#the skies were inked in sepia;;

[hitogeki]

doodle dump from the past week

some of these will be worked on past this point, some of these r destined to be dead forever...

[yeojaa]

( TO THE MOON AND BACK. )

You use your one brain cell for love.  It doesn’t always end well.

pairing.  kth x (named) f!reader.  jjk x (named) f!reader.

genre +  rating.   non-idol!au.  there’s some fluff and there’s definitely some angst.  general.    

tags / warnings.  none, except for a lot of emotion. 😐😐

wc.  4.9k

beta reader(s).  @hobi-gif​ as per usual (i owe you my life) and @yeoldontknow​ for tolerating me when i came crying into our messages.

author note.  this was a commission for the endlessly lovely @1088x1088​.  thank you so, so much for loving this series enough to support it.  it was a ton of fun to write (even though this chapter did really hurt).  finding my voice again was a bit of a struggle, but i hope you enjoy it!  i’m sorry this was late! 

chapter 12. 

You can feel the difference in the air the moment you step out of the building and into the arms of your bouncing, bubbly boyfriend.  There’s something about him today - an intensity that radiates out of him, refracts off his edges like an aureate coin.  He’s got the biggest grin on his face - so wide and unabashed you think he doesn’t even need the umbrella he’s brought along - that the sheer power of his joy might be enough to push the rain clouds back.  It stretches wide, brighter than the summer sun, and spills light into darkness, chasing away all the spiders.  It warms you from your toes through to the tips of your fingers, filling your veins with lovely golden thread, dust that settles in shades of yellow. 

“Did you win the lottery or something?”  The question is paired with a sweet kiss to his cheek, your entire body sagging comfortably against his as he wraps his free arm tightly around your shoulders and mirrors the gesture.  Your cheek tingles where his lips land.  You think he might be a wizard, magicking away all the hardships of your day.

“No, even better.”  The excitement is nearly bursting out of him, seeping out at the seams that hardly hold him together.  How he hasn’t simply told you yet is beyond you but you know Taehyung’s a bit dramatic - loves the build up as much as the climax - so you wait patiently, linking your hand through his elbow when you move onto the sidewalk.  It’s easy to fall into this routine:  the one you’ve perfected over the last few months.  It never feels stagnant, never anything less than a warm hug on a cold day.  You find comfort in that.

The sun sits low on the horizon, casting long shadows over the street.  They throw shapes across Taehyung’s face, bathing his features in darkness when you step beneath an awning and out of the downpour.  His eyes never stop twinkling - like stars against the night sky, lighting up even the places where the rays can’t reach. 

“We’re hosting an exhibit for local artists.”  He’s trying to be careful, hold himself together.  Still, you can hear the way he speaks a little too fast, too quick to be nonchalant.  Bite back a laugh when the words tumble into each other, failing under their restraints.  “The director asked me to curate it.”

He stops and looks at you then, hopeful and bright and so brilliant you imagine the sun’s disappeared behind the clouds and found a new home in his smile.  You know how much this means to him - how long he’s worked for this, how it’s cost him his parents’ affection and long hours that he’ll never get back.  It goes without saying he deserves this, this incredible opportunity. 

It doesn’t do it justice, but you offer your congratulations regardless, slipping support seamlessly between syllables.  Blending the words with a squeeze of his arm, a delighted little giggle that spirals into the air like a Christmas orange, tart and sweet.  “That’s amazing, Tae!”  

He’s a million miles over the moon, eyes waning, lost to a flood of emotion as he beams down at you.  

“I did all the research and she was happy with it and—”  A twinkling laugh breaks up the excitement, steeping it heavily in the sound as he exhales a big breath that seems to steal a little bit more of his coherence.  “I just—it’s huge.  It’s next month but the director’s given me the go-ahead.  Me!”  

You decide you’d really like to bottle this moment forever, to keep it on a shelf in your thoughts.  You think it’d be the best cure for a bad day, better than any chocolate, more comforting than an afternoon nap.

“Of course you, Tae.”  You’re matching his smile, cradling his jaw in the small of your palms.  Thumbs brush over the seam of his bottom lip, the freckle that dots the edge of his nose.  “I’m so, so proud of you.  You’ve worked so hard for this.”  You know the words aren’t possibly enough but you gift them anyway because it’s still nice to hear.  Everyone deserves that recognition, kindness to hold you up like ribbons, to keep your head held high. 

