#I think I entered a flow state for the first time in years working on this...

[knightowl-studios]

Tribute to the long-furred dog. (Nov. 16, 2023)

[darknight3904]

buy me presents, baby!

Joel Miller x Fem!Reader

Summary: The holiday season is packed enough as it is. On top of it all, Joel has a cute little girlfriend he just can't seem to resist spoiling...

Warnings: 18+ Explicit Smut Unprotected p in v, literally one spank, riding, missionary, Joel's a bit of a tease, pregnancy mention (no ones actually pregnant, don't worry) No outbreak au, modern au, viagra mention, unspecified age gap (mid/early-20s reader in mind), Rich older bf Joel!! I don't know how Hinge works sorry.

Word Count: 2.7k

Based on the song buy me presents by Sabrina Carpenter

Masterlist

The local mall was a buzz with what you swore was the entire state of Texas. Everywhere you turned, someone was brushing by you, mumbling an excuse me or just grunting an apology.

"Maybe we should just go home...There's so many people here." You say as you stand off to the side.

"Oh c'mon we drove all the way here, don't you wanna take a peek at some things, darlin'?"

Joel's warm southern tone sent a tingle of warmth down your spine. He was always so charming, that's how he won you over in the first place, his charm.

You'd stumbled across his Hinge profile six months ago. Your friend, Jess had jokingly set your profile to look for men over ten years older than you.

"Trust me, Dilfs are a whole different ballpark, girl!"

You hadn't believed her, after all, who would want some old half-bald, blue pill-taking man sitting across from them at dinner?

Things of course changed late one Wednesday night when Joel, 40 popped up on your screen. Not only did he have all his hair (and teeth!) but damn it he was so hot.

For lack of a better word, Joel was the perfect gentleman. He'd picked you up for your first date right at 7, opened all the doors for you, and even pulled your chair out for you to sit at the restaurant. Conversation had flowed so easily with him, that you'd almost forgotten you had just met the man across from you.

Fast forward a few months and here you were walking the mall with the head and Co-owner of Miller Construction Co. Joel's big hand cradled yours as he opened the door to Sephora.

"Said you needed some more of that lip balm you like right? Let's get it now."

You nodded and let him pull you into the store. He always did this, pulled you into stores so you could look at things. Of course, that wouldn't be a problem if he wasn't always buying half the things you picked up to admire. Hell, one time you were at Macy's with him and made a joke about the adult Spiderman onesie that was being sold, two days later it was sitting in your lap in just your size.

Jess had told you to enjoy it, to let him buy you everything your little heart desired but you couldn't help but feel guilty. You already spent most of your time sleeping at Joel's place, showering there, and eating his food. What were you even working for if you couldn't buy a measly lip balm for yourself?!

You pulled the one you wanted from the shelf. You'd run out a few days ago and your lips had begun to crack without it. Your eyes fell down to look at the price that was beside the scent

Twenty-four bucks?! That was nearly two hours of working at the shitty secretary job you had down at the local library! Whoever was setting prices at this company needed a serious reality check.

Joel's back was turned as he was staring at an array of brushes, mumbling that no one needed that many things for their face. Perfect! You could sneakily set this back on the display and-

"What're you doin'? Isn't that the one?"

Shit.

"Well yeah, but..."

"Then put it in the basket."

Joel's outstretched arm came up to present the little black and white basket he'd taken from a worker when the two of you entered.

"I just think that twenty-four bucks is too much for a little tube of lip balm. I think I'll just switch back to Carmex or Burts Bee's."

"Darlin' I'll buy it." Joel gave you a warm smile, "Let me spoil you."

"No way! You just bought me dinner!" You shake your head, thinking of your leftovers that sat in the backseat of his car.

"And now I wanna buy you a lip balm," Joel says taking it from your hands to put in the basket.

"Nope. We're not getting it." You say, pulling it from his hands and tossing it back on the shelf, "Let's leave."

Joel protests but lets you pull him from the store and back to the car.

Three days later...

Joel never liked shopping. He'd always been the kind of guy who bought the same shirt in multiple colors just because it made sense in his mind. Even when the company had taken off and he and Tommy were living comfortably instead of paycheck to paycheck, he hadn't really found an excuse to indulge and spend a lot of his hard-earned cash. Sure, he'd dropped a lot on a new car after his poor pickup truck had gotten rear-ended two years ago, damn teen drivers. Then, there was the new roof that his house needed last summer. But, both of those were easily paid off and Joel often found himself with a bank account higher than necessary.

It never bothered him, after all, it just meant retirement would come quicker, and if he ever had kids they'd have a lot of inheritance. Yes, Joel was happy living his simple lifestyle. Of course, that was until he met you...

You were just perfect in Joel's eyes. From the moment he saw you on that dating app Tommy had stuck on his phone, he'd known you were the one for him. Initially, he'd felt weird when he'd swiped on you, after all, you were so young compared to him. His fears though, they'd vanished the moment you started laughing at his lame jokes, adding your own even worse ones to the conversation. Yes, you were just perfect for him.

Now, it was December, the holiday season was in full swing and Joel found himself itching to spend some of that cash that'd been sitting in the bank for ages. He'd spent the last six months trying to keep the spending to a minimum, you always scolded him despite enjoying all of his gifts and he'd hate to make you feel uncomfortable. But after today when you'd put that little lip balm back on the shelf, he'd felt sad for you. Joel hadn't missed your small frown when it clattered back onto the display next to the others. You wanted that lip balm and, you were going to get that lip balm.

It was as if he was a man possessed. Three hours had passed since he'd walked into this mall and his arms were begging to feel a bit sore. Sure, he'd bought you the lip balm but before he knew it, he was wandering into all the other stores, looking for things that'd make you smile and cover his face in kisses. As he loaded the bags into the trunk a bit of worry crossed his mind. Had he gone overboard?

No, there definitely could be more...

December 25th, Christmas Morning at Joel Miller's

The warm scent of coffee had your eyes slowly pulling open. You groaned and pulled yourself out of bed, fumbling to pull Joel's shirt on before finding your discarded panties from last night. Whoever told you that older men needed Viagra to get it up clearly hadn't met Joel.

You padded down the steps to see Joel hunched over the stove, flipping pancakes while his beloved coffee maker brewed.

"Morning." You chirp, wrapping your arms around him, and resting your hands on his soft belly.

"Good morning." Joel's deep voice filled your ears

You greedily let your hands slip under the waistband of his plaid pajama pants. Joel lets out a hum and scoots away from you.

"Keep that up and we won't be eating or opening gifts til noon."

You roll your eyes and go to pour him his coffee.

After a delicious breakfast, Joel pulled you into the living room where your jaw nearly met the floor. Last night when you'd passed out in bed after the third round, there had been six presents under the tree, three from him and three from you. Now there had to be over triple that.

"What did you do?" You ask, spinning around to face Joel.

"What? I'm not allowed to spoil you?" Joel asks, a boyish grin on his face.

"It's like you bought the whole damn store and put it in your living room." You point out

"Not the whole store, just some of it." Joel laughs

Nearly an hour later, you were sitting in a pile of wrapping paper and bows.

"Alright, last one," Joel says, pulling a small gift bag with a snowman on it out.

You sigh in fake exhaustion, "Hand it over, cowboy."

Joel snorts and hands you the bag which a moment later you find has the lip balm you'd put back the other day.

"Went back and bought it for ya. Got a little distracted though..." Joel smiles

"Oh, only a little? Is that why there's lingerie and a new pair of boots sitting in boxes next to me?" You laugh, "Not to mention you even bought me a new frying pan."

"Yeah, just a little sidetracked s' all," Joel says, looking at the many different things he'd found for you.

"Thank you, Joel." You smile earnestly, "It's your turn now."

"Why don't ya model this for me, darlin'?" Joel asks, pushing the red babydoll dress towards you

"But what about your presents?" You pout, "I put a lot of thought into the one with the green paper."

"Give me a fashion show, it can be part of the gift." Joel coerces.

"Ugh, you're lucky you're hot, Joel." You huff, scooping the fabric up and heading off to the bathroom.

Joel lets out a long whistle as you reenter the living room, "Well, would you look at that?"

"Pervert." You scoff as he pulls you into his lap

"Not allowed to appreciate my girl?" He asks, pressing a kiss to your cheek

"You just wanted to see what my boobs looked like in red lace." You point out

Joel gives you a grin, busted.

"Nah, what makes you think that?"

Joel's lips capture yours and his hands secure themselves at your waist. Your resolve loosens as your hands curl against the soft skin of his chest.

"What about your presents?" You ask breathlessly when he pulls back

"Got everything I want right here." He says, "Let's go upstairs, this old man needs a bed if he's gonna fuck you silly."

Joel's hands are back on you the moment he kicks the bedroom door shut. His lips find yours again as his hands begin to pull the straps of your outfit off your shoulders.

Your back hits the mattress and one of Joel's big hands snakes down between your thighs.

"Still wet from last night." Joel laughs into the kiss

"Mmm, I think it was from earlier. Seeing you shirtless, cooking for me was hot." You admit

"Yeah? Y'like me cookin' for ya?" Joel asks

"Course, who wouldn't wanna see a hot old man cooking pancakes for them on Christmas?" You tease

Joel delivers a sharp slap to your inner thigh, "Not that old, darlin'."

"Sure you aren't."

You push at his shoulders and straddle him, loving the way his hands gently rest on your thighs.

You hum in delight as his hips lift and he pulls his pants off, finally exposing the rest of his body to your greedy eyes. Joel's lips ghost over your nipples, teasing them with his tongue as he lifts you up so he's notched at your entrance. Eager, you move to push him in but he stops you.

"What do ya say, baby?" Joel teases

"C'mon Joel..." You groan, "I want it."

"Ask nicely then," he clicks his tongue, "Go on,"

You huff a small breath of frustration and Joel's hands squeeze your hips.

"Please," You mumble

"What was that? This old man needs some help hearin' ya." Joel prods

"Please, fuck me, Joel." You groan, wiggling your hips as the head of his cock teases your hole.

"S' what I wanted to hear," Joel says, pressing a wet kiss to your neck

Joel's loud groan mingles with your girlish one as he lets you go to take him in. Your mind goes blank as your hips begin to rock. Joel's hands roam your body as he pinches and teases the sensitive flesh of your chest.

"C'mon girlie, give it to me." He encourages

"I'm trying." You huff, the feel of your burning thighs was slowing you down

A loud slap rings out followed by a yelp from your mouth. Joel's big hand rubs at the reddened mark on your soft skin.

"Don't worry, I gotcha, sweetheart, let me."

Your world turns as Joel lays you back down on the soft mattress, pushing your knees to your chest you're practically folded in half as he pushes in again.

"Fuck me..." Joel groans in pleasure above you.

"Already am." You laugh breathlessly

Joel shakes his head but you see the smile playing on his lips.

Rough thrusts steal your breath away as Joel begins moving his hips in earnest. The softness of his belly meets yours as he leans over you and presses his lips to yours. A hand pushes into the middle of your shared mess and a finger toys with your clit. A whimper escapes your lips as Joel groans when you tighten around him.

"Gonna let me come inside ya hmm? It'd be the perfect Christmas gift for me darlin'..."

Your brain is mush as Joel's finger plays with you while his cock relentlessly slams into you. Your stomach tightens as he continues.

"I-I'm gonna-"

"C'mon let it out, soak my fucking cock." Joel commands

As if he's magic your body yields to him and you come. A strangled groan leaves Joel's lips while your eyes slam shut.

"Good girl." Joel coos down at you, his hips never slowing.

"Joel!" You gasp, the pain of overstimulation beginning to ebb at your brain.

Joel lets out a soft moan of his own, his brow furred in concentration.

"Where?" He asks

"I-Inside" You gasp

Joel smirks, "Yeah? Gonna take it like a good girl? Let me knock ya up, pop out a brat for me in nine months?"

"Yes!" Your hips arch off the bed when his hand comes down to grind at your clit.

Joel's hips stutter against you and a loud moan escapes him as he fills you. Gentle thrusts follow as he comes down, dropping your legs as he does.

Joel flops down beside you on the bed, his chest heaves a bit as the two of you catch your breath.

"Y'okay?"

"Always." You say looking over at him with a dopey grin on your face

"Wanna go finish those pancakes?" Joel asks

You laugh, Joel was such a typical guy, thinking with his stomach, "You just fucked me and threatened to knock me up but your first thought is pancakes?"

"Well, I was gonna get a washcloth and clean ya up first, if that matters," Joel says

"Wow, what a gentleman." You scoff

"Glad you think so." Joel mumbles

You lay next to him in silence, listening to his breathing and watching his eyes flutter shut in satisfaction.

"What if we did?" You ask

"Did what?" Joel asks looking at you, "If you're talking about round two, I'll need a few more minutes, I'm not twenty anymore."

You slap his shoulder and roll onto your belly, "No, perv. I meant a baby. You were just talking about getting me pregnant."

Joel looks over at you like you've lost your mind, "Are you being serious right now?"

"Totally. You don't want a mini us running around?" You ask hopefully

"Course I do baby, didn't ever think a pretty young thing like you would want that with me though," Joel admits, pulling you towards him so you're resting partially on top of him

"Really Joel?" You scoff, "You're like the hottest guy in the world."

"Now you're just buttering me up." He laughs his head hitting the pillows behind him

"I'm serious!" You smile as he presses a gentle kiss to your lips

Soft silence flutters around you as you watch the gears turn in his mind.

"Gonna have to marry you if you start popping my kids out." Joel grins

"Of course," You laugh, "You think I'm gonna go into labor without a ring on my hand?"

Joel's nose brushes yours as he leans a bit closer to your face, practically breathing in your scent. His hand grasps yours where it rests on his chest.

"Guess I gotta start looking at jewelry then, darlin'. You're gonna have the prettiest ring in all of Texas."

"Ugh, there you go again, plotting to spend way too much money on me again." You groan in embarrassment.

Joel leans in and steals a kiss from you, the taste of pancakes and syrup lingers on his tongue as he does.

"Gotta humor me here," He smiles into the kiss, "Let me buy you presents, baby."

Consider this a mini-rant against the people behind the prices at Sephora. I'm looking at you Summer Fridays...

Want more Joel? Check out my series All Too Well.

[hotchfiles]

smells like roses — aaron hotchner x gn!reader

WHUMPTOBER ENTRY FOR @tobias-hankel; prompts: suicide/attempted suicide, "you can't save everyone"

Aaron thinks you might be mad at him, so he tries to surprise you with flowers and a cozy night in. He finds your dead body instead.

Wordcount: 1,094

Content Headsup: SUICIDE. Main character death (apparently I'm never stopping the always kills the reader allegations). The suicide is not graphically described, reader is found inside a bathtub but I didn't write in the method, the state of the body (aside from dead, heavy and drenched), so it isn't THAT bad. This is pretty much just Aaron's POV to the day he finds you dead, so HEAVY ANGST, but not graphic. It is not implied that Aaron was at fault for it, the reasons behind the suicide are never discussed, reader is just depressed. Also, no dialogue and no use of y/n.

You can’t save everyone.

You can’t save everyone.

You can’t save everyone.

Those are the words flowing around his head. He can’t save everyone and that has always been his biggest fear. His Achilles heel.

He can’t save everyone and worse than that: Aaron couldn’t save you.

It’s his curse, really. Falling for someone only to inevitably lose them. It has happened every single time before: Haley, Kate, Haley again. Beth moves to Hong Kong and he meets you. He should’ve realized sooner that he wasn’t born to love or be loved for long.

Still, when you first smiled at him that one Monday morning back in June two years ago he knew he had to try. He had no choice but to love you.

And he did it so easily, made an effort to show you what he effortlessly felt for you from the beginning, as if he was never hurt before, like a teenage boy with a crush on someone pretty.

First time he saw you taking pills Aaron didn’t question it, thought to himself they were probably vitamins or something unimportant like that. Then he witnessed the panic in your eyes when you thought you had run out of it before your appointment for the prescriptions.

Antidepressants. He felt the guilt of not noticing it wash over him like a tsunami, his chest tight, his heart heavy. A profiler and your boyfriend and he missed all clues hidden under your smiles and your loving touch.

Aaron made sure not to let guilt paralyze him, calming you down, showing you no judgment and helping you find the missing pills you still had.

He acts normal on your good days but doubles the way he cares for you on your bad ones, even when busy on a case he calls, reassures you of his love, sends you food and asks to see you eating it.

He thought that would be enough. You were medicated and seemed effortlessly happy most of the time. Aaron really believed that and being by your side would be enough.

He worried. Worried about your well being. Made sure you wouldn’t starve yourself or forget to care for yourself on bad days. But he never worried about having to try to save you and failing to do so. He never laid awake thinking about finding your lifeless body in your bathtub. He wasn’t prepared for this.

The day started as it always does for Aaron, so early it can’t be considered bright. 5 AM on the dot, fresh coffee being made by the smart coffee maker you got him for Christmas last year the only noise heard as he quietly enters his boy’s bedroom. It’s too early and he feels sorry for Jack, but he has to be taken to his aunt’s before Aaron heads to the BAU.

Jessica’s car is at a mechanic and will only be done after lunch, it will be easier for her to take the metro with Jack this way.

Normal issues of a normal day. The worst he imagined could happen was an impromptu case, a flat tire even. If only he knew how his day would end.

It’s 10 AM and he should’ve paid more attention to the fact you haven’t texted him good morning. No breakfast pictures, no horoscope screenshots. But you’ve been working so hard and have been so obviously tired that he’s glad you’re sleeping in. You might be more of a workaholic than he is and Aaron just wants you to enjoy resting for a bit.

By noon he is swamped, drowning in paperwork and consultations that need his full attention, and Aaron knows he’s not at fault for doing his job but he wishes he did more than just snap a picture of his salad, he wishes he noticed it sooner, how you didn’t react to it, how he still didn’t know what you had for breakfast or what the day held for Scorpios.

8 PM he finishes work and it dawns on him how absent he was and how silent you’ve being. He curses under his breath, silent treatment was never a thing for the both of you so he assumes you must be extremely mad and Aaron learned from past experiences that he’s not the best at noticing subtlety when it comes to his love life. Maybe it was something he did or said, maybe it’s something he forgot.

Since meeting you he has been trying not to associate flowers with apologies, buying you singles or full bouquets almost every week, but still, that’s the first thing he does after leaving work, however mad you are, flowers and a surprise visit should be enough to melt it away.

He’s happy, annoyingly so if he thinks back, he’s not worried, it’s always easy to solve problems with you and he’s excited to see you, it wasn’t on his plans and that makes him extra giddy, a night surrounded by your scent and your voice is all he needs to feel recharged.

Aaron texts Jess to ask her to keep Jack for the night, tells her he can pick him up if she needs to, but he’s lucky she always seems to be prepared when he needs her, which is often, but less now with your help.

Maybe it would be better if he was worried. It would be less painful, less shocking.

Maybe if Aaron didn’t think you were just asleep when he turned the keys you gave him only to find a dark silent living room, the pained shriek that left his throat after following the bathroom light wouldn’t have been so loud.

But he didn’t worry. So when the bathtub overflown water hit his shoes, the flowers hit the floor, desperately let go as he yelled your name, his arms flying quickly to your cold body, trying to get you out as much as hugging you.

There’s something to be said about lifting dead drenched weight, especially over wet tiles. He slips to his knees before being able to, ends up dragging you out with him.

Aaron does CPR, the paramedics called by the neighbors don’t hide the pity in their eyes when they arrive and see him still trying.

Your name a begging sound, hurting more than the sore muscles of his arms from trying to lift and CPR a dead body.

The wet and stepped on roses leave a lingering scent, one he won’t ever forget.

He’s been trying not to associate flowers with apologies, and now they are forever linked, intertwined with death. Yours.

[gezelligs-world]

Found You

(Bada Lee x Fem!Reader)

Summary: Tatter, one of Bebe’s members suffered an injury. During Bada’s visit in the hospital Tatter is staying at, she didn’t expect to see her first love.

Reminder: This work is purely based on the author’s imagination.

"Patient is in Room 76, doctor." The nurse informs Y/n who is writing something on the clipboard.

"Alright, thanks Nurse Choi." Y/n smiled and went to room 72. Her nervousness grew when she saw a familliar face.

"Kim Taeyoung, suffered with an injured left leg, right?" The patient sighed and nodded.

"Please call me Tatter, I don't really like my real name." Y/n smiled and nodded in understanding.

"I understand." Y/n replied and began checking Tatter in order for her to know what kind of treatment is suitable for her.

"Hmm your leg suffered a mild pain. I'm confident to tell you that around 1 week, the injury will heal. If you follow the safety precautions I will tell you, of course." Y/n said jokingly at the last part making Tatter laugh.

"Don't worry doctor, I'm not that stubborn. The leader of my dance crew might scold me for it." Tatter continued.

"Your leader must be responsible." Y/n complimented.

"Yeah, Bada unnie really is responsible. I can't even imagine how much pressure she has on her shoulders." Y/n actions stopped when she heard the name. She looked at Tatter with a mix of shock and confusion.

"Bada, you said?" Y/n asked, continuing what she is doing.

"Yeah, you know her?" Tatter asked, titling her head to get a better view of her doctor's reaction to the question.

"Her name is the same as the one I've known for a long time." Y/n smiled and stood up.

"You are allowed to have visitors here in your room but make sure the maximum number is only 3 persons." Tatter nodded and thanked Doctor Y/n.

"Please don't be it..." Y/n mumbled looking at the screen. She's making sure the person that she has known for years will not come here.

"Your nervousness can be felt at the entrance of the hospital." Y/n looked behind her and saw her fellow doctor, Stacy looking at her with a smile.

"I'm just double checking something." Y/n replied, turning her attention back to the screen.

"I saw at the report that one of your patient's names is similar to the one that is in 'her' dance crew." Stacy said, leaning her lower back at the table.

"That's why I'm checking something." Y/n clicked on a specific website and scrolled down to see if the information she's been looking for is there.

"Oh my..." Y/n said, running her hands through her hair.

"What? Oh..." Stacy said, staring at the screen. Stacy laughed and turned to Y/n.

"Looks like you'll be seeing her after 7 years." Stacy stated, patting Y/n's back.

"Bada unnie, stop worrying about Tatter. Tatter said the one managing her are on of the best doctors there." CheChe said, looking at their leader walking back and forth.

"I can't help it. The performance is around the corner and we have no substitute for Tatter's position." Bada said, biting the nail of her thumb.

"I'm sure Tatter is receiving the best healthcare treatment there. We can visit her tomorrow if you want?" Lusher asked.

"Yeah, let's visit her tomorrow." Bada stated.

"Nurse Choi, please look up this patient for me." The nurse nodded, she stood up and took the clip board from Y/n and sat back down. Y/n began to look around while tapping her fingers. Her blood went cold when she saw a familliar entering the hospital. Y/n couldn't think anymore and went through the reception desk and crouched down to hide there.

"Doctor Y/n-" The nurse said, surprised by the doctor's action but was interrupted by someone.

"Excuse me, where's the room of Kim Taeyoung?" A deep voice flowed through Y/n's ears. The same voice she used to love to hear everyday.

"Room 76, please write your name here as a visitor." It went for a couple of minutes and the person gave the clipboard back to the nurse.

"Let me see." The nurse gave the clipboard with a confused face. Y/n analyzed the names and saw what she was looking for.

"No. 22.) Bada Lee"

Y/n returned the clipboard with a sigh and was about to leave when Nurse Choi stopped her.

"Ms. Lee wished for your appearance today. She said she wants to know about the patient's condition." Y/n gulped but nodded to maintain her professionalism. She gathered her courage and went to the room where patient Kim Taeyoung is.

"Patient Kim Tae- I mean Tatter?" Y/n said as she entered the room.

"Yes, that's me." Tatter said, sitting up. She saw Bada stare at her plainly but you can see the surprised reaction in her eyes.

"I came to check for improvements. If you don't mind?" Tatter nodded and Y/n approached Tatter to analyze her.

"Can you lift your left leg for me?" Tatter lifts her leg but it's a little lower than usual. Y/n can feel two eyes piercing through her back.

"Unnie, you look you wanna eat my doctor up." Tatter said chuckling. Y/n got taken aback at the statement and glanced at Bada who happened to roll her eyes. Both make eye contact and avoid them quickly.

"I'm not, stop spreading false information." Y/n lightly smiled as she stood up straight.

"It looks like it's improving a little. But like I said, your injury will be fully healed after this week." Y/n said.

"Thank you doctor." Y/n nodded and went out of the room. Bada stood up and bowed a little as Y/n passed her.

Y/n sighed heavily as she removed her doctor coat and sat on the bench.

"How's your visit with Bada?" Y/n looked at her left and saw Stacy sitting beside her with two coffee cups on her hands.

"First of all, thank you for the coffee. And second, I visited the patient not the one visiting the patient." Y/n replied making Stacy laugh.

"You didn't answer my question." Y/n glanced at Stacy and back to the front.

"You expect her to talk to me after what I did to her in the past?" Y/n chuckled.

"Look, she probably understands your situation at that time. It's her or your career. Imagine if you chose her at that time, would you be wearing a white coat now?" Y/n covered her face with her hands, feeling overwhelmed with emotions as she remembered that time.

"Are we really just ending the relationship we had? 6 years is nothing?" Bada said with tears in her eyes as she stared at her lover.

"I'm sorry..." Bada crouched down, covering her face with her hands. Y/n followed and wrapped her arms around Bada.

