for some loser preying on an innocent, unsuspecting woman. Because that's his job.

Word Count: 11.1k+

Warnings: Explicit content (18+ only). Attempted sexual assault. Violence. Blood. Needles. Drugging. Kidnapping. Torture & dismemberment. Murder. Dubious consent. Oral sex. Overstimulation. Blood kink. Spit kink. Forced orgasm. Fingering. Unprotected sex. Creampie.

A/N: Bad news for everyone...I'm not afraid to admit how badly I wanna fuck the circus boy. Haven't been able to see the third film yet, so I am lashing out in anger by writing this. :) Happy day after Halloweenie!

(Worth noting that this deviates pretty significantly from my personal perception of Art's character (David himself said that he sees him as an asexual creature and unfortunately, I agree :-( but a girl can dream) so this was really just an exercise in self-indulgence with a heaping side of very sick delusion! Hope you enjoy and if not...don't care, didn't ask xoxo)

The steel door slams shut behind you and the cool night air engulfs your overheated skin, prompting you to throw your head back and breathe a sigh of relief. Your shoulders finally fall from where they had spent all night practically tucked up next to your ears so that you can stretch the tight muscles of your neck. Even the glass and a half of straight liquor hadn’t been enough to ease the stress of being packed like a sardine into a hot room full of drunken, rowdy people. 

Your costume — a torn and tattered white slip, hardly reminiscent of the gown worn by Elsa Lanchester in the original Bride Of Frankenstein film — had been chosen last-minute, without comfort in mind. It itches now and clings annoyingly to your damp skin. The hem falls at your knee and the bust is held up with only two thick straps. A cheap, two-toned wig drapes over your scalp and though the long, wavy strands aren’t technically accurate, they’ve gotten the job done. With some decent makeup and a few neat sutures drawn across your throat in eyeliner, you’ve managed enough hallmarks of the iconic character for your costume to be recognizable.

The moon is high and full above you, casting an appropriately spooky glow on the shiny synthetic fabric of your dress. You yank the wig from your head — sick of the way the tight elastic band is beginning to give you a headache — and chuckle to yourself, hoping the hazy beams of moonlight won’t bring a beastly werewolf across your path. Your shoes thud with tired steps down the vacant sidewalk and you’re feeling exactly like the doctor’s stitched-up and reanimated sweetheart. The Halloween party was admittedly fun, but you’re ready to get home and climb into your cozy bed.

A breeze blows, gusting past your bare limbs and sending a slight chill through your body. All the sweat drying on your skin makes the wind feel colder than it actually is. You wrap your arms around your middle and check both ways before crossing an empty intersection. The city street is uneven beneath your feet and you’ve only just stepped onto the adjacent curb when the hair on the back of your neck stands on end. At first, you pay it no mind, but when the muffled sound of steady footfalls emerges from behind, you instinctively turn your head.

Over your shoulder and a short distance away, you spot a man strolling down the sidewalk. His hands are tucked casually into the pockets of a brown leather jacket, however his eyes are pinpointed directly on you. Goosebumps raise across your flesh, having little to do with the night’s dropping temperature. Hoping to avoid an unwanted interaction, you duck your head and pick up the pace, your calves burning as you stride with purpose. 

“Hey, Frankie!” the man calls.

You’re unsure how he’s able to discern your spooky get-up in the dark, wondering if perhaps he recognizes you from the party. He certainly isn’t the hypothetical werewolf you were afraid of, but undoubtedly a predator just the same. You steadfastly ignore him and keep your steps swift in the hopes that he takes the hint. Much to your disappointment, he does not. Dread settles low in your belly; not borne of fear, but rather disgust. His voice is much closer when he yells again which — paired with what he believes to be a clever come-on — raises your hackles and puts you on the defensive.

“Wanna come tighten my nuts and bolts, baby?”

Rolling your eyes, you begrudgingly halt and set your teeth on edge, prepared to use your bitchiest voice to correct the idiot and let him know it was actually Frankenstein's monster who sported steel bolts on the sides of his neck, not his bride. But when you wheel around and come face to face with the man, the words die in your throat. More specifically, they’re caught behind your bared teeth when the pig has the audacity to grab hold of your backside to admire your pretty dress and ponder what material it’s made from.

“Get the fuck off me!” you snarl in a voice that sounds foreign to your own ears.

Utilizing the only mechanism of defense you currently possess, you whip your wig in his direction. The acrylic strands snap harshly across his face and while the accompanying utterance of pain is satisfying, you’ve clearly angered him. He grabs ahold of your other arm and twists it painfully behind your back. You writhe in his grasp and try to reach around to claw at him, but the damned wig is tangled in the stupid Victorian-style ring you’re wearing and your fingers are buried uselessly within the plasticky tresses as he shoves you further down the sidewalk.

“Stupid bitch,” he barks, spittle flying from his lips as you struggle against one another. “Learn to take a compliment.”

Even with your feet planted, you fail to impede his progress as the man wrangles your body towards the mouth of a dark alley. Though the streets are woefully empty this time of night, there’s at least a chance that someone may see or hear you; if he maneuvers you into the shadows, you’re screwed. 

The pair of you stumble between two buildings, the massive structures blocking the glow of the moon and blanketing you in disorienting darkness. He continues dragging you along until the alley splits into an open area which contains a rancid-smelling dumpster and several piles of discarded rubbish. You’re slammed painfully into a wall moments before a grimy hand crawls its way up your dress and between your thighs. 

“Come on. With an outfit like this, you’re pretty much asking for it.”

Just like that, you’re seething. Your rage and fear meld into one powerful amalgamation of force and you manage to twist hard enough to knock you both off balance. You come down hard into a mountain of garbage and your combined weight slams into a half-rotted wooden pallet; its slats are splintered and it boasts several exposed nails. One nail in particular — bent at a rather unfortunate angle — catches your arm as you fall and you can feel the sharp point split your skin from your wrist all the way to your elbow. Blood spills from the wound almost immediately, though the searing pain is of little consequence when your assailant promptly locks both of his hands around your throat, effectively cutting off your airway.     

Choking and spluttering as you fight for breath, you kick uselessly at the heaviness of the violent man on top of you. He has you pinned to the ground in such a way that your legs can gain no purchase to get him off. Your eyes feel ready to burst out of your skull and your hands scramble across the buttery leather encasing arms which vibrate with exertion as he ventures to squeeze the life out of you.

When your vision begins to tunnel, you fling your arms out to the sides in search of something you can grab. Your nails scrape painfully along the concrete until you’re sure your fingertips are rubbed raw and bleeding. And finally you feel it: a short but heavy chunk of the broken pallet. The shards of wood digging into your palm — rendered slippery from the spillage of your own blood — go unnoticed as you use your waning strength to whack your attacker across the head with it. He instantly flops to the side and cradles his wounded head as you suck in a gloriously deep breath.

You roll over with a gasp and a cough, saliva dripping freely from your parted lips. There is only a brief moment of reprieve before you force yourself up onto your knees and ignore your own spinning head as you repeatedly bring the piece of wood down on the man curled up beside you. The ruthless blows have the intended effect and his movement ceases. Two crooked nails protrude from the end of your makeshift weapon and you aim them at the center of his body until blood seeps from under the material of his jacket and begins to pool beneath his immobile form. With a sort of strangled battle cry, you climb to your feet and hit him one last time for good measure.

Beads of sweat roll from your hairline down your temples and your shaking hands release their hold on what remains of the now-bloodied piece of wood. It falls to the ground with a clatter. Sparing a glance at yourself, you overlook the red and black stains that have ruined your disheveled dress to inspect the extent of the injury to your arm. You grimace as blood continues to seep from the rather serious wound. It’s definitely going to need stitches.

You begin to look around for your phone. You dropped it during the tussle and you nearly cry when you eventually spot it…shattered, just a few feet away. A hospital is definitely your first priority, but without the aid of your phone, you aren’t quite sure how to navigate there from here. 

The night is silent save for the rush of stuttered wheezes that still rip from your burning lungs. You pause, holding your breath for a second to swallow deeply when you think you hear something. A shuffling…a rustling of plastic, perhaps. In your heightened state, you shift with the speed of hunted prey; eyes peeled, knees bent and ready to fight or flee. Glancing towards the source of the noise, you squint at the alley you were forced down earlier.

“Oh, what the fuck ?”

You blurt the words without thinking, but the unexpected sight rids you of any ability to hold your tongue. There — tucked safely beneath the cover of shadow — stands a very tall man. Or rather, a clown . At least you think that’s what it is. Your fists clench uneasily at your sides and the tensing of the muscles makes your wounded arm sing with pain.

In the darkness, you can only make out the parts of his costume which are white: a long leg opposite an equally lengthy arm, a frilly collar, silky hood, and a heavily painted face. He takes a single step closer, as if testing to see whether you’ll run from him. 

The moonlight paints a slightly clearer picture of his appearance here. Both his eyes and mouth are encircled with thick blobs of black face paint and a pair of thin eyebrows arch unnaturally high over an exceedingly piercing stare. His ebony lips form a distinct ring of shock and you realize that he’s probably just seen your whole ordeal. Or at least the parts that made you look bad. 

A tiny, jauntily-tilted top hat adds an oddly comical touch to his ensemble. In his left hand he holds a crinkling black trash bag that looks to be filled to the brim with several hefty objects. He raises his right hand and wiggles his fingers with a delicate and playful wave, the long digits encased in a pair of fingerless gloves that may have been white once-upon-a-time.

You naively assume the mysterious clown poses no threat, simply regarding him as an innocent Halloween reveler who happened to stumble upon a terrible situation. Right now, your only fear is that he’s witnessed you beating a man — possibly to death — and has no context as to why . Gesturing to the motionless pile of flesh behind you, you deem it necessary to explain yourself.

“This guy attacked me,” you breathe, pausing to lick your chapped lips. “I was defending myself.”

The clown remains unmoving and silent, giving no indication that he’s even heard what you said. He merely stares, visage still awash with surprise. Uneasy, you shift your weight and raise your eyebrows expectantly in the hopes of prompting a response. 

Nothing. 

You aren’t lying about what happened, but you have to admit…you kind of��sound like you are. You try again. 

“I…I don’t know if he’s dead,” you admit warily. “He really would’ve hurt me if I didn’t stop him, so he was kind of asking for it.”

A dry chuckle follows the comment and you cringe outwardly at your poorly-timed humor. While you’re busy kicking yourself, the clown continues to do nothing but glare at you. He’s so static, you might be convinced he were a statue had you not seen him move moments ago. Unsure what else to do, you make one last attempt to earn a response from the costumed man. You point uselessly to the ground where your destroyed cell phone sits even though you already know the clown isn’t going to look.

“Could you maybe call the police for me?” you implore, hoping your willingness to contact the authorities will sway his opinion on whether or not you’re a cold-blooded murderer.

Still, he does not move. Or speak. He doesn’t so much as acknowledge you. Your patience has all but vanished at this point and your shoulders sag, a disgruntled scoff escaping your throat. Just your luck that you run into two total freaks in the same night. 

“Gotta be kidding me,” you murmur under your breath. 

Having had enough of this strange game, you square your shoulders and bravely cross the short distance between you and the creepy clown. You plan to slip past him, leaving both him and your would-be killer to figure things out for themselves, but the silent specter has other ideas. 

When you’re only a few feet away, he releases his trash bag and it crashes to the ground with a deafening, metallic resonance. You stop at once and your eyes drop to the discarded bag before glancing back at the previously stupefied face where you’re now met with a gleaming smile that you can only describe as… wrong . 

The clown’s grin shines with moisture and his teeth seem too large for his mouth. Something about the almost inhuman way his muscles contort to display every inch of his smile unnerves you, nearly as much as the length of time he manages to maintain the severe gesture. You swallow thickly and your nostrils flare with the stirrings of distress. The clown waggles his thin eyebrows tauntingly in response. It’s clear to you that this weirdo is looking to garner some sort of reaction of fear and you refuse to give him the satisfaction. Instead, you adopt a bored expression and cross your arms over your chest, being careful not to aggravate your wounded arm. 

Your choices are limited and admittedly risky. Either you push past the clown or take the chance of turning your back on him in search of another way out of the alley. Neither option appeals to you very much. Before you can decide, he finally moves. 

Stomping one over-sized shoe on the ground, the clown bends at the waist and flings both arms up and out to feign a lunge in your direction. It doesn’t even make you flinch which prompts his limbs to drop ever so slowly back down to his sides. You swear you can see his expression pinch slightly in frustration. He studies you for a moment, then his smile deepens as he tucks his chin to his chest so he can peer at you from beneath his brow. 

The gesture is eerie, but your apprehension worsens when he suddenly and inexplicably returns to his full height and the corners of his mouth fall slack. His grin rapidly vanishes, though his long teeth are still partially visible. This is followed shortly by the drooping of his black-painted eyelids. For some reason, his lifeless expression is what finally awakens a real sense of fear in you and a chill begins to seep into your body.

Uneasiness runs rampant through you, dissipating only a little once you realize that the clown’s deadened blue eyes aren’t fixated on you. His gaze trails lazily towards something over your shoulder. Something that leaves him unquestionably displeased. Daring to turn your back on the clown, you peer behind you to find your attacker miraculously stumbling to his feet. Although his face is bloodied and beginning to swell, you can tell that his eyes are focused on you. He staggers and groans; struggling, but clearly determined to reach you.

You look frantically along the ground, yet again in a desperate search for something to defend yourself with. The piece of wood you dropped earlier is too far away to grab before you’re back in his clutches, but it's your only hope now that you're sandwiched between a wannabe rapist and some sort of mute psycho.

To your relief, your attacker stumbles and braces himself against the brick exterior of one of the buildings, stopping to catch his breath before he’s able to resume his pathetic journey to exact revenge. That feeling of relief is short lived as a loud, cartoonish honk bursts through the air and you nearly leap out of your skin. You whirl around to find the clown standing so close to you that your bare arm brushes the silky fabric of his monochromatic costume. A smear of your crimson blood now stains the lighter half of his jumpsuit. 

His nearness prompts your eyes to widen in surprise and you inhale sharply. The clown has finally elicited a reaction and by all appearances, this thrills him. He jumps up and down where he stands, his blackened eyes crinkling with unbridled glee. His toothy grin is back, showcasing a sheen of saliva as his lips split open at an unnatural width to accommodate another terrifying smile. 

With fists raised and shaking victoriously, he honks his bicycle horn several more times, then stuffs the prop into a hidden pocket. Anxiety rattles your bones when the clown throws his head back and practically unhinges his jaw to unleash a completely noiseless laugh. The entirety of his massive frame quakes, quivering with such believable intensity that you cannot fathom how he isn’t actually making a sound.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you squawk with annoyance, putting an abrupt end to the clown’s celebration.

His head tips forward slowly, angled to stare you down as his smile falters a bit. But he recovers quickly, raising his eyebrows close to where his hairline should be while he holds up a single finger, beseeching from you a moment of patience. Unbelievably, he proceeds to delve into a classic magic trick, the kind you’d see performed by an amateur entertainer at a child’s birthday party. 

The clown’s gloved hands wave and twirl dramatically in front of your face as a sort of distraction. You do your best not to flinch when he reaches next to your head without warning. As expected, he reveals a shiny quarter, wanting you to believe he’s pulled the coin from behind your ear. He pinches the bit of silver between two fingers and offers it to you with a fluid sweep of his other hand and an encouraging smile as if presenting something of great value. Playing along, you laugh mirthlessly and hope the bemused set of your mouth resembles a smile.

“Yeah, that’s great buddy,” you say through gritted teeth, accepting the proffered quarter. “Thanks.”

Taking the coin in hand, you move to step around the clown, but he denies you. He repositions himself with alarming speed and blocks your path with his lanky frame, suddenly fashioning his own mouth into a frown. The odd shape of the grease paint surrounding his lips pulls down into a sort of melting effect. Contrarily, the bright rings of blue circling his dark pupils are pure ice. Something in his harsh expression serves as a warning, one which requires no words. Still not permitting your exit, the clown holds his hand up with his palm facing you and continues to keep you an unwilling, captive audience.

Just like before, he repeats his same trick. Only now he reveals what appears to be a thin plastic tube. By the time you notice that there’s a sharp needle affixed to the end of the syringe, the steel tip is already piercing through your skin. He aims for the space just above your collarbone, where your neck and shoulder meet. You cry out and he grins wickedly. The force he uses to jab the needle in would have been painful enough on its own, but the sensitive spot he chose as a target makes it all the more agonizing and your knees threaten to give out.

In your peripheral, you watch him depress the plunger with slow and dramatic flare. His mouth is molded into another perfect circle of facetious shock as the liquid invades your system. Your ears ring while fear pumps white-hot adrenaline through your veins alongside whatever concoction had been forced from the syringe. You stumble backwards, wanting to put some distance between yourself and this maniac. There’s no longer a worry about the dangerous offender still lurking behind you because you’d been afraid of the wrong man all along.

The clown watches, alight with unadulterated joy. He offers a happy and child-like wave goodbye when your balance starts to waver. His fingers flap clumsily with the level of excitement he displays. Your neck burns and you’re feeling nauseous; sweating yet shivering as your limbs grow heavy. 

Little black dots fill your vision and your eyes water, then begin to cross…or slip shut, you really can’t tell. There’s a loud whooshing and suddenly you can’t differentiate up from down, only that your body is swaying, tipping, tumbling. The last thing you register is the tiny ping of the quarter falling from your clammy palm and ricocheting off the ground. A slur of panicked nonsense drags over your sluggish tongue seconds before your world goes black.

If eyelids could be made of lead, you’re certain yours must be. As your body graciously allows you to ease back into consciousness, you struggle for several long minutes before you’re actually able to see. What you’re met with is a blinding halo from the single bulb situated directly above you. Blinking rapidly to adjust to the brightness, you try to pinpoint any indication as to where you are. You even wrack your fuzzy brain trying to remember anything from tonight, to no avail.

There’s a horribly uncomfortable surface supporting your body, rock hard and covered in some sort of sandy grit. A pervasive odor of rust and wood assaults your senses, mingling with the scent of something old and earthen. The aroma reminds you of an antique toolbox your father kept in the musty basement of your childhood home. Somehow the notion of being there momentarily frightens you more than any other possible reality. 

You’re still feeling a little too weak to sit up just yet, but you do manage to lift an arm in order to press a palm to your aching forehead. The movement prompts an unexpected pressure, a sort of tight pulling along your flesh. It turns your stomach and you begin to feel hot and queasy. Your vision blurs for a moment and once that passes, you hold your arm up and turn it over to determine the cause of the sensation. 

A long line of stitches run the length of your wound. The sutures are done in black thread that hardly seems up to medical standards and their pattern is rudimentary at best. Like something straight out of a horror movie, the edges of your wound are still caked in dried, coagulated blood. Obviously left unsterilized, the flesh is jagged, puffy, and sore. You shudder to think what kind of an infection you’re going to end up with.

The sound of metal clanging makes you jump, drawing you from the observation of your injury. Not being able to see your surroundings is making you nervous so you force your lethargic body to cooperate. First you plant your elbows, then carefully use your forearms and palms to ease yourself into an upright position, doing your best to keep your weight off of your ailing limb. 

You experience the worst headrush of your life, but your equilibrium adjusts quickly. Looking down, you find yourself still clothed in your bridal gown, although your shoes are mysteriously missing. You’re sprawled across what looks to be a large wood-topped workbench. With the glaring light overhead, it feels more like a surgical table. The irony is not lost on you.

Directly to your right, there’s another workbench. This one is made of steel. Your vision hones in on a large mass and suddenly the night’s events come rushing back all at once.

Over the workbench hunches the sleek back of the taciturn clown, twiddling with the rusted teeth of an old hacksaw. Moving as gently as you can, you quietly adjust your position and throw your legs over the edge of the table, letting them dangle limply as you observe him. 

As far as you can tell, there’s only one door out of the dimly-lit dungeon, but your captor is sure to spot you in his peripheral if you try. You watch and wait, hoping he’ll turn away and allow you a chance at escape.

The clown must sense your gaze because he freezes, stands up straight, then — with a remarkable lack of speed — spins his towering body to face in your direction. Although you had been expecting it, the presence of his startling grin still makes your throat tighten with anxiety.

“Where am I? What do you want from me?”

It’s stupid to ask. You know he isn’t going to answer. At least this time he bothers to acknowledge you. He slowly creeps his way over with the tool in hand, walking on tiptoes as if sneaking around and hiding from someone or something when it is he who is the monster. He smells of something familiar and sugary, a scent so offensively sweet it actually makes you gag. The silk of his costume brushes against the front of your legs and your body goes stiff with trepidation.

Your breath catches as a single finger traces the drawn-on stitches that transect your throat. He holds the saw up, pushing it close to your neck and sliding it back and forth, by all accounts interested in making the wounds very real. Concern furrows your brow and the display of fear must please him because he actually takes pity on you. He shakes his head with a mischievous smile and dismissively waves you away to let you know he’s only kidding. 

The clown twists his body to put the hacksaw on the workbench, peeking back to make sure you’re watching. He lays it down with purposeful movements, then indicates that’s where it will stay. For now, anyway. 

A frightened whimper nearly slips free when the clown quickly lifts a gloved hand to push two fingertips against your wrinkled forehead before jokingly smoothing out the deep lines forged by your distress. He points at you and mimes another one of his hearty laughs, but that only makes you frown more; doing very little to actually assuage your growing fear. 

Seeming displeased with your lack of amusement, the clown lifts his other hand to join the first. Astoundingly, he uses a finger from each hand and shoves them quite impolitely into the corners of your mouth. You pull back in surprise, but he simply follows, forcing the long digits deeper until he’s touching your teeth. He doesn’t relent until you stop fighting the invasion. When you do, he wrenches his fingers upwards, forcing your mouth into the shape of a painfully exaggerated smile.

The clown pins you in place with an unflinching stare, his head tilting sharply to the side with intrigue. His face lacks any notable signs of emotion and you look on in astonishment, unable to do anything except endure his assault. He senses your resignation — insignificant as it may be — and the corners of his own mouth lift, gradually revealing more and more of his teeth until even his gums are on full display.

When he finally slips his fingers out of your mouth, you assist in their exit by pushing the offending digits away with your tongue and spluttering loudly. This catches his attention and the clown’s blue eyes widen with interest. Appearing to ape your previous action, he relaxes his jaw and sticks his tongue out at you. The fleshy pinkness of the muscle is a stark contrast to the ink-like abyss of his painted mouth. He allows the muscle to roll over his teeth where its moistened tip nearly meets the point of his chin before it’s snatched back into the recesses of his maw. Then he points at you.

You can only shake your head in confusion, not quite understanding what it is he’s attempting to communicate. Executing a comical roll of his frigid eyes, the clown lifts and drops his angular shoulders with a soundless sigh of frustration then repeats the motion. Tongue flopping from his mouth and painted brows lifting with encouragement, his hands splay in a gesture of presentation that says ‘ see? Like this.’

Now he’s pointing to himself with both hands before displaying two open palms in your direction while nodding in invitation. He’s asking you to mimic him. You don’t want to, but you have a feeling refusal is not an option so you do as he asks, albeit with some hesitation. Lips quiver as they peel apart to make way for your tongue which slips out with jerky, jittery slowness. It leaves you feeling quite foolish, sitting there with your mouth agape and tongue twitching while a six foot clown grins and applauds gleefully in celebration. 

When you try to close your mouth, he stops you. A falling smile and a single loud clap directly in front of your face works just as effectively as any shouted words would have. Your eyes meet his and he holds up a finger, indicating you should wait; remaining exactly as you are while he decides what bizarre performance to put on next. You’re glad your mouth has gone dry so you don’t drool all over yourself and further add to your indignity. 

He presses his thumbs to his temples and opens his hands up like a pair of moose antlers, wiggling his fingers playfully and sticking his tongue out once more. Just like you thought he would, the clown points to you and widens his eyes like an excited child waiting for you to play his game. You try to hide your huff of annoyance, but do as you’ve been directed.