“Thank you, jagi.”  He sighs a soft sound, all rounded edges and a deep, abiding satisfaction that fills every inch of his expression.  It’s still there when he begins walking again, guiding you back to his favourite place with you at his side.  You fit exactly as you should, tucked under his arm, the tips of his fingers brushing over the teddy bear fabric of your coat.  

“Have you told the others yet?”  

“No, I’m going to tell them at dinner.”  The pride that colours his tone is shades of yellow - marigolds sprouting between vowels, sunflowers encapsulating consonants.  “I want Jungkookie to show his work in it.”  

He must not feel the way you stiffen at his side, how the blood runs cold in your veins and sticks you to the spot like an icicle.  You play it off well enough, tripping over your own two feet and righting yourself as if it were all just a matter of misplaced steps.  

(In truth, you could’ve sworn your heart had plummeted through your feet, all the way to the molten core.  You can feel it burning to a crisp, setting every nerve aflame at the mere thought.)

“I don’t want him to feel like… it’s a handout though.”  

“He won’t,”  you reassure around the strange, familiarly silhouetted lump in your throat.  You are intimately familiar with Jungkook’s work - what spreads over canvas in lovely lilac shapes, stark ink bringing relief to watercolour.  You know who inspires the evening skylines, the immaculate and yet effortless scenes he brings to life with strokes of pen, paint, charcoal. (Or, rather, you knew.  Things could be different now.)  Who graces - had graced - the rolls of film, painted in sepia tones until brought to life by a careful hand.

(You have a feeling they aren’t - that they’re just as they’ve always been.  Too much the same to be safe.  It’d be impossible to miss, even with blinders on.  You and Jungkook would always be complicated.) 

“He’s worked really hard.”  Taehyung’s more or less speaking to himself, carrying a one-sided conversation as you duck back beneath sheets of rain, droplets rolling off the umbrella he carries and splashing all over your toes.  Suddenly, the torrential downpour feels fitting, as if the skies have opened up to soothe the burn beneath your skin.  “It’d be nice if he just caught a break, you know?  Something to give him more confidence.”

He, as well as you, knows just how much of himself the youngest puts into his work.  How every canvas, every roll of film, represents a corner of his heart.  Offers a glimpse into his thoughts.  

You, possibly more than anyone.  But Taehyung doesn’t know that and it certainly isn’t your place to say, so you simply nod along, humming in agreement as you wander the quiet Seoul street.  (It’ll be busy soon, once you pass from the residential area into the bustle of nighttime and exploration.  Not even the rain can keep people away, everyone far too eager to catch up amidst a crowd of smoke and drinking games.  You’re used to it though - used to being dragged out by the ragtag group for their impromptu yet regular weekly dinner dates.) 

“I’m sure he’ll say yes.”  It’s all you can offer as your boyfriend rambles on, lost in his own world

“Really?” 

The amount of hope - strung up on fairy lights, dim and yet somehow so full - rings crystal clear in Jungkook’s voice, tearing your thoughts from the piece of pork belly you’re carefully grilling.  You do your best not to jerk your head up, already all too aware of the topic.  You remind yourself it’s not your place and you flip the slab, gaze trained on the fat that renders out and slides over the metal grill.

It’s hard to do but you weather the storm, quietly observant as the excitement level at the table turns to eleven.  With a group of four it’d be boisterous;  with a table of nine, it’s a cacophony of sound, rising above the din of the bustling restaurant.  It kicks above the chorus of cheers and clattering utensils, as if this moment means so much more.  (It does.)

“You think I’d joke about something like this?”  Taehyung’s doing his best to play it cool, to convey something suave and reassured, but there’s the tell-tale wobble of his words, the way his knee bounces beside yours, nervous energy thrumming through his frame like a livewire.  It practically pours from his fingertips, shooting out past his teeth as his mouth shapes into that familiar boxy grin that belies his delight.

Not that Jungkook’s any better.  

On your other side, his hand’s tensing and relaxing over the tabletop, lips pulling and pursing around thoughts he hasn’t fully formulated.  He’d always been someone who had to be moving - tapping his toes, shaking his leg, simply shimmying in his seat - but this is something else.  It’s as if he’s on the precipice of a realisation, of diving headfirst into his lifelong dream.

