#shout out to the people who can hold art careers and all i am apparently too mentally ill to update online enough for that

[flowerthornsart]

my art isnt made for attention but god damn is it sometimes just

[chayacat]

Devil’s Sweet Star (17)

Fandom: Dead by Daylight

Ghostface x Female Reader  

Rated M for Violence, Language and Smut  

***

Haaa... what a pleasure to reopen your business after an absence. Well, you didn’t want it, but you must admit that this little weekend has done you good. Even if in the end, Ghostface came to see you in your hospital room. But you are finally back in your café, your kingdom, your haven of peace.  If some people find their work too stressful and boring in the long run, for you, your coffee is the opposite. The faces of the customers, their smile, the little conversations you have with them or that they have with each other... You'll never get tired of it.

The customers are numerous, and happy to see you again! Rumors are going fast in Roseville and when the locals found out what had happened to you, they all worried about you! And seeing you again was a real relief. One of your clients, a little old lady even brought you a small bouquet of flowers! How adorable! The room was full and your Neptune's pie was always the little favorite of the guests. Even though your March cake and Ufo brownies were also starting to be popular with people. And with your new cakes, people were flocking more and more. How nice it was to see a room filled.

“Have you read the papers lately? It seems that a certain Hoggins would be in the middle of a scandal. And Mr McKellan would also be involved!” said a woman to her colleagues.  

“What? Really? What did they done?” ask one of them.

“Apparently, Hoggins would sign partnerships with his competitors, then sink them thanks to McKellan's complicity to recover more profits!” replied the woman

“What a bastard.”

“Personally, this does not surprise me. I saw the article on the website of a Georgia newspaper. They're the ones who have that exclusivity. Too bad, usually it's our little newspaper that gets good scoop like this.” said the man of the group.

“At the same time, they have another Ghostface murder to write about. This Jed Olsen is really super good! I don't know how he gets so much information!” said another woman.  

This conversation caught your attention. Yet Jed told you that the journalist from Georgia got caught, didn't he? So how is it that they publish the article before Roseville? Unless...

“Hey!” said Mattew, entering the café with a childish smile.

“Mattew! Nice to see you!  Melina isn't with you?” you answer with a bright smile.

“Nah, she’s already at work, Since the scandal came out, she's been motivated. Then? Feeling better?”

“Yeah, doctor said to not make too much efforts. But I'll be fine. The same as usual?”

“Yup! It's going to wake me up a little bit for work.”

You smile while you were preparing Mattew's order. Let's talk about him, shall we?

Mattew Erins is a lovely California Boy. His family, from Irish immigration, moved to America to pursue a career. And careers are diverse! Comedians, musicians, workers, cooks... Mattew is the only one in the family who has tried journalism. His mother, a great theatre actress, and his father, a director, tried everything to keep their son in line. But little Mattew still preferred the quest for truth to comedy. The same size as Jed, his beautiful green eyes, his body a little skinny and his blond hair make him one of the prettiest boys in Ohio. His parents were very open-minded, so he had no fear of introducing them to his boyfriend Chris, who was freaking out about the meeting. 3 years of pure love and laughter between these two and few arguments. The most interesting fact about him is that he can eat like an ogre.... without gaining weight.

“There you go!” you said, giving him his order.

“Thanks a lot! This will help!” he said taking a sip. “Haaa that’s good.”

“By the way, I heard that a newspaper in Georgia published the article on Hoggins... But Jed told me that whoever was at the reception had been caught...”

“Oh, the boss changed his strategy, to prevent Hoggins from attacking us, we sent our article to this newspaper and we waited for them to publish it to publish it right after. That way we don't risk anything, even if I think it's a bit unfair.”

“it is, but in a sense, you are protected. I heard there was a new murder of Ghostface... Jed had told me about it as well. Do we know who it is?”

“It...It was Mike. Police find Mike’s body in a state...Well, it's not pretty to see. Apparently, he went wild this time.”

“Oh God...I'm sorry to hear that...” you replied.

“He was an asshole, but he didn’t deserve it. Even the worst man in the world didn’t deserve a death like that. Well, I gotta go or my boss will be angry at me again. I'm a bit of a champion of delays at the Journal... I'll see you later! and rest from time to time!” said Mattew before leaving, smiling at you.  

You take a little time to assimilate what Mattew told you. Ghostface killed Mike. In a way, Mattew was right, even the worst man didn't deserve to die atrociously. But on the other hand, He had gone after Jed. He almost killed him. So... He looked for it. But that means you have to thank Ghostface. Because if he hadn't killed Mike... Who knows what he would have done to Jed?  

The thought of feeling indebted to Ghostface disgusts you. Because you know that he will use it to get what he wants from you. But it's a fact, he saved Jed's life. Unintentionally. The memories of last night came back to you. He saw you naked and had fun scaring you with his knife. But the cold of the blade passing over your chest didn't really displease you. It even gave you little thrills of pleasure. But it's out of the question to show it to him. Only Jed can give you these sensations. Not this lunatic who only tries to satisfy his fantasies.

But let's keep this to us, okay? For now, Jed and you are not officially together. Not yet, anyway. With what happened to him, and since he still hasn't turned the page, does he only feel ready to engage in a new relationship? Maybe it won't last? Maybe he's too scared? But yet this kiss he gave you... Isn't that proof to the contrary? That he wants to move on? And that with you he finally hopes he will get there?

All this is still confused. You'll have to discuss it with him... be sure that's what he wants. Because you’re sure about what you want: for you he's the only one that can make you happy, you're sure. But what about him? You sigh while shaking your head, you don't have time to think about that at the moment. you have to focus on your work... And on Ghostface.  

If you couldn't find out more about him last night, you know that sooner or later he'll let his guard down, or he'll say something interesting to bring him down. And there, and maybe there, you can turn the situation to your advantage. But sneaky as it is, it is able to tell you anything... or to find out the truth. And you're in serious danger of regretting it.

“Excuse me, Miss! Can I have a refill please?” said a young man.

“Of course!” you answer taking the coffee pot to refill the young man’s cup.  

Another one asks for a refill and when you are about to serve him, a man came in with a gun. A man you recognize among a thousand since he is the one who attacked you. He pointed his gun at you, ready to shoot.  Your blood only made one turn. And before he can say or do anything, you throw the coffee in his face. He screamed knocking down his gun. You take the opportunity to hit him in the stomach and you put him on the ground. You give him an arm wrench and press his back with your knees to keep him on the ground.

“Someone calls the cops! Quick! I won't be able to hold him for long!” you shout at everyone before looking at him: “Wasn't it enough to stab me? You want to kill me with a bullet between the eyes now??? I've had enough of you and your boss! You can tell McKellan I intend to stay here whether he likes it or not!” you whisper to his ear.

The police arrived a few minutes later and boarded the young man. You warn them that this is the man who stabbed you. They took note of it, alerted the police station and greeted you before leaving, the suspect in the vehicle. Once inside, everyone applauded you. You feel both flattered and embarrassed, you acted only instinctively... nothing more. You resumed your work for the rest of the day. Proud of your action, you can't help but smile, you can't wait to tell Melina, Mattew and Jed all about it.

The end of the day came and as usual you go around your café to make sure everything was locked. Especially the back shop. As you went to close the back door, two hands came to hide your eyes which startled you. A little laugh was heard, a familiar laugh.

“Ready to go home Miss?” Said Jed laughing a little.

“Jed! You’ve scared me!” you answer, tapping his shoulder as he turned around and laughed.

“Sorry, I couldn't help it. Are you done going around? Are you ready to go home?”

“I am. We can go. I have to tell you something crazy.”

“What? A client fell on his butt because you clean the floor too much?”

“No... The man who stabs me attacked me again. Don’t worry he didn't have time to do anything. I sent him coffee in the face and I mastered him like a champion of martial arts! You should have seen that!” you replied proudly.

“You've mostly had some pretty sharp reflexes. Someone told the police? Did they come?” He asks.  

“Yes. I told them that he was the one who stabbed me. But it seems that they already knew at the police station. Thanks to your testimony. Besides Mattew told me for... your former colleague. Mike. Ghostface apparently didn't miss him.”

Jed only nod before opening the van’s door. You get in and put your belt before watching Jed again hoping he answers. But nothing. He simply started the car and hit the road to get home. You look at the road slightly annoyed thinking that you have to thank Ghostface for somehow saving Jed's life. Jed noticed your annoyance and patted your leg while smiling before refocusing on the road.

He parked, went down, and you both took the opportunity to pick up your respective mail. Mrs. Lawson took you in her arms when she saw you, which made Jed sneer at this embarrassing situation. You reassure the old lady before you say goodbye and leave with Jed to your respective apartments.

“Hey... it doesn't seem to be going well. You... Do you want to talk about it?” ask Jed, worried.

“It's just that... I feel compelled to thank Ghostface for killing Mike. After all, he tried to kill you at work... Who knows what could have happened to you? Maybe Mike would have come here, he'd come home and...” you said, some tears forming at your eyes.  

“Hey hey hey...It’s over now. And you don't have to feel indebted to this murderer. Mike didn't know where I was living anyway. He could never have done anything to me. And then... I know how to defend myself a little bit. Even if you don't see it... You know what? Tomorrow night I'll invite you to dinner. At home or in the restaurant of your choice. I owe you that. It'll change your mind. Ok?”  

You nod and kiss him on the cheek before wishing him good night. You close the door of your apartment and sigh with relief, but look dreamy. a one-on-one dinner with Jed. Well, this is not the first time but ... There you can discuss. Either you're officially together, or he'd rather wait. But with the sign numbers you've seen, if he tells you, he's not sure he wants to engage in a relationship with you, you'll be disappointed... but not discouraged.  

You head to the kitchen to get ready to eat. Tonight, it's Mexican. Homemade fajitas to reward yourself for your day. You've earned them! You prepare your meal, the sweet smells of spices spreading throughout the room, sweet and slightly spicy smells. You smile proudly of the result when suddenly two hands came to hide your eyes.

“Smells pretty good here... There are some for me, I hope?” Said Ghostface by releasing one of your eyes to try to catch a fajita. A gesture stopped by a wooden spoon on the hand.

“Don't even think about it. I'm not going to let you sting my food. Why don't you go steal your meal from one of your future victims? Or go home.” you answer frowning.

“Oh, come on. You can do it again. Given the amount, you could feed your whole building. I have the right to eat at least one. So? I’ve heard you've mastered your attacker? You see that sometimes diplomacy is not always the best solution. And again... I'm sure you would have slaughtered him if you had been alone.” he replied, laughing.

“I already told you that I'm not twisted as you are. And I only did it because he was pointing a gun at me. It's self-defence.” You said slightly angry.

“Of course, Of course! But you know... you start with a kick or a punch... And then you move on to an iron bar... or a stab wound. You know when you've lived a life like mine... After a while you think: either you are the prey or the predator. I'll let you guess which route I took.”

“I'd never be like you.”

“And I don't want to! You'll just be my accomplice; you won't say anything... you'll lie to the police... You will be... my guardian angel. My beautiful angel. And then who knows... Maybe you'll save me from madness. or that I will train you with me.”

“I have someone now and...”

“Do you really want to live with that Nerdy Boy? While you could have a more exciting, more dangerous life! Do you prefer a boring life to that? I'm not saying Jed won't be faithful to you... from what I learned from him, he's the best boyfriend girls would love to have. But all he thinks about is working. As I told you, I will treat you like a queen. A treasure from which no one will come near. You will be mine, and only mine. I'll never let anyone take what I care about again.” Said Ghostface touching your cheek with gloved hand.  

You were about to react when he ran over you, sticking his arms on the worktop. You could hear the breath through his mask, then a little sneer before he retired, a fajita in hand. He walked to the window, lightly lifted his mask to take a bite. Then he handed it over and looked at you.

“Taste good, but I would have added a little more spice. Oh, by the way, don't thank me for saving your little nerd's life. I need him to talk about my exploits. Think carefully... He or I. Sweet dreams.”

Then he vanished. But at least you've learned a little more. It's only a small step, but it's better than nothing. But what did he lose to get to this point? Only he has the answer.  For now, you have to hold on. Choosing between him and Jed? The choice is quickly made.

And maybe once you're together... You can bring him down.

And finally, you'll be free from the Devil.

At least that's what you think.

***

(And it’s done! Pass my code asks me for time, sometimes I wonder how I get to write and focus on my code at once. But I hope you’ll like this chapter! And now I'm resting my brain for the weekend! Have a great week-end everyone! See ya!)

[anotherkindofmindpod]

I’d love for you guys to have Mark Lewisohn on your show just to grill him. As someone who’s experienced workplace bullying and sexual assault, that he would go so far as to paint Klein as “heroic” when he said things like “reluctant virgin” is just so devastating to me. It makes me feel ill. I do NOT want this man to have a say in Beatles history. I love the Beatles. I don’t want that tainted by people who will paint over abuse just to feed their own self importance.

We vehemently agree, Listener!  Thank you for writing in.

Our list of grievances with Mark Lewisohn is long, but in a nutshell we believe his intent is to publicly “redeem” John Lennon and we have seen copious evidence that he will go to whatever lengths he has to in order to do this. 

That includes, but is not limited to: 

Claiming that readers of his Tune In Series may consider Klein the “hero” of the Beatles break-up

Deliberately spreading the demonstrably false lie that John (and Yoko) did not have a significant heroin problem in the late 60s and early 70s (Lewisohn suggests Cold Turkey is just John playing make believe)

Displaying unapologetic favoritism by using glowing terms to portray John and Yoko as the world’s most perfect romance, as opposed to Paul and Linda, whose 29-year marriage he dismisses as “conventional” and motivated by appearances (namely Linda’s pregnancy, even though it was planned) and Green Card needs

Stating that he could tell from watching the infamous “it’s a drag” clip that Paul was kind of sad, but primarily annoyed at how much positive attention John was getting on the day of his murder

Apparently suggesting to an audience of his Power Point Show that Paul maybe stole a leg off Yoko’s bed (the bed she had delivered and built in the Beatles’ recording studio, mind you), a personal “theory” which is based on the fact that Paul later wrote a song called “Three Legs” (you know that song: “My dog, he got three legs, like the bed you inappropriately brought into Abbey Road 2 years ago which I secretly vandalized behind your back because I have nothing better to do, am certainly not busy writing the Beatles Swan Song and don’t have a fucking 7 year old at home or anything”)

This isn’t even to mention Tune In, which could be a whole separate post and episode. Suffice it to say, this book often reads less like a Beatles biography and more like John Lennon Fanfiction to us.

Lewisohn managed to distinguish himself by doing (some) research and unearthing some original documents. That he had some skill in research is not surprising given that he started his career in Beatledom as a researcher for Norman, on his book Shout — which Lewisohn still contends is a good book. Norman, on the other hand has evolved his opinion of his own work and thinks Shout was flawed, so has written a whole biography on Paul to make up for what he sees as the failure of Shout, which is his underestimation of Paul. Unfortunately, Lewisohn does not seem to have made this same journey. He pays lip service to John and Paul being equal, and then spends all of his time and energy trying to prove otherwise. Norman says that he has created a monster in Lewisohn. We take his point.

One of our biggest issues with Lewisohn is that he vigorously promotes himself as an unbiased truth teller, and his calm manner seems to telegraph this. But it is not true. The research that Lewisohn does and the spin that he applies to his findings are all heavily biased. As we mentioned in one of our episodes, he travelled to Gibraltar simply to experience where John and Yoko got married. Yet when Paul calls the May 9th meeting over management the metaphorical cracking of the Liberty Bell, Lewisohn doesn’t even bother to Google it so he can understand the metaphor.

