#these will probably be the last posters I get due to lack of space in my room

[nerdy-talks]

Do I have room for more posters? Not really...

Did I purchase more anyway?

Absolutely~

But it's not my fault! I simply can not resist a couple of white-haired, misunderstood, perfect little cuties ;w;

I might take a better picture once I get a frame and actually open/unfold/display these lol

[thethistlegirlwrites]

You Only Live Twice

Emma tries not to look too closely at the deep gash in her forearm as she unwinds the bandage around it.

It’s nothing. She’s had worse.

She’s had worse enough times, as a hunter, to know when it’s getting infected.

It’s not bad enough for blood.

She washes it out, smears on the expired but probably still viable antiseptic cream, wraps a fresh bandage around it, then rifles through the clothes hanging from the exposed pipe that doubles as a sort of makeshift closet for a long-sleeved dress that isn’t one of the ones she’s worn the past three days. 

She’s not going to give anyone anything to talk about. She can’t afford to.

She’s only had this club eight months. Any sign of weakness, any misstep, could land her in the same position as its former owner.

So could the hunter who shows up less than half an hour after opening.

He stands out in the crowd, between the silver-laced bullwhip coiled on his hip, the massive knife sheath hanging from his belt, and the vivid crimson scars on his neck. She descends the stairs from the balcony where she’s been keeping an eye on the club business (she usually mingles more, but last night someone brushed against her arm, and she hissed, and despite being able to pass it off as being insulted at the lack of apology given on her own turf, she doesn’t want to make it a habit).

By the time she reaches the main floor, the hunter in question is sitting at the bar. He’s got a glass in front of him, but he’s not actually drinking it. A trick she’s seen him use a hundred times. Makes him a customer, so the owner can’t ask him to actually order something or leave, but he won’t get in trouble for drinking on the job.

“Stoker.”

“Heard you were moving up in the world. The industrial grunge vibe is kind of cutting-edge fashion for an upscale place. Missing that warehouse you used to party in already? Myself, I’d get some steer horns on the wall, a little space in the middle of the floor for some line dancing, and a couple vintage Eastwood western posters on the walls, but that’s just me.” 

“I didn’t ask for an interior decoration consultation.”

“You sure? I think “A Fistful of Dollars” would look perfect over that corner table.”

Coven rivalry heating up due to outside agitation. And at least one of the vamps at that table is an instigator. She has to admit, she wasn’t a fan of his classic western team bonding movie nights, but it did offer them a whole coded language to use in the field. 

Apparently, he still thinks they’re some sort of team.

But she’s on a coven borderline, and if someone ties the vamps stirring up trouble to her bar, she’ll have a lot more to worry about than a wound that won’t heal and being seen talking to a hunter. 

“I never was much of a fan of that movie. Out of town gunslingers shouldn’t be poking their noses in a town’s affairs.”

She’ll take care of the problem. Which she’s pretty sure Stoker knew would happen. He’s not appealing to a sense of justice the human Emma used to have. He’s appealing to her new nature’s self preservation instincts. 

He’s always been smarter than he looks. 

She moves to get up, but he catches her wrist, just below the bandage on her arm.

She bares her teeth.

“I’d like to see the upstairs too. Might have some pointers for that.”

There’s plenty up there for a hunter to object to. Private soundproofed rooms for parties. Emma’s put her foot down hard on any hosting happening here, and all her employees are people she trusts to do the same, but the simple fact that she left those rooms in this building could be cause for a conscientious hunter to run her in to the agency. 

“I can ask, or I can come back with justifiable cause. We’ve raided this place back when it was Corbin’s. He had host parties going on on the balcony level. Looks to me like you’ve still got doors closed up there.”

“I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“I think you do.”

He’s not looking at the doors.

He’s looking at her cheek.

Damn that tic. She chews the inside of her cheek when she’s in pain, and it makes a dimple-like divot. He’d learned a long time ago to recognize that for what it was, around the same time he benched her for a busted ankle she was insisting was a sprain. 

Apparently, some of her human habits carried over into this version.

“Fine. I’ll let you put your mind at ease so my customers don’t need to be subjected to a raid team over nothing.” She makes him go first up the stairs. No matter how much they used to trust each other, no one with a stake is getting behind her in her blind spot.

“I’m going to need to inspect each of these rooms for any residual blood,” John says, pulling a spectrum light from his pocket. Emma steps back from the glow. UV is unpleasant to be around at the best of times. It’s making her genuinely nauseous right now. 

Checking the smaller rooms, which she’s now using mostly as storage space, takes very little time. But the big room, the one she still actually does rent out to vamps who want a little more exclusivity than mingling on the first floor, is going to take a little longer.

John steps inside, then motions to her to join him and close the door.

She does, and the thumping bass from downstairs dies off. It’s nothing more than a heartbeat in here, a faint echo of the one she can hear from her former partner’s chest.

“Show me.”

“I don’t answer to you anymore.”

“I know that.”

She shakes her head but rolls up her sleeve. The bandage is starting to turn brown and yellow. 

“Some scumbag objected to being thrown out for harassing my bartender. I’ve had worse.”

“You’ve had worse as a human. Have you been hurt as a vampire before?”

“How do you think I got this place? That Corbin just walked away?”

“Heard about a raid on a blood bank two days before you took over. Whoever pulled it off got away clean. Took only one bag of the most common types, left anything rare and the universal donor.” He frowns. “Almost like they were minimizing the damage they did. Even left just enough evidence to point out the flaw in security where they got in, but not enough to be IDed.”

“I’ve heard you talk confessions out of people too many times, Stoker.”

“Not my point. My point is, you had blood. That’s why you healed. Your body isn’t going to put itself back together on its own anymore. You’re a dead woman walking, Em.” He looks at her arm. “Dead bodies don’t have an immune system. They decay.”

“So what is this? Tricking me into doing something you can run me in for? If you can prove I’m drinking human blood, it’s at best six months in your holding cells detoxing. No way I keep the club if I’m away from it that long.”

“No way you keep it if you go into a coma while some bacteria eats away at your corpse either.”

He’s got a point, as much as she hates it.

“I told you. I don’t drink human blood anymore.”

“And I don’t smoke anymore. But if an undercover calls for it, I’m gonna light up a cigarette.”

“That’s different.”

“Maintaining a cover keeps me alive. Drinking a little genuine blood is going to do the same for you. If you don’t, I guarantee you, within a day or two you won’t be able to get out of your coffin. Infections spread a lot faster in a body that can’t fight them.”

She’d seen the burgundy streaks running up and down her arm away from the wound, as much as she’d tried to ignore them.

“Thanks for the advice. You’ve given it. Now get the hell out of my club.”

“You’re stubborn enough not to take it.” Stoker reaches for his knife. She tenses, until he shrugs the shoulder of his leather jacket down his other arm and then makes a neat slice along the inside of his forearm.

Blood wells up, bright, tangy, tempting. Overpowering.

“Well, you better do something, or this is going to get all over the floor and my spectrum light is gonna turn it into a Christmas tree.”

“Blackmailer.”

“Mule-headed idiot.”

She missed that insult.

She dives forward and catches the first falling drop of blood in her palm a fraction of a second before it hits the ground.

She keeps her hands cupped below his arm as she cleans up the overflow of blood, but in moments it’s a manageable trickle. She can feel her arm putting itself back together, an agonizing ache somewhere between being burned and having glass shards pulled out of her skin one at a time, but she can also feel her body forcing out the infection.

She hadn’t realized how awful she was feeling until she isn’t anymore.

A hand holding a white sterile compress slips between her tongue and his skin, and she almost snarls and bites down on it, but she forces herself back with all her re-acquired strength. 

She’s left enough indelible marks on Stoker’s skin.

“That should hold you. You’ll get a delivery tomorrow night. A little congratulations on the new place gift from an old friend. Make sure to chill it well, it’s best served that way.”

When they leave the room together, it looks like the whole club is holding the collective breath most of them no longer actually need to take. And when Stoker opens the door, then turns to yell back, “You got away with it this time, Cole, but someday, we’re going to nail you, mark my word,” before vanishing into the night, there’s a moment’s silence and then a collective cheer.

Emma descends the stairs with her accustomed grace, simply nodding at the congratulations on surviving her first surprise inspection by hunters.

“I have nothing to hide,” she says to those who ask what cleaning service she’s getting in.

It’s true until the next night, five minutes before opening, when an unmarked van parks at the back door and rings the delivery bell. 

Carlos has to call Emma back personally to sign for the damn thing. Someone sent it certified delivery.

She waits until the club opens and her staff are busy filling orders and watching the crowd before she opens it in the privacy of her personal office.

Inside is a cold-storage pack, and inside that are two bags of shelf-stabilized blood, stamped with the O- type marker and a string of ID numbers. 

SJ 79110806007.

Only John Stoker would have been issued a double-oh-seven ID number by sheer luck of the draw.

Next time he shows up, she’s going to have a poster of “You Only Live Twice” hanging over the end of the bar.

It’ll clash with the aesthetic a little, but the sentiment fits just fine.

(You can read this story and others from this universe on my WorldAnvil here!)

@catwingsathena @nade2308 @the-one-and-only-valkyrie @telltaleclerk @ettawritesnstudies  @writeouswriter

[sir-subpar]

Where have you been? (Part 2)

*Warning: Blood/Gore*

Five weeks. That's how long Boyfriend had been missing. Five weeks with still no sign of the blue-haired man, it was starting to drive Pico mad. The longer this went on, the harder it was for Pico to think positively. He was starting to struggle with sleep, sometimes going days without so much as a wink of rest. His fiery orange hair was messy from him constantly running his fingers through it. It was hard to relax when someone you care about was unaccounted for. Whitty and Hex were still helping out, which Pico appreciated, but it did little to ease his fears. The three of them met up and searched for Boyfriend as often as they could.

It was late in the afternoon, another day going by with no luck finding Boyfriend. The trio had resorted to putting up missing posters for Bf, splitting up to scatter them around town. It did little to help, especially when random vandals would tear them down or draw all over them. Every time Pico saw one of the posters being ruined it pissed Pico off to no end. He didn't think it was possible to want to strangle a graffiti artist as much as he did. By some miracle of willpower he refrained from doing so (that, and he didn't know who was doing it). Pico sighed angrily as he hung another poster, his thumb turning white as he pushed the tacks into a wooden pole. His gaze lingered on the poster. In the picture, Bf was smiling. He looked so happy.. Pico felt his chest tighten around his heart. It felt hard to breathe, but not impossible. He clutched the front of his vest, fidgeting with the teeth of the zipper. Pico could only imagine what Boyfriend was going through, and his imagination was not kind. As much as he tried to ignore the worst possibilities, he struggled to stay positive. 

What if Boyfriend was dead? 

He hated the idea. He didn't want to think about it. Surely he was alive. He had to be somewhere! Anywhere! He couldn't be dead! Pico tried to ground himself by thinking of other possibilities. Maybe Bf was just hiding from everyone because he didn't want Gf and her family to know where he was. Pico grit his teeth as more anger suddenly rose from his core. Girlfriend… he was honestly starting to resent her. Sure, most people don't want to see their ex after a breakup. Pico understood that, sure, whatever. But when someone goes missing, it's good to help find them. Especially when you're the last one to have seen them…

Pico was suddenly brought back to reality when he heard his phone buzzing in his pocket. Whitty was calling. The two exchanged phone numbers after they went to that diner weeks ago. Pico tapped the green icon to answer, and brought the phone to his ear. "Hey Whitty. What's up?" Pico asked, his anger faded a bit, now being distracted with the sound of Whitty's voice. "I just wanted to let you know that Hex can't help us for a few days. He's got some computer virus that's apparently been a bitch to remove." Whitty sounded agitated. Pico figured he was probably worried about his best friend. "Is he gonna be ok?" Pico asked, he was already missing one person, he didn't want to lose another. "Yeah, some tech guy's helping him out. He should be fine soon..." Whitty paused. "Hey, do you want to meet up? I'm out of posters to hang." Whitty's tone changed a bit, Pico couldn't quite figure out why, but he brushed it off. It didn't matter anyway. "Yeah, I'll pick you up. Where are you?"

…

Pico drove in silence as Whitty sat in the passenger seat. He felt a little bad for the bomb man as even with the seat pushed all the way back, he barely fit in the car. Pico's car just wasn't designed with people over 8ft tall in mind. Whitty had the chair leaned back so he wouldn't hit his head on the ceiling, his knees were bent just so he could fit in the car. Whitty's hands were in his pockets, despite the lack of space in the car, he seemed like he was relaxing a bit. 

"Hey Pico." Whitty broke the silence. Pico let out a hum, signaling he was listening. "I had this random idea for the next place we should check."  "Hmm?" Was Pico's only reply. He was tired, but he wasn't gonna quit for the day just yet. "You know that bridge close to the freeway? The one over the ditch?" Pico had to think for a moment before he caught on. "You think he might be hiding out in the ditch?" Pico asked, a little glimmer of hope making itself known. Whitty shrugged. "Maybe. I dunno. It's a common place to hide." Pico turned on his blinker, he had to drive to the opposite side of town to get there but at this rate it wasn't a big deal. If there was even a chance of Boyfriend being there, he had to take it. He had to make sure Bf was safe. 

…

After Pico parked the car, he and Whitty climbed down into the dry ditch. It was now night, the darkness making it hard to see anything. Except Whitty's eyes, that is. In the complete darkness, Pico noticed Whitty's orange eyes were glowing. He could partially see the tall man's body as the warm light from his eyes reflected off of him. Pico found it fascinating. It was oddly comforting, like a fireplace. Pico found himself getting lost in them.

 "... Pico?" Whitty's voice interrupted Pico's stupor. Turns out the inside of Whitty's mouth glowed too. "Huh? What?" Pico asked, a little lost thanks to his little daydream. "Are you alright? You seemed out of it." Whitty asked, shifting awkwardly as he stood. Pico felt uneasy, did Whitty see something in the dark that he hasn't noticed yet? Were they alone? Pico quickly shoved his hand in his pocket and whipped out his flashlight. As soon as he turned it on, and the light flooded the ditch, he realized no one else was near them (at least no one was close enough to see). So why was Whitty uncomfortable? Like someone was staring at him? 

Wait… 

Pico had almost physically face-palmed. He was staring at Whitty. He just stood there in silence and stared at this dude's face in the darkness. From Whitty's point of view, that probably came off as creepy. Now he felt a bit guilty for being so weird. Damn it, he had to say something to break this weird silence! But what? Should he apologize? Or just brush it off so they don't have to talk about it? 'Damn it Pico, say something! Anything!' He mentally chastised himself. Just when he was about to blurt out what probably would have been nonsense, Whitty piped up. "Did my eyes creep you out?" Whitty asked, sounding disheartened. Pico suddenly panicked, speaking before his brain could filter it. "What- No! No. Not at all. Your eyes are cool! Like a jack o lantern or something. They're neat! They like.." Pico cleared his throat to compose himself again. He had to give a rational response. "I think your eyes are fascinating. I didn't mean to offend you, I just got distracted. I'm sorry." Pico's face turned a light shade of pink out of embarrassment. He hoped his disjointed response would somehow make the situation less awkward. Whitty's eyes widened, and his cheeks glowed a bit as his expression shifted from surprised to bashful. He started rubbing the back of his head, a nervous habit, Pico assumed. "I… thanks. I've had people say my eyes remind them of Jack O lanterns before, but I think this is only the second time someone's used it as a compliment. Bf was the first." Whitty confessed, his tone sounding fond. Pico smiled a bit, of course B would say something like that. Pico snapped out of his trail of thought before he got more distracted with reminiscing. "Speaking of… we should get back to looking for him." Pico stated, bring their focus back to the task at hand. Whitty nodded. The two chose to walk throughout the ditch, hopefully they'd eventually find a sign of Boyfriend under these bridges. 

Each step they took echoed off of the cement around them. It was a little eerie. Pico was glad that he wasn't alone, Whitty seemed like he could hold his ground. It was comforting. After a few minutes, they came across a blanket laid out next to a few plastic water bottles. They couldn't necessarily say they belonged to Boyfriend, but it felt like they were on the right track at least. They continued their walk, hoping to find more signs of Bf. A few more mostly uneventful minutes went by, then they saw someone not too far ahead of them. Pico lowered his light a bit so it wasn't shining in their eyes, but he could still see them pretty clearly. They were leaning their back against the wall of the ditch with their arms crossed. They had what appeared to be a goat skull for a head with long horns er.. Horn. Pico noticed that one of their horns had clearly been broken off. Their face had multiple large cracks all over it. He wore a dark blue hoodie that matched his hat. His jeans were either a darker shade of blue or black, Pico couldn't quite tell. The skull-faced stranger had turned their head to look at Pico and Whitty, clearly having noticed Pico's flashlight. His black eye sockets with glowing yellow pupils staring them down. Pico admittedly got a shady vibe from him, but he was accustomed to shady people due to his type of work. He decided to approach the man, but not get too close, he just needed to know if he had seen Boyfriend. "Hey. Mind we ask you something?" Pico called, hoping the stranger would cooperate. "What do you want?" The horned stranger rudely snapped in a clear Russian accent, he was clearly agitated. Pico wasn't that fazed by the man's rudeness, again, he was used to that kind of behavior (not to mention he wasn't all that polite or well mannered himself). "We just have some questions. We're looking for a friend of ours, maybe you've seen him around." The man appeared to relax a bit after hearing that. His expression was less aggressive. "What does your friend look like?" He asked, his tone a bit less harsh than before. Pico pulled his phone from his pocket and scrolled through his gallery until he found a picture of him and Boyfriend. He turned the phone around to face the man. As soon as he saw the photo, his eye sockets widened, and he tilted his head back a bit in surprise. "Boyfriend?" The man questioned.

