#why didn’t anyone tell me it looked so ugly on desktop

[onii-pamn]

I changed my theme :3

[get-shiggy-with-it]

Book Drop Boy (Twice x Reader)

✧ pairing: library student worker!Twice x afab!student!Reader

✧ word count: 9.9k

✧ ao3 mirror

✧ warnings: college au/no quirks, maladaptive daydreaming (twice), twice is chaotic af, commits library related crimes, use of the term sweetheart a few times, smut, vaginal fingering/sex, doggy style, afab terms, no pronouns for reader, gratuitous swearing this is potentially the softest thing I've ever written, like she's pretty tame idk what Twice does to me

✧ summary: In which Twice learns that sometimes dreams do come true, except those dreams are just the maladaptive fantasies of a broke library receptionist and, while sexy, also involve more fraud than he expected.

✧ a/n: Hey y'all, this is set in the same universe as my shiggy college piece, but you don't need to have read that. There are some fun little easter eggs though if you have tho. This is like the most tame thing I've ever written and it's way longer than it was meant to be but oh well. Anyway, Twice deserves some love. Enjoy <3

Logically, Jin was aware you probably had no idea who the fuck he was.

But that really didn’t have any effect on the wildly intricate fantasy life he had created for the two of you during his long shifts behind the library reception desk. That, in fact, was the only reason he hadn’t up and quit just to save himself the embarrassment of another loud outburst in the middle of the most silent place on campus.

What was truly more shocking was the fact that none of those said outburst had gotten his ass kicked straight out the door.

But he held out.

If only for you.

Late nights or lazy afternoons you were always in the campus library—studying he assumed or…

'Studying,' because a lot of the time he noticed you’d show up with a drink from the cafe a few blocks down, set out a line of colored pens and not touch a single one of them for hours, content to stare blankly at the chipped desktop. And even that Jin was more than happy to watch.

He did a lot of watching.

Mostly because he wasn’t permitted to leave the desk unattended unless there were piling up returned books which needed to be replaced quickly.

So instead, he pretended to be busy scrolling through something on his old as hell monitor—which was conveniently set up directly across from the comfy chair/desk combo you always managed to grab—and he indulged in day dreams where you’d bring him a coffee from the cafe when you came in and set it on his desk, maybe kiss him on the cheek, maybe loiter by his workstation and play with his hair and—

Yeah.

It was a lot.

But you were always in that chair, always working or pretending to work and you never seemed to notice the uninterrupted hours of staring Jin did, so what was the harm?

If you never knew, you’d never get creeped out—cause it was creepy, he knew that, oh fuckin' boy did he know it was real goddamn weird.

He just couldn’t seem to give it up. Especially when the conditions presented perfectly for some good uninterrupted, totally not stalker-y at all, fantasizing.

Sometimes he thought you might have some mundane superpower that let you always snatch that perfect seat right across from his computer, and made it so the library was just cool enough that he’d get to watch you shrug on that cute extra sweatshirt you always brought. So he could catch a glimpse of some skin—in a totally normal and not invasive way—when your arms went over your head. So he could imagine it was his ratty old sweaters you were wearing just so you could smell him on you and god he really wanted to get close enough to smell you—was that too weird? No. Yes? No.

Not at all.

But the best part, the part that really convinced him on those awful days when he really just could not be bothered to drag himself out of bed and walk the couple blocks to campus just to sit in awful silence alone, in his head alone with the fucking thoughts that made him want to rip his hair out—

What made it worth it was those times every few weeks when your classes would get new assigned readings. Because then you’d have to check out new textbooks, since you were one of those geniuses that had figured out the library kept a ton of those books in stock. Of course you were, cause you were fucking perfect.

And when you had to check out new books, you had to come to reception.

Jin got to watch as your lovely figure moved through the stacks like you were ballroom dancing along the halls of faded, sea-green shelves, almost floating over the linoleum trying to find just the right volume in the right addition before anyone else beat you to it.

It was one of the most gorgeous things he’d ever seen.

Spinner would call him a fucking simp if he ever dared to uttered any of that out loud, but it didn’t matter.

If it was you, he’d simp for fucking life.

And then, you’d walk that fucking glorious ass over to his desk and plop the books down, smiling—cause you were polite like that, so fucking perfect he couldn’t hardly believe it sometimes—and asking how his day was while he checked you out in every sense of the phrase.

In a completely platonic and not freaky way.

So Jin kept coming to work, to that god awful job he really hated and which hated him just as vehemently. He clocked in every day and waited patiently like a fucking puppy counting the hours till its workaholic owner arrived home, ears perking up when you walked through the door and flashed your ID to the attendant.

If only for that.

He’d put up with his boss’ complaints and the weird stares he got when the thoughts just wouldn’t stay in his head anymore and he had to start talking to himself to fill the silence.

If only for that.

Those few hours when he could lose himself in the fake inner life where you were waiting for him when his shift let out, waiting to gather him, tired and understimulated, into your arms. Where you’d sneak into the back room with him just to chat and lace your fingers with his and maybe sit that fucking wonderful ass up on the tables so he could stand in between your thighs and you’d pull him down to—

Yeah.

That was enough.

***

It wasn’t until Tuesday when he had to come in again that week, and he already knew it was gonna suck balls.

Friday he’d gotten another round of complaints from some stuck up fucking business students—it was always the fucking business majors with those silver spoons so far up their asses—snitching to his boss that he’s been ‘disruptive’ and ‘disturbing’ during his last shift.

“Not my fucking fault,” he muttered under his breath, kicking a rock along the side walk he’d picked up two blocks before. “Yes it is. No it’s not!”

Jin groaned and tugged at his hair, wishing he’d brought a Tylenol or something to curb the headache that was already sticking it’s ugly ass claws into his temples. He really, really heavily contemplated just ditching, calling in sick or some shit. Technically he was a student worker, so they had to work with his DRS accommodation and he was actually having a bad fucking time.

But one of his friends had already texted to ask if he’d try and reserve them that sweet ass study room on the third floor and Jin wasn’t really looking to disappoint anyone else this week. Besides, it was fun to abuse his minuscule power. Fun to go corrupt for once. Fight the system and all that.

He liked to think you’d be proud of him for it, based on the kinds of texts you checked out at least.

So, he dragged his sad ass back to the looming library looking far too much like a prison than was necessary and clocked in. Actually, the first thing he did was check the chair—your chair and nobody else’s chair, he might actually make a fucking scene if somebody ever did steal it—and his face visibly fell when you were not occupying it.

It was a bit early, Jin supposed as he paused briefly when he noticed the can of Monster and rando vending machine chips sitting next to it by the reception computer. The sticky note slapped to the top read 'For your troubles' in familiar handwriting and that pulled a bit of a smile from him as he quickly rearranged the scheduling of study room sign ups so the fancy third floor room would be free for the rest of the night.

Then Jin sat, staring at the study room schedules for a moment, feeling his eyes softly glaze over until a hand slapped down on the raised lip of the reception desk.

“Hey bro,” Spinner greeted him with a wild smile and a flurry of bright pink hair.

Jin had to blink a few extra times to get his vision to clear. When it did he saw, horrifyingly, that he’d been staring at the fucking blank screen for two hours without moving.

Why was it that his head was either deadly quiet, devoid of even a single errant thought or so loud as fucking shit at all times that he couldn’t physically keep the thoughts in?

“Hey, dude, what’s up?” Jin asked, running a hand through his unruly hair.

“Aren’t you supposed to like shush me or something?”

Spinner chuckled a bit at his own god awful joke and Jin couldn’t find it in himself to be annoyed, too glad for the company.

“I mean,” he shrugged, popping the can of Monster and ignoring the dirty looks he got for the sound. “I would if I was, uh, good at my job.”

“Which I’ve heard you definitely are not,” Spinner wrapped his fingers over the lip of the desk and leaned back on his heels, swaying side to side idly.

“You’re just figuring that out now?”

Jin didn’t bother watching while Spinner nearly tripped over himself fidgeting as he spun to stand at the little gate that corralled Jin inside like livestock. He was too busy glancing over to check you hadn’t slipped in while his brain had taken a trip to the astral plane without him.

“No, I been knew, but my sources tell me you’ve gone off the rails my friend,” long legs stepped over the wooden partition until the only friend he had who was quite possibly more annoying than Jin himself was sat on the counter next to his computer. “Finally been radicalized have you?”

Jin huffed and sipped his Monster, “Guess it fuckin’ took me long enough.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Spinner was messing about with the stacks of multicolored sticky notes littered across the desk before glancing up to wink at Jin. “So what can I get you to do for me in exchange for free food?”

“Now I really am gonna fucking shush you,” Jin smashed his finger against Spinners grin only to get a hand covered in spit for his trouble.

“Right, right,” Spinner held his hands up in defeat, “can’t have you cheating on your sweetheart.”

“Not my—yes I’m in a committed fictional relationship thank you very much—ugh!”

Jin could feel the heads shooting up from laptop screens and textbooks to stick daggers in his back with their angry stares. Spinner at least had the good sense to look a little fucking guilty for egging him on.

“Sorry bro, I had to shoot my shot ya know?” a hand disappeared into the mop of bubblegum locks in apology.

“It’s fine…” Jin trailed off, mumbling and blushing more than a little profusely as he turned to check the book drop box. “Not like I’m ever gonna fuckin’ shoot mine anyway.”

“Oh we are not gonna have that kinda of shit discussion,” Spinner’s hand shot out and grabbed him firmly by the shoulders, spinning Jin in his chair. “On god bro, we’re gonna get you a date one of these days.”

Jin didn’t dignify that kind of lie with a response.

Spinner once again, had the good sense to not push the envelope any farther.

“And in the meantime, you can come to the League meeting tonight!”

“Your gaming club thing?”

“Yeah, it’s Smash night and we need to fill a space sooooo…”

Jin knew Spinner and his roommate—the same friend who he’d gone study room rogue for—had started a gaming club their freshman year. Spinner had been trying to strong arm him into attending ever since. To, as he put it, ‘socialize,’ and ‘make new friends.’ All things which Jin was patently horrible at and avoided like the plague.

Needless to say, he’d refused every time.

It wasn’t just the whole being alone with like two people he kinda knew in a room full of strangers. Games themselves were just a lot for him. The flashing colors and the loud noises made his head—which was already so fucking full all the time and he really needed to keep any extra scrap of space for extra random facts he picked up about you and your future married life together—get a bit misaligned.

They just weren’t his jam most of the time.

“I’m good, thanks for the offer though,” Jin twisted out of Spinner’s grasp and craned his head to check your seat again.

Still empty.

He sighed.

Spinner continued to ramble and Jin continued to only half listen. It wasn’t as pleasant to day dream when you weren’t there for the added visual aesthetic. And he was trying to not be a dick and ignore the one friend he had managed to keep around over the years. But it was hard when his mind had a mind of its own.

Wow.

Meta.

“Jin?”

The voice—deep and dark in such a dramatically ominous way it might have been funny if it didn’t belong to his permanently disgruntled supervisor—interrupted his already derailing train of thought.

“Oh, uh, hello sir,” Jin stuttered, turning to find Kurogiri leaning against the reception desk with one arm, turning only slightly to accommodate Spinner’s form bolting over the gate and out the library doors.

He did manage to throw a fading, “See ya later, bro” over his shoulder before he disappeared around the corner.

Yeah thanks for the warning, bro.

“Aren’t you supposed to be reshelving the books from the drop box?” Kurogiri sighed, perpetually disappointed in a way that had Jin’s face burning and shame bubbling up in his throat.

He hated this job. He was objectively terrible at it, and so usually he wouldn’t give that much of a shit at not doing it well. Kurogiri just had some type of vibe—like daddy but not in the sexy way Spinner always joked about—that made it really, really upsetting to let him down.

Father figure? Yeah that's what it was called.

“Right, yeah um, sorry,” Jin nodded quickly and leapt from his chair, only mildly bruising his knee on the desk as he reached to empty the book drop.

Another incorporeal sigh was the only acknowledgement he received as he loaded the cart with wheels louder than Jin on a particularly bad day and rolled the pile of books back to the stacks. He paused once more, just before the sea green shelving units swallowed him up, to sneak another futile peak at your chair. But it still sat empty—empty and lonely with no you and cold without your body pressed against the worn upholstery.

Jin felt a chill too, a slow tingling thing that worked its way up from the base of his spine. It drove him deeper into the walls of books, away from the empty spaces.

It was harder to look.

Harder to be reminded of what he did not have.

Of what he’d never have cause he was too much of a goddamn pussy to ever just fucking talk to you—

But then what if he did? What if he did talk to you? What would happen then?

Those were the types of questions he tried to avoid when crafting your intricate, fictional lives together. Precisely because they were the easiest to answer.

You’d realize within the first five minutes or so of conversation—if Jin could even make it that far without embarrassing himself—that he was just a generic brand weirdo that all your pretty, normal, aesthetically pleasing friends would warn you to stay away from and because you were also pretty and normal and not a fucking idiot, you’d have the common sense to listen.

He’d lose you in the blink of an eye.

Your chair would sit cold and empty forever and the imaginary garden he’d been planting for you to come imaginarily home too would wilt and die like all the other happy thoughts in his head.

It was quite the conundrum and one Jin was not keen to solve soon.

Not that things ever really went his way. Cause problems could only be avoided for so long before all that time spent ignoring them came back to bite him full on the ass.

Which, apparently, came this time in the form of what had to be quiet, muffled sobbing drifting in between the shelves from the back hallway.

It was dark here in this section of the building—free of most windows so as not to cause any sunning damage to the books—and Jin had seen more than enough horror movies to know that it was a horrendous idea to follow the ominous crying sounds coming from the bowls of this old as fuck building. But even as he made up his mind to ignore it, the hand currently working one of the returns back into its proper place dropped the book to his cart as his feet slowly turned to face the corridor.

He looked around skeptically for a second, not entirely certain his poor brain hadn’t simply malfunctioned again, as it was wont to do, and fabricated the sound entirely. But as he peaked out from between the stacks, and down the dimly lit hall, he heard it again.

Echoey and soft in the wide, empty space it—was definitely coming from the hall and it was definitely a person.

Jin caught himself moving without ever meaning too, the books laying forgotten as he crept towards the source of the noise and paused just before leaving the stacks entirely. This hall was full of small alcoves built into the centuries old walls and led to the lesser used storage portions of the library that only the janitorial staff and the university librarians ever entered. He really didn’t want to stumble across someone from the special collections department bawling over a damaged or lost manuscript.

But his wayward feet pushed him forward, too sympathetic for his own good. He found himself shuffling down the abandoned hall, peering into each small dip in the walls to find the source of his distraction.

And when he did, Jin was—for once in his life—thankful for his lack of self-preservation instincts.

And cursed his blatant lack in interpersonal skills.

Because it was you.

You curled with your knees to your chest and your head in your hands, shoulders shaking, as you cried into your palms.

The universe had handed him maybe the only golden opportunity he would ever get on right on a platter.

But Jin didn’t have a fucking clue what do with it.

And there certainly wasn’t much time to formulate a game plan as his nervous breathing and sudden intake of breath upon discovering his imaginary lover sniffling right in front of him, had certainly alerted you to his presence.

Your head shot up in an instant, knocking dully against the stone wall with a thud.

“Shit,” you cursed and hands flying up to cover the area as Jin jumped on the spot at your outburst.

“Are you okay?” he asked lamely as you glanced over at him, eyes red and wet and so fucking sad oh fucking god, widening as you realized you’d been caught.

“Huh? Ye—oh uh, yes,” your words came out jumbled, legs unfolding quickly to push yourself off the bench and hands wiping furiously at your eyes. “I’m fine, sorry.”

“You sure about that?”

Jin cringed visibly and frowned at the way you deflated under his stare. God the first fucking time he actually talks to you and he already made an ass of himself.

Spinner’s roommate was such a liar, it really fucking sucked to be right sometimes.

“I mean,” you crumpled back down onto the ledge and Jin took a careful step closer, “no, but yes. Like I’m definitely having a breakdown in the back of the fucking library but I don’t wanna, uh, bother you with that. So, yeah I’m good.”

“You can bother me,” he replied way too fucking quickly.

But he couldn’t really be embarrassed about it. Your voice was just so captivating, and you weren’t talking to him in that raised pitch anymore like you usually did—the way everyone does when they’re trying to be surface level and polite. No this was your voice how you sounded when you were relaxing with your friends or making breakfast in the morning or talking to yourself in the shower (he liked to think you did that, or sang maybe as you worked the soap into your skin, one of the two but he always imagined you filled silences with how fucking pretty you were).

“No, really. That would be weird, right?”

Jin grimaced as you fixed him with a watery yet suspicious stare.

Yeah it was weird.

Everything he did concerning you was weird, objectively. He was definitely being over-familiar and too eager, especially considering you didn’t fucking know him.

But he knew you.

Jin felt like he’d known you for all months he’d spent pretending to be by your side.

And you were crying and he had to do something.

“I mean, yeah I guess,” he mumbled, taking a risk and plopped down on the opposite end of the alcove and resting his head on the wall. “But not any weirder than having a breakdown in the employees only section of the library building on a Tuesday.”

You kept staring blankly for a few moments before the most miraculous thing happened.

Jin had to physically stop his jaw from hitting the floor when the quiet giggle bubbled up from your chest and spilled out into the hall, warm enough to melt even the freezing linoleum floor.

“Yeah, you’ve got a point,” your voice cracked a bit as a few more tears slid like pearls down your cheeks.

“My name’s Jin,” he said, shocked stupid both by your laugh and the apparent success of his comforting methods.

“Oh, hi, well I guess I don’t have to call you book drop boy anymore,” you rubbed at your face again and tucked your legs back into your chest, though it looked a bit more relaxed this time.

Not so trying-desperately-to-fade-out-of-existence.

“You called me that?” Jin asked, brain still functioning at half capacity, only shocked at the fact that he existed as a concept in your head enough to have a name and realizing a bit too late how accusatory he must have sounded. “Shit, I mean it’s totally fine I just didn’t think you, uh, well I mean, like, knew about me I guess?”

You finally smiled and his brain power cut out another fourth at being personally graced by the expression this close up.

“Yeah, you always check me out—fuck sorry not that you check me out, just you scan my books and I just called you ‘book drop boy’ in my head cause I never got a chance to ask for your name but I have it now so that’s cool….”

Your head dropped back down to your knees as you groaned and Jin suddenly felt a lot less nervous than he had a few seconds ago.

You were weird too.

For so long you’d existed on this pedestal thousands of feet in the air, and now you were stepping down from the heavens and onto earth. Not in a bad way! Just, Jin had never really stopped to think that you might be a person too.

Well.

No, he knew you were a person, just he never thought you might get flustered and ramble and be nervous in front of him.

Cause he was a fucking train wreck—the bar was so goddamn low.

It was almost as comforting as your smile.

“Oh, yeah sorry I’m not the best at customer service if you couldn’t tell,” he sighed and ran a hand through his wild hair.

You looked back up with a wry grin, “I don’t know, I’d say you’re going above and beyond right now.”

And you were funny.

He was gonna fucking combust.

“Ha, yeah, I try,” he trailed off for a moment before glancing back at your curled in your corner, fuck he could just imagine sitting behind you, your head on his chest while you—”So uh, did you wanna talk about it or…?”

“Uh, yeah,” you picked idly at the grouting of the stone and mumbled, “I guess it’s not so weird if we’re on a first-name basis.

And that was how Jin discovered that you’d been hiding in the back of the library bawling your eyes out for hours—since even before his shift started. Apparently you’d gotten here extra early, even skipped a class, to snag some super specific required text for your final thesis and right before you got to the shelf some jackass swooped in, effectively hit and running with the only copy of that book on campus.

The book in questions was one of the newer additions that had special added footnotes you needed for your paper and was a whopping 500 fucking dollars to rent from every other place online. You couldn’t afford it, and honestly what fucking student could? But you needed it to complete the paper or you’d fail and Jin very much understood the need for a good breakdown after a catastrophe like that.

“Damn, that’s uh, fucking awful,” he frowned on your behalf as your head hit the wall a second time in frustration.

“Yeah so, I’m like royally fucked either way. Now I just gotta decide which hole I’m taking it in I guess,” you groaned.

Jin’s eyebrows raised at your choice of words but they were apt, he supposed. People really do get comfortable with each other pretty quick when bonding over shared institutional rage.

“Well,” he began, wringing his hands nervously at what he was about to suggest. “You might be in luck cause I’ve recently decided to abuse my library powers for good and I maybe, possibly, could try and see if there’s some strings I can pull?”

You perked up a bit, looking at him incredulously.

Jin felt comfortably full under your stare.

“Seriously?”

The word was soft and it bounced off the walls just as much as it did the inside of his skull.

Swapping study rooms to help a friend out was one thing. But falsifying checkout dates for someone he barely knew—had essentially married in his maladaptive fantasies—could get him fired.

He hated this job but he needed it.

Were you worth the risk?

Of course, he found himself thinking without hesitation.

You were everything.

“Yeah, sure,” he nodded, any lingering uncertainty washing away at the way you looked at him through your lashes. “I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it.”

“Are you always this nice?”

Jin didn’t answer right away. He was too caught up in how you’d leaned forward on your hands across the bench, peering like he was some exotic animal or a stray cat in the parking lot—all soft wonderment with fingers curling like they ached to grab hold and rescue him from this parchment scented monotony.

“Not always…”

“Should I feel special then?”

If his face wasn’t red before, it was now. Red and blistering under the summer campfire heat that radiated off you—woodsy and warm and so painfully familiar like an old friend’s hand.

“...I guess you—fucking definitely, ” he quite nearly shouted the last bit, startled by his own volume and already mortified at the outburst but then you chuckled again from beside him.

He turned to see you standing and offering a hand which he gladly too if only to feel the weight of your palm against his.

“Well, you’ll have to let me pay you back then.”

“Oh, no you don’t actually—”

You held a hand up and the words turned to ash on his tongue in an instant, mouth glued shut by your gesture.

“Coffee on me or something, there’s a nice cafe a few blocks from here,” you dropped your hand and your eyes were clear now, no sign of the previous afternoon sobbing alone in the hallway. Jin felt a surge in his chest knowing he was the one who did that. “You gotta pass off the contraband anyway, and I don’t think it would be that great of an idea to do it here.”

God you were fucking perfect.

“Can’t argue with that.”

***

Jin was sweating profusely as he snuck past the library attendant, totally inconspicuous and not not all looking like he was doing a single thing wrong in the slightest.

Yeah they definitely didn’t suspect a thing.

The process of fraud was actually a lot less complicated of an undertaking that Jin had expected. All he had to do was search up the book, find the student that had stolen the success of his sweetheart’s educational career and flag his account. They’d get an automated message about the flag, instructing them to return any borrowed items or they’d be forced to pay fines while the account was examined.

Technically he needed administrator credentials to report student accounts, but luckily Kurogiri had his login info written on a sticky note hidden on the back of the monitor. All in all it was a pretty easy job.

The whole thing had taken only a matter of days, in which time you had returned to the library only twice—the first to get confirmation on the success of Jin’s newest descent into low level crime which had set his heart thundering in his chest as you bent conspiratorially over his desk, your face just inches from his.

The second time, Jin had horrifically been absent from his desk, however he was met with possibly the most wonderful sight of his life upon returning from the labyrinth of shelves.

On one of the hundreds of post-it note pads that littered the library reception area, there were scribbles that he was sure hadn’t been there before. He almost tossed it, but upon closer inspection, you’d written your number there and signed just below it. In the cutest fucking handwriting he’d ever seen—cute not for any stylistic reason, but it simply felt that way just by virtue of it being yours—was written the digits and “-for book drop boy”

The noise he made reading that turned more than a dozen heads and almost got him fired there on the spot before any of his indiscretions were even discovered, but he couldn’t find it in himself to regret it.

So, nerve wrackingly, Jin texted you as he nearly sprinted home from his shift after that piece of shit asshole who made you cry had trudged angrily in and dropped off his ‘stolen’ book.

— HEY IT’S JIN!

— from the library

— shit sorry that wasn’t meant to be in caps

— n e way….

— I’ve intercepted the ~package~ so whenever you’re ready for the hand off, I’m good

Most perfect fucking human being to…

Oh my god thank you so much!!!—

Is tomorrow at like 5ish good for you?—

Also send me your order—

so we don’t have to do that awkward waiting in line for drinks bit—

Holy fuck you multi-texted too! Spinner would roll over in his fucking grave, he hated when Jin did that. But there was always so much to say and he could never think of it all at the same time. Plus, you wanted to save him from that god awful silence where you both stand in line next but he can’t talk cause he has keep repeating his order in his head over and over or he’ll blank when he gets to the register so it’s just this painful weird glancing back and forth—

Ugh, maybe all the shit about manifestation that girl who always loaned him exacto knives in his sculpting class always talked about was real.

Cause there was no way you weren’t just heaven-sent, handcrafted especially for him and all his general brand of weird.

The hours which usually flew by without Jin’s notice dragged all that night. He was so full of excess energy that made his hand shake and his thoughts race, not sure what to do with themselves now that they didn’t need to fantasize about you.

He decided to use all that extra motivation to vacuum the kitchen at 4:30 in the morning, much to his roommates' chagrin. She liked to get a nice solid eight hours every night and constantly reminded Jin of this, trying to sell him on that sleepy time tea before bed, though he really hated the smell of camomile.

Magne may lose out on some of her beauty sleep—not that she needed it and Jin would tell her that constantly, even if he did have some patently horrible judgment most of the time so he wasn’t really the best at offering reassurance—but the kitchen would be clean when she woke up so win-win really.

When she did wake up—wandering out of her room looking effortlessly put together in a way Jin could never hope to emulate—she sat at the table, sipping her tea and appraising him worriedly.

Jin was still in his jeans from the day before, hair spiking in every direction but down, and chewing his nails nervously despite losing most of them to the hour or two of early morning floor scrubbing.

“Babe,” she shook her head slowly, “take a breath.”

“Yeah okay,” he sighed and inhaled deeply, letting himself slide off the couch cushions and to the newly sparkling floors on the exhale.

“There, now wanna share what the hell is going on?”

He glanced up at her from the hardwood and groaned as she looked back down, brows furrowed over her glasses.

“Huhh, okay. So that absolute work of art from the library is meeting me for coffee later cause I have trade over this book I sort of stole, it’s a long story, and I don’t know if it’s a date—it sounds like a date, cause that’s where people go for dates and shit—but it might just be to pay me back for stealing the book. And if it is I’ve only ever been on that one date before which was with fucking Spinner like two years ago so—”

Magne held up a hand to quiet Jin before the speed of his words tied his tongue in physical knots. She looked contemplative, taking another soft sip of tea and nodding her head for a moment getting up to crouch on the floor by his head.

“You think too much for your own good, but never about the right things,” she mumbled, smoothing some of the hair from his face. “Does it really matter if this is a date or not?”

Jin blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” she chuckled in that way people do when kids ask them obvious questions—kindly, appreciative of the curiosity, “either way you cut it, you’ll be spending time with this person you like, yeah?”

“Mhm,” he hummed and sat up to face her as she stood.

“A date is just hanging out with a special name anyway,” Magne’s hands were firm but gentle as she hoisted Jin off the floor and onto his feet. “You’ll be fine.”

His shoulders slumped both in mild relief and dejection that he’d waisted so much precious time he could have been preparing possible topics of conversation or strategies to ask you out for real date on worrying over how this first time would go.

How did Magne always fucking know all this stuff?

Other people were such a mystery to him.

To be fair, though, Jin was a mystery to himself most of the time as well.

“Thanks, sorry for not saying anything about it earlier,” he sniffed as she smiled and pinched his cheek way fucking harder than necessary.

“It’s alright, I’m only a little insulted you waited until now to tell me about this massive crush you’ve developed.”

“Yeah it’s got its own gravitational pull at this point.”

Magne laughed at that and Jin felt the room lighten.

“I do expect details when you get back though,” she said pointedly, finishing her tea wandering back to her room to grab her bag. “Spinner asked me, very begrudgingly might I add, to fill in at another of his club tournament things tonight so I’ll be out late.”

“Really? I didn’t think you liked that stuff.”

Jin shuffled over to her doorway and peaked into the neat little space. Magne was rummaging through the meticulously organized closet and frowning as she answered.

“I do, Spinner just doesn’t agree with my battle strategies,” she huffed. “My alignment is far too ‘chaotic’ and ‘recklessly violent’ for his tastes apparently.”

“Oh, yeah that makes sense,” Jin laughed this time just envisioning the two of them stuck on a team. “Well have fun with that.”