(Which, you suppose he is.  He’s wanted this forever, just like Taehyung.  The break he so wholly deserved.  It warms your heart even as it stills it, stutters it uncomfortably in the small of your chest.)

“I’m just—”  Speechless seems to be the appropriate word, because Jungkook simply trails off, wonder in his eyes, his expression that of a child on Christmas.  “Thanks, hyung.”  It’s a rare occurrence, usually offered with that sly bunny smile of his, but it’s dressed in gratitude now, year’s worth of tenderness occupying the spaces between each syllable.

“Don’t thank me.”  It comes, dismissive and yet still just as soft.  Rounded by an awareness that exists only within this group, a tenderness that blooms and blooms and never withers.  “Just make me look good.”

A teasing comment echoes from across the table - that’s impossible from someone who looks and sounds suspiciously like Kim Seokjin - and your group dissolves into a puddle of laughter, the chorus of amusement dissolving above your heads.  

This is too good an opportunity, not the time for your selfish concern.  You swallow your worry with a dab of ssam and a crunch of lettuce.

You miss the look Jungkook shoots you.

He has two weeks.  

Two weeks to select five pieces he thinks will showcase the best parts of himself, the depth of his dedication, the quality of his passion.  Two weeks to go through his extensive portfolio, to rummage through harddrives and pick through his canvases.  Two weeks to determine what home means to him.

It’s certainly not the hardest thing in the world - Jungkook imagines it starts with the words Jeon and ends with a certain group of six idiots - but it still leaves him stumped, sitting at his desk for three long hours as he pours through folders, thankful he’d had the wherewithal to name things properly.  (None of the Aug17uuuuuuughfuck.raw files of his college days.)

It lightens his load, keeps him from upending his entire setup and throwing it out the window in frustration.  Not that he doesn’t still want to.  He very much does.

But perhaps it isn’t the hundreds of images that’s the issue.  Maybe it’s just one - the same one he’s been staring at for the better part of the evening, unable to move on even when he wants to, tapping over his mouse yet never actuating enough to pull him onto the next slide.

It sits front and centre on his screen and he can’t look away;  drinks his fill of it like a man drowning at sea;  savours it like a king at his final feast.  A photo developed with an accidental light leak and how fitting that is, as if all the sunshine has been captured in the single click, trapped behind the shutter for him and him only. 

You’ve always been that to him, though.  Crystalline and beautiful, with light catching off your edges, refracting from every angle to spell something like I love you; with fireflies at the tips of your fingers, guiding him home in the dark;  with the summer sun strung between your teeth, filling him with warmth.  

Could he use this?  Would it be too much?  

More importantly, how would you react?  Had your story ended, chapters of friendship folded between flat pages and tucked within a shelf to accumulate dust?  To sit among the tomes long forgotten, never reached for, barely worthy of a second read? 

Was this meant to disappear, just like you had?  What did that mean for him - for his future?  Were you meant to take all the possibilities with you, tucking them alongside your cotton candy laughter, the sly turn of your smile?  Were they lost to the tangle of your hair, braided into a knot he’d never been able to unravel?

Jungkook hates feeling like this - all the uncertainty swallowing him whole and spitting him out;  leaving him black and blue and bruised all over;  dressing him in shades of grey that only seem to fade with each pass through the wringer. 

A part of him wonders whether he should just ask.  Surely you’d answer the phone, sound so pretty carried over the airwaves he’d probably forget himself.  

Could he find the words?  Would you laugh in his face?

He stares at the photo and wishes it held all the answers, that the light would offer something more than beauty, more than memories that feel more like nightmares.  

Half your face glares back at him, a silhouette of the girl he’d been helplessly in love with.  Rays balance across your cheekbone and cut through him like a knife.  When he blinks, you’re still there but his heart’s all the worse for it, riddled with nicks and tears.

He’ll choose another, he decides. 

Finally, he finds the strength, skips to the next preview - and regrets it almost as much as the first.

(This was his fault, of course.  Jungkook had spent so long living in a world with you, saddled at your side, two pieces inexplicably interwoven.  Of course there’d be thread still, a red string of fate coiled all the way around his heart, hanging uselessly at his side, snipped by hands that weren’t his own, now gone to tatters.)