This time, there’s no warning. You don’t even see it coming. Taking advantage of your open mouth and your distracted state, the clown shoves the two middle fingers of his left hand past your teeth. Although you weren’t prepared, he is . His other hand snaps forward to cradle the base of your skull when your head predictably rears back, ensuring you cannot escape his delving fingers. You try to move your face from side to side and relieve yourself of the pressure from the invasive digits, but he holds fast and renders you immobile. 

Saliva floods your mouth as the tips of his fingers reach deep enough to brush the back of your throat. You gag and cough until your eyes begin to water, but he does not let up. Instead, he adds the rest of his fingers so they can twist this way and that; pinching, massaging, and pressing against the textured surface of your tongue. It reminds you of the way someone reaches in to remove the innards when gutting a fish. 

His skin is salty, juxtaposed by the bitter, metallic flavor of oxidized blood you can taste as the edges of his fingerless gloves glide over your tongue and soak up your spit. Tears spill down your cheeks and you fight to breathe, feeling like you’re choking on his hand. No matter how hard you cling to and pull at his skinny wrist, you’re unable to extract him from your mouth. You whimper and start to heave more forcefully until mucus ejects from your nose. 

All at once, he stops. Your throat emits an awful, strangled sound when he removes his fingers and abruptly turns away from you, shaking his hand and flinging a glob of saliva towards the floor as he does. It takes a moment for you to catch your breath and compose yourself while you wipe the moisture from your face, blinking rapidly until the tears stop falling from your lashes. When you look up, you see the reason for the interruption.

At the far corner of the room is a folding chair, its steel legs bent and misshapen. In it sits a face that you wouldn’t exactly call familiar, but you recognize it nonetheless. The man who attacked you earlier shifts and groans, his head lolling from side to side as he tries to get his bearings. You have no idea how the clown heard the man’s movements over your choking and whimpering, but you’re grateful for the distraction. His attention is now centered wholly on the man in the chair, clad only in a pair of checkered boxer shorts and with his arms bound behind him. His torso is riddled with little oozing puncture wounds and you can’t help feeling a twinge of pride. 

You watch apprehensively as the clown picks up a bundle of material from the workbench and shakes it out to reveal a frilly, floral-patterned apron which he promptly drops over his head and fastens behind his back. The man watches this too, slowly piecing together what he’s seeing. Dread colors his features when he takes note of his state of undress and his imprisoned limbs. His eyes volley from the figure towering over him to you, then back again to the clown who bends to dig through a wooden crate full of more tools.

“So what, you two freaks know each other or something?” he questions, panic evident in his shaky tone though he tries poorly to disguise it.

He receives no answer, but the tall clown — having evidently found whatever he was searching for — straightens and peeks over his shoulder at you. Only the upper half of his face is visible when he waggles his brows in response to the man’s inquiry, leaving you clueless as to what it’s supposed to mean.

Now wielding some sort of object, the clown approaches the trapped man with slow and sure steps. He crouches before him and presents the object to the man. You can only imagine the smile he wears. 

In his hand, he holds a terribly rusted pizza cutter. The clown flicks the wheel as if hoping it will glide smoothly, but it doesn’t budge. Deflating only slightly, he tries again using more force, but the pizza cutter only stutters with a grinding sound. He mimes a disappointed sigh and shakes his head, then shrugs his shoulders with acceptance, apparently deeming the utensil useful enough.

Your fingers wrap with crushing force around the edge of the table you sit upon as you brace yourself for whatever is about to occur. Though the unsuspecting man seems equally as dubious, nothing could prepare either of you for what happens next. The clown moves with viper-like speed and precision, snatching the man’s underwear and yanking them down just far enough to reveal his crotch. 

“Wh-what the fuck?” he yells, rattling the chair as he squirms wildly. “Hey man, what the hell are you doing?!”

The rising pitch in his voice indicates he already knows the answer. While the sizable build of the clown shields most of your view, your imagination fills in the blanks vividly enough. Your ears ring with the volume of the man’s ragged screams. 

A squish of flesh and the unmistakable splatter of dripping blood intersperse his cries and you slam your eyes shut as though that will block the awful sounds out. It’s the worst limb for a man to lose and there’s no doubt the dull condition of the clown’s chosen tool is making this experience all the more harrowing. Its lack of sharpness certainly lends to the amount of time the clown spends sawing through the man’s appendage.

From your vantage point, you cannot see the detached body part when the clown places it on the workbench, though that may be due to the fact that you’re preoccupied watching him lift the long cylinder of a propane blowtorch. He fiddles with the nozzle for a moment before rearing back and snapping his fingers like he’s just had an epiphany. Virtually from thin air, he procures a pair of flower-shaped sunglasses and perches them delicately upon his hooked nose. The torch ignites with a whoosh and the hiss of blazing fire does little to disguise the man’s blood-curdling scream as the clown touches flame to flesh in order to cauterize the leaking wound.

When he’s finished, the clown extinguishes the torch and tosses the tank aside with a resounding bang. His impromptu eye protection follows. Turning to you, he swipes the back of his hand across his forehead and flicks away some imaginary sweat before doing a comical imitation of an exhausted exhalation.

By now, the man’s distressed sounds have died down to nothing more than pained whimpers and quivering breaths with the occasional sniffle here and there as he processes the trauma of being dismembered and broiled like a human steak. The clown whips his apron over his head and hangs the blood-spattered garment on a hook with uncharacteristic gentleness, then retrieves the detached appendage from the workbench with equal care. He keeps one hand curled tightly into a fist, hiding the prize he holds within as he fumbles around in search of something. Meanwhile, you’re busy trying to keep the roiling bile in your stomach down.

The clown spins and moves towards you, one hand dripping blood and the other tucked out of sight behind his back. Instinct tells you not to look, but morbid curiosity says otherwise. Your lashes flutter as you prepare yourself and you find the clown’s face stretched familiarly into that same lecherous grin. His delighted eyes burn as bright blue as the scorching hot flame and you know that can’t possibly be good. When it seems his smile might split his face right in half, he finally makes the big reveal.

From behind his back, he dramatically presents a large magnifying glass. The lens is scratched and tinged brown beyond function yet it still serves the clown’s purposes just fine. He swings his arm wide in a theatrical fashion to hold the magnifying glass near his face as he opens the palm of his other hand to unveil the man’s severed member. His drawn-on eyebrows slam down and his lips mash into a flat line as he tries to peer into the lens and proceeds to move it back and forth between his face and hand as if struggling to see the disembodied penis even through the magnification. Without warning, the magnifying glass drops from his hand and shatters on the floor, making you jump. 

The clown’s eyebrows launch upwards and his mouth gapes wide. He bends backwards and mimes a seriously maniacal laugh, holding a hand to his stomach and even pretending to wipe tears from his eyes as an added touch. You almost find yourself laughing at how absurdly fucked up it all is.

A devious expression overcomes his painted face and that smile — the one which lets you know something awful is about to happen — returns. The clown approaches you where you still sit and places a hand on your bare knee, using it as leverage to wrench your thighs open. You instinctively try to slam them shut, but you’re no match for the clown’s strength. What began as panic soon melds into shocked horror when he directs the bloody, limp penis towards your parted legs and moves it in and out in a taunting manner, seeming to threaten to penetrate you with it. 

Your offended exclamation has his probing gaze snapping to your face. He ceases flopping the appendage around only long enough to wag his finger in admonishment. When he shakes his head with disapproval, it doesn’t seem quite as silly as all of his other gags. There’s an unspoken and indecipherable warning in the controlled, reprimanding oscillation of his head. Having sufficiently weirded you out to his satisfaction, the clown blindly tosses the penis over his shoulder with careless whimsy where it lands with a wet slap at the man’s feet.

The sound appears to make the clown take pause, something new churning in his iniquitous brain. His body tilts slowly away from you and he spends a long moment observing the half-conscious man in the corner. There’s an unsettling chill in his eyes when he turns back. In quick succession, he points to the slumped man, the discarded appendage, and then to you; all the while, an impression of inquiry in his expression.

You understand what he’s asking, you’re just not sure whether to be wary of or flattered by the crazy clown’s apparent indignation. Surely, he recognizes the hypocrisy in being insulted on your behalf after what he’s done. Your head shakes almost imperceptibly when you finally respond.

“No, not with that,” you manage to choke out, suddenly feeling inexplicably embarrassed.

The clown’s face is vacant and motionless for a painful length of time. It feels like he’s staring straight through you. He lifts his right hand and points to it with his left, eyebrows raised quizzically. You can only nod your confirmation. His gaze drops to your lap, lingering between your still-parted thighs for longer than you’re comfortable with.

You’re not certain how many times you’ve watched his eyes go blank and his mouth slack, only that the empty expression always serves as a hair-raising harbinger of something heinous. This occasion is no different. You hardly have time for your skin to crawl or your heart to skip a beat the way it has previously when the clown suddenly whips around in a blur of black and white to snatch up the hacksaw he’d been holding earlier.

The man in the chair hasn’t a chance to react either before the clown kicks him with all his might, sending the man toppling to the floor. His head bounces off the concrete and it seems to jostle him from a stupor, launching him into a fit of frantic mumbling which the clown puts an end to when he crouches down and promptly shoves the man’s own severed penis straight into his open mouth. 

Without preamble, the clown leans over and begins to saw through one of the man’s bound arms. Not cutting at the elbow where the joint would allow for an easier amputation, but grinding the teeth of the tool halfway down the man’s forearm. The grating of metal against bone churns your stomach. Screams of pain echo off the brick walls and pierce through your skull in a way you know will haunt you.

Though muffled, his agonized sobbing is disturbing to listen to. Luckily for you, it doesn’t last much longer. The clown emerges from his stooped position with half an arm and a whole lot of teeth. His demonic mouth unfurls with a silent cackle as he flaps the severed limb about, even using it to wave at you. Blood pours from the end of the arm where jagged bone pokes out, the thick liquid spilling down the clown's own limbs and soaking into the shiny fabric of his costume. It's a macabre image like something straight out of your nightmares.

“What are you?” you wonder aloud, horrified.

Not wanting to monopolize all the fun for himself, the clown crosses the room, toting his freshly harvested arm. With two hands, he holds it parallel to the ground and extends his long arms to offer it to you. Fat drops of blood leak from the limb and plop wet and warm into your lap. Persistently, the clown stretches even further to pass the disgusting arm to you and you have nowhere to go except backwards. 

Pulling your legs up, you plant your bare heels under yourself and scoot away from him, using your hands in tandem to shuffle faster. The clown instantaneously releases the arm and it falls to the ground with a sickening sound, freeing up his hands to snatch your ankles before you can get away. You screech instinctively, but he doesn’t heed the terror in your high-pitched utterance. He yanks hard and your much weaker arms offer little resistance as you topple over. You’re pulled in rather violently and he situates you lengthwise along the table, your legs hanging over the edge and bracketing either side of his thighs.

Panic still floods your mind and you immediately sit up, ready to continue your fight to escape, however the clown plants his hands on your blood-smeared thighs and presses his weight down until the crushing pain of it makes you cry out. If you want him to stop, you’ll have to stay still. Your hands curl around the edge of the table and you tamp down every instinct you have in order to do what he wants.

The clown doesn’t let go of you until he’s certain you won’t try to get away. You’d have vehemently promised him your cooperation if the ache in your bones wasn’t stealing your breath. The clown relents and you practically moan with relief, panting and frightened. When you look up at the figure standing between your knees, you’re surprised to find him with his arms crossed petulantly across his stained chest. He regards you with disdain and frustration, displeased with your refusal of his gracious, gory gift.

He takes a single step back — his attention having shifted to the blood-soaked garment that hangs off his lanky frame — and he throws his hands up in mock exasperation. One long arm reaches behind his back and you hear the sound of a small zipper. You half expect him to reveal that his body is actually composed of a million little bugs and spiders beneath the suit, or at least something equally disturbing. To your relief, the revelation is much less sensational. 

The loosened material falls away to expose his shoulders first, his skin so pallid it’s nearly the same shade as his painted face. His long arms and slender torso are so plainly unremarkable that it makes him almost too human. With nothing but the frilly collar stained red still around his neck, the clown looks more silly than scary, but you’re too transfixed by the sheer normalcy of what was hidden beneath to even notice. The costume slips free of his bony wrists, stopping just short of falling away completely when it settles on the protrusions of his hips. That cloying, sickly sweet scent wafts from him more strongly now, starkly contradicting both his gruesome appearance and grotesque behavior.

Humiliation warms your cheeks when he catches you staring, but he’s more interested in something else. He falls easily back into his role as a joker, suddenly gesturing almost apologetically to the sanguine splatters covering your legs. The tip of one finger swipes through a large droplet of blood, leaving a clean streak in its wake. The clown flattens a palm against each of your thighs and drags his hands towards himself, trying to use his filthy gloves to sop up some of the blood, but they’re already so sodden that he only makes more of a mess.

His mouth forms an inspired circle and you can practically see the light bulb flicker above his hat-topped head. Time slows and you watch him pitch forward, hinging at the waist when he bends to lick at the blood staining the skin just above your knee. The wet heat of his lapping tongue is shocking in the worst way. Your body moves reflexively, leaning away from him until you’re forced to catch yourself with your palms braced behind you.

A startled gasp escapes more loudly than you would have liked and the clown pulls his head back at once, a high-browed, jesting look of surprise contorting his painted face. The taut, rounded shape of his mouth soon morphs into a broad grin that makes your stomach flip for a plethora of reasons. His eyelids lower in the closest thing he can manage to sultry and he delves back in with fervor, latching his lips to your thigh even higher than before. Though slender, his fingers grip your legs with incredible strength and keep you in place. His teeth occasionally catch your flesh as he licks and sucks the blood away. 

When your brain finally manages to function somewhat normally, your hands can only float uselessly above the clown, too afraid to push him away for fear of the consequences. His mouth journeys higher and higher until his angular nose reaches the hem of your tattered dress and pushes it far enough to reveal the plain pair of panties beneath. The rush of his breath fanning over your underwear is enough to finally make your paralyzed hands move, but it’s too late.

Sitting up straight, your hands have barely made contact with the warm skin of the clown’s upper arms when the tip of his moist tongue sweeps with pointed precision directly over your covered center. Though you had intended to shove him away, the sensation instead causes your fingers to dig harshly into his soft biceps and you cry out. The clown peers up at you and carefully nods his head with approving enthusiasm before returning to the apex of your thighs to do it again, almost experimentally. The whimper he earns this time is twice as sweet and he pulls away, clapping happily in awe of his discovery.

Still stained with the fruits of his labor, a red-tipped finger sneaks between your thighs and he swirls it with damning pressure directly on your bundle of nerves. You don’t want to react, but a hiss escapes you, unbidden. The clown’s face twists with elation and he does it again and again until your teeth clench with restraint. You know your lack of sounds does nothing to preserve your dignity when you can feel the wet spot you’re sure must be visible through your underwear by now.

He seems to be testing the limits, seeing how far he can push before you’ll break. Adding a second finger, he rubs more firmly and his touch drifts from your clit to your entrance where most of the moisture collects. You keep your eyes fixed securely on the ceiling where you only have to see the termite-ravaged rafters and not what this murderous clown is doing to you. Still, you can feel the clown’s unwavering stare burning holes into your upturned face. It isn’t long before your panties are soaked through and you can actually hear the stickiness as he massages the damp material into your folds.

You know it’s twisted and you should stop him, but some incredibly sick part of you wants to indulge his curiosity. And another small part of you just wants to avoid pissing him off, lest you end up asphyxiated on some body part of your own or missing one of your limbs. 

You’re finding it increasingly difficult to think clearly enough to make a decision because the clown’s relentless ministrations have the muscles in your thighs beginning to quiver. His touch is dizzying and when his pinkie finger trails along the seam of your underwear where it meets the sensitive crease of your thigh, your legs part ever so slightly. This is apparently all the evidence he needs of your capitulation because what little control he’d been showing suddenly snaps.

In an instant, the clown has tucked all four fingers beneath the gusset of your panties. He yanks so hard that your bare ass skids across the workbench and nearly off the edge. You barely manage to catch yourself on your elbows before your skull slams into the hard surface behind you. Your underwear is wrenched a second time and the material digs into your flesh for a moment before splitting. He divests you of the shredded fabric, making sure to undermine the moment by wrapping the ruined garment around his head like a babushka.

The clown cups behind your knees and shoves both you and your legs upwards, forcing you to plant your feet on the surface of the table and leaving you laid openly bare before him. He wastes no time ravishing your exposed center, his mouth latching onto you without hesitation. His tongue moves with little finesse, sloppily soaking your already wet cunt with saliva. Your hips lift with a shriek and he wraps an arm around either leg to pin you down while he feasts on you, his sharp nose bumping your clit and sending zings of pleasure through your body.

You’re too far gone to think about the blood still coating his fingers when two of them force their way into your slippery pussy. A whine catches in your throat as the clown curls his fingers deliciously, massaging your walls in a way that has your head tossing from side to side. Using the widest part of his tongue, he pushes the muscle with unforgiving speed against your clit until your vision blanks.

Juices flow abundantly as the clown fucks you with his fingers and mouth. Stopping once or twice to allow a string of saliva to drip from his pointed tongue only adds to the slickness. His tongue occasionally delves into your entrance to taste every bit of nectar you have to offer. When your back begins to arch, he redoubles his efforts, shoving your knees to your chest as he plucks a fierce orgasm from your willing body. His lips latch onto the turgid bundle of nerves and with very little effort, you wail and fall apart like putty in his bloodied hands.

He doesn’t stop when you cum. The rough tip of his tongue slips with agonizing slowness from your cunt to your clit, then back down with the softer, smoother underside of the muscle. The continual onslaught of the clown’s mouth becomes too much once your orgasm dissipates and the stimulation is overwhelming, forcing you to clench your thighs around his head. You finally find your voice and beg for mercy, tears collecting in the corners of your eyes as you endure the torturous slithering of his long tongue.

Eventually, the clown grants the mercy for which you’ve begged and rises from between your shaking thighs. His vast grin glistens more than usual in the low light and a combination of your essence and his saliva coats his chin, tinged pink from the blood he’d cleansed from your thighs. The sight should terrify you, but has the opposite effect, instead tying your stomach in reprehensible knots. 

With your body still propped on your elbows, you have a perfect vantage point to study the looming clown. His shoulders are pulled high and taut, his entire frame expands and deflates with deep, steady breaths. Those long teeth grind, his jaw shifting contemplatively from side to side as he wars with his wavering control. Something decidedly evil brews in his azure irises. 

Your gaze drifts lower along his seemingly never-ending body to where the clown’s partially-shed costume still clings to his trim pelvis. The thin material does very little to disguise the distinct ridge of a growing erection, its outline pronounced and slightly curved. He watches your pupils dilate and your mouth drop open with a humorously audible pop. He holds one palm bashfully in front of his mouth and coquettishly flutters his dark lashes, shyly shooing you away with his opposite hand and shimmying his shoulders in a facade of self-consciousness.

His hand promptly falls to his waist where he nudges the silken fabric of his jumpsuit lower until it slips down his long legs. Bared to you now, you’re graced with the sight of his half-hard cock. The shaft is notably thick and measures up nicely; pale and smooth like marble with the weeping tip the same fleshy pink as his wicked tongue. You’re not as disgusted as you should be by the sight and that thought is sobering. When you use your hands and feet to scurry backwards across the table again, the clown’s dick jerks as it hardens further. 

A punishing grip crushes your windpipe as he takes you by the throat and halts your momentum, his entire body practically thrown over yours atop the table just to prevent you from getting away. You claw at his imprisoning hand, your fingernails leaving several raised scratches across his otherwise perfect skin while you gasp for air and he drags you back where he’s decided you belong. He releases your neck only to slam you flat on your back with a palm splayed across your chest. This time, your head does bounce off the workbench.

Hiking one thigh over his hip and pushing the other at an angle you aren’t quite flexible enough for, the clown spreads you wide open. His height makes it so that he’s almost too tall for his pelvis to align with yours but he does his best, bending his knees just enough for his impressively hard cock to nestle heavily across your pubic bone. Several tumescent pearls seep from the swollen tip, leaving a trail of sticky precum when he pulls his hips back. 

Your muscles quake with the effort it takes to keep your bent leg in place when the clown releases his grip on the limb. Using his free hand, he drags the blood-soaked glove covering his palm along the length of his throbbing shaft, eyes igniting with sinful heat as he watches his fist pumping. His knuckles lightly brush your clit and the contact has you ready to launch straight off the table. 

The clown releases his length, letting it fall back against your pussy with a wet plop. With his thumb wedged just beneath the tip, he angles his cock towards your slick hole and uses its girth to stretch you open. Just as your lips part in awe, his hips thrust forward to bury several inches inside of you and a startled yelp rips from your mouth. He pauses momentarily to laugh noiselessly at you, the jostling of his body allowing his cock to slip deeper. 

The pressure is mind-numbing, though you fear you might actually pass out when the clown drags your body close to his, impaling you until your walls are stretched around the thickest part of his cock and the thatch of hair at the base is saturated in your flood of juices. A full-body convulsion causes your internal muscles to clench and even the malevolent clown is not immune to the stimulation. His blackened mouth hangs open on a soundless moan, eyes hazed with salacious lust as he watches his cock retract from your dripping cunt. The slick pull of his length makes you cry out.

“ Ohh …my god,” you breathe.

The clown plunges deep once more, bottoming out — once, twice, three times — until your breath catches as you watch him sink every fat inch into your pussy. Your eyes pinch shut against the undeniable pleasure. He repeats the motion over and over until his thrusting hips settle into a steady, unabating rhythm that has you racing towards another orgasm. The wetness spilling from your core would prevent any decent friction if the clown’s cock wasn’t so thick, but each precise grind of his hips is wracking your body with ecstasy. As the rapturous sensations build, so too does the volume of your moaned chanting.

“Fuck, oh my god. Oh my god. Oh…my…god .”

Fire licks at the back of your neck and your toes curl, every fiber of your being trying to fend off the intensity of the tumultuous orgasm which approaches. You wrench your eyes open only to find the clown's eyebrows angled sadly and his frowning lips moving in sync with your simpering words, silently mocking every pathetically moaned syllable perfectly in time with your hoarse voice. 

Feeling humiliated by his taunting, your cheeks heat and you reach between your legs to press a flattened hand to his lower stomach in an attempt to put an end to the havoc he wreaks on you. You’ve made the mistake of reaching down with your injured arm and he takes advantage, circling your forearm in his spindly fingers and squeezing — digging deep in the tender wound — until the raw flesh begins to bleed and you yell like a snared animal. You recoil in pain, your body tensing as you do and clamping harshly around the cock still rutting between your thighs. 

Pain mingles with hellish pleasure and your cunt ripples uncontrollably, threatening to bring you both to your end. You slam your eyes shut and hold your breath against the rising tide. Sensing the battle you wage, the clown opts to prolong his torment. Bracing his large hands on the workbench, he uses the leverage to fuck you even harder and deeper, his hips slamming so roughly that it knocks the wind out of you. You’re on the verge of sobbing, each sorrowful sound distorted by the force of the clown’s cock pummeling your body.

A warm palm lands none-too-gently across your face, the clown’s pinkie and thumb tucked between your cheekbone and jaw on either side of your face; his other three fingers gouge indentations into your forehead as he easily clutches the entirety of your skull in his hand. The filthy fabric of his glove crushes against your nose and mouth, soiled with your blood and saliva as it impedes your ability to breathe properly. 

As the clown approaches his own release, his thrusts become brutal, fucking you mercilessly without a care for your pleasure or comfort. He shows no consideration for your life either, judging by the way he continues to smother you. Still, your own orgasm is quickly becoming inevitable and he can tell by the desperate way you swirl your hips, trying hopelessly to meet every stroke of his swelling cock.

He shifts his grasp on your face, allowing you to take a much needed breath. He pinches your cheeks with all of his strength, ensuring that it hurts. When you refuse to open your eyes, he taps his fingers against your damp cheek, hitting you harder and harder until you meet his dominating glare. His fingers proceed to dig painfully into your face like a claw and you’re glad his blunt nails aren’t sharp enough to break the skin.