“Yeah well,” she brushed by him into the hall, keys jangling as she went and calling over her shoulder. “Text me how it goes, and wear that new button up you got last week, it looks good on you!”

***

Much to Jin’s surprise and delight, Magne was right.

He was fine.

He was fine.

Fine was a bit subjective—as he was most certainly still highkey panicking on main as he got out of his last class and walked the short few blocks to the cafe on campus—but regardless he was perfectly okay.

Of course that all went right out the fucking window in the split second between him walking in and you already staring at the door as he entered. Your eyes widened just a bit and this smile broke out slowly across your cheeks when you waved him over and it was like suddenly every single creepy as hell day dream had just become reality.

It was a little overwhelming to say the least.

His heart may have actually stopped in his chest for a bit and he did contemplate the possibility that Kurogiri might have actually discovered his little plot, murdered him in cold blood and stuffed his body in the records room. This might all just be the afterlife, but that would mean that Jin had gone to some kind of heaven which didn’t really add up with his current tract record.

But it was fine.

Because you were really fucking easy to talk to.

Like, really fucking easy.

It was sorta strange actually, how you seemed to know all this shit he was into before he even really mentioned it.

After you traded off the goods, you both sat in the big comfy couches upstairs in the loft and you listened to him info dump, inevitably getting lost down innumerable unrelated tangents. You managed to keep up well enough though and not question the winding conversation.

“Damn,” he said, sipping at the last dregs left behind in his cup. “How do you know about all this stuff?”

“Uh,” you paused then, looking maybe just a bit sheepishly into your own drink. “I may or may not have spent a considerable amount of time eavesdropping into your conversations while you’re on shift.”

He saw flashes at that moment—dial up sounds going off between his ears.

Jin.exe has stopped working.

“...What?”

You grimaced and hid your face in your hands for a moment, “I know it sounds really creepy, my friends just sorta made a, um, game out of it? They tease me a lot about going to study at the library just cause of the cute guy that works there, so we all kinda stalk you a little bit just—wow this is sounding exponentially worse and worse every second.”

He gaped a bit despite himself as you cringed visibly and Jin tried to discreetly pinch his thigh to make sure this really wasn’t some sort of cruel, cruel fever dream.

“You think I’m cute…?”

He blinked once and your eyes shot up to meet his, a pained, half smile caught between your teeth. “I mean, yeah. I kinda thought I was being a bit obvious, sorry.”

“What no, holy fuck,” he spluttered, face on fire and legs bouncing restlessly against the couch across from you. “Don’t apologize, I have a, uh, staring habit too I guess.”

“I know,” you rubbed at the back of your neck and Jin didn’t think it was possible for you to be anymore endearing. “I’ve noticed, that’s like the whole reason I insisted on buying you a drink.”

“So wait is this a date?”

Jin wished almost immediately that he hadn’t asked, because Magne was right, it super didn’t matter but fucking shit on a stick he really wanted it to be a date!!!!

“Yeah,” you nodded. “If you’d like that.”

“Yes!—ah, I mean, uh yeah mhm,” Jin choked on his spit with enthusiasm, but it did earn him a concerned shoulder pat so he’d take the win.

It also afforded him the opportunity to walk you home after hours chatting until the streets were lit by burnt orange lamps and the cafe was closing. You didn’t live all that far from him actually and when you stopped to point out your door, the two of you were overcome by that telltale, charged silence.

Filled with potential.

Like a gas stove waiting for a spark to go up in flames.

It was you that struck the match.

“So, um, I promise I don’t just, uh, do this with everyone but, do you wanna maybe come inside,” you let your hand trail down his arm and slip into his palm, “I don’t feel like you’ve been properly compensated for saving my ass.”

Jin’s mouth was watering at the thought. He nodded slowly, eyes like saucers as you pulled him up your steps and through the door which shut promptly behind him.

Your place was nice in the sense that it fit you. He wasn’t really paying all that much attention to his surroundings as you locked the door and squeezed his hand in yours, leading him towards the end of the entrance hall.

When he stepped through to your bedroom, you toed off your shoes and he did the same, staring nervously and waiting for you to show him what exactly you meant by ‘further compensation.’

It was exactly what he’d hoped.

You approached him, still in the doorway, and stepped close so your chests brushed together. It was soft, the way you looked at him, sort of fuzzy around the edges while your hands trailed down his arms to place his palms at your waist.

It wasn’t like Jin hadn’t done this before—he totally had and definitely remembered all of it and wasn’t shit faced at all nope—but it hadn’t really mattered before. He knew in theory that he should take the lead, be a gentleman and make the first move and holy fucking god he was dying over there with the desire to finally live out his months and months of fantasies

But what if he did it wrong?

What if he ruined it now when he was so close to the finish line?

He’d never fucking forgive himself for it, and he could goddamn hear Magne in his head.

“You think too much for your own good.”

And he did, and he was right now, cause the room was only dimly lit by the street light streaming in through the window and you were reaching out to loop your arms behind his neck.

Should he lean down now?

Tilt left or right?

What if he clacked your teeth together?

What if—

Your lips were soft and hot against his, rubbing at the stubble on his chin before pressing close in that precious, puzzle-piece way human bodies fit together. He didn’t do much thinking after that.

His hands were too busy digging into the flesh of your hips separated by way to many fucking layers of fabric, and he couldn’t quite stop himself from indulging just a bit. Jin sucked gently at your lower lip, knees going weak at the glorious fucking sound you made in the back of your throat as he licked over the taught skin and tugged it between his teeth.

He could feel you smiling into his mouth, sharing breath and raking your fingers through the hair at the base of his neck. Jin groaned and you—fucking cheeky little bastard—slipped your tongue right past his lips and licked at the back of his fucking teeth like a popsicle in July.

Your hands in his hair hard tugged and his breath was coming faster, lips gliding against yours as the room turned to steam around him.

Through the haze he clung to the few remaining seconds of clarity.

Jin pulled away for one painful second to mumble against your lips.“You meant have sex, right?”

“Yeah,” your voice was barely more than a whisper, but you nodded frantically and rolled your hips against his.

“Ohh fuck, ‘kay good, thank god.”

For once Jin had nothing more to add.

And you weren't exactly willing to give him back his tongue long enough for any interruptions anyway.

***

“Holy fucking shit, look at you,” Jin gasped into your ear.

Both of your clothes had been discarded long ago, and he had your bare back to his chest while he sat propped against the headboard with your legs hooked on either side of his knees. It didn’t afford him the best view, but he got your head resting on his shoulder and pretty moans spilling right into his ear.

He didn’t need to see your pussy anyway.

The slick pouring out of your pretty fucking hole and coating his fingers as he pumped two of them into you was more than enough. His other hand wandered in the lovely expanse of space between your chest and your waist, running softly over the skin and pausing to pinch and roll your nipples just to hear you whine.

His cock was so fucking hard, trapped between your ass and his stomach, twitching every time you thrust your hips to meet the movement of his wrist.

“Jin, fuck please-”

You used his name every time you begged him for more and it was really going to his head.

“You’re so goddamn perfect, I’m gonna fucking ruin you,” he groaned and sunk his fingers deeper into your soaking cunt while his mouth dropped to your neck and sucked hard to mark you lovely skin.

He licked at the indents of his teeth, tasting your sweat on his tongue that tangled with yours again as your hand reached for his cheek and pulled him in. It was less of a kiss and more of a sloppy forming of your mouths that left you connected by a silvery string of spit that flashed in the low light. Jin sighed at the sight, rutting his hips against the cleft of your ass.

Your thighs twitched where they were spread and your hips lifted off the mattress to meet the languid thrusts of his fingers that curled up on every push in to hear the hitch in your breath.

He took pity on you and brought his other hand down to rub circles on your clit, listening for the telltale whimpers and the way your nails dug into his arm to find the perfect rhythm.

“I don’t really—mm, there fuck—feel like I’m paying you back right now,” you mumbled nipping your own trail of stepping stone bruises onto his throat as he picked up the pace and held steady on that sweet bundle of nerves.

“Are you fucking serious?”

He didn’t really mean to full on growl at you then, but just the thought that you’d really believe he wasn’t about to fucking drown in ecstasy just from watching you get off—just from touching, speaking, being in anyway acknowledged by you at all. Jin nudged your head to the side and bit down harshly into the crook of your neck, shuddering as you moaned and arched against his chest.

In any other scenario, he could never really find the right balance between too many words and not enough. The sheer volume of thoughts and interjections that raced like cars reaching the end of rush hour traffic made the formulation of any coherent conversation impossible, but now—

Now with your body so pliant in his hands, so willing and sweet and wanting him.

Wanting him.

What a concept.

He needed you to understand, to know how fucking over the moon, sunshine bright you had him burning.

And for once, he finally had the words to do it.

After all, he’d had months to prepare.

It was surprisingly easy to change your positions, to pull away from you for just a moment so he could roll and cage you on your hands and knees under him, ass in the air nestled against his cock.

“You really don’t think I’m getting anything out of this?” he groaned into you ear, rocking his length against you both for emphasis and because it felt so fucking good.

“Ah, well ya know,” your voice was so wrecked he was desperate to find out how much it would take for you to lose it entirely. “When you put it like that—mmh—I just feel bad you’re doing all the work. ”

You had this cheeky fucking grin on your face when you rocked forward so back so his cock slipped down to your dripping lips. The heat of your cunt was mesmerizing and it took a fuck ton of self control Jin was unaware he possessed to not ram straight into you right then.

“Yeah cause I’ve wanted to for fucking months goddamn it’s driving me insane.”

“What?”

Now that he’d started, Jin couldn’t find it in himself to stop. His hands dug hard into your hips, rocking so the tip of his dick caught your clit and you shivered below him, hot skin sliding with the motion of your bodies.

“It’s all I think about whenever I see you,” he was shaking when his hand reached down to grip himself, spreading your folds and soaking his length in your slick. “When you come in to work I just fucking lose myself thinking about how bad I want you to be mine, my pretty fucking thing to bring me coffee while I work and let me fuck you in the backroom.”

You whimpered under him, face pressed into the mattress as he draped himself over you, chest to back with his breath ghosting over your ear.

“Literal hours I just sit there at that awful fucking job and I only keep coming cause of you, cause I can watch you sit all cute in your chair and watch the way your cheeks squish up when you put your face in your hands and imagine they’re my hands and I’m about to spit in your fucking mouth so you remember who you belong too.”

“I—” you were nearly choking on the drool that soaked through your sheets as Jin lined himself up with your pretty little hole, pressing just the tip into your heat. “I didn’t think you ever—nggh, shit—noticed much about me.”

The corners of his eyes burned as sweat dripped down his forehead, he had to hold back a sob as he sheathed another inch into those perfect walls.

“Notice you? You’re all I fucking think about,” he pressed his lips softly against your shoulder, hands running from your chest to your sides as you took his cock and every word that slipped from his lips without complaint. “I could take such good care of you. I just fucking know it, just please, let me take care of you?”

“Fuck Jin,” your voice was closer to a sob than anything else but he needs you screaming. “You don’t really have to convince me—”

His patience had run out long ago, not even willing to let you finish before he’d sunk in to the hilt, spearing you on his cock with one final thrust. You ass was flush with his hips and his balls hung heavy and tight against the back of your thighs. The strangled little cry that worked its way out of your throat had gooseflesh erupting across his arms where he held you to him.

Jin couldn’t really be sure—it wasn’t like his brain was all that functional on a day to day basis and it most certainly was not now—but your walls clenching around him and that addictive warm, wet feeling milking his cock was on a whole other level than any fuck he’d ever had before.

There was something about the curve of your back against his chest, and the way you seemed to suck him in, drawing his length back in just seconds after he’d pulled out. Some about the feeling of your chest in his hands, of the sweat on your skin that he licked off in a long strip up your spine. Like you really were made for him. As though all those months spent in dream land, concocting your pretend lives together had spilled over into reality, molding you into the perfect shape to take him deep and hard and cry while you came on his cock just like he knew you were meant to.

“Oh, fuck yeah, gonna make you feel so good, I promise,” he mumbled, forehead pressed to the nape of your neck as his hips drew back and he sunk into you over and over again.

He needed you to moan louder, needed your neighbors on the other side of every wall to hear what he did to you, how he fucked you dumb on his cock and made you drunk with the pleasure of it—slutty and perfect and better than any fantasy he could ever concoct.

The room was filled completely with the wet slap of your bodies—his balls tightening up just at the squelch of you taking him—leaving only enough space for your cries and his grunting, no room left for any bitter doubt to creep in and ruin the sweetness in the air.

He could feel the surge growing in his stomach, the tensing in his thighs as his hips stuttered, but he needed you to cum first. Wanted to tip over the edge to the feeling of you spasming around him, so he let a hand slip from your hip to your folds. Jin only paused for a moment to run a finger around your stretched hole, feeling himself plunging into you, before drifting back up to your swollen clit and working the sensitive bud.

The mattress creaked and rocked along as Jin increased his pace, shifting his hips until his tip knocked against something that had your hands fisting in the sheets and your tongue lolling out in between cries of his name.

You didn’t give him much a warning, not that he minded really. Just a muffled shout with your head smashed into the pillows and the tightening of your walls surrounding him before he felt your whole body wracked with tremors so hard he had to wrap both arms around your middle and hold you while he rammed into you.

Jin wasn’t really keeping track of the filth that was pouring from his lips as he brought himself closer to release. A lot of encouragement, that you were taking him so well, cumming so pretty for him, mixed with a lot of thanks—for letting him have this, have you, for not casting him aside like everyone else always inevitably did.

He did have the clarity to drag one arm up and link your fingers together, pressing hard into the bed while blood pounded in his ears and his hips stuttered in their relentless rhythm. When Jin did finally cum, it was a strangely silent affair, all the words and sound that usually roared inside him dying on his lips as his cock spilled milky release deep inside you and your walls fluttered at the fullness.

And then it was as though every muscle in his body changed physical states.

Boneless, he collapsed onto you with a little huff. You didn’t even complain, just squeezed his hand tighter in yours and hummed at the weight of him.

“Well I think that was a, um,” you panted while he nuzzled his face deeper into your neck, “pretty equivalent exchange yeah?”

“I don’t know,” Jin kissed and nipped at the sweet skin of your shoulder, “I think you might have over paid a bit.”

You laughed, the joyous movement of your chest jostled him from your back and had his soft cock slipping from you in a gush of combined release. “I doubt that very much, I didn’t know I’d be getting to take your fucking load as part of the deal.”

“Shit,” he felt his heart seize in his chest, raising up on his elbows to look down as you turned to him. “I’m sorry, I should have asked.”

Your hand came up to stroke his cheek, clammy but welcome. He sat up enough so you could lay on your back and pull him back down to your chest amidst the sweat and cum slicked sheets.

“Don’t worry about it, I would have asked you to anyway,” you kissed the baby frizz at his hairline and if Jin hadn’t already melted into a puddle, then he certainly was now. “If I’d been able to talk at all.”

“Ha, yeah….”

A short silence descended in your dark bedroom. The noise of cars and the occasional shout filtered in through the window, but there was no other sound than your evening breaths. Jin tried not to ruin the peace while he had it.

It was such a rare commodity.

But he couldn’t say he mourned the quiet when you finally spoke.

“Did you wanna stay the night?” you asked in that soft way he always envisioned you would.

Soft so he’d know it was just a courtesy.

That you didn’t want him to leave.

“Uh, yeah, yes I would,” he stumbled over the words a bit, trying not to sound too eager but wanting you to know he would work a thousands shifts at the reception desk if it meant you held him for just a second longer.

“Good,” you sighed.

He felt you scoot down the bed and flopped onto his back so you could settle your head on his chest and drape an arm across his stomach. After another few minutes he felt you go limp at his side, soft and relaxed as you slipped away into dreams.

But though his muscles ached and his eyes felt heavy, Jin resisted the call to sleep.

He didn’t need to now.

You were here, in the flesh, and he could study you intently while his eyes were open.

No need for his brain to conjure up scattered images of you.

Because he had you now, tucked safely under his arm for him to keep and hold and fuck and love the way he wanted.

So there was no more need for sleep.

And no need for dreams.

[miraculousluvbug]

WINGLESS | Ch. 5

***New to Wingless? Start at Chapter 1!

CH. SUMMARY: Plagg panics because Lila's the devil incarnate and Lila learns that Gabriel Agreste is far stupider than he seems.

Adrien fondly flicked through the pages of The Pun-thagorean Theorem (Making Math Funny!) textbook. Plumes of dust wafted up his nostrils, causing his eyes to squint and his mouth to contort into the longest face known to man to avoid a hacking fit, but he smiled afterward nonetheless. The book was withered beyond measure, sure, but within its decaying jacket, it held the fleeting whispers of a previous life. A life before his mother went missing. When she enjoyed teaching him math with puns and pieces of candy while his father clung to the confines of closed doors. When her jokes graced the halls and her smiles left behind a fog of golden joy in her wake.

Adrien’s heart thudded with longing.

But he was determined to push back the feelings he had kept buried deep, deep, deep within his heart. So deep that he often forgot they were even there until they reared their ugly heads like a Hydra from the deepest recesses of the sea. Every time he thought he dealt with it, thought he had cut off its head and could breathe for just a second, two heads sprouted in its stead, determined to grip him by the ankles with their jagged teeth and force him to drown in his debilitating lack of self-worth.

He shook his head violently, as if that could shed him of his intrusive thoughts.

Hopefully, this book would help Lila. And then she’d leave. And then he could skip the anime and just take a fat nap. Keeping the Hydra at bay was exhausting.

Correcting his posture, Adrien approached his classmate, noticing straight away she had moved to his desk chair. Odd. But he was willing to roll with it.

Ha. Get it? Desk chair. Roll with it.

He pursed his lips, trying to hold back his laughter at himself.

Kagami had called him a clown, but Ladybug, as it turned out, appreciated his sense of humor. And if Lady-friggin’-bug--Commander of Wit and Creative Mastermind--thought he was funny, he must have been a damn comedic prodigy.

Plagg recognized that love-struck look on Adrien’s face and had to physically restrain himself from making barf noises.

“Are you ready to start, Lila?” Adrien said. Oblivious to Adrien’s whereabouts, Lila started and spun to greet him. (Was he always that quiet on his feet?)

“Adrien! You found the book.”

“Yep! Why don’t you take a look at it before we start?” Adrien smiled as he passed the book to her.

Lila returned the smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Adrien idly wondered if she had ever meant a smile in her life. She pinched the book between her thumb and forefinger as if it were a moldy sock. “Wow, Adrien, this book is so . . .”

A silence lingered as Lila racked her vocabulary for a word less insulting than crusty.

“Old?” Adrien offered, tilting his head.

Lila tittered unenthusiastically. “Yes, old.” She draped the book onto Adrien’s desk and poked at it. “How long have you, um, had it?”

“It’s been in the family a while.” Adrien hesitated. He didn’t really want to mention his mother to Lila. Lila was poisonous. She spun every piece of information she caught into a sticky web of lies like it was second nature. He didn’t know if he could stomach hearing lies about his mother.

So he bit down on the story of his mom before it could tumble from his lips. Even though he so badly wanted to tell anyone who would listen. His father never afforded him the opportunity to speak about her. His friends at school avoided the topic like the plague.

Come to think of it, Marinette was the only one of his friends who tried to help him see her movie that fateful day the press tried to pass her as his girlfriend. (Which he wouldn’t have minded, honestly, but she always seemed hellbent on them being just friends, so he accepted it.)

Ladybug, the other important person in his life, saw his mother on his desktop during that one akuma attack and commented on her smile. Those two girls (er--women? Which term was more respectful?) were the only people he truly felt safe around. Safe enough to turn his back on the Hydra he always kept a watchful, tired eye on and just enjoy the breeze of the ocean as it caressed his cheeks and messed up his perfect hair.

No, the subject of his mother wouldn’t scare them away. They could handle it.

But Lila was no Ladybug, and she definitely was no Marinette.

Behind them, Plagg was practically pulling his antennae out. It had been at least eight, maybe ten minutes since the akuma alert and his kid was none the wiser. And it really didn’t help that he just saw Ladybug and Rena Rouge pass by Adrien’s gigantic glass wall in a blur of red and orange.

But it was hopeless! He couldn’t get the message to Adrien without being seen!

Or . . .

Or could he?

“‘What’s Pythagoras’ favorite instrument?’” Lila read aloud. Her eyes darted over to the blonde leaning against the desk beside her. He bit his lip and his eyes were doing something weird. She had never seen that emotion on him.

“Go on,” Adrien pushed, his eyes practically sparkling. Huh. Was that emotion . . . eagerness?

She cleared her throat and turned the book upside down to read the answer awaiting her at the bottom of the page.

“‘A triangle.’”

Adrien giggled. What he wanted to do was slap his knee and let the whole world know he found it funny with a booming laughter that rivaled Tom Dupain-Cheng’s, but he knew that was un-gentlemanly.

Lila quirked an eyebrow.

Adrien sobered immediately. “You know,” he tried. “Since a triangle is an instrument and the theorem is about right triangles.”

Lila’s stare was unrelenting.

Adrien coughed. “So the triangle is his . . . favorite instrument.”

Lila stared for a bit longer than necessary before letting out a glaringly obvious fake laugh. Adrien was more offended that she thought that laugh was believable than that she didn’t find the pun funny at all. “Ha. That’s, like, so funny, Adrien. I can tell already that this book is going to be a big help.”

Adrien’s shoulders drooped a little. He hadn’t expected her to fall to the ground in ceaseless mirth, but he hadn’t thought her to be such a brick wall either. “Right. Well, why don’t we start with number one? Do you have your notebook or do you need a spare piece of pap--?”

The sound of the television coming to life cut Adrien’s question short. Lila’s eyes bulged out of her head and the sight would have been comical had it not also meant that Plagg was being a nuisance. Again.

But honestly, when was he not?

Lila burst from her seat and sprinted to the television. “Were you standing on the remote or something?” Lila queried, her voice high-pitched and grating to Adrien’s ears.

Adrien scratched the back of his neck. Think, think, think . . .

“Um, my room is haunted?”

Lila gawked at him wordlessly, gripping the back of his sofa. “You posted something about that on Instagram, but I thought you were, I don’t know? Making it up?”

Because you would be an expert on that, right, Lila?

Adrien plucked the remote from the coffee table and pointed it at the television, his thumb barely brushing the power button when the words from the newscaster reached his ears and sent chills down his spine.

“New akuma . . .”

“Ladybug and Rena Rouge on the scene . . .”

“Chat Noir yet to be spotted . . .”

Adrien’s heart skipped a beat. Furrowing his brow, he ran to his phone and ogled its empty notification list. Why hadn’t he received an akuma alert? Was the Ladyblog acting buggy?

Adrien had to come up with an alibi and fast. Lie like the wind, Bullseye.

He scooped up his cherished pun textbook and shepherded Lila to his bedroom door despite her protests. “I’m so sorry, Lila! I, uh, just remembered I have to practice piano for an extra hour today.” The television droned on about the deadly, unstoppable, mind-controlling, threateningly large, new akuma behind him. The hair on Adrien’s neck stood up with every added adjective.

“You’re not seriously sending me out into the city where the akuma is?” Lila exclaimed.

Oh. The thought hadn’t occurred to him.

“Um, sorry, Lila, but I’m sure you’ll be fine! You’re Ladybug’s best friend, right? She’d never let anything happen to you.” Adrien smirked inwardly at that. Lila was failing miserably at hiding her disgust for his spotted partner when he shut the door--politely--in her face.

Quickly, he propped up his phone on the piano and navigated to his voice memo app.

“I deserve extra cheese,” Plagg drawled, hovering to the side of Adrien.

“For nearly exposing yourself to Lila?” Adrien remarked bitterly.

Plagg narrowed his eyes. “No, for figuring out how to get your attention when Lila was clearly undermining you!”

Adrien stopped dead in his tracks. His finger hovered above his latest piano recording while his mind raced. “What do you mean, Plagg? I didn’t get an akuma alert. That’s not her fault.”

Plagg scoffed. “Uh, you did get an akuma alert. That--that menace got rid of it!” Plagg folded his arms across his chest, clearly much angrier than he would ever admit. “She got rid of the notification so you wouldn’t see. Even when she doesn’t know she’s doing it, she’s sabotaging Ladybug! You can’t let her in your room anymore, Adrien.”

Adrien stiffened. So Lila was far worse than he gave her credit for. He wouldn’t underestimate her again. Harmless snooping, he could live with. Interfering with him protecting his lady? Unforgivable. She did that when he was Chat Noir and he thought he had learned his lesson.

Apparently not.

“We’ll talk about this more later, Plagg,” Adrien finally decided. A moment later, the soft melody of a piano piece danced around the room. His eyes wandered to the whiteboard on his wall that had twelve tally marks souring its otherwise pristine surface. Plagg followed his gaze and looked back at his kid with a frown and drooping brows, tail and antennae betraying his melancholy.

Adrien pointedly ignored Plagg’s Pity™ look. “Ladybug’s already cleansed an akuma twelve times without needing my help. Let’s not let there be a thirteenth. Claws out!”

Meanwhile, from the other side of Adrien’s door, Lila simmered, jaw clenched, mouth dry. She didn’t have an inkling why Adrien had concocted such a ridiculous excuse, but she was ninety percent sure it had something to do with Ladybug.

It always came back to that impudent roach.

Lila dragged her feet all the way to the main staircase with every intention to vacate the Agreste premises, but a quick sweep of the mainroom revealed the bodyguard was nowhere to be seen. And interestingly enough, neither was that dreadfully stoic assistant Adrien was so fond of. Come to think of it, she hadn’t seen her when she first entered.

Empty. The room was deliciously empty.

And Lila had never seen the inside of Gabriel’s office.

Smirking, she decided she would have to correct that.

Just in case she got caught, Lila inconspicuously flitted around the room in an attempt to appear like she wasn’t on a mission. She fawned over trinkets and leisurely “admired” the boring paintings accosting the walls before her twitching fingers rested on the door handle.

She waited with an ear pressed against the wood. Silence had never tasted sweeter.

The room was . . . well, it left something to be desired.

Wasn’t Gabriel supposed to be a fashion icon?

His interior design made her want to gouge out her eyes with a plastic spork.

Lila gingerly let the door fall into place behind her, the hinges creaking only slightly (a billionaire or whatever he was could afford to professionally oil his door, she assumed) before her feet carried her to a mustard yellow tapestry. The woman adorning it she recognized was Adrien’s mother. The photos of Adrien to her right were all edited from photoshoots. Perfect. Unblemished.

Lila supposed she could overlook Adrien’s pitiful sense of humor. Adrien was still great eye candy, and his reputation made him an even tastier prize.

The scent of cologne and disinfectant mingled, battling each other for dominance and the result was only a bit nauseating. Orange light seeped in from the windows, the tendrils of luminance touching everything in the room but the wall with the tapestry. It was golden hour apparently.

Unable to help herself, Lila brushed her fingers along the edges of Gabriel’s touchscreen, searching, searching. Ah. There. A ridge. A power button, perhaps? With the tip of her fingernail, she pressed it and . . .

Of course, the thing would be password protected.

Maybe Adrien’s birthday?

Wait. Did she even know Adrien’s birthday?

Lila shrugged and turned on her heel. She was curious, but odds were she would never be able to guess Monsieur Agreste’s password. Unless . . .

Slowly pivoting to face the screen again, she tried typing something crazy and, albeit, a little stupid.

There was just no way. It was a waste of time to even try.

She tapped a green enter button.

The waiting screen consisted of the outline of a butterfly slowly being filled in and then repeating. Interesting. She wouldn’t have pegged Gabriel to be a butterfly guy. But if she thought about it really, reeeeally hard, she could just barely recall a few designs Adrien had modeled that sported a butterfly-like logo.

But whatever. This butterfly waiting screen meant nothing. There was still no way.

There was absolutely no way the password to the great fashion mogul Gabriel Agreste’s personal computer was “password.”

Was there?

She idly tapped her nails on the screen, the clack-clack-clack echoing around her in the frustratingly barren room. The anticipation ate away at her until . . .

Bingo. The screen unlocked, and the light shining on Lila transitioned from the black of the waiting screen to the blue of a schematic.

Lila snorted. “Seriously? I’m no Max but even I know that’s the most brainless password known to man.”

Closer inspection led to a fascinating revelation. The schematic wasn’t actually for a building or even a design. There were photos of her classmates and their . . .

Their hero personas? Interesting. Could he have been planning a Superhero line? How did he even find out their identities?