"I'm sorry...I'm very sorry..." Y/n wiped Bada's tears as well as hers.

"It will only be for a while okay? Imagine, you will be more famous than you are now and I will finally have my doctor's degree." Bada shook her head, tightly wrapping her arms around Y/n.

"I don't want to...I want to share my accomplishments with you..." Bada replied. Y/n broke the hug with Bada's arms still on her waist. She cupped Bada's face as Bada sniffed.

"I know...I know, I also want to share mine. But there's more than just being your girlfriend. Being your girlfriend is a dream but being a doctor is everything." Bada put her head on Y/n's shoulder as she sobs. Y/n caressed and kissed her hair.

"I love you...so much that I'm willing to let you go to be a better woman for you." Y/n mumbled. She can feel Bada's hand tightly clutching on her jacket.

"If I ever found you again..." Bada said while getting out of Y/n's arms as she stared down deeply into Y/n's eyes.

"If I ever found you again, I will not let you go." Bada promised as she kissed Y/n's lips, caressing the necklace she gave her on their 2nd anniversary.

"What if we found a solution that day?" Y/n asked out of nowhere making Stacy look at her.

"You finally speak after 38 minutes." Y/n rolled her eyes playfully.

"Just answer the question."

"Maybe both of you will be sharing your accomplishment today." Y/n groaned, annoyed that her friend said the exact same thing that Bada said that day.

"You just said the words I least wanted to hear." Y/n replied as she threw her cup at the trash can beside her.

"What else are you expecting to hear?" Stacy asked.

"I'm going to the roof top for fresh air." Y/n said and went to the elevator, avoiding Stacy's question.

Y/n went out of the elevator and saw a figure from afar. She already know who it is due to the height and the hair color.

"I hope what I'm thinking is not what you're gonna do." Y/n said loudly causing Bada to look at her as Y/n approached her figure.

"Just admiring the city lights." Y/n chuckled, remembering this is similar to how they first met.

"Tatter will be fine. Her injury will be healed 2 days before your performance." Y/n said.

"Tatter told you?" Bada asked.

"Yeah. Thanks to her, I also got to know you claimed the main dancer position in your competition. Congrats." Bada thanked her as both of them have a comfortable silence.

"So...how's life lately?" Bada asked, turning her head to Y/n who's busy watching the noisy city below her.

"As you can see, I'm already wearing a white coat." Bada smiled proudly.

"You? How's the variety show you're participating in?" Y/n asked.

"A little criticism here, a little criticism there, but overall it's fun." Y/n nodded in understanding. There was a comfortable silence until Bada broke it.

"I'm always wondering...what if both of us choose to fight for each other?" Y/n just stayed silent as Bada continued.

"If we choose to stay, today should be our 10th anniversary." Y/n turned towards Bada who was already staring at her.

"You're still waiting." Y/n concluded as Bada went closer to her. Her arms went under Y/n's collar and pulled the necklace out.

"And you're still wearing it." Y/n gulped.

"I already found you, I'm not letting you again." Bada said, leaning closer to Y/n's face.

"I never said I want to be let go in the first place." Their lips connect as the emotions overwhelm them, making up the years without bearing one's warmth against them. Bada broke the kiss, putting her forehead against Y/n's.

"My place?" Bada whispered.

"You have to wait missy, my shift is not done yet." Y/n pecked her lips as she went to the exit. Bada chuckled and chased over Y/n.

BONUS SCENE

Y/n woke up due to the sunlight in the curtain and sat up. She analyzed her surroundings and noticed that she is wearing Bada's t-shirt. Y/n looked over at her left and saw Bada sleeping quietly. She smiled and caressed Bada's hair.

"At least we grow individually, right?" Y/n mumbled, staring at Bada. Bada began to stir a little and finally woke up. She looked at Y/n and smiled, with half of her buried in the pillow.

"Good morning, beautiful." Bada whispered, caressing Y/n's hand that is on her hair.

"Good morning to you too." Y/n replied while smiling.

"I was scared..." Bada said making Y/n confused.

"I was scared you will leave again and I will not be able to find you for years." Y/n felt bad because she knows she's the reason why Bada has issues like this now.

"I know what I did to you in the past caused a lot of pain. But like I said in the past, I let you go to become a better woman for you." Y/n stated, Bada sits up and puts her head on Y/n's shoulder.

"You're already enough for me that time." Bada said, intertwining both of their hands.

"Even though it caused me a lot of pain, it taught me a lot of lessons. But I know to myself that somehow we will find each other again." Bada and Y/n smiled at each other.

"Us against the world?" Bada asked, cupping Y/n's cheek.

"Us against the world." Y/n replied, connecting the lips.

[witchescollection]

musings of a witch: reclaiming sacredness

Sacredness. The word gets wrapped in quotation marks—treated as suspicious, unmeasurable, outdated. When the news calls a place “sacred,” it’s said with an eyebrow raised, as if connection to the divine is something made up.

Sacredness is usually solely associated with the divine—and usually, spaces are sacred. Churches, cathedrals, Stonehenge, holy places. They are considered sacred because they hold cultural significance to a group of religious people—or, more accurately, “because they say so.”

To me, sacredness is a connection to something distinctly living. Unlike many spiritual people, who see sacredness as inherently divine, this feeling of being bigger than myself comes most easily when I am surrounded by other humans—or other entities. Connection is at the heart of my understanding of sacredness.

I’ve felt sacredness at times I’ve been humbled and chosen to frame it positively. Times I’ve sat before great architecture—like the cathedral in Canterbury—and felt both smaller and bigger than myself, connected to both the past and the future.

My religion is folk-based, and I suppose that’s why my sacredness is rooted in connection. My practice is distinctly human and more “low magick” than “high magick.”

Sacredness first clicked for me when I experienced it. I was fifteen, desperate for a deity to work with—I’d seen it on Tumblr, and I was obsessed with the Marvel films. All I wanted was to talk to Loki. I remember months of trying to enter a trance state, and then—him coming to me and telling me it wasn’t the right fit. He wasn’t my deity, no matter how much I wanted him to be. I was too young in my craft.

Funnily enough, Loki came back many years later, and we now chat regularly. He was right, though. At fifteen, I was a tight knot of anxiety.”, shaking when I first felt his presence. I wasn’t ready to experience divinity and sacredness of that magnitude—it would have scared me off. I still had so much growth to do.

To me, secular doesn’t just mean “non-religious.” It’s linked to a lack of connection. This shows up in many ways—including how we relate to stories. An old Buddhist friend once told me we’ve lost the ability to read our myths—we’re drawn to take them literally, hunting for loopholes and inconsistencies rather than asking how they make us feel.

This makes it especially alienating to connect with people who reject the sacred experience. But we’ve all felt it, in one way or another. There are many pseudo-religious elements in our world—humans love making “false” idols. The difference is just in the language we use.

Navigating these spaces is difficult. It’s easy to devote yourself to pop culture idols, to give away your power. To be clear: my issue is only when we place other humans on pedestals—or fictional works. We’re all human. Art is beautiful because it helps us connect—with ourselves and with each other—not because of the art itself.

These pseudo-sacred spaces push us toward materialism (“spend $50 on a merch hat!”), and into thinking we lack something essential that exists out there. That belief robs us of our wholeness. But noticing this is the first step.

Trying to explain sacredness to someone who’s only known pseudo-sacred spaces is nearly impossible—it’s just one of those things you get. I’ve sat at tables full of self-proclaimed spiritual folks, and you can tell who’s really walking the walk by how they discuss divinity.

Whatever it is we’re engaging with—demons, spirits, gods, the universe—we cannot contain it. We cannot tame it. At best, we work with the flow, maybe adding a dam or two. Magick takes the path of least resistance, and gods do what they please.

Even religious spaces aren’t safe from this pseudo-sacred materialism, this idea that you lack. But true connection—it’s not about ego or over-intellectualising. It’s about feeling. Divinity and sacredness are more like poetry than philosophy or science.

Defining sacredness to newcomers is inherently difficult. Magick is something you feel. That’s why I use the phrase “working the space” so much. Yes, it’s work—but it’s also energy. It’s connection. Wholeness. Anger. It’s reaching into yourself and pulling something out of nothing.

The times I’ve felt the divine are impossible to fully explain to anyone else. If you’ve experienced it, I encourage you to journal it—the magnitude is overwhelming. The best analogy I can offer: it’s like an ant understanding humans for a moment, then going back to being an ant.

Sacredness isn’t something we create. It already exists—we just find it and give it a name. But it’s been colonised: by capitalism, by the very humans for whom connection should matter.

Sacredness can be found in technology—though it’s often twisted into petty fandom fights and divisive online politics. It’s in family—though often neglected and torn apart. It’s in love and marriage—though many abandon it to avoid vulnerability. It’s in learning—though many grow to hate it, worn down by a broken education system.

Still, sacredness is there—if we choose to rediscover it. We can untwist it. We can reclaim the beauty in what we’ve come to despise. Sacredness is a verb. Focus on the positives. Focus on our agency.

And that, ultimately, is what witchcraft and sacredness are about—not passive belief, but sacredness that comes from our actions.

[accio-victuuri]

xiao zhan elle september issue cover story Q&A

ELLE: During this rest period, do you think about things that happened on the set?

Xiao Zhan: Of course, I remember a few days after the filming was finished, I had a dream that we were still filming, and the director and I were still discussing how to say that word? How to handle that scene?

ELLE: Do you actually miss the atmosphere on the set?

Xiao Zhan: I like it very much, because I like the feeling of everyone creating together and working together to get something done.

ELLE: When you first entered the entertainment industry and your popularity grew rapidly, you said that it felt a bit unreal and magical, but now you seem to be quite relaxed. How did this change happen?

Xiao Zhan: Rather than saying it’s unreal or magical, after so many years I feel that I haven’t had time to adapt to the fast pace at that time, so when I wake up from sleep, where am I today? What am I doing? I think it’s a process, just like when you first enter the workplace, everyone is very excited, "I’m here to work, please take good care of me", "I’m here, everyone get out of the way", "I can do it, I can do it". (Laughs) But after experiencing a lot of things, I feel that everything needs to be planned for the long term.

ELLE: In several interviews you mentioned that you like to play roles that "can convey energy". Why do you have such a preference?

Xiao Zhan: Because I think it is the life of the character. The kind of energy I am talking about is not just a single positive energy in the general sense. I mean the nutrition that can be subtle and silent. I believe that every character has a complete story line in his heart. This is what I like very much. As long as you dig deep, you can move people. I don’t like to call the villain a "villain", as if it is defined as a bad character from the beginning, but it is not. He may have his own difficulties.

ELLE: It sounds like “transmitting energy” is just a general term. Is it actually about understanding different people through performance?

Xiao Zhan: Yes, if we break it down to each character, they all convey different things. But if we say they are “good guys” or “bad guys”, I think that’s meaningless.

ELLE: So do you think acting is a form of communication?

Xiao Zhan: Yes, you can say that. I think it’s great to say that (acting) is a bridge to communicate with the audience. Just like when a play is broadcast, I will read some of the audience’s comments and impressions, and feel that they have a rich feeling about the work. When I see some comments that are exactly the same as my thoughts when filming, I feel very magical, as if this bridge is really connected. We don’t know each other in life, and we haven’t communicated, but he suddenly got my thoughts at the time, and I felt that, oh, acting is a very beautiful and magical thing.

ELLE: Do you watch some science fiction movies, TV shows, and literary works?

Xiao Zhan: Yes, I used to like watching "The Three-Body Problem". I have watched some science fiction movies recently, the American TV series "The Stars", and recently I am watching "The Replica". They are all about infinite flow and parallel time and space. Because I think there may really be parallel time and space. Every choice you make will split into a different parallel time and space.

ELLE: Do you imagine Xiao Zhan in a parallel universe?

Xiao Zhan: I really wonder, for example, is he still an actor? Maybe, is he still filming now? Is he still singing now? Or is he still a designer? Is he working for others or is he his own boss? (Laughs) Really, I really wonder.

ELLE: What do you think the future will be like?

Xiao Zhan: Wow, I think the world might return to its original state at that time, and the world might become a better place, and people would return to the most basic communication with each other.

ELLE: This is very interesting. Why do you think so?

Xiao Zhan: Anyway, at least now I am a little disgusted with the ubiquitous Internet. When we were young, when there were no mobile phones, we would chat while eating, and we would call our friends downstairs to play hide-and-seek and various games. I think that time was very precious.

ELLE: Will the profession of actor still exist by then?

Xiao Zhan: I think there will be. I believe that as long as life goes on, drama will continue. Because everyone needs an output, needs emotional resonance and sustenance, whether it is images or sounds. So I think that even if the world is destroyed, as long as there are still people, drama will definitely exist.

-END.

source

[jabberwondia]

【the next step】 【part 2】 RIDDLE x READER, NSFW

Part 1 is here.

The proverbial "next time".

Riddle Rosehearts x Female Reader, 18+. Fluff, sexual intimacy (explicit), consensual.

Worrying about failing a test, botching that one high note at the recital, or stammering throughout the graduation speech are all examples of performance anxiety. The thought of failing and the looming overshadow it casts on the far-off dream of success – to a lot of people, it can be paralyzing. To counter it, you dwell on all the possibilities before that something can even come to pass, methodically going through worst-case scenarios in your head; at the time, they all seem more like prophecies.

Contrary to what his occasionally fiery mood swings might suggest, Riddle Rosehearts was a fairly confident and composed person, and never suffered from nerves before a test, recital or speech. The roots of his self-assurance were practice, diligence and rules. No test would ever be scary if you had revised hard enough, no note unreachable if practiced frequently enough, and no speech impossible if rehearsed enough. Rules provided a frame which allowed little flexibility, which meant more provable, safe results.

This, however, was different. There was no way to prepare for it. Any guides on the subject would generally say, ‘Let it flow’, and honestly that’s what he believed he had done -or at least tried to do- last time, when you were catching your breath, spread on top of his lap. He had purposefully, repeatedly, attempted to forget all about it – but every time his phone buzzed with one of your messages, he was sorely reminded of everything he did, and specially of what he didn’t do.

‘Would it be so bad if it were... planned?’ he pondered. But it’s not like those words would ever leave his mouth, and he truly did care about you, so he was not about to insult your integrity by suggesting something as unrefined as “Hey baby, let’s get it on”.

Sigh. It hardly seemed like the topic you could trust friends with, either. “What should I do?” he wanted to ask, but the fear of getting humiliated in return was too real. Or at least, it was inside Riddle’s head, as however certain he could be in social situations, one of his most recurring nightmares included screwing up an easy spell, getting laughed at, then yelled at by his mother, and, finally, falling through the void (in that order).

“Next time,” he had told Floyd. Why did he do that? Whatever the hell did that mean? Not unlike enlisting New Year resolutions and telling everyone you started working out – in a way, the contract behind your words binds you to turn them into action. Riddle really wish he hadn’t, and to be fair, Floyd hadn’t even asked about it since – but the thought alone was eating away at him.

Alone in his room, he had, at long last, drafted up the end-all, be-all of text-based conversation.

Riddle Rosehearts: “Hello! 🌹 What are you doing for the break? I’ll pass on going home this time, I think. We can expect an exceptionally hot summer this year, and I’m worried about the hedgehogs.”

And then, greatly contingent on your answer, but – hopefully – the next sentence would be:

“If you’re free sometime, would you like to stay the night?”

‘Stay the night’ was a much more suitable euphemism for what he wanted to say. It was short, and sweet, and left the possibility of nothing happening, which was important. The main problem with it is that it broke quite a few rules, but most notoriously: the rules that stated students from other schools were not allowed inside the dorms past curfew, and that non-alumni needed a special permission to enter in the first place. Well, uh, and also the fact that he was trying to bring a girl to sleepover to an all-boys school. After one law had been violated, the rest of transgressions just seemed like silly, collateral damage. This is why he was a stickler for codes and regulations – being unyielding did, in fact, protect the system from falling apart all at once.

The hedgehog excuse also worked well, and even his mother had believed it and granted him permission to stay all summer on campus.

The first text is an easy one to send. If, for any reason, Riddle feels like he needs to call the whole thing off, he can just invite you to a Tea Party, or suggest a date in the park. The break begins next weekend, and it’s a perfect time because the school will be mostly empty and free of prying eyes. And if you are too busy to catch up, spending a quiet summer caring for the hedgehogs doesn’t sound too bad either.

Y/N: “oh hey! 😊 poor darlings🦔 it’s good they have a very kind caretaker💓 yeah, I read somewhere we were reaching record temperatures. thankfully it’s not so bad inside our dorm. i’ll go home, but only from the second week onwards”

Which leaves a week in between to... to...

Riddle opens up his drafts once again. All he has to do is copy, paste and hope for the best. But as he’s proof-reading, it occurs to him that maybe “sleepover” is better than “stay the night” – which one sounds more casual? Ugh, his hands are starting to feel icy cold and unresponsive. The weight on his chest is getting bigger.

Y/N: “we should meet up before I leave! 😊 i can help take care of the hedgehogs if you need a hand?"

Oh my Queen. A second, continuous text from you was not in the original plan. So now what? Well, he could still brave through and –ahem– suggest his suggestion. Hell, if he was so paralyzed at a text, there’s no way he could actually sleep with you, even if you did come over.

Riddle does not want you to help take care of the hedgehogs. Or rather, that is so trivial right now, that he wishes you could forget about it, and words to be undone.

Riddle Rosehearts: “I couldn’t possibly ask that! Hedgehogs are nocturnal, so you’d have to come in pretty late.”

Riddle is quick to type and send, but then gasps when he realizes the meaning. It can be taken two ways: either that he wants you to come in late, ergo, wants to get in your pants and is cowardly suggesting it; or he does not want you anywhere near the dorm at night, which, eh, kind of resets all the progress made in this conversation.

Y/N: “oh, right 😊 the school has rules against that, lol”

It’s getting more and more impossible to recover from this, like a rowing boat trying to maneuver through a river of chocolate fudge.

The draft that is waiting in his copy clipboard now makes no sense. “If you’re free sometime, would you like to stay the night?” is no longer applicable to this flow of the conversation. But he needs to find a way around it, or else it’s back to square one.

Riddle takes a very, very deep breath. Face red, fingers trembling, he manages to write:

Riddle Rosehearts: “Actually, don’t worry about the hedgehogs. It takes time to build trust with them anyways. But on that note, would you like to stay over sometime? Feel free to say no.”

That last part sounds incredibly weak and lacking in courage. He erases it and types it again a couple of times until deciding in favor of leaving it as-is – the fact that you don’t feel pressured is, after all, of utmost importance to him.

And yeah, “stay over” sounds better than sleeping or staying the night, so let’s stick to that.

When the message pops on your side of the screen, your sight paces back and forth at least twenty times, doubting the verity of your own eyes or reading comprehension. After last time, and how nonchalantly it had ended, you thought for sure that Riddle had been distancing himself from you, and that you had crossed a boundary that was hard to backtrack from. That is exactly why, truth be told, you were relieved when he initiated casual conversation as if nothing had happened. The struggle was mixing all these pure, affectionate, innocent emotions he made you feel with the raw Eros of whatever last study session was, and it had left you more confused than ever.

But hey, you tell yourself. Nothing needs to happen. I can just sleep. We can cuddle, and that’s it.

It seems you are taking all too long to answer, because his chat box pops up again.

Riddle Rosehearts: “I want to see you.”

Riddle was really good in situations reigned by protocol. He was the best social dancer you’d ever seen, and the way he’d guided you while waltzing through an interscholastic dance had been dreamlike. He’d open doors for you and escort you to your school gates; he was always eager to send over a study guide or offer some academic advice. But “I want to see you” and “I miss you” were words rarely uttered.

Filled with a newfound courage, you text back:

Y/N: “i'd love to! is friday ok? 😊”

Getting into Heartslabyul is always a challenge. You’d need to either come over during the daytime and then purposefully miss curfew, or you’d have to find a way to sneak in just before the gates are closed for the night. As a housewarden from a rival school, your face is somewhat known within the Night Raven College students, and while it’s not exactly a secret that you’re dating the Heartslabyul sovereign, you’d rather if people did not know you were planning on staying the night, for the Seven’s sakes!

If this were an eventful holiday, like Halloween celebrations or a friendly Spelldrive tournament, inter-school visits were more easily forgivable. There were plenty of ways to score a guest pass and walk around freely. But an outsider going around the dorm at night, on a normal school day? Now, that is just fishy.

You devised a plan of which the success depended on how fast Riddle could find you and then rush to his room. And you know he hated running in the hallways.

Your Signature Spell, “Drink Me”, as tongue-in-cheek as it sounded, allowed you to change an object or person in size for a very small period of time. Theoretically, if this was used on yourself and your clothes, you could become hedgehog-sized in seconds. And then, all would Riddle need to do is transport you in his shirt pocket. Simple enough, right?

As you head through the motions of the plan, you realize how utterly embarrassing it is. First, you would need to decide on a set of coordinates where Riddle would find your miniaturized self. He needs to pick you up, basically engulfing you with both hands. You are then to fit inside his pocket, and this meant that his heartbeat would sound like thunderstorms in the summer sky (a by-product of you being so small). And because you’d turn back in 5 minutes, he needs to rush to his room and take you out of the pocket, lest you grow back to normal and rip his prized uniform shirt apart.

There could be some repercussions. Usually, your Signature Spell required of a catalyst – you would use homemade soda for the shrinking spell and cookies for the enlarging spell – so as to keep the side effects at bay, and make the desired transformation last longer (a maximum of an hour). Very rarely you’d cast them directly from your pen to the object in question, unless you wanted or needed consequences to be more immediate and short-lived. In this case, staying small for a whole hour was not exactly the most enticing of options, and gorging on enlarging cookies while the effects of the fizzy shrinking drink hadn’t yet subsided always resulted in nausea, an upset stomach and a fever (you know – you’ve tried before). So, the only viable option was cast and run: a plan problematic in and of itself, but the only chance you had to access the property unnoticed. Ah, if only Chen’ya could teach you how to disappear at will.

When you suggested all of this over the phone, Riddle was flabbergasted. It was hard to tell which is more mortifying – carrying you around like a portable magic pen, or having you enter the dorm life-size and risk a student seeing you enter his room at night.

Eventually, after much persuasion, he had agreed to meet you at the outskirts of the Heartslabyul forest, which was exactly five minutes away from his quarters.

It’s the first meeting since the, uh, lap-sitting incident, and you are both quite self-conscious still. You wave and smile at his approaching figure, but he hurriedly hushes, “Quick! Before anyone sees you.”

Pointing a shaky pen to your chest, you take a deep breath. “Here goes. Drink Me!”

If the feeling could be compared to anything, you’d say it kind of reminds you of a balloon deflating – air gushing out, spiraling as it swirls until it reaches the floor. A kaleidoscope in which the senses become filled all at once, as the world around you is so big, and you’re now so small. The only good part is that, because your height and weight also decrease in proportion, having a parasol ready allows you to float tenderly for the last couple of inches, and the fall is never too abrupt.

Riddle is now... huge. I mean, wow there, Y/N, witty observation. But he really is, and even the act of him crouching to get closer to you shakes the whole ground like an earthquake. He stares at you, two fingers pressed on his lips, pondering if he should lift you up by the collar... but no, no, that’s too ungracious.

So, he offers the palm of his hand. You know that even if you talked at this size, your tiny micro lungs are not enough to produce enough sound to reach him properly, so you keep quiet and climb up his thumb.

When Riddle brings you up to the height of his pocket, it’s like that one Twisneyland attraction that you rode together once, the scary one with the elevator which you had hated with every fiber of your heart as you held on to your boyfriend’s arm screaming – and he wasn’t too keen on thrill rides, either, but had tried to put on a brave face for your sake.

“Are you alright?” he beckons, in a normal tone for him, but it’s like a cacophony ripping apart at your miniature eardrums. You put your hands over your ears. “—sorry! So sorry,” he reduces his voice to a whisper.

Plopping yourself into the pocket, you fall all the way in, roughly reaching the middle while standing straight. You are way smaller than hedgehog size at this point, comparable to a miniature doll of only a few centimeters high. “Hang in there,” he says.

By the sudden swaying, like a seism about to tear the face of the Earth, you assume that Riddle has set course for his room. The countdown starts.

As luck would have it, everyone and their mother is out to get the Headwarden today. He gets stopped at least thrice, mostly about silly stuff such as the shipment for flamingo food or the rundown for the next unbirthday party. It’s impressive how many students are still in the dorm, really –don’t these people have anything else better to do?– their voices are so loud you can barely make out the conversations, instead just catching the keywords. You have both hands pressed against your ears, eyes closed, trying to avoid sensory overload. At least this goes to show there is no way you could have gotten into Heartslabyul unnoticed if you were your proper size.

After many unwanted interruptions, time was running out for the both of you. The de-transformation would start coming in little bursts, where you’d feel your body a little bigger each time. The transpired, stuffy white fabric of that pocket was sure starting to feel a little tight, and now you could almost peek over the hem on your tiptoes.

“Riddle!” is your hurried plead, but he’s going as fast as humanly possible, as fast as anyone can go while still avoiding attention.

When he’s at the doorstep, it feels the seams won’t hold any longer. To the best of your ability, you lift yourself using your arms, trying to squeeze up and out. He fumbles with the key, breath visibly agitated, until he remembers he can just use magic, and can finally, triumphantly, open the door and slam it shut.

“Y/N!” he beckons, in a panic, looking for you to jump on his palm again so he can plop you onto the ground.