Now it was Whitty and Pico's turn to be surprised. "You know him?" Whitty asked, bewildered at the man's recognition of Bf. "Yes, we are… acquainted. I see him a lot lately." That, admittedly, made Pico angrier than it probably should have. This guy knew where Bf was while no one else did. B had trusted this guy instead of Pico? Or Whitty? Pico once again asked himself the question that plagued his mind for weeks. 'Why didn't he come to me?' Pico tightened his grip on his flashlight. He should be glad. They finally had a potential lead. Pico forced the irrationality down for what felt like the 100th time that day. "Do you know where he is?" 'Please. Tell me you know where he is.'  Pico begged internally. The man nodded his head in a 'sort of' fashion. "I know where he's been hiding lately. It's not too far from here." He looked around a bit, as if checking to see if they were alone. "You know that little theater on Chavez road? The closed one? He's been around there lately. You'll find him if you go there." Pico suddenly felt a small rush of relief. That sounded promising. "Thank you, Mr..?" "Tabi" "Thank you Tabi. We appreciate it. Oh! I'm Pico, by the way. This is Whitty." Whitty waved, and Tabi nodded in acknowledgment. Tabi bagan to walk away. "Take care of Boyfriend you too. He's fragile right now." He called before departing. "We will," Whitty replied, "Thank you." Pico mumbled one more time before he and Whitty rushed towards the car. 

…

For the first time in weeks, Pico felt hope. He felt almost giddy in a sense. Soon this nightmare could be over. Soon Bf could be safe. But there was still a chance that they wouldn't find Bf. There were a lot of emotions running rampant in his head. Nerves, excitement, doubt. He couldn't remember the last time he was this conflicted. Various 'what ifs' both positive and negative coming forth to give their piece of mind. Pico gripped the steering wheel of his car tightly, his knuckles turning white. 

Tabi's words echoed in his head. 'Take care of Boyfriend, he's fragile right now.'   

Was this all really because of Bf and Gf's breakup? It just felt extreme. Most people don't go missing for weeks after a breakup. Especially Boyfriend. This was out of character for him. He hated being alone. There was more to it. There had to be. Pico was sure of it. 

Pico pulled over as the old theatre came into view. The decorative walls were a bit worn, but still beautiful. He knew this old place fairly well, it made him a little sad when it was shut down. Pico and Whitty stepped out of the car. Whitty stretched his arms, glad he could stand at his full height again. The bomb man looked at the various posters on the theater's walls, each one advertised some sort of play or performance. "Huh." Was all Whitty said. "What's up?" Pico asked. "I don't know why, but I thought this was going to be a movie theater. I didn't realise it was one of those performing arts places." Whitty replied. Pico turned to Whitty. "You've never been here before?" Pico asked, genuinely surprised. Whitty only shook his head in response. "Aw man, that's a bummer. This place was nice. It was family-owned, a local theater, ya know? It went bankrupt, but when it was open it was cool… B loved it here." Pico's tone shifted as he reminisced. Going from casual to bittersweet. Whitty tilted his head curiously, waiting for Pico to continue. He didn't make eye contact with Whitty, instead focusing his gaze on the theater's doors. "Ya know… sometimes, after a show, the owners would let B and I use the stage. We'd sing there for as long as they let us. We did it almost every week." Pico couldn't help but feel nostalgic. He remembered those times so well. It was years ago, back when he and B were together. They were memories he cherished. "Sounds like it was fun." Whitty commented briefly. "It was." Pico's tone continued to be bittersweet. Deep down, he hoped that he and Boyfriend could have what they did back then. He always regretted letting B go, but never said anything. Once Boyfriend found someone else, he figured he'd never have a chance again. Pico's vision started to blur slightly. 'Goddammit Pico! Now's not the time!' He mentally chastised himself, he didn't want to cry. Not when Bf was still lost. Not in front of Whitty. He was able to bury this before, he could do it again. Pico did his best to refocus on the task at hand. He needed to stop doing this. 

Pico cleared his throat.

"A-Anyway, we should look for Boyfriend. He's probably around here somewhere." Whitty nodded. Pico was thankful that Whitty didn't pry into his emotions. He'd rather NOT talk about that at the moment, thank you very much. "Let's check inside." Whitty proposed, Pico gave a brief sound of agreement before pulling the front door's handle. Surprisingly it was unlocked. Was Tabi right? Was Boyfriend here? Did he unlock it? Pico made a mental note about the door and continued inside, Whitty following just behind him. Once again he needed his trusty flashlight. The theater was usually dark as is, but it was extra dark with it being the middle of the night. While in said darkness, Pico was briefly reminded of earlier that night when he stared at Whitty's eyes for an uncomfortable amount of time. Pico's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. This was definitely going to be one of those memories that kept him up at night whenever he thought about it. Then, Pico had another thought. "Hey Whitty." "Hm?" "How come you haven't been using a flashlight too? I mean, I don't mind sharing mine, I'm just curious." Pico hoped it wasn't a rude question. "Oh, well, uh.." Whitty began, Pico once again noticing how the inside of Whitty's mouth glowed like his eyes. "I don't really need a flashlight. I can see in the dark." Whitty's cheeks glowled orange a bit, now Pico was convinced that was how Whitty blushed. He found it kinda endearing, to be honest. "That's really cool. Wish I could do that." Pico said and chuckled a bit, feeling a bit lighter in spirit. Whitty also laughed coyly, feeling a bit flattered. "Let's check out the stage first." Whitty directed, already walking towards it. "Yeah, good idea." Pico agreed, following suit. The 'house' was dusty, and the seats clearly hadn't been used in a while. Well, most of them hadn't. Pico paused, getting a better look. He quickly noticed that a few of them had been folded out, the armrests were raised, and what looked like a shiney red blanket was draped across them. Someone had been using them as a makeshift bed, Pico realized. Someone was definitely here. "Psst, hey Whitty." Whitty turned around to face him, Pico waved his hand in a 'come here' gesture. Whitty nodded and approached him. 

The tall bomb headed man leaned over Pico, looking down the same row of seats he was. It didn't take him long to catch on. "We must be on the right track. Wait, is that a curtain?" Whitty reached over Pico to pick up and hold the 'blanket' which was, in fact, part of a stage curtain that had been cut. Pico felt his heart clench. B was using a curtain for a blanket, he must be cold. Pico looked at the chairs/bed. One of the seats had a pile of clothes/costumes haphazardly bunched together, probably being used as a pillow. This was just… sad. Bf didn't deserve to live like this. 

While Pico looked at the seats, Whitty took a second to inspect the curtain. It was red on one side, and white on the other side- wait, no, the other side had red too. In weird splotches and smear-like patterns. Whitty held it stretched out in front of him, the white and red patterned side facing him. The patterns looked inconsistent not just in size and shape, but in hue as well. Some of the red splotches looked darker almost..wet, while others looked faded, like stains. Whitty touched one of the darker red spots with his thumb, surprised when it was actually wet. Realization suddenly dawned on him, this wasn't a pattern. Now he was worried. "Hey Pico?" His scratchy voice quietly called, Pico turned around to look Whitty in the eyes. Whitty held the curtain in a way that only let Pico see the shiney full-red side and not the 'patterns'. "I'm not entirely human, so correct me if I'm wrong but… human blood is red, right?" Pico gave him a confused and worried look, then nodded hesitantly. "That's what I was afraid of." Whitty admitted, turning the curtain around so Pico could see. Pico's white eyes shot open wide, before giving Whitty a panicked look. Pico's heart dropped.

Just as Pico was about to say something, there was a loud *CRASH* from a distance. 

Pico and Whitty's attention snapped towards the stage, it looked like a shelf had fallen over from backstage. Frantic footsteps could be heard. Neither of them had to say anything, they both bolted towards all the noise. Running up the small stairs to the stage. They ran towards the backstage area. Their own footsteps echoing as their shoes hit the wooden floorboards. Whitty, with his longer strides, took the lead ahead of Pico. Once they arrived at the backstage room, they saw the metal Exit door slowly closing. Whitty slammed it back open, dashing through it, Pico not far behind him. Once outside, they had stumbled into a fenced in parking lot. Street lights illuminated the empty lot, now they could see the other person running away from them. They were short, around Pico's height. They had a black hoodie on, the hood was up so they couldn't see their head. Even so, Pico was sure that it was Boyfriend. It had to be. 

The hooded person ran into the parking lot's locked gate. Attempting to climb over it, but they weren't fast enough. Pico and Whitty were on their tail. They still tried, though. They were clearly struggling to get up the fence's bars, it looked like they kept slipping, like they couldn't grip the bars. Just as they were about to make another attempt to climb, Whitty caught up to them. The tall bomb man swiftly wrapped his hands around their torso, easily lifting them off the ground. Like holding a kitten. They helplessly swung their arms and legs, attempting to free themself from Whitty's grip. Amidst all their wild flailing, the hood came down, revealing a familiar face with blue hair. Boyfriend. They found him.

"N-no! Let me go! P-Put me down!" Boyfriend yelled, his voice filled with panic. His eyes were closed, and tears soaked his cheeks. Whitty knelt down to bring Boyfriend closer to the ground, still not letting go. "Hey! Hey… Boyfriend, it's just us. It's okay." Whitty did his best to keep his scratchy voice steady, hoping to calm down the terrified bluette. Despite not having the most soothing voice, it seemed to help a bit. Bf stopped flailing and yelling for the moment, his eyes snapped open. He seemed to have come to a sudden halt. His fearful eyes scanned the environment around him. Pico tried to approach him slowly, he didn't want to spook the poor guy more, but he too, was shaking. He had seen Boyfriend scared before, sure, but not like this. This was a new level of absolute terror. He looked so… fragile. Like if someone so much as flicked him, he'd fall to pieces. This was a far cry from the Boyfriend Pico knew. The dumb, reckless, confident man was no where to be found. What really struck Pico though, was the noticeable dampness of Boyfriend's hoodie sleeves. Pico figured he must have been injured, and he had to help. 

In the moment though, he was overwhelmed. He was happy that they found him. He was also worried about him. Part of him was angry. After all the weeks spent searching for Boyfriend, after spending those weeks bottling up all his frustrations, fears, grief, worry. He had reached his tipping point. He couldn't hold back anymore. The tears in his own eyes couldn't be stopped this time. Pico threw away his inhibitions, and just ran up to hug Boyfriend. Pico buried his face in the crook of Boyfriend's neck, and dug his fingers into his blue hair. He was there, they actually found him. And he'd be damned if he lost Bf again. His own face was wet with tears. "G-god Damn it you- you fucking idiot. Don't scare me like that again. F-fuck." Pico's voice shook, sobbing, his cries making it harder to speak. Whitty let go of Boyfriend's torso, instead wrapping his arms around both Pico and Boyfriend, trying not to cry himself (emphasis on tried). A few of his hot, orange tears fell onto the other two boys, but neither seemed to notice.

After a few moments, Whitty and Pico pulled back from the hug. Pico kept his hands on Boyfriend's shoulders, he didn't want to let go. His attention was once again brought to the dampness of Bf's hoodie, he knew it had to be blood. "B… let's go home." Apparently that was the wrong thing for Pico to say, as soon as he did, Boyfriend panicked again. "I-! N-no! I don't want to see her again please Pico-! Don't make me go back!" Pico rushed to ask what was wrong, startled by Bf's reaction. "B, who are you talking about?" Pico gently grabbed Boyfriend's hands, he wanted to be comforting, but that changed when he noticed Bf heavily flinched, and his hands were wet. Pico gently brought Bf's hands into the light. His hands were cracked and bleeding. Badly. The skin and flesh looked like it was just barely holding on to the bones. Some of the blood was dry and crusty, while some of it was fresh. Pico furrowed his brow. "B… what happened?" Bf began crying again. "Gf.. She.." Bf's voice trembled, his lip quivered. He started sobbing. Whitty's orange eyes widened, in a spur of the moment, Whitty gathered both the shorter males in his arms. Lifting them off the ground and standing at his full height. "Hey Pico, why don't we all head to your place?" Pico nodded, still holding Bf's hands. "You can stay with me, B. I promise I won't take you to Girlfriend. She won't even know we found you, okay?" Bf looked into Pico's white eyes, then Whitty's orange ones, before slowly nodding and letting out a barely audible "okay". 

Whitty carried them to Pico's car, he decided to sit in the back with Boyfriend so he wouldn't be alone while Pico drove the car (they moved the front passenger seat as far up as they could to make more legroom for him). Bf was huddled to Whitty's side, the tall, warm, bomb man made him feel safe. Whitty had one of his arms wrapped around Boyfriend, hoping to comfort him. The bluette was still crying, but not as much as before, he seemed to have calmed down slightly. No words were exchanged during the car trip to Pico's house. 

Once they arrived, Whitty gently carried Bf into Pico's house and carefully set him down on Pico's couch. Pico ran off to grab his first aid kit from his hallway closet, mentally preparing himself for how wrecked the rest of Bf's arms might look. He didn't want to end up freaking out and scaring Bf more. Pico moved to sit next to Boyfriend on the couch. "Okay B, show me what hurts." Boyfriend seemed hesitant, Whitty, who was sitting at Bf's other side, rubbed his back. The small gesture seemed to comfort Bf a little, and he removed the black hoodie he was wearing, hissing as the fabric pulled away from his wounds; he was only wearing a tank top under it, so the damage to his arms was revealed easily. Boyfriend's arms looked worse than his hands did somehow. Cracked and bleeding, in some places, it looked like the skin had stitches only to fall apart more and undo them. He could see the bone in Bf's elbow and shoulder. 

Pico felt sick. It was a mystery how Boyfriend wasn't just screaming in anguish. Pico took a quick glance at Whitty, who also looked appalled at the gorey sight before them. Pico looked into Boyfriend's teary eyes, then back at his arms. "We should take ya to the hospital." Pico said nervously, his gauze and hydrogen peroxide couldn't fix this. "I-I already tried that. They couldn't- *sniff* they couldn't stop it. I-It's magic." Bf confessed, Pico noticed Whitty's expression changed from shock to sympathetic. Whitty gestured to Bf's arms "Was this Girlfriend's magic?" Boyfriend nodded. Pico felt rage bubbling in his core. His attempt to keep calm and collected was thrown out the window. "Did she do this on purpose!? That's it! Imma beat her ass!" Pico whipped out his gun. Furious. "I'm gonna pump that bitch full of lead!" Pico was about to storm out his house when both Boyfriend and Whitty stopped him. "PICO DON'T!" Bf and Whitty said in unison. Whitty gripped Pico's arm (which was super easy seeing as his hand was big enough for his fingers to wrap all the way around Pico's forearm), and Boyfriend hugged him, burying his face in the crook of Pico's neck. "Why the fuck are you two stopping me!?" Pico shouted, still undeniably pissed. "Please don't go, Pico!" Bf cried. "Listen dude, as much as I'd love to see ya give that girl more holes than swiss cheese, if you even try it, her family will kill you. Plus, if ya went to her now, they'll know we found Bf, and who knows what they'd do to him then!"

Pico hated to admit it, but Whitty was right. He'd just make it worse by confronting Girlfriend. Her family was powerful, her parents would definitely come after all of them if he tried to do anything to her. His anger was screaming at him to go and blast her with his Uzi, but reason objected to it. Pico sighed, and put his gun on the table. "Alright. Yer right. I'm sorry." Bf hugged him tighter. "Thank you." He said quietly. "Well, if I can't shoot that bitch, let's at least try to solve… this." Pico gestured towards Bf's arms, which were bleeding all over him in the hug. Whitty rubbed the back of his head, unsure. "Well, demon magic did this in the first place, maybe another demon can undo it?" Whitty offered, Pico thought about it, it made sense. If hospitals couldn't treat a curse, might as well try magic. "I can't say you're wrong, the issue now is finding a demon who would be willing to help. The only other demon I know I wouldn't trust as far as I could throw her. Do you know anyone?" Whitty shook his head. The three stayed quiet. Pico wracked his brain for anyone who might be helpful. Maybe his dad knew someone who could help? Probably not. His brother definitely hung out with demons and whatnot, but most people his brother hung out with were bad news. Not to mention he hasn't spoken to his older bro in a long ass time. That was a no go. Who else could he ask? Pico glanced at Whitty, he appeared to be going over various options in his head too. They were silent until Boyfriend chirped in. "I might know someone. Maybe tomorrow we can find her?" Pico shrugged. "I guess that's just what we gotta do. For now though, you should go get cleaned up. You remember where the shower is?" Bf nodded, and started walking down the hallway. "I'll bring you some clean clothes you can borrow!" Pico called, Bf replying with a distant "Thank you" before disappearing around the corner. 

Pico made eye contact with Whitty. He might not have known this guy too well, having only met him a couple weeks ago, but the time they spent working together trying to find Boyfriend made Pico appreciate him. He wanted to know more about him. Whitty was so helpful, even managing to calm Pico down when he was two seconds away from snapping. He found the gentle giant fascinating and comforting. "Hey Whitty?" Whitty let out a curious "hmm?" 

"I just wanted to say thanks.. For everything. You've been really helpful and great and.. I really appreciate it." Pico's earnest tone made Whitty's cheeks glow slightly. "It's no problem. You don't have to thank me or anything. I just.. Wanted Bf to be safe too, ya know?" Pico nodded understandably. "I wish we coulda met under better circumstances. You seem like a great guy, I uh… I'd really like to keep hangin out with you. Maybe once we get this whole curse thing sorted out, we should do something together? Maybe all three of us should." Pico felt color flooding in his own cheeks now, feeling somewhat nervous. Whitty smiled. "I'd like that." Pico let out a small chuckle. "Cool. Cool. Sounds good." 

An awkward lull took the conversation, neither saying much. Whitty eventually stood up and stretched, feeling a bit sleepy. "Well, I should head out. I'm gettin tired. Want me to meet up with you guys here tomorrow?" Pico hesitantly nodded, he almost offered to just let Whitty stay the night, but if he had plans to go home, who was Pico to stop him? "Sounds good. Imma uh.. Get some clothes for B." Pico attempted to make the situation less awkward, he was never good at goodbyes. "Yeah, that'd be good. I'll see you tomorrow." Whitty and Pico parted ways after that. Now, Pico just had to help Boyfriend. Hopefully this woman he was talking about can reverse whatever demon spell was on him..

