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uwusenpaiuwu · 3 years ago

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Baji Being A Menace To Society (And Your Relationship) 2.0

Sequel to: Baji A.K.A. The Worst (Best) Matchmaker

Summary: Baji’s at it again, acting out-of-pocket and creating chaos for absolutely no reason, other than to see you suffer. In his own Baji-esque way, of course.

Pairing: Sano Manjiro | Mikey x Male Reader

Warning(s): Boku no Pico is mentioned, but there is absolutely nothing graphic; mentions of masturbation

Note(s): I am so sorry if it isn’t funny. Sadly, I am but an amateur writer, not a comedian. Still, I hope you all enjoy! ^^

"(Y/n), want some ice cream? My treat."

Usually, you'd be the first to jump at an offer for a sweet treat, especially when you don't have to pay. However, as of now, the word 'ice cream,' when said by Baji, instantly triggers your fight-or flight-response. Paired with the fact that he’s broke as hell, your suspicions only increase for the sudden indulgence.

Since you know you're no match for the long-haired menace, your body automatically prepares to flee, legs twitching to lurch into a sprint. Unfortunately for you, just before you can get the fuck out of there, your hand is being grabbed by Mikey, who leisurely begins to tug you along to claim your dessert.

“You like ice cream, right?” he turns to ask, eyes unbelievably soft when looking at you.

And because you’re weak for him, all you can do is nod stiffly, trading in your sanity for the pleased grin that spreads across his face, his confident strides thereafter likely a result of him successfully remembering another miscellaneous fact about you, as has been the case since you officially started dating him. From the most trivial of things, like which brand of pens and pencils you prefer, to the slightly more important stuff, like ice cream being one of your favorite desserts; he’s made the effort of remembering them all.

He really doesn’t need to do any of that, ‘cause you’ll love him either way, but the conscious decision to do so is what makes you love him even more.

Zoning back into reality, you shake your head to reorient yourself. It isn’t the time to be going over the reasons why you’re such a lovesick puppy.

No, there are other things to worry about, mainly Baji.

You squeeze Mikey’s hand as you’re led to the nearest ice cream parlor to try and calm yourself. It works for the most part, especially when you get a reassuring squeeze back.

‘Right,’ you tell yourself, ‘it’s going to be okay.’

After all, Baji wouldn’t do anything too drastic, right?

~~~

You were wrong. So, so wrong.

Despite nothing having transpired yet, every alarm in your head is going off, pounding at the door of reason to get you to wake up and realize that it’s Baji you’re talking about, the same person that sets cars on fire when hungry and punches the first unfortunate soul he passes by on the street when sleepy.

You really should’ve listened to your survival instincts and ran. Alas, it’s much too late to escape, leaving you to wallow in your anxiety, while you wait for misfortune to strike.

And strike it does.

“Please, don’t sit next to me. You make me nauseous.”

“That’s cruel. I bought you ice cream, and you treat me like this?”

Yeah, he may have bought it, but you refuse to eat it because of how intensely Baji is staring at you. Fucking weirdo.

"Oh, do you want some of mine instead, (Y/n)?" Baji accentuates his question with a sensual lick to his ice cream from the edge of the cone to the finessed peak, making you extremely uncomfortable as he stares you down with the full motion.

As slowly as he licks his frozen treat do you slowly raise your middle finger, eliciting chuckles from the other occupants of the table.

You think you won that mini battle, though?

Ha! Nope.

Baji mirrors the vulgar action, not once breaking eye contact as he dips the tip of his finger directly into his ice cream, pulls it out, and proceeds to lick that, too.

Disgusted, you promptly avert your attention elsewhere, praying that Baji won’t continue being, well, himself.

Your prayers fall on deaf ears.

"It's cold!" As soon as the exclamation leaves your mouth, your blood runs glacial, knowing that you've unintentionally played into Baji's trap. The appearance of a sly, almost feral, smirk when you whip your head around to glare confirms what you already know.

The curtain has risen, and you’re standing center stage in a performance you can’t break free from.

"Aw, can't let it go to waste,” Baji continues, reaching over to scoop the ice cream you’re 100% certain he purposely spilled on the front of your shirt, with his fingers.

Then, to your horror and everyone else’s shock, he asks, without an ounce of virtue to his name, "Want me to lick it off with my mouth?"

Chifuyu is seated on the other side of the table, hiding his face in his hands. “Baji-san...”

"It'll stain if it dries like that." Dear God, how you wish to un-see Baji batting his eyelashes at you.

“I don’t care!” At this point, you’ve resorted to clumsily scooting your chair as far away from him as possible, which isn’t actually as far as you’d like considering your surroundings. Hell, so long as you put some distance between yourself and the crazy bastard that wants to see you suffer, you don’t mind having to force yourself halfway onto Mikey’s lap. (The firm hand that keeps you steady by the waist proves that your presence isn’t unwanted either.)

"Geez, (Y/n), you're such a scatterbrain."

Seeing Baji sell the line with a slow tugging of his hair behind the ear has you torn between laughing and dying a little more. Truthfully, his acting is frighteningly impressive, and you would’ve applauded his performance, if not for the fact that the role he’s playing still haunts your dreams.

By this time, most of who accompanied you to the ice cream parlor have figured out what kind of drugs Baji is on this time, which also means that those fuckers have seen, or are at least aware of, the cursed trilogy of questionable porn that’s being reenacted before their eyes, with you as an unwilling co-star. Those that are puzzled as to why people are shoving their fists in their mouths to refrain from laughing are obviously God’s favorites.

“The fuck is going on? I wanna laugh at Baji’s dumbassery, too.”

“Pah-chin... I think it’s best you don’t know.”

Interestingly enough, the one you’re most concerned about hasn’t said anything yet, splitting his attention between observing the scene unfolding and eating his portion of a deluxe sundae.

Then, out of nowhere-

“I understand.”

You and Baji freeze where you are, each of you grasping the other’s collar, you to shove him away, and him to draw you closer.

“(Y/n),” Mikey says, your name rolling silkily off his tongue in a tone much too fond for his next words, “if you like roleplay, just tell me.”

...

“Huh?”

“I’m fine with pissing, remember? So, roleplay shouldn’t be a problem.”

Heat rises to your face at an alarming pace, and it continues to climb as Mikey takes your free hand in his, which serves not to comfort but to unintentionally remind you of the humiliating experience from a few months back. And just when you convinced him that you didn’t want anything to do with getting freaky with the body’s excreta, too.

“You’ve got it wrong! I don’t- arfghfgh?!”

Your prayer to help cool down your flushed cheeks must have been heard, but you’re pretty damn sure you didn’t ask for Baji to shove his ice cream in your mouth!

“Oh, yeah. (Y/n)’s a fuckin’ geek when it comes to roleplay,” the unhinged bastard speaks in your stead, indifferent to the nails clawing at his hand clamped over your mouth. “You should try it with him. We were doing a scene from his favorite anime.”

Mikey tilts his head, interest positively piqued. “Which one is that?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, leader?”

Mikey raises an eyebrow.

Baji opens his mouth.

You lunge.

It’s a series of events that happens in the blink of an eye and ends with loud crashing as you tackle Baji to the ground.

“Listen up, Baji Keisuke. We took an oath that day, and if you dare utter a word of what went down, I’ll consider that a breach of the code of secrecy and take you down, making sure you drown in a pit of your own shame and despair.”

Surprised to have been pinned down so quickly, it takes a while for Baji’s brain to catch up, but when it does, he’s frustratingly unfazed at the threat.

“Oho~ How scary. Too bad for you, I have no shame.”

“Not even if I tell Mama Baji where your porn stash is?”

That has the great Baji tensing up.

“You wouldn’t dare use an underhanded tactic like that.”

Your lips turn into a wicked grin. “Are you sure? I have as much dirt on you as you have on me, and like you, I won’t hesitate to use it to my advantage.”

If your grin is wicked, Baji’s is downright evil, showing off his sharp, gritted canines and all.

“You got balls, (Y/n),” he snarls, “but mine are bigger.”

The boy beneath you opens his mouth, and faster than you can stop him, he just...does it.

“(Y/n) (L/n) watched Boku no Pico and liked it!”

Silence.

Silence is all that’s heard for a good, long minute following the booming roar of the revelation.

You dare not look up to gauge everyone’s reactions, instead keeping your icy glare fixated on Baji, who looks smug as shit for having caused the glorious eruption of heat to spread like wildfire across your entire body, from the tips of your ears down to where your skin disappears under the collar of your jacket.

This...

This is war.

Taking in a deep breath, you answer his uncalled for declaration with your own thunderous shout of, “Baji watched Boku no Pico and jacked off to it! Twice!”

Baji laughs. “Oh, pray tell, saintly (Y/n), how many times did you jack off to it?”

“None of your fucking business, asshole.”

“Pretty fucking sure it is, since we were in the same room.”

Someone chokes, while you choke Baji.

“We. Swore. To. Secrecy. You. Asshole,” you practically growl, with each of your words accompanied by a ruthless back-and-forth shaking of the other boy’s person.

“Let up on the choking, dude. I’m not into that. You, however-”

Unable to take the ceaseless slander to your name anymore, you reel your fist back, but, upon seeing Baji’s cheek turned to you, jaw jutted out, as if inviting you to take your best shot, you hesitate. You know you wouldn’t be able to pack enough of a punch to actually leave an impact on him, which is terribly upsetting.

On the bright side, there’s still one tactic you can use that’ll be just as effective, a technique courtesy of your health teacher, who happily taught it to the class to use in case of an emergency.

Technically, it’s meant to be used to assess a person’s level of consciousness, but you suppose it can be used to get back at inconsiderate idiots, too.

“Ow! Ow! What the fuc-! Ow!”

You keep a straight face as you continue to rub your knuckles against his sternum, fully intent on delivering the worst possible pain to the current bane of your existence. It brings a sort of sadistic satisfaction to hear the ever prideful Baji’s screams of pain, and while it doesn’t completely undo the damage done, it does help soothe your wounded self-esteem.

“You want me stop? Beg for it.”

“Pissing, roleplay, choking, and begging? Goddam- OW!”

Your reign of terror comes to its untimely end when you’re lifted up into the air by the armpits, and through the haze of your power trip, you realize that Baji’s saving grace is Draken, who proceeds to carry you out of the parlor with ease.

“People are staring,” he coolly explains when you protest to having unfinished business.

Pouting, you cross your arms over your chest. “It’s his fault.”

Once outside, Draken doesn’t immediately put you back on your feet, until Mikey strolls out of the parlor. Only when the gang leader has his arms outstretched to you are you promptly deposited on the ground and taken into his embrace.

“Are you done letting off some steam?” is the first thing he asks you. Even though you can’t see his expression, the way he holds you and the way he cradles the back of your head, handling you with the utmost care, is indication enough that there will be no reprimand for, essentially, assaulting your division commander. (You would argue that it was an act of self defense against verbal harassment, but whatever.)

There’s just an overwhelming amount of love. So, so, so much love for each other.

“Yeah, I am,” you eventually answer, followed by a content sigh.

“Good.”

Naturally, that’s the perfect time for the tinkling of the bells above the parlor door to pilfer your attention. Baji’s appearance causes your face to morph into a scowl.

You cling tighter to Mikey, peeking over his shoulder to flip the ravenet off and mouth, ‘Go to Hell.’

As always, Baji answers your attempt to appear opposing with an obnoxious smirk.

‘See you there.’

~~~

“Boku no Pico, huh?”

“Draken, don’t laugh! Baji forced me to watch it!”

“All 3 episodes?”

“Twice.”

“...”

“Favorite scene...?”

“As if I’d have one.”

"Actually-"

“Ahh! Shut up! Why are you here, stupid Baji?! You live in the other direction!”

~~~

“Hey, (Y/n). Want to try doing the same thing with me?”

You look up, perplexed. Mikey literally just walked into the room, and that was the first thing he said to you.

“Do wha-?”

Your breath catches in your throat when you turn your head, only for you to come centimeters from bumping noses with him. And because he can, he lovingly knocks your foreheads together, too.

“It’s okay. I promise it’ll definitely be fun.”

You should feel ashamed for recognizing the same sequence of lines from Boku no Pico so quickly, though any coherent words are overtaken by an incomprehensible, high-pitched screech, a feat achieved solely by a teenage boy going through puberty.

A combination of shock and amusement crosses over Mikey’s features then. He’s never heard you make that sound before.

It’s cute. Strains the ears quite a bit, but cute.

While Draken lurks beside him, questioning Mikey’s standards of what constitutes as ‘cute,’ you’re sprinting across the room, red-faced, to Baji, who’s already grinning from ear-to-ear.

“Stop tainting my boyfriend, you piece of shit! Give him back his innocence!”

(Unbeknownst to you, whilst immersed in your fit of hysterics, your use of the word ‘boyfriend’ has a certain blond beaming.

“Did you hear that, Ken-chin? He called me his boyfriend.”

“Wow, congrats.”

Mikey either doesn’t give a shit or is simply too smitten to acknowledge Draken’s apathetic response.)

Baji blinks, unable to believe what you’re trying to insinuate. “Innocent? That little gremlin motherfucker?”

Both of you look in Mikey’s direction. When he sees you staring, he breaks out in a smile and throws a wave.

Your heart involuntarily skips a beat at the sight, and, okay, you’re convinced. Mikey deserves better than knowing of that cursed series’ existence.

Clearly, you’re down bad for Toman’s leader, and as such, Baji figures he can use that to quench his boredom for the day.

“Ooh, if only you knew what he gets off to.”

The tone in his voice instantly rouses suspicion. You narrow your eyes at him. “I don’t care what kind of porn he gets off to.”

“Porn? Nah, ya silly goose-”

“Don’t call me that.”

Baji ignores your comment as he moves to sling one arm around your shoulders, the other raising up to mimic an obscene tugging motion that no teenage boy is a stranger to.

“He jerks it to yo-”

BAM!

One second, Baji is lazily hanging off of your person, the next, he’s sprawled out on the floor, face down, and groaning in pain. You expect nothing less after witnessing him receive a rather impressive flying kick to the chest from Mikey.

Before you can assess the full damage, your view gets obscured by a pair of keys.

“Wanna take my bike out for a spin?”

Yes, you know Mikey is trying to divert your attention from whatever Baji was going to say, and, yes, you probably should check on the figure that has yet to get up.

But do you really care?

You take one glance at Baji’s concerningly unmoving body and quickly come to a conclusion.

You do not.

That being said, you quite literally drag Mikey and, by extension, Draken out of there, chanting an excited, “Let’s go!” on your way, abandoning Baji to wither on the ground.

Baji?

Baji feels betrayed.

~~~

"Chifuyu?”

“Hm?”

“Y’know, I was joking.” Baji flips onto his back with a grunt. “Man, who knew Mikey was all grown up?”

The vice captain of the first division hums, seemingly uninterested in his commander’s musings.

It goes quiet for a few minutes, the sole instigator of noise being Chifuyu flipping the pages of his manga.

Unpredictable is Baji, and the same goes for his train of thought.

“I should punch Mikey for kicking me.”

“No, you’d get beat up.”

“...”

“I should punch (Y/n) for Mikey kicking me.”

Truly, unpredictable and senseless.

“You’d still get beat up.”

Baji opens his mouth to argue.

“By Mikey.”

He promptly closes it.

“Fuck it. I’ll keep spicing up their relationship as payback.”

Sighing, Chifuyu closes his book to crouch down next to him. “Baji-san, with all due respect, you’re an asshole.”

Baji Keisuke has experienced betrayal twice today.

And he deserved it both times.

#mikey x male reader #sano manjiro x male reader #sano manjirou x male reader #mikey x reader #tokyo revengers x y/n #tokyo revengers x male reader #tokyo revengers x reader #Tokyo Revengers #Sano Manjirou #sano manjiro #manjiro sano #manjirou sano #i tried #im so sorry #pls dont cancel me #PSA: don't masturbate in the same room as baji

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luvlyrv · 4 years ago

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Duel | Seulgi x F!Reader | Knight!AU

Request: Okay so I have a request 👀 you don’t have to write it if you want want to, but the idea came to my head and I thought why not request it from one of my favourite writers! 🥺

SO, knight!seulgi. Or basically Seulgi with a sword and being bad ass 🥴 maybe a small bit of enemies to lovers, who knows? But just Seulgi. With a sword. 😳🥵

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: i hope you like it! i'm not big on action scenes so they were kind of rushed, sorry :( also sorry that it took so long my dear!! hope you're doing well <3

Date: 4/11/21

You uncomfortably roll your shoulders back, a phantom pain gradually enveloping your body. Somehow the mere sight of Seulgi was enough to send shudders down your spine as your body recounts the sensations of the many fights you've had with her. Maybe defeat has already etched itself into your muscle memory.

You let out a quiet breath as you observe her sparring session with a fellow damoiseau, a knight-in-training. Your mind feels a bit torn by the sight in front of you. On one hand you are entranced by the fluid motions and contortions that Seulgi managed to make her body do. On the other hand you struggle to not make an obviously unsettled face. Your mood sours at the disappointment you feel when reminded of the fact that despite how much you try to observe and study her, you have never bested her in a duel.

Besting the people around you had always come easy. You've enjoyed the pain of your training, knowing that it would be proven a worthy investment of your time when you see a pitiful body laying on the floor in front of you. When you get to see the face of defeat, hear the admittance of it. For all you know you are the perfect warrior. A noble knight worthy to serve the monarch.

You're better than everyone. You know it. Except for her.

What was it? What did you she have that you didn't? Every time she bested you in a duel it dealt a bastardly blow to your ego. The words 'second best' would make your eye want to twitch. For all your strength and endurance, your familiarity with the motions of battle, Seulgi just seemed to understand it more.

You recount the many times your body would strain itself after being dealt with many sharp thwacks. The throbbing pains from falling and rolling, again and again. The sense of hope and excitement as you pushed yourself to take on a stance and seemingly deal a final blow, only for Seulgi to easily and gracefully step away, just to kick you back to the ground.

You hate her. You hate the weaklings underneath you too. You swear you can hear them snicker when you lose to her, that treacherous woman.

You stop your thoughts when you suddenly hear the booming voice of your master calling for you. Your grip strengthens around your training sword as you slowly make way towards Seulgi. It's time for the two of you to repeat the process. This time though, you are determined to win. Certain of it. Seulgi, the best apprentice in your regiment, would not longer make a mockery of you.

Your jaw hurts as clench, barely containing your anger. You try to calm down and refocus on the situation at hand. You look at Seulgi as she stands in her own battle-ready stance in front of you. You wonder how her blows deal so much power when her frame looks so delicate.

Focusing on calming down your breathing, you slowly advance forward. Your opponent does the same and soon enough you're circling around each other. It's the same story again. The same beginnings.

You want to end things quickly and dive in for the first blow. One blow should be all you need, you think to yourself. You force yourself to go as quickly as possible, everything around you a blur except for your target herself. All of a sudden though, she disappears and suddenly you feel your training sword facing resistance, threatening to escape your grasp.

You grunt in frustration and reorient yourself to find Seulgi. You spot her and balance yourself waiting for another opening. She is always on the defensive it seems, but you are never one to wait. As the seconds go by you deem it the right time to go for a slash. It feels as if your body is moving through molasses as you watch Seulgi glide out of your weapon's way in horror. You see her sword and a painful thwack is given.

It's the same story again. The same middle.

You repeat and repeat these motions. You going in for a hit only to be countered. Sometimes you'd get one in, but like you your opponent is hardy and gets back up. After a brutal pummeling you must resign yourself to defeat, as much as your heart hates it. The same ending as always.

This time though you can't seem to hold your tongue back.

You storm up closer to Seulgi and roughly hold onto the collar of her training attire. "What the hell is it? What's your secret?" You shake the woman a bit until her hands come up to your wrist. She pushes them down and you decide to let go. "Rematch tonight. I'll prove my worth." The words come out viciously but quietly. They were a promise both to her and yourself.

The crowd of spectators around you stay quiet after your outburst, and Seulgi doesn't say anything either. Not bothering to look at anyone's faces you leave the grounds to change clothes. They stuck to you with sweat and the gritty dirt that covered it bothered you

You can't think much for the rest of the day. The thoughts of your failure prevents you from enjoying training or beating other people. Soon enough you find yourself looking at a bowl of measly soup and bread in the mess hall all by yourself.

The warm soup makes you feel marginally better, but you don't pay much attention to it. Instead you take in your surroundings. This scenario is routine. You sit by yourself somewhere among the crowds of people interacting and enjoying their meal together. Even if people were nearby you simply would not speak. Why waste your breath on them?

In contrast to you though, you notice how hordes of people flock around the number one apprentice. Vying for her attention. Are you jealous? You can't tell. You just wonder if people would act that way towards you if you were the best.

Soon enough you hear the familiar yelling of a commander telling you all to return to your bunks. You quickly put away your bowl and utensils before hanging back from the line of people walking back towards the measly barracks that housed you all. Through the large body of people you see the crowd finally thin out as people their respective barracks. As you get closer to yours you finally spot Seulgi towards the entrance of the building. Coming up behind her you speak out.

"You didn't forget, did you?" She takes a moment to think before huffing.

"I suppose I should humor you after all."

You turn without letting her speak further. There's a silence between the two of you as you go to retrieve your training swords. You'd expect to hear loud padded footsteps behind you, but surprisingly Seulgi's footsteps sound faint. Nearly nonexistent.

The night sky of course makes it hard to see things, but your years of training has ingrained the layout of the entire area into your heart. It also helps that the moonlight allows you to see just enough as well. You make it to your destination with ease, picking up your weapon you watch as Seulgi grabs hers too.

"Where are we going to fight?" She questions you tiredly.

"Out in the field." Your answer is curt as you once again lead Seulgi, this time to the middle of the field you had fought in earlier in the day. When you arrive you distance yourself farther away from her and take your stance.

"You ready?" You ask her as you plant your feet into the ground and focus on your breathing.

"Mhm." Seulgi, unlike you, decides to stand there. She seems uncommitted, like she doesn't care about the fight. How dare she do that when your pride is on the line? When you're taking this so seriously?

Frustration builds up inside of you as you take her attitude as disrespect. You move in to give her a quick jab. Extending your arm, you feel your weapon graze her before she moves out of the way. A popping noise fills the air as she strikes down near the hilt of your weapon, trying to make you loosen your grip. It almost works but you quickly readjust your hands. You force up your sword in retaliation, breaking away the contact between your two swords.

With your sword so high up you decide to go for a horizontal swing towards Seulgi's body. In the early moments of your swing though, Seulgi ducks down and gives you an upwards jab towards your chest.

You heave as air forcefully leaves your lungs, a pain exploding around your chest.

"God!" You wheeze out loudly. Seulgi stands in front of you while she lowers her sword. You get down to your knees and look at the ground. Your breathing normalizes quickly but you try to get your bearings before rising again.

"I still... don't get it." As quickly as your breathing returned to its normal state, your voice quivered as your eyes felt hot. The disappointment that you seemingly always felt around Seulgi had made its reappearance. This time it hit harder than normal. Hard enough to make you start crying.

As your breathing began to become more uneven you finally raise your head and stand up. The form of your opponent gets closer to you. The only sounds between the two of you is the noises escaping your throat as you broke down again.

"How can you manage to fight like that?" You notice Seulgi has put both of her hands out to you. Your hesitance to take them spurs her to speak.

"I'll show you." Her voice touches you somehow. How have you never noticed how angelic she sounded? How gentle she was being with you right now? "Just take them."

You allow her to take your hands. She carefully clasps her similarly calloused hands around yours and begins to move. Her body sways, you don't quite understand why but you try to follow suit.

"I don't get it." You say as you try to mirror her movements. You fumble in embarrassment as Seulgi moves with confidence and grace. You're like a fawn who hasn't learned how to walk next to her.

"I'm a dancer, don't you see?" She momentarily lets go of your hands and walks backwards. You miss the feeling of her hands but you're entranced by the short show she puts on.

She performs for you, the dance itself was beautiful as she created curves and angles with her body. The moonlight enhances it, bouncing off her body and allowing her to glow.

Why have you never noticed how delicate her features looked? How it looked as if she was hand sculpted by the gods?

She returns back to you, taking your hands in hers and leads you back to dancing. You focus harder on trying to mimic her correctly. Eventually the both of you are gracefully dancing across the vast field. You're calmer now, happy even.

"See?" Seulgi says after a while of silent dancing. "The battlefield is my dancefloor, and I'm simply dancing around your blade."

"You're an incredible dancer, Seulgi." Seulgi has brought the two of you closer now. You notice how her lips tug up a bit as you pay her a compliment. That was the first time you've complimented her, perhaps even anyone here. It was the first time you said something without malice to her.

"I try." She laughs a bit. "I wanted to be a professional dancer at first actually. My family wanted me to go into a more noble field though, for the sake of our reputation. I protested at first of course. As I thought more though I decided I wouldn't mind protecting people. I still try to dance everyday though."

"Oh." Shock is laced through your voice. Listening to Seulgi was a humbling experience to say the least. You had wanted to become a knight for your own honor, to attain glory and recognition. You hadn't paid much thought towards protecting other people.

It was also strange to see Seulgi treat you like this. Her kindness was unprecedented. Was your hatred and spite one-sided all along?

"Hm?" Seulgi is curious to your shock as she quirks her eyebrow.

"Sorry."

"For what?"

"I've..." It hurts you a bit to say sorry, let alone apologize correctly. You force yourself to do it though. Maybe, just maybe, you need to change. "I've certainly acted coldly towards you and others. My actions have been... conceited." You here a soft giggle before Seulgi speaks again.

"You're cuter when you're not being awful, you know?" You're glad that the sun has set and that Seulgi can't see the embarrassment on your face. Seulgi hums a tune as you continue dancing together.

"Try smiling more and scowling less. You'd be more approachable that way, along with some attitude changes of course. Aren't you lonely?" She tries to advise you, and normally you'd lash out if anyone made comments about your behavior, but you can't help but to listen to the soothing voice of Seulgi.

"...I can try." You whisper. "I think, if I may speak frankly, I would be okay with being second best under you." Seulgi laughs again.

"Oh? Was dancing with you all it took to make you earn some humility?"

"Maybe... can we dance again another time?" You ask with hesitance before you quickly elaborate. "To get better at fighting, like you! Of course. Only if you want to."

"If this would effectively make you learn your lesson, then sure."

This was the first time you could talk to someone like this, and you like it.

"Thank you, Seulgi, for your patience."

You understand why she's the best apprentice out of all of you. Why people flock around her. Who wouldn't want to be near the giving soul of Seulgi?

#seulgi x reader #seulgi #red velvet x reader #red velvet #red velvet scenarios #red velvet imagines #red velvet reactions #red velvet seulgi #gg imagines #kpop imagines #kpop fluff #kpop writing

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rexeipts · 4 years ago

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Monday morning rewatch thoughts:

I am in my feels, very angry at this episode.

Annie had little to no story so skipping her this time around.

Ruby & Stan:

- Stanimal trying to get the girls to strike was great, and I want to see him (not Beth) run the strip club so bad. I hope that is the storyline they take us down.

- Ruby and Stan once again are king and queen of communication. These two are such an excellent example of healthy and happy marriage.

- Ruby biting a lime at Stan’s replacement gave me life in the montage

Beth & Dean:

That’s who Beth gets paired with this week. Dean. Not Rio. Because that’s how mad I am at her.

- Dean on the bike ride scene was once again far too long and wasted precious screen time. I forced myself not to fast forward through that scene. And you know what I noticed? Dean literally compares being sexually assaulted in prison to being someone’s wife on a honeymoon and being forced to have a baby put inside you. Because that is how Dean sees his fucking wife and marriage. Literal other convicts sexually assaulting someone in prison is like them thinking you’re their wife on a honey moon. Let that fucking sink in. And no, I don’t think that was intentional characterization by the writers. That is just existing as a metaphor these writers chose to use while trying to continue a Dean redemption arc.

- Dean leaving the hot tub when the other guys were shitting on Beth for being a buzz kill was an attempt at showing “growth”. But it’s not. It’s fucking table stakes. See above mention of non consensual sex being like a wife.

- How Beth does not realize this is another of dean’s idiotic schemes and poor money decisions is beyond me.

- I am relieved only in that Beth looked upset after getting Rio arrested this time. Good. Be upset. You had a choice. I’m so mad at Beth right now. I’m honestly starting to think she deserves Dean.

- Beth, honestly you think Rio would hurt your kids? Then why turn him in? You’re so scared of him then why risk it? Choosing him would have meant protecting your kids if you look at it factually, he threatened your family if you turned him in. Like she’s just dumb at this point? The writers have characterized her as dumb. Did she conveniently forget season 1 when he got out? I mean for real? Do these writers even watch previous seasons?

- Beth being with Dean literally undermines all feminism about the show. I have said that before and will say it again. Dean is a cancer on this show’s fun. Pun intended.

- Beth uses her sweet housewife voice on Nick. Literally everyone but Rio. And she literally flirts with Nick. You’re literally married Beth. Divorce Dean before you flirt with yet another person.

Rio & Nick:

- Baby Rio looked like Rio I thought. Him drawing a boxer was heart breaking. Because he literally wanted that his entire life. The last flashback scene made it seem like he wanted it for money. Nick tells him he doesn’t need boxing because they have a way to get money now, but Rio literally wanted boxing from childhood. And Nick ripped that away from him. Nick gave him no choice. Not because he wanted him to learn a lesson, because he wanted to use him. Rio is Nick’s designated fall guy.

- Rio = good egg, Nick bad, better be fucking FORESHADOWING FOR RIO GETTING SOMETHING NICE FINALLY THIS SEASON. At least the writers told us that pretty openly.

- The champ champ champ now all makes sense

- Who is Rio’s coach and can we please have a cheesy storyline where the coach is the only one to ever be on his side

- What is he having them print for? The girls point it out like why does he need all of that?

- Him telling Beth he does need her? No he doesn’t. That was actually a very sweet line. The way he looked at her, he’s in love with her guys. Like his face said yes I need you because I can’t seem to give you up. He doesn’t need her for money. It’s unfortunate they chose to dirty it up with him threatening her family.

- Rio grows from the ashes. He is the designated fall guy who rises from the ashes to be untouchable. Hence Phoenix I guess. Sure.

- I actually like Nick being in the show. First because I’m mad at Beth. But mostly because he is the only character introducing a new dynamic. He is the only thing that’s not repetitive. The only fresh storyline. And he’s already making her talk about Rio. But also, would it fucking kill either of them to say the man’s damn name? But also I like the actor and think he’s pleasant to look at on screen, sue me.

- Oh look, Nick, another man telling Beth Rio is too dangerous for her when she LITERALLY SHOT HIM. Do you all REALIZE SHE IS NOT A DELICATE FUCKING LAMB.

- I am no longer convinced that Rio had a plan all this time, not after rewatching the car scene. It seems like Rio was ready to kill her, mostly because he doesn’t know another choice, and Nick pointed out the obvious. Unless Rio is playing Nick. But truth be told, Rio threatening her family was ooc. And I’m holding on to the fact that he said family, aka Dean Annie Ruby who he has threatened before, and she took it to mean kids. I’m also holding on to the fact that Rio puts on masks. He puts on cold gang banger mask, he tries to manipulate and find new ways to incentivize beth. If you look at it that way, as him trying to get her to choose him rather than a plot of trying to get her to turn him in, it’s heartbreaking. He is so desperate to get her to pick him he literally pulled out his final option. His only remaining incentive that he hasn’t tried on her. EDIT: UNLESS Rio is playing Nick too. Because now? SS trusts Beth. And Nick trusts Rio. Nick thinks Rio and Beth aren’t on the same side. That Beth turned Rio in and Rio’s murderous over it. And Rio can use Beth to take Nick down without Nick seeing them coming. I hope they’re going for that. Because that would be genius. And would really be Rio 100 steps ahead, and would make the whole episode make sense in terms of his characterization.