What he chooses to research is also a form of bias. For example, we at AKOM are very interested in Paul’s relationship with Robert Fraser during the Beatle years — since Paul has commented that Fraser was one of the most important, influential people in his life. Paul McCartney was the concept artist behind Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, the Magical Mystery Tour film, the iconic Apple logo, and he co-designed the covers of the White Album and Abbey Road.  All of these are pretty defining moments in the Beatles’ career.  As Beatles fans, we’d like to know more about Paul’s art education and influences. But we would be shocked if Lewisohn dug into Fraser at all beyond his relationship as John and Yoko’s gallerist/curator (and heroin dealer, but since that isn’t a thing in Lewisohn’s world then maybe he will be ignored).

We think Lewisohn benefits massively from the fact that Beatles authorship was like the Wild West since its inception, when everyone with a connection to the Beatles (plus or minus a personal axe to grind) wrote a book about their experience. It was absolute chaos, with no rules, no checks and balances, uncredited sources, etc. Just an absolute shit show.  What Lewisohn did was bring some order to the chaos with some proper documentation. But again, what he chooses to dig into often reflects bias. And this certainly does not mean that he is intellectually or emotionally equipped to interpret his findings. Doing this takes social intelligence and insight, which is a very different skill. As a creator of myths, he is no better (and no more insightful or original) than many of the others who came before him; he worships John Lennon and freely admits it. He is not even close to being unbiased.  But in this dumpster fire of a fandom he has at least checked some boxes and done some digging.  The fact is, the bar has been so low for so long that Beatles fans don’t even know how to expect or want better.  But WE certainly expect better.  We expect some breakthrough, fresh thinking.  Not just Shout with Receipts.

We think it’s significant that Lewisohn was deeply disliked by George Harrison, who lobbied to get him kicked him off the Anthology project. He was fired from Paul’s fan club magazine, and yet no one seems to think he might hold a grudge about that, too?  Lewisohn so distorted John and Paul’s relationship in Tune In that he believes he is the target of the lyrics in Paul’s song “Early Days.“  And he either thinks that’s flattering or funny, because Lewisohn seems to truly believe he knows John Lennon better than Paul McCartney does.  We find it almost tragic that Paul is so bothered by the way his experience and relationship is being portrayed by authors (perhaps Lewisohn) that he wrote a song about it. In it, he conveys his frustration and heartache about how everything is misconstrued and we find it absolutely outrageous that Lewisohn would not take this to heart.  Perhaps Lewisohn thinks Paul should listen to him for a change? And if he doesn’t like it, then tough, because Lewisohn knows better? We think Lewisohn should do some serious soul-searching about “Early Days” because if one of his main subjects is saying, “you are getting it wrong and it is breaking my heart”….maybe, just maybe, he should listen and rethink things.  Maybe apply a little creativity, out-of-the-box thinking and empathy. This is what his heroes did.

Meanwhile, Jean Jackets are SO BUSY complaining that Paul McCartney doesn’t like Lewisohn because he “tells the truth!” that they fail to notice that Lewisohn has become a mouthpiece for Yoko Ono.  He has already started white-washing John Lennon’s history, promoting John and Yoko as the true and only geniuses versus Paul as the craven, small-minded Lennon disciple who (through no virtue of his own) was born with the ability to write some nice tunes.  Lewisohn’s version of John, on the other hand, is ALWAYS a sexy, visionary genius on the right side of every issue.  He even went out of his way to recently trash Paul’s early 70’s albums, which -in addition to being obnoxious and we believe wrong (since we love them)- is totally outside his purview.

Lastly, to address your original point, Lewisohn’s claim that Klein may be viewed as the “hero” of his Beatles History reveals that he hasn’t shown sufficient empathy or interest in Paul’s experience.  This claim at best ignores and at worst condones the fact that Klein was an abusive monster to one of the two founding members of the Beatles.  As we discussed in Episode 4, Klein was a criminal who bullied Paul in his creative workspace, disrespected Paul in his own office in front of his own employees and actively pitted Lennon against McCartney for years.  It’s hard to imagine ANYONE who inflicted more damage on the Beatles and Lennon/McCartney than Allen Klein.  In addition to the wildly inappropriate “reluctant virgin” nickname, he verbally threatened to “own Paul’s ass” (to which Paul responded “he never got anywhere near my ass”). Klein was so disrespectful to Paul and Linda’s marriage he pitched the idea of procuring “a blonde with big tits” to parade in front of Paul to lure him away from Linda and destroy their relationship.  Let’s also never forget that Klein contributed lyrics to the song “How Do You Sleep.”  Allen Klein literally gave Paul nightmares.  Anyone who so much as pretends to care about Paul’s break-up era depression (including his alcohol abuse, his inability to get out of bed and his terrifying sleep paralysis) would not champion Allen Klein.

Yes, Klein is a human being and therefore has his own POV, same as anyone else.  But a Beatles biographer is beholden to four points of view only: John, Paul, George and Ringo.  And when an outsider is openly hostile to one of the Beatles and damaging long-term to all of the Beatles, it is beyond inappropriate to portray him as a hero.  This type of comment, made publicly to an audience of Beatles fans, invalidates and seeks to erase the real trauma inflicted on Paul McCartney by Allen Klein, and we think Lewisohn should apologize for his comments.

Instead, Lewisohn’s current buddy is Peter Brown, whose book, The Love You Make so offended and angered Paul and Linda that they literally burned their copy (and photographed it burning for good measure).  This information doesn’t appear to bother Lewisohn in the least. Why not?

George referred to Norman’s Shout as “Shit.” But Lewisohn thinks it’s a great book.  Why?

How any Beatles or Paul or even George fans tolerate Lewisohn is baffling to us; we don’t recognize a real human being in his version of Paul, and his version of John is a superhero rather than a man.  We suspect that fans have come to accept the traditional story and at least appreciate some properly-documented facts. 

But as we are constantly trying to demonstrate on our show, just because the story has always been told one way, doesn’t mean it’s right.  Because in the end, Mark Lewisohn has no special insight. He wasn’t there. He is a guy who bought into a narrative during the Shout era, and is cherry picking his findings to support it.You can find a discussion of Lewisohn here

[sondepoch]

XXIII: Saeran's Route (Y/N)

Where Futures Begin

Life used to be simple for you. Peaceful. But the Savior had other plans for you, and in moments, she ruined what you thought was your one shot at happiness. Blinded by anger, you escaped the Mint Eye, but that triggered a series of events that would bring you further into the world of brothers Saeran and Saeyoung. And further into the twisted world of your love for them.

Neutral Route: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | ✔

Saeyoung’s Route: 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | ✔

Saeran’s Route: 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | ✔

MASTERLIST

When it came to formalwear, you'd only ever seen Saeran in his black suit, back at the Mint Eye.

And he, your usual believers' robes and the magenta dresses that Rika had forced you to wear.

As such, it was a pleasant surprise for the two of you to see each other the morning of the RFA party—Saeran, in a white tuxedo selected by Saeyoung, and you, in a delicate (f/c) dress that hung at your knees.

"You look beautiful, princess." Saeran pressed a chaste kiss to your lips as soon as the two of you stepped out of the car. He'd been eyeing you since you slipped the dress on, but had evidently held back in all your haste to arrive at the party. Now that the three of you were here, though, he seemed to pay no mind to the venue, wrapping his arms around you tightly.

"Your suit," You mumbled into Saeran's lips, eyes closed and unable to hold back a smile. "You look perfect in it."

If he heard your compliment, though, Saeran made no indication of such, ignoring even his brother's pleas for the three of you to come on and get inside already.

Finally, when you were breathless (and just a little needy) from the kiss, he released you.

"All right, let's go."

As you followed the twins into the party hall, you couldn't help but sigh at Saeran's inexplicable ability to kiss you as if he'd never kissed you before, and then act completely normal the next moment, as if nothing had happened.

He really doesn't know what he does to me, you realized with an amused smile. Though that only makes him more precious.

You entered the party hall, listening absentmindedly to Saeyoung's chatter as he talked to you about the previous parties that had been hosted. In truth, you didn't care much. All that mattered was the present, and the fact that this party hosted would directly help everyone who had been touched by the Mint Eye's distorted ways.

After this party, everything would go back to normal.

Everything.

All the believers and disciples would disband, find new paths to take in society. Rika herself was apparently under the care of V himself, and would also be given a chance to heal from the wounds she'd inflicted upon herself and others. And, perhaps most importantly, you and Saeran would finally be able to continue your relationship in peace. The Mint Eye would be a thing of the past, leaving only an unbound future for you to march into.

"Ah! Saeran, (Y/N), you made it!" You turned to see the calm smile of V. "I hope you'll both stay til the end of the party. I have a small surprise planned at the end that I'm sure you'll both enjoy."

"Saeyoung has decided that he won't leave until even the party cleanup has finished, so we'll definitely be here a while." You smiled warmly at the man who, somewhat inadvertently, had helped free you from your old life.

"That's good to hear. How have the two of you been faring in Saeyoung's bunker?"

The next few hours passed like that. Small chatter with the various guests, Saeran pulling you off to the side every now and then to whisper in your ear or to kiss you, Saeyoung pulling you two back into a new conversation.

When you escaped to the bathroom, you ran into MC, who seemed rather uncomfortable to be caught alone in your presence, especially now that she knew the full story about everything that had happened. She was by no means kind in her words, but her halfhearted "We should talk sometime" seemed like an unspoken offer to make amends. It wasn't anything tangible, but you suspected that, if things continued down that route, there might come a day when the two of you would be acquaintances. Maybe even friends.

You had the pleasure of meeting the people Saeyoung worked with at the RFA: from Yoosung, the blonde college student (who you learned was Rika's cousin) to Jumin, the executive corporate heir of some company that you recognized the name of from your orphanage days.

"V, isn't it time you began the final event?" A man named 'Zen' asked.

"Ah, you're right." V smiled and bowed his head lightly. "I hope you'll all excuse me."

Before he could go, though, Jumin spoke up.

"Truly, V? You're positive that you want to sell your pictures for this event?" The black-haired man seemed skeptical, and for good reason. You'd heard from Saeyoung that V's pictures were sought after in the industry, and selling them at this specific event (noble as the cause was) might not have been the best decision for the man's career.

"As things stand, this event hasn't raised enough finances to help all those affected by the Mint Eye. If selling my pictures can play a role in sealing this chapter of Rika's past...I'm sure she'll be much better for it."

"You really still want to be with her after everything she did to Saeran and (Y/N)?" Saeyoung's question was fueled more by curiosity than anger, or any past resentment, but it made V stiffen nonetheless.

"I understand that everyone has mixed feelings...but Rika is just as broken as her followers, maybe even more. I...I just want to help her heal. And hopefully, this time, things will be different. She now has the support of her family, after all." V smiled lightly and glanced at Yoosung. Upon hearing the word 'family,' the blonde seemed to burst with energy, his smile doubling in intensity.

As V walked toward the stage, leaving you all, you couldn't help but hear Saeyoung murmur somewhat wistfully, "At least Rika brings Yoosung happiness."

And as much as the woman had wronged you, you couldn't help but agree. The blonde boy seemed to radiate joy—and after being separated from Saeran only to reunite, you would recognize the look in his eye anywhere: bliss. Bliss and relief, at reattaining that which was once lost.

Before you could dwell on the matter further, though, V's clear voice echoed through the room. Instantly, all chatter ceased, and the guests turned their attention upon him.

Well, most guests.

As V politely thanked everyone for attending the party and spoke about the important sponsors, you turned to Saeran.

"How are you feeling?" You kept your voice low so that only he could hear you, knowing how mixed his feelings still were on V and this whole situation.

"Not as bad as I thought things would be. Better, since you're by my side." Saeran smiled softly down at you, pressing a kiss to your temple. You couldn't help but lean into his touch when he laced his fingers in yours.

You wanted to say more, perhaps thank Saeran for even agreeing to come here in the first place with you, but before you could, the sound of cheering erupted all over you.

Oh.

V had begun the auction.

You watched as, all around you, people began bidding for his work. Indeed, you understood why the demand for his pictures was so high. As V unveiled album after album, you began to realize why he was a world-renowned photographer.

"Ah, this collection is one he's been asked to sell countless times. I'm glad he's finally releasing it to the public," Saeyoung murmured from next to you, providing you tidbits of information with each new album.

You watched in awe as four albums were revealed and sold, the first album sold off separately in pieces, but the others bid upon as full sets—and couldn't help but let your breath catch in your throat as each new picture was revealed.

Art.

There was no other way to describe it.

V's camera didn't just capture moments and scenes: he captured emotions.

The first album, Flowers in Laughter, left you shook with its brilliance—breaking down any questions you might have had in mind over V's capabilities.

The second, Myriad Memoir, almost scared you with how much raw emotion it brought forth.

When you saw the third, you almost forgot to breathe: each picture in Glass over Truth seeming to resonate with not just your heart but memories you thought long buried.

And even when your eyes settled over Observing Lies, when you were so confident that nothing else could shake you, your bottom lip trembled as you continued glancing from picture to picture.

You felt your heart rise and fall as each album took you on an emotional rollercoaster, bringing you to lows and highs, showing you sorrow and joy, and the delicate smidgens of hope buried underneath it all.

Truly, you couldn't look at a single one of his pictures and bear to tear your eyes away.

Your heart wouldn't let you.

And that, perhaps, was why when V's final album, was revealed, your entire body felt like it was short-circuiting.

"This album is a product of my most recent work. As many rumors have been circulating, my eyesight is indeed beginning to fail. But it is known that, in my work, I aim to photograph more than what our eyes can see—I photograph what the heart feels, and immortalize it. Which is why, despite my decreasing capabilities of vision, even I am not so blind as to fail to recognize the pure love that these individuals have in their hearts."

V pulled back the curtain that was revealing the final set of pictures, and Saeran's grip over your hand instantly tightened.

"This collection is my most prized work, a culmination of everything I sought to capture when I first decided to be a photographer. I call this album: Where Futures Begin."

Without even formally opening the bidding, people were already shouting numbers—every soul in the room wanting to own this masterpiece collection.

Because no matter how brilliant all V's previous works were, this album put them all to shame. There was no mistaking it: the angles and light and object organization left nothing to the imagination: looking at these pictures, even the biggest fools would have to see what V had managed to capture so beautifully.

You stared in awe.

Each image in the album was filled with the purest emotion: love.

Each image in the album was of you.

You and Saeran, to be specific.

You gazed at the first picture. The two of you were locked in a tight embrace just outside the Mint Eye, seeking not comfort in each others' arms but stability, as if in that time of turmoil the only reliable, unchanging foundation in your lives was each other.

The second image—you didn't even know that V had been present, but looking back it made sense that he would have seen it—was one of where the two of you were in the rain under a single umbrella. At the time, you hadn't even registered that both your outfits were varying shades of grey, but the black-and-white nature of your clothes and the background only made the splashes of color on both your cheeks all the more prominent as you clung to Saeran's sleeve while he gazed down at you adoringly, a rare smile eternalized on his face.

The third, a chaste kiss outside V's apartment when Saeyoung had brought the two of you there to speak with the man. You stared at it in awe, wondering how the image managed to capture the fleetingness of the kiss despite the lasting nature of the picture.

The photographs continued like that, all moments that you had never been aware that V had seen, but captured and developed nonetheless. He had found everything: chaste kisses, abashed glances, sweet laughs, even the wholesome hand-holding that Saeran used to be so averse to. 

By some ridiculous miracle, the man had succeeded in photographing the two of you as Saeran kissed you so passionately just outside the party hall this morning, the fast-paced motion all around you only intensifying the intimacy of the moment when you two stood still to lose yourselves in each other. You couldn't help but wonder when V had found the time to develop a picture so last-minute, given that the moment had happened just hours ago, but found yourself shaking your head. The man, as proven by this album, seemed to work wonders.

There was even a picture with Saeyoung, a snapshot of the three of you laughing, and the dispersal of red hair throughout the image told as much a story as it did reveal the varying types of love in your relationship: brotherly, platonic, and—of course—romantic.

You felt a familiar heat rise to your cheeks as the unmistakable feeling bloomed in your chest. No doubt, every person in the room who was gazing upon those pictures was feeling it too.

Love.

And at the back of your mind, you remembered how V had quietly urged you and Saeran to stay—saying that he had a lovely surprise for you two at the end.

