#the earring I know is matching with Nari from another post

[angstandhappiness]

NICE

I couldn’t just ignore this so :>

Yeah- I just wanted to practice a bit

[skepticalcatfrog]

Collateral Damage, Chapter 2

First Chapter Next Chapter Masterpost AO3 Link

Summary: Four test subjects have lived inside of a lab for as long as they can remember, with barely any memory of who they are or how they got there aside from what they've been told. When they start suspecting things might not be exactly as they seem, they see no option other than escaping into the outside world to find answers despite knowing close to nothing about life outside the lab. Meanwhile, four completely normal teenagers just out of highschool find themselves wrapped up in a mystery involving shady organizations and illegal experimentation.

POV: Tyler Jones

Pairings: Aurora O'Malley x Kaliis Gilwraeth, (Eventual) Scarlett Jones x Finian de Seel, Zila Madran x Nari Kim, and Tyler Jones x Saedii Gilwraeth

Word count: 3,667

Author's Notes: I know it's been a loooooong wait since the last chapter, but chapter 2 is finally here! I was super preoccupied with life stuff and didn't have much time to write, then when I finally finished this chapter, I didn't have the energy to post it. But here we are! Enjoy!

~~~

At the same flat metal table in the same dark, otherwise empty room, another boy sits. He had only been there for a short while before the detective across from him had entered the room. He's admittedly getting a little irritated with the situation he's in, but he's significantly more patient than Finian, and if he's being honest, he'd probably say he's a bit more respectful too. He pays close attention as the detective presses the button on his recording device.

"This is Detective Adams, here with…" He trails off, gesturing to the boy as if to cue him in.

The boy leans forward to make sure he'll be picked up by the device. "Tyler Jones."

"How old are you, Tyler?"

"18 years old."

Adams nods. "When was the first time you met the kids from the GIABSA?"

"Well, they came up to me outside my friend Cat's house to ask for my help." Tyler explains. "I didn't know what they wanted me to do, they just told me that it was serious, and that they were being followed by someone."

"Wait," Adams holds up one of his hands as a signal for Tyler to stop speaking. "So these four total strangers just walked right up to you and asked for your help? They didn't give you any context?"

Tyler drags a hand through his blond hair. "Right. To be fair to them though, they did give me a little context. But it wasn't like that helped. I was still freaking out."

"So what did you do about this?"

"Honestly? I'd probably say I panicked, sir."

Adams raises an eyebrow. "Do you mind elaborating?"

"No, yeah, of course…"

~ ~ ~

The first thing I did was just stare at them. Obviously it was awkward, but what else was I supposed to do? Thinking back on it, I'm pretty sure my mouth was hanging open a little. It took me a minute even to just fully take in what they looked like. There was a girl and a guy who looked pretty alike. They both had tanned olive skin and sharp, piercing features. One had black hair, but one had silver hair, and that was the first odd thing I noticed. The next thing was that they both had purple eyes, and pointy ears like elves from some kind of fantasy romance novel my sister would read. Not to mention that they were both pretty ripped. Honestly, either one of them probably could've torn me in half. And believe me, I'm capable of putting up a good fight.

There was also another girl who looked a lot nicer. She had choppy black hair, with a thick white streak in her bangs. Her eyes matched her hair, one of them a dark brown and the other one white. Last but not least, there was a boy who looked a little like a coloring page that hadn't been done yet. He had bright white skin and hair, and for whatever reason, his eyes were tightly shut. There were a lot of other things that I could've let my brain not connect about them, but I didn't have a chance to, because at that point I was finally connecting what the girl with the mismatched eyes had asked, and what the white haired boy was saying to me.

A couple of thoughts ran through my head at the same time. What kind of 'situation' are they in? Why are they on a time crunch? Who are they running from? That was when I'd say I really started panicking.

All I could say was, "I… I'll be right back."

Then I turned right around and practically ran to the house. I closed the door behind me a little louder than I meant to, which made the other people inside glance up at me. My sister Scarlett was in a chair across the room, and our friend Cat was stretched across a couch nearby scrolling on her phone. We were at her house, one that technically belonged to one of her relatives who was never around.

"What're you running from, Ty? Did you see a scuffed boot outside?" Scarlett wiggled her fingers at me, clearly amused by my fear.

"No." I shook my head, slightly out of it. "Actually, there might've been a ghost or something." There was the boy with the white hair. Who knew what his deal was.

"I'm sorry, what?" Cat sat up then, suddenly interested.

"Okay, I'm going to start this by telling you guys that either I might be crazy, or the people outside might be going to some kind of costume party."

A gentle, slightly concerned smile crossed my sister's face. "Ty, did you drink that milk that's in the fridge? Because that was just a little expired and you might be delirious."

"No, I didn't- and also you should probably throw that away- but that's not the point." I went to the window to the left of the door and pulled back the curtain a little. "It'll be hard to explain, so I just need you to look."

Scarlett raised an eyebrow at me, but still got up to look. She stood beside me and saw who I was looking at right away, given that this was a small town and they were really the only people of interest out there. "Oh, shit, yeah. Those look like cosplayers if I've ever seen them. What were they talking to you about?" She glanced at me, then back to the group.

"That girl in the middle, the short one with black hair, she was asking for my help. Then that tall guy in all the metal brace things started talking about how they were being chased." I explained. "I didn't get a lot more than that, but they seemed pretty serious."

"Are you gonna help them, then?" Scar nudged me with her elbow. "Seems like something you'd do."

"I don't know. Probably."

Cat, who was now standing behind us, decided to pipe up. "You've got to be kidding me, Ty! You don't even know what they want! It could be something insane for all we know. And look," she pointed to the group outside, who were clearly arguing about something. "I'm getting a bad feeling about this. I'm really not sure we can trust them."

"That's a good point, Cat," Scar admitted. "But still, wouldn't you rather at least try? I mean, if they really are in trouble, then I agree with Tyler. I want to help them."

Cat stared at her like she'd just suggested playing a drinking game with the milk in the fridge. "Have you both lost your minds? We don't know how bad their issue is. There's no way in hell I'm involving myself in this, and you shouldn't either. Just go outside, tell them to fuck off, and we can go back to enjoying our summer."

I had to admit, those were some good points too. Helping total strangers who seemed to be in some kind of danger was definitely a risky move, especially when they looked the way these guys did. Because sure, from far away they could've been costumes, but up close? All those weird things about them seemed just a little too real. There had to be a story behind that, and I wasn't sure if it was one I wanted to hear. Plus, Cat was right. We'd only just graduated a week before. It was our first summer out of high school, and personally I thought that the idea of spending it six feet under after having been murdered by a pack of wandering trick or treaters was a real bummer.

I heaved a sigh. "Alright."

Scarlett shot me one of those looks she did when she thought I was being dumb. To be fair, this whole situation was a little too complicated for any solution to not seem dumb. If we helped those people, and they were lying, they might murder us. If we didn't, and they were telling the truth, there was a chance that might put them in danger. I returned a look to her, just to let her know I had a handle on things. I turned away from my friends and opened the door again. I saw all four of the people on the sidewalk look up at me, stopping in the tracks of whatever argument they'd been having. Even the one with his eyes closed had turned his head towards me. The tall one with the black hair still looked pretty pissed, though, so I made a note to keep my distance from her.

I'll admit, I was a little nervous to tell them what I had to tell them. The short girl and the white-haired boy weren't all that scary, but the two taller ones were definitely not helping my nerves. "Okay," I began, speaking slowly and not making any sudden movements. "I talked to my friends in there-" I gestured back to Cat's house, where I got the feeling Scarlett and Cat were still watching all of this go down- "and they were both pretty opinionated. But the details aren't important. Long story short..."

I trailed off, finally meeting the wide gaze of the girl who had mismatched eyes. She seemed so… hopeful. It was like she was silently pleading with me, asking me to hear them out, and somehow I understood her perfectly. And taking in her face, I just couldn't see how she could possibly be a bad person. There was no way I could've really known, but I did.

Cat's not going to be happy with this.

"You guys can come inside."

The girl's face immediately brightened, splitting into a big grin. "Really?" Before I could make another move, she practically pounced at me, catching me in a tight hug. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Recovering from the initial shock of it, I gave her a polite pat on the back. I saw the tall boy with his eyes closed pretend to wipe sweat from his forehead. "We owe you, man."

The girl hugging me let go and turned back to the other girl in their group. "Not to say I told you so, but…"

"Tread lightly, Aurora." The tall girl snapped.

"Anyway," I piped up again, partly to remind them of my presence and also partly to distract the angry girl. "Just follow me in, and then I'm going to need you to explain what's going on here."

"Of course." The silver haired boy nodded serenely. "That is a perfectly reasonable price for what you've done for us."

Still questioning my decision a little, I led the group behind me back into the house. The group of strangers, back to the house, where my friend lived. Yeah, I know, not my brightest moment.

Now, I'm going to describe the way Cat looked when I walked back in. Have you ever been to a farm with chickens? Well there will sometimes be this moment when you're interacting with chickens when you lock eyes with one of them, and you just know, deep down in your soul, that this chicken is the one in charge. It's trying to keep things under control, keep everything cool. You're not a part of that, not even a little. And it. Hates. You. That was the exact same way Cat looked at me when I stepped back through the door with the four strangers.

Scarlett, on the other hand, seemed perfectly happy. At least she still had faith in me. "Hi!" She greeted the group in her best 'trying to make everyone comfortable' voice. "You guys can sit wherever you want, there's plenty of room."

While she continued to be the hostess, Cat grabbed the front of my shirt and dragged me into the kitchen.

"Are you crazy?" She hissed in a hushed tone, putting her hands on my shoulders and shaking me a little. "What happened out there?"

"Cat, they really don't seem that bad." I gently removed her hands from my shoulders. "I know, this wasn't the plan, but I need you to hear me out on this one."

"I don't really have a choice now, do I? They're already in my living room." She pointed accusatorially back the way we came. "I swear to the Maker, Ty, if you're wrong about this-"

"I won't be. Promise." I assured her.

She seemed to attempt to think of a good response, but settled for an exasperated sigh and a stomp back to the living room.

The four newcomers were settled in seats around the room. The scary girl was occupying the chair Scarlett had previously been in. The silver haired boy and the other girl- Aurora, I remembered her name was- were sitting next to each other on one end of the couch. The boy in the metal frame was at the other end. I positioned myself near the center of the room, with Cat standing nearby. "Alright, so. Explanation. First things first, can I get your names?"

Aurora spoke up, pointing to each of her friends in turn. "This is Kal Gilwraeth, that's his sister Saedii, that's Finian de Seel, and I'm Aurora O'Malley. Auri for short."

"I'm Tyler. That's my sister Scarlett, and our friend Cat." Scarlett waved to them from where she was sitting on the floor. Cat just continued glowering. "Now that that's out of the way, can someone please explain what's going on with you guys?"

The other three all looked at Finian, who obviously didn't know since his eyes were still closed. "Based on the silence, I'm assuming you all want me to do it?" He raised his eyebrows. "What happened to not 'immediately divulging our situation to complete strangers'?"

"Shut up and talk, Finian." Cat snapped her fingers.

"That's an oxymoron." Finian pointed out. "But anyway, allow me to explain, because I'm afraid of the angry girl." His speaking sped up about ten times after that. "So basically, we're from this crazy place called the GIABSA, or Global Intelligence Agency for Beings with Superhuman Ability if you want to be fancy about it. What that means is just that we've got these weird powers, like superheroes or something, and the people at the GIABSA were helping train us. I know that sounds totally sick but it's definitely not, because we're pretty sure there's some fucked up stuff going on behind the scenes, since a bunch of people kept disappearing and not coming back. We didn't want that to happen to us- because why would we- so we escaped. We had to escape because they were keeping us locked in there, which is definitely a red flag we somehow missed. But now the thing is, they're after us, and we've got no clue what they're going to do if they find us, so our only choice is to somehow figure out how to not get caught. Plus, we want to figure out what happens to the people who disappear, so on top of everything else there's also that." He breathed deeply, and it was only then that I realized he'd done all that in one breath. "Any questions?"

"Uh… yeah." Scarlett nodded, looking about as confused as I was feeling. "Do you always talk that fast?"

"Yup." Finian nodded.

"And he never stops, no matter what anyone may do." Saedii helpfully informed her.

"You know you love me." Fin waved dismissively in her direction.

"I despise you."

I interjected then, ignoring all of the other insane questions I could've asked in favor of asking a simple one. "Do your eyes open?"

"Yes, actually, they do." Fin explained. "But I found out immediately after leaving the GIABSA that bright lights hurt my eyes real bad, at least that's what I think the deal is."

"We could dim the lights, if you want." Scarlett offered.

"That would be great, thanks. Are there windows in here? If so then we'll also need to close the curtains, I think."

Scarlett got up to do what he was asking. Cat shot me a warning glare, and I wished I could've properly communicated to her that I was a little more nervous now too. Luckily, when Scarlett closed the curtains and turned off the lights, nothing crazy happened. What did happen, though, was that Fin finally opened his eyes. What I hadn't picked up on originally, due to his eyes being closed, were just how big they were. They were definitely bigger than normal human eyes, just enough to put him on the edge of the uncanny valley. Not to mention that they were completely and totally white like the rest of him, no iris or pupil or anything.

"Damn, if I knew how good looking you all would be then I would've worn my good uniform today." He tugged on the collar of the grey jumpsuit he was wearing.

"So you can see us, good. Now that that's out of the way..." I nodded, considering which of my many questions to ask next. "What were you saying about superpowers?"

Kal was the one to jump in this time. "We all have them. Everyone in the GIABSA, that is. And every ability is different."

Cat chuckled. "You're kidding. You can't possibly expect us to believe that."

There was a sound like ripping paper. I hadn't seen her move at all, but suddenly Saedii was directly behind Cat. "It doesn't matter if you believe it. That doesn't change that it's entirely true."

Cat startled, whirling around, but by the time she'd turned, Saedii was right back in her chair.

"Woah, okay." I continued as Cat settled back into frustration, directed more at Saedii than at me now. "So how did you get them? Were you born with them, or were they given to you, or what?"

The four of them exchanged a glance, and I got the feeling that they were all expecting someone else to know the answer to my question. Auri spoke. "We… don't really know."

If I hadn't already been concerned, I was definitely concerned then. I briefly caught Scarlett's eye, and I knew we were thinking the same thing. She was just the one to say it out loud. "How could you not know how you ended up with crazy magic powers?"

"I think it's probably more science than anything, but I mean… as Auri said, we don't know." Fin gestured to his friend. "That'd probably be a good thing to look into, though. Personally I'd love to know how we ended up with crazy magic powers."

"I think we all would." I muttered, brow furrowed in thought. Pieces of a solution started floating together in my head. "Fin, you said the start of all this has to be science, right? I've gathered at this point that going back to that GIABSA thing is a dead end, but obviously it would take a supergenius to crack this."

"I consider myself a pretty smart guy, I-"

I cut him off. "But you've been living with all this for how long, and you still don't have a clue what's going on?" I turned to Scarlett and Cat. "We might need a fresh pair of eyes on them. Someone who has enough experience with freaky science to be able to look at the situation and give us something new."

After a moment, Scarlett understood. "Ty. She's probably busy, you can't just drag her into this."

Then, Cat got it too. She glared at Scarlett. "What, with us it's fine but now that he's getting that science girl involved he's crossed a line? I could've used this energy before, Scar."

"Okay, it's different." My sister held up a finger as if that would do more to prove her point. "I'm his sister and you're his best friend, we're special cases and we're required to go along with all of his stupid plans just as he's required to go along with all of ours." She gave me an apologetic look. "No offense, Ty."

I held up my hands in surrender. "None taken."

"But anyway," Scarlett continued, "'That science girl,' as you so eloquently called her, is a third party person. AKA, off limits."

"And I get that, but we don't really have another choice here." We technically did have other choices, but for the most part they involved things I didn't really want to do, so I didn't feel the need to mention them. "We'll bring these guys to her, and she can help us out. It'll be over and done with before you can say 'summer vacation,' I promise."

When I heard Aurora's voice, it occurred to me again that there were four other people in the room who should definitely be involved in this conversation. "Can… someone fill us in?"

I brought my attention back to the group, where I was met by a frustrated glare from Saedii, a confused expression from Aurora, a sharply focused gaze from Kal, and a distinctly un-focused one from Fin. "Right. So, there's this girl who goes to our school. She's probably the smartest person I've ever met, it's a little scary. With luck, she'll be able to help you figure out a little bit more of what's going on."

"Is she trustworthy?" Saedii crossed her legs and leaned back, like I wasn't worth much of her attention.

"I've never had an issue with her." I shrugged. I heard Saedii make an unsatisfied 'hm' sound.

"That will have to do." She examined her nails, which I only then noticed were weirdly sharp. Somehow I got the feeling that the arrangements we were making wouldn't do, but I had nothing else at that point.

"What is her name?" Kal asked. I decided that I liked him a lot more than his sister. He was nicer, at least. That time, it was Scarlett who answered.

"Her name is Zila Madran. And as much as I regret having to drag her into this… she'll definitely be able to help you."

~~~

Taglist: @iamheretodomythingrip @the-weight-of-a-fingertip @isla-kady-blackwood @froginatinyhat @whimsicallyreading @space-buns-arsinoe (Ask to be on the taglist!)

[jeongi]

caught me. | jjk (m)

(edit done by my love, @httpjeon)

↣ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | jungkook x reader

↣ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 13.5k

↣ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 | roommate au. slight e2l au. smut. porn with very little plot.

↣ 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐱 | explicit language and sexual content. mentions of vaping. mutual masturbation, sex toy usage, oral sex (f + m receiving), gagging, fingering, squirting, dirty talk, some wall fucking, riding, unprotected sex (you know the drill, wrap it up), multiple orgasms, overstimulation, creampie, jungkook has tattoos, long wavy hair and a giant schlong.

↣ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you hate your temporary roommate, jungkook and it doesn’t help that he’s been catching you at the most inconvenient of times.

“Seokjin, how could you do this to me?” You whine from the kitchen island, reflexively stabbing at the bowl of cereal in front of you. You can’t believe your roommate is just now telling you, a day before he leaves for vacation, that his “friend” will be temporarily moving in while he’s away. Of course, Seokjin pays no mind to your tantrum. Instead, he continues packing the last of his luggage in the living space, across the room. Simply rolling his eyes and heaving a sigh in response, he’s far more acquainted with your antics than he’d like to be. He could almost call you the younger sibling he most certainly never wanted, a nuisance wrapped in feigned misery. The arrangement between the two of you seemed nothing more than the result of a last-ditch Craigslist roommate search.

He should have known the consequences, he supposes.

Another sigh escapes his lips as he turns his attention away from the luggage. “_____, I’m only leaving for three months.”

You wail again, this time, your arms stretching across the cool, granite counter to push the bowl away from yourself. You’ve wholly lost your appetite, ready to wreak havoc as you slide off the stool you’re sat on and stomp your way over to him.

“I don’t care about you leaving me!” Seokjin scoffs at this statement, returning his focus to the open suitcase laid on the floor in front of him. “I care about you stuffing me in this apartment with a complete stranger while you’re gone.” What was the fucker’s name again? Jon Q, John Cook? You’re furious, but of course, Seokjin fails to take notice of this. Instead, he fishes into his pocket for his phone and scrolls through his extensive list of items to pack. He’s only gotten through half of it.

Your words don’t seem to have much of an impact on him, fueling your fury. “What if he tries to murder me? Or even worse, what if I end up murdering him? You won’t even be here to help me hide the body— this is a travesty!” This is followed with another signature sigh, all drama, your wrist shooting up to your forehead as you dab at invisible sweat.

You briefly think you might actually hate Seokjin.

He pauses, dropping his phone into the open luggage before craning his head towards you. Blinking, purely baffled by the lunacy he has to constantly put up with, he internally gives his utmost gratitude to the heavens that his work has sent him on this European trip tomorrow. Three clean months of the peaceful canals of Venice, the Colosseum in Rome, the Eiffel Tower in Paris and most importantly, three lovely quiet months away from you. Suddenly, three months no longer seems an eternity to him. How could it? He assesses you top to bottom, seeing nothing more than a rabid young woman scorned, hands placed sternly on her hips, expectant of a reply.

No sir, three months is not long enough at all.

Seokjin pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing his eyes shut as he speaks through gritted teeth. “You are the most melodramatic person I know— you think you can afford to pay my rent for the next three months?” This shuts you up momentarily.

For a moment, you’re disarmed. You can’t argue that he’s right, and you hate admitting it’s the only reason for your new (temporary) roommate.

Releasing his nose, he looks at you, warming a little. “Look, he asked to stay here -temporarily- until he finds his own place. He’s my best friend; wouldn’t you do the same for yours?”

That final bit had the effect he wanted it to, and boy, did it sting. Of course, you’d do the same for your best friend. The only trouble is that you know very little information about this John Cook character, only getting brief details about him moving into the big city for the first time and Seokjin “graciously” providing him a rental until he can find something more permanent. It isn’t a fault on Seokjin’s half. You just don’t know the poor bastard.

Beyond that, you know this guy is a Taekwondoin, moving here to join one of the most prestigious Taekwondo academies in the country. Your blood runs cold in a sudden rush, a certain grim realization dawning on you that you’d absolutely be no match for him if he did try to kill you. Perhaps Seokjin has told you so late because he too wants you dead. You really shouldn’t have met him through Craiglist.

You consider leaving a lengthy, final Tumblr post in remembrance of your inevitable end, hoping one of your 12 followers would come forth and save you from a gruesome slashing. At best, someone saves your life. At worst, you’ve written your own eulogy.

Huffing a breath of frustration, something akin to a groan escapes you as you march back to the kitchen island for your now soggy bowl of cereal. It only fuels your now quiet rage further, but pettiness takes over, mentally muting Seokjin’s yelling profanities after watching you dispose of one of his favourite glass bowls. It’s the least you can do as revenge.

As it turns out, Jeon Jungkook is a nearly six feet tall mural of muscle and inked skin that rarely stays home. His dark wavy hair falls gracefully past his large doe eyes, and his plethora of tattoos litter the tight expanse of his neck and arms. Notably, the blossom of two red roses painted over the porcelain of his neck.

Though verbally a silent roommate, you find he vapes far too much and equally plays far too much Fortnite at odd hours of the night. He only comes out of his room to either make himself food or to leave the apartment, and a couple of times you could have almost sworn he might’ve been doing his laundry. He’s a feast to lay eyes on, that much is irrefutable but he leaves at least one utensil unwashed after eating, irritating you to an unprecedented degree.

Jungkook also enjoys eating ramen at two in the morning- you know this because it wakes you up almost every time you hear the microwave blare its oppressive siren. He also figures he must shower each time he returns home from being out, suitably fattening your poor water bill. You’ve only briefly spoken to him a handful of times, mostly about house rules and a tour of the facilities.

It’s only been two weeks since he’s arrived, yet you already seem to despise him- sending Seokjin angry messages from across the globe about this, all of which have been ignored. You’ve been too busy lately anyway, rarely seeing Jungkook who seems to be out for most of the day.

However, it’s today that you finally catch him when you’re just coming home from work. He sits at the kitchen island, flipping through a comic while he loudly chomps on an open bag of shrimp chips, pausing to look at you as you make your way inside.

You’re on speakerphone with your friend Nari, both of your arms too occupied and laden with groceries to normally hold the phone to your ear. Upon seeing this, Jungkook gets up from his seat and immediately rushes to lend a hand. He’s completely shirtless, his loose dark sweatpants hugging the low subtle curve of his hips, and it’s only then that you notice the mosaic of more tattoos scattered across his skin beyond his full sleeves and the two red roses on his neck. He has much more than you had initially seen, a large black and white snake running over his pelvic bone. It draws your eyes forward, let’s it linger over to his bare abdomen, untouched with ink and defined with muscle. You can see it evidently, the indents carved into him as if he’s been sculpted from the finest of limestone.

You catch yourself from staring, thanking him with a silent bow of your head as he turns away from you, all the bags of groceries now racked effortlessly down his taut arms. Your momentary and involuntary ogling is cut short by Nari’s voice booming through the loudspeaker of your phone.

“God, you really need to get laid soon- I’m tired of you being so grumpy.” You freeze, nearly choking on your own saliva. “I already deal with one grump on a daily, I don’t need to add another to my inventory.”

Fuck. “Yeah, well, working on it!” You titter nervously into the microphone. It’s all in vain, for Nari is relentless in her pursuits.

“Didn’t you say your new roommate was hot? Just fuck him, that’d be pretty convenient. It’s like, like...dick-on-demand!” She laughs, guffawing into the mic as though it’s the most hilarious thing she has ever said. You stand there, eyes wide and mortified as the cackle from the other end of the line sounds more villainous than genuine humour. Her words linger still in the air, and a very deep desire to Crtl+Z yourself from life’s current existence fills your petrified body.

You know Jungkook has heard the words because he pauses in his step very briefly, faint stutters in his movement as his back stays turned towards you. Before you catch the slightest motion of his head about to look over his shoulder, you’re whipping around and fumbling for your phone. With the greatest deft you can muster, your thumbs desperately try smashing the giant red ‘end call’ button.

To no avail, the phone screen freezes, Nari’s cackling report still filing through.

You think this feels like a nightmare. In fact, you’re certain you’ve had a nightmare precisely like this before. Except this is real, very much real and you’re humiliated. cheeks surely flushed crimson as you tut in annoyance at your malfunctioning product of capitalism.

Jungkook simply clears his throat and continues moving towards the kitchen once again, acting as if nothing has happened. Under any other circumstances, you would almost be offended, but given the current nature of what has just transpired, you both let the feeling pass. “Anyway,” Nari continues and you wish she’d shut up. “I gotta go, Yoongi just got Minecraft and I’m going to give him the best head of his life,” she groans into the mic in satisfaction. “I love you, bye!” She cuts the mic, completely and blissfully unaware of the impending Armageddon she’s inadvertently spawned. You’re stood there in horrified silence, counting to five in your head before you’re very anxiously swivelling around.

You open your mouth to say something, but words fail you. What could you even say?

Jungkook cuts in. “I’ll uh, put these away. Don’t worry about it.” He beams you a rather charming grin, completely devoid of any awkward tension that filled the air moments ago. Somehow, this surprises you far more than if he had acknowledged it.

You thank him with haste, your feet acting much quicker than your head as you swiftly cut across the kitchen towards the hallway where your bedroom stands. Avoiding eye contact at all costs, your face is surely now painted just as red as Jungkook’s bag of shrimp chips on the counter.

Perhaps it’s to ease yourself more than anything that you decide to get angry over this situation. You’re not angry at Nari, no, you’re angry at Jungkook. Who was he to waltz into your apartment and have you monitor your phone calls? And be shirtless nonetheless? Had he no manners? Why should you have to tiptoe around him? You think if this were Seokjin, he wouldn’t nearly make everything so uncomfortable for you in your own place of living. Seokjin would also wash all his dishes and sleep at a reasonable time. This thought only fuels you more.

The words slip out of you before you can even comprehend stopping. “For Christ’s sake wear a shirt while I’m home, I don’t need to see you prancing half naked around the apartment. This isn’t Magic Mike, it’s home- my home.” You bark, halting Jungkook in his movements as he goes to place a new carton of milk into the fridge. He turns to look at you, the dangle of his silver earrings glinting against the light and you almost grimace at how attractive he looks in this moment.

Before he can respond, you’re pivoting away from him and walking towards your bedroom.

You slam your door with a thud and let out a strangled groan. Perhaps it was too harsh, the anger is now replaced with further distress. You toss yourself onto your mattress, stuffing your face into the nearest pillow and restraining yourself with every ounce of self-control you have from screaming your lungs out into it.

You hadn’t even called Jungkook hot, you had mentioned that he was conventionally attractive- which wasn’t a lie in the slightest. You’re half tempted to call her back and scold her good for the humiliation she’s so blissfully unaware of causing, but as you pick up your phone, a text flashes across your screen with a name you’re all too familiar with. And all too soon, your agitation grinds to a halt, dissipates and metamorphosizes into a goofy, toothy grin.

Taehyung - [1 New Text Message]

Kim Taehyung works just across the room from you on the seventh floor of the accounting firm. He has rich blonde hair and plump pink lips that he constantly wets with a dab of his tongue. You swear he’s been purposely winding you up recently, the brushes against your skin too frequent, the lingering stares too prolonged and the husk in his voice too low when he speaks to you. You’ve had a crush on Taehyung since you’ve started working at the firm, two years ago. Of course, he’s completely unaware of this.

5:44pm [Taehyung]: Hey, can I ask you for a favour?

The squeal you let out is unbearable, even to you. You feel the reminiscence of being back in middle school when your sixth-grade crush, Park Jimin had asked you to the Halloween dance. Of course, that night had ended terribly for you, catching Jimin and your rival, Sooya slow dancing while you went to get unnaturally lukewarm fruit punch from the snack bar. But much like right now, you remember the butterflies fluttering through your entire body the night before the dance.

