#((nearly monochromatic but whatever))

[crow-with-a-pencil]

Monochromatic moon

[moeyes]

"hey, emo boy!" ♡ | kamo choso

pairing: kamo choso x fem. reader

warnings: 3.8k words, pwp, mostly just smut, virgin! choso, sexual tension, teasing, established relationship, choso has a tongue piercing, whiny choso, eating out (ft. pussydrunk choso), petnames (baby, pretty girl, princess), overstimulation (on both ends), creampie

synopsis: turning on your virgin boyfriend is a fun pastime, and it gets even better when he finally decides to do something about it.

CHOSO WAS GETTING FED UP WITH YOUR TEASING. He couldn't stand the way that you were forcing yourself into his nighttime fantasies with the way you were acting. From the shimmying of your ass on his sensitive cock, feeling precum leak and stain his boxers with every grind down on him. It was intentional too— he could tell by the way your gaze would flicker back onto his face, intently watching him try his hardest to suppress the groans that nearly slipped past his lips.

Other times, you would feign innocence, batting your eyes coquettishly up to him as your fickle hands would glide across his firm abdomen down to his crotch, lightly grazing the apparent bulge with your fingertips. It was getting harder not to thrust his aching cock up into your palm, needing more than the feathered touches that you provided him with.

This all started when he informed you that he was still a virgin, and you being the devious girlfriend you were, acted mercilessly with the vigor, the lust imbedded in even the lightest of grazes upon his body. There was no mistaking it with the way your eyes practically ate him up, fixed on his being and never wavering until it was all too suffocating. Choso couldn't deny how hot it was to see you act in such a manner, revving up his jerk-off sessions whenever you were away.

He knew that he was bigger than others— he knew that you knew it too, with the way the imprint of his cock would protrude through layers of clothing. It made it no easier to conceal whenever he had a raging hard-on. Most of the time, Choso ended up excusing himself from whatever cruel interaction he was having to endure until he was pushed to the breaking point.

Tonight was no different in the manner, but Choso found himself getting real tired of your shenanigans, of all that damn bark-no-bite action you were doing. Flashing him as you passed by with that mini skirt showing your ass, the black thong doing nothing to cover up the supple flesh. Your tube top was no better, his eyes were practically entranced with the perkiness of your nipples that peaked through the thin material.

What Choso wouldn't give to take those buds into his mouth, large hands kneading at your rear as he makes a mess out of you? He felt his cock twitch at the idea, and part of him was tempted to do just that, but he could hear your pretty self making your way over into the bedroom. "Choso, are you almost ready?" Snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of your saccharine tone ringing against his ear, his gaze turned away from the mirror to face you.

You couldn't help but grin coyly at his whole look. A monochromatic look consisting of mainly black dressing his body, from the bottom up. A black sleeveless top was snuggly fitted onto his body paired with a loose pair of grey ripped jeans that showed off bits and pieces of his legs. A part of you wished that they were already on the floor, with his knee grounded against your pussy, but you weren't going to act on it— at least, not yet.

His casual make-up look was apparent, a thin tracing of black eyeliner on his waterline with a dabble of purple eyeshadow to enhance his plum-colored irises that glazed over your body with a look of want evident in his eyes. The usual spiked choker to tie the whole look together, of being the big, "scary" boyfriend was neatly placed atop the dresser, ready for whenever he was ready to put it on. Choso motioned for you to come over with his hand, displaying his black nail polish to you, on the verge of chipping completely off, but he wasn't one to mind.

With a little shake of your hips as you walked up to him, the accessories on his veiny hands had your throat bobbing at the sight. Rings embellished his long fingers, feeling the cold sliver yourself when he grasped at your chin, pulling your face down to meet him in a hungry kiss. It always felt like he was devouring you whenever you kissed, tasting whatever flavor was left on your tongue. In response, your knees would buckle in, lavishing in the fervor of his actions as your head buzzed in delight. His other, much sneakier hand, trekked up the side of your bare thigh, squeezing tightly before moving to grope at your bare ass cheek.

"Choso..." A breath of his name escaped past your lips before his mouth was all over you again. Hands went into his soft black locks of hair, tugging his face closer into you, the kiss becoming much more aggressive with each glide against one another's lips. Lip-locked, Choso's hand went over the curve of your ass, toying with the string of fabric wedged between your puffy pussy lips.

"You've been teasing me for far too long, pretty girl. Makin' me nearly cream my pants on too many occasions..." Murmuring between kisses, his words have your face flushed, his quiet demeanor shifting ever so slightly into a dominant presence. Moving his lips away from yours, he began to lather open-mouth kisses across the curve of your neck, the hand once holding your chin now pulling at your waist to sit on his lap.

There was no hesitation in following the smooth gliding of his hand, your legs pushing against his own. "You never seemed to mind," softly gasping out at his wet tongue swirling around your nipples through the cotton material. The feverish roll of the silver ball on his tongue traced around each of them, before sucking down harshly. Both of Choso's hands were playing with your bottom, entranced with the way with jiggled in his hands.

"Don't act coy. I know you could feel me rubbing against the curve of your ass whenever you were moving in my lap— just like now," He was right, and your silence spoke volumes, egging him on to continue berating you. "You're so cruel, baby. All you had to do was ask if you wanted me, but you had to be difficult."

"M'sorry, Choso..." Whining out of your glossy lips, coated with his spit, your pussy dragged against his clothed cock with the drag of your hips. Choso tsked at your humping, but he couldn't diminish the grunt to slip past his lips, cheeks tinted with pink as he watched you get yourself off. Seeing how desperate you were had Choso no longer holding back from what he wanted.

He was tired of not indulging himself, despite his nerves in losing his virginity. Seeing you crave him like this, watching the leg of his pants becoming soaked as you held onto his shoulders desperate to come flicked a switch for him to act, to take the initiative. “No need to apologize, baby. I’mma take good care of you now…” The "mean guy" act was quick to fade with his soothing words, swiftly hoisting you off into his lap as he gently placed you onto the plush bedding.

Hovering above you, Choso was quick to pursue, hands seeking out the warmth from your body, taking you in by the hips as he peppered kisses against your bare torso. "I want you so bad. Been dreaming of how good you'd taste on my tongue, how good your pussy would feel squeezing 'round me." He confessed, eyes bearing into yours as he spoke, pulling down your mini skirt, giving him access to your lower half. Inner thighs coated with slick as the panties were wedged between your folds, brushing against your clit, had Choso eagerly licking at his lips.

"You're so wet, princess," sticking out his tongue, he was eager to lap up the juices to messily coat your thighs. The taste alone urging to dive face-first into your sopping pussy, drinking up anything you were willing to give. "Mhm... More please, Choso...!" You begged your voice sounding much sweeter when you called out to him with such a needy tone. Choso's cock twitched within his confines, growling slightly before dipping into the slick walls, tongue lapping at the juices that continued to secrete. He couldn't get enough of it, the taste was so much better from the source as he ate you out like a starved man, relishing every ounce of what he was missing out on.

Back arched with your lower body sloppily thrusting down onto his face, you looked down at your man through teary eyes. You knew Choso had a good tongue on him, but you didn't know that he was this good— especially when the silver ball on his tongue, cool to the touch, would continuously flick against your clit, ripping moan after moan from your vocal cords. "Ngh— mmph, Choso, it feels s'good," wailing out, you watched Choso's half-lidded eyes momentarily look over your face, the flush evident on your cheeks as your chest heaved.

Thighs still tight around his head, it was the only cue he needed to know that it wasn't enough. Choso wanted you to come all over his tongue, and he needed a little more than this muscle to do it. "You want my fingers too, pretty girl?" An eager nod from you was more than enough to satisfy him, placing a quick kiss on your thigh, before dipping his face back in between your cunt. Hiking you up by the underside of your legs, hooking them over his shoulders, Choso wriggled one of his hands between, the cold metal grazing against your heated flesh.

Focusing his mouth over your clit, while he gently prodded two of his garnished fingers into your slick folds, the wiggle in your hips and the high-pitch moan to escape your lips at the thrust pushed him to continue fingerfucking you at a quick pace. The different engravings from the rings scraping against your walls had you deliciously clamping down on his fingers, the mix of sensations feeling amazing. His jeans were becoming too tight from the sight before him, from the juices of his pretty girlfriend all over his face. Choso couldn't get enough of you, bringing you to an orgasm that came crashing over you with a jolt of your body and the drawn-out echo of his name throughout the room.

"F-Fuck baby wanna have you come one more time for me." But the thing was— it wasn't just one more time. With a strong arm hooked around your waist, he pulled your lower half and smushed it against his face, ringing out orgasm after orgasm from your already-soaked pussy. Pussy-drunk, was what your boyfriend was, captivated on seeing how much cum you can spray out, all for his big appetite.

Choso’s grunts and groans were suppressed with your cunt smothering his face, not bothering to come up to breathe unless crucial. Legs trembled in his grasp, weakly trying to push his head away from your overstimulated pussy, gushing out one last coating out of your well-prepped hole, hearing an audible squelch as his long fingers eventually retreated.

"Choso, I wanna feel your big cock in me— I want you so, so bad." His cheeks burnt up from the sultriness, the filth in your words as you called out to him, needing him so much. "Don't worry, baby. Gonna do just that..." Pulling his face away from your cunt, his lips found yours in a frantic kiss, tugging the tube top down to your stomach as his lubricated hands toyed with your perky nipples, pinching and twisting the buds, covering them with your cum. Mouth parted due to his actions allowing for his tongue to slip in, tasting yourself upon him as your hands brought his slick-coated face closer to yours. Everything was so dirty about the whole exchange, but you couldn't get enough of it, enough of him.

Choso's finger and tongue fucking you, watching you intently for each reaction as a permanent etch in that damn good memory of his had you clamping down on nothing. He had you doubting him being a virgin with how exceptional he was with working with your pussy, a mere glance being enough for Choso to know what makes your body tick— you give him an inch and he runs miles. Hands maneuvering down to the hem of his pants, you jerked at them, cueing Choso to follow along with getting him into an equally undressed state.

Engrossed with Choso's stripping, you gaped at him throughout the process, practically salivating at the damp spot on his black boxers. He had to have come in his pants for the darkened area on the fabric to be so large, and the thought alone was having you all sorts of hot and bothered again. Choso proceeds to shrug his underwear off, eyes adverted away from you, his hard-on springing to life once released from its tight restraints. His flustered state, fumbling about until settling on his toned thighs, almost as his he were unsure of what to do next.

Seeing his brows furrowed, paired with a weary glance, your hand instinctively reached out to him, cupping his cheek ever so softly. Thumb lightly brushing against his smooth skin, before using your pointer finger to trace the curve of his facial tattoo, you peppered tender kisses throughout his face. From the edge of his brow to the dip in his cheeks, you ensured no space was left untouched, resulting in the crease in his brows softening, the nervousness swirling about in his gaze to fade away. “We don’t have to do anything else if you don’t want to,” reassuring Choso, you continued to graze your lips down his jawline to the base of his neck, brushing your nose against the side.

You could practically feel his pulse racing from up here, practically pumping through his veins as he enveloped you into a tight embrace, squeezing your nearly naked body against his own. The tremble in his voice when letting out an exhale, feeling his swollen cock, red tip oozing out precum as it slid against the dip of your folds. "No, no— I wanna do this. I want you too." Biting down on his bottom lip, the roll of his hips as he dipped in further, the tip of his cock hitting against your hypersensitive clit forced a sharp intake of air as you watched, hypnotized by the slow strokes.

Then, all at once, he stuffed himself full within you. The stretch was so much it was nearing painful with how snuggly he nestled himself inside you, so deep and tight. Tears brimmed your eyes at the sudden fullness, the dull pain thrumming in your gut as the wet squelching having you look away in embarrassment.

"F-Fuck Choso, uugh, s'big... God, you're stretchin' me out," hands clawing on his back, jaw unhinged as tears rise to the surface, one thrust alone took your breath away. Choso was no better, whining at how tight your cunt was squeezing down on him. Gummy walls had him holding onto your hips for dear life, trying not to let the fuzziness that filled his head get the better of him, nearly coming on the spot.

Wiggling your hips to get better adjusted, ass brushing against his balls had his nails digging into the dips of your waist, halting your movements as he looked down at you, eyelashes speckled with small teardrops from the pleasure. "Shit— c-can't have you movin' right now, baby. Gimme a sec..." Panting out, he slowly dragged his cock out from the vice grip that your pussy had him in, watching how you coated him from top to bottom, a sheer coating now adorning his dick and balls. Lifting you on his lap, Choso carefully aligned your puckered hole back to his shaft, sinking you back down onto him with a strained groan.

Nestling his face into your shoulder, the warmth on his face blossoming as Choso tries to regain his composure, his bodily movements refuse to be still, jerking up into your slobbering pussy, his thrusts sporadic and eager. Once to motion started, he couldn't stop even if he wanted to, addicted to watching the way you sucked him up so greedily. "Aghh— C-Choso, mmph, jus' like that..." Hips bouncing in sync with the rhythm he set, you squeezed his lower torso with your legs, sinking further down onto him as he plummeted himself into you.

"Nngh, you're so damn tight, princess—!" With each thrust, the pleasure seemed endless, the curve of his cock hitting deeper inside of you, toes curling at each graze of his girthy cock slipping in and out of your folds. Chortled gasps slipped past your bruised lips, smeared gloss staining your cheek as you continued to mark up Choso's chest with open-mouth kisses. He seemed completely out of it, his pale skin flushed entirely as he moaned your name out on repeat, as if it was the only thing that he was able to think about.

You, and your wet cunt milking him dry.

His eyeliner and eyeshadow were smudged long ago, his usual hairstyle of two messy, but symmetrical buns was torn down long ago, and his black hair cascaded down his neck as the occasional strands were glued to his skin by the sweat to coat his body. Dark eyes fixated on the jiggle of your breasts every time he stroked his cock back deeply into you.

Barely lucid with how good fucking you felt, meeting your hipbones perfectly with each slam of his hips. Removing one of his hands from your waist, he slipped his fingers back down to your clit, pleased with the way your mewls only increased in volume from the returning stimulation.

You could feel yourself approaching the apex all over again, fluttering your pussy all over again, drooling at the thought of spasming all over his cock. Entangling your hands throughout his dampened hair, you tugged his head up to look at you, the action having his hips stutter momentarily. Diverting his attention to your lewd facial expressions, the desperate yanking of his tresses to kiss him as if your life depended on it. Tongues tangled as your fingers dug to keep his lips on yours, the shared breaths and vibrations from the whines Choso couldn't help but emit filled your ears.

"Choso baby, 'm close, so close!" Babbling out, words slurred as your hazy gaze met his, Choso could feel your slick walls clamp down tighter than they ever had over his cock. His tip perfectly brushing against your sweet spot was the final trigger, having your eyes squeezed shut as you physically began to shake from this orgasm, feeling all sorts of light-headed as your body laid limp against his. This alone pushed Choso teetering over the edge, his jawline clenched tight as his thrusts became much more random, less precise as he was chasing his release.

He was fucking into your slouched-over body like a fleshlight, his grip on you so tight that there was no doubt bruises would surface afterward. Murmuring rushed out apologies, he was so lost in the the overwhelming sensations that he was becoming rougher— not that you minded in the slightest.

Through blurry vision, you watched your boyfriend, one who is typically so stoic and composed, becoming a fucked-out mess. "Mnfph— shit, m' gonna come! W-Where do you— oh fuck, want it?" His voice raspier as he asked through hoarse groans, thrusts becoming shallower as Choso looked over at you.

"Inside, baby— fill me up, Choso," the urgent whimper that you responded with, letting go of your hold around his body to rest your back against the comforters as you peered up at him with a desperateness in your eyes. The thought of pumping you full of his cum, the mental image of seeing your pussy leaking with his thick load seeping out of you ignited a new vigor in Choso's maneuvers. Grasping at the underside of your thighs, nearing the curve of your ass, he rutted into you intensely, his pace both fast and deep.

"Gimme one more orgasm, pretty girl— feels s'good when you come 'round me," begging out to you between shallow breaths, his scorching gaze trailed all over your body, his pent-up release building drastically. His desire to come with you in unison has Choso rubbing harshly on your swollen clit, fixated on making sure that it was enough to have you twitching around him the moment he fills you up, as per your request. Despite how exasperated he had you, the sweaty pool that you left against the sheets as you could feel the excess of your previous orgasms trickling down your ass, you couldn't refuse to give him one more, not when he asked you like that.

"P-Princess, oh shit I-I feel it...!" With the jitter in his movements, it was clear that Choso couldn't hold out any longer; fortunately, his holding out wasn't in vain. From the consistent rubbing and pinching on your clit, had another climax reeling out of you with relative ease, tears flowing down your cheeks from the high that he had you on with his cock. "Come, Choso, been s'good for me, makin' me come time n' time again..." Praising his dutiful work, you couldn't say much besides that as the orgasm was forcefully ripped from your body, back arching as your pussy covered him top to bottom, coating him with your juices.

That was all that was needed for Choso to lurch his head down to your chest, his head resting against your chest as he came— hard, into you. Thick spurts of cum coat your inner walls, feeling warm on both the inside and out as his hold on your flesh loosens immensely, the rocking of his hips coming to a slow, deliberate stop as he tries to regain his breath.