Why, this is the best surprise a person could receive.

You found yourself unable to take the smile off your face, the grin only emboldened by Saeyoung's voice joining on the current bidding war that was going on over this album.

"I want it!" He shouted, overly dramatic as usual. You had to force his hand down to get him to listen, but by then, Saeran was egging him on.

The glint of pride in both their eyes as they gazed upon your and Saeran's love immortalized almost prompted you to let the brothers do as they pleased, but you finally found your voice.

"No, guys." You forced them both to look you in the eye amidst all the chaotic bidding. "V called this album Where Futures Begin for a reason."

It was only then that they seemed to recall the album name, and it was then that they understood the meaning of your words.

Where futures begin. But not the future itself.

The album would go home to the house of a wealthy individual, likely one who didn't have the same love in their life as the three of you had in yours'. But that fact wouldn't matter to you. It shouldn't.

Because you had your whole lives ahead of you. Lives that were finally free of the past, no longer rooted in pain or misunderstandings or misery.

This album was V's gift to the three of you. It was a Congratulations! present in advance, commemorating the balance of love that the three of you would be sharing from that day and every day onward. Through thick and thin, that would become the new constant in your lives: the emotion that V had selected when he first saw the way you and Saeran gazed into each others' eyes. Love.

And while others would get to enjoy the sight of where your future together began, you all would have something so much better: the actual future.

At long last, you had finally reached a state where no one else would be able to steal that future away.

No, that future belonged to you, Saeran, and Saeyoung. No others.

A flame ignited in your heart at the thought, fanned by sudden thoughts of having to go through life without either of the boys that you'd grown so dependent on.

Though as you gazed upon their understanding faces and knowing smiles, you realized that there was no need to fear.

These two boys were your future.

Nothing would ever be able to take that away from you.

Fin.

MASTERLIST

Neutral Route: 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | ✔

Saeyoung’s Route: 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | ✔

Saeran’s Route: 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | ✔

Word count: 2.7k

Notes: Wow. It feels so bittersweet, that this (my first series ever) is coming to a close after a total of 29 chapters, but it fills me with happiness that i actually succeeded in getting this done. I'm thankful to you guys for reading this, because I never would have been able to complete this otherwise. Thank you for sticking with me, thank you for commenting, thank you for liking, thank you for reading. It's been such a ride (four whole months!) and while this journey is over, i hope that you'll join me in the next fic :) I hope you enjoyed this series, and I hope that you have an absolutely wonderful day. <3

Comment & Like

Thank you for reading <3

I do not own the rights to Mystic Messenger or any of the characters within it.

[dawnwave16]

Not what I expected

3; 4(here); 4.5 ; 5 ; Pictures for Interlude ; Interlude

Chap 4

“It's confirmed,” she said with a soft smile, then looked at Hotch. “Congrats, Dad, it's a teenaged girl!”

Hotch was driving home to pack extra things into his bag when he realised that he should probably fetch Jack first. After all, if he remembered correctly, Jack was meant to be having an art day at school and the last thing he wanted to do was take Jack on a plane covered in paint and other art supplies. He had requested that Garcia book accommodation for them as the last thing he wanted was to arrive in Paris and find out the was nowhere for them all to stay, so he knew they would be staying in the Grand Paris Hotel, they would pay for their rooms after they arrived though.

That planned he picked up a very messy, yet excited Jack and got everything else that he needed done sorted and met the team at the airport. He was admittedly a bit nervous, after all, he'd just found out he had a teenage daughter and he had no idea if she knew that Tom wasn't her father. The team boarded without any issues and settled in for the flight. Since D.C was 6hrs behind Paris, despite them leaving at 1 pm they would be landing in Paris at 6 pm.

They had been on the plane for about an hour when Reid, who had been quiet for the most part, spoke up.

“I think we should look into Marinette's teacher as well as the two girls Matt mentioned.” Seeing the confused looks he continued, “While it may be possible that the teacher hasn't noticed what is happening with Marinette. If we go by what Matt said about how she seemed relieved that an adult other than her parents believed her, I think we can deduce that the school hasn't supported her. I read through the records about her that Garcia was able to get and her school file indicates that she has almost been expelled a few times since Miss Rossi joined the class. I find that strange because before that she had an almost spotless record there is even a note stating that she is generally quiet but will stand up to bullies. If you then take Frances' policy of emphasising the teacher's authority and how much they stress analytical thinking, it paints a picture of either a weak-willed teacher or one that just doesn't care.”

“I see where you going with this Pretty Boy, you think that the teacher has seen everything that Marinette is going through but instead of trying to help her, she's making Marinette lock away her natural reaction of standing up for herself in favour of trying to maintain the status quo. Marinette has probably tried to speak to her teacher but been told to simply keep quiet, which has then lead to her classmates thinking that she's been reprimanded and that what they are doing is the right thing.” Morgan sounded contemplative as he spoke.

“I could see that happening if the teacher wasn't very experienced with teens or perhaps was better suited to teaching much younger children.” This time it was Prentiss that spoke up. “Garcia can you-”

“Already ahead of you there. Records sent to your tablets but to summerise what I have found this is Caline Bustier's first teaching position, she applied to only teach art as she wanted to gain a bit more experience before teaching full classes. She has a history through her school career of fading into the background whenever there was any conflict near her. Ironically enough she was always found at the scene of a fight but never seen to be directly involved.” Garcia's fingers were flying over the keys of her laptop even as she gave her brief report.

JJ frowned, “Do you guys think she could have instigated those fights only to step back as the fight got bigger? I don't think I'd want to let her near my kids if that was the case.”

“That's presuming the parents knew about her history in the first place,” Reid interjected.

By this stage, Hotch was glad he had had the forethought to pack a tablet with games and movies along with headphones for Jack. He knew how strong Jack's sense of right and wrong was and knew that if Jack heard about what was happening to his big sister he wouldn't be happy. When he had told Jack where they were going and why Jack had just about bounced off the walls even as he promised to be the best little brother in the world. Apparently, some of his classmates had older siblings then themselves and Jack had been jealous of the bond they seemed to share.

The rest of the flight passed in much the same manner with the only pause in the conversation being for their in-flight meal as Jack took his headphones out while he was eating. They spoke about the backgrounds that had been pulled up for each of the people in Marinette's' class and felt they knew which ones would have been swayed and why as well as which ones would keep quiet out of fear. By the time their plane landed, they had agreed they would have to talk to Marinette first but they were pretty sure she would want to change schools to get away from all the negative memories that had been formed by her class.

The trip from the airport to the hotel was also uneventful however that changed soon after their arrival. They checked into the hotel and received their key card and were just about to gather their luggage when something large and scaley ran past them fairly quickly. It stopped near the doors watching them eagerly, it's tail waving wildly. They blinked then Reid broke the silence.

“Either I am seeing things or that is a crocodile. What is a crocodile doing in Paris, let alone in an upmarket hotel?” The team couldn't answer however it seemed they didn't need to as their answer arrived in the form of a teen with Ravens wing blue hair pulled into pigtails walked through the door, only to drop what she was holding as she fell to the floor with a lap full of the reptile.

“FANG!” she yelped. “Hey, silly boy why are you down here and not upstairs with your dad? You know you not allowed out of the room without a lead on. Did you escape just too great me?” Even as she calmed down and spoke, she was rubbing its jaw showing absolutely no fear of it despite its size. She even seemed to scold it through the giggles that were now trying to escape her lips. The huge croc simply rumbled in what could only be described as a purr. Another teen stalked into the reception hall to see what the commotion was, only for a sneer to cross her face.

“Uugh, it's you. Seriously why are you even here?”

“Hello to you too, Chloé. I'm sure I don't have to explain myself to you so instead of fighting, why don't I simply take Fang back to his room and then you don't have to see me.” As she replied to Chloé, she pushed the croc off her lap and gathered the bags that she had been carrying. They seemed to be clothing bags of some description. She then looked up and the BAU realised who the girl was, Marinette. Why was she here on a Friday night? Shouldn't she be at home? Why was she so comfortable around such a large crocodile?

“Fine! Just get out of my sight. This is ridiculous! Utterly ridiculous!” The blond, Chloé, spun on her heel, flicked her hair and flounced off. Marinette looked at the BAU and seemed to read their confused faces as confusion over Chloés' behaviour.

“Don't worry about her,” she said reassuringly, “ Chloé is always like that, her father is the mayor and owns this hotel. She was also one of the temporary hero's at one stage so she likes to act like everyone else is beneath her.” She then looked down at the crocodile, “Right, let's go, Fang, your papa is probably pulling his hair out looking for you. I have his and Penny's order with me, they just need to have their final fitting then we can have some more cuddles, how does that sound?” The crocodile pranced in place, acting more like a big puppy rather than the reptile he was, then as Marinette walked towards the elevator he walked next to her, as perfectly behaved as any army dog. As she got the elevator she frowned then looked at them again.

“Since there are so many of you would some of you like to travel up with Fang and me? He's a big softy who wouldn't hurt a fly, I promise.”

Jack immediately started tugging Hotch's hand, “Please Dad? I want to pet him!” 

Hotch smiled softly yet worriedly, he was a little nervous for this to be his first interaction with his daughter but his paternal instinct wanted him to get to know her and find out why she was here with garment bags in the first place. JJ noticed his dilemma and volunteered to go up with them. Hotch smiled at her in relief and the three of them joined Marinette just as it arrived so they all piled in. Marinette quickly showed Jack how to pat Fang and the croc seemed to lap up the attention. It was pure chance that they were all going to the same floor so when the doors opened again Marinette let them out first then walked out only to be greeted by an overly loud shout.

“MARINETTE! And you found Fang for me! Rock on!”

 @virgil-is-a-cutie for the idea about madam Bustier

@a-marlene-s for all her support! You Rock!

[exoticarmy127]

Could you please do a the same Hobi and Yoongi reaction (the one where there s/o is told they're a hindrance to the boy's career) but for the other members ? And please don't put it under a cut even if it's long. I normally read from mobile and tumblr effs it up every time. Thank you ! You're writing is amazing btw.

I guess it’s just Jin and Namjoon left :)

J-Hope and Suga

Jungkook

V and Jimin

Jin

Jin wasn’t sure where the fight started. At one moment, the two of you were just talking and the next… you were both exploding volcanoes.

But nothing prepared him for those frightening words, rendering him speechless and immobile:

“Maybe we should just end this!” You shouted at the height of your argument and it was enough to stop Jin from retaliating, your painful words piercing through him like a knife.

As you turn to walk away, he immediately stops you, holding onto your arm to make you face him again. “Y/N… h-hey, y-you don’t mean that.” He stutters and guilt presses down on you instantly for being the reason behind the look of fear on his face.

“I don’t know, Seokjin.” You sigh, eyes glassy from the heat of the fight. You only ever called him that when you were serious, which scared him. “You tell me.”

“What does that mean?” He huffs. “Of course I don’t want that. Ending this is the last thing…no, it’s not even an option.”

You remain silent at that and Jin’s hand move from your arm to your hand, squeezing it once.

“Or is it just me? Are you…” he swallows. “Giving up on me? On us?”

You press your lips in a thin line and look away; the pain on his face too hard to bear. “I don’t know. I don’t know anymore, Jin. The world seem to be so against us that even we, ourselves, are turning from each other.”

“We fight, yes. But don’t all couples do? It’s normal.” He reasons. “But we don’t just give up. We talk about it.” You bite your lip at that and Jin immediately catches it. “Something’s wrong. Tell me.”

You take a deep breath, thinking if you should… “Please, Y/N.” He pleads and you sigh, relenting.

“Why are you even with me?” You murmur and yet those quiet words echoed through Jin’s brain, causing him to rattle in surprise.

“What do you mean? I’m with you because you’re my girlfriend, because I love you.”

“People say I’m only dragging you down. They often say how a global star like Kim Seokjin can do better than be with someone like me…a nobody.” You look at him with tears pooling in your eyes. “They say I’m hindering you from having a successful career and I don’t want that Jin. I want what’s best for you.”

“And you think what’s best for me is to not have you in my life?” He asks and you nod, which only breaks his heart.

“If you truly knew me…loved me… you should know that having a successful and massive career isn’t what I’m after when I entered this business. I work hard to become who I am not for the fame but because I love doing it. I’m passionate about it. I love performing, singing, making people happy… I don’t care about the titles. I care about making my fans and myself happy.”

You look down, wiping your tears away as he continued. “You should also know that being with you makes me the happiest man I could ever be. I thought performing made me happy…but with you? It’s different… Almost euphoric.”

You feel a hand on your chin as Jin tips it upward so you can face him. “So tell me, Y/N. If you took away that happiness, would that be best for me?”

It was then that you broke down, shaking your head as the tears poured out of you. Jin pulls you into his arms, murmuring sorry’s and I love you’s which you returned, fervently.

“The world can suck it. What matters is we make each other happy, okay?”

“Okay.”

“You and me against the world, Y/N.”

No matter what, you smile. “You and me.”

RM

“We need to talk.”

Namjoon has never read a more frightening statement. He read the text the moment he landed back in Seoul after being in the US for almost a month. He hasn’t seen you in weeks and all he wanted to do was surprise you but you ended up surprising him with that text instead.

He replies a quick “sure” and asks where to meet. The words were calm, almost nonchalant on the screen, but Namjoon was panicking. Nothing good ever comes about with those four words.

Waiting for you to arrive at his studio was agony. Namjoon couldn’t keep his leg from jumping, his hand shakes slightly that he could barely work his computer, and the music in the background isn’t doing its job of calming his nerves.

Knock. Knock.

He whips his head towards the door and sees a shadow there. It’s you. He stands up, takes a deep breath, and opens the door.

Namjoon could remember the first time he ever saw you: in a museum, wearing a yellow shirt and jeans, standing in front of an art piece. He wasn’t sure what came over him that day that he was able to approach you and make conversation…but he did. And it was one of the best days of his life.

He swallows hard at the sight of you now: wearing the same shirt and a soft smile. Namjoon thinks how the world could be so cruel as for you to wear the same yellow shirt you entered into–and apparently will leave his life in.

“Hey.” You say. “Can I come in?”

“You don’t need an invitation, you know that right?” Namjoon says to lighten the mood as he steps back to let you in. He’s stalling, he knows. But he can’t just let you talk yet…He can’t let you go yet.

“How was the tour?” You ask and he shrugs.

“It was…successful.” He answers. “Got through it without any accidents, thank god.”

“That’s good.” You smile and he notices how it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “So, I… I’m really sorry about texting you that when you just got back. But in my defense, I could’ve waited till tomorrow so you can get some sleep first–”

“No, it’s fine. I don’t think I could sleep when…” He swallows. “When I know you’re going to break up with me.”

You open your mouth to speak but closed it when you realize what he just said. “What? Joon—”

“Please, hear me out first.” Namjoon says calmly, but you notice his hands were shaking. “I’m not the best boyfriend, I admit. I’m away more than half the time, we sneak out to go out publicly; we can’t even watch a movie in a cinema without having to rent the whole place so we don’t get mobbed by fans…” He huffs, having said all that without breath. “I get moody sometimes, my work hinders me from spending more time with you. When I’m on tour, you don’t see me for months. When I’m here, I’m almost always at the studio and so you would have to be here and watch me work...as our date.”

You frown as you listened, watching as silent tears begin to fall from his eyes. “I’m not perfect, I know. And you have a million reasons to cut me loose and find a better man, but…” he sniffs. “But know that out of that million reasons, I only have one reason to make you want to stay…”

Your eyes widen when he suddenly kneels in front of you and takes your hands in his. “Y/N, I love you. I love you so much that you’re the only reason I want to go back and do my work all over again. I love you so much that I can’t sleep well unless I hear your voice or read a good night text from you every single night. I love you so much it hurts. And I know it’s selfish for me to want you to stay with me when I can’t give as much as you’re giving me… when I can’t be the partner you deserve. But please, don’t leave me. Please don’t break up with me. Because I honestly don’t know how I’m going to live without you.” He gasps and the pain is so evident on his face it almost hurt to look at him. “The person I was before? I’m not even sure how he lived till he met you.”