- The arrest scene was heart breaking. The complete betrayal in his eyes was so sad. As others have stated, choosing to slam him on a table, while yes it is realistic to how he would likely be treated in the real world, was not necessary. He wasn’t resisting and was literally just standing there. Idk why the writers feel the need to be “realistic” in some moments and not in others. Poor choice. But what I did appreciate was him staring at Beth. Like she was forced to face him this time. With his face shoved against a table while she stands there being cuffed gently. She did that. She didn’t see him arrested on tv. She didn’t run away after shooting him. She had to stand there in his gaze looking at the betrayal on his face. Good. I’m sorry but she deserved it. She needs to face the damn consequences of her actions. Sorry I’m upset with her RN.

- At this point I believe Rio is in love with Beth. And it seems the writers are actually pushing metaphors and moments that make us sympathize with Rio and see Nick as the bad guy. I do think Beth will eventually get there/realize her feelings for Rio later this season but it might be too little too late. Time will tell.

Promo/Thoughts going forward:

- I like Phoebe and don’t mind her being around

- Rio and Beth on a bench again is good news to me. On the same bench.

- Idk if it’s a time jump but Rio comes in with a fresh hair cut, new wardrobe, and a tan looking like he just had a hot girl summer and is feeling great, over his ex, and is ready to fuck shit up.

- I want to see Rio remind Beth that she betrayed him personally. I want her to have to face that. It’s not just she betrayed him professionally. I want to see him reject her, I want to see her flirt or bat her lashes at him and him to be like nope sorry. Just for a minute though like just one episode lol. And only because I think it will make her realize her feelings for him.

- Beth and Rio v Nick please. Just give us something fucking new.

- These writers had an amazing path they could have gone down of the housewife partnering with a gang banger. It would have been fun, plenty of comedic gold available, and plenty of options for conflict between them and with external forces. And instead they chose this. I feel sometimes like this show would have been way better if it wasn’t on NBC. This story, this chemistry, belonged with writers who would realize its potential. That’s what I find disappointing.

#sorry i’m angry #gg negativity #I guess yeah it’s negative this time around guys #nbc good girls #beth x rio #gg spoilers #brio #good girls season 4

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jess-rewatches-prodigalson · 4 years ago

Text

It’s All In The Execution (S2, E1)

It happened. We got a second season. I’m living my best life...unfortunately Malcolm isn’t...

*** Content warning: brief mentions/allusions to depression, suicidal ideation, and Malcolm’s general poor mental health ****

SPOILERS AHEAD.

0:00 - OH HELL YES. I can’t believe we actually got a second season! <3 My heart is so full.

0:18 – “This ledge is taken.” …..ok so I have lots of feelings about this scene. 1) Malcolm’s lines are iconic in this scene and I love it. 2) WHY THE ACTUAL HELL WOULD JT, DANI, AND EDRISA AGREE TO LET A (LET’S BE HONEST) MAN IN A VERY BAD MENTAL STATE WITH A HISTORY OF DEPRESSION STAND ON A LEDGE FOR A CASE?!? Like seriously, Gil wouldn’t have gone with this shit. 3) As soon as I saw Malcolm on the ledge I believed he was seriously considering jumping. He showed passive suicidality most of last season and after Endicott – well I don’t blame him for being a little depressed.

0:26 – Damn. Malcolm is really manic in this scene. It’s reminiscent of the pilot episode in the sense that Malcolm really has no filter.

0:40 – Ok so Tom Payne deserves a freaking Emmy. This performance is gorgeous. Look at his facial expression when he says “It got real dark for me though. Family issues.” The look on his face completely convinces me that Malcolm is riding the struggle bus more than usual right now…..also am I the only one who thinks this ‘penthouse slasher’ is kind of unbelievable? He strikes me as too anxious and jumpy to be a serial killer.

1:18 – Is Malcolm even trying to hide the fact that he knows what happened to Endicott?!? I mean “I tried to fight it” can’t JT and Dani hear his usual ‘projecting his personal issues on the suspect shtick?’

1:30 – Did he really just scream “I am the Surgeon’s son” from a ledge?!? Dude – someone please give this boy a hug and get him to Gabrielle – like last month.

1:40 – Soooo… now Chester isn’t scared of the ledge? He looked like he was going to wet himself from fear a literal minute ago.

1:49 – OH OF COURSE CHESTER SLIT THEIR THROATS. JUST LIKE AINSLEY SLIT ENDICOTT’S. Chris Fedak really loves to inject Malcolm’s personal issues into the ‘serial killer of the week’.

2:23 – I’m sorry – the team let Malcolm on the ledge without tethering him first?!? No. No. No. I refuse to believe it. Dani, JT, and Edrisa care too much about Malcolm to let him do that.

2:28 – Why is Edrisa even on this stakeout?!? Did she fill in as the 4th team member while Gil was in the hospital?!? I love Edrisa – she’s hilarious but the fact that she’s in the field like this is absolute nonsense. Hahaha

2:32 – hahaha OMG. JT is like the big brother forced to hang out with his younger sibling and their weird friends. He’s think’s they’re all crazy but he’d also die for them.

2:42 – Yikes. Malcolm is questioning his moral code. This boy is headed for a real nasty downward mental spiral if someone doesn’t intervene quickly.

2:46 – Am I really supposed to believe that a rope tied to a radiator can hold the weight of two grown men dangling off a building?!? I mean – I’ll suspend my disbelief because I know it’s fictional entertainment but I found it really distracting.

2:48 – JT. Would. Not. Let. Go. Of. That. Rope. I REFUSE TO BELIEVE IT. If for no other reason than because he loves GIL too much to let Gil’s surrogate son fall to his death. I understand why this happened – tension and excitement for television in the first scene of a new season but honestly – this whole first scene is wildly unrealistic given what we know about JT, Dani, Edrisa and their respective roles on the team.

2:50 – Can we talk about JT’s facial hair for a sec? I like him with it (and without it). Part of me thinks he grew it because he’s trying to channel Gil while he’s temporarily in charge of the team.

3:08 – Honestly, the second Malcolm picked up his phone all I could think was “You moron. What if you drop that thing off the side of the building!?!?!”…then I remembered that he’s rich.

3:20 – “Please say it’s cancer.” Hahahahahaha OMG. I have a love/hate relationship for Malcolm with no filter. That’s freaking comedic gold.

3:57 – “I’m hanging in there.” Tom Payne is freaking incredible. Look at his facial expression here. Malcolm’s emotional pain is etched on that face. Ugh. I’m love.

4:02 – soooo no updated title screen. Interesting.

4:08 – Istg the writers only put Ainsley in this scene so she would be in the episode. I mean honestly – what kind of precinct lets reporters with a camera crew INSIDE?!?!

4:15 – hahaha I love JT in this scene. I love how he initially looks at Ainsley with a mixture of confusion, resignation, and fear. This is a man who does not like the camera.

4:16 – Side note: is it just me or is Ainsley acting very manic in this scene? Something about her energy reminds me of Malcolm circa 1x05 when he’s not sleeping and trying to convince everyone that he’s fine.

4:38 – hahahaha OMG. That wink.

4:48 – Even Malcolm looks surprised that Ainsley and a camera dude were let into the precinct.

5:00 – Ahhh the hand tremor. <3 Love that they’re still using that.

5:05 – also Malcolm is heartbreaking in this scene. Someone give him a hug. Look at how hard he’s trying to hide his pain, fear, and trauma. UGH.

5:33 - So we finally get to see it. The moments immediately after 1x20. Or do we? I have this crackpot theory (I posted it on my main blog, so you might’ve already seen it – “AllTimeBouvier”) that these flashbacks are only a fraction of the truth. I think Sophie walked followed Malcolm from the vet’s office to the hospital, then home. I think she hid when she heard Endicott’s voice due to fear but came out after Ainsley started screaming and stabbing. Besides – anyone else notice how the portion of these flashbacks where Malcolm is saying “Ainsley, focus on me. You didn’t do this. I did.” Only his right hand is ever in the frame. So it’s impossible to tell if he’s holding his cell (on the phone with Martin) with his left hand or if he just hung up and put the phone back in his pocket? I think that Martin either phoned Malcolm back or Martin heard Sophie’s voice and demanded to talk to her. I think Sophie disposed of the body while Malcolm took care of Ainsley like a good big brother. I think Sophie went into hiding and Martin is gaslighting Malcolm into believing that he disposed of Endicott’s body.

5:37 – Anyone else want to know what happened to the murder weapon? And Ainsley’s bloody clothes? Just me?

6:00 – hahahahaha Jessica is so extra. I love it.

6:29 – Wait. What? Why was Ainsley quarantined with Jessica? Ainsley has her own apartment. If Jessica forced Ainsley to come and live with her during quarantine – why didn’t she also force Malcolm? This doesn’t track for me.

6:40 – I love that Jessica brought Malcolm food (you can see the grocery bag behind Malcolm in one of the shots) and went so far as to actually lay out the breakfast ingredients for him. <3 I mean. It’s extra but it’s also sweet.

6:45 – Why is Jessica looking at Malcolm’s pill bottles? Is it just to avoid eye contact with Malcolm while she talks about Gil? Is she noticing that his dosage has changed (she’s extra so I’m assuming she knows exactly what meds he takes and how much of each). Is that part of the reason why she’s suspicious of Malcolm? His dosage has gone up and he’s clearly trying to hide his pain?

6:52 – I love how Malcolm interacts with Jessica in this scene. It’s so cute. They’re adorable. AND seeing Malcolm in casual clothing is always nice.

7:44 – “Oh about that.” Damn. Malcolm really can’t catch a break. Poor baby. : (

7:50 – hahaha Martin looks like a mountain man here. Completely deranged and un-groomed.

7:51 – Glad Mr.David isn’t dead or evil. I had fears.

8:35 – The tension between Dani and Malcolm seems to have lessened since 1x20. The trust seems to have been partially rebuilt. Partially. Dani is still suspicious.

8:38 – Well at least Malcolm’s still going to therapy.

8:41 – GREEN SUIT. HELL YES.

9:06 – “The ‘Drise knows.” OMG hahahaha I love this show. Look at how Malcolm looks at her hahaha.

9:17 – “I can fire these people right?” OMG. 10/10. JT REALLY SHINES IN THIS EPISODE. AND FRANK HARTS IS KILLING IT and the writers gave him so much well deserved screen time and great lines.

9:53 – Malcolm and Edrisa getting excited about murder is honestly so freaking cute.

10:34 – OMG. The way Malcolm perks up at the mention of rumours is hilarious. A learned behaviour from Jessica during his childhood?

10:45 – I’ll say it again. Chris Fedak was wasting Frank Harts in season 1. This dude is shining in this episode. I hope they keep giving him more lines and screen time than they did last season.

12:00 – I love seeing Malcolm this excited/happy but it’s pretty concerning that his passion is murder weapons.

12:04 – This scene is really interesting to me for four reasons 1) Where the eff did Dani go? I guess she’s probably on her way to see Gil? 2) Even though Malcolm is getting excited about murder he’s way less manic than he was earlier this episode. 3) I love watching JT deal with Edrisa and Malcolm’s nerdy excitement. I could watch it all day. So fun. 4) I love watching JT and Malcolm in scenes together. Period. I can honestly say that watching their friendship evolve is one of the highlights of this show for me.

12:30 – Heartbreaking. Malcolm had a few minutes where he forgot about Ainsley, Endicott, Martin, and the various traumas currently haunting him. Then he not only remembered but he saw Martin in himself. The crazy person collecting murder weapons. You can tell he feels embarrassed, ashamed, and sad. I genuinely believe that’s why JT says, “soooo weird.” with a look of sympathy and concern. JT doesn’t suspect that Malcolm has anything to do with Endicott’s murder at this point in time. Mark my words.

12:55 – Edrisa gets Bright. I will never ship them together but I really hope they get more scenes together this season. Their friendship is beautiful.

13:00 – Malcolm, baby, no. You don’t have to do this. Ugh. Poor baby. This is just going to make the night terrors worse.

13:10 – They trimmed Martin’s beard but not his hair between the first scene in this episode and now. I think they just combed his hair? Why?!? Was this a Michael Sheen request? I must know!!!

13:40 – hahaha OMG. Can we all just take a moment to appreciate how incredible Michael Sheen is?!? This man can go from downright terrifying to hilarious in a split second. Incredible actor.

13:55 – Sooooo Mr. David doesn’t know about Endicott? Because he’s definitely heard Malcolm and Martin discuss some pretty sketchy stuff over the years. I’m pretty sure he heard about the Sophie stuff last season didn’t he? Why is Martin finally trying to hide something from Mr. David?

14:03 – Look at Malcolm’s face. Ugh. He looks nauseous and scared. Someone hug him. Or better yet – get him away from Martin.

14:18 – Sooooo is Jerry going to be a problem later? Martin ‘cures him’ later in this episode so will he be able to tell someone he heard Martin and Malcolm talking about Endicott’s murder? Would anyone believe him?

14:40 – GO. TO. HELL. MARTIN. You’re not feeling it?!? Haven’t you caused enough emotional damage to your son. Stop. Trying. To. Manipulate. Malcolm.

14:50 – Question 1000 about how Endicott’s body was disposed of: Where the hell did Malcolm get that yellow jumpsuit on such short notice? And….those gloves – anyone else notice that they’re practically the same as the gloves he puts on in Izzy’s sex dungeon in a few minutes? ALSO – THEY FOUND ENDICOTT’S BODY IN ESTONIA?!? LIKE ALL OF IT OR JUST PARTS OF IT? WOULDN’T IT BE SMARTER TO SCATTER HIS BODY IN MULTIPLE COUNTRIES IF IT’S ALREADY IN PIECES?!? Unless maybe Endicott’s body isn’t in pieces because we all know that Malcolm’s memory of traumatic events is fuzzy at best.

15:07 – “Don’t. Say. That. Never, say that.” - I’m really proud of Malcolm here. He’s clearly in serious emotional distress throughout this whole conversation. He’s grappling with what he believes he did, what that means about him, his moral code, and his relationship with Martin. But yet – he found the strength to basically tell Martin to eff off.

15:20 – AMAZING. Right after Martin says “Estonia?” there are a few seconds where it genuinely looks like Malcolm is going to cry. It’s moving as hell, heartbreaking, and some downright kickass acting.

15:56 – Well, that’s not going to help Malcolm’s night terrors. But we definitely have confirmation that Jerry wasn’t as engrossed in the cartoons as Martin suggested.

16:20 – I love this scene. Gil is the whole team’s surrogate father – not just Malcolm’s. Sometimes I forget that. Also – the fact that Chris Fedak waited 16 minutes to show us Gil Arroyo alive and well is a crime.

16:28 – “He wouldn’t dare.” “I know.” How cute is this? Look at Dani’s smile. Ugh. I can’t decide if they know that JT doesn’t want Gil’s job because he loves working with Gil too much or he doesn’t like how much responsibility comes with Gil’s title. Probably a combination of both.

16:35 – Sooo has Malcolm not been visiting Gil? I guess because of COVID he couldn’t but now he’s just not? I mean – Gil would be able to tell how Malcolm’s doing just by looking at him.

17:05 – I’m sorry ‘multiple surgeries’?!? I want elaboration on this.

17:09 – So I googled “British musician Izzy” and the top hit was the guitar player for Guns’n’Roses (who looks kinda like this guy). I have no idea what that means but I found it interesting.

17:30 – Holy shit. Izzy is a nutcase. I love him. hahaha

17:55 – Soooo Malcolm keeps a spray bottle of some sort of magic “show me the blood” water? Nah – the writers wrote it into the show for this scene’s convenience.

18:05 – I love this. Malcolm’s nonchalant approach to his mother and Gil’s budding relationship. He’s like a little kid who doesn’t want to get his hopes up. He’s using the mentality of “If I don’t acknowledge it, it’s not happening. Therefore, if it goes wrong – I won’t get hurt by it.” It’s really sad and I wish he didn’t run away from something that will potentially be good but I also get it.

18:06 – I also respect Malcolm a lot in this scene and am irritated by Dani. Look – they both adore Gil. They’re both protective of Gil (and in Malcolm’s case Jessica). Here’s where they’re different: Malcolm recognizes and respects that Gil and Jessica are adults who can make their own decisions. Dani doesn’t. Dani is acting like a preteen trying to break up Dad and the new step-mom she isn’t sure of. Dani and Malcolm both have their hearts in the right place but I disagree with Dani’s response to the relationship. I also understand where she’s coming from given what we know about Dani’s bio Dad.

18:39 – It’s not supposed to be funny but holy hell. Malcolm putting his head on the floor to listen is hilarious.

19:00 – I’m getting major John Watkins flashbacks. Malcolm breaks down a lot of walls where serial killers once hung out. Is that supposed to be some sort of subtle comment on Malcolm’s character?

20:33 – Damn. Malcolm’s hair is long this season.

20:55 – aannnnnd here are the murder gloves from the Endicott flashbacks.

21:30 – Something about Malcolm dancing to this music in this supremely manic state is really upsetting to me. It just makes me uncomfortable.

22:13 – I’m so worried about Malcolm right now. Holy hell. Get him to Gabrielle. NOW.

23:00 – A skil saw. Pretty much a small version of what Malcolm thinks he dismembered Endicott with. Yikes. Fedak really loves making Malcolm project his issues on murder suspects.

23:27 – Yep. Dani totally thinks Malcolm killed Endicott. She thinks he’s gone dark side and followed Martin’s footsteps. This is not going to be good for their friendship or the trust that they’re rebuilding.

23:50 – One of my favourite things about this show is that it can go from dark and creepy to family sitcom-esque drama in a second. It helps lighten the show’s tone a little. I mean honestly – most of the fans are here for the family drama as opposed to the ‘killer of the week’ storyline anyways.

24:10 – I love this. Jessica admitting to Malcolm that she and Gil have been discussing him for almost 25 years. You can see that Malcolm is 1) a little freaked out and 2) a little touched. For a moment you can see how badly he wants Gil and his Mom to have a long-lasting romantic relationship.

24:32 – OMG. Why did Jessica call Ainsley about Malcolm’s mental state before calling Malcolm? Is that standard Whitly family practice? I have questions.

24:40 – Yep. Dani is Concerned and Scared.

26:46 – Sooo we all agree that Martin was trying to electrocute Jerry to death right? I mean “You really shouldn’t have done that Jer-bear.”?!?! And he’s literally a serial killer?!

27:25 – Mr. David is having none of Martin’s bullshit – so how did Martin get away with it? What does Martin have on Mr. David?

27:50 – “A miracle.” Omg. Hahahaha. I love this show. So. Much.

28:09 – “clearing her brother’s name. Not murder.” Seriously, the parallels between this case and Malcolm’s personal issues are more obvious than usual this episode. Almost to the point where I’m annoyed that the other characters aren’t really catching on.

28:35 – “What happened, his brain break?” I love the way JT can simultaneously tease and be concerned about Malcolm. Ugh. It’s beautiful (and hysterical).

29:07 – Not again. Please stop putting JT in front of the camera. I’m getting second-hand embarrassment and anxiety on his behalf. It hurts to watch (funny too, but mostly painful).

29:19 – Look at Gil. Hahaha he’s so amused by JT’s awkwardness in front of the camera – but you can also see how proud he is. <3 I love papa!Gil.

29:33 – “Police work is patience.” Cute 1x05 callback. And can we all just take a minute to appreciate how much Gil loves Dani. Just look at his proud Dad face!! <3 Warms my cold, dead heart.

30:00 – Oh yeah, Dani is suspicious.

30:04 – I love how Gil seems to be the only person who truly understands Malcolm and all his quirks. <3 I love how much Gil loves Malcolm. <3 I just…ugh. <3 <3 <3 • 30:11 – “I’m a good big brother.” That line cut through my heart. He shouldn’t have been put in this position – choosing between his moral code and his brotherly instincts. It’s not fair and the stress of it is literally killing him.

30:17 – “Messed them up.” Them!?!? I’m sorry Dani, when did you and Gil start talking about Malcolm AND Ainsley?!? Last I checked this was a 100% Malcolm conversation. …she’s not wrong though.

30:33 – “There’s nothing we haven’t talked about.” I love what that suggests. To me – that means they when Dani has a bad break up, they talk about stupid stuff like what they’re cooking for dinner and songs that make them happy. I love that it suggests that Dani and Gil have talked about Jackie. Malcolm might be Gil’s fake-son but Dani is sooo Gil’s fake-daughter. <3 I can just see him getting all overprotective when she gets a new boyfriend even though he knows damn well that Dani is more than capable of taking care of herself – he can’t help it, Dani is his little girl. <3 <3 <3

31:00 – Ugh….ok. So this scene. I’ve seen a lot of mixed reactions about it. I have a bit of a mixed reaction myself tbh. On one hand, I love that they have the type of relationship where they can openly discuss this. On the other hand – it feels forced and it really rubs me the wrong way. Dani is just way out of line here. She’s totally attacking Jessica and Gil is kind of letting her? I mean I think it upsets me so much because Gil isn’t even really defending Jessica. Also, that line about Jackie thinking the Whitly’s are cursed?!? Wtf is that?!? No. No. We know that Jackie loved Malcolm like a son. Jessica has said that Jackie was kind. What is this cursed nonsense?!?!? I refuse to believe it. And the fact that Jessica heard it all breaks my heart. Like – it physically hurts me to watch this scene for all of the above reasons. But I also kind of understand why we got the scene – to further explore the Gil+Dani dynamic and to add some angst to the Jessica/Gil romance.

33:00 – Oh hell yes. I love this danger.

34:10 – Amazing how calm Malcolm is while the killer is literally going through his murder weapon collection. Like he hasn’t been this calm all episode?

35:10 – Ahhhh here’s manic!Malcolm.

35:25 – “Is it my hair?” Okay so totally hilarious, but Dani is listening to this. Can she tell that Malcolm is clearly (and weakly) deflecting the comment about him being a killer like Martin?

35:40 – Malcolm is scared. :( Someone please hug him. This is the most honest he’s been all episode. My heart is broken.

36:20 – Soooo did Malcolm just abstractly tell Dani that he’s a justice killer? Nahhhh I’m totally typing out of my ass.

37:00 – He was on the Harvard fencing team?!? Why is that adorable?

37:34 – Malcolm just cut a dude 3x. No remorse. No more fear. He’s calm. I’m terrified. Does he like hurting the killer?

37:50 – I think Dani suspects that Malcolm killed Endicott. Yep. Definitely.

38:00 – Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous. This scene with JT and the cops is heart-wrenching. The fact that Dani and Malcolm come to his rescue is beautiful. The fact that JT is clearly terrified but not angry is perfect. I hate that this scene had to be made but I love how it was executed.

38:31 – Look at Malcolm’s confused, white, rich face here. He genuinely can’t believe that cops just racial profiled one of the only good people who ever accepted a serial’s killer’s son as a friend.

38:40 – I’m crying. JT’s fear (and Frank Harts’ acting) is so believable and completely haunting. I hear the subtext in this scene, “What if those cops killed JT? What would happen to his pregnant wife and unborn child?”, “How is JT going to financially support his family if he loses his job unfairly?”, “How messed up is it that a literal military veteran is terrified of fellow police officers?”.

38:44 – “You didn’t do anything wrong.” This line gives me hope. Malcolm isn’t too far gone. Malcolm still knows right from wrong and he still has a heart of gold.

38:55 – Ok. I LOVE that Gil magically shows up in this scene. BUT HOW DID HE KNOW TO COME TO THE PRECINCT?!?! LIKE WTF? Because Malcolm and JT look surprised to see Gil. Dani just looks relieved – did she call Gil?

39:10 – Gil is an absolute A+ human being. I love him. I will die for him.

39:33 – OMG. JT’s big watery puppy dog eyes have ripped my heart to shreds. <3 :(

39:45 – When I first saw this I thought Malcolm was hurt by Gil’s “and whatever Bright is”. But upon re-watching it – Malcolm looks surprised and so so touched. I’ll be honest – I don’t think Malcolm’s mental state would be so bad right now if he had had regular contact with Gil throughout COVID. Gil is Malcolm’s rock. His literal example of what a good man looks like – without him during a traumatic time Martin creeps back into Malcolm’s psyche.

40:15 – Sooo Martin is still definitely lying to Malcolm.

40:20 – Stupid little thing – there never used to be a toilet on Jerry’s side of the room. And what happened to all of Martin’s books and stuff? Did Claremont put it in storage? I mean he’s a serial killer? Jessica certainly didn’t store it for him.

40:37 – Amazing. As soon as Malcolm physically sees Gil he comes to Martin with a renewed faith in his moral code. (“I stop killers. I don’t help them.”)

41:30 – “Please don’t torture yourself for that.” Martin is right BUT that’s also why I hate him. Martin is manipulating Malcolm right now. He’s trying to convince Malcolm that he genuinely cares and loves his children. Thus destabilizing further Malcolm’s mental state.

41:36 – Also – both Tom Payne and Michael Sheen are acting their asses off here. *chef’s kiss* 10/10. I love to see it.

41:45 – Aaaannnnd there’s Martin the asshole. Completely screwing with Malcolm’s mind. Again. What a dick. I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.

42:00 – Look at how scared Malcolm is. I genuinely think Malcolm (whether or not he actually dismembered Endicott, I suspect he didn’t) feels good when he remembers doing it. This is BAD for Malcolm’s mental health. Yikes. : ( Poor baby.

Ok. So that’s the first episode of season 2. I really liked it. It wasn’t perfect but I’m excited for what this season might bring. Be back next week.

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alolowrites · 4 years ago

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Late Night Visitor

Summary: A mysterious stranger visits your balcony and accidentally leaves behind a priceless jewelry that they stole from a museum.

Author’s Note: I’m pleased to share the next story for @bnhabookclub Hero Camp Bingo event. The prompt I used was “Crime AU” It took a while getting this done because of work stress and having slight writer’s block (plus I kept changing the story’s direction). But really, it was because of how stressed/tired I’ve been the past few weeks. So, really sorry if it took forever posting another story.

It’s also my first time writing for Hawks, so hopefully I did him justice! He was the first character that popped up when working with this prompt. Please enjoy!!

Word Count: 2.3K+

“Ah! Hot, hot!”

Well, isn’t this just great? Nothing like accidentally burning your tongue during dinner to remind yourself how impatient you are—damn hunger. One hand flails to cool down your mouth. Steam dances above the hearty bowl of curry rice, the sweet smell of caramelized onions greeting your nose with a soft kiss. Bless the local 7-11 markets for selling quick and easy meals.

You sit criss-cross applesauce on the fluffy gray rug and scroll through social media for the millionth time. It’s been a slow weekend as yesterday’s news is recycled for today’s news. A random show plays on the television, but you don’t pay attention to the white noise. All your focus is on the phone, yet you still reach for another bite from your meal. How the rug stays clean during dinner nights at home is a complete mystery.

Sipping on your drink, you spare a glance at the balcony and do a double-take—a stranger is crouching outside. You choke, “Oh shit!”

Without thinking, you scurry behind the gray couch, not caring if the rug becomes messy. Your pounding heart is like a concert bass drum which echoes around the small apartment. The sound drowns out the show’s mindlessly chatter. Frightened eyes peek around the corner, and you whip back in full regret.

The person is still outside. Their back is facing toward the balcony door, and they are wearing a form-fitting black hoodie. Hands search for your phone, but they come up empty. Panic finally settles in when you realize it’s on the coffee table. Great, you moan as your head softly hits against the furniture—is the door even locked?

You’re faced with a dilemma: Do you stay out of sight until the stranger leaves or risk being seen while getting help? After much deliberation, you swallow a hard pill and growl at the ceiling, “If I’m doing this, I better not die!”

You’re like a soldier crawling through the mud with a drill sergeant yelling down your neck. You snatch the phone off the table, but make the mistake of looking up at the sliding door. Everything comes to a screeching halt as curious gold eyes stare into your timid ones. The mysterious visitor becomes more intimidating thanks to the balaclava mask—it covers the lower half of their face.

The intense staring contest last for an eternity. You nearly rip off the loose strands on your rug when the stranger approaches closer; they stop when you back away. Taking pity on you, they jump over the balcony and disappear into the quiet night.

A sense of relief washes over you.

Who knows what could have happened to you? Maybe your mom was right about learning some self-defense; the pepper spray is not enough. As you stand and dust off your pants, a shiny light catches your attention; it’s coming from outside. You go against your better judgment and tiptoe toward the balcony.

Your jaw immediately falls to the floor when you spot an exquisite ruby pendant. A sparkling round diamond sits above the bright red gemstone, a slight tint of purple hue lurking underneath. Even the platinum metal chain carries an air of luxury. It’s as if the gods carefully hand-crafted this entire jewelry themselves. In short, it is simple but elegant.

Sliding the door, you wonder if this is some kind of trap. After checking your surroundings, you swiftly pick up the accessory and snort, “Thank you for making me feel poor.”

Fingers glide along the gemstone’s perfect curves as you gaze at the sleeping neighborhood. Your mind goes wild: Who was the person with those haunting golden eyes? Why did they come to your balcony? And why in the world did they leave behind a beautiful masterpiece?

You have so many questions but very few answers.

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

“So, you didn’t call the police?”

“Um…no…?”

“And why not?”

“It was a mixture of being both scared and stupid.”

“Oh my—” Fuyumi pinches the bridge of her nose. You twiddle your fingers like a guilty child and sink further into the booth. Fuyumi had her suspicions when you texted her to meet up at the usual coffee shop near your apartment. It’s your go-to place whenever you’ve done something questionable, which is ninety-nine percent of the time. Plus, the café whips up the perfect batch of castella—her favorite pastry.

Customers stroll in and out of the coffee shop as piano music plays softly in the background. Roasted coffee beans linger in the air, tempting your nose with its delicious aroma. Out of habit, you push the castella closer to Fuyumi as if that would help soften the blow. She exhales, “Next time, please call the police.”

“Yes, mother,” you mumble much to Fuyumi’s displeasure, but she lets it slide. With the worst over, you bounce straight up and tap the table with an air of excitement. “Oh! Here’s the best part though, besides surviving a break-in—”

“The person was outside your balcony.”

“—close enough, but not really the point, okay?” Fuyumi rolls her eyes, and you fish out your phone to show her a picture. She takes a closer look as you ramble off. “Anyway, my late-night visitor left behind this gorgeous pendant! Why they were carrying this around is beyond me, and so carelessly too. I’m no jeweler, but I’m pretty sure those stones are worth a fortune—still beautiful, though.”

“Yeah, and stolen!” The white-haired teacher hisses. You blink, wholly baffled at her extreme reaction. Fuyumi whips out her iPhone with two fingers flying above the screen. She shoves it toward you, your eyes skimming through the article. The news delivers a sharp slap across your face as the realization sinks in.

Oh no…

Fuyumi bites her lip, “It’s The Grand Droplet, a priceless heirloom rumored to offer infinite life and prosperity. Police are saying the notorious thief, Hawks, stole the pendant last night from the Yutaka Jewelry Museum.” A few seconds later, she adds, “You have the pendant—”

“Shhhhhh!” A hand attacks her arm, your panicked eyes wandering around the coffee shop as if your cover got blown. No one turns their heads, but you shoot an annoyed glare at Fuyumi. “Why don’t you say it louder? I don’t think the barista heard you!”

“I’m sorry! It’s just,” she grips the table’s edge and leans closer, “This is serious! You have to bring the pendant to the authorities. See, this is exactly why you should have called the police last night! The longer you wait, the more guilty you look. Maybe you’ll even become an accomplice to the crime.”

“You’re not helping!”

“Sorry…”

You dramatically groan into your hands, “Why did this happen to me?! When I said I wanted to live like Larry, I didn’t mean this!”

“I know,” Fuyumi pats your head and sneaks a bite of her delicious treat; her phone chimes beside you. She checks the message before flashing an apologetic stare. “Listen, I have to take care of something with my family, but I hate to leave you like this.”

“No, it’s okay. I can handle this myself,” you pathetically convince her. “I’m sure nothing bad will happen, knock on wood—”

“The table is metal.”

“I said what I said!” Your fist aggressively pounds the table, scaring off some customers. A mother hastily pushes her child away from the chaotic scene. You calm down and sigh, “I promise to call you if I’m in danger, okay?”