It wouldn’t matter so much if it were someone else, if the bits of you weren’t so stark, holding his attention like a star in the sky, endlessly bright and unrelenting.  Maybe if he could pretend it was someone else, his hands wouldn’t shake, a tremor in his chest from the way his heart bounces about, demands to be let out, to lay alongside yours.  

As it stands, it is you - brought to life by his hands, overlaid in watercolour and black and a blanket of regret.  The shapes are impossible to miss:  the curve of your hip, rounded and warm, peeking beneath a wash of colour;  the river of your hair, the wayward strands that curl across your cheek and tickle the stack of silver that lines your ear;  the peek of your tattoo, embossed across your ribs, hidden beneath thin layers of paint. 

The longer he looks, the worse it feels.  A white pith of a lemon, bitter on his tongue, stinging all the cuts he’s never taken the time to seal up.  That cry out now, echo the same sadness he’s felt for the last year.  

Was there anything you hadn’t touched?  Something that didn’t carry you in its hands?

He imagines there has to be.

And yet, as he goes along, clicks through image after image, he’s only left with reminders.  Figments of you with blood-stained teeth and scarred flesh, sharks that patrol his thoughts and bite chunks when he ventures too close.  He hadn’t meant to dive this deep - lost somewhere amongst the shipwreck of your friendship, a once beautiful thing now rotten and rusted, devoured by darkness.  The empty hulls aren’t where he wants to be, caught on broken anchors and torn flags, sinking deeper and deeper.

He doesn’t know how to get out. 

It’s absolutely perfect, because of course it is.  Taehyung has put every waking hour into this, coordinating with vendors and artists and hardly sleeping a wink.  The walls are painted, artistry strung up for all to see, picturesque beneath an array of lights.  There’s not a thing out of place, each piece given their due, framed neatly with thoughtful text painstakingly written by your boyfriend.

There are dozens of people in attendance - the turnout the gallery had hoped for and yet still has Taehyung giddy, eyes wide like a child’s, wonderment written into every lovely facet of his expression.

You’re delighted for him, completely over the moon with how happy he is, pride rolling off him in waves that you’d gladly sink beneath.  You whisper words of affection - pride, support - purring them into the warmth of his palms when he sandwiches your face between them and laughs so loudly you swear there’s no other sound in the world.

“Can you believe it?”  This boy before you isn’t the Taehyung you know, carefully composed.  He’s a comet through the night sky, illuminating, fluorescent, lit from the inside out.  Glowing so bright it hurts your eyes, makes you blink once, then twice, then another time just to capture the moment against the backs of your eyelids.  (You wish you had your camera with you - something to allow you to remember this moment forever, process it and store it in your pocket for rainy days.)  

Your laughter comes in tandem, overjoyed for your love, for all he’s worked for and all he’s now achieved.  It spills forth in bell chimes, silver in your ears, and you catch his hands in your own, fingers caught together.  “Of course I can.”  The distance between you becomes nothing, barely a breath passing as you press your lips to his, offering as much affection as you can in the tiny gesture.  “I knew you could do it.”

“Really?”  He doesn’t doubt you.  Doesn’t even really doubt himself.  But he asks anyways and you don’t mind giving, folding your support into another kiss, another squeeze of his hand.  

“You can do anything, Kim Taehyung.”

He animates, a coin-operated boy whose sole currency is your words of affirmation.  Springs to life with adoration in his step, a giddy smile that eats up everything else and wanes his eyes into crescents.  Peaks like the sun above the clouds, endlessly bright - a supernova.  “I love you.”

“I know,”  you answer with your heart in your hands - in his - when they drop to his sides, fingers still intertwined.  

He stares at you expectantly, unabashedly, waiting for the words he wants to hear.  (A man with the world at his feet, whose heart still flutters for you.)  “And?”

“And?”  You parrot, cheeks round, a well of teasing growing in the dimple of your left cheek.  It spills forth when his mouth pouts, turns this way and that before settling into an expression that’s utterly undeniable, the perfect blend of endearing and infuriating.  When you relent, it’s with further laughter, a nudge of your hip against his as he pulls you close, cementing you to his side.  “I love you too.”