You didn’t know what to say after that. How could you when Namjoon literally laid out his heart bare in front of you; putting it in your hands and begging for you to keep holding on to it.

“Joon. Hey…” you say as you wipe off his tears. “I’m not breaking up with you. Calm down.”

“You’re not?” He sniffs.

You shake your head. “But you’re not wrong for assuming I came to talk about our relationship. The truth is…it’s not you—“ you stop as a finger lays on your lips.

“Don’t say ‘it’s me’ because you’re nothing but perfect, Y/N.”

You smile. “Stop being so cheesy. But I came to talk to you because…I got insecure.”

He looks at you funny, thinking the word shouldn’t even be in your vocabulary. “About what?”

You bite your lip, “When you’re away or even when you’re here, really… people talk. All the time. About how I’m only holding you back from your career. How I’m practically a nobody to be dating ‘RM of BTS.’” Namjoon was about to rebut but you continued, “And I know I shouldn’t listen to them. I knew what I was getting into when I dated you Joon, and I don’t regret it because I love you so much it hurts too… But sometimes, those words get too loud and I can’t really turn to anyone…I—“ you bow your head. “I’m sorry. I’m pathetic—“

“No! You’re not! Stop saying that!” Namjoon says sternly. “Thank you for letting me know. I can’t imagine how it must feel keeping this all to yourself. You’re so strong, jagiya. But you’re also allowed to be hurt, to be sad. And that’s okay. I just wish I could protect you more from those words. I’m so sorry. I’ll try harder, Jagi. I’ll try harder to show you that you don’t have to worry about them because in the end, I’m all yours.” He cups your cheek. “You’re worthy of every single part of me. Please know that.”

You nod, smiling through tear-stained cheeks. “I do. And nothing you’ve said about being a bad boyfriend was true. You do everything for me. You’re the best and I love you, Joon. I love you to the moon…”

Namjoon smiles, his heart full and eyes glassy with happy tears as he says his reply: “And back, Y/N. Always.”

NAMJOONIE MAKES ME CRY. Hope you guys enjoyed reading!

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- Kaye Allen

[marinaaniseed]

Get innocuous!

Song: Get innocuous! from the album Sound of silver by LCD Soundsystem.

Summary: After the events of Death on the stairs, Steve cheers you up by doodling on your cast.

Pairing: Female reader x Stucky

Length: 1,497 words

A/N: Apparently people wanted a sequel to Death on the stairs, so here it is. Injury, Stucky, poly relationships, bisexuals EVERYWHERE. See here for what this is all about.

***

Steve had been sent to follow up on a lead while you were still in surgery. He’d wanted to stay, to be there when you came to, but Wanda and Bucky would be there, so he’d headed off again with Thor, Clint, and Nat.

By the time he’d returned, you’d been moved to the relative comfort of your room. Bucky had been keeping Steve informed about how you were doing. Those not on missions were doing their best to care for you, keep you entertained and your spirits up.

Bucky brought you breakfast in bed before Wanda helped you wash and dress. They wheeled you around to meetings, social events, everything and anything they could do to help you feel included. Tony was tinkering with various gadgets to try to make your life easier while you healed. Peter had brought some of his Lego to build with you, a space thing from a film that Steve hadn’t seen.

He knew you were being looked after but he still felt bad for not being there. It was incredibly brave, what you’d done. The situation in the tower block would’ve been much worse if you hadn’t warned him and Wanda before the fighting started. How had he even slept through the gang gathering outside your door? His hearing was enhanced, just like Bucky’s. He should’ve heard them, been able to do something. In a way, your injury was his fault.

Even with your bedroom door shut, Steve could hear the sound of you crying and it broke his heart, adding another thick layer to his already guilty conscience. He knocked gently, and when he got no reply, he entered gingerly.

Alone and prone in the half-light. Your body trembled as you sobbed, used tissues on the floor evidence of how long you’d been crying.

“Hey,” he announced. There was no point in asking if you were alright, he already knew the answer to that.

“Whuh?” you queried, raising your head to look in Steve’s direction. Your eyes were blurry and bloodshot, nose equally red from blowing it.

“It’s ok, it’s just me,” he soothed, shutting the door with a gentle click. He handed you a fresh tissue, before sitting on the end of the bed.

You wiped your face and turned over, so you could face Steve.

“Aw, fuck’s sake,” you whined, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your hands. “I didn’t want anyone to see me like this.

“Stop rubbing your eyes,” he said, leaning forward to softly but firmly grab your wrists and pull them away from your face. “You’ll make them sore.”

You looked at him for a minute. If it wasn’t for Bucky’s stories, you’d think Steve was a man who’d never cried in his life, but you knew that beneath the all-American hero facade there was also a sensitive, creative man. You’d never seen his art, but Bucky had assured it was good, and not just because he was biased.

Or bi-assed, even.

That thought made you laugh aloud, startling Steve.

“Sorry, I just remembered something funny,” you said. Steve didn’t need to know what it was, he was just glad to see you smiling again.

“Do you want to talk about what made you cry?” he asked after a moment.

“It’s just really disheartening to be stuck here like this,” you told him, gesturing to your foot, where it sat elevated on some pillows. “Everyone is looking after me but I feel like I’m a burden to the team when they could be, should be doing other things.”

“No, you’re not a burden,” Steve noted. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be here before, but Bucky was sending me updates. He really cares about you, we all do.”

“It was such a stupid thing to do, I could’ve died.”

“But you didn’t. Sometimes, we all have to take risks. Think how much worse it would’ve been if you’d stayed up there with no weapon or protection.”

They’d have shot you without hesitation, a broken ankle seemed a small price to pay in comparison.

“I guess,” you told Steve with a shrug.

“What you did was really brave. You gave us a few seconds more warning than we would’ve had. We’re all so proud of you. Here,” he said, opening up something on his phone and it to you. “I probably shouldn’t be showing this to you, but Buck’s such a softie.”

Looking at the screen, you could see it was a thread of messages between Steve and Bucky. Or, more accurately, several messages from Bucky and the occasional one from Steve.

Y/N’s such an amazing and strong lady! Her dedication is immense and I am super proud of her! Without the serum to help me heal, I don’t know if I could’ve done what she did.

Here’s our girl wheeling herself around - so proud and happy! Docs are really pleased Y/N’s healing so well, so proud of her progress.

She makes me so proud, every day. She is so much stronger than I ever could be. We are so blessed to have her in our family.

“Steve, you’re gonna make me cry again,” you said, handing the phone back to him.

“I know Buck’s not the only one who’s proud of you. This is just a temporary break… sorry, poor choice of words, but you know what I mean. You’ll be out in the field with us again in no time.”

“But what if I’m not?”

“There’s always a space for you on our team,” Steve reassured you.

It was hard to imagine being out there again. Just being able to walk was still weeks away, if not months. Even if you did fully recover, would you just freeze when the moment came to make a decision?

“I’m scared,” you admitted.

“That’s perfectly understandable.”

“Not just about my recovery or my career,” you clarified, “but about what dating Bucky might mean.”

“Ah,” said Steve. “You have my blessing, I’m sure he’s told you that.”

“I know, I just wouldn’t want you to feel left out.”

“I don’t have to be.”

Did Steve just suggest what you think he did?

“Pardon?” you asked.

“I don’t have to be left out. If you wanted, I’d be happy to join in. Or date you separately. Very happy, but only if it was something you wanted too.”

“Did they… did they change my meds again? Up my dosage?”

“No,” Steve chuckled. “I’m serious. Although, I’m sure you can understand there’d be a need for a certain level of discretion, especially in public.”

You nodded mutely, too stunned to say anything. It was new territory for Steve, too, but he shared everything else in his life with Bucky, why not you as well?

Glancing down at your cast, he was surprised to realise your cast was completely bare.

“It’s not my usual medium, but would you like me to grab a pen and make this leg as beautiful as your other one?” he suggested.

“Sure,” you smiled at him.

You and Steve always date the same people? You sent Bucky a quick message while Steve went back to his room.

No, only the ones with broken limbs - especially if they’re pretty, came the reply.

Shit, better hope Wanda doesn’t break a wrist or something.

I think you’re safe, doll. She doesn’t seem to like her men completely human.

And you two are? You’re old enough to be my great-grandfathers.

Hey! Play nice or I’ll steal your wheelchair ;-)

Steve burst in, brandishing a gold Sharpie.

“I think that’s why nobody’s doodled on it, they don’t have a pen that’ll show up on such a dark cast,” he commented. “Anything you want me to?”

“I’ll leave it to your judgment.”

*** It took Steve several hours, you had to keep turning over for him, but eventually, he finished it. He’d drawn anthropomorphic versions of the team, with gaps filled with intricate flowers and patterns. There was a replica of the Captain America monkey doodle he kept on his desk. Sam and Clint had become a falcon and hawk, fighting over crumbs being thrown on the ground by spider versions of Nat and Peter. Tony had become Tony Stork, carrying Vision, there was Goose Banner in his lab, Thor was a hammerhead shark with Mjölnir between his teeth… there were so many wonderful little doodles all over your leg, but your personal favourite was Bucky as a cute little bear, holding a heart with yours, his, and Steve’s initials on it.

“Let me send him a photo,” Steve said with a smirk.

It didn’t take long until you heard Bucky thundering along the corridor, bursting into your room with such force that the door bounced back off the wall.

“Listen here, you punk,” he shouted, pointing a vibranium finger at Steve, “I am not a cute little bear.”

“That’s not what the guy at that club in Berlin said,” Steve answered, trying not to laugh.

This was going to be fun.

[haifengg]

The Dutch Room - Chapter 4

Find all chapters here!

“Did you solve your problem yet?” Johnny asked and fell into the armchair.

His boss sat on the other side of the office, hunched over a remarkable stack of paperwork. “Problem?” He asked without looking up.

“The … uh … thing that came up a few weeks ago.” Johnny said carefully, not sure if he really forgot about the incident.

“Oh, so you’re not talking about yourself.” One could hear Jaehyun’s smile even if it wasn’t visible. Especially if one’s name was Johnny.

“Why would I refer to myself as a problem?”

“Because you always show up when I'm busy and steal my time.”

“By doing what?”

“By talking to me and not working like everyone else.” He said and finally looked up from his paperwork, smiling.

Johnny sighed. “You suck real bad. Did you know that?”

“I’ve been told, yeah. Honestly tho, what problem are you talking about? There are so many lately.”

Jaehyun leaned back in his chair, crossed his fingers behind his head and put his feet up, looking at his oldest friend.

“The one that dropped dead on your floor.” Johnny scoffed and yawned. Once again it was one of those days they were working late, which basically described every other day in their field of work.

Every single one of them had spent at least a few nights in their office, which is why they all kept travel kits at their desks somewhere.

“Oh.” Jaehyun said and his relatively good mood faded within seconds. “That one.”

“I assume it is as always more serious than you’re telling us right?”

“I don’t need to tell you how serious it is. Everyone working here is qualified enough to know that for themselves. And if they don’t I should consider replacing them. But yes, it is gravely serious. It could ruin the entire project.”

“And I assume you found a solution?” Jaehyun nodded and took down his hands, resting them on his core.

“I did. And I will schedule a meeting as soon as it is set in stone.”

“As always. I’m here now so why don’t you walk me through it?” Johnny offered casually while playing around with the end of his tie.

“I’m really busy …”

Johnny snorted. “Dude, I don’t care. I haven’t talked to you in ages about work let alone anything non-work related. And if business talk is the only talk I get these days I will take whatever you got.”

“Fine. The solution we came up with involves Taeil.”

Johnny suddenly sat up straight in the armchair and looked at his friend in a very confused way.

“Taeil? I thought you decided against using the hostesses.”

“True. We won’t use BARbara. But Taeil is the one who came up with the back-up plan.”

Jaehyun paused to lean forward, leafing through his calendar looking for a specific event.

“On the uh … 4th he’s meeting with the owner of a few high class restaurants. Something japanese. To be honest I neither met the guy yet nor have I heard about his restaurants but Taeil apparently knows him for quite some time and I trust him. After they meet up and where he introduces him to the idea, we will schedule another meeting in which we discuss the specifics.”

“I thought you don’t want to involve more people than necessary? Why are you suddenly considering working with someone you don’t know? This seems chancy.”

“Because”, he began and groaned. “the original plan was the most irresponsible imbecile I’ve met in my career so far and whoever Taeil is talking to in two weeks can’t be worse. I don’t know if you noticed but we don’t have that much time left. And I told all of you before that we’re only doing it if we find a way to clean the money.”

“You did tell us that. Several times. But we always reassured you that we would do it even if you don’t know how to launder the money beforehand. Because we trust you.”

Jaehyun sighed and rested his head in the palms of his hands. “You shouldn’t tho.”

The other shrugged and got up. “We know. But we do against your better judgement.”

“You’re going home?” Jaehyun looked at him in surprise.

“What? No.” He chuckled. “I’m working late, boss. As always.”

***

“Someone home?” Johnny stuck the head through the door as he opened it carefully.

“Come on in!” Song shouted from the back of the studio, her voice weirdly muffled.

So he stepped inside and closed the door behind him, looking around for her but couldn’t find her.

The studio didn’t change much since the last time he visited. The dishes were clean and put up to dry, right next to it was a small stash of toiletries.

Everything looked fine and even more in order than Haechan’s cubicle so why did Jaehyun want him to come up here and check on her? And besides, why didn’t he just do it himself?

He shuffled across the room to take a closer look at the easel and the prints that were spread out on the huge wobbly table alongside with a variety of … ingredients and colors. The canvas was smudged with a mix of brown and green tones.

By this point of progress Johnny wasn’t able to see any resemblance or how the hell this would turn into what was on the prints.

“Oh. It’f you.”

Hearing her voice behind him he turned around to see Song in sweatpants and some threadborne sweatshirt. Just now he realized how late it must have been once again, since Song was brushing her teeth and didn’t bother to take out the toothbrush while talking to him.

“If I knew y’all would take the ‘come by anytime’ fo literally I wouldn’t have faid it.”

“Did someone else come by?”

She nodded and walked over to spit out toothpaste and put away the toothbrush. “Yeah. Haechan came to see me the day before yesterday. And Doyoung yesterday.”

“What did he want?” Johnny asked a little bit too hastily which made her turn around.

“Who?”

“Doyoung.”

The conversation forming between them was clipped and terse but not at all in an uncomfortable way.

“He brought the prints.” She said pointing at the table. “It’s a really good quality and very clean. You can literally see every little detail on it. Did you have a look?”

“Yeah, I did just now. Why was Haechan here?”

Since they were still standing around all dressed up and with nowhere to go, Song just walked over to the sofa and dropped down on it, grabbing a pillow to hold in her arms.

“Nothing too important. He just wanted to know how I am doing. Speaking for what reasons people are showing up here all the time: Why did you come?”

He pulled up the stool she was using to sit on while painting and sat across from her, one arm resting on the table and shrugged.

“Same reason. Just wanted to say ‘hi’.”

“Well, you did that. Something else?”

Johnny chuckled more to himself than to Song. Why wasn’t he able to figure her out? Since she was employed he caught himself wondering what the hell she was doing here and how she ended up being their coworker.

“Have you ever sat one foot on our floor?” He asked trying to change the topic but Song was quick.

She thought for a moment leaning her head to one side, then shaking it. “Why would I? Everyone is coming upstairs anyways. I don’t really have to leave this place.”

“Touche.”

Silence settled between them during which Song scanned the man carefully and Johnny tried to not curse himself for coming here. Nice gestures never were a thing at this company so why did he thought it would be a good idea to start being nice?

Right. He though. It was about what Doyoung said and how right he turned out to be. The girl … woman sitting across from him didn’t really fit in with all of them. And even though he corrected his thoughts from girl to woman he couldn’t deny that there certainly was something fairly young about her. She definitely looked her age and she probably had both whit and sass but … something didn’t add up.