Hands encircling around his back, you tell him sweet nothings, praising him for his efforts. Craning his head to face you properly, you giggled, wiping at some of the make-up that went far off to his temple. "You had a little something there," you teased him playfully. Choso huffed but was quick to return the favor, his thumb brushing against the underside of your eyes.

Despite the seemingly innocent gesture, he languidly slipped his cock out from the confines of your cunt, the trickle of cum attempting to seep out being stopped by two of his fingers. "Sorry baby, gave you quite a bit and don't want it coming out just yet." If anything was telling about the look swirling around his eyes, a resurging desire that could only be quelched by one thing. His darkened gaze had you gulping at the sight alone, avoidant of making eye contact. What you couldn't ignore was the pulsing of his cock, becoming hard as it brushed against the inside of your thigh.

Oh shit, here you go again.

i yearn for this man desperately, absorbing every ounce of content out for him and had to give something out in return—

[writethrough]

The Accident That Led Me to You (Part I)

(Morpheus x Female Reader)

Synopsis: A car accident gives you the ability to see Death whenever she's around. Months later, you see Morpheus for the first time. He notices you right away.

Warnings: Mentions of a car crash, near-death experience

Word Count: 2716

A/N: Looks like this is just one fic! However, I'm open to continuing with this if anyone's interested. Please let me know! Don't be afraid to leave a comment below. I'd love to know what you all think.

Read Part II

Seven months ago, you almost died.

A drunk driver nearly took your life. Neither of you walked away unscathed, but at least you both walked away.

You couldn’t remember much from that day, or the days after laying in the hospital. However, you did recall a woman. Not a nurse or a doctor—she hadn’t worn scrubs. Instead, she donned all-black attire that made the ankh pendant around her neck stand out.

She gave you a gentle smile and reached out her hand, asking if you were ready. And just as you realized who she was, just before you touched her fingers, you were pulled back into your body, and she was gone.

You had managed to convince yourself it was just a dream. Weeks in the hospital and a morphine drip helped with that, but the week after you returned home and decided to brave the world again, you saw her. The same dark tresses, the same outfit, the same necklace. You almost screamed, hastily rushing back to your house.

She had been real. Which meant you really were on death’s door. What would happen if she saw you? Would she claim you were supposed to be dead? Would she kill you to correct some sort of cosmic balance?

Those thoughts forced you to shut your blinds, lock your doors, and hide for a month. It was when you saw her enter your neighbor's house that you wondered how she knew where everyone was located. What was it that told her to collect someone’s soul? Maybe, just maybe, she already knew where you were, and the fact that she hadn’t come for you meant you were supposed to live.

That speck of hope led you to your favorite coffee shop, then your grocery store, and even a day trip. That tiny light of hope pulled you back into your life.

Soon enough, you saw the woman everywhere you went. And she became less scary. She never seemed ill-intentioned as you carefully observed her. She was quick to smile at someone and gave off an aura of peace. If there went a day where you didn’t see her, it was strange. As if she was part of your routine.

You had been doing an excellent job of making sure she never knew you knew that she was there. Even if others acknowledged her presence, you were still apprehensive to let her know you could see her. You had picked up when she was visible to others. She was a beautiful woman and attracted just about everyone. When someone didn’t approach her, you knew she was using whatever ability she had to conceal herself. You had a sneaking suspicion that your accident enabled you to see her despite these efforts.

Now, you sipped your latte and caught up on the novel you were reading. In your periphery, you noticed her, but what pulled your attention away from your book was the figure next to her. Tall, fair, with a tousle of black hair and the same monochromatic look as the woman. His strong jaw and piercing eyes made him all the more gorgeous. His gaze seemed to look into your very soul, into the deepest parts of yourself so there was nothing left to hide.

Then, it hit you. He was looking at you. He had glanced from the woman to you and caught you staring, and his brow was furrowed like he didn’t know why you were looking at him. Or…like he didn’t know how you could be looking at him. And if his proximity to the woman was any indication, he was like her.

Fear constricted your throat as you gathered your belongings and left. Trying to shake off his eyes and hoping you hadn’t just sentenced yourself to an early grave.

—

Morpheus had only looked away from his sister for a moment when he caught the eyes of a human woman. At first, he thought you were looking through him, as you should’ve been, but the way you scanned his figure and met his gaze made him realize that you could indeed perceive him. Then, a frightened look passed over your features, and in a rush that left him even more confused, you were gone.

“What are you looking at?” his sister asked, trying to find the focus of his attention.

“There was a woman. She could see us,” he said, having followed your retreating form until he could no longer see you.

She hummed in thought, noticing where they had ended up.

“I think I may know who you’re talking about.”

Death had seen you at this same coffee shop multiple times. Part of her wished to approach you, but she didn’t want to scare you. She had a feeling you could see her regardless of her powers, but now it was confirmed.

She told Morpheus what happened, and it left him all the more intrigued. What stuck in his mind the most was the look of terror when you realized he was staring at you. He wanted to reassure you there was nothing to fear. That he nor his sister would harm you. And come tonight, he’d make sure you knew as much.

—

It had taken you a while to fall asleep that night. You had been on edge the rest of the day, preparing yourself for the worst-case scenario, expecting those two beautiful creatures to show up at your door and deal with what should’ve happened months ago.

It was sometime after one in the morning that slumber took you. And with it came that fateful night. Everything happened slowly.

The headlights blinded you. The screams for the driver to stop and for you to move. You braced yourself for the impact, for the pain, but there was none. And as you peeled your eyes open, the night that was burned into your memory had changed to a lush green field. In the middle of it—of all things—was a quaint cottage, the smell of coffee drifting out of the open door and windows.

“Would you care to join me?”

The voice startled you. It was as rich as the aroma, maybe more so. And there, beside you, was the man you had seen earlier.

You took several steps back. This was it. Your nightmare was coming true.

However, he didn’t approach, didn’t move at all. He was the epitome of calm as he spoke.

“I am not going to harm you, (Y/N).”

You furrowed your brow. “How do you know my name?” You shook your head slightly. Of course, he knew your name. This was your dream, in your head. If you could get yourself to wake up, you’d be fine.

“Please, can we talk?” he asked, gesturing to the cottage. “I can answer any questions you have about me and my sister.”

That caught your attention.

“Sister?”

“The woman I was with,” he said. And because he knew it was the push you needed, he added, “My name is Morpheus, and I am the king of this realm.”

And even in your wildest imagination, no part of you could have conjured that detail.

You slowly nodded, never taking your eyes off him. “You promise?”

He tilted his head in confusion.

“You promise you won’t try to hurt me?” you clarified.

“I swear, I will never hurt you,” he said. And you believed him.

Your tea was already waiting for you when you and Morpheus sat at one of the tables in front of the cottage. The mug warmed your hands and when you took a sip, you were surprised that it was exactly the way you liked it.

And then you started to notice how everything was crisper within this dream. As if you were really awake and not unconscious in your bed.

“You are in my kingdom, the Dreaming,” Morpheus said. “It’s where all humans come to dream.”

“But why does this feel so real? Why does it feel like I’m awake?” Your thumb ran across the edge of your mug, taking in the heat.

“Why do you believe dreams are not real?” His question, for the most part, was serious, but there was a certain glint in his eye and twitch of his lips that gave him away.

“I thought I was the one who got to ask the question.” For some reason, you felt that you could banter with him.

He conceded by answering your original question. “I pulled you from your nightmare so we could speak.”

“Why?”

“I’ve not met many people who can perceive an Endless when they wish to not be perceived.”

“An Endless? Is that what you and your sister are?” Things were starting to confuse you. It was so much all at once.

“Yes. I am Dream of the Endless, and my sister is Death.”

You breathed out a laugh. “That…That actually makes a lot of sense.”

Death did come for you. And by some unforeseen force, you were saved. 

“You need not worry about my sister either,” he said after a moment. “She is not as some of your human legends depict her.”

“Vengeful and bloodthirsty?” you guessed. 

“Two words that could not be further from her,” he reassured. 

“Good,” you muttered, feeling as if a weight had been lifted. “Good.”

Silence enveloped you both and you finished your tea as something to do, not knowing what to say and still trying to sort out all this new information.

Morpheus regarded you with a quiet curiosity. He had many questions for you but didn’t want to overwhelm you any more than he had. You had kept yourself remarkably composed, and selfishly, he hadn’t released you back to your unconsciousness as he probably should have. But there was one thing left to be said, something he hoped would ease your mind.

“You will no longer revisit that night in this realm.”

You looked up from your empty mug, and it took you a moment to put the pieces together.

“Thank you,” you whispered, blinking the tears away, your vision getting fuzzier.

You barely heard him respond as you were pulled into the Waking World by your alarm. His words echoed in your head: “Until we meet again.”

—

That morning you made your way to the local park. There was something special about reading when surrounded by trees and the winds that signified autumn approaching.

It was strange, your dream. To experience it was one thing, but to recall your conversation with Morpheus with such clarity…it was truly as if you had been awake the entire time. You were lucid in a way that made that cottage seem cozier and the tea sweeter. The cup you brewed that morning had no chance of competing.

Morpheus’ final words still rang in your mind. Until we meet again.

A smile tugged at your lips as you tried to focus back on your book. You hoped that was true.

Then, as every day since, you saw her, Morpheus’ sister—Death.

Only this time, she was staring straight at you.

She nodded once at you, a soft smile adorning her features, but didn’t move toward you. She didn’t want you to flee. But you had mulled this over since you woke up. If what Morpheus said was true, then you needed to stop avoiding everything that reminded you of the accident. You needed to move forward.

So, you returned her smile and indicated that she could join you.

“Hi (Y/N),” she said, sitting beside you on the bench.

“Hi.” You couldn’t quite believe this was happening. You were conversing with death incarnate.

“Did my brother visit you?” Though it was a question, her tone conveyed she already knew the answer.

“How did you know?”

She shrugged. “It’s been seven months since we met, and this is the first time we’re speaking—after you saw Morpheus and me together.”

“Right,” you mumbled.

“It’s surprising, really. Morpheus coming to you,” she said.

“Why’s that?”

“He keeps to himself, mostly. Even more so when it comes to humans.” A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. “You must have left an impression on him.”

Your cheeks grew hot at her implication.

“I doubt that,” you said, trying to brush her off with a wave of your hand.

“I suppose we’ll just have to wait and see.” She said it as if she knew something you didn’t. “Anyway, tell me: what have you been up to since you escaped me?”

You let out a bark of laughter, grateful for the segue. And for the next hour, you and Death chatted as if you were old friends.

—

As promised, you were not plagued with that nightmare. Instead, Morpheus had brought you to his palace.

“Come,” he said, offering you his arm. “I have something to show you.”

The halls were magnificent, but so was everything else in the Dreaming. However, what you weren’t expecting was the biggest library you had ever seen.

Your eyes were wide with wonder, mouth slightly agape as you took everything in. What you failed to notice, however, was the man beside you.

Morpheus couldn’t pull his attention from you. Your excitement filled him with warmth. An all-encompassing feeling of pride coursed through him.

“There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” he said, gently tugging you deeper into the shelves.

At one table tucked way down sat a woman quickly jotting down line after line.

“Lucienne,” Morpheus called.

Her head perked up. “Yes, my lord?”

“This is (Y/N),” he said, a hand lightly resting on your back. “And this is our librarian, Lucienne.”

“This place is incredible,” you said as a greeting.

“The library holds all books written. Past, present, and future,” Lucienne said.

“Future?” Your eyes widened.

Lucienne nodded. “I can show you if you’d like?”

You didn’t even turn to Morpheus before you followed her, chatting about the recent novels you’ve read and asking questions about how the library worked.

Morpheus stayed behind, smiling with fondness. He knew better than to think you’d manage to drop in quickly and leave.

“Hey, boss,” Matthew said, trying to pull Morpheus’ attention away from you and Lucienne.

Morpheus only hummed in response. 

Matthew scanned his king’s face until he understood just what was happening.

The soft smile on Morpheus’ lips, the relaxed stance, and the way his eyes followed your every movement.

“You like her.” Matthew nearly shouted it.

Morpheus regarded the raven coolly. “I have welcomed her into my kingdom. It is safe to assume I ‘like’ her.”

Matthew shook his head. Leave it to the King of the Emotionally Stunted to not know what he meant.

“I mean, you have a crush on her. You want to be with her.”

Morpheus remained silent, but Matthew had been serving him long enough to notice the defensive set of his shoulders.

“I am the King of Nightmares. I do not have crushes,” Morpheus stated. Yet when he turned back to the two women, his eyes softened.

Matthew took a moment, debating if he wanted to say what he was thinking.

“I think you should go for it.”

He thought Morpheus was going to ignore him.

“Do you think she feels the same?”

If Matthew could smile, he’d be beaming.

“If the way she keeps glancing at you means anything, I think it’s a safe bet.”

Morpheus remained silent, considering Matthew’s observation carefully. Only when he met your eyes did the barest traces of a smile touch his lips.

“Thank you, my friend,” Morpheus said before pulling you off to continue your exploration.

Matthew stood there a bit stunned.

“How long you think it’ll take him to say somethin’?” Mervyn asked, hands on his hips.

“I think it’s only a matter of time,” Lucienne said, organizing her desk and trying to hold back her smile. His lordship deserved some happiness after everything he’s been through.

“I give it two weeks before she asks him out.” Matthew nodded once.

“I’ll put money on that!” Mervyn said.

“We don’t get paid,” Matthew quipped.

Lucienne shook her head at their antics as they wagered various tasks and favors. However you both moved forward, she knew it’d be with one another. And for a brief moment, she wondered just how much of her help her king would need in planning your first date.

[eoieopda]

menace (pjm) — pt. vi

Pairing: Park Jimin x Kim!Reader Type: 6/6 (Mini Series) ⇢ Previous Chapter | Masterlist Genre: Smut + Fluff Rating: M (18+) Word Count: 6k+ Summary: This Valentine’s Day looks a lot different than the last one. AUs: Older brother’s best friend, fuck buddies that hate(d) each other CW: Reader is AFAB & queer, Jimin is so soft omg, ✨vulnerability✨, so much kissing wtf who am i?, nipple play, fingering (v), unprotected sex (p in v), DID I SAY SOFTNESS? A/N: Thank youuuuuu to everyone that stuck with me and these two idiots until the very end 💕 If you get lonely now that this is over, check out the rest of my masterlist. ⚠️ 18+ only ⚠️ minors and ageless blogs will be blocked. my content is not for you. i do not want to interact with you. please respect my boundaries.

It was odd, starting over with someone you’d known longer than nearly everyone else in your life. Jimin wasn’t a stranger by any means; he’d always been present, life running parallel to yours, but you’d never truly seen him up close. 

Not accurately, anyway.

When you were younger, the pedestal you put him on kept the sun in your eyes. You’d have to squint to see his shortcomings, but you never did. Maybe that was one of yours, willful blindness. As far as you knew then — or, rather, as far as you bothered to look — Jimin had none. All he had was a bright, white light.

After that pedestal crumbled and Icarus took a swan-dive to the sub-basement of your expectations, the shadows down there warped the flaws you finally recognized. A trick of the light, they exaggerated every shitty thing you thought you saw and made them all worse. Scarier, even. Worth hating.

Once you finally allowed him to exist on equal footing, you realized that Jimin wasn’t made to be viewed in such high contrast. He wasn’t the monochromatic figure you’d mythologized, not two-dimensional. In reality, he was a prism refracting a thousand different, complicated colors that you hadn’t been giving him due credit for.

The first shade you discovered was the one that broke your brain the most.  Jimin — the only person you knew that never responded to anyone’s calls or texts — wasn’t actually as solitary as he seemed. Really, the only thing he hated more than being by himself was having to admit that fact to anyone, especially you. 

So, instead of calling to invite you along on his errand runs, he started showing up at your door to ask, “You’re not busy right now, are you?”

And just like that, without meaning to, you learned his routine. Another shade.

Every other Sunday, you’d wake up a little earlier than usual. No matter how tired or hungover you were, you would crawl out of your bed, into your well-functioning shower, and make yourself presentable. Then, when you no longer looked like a hobgoblin, you’d sit on your couch with your tea.

None of it was a conscious decision — waiting in the nearest seat to your front door, angling yourself so you could keep an eye on the driveway — at least, not at first. In fact, you didn’t even notice what you were doing until your newly-acquired therapist pointed it out.

“It sounds like you’re making space in your life for him, brick by brick.”

You laughed it off when she said it, but as weeks flew by, you finally had to concede that she was right. She was right about something else, too: you hadn’t been viewing yourself fairly, either. 

“Cellophane can be iridescent, too, if you hold it right.”

Whatever shades of your own that you uncovered, you gradually learned to let Jimin see, too. He picked up on all of your intricacies much faster than you did — because of course he did — and unlike you, he didn’t stumble upon revelations by surprise. He didn’t muddle through your less-pretty shades by trial and error, like you did. To the contrary, he had an unexpected knack for anticipating your reactions, and he planned accordingly.

Everything he did was purposeful, from his choice of words to his actions. Like exhuming his phone from his pocket — “only because it’s you” — to let you know if he was running late to plans you’d made. It was rare that he didn’t show up on time, but whenever he couldn’t, he’d call to promise that he really was on his way. And he always was, no matter how shitty the weather was, or how much he might’ve wanted an extra hour of sleep.

Jimin and all his shades showed up for you.