Pico let Bf borrow his spare pajamas, and threw Bf's clothes in the wash. He wasn't sure if the washing machine was gonna be able to get all the blood out. As he was going through it, he noticed that the inside of Bf's jeans were bloody too, the curse must've been affecting his legs as well. Pico kept the 1st aid kit out, that way he could bandage what was left of Boyfriend's limbs. While Pico tended to the bluette's wounds, he made small talk with Boyfriend, hoping it would put him at ease. It seemed to help. Eventually it became time to turn in for the night. Both boys were exhausted.

 "Hey Pico?"

 "Yeah B?" 

"Can I sleep in your bed with you? I don't wanna be alone."

"... Yeah. C'mere."

"Thanks Pico."

"No prob. G'night B."

"Good night Pico."

[jd-loves-fiction]

➤”I’d like one order of Mando adventure angst with a side of fluff and a dash of spicy bickering. Enemies to lovers or friends to lovers flavor (whatever’s on the house) and a nice hot bowl of ‘there was only one bed’

Give my compliments to the chef”

➤ genre: Fluff, Adventure, Comedy(?), Enemies to Partners, Angst

➤ wc: 4.9k (holy shit might be my longest request🥴)

➤ 🌙 Requested: @batarella ❤

"Listen, buddy, I got here first." You attempt to reason with the wall of beskar currently pointing his blaster directly at you.

Maybe not the smartest thing to say when first meeting someone of his reputation, but he can only be doing this for one reason. 

He's after the bounty squirming nervously at your feet. And you're in the way.

Why else would he be out here, in the middle of a rocky desert on some faraway planet?

"Step away from him." The voice you hear startles you with its modulated dept. It's more surprising that he even spoke at all, given what you'd heard of the Mandalorian. Although his stature and the silent tension he brings with him is no doubt intimidating, you will not give up so easily after following this bounty so far out from the nearest town. “No.”

His visor tilts to the side, like a frustrated twitch, at your answer. “Maybe.” You rectify, which makes him raise his head in interest. “Do you have a fob?”

“No, I don’t.”

Not that it matters anymore considering yours is broken, but at least now you know he can't follow you if you make a break for it with the bounty. 

“How did you find us?”

“I have my ways.” You nearly roll your eyes at his cryptic response, not like you expected anything else from a Mandalorian.

“Do you know why they sent you?” Knowing your employers, you had a clue on what the reason was. They got impatient.

They’d been pretty determined to get a maximum time needed out of you. You’re almost sure you overstepped it.

But to send a Mandalorian? Seems like a bit much.

“They were afraid you’d run off. That you gave the bounty away to the Resistance.” Of course, those bastards can barely trust themselves, let alone a foreigner.

“Well I didn't, and I won't. So you can lower your blaster and we can do this together.” You offer amicably, not yet loosening your grip on your weapon upon his lack of movement.

“You’re out of time. Your deal is off.”

“That’s just-!” You're cut off by a shot buzzing past you.

"Last warning."

Your jaw drops. How can someone be so damn cold?

You raise your finger assertively, about to give him a piece of your mind, when you notice something move by his hip.

And it's green. With gigantic ears. And huge dark eyes that blink at you curiously.

Your head tilts, mirroring the creature. The Mandalorian follows your eyes to find you looking at the child he’s supposed to be caring for.

“Huh. And who is that cutie?” The blaster already pointed at you raises from where it had begun to slouch, alert and cautious. Noticing this, you readjust your grip on your own weapon.

You and the creature continue to study each other, until the Mandalorian pushes the brown bag to where it rests behind his body protectively.

“Are they yours? I mean, doesn't look like the ears would fit.” You speak just to make conversation, stepping closer with miniscule steps. His gloved hand tightens around his blaster, hoping to remind you that he can still shoot you point-blank.

But he hasn't.

"Can you really do much in front of a kid?" You challenge smugly, still advancing slowly. 

"He's seen me do worse."

"That right?" Another step. "You planning to shoot me today or would tomorrow work better?"

"Are you always this difficult? Just put the gun down-"

You jump towards him, hooking your foot around the back of his knee which makes him fall to the rocky ground immediately, dropping his blaster. Unfortunately, taking down a Mandalorian is no easy task, so he takes you down with him.

He throws his satchel to the side in the nick of time, it lands on a sand pile. His other arm grabs hold of you to pull you down with him.

You point your blaster at him as he lays beneath you, except it is no longer in your hand. Shit. He punches you in the face hard enough that something will turn black soon enough.

As you fall to the ground he gets on top of you, or tries, as you place your feet against his firm chest to keep some distance. You kick him in the helmet, silently thanking the stars your shoes are steel toed.

Your hand only scrapes against dry, red, sand covered rock as you search for a blaster, either would serve. Despite your momentary advantage in light of the Mandalorian’s confusion after being kicked, his hands quickly come down to cover your throat. You feel the creases in the leather as they’re pressed against your skin, and the beskar over the back of his hands against your chin.

But you still attempt to reach a weapon, a rock would do at this point.

Your arms flail wildly with no real direction, only the need to stay conscious, as if movement would help it. You do, however, notice that he’s purposely avoiding your traquia.

He still does not want to kill you. How sweet. Probably just wants to take you back to the bastards who hired you. They’d surely kill you, and much faster too.

Just as the spots in your vision start becoming overpowering, his grip loosens. You inhale greedily, desperately, gasping and coughing at the released pressure. 

You can see his visor move to and fro, searching for something. Once you look to the side, you the child safe in its pile of sand, so it can't be that. 

"Dank farrik! He's gone." The bounty. Right. Shit. 

"Now," you pause, heaving as your lungs struggle to fill up again, "what?"

He places his hands on his hips, thinking for a moment, before turning his visor to where you lay clutching your sore - but not yet bruised - neck. "I'm going after him."

"I'm sorry-?!" You cut yourself off with a cough as you sit up, feeling grains of sand make their way inside your boots and other places. "You're going after him? This is my bounty! I had him, and I would've been fine if you hadn't shown up."

He keeps his stance, probably glaring disapprovingly beneath his helmet. You huff at his unyielding silence, getting up in his personal space and jabbing a finger into his chest plate.

"I'm about to give you a piece of my mind, so you better listen very carefully. I had it! It was my catch. And from what I can tell, it still is. So you better back off, Mando." Venom drips from your lips as you glare at the tin can on his head as if you could put a hole straight through it.

He relaxes, raising his hands again peacefully, palms up, "Alright, I get it. But do you think they'd take him from you now? Let alone later when you actually catch him? They seem pretty vindictive."

"Well, what do you suggest? You're not going on your own."

"And why not?" He scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans towards you.

"You don't have a tracking fob." You retort, leaning towards him as well with your hands on your hips.

The Mandalorian pats himself down where he believes to have stored the small device, only to find all those pockets empty. "You little thief!"

"And you're a liar! Plus, you think I'd just let you take my credits? Come on, with your reputation, you should know better than that." You shrug and suddenly Din is acutely aware that the beeping now comes from your hip instead of his.

"Alright, fine, let's do it this way. We'll look for him together and once we catch him, I'll hand him in and we'll split the reward." He explains slowly, carefully, afraid to set you off. 

"Seems good to me." You speak resolutely, thrusting your hand forward firmly, expecting a handshake. 

His helmet tilts down slightly as he looks down at your hand, before he reaches out with his own. Just as the leather meets your skin - in a now less life-threatening way - a coo sounds from somewhere at your feet, making you both look down to see the little green creature looking between the two of you curiously.

You look back at it, mirroring it once more, before it smiles wide revealing its tiny little teeth and, oh, your heart might just actually melt. 

It's large eyes move down from your face, towards your hands.

You suddenly realize neither you nor the Mandalorian had let go of each other's hand and that a large grin has formed on your face due to the adorable baby. It is promptly wiped off as you pull your hand back just as he does. He looks away while you shrug at the child's inquisitive stare, unaware that the bounty hunter had been watching you and marveling at the bond you'd both formed already.

And so you set out together to look for your target, back towards town, where you had begun your chase.

He can't have gone far or in any other direction, not with the unbearable heat and certainly not while handcuffed. He'd die for sure, you just have to hope he's smart enough to know that. 

You walk through town with the fob in your hand, just out of sight. No need for unnecessary attention. The town is tightly crowded, much to your chagrin, so you move slow and are barely able to see over the moving bodies. There’s just too much going on, too many people moving back and forth, shoving past you rudely. If it’d been anyone else - not an experienced bounty hunter - you would have probably been knocked down by the last two men that had scurried past you in a rush.

Without warning, you feel a hand grip your bicep. You immediately ready yourself for a fight, before you realize it belongs to your associate. Once he has your attention, Mando nods towards the edge to the street, against red stone buildings, urging you to follow him. You do, nudging anyone out of the way as you walked against the crowd’s stream.

You’re about to shout over the noise to ask just what the hell he pulled you aside for, considering you’re running out of time, before you follow his visor. Right to a wanted poster of a very familiar scoundrel. From the Resistance? Wanted alive for 8,000 credits?

“That’s one big fish, huh?" You continue to shout in order to be heard over the crowd, which you immediately regret, looking around, paranoid. "Must be important." You comment to yourself. 

You look up to see the Mandalorian's back disappear behind the corner. You quickly follow, catching up to his long strides, "What are you thinking?"

He ignores your inquiry, continuing to practically stomp his way through town. "Hey. Hey!" You call out to no avail. Well, you asked for it.

You reach out, grabbing the man by the back of his cape, tightening it around his neck and making it so he had to lean back to follow your hand in order to keep breathing. Your heart beats faster at the rush of power you feel for a moment. "You better tell me what you're thinking, or this is not gonna work."

He taps your hand repeatedly until you let go, rising to his full height and you're back to feeling slightly intimidated as he stares you down, silently.

"I'm thinking that with a price that high you might actually take the bounty yourself."

"Why-?"

The tracking fob. The small object suddenly burned a whole in your pocket. 

"Oh come on! You were trying to kill me!"

Your voice raises, arms flailing about. You know you're making a scene, considering this street is so much emptier and therefore quieter than the main one, but for the moment, you don't care. Right now, all you want is to put Mando in his place. Something you know is foolish given that he nearly killed you before and could actually do it this time.

"Yes, but it's still stealing." He spoke with that know-it-all, I'm-better-than-you, tone that just gets on your nerves. Bastard.

You raise a finger in the man's direction, fully intending to continue this conversation and clear your name in his eyes - the reason why is unknown even to you - when a shrill giggle cuts through the air. You look to Mando's hip, where the creature (who's name you have yet to learn) sits, pointing ahead to the entrance to the cantina. 

Right at the man of the hour.

What? How?!

The man looks back at you and Mando for a moment, eyes widening as he recognizes you and the fact that this might be it.

Before he takes off running. 

You start running before Mando does, easily catching up to the stout man, who's no longer in cuffs. As you get too close to his liking, he takes out a blaster (that you know isn't his) and tries to shoot you in the head. Only to miss and hit your forearm instead. 

Hurts like a bitch, but it's better than death. 

Out of the corner of your eye you see a steel rope of some kind shoot out and wrap around the fugitive's leg, sending him stumbling face first onto the ground. 

Mando walks over to him, barely winded, standing over the panting man and blocking the sun with his body. You can only imagine the man's terrified expression. 

You quickly take care of your wound as Mando ties the man up enough that he can't move, wincing as you look at the damage made on your skin. The burning nearly stops the bleeding and it hurts so bad you can barely process it, so you don't think about it, you simply level your breathing while wrapping a cloth around the wound and hope for the best considering it's not too big. 

You clutch it to your chest as Mando approaches, pointing at your arm, intending to ask you if you're alright, but you move it to your side before he can. "Are you-"

"We should give him to the Resistance." You speak resolutely, holding back from wincing as your injury rubbed against your pants. It hurt even from beneath a (barely) protective cloth.

“I said ‘we’, so don't you start giving me shit, alright?” You tell him sternly after he crosses his arms, probably getting ready to call you a thief again. “You can't give him to the Resistance because they’ll arrest you, correct?” He nods.

“Well you know bounty hunting isn't exactly legal.”

“You don't have to tell me that, Mando.” You remind him firmly. “So, if we give him to them, we can ask for them to clear your name! And we’ll get double the reward. Two birds with one stone!”

“Do you really think they’d just do that?”

“If someone’s paying 8,000 credits for one guy and specifying they want him alive, then I’d bet they’d do anything to get him, even something as seemingly insignificant as clearing your name.” You explain, gesturing avidly as you do.

A long moment of silence passes before a modulated sigh crackles through Mando’s helmet. “Fine. I’ll go get the Crest.”

“Wait, woah woah woah. Why are you going? How do I know you wont leave me out here?”

“How do I know you wouldn't?” You take a moment to consider his words. He did lie to you, but you did steal from him in a way.

You look down in contemplation, eyes meeting the creature’s. Right, Mando has the kid, who probably isn't fit to be out in this heat for as long as it has.

“He got a name?” You point to the child, who smiles and giggles gleefully.

“Grogu.” You nod, sighing and rubbing your temples. Stars, it’s so hot it feels as if your brain is melting and you can feel a headache coming on.

“You can go. But I want you to swear on your,” You pause for a second, searching for the right word, “honorable code. Swear you’ll come back.”

“You-” The Mandalorian starts, before giving up on protesting at your determined stand, crossed arms and raised chin. “OK, alright. I swear that I’ll come back for you and the bounty. That we need.” He whispers the last part.

“Get to it then. I’m sweating bullets in this heat!”

You sit, back against a nearby rock, searching for as much shade as possible. You don't want to move the bounty back into town for a multitude of reasons, so now you’re stuck just outside of town. Sweat making your clothes stick and it gathers while the headache gets worse and more blood soaks your makeshift bandage, but at least it's silent. That's what you thought about 20 minutes ago, now, you’ve changed your mind.

“The hell did you do to get 8,000 credits on your head?” You ask suddenly, seemingly startling the man who seems to have accepted his fate already.

He sighs, probably just as bored as you, “I have some information they want. That's why they want me alive.” You purse your lips in interest, humming in understanding, before silence falls over you two once more.

Stars, it's hot.

You could cry from relief once you hear the sound of a loud engine getting closer and closer. The 'Crest', as Mando had called it. 

You grab the bounty by the shirt, hauling him to his feet rather roughly and shoving him towards the flying hunk of metal that had just landed. 

The ship. Mando doesn't come out to greet you. 

As the ramp closes and the air is blanketed in a sheet of silence, your mind starts to wander without your permission. You know he has to be handsome under there, what with his broad shoulders and slim waist, deliciously thick thighs and a wonderfully smooth and deep voice that seems to caress your very soul as you hear it. You caught a glimpse of his skin when you pulled at his collar, delightfully tan just begging for you to sink your teeth into it. 

Must be the heat. Surely that is the sole reason why you're fantasizing so vividly about a man whose real name you don't know, whose face you've never seen and oh, a man who tried to kill you. But didn't. 

Sick of your own thoughts and the loud snores of the bounty, you rise to your feet, climbing the ladder that leads to the cockpit. You wince as you put part of your weight on your injured arm, deciding to climb the rest of the ladder one handed instead.

“Are you decent?”  You shout through the thick metal door, hoping Mando can hear you inside the cockpit. When the heavy doors hiss and open, you’re sure he must be.

You sit down in the passenger seat silently, looking up at the stars above for a long moment. The mesmerizing, endlessly dark sky is all that you see at first, from being partially blinded by the fluorescent lights inside the Crest, before the stars come to you, bright speckles that dust the planetary systems all around you. Breathtaking. 

You look back in front of yourself to find Grogu already staring at you, head tilted with a smile that shows the slightest hint of tiny teeth. You smile, leaning forward with a raised brow. He leans closer to you, eyes lingering in the side of your face, the one already darkening from Mando’s blow, before dipping down to the arm you hold close to your chest. You let go of it immediately as he does, wanting to shield him from seeing the blood you know can be seen through the cloth.

The child steps closer, as far as he can while up on the dashboard. Mando has to be avoiding you, before he would've seen that movement otherwise.

It reaches out his small hand, squeezing his eyes as tightly as possible while the green limb twitches. You furrow your brows in confusion, what?

The ache on your skin lessens gradually, as if the wound was being lifted from your skin. You can feel it on your arm, it tickles as your skin connects itself around the wound while the burn disappears as if you’d just placed ice over it.

At some point, your eyes close, lulled nearly to sleep by the lifting of the pain, the feeling left behind makes your skin tingle with energy just beneath, your head feels light for a second, as if the blood moved from there down to heal the wounds.

When you open your eyes, you’re met with Mando’s visor trained on your face, silent in a way you can tell he’s speechless. “Eyes on the road, Mando.” You tell him cheekily, voice cracking unexpectedly.

He turns back forward, pausing his steering to pull Grogu forward and away from the edge, before his hands return to the commands. “So, is it far still?”

“No, just a few more hours. The closest Resistance base is just on the next planet.” His fingers flick switches and pull levers, before he seemingly puts the vehicle on autopilot and turns to you. “You can take the cot, you must be tired.”

You blink at him, “And what about you?”

“I’ll be fine.” He answers gruffly, not sparing you a glance.

“No, it’s gonna be a few hours, and you’ve been awake for about as much as me so if anyone is taking the cot, it’s you.” You argue back firmly.

He sighs, loosening the cape around his neck as a way to calm himself down, you and your selflessness.

“Alright. No promises that I’ll sleep though.” He acts like it’s a huge burden, as if it pains him deeply.

He takes Grogu in his arms and towards his sleeping nook. The small child smiles at you from over his guardian’s shoulder, and you smile back.

Once he’s safely put away and the bounty checked on, Mando leads you to a space just off the main hull space, where a bed - with the thinnest mattress you’ve ever seen - is pulled from the wall. Oh boy, you can already feel your back aching, but it’s better than sitting in the cockpit on those hard chairs.