The clown curls his body ominously over top of yours. He crowds your space, your vision, your mind . You can see and feel nothing but him. You’re surrounded, every one of your senses blotted out by his presence. In a fleeting moment of clarity, you finally recognize that syrupy scent which clings to his skin like an entity all its own: sugary, saccharine cotton candy. A total antithesis to the malicious beast it oozes from. 

His grinning mouth splits wide so a stream of pink-tinged saliva can drool from his open lips and splatter along your abdomen. He holds fast to your cheeks, forcing you to maintain eye contact until his icy eyes roll briefly to the back of his head.

“Shit. Fuck ,” you cry, fearing what’s about to happen and knowing you’ll never be able to stop it.

He smiles evilly and his head nods fervently when he sees the abject horror and realization in your face. Eyes flashing fully white, the clown’s body begins to vibrate with furious, unbridled carnality. In an attempt to get out from under him, you twist your hips in a way that only allows the clown to slip deeper than ever, his cock bumping painfully against your cervix and his tight, cum-laden balls crushed against your ass. 

Your palms slam flat at your sides and his crash down right beside them. Against your better judgment, one of your legs hooks firmly against the taut muscles of the clown’s bare back, locking him in place as your pussy constricts with a release that shatters your sanity. His torso quakes powerfully as he crumbles along with you, his head nearly coming to rest against your chest as he cums deep inside you. 

He makes no noise, but a sharp exhale unleashes a long, hot puff of air across your skin. Every pulse of his cock as he spurts more of his seed extends your orgasm until your whole body shakes with exhaustion. Your cunt squeezes his throbbing length so hard you fear he may never leave your body. 

Contrarily, the clown is already moving between your thighs, thrusting his cock decidedly deep with a final cruel stroke before pulling out with aching slowness. His barely softened length rubs every one of your sensitive nerve endings and your body launches into another, less debilitating orgasm. The tip of his dick slips free along with a flood of cum that drips down to collect beneath you. 

Hardly conscious, you hear the shuffling of fabric as the clown redresses in his bloody costume. He tucks his cock — still partially stiff and slick with your abundant juices — into the suit before casually sliding his long arms down the sleeves. You’re left exposed, your panties missing and your dress hiked just under your breasts. He studies his cum- and blood-stained gloves for a moment, rolls his eyes, then plucks them comically from his hands and flings them over his shoulder with a shrug and a dopey frown. 

Pools of saliva shine on your belly and the clown slides between your open thighs to lick it up. You flinch at the contact, your body still on edge and hyper-aware of his teasing touch. His tongue trails slowly from your belly button to your sternum and back down to the apex of your thighs where he delves gently between your folds to taste your mingeld cum. 

The salty sweetness makes him breathe hotly against your center. It's a soothing sensation, swiftly interrupted by the intrusion of his fingers slipping into your used cunt with shallow strokes. The clown coats his fingers in your juices, dipping in and out until you whimper before using the sticky white fluid to draw three sloppy letters across the space between your hips; writing his name to mark you as his property, a plaything to keep around only as long as it suits his sinister whims.

Writing Masterpost

[multidimensionimagines]

Alright, first part is officially finished! A request sent to me by a wonderful user that will be tagged. In the meantime, here is part 1 of

Sweater Weather (part 1)

part 2

Summary: you borrow Ford’s sweater when it gets cold

content warnings: fluff, smut, reader is fem/afab and uses she/her pronouns, minors do not interact!

Gravity Falls wasn’t a sunny paradise. Despite what the brochures and fake marketing wanted you to believe. Sure the summers there were nice. After all, living in Oregon meant getting a perfect balance of each of the seasons as they came. So, that meant hot, sunny summers and cold, bitter winters.

You did not take this into account when you first moved to Gravity Falls two years ago. Sure, you had some sweaters and pants good enough for the colder months, and you would think that living in the same place for two years would warrant you enough time to go shopping to acquire a proper wardrobe. But you, special as you were, had an extraordinary knack for forgetting things- giving your needs the old ‘eh, I’ll do it tomorrow’ and the next thing you know, winter had passed with you surviving on the tattered blankets and fireplace in your home.

Now was the end of fall, the day after Halloween- not to be confused with the iconic Gravity Falls tradition of Summerween- and while it had been chillier out it was now getting dangerously into nipping cold territory. And your boyfriend, as practical as he was, has not stopped having to remind you.

“Dear, don’t you think you’ll be cold going out in.. that?��

You paused, looking over your shoulder at him. He quickly stiffened.

“N-not that, I’m trying to tell you what to wear. I-I would never-! You’re free to dress how you wish I’m just..” he awkwardly cleared his throat. “worried.”

You chuckled, pulling on your lightweight cardigan over your top. “I know you wouldn’t. I’ll go shopping tomorrow, okay?”

You reassured him softly, walking up to give him a kiss on the cheek. He smiled shyly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You’ve been saying that everyday since October 5th.”

You rolled your eyes and grinned, shoving your hands in your pockets. “Psh, oh come on, there’s no way I’ve been saying it every day-“

Ford reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a little booklet, one of those pocket colanders and flipped to the page with the current month, or well, month that just passed yesterday on it.

“Actually you have, I’ve been keeping track to see when you would actually follow through on your word.”

He explained somewhat smugly before tucking it back into his pocket, revealing your annoyed but.. slightly impressed face. Of course, only the Stanford Pines would keep track of something like that.

You gave him a look but he wouldn’t put away that stupid (cute) grin on his face and brushed past him towards the front door of the Mystery Shack. You and Soos were all going out to get some food shopping done since the kitchen was ransacked by vengeful gnomes yesterday when Stan refused to give any of them candy.

“Bein’ freakishly short and wearing dumb hats all year round doesn’t make you eligible now scram!”

Soos came out from the staff room having finished putting away the rest of the cheap Halloween decorations that were more than halfway from falling apart, but of course, your boss refused to buy any new ones till they were ‘as old as he and his brother’ which you found humorous.

Dusting his hands off each other with a proud smile, Soos closed the door behind him and sighed. “Huh, there, that ought to do it! Oh hey other Mr Pines!” He beamed and waved at Ford, seeming surprised but pleased to see him out in the open. Ford awkwardly shuffled his feet and returned his wave with a small smile.

“Ah.. Greetings, Soos. And, please, you can call me Ford, it’s a lot less formal don’t you think?”

“Oh no way dude. I respect you and Mr Pines wayyyy too much to do that.” Soos stated in a somewhat more serious tone, crossing a hand in front of him.

Ford chuckled, both amused and flattered that he thought that highly of him and his brother. “Very well then.” He shrugged, watching as Soos joined you, who had their hand on the knob as you waited semi-paitently at the front door.

“You ready to rock and roll dude?” He asked, twirling his keys around his finger.

You nodded. “Uh huh!” You turned your head back to Ford “see ya in a bit, sweetie!”

Ford smiled and returned your wave as you closed the door behind you and Soos. Even though you and Ford had been together for a good few months now, he still got a bit giddy at the feeling of you calling him sweet pet names like that. He wasn’t all that used to having someone consistently dote on him in that way, plus, you just made him weak in the knees. No matter what you did. He found you absolutely irresistible. He sighed, shaking off his wandering thoughts and opened the vending machine door, as he had important business to attend to down in his lab today. And he didn’t want any distractions whatsoever.

A little while after, Ford was tinkering away in his lab, experimenting with a new device he had been drafting blueprints for, and keeping notes on what seemed to work.

“Hm… fascinating..” he hummed to himself, a pleased smirk spread across his face as he ran another successful test. He was pulled quickly from his thoughts when there was a knock at the door, but didn’t cease writing.

“Yes, come in!” He called, eyes not tearing away from the his journal pages.

From the other side of the door, you smiled of relief. Happy to hear your boyfriend’s voice after a long day, even though it was mostly shopping, it wasn’t like it was any fun shopping. You gently and carefully opened the door to his workshop, always making sure to be cautious in your step when doing so since you never could really predict what kind of strange anomaly or new device that would be coming your way. Thankfully today however, it was just a few pieces of forest crystals that sat at his desk beside his furiously writing hand. You cleared your throat and approached behind him, standing with your hands clasped in front of your lap.

Ford hummed curiously, looking back over his shoulder and instantly brightening when he saw it was you. “Ah! Greetings, my dear! How was your excursion with Jésus?”

You giggled. “It’s just Soos. And it was great! We got everything on our list and then some… I also got you something~” you rocked back on your heels as a playful tone rang in your voice to which he perked up. Ford turned his body now towards you, resting one hand on his knee and tilting his head to one side inquiringly.

“Really?”

You nodded, reaching into your pocket to reveal a small white cloth bag which had a label in black cursive on them that read ‘Old Timey Style Jelly Beans’.

Ford chuckled and took the bag from you, prying it open with his two index fingers and peering inside. “Thank you, my dear. Although, you really didn’t have to get me anything.” He said, glancing back up at you through his glasses.

You shook your head. “I always have to get you something! I like doing it, it’s nice to see your face when I come home with something for you! Besides, you hardly ever leave here as it is, I might as well do all your shopping at this point.” You insisted, resting a hand on Ford’s shoulder to steady yourself as you took a seat on his lap, taking advantage of the openness of his current leg position. He grew shy, smiling and looking away from you with a soft blush in his cheeks.

“Ah… yes, well.. um..” he cleared his throat “thank you.” He snuck a hand around your waist to keep you upright on him, bringing his head back up to face you so that you could properly see him. You peered over his shoulder to look at his desk, eyeing the new paragraphs of cursive that filled journal number four.

“What’cha working on?” You chirped. Ford beamed.

“Ah! I’m glad you asked!” He swiveled around in his chair, keeping hold of you in his lap and setting the jellybeans aside. “I’m testing a new invention of mine that I’ve had in the works for a while. I just didn’t have the pieces to do it until now…”

as he rambled on, explaining his newest discovery, you couldn’t help but accidentally tune out his words, sure you were listening, you could hear him talking, but your processing gears were occupied by the gleam in his eyes and the added crinkles that formed around them when he smiled in the excitement of explaining something to you. You let out an internal, dreamy sigh as you focused on the way his one hand was gesturing to all the different things on his desk and how the other gripped your waist so comfortingly. His rough, gorgeous hands…

“Dear, are you alright?”

Your breath hitched, you blinked and looked at him as a slow blush began to creep onto your face. “O-oh! Yeah um.. sorry you just… look really cute when you’re explaining your.. science-y.. stuff..” you admitted sheepishly, feeling kinda bad that you didn’t catch most of what he said.

Ford felt a little taken aback by the sudden onset of adoration, not that he minded it one bit. He just wasn’t used to it, a few months of being with someone so intimately wasn’t nearly enough time to get used to 60 ish years of barely experiencing it at all. He chuckled slightly, bringing his other hand to wrap in front of your torso, now encircling you in a cocoon of his arms.

“I-it’s quite alright, I wouldn’t have expected you to understand even if you were listening.”

He said with the utmost affection and sincerity. The words alone coming out of his mouth didn’t always sound too flattering, but they were hardly ever out of malice, especially not when it came to you. You had been learning to both deal with, and let him know when to not say anything. But right now you giggled and brushed it off, knowing exactly what he meant.

You two had a brief moment of looking into each others eyes, taking in each others soft gaze on the other. Ford had such deep, beautiful brown eyes that reminded you of the very forests that he explored so much. And you, oh, Ford could fill more than 10 journals dedicated to the sheer remarkable beauty of yours. He still couldn’t believe that in all the dimensions, all the universes, all the galaxies and all the stars in the sky that you chose to be his. And he was forever grateful for it. You both seemed to have the same idea as you leaned in closer, inching forward to gradually meet each others lips. Ford hummed and closed his eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders he didn’t even know he was holding dropped. He gripped your waist tighter and subconsciously pulled you in closer to him and you brought your hands up to his face, cupping and caressing each cheek and running your fingers along his faint stubble. Ford was still a bit of an awkward and clumsy kisser, but you were more than happy to give him as many practice opportunities as he needed. You felt a shiver run up your spine as his thumbs began to rub into the divets of your flesh, as well as the cool air of the lab hitting your skin through your thin cardigan.

“Mmm… dear..?” Ford mumbled against your lips, gently pulling you away. Your face was revealed to him in a slight pout, which he thought was adorable. But this was no time for him to swoon, he had a pressing question he almost forgot to ask you. “Did you remember to pick up something suitable for the cold?”

Your eyes widened. Oh, shoot. That’s what you forgot.

“Uhhhh…” you squinted, looking to the side to avoid his now disappointed stare. Ford grumbled. “Okay, I forgot! Ugh..” you groaned, throwing your head back.

Ford sighed and pulled your sweater sleeve up, revealing the goosebumps that littered your arm. “Darling, look at you, you’re freezing. You should get into something warmer.” He pressed, now sounding more like a worried mother than anything. You got up off his lap. “Yeah, I didn’t wanna say anything because I was hoping you wouldn’t notice but, your lab is fucking freezing.” You shivered, bringing your hands up to your forearms in a pathetic attempt to shield them. Ford chuckled and shook his head, waving you off.

“Go on, take your time, I’ll be here all evening.”

[cheralith]

vogue — 「 boss/fashion designer!geto suguru x reader 」

synopsis ; even without much knowledge in the world of fashion, you decide that it's in your best interest to work for the country's fashion magazine powerhouse. however, you begin to second-guess your decision when you're faced with the grueling labor of its one and only editor-in-chief who expects nothing less of perfection. can your efficiency meet his standards or will you be out the door before you can even blink?

content tags/warnings ; gn!reader, use of they/them pronouns, mild language, traditional japanese basis of (l/n) (f/n) used, reader wears glasses, makeup, and heeled boots, some mild manga and jjk 0 spoilers (three minor characters from each are introduced), uhhh suguru being a dick lawl, some parts not edited/not beta read

contains ; editor-in-chief!geto, fashion designer!geto, assistant!reader, assistant turned ****!reader, platonic roommate!ino, modern au, mild angst, some crack if you squint

word count ; 10.2k

notes ; heavily inspired by "the devil wears prada" and "paradise kiss", so there'll be some references i've dropped within this—see if you can spot them! also the censored is spoilers so until then, hehe.

now playing ; seven days in sunny june - jamiroquai

It’d be foolish not to know the household name of Geto Suguru, the ultimate male muse of Jun Takahashi whose title has yet to be reigned by another. He was the ultimate breathing mannequin of the iconic Yohji Yamamoto piece he had worn on the Milan runway back when he was just a teenager. It was one of the most staple pieces of the new century that helped open the gates of the mixing of world culture and avant garde fashion—an England-Japanese punk fusion of an ashen and tattered kasaya layered under the contrasting statement piece: the earth-toned gojōu-gesa splattered with weaves of gold—and it was that very piece that rose him to the top of the fashion world as one of the most powerful names in global fashion.

And how could he not? At seventeen, he was scouted as a model for Gaulthier and became his muse at the ripe age of twenty before several other worldwide designers began to fight for his eyes. It was only a few shrewd years later that he’d open up his own successful fashion line, RIIKO, named in honor of his late sister, resulting in it becoming one of the fashion line pillars in the modern century. 

It didn’t take long after that, due to his fame and distinct education from Jujutsu University, rising to the top for Kaizen fashion magazine and ruling it with an iron fist and several cups of coffee with almost all his designs on display for all to see in the office. It was due to his work that Kaizen became the powerhouse of powerhouses of fashion editorials and magazines and it was solely his work that made fashion what it was in present times. 

Whether it was direct or indirect, Geto had impacted the industry in all sorts of ways. Be it blossoming an upcoming supermodel’s name or setting new fashion trends, everything could essentially be traced to Geto Suguru. 

So it’s understandable that many had called you a fool—a dimwit, even—for not understanding how big of a deal it was to become his junior assistant after lazily submitting your resume. Originally, you had just wanted to become a simple lifestyle journalist for papers like Sankei Shimbun or The Japan Times, but seeing how it was between a seemingly mysterious fashion magazine that mentioned, received gasps, or the measly and homely newspaper of The Hokkaido Tribune, a magazine you knew would only give new journalists the scraps of what they earned, the choice was obvious. 

Whatever gave you more money, you’d take. Survival of the fittest, was this world not?

“Do not tell me you’re going to your interview at Kaizen wearing that?” Ino barks out a laugh as he finishes his morning cereal for breakfast, scanning your outfit. “You’re going to work in a fashion magazine, not some dingy corporate office.”

You sneer at him as you shove on your loafers (don’t mind that the leather is peeling slightly on the side). You think that there’s nothing remotely wrong with your overused gauntlet gray matching set of trousers and blazer with a slightly wrinkled button-up underneath it. 

“Oh, please,” you roll your eyes at your roommate and parttime brother figure. “What on earth do you know about fashion?”

“Enough of it to know that outfit is atrocious for that type of environment,” he states simply as he shoves a donut in his mouth. He kicks his feet up on the table, making you cringe at their nakedness. “Trust me, change if you can. Make a statement for ‘em.”

Ino Takuma sighs and glances at your thick spectacles that you’ve worn since early college. “And at least change your glasses for your contacts. Heard they don’t like those sorta things over there. At least not the prescription kind.”

“Can’t find them,” you grunt when you feel the weight of your shoulder bag heave down your body. “I’m already late, anyway,” you sigh, “Listen, if I don’t come back alive, which I will by the way, then you can dance on my grave all you want.”

“I’m holding you to that,” he chants before he lets out a haughty snicker that gets muffled instantly when you slam the door on him. 

You throw insults at Ino in your mind, grumbling about how a mere job hopper like him wouldn’t even know the speck of fashion, how you refuse to take advice from someone who wears the same thing every day. There’s nothing wrong with the gray, you think. It’s safe and presentable, ordinary and professional, and you’d much rather blend in than stand out as you believe standing out and making yourself known is just a recipe for trouble. 

Stretching out a hand on the street, you call for a taxi and humbly enter as you smooth out your trousers. The taxi driver eyes you in the rearview mirror with a questioning glint in your eye. “Job interview?” he asks.

“Oh, um,” you nod your head. “Yep! I'm a little nervous, haha.”

“Really?” he says as he gratefully steps on the accelerator a little faster. “Better get you there quick, then. Would hate to have you late. Where are you planning on working?”

“Kaizen Magazine,” you declare confidently, an affirmative look on your face.

“Kaizen?” questions the driver slowly as his eyes go to scan your outfit in the mirror again, his brows raised. “As in the… the fashion magazine?” 

You nod with visible apprehensiveness. You think that maybe you truly were the only person in the world that didn’t know the impact of Kaizen, seeing as how a mere taxi driver even knew about the name and you didn’t up until a few weeks ago. 

“I see…” he mutters. The drive there is a mix of silence and everyday morning conversations, before he pulls up to the building that held the key to your dreams. “Well then, here’s your stop.” 

You let out a little gasp of excitement. “Thank you so much,” you reply as you shove some cash into the slot. 

“Hm, well,” the taxi driver counts the money carefully, barely looking just before you close the door as he mutters, “Good luck, Plain Jane.”

You turn back to the taxi, your hearing a little awry. “Sorry, what was that?”

But when you turn back to the yellow cab, all that’s left is a billow of smoke and cinders. Dazed and confused, you quickly shake those feelings off before you head inside to the building that was now your shining beacon of hope with a determined smile still plastered on your lips. White is the first thing that greets you when you enter the building as it was essentially aired out onto every corner. White marble counters, white tile flooring with white grout, white frames of fashion icons—the white screams pristine and perfection to you and its message went very much noticed. You haven’t even met Geto Suguru yet, but you understood already that he expected nothing but excellence.

You ride up the elevator quietly and alone, trying not to focus on how your anxiety increased with each ding of the passing floors. The elevator screen seems to almost taunt you as it closes in on your doom, the numbers getting closer to the designated floor until it slowly pauses and shone brightly the number 21 in stippled red.

The doors slowly open and the light seeps itself back to your vision, white flooding your senses again. You carry yourself carefully down the hallway whilst taking your time to admire the many framed pictures of past magazines, multiple runway models, and scraps of newspaper articles. One specific piece catches your attention, however; it was large, almost half your body size and framed in a gilded black frame. It was a picture of a mannequin wearing a tawdry gray-black robe with the kanji characters of “summer” painted with purple messily atop. Layered was a loose, but well-fitted piece of thick green and gold cloth that looked much more refined to the messiness of the other materials. 

You stare at it for what seemed to be forever whilst admiring the contrast and beauty of the work before your name is called out.

“(Y/N) (L/N)?”

Your trance breaks from the voice approaching you. You turn to see a short and young woman with dark blue eyes staring at you with a raised brow. “That’s you I presume?” she asks.

“Oh! Uh,” you nod furiously and smooth out your trousers again. “Yes… yes, that’s me. I assume you’re Manami Suda? The one I spoke with on the phone?”

She nods slowly, her eyes going to study your outfit which was a rather stark contrast to her own attire that highlighted an emphasis on shades of opal and navy. Her eyes have a similar glint in the way that Ino’s and the taxi driver’s had, further enunciating the message that your attire was rather… something.

“I see you’ve dressed up for the occasion,” she murmurs. Sarcasm going undetected by you, you grin as a response and think that a compliment from her was a sign you did something right. Her eyes go to rise back and meet yours again before she turns and redirects you to the end of the hallway where some rooms belonging to subordinal editors sat in, clacking away at the computers. There was one singular room that held the only door on the floor and it doesn’t take you long to assume who it belongs to considering the large letters of GS frosted onto the glass.

Two desks stood on each side of the door, one completely devoid of life and decorations. Manami guides you to the empty one and patted the top of it. “This will be yours if you manage to miraculously pass.” 

Manami taps on her clipboard a couple of times, listing off a couple of requirements that you were most likely going to need in the future: efficient time management, ability to fight for what Geto wants, sharp memory, quick feet…

“And uh…” Manami flickers her eyes to you and the details (or lack of, in this case). She mutters under her breath quietly, “... a good wardrobe.”

You turn to her, internally wondering if you were going deaf today. “Sorry, can you repeat that?”

“A good, warm…” she squints, obviously finding the right word to keep that ignorant smile on your face. “... welcome to start off his day.”

She succeeds in her task as you merely nod with the same blatant grin attached. “Got it!”

Manami tours you around the floor of the office, letting you say hello to your future coworkers that work in the cubicles that send you worried looks behind your back. They obviously seem too pitying of you, knowing that your fate would be sealed as Geto’s potential right hand man the moment you signed that employee contract.  

“This is Human Resources,” Manami gestures over to a room filled with chattering employees who seemed to be getting their gossip out before their day started. “You’ll contact them if you have any—” her phone dings suddenly. Casually, she pulls it out, only for all of her resolve to disappear in an instant. Manami then abruptly blows a whistle with her teeth, alerting everybody in the radius.

“Everybody! His morning facial was canceled!” Manami hollers. “Geto is coming in…” her phone pings again with another notification, and you can tell Manami’s heart instantly drops. “Oh God… he’s in the lobby! Everybody, places! You,” she snags the sleeve of your blazer and drags you along with her, your clunky loafers nearly tripping you. “Come with me.”

Manami takes back to where you first started and orders you to stand in the front of the blank desk with a look that screams both fright and anxiousness all in one. She lists off too many tasks that you need to do before he comes, but you’re so frazzled with trying to remember how to act in front of your future boss that you can’t even remember the first thing she told you. 

“Help me arrange the drafts of the magazines from most recent to least recent before he—”

The elevator dings and all goes quiet; Manami tosses the magazines over her shoulders and positions herself firmly in her place, gesturing for you to do the same. The doors open and unveiled from two bodyguards is a man—a tall man, around six feet or perhaps even taller—dressed in noir fitted pants and a matching button-up closed only halfway to reveal a silk navy turtleneck. Caped behind him is a black velvet trenchcoat that you’re sure is worth half your rent and a watch plated on his wrist that is well over your life savings. He’s slightly sunkissed, with blue-black tresses of hair with a soft bang sneaking through and large plated earrings to match. His eyes, however, show a tint of color—a sharp dark amethyst that you think could cut through you like crystals.