On Christmas, when Seokjin’s part-time girlfriend threw a dinner party without knowing what the fuck she’d signed up for. You were three-quarters through a bottle of wine before you were pulled in to take over meal preparations with Seokjin; and although Jimin was mostly useless in front of a stove, he was good at fetching whatever you’d need next without you having to point to it. He was even better at keeping your respective glasses full, which felt even more important. Washing dishes after the fact wasn’t all that bad with him there, also drunk off his face, drying them.

On New Years’ Eve, when Jimin was too sick to join the bar crawl but still set an alarm to wake up and call you — right at midnight. You stepped out onto a snow-slicked sidewalk in order to hear him, disappointing the hell out of the girl whose lips wanted to kiss you into the new year. You ignored her pout, ignored the chill in the air, and focused on the way Jimin’s raspy voice had dropped an octave. He was asleep when you swung by shortly after with a box of tissues and a bottle of decongestants, but that didn’t matter; his spare key wasn’t well hidden, either.

And again — now — on Valentine’s Day, when you both decided to blow off Seokjin’s deranged, annual Parent Trap scenario.

Sprawled out on his couch like you owned the place, you scrolled idly through Netflix’s home page with your face scrunched. The hand not holding the remote dipped down into the bag of kkokalcorn chips resting on your chest.

“You’ve got an identity crisis in your watch history, Jimin,” you yelled out to him, hoping he’d hear your teasing clearly from where he stood in his kitchen. “I’m having trouble believing that you’re not actually a middle-aged white woman.”

At this, he stopped rummaging through his refrigerator and stood straight up to glare at you. His eyes and mouth all flattened into matching, straight lines.

You rattled off your findings, nudging him further. “The Notebook, Sleepless in Seattle —”

With every title you dropped, so did one of Jimin’s heavy footfalls. He was halfway to you, scowl growing, in the blink of an eye.

“10 Things I Hate About You?” You snorted. “Little too on the nose, don’t you think?”

Standing at the other side of his coffee table, he parked his hands on his hips and scoffed. “My choices are being criticized by an entire adult with corn-chip witch fingers? Are you kidding?”

Sheepishly, you pulled your hand from the kkokalcorn bag. He was correct; you had stuck your fingertips in the openings of the funnel-shaped chips. You wiggled them at him with a coy smile that made him roll his eyes. Satisfied, your mouth claimed the chip perched on the tip of your index finger.

If you didn’t know better, you’d say that the flash in his eyes just then was fondness.

You held the bag out to him, careful not to disrupt the rest of your manicure, and smiled to yourself when he accepted your offer. He tilted the bag and dumped a few of the chips into his open palm. With a small smile, he mused, “Haven’t had these since we were kids.”

That wave of nostalgia must have caught him in a riptide because he went quiet in a way that made you pause. You were about to speak up — to say what, you weren’t sure — but you promptly shut your mouth. Index and middle fingers now extended, he held out his hand to make a peace sign. Each fingertip had a small cone sitting crooked on top.

Jimin laughed unexpectedly, which almost made his already-crinkled eyes disappear completely. “Kinda look like little wizards.”

If you didn’t know better, you’d say that the thumping in your chest just then was fondness.

After shaking your head to clear those thoughts, you realized that the little wizards weren’t holding the glass of hard cider he’d gone to his kitchen to refill. You pushed yourself to your feet with one hand and a playfully exaggerated groan, popping the remaining chips from your fingers into your mouth at once.

“Leaving already?”

He should’ve known better than to ask you a question while your mouth was full, but he didn’t. The explanation he received was therefore unintelligible. Head cocked curiously to the side, lips slightly parted, he tried to connect the dots. Just as soon as he started, he gave up and trailed after you.

Jimin didn’t stop until you did, right in front of his refrigerator. He was so close, in fact, that you accidentally hit him with the door as you pulled it open.

“Oh, shit!” You muttered, shutting the door again quickly.

Wincing, your gaze flitted over to assess the damage you’d done to the outside of his bicep with the metal corner of the door. On instinct, you reached out to run the pads of your fingers over the faint red mark blooming there. Goosebumps spread in the wake of your touch, but you didn’t feel that same phantom chill. Just something electric that sparked against your fingertips.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” He said gently. “I don’t bruise like you do.”

In the moment of silence that followed, you felt compelled to lift your eyes but not your hand. Unless you were imagining things, he leaned into your touch, just slightly. Not enough to see, but enough to feel.

It’d crossed your mind a thousand times since you walked through his front door. With that throwaway statement, Jimin confirmed he’d been thinking about it, too — about who you both were on this date last year. About the way you’d only ever let him treat you roughly because anything sweeter threatened the distance you were trying to keep. About the bruises given with no chance to kiss them better.

You weren’t that person anymore, and neither was he.

“Jimin,” you started.

It was the farthest along in your sentence that your voice would let you go. 

After the million baby steps you’d taken in his direction and the healing you’d allow yourself to do, you were still scared to show your cards. Now, you’d seen him in technicolor. Now, if you fucked things up, you’d never be able to go back to black and white.

What if you fuck things up again?

Jimin sensed your hesitation, but he didn’t accept it. Instead, he closed the distance so slowly that your hand wasn’t disrupted from where it rested on his bicep. His hands found you just as easily. One made its home at the small of your back while the other cupped the side of your face. 

With a whisper lighter than air, he asked, “If I kiss you, will you let me?”

His eyes flitted from yours, to your lips, then back again.

“Or will you kamikaze dive into my kitchen table?”

Your reply was even softer than the question posed. “Only one way to find out.”

If the uptick at the corner of his lips told you anything, it was that he intended to.

Cautiously, as if sudden moves would startle you, he pulled your body flush against his. His other hand tilted your face upwards, thumb gently tucked under your chin while the rest of his fingers rested in the space just below your ear. His touch kept your body present even when the sensation of his kiss threatened to sweep your feet out from underneath you.

Plush pink and delicate, his lips molded to yours like they were specially designed to do just that. Like cracks giving way to let the light in, you opened yourself up for him. Licked into his mouth, eager to learn the parts of him you’d missed in all the time you’d shut him out.

And if you listened — really listened, over the moan he swallowed from you — you could’ve sworn you heard all the silly pages of your childhood diary flipping furiously. Scribbled to hell and back with a glitter gel pen, each one noting that this is what you wanted, this is what you wanted, this is everything you wanted.

The eternity in that kiss wasn’t long enough. Eventually, he broke the contact, pulling a disagreeing gasp from you when he pulled away. Your lips buzzed from the sudden loss of pressure — that, or they trembled without the warmth of his mouth. Either way, he was gone too soon. 

The hand you had resting against his bicep slipped down to the center of his chest to tug at the fabric of his t-shirt. Unable to nip that growing neediness in the bud, you frowned. 

“Jimin,” you sighed. You had nothing to follow-up with. His name was the totality of that thought.

Several moments of silence came next. His brow furrowed, like he was trying and failing to find something less vulnerable to say. He couldn’t. When it slipped out, his eyes searched your face for a reaction.

“I want to be soft with you.”

Any time you’d been together before, it was carnal, dripping with unarticulated hurt. He didn’t want that, not this time. You didn’t have to guess why.

Though the level of desperation you both felt now was familiar, the underscore had changed. Jimin wanted to touch you carefully because he felt fragile — so did you. If either of you moved too quickly, too roughly, you ran the risk of upending the balance you’d found. Like you, Jimin seemed to know that this was delicate.

You lifted your hand from his shirt and placed it on top of his where it sat above your jaw. Gently, your fingers wrapped around his and lowered them so you could intertwine them properly. Then, without a word and without letting go, you led him out of the kitchen into the small hallway.

This was the first time you’d crossed his house without sprinting and violently shedding your clothes as you went. It felt like you were seeing it all for the first time because, in a way, you were. 

You’d never noticed the framed photos lining the walls of the hallway, or the subtle notes of grey in the white paint behind them. In all the time you’d spent there before, it’d never clicked that this house was a home. Everywhere, there were hints of him — his interests, his achievements, the friends you’d never met — sitting so blatantly in places you’d previously ignored. 

Jimin apologized when you stepped over the threshold into his bedroom. “My plan was to clean it tomorrow.”

He smiled sheepishly as his free hand carded through the hair at the base of his neck.

“Doesn’t do you any good today, though.”

“I don’t mind,” you hummed in reply, shutting the door slowly behind him. “My plan was to do laundry today, and — well, you’ll see how that worked out for me.”

You kept your fingers interlocked with his while you surveyed his room. Like the rest of the house, you’d been in there countless times before without truly seeing any of it. Apart from the bare minimum clutter he’d needlessly apologized for, every surface was thoughtfully decorated. Even the absence of some keepsake or trinket on his shelf was purposeful. 

He keeps space.

Propped on a stand near his dresser was his guitar, which you didn’t even know he still played. Of course he does, you thought, he’d have been an idiot to throw that talent away. 

You were smiling long before you noticed you were doing it, even more so when you clocked where it sat. Just like it did in his childhood home, the guitar was positioned directly across the room from his doorway — the first and last thing he’d see when he came and left. 

Carefully, you reached out and trailed one finger over the tuning pegs. It all felt forbidden, but stupidly, you felt compelled. You spent a lifetime aching to touch him. For reasons you couldn’t explain, his guitar was no different.

Watching you caress his guitar made his pulse race harder; you could feel it where your wrist aligned with his. If nothing else had changed, you suspected that he still didn’t let anyone lay a finger on it. Jimin always insisted that he did all the maintenance himself because he didn’t trust the technician at the local music shop to be careful enough. 

To your surprise, it didn’t appear to be anxiety spinning circles in his stomach as he watched you. He spun you around, and it was clear from the look in his eye — the unshakeable desire he felt to touch you that same way.

You wondered what he was thinking while he studied your face in silence — if the months he’d spent trying to teach himself to hate it had blurred your features; and if he saw them clearly now.

The smattering of freckles across the bridge of your nose which swept over the tops of your cheekbones — even though it was winter, and you hadn’t seen much of the sun for weeks. 

The small scar interrupting your eyebrow, which you’d gotten when both of your families went camping together a million years ago. He’d sprinted across tide pools to help you back to your feet, reaching you long before Seokjin could catch up.

You didn’t know if it was a conscious decision now, but he leaned down and placed a kiss there the way you wished he had back then. 

“This isn’t still illegal, is it?” He murmured against your skin.

Unable to breathe, let alone speak, you shook your head so subtly that it couldn’t reasonably be counted as movement. Your next move was bolder, though: You unzipped your sweatshirt, shrugged your way out of it, and let it fall at your feet. 

With a quick glance down, you remembered what you were wearing and cringed with your whole body.

Neither of your socks matched; your sweatpants had a hole near the crotch; and your sweatshirt’s sole task had been to hide the ratty, old MapleStory t-shirt that you stole from Seokjin when he went off to college.

A certifiable mess in a self-imposed dry spell.

Jesus Christ.

“Laundry day,” you blurted out in explanation, though he hadn’t asked. He wasn’t laughing, either — not reacting in any way to roast you the way you expected him to. Still, the tips of your nose and ears burned with embarrassment. “I didn’t plan for… this.”

His index finger dipped under the hem of your t-shirt and his thumb mirrored the way it traced the stitching. 

“I kind of forgot that you own shit like this.” He replied softly, looking more pensive than usual. “Never see you in sweats.”

It was a fair point.

Jimin had slept next to you on three occasions — when the rules permitted — and you always woke up the same way you’d fallen asleep: completely naked. Somehow, it felt even more intimate for him to see what you wore when you went to bed without him. The silly, branded t-shirt probably said more about you than your bare chest did.

You realized that you’d never seen him in his current state before, either, with black joggers hanging low on his hips. His fluffy, air-dried hair didn’t sit smoothly the way it normally did. You wanted so badly to run your fingers through it, but there was a stronger compulsion to reckon with:

His shirt was ripped at the hem, not quite covering the lower inches of his torso.

Unthinkingly, your hand reached out so your fingers could rest against the skin there, midway down faint the trail of hair that dipped under the waistband of his pants. So much warmer than you, he shivered at your touch. You paused, self-conscious, then glanced up at him with eyebrows raised.

Is this okay?

You didn’t have to ask out loud to get an answer. It came as a whisper — “cold hands” — and it was accompanied by a smile that made your knees weak.

He nodded towards the other side of his room and said, “C’mere.” 

The hand that previously held yours found it again. Fingers slipping easily into the spaces between yours, he led and you followed. 

The crisply folded sheets contrasted completely with the effortless coziness of the rest of the space, but they didn’t stay that way for long. With his free hand, Jimin gripped the comforter and tugged it loose. It fluttered and fell freely back down over the bed.

Sighing reflexively, you slipped into the opening he’d created within the blankets. Every fiber smelled like him — clementine flower, orange blossom, water lily and orris — and now, so would you.

Jimin waited for you to scoot over before filling the space next to you, tilting his body inward to keep his eyes on you. His bent knee pressed against your outer thigh. It was chaste, especially when you considered the thousand other ways he’d touched you, but it had you vibrating in place, nonetheless. He probably felt it when he leaned in and kissed you for the third time, fingers sliding into your hair.

Tangled in him, your intrusive thought won out. Loose, it flew like a ping-pong ball around the inside of your skull: He can probably feel all that dry-shampoo, too. 

Like he was begging you to focus, the tip of his tongue flicked across your bottom lip and stole a whimper. Your lips parted eagerly against his to accommodate him; both of you starving for every bit of tenderness you’d refused to let him give before. 

As he poured more of himself into that kiss, the hand in your hair ran slowly down the length of your neck, over the slope of your shoulder, and down the curve of your torso. It stopped on the top of your thigh, warming you through to your bones. For the first time, his fingers didn’t dig harshly into the doughy flesh he found there. Now, his feather-light touch left you buzzing instead of bruised.

With every second that passed, your tingling spine struggled more and more to hold you upright. Noting the slight shift in your posture, Jimin guided you — still lip-locked — to rest your head on his pillows. It wasn’t until you tilted your head slightly to the side that his lips left yours; dipped down below your jaw to pepper the exposed skin there with unbearably soft kisses.

Each one made your pulse race harder than the last, pulled needy little breaths out of your mouth.

“Sound so pretty when you sigh like that,” he hummed against your throat. “Might have to kiss you like this forever if this is what it gets me.”

You’d been underneath him more times than you could presently recall, but never like this. Until now, you never understood how a person could say they loved you without any words at all, but you heard it. More than anything, you felt it in every brush of his lips — in the static crackling around you, charged with every little, languid line his tongue left behind.

The only thing distracting from your swelling heart was the wetness pooling in the bikini bottoms you’d hastily thrown on in the absence of clean underwear.

Fucking laundry day.

The sole consolation was the fact that the blend of polyester and elastane was better suited for a flood than any lace you would’ve consciously selected.

The breath behind his words tickled and surprised you, derailing your train of thought.

“Is it against the rules to tell you how beautiful I think you are?”

The circles he drew against the fabric of your sweatpants had you hypnotized, but you still managed to reply, “No more rules. Except — Oh, fuck.”

You mewled at the sensation of him suckling at the spot where your neck joined your shoulder. 

“Except that you can’t ever stop.”

His lips curled into a smile against the love bite he’d so carefully crafted. 

“I won’t,” he murmured before placing a kiss in the same spot he’d marked. “But I may need an intermission to get these incredibly chic clothes off your body. Kind of feels sacrilegious, though, I’ve gotta say.”

Your eyes flickered over to him, eyebrows raised. He pursed his lips to keep from smiling, forced the straightest face he could muster, then traced his fingertip over the rip in the crotch of your sweatpants. Sounding downright reverent, he explained, “They’re holey.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” You dropped your head back against the pillows with a groan that didn’t outgun your laughter. “Straight to jail for that. Seriously, that’s a federal crime.”

When your eyes stopped rolling and settled on him, Jimin was already looking down at you with amusement sparkling in the deep brown of his irises. He said nothing, opting instead to kiss you — for the fourth time — as a farewell before pulling away entirely. 

The spot next to you went cold as soon as he sat up, but — bravely — you didn’t complain. You watched with your bottom lip pinched between your teeth. He grabbed the end of his haphazardly, perfectly cropped t-shirt and pulled it off over his head. 

Your only instinct was to reach up to his bare chest and trace every plane of it. To your dismay, Jimin intervened. Fingers at the hem of your top now, he stared expectantly at you until you stretched your arms above your head. That stupid, stolen shirt was guided up and off before it was discarded somewhere unseen.

Jimin’s pupils dilated immediately, gaze sweeping over your bare chest like he was beyond grateful that all your bras were at home, drowning in your washing machine. Uninhibited, he leaned forward. The delicate, cuban-link chain of necklace tickled the skin of your stomach while he placed an open-mouthed kiss in the space between your breasts. Cool to the touch, you shivered for more reasons than one.

When his tongue flicked out over one erect nipple, all you could offer was a breathy sigh, brain scrambled to hell and back. He seemed to draw inspiration from this — him and his goddamn mouth promptly switched tactics. Mimicking you, he looked up at you from under his lashes and blew a warm stream of air over your other nipple.

You were full-out whimpering underneath him. “Shit.”

“Yeah?” He smirked before taking the pebbled bud into his mouth and sucking softly, eyes still locked on yours. 

Can I cum from this?

Oh god, I really might cum from this.