So you lay down your weapons while he takes off the bulkiest of his armour. You lay down, curled on your side and away from him, knowing he’ll have to cuddle close to fit. You feel his warmth against your back, but you don't feel his touch quite yet, only the ghost of it. Your gut tightens with pity as you know he can’t take his helmet off. That has to be very uncomfortable.

The lights are dim enough that there is no shadow from your bodies on the wall. You can tell by the space he’s put between you, that he’s about to fall off.

“Are you scared of me, Mando? Can I call you Mando?”

“Sure and no.”

“Which one?” You ask mischievously, smirking to yourself while knowing full well what he meant.

He sighs in exasperation, so you let him be. For only a moment before you're back to being snarky. "Surely you've been this close to another human before, perhaps in a more compromising context."

"Yes and it's usually quieter." You think he might not realize what he just said.

You snort, "Must mean you're doing something wrong."

"That's not-! Just, get some sleep." He says tiredly, giving up on the banter you're pushing. You do as he asks, closing your eyes as you feel the heat of his body move closer to you.

You wake up to a rough whisper of your name and a shaking of your shoulder. Eyes open slowly, squinting against the light shining right at them, before something blocks it and eases your discomfort. The large hand on your shoulder doesn't yet move from its place, gently perched and waiting for you to wake up fully. 

You look up to see Mando's helmet over you, seemingly way too close (not that you're complaining), as you can clearly hear him breathe through his modulator. "We're here and we need to talk before you go in."

You follow him to the hull without question, stopping just before the door that leads to it. You rub the sleep from your eyes before blinking up at the bounty hunter, trying to nonchalantly fix your messy hair. 

And though he'd never tell you, he thought you looked adorable in that moment. Rosy cheeks, a faraway gaze, lips pursed to hold back a yawn as you brushed down your hair. He was certainly thankful for his helmet in that moment, considering the heat he felt crawling up his neck and settling on his cheeks. 

"Plan?"

You clear your throat before speaking, "Right. So, it's easy." You raise a hand to his face when Mando sighs deeply. "Simple, really. I go in, tell them I have the bounty and ask for a little something as compensation along with the credits. See? Easy and simple!"

"Do you think they'll take it?" It doesn't sound as skeptical as you would've expected from him. It's sort of hopeful. Even Mando has to admit to himself that getting chased around and having to avoid and run from x-wings at every turn, got pretty exhausting. 

"Let's try it before we start getting doubts." You tell him, determined. "Besides, nothing to lose if you stay hidden, right?"

The planet you landed on is small and green - perfect cover for a Resistance base. You walk along the dirt path leading to it and away from the Crest, coming up to a clearing where you can see the humongous metal doors of the base which seemed to have been dug into a small mountain. 

"Stop! State your business." A voice says through a speaker once you get close enough. 

"I've come to deliver a bounty!" You keep it simple, no use even attempting to be charming with these folks.

Not long after, the doors part to let someone through, who you presume is a general or something of the sort given their intimidating presence and the flock of guards with their weapons trained on you that follow them. 

"We have your credits. Thank you for bringing him to us." You keep your face neutral even as it urges to tremble beneath the pressure of their gaze. You feel the man in question squirm against the arm that grips his bicep. Must really not be a fan. 

"That is not all I want." The supposed general, no need to try and figure that out considering you don't want them to remember you more than necessary, raises a delicate brow. "I would like for you to clear someone's name."

"That is not what we agreed on."

"Yes, well, I didn't agree to it myself, so." You shrug, impressed that the general's face remains stone cold, especially considering how much they probably would like to dispose of you given you're dragging out this exchange for longer than what's really necessary. 

"You are in no place to make demands." One soldier tells you, pulling out his blaster and pointing it at you, getting more of a reaction from the bounty than from yourself as he flinches. 

"Oh, I am in the perfect place to be making demands." You tell him venomously, grip tightening on the man's arm.

"We have you surrounded."

"Just the way I like it." You respond with a wink just to hear the person's stuttering over the modulator on their helmet.

"Very well." The general calls out in order to gain their minions' attention, "Just tell me what name they might be under in our system."

"The Mandalorian. Mando for friends."

Epilogue

"Fuck! Shit, fuck! What was I thinking?!" You yell out in frustration, standing before what remains of your ship, the rest most likely taken by Jawas, who must be long gone by now. "Of course someone would take it apart, why not?! Oh, stars." You wail miserably, crouching into a ball in search of some comfort. 

"Hey, it'll be alright. Don't panic." Mando tells you gently after pulling you to your feet and grabbing your shoulders tightly to ground you. "There's two ways we can do this: we go after those Jawas, get your pieces and fix the ship or," Mando hesitates for a moment, fingers drumming along your skin as he turns the words over and over in his tongue until he feels as if he'll get them right once he says them. "you can come with me until you get enough credits for a new one. 4,000 might not be enough yet, but it's a pretty solid start."

His rare optimism brings a small smile out of you and makes your anger settle down almost completely. You'll no doubt have an even deeper hatred for the little shits, but you don't feel as if you'll punch the next living thing you see.

"I guess catching a ride with you can't be so bad, huh, Mando?"

[hanniiesuckle17]

The Cake

A/n: Sorry this took so long but I'm obsessed with how this turned out. i hope you guys like this little crack fic ahha (this is also not thoroughly edited.)

Requested: @moonlit-han-main

Tag List: @ashisparanoid @mini-meanhoe @leggomylino @hanstagrams @desertofdessert @hoes4hoseok @yangomangos @jeonqqin @geminirules @crscendoforsung @mrsunshine999​ @jisungsjheekies @hannie-squirrel00 @cotccotc​ @kodzu-ken​ @konenichi​ @yangs-jeongin​ @binniebutter​

Warnings: Cussing probably

Word Count: 1.9k

Summary: Being pregnant is stress enough. Having Changbin as the father while quite possibly the greatest thing that has ever happened to Y/n. It was also the most stressful thing that had every happened to Y/n. Prepping for their gender reveal party is a huge ordeal and all the boys are excited to come and help. However, sometimes there are too many cooks in the kitchen.

Genre: comedy, crack, lil romance, fluff, established relationship!au, future parent!au, Fem Reader, Ft.3RACHA

✧

Changbin’s POV

“Jisung, you know Y/n said no alcohol.” 

I sighed seeing my friend carrying an armful of liquor bottles into the kitchen. He laughed less than gently setting them on the island counter. The apartment I shared with Y/n was rather small and the kitchen was basically open to the living room. The clinking of glass bottles had me rolling my eyes. “No. She said no alcohol for her. Duh. She’s pregnant!”

Jisung’s dark fluffy hair fell in front of his doe eyes, but did not hide the impish smile he wore. The door of the apartment swung open to reveal Chan, a square box in hand.

“Is that it?” I asked eagerly as he set the carton down in the kitchen with us. Feeling cramped in the space, Jisung squeezed past us onto the other side of the counter in the living room. 

Chan nodded and flipped open the lid of the carton to reveal a bright white cake. “Just picked it up from the bakery.”

“And he didn’t tell you what color was inside?”

“Do you think I would have walked in that calmly if I knew the gender of your kid?”

I shrugged, listing my head. “Yeah, that checks out.” Swatting Jisung’s hand away I shut the lid keeping him from tasting Y/n and my gender reveal cake. We had been holding off on knowing the gender and both of us were beginning to grow restless with her due date only a few months away. “Chan can you put it on the cake thingy Y/n bought.”

“It has a name.”

“Do you know what it is?” I asked walking to the other side of the counter. Chan stood, eyes blinking at an abnormal pace. “Cake thingy it is then. Y/n will be here in three hours so we have to finish decorating.” The boys nodded and we set to work about putting up the party decorations. 

An hour later the apartment was filled with colorful balloons and cheap streamers. The boys and I stood looking around at our hard work. The cake sat on the counter looking perfect as ever. The living room was bursting with color and the drinks and snacks were laid out and only partially eaten by Jisung.

“Wow. We did it.” Chan said, standing proudly with his hands on his hips surveying our hard work. It was unbelievable that we actually managed to get everything done and looking perfect with so much time to spare. “Where’s Jisung?” 

I shrugged. “I think he said he was putting the broom back in the kitchen.”

“Hey guys, should we put the cake on the table?” 

We turned around to see Jisung holding the beautifully frosted white cake. The cake that was going to tell us the gender of the baby. “Jisung wait-”

“Woah!”

Everything happened in slow motion. Chan and I both lunged forward. We watched in horror as Jisung disappeared below the kitchen island and the cake was thrown up into the air..The delicatable perfect pastry was turning over in the air, gravity pulling it down. 

SPLAT

Chan froze behind me. My hands latched onto the edge of the island counter, anchoring them in place so as not to strangle the nearest squirrel. Jisung slowly stood up facing us, white frosting in his hair. brown hair. Slowly his eyes traveled down to the mess he created. 

“WAIT! DON’T LOOK DOWN!” I screamed holding out my hands to stop him. My friend’s eyes shot up and he looked at the ceiling. “Nobody....look....at the kitchen floor.” 

“Why can’t we-”

“BECAUSE, CHAN.......if the cake is on the floor....we’ll see what color the cake is.”

Hearing this Jisung covered his eyes with his hands. “Fuck. Guys. I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry. Like I’m really sorry.” 

I sighed rubbing my forehead, a headache beginning. “Jisung quit you’re blubbering. It’s not going to help.” We now had no cake; the literal centerpiece of the entire party. “Y/n will be here in two hours. We need to clean this mess up now.” 

Chan ran a hand through his hair in stress. The man was going to have gray hair before he was thirty. “How are we supposed to clean if we can’t look at the floor?” My eyes fell onto the kitchen counter. A dish rag hung on the edge of the sink.

“I’ve got an idea.” 

✧

My left hand felt blindy around for the edge of the counter. The other pushed a  mop around the kitchen. The kitchen towel was itchy against my eyes, but I would rather keep my eyes in my head than have them end up in Y/n’s purse if I saw the color of the cake. 

A sudden whack to my ass had me yelping and shooting up from my hunched position. “Ow- what the hell?” My ears picked up the sound of a dust pan falling to the floor. 

“Sorry, I was turning around.” 

“Jisung, my ass is reserved for Y/n. Hands off. Dust pans too.”

Chan chuckled not far away from me. These makeshift blindfolds really were a bitch. “That is something I never thought I would ever hear. Don’t say it again.” 

After a few more minutes of sightless fumbling and cleaning, the three of us sighed. “I think we did it.” Jisung mumbled. “Can I take this off now?”

I nodded, despite my friends lack of ability to see. “Okay. Take em off.”

Pulling off the blindfolds, we were met with a horrifying sight. Every inch of my kitchen- of Y/n’s kitchen, was smeared and stained bright blue. Not only was the frosting on the floor, but it was on the cabinets, the counters, even the walls. 

“It’s.......everywhere...” Chan mumbled, staring at the catastrophe. “How did it get everywhere? I thought we cleaned it!” 

Jisung’s eyes widened. His hand clapped onto my shoulder. “Dude! You’re having a boy!” Both Chan and I looked over at him with a pointed stare. “What? Don’t look at me like that. What the fuck did I do?”

“You’re in deep shit.” Chris laughed looking at the cerulean stained tile. 

My eyes widened, turning to my friend. “Nuh uh. We are in deep shit. Jisung is the one that dropped the cake.”

“And how is that my fault?!” 

“I don’t know! You’re the smart one! Fix this!”

The leader ran his long pale hands through his hair. After pacing through the smeared frosting I was beginning to think we were indeed truly fucked. I began to lose hope until I saw an idea pass through Chan’s dark eyes. “You got an idea?” The youngest asked, swiping his finger along the counter and bringing the blue frosting up to his lips. He nodded, determination set on his face. 

“Call Felix.”

✧

A white blonde head of hair pranced through the door seventeen minutes later carrying a bucket with bleach and two bags of groceries. “You called for a miracle?” The boys smiled and looked at the three of us covered in icing. 

“Yeah, Felix, why’d you show up.” Jisung laughed only to be elbowed in the stomach by Chan. 

“Felix....help,” I pleaded. The boy shoved the bucket into Jisung’s arms and peeked into the kitchen looking over the disaster we created. He whistled, brows raising in surprise. “We have an hour and a half. Can you do it?”

His head tilted and a deep chuckle bubbled up in his chest. “Of course I can.” the boys and I let out a sigh of relief. “Chan, you and father-to-be deep clean the kitchen. Jisung, you and I will take care of the cake.” We all just stared at Felix as he barked out orders. “LET’S MOVE BOYS! LET’S GO, GO, GO!”

Scrambling, the four of us raced to fix the calamity before Y/n could come home and ever find out that we not only found out the gender of our child early, but quite possibly permanently stained her nice kitchen turquoise. 

The short time we had soon fizzled into nothing and the sound of keys turning in the lock of the front door had every  body in the apartment rushing to cover up the last bits of our mishap. 

Y/n walked in with a smile. The four of us rushed to appear as if nothing had ever happened. Chan launched himself onto the couch. Jisung admired one of our one posters that was hanging framed in the living room. Felix pretended to be inspecting our Vitamix that he gave us last Christmas as he always did when he came over to see if it had been used yet. 

I greet her with a hug, kissing her cheek. “Hi, Binnie!” Pulling away she looked around the apartment at the boys who were less than nonchalant, her eyes particularly falling on Jisung. Felix waved to her from the kitchen. “Oh- Lix! I thought you weren’t coming until the party started?” 

“I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d...drop...by.” He smirked and I glared at him from behind my pregnant fiancee. 

“Well, you’re always welcome!” She looked around the at the decorations and we all held our breath as she entered the kitchen. Y/n’s eyes lit up as her eyes landed on the cake. It looked almost exactly like the one Jisung had dropped only hours before. “Is this the cake? It looks so good! No one peeked right?” 

“No, no.”

“Not me.”

“I don’t even know what a cake is.”

“We would never.”

Giving us all weird eyes, Y/n chuckled and put a glass cover over the cake display. “The party will start soon. Thank you guys so much for helping out!” Letting loose a shaky breath I watched her wander into the bedroom to change for the soon coming party. 

“I think we got away with it guys. Not a word.”

✧

The party was in full swing. Friends and family mingled in our apartment and gifts for the baby and us were being stacked by the door. Chan was on Jisung detail keeping him far away from Cake 2.0. 

“Hey, everyone, it’s time to cut the cake!” The crowd cheered and gather around Y/n and I as we stood behind the cake Felix made with the minuscule help from Jisung. Nervously, I handed Y/n the knife and cast a wary glance towards the four other boys who were obviously sweating. The blade cut through the airy confection with ease.

“Ummm......Changbin.....”

“Yes?”

Her brows rose and she dumped the cut piece of cake on a plate. “Do you mind telling me why this cake has green filling, babe?” Y/n watched me blink, completely frozen in place. “Is there an alien or Shrek growing in my belly? Changbin what the hell?”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Felix slap Jisung upside the head. “What did you do? I gave you the food coloring!” He whispered clearing exasperated. 

“I put it in the cake mix, just like you said!” 

Felix groaned and held his head in his hands. “Dude! I told you to put the coloring in the whipped filling! That was yellow cake batter! You mix blue and yellow you get fucking green! You made Changbin have a Shrek baby!”

The two continued to bicker while Y/n turned to me with a furious look in her eyes. “What did you do....”

“Jisungdroppedthecakeitwasn’tmyfaultthenweallputonblindfoldssowewouldn’tseewhatcoloritwasonthefloorandthefrostinggoteverywheresowecalledFelixandhewaslikethebleachfairyandheandJisungmadeanothercakeandI’msosorrybabyIloveyou.” I sputtered at top speed. 

She just blinked, trying to process my words. “I don’t even know...how to even comphrend what’s going on. Honestly at this point I’m not even sure I’m not growing a Shrek in my belly.”

I smiled leaning down and kissing Y/n’s soft lips. “No,” She looked up at me with soft eyes, anger slowly leaving. “That’s our son.” 

“He still might turn out to be Shrek.”

“Shut up, Jisung.”

✧

Masterlist

[luffles424]

Cigarette Burns

☼ Pairing: Seokjin x reader x Taehyung

☼ Genre: angel!reader, angel!Taehyung, horror, angst, some fluff, smut

☼ Count: 10.6K

☼ Warnings: 18+, death (minor characters), blood, mentions/descriptions of injuries, mentioned mutilation, hallucinations, oral (m receiving), double blowjob, cumplay, cum sharing, deep throating, face fucking, teasing, ball play, dom/sub themes, hair pulling

☼ Summary: Seokjin’s been tasked with finding a film that is thought to be a myth. A legend that caused a theater full of people to turn to violence and then was never seen again. With the mystery that swirls around the film and the increasingly strange things that happens as he hunts for it, is he fully prepared for what waits for him at the end of his journey?

☼ a/n: This is based on my favorite horror movie ever, Cigarette Burns! The story is changed some, but I can’t explain in a way that doesn’t spoil both the film and the fic. I’ve pulled back on some of the gore from the original film too. I hope you enjoy, as I’ve not really written a horror fic before! Let me know what you think! My ask box is always open ~ 💙💙💙💙

☼ Written for @btsholidaybingo​ to fill the square Blood, Sweat, and Tears

The theater is quiet as Seokjin enters it, understandably so since it’s almost closing and the theater is so small that there’s likely no one at the last showing. One of the downsides of a more indie theater, he supposes. But it had been his dream, keep the older films alive, even if it didn’t necessarily prove to be super lucrative. Which is where his second job came in, that people (Taehyung) would argue should really be his primary job considering how good he is at it. 

Seokjin doesn’t want his primary job to be hunting down rare prints. He likes it well enough, sure. It’s thrilling to find a new piece that was thought to be lost to time (and to negotiate into the deal that he’d get to hold a showing of whatever he found too). But it’s really only something to help keep the lights on at the theater. Taehyung also suggests adding newer films to the theater's showings to draw in new crowds and get them interested in the older ones so Seokjin chooses to ignore most of Taehyung’s “helpful” suggestions. 