“No time! Throw me on the bed!” you squeak, unsure of how much of your speech is currently intelligible. Riddle catches the gist of it, and grabs you by the first thing he can pinch, which is the hem of your skirt, as you’re now dangling outside his pocket, barely not small enough to fit back in.

And next thing you know, he is flinging you like a Spelldrive disk towards his bed; with a loud “poof”, you transform mid-air and land headfirst, full size, cartwheeling on his mattress. Your skirt is flung open, you’ve lost both shoes somewhere along the way, you’re all tangled in on yourself, but at least you are finally safe, and neither Riddle’s shirt nor reputation have been ruined.

Adjusting your sitting position, you first make sure all parts have grown back to size. After all, it’s not unheard of for the effect to last longer on some objects or body parts than others. A quick check assures you that you’re back to normal – all over, that is. You turn to Riddle, who is watching you from the edge of the bed, hand over his mouth, his expression between bemusement and bewilderment.

A stifled laugh that you can’t seem to contain breaks the silence, and it’s like springing open a can of worms, because the redhead giggles a little, too, and then the whole situation becomes too funny to hold it in. Soon he’s laughing tears out of his eyes, unable to speak in full sentences.

“You — you really became pocket size. Right here! You were right here!” He gasps for air between chuckles, pointing at his chest pocket. “I can’t believe... really can’t... ahaha!”

“Hehe, that was some adventure,” you agree. And it’s not like you’re not laughing yourself, but your turn to your boyfriend, and the sight of him fills your chest with a strange warmth, so much that it quiets your laughter. You’d rarely ever seen such a playful, childlike expression; he keeps cry-laughing uncontrollably, wiping his eyes and clutching at his stomach; a hint of relaxation in his ever-so-stiff posture.

His giggle fit starts settling down, and then it dawns on you.

“Oh, no, we need to go through this exact same process tomorrow!” you say, pinching the bridge of your nose.

Tomorrow. He liked the sound of that. It made the fact that you’re staying over more official.

“We’ll think of something by then,” he states.

The rush to close the door and prop you out of the pocket as fast as possible meant that the room was still dim. Because you had landed on his bed, there you were sitting upright in its dead center; suddenly feeling a rush of pink on your cheeks, as the whole Drink Me situation had acted as a deterrent to the actual elephant in the room: the fact that you were here to sleep over and that you had both been so nervous up until that point.

Riddle’s bleary eyes flicker in the twilight, still a soft smile on his lips.

“That was nice,” you grin. “It’d been a while since I last saw you laugh.”

“Oh, come now. Am I really that serious all the time?”

You struggle to find the words. “It’s like... like you’re always worried about something. Not that I blame you—"

“Huh,” he retorts before you can continue. “Well, even I can find something that tickles my funny bone, every now and then.”

He’s now frowning and pouting and just... standing there, as if still hesitant to join you in bed. After all, Riddle was quick to notice that you had made no effort to stand up, and now is wondering what the next step is. It’s not like he had planned any activities for you to do that night – maybe watching a movie on your phones? ...playing card games? Or just go straight to sleep? In the end, he could decide on none and the Day Of came to happen before he could devise a plan, something he dreaded from the bottom of his heart. His whole life was set in rules, set in stone tablets, and now he had to somehow improvise.

“I’m not worried,” he says, pensive, then adds: “Not when I’m with you, at least.”

“Liar,” you accuse him, to which he looks rather offended, albeit playfully so. “By now, you’re probably thinking, ‘What’s comes next?’ — well, aren’t you?”

His expression gives him away immediately. For such a well-postured, well-mannered person, Riddle tends to be a bit transparent. “H-how did you –”

“—it’s because I’m thinking the same thing, too,” you admit. “This is hard, isn’t it?”

It’s not a question. In no unclear terms, last time you’d met had been the very first instance of feeling each other’s bodies, and along came the realization that you are dating and it’s perfectly okay for you to do so. And now you’re subconsciously running your fingers through his velvety red, quilted duvet; and Riddle is still paralyzed a few steps away from the bed. You are not the boldest person out there; and he seems to be bold for anything except for this.

“Agreed,” he muses. Again, he’s like on the outside looking in – it’s that anxious feeling that never goes away, back to the little boy and the cakes he’d never eat.

“This is so awkward to say out loud,” you muster up some courage. “But I’ll try.”

“—yes?”

“I don’t care what we do today. I get to be with you, and that’s enough.”

...oh. Riddle can feel his heart doing a summersault. Being filled to the brim with love like this is something he is not accustomed to. It’s like he’s back to your warm embrace and the rhythmic breathing of your clothed chest, like digging his fingers in your back again, and feeling you return the squeeze. Every single waking moment, and hell, even while sleeping, he goes back to that evening. But he struggles to return your words, hesitant and meditative, staring at the floor.

“Riddle?”

“—yes?”

“Are you okay?”

He’s not. He’s fed up with himself. Scared of this new situation to which he doesn’t have a manual for. Terrified of underperforming and disheartening you.

“Of course,” he lies through his teeth. You are still fully clothed, so all he can see are your knees and calves, from where the skirt of your uniform ends and the socks begin. It’s not remotely erotic at all, yet he’s burning all over. You notice his eyes traveling up and down, trying to take the sight of you in.

You can’t be sure, but deep inside, you intuited that if you both feel the same, then he wants it as much as you do. But then again, pressuring your boyfriend is something you would never, ever venture to do – like a hedgehog himself, he was always quick to spike up to prevent you from poking at his vulnerability. He’d get angry or annoyed or sulky, only to quickly apologize later. So, you are not brave enough to ask, but the least you can do is initiate the scene – like the character that utters the first lines in a play, setting the mood and the proceeds in motion.

Hands, your own, travel to the elastic on your socks, as you slide them off slowly, one by one. Your feet get adjusted to the soft duvet, now feeling it on your bare skin, and you can’t help but notice how utterly cold your toes are – might be from the air conditioning, might be from the nerves. Riddle gasps audibly and clutches at his chest.

You look up at him, as he’s still standing immobilized in his spot. Fine. You’ll venture one more step past the proverbial line of his defenses, then.

Not unlike his, your school uniform consists of a white shirt with a tie or ribbon, at the student’s free choice of whichever. The ribbon on your neck is striped light blue and white, with a small coat of arms applique that depicts a teacup floating in a bottle full of tears. With a quick tug, you undo it, then the first button of your collar, all while keeping eye contact with your boyfriend – it feels like the sound of your own heartbeat is going to deafen you at this point.

Riddle takes a step in your direction, fully flushed, although you can barely tell through the room submerged in the summer dusk. But he stops just by the edge of the bed, frozen again. His is quite the big mattress, and he will need to crawl to you if he wants to reach you. Close, yet so far.

You press your lips together, at the attempt to regain some moisture: your mouth feels dry and trembling all over. Even so, you use the last bit of courage to undo one more button – completely innocuous, as this barely only reveals your collarbone.

“Stop,” he beckons, scaring you for a second. Seeming so desperate, filled with regret. “Don’t.”

“Oh.” Maybe it had been too much? You dread having pushed the Heartslabyul warden too far. “I’m sorry—”

“—no.” He takes a deep breath. “I mean, let me do it.”

Riddle climbs into the bed, knee first. His hand is reaching for your face, slate grey eyes full of adoration, and in turn, you unbalance him by pulling at both his arms, so he stumbles on top of you. Bumping heads at the fall, now faces only an inch away.

“Riddle—”

“—shh. Quit staring.”

But you’re not really, as your eyelids are drooping over, lost in the moment. It doesn’t matter, though. It’s so like him to want to have the last word.

As usual, it’s a peck on the lips, albeit a bit longer and hungrier; he then kisses your cheek, and now the question is what comes next and how the familiar pattern will be broken. To your surprise, you feel two nibbles on your neck, just below your jaw at first and then close to your throat. One leg has snuck in between yours, pressing slightly, the weight of his bony hips digging into your thigh.

He’s always fixing other students’ uniforms, so maybe that’s where it comes from, but he has unexpected skill in unbuttoning your shirt all the way through. But he’s taking it slow and steady, because every single new flash of skin is just killing him on the inside, building up fire within.

Pushing up with one arm, he uses the other to take your hand and give it a kiss, then a tug as he prods you to turn around, softly undressing one sleeve, and reaching for the clasp of your brassiere. Is this too sudden? He’s filled with worry, but push comes to shove, and his instincts urge him to keep going. He needs both hands to do this, causing him to promptly level forward, his mouth caressing your naked shoulder plates. And with one quick snap, you’re out of your bra, though it still lingers lazily on top of your breasts, as you adjust on your back once more.

Riddle realizes – he can almost peek – y-you’re half-naked, writhing beneath him, and –

“—hey,” you call softly, smiling with a tint of self-consciousness as you reach a hand for his cheek. “C-can I...?”

Can I take your clothes off, too? – is what you mean to say, but the words can’t seem to leave your mouth. Curses. Leaving the question unasked, you tug at his striped necktie, and his fingers follow yours, together undoing his shirt buttons all the way to his waist. He’s using a white, paper-thin t-shirt underneath, so you can make the shape of his nipples through it. More lightly clothed than ever, the sudden rush of shame gets the best out of you, and your gut reaction is to pull him into a full embrace, arms clasped around his neck.

Riddle stops for a moment, melting into your hold. You cannot see eye to eye right now, but you can clearly hear each other’s heartbeat. After a moment of hesitation, he kisses you again. It’s sloppy and uncharacteristic of him, but he wants to eat you whole and has no way of hiding it. Uncertain, his hand travels down your neck, feeling your collarbone, and hovering for a few instants where your bra is – unbound, it is no more than a decoration on top of your chest, and he pushes it aside.

“Ah,” he exclaims, almost unwillingly. Your breasts are oscillating up and down with your breathing, your lips are swollen and dyed a madder red, and you just look so beautiful.

“Now you quit staring,” you snap back.

“Hah,” he laughs raspingly. “Who do you think you’re talking to? You’ve got some nerve.”

You smile so wide your cheeks hurt, glad that he’s finally back to his normal self, setting aside all the anxiety and worry. Well, mostly. Of course, some worries are still in the way, but they continue melting as the heat rises – it’s impossible not to give into the moment and fondle your breasts. You let out a little yelp.

“Ah – does it hurt?” he frowns, worried, unable to gauge your reaction. Sure, he made a point to read a few erotic novels in an attempt to prepare for what should be expected for this situation –ugh, perish the thought of anyone finding those hidden at the bottom of his drawer– but truth be told, he still had no idea how rough or how gentle he should be.

“No,” you assured. “It feels good.”

“Show me where.”

At his request, you guide his hand with yours, back to your chest; and strengthen your grip, instructing him to squeeze ever so slightly. His leg, or rather, his knee presses against you, separating your legs further apart, sending a wave of electricity throughout your body. The goddamned skirt is still in the way, but you can’t muster up enough lucidity to concentrate and remove it, moaning and twitching below him.

Riddle must have read your mind, because he shifts his hands to the zipper on your skirt instead, and his mouth starts moving down and away from your neck. Your first reflex –completely involuntary, mind you– is to cross your arms and cover up your breasts, as if it made any difference at this point. His eyes move up to yours, worried again.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No!” –well, now you’re making less sense than the Queen’s Twinkle Twinkle Little Bat poem– “It’s just... ah...”

He understands. Neither of you want it to end, and yet moving forward is just as scary. Before this, when you first started dating, he used to be able to listen to his inside voice when he kissed you. Or rather, he was forced to listen to it, by his own brain – like a switch you can’t turn off, he’d count the number of kisses and always follow the same pattern. His head was constantly yapping at him, keeping track of time so as to not be late for the 5 PM tea, or telling him to compulsively fix your uniform. But since he had climbed on top of you ten minutes earlier, he has not heard his inner voice, not even once. He could not keep count of how many kisses and nibbles he’d placed all over your collarbone, shoulders, inner elbows and wrists; softly motioning you to let go and uncross your arms. And the sheer fact of losing control was terrifying, yet it felt so good.

That being said, when faced with your bare chest, and the zipper on your skirt lowered but still not removed, Riddle feels a flash of clarity and stops dead on his tracks. There she is, the girl he loves, half-dressed, gorgeous, breasts perking up, but there is one thing that doesn’t quite feel right.

“Come here.” He props you up, helping you sit. He moves the hair off your face and pats your head. “I’ll– I’ll take off the rest of my clothes, too.”

It’s not as embarrassing if it’s the two of you, is his reasoning. And it was important for him that this wasn’t one-sided.

“—you wha– you will?” Not at your brightest nor most eloquent, you’re taken aback by his sudden assertiveness, again crossing your arms in front of your chest. He’s halfway through the zipper of his black school pants when he stops to look at you, face fully flushed.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he mumbles guiltily, his delivery harshly contrasting with his words. “You know I hate that.” Feigning authority and playful anger, part of him is trying to be a tease, yet still unsure how.

A giggle escapes your lips. “Shame you’re not wearing the dorm uniform today.”

“—ah.” He notices in that same moment. Had he been so nervous he completely mixed up his clothes today? As the last layers were coming off and he was sitting there in his underwear, he realized it didn’t matter.

“Wait, what is it about the dorm uniform?”

“Heh. Just – the heels,” you blurt out. “They’re kind of... –ah, I’m not gonna say it.”

The idle talk is not important. All you can focus on is how his porcelain skin contrasts with the crimson quilting, and he’s blushing head to toe, like a white rose poorly stained with red paint. Actually, you meant to say the heels turned you on (come on, admit it, just a little?), but halfway through the sentence you noticed you could not be any more aroused, and then he fell on top of you again, and your head emptied completely of thoughts. His hand now presses between your legs, and you wonder where your skirt went – it had been on you just a second before, right?

“Riddle,” you gasp, knowing the fabric of your underwear is betraying you and giving away how wet you are. You have no doubt he can feel it too. And he wishes you wouldn’t call his name, not like that – do you have any idea what you’re doing to him? His fingers are caressing you softly, and it truly feels like you might burst even though you’re just getting started. His face is close to yours, jaw shivering in a cold sweat, even though it feels like there must be a hundred degrees in the darkness of the room. And while he’s helping your orgasm build up, thumb toying with you gently, he can’t help but wonder if your skin feels just as good to the direct touch as it feels through your panties, and how is it that even the parts of you he never knew are all so perfect. It seems slightly unfair, he muses, that you could be this flawless without even trying – but then you wince a little, possibly lost in pleasure, and Riddle starts worrying again.

“Are you okay?” his words feel moist close to your ear.

“Hm-mm.”

“Relax your arms.”

And the second you do, he moves back down again, slobbering kisses all over your neck and chest. While seemingly rawer and more animal than ever, he’s still attentively measuring your reactions, and finds you gasp the loudest when he sucks on your breasts. So, he teases them for a while, circling slowly with his tongue, then softly and toothlessly pinching the stiff center with his lips; he repeats from left breast to right, slowly, deliberately, back and forth, with a sort of rhythmic cadence. Focus, Riddle reminds himself, as his own erection is throbbing painfully. But he’s determined to devote to you first and foremost.

“May I–”

“Yes. Please,” you beg, not even sure what you are agreeing to, but realizing it might as well not matter anymore.

Struggling to open your eyes, you force yourself into keeping alert just so you can take in the view of your raggedly breathing boyfriend, peeking up from the curves between your breasts, hand on the inside of your underwear and soaking his slender fingers inside, applying even pressure. He is amused at the sight of how effortlessly they go in and out, assisted by your moisture, so much so that he forgets about your breasts for a moment. Your voice brings his attention back, however.

“I – I can’t...”

“It’s okay. Don’t hold it in”, he reassures, but maybe he is also talking to himself, as Riddle is always the type to exceed in self-restraint. You are melting, becoming undone with a touch of his hand and he cannot get enough of how it feels – to hear you panting and moaning, to know he will soon be able to press inside you and fill you with his length. It’s an unfamiliar, weird, wonderful thing – not quite like he had imagined, but perfect all the same. Your chest is responsive to his every kiss, and now his fingers have gotten faster and heavier. He can feel you close and is living for it.

“Riddle, I –”

“You’re so beautiful,” he gasps breathily, finally able to be honest with himself. “Don’t hold back. It’s all right.”

“Riddle. Riddle? I’m – I ––”

“––Y/N,” he chuckles, and his touch becomes even more merciless. Your hard nipples cannot possibly take any more kisses. “You’re so adorable.”

It’s not like you need any more stimulation, but as he says this, his mouth is full of one breast and hand cupping the other, and you can clearly see it all, from his heavy-lidded slate grey eyes to his dark red eyelashes, all focused on you as he’s making your sex squeak with wet sounds, pushing down just underneath your navel as his fingers throb and sting inside you.

“Please. Don’t stop.”

He won’t. He’s not the type to tease you like that. Your toes are curling in a frenzy as your legs swing inevitably open, and pretty soon you’re incoherently giving into the thrusting of his hand, and his lips have not left your breasts for one second.

You can’t hold it in. You would have if you could have – the sensation was just too amazing, and you were trying to grasp at straws –literally, if by straws you mean sinking your nails into his shoulders– trying to prolong your orgasm to no avail. You are coming all over, spasming and stirring and gasping his name, and Riddle is a bit scared at first – did he – did he do that? – but it seems you are content, and you settle down huffing beneath him. He takes out his fingers, but his hand stays put, pushing on you softly, as you are still whimpering with the aftershocks that come and go after the peak.

Riddle knows what is supposed to come after that, but the thought alone makes his stomach do cartwheels. Now, how to initiate? He doesn’t have time to think, as you grab him by the wrist, taking his hand out of your underwear and giving it a tug, motioning him to come closer. In your current clouded state, it’s hard of you to completely gain enough strength to pin him down as you originally had wanted to, so you settle to have him sit beside you as you roll over so that your upper body meets his crotch.

“Y/N?” he yelps, suddenly self-aware of how flush his length is against the fabric of his boxers, throbbing to come out, and your face is now caressing it softly with only one layer to separate you.

“Ah. Sorry. Too fast?”

He shakes his head.

“No. Actually,” he pushes his underwear down. “Please. Can you –”

He needn’t ask. The sensation of him in your mouth compelled such novelty – it was weird to get used to, but at the same time felt like the natural next step to take. Tip reddened and throbbing, teased by your lips as your hands would steady his thighs. Funny how something so intense – suckling at him, gasping for jagged breaths, as the bitter taste of his precum numbs your other senses – would come apparent to you so matter-of-factly, unrehearsed yet perfectly calculated. Riddle stifles moans until he can’t anymore, pouring from his lips, buckling into you with hand tangled in your hair, pulling you closer.

He’s no longer thinking straight, and that’s fine. If he were, he’d still be stuck in the preparation phase, staring mindlessly at the welt of your socks, unable to move. But since he’s no longer counting the kisses he’s given you tonight, he’ll make a point of also not counting how many times he’ll thrust into you, as he topples you over when the wetness of your mouth just won’t quite scratch that itch, and hurriedly reaches over the counter for a condom. It’s not like the guilt is completely done, but this – this is everything right now, and as you are huffing and puffing away below him, eager to receive him, he understands that a bit of chaos is needed every once in a while.

A lot of first times are awkward. This might be no exception. But he enters you with such ease, you wonder how this new feeling can be so recognizable, as the pressure builds between your legs and his hipbones dig into you once again, and he restrains your hands with his, raising your arms, soft eyes filled with lust.

“So tight...” Riddle whispers, but it’s more like sounds are escaping him, uncontrolled, “Y/N... y-you’re...”

His speech is barely intelligible, though you can sometimes make out words – ‘beautiful’, ‘good’, ‘wet’ – and a few poorly-pronounced phrases like “does it hurt?” –– it doesn’t, and as you’re pinned beneath him with a clear view into his quivering rosy lips and half-lidded gaze, you know he’s getting closer as he gets harder. He‘s trying to get his mouth full of your taste as if it were forbidden – like it all boiled down to this one evening, and this chance was all he had. And if it were for him, he would have made it last forever – but his body is not so used to this kind of endurance, so after a few minutes Riddle finally gives in, collapsing into your shoulder, quietly whimpering your name, in a moment of weakness that is greater than he’d like to admit. Riding his orgasm, fingers entwined with yours and digging at your knuckles in a tight grip, his voice is unlike you’ve ever heard it before, and you understand its over once he quiets down.

The silence lasts for a few moments. Or, more appropriately put, a slight wave of sheepish embarrassment, as he’s promptly rolled over to your left and you’re both lying face up and wheezing up a storm as if you’d just ran some kind of marathon. But then Riddle slightly tugs at your hand.

“Everything alright?”

“I think so. You?”

“It’s been... quite the novelty,” he says flatly, but then smiles a little at his choice of words. “Do couples do this all the time? ...it seems exhausting.”

“So that’s it? That was your quota for a whole lifetime? Fine then.”

“––No!” he hastily turns sharp on his side, facing you, only to find that you’re unable to hold your laughter. “–Oh. Not funny, Y/N.”

“Sorry! Sorry.”

“– I would very much like it if we did it again. Uh... tomorrow, or – or some other time.”

You smile. “I would like that, too.”

“Should we settle on a schedule?”

“––what? No!” but a sudden tinge of guilt overcomes you, as you quickly realize he might need it. “U–uh, I mean, if – if that makes it easier for you–––”

“––just kidding,” a soft smirk escapes him, like a stifled giggle that says ‘gotcha’.

“Oh, look at you cracking jokes now,” you accuse him with a pout. “That’s a first.”

“Guess that makes two firsts in one day.”

As you both let out a complicit giggle, reaching out for the sheets and then for each other’s hands, no longer worried about the next one step or million steps to come, you find yourselves drifting off to sleep in a loose embrace.

[flowery-mess]

Hotel room

Ugh, I loved it from the beginning, not so much in the end. Let me know your opinions about this! Also, I struggled a lot with using past and present tense, English is not my first language, so I think there is lot of mistakes, feel free to let me know about them!

Summary: reader struggles with rumors about Noah dating their tour support, that leads to heated conversation with open ending and some hurtful words

Noah Sebastian x female reader

THIS STORY IS FICTION

Do you believe in love at the first sight? No? Me neither. But it’s the closest thing to describe my relationship with Noah.

We met at my friend’s James birthday party. I was newly moved to the states. I initially moved here for a year because of my work internship and James was the first person I became friends with at work. Somehow, he was connected to Matt, who was also invited to the birthday party, and he brought the guys along. “The more the merrier.” His words, not mine.

I heard about them, I listened to their music, but I didn’t want to let my inner fangirl out of me, so I kept it cool the whole night, even forgetting that they were also there.

I can’t say I am not a party person, I am, just my social battery lasts around two hours, then I need to recharge myself. So after wishing James happy birthday, talking to some of our coworkers, dancing and drinking, it was time to slip outside to take some time off.

Sitting on a garden sofa with wine glass in my hand, with my eyes closed, I heard the glass door slide wide open, the noises from inside entering my ears for a minute, second slide of the door cutting them off.

Out of curiosity I opened my eyes and saw tall person in the dark, just standing and looking around. After minute, the person started walking towards me. As I was sitting in the dark, I guessed I wasn’t seen by the person.

“Already taken.” I spared that poor person a scare.

“Oh, sorry, I’m gonna go back then.” I heard slight disappointment in that voice, and after thinking that person was feeling just like me, I spoke again.

“That’s okay, it’s big enough, you can sit here with me.”

“I don’ want to bother you, seems like you’re enjoying whatever you’re doing here.”

“I’m enjoying the silence, that’s what I’m doing here.”

“Interesting, that’s exactly what I came to do here.” I laughed a little, surprisingly not so mad about someone interrupting me anymore.

“Come enjoy the silence then.��

I realized it was him the second he came out of the shade, as the light of the moon covered his face.

“Oh hi.” I tried not to sound too obvious.

“Hi.” With that he sat down next to me.

And that was the beginning of a very long night. Lots of talking. We talked about everything, the conversation flowing like it would never stop.

“So how do you like the states so far?” Noah asked.

“Do you want me to be honest or are you too American and can’t take it?”

“Try me.” He said playfully.

“The food? Terrible, I’m surprised you Americans don’t die at the age of 30. People? I’m so glad for working at company with foreigners, you Americans are weirdos.” He smirked at that answer. “But I’ve been here just for two months so far, so who am I to judge right?”

“Yeah right, who are you, you European woman.” We laughed at that.

He was actually pretty funny, calm and very well spoken. Which, judging by lyrics of his song, wasn’t surprising.

“So how do you know James?” I asked Noah, honestly curious, cause I knew James knew Matt, not the whole band.

“He worked with us on a few shows. On our smaller shows in the beginning, he actually helped us a lot. We didn’t have security or something back then, so it was either no security or security at the venue we were playing. James sometimes grabbed few of his guys and came to the show and helped us with security in general.”

“By his guys you mean our coworkers?” I found that funnier than it probably was, but it seemed funny to me, that he referred to them as James’ guys. Me and James work at a security company. We work “at the top” aka in the office. Hire people, make contracts with venues or artists, schedule shifts etc. We provide security of any kind. We both are on the same position, most of the time in the office from 9 to 5, but he never mentioned he used to go out in the field before.

“Oh so you two are coworkers?”

“Yes! He is actually my favorite coworker and favorite American. For now.” After few glasses of wine and talking to Noah already for an hour, I felt confident in little bit of flirting. If you count that as a flirting.

“For now huh?” at least he seemed to catch on that.

After what felt like forever, Jolly came to get Noah, said that him and the guys are leaving. Noah went with them, we said goodbyes and I thought that was it. Nice tipsy talk, no exchanged numbers, no see you next time.