But he’s almost hauntingly attracting—like a spirit. Something about him was an enigma and his aura was nothing less than powerful. 

“Good morning, Geto,” Manami chants with an artificial happiness to her tone.

Geto doesn’t reply, just merely giving a silent blink before he sheds his coat off and tosses it aimlessly towards Manami. It proves to be heavier than anticipated, giving how she fights to groan from the weight of it. He’s handed his briefcase from one of the bodyguards and begins to open the door to his office until he pauses and turns and glances at you, the stranger.

“Hello,” you state with a slight bow. “I-I’m one of the interviewees for your junior assistant. My name is—”

“(Y/N),” Geto murmurs; his voice is soft and low. It’s all knowing, with indigo eyes boring into your own. “(L/N) (Y/N), I know. The one that graduated from Jujutsu University recently, yes?” 

 Adjusting your glasses to wave away the blurriness, you nod with anticipation. “Yes, that’s me.”

Geto turns back and opens the door, to which he only replies back, “In my office.”

You glance at Manami for confirmation, only given back with a jut of her head towards the door. All the unease you felt in the elevator comes hurdling back to you in an instinct and you feel as if you were no more than a peasant to someone that was essentially royalty in the fashion world. 

Geto turns his chair to face away from you, shuffling a few papers over each other that appears to be your resume, before he spins it slowly towards you. He kicks his feet up lazily on his desk. 

“It’s nice to have another Jujutsu alum to join us,” he says. His voice is still the same—a little baritone with a wisping edge of a whisper to it, but it almost sounds… bored. Unamused even. “A bachelors in print journalism… same as mine, hm. Tell me, is Professor Tengen still as loose as ever with their practices?”

You fight to fiddle with your glasses as you watch as Geto tangibly toys with his own, with his focus angled on the papers in front of him rather than you. “Um, I assume so. Though I believe they’re actually retiring this year.”

“Good,” he sighs in what seems to be relief. “Shame that the university had wasted time and money by hiring them. Truly, I hope they can find someone much better suited for their position.”

“Really?” you quietly question. You had only taken their class a few semesters ago and thought despite their rather… all too lenient disposition… you did learn quite a lot in their class. “I thought they were a rather alright teacher…”

Regret pools in your mouth from the moment you have finished your sentence. Geto finally goes to look at you from the edge of his glasses with a sharp look, narrowing his eyes ever so slightly. 

“Tengen was merely a sorry excuse for a professor. They were rather nothing but a nanny who gave their students too much leeway,” Geto declares. “Though, I’ll admit, I am pleasantly surprised that you managed to take something out of that class.”

A laugh that’s just dripping with nothing but nervousness leaks out of your lips. “I suppose I had learned just a few things…”

“Mmh,” Geto nod nonchalantly, eyes drawing back to the papers. “Well. Let’s start with the basics. Why exactly do you want to work here?” 

Geto already feels the cliche comments erupting. Had the person in front of him say at least one of them, he was ready to insert the papers he was holding into the nearby shredder. Or maybe out the window this time, he wonders—something nice for a change.

“I was inspired by your work.” 

“It’s been my dream to work at Kaizen.”

“Fashion is my absolute passion.”

“I want to—”

“I’m just in need of a job, really,” you say lifelessly. 

He goes to raise his head slowly from the packet and turns to you slowly. Geto doesn’t say anything, but his facial expressions indicate a blend of confusion and intrigue. A slithering tongue darts out to slick his lips, indicating you’ve piqued his interest. “Well, obviously. But why this job specifically? What about it stood out to you?”

You clear your throat. “I had learned recently that Kaizen is a rather prestigious mag—”

“‘Recently’?” Geto repeats quietly. “You hadn’t heard of us before?” 

Lips thinning, you shake your head slightly. His eyes go narrow again to your dread, serpent-like. “My specialty is more in newspapers rather than magazines, I-I’m not too knowledgeable in that area.”

Geto goes quiet and the silence makes the air go thick. It’s then that familiar glint sparkles in his sullen eyes when they go to examine your choice of clothing—it confirms Ino was truly right in the end, as he lets out a smile-less chuckle that doesn’t do much to ease your brain. 

“Continue,” Geto gestures and takes off his glasses to look at you, or you suppose your outfit, more properly. He folds his hands and places his chin on top of them. “You said you only learned about us not too long ago?”

“Yes, and I realized that perhaps working here for a while would, at least I hope, grant me access to other media houses,” you explain. It’s only then you realize that your declaration sounds absolutely ludicrous and almost disrespectful to the editor-in-chief of the most iconic fashion magazine in the nation. “Connections are quite powerful in this day and age, haha…”

“I suppose,” Geto mumbles with not much interest in your poor humor. “What about me? I do hate bragging but surely, you know about my name or at least my fashion line?”

Your hesitant countenance and silence tells Geto all he needs to know. He thinks that it’s almost some sort of marvel that no one has heard of him or his works before.

He sighs. “Do you have any experience working in any fashion-related activities at least?”

“Well, I once worked in a department store for a few months back in high school,” you say thoughtfully (and ignorantly).

Geto gives you a blank look. His blinks are apathetically slow.

“Um,” you clear your throat again and shake your head, timid. “N-no…”

“Then tell me,” he continues smoothly. “Why exactly should I hire you? You obviously have no taste in fashion and you hadn’t even heard of my name, let alone my magazine, until recently. What is there within that makes you want to work here other than you just… what was it that you said?” He air-quotes mockingly, “‘needing a job?’”

Your throat runs dry and limbs go stiff. A heat rockets to your face when you seemingly can’t get any words out to excuse yourself, much too caught up in the same of your ignorance towards Geto’s profession. And that’s all the response he needs to make his decision. 

His hand takes the packet again and to your horror that you fight to keep in, inserts it into the paper shredder. The groan of it rumbles through the room agonizingly and you realize that Ino is going to have the time of your life planning your doomsday. 

Geto gives you the mercy of breaking the thick silence first. “You may go.” 

With a swift flick of his wrist, Geto dismisses you with a slight edge to his murmuring as he puts back on his glasses to examine the morning newspaper to not waste any more incessant time in the day. 

You don’t even attempt to fight back with any poor excuses. Tears prick the corner of your eyes, the sting of them frustrating you to your wits end. Instead, you gather the last of your resolve and bid him through a strained throat good day and make your leave, humiliation and disappointment trailing not too far behind. 

You hope that Ino will give a nice eulogy, at least.

Out of all the miracles that await you in life, you do not expect the one that comes in the form of an early morning phone call that wakes you at the ass-crack of dawn. When you pick it up with sleep still very much embedded in your eyes, it dissipates in the instant you hear Manami’s voice. It’s only then that it hits you why on earth she was calling so early and why she was demanding to know your whereabouts, claiming you were going to be late on your first day of work. 

You think it’s some sort of cruel joke maneuvered by Ino, especially with how his comforts from last night were mixed with taunts. But when Manami’s voice finally registers in your brain, by some sort of miracle or stroke of luck, you have gotten the job as Geto Suguru’s junior assistant. 

You don’t know how, but you don’t waste any time questioning how on earth you landed in such a position because you leap out of bed at 7:23 a.m. and manage to do your morning routine in the matter of what you think is a record-breaking fifteen minutes. Your ruckus manages to wake up deep-sleeping Ino, who, when you excitedly tell him to postpone your funeral, gives a groggy thumbs up before drooling back into his pillow. It’s 7:38 a.m. when you shove on your shabby coat and you realize you only have a mere twenty-two minutes left until you have to officially clock in for work. 

At 7:40, you’re out the door and sprinting to the located coffee shop that thankfully wasn’t too far from where you lived.

At 7:47, you’re at the designated cafe whilst attempting to swim through the crowds of morning bustlers to pick up Geto’s coffee.

7:50, you’re sticking your hand out waving desperately for a taxi and tip extra to make the driver speed through as you attempt to make sure the coffees don’t spill out of their containers.

7:58, you arrive at the building and just barely make it into the narrow gap of a tight-fitting elevator, earning stares from the others from your rather… frazzled appearance.

At 8:02 a.m., you dash out the elevator and officially clock in for your first day at work at Kaizen Magazine amidst a birdnest of hair, clothes that were plucked out of your hamper, and what you pray to the heavens above are hefty layers of deodorant and perfume since you were given no time to shower.

When Geto comes in that day, all suave and composed, he takes one good look at you before sighing and focusing his attention to the more refined Manami and lets her take the gears for the day. The only attention he gives you that morning is the rough toss of his heavy coat—a cashmere pearl peacoat today—flung at your arms that nearly makes you tumble from its weight.

You quickly learn that working for Geto requires high demand and maintenance, as he is not one to skip over any details in his day. Not even three hours in your first day, you already have to plan out his future meetings, reschedule one with a rather feisty and insistent client, edit a forest of emails, finishing by dashing out five blocks on foot to the two michelin star restaurant to retrieve Geto’s weekly steak for lunch. Had this been your old corporate job, you only would’ve gotten half the tasks you had completed by the end of the usual eight hours, but you realized early on that you had barely scratched the surface of your future in Kaizen.

You think that after plating his steak with the shakiest of hands, you finally have time to relax during lunch time when you see the small hand of the clock finally hit 12:00 p.m. , especially since you and him were left alone in his part of the office together. But the moment that Geto saunters into the office again, he tends to you once again with a final task by himself.

“(Y/N),” he calls from the office, the scrape of his fork against ceramic cluttering your ears agonizingly. 

You fight the urge to cringe from the sound as you scurry to the doorframe, hands stiffly intertwined together. “Yes, Mr. Geto?”

“No need for such formalities,” he remarks with the dab of a napkin to his lips. “They make me feel old, and I’m surely not much older than you are…” you think that’s the longest he’s spoken to you since the day had started. “Did Leibovitz confirm?”

Blinking, you tilt your head ignorantly. “D-did who confirm?”

He pauses and does that taunting slow rise of his eyes from his steak to you. “Leibovitz. Did she confirm?”

Silence fills the office, much like the silence that drowned you back at the interview. He clicks his tongue and dismisses you with a disappointed shake of his head. “Just go on your lunch,” he mutters, sighing.

Manami, the savior that she is, is called into the office after her break and is asked the same task and you watch with humiliation whilst packing your things to go on your lunch as she picks up the telephone and speaks to someone over the line before confirming to Geto that, “I’ve got Annie!”

“He hates me, Taku!” you cry out whilst flopping onto the dinner table. It’s ten in the evening and you’ve just come home after what was supposed to be an 8-5 shift. You suppose you should be used to this already after two months of working for the Lucifer donned ritually in white in the building, but you don’t know how much your sanity (and body) can take. 

Normally, Geto is usually cold to those who he wasn’t familiar with, but you think that his distaste for you sours everyday. You notice that he’s beginning to pile you with the more urgent and busier duties and that he often stares you down more menacingly in the morning with those piercing purple eyes of his, like you were gum stuck on the bottom of his shoe. You thought it was just him being normal Geto Suguru, the man with the expectations higher than the clouds, and that you just were still adjusting to such a high-intensity environment, but it was today that your world came crumbling down when you overheard him muttering to his associates about you, tone icier than ever.

You were on the other side of the door, a fist going to rap on the glass with the other holding his afternoon coffee pick-me-up when you heard it.

“... can’t even do the most miniscule things right,” Geto had groaned. “I ask if Lanvin’s models are all good to go for next Thursday’s shoot and somehow, they have the nerve to ask ‘How do you spell Lanvin’? For fuck’s sake, I can feel my goddamn conscious just wither away by the second.”

You hadn’t heard Geto swear since you had started working there, but something about his venomous tone enunciating such words had made your blood run cold from the other side of the door. Not having the courage to face him after that, you left his coffee on Manami’s desk for her to tend to with a post-it note saying a sorry excuse for yourself before letting your eyes sob frustratingly in the bathroom, isolated from others.

The last time you had cried that hard was way back in childhood, where you had broken your arm from falling down a tree branch. But you think that Geto’s words had twisted through your skin and bone much harsher than that pain ever will. 

“It’s a miracle how I haven’t been fired yet… I don’t even know why he hired me!” you wail.

Ino sighs from across the dinner table and you can’t tell if it’s a sigh of pity or a sigh of criticism. You learn that it’s both when he rolls his eyes at you whilst simultaneously pushing a plate of much needed food towards you. 

“First off, you need to eat,” he presses, staring at your gaunt features. “The way your face is swallowing is making me feel like I’m living’ with a ghost. You’ve lost some weight, I’ve noticed.”

Awareingly, you touch your cheekbones and realize he’s right, for you feel the small disc of sharpness from them prick your fingertips. They’ve never been so cavern before. You suppose it’s because of the lack of proper meal time between your days and how you often eat small and very late dinners back at home, truly not enough needed fuel for you.

“Secondly,” Ino chews his tongue, wondering if he should really say what he’s about to say because of your current disposition but goes through with it anyway. He might as well rip the bandaid off now to let more time for the wound to heal. “You won’t like what I’m ‘bout to say, but you need to up your game. Severely.”

An aching body rises up from the table. You go to stare at Ino through glazed eyes and a pouty lip, asking him what he meant.

“Ah nope! Don’t give me that face and don’t play coy with me,” he hisses, looking away to not give in to your helpless puppy eyes. He can’t—he shouldn’t give you the easy way out and just say to quit—not when you’ve been earning so much bank that rent isn’t a problem for either of you anymore. He wonders, though, for a moment if so much money is worth your rationality.

He drags a hand down his face before placing his chin on it, examining your haggard appearance. “What I mean is that you need to see through Geto’s eyes. See what he sees when he looks at you. Tell me, if you had an assistant that showed up wearing things that looked like they were plucked from the clearance bin at a thrift store and didn’t show any respect for your brand, which just so happens to be a fashion magazine out of all things…” Ino eyes you with a raised brow. “You startin’ to follow me?”

Your fingers fiddle with each other. “... sorta.”

“Now listen,” he raises his hands up lazily in surrender. “I already know what you’re ‘bout to say about me not knowing’ how to dress in shit other than black and more black, but even I know that you should put in more effort into your appearance. That’s the first step.”

“But I have—!” you exclaim helplessly, “I-I swear, I’ve been trying to… but it’s not my fault that it isn’t up to his standards.”

Your roommate groans and rubs his forehead, not really knowing what else to do for your situation until an idea pops in his head. “Free up your weekend,” he demands with a sly grin that makes you a little uneasy. “I’m no fashion connoisseur, but you know who is?”

“And remember, we never touch anything with chevron on it, especially in today’s fashion world,” Yuki chimes as she slaps on a navy blue pageboy cap on your head and she prances about your bedroom that’s been littered with spare clothes from her very own closet she graciously gifted to you for the past weekend. “I’m so utterly relieved that the trend has dug its own grave.”

The past weekend had been filled with endless shopping trips and you shuffling in and out of clothes every minute, practicing how to pair items and colors together by Yuki’s teachings. Of course you should’ve known that Ino was going to contact the one person that he was within reach that was essentially a walking encyclopedia when it came to fashion. You’ve met Tsukumo Yuki before, found her to be quite delightful even, but you never anticipated she would be this giddy, especially about clothes of all things.

And she used her brain to good use for not only clothes, but the entirety of yourself. You never knew how much just a simple haircut could do your face along with small hints of makeup to emphasize the best parts of it. Dared not your hands go to a lash curler, but here you are now, making sure your powder compact and lipstick for the day was in your bag before you went out. 

“Uh, I don’t think I ever mentioned this before yet, but thank you for helping my wardrobe out, it really means a lot,” you say just before she slides on a pair of gold bangles on your wrist. “Are you sure you wanna give these clothes to me? I’m okay with just borrowing them.” 

“Nonsense, babe,” she wavers off before shuffling through your now-hearty closet, a closet that’s now bursting with many clothes given by her. “I needed space in my closet anyway, so take as much as you need.”

So (Y/N)’s closet is basically her trash can, a particular shaggy brunette thinks with a roll of his eyes. Ino fiddles with the piece of toast in his mouth as he leans on the doorway, watching as Yuki essentially treats you like her very own Barbie doll at such an odd morning hour. 

“(Y/N)’s not a doll, Yuki,” Ino lazily calls aloud through a tired yawn. “You better get ‘em out the door soon or else they’ll get late for work. Especially need that money since the landlord’s been on our ass about increasing our rent…” he mutters, sniffing. “Damn bastard.”

She snaps at Ino to be quiet and let her work before she shuffles on a regal blue overcoat over your shoulders that completes your look. When you look at yourself finally in the mirror, you almost think there’s a stranger in your house from the way you look so dignified compared to the you just three days ago. It’s a simple outfit with not much layering, but it’s still enough to ooze charisma and elegance to wandering eyes. You’re adorned in a white weaved sweater with flared, light-wash jeans and white boots to match. Over the outfit lies the coat that drapes almost like a king’s mantle behind you and the pageboy cap as your crown.

Yuki creeps up behind you, her manicured hands on your shoulders affirmingly. “How’re you feeling, hun?” she asks quietly as she shares the same sight with you in the mirror. “Don’t you look wonderful?”

You know that it was all her work, it was all her creativity that made you into the artwork that you are now, so breathlessly laugh with a smile on your painted lips and thank her quietly once more before whispering, “Yeah… yeah, I do.”

Her eyes study you for another minute, going to stare at the glasses still atop your face. Yes, they were new and much more modern considering she quite literally called your old pair atrocious, snapped them in half, and tossed them over her shoulder, but she was still quite dissatisfied when you told her about your hesitance about using contacts. “Are you sure you don’t want to give contacts another chance?” she sighs. 

You shake your head with a small smile, “I’ll feel completely naked without them,” you murmur, “Besides, I think they actually compliment this look, if I’m being honest.”

Her lips stretch out into a grin, too absorbed in her fashion education finally being used. 

“Well then!” she begins to drag you by the sleeve out your room. “We wouldn’t want you to be late then for your first day as the new you, right? Let’s get you a cab!”

Somehow, you think you really are at your first day at work again from the way you feel that same fluttering in your stomach and from how the people you’ve once grown accustomed to seeing in the early mornings are not merely passing you with mundane nods of their heads but instead, greeting you with wide-eyed gawks and open-mouthed smiles. Some of them, a few who you knew but never spoke a word to, even do a double take and compliment you aloud on the new look. Even the cute barista in the lobby that never bothered to spell your name right at last did after finally taking a good look at the holder of the card.

When you exit out of the elevator, Manami nearly drops the pile of magazines she’s holding when she spots a refined and refreshed you. You offer a bright smile to her and you watch as her gasp slowly forms into an affirmative grin when you round your desk.

She laughs softly. “And who might you be?” she asks with a tease in her voice. “‘Cause last time I checked, that’s my coworker (Y/N)’s desk.”

“I murdered them,” you shrug nonchalantly, earning another chuckle from her. You take it as a good sign, great even, considering up until now, Manami had been rather stoic and a little indifferent towards you because of your amateurism; but now, you suppose that ditching that Plain Jane from just two days ago is finally beginning to do you good by finally grounding a proper relationship with her. “Shame, isn’t it? Poor thing.”

“Truly,” she nods. Her eyes trail further down until they spot something that makes her gasp. “Don’t tell me those are—”

“—the new calfskin gold studded Louboutin boots?” you finish for her. You flex your ankle and show off the ravishing red bottoms of your shoes. “Oh yeah.”

Manami squeals in excitement and rushes over to your desk, begging to take a look at them. “How on earth did you manage to get your hands on these?! I’ve been looking for them fo—”

The elevator dings again but with a tone that makes you and Manami flinch. Both of you stiffen and straighten out your posture, falling into a thick silence when out comes Geto traipsing out like he usually did—his aura being nothing less than dominating. You and Manami chime out in sync a good morning to him as he saunters towards his office as he begins to shuffle off his coat as usual to toss to you until he looks up and catches you in his field of vision.

He stops all of a sudden with his eyes dancing about your figure, a stark contrast to the rest of his paralyzed body. Geto’s lips thin all of a sudden, and so do his eyes when they scan your outfit. He takes in a sharp breath and opens his mouth to say something to you, yet nothing comes out, even as your eyes glisten with anticipation.

It merely instead zips itself close and he finally whisks himself into his office, coat still on and briefcase still in hand, and slams the door shut. 

But not without glancing at you one last time.

Much has changed in the past month for the better.

Yuki was a godsend—she had been your guardian angel, your fairy godmother of sorts—because you swore your career life had taken a complete 180° the moment your closet was revamped. Ever since that makeover, you had felt so much more confident in your actions, so much lighter on your feet. The price of your efforts was beginning to pay off as well, as Geto began to slowly thaw his icier sense of self when you began to actually put effort into your appearance. His thrusts of his coat towards you began to become less aggressive, was significantly more lenient when it came to more of the impossible tasks, and had at one time actually muttered a ‘good morning’ to you and Manami after months of greeting with silence and judgemental glances.

She’d occasionally check up on you every once in a while, usually to offer new clothes that she didn’t want anymore. And by offer, it actually just meant packing them in a box from her place to yours with a post-it that’d usually read “With love, YT ❤” in neat cursive. Along with forming a close bond with Yuki, your relationship with Manami improved significantly, especially when you gave her those white Louboutins she was eyeing. She often invited you to lunch with her other friends, Larue and Remi. 

The iconic John Galliano once said that, “The joy of dressing is an art.” A month ago, you would’ve never believed what you would think is a rather tacky statement, but now, you can truly see it to believe it. It never occurred to you to actually look at your surroundings closely, but you often would sometimes take a few seconds out of your day to admire the many colors and materials that would adorn your coworkers. Whether it be admiration for their sense of style or mild jealousy over luxurious pieces, you were finally understanding what makes fashion, fashion.

And your epiphany was awarded today with the task that you thought would never come into the light of your days working for Geto—being tasked with dropping off The Book.

The Book was a collection of pieces that were needed for the upcoming edition of the magazine, regarding it as being the most important item in the entire company. It was a duty that usually Manami tended to, but she hypothesized that you managed to finally get on Geto’s good side after a while and congratulated you. Manami spoke to you briefly about how trivial The Book was to both Geto and Kaizen. She told you about how you must guard it and Geto’s key to his penthouse with your life, and that you were to remain absolutely invisible to him if he was in the apartment. Manami told you because it was usually the hour he needed most concentration—it was during the later hours of the day that he usually mended last minute edits to the edition or he was working on his latest fashion collection since he was only able to work on it during the weekends as Kaizen took too much of his time.

Manami told you he would most likely be found on the second floor of his penthouse, and you were to remain on the first floor at all costs. 

“The editors will finish The Book around 10:30 or 11:00 at night, wait in the office until then. Then, drop the book off at his penthouse at no later than 11:30 with his dry cleaning, too.”

Her words echo in your mind as you tiptoe out of the cab and look up to see a gleaming, glamorous building sitting in the heart of the city. It’s one you’ve passed a plenty of times—hell, you pass it on your way to work—but it never occurred to you that it’d be this antique white, Parisian-styled building that would be the abode of your boss. 

“Take the elevator to the top floor and enter his apartment. Do not call out his name, don’t wander around, don’t even make a single sound. You are nothing more than a ghost when you step foot into his house.”

The only doors that are on the very top floor of the apartment complex are two large metal doors that sit before you. You enter the key into the keyhole and push them open with controlled force, closing them as quietly as possible with Manami’s whispers still floating about your head. You knew that Geto was certainly a man of luxury, but to see that wealth exempt in a form other than fashion was a sight that you weren’t sure if your eyes deserved to feast on. Sculptures and paintings decorated the foyer and hallway, adding occasional splashes of color to the ivory-adorned apartment. After hanging the dry cleaning in the designated coat closet, the first room you enter - and perhaps the only one you’ll ever be in - is the said living room with the glass coffee table sitting in the center of it.

“Place The Book on the coffee table in the living room. That’s it. Do not toddle any longer in his house and get out immediately. Don’t let curiosity get the better of you and just simply go afterwards. It’s for your own good.”

But oh, how curiosity is just a little devil of temptation that sits far too easily on your shoulder. A house holds the most of a person, and Geto is just an all too mysterious enigma for you not to at least dip your toe in. The doors at the end of the hallway are waiting for you, but so are the picture frames that sit atop the TV stand. You suppose… maybe another minute wouldn’t hurt.