You’d been prepared for the people (the professionals, the journalists, all the friends and family, anyone who was anyone gathered to attend) and the chaos (your friends - all of them running amok while simultaneously on their best behaviour, biting back laughter, echoing words of encouragement). 

What you hadn’t been prepared for?  

This.

Standing before a painted portrait of yourself, blown up ten feet and hung in the centre of the gallery for all to see.  Full-lipped and grinning, with hands hiding half your face, dark hair piled atop your head and a bandana knotted below your ear.  A picture that you can hear - your laughter sounding off the page, reminiscent of that night so many months ago, standing at the edge of the water, the ocean calling you out to sea.  The sky streaked in colours you could never hope to replicate, hues that blend and bleed and build into something glorious, beautiful, ephemeral.  An arm that reaches for whoever has taken the photo, light reflecting off the sheen of silver, of gold, of the gems on your nails.  

You recognise it in a heartbeat - one that feels like it goes too long, as if it’s skipped not one, not two, but three beats - that thunders loudly in your ears the moment everything snaps into place.

(And oh, how it does.  A hundred memories that shudder into a single image and tell the story of an entire summer.

Afternoons at Jagalchi, amid the smell of fish and flesh, eating to the point of gluttony.  On the shores with sunshine at your fingertips and a hand in yours, endless possibilities stretching as far as the eye could see.  Staring up into the sky night after night, admiring the stars packed against the dark and yet always drawn back to the brightest one at your side, a heavenly body hidden within the silhouette of your closest friend.

Your head on his shoulder during the train ride there and back, the quiet offered by his presence, the comfort found in his form.  All the little pieces of himself that had somehow found their way to you:  your pinkies intertwined, his dark hair spilling over yours, his breath that came low and slow, condensing between you and turning your cheeks ruddy.

What had felt like a lifetime away - seven hundred galaxies apart, never to be found again, engulfed by a black hole of your own creation.  

What now feels like it’s right at your feet, so close you might touch it.  That echoes in your chest, a spectre living within your bones come back to haunt you.)

“Pretty, huh?”  Hums the voice at your side, filled with too much pride - for himself and his friend, for all they’ve accomplished.  Taehyung has no idea, blissfully unaware, heartbreakingly handsome as he studies the image alongside you, lets his stare rove across the contours of the woman’s cheekbones, the shape of her mouth, pulled wide in a smile that might as well carry the world in it.

There’s something familiar about the girl in the painting, something that calls to him, draws him in and keeps him anchored.  He wonders what it is, makes a note to ask once Jungkook arrives.  

Your answer comes belated, disconnected and strange, a voice too far away to be picked up clearly.  (You don’t mean it to - try to swallow down the emotion that crests and crests like a terrifying wave above your head.)  “Very.”

“Kook mentioned a girl a few years ago, so I think it’s her.”  How he speaks is thoughtful, as if he isn’t sure how much to say.  Doesn’t want to overstep even as he offers these tiny bits of information - things he thinks you have no idea about, that’s the same thing that lives within your bones, settled like bedrock that cannot be eroded.  (Guilt gnaws at you, turns its teeth cruel and unrelenting and licks the salt from your wounds like the back of a spoon.  You swallow it down, listen quietly, quietly, quietly and try to slow the discomfort growing like weeds, the blooming of tiger lilies in the small of your chest.)  

“Really?”  

“Yeah.”  Taehyung’s conversational, adoring, indulgent.  He hooks his arm around your shoulders and holds you close, unaware of the turmoil that turns your insides to ash.  He holds you like you’re precious - a sunbeam caught in his hands, just for him.  

If only he knew.

“Do you want to see the rest?”  There’s an eagerness that spills forth, tacks his words to one another and turns them into a single breath.  He inhales all the bad and dresses you in nothing but good, pins stars into your hair when he fixes you with that smile and pulls you along, further into the gallery with a hop in his step.

You should say no;  you can’t find the words.

So you follow him to his next destination - to another version of you.  Another photo, grainy and overexposed, intimate in its detail.  A faceless blur, made alive by light, artificial and too white, casting long shadows where there should be none.  It’s easier to imagine this is someone else - a girl worthy of this love, of all the emotion captured within the single image.  (Someone who could carry the weight of Jungkook’s affection without dropping it, whose hands would be a suitable home for the heart he’s now offered up, laid out ripe for the picking.  Sugar sweet and saccharine, held aloft by a branch that threatens to give away.)