But exactly three days later I received a message from unknown number, saying “hey it’s Noah, I asked James for your number, I hope that’s ok. We’re having release party for the new album, thought you and James could come if you wanted to :)”

So, me and James went to the party. After few hours I found myself sitting outside again, Noah coming too just a minutes later, saying it was coincidence, but later in our relationship admitted he saw me going out and went after me.

We talked again until James came to get me and said we’re heading home. Same scenario as last time.

And then we had dinner at his place. Dinner at my place. Movie night at his. Movie night at mine. Sleepover at his. Sleepover at mine. Little innocent touches became into lustful and needy ones. Everything went great, we completed each other just perfect.

We didn’t rush into anything, we handled him going on tour just fine.

I also made big decision with extending my job in the states and staying for Noah, not moving back home to Europe. We were perfect, so what changed?

.

It all went downhill before the guys left for the tour with Bring me the horizon. I always felt bittersweet about them touring in Europe, cause that was my home and it made me feel homesick, almost kinda jealous? And knowing they would then continue with their headlining tour made it even worse.

We made a plan that I would fly to my home country week before their concert there, spend some time with my friends and family, join them for the rest of the tour and go back home with them.

I was handling everything really well through the tour with Bring me the horizon. Loved the content and the opportunity for their band. But everything changed when they released their new song with Lenora. Their support on the tour, female singer from the same label. The song started wave of content with Noah and Lenora. Edits, rumors, theories, because our relationship isn’t public, so everyone thinks they are in one.

I didn’t have any reason to be jealous of her, because I trusted Noah, he knew her longer than me, he would tell me if they had history. It was the edits and rumors and seeing it everywhere. It made me uncomfortable. Everyone saying how cute they are on stage together.

So it all mixed together, Noah being in Europe with different time zone, so we couldn’t talk much, Noah and Lenora content jumping on me everywhere, it was too overwhelming for me.

I didn’t want to take it out on Noah tho, it was not his fault. But something in me changed, some of my insecurities I guess, went out and he noticed.

“What’s going on love?” He asked later today when we were on the phone with worried voice.

“It’s nothing, I just really want to be on the plane already.” I said little white lie, sitting on our bedroom floor packing my things for next days flight.

“Only 9 hours and you’re on the way babe!” he said with excitement in his voice.

“Oh you’re counting?”

“Of course I am! That makes it 7 days and 9 hours before we’re together.” His smiled made me feel a bit better, but I was sure I can’t tell him anything now. He was enjoying the tour so much, it felt wrong worrying him with my feelings now.

“I can’t wait Noah.” I felt like I was gonna burst into emotional mess soon.

“Me too love, me too.” We shared a look through the screen for a minute, before Nick saying they had to go on stage in a few minutes. We said our goodbyes and I love yous and hang up.

I closed my eyes for a minute, just focusing on my breathing and trying not to cry. I couldn’t explain what was going on in my head even if you held gun against my temple.

.

Long story short my week with friends was amazing. I felt more relaxed, until I saw Noah’s contact on my phone.

Everyday I felt my mood change a bit and my body stiffen more, when he texted or called me. And he noticed. Last few days it projected to the way we spoke to each other. It was cold? Just simple “Hi, the show was great, can’t wait to see you, love you.” conversation for literally two minutes.

Through the week I also couldn’t miss the new content about Noah and Lenora and that made me less and less excited for my hometowns show and for seeing it live. They were going to the next city later the next day after my hometown, so we decided to stay the night at a hotel, which I saw as great opportunity to talk about this tension, that was created by the lack of communication and through phone screen.

.

I went to the venue earlier to meet the guys there, then I would be coming back in the evening with my friends.

Entering the venue was weird. I wasn’t this nervous meeting Noah for our first date, so that was a weird sign for me. Security guys led me to the green room, so there I was. Standing behind the door, holding my breath in and not wanting to go inside.

It took me few more minutes to calm myself down, but I opened the door.

First person I locked eyes with was Folio. You can’t be sad seeing him excited and happy that he can hug you. Folio is the one I’m closest with from the band, so the hug really gave me a bit of courage that I needed. Then I was met with Jolly’s big hug, then Nick.

Last but not least, right, was Noah. We stood just looking at each other for a minute, neither of us making the first move.

“Hi.” I said first.

“Hi.” was Noah’s reply. I spoke first, he acted first. He grabbed my face by my cheeks and kissed me. Just a peck, as if he was asking for permission. So I kissed him back. The kiss was so tense, nothing like before.

“I think we should talk.” He whispered, keeping this conversation just between the two of us.

“Yeah we should. Can we do that after the show?” I really didn’t want to make tonight’s show bad for me, him or anyone else. He was enjoying this tour so much, I couldn’t be the one taking the joy from him.

“Okay. You’ll leave from here with us right?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, meet us here after the show okay?”

“Yes.”

And that was it. I stayed for an hour, but we didn’t talk more then the short conversation. When they left for soundcheck, I left to meet my friends for drinks before the show.

.

Their new collab song with Lenora started playing and I prepared myself mentally for what I’m going to see.

Lenora was dressed in tight navy jumpsuit, with her long hair in low sleek bun as she started singing her part. I saw Noah come on the stage, with the mask on his face. For most of the song he sat on the led display, but then he came down and I saw them interact in real life for the first time. It didn’t make me jealous, it made me think of how many new videos I’m gonna see the next morning. Their little handshake. Cute, right? Gonna be on my for you page too. The song is great, she is great singer, I don’t have anything against her, I just can’t help the pressure from fans. I knew what I was getting myself into when we became a couple. But you can’t prepare for some things until you live them through.

I enjoyed the show, I love their music and it was really lovely to see Noah performing live after long time, seeing him in his element enjoying himself. We locked our eyes few times, seemed like he was checking in on me, because he doesn’t like me watching their shows from the crowd, saying he’s scared some is going to hurt me. We shared looks, smiles through the entire show. For a moment I forgot what was waiting for us once we make it to our hotel room.

After saying goodbyes to my friends I made my way to the green room. I walked in and felt the good mood coming from everyone in that room.

“Hey Y/N! Did you like the show?” Jolly gave me a side hug after I closed the door.

“I loved it! And the fans did too, wasn’t the crowd amazing?”

“It really was, hometown making you proud huh?”

“Oh definitely, I was scared you’re not gonna come back here if they fucked anything up.” I continued conversation with Jolly for a bit longer, feeling Noah’s gaze on me the whole time. He looked sad that I was talking with a smile on my face to literally anyone other than him. That went on for like an hour, then he finally spoke to me.

“I’m done with this. Let’s leave and short whatever shit is going on out.” Was what he said to me.

“Hey everyone, we’re leaving. We haven’t seen each other for a bit and I’m really tired. So goodnight everyone, thanks for tonight, good job.” Was what he said to others.

.

Ride to the hotel was silent. Neither of us spoke a word. He already had key cards to our room, so we went straight to the elevator, then straight to room number 497.

Noah opened the doors and let us in. I started opening my suitcase to get something to sleep in, I was in need of shower.

“Can we talk now, please?” Noah finally broke the silence in the room.

“I would like to get shower first. I need a minute to process everything in my head and what I want to say.”

“Oh, okay.” I felt bad, because he looked like he was tired from the show and from whatever was going on between us, like he needed this pressure off his shoulders, but I needed to think what I was actually going to tell him, because suddenly I felt like I was making big problem over nothing.

Hot shower helped relaxing my body, but my mind was still tense. Do I make this bigger than it needs to be? Is he going to laugh at me, my feelings? Is he going to break up with me?

So many thoughts at once. That gave me courage to get out of the shower and get this over with. Release the pressure off bot of our shoulders.

I slowly opened the door that were connected to our bedroom.

Noah was sitting in bed, his back against wall behind him and his phone in one hand. I carefully walked around the bed, sitting on my half of the bed in the same position Noah was. He put the phone down at my presence, but looked straight ahead of him. I did the same. We stared at the wall infront of us for a moment, neither of us wanting to start the conversation.

I never experienced this tension and atmosphere between the two of us. This was new and we didn’t know how to handle it. Neither one wanted to start a fight, things just needed to get cleared.

“I want to say something, but I don’t really know what. I don’t know what happened, I don’t know if I did something. I’m really confused now. It seems like everything changed overnight.” Noah was the one to speak first.

“You did nothing wrong, Noah. I don’t know where to start I am so confused with my mind right now.” I felt tears forming in my eyes already, as very sensitive person, I cry every time I have to deal with something. And honestly this was making me so sad I was surprised I didn’t cry much sooner. But I needed to get it off my chest, so I continued.

“It’s just after you left for the tour to Europe, I started feeling really weird, jealous I guess? This is my home and it felt weird, you being here without me. I love that you are enjoying it and loving it here, but it made me miserable. Made me feel homesick, because I realized that except you and the boys, I have like two friends in the states. So, I just felt like everything I was missing was here at the other end of the world than I was. And honestly, I felt like shit.” Before continuing my monologue I turned to face Noah, see if he was listening to me, watch out for his reactions. He turned to face me too, he had look of worry and empathy in his eyes. He made me feel heard.

“And then Concrete forever started and suddenly there was Lenora with you. I know what you are going to say, but let me finish first please. I know we talked about her and I told you that I feel fine about her and you don’t have to ask me for permission to work with someone. And that is still true, but I can’t stand the rumors about you two. I want to keep our relationship a secret from the public, but I really wanted fans to know that you are dating me, not her in that moment. I can’t stand those tweets and videos on my page, with theories about you, how you look cute together and other shit. That hurts me Noah.” At this point I was crying, letting it all out.

His face got worried, he tried to hold my hand, but I started feeling tight knot in my chest and I needed to do something rather than sitting in this bed. I stood up and started walking from one wall to the other. It was also the first time I let Noah speak since the start of conversation.

“Why didn’t you tell me? We could talk about it and come up with solutions that would be okay for both of us.” Of course, I was expecting question why didn’t I tell him sooner.

“Because it’s not your fault Noah, or Lenora’s. You do your handshake; you sing together and that’s fine with me. I don’t blame you two. You two are not the ones that make content of that. I trust you 100% and I didn’t want to make you feel like I don’t. I thought I should deal with that on my own.”

“Well we are in a relationship, both of us, it’s never just you. You can tell me anything and I will listen, okay? We can always make a statement or perform differently if that’s what’s gonna help you. I don’t mind that at all.” At this point Noah was standing in front of me, trying to catch my hands in his to make me stop panic. After he managed to catch my hands, he pulled me in for a hug. I realized I needed that. Physical touch, just feel his body. Our chests rising at the same time as he took deep breaths with me and held my head against his chest.

“No you don’t get it Noah.” I pulled away, ready to let all my thoughts out.

“I don’t know what is going on, I never felt this way when you went on tour in the US. I just- it makes me think if moving to the US was good idea. I love you Noah, I do, but you are the only thing keeping me there and when you’re not there, I go crazy.”

“Let’s not make any sudden decision right? Cause you’re making me scared right now of what’s going to happen. Your feelings are valid and I get it, but I’m gonna be back home in a week and then we can find solution together. You can come with us on the next European tour.” As if that was solution to everything.

“It’s not just that and you know it. I don’t even know what solution I want, I’m a mess Noah and I don’t even know what to say, how to explain my feelings.” I started sobbing so hard. I hated this feeling. Feeling of being so distant with myself, not understanding what I feel.

“Oh baby, let me help you. Let me in so we can do this together.” I knew he was asking for me to stop pulling away from his touch, because that’s what I did for most of the conversation.

“It’s hard for me Noah, I’m used to dealing with everything by myself I don’t know how to do this. Maybe I wasn’t ready for a relationship yet? Maybe we should have waited before making it this serious.” I saw the hurt on his face, he was scared of what I’m gonna say next, but there was nothing, just silence.

“I think every relationship has its ups and downs and that break up isn’t solution, if that’s what you mean.” He was being very patient with me, but I saw him losing it a bit.

He was tired, physically tired and I wasn’t helping with this emotional mess. After a moment of him waiting for my answer that never came, he continued. "I hear you, I want to help you, but I don’t really know what you want from me now. We can’t stop going on tours in Europe, you say you don’t want to go with us. What’s gonna happen if next time another female singer is coming along? The rumors won’t just stop, until we make it public. You know I hate that idea just as much as you do, but I’m willing to do that if that helps you.”

He spoke for a few minutes so I calmed myself down a bit, focusing on my breathing, but before I could say something, Noah spoke again.

“And I don’t want to hold you against your will in the states. If you don’t like it there, you can move back here and we can do long distance, but apparently that’s not what you want either.” Guess he just had enough and decided to choose harsh words.

“Yeah well maybe you could be more understanding, that I moved there to be with you, because I love you. I love you, not the country. I would move for you anywhere.” I spoke words of love, but my tone was just as harsh as his. I know repeating the whole night that I don’t know what I’m feeling or what I want is frustrating but attacking me for my feelings for sure doesn’t help.

“Didn’t you say you needed to escape this country? From your broken family and ex? Don’t put this on me, you could have said no to moving.” Ouch, I didn’t expect that.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to say now, you know why I took the internship. We talked about that. Don’t make up something that’s not true.” My voice was quieter now, because he stabbed in a wound that he knew hurt me a lot.

I took the internship 3 months after me and my ex-boyfriend decided to end our relationship after 5 years. It wasn’t ugly break up, we grew out of each other and wanted to experience some new things, meet new people. I didn’t leave the country because I was broken hearted, but because I felt like I finally had space to try new things. I chose united states, simply because it was the only open spot that did require only English, not other languages I can’t speak. It’s that simple.

“Something that’s not true? So you didn’t run away from you mother who thinks you’re not good enough and caused you mental problems and from dad that doesn’t give a fuck about you?” ouch again. I didn’t recognize this side of Noah.

“Noah I-“ I scoffed with a deep breath, “why are you bringing this into conversation that is about something else? My family has nothing to do with how I feel about us. And for your information I told you all about that because I thought I could trust you, not for you to have something to throw at me in a fight for fucks sake!”

I let my hand slip through my hair, turning my back to him, because I didn’t want him to see that he made me cry again. But he didn’t stop.

“Well your upbringing has so much to do with how you handle your relationships so I think we should talk about that.”

“You know what I think I should change room with Nick or get new one just for myself. I wanted to have conversation about what was happening to us, but I believe you’re just tired and didn’t mean anything you just said. So I’m gonna pack my things now, leave this room and I’m gonna see what plane tickets I can find for myself for tomorrow. Seems like we both need more time to think about what’s going to happen with our relationship, how we treat each other, because I know damn well I don’t deserve you talking to me like this when I have been nothing but respectful to you.”

“Running from another problem, aren’t we?” He laughed, making reference to me moving to the states.

“Shut up Noah, shut up. Get some sleep and think about what I told you in the beginning. Think about what you want from this relationship, because we’re gonna have another conversation when you come home.”

I didn’t listen if he said anything else, I went to the bathroom to pack my things. When I came back to the bedroom, he was sitting on bed, facing the big window and his back was facing me. I made sure everything was in my luggage, I left my key card on the bed and went for the door.

“Goodbye Noah, I love you.” No reaction from him. My heart ached so much.

.

I got myself new room, paid for plane tickets for tomorrow evening and tried to get some sleep.

Actually, I cried myself to sleep, thinking of what was going to happen with our relationship once Noah comes back from tour. I didn’t recognize him tonight, he was like a whole different person than I knew before tonight. I was hoping for an explanation, for a valid reason he acted the way he did tonight, still hoping it was just his tired mind talking. Or maybe his frustration from the lack of my communication skills.

I was almost asleep when my phone buzzed with a new message.

I managed to read it before fully falling asleep.

“I’m sorry, I love you.”

[p0orbaby]

Tapping In

summary: you’re shattered, Katie makes up for her time away

warnings: just general descriptions of tiredness

a/n: not based on my current state…

word count: 603

-

You looked utterly drained.

Even from several feet away, Katie couldn’t help but notice the dark circles under your eyes. It was entirely understandable; caring for a four-year-old and a toddler on your own for two weeks was no easy feat.

As she stood there, unnoticed, observing you spoon-feeding Maeve, multitasking by wiping down surfaces, and keeping a watchful eye on Finn engrossed in his Lego’s, she couldn’t help but wonder how she got so lucky.

It was her daughter who was the first to sense her presence. Maeve’s green eyes widened at the sight of her ma. Her excited squeal causing you to turn around in response to her commotion, offering a tired yet warm smile as your wife fully entered the kitchen.

“Mornin’ baby” Katie whispered against your temple. Kissing you there, smelling the remnants of your shampoo in your tousled, sleep mussed hair. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

You lean into her touch, closing your eyes at the way she plays with the baby hairs at the nape of your neck. Sighing at how she squeezes some tension out of your shoulders with her free hand.

“You needed rest” you state like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’ve been working hard, you got home late. I thought you could do with a lie-in”

Katie hummed, nodding her head in understanding. Her eyes leaving the way your body slumped against hers, to her children. To Maeve smacking her chubby hands against the tray of her high chair. And to Finn who was in his own little world. A determined frown that challenged your own as he kept to building whatever it was he decided to that morning.

The children remained blissfully unaware of just how utterly shattered you were – an innocence that neither of you could ever hold against them. You loved them more than you could ever imagine, but they were a handful. A perfectly imperfect handful.

“Alright, let’s switch,” Katie finally instructed. “C’mon”

With a groan, you summoned the strength to move, handing her the spoon you’d been using to feed Maeve when she extended her hand for it.

“Hey, Finnster, how about a trip to the park later? A little day date with me and your sister?” Katie suggested.

Finn looked up from his task, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm as he eagerly nodded in agreement.

“Babe, you don’t have to-“

“Ah ah” she interrupted. “I do and that’s that”

If you weren’t so tired you think you could cry.

You remembered the early mornings when Maeve’s cries pierced the silence, and you’d rush to her side, fumbling to change nappies and prepare bottles while trying not to wake the entire house. The sleepless nights had become a storm you would happily weather.

Then, there were Finn’s moments of mischief. You’d find him scribbling crayon on the walls or discover his secret stash of cookies in the back of his wardrobe. But every time you looked into his bright eyes, full of wonder and excitement, you couldn’t help but smile through the fatigue.

It was no question that you loved them both dearly. More than anything in the world. But these past two weeks had been hard, and you really needed a break.

So you finally relinquished your role. With Katie transitioning seamlessly back into the ebb and flow of your morning routine. The kitchen seemed to hum with a sense of energy and ease that had been absent for days. And you couldn’t help but feel a profound sense of gratitude for the person you had chosen to share this life with.

[camelliaflow3r]

Spidey

Spidermen!Leclerc brothers AU

Summary: The thing about being bitten by a radioactive spider can prevent you from ever getting drunk. I mean- it can, right?

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, Bad english (sorry guys, I'm brasileira) and bad writing.

Word count: 1.9k words.

A/N: This is my first actual post here! I'm sorry if it's bad, or messy.. just hope you guys get the vision. That one was supposed to be in my drafts (like all the other ones, including the "part 2" for spidey) but I figured there's no reason not to post. Hope you like it!

The good thing about being a hero is the sweet taste of victory. Of course, you need to ignore all the lost lives, the fact your body is constantly aching and the (daily!) existential crisis. But tonight, they were not thinking about any of this. Tonight they were winners.

Since the universe entered a certain state of madness and some heroes started to have problems finding their way home (have we forgotten someone?), all the universes faced changes and challenges. And that's how now on Earth-1999991, a certain blonde God is guiding three excited brothers through his kingdom. The so loved Asgard.

"—Man, I told you, kid can't skip classes!" –Lorenzo protests weakly.

"—C'mon! I promised to show you Asgard and we just saved the world!-"

"—New York, actually, not the whole world-"

"—Same thing, Charles. What actually matters is to party tonight! We deserve it!" -Thor guides them through the castle, heading straight to the ongoing party. The doors open once the guards identify Thor, a simple nod making the heavy old thing open with a loud sound.

The brothers were not waiting for such a huge party though. Even from the door they could see lots of heroes and civilians dancing like there was no tomorrow, drinks flowing around as well as easy smiles and loud laughs. Arthur’s eyes widened in wonder. That was surprisingly better than any of the college parties he’s been to. Charles dropped the “I can’t party on weekdays ‘cause I have work tomorrow” act and immediately went to seek something to drink and Lorenzo just shrugged. They could use a distraction from the routine anyway.

It didn't take long for Charles and Lorenzo to sit by the bar, Lorenzo sipping on a beer and Charles sipping on the fruitiest cocktail known to man. Their relation with drinking is kinda funny if you think about it.

Lorenzo was a little bit older when he got bitten by the radioactive spider. It happened on a field trip and he really tried to hide the aftermath from his family. Sharing a room with his brothers didn't help tho, and that's how the three of them started sharing the secret. The thing is, he had enough time to have a teenager life. To drink, get drunk and to start to like beer (I mean- their mom dont need to know this, okay?).

Years after that, Charles (now older and way more conscious about the fact his older brother is freaking SPIDERMAN), got so curious and worried about Lorenzo that he thought it was a great idea to just work at Oscorp for a while. That way he could find a way to study and understand what was going on with his brother plus make some money out of it. We all know the idiot got bitten too, right? Congrats, I guess. And he was young too. And a tad more innocent. As they couldn't get drunk because of the freaking venom on their veins, Charles almost spitted every drop of alcohol he tried ever since. Why would he go through the torture of pretending to like that taste if that wont even get him giddy and flushy and fucking drunk? So yeah, just fruity sweet cocktails for him.

As for Arthur, well.. It took them like a year or two for Arthur to get bitten too. Being the nerd he is, of course he thought that going on an amazing adventure/field trip at Oscorp would be a lovely idea. He would get to see Charles working there (not as an intern anymore!) and spend the day learning more about interesting things. Let's not talk about the fact that he followed Lorenzo's steps without even realising. Lets also avoid the fact that he consciously chose to enter a room full of radioactive spiders. Like by choice. Not his brightest moment. At least, as Arthur tried to convince his older brothers, they wouldn't get the experience of dragging him out of a party while he’s drunk. Like.. He can't even do that anymore.

Was Arthur the kind of guy who goes to crazy parties and lives his teenage years at its maximum? No. But Lorenzo chose to be quiet about it. Not Charles though, who reminded Arthur of an even funniest situation they had to go through. Something about a blondie guy stuck on the ceiling or something. But that's a story for another time.

The point is Arthur never got interested in alcohol. He was always too aware of the fact he can't get drunk and that (according to Charles) the shitty drink doesn't even taste good. So there he is, sitting on a couch close to the dancing floor, way too interested in his coca cola to move and still too entranced by the vision of the dance floor and the crazy people there to go back to sitting with his brothers. His focus only switched from the party going on when Loki number ?? sat next to him. To be fair, apparently we have more of them than we can count now and the Leclerc guys only agreed on who was Loki 1, 2 and 3. The point is, the Goddess looked at him with a mischievous smile.

“ —Not much of a drinker, spidey? Or do you just rather sip on your apple juice?”

“ —Hi to you too, trouble” -Arthur rolled his eyes, unable to stop the smile forming on his lips. “ —I’m not much of a drinker. Not like I enjoy the taste or can get drunk anyway.”

“ —But this is a crime! I mean, unless you really have a bad story with alcohol or something. In this case I support you, man” -He nodded in denial with a laugh, confirming that he, in fact, is not a recovering alcoholic or someone with an unknown dark past. “ —In this case it is a crime. How can you live without the intense shame of knowing how you act when you're drunk? It brings up character, really.”

“ —Sorry that I cannot satisfy your sadistic side with my drunk stories.” -Arthur answers with a laugh, kinda interested to see where this conversation will take him.

“ —First of all, let’s not bring up my sadistic side yet, alright?” -Her malicious words and the wink she sended his way made Arthur flush a little. “ —You know, us Gods also can't get drunk. At least not like humans. Something about the amazing power, about being perfect, pretty, amazing.. Something like that” -The jokingly exhibitional tone doesnt go unnoticed by him.

“ —Oh no but that's terrible! How can we live without the stories of the Loki number interrogation point?”

“ —Shut up and listen, dummy. Ever heard of the ambrosia of the Gods?”

At the same time, Charles and Lorenzo interrupt the important conversation they were having (why does Charles almost faint every time he sees the Deadpool guy? His name’s Max isn't it?) to look for their younger brother.

“ —Have you seen him since we got here?’ - Lorenzo looks around.

“ —Not really. But he's a big guy. He can take care of himself.”

“ —Yeah Charles, I know. But we are the ones in danger here if mom ever thinks about the possibility of us getting home and forgetting child number three here.”

“ —Fair enough.”

Charles had barely completed the last sentence when he sees Lorenzo squinting in the direction of the dance floor where a very excited guy is dancing on a table while a feminine figure laughs hysterically. Charles laughs and murmurs something that sounds like “For fuck’s sake”. That is until Lorenzo looks at him with widened eyes. Oh no. Guess he found Arthur.

“ — WHAT THE FU-”

Bonus Scene:

Some years ago..

Charles hates when Arthur doesn't answer his phone. Especially after he moved out and Arthur kept on living with their mom, it is annoying to be ignored especially on days like this, where he just needed to know if his old notebooks were there. In need of the formulas he created to make his webs (They still don't understand how Lorenzo can produce them naturally and Charles definitely can’t), he had no option but to go to his mother’s apartment and wait for the best.