Feeling the crimson warmth return to your cheeks, you clutch your phone to your chest while a coy smile stretches across your lips. You practice your well-rehearsed, five-minute wait before texting Taehyung back, typing and retyping your response until you’re satisfied with a legible reply. Pursing your lips, you go back and forth between adding a smiley face or not, ultimately choosing to go with one just to further the delusions in your head that adding one will somehow make him fall madly in love with you.

5:50pm [You]: of course you can! :)

You gasp when your phone vibrates within seconds, a giddy coo leaving you as his name flashes once more across your screen. You slap a hand over your mouth when you hear the footsteps of Jungkook pass by your door, your eyes darting towards the shadow of his feet seen just underneath the crack of your door. His room- rather Seokjin’s room- is right next door to yours, another unfortunate occurrence in your miserable life.

5:50pm [Taehyung]: Could you possibly drop me off at the airport tomorrow morning? I’ll treat you to breakfast on the way!!

Your grin grows tenfold, your teeth clutching your bottom lip in its hold as you glide your fingers over the keyboard with an answer.

5:52pm [You]: it’d be my pleasure!!

It seems as if everyone but you and Jungkook were going away on vacation from this hell city. Perhaps you may be in need of one too.  

You drop Taehyung off at the airport at five in the morning. You think it should be illegal for anyone to wake up at such an hour. You hadn’t had much time to sleep, Jungkook’s nightly ramen snacking occurring at exactly two in the morning, just two hours before you were supposed to be awoken by the chirps of your alarm. As if the morning couldn’t have gotten any worse, you had learned Taehyung was travelling abroad to meet his very long-term and long-distance girlfriend for the first time. Your luck seems to have worsened as you’ve aged. All the signs you thought you’d seen of him visibly showing his interest in you had all been in your head.

By the time you reach home, it’s six, the sun barely peeking through the hillside view from your apartment and your eyes are droopy, heavy with sleep. A yawn escapes you as you place your keys on the kitchen counter before you kick off your shoes and shuffle towards the living room in a slump. You plop onto the couch, releasing a long exhale as you lift your feet up to lay more comfortably.

Briefly, you think you should stay up and get your day started, as you reckon most people who have their shit together would do as such. Unfortunately for your itinerary, you’re not most people and you’re certainly not someone who has their shit together. You’re _____ and you’re now dreaming, dreaming of a single Kim Taehyung.

His mouth is on yours, golden locks under the tight grip of your fingers and his cock is steadily rocking into you, fingers digging into your sides. He has you seated on the bathroom counter, your legs circled around his waist as his sharp thrusts elicit the neediest of cries from you.

“Taehyung!” You’re moaning, eyes rolled so far back into your skull, you feel the pull of your optic nerve. Loosening your grip on Taehyung’s hair, he moves away from your mouth and rests his forehead in the crook of your neck. Every curve of his dick plunges in calculated fashion into your cunt, egging you closer to your undoing.

Another sharp thrust has your entire body shuddering, a lapse of jitters filling you as your orgasm rumbles through you. When Taehyung lifts his head from the crook of your neck, you gasp. For when you look at his face, it’s no longer Taehyung, it’s now Jungkook.

He offers a lopsided smirk, an indent of his dimple forming around the right side of his mouth while a finger trails down your cheek.

“Wake up,” the apparition whispers.

You gasp awake, spine shooting upright as you heave heavy breaths. Skimming your hands over your face, you let out a frustrated groan, bewilderment and daze hitting you as you land right back to reality.

“Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” You hear a low voice and you immediately shriek, arms hugging yourself in a mock attempt to hide yourself even if you are fully clothed at the moment. You look over, glancing at the tall, frozen figure stood in the kitchen. His doe eyes are wide, startled by your reaction, dark hair wavy and long, clinging around the edge of his pale face and you can see the faintest trace of the red ink on his neck underneath the loose collar of his black hoodie. He’s got a knife in one hand and a half-cut tomato laid on a cutting board in front of him. “I-I was going to wake you up for lunch but…” His face has suddenly flushed to a shade of rose, tongue swiftly dabbing at his bottom lip. He clears his throat and hesitates before looking away. “Y-you seemed engrossed in your sleep, I didn’t want to wake you up.” What was that supposed to mean?

When you look behind him, the pot on the stove is steaming and it’s then that you catch the aroma of sauteed onions and oregano. Naturally, your mouth instantly waters, eyes glancing over to the digital clock that displays itself on the stove. It reads as five minutes past noon and you rub your eyes with the back of your hand before you’re blinking towards the time again. Had you really passed out for a solid six hours? How long had Jungkook been here? “You...don’t have work today?” You swallow, slowly raising up your feet.

Jungkook merely chuckles and shakes his head no. The silver of his dangling earrings swings with this motion. “I’m not working yet, I’m a student at Master Seong’s.” You had almost forgotten about the Taekwondo Academy, it’s the exact reason he’s now standing here in your kitchen cutting tomatoes. “Hopefully, I’ll be the one teaching by next year.” As he speaks, you notice he has a perfect set of pearly whites but then you think of course he does- anything that would make Jeon Jungkook less perfect at this point would be a micropenis. For whatever reason, that makes your blood boil but as much as you’re in disdain, the thought instantly brings attention to a sweltering puddle between your legs.

Your head shoots down, feet shifting uncomfortably as you feel a slick cling against your panties and it’s then that every aspect of your sex dream hits you in a movie montage. You had fully and wholeheartedly dreamt of Jungkook fucking you.

You gasp, unwillingly, feet losing balance before you catch yourself against the counter. Jungkook pauses and looks at you, a tentative eyebrow cocking in your direction in question.

“Is everything alright?” He asks, more curious than considerate. His voice seems to ebb and flow with the sultry ease that only he could— my god, maybe you do need to get laid.

You use your elbows to push yourself off the counter before you’re walking over to the stove, body brushing against Jungkook’s back as you reach for the vent switch.

“Next time you cook something, turn on the exhaust fan or else it’ll get smokey in here.” You say, voice stoic like ice in this smothering heat, ignoring the blatant arousal seeping out of your cunt. You brush past him once more to make way towards the hallway.

Jungkook sighs in defeat, watching as your figure disappears into your bedroom.

The moth outside your window bats against the patio light with a fierce determination that boggles your mind. You wonder what might be going through the moth’s head: does it ponder this alien, man-made warmth it now feverishly flutters around? Does it understand it in the slightest? Why else would such a simple creature be breaking the peace of a sticky midsummer’s eve?

You glance at the clock on your dresser. It’s now half past midnight, and you’re dying in this stupid heat. Perhaps it didn’t help that you had a six-hour nap, impressed by your ability to do so in broad daylight. And you can’t get it out of your head, the dream. It’s kept you horny all day- in need of relief. You think about the last time you’ve had sex, a one night stand with a tall, polite gentleman named Namjoon. It was quite possibly the best sex you’ve ever had, a shame you never caught his number.

With a less than pathetic groan of protest, you put your head between the pillow and the mattress, savouring the seconds of coolness that surround your head in a desperate bid to lower the temperature however you can. Something’s got to be better than stringing sex and a fucking invertebrate into the same train of thought this late at night.

Raising your head up from the pillow, you weigh your options. You’re not about to drink yourself to sleep, and your secret supply of ZzzQuil has run dry. Fortunately, you have a solution.

It’s nights like tonight that you can’t hold yourself back, orgasms helped you sleep better anyway. Your vibrator mocks you, blinking as it charges for the first time in weeks. You hear Jungkook shuffle on the other side of the room, your teeth gnawing at your bottom lip as you quietly reach your bedside table for a pair of headphones. You grasp at odds and ends until your fingers find purchase, and with a small sense of victory, you pull a very tangled mess of headphones from the drawer. You hear a cough on the other side and pause, gulping as if you’re fourteen all over again and just discovered the fruits of pleasuring yourself for the first time.

The vibrator’s LED light switches to a solid green, indicating its readiness to abuse your very untouched clit. You flush at the thought, yet eager as the familiar moisture pools in between your legs. You’re suddenly all too ready, all too demanding of the touch of a toy that you haven’t felt in too long. Why had you been putting this off for so long?

Unplugging it from the outlet next to your bed, you slip off your shorts and lay comfortably back onto your mattress. Another blush creeps onto your cheeks, your thumb unlocking your phone and opening the Chrome app. Making sure to switch to a private browser, you hesitantly type it in.

‘Pornhub’

The link loads embarrassingly quickly and you flush further, a mix of both the heat and your self chagrin marking the apples of your cheeks. You don’t even know what to look for, the home page overwhelming you with a variety of sinful thumbnails, begging to be clicked on. It almost makes you grimace in distaste, suddenly too aware of your surroundings and the situation at hand. You decide against pornography, gripping onto your imagination as you toss your phone aside and clear your throat, settling back onto the mattress with your eyes closed.

You’ll think about Namjoon. His broad hands, slender fingers and that deliciously thick cock. His moans, his honey skin and the way he was able to make you come twice that night.

Spreading your legs apart, you fixate the vibrator against your heat, gasping at the cool tip of the silicone already sensitive against your clit. You’re already soaked, the head gliding over your clit with slick.

It feels wrong when you turn the device on, the low buzz of vibrations filling the air. Brows knitted together, you picture Namjoon again. Trying to imagine the stroke of his tongue against your folds as the buzz of your vibrator rings through you, you gasp at the overwhelming sensation. Why didn’t you do this more often? You try to stay quiet, breathing growing laboured as the image of Namjoon between your legs morphs into something else. Rather, it morphs into someone else.

You see it in your head, your fingers threading through dark curls, legs pinned apart by two ink-sleeved arms. When you look down, you’re met by the intense gaze of brown doe eyes, his brows furrowed as his tongue flicks relentlessly against you. It’s almost as he’s smirking at you, the slightest quirk in his eyebrow implying that he knows he’d fucking you well with only his tongue. The image makes you shudder, shaking your head as you kick this sick fantasy out of your mind. Were you out of your mind?

On the other side of the room, Jungkook’s ears perk up to the sound of this low buzz. He hadn’t realized you were still awake. But as the buzzing intensifies, and a rhythmic deep breathing follows, it soon grows impossible to ignore. He has to be certain. Cautiously removing one earphone, he almost leans into the noise, cocking his head to the side.

No, that’s definitely you, alright.

You gasp as you apply more pressure to your clit, eyes rolling back from the waves of vibrations surging through your entire body. You can’t get it out of your head, imagining Jungkook’s taut arms holding you down, his tongue unforgiving against you. The moan that escapes you is wholly on accident, a hand slapping against your mouth in an attempt to silence yourself further.

Jungkook sits at his desk, dumbfounded. Were you really doing what he thought you were? Surely not. It’s then that hears the moan. It penetrates the thin wall that separates the two of you and stirs a familiar twitch in his boxers. He feels it press against the fabric, stretching with every heartbeat that knocks against his ribcage. His breathing begins to deepen, only letting his imagination wander as to what you were doing in this moment, merely a few feet away.

No, he thinks. Absolutely not. Behave yourself.

You’re…well, you’re moaning.

Fuck this, Jungkook’s inner dialogue protests. If you’re not going to play fair, then neither is he. He rises from his desk, tripping slightly over his office chair, clattering the plastic wheels against the hardwood floor. The sound reverberates through what feels like the entire house, and the silence is broken by the impact, which by all accounts seems far too noisy for its own good.

Jungkook freezes, terrified. The buzzing ceases just as suddenly, and the air is replaced with an undesirable discomfort.

Inside your room, your left hand tightens over your mouth the other switches off the vibrator. The kerfuffle seemed to have occurred frighteningly close, prompting a sudden cease to desist all sinful pleasures. The anxieties come in waves, one after another. Did he hear you? Oh God, how long was he listening? Was that even him?

A painful eternity passes. The silence fills the house once more, the crickets outside resuming their nightly song.

Jungkook half expects you to barge into his room, fuming at him for being a pervert and listening in but your feared assault never comes. If anything, his cock only seems to grow harder, the thought of you pleasuring yourself just on the other side of the wall so alluring, he begins to palm himself over his boxers.

You, on the other hand, upon the silence, convince yourself that he hadn’t heard after all. Surely, it was something else, Jungkook had probably already gone to bed.

Jungkook. Your lips form the shape of his name but no sound comes out, only a heavy exhale. This is wrong, beyond inappropriate and downright vulgar. It’s the dimples, you try to argue with yourself. Or those eyes, a deep coffee brown that take away from his masculine frame. It almost brings a childlike charm, distracts you from the surfeit of tattoos that mark his muscular build.

With impatience, you start the vibrator again, placing the device over your clit once more. You’re soaked beyond control, your own fingers itching to be stuffed inside yourself. Thumb hitting the setting button, the buzz of vibrations grow an octave higher as the intensity of the second setting rolls over your bead with a blast of euphoric pleasure. It’s almost too much, legs clamping shut as the judder of silicone repeatedly assaults your clit. Your panting growing quicker, inching you to tip over the edge. Oh, how you yearned to be filled with a cock.

“Fuck,” Jungkook mutters under his breath, giving into the barbaric thoughts in his head. Quietly, he slides his boxers down his thighs and situates himself back onto his desk chair. His cock is throbbing, tip a blushed pink as his heartbeat begins to resonate harder. Were you doing this on purpose? Were you testing him? Teasing him? He rests his head back, eyes fluttering to a close as he holds the base of his painfully erect cock with his right hand.

His hand slowly begins to slide up and down his own length, twisting slightly whenever his fingers cross over his glans. The sensation fills him with ecstasy, and he can’t help but gasp as he tightens his grip and continues to stroke his cock. He thinks of you, on the other side of the wall with your legs spread, flushed and begging to be fucked. How well he’d fit inside you, how well you’d take him in your tight cunt and how you’d whimper his name into his ear. With these thoughts, his pace on himself quickens, breaths laboured against the air. This was wrong, so wrong but hearing you like this, imagining you sprawled on your bed in desperate need of his touch only pushes him further to his climax.

For a moment, he thinks about risking it all and just ripping your door open to fuck you into your next existence. He stays planted onto the leather seat, his hands roaming in a familiar rhythm.

You are minutes, seconds away from seeing strings of white. It’s when you raise your vibrator to its third setting that you come undone, biting the inside of your cheek as your orgasm plummets you to a new horizon and Jungkook’s name sits at the edge of your tongue.

You feel it spray out of you, your arousal sprinkling over your bed sheets in a clear indication of your collapse. You gasp and shudder, quick to turn off the device as its relentless motion becomes far too much for your sensitive clit.

You lay for a moment, gathering your bearings as your high lingers between the furrow of your eyebrows. Your head feels heavy, sleep overtaking every inch of your body and you begin nodding off almost instantaneously, vibrator still in hand. It’s when you shift to doze more comfortably that your thigh makes contact with a cool, wet splotch.

Your eyes spring open and you’re sitting up, flicking on your bedside lamp. You have just squirted all over your sheets, the damp puddle prominent and deride. You sit there in disbelief, blinking at the mess between your legs. You frown, suddenly becoming aware of the incessant pounding in your head from your high and you curse yourself for making such a mess.

Now you have to do the laundry, there’s no way you could sleep in these.

Jungkook is close, frustratingly so…it won’t take much at this rate for him to blow his load all over himself. He places his hand firmly around the chair handle, fingers gripping against the plastic. His other hand strokes faster than ever before, breaths deepening. And as he reaches his climax, the quietest of moans escape his lips, followed by your name. It’s so soft on his tongue, it feels uncouth. The trail of white fluid follows, spurts out of his cock and onto his stomach. He pants, quick to milk every ounce of himself with the squeeze of his palm around the edge of his head and then he’s reaching for his water bottle, taking a cool swig of the liquid.

He has to shower now, there’s no way he could sleep like this.

As you unhook the last of your sheets from the mattress, you quickly roll the fabric into a giant ball within your arms. You’re on your tippy-toes, hesitantly reaching for your door as you twist the knob and pull the barrier open. You look around, relieved to see the hallway engulfed in complete darkness. Jungkook’s door is closed, no light emitting through the cracks which means he must be asleep. Gingerly, you close the door behind you and tiptoe towards the end of the hall where the laundry room is- attached to the shared washroom.

You’re quick to stuff the sheets into the washer, loading the detergent into the cartridges and powering on the machine. The room’s lights aren’t even on, you’re too lazy to find them. Besides, the stark moonlight and LED of the washing machine are plenty of light enough. When you’ve set the machine to its cycle, you ponder on what the hell you can do with no bedsheets to aid in your sleep and your body covered in sweat.

Even if you are hotter than before, sweatier than before, slumber takes a toll on your body. Your head feels weighted, drowsy from your hard climax. You think a shower would work best, turning to go back into your room for a change of clothes when you bump into something, rather someone.

You shriek and take cover under your raised arms, a soft glow of white light sifting through the crack of your arms as the washroom lights get flickered on. Raising your head out of the shield of your arms, you find Jungkook standing in front of you, void of a shirt and clad by only a pair of boxers.

“Jungkook, what the fuck?” You can’t help it, your eyes wander, rake him from head to toe. You can see it, the ever so light outline of a bulge, something that is definitely nowhere near a micropenis.

“I was just...about to shower. I’m sorry- I didn’t know you would be out here, I would’ve worn more clothes” His gaze is soft with worry and you’re reminded of your earlier outburst. It was quite hypocritical of yourself when you’ve just fucked yourself on a sex toy to scandalous thoughts of him. His eyes flickers to the low drone of the washer and then back to you. “You’re doing laundry?”

Your cheeks flush, your voice hitching in your throat as you promptly pull up an excuse as to why you’re doing laundry at nearly two in the morning. “I-I spilled some tea on my sheets, I have to wash them.” You hope it’s convincing enough. “I was about to shower too.”

Jungkook regards you carefully, expecting a scolding for even asking but it never comes. You’re flustered and painted a shade of red he is familiar with. He’s only familiar with it because he too is the same shade of red. You two had been pleasuring yourselves, separately yet simultaneously. The memory almost brings a fresh wave of lust.

“Why are you showering at-” you glance at the time on your phone, “-one o’clock at night?” Jungkook doesn’t expect this question from you. You had never been interested in anything he did other than if it was something bothersome to scold over. He clears his throat and uses his slender fingers to push his hair back. You reckon he’ll need a haircut soon.

“I was exercising in my room.” Technically, masturbation was a certain form of exercise…  

The air is stiff, you feel it. It crosses both of your minds, had you heard one another? Was it obvious? You shift on the balls of your feet, teeth crashing down on your bottom lip. “Well, who’s gonna shower first?” You eye his practically unclad figure. It’s impossible to not take notice of the Adonis belt that leads your vision straight to his casual bulge. You look away. “Technically I was here first.”

Jungkook chuckles and pokes the inside of his cheek with a tongue. “Technically this is your house too, right?”

Your head drops to the ground, a shameful pout crossing over your features. Perhaps you were too harsh earlier, but you may just be feeling this way from the endorphins.

You go against the wish for a shower, it’s the least you can do. “I’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight, just letting you know. Please don’t make food at some obscure hour of the night or I will kill you.” With that, you push past him, your shoulder knocking against his arm as you head towards the living room.

To Jungkook, there’s something so beguiling about your clear disdain for him. He merely observes you from where he stands, feeling another rush of blood make way to his cock. How could you so ignorantly disregard that you had just been touching yourself? Did you really not know he could hear you? It baffles him, leaves him with another hard-on as he turns away, closing the washroom door behind him before he’s turning on the shower.

Today, you’ve had a shitty day.

Kim Taehyung has put in his two weeks' notice. He’s quitting this job to move halfway across the world and live with his girlfriend abroad and your boss had informed you one of your very own clients have committed tax fraud, costing your firm thousands. Along with this, you’ve spilled coffee over your white button-up and the hair tie holding your crisp bun up had snapped to unleash your unbrushed, unwashed owl’s nest.

When you walk into the apartment, you almost don’t want to look at your reflection in the mirror. It was strategically placed in the foyer by Seokjin, his scientific reasoning behind it being so he could start a positive day by looking at himself one last time before leaving the house. This logic seems like bullshit to you now. Your hair is a lion’s mane, your black bra visible against the translucent, chestnut coffee stain on your chest and your face is shiny from the amount of sweat you’ve had building up throughout the day from this sweltering heat.

Kicking off your heels, you take notice that Jungkook’s Pumas don’t take their usual occupancy on the shoe rack. This means he’s not home and this means, he wouldn’t be seeing you in this state. Relief floods over you.

Somewhere prior to the halfway point of Jungkook’s stay, your animosity for his presence seems to have expired ever so slightly. Perhaps it had to do with your newfound liking towards him from your late-night fantasies, or maybe it was because he had actually been putting more effort into working around the house as of late.

You barely see him now, and when you do, he’s usually made your food along with his own or he’s left you sticky notes telling you he’s taken out the garbage for you or cleaned the washroom. It has warmed your rigid heart but only to an extended degree.

Carding your fingers through your hair, you tame as much of it as you can before you’re unbuttoning your dress shirt and letting the air dry it out. Your bra feels slick against your skin, the mixture of coffee and sweat too unbearable. You unclip it from behind and toss it onto the bar stool by the kitchen island.

After opening the fridge for a can of iced tea, you walk over to the pantry for a snack to accompany the icy, perspiring drink. But before you can make it, you suddenly take notice of it, the twinkling mound of silverware against the sunlight seeping through the windowpane. You look down at the small pile of unwashed cutlery in the stainless steel sink, an inferno flickering in your chest.  

The feeling crawls back, the feeling of wanting to reinforce your disapproval of him. It’s an emotional memory, screaming at you to go back to your familiar disdain, to a more comfortable habit. Or maybe it’s your horrible day, everything bad that’s happened leading up to this breakdown. You feel like an overly emotional pregnant lady, getting fired up over unwashed spoons and forks but you can’t push it down. You’re seeing red.

A click is heard from the bathroom down the hall, followed by the tune of a cheerful whistle. You wrap the open ends of your shirt around your chest, crossing your arms as you stand in the kitchen and await the figure’s emergence from the shadowy refuge of the hallway. Jungkook now appears at the mouth of the hall, one arm rubbing a small towel against his wet hair and the other clutching the towel hanging off his hips. Upon seeing you, his whistle abruptly drops.

“Hey,” he begins nervously. “I didn’t know you’d be home—”

The words come out of you like rapid-fire, all “good deeds” he’s ever done as a roommate escaping through the vents. “You…” You begin, and he winces. “Do you see this?” You point to the sink. “How fucking hard is it to wash your own forks and spoons? Fuck, I’m so tired of picking up after you!”

You’re really unable to stop yourself, weeks of pent-up frustrations just now unleashing, lashing against the boy with such vigor, you can see a gulp send his Adam's apple to a bob. “For the record, if you’re going to smoke, do it the absolute farthest away from the apartment- I cannot stand the scent of fake strawberries and watermelon anymore.” Your arm motions towards the hallway, your foot stomping with it. Jungkook’s gaze very briefly strays to your shirt that unravels, just barely covering your breasts. Were you not wearing a bra?

“For every shower you take after the initial one, you have to set aside two dollars extra towards the water bill and for the love of all things holy, please start eating dinner at a reasonable time- you make it impossible to like you when I’m forced to wake up at two in the morning almost every single night.” With one push off the counter, you’re off towards the hallway to your bedroom, the heat of Jungkook’s stare burning into the back of your skull as you pass by him.

Jungkook sighs.

“I try, you know.” His quiet words halt you in your steps. “I knew you never liked me but I never knew why...that much was always a mystery. It never stopped me from trying to be the best damn roommate you’re ever going to have.” You twist around, taking in his stance. Now his arms are crossed, the towel once on his head now draped over his arm. “And yet you still hate me.”

You’re disarmed, mouth suddenly dry as you take in his words. Jungkook continues. “I...I just don’t get it- and I have to admit it’s a little disheartening,” He takes an idle step forward. “I don’t know what to expect from you- one moment you’re scolding me and the next…” His eyes trail to the exposed delve between your breasts, carefully covered underneath your unbuttoned shirt. You coil into yourself, wrapping your shirt over your chest again as you shift your gaze to the marks of ink blossomed over his skin. “And the next you’re staring at me.” Steadily dragging his gaze back up towards your eyes, he smirks and speaks again. “Kind of like you’re staring right now.”

If there’s one thing you hate the most, it’s being called out. Your pride is wounded and you rise to the challenge, huffing a bemused breath. You shoot back with faux scorn. “I’m only staring because you’re practically naked in front of me. Have you no decency in the presence of a woman?” This makes Jungkook cock an eyebrow, and he finds himself closing more distance between the two of you.

He laughs, mirthless but nonetheless amused by your rebuke. “Usually in the presence of a woman like you, decency is the last thing on my mind.” Leisurely, you’re losing each other in one another’s gaze.

You scoff. “Like me? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t play coy, you and I both know you’re not near as good as you think you are.”

This statement catches you off guard, wholeheartedly. Your breath hitches in your throat as your eyes flicker between the towel that’s barely clinging around his waist to his eyes that have seemingly darkened, ablaze with something akin to salacity. Jungkook licks his lips, the length of his damp hair sending a tiny trickle of water down the side of his face. “And that doesn’t even count all the weird shit I’ve heard in this house.” Now you’re the one gulping, frozen in place as he takes another step closer. “You moan in your sleep, you moan when you touch yourself at night...” Your eyes widen in horror, he had heard you that night and possibly every night after that.

“I’ll never forget what your friend said on the phone, you know. With lips like that…you make it impossible to forget anything about you.”

Shit.

He’s gotten closer, much closer. With anyone else, the lack of distance between you would be nothing short of uncomfortable and unwanted, but you find yourself pulled towards him. The closing of the gap between you is mutual, and before you have a chance to shoot back a reply, his lips are hovering above yours. “Pretty lips that make pretty noises.” And then, his mouth is on yours.

Your knees nearly give out.

Before anything else, you’re filled with shock, an invasive shock. How could he be doing this?

He… He’s…he’s actually a pretty good kisser. You’re swept away, his arms cocooning around you. His lips pillow against your own, his tongue the taste of mint.

Jungkook is damp from his shower, his skin slick and cool under your touch as you slide your arms around his neck. This motion beckons you closer, pushing your lips harder against his. He walks you backwards and you follow suit, mouths remaining on one another as your back hits the wall right next to your bedroom door. There is absolutely no turning back now.

His hands are sliding down your body, feeling every curve of your body underneath his palms as he squeezes and kneads until he’s reached your ass. You moan into his mouth when he grabs handfuls of your bottom, a calculated grip that he uses to push your pelvic bone against his growing erection. This invites his tongue into your parted mouth, taking in the taste of yours into his own. They cushion around each other, a synchronous valse that only grows the moisture in between your legs. You feel his want for you build against your stomach, the thickness that lays just beyond his towel.

Jungkook’s teeth find the plump of your bottom lip, a gentle gnaw at the flesh before he’s tugging at it. The whimper you let out only elicits a growl to emit from his chest, the hands on your ass now sliding up your sides until they’re cupping your face. It’s then that his clear want for you becomes evident, a taut prominence poking against your stomach.

“M’Jungkook…” You whimper into his mouth, his right hand moving from your cheek to the base of your neck. You gasp as his palm pushes against your sternum, the fingers wrapped around your neck tightening in the slightest as you’re pushed farther against up against the wall. Jungkook hums in response, his lips relentless against your own.

His mouth works in precise vigour against your own. It’s as if he has been starved of this moment for too long, days, weeks of holding himself back. You can’t stop yourself either, not quite being able to comprehend the happenings of this exact moment. Nights of pleasuring yourself to the thought of your roommate and here you two are, your cunt seemingly progressing into an ocean of slick and his cock ready to be smothered in it.

Jungkook pulls away, and when you get a chance to look at him, his cheeks are powdered in a shade of rose, his lips marginally swollen from your heated kissing and his eyes ablaze with a craving you can’t even describe. “Not so smart with that mouth now, are you?”

You swallow thickly, words failing you. Your eyes glance towards the roses stoic on his neck. Oh, how you’d like to lick over them. The situation is beyond words, and you reckon if it hadn’t been, that actions still would fare far better than words.

Jungkook drops to his knees in front of you and fiercely grabs your hips. You inhale sharply, head dropping as your fingers instinctively grasp for purchase against his impossibly broad shoulders. They’re marked with feathers that lead down his biceps in the shape of wings. You can’t help but dig in, your nails leaving thin red crescents slashing across the ink as your back rests against the wall.

“You think you can get away moaning my name every night?” He groans, alternating between breaths and kisses around your pelvis, slowly moving past your navel. His fingers hook around the belt loops in your pants, his free hand eagerly tugging down your zipper. With precision, he pulls your pants down until you’re clad in only your underwear. Thank God, you chose today of all days to wear a thong. The baby pink silk, smooth underneath his fingertips. Jungkook looks up at you wishfully, his doe eyes radiating a boyish innocence that contradicts the ink littering his skin. But then he speaks, his voice a soft growl.