The truth is in the details, though, and you see them for all they are.  The dainty thread that loops your wrist - mirrored within the frame before you.  It sits evident in the freckles on your arms, the wayward beauty marks sprinkled upon your skin, constellations that should have names - do have names, whispered by the boy at your side. 

“He’s really got a good eye, right?”  There’s that pride again, full-bodied, like a parent with macaroni art stuck to the fridge.  It’s sticky and honeyed, bright with affection, lemon tart and yellow - sunshine streaming past like the warmest day in July.  It further cements the relationship he has - that they all have - one built upon years of friendship, of togetherness you cannot begin to fathom.

The guilt rears its head again, roars like an angry beast.  You bite it back, catch its tail between your teeth and nod along, unfocus your eyes as best you can.  The longer you look, the more it grows, spiny and angry and demanding of attention.

“He really does.”

Taehyung’s satisfied with that, too caught up in his own delight to notice the stillness, the quiet.  It’s a silence he overlooks, sweeps past without a backwards glance.  “There’s one more I want to show you.” The joy is unbridled, eating up every part of him, and your heart thumps feebly in your chest, kicked around by two pairs of feet.  “I saw it and it made me think of you.”

You’re surprised this time - because it isn’t you.  It’s not the shape of your shoulders or the turn of your wrist.  It’s not a half-hidden smile, the dozens of tell-tale signs that would give you away.  It’s something far worse, that sticks to your lungs and makes it hard to breathe, wet paper towels plastered over your airways like papier-mâché. 

It pains you when you step forward to drink in the colours, the texture that lays everything in nostalgia.  An image you recognise because you have the same one in your home, hung upon your wall, taken by your own hand.  

Jungkook in an infinity room, bathed in a million little lights.  

Except this is a painting, painstakingly recreated, with shadows deepened and white ink spread throughout.  One of your most precious memories laid in gouache.

“I swear I’ve seen it before.”  It’s a throwaway thought, more for himself than for you, but it breaks you apart, crumbles the foundation you’ve been carefully laying.  It kicks your knees right out from beneath you and you swear you’d fall if not for the comfort of his side, the way he holds you up and inspects you curiously.  “Are you okay?”

He looks at you with nothing but tenderness in his eyes;  you unwind beneath his stare, sinew and bone unfurling, realigning, forming into someone worthy of his love.  You tell yourself nothing else matters, that all the what ifs pale in comparison to this - how he looks at you as if you’d hung the stars in the sky;  as if you’re more than just a girl who has his heart;  as if you hold all the answers to the universe.   

“Fine,”  you answer, even as you aren’t, as the ground beneath your feet threatens to give way and send you to an early grave.  Even as you cannot tear your eyes from the painting, terrified and awestruck, too many emotions turning your senses to nonsense.

You wonder if Taehyung can hear the tremble of your breath, feel it all the way through into the centre of his own chest.  You wonder what he reads into it, whether he worries for you.  You wonder if he can love a monster like you, who has kept these secrets under lock and key, tucked away into a far corner riddled with cobwebs and spiders and a fine layer of dust. 

You wonder and wonder and then you have your answer when he speaks again, something in his voice that steals your attention, pins it directly behind the light in his eyes.

“Don’t you have this in your house?”

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @codeinebelle​

[mwolf0epsilon]

A story of Sammy stumbling upon siren head?

Summary: The studio wasn't the only place hiding the lurking horrors of the world.

---

[[MORE]]

Freedom had come with a lot of existential dread and lingering doubts. It hadn't been the oh so sweet respite that everyone had coveted so much, not when they were still abominable creatures made of cursed ink (and in some cases machinery). Still, for all that they'd worried, Henry had pulled through and prevailed.

He'd not only gifted them their salvation from Joey's nightmarish dream, but also offered them a way to live unafraid in a world they no longer belonged in. He gave them a house, food, clothes, a life worth living.

Never once did he ask for anything in return. A true loyal and kind friend to those who desperately needed such a charitable heart.