After getting there and entering the place with his old key, Charles can hear a thud coming from the bedrooms. He stops in his tracks, trying to identify the sound with his spider sense going crazy. Is it an intruder? Who’s there?

When he hears another thud, this time the sound is followed but a sound that suspiciously sounds like a groan. His face crunches in disgust. Ew, What the fuck? Is Arthur..?

…

After snapping so many pictures that his eyes are burning, Lorenzo was hoping for some time to relax and maybe doze off on his desk while his boss doesn't come back. But when you’re a Spiderman (And a Leclerc) you need to be always ready when plans change. And to be fair, being a photographer for the Daily Bugle does have some qualities, a fact proven by the fact Lorenzo was able to leave his workplace for an hour, in order to run to his mother’s house. Charles was very convincing about an emergency needing his presence and a tiny part of Lorenzo is hoping for this to be worth it after all the suffering to run there.

When he arrives, Charles is serving himself some chocolate milk with the seriosity of an old man. He is about to ask Charles what's the emergency when he also hears the thud. Then the groan. His face goes through all the stages of grief before he whisper-shouts.

“ —Did you call me here to let me know our younger brother is having sex? That’s just sick, you asshole”

Charles just sighs

“ —Trust me, you wish it was that simple”

Moved by curiosity, Lorenzo follows Charles as he walks through the house and leans against the wall staring at their old bedroom, taking a sip of his chocolate milk and then nodding his head towards the open door.

What Lorenzo sees is, against all the probability, more than unexpected. For a man who has seen almost everything, he's surprised to be surprised.

Arthur is just.. Sitting on a corner. Nothing new under the sun, really. I mean, that would be if he wasn't sitting on a corner of the ceiling.

He’s clearly struggling, his hand stuck on the ceiling like someone glued it with super glue or something. Arthur is pulling his own hand, trying to get impulse with his feet, groaning as he uses all the possible strength to rip his hand off the ceiling. When he finally sees both his hands free, he celebrates.

Until he looks down to his feet planted where his hand just were.

Lorenzo and Charles try really hard to hold their laughs, especially when they remember that phase of their powers. They remember what it feels like to jump higher than you should, break things with your newfound strength or well.. Stick everywhere. Of course they're worried as hell abouts their brother's future. But for the moment, they have an opportunity to call Arthur an idiot. And of course they will take it.

“ —Need a hand?”

Arthur jumps when he listens to Lorenzo's voice, turning around and crossing his arms in a pose that looks almost nonchalant. Or at least it would if he wasn't upside down.

“ —Uh.. Hi guys!” - Arthur smiles with forced animation. “ —You have no idea what happened on my field trip!”

“ —You know what, genius? I think we can guess.”

[duffyyy911]

𝙰 𝙻𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔: 𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 1 - 𝚂𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚝 𝚆𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚝

Summary: You are a small time private investigator in the fissures. You have been out of work for weeks, and dues are starting to pile up. Just when you think you're out for the count, a mysterious Vastaya woman enters your office with a high paying job.

Content Warnings: Nothing that I can find besides some minor stuff. Mentions of smoking and drinking, it's a crime noir fic so duh. GenderNeutral!Reader in practice, but keep in mind that I write from a predominantly male perspective so there may be times where the prose caters more towards a male reader. Acquaintance to lovers, extremely slow burn, noir themed fic.

Word Count: 16.7 K

Author's Notes: This is my first real fandom fic that actually includes a canon characters, so please be forgiving with me! I've been on and off writing for the past six years, but I have mostly stuck to my own content until recently. I really like what I've written so far and I think I ought to share it!

Proofread By: @madschiavelique @6selkie

Masterlist: Here

The crisp cold evening air stirred with the wet moldy dinge running off the stone cobble in the neighborhood by the water beneath the shadow of Progress bridge. You could smell it well, the chilly gale whipping off the rolling currents at sea and falling to the streets, mixing with the warm zephyr exhausting out of the grate vents by the cracked sidewalks. You inhale deeply again as you slowly close your eyes, feeling the slow-setting sun’s rays cast their warmth across your forehead before the brisk breeze stole it away. You felt your mind spinning in circles, rotating around and around like a skipping record. You can taste the salt on the mist of the air, the cold providing relief as it flows across your face. You lean back a bit, staggering as you almost fall over on your back. You catch yourself, hooking your hand around a slumped telephone pole, fingers like fish hooks. You swing around the pole once playfully before returning to an upright stance, a childish grin crossing your face as you barely keep your weary eyes open. You had not left the Mourning Bar pub more than thirty minutes ago. You would have considered the feat of walking home impressive for the state you are in, if it wasn’t for the ill churn in your body, flipping between the sickly stirring feeling of deep nausea and the pleasant relief of the open breeze on your face. 

You begin to hum, feeling your voice resonate through your throat and up into your skull as you shift high and low in pitch. You begin to continue your stumble home, putting one foot firmly in front of the other as you slouch-walk down the street. You knew for certain that this was your street, you had to be far worse off than this to forget such a familiar sight. You ambled on, continuing to hum as senseless noise turned into the crooked tune of a song that had returned to your thoughts after being forgotten for a long while. You find it funny, how things just slip by you like that. It happens to anyone, you suppose. One day you can’t forget something, the next day you can’t even remember it. And once you forget, it’s gone until it comes back to you like a desperate old lover. You almost trip over a divot in the cracked concrete where the sidewalk had segmented and one part raised itself over the other. You stumble but keep your balance. You look back at the crack as you continue your musical stroll. You don’t remember what even made that fracture, it was there when you started renting out your place. There weren’t any trees nor roots down by the waterfront to cause it, yet it persisted ever on.

You turn back to the path in front of you as you continue humming the tune, a melody of an old sailor’s song. You dwell on where it came from. You remember it from your childhood when you were young and you used to be taken on the freight ships that your parents captained in and out of the harbors of Piltover and out to the lands beyond the distant waters. You were far too little to be on a ship like that, but not old enough to know that you shouldn’t have. You just enjoyed being out on the open sea, watching the deep black waters roll past the hull and the clear broad skies in the daytime when the weather was just right. You stick your freezing hands into the deep pockets of your patchy tan bomber jacket, grabbing at a warmth that wasn’t there and instead finding the frigid felt lining of the pocket. The sun started to hide behind the curved horizon of the waters beyond the rooftop of the street you walked down, and the warm light began to fade away into a blue dusk bit by bit. To your right was a silver sea salt crusted metal chain of railing, and over it was a steep drop down into the harbor waters below the bridge that connected the slums of Piltover to its gentrified districts. You amble far away from the railing, knowing that walking by it would be pressing your luck, and one minute you could find yourself tripping and going head-first into the icy waters.

You finally stumble before your door, pressing your hand against the wall as you gather yourself. You were pretty sure this was the right one, the red door with the black frame, six doors down from the corner, and two before the edge of the waters at the bend in the road. You slump your head down as you lean against the wall with both hands against the rough porous brick, feeling the churn in your stomach as you convince yourself this is when you finally throw up all that effort you spent drinking in the bar. You dry heave, but all that trails out from your parted lips is a thin worm of spit that splats on the pavement with a quiet click. You push yourself back from the brick, then look up and down at the red door of your apartment for a moment. A gold plaque was nailed into the veneer, inscribed with a thin chain of letters. A title, for your career. ‘Detective Agency’ you silently read out from under the name of your business. You almost laughed as you dawned a shit-eating grin, remembering what world you had clawed yourself into just to survive above ground. If you weren’t blind drunk, you’d probably sob. But right now? It was hilarious, the kind of thing you tried passing yourself off as. You barely got work as is, and what little people asked for your help usually had you making errand runs or chasing after wild geese. 

Below the plaque, an orange envelope was stuck to the paint by a thin strip of sellotape. You tug it off, chipping a fraction of red off the door. You hissed at the sight, cursing yourself for being so abrasive with it. You dig your thumbnail under the lip of the envelope and tear it open, then you pull out its contents. You unravel a folded-up page, straightening it out as you squint to read the page clearly. Rent was overdue, and this was the final warning your landlord was going to offer you. If you don’t have the money by next week, you’ll be back on the streets again. A sour taste took over your mouth, and it wasn’t the sting of the bile that you had coughed up only a minute ago. A strong breeze gusted down your street on the harbor side, and you let it steal the paper and envelope away from your loose grip. You watch the pair silence as the page danced up and over the rooftops before descending out of sight behind the tile peaks. You almost regret doing that, you weren’t a literrer or anything. But the news that you might be back on the street after two years of busting your ass to get a home just put a horrible feeling in your bones. A deep resentment that reminded you that no matter how hard you tried, you’ll never stop being a poor kid from the fissures.

As the light faded to cool darkness and the gentle sound of the waves lapping against the stone brick shelf below the railing roared louder, you notice the dim and disrepaired streetlamps of your neighborhood turn on one by one. Some flickered rapidly or buzzed an awful hum. Some didn’t turn on at all. There was no point telling anybody because you know that no one from across the waters would ever come down here to do anything about it. Your hand slid into your jean’s pocket as your fingers fished for your loop of keys. Your index finger hooked around it, and you slowly brought the loop out of the tight pocket so you wouldn’t twist the metal like you remember doing last time. You looked down at the ring and about two dozen keys that hang around at its bottom. You don’t even remember where half of them go, you’ve just kept every one that you’ve been given. It was like a gentle reminder that you’ve owned and lost so much. Houses, lockers, safes, cash boxes. You always replaced one after another whenever somebody came back into your life to take them away. You finally plucked out the black square-ended one with the three diamond holes in it, you knew for sure that this was the key for the front door. You attempted to slide the neck of the key into the keyhole, but an uncontrollable wobble overcame your legs and you dropped the ring to the scraggly fur of your worn-down doormat. At first, you thought your legs were finally starting to give out, it was about time. But you kept a skeptical leer, as you felt the vibration in the stone beneath you and the low rumble from something you just couldn’t recognize. A loud snapping crack broke through the skies, deafening like thunder striking on the wind. The sound shook the tiles on the rooftops and shuddered the window panes from the second stories above you. You looked about, up your street then down it, yet found nothing out of place. You looked back to the Progress bridge hanging before the fading twilight sky above you, a nervous worry overtaking your mind. Yet it remained still and dark in the night horizon, foreboding but calm in the pitch of the night. 

You rocked back and forth your tailbone, finally building enough momentum to haul yourself up. You clung onto the narrow doorknob to your apartment to help yourself to your feet. You let out a deep, aching sigh and you rub the corners of your stinging eyes as you bend down to scoop up the ring of keys once more. All you felt like doing was sleeping now. The fun of drinking had worn off a while ago when you were praying that you didn’t have to throw up on your shoes. Your thoughts lingered on the rumbling and the loud crack, and you began theorizing what it could be. The best idea that you had was that the pump stations below the surface had finally worn another reactor to give out, and that crack was a manhole being blown sky high. You had only seen it once, when you were thirteen and just made it to the streets of the fissures. It was funny then when you didn’t know that the pump stations kept the fumes out of the lanes. Now it was worrying. 

You pick the black key out of the lot once more, then slid it slowly into the brass deadbolt lock below the handle. You gave a firm turn counterclockwise, feeling the bolt move and finally loosen its grip on the door. You stared intently at the black coated doorknob, working up the courage to twist it and walk in. You always hated opening your door to see your dark house when you got home. You were grown now, but the child within your heart was always fearful of the monsters that liked to lurk in the dark shadows of the corners. The ones that fled in an instant when you flipped on the kitchen light and turned the radio on with the volume up high. Or maybe they weren’t there. Maybe that was what killed you the most. Because even if they were monsters, they were some kind of company. And maybe the real thing you were scared of was coming back to the sad hovel you lived in and knowing that there was nobody there. No one to wait up for you, or to ask how you were doing. Or to already have the lights on and the radio turned up to the hum of the news channel. It was just empty.

You twist the knob to the door and push it in with a soft shove. Before the dim glow of the streetlamps outside could cast its reach fully into your dark living room, your hand had already hung your keyring on the hook by the door and flipped the light switch up below it. The room lights came on in a flash, bright but faded from age and dust collecting in their covers on the ceiling. With the forthcoming light, you were reminded of the simplicity of the apartment you were renting. Two rooms were all you got and counted your lucky stars that you got that at all. The main room was deep and wide, painted with a sickly cream coat. It was an open living room connected to a small outlet kitchen in the top corner to your immediate left, beyond the light switch. The kitchen came with a fridge and a stove, two things that were all but luxury items in your mind before you had moved in. The state of the pale countertops was more to wish for, but you felt glee when your investigations of them did not reveal any nests of insects or infestations of termites. 

They were just old, probably far older than you, and needed a new coat of paint. Beyond the cramped corner of the kitchen was the rest of the room. It was once void of any furniture for a long time, but fishing through the trash heaps at the foot of Piltover’s richer districts rewarded you with things to fill the space. You look at your yellow striped sofa, a small thing but it took a whole day for you to lug across town on your back and fit through your front door. You could still smell the rich scent of trash water dripping off it had you lugged it up your street, having to hose it down and let it dry before you took it inside. Before, it was a short coffee table with a broken leg. It was held up straight by a pile of self help books that you had found in a cardboard box in the alley out back. The two pieces faced the empty blank wall to your right, void of any fixtures or frames. Beyond them was your office. A long blocky dark spruce desk you had bought from a flea market down in the fissures sat lonesome in the room. You had to ask for a lot of favors from people to help you lug it up onto the trolleys that ran back to the surface, but a nice and incredibly large bartender gave you a helping hand for free when he saw you shove it inch by inch past his pub and up the lanes. The desk sat before a tall paneled window with a chipped low sill, beyond that was a single-story drop down to the alley behind the apartment block, as the road that wrapped around the building went down in elevation until it was dangerously close to touching the water. On occasions, in bad storms, the entire alley would flood over from the tide and wash itself clean, stealing the trash and the filth and the vermin and taking it all out to sea to be buried below the waves.

Behind the desk itself was an array of filing cabinets, those you got along with the house as a welcome gift from an associate of yours. You had solved the case of who was stealing out of his cash register from his fish market stand. Which had turned out not to be his only employee, but her jobless boyfriend who hung about when he was off hours. Of course back then you did jobs for free just to earn some standing. Now you could barely turn down anything that paid. To the right of the cabinets, along the wall the sofa faced, was a tall bookshelf. It held five separate and broad shelves. Each shelf carried an array of things. One had a lineup of books varying in size and shape, mostly on psychology or theater. None of which you had read yet. You never got the time to actually sit down with a book, and when you did it usually put you to sleep right away. 

Another shelf had an array of odd things you found while dumpster diving. A broken pocket watch, an antique glass doll, a black beret with an unidentifiable insignia sewed into it, and a large quantity of shiny chunks of metal that you were convinced held some kind of value. If only you knew a guy who could check, but you had yet to get around to it. The shelf above was your favorite. Every once in a while, when you got a big payout and had cash to spare after paying rent, you’d buy a model ship from a shmancy crafts shop in Piltover’s upper district. You had to be quick when buying it, as if you lingered too long people would give you odd looks as if you didn’t belong. Surely because you didn’t. But you couldn’t find anywhere in the fissures that sold model kits with all of its pieces accounted for. Your favorite was your crown piece, a model of an elongated diesel freighter that looked a lot like the one your parents sailed when you were younger. But you could barely remember those days, too far gone and too distant in your mind. Sometimes you wondered if you could even remember their faces. Sometimes you could, most of the time they blurred in your mind’s eye.

You turn about from the sight of your lonesome apartment and return to face the door. You shut it behind you, pressing it firmly until the old frame shifted back into place and you could hear a faint click through the wood as its latch entered its hole. Your hand reached up and twisted the switch to the first deadbolt below the knob, feeling the lock shift and click into place. You reach up above the knob to the second deadbolt, mimicking the same again. Two locks were the minimum for the slums, and even still you didn’t feel safe. At any moment you were expecting a group of vagrants to slink up your street and start kicking doors in. It had happened before down in the fissures and the memory of being stuck up at knifepoint for everything you had stirred a bad tenseness in your muscles. 

You distract yourself by looking at your kitchen, the dilapidated thing. You considered making some kind of food to quell the nausea stirring in your stomach, but two bad feelings convinced you otherwise; First, the worry that you’d just throw it all back up and that once you lie down you want to stay down until morning, that you didn’t want rush between bathroom and bed just to make sure you don’t puke on your only good pair of sheets. The second was like the first, that you were far too drunk to cook anything safely now. Your eyes trail down to the faint mark of a burn across the corner of your hand, running from the back and over your thumb. You couldn’t even remember if that one was on accident, or on purpose. All you remember was snapping back to reality as you found it brushing the hot twisted element on the old stove. 

You trudge past the kitchen, kicking off your old work boots by the bottom of the fridge. You take off your thick patchwork coat one arm at a time, one of the sleeves hobbled together with cheap thread and segments of burlap, and toss it on the counter by the stove. You head towards your door, flush with the wall between the end of the kitchen tile and the corner where your desk sat solemnly. You open the door, pushing the thin handle down and pulling it towards you. You flip on the lights in an instant as you had before, casting away the darkness and the shadows. The light flashed on with a low hum and buzz as you looked about the sorry state of the room. It was far worse off than the living room that you were sourly reminded of. A single mattress lay lonesome on the floor against the middle point of the wall below the windowsill. You hadn’t had the money to afford the frame, nor did you ever come across one while rooting through the trash heaps. You felt genuinely lucky that you could have afforded a set of clean sheets and a cover for it, you were far too used to sleeping on raw dirty mattresses you found in the alleys down in the lanes. This one was dry too, and void of mold or bugs or anything that you forced yourself to get used to after years of such an environment. Besides your bed was a large leather suitcase, opened and lying still by the foot. It was the only kind of wardrobe you had, but this one you bought with your own money instead of taking. You saw it in the display window of a junk store on the Entresol level, and you couldn’t convince yourself to walk away without heading in and asking for the price. In the case sat your only other set of clean clothes besides the ones you were wearing at the moment. You made a mental note that you had to head to the closest laundromat tomorrow to clean them once you’ve changed. All you wanted to do now was sleep, and the mattress before you looked so inviting. You could feel the call of sleep wash over you, the exhaustion in your bones, and your eyelids hanging heavily as they beckoned to close. 

You switch on an old metal standing fan by the door, listening to its awful squeak as it slowly jerks to life and begins nodding back and forth. Your apartment hadn’t any central heating, and you couldn’t risk just leaving the alley window open, so this was the best you were going to get for airflow. You raise your hand to the light switch, flipping it back down with your thumb as you watch the darkness return. The backlight of somebody’s home across the back alley shone through the window and cast itself in a straight line across your mattress. You walk forward, feeling the hardwood under the soft cover of your socks. You survived another day, and you would congratulate yourself for it if it wasn’t for the heavy call of sleep. You let your body lean forward and you fall into the dense mattress, closing your eyes for the night. You let out a deep sigh, smelling the faint aroma of washed linen on your pillowcase and the soft sheet against your cheek. Your head continued to spin around and around, stopping you from falling into slumber. You stick out your foot from the edge of the mattress and press the tips of your toes to the hardwood, and the spinning begins to die down. Another day survived.

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You jerk awake from your intense dream, it leaves your mind in a dash as you come to on your back. The memory of it fading as you rub your crusted eyes and look about at the blank popcorn ceiling of your room. You recall something about seagulls, and that you were standing somewhere where you could hear the roar of the ocean. Beyond that, you lose any semblance of what the dream could be. Your head reels from the previous night as the feeling of tightness flushes the muscles in your face. Your jaw aches after hours of clenching it in your sleep, and you suck your teeth at the pain. Your temples throb in pulsating waves of discomfort. Your mouth feels drier than it has been in a very long time, your tongue rubbing against the roof of your mouth like sandpaper. You bend your head back and look up to the window above you. The puffy clouds of midday floated past in the broad blue sky from above the outlet of the alley, whisking a sense of ease into your aching mind. You bring your left arm up and check the time on your wristwatch, a quarter past ten in the morning. You let out a woeful groan and tossed the pillow from under your head to the still squealing standing fan. You had slept all of the morning away, and now it was nearing midday. You only had so much time left to go fish for jobs and to run your errands before night invited itself back to your life. You were never a nocturnal kind of person, not that you resented the night at all. It was just the bad memories, the fear, and the emptiness that came with sundown that you disdained. Living in the fissures had left an impactful lack of sunlight in your life, and you were reluctant to return to it even on the surface. You preferred to stay inside instead of ambling about a city that slept peacefully. 

You sit yourself up as you gather your bearings from your groggy state. You rub your eyes once more, pressing the tips of your index finger and thumb into the corners of your eyes and you sigh deeply again. To distract yourself from the headache, you list things you had to do today. Most of which included your daily errands and the rounds you had to make to all of your associates in the fissures. You drag yourself up from your mattress and enter your bathroom through the door across from the edge of it. You undress and spend a good thirty minutes just standing in the shower, feeling the warm water flow over your skin and body as you stare at your feet where it collected before running down the drain. The rent was all that was on your mind. The rent, the rent, the rent. You had no idea how you were going to pay due. Even if you managed to get a case, it would probably be a pittance and more work than it was worth. You could always sell some of your things, you were a regular at a pawn shop down in the fissures. You twist the handles to the valves closed and step out of the shower. You dry yourself off in the steam of the closed bathroom, then gather your dirty clothes. You spend a long time dressing piece by piece as you take the clean garments from your suitcase and replace them with the ones you had taken off. You slowly button up your shirt, your eyes drifting to the space before you as your thoughts run through a cacophony of worries. You pull on a fresh pair of jeans, cinching the leather belt you had taken from a trashcan months ago. What were you going to do about the rent?

You amble into your kitchen, picking up the workboots you kicked off the previous night and slipping them onto your feet one at a time after you took a seat on your yellow sofa. You rise from your seat and trudge back to the kitchen. Your hand reaches towards the portable radio that sat next to the sink, twisting the left knob until you could hear the familiar fuzz of the tuning of the channels. You tune it to the city news station, one of the only signals you got from across the bridge. It was the only time you could get the latest updates about the goings-on in the upper districts of Piltover. The newscaster read out the latest sports scores from the week, his voice turning to a blank hum in your ears as you open the door to your fridge to fish for some food. All that was in there was two eggs left in an open carton and a single tomato. Breakfast of champions, you think to yourself. You try to stay optimistic, after all, it could have been nothing. It could have been a lot worse, and you’ve certainly forced yourself to eat a lot worse before. You open the half-broken door to the kitchen cabinet above the stove and retrieve a faded old frying pan. You pull out the drawer to one of the lower cabinets, pulling out a crooked fork as you crack one egg at a time into the frying pan, throwing the empty shells into the trash bin by the frame of the front door. You twist the knob to the stove’s element on, then scramble the yokes as it slowly rises to a hot temperature.

“In other news.” The announcer on the radio cleared their throat. “We here at the station regret to inform the public of an unfortunate event.” He continued. 

You watch the eggs slowly begin to sizzle on the face of the pan, not really paying attention at all but grateful for the company of the radio.

“Last night, an attack was committed against the council hall of Piltover. An unknown explosive device was detonated within the chambers in the middle of an emergency meeting of the council.” Your eyes snap to the radio as you inhale deeply, holding your breath. You quickly reach for the volume knob, swiveling it and raising the amplification. “Councilors Hoskel, Bolbok, and Kiramman were all killed in the ensuing blast, while two others are left with grave injuries.” The announcer continued reading. “Police authorities have not released a statement on who was behind the attack, but a local captain who was one of the first to arrive at the scene gave a statement. It is unconfirmed, but the culprits are highly likely to be members of a large chem gang that resides within the fissures. If anyone has any information about the attack or knowledge of who perpetrated it, they are encouraged to share it with the authorities.”

You finally let go of the breath you had been holding in for what seemed like hours, your chest rising then falling as you took your hand off the volume knob. You press the back of your palms against the edge of the kitchen counter as you hang your head low. You thought you were finally away from all of this, the sour news of more people dying, the tragedy of senseless killing and destruction. It was the reason why you struggled so hard to live above ground. That even though you still resided in slums, you were at least safe under the shadow of the city that stood above you. But you can never really escape from things like that. No matter where you run, you see the thin husk of death lurk around every corner and stalk every street. The announcer of the news transitions away to a hit piece interview with a local up-and-comer in the academy of Piltover. They had been replaying the thing for the past week, and your mind slowly tunes it out as your thoughts race ever on. The endless stream of worry flowing through your mind is snapped away as you hear the rapping knock of knuckles against your front door. You look over, blinking repetitiously as you find your bearings once more. You are hesitant to answer it, taking a moment to stare at the red paint as the person on the other side knocks once more.

You hobble towards the door, resting your hand on the knob as you mull the decision over. It could be someone you definitely don’t want to see, that was a possibility. A deep churn works its way into your gut as the visions of your landlord coming to evict you run through your thoughts. The knock repeated itself once more, and you were pulled back again. You twist the knob slowly, then pull the door towards you as it opens with a creak. You blink rapidly once more, the brightness of the clear day outside stabbing at your retinas. You looked about, but there was nobody in front of you. Just the sight of the waters below the bridge reflecting the sunny sky off its surface. You stick your head out the door and look right up your street as it slowly rises up to the upper part of the slums. Still nobody.