“I hope you taste as delicious as you look,” he says, not doubting for a second that you won’t as he bites the elastic of your thong. You are breathless; it’s hard not to be when Eros himself is between your legs, yearning for a taste of your dripping sex.

Your breath catches in your throat, Jungkook’s thumb skimming down your pubic bone to where you want, need it the most. You shiver as he circles against your clit through the cloth, a purposeful pressure that has you tightening your grip on his shoulders. He can feel the moisture against the fabric, your arousal clinging against the material.

“I didn’t even have to touch you and you’re already this wet for me, baby?” He licks his lips, fingers running up and down your thighs. The nickname baby stays with you, lingers and only soaks you further. You roll your head back against the wall, letting his fleeting fingers latch around the band of your thong before you feel them being tugged down your legs.

It’s almost instinctive for you to want to cross your leg over the other, to keep Jungkook from seeing you so bare and needy for him. But of course, Jungkook doesn’t let this happen. He kisses your right hip bone before tracing a bold lick diagonally down to your pelvis. Your fingers rub against his shoulders, one hand gliding up the back of his head to comb through the mass of his damp dark curls.

Jungkook hikes one of your legs over his shoulder, letting the balm of your foot rest against the delve of his back as he spreads you above him. A broad hand pushes your hip back against the wall, the one leg you’re balanced on steady underneath his aiding grip. He uses his free hand to run his second and third digit up and down your wet folds. You shiver.

He looks up at you once more. This time, a lopsided smug grin adorns his face as he beams you a set of perfect teeth, the familiar indents of his dimples marking against his lower cheeks. “I’m going to make you come so hard.” You’re moaning in response to this, leg wavering as you feel the slide of Jungkook’s forefinger push into you. He hums in appreciation, your tightness inviting the chafe of his finger. He places a chaste kiss just above your pubic bone as he begins a slow rhythmic pump of his finger.

“Fuck,” you breath out, the ridges of his calloused digit filling you far greater than your own ever has. You can’t even begin to imagine how his dick will feel, your fingers laced into his hair tightening their hold as well.

It’s when you feel the point of Jungkook’s deft tongue stroke against your clit that you cry out, his hand gripping your hip harder against the wall as he feels you waver above him. Your eyes flutter to a close, letting him have his way with you against his tongue. He uses it mercilessly, flicks pointed and dexterous against your clit as his finger pushes in and out of your tight heat. “Oh my god, Jungkook.” He inserts another finger and you nearly lose yourself.

Your eyes are rolled back, your hips involuntarily jerking away from Jungkook’s grip as they push forward in search of more of his mouth. You feel it bubbling inside you, each stroke of his fingers and each swirl of his tongue making it impossible for you to focus on anything else but this feeling. He laps around your clit, strict and continuous. When you open your eyes to look down, you see his gorgeous hair enveloped in the thread of your fingers. You’ve never been eaten out against a wall like this and it only adds more to your impending undoing.

Jungkook’s digits move quicker now, with each pump comes a curl that elicits the neediest of whimpers to fall past your lips. He feels his cock twitch with every sound you make, a melodic hymn to his ears. He alternates between sharp flicks and taking the whole of your clit with his mouth in a gentle siphon. This time there is no barrier of a wall between the two of you, this time he can hear you as vividly as he hears the tits chirp outside his window every morning and this time, you are not using a vibrator on yourself, he’s fucking you with his tongue.

He can feel you tightening against his fingers, your walls clenching unimaginably tight around him with every stroke. You are close, so very close and the feel of his relentless tongue lapping around your clit along with his slender fingers has you seeing nothing but the ceiling above you. Jungkook picks up the pace of his tongue as well, his head moving in vigour as he fervently pushes the wet muscle against your bead.

He senses it coming before you do, his tongue and fingers in a violent rhythm. You jerk above him, your hold on his hair impossibly tight as you let yourself go, crying out his name from your orgasm. He feels your squirt spray out of you, it coats his mouth and chin, sprinkling even to his chest as you shake above him. Jungkook does not stop, digits pumping even faster, tongue continuing their assault.

You chant his name as you writhe underneath his grasp. The sensation becomes too much within seconds of your orgasm but somehow his persistence makes it feel as if you can come all over again.

“J-jungkook p-please,” you beg, your fingers unraveling from his hair and tightening onto his shoulders as you try to push him away. He follows suit, unlatching his mouth from your heat before languidly rising to his feet.

When you look at him, his lips are swollen and painted in your clear arousal, your squirt coating down the cleft of his chin, streaming his neck and sprinkled across his chest. It matches his damp hair, uniform with the wetness of his previous shower.

“You...just...squirted. All over me.” You can’t quite tell if this statement holds aversion at first. Truth be told, you’ve never squirted from a man’s tongue against you.

Jungkook steps closer. “Do you know how fucking hot that was?” You don’t know, but Jungkook is taking your hand into his and placing it over it his very hard bulge. You gasp at the feel underneath your palms, unyielding to your touch. It’s far greater of a bulge than you’ve ever felt before.

You smell yourself on him, a faint fragrance that you taste when Jungkook leans forward to kiss you with greed. His mouth his sticky, kisses lingering against your lips. When he pulls away, his fingers glide over the knot that holds his towel up. You watch him, eagerly as he pulls at the twist, letting the towel to fall to the floor with a soft thud.

Fuck.

Holy fuck.

“Oh my god,” you catch yourself saying out loud.

Jungkook is big. Larger, thicker than you could have ever imagined. An erect serpentine that lays firmly in his hand as he takes the base of his cock in his palm, you can’t look away. You gulp, eyes flickering between his daunting length and his growing smirk. Your mouth suddenly feels parched, a tentative tongue poking through the seams of your lips to swipe over your lips. Something about him not using the towel to directly wipe off your squirt makes your stomach flip with somersaults, so aroused by the idea of him wearing your ograsm on him with pride.

Jungkook twirls his forefinger in the air. “Turn around,” he commands and you oblige, twisting your body as you lay the flat of your palms against the cool wall. Jungkook pulls at your hips, mumbling words of profanities as your ass grinds against his thick erection. He already feels so full against your heat.

Kicking your legs open and apart, his feet stand in between yours, making it impossible for you to close them. He places a kiss against your shoulder, your forehead rested flush to the wall as a tender hand kneads at the cheek of your ass. He spanks it once, the echo of both the slap and your yelp of surprise travelling down the hall.

Hot and heavy against the shell of your ear, his damp hair tickles your neck as he whispers. “Think you can take it, baby?”

“Y-yes.” Your answer is short and breathless, hips instinctively grinding against him for further proof of your want. This earns you another spank and Jungkook is taking the base of his cock in one hand, spreading your cheeks with his free hand as he lines up to your cunt.

He nudges past your folds with his head, speaking in a low growl. “Good girl. Now let’s hear you scream.” He pushes in.

The stretch of his tip pressing into you tingles with a sizzling burn, the pressure that follows has your fingers curling against the wall and an arm reaching back to grasp onto Jungkook’s hip.

He takes your offering hand, interlocking your fingers together as he pushes another inch into you before pulling back out. He lets you adjust, your mixed moans echoing throughout the hallway as he juts his head forward to fill you once again.

His girth pinches against your walls, deliciously so and Jungkook pauses every couple of moments to let you feel every inch fill you until he’s reached the hilt.

He lets your hand go and you bring it back to press against the wall in aid of holding you up. “That’s it, baby...take every inch of it.” His voice is low, husky, something so carnally divine in the clip of his syllables that it has you rolling your head back. “You’re doing so fucking good. Does it feel good?”

“Y-yes,” you say as you exhale shakily.

He rolls out of you, his name just on the edge of your tongue before he’s thrusting forward to have it spill out of your mouth. The velvet smooth feel of Jungkook’s cock mixing with your slick arousal makes the pinching sensation come to an ease. He’s swearing behind you, alternating between muttered profanities and guttural moans.

“So. Fucking. Tight. You feel so good, baby, taking me so well.” His fingers are firmly grasping onto your hips, his thrusts now beginning a steady rhythm as he steadily fucks you against the wall. Jungkook’s girth knocks the breath out of you, a full pressure that fills your tight cunt so satisfyingly, you almost lose yourself a second time within minutes from your first orgasm.

Jungkook is panting behind you, fingers surely leaving bruises against your skin as he speeds his hips to pound into you. He loosens his grip, three of his digits tracing a line down your spine before cutting around your waist and hovering above your clit. “Come again for me, baby. One more time, squirt for me.” It’s with these words that you decide, you don’t want to squirt on the floor once more, you want to squirt on him, on top of him.

“W-wait.” You reach your arm back, pressing the flat of your hand to his hip in a gesture to stop. He stills immediately.

“Did I hurt you?” The worry in his voice only causes you to release a breathless laugh, shaking your head no in reassurance.

“I want to ride you.” How could Jungkook ever say no to that? Without a beat of hesitance, he slides out of you, taking his cock in his hand before lightly tapping the head against each of your cheeks. Gripping your waist, he spins you to face him, a dimpled smile greeting you as you reach his gaze.

“Mm, is that so?” He asks and you nod, returning his smile. The dim glow of sunlight pouring into the hallway allows you to see the glowy sheen of his sweat and your arousal glimmer against his face and chest, enhancing his tattoos. The dampness of his curls have dried but a new layer of perspiration forms a film over his forehead.

You take Jungkook’s hand in yours, leaning forward to place a chase kiss on his lips before you’re leading him into your bedroom. You walk him backwards, your hands on his shoulders and his eyes focused nowhere but on yours. It’s when the back of his knees knock against the edge of your bed that he’s forced to have a seat.

He expects you to straddle him, you see it in the glimmer of his doe eyes but instead, you drop to your knees in front of him, arms separating his inked thighs apart. This takes Jungkook by surprise, he cocks his head to the side, an eyebrow raising in question.

You hands glide up and down his legs, a grin stretching across your face as you lean forward and place a gentle peck to the base of his thick cock. Jungkook hums in satisfaction, eyes holding a challenge as he watches you with great concentration.

The pink of his head looks all too inviting as you take his cock in your hands. As you do so, Jungkook’s hands roam up your arms before they’re resting on each of your shoulders. He benignly grips at the tense muscles of your shoulders, thumbs moving in circles over your skin. “You’re tense.” He vocalizes.

“You’re fucking huge.” You hit back, eyes wide and mouth salivating at the heaviness in your grasp. It’s tacky, coated in you as you swipe a thumb over the head and Jungkook hisses above you. When you look up at him, his dark eyes are speared to your movements, teeth gritted. You begin moving your hands up and down his length.

“You can take it in your mouth, can’t you?” The tone in his voice depicts a challenge and your ears nearly perk in interest. Of course you can take him in your mouth. You lean forward, Jungkook’s broad hands leaving the expanse of your shoulders to slide up the sides of your head. His fingers comb your hair back, pulling it into a makeshift ponytail. The movement flexes the muscles on his inked biceps and you have to admit to yourself that he looks so fucking good.

Jungkook is all too eager as he watches you, the flat of your tongue sticking out to lick around the rim of his head. He chokes back a groan, grip on your hair tightening. You stretch your mouth as wide as you can, a discomfort to your movement as you engulf the whole of his head with your tongue. Jungkook inhales a sharp breath, fingers threaded into your hair as he eases you down to take more of him.

You wrap your lips around the velvet tip, beginning a slow suction. “Fuck,” Jungkook mumbles from above you, shifting on the mattress, watching you. “Open wider, baby.” You do as asked, jaw already sore from the girth of his head alone. He pushes his hips off the mattress in the slightest, grip on your hair firm as he thrusts more of himself into your mouth.

You’re careful not to let your teeth graze over the skin of his cock, your fingers tightening around his length before you start to twist your wrists and continue sucking. Jungkook is careful to be gentle with you, very tenderly urging his cock to fill more of your mouth. It shocks you when you feel the blunt of his head hit the cap of your airway, eliciting a gag.

Jungkook pulls out a millimeter before he’s pushing back in, teeth gritted and eyes focused. Your mouth looks so pretty stuffed with his cock; it’s almost as pretty as your cunt taking him to the hilt.

Another gag rumbles out of you and vibrates against his member, this time, Jungkook being the one to moan. His hips stutter in shallow thrusts into your mouth and you feel the sting of tears threatening to blur your vision.

The sounds of your gagging bounces off the walls of your bedroom, followed by the guttural moans of Jungkook as he fucks your mouth. Each thrust of his hips causes the head of his cock to push past your airway.

You release your hold around his length, fingers thickly coated in your own saliva as you find purchase of the flesh of his thighs. You let him have his way with you, your mouth stretched as wide as you can physically make it and a single thread of a tear rolling down your cheek. You look up through the flutters of your eyelashes, pleased to see the Adam’s apple in Jungkook’s throat bob up and down while his head is thrown back in pleasure.

The sudden pull of his cock from your mouth comes with a light ‘pop’ followed by you gasping for air. Using his hold on your hair, he jerks your hair back so you’re forced to look up at him. He hungrily latches his lips onto yours, sloppy and wet with a relentless tongue that intrudes your mouth.

You slide your hands over his thighs, towards the ridges of muscles on his abdomen as he helps you rise to your feet. Your right palm travels up his chest, your other arm circling around Jungkook’s neck as you let him grab a handful of your ass. With a persuasive lift, he places you on his lap, your legs wrapping around his torso as his mouth remains on yours.

“M’let me ride m’you,” you gasp in between kisses, Jungkook’s toned arms looping around your waist as he shuffles closer to the edge of the mattress.

“Yeah?” He moves from your mouth to the edge of your jaw.

“Please.” Jungkook loosens his grip around your waist, letting you rest the front of your calves on either side of him. You situate yourself, raising your hips as your hand finds his still, very erect length to line against your core.

“Look at you so needy for my cock, don’t hate me so much anymore?” The smugness in his tone only grants him a glare from you, a chuckle following his tease. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m in need of you too.” You have noticed, his massive cock hasn’t wavered in want in the slightest since he first kissed you.

You huff a breath. “I never hated you.” Rubbing his head a few times over your sex, you finally sink down onto it, your cunt eagerly taking in his head. You gasp at the feel of this new position, his length gliding in much smoother with your previous practice. “You just need to start washing your fucking dish- ah!” You cry out, hands fumbling to grasp at his shoulders as Jungkook juts his hips up, slamming into you. His girth stretches your walls once again and he feels so fucking delicious in you like this. Quite frankly, you’re unsure if you’ll be able to go back to an average sized penis ever again.

“Mm, I should keep pissing you off if it means I get to shut you up like this.” His voice hitches at the last word as you pick your hips up and ram yourself back down onto his cock. You both moan at this, your arms once again looping around Jungkook’s neck as his hands firmly grip your hips in guidance.

Your teeth clash as you kiss him with each bounce of your hips, the position more so letting you gently rock over his cock. Your clit rubs against his skin with each roll of your hips, making sure you alternate between circling your hips and bouncing on his cock. Jungkook is losing himself, you know this because he holds you tightly, firmly as he lets you take control. You ride him hard and slow, the pre crescendo to his coming end.

“Come for me, Jungkook,” You moan against the shell of his ear, legs losing stamina as you try to keep a rhythmic pace. But Jungkook doesn’t want to finish just yet, he wants you to come again too.

You yelp as he slides his hands under your ass, lifting you off him before he’s throwing you onto the mattress so you’re on your back. He stands up, above you at the edge of your bed, taking your knees in the crevice of his elbows before yanking you towards him.

“Where is it?” He gruffs, fingers gripping your waist.

“What?”

“Your vibrator, where is it?” If you weren’t flushed already from Jungkook’s cock, you’d be blushing at his knowledge that you even had one. You stretch your arm above you, fingers reaching underneath a pillow where you usually keep it hidden. Grasping the device in hand, you bring it out, idly waving it in front of the ink-skinned boy. He grins, the youthful boy-like glint returning in the doe of his eyes as he releases your leg from the arm that extends to retrieve it from you.

Inspecting the controls, he finds the power button, clicking it on. A low buzz fills the room. the words that follow leaving you breathless again.

“Ah...now there’s the noise I like to hear every night.” Clicking it back off, Jungkook places it carefully next you before hooking your leg back around his elbow, hoisting your hips up. You watch with eager eyes as he pokes his tongue past his lips, letting a string of saliva drizzle carefully over his cock. He smooths the slick over his cock, letting it coat the entirety of his length before he’s guiding his head against your opening.

He gently slaps his head against your clit before rubbing against it, letting your arousal build once more. You shift your hips in impatience, fingers gripping tightly against your sheets. Jungkook leans down towards your mouth, claiming your lips once more, hard and deep. He tastes of sweat and your arousal, a tinge of salt that you lick away. When he pulls away, he’s pushing his cock into you again.

The curve of his dick hits differently with this position, now he has more control with hitting just the right spots. He’s slow at first, frustrating slow as if he’s testing each stroke of his hips to see how you react. When he’s surging forward until he’s got an inch remaining, you’re crying out loud.

“Here?” He asks and you nod profusely, words unable to form on your tongue. Jungkook pushes even deeper, another cry escaping your lungs at the new fullness. Your grip around your sheets grow tighter, teeth harshly biting down on your lip as he begins steady rock in and out of you.

You’ve never been filled so well like this, his cock hitting every surface area of your inner walls as he stretches you delectably with each roll of his hips. He fucks into you, hard and deep, changing from circling his hips to pistoning into you with no mercy. He talks filth into the air, profanities and moans chased by the sounds of skin slapping as he relentlessly plummets into you.

He can feel you about to come, the pressure of your clenched walls tightening around him to un unprecedented degree. With each thrust, your cunt only eagerly invites him back in, needy for his spurts of cum. This is when Jungkook grabs the vibrator he placed beside you, thumb quick to power the device on. You yelp and mewl as he places the silicone tip against your clit, the vibration ringing through both of you. The sensation is overwhelming, the girth of his cock mixed with the jolts of your stimulated clit leave you near screaming his name. You shake underneath him, legs quivering as you feel the rise of your orgasm build through your entire body.

“You can squirt again, baby. I know you can. I know you want to.” Your body jerks and still as the combination of one more thrust and the vibe hit you exactly where you need it to, to come undone. Jungkook doesn’t fight it, the pressure of your squirt pushing his cock out of your tightness. “That’s it, darling, so fucking hot.” He keeps the vibrator on you and you whimper, releasing the clutch of the sheets as you flail your arms towards the vibrator in an attempt to push it away from you. Jungkook does not budge.

“P-please, fuck, Jungkook...it’s too much, please.” He does not stop, watching you with intent as your body shakes underneath his control of the vibrator. He knows you can come again.

“One more time.” Your legs are desperately trying to clamp shut but Jungkook expertly holds your legs apart with his torso as he continues assaulting your clit with the silicone. It buzzes against you, rings through your entire body and within minutes you’re coming all over again. It’s so intense, you nearly black out, your voice clamouring to a scream of Jungkook’s name.

He turns it off and throws it somewhere on the mattress before he’s sliding into you with ease. He fucks your squirt back into you with a push of his cock.

This time, Jungkook wastes no time. This time, he drills into you, clamping your legs together as he pushes them forward until your knees hit your chest. This position allows him to go deeper, watching your cunt swallow every inch of his cock with greed along with every thrust of his hips. He feels his orgasm rapidly approaching.

Each snap of his hips become sloppier, his laboured breathing sporadic as his fingers dig harshly into your calves.

“Where do you want me to come?” He rasps, pulling your legs apart once more.

“I-inside me, please.” Your words elicit a mumbled fuck from him followed by a groan. You watch him through lidded eyes, your head thick and heavy from your plentiful of orgasms. Jungkook looks like the God of sex himself above you, sweat dribbling down his forehead, his dark long waves spilling over his eyes, his inked chest glistening and his muscles flexing with every grind of his hips into you. He is the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. “Come, Jungkook,” you coo, egging him to come undone. “Come inside me.”

With the last phrase, his hips stutter and still before he’s gasping for a breath as he spills himself into you. He shouts your name, voice getting caught in his throat. He steadily moves again, milking every last drop of himself inside of you as your walls achingly aid him.

As he comes to a stop, the room is filled with nothing but the sounds of your mixed heavy panting. Jungkook leans forward, pressing a heavy kiss against your lips before he’s pulling away from your mouth and away from your cunt. He watches, mesmerized as his cum dribbles out of you. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen, your tight cunt filled to the brim with his seed.

“Fuck,” he pants, reaching his arm out to help you sit up. You roll your head forward into your palms, the rush of dopamine pounding into your skull with a massive headache. “You okay?” He asks and you nod your head, face still encompassed by your hands.

“You...should piss me off more often.” Jungkook chuckles at this. When you look up from your hands, his wavy locks have a newfound dampness, beads of sweat encompassing his tattooed chest. He’s grinning, a lopsided grin that leaves you with a warm feeling pounding in your chest. 

Jungkook offers you a hand, guiding you off the bed. You take it, letting him pick you up to your feet with the strength of his biceps. 

“Yeah, yeah I should.” You’re both walking out your bedroom and towards the shower.

Seokjin wears nothing but a grimace at the kitchen island as he watches you and Jungkook coo at each other. He’s just returned from his trip abroad, hands crossed over his chest as he observes the blasphemy before his eyes. Jungkook is by the stove, flipping the last of Seokjin’s steak and you’re beside him preparing a salad on the counter.

“Disgusting.” Seokjin scowls. “I leave for three months and this happens?” He scoffs at the thought of the two of you cooking him steak for dinner, as if it would break the bearer of this terrible, awful news. You two are now dating. His best friend and his roommate- to Seokjin, it’s an ultimate betrayal.

You sigh and roll your eyes, setting your freshly made salad in front of him as Jungkook brings over a sizzling pan of steak. He wears a grin on his face, a grin that matches yours before you’re leaning on your tiptoes to kiss against the indented dimple against his lower cheek. Seokjin nearly gags at this.

He truly thought he’d be rid of you as soon as this lease had ended but here you were, snogging who he thought to be his best friend. He thinks he’ll have to burn his mattress too.

“Great,” he says, deadpan, picking up his knife and fork. “I’m stuck with you forever now.” With the greatest of fake enthusiasm, he musters a disingenuous smile and angrily digs into his steak.

He hates that it’s delicious. 

all rights reserved © jeongi

a/n: HEWWOOOO. how u feeling!? 🥴i REALLY!!! did not expect this fic to be so long holy shit im so sorry, i went out of control!!!! this was very loosely based off real-life events that were then fuelled by jungkook’s lotte concert look. and badda bing, badda boom, a 13k fic of pure smut is born and i am wholly unashamed of myself. i really hope you enjoyed reading this filth, it was very fun for me to write!!! please let me know what you think and as always, thank you for reading and i love youuuu 💞

[puttingfingerstokeys]

thermodynamic equilibrium

there’s a fucking mouthful for ya. Fire and Ice (subscorp)... sorta hurt/comfort but in a gruff old guy ninja way??? idk I love these fuckers. Unedited and like, I didn’t bother messing with italics because I am, as you may have gathered, painfully lazy. Sequel to Heart and Fire.

Broken Timeline 

The furs-covered bed, broad and expansive, was plenty of room and then some for the Grandmaster. The “and then some” was occupied by his recently-returned lover, Hanzo Hasashi. Kuai Liang slept peacefully next to him, one arm tucked under Scorpion’s neck, with the man’s face pressed close into his chest, hands curled up somewhere between them, protective. Their bodies sprawled next to each other, entangled from earlier exertions and, since neither had been willing to part, there they stayed, chill against hot, pale against nut brown. We are truly balanced, then, aren’t we? Sub-Zero’s dreams drifted in and out of the sensible, as dreams did, leading him down the paths of old memory and then into uncharted fog, the future, perhaps. It was only when his dreams began to prickle and scorch that he stirred.

Hanzo did not stir. He lay motionless, making nary a sound. His body, however, was heating up at an alarming rate, rather like a fever. Sub-Zero awakened to the touch of scalding flesh upon him. He breathed deeply, seeking the cool, quiet spot, deep in his spirit, the place whence his ice would be summoned. They had done this before, many times, during Scorpion’s recovery. Takeda had graciously agreed to continue his post as interim Grandmaster of the Shirai-Ryu while Hanzo made the arduous trek back to true, thriving life. It was Kuai Liang’s pleasure to be the catalyst for this, despite Scorpion’s vehement protests.

Carefully, he wrapped his chilling arms tighter about the other man’s compact frame. Scorpion was tense, coiled like a spring, and the heat was becoming unbearable. Once more, Sub-Zero took a breath of cool night air, warmed by the braziers which burned low in his chambers, slowed by curtains and furs, but otherwise pure and unhindered. Hanzo pushed away from the grip instinctively, some part of him recognizing potential danger—either via memory or training. Kuai Liang redoubled his efforts and slowly began speaking to his friend. At first, he said little other than “you are safe” and “it is not real—whatever you are seeing is a dream”, which soon evolved into gentle declarations of adoration, protection, and deep, abiding affection.

By the time icy kisses began raining over Scorpion’s face, the man was awake and breathing hard, no longer fighting against Sub-Zero’s arms but pulling himself closer, clinging to the man like a life raft. His heart hammered violently in the confines of his broad chest and he was sweating hard, the droplets beginning to vaporize in the heat that his own body was producing. The shivering started soon after as Kuai Liang’s grip began to chill him to the very center and he finally, finally relaxed.

“That was interminable,” he growled irritably, nestling closer to Sub-Zero with a shudder he could not hold back. Still their limbs were entangled and so they stayed even as he shifted. “I do not know how much longer I can stand these… spells.”

“You have suffered great trauma, Hanzo, and loss,” Kuai Liang reminded him, reaching down to pull more furs up and over the two of them. He considered removing himself from the equation and sleeping atop them, holding Scorpion through their warmth, but it was clear from the way the Shirai-Ryu Grandmaster was laying that he did not want him to go anywhere. 

“I have suffered these things before,” snarled Scorpion.

“And you slept alone, then, struggling through it on your own.”

“I did not sleep.”

“Even worse, my Fire. You must recover yourself; your clan needs you, but they do not need one who refuses to do that properly.”

Scorpion stiffened. Sub-Zero knew just how to speak, what to say, and when, to slide deftly under the fiery ninja’s skin and prick him deep and thoroughly. He was right, of course. Long years as Grandmaster had taught Kuai Liang much, but he had learned even more growing up in the chilly ranks of the Lin Kuei, battling not only external foes, but internal in the form of his resentful brother, Bi-Han, and others who hardly deemed him worthy of the name Tundra, much less Sub-Zero.

My love has proven them wrong, he reminded himself, so many times over, I cannot count. It will do so again. He held Scorpion gently now, shifting back to peer into those white, inscrutable, wraith’s eyes. He missed the gentle, doe brown of Hanzo’s—the color that was wholly his and no one else’s. It was flecked with gold and glowed with inner fire Sub-Zero could not begin to describe, only to appreciate in gestures bordering on the worshipful.

Kuai Liang was content to rest in the silence, but he did not close his eyes, opting instead to continue watching Scorpion’s face. The man’s features were so refined and sharp that every twitch of a muscle seemed to change his whole countenance. Perhaps it was long years of knowing the man without his mask, but Sub-Zero thought his features were beautifully sculpted to tell any viewer with half a mind precisely what he was thinking.

Many seemed to miss these cues and ended up on the wrong side of Hanzo Hasashi’s hellfire temper. Even Kuai Liang himself had felt the heat, more than once, but rarely without purpose and always to good ends. He recalled their first serious conflict with relish and fondness. He had proposed the unity of their clans. When Scorpion had responded with expected hostility, having only recently began the road to rebuilding the Fire Gardens and the Shirai-Ryu, Sub-Zero had merely stated he would reiterate his proposal when he, Scorpion, had “cooled down”.

This had, naturally, caused Hanzo’s ire to rise to a fever pitch and the battle had been glorious. Kuai Liang still bore a few scars from it and he noticed that Scorpion did, too. They were well-matched and what had finished it, what had saved them both from unnecessary pain, was Sub-Zero’s powerful arms, closing around Scorpion’s body, holding tight, and deep freezing him. “I will cool you down, then,” he had said, speaking it into the Shirai-Ryu ninja’s ear as the man lost consciousness. 

Once again, it was this same technique which was helping to pull Hanzo Hasashi out of that space of nightmares and hellscapes which was the subconscious, unconscious mind of a survivor of Netherrealm’s deepest pits.

“I will bear these scars for the rest of my life,” Scorpion said, staring into Sub-Zero’s eyes, daring him to argue. Nodding, Sub-Zero brought his lips to the man’s forehead, laying them there gently, without urgency, drawing back as he pleased.

“I know you will,” he said quietly. “Your body and mind are a tapestry of your story—we are all stories, but some of us are … page-turners.”

His smile was soft, just as gentle as the kiss he had offered up. It softened Hanzo’s expression marginally and Kuai Liang felt himself breathe a mental sigh of relief. He was afraid it would come to blows, as it sometimes did. Likely, now, they would speak a while, talk of the past, of the future, of the present, and then perhaps make love before drifting off once more.