Your feet carry you slowly to the stand and you crouch, adjusting your glasses to get a better look at the pictures. There’s only two of them—six by fours, both in oak brown frames. The first one is a picture of a smiling young girl with short chestnut hair sporting a smile with a cigarette between her teeth. Beside her are two boys taller than her, both making similar faces at the camera. One of them, the one that’s a little taller with silvery snow hair and opaque black sunglasses, throwing a forced, all-too wide grin that almost looks maniacal. It doesn’t require much brain power to know the other figure in the photo is a younger Geto Suguru, his hair shorter in a tight bun with a rare, but soft grin on his face, his gaze affectionate to the others.

The other picture is of the same two boys arm in arm with each other. Both of them are grinning now, with the white haired boy still smiling a little more largely than the other. It doesn’t take long for you to assume who the other boy was considering that the shade of purple sheathing his twinkling eyes is unique to only one individual in your life. 

Best friends, you suggest in your mind as you study the pictures a little longer than needed. A minute, you thought, wouldn’t do much harm, but how utterly wrong your thoughts prove when you suddenly hear the slam of a door from the floor above. The crash of it makes you yelp and breaks you out of your trance from the pictures and your gaze suddenly snaps to the open stairs above you, as well as two voices echoing aloud. 

“Y-you can’t—” an unknown voice wheezes. “I’ve been your muse for years. You possibly can’t just abandon me out of nowhere…”

“You say that as if I’m not doing that right now,” a familiar one replies back boredly. It’s Geto, and his voice makes your nerves electrify in fear because it’s in that moment that you remember that you can’t get caught inside of his house. “This is the last time I’m telling you, Shigemo. Get out.”

The man that you assume is Shigemo heaves heavy breaths. “You need me,” he declares.

“Needed. Past tense,” Geto corrects as he almost forces Shigemo down the stairs with an invisible force surrounding him. You can see their figures above you, Shigemo slowly stepping backwards with each step Geto takes forward. “You’ve done me well these few years, I admit, and I do thank you for that. But I suppose your expiration date has finally come.”

“I’m not a food,” Shigemo snivels. “I’m a person. Most importantly. I’m the reason your fashion line flourished, I was the inspiration for almost all your works. We’re essentially a team.”

They’re towards the end of the staircase, towards where you are still present in plain sight. Your eyes scatter about a place to hide in the meantime, but there are seemingly no places to hide that would hide you well without the notice of Geto’s eyes.

“A team?” Geto barks out a sarcastic laugh, one that makes shivers run down your spine from both the rarity of the sound and how utterly intimidating it is. “I work alone and I always have. There is no point on relying on anyone of any kind when my independence obviously pays off.”

“Who will you have then?” Shigemo retaliates with a whimper in his voice. “You know that I’m the only one that will tolerate you. It’s not like you can go crawling to Goj—“

“Finish that sentence and see what happens,” Geto hisses, causing the other man to fall into a forced silence.

Your eyes finally land on the small space between the fireplace and a pillar. It’s a space large enough for you to fill and efficient enough to hide you from sight. Unsticking your feet from the ground, you make a run for the small space, only for you to forget about the obstacle that was the ottoman sitting spitefully on the floor.

The thud that comes from your body almost rivals the volume of the door slamming open moments earlier and just like the door, it attracts unneeded attention. Geto and Shigemo stop their bickering for a moment to search for the cause of the sound, only to see you humiliatingly face first on the floor. Geto narrows his eyes at the sight of you, an unwanted visitor in his home. 

A pained groan slips from your lips accidentally. You silently curse yourself for not taking the time to properly break into the tantalizing loafers Yuki bought you the day prior and wince at the pain blooming from your knees and chest. When you finally get up, you can’t help but notice that everything around you seems rather… hazy.

“Who is that…” Shigemo mutters.

Geto bites back a sigh and instead, pinches the bridge of his nose. He supposes that despite your improved mannerisms, your clumsiness still has yet to dissipate. Annoyed, he grunts out, “One of my new assistants.”

Shaking his head, Geto decides to deal with you later. His home is already suffocated with one individual, he doesn’t need another clogging the atmosphere up. He returns his attention back to Shigemo. “I thought I told you to leave,” he states, shoving his bag towards him.

Shigemo’s face paints a horrified expression once again. “Geto, please rethink this,” Shigemo pleads. 

He lets out a chain of pleads and excuses for himself as Geto essentially escorts him out with just walking towards him, his face still icy. Shigemo ends up on the other side of the door to his penthouse and it’s there where his patheticness exudes the most—he falls on his hands and knees like a beggar, claiming he’d do anything and everything just to be by his side. 

But his voice is suddenly cut short when Geto finally slams the door in his face, the thickness of them guarding him from Shigemo’s whines. He lets out another sigh and locks up the door securely before dealing with the other parasite in his house.

“I don’t think dropping off a book should take longer than thirty seconds,” Geto drawls as he saunters towards the living room, where you’re still on all fours on the floor, your hands tapping around. “So tell me, why are you still here?”

At the sound of his sharp tone, you freeze. You’re sure you looked utterly stupid and a mess right now, considering that you had just lost a fight to an ottoman out of all things, but you couldn’t let Geto see you in such a state. It didn’t take you long to realize that the reason why everything around you looked so blurry was because of your now-missing glasses that you attempted to look around for. But you pulled a Velma, and just like her, you can’t see without your glasses.

Everyone thinks it’s an exaggeration when you state that you felt utterly naked without them, but you truly did. You’ve been wearing glasses ever since childhood and you really didn’t appreciate the looks you had gotten when you were younger when at times you’d take them off. Some complained that your eyes were too small, too big—others mentioned you looked “off” and “weird” without them. Either way, comments from the other children stuck with you like scars, and ever since then, you refused to be seen without them. 

“I a-apologize,” you stutter, shuffling your body to hide behind the recliner so Geto wouldn’t see how much of a clutter you are. You’ve humiliated yourself too much already in the office and the last thing you truly need is for you to get fired merely because your curiosity got the better of you. “I was about to head out and th-then I heard your voice from upstairs and—”

Your words fall deaf on Geto’s ears. He lets out another groan while stretching the aching muscles in his neck as he closes in on your disorderedness. A hand goes to shield your face—you don’t want him to see the bareness of your face, especially since you didn’t bother wearing makeup today. You can’t even bear the thought of him looking at it. In a rushed state, you wander around for your glasses with your head tucked in, using the remnants of your hair to curtain your face.

A jumble of excuses tumble out of your quivering lip, but Geto is too preoccupied with the gleam of something catching his eye. Laying flat on the floor are a pair of glasses that doesn’t take Geto long to presume who they belong to. He plucks them from the ground and examines them for a brief moment before holding them above you. 

“I assume these are yours,” he asserts with a cocked brow.

Your head snaps up at the sound of his voice directly right above you and through your foggy field of vision is the seraphic figure of Geto holding what seems to be your glasses. Lips escaping a relieved gasp, you hurriedly scramble to your feet. Your eyes are too poor to see it properly, but Geto also shares surprise, but for an entirely different reason.

He doesn’t give you the sanity that is your glasses right away, because he’s much too preoccupied studying your face. It’s so… fresh. Your glasses were hiding such a view, like curtains to a window that unveiled the utmost rare and breathtaking sights. The way your eyes are wide open, pupils blown with a touch of singularity makes him even more intrigued because of how they’re uniquely placed onto your face along with the rest of your features. Your lips, plump with a natural sheen to them—your cheekbones, perfectly rounded. The slope of your nose fell just right. Geto studies it like an artist to a blank canvas, devoid of anything yet holding just the perfect amount of space—wanting, waiting to be filled with anything and everything.

When his eyes stare at you in what seems to be bewilderment, you swallow thickly and look away. But you can only glance at your surroundings for less than a second before Geto takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger, turning your face toward him again. It’s then that you realize that Geto isn’t staring at you, but your face as a whole. His eyes flick with small movements, dancing about as they go from eyebrow to lips, freckle to lash, examining each and every single particle that your face has to offer.

You feel a heat creep onto your cheeks. You’re not sure whether it’s because of the closeness you and him share or the fact that you can’t detect his opinions on the one thing you’ve been disclosed about for years, but either way, you feel weak in the knees; it only worsens when Geto’s thumb brushes over the entirety of your bottom lip, feeling the plushness of it on his the pad of his finger.

“Has your face always been this open…?” he murmurs softly as he studies the various angles of your face. 

You aren’t sure whether it’s a compliment or insult, either or neither. Geto’s tone always had a sort of bleakness to it, but in this very moment, you truly can’t tell what he’s thinking. 

“My glasses…” is all you manage to squeak out, fighting the urge to squirm in his grasp. Another gulp goes down your dry throat when Geto’s face contorts to an irritated confusion before he realizes his other hand holds the one thing dear to your heart. 

“Oh,” he mutters and hands them back to you. His opposing hand finally goes to release your face. “Right.”

Shaking hands go to put them back onto your face again. Sighing internally of relief of your now crystal-clear surroundings, you dust yourself off with your head once more, tucked into your chest. 

“I’m so sorry for this,” you whisper. The heat on your face has now spread to the entirety of your body, your nerves alight with the rush of adrenaline. “I-I’ll make sure this never happens again… good night.”

With that, you scurry yourself out before Geto has the chance to falter. All words to urge you to stay to either scold you or excuse you evaporate on his tongue. He can only watch in a strange silence as your figure rushes down the hall and out the doors, the click of them ringing out in his penthouse.

After moments of self-paralysis, an unknown feeling boils inside the pit of Geto’s stomach. He thinks he’s seen your face before with the familiarity of it unsettling him. The ghost of your face prances about in his mind as he slowly climbs the stairs to his sewing room, ignoring the shattered wine glass on the floor thrown by Shigemo. He instead, refills his own glass again with the nearby bottle of merlot wine and savoring the thickness of it running down his dry throat, embellishing in its warmth.

A single, large window faces the busy nighttime street and Geto walks and stills near it, watching carefully as the speck of your figure on the street below calls for a cab. He eyes how you turn towards the building one more time, doing your usual adjustment of your glasses (it’s a habit you often do in times of nervousness, he’s picked up) before you shuffle yourself into a cab that speeds off into the night.

Geto lets out an annoyed click of his tongue. Something about your face seems haunting and he doesn’t enjoy it. The last thing that he needed for today was even more plaguing thoughts in his head after the loss of his muse not even just ten minutes ago, but now with your face staining the back of his head, his jaw grits in irritation. In a poor attempt to take his mind off the excursion of today and the future, he shuffles about his many sketchbooks to look for any designs he could pluck out for his latest collection. 

It’s an hour in, two glasses of wine later, and somehow, he still hasn’t found a single piece to begin working on that fits into his theme. Miraculously, through the vast array of what is thought to be thousands of sketches, Geto hasn’t found one that stood out to him until he gets to the last sketchbook. It’s an early one—he thinks it dates back to his early college days, when he was just beginning to peek into the world of fashion. A pang of nostalgia hits him all of a sudden when he flips to a specific page that was the start of his history.

It’s the very design that had the attention of many designers. The sketch featured a gold and red embellished outfit, a sheen of glittering flickers adorning it. The shirt features a mosaic of gold and small flecks of color here and there, imitating the many church mosaics he’d often admired as a child. The skirt and collar of the shirt were the same shade of blood red, crimson gems bespeckling them. 

It’s not the outfit, however, that makes his eyes harden. Why would it? He’s seen it many times before. It’s been brought up over and over again—in interviews, in magazines. It’s one of the staples that made Geto the pillar that he is. He knows every detail of it, much like his other designs, so it isn’t the design of the outfit that made him appalled. It’s instead, the person that’s wearing it. 

Because somehow, the eerie sketch of the model’s face that he had drawn years ago…

… somehow replicates your own face perfectly.

a/n: first jjk fic in forever! wowie it's been much too long... also if u need a refresher on who shigemo is, he's the guy with the ponytail that nanami pulled kekeke

10.2k is hefty i know but i couldn't help myself my bad lolol T_T currently just a test run of what i hope to be is a series that some may be interested in because clearly this barely scratches the surface of what i want to embed haha so please let me know how you like it so far :))

continuing, i hope you enjoyed and thank you for taking time out of your day to enjoy my craft, whether it be your first time or your hundredth! once more, likes/comments/reblogs are always noticed and are always appreciated (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡ !!!

[gummilutt]

250 followers Custom Memory Bonanza

It's finally time! To thank all you lovely people for your support, I have been working hard to get this ready for upload and here we are. Today I am sharing my custom memory object, and my library of a whopping 201 custom memories. Based on the wonderful Tattered Diary by DiLight over on MTS, and the tutorial she shared of how to make your own custom memories.

I've always cared a lot about memories, to me they tell the story of the Sims life. Some of you from MTS may recall when I did the whole several year rebuild of my hood, replicating every last detail of the original. I'm memory crazy, okay? And when DiLight gave me the power to make my own, I may have gone a tad overboard. Or just the right amount, you get to decide :P DiLight taught me most of what I know about making custom memories, and the base BHAVs are from her, but as I've learned more I've added some bells and whistles that I hope you will enjoy. It's a new clone and separate GUID from the original tutorial object set up by DiLight, so if you have your own you can have mine too without issues :) Found in misc/misc, costs 1 simoleon.

Download on simfileshare

Features - Brand new form, created by me. Resized BV photo album with new mapping and new texture (seen above, in game pictures at the end of this post). I wanted something that was uniquely mine, and that you don't necessarily have to hide away in the attic or under the foundation. If you don't like it, you also have some additional model forms you can switch between through the pie menu. - Adaptable dynamic menu. Thanks to a really neat trick from @picknmixsims the menu reflects the memories you put in your downloads. If no file with the correct guid is found, the option for it won't show. Which means that although I am crazy enough to have 201, you can go ahead and only pick your favorite ones and the object will automatically detect and adapt the menu to that selection. - Memories all have a custom icon, that's made from game icons from TS2 or TS3. Some I am quite proud of, some are admittedly not great. Not everything is easy to convey through game icons, but I've tried my best, I hope the effort shows. 5 memories have icons that are not from the game, but I tried to match them to the aesthetic as best I could. - Memory subject menu shows only relevant age groups. For example, if the memory is about having a baby, only baby/toddler Sims will show as options. Goal being to keep menu as concise as possible. If you wish to assign memories retroactively, please see jonasn's excellent Memory Commander object, which has support to add my custom memories without age limitations. As well as a whole lot of other useful memory-related stuff. - Extensive documentation detailing everything you may need to know about the memories (text, icon, background, who can get it, who they can get it about, repeatability, where to find it on the object) to help you select the ones you want for your game, and familiarize yourself with them. - English and Swedish translations of memories, and object menu. If someone wants to add their language, that would be great but it's a lot of work so I don't expect it. You are welcome to share your translated versions directly if you wish, or you can send them to me for me to update files shared here :) If you want to learn how to translate the files directly, Episims has a great tutorial found here.

Examples of types of custom memories included - Extended family members memories (got cousin, got aunt/uncle, got sibling, got twin sibling, got great grandchild, got stepparent, got stepchild) - Birth related memories (pregnancy, becoming parent, late in life parent, had multiples birth, premature baby) - Marriage related memories (divorce, parental divorce, custody things, alimony) - Relationship related memories (fighting, breakups, additional love memories) - Woohoo related (memories for specific woohoo locations, repeatable generic woohoo/public woohoo) - University degree related (declared major memories, got a minor degree memories, got a major degree memories, for remembering having studied multiple things and being able to see what major your Sim chose without looking at their diploma) - Loan related, for remembering taking and paying off loans of different types - Moving memories (first apartment, child moves out, various memories for sims moving in with others) - Kids related (child's first day in school, got their own pet, nursery rhyme, giving up for adoption, living at orphanage)

Mods automating delivery of my CC memories (more to come) Learned nursery rhyme from - Found here, by me Wrote restaurant guide - Found here, part of jonasn "Novel Writing Improvements" mod

Credits: DiLight, @picknmixsims, @morepopcorn, @latmosims, @joplayingthesims, maxon, @keoni-chan. For detailed info on how they all impacted the creation of this, see readme :) Policy: Give credit to DiLight, beyond that, totally open. Enjoy!

[ssivinee]

✧Mirroring Bluebird✧

BEBE! Bada Lee x BEBE! F Reader : You are the younger sister of Noze and had gone viral at the same time as her. While working under SM, you meet Bada and become a core member of Bebe, but what if you get the same treatment your sister does, just like in the first season?

Word Count: 2.3k

Note: Basically doing my req for the next few days, lol. Reader goes by a stage name! Something light as of rn. Also very much not proof read.

Character Vision Board

Gaining popularity in the Kpop industry as a dancer was quite common. There were multiple examples, but one of the most viral ones to date was the Noh sisters, Noh Jihye and Noh Y/n.

Generally known as Noze and Nova, the two of you were cast by Kai while he was looking for dancers for his debut. Kai was certainly particular with the dancers he chose, being meticulous about the entire process but seemingly making the right decision for his career when the two of you blow up. How couldn’t the people fall in love with the two of you? Your visuals were practically the same.

As the younger sibling, the only noticeable difference was your height, hair color, eyes, and lips, yet if you took a selfie with your sister, there wouldn’t be much of a difference. You were known for your iconic hair, which was colored black with a hefty midnight blue ombre, and full lips that were usually colored in a dusty pink.  

During your time as Kai’s dancer, your sister began to stray away from SM entertainment, trying out for other artists, but you were content, staying put in the current company. That’s when Bada started appearing as Kai’s dancer during festival performances.

The very first time you and Bada crossed paths, an in-house choreographer was instructing her on how to perform a routine for the water bomb. During that encounter, you not only met Bada but you also got acquainted with Lusher and Tatter. You hit it off quite nicely with the trio, but you couldn't help but be captivated by the tall dancer. Her natural leadership qualities and the budding connections she formed with all three of you marked the start of your group, which would later be known to the world as Bebe.

After a year of being friends, you and Bada put on your big girl pants, deciding to act on these feelings. So, after dating for a few months, you two became a couple. 

It was pretty cute. At first, you'd post pictures of your charming little dates with the dancer in the background, yet her face was always out of the frame. As you softly launched your relationship to the world, people in your comments went into a frenzy, assuming you were dating a man because of the clothing glimpses they could catch.

As time went on, your posts started to take on a distinct resemblance to Bada's. The timing, the themes, and even the locations you both chose became remarkably similar, to the point where your fans couldn't help but connect the dots. That's when all hell broke loose, as the realization hit: two of the hottest dancers in the K-pop industry were, in fact, a couple.

Of course, they’d eat it up. 

Four months ago, Bada had accepted the invitation to Street Woman Fighter, but she had to complete the team first. Bebe only currently had you and the Lee duo and Tatter, so you and Bada took some of your friends and students to achieve a successful team. Minah was a dancer in SM who had been close to you and Bada for some time, so picking her was a breeze. Then Kyma and Cheche were Bada’s students, while Sowoen has been yours for the past year.

So when the time finally came when every group was introduced, while crews were still shocked over Jam Republic, they couldn’t help but be surprised at the two big names under Bebe.

“Bada?” Lady Bounce Biggy gasps, seeing the tall dancer and her resume. Then the screen flashes again, showing your face and work experience. Everyone is shocked; your pretty face is an unanticipated surprise. “Season 1 had Noze, and now we have Nova in season 2?” Cera of Mannequeen says, choking a little when seeing your face. “Aren’t her and Bada together?” Halo of Wolf’Lo asks, pointing accusingly at the screen as her team nods.

“Is that healthy for a relationship?” 

“Will they be able to compete properly?”

“Doesn’t seem like they’ll be taking the competition seriously then.”

Those were just a few comments the two of you got. Expecting that already, you walked in with your crew as you were the first to enter the fight zone. As you all entered, Sowoen was the first to hit the stage and saw your team logo on the screen. “Bebe~” The maknae squeals as you enter. You, hand in hand with Bada, smile at the youngest.

“Okay. Let’s take a seat,” Bada announces, and everyone sits, you positioning yourself between Bada and Tatter. “I can’t believe this,” Lusher tells the crew, and Tatter nods, “Me either.” “There must be other teams,” Lusher says as she scans the room, seeing everyone else's crew logo.

Bada hypes herself up, saying she likes it as her grip on your hand tightens. You smile, rubbing your thumb over her knuckles, but you hear “What It Is” by Doechii playing on the large monitor before you can speak. The younger girls send a yelp, seeing the crew's evaluation video playing.

“Who’s the most popular choreographer on that team? Bada?” they hear Mina Myoung say. Then 1Million shows up on the screen, Lia Kim saying a few words, “The choreographer, sweeping the choreography field. A hot choreographer,” the girls cheer their leader on at the soft praises as you lean your head on her shoulder, a proud smile beginning to form on your face after hearing all the recognition your girlfriend got. 

“Nova is really popular, too,” Yeni Cho points out, and Baby Sleek nods, acknowledging your skills. “She’s a really entertaining performer. An eye-catcher for sure.” Chocol states, and you redden at the statement, causing Bada to pinch your side. You look at her, offended by the action, but she gives you a fake look of irritation, “Try not to fall for anyone else here.” 

You giggle, seeing her pout a little, “You know you’re the only one for me, baby.” She smiles, leaning her head on top of yours as the video continues to roll. “Other than Bada and Nova… the others are just kind of there,” Capri says, and you shake your head as Bada scoffs, “Shall we watch it over there?”

She doesn’t even wait for a response, just pulling your arm to the center. When everyone follows, they listen to Ling of Jam Republic, Gooseul of DeepNDap, the rest of Lady Bounce, and some of Wolf’Lo stating things about Bada and your crew. 

Yeni Cho popped up on the screen again, “She’s more popular compared to her dance skills.” That makes Bada chuckle, finding the comment amusing. You knew your girlfriend wouldn’t be affected by the comments made about her. She would be by what was said about her crew, though.

Of course, you weren’t safe either. “She’s just a pretty face like her sister,” Yoonji of Mannequeen says, and the other girls nod. “She’s just gonna be another Noze of this season,” Redlic points out, more in an evident tone than a hateful one. 

“Her and Bada are gonna have to carry Bebe hard.”

“Nova’s Bebe’s mascot. She doesn’t have to do anything.”

You laugh at the comments, none affecting you in the way they're supposed to, but Bada, on the other hand, seems to be fuming. As much as you got praised, most of it was for your looks. You had told Bada beforehand not to let it get to her and just to expect it, but Bada couldn’t help but fume at the comments.

As you all sit down, you notice her face going red and squeeze her hand in reassurance, whispering to her, “It’s fine, babe. We just have to show them why they’re wrong.” 

“They must be idiots to think you aren’t a good dancer just because you're pretty,” she tells you, rolling her eyes. You softly turn Bada’s head with your fingers, “Calm down.” Bada sighs when making eye contact with you, her body relaxing as you all wait for the next team. “They really shouldn’t underestimate pretty faces,” She says with a hum as she fixes the strands of hair covering your face.

Lady Bounce then comes in, a bit too rowdy for Bebe’s liking, and as the purple team took their seats, your gazes never wavered. You and Bada stared hard, causing some girls to shiver, especially with the dark glint in your eyes. Bebe loved calling you a serpent because you are the scarier sister, and your tall height also added to the scary factor. Your eyes are as compelling as a snake's and always intimidate people who meet you. Lady Bounce's face going a bit indifferent at the dancer's glares.

Then Mannequeen comes down, Bada meeting Yoonji’s gaze. As they come down, the team stands in front of the two tall ladies, and the rest of Mannequeen hype the girl who dances the Rover choreo in pure silence. All you could hear was her dress and heels clacking as the young girls of Bebe giggle. Bada just smiles condescendingly and bows, “Thank you~.”

You kept the unamused look, brows almost furrowing in disgust as Yoonji stopped. You mumble, “What was that?” yet make sure she hears your words. Seeing her hesitant face told you that she heard it loud and clear. As everyone begins taking their seats, Kang Daniel comes out, gives the introduction, announces the judges, and goes to change as they’re told.