He makes his way to his office, where Taehyung is sprawled out in a chair, perking up once the older man enters. 

“What’s the film this time?”

Seokjin chuckles as he sits down at his desk, setting a thin file down. Taehyung might be more invested in Seokjin’s side job than Seokjin is. Maybe he should teach Taehyung how to do it so the younger can take over. He’s inquisitive and bright enough that he’d be good at it. “Hi, how are you, Tae? Oh, me? I’m doing good.”

Taehyung rolls his eyes. “Oh come on, I saw you this morning. Now what film are you looking for?”

Seokjin eyes him up for a moment. He’s never seen Taehyung so interested; he seems more interested than usual and he doesn’t even know what the film is yet. He’s not sure if he’s interested in the film or hearing about the process Seokjin goes through to find them. Seokjin’s good at his job, good at finding the relics of an era where everything couldn’t be easily backed up. And while he makes sure to get a favorable deal and be able to show what he worked so hard to find, Seokjin maybe also makes duplicates for the sake of preserving the content of the old films. Taehyung always seems delighted to go through the unofficial prints that Seokjin keeps stored in the theater (or at his house because multiple copies is always best when it comes to preservation). 

“I don’t know if I’ll find this one. It’s pretty legendary and notably thought to be either fake or destroyed.”

Taehyung leans forward, eyes wide with barely contained interest. “What is it?”

“La Fin Absolue du Monde.”

There’s a flicker of something in Taehyung’s eyes that Seokjin can’t decipher and it’s gone too fast for him to even try. “Isn’t that that film that only ever had one showing and everyone at the showing killed each other or themselves?”

Seokjin nods, pulling a yellowed newspaper clipping from the folder he brought. It’s all in French but there’s a translation written in the blank space of the paper the clipping is attached to. It details the bloodbath that the theater turned into before the film even finished and how the only print of the film was destroyed right after.

Taehyung looks up at Seokjin, expression unreadable. “Do you think it still exists?”

Seokjin shrugs. “The guy, Bellinger, seemed very positive that it does. Said he would know if the film had been destroyed. I didn’t ask how because that seemed like a path I didn’t really want to go down. He was weirdly obsessed with the props he had from it. But he gave me the information he had and said that if I couldn’t track it down within a month that he would admit that it was gone. But he paid half up front for the whole month. Double my rate too. He seems to really want this found and to honestly believe that it’s still out there.”

Taehyung nods stiffly before he’s flashing Seokjin his usual boxy grin. “I’m sure you’ll find it. You are the best after all.”

Seokjin snorts. He wonders if he should question Taehyung’s sudden shift at the mention of the film. It’s not like him to be so serious about a film. “I don’t know if I’d go that far, but thanks.”

“Do you have any leads?”

“Not really.” He flips open the folder and shows that besides the article clipping is just a printout of the poster from the film’s only showing and another printed page with a film review on it. He taps the review. “This was written by a critic who was at the showing. As far as I can tell, he’s still alive. But he seems to have become incredibly reclusive in the decades since the showing. I’m going to ask around and see if I can track him down.”

Taehyung stands and drums his fingers on the desk. “Well good luck. Keep me updated as always.” He turns to go, pausing in the doorway. “Seokjin… whatever you do, don’t watch the film.”

And then he leaves, leaving Seokjin confused because it seems like Taehyung believes the film still exists and that somehow something bad will happen if Seokjin were to watch it. Maybe he just believes the stories around it and thinks that the crazy stuff that happened was due to the film and not something more easily explained like the crowd being poisoned or something much more logical than the movie made them do it. He shakes his head, it’s probably just a friendly warning out of worry. Turning to his computer, he starts digging into the sole survivor of the film’s only showing.

It takes some time, hours of staring at the screen, to find anything substantial on the critic. It’s nearly morning, gray light filtering through the slates in his closed blinds, but he finally finds where the critic has most likely holed up. For what reason, no one seems to really know, just that he disappeared after his review and hasn’t really been seen since. But it’s as good a place to start as any. Seokjin saves the address onto his phone and leaves the theater, stopping at his apartment for a moment to shower, change, and pack a quick bag before he’s grabbing some coffee and heading to the airport.

Upstate New York is far more woodsy than Seokjin had expected. Although he supposes when he’s only imagined New York City when thinking of New York, that’s an easy mistake to make. The foliage makes navigating to the critic’s house in his rental car a little difficult since it’s seclusion means that the road to the house is nearly completely overgrown. He wonders how the guy gets food if the path there looks as if no one’s been on it in months. The house itself is simple, but appears abandoned given the lack of care to the outside and the way all the rooms that Seokjin can see into are darkened. Still, Seokjin isn’t one to be deterred, the porch looks nice enough, he can always just wait a while if there happens to be no one home before maybe finding an open window or door to check out the house. But first he approaches and knocks on the front door. He gets no immediate response but when he steps back to look in the windows on the far side of the door, he’s able to pick up the sound of a typewriter. 

Well someone’s definitely home. He moves back to the door, knocking again. 

“Mr. Meyers?” He calls out, the typing stops and he gets an answering ‘go away.’

“I just need to speak to you for a moment.” There’s a resounding ‘no’ in response and the typing starts up again. “Please, it’ll be quick. I wanted to ask you about your review for La Fin Absolue du Monde.”

The typing stops again and then there’s a loud buzz and the door swings open an inch. Eerie, but Seokjin pushes the door open and steps inside. The house is dark, blanketed in shadows caused by the only light that streams in through the cracked curtains. There’s a stale quality to the air, like the house has been closed up for months and there’s a gray cloud of smoke that clings to the ceiling, swirling with the sudden air flow. As Seokjin looks around, he sees that there are stacks and stacks of paper piled everywhere that there is space, leaving just a narrow pathway from the entrance to the living room. He rounds the corner into the living room and there’s even more stacks here, piled high around the critic as he sits hunched over his typewriter, typing away once more. 

“Were there press notes?” He asks, glancing over one of the nearby stacks, skimming the top page. It talks about the film. He gets a curt ‘yes’ in response to his question. “Did you save them? Could I read them?”

“Dangerous.” Seokjin frowns at Meyers’ statement. They’re just notes, how could they possibly be dangerous. “The back said ‘Film in the right hands is a weapon.’ He was right and we didn’t even know it.” There’s a heavy silence before he continues. “We trust film makers when we go and watch films. We sit there, in the dark, and trust in what they’re going to show us. That it’ll affect us but we trust that they won’t go too far.”

Seokjin waits but Meyers doesn’t seem inclined to continue now, though his words haven’t been particularly helpful anyway. He’s not even particularly sure what he’s talking about. It’s almost like Meyers has used up all his words on the pages taking over his home or that he’s forgotten how to hold a conversation. Has he been here since the film release? If so, he’s been out here alone for decades. 

Seokjin decides to try directing the conversation back to the film. “I’ve read your review. A few times on the plane. And I still have no idea what the film is even about.”

“Hans Backovic was a monster. He took that trust and abused it. He didn’t want to just hurt us, he wanted to absolutely destroy us.”

Seokjin feels like they’re having two different conversations. He’s not even sure that Meyers heard what he said. Backovic was a director, how could he possibly have destroyed an entire audience? “I’ve seen extreme gore before. It didn’t drive me to violence. Why is this film so dangerous? Surely all that violence in the theater was exaggerated?”

Meyers leans back in his chair and he looks older, exhausted. His eyes seem slightly unfocused. “Oh no, not at all. If anything, it was downplayed.” He pauses and takes a slow breath. He’s staring at his desk but the look in his eyes says he’s somewhere far away, reliving something he doesn’t want to be reliving. “I watched four people die. Blood slicked every inch of that theater floor. The chairs, the walls, the screen. It reeked of death.”

There’s a charged pause and then Meyers leans forward again, looking at Seokjin and Seokjin feels unsettled, that faraway look is gone, instead replaced by a wild almost manic look. “Backovic knew what he was doing. He told me exactly what would happen when that film played.” He chuckles and it’s completely humorless. “I thought he was joking.”

Seokjin moves closer, suddenly interested. Meyers had spoken to Backovic? About the film specifically? Finally, a possible lead, something to have made this trip worth it. “You spoke to him?”

“Yes. Before the film. I recorded an interview with him.”

“Do you still have that tape? Can I listen to it?”

“No one’s ready for that film. They weren’t then and they aren’t now. I failed in my one job as messenger for the film. That review was a joke. But everyone will know, once I finish my new review. They’ll see what the film is really about.” He seems to be almost talking to himself as he pulls the sheet of paper he’d been typing out of the typewriter and adds it to the pile beside him. He slips a blank sheet into the typewriter. 

Seokjin glances around in alarm, gesturing to the stacks of paper. “Is that what all this is? Your new review?”

He lets out a slightly maniacal laugh. “I’m almost done!”

Seokjin swallows. There’s easily a million typed pages here. And it’s all about the film? Unease fills Seokjin as he casts his gaze over the stacks again. What happened in that theater that could drive someone to spend decades typing this much? And to call it a review? He doesn’t want to ask more about the review and what could possibly be compelling this man. “Well, there’s a chance that there’s still a print out there. I’ve been paid to find it.”

Meyers stares at him for a long moment and Seokjin shifts in discomfort. There’s so much mystery around this film and this talk with Meyers has only increased that. Then he laughs again and stands. Seokjin thinks maybe he should leave, for a split second he fears that Meyers has been so hard to find because he’s killed anyone who’s come to find him before. “You should know what you’re in for.” He says cryptically before moving to a trunk nearby. He rifles through it for a moment before pulling out a tape. 

He presses it into Seokjin’s hands, but when Seokjin goes to pull away, Meyers’ hands tighten around his, keeping him in place. “Promise me. Promise when you find it that you’ll let me see it again. I’ve dreamt about that film every night since I’ve seen it. This film it… it crawls inside you. It just doesn’t leave.”

He releases Seokjin’s hands and goes back to his desk, staring at the typewriter for a long moment before he starts typing. It’s as clear a dismissal as anything and at this point, Seokjin is more than happy to leave Meyers to his stacks of papers. 

Paris is the next stop for Seokjin. He has a friend, Henri, who works at one of the bigger film archives in the city and he might have leads for him. But first he needs a moment to himself, so he spends his first night in the hotel. Where he figures he might as well listen to the interview while he’s got some time. It could give him some help in where to look when he goes to see Henri tomorrow. 

The interview seems normal enough. Backovic talks like most of the more pretentious indie filmmakers. Those who believe that their art is superior and above so much else of what’s out there, especially what comes out of Hollywood. Seokjin vows to never tell Taehyung about the interview because he’ll only use it as fodder to mock him and how he has the same ideas with his theater. Which is not true. Seokjin shows plenty of films aside from indies. They’re just usually classics, films from the 70s and 80s, cult classics that don’t really show in theaters that much. Things that draw specific crowds but aren’t always popular with most but the theater does just fine with how it is now. He sees no reason to change.

Halfway through listening to the interview, a searing pain flairs in Seokjin’s head and he jerks the headphones off as he tries to blink the orange ring from his vision. 

His heart is pounding for the start and he sees the flash of something out of the corner of his eye. He stumbles off the bed to move towards the bathroom where he saw the shadow. The room is empty, which should be unsurprising since Seokjin is alone in his hotel room, though now he can’t remember if he had left the light on or not. 

But it seemed so real, like there really was someone else here. He glances at the mirror and for a brief second, he swears that he sees Taehyung. He rubs at his eyes, heels digging in almost painfully. He blinks the spots from his vision and stares at the mirror a little longer, like if he stares at it enough, something will happen. Like Taehyung might appear on the surface again and prove that Seokjin is not losing his mind right now. But when nothing happens, he finally, reluctantly, moves back to the main room, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed. His hands shake as he picks up his phone to send a quick message to Taehyung. 

He gets a response within a few minutes and it makes discomfort settle in him when Taehyung confirms that he’s at the theater right now working. He even makes a joke how he’s sure people come to see the old films on the days that he hangs around not for the films but to see Taehyung’s face. He knows Taehyung’s just trying to draw a response from him, to tease and coax him into some flirtatious banter. But Seokjin’s suddenly much too exhausted for that. He lays down without responding, but it takes him a long time to fall asleep and even when he does, it’s restless and plagued by dreams that leave him the second he wakes. But while the images fade with the growing light, the sound remains; the chilling screams that sound so much like Taehyung that Seokjin almost calls him just to confirm that he’s okay.

In the morning, he makes his way to the archives to speak with Henri, who apologizes that he can’t be of too much help since they’re in the process of moving, but he says he can help direct Seokjin in the right direction if he tells him what movie he’s looking for. Seokjin is a little reluctant after the meeting with the critic. He waves off the help, telling Henri that he’ll just look around on his own to not get in his way. Henri insists, saying that the move will make it harder for Seokjin to look.

When Seokjin mentions the film, Herni’s entire demeanor shifts, the friendly man suddenly cold as he tries to warn Seokjin away. When Seokjin won’t, Henri tells him he’s welcome to use his assistant’s office, though there’s not much on the film and that the film is certainly not there. He leaves him with an ominous warning about having to earn this film, hand tucked firmly in his pocket.

Seokjin pours over what little information there is. The most promising thing he gets is the crew list for the film, something that Seokjin didn’t see listed anywhere online and it really only lended to the idea that this film wasn’t real. But now he has some physical evidence that people worked on this, that they saw the film unfold in person. His joy at the discovery is short-lived though when he realizes that this is proving less and less useful with each name he has to cross off because they’re dead. Of the eleven crew members, all but two are dead. He goes out to find Henri, showing him the paper. 

“How easy is it to find either of them?”

Henri looks at the list and nods, almost like he knew this was coming. Seokjin wonders how many people he’s seen come through here looking for the movie. “Patton was blinded after filming. And he won’t speak on the film. He nearly killed the last person to ask him about it.”

Seokjin gestures to the other name. “And Backovic? Surely he’d have some idea where his film ended up.”

Henri scoffs. “Backovic is dead.”

“How do you know that? There’s no death certificates or records or anything.”

Henri shoots him a look. “Trust me, Seokjin. Backovic is dead.” When Seokjin goes to speak again, Henri interrupts. “I’m sorry but I have nothing else to tell you.”

Seokjin knows that Henri’s not telling him something. Years of working together and he’s learned a thing or two about his friend and his tells. He doesn’t know what, but there’s something he knows that Seokjin knows he’ll need to be able to find this stupid film. He stops just outside the door, hidden from sight and he hears Henri make a phone call. He doesn’t know much French, but he knows that he mentions the film. Seokjin leaves quickly, making plans to come back later and force Henri to tell him what he knows. 

Henri seems startled when Seokjin appears again a few hours later. He really should’ve expected it. Seokjin’s never been one to give up so easily and they both know that. 

“I know you’re lying. You know more than you’re telling me.”

“You don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“Yeah, I don’t understand anything that’s happening. There’s so much mystery around this film, how can I possibly know anything. Fuck, last night I saw…” Seokjin trails off, he doesn’t know how to explain last night. Maybe it was just jet lag and exhaustion and the unknown of this film that caused the hallucinations. Or maybe he dreamed the whole thing.

Henri straightens, eyes wide with alarm. He moves closer to Seokjin. “A circle? Like the reel change in a movie?” At Seokjin’s nod, Henri pales. “Then it’s too late. You’ve already started a process which cannot be stopped. It’s only going to get worse. I’m so sorry.”

“What started? I don’t understand.”

“When you look for the film, it does something to you. You see those burns. It’s payment for every step closer you make to the film. You need to stop now. Before it’s really too late. You don’t want to continue on this path, Seokjin. You have to ignore the curiosity. The itch to dig a little deeper, find out a little more. Walk away. I know it’s hard. But you have to.”

“You know?” 

Henri nods and pulls his hand from his pocket where he always keeps it tucked, revealing severe burns, so bad that his fingers have fused together. Seokjin takes a small step back in surprise. 

“But… How?”

“I was the projectionist at a private screening of the film. I was curious about it too. Much like you. Much like everyone who eventually comes searching for the film that’s only been shown once, twice now. But most don’t know that. It was kept from the public and the film disappeared again.”

Henri pauses and takes a deep breath. “I chickened out. I got scared once it started and I looked away.” He closes his eyes. “When the screaming started, I tried to stop the projector but it wouldn’t stop. So I grabbed the film reel. I saw that some circle you did and I… I blacked out. When I came to, my hand was burned and the film was over.”

Seokjin swallows. This film is starting to seem more and more like a bad idea. Taehyung’s warning flits through his mind as well, telling him not to watch the film. Maybe he should’ve told him to just give up the job. Not that Seokjin would’ve listened. Maybe he should’ve charged more to find this. “I won’t watch it. I’ll just take it and give it to the collector. But… I could really use the money for the theater. I can’t just give up looking.”

Henri’s gaze darts over Seokjin’s face and then he gives a small nod. There’s a sadness in his eyes as he picks up a small piece of paper. “I wouldn’t call this man if I were you. He has an… extensive collection but he’s dangerous.” He hands the number over to Seokjin. 

“Does he have it?”

Henri shakes his head. “No. But he’s been given things from the Backovic estate. He can possibly get you in contact with them.”

“Thank you.”

Henri shakes his head again. “Don’t thank me for sending a friend into danger.”

Seokjin takes a taxi to the address given to him when he calls the number that Henri gave him. The warehouse is run down looking and at a dead end about halfway up a big hill. The only other buildings are some houses further up the hill from the road and the town he can see over the road barricade looking down. He pays the taxi driver extra and tells her to stay then makes his way towards the two burly men who have appeared at the massive open doors to the warehouse. 

The warehouse is shadowy, lighting sparse and everything appears to be covered by a layer of dust with the exception of a few items in the room that they lead him to.The room is large and another man stands almost in the middle of the room, he’s wearing all dark leather and has his back towards Seokjin. He stands just behind a wooden crate that’s been set on a chair. It has a printed label that reads ‘La Fin Absolue du Monde.’