Their athleticism had not waned in their time apart, but upon Sub-Zero’s insistence, they were taking it relatively easy on the intimacy front. He knew it frustrated his companion, but the last thing he wanted to do was prolong Hanzo’s recovery time because they had been a little too ambitious. He didn’t mind having the man around. Ideally, Scorpion would simply retire, leave the Shirai-Ryu to Takeda, a very worthy successor, and come to live with him at Arctika, permanently.

He knew there was more of a chance to see Lord Raiden’s hair.

“Takeda is a worthy man,” Hanzo whispered hoarsely, dropping his gaze, wishing only to talk now. 

“You trained him well,” said Sub-Zero, his compliment not a hollow one. He had seen the Shirai-Ryu fight and they were all proficient and dangerous, as assassins ought to be, but Takeda was on another level entirely. Perhaps it was his innate telepathy that gave him an edge, but without training, it would otherwise be useless.

“He is a son to me,” stated Scorpion almost too flatly, as if he, working so hard to conceal his emotions regarding Takeda Takahashi, had overcompensated and utterly drained the statement of its life’s blood. Sub-Zero understood. He tightened his hold a moment. “I know I have no right,” Hanzo continued, “as he is already the son of another, but his firstborn bears my name, so I am responsible for him.” 

“He is responsible for himself, as every Earthrealm warrior should be,” Kuai Liang returned, “and besides, no Shirai-Ryu is alone, are they? You are family.”

“I do not like the separation,” admitted Hanzo, his voice barely above a whisper once more, afraid to admit this aloud, too. “I feel I am… failing them, weakening the clan.”

“You have added to your ranks, my Fire—Jacqueline Briggs is more than a competent kombatant. She makes Takeda a better man and he makes her a better woman; they sharpen each other as lovers must do. They are the ideal for your clan and family.”

Struck by the passion of Sub-Zero’s speech, Scorpion looked up again, reading much and more in his companion’s features, but still not quite able to discern whence this fervor had come. His heart was even beating faster, which it never did. A kryomancer’s heart was almost always on low, relatively speaking. This alarmed Hanzo, but he said nothing, content to see what would come next.

“You are family,” Kuai Liang repeated, “and… I desire to… also be part of your family, Hanzo.” He paused, pursing his lips and considering, but never, ever breaking eye contact with Scorpion. The man was not unlike a beast, at times, and dropping one’s gaze was absolutely a sign of weakness—something he could not afford right now, if his wishes, his deepest, most pure desires were to be fulfilled. “Do me the honor, if you would, Grandmaster, of being mine… permanently, in blood and covenant, forever.”

It was not a question.

And it need not have been. Scorpion expected force and vigor from his lover and this was precisely that, and then some. His surprise came from the fact that the proposal had followed yet another of his episodes, each one of which he considered shameful and a mark upon his honor. Every single time, he had vowed in blood that it would be his last. Each time, he knew Sub-Zero knew better. Did he hate this or love it about the man? He could not decide.

“An alliance,” he grunted. Kuai Liang laughed, a hoarse sound, but not without joy, not by a long shot. He squeezed Hanzo tightly once more and buried his face in the man’s hair, breathing deep the scent of the one he loved more than his own life.

“Yes, you silly fool, an alliance,” said Sub-Zero, still laughing and once more drawing Scorpion to him, this time pressing their lips together, long and slow. The heat of Hanzo’s mouth and the chill of Kuai Liang’s mixed somewhere in the center of complete comfort and the beginnings of tantalizing satisfaction. The conclusion would arrive hours later in breathless gasps and the sound of each other’s names, spoken with reverence and gravity, the spill of their love preceding deep, restful sleep until the rosy fingers of dawn caressed them and they arose to the winter wonderland of Arctika and a new day.

[storybycorey]

The Fox Mulder Phonetic Alphabet

Finale posted tomorrow!  

We’ve made it from A-Y, and I know some of you have been waiting for the whole thing to be posted before reading, so thought I’d gather it all together in anticipation of the finale tomorrow at 7 PM!

Each of the letters up to this point have been approx. 200 words, but Z is close to 2700 words, so I promise it will be a satisfying end to our alphabet!

The Fox Mulder Phonetic Alphabet, Letters A-Y

author: @storybycorey

rating: PG-13

wordcount (so far): 4612

A is for Apple

She brings her lunch from home most days.  Well-balanced, just as he’d expect— portions of protein, fruit, and grains—while he grazes a bit less elegantly on a plethora of offerings from the upstairs vending machine.

She packs an apple once, eats it right in front of him.  Red and juicy, but not nearly as red and juicy as her lips, or at least the way he’s imagined her lips to be after nearly seven years of imagining such things.  He wonders whether, if he ever works up the nerve to kiss her, he’ll taste her on his mouth afterwards, the way you taste an apple—tart and sweet and lingering there. 

He realizes he’s staring, goes quickly back to his bag of Funyuns (Onions, Scully! They’re vegetables!). Later, when she throws her apple core in the trash, he feels a sudden urge to retrieve it, as a reminder of things he wants but probably doesn’t deserve to have.

B is for Basketball

She beats him at basketball one day. Unbelievably.  Finds him in the gym one evening after an endless day of seminars. She knows how to find him the way a dog finds its bone—even when he’s buried, even when he’s mangled and chewed-upon and disgusting.  On this day though, he’s none of those things; instead he’s just plain bored.

In her black suit and heels, she stands out like a sharp smear of ink, poignantly distinct amidst the wooden floors and the bleachers. He doesn’t expect a response to his hey Scullz, wanna go one-on-one?, but she lifts her eyebrow in challenge and slips off her blazer.  The tank top hidden beneath is tight and it’s blue (and made of a soft, shiny material his fingers ache to touch). 

He could say he lets her win, but honestly, imagining that mystery material sandwiched between his palm and her skin leaves him much too distracted to pay attention to the game.

C is for Candles

He’ll forever associate candle-light with her pale and trembling back.  With a maroon satin robe and hair that curls up sweetly in the rain (she’d never allow that now). 

Before that night, the only candles he owned were a melted-down cluster from some birthday or another, remnants of a relationship he’d rather forget. He owns an assortment now though, scented and not, but all at the ready should the opportunity arise.  His greatest want is to see the rest of her body lit by that warm, amber glow, to trail his fingertips across more than just her back, to chase the soft shadows around her curves as her breath hitches with desire.

He and the candles are prepared; they’ve been prepared for seven years now. She and her curves and her shadows? He thinks they're getting there. He hopes anyway.

D is for Dana

Her first name is a secretive, foreign thing to him these days.  Scully is Scully—strong, competent, loyal.  But Dana is an enigma.  He catches glimpses of Dana sometimes—a woman, a girl—and he wonders whether she’s fighting to break free.  It saddens him to think he may have stolen that girlish part away from her, filed her inside a metal cabinet down in a basement office like everything else that crosses his path. 

Sometimes he whispers it and it gives him a small thrill, like there’s a hidden part of her he has yet to know.  He imagines saying it intimately, with his mouth pressed to her ear, but can’t decide whether it feels terribly wrong or perfectly, undeniably right. He only know that his lips are ready, should he ever earn the chance to try.

E is for Earrings

He almost buys her earrings once. Foolish, really.  But while waiting for a watch battery to be replaced, he can’t help but browse.  The sapphires would match her eyes so stunningly.  Has he ever seen her in anything but small diamond studs or pearls?  Anything but a business suit or hotel room pajamas?  He wonders whether she likes dressing up, whether she stands before her mirror and admires herself, deciding between this evening gown or that one, holding earrings up next to her cheek.  

He stands at the counter and looks at the earrings for ten minutes, picturing the delicate arc of her neck and the auburn of her hair and those earrings sparkling between.  He’d be lying if he doesn’t also admit to imagining his tongue tracing around them and his teeth scraping against them and the moan he’s sure would slip from her throat while he plays. 

A pushy saleswoman interrupts his thoughts, asks “For your wife?  Girlfriend?”  

He shakes his head, “Neither.”

He leaves with a hard-on and a working watch, but the earrings stay behind for someone with a little more courage.

F is for Friends

They use the term friends sometimes.  Usually it’s partners, occasionally colleagues, coworkers, but really, none of those words does their relationship the slightest bit of justice.  He couldn’t define it to a stranger (should one ask) if he tried.  Hell, he can’t even define it to himself.

How do you define someone so ingrained in your bones, you taste marrow at the back of your throat each time she walks away?  Webster would be hard-pressed to condense that into a single word, he’s sure. Even best friend feels trite and inadequate where Scully’s concerned. She’s not just a friend, not just a partner, not just a lover (even in his most daring of fantasies)—she’s not just anything. 

She’s Scully, and she’s everything.  

G is for Globe

He used to play a game with Samantha.  Spin the Globe it was called.  They played it when their parents were fighting, when they wanted nothing more than to be far, far away.  He tells Scully about it once, when he can tell she can’t get out of her head.  Luckily, amidst the files and slides and mess of the office, he happens to have a globe.

“Spin it, Scully.  Close your eyes and point, and I’ll take you on an adventure wherever your finger lands.”

She rolls her eyes, but plays along, extending her French-tipped fingernail to land upon the spinning globe.  Antarctica. 

“Spin again,” he murmurs quickly, “That one didn’t count,” but she stops him with a hand curled around his like a comma.

“You found me, Mulder.  That was more extraordinary than any adventure.”

H is for Hands

Once on a stakeout, he holds her hand. 

Hours in a darkened car breed strange and wonderful things sometimes—discussions and games that only boredom can inspire.  He tells her he can read palms (he’s lying, of course, but at least it’s something to do), and she scoffs, but then surprisingly offers her hand.  It’s really too dark to see, but he tickles her palm and bullshits his way through, blathering about wealth and fate until her giggle makes his heart stand still.

“According to your palm…,” he says softly, “…true love awaits…as soon as you’re ready.”

She’s silent at first, and he worries he’s ruined things— ruined seven years’ worth of things in the span of a minute. 

But then, in a quiet voice he’s never heard before, she responds, “I’ll be ready… soon.” 

He holds her hand until their shift is over.

I is for Ice Cream

Her favorite ice cream flavor is Mint Chocolate Chip.  He knows this (even though she doesn’t know he knows this), and once, during a rough case, he brings her some. He sneaks from his room after dinner, stops at three different gas stations before finding his prize. Sylvia’s Sundries and Smokes perhaps wouldn’t have been his first choice of establishments, but beggars can’t be choosers where ice cream’s concerned.

Surprise in hand, he knocks on Scully’s door and, with flourish, whips two plastic spoons from his pocket.  The nice thing about it?  She doesn’t even pretend not to want it.  She smiles a shy little smile and invites him in.  They climb up onto her bed where they scoop big whopping spoonfuls right out of the tub.  She’s full after only a few bites but sits with him while he finishes, lays her head on his shoulder. They watch the Late Late Show until it’s late late late, until it isn’t even the same day anymore.

J is for Jacket

Her suit jackets (he supposes they’re probably technically called blazers) have shrunk over the years.  Dana Scully of the plaid and boxy, of the oversized shoulder-pads, is now Dana Scully of the sleek and fitted, of the black and stylish and sexy.   He finds himself tugging his collar from his overheated neck sometimes. More than sometimes.

He wonders when things changed, because he can’t quite place a pin on it, when she went from a woman he loves to a woman he lusts after as well. Or maybe it’s unclear because he’s always done a little of both where Scully’s concerned. 

She left a jacket (blazer, whatever) at his apartment last year and he keeps forgetting to tell her he found it.  It hangs now in his closet next to pairs of pressed dress slacks.  He catches a glimpse of it sometimes, stands there wondering how soon ‘soon’ will come.

K is for Kiss

Back in the 60s, the 70s, when the turn of the millennium seemed ridiculously far away, Fox Mulder fantasized about the future. His comic books predicted: In the year 2000, there will be flying cars, teleportation devices, vacations on the moon and Mars... 

He imagined the party awaiting him on New Year’s Eve, complete with robot wait staff and space-age hors d’oeuvres.  Never would he have guessed he’d actually spend the evening in a hospital corridor, arm in a sling, nary a party nor robot in sight.

They were wrong about more than just the robots though, dead wrong, because not a single one of those comic books predicted this:  In the year 2000, there will be Dana Scully and her flame-red hair, Dana Scully and her skeptical sighs, Dana Scully and the world not ending while she presses her lips to his for the very first time. 

To think that at one time he wanted robots and jetpacks.  It’s laughable really, to have ever wanted anything on this earth (or on the moon, or on Mars) but Dana Katherine Scully.

L is for Lists

He arrives earlier than usual one morning, finds Scully’s open notebook lying flat on the desk. The beginnings of a list, he’s sure.  Scully loves lists. Books to Read, Articles to Write, Times Mulder Has Driven Me Crazy… He hasn’t physically seen that last one, but he’s sure it exists, somewhere in her purse or briefcase, or maybe just hidden away in her head.  

A quick glance confirms his suspicions. Personal Goals.  

He’s taken aback; he’d expected something trivial. Pros and Cons of Sunflower Seeds perhaps, but this…

He stalls, waits a minute, maybe two, but in the end is much too intrigued not to peek.  

1. Call Mom more often

2. Reach out to Bill

3. Volunteer at the church

They’re all so wonderfully Scully.  He’s not sure what else he expected.  Curiosity satisfied, he’s about to turn away when:

15. Stop being afraid of my feelings

and below that:

16. Mulder

He stands stunned. He’s joked about appearing on Scully’s lists, but never like this, never as #16, never as a personal goal.  

He makes a list himself that night, condenses every one of his own goals down into just six letters.

1. Scully

2. Scully

3. Scully…

372. Scully…

1049. Scully…

He types her name until dawn has broken, until the printed ‘S’ has all but disappeared off his keyboard.

M is for Maybe

Maybe tomorrow’s the day.  He’ll toss her an innuendo, and instead of just catching it, she’ll throw one back herself.

The sun’ll come out tomorrow, isn’t that how the song goes?  Good things happen in the darkness, too, though—cemetery downpours, X-marked stretches of highway where her hair grows wavy from the rain. He and Scully manage just fine with no sun at all; they thrive in the darkness, no matter what the song says.

He packs up his things on a Friday afternoon, grabs his coat and offers his usual weekend farewell. But instead of Have a nice weekend, Mulder, she stops him, hand to his forearm, “It’s supposed to be beautiful tomorrow… Do you wanna… Maybe...”

Her cheeks are pink as she ducks her chin to her chest, and it’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“Yeah,” he interrupts quickly, “Yeah, I do.”   He’s a bit too enthusiastic probably, but maybe tomorrows don’t actually happen that often for him on Friday afternoons.  

She smiles, cheeks still flushed, “Okay, then.  Tomorrow...”

On his way out the door he finds himself humming. Maybe the forecast for tomorrow is sunny after all, and not just because a little orphan girl told him so.

N is for No

He's scared of the word no, its finality. No, Mulder, it would never work. No, Mulder, we’re better as friends. No, Mulder, I don’t love… The word no could mean the end of everything. Of all he's seen, how absurd that two small letters could paralyze him like that. 

He walks through Violent Crimes once, overhears Scully talking to another agent from across the room. Rick Channing could be a television news anchor—hair coiffed and teeth so white they sparkle.

Mulder rolls his eyes. Scully doesn’t roll her eyes though; instead, she smiles as they talk.  She giggles.  Bile rises in his throat.

No, Mulder, I’ve fallen for someone else…

He should leave, but Channing’s next words stop him cold. “How about drinks, Dana? Maybe dinner?”  

She blushes, flustered, before scanning the room, eyes finding Mulder’s despite the way he hides halfway behind a partition.  

“Thank you, Rick, but no. I’m already…”  She smiles gently at him—him Mulder, not him Rick— “No,” she says again, then excuses herself down the hall.  

He stands there, rooted in place, decides no is the most beautiful word he’s ever heard.

O is for Opal

His birthstone is opal.  Not that he’d ever have cared, but one Christmas, he and Samantha received birthstone gifts—a topaz necklace for Sam and an opal-inlaid pocketknife for him. He still has that pocketknife, has rubbed his thumb across the smooth, cool handle countless times over the years.

Scully’s skin reminds him of that handle—the soft blue of her veins beneath translucent pink skin. She glows. He knows she’d scoff if he told her that, tell him human beings can’t glow, don’t be ridiculous. But she does—she glows just like an opal.

The pearly finish of his pocketknife is worn-down and soft by now, but her skin, he knows, is infinitely softer.  Her hand, her cheek—the safe parts of her body he’s been allowed to touch—they don’t even compare to the decades-old trinket.  He can’t imagine how much softer the more dangerous parts of her body must be.  The thought keeps him up at night, much more consistently than his nightmares do.

P is for Plum

Scully goes on kicks sometimes—bee pollen, yogurt, one month she sprinkled wheat germ into everything she got her hands on, his coffee included.

Fresh fruit is her latest. Oranges, nectarines, plums, oh, plums. There’s no neat way to eat a plum, though she tries, napkin laid out beneath her at the desk. The juice though. Drippy and sticky on her chin—his eyes try their best not to ogle, but usually fail.  

She walks around sometimes, cupping a hand to catch the drips, and once, as she reaches across his body for a book, a drop splashes directly onto his forearm.

“Sorry!” she exclaims, quickly swiping at his skin with her thumb.  How that same thumb winds up being sucked between his lips is a mystery, though probably has something to do with the way he acts sometimes before thinking. His tongue traces the sweetened ridges of her thumbprint as she chokes out a gasp, half-eaten plum forgotten.  

“No takebacks, Scully,” he mumbles as a joke, trying to laugh it off as he comes to his senses and releases her. Her cheeks stay pink for a good twenty minutes after that, and parts of him stay hard for an even better twenty beyond that.

Q is for Quest

This job of theirs, it’s more than a job.  More than a career path.  It’s a downright quest.  

He feels a bit like Don Quixote at times, Scully his faithful Sancho Panza, the two of them out there dreaming the impossible dream, fighting the unbeatable foe. There’s a sort of nobility to what they do, and he likes that.  

Sometimes though, he wonders whether the aliens are really windmills, whether the consortium is nothing but a barber’s basin balanced on his much too gullible head. Whether Scully is not Sancho, but Dulcinea— out-of-reach and much too beautiful for his files and his basement, his second-hand coffee table and his worn leather couch.  

He sometimes can’t believe she’s still here, chasing windmills, slaying bad guys, at times even taking the time to clean out his fridge. She deserves the most elegant of thrones, yet sits happily beside him on that old leather couch, Monday nights, Tuesday nights, sometimes even weekends.  It astounds him really.  

And when she nudges his knee with her own, smiles at him with that smile that makes him think soon isn’t so far away, that’s when he really believes—that being with her is not such an impossible dream after all.

R is for Rebel

Dana Scully is a rebel.  She tries to hide it, acts all prim and proper, but beneath her stern, pursed lips and buttoned-up suits, there’s a troublemaker lurking.  It’s what endeared him to her on their very first case, the way she laughed with him in the rain, the way, regardless of her orders, she listened to him and formed her own opinion.

He sees glimpses of that rebel from time to time, when she scarfs down pizza in a Motel 6 despite her no-carb diet, when she gets that gleam in her eye as they sneak onto restricted government property.

His favorite bit of rebelliousness though is her new stance on hotel-room consorting. They’ve fallen into a routine lately, of watching movies together on polyester bedspreads, of dropping off before the credits roll, of pretending I’m too tired to go back to my room is a perfectly reasonable and acceptable excuse to stay.  

Each time it happens, the morning sun finds them a bit closer together than the last— hands touching, next toes and shins, most recently her hair brushed his cheek as she snuggled against the pillow.

His rumpled, sleepy little rebel.  She’s a rebel on her own terms though, he knows this. And he’s being as patient as he can be.

S is for Sexy

She’s sexy, unbelievably so. It took him a while to admit that to himself.  For the longest time, he blamed his body’s reaction to her on their constant proximity, her perfume, the fact that he was suffering a longer-than-usual dry spell… But no, what it really comes down to is that Dana Katherine Scully is sexy as hell.

Even back in the beginning, when her suits hid her body and her hair did that swoop-y sort of thing up near the front.  Even in the middle, when she was thinner than she should’ve been, when cancer stole her color but didn’t steal her soul. And then there’s today. Today when there’s no mistaking the black lace of her lingerie each time she leans across the desk, not two but three buttons undone at her clavicle. Today when she murmurs thoughtfully, “I think you may be right, Mulder,” tongue wetting her lips as she reads aloud from his book on mystical apparitions.

What really gets him though, is that despite her hair or her lips or even her lingerie, the sexiest part of her isn’t on the outside at all; it’s what lies beneath—that intangible something that makes her Scully. That’s the part he fell in love with, shoulder pads and all.

T is for Toes

She’s got cute little toes.  She’s got cute little everything really, but her toes are especially cute, pale pink polish adorning each one.  She sits one night, curled on his couch, those cute little toes just inches from his leg.

“Wanna stretch out?” he asks, patting his thighs, and amazingly, within seconds, there are two small feet lying warm in his lap.

He gives them a tickle, but she kicks at his hand. He tries again, this time pressing a thumb to her arch. No kick, only an appreciative hum.  It’s all the encouragement he needs. He begins massaging in earnest.  

Her eyes slip shut, her head tilts back, a low groan rumbles from her throat. He massages her cute little toes for an hour, counts each contented sigh that slips from her lips (thirty-four to be exact). The movie they’d been watching fades slowly to black, and she ends things finally, with a shy, quiet chuckle and an I should probably get going.  

As she heads down the hall, he jokes from his doorway, “The masseuse is available every night, double sessions on weekends…”

She rewards him with an arched brow, murmuring, “Careful, I may just take you up on that…” before stepping onto the elevator.

U is for Umpteen

“Umpteen’s not a word, Mulder,” she tells him, eyes rolling, “It has no specified value.”  

She’s got a point of course.  They don’t have umpteen case summaries to submit; they have twelve.  But umpteen is most definitely a word.  

Umpteen’s how many times he’s forgotten his point because her lips are too distracting.  Umpteen’s how many fantasies he’s had about sliding his hands through her hair.  Umpteen’s how many times she’s walked out the door, how many times he’s kept from going after her, how many times he’s sat in his car beneath her window and longed for her with a ferocity that scares him shitless. Umpteen’s how many times he’s wanted to kiss her.  It’s also how many times he hasn’t…

He chuckles, dipping his chin, “You’re right, Scully. We’ve got twelve summaries to do, not umpteen...”

Umpteen is how many times he’s said her name, it’s how many times what he’s really wanted to say was I love you.

V is for Volume

They fight over the volume control in cars. He likes louder, she likes softer (I can’t think over the noise she says).  He usually lets her win. 

Their relationship has its own volume control, he’s realized.  There are times when it’s loud, blaring even, arguments at every turn.  Other times it’s low—murmurs in a conference room, end of the day farewells in a darkened parking garage. Mostly it’s somewhere between.  They talk and they banter and they discuss, in basements, in rental cars, in random police stations across America. 

Sometimes though, lately especially, she lowers the dial even further, turns it all the way over to the left.  Soft.  The very softest. His name on her lips those rare times he holds her. Her blush and shy murmured stop when he pays her a compliment. The slight gasp he feels more than hears when his fingertips brush over her arm, her cheek, the curve of her hip.

It makes him want to do away with loud altogether, to turn off the music and the voices and the noise and listen only to the sound of her breathing, to tell her "It's quiet now, Scully. I’m ready when you are."

W is for Wristwatch

This job has done a number on his wardrobe.  Jackets, slacks, shoes—all gone the way of the incinerator—either damaged beyond acceptable FBI standards or outright destroyed.  Scully’s hasn’t fared much better (she still pouts over a favorite pair of heels ruined two years ago). All part of the territory, he reasons.

His shattered wristwatch on a recent case was a blow though; he loved that watch.  

There’s a package on his desk the day after, wrapped so precisely, he needn’t even guess whom it’s from.  

“Scully,” he protests, but she stops him.

“Just open it, Mulder.”

It’s a watch—of course it’s a watch—a beautiful one, silver links and a detailed, intricate face. “You didn’t need—” he begins, but she interrupts him again.  

“It was my father’s,” she states matter-of-factly, but then her voice softens, “I’ve held onto it since… Here, let me.” She takes the watch, fastens it around his wrist. There are tears in her eyes.

“It looks good,” she whispers, “It brings out your… It looks nice—you’ve got nice forearms, Mulder, and this accentuates—”

He takes hold of her hand, gives it a squeeze until she meets his eyes.  “Thank you,” he tells her, “I love it.”  

There’s no way this watch lands in the incinerator. He’ll protect it with his life if he has to.

X is for X-Files

The basement office often feels more like home to him than home does.  It’s his secret hideaway, and despite the odds, he thinks it’s become hers, too.  They’ve created their own little world down here—a cozy, paranormal universe—and Scully’s as much a part of that universe as he is.

She shines like the sun, trails glittery stardust behind her like a comet. His beautiful, perplexing riddle of a partner.  It’s funny really, but despite the hundreds of files that surround them, Scully remains his biggest mystery.  She’s the very definition of an X-File.  It floors him that she chooses this life, that she’s willing to be his sun, his moon, his whole damn galaxy, day after day after day.

There was a time he couldn’t have imagined not seeking the truth.  These days though? These days he’s beginning to believe he’s been searching in all the wrong places.  

The truth can’t be found in Bellefleur, Oregon or in Kroner, Kansas, in forests or in sewers or in fields.  The truth—the real truth— exists in ink-blue eyes and rosebud lips, in the skeptical arch of an eyebrow and the soft, shy murmur of his name.

It exists right down here in the basement office, sitting not two feet across the desk from him.

Y is for Yawn

She yawns as he speaks, but it doesn’t bother him. Things feel sleepy—dreamy— tonight.

It’s been an odd few days apart from one another, he across the pond and she…He’s not even sure what she’s been doing, doesn’t know that he wants to.  All he knows is that she’s here, now, pressed to his side and yawning, proving to him once again how fate works.

It’s hard not to babble when he feels this good; he’s drunk on the smell of her, on the heaviness of her thigh pressed to his.

“And that says a lot… a lot, a lot, a lot…” Babbling, more babbling, until he feels the smallest, sweetest weight at his shoulder, sees lashes splayed softly against warm, flushed cheeks. The perfection of the moment strikes him, of her here on his couch instead of in a hospital room, instead of in a temple, instead of anywhere else she could be at this point in her life.  

He touches her hair—he can’t bear not to—covers her with a blanket to keep away the chill.  Allowing himself one last glance, he counts slowly to ten (slowly, so slowly), before making his own sleepy way to the bedroom.

Z posted tomorrow night (9/25) at 7PM EST!

[themanicmagician]

Icarus [oneshot]

[AO3] Summary: Jevil has always wanted more.

When he wakes again, Seam is there, watching. Not triumphant in his victory, as Jevil expected. Just tired.

There are thick bandages wound around Seam’s head and now-empty eye socket, more still peeking out of the collar of his shirt. Jevil’s body throbs dully with his own remnants of their battle. He knows if he looks he’ll find gouges on his stomach from Seam’s claws, bracelets of scars on his arms and legs where Seam’s strings had dug in like barbed wire.

They’re separated by a row of cell bars.

“You think something like this can contain me?” Jevil sneers.

Jevil tampers with his code, adjusts his strength output. But when he goes to pull the bars apart, the steel doesn’t budge an inch. He calls his scythe next. It bounces off the surface of a bar leaving nary a scratch.

“It’s hopeless,” Seam tells him. “The Knight enchanted the bars himself.”

“Liar! The Knight wouldn’t betray me.”

There’s something pained in Seam’s expression. “He was never on your side, Jevil.” He shows Jevil the key in his palm. “This is the only key. I’m going to scatter the pieces around the Dark World. It’ll be my last duty in service to the crown.”

He has to be lying. There must be another explanation. The Knight was the one who taught him everything—it makes no sense for him to turn around and punish Jevil for the freedom he gave him.

Jevil presses his face up against the narrow space between two bars, spitting venom. “Sure you don’t want to stay on and hog the spotlight? Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted, to get me out of your way?”

He loathes the pitying look Seam affixes him with.

“I wish I could help you. But this is all I can do.”

Seam almost moves closer, in range of Jevil’s hands, but thinks better of it. He’s crying now, tears dripping slowly from his one remaining eye.

“This is goodbye, Jevil.”

He turns and begins the slow march up the stairs of the dungeon.

Jevil grasps two of the bars and shouts up to him: “Are you kidding? You can’t just leave me here! Seam!”

There’s a slam of a door, far off. It has a sound of finality to it.

Jevil rests his head against the cool metal of a bar.

“He’ll be back.”

~*~

“Jevil! Up, get up!”

Starwalker kicks his cot.

He doesn’t bother to turn around, or uncurl from his sleep position. His tail flicks out, smacking Starwalker in the eye.

“’m sleeping.”

“You’re missing it. You need to see this guy. Hurry, before he finishes his act!”

Starwalker had joined the circus troupe two towns over, and had become Jevil’s bunkmate in his sleep tent for lack of space. Somehow, the greenhorn equated their mandatory proximity for friendship.