His mouth’s ministrations continued while his hands swept gently down the curves of your waist. That is, until they reached the elastic waistband of your sweatpants. Abruptly, Jimin stopped and sat back onto his calves.

You didn’t have to ask. Jimin’s eyes widened in tandem with the grin on his face; and you knew what he’d discovered. Smiling now with all his teeth, he tugged playfully at the knotted tie sitting above your right hip, keeping your bikini bottoms in place.

He snorted incredulously, “Be fucking for real.”

“Stop.” The word was elongated as you whined. It was useless, but you swatted at his arm. “I told you — ”

“I know, I know. It’s laundry day.” Fuck, his affection for you was written all over his face. “Incredible — truly, I have no notes.”

You buried your face in your hands to hide from him, but he didn’t let you. Just like he did that time on your couch, Jimin pulled your hands away from your face and held them in his own. This time, when he kissed you, you didn’t tear yourself away from him. Instead, you did the opposite. You grabbed the sides of his face in your hands and leaned into him.

With his hands now free, he was able to push your sweatpants down the rest of the way without extricating his lips from yours. Those fucking bikini bottoms went with them when he slipped the fabric over your ankles and tossed them blindly over his shoulder.

Mouth moving hungrily against yours, his hand hovered over your cunt, radiating warmth. You fought to keep your last shred of patience but lost, shifting underneath him to beg wordlessly for his touch. He obliged. His middle finger dipped between your sopping folds until it found the swollen bead of your clit and spiraled over it.

“Fuck,” you moaned into his mouth. He swallowed it, kissed you so deep your mind went blank.

The slow pace he’d chosen normally would have driven you mad, but instead of coming across as a taunt — or a punishment — you got the impression that he was basking in your arousal. That he was taking his time, savoring you and the million ways your body craved his.

When you pulled back, your lips were kiss-bitten and palpably swollen. He must have felt your quickened breath against his own lips. They autonomously curved into the tiniest sliver of a smile. 

Watching him watch you, it was clear that Jimin loved you like this — wide-eyed, unguarded, inviting. He loved you generally. You knew that much for certain as he gazed down at you, and you were so fucking thankful that neither of you had to keep pretending otherwise.

Whatever trance he’d fallen into ended when you whispered, “Please.”

Though your plea wasn’t much more than an exhale, he didn’t need to be told twice. Momentarily, he stood; and as he did, your own hand dipped down between your legs. He stepped out of his joggers with his focus trained on you, staring spellbound while you touched yourself in his absence. Wet enough to drip.

If you had to wager on it, you’d bet that he could’ve stood there all night observing, listening to the way you moaned as you slicked your own fingers, but the darkened tip of his cock was weeping like he wanted you badly enough to ache. Completely incapable of spending any more time as a bystander, he fell to his knees between your legs. There, he guided them further apart with his hands.

Desperately, you grabbed one of his hands from where it sat on your knee and pulled him so that he was leaning over you once again. You wanted to feel the way his breath caught as he entered you, bare chest pressing into yours while he filled you. Needed him — just him — all the time.

Forearms now pressed to the mattress and fingers in your hair, he caged you in. His forehead came to rest against yours when you reached into the space between your bodies and dragged his tip through the mess he’d made of you. That faint squelch was obscene enough in the quiet of his room. It couldn’t hold a candle to the groan that escaped his chest when he finally entered you.

“Holy shit.” He exhaled sharply through gritted teeth. Your walls enveloped him, squeezing tight enough that no question remained about where he belonged. “Fucking missed you.”

That initial, perfect ache threatened to blind you, but it wouldn’t have mattered with the way your eyes screwed shut — too overcome with want to do much more than breathe. Slowly, inch by inch, his cock stretched you until he bottomed out. It was the closest thing you’d ever had to an out-of-body experience.

“Missed you,” you mumbled.

Well beyond fuck drunk, you bordered on incoherent. A kiss on your forehead lassoed you, brought you crashing back down. It was redundant, but he murmured, “Come back to me.”

You blinked up at him in a haze.

“Want you to look at me.” 

He sounded shy, more vulnerable than you’d ever heard him, and you didn’t need any further explanation.

Eye contact had never been on the table before, deemed early on to be far too fucking intimate. If this is what he wanted, you decided, you’d never take your eyes off him again. Especially not when he looked at you the way he did then, like you hung the fucking stars in the sky.

You countered, “Kiss me.”

And he did, like he might never get the chance again.

No amount of closeness could’ve been enough, but you settled for wrapping your legs around him. With his range of motion now limited, he grinded against you; the curve of his cock rubbed against that secret spot behind your pubic bone. 

Bones? Do you still have any of those?

Every tantalizing, slow thrust made it harder for you to remember why you’d ever required harshness when his gentleness now was infinitely more intense. It was so much better — being loved by him rather than hated.

Desperate fingers left half-moon imprints on his back, which was beginning to slick with sweat. The spaces between your whimpers lessened while the pressure in your abdomen began to build. Jimin had you teetering at the edge of the world, and you told him so with your lips at his ear, “Please — I’m so close.”

His forehead creased, and you watched in real time as determination etched itself into his features. He was perfect — beautiful — and he was close, too. You clenched; he cursed, “Fuck.”

You looked up at him through fluttering lashes, silently begging him not to stop. Not now, not ever. Stay.

“You’re all I’ve ever wanted,” Jimin murmured, burying himself deeper with every thrust. “You know that, right? How much you mean to me?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

He watched your face as you came — when your eyes rolled back, and your head tilted against his pillows. Your legs loosened their binds around him as they shook, gasping moans tumbling out of your open mouth. His pace didn’t falter; his presence deep inside of you only elongated your orgasm.

Bliss.

You were still fluttering around his length when your eyes finally drifted open again. Not even through your first aftershocks, his panting breaths alone could’ve pushed you headfirst into a second orgasm.

His gaze had dropped at some point to see the way your cunt clung to him with every backstroke. He must’ve felt you staring, though; he looked back up at you, pupils blown wide. That was all it took to dot stars along the edges of your vision.

Back arching up off the mattress, you gushed around him once again. Mindless babbling — consisting only of his name and expletives — fell clumsily off your tongue. It caught both of you off-guard when your shaky voice managed to plead, “Wanna feel you cum — please. Want you to let go for me.”

Only after you begged him did his thrusts become desperate, reckless. There was the unmistakable sound of your wetness and skin colliding with skin, and then there was the low moan that built in the seat of his chest and broke free. Face buried in the crook of your neck as he came, the heat of his breath on your skin was rivaled only by the dizzying warmth of his release spilling into you.

He struggled to hold himself up while his spent cock still twitched inside of you. If you were being honest, you adored the way his weight pinned you against his mattress. Maybe, you thought, you could stay there forever.

Eventually, an exhausted voice came from the curve of your shoulder, almost too muffled to hear.

“How is it —” Jimin panted. “— That in the hundred times we’ve had sex, it never felt like that?”

You chewed on the inside of your cheek. Tingling fingertips ran lightly and lazily across his shoulder blades. The hint of hesitation bubbling in the pit of your stomach cautioned you not to speak your thoughts out loud, so you stared at the ceiling above you and willed yourself to be brave.

Your voice threatened to give up on its way out.

“Nobody’s ever fucked me like they love me before.”

He mustered all the energy he still had to turn his head and look at you. At first, you couldn’t tear your eyes off the ceiling to look back. Make space, you begged yourself; and so, you did.

With his chest resting heavily on yours, you wondered if he could feel the way your heart skipped a beat at that eye contact alone. The glimmer in his eye informed you that, yes, he could. 

“Better get used to it, then.” He punctuated his thought by pressing his lips to your temple. “‘Cause that’s what you signed up for.”

You smirked, “Oh? Was there a contract?”

You might’ve kept teasing him if he didn’t tilt your head to kiss you properly — and fuck, you were melting all over again.

“Sealed with a kiss, no less.” He leaned down to nip affectionately at your earlobe. Mouth at the shell of your ear, he purred. “Like any deal with the devil should be.”

“Goddamn.” You whistled. “Promoted from menace to devil already. Congratulations.”

With a roll of his eyes, he pulled out of you and forced himself upright to his feet. Before you could even ask him to, Jimin leaned down to kiss the lips you’d poked out into a pout. Your voice was uncharacteristically needy as your question slipped out.

“You are coming back, right?”

“Nope,” he hummed against your lips. You leaned away from him with your jaw dropped incredulously. “I’m taking a shower and I’m taking you with me.”

That was the only warning you got before one of Jimin’s arms slipped under the hinge of your knees, and the other disappeared behind your back. You screamed. Instead of flailing — a one-way ticket to the floor, you imagined — you threaded your arms around his neck and clung to him as if your life depended on it.

“Pardon me,” you sputtered. “But what the fuck is happening right now?”

“Shhh — pipe down. I’m keeping a promise.”

You stared at him expectantly. For a moment, he ignored you and continued quietly on his way towards the bathroom. It wasn’t until he reached the threshold that he paused with a sigh.

The look he shot you then was far more earnest than you could’ve expected under the circumstances. One that said he saw you, not through you, and he wasn’t going to look away.

Jimin said it breezily, like it cost him even less than the air it took to vocalize it: “I am not letting you down again.”

A pinprick of tears stung the corners of your eyes. You fought like hell to keep them where they belonged. It was such a stupid joke — made so lightly — and it still held more weight than anything you’d ever heard.

Eyes swimming despite your resistance, you sniffled and laughed. “Not, like, literally, though — right?”

“Aw, baby.” He kissed your temple again, cooing. Part of you hated it, but the rest of you swooned. “Don’t test me.”

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[capt-zjaybird]

I remembered I had a slice of Pokemon Ghosts AU that's several months old as what I chose for a Pokemon gym trainer theme for me and my friend group.

A few of us in the friend group who could actually draw made sprites for our trainersonas, but there was also a handful of lore that we have and that included my area, which I themed to be revolving around the Ghosts theme and had spooky elements.

If my best friend learned whatever RomHack is, he'd code a whole campaign, but his devices are limited so it's just a "maybe" future passion project.

I could make a post detailing the Ghosts portion of the campaign, it's a bit funny cuz the rest of the friend group have bubbly and colorful themes that circle around their own lovely towns and cities

and then there's me, melancholic war-themed necrophile that's nearly monochromatic

[undeadorion]

Fall to be Free

Chapter 1 — The Door

Fandoms: Ghost (the band), original characters

Word count: 5,010

Warnings: cults, satanism, brief descriptions of abuse

So I wrote the most self indulgent thing. I AU’ed Ghost into my own world with my OCs. Because I had to.

The world is the setting of a comic I’ve been working on (I’ve had the characters for like 20 years). The basic concept is that it’s the late 90s in a slightly sci-fi-ish version of our world. And people with special abilities are common place. So the Papas (who are each their own person, not played by Tobias in this world but still a band) have some very special powers.

Dane drags Crawford to a small Ghost show at a record shop, and Crawford gets the Cirice treatment. Totally on accident and by chance.

Crawford followed Dane towards whatever the other had in mind. Dane hadn’t exactly explained what they were doing. A lot of rambling, a mention of making a “few stops” before hitting their usual bar. The fact that they were out at 3 in the afternoon left Crawford suspicious that these few stops would not be quick. He was more irritated that Dane thought he had to be sly to get Crawford to go anywhere with him than being simply outright. “Hey, let’s hit the record store for a while” is so much easier to say than the ten minute lead up he got instead. 

Because the record store was exactly where Dane led him. Crawford didn’t even realize that’s where they were until Dane was opening the door. He should have recognized it, he was here nearly every week, but the street was usually rather quiet. It was a hole-in-the wall sort of place, the door tucked away in an alcove so shadowed it looked like the service entrance for the restaurant around the corner on the more main road. Except today the street was teaming with people. A large bus dominated the parking spaces across the street, the sort of private affair with fancy cloth seats. Every other parking spot was filled as well, with people hangout out between and around the cars, on the sidewalks, even in the street. 

There were quite a few among the loiterers in black and white face paint. Metal heads, he thought, just as the pounding bass from inside the store hit his ears. The dread hit him that Dane was trying to drag him into some sort of concert. But Dane wasn’t into metal of any kind, not even in the slightest. Was the show just a coincidence?

“You can wait out here if you want,” Dane was saying, the door only open a crack. “There’s a shit ton of people in there, and I know how you feel about that sort of thing.” As he spoke, he pulled the door open a bit more. 

Crawford cocked his head to the side as he could hear the music better. It had a clarity he wasn’t expecting. The singer was neither screaming nor growling, and their voice easily lifted above the instruments. He couldn’t pick out the actual lyrics with all the noise on the street, but he could hear enough that it made him curious why this music had attracted the crowd gathered outside. 

Inside wasn’t any better. People crushed in shoulder to shoulder, making the already poorly ventilated store hot and damp. There was just enough space at the back to squeeze between the writhing crowd and the rack of CDs and records. People trod on his boots and knocked into him, but he just shoved them back into the crowd and they didn’t seem to notice. 

When Dane finally stopped at section of cassettes (it’s all his car could play), Crawford was able to catch his breath. It was an awkward corner where people hadn’t quite squeezed into. At the other side of the store, he could see the band that was the cause for such chaos. It couldn’t even really be called a band, really. It was just three people. The singer flanked by two men in masks, one with a guitar and the other a bass. The singer was almost entirely monochromatic in stark blacks and whites, except for the small portions of visible skin. Black hair, black jacket, white shirt, and his face painted vaguely to resemble a skull with bold geometric shapes. He spoke to the audience with a thick accent, something about it being his first time, only to clarify he meant in this city. This transitioned into the next song somehow, a very different style than the last. He was still wrapping his head around the tonal shift, when the singer pulled out something from his pocket, the yellow object standing out starkly against his white gloved hand. 

The sound of a kazoo floated out over the music, leaving Crawford completely and utterly baffled. Even more confusing was the reaction of the crowd. They screamed and howled as if it was the best thing they’d ever seen. Even though Crawford could only see them from behind, there were marks of it being a more hardcore crowd. A lot of black clothes and metal spikes, and patches as crudely sewn as his own. One guy bellowed “HAIL SATAN!” from somewhere in the crowd. All in response to a man playing a kazoo in the middle of a song that used the word “zombie” a lot. 

He turned to Dane to ask how much longer he would be, only to find the other not even looking at the tapes. Sure, he hand his hands on them, but he was half turned so he could look over his shoulder at the man on stage. Whatever harsh words were on Crawford’s tongue died immediately. He’d never seen his friend make such an expression. It almost like Dane were in pain, a deep and unspeakable pain, but softer. Even in the poor lighting of the alcove, his eyes glistened as if threatening to shed tears. With a heavy sigh, he rolled his eyes. 

Dane wasn’t exactly a brave person. He often needed a chaperone to do anything even remotely social. The idea of squeezing into a small record shop full of devil worshiping metal fans wasn’t something he could do alone. And Dane knew Crawford wouldn’t willingly walk into such a situation either. But it was obvious this was some band that Dane liked enough to even take a risk on it. 

“You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?” Crawford growled, before grabbing Dane by the shoulder and shoving him toward the crowd. He let out a yelp of protest before he disappeared into the crush of bodies. He’d be fine. Probably.

But before Crawford could step back to the safety of the alcove, someone bumped into him from behind. Half a step forward was all it took before he was also absorbed into the crowd. The zombie kazoo song had ended and everyone was jostling for the singers attention, shouting responses to questions Crawford couldn’t hear. It seemed that his every attempt to push back toward safety cause the crowd to surge and push him deeper. In desperation, his fingers clawed toward painted faces and studded leather. But no one seemed aware of him, enraptured in whatever was being said. 

No, the music had started up again. Softly at first. A few bass notes dropped and a stillness rippled through the crowd. Just for a moment, everyone hushed in anticipation. As the instruments started in earnest, the stillness broke and everyone crushed even closer. 

Suddenly, open space. 

Crawford froze, hands gripping some sort of rail. He was at an edge of the crowd. But he was still trapped. Before he could even begin to think of which way was out, he realized it wasn’t just any rail. All he registered in the song was the word “rumble” before his eyes focused on the shiny black shoes mere inches from his hands. Black shoes, white spats, black pants. Slowly, he lifted his gaze from the shoes, expecting to see the singer looking out over the whole crowd. But instead, he found himself staring directly into that painted face. No, not just his face. He wasn’t addressing the front row. He was staring directly into the man’s mis-matched eyes. 

“I can see the scars inside you.”

It was just a line from the song, but somehow it felt as if the man were speaking to him and only him. His gaze unwavering. A gloved hand gesturing as if to say “this is about you, only you. No one else.”

Crawford felt something in his chest. His heart pounding like a caged bird desperate to escape. No longer aware of the sweaty bodies crushing against him. Barely aware of the music. It was just him and the man who was so recently wielding a kazoo. 

Even as he saw nothing but that starkly painted face, he had the oddest sensation he was standing in a hallway. A hallway lined with doors of different styles. Some had windows, some even stood open. He had the sense they could all be opened with just a touch. Except one. The one directly in front of him. He knew, the way one knows things in dreams, that it had always just been an empty wall. That this wasn’t a place where a door was, despite being the only stretch of blank wall in the entire corridor. But now…now there were cracks in the paint. He reached out a hand, his fingers brushing the cracked and peeling paint. Pieces fell away, larger than such a gentle touch should have caused. They cracks grew, spreading the cascade of old, dry paint and rust. There stood a door. A massive, metal door held shut with a rusted iron lock. Scratched into the metal was a large symbol, off center and crooked. Newer than the door itself, but the lines still starting to rust. Two intersecting lines, with an incomplete circle around the point where they crossed. Above it, something else was scratched into the metal. Words of some sort? He ran his fingers over them, but before he could begin to make them out an elbow jabbed him in the ribs.