Wow, there was Nino as Carapace and that one girl Kagami as Ryuko. Max as some horse-looking hero she honestly had never seen in her life. Kim as a monkey. Unsurprising. Some guy with blue highlights who she’d only seen around Marinette. And Alya . . . as Rena Rouge.

Lila clenched her fists. Her nails left indentations in her palms.

She didn’t have time to stew over this infuriating morsel of information, however, before the floor beneath her began to tremble. Wasting no time, she sprinted to the middle of the room and was surprised to find the floor now still. Had she imagined the earth quaking?

What sounded like mechanical whirring had her spinning on her heel to face the painting. Her jaw dropped to the floor at the sight of a hole in the previously-unmarred tile. From the dark pit rose one bonafide, Barney-colored supervillain, his back facing her.

“Nooroo, dark wings fall.”

Instantly, a waterfall of purple and white glitter illuminated the room. The light was so intense, Lila had to lift her arms and shield her retinas. Her heart thudded wildly against her ribcage.

Any sane person would have run away at the sight of a supervillain in their classmate’s mansion.

But not Lila.

Lila quite liked Hawk Moth. She more than shared his distaste for the superhero duo and was overjoyed whenever he graced her with the opportunity to fight them as an akuma.

She was even more overjoyed to find out her boss and Hawk Moth were not just cut from the same cloth . . .

They were the same cloth.

The man otherwise known as Gabriel Agreste stood before her, hands clenched into tight fists at his sides.

His shoulders were hunched up to his ears as he grumbled, “Blasted children. I’ll get your Miraculous one of these days--”

“Um, Master?” a tiny voice interrupted.

Lila had never seen such a thing. Was that a bug? A fairy?

“What is it, Nooroo?”

Upon Nooroo’s silence, Gabriel turned around and was incapable of hiding the shock on his face when he found Lila Rossi trespassing in his office.

“How much did you see?” he demanded, scowling.

Lila tittered behind her hand. “Even if I hadn’t seen everything, Hawk Moth, I’d still be asking you what on Earth that thing is.” She jabbed a manicured finger at Nooroo.

Upon seeing his computer on and unlocked, Gabriel lifted his chin and sneered at the fifteen year old girl who had evidently outsmarted him.

Understanding, Lila shook her head. “You really are a boomer,” she mused. “‘Password’ is the least intelligent password you could have picked.”

“I thought it was clever, Master,” Nooroo meekly added.

Desperate to get control of the situation, Gabriel folded his hands behind his back and stood until he was at his full height. “So now you know.” He dared not move from higher ground. “I can’t imagine you thought it’d be smart to confront an adult man who’s shown he has nothing to lose.”

Lila raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you have, like, a son?”

Gabriel’s gaze was unrelenting.

Lila almost pitied the oblivious blonde boy. “Whatever. I just wanted to snoop around your office. I couldn’t have possibly dreamed a juicier secret. Paris’s beloved and esteemed fashion designer doubling as its masked terrorist?”

Gabriel bristled.

Feigning nonchalance, Lila perched upon one of Gabriel’s long purple benches and crossed one leg over the other before leaning an elbow on her knee and resting her cheek in her palm. Mischief twinkled in her eyes. “Scandalous.”

“I could make your life a living hell, young lady,” Gabriel began, but Lila held up a hand, halting him in his tracks.

“No need to get defensive, Monsieur. You have nothing to fear from me.” Lila stood then and crossed the room to stand on equal footing with Gabriel. While the top of her head was far beneath the man she addressed, her confidence made her a formidable contender. She leaned forward and peered up at him. “In fact, I want to help.”

Gabriel’s fingers twitched. He knew she liked getting akumatized, but this was unexpected. His initial reaction was to shut it down. This should have never happened. He had to ensure her silence but keep her far from involved.

His curiosity, however, got the better of him. He was a businessman at heart, after all.

“Help how?” he pressed.

Lila smiled crookedly.

Hook.

“You’ve akumatized me before and we’ve caused great chaos together.” Lila fiddled with one of her foxtails as she circled Gabriel. “Can you imagine if we actually strategized an akuma?”

“Are you implying my previous akuma were unplanned?”

Line.

“Not at all!” Lila mended, already sensing that Gabriel’s pride was a sore spot. “But you catch your victims when they’re unhinged, laden with their own emotions. How many times has an akuma put their own needs before yours?”

Lila turned her back on Gabriel then and moseyed toward the benches once more. She let her hand trail along the fabric of the cushions, waiting for him to take the bait . . .

“I’m listening.”

Sinker.

“What if your akuma’s goals were aligned with yours? Everything would be calculated. Predisposed. And--” Lila couldn’t prevent the smile from bleeding into her voice “--I’ve never had a sentimonster assist me before.” Lila stopped moving but remained facing the window. The sun was nearly set now.

Heels clacked against the tile. Approaching. Lila steeled herself.

“I don’t suppose you’ll join my assistant and I out in the gardens, Mademoiselle Rossi?”

Lila grinned from ear to ear. Oh, she could just imagine the taste of Ladybug’s fear when she loomed over her, fingers pinching her earrings and just ripping them from her lobes. Would the joy blooming in her heart be overwhelming, like a banana overpowering the flavors in a smoothie? Or would it slide down her throat like her mother’s hot chocolate? Rich, creamy, satisfying, and scalding all at the same time . . . but faintly nipping at her vocal cords from the traces of cinnamon?

Was it unbecoming to hope Ladybug’s ears would bleed?

“I would love to.”

Unbecoming or not, it was her greatest desire, from both the deepest and shallowest crevices of her soul.

-----

I just released Chapter 7 over on AO3, so if you're itching for more, go check it out here and leave me some love in the comments. Comments are jet fuel for my creativity 🥰 Follow me for updates and check out my Instagram where I post art!

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[rhysismydaddy]

Felons pt. 1 (Nessian)

Nessian multichapter. Next part out probably Monday. As always, this one just sets up some stuff so it’s kinda boring. This one’s probably going to be long. And an emotional roller coaster. Just letting you know :) 

Lightly based off the book The Witness. I say lightly because I’ve actually never even read this book, but my mom told me about it. ALSO no offense to anyone who’s from/lives in Nebraska lol.

Cassian swiveled around in his chair and looked at his partner with raised brows. “She’s in Nebraska?”

“That’s what I just said, isn’t it?”

Someone’s a little testy today. He ignores the tone and repeats, “But... Nebraska? What the hell is she doing there? And why did it take us so long to find her?”

Azriel gives him a tight look, and he realizes the reason for his pissy attitude. He’s annoyed it took him so long to track her down. 

Before he can tell his partner it isn’t his fault, he says, “She isn’t doing much. She’s completely off the grid. Which answers your second stupid question, too.”

“Okay... how off the grid are we talking?”

The woman had grown up in a penthouse, for fuck’s sake. He couldn’t imagine her living in the middle of nowhere without any of the comfort she’d lived with her entire life. 

“No cell phone or bank records for the last two years. The last time she was seen by any sort of traffic camera was before that, and it was in Atlanta.” He scrolls through something on his desktop with a frown. “From what I can tell, she took all her money out in cash and hoped on a bus.”

Nothing about that sounded like the woman he’d been reading about, but he wasn’t about to argue with Azriel in such a bad mood. “So she went straight to Nebraska?”

“I don’t know.”

His least favorite answer. “How’d you find her, anyway?”

“Well, I figured that unless she was sleeping under a bridge, she had to be paying rent somewhere. So I went state by state, looking at new property purchases under her known aliases.” Azriel sighs, running a hand through his dark hair. “But that didn’t pull up any results, so I looked at all the IDs on new renter’s insurance purchases until I matched one to her.”

His eyebrows rose. “That’s...”

“Tedious as shit.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s why it took so damn long,” he mutters. “She’s been careful, Cass. I mean really, really careful.”

A laugh bubbled out of him at that. “Well, she should be. She’s a felon.”

~Nesta~

Nesta’s breath clouded in front of her as she ran up the hill, panting like crazy. Even though she’d taken up running after the move, she still fucking hated it. Especially when it was cold. 

Which, in Nebraska, was somehow year round.  

Even the summers here were cold compared to back home-

No. Not home. 

This was home now. 

California was slowly, painfully becoming a distant memory, and she had to constantly force herself to remember that Mackenzie Brooks had never lived there. She was born in Michigan. She has no family or friends. Her hobbies include reading and running (the last of which was a definite mistake to include). 

And she was her. 

God, it honestly was a miracle she hadn’t slipped up yet. 

Maybe it was still the fear that drove her. Maybe it was just that she knew she could never go back to her old life. No matter that she wanted to.

No matter that she’d picked up and left without a word.  No matter that her sisters probably thought she was dead. 

Thankfully, she made it to the top of the hill before she passed out or died, and she bent over, sucking down the freezing air. It was only October, but it was already cold enough to force her to wear three layers and a beanie. 

Despite being miserable and cold, she forced herself to go through her training course. 

Because it couldn’t just be enough to be fit enough to run away anymore. If the person chasing her was faster... 

Nesta punched her hand through the target, satisfied when the wood cracked down the middle. Her knuckles luckily had gotten used to the abuse, so when she ducked under the branch and struck again, another target went flying. 

By the time she was done, her hands and arms were tired and her body was aching for a bath. 

Or two hours on a warm, sunny beach. 

Since only one of those things was bound to actually happen, she trudged back to her cabin, praying the hot water would hold out long enough for a full bath. 

One thing about Blair, Nebraska was that somehow, the less than ten thousand people who lived here were always experiencing a water shortage. 

It rivaled the cold ass weather for her least favorite thing about the place as a very close second. 

Noticing who was parked in front of her small little house, she grimaced and amended her statement. Lack of hot water was actually third, second only to the one and only Sheriff Marks. 

He spun around when he finally heard her steps, smiling a big, ugly, fake smile. “Miss Brooks.”

“Marks.”

According to small-town social guidelines, she was being beyond rude for not calling him Sheriff. But he was a short, ugly, annoying man, and she didn’t hold an ounce of respect for him. 

And because she wasn’t completely fake, she didn’t bother hiding it. 

“What are you doing on my property?”

His smile dimmed as his eyes beady eyes narrowed slightly. “I wanted to see how you’re doing. You never come into town. And here in Blair, we take care of each other.”

That right there was the reason for her dislike; Sheriff Marks was an insatiably curious man. 

And ever since she’d shown up a year ago, he’d been trying to put together the puzzle of why a moderately attractive young woman would move to the middle of butt-fucking nowhere. 

“I’m fine.”

She wanted to walk by him and go inside, where she could blissfully lock him out, but she had a list of rules now, and not putting her back to people she didn’t know or like was at the top of it. 

“Okay, sure, but-”

“Listen, Marks. I appreciate this... gesture, but I moved here to be left alone. I’d appreciate it if you would respect that.” It was the most she’d ever said to him, and he looked a little shocked. “I think I’ve made it more than clear.”

His face went somehow even ruddier, and for a split second, she regretted the harsh words. 

She couldn’t have people caring about her, though. When people cared, they stopped by more and felt entitled to know your business. Neither of which were things she wanted. 

So she just raised a brow and shot a meaningful glance to his cruiser. 

“Yes. It’s perfectly clear exactly who you are.” 

She almost rolled her eyes at the attempted insult, thankful when he finally turned to leave. As he was pulling away, she united her muddy shoes and got her house key from her sock, grimacing at how tight her back was when she stood up. 

Inside, she went through and made sure every door and window was locked, a habit she’d picked up two years ago and hadn’t been able to shake. 

God apparently was looking out for her today, because when she finally made it upstairs, there was enough hot water to fill the tub. 

When she sunk down to her shoulders and closed her eyes, enjoying the moment of peace. But then images of her sisters’ faces, the ocean, and her old home popped up uninvited in her head. 

It was always quiet moments like these when she found it the hardest to shake the memories of who she used to be. And since Nebraska was always fucking quiet... 

Nesta reminded herself of why she was here; why it had been necessary to leave. She reminded herself that her family was safer with her gone, that she was safer. 

But the hole in her chest refused to listen and close up. 

A tear slipped down her cheek, and she was too tired to even brush it away and chastise herself. Because for the first time in twenty-five years, she admitted she was lonely. 

She’d been alone for most of her life, but there was a difference between alone and lonely. Even when she’d isolated herself from her family and friends, they’d still been there for her. 

But now... she had no one here. And she’d never felt so alone in her life. 

It was horrible enough to make her consider going back, despite the risks. 

This is home now, she told herself, dunking under the water to wash away the thoughts hounding her. You didn’t work your ass off to get safe just to bitch out after a year. 

Coming up and gasping for air, she went through her cover, just like she did every night. 

“My name is Mackenzie Brooks, nickname Mackie. I’m from Michigan, but I moved to Nebraska last year to start over. I like to read and run. I’m twenty-five.” Taking a deep breathe, she finished, “I don’t have any family.” 

No amount of time under the water could ebb the sting of those words, though.

~Cassian~

Cassian was honestly a little surprised he hadn’t gotten fired. 

He absolutely hated his orders, and he’d made that more than clear. They’d come straight from Command and “weren’t negotiable,” but that didn’t mean he hadn’t tried. 

Calling his boss a two-faced asshole might’ve been a bit much, but it felt justified in the moment.

Because in all the time he’d spent searching for Nesta Archeron, he’d always pictured the day he’d finally track her down and slap some cuffs on her wrists, haul her away to jail.

He’d never imagined he’d be given orders to find out what she knew first. 

And he’d also never imagined having to do so in fucking Nebraska. 

An hour in the state, and he already hated it. He was from Boston, so he didn’t mind the cold weather, but the lack of buildings over thirty feet was a shock to the system. 

That, alongside the fact that everyone here was wearing some form of plaid, only worsened his mood. 

It wasn’t like he cared about her or anything, but he’d never really liked undercover work. Deceiving a woman--no matter that she was a criminal--never felt right to him. 

But orders were orders. 

He had to find out why she’d run, what she knew about what had happened, and if she had any proof. The goal was to get it all recorded, so he had to carry around a stupid little tap recorder in his jacket pocket. 

Maybe she’d meet him and just spill her guts immediately. That’d be ideal, but it seemed pretty fucking unlikely. At the very least, he’d have to get her to trust him enough to talk about the events of two years ago.

He drove the crappy old truck Azriel had gotten him through the small town, gaining the eyes of pretty much every person he passed. 

Not a lot of new people, apparently.

Ignoring them, he drove to the address of a small house on the outskirts of town. Or home for however long it took him to get close to her. 

Gods, I hope she’s talkative, he thought, walking up the creaky stairs and shouldering the door open. 

Quiet and small, but at least it was clean. 

Throwing his bag down, Cassian grabbed his laptop and started to get to work. 

~

Three hours and a trip to the grocery store later, he’d learned absolutely nothing Nesta--or Mackenzie Brooks, rather. 

There had been nothing online, and no one in the store had much to say besides, “She moved here a year ago. Keeps to herself.”

Great. 

Luckily, he had a reason to go see her. They were neighbors. Kind of. 

Her house was further out of town than his, and she owned the land around it, so she didn’t actually have neighbors. But he lived within a two mile radius, so he counted it. 

Which is why he found himself sitting in her gravel driveway, eyebrows high on his forehead, staring at the place.

And for the first time, he questioned if Azriel was right. 

Because the woman he’d read about... she definitely didn’t seem the type to live here. 

The porch was missing floor boards, the roof was caving in on one side, and the paint on the outside of the house was peeling off. The only thing that looked somewhat new was the front door. 

It had three locks and seemed to be a little heavy duty compared to the house, which made it stand out in a pretty obvious way.

Stepping out of the car, he walked up to get a better look, avoiding the holes in the floor. The house was quiet, and he knocked on the door, finding it to be solid and heavy. 

No answer. 

He knocked again, waiting a few minutes. Then he decided to be nosy and peek in the window. 

A couch and dining table were all that was visible, furthering his opinion that she couldn’t actually live here. 

She’d grown up in one of the nicest apartment buildings in California. Her father had been a wealthy real-estate tycoon. She’d gone to private school and sailing camp, for Christ’s sake. 

There was no way she lived here. 

That theory was proven very soundly incorrect a second later when he felt something tap the back of his head. Repressing the jump that rose from not hearing anyone sneak up on him, he straightened and turned around. 

And found himself looking down the barrel of a shotgun into the surprisingly beautiful, angry face of Nesta Archeron. 

“You have five seconds to get the hell off my porch.” 

Shock ran through his system like lightening. For a few reasons, the least of which was the gun. 

For starters, pictures didn’t at all do her justice, because she was probably the most attractive thing Cassian had ever laid eyes on. And that was with mud splattered on her face, hair in a ponytail, and athletic clothes covering her thin frame. 

Then there was the fact that Azriel had been completely correct. Nesta Archeron, pampered little trust fund princess, was living here. In Nebraska. Completely off the grid. By herself. 

The gun was also a surprise, but not as much as the way she was holding it. Her feet were squared, her shoulders lined up to absorb the kickback if she fired. She looked... she looked like she knew what she was doing. 

She raised a brow, reminding him of the fact that he still hadn’t spoken. 

And remembering who he was supposed to be, what he was supposed to do, he ignored the gun and smiled broadly. “Or what?”

“Or I will shoot you,” she responded calmly, hand pulling back the fore-end to load the gun with a snap. 

“You aren’t going to shoot me,” he assured her. “I brought you a pie.” He held up the baked good and grinned. It was from the grocery store, but it still counted, right? “It’s blueberry.”

“What? Who the fuck are you? And why are you here?”

Sticking out a hand that she ignored, he said, “Cassian. I’m here because I just moved in to the place about a mile from here, and I wanted to meet my neighbors. I gotta say, I’m loving the hospitality.”

Nesta ignored the joke and asked incredulously, “You moved here?”

He nodded. 

She just narrowed her eyes, not buying it apparently. 

Good God, “stand-off-ish” didn’t begin to cover it. 

He was having a difficult time wrapping his head around the fact that this was the same woman who’d gone to UC Santa Barbara, liked to surf, and had dated a movie star.

“But what about the-”

“I hate pie.”

He scoffed, leaning against the crumbling wall of her house like he was unbothered by the rejection in her voice. “No one hates pie.”

Nesta shrugged, jerking her chin towards his truck in a clear get the fuck out manner. 

“I’ll leave if you tell me your name,” he bargained, acting like he didn’t know who she was already.

There was a pause of silence, and a bit of sadness seeped into her bright blue eyes. “Mackenzie.”

Mackenzie Brooks, one of her aliases.  

“Pretty name.”

“Leave.”

“Sweetheart, I honestly can’t believe you’re trying so hard to get rid of me. I’m the best looking guy around here.”

That might very well be true, considering he hadn’t seen a single person under the age of fifty when he’d gone out earlier. 

“And what if I’m not looking for a man?”

“I have a female cousin you could date instead.”

Her lips twitched, and it made him a little too happy to see. “If I take the pie, will you leave?”

“Counteroffer. We split the pie, then I’ll leave.”

Her eyebrows go up. “Who the hell offers someone half a pie?”

“I was planning on giving you the whole pie, but I didn’t know you’d be so beautiful. And feisty.” He ran his eyes over her slowly. “A quality I never even knew I liked.”

“The urge to shoot you just increased.”

Cassian waggled his eyebrows. “So passionate.”

Nesta just sighed, finally lowering the gun. She engaged the safety and leaned it against the door, then snatched the pie from his hands and walked to the porch railing. 

He noticed she didn’t turn her back to him the entire time, and she she kept the gun in arm’s reach. 

What the hell had she been through?

His train of thought was cut off when he heard a splat. Nesta came back to him, one crumpled half of the pie lying upside down in the lid, the other in the original container. She shoved the crumpled half toward him. “Now leave.”

“How did you even cut it? Do you have a knife hidden between your breasts?”

It was a miracle she didn’t slap him for that one. She just narrowed her eyes again and said, “Yes.”

He honestly believed her. 

Cassian sighed, knowing he had to actually leave now. “Well, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but it’ll do. It was lovely to meet you, Mackenzie.”

“Please just leave.”

Ouch.

He laughed and walked to his truck, calling out, “I’ll see you soon, neighbor!”

Nesta frowned at that, but he ignored it and grinned back. 

She stood on the porch watching him drive away until he was a certain distance, then picked up her stuff and unlocked the door. 

Well, Azriel had definitely been right: she was being very, very careful. 

But why? 

Cassian had no idea, but he was definitely going to find out. 

_____________________________________________________

Part 2

@sjm-things​ @santas-dwynwen​ @thebitchupstairs​ @sayosdreams​ @perseusannabeth​ @cursebreaker29​ @a-bit-of-a-cactus​ @elriel4life​ @girl-who-reads-the-books​ @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln​ @highqueenofelfhame​ @tswaney17​ @rowanisahunk​ @superspiritfestival​ @studyliketate​ @over300books​ @justgiu12​ @maastrash​ @aesthetics-11​ @bamchickawowow​ @b00kworm​ @sleeping-and-books​ @musicmaam​ @hizqueen4life​ @maybekindasortaace​

[batmanie]

Old Habits - scriddler

“Jeeezus!!!” The yelp was quite loud and – to be honest – quite satisfying. Eyes wide, and with a hand clutching onto his shirt, exactly where the heart would be, Nigma made a perfect example of someone who was suffering a cardiac arrest. His chest was rapidly rising and falling as he was trying to catch his breath. “Did I scare you?” He knew he did, and it felt so strange that he was still able to enjoy those little things in his life after all he'd been through. “You look like you've seen a ghost.” “Perhaps I'm seeing one?” Edward had to take a moment to collect himself, his voice was still hoarse and breathless, which would have made the old Scarecrow smirk – not the new one, though. The 'new him' didn't know what fun was anymore. “And it's an ugly view,” Riddler frowned. “How did you even...” “Survive?” Crane cut in with the most casual tone. He took a step toward the source of the light but his whole head was hidden in the shadow of his hood. “How did I escape? Crawl out of the sewers? Drag myself back to the town with a broken leg to get medical attention? Well, obviously not thanks to you...” “I was going to ask: How did you manage to make yourself look even more ridiculous than before?” It was almost jovial how quickly Nigma was getting rude and offensive when feeling attacked. 'Some things never change', Scarecrow thought with a pang of nostalgia. “It is good to see you too, Edward.” It really was, even if Riddler didn't look too happy to see him. This little reunion in the dark and unwelcoming system of the underground tunnels which were currently Riddler's hideout was giving Scarecrow the false but somewhat soothing impression that nothing had changed while he was gone. “How have you been?” He decided to keep the conversation going – talking was one of Riddler's favorite activities after all. “Perfect!” Nigma waved his hand in a nonchalant gesture. Crane, being no less observant than he had always been, had already noticed all the signs that were telling otherwise. The room they were in, one of many in this maze of a place, looked like it hadn't been cleaned up in ages. Multiple papers were scattered across the floor along with some cables, tools, and all kinds of trash. Riddler must have spent a lot of his time down here, as his skin was so pale that it probably hadn't seen any natural sunlight in months. His cheeks were hollow, his hair messy and there were dark circles around his eyes. And in this sad picture, the only two things that seemed to be alive were Edward himself, and his eyes – radiating confidence, intellect and thirst for revenge.

“I assume you didn't kill the Bat?” “Not yet.” The man shrugged, pretending not to care but at the same time nervously tapping his fingers on the desk – one of his many motor tics. “But with my new plan he is as good as dead, don't you worry about that! As you can see, I'm very busy right now and I don't need you, or anyone, to distract me. I am a perfectly self-dependent one-man army, capable of besting the Bat on my own!” His angry, slightly high-pitched tone told Scarecrow just how much Riddler had actually changed. His time-alone had done the man no good but he was too far gone to notice that. “Do you want me to leave then?” “Yes, please!” Edward crossed his arms. It was more of an angry order than a polite request. “If you expected that I will ask you to stay, just because we used to be... whatever you want to call that. Well, sorry to disappoint you,” he turned his back to Scarecrow, now facing the desk littered with some blueprints. “I bet you are still very busy playing dead – so busy that for the past six months it didn't cross your mind to inform me that those news about the crocodile eating you alive were exaggerated!” Now, there was something new in Edward's voice, something similar to a sad and bitter undertone. Jonathan immediately caught on that shift and he had to admit, it got him interested. “Would it have been so hard, to contact me earlier?” The man continued, holding onto the edge of his desktop, as if it was a lifebuoy preventing him from drowning in his own madness. “Instead of treating me like I was nothing to you? Like I was one of those morons who wrote you off as dead?!” “I was dead...,” Scarecrow stated with a hushed, almost murmuring tone. “Jonathan Crane died that night in the sewers of Gotham. Now, there is only Scarecrow.” Riddler turned his head and laughed mockingly, the short, bark-like sound lacked any joy. “Oh, really? You seem rather fine for a dead-man!” “What makes you think, I am fine?” Riddler went silent and looked at him, surprised. It was a long, calculative stare, the longest one Edward had graced him with yet. Jonathan was sure, Riddler was about to ask him about the leg brace – the newest addition to Scarecrow's already terrifying look. He didn't – his gaze lingered on it but soon wandered higher. Jon stepped forward, sensing that this was the time to present his 'new face'. He took another step toward the man so the two of them were really close now. There was the desk behind Edward's back – no place to run – and even if the situation seemed harmless, Jonathan could already sense the tension between them. Slowly, he pulled his hood down, revealing the disturbing view underneath. Riddler's blue eyes widened at the sight of the dirty piece of cloth stitched to the very skin of Jonathan's face. Edward's right hand twitched and instinctively reached to examine the stitching but before his fingers touched the fabric, the man stopped himself. “Are you...insane?” He breathed out, in a half-shocked, half-furious manner. Scarecrow observed his reaction with anticipation, their eyes locked together as both of them refused to look elsewhere. “It felt like a necessity back then,” Crane made sure his voice was as smooth and chill as possible. He had quite a story to tell, however, he doubted Edward would understand him. “I had to patch up the open wound that used to be my face. All I had, was my old burlap mask so that was my first choice. Not the smartest one, I admit, since the infection spread through my whole body just a week later, leaving me delirious and weak for the next two months. And it was only worse from there...” Edward just stared at him, saying nothing even though he looked like he wanted to. Driven by old habit, Crane observed how the small veins over the man's temples pulsated with the rush of blood, and at the same time, he did a quick analysis of his own actions. What exactly had he expected from Nigma? Was it his pity that he sought? Did he desire to see, how poorly the man was doing without him? Well, he had gotten a taste of that, but did it please his cold, dark heart? “As you can see,” Scarecrow pulled up his hood and backed off, letting Riddler return to his comfort zone, “...I wasn't exactly in shape to come to you earlier. I did not mean to offend you...” Oh, so it was making peace then, was it? That was the purpose behind coming here after all those months. To convince himself, to convince Edward, that everything was, as it had always been – even if it was not. “Well,” Nigma awkwardly cleared his throat, his eyes examining the dirty, stone flooring for a little while before he was able to look at his guest again. “I guess, I have no choice but to accept your reasoning.” “That's very generous of you, Edward.” Riddler tried to smile but it came out more like a nervous twitch. “But where are my good manners,” he reminded himself and it seemed like all the resentment that had been there before, had vanished. An almost child-like eagerness replaced it. “Sit down, please.” He offered Scarecrow the only chair he got in his cramped, lonely dumpster. “Do you want anything to drink? Coffee? Hot cocoa? I had a second mug...somewhere around here.” “No, thank you, Edward,” Crane stopped him from searching through the dusty shelves. “I can't have hot beverages just yet. But I appreciate your effort. I think I will go now.” “Already? Why don’t you stay longer? I will share some juicy details about my next, big plan with you, and I can even show you a prototype of my latest contraption. I promise, it will blow your mind, haha. Metaphorically speaking, of course.” Edward must have missed that – talking to someone who would just sit down and listen to his crazy ideas.

To be honest, he himself might have missed the sound of a human voice just a little.

Deep down, Scarecrow knew his days were numbered, his body broken beyond repair. And it was his fear of dying defeated, humiliated, and forgotten that brought him back to Riddler.

...because of all people, it was Riddler who could understand that fear best. “Fine... Let’s talk about that plan of yours.”

[marithlizard]

Ace Attorney: Rise From the Ashes (part 1)

A couple of people expressed interest in a writeup as I play through the game, so I thought I’d give quasi-liveblogging a try.   It might have come out to be too detailed - let me know if the result is amusing enough to go through the next part.  

(I knew this already, but wow liveblogging is a lot of work.   And it must take twice as much effort to do this for a show and to include screencaps.)

(I’ve tried three times now to put proper line breaks/spacing in, and they’re just not displaying, at least on desktop. I’m sorry.)