“Okay.”

You nod before whispering, “Sorry, table.”

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

The walk back home is anything but relaxing. You are on high alert, throwing suspicious glances at anyone coming too close to you. They could be undercover cops waiting to ambush you and interrogate your poor soul for hours until the necklace reappears.

But I didn’t do anything! I’m a good noodle!

You sigh as the key unlocks the door, your shoes flying off by the entrance. Fortunately, you hid the pendant in a safe place. All you want to do is get rid of this jewelry; it brings nothing but trouble.

Marching down the hallway, you grumble under your breath, “Stupid Hawks, and his stupid stealing habits.”

Everyone knows about the infamous Hawks. He strikes when one least expects him to, and somehow successfully evades capture after every heist. But Hawks always leaves behind his signature red feather as a little present for authorities—it never fails to rile them up. Hopefully, the cops show some mercy when you explain what happened. Maybe you should work on your puppy dog look before heading downtown, which might help you score a few sympathy points.

You find the burgundy jewelry box sitting on the closet’s top shelf and breathe a sigh of relief—the pendant is still inside. Not wasting precious time, you close the lid and exit your room. A soft click makes you freeze.

Standing by the balcony door is Hawks, who wears a black jacket with a white shirt underneath. His ashy blonde hair is lazily slicked back, a few strands sticking here and there like no tomorrow. Surprisingly, he lowers the balaclava mask and flashes a boyish grin, “‘Bout time you came home! I was getting bored out there.”

“How did you—wait, never mind. You break into high-security places to steal things for a living,” you say, shifting the jewelry box onto your right grip. “Listen, as much as I would like to stay and chit-chat, my day is fully booked. Can’t really cancel on these people, ya know?” You slowly tiptoe backward, an awkward laugh ringing through the air. “Let’s do a rain check; I’m free next week. Okay? Okay! See ya—“

“Hold it!” You halt on his order, a curse slipping out your mouth. Hawks strides across the floor, and you clutch the box closer to your chest. You feel as though your feet are glued to the ground, the nerves growing stronger once Hawks stands only a few feet away. He crosses his arms and nods at the box, “Whatcha got there?”

“Oh, it’s nothing special, really.”

“Can I take a look?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Um, because I don’t want to, that’s why,” you childishly snap and send him a dismissive wave. “Now, shoo! You’re wasting my precious time.”

Hawks chuckles at your feisty attitude. He finds this whole ordeal extremely amusing. You know who he is, you know of his reputation just like everyone else in Japan. And yet, you keep on swinging like a boxer with your witty responses. Still, he has a job to finish. “I’m not leaving until you give me that pendant.”

“Well, I hope you’re paying for half the rent because there’s no way in hell I’m giving it to you, Mr. Thief.” Two seconds later, you add, “Besides, it’s not even yours!”

“It’s not yours either.”

“Oh!” You give him a fake laugh, pointing one finger at your chest. “So the thief is criticizing me for having something that’s not mine? How rich.”

“You’re lucky I find you cute, but,” Hawks dangerously invades your personal space without giving you a chance to stop him. From far away, he doesn’t appear tall. However, Hawks somehow towers over you, which makes you involuntarily squeak. A wicked glint shines through his golden eyes as he studies your unique facial features. You suddenly forget to breathe when his eyes glance at your lips—damn him.

Hawks plucks the box from your loose grip. The hypnotic spell comes crashing down, and you loudly snarl, “Hey! Give it back!”

“Sorry, Dove,” Hawks keeps you at arm’s length, his gloved hand giving your shoulder a soft squeeze as he smirks, “I got a buyer who’s willing to pay a hefty price for this beauty. Of course, you are way more stunning, but he doesn’t need to know that.”

“Quit charming me!” You’re a blushing mess now and throw a pillow at him; he easily dodges it much to your dismay. Hawks’ cackles bounce off the wall, which makes you scowl. His fingers slide the balcony door open, and he tastes sweet freedom.

“Farewell, Dove!”

You have a deja vu moment when Hawks jumps over the edge. Your legs rush outside, and eyes frantically search the streets, but it’s no use—the thief is long gone. One hand slaps your forehead as you stupidly let him get away with the jewel. Feeling like a deflated balloon, you whip out your phone and make a quick call.

“Fuyumi…yeah, the pendant got stolen again.”

Stupid thief.

༛༛ ༛ ༛༺༻༛ ༛ ༛༛

You collapse on the couch with as much grace as an inexperienced dancer who steps on people’s toes. Work left you exhausted, but you’re glad it’s almost the weekend. You’ll definitely sleep in and have a lazy day on Sunday. It’s what you deserve after meeting tight deadlines and also talking to the police about Hawks.

Fortunately, they do not blame you for anything, much to your relief. It’s been about a week since Hawks broke into your apartment to steal back the Grand Droplet. Police have no luck locating him; they believe the thief is lying low until it’s safe enough for him to strike again. Where exactly is anyone’s guess.

A knock disrupts your thoughts.

It comes from the balcony, and you jump to your feet. No one is outside, although a flash of red catches your eye. Lo and behold, it’s Hawks’ signature feather with a small note attached. Oh, how lovely, you think before snatching the gift off the floor. Your pet name is affectionately written across the paper. You hate yourself for finding Hawks’ calligraphy impressive, but proceed to read the note.

Sorry for cutting our convo short—had a deal to close. No hard feelings, though, right? If anything, I’ll make it up to you, Dove. Besides, you still owe me that rain check.

See ya soon!

-H

You don’t bother biting back your smile.

Guess you’ll be seeing Fuyumi at the coffee shop again.

Fourth prompt is crossed off. Which one will be next? Stay tune! Thank you for reading!

Previous prompt: Cuddles

Hero Camp Bingo Masterlist

#hawks x reader #keigo takami x reader #hawks imagine #bnha hawks #keigo takami #bnhabookclub #hero camp bingo #crime au

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fanficflaneuse · 4 years ago

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One Day - Part 11

A/N: Hello lovelies! I wanted to post this chapter on Saturday, but when I was about to do it, it just disappeared completely. I was so mad and frustrated I just gave up and watched LOTR lol So here we have chapter 11 and tomorrow it’s done! I want to know your thoughts on what happens next. How would you want it to end? Also, don’t kill me for the drama of it all. I hope you like it!

Draco x reader (she/her pronouns)

Word count: 1725 Summary: One day AU. Post-war. Since The Battle of Hogwarts, Draco and y/n meet one day a year.

Masterlist

Enjoy!

3 May, 2010

“How are you doing, Draco?” asked Harry as he sat by his side.

“Managing,” he managed to say with a small and tired voice.

Draco was absolutely distraught. He hadn’t properly slept in weeks and everything in his demeanour oozed fatigue and pain. St. Mungo’s had become his permanent residence, only this time he was not playing the part of the Healer.

“How about you?” he asked, more out of politeness than genuine interest.

“It’s chaotic. I feel like it’s 1999 all over again, you know? The paranoia, the panic attacks and the nightmares, all full-blown. The Ministry’s bodyguards aren’t helping either.”

Every time they had talked, Harry had tried not to exert too much of his own burden on Draco, but for some reason today he felt like blurting things out. Draco’s eyes were still glued on the bed in front of them. He really didn’t feel like partaking in that conversation, but his friend seemed to be in the mood to talk so he indulged him.

“Tell me about it. We have a whole team of aurors roaming the manor. I know it’s for the best, but I can’t even let my child go out and play. I fear something terrible might happen to him whenever he’s out of my sight. It’s…scary,” he admitted, realizing how much he actually needed to talk.

“Yeah, I get it. We don’t let the kids out either and we are all going crazy.”

Twelve years after Voldemort was defeated, some of his runaway death eaters were still trying to seek revenge. In the first few years after the war, Harry and Ron had led the operations to incarcerate as many as they could find. Their efforts had put most of them in Azkaban, but some others still loomed in the most unexpected places. Every once in a while, the death eaters on the loose would pop up. So far, they had tried – unsuccessfully – to harm Harry and Ron. The attempts were so poor it would ruffle everyone’s feathers for a while and then everything would go back to relative peace.

That was until (Y/N) moved to Paris. Even if her house was full of traps and charms to protect her, she was living alone, which made her an easy target. She was not difficult to track; her status as a literary celebrity and her connections to the magical French jet set made her appear in Le Monde Magique every other day. The network of dead eaters that were still active and underground followed her for three years before striking.

The night they did, Draco and (Y/N) had a date. That’s what saved her. (Y/N)’s plan was to relocate back to England, but as she managed to get everything in order both of them apparated back and forth. They saw each other every day, went out for dates and parties with their friends and even had family strolls and dinners with Scorpius. That night, they were going to take a roam through the Champs Élysées and eat on one of their favourite muggle restaurants.

Draco arrived to her flat, excited for the night to come, only to find a scene that could’ve easily come out of a Goya painting. (Y/N) laid on the floor, covered in blood and seemingly unconscious. A man – later identified as Rodolphus Lestrange – had his foot on her throat and was flicking his wand to perform the deadliest spell. Draco’s vision turned red. Without thinking, he immobilized his uncle in law, sent him flying to the other end of the house and beat him to a pulp. He could have killed him with his own two hands, hadn’t he been so worried about (Y/N)’s state.

With her in arms, he had called the French Ministry of Magic. Draco tried really hard to act professional, check her vitals and perform the right spells like a good Healer would, but he was paralyzed. He couldn’t imagine a life without (Y/N). Draco could only think about this as he held her tight to his chest. That’s how the aurors found him: trembling, covered in blood and sobbing, unable to let go of his benumbed girlfriend.

A month and a half after the assault, she was still unconscious. No signs of change and very weak vital signs. As soon as the Healers at the Sacre Coeur hospital in Paris had deemed her stable, Hermione had helped with the paperwork to take her back to England. Since the day they had put her in that bed on the fourth floor, Draco had barely ever left her side. Their friends and family would come and go. Even if they were all sad and grieving, they’d try to console him.

Seeing her like this, so pale and lifeless, the wounds that had taken so long to heal wide open again, haunted him. Whenever he tried to sleep, he had these nightmares of her being tortured by Rodolphus Lestrange and he couldn’t keep himself from staring at his fading mark and blaming himself for everything.

“I…I have never seen somebody lit up the way (Y/N) would whenever she saw you. Merlin, just mentioning your name made her a happier person. Since we all became friends, I thought you two belonged together,” Harry commented after a prolonged silence.

Draco really wanted to feel soothed by Harry’s comment. He tried. But as he turned it around in his head, everything about it made him feel disheartened and enraged: the quivering voice, the profound sadness and the past tense. He felt just like when he was younger and didn’t know how to deal with his emotions. So, Draco just snapped.

“Why are you talking about her as though she was dead, Potter?” he sneered. His tone and accompanying glare remined Harry of their schooldays. The difference was that now he knew that the former Slytherin was suffering and that sorrow encircled his every breath.

“Draco…”

“She’s not dead!” he screeched.

“She is not dead.” This time, he murmured so softly Harry knew it was not meant for him.

Draco leaned forward and buried his face in (Y/N)’s hair. His suppressed sobs broke Harry’s heart. Never in a million years he would’ve imagined that this is how things would turn out, but he soon found himself hugging Draco as he wept on his shoulder.

“She can’t die, Harry. She cannot leave me.”

He was desperate. Why couldn’t they be happy? So much time wasted with life’s twists and turns, time they could’ve spent together lost because of hushed feelings and unspoken words. So much time living like two parallel lines, always in tandem and never intersecting. And when they finally connected and they lived some of the most blissful and placid months of their lives, she was snatched away. Their happiness crushed.

As it downed on him that maybe she would never wake up, Draco’s mind focused on the conversation they had a few weeks before the assault. They had just arrived in Malfoy Manor from a party at the Potter’s. (Y/N) changed into one of Draco’s shirts and was sitting on the sofa in Draco’s humongous bathroom as he unbuttoned his shirt.

“You know, Dray,” (Y/N) said as she crossed her legs.

“Yes, darling?” he asked. Draco looked at her through the mirror and smiled.

“This is going to sound extremely rushed and weird coming from me,” her voice was timid, yet it held an underlying dreaminess to it that lured him.

Immediately, he stopped his task, turned around and knelt in front of her. (Y/N) smirked, pleased to have his full attention now. “What is it, love?”

“I want to have children. I want a quidditch team worth of kids with the love of my life.” As she said this, Draco couldn’t help but smile wholeheartedly.

He had thought about that as well. Having a proper family with (Y/N) sounded like a dream. They were already a quaint little family, she, Scorpius and him. They were so happy, at times the thought of having children together was almost automatic. He knew even contemplating it was a long shot; they had been dating for a little less than a year. But those were some of the most wonderful months of his entire life and he wanted more. As in “till death do us part” kind of more. As weird as he thought it was, Draco concluded that their lives had been intertwined forever that day after the Battle, so time counted differently for them.

“And if the love of my life is not available, then there’s you,” she added cheekily. Draco chuckled, feeling his heart fuller than ever.

Draco thought it was funny how they never had this conversation before. In all of their years of friendship, they had never asked each other what they thought about having a family. Paternity had just happened to him and he received it as one of the most important tasks in his life. Regardless of the circumstances, it was indeed the best gift life could’ve ever given him.

(Y/N) was good with children. Since James was born, she had become the next generation’s preferred babysitter. Draco always thought she seemed to understand the language of children more than any other adult he knew. Maybe that was an effect of being a writer? He didn’t really know. As much as she loved her godson and her little nephews and nieces, (Y/N) never showed a desire of having kids of her own. She always seemed so focused on other things, so passionate about healing and reconciling with life that having children didn’t seem like something she wanted.

And yet.

“I’d love for us to have our own quidditch team, my love,” he said, gently uncrossing her legs and caressing her tights, “on one condition”.

She raised an eyebrow playfully. “Let me remind you I’ll be the one going through pregnancy.”

Draco was all smiles now. “Marry me, (Y/N),” he said almost too casually. That was the essence of their relationship; a flamboyant proposal didn’t fit in the language they had created for themselves as they watched that sunrise on that windowsill. His hands on her tights, the glint in his eyes, that feeling that pulled them to each other said more than words could.

(Y/N) had said yes.

That’s all Draco could think of as he sobbed on Harry’s shoulder.

tags: @fandomscombine @oldfashionedlovergirlsblog @cleopatera @naomi02hook @okaydraco @iliketoast23 @winnsmills @happycomb @xtrashmouthxtozierx @hopplessdreamer

@animelover09556 (your blog disappeared and I couldn’t tag you, honey, but if you ever get to read this I hope you’re doing well).

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alarawriting · 4 years ago

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Inktober 2020 #4: Radio

Based on the prompt originally from @writing-prompt-s, “You’re taking a road trip in a 5 seater car. Each seat is filled with you, but at various points in your life. One of you strikes up a conversation.”

***

I’m in the driver’s seat, with myself at forty on the passenger side, window down of course, just like I’d do if I wasn’t driving. My selves at ten and twenty are sitting in the bucket seats in the middle row of the minivan, with Ten behind Forty and Twenty behind me, and Thirty is in the back, lying sprawled across the entire seat. My Pandora feed is playing through the radio, and right now, it’s Area 27’s “Driving With The Future Self”, which is apropos, though technically, I am the only one who’s not.

“I hate vans,” Twenty complains. “I can’t put down the window. Why do you even have one?”

“Four kids,” Forty says, and Twenty is taken aback. Ten, however, seems impressed.

“Do you have a lot of cats?” she asks.

“Too many,” Thirty complains from the back seat, so apparently she hasn’t fallen asleep.

“I’ve got small windows open in the back, or I could open my window all the way, and the air would get back to you,” I tell Twenty.

“Roll down your window, it’s better than nothing. Ugh. Why are you driving a car that has windows you can’t open?”

“I’m pretty sure Forty answered that,” I said.

“What, don’t they make vans where the side windows open?”

“Pretty much no. I could maybe have gotten an SUV—”

“AKA, a death trap on wheels—” Thirty calls from the back.

“But as you can see, I don’t want to.”

“What’s an SUV?” Ten asks, young enough that it doesn’t bother her to demonstrate ignorance. I happen to know Twenty doesn’t know what they are either.

“Sports Utility Vehicle. They range from ‘pickup truck, except with a roof and back seats’ to ‘I took this regular car and pasted it onto the wheels of this ice cream truck,’” I say, rolling down my window. “Is that any better?”

“Yeah, but now it’s hard to hear.”

“You and Ten have the best hearing, so you’re just gonna have to tough it out,” I say. “Better miss some words than feel nauseous, right?”

“This is great,” Ten says. “I finally found an adult who will take my issues seriously. Too bad it’s my own older self.”

“It could be worse,” Twenty says. “You could find out that your older self doesn’t care about your issues, which I am not sure is not going on.”

“Oh, for gods’ sake, Twenty, I have a minivan because it moves large families and drywall for construction projects and a million boxes of books when I am moving, or storing extra books, and unfortunately they don’t have them where the gas mileage is pretty good, the reliability record is excellent, and the windows go down. Cheap, fast, good, pick two. I picked gas and reliability.”

“I’m glad you picked gas,” Ten says. “And that you have the windows down instead of the air conditioning. We have to save energy.”

“Does anyone even care about that anymore?” Thirty complains.

“I thought I’d ride a bicycle,” Twenty says. “Not contribute to pollution and wasting gas.”

“I want you to think back to the time we rode a bicycle three miles to our friend’s horse barn, and then maybe you will have the answer for why no bicycles,” Thirty says.

“Actually, it’s because I broke my tailbone having kids, and I can’t sit on the damn things,” Forty says.

“Actually, it’s because of all those things, plus cities aren’t great places for bikes, plus hard to tow young children, plus now I’m old and my knees are shot,” I say. “I could probably come up with half a dozen other reasons.”

“Do you at least have a short commute? Please tell me you have a short commute,” Thirty, who suffered a severe depressive episode that was at least in part caused by a 5 hour daily commute, says.

“I work from home.”

Thirty is now sitting up. She cheers. “Yes!”

“How does that work?” Twenty asks, puzzled. “Wouldn’t you have to go into the lab?”

Oh, wow. I’d forgotten. Twenty still thinks she’s going to graduate college and go to grad school and become a scientist. Forty says, delicately, “We do IT now, actually.”

“What’s IT?” Ten asks. “Aside from the villain in A Wrinkle In Time.”

“Information Technology. We work with computers.”

“We’re programmers?” Twenty asks, dismayed.

This is why I never made the big bucks in IT. “No. More like… oh, hell, it won’t make any sense to you. You don’t even have the Internet yet.”

“The College of Engineering has it,” Twenty says, “but I don’t think the College of Arts and Sciences can get it. Why is it useful and what do we do with it?”

I’m taking this – even Forty’s not quite far enough along to fully understand. Things change fast. “You remember Phenoma Jones’ Phenomenally Weird Phenomenon?”

“I just made that up,” Ten says. “Just, like, a month ago or something.”

“Yeah, of course I remember it if you do,” Twenty says.

This is not entirely accurate. Thirty doesn’t remember the shelf of dolls we had in our bedroom as a child, or more accurately, Thirty doesn’t think about it. Forty just found a picture of it and it reminded her so hard and made her so nostalgic she paid a lot of money to get hold of “new” used versions of all our old dolls, plus a lot of random extras. She still thinks she’s gonna make money selling the random extras. I’d forgotten the Silver Kitten until my brother brought it up a year ago – a story I told about a silver statue that was a stylized number 8 with cat ears and a simple cat face on top, which was somehow alive and powerful. I don’t remember the details. Ten probably does, but I don’t want to derail the conversation by asking her, because she will tell me, at great length, and I can’t bear to hurt myself by interrupting her and making her stop infodumping the way I remember everyone else doing. At my age I know why they did it, but the memory still hurts. So Forty doesn’t remember it and probably not Thirty either.

“Okay, so you know how in those playings, in the future, there’ll be a network connecting all the computers and there’s shows on it and you pay a little bit of money for each show?”

“Yeah,” Ten says.

“That’s real. That’s happening.”

Her eyes go wide. “I predicted the future?”

“You’re not psychic, you just read the right science fiction. And you didn’t get it perfect. Instead of microtransactions to buy a show, we usually subscribe to a service that gives us shows we want.”

“Like cable,” Twenty says.

“Yes, but it doesn’t suck. Instead of thirty million channels and half of them are sports, it’s like a library of videotapes on your computer and you can watch any of them anytime you want.”

“Can you make your own?” Ten, who is very interested in making videotapes, says, and tears prick my eyes. Because yes, Ten, yes, people all over the world make their own and they put them on Youtube, but it’ll come too late for you. You’ll be thirty-five with a tiny baby and a lot of insecurity about your looks and no time to record yourself, and by the time you have the time you’re even older and there’s so many other things you need to do with your time, because it’s running out.

“I think so,” Forty says. “Right, Fifty?”

“Yeah. Our kids have done some of them. We really don’t, though.”

“Oh,” Ten says, disappointed. “Why not?”

I’m not going to tell her because of insecurity about how we look. She’ll understand that well enough but think we just need to push past it, like she does. But Twenty finally likes her appearance, and Thirty doesn’t think she’s too bad looking, and I don’t want to tell them that someday they’re going to see themselves in the mirror and think they look like a short, squat troll or something. And Ten won’t understand what it does to you to finally think you’re beautiful, after suffering with thinking you’re ugly your entire childhood, and then losing it.

“We have other stuff we do,” I say vaguely. “Like learning German.”

“That’s great, but it doesn’t answer my question about what we do for a job. Do we do something with these shows?”

“No. Not the shows. But people put their files up on the Internet as well, and they send emails – messages through the computer—”

“I am smart enough to figure that out from context,” Twenty says disapprovingly. I’ve forgotten what an arrogant twit she could be sometimes. Well, to be honest, I didn’t forget because I never knew. When I was her age, I thought my behavior was fine.

“Right. Subscription services exist for that too. We help people get onto those services, move over any emails or files they had on a different service, and fix their problems.”

Forty is dismayed. “Really? That sounds horrible. Is that tech support? Don’t we get to do anything with data?”

“Sometimes,” I shrug, lying.

If I thought telling them all about everything would change anything for me, I would. But I don’t know how we all get out of this car without me being the only one who remembers any of it, because I don’t remember ever being in a car with my future selves. Either they’re from alternate universes or nothing I say can change their fates, because they won’t remember.

“Are we at least published?” Ten asks. “Tell me we’re published.”

“We have a few short stories published in some anthologies and magazines.”

Twenty is horrified. “Only that? After I’ve written all these stories?”

“The problem is that you suck and nothing you wrote is publishable as-is,” Forty says.

“What do you mean, I suck?”

“Twenty,” I say, because I’ve learned some diplomacy in the past ten years, “everything you’re writing goes into making us the writer we become. Thirty’s pretty damn good. And regardless of whether you ‘suck’ or not, I have a project going on where I’m publishing your stuff online. But it’s for free, on my—” I stop. She won’t know the word “blog”, or even “web page.” “—online journal. I’m editing things to bring them up to my current standard, but if you weren’t writing so much right now, I wouldn’t have anything to draw from.”

“Why aren’t we making money publishing books?” Ten demands.

Forty says, “Because fanfic. When you’re sixteen you’ll start writing stories about Battle of the Planets, and you’ll know you can’t publish them, but you’ll do it anyway. Then you’ll discover a place where there are other fans of the show and its original Japanese version.”

“Writing stories about shows where you can’t publish it in a magazine or a book and you can’t make money is called fan fiction,” Thirty says. “Or fanfic for short.”

“Fanfic’s great, but I’m still writing original stuff,” Twenty says.

“You’ll stop,” Thirty says. “You get instant feedback from writing fanfic – we can put it on the internet, we don’t need to worry about xeroxing two dozen copies anymore and waiting six months to hear anything from anyone. And the instant feedback’s addictive. I thought I’d be able to overcome it and write some books, but apparently, according to these guys, no.”

“I’m doing the 52 Project now,” I tell Forty, since she’s the only one who knows what I’m talking about.

“Now? Like… not eight years ago?”

“Now,” I say. “We needed a fire to light under our asses and we finally got one.” I won’t tell her what it was.

“What’s the 52 Project?” Ten asks.

“52 stories, one a week, every week, for a whole year. That’s where your stories are going, Twenty. And some of your ideas, Ten. I’ve lost everything you ever actually wrote, but it’s ok – you’re going to find a style that doesn’t sound like Mom next year, and a little while after that, I have everything you’ll write. Also, I wrote a kids’ book based on Superkitty.”

“Wow!” Ten says. “But how can you have Underdog in it? Wouldn’t that be fanfic?”

“I changed a lot of things,” I admit. “In my story, Superkitty’s ten. She doesn’t have a hundred family members, just Lara Kitty and a little brother. She’s not working as a slave of the dogs, she lives in Kookalariland, but her family are refugees because the dogs really did take over her home country. And the Underdog character is named Arthur Boy.”

Underdog’s secret identity was Shoeshine Boy. “I see what you did there,” Forty says, grinning. “I assume this isn’t published yet.”

“No. I finished it this year but it’s the first children’s book we’ve ever done – young adult novels, sure, but this is a chapter book for second graders, so I need someone who’s willing to look it over and tell me if it’s good before I send it to an agent.”

“So why are you doing everything now?” Thirty asks. “Did fanfic stop being fun, or did we manage to wean ourselves off it, and if so, how?”

“That rhymed,” Ten tells us all. No one tells Ten that that was not important information because all of us remember being what it was like to be Ten.

“Stuff has happened,” I say. “You know, no one lives forever, and I’m fifty. I need to think about the fact that there’s more time behind me than ahead of me, and I don’t want to disappoint all of you. Maybe if it was just me, I could just go writing fanfic until the end of time, but I know what you all wanted and I don’t want to let you down.”

Thirty says, slowly, “Fifty? Why isn’t there a Sixty in the car with us?”

I almost think I can see a Sixty. She fades in and out in the back seat. Might be my imagination, all the rest of them are as real as anything. “I can guess why, but for obvious reasons, I don’t actually know.”

“Is it diabetes.” Forty says that like it’s not a question.

“Yeah, but also other stuff.” I make a decision. Forty is past the point where any of our children were born; nothing she does can change my timeline enough to make my kids disappear. Either she won’t remember, or nothing will change for me but she can change her own timeline… or maybe she can fix things. The last decade was when everything went to hell. “High blood pressure. Took us a while to get the right medication for that. Then diabetes. Then breast cancer.”

No one in the car says anything until Forty bursts out, “That’s not fair! We don’t even have a family history of cancer—”

“Mom’s going to die of it,” I tell Forty.

“Mom dies?” Ten is appalled. She knew, of course, that people die, but hearing it as a thing that actually happened to Mom is freaking her out. I guess she thought Mom would live a ridiculously long time.

“Lung or breast?” Forty asks me in the harsh monotone I use when all of my effort is going into not showing my emotions. She really doesn’t have to; we all know the trick – maybe Ten’s not self-aware enough to know, but the rest of us do – and we know we have emotions. But I also know I’d do the same thing.

“Brain, in the end. It started in the lung.”

“That doesn’t mean we have a family history of cancer, then. She smoked.”

“Then what’s the point?” Ten screams, tears welling up in her eyes. “I tried and tried and tried to get her to quit! She didn’t quit? After all the times I told her about how bad it was for her?”

“That’s not how addiction works,” I say. “Addicts know what’s bad for them but they can’t stop craving it, and that overrides your willpower. Besides, she did quit. Thirty, has she quit yet?”

“Just did, but… I agree with Ten. What’s the point if she’s gonna die of cancer anyway?” I can’t see her, all the way in the back, but I hear it in her voice. Her eyes are going to be wet and she’s struggling as hard as she can not to cry.

“We don’t know. Maybe that gave her more time. Maybe it wasn’t the smoking at all – she was taking medications for issues with diabetes that they say could cause cancer.”

“When?” Forty asks.

“2015. In 2013 around December they’re going to see something on the X-ray of her lung, but they’ll think it’s scar tissue from smoking. In 2014 they’ll find out it’s cancer, but it’ll be too late by then. She’ll die a year later.”

“No, she won’t,” Forty says. “I’m going to stop it. I’m going to tell her – I dunno. Tell her I dreamed about Grandma telling me I have to warn her about that scar and she needs to get more tests.”

“Yeah, she’ll buy that,” Thirty agrees.

“I hope you can,” I say, “but… I don’t remember ever having ridden in a car with the rest of you, so I don’t know if you can.”

“Maybe this is the start of the paradox cycle,” Thirty says. “Then on the next iteration everything will be different.”

“How did we even get in this car, anyway?” Twenty asks. “And where are we going?”

“More important,” Forty says. “When did you get cancer and how serious is it? Is it related to diabetes? When did you get that?”

“2017 for the diabetes but honestly, probably right after Mom died, because we were too fucked up to go to a doctor and we pretended nothing was happening. And then we did the same goddamn thing about a lump in our breast in 2016 because they said they couldn’t see anything but we should go for more tests, but we lost the paperwork so we didn’t. In 2017 the lump started hurting, so we did go for the tests, and it was cancer. I lost the breast. This is a fake.” I thump my chest. “They say they think they got it all, but there isn’t any test you can undergo yet to find out if the damn thing has popped up somewhere else. The other breast’s clean. They’re giving me drugs that kill my sex drive and are going to ruin my marriage eventually, most likely, because the cancer responds to female hormones.”

I think Ten might be grossed out or upset by talking about sex drive, but I’ve forgotten. Ten can treat the subject of sex as if it’s a clinical matter of interest. She’s the one who tried to explain the birds and the bees to my uncle when she was five. Well, I guess all of us are.

Thirty mutters, “I might get more done that way…”

“You won’t,” I say.

“You’re actually publishing stuff that isn’t fanfic now, are you sure?”

“I’m going to change it,” Forty says. “I’m going to change all of it. I’ll warn Mom. I’ll fix our eating habits now so we don’t get diabetes until later. I won’t let the breast thing go. I’ll change everything. None of the rest of you change anything; if you try to alter the timeline you might erase our kids. But I can do it. I can start the writing earlier, too.”

There’s so much she could theoretically change that she really can’t. I can’t warn her about Donald Trump; she won’t have any power to do anything about it, any more than she did in 2015 and 2016. Same with COVID – she has no power to change that. I could tell her about the issues with the marriage but if I did, I risk Thirty deciding to break up with her boyfriend, who is my future husband and the father of my children. There’s one thing I can say, though. “If you can actually change anything… you’re gonna get the other house. Make sure Dad puts it in your name. Mom and Dad will have issues with some of our pets and it’ll be really upsetting when the house is a mess and they come to visit and complain about the house all day because it’s their house.”

“…How does Dad end up getting involved with the house?” Forty asks.

“Too complicated to explain,” I say, “and not an issue you need to force to exist.” Forty just attempted to get that house – the other half of our duplex – and failed because the underwriters for FHA loans refused to believe she was buying it to live in it rather than rent it out, and she didn’t have enough money to buy it the other way. It’ll work out better the way it actually happened, because Dad got it for a lot less money than Forty would have been able to buy it for, but she needs to not have the specter of how we are treating “their” house hanging over every interaction with Mom and Dad until Mom is dead. Especially if she can do something about Mom dying.

“Is there anything I need to watch out for?” Thirty asks Forty, or maybe me, or both of us.

“Nothing we can tell you. You’re going to have kids. Anything, however small, that you change could affect the timing of that and make you end up with completely different kids.”

Thirty considers that, and then nods. “Okay, good point.”

“Is everything really going to be terrible?” Ten asks. “It sounds like all the awful stuff happens between Forty and Fifty, and then we don’t even know, but… isn’t there anything good?”