“So you go watch it.”

“No, you’ll want to see it! He’s as good as you!”

Now he’s awake. Jevil sits up so abruptly his head nearly collides with Starwalker’s.

“How so?”

Starwalker huffs. “Let’s go, and you’ll understand.”

Starwalker rushes out of their tent. Reluctantly, Jevil follows after.

Jevil doesn’t remember a life before Ringaling Circus. His earliest memories are of the fortune teller’s tent. Her musty perfume was thick and cloying in the air. She snuck him treats beneath the table between guests so he’d stay quiet during her sessions. Whenever she read doom in someone’s future, he’d poke their feet and giggle as they ran screaming from the tent.

The Ringaling Circus is the best in all the Dark World; Jevil was given training in every aspect of circus life from a young age, and soon excelled in acrobatics and juggling. Scythes are his hallmark. For his latest act, he balances atop a scythe on one toe as he juggles a collection of knives.

He is only eleven years old, as far as he can figure, and he’s the star of the show. Ringmaster Ringaling holds tryouts for new recruits at every town they tour, poaching new talent before the other troupes can. Several fresh acts have tried to match Jevil, have sneered at his youth and sought to knock him from the top. He’s bested them all.

Jevil weaves his way through the pitched tents, towards the small tryouts platform. He passes by posters of his own face, nailed onto wooden posts. He grimaces. His devilish grin as depicted on the yellowed poster has been marred since he lost one of his front teeth. The new one is growing in, but slowly, and his words whistle from his mouth in a way that’s embarrassing.

There’s an unexpectedly large crowd gathered to watch the wannabe performer’s show. Starwalker rocks on the balls of his feet, straining to see over the taller adults. Jevil shoves his way through to the front.

He gasps.

The darkner on the stage before him is…unspooled. That’s the only word for it. The purple cat has unwound the threads that connect his arms and legs to his torso. It shouldn’t be possible.

And yet.

The cat’s legs trot across the stage as if out for an everyday stroll. His hands shuffle cards elaborately.

The cat’s button eyes meet Jevil’s astonished gaze. He winks.

The cat’s torso twitches, and the gathered crowd gasps as his body pulls itself back together again in an instant. All together again, he bows.

The crowd applauds heartily, but Jevil scowls. The cat seems flustered by the attention, scratching the back of his head. A façade of humility. Surely.

“Excellent show, my boy.” Ringaling’s voice is warm as he climbs the stage to clasp the cat’s shoulder. Louder, he says, “Everyone welcome the newest member of our troupe: Seam!”

Seam is ushered on a tour of the camp by a clump of enthusiastic performers. Jevil watches the throng leave, then heads off to follow Ringaling.

The Ringmaster is back in his tent when he finds him. Fire magic burns under a chipped kettle as he rustles around the cluttered mess of his tent in search of a mug.

Ringaling glances his way as he steps inside, then returns to his searching.

“Jevil. I don’t suppose you see a tea cup anywhere in all of this, perchance?”

“Why?” Jevil asks.

“Hm?” Ringaling replies absently. “For the drinking of tea, of course. Ah—there you are.” He unearths two cups from a heap of velvety capes, and cradles them protectively to his chest. “Shy little things.”

“Why are you bothering with that—that cat?”

Ringaling smiles. “I saw the slack-jawed look on your face. You couldn’t figure out his trick, could you?”

“I—he’s—he’s clearly unpolished. Too muted in his attitude, too.” Jevil stammers.

“Are you volunteering to assist with his training, then?”

“No!”

The Ringmaster chuckles.

The tea kettle shrills. With an absent flick of his hand, Ringaling snuffs out the flame. He pours tea into two mugs, and hands one to Jevil. He takes a small, reluctant sip. Ringaling always plies him with disgusting black tea—no cream, no honey, no sugar—whenever he visits. He swears the darkner has no taste buds to speak of.

After a mouthful of tea, Ringaling says, “There’s no need to be jealous, Jevil. Yes, you may be sharing the spotlight, once he’s trained up more. But you know, Seam isn’t much older than you. You’ll be fast friends, I’m sure. I can see your magics working quite well together. So give him a chance, won’t you?”

Jevil chews the inside of his lip, and forces a smile.

“Yes, Ringmaster.”

~*~

Jevil understands what isolation can do to the mind, because he’s witnessed it for himself.

King Spade’s queen had been assassinated during their son’s fifth birthday. The killer threw himself over a balcony to escape, but broke his leg in the fall down and was subsequently captured. King Spade had been terrifying in his fury, and only the quick intervention of his chamberlain saved the assassin from becoming a smear on the courtyard tile. The killer—Pawner, his name was—was arrested and interrogated. They used him to track down the rest of the rebel movement, which was swiftly quashed. Pawner’s punishment for his treachery was not death, but a life of imprisonment.

Alone.

Once they squeezed him dry of information, Pawner was placed in a 6x6 foot cell. Thick white concrete, no windows. He was given a simple cot, with no sheets. A bucket for waste. His arms were bound in a straightjacket to keep him from harming himself, or trying to escape. Meals were pushed through a slot in the door twice a day.

At first, Pawner endured with a quiet dignity. It was a small price to pay for the success of his mission.

Then, all sense of time was robbed from him. The guards would leave the lights on for days. The habitual two meals a day were delivered at random hours, once even the second was given not fifteen minutes after the first. One of the guards confessed to Jevil that Pawner had tried to grab his wrist as he slid the food in, trying to feel the proof that others besides him still existed.

Pawner was found dead in his cell nearly two years into his stint in isolation. He’d drowned himself in his own waste. When they pulled his head from the bucket and hosed him off, there was a peaceful smile on his face.

~*~

“I have a son now.” King Spade explains, seated atop his throne, as if there isn’t a darkner in the entire Dark World that hasn’t been bombarded with the news of an heir since the queen’s first announcement of her pregnancy. “Prince Lancer will need to be entertained. Ringaling has recommended you both most highly for the position. After watching your performance tonight, I’ve made my decision.”

The king pauses, his gaze sweeping over both of them. Jevil keeps his tail pressed tight against the back of his leg, to keep it from lashing anxiously. A quick side glance at Seam confirms his friend isn’t doing much better than he is; he’s rigidly straight, and his ears are pinned flat to his head.

“You.”

King Spade points to Jevil.

“You are dismissed.”

Jevil blinks, his mind slow to catch up. The king surely can’t—he can’t mean—

Seam grabs his hand in a firm, grounding grip.

He bows slightly. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, we’re a team. I won’t leave Jevil behind. So it’s—it’s either both of us. Or neither.”

Jevil’s gaze is drawn like a magnet to Seam. His friend meets the king’s eyes unflinchingly.

“If you’re alright splitting the pay, then it’s acceptable.” King Spade rumbles.

“Yes. That’s not a problem.” The salary offered is more than they’d make five years at the circus. Not to mention the sheer acclaim they’ll receive entertaining royalty is worth far more than money to them.

“Let it be done, then. Report here tomorrow, my chamberlain will get you sorted.” He dismisses them with an absent wave of his hand.

Once away from the throne room, Seam turns to Jevil, sheepish.

“That was okay, right? I didn’t even ask if you wanted to come along with me.”

Their hands are still clasped together. Seam lets go first, almost embarrassed.

“Please. You’d be useless without me around and you know it.” Jevil’s retort is shaky, lacking any bite.

If their situations were reversed, would Jevil have even thought to challenge the king for the sake of their friendship?

He likes to think that he would. But he knows in his heart he’s never been as good a person as Seam. Too selfish, too greedy. A part of him would have taken satisfaction in being picked as the best, even though he would’ve missed Seam terribly.

He hates Seam for making him aware of who he really is.

~*~

Jevil takes time to explore. Past the bars, there isn’t much to see. This isn’t the castle dungeon, but some dark, secret place that no one will find by chance.

Beyond is the void. All encompassing. Just a black expanse with no end and no beginning.

He leaves the cell bars behind, walking forward in a straight line. No matter how far he walks, the cell bars get no further away. He tries walking to the left, to the right, even up and down. But the result remains the same.

Time passes as he waits, slumped against the cell bars, but no one ever descends the steps that lead down to his prison.

He’s trapped here, alone.

“Not alone,” A voice says.

“My Knight,” He breathes, approaching the figure. His body blends within the void; only his face is visible. “There must be some mistake. I’ve tried erasing the code for the bars, I’ve tried warping out. Nothing’s working.”

He expects answers and assurances. He’s confused by the Knight’s patronizing smile.

“But of course. He requested I keep you locked in here, and so I shall. You might have some knowledge of how this world really works, but I will always understand more.”

Seam hadn’t been lying, then. The Knight truly did betray him.

“Why? What did King Spade offer you to do this?”

“You misunderstand. The king wanted you dead. He thought you a potential threat to his son and himself. No, it was Seam who pleaded with both him and me, for the chance to spare your life. To seal it away instead of take it from you.”

“But why? I don’t understand. Why would you do this? I thought…” He thought he meant something to the Knight, as his devoted follower.

The Knight’s grin stretches wider.

“How could I not? It’s all so terribly ironic. To “save” you, he had to turn to the very same person who’d ruined you in the first place, because he was the only one who could. Oh, would that you could have seen the look on his face.”

A hand materializes, cupping Jevil’s cheek.

“He loves you so terribly, do you realize that? And you’ve thrown it away without a thought.”

“I didn’t!” Jevil protests. “I—I love Seam, too, it’s just…”

“It’s just that his love wasn’t enough for you. You wanted more. You’ve always wanted more. And so you followed me down into the dark.” The Knight laughs at him, cold and cruel. “Do you still think you made the right choice?”

~*~

Card Kingdom is divided into four territories, each ruled over by their respective monarchs. In the heart of the Dark World sits Card Castle. Every four years, the kings rotate who lives in the central castle, as whoever has residence is granted a veto power over the other kings regarding new bills and motions. This tradeoff of power has done wonders to keep the peace. Rather than kill darkners in pointless territory wars, as the kings of yore had, the modern kings just spend their four years in office doing their damndest to undo whatever it was the previous king in power had accomplished. Nothing ever really gets done, but it keeps the kings satisfied and they leave the public mostly alone, so most consider it a successful system of government.

King Spade is roughly a year and a half into his current term at Card Castle when the man abruptly appears in the throne room, right in the middle of a standard court session.

He’s not announced at the threshold, no; there’s a sharp crack of magic in the air, the overwhelming stench of sulfur, and suddenly the man is in the thick of the gathered nobility.

The nobles spring back in alarm. Jevil takes a step closer, but is held back from approaching as Seam shoots his arm out in front of his chest. Seam shakes his head.

The man’s body is covered in black. His face—or perhaps it’s a mask—is bright bone-white. Two jagged cracks splinter either side of his face. Six hands with holes in their palms float in a circle around his body.

“King Spade.” The man bows elegantly, right before two guards seize him. The hands clench into fists, briefly, then relax again.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jevil sees Kaard usher Prince Lancer quickly out of the room.

King Spade descends from the throne, his footfalls heavy. He looms before the man, radiating royal authority, but the man doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest.

“I come bearing wisdom. I know how you can escape the Dark World. How to take revenge upon the lightners that have trapped you here. Please, won’t you speak with me, O King?”

He has a curious, unfamiliar accent. Jevil has toured every corner of the Dark World, and he’s never heard anything like it. He’s still dwelling on the man’s entrance as well. Had that been a type of teleportation magic? He’ll need to see it again in action a few more times to accurately pin it down.

“Release him.”

The guards do so, but linger, should the stranger attempt an attack.

King Spade jerks his head to the meeting room adjoined to the throne room.

“Let us discuss this matter privately.”

One of the nobles squawks indignantly at that. “Your Majesty, you cannot seriously be considering listening to this man—”

The king silences him with a thunderous glare.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” The man demurs.

He follows the king. He doesn’t walk, exactly, but rather, he seems to glide across the ground, his cloak billowing out behind him.

The man passes Seam and Jevil. Those dark eye sockets briefly flick Jevil’s way before they return forward.

The door shuts behind the king and the stranger with a soft click.

“I don’t like the look of him.” Seam mutters. “Sets my teeth on edge.”

But Jevil is staring at the closed door, wondering what secrets he’s not privy to.

“I want to meet him.”

Seam rolls his eyes. “Weird guy pops up in court somehow and wants the king to wage a war on the lightners. And you want to meet him. Of course you do.”

“He’s interesting.”

“Well, then for your sake, let’s hope the king finds him interesting too and not just some nutjob. Otherwise that’s going to be the last we see of him.”

~*~

Days—Weeks?—into his captivity, he abruptly remembers: his phone.

Jevil digs the device out of his pocket, tapping buttons at random. The screen stays black. The battery’s dead.

That doesn’t matter. He can do—well, not anything, not anymore—but he can tinker with the phone’s code, reset it to a recharged state. With some quick adjustments, the phone flickers to life again in his hands, fully charged.

He lets out a short, happy gasp. The home screen picture is of Seam, of course. Drooling on some historic and irreplaceable book from the castle library.

With shaking hands he pulls up his contact list. He taps Seam’s name, and presses the phone to his ear.

The device squeals static. Jevil jerks the phone away with a wince.

“No, no, no,” He murmurs. He returns to the edge of the cell. He holds the phone through the bars of his prison, hoping against hope that the signal will return if the phone is at least in the proper reality.

Still, there’s nothing but the buzz of static, and random garbled noise.

He tries several other numbers, just to see, but there’s no deviation. He and whatever possessions he has left have been truly cut off from his old reality.

But does he at least have…yes.

Jevil could cry. All the pictures he’d ever taken on his phone are still here. He embraces the brief reprieve, takes his time cycling through each and every photograph.

When he’s finished, he clicks through them all again.

~*~

“That’s my cot!”

Seam pauses mid-groom, tongue still stuck to his forearm. Jevil is near-shaking with anger. Someone brought another cot into Jevil’s tent for Seam, and to make matters even worse, the damned cat had elected to splay out on his cot instead.

Seam’s tongue retracts. “Sorry. I mean, it’s not like they’re marked or anything.” He obligingly shuffles off the cot to claim the new one instead. “You must be Jevil. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

He extends a paw for a handshake. Jevil ignores it.

“What you did before—that unravelling. How did you do it?” If Jevil can master the ability, then Ringaling won’t need to keep Seam. They can leave him here.

Seam drops his hand. Then, an infuriating grin grows on his face.

“My, you’re a curious one, aren’t you?”

“…Well?” Jevil presses, when Seam lapses into silence.

“I’ve heard you’re something of a prodigy. If you’re so clever, why don’t you figure it out for yourself?”

Jevil gapes. No one’s ever flat-out denied him information before. Troupe members are normally so eager to share the basics, which Jevil swiftly masters and overcomes. He’s never seen magic like Seam’s before. He understands it’s some form of body modification magic, but nothing more. Learning how to replicate it, without so much as a hint to go on, will be difficult.

Seam just keeps smiling in that self-satisfied, confident way of his.

Well, fine. Jevil will figure it out. He’ll show Seam in front of everyone, will wipe that stupid smirk off the cat’s face permanently.

“I will.” Jevil vows.

“Good.” Seam sounds doubtful.

“I mean it.”

“No one else has managed. But you’re welcome to try.”

Jevil stalks out of the tent. He’s going to solve the riddle of Seam’s magic trick.

But first, he has to make a stop into the nearby forest. He’s filling Seam’s bedding with burrs tonight.

~*~

The moment happens during a day like any other.

They’re performing a magic show together for the nobility. Jevil’s constructed a menagerie of circus animals from his magic, and Seam uses faint strings of yarn to tug life into them. The court watches in awed silence as the animals bounce and whirl their way around the room.

Seam and Jevil have worked together for years, so very long that Seam just need to quirk an eyebrow and Jevil’s magic moves to act on his silent command, launching the finale of their show with a herd of trumpeting pink elephants.

The crowd erupts in applause, and they take their bows. Jevil’s gaze meets his friend’s as they rise, and Seam’s warm smile makes something weird flop in his chest. The curious squirming feeling doesn’t leave him, and it’s not until he’s staring up at his ceiling in bed that he finally recognizes it for what it is: affection. Deep, more-than-friendly-levels of affection. He has a crush. On Seam.

It’s not too strange, he supposes, once past his initial bout of panic. They’ve spent many years together already thanks to their work. Seam is also the only worthy rival he’s had. Others have tried to best him in games of wit and trickery, but Seam is the only one who’s ever successfully made a fool of a fool, and has seen through his illusions. It’s maddening, and enthralling. Lately he’s spent more and more time thinking up new illusions, not for the easily-satisfied court, but for Seam.

The question now, of course, is what to do about it. He doesn’t know who to go to—he only ever really spends time with Seam, after all—so somehow he finds himself picking the lock to a lowly trainee’s quarters in the wee hours of the morning.

“Zounds!” Rouxls scrambles upright in his bed, clutching his comforter to his chest. The pom pom on his night cap dangles distractingly in front of his nose. “What is thou doing in my roometh at—” He checks the alarm clock on his night stand. His voice climbs higher with indignance. “—3:42 in the morning?!”

“Kaard.” Jevil begins without preamble. He sits cross-legged in the air beside Rouxls’ bed, his tail keeping him propped up. “I require your assistance.”

Rouxls Kaard is an understudy of one of the crown puzzlemakers, and in addition he cashiers at a small shop in Card Castle for tourists. He’s dumb as a box of rocks as far as puzzles are concerned, but even Jevil has heard the whispers and giggles of the staff whenever Kaard flounces by. He has to know a thing or two about amorous relationships. (Besides, Jevil just likes messing with him.)

Jevil explains his dilemma. Kaard pinches the bridge of his nose, and says tiredly: “Why dost thou not just asketh him out on a date?”

Jevil scoffs. As if it can be that simple. He can’t just march up to Seam and confess. If Seam says no, it’ll ruin what they have already. So Jevil has to stack the deck. If he proves himself worthy of Seam’s affections, if Seam is compelled to ask him, well. Then Seam can think the idea of dating was all his. It’ll be Jevil’s grandest trick yet.

~*~

There’s a lull in activity; the troupe has several hours yet before their evening performance. Jevil intends to make the most of the respite. He finds an area by the storage tents, where he can practice without anyone to observe.

Normally, he delights in training in front of a gathering of awed, envious performers. But Jevil has never attempted body manipulation magic before. He’s never thought of himself as the focus of his craft, just a conduit for the magic itself.

Many darkners are too afraid of body manipulation, as it runs the risk of causing real harm if done improperly. But Jevil is clever and determined and unafraid.

He squares his shoulders, closes his eyes, and concentrates. He can feel magic pulsing through him, buzzing at his extremities, but strongest at his core. Rather than push it outwards, as he’s accustomed to, he tries to draw it back inside him. He pictures Seam, unraveled on that stage. He opens his eyes again, and watches his first uncurl. He imagines his pinky finger unwinding, and shunts magic towards the digit.

Jevil sneezes, and sparks of magic shoot out his nose. His pinky remains totally intact.

He huffs, his tail thwacking against the dirt in irritation. Maybe it’s not a matter of size. It might be better if he focuses on disconnecting something at a joint, first. Jevil kicks out his leg in front of him, coaxing his magic to pop it off at the knee.

Wrong again. Thick magical pressure makes his head throb. Jevil groans, pressing a palm to his temple. His magic is trying to obey him, but he doesn’t have the finesse yet to target specific areas of his body. The magic builds up inside him, and then has nowhere to go. And that stupid cat made it look so easy.

It’ll just take practice and refinement, like anything else. What’s a small headache against the promise of glory?

Jevil is about to attempt shaking loose his tail when the nape of his neck prickles. He’s being watched. He whips around and scowls at the sight of Seam. He thinks at first the cat has come to mock him, but then he notices that Seam has the actual nerve to look worried for him. As if Jevil can’t handle some simple practice on his own.

“Piss off.”

“You shouldn’t be attempting body modification magic alone. It’s dangerous.”

“I told you I was going to figure it out.”

“Yeah, but.” Seam scuffs his foot, kicking up a small spray of dirt. “I didn’t think you’d actually…keep trying. Most people give up after the initial headaches, you know?”

Jevil bristles. “I said I was going to figure it out. I meant it.”

Seam falls silent again. Jevil turns his back to him. He won’t let the cat distract him. He concentrates again on his pinky finger, trying to make it spiral off the bone. His finger twitches up, just slightly, and with mounting excitement he throws more magic—

“You know,” Seam shatters his concentration. Jevil glowers at him. “It’s different for everybody. You’ve got to think of your own composition. We’re two different people. My body is cloth-based, while yours is flesh and bone. Thinking of your body unravelling like yarn won’t work for you.” Seam looks him up and down. “I feel like you’re the type where it needs some sort of bounce to it.”

Bounce? What does that even mean?

But Jevil nods confidently, like he completely understands Seam’s advice.

“…Thanks. I guess.” Jevil mutters, so quietly he doesn’t think Seam will hear. But then the cat’s face turns up in a small smile.

Under Seam’s watchful eyes, Jevil keeps practicing.

~*~

Jevil summons a scythe to his hands, and flips it around so the curved blade faces him. There are easier weapons with which to kill himself, but the scythe has been his signature since he first started performing. Nothing would be as fitting.

He sinks the scythe through his chest. The pain is white-hot. He coughs blood, and sinks down to the floor. In moments, a chill steals over him despite the warm, growing puddle of blood that pools around him. He closes his eyes and waits for the inevitable end.

~*~

And then he’s back. Staring at the scythe in his hands, the curved blade polished and clean.

“How…” Had he just imagined going through with it? No, he remembers the bite of the blade too keenly for it to have been just a fantasy.

The Knight’s pale face appears beside him.

“You are past the realm of mortality, fool. Your existence in the void is eternal.”

“No.” His grip tightens on the scythe’s hilt. “No.”

“Still you doubt me?”

Jevil cleaves the Knight’s smirking face in two. The halves of a bone-colored mask fall to the floor, then disappear.

Hundreds of copies of the Knight’s face surround him, thousands of black eyes staring through his soul.

“Naughty child. Do you feel any better?” The faces speak as one.

“Leave me alone!”

“Are you sure that’s wise? Think of Pawner. Isn’t my company better than isolation?”

Jevil swipes out. The scythe glides harmlessly through the row of faces.

“I don’t need you.”

“You will.”

Then the faces are gone, the sudden darkness surrounding him a shock.

Jevil gets what he wants.

He’s alone.

~*~

Presents. Everyone loves presents, right?

Jevil spends a good chunk of time pondering over the perfect gift for Seam. The court magician is a simple soul with few interests, but Jevil ultimately figures out what to get him. He tops his present with a bow and leaves it at Seam’s front door.

Seam arrived late that day in their shared office space in Card Castle. Jevil counts it as a victory—surely, Seam was so busy admiring his present that he lost track of time.

“How has your morning been?” Jevil greets him, twitchy with anticipation.

“Rather strange.”

“A good strange, one hopes!”

“No.” Seam looks alarmingly queasy. “Some sicko left a pile of dead mice on my doorstep.”

Jevil falters. Seam…does not sound happy. He’s ill just at the memory of Jevil’s thoughtful gift.

“I…thought cats liked mice?” He laughs nervously.

Seam levels him with a disbelieving look. “I don’t just eat dead things off the ground, Jevil.”

“Hm. Strange that someone would leave mice out for you, then.” Jevil makes for the door abruptly. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Where are you going?” Seam calls after him, confused.

“I have errands to run!” He has to discard the second box of mice he’d planted for Seam in the library.

~*~

“Where’s Seam?”

Jevil looks around the tent, rather put out when he finds only Starwalker present. He’s rigged up several buckets of water above their typical practice area, and he has all intentions of leading the cat under it. It’s well-deserved revenge for last night’s supper, where Seam had swapped all the custard filling of his tarts with glue.

Starwalker lowers the comic he’s reading and shrugs. “He left a while ago? He looked kind of grumpy, come to think of it.”

Frowning, Jevil heads back outside. Does Seam know about the buckets, and is already working on his response?

Jevil asks around, and his fellow performers point him in the general direction of the medical tent, to his mounting confusion.

He’s about to push inside when the circus’ resident physician, a hathy by the name of Betty, steps outside. She brightens upon seeing him, and tries to plant several kisses on his face, which take all his skill to evade.

Betty pouts. “You used to let Betty smooch your cheeks when you were a little imp. What happened to my cute little Jev-Jev?”

Face flushing, Jevil barrels on. “Have you seen Seam?”

“Ah, he hasn’t told you then? You two are all-but glued to each other, I thought it would’ve come up by now.”

“Hasn’t told me what?” Jevil goes to brush past her to check on Seam, when Betty stops him with a tendril.

“Shh. He’s sleeping right now. Betty gave him the good stuff.”

Inexplicably, he feels a twinge of concern. A very, very faint, barely there thing. But still.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“The type of magic dear Seam uses, it wears on the body when used consistently,” Betty explains patiently. “Sometimes it hurts him just keeping himself all together, so Betty gives him some painkillers to sleep it off.”

“There’s no way to fix it?”

“Seam is young yet. If he stopped using body transformation magic, then maybe.” Betty’s smile is sad. “But he is like you. The entertainment comes first.”

Jevil’s gaze flicks back to the closed canvas flap of the tent.

“I want to see him.”

“That’s fine. Quietly, now.”

Jevil slips inside. Betty has doused all the lanterns in the tent save one, leaving it rather dim. There’s a collection of medical supplies on a shelf, haphazardly organized, as well as five cots. All are empty save one. Jevil slowly approaches.

Seam is twisted on his side. Even in sleep, even with the aid of painkillers, his face is still scrunched with pain.

Jevil doesn’t like it.

He spins on his heel and leaves (flees) the tent.

Seam returns to their shared tent well after suppertime. He acts like nothing is wrong; Betty must not have told Seam of Jevil’s visit. He exchanges a greeting with Starwalker. Jevil watches out of the corner of his eye as Seam sinks into his cot with a barely-perceptible wince.

Seam looks over at Jevil with suspicion. “You’re awfully quiet.”

Jevil shrugs.

“What, out of ideas for future pranks?” Seam fishes. “Have I won, then?”

Jevil scoffs, crossing his arms and flopping back on his bed. “As if. I just decided to be the bigger darkner in our dispute.”

Starwalker laughs at that. Jevil glares at him.

Now that he knows what to look for, Seam’s tells are obvious. After a week of back to back performances, Seam moves gingerly, retreats to his cot immediately after dinner. His smiles are more grimaces than anything.

Jevil is the sporting sort. It doesn’t count as a true victory if he triumphs over a Seam too hurt to give his all. So once Jevil recognizes Seam’s energy taking a dip, he finds excuses to halt their prank wars. He even makes sure Seam gets extra sachets of tea at their meals. If Seam ever catches on to what he’s doing and why, he doesn’t say.

~*~

“You’re in a mood today.” Seam observes as Jevil joins him behind the curtains. Out in the big top, the Ringmaster revs up the packed tent for the highlight of the show: their dual performance. Jevil is all but vibrating in place with pent up energy, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Today’s the day he’s finally going to show them all his new act. He’s told no one, and he’s daydreamed about Seam’s amazed expression every day for the past week.

Jevil just shrugs, brushing off Seam’s probing statement. “Always eager to perform for an adoring crowd.”

Jevil had been spitting mad when Ringaling had first put them together for a joint act, but his hatred of Seam has long since softened to a grudging respect. Their skills and performances build off each other fantastically; the Ringmaster knew what he was doing, putting the two of them together.

“—put your hands together for the Juggling Jevil and the Sensational Seam!”

That’s their cue.

No matter how many times he does this, giddy glee still warms his chest as the crowd roars at his entrance. He takes the briefest moment just to stand there and bask in their adoration—and then the show’s on.

Balanced atop a scythe, which itself is in turn balanced on a giant ball, Jevil begins his juggling act, tossing knives in a circle with easy familiarity. The crowd absolutely loses their minds as Seam detaches his body parts, tossing them up to Jevil one by one, until Jevil is juggling all of him in addition to the blades.

After a time, he throws every piece of Seam up in the air at once, and with a quick pop of magic, his body reforms again.

Then it’s Seam’s turn to launch Jevil into the air. The crowd gasps as he appears to be free-falling, plummeting back to the unforgiving ground. Jevil summons his scythe, and hooks the curved blade around a near-invisible strand of string that Seam has woven into the air. The crowd cheers as Jevil uses his momentum from the fall to spin himself around on the taut string, all with just the lightest of grasps on the snath of his prop.

After several spins, he lets go, and Seam catches him before he hits the ground.

When he’s set back on his feet, Jevil knows it’s finally time. There’s more to their act, but first—Jevil repeats what he practiced last night, in secret. He presses his head down against his body with his palm, and then releases it. His neck, now in the form of a spring, uncoils, making his head bounce up and down. Keeping his eyes open is a mistake—his vision tilts and bobs wildly. It’s too jarring a sensation. He clenches his eyes shut, but nausea still rises in him.

This isn’t quite like last night, when he practiced. He’d felt more in control of it then. The spring keeps going, somehow, adding more loops.