“Do you want to drink? Something?” Song suddenly asked and got up.

Johnny jumped to his feet as well and gladly said: “Yes, please!”

***

Song chucked the last sip of wine and lowered her glass. Johnny reached for it to replenish her drink for the fourth time but she quickly covered with both hands.

“No no no, I’m good.” She laughed.

They both sat in front of the sofa, legs crossed and leaning against it. He had no idea of how long they had been sitting together like this but two hours probably already had passed since he got here.

“Are you sure?” He asked sliding the bottle of white wine back into the cooler.

“Yes. Absolutely. This is actually way more than I usually have. If you have questions you only want honest answers to: Ask them now.” She stated jokingly and waved away her sobriety.

Johnny laughed. “Okay, let me think.”

When he wasn’t saying anything for a few seconds she turned her head to look at him and found him actually thinking about what he wanted to ask her.

Song curiously and patiently waited for him to ask:

“What do you think of Panoma?”

Their eyes met and she could see how serious his question was. He really wanted her honest opinion about the company and/or the people working here.

“Well”, Song began but hesitated. “about the people or more about the entire thing?”

“Whatever you want.”

She sighed. “To be honest: I don’t think this is for me.”

Johnny’s eyes widened at an answer he didn’t expect at all. “What does that mean?”

“See, I feel like you all know each other so well. Yeah, sure I am the new one and y’all don’t know me and we don’t have a history but I am not sure if we will get along well eventually. And this is just the case for getting along well. Not exceptionally well or being a great team. Whatever that involves.”

He put down his wine glass ready to give her his unshared attention. This seemed to have bothered her for a while. “What exactly makes you think that?”

“This might sound weird but … to me you all seem like criminals.”

“You aren’t exactly whitecollar either. I chose your file out of 20 others because I like to think of you as someone who screws people over twice. First time by forging art and replacing it and the second time when you keep the original to yourself.”

“But compared to you that’s nothing.” She said, using one the one hand that wasn’t still holding the empty glass to empathize the arguments. “You are professional criminals. Working in a company devoted to launder money and steal shit. This is organized crime. What I do … every art-school graduate could do it. It all comes down to very basic things.”

Johnny sighed. “What makes you think you don’t fit in?”

She sat on her knees, putting aside the glass she was holding up until this moment and looked him directly into the eyes.

“I don’t know? Jaehyun is super scary and June is so … flawless? Doyoung seems a bit odd and I don’t know what to think of you but you are professionals. You work in an office, wear ties and suits, do paperwork, crunch numbers, have desks with files on them.”

“Is that how you define professionalism? That we appear to be harmless office employees but aren’t?”

Song nodded quietly.

“Under the pretext of commonplace?”

“Yes.”

There she was again. The girl Song that seemed so innocent and harmless as if she couldn’t hurt nobody and has no criminal record. As if they were two different personalities sharing one shell.

Johnny chuckled and suddenly the dramatic tension that had built up in the studio imploded and disappeared.

“I don’t mean to offend you personally but that’s very naive of you to think. Romanticizing our field of work is what writers do. And I have to ask you to neither put June nor Jaehyun on a pedestal because those two ain’t perfect. Also they’re not the cold and calculating professionals you think they are. “

He saw her face and immediately backtracked. “Don’t get me wrong: Both are evil masterminds and exceptionally at their jobs. But they have their flaws.” He leaned back. “Did you hear about Lucas?”

“Who’s that?”

“He used to work here before we hired you.”

“Why past tense?”

“He … quit. That aside: Lucas and June had an affair that was going on for quite a while if I remember correctly.”

Song gasped and choked. All Johnny did was laughing at her gasping which made things worse.

“Does everyone know?” She asked after catching her breath and being pat on the back by Johnny.

“I’m not sure but I assume at least Haechan does know. Nothing really goes past him. If you want to know things in the future I suggest you ask him.”

He returned to the semi serious attitude he had about himself for the entire evening as he said: “But my point is: Even though I don’t know if there were feelings involved or what exactly their arrangement was, it is what it is. An affair between two coworkers. And if that’s not the epitome of non-professionalism - I don’t know what is.“

Navigation

[calumcest]

only you (and you can hear me)

[ao3]

hello everybody. did you know i’m obsessed with rocketman? 

last week i was like ‘i kinda wanna write the tiny dancer scene from rocketman and have michael have been in love with calum since childhood and be suffering’ and bella was like ‘i will absolutely not let you do that’ so i was like ‘okay what about if i rewrite the tiny dancer scene and elton/bernie end up together but elton/bernie are malum’ and bella was like ‘fucking do it you coward’ 

i also want to take a moment to plug bella’s two wonderful rocketman au fics that i (forcibly) commissioned: the rooftop scene and the your song scene. truly works of art i cannot express to you enough how much i adore them

this fic is for @clumsyclifford for being a wonderful, kind, supportive, genuine friend, treating me with the kind of respect that is so hard to come by, and also for listening to me break down about rocketman for at least half an hour a day. i am truly lucky to know you 

-

“Uh,” Calum says, looking out into the crowd, and Michael follows his gaze, trying to find what Calum’s staring at. “I’m going to go to the teepee with Heather.” Michael’s stomach sinks.

“Really?” he asks, before he can stop himself, looking over at Calum.

“Yeah,” Calum says, turning to look at Michael, and Michael whips back around before Calum can see the look of ‘please don’t’ written all over his face.

“Alright.”

-

His show - his first show, at least - has been a success. 

(Later, Calum will tell him that’s exactly his problem; he’s always doubting himself, always qualifying his successes. Michael will flip him off and tell him just where to stick his fucking advice, and Calum will grin wickedly up at him and tell him he’d rather stick something else there instead.) 

It’d been a little shaky to begin with, the quiet beginning to Crocodile Rock something that he hadn’t run past either Calum or Ray and had just hissed to the band as he strode out on stage, and he’d seen Calum’s brow furrow when he held his first long, sustained note, up in the circle, arms draped over the barrier in front of him. Michael had swallowed, pushed through with the quiet beginning, hating every second that he could feel the confusion and anticipation seeping from the crowd, trying to wordlessly tell them it’ll be worth it, it’ll be fucking worth it, and feeling a warm roar in his heart when he’d snapped it back to the rockier version, band joining in, and the crowd had cheered loudly. It had been smooth sailing from there, song after song, shouts for encores after almost every one, people clambering up onto the stage to sing songs they’d never heard before with him, eyes ablaze with joy. Michael’s never felt so fucking alive before, never felt like he’s actually meant anything before, and it’s in that moment that he knows this is what he wants to do for the rest of his life.

He’s back in the green room now, eyes flickering around the room for the only person whose opinion he actually cares about when he finally spots him, and Calum comes bouncing up to him with the most beautiful woman Michael thinks he’s ever laid eyes on in tow. 

“It was so good!” Calum crows, pulling Michael into a fierce hug before Michael even has the chance to ask (nervously) what he thought. “You were brilliant.” Michael grins into Calum’s shoulder, wraps his arms tightly around him, inhales the faint scent of pine, cedar, incense, home, that’s mingling with the stale alcohol air of the room. He never wants to let go.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, squeezing Calum just a little harder than maybe strictly necessary, and then Calum’s letting go, stepping back and gesturing at the beautiful woman accompanying him. She smiles, all elegance and grace, and if Michael weren’t both gay and head-over-heels in love with Calum, he thinks he’d probably be down on one knee by now. He’s not quite sure why Calum isn’t, actually. She seems like exactly the type of girl he’d go for, if the one night stands that have failed to sneak silently out of Michael’s mum’s house in the early hours of the morning are anything to go by. 

“This is, uh,” Calum says, gesturing at the woman, and smiling brilliantly. “This is Heather.” 

“Hi,” she says, smiling again, holding a manicured hand out for him to shake. Michael grins, reaches out to shake her hand, and casts a sly look at Calum, who’s gazing at Heather with a slightly dazed, faraway look in his eyes.

“Hello,” Michael says, eyes still on Calum and still too giddy from the high of the show to care all too much right now about just how pretty Heather is and just how much she’s Calum’s type. Everyone loved him, them, his and Calum’s songs, and that’s more than one girl in a Hollywood bar has the power to destroy. Even if that bar is the fucking Troubadour.  

“You were amazing,” Heather says, and she sounds like she really means it. Pride swells in Michael’s chest - yeah, he was pretty fucking amazing, wasn’t he? - and his gaze flits back from Calum to Heather. 

“Thank you,” he says pointedly, and then grins at Calum again, who’s finally managed to tear his gaze away from Heather, looking back at Michael with a slightly sheepish well, what d’you want me to do? expression on his face. Michael just raises his eyebrows at him, still grinning, and then notices Doug swaggering through the door, a cigar dangling lazily between his fingers. 

“Alright,” he says loudly, and everyone turns to look at him, because obviously they fucking do, he’s Doug fucking Weston. “Enough of this bullshit. Who wants to go to a party at Mama Cass’s?” There are a few murmurs of assent, and Michael’s about to turn to Calum to ask whether they should go - because frankly, it sounds like there’s going to be free alcohol, and who the fuck is Michael, struggling up-and-comer, to say no to that? - when Ray bursts through the door, brandishing a set of car keys. 

“I’m so drunk, and Doug’s just lent me his car!” he announces, swaying slightly on the spot. Michael’s eyes automatically find Calum’s, and they both dissolve into laughter, something warm blossoming in Michael’s stomach at the fact that it’s his eyes that Calum had sought, not Heather’s.

The car journey back to wherever the fuck this house is is short, seven people crammed into the car that Calum had physically manhandled Ray out of driving all screaming at the top of their lungs as the guy in the driver’s seat careers around the bends of the Hollywood hills. 

(“You’re drunk, Ray, you’re not fucking driving,” Calum had said sternly. 

“I don’t fucking care if I kill myself,” Ray had announced loudly, and the girl on his arms had shot him a half-amused, half-concerned glance. 

“It’s not you I’m fucking worried about,” Calum had said, and maybe Michael had imagined it, maybe it had been a trick of the light, but he’s sure he’d seen Calum’s eyes flit to Michael for a split second.) 

Michael’s wedged in the back seat, Heather on his right, Calum on on her other side, and he can’t hear what anyone’s saying over the rushing sound of the wind in his ears but he feels so fucking alive, so free, laughing almost hysterically at things that aren’t remotely funny and grinning out at the vast expanse of glimmering lights that make up LA below them. 

The car pulls haphazardly into the driveway of a huge house, nothing like anything Michael’s ever seen back home, driveway and garden lit up with a string of softly glowing fairy lights. They all tumble out of the car, Ray and the driver heading straight for the house with two girls in tow, and Michael dawdles for a moment, waiting for Calum and Heather to get out of the car. Calum catches his eye and grins - can you fucking believe this is our lives now, mate? - and slings an arm around Heather’s shoulders, heading for the door. Michael trails behind, adrenaline from the show wearing off now, trying his hardest not to care about the arm around Heather’s shoulders - Calum had still smiled at him over the car , still sought him out to laugh at Ray with, after all. 

Heather’s swept up in a group of girls almost as soon as they get inside, chattering excitedly about how someone called Lucille is there and Heather throws them a graceful, apologetic smile as she lets herself be led away, explains something about Lucille being a former flatmate, or maybe a cousin, or something, Michael doesn’t really care. He’s too busy trying to pick a path through the groups of people sat on the floor smiling lazily at each other as they take hit after hit from a bong, bottles clinking like wind chimes, and Michael thinks vaguely that he should maybe work that into a song someday as he trips over hands and feet and mumbled apologies spill from his lips. 

Calum picks them up a bottle of beer each, gives one to Michael wordlessly, like he knows Michael needs something to do with his hands. Michael downs half of it in one go, trying to dull the edge of nerves in him, and accepts when a guy walking past offers him a joint. He takes a deep toke, wincing as the taste of weed and alcohol combine in his mouth and handing it over to Calum as he holds it in his lungs, only exhaling when Calum passes it back and taking another deep hit until his vision starts to sharpen, time starts to slow down. Calum grins at him, hands the joint to a passing couple who accept gratefully, and heads for a little sofa in the corner. Michael follows in his wake, throws himself down next to Calum, relishes the way Calum scoots a little closer to him. 

“How cool is this, man?” Calum says, exhaling heavily, like he can’t believe what’s happening. Michael knows the feeling. 

“Yeah, great,” he says, because Calum’s the lyricist, Calum’s the one that can put these things into words. Michael’s never been any good at that. Michael is good, however, at making fun of Calum. “Apparently Dylan’s here, somewhere,” he adds, schooling his features into sincerity. 

Calum whips around to look at him, a look of pure shock and disbelief on his face, like Michael’s taking the piss (not unfounded, Michael thinks, since he is taking the piss), and Michael can’t help the small, fond smile that unfurls on his lips, gaze flitting from Calum’s wide, brown eyes to his slightly parted lips and back again. Michael’s stomach does a little roll, possibly due to the combination of alcohol and weed and possibly due to the mere existence of Calum Hood, and he can’t help grinning at the excitement finding its way into Calum’s eyes. Calum notices, because of course he does, he notices fucking everything, and realisation dawns on his face. He scowls, elbowing Michael gently as he looks back over into the crowd of people, and Michael snorts quietly and takes another sip of his beer. 

“Uh,” Calum says, looking out into the crowd, and Michael follows his gaze, trying to find what Calum’s staring at. “I’m going to go to the teepee with Heather.” Michael’s stomach sinks. 

“Really?” he asks, before he can stop himself, looking over at Calum. 

“Yeah,” Calum says, turning to look at Michael, and Michael whips back around before Calum can see the look of please don’t written all over his face. 

“Alright.” He nods, trying to convince himself more than Calum that he’s okay with this, because it’s not the first time Calum’s cut his time with Michael short for a fuck, but it never stings any less. Calum’s not his, after all, no matter how much Michael is Calum’s. “Okay.” He shakes his head a little, trying to clear it of the thoughts buzzing through his slightly-inebriated mind, and Calum pauses, still looking at him, a slight crease between his brows. 

“You’ll be alright, won’t you?” he asks, and Michael looks back at him, hesitating for a moment when he sees the look of concern on Calum’s face. If he says no, Calum will stay with him, he knows that. The selfish part of him wants to say no just to spite Calum, just to make him stay, just to stop him from breaking Michael’s heart a little more. Instead, the part of him that loves Calum, the biggest part of him, makes him swallow it down, frown like Calum’s just asked something stupid, and nod. 

“Yeah, ‘course, yeah,” he says breezily, and Calum looks relieved, pushing himself off the sofa at the same time as Michael. 

They head for the table with alcohol on it, because Calum always needs liquid confidence before a conquest and Michael needs to drink until he fucking dies, and Michael pours himself a glass of wine, steadfastly not looking at Calum, whose eyes still haven’t strayed from Heather. 

“So, are we still going to go to Tower Records tomorrow, then?” he tries, eyes flitting to Calum, wanting the reassurance that Heather’s just another one-nighter, that Michael’s still got Calum in his waking hours. 

“Uh, well, she’s talking about going to some place called Paradise Cove tomorrow,” Calum says, a little absent-mindedly. Michael stares at his glass, and nods tightly. He needs some more fucking weed. Calum notices Michael’s lack of response and turns back to him, and Michael smiles at him, nodding, but he knows he’s failed in getting it to reach his eyes when Calum adds: “We’ll go another time, though?” 

“Yeah, ‘course,” Michael says, voice about an octave too high in his attempt to be casual, but it’s enough for Calum who turns away with a murmured yeah, yeah.  

“America, man,” he says, eyes wide, grin big, reaching for his drink. “Wide open spaces, beautiful girls-” Michael makes a noise that he hopes isn’t taken for the derision it’s meant to be but rather assent, but Calum doesn’t even seem to notice “-it’s a dream come true.” He grins back at Michael, who forces a smile, and raises his glass to Calum's. “Cheers,” Calum adds, and knocks back his vodka, and Michael swallows a good half of his glass of wine in one go. 