“We’re not going to be what we thought we would be,” I say. “We’re not going to change the world. We’re not going to be the Uber-Feminist and whip our man into doing everything we say.” Ten is the only person here who even thought there was a chance of that one, really. “We’re not going to be published novel writers by this time. But we’ll have written four million words, most of it fanfic, most of it good, and we’ll actually enjoy reading it over, and it will always be a huge thrill to hear from someone who liked it. We’ll make many friends, over time, and there will be times when there aren’t any, but there will be times when there are a lot. We’ll make a huge difference in the lives of at least three children who aren’t biologically ours. We’ll learn a lot about ourselves and why we are the way we are and we’ll finally feel like we belong to the human race and there are others like us out there. And we’re also going to publish fifty-two stories in fifty-two weeks.”

“Well, I mean, we don’t know that,” Thirty says. “Unless you’re done.”

“Nope. Halfway through, though. And we’ll learn a lot about how to write short stories that way, and I’m sure that next year we can use that to write new ones that we can publish. It’s not over yet, girls.”

“But maybe you don’t have very much time,” Thirty says. “Because Sixty’s not here.”

“That’s why we’re in this car,” I say. I didn’t know what I was going to say until I said it, but now that I’m saying it, I feel with all my heart that it’s true. “We’re going to look for her. And if we find her, we’ll look for Seventy. Eighty I’m pretty sure is not happening, but what the hell, we’ll look for her too.”

Jig of Life by Kate Bush is playing on the radio. “This moment in time, she said, it doesn’t belong to you, she said. It belongs to me, and to your little boy and to your little girl and the one hand clapping, where on your palm is my little line, when you’re written in mine as an old memory…”

All of us stop to listen to the song. Ten doesn’t know it, but she likes it. She hasn’t seriously discovered her own tastes in music yet, and that song hasn’t yet been written. Twenty and the rest of them all know it, but only I know what it means.

The four of us who know the song sing along with it, and I start crying, but I keep singing anyway.

#inktober 2020 #roman a clef #alara's october 2020 prompt fics #writing-prompt-s

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shireness-says · 5 years ago

Text

hashtag holiday party

Summary: This isn’t Emma’s company, or her holiday party, or her idea of a good time. Is there any good to be salvaged from the worst date ever? ~3.6K. Rated T for language. Also on AO3.

A/N: A couple of weeks ago, there was a great post about the worst company Christmas party date ever on the Ask a Manager blog, and I could resist turning it into a fic! Super thanks to @snidgetsafan, my ever trusty beta. Happy holidays, everyone!

Tagging the interested parties: @ohmightydevviepuu, @profdanglaisstuff, @kmomof4, @katie-dub, @welllpthisishappening, @thisonesatellite, @let-it-raines, @thejollyroger-writer, @phiralovesloki, @winterbaby89, @scientificapricot, @snowbellewells, @searchingwardrobes, @spartanguard, @teamhook, @optomisticgirl

Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

~~~~~

Emma Swan has many regrets, but chief among them right now is agreeing to this date.

Well, no. First place on her list of regrets is awarded to going to Mary Margaret’s Christmas party, where she ended up trapped in conversation with Walsh.

(Ugh, Walsh. Just the name should have been her clue to get the hell out of dodge when he’d spotted her across the room.)

Walsh isn’t her friend. Walsh wouldn’t even be considered Mary Margaret’s friend, if not for the fact that the woman is friends with absolutely everyone on the planet. He’s her and David’s neighbor, and he had been in town for the holiday, and Mary Margaret’s got a soft spot the size of Maine for lost souls - it’s how she’s ended up Emma’s best friend, after all. Emma and Walsh had interacted at a few previous gatherings, and he’d been fine. No spark to speak of on her end, but whatever, she’s okay to leave it that way. But clearly, he felt differently, because he asked her to accompany him to his company’s holiday party. In full earshot of Mary Margaret, at that, who had gotten such an excited look on her face, obviously already planning the wedding, that Emma couldn’t actually say no. The bastard had probably planned it that way.

(Shit, she doesn’t even know what he does - marketing, maybe? She barely knows the guy, and now she’s being dragged to his holiday party.)

Emma may not be excited, but she puts on a good show at least - none of this slobbing it up to make him regret asking. She can clean up good. And besides, she’ll be shutting that all down with her words later anyways if he’s stupid enough to ask for a second date - no ploys required. The red dress is cocktail appropriate yet a little bit Christmassy, especially when paired with glittery heels, even if her makeup and hair is simple. There’s a big difference between putting in no effort at all, and knowing what just isn’t worth the effort… and anything more than a bit of eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick falls firmly into the latter category.

It’s a good thing she doesn’t too, as Walsh shows up early. Eight whole minutes early, to be precise. Not the end of the world, but not ideal either. Emma sighs heavily and braces herself before going to the door; Mary Margaret would tell her to be optimistic, but Emma just knows it’s all downhill from here.

Sure enough, as soon as Emma opens the door, Walsh clumsily whips a bunch of fake flowers out of his coat sleeve. “For you, milady,” he proclaims dramatically, offering the fake foliage. “I wanted to start with a magic trick for a magical date and the beginning of a magical relationship.”

And ho boy howdy, does Emma want to call it all off right now. That was the original definition of coming on too hard. That was so far beyond the bounds of acceptable first date behavior, she doesn’t even know where to go from there.

(Far, far away, and very quickly at that.)

Mary Margaret’s voice chimes in her ear, though, talking about how it’s sweet and charming and will be a great story to tell the grandkids one day, and Emma just knows she’ll shake her head in disappointment if Emma reports back that she ended the date before it even started. It’s especially hard to face Mary Margaret’s big sad eyes, too, when Emma knows that her friend just wants her to be happy.

Besides, she’s been led to believe there will be an open bar at this thing, and she could go for a free drink. Probably free drinks, plural, if the rest of this date goes the same way.

“O...kay. Okay. That’s… okay. Thank you?” Emma finally manages to stutter out, accepting his “gift”. Can’t say she’s ever received fake flowers from a guy - and can’t say she’d want to again.

“Anything for you, Emma.” His voice is about five notches too reverential for comfort. “Can I help you with your coat?”

“That’s fine, I got it.” No need to create an illusion - no pun intended - that she welcomes his attention any more than she actually does. Plus, she’s a grown woman, and it’s easy enough to slip her coat on over her dress by herself.

If any hope had existed that this date might get better - that this might turn into the cute story to tell their future kids that Mary Margaret is probably hoping for - that hope is thoroughly squashed by the time Emma slides into her seat at the party’s venue. Walsh had circled the parking lot for fifteen minutes, refusing to accept that there was a complimentary valet service (“I just don’t understand why they’ve got whole sections of the parking lot blocked off.” “Because there’s a valet.” “It just feels like there should be more parking spots. Why isn’t there any place to park?” “Because there’s a valet.”). Then, he refuses to give up his coat at the coat check for too goddamn long because, as it turns out, he has all manner of other magic tricks hidden in the pockets and up his sleeves.

It is not nearly as charming as he obviously believes.

Truthfully, it’s a relief when she and Walsh find their table, drink tickets in hand. At least at the table, there’s other people, and she won’t be forced to only focus on Walsh’s embarrassing attempts at seduction.

“Can I get you a drink?” he offers eagerly - almost too eagerly, really, practically tripping over himself.

Still, it’s an offer for a drink. And Emma’s in no place to refuse one of those, not with how she thinks this night is shaping up to go. “That’d be great, actually,” she replies, handing over her ticket. “Just some red wine please - I’m not real picky about what kind.” Anything alcoholic will do at this point.

As Walsh trots off towards the bar, Emma turns her attention towards the rest of the table. They’re a mixed bunch of men and women who smile kindly as Emma looks about. She’s grateful for that - hopefully, Emma can use them as a distraction from whatever she’s sure Walsh will get up to.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” the pretty brunette sitting next to Emma asks. It’s the polite way of pointing out that her companion hadn’t bothered to make introductions.

“Emma Swan,” she replies, extending a hand in greeting. “Nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine,” she smiles back. “I’m Belle French, and this,” she gestures to the man sitting next to her, “is Killian Jones.”

“Hello, lass.” He’s a looker, to say the least - dark hair, blue eyes, charming smile. Sex on legs. Emma tries momentarily, futilely, to remind herself that she shouldn’t be checking out other men while she’s on a date, but fails spectacularly. It’s been evident since the magic flowers that she and Walsh aren’t going anywhere.

“Hi,” she waves back. “So you both work for the company, then?”

“Oh no,” Killian laughs. “Belle’s actually a librarian. She’s just here with me.”

And damn, isn’t that a pity; all the good ones seem to be taken. Not that she can blame Belle - the brunette seems to be lovely, and who wouldn’t want a piece of that?

(Emma doesn’t make a habit of ogling other women’s partners, but she just might make an exception for Killian Jones.)

Emma’s about to strike up a conversation with her neighbors, hopefully learn more - so what do you do here, how did you meet, is this some sort of flexible arrangement I can get in on - but Walsh returns with her drink at that moment.

It is not in a wine glass. It is not wine. It is not what she asked for.

“I got you a mudslide,” he explains with an eager look on his face. “I know how much women love chocolate after all!”

Women love wine too, especially this one, Emma thinks, but accepts the drink gingerly to be polite. No sense wasting the drink ticket. “Thanks,” she responds dryly. “I’m, uh… I’m actually not a big fan of chocolate. But I’m sure it’ll be… fine.” At least it’s liquor, and at least it’s something she can nurse. He could have shown up with a fireball shot.

“Well if you like, we can get you another drink later with -” Walsh darts a hand toward her ear suddenly, and even as Emma jerks away out of instinct, she knows exactly what’s coming. “- this!” He declares triumphantly with a coin in hand. Another magic trick. Because the first one went so well.

It’s… great.

“Huh. That’s… uh… wow. Huh.” There are no words to muddle through this with. There is only the mortification of watching a grown-ass man trying to woo her with magic tricks. “I was just getting to know some of your coworkers, actually; why don’t you introduce me?”

The rest of the table includes Walsh’s boss, Regina, and her husband Robin, and his coworker Ashley with her fiancé Sean. They’re perfectly nice, and friendly, and interesting, and Emma could almost enjoy herself talking to them - if only Walsh would ever give the magic tricks a break. He pulls handkerchiefs out of his sleeves when she reaches for a napkin, procures everything from drink tickets to miniscule flowers from a variety of places all too close to her person for comfort, and is now pulling out a deck of cards. God only knows how many magic tricks he knows with those.

“Why don’t you save those for later?” Emma suggests when he instructs her to pick a card. Without actually making it sound like a suggestion. Alright, it’s a straight-up order. In her defense, it’s been a long night. Walsh has monopolized her attention all evening with these stupid tricks and explanations of all the things they’ll do together, not even bothering to talk to his coworkers beyond the introductions Emma insisted upon. In fact, he’s grown even more insistent about it every time she’s tried to politely redirect his attention. She’s been making an effort at least - to talk about everyone’s Christmases and the baby that Ashley and Sean are expecting and Belle’s job. But it’s hard to keep any conversation going when she’s got Walsh bugging her every other moment to show her another magic trick. She hopes that the message maybe finally has gotten through with a flat refusal to engage. “Now Belle - you were about to tell us about one of the teen programs at the library?”

Unfortunately, Walsh doesn’t take that very well. In some ways, she supposes that the message to stop all the magic tricks finally did get through his thick skull - it’s just that he then stands up from the table and stalks over to the banquet hall’s piano, sitting down with a flourish. Maintaining eye contact with Emma the whole while - oh, how she wishes she hadn’t startled when he’d stood up and stormed away, wishes she had ignored him altogether - he begins to play.

“Is that Adele?” Regina asks after a moment.

Emma groans. “I’m going to need another drink.”

———

It just doesn’t make sense - how such a charming woman as Emma Swan ended up at this holiday party as the date of Walsh Ozman. Killian just can’t understand it; he has to work with Walsh every day, and he’s never been anything less than insufferable.

“I kind of got roped into it,” Emma explains, sipping on the glass of wine she’d finally procured with her second drink ticket. “My best friend is his neighbor, and we were both at her Christmas party, and before I knew it he was asking me and Mary Margaret was giving me that face she has. She’s a matchmaker - always just wants to see everyone happy and paired off. Romance is everywhere if you just look for it and all that.” She takes a long drink, nearly draining the rest of the glass. “Big crock of shit, if this is what it brings.”

He’d like to argue with her, tell her that it’s not all hopeless (if only for the very selfish reason that he’d like to show her otherwise on a much nicer date than she’s currently suffering through)... but Walsh strikes a particularly strong chord right at that moment, rendering anything Killian might try to say in poor taste. Christmas music has been piping through the room since before any of them arrived, but that doesn’t stop Walsh in the least. God, what an obnoxious prick.

“So, how did you two meet?” Emma asks, gesturing between Killian and Belle as she takes another sip, obviously trying to take her mind off the spectacle being staged in her honor across the room.

“Killian moved into the apartment next to mine… what, three years ago now?” Belle asks, looking to him for confirmation. “Anyways, I dropped by with a tray of cookies as a little ‘welcome to the building’ gesture, and as they say, the rest is history,” she beams.

“Of course you did,” he thinks he hears Emma mutter into the remains of her wine. Curious, that. It’s almost like she thinks… “Well, I’m happy for you two. You guys are really cute.”

Killian spares a glance at Belle before hastening to reply. “Oh, no, we’re not -”

But before he can clarify the situation - that he and Belle are just friends, no romantic spark to speak of - the distinct strains of “You’re So Vain” drift over from the piano, where Walsh wears a mournful face best suited to sad puppy dog commercials. Like this whole moment isn’t already the stuff of a terrible comedy movie.

Ashley pushes her drink tickets across the table. “I think you might need something a little stronger.”

The understatement of the century.

———

Emma Swan ends up with a lot of spare drink tickets; everyone seems to recognize that she needs them a lot more than anyone else. With her spare drink tickets, Emma Swan procures a martini, a vodka cranberry, and two rum and cokes before anyone insists she switch to water. It’s certainly understandable that she’d want to drink her way through this utter disaster of a date.

Walsh still plays the piano.

Killian, in turn, discovers that Emma Swan is an effusively nice drunk. She assures Ashley and Sean that they’re going to the best parents, and declares that Regina is both a queen and a boss-ass bitch in a tone that makes it clear that it’s the highest compliment. Killian thinks he even overhears Emma telling Belle that she’s “an angel nurturing the minds of tomorrow so they can make the world a better place and perpetuate the power of human kindness” as he returns with her final cocktail.

(He just might have to print off business cards with that mouthful of a title as a gag gift for Belle.)

Eventually, Walsh does tire of his dramatics and return to the table in a huff. Unfortunately, he’s very insistent that it’s time to leave. It makes sense; this party can’t have been much fun for him, despite the elaborate wallowing routine he created for himself. That means Emma has to leave too, though, and Killian will miss her bright smile and endearingly excessive compliments. There’s also the matter of how he’s not sure he trusts Walsh to take her home.

“You know what, Belle and I are about ready to call it a night too. We’ll follow you out,” he insists. Walsh’s glare only solidifies Killian’s determination to do so. “Swan, do you want to text your friend and let her know you’re on your way?”

“I should text Mary Margaret!” Emma slurs. “Have I told you she’s an angel?”

“You sure did, love.”

The coat check shouldn’t result in any great debacle; it’s the coat check after all, practically just a formality. They get their coats, they go. Unfortunately, it’s Walsh, so unfortunately, that’s not the case.

“You’re like a… like a coat guard. A coat-yguard!” Emma grins as her outerwear is handed back. With clumsy fingers, she extracts a ten dollar bill from her wallet - a little excessive, most likely, but hell, she’s feeling good - and drops it into the tip jar.

Only for Walsh to snatch it right back out.

“You don’t have to pay the tip for me,” Emma insists with a stubborn set to her brows. “I’m fine to do it.”

“Coat check is free, baby,” Walsh tells her with a patronizing tone, trying to stuff the bill into his own coat pocket. Poor taste, that, but still not nearly as poor of taste as refusing to tip.

“Yeah, that’s why you tip,” Emma insists, snatching the bill from his hand to stick it back in the jar again.

“Don’t be stupid, that’s just a scam.” Walsh even rolls his eyes as he reaches back to the jar again.

Emma slaps his hand on the way. “You know what, you douchebag -”

“Emma would you like a ride home with us instead?” Belle interrupts, reading the situation. It’s more than for the best; Killian doesn’t trust Walsh as far as he can spit.

“Oh my god, yes.” After Emma manages to wrestle back into her coat, she turns back to Walsh for one parting shot. “Now that is what a date is supposed to look like, bozo. These two? They’re hashtag relationship goals.” She even makes the symbol with her hands.

He should correct her, really, but at a certain point, it just seems best to steer Emma out of the building and into his car.

By some miracle, her building is only two blocks away from their own. Emma spends the ride in the backseat with Belle, playing with the brunette’s hair and insisting they exchange numbers.

“You’ve been a goddamn gem, Killian Jones,” she salutes in parting as Belle leads her inside.

This night has been many things, but memorable certainly tops the list. One thing is for certain: he won’t be forgetting Emma Swan anytime soon.

———

Emma wakes the next day with a pounding headache, an intense feeling of humiliation, and Belle French’s number in her phone. Surely, she’s had worse nights, but it’s hard to think of any right now.

She finally manages to work up the nerve to text Belle in mid-afternoon; she definitely owes a variety of people a variety of apologies.

Emma Swan, 4:32pm: hey, it’s Emma. thanks for taking care of my drunk ass last night, i’m sure i was a mess. sorry about that

Belle French, 4:41pm: Don’t worry about it, please! You were great, we should do something again sometime.

Emma Swan, 4:44pm: no mixing drinks, please, for the love of god

Emma Swan, 4:45pm: thank Killian for me too. lucky girl - he seems like a real keeper. unlike my date last night…

Belle French, 4:47: Will do! He’s not my boyfriend, though - we really are just neighbors. He’s like a brother to me, truly. Credit where credit is due, though - he really was a lot better than your tosser!

Emma Swan, 4:51: … oh.

Emma Swan, 4:51: do you know if he has a different girlfriend, then?

Belle French, 4:53: I know for a fact that he doesn’t. Let me send you his number.

———

She should be brave - should use that phone number to reach out and ask him to coffee or drinks or straight into a steamy make-out session.

Emma Swan does not do any of these things.

(She especially doesn’t tell Mary Margaret - it was already bad enough to have to relive exactly why she and Walsh won’t be having a second date, there’s no need to encourage her friend to transfer all her hopes to poor Killian instead.)

Instead, she runs into Killian completely by chance a week later, as he’s coming out of the post office and she’s walking to the coffee shop. She nearly plows him over, actually - far too focused on checking her email on her phone and not nearly enough on where she’s going.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he grins once they’ve straightened themselves out again.

“Yeah,” Emma laughs. “And sober this time, too!”

(Not one of her stronger lines.)

“A real plus for certain.” Well, at least he seems charmed.

They lapse into a silence for a moment before Emma finds the words to continue. “I just want to thank you, for being so great that night. And apologize for… everything I did. God, I was a mess that night.”

“You were in the middle of a disaster of a situation,” Killian smiles at her.

“Yeah, well, let’s just call it a lapse in judgement and leave it at that.” Emma winces as memories of the night flick through her brain. “God, did I really make the hashtag symbol with my hands? In public?”

“You really did,” he chuckles. “I take it Belle straightened you out on the relationship bit of relationship goals?”

Emma blushes. “Yeah, she did. Definitely not mortified about that, not at all.”

“Ah, happens to the best of us, Swan.” After another silent moment, his hand steals up to scratch at the bit of neck behind his ear. “Since that’s the case, I was just wondering - well, I’d like to ask, that is, if you’re interested -”

“Do you want to get coffee with me?” Emma interrupts. She thinks that’s where he was going, anyways; she’s just a little more efficient about it.

“I’d love to, Emma.” This time, the grin stretches fully across his face and could probably outshine a whole tree’s worth of Christmas lights.

Who knows? Something good just might have come out of that god-awful holiday party date after all.

#captain swan #cs ff #captain swan ff #my writing #hashtag holiday party #featuring the world's worst date

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legendaryorangeloot · 4 years ago

Text

Collarbone

The moon is just cresting the horizon when I reach South City. Its cool light pulls on the roots of my hair, makes my teeth itch. I spent all day today goofing off at work, pacing like a bored zoo animal. These feast days are so rare, and my excitement hangs in the air like charged particles before a lightning strike.

And now it's time.

The moon fills my heart with a ferocious lust, buoying me up as I let my long, loping stride eat up the Gravois pavement. I can hear the music at Greatness already. I go there "straight" a few nights a week, let myself be seen. I'm a regular. I even dated the previous bartender, learned the cameras, the exit routes, the watching spots, the nearby alleys. Greatness is my garden, and I tend it carefully.

I like it because it attracts normal boys. They're sweet in a way you don't have to take seriously, smart in a way that never threatens you. They tend to have carefully-groomed hair, endearing sincerity, and well-marbled flesh.

Not all the produce is sweet, though. When I transform, I'm little—more coyote than wolf, more coydog than coyote. All-black, bristle-brush fur; pricked ears that make me look smart and alert. A dog you'd take home with you if it followed you down the street. I grew to trust the bartender, the first relationship I'd had. Born of necessity or not, I thought it would be forever. He was wild, too, in his own all-human way, and loved my secret. But it was because he had his own. One night, without warning or consent, he leaned over me, whispered in my alert black ear as he sank into my body, "I wanted you the second I saw you like this. You're the sexiest dog I ever fucked."

I like to think that he saw the sorrow in my eyes as I turned my head and clamped his trachea shut with my strong, strong jaws. It was intimate, almost erotic. For minutes he fought, thrashing, sweaty, nude, his erection waning, waxing, finally waning forever once I began to eat his throat, and all his blood left his body and soaked into his bed. His teeth felt like tiny hard candies to my canine senses. When I ripped out his tongue at the root and savored it bite by bite, I imagined I could taste everything he'd ever tasted, somehow stored within the muscle he'd used to gain my trust.

But that time is not this time. That time was just the first, and now the kills are deliciously unadulterated by love or regret.

As I near the bar door, I put on the right personality – wild, but not vicious. Available, but not easy. Challenging, but harmless. I check my reflection in an antique-shop window to make sure all this personality-shifting hasn't affected my shape.

Without careful control, sometimes you'll think "act harmless" and the power inside you makes it mean "look smaller, look younger". I have nothing but careful control. There are a few other people with the power to change into a wolf, a specific wolf that looks rather like their human form, but I have finesse that they can only dream of. I can play this body like one of those expensive synthesizers with all the sliders and knobs, as long as the form is human, canine, or both. And I work at my craft, mostly preferring the wholly-unnatural, anthropomorphic, six-foot-tall "wolfman" shape, complete with the goofy clawed hands and feet. What can I say? They're useful, if hideous, constructions. Second choice: a real wolf, a timber wolf, huge. The kind you see in nature documentaries, every hair in place, unmistakably lupine.

I am so proud of all the carefully-sculpted forms that I feel vaguely ashamed of my natural one. Not the average-build, solidly-muscled human one, with the deeply tanned olive skin and the untameable black curls, but the real one, the one that looks half-coyote, half-Schipperke. It was the thing I was most embarrassed to show the bartender, the boyfriend, even after he'd seen me as a slavering movie-monster nonsense beast a dozen times. He saw my true form and thought me weak, small, fuckable. A dog.

But now his opinion is gone, digested, and irrelevant, because I am alone, and I am hungry.

I won't lie and say I notice you across a crowded room. That when I walk in, all the other people fade away. That it is lust at first sight. No, you escape first notice in an inoffensive way, a practiced way. You're a listener, I can tell. You move your eyebrows involuntarily when you're eavesdropping. Wolf-creature that I am, I can't tolerate eye contact, but I do watch those charming brows from the corner of my eye.

I sit at the bar and chat amiably with a girl I kind-of know, at a volume I know is audible to you. I surreptitiously look at you while you're not looking. You're lovely. You're rakish, scruffy, endearingly asymmetrical around the eyes. Your gestures all speak volumes. You even smoke adorably, like you learned it much too early.

My story for tonight, my bait, cast out into the noise of the bar: recent breakup, broken heart, need distraction. It's a hard one to turn down, I've found. Your brows go up minutely on "distraction". I know you think you know what I mean, and it will make the eventual reveal that much more satisfying.

I contain my eyeteeth before they can visibly lengthen, because that's a rookie mistake, but, oh, how I want them to be longer. I want them that much closer to your skin. I can imagine how it will taste, all sweat and smoke, the fine hairs crumpling under my rough tongue, the restraint I'll have to exert when I use just the sharp, sharp points to tease the first bite.

I let my kind-of friend talk at me about her kids, her day, her husband. But what I'm thinking about is where I'll start on you. Your loose plaid shirt reveals the edge of your clavicle, and the sight of it has my mouth watering in an instant. It's been so long. I'm torn between speeding things up by making the first move, and resisting the temptation to rush through this sensual experience you and I are going to share.

I never could resist temptation.

You're writing in a notepad, so this is an easy introduction: "Whatcha' writing?" I try for "chipper, good-natured interest", but lust makes it come out more "sultry purr". I don't think you mind. You're falling all over yourself to answer, the love of your work and your obvious interest in me giving you a puppylike eagerness that I instantly adore, and preemptively mourn.

I listen, mostly. You're a writer; you write. In conversation, you do the same kind of IQ-gauging I did in my human dating life, throwing out a breadcrumb trail of wordplay that gets progressively more challenging. I do understand, and I laugh at the right times, I let our eyes meet for spare milliseconds so you know I understand. I parry back, I surprise a few laughs out of you. I play off of your self-deprecating humor, testing your boundaries for submission, loving what I find.

But my brain really isn't in peak wordplay condition. I just want you now. I want the moment when I gently bite the skin above your collarbone. I want to hear you gasp and moan, hear that unnameable noise-with-an-edge when you feel my real teeth, hear your hazy excitement bloom into bright fear as you realize what will happen next. I want that first bite, the crunch of that beautiful, delicate bird bone against my incisors, and the next bite, and the next. When we're done, I want the walls to double as a red Rorshach test. I want to make the crime scene techs vomit.

You compliment my loud sudden bark of a laugh, and for once, maybe for the first time ever, I am genuinely flattered. I feel like I probably shouldn't give you the compliment I thought of in return, which is: "That made me like you so much that I want to find out what you taste like." But then I say it anyway, and you blush, and I imagine licking your cheek hard enough to burst some superficial capillaries, imagine tasting everything about you, even your embarrassment.

Even though I've laid out a welcome mat for you between my thighs, you still just talk to me, still treat me like a person. It throws me a bit at first, but I figure we have all night. There are drinks and jokes. We tell stories that quickly get more and more personal. I find out about your parents, your brother, your wonderfully strange upbringing. I tell you some carefully-censored tales of living in rural Texas. I tell you a completely-false story of how I got my completely-true nickname, "The Terror of Bulverde". To make up for the lies, I tell you the real true truth of how much I love my family.

The conversation is weirdly nourishing on its own, and the bottles of Shiner are cold and remind me of home. You talk with your hands more and more as you get drunker, and my accent gets stronger and stronger as I exercise my rarely-used human voice. We laugh at ourselves, how ridiculous it all is, can you believe we've never met before, it feels like I've known you forever.

Next thing I know, we're being shooed out of the bar at closing time, and you're suddenly serious when you ask me if I'm sober. I say "As a goddamn judge," solemnly, but my accent is all the way up to 11, and we grin at each other stupidly. You invite me over, and I had almost forgotten that this was the whole point, that this was the endgame. I'll get to still those talking hands, eat them from fingers to palm, bathe my muzzle in your well-educated brain, see if I gain your powers when I consume your heart. I've already made up my mind not to waste one single bit of your beautiful body. I'm going to den up in your house for days, gorging myself until you're gone.

I don't care that everyone saw us leave together. I am Icarus, my wolf-wings melting in proximity to your purely-human kindness. This kind of sentimentality is what gets creatures like me killed, I remind myself. But then you take my hand, gently, and I feel like I should go confess my crimes and be skinned for a coat. Or, given my absolute size, some kind of shawl. Your gentleness is both warming me and burning me alive. I wonder to myself if this is what hard drugs feel like. Drugs don't really work on werewolves. The drug that you are is working on this werewolf, though.

We stop several times on the walk to your apartment to shove each other into little alleys, indented doorways, and once, accidentally, a shrub, and we make out like it's the last thing we'll ever do, which seems appropriate to the occasion. You kiss like you talk: not a monologue, but a friendly give-and-take, with your hands frequently involved. We crack jokes continuously, and interrupt each other, and play-fight, and the feel of your wiry muscles and their light shield of fat under my play-punches makes my stomach rumble. The moon is full, and fully out, and I know I've let my hair lengthen, and that my eyes are probably less human-looking than I'd like, by now.

On your doorstep, fiddling with the key and lock, you tell me that I don't have to sleep with you, that if I'm too drunk, that if I have reconsidered, you won't be upset. I ignore you and step over the threshold and start undressing before you've even closed the door behind us. For a second, you look as though perhaps you aren't sure if you're awake or asleep.

We race to the bed, shedding clothing, and you practically pounce on me, not predatory, but playful, and we forgot to turn on any lights, and it's so exciting and I'm so hungry I think I might die. Your hands are everywhere on my body, always followed closely by your mouth, and that, and everything I can touch on your body, and every glimpse of you I catch, lit by the wan streetlight, is making me want you more than I thought was possible.

And I am somehow in your lap, and you're a much larger person than I thought you were, or maybe I've gotten smaller, and the next thing I know I'm me, the real me, the little black wolf, just muscle and fur and teeth, and I'm sinking those white, white teeth deep into the soft, beautiful junction of your neck and chest. And I didn't even give myself time to appreciate it, but here we are, and here's that bone I wanted, crunched to pieces, half-eaten already. And your look of shock and betrayal and realization makes your bone and flesh curdle in my jaws, but it's too late to put it back.

We freeze this way. It's a Moment, one that feels like we exist outside of time, yet we don't; the seconds are marked by the rapid pulsing of your blood onto the sheets, onto the floor, your delightful soft-pink skin paling before my eyes.

And you say, plaintively, "I thought you liked me." I am consumed by regret, it's a pyre, I'm being burned at the stake by a single sentence, and the pain makes me desperate for a solution, until I realize I may have one. Just one. My shape shifts without conscious thought to some kind of confused dog-with-hands, but I use them to shove whatever fabric I have near me against the wound at your throat, and press down hard. I bite the inside of my cheek and hot blood wells there instantly, mixing with the remnants of yours in my mouth. You're so, so smart that even near-exsanguination can't keep you from figuring out what I'm doing. You look by turns terrified, hopeful, disgusted.

I bring my lips to yours and try to will whatever particle transmits lycanthropy into my mouth's blood, hoping this is really how the process works. You look ill. You look bloodless. You pass out, and I'm left holding my discarded shirt against your fatal wound, and remembering how to pray: god if you just let him heal just let him live he will figure this out I will make it up to him I will make it up to you I will go and sin no more oh please, oh please, oh please

Epilogue

The bizarre, crushed-looking scar atop your torso always elicits questions you can't answer truthfully when you're naked with other people. The bone never grows back, and your new physiology prevents an implant or a surgical fix. You'll never need to see a doctor again. You might live to be hundreds of years old. No one knows our potential lifespan. No one knows anything about us.

You seem to take it all in stride, telling one woman it's where you were hit with a warhammer, telling another man it's from a skydiving accident. It makes you very mysterious and intriguing, and the gossip about you is always entertaining, if painful, to overhear.

You say you forgive me, and maybe, since you've now experienced numerous full moons yourself, felt what I felt that night, you mean it. But you've never hurt a soul. I selfishly infected you with a kind of insanity, and you infected me with your gentleness, your curse of caring about others. So I skulk around the edges of your life, and I bring you raw red beef and whole chickens and half the rabbits I catch each month. We never speak, or kiss, and I never, ever look you in the eye.

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caranfindel · 5 years ago

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Recap/review 15.13: “Destiny’s Child”

THEN: The pizza man! Megstiel! Oh, lord, I love these two. Ruby 2.0. Lots of pizza for some reason. Jack is soulless. Chuck is destroying his worlds.

NOW: Bunker. The guys are doing research in the library when they hear a weird loud noise. They rush into a room I don’t recognize and find a cute little seafoam green Fiat. With Kansas plates. {Sidebar: I’m thrilled to see Kansas plates. I wish Baby would get replated before the end.} As Savage Garden sings about ch-ch-cherry cola feelings at the base of your spine, two feet (but only one sock) emerge from the Fiat, and those feet are connected to… Sam and Dean! Well, AU versions of them, anyway. As real Sam and Dean watch in horrified confusion, we get glimpses of AU Sam and Dean – an expensive watch, non-flannel clothes, AU Sam’s hair half up. An open rift glows behind them. “Well,” says AU Sam, “we did it.” The AU brothers fistbump (which is smart; you don’t want to shake hands with coronavirus and all) and we see AU Sam is wearing an Apple watch. Which I think the OG Winchesters should wear, considering how often they seem to miss important texts.

All four make eye contact.

Dean? Sam? Sam? Dean? What the hell? What the heck?

The rift flares brighter, AU Dean says “Aw, nuts,” and the AU brothers and their cute little car are sucked back out of our world.

Title card!

Time jump. OG Sam and Dean are telling Cas about their doppelgangers. Dean is particularly disturbed by their car (as am I, because there’s no way those two big guys would be running around in a tiny little Fiat, no matter how fucking cute it is). And all three are just completely confused. Which is odd, considering that they know 1) there are AU versions of themselves in AU worlds, and B) people can move between those worlds. I don’t know why they can’t wrap their heads around AU Winchesters showing up in the bunker.

“How did they get here?” Dean asks. The answer comes from Billie. “They were running. Because God was destroying their reality. He’s almost done wrapping up those other worlds.” And when he finishes his other worlds, he’s coming after the Winchesters. It’s time move on to the next step in Billie’s plan for Jack. Our boy enters on cue, eating a sandwich and announcing he’s ready. Billie explains that the first step (eating angel hearts, ew) was to prepare his body, and the next step is “more spiritual in nature.” He has to find something called the Occultum.

The Occultum? That’s Latin for “hidden.” Where do we find it? I don’t KNOW. It’s HIDDEN.

Hee!

Smart Sam, slightly embarrassed chastised Sam. Love ‘em both.

They don’t really even know what it is, let alone where it is. Or maybe Billie knows what it is, and just isn’t talking. She stresses that since everything will go tits up if God finds out what they’re doing, they need to be ready, and vigilant. “And not stupid.”

Oh, Billie. It’s too late for that.

Research time. Sam’s frustrated, Dean’s distracted. Because he remembered Amara, and he thinks maybe Jack is supposed to kill Amara too. Sam scoffs at that, but Dean reminds us him that the world will be out of balance if Chuck is gone but Amara remains. Sam asks “But then who takes over? Jack?” Jack wanders in, blowing a bubblegum bubble, and proudly announces that he just learned how to do it. “Probably not,” Dean says. Heh. The guys question Jack about how, exactly, he’s going to strike God down, and either he doesn’t know or, again, he’s not talking.

{Sidebar: Neither of them thought anyone needed to take over as God if Chuck was gone. They were, in fact, looking forward to a Godless world. Why, now, does Sam suddenly think someone needs to take over if both Chuck and Amara are gone? Yeah, I know the answer. Bad writing. Thanks, Buckleming!}

They must have brought the Amara situation up for a reason. It’s the kind of monkey wrench that the writers usually ignore if they don’t have a way to address it. What’s going to happen? Here are the possibilities I came up with:

Both Chuck and Amara are killed.

Jack replaces Chuck as God, which means Amara can go on playing keno.

Either Sam or Dean replaces Chuck as God, and Jack or Cas becomes the Darkness. (Neither Sam nor Dean can receive the Mark of Cain again, right? Isn’t that canon? Or is it fanon? And did Sam’s very brief experience with the Mark actually count?)

Jack replaces Chuck as God, and Cas becomes the Darkness. Or vice versa.

Billie pulls a deus ex machina and the whole Chuck/Amara balance thing becomes moot.

The whole Amara situation will never be mentioned again.

Cas wanders in, gathering information from Sergei. Sergei? Again? Will we never be shed of him? Dean agrees with me. “Him? Are we that desperate?” Apparently so. Sergei says the Occultum was housed in a temple until it wasn’t and Dean starts throwing out movie plots to hypothesize what might have happened to it. I’m sure that was amusing to some of you. Anyway, it ended up in the hands of a faith healer with glowy hands. Oh, who could that be? Well, if you didn’t cover the guest star credits, you didn’t see Danneel Ackles. And even if you did, I’m sure you’ve guessed that the faith healer is Sister Jo, who everyone calls Jo rather than using her angel name. Even Cas. I think we should start calling him Jimmy.

Sister Jo’s. She’s wearing some weird combo of satin slipdress/turtleneck/pink blazer. Any one of these items is fine. Together they’re awful. Sam and Dean show up, asking where the Occultum is, and threatening her with angel blades when she refuses to spill the beans. Which doesn’t seem very threatening to me. As an angel, she’s still so much more powerful than they are. (Whatever.)

She says “I gave it to an old friend of yours – Ruby.” And Sam’s first response is “why would you give it to her” instead of “wait, we killed her years before you fell to earth and became a faith healer.” {waves to Buckleming} We get some ridiculous backstory (and again I don’t understand why an angel cares so much about couture brands) about how she was working with Ruby and oh, look, it’s Ruby 2.0! {Sidebar: I covered the credits, as I said, so I didn’t notice that Genevieve Padalecki was not in them. I love the way Show tries to set up a surprise and then their PR department completely spoils it. Because yes, of course I knew Genevieve was coming back. Even the Unsullied couldn’t avoid that spoiler, especially because some people on Tumblr do not use spoiler tags!!! However, I was under the impression she’d be in the final episode, so it was a huge relief to see her in this one. Let’s waste all the nonsense on a Buckleming episode!}

Anyway. According to Jo, Ruby claimed she had a buyer for the Occultum. Jo gave it to her, and then the boys killed her so the deal did not go down. {Sidebar: Once again, Show, flashbacks to older, better episodes are not doing you any favors.} The Occultum is still where Ruby stashed it – in Hell. Dean rolls his eyes, because that’s all Hell is now. It doesn’t inspire terror, just an eyeroll. Hell is basically Walmart. And Dean’s eyeroll is tantamount to me saying “Shit, the only place I can get toilet paper is Walmart? Ugh.” And I hate that, friends. I really, really hate the way Hell has become no more than an unpleasant inconvenience.

Here. Have a palate cleanser.

Bunker. Jack is eating… everything. He and Cas talk about how he’s really into food now, but he doesn’t feel things like he did before he lost his soul. He makes another guilt-free reference about “what happened to Mary,” like he did right before they put him in the box, and wonders if Dean will ever forgive him. {Sidebar: He doesn’t care if Sam forgives him, or he knows Sam has/will? Discuss.} Cas says “You know, Dean, he feels things more acutely than any human I’ve ever known.” Because yes, Dean has to be the absolute bestest at everything, doesn’t he? {Sidebar: How long has it been since someone told Dean he was pretty? What if he forgets???} Anyway, Cas thinks maybe someday Dean will explode and release his Most Acutest Ever feelings and then Jack will be forgiven. (Foreshadowing!)

The guys enter the bunker, discussing Rowena’s spell to get into Hell, and Dean calls Sam “Samwitch.” \o/ Because, as we know, someone over there reads my LJ and/or Tumblr. Um. Does this mean it’s the Buckleming? If so, I’m going to need some time. Cas shows up and looks constipated and says “come with me” and it’s an odd transition because it seemed like they interrupted his talk with Jack, but actually it must be some time later.

Cas takes them back to the mystery room, which I guess was identified as the armory but it looks more like another library to me, and shows them a ghostly AU Sam and Dean. They’re trapped between worlds, apparently. Dean doesn’t care. When Cas assures him they don’t seem to be in pain, he’s ready to move on. I wonder how acutely he feels that.

Sam tells Cas that Ruby stashed the Occultum in Hell and Cas says “Ruby. The demon you were sexually intimate with.” Sam’s all, really, Cas, you’re going there? and it’s another episode of ha ha, funny Cas doesn’t understand human interactions, and then Dean goes all squinty eyed and says ”sexually intimate?” as if this is NEWS TO HIM and WHAT THE FUCKING WHAT, SHOW. This is not news to Dean. Sam told him ALL ABOUT IT in “I Know What You Did Last Summer.” Dean even told him it was “too much information.” Sam told him EVERYTHING. And now we’re supposed to think he didn’t know Sam was banging a demon?

FUCKLEMING!!!!

Anyway. Cas thinks they should get some confirmation from Ruby before going to Hell, but she is inconveniently dead. And also, why would she tell them the truth, considering they’re the reason she’s inconveniently dead. The guys don’t want to wait. They tell Cas to stay in the car right outside the door to Walmart and keep the engine running keep the spell to open Hell going.

Hell. Ugh So cheesy; so much hate. The guys come across a minion who says Rowena is hosting a reception, and he’ll take them to her. But Ruth wasn’t in the credits (for those of you who saw the credits) so obviously this is a trap. Fighty fighty, blah blah blah. Turns out they were set up by Jo. We do get a bit of a post-exertion huff from Sam, so it’s not a total waste.

While this is happening, Cas decides to go to the Empty to question Ruby, because he’s pretty sure Jo isn’t telling the truth. He needs Jack to kill him to the point that he’s only mostly dead. And we’re reminded about his deal with the Empty, so I guess that’s still a thing. Cas gives Jack a flask to hold his life force, and tells him that if this goes badly, Cas will be lost forever. And if Jack doesn’t keep the spell burning, the Winchesters will be stuck in Hell and will be lost forever. Wow, a lot of things could go wrong here. Jack puts a hand on Cas’s forehead and we see Cas’s grace drain into the flask.

Sister Jo’s place. She’s packing up and fleeing.

The Empty. Cas calls for Ruby. “Hello, Clarence,” says a familiar voice. It’s Meg! \o/ Oh, no. It’s just the Empty Guy in Meg form. Dammit. Meg’s got to be in here somewhere, and I’d love to see some Megstiel action one more time before I die. But it is very nice to see Rachel Miner. Empty!Meg calls Ruby out from the darkness. Ruby fondly remembers Sam as “the big lug” and tells Cas a completely different story about her relationship with Jo. {Sidebar: I hate to say this, but Gen doesn’t look so good in this episode, and I also remember her as a better actor.} Ruby tells Cas the Occultum is “a place, a thing, whatever you want to call it.” She’ll tell him where it is if he gets her out of the Empty. He promises to try, and she whispers in his ear.