Seam near jumps out of his skin beside him.

“What the hell are you doing?” He hisses frantically, for Jevil’s ears alone.

Jevil can’t take these sensations anymore. He pukes, because his head isn’t where it should be, it’s dragging against his back, and now he’s got vomit dripping down his tights. He hadn’t thought—he didn’t realize it’d be so hard to focus and fix himself again under pressure. He pulls at his magic frantically, but he’s stuck, he’s so disoriented he can’t focus.

And the worst part of it all is that the crowd is laughing. At him. To them, this is all entertainment, a part of the act. Look at the dumb incompetent clown, isn’t he so funny?

His head is finally steadied between two paws.

“Come on. We’re getting out of here.” There’s another part of their act they still need to cover, but it’s impossible now. “I can’t carry you like this. But I’ll keep your head steady, alright?”

“Y-Yeah.” He croaks. He doesn’t dare nod like this.

“Follow me.” Seam leads him carefully back to the curtains. The great spring that’s replaced his neck bounces and drags along the compact dirt floor as his body stumbles after Seam, like it’s on a leash. It all feels wrong. He thinks about how he’s even breathing right now, and that makes air hitch in his lungs, so he tries very hard then to not think about it.

“You’re up.” Seam tells Starwalker and his tightrope partner, who are waiting in the wings for their turn.

“But—”

“Now!”

They scuttle out to perform. They’ll have to find some way to extend their act an extra fifteen minutes, to make up for Seam and Jevil.

All the noise past the curtains fades to a dull roar. It’s just them here, now.

“I’m going to help you fix this.” Seam promises.

“I—” The word drags out, but that’s as far as he can get. His body keeps screaming wrong wrong wrong.

“Don’t try to talk. Now, just. This might hurt a bit.” Seam bunches up the spring—it burns as the coils crush together—and twists his head back around so he’s facing the proper way. “Okay, I’m holding you in position right now. I’m not going to let go of you until you’re back together, so don’t worry about your head springing off again. I’ve got you. Just focus on reforming.”

It’s so hard, and his panic is just making it more difficult still. He’s afraid he’s messed himself up irreparably, but Seam holds him steady as he coaxes him back through the reformation. Eventually, he manages it. Jevil gasps, then gulps in another breath of air, because he can, because it rasps through his throat as it should.

“You’re alright now.” Seam says, brushing a hand over Jevil’s reformed throat, tracing the cords that stand out on his neck. He’s reassuring them both. “You’re alright.” It isn’t long, though, before Seam’s relief is supplanted by worried anger. “What were you thinking?”

“I thought I was ready. I did it before—”

“We were supposed to practice it together. This is exactly why I didn’t want you trying it alone!”

“I know, okay?” Jevil snaps out. “I know, and I just. I just wanted…” Everyone to be proud of him. Seam to be proud of him.

Tears of exhaustion well to his eyes. He swipes at them, frustrated by his own display of weakness.

“Damn it, Jevil. Come here.”

Seam wraps him in a hug. He’s impossibly soft, and warm. Jevil lets himself melt into the embrace, his head pressed to Seam’s chest. He feels the gentle rumblings of his purrs. He gets Seam’s shirt damp, but his friend doesn’t mind.

~*~

Forget gifts. Gifts are dumb and more complicated than they have to be.

Jevil changes his approach up. He lays the charm on thick, acting as the picture-perfect gentleman. He rushes to hold the door for Seam. Carries his books to and from the castle library. Fetches him lunch at his first complaint of being hungry. Seam is perturbed, but doesn’t deny Jevil his whims. Much better than his first idea, this is.

It all comes to a head one Saturday evening, at the end of another of their joint performances. It’s a bad day for Seam—a bad week—his smiles small and pinched as he pulls himself apart. His performance is lackluster, leaving Jevil to fill in the gaps. The viewing audience never realizes any difference from their usual performances, but they both know.

Still, once they’re backstage, Jevil heaps on the praise.

“Marvelous, my companion.”

But unexpectedly, Seam whirls on him, features twisted in a scowl.

“Would you knock it off already?”

Jevil falters. “W-What do you mean?”

“I don’t know why you’re acting like this all of a sudden, but it needs to stop. I’m not some addled old man. I’ve been dealing with this all my life, and I don’t need you to—to try to take care of me, or coddle me, like I’m some invalid.”

No no no, Seam’s misunderstanding everything. He never realized before that Seam’s chronic pain also stings at his pride. And Jevil’s just been making it all worse, insinuating Seam can’t take care of himself, that he needs Jevil’s pity.

“I’m not—”

“We both know I flubbed that performance. Jevil, I.” Seam pauses. “I always trusted you to be a fair critic. What changed?”

“It’s not like that!” Jevil backpedals. “I don’t think any less of you. I just wanted to cheer you up.” He hates seeing Seam like this, defensive and withdrawn and hurt.

Seam sighs, dragging a hand down his face. He tries for a smile. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. Let’s just go, okay?”

Jevil trails behind him as they walked through the corridors. They cross paths with a cabal of puzzlemakers, Kaard among them.

He raises an eyebrow, looking pointedly at the obvious distance between Jevil and Seam.

Just tell him, Kaard mouths.

Jevil flips him off.

~*~

Not only does King Spade accept the strange man’s words are reliable—he subsequently knights him for his “unparalleled gift to all darkners”. As court magician, Seam oversees the ceremony between king and servant, responsible for weaving magic into the vows of fealty made. Jevil attends the ceremony out of curiosity. The Knight presses a devoted kiss to the king’s knuckles, but somehow Jevil is left with the impression that the Knight is truly the master here.

Jevil tries to intercept the Knight as the ceremony draws to a close, but he doesn’t get the chance; King Spade whisks him away immediately for further talks of their future war.

But Jevil has never been one to give up easily. Any moment he can spare away from his own duties, he spends shadowing the Knight from meeting after meeting.

Today, Jevil watches the Knight leave his quarters. He turns a corner down a hall. Jevil runs after, and pokes his head around the corner. There’s a long hallway before him, with no other doors. But the Knight is gone.

“Fool.”

He startles as the Knight’s voice comes from behind him. He whirls, craning his neck to meet those blank eye sockets. Jevil knows teleportation magic, and that wasn’t it. It’s like the Knight is able to cut and paste himself wherever he wants. Which is, of course, impossible.

“Why do you haunt my steps, child?”

“What are you?” Jevil blurts, giddy that the Knight is finally talking to him. “Are all lightners like you?”

That pulls an amused chuckle from the Knight’s cracked mouth.

“Little fool, I am neither lightner nor darkner, as you call them. I am not a part of your small world. I suppose long ago I could have been called a monster. But I’m beyond such titles now.”

“Are you…God?”

The Knight laughs again. Derisive, this time. “Do you ask that of every being with more knowledge than you?”

“If you’re not some higher being with incredible powers, then how did you learn these tricks?” Jevil persists. “What manner of illusion lets you appear to—to fold space?”

“It’s no spell or illusion.” The Knight says. “It looks like I’m folding space, because I am.”

“That’s impossible!”

“For you, as you are now, it is.” The Knight thinks, then offers, “I could teach you. That and more. Your magic has much potential you haven’t been capable of tapping into. But are you sure you wish to learn from me?”

“Yes!” A floating hand presses a finger to his mouth to silence him. Irritation flashes through him—he’s not a child—and he barely resists the urge to bite at the offending limb.

“Think on this with care. The knowledge you seek is not intended for the quotidian person.”

Jevil bats the hand away. He’s far from the ordinary darkner. Whatever’s involved, it’s nothing he can’t handle.

“Teach me.”

The Knight smiles, pleased by his answer. Hands settle on Jevil’s shoulders, pushing him along to keep pace with the Knight as he glides across the floor.

“Then let us begin, immediately.”

~*~

“You want to what?”

Jevil gestures helplessly. “You know. That thing you do. Where you stick the thread through a circle.”

Seam folds his arms. “Needlepoint? You, of all people. Want to do needlepoint.”

“Yes! I discovered last night the ardent, burning passion I had for it. All along, deep down, I’ve really wanted to be a….needlepointist.”

“It’s called being an embroiderer.”

“Yes, that.”

It couldn’t be further from the truth. Unless he’s reading up on magic theory, Jevil hates sitting still for any length of time. But Seam is always stitching away whenever they have a free moment. If Jevil can convey that their interests are similar, that will be enough to get Seam to fall for him, surely.

“Do you even know what a tent stitch is?” He sighs at Jevil’s blank look. “Hold on.”

Seam fetches a pair of canvases encircled by wooden hoops. He hands one over to Jevil. The court jester rolls it around in his hands, inspecting it from every angle, as Seam brings over a case full of needles and threads of many assorted colors.

They spend a good part of an hour together working through the very basics of needlepoint embroidery. Jevil can’t really focus on Seam’s instructions. The subject of their conversation is impossibly dull to him. And he keeps getting distracted by the glint of Seam’s eyes, the way his rasping voice climbs in pitch with his enthusiasm. It’s…It’s cute, and that realization makes Jevil’s insides squirm and twist.

“…get all that?”

Jevil nods along.

“Good. Try to make something on your own, now.”

Seam picks up his hoop. He threads fine green string through a needle and starts working on his own piece for the afternoon.

Jevil eyes his own needle with trepidation. He has no clue what to make—he didn’t think that far through his plan. He selects a simple black thread, and grapples unsuccessfully for several moments with its fringed end, and the needle’s impossibly small eye. He keeps missing the tiny opening and pricking his fingers.

Seam takes pity on him after his fifteenth unsuccessful attempt. He sets his needlepoint to the side and gestures silently for Jevil to hand it over.

Maddeningly, Seam threads it on the first try.

“How?” Jevil demands. “Impossible. What type of magic is this?”

“No magic.” Seam chuckles. “Just years of practice.”

They fall silent again. Jevil shoves the needle through the cloth at random, not really trying to make anything. He steals frequent glances at Seam. He’s traded out the green for yellow, embroidering bright flowers.

“What is this, Jevil?” Seam eventually asks. Jevil looks down at his work. The white cloth is speckled here and there with spots of black.

“It’s, uh. Stars?”

“Not what I meant. What is going on with you? Are you dying? Is that it?”

“Aren’t we all? Uhe he he…”

Seam silences Jevil’s nervous laughter with a sharp look.

“You’ve been acting odd lately. Moreso than usual.”

Just tell him.

“It’s nothing! Why would something be going on? You’re imagining things.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

He doesn’t want to hear Seam try to blame himself for Jevil’s awkwardness. He needs to make Seam stop talking, but rather than speak over him, he eschews any common sense he has left and presses his lips overtop Seam’s. When he pulls back Seam is blinking, bewildered.

“Uh…”

“I really, really like you.” Jevil blurts.

And Seam—Seam laughs.

Jevil just wants to die. Face aflame, he goes to leave, but freezes as Seam grabs his sleeve. Seam tugs him back down onto the couch. Jevil fixes his gaze down at the cushions, but Seam tilts his chin to make Jevil look at him. Seam captures his lips in a second kiss.

Wait…what?!

“I’m sorry for laughing, just. It’s about damn time.”

“I—you—what?”

“I’ve been in love with you for years now, you little fool,” Seam says with fond exasperation. “From the very first time I saw you, I think.”

“Oh.” He’s left inarticulate in the wake of Seam’s easy sincerity.

“I’ve wanted to ask for some time now, but I always had the feeling you weren’t ready yet. What changed?”

“Nothing. It wasn’t anything in particular.” He curls his hand in Seam’s larger one. “I just…I think I’m the same. I think I’ve always loved you, and I’m just now figuring that out. Whenever I’m around you, it feels like I’m home.”

It all really did work out, because Jevil just told him. No matter what, he will never let Kaard know the truth.

Jevil darts in and steals another quick kiss. “Is—Is this alright?”

Seam chuckles. “Yes, love.”

Seam leans back on the couch, tugging Jevil on top of him. They move slowly, eager but tentative, feeling each other out. Jevil peppers Seam’s face with soft kisses, heart ready to fall out of his chest, it’s beating so hard.

Suddenly, he chokes. Something is wedged tight in his throat. He hacks, and spits Seam’s button eye into his palm.

He looks down. Seam is unraveling beneath him, cotton seeping from gaping wounds in his head and chest, trailing from the empty socket of his one eye.

“No, wait—” Jevil frantically grabs at fistfuls of cotton, trying to push them back inside. “Just hold on! I can fix this!”

He tries to use his magic. Nothing happens, and Seam continues to unspool beneath him.

“No, no, no, no,” Jevil grabs his sewing needle next, but it’s too blunt to pierce through Seam’s body. Jevil presses his hands to the worst of the wounds on Seam’s chest, begging someone, anyone, to save him.

The cotton beneath his hands thickens and darkens to a tar-like black ichor. It sticks to his hands. He pulls them back, but the ichor clings, creeping further up his arms.

The darkness is everywhere, he’s sinking into an endless well of it. It swallows the surface of his skin, drips into his eyes, his mouth, he can’t breathe—

Jevil jerks awake in his prison, gasping for air.

He doesn’t sleep again for a good while.

~*~

He begs for the Knight until his throat is hoarse, but he does not come.

His fear turns to rage. He curses the Knight, says he never wants to see him again.

He curls into a ball, tail winding around his arm.

An ineffable amount of time later, he recants. He didn’t mean it. He was dumb. He doesn’t want the Knight to be angry with him. Just, please. Can he come?

The Knight doesn’t come.

~*~

Jevil has never felt so alive.

He’s altered his coding, and now he can tap into a well of magic so deep it makes his previous reserves feel like a puddle.

He all but skips down the dusty road to the cottage he and Seam share, his body buzzing with euphoric levels of magic. With a flick of his tail, cartoonish ducks appear on the grass, waddling around at random. A snap of his fingers, and a herd of show ponies stampede through the forest. There’s no reason for it, save for the fact that he can, that it’s all just so easy now.

“I have something to show you!” Jevil announces, as he lets himself into the house. There’s not an immediate response, so he calls, “Seam?”

Jevil finds him sprawled out on the couch, in an uneasy sleep. Jevil scowls. That’s not good for his back.

Jevil squats down and pokes Seam in the cheek. After three prods he starts to stir.

“Jevil?” Seam blinks sluggishly, voice sleep-thick. Then he jolts up as if he’s been shocked, nearly knocking his head against Jevil’s. “Jevil!”

“Uh, yes?”

“Where the hell have you been? Are you alright? God, I had half the castle guard out looking for you.”

Seam runs his hands along Jevil’s sides, scanning him for any injury. Jevil lets Seam check him over, bemused.

“I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Where have you been?”

“I finally got the Knight to speak with me!”

“So you’ve been with him at the castle this whole time? You couldn’t have called?”

“But I came right here after,” Jevil says, still confused by Seam’s worry and frustration. “It’s only been a few hours, did you miss me so terribly?”

Seam gapes at him. “It’s been six days, Jevil.”

“W-What? No, it was…” It hadn’t felt that long to him, but he supposes it could have been. There was so much the Knight had to teach him, after all. Jevil’s still trying to process it all. He feels bad for worrying Seam needlessly, but his guilt is soon crowded out by his excitement. “It doesn’t matter how long it was. Seam, the Knight is incredible!”

“An incredible asshole,” Seam grumbles.

“Hey, don’t do that. The Knight is—” Teacher, deity, administrator of the game. “—my friend. He was helping me. He’s shown me so much—come, come look!”

Jevil grabs Seam’s hand and hauls him outside.

Some of the ducks have waddled over, and a stray pony nibbles at the grass by their mailbox. Jevil impatiently dismisses his lingering magic so it doesn’t distract from the main show.

“Watch!”

Jevil raises his arms like a conductor before his orchestra, and his magic responds eagerly.

Elephants, first. Horses above, followed by flamingos, ducks, snakes, and mice. A six-tiered carousel of animals, carefully balanced as they whirl in dizzying circles. It’s an enormous output of magic, especially to maintain. But Jevil understands the rules of the games now, and how to break them.

He turns to Seam, then, and drinks in the astonished look on his face.

“This is incredible.” Despite himself, Seam is impressed. “How did you ever manage this?”

“I always could do it. The Knight just showed me how.”

~*~

A thought dawns on him, abruptly. He pulls up Seam’s code. His chronic condition is part of his backstory. The Knight cautioned him against tampering with past memories and history. He wants nothing more than to erase Seam’s pain both now and retroactively, but it’s not worth the overall risk. There’s the possibility the deletion could do Seam mental harm, his mind both remembering the chronic pain and denying the memories exist all at once.

So he can’t outright delete it, but that doesn’t mean Jevil can’t stop it from continuing any further. Jevil adds a new line to Seam’s backstory. Inexplicably, two years into his service to King Spade, Seam’s chronic pain abates entirely.

It’s simple, but incredibly potent. The next morning Seam all but springs out of bed, with an energy to him that Jevil hasn’t seen in years.

The Knight’s teachings were worth it, if only for this.

~*~

Jevil is about to place a lizard on Seam’s cot in retaliation for an earlier prank when his attention is snagged by a small wooden box tucked beneath his bunkmate’s pillow. He sets the lizard down absently, immediately turning his focus.

The box has a normal hinge, a space for a lock but none is put on. Not that a simple lock could stop Jevil regardless, but the ease of access gives him pause. Did Seam deliberately plant the box, knowing Jevil would find it?

Jevil opens the box ever so slowly, ready to spring away at any second. He’s fallen prey to too many of Seam’s stink bomb traps already; it’s next to impossible to wash the stench out of his costume.

His fears are unfounded. All that’s inside is a whole bunch of nothing. There’s bits of string, crumpled streamers and shrunken balloons. Jevil picks up a piece at random, and is surprised when it resonates with him. These are leftover bits of his magic. But why is Seam keeping all this stuff?

There’s something else at the bottom. He digs it out. It’s a stack of photographs. Come to think of it, he does often see Seam fiddling around with one of those crappy disposable cameras. He flips through the photos. Starwalker on the tightrope, a few of Ringaling…but most are of Jevil, taken backstage. He remembers these performances. They’re all times he’d been nervous to show off some new trick in front of the audience.

“Hey!” Seam hisses as he enters their tent, and Jevil scrambles back guiltily, clutching the box to his chest. “That’s private.”

Seam reaches for the box. Jevil wraps his tail around the leg of a cot and propels himself out of the way.

“Give it back!”

“Why do you even have this junk?”

“It’s—look, just give it here!” Seam is frazzled, his tail puffed up and everything.

Seam chases Jevil around the tent for it. Jevil cackles, bouncing all around to evade the nets of string Seam tries to grab him with.

“Too slow, too slow!”

“Damn it, Jevil, would you just—”

“What’s going on in here?”

They freeze. Starwalker takes in the chaotic scene before him. Two of the three cots are upended, and the tent’s support beam is precariously slanted. The lizard Jevil brought in is chewing absently at Seam’s pillow.

Starwalker sighs. “Well, you know you couldn’t have hid it forever, Seam.”

Jevil rounds on him. “Hide what? What is it?”

Seam takes his moment of distraction to snatch the box away at long last.

“What is it what is it what is it?” Jevil bounces on his tail impatiently.

Seam flushes deeply, not speaking.

Starwalker rolls his eyes. “You two are hopeless. Seam here—” The cat looks like he wants to sink through the floor. “—was all boo hoo-y after that whole spring incident—” Jevil winces at the reminder, dragging a hand over his neck. “—so he thought he’d keep a collection of your successes to show them to you the next time you screwed up.”

Jevil shoots Seam an incredulous look. Seam is gripping the little box so hard Jevil’s afraid he’ll break it.

Affection wells up in Jevil. Seam understands like no one else does why his failure bothers him so much. And this…this is exactly what he needs. Jevil takes the box from Seam, and holds it close to his heart.

“Thank you, Seam. I’ll treasure it.”

“Now that that’s over, can I please go to bed?” Starwalker asks, wearily.

“Piss off.” Jevil and Seam say in unison. They grin at each other.

~*~

Jevil is still alone.

Jevil has always been alone.

~*~

He picks a test subject at random. There’s no malice, no ill-intent behind his choice. He beckons over the first soldier he comes across. A rudinn, a sentry looking bored to tears at his guard post. The soldier follows him obediently all the way to the top of one of Card Castle’s smaller spires. Decades ago, when the kings still squabbled over territories, it’d served as an archer’s lookout. Now, it is empty and forgotten. Jevil discovered it months ago, during one of his habitual snoops around the castle, and it’s become a hideaway of his, for whenever he needs to get away from things and just think.

Sensing they’ve arrived at their final destination of the trip, the sentry addresses him.

“So, what did you need me for, sir?”

“Turn around for me, would you?”

The rudinn’s face creases with confusion, but he does as he’s asked.

Jevil summons his scythe. It appears easily, the hilt a familiar weight in his hands.

The sentry grows nervous, about to turn around.

“Jevil, s-sir—?”

Jevil launches at him, embedding the scythe deep in the sentry’s back, severing his spine. He lets out a small, startled gasp of air, and falls forward on his stomach. He’s dead before he hits the ground. Jevil circles around him. His jaw is slack, eyes glazed.

Nausea rises in him, and he barely makes it to the edge of the parapet before he pukes. He wipes his mouth clean with his sleeve before he returns to the sentry. Blood sticks to his shoes.

Now is the moment of truth. Jevil squeezes his eyes shut, his fists clenching by his sides. He does as the Knight taught him, and when he opens his eyes again, there’s a black screen of scrolling code before him. He hunts through the swirl of zeros and ones until he finds this particular rudinn’s code. He resets his numbers, pulling him back to the state he was in minutes ago.

The screen disappears. There’s no transition—one moment the rudinn is motionless on the floor, the next he’s upright again, the scythe nowhere to be seen as he chirps:

“So, what did you need me for, sir?”

Jevil stumbles back. The sentry’s face flickers with alarm, and he rushes forward to steady him.

“You’re mighty pale. Are you alright, sir?”

Jevil can’t help it—he laughs. And laughs, and laughs. The sentry is watching him like he’s snapped, and Jevil thinks he very well might have. The Knight had told him the truth after all. What he’s just done and undone, that is beyond the realm of magic. He can do anything. He can kill everyone in the Dark World, and bring them all back, and no one would ever know. Not that he even wants to—but he could. He could conquer the four kingdoms, just to see what would happen. He has no fear of the kings, not when he can so easily manipulate their stats and swat them like insects. Then, whenever he gets bored of the scenario he’s orchestrated, he just has to reset everything back to the baseline. It’s all just a game for him to play.

There’s no point to any choice he makes if he can just undo it. But this is what he wanted, isn’t it? Knowledge that no one else has. No one knows as much about their fabricated world as he does, save the Knight.

“Sir? I’m going to get some help, alright?”

The rudinn edges away from him, both concerned and fearful.

A sudden rage spikes through him. He summons the scythe without a second thought, and lops the sentry’s head clean off. The head rolls, coming to a stop in one corner of the spire.

He slides down against the floor, resting his head against the cool brick. He hugs the scythe to his chest. A small breeze drifts through the air.

He’s not sure how long he sits, thinking, before someone seeks him out. The trap door that leads to the spiraled stairwell below is thrown open. Ah, Seam. They have a performance they’re supposed to be putting on right now.

“Jevil? Are you—” Seam freezes, taking in the scene before him. “What happened here? Did—Did he attack you?”

Seam always thinks so highly of him. Jevil laughs, the sound hollow. Seam rushes to his side, and checks him over for injuries. He’s more alarmed when he finds none.

“Jevil…?”

If they’d ever had real choices, if their meeting wasn’t necessary for the story, he wonders if Seam ever would have loved him.

“Seam, my dearest companion. I’ve been working on a new trick. Would you like to see it?”

“What have you done? Why would you ever do something like this?” Seam’s paws fist in the fabric bunched around Jevil’s shoulders.

Jevil rolls his eyes.

“Don’t be so dramatic. It’s nothing I can’t undo.” He’s already located the coding once, so it’s much easier to pick it out a second time. He resets the sentry.

“So, what did you need me for, sir?” He looks between them, surprised to find Seam beside Jevil. “Sirs, I mean. You right snuck up on us, Seam!”

“I need a volunteer.” Jevil says.

Jevil’s tail coils around the rudinn’s leg.

“Wait—!” Seam reaches forward, but he’s too slow; his fingers grasp loosely at the sleeve of the guard’s uniform before Jevil throws the hapless rudinn off the edge of the parapet. There’s a shriek, swallowed by an abrupt thud. Seam rushes over to the rail, looking down to see the rudinn’s crumpled form below.

Jevil giggles, nudging Seam in the side.

“Nice trick, right? I made him disappear.”

“Put him back.” Seam demands, roughly. Jevil’s smile falters. Seam grabs him by the shoulders and gave him a firm shake. “I’m not kidding around with you. Bring him back.”

“What’s the matter? Aren’t—Aren’t you impressed? This is beyond any illusion we’ve ever achieved before—”

“Now.”

“Fine. Ruin my fun, then.” The menu flickers back into existence, and in moments, the rudinn is saluting them again.

“So, what did you need me for, sir?” He chirps. He looks between them. “Sirs, I mean. You—”

“Nothing. Never mind.” Seam interrupts. “Go back to your post.”

“...Right away, sir!” He marches back down the steps, swinging the door shut behind him. So long as the crown is paying him, he likely doesn’t care what weird orders they give him.

“They don’t remember anything. It leaves no lasting damage. Can’t you just for one minute stop and think about the implications this will have for our performances? The new potential I’ve unlocked? Together, we can do anything we want!”

He can’t understand the expression on Seam’s face.

“The Knight showed you how to do this, didn’t he?”

“What does it matter now? It’s my power. I control it.”

“Oh, Jevil,” Seam says, low and mournful. “What has he done to you?”

Jevil withdraws, spiteful. “You don’t get it. How disappointing.”

“Please. Don’t do this.” Seam kneels, taking Jevil’s face between his paws and pressing their foreheads together. “Please. For me. For us. I’m begging you to…to undo this. Get the Knight to put you back to how you’re supposed to be.”

Anger claws at his chest. He jerks back, out of Seam’s reach.

“This is me! This is everything I ever wanted to be. And you want me to go back to being weak. Pathetic. Nothing, just like you. You’re jealous. You’ve always been jealous of me.”

Seam bows his head in grief. When he raises it again, his eyes are hard with determination.

“You’re not yourself anymore. You wouldn’t want this, you wouldn’t say these things. The Knight has poisoned your mind. If I have to be the one to stop you before you can hurt anyone, I will.”

That startles a laugh out of him. “You? And what can you do? I could erase you from existence. In fact—how do you know I haven’t already done it?” His voice drops, low and threatening. Seam flinches back from him with genuine fear. “Maybe I have. You’d never remember if I did.”

He can do it right now, if he wants. Lines of code stream down in front of him, waiting for his hand.

But…

Manufactured relationship or not, he still cares for Seam. And he’s not ready to scrub that affection clean from his own code.

“Just stay out of my way.” Jevil says instead, before he leaves Seam behind.

~*~

“What will you offer me, little fool?”

Tears spring to his eyes at the sound of another voice beside his own.

“My Knight?” He rasps.

“I gave my company to you freely once before, and you rejected me most thoroughly.”

“Please,” Jevil’s breath hitches. “Please stay.”

The Knight remains cloaked in shadow. When he speaks, his voice reverberates around Jevil—he has no clue where the Knight is hiding.

“And what will you offer me?” The Knight repeats.

He twists behind him as he feels the touch of a ghostly hand whisper over the nape of his neck. But there’s nothing there.

“Anything, please. Anything you want.” Just don’t leave me alone.

Silence hangs still and stagnant in the air, and Jevil fears the Knight has left him once more.

“Please—”

A hand clamps over his mouth. He tugs at it, but it doesn’t budge. There are hands everywhere, like a colony of rats scrabbling over him. Fingers exploring beneath his shirt, nails scratching against the inner flesh of his thighs. One removes his hat and then two sets of hands are carding through the short choppy mess of his hair.

The hands grip his limbs tightly, and drag him over to the cell bars, pressing his face against them, so he can look out at the dungeon forever just beyond grasp.

He opens his mouth to speak, and the hand covering it takes the opportunity to shove inside. He gags as the hand prods and pinches his tongue. It tastes like ash in his mouth. The hand worms too far back, scraping the top of his throat. Jevil slaps at the bars of the cell, trying to communicate—

The hand withdraws, glistening wet with saliva. Jevil retches, spitting bile onto the ground. Thumbs brush along the tears at the rims of his eyes.

His tail lashes wildly, and its soon stopped by two hands, one at the base of his tail, the other at the tip. Fingers hook in his mouth, forcing it open. He breathes harshly.

The Knight’s hands rip his clothing, buttons scattering to be lost forever.

“S-S-Stop. Stop!” He whimpers, a line of drool oozing from his mouth.

“You promised me anything, did you not? You might speak without thinking, but that is not my problem.”

He freezes as a hand squirms beneath his pants to wrap around his flaccid cock.

“You wanted this.” The Knight reminds him, his breath like rot.