When returning to your seat, everyone’s eyes go wide at the sight of your pants. You had a row of stickers on one leg, back and front. “She got like 7 on one leg, right?” Kristen mumbles to Latrice, who nods after counting the stickers on her leg. “Damn, that's rough,” Audrey says, knowing none of those stickers weren’t from anyone on Jam Republic.

“I’ll prove them wrong,” You tell your entire team, who look obviously angry for you. “They targeted you, and for what?” Tatter frowns, and you just pat her head with a tight-lipped smile.

When the battles are announced, 1Million’s Redy is called first, and she picks Bada. You were aware of the situation before. Bada explained that she was beginning to get too busy then, and Redy had already blocked her number before she could reach out. The timing was wrong, but you also understood the younger girl’s perspective.

“I just don’t respect you,” Redy simply states, but when Bada calls the girl “Soobin-ah,” everyone feels the second-hand embarrassment of Redy. When the battles begin, Redy isn’t bad, and you feel like you saw similar aspects of Bada’s style, probably due to them being on the same team previously. When Bada began, though, all eyes were on her, and NO ONE looked away, not even for a second.

Bada entertained the crowd, making sure to have her own fun. As she ends the dance, she peaks at you, winking, making you laugh. She sure knew how to tease people, you included, and used it to her advantage. Sometimes, it made you wanna curse how attractive she was. The battle concluded with Bada winning 3 to 0, and she smiled. 

She runs over to you in a crushing hug, and you giggle due to her heavy breathing. “You did good,” she nods as your hands caress her long hair. More and more battles then transpired, and you pretty much only paid attention to a select few. That was until you hear Tsubakill’s Akanen being called up. “The person I have no-respect for is… Bebe’s Nova.” You perk up at your name, smiling at your first battle of the night.

“Akanen-san, why did you choose Nova?”

“To see if the pretty face can show a pretty dance,” her tone felt intrigued by the idea of you, and you smirked, “I can show a dance. It just won't be pretty,” all you heard were “Oo’s ~” and “ah’s~” from other teams as you jump a bit, shaking away any straying nerves. Akanen goes first, and you hated to admit it, but you were impressed. She did her best to taunt you despite your height gap, which made you look down on her. At some point, she approaches you and imitates a hitting motion. Bada, her girlfriend reflexes kicking in, pulled your arm back, trying to create space between you two, but you weren't budging.

So when the music switches, you feel yourself getting hyped at the sound of “Kiss Kiss” by Chris Brown. When the chorus hits, you hit an air baby, and when landing on your feet, you glided on the floor only using your knees. You ensured everyone’s eyes stayed on you, commanding the stage in a way every other crew wasn’t expecting.

As everyone hears ‘kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss,’ you imitate kissy faces while shaking your hip as you follow it with a head whip. Following the synth in the back, you hit a crisscross that goes into a heel-toe pattern, and as you hit that, you end the dance with a slight shuffle.

While you danced, you heard basically Minah, Sowoen, and Lusher could be heard cheering for you loudly. You check back behind you, Bada giving you a proud smile and a curt nod as her arms stay crossed. That’s when the judges also reveal your score of 3 and 0. Bebe jumped and cheered, bringing you into a large group hug as Bada stood back, watching the younger ones praise you. “Okay, okay, stop hogging her,” She tells them, pushing their heads away jokingly.

Bada pulls you into a hug, arms embracing your neck as she gives your head several pecks. You giggle at the feeling, and you just smile, slightly looking up at her. “You did amazing out there.”

“Thanks, leader-nim,” you tease, and she pokes your side, rolling her eyes and letting out a light laugh. “Oh, be quiet,” she says, giving you a quick peck to shut you up real quick.

Tag list (OPEN): @chipswsauce @nimixe @yooqui @eeeetaetterswife @efyyylee @froufrousnowman @amararosesblog @ssc7514 @kayascar @mrsdacherry @angel-hyuckie @letthemagicc @linda-botello @hyynee @only-minghaos @noraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa @sun-nyy @tikitsune @xiakiyama @v2br33zyy

[maxellminidisc]

I think people forget that punk didn't just get reduced to an aesthetic by the kids on tiktok or whatever. Like don't get me wrong I hope kids do learn about punk and its roots in homeless and working class youth and the music that basically is at the root of punk as a subculture, but like lol people act like kids today are to blame for that. Kids today are introduced to punk through an already preprocessed, hyper consumptive lense as a result of punk becoming an aesthetic via the fashion industry and corporate interest making it into a pop culture phenomenon for a profitable market that essentially ended up stripping it of its counter cultural or sub cultural nature.

Fashion industry is essentially what caused a great divide between punk's subcultural aesthetic with deep roots in poverty and resourcesfullness vs punk REDUCED to aesthetic with stereotypical hallmark pieces with more popularity amongst the general public as said aesthetic following its decline in media hype. What we know as iconic and quintessential punk looks and templates, like say the Vivienne Westwood tattered sweaters that Sid Vicious wore, her breast t shirt or anything in her and McLaren's famous shop SEX that was used by the most popular punk bands of the time etc were already highly curated, already expensive pieces actual kids in the punk scene could not afford. She is literally credited as commercializing punk lol

Theres a huge fashion culture of creativity and socio political history based entirely on these poor and homeless youths that has often been overshadowed if not just straight up forgotten as a result of how much attention and how much credit designers like Westwood have gotten as like pioneers and shapers of punk fashion and the culture itself which is like ludicrous if you think about it.

Not to mention so much of corporate interest in punk as a profitable music market ended up really dulling the teeth on a lot of artists music. There were still an edge of politics in it but I think there was so much refinement to a lot of the most popular bands that signed with labels that most punks started seeing that as selling out, and what sold out was what became pop culture and started being seen by people within the subculture as anything BUT subcultural.

[fruitsofbeingafraid]

rating forgetmenauts couples on ren faire cosplay ability

bigfoot and mothman- 4/10

now they may be ICONIC, but god this would be a pain. either you do it low effort and just look like a regular wedding or do it high effort and then melt bc summer is ren faire season and it will be hot. the slay value is off the charts though. maybe if they're on their honeymoon?

thomas the rhymer & his faerie queen- 9/10

Average Fairytale Man and beautiful ethereal faeire queen is such a dynamic and you wouldn't be too hard-pressed to do either of them! you could even spice it up and do hawker thomas! wouldn't stand out too much at all. 

helena and gerard-8/10

great and wonderful and beautiful. 1872 is SUCH a time period to be replicating the fashions of. absolutely gorgeous. vampires are inherently pretty too. however they have exactly Zero defining features other than vampire so have fun with that.

the rusalka and the shepherd girl- 10/10

this would go SO hard. shepherd girl-esque outfits and humanoid fantasy creatures are both ren fest staples and i am just reiterating how UNNECESSARILY HARD THIS WOULD GO. no complaints. perfect.

persephone and hades- 7/10

i mean. iconic. beautiful for sure. however as we have discussed, summer is ren fest season, and not being together during summer is kinda their whole thing. also they're maybe the least forgetmenauts-y couple on this list bc its a retelling.

the summer king and his husband- 9/10

breathtaking. the summer king music video is so gorgeously beautiful. -1 point because in said music video the summer king does not have legs. if you're a wheelchair user disregard that last segment its an 11/10 for you. 

gay werewolfs- 2/10

if you want to either wear fursuits or do the most low effort unrecognizable cosplay ever these are the fellows for you! they have even less defining features than helena and gerard, i don't even know how you would successfully cosplay them. 

charlatan in red & foxbride- 3/10

i would LOVE to see people's interpretations of the foxbride. however a ren fest is probably not the place for that. i also feel like perhaps drawings would be better than a human for portraying that. the phrase "charlatan in red" evokes a lot of ren fest vibes though so idk! 

zombie promgoers- 5/10

now this may not fully fit the theme of ren fest but i personally would love to do this. get that sunday best into rags and tatters and dirty yourself up. the outfits would be great and it definitely wouldn't be the weirdest things there.

tam lin & lover- 4/10

i may be unsure how you would successfully do this but that won't stop me from thinking its a good idea. another song that has a set time it takes place in that is not summer, not sure how i feel about that. if you went solo as tam lin's captor though????? 10/10gorgeous perfect etc.

james & lover from cottonwood- 1/10

have fun cosplaying High School Boy.

skeletons from interlace of bones- 0/10

theyre skeletons.?

[infini-tree]

i'm throwing my hat in the ring, but i also wanted to make it look a little like nico marlet's style because i wanted to.

design notes under the cut:

inspired by the edits to give zhen face markings based on her wanted poster, i added more of those ink-like embellishments to the rest of her. this worked out since i was looking at the nico marlet concept art for an unused fox civilian and how he outlined the edges of the ears with a thick dark border to give those ears a sense of dimensionality. sure that civilian was a red fox but i like it so she gets it. ink is kind of fluid, like thieves.

her robes are tattered to give a slight illusion of multiple tails and the huli jing.

sure, corsac foxes don't have notable markings, but frankly? kfp has fudged the accuracy if it makes for a more compelling design.

the chameleon was fine for the most part. i just made her more like a chameleon. i gave her the iconic eyes and made the crest larger. i noticed she had these... metal thingies behind her crest, and it was cooler than the orbs that actually was on the back half of her crest, so i replaced it. the metal thingies also show up on her shoulder plates to repeat the motif. besides, the sharper metal shapes fits in better with her natural spikes in her brow.

[builtbybrokenbells]

Melodic Memories | Track 5: If You Gotta Go, Go Now - Bob Dylan

In a tattered old box shoved deep down in the corner of an overfilled closet, a lifetimes worth of memories lie dormant at the bottom waiting to be rediscovered.

Masterlist

Pairing: Jake Kiszka x f!reader

Word Count: 11k

Warnings: angst, crying, heartbreak, high school breakups, estranged parent/strained parental relationship, depression, high school drama, anxiety, mentions of drinking, drinking, mentions of hookups/one night stands, unrequited love, very brief mention of suicidal thoughts/ideation, PTSD mentions/explanations of reactions and behaviours due to PTSD, mentions of addiction/drugs, smoking, swearing, best friend fluff, sorry if i miss any!

Hi everyone!! Sorry this took so long—took a much needed break from life for a few days. Finally had some time to write this weekend. I hope you guys like it!! 🤍 as always, be kind, enjoy, and don’t mind any grammar mistakes!

Also a special shout-out to @gretavangroupie and @gretavanmoon for always keeping me on track, putting up with my craziness, and for the unwavering support and encouragement 🤍 melodic memories wouldn’t be what it is without you 😌

Her POV

“Listen to me, baby

There’s something you must see

I want to be with you, gal

If you want to be with me.”

“Jake, please turn that off. I can’t stand it.” You laughed, covering your ears as you tried your best to disappear under the pile of blankets on his bed.

“What?” Jake asked, freezing in place as the words reached his ears. Slowly, he turned from the record player sitting atop his desk, his eyes landing on you with an unfamiliar expression on his face. “Did you really just say that?” His voice was low, challenging you to see if you would say it again, or if he misheard completely.

“Yes.” You groaned, pushing your head further back into the fluffy pillow as you tried your best to avoid his gaze. “I’m sorry, I love you, but I can’t stand Bob Dylan.” You stood your ground, knowing it would cut deep but unable to hide it any longer.

“Are you insane?” Jake’s eyes were wide, his mouth agape with shock as he processed your unruly confession. “How can you not love Dylan? Are you deaf?”

“No, but right now I wish I was.” You mumbled, tuning out the grating harmonica echoing through the room. The crackling of the needle in the groove paired with the irritating pitch of the instrument was making your head ache, and even if you loved him more than anything, you didn’t love him enough to suffer through another song.

“Y/N, I-I… I can’t believe you.” He laughed, his tone airy and uncomfortable as he cranked the volume knob down a little bit. “Sunshine, he’s one of the greats—a literary genius, a folk-rock icon, a fuckin’ mastermind. How can you even say that?”

“I dunno, guess it just isn’t for me. Never really liked him.”

“You’re breaking my heart, baby.” His lips turned down into a frown, his eyes glancing at the vinyl record spinning as he debated turning it off. “You know what? No, I won’t take that as an answer.” He shook his head, turning the knob up again so the sound of the harmonica could be heard clearly again.

“Jake.” You groaned, wishing he would heed your request to change the record. He restarted the song, a hand on his hip as he observed the needle glide over a divot in the old vinyl. Then, after a particularly intense scratching sound, the song started from the beginning again.

As the lyrics began, he started to hum along, ploppping down on the bed beside you. His company made the song a touch more bearable, and staring at his face made it easier to ignore the noise he was trying to pass off as music.

“Seriously, sunshine? None of it?” He asked, still trying to wrap his head around your dislike for the musician.

“It just isn’t for me. Is that a crime?” You giggled, finding his overbearing approach entertaining.

“Usually no, but in this case, absolutely.” He laughed. “Only thing worse than that is if you said you hated B.B. King… or Hendrix, maybe.”

“Okay, well I don’t hate B.B. King, or Hendrix. You can’t let this one slide?” You grinned, shimmying down on the bed to be closer to him. He almost gave in to the temptation, forgetting the topic at hand momentarily as he reached out to brush the hair from your face. Then, he snapped out of the lovestruck trance and remembered why he was sitting next to you in the first place.

“If I let this slide, what’s next? You’ll tell me you hate rock, or blues, or worse, music all together?” He raised an eyebrow, clearly teasing but still very petty over your dislike of the artist.

“Okay, bug, you’re being ridiculous.” You rolled your eyes, reaching for his hand and lacing your fingers with his in another attempt to distract him.

“I’m being ridiculous?” He repeated your words, his tone accusatory yet still playful. “Are you even listening to yourself?”

“Okay, I get it. Dylan is great and I’m crazy. Is that what you want to hear?” You leaned forward, your hand connecting with his bicep as you gave him a gentle shove. He barely moved from his position, his brown eyes sparkling as he looked over your face.

“No, that’s not what I want to hear, because I know you’re lying.” He said, his thumb drifting over the back of your hand. “What about I Shall Be Released? That’s a great song by him.” Your cheeks tinted red in embarrassment as you averted your gaze.

“Don’t think I’ve heard it.” You whispered, unsure how he would take it.

“Okay…” he hummed, raising his free hand to his chin, running his fingers over his skin as he thought. “No, that’s good. I can show it to you, and you’ll like it.” He deducted. “Like a Rolling Stone?”

“That one’s okay.” You emphasized the word, ensuring he understood it was bearable, not enjoyable to you.

“Tangled Up In Blue?” He tried again, met with another blank stare as he listed off a song you didn’t know. He let out a huff, nodding as he made a mental note to show you that one, too. “Alright, then. Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door?”

“Yeah, but I’d much rather listen to the Guns n’—“

“No, I’m going to stop you there.” Jake cut you off, forcing a smile on his lips. “Not sure I want to hear the rest of that.” A silence fell upon the two of you, leaving him to ponder all of the information you had given him. After a while, your stomach was twisted in a knot, worried you’d driven a stake between you because of a simple dislike of the artist.

“So, what now? I don’t like Dylan, which is clearly troubling for you. Is that it for us?” You were joking, even if there was a slight hint of genuine concern behind your question. He looked at you, appalled that you would even suggest such a thing.

“Are you crazy, woman? F’course not.” He replied, a frown tugging at his lips just from the thought alone.

“Been called that once or twice… few times today, actually.” You grinned, easing the tension between you.

“I’d never break up with you over that, sunshine.” All of the humor in his tone disappeared, assuring you that leaving was not something that ever crossed his mind. “But, I won’t quit until you’re a fan. Lots of opportunities here, babe. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be his biggest fan.” You rolled your eyes ever so slightly, but nodded along with his words, knowing he would try even if you objected. Arguably, the worst thought was not hours of listening to Bob Dylan, but the idea of him ever being ‘done’ with you, in any sense of the word.

“Y/N, that is enough.” Mel snipped, rushing into your bedroom with a cloud of dust trailing behind her. In two quick strides, she was beside you, reaching over you to smash the pause button on the CD player. “It’s been three days—I’m done watching you cry, I’m done sitting in silence, and I’m done listening to this fucking Bob Dylan song.” As much as she cared for you, everyone had a breaking point, and she was undoubtedly long past hers. If you were less miserable, you would have recognized how insufferable your actions were, but you were too busy drowning in tears to care about how anyone else felt. “I’m one more bottle of wine away from an intervention, and I’m sure that’s the last thing you want right now.”

“God, why can’t you just let me suffer in peace?” You groaned, burying your aching head in your knees as you sunk further into the leather desk chair.

“I’ve been letting you suffer, dumbass.” She reminded you, plopping down on the edge of your bed. “But I’d hardly call it peaceful.” She continued, placing her hand on the arm of the chair and spinning you to face her. “You’re a mess. You’ve been drunk since two, you haven’t eaten, you’ve barely slept, and you look like shit.”

“Thanks for the words of encouragement.” You muttered, reaching for the wine bottle on your desk to finish off the last of the strawberry flavored heartbreak medication. Before you could place the bottle to your lips, Mel snatched it from your hands and placed it on the floor just out of reach.

“You smell like a distillery. Think you’ve had enough.” She chirped, her expression stern and her voice curt. You scoffed a reply, irritated at the world as you reached over to press play so you could listen to the same harmonica melody that had become an anthem of your sorrow once again. “Stop.” She pulled your chair a little closer to her so you couldn’t reach the desk. “I love you, but I cannot listen to that song again. I can’t fucking stand Bob Dylan.”

“What?” You hissed, whipping your head in her direction. Finally, an emotion other than sadness plagued you; instead, you were filled with anger that she could say such a thing. “Bob Dylan is a great musician, one who wrote absolute masterpieces. Watch what you fuckin’ say.” A slight slur followed your words, making you realize you were much more intoxicated than you previously believed.

You weren’t sure if you actually grew to like Bob Dylan and his music, or if the fondness happened because of the boy who was so adamant about changing your mind on the matter.

“God, you’re impossible.” She seethed, frustrated with your behavior and even more upset that she couldn’t break through the wall you built up.

Mel had spent years perfecting the craft of being your best friend; you were a confusing, closed off vessel of constant anxiety. You hated talking about your feelings, unless it was over a mixed drink or a shared blunt, and you were your own worst enemy. You second-guessed every decision, talked yourself down from taking leaps that would better you in exchange for mundane familiarity, and you loved routine. Despite that, you loved deeply and with a fervor not many could understand, which ultimately always seemed to leave you with a broken heart when nobody could match the same energy.

In six years, she climbed mountains not many would ever venture. She memorized your quirks and habits, just the same as you had done for her. More than anything, she put it to good use and learned how to help when you couldn’t find it within you to help yourself. Every wall you built up, every deflection and every distraction was never a match for her counterpoints, and she had never faced a situation where she felt helpless.

Never, until three days ago, when you returned from your date with Jake Kiszka more heartbroken and miserable than ever before.

In six years, she learned everything she could about you, but she never understood why. Once she stepped foot in Michigan, learning about a life you’d sworn to keep a secret forever, it all began to make sense.

Days before she met you, you faced the biggest obstacle of your entire life, and you left your heart in the back pocket of someone you never expected to see again. You didn’t talk about your problems because you knew they could never amount to the struggle of leaving Jake, and because you got through that on your own, you believed you could do everything by yourself. Not only that, but you kept your feelings locked up in fear all of it would come out, including those in which you swore to never speak aloud. You closed yourself off from everything because you couldn’t bear the thought of getting hurt like that again, and routine was favored over risk-taking because your last risky decision left you near death and you never fully recovered.

Though, no matter how hard you tried, you could never love less than what you were programmed for, and it was biting you in the ass as you sat and forced yourself to listen to a song you couldn’t bear to hear again.

When you stormed through the front door, twenty bucks down from the cab ride and suffocating on your own misery, you had intent to tend to your wounds silently, to slap a band-aid over the largest injury you’d ever sustained and move on as if it never happened at all. You’d done it once before, and you trusted in yourself to do it again, but six years of suffering in silence had taken its toll and you were beginning to crack under the weight of your mistakes.

Difference was, this time, there was someone there to catch you before the fall, someone who was committed to your wellbeing and a voice of reason you never had before.

At first, Mel took a step back, understanding that whatever happened wasn’t good, and you needed time to process it before you spoke of it. If not, you would explode, and neither of you wanted to clean up that mess. So she did; she sat by and watched you nurse a bottle of wine as you listened to the mixtape that started (and ended?) it all, waiting until you had enough courage to speak. When you dozed off for an hour or two of broken sleep in the desk chair you drank yourself to oblivion in, you woke up and started all over again.

The next day, she thought that maybe you would have come to terms with it enough to at least tell her something, but she received nothing. Well, nothing except for the same Dylan song played on loop and a few more empty bottles of strawberry wine you’d silently left the house to buy. When you refused dinner, she started to really worry, and when you neglected to sleep for a second night in a row, she began to stress. In the early morning, she started to gently coax you into telling her what happened, which was met with a blank stare and a rude hand gesture. Before noon, she pried a little further, to no avail. At lunchtime, she was frustrated, and now after dinner, she was long past the point of no return.

Coddling you clearly wasn’t an option you were open to, so instead she settled on tough love, which would either break through to you or ruin your friendship entirely.

She was distraught enough to take the risk, and loved you enough to work through the consequences.

“Tell me what happened, or I’ll call him and ask him myself.” Mel warned, unrelenting as she continued to try and force the truth from you.

“Don’t you dare.” You warned, tears pooling your eyes at the simple thought of someone speaking to Jake, someone who was not you. “Just let it go, Mel. It’s over—don’t have to talk about it, don’t have to think about it. It’s over.” You repeated the word, feeling a separate stab in your chest each time the word passed through your lips.

After everything the two of you went through, how could it just be over? How could the time still not be right?

“No, you don’t have to talk about it, but clearly you’re thinking about it.” She countered, her lips pursed as they dipped down into a frown. “And you won’t stop thinking about it unless you talk about it.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” You grumbled, feeling the pressure behind your eyes increase tenfold as you spoke. Your throat was dry, scratchy despite the constant flow of liquid into your mouth. You were dehydrated, the effects in full force as your eyes throbbed and your stomach twisted with nausea. You were a mess, and you weren’t sure how to clean yourself up this time. “After all the pain, after all of the hope and the luck, it meant fucking nothing. I guess it just isn’t meant for us, and I have to get over it.”

“What happened, Y/N?” Mel pried, wondering what could have caused the state you were in, especially after spending all night with him.

“What happened?” You scoffed, a sour taste in your mouth from her words. “What happened was that I spent six years dedicated to moving on, to forgetting and letting go, to heal from the worst pain I’ve ever experienced. I spent weeks thinking it was luck, that the stars alligned perfectly for us to end up together again, but I was fucking stupid. I let you convince me to open myself up again, and I got hurt worse than I did the first time.” You spat, vindictive and angry at her despite it being nobody’s fault but your own.

“Woah,” Mel straightened up, defensive and ready to correct you on the matter. “Whatever happened, is not my fault. You can be sad, or angry, or whatever the hell you are, but you cannot blame it on me.” The two of you shared another bout of silence, fuming with stony expressions as you awaited the other's next move. “Are you going to be an adult, or do you want to keep acting like a baby? Completely up to you.”

“You wouldn’t get it, anyway.” You brushed her off, turning to face the CD player as you resumed the music once more. She let out a huff of annoyance, knowing she was bluffing as she sat and listened to the intro of the same song for the millionth time, refusing to leave until you gave her something other than blame.

“What, did he end it? Not what he wanted after all?” In a lapse of judgment and slightly hurt feelings, she retaliated with something that would bruise your already aching heart even further. Deep down, she understood Jake was not the one who put the relationship on pause, and she knew you well enough to recognize the guilt embedded in your tired features. You ended it, and you swore yourself to silence so you could beat yourself up over it.

“Oh, fuck you.” You shot back, slinking further down into your seat as tears stung your eyes. “You really think I’d be this upset if I knew he was okay? You think I’d be this miserable if he was happy?”