“Let’s stay here forever,” Calum says, eyes glittering, and then he leans over and presses a kiss to Michael’s cheek. His lips are soft and warm on Michael’s cheek, stubble scratching Michael’s jaw lightly, and Michael has to clench his fists to stop himself turning his head, catching Calum’s lips in a proper kiss. Calum lingers for a moment, or maybe that’s Michael’s marijuana-infused sense of time, before pulling back, grinning widely, and heading off in Heather’s direction. Michael lets himself watch Calum leave, knowing he’s staring after him like a kicked puppy but not even caring who sees him pining as long as it’s not Calum. 

The room suddenly feels too hot, too stuffy, cloying heat of the weed surrounding him hitting him all at once, and he heads out of the door that’s just swung shut behind Calum and Heather, taking deep gulps of the cool, crisp air and leaning against the wooden fence of the patio. Something softer has started playing in the background, piano and voice and Michael thinks it might be one of his, but can’t hear well enough over the sounds of people talking to piece it together. Groups of people are swaying to it in the garden, giggles carrying with the gentle breeze, and Michael spots Calum and Heather among them and has to turn away, a bitter taste rising in his throat. 

He decides to head for a tree stump near a campfire that nobody’s sitting around, figuring he can always throw himself into the fire if he gets too miserable. Calum and Heather have disappeared from his line of vision, and Michael tries his best not to think about it as he passes the teepee and hears giggles and moans coming from inside, tries not to visualise Calum’s back marked up by someone that isn’t him. 

The fire’s hot on his face, and Michael wonders if he could maybe blind himself by staring at it for too long and force Calum to, like, become his personal guide dog, or something, before the (small) non-melodramatic part of his brain threads its way through the alcohol and weed and tells him sternly not to be such a selfish prick. He tears his eyes away, gazing glumly at the tips of his boots instead, listening to everybody laughing and chattering around him and trying to resist the urge to stand up and yell at everybody that they can’t be enjoying themselves in his vicinity, they’re not allowed to laugh near him, can they not see how fucking tragic his life is? All the way in California, just played a sold-out show at the Troubadour, and he’s all on his fucking own.

No one near, he manages to make out from the song, and grimaces as he kicks a stone into the fire, just because he can, because his own music is hitting a little too close to home right now. He strains to listen to the rest of the song, just for something to do that isn’t spiral in his own mind, but it’s drowned out by the rustling sound of someone sitting down on the tree stump to his right. 

“Hi,” they say, a little tentatively, and Michael’s stomach sinks. It’s Calum, the only and also the last person Michael wants to see right now. 

“Hi,” Michael replies, a little moody, gazing at the fire. 

“You okay?” Calum says. Michael shrugs. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he says, and it’s a challenge. Dare you to call me out for being in love with you. Go on. Say it. 

“Dunno,” Calum says, and Michael can hear the sound of his leather jacket as he shrugs. 

“Why aren’t you with Heather?” Michael says, and tries not to make it come out too bitter. There’s silence from his right. 

“Think we both know the answer to that,” Calum says quietly. Michael’s stomach twists uncomfortably, alcohol and weed and unrequited love. Fantastic. Now Calum’s magnanimously giving up getting laid, like he’s ever so sorry, it’s just that his stupid fucking songwriter friend - yes, the ugly, balding one - has a massive crush on him and it’d just break his heart if Calum had sex with someone while Michael was nearby. 

“Right,” Michael says, and it’s a little harsh. “Sorry for being such a fucking killjoy.” 

“What?” Calum says, and he sounds somewhere between surprised and confused. “Mike, that’s not-” 

“Look,” Michael says fiercely, gritting his teeth. “I can’t help it, okay? I’ll get over it, alright, and I’m sorry, but don’t fucking come over here playing the good guy, acting all sanctimonious-” 

“Mike, I- hang on, did you just say sanctimonious? ”

“Taking the moral high ground, making such a fucking show of i-” 

“I know what sanctimonious means, Michael, I’m-” 

“Oh, so you think I don’t know what sanctimonious means? Great, you think I’m a fucking idiot?” Michael says, throwing his hands in the air, knowing he’s not making any sense but wanting to goad Calum into a fight in whatever way he can, wanting a justified reason for the anger and the spite and the bitter sadness without the heavy guilt creeping into the edge of each one. 

“Jesus, Michael, I don’t think you’re an idiot, I’m just not being fucking sanctimonious,” Calum says, and there’s a hard edge to his voice now. “You’re such a fucking drama queen, you know that?” Another flare of anger flashes in Michael and he whips around to face Calum. 

“Are you fucking serious?” he demands, and there are tears pricking at his eyes that he can’t quite identify either with sadness or fury. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is, Calum? Fucking sorry that I fell in love with you, mate, but don’t act like it’s your cross to b-” 

“You’re in love with me?” Calum interrupts, eyes wide, lips parted in shock. Michael swallows. Fuck. Alcohol, weed, and the kind of melodramatic anger only an artist can summon are not a good combination. 

“Fuck you,” he bites out. “If you’re just going to make fun of me, I’m going to fucking fire you.” 

“You can’t fire me,” Calum says, and Michael wants to scream at him, even more so because he knows Calum’s right. Dick’s the only one with that power. 

“I can do what I fucking like, Calu-” he starts irately, but Calum interrupts him again.

“Why the fuck have you got it in for me tonight, Mike?” Calum asks, and it’s a little weary, and the anger immediately dissipates from Michael’s chest as a surge of guilt courses through him. He sags, hunching into himself with a sigh. Cat’s out the fucking bag now, isn’t it, and there’s no point in him lashing out at Calum just to try and get a rise out of him. Calum never gives, not when he knows Michael’s just doing it to try and make himself feel better.

“I don’t,” Michael says sullenly. “Just don’t want you acting like I’m a massive fucking burden, is all.” 

“If you’d just let me fucking speak,” Calum begins, and then breaks off, like he’d been expecting Michael to interrupt. Michael just raises his eyebrows. 

“Well, go on then,” he mutters, shoving his hands in his pockets just for something to do. 

“I thought you knew,” Calum says, and then stops. 

“That’s all?” Michael says in disbelief. “That’s what you wanted me to listen to?” 

“No, look,” Calum says, and he reaches out for Michael’s thigh, hand warm and gentle and Michael wants to flinch away, but his body won’t let him. “I went off with Heather tonight because-” he pauses, and swallows, like whatever he’s saying is taking more out of him than Michael knows, but presses on. “Because I thought it’s what I needed. And then we got to the teepee, and she started kissing me, and I...all I could think was it was wrong. She was wrong.” Michael stares at the fire steadfastly. 

“No offence, Calum,” he says, a little harshly, pulling his leg away from Calum’s hand, “but I’m not really in the mood to give you relationship counselling.” 

“Will you just fucking listen?” Calum says, and he sounds exasperated now. 

“Get to the fucking point, then,” Michael growls. Calum takes a deep breath. 

“I wanted it to be you, ” he says. 

“You wanted me to kiss Heather?” Michael says, and laughs humourlessly. “Look, mate, I know I’m fucking lonely, I don’t need your pity, alright, and how how many fucking times do I have to tell you I’m ga- ” 

“I wanted to be kissing you.” 

Michael hears the fire crackling for the first time, spitting sparks into the air between them. 

“You...what?” he says, and chances a look at Calum to see if he’s taking the piss. Calum’s staring at him, looking a little pale but very determined. 

“I want to kiss you.” Michael blinks. 

“Cal, you’re drunk,” he says heavily, and hesitates before adding, “and you’re straight,” pained, and voice cracking a little. Calum swallows, and shrugs tightly. 

“Apparently not,” he says. 

“I’m not going to be your experiment,” Michael says bitterly. “What, you find out you might want to kiss a bloke and you think ‘oh, yeah, Michael’s gay and lonely, I’ll give it a shot with him’? I’m not a fucking charity case, Cal.” 

“I don’t think you are,” Calum says. “I-” he breaks off, inhales deeply, and exhales heavily. Michael watches his chest rise and fall, feels his own heart thud a little faster. “Look. I’ve wanted to kiss you since I first met you. In that little café, remember? We started singing ‘Streets of Laredo’ and pissed everyone off. You were grinning at me, doing that little squinty-eyes thing you do when you’re really laughing at something, and I just wanted to grab you by your ugly fucking lapels and kiss you.” 

“But I kissed you,” Michael points out. “On the roof.” And you pushed me away, he doesn’t say, because it hurts too much, but Calum hears it. He sighs, and casts his eyes at the fire, avoiding Michael’s gaze. 

“I know,” he says miserably. “I just- I wasn’t sure. I value you so much, Mike, you know that. You’re my heart, my soul, my-” 

“Career?” Calum huffs out a laugh, lips quirking up in a smile. 

“Yeah, that too,” he says. “I had to be sure. I didn’t want to fuck any of it up, y’know? But I’ve wanted you since the café. Since before that, actually. Since I heard the tape you sent me.” 

“You didn’t even know what I looked like,” Michael says, and Calum shrugs. 

“Didn’t need to,” he says, still staring into the fire. “Your voice, Mike…” he trails off, like he’s reminiscing, and then clears his throat, catching himself. “Hearing you sing my songs, the songs I wrote about you- ” 

“Hang on,” Michael interrupts, because what? What fucking songs has Calum written about him? The King Must Die? 

“What?” Calum sounds surprised now. “C’mon, Mike. First Episode at Hienton? Take Me to the Pilot? Your Song?” 

“Your Song?” Michael repeats, dumbfounded. Calum finally tears his eyes away from the fire and looks at Michael, a little reproachfully, like it’s Michael’s fault he hadn’t noticed Calum’s cryptic lyrics had been about him.  

“‘I’ve forgotten if they’re green or they’re blue’?” Calum quips, and Michael blinks. 

“Oh,” he says, because he can’t really think of anything else to say, nothing that will do the velvety feeling of God, I’m so fucking in love with you justice. Calum huffs out a laugh, like this is funny somehow, and like their entire world isn’t teetering on a knife’s edge in the middle of a party somewhere in Hollywood, both of them drunk and stoned and tired. 

“This isn’t an experiment, Mike,” he says. “I’ve- I, uh. Experimented already, so. I’m sure about it.”

“You’ve- you’ve been with guys?” Michael repeats slowly. Calum shrugs, a little uncomfortably. 

“Had to be sure,” he says again. “Would never have experimented with you. You mean too much to me for that.” 

“When?” 

“When what?”

“When’ve you been with guys?” Calum bites his lip. 

“Few times, at clubs,” he says, and Michael thinks back to all the times he’d lost Calum in the crowd, searched for him in vain, given up and gone home alone because he didn’t want to face seeing Calum grinding against a girl in the corner of the room. 

“Huh,” Michael says, images shifting to Calum grinding up against a man in the corner of the room. He finds he kind of hates it, kind of doesn’t. Jealousy and pride are licking at each other in his veins, wanting to have been Calum’s first but knowing that Calum did it because he didn’t want Michael to be an experiment, because he wanted to be sure. The thought makes him feel worth something, the same way Calum’s lyrics have made him feel worth something for the first time in years. 

“So?” Calum says, and there’s a hint of nervousness in his voice. 

“So what?” 

“So...can I kiss you?” Michael meets his gaze, giving him one last chance to change his mind and pretend they’ve both forgotten about it by tomorrow morning, and Calum, although he looks fucking terrified, holds it steadily, breathing a little laboured. 

Jesus fucking Christ, Michael thinks, stomach flipping, adrenaline making his heart lurch. They’re really doing this, then.

“You did hear me when I said I was in love with you, right?” Michael says, unable to help the smile that plays at his lips, and Calum grins, fear and relief mingling on his face. 

“Is that a yes?” he says, and Michael rolls his eyes, leans forwards, cups Calum’s jaw and presses their lips together. Calum’s warm, soft against him, tasting like stale alcohol and stale weed, but Michael finds he doesn’t even care when Calum makes a little noise and melts into him, lips moving against Michael’s and kissing him back. A shock of something like dampened arousal shoots through Michael and he crowds in closer, almost falling off his tree stump, wanting to feel Calum everywhere he can. 

Michael’s not sure whether it’s the weed or whether it actually does last forever, but it feels like two centuries have passed before Calum pulls away, breathing heavily. He looks fucking obscene, eyes dark and lips plump and parted, and Jesus Christ, Michael’s way too fucking stoned for this. 

“Fuck,” Calum says, touching his lips almost absent-mindedly, and Michael huffs out a laugh.

“Yeah,” he agrees. 

“Well,” Calum says stupidly, blinking at Michael, all dark lashes and blown pupils and Michael can’t help himself, leaning forwards and pressing another soft, chaste kiss to Calum’s lips, because he fucking can. Calum’s eyes are wide when Michael draws back (reluctantly, but he’s about to lose his balance on the tree stump), following Michael as he pulls away. 

“You look pretty fucked,” Michael tells him, and Calum grins. 

“I am pretty fucked,” he agrees. “Fucked in the head for liking you.” Michael tries to scowl but can’t stop the smile breaking through, because fuck, Calum likes him. Jesus. 

“You’re such a dickhead,” he says, but he’s grinning, and Calum’s grinning back. 

“Yeah,” Calum says, eyes soft. “But at least I’m your dickhead, right?” 

“Yeah,” Michael says gently, holding his hand out, fingers splayed, even though it’s far too fucking hot by the fire for this, and Calum slots his fingers between Michael’s, his hand warm and heavy in Michael’s. “Not that you have much choice, anyway. I’m the only one that’d put up with you.” Calum laughs, and squeezes Michael’s hand. 

“You’re one to talk,” he says pointedly, and Michael thinks yeah, he’s kind of got a point. Calum hadn’t been wrong to call him a drama queen. 

“Well, at least you know how to shut me up, now,” Michael says. 

“Yeah,” Calum says, grin turning a little wicked. “What, you think there’s any other reason I’d want to kiss you?” Michael manages a scowl this time, and goes to elbow Calum, forgetting he’s balanced on a fucking tree stump and falling right off, pulling Calum with him. Michael lands on the grass between the two of them with a thud, ground pressed uncomfortably into his back, but when he looks up to see Calum sprawled on top of him, face inches from Michael’s, he can’t bring himself to care. 

“Good job,” Calum deadpans, and then they both burst out laughing, because fuck, this is fucking ridiculous. They’re on the floor at a party in California after Michael’s first night at the fucking Troubadour, drunk and high out of their minds, and Calum wants to kiss Michael. None of it makes any sense to Michael, a chronological string of non sequiturs, but it all makes warm embers burn in the pit of his stomach and he fucking loves it, fucking loves Calum. 

“God, I fucking love you,” he tells Calum, and Calum grins, resting his forehead against Michael’s. 

“Don’t blame you, mate,” he murmurs, capturing Michael’s lips in another kiss.

Lay me down in sheets of linen, Michael hears his own voice suggest over the crackling fire and the buzz of voices, but it’s Calum’s words in Michael’s mouth, and Michael grins into the kiss, thinking yeah, he might do just that. 

[thebroodyelf]

Arcana

Being new to the fandom I enjoyed all of this very shady, funny, clever and smutty fanfictions & art pieces over here and on AO3 way too much. And of course I couldn´t hold back, the need to contribute something was too strong to resist ;´)

So... there´s going to be a fanfiction. Betareading´s still in progress, but anyways... Here is the first chapter.

1 What is this fiction?

It starts off with a retelling of Julian´s book VI, Gift and Curse/Laying low, BUT behold! It´s certainly not a mere written version of the events, no, as the story gets eely the plot is more and more altered, because Julian is Julian.