“Down here.” A soft voice chirped below your chin. Your eyes snap down, getting a full view of the one who knocked. A young man, no older than thirteen, stood obliviously at the foot of the step to the door, staring up at you. He wore a cheap dusty green chore jacket that bore scrappy holes in its chest where pockets had been ripped out. The young man stared up at you from beneath a grey checkered press cap, strands of black hair inching out from beneath it and down his cheeks. He slung a dark brown satchel bag over his shoulder, its strap running around his neck and down to each end of the bag. The young man blinked rapidly, mimicking you with an open smile. He stared up at you with a sparkle in his glassy green eyes. He reached down into his bag, retrieving a handful of envelopes in his lean hands before raising them up at you in an innocent gesture.

“Good day today, detective?” He chirped again.

“Hey, Lyric.” You exhale with a sigh, a small smirk darting across your lips as you take the stack of envelopes from the chipper boy’s hand. He was quite the silly lad, one that never lost his optimism. You were kind of grateful to see him, he hadn’t been by to deliver your mail from your P.O. box for a week and you were genuinely starting to worry if he was okay.

“You’ve got a letter from that stranger again.” He pointed to the envelopes as you flipped through the stack. Most of it was junk mail, but the lad was correct in his statement. The final one at the bottom of the stack was yet another letter sent from the odd address that usually accompanied the envelope. You had no idea who the person writing to you was, but every letter you received from them was a collection of a foreboding invitation to meet with them. They always explained that you had something that belonged to them and that they would pay handsomely for it back. But you never wrote back, as you’ve never owed anyone anything that you hadn’t paid in full as soon as you could. Besides the rent. You always figured it was a scam, and that if you ever went to the address marked on the letter, you’d be robbed for all your worth.

“You’ve gotta stop running my letters, kid.” You break the news to the young man, leaning your elbow against the door frame.

“But why?” Lyric slumped his head to his shoulder inquisitively, raising his thick eyebrow.

“Because it’s not safe for you to be going back and forth between the fissures and the surface. One of these days you’re going to disappear, then what would I do, huh?”

“I’ve got to earn money somehow. Just like you.” Lyric proudly stated. He always considered himself to be your soon-to-be protege, yet it was just a pipe dream. If he knew about some of the things you had to do just to make ends meet, he’d probably change his mind.

“But I don’t pay you.” You lean back and toss the stack of envelopes into the waste bin by the door.

“But other people do.” He stuck his finger up, wagging it slightly. “You’re not my only stop, you know. I just deliver yours for free, I know you need the charity.”

“Oh do I, now? You little runt.” You chortled at the boy’s wit. You swipe his press cap off with one hand, then ruffle his chin-length black hair with the other. “Hey, at least one of us is making a living.” You put the cap back onto the giggling boy, who was trying to swipe your hands away.

“I live out here just like you.” Lyric composed himself, wiping a whimsical tear from his eye that came out from his bodacious laugh. “But if you insist on paying me.” He raised his open hand up, wiggling his fingers for you to place a coin on it. His wild smile faded as his eyes drifted to the space behind you. You paused, studying his distracted gaze as the smell of something smoking wafted toward your nose. “Hey, I think your kitchen is on fire.” He pointed. 

You turn over your shoulder, watching a funnel of black smoke rise from the overheated pan as your eggs begin to burn over. “Shit.” You huff, then turn to close the door.

“But, my payment!” Lyric protested with a stomp, realizing what was to come next.

“Go home and sleep, Lyric. I’ll see you later.” You nearly squealed out as you quickly shut the door in his face. 

You dash back over to the stove on the tips of your toes, twisting the knob to the burner off and taking the pan off the element. With your free hand, you wafted the pungent smoke away from your face, spreading it across the room. You let out a low groan as you prod the black-charred eggs with the fork you had taken from the cabinet. You could still eat them, you’ve stomached far worse. But you just couldn’t convince yourself to do it. You’d genuinely rather starve, you’ve come too far to be doing stuff like that. You take the pan to the bin and watch as the eggs slide off and fall to the bottom. You bring the pan back over to the sink and run cold water over it, listening to the hissing sizzle. The true breakfast of champions is composed of nothing, you tell yourself. You switch off the radio, watching as its lights fade and return to slumber. 

Accepting the loss of your breakfast and appetite, you retreat towards your desk. You fall heavily into the leather studded swivel chair, another claim from the heap. You turn about and scoot yourself into the nook of the desk, then look at what sat before you. In front of you was an old rusted typewriter. It was missing a few keys when you got it, but you quickly jerry rigged replacements from an old coat hanger, and they worked just as well. You glance at your desk lamp and reach forward, turning it on at the base. You take a deep breath in, glancing at the door that stood far across the room from you, then to your empty desk.

You scooted back from the desk and opened the thin drawer below the center, pushing a packet of cigarettes and a flip lighter to the side as you retrieved your brown leather notebook and a half-chewed pencil from its barren bottom. You flip the book open to a blank page, then scribble the tip of the pencil against the paper to get the graphite sharper. You let your hand guide the pencil as you begin sketching out a scene, opting for a bit of creativity before you hit the streets. You doodle out a portrait of a sailing ship gliding across the scribbly face of an ocean, its jagged masts hanging up sails that caught the swirling wind. You also added a little doodle of a thick-coated cat licking at its paws in the bottom corner, you weren’t sure why but you supposed the cat could be an aquatic feline. You place the book back down and stare at the drawing for a while, letting the pencil rest between your fingers. After a moment, another knock raps up your door. You look past the book and to it from across the way. You lean back in your desk chair pensively, listening to the squeak of the dry hinge. The knock repeats itself, though not in any manner like the first two when you were standing in the kitchen.

“Go away, Lyric.” You call out to the door, yet no response is given back. You mindlessly chew on the wood of the pencil in your hand as you keep a pensive furrow in your brow. The knock repeats. “Kid, just beat it!” You call out louder, maybe he can’t hear you from all the way back here. Still no response, only the repeat of the knock.

“If this is about the rent, I’m working on it!” You call out as you finally sit up and lean forward against the edge of the desk. You were really hoping your landlord wasn’t going to come around today, especially since she left the note on your door only last night. Still no response, and still the repeating of the knock. “Oh my- Just come in, the door’s unlocked!” You holler, then sink back into your seat lazily in defeat. “If you’re here to rob me, just make it quick.” You mutter.

The knob twists and the door is pushed forth with a gentle shove. The light from the day casted itself heavily into the room, masking the silhouette standing at the other side of the room. You squint to see better, but the change in light once more mars your eyes with a stinging pierce. “What do you want?” You cast your hand in front of your eyes, blocking the harsh light. The silhouette steps forward from the outside and into your room, slowly and carefully shutting the door behind them. You pinch the corners of your eyes again, your headache rearing its ugly existence back into the forefront.

“Do you mind if I smoke in here?” A raspy, but feminine voice calls out to you as you rub the sting from your eyes.

“Go ahead.” You groan. “It’s not like I’m keeping the deposit.” You bring your hand down from your face, getting a full look at the stranger who had waltzed into your office.

A tall Vastaya woman stood before you from your slouch in your swivel chair. She wrapped herself in a terrifically tall red coat, its extremely puffed fur collar curling around snugly behind her head and partially blocking the view of her pale white freckled face. Her head was wrapped in a pinkish-red thin headscarf that criss-crossed over her scalp before winding down around the base of her neck and disappearing under her coat. Strands of deep brown hair poked out from under the wrap, which was the only thing to escape it besides her incredibly long pointed feline ears that stuck out from two slits at the top. She pinned a skinny black bakelite cigarette holder between her slender middle and index fingers, holding it incredibly still as she lit the end of a cigarette with a scratch lighter before bringing the funnel to her red lips and puffing it to get a steady burn flowing in the tobacco. 

“You’re the detective advertised on the door, correct?” She croaked. Her slim amber eyes watched you from beyond the fuzz of her fur coat as she put one arm across her waist to keep a hold on the breakpoint, while the other continued to nonchalantly wield the cigarette stick.

“Technically, I’m a private investigator. You actually need a license to be called a detective. I got the plaque before I realized that.” You admit with a sigh as your nails scratch an itch on your chin. You found the appearance of the woman odd, but not strange. She kind of reminded you of the fortune tellers you were taken to whenever your family had stopped in the ports of Demacia, which was whenever they held a circus-like festival that pulled in strangers and foreigners from all across the continents. Your eyes drifted down from her face, falling to the floor where you noticed her bare digitigrade legs poke out from under the flared hem, an even odder sight but then again you weren’t a sociable enough person to know many Vastaya to get used to it.

You put away your notebook, shoving it back into the drawer along with the pencil. Your eyes flick back up to the woman, who in turn was glancing about the state of your apartment. Before you could hear any semblance of a remark about it, you cleared your throat firmly. She looked back at you in silence, your eyes meeting hers as your hand slowly shut the drawer. “Is there anything I can help you with?” You speak up.

“Yeah.” The woman huffed. Her eyes dart across your desk as you wonder what for, but you catch on that she was looking for somewhere to ash her cigarette. You reach down into the side bottom drawer of your desk and retrieve a crystal glass ashtray, and you place the heavy thing on the desk with a thud before pushing it to the far right corner where she stands. “You mentioned your rent.” She remarked, then brought her hand down to flick the cigarette at the crystal bowl. “Have you ever thought about downsizing?”

“Yeah.” You scoff, stifling an insulted chuckle. “There’s a box out in the alley, but I think somebody’s taken it already. They’ll be gone when the tide comes in, though.” You stick a thumb over your shoulder at the window behind your chair. You watch the woman take a long drag of her cigarette again, then exhale the smoke out through her narrow nose as ghostly wisps of it trail up past the faint grey splattered smudges on her stark white face. You lean back again in your chair and fold the fingers of your hands over one another as you rest them on your lap. You waited for her to go on, but her eyes were beginning to slyly peek around your apartment again. “Before you even continue,” you raise your hand up. “Is this a paying job, or are you just looking for a handout?”

The woman’s narrow amber eyes snap back to you for a final time, a faint trail of disgust curling across the ridge of her nose. “Does it look like I need a handout?” She remarked coarsely with a sneer and a nod, lowering her hand again as she flicked her cigarette at the ashtray once more. “You’re the one advertising.”

“Right.” You may have been a bit irritable because of your headache, and a bit too quick on the draw when it came to remarks. You just simply did not like a snooping eye, you never took judgment on the chin well. “Sorry, it’s just been a while since I’ve had real work. What can I do for you?”

The woman exhaled solemnly through her nose, taking the cigarette from its holder and crumbling what was left of it in the ashtray. “I suppose I’m sorry too, I’m in a sour mood.”

“I take it that’s why you’re here?” You nod, watching her slender fingers smear the butt into the glass bowl.

“That would be correct.” She paused. “I assume your business has a code of confidentiality, detective…?” She lingered on the end of her sentence, queueing you to tell her your name.

“Just detective.” You correct her. You were not the kind of person to go sharing your name, especially to strangers. Hell, even the clients you’ve worked with for years didn’t really know your name. Just where to find you. “And yes, anything you tell me is confidential. But I’m not exactly on the payroll yet, am I?”

“That can change.” She shrugged. Her gaze flicked down to the ashtray, then to you. Then subtly to the cigarette holder still pursed between her fingers. You got the cue and leaned forward to root around in your desk once more. You brought out the pack of cigarettes you had brushed aside before and retrieved one from the box, offering it over to her by the end. “What are your rates?” She inquired, lighting your gift with the same scratch lighter she used before.

“Rates? Well, hourly-”

“It's a commission.” She cut you off. “I don't know how long this will take, so I’ll pay you upfront.”

“What’s the job then?” You cock an eyebrow, genuinely interested to see where any of this was going. You’ve had stranger people come in and hold odder conversations with you for a job than this. But they were all the shady type, masking some kind of criminal intent or weird perversion of real intrigue. Not her, though. She seemed like the type of person who puts caution first, and then followed it up with heavy hitting statements.

“Confidentiality, right?”

“Confidentiality.” You repeat. “Scouts honor, cross my heart so on and so forth.” You stick up two of your fingers from a closed fist in jest while the other dashed a criss cross over your chest with your index finger.

“I own a place down in the lanes that houses my business.” She started off before taking a drag of her freshly lit cigarette. “I won’t go into excruciating detail, but I work as a therapist.”

“Therapist? Like a quack?” You comment. She didn’t seem like the doctorate degree type.

“A physical therapist.” She flicked her cigarette at the ashtray habitually. “I help people using an experimental therapy involving diluted shimmer. Last night while I was out for a walk, I came back to find that my home had been broken into. And what little shimmer I owned had been stolen.”

“If it’s a shimmer issue, you need to go talk to Silco about it. I’m hands off when it comes to chems.” You wave your hand dismissively. Last time you looked into a case about a shimmer issue, some of the local cronies belonging to Silco’s gang gave you a rough time. You almost didn’t make it home if it wasn’t for your quick tongue and knack for bullshitting. You vowed to never step on his toes again, for your sake if not for the safety of your associates.

“Silco’s dead.” The woman muttered before taking another long, slow drag of the cigarette like she got paid by the hit. Her eyelids flared at the befuddled look on your face, a smirk working across her pursed lips as she inhaled. As if you were the only jackass who hadn’t heard about it yet.

“What?” You splutter, choking on your saliva as you jerk up from your seat. You cough roughly, taking a moment to clear your throat before speaking. “And how exactly do you know that?”

“I know a guy.” She shrugged. “Who knows a guy, who knows a guy.” Her index finger bounced between spaces in the air. “The point is that I wouldn’t be asking you if I could still go to Silco.”

“Nine hundred.” You firmly state. “Upfront, in cash. That’s the only offer you’re getting.” You had no way to confirm if the information was true, but you also had to be a complete idiot to pass up a job like this if she was right. Your usual commission price was half of that sum, but the risk required a doubling. Not that she’d even know, anyhow.

“Done.” The woman shrugged her fur-covered shoulders. “Do you take cheques?” Her hand drifted down to the large pocket of her greatcoat, presumably going for her book.

“I said cash-” You paused. “How do you have a bank account? I thought you said you lived in the fissures?”

“I-” She started off. “Know a guy who knows a guy, I get it.” You interrupt her back. “Let me write down my hours for you.” You go to your drawers for hopefully a final time to retrieve a sheet of paper from your notebook.

“For that price?” The woman scoffed, then put out the second cigarette like she did with the last. “You’re starting now, I’ll take you there.”

“Fine.” You threw your hands up, open-palmed in defeat. “Let me get my coat and lock up, at least.” You rose from your chair and walked about your desk to your open kitchen, picking your tattered jacket off of the countersill and tugging it on sleeve by sleeve. The woman watched you in silence from the same spot she had been standing in the whole conversation, in front of your desk. “I’d like to warn you beforehand that I can find out who took your shimmer, but I can’t do much to actually get it back. I’m an investigator, not the police.”

“No, I understand.” She mumbled from her spot as you glimpsed back at her from over your shoulder. She slid her cigarette holder into the deep pocket of her overcoat in silence, hiding it away as if it never existed at all.

“What’s your name, by the way?” You inquire. You do up the mismatched buttons on your coat, making sure it was firmly around you before you braved the cold air outside. The sun may be out, but the gales never calmed.

“I thought we weren’t on a first name basis?” The woman raised an eyebrow to the question. Her fingernails slid across the veneer of the wood of your desk, idly trailing.

“I’ve got to put something in my files, y’know.” You nod back to your row of cabinets. To be truthful, half of the shelves were completely empty. You tend to lose old case files more than you could lose bad memories. 

“It’s Lest.” The woman mumbled, then began to walk back towards the door with a carefree stride. “Just Lest.”

“Well, ‘just Lest’, you better have that money when we get to your place. I’ll start working once it’s in my pocket.” You straighten the collar of your coat, then stride towards the door to join her.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Your walk with the woman through the streets of the lower harbor slums was spent in pure silence. You ambled down the sidewalk with your hands stuck snugly in the pockets of your coat as you trailed Lest, who seemed to insist on walking a few feet ahead of you. You were in no rush to get to your destination, you figure a burgled house will still remain a burgled house no matter the manner you arrive. Lest didn’t seem to walk in a hurry either, sauntering as she kept her coat closed with a tight grip, the midday gales burrowing their way through the narrow thoroughfares and whipping up the red parted tails of the vent slit. You watched her walk with a methodical cadence as the pair of you strolled past street corners where people would gather to set up makeshift stalls and advertise their used junk, a common way to rack up money for the poverty-stricken citizens of the slums. Your gaze swiveled from the woman in front of you to the tops of the tall brick apartment complexes that were packed tightly into each lane, squeezed so close together they began to blend into big batches of analogous buildings that were only divided by a slim, lonely alley every block or two. 

You could see people through the reflection of the blue sky on the glass of the windows from on high. Families, vagrants, the elderly, and the impoverished, all just trying to make do with their lives that were domineered by the prospering city towering above them from over the river. Heading deeper into the slums, the dirt-crusted but relatively clean sidewalks of the harborside slowly shifted into trash-littered and asphalt shattered shells of what once was a nice neighborhood. You listen to the crunch of glass beneath your boots as you tread the street, your foot kicking up a loose can or rock that blew in your way from the whipping wind. Less people traversed the inner streets, knowing the sad reality that only the truly dirty souls inhabit a place like this. Lone scabby-skinned junkies loitering on the corner would occasionally spy the two of you heading their direction, before slinking across the road and avoiding any kind of interaction.

You finally come upon the rectangular shadow of a stone-brick building that stood taller than the rest. The husks and tumbled walls of what used to be a post office and an affordable clothing store stood to the left and right of the narrow building. Its flat rooftop reached high up by about a few stories, staring down at you in silent disdain. The chipped windows were narrower, not for housing but simply for light, and sat in neat rows between each floor. A stone set of three steps, guarded by a rusted and bent railing, led up to a set of aluminum double doors while a shallow tin overhang creaked above them. The right side door stood tall and flush against its hinges, while the left barely clung onto its hook as it slumped down and dared to fall flat and slide down the steps. Above the tin overhang hung a faded painted wood sign, reading out the name of a long since bankrupt textile business. You stop by the curb and watch Lest ascend the steps one leg at a time, gently brushing her fingertips over the rust of the railing. You knew this building all too well. It wasn’t a frequented destination by the people who lived in the slums, but it was a well known place that housed one of the few passageways that lead down into the depths of the fissures. Smugglers used to frequent it before a group of enforcers showed up a few years ago and rounded some of them up, hauling them off to who knows where, never to be seen again. The textile factory had a deep and wide basement to store the dozens of fabrics it once produced in its heyday. When the place was abandoned and the owners moved out, a group of kids broke into the lot to trash what was left behind. They soon discovered that a back wall to the cellar had collapsed in on itself and revealed a narrow passageway that descended far down into the fissures and spat the brave and daring out onto the streets of the Jade District on the Entresol level. That was not the place you were eager to visit, as you knew the kind of business and intrigue that traversed it. Lest glanced over her shoulder, finally noticing that you had stopped following her. She turned about slyly, giving you a confused but muted look.

“This way.” She flicked her fingers to the door with a twitch in her hand and a subtle wriggle in her nose like you were wasting her time.

“No, I know.” You huff, taking a glance up and then back down the street. “You sure you want to head that way, though? The descender to the lanes is just a few blocks away, over on Drop street.” You motioned to your right, taking your hand out of your jacket pocket with an open palm.

“This way is quicker.”

“Quicker?” You shrugged. “That’s the way to Jade, I thought we were going to the main.”

“I live in Jade, so we’re going to Jade. You’re not one to faint at an uncomfortable sight, are you?” She stated in a monotone voice. You could only conclude that you were pretty sure that was an attempt at teasing.

“Afraid?” You scoff, scratching the bridge of your nose with your right and middle fingers. You stick your hand back into your coat pocket, shrugging the jacket back up as it begins to shift off your shoulders. “No, I’m not afraid of anything down there. I just would have liked to know where we were going beforehand, I could have done with a warning.”

“Nobody gets the leisure of a warning down there.” Lest leaned back against the railing, folding one arm over the other. A small twitch worked its way up her right ear, zipping off the pointed tip with a quick wiggle. “Why? Do you owe someone money or something?”

You blurt a sarcastic chuckle, the comic of the statement amusing you. “I’m owed more money down there than the few debts I have. Neither of which are going to be collected, I assure you that.” You take your left hand out of your pocket, the cool day air whipping at your skin. You idly play with one of the buttons on your coat as you mull the decision over. You hum, then slide your tongue across the front of your teeth as you look about at the space in front of you. Going down the tram shafts would take longer, you’d have to make a massive detour across the gap just to find the appropriate entrance to the Jade District. And when you did, there would most likely be some kind of toll enforced by one of the vagrants that called the area home. She was right, the passageway would be quicker. But you still weren’t keen on going down to that level. The skipping reminder of the fact you had bills to pay convinced you otherwise, however. You genuinely could not turn this job down, no matter the discomfort. “Fine.” You yield, striding forward and up the steps. You pull the standing door open with difficulty, struggling against the rusted hinges. You hold it open for your benefactor, who passes you without any thanks.

You find the passageway in due time after descending a set of wood board stairs into the cellar. The back wall was indeed toppled, spilling dusty slate stones across the dirty cement floors. The passage way was more of a slim and terribly dark cavern hall that descended further than you could see. Just a steep slit in the earth that trailed its way into your imagination, emitting a faint whistle as air flowed freely through it. You look back to Lest, who shrugged her covered shoulder and nodded her pointed nose at the descent. You were heading in first.

“You still got that lighter?” You raised your eyebrow to her. Her hand fished into her coat pocket and retrieved her iconic scratch lighter, a silver thin rectangle segmented into two sliding pieces that emitted a small flame when you push one side away from the other. You take the lighter as she passed it to you, her grip lingering on it as you pluck it from her pursed painted nails. You gave the lighter a few flicks, struggling to get the flame going as you dart your eyes between it and Lest. The flame finally stood steady, and you turned about, raising the lighter to the darkness. You didn’t really want to go first, especially because the seemingly more stubborn of the two of you was walking in the back. If you had to back up, there’d be no room to squeeze past her in the narrow passage. You weigh the other hand, that you were also the bigger one, and you’d feel awfully guilty having to ditch her if something unpleasant came back up in your direction. 

You sighed deeply, then stepped forward into the darkness and down the rocky floors. The track was so narrow that the stony walls of the passage bumped against your shoulders every few steps. You felt like a pinball at this point, and the ending to the descent was nowhere in sight. You travelled deeper and deeper without exchanging a word with Lest, it looked like small talk was still off the table and you weren’t about to embarass yourself by trying. Not until you could conduct the investigation, at least. The cool flow of fresh air began to twist into a pungent moldy stench as you tread, a nauseating reminder of how bad the oxygen was down in the fissure. You reckoned that besides the pump stations, little offshoots like this were the only filter to the stuffy stench collecting beneath the surface of the earth. You didn’t glance over your shoulder to check if Lest was following after, if she wasn’t then you were already doomed when you entered the tunnel. You had no reason to not trust her, but then again you had no reason for trust at all. The pursuit of money has lead you to places you wouldn’t even go with a gun, this was no exception. 

The stench of the air grew stronger, and you couldn’t help not using your free hand to yank the collar of your jacket up and cover your nose. You were once used to it, but plenty of days on the topside made you forget just how awful it was. A smell like sour milk and rotten eggs mixed with manure, sickening to the bone. As you descended, the faint outline of an opening etched its way into view. First, as small as a pin in the distance, but it grew larger in your sight by every step. You descended the last few yards, clinging onto the rock edge of the walls as the path got steeper and steeper. The stone felt wet and moist, slippery like algae. You pulled your hand back, accepting that you’d rather risk falling and busting your ass over having to touch the unidentifable ooze any longer. The rock path turned to loose sediment, and your boots began to slide a bit as you finally reach the exit to the passageway. The roar of the bustle of the streets echoed up the walls, the air getting warmer and a greenish light overtaking the shadow. 

You pocketed the scratch lighter, then slid the last step, stumbling out the exit to the passage and out onto the flat concrete of the ground. You get a full glimpse of the fissures in midday rush as you take a moment to look about. The Jade District was sizably large for the Entresol level, but as packed and tightly bound as the slum streets you had left behind before. The entire neighborhood sprung up in a thin offshoot chasm that had jutted out from the main deep ravine of the left fissure. Originally being one of the richer of the neighborhoods, though compared to Piltover it was a pittance, the Jade district sported paved and mostly undamaged roads. Not that anyone could drive a vehicle down into the fissures, let alone actually traverse the underground in it, but paved roads nonetheless. It was a status symbol, one that was upheld no matter the low of the life that took up residence. You looked up to the tall cavern walls that arched up and over into the low hanging ceiling from your spot on the sidewalk, eyeing still stalagtites dripping with condensation and webs of wires zig zagging between the wall and the tops of the steppe terrace rooves of the cramped city block. Low, blocky crystal-shaped fixtures hung from chains from the cave roof, providing a safelight glow of a muddy green, giving Jade District its iconic name. Jade wasn’t leveled like the rest of the fissures, it didn’t support any hobbled gangways or shoddily built bridges to cross any gaps, it found a firm footing in the nook of the rift in the earth and sprouted its roots quickly into a twisted reflection of the kind of environment you’d see up in Piltover. You glimpse about at the faces passing you by as the busy and crowded sidewalk flowed around you. You try to step out onto the street, but every time you thought of moving your foot somebody would brush by you, making you hesitate to even move. 