There it was; the admission of truth she’d been so patiently waiting for. With that, she had more ground to stand on, this time without a fear of falling.

“Why’d you leave, babe?” Her voice was softer, but still erring on the side of caution and defense.

“What else was I supposed to do?!” You exploded, the gates crashing open as the flood of emotion you’d been guarding so hard finally escaped you. “Leaving is the only way I can make sure he won’t throw away everything he’s worked so hard for! He can’t be what he wants if I'm there—or here, holding him back!”

“Okay,” Mel whispered, reaching out and placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “Start from the beginning.” She continued, utilizing the briefest moment of time you allowed yourself to be vulnerable to get the full story from you.

You let out an exasperated huff, feeling sick from what you tried to pin on the liquor whilst knowing that it had everything to do with your broken heart. She was your person, just trying her best to help while you did all you could to be miserable and impossible to be around, and you knew that you needn’t be so cruel towards her. Even so, the hurt that only ever seemed to grow larger made you want to be cruel to everyone and everything, convincing you that you could never be happy or feel good again. Projecting it outwards was your best way of showing how you felt on the inside, especially when words seemed impossible to come by.

You felt like you were drowning, whether it be from your tears, your sorrow, or the excessive alcohol consumption, you did not know. What you did know was that everything hurt, every breath, every blink, and every single beat of your heart led you to believe it would be your last, yet you somehow persevered through the process another time, wondering if it would be easier to give in to the pain and let it all go.

You did all you could to protect yourself, keeping your distance for so long because you knew how it ended, yet you fell into the same situation you faced when you were barely eighteen and still naive. You were listening to living proof of your greatest heartbreak—hell, it was the very thing to convince you to take another chance along with the woman sitting across from you. Why did you ever think that it could be different, that it could be so easy, that you deserved anything Jake could give you?

You were so angry, so cynical that it was making your head spin, and you couldn’t get any of it to make sense. In lieu of a better option, you swallowed your pride and prepared yourself to confess to your mistakes. Even if it was the last thing you wanted to do, it was better than letting the pain get the best of you. Six years ago, you survived it on your own, but it had left you completely depleted of any kind of energy, and you knew you could not do it a second time.

“It was perfect. Everything he did, everything he said, everything he planned. It was like he fit three whole years of dating into one night—or at least the best parts of it, I guess.” Your tone was weaker than before, more defeated as you let the misery seep through the walls of defense you’d built so high. “Got dinner at the same spot we had our first date, ate in the park where he asked me to be his girlfriend, went to the bar we snuck into on one of our last nights together. He played our song on the jukebox, and we went back to his hotel. It was perfect, Mel. So perfect that I think it scared me.”

“Why did it scare you?” She softened up too, less intense now that you were cooperating. She had a wicked need for control, a wicked desire to help, and it made the two of you bump heads sometimes, especially with your abrasive nature.

“When he was far away, it was so easy to pretend that this was all lighthearted, that it was as simple as old high school sweethearts rekindling, just to see where we were at in life. It was easier to swallow back those feelings, to pretend he didn’t mean that much to me anymore. When I saw him, there was no more pretending, and when he did all of his sweet little gestures, it was harder to ignore the fact that he felt the same way I did.” You explained, low and slow as you turned down the volume knob so she could hear you better. With every word you spoke, your eyes brimmed with tears threatening to spill onto your cheeks. “For a while, I lived in this bubble of happiness that nothing could touch. Six years of misery finally ended, and I was okay again, I could breathe again, without the weight of the entire fucking world sitting on my shoulders.”

“What popped your bubble?” Mel asked, growing more comfortable with the conversation as she kicked her legs up on the bed and leaned against the wall behind her. You couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle at her words, knowing nothing was funny but still able to find humor in the childlike question.

“Reality.” You responded, your lips dipping into a frown. “Nothing changed, Mel. The reasons we broke up are still just as prevalent, and I was so high on his company that I almost forgot all about it.” She was quiet for a moment, taking in your half-told story as she waited for you to continue, but you didn’t. You felt as though your point was clearly across despite never actually getting into it.

“What popped your bubble, Y/N?” She repeated, her eyes trained to your face as she pressed a little further. You swallowed hard, knowing that what you did was wrong and unwilling to divulge into it. Eventually, her stare became impossible to ignore, and she silently forced your hand on the matter.

“I went through his phone.” You rushed out, your eyes closing as the last syllable left your lips, knowing you were bound to be chastised because of your invasion of privacy.

“Nosy, much?” She raised an eyebrow, a small smirk on her lips. You expected much worse—no, you wanted much worse. You wanted someone to hold you accountable, to be as angry at yourself as you were, because what you did was wrong.

“Am I crazy for wanting you to yell at me?” You asked, leaning your head back on the chair in defeat.

“No.” She shook her head, giving the honest answer. “You know it was wrong, but you’re beating yourself up enough for the both of us. I don’t need to make it any worse.”

“I guess I didn’t really snoop, per se.” You felt a small smile cross your face, the only joyous expression you’d adorned since leaving Jake’s hotel room. “I looked through his notifications. I didn’t go through all his texts, or anything.” You defended yourself, less so because you were trying to justify your behavior and more so she knew what really happened.

“Clearly you found something. Does he have a secret family, or whatever?” She was trying her best to sound disinterested, but you knew she was itching for an answer.

Leaving Mel in silence for three days was equal to torture, and you feared she genuinely might go crazy if she was left in the dark for any longer. Mel was overbearing, annoyingly so at times, but it was always with the best intentions. She was your person, even if you tried to fight it, and she was the only one in the whole world that could help. Whether you were open to her advice or not, she always had at least a single good idea to give. If not an idea, then always some food for thought.

“I wish.” You gave a solemn smile. “I think if I hated him, it would be so much easier to get over him.”

“So what is it?”

“Exactly what I thought he would do six years ago; dropped his entire life for me. Moved meetings, rescheduled photoshoots, canceled interviews… completely neglected every responsibility just to drive to Michigan to take me on a date. Then I saw a weird but not super incriminating message from a girl named Amelie.” You pronounced her name with a poor French accent, a bitter taste on your tongue at the thought of her meaning anything at all to Jake.

“Okay.” Mel breathed, giving a curt nod. “Let’s start with the easy part. This Amelie… you said Jake’s not the type, so what do you think it is?”

“Sounds like a beautiful French woman he met on tour that I can’t begin to compare to.” You grumbled, swallowing back a lump in your throat as you confessed to the fear.

But Jake’s not like that.

He had never been the type to entertain two women at once—he had never been one to lie.

Why would he say all of those things, the romantic and emotional tellings of his heart that were all directed at you, if he did not mean them in the truest and most genuine ways?

Why would he wait six years just to break your heart?

“Right,” Mel hummed, not agreeing with your statement but instead trying to gauge whether you were ready for her input or not. Your eyes flickered to her, silently telling her you needed her input, that you needed her to confirm you were crazy for believing so. “Want to hear what I think?”

‘Yes, please. God yes, tell me I’m wrong.’ You thought to yourself, your lips staying shut as your eyes continued to bore into her. Behind the rigid exterior, she could see it—she could feel your desperation for help.

“You’re going to tell me anyway, so why not?” God, what was wrong with you? Why had you always taken the defense, never letting yourself show too much and never giving up on your own stubbornness? Why couldn’t you just be truthful, tell her you needed her and you couldn’t do this on your own?

“I think Amelie was the excuse you were waiting for.” She said, her voice quiet as she treaded carefully. Never faltering in your physical form, you felt everything inside of you spiral into one, horrible pit of despair. “You don’t think Jake is fucking her, and you don’t think he’s in a relationship. You just wanted an excuse to run, to feel justified in leaving.”

You wanted her to tell you that you were wrong, but now you were pissed off because she called you out. More than that, you were pissed off because she was right.

“So what?” You snapped, your gaze falling back to your hands crossed on your lap. “Even if that’s the case, it doesn’t change the rest of it.”

“It does, though.” She corrected, already privy to your innermost struggles. “You’re scared to have that conversation, to tell him how much it hurt the first time. You’re scared to open up, and you’re scared of hurting him. You don’t want to go through the same thing all over again, so you think that by walking away, you’re avoiding it.” She explained. “Amelie was your excuse to run before you had to tell him all of that.”

“Stop that.” You recoiled at her statement, choking on the words she was shoving into your mouth.

“Jesus Christ, Y/N. Open your eyes.” She implored you to digest the information rather than throw it away.

“Get out of my head!” You argued, angry not because she was missing the mark, but rather because she seemed to pluck the thoughts straight from your head and put them on display for everyone to see. “I hate it when you do that! You trick me into talking just so you can solve it all for me.”

“If I didn’t, who the hell would?” She snapped back, her eyebrows furrowed as she navigated your rebuttal. “You?”

Silence hovered over you again, uncomfortable and thick as it weighed you down. Breathing was hard, the strength of her stare mixed with the heaviness of your sadness combining into one, lethal force.

Of course you wouldn’t fix it; you weren’t a fixer—you were an ignore-er. It was your best trait, the only reason you’d survived the bulk of your life’s misery. You would shove it so far down that you would forget it existed, then carry on as if it never happened at all.

“He didn’t drop everything to go on some pathetic little date with you. He didn’t abandon responsibilities for a meaningless one night stand. He rearranged his schedule to find time to rekindle the relationship with the love of his life—with you. Those are two drastically different things, and you need to get your head out of your ass. He waited six years, Y/N. Six years for you to come back, six years of hoping and praying that you would change your mind. I know you like to be right, that you think you get to call all of the shots because you think you know what’s best for everyone, but you don’t get to decide this. You don’t get to make decisions for him.”

“I’m not making decisions for him—I’m making decisions for me, for what’s best for both of us.” Your argument was weak, and you knew she had you beat, but you never went down without a fight.

“If that was true, you think maybe you would be happy? Or at least okay?” She forced you to think about it again, to reconsider your thoughts and look inwards from a new perspective. She was right; if it were for the best, you wouldn’t be so miserable. Worse still, he wouldn’t be miserable, and you knew he was. The pile of unanswered texts told you he was anything but happy with your choice. “Was he happy when you left? Did he want this, too?”

“No, he didn’t.” You swallowed hard, your head throbbing as you thought back to his pain stricken face. Reliving the moments before you left, both times, was agonizing, yet they seemed to be the only memories you could think of as of recent.

“See?” She leaned forward on the bed, forcing you to look at her. “You know I’m right.”

“I just… fuck, Mel! I don’t know where I’m going, I don’t know what I’m doing. I thought I had my life figured out, but I never did. I don’t have a job, I don’t have a place to live yet. I can’t subject him to that. I can’t force him to put up with all of this. It’s better if we’re friends, at least while I get everything figured out, but it’s not as easy as you say it is.”

“Do you love him?” She asked, ignoring every point you made. You caught her gaze, your stomach twisting with anxiety as the word echoed through the room. It bounced against every corner of your skull, furthering the migraine and making your palms break out into a sweat.

“Yes.” Finally, you breathed the response, relieved to finally confess it to her. “I love him more than anything else in the world. I always have. I never stopped.”

“Then nothing else matters.” She hummed, the sweet tone easing the ache in your chest. Damn her for always knowing what to say, and damn her for always making you feel better. Most of all, damn her for not being able to mind her own business. “I’ve never seen you so happy. Nobody else has ever made you feel like that, not since I’ve known you, and I’m sure even way before that. If you still feel this way after so long, it means something, Y/N. Don’t throw it away because you’re scared. If he loves you like this too, you can make anything work.”

“I’ve only ever wanted what’s best for him, Mel. Want to see him happy, see him succeed, and I can’t get over the thought of me being the reason he doesn’t.” You confessed, your mouth dry as the truth scratched your throat raw. “That’s why I left the first time. That’s why I left this time. Our lives aren’t that different than they were back then, and the reasons we broke up are still very much alive.”

“You’re not the same, and neither is he. Stop thinking you’re still eighteen and stupid. You’ve grown up, you’ve lived life without him, and you came back. No matter how pressing those reasons were, clearly they weren’t strong enough to keep you away for good.”

“I hate you, you know.” You muttered, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“No, you don’t.” She chuckled. “You hate being wrong.”

“I’m not wrong.” You huffed, still believing your reasoning was correct.

“You sure as hell ain’t right.” Mel laughed, the sound uplifting and refreshing compared to the misery you had been stuck in. “Try, Y/N. Said it before, and I’ll say it again. You’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t. If, in the end, I turn out to be wrong, we’ll take it as it comes, but you don’t know that’s how it’ll end. You can’t live your life always wishing you ended up with someone you wouldn’t let yourself have.”

Instead of responding, you reached out, pausing the Dylan song amidst a particularly intense bout of harmonica. In an instant, your blinding headache eased and your sick stomach rumbled with hunger. In a moment of clarity, you finally let yourself feel what you’d been holding back for so long; the largest, most pressing issue of the entire ordeal.

“I fucking hate Bob Dylan.” It felt like a million pounds were lifted off your chest as the words passed over your tongue.

“Thank god.” Mel fell backwards onto the mattress, utterly exhausted from pretending to tolerate the song.

Funny how missing Jake blinded you enough to believe you enjoyed it, like it was your last, desperate attempt at feeling close to him. You didn’t need to pretend, and you didn’t need to look at things from the same perspective all of the time. Life wasn’t black and white—it was a million different colors all at once, some so beautiful you couldn’t even begin to comprehend them. You could hate Bob Dylan and still love Jake the same, just the same as you could feel close to him without clinging to the time-worn memory of him. You didn’t have to view everything through a single lense, because sometimes things had to be looked at differently every time you encountered them.

You and Jake, were in fact, something that needed to be taken from every different angle possible. The twists and turns you took to get where you were, the surplus of emotion and the lack of action, the abundance of love despite there being no reason for it could not be justified from one single point or train of thought. You were everything all at once, and after six years and a damned mixtape later, you weren’t destined to end the same way all over again.

There had to be something else for you—it had to be different. After all this time, your commitment to his heart had to be worth it, rather than a painful bump in the road to remind you and make you relive your worst failures.

You were confused, nervous, and frustrated. You wanted it to make sense, for the answer to splay itself in front of you, so obvious you would trip over it and become one with it, but you knew it could never be so easy. You had to force yourself to learn how to take a step back, to stop being so close to a situation that it skewed your perception of what was in front of you. You needed to learn how to see it from Mel’s eyes, and most importantly, Jake’s.

You didn’t know anything, nor how to do it, but the fire under your ass was forcing you to figure it out. You couldn’t live the rest of your life this miserable, and you knew misery was the only thing in store for you if you forced yourself away from Jake.

Facts made sense to you, so you had to look at it logically; you had to learn, to understand, which had always been your favorite thing to do.

It wouldn’t be that hard, right?

You hoped not, because feeling so out of touch with reality was ruining you, and not knowing was killing you. No matter how hard it was, you had to do it, you had to know for certain.

Though, no matter what you did, you were certain one thing would always remain true; you would never, not in a million years, grow to love Bob Dylan, even if the man you loved most was his biggest fan.

And now that the song had finally come to a long overdue halt, Ozz found it within himself to join the two of you in your bedroom, free to keep you company amidst your sadness without being scared off by the high pitched harmonica on loop.

Jake’s POV

“God, you are a fuckin’ mess.” Your hotel door swung open, a voice ringing through the empty air after a brief moment of calm. You closed your eyes, not responding to the noise in hopes he would take the hint and walk away. For the first time ever, not even Josh could make the hurt ease. For the first time ever, you believed he had no advice to give you.

The whole world was burning, but you were so caught up in it that not even a hand to hold could reassure you, and he could not talk you through it.

If anything, you feared talking would only make it burn so much worse.

“Jesus, Jacob. Have you even gotten out of bed yet?” He was by your bedside, peering down at you with a mix of concern and disgust on his face. You were shirtless, the sheets strewn messily across your lower half as you prayed for the mattress to open up and swallow you whole. “Hello?” Josh spoke again, his lips decorated with a frown as he awaited a response.

“Fuck, what do you want?” You groaned, running a hand over your face. You wished he would take the hint, but you felt ridiculous for even thinking he might. In your long lifetime spent with him by your side, you noticed that Josh had never once acknowledged a hint, let alone taken one.

“I don’t know, maybe a ‘hello’? That would be a good start. Or, better yet, an explanation as to why I haven’t heard or seen you since I was here yesterday, when you were in the same position?” He had a hand on his hip, his stare accusatory as he refused to back down.

“Never should have given you that damn spare key.” You grumbled, pushing your messy hair away from your face. Your eyes were burning, puffy from crying, and even if he could clearly see the state you were in, you would never admit it to him.

“Well, you did, so get the fuck over it and tell me what your issue is.” He brushed off your snide comment, sitting next to you in the bed despite his lack of invitation. “Been three days, brother. Something happened—just waiting for you to tell me what.”

“Do you know how to mind your own business, or is that completely lost on you?” You huffed, still tipsy off the whiskey bottle you nursed to completion the night before.

“If you haven’t noticed, you are my business, asshole.” He snipped back, unscathed from your harsh words. He knew you, and all too well; this behaviour was nothing new, and even he knew what it was about, but he wanted to hear it from you instead of assuming. “I’ve only ever seen you like this once before. Trouble in paradise… again?”

“Do you have to try and be so condescending, or does that come naturally?” Your eyes shot open, more energy coursing through you now as you made a move to sit upright. As you did, your head throbbed from the grievous hangover, but you pushed it to the side as you focused on your irritation with Josh.

“Sorry I’m late—lost my fuckin’ key. Went to find Daniel for the spare, and he lost that one, too! Go figure…” Sam joined the crowd, ranting about his days minor inconvenience as he kicked the door shut behind him. He didn’t seem to notice the disarray you found yourself in, nor was he able to read the emotion hanging heavily in the room.

“You really outdid yourself, Josh.” You rolled your eyes, half tempted to roll out of bed and dress yourself just so you could run away from the awkward encounter. “What is this, a brotherly intervention?”

“I wouldn’t say it’s an intervention,” Josh shot you down, tapping his fingers against his khaki-clad leg. “More like a concerned conversation?” He offered an alternative, trying to explain himself before you jumped to conclusions.

“You said intervention in the text.” Sam countered, confused and adding little to Josh’s efforts. You raised a hand, motioning to Sam as you turned your head towards your twin. With a raised eyebrow, you waited for the confirmation you wanted, even if all it would do was drive you further away.

“Sam—ugh, you know what? Fine. Intervention, as the two of you would have it.” Josh threw his arms up, shooting the youngest of the group a glare.

“Right.” You muttered, throwing the sheets off of you and straightening the band of your sweatpants as you climbed out of bed. Your joints ached from days of lazing in the same position and your eyes hurt as you faced the sunlight pooling in through the sheer curtains. “Good thing I don’t need an intervention. In fact, don’t need anything. I’m fine.” You slipped a shirt over your head, stepping towards the door with hopes of escaping the burgeoning intensity of their stares. “‘Preciate the concern, but you’re wasting your energy.”

Josh sent a pointed look at Sam, silently commanding him to step in front of the door before you could leave. This time, he understood the hidden message that Josh was desperately trying to convey, and he took a step backwards to block the exit. You let out a huff of frustration, closing your eyes as you raised your thumb and middle finger to your temples, gently massaging away the migraine the two were causing.

“Sam, please.” You breathed, wasting little effort in speaking as you tried to focus it all on standing upright. You could smell the alcohol on you, seeping through your pores as your liver tried to recover from the previous night's binge. You were a mess, and they were right, but you did not want to talk about it.

“Sorry, brother.” Sam shrugged, leaning back against the wood grain as he shot you a sympathetic smile.

“So what, we’re leaving Daniel out of this? Pretty poor intervention if you ask me, ‘specially if the panel is ran by two idiots.” You felt your fuse reach the end, your temper getting the best of you as the frustration pulsed underneath your skin and behind your eyes.

“Jake, man, I love you.” Sam reasoned, pressing his palms together in front of his torso as the tips of his fingers pointed in your direction. “But could we lose the attitude? Just this once, could you grow up and be an adult about this? About her?”

“Don’t you dare—“ you seethed, cutting yourself off as a prickling sensation filling your entire body from the mere thought of him speaking about her. He had no right to speak her name, no business talking about her or placing his own notions and judgements on the situation. She was your sunshine, your entire world, and right now you were hurt enough to know that if he spoke ill of her, you wouldn’t be able to swallow your words. “Don’t talk about her, Sam. It’s not your place.”

“Okay, he’s right.” Josh nodded, standing and taking a hesitant step towards the two of you, not quite between you but ready to be if the situation warranted intervention. “No sunshine talk, Sammy boy. We’re here to talk about Jake.” Josh sent a careful glance at Sam, speaking with only his eyes. You were a ticking time bomb the two had faced explosion from many times in their life, and this instance happened to be one they were overly familiar with. To them, it seemed the fuse was the shortest when it had anything to do with her.

“Yeah, okay.” Sam cleared his throat, taking the step back and getting a handle on his own frustrations. “Let’s talk about you, Jake.” A twitch of anger contorted your expression at his tone of voice, but you took a deep breath instead of letting it slip into something bigger.

Why did it seem that the two people you loved most were always the ones who made you the angriest version of yourself?

“What about me, Sam?”

“Well, Jake… we’re concerned about your wellbeing, considering you’ve spent the last three days locked in your hotel room. Any reason why, or just making the most out of our vacation?” You squeezed your eyes shut, your teeth clenched tightly together as you listened to his words.

“Okaaayy—good start!” Josh chimed, trying his best to ease the lingering tension. “We are concerned, Jake. Thank you for starting us off, Sam.”

“You two are insufferable, you know.” You gave a tight lipped smile, ignoring the main topic at hand as if it were no big deal.

“‘Cause we love you. That’s all.” Josh shrugged, imploring you to understand where they were coming from. You let out a sigh, knowing they did love you, but it was not even enough to take away the ache in your heart. Nobody could love you enough to take that away.

Well, nobody except for her.

“Fine, you want to know what happened?” You asked, running your fingers through your tangled hair. “Date went great—better than I thought it would. Came back here, spent the night together, she said she loved me, and she fucking left! Again!” At that, your fist slammed down on the high end wooden desk beside you, the legs shaking under the pressure and your bones aching from the contact.

Your two brothers, dumbfounded and worried, stared at you with wide eyes, unbelieving that you found yourself in the same situation all over again. Why, after reaching out in the first place, would she leave you again without hesitation? Why would she let it go so far?

Confused and less than angry, Josh was in search of an answer.

“Why?” He asked, his face softening as he understood the torment you were enduring.

“Same thing as last time. She doesn’t want to stand in the way of anything, doesn’t want to distract me, or whatever the fuck—“ you felt your chest constrict at the thought, the pain coming back in an entirely new fashion as it tore through your entire body. When your brothers stormed in, they pissed you off enough to distract you from it, which means they served some sort of purpose. Now that you were talking, more specifically about her, it was back with a vengeance. “She doesn’t get it. She doesn’t understand that this doesn’t mean anything if she’s not here with me. Christ, I did the damn thing because of her! She was the whole reason I had the courage to try, a-and she thinks that she’s a nuisance? A hindrance? To a dream that only came true because she loved me?”

Josh stepped forward, a gentle hand extended in your direction. Softly, carefully, cautiously, it landed on your shoulder, a silent reassurance that he was here and he was listening. Sam approached, less annoyance on his face as he stood beside his eldest brother.

For some reason that you could not explain, the simple contact between you and your twin, the unspoken support and solidarity from both of them made the murky skies clear and allowed for fresh air to fill your lungs. It didn’t feel so heavy, so overwhelming.

“She said she loved you?” Sam asked, his hands stuffed in his pockets and his ass resting against the edge of the wooden desk you’d assaulted only moments before. Even though it just happened, it seemed blurry, hazy as you tried to recall it. Everything was so messed up, so much more confusing now that she closed the door on the two of you.

Although painful, the last few years of your life did not feel as haunting as the last three days had. You tried to blame it on the wound reopening, but in truth, it had little to do with that. Every day, each grueling hour and every painstaking second of the last six years, beneath all of the misery, one thing remained true; hope.