“It’s not for me.” Seokjin begins. Might as well start with that. Maybe it’ll make it easier for him to get the film.

“But you’re curious.”

“I suppose a little. Have you seen it?”

“No. But I would. Who wouldn’t?” The man walks a few steps away to a camera and begins to fiddle with the settings. “I admire a man like Backovic. So unafraid to be real. I detest the fakeness of Hollywood. I want to be great like Backovic. Groundbreaking. Real.”

Seokjin moves to the crate, opening it up. He’d idly hoped that maybe it was the film and he could take it to Bellinger and be done with this. But the crate is only about half full, mostly with filler to keep a film reel cushioned during transport. Other than that, there’s a few different manila envelopes. 

The first envelope has a return address to Katja Backovic. If Seokjin’s remembering correctly, that’s Backovic’s wife and according to Henri, is actually his widow. That’s certainly a good lead. There’s not a lot of information out there about her in recent years either. He sets it down and picks up another, it’s blank on the outside and so he slips the pictures out that are contained within. 

The first is of a winged figure, one that appears to be a woman, her face turned away from the camera and surrounded by other people. Her wings look beautiful even through an image, glossy black and full. The next is a silhouette of a figure holding a knife and it looks like they’re in front of a window or some other light source. 

As he shuffles through the photos, they become increasingly bizarre. A photo of someone on a neighborhood street and the sky is red but looks off, like someone has overlaid another image over the sky. He thinks they’re set photos. The last one shows two winged figures, both facing away from the camera and chained to the wall. Their heads are bowed towards each other. One seems to be the woman from the first still and the other seems to be a man, but there’s a table or something that blocks Seokjin from seeing much more than his wings and back of his head. 

Seokjin is suddenly grabbed from behind, the photos falling from his hands to scatter on the floor as the two men drag him a few feet backwards. The other man, the one who he’d been speaking with has a syringe now. Seokjin’s blood runs cold. 

“Oh, you can’t leave already. We have so much left to discuss.”

Seokjin squirms, trying to fight the men off, but their hold on him is firm and in a matter of seconds, the needle is in his neck and consciousness is leaving him.

Seokjin comes to some time later, he has no idea how long but there’s light filtering through the window so it’s either not been that long or he’s been out for a whole day. He’s tied to a chair and duct tape firm across his mouth. He feels foggy and when he looks around, he sees the two burly men are now operating the camera. There’s a woman tied to another chair in front of him and the man from before is now shirtless and holding a machete. Seokjin feels like he’s going to be sick.

He fights against his bonds, but he’s helpless to stop as the man approaches the woman and, with no preamble, embeds the machete in her neck with one strong thwack. He pulls it free and pushes her head so blood sprays his bare chest, head tilting back like he’s being hosed down on a hot day. 

Seokjin screams, though it's muffled and continues to fight against his bonds as the man pulls the machete out and makes quick work of getting through her neck. Her head is dropped to the ground and then the man approaches him and Seokjin tries to push himself away. He talks about how he turned her into art, about the realness of what he’s created, but the words barely register to Seokjin in his panicked state. Maybe he should’ve told the taxi driver to call the authorities if he took too long.

The man leans closer. “Something happens when you point the camera at something terrible. The resulting film takes on power.” He grins and rips the tape off of Seokjin’s mouth. 

“Snuff is not power! It’s just fucked up! It’s murder.”

The man laughs and straddles Seokjin’s lap and Seokjin feels his heart in his throat as his stomach turns in revulsion. He can feel the blood soaking through his jeans where the man sits. 

“You’re not listening to me. You came all this way but you won’t listen. You want to know why the film destroyed its audience?” His hand squishes Seokjin’s cheeks and Seokjin tries not to think about how slick they feel against his skin. “Backovic was an exceptional editor. He understood the value of a cut. But there was more to it. They say the movie works subliminally while you watch it. But the thing that made the film a weapon?” His grin is deranged. “Blood. Spilled blood. What if you got hold of an angel? A divine being with the blood of God flowing through its veins. And what if you sacrificed it on camera?”

Seokjin gets a flash of the circle again, the sharp sting as his vision is suddenly obscured. He sees a flash of a woman, chained to the ground, shuddering and emaciated, a pair of glossy, black wings mounted on the wall behind her. His breath shudders through him as the man bleeds back into focus.

“Something that profound, that personal. It changes everyone who was a part of putting it on film. And everyone who sees it. The closer you get to the film, the more you’ll be changed too. That’s Backovic’s secret. ‘Film is magic,’ he said. And he was right.”

Seokjin sees another flash. A split second of a circle with Taehyung in the middle of it, face full of anguish. 

“What do you see? What haunts you? Will they be waiting for you on the other side?”

Seokjin’s vision goes white. 

When he comes to again, he’s standing, completely free of his bonds and machete in hand. He drops it immediately, it looks bloodier than it had before. He catches sight of the man laying on the ground not too far from him but he tries not to look at it. Vaguely grateful for the fact that the man has fallen half behind a crate. The camera’s been knocked over as well. The two burly and the woman’s body are gone. He doesn’t want to know what happened. He has a gut feeling and it’s not one that he particularly wants to think too hard on. He’d really just like to forget that this entire warehouse ever existed.

The box is beside him now and he digs through it quickly, finding the envelope with Katja’s address in Vancouver on it and runs, taking the road back to the main street on foot. When he gets to the main road, it’s getting dark and he takes a cab. Shakily handing the driver a few extra bills in the hopes that they won’t ask any questions about his state. 

He takes a scalding shower once back at his hotel, scrubs himself raw but he can still feel like blood, no matter how hard and long he scrubs for. He stuffs the bloody clothes into a paper bag and gets dressed. He hastily packs the rest of his things and goes down to check out. He shoves the bag with the bloody clothes into a trash can on the street before getting into a taxi and heading to the airport. He’s ready to be fucking done with this. He’s ready to be away from this city.

Taehyung texts him while he’s on the flight. Asking how the search is going. He’s too exhausted to even think and so he leaves Taehyung unanswered. 

He takes another shower once he lands in Vancouver, but he still feels dirty. He stares at himself in the mirror and tries to make it look like he’s not on the verge of a breakdown and leaves his room to Katja’s address. 

Seokjin presses the button beside her name on the building. 

“Yes?” Her voice is softer than he expected, though he’s not really sure what he was expecting.

“Mrs. Backovic? Can I speak to you for a minute? I’ve come a long way.”

He’s answered by the door buzzing open and he moves quickly through the lobby to the elevator. Seokjin presses the button for the penthouse, scrubbing his hand over his face once the elevator starts moving. Maybe he should make this his last film job. It’s far more than he expected it to be and he’s just so tired. There’s a jolt and then the elevator stops and the lights go out. 

He feels a body press to his back and he tenses. It’s not real, he thinks, eyes squeezing shut. Just like everything else.  

“Save her. Please.” When Seokjin turns and thrusts his hand out, he’s met only with air. The voice had been hauntingly familiar. It sounded like Taehyung. It’s not real, he repeats to himself. Taehyung is back home. Probably asleep right now. He can’t be here. It’s completely illogical.

The elevator dings and Seokjin opens his eyes to see the doors sliding open to reveal he’s at the top floor. He’d been moving the whole time. Seokjin blinks a few times. He needs to get this film and hand it off. Now. He walks towards the living room, revealing a woman standing there. Katja. 

“Something happened in the elevator.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“Sure. Something like that.”

“You must want this very bad to have some so far. I must admit, you’re the first to ever make it here.”

“I have… so many questions.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t quite touch her eyes. “I’m not sure I have your answers. But we’ll see.”

She leads him a little further into the room, taking a seat in an armchair and gesturing for him to take a seat on the adjoining sofa. 

They sit in silence for a while, Seokjin taking a moment to think and gather his thoughts before finally speaking. “Do you have a copy of the film?”

She smiles that half smile again. “That’s not what you’re really curious about. You want to know if the stories are true.” Seokjin nods, though both are true. “They are. Unfortunately. Why are you looking for the film?”

“I was paid to.”

She lets out a bitter laugh. “That’s not the real reason.”

Seokjin chews his lip. “I… I don’t know anymore. There’s… I just have to find it.” He doesn’t understand. He’s walked away from lesser jobs. He has no idea what keeps compelling him to push here, what’s making him want to find this so badly.

Her head tilts like she didn’t expect his answer. She observes him quietly before nodding to herself, like Seokjin just took some big test and she’s pleased with how he did. 

Silence settles again before Seokjin asks a question he’s had since he saw the crew list. “Who produced this film?”

Katja’s eyebrows raise. “You’re quite direct.”

Seokjin just gives a small shrug. “I just want someone to say it.”

Sadness softens her features as she looks down. “I asked Hans the same question. Many times. The producers of this film produce many other things. Chaos, sorrow, suffering, famine.”

Seokjin’s brows furrow. “What does that mean? The devil? Demons?”

Katja gives another sad smile. “Hans never put a name on it. ‘Evil is evil,’ he would say, ‘does a name really matter?’” They stare at each other, the real implication of her words settling between them, and then she stands. “Come with me.”

She leads him to a film editing studio. It’s a little dated, but the equipment is well taken care of. Reels still set up and ready for editing. Like any second Hans might walk in to begin working. Seokjin glances at her. 

“How did he die? There’s no official records or anything about it.”

She glances away and Seokjin regrets asking only a little bit. This film has done so much damage, he has to know how the creator met his end. “He became… obsessed with La Fin Absolue du Monde. During the last year of his life, all he did was watch it. Over and over again. Like it was a punishment for what he had done. He got too close to the fire. The film worked the way it was meant. He became paranoid, skittish. It got to him.” 

Tears gather in her eyes as she continues. “He grabbed a knife on the way to find me in the bedroom. Only when he slit my throat,” she pulls her scarf down to show a scar running across her throat, “he just disfigured me. When he did it to himself, he died.” She laughs bitterly. “I don’t know who got the better end of that. I was left to watch over the film. I hate that film. I hate everything that it caused. I hate that it was always going to be too late to make it better.”

Seokjin swallows. That’s a lot to take in. It still doesn’t really answer why there’s no record, though he supposes that given enough infamy and money, keeping a death quiet is easy enough. 

“Can… I have the film?

She stares at him for a long moment then moves over to a rack of reels. She goes to touch it but her hand stops shy of making contact. “I put it here. I hate even having it in the house.”

Seokjin moves over when she steps back, fingers brushing the shelf just below where the film sits. He honestly can’t believe that he’s here. That he actually found it. What’s more baffling is that it seems that no one ever thought to check with Backovic’s wife for the location of the film. The easiest place to hide, in the most obvious place. “Ever since I’ve been tracking this, I’ve been seeing flashes. Circles with images inside.”

“The cigarette burns?” Katja’s eyes fill with pity at his nod. “When did they start?”

“I heard this interview, with Hans, from the night of the premiere-”

“You were marked. That’s how potent the film is. You don’t even have to watch it to be affected by it. As soon as you start getting close to it, it’s got you. Slowly, like sinking into quicksand.” She gives him a last sad smile, like she already knows what the future holds for him. “Take the film. It’s already too late.”

Seokjin takes the films from the shelf. He feels strange, something not quite sitting right with him. He’s not sure if it’s her cryptic answers or the way the films feel heavier that film reels should. But he leaves, flies back home because his current employer happens to live within driving distance of his apartment. He takes them as soon as he makes it back to his apartment. He wants them gone as soon as possible.

He leaves the reels in the trunk of his car because they make his skin crawl to have them on the seat beside him. He doesn’t want to touch them anymore than he has too. 

When Seokjin arrives at Bellinger’s house, the man in question and his butler are both waiting on the steps. Seokjin pops the trunk open and Bellinger is quick to rub his hands across the cases, a pleased hum leaving him. Then he’s pulling them out and handing him to his butler with the instruction to go set up the projector. 

Bellinger turns back to Seokjin. “I never showed you how I knew that this film still existed. Would you like to see before you leave?”

Seokjin shifts. He doesn’t really want to. He wants to go home, forget that he ever looked for this film. Go back to his normal life, taking care of his theater and spending time with Taehyung. But it seems rude and so he nods. Bellinger leads him into the house and down a short hallway. When he opens a door, Seokjin feels like all the air has been sucked from his lungs with what he sees. 

It’s the woman from the circles. Chained to the floor and wings mounted on the wall. Bellinger enters the room and she immediately cowers, giving Seokjin a view of her back and where two long, red cuts sit. Right about where wings would attach. They look fresher than decades old wounds should look. Because Seokjin knows she must be the one from the stills. One of the angels in Backovic’s film. The man from the warehouse’s words comes back to him as he’s staring at her. Divine blood spilled on camera. Seokjin’s chest aches.

Bellinger runs a hand across her head and she curls more into herself. “I happened to be lucky enough to acquire a few props from the film.”

Seokjin’s stomach turns at a being, an angel, being referred to as nothing more than a prop. “Can I have the rest of my payment?”

“Ah! Of course!” Bellinger reaches into his pocket and hands Seokjin an envelope. 

Seokjin doesn’t even care if it’s the right amount. He needs to get out of here. He wants to claw his skin off the longer he stays. He turns and leaves, missing the look the angel sends him. 

Seokjin rests his forehead against the steering wheel once he’s in the car. He allows himself a few deep breaths before finally pulling away from the house. He needs to just not think about this for a few hours. And then he can figure out what he should do with the new weight of information that’s been bestowed upon him. He taps the console, dialing Taehyung.

“Hey! You’ve been pretty quiet lately, you good?” He answers cheerily. 

“Better now.”

“Oh?” Taehyung sounds excited. “What happened?”

“I found it. Fuck, I can’t… I can’t even explain anything properly. But… fuck, Tae, I really found it. I found La Fin Absolue du Monde.”

“Where is it now?”

Seokjin frowns. That’s a weird question. Taehyung knows pretty well how this works, plus Seokjin left Bellinger’s information in his office in case he needed Taehyung to get in contact with him should something go wrong. “Tae, what-” He cuts off when his call waiting pops up, revealing that Bellinger is calling him. “Sorry Tae, that’s the other line. I’ll talk to you when I get home.”

“Seokjin no! Wait! Whatever you do, don’t watch-” Seokjin cuts him off as he switches to Bellinger’s call. 

Bellinger starts babbling, it sounds like he was babbling before Seokjin even answered the call. It’s hard for Seokjin to follow most of what he’s saying. Eventually he gathers enough that Bellinger needs him to come back. Had he grabbed the wrong film? Had Katja switched them on purpose? Or lied about it still existing? That seems unlikely, but he supposes he’ll find out when he gets back to Bellinger’s mansion. He turns the car around the first chance he gets. 

Bellinger’s house is quiet when he enters after he receives no answer to his knocking. But he makes it only a few feet past the foyer when the butler staggers out from a room, covered in cuts and knife still in hand. He points a finger at Seokjin.

“This is all your fault. You brought this evil here!” 

And Seokjin can only watch with a horrified expression as the butler stabs the knife into one eye and then the other. Panic wells in his chest and Seokjin moves quickly through the house, finding the small theater room with ease after heading the direction that the butler had come from. There’s no one in the seats, but he sees movement in the projection booth so he heads back there. 

Bellinger stands on the other side of the room, next to an empty projector. He murmurs something, though Seokjin’s unsure if he meant it for him or if he is just talking to himself. He lifts a straight razor, setting it on top of the projector like it’s a normal thing to do. He’s sweaty and winces every so often as his arm moves behind the projector. Seokjin wants to help, but he has a feeling he might be a little too late for that. And he’d prefer to not get closer and see just what Bellinger did with that straight razor. 

“I’ve done some terrible things,” he gasps out. “You have to to become this rich.”

Seokjin sees a flash of the angel and realization washes over him. “You watched La Fin Absolue du Monde.”

Bellinger jerks forward, wincing at the sudden movement, but there's a wild look in his eye. He seems unphased by the jarring motion that caused him further harm, too engrossed in the need to tell Seokjin about the movie. “Yeah… I recommend it.” He shakes his head and groans. “It’s not a movie though. Just a preview. The coming attractions of the soul.”

“You said you needed help.”

“I was going to ask you to find another movie for me. But… I don’t need it anymore. I have been… inspired.” There’s a disconcerting squelch and then Bellinger flicks the projector on and a second later something red and gooey slides through the projector like a film reel. It takes Seokjin only a second to realize what it is and he covers his mouth in horror and backs out of the room as he retches. Bellinger’s wheezed laughter follows him out as he sits heavily in one of the theater chairs. He just needs a minute to collect himself. He’s never been faced with so much blood and death in person. Movies sure, but those are fake. Actors with makeup and corn syrup. People who get up and walk away after the scene is done. Not this. 

He buries his face in his hands. He has no idea how long he sits there, but when he looks up, he’s horrified to realize that the film restarted. He has no idea if it was Bellinger doing it and that’s why he called him here, compelled by the film to get someone else to watch or if there’s some other force at play that started it. Taehyung’s warnings float through his mind.

He squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t watch this. He doesn’t want to, he wants to leave and never come back. Maybe never watch a movie again. But then there’s a scream and something makes him open his eyes. And there, projected on the screen, is Taehyung. Strapped belly down on a table as a masked man laughs and hacks at the base of Taehyung’s wings. Screen Taehyung lets out another anguished scream and Seokjin forces his eyes closed again. 

He’s not going to watch. He won’t. There’s a need to do something in his chest but he can’t figure out what it is. A woman screams on screen and with a sudden, bright clarity, Seokjin knows what it is that he needs to do. He scrambles out of his seat, blindly feeling his way out of the room as best he can. Once in the relative safety of the hallway, he heads immediately towards the angel. She’s staring directly at the door when he enters, like she was expecting him. And Seokjin would be disconcerted if he hadn’t just seen his best friend and the guy who he’s maybe interested in getting his literal, actual wings cut off. Seokjin thinks that nothing could ever phase him again after this. He moves to the desk on the far wall, tearing through the drawers until he finds the shackle keys. 