The apprentice in my version is called Octavia and yes, she has hit Julian´s head with the bottle in book I (in case you were wondering). And then there is a certain palace guard / Sherlock Holmes wannabe called Iuno. Things will get messy, I promise ^^

As I have played through book I to V and Julian´s book VII The Chariot only, you can witness my playing progress, for I´m going to weave it into this fiction. Have fun, hope you like it! 1

Portia: “Eh, yes, well here we are and you want to hear the story, right? It all started one night. Pepi and me, we were home. The palace gardens are nice and welcoming in the hot summer. All the birds chirping, telling their goodbyes to the sinking sun. Well. Guess you want to hear more about the palace´s secrets another time. But now, I´ll stick to Ilja´s story. Back then, he had just returned to Vesuvia. After the red plague he had been gone for quite a while... As far as I know, he intended to seek out Asra, a mighty magician of the city and a former lover of his. Hem. That particular night it all started, Ilja spent brooding about the past, standing at one of the aqueducts in the outskirts of the city…”

Gift and Curse

“Octavia?”

Surprise spreading over his face, Julian Devorak steps out of the dimness of their shady surroundings. He now stands at the edge of the aqueduct, a dark silhouette framed by the light of the moon. Behind him, the city towers like a behemoth, a chaotic sprawl of building stacked atop each other. In his hands is a mask with a long, curved red beak that he turns slowly, like he´s contemplating what to do with it.

“Octavia. Fancy seeing you here, hm? Out for a night walk?”

He sighs, gaze dropping to the reservoir pool below. The red of his coat reflects and refracts in the water, splashes of crimson dancing against each other.

“Me, I was just… thinking. Funny, fickle thing, life, isn´t it?”

Octavia looks up at the lanky doctor. “Should you be standing so close to the water?”

Her dark brown hair resembles molten chocolate in the strange light, her green eyes clearly show her worry.

With a nonchalant wave of his hand, Julian responds, lips twisted into one of his famous lopsided grins: “What, this water? It´s harmless, Octavia, or as harmless as it can be. It won´t do anything to me. Or anything to anyone, anymore. Sure, a few people might get sick if they go for a swim, but…”

He trails off, as his former trail of thoughts resurfaces. “Isn´t it a miracle? They went and figured it out. Or outlasted it. Wonder how they did it?”

A short pause follows, then he continues: “It´s no matter, I suppose. Life finds a way, doesn´t it? The plague is over. Ahhh. And so is my career, just like that.”

With a dramatic gesture Julian lifts the mask to examine it on eye level one last time. “Who needs a plague doctor if there´s no plague?”

Not far away, hidden behind a broken cart, a figure lurks in the dark, listening to the hushed voices. She had been waiting for a sign, apparently, for now she lifts her head with a small smile.

“Today is my lucky day… That is the killer, Countess Satrinava wants to be found.”

Iuno Aurelia gets up without making any noise. She is a palace guard and tonight, despite her usual, boring duties as such, she is on the hunt. It´s actually not her task. Being new in Vesuvia she had wanted to apply for the job, solve the mystery of Count Lucio´s death, become the greatest detective of all times, but somebody – a witch apprentice with a high reputation – had literally snatched it away right under Iuno´s nose. So much for interesting labour.

“Yet I am here, right in time.” Iuno makes a move and glides next to the cart. “And all it took were a stroll through the neighbourhood and my intuitioaaahrgh!!!”

Her foot rolls over a broken jug and she falls over. Above her head a raven lets out a ragged screech. “Shit!”

“Guards afoot, Octavia. Look lively! We´d best make tracks!”

Both leap into action at the same time, running further down the aqueduct to reach the street. The doctor gets there first, turning back to Octavia as she runs. Her foot slips on a wet stone, tumbling her backwards into the reservoir below.

“Octavia!!!”

With a loud splash the woman sinks like a stone. The doctor, shock painted all over his pale face, dashes back and grabs Octavia´s wrist in the last moment. With one strong pull he tugs her out of the water, a translucent creature attached to her belly. 

“A vampire eel?!!”

Iuno has still some distance to cover, before she can reach the two criminals. She cannot yet make out their faces in the dim light, but the sight of the undulating creature, translucent and now filling with a red shimmering fluid, causes her to hesitate in the chase.

“Vampire eel. Damn. That girl´s dead.”

If she concentrates, she can eavesdrop on the doctor, who gets a hold on the elusive creature´s head with quick, skilful moves.

“On the count of three”, he barks in his strange accent and then after counting “One. Two!” he pulls the eel off and tosses it back into the water. “Three. Up you go, then. Easy now. I´ve got you.”

A loud gasp for air is to be heard. The doctor half drags the sopping wet woman, as they run, leaving blood puddles behind. Iuno spins back into motion.

“I have to follow them! Catch the killer!”

The killer, who is just disappearing behind a gloomy street corner. When Iuno reaches the strange couple, the doctor is busy, seeing to the steadily oozing wound of the woman.

“The bleeding won´t stop. Damn”, he mumbles. He draws back with a look of displeasure and starts peeling off his gloves.

Iuno is torn between interrupting the hopeless attempt and witnessing the infamous arts of the doctor.

“Hold still.”

They don´t even notice their stunned observer.

“Deep breaths. This will only take a minute or two.

”Why are you helping me?”, the woman whispers. A pained groan follows. 

“She will live?!”, Iuno marvels. “How has he done it? Witchcraft?!”

“Shouldn´t I? You´re injured. Surely you don´t think I´ll let you bleed out on the street.”

“Ha! A noble murderer! How fascinating!”

Fascinating indeed. While the soft chatting continues, Iuno can make out a sudden glow radiating from under the skin of his throat. “A magical mark…”

Iuno is not familiar with that sort of magic.

“What in the Count´s name is going on?!” Time to intervene.

“Freeze!”, Iuno exclaims and sprints towards her prey. 

“Go, Octavia. You must leave me behind. It´s me they are looking for, not you.” With a weak gesture the doctor waves the woman off. 

Iuno decides to stay with the murderer. When the fleeing woman throws one last look over her shoulder, their eyes meet. “I will not forget you!”, Iuno shouts. Then she turns towards the doctor.

“As for you, doctor Devorak, I shall arrest you for the murder of… the murder…” For the first time the palace guard has a clear view on her target. Dumbstruck Iuno watches, as fresh blood blossoms under his clothing, his face a grimace of pain.

“A parting gift… Curse, to be more precise”, he explains with an exasperated sigh.

“You… How… Why?” The palace guard finds herself stuttering. She is not only confused by the expanding red glistering on the black and white cloths of the man before her. 

“I´m able to take away bodily wounds, as you can see.” Still not looking up, doctor Devorak directs his obvious self-disgust at his blood covered hands and clenches them into fists.

“And in return, I get to experience them for myself… ugh.”

Slender figure. Wild red locks. No eyepatch though, but there is no doubt. An almost forgotten memory overpowers the palace guard. Her fingers begin to tremble. That man. The wanted murderer of Count Lucio. She has met him before. 

“Damn!”, she curses under her breath.

The doctor sways forward, as blood is running freely down his torso now. “It won´t last. It never does”, he says more to himself than to the guard. “A curse from a witch that fears commitment.”

His face lightens up with a strange kind of bitter joy. “Then again, I´ve never been bitten by a vampire eel. This might be interesting.”

“Shut it, I´m not listening to such nonsense!”, Iuno orders. “What can we do against… this?”

She rushes to his side and helplessly presses her hands against the wound. The doctor blinks owlishly at Iuno.

“Eh…?”

“We need to stop the bleeding, right?”

With frantic moves, she fumbles a fine embroidered handkerchief out of her belt pocket.

“Here. I´m sorry. That´s all I´ve got.”

The doctor throws a slightly embarrassed side glance to the blood puddle forming under him on the cobble stones. “You´ve changed your tune. Don´t you want to arrest me anymore?”

The palace guard rolls her eyes. “Just tell me how to help!”

Iuno hears them coming a moment after he does. The Countess´s guards, doing rounds of the outer walls. Swiftly she ushers the wounded doctor into an ally nearby. They press against the wall to seek cover, involuntarily getting into each other´s personal space.

“This is ridiculous!”, hisses Iuno.

The moment the guards pass, they hold their breaths, hoping the well-trained eyes will slide over them in the darkness. This close, Iuno can see the pain painted on doctor Devorak´s face. His eye is fixed behind her, but as if he senses the gaze it moves to Iuno´s. For a moment they stare at each other.

“I… A-apologies…”

Just as he is about to say something else, they hear a thud from the entrance of the alley. “Not the time. Let´s go.”

Now it is the doctor, grabbing Iuno´s hand and tugging her out of the alley. They break into a run. The city passes them by in a blur as they evade capture, weaving around buildings with ease. They are moving so fast, Iuno almost misses it. There, nestled between two tall buildings… a garden. 

[secondsightcinema]

Raw Deal (1948): Crashing Out of Corkscrew Alley

“I believe in the nobility of the human spirit. It is that for which I look in a subject I am to direct. I do not believe that everybody is bad, that the whole world is wrong. The greatness of Shakespeare’s plays is the nobility of the human spirit, even though he may destroy the character.”  —Anthony Mann, 1964, cite source, p.8 (Introduction)

First and most important, if you don’t know this movie and you love noir, see it.

If you don’t know much about noir but appreciate exciting, beautifully made movies, see it.

If you are moved by great storytelling, acting, and extraordinary cinematography, see it.

If you have 78 minutes and feel like something thrilling, creepy, romantic and tragic?

Well, you get the idea.

Watch Raw Deal, and don’t do it on the fly—sit down, turn off your phone, and give it your full attention. You will be rewarded.

There, my job is done. Now we can talk about the movie. Here’s a link to a synopsis if you are so inclined: here you go.

Corkscrew Alley is a crushing habitat for nobility of the human spirit. It’s great shorthand for the corrupt world so many noir characters desperately try to escape. It’s just that most of its denizens have had the aspiration knocked out of them by brutality and poverty, and their spirits are in moth-eaten tatters. Even when they act on an impulse toward decency, they get it in the neck and are knocked back into crime, shabbiness: Corkscrew Alley.

  In Raw Deal, Mann focuses primarily on four characters, three in a romantic triangle. The fourth is an impressively disgusting villain, a sadistic pyromaniac criminal whose efforts to kill the protagonist before he comes to claim the $50,000 owed him create the simple, on-the-lam plot.

But it’s the romantic triangle, particularly the two women, who Mann develops beyond the usual scope of noir. As Jeanine Basinger notes in Anthony Mann (2007), it is in Raw Deal that Mann for the first time creates two characters who are deeply fused, almost mirror images, a dynamic he would develop further in his westerns. In this case it’s two great actresses and noir goddesses, Claire Trevor and Marsha Hunt, who form this dyad.

I always wonder when in the thrall of a work of collaborative art, if those who made it had a sense of its quality or importance while caught up in the process of making it. Was the power of (forgive me, I date myself) Blonde on Blonde, or Sgt. Pepper, or Astral Weeks apparent to the musicians and producers as they worked?

Maybe the lower the budget, the less likely those involved are to be aware of having a  part in making something extraordinary, something that could live on for many decades and in some cases become celebrated in ways unthinkable in the movie’s own time. It’s great the Edgar Ulmer lived to see Detour celebrated, and the same of Joseph H. Lewis and Gun Crazy. But in an interview with Claire Trevor, decades after making Raw Deal, she hardly remembers it. And you can see why. She was a busy actress, going from one movie to another. Noir didn’t exist yet, not as an artistic designation, and so Trevor’s noirs when she was making them were just low-budget crime movies. Raw Deal was for Trevor just another gig.

Marsha Hunt’s memories of working on Raw Deal mostly centered on her perception that Mann didn’t direct the actors, focusing instead on lighting and camera placement, leaving his cast to work out their own characterizations and bits of business. The director, who had himself been an actor on Broadway before moving into film, knew he could trust this fine cast. The versatile Dennis O’Keefe, equally at home in comedy and drama and was also a published writer who aspired to direct, holds his own with his leading ladies, two of the very best.

To Anthony Mann, still in the first phase of his Hollywood career, Raw Deal was just a follow-up to his previous year’s success with T-Men, also starring homme fatale Dennis O’Keefe, also shot by John Alton. Like Trevor’s experience going from one film to another, Mann’s was as a busy journeyman director, air-dropped from one project to the next, so that he couldn’t afford to invest much emotionally in any of them.

//////***MOVE THE NEXT FEW ‘GRAPHS UP TOWARD THE TOP*** “There has been so much yapping over the years about the film director, the film *auteur*…that it has been very difficult for the general public and even for the informed public, to realize that making a film is an industrial process and it is perfectly possible to edit, alter, present and have a resounding success without the director having anything more to do with the film from the moment he stops shouting at the actors.” —Michael Powell

Right! Great thing to bear in mind when we love a film and imagine that the director had overall control of the project, that directing was for most an artistic endeavor rather than the reality that they were hired guns who came in, shot a movie, then moved on to the next one. Yes, there are exceptions among directors (and even stars). But in the main, Hollywood filmmaking was, as Powell says, “an industrial process,” not a personal artistic one.

That makes the greatness of so many movies made in this industrial process even more miraculous. Sometimes the stars and cinematic elements aligned—the right producer, script, director, cinematographer, and cast, and the result is a thing of beauty that continues to delight, disturb, and enrich us many decades later.

Raw Deal is one of those.

So what is it that sets it apart from a couple hundred other noirs?

First thing is what Mann said in the quote at the top of this piece, in 1964. There is a yearning for redemption, to express “the nobility of the human spirit,” that curls around the characters like cigarette smoke, like that San Francisco fog that Alton evoked so convincingly. Joe (O’Keefe) is a gangster, but when he was a kid he risked his life to rescue some other kids from a fire—Ann (Hunt) tells Joe that’s what first got her  interested in him. She wants something better for him, and though he resists her pressing him away from the dirty life he’s trapped in, toward “a little common decency,” as she says, she gets under his skin. And even Joe longs for “a breath of fresh air,” not a feature of his gangster life, prison, Corkscrew Alley.

Joe wants to crash out, like weary gangster Roy Earle (Bogart in a break-out role) in High Sierra (1941). He dreams of living like normal people, not under constant threat from the law or your own crime boss.

Joe’s moll, Pat (Trevor), is so broken, so beaten down from Corkscrew Alley life that she takes insults and abuse without flinching. But still, even Pat has a pilot light of yearning for something better. It’s just that she’s so damaged she can’t imagine anything better than a life with career criminal Joe. Unlike some other noir dames Trevor played (thinking particularly of *Murder, My Sweet* and *Born to Kill*), who are the sociopathic equals of any onscreen, Pat has the vulnerability of Trevor’s most famous role as TK in Stagecoach*(1939), as a prostitute, and in Key Largo (1949), as Edgar G. Robinson’s battered, alcoholic moll.

Course part of that is just sex, not spiritual yearning. Joe knows he’s hot for social worker Ann, but Ann isn’t quite as honest with herself about her feelings for him. She tells herself it’s just professional concern for a client, but Joe knows better. (One thing about Corkscrew Alley: it attunes you to the basic, baser motivations.)

Ann (Hunt) is the only one of the four principals who wasn’t formed by Corkscrew Alley. She grew up in slightly more genteel poverty, her father a schoolteacher who imbued her with ambition for a better life—”He died in the war of the Depression, only we didn’t get any medals,” she says bitterly to Joe when he accuses her of having had  it easy. She hits back, hard, telling him she’s had to fight, just not “that stupid way,” with a gun. She’s managed to get an education, a decent apartment and car, a solid job. Her interest in Joe is a threat to everything she’s accomplished, but she’s blind to that until it’s too late. But when she tells Joe all she wants is “just a little decency, that’s all,” he looks like she’s broken through his defenses.

The third member of the triangle is Pat (Trevor), a hard-time girl who loves Joe desperately. She reminds me a little bit of Marie, Ida Lupino’s character in High Sierra, so emotionally damaged that she doesn’t know if she’s good enough for aging gangster Roy Earle. Marie and Pat are so battered by life that they have no experience of tenderness, kindness, love. The crooks they fall for look good to them because anything better is beyond the scope of their dreams.