Although time passed, and the longer it dragged on the harder it became to remain optimistic, you never gave up hope that she would come back, that the two of you weren’t finished. Deep down, there was a guttural sense of expectation that led you to believe she would show up, walk through the door with that awe-inspiring smile on her face and love in her heart for you.

Finally, after six fucking years, she did.

Then, she tore it away from you in an instant, without even thinking twice about it, with a measly promise of friendship that both of you knew only added insult to injury.

You were willing to settle, to be friends so you never had to live a life without her in it again, but she couldn’t even hold up that end of the deal. She left, storming out of your hotel room the instant the cab driver parked in front of the entrance, barely looking back over her shoulder as she held her heels in her hands and blinked away tears pooling in her eyes. You heard the door slam, but you were somewhere completely different—a dark abyss in your mind you’d only visited once before, when she drove down the long winding road set out for UPenn, never even glancing at you through the rear view mirror.

Then she disappeared.

Every call went to voicemail, every text went unanswered, the bold letters of the word ‘delivered’ taunting you every time you closed your eyes.

She was gone, and this time, so was all hope.

Why did you let her leave? Why did you let her jump to that conclusion, to run before she got the full story? Why didn’t you run after her?

You were stupid, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway—she made up her mind, and she wouldn’t fucking listen. She never did, and you knew it would be a waste of breath.

“Sure did.” You cleared your throat after you spoke, your words raspy and sorrowful. You hated looking like such a mess in front of the two, but it was nothing they hadn’t seen before. In fact, it was the only thing they’d seen in the recent years that had come to pass. It only changed that fateful day in Europe, when her name graced your screen and the seemingly permanent cloud of misery finally floated away.

They enjoyed it for the few short weeks it lasted—it had been a long time since they saw that version of you. Happy, carefree, comfortable.

You only ever felt that way when she was around. The world only felt right with her by your side.

Now you had no idea where to go or what to do. The world didn’t end, the days still passed by in one never ending, haunting cycle of despair, and the sun was still in the sky, albeit it could never compare to her. You didn’t die when she walked away, although part of you felt like it did. You survived it once, and you could again. You had plenty to look forward to, so much to accomplish still, but it lost its sparkle knowing that you couldn’t share it with her.

So, no. The world did not end, but it definitely became colder, darker, without her light to shine upon you.

“Wonder if she meant it, or if it just felt right in the moment.” You scoffed the words out, sickened at the idea of her saying them but not truly meaning them. When you said it to her, it was the most sacred statement to ever leave your lips, the most genuine and soulful of words, and the only thing in the world that would forever remain true.

“Jacob,” Josh rolled his eyes, knowing exactly where your head was at. “Stop that. Take a second and get out of your own head. Let’s look at it through her eyes, together.” He offered. The muscle in your jaw tightened, your teeth pressed together with enough strength to cause an ache in your head.

From her eyes.

Her beautiful, alluring, calming eyes that always saw the world differently than anyone else could.

Why didn’t you do that before?

Maybe it was too painful for you, or impossible to see a different perspective without someone else to guide you through it. As of late, you had a knack for overthinking, jumping to conclusions that weren’t even genuine possibilities. Josh was always the one to guide you through it, and maybe you needed him more than you realized. He brushed you off, trying to get you to find your own conclusions when it came to her, but it was because you were asking for help in the romance aspect. In truth, you’d never needed much help there, especially when it came to her. Over the past few weeks, you just needed a pat on the back and reassurance that you could do it. Now, you needed help, you needed it to make sense.

“Now I know it’s been a long time since I’ve seen Y/N, but I have never known her to be a liar. I’ve never known her as anything other than selfless and sincere, and for you Jake, she’s all that and more.” You swallowed hard, his statement hitting you with force and knocking the air from your lungs. He was right, and you were so heartbroken it managed to taint your view of her.

She meant that she loved you, so why did she leave?

None of it made sense, and it all fucking hurt. You wished to have the level headed outlook that Josh had, but it failed you every time her name was brought up. The feelings she evoked within you, the intoxicating effects of her company and even just her memory was enough to drive you mad. You were completely smitten for the woman, and she never even had to try. You knew that nothing could ever compare, nobody could come close, and you were near insanity just imagining a life without her.

“There was this brief moment, the smallest amount of time where everything felt right, like it was supposed to all along. It felt like she felt it too, like we were on the same page, but I walked away for a second, and it all changed.” You let out a shaky breath, your eyes bloodshot and stinging with tears.

“Something must have set her off, right?” Sam offered, hand on his chin as he found himself lost in thought. Yours and Josh’s eyes turned to him, curious about his input.

Josh was a shoulder to cry on, sharing words of wisdom to help you see a different perspective, but Sam? Sam was critical, always finding an answer even when it seemed impossible, always piecing it together when there were seemingly no pieces in sight. Josh was wise, but Sam was a fixer, and you needed this fixed.

“Like what?” You asked, beating yourself up as you heard the same breath of hope in your tone as you had once before.

“Well, I don’t know.” Sam fought back an eye roll, knowing you were hurting but frustrated by how obtuse you could be. “You said you walked away—did you leave her alone in here, or was that metaphorical?”

“No, I literally walked away.” You confirmed. “We were laying in bed, not really talking, but so comfortable that it didn’t matter. I thought for sure it was it, that we were gonna talk it out and work it out, but then I went to the bathroom. When I came back, she was so different. There was that look in her eye, like when she left the first time.”

Sam was silent for a moment, his gaze drifting towards the bed that you’d left in a mess. Thoughtfully, his eyes scanned the scene, as if he could see it in front of him, like it was happening in real time. His eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly, his lips parted as he sucked in a sharp breath. Then, his arm raised and his index finger extended outwards, pulling the two of you in the same direction he was going. He was pointing at your phone on the bed, screen facing upwards and lit up with incoming notifications that were insignificant to you.

To you, though.

To him, it was more than insightful.

“You always leave your phone like that?” Sam asked, his eyes flickering to you as he awaited a response.

“Yeah? Fuck does it matter?” You grumbled, unable to correlate the two. He bit his tongue as he breathed a long sigh of annoyance through his nose, stepping towards the bed and snatching the phone off the mattress.

“It matters because you’re an idiot with no passcode, and anyone can see any notifications as soon as they come.” He snapped, tapping the screen to light it up.

“So?” You couldn’t find the same wavelength he was on, unsure if it was because you were too upset or he was being too vague. Maybe, it was a combination of both. “Nothing incriminating on there. Would have let her look through it if she asked.”

“To you.” Sam clarified. “You said she felt like she was holding you back, that you were still in the same situation as last time. Where do you think that came from?” Sam implored you to think a little further, scrolling down the notification bar you never bothered to clear.

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you.”

“She saw your notifications.” Sam stressed his point, his eyes reading over all of the worrisome details that likely sent her running. “Outlook: meeting canceled. Outlook: request for rescheduling. Aaron said: sent you the outline for the interview we put on pause. If you get a chance, please look it over in advance.” Sam listed off, flashing the screen towards you so you could see for yourself. “There’s about twenty more just like it.”

“Fuck sakes.” You groaned, placing a palm to your forehead as you let your eyes fall shut. Of course she saw it, and of course she took it personally. Had you realized it sooner, maybe you wouldn’t be where you are now, maybe you could have explained.

“I’m sorry, Jake.” Josh shifted uncomfortably on his feet, clearly feeling guilty on behalf of the situation. “Did you tell her it was my idea? That I was the one who canceled everything?”

It was true; coming to Michigan, coming home to her was Josh’s idea. He handled the scheduling conflicts, assuring you that this was much more important than another interview that would pertain to the same fifteen questions you’d been asked since the very beginning.

“F’course not—I didn’t know that’s why she got cold feet.” You mumbled, your eyes flickering towards the floor. “Besides, wouldn’t blame that on you, anyway. Doesn’t seem fair since it was because of me in the first place.”

“That’s not the point.” Josh urged, shaking his head at your stupidity. “If she knew it was me… if she knew how badly we all wanted to see you two together, maybe she’d get it. You have to tell her, Jake. This is all probably super overwhelming for her, to be back with you and to think that you cancelled everything to be with her. No doubt she loves you, but no doubt she’s terrified of messing things up for you. She’s always been afraid of that—she was there since the beginning, when all this was just a dream. She doesn’t see what we see. Make her see it, Jake.”

“Yeah, and maybe you should also tell her Amelie is our photographer, cause this message does seem a little bit flirty taken out of context.” Sam said, clicking on the text and showing you. Confused, you grabbed the phone from his hand and read over the words for what seemed like an eternity, noticing she’d attached four pictures of your last show, ones that you’d been begging her to share. You couldn’t see them from the notification bar, which would have made it seem all the more worrisome to her.

“Great timing, huh?” You grumbled, tossing your phone on the bed as you tried to process all of the new information. “Didn’t budge for a week, but finally sent them at the perfect time.” The sarcasm was dripping from your tone, your stomach upset as you understood how much those series of events would have bothered her.

You were so cruel, believing she did so because she didn’t care, because she wanted an excuse. It wasn’t true, and she did what she did because she cared so much, more than anyone ever had, and more than anyone else ever would. She took the burden of heartbreak because she cared more about your happiness than her sadness. If the roles were reversed, you would have felt the same way, maybe even worse. She loved you so wholly and completely that she would rather let you go than stand in your way.

Josh was right, she was a selfless, kindhearted person who would do and be anything for you, even if the best for you meant she had to be nothing. You were an idiot, and you accused her of lacking love when in reality, she was suffocating on the abundance of love she held for you.

You had to fix it. You had to make it right, to show her that no matter where you were or what you were doing, she was the very thing that made it possible to do it. You needed to tell her that she was all you ever wanted, that the life you lived was good, but only fantastic when she was there to stand by your side.

You needed to fight, to chase after her instead of letting her walk away. She meant too much to you to let her go. You couldn’t waste another six years hoping the situation would fix itself. This time, you were older, wiser, albeit still stupid, but you knew that she was worth it.

“I have to make it right.” You announced, looking between the two.

“You have to tell her the truth. Don’t let her go, Jake.” Sam agreed.

“After all this time, she’s still yours. Don’t take it for granted.” Josh added.

“Okay.” You breathed, giving one curt nod. “I have an idea, but I can’t do it by myself.”

“Whatever you need, brother.” Josh assured you, knowing just as well as you did that she was the one. They couldn’t bear to see you lose her for good. Sam nodded in agreement, a silent show of solidarity without a second thought.

A small smile graced your lips, and a breath of hope filled your lungs. It wasn’t over, and you would make sure of it. When it came to her, you would never let it be over. You would work until your last dying breath, committed to her and her alone. She was everything, the whole world and more. She was your sunshine, lighting up the darkest days and making the brightest ones better.

Six years ago, you gave her eight songs to show her how much you would miss her, how sad you were about letting her go.

This time, maybe all she needed was eight songs to tell her exactly why you needed her to stay.

TAGLIST: @anythingforjtk @highway-tuna @klarxtr @hollyco @thetroublegetssoloud71 @ageofbajabule @dannys-dream @raceb14 @watchingover-hypegirl @starshine-gvf @do-it-jakey-baby @gretavansara @jakesbeloved @woyayaofdreams @jakeyt @kiszkas-canvas @gracev0609 @josh-iamyour-mama @musicspeaks @gretavangroupie @gretavanmoon @gvfmarge @takenbythemadness @fleetingjake

[cool-fancier]

Playful Jealousy

Requested by anonymous, had this for a while so I hope you like it.

Synopsis: Bebe's live stream of your music video showed Bada's playful jealousy, sparking fan excitement. Amidst the banter, a deeper bond between you and Bada emerged, revealing genuine care and affection within the crew.

Word count:1.7K

The late-afternoon sun poured through the Bebe studio's windows, giving a warm glow over the lively atmosphere.  You, a popular K-pop idol and proud member of the of Bebe the Street Woman Fighter-winning crew, sat with your fellow members, surrounded by an atmosphere of friendship and excitement.

Bada, Bebe's lively leader, assembled everyone for a live session, allowing fans to see and respond to your recently released music video. The members' excitement was evident as they settled in, eager to support and celebrate your artistic efforts.

The screen came alive with brilliant colours and mesmerising sights as the song video began. Members exchanged eager glances, their faces a mix of delight and appreciation for your performance.

"Wow, look at Y/N unnie go!" Lusher shouted, her gaze fixed on the screen. "You're killing it!"

Tatter enthusiastically nodded. "She's really breathtaking. Such presence and grace."

The screen displayed your dance movements, each step precisely synchronised to the beats of the music, capturing the viewers' attention. Both the group and the viewers watching the live session praised the sophisticated choreography and the artistry of the images.

"Y/N is a true artist," Kyma said, her voice full of adoration. "Her talent is unmatched."

CheChe chimed in with a smile. "And look how lovely she is in each frame!" "What a visual treat."

The members nodded in accord, lavishing you with compliments, unaware to Bada's tiny change in mood. As the conversation turned to your appearance, Bada's eyes flashed with playful jealousy—a barely noticeable twist of the lips, a clear sign of her teasing nature.

Fans, who pay close attention to every detail, observed Bada's reaction and began reacting eagerly in the live chat.

EnvyEyes123: Bada's jealous tongue thingy is iconic! It's the cutest thing ever! 🤣😍

JealousyQueen456: Bada's reaction to Y/N is EVERYTHING! So adorable! 😂❤️

TiedFanatic: Bada's playful jealousy is making my day! It's the best thing I've seen! 😜

Adorably345: Bada, your reaction to Y/N is too cute! We see you, girl! 😄💕

PlayfulLeader789: Bada's jealous moments are priceless! We love this playful side! 🤭😂

JealousyIsCute321: Bada, your jealousy is the cutest! It's giving us all the feels! 😊❤️

TwistFan: Bada's tongue thingy when Y/N's on screen is adorable! We stan! 🤣

PlayfulTease567: Bada's reaction is making us laugh! You're too cute, girl! 😂🥰

CheekyJealousy654: Bada's playfulness is everything! Her jealous moments are too funny! 😂😜

TongueOutVibes: Bada's playful jealousy is making the live session so much fun! 😂

EnviousCharm123: Bada's jealousy is a whole mood! You're adorable, leader-nim! 😄❤️

CutenessOverload789: Bada's reactions are stealing the show! So cute! 😂🙌

The comments flooded the screen, drawing attention to Bada's playful jealousy. Meanwhile, the members continued their praises, unaware of the attention drawn to Bada's reaction.

"Sowoen, what do you think?" asked Bada, turning to the youngest member, who had been silently observing the music video.

Sowoen, startled by the sudden attention, blushed slightly. "Oh, um, Y/N unnie looks amazing, as always. The dance moves are just...wow."

As the music video continued, the live session became a dynamic exchange of compliments and reactions. The studio echoed with laughter, camaraderie, and the genuine support shared among the Bebe members.

MusicVideoLover123: Y/N's music video is a work of art! The choreography, visuals, everything is on point! 🌟🎶

DanceFloorVibes: Y/N's dance moves are mind-blowing! The music video is a visual treat. Bebe's reactions make it even better! 🙌

DreamDancer22: I can't stop watching Y/N's music video! The aesthetics, the choreo, it's all so captivating! 💃✨

KpopFangirl365: Y/N's music video is pure artistry! The dancing, the styling, it's perfection! Bebe's reactions are making me love it even more. 💖

RhythmicHeartbeat: Y/N's visuals are breathtaking! The music video is a masterpiece, and Bebe's support adds an extra layer of joy! 🎵✨

DanceTilIDrop: Y/N's video is legendary! The dance sequences, the vibe, it's fire! Bebe's reactions are giving me life! 🔥💃

DreamingOfDance: Y/N's music video is mesmerizing! The grace, the energy, it's incredible! Bebe's support amplifies the awesomeness! 🌟🎶

KpopLoveFever: Y/N's video is a cinematic marvel! The visuals are stunning, and Bebe's live reactions make it even more fun! 📽️🌟

StarlightDreamer: Y/N's music video is a whole mood! The talent, the visuals, it's an experience! Bebe's reactions are making it even more enjoyable! 🌈🎶

DanceWithLove789: Y/N's video is a masterpiece! The dance, the storytelling, it's breathtaking! Bebe's reactions are so wholesome! 🌟👏

RhythmRuler: Y/N's music video is top-tier! The choreo, the aesthetics, it's genius! Bebe's reactions add so much fun to the watch! 💯🕺

StarlightSpectator: Y/N's music video is ICONIC! The choreography is mind-blowing! Bebe's reactions are priceless! 🌟💃

When you, the star of the music video, joined the live stream, the lighthearted moment got much more delightful. The members applauded your arrival, and the screen split to show your live reaction alongside theirs.

"Hey, Y/N unnie ! You were incredible!" exclaimed Minah, greeting you with enthusiasm.

Tatter agreed with a nod. "Absolutely! Your performance is incredible."

You smiled appreciatively, grateful for the support of your fellow crew members. "Thank you, girls! It means a lot coming from all of you."

CheChe joined in, her excitement palpable. "And can we talk about how stunning you look in every frame? It's unfair!"

The members laughed, their admiration for you evident in every word. Unbeknownst to them, the fans noticed Bada's playful reaction during the discussion about your visuals. The live chat buzzed with playful comments and emojis, capturing the attention of both fans and the Bebe crew.

JealousLeaderFan123: Bada's jealousy is the cutest thing ever! It's a whole mood! 😂❤️

MightyBada345: Bada's reaction to Y/N is making my day! So playful and adorable! 😊👅

CheerfulJ67: Bada, your jealousy is giving us life! Keep being playful, we love it! 🤭😂

EnvyOnScreen789: Bada's jealous moments are the highlight of the live! Too cute! 😍👀

Play56: Bada's reactions are priceless! Her jealousy is so endearing! 😂❤️

AdorableFan678: Bada's playful jealousy is making us all smile! You're too cute! 😄👅

Cheeky23: Bada's playful side is shining! Her jealousy is so lovable! 😊❤️

OutJoy456: Bada's reactions are making this session even better! Love the playful jealousy! 😂👅

Charm789: Bada's jealousy is hilarious and adorable! Loving the playful vibes! 🤣❤️

PlayfulTease567: Bada's reactions are the best part! Her playful jealousy is a gem! 😂🙌

EnviousLaughs123: Bada's jealousy is too funny! Her playful side is so entertaining! 😄👀

Fan456: Bada's playful reactions are gold! So cute and funny! 😂👅

BadaEnvyAdmirer789: Bada's jealousy is too precious! Such a playful moment! 😊❤️

As the live session progressed, you and your teammates engaged in spirited conversation, sharing experiences from the music video shoot and thanking the fans for their constant support. Bebe's humorous dynamics were on full display, demonstrating a crew that not only excelled on the dance floor but also enjoyed a true friendship that went beyond the stage.

The members turned to you with grins and cheers as the screen went dark, signalling the end of the live session. Bada, ever the charismatic leader, summed up the crew's feelings.

"We're so proud of you, Y/N. Your skill knows no bounds, and Bebe is lucky to have you."

— — — — — — — —

In the aftermath of the live session, the teasing continued as the members affectionately poked fun at Bada's playful jealousy. CheChe leaned in with a wicked grin, conspiratorially whispered, "Bada, you're like a big baby when it comes to Y/N!"

Bada rolled her eyes, yet a faint smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. "Please, please. I was just...protecting my precious Y/N!"

Lusher chuckled, playfully nudging Bada. "Admit it, you were totally jealous because you know Y/N is stunning!"

Bada crossed her arms, feigning offense. "Me? Jealous? I was merely...concerned about our team's image, okay?"

The playful banter continued, each member joining in the good-natured teasing. However, amidst the laughter and teasing, a genuine warmth radiated through the studio—a camaraderie that formed the backbone of Bebe's dynamic.

"You know," Tatter chimed in, her tone gentle, "it's kind of cute when Bada gets protective. Shows how much she cares about Y/N."

The teasing softened into affectionate understanding. Bada, although maintaining her facade of indifference, couldn't hide the slight blush that crept onto her cheeks. "I just want the best for us," she mumbled, trying to downplay her affectionate concern.

Sowoen, the ever-observant youngest member, interjected with a smile. "You know, Bada unnie, you're like a big sister to us. Always looking out for everyone, especially your lovely Y/N."

Bada's demeanor softened at the heartfelt words. She straightened up, trying to regain her composed façade. "Well, someone's got to make sure everyone stays in line around here."

The group erupted into laughter, reveling in the sweet banter between you and Bada. Despite her attempts to maintain a cool facade, Bada's affection for you shone through in every teasing glance and playful retort.

Minah, noticing the adorable dynamic between you two, chimed in with a grin, "I've never seen Bada so protective! You two are like the cutest pair ever!"

Kyma nodded enthusiastically. "Yes! Bada unnie is like a guardian angel to Y/N. It's heart-melting!"

Bada, her cheeks slightly flushed from the teasing, shot a quick glance your way, her eyes softening. "I just... I just really care about Y/N, you know?"

Your heart swelled with affection, and you couldn't help but smile back at her. "I know, Bada. And I appreciate it. You mean the world to me."

The studio resonated with the warmth of the Bebe family's playful interactions and genuine affection. In the midst of laughter and teasing, the bond between you and Bada shone brightly—a unique blend of friendship, love, and playful banter that defined your relationship.

As the day drew to a close and the members prepared to leave, Bada pulled you aside for a moment. "You know, Y/N, I might have been a little jealous during the live session, but it's only because I'm crazy about you."

Your heart skipped a beat at her words. Wrapping your arms around her, you replied, "And I'm crazy about you, too, Bada."

Feeling the warmth of the Bebe family enveloping you. "Besides I wouldn't have it any other way, Bada. You're everything to me."

With a nod and a knowing smile, Bada wrapped an arm around your shoulders, the playful teasing giving way to a genuine camaraderie. As the studio emptied, the bond between the Bebe crew remained—a blend of playful dynamics and the depth of affection that united them, both on and off the stage.

[multidimensionimagines]

Sneak peek for a request I’m currently working on! I hope you like it ^^ (this fic will contain NSFW eventually so minors DNI!)

Gravity Falls wasn’t a sunny paradise. Despite what the brochures and fake marketing wanted you to believe. Sure the summers there were nice. After all, living in Oregon meant getting a perfect balance of each of the seasons as they came. So, that meant hot, sunny summers and cold, bitter winters.

You did not take this into account when you first moved to Gravity Falls two years ago. Sure, you had some sweaters and pants good enough for the colder months, and you would think that living in the same place for two years would warrant you enough time to go shopping to acquire a proper wardrobe. But you, special as you were, had an extraordinary knack for forgetting things- giving your needs the old ‘eh, I’ll do it tomorrow’ and the next thing you know, winter had passed with you surviving on the tattered blankets and fireplace in your home.

Now was the end of fall, Halloween- not to be confused with the iconic Gravity Falls tradition of Summerween- and while it had been chillier out, it was now treading dangerously into nipping cold territory. And your boyfriend, as practical as he was, has not stopped having to remind you.

“Dear, don’t you think you’ll be cold going out in.. that?”

You paused, looking over your shoulder at him. He quickly stiffened.

“N-not that, I’m trying to tell you what to wear. I-I would never-! You’re free to dress how you wish I’m just..” he awkwardly cleared his throat. “worried.”

You chuckled, pulling on your lightweight sweater over your top. “I know you wouldn’t. I’ll go shopping tomorrow, okay?”

You reassured him softly, walking up to give him a kiss on the cheek. He smiled shyly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You’ve been saying that everyday since October 5th.”

You rolled your eyes and grinned, shoving your hands in your pockets. “Psh, oh come on, there’s no way I’ve been saying it every day-“

Ford reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a little booklet, one of those pocket calanders and flipped to the page with the current month, or well, month that just passed yesterday on it.

“Actually yes, you have, I’ve been keeping a log to see when you would actually follow through on your word.”

He explained somewhat smugly before tucking it back into his pocket, revealing your annoyed but.. slightly impressed face. Of course, only the Stanford Pines would keep track of something like that.

You gave him a look but he wouldn’t put away that stupid (cute) grin on his face.