A brief,  stylized opening designed not to give away much, except that a creepy-looking doll is involved.

 Two months?  Phoenix, you haven't taken a single client since Maya left?    a) are you depressed, and b) how are you paying rent on the office?

Ookay, you're not going to tell us why you've been moping around. I don't think it's that you have a crush on Maya.  Are you just not able to function without a partner?   That's not great for your ability to survive, but I can sympathize.  

 New perky assistant, right on cue.  (A partner who isn't a young girl would be a nice change now and then. (But not Larry.  Anyone but Larry. In fact, I take it back, this girl with the pink sunglasses will do just fine.))

Oof,  Phoenix still not being able to say out loud that Mia's dead.

In the first two minutes pink-glasses girl has asserted that he's his female boss, the coffee boy, and 'better than nothing'.   Aha!  The problem with all the clients he turned down was that they didn't insult him enough.

Kid, you can't be more than sixteen, and you have silly face buttons  on your lab coat.  You are about as much a scientific investigator as Photography Girl last episode was a journalist.   ...But apparently you have a future job lined up in forensics, so you're more organized than she was.  And this world certainly could use more competent crime scene analysis.  

"I promised her I'd bring Mia Fey".  Huh.  Is Mia's murder not well-known to the public,  then, even though the Edgeworth case apparently got famous enough to earn Phoenix a bit of a reputation?

A murder charge with an eyewitness, and an assistant who "kind of hates" her sister the defendant.  Sounds hopeless, let's do it! Off to the Detention Center. 

...Did we just overhear the defendant threatening their terrified guard with a pay freeze?  Is she their boss? And if she's someone that high up, why doesn't she already have a better defense attorney?

I like Lana Skye's character design. She looks as though she should be starring in a Takurazuka revue show, swearing eternal star-crossed love to a princess.  

She insists she did it.  By genre convention we know that can't be the case; my first assumption is that she's being forced to cover for someone, blackmailed  or coerced  by someone higher up in the system.   But it would certainly be interesting if it  turned out she was covering for Ema.  

Must....resist...plotbunnies...

Oookay.  A prosecutor should certainly know ways to commit murder without getting caught, and this sounds like the opposite of those ways.    WHY does she claim she did this?  You're not even going to ask her, are you?  *headdesk*

Ema:  "Please ignore that totally gay statement by my sister,  because I certainly plan to!"

Lana: "No don't help me, go away go away go away go away go awa-oh fine."

Hmmm.  From Ema's description of the behavior change,  Lana has been being blackmailed or coerced for a long time now.

Time to go investigate the underground parking garage.

Attorneys aren't supposed to examine crime scenes, and defense attorneys aren't entitled to a copy of the police investigation reports.  What does a "normal" defense attorney in this world do for their clients then?  Always assume a loss and try to negotiate a plea bargain?  I wonder if we'll ever get to see one in action.

It's...a cop with a cowboy fetish?  Do police not have dress codes here?  Maybe they're waived above a certain level,  and some people take pride in cultivating a unique style to show off that they can.  It would explain Edgeworth.  

You are dramatically pretending to shave in front of us.  Also you just called Ema a baby cow.  Although you know her and seem sympathetic - I guess Lana brought her little sister to the office sometimes?  Not sure what I think of you, Jake Marshall.

I am revising my stance. Being Phoenix's partner on a case requires precise and narrow qualifications.  Specifically, just enough sense to stop him from doing something breathtakingly stupid, but not enough sense to take the badge firmly away from him and do the job themselves.   Ema fits the bill perfectly.

Ooh, new mechanic!  And an ID card number for a Bruce Goodman who dresses like a white-hat agent in Spy vs Spy. (I was trained on games that would require you to write that number down and remember it later, but AA will certainly be more forgiving.)  

Using the new mechanic on Phoenix's attorney badge,  I deduce that at some point this game it will be stolen.  

It doesn't explain Lana's supposed actions, but that red sports car does kind of scream "My owner is a jerk, stuff a body in my trunk."   Instead of a chalk outline, they seem to have outlined the hanging body with string?  Is that actually a technique, and how do they get the rope to stay put in precise outline?

And the cowboy gives them a hint.  So he's  on their side but constrained by rules?

Lady put the boobs away.  Why are you selling sushi in a negligee under a fur coat, at a crime scene?  And why would anyone trust food from someone whose nickname is "the Cough-Up Queen"?

Angel Starr, dominatrix lunch lady.   It says something that this is not the weirdest witness in an AA game so far.

She hates prosecutors, and therefore especially Lana. Not a trustworthy witness. But it's probably no fun to cater for a group of (relatively) wealthy and powerful people you despise.   Especially if they're smugly giving awards to each other as they eat lunches.  (Eeeevil lunches.  She probably coughs on them.)

"The rhythmic beat of Lana Skye's knife"...  very poetic, but didn't Lana say the victim was stabbed only once?

We can't get back to the car, phooey, so up to the prosecutor's office we go.

Pink...everywhere...no question whose office this is, even if one of his outfits wasn't framed on the wall.  (why do you frame an outfit?)     I see a very ugly trophy on the sofa, so he's the one who won the award.

Ema:  "this is the kind of room that just screams 'I can do the job'. Actually it screams 'I don't need to pretend to be heterosexual', but the two aren't unconnected.    

Is it just me or is that trophy broken off at the top?

Edgeworth did you just roll with being insulted and make a joke about it?   I'm so proud of you, you've clearly relaxed since your murder trial!

BWAHAHA of course it was Edgeworth's car.

Wendy the security guard from the Steel Samurai case is sending Edgeworth expensive presents??   a) that's both funny and a little sad,  b) how can she afford it,  and c)  he keeps and displays them which is very courteous.

WAIT did you - did this game just heavily suggest Gumshoe hangs out in the office a lot?  Twice, once when you look at the shelves and again when you look at the desk?  I don't ship it, but this is the point where I start to see why people do.

Awwww he's embarrassed about the trophy, that's cute.    So he's the one who "devours the evillest lunches of all",  hmm?   I wouldn't have thought the Cough-Up Queen's weird not-even-fresh lunches would appeal to Edgeworth's refined tastes.

Ema actually has a bit of a crush, from the way she's rhapsodizing about Edgeworth sleeping on the sofa.  d'awww.   And I definitely want to know the story behind the outfit.  Made by his mom and too precious to wear?

Edgeworth, no one thinks you did it.   Sheesh.  He certainly doesn't sound happy about having to prosecute Lana,  even though he believes she's guilty.  His car, his knife... it almost seems like this is a plot aimed at him, or perhaps a plot against Lana with a healthy dose of fuck-you-too-Edgeworth to it.

Huh.  Maybe it *is* aimed at him. I've been assuming all this time from his behavior on the stand that Edgeworth has indeed been messing with evidence to convict obviously innocent people, and also assuming that it's common practice in this corrupt justice system. (Much as it is in Japan and in the US).  But the way he's talking about rumors right now, it sounds more like he's being slandered.  And he thinks the award he was given was out of mockery.  Ouch.

So yes, the trophy is broken.   (In RWBY, you assume everything is a gun;  in AA, you assume everything is a murder weapon.  It probably broke when it was used to hit someone over the head.)

Evidence transferal day, huh?  Was the murder timed to draw attention away from a case being closed?    And Edgeworth parked his car only three minutes before Goodman was stabbed  and thrown into its trunk?    No way.  He was there for the murder, or more likely that's not when the murder happened.   (Is he being coerced like Lana?  I don't think so, but it's possible.)

Enter an idiot mailman with a bandaged hand.  And exit, with sniveling. What was that about?

And a hint to go investigate at the police station.  Is Edgeworth being friendly, attempting to signal something, or merely aware that the most efficient way to get rid of Phoenix is to give him a clue to chase?

The police department entrance, with some sort of plywood jester figure in front of it.  We're offhandedly informed that it took 30 minutes to get there from Edgeworth's office, which means that will be important later.

This is the creepy doll from the intro! It's clearly meant to be a mascot. Was it made by the sniveling mailman?  There's  a certain resemblance...

No, I should've guessed that Gumshoe made it.   I mean ... mechanically it's pretty clever for someone who's not a craftsman or engineer?  Moving articulated limbs and all.  It's just the aesthetics and design he shouldn't have been allowed anywhere  near.

Yes, yes it is odd that only the top-ranked people are being allowed to work on the case. Are they all in on it?    A patrolman in charge of the crime scene instead of a detective - that suggests Marshall is part of the conspiracy.  I'm thinking the dominatrix lunch lady is too.

Gumshoe is so happy about the prosecutor's award - Edgeworth probably didn't have the heart to say that for him it's a mockery.  Daww.  (Also there's something endearingly cheerful about  his hopping-caterpillar eyebrows.)   He's also being much more helpful than his superiors would want, probably just because he thinks of Phoenix as an ally in general now.  

Back to the parking lot, with a letter of introduction in hand this time.

I genuinely can't tell if the lunch lady is a sex worker, if she actually has multiple boyfriends, or if that's code for her professional contacts in whatever she's really doing here.   (And that's an interesting cultural bit, isn't it - any of those options seem possible, and I'm not expecting any of the characters to question her competence or morality because of it, not even in court.   If this was a US-made game my expectations would be...different.)

"Good men always die young"...I see what you did there, Marshall.    

Autopsy report confirms one stab wound.  Lana and the victim worked together on "a case a few years back", ding ding ding.   Someone didn't want the evidence for that case transferred. Or looked at. 

 Marshall used to be a detective but got demoted?  And he's lying about why he was assigned to the crime scene, and telling us Gumshoe is off the case because he's friends with Edgeworth.  The police chief, whoever he is, is now at the top of my suspect list.

 Happily, the game will let me do dumbass things like show off Goodman's ID card without consequences.  Marshall seems very uninterested in it and why it was found so far from the spot of the murder, which I take to mean "we have our official narrative, don't go messing it up with facts or evidence." 

Finally we can examine the car!  First up, Lana's cellphone.  The whole business about hitting redial and somehow not knowing that Ema's phone rang was weird.  Phoenix’s lie couldn't possibly have fooled Marshall, who is bizarrely claiming there's no way to know who the last call was made to.  It's an odd thing to conceal, even given the “no facts please we have our narrative” stance.  Maybe he's trying to protect Ema somehow?) 

 Marshall said the rumors about Edgeworth came from Lana.  And we have a note found  in the trunk:  6-7S 12/2, on a piece of Goodman's stationery.  

 Er, yeah, Ema, why didn't you mention your sister called you 3 minutes after the claimed murder time?  If Lana hung up right away that's hardly incriminating for either of you.

 End of Day One!  We are, as usual, completely unprepared for tomorrow morning's trial.

[waltwest]

The Freelancer

The following is the first thirteen pages of a short story I am writing titled “The Freelancer”. I hope you enjoy. I apologize for the unappealing formatting, this site does not have the most comprehensive text editor.

                                          I.

             Studying the Keurig machine, I wondered how many complacent people it took to ware the word “brew” off the button, leaving behind nothing more than a “b” and an “e”, which looked curiously like an “s”. I imagined this instant coffee machine as the alter in which lost souls came to pay tribute to each morning before assuming their monotonously drudging tasks; lips drawn, eyes downcast. These people were never happy, not even content. It certainly wasn’t a wish of theirs to be here. Men who dreamt of becoming accomplished composers became pencil pushers. Women who yearned to be animators had landed at secretary. The office is where you come to lay your ambition to rest. Maybe it is a lack of assertiveness in demeanor which lands one here, maybe it is the fate of mere circumstance.

           But I, Maxwell Goodman, knew what my job meant; I knew I worked among the dead. Luckily, there was a spark of life that incessantly flickered within me. With my ten ounce mug full before me, I reluctantly took my communion once again.

           Safely back within the confines of my particle board cubicle, the manila folders and stacks of paper demanding this or that seemed to never be satisfied.

           God, who knew lightbulbs could generate so much paperwork, I thought to myself.

           I sat in silence and regarded the congregation of slain trees covering my desk. My collar was sticking to my neck… Trying to strangle me, for God’s sake. My mouth was dry and coated with the thick taste of cheap coffee. My desktop stared into my eyes expectantly, patiently waiting for me to pound away on the keyboard like a good boy… Like I was supposed to. The bulbs may be bright, but they can’t sell themselves!  That’s what my boss Lonny loved to say. Lonny… God, how can someone be balding so terribly at thirty years old? Is it just bad genetics, or too much cortisol?

           I felt a hand clap on my shoulder. “Max-o! Lovely morning, isn’t it? Hey, in case you weren’t aware, Sweet Charade is having a bogo on donuts until the end of the week…”

           Speak of the devil.

           I swiveled my squeaky and unbalanced office chair to face my boss. “Gee, thanks for filling me in, Lonny. You know how much I love that maple-iced.” I responded, attempting to sound enthusiastic. Lonny was a nice guy, he really was. It’s really difficult to be rude to a guy like Lonny, with his premature baldness and all. You kind of had to feel sorry for him in a way, it was impossible to predict whether or not he was just one snide comment away from completely breaking down. He’s kind of unstable, emotionally. Also, his wife died last year. She fell off a cliff. No really, she did. Her and Lonny took a vacation to the Grand Canyon last August. Kept complaining about how bright the sun was and how she “couldn’t see a damn thing.” Next thing you know, she was trying to take a picture of a bird flying above and somehow managed to fall right off the edge of a cliff. Worst part is, she was eight months pregnant with their son, they were going to name him Clint... So yeah, all in all it’s pretty tough being rude to Lonny.

           “I know they’re your favorite, it’s why I told you. Oh, hey-“Lonny pulled his other hand from behind his back, revealing a bloated manila envelope”-think you could handle this for me? Just a little bit of inventory mumbo-jumbo. Nothing too serious!” He was really trying to exude a devastating level of charm, though the effort was ineffective.

           One side of the envelope was sagging down in the air under its own mind-numbing weight. I never thought an envelope could actually look depressed, it almost made me giggle. Grudgingly, I acquiesced and accepted the package with the lift of the eyebrows and a nod. I didn’t want to be mean, but I also didn’t want him to think I was thrilled about all the extra nonsense. Hell, he might’ve even pulled another folder out of his waistband or something if he got the idea I was happy about it. “Here, how about closing this deal for a thousand LED’s to the grocery store down the street as well…” No, I had enough paper, truly.

           Lonny gave me another hearty clap on the shoulder, his bulbous belly jiggling a bit from the force. Again, I had to prevent myself from giggling… I find myself doing that more frequently than I would care to admit. I get the urge to laugh at the worst times, always. “Thanks, Max. I know I can always count on you.” He confided with a smile of endearment. It was difficult to tell whether that was a positive thing or if this was going to come back and bite me in the ass. Probably the latter.

           Ole’ Lonny then gave a sly wink and swaggered off with the air of one who just successfully pawned off his work to an underling, because he could. What a bastard, I thought. He was an alright guy though, I suppose.

           After a formalized second trip to the alter, I submerged myself in the humming of the fluorescents above me and the ocean of paper before me. Seven more hours…

           At precisely 4:59pm, I slapped all of the folders shut and jabbed the power button on my computer with vehemence. My eyes burned like hell, my head was pounding from all of the caffeine, and my hands were all clammy. Very uncomfortable. God, I couldn’t help but to feel that it wasn’t worth it at the end of each day. I was constantly attacked by the bigger picture. What purpose was I serving? What kind of impact was I having on the world? I dwelled upon these questions often, but couldn’t stand beginning to think about the answers.

           After I ended my quick demoralizing contemplation, the sodden procession of rejects began to file out of the glass door. And with the exchanging of “goodbyes” and “see you tomorrows,” my co-workers fell into their hybrid sedans and putted on down the road. Usually I am pulling into my apartment complex before anyone has even started their cars, but I felt like watching today. Sometimes I like to detach myself from situations and just observe.

          Like this one time, I was sitting on one of those couches that are situated in the walkway at the mall. You know, those areas where they have four couches are situated in a square all cozy and whatnot, just in case the going gets too rough. Anyway, I was sitting on one of those couches, just watching. I peered into a shoe store and beheld a child throwing a royal fit, really overdoing it. He was around tromping everywhere, steam spilling out of his ears and all. He was screeching about a pair of shoes he wanted but couldn’t have. They were these real hip joints, green canvas with blue laces. They were disgustingly ugly, if you want to know the truth. Knowing how these retail stores are, I bet they were like a billion bucks. “I want the shoes! I want the shoes!” He was yelling.

          “I can’t get you those… I can’t. I’m sorry, you know I would...”  His father replied weakly, trying his damnedest to not contribute to the mayhem. He looked sad as hell, embarrassed even. I couldn’t tell whether he was embarrassed because he couldn’t afford the shoes, or because his son was being such an ass about it; I suppose it could’ve been a mixture of both.

          “Mommy would get them for me! Call Mommy! I want Mommy!” The kid was belligerent. Stompin’ his snow boots all around the store, trying to leave imprints in the god damn carpet. It was winter by the way, Christmas time.

          “Oh, you know I can’t do that… I’m sorry, I can’t afford the shoes son. Daddy can’t afford them right now.” He was really trying to be quiet and take control of his bratty offspring. Gosh, he looked so ashamed. I cannot stand ungrateful kids. The father ended up buying his son a cheaper pair of sneakers, to the stomping child’s dismay. I say he shouldn’t have bought him any shoes at all, the way he was acting.

          There was something disturbing and insightful about that encounter, though. If I had just been walking by and heard the kid hollering I would have thought he was acting like a bastard, and that would’ve been it. And he was acting like a bastard, don’t get me wrong. But it is intriguing how the layers of the family dynamic unravels, the more you just watch and listen. The divorced parents, the mother always outdoing the father in order to gain their son’s favor… I was able to see a man who didn’t really know what he was doing with his life, or how he’d even gotten there in the first place… He wasn’t in control, maybe he never was. Maybe he never will be. So yeah, I enjoy sitting back and observing sometimes, beats the hell out of boring conversation.

          Anyway, it was time for me to leave work. I grabbed my pointless little leather satchel and walked out the door. Outside, the air felt nice and fresh… I love the revitalizing effects of fresh air. It was especially neat that evening because there was also one of those breezes that whips really good every so often. It made me hungry. So, I decided I would grab some Chinese food on the way to my apartment. It’s on the way, and I have a huge thing for oriental food… especially lo mein noodles.

                                         II.

             Pint of greasy noodles clutched in hand, I stepped into the elevator of my building and pressed the button for the thirteenth floor, the top floor. I have a fear of heights, so initially I was not too keen on the idea of living so high up. But the thing was, I was pretty down on my luck, I suppose you could even say I was vulnerable. I needed a place quickly and this building was convenient for me… As I said, once I realized the only space for rent was on the top floor, I became a little nervous. But, the woman whom I talked to about the whole thing convinced me that rent was actually cheaper on the top floor. So, despite my uneasiness with heights of any kind, I took the place thinking I was scoring some sort of exclusive insider deal. But, after a few months of residing there and conversing with my neighbors, I learned I was paying around $96 more a month than most people in the whole god damn building. Even the other tenants on my floor were paying less than me. Something about my apartment being a “colonial” this that and the other. I don’t know. I swear to God I’m too gullible sometimes. I still had a year left on my lease.

           Up, up, up the elevator went. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, ding! Thirteen. The doors opened and I made my way down the hall. I will admit, the building itself was not too impressive. The ceilings had a few leaks, the walls were painted an awful yellow. Sometimes the air conditioner shut off randomly. But all in all, it could have been a lot worse. Everything could always be worse, don’t ever forget that.

           Of course, my special “colonial” apartment was way at the end of the hallway, number 327. As I approached my rickety door, my eyes locked onto a lone piece of mail sticking out of the little metal mailbox. A quick pulse of endorphins spread throughout my brain. I love getting mail. I pulled the envelope out. It was from the Print Box publishing company! Panic, fear, and excitement rose within my chest all at once.

           I guess I forgot to tell you. I have longed to be an author for as long as I can remember. It is my dream, I guess you could say. Unfortunately, I haven’t had any luck getting published, or even acknowledged for that matter. I have written many different stories and have sent them to every publishing house imaginable. I’ve even sent short clips to shitty magazines hoping to get a bite, to no avail. The only responses I have gotten have been rejections. Most often they don’t even take the time to respond… Trust me, it’s not like I wanted to sell lightbulbs as a career, you should realize that by now.

           And while I had never received positive criticism or encouragement in the past, it was impossible to not feel hopeful when I got a letter back from a publisher. I believed that one day my luck would shift. It had to… Right?

           I hurried and shoved the key into the door, then shot straight to the couch to read what Print Box had to say. My noodles sat on the coffee table, untouched and getting slightly cold.

           I ended up sitting frozen for a couple of minutes, staring at the front of the envelope… As if the address lines were going to tell me that it was going to be okay, this time was different. Really, I was savoring the moment. I had a certain amount of measured confidence when it came to this letter. In my opinion, the story I sent to Print Box was amazing, one of my best yet. It was a story about an inter-galactic space traveler who ends up meeting God and finding out He’s not how everyone thinks He is. I promise it’s not as crumby as it sounds. It was good. You would just have to read it.

           Life seemed to be still around me; a foreboding, ominous stillness. Blood was rushing to my ears. My hands shaking ever so slightly, I ran my finger underneath the seal, and took out the prophecy within. Please, let this be it. Please.

           It read as follows:

           “Dear Mr. Goodman,

           We received your manuscript for ‘Creator’s Paradox’. After review, we are terribly sorry to inform you that we have decided not to publish your work. It is simply not a fit for us.

Best Wishes,

Print Box Publications”

           A cold knife sank deep into my chest. What? That’s it? The letter trembled in my hands. The excitement and hope fled my body entirely, and had been replaced by sorrow and confusion, even anger. How could this be? I should have known. I shouldn’t have expected anything more. Why would this time be any different? It was then that I thought maybe I should just give up. I am no good at this, I absolutely suck. That must be it… They say to chase your dreams, but what if you are just terrible? I had never felt such dread. Maybe I was meant to sell lightbulbs for a living…

           Unceremoniously I ripped the bad news in half and let it fall onto the table. Sinking back into the frayed cloth couch, I would have been completely okay with just disappearing in that moment, I felt deflated.

           After a shameful amount of sulking, I forced down the then limp noodles, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and slid out onto the balcony.

           The night was warm, but not unreasonably so. It was that time of year when you keep a jacket in the backseat of your car, because you can never be certain which way the thermometer will flow. But even though the night was cozy, I had a rain cloud hovering over my head. I was already beginning to accept my future. The cardboard cutout life I was going to surrender to. 401k’s, strategies to improve my credit score… That sort of thing.

           I sipped my beer and looked out upon the terrain before me, in the most reflective of moods. I had to admit, the view was pleasurable from up here. I lived in the boot heel of Indiana, by the way. An area of the world where it is commonplace for urban and rural landscapes to collide, battling for a prominent grip over the territory. Upon my perch, I could see and feel the city below me: the streetlamps, stoplights, cars honking at nothing in particular, the smell of gas and concrete which invaded the nostrils. But when I looked beyond the ring of cityscape, seemingly endless fields and  small hillocks rolled into the horizon, with a strip of highway interceding here and there. The occasional semi would be finding its way through the night, like a worm over soil. It was comforting in a way, made you feel like you could always just escape if you wanted to or needed to.

           I found and traced one semi making his way across the fields. He was at such a distance, I could only distinguish him by the studded lights that adorned his truck. He looked so lonely, plodding along out there, all by himself. I wondered, was he happy? Did he choose his life for himself? Or did he just throw in the towel, like I was having thoughts of doing… I suppose I would never find out. Not like I could pluck him off the road and ask him. Or her. I shouldn’t just assume they are a man. I wonder how much truck drivers make? I heard they bring in quite a bit of dough, actually… I pictured myself taking the reigns of my own eighteen-wheeler; soaking in the sights, getting into a bit of trouble at the various truck stops. It didn’t feel right, though. For a moment I felt my skin squirm.

           The fight of two alley cats below suddenly tore me out of my trance. I noticed I was rubbing my fingers together really hard, and all of a sudden the stench of garbage filled the air. It was all discomforting. I realized that this was the moment that was going to lay the foundation for the rest of my time on Earth. Will I push onward, and become who I want to be? Or do I choose the easy, less turbulent path, and adjust. We all stumble upon this fork in the road at some point throughout our lives. Although, unfortunately, most are blind to the path tucked behind the brush, the path we were each destined to take. We only see the wider, more trodden path of conformity.

           As I stood at the helm of my splitting path, I knew within my heart which route I was going to take. There was no question… I was going to part the foliage and venture into the canopied forest.

                                         III.

             The time was getting close to ten, but I had struck a vein of determination and inspiration. I was not going to simply shrug it off and go to sleep.

           Back and forth I paced around the cramped living room. Couch. Coffee table. Television, resting upon an empty entertainment center. Plastic lamp situated in the corner. Generic cream carpeting. Bland, unextraordinary.

           I paced and paced, contemplatively gripping my chin.

           I knew I had to write something. But what should I write a story about? Gosh, I began to get nervous. In the early twentieth century, here was this Italian novelist named Cesare Pavese. There is a quote of his wherein he states, “the only joy in the world is to begin.” The only feeling I get when I begin something is anxiety and confusion… I can see where he is coming from though, I suppose. There is bound to be intrigue when diving into something new. And anxiety. Shit, where the hell did those Valium go?

           My pacing shifted its course to the bathroom. On the way I passed the boring ass photos that were framed in the four-foot-wide hallway, standing guard. A vase of flowers sitting on a patio table. A tire swing. It felt like the first time I had ever seen these pictures. So generic… So dumb. God, they made me want to puke. Why didn’t I take them down whenever I moved in? My blood pressure was rising. Fucking stock photos.

           I crashed into the bathroom and swung the mirror open. The ole’ medicine cabinet, baby. Where everyone goes when in need of a little chemical therapy. We’re all guilty…

           Sifting through prescriptions old and new, some in my name, others not, I eventually found what I was searching for. Also, upon studying the array of medications in front of me, I realized I may have a slight drug problem. Oh well, it’s not as bad as it once was.

           I recall one incident in particular from the past. I must have taken twelve Xanax bars, maybe more. I went to the park (I love the park) and was feeding some pigeons; leftover Doritos I had found in my car, they were at least four months past the expiration date. Anyway, after just tossing chips around all over the sidewalk for about half an hour, I took a particularly special interest in one of the pigeons. He was a bit smaller than the rest, and one of his eyes was circled in black. Incredibly unique, at least in comparison the others. He was really taking control of the situation too, despite his size. Really getting in there, hardly sharing any of the precious chips. Greedy bastard… I think that’s why I liked him so well.

           Anyway, I decided that I needed him. You know, with his attitude, maybe he could protect my pad or something. I don’t know, I was pretty high. So, after wrestling with him for a bit (if you can picture that), it became clear I could not just pick the rowdy fucker up. Had a lot of fight in him. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had pulled out a cigar from beneath his wing and started puffin’ at me, head all cockeyed and whatnot. “C’maaaaaaaaaan, that all ya got?” I had to regroup, construct a more inventive method of capture.

           Bingo. Easy. He may have been all brawn, but he still had an observable weakness… Doritos.

           With an inward smirk, I strategically (and sloppily) began making a trail of chip crumbs that led to the opened passenger-side door of my car. Worked like a charm, perhaps too well. The whole damn flock began tottering and flapping over to my car. At this point I realized my coveted plan may have had a detrimental absence of foresight,  I thought I was surely doomed. But as always, there was a solution. When the horde got within a few feet of my vehicle, I started kickin’ and screamin’ at all of them. They all flew away quick as can be, except for my new friend of course, the bravest of them all. Victory. I finally managed to coerce the prize fighter into my car with one last huge Dorito, and off to the races we went.

           He shit all over my seats, my dashboard, everything. God, it was terrible. Stunk like hell, too.  To make a long story short, we were never meant to be friends. He continued to mercilessly defecate all over the apartment, pecked the hell out of my ankles, he was extremely aggressive… Not house trained in the slightest.

           Needless to say, I was positively sick of this bastard by this point… I decided the best course of action would be turning him into profit. I took him down to the gas station and tried to peddle him off to the cashier for three dollars… He declined. But to be fair, I believe if he wasn’t at work and whatnot, trying to look good for his boss, he would have gone for it. He truly looked like he wanted that pigeon something fierce… Got all wide-eyed, sweat gathering at the brow. Either he wanted that pigeon, or he was deathly afraid of it. It was almost weird, his intensity.

           Yeah, I used to be kind of awful about it. That happened right after high school. I wasn’t too productive back then, sometimes I wish I could go back and change those years.