The dream? Illusion? Hallucination? burst like a bubble. In that split second of awareness, he could have sworn there was a blue glow in the man’s white eye. Maybe it was just the lights glinting. He was also aware that he hadn’t just reached out in the dream. The singer had dropped to one knee and was gripping Crawford’s hand firmly. But that vanished as quickly as the strange dream, as a young woman had been the one to bruise his ribs in an attempt to offer her own hand to the singer. 

As Crawford stumbled back, dazed, he swore he saw fury in the man’s face, his dark upper lip curling into a snarl as the young woman waggled her long painted nails at him, begging for him to hold her hand, too. It was a fleeting moment as she was quickly ignored, the singer smoothly moving back to his feet to continue the song as if nothing had happened. It was the same song, still. Surely he had stared at that illusory door for longer than it would take to finish  a song, but he had the sense it hadn’t even been the length of an entire verse.

He could feel the memory of the door fading, like trying to hold water in his hands, the way dreams fade so very fast. No, this was different. Usually he could hold on to a piece or two, but it was as if the memory were being sucked away down a drain as he desperately tried to hold on to some piece of it. He let the crowd push and pull him, drifting like a rudderless boat on the water, as he tried to remember what he’d seen. A door where there wasn’t a door? That didn’t make sense. A message? Scratches? A symbol of some sort? He felt as if it were staring him in the face but he couldn’t place it. Like a shape taunting him from the corner of his vision that wasn’t there when he turned. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Dane’s voice cut through the noise as his fingers dug into Crawford’s arm. 

“What?” was all Crawford could manage. 

Dane managed to pull them both the rest of the way through the crowd and into the safety of the alcove once more. 

“How the hell did you get all the way up there?!” Dane managed to sound giddy and devastated at the same time. “And to be chosen like that…” He let out a whimpering sigh that was probably meant to be exaggerated or sarcastic, but even Crawford could see the envy in it. 

“What’s the big deal? I tripped. He probably thought I was reaching for him or something.”

“No!” Dane scolded. “It’s a whole thing. He only does it to one person per show! Not only cause what the song is about but it’s what happened in the music video. Papa picks one person to sing to like they’ve been chosen as someone special. Half the people in that crowd would trade vital organs to have been in your place.”

“So it’s just an act? It’s not like some mind control shit?” He still couldn’t shake that vague memory of doors. 

“It’s ALL an act,” Dane said with a scoff, as if it should be obvious. “Papa Emeritus III, the anti-pope of a satanic cult using music to overthrow governments and take over the world.” He let out a chuckle as if it were ridiculous to even consider something like that were real. “It’s all a schtick, but it’s pretty fucking hot.”

“If you’re into that sort of thing.” He glanced back to the stage and could have sworn the singer was watching him over the heads of everyone else. No, it couldn’t be.

“Hell yeah,” Dane said, wistfully as he watched the singer. “I’d let that man break me in half and I’d thank him for it.” He started detailing things he’d do for the singer, with increasing lewdness. But Crawford barely heard a word of it. He had the unsettling sense that every time the singer cast his gaze across the crowd, it lingered on himself. And not just for a brief moment. For entire lines of a song, it felt. That was impossible. He was a nobody and he didn’t even care about this band, so why would he even suspect a thing like that?

“What’s that symbol?” He asked, so suddenly he wasn’t entirely sure for a moment where the curiosity came from.

“What symbol?” Dane said, shaken out of his perverse musings.

“This!” Crawford grabbed the sleeve of a man’s jacket. On his shoulder was a sort of upside down cross symbol that struck Crawford like a punch to the gut. 

“Fuck off!” The man to whom the jacket belonged, jerked his arm away from Crawford.

“That’s just one of the band’s logos,” Dane said with a shrug, obviously not seeing anything deeper in it. 

Was that why it was familiar? Because now Crawford could see it was everywhere in the shop. On patches and necklaces and mingled into the promotional artwork hung on the walls. He shook his head as if he could shake off the weird feeling that it was important somehow. 

———

The rest of the show was only a few more songs. Needing time to think, Crawford convinced Dane he’d be fine and to actually go enjoy himself. What he really wanted to do was slip outside for a smoke. But something told him to stay there. That he was missing something. He wasn’t the sort to give a shit about celebrities, and this guy wasn’t even proper famous. Half a step above a basement show where no one cared about who the band was as long as they played something decent. So why the hell did he feel like the singer was actively watching him? It wasn’t necessarily a feeling of paranoia, but something twisted in his gut. Why couldn’t Jackie be here? She’d knock some sense into him and call him a paranoid idiot for it.

Finally, the singer went into some ramble about orgasms as a lead up to a song about a clock. At least that’s as far as Crawford could tell. He wasn’t paying very close attention, trying to shake off the feeling he was being watched and the relief that he could leave this surreal experience behind him. 

As the singer said his goodbyes, bowing and blowing kisses to the crowd, Dane staggered out of the loosening crowd. He was a sweaty mess, shaking slightly from exertion, but looking like he was having the time of his life. “Thanks, man,” Dane said with such genuine gratitude it seemed like he might cry. “I mean it, I really, really mean it.” He leaned on Crawford in a sort of half hug. Crawford suspected it was mostly to keep from falling over. 

“C’mon, let’s get out of here,” he said, an arm across Dane’s back to guide him towards the door. But he didn’t get two steps before bumping into a wall of black. A wall of black topped in silver. 

Two figures dressed like the musicians who had been on stage stood before them, stock still and facing them. These two definitely hadn’t been the ones on stage, both considerably wider in a way that suggested pure muscle. 

“You mind making room, assholes?” Crawford growled. He tried to step to the side, only to be met with another masked man. Both he and Dane staggered, stepping back to find another way only to discover another three behind three behind them. Six in total, boxing them in. All six facing them, and letting everyone else flow around them.

Rough, strong hands grabbed them from all sides, half dragging them through the dispersing crowd. No one seemed to take notice of this, chatting and celebrating amongst themselves. Ignoring Crawford and Dane’s shouts of protest as the masked goons forced them toward the back of the record shop. 

The fresh air should have been a welcome relief as they passed into the narrow alley out back, but all Crawford felt was a rising terror. Especially as he saw where they were headed. The singer stood there, talking with the two masked men from the stage as they packed up their instruments. He held a cigarette in his gloved fingers, looking as casual as if they were all just friends and there weren’t six men dragging people out to be presented to him.

“Oh, there you are,” the man with the painted face said, his voice just as accented as it had been on stage. Maybe that part wasn’t an act. 

“What’s the meaning of this!?” Crawford demanded, trying to pull free of the men who held him, but their grip didn’t budge. 

“Papa…” Dane breathed out. “It’s an honor…”

“You, my friend,” the singer said, pointing with his cigarette toward Crawford, “Have quite the gift. And you can’t even see it.”

“What the fuck’re you talking about?” Crawford growled. If the man behind him weren’t so tall, he could have nailed him in the balls with the heel of his boot to make him let go. He doubted a blow to the shins or knees would even be felt.

“That little song of mine, it’s…well, it’s mostly metaphor. A bit of exaggeration. But like with all forms of art, some parts of it are completely true.” A faint smile played over his lips as he regarded the two held captive before him. “The part that’s true is I can see into people’s hearts. Truly.”

“Fuckin’ exo…” Crawford didn’t care that people had abilities that he’d never have access to, but he hated when they acted like they were somehow special. Exos, phenoms, moxies, specials, metahumans, whatever term was used, it didn’t mean they were extra ordinary. Some people could do advanced calculus in their heads, some people could paint, some people can create fire with their bare hands. It didn’t make them special. 

“Do you often speak of yourself with such derision?” 

“I’m not a fuckin’ exo,” Crawford snapped. “He is,” he nodded to Dane. His friend who could change shape at all, but usually just turned into some sort of dog.

Dane was about to say something, but the singer placed a single gloved finger on Dane’s lips and he fell utterly silent. “Oh yes, I am aware of this,” he said, leaning closer to Dane’s face. “And so very eager.” His voice dropped to just above a whisper, “If you’re a good boy, you might have a chance to show your appreciation for your Papa…” he leaned closer still, his painted lips brushing Dane’s ear as he whispered something Crawford couldn’t hear.

Swallowing hard, Dane nodded, his face completely flushed. “Y-yes, Papa…” his voice trembled as he spoke. 

“But you,” he turned back to Crawford. “I can tell simple devotion is not in your…” he gestured vaguely with the cigarette. “…nature, as it were.”

“Get to the point, old man.” The more he spoke, and at this distance in the natural light, Crawford could more clearly tell the age beneath the makeup. The stark black and white did a lot of work to mask it, but there were deep lines in his face, especially around his eyes. From the back of the record shop, Crawford would have placed the man closer to his own age of 26. But at this distance it was obvious he was more than double that age. 

The man gave a slight nod as if it were a statement of fact and not an insult. He took a slow drag off his cigarette before continuing. “You remember the door, do you not?”

Crawford was barely aware of Dane asking “what door?” as he felt the floor drop out from under his feet. The memory had almost completely faded, and now rushed back with shocking clarity. 

“Ah, now you do remember. These doors you see, they’re all those things that make you, well, you.” As the man spoke, Crawford had the sense of walking side by side with him along that corridor of doors. “You have a lot of anger in here, do you not? But it is not without reason. Oh…” As if the man were peeking into a room that Crawford could not see into. “You are quite the talented musician yourself, Crawford Stone.” Hearing the man speak his name without even a vague introduction made it fell all too real, like the wind had been knocked out of his lungs. “Let us hope you do not take my job, huh?” 

A sound emanated from the masked men at the joke. A sarcastic sort of laughter. It was the first sound any of the had made and it lasted only a moment. 

“But that is not what we are here for, no.” He stepped closer, his back rigid and yet only coming up to about Crawford’s chin. Fingers grazed that chin, such a gentle touch yet forcing Crawford to look down into the man’s eyes. There were no stage lights here, yet there was that strange blue glint in the white eye. “No, we are here for a very special door.” 

In a sudden breathless flash the scene was as real as the alley. He and the man stood before the metal door marked inexplicably with a crude version of the band’s inverted cross logo. “This door!” the man exclaimed, gesturing to it with both hands. “Well, the door is not special. It is the thing behind this ugly thing that is special.”

“Why is it here?” Crawford’s head swam with questions. In a way he understood what he was seeing. There weren’t really any doors. It was just a way to see what was inside his head. But why would one of them be so hidden and locked? Why would he forget it so easily when he knew the things in the other rooms so well. 

“Someone put it here, of course.” The man ran his fingers over the carved symbol. His gloves were no longer, but skin tight black leather with gold claw-like nails attached. “By someone not exactly in our church, but affiliated perhaps. Someone who knew we would be the ones who might save you, my friend.” 

As the man pressed his whole had to the door, Crawford felt a stabbing pain in his head. He dropped to his knees and the whole corridor shook. The man jerked his hand back, eyes sweeping the space. “So that is why…” His fingers tapped his chin as he surveyed the door. “This will be no easy task to undo.”

“I don’t think you should be touching it,” Crawford growled, his head still throbbing.”

The man shook his head, clicking his tongue. “Sometimes, if a man is shot in the head or in the chest, he can live with that bullet inside of him. The body covers it. Encapsulates it. That is what you have done.”

“I didn’t do this. You did.”

“The door you did not do, nor the lock. But hiding it, resisting it, that is you. Well, mostly you. The door, it whispers ‘forget about me, don’t look at me’ and you were very good at doing that. So good you will slowly forget if you are not looking directly at it.” 

Crawford started to protest, but the man interrupted him. “Stop talking and listen. I showed you this door, and what is written upon it. Within the hour, you forgot even the symbol carved into it. Even now you fight to get away, to not even speak of it. But it is not fear that keeps you away, it is something else. It is…a twisted obedience. But not to me or mine…” He was watching Crawford’s face with those mismatched eyes, studying him intently. “To he who hurt you so deeply. He who gave you so many scars…” His fingers brushed first the scar under his right eye. A gift from his step father, landing a back-handed slap across his face so hard it knocked him flat on his back. The gems of his ring gouging a chunk of flesh from under his eye. He’d only been sixteen. 

The man’s finger trailed down to his lower lip next. Another scar from the same source. He’d come home one afternoon with his lip pierced, in a fit of rebellion against his step father. The man had used a knife to forcibly remove it, instead of just removing it properly. Anyone so much as asking about those scars would have had Crawford biting their heads off. But as the man’s gloved fingers caressed the scars, it was like something inside him broke. There was a tenderness in that touch that he hadn’t felt in so long. 

Slowly he dropped to his knees, everything in him feeling so very heavy. As he looked up to the man before him, blurry through tears he refused to let fall, he felt no judgement for this. “He did this?” he asked, his voice softer than he expected. 

“It would seem he had it done,” the man said, stepping back and turning his attention back to the door. “I thought my own father a real motherfucker sometimes. But this…this is a cruelness only a righteous man can dream up.” 

“Why…” was all Crawford could manage before his voice gave out.

“Greed. Hubris. Pride, perhaps. I’ve not had the…pleasure,” the word dripping with sarcasm, “of seeing much of this father of yours was like, just the rage you feel for him.”

Crawford shook his head, trying to get his thoughts straight. “No, why…why do you care?” He had never asked the question so earnestly. This man was the frontman of a moderately popular band. Crawford wasn’t even a fan, but he’d still been singled out. 

“Because of this.” He ran a clawed fingertip along the barely legible words that accompanied the cross symbol.

“I can’t read it,” Crawford admitted.

The man looked at him, seemingly with concern, before his shoulders relaxed. “Ah…” as if he understood. He read over the words again, then nodded. “Well, essentially, it’s a sort of ‘If found, return to the Ministry’ message.” He thought for a moment, the turned away from the door. “It is much too complicated to fix here.”

Crawford became aware of the alley around him once again. It was like the lights coming on after a movie. Like the physical setting had stopped being important but still there while wrapped up in the big glowing screen. He was no longer being held by the large masked man, instead on his knees, slumped against the singer’s shoulder as if he’d fallen asleep. 

Straightening up, dazed, he looked around for his companion. Why hadn’t he said anything. The deep strumming of an instrument caught his attention. Dane was standing around with a few of the masked men, with one of their instruments in hand. He was showing off what his long, slender fingers could achieve on the bass, working through some surprisingly complex riffs. Crawford hadn’t heard Dane play since they’d been in high school, foolishly planning to start a band of their own. Apparently he’d still been practicing. 

“We have a small church here in the city,” the singer held up a business card before tucking it in the pocket of Crawford’s jeans. His arm was still under Crawford’s arm and across his back. “I want you to visit them. They will be expecting you.”

“What—“

“I will be paying your city one more visit, in a few weeks, before I return to my home. You will be going with me, then we can fix what is inside that head of yours.”

“What—“

“Have your things packed when I return.”

“I can’t leave the city!” he protested, finally.

“Oh, we won’t be leaving the city, we’ll be leaving the country.”

Crawford was left scrambling to his feet, trying to protest, but the man walked away to gather his minions. 

“Be good, my little pet,” he said to Dane, caressing his cheek. “And you might get to come with.” One of the masked men caught the bass as it slipped from Dane’s hands. Before either of them could utter a word, the man and his followers slipped back into the record store’s back door, taking their instruments and other equipment with them. 

“I don’t think that cult thing is an act…” was all Crawford managed to say, as Dane just stared at the closed door as if he wanted to chase after them.

[pinksilvace]

Fern guides their mutuals and followers through Cats 1998 as if we're all sitting on the same couch watching it and I'm shouting out stuff (4/?)

MASTERPOST

Character Wiki Pages

On to Bustopher!

8: Bustopher Jones

Everybody is SO MEAN about Bustopher Jones (joking). I love him so much but nowadays when numbers are cut his is usually one of them since he usually shows up once and disappears 🥲

The actor for Bustopher sometimes dons a chorus costume for the opening number, often named Peter. They're also usually the actor who plays Gus later, as both Bustopher and Gus traditionally had operatic moments in the show.

Tom Hooper clearly did not know how to interpret media because could you IMAGINE 2019 Bustopher cleaning up his appearance as a first impression???

When I was little, I was under the impression that Bombalurina, Jenny, and Jellylorum all liked Bustopher Jones in similar ways; it wasn't until I started interacting with the fandom on here that I learned how some people interpret Bombalurina as being completely sarcastic in this song. Art's always up to interpretation, of course, and that's the fun of it, but I never really got that impression, even with Rosemarie Ford's eye rolls. To me, this moment shows Bombalurina as a character that can show others respect. It also cements her as being at the older end of the "not-old" adults.

This is YET ANOTHER song that is PERFECT for examining whatever Pouncival is getting up to at a given moment. I am once again saying that the Pouncival cut in this show is the most fun

Subsequently, this is also the "Skimbleshanks is three wrong moves away from a panic attack" song, which to me means that he respects Bustopher just as much as Jenny does. I like to think that they grew up together.