Back at the bunker, the guys have returned and are horrified to find that Cas is hopefully in the Empty, hopefully finding Ruby, hopefully finding the location of the Occultum, and Sam says “that’s way too many hopefullys!” Hee. They demand that Jack bring him back. In the Empty, Empty!Meg tortures Cas and says Billie promised she could go back to sleep as soon as this is all over, while in the bunker, Jack feeds him his life force.

Resurrected from the nearly-dead, Cas gets called an idiot, because neither of these guys have ever risked their lives to get information (ha ha, sure Dean). He tells the guys he knows where the Occultum is, and they’re ready to go. However, Jack points out that if Chuck notices they’re gone and figures out what they’re doing, it’s game over. True. But that was also true when they went to Hell, and it didn’t seem to be a problem. Anyway, Dean has an idea. He thinks they need a visible presence in the bunker, because this is where Chuck will look.

We don’t know that. We don’t NOT know that.

Hee! Down in the armory, the AU Winchesters are still stuck between worlds. Dean thinks they can open the rift and yank the guys back into this world. Conveniently, since they’re stuck adjacent to this world, Cas’s grace should be plenty. The AU brothers are playing rock-paper-scissors and maybe I’m missing something, but it sure looks like Dean throws scissors and Sam throws rock, which means Sam wins, but Dean acts like he won. Maybe it’s different in AU World. Maybe AU World rocks are very soft.

Sam does the spell, because the one good thing I still get to have is that Sam is in charge of the spellwork. The next thing we see is the OG brothers and the AU brothers at the map table, drinking beer. I’m pretty sure Jared is going to take AU Sam’s purple suit home after they shoot the last episode. The AU brothers are awfully prissy and don’t drink much beer – “Dad won’t keep it in the house. He only likes his private label Scotch. He spoils us.” Damn. They really are prissy. And John is alive, and went through the rift with them, but they don’t know where he is now. Nor do they seem concerned at all, even though they toast him as the “best guy ever.” The AU Winchesters hunt worldwide, and get paid, and have their own plane. The originals explain to the AUs why they need them to act as decoys. OG Sam tells AU Sam that he’ll have to “lose the manbun” and AU Sam recoils in horror and this is NOT WORKING FOR ME. (Also, it’s not technically a manbun, it’s just half up.) I guess some of you loved them, and I’m sure J2 had fun playing them, but I’m just. Bleh. Rich hunters wouldn’t be fussy little twits. Maybe if they were MoL; I can see that. But hunters with money would, IMHO, be like those Duck Dynasty idiots. They’d still be wearing flannel, they’d just drive huge expensive SUVs.

Sam, who are these douches and why are they in our house?

{Sidebar: Why are all the AU Winchesters the same age as our Winchesters? If the other worlds were copies of ours, shouldn’t the AU brothers be younger? Shouldn’t we have Dylan Everett or Colin Ford here?}

Carrying on. The Impala pulls up to a church, and even Jack thinks this is too easy. But then it’s not, because we hear the distinctive growl of hellhounds. Dean gets the door unlocked just in time, and they all rush inside. Sam holds the doors closed as the other three casually wander around the church trying to find the Occultum. Sam is clearly having trouble, but no one comes to his aid. The sky conveniently clears, revealing a moonlit cross on the floor that marks the spot. Dean pulls up a floorboard and reveals a small blue velvet bag {Sidebar: Anyone else have a very similar Crown Royal bag full of cassette tapes in their car back in the 70s/80s? Or was that just me and my lowlife friends?} Inside the bag is an orb inscribed in Enochian: In order to be in the Occultum, the Occultum must be in you. Sam continues struggling with the door, and the others are all, you held the doors open against Lucifer himself, I’m sure you can handle a couple of silly hellhounds, which is true but still.

Bunker. AU Sam and Dean are cosplaying as our Sam and Dean, but not well. “They said lose the manbun, Samuel,” says AU Dean. “Look, hillbilly clothes are bad enough. I had to draw the line somewhere, and my hair is sacred.” Sam drinks beer with his pinkie extended, and hates it, and I’m sorry. I can’t stand this.

Scenes from the Writers’ Room

You know, last year, Jared got to play a couple of fun AU versions of Sam. I missed out on that.

Okay, but we’ve got you singing this year. And dancing.

Yeah, I know, but I really want to play a different version of Dean, too. I’m gonna be looking for jobs. I need to showcase all my talents.

All right, we can do that.

Also, make sure someone tells Dean he’s pretty.

Anyway. AU Dean is growing to enjoy beer, and he finds porn on Dean’s laptop (leave it to the Buckleming to bring back Busty Asian Beauties, ugh), and he thinks the OG life – nothing but beer, monsters, and porn – might not be so bad after all. AU Sam decides he agrees.

Back at the church, Sam is still the only thing between the rest of TFW 2.0 and grim death. As Cas and Dean squabble over what to do next, Jack figures out the obvious and swallows the Occultum. He collapses and glows and is transported to… Eden! Which has astroturf! And a weird girl who says Eden will change him “if you’re the one meant to find it.” She disappears and a snake appears in the tree. (Hello, Crawly!) “Who are you really?” it hisses. “Who are you meant to be?” Jack has some flashbacks to his best times and worst times and falls to the ground, crying. Then he appears back in the church as a glowing orb which immediately heads straight toward Sam, if you didn’t notice. But I did. Then it floats back to Cas and Dean. Sam collapses and the door opens, but the ball of light disperses the hellhounds and leaves Jack on the floor.

Aftermath! Bunker. Dean is dismissing the AU Winchesters. AU Dean suggests they all live there together, and OG Dean turns them down. He thinks they need to go to Brazil, and refuses their request to keep the flannel shirts. AU Dean tells him they saw the car – and drove it. I wonder when they did that, since the OG Winchesters drove it to the church. Huh. But that’s not what bugs me most about this. What bugs me most is that there’s NO WAY IN HELL (not even new, wimpy Walmart Hell) that Sam and Dean would have let those guys go. Would have turned them loose without any support. No fucking way.

Dean joins Sam, who is standing sadly in the hallway outside Jack’s door. Cas comes out of his room and says Jack is okay, but something is different. They go inside and oh, it’s not Jack’s room, it’s the kitchen. Jack is sitting at the table, crying. He apologizes for not understanding that killing Mary was his fault and begs for forgiveness. Looks like someone has been resouled. And – scene!

So. I didn’t really care for this one. In fact, it kind of made me lose hope for the rest of the season. And maybe the will to live. But I’m not going to dwell on that. I’m going to dwell on this: We don’t need any more side characters, even if they’re Sam and Dean.

Scenes From the Writers’ Room

Okay, who else can we bring back?

What about Ruby? I know a lot of fans would like to see some closure for her story.

I thought she had closure? When they killed her?

{laughter}

Good one. Yeah, let’s bring her back and wrap her story up. And we’ll give Cas and Jack some time too.

But we’ve gotta use the guys at some point. People are gonna complain.

I’ve got an idea – what if we have Jared and Jensen play two different people, rather than Sam and Dean?

You, my friend, are a fucking genius!

But if we had to get two AU Winchesters, couldn’t it have been the ones from Sam’s nightmares? Wouldn’t Boy!King Sam or MoC Dean have been awesome? And what if, after the AU Winchesters tumbled into the bunker, AU Sam quietly pulled OG Sam aside.

I need to talk to you. Alone. What is it? Do you have a secure room? Someplace we can ward? Why? Um… I’m not sure how to explain… Do you have Cain and Abel in your world? {Sam visibly blanches} We’ve got a dungeon. Come help me set it up. Now.

Wouldn’t that have been better than this crap? Or what about Samifer? Wouldn’t Sam and Dean’s reactions to Samifer have been magnificent? (Yeah, I know. We didn’t need a whole Plot. We just needed a small Device.)

And it turns out they’re not airing any more new episodes until… who knows when. Which means we’re stuck with this one. If I die and the last new episode of Supernatural I ever get to see is a fucking Buckleming episode, I’m going to be so pissed. I will come back and I will be haunting some asses. Enough whining. What did you think? And please help me stay unspoiled; thanks!

#spn #15.13 #recap #tv recaps #spoilers #fuckleming

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ikenbar · 5 years ago

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Mr. Love: Ike’s Choice

Author’s note:

This story is one of my own OC for the game Mr. Love: A Queen’s Choice. Except for Ike and her family, all the characters belong to the creators of Mr. Love: A Queen’s Choice. This fan fiction will contain spoilers for the game so, if you haven’t played it yet or are not caught up to Chapter 18 in the game, this is your warning. (Though it will take me quite a while to get to any sort of spoiler and I will mark it as such when it comes to it so you have time :P) This is merely a fan fiction of the game containing my own character and her story. None of this is cannon. All that said, Mr. Love is such an amazing game. It’s so much more than just some Otome mobile game. Its story is intriguing, and the gameplay is addicting in the best possible way. The development team are so respondent and understanding and honestly just want you to enjoy their game. I have! And I will! And I plan to show how much I do through this Fan fiction! I’m honestly just here for a good time so let’s have fun! Right? I plan on posting on Wednesday/Thursdays so stay tuned!! I want to show you guys the world I have been making for so long and my love for this game. So, let's get started, shall we? :D

Warnings: Talk of death (it’s just talk. There’s no real death. More like existential dread), Talk of abuse (this is just character development. It’s not an angst I swear), Grammar mistakes (I tried cleaning this the best I can but I may have missed somethings. I’m sorry ^^;), fluff, and cliffhangers. A lot of them. Prepare for one heck of a story

Chapter one:

Part one:

There is no such thing as a good way to die. Death is death. There is absolutely no way death could be justified. But that is the last thing you are thinking when it is your life that is at risk. The first thing of course being, “I hope he doesn’t miss me.”

>>>

It was hard to believe that I had been working as a producer for Ike ’n Bar Production Company for nearly two years now. I founded this company alongside my foster father, Bartholomew Schmidt. Bart had an opportunity to create something. Something that would bring love and entertainment to children and adults alike. Something that would bless the world with its presence.... He couldn’t make it past week one, so he called me in.

I am not one that wavers from the facts. There is a place for everything in this world and I do my best to put everything in that place. I didn’t spend four years of my life studying the answers of the world to be creative. So, when Bart turned to me for help with his new show idea, I was more than reluctant to help.

“Come on.” He begged wrapping his hands around each other, “They won’t let me pitch the idea until the plot holes are fixed. You’re the only person I know who will tell me exactly what is wrong without sparing my feelings!”

“Your TV show idea is a waste of my time.” I deadpanned.

“See?!” Bart stared at me with pleading eyes, “Just read the pitch... please?” After a couple minutes of awkward silence to finally cave. I read it over once. Then twice. Then a third time. I still had no idea what the show was about.

“So, let me get this straight.” I sighed, “It is a sitcom about a teenage girl, who happens to be an alien, living her life as a normal teenager.” Bart nodded excitedly. “But her family and friends have no idea what she is. And she has to keep the powers secret because… reasons.”

“See?!” Bart laughed, “You get it! For some reason the network thought it was confusing.”

“...I’m going to say this, and I want you to keep an open mind.” I handed the pitch back to Bart, “The show stinks. We are scrapping this idea and coming up with a new one.”

“Oh come-...we?”

“There is no way you are going to make it through this business alive without me. So, let’s talk about an idea that isn’t overused and unoriginal and actually has some taste.”

“.... Did you just hire yourself on my team?”

“Yes. Do you have a pen and paper on you? Someone should be taking notes.”

The new show we had pitched to the network was a hit. A sitcom about a family of robbers evading the police. They are trying to have a normal life as they live on the lamb. We called it, Show Me the Honey. Sending our average amount of views over fifty thousand. We worked on that show as we pitched others and made a name for ourselves and the company. Since I wasn’t one for limelight, Bart took care of the field work as I worked as the co-head of Ike ’n Bar Productions from behind a screen and in my office.

Things were just the way they should be. With me out of the way. Maybe if things stayed that way, I wouldn’t be where I am now. I could be at that desk right now. Working on the next show. Calling on my assistant for a coffee. Telling off the latest intern for screwing up the order of the files. I could even hear my father’s voice again as he calls me with updates from the field. But sadly, all good things must come to an end. This end started with one name. Victor.

“Victor?”

I repeated to Bart over the phone, stalling my note taking on the pad next to me. I was at my office that Monday afternoon. The sun was shining through the window behind me and onto my large, glass, desk. The sunlight reflected off my screen and into my eyes, causing my already rotten mood to worsen.

“Yes!” He excitedly sang, “You have an interview with him today at three!”

“That’s in two hours.”

“Right!”

“...Bart. This man is the CEO of LFG.”

“Correct!”

“Loveland Financial Group.”

“Wow, Ike! You’ve sure got this down!”

“...OK hold on, you want me to go to the head of the largest leading investor in all of Loveland and ask him for funding on a TV show that hasn’t even been green lighted yet?! And you want me to prepare for it in under two hours.”

“Oh, come on. Saying it that way makes it sound bad.” Bart pouted. “Miracle Writer is going to be a hit! And we are a well-known company! It's not like we are asking too much from them! Just a little something to start us off. Besides I already told him that my amazing co-head, Ike, was going to be meeting him so there is no backing out now.”

“Bart, why aren’t you going? Aren’t interviews your thing?”

“They are but… I’ve heard some ghost stories about Victor.”

“Ghost stories?” I skeptically muttered as I held my throbbing head in my hands.

“I hear he tends to be… stubborn when it comes to funding companies.” Bart said this in a low voice as if Victor would appear behind him to overhear his words.

“Oh, and you’re informing me about this now instead of a few days prior so I could prepare for such an important interview with him. Makes sense.”

“Ike, I know it’s a little out of nowhere-”

“A little?!” I scoffed lifting my head back up and pulling my bushy brown hair out of my eyes as I arched my eyebrows uselessly to the receiver.

“But just hear me out, ok?” Bart pleaded helplessly. I stayed silent. Bart continued, “Victor is known to be brash. He rarely, if ever, smiles. In fact, his poker face is known to strike fear into even the strongest of soldiers. He yells more often then he praises. His stance towers over most people and it sends a level of power that is like none you have ever seen. But most importantly, he is extremely close minded when it comes to lending his money. So, it would need to take a strong headed and strong-minded person to get through to him. To make him see that they are worth every dollar of his-”

“And you want me to do the interview because he reminds you of me.”

“Man, I can’t get anything past you.”

Bart had a point. I have a tough time with my emotions. Let alone other people’s. I am known to be inscrutable in the office and outside of it. In my defense, my tactless rule over the office is why everything runs smoothly. No one second guesses my commands and, if they do, it would result in an outcome that could only ignite more fear towards me. Besides, showing no emotions trains the mind to adapt and overcome the words of others. Which helps suggesting the amount of words the office has to say about me narrows down to about four letters.

The main reason I don’t mind it all though is because Bart is loved in the office. His bright and fun-loving attitude is a refreshment for everyone there. They all welcome him in with open arms and follow his every word with preciseness. He is so soft with them and normally brings free lunches for the office when he visits. Of course, all that sweet talk makes him a doormat when it comes to asking for things from him, but no one would take advantage of that. And get away with it that is.

Bart can barely talk to me without cowering under my intensity when we are face to face. I can’t imagine what Victor would do to him. He’d probably chew him up and eat him alive.

“Fine.” I caved, “If I’m doing this, I need to start working now. So, I have to go.”

“Ikamara Bikira, you are a lifesaver!! Thank you, thank you, thank you!!”

I groaned slightly as I hung up the phone. Interviews made me uncomfortable. How do you start it off? Do you need to make small talk? Would it be rude to just jump into the subject at hand? Should you address people by their first name or something a little more formal? Do I need to smile the whole time? Or should I be serious from beginning to end? I rubbed my temples to soothe my growing headache.

“That man is going to be the death of me.” I muttered under my breath. Though this isn’t the first time he has thrown me under the bus, I owed him my life. He and his wife, Maria, were the first foster family to take me in and want to keep me. I had been through five foster homes before theirs and I had the scars to prove it. I rubbed my arm as I recalled the memories. The first home sent me to a sort of bootcamp. The second home neglected me. Third home gave me too much of the wrong kind of attention. Fourth home made me lose parts of myself. Including feeling in my left arm and my voice. And the fifth home... Snapping back to reality, I smoothed out the sleeves to my shirt and saved the sad excuse of a report on my computer. I can’t let Bart down. It’s just an interview. I can do this. I reached into the cabinet next to my desk for papers on out new show “Miracle Writer” and a couple pods of Advil.

Stuck in traffic, I impatiently tapped at the handles of my motorbike. Normally traffic at that time wasn’t too bad but for some reason, we were at a standstill. Unable to rub away my ever-increasing headache, I looked impatiently down the line of cars ahead of me. They were stalled at one stoplight. Even though the light was green on our side, the road was blocked by another line of cars ahead of them. Keeping the car in front of me in my peripherals, I unzipped my leather jacket and pulled my phone from inside my blazer. I opened my moments and checked trending. “Super Star, Kiro, Signs New Albums at The New Light Mall.” So that’s why traffic is so horrible. The line of cars blocking the road must be the line of fans heading to the New Light Mall. I looked enviously at the line. Though immensely irritating, I would kill to be a part of that line if it meant I got to meet Kiro.

Kiro was an inordinately talented superstar. The spunky blond-haired, teal eyed man was very popular among teens and adults alike. He was an idol among millions for his talents. Which varied from acting to singing to dancing to even fashion. It seems like this young boy was too good to be real. Many believed he had the superpower to woo people with one glance. I, of course, found this difficult to believe…. Though even I found it hard not to enjoy his presence.

In fact. I was a very big fan of his. He just so happened to be my idol. His music was the main thing that got me through so many things. Moving from foster parent to foster parent, when I had become selectively mute, moving to a new school, the events of the fifth foster house. Kiro meant more to me than most things in my life. But you’d never catch me screaming his name or crying at the sheer thought of him. I had self-control. I had to have it. If any mention of me being a fan of Kiro in the office and my tough manager cred would be flushed down the drain. I had to keep my obsession closeted at all costs.

The cars ahead of me started slowly moving again so I put away my phone and slowly followed. The cars stopped soon after. I moaned and checked the time on my watch. 2:30. Maybe walking to LFG would be faster than this.

Finally, my bike slowly rolled up to the stoplight. Past this light, the traffic was much more free-flowing. I was the second vehicle in line. I could almost smell the freedom. My eyes lazily drifted to the sidewalk next to the stoplight pole. There stood a young man staring intently at his phone. He wore a black baseball hat, a red and white hooded t-shirt, and black jeans. He also wore accessories containing a pair of bulky headphones around his neck and a pair of sunglasses. I looked up at the sky. Dark clouds covered most of it. Why was he so heavily protected from the sun?

The APS from the other side of the street started beeping, signaling to a group of pedestrians that it was time for them to cross. The man started impulsively making his way to the street, not paying any attention to the fact that it was not his turn to walk. I watched as a yellow sports car started making its way down to the light and straight towards the man. I looked up at mine helplessly. Still red. I checked my watch. 2:45. I didn’t have time for this.

I cursed to myself and pulled my bike to the side of the road. I quickly pulled out my keys and dashed down the crosswalk and to the man. The car drove closer to the light. The car’s horn finally started blasting which finally pulled the man’s attention off his phone and to the road. He froze in place as the car came speeding towards him. I jumped off the ground and dove into the man, shoving him off the crosswalk and back onto the sidewalk. Safe from the sports car that now had zoomed past the light and down the highway. I lay on him protectively as I caught my breath. I pushed myself onto my hands and caught the last glimpse of the car before it sped out of sight.

I cursed at it uselessly. I sighed and finally looked down at the man. “You O-” I held my breath. The fall had knocked the hat off the man, revealing wild, bright, blond hair. The sun shone onto his sunglasses just enough to show his teal eyes sparkling as he made eye contact with me. My eyes went wide. It couldn’t have been him. There was no way it was him.

“You- you saved my life!”

It was him. There was no way you could mistake that mesmerizing voice of his. Especially if you listened to him as often as I did. It was a higher-pitched voice but there was a sense of joy with every word he spoke. As if merely speaking was a gift to him. As hearing it was a gift to me.

“Thank you!” Kiro smiled at me.

(Next)

#mlqc #mlqc fanfic #mlqc victor #mlqc kiro #mlqc oc #mr love fanfic #here goes nothing #i have so much fun writing this but the anxiety i get with posting it is almost overwhelming pfft #it doesnt matter though #im writing this for fun #this will be something amazing i can feel it #thank you for reading #next post on Wednesday or Thursday #:D

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wistfulcynic · 5 years ago

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The Very Witching Time (6 / 6)

And here it is, the sixth chapter of my four part story, the absolute and final last one. THE LAST, DAMMIT. This has been the most challenging story I've written and I hope you’ve enjoyed it.

Thank you all for reading!

For @thisonesatellite WHO KNOWS WHAT SHE DID ❤️❤️❤️❤️

and for @mariakov81 for reasons that will be VERY EVIDENT at the end of the chapter.

In this chapter Cora gets what’s coming to her and there is an epilogue so fluffy you’ll need to see your dentist after reading.

Thanks as always to @cssns for the brilliant event and @gingerchangeling for the gorgeous art.

SUMMARY: Emma Swan is a hereditary witch, last in a long line of wise women who for centuries have guarded the coast of Maine and the small village of Storybrooke with their homemade cures and their ancient magic. She holds the delicate balance between magic and mundane, but now that balance is threatened by a new foe, one capable of bringing an end to everything Emma is and everything she loves. To defeat it she will need all her power, help from her friends and neighbours, and the loyalty of a very unusual dog who answers to the name of Killian.

RATING: M

AO3 | Tumblr: ch1, ch2, ch3, ch4, ch5

TAGGING: @thisonesatellite, @stahlop, @mariakov81, @kmomof4, @snowbellewells, @jennjenn615, @resident-of-storybrooke, @teamhook, @thejollyroger-writer, @winterbaby89, @darkcolinodonorgasm, @captainsjedi, @ultraluckycatnd @shireness-says @scientificapricot @tiganasummertree

Chapter 6:

The fireplace in Emma’s living room was vastly too big for it, the raw grey slab of the stone mantel much too heavy and the carved pilasters beneath far too slender for their task. The hearth was too deep and too wide and protruded into the room much farther than it should, and the firebox put Killian in mind of the gates of Hell itself.

Yet the firelight emanating from this behemoth was playful, dancing a merry path about the room and gilding everything within in a flickering golden glow. Its delicate radiance illuminated the overstuffed sofa where David and Mary Margaret sat with their hands clasped and looks of solemn concentration on their faces, skittered off the un-curtained window behind them and away from the darkness of the night beyond, valiantly attempted to soften the strain in Regina’s expression and posture as she sat stiffly in the corner armchair, speaking only when spoken to.

It positively caressed Emma’s face, thought Killian, tracing the contours of her round cheeks and determined jaw, of that dimple in her chin he never passed up the opportunity to kiss. It shone through her hair as she paced along the hearth, brightening the loose waves that tumbled down her back with such a glow he fancied she was part of the flames.

Firelight made him whimsical, he reflected.

“So does everyone understand?” Emma was saying as Killian forced his wandering mind to focus.

“Not entirely,” said David. “But I think I know what you want us to do.”

“We know our part,” agreed Mary Margaret.

“All right then.” Emma clapped her hands together. “I think we’re ready. Regina, Killian? Ready?”

“Aye, love.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s get started.”

She took a deep breath and reached for Killian’s hand. He clasped hers firmly, reassuringly.

“All right, love?” he asked, keeping his voice low for her ears alone.

“Yeah,” she murmured back. “I’ve just never had anyone in the old part of my house before. Not on purpose anyway.” She squeezed his hand. “It feels weird, is all.”

Hand in hand with Killian, Emma led the small group along the dark corridor to the back of her house, smirking when Mary Margaret and David gaped openly as the stone doorway appeared in the wall and swung wide at her silent bidding, but smiling in understanding when Regina gaped openly at the workroom with its long table strewn with the ingredients and equipment for her spells. Hastily Emma gathered together several small glass bottles and linen bags, plus four engraved silver bowls and the star-strewn blanket Killian recognised from the night she’d given him his silver paw, tumbling them all into a wicker basket with a long, looping handle. Clasping the basket tightly she indicated for them to follow her and headed with a determined stride up the stone stairs that led to one of her towers. Not the library tower. The other one.

The stairs wound up and up and up, curving through a blinding darkness that had the four of them stumbling and holding on to each other for safety, following Emma’s sure steps by sound alone. Higher and higher still the staircase spun, far higher than the one leading to the library, spiralling ever upwards until they were dizzy, until they had lost all sense of time or space, until what could have been hours or minutes or inches or miles later they stumbled, breathless and disoriented, into a chamber.

It was a circular chamber, vast and echoing in a way that was surely impossible for any place atop such a tall tower to be, formed of seamless stone walls lined with unlit torches and illuminated by a faint, bluish glow from an unseen source. Emma set her basket on the floor and withdrew some long-handled matches from one of the linen bags. “We need to light the torches,” she said. “Normally I’d do it with magic, but I’d like to hold on to what little I’ve got.”

Mary Margaret’s face creased in a worried frown. “Sweetie, are you sure we have to do this tonight? Can’t it wait until you’ve got more of your magic back?”

“Mary Margaret you remember what she said, the low magic is part of the plan,” David reminded her.

“I know, but…”

“It’ll be fine Mary Margaret,” Emma assured her. “If everything goes well—”

“If,” muttered Regina.

“—then I’ll only need a bit of my own,” continued Emma, ignoring her. “I just don’t want to waste any resources. Just in case.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” said Mary Margaret, and took the long, slow-burning match Emma handed her, striking it against the wall and gasping at the bright glare of its flame.

As Mary Margaret and David lit the torches Emma and Regina spread the starry blanket over the centre of the floor, placing the silver bowls at each of its corners and filling each with sea salt and thyme and three dried nettle leaves.

“Are you sure you don’t want any mugwort?” Regina frowned at the contents of the bowls. “Or at least a bit of cinnamon bark?”

“Nope,” said Emma brightly, though Killian could feel her tension. “Simple is better, I think.” She handed Regina a bottle of sea salt then closed her eyes and breathed deeply, centring herself as the other woman sprinkled the salt in a circle around the blanket.

When the torches were lit and the circle prepared, Emma, Regina, Mary Margaret, and David joined hands and stepped as one over the salt circle and onto the blanket. The instant they did, the salt began to glow and energy sparked between their hands.

“Don’t let go!” said Emma sharply as Mary Margaret flinched in surprise. “Whatever happens you have to hold the circle!”

Emma bent her head and began to murmur in a language Killian had read but never heard, using the energy of the circle to boost her small store of magic. Soon smoke began to rise from the centre of the blanket, thickening and taking on the purplish-blue hue that still had the power to make his blood run cold, before dissipating to reveal a surprised and extremely displeased Cora.

“What is this?” she snapped, scowling at the faces surrounding her, her gaze flitting scornfully over Emma’s and Mary Margaret’s before landing on her daughter. “Regina?” she frowned. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Stopping you, Mother,” said Regina. “As I should have done long ago.”

“Pah,” spat Cora. “You can’t stop me.”

“I couldn’t,” Regina conceded. “I have help now.”

“Help? From the forest witch and her household spells? From Leopold’s doormat of a daughter and her very upright husband? That’s your help?”

“Not all of it,” said a deep voice that Killian barely recognised as his own.

Shadows shifted between the torches on the wall as he stepped forward from his hiding place among them, and when the torchlight made him fully visible Cora’s face for the first time showed genuine fear.

“You!” she gasped. “You’re— but— how?”

“You might well ask that,” said Killian coolly. “Though you needn’t look far for the answer. You did this.”

“I— what?”

Killian smiled, a sharp, vicious smile, remembering Cora’s arrogance and her presumption, and the cold deliberation with which she had ripped his life to shreds. Part of him, the dark part deep inside, was going to bloody enjoy this.

“All these years you’ve been obsessed with that prophecy,” he said advancing on the circle as near as he dared, “You spent your life trying to interpret it and to find a way to thwart it, but my dear Cora what you have always failed to understand is that everything you’ve done, from the moment you found the first scrap of parchment, has only aided that prophecy in coming true.”

“Impossible.” Cora managed a sneer, but it was a feeble thing. “You know nothing of prophecies, or magic.”

“Oh, on the contrary darling, I know quite a bit about both. Prophesied events may come to pass or they may not,” he glanced at Emma, who gave him a small smile. “But whatever they do they don’t do it in a vacuum. People are inevitably involved and where there are people there is always a choice. You for example chose to involve me in all of this—”

“I didn’t choose you, I was Shown.”

“Perhaps, but it was your choice to destroy my life in an attempt to get me under your control. Had you left me alone I would have lived out my life in the navy, never even believing in magic. I would certainly never have met and fallen in love with a witch.”

Cora shook her head, denying his words, though he could see they had shaken her. “No. No, you’re wrong, I had to stop you, you were destined to meet her—”

“I met her because you brought me to her forest and turned me into a dog,” retorted Killian. “You thought you were getting rid of me but it was only as a dog that I was in a position to stay close to her and protect her, and it was only as a dog that I could have defeated your wolves.”

Realisation was breaking across Cora’s face, chased by horror. “You were as good as dead,” she whispered. “There’s no way you could have survived…”

“Left to my own devices I surely wouldn’t have. But there was this connection I’d forged with a witch, you see, which allowed her to heal me. All of me.” He held up his left hand, whole and pulsing with a faint glow of magic. Cora took a stumbling step back, her fear palpable as she pressed against the barrier of the magic circle that held her.

“That’s not possible—”

“No indeed, I think we can all agree that it is quite impossible. And yet, here we have it.” He raised an eyebrow. “Tell me, love, why exactly did you take my hand in the first place?”

“I had a vision,” choked Cora, too deep in shock to attempt a lie. “I saw— I saw that she would need it. Your hand, your help. I saw—” she broke off on a strangled gasp, eyes darting all around, taking in the circle on the floor, the faces surrounding her, Killian and his glowing hand. The fear in her eyes turned to panic. “I saw this.”

“And what precisely is this?”

“My end.” Her terrified gaze met Killian’s calm one. “Are you— going to kill me?”

Killian paused before replying, keeping his eyes fixed on Cora, allowing the silence to stretch out until she began to writhe. “I am not,” he said at last. “But make no mistake, this is your end.”

“Cora Mills!” Emma’s voice resonated though the chamber. “Your actions have been seen, and now I offer you a choice.”

Cora jumped and spun around to face Emma. “A choice?”

“There is always a choice.” Emma's eyes met Killian’s, and he nodded. “You have shown you cannot be trusted to wield the High Magic. Your choice is to voluntarily relinquish it and work only the household spells, or to be cut off from all magic forever.”

Cora’s eyebrows snapped together as the hot flash of her anger burnt away her fear. “You can’t cut me off from my power!” she snarled.

“Oh yeah?” retorted Emma. “Try me.”

Cora sputtered indignantly. “With what magic?” she sneered. “You used all yours on Samhain, and my pathetic daughter’s isn’t nearly enough.”

“That’s true,” agreed Emma. “I’ve got no magic left.”

“Then how do you possibly presume to—

“I don’t have magic,” Emma interrupted. “But he does.”

Killian could sense the magic sleeping deep within the stones of the chamber, the same stones, the same magic, that had answered Emma’s desperate call mere days before, the magic that had healed his broken body and returned his stolen hand. He called to it now, and though he had no idea how he was doing so he pulled the magic into his hand and sent it on along the connection he shared with Emma, letting his magic flow into her as she had done for him.

Cora couldn’t see the source of his power —its nature was too foreign to her— but she could sense magic flowing into Emma, could see her channel it, weave it, and everyone could see when that magic flared into a blaze of light that Emma deftly moulded into a fearsome blade, long and lightly curved, and sharper than any steel.

She grasped this blade and held it before her as Cora herself began to glow, the energy of her own magic becoming visible as wisps of purple light that curled in gentle waves around her, linking her to the source of her own power. As Cora watched in growing horror these wisps wound around each other, twisting and knotting together to form a single rope roughly the thickness of Killian’s wrist. The rope drew taut beneath Emma’s blade, quivering in anticipation of her strike.

“What is your choice?” Emma asked. “Will you promise to relinquish the High Magic?”

Hatred flashed in Cora’s eyes. “Never—” she hissed, grasping the purple rope and whipping it away, but Emma brought the blade down faster than the human eye could see and sliced the rope clean through, severing Cora’s connection to her power forever.

Cora gasped then cried out in pain, staring at the fading rope with eyes dulled by uncomprehending horror. “No,” she moaned. “No you didn’t, you can’t! You can’t do this to me!” Collapsing into a heap on the floor, she clutched at the purple rope, fisting her hands into the starry blanket and pounding them against the floor as it faded away into nothing.

Emma heaved a deep breath and let go both of Killian’s magic and the hands she held, breaking the circle. The glow in the salt winked out and David and Mary Margaret fell into each other’s arms, clinging tightly and whispering as they attempted to process all they had seen. Regina knelt beside her keening mother and cautiously embraced her.

“Come, Mother,” she said gently. “I’ll take you home.” She stood and pulled Cora to her feet, raising her hand to poof them away but before she could Emma stepped forward.

“Wait,” she said, searching for the right words to express her feelings. It was— not precisely sympathy she felt; Cora more than deserved this punishment and the world needed protection from her, but Emma knew how devastating losing magic must be to a witch and her kind heart wished to help. She laid a hand on Cora’s arm.

“You’re welcome in my shop any time,” she said. “You may not have power anymore but there is magic everywhere, and I have things that can help you connect with it, help you find your way again. Both of you,” she added, looking at Regina.

“Never,” snapped Cora, yanking her arm away, but Regina nodded.

“Thank you,” she said. “In time, I think we might take you up on that.”

“Take all the time you need.”

Understanding flashed between her and Regina, then red smoke swirled and both Mills women were gone.

Emma stared at the spot they had vacated, feeling relief and sadness and a mess of other things she didn’t have the energy to sort through. She heard Killian come up behind her, felt his arms wrap around her. His presence was so soothing, she thought with a sigh, turning in his embrace and snuggling against him, pressing her nose into his neck.

“Well done, my love,” he murmured, kissing her temple. “How do you feel?”

“Gah, I don’t know,” she laughed. “Don’t ask me that just yet. Let’s just— is it weird that all I really want is a cup of tea?”

“Not in the least,” said Killian solemnly. “Tea cures all ills. Come, darling, I’ll put the kettle on.”

💐💐 💐💐💐

Seven years later.

The 31st of October was a cool and misty day that year, with pearly grey skies and the scents of wood smoke and frost clinging in the chill dampness of the air. By its afternoon much of the mist had burned away, save for a stray wisp or two weaving out from the forest and down Hornbeam Street to curl around the windows of the apothecary shop where Emma hummed to herself as she arranged the Samhain candles on their elegantly carved shelf. She paused neither in her arranging nor her tune, not even turning around when she sensed what Killian would call “a disturbance in the Force” in the vicinity of the table behind her, laden with caramel apples for the trick-or-treaters. She did, however, smile at the sharp hiss that resulted from someone attempting to touch those very apples and encountering a protection spell instead.

“Ow!” cried a small, indignant voice. “Mom! That hurt!”

“Stop trying to snitch apples and it won’t hurt,” said Emma reasonably. She didn’t need to look to sense her daughter’s pout. “You can have one in an hour when everyone comes for tea.”

“But I’ll want soul cakes then!”

“So have soul cakes.”

“But then I can’t have a caramel apple!”

Emma finally turned around, biting the inside of her cheek to hide her smile at the mutinous expression on the small face, so like Killian’s and framed by his dark hair, brightened in their child by glints of red, but with Emma’s own green eyes. Eyes that were at present narrowed in frustration.

“Life is full of tough choices, kid,” said Emma. “If the worst you ever face is caramel apple or soul cake, you can count yourself lucky.”

“That doesn’t help,” grumbled the small girl. “Grownups never say anything helpful.”

Rowenna Jones was many things: five years old (five and a half, she would insist), an apprentice witch, a gifted storyteller, the fastest runner in her kindergarten class, and the sworn enemy of her cousin Leo. What she most definitely was not, was anyone’s fool.

Emma laughed. “That’s very true. You still can’t have an apple now.”

“Hmmph,” said Rowenna, and stomped back to the corner —the same corner where her father had once spent his days curled up on his dog bed— and sat down at the child sized table and chairs that now occupied it. “I guess I’ll just colour then,” she said with the dramatic huff familiar to all long-suffering children.

“You could help me arrange the candles,” suggested Emma.

“No, they look good like that,” said Rowenna, after an appraising glance at the shelf. “Can I do some magic?”

“What magic do you want to do?”

Rowenna raised an eyebrow and the corners of her mouth quirked in an unconscious imitation of her father’s wicked smirk. “Can I hex Leo?”

“Definitely not,” said Emma. Nice bargaining technique, kid, she thought but did not say.

“Welllll, can I practice lighting candles, then?”

“That you can do.”

Emma took the practice candle from behind the apothecary counter and put it down on Rowenna’s table. “Remember to feel your magic first,” she instructed her daughter. “Reach out and touch it, make sure it’s welcoming to you, then pull it up through yourself and focus on sparking the flame.”

The child’s small forehead creased in concentration and Emma watched carefully as she gathered the threads of her magic and focused them on the candle wick. After a moment the wick flared into bright flame and both Emma and Rowenna clapped.

“Well done, sweetie,” said Emma, extinguishing the flame with her own magic and giving her daughter a one-armed hug. “Keep practicing. Try to do it without thinking so hard, remember that magic is as much feeling as thought.

Determination settled on the child’s brow, yet another thing she’d inherited from Killian. “I’m gonna do it so fast, Dad and Liam won’t believe their eyes,” she declared.

“There’s a goal,” said Emma. “You do that.”

~~💐~~

Half an hour later Rowenna’s candle-lighting speed had improved noticeably and Emma had rearranged her shelves six times as customers flooded in to buy her wares. She was sold out of bread and cider and had given most of the caramel apples to trick or treaters. Even Alexandra came in for one, though she was now twelve and that morning had rejected the pink princess dress her mother tried to give her, informing Ashley that trick or treating was “for kids” and everyone cool was going to Gideon Gold’s Halloween party instead.

“Well, I guess you’re not cool, then,” Ashley had retorted. “Try again next year.”

So Alexandra bought her own Halloween costume with her babysitting money and went to the shop for a caramel apple and a chat with Emma. Who did a sharp double take at the sight of her.

“Are you kidding me with that hat?” Emma demanded.

“No,” grumbled Alexandra, hunching her shoulders under Emma’s disapproving stare. “It was the only witch costume the store had.”

“You couldn’t have chosen a different costume?”

“All they’ve got are princess dresses and like, sexy nurses which my mom would actually kill me if I wore.” She shrugged. “I’ve been a princess every year, I wanted something different.”

Rowenna bit her lip as she watched this exchange, torn between her admiration for the older girl she idolised and indignation on behalf of witch-kind. “I like the dress,” she ventured. “It looks like what we wear for Samhain only black.” Her face brightened as she had an idea. “OH! Maybe you could make a leaf crown instead of a hat? Mom says some witches wear leaf crowns.” She looked imploringly at her mother.

“They do,” confirmed Emma. “I could probably conjure one, if you like.”

Not even Alexandra’s newfound adolescent sullenness could mask her excitement at that prospect. “Okay,” she agreed.

“One condition,” said Emma. “You have to let me burn the abomination on your head.”

Alexandra removed the pointed black hat she wore and handed it to Emma, who took it gingerly between thumb and forefinger. “I’ll be right back,” she said.

“Look what I can do, Lex!” cried Rowenna, waving Alexandra over to her table. “I can do it really fast now.”