           Anyway, I quickly swallowed forty-five milligrams of Valium in the bathroom, on account of my soaring blood pressure and all. The stock photos didn’t help. Plus, I really needed to buckle down and figure out what I was going to write and how I was going to blow the socks off of the publishers and leave their feet steaming. This had to be the big one.

                                         IV.

             I set up shop in the kitchen, the only place in my apartment that has a table and chair. I had my tools for creation all laid out. A trio of freshly sharpened pencils, a pad of paper, and one of those noise machines that produces rainforest sounds and whatnot. Yes, I like those, and yes, I still believe in pencil & paper. Staring at a computer screen for extended periods of time isn’t quite healthy for you. It’s terrible on the eyes, you know. Additionally, there is something therapeutic about manually writing out each letter of a word, your hand carefully forming every one of those curves… The act feels intimate, and poking at a keyboard just isn’t the same. But I digress.

           Let’s see… Romance novels are too cheesy, you almost always know how they are going to end. I had already recently tried my hand at space exploration. Though space is endless, making the potential for stories based in space limitless as well. Still, I wasn’t really in the mood at that moment. Ugh, brainstorming is too much work, truly. This is why I like it best when the ideas come to me naturally.

           Just as I was delving deeper into thought, or trying to, my phone rang from the counter behind me. It gave me a shock, partly because it was getting so late and partly because hardly anyone ever called me.

           Casually I looked to see who my caller was. “Silas,” the screen read. Of course. Silas is an old pal from school that I kept in touch with for some reason. He’s a morally decent guy I suppose, has a good heart. He just never quite grew up.

           “Hello?”

           “Maximillian! What’s up?” He was totally stoned. In the background I could hear the bubbling of a bong along with feminine laughter. I heard something else too, faintly… Was that… Street Fighter?

           “Hey, Silas. It’s almost one in the morning, what’s going on?” I tried my darndest not to sound rude, sometimes I have a problem with that.

           “Oh, nothin’ much man…” More laughter, it caused me to wonder what the hell was so funny. “Hey, Max, do you have any molly? Need some molly… Ecstasy.”

           Initially I figured he was stoned, but he was progressively sounding more drunk than anything. Probably both. “Silas, I haven’t done molly in over three years. What the hell are you thinkin’, do I got any molly? No, I do not… Are you fuckin’ drunk?” This guy blew my mind sometimes.

           Awkward silence. More bubbling. And yes, that was certainly Street Fighter. “Damn dude, my bad… For some reason I thought you might.” More silence. Generally, it’s difficult for this man to process more than a couple of sentences at a time… Got a hell of a heart though. “Well, okay. Hey, do you know anybody who does?” He sounded wistful, maybe even a bit desperate. All the sudden I had the feeling I was not the first person he called about this. It made me sad in a way.

           I sat crisscross on the tile. Why there instead of the chair? I don’t know, it’s what I felt like doing then, okay? I liked the fresh perspective. “No, ‘fraid not. Haven’t touched the stuff in a long time.” Pause. “What the hell ya been up to anyway, Silas?” I was genuinely interested. I began picking at the tile with my fingernail.

           “Uhhh, nothing really. I-…” He really had to think about what he had been up to. “Went to a Cannibal Corpse concert last week. Yeah, concert and stuff.” He sounded like he was about to fall asleep, or become a corpse himself. God, look at all that dust beneath the fridge…

           Just then, I got a wonderful idea. “Gee, that sounds like loads of fun. Hey, Silas. If you were going to write a story, what would it be about? You know, if you were just going to write a story or something… About anything.” I was curious. I wanted to squeeze his mushy brain and see what came out. Plus, the Valium had me feeling a bit conversative.

           The line was quiet for awhile. I could’ve sworn he had fallen asleep, phone pinned between his shoulder and cheek, slobber dripping from his chin. “-A story? Story… Probably about a barbarian or something. Barbarian who has a club and nails chicks in his cave. Like Conan, I guess.” Silence… “Hey, Conan nailed chicks in caves, right?” He was asking someone next to him.

           Boom, inspiration flooded the inside of my head, almost making me dizzy. How didn’t I think of this before?

Obviously, his idea was stupid. But the barbarian aspect intrigued me. How fun would that be? A barbarian who finds himself in a world of magic. Brings it back to Earth for the betterment of humanity. I don’t know, something silly like that. Something people will read, something that will keep them entertained.

           Silas focused his attention back to me. I had almost forgotten I was on the phone with him. “Max, buddy. Hey, Max. Do you have any molly, by chance?”

           I didn’t have the time for this anymore. I needed to get to work. “Sorry, gotta go. Goodbye, Silas.” I hung up the phone. Krosmere… That’s what his name will be.

           I bounced up from the floor and positioned myself back at the table.

           I took a deep breath, turned on the trusty rainfall machine, and poised my pencil. It was time to craft the legacy of Krosmere, rogue barbarian. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been so excited to start something. I was now beginning to feel the meaning of Cesare Pavese’s words.

                                        V.

             A ray of early morning sun dove into the kitchen from the window above the sink, casting the table before me in an orange-red glow. There I was, hunched over my papers, clad only in an old white tee-shirt and a pair of pinstripe boxers. Every hallow in my body had filled with salty perspiration.

           Truly, I had not realized how late it was getting. Or, rather, how early… I risked a glance at the clock on the oven. “5:41am” it read in its obnoxious neon green radiance. Somewhere down the hallway I could hear the maddening wail of my alarm clock trying to be a voice of reason or something, I suppose. How did I not hear that until now? BAH, BAH, BAH, BAH, BAH. God, I just wanted to throw the damn thing against the wall. I have done that quite a few times already. Like after Cinco De Mayo last year. Threw that motherfucker so good it flew out of my room and smacked the wall in the hallway. Or after the Colts lost the Super Bowl. Hell, it wasn’t even morning time, and I’m not into sports! I just went into my room and punted the sumbitch right into the ceiling. I can be childish sometimes. There was also that one time when my ex-girlfriend threw the alarm clock at me… Does that even count? I don’t know. My alarm clock is actually quite beaten up, I should probably buy a new one.

           “5:47am”. As I sat there a couple more moments, I felt intruded upon. As if the sun was invading my privacy, putting me on a stage for all the world to laugh at. Don’t you hate that?

           I strutted to my bedroom, sticky boxers and all, and silenced the howling beast. On my way out, after tripping over an extension cord gone awry, I stood face-to-face with the blasphemous stock photos. Those motherfuckers were taunting me, I know they were. The flowers! The fucking tire swing! Are you kidding me? Rage flared within me. I seriously could not begin to tell you why or how I allowed these abominations to remain for so long. They really made me want to puke.

           Instinctively I tore the frames from the wall and stomped back to the kitchen with them tucked under my arm. I could’ve sworn to God they were burning me with their wickedness, their phoniness.

           I found myself in front of the window, the same window the damn sun broke in through. I disengaged the lock and threw it open. A blast of chill air sucked inward, air you could tell was leftover from the night. It had a nice smell. It was then that I realized how muggy it had been in the kitchen. Like two (or more) people were in here having sex all night or something. If only.

           I peered outside into the shifting sky. You know, there isn’t a lot to brag about in Indiana, but the sunrises are absolutely beautiful. Picturesque, you could say. Deep reds that bleed over the entire Earth, splashes of orange, streaks of lavender. They are serene.

           I felt a searing on my side. Pulling the photos out from my arm, I flung them out into the open air without so much as a last glance. I suppose I could have thrown them in the trash, but then they would still be inside the apartment. They had to be eradicated, and immediately. With pleasure I envisioned gravity pulling them down, down, down, all thirteen floors, where they would meet their well-deserved demise on the sidewalk below. Gosh, I hope they don’t hit anything… An afterthought.

           It took only a grain of sand in the hourglass of our universe for the photos to collide with the pavement, marked by a satisfying crash. Later some would testify that a dog’s yelp followed just after the commotion, but I heard no such thing.

           Smug and triumphant with a menace destroyed, I turned on my heel, only to be blasted with more joy as my gaze fell upon my papers on the table. Oh, my work! My lovely work!

           The lack of sleep, the now sweat stained boxers… It had all been worth it. I had spent all night crafting the structure for what I know, without a doubt, will be my best story ever. The big one.

           I had finished the outline, was already on the second chapter of the story. Hell, I even sketched out a picture of ole’ Krosmere. A muscle-bound barbarian. Thick, long brown hair (like mine). I made him only have one nipple, though. You know, to add character and all that. Really, I am a terrible artist. I couldn’t draw my way out of a two-dimensional square if I had to.

           I still had about three hours until I needed to start selling lightbulbs, which was fine with me. You can do a lot in three hours, if you really try. I figured I could make some breakfast, get cleaned up, maybe even go for a walk. Working through the day without a wink of sleep was not something I really looked forward to, but it wasn’t that big of a deal. Adderall. I’m fairly sure I had someone’s script in my cabinet still. You know, for emergencies and the like.

           With a newfound pep in my step, I threw the pan onto the rusted stove and began cracking some eggs, whistling along with the birds perched among the rooftops outside.

[lovemesomesurveys]

How would you react if your celebrity crush came to your door?  Uh, I would die. Thankfully, I’m never the one who answers the door, so at least I wouldn’t be caught completely off guard. But if Alexander Skarsgard just showed up at my house, I’d be caught off guard no matter what let’s be real. I’d be shocked and stunned and a complete mess. I couldn’t just let him leave without talking to him, but omggg I’m such an ugly mess. D: Has your mom/dad ever walked in on you kissing or anything more with somone?  No. Are there any musical instruments in the room you're in?  Nope. Are there any in your house at all?  There’s a keyboard piano. What electronics are in your room? (DVD player, CD player, etc) TV, laptop, iPhone, Nintendo Switch. 

Do you have a box anywhere with special items you'll to keep forever in it?  I have too many boxes like that.  Do you have cordless phones in your house or not? Yeah. If a horrible rumor was started about you and you found out who started it, what would you do with the person who started it?  I honestly don’t know. I’m not confrontational, so I’d be really nervous to confront them about it but like also I couldn’t just not do anything... I really don’t know, though. Are there any keyboards in your house that aren't being use?  No. Do you know who Draco Malfoy is?  Yeah. If you had to, would you rather dye your hair red or black?  I’ve been dyeing it red for the past 5 years. Do you have any pictures of yourself on your bedroom walls? No. Does your dad collect anything? Nascar and other sports stuff. Do you like all the new Disney movies like Wall-e more then the old cartoon ones, like Snow White and the Lion King? I just love Disney. Do you ever press flowers into books so they'll flatten all nicely?  No. If you had a chance to marry Mason Musso, would you?  Nah, I’m good. I forgot about him...remember Metro Station, ya’ll? Are the socks you're wearing your favorite color? What about your shirt? My socks are white, which I don’t consider my favorite color. My shirt is black, which is one of my favorite colors. What's better, a desktop or laptop? Explain.  I prefer laptops, which are all I’ve had since like 2005. It’s been especially nice the past few years since I’ve had to spend a lot of time in bed. Do you know what 'elaborate' means?  Yes. What about evidently?  Yes. What's the most you'll pay for a pair of shoes?  I’m not sure because to be honest I haven’t bought a pair of shoes in several years, my parents buy me stuff like that still for my birthday and Christmas. I’ve been very fortunate. Especially my dad cause he loves shoes and gets excited about buying them not only for himself, but for my brother, mom, and I.  Do you prefer kisses on the nose, cheek or forehead?  Forehead kisses are cute. How many people do you know in your english class?  Have you ever stolen a question from another survey while making one? I don’t make surveys. What can a guy do to prove he's a gentleman? Just shows he genuinely cares and is kind.  Is there someone who makes your stomach feel weak?  Sick, disturbing people. Do your parents still hide chocolate eggs around on Easter for you? lol I’m 31 years old that’d be weird. What do you typically do on Easter Day? We have Easter dinner. Does it annoy you when people say the wrong form? The wrong form of what? The person you have a crush on is drunk and goes to kiss you you know they don't realize what they're doing,but do you kiss anyways? I don’t have a crush on anyone, for one. Second, no I wouldn’t. They’re not in a clear state of mind so I wouldn’t want to do anything with them in that state.  Do you prefer new questions in surveys or the typical name, age, etc? New questions, definitely.  Is there anyone you literally need to exist? God. Do you know what the difference between 'your' and 'you're' is?  Yes. If it's snowing, is Christmas extra special?  It doesn’t snow here, but I would LOVE to experience snow on Christmas.  Do you know what AFV stands for?  Yeah. Do you think 30$ for a pair of jeans is cheap?  That’s expensive to me. The jeans I used to get were like $20 something. I say used to because I haven’t bought a pair of jeans in like 3 years. I haven’t worn them in 3 years either, I’ve literally just been wearing leggings. Do you have any special plans for spring break? Spring break isn’t a thing for me anymore since I’m not in school anymore, but no I didn’t do anything around that time of year. That was also when shit hit the fan and we went on lockdown/quarantine.  Think of any one of your friends'. What is their mom's name?  What is their favorite movie and TV show? When is the last time you two hung out one on one?  Have you ever exchanged presents with this person?  Have your parents ever told you a frightening lie about something so you wouldn't do it? Nah. Name a very well known bar in your town. Nah. Would you have a career you can't stand if you made a lot of money?  No. If I was absolutely miserable, I’d have to try and find something else. I know sometimes you don’t always have the luxury and have to take the job you can to make a living, but I’d definitely want to try. Have you ever liked someone so much it hurt to say goodbye?  Yes. Do you think it's stupid when people have x's in their username? Ha, I did that a lot when I was a teenager. Hell, I still have usernames with “x” or “x3″ in it. What would you prefer to get from a guy/girl: flowers, a hand written poem, a picture he drew of you or a nice night out? I’d love to receive any of those, it would be sweet. What does your hotmail username mean? I’ve never used hotmail. Root beer or orange soda?  Eh, Root Beer I guess. Do questions about sex in surveys make you uncomfortable?  Not really, I just don’t have anythng to say. Do you any shirts with any kind of images of food on them?  No. Do ever have days when you feel really ugly?  Everyday. If the last person you spoke to on AIM/MSN kissed you,what would you do? I haven’t used AIM in over 10 years. It’s not even a thing anymore. Do you remember why you made the last mistake you did? I’m a mess. Do you plan on seeing the Hannah Montanna movie? Ha, I saw it. Did you check how many calories the last thing you ate had?  Nah, I don’t care about that. If you were interviewed for your best talent, what would that talent be? I don’t have any, sooo. Do you know the chicken dance?  Yes. If a random person asked how old you are, would you tell them?  A random person? Probably not. Although, I guess I do that in surveys... What are you looking foward to?  There isn’t anything. Do you ever wish you had a different family?  I’ve never, ever wished that and I never would. I love my family, I’m so blessed to have them. They’re my everything. Different friends?  I don’t have any, so. Do you ever have days when you just want to stay in bed all day long?  That’s what I do most days. Is turkey the best part about the holidays? I do like it, but it’s the sides that really do it for me.

[ofxwordsxandxletters]

Yours, Always

Series: Wynonna Earp

Disclaimer: The plot and pairing are mine and the characters are borrowed in this work of fan-made fiction off of which no money is made. 

Pairing: Hollirey

Rating: PG overall. 

The fifth in a series based on letters between Doc Holliday and Bobo Del Rey depicting a shift in their relationship and some demons to exorcise.

Author’s note: Doc has to deal with the fallout of Robert’s letter in “With Deepest Regret…” and it’s not an easy place for him. But then nothing worth having seemed to come easy and for him; Robert was more than worth having

To be honest, I think that the next one will be the last in this particular series…We’ll see.

*~*~*~*~*~*

Yours, Always

His aim was never better was the remark after the second day he spent shooting things. He needed the focus, needed something to do with his hands that wasn’t wrapping them around a certain demon’s throat and shaking him until his brain rattled. He just isn’t sure it’s from anger at the past or the fact that the demon actually believed that he was just going to be a repeat of said past.

John Henry Holliday was beyond livid and all he wants is to drag back a dead man to scream at him a little bit before shooting him probably in the groin for good measure and then killing him again no matter what their previous partnership was like.

There was no goddamn reason for any of it.

So he vents in the familiar way he knows how, gunpowder and alcohol, until he can get control of himself again. Until he feels like he can focus on the issues with less anger and more neutrality. Until he stops wanting to curse a dead man more than he had been because he deserved it. And then have some words with himself about the absolute wrong way to handle situations because he was definitely culpable as well.

He had something more important to take care of, to protect. And that something was no doubt the wrong word or action away from pulling away for good. Of putting up walls too high and thick for anyone to scale.

How the hell did he manage to fix this when he was sure that the wrong move was going to get him banished to a hell he didn’t want to envision? He drags his hat off the temptation to throw it a strange novelty and brings a hand through his hair. He’d told Levi he’d handle it but damn had he not prepared himself for this.

How did anyone do that anyway?

All he knows is that he has to salvage it because he was finding out that to him, Robert was worth everything to him. Which meant that he was going to have to make him understand that fact above all else. He could forgive the well. That was not something he put on that man’s doorstep. Constance had been the one to push him in and she no doubt had gotten under Robert’s skin if he’d known he was there. She had to have. But he pushes that out of his mind because she wasn’t important enough to even think about at this point. Robert was. Robert who had been wronged so damn much and who lost so much more than he’d ever begin to imagine.

Robert who figured that at the end of it would lose Doc, too. Or never had him from the beginning.

He takes a slow, deep breath before slowly pulling his hat on. One more day. Then he was going to find the words to keep the most insufferable demon he’d ever met where he belonged; beside him.

*~*~*~*

Levi, to his credit, isn’t the least bit skittish when he approaches with an envelope. Bobo wants to say something spiteful but honestly, he was pretty sure he was one more show of temperament away from undoing years of having them respect him and instead see him as a bitter, malicious prick.

And for some reason, he doesn’t want that.

“Boss,” the male murmurs, extending his hand towards him.

Ringed fingers reach and take it and he hates that he waits until he’s gotten a hold of it to say, “I may be out of line but I honestly do not think you have much to fear from Doc Holliday.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” comes the sharp rebuke, “I fear absolutely no-fucking-one.”

“Right, of course not.” Amiable, he was being too amiable. Everyone else was avoiding him like they knew he was going to implode at some point and then there was this idiot…Bobo has no idea what he’d done to have to deal with him like this but it was frustrating. “I’ll leave you to it then, boss.”

“How magnanimous of you,” he retorts though the words lack their usual bite and warning as he turns for his trailer. Honestly, he figured that the other man would have taken the hint and not sent a correspondence. Hadn’t he given him enough reasons to not come back?

He studiously ignores the parts of him that were hopeful that maybe, just maybe…

But hope was for those not damned to a constant circle of hell and suffering wasn’t it? Or better men than Robert Svane could have ever hoped to be.

When he steps into his space, part of him wants to just toss the letter onto the writing desk and ignore it. Let it lay unread, the man’s response ignored. It’s what would be best, safest, the most intelligent way to handle this.

Pity that Robert Svane had never been any of those things in the correct amount and he clearly wasn’t starting now which is why he sinks onto the chair before opening the envelope wondering exactly what the male thought of his latest display. He’d asked for honesty and he’d gotten it. Too much honesty in one letter, Bobo is sure. Slowly, he unfolds the paper telling himself that he could get through this. He was fine losing Doc Holliday. Nothing to it because he was a demon.

It still takes him a few minutes to even look at the words, regardless.

My Robert,

I won’t lie and say that letter wasn’t painful because that would be an insult to us both. And clearly there is enough ill-will betwixt us to sully it further.

But I did ask for it, and I’m grateful that you answered. I’m grateful because now I have the knowledge of those before me who were unworthy to ever consider you a friend let alone anything close to a partner.

Even I wasn’t worthy then.

But I am now.

I want, desperately, to apologize for the less than appropriate actions of a drunkard too much of a fool to remember to be a gentleman, but I fear it rings hollow when I do not remember such an altercation. And somehow that is worse.

But that particular individual is not who climbed out of that well and I will do everything in my power to prove that to you if you will let me.

A chance, a second chance is what I’m askin’ of you; to prove my heart and how I feel. I’m not the kind of man who only calls upon another when there is something I can gain from it. Not in this.

You are a worthy partner, confidant, lover, and even friend. You’re insufferably bossy and have the worst taste imaginable in fur coats but all of that is the best parts of the man I want to see myself with at the end of all things. The man who can throw an entire trailer no doubt but writes with a quill with all the tenderness that takes. The same man who walks into a room like he belongs and yet seems to think he never will.

I want the sarcastic, sharp-tongued man who can also be soft and compassionate when the mood takes him. The man with the eyes that can go cloudy like a storm, icy like the snow, and molten on a whim as well. I want everything you are or ever will be. I want to be the one person who gets to see the good, the bad, and the ugly and at the end of the day is able to say, “He’s mine and I could not be more blessed”.

I have told you over and over, Robert Svane, that you are mine, that I am all in, and that there isn’t something that changes that. And I mean it.

So, I guess what I’m askin’ is…will you still have me?

                                                                                                                                                                Yours, Always and Absolutely,

                                                                                John Henry Holliday

Fingers dig into the wooden desktop as he puts the letter facedown on the table; something bubbling just below the surface hot and uncomfortable like the burn at the corners of his eyes. “J-John Henry,” comes the choked words, “Dammit all, Henry, why are you like this?!”

[forestwater87]

Cutting Myself on all this Edge

This post has no reason to exist, except that I keep bothering my friends with literally dozens of messages making fun of this and I need a place to keep it all.

What is “this”? Oh, just some people having some Fucking Strong Opinions about how Harry Potter is the Pied Piper (they use that comparison multiple times. It gets old fast) leading our children into the End Times with its pro-illuminati Satan-worshiping witchcraft lessons. You know, the usual.

And no, this isn’t a battle of Forest vs. the Crazy Christians; I’m like 94% sure I’m not working through any sort of religious trauma, partly because I never went deep into this kind of mentality but mostly because I’m just delighted by The Cutting Edge, a website for a very specific type of Christian (no, not you, Catholics. You’re specifically not invited to the Cutting Edge club because you worship demons) interested in the New World Order, the evils of public schools, and Satan’s favorite color.

No, really.

Satan’s favorite color is green. They don’t . . . really explain why.

This site still exists and is the best thing I’ve ever seen. Hours of fun for the whole family. I mean, look at their logo:

And look at their illustration that goes along with their particular Harry Potter series:

Are you not entertained?!

I cannot stop reading these amazing essays -- which delve surprisingly deep into Potter lore, considering they say that there is no sufficient reason for a Christian to ever read a single page of these books -- and I can’t keep harassing my friends with thousands of notifications, so here we are.

Starting small, let’s read the book review for Harry Potter and the Sorceror’s/Philosopher’s Stone. Or, as they prefer to call it:

This book chronicles Harry's first year at the Hogwart's School of Wizardry and Witchcraft.  Prepare to be shocked for the bold, blatant, and bodacious raw Satanism that underlines this story! Since "proper"Drug Use is essential in opening the centres of vision and achieving higher consciousness, we should not be surprised that First-Year students learn Drug Use, Drug creation, in a way that makes Drug use seem glorious! You will be shocked to see '666 ' in the story line, and symbols of Antichrist receiving a "fatal wound"!

That’s the entire subtitle. That’s just how they roll on

THE CUTTING EDGE

Part 1: The . . . Plot? I Guess?

This story introduces us to Harry Potter, an orphaned boy sent to live with his "horrible" Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and their fat, obnoxious son, Dudley. 

I feel very comfortable with the fact that Cutting Edge has chosen to put scare quotes around the word “horrible,” like that’s up for debate. Combined with the very normal and sane opinions expressed elsewhere on the site, this really bodes well for their ideas about parenting and childcare in general.

all through this book, any non-witch folk -- like Vernon and Petunia -- are depicting in disgusting language.  

Typo is theirs, as is the apparent offense they take to the fictional depiction of people who are very much not real. While there hasn’t been any exciting formatting going on yet in this essay, I will replicate it as much as possible, and any changes made will be clearly indicated through square brackets and ellipses.

Non-witch people are known as Muggles , and they are depicting as being "dumber than a box of rocks", of being physically obscene, and of living the most boring, unimaginative lives possible.

I was going to argue that this isn’t true, but I suppose we don’t really meet any cool Muggles in the first book. I guess I have to give them this, but I don’t feel good about it.

Witches, on the other hand, are depicted as being very smart, very "with it", of being physically normal, and of living wonderfully exciting lives

It bears repeating:

a flashback scene to the time 10 years earlier when Harry's Mom and Dad were psychically murdered by evil Lord Voldemort

Okay. Now I’m no Potterologist, and so I’m hoping any true believers will correct me if I misinterpret the holy texts,* but I don’t think Harry’s parents were psychically murdered by anyone. I’m pretty sure they were quite literally, physically made dead. Just because it’s a beam of magic doesn’t mean it’s not physical anymore, does it? Voldy didn’t Professor-X Harry’s parents and they died of three D10 psychic damage or anything; he just fucking killed them with a wizard gun. Am I wrong here?

*By which I obviously mean Harry Potter. It teaches children how to become Satanists; we’re clearly dealing with a book of immense spiritual relevance.

Skipping a little bit of plot summary, which is a combination of, well, summary of the plot, although Cutting Edge is determined to get Hogwarts’ name wrong, and a little bit of baffling End-Times(?) nonsense thrown in for funsies --

Of course, a Christian would be immediately alerted to this turn of events [in which Harry defeats Voldemort and is scarred] because soon a supernaturally powerful global leader will demand everyone on earth take some sort of a mark in exactly this place on the body.

What? 

-- and there’s some weird formatting things going on that I think are supposed to imply something sinister but really just come off as goofy:

They have Harry on a boat headed for nowhere and they had every intention of keeping Harry from ever attending Hogwarts School.  However, Harry receives supernatural assistance.

(It’s not letting me do colors on desktop, which is stupid, but that “supernatural” is supposed to be both bold and red)

There’s a long description about the difference between the Real and Fantasy worlds, which apparently Satanists try to live in both of (and so does Harry, making him also a Satanist. This is actually one of the less-stupid arguments Cutting Edge has for Harry’s Satanism, so just go with it) that’s honestly more boring than funny so I’m skipping it. Then we get to a much more fun section: why Rowling’s descriptions of Muggles are . . . teaching children to hate Jesus?

Part 2: Rowling Hates Muggles

Rowling consistently depicts people who do not practice Witchcraft in most obnoxious terms.  They are depicted as being really, really dumb, boring, and living a life not worth living .  We share these examples, below, with you so you can appreciate the truth of this statement.  Uncle Vernon was also the only Muggle quoted in the book as being really opposed to Witchcraft; therefore, when readers see how stupid, ugly, and boring Vernon is, they get the idea that all people who are opposed to Witchcraft must be as stupid, ugly, and boring as Vernon is.

... Are all people opposed to Witchcraft cowardly bullies?

I mean, you are the one going after a children’s book for daring to entertain children, so if the shoe fits . . .

"Harry was glad school was over, but there was no escaping Dudley's gang ... Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, and Gordon were all big and stupid, but as Dudley was the biggest and stupidest of the lot, he was the leader." [p. 31] How do you know your own child does not think of you in these terms?  After all, you are a non-magical Muggle.

I actually can’t complain, because this is just accurate. I 100% hate my parents and think they’re stupid because they’re not literally witches/wizards. Our relationship has never fully recovered.

"Uncle Vernon made another funny noise, like a mouse being trodden on." [p. 47] Remember Adolf Hitler, the most famous Black Magick wizard in modern history? He depicted Jews as Rats in his Propaganda Machinery, convincing the Germans they should extermination the "vermin".

GODWIN’S LAW HAS LANDED! 

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN AND EVERYTHING OUTSIDE OR IN-BETWEEN, WE HAVE OFFICIALLY COMPARED HARRY POTTER TO HITLER!

We find it highly interesting that, later in the book, when the Evil Lord Voldemort is supposedly killing the unicorn in the Forbidden Forest, the color of the blood of the unicorn is silver! 

Okay, but like . . . why? I mean, it immediately follows a description of the Bloody Baron, who is depicted with silvery blood because he’s, like, a ghost, but I’m not sure what that has to do with unicorns or with Satan. Are unicorns associated with Satan? Is silver associated with Satan?

Is everything Satan? Am I Satan?