(For an incredibly anxious Skimble, here's Boston 2007; skip to 28:30):

(While I'm at it, there's this part in Moscow 2005 when the boys are all lined up like they're going to take a family photo, and I think it's very silly and cute; skip to 27:45)

Have you ever watched Cats (1998) and wondered who that cat that's really excited to see Bustopher is? That's George. The George Cut (TM) is probably my second favorite version of '98, after The Pouncival Cut (TM).

No doubt, you'll notice the number of Mistoffelees & Bustopher moments in this number. This is probably where the most popular headcanon about Bustopher originates: lots of us like to think he's an uncle, usually in conjunction with monochromatic siblings (Misto & Victoria & sometimes Alonzo)(Alonzo is like. Y as a vowel). I've also seen some folks frame him as Misto's dad, and in those cases, Misto is usually an only child.

Slightly off-topic, but my friend @thepineconelord likes to think of Mistoffelees as butler-core, and I think they're especially correct in this number.

(Yet another side note: the monochromatic siblings staging is a bit stronger in post-US Revival choreography, especially between Alonzo and Misto. Head to 30:00)(<- pretending to see things that supports the tunnel vision)

(Is it obvious yet that I've watched this number, specifically, many times?)

Okay I only just noticed this one but WHAT is up with Plato in this part. This picture doesn't do nearly enough justice to his posing but. My dude are you okay??? He was built to have an arm slung over the back of a park bench and instead he's here and forced to harmonize

The rare moment when Mistoffelees is peeved by Pouncival (and the altogether common moment where Munkustrap is also peeved by Pouncival)

One incredibly interesting thing about this number is that it's one of the most gendered numbers in the whole show, speaking from a choreography standpoint. When I was younger, I thought it came from a position of "all of the girls have crushes so they're all fangirling together," but that's not true. Only Jenny is shown to have a crush, and Coricopat, George, and Skimbleshanks could all very easily start fanboy-ing with them.

What is it, then? Is it because Bustopher presents as a much more "traditional" character than the rest? Do the things they're describing about him ascribe to him a certain level of masculinity that he can only share with the boys? Are these formations all part of some sort of militaristic protocol? Leading from that, is his appearance at the Ball (and approval) a right of passage thing for the boys? It's not something I've really seen anybody touch on, which is odd to me, because Cats in general tends to have interesting messages re: gender roles, especially with Mistoffelees, who obviously shares some sort of close connection with Bustopher! GILLIAN LYNNE REVEAL YOUR SECRETS

The cats know what golf is. Either that, or Bustopher saw a rich person play it, decided to copy them, and everybody else is amazed for his benefit.

[writtenonreceipts]

We are slowly (oh so slowly) chugging along on this fic!

Find the Masterlist here! // AO3

warnings: none!

.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.

Of Friendships and Families

It was well after midnight when Rhysand returned home that evening.  Between follow-ups with the city sheriff, fending off news reporters, and ensuring shops were boarded up properly—it was nearly two in the morning that Rhys could finally relax.

His apartment was quiet.  Too quiet.

It had never really bothered him that he could remember.  But for a few months now he’d realized just how off putting it could be.  The space was big, too big for just one person, and despite being in the center of the city it was damn near isolating.  Everything was modern, updated with the newest styles and appliances to fulfill every modem of comfort.  Usually his place was a mess of chaos with his brothers, Mor, and Amren crawling around and he didn’t notice it.

Tonight, had been different.

Because his father had shown up and been Benham about everything.

As soon as he’d seen his father talking to Feyre, a pit formed in his stomach.  Nothing good could come from the two of them interacting.  His father wasn’t cruel, not really.  But he did have an eye single to his own purposes and desires.  So Rhysand didn’t trust the interaction no matter how brief.  And then Feyre disappeared, only for Cassian to tell him she’d left with her sister.

And he knew that Benham had royally screwed things up for him.  Not that Rhys knew what had happened, yet, but it couldn’t be good.

Rhys made his way to his bedroom, passing the too big kitchen and too clean living room. His apartment had a modern feel to it—dark wood, metal fixings, and monochromatic decorations.  Nothing special about it really, even though everything he’d worked towards in his short adult life was supposed to get him here.  Business school, a minor law degree, even a few courses in civics.  

This was everything he’d wanted.

Supposedly.

As he was readying for bed, he found his phone and found the small texting thread he had with Feyre.  Before he thought better of it, he sent out a message.

>>Rhys: Sorry for the late hour, I just wanted to check in and make sure you were alright?

He waited for a minute, two.  The message sent turned to read but no new message came through.  Five more minutes later and he knew that she wasn’t going to respond.  It took all of his self control to not fire off another message, or worse call her.  Instead, Rhys plugged his phone into its charger and walked away.

No good would come from being overbearing or too much into her business.  Maybe he’d have Mor follow up with Feyre.  Though, he had a feeling that with or without him, Mor would be friends with Feyre no matter what.

Still, as Rhys prepared for bed and what little sleep, he was going to get, he couldn’t help but worry that whatever had started with Feyre was not over before anything had really begun.  He should have known his father would have come around as the police commissioner.  Should have tried harder to keep that man from the scene as best he could.

For as long as Rhys could remember, Benham had snaked his way into every aspect of Rhys’ life.   His father was always playing these games of will and competition, often seeing if Rhys could…manipulate his way out of any circumstance.  The subtle control was usually easy to ignore or simply fix on his own.  But Rhys wished he had more memories of throwing a baseball around with his dad instead of collecting ideas to undermine his fellow teammates.

And now Benham was screwing things up all over again.

Rhys couldn’t help one last glance at his phone that told him no missed messages.  He tried not to let it bother him as much as it did. 

…

The only thing that could draw Feyre out of bed at five o’clock the next morning were the sounds of her daughter crying.

She’d gotten back at around midnight and spent a solid hour talking through things with Elain and Lucien.  Mor, wonderful and thoughtful as she was, came by too in case Feyre needed anything else.

In all honesty, Feyre was too overwhelmed to know what she needed.  What she wanted was to remain curled up in bed.  But Seren was not going to self-soothe by the sound of it.

Feyre rolled out of bed and hurried to the spare room.  The apartment was nicer than anything Feyre had thought she could afford as a single income holder with a scant two-year degree.  But Vassa and Jurian had pulled a few strings to help her secure a lease.  They were in a good neighborhood with decent sized rooms and heating and cooling that actually functioned.  It was already better than what Feyre had grown up with.

She’d made it her own over the last year since moving in, too.  The walls were painted a soft cream with a seafoam green accent wall in the living room.  She’d put up her own paintings, photos of the family, of Seren.  It was chaotic and messy at times, certainly.  Feyre didn’t have a good place to store her paints so sometimes Seren decided the walls and floors needed a splash of color.  And then there was the fact that even in the mess—it was quiet.  And not the good sort of quiet.

“Oh, little star,” Feyre said as she scooped her daughter from her crib.  Seren immediately nestled into her, her tear-stained face in her neck and body conforming perfectly to Feyre.

Rocking back and forth, Feyre soothed Seren as best she could before setting out for a binky search.  She knew she should start weaning Seren soon from the thing, but she couldn’t bear it yet.  At least she’d stopped breastfeeding within the last few months.  Though, Feyre could honestly say she missed that connection it brought.  

She found a spare binky and Seren’s favorite blanket before sitting in the rocking chair Nesta had bought her to accompany the nursery.  It didn’t take long until Seren had calmed and the only remnants of her tears were the heavy breaths that pressed into Feyre’s chest.

“Good morning,” Feyre murmured as she pressed a kiss to Seren’s forehead. “Are you hungry?”

Seren grunted, her eyes still drooping with sleep and the remnants of her rough wake-up.

“It’s hard to wake up, isn’t it?” Feyre agreed.  She ran a hand over Seren’s back and kept rocking them for several more minutes. 

Finally, Seren perked up and leaned away from Feyre.  Her blue eyes went wide and her chubby fingers dug into Feyre’s shirt.

“Pancake, mama,” Seren said, “pancake.”

Ah yes.  Once all the tears were out the only concern was food.  Feyre shouldn’t have been surprised.

“Let’s get some breakfast,” Feyre agreed.

She stood, shifting Seren to her hip.  They made their way to the kitchen while Seren babbled happily.  Her blonde curls were in absolute chaos as they stuck out in every direction and her round cheeks were still pink from sleep.  It almost hurt how much Feyre loved her daughter.

Feyre set Seren up in her high chair and peeled a banana to occupy her while she got the frozen pancakes from the freezer to warm up.

She tried to ignore the reminders of the previous night as she moved.  The dishes that were carefully washed and dried, the leftovers stacked in the fridge, the extra cookies that Mor and snuck in at some point.  Everything had been so nice and fun and had actually made Feyre feel like she belonged to something.

Only for it all to be ripped away by the vandalism.  And meeting Benham Avitas.

She’d been stupid to think that Rhys would have actually been interested in her.  Because really, Benhams words from last night made sense.  Elections were coming up and Rhys wanted to keep his seat as mayor.  What better publicity than helping the small business of a struggling single mother?  What better campaigning than to be seen helping at a crime scene?  Oh, she was sure there may have been some kindness in his actions, he wasn’t a complete asshole.  But when she’d seen his texts last night all Feyre could feel was blind panic.

She couldn’t do this.

She couldn’t play games.

Not with Seren.  Not with her heart.

And then there was the truth of the matter that she’d been trying to ignore for a few days now: Tamlin knew about Seren and he was in town.

Feyre heated up the pancakes, poured a sippy cup of milk, and settled the meal before Seren.  Happy with her pancakes, Seren continued babbling as she ate.  

The distraction was all Feyre needed to start a pot of coffee and get her own breakfast going.  Well, breakfast was a relative term.  Lately, she hadn’t had an appetite and had been surviving on coffee and coffee alone.  It at least made for cheap groceries when all she needed to buy was milk and frozen pancakes.

You’re better than that.

Feyre flinched at the thought.  It was too reminiscent of what Tamlin would say to her.

She tossed a piece of toast in the toaster and watched as Seren tore up another pancake.  They had chocolate chips in them and the melty bits smeared over Serens mouth and cheeks.  Though, the baby hardly noticed or cared as she carried on eating.

When her toast and coffee were ready, Feyre quickly retrieved her phone from her room before taking a seat at the table next to the high chair.  Seren was finally slowing down in her voracious appetite and was now drowning herself in milk.

Feyre ignored the messages from Rhys, not bothering to pay attention to the little preview either.  Maybe later she’d work up the courage to see what he had to say.  But she did may attention to a new contact that had messaged her.

NEW CONTACT: Hi Feyre!  It’s Morrigan, I know you’re probably not up for it, but is it alright if I swing by this morning?  I just want to drop some things off and see how you’re doing.

It took three more re-reads for Feyre to get a full grasp on the words.  She couldn’t help the small tug of gratitude on her chest either.  Feyre was certain that this message had been sent of Mor’s own volition, not prompted by Rhys or anything of the sort.

She saved the number and texted back.

Feyre: We are a mess of pancakes and milk.  So if you’re alright with that, come on over.

Mor: Girl, we thrive on chaos.

Not even ten minutes later and Mor was knocking on the door as Feyre was trying to wipe Seren down.  It was a losing battle, so Feyre let her child run around still partially smeared in chocolate and just her diaper.  

Feyre answered the door, grateful she’d managed to change into clean leggings and a new t-shirt that had only one stain on it.  Mor was flawless as ever, her blonde hair pulled into a low pony tail and makeup effortlessly neutral.  She wore jeans and a graphic tee of a popular band on the front.  If she’d had the energy, Feyre would have felt self-conscious over her own appearance.

“I brought bagels,” Mor said with a smile.

Seren ran through the background screaming.

“And Xanax, I hope,” Feyre joked.

Mor’s smile broadened. “We’ll save that for later.”

Feyre invited her in, grateful the house was still clean from last night's events.  Seren had nabbed her favorite blanket and was occupying herself by pulling all of the childrens books from the small bookshelf in the corner of the room.  

“How are you doing?” Mor asked as she handed Feyre a bagel.  It had been toasted and was still warm and smothered in cream cheese.  

Feyre sighed and settled into the coach, Mor following suit. “Fine?  Maybe I’m still in shock.  I want to go down there and be at my shop, but the officers said to wait a day and they’d tell me when I can get things back in order.”

She took a bite of the bagel; infinitely better than the poor slice of toast she’d had not ten minutes ago.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever had,” Feyre said. “Thank-you.”

“The deli out on State Street is the best,” Mor affirmed.  She had her own bagel and leaned into the couch, quiet for another moment before finally speaking up. “I hear you met Benham.”

Feyre arched one eyebrow.  While she believed Mor wasn’t spying on her for Rhys, or even if he knew she was here, Mor wouldn’t say anything to her cousin—Feyre didn’t know how she wanted to broach this conversation.

“I did,” she said, taking another bite of bagel.  It was mostly to buy herself time in answering.  

Mor, however, was more than willing to provide her own opinions. “He’s a bastard.  I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

She picked at her own bagel, frown tugging on her lips.

Trying not to choke on her food, Feyre covered her mouth. “What?”

“Benham is the worst,” Mor said.  She shrugged and licked cream cheese off her finger. “He wasn’t as bad as my dad, I’ll give him that, but he was so strict and cruel and just…terrible while growing up.  The only thing that made going over to Rhys’ house as kids bearable was his mother.”

A soft smile stole across Mor’s face as she spoke. “And his sister, really.  Thea’s years younger than him, just starting her junior year in high school, she’s just like him.  Only a little less of an arrogant ass.”

Feyre shifted in her seat. “Why tell me this?”

It was an understandable question.  Maybe a little forceful.  But Feyre didn’t need games.  Not right now.

Seren ran over to Mor, her stuffed kitty-cat in hand and thrust it at the blonde. “Rhys!”

“Is it Rhys?” Mor crooned softly. “He is looking pig-headed today.”

“Yeah!” Seren chirped, oblivious to the jibe at the cat’s namesake.  She toddled away to the pile of building blocks in the middle of the room.

“I’m never going to get over that,” More mused.  She gave another smile before growing serious in her acknowledgement of Feyre’s question. “I know my cousin, Feyre.  He likes you.  I haven’t seen him like this about someone in…a while.  And he’s somehow found a chivalrous bone in his body and won’t say it to you himself.”

Feyre’s traitorous heart skipped a beat at Mor’s words.  She really hadn’t let herself think on the possibility of she and Rhys.  Hadn’t wanted to let herself even consider that possibility despite the fact that she actually liked him.  Which in and of itself was ridiculous.  She had a daughter that wasn’t even two yet and a new business.  What would she even do in the face of a prospective romance?

And still, the memory of his smile, the way he’d stayed by her side after Tamlin’s appearance--all remained far too prominent on her mind.  It had been so long since someone had actually cared for her (outside her sister and Lucien) that she didn’t even know how to recognize it or acknowledge it.

“And how does Benham fit into this?” Feyre asked.  

“He will do whatever it takes to see his family succeed,” Mor said simply. “He probably tried to get under your skin or lie to you about Rhys?  All he’s ever been concerned about it what his kids can accomplish.  Not if they’re happy.”

The words made sense.  It certainly felt like a wedge had been driven in what little relationship had been budding between her and Rhys.  But…Feyre couldn’t help but see the truth in Benhams insinuations.  

Feyre shook her head, dread sludging around in her belling and utterly demolishing her appetite.

“It doesn’t matter,” Feyre said.  She tucked the rest of her bagel away in its wrappings, knowing she wouldn’t be able to finish it.

“It doesn't—Feyre,” Mor said, sitting up a little straighter. “Whatever Benham said—”

Sighing, Feyre waved a dismissive hand. “Mor.  My life is in shambles.  It’s messy and ridiculous.  I just…I can’t do this.  I can’t make Rhys go through this.  I can’t make anyone go through this.”

Even without the baby complication and the abusive ex…Feyre didn’t know what it was like to be in a good relationship.  She didn’t know how to be in a good relationship.  And, truth be told, she was the mess.  She was ridiculous.  Not just her life.  It all came down to her.

That thought was all it took for tears to prick in her eyes and her chest to tighten in pain.

Sympathy fell over Mor’s features and she scooted closer on the couch to Feyre.  She reached out a hand to lay on Feyre’s arm.

“And Tamlin?” Feyre stuttered just a little.  She had no idea why she was spilling so much to Mor, but damn, it had been so long since she’d had a friend to talk to.  Someone she could trust.  And while her sisters were wonderful…their relationship was complicated. “Tamlin wasn’t a good man.”

It was all she could say then but Mor seemed to understand.  She pulled Feyre into a hug and murmured softly in comforting undertones.  Feyre held on to the hug like her life depended on it.  

[acatalystrising]

I, unsurprisingly, am having more Boba thoughts and after pondering his losses and just wanting to SHOWER this traumatized tin can man with love, had to write a new oneshot.

@rexxdjarin and I both agree that Boba deserves love, not simply to give it, but to receive it as well. This was also inspired by the song ‘The Way that You Were’ by Sleep Token. So I hope you enjoy this little drabble and all the feels that come along with it.

This is for mature audiences only! Light NSFW below the cut. Minors DNI, thank you!

Oneshot: Love Like Yours

“Come on, tear off the bandage

The way that you were

With pain as your language

The way that you were

Will you show me the damage?