The buildings within the Jade were complementary with the rest of the fissures, brutalist self built structures of wrought iron and steel. Some held semblance of genuine architecture, efforts of a long bygone era that had been flushed away from decades of societal deterioration. You looked to the lumps of tramps and drifters gathering by the edge of the sidewalk on the curb across the road. Some loitered in groups, chatting with one another like it was their dayjob. Boney and hairless men gathered around a circle on their knees, tossing dice into the ring before cheering and jeering at the result, then quickly trading wads of cash and handfuls of coins. A few younger but nasty looking people kept watch by a tall wood plank fence that wrapped around the yard to a crooked and leaning shack. They wore leather jackets that they draped over their shoulders, their sleeves dangling empty. A few bore tattoos of insignia on their bare arms or below their neck on their collar bone, an identifier between the local chem gangs that resembled the only law in the underground. Others had elaborative decorative tattoos wrapping and winding around their chests and arms, a way of passage that let people know that they served time in Dredge Prison, a penitentary labor camp that resided in the deepest levels of the Sump. A few would glance your way from the corner of their eyes, minding your intrusion. You didn’t look out of place, not at all, but you were not a familiar face and that already spelled trouble.

You try to move off the sidewalk, taking a confident step forward to leave the curb. A body bumps into you with a heavy shove and you spin about on your heel to stay upright.

“Watch where you’re going.” The cracked lips of a heavy framed woman sneered at you from behind the wide hoop of a septum piercing. She wore a rough wifebeater that was tucked into a pair of tattered cargo pants. Her right arm’s shoulder bore the same tattoo, the semblence of a gang insignia. She walked backwards as she derided you, throwing her hands open from her sides either as an invitation to fight, or a threat not to try to.

“You ran into me.” You gave her a strange, furrowed look as you dusted off the arms of your jacket.

“Yeah? Up yours, raker.” She grunted at you, then turned back to the direction she was heading. No matter how much time you spent in the fissure, you simply couldn’t keep up with the rapid change in the local lingo. It shifted almost every year, and you resolved to give up trying to keep up with it a long time ago. Though you were pretty sure she was calling you an asshole. Realizing that you were here for a reason, you turn about and look back to the exit for your employer. Lest slid down the dirt path gracefully once the sidewalk had cleared, coming to a stop after a brief trot.

“Thought I lost you there for a moment.” You try to break the ice after the long stayover of silence. You bring her scratch lighter back out of your pocket and hold it out to her. 

Lest took a moment to flick strands of cobwebs that had collected on her fur collar away from her face, then took the lighter from your hands. “The place is a bit further than here. This way.” She began walking with a quickened step ahead of you, making a clear path down the sidewalk in the direction of a skinny alley that squeezed itself between two tall complexes near where the wall of the cave made a dip and curved around behind the buildings.

“Even further?” You huff, jogging to catch up as you jab your closed hands back into your jacket pockets. “I didn’t even know Jade went this deep. I haven’t been back here in a long while.”

“Right.” She responded back, dismissing your attempt at idle chatter. 

As hard as you try, you genuinely couldn’t get a good read of Lest. She came into your office, offered you work, then whisked you away down a dark hole to a place that you convinced yourself you wouldn’t return to. Beyond that, you knew nothing of the kind of person she was. You kept a hunch that the story she gave you wasn’t exactly straight, but you weren’t being paid to investigate lies, you were being paid to investigate a theft. You hoped you were getting paid, at least. You’d wish and want for a larger sum for having to look into business about shimmer, but beggars cant be choosers and you were lucky enough she accepted your bid without haggle. 

You follow her down the street, past the slumped aching bodies of disease ridden beggars who were being driven off the streets by a pack of more chemgangers. One, hiding under the sheet of a tarp, tried to reach out and touch you. You jerked back when you got a full view of his boil ridden arm as it waved out from under its shelter as he rasped out a plea for a few coins. You pass by the long street pointing you to the alley. Storefronts to scrappy iron shacks opened into the filthy air as you pass by. You glimpse at the down-and-outs who were seated in chairs while mechanics worked slowly on mechanical limbs and modifications on the customer’s body. You pass by the junction in the road, glancing down the street and watching as a crowd gathered around a street boxing match that was being held on the sidewalk. A bulky shirtless Chirean traded blows with a an equally muscular man, darting their firsts back and forth as the crowd cheered on and a little man in a suit took cash for bets by the handful. Walking past the street, against the walls of a shanty, Pimps wearing an array of bougie regalia and fresh pressed suits chattered between each other as they leaned against the back of an apartment complex. Their whores beconed, trying to get the attention that you were not going to reward them with. 

You follow Lest as she slinked down the thin barren alley and turned the corner around the back of the lot where the metal backside of byzantine crated shacks dared to press against the walls of the cavern. At the end of the turn, stood a lone but relatively ordered brick and wood apartment squeezed in behind the buildings at the street and below the low hanging ceiling of the Jade District. It was not of the same iron and steel as the rest of the shantytown, no, it looked like if the building had tumbled down the fissures from the topside and wedged itself into the corner miraculously. The front looked to be like an old parlor of sorts, sporting a jutting canted bay window from the ground floor, a space for display of items that were no longer being traded and sold. The panes had been covered with batches of pages of old newspaper, stuck to the glass with a thin smeared layer of epoxy. A faded black four panel door sat ajar in a concave away from the bay, revealing a glimpse of a dark interior of a home blanketed in the shadow of the dim light in the caverns. You look up to the second story, the view into the square windows, yet blocked by shut white blinds. You had to give the woman some credit, the place was extremely discrete and out of the way. And if anyone with half a brain came snooping around the alley, they’d take one look at the foreboding stillness and enforced privacy and turn right around, fearing that it was the residence of somebody who’d shoot through the door before answering it.

“You actually get any business being so hidden like this?” You mutter as your gaze drifts from the windows to the ajar door. Then back to Lest who stood between you and the building, leaning on her left leg with a curve in her hip. 

“This is my home away from home, if you want to call it that. My work usually requires a lot of housecalls which means staying overnight with people who owe me favors.” She shrugged as she still kept a good hook around her coat. You hadn’t seen her loosen her grip on it besides to light a cigarette, and you suppose that she’d remain in such a defensive posture until you actually got to work. You couldn’t blame her, you’d be nerve wracked if your place was burgled. But she didn’t show it on her face, nor say it. You only picked it up in the subtle mannerisms she exhibited, like how she insisted on taking the detour or how she made you go first down the tunnel. She was in a hurry to get to the bottom of this, but she didn’t seem to ask you to rush either.

“A lot of people owe you favors when you’re providing them shimmer, huh?”

“I’m not a dealer, detective.”

“I take it you slept somewhere else last night when you came back to find the door like this, then?” You carefully step to the ajar door, leaning in and running your fingers down the black frame. The lock had been kicked in by a heavy foot, not just breaking the latch but splintering the wood and twisting the handle by almost ninety degrees. Whoever did the kicking had to be big, big enough to throw this much force into it. Nobody with a small build could shatter the wood like this. You didn’t figure the person was that smart either. Somebody with a brain would have done a job like this in a far more clean manner. Picking the lock, or slipping a flat slate of metal through the gap between the door and the frame in order to hammer out the hinges. No, this person was sloppy. Not only sloppy, but brazen enough to not care if they left such a stark trail.

“I didn’t sleep.” Lest croaked out as you peer back to her from your hunched state. “I tried doing some digging on my own, but the whole mess alluded me. Nobody that I thought could be a suspect, was one. So that’s when I came to you.” Now that she was standing still below the green glow of the light, you could see trails of a faint red marks on her bottom lids below her shadow, trailing up to each side of her canthi. It could definitely be the lack of sleep, but that kind of redness was also incurred by light chem use. You didn’t have the patience nor inclination to prod into it though, you weren’t being paid for that. In fact you weren’t being paid at all yet.

“Have you gone inside at all?” You look back to the shadow in the doorway.

“Only once when I got back and made sure nobody was still around. It’s how I found out the shimmer was gone.”

“Did you tamper with the scene at all?” You ask. It was an important question, because if she did you had to find out where to put everything back into place.

“No, not at all. I just saw that the shimmer was gone, then went to check if my money was taken as well.”

“Was it?” “It was not.”

“Before I go any further, I’m going to need that payment.” You straighten up, stuffing your hands back into your pockets like a bad habit.

“It’s inside.” Lest nodded to the door, letting you enter first just like the tunnel.

You look back to the door and inhale deeply, holding your breath for a second before releasing it steadily. There was a funny ache in the muscles of your legs, and you weren’t sure if it was a bad feeling or just the tenseness from your hangover. “I better not regret opening this door.” You warn.

“If you say so.” Lest rolled her flaxen eyes. “If I wanted to rob you, you’d think I’d have done it when I caught you half asleep at your desk.” 

“I-” You paused. You wanted to come back with an equally sly remark, but nothing surfaced. You turned away from her before you could catch sight of any kind of smugness, or none at all. Either would have equally infuriated you. You stride to the door, then nudge it open with a soft kick from the tip of your boot. The door creaked open with a slow wail, jingling a small brass bell that hung from a outcrop above your head.

“There’s a lamp to your right, twist it.”

You reach in past the door, slipping your hand under the decorative shade of a standing lamp and flicking it on with a turn of its swivel switch. The low orange glow of the bulb rose to a steady brightness, its filament struggling to keep up with the power and lighting up the embroidered shade to reveal an intricate picture of twisting stalks of tall grass and colorful bugs sewn into the fabric. You peek around the room carefully, getting a good feel for the kind of life your employer lived. A narrow, cramped livingroom stood before you, far smaller than your house as the building had not much room to expand to being stuck behind a shanty town. A tall staircase with an elegant twisting spruce railing lead up to a darkened upper floor to your far right past the bijou room coated with a greyish white and blood-red patterned wallpaper. The first thing you notice is the smell, a faint trace of mellow incense in the room that had infused itself into the warm stuffy air. A scent of sweet boiled fruit tea mixing with the faded imprint of tobacco smoke. The livingroom was so cramped it felt more like a foyer, and it did not shy away from showing the intricacies of its owner. Hanged picture frames of decorative paintings of scenery and baroque scenes of beautiful people from a bygone era preforming pictures of events from legend and lore hung from chicken wire on the walls. A tall dark crowned coat rack hid itself behind the door, rocking as it bumped against your ingress and jingling its array of stylish hats and hung-up embellished coats. An elegantly tall hunt buffet cabinet almost blocked your way into the room, hiding crystalline glasses and deep blue fine china on shelves behind its protective glass. Past it, to the left of the wall, was an open archway into an even more cramped kitchen with its shallow pantry door standing half open. A low half wall divided the foyer and the back of the apartment, a large window giving you a glimpse into a narrow den of sorts. Sumptuous tall china vases sat along the ledge, sporting colorful flowers that were in the first stages of wilt.

You walk through the entrance, passing a hanging mirror on the wall that was cornered with an elaborate carved frame. You amble into an equally elaborate rectangular room with dark shiplap pannelling. A tall-backed elongated velvet red chaise longue turned its back to you, facing the wall. It packed itself close to a low waned coffee table holding an array of assorted items. Beyond it was a pinstripe sofa armchair, pressed against the wall and facing your way. There was another shaded lamp tucked in behind the longue, and you spare no time turning it on as well and illuminating the cramped den. You look about the contents of the table, a plethora of a story to be told. A pool of cold coffee remained still in a white ceramic mug on the table, leaving the faint outline of its bottom from what looked like days of sitting there. Beside it was a long incense holder, two sticks sitting half burnt in their foxholes while tan-grey ash collected in the divot of the tray below it. There was a smooth wood bowl filled with a heap of remnants of smoked cigarettes and crumpled butts sitting onto of a gold leaf decorated box of tarot cards. At the seat of the longue chair were a small stack of a fewmagazines, most of which are just catalogues of vintage fashion and retail. If you hadn’t been told that a robbery took place here, you’d never would have guessed anything was ary. The whole house remained in a silent stillness with nothing seeming out of place. So many nice things and hidden items, yet none of them were stolen to be pawned. The culprit was most definitely after the shimmer, and the shimmer alone. 

Behind the coffee table, next to the foot of the arm chair, a blue painted tin divider case rested open on the hardwood floor. Each side of its swinging hatches were left open, staring its contents up at the smooth low plaster ceiling. You take a knee before the case, using the soft seat of the chair to lower yourself down steadily. The case had multiple levels to it for carrying, a set of trays. The top tray had been taken out and left to the side lazily, an array of rounded paint brushes of varying sizes sitting in clasp holders. You bend down, looking about the contents of the case as Lest followed you in and closed the door as far as it could go with a broken lock. She shoved a small but heavy sounding cardboard box at the foot of the coat rack in front of it, blocking the door from opening back up.

“You do any painting, miss?” You call back to her as you run your eyes across the brushes of the removed tray. Your fingers went to pluck one of them out, but you hesitated and moved your hand away.

“It’s for my work.” Lest disclosed as she took off her substantial coat and hung it up with the rest on the rack. You notice her particular taste in fashion, a plum low cowl neck shirt and a pair of wine red carpis. No wonder she kept such a tight grip on her coat, those leisured clothes weren’t the most suitable for the weather on the uptop.

“Like I said, I’ll need that payment now.” You nagged once more, watching Lest dart from the foyer and into her kitchen. You hear the clink of something, but you assumed she’s just putting her keys up or throwing loose change from her pocket into a tray. Nothing to get suspicious about.

“It’s up stairs, hold your horses.” Lest let up as she zipped back out the archway of the kitchen. She ascended up the staircase on the pads of her toes, leaving you to the silence of the investigation.

You turn back to the open case, looking now into the interior. A second tray sat at the top, filled with a thick foam lining. Indents were cut out in the foam, shapes of skinny necked vials and oblique flat bottomed bottles. This must be where she kept her small supply of shimmer. It was a rather sizable travel case, but discrete. Not the kind of thing that would make enforcers stop you for a search. You could hear the light treading of your employer descending back down the creaking stairs, then quietly joining you in the den.

“Do you usually just leave your work tools in your home ungarded?” You inquired. The way you asked sounded sarcastic, but it was a genuine question. You couldn’t leave a damn thing in your apartment that you genuinely held value in, you’ve been taken for an easy mark way too many times from your stent in the fissures. Everything that you intended on keeping, you kept hidden under a loose floorboard that was covered over by your incredibly heavy desk. This case, though? It was just sitting out here, asking to be rooted through.

“This neighborhood is safer than you think, detective.” Lest approached you, looking over your shoulder as you knelt before the armchair. “I pay my dues, I know I’m not anyone’s target here.” 

“Yeah, but if Silco’s gone, then there’s probably a lot of shifting parts within his well oiled machine going to rust. People might be making moves. That’s all just conjecture, though.” You theorize. It was conjecture. You had no idea what kind of things went on between the chem barrons, it wasn’t your world nor your position to observe. “The only thing I can say is this was well planned and precise. They knew when you weren’t home, they came in quick and loud, and all they took was the shimmer.” You hum in thought. “But why such effort for so little?” You ask yourself under your breath. “Was there anything special about your supply? Was it different? More concentrated?”

“The opposite of that. I diluted it with water, it’s why I keep- Kept so little.”

“Why do that, though?”

“My job is to help people try to heal with it, not to get them addicted to it. Like I said, I’m not a dealer.” Lest asserted, still looking over your shoulder. “Are you going to take it, or what?”

“What do you mean?” You turn back to her, twisting from your spot where you knelt. She extended out a closed white envelope to you, thick with what was probably a wad of bills. You notice intricate gold plated rings around her pinky and middle fingers. A cocktail ring with a broad emerald-looking jewel accompanied by a small filigree on her pinky. Did she have those on before, you wonder? “Oh.” You stammer. You reach back and take the envelope from her hand. The contents felt thick and dense, heavy in your hand. Most definitely bills. You slide under the lapel of your jacket and into the inside pocket.

“You’re not going to count it?” Lest raised her thin eyebrow, taking a seat at the foot of the longue.

“No, why would I?” You turn back to the armchair. You pick up the tray that was left out on the floor and return it to its case. It slowly slides in with a glide, fitting the case with an almost perfect volume.

“I mean, it could be just paper.”

“I don’t have any reason not to trust you that it isn’t money.” You hum. “Liars don’t really point out that they’re liars. And the ones that do, are already bad at telling lies.” 

You close each side of the case shut, fitting the sides together and redoing the hook latch that kept it closed. As you moved the left side hatch away, you noticed a crumpled butt of a cigarette smeared into the vaneer of the wood of the floor. You picked up the case, setting it aside on the seat of the armchair. You used your fingernails to peel the butt from the floor, squishing the cotton between you index finger and thumb to return its shape. You bring it close to your eye to get a look at the logo on it, red paper with a company called Wickrams. It wasn’t a popular brand, and rather pricey. Not something that a chainsmoker would buy. And why would it be smeared into the veneer? It was trodded on sloppily, like the person was in a hurry to leave. You look back to Lest, who was silently observing you work as she kept a straight posture from the edge of the lounge sofa. 

“This your brand?” You pinch the cigarette butt. She extended a cupped hand, and you drop it in, then stand up.

“No.” She droned, squinting at the logo. “It could have fallen out of the bowl.” She tossed the butt into the aformentioned wood bowl sitting ontop of the deck of tarots, adding it to the heap of ash. “Do you usually let your clients smoke in here?”

“Like I said, I make housecalls.” She shrugged, batting her eyelids. “But yeah, the ones who can only afford to travel to me smoke in here.”

“Any of them smoke Wickrams, then?” You pick the bowl up from its spot, then look through the pile of ash. Most of the butts where pure white with a cobalt blue stip around the top end where the tobacco once touched, a common brand by the name of Stahols. Cheap and plentiful down in the fissures, you could find them anywhere from booze shops to the slum markets. But your question was the right one to ask, as a few strays were the same red as the one Lest had thrown into the bowl with the rest. “Better question to ask is do any of them bring their own, or bum from you?”

“I mean-” Lest paused with a stir in her expression, then sighed. “I can’t say for certain, but yeah one brings their own.”

“Then we have our first suspect.” You dust your ash-covered hands off back into the bowl, rubbing away the faint trail of gray. “What’s their name?”

“I have a policy of confidentiality, just like you.” Lest gave you a disdainful look. She must have taken her job seriously. If it paid as well as it sounds, then you couldn’t blame her.

“I’m not saying they did it, calm down.” You roll your eyes with a swirl. “I’m saying is that people dirty enough to break into your house are dirty enough to extort information from one of your clients. It could have been an accident, you never know.”

You watched Lest’s eyes drift down to the corners of the room by the wall, reading back and forth. It did take a lot of convincing to break such a policy, on your part and her own. “Okay.” She looked back up at you towering above her as you stood in the cramped den. 

“Well?”

“Yeah, there’s one guy.” She suspired deeply. “His name is Aquil. He’s kind of a young guy, but not green. He comes in to treat a lame wrist, one he broke a while ago and it just never set right.”

“Who’s this guy, then? What does he do?”

“Please don’t go bothering my clients.”

“Do you want to find out who took your stuff, or not?”

“He’s part of one of the cliques that run the chopshops down on Leftpoint avenue, across the gap and up near where the pump stations are. I forgot the name of the gang, something ridiculous.” Lest yielded her precious code of confidentiality with hesitation.

“So he’s part of the Motorrunners, then?” You scratch your chin in thought. You knew the gang well, they were a prime place to sell looted scrap. You had dropped off some collected junk a few times when you were younger and when the gang was ran by a more friendlier face that had long since retired. “The garage shop that has all the neon signs on it, right? Out next to that liquor store with the bars on its windows.”

“Yeah, that’s the one.” Lest gave you a perplexed look, pressing her brows together. “You know it?”

“Yeah, I’m not a stranger. I used to live down here too, y’know.” You bend over the coffee table and pluck one of the red butts from the ash, sticking it into your pocket.

“You don’t seem like it.”

“What do I seem like, then?” You scoff.

“Not sure. Just not Zaunite material. I was suspecting you were from Piltover, actually.”

“You’re the one that looks like you spend more time in Piltover than I ever have.” You motion a finger in her direction, entertained by the statement. “Making house calls, bumming off couches, being owned favors for secrecy, being paid enough to hire your own detective. You’re not that hard to figure out.” You amble back into the foyer, idly looking at the baroque paintings and glancing at your sorry state in the mirror.

“I assure you there are things that you’d never guess in your wildest dreams, detective.” Lest stood up from the lip of the lounge and followed you out.

“Try as I might, try as I may. Probably not, huh?” You mutter as you near the outcropping of the bay window. You trace your hands across the newspaper plastered to the panes, then peel a loose corner back to check if it was clear outside. Across from the house, down the alley, you saw him. Lyric. He was standing idly by the wall of the cavern, watching the house with a tenseness in his shoulders. His head darted back between watching the house and checking the end of the alley his black hair bobbing as it turned. He was probably antsy to avoid anyone noticing him down there. “You’ve got to be shitting me.” You groaned, putting the corner of the newspaper back into place.

“I was actually about to ask you who he was.” Lest bent down and moved the heavy box out from the stop at the door. She pushed it back under the hang of the coatrack, then pulled the loose door open by its twisted handle. “He was following us ever since we left your office.”

“A thorn in my damn ass, that’s who.” You shove your hands back into your pockets as you accept her invite to leave, descending the lip of the frame and trodding back into the street. Lyric’s eyes brightened up as he saw you leave in the distance, waving his hand to get your attention. You turn back to Lest, who kept the door half-closed as she leaned out with a leer. 

“Like I said, I can get to the bottom of this, but I can’t get your shimmer back. I may be in the mood to bend a few rules, but I’m not about to take on a chem gang for you.”

“I understand.” Lest muttered, looking at Lyric who was now waving merrily at her as well. She gave a short, subtle wave back, then looked back to you. “I’ll be staying at the Grande Trevale, come find me when you’ve got something.”

“More favors you’re owed to get a place in there?” You smirk.

“Always, detective.” She gave you a subtle smile back before closing the door gently. 

You watched the empty front of the parlor for a moment and listened to the box being shifted back into place. You snort, then spin back around on your heel as you watch Lyric slowly approach with a skip in his footing.

“You’ve finally got a job!” Lyric proclaimed as he walked and stood before you, watching you behind a sparkle in his green eyes. He stuck his hands in his pocket, mimicking you. He mimicked you all too well, that’s exactly why he was here.

“Yeah, I do. And you’re not coming.” You shoot down his hopes, doing it quick so he couldn’t keep lying to himself. You weren’t keen on bringing a kid like him into gang territory. Not that Lyric couldn’t handle himself, more that he’d get in the way.

“But-!” Lyric protested before you cut him off again.

“No.”

“You need backup!” He argued, the dumb smile never leaving his face. You find it endearing, how there’s a world out there that keeps trying to beat him down, and yet he never stops keeping a positive outlook. You hated that you had to be a part of it, but you also didn’t want to set a bad example. “What’s a detective without a protege? It’d be like a Heimerdingr without a Ziggs! A bird without a nest! A travesty, I tell you.”

“No, kid.” You repeat.

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes!”

“Fine.” You relent with a groan, pinching the corners of your eyes between your nose. You didn’t have the energy to fight this battle, your headache was beginning to creep back up on you and work its way through your scalp. You’d take the kid, sure. He’d get his taste for adventure, then you’d cut his aspirations short and send him home. A little appeasement for a little privacy, it was a fair deal. “You’re not do anything but follow me. You’re not going to talk to anybody, or touch anything, or do anything but stand there.” You warn him sternly as you jab your finger against his coated collar. “If you do anything besides that, you’re fired.”

“Deal!” Lyric laughed, putting his lean hand in yours and giving it a congratulatory shake like the little businessman he was. “Where are we going?” he chirps as he watches you pass him and head back down the alley. He ran forward, catching up with your long stride, not idle enough to be left behind.

“To Leftpoint, I’ve got some business.”

[dungeonbent]

more than you can chew

"So you want us to take you to the bottom of the dungeon..." Laios muses, nursing the overly sweetened ale that you've just bought a round of.

At first, your impression of the man had been somewhat less than stellar. The easy-going air he has about him, coupled with the enthusiastic way he asked about your home in the western capitol and his overly friendly demeanor, made you slightly wary. But now that business talk has started, he seems to be giving it serious thought.

Laios asks, "Could I maybe get a timeframe on that?"

You say, "I was hoping to enter within the month." You don't have much more time than that. Your name is Kanaya Maryam, and you think things might just work out.

Then Laios Touden says, "Yeah, uh. I think we'll have to turn you down on this one?"

He smiles apologetically, as if he hasn't just dashed your heart straight onto the rocks. You stare at him in shock, letting the ambient noise of the tavern and its festival-going patronage fill the silence between you as you struggle to grasp onto what could have possibly gone wrong.

You start to say, "If it's about the money, I can always-"

"Ah- it's really not about the money, I promise!" Laios says, holding his hands up. "It's just... okay, how do I put this..."

You allow some time for the tallman to articulate his response, hands tightening around your own mug. You don't even like to drink. But within the Festival of Lost Hearts, there seems to be some invisible decree that states all of those who so much as step out into the sun ought to have some syrupy alcoholic bullshit liable to destroy more relationships than just that of the body and its liver.

Laios doesn't get to formulate his full response, because his companion takes a pause from downing some of that alcoholic bullshit to cut in with a dry, "Yeah, what you're describing just isn't logistically reasonable."

"How so?" You ask, peeved. You think you've laid out the relevant points quite succinctly, actually. You even provided flow charts! No one can deny you when you have pictures! You are sure there is a law somewhere that says this.

The half-foot- Chilchuck, you think- leans forward, looking entirely unimpressed. "You want us to take you to the bottom of the dungeon on, and I quote, a 'research mission-slash-treasure hunt-slash-general dungeon things', trip. Do you have any idea how vague that all is?"