There’s a lot of rage at a gentleman named Chuck Colson throughout this section, who apparently made the grave error of telling parents it was okay for their children to read Harry Potter because it doesn’t involve contact with the supernatural. And I’ll admit, that seems like a pretty bad defense of the books, because if you define “supernatural” as ghosts, poltergeists, or whatever the hell Voldemort is, then there is absolutely a metric buttload of supernatural stuff in here.

Arguably, a better defense of why it’s okay for children to read these children’s books is that they are books made for children, but YMMV on that one. Probably depends on whether or not you think children are sitting in the giant metaphorical (or literal? Not sure Cutting Edge gets metaphors) lap of the Antichrist every time they pick up the books.

(A visual reminder.)

Part 3: Basically Part 2, But This Time There Are Colors

The next section is on colors, which are very important to Cutting Edge. As linked back in the very beginning of this post, there is an entire essay devoted to the demonic colors used in the Harry Potter books, but we get just a taste of it here:

Rowling makes use of vivid colors in her story line.  Some of these colors are consistent with the colors preferred by Satan and his followers in the Occult.  Rowling's use of such vivid colors also enables her to paint the Fantasy Reality of Witchcraft as THE most exciting place to live.  Wizard of Oz uses the same technique: when Dorothy is in her real world in Kansas, the color is black and white, but when she steps into her Fantasy Reality, the scene explodes in the most wonderful color.

Interesting interpretation. An alternative view is that Rowling needs to use more descriptors for things within the Wizarding World, because her readers won’t have the same frame of reference to draw from that they do with real-life objects and events in the Muggle World, and one can assume that these lovely descriptions are part of her being a, y’know, good and evocative writer, and the colors are just related to how she pictured the world she was creating.

But I mean, yours is good, too.

Actually, the citations provided by Cutting Edge don’t depict anything especially vivid; it’s not like she’s throwing massive amounts of purple prose at the descriptions of the Satanic green of Harry’s eyes. In fact, the only enhancer used is “emerald” at one point. For the most part, this essayist is just . . . noticing when the word “green” appears in the text and calling it a siren song to entice good Christian children out of the colorless world of reality and goodness and into the technicolor dreamland of magic and mayhem.

Also, please remember that Satan has a favorite color, and it’s green. For all birthdays and Christmases (or wait, whatever the Satanic version of Christmas is! Halloween?), please make sure all gifts are green or green-adjacent.

Even though Harry is nearly as powerful as a Black Magick practitioner, and could easily have decided to go over to that side, he declines to go over to the Dark Arts.  Dumbledore assures Harry that he is not evil as Lord Voldemort. However, as a symbol of the Black Arts he could perform, Rowling makes Harry's eyes green.

This observation -- and I use the term loosely -- implies that every single Slytherin and villain of the Harry Potter series would have green eyes, to demonstrate their capacity for evil. The fact that this is obviously not the case must just be a red herring.

Part . . . 4, I think?: Drugs, Magic, and Magic Drugs

Harry and his friends learn how to makedrugs, and the glory of taking them.

The fact that they don’t actually take any in this book is entirely irrelevant. (”Drugs” should also be red as well as bolded. It’s very serious business.)

The plant, wormwood, contains thujone, an hypnotic drug, banned by the FDA since 1915 [Christian News, "Latest Potter Book Meets Cautionary Response From Christians, July 17, 2000] ; further, wormwood is used to make Absinthe, a hallucinogenic liquor.  Therefore, the drug to which Rowling makes reference is very real, and is so dangerous the FDA has banned it -- to this day, it is banned!

While thujone was illegal at the time of this essay in the United States, it was actually never banned in the UK . . . you know, where these books take place and were written? I don’t think Rowling gives a solitary fuck about our FDA standards. Also, I don’t know if you could just straight-up buy wormwood on whatever the equivalent of Amazon was in 1998 (was it just Amazon?), but you sure can now. Can’t be all that scary.

You can hardly get a better description of drug use, and drug glorification than this!

I wonder why they keep using red to emphasize all these evil things . . . you’d think they’d go with Satan’s favorite color/the sign that Harry is the Antichrist to really jazz up all of the evil.

"The drug message in this book is clear. To reach your goals in life like Harry Potter, you need to know how to make drugs and take drugs in just the right way or else you are a 'dunderhead' and will never succeed." [http://www.fflibraries.org/Book_Reports/HarryPotter ; written by a physician and father who asked to remain anonymous].

The fact that this URL doesn’t lead me to that review is one of the saddest things I’ve faced all month.

The sections on spellcasting are far less interesting, reiterating a pretty simple refrain: all magic is bad, because the books say some magic is good then the books are bad, it’s all teaching children about Satanism. Rinse and repeat.

During final exams, teachers passed out special quills with which to write; these quills had been "bewitched with an Anti-Cheating spell".  The reason none of the teachers felt they could trust the honor of the students to not cheat is obvious enough; in Witchcraft, no Absolute Good and Evil exists.  All objective, eternal standards of conduct and morality have been rejected.  Therefore, teachers knew full well that all the students would cheat on their final exams if they thought they could get away with it.  It is a sad commentary that teachers had to place an Anti-Cheating spell on the quills to prevent exams cheating.  Christian parent, is this the "morality" you want your students to learn?

Now, it might just be my obvious Satanist addiction to witchcraft talking, but doesn’t it seem more likely that there’s an anti-cheating spell because sometimes . . . children cheat? And no amount of Good Wholesome Christian Teaching is going to completely eradicate the desire to cheat on a test, because of course it isn’t. 

It’s not because the school has taught the students that cheating is okay and cool and sexy or whatever -- in fact, if you want evidence that there is an absolute moral standard against cheating, it would be that the teachers are actively taking steps to prevent it! If witchcraft really was all about how there’s no such thing as good and evil . . . well, for one thing they wouldn’t teach Defense against the motherfucking Dark Arts, but they also wouldn’t care if their students cheated enough to provide anti-cheating quills, because they wouldn’t consider cheating a bad thing, because they wouldn’t consider anything a bad thing! 

Also, I’m not sure what listing all of the spells in the book and what they do really says about Satanism, except that . . . spells exist, and are used? Which I feel like you should really expect from the book about magic and wizards; if that’s an alarming surprise, then you’ve made a wrong turn somewhere way earlier down the road.

Part whatever: Seriously, Rowling is just ALL ABOUT Satan

This entire section is basically about how JKR must be a Satanist, because she apparently depicts the world of magic and the occult with perfect accuracy, and how could she do that except through being an active practicing witch herself?

Mirrors are believed to be a portal to another dimension, including Time.  Occultists believe they can go forward or backward in Time with a mirror being one of the Dimensional Portals.  Harry encounters a mirror, "magnificent ... as high as the ceiling, with an ornate gold frame, standing on two clawed feet ... Harry stepped in front of it. He had to clasp his hand to his mouth to stop himself from screaming ... for he had seen, not only himself in the mirror but a whole crowd of people standing right behind him ... 'Mom?', he whispered.  'Dad?' They just looked at him, smiling ... Harry was looking at his family, for the first time in his life." [p. 208-9] 

Intriguing theory, except of course for the fact that the mirror isn’t a portal to jack shit; unless you count the weird trick where he can get the stone (and only the stone) through wishes or whatever the fuck these idiots do, and all it does is show someone what they want. It’s not actually reaching into the past to find Harry’s parents or whatever, just like it’s not actually reaching into a parallel dimension future where Ron is the king of everything. It’s just . . . idk, reading their subconscious and throwing up a neat visual or something. With magic. It’s complex, but it’s definitely not what Cutting Edge says it is.

Not pictured: a portal to another physical, metaphysical or temporal dimension. It’s literally . . . just a mirror, but a mirror that reflects your insides instead of your outsides. It’s clever or something.

Do you realize Rowling has just made the creator of the Sorcerer's Stone 666 years old?  Do you realize what this means?  Since the number, '666', is a symbol of Antichrist and his Mark of the Beast [Revelation 13:18] and since Rowling ties this number to the Elixir of Life, Harry Potter is teaching children that the way to achieve eternal life [Elixir of Life] is to obey the Antichrist and take his Mark of the Beast!

Fucking. Yes. I don’t even have witty commentary for this, I’m just delighted by every word in that section. I’m smiling so much. 

This is a gift and we’re reading it for free!

Wonderful! We have the forbidden practice of drinking blood in this Potter book, forbidden in Scripture [Genesis 9:4-5] but practiced regularly in Satanism. I wonder if Chuck Colson, Focus On The Family, and Christianity Today ever told their Christian followers about this?  Have they even read this book, before they issued their acceptance of Potter?

Don’t you dare try to employ sarcasm. People who believe in the Illuminati and New World Order are not allowed to be sarcastic -- even if the thought of this faceless stranger typing that little clever “Wonderful!” and smirking to themselves about how witty they are is a very, very good mental image.

Also, what the fuck did unicorns do to deserve being associated with the Antichrist? I mean, I get the color green; it’s the color of nature and the outdoors, and that shit fucking sucks. (Fuck you, trees!) But unicorns?

Unicorns have never done anything to anyone, ever. Unicorns couldn’t be Satanists if they tried.

This means evil Lord Voldemort -- whose killing curse upon Harry, his Mom, and his Dad had rebounded against him when Harry did not die -- is near death, and is seeking to drink the Unicorn's blood to stay alive long enough to finally achieve eternal life through drinking the '666' Elixir of Life.

Yes, that is -- sort of -- the plot of this book.

This is the specific New Age doctrine being taught here: people will have to draw their temporary spiritual life from The Christ until the time comes when their individual consciousness will have been raised so much they will achieve their personal godhood, and live forever!

This concept is genuine New Age, is consistent with prophecy, and Rowling depicts it very well!

Christian parents, do you want your child to be taught this New Age doctrine?  Can you see Harry Potter playing the Pied Piper and leading your children straight to the Mark of the Beast?

Pied Piper count: 1 (that’s not a lot so far, but it’s used in like every essay. It’ll come back)

I don’t know how to tackle this, because I’m not sure Cutting Edge really understands that Voldemort is the bad guy in these books. Children aren’t going to read this book and then go, “Cool! I’m gonna go stab a unicorn and drink its essence because my favorite role model You-Know-Who told me to!”

The unicorn blood thing is unilaterally portrayed as a pretty bad move. Voldemort’s goals in general are pretty obviously not great ideas. I know Cutting Edge doesn’t have the benefit of hindsight here, but Voldemort’s quest for immortality and how bad and wrong and fucked-up that is, is kind of one of the major through-lines of the entire story. It could be argued that it’s not Voldy’s desire to live forever that’s wrong so much as his whole, like, genocide thing, which is legit . . . except that all the methods to attain immortality involve killing someone, or stealing something, or otherwise being Not a Good Dude.

Voldemort is Not a Good Dude, and I don’t know how to communicate that any clearer than the books written for third graders already did.

Part 6: I don’t really know, I just wanted a chance to break this endless essay up and this seemed like a good place to do it. So let’s talk about spells some more

Many spells require both the taking of drugs and demonic possession, so it is a matter of gravest importance that Harry is actually going to learn to cast spells.  When Chuck Colson dismisses the casting of spells as innocent and of no real importance, did he know this fact?

I seem to have missed the part where Harry goes off his ass on LSD and gets possessed by B’aal. Was that in the Silmarillion? 

whenever a witch changes the physical characteristics of something, he or she is practicing very high-level witchcraft, has a high level of demonic possession, and has had to carry out human sacrifice themselves or have someone else do it for them.

“It’s fiction” is often a bullshit excuse to justify bad framing, but I feel like it applies here, because maybe in the “real” world spellcasting requires you to trip balls and summon demons, but it’s extremely obvious that it doesn’t work like that in Harry Potter! You can’t just say that’s what the books are teaching when the books aren’t actually teaching anything even close to that! 

(I’m starting to feel like my emphasis italics are having a similar effect to Cutting Edge’s red bolded letters. Fuck if I’m gonna stop using them, though.)

If Harry and his pals were wearing goat heads and putting virgins into a giant blender or something I think you might have an argument here, but when the people reading your essay have eyes and can see that the things you’re describing aren’t anywhere in the books, you’re just lying. And it’s very obvious, and I still love you, Cutting Edge, but you’re being disingenuous and it’s starting to kill my joy-boner to constantly have to point out the ways you’re misunderstanding a children’s book, especially when I think you’re kinda doing it on purpose. So how about you chill just a little bit and we’ll all read some Harry Potter together.

Magical Drafts and Potions , by Arsenius Jigger.  Some of the potions are very real, very deadly.

Wait, did Rowling publish this one, too? How do you know what’s in the book? Does the book list some real potions and how to make them, or is this another thing that’s only available in the Cutting Edge’s copy of the books? 

Students were told they could also "bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad." [p. 67]  These three creatures are important to an occultists. Satanists have always revered the cat because of its reputed "nine lives", which is a symbol of reincarnation. Cats are also symbols of a witch's familiar spirit.

They have revered the frog because his prominent bulging eyes represent the All-seeing nature of Lucifer.  Frogs are also consistently used in many of the potions witches concoct.  They revere owls as a symbol of occult wisdom and omniscience -- again because of their eyes.

So fuck cats, I guess. They’re being pretty unfair to owls and frogs too -- especially insulting their poor eyes. They can’t help it! -- but I’m a crazy cat lady and I’m not feeling this slander.

Actually . . . my cat looks pretty high right now. Maybe she is channeling Satan.

Okay, never mind. Fuck all these animals. They’re all evil. This article is entirely right, and I renounce all of my previous statements.

McGonagall has obviously mastered her Craft because she was the tabby cat seen by Uncle Vernon reading a map, back in chapter one.  Remember that any time a witch or wizard practices transfiguration, they need expert spell-casting, and demonic possession.  I bet no one ever told you that little fact, did they?

No, they didn’t, because it’s not even remotely relevant to the fictional book written for children.

Like, I’m trying very hard to not question anyone’s religious beliefs, so if you believe in the occult and magic and all that then more power to you, and maybe it’s totally valid to think that real-life magic spells requires demonic possession. That doesn’t make it true in the books, though! Stop making shit up!

Potions Class -- taught in one of the dungeons [p. 136]  How disgusting must the atmosphere for this class, and others, taught in a dungeon, which was built to torture people to death?

If only the classroom, teacher, and overall environment for the Potions classes was meant to be as viscerally unpleasant as possible. Then putting them in the dungeons would be a really good idea, to reflect the Slytherins’ backwards beliefs and the misery of their intolerance.

Like, JKR isn’t this subtle. When you name one of your antagonists “Bad Dragon,” you’re not aiming for this subconscious-symbolism bullshit.

Part 7: Did you think this book had a good moral? Fuck you!

The fundamental occult/Communist philosophy

Well, I guess we’re talking about Communism now! Because if there’s anything Harry Potter is interested in above all else, it’s Communism.

My favorite things about these essays is how they will pull in other social ills -- abortion, public schools, communism -- and slap them into their argument regardless of if it makes any semblance of sense.

Anyway, Cutting Edge actually has a legitimate argument here, although they take it about 50 steps too far:

the "Ends Justify The Means" permeates this entire book.  To achieve a goal deemed good, Harry and his friends consistently break rules, steal, and use Witchcraft against others.

It is true that Harry and his friends break the rules, lie, and otherwise do “bad” things in the service of an ultimate good, and that they suffer relatively few consequences for it. This is a legitimate point, and actual people who know things agree.

I’ve been struck speechless by this article before, but this is the first time it’s because I think they might have an actual point.

Hermione was very mildly punished [for her lie to the professors about why they were fighting the troll], but her lie cemented a friendship with Ron and Harry, leading a child to conclude that her lie served an excellent purpose, and could not be considered 'wrong'.

I mean . . . yeah? I don’t think it’s entirely reasonable to assume that children will take that lesson away, but I read it as a child and I certainly didn’t think Hermione was wrong to lie -- nor do I now, which I suppose proves just how powerful the Satanic conditioning was.

Professor Quirrell told Harry, "There is no good or evil, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it ." [p. 291]  This is standard Witchcraft, and standard Illuminist doctrine.  This doctrine is the guiding light to those Illuminists who are driving the world into the Kingdom of Antichrist.  This doctrine is very seductive to those immature children trying to grow up in our current culture; since a child's inherent nature is evil, he will find such philosophy more appealing than the Gospel of Jesus Christ.  Christian parents, beware!

Oh thank God Satan, we’re back to the bullshit. I was getting seriously weirded out by the idea that they had good points buried in here somewhere, but now we’re just faced with the argument that the bad guy says . . . bad things . . . and is defeated because his bad ideas are obviously bad and wrong . . . and this proves that the book is teaching children to believe the bad things?

No one reads these books and wants to be the bad guys, Cutting Edge. Kids aren’t buying Harry Potter wands and robes to pretend that they’re Quirrell, trying to keep people from finding out they have a Dark Lord on the back of their head. (Though now that I’ve mentioned it, that sounds like a very fun game.) 

Depicting bad things in a way that makes it clear -- to children, I must reiterate -- that they’re bad isn’t the same thing as romanticizing or promoting those bad things. This is basic stuff, CE.

Revenge Motive : "Hagrid almost had to drag Harry away from Curses and Countercurses (Bewitch Your Friends and Befuddle Your Enemies with the Latest Revenges:  Hair Loss, Jelly-Legs, Tongue-Tying, and Much, Much More , by Vindictus Viridian." [p. 80] Throughout these books, seeking revenge and attacking your enemies is high on the priority list of Harry, his friends, and other students.  Do you want your children to adopt this most Satanic attitude?  Notice the first name of the author of this revenge book, above, is named "Vindictus, i.e., Vindictive".

Students are taught to depend upon Witchcraft for every part of their lives .  All food is conjured up rather than prepared, all the dishes are conjured clean, and even the hospital depends upon Witchcraft to get students well [p. 156].  Neville Longbottom, one of the more clumsy students, received a crystal ball from his grandmother called a Remembrall .  The ball glows scarlet if you have forgotten something you should have done. [p. 145]

That’s . . . fuck, that’s actually kind of another good point. Stop kinda making sense, goddamn it!

A lot of the criticism is just that the things wizards do are cool, which will make kids want to become witches/wizards in order to do those cool things, too. And to be fair, the stuff Harry et. al. does are cool, and I did want to be a witch when I grew up. Fortunately, I was in third grade, and so my options for witchcraft were relatively limited; by the time I was old enough to pursue the endeavor properly, I was also old enough to know that it was actually nothing like Harry Potter. If magic actually was anything like those books make it seem, we’d have a lot more witches running around, zapping shit.

Possible reference to homosexuality .  When I was first researching Harry Potter, I examined several pro-Potter websites. The author of one of the articles said that one of the probable developments she felt would occur in the latter books was the advent of homosexuality in the story theme. She said such activity was only hinted at in the first books.  

Oh dear god, Cutting Edge found the shippers. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.

(I wonder if this means they’ve also read the Draco Trilogy.)

I do have to take issue with one last point in this bit about morals, where they talk about how scarring it might be to a child to see Voldemort possessing the back of Quirrell’s head:

Rowling could not have created a better description of demonic possession by a dark and powerful demon!  Christian parent, is this the type of thing you want your child to bring into their minds?

Thing is, I’ve been in a lot of Christian circles for most of my life, and this sounds exactly like the kind of dark, traumatizing thing many religious parents would be happy to put into their children’s minds.

Part Almost Done: Definitely Intentional Satanic Symbols, Really

Hey, did you know the number 11 was occultist? I didn’t, and when I Googled it, 4 of the front-page results were Christian or conspiracy groups making this claim, 2 were unclear, and 3 actually seemed to indicate some level of belief in the power of the number 11. Though I might’ve stacked the deck with the word “occult”; when I changed my search term to “magic,” I found almost exclusively positive articles about the symbolic power of the number 11, so . . . Cutting Edge isn’t necessarily wrong. 

But boy, did you know how many times the number 11 shows up in Sorcerer's Stone? Not very much, but if we stretch our credibility a little bit, we might see something spooky!

Harry was eleven (11) when he was admitted to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  The number eleven is considered sacred to the occultist, as it is the first primary number.  Occultists will also add up numbers to get an occult number that is sacred; thus, I was highly interested when the bank vault maintained for Harry by his Mom and Dad before their death was numbered '713' [p. 73].  When you add '7 + 1 + 3 = 11'.  Then, we learn that, in the money of the Fantasy Reality, "twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle".  When you add 2 + 9 = 11.

When Harry found the wand that was meant for him, it turned out to be 11 inches long! [p. 84]

The Hogwarts Express Train left at 11 o'clock from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. [p. 91]

Oh man, that’s some convincing evidence. Evidence of what, I have no idea, but it uses math and I’m sure it’s very alarming!

" Sorcerer's Stone " is also called the "Philosopher's Stone", and is very, very Satanic!  Rosicrucianism teaches that an Initiate will pass through five stages to become the highest Adept possible, to be most proficient in exercising the power of Satanism.  They call this process the "Five Stages In The Transmutation of the Soul".  The final stage is depicted by the Phoenix Bird; the Adept is then said to have achieved the "Sorcerer's Stone".  Thus, the fact that the term, "Sorcerer's Stone" is in the title of this book suggests that the ultimate goal of all students at Hogwarts is to achieve the Sorcerer's Stone.

Wow, that sure is an interesting interpretation of the rock that shows up in the book for like 6 pages and then is immediately destroyed! Alternate theory, if you’re open to it: It’s a rock, named the Philosopher’s Stone because the Philosopher’s Stone is historically the name of a rock, called the philosopher's stone, and it's literally just a rock and doesn't mean anything Satanist because it's a fucking ROCK.

(Pictured: A rock)

There’s a really odd part right after the long discussion about how alchemy and unicorns and whatnot are Satanic Illuminati symbols, where CE just takes a moment to explain the game of Quidditch. No commentary beyond a sassy little “[Even the Quidditch balls are 'enchanted'].” Just . . . sort of letting you know how the game is played.

To be fair, this is quite a valuable service, since I don’t think anyone actually understands how Quidditch works, but I’m not sure what it’s doing sandwiched between two declarations of Harry Potter’s obvious evil.

PART THE LAST THANK GOD: WHO THE FUCK NEEDS A SUBTITLE IT’S ALMOST OVER

The first few paragraphs are standard boilerplate conclusion stuff, reiterating the rest of the story, continued misunderstanding that bad things are done by the bad guys, no there really are drugs and Illuminati propaganda in here I promise, yadda yadda. Nothing noteworthy except for the fact that I found this sentence absolutely hilarious:

But, most horribly, we see depictions of Satanism that are truly End of the Age.  We see the symbol of Antichrist, the Unicorn.

And so I leave you with this one final thought, because it’s all I can fit into the saggy mush that was once my brain:

From Genesis through Revelation, God demands His people separate themselves from the evil around them! SEPARATE!  SEPARATE!  SEPARATE!

S E P A R A T E 

[youknowmymethods]

Content Creator Interview #3

In the third part of this series it’s @ohaine ‘s turn (*waves*) to pick @ashockinglackofsatin​ ‘s (satin_doll’s) brain about inspiration for baroque and larger than life OCs, what poetry has to do with fanfiction, and how a chance encounter with a masked swordsman kicked her down the path to fandom and fanfic writing. 

(My apologies if the formatting looks a bit weird to you. This looks fine on my desktop, but a bit crazy in the mobile app. Not sure what’s going on or how to fix it, so...)

                                   “He drapes the black cloth carefully. He doesn't want to disturb more than necessary. As he works, he murmurs to them, softly, ever so softly. Periodically, he pauses and stares into the distance, as if he's watching for a visitor. No one will come now. Not out here. Not for him.”

-Telling the Bees

If you read enough, if you pay enough attention, every now and then you’re rewarded with a fanfic author who not only truly understands the character they’re writing, but who also truly understands writing itself. They’re a gift. Not only to their readers but to other writers who take inspiration from them, who learn from them, who aspire to be as good as them.

On a sunny Saturday morning in April 2016 for the very first time I opened satin_doll’s page on AO3 and read her first Sherlolly story, “Telling the Bees.” I cried fat, ugly tears for Sherlock, for Molly, (inconvenient, not to mention embarrassing as I was in a public place) but I smiled because I’d found one. A gift. It was the beginning of a love affair with her work, the beginning of a masterclass in writing and understanding, but maybe even more importantly it was the beginning of a wonderful friendship. And it began with the same first words I’ve used to introduce her here.

It’s a joyous thing to be given the opportunity to talk to her about her writing. Whether it’s a revelatory character study, like “Down and Shaking When I Think I Lose,” the heart-wrenching romance of “Doubt,” even the so-perfect-it-could-be-canon world of the “Dark Company” series, satin_doll pulls you down a rabbit hole, into Sherlock’s world in a way that makes you understand him better, and teaches you something about yourself in the process.

 Funny, clever, insightful, she’s my number one writing crush, I love her to bits. 

Over Christmas 2018 satin_doll (@ashockinglackofsatin here on tumblr) was kind enough to answer my fangirling questions about her writing and characters. I hope you all enjoy reading what she had to say as much as I did.

  OhAine: So, starting at your beginning, how did the spark ignite?

satin_doll: I started with fiction before I could actually read or write. When I was four years old, there was a television show on about Robin Hood. My mom would park me in front of the television every day when this show was on (probably to get some relief/keep me out of her face for a little while so she could get something done) and I was absolutely in love with Robin Hood. I made up stories and made my mother write them down for me. This is how I learned to read and write: she started teaching me my letters when I asked her what the little black marks were on the paper. Once I learned, I read everything I could get my hands on. I read literally everything. I was absolutely fascinated with words.  I belonged to a children's book club, went to the library, read my parents books (both my mom and stepdad were voracious readers, so there were books everywhere.) I especially loved books about fantastic things - magic, sorcery, dragons, etc. I loved mythology, superheroes, science fiction and fantasy. I collected comic books for years. Not much changed as I got older. Speculative fiction is still what I'm drawn to.   

Despite my obsession with books and stories, I never considered myself a "writer" until after college. In school, I had the usual literature and writing classes until I met Mr. P, my creative writing professor. He was a well-known poet (think Pulitzer Prize) and our creative writing was almost exclusively poetry. I fell in love with both him and poetry and continued to take classes with him for years. One of my proudest achievements was breaking into a particularly choosy literary magazine and being published in it before he was. He never let me forget that. He also was fond of saying "Novelists are failed poets", which I took to heart for a long while once I understood what he was saying. He wasn't criticizing novelists, just making a point about how to write poetry. That's about the extent of my training as a writer; the rest is just me and my periodic forays into hubris. 

OhAine: Is voracious reading how you discovered fanfiction? 

satin_doll: No, it was on the old Compuserve bulletin boards. And loved it. But it didn't really occur to me to write it back then.

In 1998, I belonged to an online discussion group about Zorro. I had a video tape of all the old Disney episodes and I adored Guy Williams. One of the ladies in the group - I still don't remember why she chose me - asked me to write her a story about Zorro, so I did. I think Zorro ended up in a bathtub with a lady, taking his mask off and introducing himself by his real name. I don't know what happened to that file, I wish I still had it. As I recall, it was a nice story and I was very pleased with it. At any rate, that was my first fanfic as an adult that I shared with someone else, and after that I couldn't quit doing it.

OhAine: It’s that sharing that makes fanfiction unique, isn’t it? Because the reader isn’t some abstract concept, far removed from you, we’re all part of the same fandom so you get an instant connection, almost real-time feedback.   

satin_doll: Exactly. And that feedback is critical for a writer, no matter how much some of us protest that we "write for ourselves." We don't live in a vacuum and psychologically speaking, for writers, sharing our work is an important form of setting boundaries, which is expressing who and what we are. This is especially true for fanfic writers, I think. When we post work, we're not doing it so that we can go back and look at it ourselves. We're communicating and we're communicating something important. We join a fandom because we like it, and to communicate that enjoyment with other like-minded individuals. We want to share what we love and what we know. When we write stories about the characters or using a particular setting or universe, we're expressing, communicating - hopefully - something important about ourselves, both individually and as a group. 

When I write fanfic, I write it to communicate. I don't expect lots of kudos or comments; in fact, I'm usually surprised that anyone reads it at all, let alone takes the time to leave a remark or anything of that sort. But it's out there, and hopefully someone will read it and it will touch something inside them, have a little meaning for them. Don't get me wrong, I'm not writing to change anyone's life. It's enough to trigger some feeling, some emotional response, make them think or even just go "hmmm." I recently received a comment from someone who said they "had never thought of it that way." That was extremely satisfying to me, it meant that I had reached someone, made them think or consider something a different way and that's exactly why I write.