Jeanine Basinger writes about how Pat and Ann are almost twinned, two characters who reflect each other, I would say in their differences as well as their similarities. In the first scene, at the prison, we first see each woman hatted and veiled, so their faces, which give away their feelings, are fenced off from the world and the unstable feelings it evokes. Pat wants nothing but Joe, her slender hope for any kind of happiness is all condensed into her desire to be with him, while Ann, who has relied on self-discipline to make her way in the world, is less connected to her own feelings about Joe, and if she were aware of them, she’d see instantly how hopeless they are. Toward the end, Pat finds that as much as she wants to hate Ann, she can’t—she recognizes her as another woman who loves Joe. This approaches compassion, an astonishing spiritual attainment for someone as emotionally beat-up as Pat, and a kind of metaphorical fresh air that lifts her above her own suffering.

But it’s the feelings we don’t recognize that control us, and while Ann didn’t ask to be taken hostage on Joe’s and Pat’s cross-country odyssey, and her revulsion at their casual criminality and violence are authentic, this good girl finds herself drawn closer to Joe’s way of life than she could ever comfortably acknowledge.

One of Raw Deal’s novelties is its use of the almost ubiquitous noir voiceover, usually a male voice relating past-tense events, often in flashback. Here the first difference is that the film’s voice is present-tense, and it belongs to Pat, her feelings are about the only things she owns. The second difference is that it is a female voice, not the norm in noir. It’s fitting that Pat should speak directly to us, or rather that we are allowed to eavesdrop on her internal storytelling of the narrative in which she finds herself. One of my only quibbles with Raw Deal is the theramin that underscores all of Pat’s voiceover. It feels like one of those club-us-like-baby-seals things where someone—perhaps Mann, perhaps not—decides we need something to tell us we’re hearing a voiceover. Like we need a frickin’ neon sign. The theramin is intrusive and stylistically at odds with the very good score. I’m guessing it was a producer who insisted on it: PRODUCER, flicking cigar ash: What’s—what’s she saying? Why isn’t her mouth moving? ASSISTANT: Right, sir. It’s a voiceover. PRODUCER: Voiceover…but it’s a dame! ASSISTANT: Yes, sir. It’s a little bit different, but we thought— PRODUCER: Never mind what you thought! Put some kind of sound with it, so the audience knows why her mouth isn’t moving! ASSISTANT: Well…we have an hour’s credit at the recording studio. I’ll talk to the composer, we just need one cue, we can repeat it every time the voiceover comes in… PRODUCER: Yeh, whatever, just make sure when we hear the dame’s voice and she ain’t talking, we know it’s on purpose. ASSISTANT: Sure thing, L.Q….

Most oft-discussed of Raw Deal are its visuals: the glorious cinematography, how Mann and Alton trap Joe and his girls in tight, closed spaces. Joe is suffocating for lack of fresh air, that’s how he expresses his drive to escape the dirty dead end of Corkscrew Alley. From the film’s opening, through its series of action sequences, we and the characters are repeatedly crammed into tight shots in cars, closets, freighter cabins, and framed in windows, behind bars or mesh.

Mann makes use of his female stars’ extraordinary acting in long closeups. Their faces pass through what would take paragraphs or pages to express, and we feel an intimate connection to their interior lives.

The film’s final bravura sequence, with a thrilling gun ambush in the street followed by a knock-down, drag-out fight in the middle of a raging fire, brings us back to, where else?—Corkscrew Alley. Pat does the right thing, partly because she knows she will never really have Joe and partly because she’s not quite bad enough to let her rival face grievous harm. Joe does the right thing, too, and finally gets that breath of fresh air he’s spent his life searching for. Both of them have found a little bit of grace they didn’t know they had, but it doesn’t change their fate.

Rick meets his fate, too, and Mann and Alton make sure it’s as baroque and horrific as anything Rick could dream of doing to an enemy (or a girlfriend, but you’ll have to see the movie to understand that ref).

And Ann? Her boundaries broken, her understanding of the world and her own psyche shattered, she has to go back to the life she worked so hard to attain, but neither she or that carefully crafted life will ever be the same. At the beginning of the story, she is a kind person, but it takes the events of Raw Deal to force her to confront her own unruly desire and even potential for violence.

Everyone loses what they prize most. And three of the four find that they are able to sacrifice their own fondest desires to serve something larger than themselves. Apparently there’s room for a spark of nobility, even in Corkscrew Alley.

This post was written for the Classic Movie Bloggers’ Association 2019 Spring blogathon. Do yourself a favor and head on over to read more noiry goodness.

from Second Sight Cinema | http://bit.ly/2IK0sAv via http://bit.ly/2GuQYYm

[carriejonesbooks]

BAR HARBOR, Maine — “I love that you are doing this,” Erica Brooks, associate broker at the Swan Agency, announces as she approaches a table where Nicole Ouellette, owner of Breaking Even and Anchorspace, sits as she creates a computerized map of women-owned businesses on Mount Desert Island. The women are just two of many at the Women-Owned-Business Expo in the old gym at the MDI YWCA.

Behind them are various tables all featuring women-owned businesses. The range from financial planning to real estate, arts to mortgage services. Marketing materials, art work, drums, examples of their work decorate the tables.

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The women here will tell you that business ownership changes you. Every interaction, every solicitation, every success and failure, brings with it an experience, a toughness, a life lesson. And these women? They leave an impact on their clients, their students, their community. Those impacts? They matter. The sounds of the women are joyous and insightful as they talk and help each other set up.

Ouellette asks Brooks to sign up for a raffle of business books. All the books are written by women and stacked on the table, right behind an entry form and sign-up sheet. Brooks happily adds her name.

“I think this event attracts women who want a book with the word, ‘badass,'” Ouellette says, lifting one up that has that exact word in the title.

Brooks agrees, laughing, and then even as the other women continue to set up, Brooks segues into something pretty poignant for early on a Saturday morning in a small coastal Maine town of only about 5,000 year-round residents. She starts talking about how real estate is her passion and how part of that is empowering women, two ideas which most people don’t immediately hook together. But after a negative life event, when she was able to buy her own house, she felt incredibly empowered.

“Financial freedom… equity in real estate,” she says. It means something to her.

Ouellette agrees, “I spent my entire twenties trying to get my friends to open an IRA.”

Owning a business for many of the women is about doing something they enjoy, a passion, a love, but it’s also about making money, supporting themselves, making connections and empowerment.

One of Ouellette’s businesses, Anchorspace, is cohosting the event with the MDI YWCA. Her business’s tagline is, “Where Downeast Maine gets to work,” where she hopes people will work smarter, healthier and together. One of her many passions is apparent at the Expo, it’s bringing people together so that they can support each other, shout out each other’s successes and hook them into new revenue streams and friendships.

“I’m meeting so many women, really cool women,” Elise Frank of Edward Jones says.

Surely that kind of joy and connection is both important for the women themselves as well as the community they work with. Maybe networking and friendship skills should be taught in schools as well as at home. Maybe learning to listen to a new friend should be learned when you’re learning your ABC’s and then again with a refresher course in high school. The world would probably be a better place.

That’s what is happening here.

The event is held at the MDI YWCA, whose mission is empowering women and promoting diversity. Throughout the three hours there’s a lot of happy networking happening. Women keep adding more and more names to the map of local women-owned businesses, trying to remember everyone and not leave anyone out.

“That seems impossible. There are so many… so many women,” one lady murmurs. “It’s pretty incredible.”

At the same time, new clients are potentially met, and friendships solidify.

The talk keeps turning back to certain themes. Mothers. Potential. Abilities. The desire to become something, to create something, and to reach their own best potentials. Liz Cutler, owner of ArtWaves. talks about her mother’s brilliance in mathematics and how she gave up a promising career when she became a mother.

“She was wonderful,” Liz says, but she also has to wonder how hard that was.

Becky Carroll talks about her desire to become more artistic like other members of her family, about exploring new talents . Women murmur about fitting in, striking out, holding each other up even while remembering their relatives who may not have had those same opportunities.

After three hours, the business owners say goodbye to Ouellette. Sherri Dyer of MDI Mortgage offers to help Cutler carry her paintings and easels out to her car. But before they leave, they join in a chorus of women thanking Ouellette for the opportunity.

“Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you.”

It’s a chorus of appreciation for a kindness and an event meant to empower women, create friendships and promote each other. It’s a litany of thanks for an event the world needs more of, an event that’s about lifting each other up instead of pulling each other down, about community and opportunity, about learning more about your neighbors than you knew before.

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Next and Last Time Stoppers Book

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  When Women Come Together Things Get A Little Bad Ass BAR HARBOR, Maine -- "I love that you are doing this," Erica Brooks, associate broker at the Swan Agency, announces as she approaches a table where Nicole Ouellette, owner of Breaking Even and Anchorspace, sits as she creates a computerized map of women-owned businesses on Mount Desert Island.

[matthewkane-blog1]

Chapter 1

A/N: This story was derived from a fanfic I wrote a long time ago (which no one will ever find if I have a say in it). I will attempt to actually finish this story and not leave it hanging. Also, any art in this story is NOT mine. I mostly got it by googling concept art. All the credit goes to the artists. Enjoy. ———————————————- Zarvion, The Wicker’s Forest, 19:34 PM

-Mefira-

‘Why did I think this would be a good idea?’ She lamented as she ran, narrowly dodging yet another projectile. Sparing a quick glance behind her, she could see an entire squadron of stone golems preparing a new round, ripping chunks of rock out of the ground and taking aim. Gathering up a fireball in her own hands, she quickly chucked it at one of the things, relishing in the sound of the small explosion upon impact.

Getting ready to dodge again, she was a bit taken aback at feeling a strong gust of wind and seeing the new volley fly back towards the attackers. Moments after, Xenos popped up on her left, giving her a jaunty salute and a cheeky grin. The girl just rolled her eyes at him, before angrily stating: “Could you please save the flirting for when we’re not in mortal danger?”

The male just gave a short laugh, before deflecting another volley. Mefira could already see the ship up ahead.

They were so close.

Looking backwards once more, she froze up when she saw a dark form practically oozing out of the ground behind the golems, taking the appearance of a young woman, dressed in flowing black garments, and with no visible legs, seemingly just floating in mid air.

A pair of empty purple eyes seemed to pierce her soul, the creature giving her a distorted grin that chilled the girl to her very core.

“LOOK OUT!” She heard Xenos shout. Glancing upwards, she saw an immense boulder flying straight towards her.

2 months earlier…

Fancy meeting you here

Alnoa, Sector 14, 14:50 AM

-Mefira-

“And if you listen closely, you can hear the engine sputtering; an obvious sign that there is a problem with the fuel line.”

Their mechanics teacher, droned on, causing Mefira to inwardly groan. How long was this going to take? Glancing at the clock, she saw that they only had about 10 minutes left before class ended. Why did the last minutes always seem the longest?

“Miss Bael!” Mrs. Treol snapped “would you care to repeat what I just explained to the rest of the class?” Great… The girl thought. Couldn’t leave me alone for ten more minutes, could you? She wracked her brains trying to remember whatever boring tidbit the woman at the desk had oh so generously bestowed upon them.

“Umm… The engine…has to… Like… Sputter in a certain way for it to work properly?” Judging from the giggles coming from several other students, and Mrs. Treol’s annoyed glare, she had definitely screwed up.

“Wrong, Miss Bael. Maybe you will be able to remember today’s lesson if you have a nice, quiet environment to study in. Like detention. For a smart girl like you, I’m sure it won’t take more than four hours.” the woman spoke, a malicious glint in her eye.

Mefira barely held herself from screaming in frustration. This was the third time this week. Her parents weren’t going be happy. But then again, they hardly were with anything she did these days.

Was it really her fault if she couldn’t concentrate on all the technological stuff they learned day in and day out at school? As the old hag went on about next week’s assignment, Mefira tiredly laid her head on her desk, wondering again how this was her life.

Mefira made her way to the appointed classroom, mentally preparing herself for a few hours of pure boredom. Opening the door, she could instantly see that the usual culprits were already there. There were only a few students who regularly wound up in detention, and it seemed that they were all in their regular places today.

“Have they read you your rights?” Zera Amel asked, giving a sardonic grin. Mefira took a couple of seconds to study her appearance. Long, straight, hazel hair, with the ever present purple strand tucked behind her right ear. Her eyes, bearing the same color as her streak, were dull with boredom, but still held a glimmer of mischief.

Mefira had always wanted to have purple eyes, instead of the light pink color she was sporting. But, like her mother said, pink was the color any true lady should display.

Talking a moment to analyze Zera’s clothes, she could see the girl had her her trademark ripped jeans on, along with her black hoodie and combat boots, giving her the look of someone you would usually find threatening people at knifepoint in a dark alley. 'Which for all intents and purposes she probably is’ Mefira thought to herself.

Seeing her dainty form, however, made a lot of people underestimate her. Not to mention several guys at school that used to follow her around. 'Used to’ being the key words here. Zera had made it brutally clear she wasn’t interested in dating.

“Let me guess; the toilet paper incident this morning was your doing?” Mefira asked, carding a hand through her own wavy golden locks. Zera was notorious for her pranks that usually got out of hand. “You know me so well.” she responded, her grin turning smug and self satisfied.

At the desk behind Zera sat Magnus Neryl, who usually wound up in detention for doodling sketches of plants and animals during class instead of paying attention. The teachers always confiscated his holopads, but he had plenty of spares. Already he was hard at work drawing an image of a firefly flower, and writing down some of its characteristics.

Hunched over his desk, he looked rather ridiculous with his body mass dwarfing the small table and chair. He had the appearance of a jock, with a built physique. This was usually accentuated by a tight shirt and equally form fitting pants. Dark hair framed his handsome face, and intense forest green eyes were filled with concentration on the drawing.

Still, the effect was lost when you actually got to know him. He was rather scatterbrained, losing focus on anything not related to biology or medicine.

And as far as Mefira knew, he was a total klutz in anything from sports to day to day activities. She lost count of how many times he’d tripped when one of his shoelaces got untied.

And finally, there was Xenos Nuran. The person most likely to take up the career path of a cat burglar.

He usually got detention for sneaking around everywhere he wasn’t supposed to. From the teacher’s lounge -where he stole the subject for a final and distributed it to the whole class-, to the principal’s office, where he actually took a picture with the man sleeping, then posted it on the Extranet.

He had slightly curly platinum blonde hair, with gray eyes, and a lean build, sporting black pants along with a white T-shirt that hugged his body quite nicely, and a pair of comfortable sandals, that helped him walk quietly on multiple occasions.

“And here I was wondering how photos of the girl’s locker room ended up online.” she muttered, only receiving a crooked grin and a wink in return. “At least I didn’t post any photos of you, princess. I gotta have some class.” he defended good-naturedly.

Despite all their flaws and downright creepy behavior, Mefira could honestly say that these were her only actual friends, who didn’t think of her as a dumb blonde, who doesn’t know how an engine works. Spending up to ten hours a week with someone in a room really created bonds, apparently.

As she sat down, she noticed the robot standing in front of the holoboard, set to automatically activate when detention would start.

“Wait, didn’t you wreck two of these things already?” She asked, confused. It was incredible how Zera could destroy something, and then make it look like a complete accident.

“Yeah, but they got a new and 'improved’ version. One that’s apparently impervious to 'random malfunctions’.” Xenos answered.

“By now, 'malfunction’ is pretty much codename for 'we know you tampered with it but we have no proof’.” Magnus absently commented, not looking up from his drawing.

“You’d think they would just place a teacher here instead.” Mefira mumbled.

“Please!” Zera huffed a laugh “No sane person would hold out being in a room with all of us for this long.” “True” she conceded.

As the bell rang, the robot powered up, fixing them with a blank gaze.

“Greetings, juvenile delinquents. I am disciplinary automaton version 3. You may refer to me as DA-V3, or Dave. Please take your seats, and keep quiet. Detention will end in: 3 hours, 59 minutes, and 40 seconds.”

“Well, looks like it’s gonna be a fun couple of hours…” Xenos growled under his breath.