"That's what this diagram is for," You say, starting to rifle through your papers, "I really have it all well divvied out-"

"And you're basing this off a book?" Chilchuck presses, leaning up to plant an elbow on the table and stare you down. "What makes you think it's even accurate, exactly?"

"I'll have you know that it's written by a very reputable source," You say, trying to keep your hackles from rising. "You can check with all the scholars- R.L. Theras really did disappear in Skaia dungeon--"

"Yeah," Chilchuck interrupts, "and some guy took the real story of some missing adventurers and decided to make a quick buck."

You scoff. Theras's writing style is far too lyrical to be merely any charlatan off the street. "To say such a thing sounds to me like a lack of experience. Perhaps you should live a few more years before making that assertion?"

Chilchuck scowls, the ale sloshing in his skein as he gestures with it, "I am plenty fucking experienced-!"

"Whoa, whoa, hey," Laios cuts in, putting a large hand on Chilchuck's narrow shoulder. Chilchuck turns a glare towards him as he says, "Chilchuck here's one of the best lockpicks you're gonna get. He's more than experienced." That seems to mollify the smaller man somewhat, though not for long, as Laios continues, "That being said, assuming that the book is real-"

"- are you trying to get scammed again?" Chilchuck hisses, but you elect to ignore him since you... suppose it might make sense why this would seem like a scam, to someone who thought R. L. Theras's work to be fiction.

Laios glances at Chilchuck and Chilchuck appears to back down, sinking back into his seat with a grumble. Laios continues, "Assuming that the book is real, you're not giving us much time to prepare, and no clear goal to actually prepare for. It's like... just asking us to bring a bunch of rations down and survive, and nothing else."

"Is that a bad thing?" You ask.

Laios and Chilchuck both look at each other. You do not appreciate whatever secret message they appear to be communicating to each other with their eyes. You wish you had any kind of mental magic to take a peek into what it could be. Or any magic at all.

"Say, Kanaya," Laios says, "have you ever actually... been to a dungeon?"

"Not before yesterday." You say honestly, "But I've been reading about them."

"Okay, so. The big thing about making a trip into a dungeon successful is having a clear plan on how long you're in the dungeon, and how you're going to get out. How long did it take R. L. to get to the bottom?"

Is this a pop quiz now? Somewhat confused, you answer, "Two months."

"And their only goal was to reach the bottom of the dungeon," Laios says, "No layovers for extra research and no extra treasure hunting. So how long do you think it'll take to reach the bottom if you have all that other stuff to do on top of it?"

You start to deflate. "... Longer."

"And getting back?"

"Does your sister not have a teleportation spell...?"

"If she can't use it for whatever reason, I mean."

You feel like sinking into the floor. "Even longer."

"There you go," Chilchuck says, raising his glass. "What you're asking for assumes that nothing's going to happen and that nothing will go wrong. In the dungeon where everything goes wrong constantly. That's a death wish."

You're starting to feel rather foolish, and rather desperate. You know you haven't been entirely forthcoming about the true nature of your desired trip into the dungeon, but even still...

"What if," You ask, despite yourself, "it was to... save someone?"

This catches Laios's attention. He asks, gently, "Save who...?"

"I don't know." And that's the truth.

Chilchuck heaves a sigh and says, "Well, that'd need even more planning- unless you know the exact place their corpse is- and who the corpse even is- you could be canvasing those floors for weeks..."

"What if they're alive?" You ask.

Chilchuck clicks his tongue. "Yeah. That's... kind of doubtful." He pauses, then sets his mug aside. "Sorry. We really wouldn't be able to help you with that."

You all lapse back into silence and you stare at your plans, trying to figure out how you can still salvage this. Porrim gave you six months to find what you've come for in Skaia's dungeon, and you know that if you don't leave in time, the Canaries may well follow. The Touden party are the most qualified party you've spoken to today. If they think this is an impossible task...

"Hey," Laios says, "wanna get something to eat? My treat!"

"Oh, no," You start, "I couldn't possibly-"

"You may as well eat something- it's not like there's anything else to do at a party," Chilchuck says, starting to flag down someone carrying two large trays of bowls, weaving through the throng of unruly patrons.

You have no recourse to deny the men their meager offer of comfort. You're still slightly bitter at having been shut down so soundly, but the stew that's served is warming. It is a dish the locals call 'bukenade', bowl filled with tender pieces of goat meat falling apart under the slightest pressure of a spoon into a savory, fragrant broth which seemed tinged with just the barest hint of sweetness from verjus.

It's only somewhat into the meal, after you start to feel a bit better, when Chilchuck clears his throat and offers, "You talk to Vans yet?"

"Hm?" You hum through a mouthful of food, covering your mouth as you're caught mid-chew like a startled animal.

"For your job." Chilchuck adds.

You swallow and shake your head. Though the name does sound somewhat familiar for some reason... "I don't know who that is."

"So there's this guy," Chilchuck says, and you nod, because you did assume it was some kind of guy. "His name's Karkat Vans. He and his lockpick buddy have a party together. Can't say I see eye to eye with him on everything, but... kid's good at what he does. He gets people to listen to him." Chilchuck leans back, "If he can do that, he might be able to help you out."

There's a glimmer of hope that strikes you when you hear that. You look at Chilchuck and say, "I'll have to do that. Thank you, Chilchuck... sir." Gods, you sound so awkward. You hope he doesn't say anything.

Chilchuck doesn't say anything, but he does roll his eyes a little. "Yeah, yeah. Don't mention it."

[i-think-it-is-tuesday]

⚠️I SAID N🚫 WAY ⚠️

I arrived at my dorm room as I was beginning my life as a college student. I am a freshman. I am just starting out in living an adult life. I was sheltered and don’t know much about anything really but I do know one thing. That one thing is I like boys!

You see I say it and I believe it and the world doesn’t come to a resounding crash and finish it keeps rotating round and round and round and round and no matter how many times it goes round I will still like boys. Am I Gay? No. But I STILL LIKE BOYS! NOW THIS WAS A FINE DAY. IT’S BEEN CIRCLED ON MY CALENDER FOR SEVEN YEARS. I DID NOT KNOW WHICH COLLEGE I WOULD GO TO - EVEN IF COULD GO AT ALL - BUT THIS WAS THE DAY I WAS GOING TO THE ONE I WOKE UP IN MY BEDROOM FOR THE FINAL TIME.

WHEN I WOKE UP THE NEXT DAY IT WOULD NOT BE IN THIS BEDROOM OR EVEN IN THIS HOUSE. I HOPED IT WOULD BE SOMEPLACE FAR FAR AWAY IN ANOTHER STATE. maybe another country! BROWN UNIVERSITY! BROWN! I AM ON A FULL RIDE ACADEMIC SCHOLARSHIP. THIS IS WHERE JFK WENT AND HE BECAME PRESIDENT. THIS IS WHERE JFK JR WENT AND HE WENT IN LOOKING LIKE A DORF BUT HE LEFT AS THE SEXIEST MAN ALIVE. every thing has been perfect. I made the drive in record time. I DON’T THINK ONE RED LIGHT DELAYED ME. it’s been absolutely perfection.

BUT NOW THIS! I CANNOT FUCKEN BELIEVE IT. I’M SO EXCITED AS I’M RUNNING AND SKIPPING WITH MY LUGGAGE TO SEE MY NEW HOME AND MEET MY NEW ROOMMATE. They’re laughing upstairs. I’ve heard that throughout my life. You make plans and G-d laughs. He’s probably enjoying my predicament and He’s the Ultimate Reality TV Producer. HIS SHOW IS CALLED REAL LIFE. FUCK, FUCK, FUCK! You don’t understand. Nobody will understand. MY NEW ROOMMATE IS THE MOST GORGEOUS HUMAN BEING I’d EVER SEE. I FELL IN LOVE WITH HIM BEFORE I SAID ONE SINGLE WORD. Oh shit, I’m stressed and not touching myself. YET I GLANCE BACK AT HIM. HE’S BEFUDDLED AS I’M STANDING OVER HERE AND WONDERING WHATS GOING ON. MY DICK DIDN’T GO THROUGH IT REGULAR CYCLE. I SAW HIM AND I CAME INTO MY PANTS WITHIN THE FIRST 15 seconds of seeing him. NO TOUCHING MYSELF. JUST HOT CUM FLOWING FROM MY COCK. I came again as I’m thinking the thoughts you’re hearing from me right now, actually before.

IT’S WHEN I SAID, “FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, THAT I HAD SHOT MY SECONG LOAD IN MY PANT”S. OH, I FEEL THAT TINGLE AGAIN AND MY UNDERWEAR IS SOAKED IN MY OWN CUM BY JUST BEING near THIS BOY. I only wanted to cry and curl up in a great big ball and cry. No, it can’t be that bad and I look up to the face I would have drawn if I knew how to draw. He’s going to kill me by just being himself and I can’t resist as my dick shoots just seeing his face. Every movement is like torture. HE LOOKS WORRIED. My dick is work outing a plan to cum again and just watching him think, I cum again. I’m exhausted. Ten Loads maybe more from just looking at his face and tall athletic body. P L E A S E ! •• I B E G Y O U ! •• RIZZ RIZZ RIZZ • YOU’VE MOST LIKELY HAVE HEARD THE TERM R I Z Z WHAT DOES IT MEAN. It’s a new term that means that the person has a personality. That’s both magnetism and charm which is equal to what we know as charisma and therefore we get rizz.

He returns to our dorm and says he’s been that we got a good thing that we should take advantage of since we’re friends. We’re both fighting for good grades and these nights out late drinking beer has yielded very little for the effort given by him. And me I such a cool guy but I’m not confident about being outed as gay before you have the agency to stand up and say, I’m the lucky one. YOU WANT TO SUCK MY DICK, like it’s been in your mind every single day since you saw me. And I similarly would like to have my dick sucked by you my best pal in the world. “YEAH” I say. And if you ain’t getting any, and you need to breed some some times by shooting your cum into me. We’WILL BE CLOSER THAN BEFORE. they say my seed enters into you and every cell in you body will work silently and diligently so that you’ll begin to resemble me. . Yeah, keep dreaming

[a-servant-of-the-secret-fire]

I know it's a bit ironic to be posting this but I feel like social media is really wrecking my brain now in a way that I don't think it did ten years ago. Maybe I didn't notice the effects it had on me ten years ago but I think most social media sites have also dramatically changed in the past ten to fifteen years. They're really a lot like slot machines now. They really are designed to be addictive in a way that they didn't used to be.

It's impossible to curate your feed to only see content you like now. It doesn't work that way anymore. You don't only see content you choose to see from people you chose to follow anymore. You get all sorts of content the algorithm chooses for you, and I think they choose bad content on purpose too.

They want to show you content that you find neutral or even content that you dislike too. Rage bait keeps you on the platform just as well and the advertising bucks flow in regardless of your happiness. Neutral content ensures the dopamine spike is bigger and more addicting when you see good content, or when you see the aforementioned rage bait, because you get a dopamine spike from that too.

Some of these platforms give you an appearance of choice too because they at least give you the option to change your feed to only people you follow, but that's never the default and the feed will inevitably turn back to the other, either when you start a new session or when you answer the call of the "for you" feed beckoning you to view its more addictive content.

Combining all of this will endless scrolling ensures you never have a natural point at which to reevaluate whether you want to continue on the site, so you get lost in the scrolling. I'm convinced the tactile response of scrolling on a mobile device makes it all the more addictive, because I enter a state scrolling on my phone that I never get into viewing these sites on my computer (where I am now).

Social media sites seem to be the biggest enemy of my ability to focus and relax. It's a pastime that gives the illusion of being relaxing but I never actually find myself relaxed after time on social media. Doomscrolling is ubiquitous now and it's become a natural response to stress for me and for others, but it's at best neutral to stress.

It doesn't help relieve it and I suspect it does the opposite. And it's addictive nature ensures that it's always calling me like the Green Goblin mask, urging me to check it constantly. If I'm reading a book, spending time with my wife, or praying, the temptation to pull out my phone and check the latest on any social media feed is constantly there. That alone makes it much harder to focus on anything I'm trying to get done, and I don't like that it's such a natural response to answer that call. I feel compelled to do it first thing in the morning every day.

I don't want this to be the case. I can feel it changing my brain and I want to return my brain to its state before social media got to this state I want to read books and write things and feel and think like I used to. I've begun trying to fight against it over the past couple of days, setting a timer when I do decide to scroll and evaluating whether I've enjoyed my past five minutes and whether it's worth it to continue using it. I usually haven't enjoyed it and then give it another five minutes and then decide it's stupid. I've also been doing my best to read more and trying to leave my phone out of arm's reach most of the day. I hope this is a successful strategy to return my brain to a prior, better version of it.

I think I may shift my limited social media use more to this site than the others, as the devs here have not done as good of a job modernizing it as the other sites have, though many of the issues that I referred to still exist here. The one thing this site has going for it that others do not is that I can write longer content and it fits into what this site was originally designed for. That way I can focus more, work through my thoughts so I can think better, and I can clear my head.

[daggerzine]

Dropkick- Primary Colours (Bobo Integral Records/Sound Asleep Records)

Dropkick have returned again with a great album filled with jangle pop, Americana, Alt-Country, and straight-out rock. I’ve been following them for years because I was hooked with their Teenage Fanclub sound. I love the jangly guitars and harmonies. This time around the band features Ian Grier on bass guitar and keyboards; Alan Shields on guitar and vocals; and Andrew Taylor on guitar, vocals, and drums. All songs were written by Taylor except “Highs and Lows” was written by Shields. It was recorded at Dropkick HQ, Inch House, Edinburgh, Scotland; produced and mixed by Andrew Taylor; and mastered by Will Killingsworth at Dead Air. First off, “Left Behind,” jangle pops right out of the gate. Beautiful guitars and harmonies sucking me back in again. This part gets me every time, “I may have broken your word flow, I may have put you right off, I may upset you I know that now, I know that now.” Next, “Snowflakes” kicks in with killer guitars and beats. “We settle like snowflakes on the ground, turning upside down, Knowing we’re ok, feeling proud but never make a sound, Every time we fade, I look around.” It’s a straight-out rocker. Here's the video:

Then we have the title track, “Primary Colours,” which brings back the jangly guitars with gorgeous harmonies. “What do you dream of when you’re asleep? What are you hiding, the secrets that you keep? Wait another day it might be fine. Turning all the grey to primary colours.” Here's an acoustic version:

Track 4, “Highs and Lows,” as stated before, is the only non-penned Taylor song. It’s an all-out, alt-country rocker by the other guitarist Alan Shields. Alan’s Southern accent really adds to the chorus, “Well, I guess you know, That it makes a change for you to sit at home, And watch me go from the window.” More killer guitar solos as well. Next up, “Too Much of the Same” is quite the opposite. It’s a slow-moving Americana, acoustic song complete with intricate mandolin and a heartfelt harmonica solo, both performed by Andrew Taylor. These really add to the sorrow in the lyrics, “I’d find it hard to complain if I hadn’t taken the blame, Failing to laugh when it’s wrong, Thinking too much for too long, Nothing I’d try was enough, I know why, It was always too much of the same.” Track 6, “Dreams Expire” enters with swirling guitars and beautiful harmonies. Its floating melody is a song you just don’t want to end. “You find ideas go by, But try to work out why, My dreams expire, Without this fire, My heart is lying again.” It ends with choppy keyboard beats over the jangly guitars. Here's the video:

“Vanishing Act” has a Jason and The Scorchers vibe with its whammy, reverb-laden guitar opening. Definitely the hardest rocker (and shortest track) on the album. It would be great to hear this one live! Track 8 “Misunderstandings” brings the listener back down to Earth with this Alt-country gem. With a driving rhythm section, intricate guitar, and soaring vocals; it’s another great song with lyrics filled with bitterness. “Is this a mistake? Do I know you, know you at all? It’s getting too late to know you, to know you at all,  Are you pretending to hear misunderstandings? I’d not expect you to be near me.” “In a Different Light” is an upbeat rocker with blistering guitar solos and harmonica over Byrds-ish harmonies, “But now that you’ve turned too, I don’t have to trust you, There’s nothing you could do even if you want to.” The album closes with “Waiting for the Rain” and it’s a great way to end. More jangle pop with beautiful lyrics, “Yet I don’t care but you want me anyway, The cover’s up and you’re waiting for the rain, I think I might be running out of patience, I think I finally worked it out.” Looks like the band will be playing some shows, but I’m not seeing any scheduled for the US. We can only hope. ERIC EGGLESON

For vinyl:   https://bobointegral.bandcamp.com/ Also available at Jigsaw Records.

For CD:    https://www.soundasleeprecords.com/index2.htm Also available at Kool Kat Musik.

[dagreninjagurl]

ALL-NEW TOXIN

This is a fanfic for when Toxin first met Bren since they never stated how they first met. (He’s so underrated).

——————————————

Many years ago, Bren Waters had lived in D.C with his father—Ozkar Waters. They only moved to New York was for a job opening for Alchemax. As a security guard.

However, as Bren moved he felt nothing but loneliness. Everyone he knew was all back at D.C. He left everyone behind. This was the first time he felt pure loneliness.

Once Bren had finally moved into his new house and his new schools, he felt a jolt of sorrow—realizing he had to restart his new life in a new city.

Days goes by. Weeks goes by. Months goes by. Bren had met a few new friends but they weren’t as close as his old friends. He still felt lonely.

Though, one particular day, his father had invited him to visit his new work place. Bren immediately accepted this invitation—wanting to leave the house and do something.

They both entered Alchemax, and Ozkar shows him everything he does, here and there.

Bren didn’t seem too found of everything there. It was too modern and too complicated to even understand anything of the technology there is to handle.

Soon enough, Ozkar was called along with the other security guard—to meet in a hidden room for further more instructions.

Then, Ozkar instructed Bren to remain in a lobby until he gets back. So Bren obeys. He sits on a blue couch in a huge lobby as Ozkar leaves the room.

Bren sits in the lobby—bored out of his mind. Until he heard weird noises coming from a nearby room.

THUCK! THUCK! THUCK!

Bren knew his father already left the entire floor. Though that didn’t stop him from wandering into the mysterious noise.

He followed a pathway. A long one. Until he heard the noise coming from a small science lab.

He quietly peeked into the lab—realizing no one was present.

Then, he entered the room. No weird scientist was around, and it wouldn’t hurt to search for a mysterious sound.

Something then caught his attention. He realized where this sound was coming from.

This room contained a small container—filled with… some kind of red goo?

Bren took a closer look at this weird goo as he realized this was the noise he was hearing. He stared into this mysterious goo. It shifted around the small container, and that was when he realized it was alive.

The goo slid closer to Bren—interested.

In response, Bren didn’t feel scared. He felt interested. Somehow, it made he felt the urge to release this creature—as he felt bad for its living condition.

He tried to look around the lab—looking for some sort of button to release this weird pile of goo.

“How do I get you out of that confined container?” Bren whispered to himself.

A moment later, the red goo pointed to the right of Bren. Pointing at a big shiny red button. That was when Bren realized the goo heard his wonders.

Then, Bren approached the big shiny red button.

“This one?” he asked the goo.

Then, the red goo responded with a tiny nod.

Without hesitation, Bren pushed the button down. A moment later, the lid to the small container opened sideways.

Bren began to approach the container that was filled with the mysterious creature.

He stared at the redness of the creature—shifting it ways up towards Bren.

He then led out his fingers—attempting to touch this red goo. Then, the red goo led out a tiny tendril.

Slowly, they both intertwined.

“H-hurt by doctors,” the red goo slowly said within Bren’s mind. “Need to bond,”

“Bond? Like merging together?” Bren asked this pile of goo.

“Yes. Merge into one,” the creature replied as more of its tendrils moved closer to Bren.

“Will it hurt?” Bren asked as he felt unsure of this action.

“Only for a little bit. Think our bond will be different from the rest,” the goo explained.

Soon, Bren allowed the red mysterious goo the climb up the small contained, and flow through his pores. He felt the bonding of a symbiote. He felt the tendrils flow throughout his body—feeling this goo’s weakness from all of the harsh tests from the scientist.

“Do you have a name?” Bren asked in his mind.

“Toxin,” it replied back in his mind. “Our name is Toxin,”

“Our?” he questioned.

“Yesssss. We are now one in mind and soul,” Toxin answered as it slowly took form of its shape.

Bren saw his gray sweat pants slowly turning into a black goo. Then his arms were shifted into some sort of red and black goo. He felt worried. However, the symbiote only comforted the host.

“Do not be afraid. Allow us to show you our true form,” it explained as Bren shifted from a teen boy into a huge fanged red monster with a slimy and vibrant green tongue.

“We seem as tall as an adult,” Bren commented on their height.

“We only wore hosts who were tall or a mature human,” Toxin answered out loud.

“Are you calling me immature?” Bren questioned as Toxin felt Bren’s gaze underneath their eye lids.

Toxin was silent for a moment, until they both heard footsteps coming down the hallway.

“I’m here with my Dad, man! If I get in any trouble here, I can’t go to comic con and meet Spider-man or I’ll be grounded!” Bren exclaimed. “Are you able to shift back into… me?”

“Of course,” it responded as it immediately retrieved back into Bren.

Soon, Toxin shifted from pure symbiote into pure human.

“Okay… that felt weird,” Bren said out loud.

“Careful. There are more people outside,” the symbiote warned as Bren walked out of the small lab.

“Hey, young man, are you supposed to be around here?” one of the scientists questioned as he bumped into Bren.

“My father works as a security guard here. He told me to stay around this area,” Bren responded.

“Well don’t stay in this area. There’s dangerous experiments around here,” he explained as he slowly pushed Bren out of the science hallway. “Remain in this lobby until your father comes back,”

“Bren? Did you get in trouble?” Ozkar questioned as he got out of the elevator. Bren turned his attention to his father.

“No, sir. I was looking for the bathroom,” Bren lied as he felt Toxin’s gaze.

“Well come on son, I got more to show you,” Ozkar replied as Bren approached the elevator.

“Touring around this torturous building?” Toxin asked in Bren’s mind.

“It was the only thing to do today. Everything seemed so boring. Well, not until I met you,” Bren replied in his mind as he got into the elevator with his father. Bren felt a small smile from Toxin from underneath.

“There’s not much in this building except horrible experiments. They do nothing but experiment on exotic creatures like me,” Toxin explained.

“What are you even supposed to be anyway? You’re a pile of goo,” Bren asked as he felt Toxin moving through his arms.

“Our species are called symbiotes. We need a host in order to live,” it answered in his mind.

“So you’re like a parasite?” Bren assured.

“Yesss, but let’s not call ourself that,” Toxin said as Bren felt Toxin’s sorrow.

The elevator was full of silence. Ozkar didn’t say anything. Bren didn’t say anything. Toxin didn’t say anything. They only stared at the elevator door—waiting for the metal door to pry open.

A moment later, Bren stared at the floor level indicator, to only see that they were on the thirty-fourth floor.

“What floor are you supposed to be touring on?” Toxin questioned as he glanced over at the number from underneath.

“The fortieth floor,” Bren answered back. However, he felt Toxin swirl throughout his bloom stream. Curling with emotion.

“Bren…” Toxin nervously started out. “The fortieth floor is full of symbiote experiments,”

Bren stood in the elevator—stunned.

“What the hell? Are you saying there’s more symbiotes here?” he questioned Toxin in a rage full tone.

“Yes. But it’s complicated,” Toxin dryly replied. “There’s harmful sources that hurts my kind. And… I’m worried my weakness would affect you. After all—we have a perfect bond,”

“What is your weakness, anyway?” he wondered.

“Sound. Frequency of 4,000-6,000 hertz is lethal to us. And then there’s fire,” Toxin replied back.

“Sound and fire, huh?” Bren repeated as the elevator door open to a long and modern hallway.

Ozkar took the first step onto the fortieth floor. Then, Bren nervously followed him behind—slowing his steps.

“What are we—am I supposed to be touring?” Bren asked his father in a worried tone.

“There’s parasitic aliens that’s filling up rumors throughout this whole building. I’m pretty sure you would be interested, wouldn’t you, Bren?” Ozkar said as they walked down the modern hallway—passing numerous rooms.

Bren walked in silence. He didn’t answer his father—despite knowing all about these aliens from earlier.

“Are you sure it’s okay for me to… see these aliens?” Bren questioned.

“Yes, son. Maybe you could learn something from this experience,” Ozkar reassured.

“I am already learning something. That this place is no good!” Bren exclaimed in his mind.

“If anything goes wrong, you could always excuse yourself to the bathroom,” Toxin suggested.

A few minutes later, they all arrived to a fairly large laboratory—filled with busy scientists. However, trouble occurred as Ozkar was stopped by a scientist.

“Mr. Waters, you can’t be in here—even with a child under 18,” a scientist intervened.

“Well—he’s planning on working here sometimes—“

“Dad, can I go to the bathroom?” Bren asked as he felt the rising pitches from within the laboratory. It bothered him and Toxin—to where he already started walking back into the modern hallway.

“Of course, Bren. The bathroom is on the left,” Ozkar directed.

Bren rushed out of the laboratory in fear—feeling his other shriek in pain from within.

“Sound was rising too quickly,” Toxin commented.

“I know man. I could feel your pain,” Bren said. “I just got you Toxin, let’s just try to survive for now,”

We will survive. We have a perfect bond—and we will live.

———————————————————————————

Part 2?

That took awhile to finish. Well, I might make more fanfics after this I guess.