He approaches slowly, getting to his knees and crawling the last few feet to her. He reaches out just as slowly, but she doesn’t move an inch. He’d think she was a statue if he hadn’t seen her moving before. He undoes each of the cuffs then slides himself back to give her space. 

She doesn’t move at first and when she does, it’s to look back to the door, a small smile gracing her lips. “Taehyung,” she sighs.

Seokjin jerks, turning to see Taehyung standing in the doorway, shirtless with the film reels tucked under one arm. He quickly approaches the woman, completely ignoring Seokjin’s presence. The lack of attention gives Seokjin the opportunity to see Taehyung’s back and see that the same two marks that marr her back also marr his. 

The two press their foreheads together and stay like that for a long while. Seokjin begins to feel like an intruder and so he tries to quietly stand and slip out. But he only makes it to standing before Taehyung is turning towards him. 

Seokjin…” His eyes are watery. “Thank you.”

Seokjin gives a jerky nod and quickly leaves. He doesn’t know what he’d say to Taehyung. He just found out that he’s actually an angel. What do you even say to that? Sorry some asshole film director mutilated you on film and someone else captured your angel… friend? Partner? Seokjin doesn’t want to think about it. They seem to know what they need now that they’re in possession of the films. He’s not needed anymore.

Seokjin tries to get back to normal life. He really does, though Taehyung’s disappearance leaves a bigger hole in his life than he would’ve thought. It’s a little heartbreaking too. He’d been seriously considering seeing if the younger would be interested in something more. 

Plus he’s now lost some of the help he had at the theater. He hires someone else, a sweet kid named Jungkook and he lets him help find more current or interesting films to show alongside some older and more indie films and business steadily picks up. Yoongi questions his sudden change of heart on the films he shows and Seokjin staunchly refuses to admit that he did it in honor of Taehyung who always nagged him to get newer films in. He spends more time with other friends and tries not to think about how much he misses Taehyung. 

That is, until he’s home one night and there’s a knock on his balcony door. Which is baffling because Seokjin lives on the 25th floor and it’s a fucking balcony. Cautiously, he slides open the door, jaw dropping when he sees Taehyung and you, looking full and happy and with pretty black wings folded neatly behind you both. Seokjin rubs at his eyes. There’s no way. He’s got to be dreaming.  

Taehyung moves in to give Seokjin a hug but Seokjin takes a quick step back. Taehyung’s face falls slightly and you reach out to rub his arm comfortingly. 

You give Seokjin a soft smile. “We wanted to come thank you.”

Seokjin flushes. “It was nothing.”

You shake your head. “No you don’t understand. It was everything. Taehyung and I were bound to that film. As long as it existed, we were trapped and broken. But you saved us.”

“Seokjin…” Taehyung’s voice sounds so small and Seokjin aches to hold him. 

But he can’t. Not yet. He has to know. It’s been festering in his mind ever since Taehyung disappeared. “Did you befriend me just so I’d find your film?”

Taehyung’s eyes widen and he’s quick to shake his head. “No! I was your friend because I wanted to be! I was trapped here. It was so lonely without Y/n. But I found you and… I don’t know. Something just drew me to you.” Taehyung ducks his head in shame. “I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you what I was. I didn’t want you to think I was crazy and stop being my friend.”

Seokjin’s heart breaks and before Taehyung can utter another word, Seokjin is crushing him in a hug. Taehyung lets out a watery laugh and they stay like that for a long minute before finally pulling away. 

“You two should probably come in so people don’t see the wings and think I’m hiding mothman or something.”

Taehyung perks up. “Oh, we can fix that.”

And before Seokjin can ask what he means, the air around the both of you shimmers and when it clears, you’re both standing there, wingless.

Taehyung grins. “Angel powers are pretty cool, huh?”

Seokjin blinks. “Y-yeah… Uh, you can still come in though. Wings or not.”

Taehyung grins and ushers both Seokjin and you into the apartment. You all sit and an awkward silence settles on the room. 

“So… Where did you disappear to?”

Taehyung grimaces and you reach over to take his hand before turning to Seokjin. “Hand to find a creative way to get home without powers so we could get the film destroyed and recover. The recovery didn’t take long. But trying to find the way home proved tricky when we didn’t have our powers to locate other angels.”

Seokjin glances at you then at Taehyung, a lump forming in his throat. “Are… you going to stick around?”

Taehyung smirks and slides closer to Seokjin. “Depends. Do we have a reason to stick around?”

Seokjin gulps. “We?”

You rise and settle on Seokjin’s other side and both your hand and Taehyung’s come to rest on Seokjin’s thighs in perfect synchrony. “We.” You confirm with a coy smile. “We’d really like to thank you properly first though.”

“Can… Can angels even do that?”

He gets two giggles in response and then both you and Taehyung are slipping from the couch to kneel before him. Seokjin wonders how much you’ve done this to be so in sync with one another. It makes him equals parts aroused and jealous. Two hands slide up his thigh, playing with the waistband of his sweats. Taehyung looks smug and you have a matching expression as you bat your eyelashes up at him, looking every inch like an innocent angel despite the hand that is dangerously close to his rapidly filling cock. 

“You can say no,” you offer, when his silence continues to stretch. 

“No!”

Taehyung snickers. “I told you. We already had a thing almost going. And who wouldn’t go for you.”

You nudge Taehyung playfully. “Stop that. This is about Seokjin.”

Taehyung turns back to Seokjin, grin much darker than before as his hand tightens on Seokjin’s waistband. “You’re right. So? Will you let us thank you?”

Seokjin blinks. He’s still trying to figure out how he ended up here. The two of you look far more salacious than Seokjin thinks a pair of angels should ever look. He wonders if you’re not just some demons pretending. He can’t deny that the thought of both of you doing whatever you deem as showing your thanks is intriguing. And Taehyung’s not wrong. They had been close. He just didn’t expect that to work out this way. He doesn’t think he can find a thing to complain about when he looks at how pretty you both look between his legs and eager to please. 

“Hm, do you think he’s distracted by the thought of what we’ll do to him?” Your gaze slides towards Taehyung.” “Or how we look together?”

A groan rumbles in Seokjin’s chest. Fuck, he hadn’t even thought about seeing the two of you together. You both smile at the reaction and take that as consent to tug Seokjin’s pants down and off. His cock rests hard and heavy against his belly as the both of you greedily drink in the sight. 

Your tongue darts out to lick your lips as Taehyung presses Seokjin’s legs a little further apart so that both you and Taehyung fit between them. You make eye contact with Seokjin and wink before turning to Taehyung and pulling him in for a kiss. The kiss is immediately filthy and Seokjin groans at the slick sounds coming from you both. It’s clear that you are familiar with each other, an ease that oozes from you both as you kiss. Taehyung’s hands tangle in your hair, drawing a loud moan that he’s quick to swallow. 

Seokjin starts to feel a little like an intruder, but as soon as he has the thought, there’s your hand is sliding up his calf. You stop at the bend of his knee and Seokjin only has a moment to ponder what you’re doing before you’re tugging him closer until his ass is perched on the edge of the couch. He’d be a little scared at the casual display of power if it didn’t turn him on more. Not breaking contact with your kiss with Taehyung, your hand continues its path up his leg until you can wrap your hand around his cock.

Seokjin’s hips jerk into your grip and he can see the slightest edge of a smile tugging at your lips. You give him a squeeze before sliding your hand up the thick length. Seokjin wants to squeeze his eyes shut but he’s too drawn to the way you and Taehyung look together. He almost wants to bat your hand away and see what the two of you do together.

Jolting, his gaze drops to where Taehyung’s hand has joined your’s on his cock, thumb circling the head and gathering precum. Then he’s pulling his hand back and slipping his thumb between your mouths. Seokjin sees your tongue brush the pad of his thumb and then brush against Taehyung’s to share the taste of Seokjin with him. It’s unfair how erotic the two of your are together. 

Seokjin just might die. Actually, maybe he’s already dead. Maybe that film actually did kill him. If this is the afterlife, he certainly can’t complain. Your hand settles at the base once again and you use your grip to tilt it closer to your and Taehyung’s mouths. You both shift closer, until your tongues brush the head of Seokjin’s cock just as much as they do against each other. 

Groaning, Seokjin’s hands curl into fists where they rest on the couch, at a complete loss of what to do as the two of you seem content to torture him by making out with his dick trapped in the middle. The two of you continue like that, tongues brushing the sensitive head of his cock with every brush against each other, lips occasionally dragging with the movement. 

Seokjin kind of hopes that he is dead, because he might die with how slow the two of you decide to go. He hesitates for only a moment before he’s unclenching his fists and resting his hand on each of your heads. Getting a pleased hum from you, he takes that as encouragement to push a little more and he pushes both of your heads further down his cock. Your lips barely touch Taehyung’s now that Seokjin’s cock is properly between you, girth forcing you too far apart. You work your tongue, moving lower as Taehyung moves back towards the tip. 

You trace a vein until it disappears at the base of his cock, shifting then to lap at his balls. Taehyung’s tongue swirls around the head, taking his time playing with the slit before wrapping his lips around and sucking. Seokjin moans, hands tightening in both yours and Taehyung’s hair. 

You let your hand closest to Taehyung trace his thigh before you’re pressing against his clothed erection. Taehyung whines, accidently sliding further down Seokjin’s cock and making himself gag. You smother your laugh against Seokjin’s thigh and Seokjin uses his grip of your hair to pull your face up. 

You blink up at him with wide eyes at the sudden action and Seokjin smirks. “I don’t think that was a very nice thing to do, princess.” He gently pulls Taehyung off his cock. “What do you think, prince? Was that very nice?”

Taehyung stares up at Seokjin with wide, blown out eyes, lips plump and spit slick. He licks his lips and shakes his head and Seokjin gives him an indulgent smile and cups his cheek. Taehyung leans into his palm, eyes slipping closed. Seokjin turns back to you and the soft look melts away and you gulp. 

He smirks. “Why don’t we give her a taste of her own medicine, my little prince?”

Taehyung shoots you a smug look and nods again, making Seokjin chuckle. He releases Taehyung, who shifts slightly out of the way. Seokjin grips his cock with one hand and guides you down onto it with the other. You open easily, squirming as Seokjin slowly feeds his cock into your mouth until he hits the back of your throat. 

He drags you back, just as slow, before pushing you back down, cock hitting the back of your throat with more force and you gag. Taehyung’s hand finds yours, giving it a squeeze as Seokjin quickly works up a rhythm fucking your mouth. You struggle to take him, Seokjin thrusting before you have a chance to catch your breath. 

Tears spring to your eyes and Seokjin chuckles. “Where’s the laughter now, hm, princess? It was so funny when Taehyungie was the one gagging on my cock.”

You whine around him and Seokjin picks up his pace, thighs flexing beneath your hands. Taehyung’s nails scratch along Seokjin’s thighs, sliding up to cup his balls and give them a tug. Seokjin moans and takes only a few more thrusts before he’s cuming in your mouth. You suck him through until he pushes you off and you sit back on your heels waiting for him to look at you. 

When he does, you open your mouth to show the mouthful of cum and then you smirk and pull Taehyung back in for a messy kiss, swapping Seokjin’s cum between you both. Seokjin groans, watching the time you take to make sure every drop is cleaned from your lips. 

Once you’re finished, you both crawl back onto the couch, each straddling one of his thighs. Seokjin cups each of your faces with one of his hands. Taehyung leans forward to press a soft kiss to Seokjin’s lips and when he pulls back you lean in to place a kiss of your own on his lips. 

Taehyung grins when you both press your foreheads to Seokjin’s. “We’re gonna stick around for a while.”

Seokjin can’t say he minds having two angels stick around. It’s a good thing he’s got a king sized bed.

[lulusoblue]

this isn’t me vagueing or anything, or I’m not intending to because people have previously expressed the same of what I’m about to rant on, and I don’t want to @ or refer to any blog specifically for reigniting my bafflement of this take because this isn’t a personal grudge match against anyone, just a general *what* of this concept, but

jesus h christ on a stick, why do people want BioShock Infinite’s Elizabeth to have been a racist?

I get an AU fic of another timeline where Comstock’s motives weren’t messy as fuck and he didn’t just plan to force his messiah with a spinal shock collar from the word go, like “what if” stuff, but like saying she should have been racist in the original game and actually wanting this change because it would “improve” her character?

like, disclaimer because I am a white woman who may not have a say in things like this anyway, but honestly the racism angle was a huge mistake in Infinite in the first place, and should never have been done in this game because the lead writer is a white man and I can bet my bottom dollar he most likely did not consult anyone on race or racism beyond what historically accurate heinous racist acts to not depict in the game so players could “sympathise” with the flying racists getting their dues post-Finkton.

You know how important the racism of Columbia is to him? How relevant is it to the ending of the game? Answer: it isn’t. BioShock 1’s ending has the failings of Rapture relevant to the ending regarding the player’s choices. The ending of Infinite, however, focuses on Elizabeth, Booker and the multiverse, where nobody mentions the Vox or how Columbia was a failure or anything. Nothing with the Vox Populi or Columbia’s hubris is linked to the game’s ending. Both are left feeling superfluous. It was just something to stick into the background rather than be a story element that properly tied in with the story’s real focus. If you wanted Levine to write a better racism story I would have to ask you why??? Do you trust him to?????

What reason was there that we switched from extreme nationalism and its consequences in the demos as late as 2012 to “racism bad but the victims of it are also bad if they fight back” in 2013? Who fucking knows. Probably shock value, because I don’t see how time and resources would cause such a change from what Irrational put out there in interviews leading up to release. Given how Levine tried to retcon Daisy’s story in Burial at Sea (and keep in mind Black Lives Matter didn’t start as a movement until a few months after Infinite’s release and before BaS Episode 2 was released) he certainly didn’t commit to “Daisy and Comstock are the same”. If he had conviction for his “both sides” story, he wouldn’t have tried to rewrite it to Daisy choosing to play monster as a necessary sacrifice for her cause (which itself is its own can of worms with how it now plays out).

Considering as well how we had that article revealing how long it took to get a playable build out of Irrational thanks to Levine’s lack of solid direction, as well as the recent revelation that he had never read Ayn Rand when making a game about a city BUILT ON HER IDEOLOGY, I’m pretty sure the poor writing around Columbia’s racism and the Vox Populi in the final game was just made up as he went along to push out a finished product, because it had been five years at that point and 2k was piiiiiiissed.

Then we have how Elizabeth is your companion character, your escort mission. Friends, do you know how escort mission characters were viewed back pre-2013? Bad. The AI could just look at a player funny and they’d draw a 5 page comic on how awful a character they were and post it to deviantart. One of the worst levels in BioShock was when we had to escort a very killable Little Sister with a fishbowl filter on our FOV, and one of the major complaints people had with BioShock 2 was how they had an OPTIONAL escort mission to get more mutation juice. We didn’t start getting games with escort characters like Elizabeth or Clementine or Ellie, characters people actually cared about and WANTED to protect, until around 2012-2013.

You think the people creating Elizabeth, the escort mission character built to be a likeable, enjoyable to be with and empathise with her character, who can never get hurt or kidnapped in combat and actively helps the player, should have had her been a racist??? In a post-Mass Effect world??????

Ashley Williams is a woman from a military family. She is a proud member of the Alliance military who has concerns on working with aliens after having had no prior experience working with aliens. However, you can ease those concerns and help her warm up to building alliances in the first Mass Effect game. Ashley grows to trust alien squadmates, and even without your character’s influence will regard two anti-alien groups with disgust for their outright racism and human centrism.

And here’s the kicker, even with that nuance to her character, in a game of plenty of other more overtly racist and prejudiced characters? ASHLEY IS STILL THE BUTT OF THE SPACE RACISM JOKES. She had flaws, she developed, she proves her loyalties to the point of refusing to work with you when you’re forced to join one of the human centric groups, AND SHE’S STILL MOCKED FOR SPACE RACISM. EVEN IN PROMOTIONAL MATERIAL SHE’S RETROACTIVELY REGARDED AS BEING DIFFICULT TO WORK WITH. THAT IS HOW MUCH THE FANDOM AROUND MASS EFFECT HAS AFFECTED HOW ASHLEY IS SEEN.

And you want Infinite to have Elizabeth be very obviously racist with real life racism? (which is the vibe i’ve been getting) Like, you think all the people behind Elizabeth’s design, her game functionality, her interactions and personality, would give players ammunition to hate a character you’re supposed to enjoy having around on purpose? You think they’re going to give the actual racists and bigots and nazis of the internet a mascot????? Because we already had the facebook header image debacle for a Columbian propaganda poster, you KNOW they would.

And personally I don’t think it would make great character development, because the game is not in the format for that kind of exploration of character’s story. BioShock Infinite is not an RPG with you making dialogue choices with squadmates where you feel like you really influenced them to see the error of their ways. Infinite is a linear shooter. There is no real sense of the passage of time in a linear shooter, the player will experience it like it really doesn’t happen in the span of 20 hours.

Unlearning racism and religious brainwashing is not a quick fixit, and a quick fixit is how it would feel in the 20-40 hours you take to play through the entire game. If Infinite had had Elizabeth going from “I’m racist” to “*sees a black person suffering* maybe racism is wrong???” to “i am no longer racist, I see the error of my ways, you can like me now” in the span of what feels like less than a day to players in a linear game, people would be super critical of the pretty white girl getting cured of her bigotry way too quickly and how the game makes it like we’re supposed to applaud her for being so brave and mature and open-minded, and how much Levine really doesn’t understand nuance or anything about how internalised racism works.

BioShock Infinite’s final release proved that the Vox Populi should not have been handled the way they were. Yes, more media should be discussing and making audiences aware of what is racist, and how irrational it really is when you get down to it, but BioShock Infinite should not have been that media. It was originally written for two opposing sides in a city built on extreme nationalism, much like how BioShock was for objectivism, and then changed relatively last minute. It was written by a white man who’d already written the franchise’s only gay named character as a horrific monster of a man (Cohen) and has expressed how autism is what made a person evil (Tenenbaum). It was written with Elizabeth in mind, a main character who was literally designed to be an escort mission players would actually enjoy, most likely from Day 1 given how much behind the scenes stuff we know of her.