"You don't need to repay me. I'm only doing what's right, and besides I got that house after my uncle died... It never really felt right to move out of town with Linda and the girls, and I never knew what I was going to do with it." He'd humbly dismissed any offers to repay his kindness. "You all need a safe place where you can recover and slowly reacquaint with normalcy without anyone judging or fearing you. The location is perfect."

And it was. An isolated corner of a vast forest, with nearly no signs of civilization. Easy for Henry to check up on them since he knew where to go to reach it, but out of the way enough that not even hikers came by often.

It helped that it had a bit of a... Dark reputation. Missing cases, strange sightings, and creepy sounds in the night. A deterrent for sane people with a yellow streak.

For someone like Susie and Allison who looked human enough to pass off as such if provided with an appropriate disguise, it was a bit of a hassle. Grocery shopping (when they were in the mood to be seen by the oblivious folk in the nearest town) took longer due to such a long trek.

For others like Tom and Buddy who were living cartoon characters it was a more comfortable experience. They could go out and feel the sun upon their skin without fear of what may happen if they were spotted.

And then lastly, for beings like Sammy, the Searchers, Butcher Gang, and for Norman, it was both a stark reminder of their inhumanity, and a blissful respite from the crippling dissonant thoughts that made them oh so prone to violent outbursts.

In the woods there was no one they could hurt if they lost their senses (which was not as common a thing as it once was, but still something the Projectionist suffered with on the regular). In the woods there was peaceful silence where they could wade through the madness and regain their footing. In the woods they could almost be their former selves.

Granted this was a double-edged sword on one regard: The Projectionist tended to wander far and not recall how to come back.

If Norman ended up somehow stumbling back into society, there would be trouble. Which is why Sammy was assigned to follow him every time he felt like going for one of his "little walks".

At first the once-music director had scoffed and been incredibly annoyed at being saddled with such a responsibility. He was not in a capacity to look after himself, much less a 7, nearly 8, foot tall half-ink half-machine man that could easily render him into ribbons if he set him off. Norman's transition from coherent sentient thoughts to downright feral and highly aggressive behaviour was too unpredictable for someone who's memories tended to evade him easily.

But then, as pointed out by Allison, Susie wouldn't be able to calm him because she knew neither sign language nor Morse code (which he'd learned specifically from Norman when he was still human just for fun), and Allison herself was not overly close to him so her presence would only distress him further.

When he'd still tried to refuse, Tom had resorted to threats which he'd returned in kind. In the end it was the pleading looks of both Jack and the rest of the band that got him to relent. But not before barking at them to never say he wasn't a charitable and patient man (things he really wasn't, considering his short fuse and unwillingness to socialize when he was in a particularly sour mood).

Once he'd committed to the task, Sammy found that the sounds of nature soothed him. Watching after the Projectionist wasn't too bad either, as he thought the large monstrosity looked quite happy as it wandered aimlessly, occasionally looking up at the expanse of darkening skies. Sunsets seemed to spark something more human in Norman. Got him to sign more and sometimes vocalize his words (as painfully gritting to the ear as that may be). It reminded Sammy of... Of times long past. Ones where he'd consider this brute as a bright and very accommodating (if not a little annoying at times) friend.

A friend he dearly missed even, for no matter how much they tried, Norman would never go back to being who he was before the studio chewed him up and spat him back out as something some would consider a dubiously smart animal.

The peace also sparked something in Sammy himself. It made him feel more grounded, more like himself, to the point where his form would shift accordingly. Because their bodies were reacting to their slow recoveries.

Over time a few Searchers had slowly become Lost Ones, and a few Lost Ones had begun transitioning into human forms. There was always something a little off and cartoonish about them, but it was progress nontheless. People were remembering who they once we're, and that was more than they'd ever accomplished in that hellhole.

Sammy sometimes could see his true face reflected back by a puddle or larger body of water, but it was a fleeting thing.

At times he could even feel his unruly curls brushing against his neck and shoulders, but they weren't the dirty blond he'd remembered. They were an inky black that upset him slightly, but better than the shiny bald head he'd had for so many years. Less saddening than the yellow glow of eyes that should have been a soft hazel, and much less startling than the sharpness of his teeth. Somehow he always got the nose right, which was adding salt to injury considering he couldn't regenerate his pinkies.

The Projectionist's walks were moments of introspection. Ones where he was sure he'd be able to get his true form back, even if slightly altered.