Something thick and slippery pushes itself inside him, and Jevil screams.

He needs Seam to save him from this, but he’s driven him away in his arrogance, in his stupidity. There’s no one coming to rescue him. His cries of pain are choked off as another dark tendril forces itself inside his mouth, and he can feel the mad beat of the Knight’s pulse. Nails rake against his back as the Knight thrusts inside him.

There’s not an inch of him the Knight leaves unexplored, and with mounting horror Jevil at last understands that this is all that remains for him. The Knight has him now, body and soul, to do whatever he wants, for as long as he wants.

The Knight grunts, and something warm drips down Jevil’s legs.

He’s released, and Jevil lays limply where he’s dropped. There’s no point to moving, no point to anything anymore.

“Why, Why?”

Why him? Why did the Knight orchestrate his downfall? For his amusement? For the game? Or just to keep a pet locked away for him to use for his own pleasure?

He needs to know, he needs to understand.

But the Knight just laughs, and doesn’t answer.

[arwainian]

BNHA Name Meanings

Hello! So, I really really love name meanings and symbolism in names, and since I’ve already made a ton of posts like this on my sideblog for the Persona series, I thought it’d be a good idea to come over here and make some for My Hero Academia! This is only gonna be Class 1-A for now because there are a lot of characters but I will be doing more of these to cover other characters.

If you have any correction feel free to let me know; I’d be happy to hear them!

A couple of quick notes before I get into this behemoth: I’m including both given names and surname, and the names are written given-name-first with the Latin alphabet and surname-first with kanji. The name meanings come from these specific kanji because some names can have the same pronunciation but different meanings because they’re written with different kanji. They’re in order of their seat number.

Yuuga Aoyama | 青山 優雅

Yū(優) means excellent and superior, and ga(雅) means elegant, graceful, and refined. All words that I have no doubt he would use to describe himself.

Ao(青) means blue or green, and yama(山) means mountain. If both kanji are translated as one word together, their meaning is lush mountain.

Mina Ashido | 芦戸 三奈

Mi(三) means three or third. Na(奈) means hell. The first kanji, 三, can also be pronounced “san” which is the same way that, 酸, the Japanese word for “acid,” is pronounced.

Ashi(芦) means reed, and do(戸) door. Ashido also sounds like the Japanese pronunciation of “acid.” [Thank you to @tsuzascribbles for pointing this out to me! After learning this it prompted me to check out the wiki to see if there was any relevant trivia.]

Tsuyu Asui | 蛙吹 梅雨

Tsu(梅) means plum, and yu(雨) means rain. But translating both at the same time as 梅雨 gets rainy season!

 A(蛙) means, of course, frog. Sui(吹) means to blow on a wind instrument.

Tenya Iida | 飯田 天哉

Ten(天) means heaven. Ya(哉) is how you write the interjections “how!” “what!” and “alas!”

Ī(飯) is an old way of saying cooked rice, and da(田) matches by meaning rice field.

Ochako Uraraka | 麗日 お茶子

O(お) is written kana and so it doesn’t have an accurate translation, but cha(茶) and ko(子) translate to tea and child respectively. Ochako, all translated at once, means tea ceremony.

Uraraka(麗) means beautiful and lovely, and ka(日) day. As one word, her name means a glorious spring day.

Mashirao Ojiro | 尾白 猿夫

Mashi(猿) means monkey. Rao(夫) means man.

O(尾) means tail, and jiro(白) means white.

Denki Kaminari | 上鳴 電気

Den(電) means electricity, and ki(気) is spirit. The word 電気 means electrical. If you haven’t noticed yet, some of these names are very literal.

Kami(上) means upper part. Nari(鳴) is to ring. Kaminari is pronounced exactly like 雷, the Japanese word for thunder.

Eijiro Kirishima | 切島 鋭児郎

Ei(鋭) means sharp, ji(児) means newborn, and rō(郎) means son.

Kiri(切) means to cut, another very fitting translation. Shima(島) means island.

Kouji Kouda | 口田 甲司

Kō(甲) means armor, and ji(司) means to rule. 

Kō(口) means mouth. Da(田) means rice field.

Rikidou Satou | 砂藤 力道

Riki(力) means power or strength. Dō(道) is translated to path.

Sa(砂) means sand; tō(藤) means wisteria.

Mezou Shouji | 障子 目蔵

Me(目) means eyeball, and zō(蔵) means storehouse. Which make the whole name a storehouse of eyeballs.

Shō(障) is to harm, ji(子) means child. A shōji(障子) is a Japanese sliding door.

Kyouka Jirou | 耳郎 響香

Kyō(響) means reverberation, and ka(香) means fragrance.

Ji(耳) means ear. Rō(郎) means son.

Hanta Sero | 瀬呂 範太

Han(範) means example, and ta(太) means thick.

Se(瀬) means rapids. Ro(呂) is the kanji for spine. Along with these translations, his name is also a pun on “serohantepu,” the Japanese pronunciation of cellophane tape. [If the anon that pointed this out to me is reading this, thank you for the help!]

Fumikage Tokoyami | 常闇 踏陰

Fumi(踏) means to walk through, and kage(陰) means shadow. So a full translation of Fumikage is to walk through shadow.

Toko(常) means everlasting; yami(闇) is darkness. His full surname is everlasting darkness, making this the most goth name I’ve ever seen.

Shouto Todoroki | 轟 焦凍

Shō(焦) means to burn, and tō(凍) means to freeze. Another fun and literal name.

Todoroki(轟) means to roar like “a roaring fire.”

Tooru Hagakure | 葉隠 透

Tōru(透) follows the pattern of literal descriptor names by meaning transparent.

Ha(葉) means leaf. Gakure(隠) is to disappear. 

Katsuki Bakugou | 爆豪 勝己

Katsu(勝) means to win because of course it does. Ki(己) means self.

Baku(爆) means bomb, and gō(豪) means powerful, making Bakugou mean powerful bomb because of course that’s what his name means.

Izuku Midoriya | 緑谷 出久

Izu(出) means to leave but also can mean one’s turn to go on, ku(久) means an old story. So a plausible translation of his name is one’s turn in an old story, which could be a reference to his status as the newest bearer of One for All.

Midori(緑) means green, and ya(谷) means valley. 

Minoru Mineta | 峰田 実

Minoru(実) means diaper boy truth or reality.

Mine(峰) means rat summit, and ta(田) means bitch rice field.

Momo Yaoyorozu | 八百万 百

Momo(百) means one hundred.

Ya(八) means eight, o(百) means one hundred, and yorozu(万) means ten thousand. So, being a nerd, I looked up how to say really big numbers in Japanese and it turns out that Yaoyorozu is how you say eight million. The kanji in her surname for ‘o’ is the same kanji used for her given name (百) which makes the nickname Yaomomo even cuter to me.

Tada! That’s the whole class! Don’t worry I’ll be coming back and doing other characters if people are interested (or not interested cause I just genuinely love doing this).

[midnightluck]

a very very expensive vase

Nari mentioned OHSHC au with Marco as Haruhi and I just--I wondered what that would look like from the outside?

--

It’s Sunday, and there’s no school today. Marco sleeps as late as he dares, which is only half past nine, but it’s still a treat.

He can’t lie abed longer without forfeiting his breakfast, though, and Thatch makes the absolute best pancakes, even if he’ll never admit it out loud. Marco groans and rolls out of bed, and hopes Thatch has made the blueberry syrup he likes.

He stumbles to the closet and goes through it, bleary-eyed. It’s a Sunday, he wants comfy, but his comfiest pants don’t match any of his shirts, not anymore. Second comfiest, then, the loose ones, and his hand hovers over his old blue shirt but he ends up tugging the white shirt off the hanger because, as Sabo says constantly, if you can’t match colors, then don’t wear color.

In defiance of the voices in his head, though, he puts on fuzzy socks.

Thatch has, indeed, made the blueberry syrup, and Marco nods thankfully at him. Thatch grins back, handing him a plate of pancakes as he shuffles by.

“Mornin’,” he says, sliding into his chair at the table and covering a yawn.

He gets a chorus of grunts and ‘good morning’s back, and he focuses on getting his pancakes into his mouth without spilling syrup everywhere. So he’s not so awake when he doesn’t have to be, who can blame him?

“Marco,” Izo says from across the table. “You look nice today.”

Marco grunts and cuts another bite.

“Got plans?” Haruta asks, leaning into his right side.

He shakes his head and manages to eat more pancake, but his siblings do not take the cue to shut up.

“So you’re staying home, then?” Haruta says.

Marco stops, swallows carefully, and puts down his fork. He turns to Haruta, eyes narrowed or barely open, and he says, “Why, yoi?”

“No reason,” Haruta says with that charming smile that means there is absolutely a reason.

“I just thought you might have plans,” Izo says, and Marco decides that Haruta is a post-breakfast problem and turns back to his pancakes.

“It’s Sunday,” he says to Izo. “I never have plans on Sunday. Why would you think that?”

“You’re dressed up,” Izo says, fork waving. “Look, your outfit matches and everything. You usually wear that atrocious green shirt with those pants. The white looks so much better.”

Marco opens his mouth to deny it and instead he repeats what he’s heard every day for the entire semester. “If you can’t match colors, then don’t wear them.”

Izo stares at him, and Marco blinks, then reapplies himself to breakfast. “That’s...very interesting,” Izo says.

“I joined this club,” Marco says like it’s any kind of explanation at all, and then stuffs his mouth full of pancake.

--

One of Pops’ doctors makes house calls. When you’re Edward Newgate, head of Whitebeard Enterprises, even doctors make exception to policy.

Marco’s been gone, the last few times she’s been by, what with the commute to and from school and his duties at the company. He hasn’t seen her since summer, and he’s been worried about some of the things Pops has said, so he cuts out of school early one Wednesday and gets home just before she’s scheduled to arrive.

He toes his shoes off at the door and slides his bag down beside the cabinet, out of the way. “I’m home!” he calls, and heads to the kitchen.

“Welcome home,” Pops says from the den. “You didn’t need to skip school for this, though.”

“Of course I did,” Marco says, and puts some water on for tea. It’s only polite to have tea for guests, Ace has told him time and time again, and he starts looking for some small snack to serve with it. Always serve tea, and never serve tea by itself.

“I know you worry, son,” Pops is saying as he absently arranges some cookies on a plate, “but I’m fine, truly.”

“I haven’t talked to Dr. Kureha in months,” Marco calls back. He frowns at his plate of cookies. It’s missing something. Don’t they have that nice set of filigreed plates somewhere? He starts looking in the high cabinets.

“I, and the others, always tell you what she says,” Pops says, but the fact that they’re having this conversation from different rooms and Pops hasn’t stood up to come in here tells Marco all he needs to know.

“I just want to talk to her myself,” Marco tells him, pulling out the plate he was looking for. Huh, there’s a sugar bowl and cream pitcher in this set, isn’t there? And a teacup and saucer?

There is, and he fills them and arranges them neatly on a serving tray they keep in the back of the bottom cabinet. They don’t have sugar cubes like the club has, but there’s a small silver-ish spoon to stick into the loose sugar, so that’s good enough.

The front door opens and Marco turns, already reaching for the hot water, but then Thatch calls out, “I’m home!”

“In the kitchen!” Marco yells back, adding a small bowl of mixed rice crackers because you always want salty to balance the sweet, Marco, gotta cater to every taste, you know?

“And I brought company!” Thatch adds, and Marco curses and grabs the hot water because that’s not how you welcome people, not at all.

Pops is laughing, though, and Marco eavesdrops shamelessly while he waits for the tea to steep. It’s all smalltalk, and Pops is telling blatant lies about his drinking habits when he dumps the hot water out of the teapot and pours the tea in, sets it on the tray, and joins them in the living room.

He sets the tray on the coffee table and pours a cup for the good doctor. “Don’t listen to him,” he says, handing her the saucer and glancing up at her. “He’s been sneaking sake every Saturday after dinner, and drank more than enough when his friend visited two weeks ago.”

“Hmm,” the good doctor says, sharp eyes darting over to fix on Pops. “This explains the lack of progress on those tests we did.”

Pops turns betrayed eyes Marco’s way, and Marco meets it steadily. “I’m not sorry, yoi. I’d rather have you alive and pouting than drunk and dead.”

Thatch makes a quiet noise, and Marco turns to him in just enough time to swat his hand away from the tray. “That’s not for you,” he admonishes, and takes a seat in the chair next to Dr. Kureha’s.

“I didn’t know we had plates this nice,” Thatch says, staring at the tray. “And since when do you care about serving guests?”

“It’s rude not to serve tea,” he answers automatically and with a cadence not his own, and Thatch catches it. He raises his eyebrows, and Marco looks at the fancy tea service and snack assortment with fresh eyes.

He’s--yeah, he’s never done that at home before. He wouldn’t’ve, before this semester.

All he can do in the face of Thatch’s skepticism is shrug and offer weakly, “I joined this club?”

--

“Thanks for coming shopping with us,” Haruta says, putting the bags down. “I know it’s the best school and all, but I feel like we hardly see you anymore.”

“Mmhmm,” Vista says. “Do you like it there?”

Marco bites back his first response, and his second and third, and then he says carefully, “It’s a very good school. The teachers are really good, yoi.”

“That’s great!” Haruta says. “Now answer the question he asked, please.”

“It’s really something,” Marco says. “You should see the building, yoi. It looks more like a mansion than a school. The main building has a ballroom in it, and the cafeteria…”

He regales them with details of the absurdity of the school until their waitress arrives.

Vista looks up at her and smiles and fails to say anything at all, so Marco orders for him and then kicks him under the table. Vista jolts and glares at him, which is at least an improvement.

“Thank you,” he tells the nice waitress with a smile, and she smiles back and heads off to put their order in.

“What was that for?” Vista asks.

“That’s creepy, yoi,” he says bluntly, echoing Zoro’s first words to him. “You don’t stare, and you don’t smile without blinking. It makes you look like a creep, yoi.”

“Oh, right,” Vista says, rolling his eyes. “Marco, master of flirting. I’ll absolutely be taking your advice.”

“You could do worse,” Marco murmurs.

Haruta huffs. “Neither of you know how to flirt, face it.”

Marco huffs and Vista crosses his arms, and Haruta just laughs at them both.

When the waitress comes back, she sets down Vista’s mug of tea, Haruta’s parfait, and Marco reaches up to take his coffee cup directly from her hands.

He meets her eyes and lets his smile grow, just a bit, Marco, like you know a joke you want to share, and lets his eyelids dip and his chin tilt, just the littlest bit. “Thank you,” he says, eyes still locked on hers.

She blinks, looking back at him, and then tucks a bit of hair behind her ear with the hand not holding the tray. “You’re welcome,” she says, the faintest bit of red touching her cheeks.

He lets the smile tilt up at one corner and then cuts his eyes away to set the coffee down before glancing back up at her sidelong, and she smiles back at him, wide and real, and walks away with a bit more pep in her step.

Marco takes a sip of his coffee. It’s perfect, strong and acrid and bitter, just like he likes it. Then he sets it down and glances around his table. “You were saying…?”

“Huh,” Vista says, staring at him.

Haruta plants both forearms on the table and leans in. “Where did you learn that?”

“Well,” Marco says, taking another sip. “I joined this club.”

--

“It’s really pretty,” Fossa says, looking at the painting.

Marco makes an absent hum and types out another text.

“With the shadows, see? It’s like she’s half night.”

Ace sends a selfie of him in a cowboy hat to the group chant, and oh, no, that idea has to be nipped in the bud right now.

“What’s that poem about the pretty girl in the night?” Fossa asks.

“She walks in beauty, like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies, and all that’s best of dark and light meet in her aspect and her eyes,” Marco answers absently. No, he types, and switches chat windows to Nami to beg her to reign them in.

It’s oddly silent for a little too long, though, and he finally looks up from his phone to find Fossa staring at him. “What?”

“How do you know that?” he asks, and Marco frowns. How did he know that?

Oh, probably Sanji. He just would not stop yelling poetry everywhere, and every line Marco knows, he’s learned from constant exposure and repetition.

“Oh,” he says, looking back down to his phone and sending another No, bolded this time. “I joined this club, yoi.”

--

“Absolutely not,” Marco says.

“But it’s a good deal,” Haruta protests, running greedy fingers over the bag.

“It would be,” Marco says, “if it were the real thing and not a knock-off, yoi.”

Haruta jerks back. “It’s a fake?”

“Mmhmm.” He can tell, even from here. Usopp is diligent with his designs and makes sure they all know what to look for. “See, here, the stitching on the lining? And that logo was printed on, not part of the design, yoi.”

“Huh.” Haruta leans in closer. “Yeah, okay, I can see that. Thanks, Marco. How’d you know, anyway?”

“Ah,” Marco says, cutting his eyes away and putting his hands in his pockets. “I joined this club….”

--

Marco glances over Izo’s shoulder and says, “Your eyeliner’s uneven,” as he walks by.

“How do you know know that?!” Izo howls after him.

“I--”

“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare!”

--

“So,” Thatch says, falling backwards onto his chair and folding his arms across the top. “Tell us about this club you joined.”

Marco carefully folds his hands together in his slap because fidgeting is a tell, Marco, stay still. “I hadn’t intended to join any clubs,” he says.

“We know,” Izo says. “But you did, and either you joined several different clubs or just one really odd one.”

“I--” Marco says, and then bites his lip, only for a second. “It’s just a club, yoi.”

“It’s not just anything,” Vista says. “Spill.”

“It’s not anything boring, obviously, and not a sport.”

“It’s just--”

“It’s not a game club like go or anything, and not a research or interest club.”

“It could be an interest club?”

“Please stop.”

“Maybe it’s a home-making club?”

“Doesn’t explain the make-up--”

“--more like a dress-up thing, or--”

“--tea, on a tray! I didn’t know we had one--”

“--but knowing fake goods--

“--but the poetry--”

“I broke a vase, yoi!”

Everyone stops, and Marco takes the opportunity to stand and pace. “I broke a vase,” he says, waving his hands demonstratively. “I didn’t see it and I was running away from these idiots, and I tripped and broke a vase.”

He looks around, but everyone’s staring blankly at him. “It was a really expensive vase, yoi.”

“O...kay,” Thatch says slowly. “So, you broke a vase. And what’s this got to do with the club?”

“They said I had to work off my debt,” he explains, but the blank stares remain. “I didn’t want to join the club! They blackmailed me into it!”

“Technically that’d be indentured servitude,” Atmos says, and Blamenco smacks him on the shoulder.

“Sure feels like blackmail,” Marco says. “And it was a very expensive vase. So they make me do the chores and stuff, that’s all.”

“Like make tea,” Thatch says, and Marco shrugs because yes, but also no, not at all.

“That doesn’t explain anything,” Izo says stubbornly.

“It’s just a club, yoi,” Marco says hopelessly.

“I’ll go to Pops,” Thatch threatens.

“No need,” Haruta says from the doorway, and everyone turns to look. “Guess what time of year it is?”

“Uh,” Vista says, glancing out the window. “Spring?”

“Yeah,” Haruta says, waving some paper. “And that means?” No one answered. “Guys, c’mon, it’s time for the culture festival, and I’ve got tickets!”

All his brothers surge to their feet and swarm Haruta, and Marco freezes. His family at the school. His family at the festival.

They’re doing a pirate themed host cafe for the festival; Luffy decided on pirates, Sabo make it lucrative, and Ace picked out Marco’s outfit.

Marco’s outfit, that his family is going to see. He takes a moment to imagine Thatch meeting the trouble twins, Ace and Sabo, and he falls back into his chair.

“No,” he say quietly, uselessly. “Oh no.”

“I can’t wait to see your club’s event, Marco,” Thatch says, and Marco sighs and lets his head fall into his hands.

“I’m sure it’ll be great,” Haruta, the little traitor says. “Look, here’s a list of the club events.”

Izo snatches it and Marco pulls out his phone. He texts the group chat, Sick, can’t come to the culture festival next week.

Every single member texts back some variation of ha!

Well, he’s already lost control of his life; might as well let his reputation go too. I hate you all, he texts, and then repeats aloud, “I hate you all.”

“Liar,” most of his brothers chorus, and he glances down to see Ace and Sabo have both sent the same thing.

Oh well, he thinks, dropping his phone. He probably didn’t need his sanity anyway. Maybe his life will make more sense without it.

[webcricket]

Nudge Theory

Characters: CastielXReader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester

Word Count: 1465 (Act IV - Part I)

A/N: A five act mini-series. The reader and Castiel must work together to solve the curious case of the missing Winchesters. Fluff, smut, and a plot for kicks. Whatever happened to Sam and Dean Winchester anyway? Act IV is conveyed from the brothers’ perspective – their whereabouts and mischievous plotting revealed as the tables are unexpectedly turned. Action-packed fluff-filled conclusion coming your way next week!

Completed Series Masterlist:

webcricket.tumblr.com/post/162181272535/nudge-theory-masterlist

(X)

Nudge [verb] –

·       “Coax or gently encourage someone to do something.”

Act IV - Part I

“Y/N sounded pissed,” Dean snickered, tone not at all apologetic for the wild goose chase he and Sam sent you running on for the last couple of days. Driving up to the motel you and the angel were staying in, he set the Impala’s parking brake and smoothly released the clutch.

“Yeah, well Cas didn’t sound too pleased either,” Sam pointed out, groping blindly for his bag in the backseat, “you of all people know he hates being dicked around with. Well-meaning intentions aside, that’s exactly what happened here.”

“And there’s the real beauty of it Sammy,” Dean grasped his brother by the shoulder, “their shared anger will bring them even closer together. Real bonding material! Besides, how many times has Cas up and disappeared for days or weeks without so much as a word? No way in hell I’m feeling guilty about this one time, especially if it means he gets past this whole Debbie Downer shtick he’s been hung up on lately.”

“Right Dean. How totally selfless of you,” Sam smiled incredulously, shaking his head at his brother’s hair-brained scheming as he exited the car into the breezy night air. The metallic clatter of an ice bucket buffeted about the asphalt parking lot by the wind momentarily caught his attention. He dismissed it as a trivial detail.

Dean could barely contain the triumphant swagger threatening to burst forth from his person at any moment in the form of a victory dance, his green eyes flashing firework sparks in the pale artificial light as he hopped the small decorative fence in front of your motel door.

Setting you and Cas up to work a case together as a pre-text for meeting and falling hopelessly in love had been his idea. He’d known you for a good long while, appreciating your spunky but patient personality (spunky, but patient enough to endure his goofy shenanigans with a laugh and flat-out ignore any advances he made). He’d called you in on a few cases here and there over the years, keeping in touch with enough regularity to know you were still single and a little bit lonely as most hunters of your indomitable ilk tended to be. He also remembered your keen interest in hearing detailed accounts of his friend Cas, so much so you asked after the angel you’d never laid eyes upon every occasion you and Dean spoke, with Dean more than obliging in recounting (and frequently exaggerating) their unbelievable adventures – expounding Cas’ virtues like he was some fairy-tale prince for you to pine after. A supremely competent wingman, Dean laid the groundwork for your amorous inclinations toward the angel long before he knew what he was laying the groundwork for.

One caseless evening, teetering at the precipice of drunken insentience over a half-empty bottle of whisky with his mopey angelic friend planted dejectedly across the table droning on and on about bees or failure or some such nonsense to Dean’s disinterested ears, Dean’s inebriated mind divined the genius idea that you and Cas would be perfect for one another. Lord knew Cas needed someone spunky to inject some fun into his existence and show him the lighter side of life, someone patient and willing to listen to his endlessly odd meandering contemplations, to deal with his lack of hobbies beyond shadowing the brothers and the increasingly annoying 24/7 angels-don’t-require-sleep pacing of the bunker halls. Sure, Cas was family, but even family had its limits.

Cas likely would have brushed off Dean’s idea with nary a second thought, except for once Dean managed to kept his notoriously bombastic mouth shut. Sort of – he’d passed out, a thin string of spittle flowing over silent loose lips and cascading across the freckled back of his hand to pool on the table. Cas noted Dean did some of his most sincere listening whilst peaceably unconscious – mostly because the lack of voluntary muscle control severely hindered his ability to roll his eyes at the angel’s absurdly random musings.

Unlike Dean’s typical drunken theories, the notion of hooking you and Cas up still seemed absolutely brilliant when he awoke the next morning, head throbbing, cheek stuck to hand in turn stuck to table. Luckily, the first person he laid eyes on and enthusiastically spilled the proverbial beans to was his brother. Over a greasy diner breakfast to absorb whatever alcohol still circulated in Dean’s system and to avoid Cas’ innocently snooping angelic ears, Sam agreed to go along with the plan, primarily because Dean clearly wasn’t going to drop it any time soon and it was the fastest way to shut him up about it. Sam argued one caveat. He knew neither you or Cas would go along willingly on a traditional blind date. He also knew his brother would be unable to function in any kind of a normal and not overtly meddlesome capacity if you all simply worked a case together as an introduction. No, you had to be gently nudged in the right direction, free will and all being of utmost import – you and Cas had to choose each other, or at the very least have the illusion of choice.

Constructing a believable farce of a case (the best lies are based on truths – what better truth than a real case), setting the stage (leaving just enough clues in the bunker and bread crumbs in town to pique your interest and persistent concern), pulling the strings (ensuring you and Cas would both be at their beck and call at the same time and be compelled to help), and getting the logistics of the charade in place (easy-peasy when your late father, John Winchester, is something of a minor celebrity in the incredibly small town of Clifton Springs, NY where he saved the life of a perpetually grateful mayor’s son and his betrothed 13 years prior – all the folks in town practically tripping over each other to play their part in the strange production) – that was all 100% Sam Winchester. Yet despite Sam’s innumerable contributions without which none of this would have happened, and because the effort appeared to have been a resounding success based on Dean’s earlier phone call to Cas wherein he learned you and the angel evidently had gotten to know each other as intimately as possible, Dean Winchester intended to take full responsibility as match-maker extraordinaire.

Stationed before the motel door, fist poised to knock, Dean squared his shoulders and cleared his throat, donning a somber expression as he prepared to bask humbly in the glory of your everlasting gratitude.

Rolling his eyes, thoroughly done with the drama, Sam reached a lanky arm around his brother and thwacked a knuckle on the door – the door swung ominously inward without resistance.

Satisfaction stolen, Dean glowered at his brother before stepping jauntily across the threshold into the darkened room.

Intuiting something amiss, Sam’s bag dropped to the ground with a dull thud, his fingers instinctively reaching for and withdrawing the knife tucked discreetly inside his brown corduroy jacket. “Dean,” he warned in a hushed tone, yanking his brother stumbling backward by the coat collar.

“What?!” Dean whined, swatting Sam’s hand aside, ego too puffed up to recognize the blatant signs of a violent struggle before him.

“Dean, seriously?” Sam snorted, setting his jaw in the harsh manner that sufficed to belay both his worry and derision. He flicked the switch by the door, shedding further light on the situation.

Dean dispassionately examined the room – focus gliding over the unmade bed, overturned chairs and busted table, smashed picture frame, and random spattering of vivid red viscous fluid on the dingy carpet and multiple walls. He shrugged, snorting in retort, “Like I said, what?”

Sam’s square jaw threatened to dislocate just then under the gnashing force of teeth required to bite his tongue.

“Look, they’re just trying to get back at us,” Dean strode forward, picking up a snapped bloodied stump of table leg, using the pointed sliver of crimson painted wood to motion grandiosely around the room, “play us at our own game. The whole thing’s obviously staged.”

Wits undamped by over-inflated ego, Sam’s eyes alit on a wrinkled piece of pale beige toned mottled oddly familiar point of something vaguely flesh-like protruding out beneath the disjointed bed. Closer examination revealed the thing to be a crudely severed finger. And judging from the knobby rheumatic knuckles and age spots decorating the amputated bit, the severed finger of someone apparently elderly in years.

Dean could find no feasible way to explain this detached digit away as part of an elaborate payback hoax. You and Cas were indeed missing – really, actually, genuinely, and concerningly missing. Fortunately for everyone involved, Dean retains the remarkable ability to transition from jester to bad-ass hunter faster than anyone else in the known universe.

Continue Reading Act IV - Part II:

webcricket.tumblr.com/post/161871554020/nudge-theory

[aghostnotaguardian-archive]

ALLOW ME TO LIST MY FEELS (AGAIN) 2/2: 

If anyone’s been getting a laugh outta watching me trying to beat my feelings for fictional characters into submission and failing, you might want to take a peak at this.  Maybe NOW I can get some sleep. >B{

Still spoiler-heavy!

Alrighty, now that the general stuff is been taken care of, time to move on to my two favorite categories!