The way that you were”

The twin suns had long set, fading over the shimmering dunes like dying stars. You peered out of the window into the moonless night, the monochromatic cloud cover blotting out the night sky. For whatever reason, it sent slivers of anxiety twisting like knives in your chest.

It had been three days. Three days since you’d last seen Boba.

You knew you shouldn’t worry. He was a busy man, and despite turning away from the perilous life of bounty hunting, he hadn’t traded it for anything less life threatening as the Daimyo. Logically, you knew Fennec would have commed you if something had gone wrong. Unless something had happened to her, too…

Kriff, you needed to unwind. They both were capable warriors. You weren’t a pushover yourself - there was a reason you’d been left in charge of the palace in their absence. You matched Boba and Fennec’s lethal prowess in your own ways, and it was one of the reasons you and Boba made such a formidable pair. But right now, you didn’t feel confident. You hated that you worried because it wouldn’t do a damn thing.

But you still paced the bedroom you shared with your love, fingernail clenched between your teeth, mind spinning as your footsteps echoed on the lonely walls. You hated it, feeling like a caged nexu, unable to help him. But…

You sighed, running a hand through your hair and crossing the room, eyeing the bottle of wine sitting on the end table near your bed. Perhaps that would help take the edge off.

As your fingertips brushed against the polished glass, heavy footsteps broke the stagnant silence. You turned, careful to stand next to one of your hidden blasters just in case it wasn’t who you were expecting as the door slid open with a soft hiss. Boba walked in - movements more a shuffle than a stride, stern features set like stone. Judging by the limp in his step and the twitching of his brow, the mission hadn’t gone well.

You didn’t move - gauging his body language and knowing he was in pain. Boba Fett had softened in some ways for you, and you alone - but lonely years spent shouldering his own burdens weren’t easily unlearned. You of all people understood that.

He stopped by his armor stand as if frozen, brow tense, eyes dark, lips twisted in a small scowl, gloved hands clenched. It was only then that you noticed the blood staining his side. You nearly missed it, his black robes hid blood so well, but it was matted and darker then usual. He slowly began to remove his armor, an audible groan slipping past his lips, and you finally shifted into action.

“You’ll bleed out that way,” you raised a brow, keeping to the point. You’d learned directness was the best approach in these situations. “Can I help you?”

He huffed a response, shoulders taut, broad frame barely diminished by his pain - but you saw through the armor that wasn’t beskar. The armor that went much deeper then any weapon could reach.

“I’m fine,” he finally spoke, voice a low and rasping as he reached for a pauldron with a wince.

You didn’t move, merely raising your brow, standing your ground against the one man who arguably could best you in combat. Silence fell, and for a moment, you wondered if he’d actually reject your assistance. But the Daimyo simply sighed, shoulders sagging, finally looking at you through that pained mask. His gaze softened ever so slightly, a subtle chip in his walls crumbling, lip twitching in a near smile.

“Stubborn thing,” he finally unclasped the piece of armor with a grumble, that low tone frightening enough to send a lesser soul running. “Won’t take no for an answer.”

“One of my endearing traits,” you dared to take a step further. “I’d rather not have you die in my arms.”

He raised a dark brow at that, his healed scars catching in the dim light. Even now, in the pain he was experiencing, Boba Fett was the most breathtaking man you’d ever seen. And maker above, you wanted to keep him that way if he’d let you.

His head finally bowed, a subtle shift in his rigid posture showing you he was at least open to reason. Pain tended to do that, in your experience.

“Some young hunter thought he could bring me down,” he grimaced, reaching for the second pauldron. “Didn’t realize the Pykes already lost.”

“His funeral.” You took another careful step forward, gaze flicking over his body for further injuries. “I’m assuming he’s dead?”

“Sent his head back to the guild.” Boba grimaced. “Should get the message across.”

You nodded, still waiting, watching him carefully as he stood there, clearly lost in his thoughts.

“All right, mesh’la,” he finally spoke with a heavy sigh, suddenly sounding years older. “You can help if you wish.”

You didn’t smirk or gloat in your victory. You simply gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and helped him remove the armor that had struck fear across the galaxy. The beskar that had saved his life countless times, even from the Great Pit of Carkoon. Once it was all removed and his vest was set aside, you gestured at the wound with a frown. He sighed, brows lowering, lips twisting in pain as he proceeded to slip out of his flight suit, rolling it down to his hips, baring his bronzed skin to you. Gods, you’d never stop melting at the mere reminder of how gorgeous he was…yet another truth he doubted.

The wound was bloody, cutting into his side, clearly a glancing blow from a vibroblade. You glanced at him, and he nodded his consent, slowly moving over to the bed so he could sit down.

“Got between my armor,” he grunted, shifting so you could get a better look at the injury. “Not as…young as I used to be.”

“Oh Boba, you’re not old,” you walked over to the medical kit and grabbed a bacta patch and supplies. “This kind of life…wears on a person.”

“Didn’t affect you,” he finally managed a small smile despite his furrowed brow, the first sign that he was emerging from the dark corners of his mind.

“Hey, you know that’s not true,” you couldn’t help but shoot him a smirk as you cleaned his wound, placing the bacta patch on last, trying your best to be gentle. “We’ve both done things we regret.”

He simply nodded, a comfortable silence falling between you both. Once the patch was secure you sat on the bed beside him, keeping a respectful distance until you knew he was comfortable with physical contact.

Few people knew how damaged and isolated the best bounty hunter in the galaxy was. Even fewer would care. Boba’s story was not a kind one - and he’d spent more years alone then the few healing ones that were most recent. It took time to heal old wounds - wounds a bacta tank couldn’t mend. But you knew he was deserving of love - because if he was able to look at you in all your flaws and see someone worth investing in, you knew without a doubt there was a good heart buried under all that beskar and muscle. And you were determined to nurture it and coax it into the light.

“We have.” He shifted until he was facing you, earnestly meeting your gaze. “But you’re not one of them.”

Heat blossomed in your cheeks, but you didn’t bother trying to hide your blush. You’d been long past pretense with him, and he’d earned your trust just as much as you’d earned his.

“Same for you,” you smiled at him, openly this time. “You’re stuck with me now, Boba Fett. So don’t go dying on me, okay?”

He hummed, reaching out and cupping your chin with his hand, the hard planes of his face melting into a smile so soft, you nearly wanted to weep.

“That’s the plan, princess,” he caressed your cheek, so gentle despite your mind reminding you he was strong.

Strong, in that those hands who’d killed hundreds were soft with you. Strong, that his muscles and barrel chest spoke of a life lived in constant turmoil. Strong, in those dark eyes that had seen unspeakable violence and insurmountable loss.

You leaned into his touch, daring to press a soft kiss to his wrist, letting your lips linger on his skin. He grunted, brows flying up in surprise.

“You’re beautiful,” you met his gaze, voice soft, sincere. “You know that, right?”

“So you say,” he slowly shifted until he was laying on his back on the bed, legs draped over the edge. He sighed, closing his eyes, lips still curved in a slight frown. “Wouldn’t dare disagree with you.”

“Smart.” You lay down beside him, curling in your side so you could face him. “Old dogs can learn new tricks.”

“Easy now,” his tone was low and full of warning, but you saw the sly smirk curving those beautiful lips.

You merely chuckled, shifting to lay on your back beside him. These moments were your favorite, when it was just the two of you - allowed blissful moments of silence. No nagging responsibilities, battles to fight, scores to settle. Just two people enjoying one another’s company.

Boba looked at you with a small smirk, gaze roving over you with an expression of unbridled admiration. “C’mere, little one.”

You snuggled against him, careful to avoid his wound, purposefully pressing your head over his chest to help him feel grounded. He wrapped his arms around you, but before he had the chance to hold you against him, you shifted to his back and held him close - arms comfortably tucked around his waist.

“Scheming minx,” his tone was gruff, and though you couldn’t fully see his face, you heard the smile in his voice even as he pressed his hands over yours.

Oh, he could be grumpy. But he hadn’t pushed you away, either.

“Bounty hunters need love, too,” you pressed a kiss to the shell of his ear, relishing when he shivered under your touch. “And you don’t have to be alone, anymore.”

He fell silent, mulling over your words, and you kissed his neck, then his back, tracing his many scars with your lips. You treated him like something to be worshipped, someone worthy of all the adoration the world could offer. And damn it all, you believed he did.

“Keep kissing like that and I’m not gonna be able to keep my hands off you,” he spoke again, voice impossibly rough.

You laughed, nibbling his earlobe with your teeth, dropping your hands ever so slightly lower until they were settled comfortably on his abdomen.

“That’s the idea, my love,” you smirked against him, smile widening when he let out a huffed groan that rumbled through his chest, into yours. “Let me care for you for once, okay?”

“Hmm…” he seemed to ponder, though you already knew he’d made his decision. “On one condition.”

You waited, hands hovering, touch centimeters away from where you wanted to be. Where you wanted to bring pleasure to someone who’d endured so much pain.

“I take you next.” He shifted just enough so he could meet your gaze, his eyes burning with passion, searing you to your core.

“What a request,” you grinned, leaning in and kissing him, twining your legs with his as your fingers crept dangerously lower. “That’s an offer I can’t refuse, my Daimyo.”

Boba rolled his eyes as if in dismissal, but you merely smirked, dropping your hand to his crotch and stroking his rock hard length through his flight suit, before slipping your fingers beneath the hem of his pants. He was already hot, heavy, and ready for you, and your grin widened. He groaned - a nearly desperate sound no one else would ever hear - and you kissed him harder, hoping that if he didn’t believe you, you could show him. Show him that he was worth loving. That he wasn’t too broken.

That he would never, ever, have to be alone again.

[arcplaysgames]

OKAY I WENT BACK AND FIXED THE FLAG, lets roll

i'm gonna say it: futaba is the character that can go toe-to-toe with the casts of P3 and P4. she is so well written, so expansive, just the way she talks feels more alive, like allusions to her broader self. she's the one character who feels like she exists when she's not being observed on the screen.

she is Reverie's little sister and I love her to death.

Also when Reverie gives her a head pat (which is a thing I do to my mother to say hello) it's adorable, and it's clearly been so long since it's happened that it takes her off guard and she leaps away.

Baby steps, Futaba, you're getting there and I'm proud of you.

oh man i love how this game keeps making it agonizing as i turn people down!!!!

tho tbh none was worse than Ann, my god the Ann scene was so good I almost dated her just because the set-up.

but no, Futaba, i really thought about it, and you are a little sister.

(also, I am morbidly curious how the obligatory Christmas date goes without a romance. in P4G it was fucking delightful, but P5R has proven to be a fucking bastard if you don't romance someone. I wanna see if it can be worse than the Hawaii trip somehow.)

but jfc PERSONA! STOP THIS! LEMME SAY SOMETHING MORE PROFOUND! Lemme say "You're like a sibling to me" or "You're the best friend I could have hoped for," SOMETHING not just "Because we are teammates," it's so fucking cold!!!!!

yells

SEE

THAT'S MORE LIKE IT

I love that they have an in-joke. Futaba is absolutely Reverie's key item too.

okay so that's Hermit nearly a wrap, rank 9.

Time for the latest Beige News.

Akechi wants to go have a private conversation. Super private. No, even more private than that. He wants to have a chat in Mementos.

Morgana, I cannot BELIEVE you just let Reverie GO OFF TO MEMENTOS WITH AKECHI, who the fuck is gonna be around to drag Reverie's body back to the real world after? Someone needs to run up to Sojiro and meow like Lassie, okay.

But no, Morgana presumably is nervous about being an unwilling spectator to some hot makeouts so he's outie.

Points to Akechi's VA because my god it sounds like Akechi is actually having an emotion for the first time in the game.

For the curious, his emotion is Barely Restrained Murder Boner.

Unfortunately for you, bro, I just bribed Notigor with 60k yen to give me King Frost with Null Bless, so you are royally fucked. (Ba dum tish.)

This is so fucking horny I just stopped and laughed to myself for a while.

i'm fukcing cackling at this shit

Akechi would be like 50% more stable as a person if he just read Homestuck, honestly. The feeling that is burning in your chest/pants right now is called kismesissitude and it's totally fine, man. You are be max dramatic about your blackrom feels when you and Reverie could just be making out and leaving bruises on each other for fun.

But lets be real, if Akechi read Homestuck he'd unironically think Vriska did nothing wrong and then we'd have to kill him.

HE FUCKING THROWS HIS GLOVE AT REVERIE

He could be taking off a lot more than that if he stopped being weird about this blackrom thing but WHATEVER MAN, Y'ALL CAN HAVE HATE MAKEOUTS LATER I GUESS.

Pompous little windbag. I want to beat you up and make you wear something that isn't monochromatic to a hospital wall.

[dogtoling]

How will blindness/colorblindness affect the inkfish?? Like, can they still play Turf? Can they still blend in with the surrounding? Can they even change their ink color???

I don't know how colorblindness would work in cephalopods... and as a matter of fact cephalopods SHOULD be colorblind (as in just seeing in black and white) as far as we can tell and we're not sure how they're able to see color. I think the latest consensus is that the shape of their pupils lets them distinguish color, but this is not really helping our thing here, so let's go. (Here's an interesting article on this... I got sidetracked)

When it comes to full blindness, I don't think you could play turf war because it's a sport that very much needs you to see - normal turf war alongside players that DO see, that is. Unless inkfish had some sixth sense to echolocate their surroundings (which... they have a magnetic sense and Echolocator is a special, but that doesnt say much), a sport where you need as much awareness of your enemies and surrounding structures and ink would be really difficult to navigate and put you at a real disadvantage. However an arrangement of Turf Wars specifically for blind inkfish WOULD probably be possible, since everyone would be on a pretty even playing field, and experienced players would learn to navigate the stages and locate enemies without having to see at all. The biggest problem there is that the outcome of the match would be totally random because nobody is seeing how much ink is around and what color it is, but that's not really a problem when it's just the way it is for everybody.

When it comes to colorblindness, again as with the beginning of the post, I have no idea how colorblindness would WORK with cephalopods because unlike with humans, it wouldn't be linked to color deciphering rods missing or not working, but would rather have to do with the overall structure of the eye? Unless color vision is modified in modern inkfish to have more light-sensitive proteins in the eye, so their color vision worked similarly to vertebrates. Either way, colorblindness typically removes some tones, so that several distinct colors in the same general part of the spectrum look identical, or two parts of the spectrum that are typically different look the same. Obviously something like the equivalent of red-green colorblindness would be difficult in turf war because you could be in a situation where both teams' ink looks THE SAME or nearly identical.... but the obvious solution is, just don't use those colors.

Color Lock is even an accommodation in the game itself, locking the colors to set ones that colorblindness won't get in the way of. In-universe, I doubt colorblindness would be much of an issue when it comes to turf war, assuming the colors picked would still take into account if someone in the match needed color lock. Even monochromatic vision would let you do turf wars assuming the colors picked were one bright color and one dark color, it could definitely be done. The only obvious problem I see with turf wars and colorblindness is ending up in the situation where it's difficult to tell the ink colors apart, but again, that's adjustable.

When it comes to changing ink color and blending in, colorblind inkfish could still do that, but with some types of colorblindness you might end up in the situation where the color you're displaying is actually NOT the color of the ink. If it's your own ink, though, I think the body has a way of regulating that whatever color the ink is easily translates over to the chromatophores, subconsciously, zero looking needed. When it comes to complete blindness, the same thing applies, you could still totally change color and change ink color. You just wouldn't know what color it was, visually.

[minato-division03]

Miku’s Thoughts on Otaku Corps

Keiko Yumi

“Oh, she’s the manga artist, right? I’ve been in and out of Akihabara a lot when I was active and I’ve seen her at my fanmeets a number of times. You see someone enough times, you’re bound to remember their face. She’s a sweet one, really. She never really talked about herself at my fanmeets, so I can’t say I know too much about her.”

Miku focused on Keiko’s figure. Slowly, colors began to materialize around her. Several faint taffy-pink and lavender ink lines loosely circled around Keiko.

Miku’s eyes widened.

Wrapping closely to where Keiko’s heart rested was a thick pen stroke that glowed much brighter than the others. The ink was… pink? Though incredibly muddy in color that it nearly passed as grey.

Queen Card told me that you had some crazy amount of resentment towards your mom, but to think it’d be to this extent… Holy crap…

Criss Hiromi

“Oh… that one ghost hunter or whatever they’re called. I’ve seen one or two of her videos, but never really made a stop to her channel. I kinda want to check her out now. It’s not hard to see that she’s a paranormal enthusiast. If we do end up against each other in the DRB, I’ll be more than glad teach her how to see what the normal eye won’t normally pick up. The proper way to do it…”

Gathered around Criss’s body were clusters of vibrant, neon smoke in bright fuschia, tangerine, and mint green colors.

Huh… Miku thought, there’s really not that much to see from her… she’s more or less consistent. Weird, but not out of the ordinary.

Nikki Yoshie

“A streamer? Huh… I’m not too big on video games and streamers, so I don’t really know what happens on that side of the internet. I can’t really say much about her, sorry…”

Constantly rearranging themselves around Nikki’s body were clusters of cyber vector graphics. Although faint, she caught the dark blueberry and dark amethyst colors that outlined the vectors.

Huh… just purple and a slightly bluer purple… that’s it? What’s with this team?