OhAine:  Is that how you measure the success of a piece? Or do you have something else you measure it by?

satin_doll: Success to me is simply getting it done! Feedback is lovely, it's wonderful, and I adore it, but if I had to go by that I'd never write another word. In terms of feedback, the stories I would have thought would be well received generally aren't and the ones I think no one will like do fairly well, all things considered. Writing is hard, and I'm a very slow writer. I'm also probably more serious about it than most in the fan fiction realms. Not that I think my stories warrant "serious" consideration, but that the writing of them is a serious act for me. If I'm able to sit down and finish a piece, that's a success as far as I'm concerned. That they get any notice at all is icing on the cake.

OhAine: So I wanted to drill down a bit into some of your stories. Choosing which ones to ask you about was difficult because I have so many questions about your process, but I’ve settled in the end on two that I think are representative of the things you do best; OCs and character examination. Words (part of the Dark Company series) stands out for me as one of your most memorable stories not only because it has an outstanding OC (as all of the Dark series stories do) in the form of Mr P., but because of the very Sherlock way that Sherlock approaches the problem of his feelings for Molly Hooper. Can you tell me a bit about the inspiration for that story?

satin_doll: Sherlock and "feelings" is a notorious problem for writers, I think. Moftiss didn't do us any favors with their approach to the subject. Most tend to depict Sherlock as being clueless about feelings in general, which I understand. But in my universes, he isn't clueless so much as he is averse. Feelings can cause problems, both professionally and personally, so he buries them. But (in my version) he does this consciously. It isn't because he's unaware, it's a choice. Along with that choice come consequences. When he decides that he WANTS to deal with the feelings, he doesn't quite know how because he's never practiced expressing them or communicating on that level. It's like having a muscle that you've barely used; it's weak and it doesn't function properly yet. So, when he decides that he wants to start dealing with the emotional side of his relationship with Molly, what would he do?

My idea was that he would go to an expert in emotional expression for help, at least in the initial approach. Who better to come up with the right words than a poet? In the Dark Universe, Sherlock knows experts in everything. They are his friends, people he has interacted with, who know him and whom he knows and trusts completely. That was the beginning idea. Sherlock goes to one of his friends for help in finding the exact right words to open up the way to moving forward with Molly. Mr. P gives him a little poem that sort of wraps up the problem with the relationship as it is, and gives them both a push in the right direction. Sherlock does this because he is AWARE that he has a weak emotional muscle, not because he doesn't have one. It was like his first excursion to the emotional gym. He had to have help to get started. 

OhAine: And the poem at the end – “How is it that we say so much in our first glance of greeting, Yet our words sit on our tongues like tiny, frozen birds?” – it absolutely kills me.

satin_doll: You can blame my own Mr. P for that. I spent years writing mostly poetry, and though I don't get that "poetic" in most of my fics, I was taught to cut and condense (also a result of writing movie reviews and doing interviews for work), to focus on the exact word or image that would get the point across or get the right response (thank you Semantics 101.) I also love haiku, which I consider the ultimate form of poetry, and distilling the essence of what you want to say into a single image is really good practice for writing of any kind. There is a place for long, flowery descriptives in writing fiction, I suppose, but in the end you have to remember that you're telling a story and you don't want the words to get in the way of that. Simple is always best, in poetry as well as fiction. 

OhAine:  I thought it was interesting that in this story he reached out to her in such a romantic way, yet you managed to still have it happen in a way that’s very much true to their characters. How do you walk that line between showing something that we only ever get the barest of hints of on screen, expanding the characters into places and emotions that we’re not familiar with, yet still keep them true to themselves?

satin_doll: Ah, this is a touchy one. We all have our own versions of Sherlock, of what we think is "in character" for him. Mine is such a mishmash of nearly every incarnation of Sherlock Holmes, going all the way back to the ACD beginnings. There are inconsistencies in those first stories as far as Sherlock's character is concerned, but there are strong consistencies also. What I object to is the reliance on physical habits or traits in place of actual character. Using certain physical attributes portrayed in the series for example (the popping of P in certain words, certain phrases borrowed from the show used over and over, etc.) does nothing to show character. I don't actually rely on the BBC series for my version of Sherlock; mine is a combination of all the Sherlock's I've known over many years. I always start from that. Likewise, you can't confuse the actor with the character, and I see that so very often in fics. 

Molly, on the other hand, is much more difficult because we only have what we see in the BBC series and there's very little of that. So I sort of have to ask some questions that involve my version of Sherlock: What would he be drawn to? What character traits would he find appealing, be able to trust, and why? What would it be about Molly Hooper that Sherlock would want/love? We get little hints in the BBC show, and oddly enough, she does change and grow throughout. I never saw Molly as mousey. I mean, look at what she's doing in the very first minutes we meet her! Look at what her job is! I adored her from those first few brief minutes and I knew that of all the women in Sherlock's life, she would be the one that would appeal to him. So that's the way I write her (mostly; there are a few times I've been a little untrue to Molly, but not many.)

OhAine: It’s obvious that although they’re superficially very different you see them as very much the same beneath the surface. 

satin_doll: Sherlock has always known that he is not like other people; he's not "normal". Molly, on the other hand, was taught that "normal" was something she should aspire to, to be like other people. So she fights her nature - which, to me, would have to be a little dark, otherwise she wouldn't be drawn to Sherlock, she wouldn't have pursued the career she did. In the Dark series, Sherlock is trying to teach her that she doesn't have to deny those inner aspects of herself that are decidedly NOT normal, in order to be happy. No matter how much she tries, "normal" doesn't work out for her. Little by little, they are both learning to accept things they've denied in themselves and they're finding it in their "dark" natures, in the dark around them, which can contain so much knowledge and wisdom if we're willing to explore it - and relief from trying to be something other than who you really are. 

OhAine: And you’ve chosen to do that with OCs that are worthy of canon; Doyle couldn’t have done better in creating a world for modern day Sherlock. They have a vibrancy that’s worthy of a main character, yet you manage to do that without distracting from Sherlock and Molly’s story. How do you find these characters’ and their voices?

satin_doll: I know a lot of weird people. :D 

Seriously, I don't think we have to make up original characters whole cloth. We all know people in our real lives who would make great fictional characters. I take a person I've known (for example: Sean, Sherlock's twin in Mango. I did know a person whose father shot her mother in front of her. I borrowed the incident, added a few traits from other people I know and voila, instant character) and insert them into the story. It's part of what's called "writing about what you know." The more from real life you can insert into your stories, the more realistic and satisfying they are. This goes for plot and description as well as characters. As for making them not take over the story completely, you do that by giving them an emotional tie to the main character but not letting that original character take over the main plot. The inner/outer struggle and emotional growth have to be about your protagonist, your main characters.  

OhAine: That neatly brings me to Down and Shaking When I Think I Lose which is a masterpiece, and something that’s rare these days: an old school character study. You’ve written Season One Sherlock in a way that I haven’t seen done very often and not in a number of years. It’s outstanding because your Sherlock is atypical in a way that Mofftiss sadly abandoned after S2. There’s a line in your story that says, ‘Sometimes he wanted to be worn to nothing,’ that hones in on the cost of being Sherlock. Can you talk a bit about how this story came to be, and what about the canon character formed this version of him in your mind?

satin_doll: You have to understand, I love Sherlock Holmes deeply and have for a very, very long time. To me, he's not just a quirky, interesting character. He's my hero. And I have a thing about heroes.

I see a lot written about Sherlock that portrays him as broken in some way, or as deficient. There's always this underlying assumption that there's something "wrong" with him. Maybe there is, according to the scale by which normal people are judged. But there's another aspect to him that I've never really seen written about: what does he have to give up in order to do what he does? See I don't think he's unaware of how he is. I think he chooses to be that way. Part of that choice is to give up - to literally sacrifice - all those things that other people have as a matter of course: homes, families, relationships, emotional connections. This is part of the Heroic Saga. All heroes must sacrifice in order to be what/who they are. All of them, no exceptions. If they have the capacity to be the Hero, if they choose to go that way, they must sacrifice what the rest of us take for granted. There's a line from a book that I have constantly playing in the back of my head: "Who will do the hard things? Those who can." Sherlock is one of "those who can"; he CAN do the hard things. But always, implied in that, is sacrifice. If you choose to do the hard things, because you can, you must give up everything else. 

There is an episode of Zorro where Diego de la Vega makes the decision to give up being Zorro. He decides he is tired of not having what everyone else has. He wants a home and a family and a relationship with a woman he's fallen in love with. He tells his father what his plans are, and his father, bless him, even though he's an old man, decides that he must take up the mask and become Zorro - because someone has to. Someone HAS to do the hard things. When Diego realizes what his father is doing, and what his father is giving up, and that his father will most likely die as Zorro, they have a long discussion about what being a hero and doing the hard things actually means, how important it is that someone fill that role. Diego makes the decision to continue wearing the mask, to sacrifice everything he thinks he wants, in order to do something he realizes is more important - because he CAN. He will do the hard things, because he can. In my mind (and heart), this is Sherlock. He does what no one else does, what no one else CAN do, because he can. The sad part of all this is that usually, no one else realizes how hard those things are or what sacrifices have to be made in order to do them. The hero gets criticized for not being like other people, they get ostracized, shunned, ridiculed, misunderstood. But they still keep doing it. No matter how frustrating, lonely, terrifying the role is, they keep doing it because they know they can. No matter what they have to give up, they do it. 

I wanted to show that Sherlock has suffered all his life simply because of how he is and what he can do. And he chooses to embrace it, to stay true to himself in spite of everything, because he knows what he can do. It wears on him. It's lonely. It's exhausting. Frustrating. But he knows what he can do, and he does it, despite it all. Because someone has to.

OhAine: It’s funny, but I often think Sherlock’s sacrifice is less of a willing one than he’d have us believe. He says, ‘not my area,’ ‘while fulfilling for others,’… less ‘my mind is a temple’ than ‘I don’t think I can have both, despite the fact that I want both.’ 

satin_doll: Sherlock as hero is my own interpretation, based more on a combination of all the Sherlock's I've been exposed to over many years than on the BBC Sherlock alone. I don't really see all that many stories depicting him as a hero, which I totally understand given that so many discovered him from that series. I don't think Sherlock ever sees himself as a hero or tries to present himself as one to anyone else, but I think he's aware of the sacrifices he's had to make in order to do what he does, even in the BBC version. Otherwise I don't think he'd let anyone into his life at all, let alone work closely with people or consider anyone a "friend" - and yet that's exactly what he does, because he needs some sort of human connection even when he keeps them at a distance. There are a lot of interpretations out there of Sherlock and many many legitimate reasons people see for the way he behaves and what he does. Far be it from me to say that any of them are wrong. But for me, I don't think any hero's sacrifice is all that willing, no matter how aware he/she might be of it. In all of them, when that awareness is depicted, it takes the form of wistfulness when they realize what they've had to give up, to downright misery and attempts not to give up what they see other people having - which always fail. Sherlock is no exception in my universe.

This is where my frustration with Mofftiss comes in. Despite showing Sherlock as the supposed hero, they belittle everything else about him. They never address the facts that Sherlock literally gave up his life to save his friends, that what he does is absolutely extraordinary, in favor of depicting him as simply a social misfit with slightly nefarious motives, who needs to be changed into something resembling their idea of what "human" is. As a result, they have a schizophrenic John Watson, who never quite appreciates Sherlock or what he does despite more than ample evidence, and other characters that rather quickly become caricatures rather than actual characters. 

OhAine: I agree with you that Mofftiss belittle him, mostly through the disrespect of other characters, which really doesn’t happen in the ACD stories, certainly not by those closest to him…Watson, Mycroft... They sort of excused that away by saying ‘this turned out to be an origin story’ when we know that they were trying to convey isolation, but because they were unsuccessful it kinda sorta turned into bullying.

satin_doll: I think it's Benedict's performance more than the writing that makes BBC's version so appealing. He does capture, as much as possible given what he has to work with, Sherlock's dilemma - how to keep those connections with people in his life without letting them get too close. By episode two in series one, I was already starting to really resent the way John careened back and forth between admiration and caring and literally sneering at Sherlock for the way he was. Within minutes in episode two, series one, we have John treating Sherlock like a naughty child, then asking him for money, substituting the word "colleague" for the word friend and then jumping in to join Sherlock on an adventure. It just got worse from there. The BBC version became less about Sherlock and more and more about John's mental struggles, all the while trying to make Sherlock seem to be the one who was unstable and twisted. I know this is an unpopular viewpoint nowadays, so I don't generally say much about it. But it's been a major sticking point with me throughout all four series.

Having said all that about Mofftiss, I still watch all the episodes regularly because a) it's Sherlock Holmes, and b) I adore Cumberbatch's performance. :D

OhAine: Controversial take: I never really believed that Sherlock sacrificed himself for his friends. I think that was a consideration, one that could have been dealt with by Mycroft if he was motivated to, but I think the main reason he left London for two years was for the sheer adventure of it all… (Not true, I don’t think, of his sacrifice for Mary though…)

satin_doll: I can easily see this viewpoint. It could even be said that he left just because the people around him were simply getting too close and he needed a way to sever or lessen those ties before they got out of hand. Personally I don't think it was that simple. In the ACD version, Sherlock is gone for three years, and he's not dismantling anything - he just stays away for that long and travels around the world until he hears that the last remaining Moriarty Minion who wants to kill him is back in London. There's a bit of remorse for leaving John to grieve, but it's quickly resolved. In the Mofftiss version, it feels like a contrived set up; they use the excuse that he's doing it all to protect his friends, but really, I've never bought that between Mycroft and Sherlock they couldn't have come up with a better, easier way to deal with the situation. If they could calculate seventeen outcomes of the meeting on the roof? I mean really? 

OhAine: I’d say moving swiftly along, but neither of us do things swiftly LOL. Anyway. *Moving* along, Bring me my Queen is a stunning piece of storytelling that focuses on Molly this time, and for me it brings together your storytelling strengths in one piece. You’ve obviously drawn on real life experiences with this one, and I wonder how important that is for you? Is it a device, catharsis, processing of the emotions…?

satin_doll: It's probably all of those things. I use the stories and the characters to act out stories from my life, because it's what I know. It helps me to vent and process emotional aspects, but it also gives the characters something real to deal with; it makes them more like real people. At least in my head. It helps express beliefs, process both pain and joy, let people know what I've learned, hopefully touch them in some real way. Stories are to help us deal with real life situations, to communicate and to learn from, as well as give enjoyment and entertain us. Years ago, during a spiritual study, I read something that really struck a chord with me (I even ended up writing an article about it, which I'm sure still exists online somewhere but hell if I can find it now!): Messages from the Universe most often come to us via our favorite form of entertainment. What better way to get through to us or catch our attention than in the form of something we really enjoy? So I look at fanfic, both writing and reading, as a way to be in touch with the Universal Intelligence, a way to learn what life is trying to show me, and a way for the Universe to use me to reach others. 

And after all that, writing stories is the best way to vent that I've ever found. :D

OhAine: I think you’re right. I think the message finds us in a way that we’ll be willing to receive.

satin_doll: Back in the 1990s, I saw a movie in the theater and near the beginning was a line from one of the characters that hit me so hard, on so many levels, that I didn't even remember anything about the rest of the film. I had to see it again in order to see how it all turned out. That one line quite literally changed my life. Since then there have been many other occasions where the things I enjoy the most have contained deep words, phrases, concepts that have had incredible impact and resulted in life changes. I know most people believe that change in our lives  more often comes from pain and tragedy, but  honestly, I don't think that's true. If we pay attention, we more often learn life lessons from joy and pleasure and entertainment - and creativity. It's only when we don't pay attention that the universe has to hit us upside the head with a bat and we have to learn from pain.

OhAine: Change, and messages from the universe, is something that’s a theme in  Mango  which is also a bit of a feminist story because (and correct me if I’m off base) it’s about empowerment and independence: Molly discovering things about herself, by herself, which I thought when reading was almost a parallel for women in writing (particularly fanfiction). How important has writing been for you in developing your understanding of yourself and your own identity as a woman?

satin_doll: I'm not sure I have an answer for this one. Writing has always simply been a part of my life. I write because I can't not write. I think more of my understanding of myself and being a woman came from music, which is a notoriously misogynistic art. I actually had a male musician tell me to my face that I couldn't know that much about music because I'm female. Those were his exact words. I've played in bands with both women and men and the women have always been easiest to work with. I think part of this has to do with men viewing sex as "their area". Sex, to men, is always about them. Women in music, especially rock music, are a lot like women in fanfic, where our own sexuality is seemingly always under attack. It's as if we don't exist unless we're defined by males. I  find this absolutely absurd and hateful. Mango, the song itself, was written expressly to celebrate female sexuality. Molly dancing around the room to that song when she sees Sherlock again after  a year away, is a sort of celebration of her own self-discovery. The dance is her way of honoring herself and her sex. That Sherlock discovers her that way was very fitting, because she leads him into a discovery of his own sexuality as well. I wish more men would wake up to the fact that we can do this.

OhAine: It’s an incredible story, but then so many of yours are, so I wonder is there one of your stories that you're very proud of, or one that you're particularly happy with how the finished piece turned out?

satin_doll: Oddly enough, I don't have a lot of pride connected with my stories once they're finished. I write them and put them out there and then I'm pretty much done with them. There are some I like a little more than others, I guess - Dark I like because it broke something loose in me that apparently I'd been ignoring. I think, if I have any pride about them, it's just that I write them at all. I'm proud of myself for actually sitting down and doing them. If there is one that I would have to say I'm "proud" of, it would be An Avenue Once Bent in Shadow - one that isn't even finished and that is totally unlike any others I've written. I like it because of its intent, which is to highlight and illustrate differences and how those differences are both perceived and dealt with in the world. It sort of takes both Molly and Sherlock to the extreme, and I like that also. It's a challenge. 

OhAine: I think you should be overflowing with pride in your work. You’re gifted. Your stories are beautiful.

satin_doll: Thank you. I suppose a lot of this comes from my childhood and maybe a little bit of misunderstanding on my part about the word "pride". I think I'm more attached and proud of just having the guts to dive into the creative process at all rather than the results of it. But that's just me.

OhAine: Well then getting back to your creative process, tell me about finding a particular character’s voice. Are there things that you do to get you into their heads?

satin_doll: When I was about ten, I wanted to be an actor. This lasted for about three years. I went around trying on characters from movies and television, practicing their expressions and movements and voices. These days I tend to act out the characters in my own stories. If I can feel them physically, feel them in my body and face, I feel like I can write them. Feeling Sherlock turn his head a certain way or have an expression on his face, feeling the way Molly would look up at him or move around the lab - I tend to rely on that to get them in character, or at least how I feel they're in character. I also have to hear their voices in my head. I read all the dialogue out loud and if it doesn't fit - it don't sit. 

OhAine: I read it out loud too, something I learned in Uni. It truly helps, doesn’t it?

satin_doll: I guess there are writers who don't do this, but I don't know how they can get dialogue to work any other way. It's been said about Stephen King's work, by people who have adapted his books into film, that one of the reasons it's so hard to translate his books successfully to scripts is that he doesn't write dialogue the way people normally speak. Supposedly when you read successful dialogue, our brain translates it differently from the way we would hear it if it was spoken aloud. I've never tested this and part of me doesn't believe it. But then, I'm not an expert about any of it. I just know that being able to hear the words out loud makes a difference for me as far as character is concerned. 

OhAine:  What’s the beginning point of a story for you? Are you a methodical planner, or is it purely instinct?

satin_doll: It's purely instinct. I have tried and tried to do it the "professional", by-the-book way, and it's always a disaster. The beginning is usually a mood and it can be inspired by just about anything. Most of the time a story just comes out full blown, beginning to end; it's just there and I write it. I had one story pop into my head while I was doing dishes. I stopped, wiped off my hands, and sat down and wrote the story all at once. Then I went back to doing dishes. I don't have any idea where it came from or what inspired it, it just happened. Most of them are like that. Maybe if I was a planner and methodical about it I'd write better stories! :D But this seems to be the only way I can do it and actually get anything written. 

OhAine:  We can’t talk about fanfiction right now without talking about what’s happening on tumblr / the purge. You’ve been writing online for a good number of years and I’m sure you have a take on it…

satin_doll: Sadly, I've seen this happen over and over since 1993. A space becomes a haven for expression and then suddenly comes under attack for one reason or another by one group or another. Luckily, there will always be somewhere new to go. It's painful and sometimes a long and trying process, but in the words of Mr. Universe: "You can't stop the signal." Someplace new will open up and, for a while at least, free expression will be allowed again. William Gibson, among others, wrote about this very thing, long before the internet was established in our lives. There are always going to be those who try to squash creativity. Unfortunately, being creative doesn't fit into neat little non-offensive boxes the way some want it to. But it will survive. It always has. It's the nature of the beast.

OhAine:  It can’t help but survive given the volume of fan created content that’s out there now, there’s obviously a huge appetite to create it as well as consume. And having that said, do you think fanfiction has become mainstream?

satin_doll: Depends on your definition of mainstream. Everything eventually trickles down into the mainstream. Unfortunately this isn't always a good thing. What passes for fanfiction these days is far different from what it used to be. I won't go into "Back in the Good Ol' Days". But by definition, the mainstream waters everything down, dilutes it. It loses some of its substance. Fan fiction has gotten a lot of attention lately, partly because so much of it has dealt with issues that are in the forefront of our lives, namely sex and identity. The fact that the majority of fanfic writers are women only adds to that. The danger is that the issues could also become watered down, so to speak - diluted - because of becoming "mainstream". Hopefully fanfic will survive the process.

OhAine:  Which is why it’s so important for spaces like AO3 to exist.

satin_doll: I think it's vital to life on this planet. Censorship is one of the great evils of life. AO3 and the OTW are champions of freedom, of every human being's right to expression. I don't care how offensive that expression is, we have to protect the right to it. "I may not agree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it." There's a reason those words were written and it's not just about fair play. 

OhAine: "I may not agree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it." Should be AO3’s banner, tbh…

satin_doll: The older I get, the more important this has become. Censorship is subtle and insidious and infects societies on so many levels. It's not just some huge noisy machine created by the government; it can be found in very small social groups and cliques as well and results in making people invisible, which is one of the worst punishments humans have ever invented. We see the consequences of this every day in every walk of life. There's a lot to be said about all the different types of censorship that impact our lives. And I agree, that line would make a great banner for AO3. :)

OhAine: I think that’s as good a place as any to wrap thing up! Kat, it’s been an absolute joy, thanks so much for taking the time to answer my questions!

Next Friday, 8th of March, @writingwife-83 talks to @thisisartbylexie

[rkiveschange]

Mistake

Summary: Y/n and Namjoon kiss but she doesn't know if it meant as much to him as it did to her

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Category: angst with fluffy ending

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Authors note: hey this is my first published story to my blog so... Yeah that's it. This is honestly so random I just got inspiration so I wrote this at 2am lol please excuse any typos I was too tired to double check this and I'm sorry if it's ugly I wrote this on mobile lol

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Word count: idk man but its not too long lol

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Y/n sits quietly next to Namjoon at his desktop, headphones covering her ears as the elder male watches her face for any reactions. He invited her to his studio so she could listen to a draft of his new song

Namjoon and Y/n always showed each other their tracks before anyone else. He always gave her his unbiased opinion and she did the same for him, which Namjoon likes to say is why their tracks always end up the best if the album. Y/n's eyebrows are furrowed as she reads the lyrics he wrote, matching their meaning to the music. And for a moment she closes her eyes and just listens.

Listens to the story of a boy who just wants to find someone to love him for him, a boy that wants to love himself and another, a boy that is so insecure he can't do either. It hurts Y/n so much to hear the lyrics of pain he wrote when Y/n she knows these are coming from Namjoon. She knows her best friend enough to know that the story is about him. To know that he deserves the world and it breaks her heart that she can't give it to him. For a brief moment she feels the strong need to cry but she pushes is down as far as she can.

"Don't cry," Namjoon says and brings his thumb up to wipe away a single tear that fell from her eyes. Maybe she didn't push the tears far enough. Y/n laughs, opens her eyes, glassy with tears and blinks them away a few times "Ah Namjoon you know I hate crying you should have warned me before hand that this song would be so sad." He laughs with her as she takes the head phones off her head leaving her with messy hair. Namjoon reaches up and fixes the top of her hair "you have such a fragile heart, it's cute" he jokes.

His hand traces a piece of hair that fell in front of her face and trails down to her cheek, cupping it softly. The atmosphere turns serious and for a full minute Y/n and Namjoon are just staring into each others eyes.

Y/n feels like she can see into his soul. She can see the person that no one else gets to see and for some reason she wants to cry again. But she doesn't. She just continues to stare into his eyes wondering if he can see into hers as she does his.

And suddenly Namjoon's lips are on hers. He's so warm and soft that Y/n melts into him like butter, as if this were a natural occurrence for them. Namjoon's hand is still cupping her face and his other slowly moves to her waist, pulling her in closer to him. Their lips feel so perfect together, like they were made for each other. It's such a beautifully warm feeling in her stomach Y/n can swear that she's never been so happy before. Because she of course is taking this as a sign that Namjoon might just return his feelings for her.

But they’re cut short when the door opens and they are forced to pull away.

"Oh my god," a very surprised Hoseok stands in the door with a very flustered Jimin next to him, red as a tomato. "Sorry, we should have knocked. Sorry," Jimin moves to close the door but Namjoon stops him panicked "no no it's fine it was nothing. It was a heat of the moment thng. Right, Y/n?" The weight of her heart has never felt heavier as Y/n looks at Namjoon with such pain filled eyes that it makes the pair in the door way feel guilty.

She wants to tell him no, that this wasn't a heat of the moment thing and that she loved him so much it scared her sometimes. But she just nods her head, not trusting her voice to mask her heartbreak. She gets up from her chair and mumbles "I should go" so quietly it was barely heard. She leaves the room as fast as she can amid ignores Namjoon's voice calling after her to run to the isolation of her studio.

The place she's cried in so many times it's the only place it feels right.

God she feels so stupid right now. So stupid to fall for him and so fucking stupid to think that Namjoon could ever love her back. She let's the tears fall and grabs the big blue koya plushie Namjoon gave her for her birthday to muffle her sobs. It hurt so much to feel like this. Like the only person you could ever love doesn't return the feelings. She doesn't even love herself yet she can love Namjoon. This, Y/n tells herself, this is exactly why I keep a wall up. The only person she ever let in just broke her heart so easily. She lifts her head to get a clean breath of air without a toy blocking the way but she just can't stop crying.

She hears a knock at the door but she ignores it until a soft voice comes from behind the door "Y/n it's me, can I come in?" It's Namjoon, of course it is but she can't see him right now. Not in this state of mind. "Please," she says through her tears "just leave me alone." She waits for a response and when there is none she goes back to sobbing quietly into her pillow. Y/n gets up from her desk chair and throws herself onto the futon in the back corner of her room. She turns her phones notifications off and turns on her sad playlist so she could cry out all her feelings. Soft songs lull her closer and closer to sleep as her eyelashes begin fluttering open and closed. Soon enough she's fallen asleep to Taehyung and Namjoon's voices singing Four o'clock.

When Y/n awakes she's not in her studio. She's confused but then she sees Hoseok in the bed across from her and she immediately knows she's in Jimin's bed. She doesn't remember coming here and she's still in her clothes from yesterday so surely someone brought her here. "Oh you're awake." Y/n turns to the voice and sees Jimin sitting up in his rumpled sleep clothes. She just nods and sits criss cross with her stuffed penguin in her lap "how-" she clears her throat "how did I get here?" Jimin gets up from his bed and sits across from Y/n "well when I went to your studio to check on you, you were asleep so I just brought you back to the dorm because I knew your back would hurt if I didn't." Y/n looks at him skeptically "why didn't you just wake me?"

"I tried but you just hit my hands away and whined!"

Y/n smiles as Jimin mimicks her voice and she smacks him on the leg "okay I get it now shush!" He hands her his coffee that was sitting on his nightstand and she gives him an 'are you serious' look because Jimin knows she doesn't drink coffee. He just rolls his eyes and pushes it to her lips and then she realizes it's chocolate milk. "Do you want to talk about what happened between you and Namjoon last night?" Jimin asks while Y/n's still sipping the chocolate milk. She swallows and glares "Didn't Namjoon already tell you? It was nothing." Jimin rolls his eyes again and hits her shoulder lightly "it was most definitely not nothing, Y/n. Namjoon would never kiss you if he didn't feel something for you and you know it."

Y/n sighs "no Jimin I don't. I've known him for almost five years and he's never done that before. He never does things and then takes them back. That's why i-" she cuts herself off and outside down the mug "that's why I was so shocked and hurt. Because kissing me was a mistake to him."