Quick as the flash of the flame itself she lit the candle with her magic. Alexandra’s eyebrows rose despite herself. “That is pretty cool,” she conceded, and Rowenna glowed brighter than her candle.

Emma returned a few minutes later carrying a delicate tiara woven of slender willow branches interlaced with hawthorn and red maple leaves, whose dark auburn shades suited Alexandra’s colouring beautifully.

Alexandra’s mouth dropped open and then she squealed, completely forgetting that enthusiasm was for babies. “Wow!” she cried. “That’s so amazing! Oh, thank you!” Emma helped her adjust it to the perfect angle on her head and let the girl admire herself in the glass of the display window as she grabbed her besom broom to greet a new flock of trick or treaters.

“Are you ever going to fly on that thing?” asked Alexandra, once the children had gone. “You’ve been saying you do for years, but I’ve never seen you.”

This time Rowenna couldn’t stifle her scoff, not even to keep Alexandra’s favour. “No one actually flies on broomsticks,” she huffed.

“Wha— really?” Alexandra gaped at Emma, who shrugged. “I actually believed you, you know!”

“Sorry?” said Emma.

“You should be,” said Alexandra.

~~💐~~

Soon Alexandra left to show off her crown to her friends and Rowenna returned to practicing with her candle. Emma watched with a soft smile as magic flowed through her daughter, smooth and steady and controlled with an instinctive skill that made Emma swell with pride.

Rowenna lit and extinguished the candle faster and faster until it was blinking like a strobe light. She giggled at the effect and the thrill of her magic, and Emma was just about to step in before she got too carried away, when Rowenna’s face brightened with an eager expression. She extinguished the candle and turned towards the door. “They’re coming!” she called. “Mommy, they’re almost here!”

Less than a minute later the door opened and Killian strolled in, a small puppy with floppy ears and pale gold fur dancing energetically at his heels. Yipping excitedly, the puppy ran to Emma and bounced around her knees in a brief hello before bounding over to Rowenna and jumping in her lap to attack her face with enthusiastic, sloppy kisses. She giggled and pushed him away. “Stop it, Liam! Get down!”

Emma put her hands on her hips and glared at her husband. “Did you let him walk the whole way?”

“He wanted to!” protested Killian, slipping an arm around her waist and kissing her cheek. “You know he loves to explore the forest. And it’s easier than carrying him.”

“Hmmph,” huffed Emma, sounding exactly like her daughter, though she softened into his embrace and curled her own arm around his waist in return. “Is he hungry?”

“I expect so.” Killian nuzzled her ear. “He’s a ravenous beast puppy, as you know.”

Emma sighed as he tickled the sensitive spot on her neck then turned in his arms and kissed him hard. “Can you watch the shop for a minute while I go feed him?” she asked against his lips.

“Of course, love,” he murmured, brushing her nose with his as they exchanged sappy grins.

“Daddy, you can watch me light the candle! I can do it sooo fast!” called Rowenna, sensing that her parents were nearly done with the mushy stuff. There was no talking to them until they’d kissed at least three times, this she knew from lifelong experience.

“Well, that you must show me.” Killian planted a final quick kiss on his wife before turning his attention to his daughter, exclaiming in admiration as she lit the candle for him and giving her a proud hug.

Emma scooped up the still-bouncing puppy and cradled him in the crook of her arm, scratching his tummy gently with her fingertips. “Time to change now, kid, if you want some food,” she said. Liam licked her chin then closed his eyes, shimmered gently with a soft golden light, and Emma was holding a plump blond baby boy with eyes the same grey as the clouds outside. Cuddling him close she kissed his cheeks with silly smacking noises and he gurgled happily, patting her face with his tiny hands and making her heart clench with love and a trace of awe. Even after six months she still marvelled at him, at the ease of his transformation and the pure instinct of his magic. Her family’s witch magic manifesting in her daughter was something Emma had expected, something she knew how to deal with, but a shapeshifting son whose eyes were always the colour of the sky had taken her rather by surprise.

She blamed Killian. Who was more than happy to accept full responsibility. Who was, in fact, thrilled to have a son who preferred to be a dog.

“After all, love, it’s far more fun to be a six month old puppy than a six month old baby,” he’d pointed out just the day before. “Considerably greater mobility, and that’s just for a start. Perhaps he’ll choose to be human more often when he’s a bit older.”

Liam’s cheerful babble interrupted her musings. “Well, I hope you’ll have a nice long nap after your dad wore you out letting you walk all the way here,” she remarked as she carried him to the small room at the back of the shop. There she fed him and burped him, rubbed his back and hummed a lullaby until he fell into a doze, then laid him down gently in the crib she’d tucked into the quietest corner of the room and tiptoed away to begin the preparations for tea, hoping he’d stay asleep.

The scrabbling sound of puppy claws on hardwood and Rowenna’s shrieks of laughter informed her that that hope was a futile one. Emma sighed and decided to let Killian deal with it.

When she came back into the shop with her tea tray piled high with Samhain treats David and Mary Margaret were there, she seated on the floor cooing over a delighted Liam and he attempting to police the children’s table where Leo was already squabbling with Rowenna over her crayons. Emma surreptitiously removed the practice candle from within her daughter’s range of magic while Killian poured tea for everyone, heavily diluting it with warm apple cider for the children.

“So how was your day?” Emma inquired of the room at large, once everyone had been served.

“Ugh,” groaned David. “Don’t ask.”

“Why, mate, what happened?”

“I wish I knew. It seems like Leroy managed to obtain Doc’s Miata—

“—According to Granny he won it in some sort of bet,” Mary Margaret chimed in.

“—and he’s been driving it around like a maniac all day,” David concluded.

“Ah,” said Emma, deadpan. “So that’s what that red blur was.”

David shook his head. “I know you’re kidding, but also you’re not kidding. He was pulled over for speeding six times, twice in fifteen minutes by the same officer. I finally had to put him in a holding cell to get him off the damn roads.”

“Yip! Yip! Yip!” barked Liam in his tiny puppy voice, leaping out of Mary Margaret’s lap and jumping excitedly at the Main Street window. “Yip! Yip!” They all looked out the window to see Doc walking past, carrying a baseball bat and the air of one seeking bloody retribution.

“Goddamn it,” growled David as he charged out the door.

~~💐~~

David didn’t return. He sent Mary Margaret a terse text saying he’d see her at home that night, so after she finished her tea Mary Margaret collected Leo, wished everyone a happy Samhain, and took her leave.

Liam was sound asleep on Rowenna’s lap, draped across her legs in that boneless puppy way, but when Emma picked him up he yawned and shimmered back into a baby, snuggling against his mother and blowing bubbles of drool on her chest.

“I’m gonna go put him down in the crib and hope he naps until closing,” whispered Emma. “Do you mind taking Wren back home with you?”

“What do you say, lass, shall we get the food ready for the bonfire?” asked Killian.

“Yeah!” Rowenna jumped up from her chair.

“Put your crayons away first,” Killian instructed, catching her shoulder before she could run out the door, “And don’t forget your jacket.”

As Rowenna collected her crayons under Killian’s watchful eye, Emma slipped away with Liam, indulging herself in a brief cuddle before laying him in the crib, stroking his hair —the same colour and softness as his fur— until she heard Killian and Rowenna leave the shop.

She tidied up the tea things and took them into the back, and when she returned to the shop Regina was waiting.

Emma gave her a hug, which she returned warmly. Regina had warmed considerably in the past seven years, finally out from under her mother’s controlling thumb and now four years into a relationship with one of Killian’s old university colleagues, a widower with a young son who, Regina had once confessed to Emma, had brought out a maternal side in her she’d never known she had.

“How’s everything?” asked Emma. How’s Cora, she meant.

Regina understood. “We’re doing a bonfire tonight,” she replied. “Mother lit the candles this morning.”

“That’s fantastic!”

“It really is.” Regina shook her head as a smile teased the corners of her mouth. “I honestly never thought I’d see the day.”

“So do you think she’s really reconciled to everything?”

“She still hates you,” said Regina bluntly. “And Killian even more. And I suspect she still tries to summon magic sometimes.”

“Well, no one changes overnight.”

“No. And she is getting better.”

“That’s something, anyway.”

“That’s something,” Regina agreed.

“And… you’re happy, right?” asked Emma cautiously. Regina could still be prickly about her personal life.

But Regina smiled, wide and soft and genuine. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m happy.”

“Well, that’s what matters.”

“I suppose it is.” Regina allowed herself a brief squeeze of Emma’s hand. “Well, you’ve got things to do and I should be going. I’ll see you again at the equinox?”

“See you then. Blessed Samhain, Regina.”

“Blessed Samhain.”

~~💐~~

That evening Rowenna, dressed in a miniature version of her mother’s ceremonial gown and with green eyes huge at the momentous responsibility of the task, carried the oak log to the smouldering pile of wood in the fire circle and carefully placed it on the top. It burst instantly into flame and she started backwards in awe and alarm, reaching for Emma’s hand. Emma took it, partly to reassure her daughter and partly to complete the ritual, speaking the ancient words slowly so Rowenna could follow along, her small voice quavering slightly but never faltering.

Killian sat on the porch steps watching them, Liam gurgling happily in his arms and his chest tight with pride and love and other emotions he couldn’t assign a name. Happiness was certainly one, he thought, and wonder.

Emma and Rowenna finished their obeisance and Rowenna with a whoop of joy ran inside to get the food to roast in the fire. She returned less than a minute later balancing a tray of corn and squash precariously as she bounced down the stairs, and Liam began to squirm with intent.

“I suppose you want to go play,” said Killian.

“Gurgle,” Liam replied.

“All right go on.”

His son’s body shimmered and glowed, and Killian’s arms were full of wiggling puppy. Liam covered his father’s face in wet kisses then leapt from his lap and raced out into the garden.

“Be careful!” called Killian.

“Yip!” barked Liam.

Killian leaned back against the railing of the porch with a pensive sigh. The garden magic rose and swirled around him, ruffling his hair and tickling the sensitive spot just behind his ear. He laughed.

“Hello,” he said.

You’re thinking hard.

“Just reflecting on the vagaries of fate,” said Killian with a wry grin. “Wondering…”

Speak your mind, Killian Jones.

Killian chuckled. The garden magic had always understood him.

“All this,” he said, gesturing to the fire, the feast, his family. “Sometimes I wonder what I’ve done to deserve it, that’s all.”

You earned it for yourself, the magic whispered. You protected her. You loved her. You were prepared to die for her. You made this happen.

“Did you know?” he asked it. “Did you always know who I was… to her?”

Yes. Who you could be to her. But the future is never certain. There is always a choice.

“A choice,” echoed Killian, watching his wife and daughter tuck vegetables around the fire to roast and their son yip in delight as he chased the embers floating through the air. “I like that. It’s how it should be.”

This GORGEOUS, STUNNING drawing of Rowenna and Liam is, of course, the work of the utterly brilliant @mariakov81 who somehow read my mind and drew them exactly as they should be. Please tag her in reblogs to give her the appreciation she deserves ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

#cssns #cssns19 #captain swan #magic au #witchcraft au #witches #witchcraft #cursed!Killian #witch!Emma #cs fic #cs ff #cs ff au #gingerchangeling #mariakov81 #profdanglaisstuff #the very witching time #captain swan original children #and original puppies #THE CUTEST DAMN PUPPIES

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peachydyoung · 6 years ago

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freakshow | m.l (m)

— 🗣A/N 🗣 ➙ this was proofread and edited at 4:00 AM so if there are missed shit excuse it.

— genre ➙ freakshow!au + gang!au + smut + angst

— words ➙ 15K rip i hate fics this long

— member ➙ mark lee in honor of him turning 19 and dying his hair black

— warnings ➙ graphic smut, dirty talk, softdom!mark + sub!reader, oral, fingering + Unprotected sex | strong language

There isn’t much in your college town, but when the mysterious and notorious, “Ten’s Traveling Carnival,” comes on their annual visit, you’re somehow roped into going. But amidst the freak show acts, you see something odd... something unlawful. You never expected you would be trying to bust a criminal organization coverup, but you never thought you would fall smitten with the star magician either.

↳ 01 completed

— ⚠️ DISCLAIMER⚠️ ➙ This is a work of fiction, nothing I write in here has happened. So I’m a little nervous about doing this fic, Mark is younger and I don’t know how people will react, my intention is not to offend anyone. Each fic will have their own set of warnings, look at them and evaluate if they are for you. My intention is not to offend, or trigger anybody, I am here to entertain you and exercise my passion as a writer.

October 9th, 3rd day since Carnival arrival, 18 days until departure

What would it be like with Lisa? You imagined what it would be like to with her instead of him. But that's all you could do. Because Instead of being at home eating takeout and watching tv, you were at a Carnival with Johnny.

And you sat in your seat miserably, head slumped on Johnny’s shoulder and eyes glued to the terrible freak show acts. Conjoined twins, knife throwers, fire eaters, the typical.

When you were younger, you used to love coming. It was your aunt who took you whenever you pleased. But now? Now it was astonishingly tiresome to watch, and a waste of your valuable time.

“Why?” You murmured to Johnny, checking the time on your phone as he clawed the bucket of popcorn. “Why did you have to bring me along?” But Johnny was too wrapped up in the show to give you the time of day. And instead of answering you, his eyes followed the bearded lady as she walked from the spotlight.

And just as she left, a frail boy scurried onto the stage. You recognized as Ten, the young carnival owner who had inherited the business once his father passed away. But that was all the information he ever disclosed. Ten's Traveling Carnival was the talk of the town, going from country to country, state to state, but the urban legends and mysteries were endless.

With a glimpse of excitement, he grabbed the microphone in his hands, his eyes scanning the crowd as he drunk in the applause. “And now!” His voice rung into the microphone, “I give you the Marvelous Mark!”

The audience exploded. This one man caused infectious grins to spill onto everyone’s faces, cheering and hollering you could only ask why. There was nothing special about this place.

College was fun, it was your dad who had always reminded you to take hold of that time, but you never expected yourself to do something so stupid. Like, for example, watch a freak show when you could be at a party.

But college life was different. You went wherever it took you.

“But may I ask, ” the bright tent lights dimmed as if for a dramatic effect. The boy was attractive no doubt, yet there was something malicious about his actions, something a little less than innocent. "Please turn off all cell phones until the end of this show, or I ensure you, there will be consequences.”

A scoff left your lips as you looked down at your lit iPhone. What were they going to do? They can’t check your phone. Or maybe... it was part of the act.

But when Ten disappeared, and the curtains opened, the magician wasn’t there.

You chuckled, rolling your eyes at the people who searched around aimlessly for any sign of that boy. Perhaps he got cold feet, hid from the crowd because he got nervous. A sense of amusement flooded your senses.

And suddenly, before you got to giddy, a boy appeared. Dressed in a black t-shirt and black jeans he sauntered to the front of the stage with a bright smile on his face. There was no doubt he was an attractive boy, you were starting to think that they were all attractive. With black hair and brown eyes, you could see the appeal in his appearance. He was handsome.

And your mind immediately wandered to that, it was always what your mind wandered too. Attractive boys, attractive girls, cute dogs, cute cats, it was natural to classify people by looks. He was handsome, undoubtedly.

“I’m Mark.” His dark eyes glinted in the dim lighting of the tent, but he had a flirtatious smile, scoping out and locking eyes with each girl in the crowd. And despite feeling a scoff well up in your throat, you couldn’t help but lean forward, something about this boy intrigued you. “And if you would be so kind,” He glanced around the crowd, finally pointing at one man. “You. Could you please hand me a dollar bill.”

It was only after you saw the man and a dollar bill over that you recognized it was the other person you came here with. He was talking to your friend, Sehun, who had gone with his girlfriend but sat in the front row.

When Sehun handed him the dollar bill, there was no doubt Mark was just as generic like every magician out there. Nothing different. But instead of dismissing his act, you decided to watch.

“Now,” He started, “I’m Mark. I’m not a magician, I’m a wizard.” A snort left your lips in the ostensibly silent room. You had guessed he was targeted at a younger audience, just by the way he talked.

Slowly glancing down at your phone, you pressed the camera icon, planting your phone in front of your lips and letting a video play. “And with this match, I’ll light...” he trailed off, striking the match against his skin, and slowly bringing the fire to the dollar bill, “...this dollar bill on fire.” And everyone watched as the dollars flame grew.

And with a surprise, Mark’s hand closed on the growing flame. The crowd gasping at the man who had burned himself.

But out of his hand came a dove, the dollar went, the fire is gone, and the match gone.

Cheers erupted over the impressive, yet nonproprietary trick, catching your interest but being too proud to admit that you actually were quite interested.

“And from this dove, I birth two.” Bringing the dove in his hand, closing it until it was out of sight, two doves appeared. And then he plucked a feather from the poor dove, releasing it after he had done so.

“And from this feather, I birth a…” And with the snap of his finger, a hundred dollar bill appeared. Mark handed it to Sehun with a friendly smile.

And then he moved on, showing other tricks, but soon your interest was gone again, and you couldn’t help but slump on Johnny’s shoulder, for what felt like the hundredth time.

“Y/N, get off of me,” Johnny said, panic-laced in his usual soft voice. His reached deep into his sweatshirt, unsettled by something that just happened. “I can’t find my fucking wallet.”

You instantly got off of him, your eyebrows furrow with concern.

“Did you drop it or something?” He nodded, his head alarmed at his recent finding. “I mean it only had cash and my driver’s license, but I need my fucking driver’s license Y/N!” You nodded, bringing your phone down and looking around the area in which you sat as if that would help.

And with a sigh you looked up, glancing at the exit of the tent. What the fuck?

A small boy, perhaps sixteen, had walked behind a mother. A baby slung in her arm and a child in front of her, she and her children watched in awe of the boy in front of her. But what she didn’t notice was the stealthy hands digging into her pocket, taking from her some cash and wallet. And you noticed it happen again. But this time with someone different.

The magician was little more than a highly effective, in fact, Mark knew exactly what he was doing. The looks he exchanged with those three boys, and the way they were so stealthy proved only one thing. He would entertain the crowd, and get his friends to pickpocket innocent people while he did the same. And you finally realized why he invited the most attractive and wealthy looking people on stage. He would take the precious things in their wallet, while those three boys went around doing the same. Nobody was witnesses to the crime, nobody except you and your phone.

“Johnny,” You grabbed his arm, eyes fixed on the attractive boy behind that man, relieving him of his phone and wallet, his stealthy hands taking them from his back pocket. “Johnny,” you pulled on his arm once more, getting his attention the second time. “I think you were pickpocketed.”

Johnny jeered at you, snatching his arm away from your fingertips as you watched that man exit the tent swiftly, each movement using such grace.

“Not everything is like your stupid mystery books, stop fucking around and help me find it.”

You rolled your eyes at Johnny and crossed your arms in frustration. But you did, this wasn't a mystery book. You just watched some fucking guy steal from someone else.

And then suddenly, Mark was gone, and the show was over. Ten crossed the stage almost instantly, a wicked smile on his face as he gazed at the crowd.

You had wondered what it would take to make him give the stuff back, you could start with talking to Ten, but you weren't so sure. “If you would like to see more of our Freaks, then you would do well to ask around back, we have trailers. But the Marvelous Mark and the knife eater will not be seeing anyone.”

Of course.

Don’t let anyone meet the thief.

But it didn’t matter to you. Even if the night was getting later and later, you needed to at least confront that boy about the bullshit he pulled. You couldn't go home knowing helpless people were stolen from.

Johnny sighed next to you as the crowd began to filter out of the tent. “Can you just wait around, let me look around and shit. I just need fifteen minutes tops. Meet me at my car by 11:00.”

“You’re not gonna find it, Johnny,” you said, and he knew that.

And maybe you would get back his license. After all, they did probably have it. Scratching your chin and looking at the exit of the tent. You had to see Ten, you had to find Mark, and you had to check your phone for what you caught on video. There was a multitude of things crossing your mind, but you at least wanted to help Johnny.

“It’s worth a shot,” he shrugged, looking around the area more thoroughly as you slowly walked towards the exit.

Your bullshit is over, Marvelous Mark.

The names of the performers were neatly designed on their trailers, but Mark’s was hidden. No name, no act, nothing. You had assumed it was because of his popularity, especially girls. You had counted, you had looked at all names, and narrowed it down to three trailers that were lined at the very far end of the carnival. You ended up picking the earl grey colored trailer.

Your major in college was simple, forensic science, it was because you wanted to help you that you did it. The need for helping people always staying with you. And your loyalty to the law prominent in everything you did. It was what made you, you. Your kind heart and nurturing character.

Walking closer to those three trailers, you weren’t surprised when one opened, a black-haired boy with black clothes jumping out, a lit cigarette in between his lips as his eyes raked your body.

You had seen guys like this, except they went to your college, not a carnival sideshow act. A satisfied smirk crossed his face. It seemed way too rehearsed, maybe he was used to the attention, perhaps he had done this so many times before, other intentions in mind.

“How can I help you, sweetheart?” You drunk in his appearance.

Finding the words to answer him, you opened your mouth, only to speak a few moments after.

“You—I—Can I ask you a couple questions?” There was a rush of nervousness as you began to spoke. Bad scenarios playing in your head.

He chuckled, taking the cigarette that hung loosely in his lips and holding it between his two fingers.

“I don’t have time for questions,” he mused, his voice hanging thick in the air around you. “But if I must ask,” he trailed off, taking a puff of his cigarette before throwing it on the dirt ground. “Policy states no videos, and you were very clearly taking a video. Can I ask you to delete it?”

No. You can’t ask that. He didn’t have any right to be making you feel like you did something wrong. You did nothing. If anything it was you and your friends that were stolen from.

“I could say the same about you,” You scoffed, catching the boys attention with your brash behavior. He shifted on his feet, leaning on the trailer, an entertained look crossing his features. “Pickpocketing your audience? You’re not very slick.” There was a look of surprise on his face, but it was written off as soon as it appeared. He was good at concealing his emotions.

“Yes, which is why I’m telling you to give me your phone dear.” He had no remorse if anything it looked as if he was proud of himself. That deceiving people he promised a fun night to was exciting and exhilarating to him. “Or you’ll have many other problems to worry—”

With a surge of passion, you blurted out your feelings, cutting him off.

“How could you? Do you know how much people come here with the intent—”

“It’s all the finance of being a freak,” he snickered, reaching in his back pocket to take out another cigarette. And although he did act tough, did horrible things, he didn’t seem like the kind of boy to smoke. He didn't look like the type to steal either, but looks can be deceiving. He looked gentle, a bit childish, naïve even, but here he was.

“That’s the finance of being a lawless asshole with no fucking life ahead of them but some stupid fucking freakshow. If you don’t compensate for the things you stole from those people, then I’ll post your video, and nobody will ever come to your stupid ‘Ten’s Traveling Carnival’ bullshit.” There was no emotion in his face, no care for what he did, it was as if he didn’t think you were serious.

Pushing himself off the trailer, he smiled, not an endearing one. Something you would see in a fucked up scary movie. “Firstly Sweetheart,” With a firm grab of your hand, yanking your forward, and his hand steadily on your hips pushing you into his trailer. “I don’t like being threatened. Especially by a broke college student like yourself.”

It was unbelievable. It was terrible. How could he steal from a bunch of innocent people and still scare you enough to not release that video? He knew you for 2 minutes, and yet he had more power over you that was first anticipated. And that was definitely not okay.

“So why don’t you get out of here, and if I see you again matter’s will be worse.”

You weren’t going to turn away so quickly. This was the first carnival in years that piqued your interest, and you were not going to back down from this fight. This was a battle worth fighting.

“For you or for me?" His grip on your hip did nothing but tighten as he heard those words leave your mouth.

“Come back, and we’ll see.”

October 10th, 4th day since Carnival arrival, 17 days until departure

He knew you would be back, with the stuff that he pulled last night it was inevitable for you not to. Foolishly enough, when you were halfway back home, you had gotten no texts, felt no buzzes, heard no dings. And so when you swiftly reached for your back pocket, you were surprised to discover your phone was gone. And oddly enough, you knew who had taken it.

If the Carnival was some big operation to steal from people, what did they do in the offseason? And if it was so bad, why would Mark want you to come back? That just made no sense. Mark had briefly touched on the fact they were dangerous, but what could possibly be so dangerous?

It was dark enough that in some areas of the Carnival ground it looked like a black abyss. But some stalls and booths vibrated colorful lights under the moonless night. You kept your head down, an old prepaid phone slipping under the strap of your bra, and car keys clipped to your jean ring by a keychain.

Most people wandered from stall to stall, eating the food, playing the games, interacting with attractions. You understood how many people worshipped Ten’s Traveling Carnival, but you also realized how ominous it felt there. Especially being alone in the dark, lit, dirt grounds.

Until finally, you reached the striped tent. You could hear Ten’s voice hang in the air like it did the night before. The ticket booth was lit as well, there stood a man, Jaehyun (or so his name tag said). He took the tickets with a cheap phony smile and only ever showing emotion when a pretty girl walked by.

Hesitantly, you walked up to him. There was an iniquitous gleam in his eyes and creepy smile descending over his face. You looked down instantly, kicking the dirt with your feet, taking out the small red ticket and handing it to him.

“Are you sure Madam?” He asked, his voice unusually dubious. “This show’s almost over,” he motioned to the tent, “and I think I saw you yesterday. There are other, much better shows to attend than this one. You do only have one ticket, Madam.”

You cocked your head to the side giving the attractive boy a puzzling look. He had to of known what was going, there was no way they could do this type of thing and not have everyone aware. And even so, you didn't find it professional for him to be saying that to you.

“Thanks for the concern, but I like this show—”

“I insist, miss, I insist.” You could only help but think Mark told his friends about your little encounter, or maybe… they were watching. You had an odd feeling of being watched on these campgrounds, and it creeped you out.

At the moment, time stopped, the air came to stillness, and yet everything around you grew louder. The lights became brighter, then your heartbeat was quicker now. And everything told you to leave, including him, but you didn’t. With a deep breath and the slowing of your shallow breathing, you gathered up the courage to talk.

“I said— Let. Me. In.”

With a chuckle, he threw his arms up in defensive, ripping the side of the ticket off and handing it to you, keeping the rest. But with a slow pace, he handed you your red ticket, not only were they stealing, they were profiting off of it. And it was smart, they were terrible but intelligent.

“Enjoy… Miss,” He opened the tent flap and let you go under. It was a different dimension in there. The music, the screams, the mood.

“Thanks,” You mumbled, stalking towards the back of the crowd. And watching as the same stupid bearded lady grew her bear a few inches in front of the crowd in seconds, Wendy, they called her. Who would look pretty if she didn’t have a few feet of facial hair? Stuffing your hands into the pocket of your jeans you waited, glancing around the tent for the same three boys you saw before.

One had black hair, short, about 5’7, cute too. He would walk around towards the front of the rows. The second boy was tall, sandy blonde hair and almond-shaped eyes. He was quick on his feet, stayed towards the back. And there was the last one. He was a young boy, had to be at least sixteen, tall and blonde. He stayed towards the middle, where you and Johnny sat.

In the same outfit, Ten sauntered onto the stage, his presence doing nothing but irk you. Narrowing your eyes at him, he delivered the same words he did yesterday.

“And now!” Using the same soft, kid like voice to announce Mark, he spoke. “I give you,” his eyes locked with yours, “the Marvelous Mark!”

There was nothing special about this place. It was based on lies, the cheers were lies, the fun, the intent. But the crowd was still louder than last night. This was created with malice, to steal, to rape, to kill, and other horrific crimes, and you finally realized that all the stories you were told had been true.

That the drunken ghost stories about this place weren't a lie. Maybe it was you getting ahead of yourself, but you couldn’t help it.

“But may I ask…” His voice got low, the familiar dim of the bright lights befalling. “Please turn off all cell phones until the end of this show, or I ensure you, there will be consequences.”

It was so well rehearsed, so well planned out just like organized crime. You were in awe at what lengths these boys went to, to secure their shitshow.

But an all too familiar feeling washed over your body, and yet again, more people were watching you. Some had amused faces, and others looked as if they wanted to kill you, while Ten, he looked just to look over at you.

The curtains opened just as Ten left. This time Mark was eager, he didn’t hide from the crowd he strutted to the front excited, scanning the crowd for any familiar faces. Scanning the crowd for you.

But you weren’t an easy find, not at all, you came dressed in black. But luckily, just as he looked your way, the tall brute stood in your way. Standing there for a couple moments before moving. And unfortunately, his eyes were still locked on you, as if he knew.

“I’m Mark!” He said to the crowd, silence falling over the audience, his eyes pinned to yours. Instead of looking at other places, his eyes remained on you, a smirk appearing on his thin lips. “And I’m not a magician… I’m much, much more, folks.”

The familiar hatred for carnival shows welled up in your chest as you watched him carry on. His friend's eyes tightly locked on you, and the boy’s smiles motivated.

“So,” He began, walking around the stage, glancing at other people in the crowd. “May someone please hand me a dollar?” And he went through the motions, but it wasn’t a dove that appeared in his hands, it was a rose gold iPhone, your iPhone. His eyes darted to your face, a mirthful, more sinister smirk appearing on his lips. The crowd oohed and ahhed at his magic trick.

Gaping at the boy, you were overcome with anger. Your hands balled into fists as you viewed him, a chuckle parting his lips as he looked down.

“I’m sorry,” He apologized to the crowd, “this was supposed to be,” He snapped his fingers, “a dove.”

And then there was a dove.

And it only got worse from there. It was as if they had no conscious. You were sure they knew you. By the way, they exchanged looks you had known the whole time that Mark found strength in numbers.

And each magic trick he seemed to have one of your belongings, or even worse, Johnny’s. And it wasn’t until you saw them pickpocketing that you felt even angrier.

With your arms crossed, the boys took valuables from other people, and all you could do was stand shocked at their behavior. And you would have said something if it wasn’t for that tall boy who stood next to you, giving more than evil looking glances your way. At least he hid them behind friendly smiles.

And it was all so fast, that you hadn't even realized it ended.

“If you would like to see more of our Freaks, than you would do well to ask around back, we have trailers. But the Marvelous Mark and Knife eater will not be seeing anyone.” And then he caught your eyes. An evil glint in his eyes as he stared at you. “Marvelous Mark, will not see anyone for any reasons.” Who was going to stop you?

And before you could find out, you bolted from the tent, scared that Mark’s friends would watch you, maybe even keep you within the shelter.

Startled by your abrupt exit, Jaehyun jumped. “Madam?” He asked as you stumbled in the direction of those grey trailers. You looked back only once, a cold feeling erupting over your stomach. Your hands felt cold, everything felt cold. And you felt… scared.

“Yes?” You were able to take hold of your voice, despite how you felt.

“Exit’s that way,” he pointed, this time a genuine smile on his face, one that was pleading for you to leave.

“I don’t plan on leaving,” You glanced at his name tag. “Jaehyun… ” His face was washed over in concern, maybe you did look a little unsettled.

“Madam? Are you well?” You were certainly well. Maybe a little angry, but you needed your stuff back, you couldn’t afford to get new ones. But with no reply, you walked off towards the trailer.

Kicking the dirt road from under your feet. Every moment you spent got scarier and scarier.

The lights were melting into the night, like mixed watercolors, intertwining with the stands and people. What was this place? Were the stories real? Were they killers? Theifs? Or were they worse?

There was a feeling of dread as you walked closer to his home. At the very least he owed you your stuff, at the very least. But you guessed that he didn’t really care, by the looks of his jet black hair, cigarettes, and sparkly eyes smirk, he would be one of the notorious boys at your college. But alas. He didn’t go to college, he worked at a carnival.

And slowly you looked out beyond that, glancing at all the vans. Walking closer you stopped right in front of the door, but there was no telling when he could be back.

With curiosity, you reached out for the handle. You knew it was locked. Nevertheless, it was worth a shot. You remembered doing things like this, sneaking back into your friend's house, into your home when you had a night of fun. But that was in high school, not college, and not now. It wasn’t moral.

“And just what you do you think you’re doing?” Pulling away from the trailer you turned around. He looked the same, this time his black jeans were ripped, and his black shirt was a dirty, with specks of lint coating it.

He stepped closer, a signature smile on his face that you’ve gotten to know so well in only two days. You were flustered, staring at his handsome form, but the only thing you could get out was four words.

“I need my stuff,” You backed away from him. With a smile still on his face, he laughed. And maybe you shouldn’t have been acting so timid, you should have been the one mad, but in a place where you had nobody with you, it was a bad idea to do anything rash.

“Sweetheart, I can’t give you your phone.” His presence was that of a fly, pesky, annoying, and buzzing in your ear. “You know that.”

“And why not? That’s stealing.”

“And?” Playing games with you was a bad idea. You weren’t here to conversate, you weren’t to laugh, you were here for your stuff. “You know… I really misjudged you. I didn’t think you would come back.”

“You have all my things,” You stepped back. “My credit cards, my student ID, everything. I need my phone, and I won’t leave until I get it back.”

Without a response, he moved towards his trailer and took out a set of keys. He glanced back at you once, a small smile falling on his face. Jamming the small silver key into the door and opening it up, glancing back at you, before climbing the stairs.

“Are you coming?” He called from inside. And it wasn’t your first reaction to go in after him, but you did anyway. Trailing behind him as you entered the small trailer.

It was quaint. A homey trailer that suited the boy. It was minimalistic, but the endless cabinets and boxes probably hid all the things he had stolen from other people.

You sat down unsure of yourself, watching as he silently dropped a tea kettle on the stove filled with water and turned the gas on.

It was as if he wanted to play with you, to play house, to play hostage, whatever sick game he wanted.

“So uh… do you live alone?” But you instantly regretted it. Wrong thing to say. But you asked about it anyway. He seemed to think the same way, except he was more skeptical. He turned around, leaning on the counter as he glanced at you, a snicker leaving his lips.

“Yeah, since I’m the main act. Other people usually have two to four to a trailer.” You nodded, drumming your hands on the table awkwardly as you wished for the small talk to end. You were here for your things, not to drink tea and eat biscuits. Y/N! Get up! But you didn’t listen, you knew you should of, but something intrigued you. And that had been happening a lot. Curiosity getting the best of you. There was a deep yearning for adventure, a deep longing for learning new things. And you wanted to know him, regardless of how deep down that thought was, it was still there, hidden under miles and miles of anger.

But you needed to be responsible, and you knew to march into a place that wasn't safe was far from it.

“I need my things, Mark,” you said for almost the third time. He leaned forward, pushing himself off the counter and towards the table.

“I know sweetheart. But I haven’t had fun like this in a long time.” He fell back into the chair across from you, biting his small lip, and glancing at you only once. “It’s not every day a freak can see a pretty girl.”

“You’re not a freak,” You deadpanned, watching as his first converted to amusement with every word you said. “You’re a lousy sideshow magician. And rather pathetic.”

“For someone desperate for her things, you’re awfully rude.” Using your name only made you upset, seeing that he had access to all your personal information, and if he found out your phone passcode (although you wouldn’t put it past him to even hack it), there would be even more of an exposition for information.

“A freak is a person, animal, or plant with an unusual physical abnormality,” He said, leaning in as if the conversation was getting anything but annoying. He seemed genuinely excited, and it was creeping you out.

You crossed your arms, leaning back in the rickety chair and narrowing your eyes at him. “I’m surprised, is that a Textbook definition? Cause you’re not a freak, you’re a petty thief.”

“Never did that textbook definition state it has to be an abnormality commonly seen. Sometimes it’s hidden by clothing,” he shrugged, leaning back slowly, a smirk forming on his face as he watched your reaction.

Was he talking about his—?

“I could show you sometime.” He exuded a sense of hilarity, knowing that his teasing was somehow getting to you.

“Um... no thanks.”

“But that’s no fun,” he pouted, pushing himself from the chair and towards the steaming kettle. Ease him into the idea, you thought. Maybe if you got him to sympathize with you, perhaps if he saw you as a typical college girl things would change, you just needed to be smart.

If your face wouldn't give you away.

But of course, this was a young boy, you shouldn’t have expected anything less than this. “Oh c’mon Y/N! It was a little funny.”

“No, not really, I’d rather have a normal conversation.”

He shrugged deadly, looking at you to go on, his boyish ways showing a little more.

“How long have you been doing this?” You blurted out, not as casual as you would have liked. But nonetheless, the question interested him. Something about it seemed to catch his attention. Letting the tea seep into the boiled water he turned around, being the in same position he was a minutes before.

“What an interesting question?” He said, letting a grin claim his features. But he got serious quick. “I started training at ten, started performing at seventeen, I’m nineteen now.”

So he was young, much younger than you expected; nonetheless, you didn’t know what to expect from him. But one thing did confuse you.

“Why would it take so long to master tricks. You’re a magician, not a doctor.” His familiar chuckle left his lips as he turned back around to watch the tea. It was odd to you how this boy had been training since ten, it just didn’t make sense. He had school, not this. Finally, a sincere, genuine smile flashed through his face, one that showed off his small teeth and thin lips.

“Think of it as a family business. There’s a lot of secrets to learn.” You had always liked secrets, you liked knowing things you shouldn’t. That being said, you had a loud mouth. Especially when it came to people you didn’t know. A curiosity welled up in your stomach as you stared at his body.

“And what’s the secret?” he picked up two white mugs, bringing it over to the table, his mannerism being… polite.

“It wouldn’t be a secret if I told… especially if I told a girl like you.” You cocked your head to the side, his comment proving to only interest you further.

“And what would that mean? And on the topic… don’t you get bored of being in a carnival? You are young, so why do this then be out at parties and college?”

“It means, one, Chittaphon—Ten, he tells me to stay away from people like you. Too curious for your own good. Always trying to stick your nose into things it doesn't belong. Always trying to interfere. And two, because I chose this life, and my father chose this life. I can still have my fun if that’s what you’re wondering. We have vacation and days off Y/N.”

With his long explanation, you took the appropriate time to think it over. Naturally, it was that the first time ever properly talking, and you wanted to analyze everything you possibly could. But you had realized just as you were analyzing him, he was analyzing you, and he was better at it.

Sitting back down on the chair, he took a long sip of his tea. But when you tried, it was boiling hot. But instead of drinking it, you let it warm your cold hands as you wrapped them around the glass.

“Than why invite me here? It’s very counterintuitive, don’t you think?” He flashed you a toothless smile. Setting the cup back down on the table.

“All the things Chittaphon lectures us about, are the very things that make us feel alive. There’s something intoxicating about it—about breaking the rules, the rules you’ve known your whole life. And you’re everything the rules keep me from.” He was smart, a very bright kid. It’s a shame he didn’t utilize it and go to college, he would have done well.

“That’s insightful… do you want to tell me anything else? Maybe about your family.” He tilted his head, you could see him thinking, perhaps long and hard about Chittaphon's rules. Maybe even harder on if your intentions were true, which they weren’t. But there was a moment when your curiosity was genuine, and the conversation wasn’t for the sake of your stuff.

“I was born in Canada and moved to South Korea when I was eight. My dad had a job opportunity. He was trying to move this Carnival to the states. So I went along,” He began, taking one chaste sip of his tea as if he was getting ready for a story. “This is the family business. My mom wanted college, but dad wanted the business.”