Otaku Corps

“Queen Card hasn’t told me too much about this team, save for maybe a brief summary… and that she doesn’t give a shit about this team. I mean… is it cuz these girls are on the younger side? I mean, I don’t wanna say… ‘younger,’ they’re my age, but you get what I mean…” She sighed.

Miku’s icy blue eyes quickly moved from one photograph to the other. She bit her lip. This team’s so… monochromatic… is there really nothing more to them…? That can’t be right…

She shook her head. Just what are you thinking…? There’s someone in this team who ally themself with Chuhoku… that’s the perfect person for you, so why…?

I just don’t get you, sometimes…

[suzuki-sibs-bar-and-grill]

(The girl nods, seeming to take the brief moment mistaken identity well. Being mistaken for another person is common when you look like a monochromatic version of them.)

"Oh, no, it's alright. Thank you! Wait, I need to pay for this.."

(The girl shuffles through her pocket.)

"...ah."

(She's clearly nervous, and perhaps even a bit embarrassed, although she's still smiling despite of it all. Is that the only face she can make?)

"I only brought the currency of my... home. Mister... Suzuki, was it, do you take... penlights?"

(She plops about a two hundred and twenty different glowsticks, the electronic kind you can switch on-and-off as opposed to the disposable snap-and-shake ones, on the bar table (or whatever the equivalent is.) Frankly, she shouldn't even be able to fit nearly that many in there, but much weirder things have happened before.)

Please, call me Sunny.

And uh, yeah. Sure, I'll take those.

You, uh... have a good day.

[accidentalfanficwriter]

of water and coal; a finnick odair fanfic

CHAPTER 2

A little info on the timeline of this story: the first chapter takes place 1-2 days after Katniss and Peeta would’ve visited district four for the victory tour. In this story, the quarter quell will be announced three months later, and the games will start three months after that. I haven’t decided at what point the theme of the quarter quell will be announced, but you’ll know. Sorry this isn’t 100% accurate, I’m trying my best I swear!

TW: Mentions of violence

I stay in the room with no windows for a few more days. I’ve hardly seen anyone let alone Finnick since we last talked. No matter how hard I try to forget it, Finnick’s words have a way of getting to me. It’s hard not to feel offended at the way he seemed to view me. The doctor at wherever we are gives me something for my nerves, she’s nice enough and assures me I’ll be released in a matter of time. My bullet wound heals surprisingly fast and by the fourth day, I can no longer feel it. The doctor, who I’ve learned is named Leonna Walker, finally removes my bandage and clears me. I’m led to a bathroom down the hall, handed a pile of monochromatic clothing and boots, and left alone to change. As I look at myself in the mirror, I hardly recognize myself. Whatever they were feeding me through all those tubes and wires seemed to have remedied any starvation my body had gone through in District Twelve. Even with a victor for a godfather, I was still starving. I hadn’t had it nearly as bad as some of the other people in the seam, but no one in District Twelve was well fed. My cheeks were no longer hollow and I looked reasonably healthy. When I dressed in the clothes I was given, I felt out of place. No one in my district dressed like this, everyone wore hand-me-downs. I admired myself in the mirror for a moment before exiting the bathroom. A woman was waiting for me in the hallway, she seemed to be in her early thirties. She was taller than me, and despite being free of any visible weapons, she carried herself with great confidence. When she noticed me, a soft smile crossed her lips and she held out her hand to me.

“You must be Lyra Torres,” her voice is soft and full of warmth, “I’m Rose, welcome to District Four.”

I shake her hand politely and thank her.

“Finnick tells me you want to join the revolution?” She smiles widely, “We don’t get a lot of volunteers these days, I must admit.”

I hold back a laugh, I wouldn’t exactly say I volunteered. It felt more like Finnick bullied me into joining, but I hold my tongue, “Well, it’s for a good cause.”

Rose seems pleased by my words and gently slaps a hand down on my shoulder, “Well, Lyra, we’re happy to have you.”

“Where exactly are we?” I ask, hoping to finally learn where I’d be held these past few days.

“District Four’s rebel base,” she answers casually, she certainly put up less of a fight than Finnick, “Walk with me.”

I follow her down the long hallway, “I didn’t realize the district had its own rebel base.”

“If there’s one thing you need to know about District Four, it’s that we’re heavily armed. The Peacekeepers armory was raided a long time ago and we won't be running out of resources any time soon,” Rose tells me.

We find ourselves in a larger, busier hallway. There are a few benches against the walls and it’s certainly not scarce when it comes to people. Some people are wearing bandages, some armed, some not, but they all have one thing in common. They’re all in good spirits. I hear a few people laughing amongst themselves as if they don’t have a care in the world. I’ve never seen people act like this outside of the Capital. Rose stops to let me take in the energy for a moment, and before I can say anything, a boy no older than 19 comes up to us. He flashes a toothy grin and waves at Rose.

“Well well well, you must be the new recruit everyone’s been talking about?” He says in a cheery voice.

The atmosphere of the room is contagious, and I find myself replying, “I guess so. All good things I hope?”

A laugh escapes the boy’s mouth and he extends his hand out to me, “I’m Fox. I see you’ve already met my mother, Rose.”

I quickly glance from Fox to Rose, seeing the resemblance between the two. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Fox,” I smile, “I’m Lyra.”

“Welcome, Lyra,” Fox grins, “If you’re ready, I can take you upstairs right away to get to training.”

I look to Rose for approval and she nods.

“Lead the way,” I sigh excitedly.

I follow Fox up a flight of stairs and into the training room. It’s a large room with a row of training dummies on one end and a wall of weapons on the other. I’ve never seen so many weapons in my life. The wall is stocked with spears, knives, bows, and much more.

“This is where we train the new recruits,” Fox tells me, and motions to the wall of weapons “Take your pick.”

I carefully walk over to the weapons and my eyes immediately go to the bow and arrows. I think of Katniss as my fingers brush over the cool metal. 

“A bow’s a great weapon,” I hear Fox say.

“Katniss was teaching me how to shoot,” I tell him, eyes fixed on the weapon, “but I think I better try something else.”

“How about a knife?” I hear a cool voice say from the doorway.

I turn to see Finnick leaning up against the doorframe with a smirk on his face. My stomach drops and I glance over at Fox, mentally pleading with him to kick Finnick out of the room. Much to my dismay, Fox happily walks over to the intruder and greets him.

“Finnick, kind of you to stop by,” my discomfort seems to go completely unnoticed as Fox rests a hand on Finnick’s shoulder, “Lyra, you’ve met Finnick, I presume?”

I nod bitterly.

“I actually had the pleasure of saving Lyra from certain death,” Finnick tells Fox, his eyes trained on me.

“That’s lucky,” Fox grins.

“Indeed,” Finnick adds, “Fox, I’d be happy to show Lyra the ropes if you wanna go grab breakfast?”

Before I can protest, Fox is thanking Finnick and hurrying out the door. I stand my ground, now glaring at Finnick.

“Don’t you look happy to see me?” Finnick taunts.

“I thought we agreed to never see each other again,” I remind him, crossing my arms.

“Where’s the fun in that?” He stalks closer to me, “Besides, I’m a very good teacher.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’d rather learn from Fox,” I turn around before muttering to myself, “Or literally anyone else.”

“Don’t act all high and mighty, Lyra,” Finnick stands closely behind me, “At least now you’ll get a chance to fight me, and maybe if I’m feeling generous, I’ll even let you win.”

I spin around to find Finnick very close to me, I ignore the feeling of his breath on my face and scowl at him, “You are so arrogant, I can’t stand it.”

“Some women find my arrogance irresistible,” Finnick chirps and takes a few steps back, “Apparently not everyone has taste.”

I scoff, “I guess not.”

Finnick is still staring at me with an expression that makes me want to punch him, “What do you say, darling? Are you up for the challenge?”

Finnick pulls two sharp daggers out of his waistband. I contemplate for a moment before my competitiveness gets the best of me. I reach out and snatch one of the knives from Finnicks grasp and step back. Finnick grins and repositions the knife in his hand.

“Now, I’m going to come at you,” Finnick assumes an aggressive pose, his dagger pointing right at me, “I want you to block the attack, okay?”

I nod and take a defensive position. I watch as Finnick lunges forward, swiping his blade toward my throat in an aggressive move so fast I only just manage to duck beneath him and move out of the way. A smile spreads across Finnicks face at my action.

“Good,” he straightens up, “See? It’s not that hard. Now it's your turn.”

Finnick resumes the attack position and once again points his dagger at my throat, “Go on, do to me what I just did to you.”

My eyes flit to his throat, gauging how I should go about this. As expected, Finnick runs at me and I let him come to me. I dodge at the last second and move out of the way. While he tries to spin around to face me, I use my leg to trip him. I tackle him as he goes down and the knife falls from his hand as he tries to catch himself. It’s too late of course, I put all of my body weight on him and pin him to the ground. I throw his knife to the far end of the room and hold the sharp edge of my blade to his throat.

“You’re dead,” I breathe out triumphantly.

“Well, well. Look at that. You got me,” Finnick puts his hands up in defeat, “I have to say, that was a smart move. I’m actually impressed.”

I reluctantly release my grip on him and stand up, feeling a wave of pride wash over me.

“Very good, Lyra,” I turn to see Rose standing in the doorway watching us, “Finnick, show her a few moves she can use against an opponent when she’s unarmed.”

“Are you sure you can handle it?” Finnick challenges, a glint in his eyes.

“Bring it on.”

Finnick teaches me self-defense and how to defend against attacks involving unarmed attackers. I can tell he’s trained in this before, and despite my anger toward him, his instructions are clear and concise. After an hour or so of training, Finnick stops and asks me if I want to continue. I nod eagerly, feeling more and more confident as we continue to train. As I finally get the hang of self-defense, we move on to something else. Finnick hands me a bow and a quiver full of arrows. 

“Have you ever used a bow before?” He asks as he helps me sling the quiver over my back.

“Katniss taught me,” I tell him, practicing aiming for the target.

“Well, you must be decent then, Katniss seems to be pretty skilled with a bow,” Finnick mutters.

I eye him and load an arrow.

“Go on then,” he says, “hit the target.”

I confidently take my stance, I don’t even bother to take a deep breath before I let the arrow fly. I watch with anticipation as the arrow flies right to the bullseye. My eyes go wide with excitement as I turn to face Finnick. I’m surprised to find him looking quite impressed.

Finnick clears his throat, “Beginners luck.”

I roll my eyes at him and load another arrow. Unfortunately for Finnick, I seem to have a knack for this. I hit target after target and before I know it, I’ve been practicing for an hour. 

“You’re a natural,” Finnick admits, “Maybe I’ll ask Katniss to teach me if I ever meet her.”

I grin at Finnick, momentarily forgetting how angry I was at him. For a moment he just stares at me with a look on his face I can’t quite explain. I clear my throat and remove the quiver to return to the arsenal.

“Are we done for the day?” I ask, avoiding his gaze.

“I guess so,” he puts his hands on his waist, “I guess I’ll let you off easy for recovering from a bullet wound.”

And just like that Finnick has ruined the mood once again. 

I turn and glare at him, “Is there somewhere I can wash up? I’m pretty sweaty.”

Finnick shows me to one of the base’s restrooms and leaves me be. It feels so nice to finally shower after sitting in that hospital bed for days. The showers here aren't as nice as the ones aboard the Victor’s train, but they're certainly better than the showers back home. I get out of the shower and find a pile of clean clothes stacked neatly by the door. I hope it’s Rose who snuck in to leave me them and not Finnick. I quickly change into fresh clothes and exit to the bathroom. I find Finnick standing outside the bathroom door leaning leisurely against the wall and fiddling with a throwing knife.

“Are you stalking me?” I wrinkle my nose in disgust.

Finnick turns towards me and visibly looks me up and down, “Look at you, you clean up nice.”

I roll my eyes at Finnick, “What do you want?”

Finnick holds out the throwing knife, “For you.”

I take the knife from him and turn it over in my hands, admiring the beauty of it, “What for?”

Finnick shrugs, “Let’s call it a welcome gift.’

I eye him suspiciously but when he doesn’t explain further I tuck the knife into my waistband.

“Thanks,” I mumble.

Finnick nods and moves to walk away but I stop him in his tracks.

“Wait,” I call after him.

He turns around to face me, “Yeah?”

“Can you show me where the mess hall is? I’m dying for some solid food,” I force myself to smile at Finnick.

The gesture doesn’t seem to go unnoticed as he smiles back at me and motions for me to follow him. 

[inun4ki]

discomfiture breathed down Yami's neck, before the man folded his arms across the chest. what an ill jester life was. "I am not asking for much, chibi. It's either this shirt or the other ;; black one." it was so long since he was out, since he tasted warmth of other person and now, when the possibility arose, Yami decided to grab it firmly. " I want to look decent when I meet them, so -- help me." Shameless. What a cataclysm. Mind wanted to run away and forget, yet, body, stood firmly in front of the other. "- should I wear a tie? Do people these days still wear it?"

"And you think this shirt with those shoes are gonna cut it?" Kaede exclaimed, nearly falling right out of his chair. Genuinely, he had no idea how Yami could think that outfit would pass - it was incomplete! The colors, though monochromatic, were simply too different to match - both shirts presented. Abhorrent! He couldn't allow Yami to wear either, not in good conscience. If he was going to get back out there and find the sort of companionship he wanted, then he needed to dress to impress and not be taken for a fool! Kaede simply wouldn't stand for it.

After all, in his mind, Yami deserved only the best - everyone did, really, whatever best meant to them.

He scrambled to his feet and snatched both shirts from Yami's hands, going so far as to hook his free one into the shirt he was wearing to drag him back to his bedroom to stand in front of the mirror so he could see for himself. He pushed and pulled, held up one shirt after another, all but glaring holes into the side of Yami's head. First brown, then plain black, then the shirt he was wearing, and all over again--

"You don't even have a tie to match these! I can't believe you're allowed to dress yourself," he fretted, once again pushing Yami aside to rifle through his closet. All the while, he grumbled and complained, his gaze lingering a touch too long on a red button-down, an idea forming at the back of his mind.

He looked back at Yami, then to the shirt, and back again, then narrowed his eyes.

"Take that awful thing off and put this one on," he demanded in earnest, carefully retrieving the red button-down and tossing it over to Yami, barely managing to stifle a laugh when it landed directly over his head. "Hee-- You'll need to take your pants off too. Do you have any black slacks?"

[leadingmarblecompanyinindia]

Neolith And Its Applications

Neolith a revolutionary stoneware of the modern day and age marks the era of Neolithic architecture using large stones for building without mortar or concrete. It has become the latest choice of architectural surfaces, surpassing classic marble tiles, owing to its sustainability and state-of-the-art technology. Neolith is a sintered surface that is growing in popularity as designers and architects have become more familiar with the advantages of the material. Made from entirely natural, recyclable products, such as crushed stone, Neolith is strong and sturdy stoneware that is versatile, lightweight, and durable. Neolith is suitable for both residential and commercial applications. Its versatility allows for regular home remodellings such as kitchen countertops or backsplashes, but it is also suitable for commercial projects in exterior building cladding or large format flooring. In this article, Marble city, the best marble company in India, shares the various applications of the revolutionary material along. with its benefits.

KITCHENS

Neolith countertops are one of the most demanded products in today’s market. Neolith is scratch-resistant; even a wayward knife can not leave a gash on the clean countertop. The heat-resistant quality of this material makes it best suitable for kitchen surfaces. Outdoor kitchens are also a perfect option with Neolith because of their durability and UV resistance. From solid colours and patterns that emulate natural stone (such as a marble) to industrial-chic textures that look like rusted metal, any kitchen ambience can be created using a Neolith design.

BATHROOMS

Today’s luxury baths feature large walk-in shower stalls, waterfall fixtures, and showerheads, allowing homeowners to create a sense of comfort in their homes. Many bathrooms are embracing a monochromatic palette, using consistent material like pure white marble across the bath space. Since Neolith can be used in nearly any household application, you can choose a matching monochrome style for both your floor and shower so that the materials are consistent throughout the space. These surfaces will be waterproof, providing a necessary barrier from the stream of water from the shower. Neolith’s versatility means that even a bench can be created using the same design as your flooring and shower for a seamless blend that appeals as though your entire bathroom is carved from one block of stone!

FLOORING

The extended size is ideal for large applications, such as flooring and cladding, as it holds fewer joints and seams, offering uniformity across the design. Especially in flooring, reduced seams hardly provide opportunities for dirt and debris, making it easier to maintain sparkling floors. An added benefit of these large format tiles is that they are perfect for odd spaces, as they can be cut to a precise shape rather than having to work with several pieces together to solve a puzzle. The slabs can fit perfectly into nooks, closets, and stairwells, giving a flawless final design.

FACADES

Neolith holds excellent physical properties that make it work like an architectural skin capable of dressing up a facade. The thin, lightweight nature of Neolith slabs is also beneficial for renovation projects. These slabs can be installed over existing cladding without the hassle of having to tear up and haul away the old surface. Neolith offers different finishes, from matte Satin to high-gloss polished, along with a spectrum of designs. The choices allow for any specific vision, whether in a luxury hotel encased in gleaming marble-like surfaces or a matte monochrome of a corporate building. With exclusive characteristics, Neolith has become an excellent choice for interiors and exteriors. The wide variety of colours and finishes also attracts architects and designers, embracing their aesthetic freedom. Whatever the architectural project in hand, there is a Neolith to complete the vision.

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