"No it wasn't."

Y/n looks past Jimin and sure enough Namjoon is staring in the doorway. "You were not a mistake," he says again as Jimin gets up to leave the room and Namjoon takes his place on the bed "I didn't regret kissing you at all, Y/n. I just panicked and said the first thing that came to mind. But I didn't mean that at all. It wasn't just a heat of the moment thing." He takes Y/n's hand in his "I love you, Y/n. I should have told you the moment I realized my feelings but I didn't want to risk ruining what we had. I'm sorry what I said hurt you, but please I do love you." Y/n stares at their hands until Namjoon tilt her chin up gently and leans in until their lips are mere centimeters apart. "I love you too" Y/n breathes softly as a tear falls from her eye and Namjoon finally presses their lips together.

The kiss is so sweet and so passionate it makes butterflies flutter in Y/n's stomach. They share a beautiful moment together before someone comes by to ruin it "hey if you're going to sleep with your girlfriend do it on your own bed, hyung." They pull away to laugh and Y/n realizes her eyes are still watery.

"I hate crying"

she laughs and Namjoon wipes the tear that escapes her eye. "Don't worry, I'll always be here to wipe them up," he smiles and Y/n giggles letting him go in for another kiss.

"Seriously, hyung! Take it to your own bed!"

"Jimin shut up."

"Fine but you're buying me new sheets."

[1111ljk]

Request: Name

 Anon Request #1: 6/8/17 

two-shot.

count  ➵ 1,403 words

genre  ➵ angst, fluff, a lil comedy, [WARNING: some cursing in there]

theme ➵  bestfriend!jungkook

characters  ➵ jungkook, you

PART 2

PART 1/2

   Jeon Jungkook. It was a name so familiar to your lips that saying it would be no different to breathing air. It was a name you found comfort in, a name you called at times of trouble, misery, despair, happiness, and all sorts of things. It was also a name you screech at the top of your lungs at seven in the morning at a bus stop. 

   “Jeon, do you even use your new phone for the right reasons?” you hissed, fingers crumpling the collar of his blazer as soon as he was in your reach. You drag him up to the bus, scanning both of your cards (which you kept at all times because Jungkook, that darned boy, could never remember to bring his own shit).

   “Duh,” he answered matter-of-factly, panting as he uses your shoulder for support. “Gotta catch all them Pokemons!”

   You rolled your eyes at his statement, about to head to your usual spot until you felt yourself slightly pushed to the side. He beats you to the window seat this time, focusing his attention on Seoul’s lovely morning sight. Meanwhile, you stood with your arms crossed, a foot tapping against the soft floor of the bus. “Excuse me?”

   Jungkook looks up to you, eyes fluttering as he innocently hums a ‘hm?’.

   “That is my spot.”

   The boy blinks, turning his head to check the headrest. “Don’t see your name written on it.”

    Jeon Jungkook, you almost forgot, was a name that irritated you as much as it comforted you. But instead of arguing for it, you grumpily took a seat next to him, hugging your bag in annoyance. He chuckles in return, a breathy light-hearted one, as he slung his arm around your shoulders. It gave you a good view of him as he focused back on the scenery.

   You never really noticed how good-looking Jungkook really was. That was an understatement. Jungkook was a total definition of a man. He had a jawline that even guys would fawn over, veins in the right place that girls would gladly count(creepy thought though), and big sparkly eyes that you would give in to any time you fought. Jungkook was breathtaking.

   Jeon Jungkook was more than just a name to you. It was more than just a popular example at college that girls threw around when asked about their ideal type. 

   It was the name tag you first read in fifth grade after a couple of guys picked on your for your quirky pigtails. The owner being a chubby classmate of yours who helped you up and told you your pigtails were cute after he pulled both of them and ran. You cried, yes, but he scared away anyone else who made you cry, claiming only he had the right to do so. 

   It was your playdate in sixth grade that your mother had endlessly and excitedly talked about the previous night. You were definitely surprised to see him on the playground with his mom. There was an awkward silence for the first few minutes, until he spoke what you’ve been holding back to say. ‘Aren’t we too old for playdates?’

   It was your first girl friend’s crush and a name she later on hated. Jungkook was notorious in his younger days for being such a heartbreaker. Unfortunately, you were his bestfriend and the target of stickly thin, baby-faced eighth grader girls’ hatred. It was alright. He promised to buy you pancakes every morning.

   It was the caller ID you see every day after school in the ninth grade and up until now. It was ddukbokki on Mondays, kimbap on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, and ramen on Thursdays and Fridays.

   It was a name you grew to love and hate at the same time. Jungkook was your bestfriend, your other half, basically your family. It was a name that was like air to you, you were so used to it - yet why did your heart suddenly decide it was okay to skip a beat?

   It had been weeks since you felt that first thump in your heart. Every day, you started to understand why Jungkook was so appealing to the rest of the female population. Sure you knew he had a very nice face, you knew he wasn’t particularly good at books and papers, but he was the star of each and every sports team there was at your institution. Of course, you knew that if he gave enough interest, he would be the class genius as well. Jungkook was a modern prince - courageous, attractive as hell, and most importantly, he was so kind. At least to you. It scared you. It scared you how the reasons were getting clearer and clearer.

   Jungkook always sits next to you whenever a chance is given. Today was one of those days. He slides ever so smoothly to your right poking your cheek as you chugged a glass of milk. “Whatcha doin’, ugly?”

   You roll your eyes, an instinctive response at whatever he says. “What do you want?”

   He let out an overly-dramatic, high-pitched, K-drama laugh. “Watch a movie with me,” he whined.

   “Don’t I always? Like, every Friday?” you raised an eyebrow.

   Jungkook grins, suddenly pouting and poking his index fingers at each other, before clinging at your arm. “I wuv you.”

   Normally, you’d wince, throw something at his face. You’d be repelled by his ugly cutesy act. But there it was again, that thump. Then another, and then it got to the point where your heart was a beating mess. Fuck, you thought.

   He looks up at you, smirking smugly. “Are you blushing?” he coos. “Cute.”

   Then your heart was on overdrive.

   Days had passed since then and now you were at his house, in the lousiest outfit you have ever put together, not really minding it since it was only Jungkook who’d seen you this way. You let yourself feel comfortable on his bed, which was almost like a second bed to you anyways. 

   Waiting for him to come back, you decided to set up the movie on his laptop. To your surprise, he had a password. It was strange. Jungkook was a careless and reckless man. He had no time for such things as passwords. Hell, he’d probably forget his own password. You shrugged it off anyways. You had no idea what his password would be though, but you tried anyways. 

   ironman97

   Wrong.

   ironman

   Wrong.

   You searched through all the possibilities in your head. Jungkook may have put a password but you were sure it was nothing complicated. After all these years, the one thing you really learned about him was that he was not a man who was into complication.

   leejieun97

   Correct.

   What an idiot, you thought. An idiot fanboy. Of course, his love for IU never ceases. You roll your eyes and waited for it to load. He left his Facebook page open and your heart crumbled a little. Everything was the same as you had always seen except for that open chat box beside yours. Jungkook was seeing someone?

   A gasp snapped you out of your ten second misery and, in your panic, you minimized the browser.

   “How did you know my password?” he breathed out, placing a hand over his mouth. 

   “Well, genius, leejieun97?”

   He blushed and threw a chocolate bar at you. “Shut up! IU gives me life.”

   He jumps into the bed, an awkward silence filled you both as you stared at the desktop view. You could feel a tense aura. 

   “So, you saw, huh?” he finally spoke up.

   It took you a second to answer. “Yeah.”

   “I was gonna tell you, I swear,” he tries to apologize, hugging you from behind. You didn’t see why he needed to. It was his life after all.

   You let out a half-hearted chuckle.” Congrats, loser, your ugly ass finally got a girlfriend.”

   “Um, sweetheart, this,” he points to his face. “...is almost as good as your Hyungsik.”

   You blinked. “Okay, coconut head ass lookin bitch.”

   “Excuuuuuuse me?!” he bellowed as he pounced on you to tickle you.

    That was the first time you felt uncomfortable being in the same room with him. For some reason, you wanted to go home, stay in bed all day. You didn’t understand why you hated it, but through out the thrilling scenes of Iron Man where Jungkook gleefully cheered for his favorite superhero, you realized.

   You liked him.

A/N: THIS TOOK SO LONG SOMEONEKILL ME. I FORGOT TO EDIT AND PUBLISH IT. IVE HAD THIS IN MY DRAFTS FOR MONTHS LKFJGLKFD.

[of-another-broken-heart]

the person this is for will never read it

I want to ask how your weekend was. But I know there are possible answers that will make me feel worse. So I can't.

I want to ask what stuff you've had for dinner lately. But I know there are possible parts of that answer that will upset me, too. 

I went 3 days without eating, just crying and sleeping. And I can't tell you that. I can't. 

It's my fault. It's my stupid fault. I'm the one that fucked up. I'm the one that's fucked up.

We don't have rent this month. I want to tell you. I want some consolation. But I can't. I can't tell you. It's not your problem. Things finally turned up a bit for you. What right do I have to drag you back down.

The food thing isn't even just because I'm in Overdrive Depression. We just don't have much. All the pantry pick-ups are by phone now, so I c

I can't do it.

My car still barely works, even after eating a month's rent in my uncle's shop. And this ugly fat freak is back in the deepest pit of disordered eating I've ever known. I don't deserve it. I don't deserve anything.

I was clinging so hard to the high of one single irrational good thing. I knew it wasn't for me. It never is. But still, I overinvested in it, I grabbed onto that mislabeled font of endorphins, and I didn’t want to let go, and now I'm paying the price.

Everything always gets worse for me. Never better.

I can't tell you any of this. I can't.

I let my guard down on NYE. I took the godawful advice to take a risk, take a gamble. Stupid. So fucking stupid.

The first week of January is hard. Both of my grandparents died, three years ago, in the same week. Just three years ago. My uncle refused to keep their house. We had to sell it. We didn't want to sell it. My mom and her sisters and most of the family. It needed so much work. But it was a house. It was their home, their whole lives. But my uncle wanted the money. So that's what happened.

That money is gone. It was supposed to get us into a new home, in Florida. It was supposed to. Instead it went to rent, and more rent, and my sister's rent, and twenty thousand emergencies, big and small. And it's gone now. Every last dollar. 

We don't have our grandparents. We don't have a family home. It's not even structurally there, any more. The people who bought it basically razed it to the ground. It's gone. Everything is gone. The basket of breadcrumbs we were given while wandering for a path forward - the basket is empty. We are stuck. We are trapped.

I am always thinking about that. I try so hard not to always be thinking about that. It is hard not to think about the walls closing in on you.

Clinging to those irrational, anomalous, logic-defying bits of attention from you, though. I could forget. I could pretend I was allowed joy. I sank into a fantasy or two, of a future that could exist where things weren’t so bad. Fake. Impossible.

You saw my full naked flesh, and then mostly didn't talk to me for a week. 

I've gone my whole life being told I'm disgusting and repulsive. I am everyone's worst fear. I'm your own worst fear. There is no example of someone like me being considered good, or pretty. Not without an intricate web of conditions. Not without layers and layers of compensatory effort. 

What was I supposed to think.

The last relationship I had was so fake, my body so horrid, the guy I was with thought he might be ace or gay. He cheated on me. He dumped me as soon as I couldn't pay all the bills. He went on a date that very night. He's married now. To a thin, pretty, perfect pixie dream wife. 

You saw me, and in return, I got silence, and I was right back in that hurt. I am back in that hurt. It's too logical. It makes too much sense.

Why would someone like you - successful, attractive, kind, talented - ever waste a single moment with me, when a better option presented itself? What better incentive to look for that better option, than the sight of this.

You saw me, and that was all the motivation you needed to actually put effort into those dating apps. I wasn't useful any more. Stepping stone vacation over. Discard the disposable desperate. Why fuck around with some fat freak across the country that you'll never get to see, when you could hook up with real actual hot people nearby. Ones with less baggage, probably. Ones that don't link sexual and emotional attention. That's a thing that's possible. Just not for me. Of course not for me.

It makes perfect sense. But I was stupid. I should have known all of that. I did know all of that. I should have seen it. I chose to ignore it. I did this to myself. I listened to the stupid holiday movie advice. I took risks that I couldn't afford. I let my defenses fall, and the rubble destroyed precisely what I had hoped would grow in that new empty space. I don't have anyone to blame but myself. You never lied to me. You've never been cruel. Well, maybe. You won't admit that I'm disgusting. My ex wouldn't, either. I had to find that out the same way I learned he cheated on me. From his unlocked computer. Can you imagine? Trusting so completely in someone's (un-reciprocated) love for you that you are secure not only in using them for nearly 3 years, and cheating on them... but also knowing they trusted you so much that you could leave your evidence open to anyone willing to click a desktop folder, and it was safe?

I'm so stupid. I have always been stupid. I do this shit to myself.

I can't tell you any of this. What good would it do? I wouldn't feel better. It wouldn't help anything. I'd just hurt more, again.

[lovemesomesurveys]

How would you react if your celebrity crush came to your door? Well, I’d definitely pass out. Has your mom/dad ever walked in on you kissing or anything more with someone? No. Do you know what it’s like to be truly happy? I don’t remember what that feels like. Are there any musical instruments in the room you’re in? Nope. Are there any in your house at all? Yes.

What electronics are in your room? (DVD player, CD player, etc) Laptop, TV, and phone. Do you have a box anywhere with special items you’ll to keep forever in it? I have a few, and I keep stuff other places as well. Do you have cordless phones in your house or not? Yeah. If a horrible rumor was started about you and you found out who started it, what would you do with the person who started it? I really don’t know. I’m not a confrontational person, so I’m not sure what I’d do. Are there any keyboards in your house that aren’t being use? Yes. Do you know who Draco Malfoy is? Yep. If you had to, would you rather dye your hair red or black? Red, which I’ve been doing since 2015. Do you have any pictures of yourself on your bedroom walls? There’s one with me and my brother. Does your dad collect anything? Sports stuff. Do you like all the new Disney movies like Wall-e more then the old cartoon ones, like Snow White and the Lion King? I like the classics and a lot of the newer ones, too. Do you ever press flowers into books so they’ll flatten all nicely? No. If you had a chance to marry Mason Musso, would you? No. Are the socks you’re wearing your favorite color? What about your shirt? I like black, sure. Not much of a fan of gray, though. What’s better, a desktop or laptop? Explain. Laptop. Describe the worst day of your life. No. Describe the happiest day of your life. I don’t know. Do you know what ‘elaborate’ means? Yes. What about evidently? Yes. What’s the most you’ll pay for a pair of shoes? Like... 50 bucks? Do you prefer kisses on the nose, cheek or forehead? Forehead kisses are cute from someone you’re romantically interested in. How many people do you know in your english class? I’m done with school. Have you ever stolen a question from another survey while making one? I don’t make surveys. What can a guy do to prove he’s a gentleman? Just be caring, kind, sweet, polite, helpful... Is age just a number? To a degree. Is there someone who makes your stomach feel weak? No. Do your parents still hide chocolate eggs around on Easter for you? No. What do you typically do on Easter Day? We have Easter dinner. Does it annoy you when people say the wrong form? What? The person you have a crush on is drunk and goes to kiss you, you know they don’t realize what they’re doing, but do you kiss anyways? I don’t know. Do you prefer new questions in surveys or the typical name, age, etc? New, more interesting questions that allow me to elaborate. The name, age, etc questions are played out. Are you embarrassed to tell people your weight? No. Is there anyone you literally need to exist? I feel that way. Do you know what the difference between 'your’ and 'you’re’ is? Yes. If it’s snowing, is Christmas extra special? It doesn’t snow here, but I’d love to experience that during Christmastime. Do you know what AFV stands for? “america’s funniest videos?” <<< That’s what came to mind for me, too. Do you think 30$ for a pair of jeans is cheap? I think it’s kind of expensive, ha. Do you have any special plans for spring break? Nope. Think of any one of your friends’. What is their mom’s name? What friends. What is their favorite movie and TV show? I have a lot of those. When is the last time you two hung out one on one? Me and who? Have you ever exchanged presents with this person? Weird you put that question about favorite TV/movie in between these questions, but okay. I didn’t list a person. Have your parents ever told you a frightening lie about something so you wouldn’t do it? I don’t think so. Would you have a career you can’t stand if you made a lot of money? I really hope I don’t have to be in that situation, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. Have you ever liked someone so much it hurt to say goodbye? Yes. Do you think it’s stupid when people have x’s in their username? I do that. What would you prefer to get from a guy/girl: flowers, a hand written poem, a picture he drew of you or a nice night out? I’d appreciate any of those. What does your hotmail username mean? I don’t use hotmail. Root beer or orange soda? Root Beer. Do questions about sex in surveys make you uncomfortable? No, but I have nothing to say cause I don’t have any sexual experience. Do you any shirts with any kind of images of food on them? What? No. Do ever have days when you feel really ugly? All the time. If the last person you spoke to on AIM/MSN kissed you, what would you do? I don’t even recall who that was. I haven’t used AIM since 2009. Do you remember why you made the last mistake you did? I’m a screw up. Do you plan on seeing the Hannah Montanna movie? Wow, this is old. Did you check how many calories the last thing you ate had? Nope. If you were interviewed for your best talent, what would that talent be? I don’t feel like I have any. Do you know the chicken dance? Yeah. If you asked your mom to describe you, what do you think she’d say? Mostly good things, but she’d be real and say that I’m struggling and having a hard time right now, which is true. She’d likely talk about my health struggles, too. If a random person asked how old you are, would you tell them? Uhh. I don’t know. What are you looking foward to? Nothing. Do you ever wish you had a different family? Nooo. Different friends? I don’t even have friends. Do you ever have days when you just want to stay in bed all day long? Everyday. Is turkey the best part about the holidays? No, but I like it.

[yuki7900archive]

Jaya (Pirate AU) - The Greatest Treasure

A little (Movie) Jaya oneshot I wanted to write.

There will be another part to this. When I actually write it is an entirely different story but for now here’s a little drabble.

Jay sat awkwardly in his seat, his eyes downward as they stared at the balled up fists in his lap. He didn't look up at the pirate captain that was watching him from the other side of her desk. She had her elbows propped up on the table, hiding her lips with her hands which she had rested atop one another. She hadn't said a word since she'd called him into her cabin, and he didn't have the nerve to say anything. They must've been sat there for three minutes in the complete silence. The longer it went on, the more his nerves built up. Had he done something wrong? Had he said something? Did he forget to clean a part of the ship? Oh god, what if he had? What if a load of mold had built up because of his carelessness. Captain despised mold, it made her gag. Oh dear, oh dear, oh-

"Jay-"

"YES- I mean," He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. "Yes, Captain?"

She paused and blinked before brushing it off and resting her head on top of the bridge her hands had made. She looked thoughtful, concerned, worried. A whole array of things really. She looked as if she was trying to read him like he was the smallest font on a page of a novel. Her relentless gaze made him feel slight discomfort and he shuffled a little in his place. He wasn't sure how to sit, how to position his hands, should he cross his legs? No, that was way too formal...or, no, wait, was it?

"Have you been sleeping well?" She spoke again.

"Uhm..." The brunette nodded. "Yes, I've been fine-"

"Not homesick?" There's a pause.

"No M'am-."

"Getting on with everyone?"

"Yes, M'am-."

"Eating properly? Wouldn't want you to get ill." Jay was bombarded with these questions without even a moment to get another word in edgeways. He didn't understand why she had brought him in here for this. Weren't these just things she asked in general? In fact, she did ask him these things, pretty much on a daily basis. Every day, even. Was she stalling? What did she stall for? Was she waiting for something to happen? He had to know.

"Captain...is something wrong?" The boy tilted his head oh so innocently to the side and leaned forward a little, his hands gripping the edge of his chair. The pirate sighed and shut her eyes momentarily as she calmed herself. She'd lost her composure, dear oh dear this wasn't going as well as she'd hoped it would.

"Mhm." She let her hands separate and fall to the desktop, only to then rejoin. She began to twiddle her thumbs mindlessly yet frantically like she was running out of time. "I just want to make sure your okay."

That only confused Jay even more so. Did she really need to bring him into her cabin for that? He didn't believe that was the only reason she wanted to speak to him, it couldn't be. Especially not when she seemed as distant as she did. Or distracted. Or just in general, off.

"Yes Captain, I'm fine. I'm worried about you though." She gave a tired laugh and a smirk.

"Me? Jay, you shouldn't concern yourself. The burdens I face are ones I must face alone."

"Are they though? Wouldn't talking about them make you feel better?" She didn't say anything at first. She just hummed and separated her hands yet again. The noirette peered down at the map in front of her as she picked up a small dagger and began to play with the pointed tip. She placed her finger directly on the top, and yes, I am referring to the sharpest part of the entire blade. She pressed it into her finger like it was nothing, and when her finger bled she merely watched as the small trickle ran down her thumb at a snail's pace. She didn't rub it in, didn't so a thing, just sat back and examined the way the blood trailed downward.

"Perhaps it would." Finally, she grabbed a rag from her pocket and wiped away the blood from her finger. "But if I must talk about my problems I'd rather talk with Kai. He is my brother after all, and I'd rather not bother you with my issues. You worry enough as it is."

"I don't worry that much-"

"Yes." She looked him dead in the eye. "Yes you do."

Okay, he had to admit, she wasn't wrong there. He did have a habit of over thinking and panicking. There was always something or someone on his mind, whether it be his family back home or if the incoming storm could lead to his inevitable end. He was a complete worry wart. He didn't get why, he just was he supposed. Just like ya' Ma, as his Pa always used to tell him. Just constantly worrying. Worry, worry, worry. But one thing was for sure, she was WAY worse than he was. She always fretted over him, but really neither he nor his father could blame her. The island they lived on wasn't exactly the most friendly place.

"You look tense." She muttered, placing the knife back down on the table and standing up from her seat. She hadn't even glanced in his direction as she had stated this matter o' factly. For some reason, the fact she'd brought up his tense demeanor only made him feel even more on edge. And that feeling only increased more when she walked over to him and stood behind him. His heart was fluttering and he could feel his cheeks heating up. He didn't look at her in fear of her seeing his blushing face.

She didn't know about his feelings towards her, and he intended to keep it that way. A swabbie in love with his captain? That raised all sorts of issues. It would never work, she was the highest-ranking member of the ship whilst he was the lowest. Besides, what would someone as beautiful and strong as her want with someone as ugly and weak as him? She could have anyone if she wanted. Cole was better suited for her. He was the most muscular of the crew, he was a closer rank to Nya, plus he was good-looking. The man tied his hair into a man bun for crying out loud, he was the pinnacle of cool. He was basically the full package. Why wouldn't Nya want him?

"You're even worried now, aren't you?"

"Ha...Nothing get's past you Captain." He attempted to sound calmer than he actually was, but ultimately it backfired and his true feelings were even more evident in his tone. That's the moment when Jay felt a pair of hands plant themselves on his shoulders firmly. He gasped a little out of surprise and made Nya laugh. She squeezed gently and brushed her thumbs back and forth.

"Jay, I need to confess something to you." Jay's heart beat faster. What could she possibly have to tell him? He secretly hoped for some form of love confession, but he doubted it.

"Yes, Captain?" Her hands left his shoulders and she slowly walked around to face him. She stood directly in front of him and peered down at the small boy sat hunched up in his chair. He wasn't looking at her, just down at her feet. The first thing that came to Nya's mind was the possibility of Jay finding her intimidating. She was a pirate captain after all so she had to show her authority in front of the others, but even then she'd always been a lot more gentle and calm with him, even in front of the crew. She didn't want to scare him, that was the very last thing she wanted.

"My brother and I were born on this very ship. We've been sailing the seas for our entire lives." She began wandering left and right with her arms crossed in front of her, telling the story Jay had heard a thousand times before. He was aware of their past, she mentioned it often, her enemies mentioned it often too. Her parents were well known and feared by other pirates, their disappearance only made them even more infamous. Their children had become targets now that they were out in the open without the protection of Maya and Ray. No one had defeated them yet, evidently. There was no denying these siblings were the offspring of those two.

"Whilst we are still searching for our mother and father, as pirates, we have an irreplaceable drive towards treasure. We crave it. Am I making sense to you right now?"

"Yes Captain."

"Okay, good. One time, I remember my mother telling me that I'd find the greatest treasure of all and that when I did I should hold onto it and never let go." Nya stopped in place and looked at the brunet again, his head still facing the ground. She stepped forward so she was closer to the teen, her hands now behind her back. She took a shaky breath to try and steady herself, hoping her voice wouldn't give up on her and leave the impression of her being weak.

"I think I've found it, Jay."

"Oh, well...where is it? Is it nearby? A few day's travel? I'm not really sure why you're telling me about this treasure, but, if that's what was bothering you-" The boy never got to finish his sentence before a hand gripped his chin and tilted his head upward to look up at the beautiful girl before him. He had hidden his blush before but now it was pretty much impossible; his face was the colour of crimson due to their proximity. He was at a slight loss for words as he thought quietly to himself. She was just so stunning, even out on the ocean she always looked her absolute best. Immaculate, even. Not a scrape of mud was to be seen anywhere on her person, not even under her nails. Speaking of which, they were kind of digging into his skin, squishing his cheeks, not that he really cared too much. Her hair was long and silky, slightly wavy toward the bottom as it went down past her shoulders. And her eyes? Oh man, her eye's were spectacular. They were a deep purple, a very unique and unforgettable colour for hues to be. Even now, her expression a mix of seriousness with a touch of fear left him in awe.

"I'm looking right at it." Now that had thrown him completely off guard. His heart was pounding now and he felt nauseous but in an oddly good way.

"Wh...What?" He just about got the words out as Nya knelt down to his eye level, her hand still on his chin. Her eyebrows were furrowed and her lips were in a thin straight line.

"You are the greatest treasure, Jay. My greatest treasure." She spoke quietly, clearly not feeling as confident as she usually was. The teen wasn't entirely sure what to say in response. This was everything he had wanted, Nya feeling as strongly about him as he did for her, but it was just so unexpected that he couldn't believe it. The captain loved him. She loved him...she loved him? Was this a joke? Was she pretending? Were the others hidden behind her desk ready to jump up and start laughing at him? They all knew about his crush on her and teased him about it constantly. Kai was the biggest culprit, not even caring that it was his sister he had eyes for. Jay was sure he would be angry but now it all made sense. He knew Nya felt the same, he had to have known!

"Captain..."

"Call me Nya."

"Nya." He corrected himself. "Are you sure I'm what you want?"

"Yes, more than anything." Her hand slipped away and landed in his lap, linking itself with one of the hands that were already laying there. Her other hand came up from the floor and did the same.

"But...why?"

"So many reasons." Her eyes were half-lidded as she kept her gaze on him. "You are so kind and sweet, not to mention funny. And you are such an incredibly hard worker, more so than anyone else on this ship. I love your enthusiasm, your politeness, just...everything. But do you know what mesmerized me the most about you?" Jay shook his head and awaited her response.

"The first time I looked into your eyes, I saw a neverending pool of grey and blue. It was like staring into a sea during a thunder and lightning storm. But after one day on this ship, I swear, your eyes became the deepest ocean blue. It's as if your mood dictates the colour of your eyes and it's just..." She trailed off and never finished her sentence. However, she continued to stare at his face. She loved his dark brown skin dotted with even darker freckles. His messy, curly and disheveled hair that stuck out all over the place, she ADORED it. She didn't have anything else left to say, she just wanted his answer. Just wanted to hear him say yes and for them to live happily until their days came to an end.

"Nya, I..." The girl held her breath. "I feel the same." A huge smile adorned both of their faces.

"Really?"

"Most certainly." Nya let go of his hands in a flash and engulfed him into a hug, knocking the chair back in the process and slamming them both into the floor. It hurt, don't get me wrong, but at that moment the pair of them were too happy to care. As Jay laughed away, Nya was covering his cheeks with kisses. He wrapped his arms around her kept her as close to him as he could, his eyes closed as he kept being bombarded with little pecks all over his face.

The others came barging in after hearing the large thump over the top of them, only to be pleasantly surprised to see the scene before them. Nya jumped up off the floor and ran up to her brother, tackling him and exclaiming about how happy she was. Cole went over and lifted Jay up onto his feet, ruffling his hair and winking at him. Lloyd and Zane just stood to the side, not really sure what to do other than show their support from the doorway.

The rest of that evening was spent out on the deck, a cloudless night sky above them with the stars shining down. They were awake for many hours, drinking and having a good time. Why not, right? It was a pretty happy occasion.