Odd. Why would he move a Carnival to the states? Didn’t make much sense to you. But the Traveling part at least alluded to it being international. But at the moment you decided against mentioning it

“Do you speak Korean?”

“Depends,” he smiled, leaning in again a smirk on his lips. “Will it turn you on?”

You couldn’t help but softly giggle. Despite him being an asshole, he was charming, insanely, so it was most likely why Mark got away with his bullshit.

“Most certainly not,” You said back, finally being able to take a sip of the tea. It was fruity, something you would expect from him. “But,” You quickly started, “is your family business stealing? I just don't understand.”

“Secrets, Sweetheart,” He singsonged. “Those are secrets.”

You nodded slowly, finding his life more interesting.

“Did you do schooling in your teen years?”

“You’re awfully curious.”

“You live an interesting life.”

“You look pretty trying to get information from me,” he said, taking the mug from you. “You’re not getting your stuff tonight sweetheart. Try again later.”

And maybe, you thought, he wasn’t giving it to you tonight, cause he wanted you to come back. You were sure if you asked, he would agree, he wasn’t one to lie. He was candid, you liked that.

“I figured,” You said, standing up quickly and looking down at him. “But can I still have it back.” And suddenly you realize you’d just given away what you had been doing.

“I’m not feeling nice right now. Try again later Sweetheart.” And without arguing, you pushed your way through his disgusting trailer and left. Being sure to slam the door on the way out. “Don’t worry, you have seventeen more days to change my mind.”

October 12th, 6th day since Carnival arrival, 14 days until departure

It had been a lousy night. Notwithstanding you wanted your stuff, something about Mark and the Carnival fascinated you more than it should. The deeper you thought about what he told you, the more it didn’t make sense, and the more you knew there were things hidden.

Then the more you wanted to find out.

Of course, when you got home that night, you made a beeline for your room, trying to ignore Lisa and her lingering questions.

Johnny had found his license mysteriously, claiming it was on the top of his dresser the whole time. But that just didn’t make any sense. Strange things were happening.

There was a smile on your face as a happy mood settled over your body. The air smells of the sweet candy apples and cotton candy. Young children rushed around, going from game to game, ride to ride, tent to tent. Regardless of the thievery, you at least had respect for the fun it gave children. It was the day to vacation from reality, the day when peculiar freaks walked the grounds on an old October night.

“You were late,” A cold voice came from behind you. With a slow reaction, you cautiously turned around, your eyes grazing the man's body. He was familiar, yet you couldn’t put your finger on who he was.

“Excuse me?” You asked, a silence falling over the fairgrounds. It was the type of silence that fell before you were stabbed in the back before something terrible happened. Grey clouds hung thick in the black sky, as the full moon glowed a tint of red. Something didn’t feel right.

“Mark—You weren’t there. You were late.” For his show? What did this man mean? You can’t talk to someone in code and expect them to understand.

“For his show?” You had wondered why someone would be so mad that you missed a show that happened nearly every day.

“Yes, Ma’am.” You shrugged at his answer, gently raking your fingers through your hair. His voice was timid, but his presence was anything but.

“I’m sure he won’t mind.” With a gentle, yet deceiving smile, he stuck out his hand, beckoning you to shake his hand. But all you did was look at it, wondering if it was a smart move.

“I’m Ten.” You nodded, your memory flooding back to the mention Mark gave him, and both nights he announced the freaks onto the stage. Instantly you shook his hand. “Where do you work?” He asked, his head cocking to the side, his eyes narrowing at you. “Mark told me a library.”

“I’m a college student, but I work part-time as a waitress.” Dumbass. Mark didn’t even speak to Ten about you, why would he bring the place you worked, let alone a library. Nevertheless, he nodded, his eyes twinkling with curiosity as you spoke to him.

“So why have you decided to come fives days in a row to the same show, to see the same person.” You cocked your head to the side at the odd expression. You had remembered what Mark said, and with that in mind, you certainly did not trust him. And with the way his cold voice spoke to you, it was more evident than ever now.

“Nothing. I don’t see why what I do is your business.”

“Cause what you’re doing concerns, Mark.”

Fair enough, but that didn’t change the fact he had terrible social skills and was a little less than kind to you. Kicking the dirt under your feet, you tried at all costs to avoid his stare, until…

A firm, but gentle breeze tousled your hair and pinked your cheeks. And with the wind slowly picking up, Ten’s unsettling stare, and the autumn leaves in the air, you were saved.

You had thought the voice was merely the wind, but it wasn’t, it was Mark

“Chittaphon… What are you…? ” And with a lift of your head, Mark realized it was you he was talking too. A soft and mumbled, “oh,” Left his lips as he saw you, a shocked expression on his face, the only time you had ever seen him such a brash display of his feelings.

With a faked, prepossessing smile, he turned to Mark, bowing to him as he mumbled something in a foreign language.

“You two have fun tonight,” he glanced at you, letting Mark push past him and to your side. And with a gust of wind, you were propelled forward into walking.

And with a long sigh, the constant flickering of different colored lights, and the cold breeze, he turned towards you.

“I’m sorry about that, I didn’t know he would find out,” he said, pushing his hands into his pockets and easing up on his pace. “I got a little too excited and told Jeno, my friend.” A soft smile illuminated your face, at his comment.

“Excited about what?” And slowly a smirk appeared, more of a soft smile, but the fragments of his familiar smirk still prominent.

In the days you were able to talk to Mark, you had found out quite a bit of thing. There were things about this family, and things about him, although those things were picked up, not told. Like his sweet sense of humor, something almost innocent about it. And the way whenever he let himself laugh, he would bite his lip to stop, trying to show you he was, perhaps, cool.

You were only yards away from his small trailer when he began to elaborate. The same children and families noisily running around the loud fairgrounds.

“Your feeble attempts on getting these back,” he lifted his hand up, your phone resting gently in his grasp. But with a snap of his fingers, they were gone, and a laugh falling from his lips as he saw your reaction.

He had a cute laugh.

“How are they feeble if you’re laughing and smiling. Seems like I’m pretty successful.” And slowly his mood changed, scoffing at your remark and making it to his home.

“When will you learn to keep your mouth shut, you always ruin a happy mood.” And then he had his moments. The annoyingly teenagerish moments that made you want to stab him with a tea kettle (if that was even possible).

“I’m going to college, and you’re working at a Carnival.” And without another word, he was opening the door to his trailer and pulling you in.

“You’re right sweetheart since you’re so smart, tell me something only a college student would know.” Flocking to the familiar chair you sat last time, you fell back into the chair and observed him further. His movements were so boyish, and not at all how he portrayed himself.

“I know what hard work is—”

“And, just when I thought I would get a good answer,” He spoke, facing his old refrigerator, and picking out only a couple things. “I still have your stuff,” He pointed out “Now—What do you major in? we've seen each other three times, and I don't even know.”

“Forensic science, you know, crime scene evidence, DNA, all that stuff.” He nodded, leaning on the counter and narrowing his eyes.

“Explains your close affiliation with the law… can I ask why?” And it wasn’t a hard question, you knew exactly what you wanted to be in this field.

“If someone is killed, I want to help put that killer away. And If someone is wrongfully accused, I want to help set them free. Forensic science is the core piece of evidence in cases.” He cocked his head to the side, a thought written on his face.

“So you catch killers?”

“Well, yes, most of the time, I could do other things, but usually that.” He moved towards the chair across from you, sitting down and turning towards you.

“So you don’t have anything to do with drugs, heists, shootouts, embezzling... “ You were confused by his question, it seemed obvious to what you did.

“You may never know when you may be needed in this field,” You said a little too excited. “You never know when you’ll need the type of science.” But with a clever smirk, he turned towards you, a mischievous glint to understand.

“Help me understand Y/N, please,” You leaned back, the old chair creaking under your weight. With a raise of your eyebrow, you expected. You knew he understood, and you would even take it as far to say he knew when you told him, but still, you obliged.

“Create a scenario.”

With a smile, he started. “So let’s say my girlfriend and me…” He watched your expression, seeing that he got none from you. “I’m a visual learner, act it out for me.”

Unsure of yourself, you slowly got up, standing in place.

“Let’s say,” He began again. “She meets me where I sit.” You meet him where he sits, standing in front of him.

And you were suddenly hyper-aware of how close you two were. Suddenly hyper aware how desperate you were to get your stuff back.

And slowly his finger runs up the back of your thighs, his eyes meeting yours as he continued up your leg, squeezing on the skin to only disturb you.

And with slowed breathing, you exhaled, a little too deeply, enough for him to hear.

“And let’s say, her hand is in my hair,” He waited patiently for you act out what he wanted, gently raking your fingers through his hair, just as he slowly scratched the back on your thighs.

His hair was soft, softer than you would have expected from someone like, so brazen and impudent.

“I have her clothe fibers on my fingernails, she has my DNA under hers… but let’s say… hypothetically of course, that someone suddenly comes in and shoots her, how would you prove that I didn't shoot her.”

You heartbeat picked up at the question as you thought. What could you do? You could start by touching, taking your hands off of him. And so you instantly pulled back.

“It depends on a factor of things. If anyone saw this person shoot her or flee the scene or if anyone had wanted her dead. If the boyfriend ever owned a gun that matched the bullet. And if there a serial number on the bullet. All I could do was inspect the bullet wound. The entrance and exit, and in the angle in which it entered. If your story aligned, you would have a good case.”

You stepped back, his fingers leaving your thighs, a tingling sensation from where he once touched you.

But you had seemed uncomfortable, though you weren't. Not under his touch.

“You’re smart,” He said, watching as you sat back down. “I would do well to have you around.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” He scoffed at the question that felt stupid for him and laughed.

“It’s with a brain like yours, It would help me in my—”

“In your unlawful acts.”

“Precisely.”

You tipped your head to the side, thinking over what he was telling you.

"Why would I do that?"

He was strangely forthcoming with information. Perhaps he was overly trusting, or he had an idea up his sleeve. He didn’t seem stupid, but he didn’t seem particularly logical.

You sat up, folding your arms and intently staring. “Why do you share so much with me? Aren’t you afraid I’ll tell someone.”

“No. Because you’re either scared, seduced or too interested in stopping.”

Which, the interested part was true, but it couldn’t be that he couldn’t actually believe that. So instead of accepting your answer, you constricted your eyes, letting him know you didn't believe it, and he opened up a little deeper. “It also gets pretty lonely if I'm honest. I know everyone here, so having someone new to talk too is cool.”

“So you’ve never spoken to a girl before? You’ve never done anything normal? You’re just a freak.”

“No. I still have sex, I still talk to girls, I do everything… Just in different ways… You could even say I do more.”

“So… Mark… What else do you want to know?”

The grey hue of the cloudy sky did nothing but put Mark in a lousy mood. And with the rain coming down in heavy droplets, it hurt to even come outside. But today was perfect. According to Chittaphon, that is.

With the thin material of his windbreaker. He did what he was told, and transferred the boxes into their trailers, or decoy trailers.

There was nobody at the Carnival surprisingly, it had been raining so hard that he didn’t doubt the reason why. So instead of playing the cover, Ten sent everyone to work.

“How’s your girl?” A voice called from behind him, the pounds of wet mud cracking as his two friends ran beside him. It wasn’t likely that people asked about Mark’s private affairs, but it seemed that this was a special occasion.

Mark chuckled silently, turning to Jaehyun and patting him on the back.

“She’s not my girl,” He said, continuing to walk away.

“This would be the fourth day she’s seen you, so have you fucked or… ?” Lucas had always been candid and used his candor carelessly.

There's something about you that made him feel a little more normal, but not in an annoying way. He had thought your energy uniquely fit his, each the perfect complement of the other. And he liked how smart you were, how you so readily told him about your family.

“I don’t think she likes me in that way,” He dismissed, continuing to walk with a head down. But Mark didn’t care, he just wanted you. Even if you're saying yes only for your things, he still wanted you.

And maybe so. Perhaps at first, he thought there could be a twinge of attraction from you. He quickly realized you were doing it to get your stuff back and that there was no desire to have him whatsoever. Sadly for him, it was putting him in a bad mood

“How can she not like you? She keeps coming back,” Lucas points out, folding his arms as he pulled his drenched sweatshirt hoodie over his head.

And he thought that too, the night he touched you. The night you allowed him to run his finger up your thighs. But somehow he might have been too clouded by lust to see that you didn’t want him.

“She’s coming back for her stuff, not because she likes me or wants to have sex with me.”

“She looks excited when I let her into the shows,” Jaehyun pointed out, trying hard to avoid the muddy parts of the ground. “So maybe she finds pleasure in coming, and not just for her things. That’s an excuse for her to come.”

But Mark still had trouble believing it, and he had a hard time grappling with the fact that he let himself grow fond of you. That wasn’t like him. Usually, he would meet a girl, fuck, and then travel again. Occasionally stopping to do pickups and smuggles.

“She’s smart,” He turned to them, earning a snicker and head shakes. “No,” he said. “She’s smart. Forensic Science is her major, and she wants to study forensic pathology. And her family's like mine, she has friends, she’s cool, people like her.”

Jaehyun’s eyes widened at the mention of your major, turning to Mark with a cautious frown.

“You shouldn’t let Chittaphon know that he’ll do anything to keep her away. You know how this works.” Of course, he knew. They weren’t just a carnival, they were dangerous, sometimes Mark forgot how dangerous he was. Maybe it was his age.

“But I like—”

“Mark— you can't.”

“I know.”

With a crash of thunder, they all started running for cover.

October 14th, 8th day since Carnival arrival, 12 days until departure

“You’re leaving soon,” You said, making sure to avoid the muddy areas until you could successfully get to his ugly trailer.

“You gonna miss me, Sweetheart?”

It would be hard to miss someone you just met, but fortunately for him, yes, you would. You had talked to him, and surprisingly you were able to be honest with him, like your personal therapist. A handsome therapist.

And suddenly it wasn’t becoming all about your things, it was becoming more about this boy. Who had been forced into this life, who wanted to go to college, which was normal like you?

“If I say yes, what would you do?”

He chuckled, grabbing your hand as a mob of kids pushed past you two and towards one of the freak show tents as it started to rain.

“I could think of a few things, sweetheart.” A suggestive smile stretched on his lips as he pushed you in front of him. And with a hand on the small of your back, he led you closer to his trailer. You knew this wasn’t going to be a typical visit. And if you were honest, you wouldn’t be closed off to it.

“Where are you traveling too next?” You asked softly, letting him cut in front of you and pull out his key.

You had finally realized what was so interesting about him. He was so ordinary, but his situation wasn’t. And even with this average side, he was still mysterious, there was still secrets he had yet to reveal. Maybe it was his stealing, or perhaps it was his black hair. Whatever it was, it pulled you in.

“The state over,” He deadpanned, pushing the door open and allowing you to escape the rain first.

The only thing that left your mouth was a mumbled oh before he flopped down on his bed and left you to sit awkwardly at the little table towards.

“That’s cool,” You offered, He moaned as one of his bones cracked, surely meaning he had done something before your meeting. Looking up irreverently he made a face as if you were stupid.

“Aren’t you coming over?” To his bed? No of course not, that would be inappropriate. Did you ask yourself unsuitable for who? It wasn’t against the law to lay next to him, it wasn’t anything of the sort, it was just… you knew you shouldn’t think of.

“No, I’d rather stay here,” You laughed awkwardly, an eye on his lithe body as he let his head fall back down. But he didn’t care, he never really cared.

“Come over here, Y/N,” And usually you would object, but this time, you didn’t want to.

When you were younger, or perhaps a freshman. When you liked someone you were just like a school girl, looking at shallow things with shallow ideas. But this? This was an infatuation. His voice, his thin pressed lips, black hair, was all you could think about sometimes.

But paired with his looks, there was a yearning to be normal. And you wanted that. You wanted to fix him in some sort of fucked up way, but you wanted him to break you. To ruin your life as you knew it. You found solace that he couldn’t be linked to all your friends, that way even if it ended badly, it would save you humiliation.

Your appetite, your friend life, it all dwindled. But him, no.

“Y/N,” He called again, pulling you from your thoughts. And on cue, like he wanted, you slowly got up, shifting uncomfortably in your sweatshirt as you neared his small bed. It was only a few steps away, you could practically make tea from his bed if you wanted.

You could see yourself making breakfast from his bed, but it would only be after you stayed the night.

“Yes?” You stood over him, analyzing the facial expression that crossed his face. But he stared back, possibly doing the same thing.

“Sit down Sweetheart.” And so you sat, face forward as he stared at the side your face, the stare so intent that you swore it was burning through your skin. You could only hope that you wouldn’t look back. “When I go away? And you get your stuff…” he trailed off, his question not yet being asked. “What would you have learned from this?”

The question had a joking manner to it, but you could tell it was serious, he really did want to know.

“I would have learned about you,” you shrugged, turning towards him and smiling softly. And he giggled a boyish one.

“What did you learn?” he asked with a smile, his eyes meeting yours. “What’s your favorite thing that you learned, you’ve seen me for six days, I’m interested.”

Had it been that long, did you really start to like him only after six days? It amazed you, he amazed you. But out of all the things he shared, there was one thing that made you smile. His kidlike ways did nothing but amuse you more than it should of.

“The fact that you want to be a rapper.” You couldn’t help but wear a big dopey grin as you said that, soft giggles leaving your lips.

“Okay but I don’t see how that funny,” He chuckled at you, a smile crossing his face as he saw you. Mark couldn’t help but feel a little more powerful with you around.

“You can’t rap, Mark,” You side eyed him knowingly. But of course, you had never heard him rap before so you wouldn’t know. “Do you want to give me a sample of The Marvelous Mark, rapper, and magician.” He glanced up at you, a swell of confidence running through his body.

“And UGH it’s long ass ride—”

And that all you needed to rile in a fit of laughter, maybe you didn’t give him a big chance, but he could have started with a better verse than “Long ass ride.”

“Hey!” He cried. “I couldn’t even finish! And why were you laughing so loud, you’re gonna wake up the whole damn neighborhood!”

And somehow over the past three days, you found yourself joking with the boy, being more and more like a friend than an enemy, and like you had known so many times before. This wasn’t just about your stuff. It was about him.

“Long ass ride? Do you like me? Or are you being suggestive just for the fun of it? Cause I don’t know.”

He turned towards you, a slight bit of shock apparent in his appearance as he glanced over at you, he was trying to see if you were serious, and maybe you were, maybe you weren’t, you were trying to figure that out for yourself.

“Does this answer your question?”

“Hmm?” You asked, turning your head toward him.

And you didn’t expect it, at least not that brashly. But when you looked, his willowy body began to relax, his hand palming himself through his jeans as he gazed at you.

“Does this answer your question, sweetheart?”

His comment wasn't out of character, and his actions weren’t either. But you were too surprised to realize what was actually going on. At that moment, your mind could no longer formulate any more thoughts, and it was all on overdrive. And with a soft groan, he grabbed your hand, glancing into your eyes retrospectively.

“Go on,” he said, voice soft and tense.

Unsure of your actions, you let your learned muscle memory. You watched his face, listened to his groans. If this ever happened, you never would expect it to happen so calmly, maybe it would happen amidst a fight or tragic situation, but no. Not this.

“Fuck Y/N—“

He looked up at you, sitting up suddenly, pushing your hand harder onto his clothed member. You wilted under Mark's stare. His serene brown eyes seemed to only appear larger and brighter as he stared more. In the gap between his eyes and yours, a battle was fought. But when he placed his soft hand on your jaw, it was him who won.

His lips moved with urgency, as soon as you kissed back, he grabbed your face with both his hands, pushing you back on his soft bed. Your hands took fistfuls of his long hair, all the pent up frustration and tension had come out. His hands gripped your waist, pushing you down into his mattress. He panted after breaking away from your lips. His lips finding your neck within seconds. Nipping at the exposed skin quickly, as he took that moment to mark you.

And he knew what he was doing, just as you thought he might have been inexperienced, he surprised you.

You liked guys full of surprises.

He bit down on your neck softly, kissing the marks over. Taking your supple surface in between his teeth, he decorated your skin. A whispered moan escaped you and his lips curved into a smirk.

“Mark! What the fuck?”

You looked back at him, this time a little hurt that he would do anything like that.

One minute you’re making out, and the next he’s grabbing you and pushing you up. He looked down puzzled, pondering over his actions.

“You should have never done that.”

“I didn’t do anything! You’re the one who made the first move.” You balled your hands into fists tightly, trying to contain the anger that pumped through you. With teeth gritted and knuckles white, you glared at him. Your look burning through him faster than anything Mark had felt before. Your face was red with suppressed rage, from your stuff being stolen, from him embarrassing you, from him making you care. “Why the hell would you make me care, to just push me away!?”

But instead of answering, he pulled your stuff from his jacket and roughly handed them to you. A look of shock crossed your face. Was it all going to end? Just like that. And of course you knew when you got home, you would be relieved, but you also knew the next day you would feel empty. Like all the feelings didn’t matter. And you never found yourself to be someone who wanted sex, but this time you did.

“Just take your shit and leave.”

In awe, you scooped up your things. Mark’s face contorted into a confused glare as he looked at you.

“I don’t understand—”

“Just go.”

The raining didn’t stop that night. It didn’t stop at all. Instead, the Thunder got worse, and Mark was beginning to become more and more restlessness. The thick blackened clouds were dragged down by the heavy ran that assaulted the roof of his trailer. And if that didn’t make matters worse, the fact that he lost you was also pretty devastating to him.

What were you doing on the other side? Was it raining for you too? The rain seemed to match his mood. Disasterious.

The sound of emptiness was disrupted by the loud boom of thunder. But nobody paid it mind but Mark.

“He’s sad about his girlfriend,” Jaehyun said, looking over at Doyoung and snickering. “She won’t be coming back here anymore.” If it weren’t for Jaehyun, Mark wouldn’t have pushed you away. He wouldn’t be able to offer you anything, and if he could possibly get out of this operation, it could start a lot of trouble with Chittaphon.

“C’mon Mark,” Doyoung raised his bottle, “you fuck any girl that walks by, there isn’t anything different.” But to Mark, he found someone that listened to him talk, and laughed at his jokes, and to be totally real, there wasn’t a lot of people who did that. “How would you even keep a stable girlfriend? Isn’t she married to the law? Wait until she finds out were the whole crimina—”

“I get it Doyoung,” Mark hushed, his Korean flowing freely from his tongue. “But I intend to have kids. I intend to get married. And me choosing her, I chose with intentionality.”

With his final lines, Jisung snorted from Mark’s bed. The Fortnite on his phone drowning out his voice.

“You act like she’s yours to choose. She’s her own person.”

Doyoung looked as if he had enough of Mark’s antics, glancing at his watch only once before eyeing the door.

“Maybe it’s for the best then,” Jaehyun offered, trying to console his younger friend. But Mark didn’t feel as if it was for the better, he felt as if this would hurt him in the end. The one that got away. “It’s not like you were gonna marry her and live on the hills. It’ll all pass in time.”

It wasn’t likely that you and Mark would ever end up together, but you weren’t talking about the future, Mark was talking about right now. You needed each other right now.

“I never wanted this life,” Mark softly mumbled to his friends, causing them to stare wide-eyed at the drunk boy.

“It’s the cigs and alcohol talking,” Jisung blurted out, his face still stuffed in a phone as he played on his games.

“I don’t think you guys understand. I’ve realized shit—heavy shit, and it wasn’t until I realized how little I know about, life, ourselves, and the world that I finally perceived it… I wanted to go to college guys, now look what I’m doing.”

And with a laugh, Doyoung looked up at him.

“Mark, you like hurting people, you like stealing from people, you like lugging around those boxes, and it’s because you love money, you love being in danger. In the summer what do we do? We go all over the place, we do as many drugs as we want, and you love it. If you go to college what would you do? You’re not going to marry that dumb girl, you aren’t smart enough for college, and you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

The sad part was that he was right. He did like doing all those things, and he didn’t honestly know what he was asking for, all he knew what that he wanted. And maybe in college, he wouldn’t be able to survive without it.

“You’re just bored, I’m sure Chittaphon would think of something to do, more heists to plan, more drugs to sell, he could even change the whole operative cover up. He cares about you a lot Mark, don’t take what you have for granted.”

Mark liked it there, he liked hurting people, he liked firing guns and the thrill of almost being caught by the police, he loved it all.

And maybe that was enough to give up on you.

Maybe it was the way he sent you away, or perhaps it was the way he didn’t. Regardless, you found yourself wanting to come back and see what actually happened. It had been three days since you last saw him, and you still couldn’t pinpoint the reason why you wanted to see him so bad. It was unlike any other feeling you felt.

You hadn't told Lisa yet, you hadn’t told Johnny, all you did was go to class in the morning and sulk the rest of the day. Indisputably, you wanted to go back, but consciously, you knew it was a bad idea. And it all stemmed from Ten.

The rain didn’t stop either, so getting into your car, you weren’t surprised by the thick clouds of grey. Even if the Carnival was having a day off like the schedule said, you were still going to go, despite the rain coming down in waves.

Despite the car ride feeling tedious and long, the rain calms you. The sound, and the aesthetic of it washing down the windows. But you were going there to say your goodbye, and find out only why he pushed you away, nothing more.

Meanwhile, Mark, he took advantage of his day off and had decided to stay in and escape the rain, calling his parents, watching TV. He asked to be left alone. And nobody dared to walk outside that day, not even Ten, they all stayed inside, their electric heaters being the only thing to warm them.

With the sinking of your car into the muddy ground, you decided to park somewhere where the long willow trees cast over the parking space, leaving them untouched.

And through the rain, you could vaguely see the carnival, and beyond the entrance, you could see the top of the red and white tents. There we no colorful lights, there was nothing there indicating that it was an in-use Carnival, and if anything, it made it look… creepy.

But instead of waiting around, you started the cold, wet trek towards the empty Carnival.

The air smelt of fresh pine and rain, and as you took your first steps into the entrance, you were careful to make sure nobody saw you. If they did, they would think it’s one of them.

With your black hoodie pulled over your hair. You could see the trailers, this time all their lights open signaling people were inside and most likely resting on this rainy day. And you could see Mark's; in the farthest area.

But even then, there was a jump in your step and adrenaline pumping through your veins as you desired to get closer and closer to Mark.

Pointedly, you weren't sure how he was going to react, but you knew he would at least let you in.

Standing in front of the familiar home, you raised your hand, pounding on the door three times. It took some time, but you heard shuffling, and that could only mean he was getting up.

It wasn’t the reaction you were hoping for, with his eyes widening comically and all he did was stare at you. He roughly ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. Pushing the door wider for you and walking away, he welcomed you into his home.

Awkwardly, you stepped in, watching as he stood in front of his bed, arms crossed and eyes on everything but you.

And with a sigh, he began.

“I told you, it isn’t a good idea for you to be here,” He began, and he’d become distant, and only over three days he had been this way, it baffled you.

“You told me you didn’t want this life,” You mirrored his actions, crossing your arms just as he was doing.

“I lied, and never actually cared for you or cared for the life you had.” You didn’t know why, but it was as if he was pushing you away when you were the thing he wanted. He did it, so you knew he was lying. He wanted you to know he was lying.

Mark had realized why Chittaphon didn’t like people like you, and it was because you asked questions, you made others ask questions, and you knew what to say and how to say it. And with the words you had spoken to him, Mark was no longer a magician, he was Mark.

He wasn’t Chittaphon's puppet, he was Mark.

“You can’t force people into having feelings, and you can’t deny when they have them.” Mark stopped, glancing at you once, before averting his gaze onto his bed.

"I have a job to do," he pointed down, "I made a commitment to this place."

"What about you? What have you made for yourself?"

And there you were again, instilling the only thing Mark wanted to stay away from. Doubt.

“I’ll do you a favor just this once,” His voice grew early low, his fingers delicately pulling over his sweatshirt. But the words confused you, cooking your head in incertitude.

Walking closer to you, his chest touched yours, pushing himself on to you.

With his hands snaking around your waist, you felt him.

He took your phone from your pocket, his chest brush against yours as he gazed down at your face.

“I'll take this one last time.”

Mark himself didn’t know why or what he was doing. But seeing you come here, you arrive in a soaking wet sweatshirt confirmed one thing for him. And it was changed, and that maybe Doyoung and Chittaphon were wrong. He wasn’t meant to be here, and it was you who made him realize it.

"You know what to do, sweetheart."

Within a split second his lips were on yours. You had only kissed him once before, but the two of you were so simplistic. Lust was the fuel for every part of your body.

He grabbed your waist roughly, setting phone set down on his kitchen counter as he pulled you closer to him. He pulled your bottom lip between his teeth and tugged. Your hands dangling around his neck as you both stepped back together.

And even harder, he pushed your waist into the counter, his hands running up and down the sides of your waist as you continued to kiss, slipping his tongue in at the opportune moment.

The pattern of the rain created a calm feeling in his room, letting you fall deeper into the moment.

“You came back,” he mumbled against your lips, placing chaste kisses there as he grabbed your ass.

“I couldn’t stay away,” you admitted breathlessly. And that's the truth, you couldn't stay away. Somehow you started out with hatred, to an unfamiliar, irreplaceable bond.

His hands ran up your thighs as he pulled you onto the small counter, his body fitting perfectly in between your legs. Kissing your lips gently. His hands wandered up the insides of your jean clas thighs. His gentle touch was nothing you could expect from him. Letting out a soft moan, Mark’s thin lips quirked up into a natural smirk, moving his hands to the hem of your sweatshirt, he peeled it off roughly, throwing the wet material down on his table.

A white t-shirt was all that was left, discovering you had gone braless, the amusement in his eyes twinkled with the utmost excitement. He pulled your t-shirt off immediately, but oddly enough his gaze wasn’t on your breasts, he just pulled you into his chest and continued a heated kiss.

You were bare in front of him, doing something you never thought you would do when you first met him. He grabbed your bare waist, his hands smooth against your supple skin. His hands traveled up to knead your breasts gently, a moan falling from your lips as the sensation rippled through your body. With kisses still heated, he managed to mumble something onto your lips.

“Out of all the people… I get you,” His eyes hooded as he soft kisses traveled down your neck, nipping at the skin and retracing his steps like he did days before. “I got lucky.” You ultimately didn’t know how you and Mark would end up. If you stayed in touch, date, or never see each other again, but regardless you couldn’t let him leave without doing this.

“Didn’t we both” you mumbled before dipping he dipped his head into your chest, encasing one of the hardening nubs with his lips. Sucking on one nipple, he toyed with the other one, softly pulling and circling it. And your hands grabbed a fistful of his hair in pleasure, moans dripping in lust falling from your lips.

“Mark… hurry… please” You whimpered, a desperate tone in your voice.

“Let me savor this,” His mumbled. And there was something about the comment that gave you a sinking feeling. He had to savor this moment, there was a finality about it. Like he wouldn’t see you again.

But with one more kiss to your lips, he pulled you from the counter and pushed you towards his bed, letting your head dip down on his pillow gently as he hovered over your body, his breathing light and feathery.

Every inch of your body craved him, and as he pushed you down on the bed, your excitement rose. Unzipping your jeans slowly, he pulled the rough material down your legs, leaving you virtually naked in front of him, his eyes roaming every inch of your body.

Stealthily, he found the moment to take off his shirt, coming back down and hooking his slender fingers underneath your thong. Your stomach filled with anticipation once you saw the dreamlike smile crossed his face.

Gripping onto your thighs, he tugged your legs over his shoulder his knees. A long sigh left your lips as if this was everything you wanted.

“Can I?” He looked up, waiting for your blessing before he did anything else, his eyes sparkling with elation as he glanced at you with nothing but lust in his eyes. His breath washed against your core, as he pulled your legs open wider. It worked him up so much, for a moment he forgot that he even asked for your consent.

“Yes… please.” You bit your lip as you felt his tongue lick a clean stripe up your folds, swirling it around your swollen clit in small circles.

“Mark!” You gasped, your finger delicately massaging his scalp as you pushed him closer into you.

He hummed against your core, pressing his tongue against your most sensitive area. You had thought he was merely a beginner… a virgin for lack of better words, but he was not. Certainly not.

And wrapping his mouth around your clit, he sucked, stretched the skin gently with his fingers to get a better angle of the area. He had you moaning terribly loud within minutes of starting. He continued to suck, your walls squeezing around nothing as you reached higher. But you weren’t quite there yet, and though you could feel the tingling throughout your whole body, a white-hot sensation taking over your stomach, you needed more. It had been so long since someone touched you like this before, and you were taking advantage.

And without warning, Mark effortlessly slipped his digits inside you, pumping as he sucked on your core, curling them upwards to rub against the sweetest spot. With the sensation of his mouth and fingers, you could feel yourself losing control, gripping his hair tight enough for it to hurt, moaning so someone else could hear. And you loved it, you loved every single thing he did.

“I’m getting closer,” You said gently, not being able to trust your own voice under the circumstances. Your legs grew limp in his grasp, and your body was reacting to his, shaking untroubled as you reached the urgency.

But still, he said nothing, he only sped up gripping your leg tighter, sucking on you harder, his fingers pumping within you tougher. Your whole body felt on fire, as you dripped over his bed and onto his fingers, Mark continuing until you saw stars.

And without more wait, you felt yourself pulse around him, and an uncontrollable throbbing feeling comes over you. And within seconds, you felt relief as you came onto him. Your rollercoaster finally coming back down. Your wetness leaking onto his palm and chin, until he used his tongue to lap it up. He removed his fingers from you, gently sucking on his own fingers and tasting what he wanted. You.

Never had you been more turned on. Maybe it was the mix of forbidden romance, the fact he cared little for the law, and you did, or the way you clicked, whatever it was, you just wanted him to fuck you hard.

“Mark,” you grabbed at his hair, “I want it hard tonight.”

And with a little chuckle, he nodded, his eyes first widening at your oddly executed request.

“You’ll regret asking,” A sinister voice sounded from the boy as he pulled down his sweatpants, his member hard inside his boxers.

And just like you did for him nights before, he reached down, palming himself through his thin boxers, before tugging them down and revealing his thick length. And looking down at your writhing figure, he let himself glide his hands over himself, stroking his length in his hands. Moving closer, his tup brushed against you and feeling the sensation, you let out a shaky sigh.

“You’re dancing with the devil,” he mumbled, realizing that what he was doing was harmful to you and him, dangerous if Chittaphon ever found out. But looking at you, he couldn’t resist.

“Which one of us is the devil?” You whispered slyly, a response burning on his tongue as he heard you say that.

Me! I am! He wanted to say. But right now he wasn’t so sure himself. He wasn't sure which one of you were the devil. But maybe— just maybe, it was the both of you.

Any rational thought disappeared when he entered you slowly, pushing his hips forward. You gasped, he fits you perfectly, he was thick, and it was pleasurable, it was perfect. “Mark,” You whined. You whine an ugly, lustful whine, throwing your arms around his neck and letting your head hit his shoulder.

“Sweetheart, can I move, or is it too much?” There was a joking tone in his voice as you whimpered, a soft nod coming from as you breathed.

He snaked his arms around your back and held you tightly as you mirrored his actions. You had asked for rough, but his thrusts were painfully slow, each one slower from the last, stretching you out. And then soon, he was pushing himself farther into you, using an invisible strength and speed you never knew he could carry within him. Your body bounced with his movements, and before long you adjusted to accommodate his thick cock.

He let out shaky moans as he held you, his face falling on the bend of your neck, sucking harshly on the skin as he took the pleasure you gave him. And with hot, heavy, and hard thrusts, he left you breathless, unable to catch up with his movements.

You felt full, a feeling you had never quite gotten before with sex. The overwhelming wave of pleasure continued to wash over you, hit after hit, after hit. You felt your walls pulse against him, this time with strength. The sensation of Mark fucking you was undeniably pleasurable, but knowing what you did about him, it felt like more than that.

He kissed you hungrily, capturing your quivering lips in a kiss, an aggressive, hostile kiss. His dull fingernails dug into your skin, it felt possessive, as if he was marking you, though he didn’t even know he could turn around for you. You swallowed your moans, and focused on his fingernails and his cock, disappearing inside of you with every thrust he took.

“Look at me!” Mark rasped, his voice coming in horse croaks as he spoke to you. “Y/N, look at me!” He demanded again, “look at me!” And finally, you locked eyes with the boy, his brown eyes filled with pleasure still gave a forlorn gaze. He moaned against your lips, keeping a tight grip on your waist as he did. “I don’t want this to end,” He whispered, his eyes pleading you to say something reassuring, but you didn’t know what. But he still continued to pleasure.

“Mark just keep going, I’m gonna cum,” You whimpered.

Hearing those words were an odd reassurance, sure he didn’t get what he wanted, but he got this. The sight of your face when he pounded mercilessly into your sweat body, hair moist from the rain, and your legs sticking to his skin like duct tape.

He had fucked you hard, your walls throbbing, your lips red and swollen, your hair a mess, and your waist bruised. But he didn’t stop, he lasted long, and he gave you enough pleasure to last lifetimes. A tingling feeling starting in your toes and working their way up to your head until your whole body was enveloped in pleasure.

“What’s it gonna take to make you cum.” He muttered, frustrated that you hadn’t cum sooner like he expected. His heavy breaths gave away that he was close.

You cant get a coherent sentence as he pressed the pad of his thumb against your clit, rubbing harsh, slow circles against the bundle of nerves that sat there.

And still fucking you, he rubbed his small thumb against you, his black hair falling into his face as you heard his heavy grunts, applying pressure onto you.

You moaned so loud, you thought possibly the person overheard. You felt the knot in your stomach grow tighter and tighter, unbearably tight and painful that you needed a release. And all at once, with every last piece of energy you had left, you came onto mark, spilling onto his bed and all over his pale pelvis, feeling him release right after you.

He fucked you through your orgasm, the thrusts becoming more and more sloppy as he released. Jerking his hips into you, his moans were just as loud as yours. The rain still pounding down on the ground and created loud terrible sounds.

He regained himself, his body flopping down next to yours, securely pulling his blankets over both your hot and sweaty body, the cool air helping to cool both of you down.

And laying there, he wanted to go with you.

He wanted everything you had to offer. He wanted college life, he wanted something real and normal, and he wanted love. But most importantly he knew himself well.

For in the morning, he would send you away and wish to never see you again.

#mark lee smut #mark smut #mark x reader #mark lee x reader #mark lee imagine #nct imagine #nct writers #nct smut #mark reactions #nct reactions #let's pretend this fic is a good one! okay?

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