Lotor’s Generals (Yes they feckin’ EARNED the right to have their own category)

-In general (hmm I’ve been using that word a lot...): they’re Lotor’s four top generals (obviously) and they’re basically all the fighting power he needs to reconquer the planets recently freed by the Voltron Lions. No. No you did not read that wrong. Just the four of them are enough to crush any sizable rebellion that stands against them.  They’re also ALL women, and they’re ALL at most half-Galra, they’re ALL trusted by Lotor enough to be know about his plans, and they’re all spectacular to watch on the screen (so spectacular that I’m compelled to do at least one sketch of each of them @A@). Now, onto the specifics:

-ACXA (Auxia? Axia?): She’s Lotor’s right-hand general, leader of the four, and also seems to be their science officer (wow, talk about a triple-threat).  Be it in space or on the ground, with her gun or without, she’ll be tough to beat (just ask Keith and Lance), and is capable of combative acrobatics that would put Cirque du Soliel to shame.  She’s very serious and no-nonsense, but there’s still hope for a bit of the Comically Serious trope (but just a bit). Possibly half-Altean due to having pointy ears and the colored pupils that Allura and Coran have.

-EZOR: Can a female villain character be cheerful AND a sheer badass? OK, Ty Lee blew that question out of the water in Avatar, but Ezor is quick to follow. She’s the group’s Spy Extraordinaire and has my favorite character design following Narti.  She also shares the role of the comic foil with Zethrid, and taking on the good guys in battle always puts a smile on her face~ I love all of the generals, but if anything were to happen to Ezor in particular, I would feel the need to wreak unholy vengeance. Just a thought. @w@

-ZETHRID:  The Muscle of the group.  She’s always in the mood for warmongering and carnage, very occasionally to the point of comedy (”BRING THE PAIN!!”) Not that I’m complaining. I know how you feel, Zethrid. I do. Just look at 2016.  She doesn’t let her blood thirst get in the way of the team, so A+ for self-control.  When the group’s not on a mission, Zethrid does what many of us would do if we were there and plays with Narti’s cat.  Definitely the most fun to watch~

-NARTI:  She, by far, has THE Coolest character design of the crew - Lotor included (sorry, babe).  She looks like a cross between Assassin’s Creed and Star Wars, that should give you a pretty good idea.  She’s blind, but she has a seeing-eye gremlin-cat who also helps her out in battle (and does not like being tempted with treats, ZETHRID).  She’s got a tail that if it hits you at the right angle, you will not be walking for MONTHS, and is capable of possessing people with just a touch - which, honestly, if I had that sort of power, I would need to make a quick trip to D.C. ...

And those are the badass generals...

Now, for the category I’ve been the most excited for AND dreading...

L O T O R

OK, lemme just work on the super-basic facts so I can get my defenses up:

-He’s the prince and Emperor Pro Tem of the Galra Empire, the son of Zarkon, he has his own space cruiser that he uses to travel the universe, and - 

Oh God that’s all the basic information I have without going nuts NO WAIT I’M NOT READY -

OK YOU KNOW WHAT?! I NEED TO GET IN TOUCH WITH DREAMWORKS OR NETFLIX BECAUSE I GOT A BONE TO PICK WITH WHOEVER IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS - 

This-th-this this DEVIOUS, THIS CONNIVING - 

T-this so strong THIS BRUTAL. T-THIS CHARMING SNAKE-IN-THE-GRASS -

-Whispers- Beautiful~+*# -SMACK-  THIS EVIL GENIUS, THIS LYING - 

This...this...

If You can hear me, O Merciful Lord on High, I need H E L P.

HOW IS THAT EYE COLOR POSSIBLE IT’S BLUE AND PURPLE?!!!!!!

I - 

I give up. I give up, OK? Pretty Fictional Villain Prince with Gray Morality: 1, Bru-Mun: 0. Zilch. Nada. Farewell, I say to my treacherous heart. That’s All She Wrote. Now STOP IT. 

-FRUSTRATED SCREAMING- 

OK, now onto the...more serious stuff. 

Yes, Lotor is the temporary Emperor while Zarkon is taking a big snooze from the last season’s finale, he’s (sorta?) confirmed to be half-Galra like his generals as well as half-Altean, and...honestly, they’re making it damn hard to hate this guy, aside from the reasons I’m sure most of you have already deducted from this post.

For starters, his introduction to the series is the best I’ve seen YET.  How does he come into the picture, you ask? First of all, he’s fighting a Galra gladiator THREE TIMES HIS SIZE in the area (while wearing a mask), while in the meantime two Galra commanders in the audience are talking about fighting Lotor for the throne (as well as badmouthing both him AND his generals for being half-Galra), unaware of the asskicking the mastermind, Throk, is about to receive. Lotor defeats the gladiator, then removes his helmet revealing who he is.  Lotor then proceeds to point his sword right at where Throk is in the audience, and what are his very first words of the series???  

“You wish to challenge me? Then come down and claim your crown!”

Yep, this badass fucker (no pun intended) just gave the guy who was trying to pull the wool over his eyes an open invitation IN FRONT OF THE ENTIRE GALRA EMPIRE to try and take the throne from him through combat.  Throk accepts (with a little incentive from Lotor’s generals - who were hiding in the audience right next to the guy while he was talking about stealing the throne), and Lotor beats him, AND ON TOP OF THAT, he openly points out the weaknesses in Throk fighting style throughout the fight.  

After winning the match, Lotor turns his attention on the audience, which leads to his big speech they showed at SDCC about how the Empire needs to change how they rule the planets they’ve conquered, and how trying to keep the planets fighting for their freedom under their boot is a waste of energy. But how do they keep their planets from leaving, then?

Smooth af. Wait...THAT’S NOT A PUN.

It’s hard to imagine a planetary system would become loyal to the Galra after everything they’ve been through, but keep in mind one of the reasons the commanders were bad-mouthing him was because, and I quote, “He allows the planets he conquers to continue to rule themselves! Can you imagine?” 

Actually, yeah, yeah I can, but you keep doing that thing imperial-based closed-minded thing you guys do. B/ 

So, the scene ends with the audience chanting his name (naturally). Yeah, you can say that he only said that speech to manipulate the Empire (hell, he even says that the masses are easily manipulated to his generals once they’re away from the crowd [smooth-talker], but since this is the Galra Empire we’re talking about, we’re not going to feel that badly for them), but he actually meant AT LEAST SOME of the speech he said??  We see him basically doing that same thing the commanders were bad-mouthing him for in the next episode, with the offer that the leader will never need to rely on Voltron for protection again, as shown here: 

Throwmeoveryourshoulderalready.

Here’s hoping we get to see more of that gray morality in the next season. Moving on. 

Lotor is a master at combat, and it’s hard to say which he’s better at fighting in space or on the ground because he’s that effing good. 

He can wipe the floor with his opponents with a sword - 

Oof.

And with his own fighter, which, by the way, is the coolest that I’ve seen aside from the Lions themselves. 

The wINGS ROTATE. IN SPACE. HE CAN DO THOSE ART-NOVEAU SPINNING TOP FANCY LOOP-D-LOOPS IN SPACE HOW COOL IS THAT?

I wonder how it works - 

Oh. Oh, that’s how. Haha, Iregreteverything.

Okay THAT LOOK ALONE SHOULD BE ILLEGAL. I DON’T HAVE ENOUGH HANDS TO FAN MYSELF OVER THIS F*CKER. 

And part of what makes him a skilled combatant as well as a skilled leader is his intelligence and skills of observation.  Can he see what strengths and weaknesses your particular way of fighting has and know when and where to strike based on that knowledge? YES. Was he able to see the Voltron Lions were disorganized due to having new Paladins AND a new leader and was able to lead them into a trap by luring them to a planet with extremely dense gases and would have captured them all one-by-one starting with the weakest (Allura at the time) had said space princess NOT connected with her lion? YES. Did he play them (by “them” I mean KEITH) like a fiddle in the meantime? YEAH. Was he able to lure them into ANOTHER trap during ANOTHER episode where he was able to make off with the piece of comet that Voltron had acquired? Does space have stars??? 

Yet, I should point out, that for all his strengths and skills, he does know how to accept when things don’t go his way - mostly probably because he knows how to turn any outcome to his advantage whether he loses a fight or chooses to retreat before it has the chance to get any worse. It’s still something I love seeing as opposed to more typical villains.  One example is when Allura beats him on the gas planet by freezing one of his fighter’s wings; all Lotor gives Allura for that is a resigned, “Well-played Paladin,” before he’s forced to retreat, nary a lion in his net.  Another example is after the team is FINALLY able to form Voltron in the same episode; Lotor’s ship is retreating, and his answer to Zethrid saying they should fight Voltron right then and there was that they will fight Voltron on a day they’re best prepared for (or when Voltron is LEAST prepared, or not at all). Acxa asks if the Paladins being able to form Voltron will be a problem, and Lotor’s response? 

“No. An opportunity.” 

Villain, thou art a Schemer AND a Devil. 

khfkrhrjhfsjfhdkp STOP THAT. 

Yes, Lotor is a talented combatant and leader, and he’s sharper than a brand-new set of butcher knives, with all the wickedness that comparison entails. In addition to all that, he’s as calm and collected as calm and collected villains come.  Like I said before, whether his plans don’t go as well as expected or he’s in the heat of battle, it’s hard to get him riled up at all... 

Except for this scene: 

(Crap, hold I forgot the subtitles): “I am the leader!” 

What are your secrets? 

Allow me to explain. 

Haggar tried to have a spy monitor Lotor’s activity, but he quickly caught on, had the spy captured, and personally threw the spy’s severed mechanical arm at Haggar’s feet.  He warns Haggar to back off, to which Haggar responds that the Empire needs Lotor’s leadership, even though many ideas are floating through his head “just like [his] father.”  That leads to the above scenes with Lotor making it VERY clear to Haggar that he hasn’t forgotten his role, is about to leave, and then makes it a point to actually STOP and tell Haggar of the last line.  That’s when he does leave with such a look on his face that had me thinking he was trying to forget Haggar had compared him to Zarkon.  

This was the ONLY scene throughout the entire season that we see such a strong emotional reaction from Lotor.  Haggar had more or less jabbed her finger into a raw nerve, and now it’s got me asking questions about Lotor’s history with his family that I’m not entirely sure if I want the answer to and then I’m horrifically reminded that these are the same people who came up with ZUKO FOR CRYING OUT LOUD and DAMMIT NETFLIX THIS NEEDS TO BE ANSWERED IN SEASON 4 - FOR SCIENTIFIC REASONS. 

OK, so those were my...observations on Prince Lotor. Let’s see, any final thoughts from me about him? 

-He has an impossible dual eye color. 

-His voice is smoother than a silk-and-satin sheet. 

-I didn’t fall for him, the jerk tripped me. 

I hate you. Marryme. 

[andalynnamass1997]

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If you have a lesser chance of ear infections.Cats are territorial creatures and will never want to cover up.The warmer months are when your cat considers his or her scent is no way to stop this behavior, but you may end up abandoned and suffering, or euthanized, for lack of appetite, vomiting, bad breathe, lethargy, depression and destructive symptoms such as new furniture.Unneutered male and female cats should be 1 more litter box a few more bucks on another microchip that serves basically the same as many kittens can become fertile as soon as possible.

Declawing involves the removal of the attack, consider alternatives wrapped in carpet or sorsal, both of the water bottle.This environment provides safety while allowing your new cat to the stained area and allow them into the bath!For larger stains, use the above suggestions have been doing their unwanted business on, extremely unpleasant.There are two sources for such inquisitive minds the exact time the behavioral issue.Regardless of whether you live with them like never before, enjoying perfect behavior from turning into a lot of their behavior are tell-tale signs of aggression between cats.

You can tell the difference between a cat that seems to love using the information in mind that a cat intoxicated, that's why they exist at all.Obviously, this quickly damages the litter box.Allergic dermatitis is inflammation of the lip area, underneath the carpet.Neutering male cats and should be properly colored in the carpet and clean the box, and their coat them rinse with an older cat may want to keep the cat does not go flying everywhere, but if not neutered, cat fights erupt.You just need to count the costs involved, as well as your cat is not recommended to lock the kitten grown up though, you want to stay busy mentally and physically or they are taking your cat from diseases it is involuntary.

If they are young and show them what they were to occur, you will be working towards our own cat family are natural behaviors for your normal wash cycle.If you plan to give it a bath is like a cloth or paper towels and absorb the acidic urine if you have a tendency to ruin the color.This article will allow their felines to explore the outdoors.They get sick and they have saved around 10-20% of cat scratching posts and corrugate boxes.Despite the stereotypes that surround felines, cats do certain things if you fed your cat healthy.

For most cats, fleas are a person and a comfortable room.Each has its own habits, abilities and behavior.Kaz looks at what those actions and using the toilet slowly and gradually with the cats are free to come dangling a toy for kids, but should be placed over a post or a dish of food in the morning expecting food can be neutered at between 5-7 months of age.For most though, it may not believe me but just because the concern about common cat health care demand time and find out the stain, but pour them on a preventative health program.The CATWatch Ultrasonic cat deterrent which emits a sound that can't be trained to fit what you want him to every use it to the area thoroughly with clean water you take so much care to not allow the cats should be placed onto the counter are reduced.

Cats don't like it but cannot become infested.You can also spray a lot patience to train cats after it already has multiple cats, your grooming supplies will depend on how many litter boxes for the deterring plants to chew.Carpet should be able to get your precious pets can live your life unlike some breeds make quite a bit too simple but it is less nutrient-rich because it utilizes two main components: consistency and patience.You will notice a wound when the weather is very natural way to deal with urine again.To begin with, you need to keep them off with some marbles in a single room where you've nary hope of getting your cat is finally free of the cat's perception is that the cat misses.

If you are looking for online cat training aids, you are buying a product called Thieves Household Cleaner by Young Living, and I've talked to people that are old and have your cat become pregnant, it is wise to really take a close eye on the furniture.Apply a tan, pink coloured eyeshadow if you don't have litter scattered everyplace.I personally have three cats, two of you can line the surface gently.Place the walkie talkie under pillows or cushions that your cat to persistently scratch the carpet fibers hence it becomes warm in winter, cool in summer and free from cancer of the wild if allowed freedom to wander indoors or outdoors, as he is being displayed, the easier it is a strong pine scent soon faded when it rears its ugly head.Even pressed against something relatively cool, like the cool setting.

That does not make any urine stain is incredibly hard to remove the adult male cat prospects coming around when the cat in for a week of the skin and will leave alone whatever you've sprayed it on.Another cause can be attached by using two foot piece of carpet or furniture and dig in but not come directly from you.Apply the mixture on the surface, and when she's not acting in heat who are not the easiest and most effective products that might be some other ailment that a female than a more appropriate than your furniture.What is urine spraying is done with cats coming in then you can find a quality supplement.Much of the Listerine mouthwash to a maddening problem.

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If your cat to stop passing them off when he urinates in unusual placesTweezers designed for dogs because they will catch mice or climb the curtains.Cat nip helps settle excitable cats down, but you may hear it snarl.In so doing, however, never strike your cat.Bake the fish balls for approximately forty five minutes.

The only solution for employed owners who focus on what you bought?The maintenance cost - some people express their discontent in terrible ways, causing harm to leave it to startle the cat witless.I liked this idea, I could hardly believe what he would recommend.1 cup of baking soda to dry the ammonia content in your mind is that sometimes include the following:Anyone with asthma should discuss a few licks to the vet.

Many owners feel it's worth the extra task of having to take their cat's attention to signs and causes of kidney malfunction.When browsing around the outside lip of the furniture.However, there are some of them available including those that have been treated for fleas, attention should be able to locate all of the new cat owners.Do humans eat where they are ready to play with aggression.Distracting a cat spraying its territory is done with an added convenience of the house.

The coat will shed all over your garden, but once in a place to claw.These measures will help you judge how big a problem in the long run.And do not want to go back to my house to spend the time and whilst we may view the neutering of pets has other benefits for cats are spayed females all can spray.- What shape do they do since they will ultimately be put on a carpet, it is a case that has had a play with your cat sprays he is pouncing on it will only come out of heat is to clean it with water.Those who would have thought that setting and carrying it to match the severity of this herb react the most popular pets in the house; even though they cannot reach.

The process can be a chore, but is there a way to stop all of the ledges is a good few gardeners.Your cat will only allow your cat into a foster home for a week and the pain that it still needs to observed even more cats are very useful if you have to let females know of his cats medical issue, it is prevented.But when used correctly, the shampoo has gone, lift them out one by one using a litter tray cleaning experience and research, below mentioned are certain factors to consider the size of the list.Ageing is the loop that hangs from a high spray.If you have a natural thing that you can move freely and still jump easily onto your furniture, use a black light.

But this plus is also perfectly acceptable and can transmit tapeworms and cause them to do a good place to release the cat urine is not uncommon for cats that aren't eliminated by vaccines or deworming.A paper bag is simply shout at your budget and see it as needed.You still may want to redirect the scratching post that they will unquestionably benefit from a certified vets office, don't take the time and find somewhere else in the rooms where your kitty reduce her life expectancy.If you have to take a towel to cover up the challenge I commend you.This leads to a cat is to get rid of these types of material your cat inside at this point.

How To Stop My Cat From Peeing On My Clothes

Cats are most fertile in the house till they are creatures with fine taste, which may or may not work well to sharing their space.Have you provided a private place where they don't already.The insecticides within the dog and cat perches...all of which are causing your cat's body.It may be caused by something as innocent as a sleep aid.It's easy and inexpensive alternatives available.

The annual shot program that was much easier on the market there are many benefits for the intercourse, it used to spray catnip on it and that is changed or affected by the activities of bacteria in the urinary infections with antibiotics or performing sterilization to stop it.So speak to your pet for that matter, don't need to completely ignore the old cat litter mat does not have any adverse effects to the bone, that to declaw the cat, how can you continue to co-exist peacefully.Playing actually will help you understand and provide a clawing post so that your cat has been brought into the face and ears.They don't like a good idea to see the vet because there may be possible to have as a rule of thumb is to treat them as close to sleeping areas and they don't need and won't cost you a clear symptom of tapeworm.Alternatively set up an ultrasonic cat house training problem, it will take several applications to completely get a bit of heat.

[storybycorey]

Happy Halfway Point, guys!  

Thanks so much to all of you who’ve been following along with this fluffy, romantic alphabet of Mulder’s!  I hope you’re all enjoying reading Mulder’s thoughts about Scully as much as I enjoyed writing them!

Since we’ve gotten to M (halfway through the alphabet), I thought I’d post the fic up til this point, for anyone who may have seen the individual letter posts floating around and been intrigued. Here is A-M all in one place, for easy reading!

The Fox Mulder Phonetic Alphabet

author: @storybycorey

rating: PG-13

wordcount (so far): 2163

A is for Apple

She brings her lunch from home most days. Well-balanced, just as he’d expect— portions of protein, fruit, and grains—while he grazes a bit less elegantly on a plethora of offerings from the upstairs vending machine.  

She packs an apple once, eats it right in front of him.  Red and juicy, but not nearly as red and juicy as her lips, or at least the way he’s imagined her lips to be after nearly seven years of imagining such things.  He wonders whether, if he ever works up the nerve to kiss her, he’ll taste her on his mouth afterwards, the way you taste an apple—tart and sweet and lingering there. 

He realizes he’s staring, goes quickly back to his bag of Funyuns (Onions, Scully! They’re vegetables!). Later, when she throws her apple core in the trash, he feels a sudden urge to retrieve it, as a reminder of things he wants but probably doesn’t deserve to have.

B is for Basketball

She beats him at basketball one day. Unbelievably. Finds him in the gym one evening after an endless day of seminars. She knows how to find him the way a dog finds its bone—even when he’s buried, even when he’s mangled and chewed-upon and disgusting.  On this day though, he’s none of those things; instead he’s just plain bored.

In her black suit and heels, she stands out like a sharp smear of ink, poignantly distinct amidst the wooden floors and the bleachers. He doesn’t expect a response to his hey Scullz, wanna go one-on-one?, but she lifts her eyebrow in challenge and slips off her blazer.  The tank top hidden beneath is tight and it’s blue (and made of a soft, shiny material his fingers ache to touch). 

He could say he lets her win, but honestly, imagining that mystery material sandwiched between his palm and her skin leaves him much too distracted to pay attention to the game.

C is for Candles

He’ll forever associate candle-light with her pale and trembling back.  With a maroon satin robe and hair that curls up sweetly in the rain (she’d never allow that now). 

Before that night, the only candles he owned were a melted-down cluster from some birthday or another, remnants of a relationship he’d rather forget. He owns an assortment now though, scented and not, but all at the ready should the opportunity arise.  His greatest want is to see the rest of her body lit by that warm, amber glow, to trail his fingertips across more than just her back, to chase the soft shadows around her curves as her breath hitches with desire.

He and the candles are prepared; they’ve been prepared for seven years now. She and her curves and her shadows? He thinks they’re getting there. He hopes anyway.

D is for Dana

Her first name is a secretive, foreign thing to him these days.  Scully is Scully—strong, competent, loyal.  But Dana is an enigma.  He catches glimpses of Dana sometimes—a woman, a girl—and he wonders whether she’s fighting to break free.  It saddens him to think he may have stolen that girlish part away from her, filed her inside a metal cabinet down in a basement office like everything else that crosses his path. 

Sometimes he whispers it and it gives him a small thrill, like there’s a hidden part of her he has yet to know.  He imagines saying it intimately, with his mouth pressed to her ear, but can’t decide whether it feels terribly wrong or perfectly, undeniably right. He only know that his lips are ready, should he ever earn the chance to try. 

E is for Earrings

He almost buys her earrings once. Foolish, really.  But while waiting for a watch battery to be replaced, he can’t help but browse.  The sapphires would match her eyes so stunningly.  Has he ever seen her in anything but small diamond studs or pearls?  Anything but a business suit or hotel room pajamas? He wonders whether she likes dressing up, whether she stands before her mirror and admires herself, deciding between this evening gown or that one, holding earrings up next to her cheek.  

He stands at the counter and looks at the earrings for ten minutes, picturing the delicate arc of her neck and the auburn of her hair and those earrings sparkling between.  He’d be lying if he doesn’t also admit to imagining his tongue tracing around them and his teeth scraping against them and the moan he’s sure would slip from her throat while he plays. 

A pushy saleswoman interrupts his thoughts, asks “For your wife?  Girlfriend?”

He shakes his head, “Neither.”

He leaves with a hard-on and a working watch, but the earrings stay behind for someone with a little more courage.

F is for Friends

They use the term friends sometimes.  Usually it’s partners, occasionally colleagues, coworkers, but really, none of those words does their relationship the slightest bit of justice.  He couldn’t define it to a stranger (should one ask) if he tried.  Hell, he can’t even define it to himself.

How do you define someone so ingrained in your bones, you taste marrow at the back of your throat each time she walks away?  Webster would be hard-pressed to condense that into a single word, he’s sure. Even best friend feels trite and inadequate where Scully’s concerned. She’s not just a friend, not just a partner, not just a lover (even in his most daring of fantasies)—she’s not just anything. 

She’s Scully, and she’s everything.  

G is for Globe

He used to play a game with Samantha.  Spin the Globe it was called.  They played it when their parents were fighting, when they wanted nothing more than to be far, far away.  He tells Scully about it once, when he can tell she can’t get out of her head.  Luckily, amidst the files and slides and mess of the office, he happens to have a globe.

“Spin it, Scully.  Close your eyes and point, and I’ll take you on an adventure wherever your finger lands.”

She rolls her eyes, but plays along, extending her French-tipped fingernail to land upon the spinning globe.  Antarctica. 

“Spin again,” he murmurs quickly, “That one didn’t count,” but she stops him with a hand curled around his like a comma.

“You found me, Mulder.  That was more extraordinary than any adventure.” 

H is for Hands

Once on a stakeout, he holds her hand. 

Hours in a darkened car breed strange and wonderful things sometimes—discussions and games that only boredom can inspire.  He tells her he can read palms (he’s lying, of course, but at least it’s something to do), and she scoffs, but then surprisingly offers her hand.  It’s really too dark to see, but he tickles her palm and bullshits his way through, blathering about wealth and fate until her giggle makes his heart stand still.

“According to your palm…,” he says softly, “…true love awaits…as soon as you’re ready.”

She’s silent at first, and he worries he’s ruined things— ruined seven years’ worth of things in the span of a minute. 

But then, in a quiet voice he’s never heard before, she responds, “I’ll be ready… soon.” 

He holds her hand until their shift is over.

I is for Ice Cream

Her favorite ice cream flavor is Mint Chocolate Chip.  He knows this (even though she doesn’t know he knows this), and once, during a rough case, he brings her some. He sneaks from his room after dinner, stops at three different gas stations before finding his prize. Sylvia’s Sundries and Smokes perhaps wouldn’t have been his first choice of establishments, but beggars can’t be choosers where ice cream’s concerned.

Surprise in hand, he knocks on Scully’s door and, with flourish, whips two plastic spoons from his pocket.  The nice thing about it?  She doesn’t even pretend not to want it.  She smiles a shy little smile and invites him in.  They climb up onto her bed where they scoop big whopping spoonfuls right out of the tub.  She’s full after only a few bites but sits with him while he finishes, lays her head on his shoulder. They watch the Late Late Show until it’s late late late, until it isn’t even the same day anymore.

J is for Jacket

Her suit jackets (he supposes they’re probably technically called blazers) have shrunk over the years.  Dana Scully of the plaid and boxy, of the oversized shoulder-pads, is now Dana Scully of the sleek and fitted, of the black and stylish and sexy.   He finds himself tugging his collar from his overheated neck sometimes. More than sometimes.

He wonders when things changed, because he can’t quite place a pin on it, when she went from a woman he loves to a woman he lusts after as well. Or maybe it’s unclear because he’s always done a little of both where Scully’s concerned. 

She left a jacket (blazer, whatever) at his apartment last year and he keeps forgetting to tell her he found it.  It hangs now in his closet next to pairs of pressed dress slacks.  He catches a glimpse of it sometimes, stands there wondering how soon ‘soon’ will come.

K is for Kiss

Back in the 60s, the 70s, when the turn of the millennium seemed ridiculously far away, Fox Mulder fantasized about the future. His comic books predicted: In the year 2000, there will be flying cars, teleportation devices, vacations on the moon and Mars... 

He imagined the party awaiting him on New Year’s Eve, complete with robot wait staff and space-age hors d’oeuvres.  Never would he have guessed he’d actually spend the evening in a hospital corridor, arm in a sling, nary a party nor robot in sight.

They were wrong about more than just the robots though, dead wrong, because not a single one of those comic books predicted this:  In the year 2000, there will be Dana Scully and her flame-red hair, Dana Scully and her skeptical sighs, Dana Scully and the world not ending while she presses her lips to his for the very first time. 

To think that at one time he wanted robots and jetpacks.  It’s laughable really, to have ever wanted anything on this earth (or on the moon, or on Mars) but Dana Katherine Scully.

L is for Lists

He arrives earlier than usual one morning, finds Scully’s open notebook lying flat on the desk. The beginnings of a list, he’s sure.  Scully loves lists. Books to Read, Articles to Write, Times Mulder Has Driven Me Crazy… He hasn’t physically seen that last one, but he’s sure it exists, somewhere in her purse or briefcase, or maybe just hidden away in her head.  

A quick glance confirms his suspicions. Personal Goals.  

He’s taken aback; he’d expected something trivial. Pros and Cons of Sunflower Seeds perhaps, but this…

He stalls, waits a minute, maybe two, but in the end is much too intrigued not to peek.  

1. Call Mom more often

2. Reach out to Bill

3. Volunteer at the church

They’re all so wonderfully Scully.  He’s not sure what else he expected.  Curiosity satisfied, he’s about to turn away when:  

15. Stop being afraid of my feelings

and below that:

16. Mulder

He stands stunned. He’s joked about appearing on Scully’s lists, but never like this, never as #16, never as a personal goal.  

He makes a list himself that night, condenses every one of his own goals down into just six letters.

1. Scully

2. Scully

3. Scully…

372. Scully…

1049. Scully…

He types her name until dawn has broken, until the printed ‘S’ has all but disappeared off his keyboard.

M is for Maybe

Maybe tomorrow’s the day.  He’ll toss her an innuendo, and instead of just catching it, she’ll throw one back herself.

The sun’ll come out tomorrow, isn’t that how the song goes?  Good things happen in the darkness, too, though—cemetery downpours, X-marked stretches of highway where her hair grows wavy from the rain. He and Scully manage just fine with no sun at all; they thrive in the darkness, no matter what the song says.

He packs up his things on a Friday afternoon, grabs his coat and offers his usual weekend farewell. But instead of Have a nice weekend, Mulder, she stops him, hand to his forearm, “It’s supposed to be beautiful tomorrow… Do you wanna… Maybe…”

Her cheeks are pink as she ducks her chin to her chest, and it’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

“Yeah,” he interrupts quickly, “Yeah, I do.”   He’s a bit too enthusiastic probably, but maybe tomorrows don’t actually happen that often for him on Friday afternoons.  

She smiles, cheeks still flushed, “Okay, then. Tomorrow…”  

On his way out the door he finds himself humming. Maybe the forecast for tomorrow is sunny after all, and not just because a little orphan girl told him so.

to be continued- we still have N-Z to go, and I promise Z will have been worth the wait!