So imagine his annoyance when one such moment was marred by his selfish distraction...

He wasn't entirely sure when he'd lost sight of Norman, or for how long he'd spaced out just staring at his reconstituted face on the nearest reflective surface, but the moment he noted just how dark it was Sammy knew he'd fucked up.

They'd been wandering for hours and he'd been so absentmindedly worrying over faded memories that he'd just let the Projectionist wander off to the nearest flower patch to marvel at all the pretty colors (prettier than old sepia and inky tones that had made their horrid existence oh so much duller). He'd gotten so stuck in his own head that he'd never noticed his charge moving off to explore further and further into uncharted territory.

They'd never gotten so close to the mountains, and now? Now Sammy was sure he'd never be able to find the Projectionist again. He'd failed Norman.

Something which he absolutely refused to let happen. If not out of pride, then out of shame. He'd rather die than return to the others without Polk in tow, knowing they'd add it to the list of things that made him a genuinely horrid person (aside from ritualistic murder and allowing Joey to manipulate him to the point of idolizing a false god). That wouldn't do.

Sammy wouldn't be able to live with the scorn. So he trekked further to where he assumed the hulking ink creature had gone.

Henry had told them stories. The ones about the people going missing. Freaky tales that had unseen horrors lurking amidst the trees and skulking in shadows. One such creature he seeked (for the Projectionist had become one of these fabled cryptids just by being an out of place being in the woods), but the others he'd heard of, although fabricated, were mysterious and spooky to him.

Having such shluck looping in the forefront of his mind like a bad film reel was troublesome. It made him hesitant the moment he heard anything that sounded out of place.

Steeling his nerves was hard. Despite being made of ink, his heart was very much still human, so he felt instinctively fearful of the unknown. Those silly stories were genuinely scaring him and he resented Henry for being such a good narrator.

With every step further into the mountainside he hoped to see the light of Norman's lens, and hear the clicking of the projector he had for a head.

He was not expecting to hear... What sounded like an emergency broadcast.

It was so sudden and confusing that it made the ex-music director pause in his tracks. An echoing call that spanned miles, like it was being projected from up high.

Looking around his surroundings he saw nothing out of place. Just rows upon rows of trees and a watch tower in the distance further up north.

Turning his head more slowly yielded the same results. Nothing that could broadcast that loudly in sight... Until he saw it...

At first glance it looked like an old siren. Rough and weathered, rusty looking from a distance. Very strange to be found this far away from civilization. But then he really took the time to stare at it. Noted just how off the towering thing was, and then realized... Those sirens hadn't any speakers. They had teeth.

As soon as his mind picked up on this very fact, he saw everything else. And then, before he could exclaim in terror, he was up in the air held in a massive far-too-human-looking hand, and being pulled closer to said teeth.

Sammy screamed as he felt the pain of being bitten into, upper torso pulled into this nightmarish thing's eager maw, only to then be unceremoniously spat out and tossed on the ground. The shock and pain made him deconstruct into a puddle and, to then aggravate the issue further, the beast stepped down on him as if insulted by the vile taste of ink.

Sammy didn't much care. He lost consciousness soon after.

When Sammy came to, the sun was rising. He was groggy from the pain and confusion of being violently assaulted by something straight out of a Lovecraftian novel, and the intense light washing over his eyes didn't help.

Wait... Light?

Blinking away inky tears, Sammy found Norman staring down at him with a posture that read clearly of concern. The poor thing had likely found Sammy's puddle form and been fretting ever since.

The composer thanked whatever god was out there that the monster that attacked him hadn't found the Projectionist. He wouldn't have had the sense to run.

"H-home. Let's go home..." He whimpered weakly, despite the creature before him being deaf and unable to read his lips properly considering he currently had none. The pitiful look of him must have clued the bigger ink being, however, as Norman scooped him up with ease and began the trek back. Sammy directed him, mostly through pointing when he seemed unsure, all the while keeping an eye for that... Siren-Head thing that thankfully found him too disgusting to consume.

The one perk of his abominable state...

Needless to say, they were never coming back to these parts. Not as long as he allowed it. Some things were better off left undisturbed.

Because, as it turned out, the studio wasn't the only place hiding the lurking horrors of the world...