I wouldn’t trust someone like Levine to write a story of a character unlearning racism over the course of a game’s story, i don’t think he should ever have touched a story where racism is a such a prominent element with a 100 foot pole.

[2manyfandoms2count]

#LadynoirJuly Day 1

I’m back for Ladynoir July! I’m really glad I got an excuse to write something for this side of the Lovesquare :D Hope you like this first piece, it started out slightly angsty but then I decided to save most of it for the Breakdown prompt 😉

Thanks @ladynoirjuly2020 for organising the event!

---

Day 1: The Wall Between Us

“Ladybug, wait!” Chat Noir jogged up to his partner, who’d been about to yoyo away. 

“Yes, Chat Noir?” She interrupted her movement and waited expectantly. The patrol had been very quiet, for once, so it wasn’t as if she had to be somewhere. 

The pair had long abandoned their nicknames for each other, some time between their battle against Miracle Queen and their first relationships. It hurt somewhat, at first, but they’d quickly learned how to interact without them. There was something slightly uncomfortable about lying to Luka and Kagami about their comings and goings, which wasn’t helped by the fact Ladybug felt like she was cheating anytime she’d call Chat by his pet name. Chat Noir refrained from calling her ‘my lady’ or ‘Bugaboo’, afraid he’d slip up someday with Kagami.

Unfortunately for Marinette, the secrecy and sneaking around had  done little to help her develop a lasting relationship with Luka. Add to that the fact that her boyfriend had been singled out by Jagged Stone as a back up guitarist after a competition and was now touring Europe, one could say that long distance, both emotional and physical, had signed the death of romantic Lukanette. They did remain friends, Luka sending her postcards of every city he stayed in. They were gradually replacing Adrien on Marinette’s board. 

“Did you think about it?” Chat asked.

Ladybug sighed as she finally let her hand fall to her side. She should’ve known Chat wouldn’t drop the topic. The previous month, drunk on lack of sleep from repeated Akuma attacks and anxiety at the idea that her relationship was slowly, but surely unraveling, Ladybug had carelessly told her partner that she was getting tired of secrets and that they deserved to know more about each other, if only just to facilitate out-of-costume communication. She tried not to rely on Chat too much with the Guardian job, but she was determined to make him realise how important he was to her (and, incidentally, to Paris) by delegating more tasks to him. She was tired of the mystery that surrounded their identities, which prevented them from communicating as freely as they should’ve been able to. With all due respect to Alya, Chat Noir was her best friend, and something told her that she officially held the same place in his life now that he had a girlfriend. 

They were the only ones who shared the burden of saving Paris every day, while still having to juggle friends, family, school, and extracurriculars. All of their conversations, however, were censored by the looming wall between them, a filter which she thought it was high time to tear down. She couldn’t take the duality of their conversations anymore, either far too mundane or way too deep, the constant being the vagueness that surrounded their anecdotes. She just wanted something in between. Chances were they didn’t know each other anyway, so what difference would it make to be able to talk about the Françoise Dupont shenanigans without making the story convoluted enough that it couldn’t be traced back to the Collège?

At first, Chat had been ecstatic at the idea. He’d dreamed about this moment since the first time they’d gone home from fighting an Akuma. He’d daydreamed about a proper way to reveal his identity at least a thousand times, but scrapping all his ideas as either too sappy, stupid, obvious, in short not right. It had actually made him rethink wanting to tell her who he was. 

There was no way the person behind the mask hadn’t heard about him. His father had made sure of that by apparently buying the ad spaces on all the Paris billboards, buses and whatever else could hold a perfume poster (not to mention the fact Ladybug had saved him a good dozen times), and that was the problem. What if her opinion of him was tarnished by his celebrity? Worse, what if she started treating him differently because of it? He desperately wanted to get to know her, to share his whole life with her, but the wall between them did provide a shelter he was reluctant to give up. As much as he tried to be himself in his day-to-day life, he could tell he got special treatment from a lot of people, and many of the remaining crowd was intently studying his every move, waiting for him to slip up. With Ladybug, as Chat Noir, he got to be… well, not completely ordinary, but they did share a status. He could slip without worrying about what his father or the press would say, and he knew that the fall wouldn’t be long anyway with his partner around. He was terrified about losing what they had.

Ladybug shook her head lightly, looking at her feet. Chat Noir took her hand in a reassuring gesture, and helped her sit down facing him.

“I’m sorry.” She said, hiding her face in her hands. “There are a million reasons why we should do this, but I always feel like why we shouldn’t outweighs them all.” 

Chat placed his hand on her knee tentatively. “It’s alright, LB. I actually wanted to tell you… I don’t think this is the right time.”

Ladybug’s head snapped up. Of everything he could have said, this was probably the last thing she would have expected. She looked attentively at her partner, who looked more serious than she’d ever seen him before. 

“Really?” She breathed, squeezing his hand in hers. She didn’t quite know how to feel, frustrated that they were putting off something inevitable again, offended that he didn’t want to know anymore, or relieved by it.

He gave her a sad smile in response, his eyes filled with fondness and something else she couldn’t quite make out. “M’lady,” her old nickname rolled off his tongue before he could register what he was saying, his thoughts directed solely towards his very best friend. “If this was it, we’d know. And maybe it won’t even happen then, purr-haps we’ll be caught off guard when the time comes, but it should be something we don’t lose sleep about.” 

“I guess you’re right, Chaton.” She smiled softly, absentmindedly stroking the back of his hand with her thumb. “What made you change your mind?” She asked curiously.

“The reasons why we shouldn’t started being louder than the others.” He shrugged, his gaze losing focus as he looked into the distance.

“You know you can talk to me if you need to, right?” Ladybug said tentatively after a short pause. “Maybe we’re not ready to know who we are, but I still think we should loosen the rules a little.”

 “That could work.” Chat nodded. “How do we do that?”

“We could change the names of the people we talk about. And the exact story.”

“Okay, so for example… My girlfriend’s name is... Kelly?” He tried. She nodded encouragingly. “I met her because we both… play tennis in the same place. I like her very much, but I’m afraid she’ll get tired of me finding flaky excuses when the city’s attacked by Akumas. It’s not very honourable.”

Ladybug patted his knee with her free hand. “As long as you know you’re doing the honourable thing by protecting her and this city, I’m sure you can find a way to compensate. I promise that someday, she’ll know why you couldn’t stay by her side. And if you need me to talk to her, I’ll gladly do it! She should know how amazing her boyfriend is.”

Chat was thankful for the darkness around them, which concealed his blush. Ladybug’s compliments were becoming less rare, but they generally concerned his skills or actions, not himself directly. He cleared his throat. “What about you? Didn’t you say you have a boyfriend?” 

“Had.” She corrected. “Louis and I are still friends, but he left town to… study.” It wasn’t that far from the truth. “He’s a little older, so we didn’t get to see much of each other, anyway. Especially with the whole Guardian business and everything.” She gestured vaguely at the city at their feet.

“Was he the boy you had talked to me about before?” Chat pried. 

Ladybug thought about Adrien. Seeing him so happy with Kagami, she had abandoned her pursuit, which had led her to Luka. In both cases, she thought, the outcome would have been the same anyway, especially since Adrien had an even busier schedule than the blue-haired boy. They would have barely seen each other if they’d dated. “No. That was… Arthur. He was a very accomplished musician. He wouldn’t have been happy with me; like you said, I would’ve been very absent for a supposedly caring girlfriend. We’re good friends, though, and I’m satisfied with that.”

“His loss, I guess. And who meows, maybe it’ll work out someday.” He winked at her.

They continued chatting for a while, moving to the edge of the roof to get a better look at the illuminated streets. Soon, they had more or less rebuilt their lives and were talking freely, Alya becoming Alice or Audrey, Nino, Nathan or Nicolas, Marinette, Madeleine… The way they distorted things, or pulled up older events they’d meant to talk about earlier made them unrecognisable, although there were times where the stories felt familiar, without them being able to put their finger on it. They laughed, more than they’d had in months, talking about their excuses to justify their absence during a fight. It felt good to finally talk about something else than strategies, Akumas or Sentimonsters. 

When the Eiffel Tower flickered for the third time since the beginning of their conversation, Ladybug and Chat Noir agreed it was probably time to go home. As they walked away, both turned around before leaping off the roof, giving each other a small wave and a wide smile before leaving, already looking forward to the next patrol. Ladybug realised they hadn’t shared a moment like this in a while, if ever. 

Maybe they’d be okay sitting on their own side of the wall, after all.

[mortyvongola2-0]

Proof of Strength

Chapter 1: Whiff

Pairing: Alpha! Kylo Ren x Omega! Reader

Genre: a/b/o fic, slowburn, multichapter, 18+

Word Count: 2.9k

Warnings: language, sexual themes, lying, and a/b/o dynamics.

Read it on AO3

Next Chapter

The First Order offered great opportunities. You were poor and downtrodden when they showed up, claiming to have solutions to your poverty, that they would clothe, bathe, and provide food for all in exchange for hard work. Their propaganda promised a beautiful future, where no one would ever be as poor as you were again. Immediately, you wanted to join but there was one rather large problem. The First Order only hired alphas and betas. And therein lied your problem, as you were neither an alpha nor beta. You were an omega.

 Omegas were rare, as the gene mutation required to be an omega was even more recessive than the alpha gene. They were less independent, they required protection and mass amounts of supervision during their heats, and the biggest difference in strength was in their upper bodies, as omegas do not require the upper body strength of an alpha or even a beta. In exchange the lower body strength of an omega was much more prevalent then for either other designation. Being an omega was also a lot harder to hide then being an alpha, the hormones of an omega heavily influence those of other designations, which was most likely the reason why the First Order did not hire or train them.

 Nowadays, alphas found omegas to be more of a chore than anything. It used to be that alphas and omegas were fated to bond, that they would thrive well when mated with one another, but as more and more betas arose the less alphas wanted to put in the extra effort to take on an omega. You understood, if you weren’t an omega you wouldn’t want to have to be stuck with what the rumors made you sound like either. But, to you, there would always be something special about the bond between an alpha and omega. Others called you an idealist, or a romanticist, but you had seen that special bond firsthand. Your parents had that bond, so strong and beautiful, and you wished for that same sort of love.

 You scratched at the scent gland on the left side of your neck as you stared at the First Order poster on the wall. The wind blew your scarf into your face along with some grains of black sand. I could get away with it, you thought. This shouldn’t be a problem. You clicked your tongue and tugged the poster off the wall. My family needs the money, and everything else they’re offering doesn’t sound too bad. Can’t imagine it being any worse than this. You rubbed a dirty finger under your nose and began to walk back out and into the streets, the poster now shoved into your satchel and a hum on your lips, images of infiltrating the First Order playing continually in your mind’s eye. This’ll be fun.

 ~

 This is most certainly not fun, you thought as you crawled, much slower than everyone else, along the thick mud. The First Order really knew how to whip its people into shape, that’s for sure. You had passed their physical exam, as the differences between omegas and female betas bodies were very minimal hormone wise, and you made sure you had been suppressing with steroids long enough beforehand to not have to worry about being caught, besides hardly anyone tested for steroids anymore. Most designations didn’t suppress and if they did it was with more herbal remedies, as steroids were seen as archaic and more dangerous than helpful. The biggest differences between omega and beta, however, were all anatomically the same as an alpha. A bonding gland and six scent glands; one on each side of the neck right under the jaw and closer to the ears, one in each wrist, and one at each junction where pelvis met pubic area. But luckily for you, they didn’t do any full body scans and your bonding gland was smaller than average, so it could be easily passed as a simple knot or inflamed muscle on your shoulder.

 However, passing the physical labor portions, like crawling, climbing, heavy lifting, pushups, and even shooting, those were the tests where the true difficulty for you was. You were barely scraping by, and it took all your effort to be passable in these areas of strength. Unfortunately, that meant you were at the very bottom of your class, but at this point you were far too invested to give up. Passing was still passing; no matter what place you were. Though your testing scores and stamina more than made up for what you lacked. You were a quick study so your grades placed you above average testing wise, which balanced out with your physical scores, rounded you out to a nice average.

 You were very aware of how suspicious your weaknesses could make you seem, so you did your best to tone down the strengths of your lower body as well as worked really hard to increase what you could do with your upper body. And after a little more than a year of training, you were officially inducted as a member of the First Order, smack dab in the middle of your class. You were so proud of yourself and were extra relieved when you learned that your position put you far away from the frontlines.

 As time passed your work ethic brought you more and more promotions. Seven years after your graduation saw you as a lead programmer and the promotion after that brought you to your station on the Finalizer. You loved your job. The only downside to it was the amount of exposure to the Commander as well as the General of the First Order. Both of which were very strong alphas, probably the strongest you had ever seen. The stronger the alpha the better they could smell and the more reactive they were to omega hormones and pheromones/scents. You had to avoid them like the plague, as despite your monthly steroid suppressions they would still be able to catch a whiff of your scent. If you got too close your cover would be blown and you’d be removed, or worse killed, for your lies. Just thinking about it had you close to hyperventilating.

 “You alright?” Your coworker, Lee a beta, asked you and placed his hand on your shoulder softly. That snapped you out of your trance and you turned toward him calmly. You hadn’t realized that you’d been spacing out. Earlier that morning Kylo Ren had almost gotten close enough to smell you and that had thrown you into a frenzied inner monologue of please don’t take a deep breath, please don’t take a deep breath, please don’t take a deep breath!

 “Leave her alone, she literally almost bumped into the Commander this morning,” your other coworker, Avery also a beta, said in response to Lee. She pointed her fork at him and leaned forward on her elbows “Her life is probably still flashing through her eyes. She’s lucky he ignored her.”

“Ah man, that is lucky,” Lee mumbled and put his hand back down beside his plate. He picked up his eating utensils and used them to take a bite of the meat he had chosen from the dinner line. “Kylo Ren has been aboard for quite some time, why do you think that is?”

 Avery shrugged then pushed her plate forward, no longer interested in her dinner choices. She used her fork to emphasize her hand motions. “I don’t know, but the General has been really on edge because of it.”

 “Heh, he almost exploded this morning after Kylo Ren destroyed one of our consoles. I’d never seen so much color on his face before,” Lee snickered. You snorted in response, remembering the steaming General in all his angered glory. The feud between the ginger and the helmeted knight was no secret, they fought often and loudly. Hux with his sarcasm and snarky attitude and Kylo Ren with his blatant disregard for all of the rules and commands the General had in place. It was quite comical really, like a well-rehearsed routine. You slurped up your soup thoughtfully.

 “What I wouldn’t give to sit on that pale face,” Avery said in a playful lilt. You promptly spit out your soup and Lee choked on the water he had started to sip at.

 “Kriff, Avery, don’t say crap like that when I’m eating,” you grumbled and started to wipe up the mess you had made. She snickered and crossed her arms over her chest triumphantly, unashamed of her hazardous mindset. You could see it now, the General chuckling as he shoved her out the airlock for embarrassing him. You shivered.

 “What? I’m serious,” she said with a smirk. “He is one attractive man. You can’t tell me that you haven’t thought about it.”

 I’m too busy thinking about the ways he’d murder me if he got close enough to smell me, you thought and shook your head at her. “Nope, can’t say that I have.”

 “You’ve seriously never thought about it? What about for any of the other officers? Is there not an alpha you would pretend to be an omega for?”

 “Avery, give it a rest. Not everyone is as crazed as you,” Lee muttered. “Besides, don’t you think they would rather have an actual omega then someone pretending to be one?”

 “But there are hardly any left, plus I remember someone talking about how much of a hassle being bonded to an actual omega is.” That irked you. You doubted anyone, let alone any alpha, on this ship had actually met an unsuppressed omega let alone bonded with one.

 “Well you could still be a bit more respectful.” You nodded in response to Lee. Respect would be nice, you felt like you were owed at least a little of it due to your success in hiding who you were and proving that omegas were more than capable of caring for themselves. “Leave your weird fetishes for your diary log.”

 “How do you pretend to be an omega?” Curiosity had gotten the better of you.

 Lee sighed loudly and placed his hand against his forehead. “Why would you encourage her.” Avery, in response, beamed at you and leaned forward; both of her hands pressed against the table and fork long forgotten by her plate. “Pretending to be in heat is of course the main thing. Except, be a bit less needy and it’s not like you can actually last for as long as a real heat. You can also say a bunch of stuff about scent, and bonding, and blah blah blah, pretend to be weaker and in need of protection, it’s a lot of fun if your partner is into it.”

 “Gross,” you muttered and took another slurp of your soup. Heats in general were gross. They were long, lasting anywhere from 5 to 14 days. It started with a fever, general sluggishness, difficulty breathing and a foggy mindset, eventually your body would start the reproductive response. Slick would start to pool around your entrance and your glands would swell to the point of discomfort, it hurt quite a bit. An urge to lesson discomfort through orgasm would grow and eventually everything would begin to blend together. Pheromones would  be released in order to attract any nearby alpha and force them into a rut. The only things that could lessen the immense discomfort were sex and medications, but those were short term remedies, as their effects would dissipate rather quickly. Unless the sex involved a knot then, and only then, the discomfort would dissolve long enough for an omega to take care of themselves. Part of the reason why they required protection during their heats was because they risked dehydration and malnourishment the longer the heat went on.

 You had never had sex, let alone with an alpha, so you weren’t entirely sure how clear minded you became after knotting. Even now it had been many years since your last heat, but you could somewhat remember struggling through them earlier on in your life. “I don’t think so but, whatever. I’ve got to get back to training some new recruits.” Avery yawned and stood. She grabbed her tray and started walking toward the exit. “See you guys later.”

 “Bye,” you stated and waved in response, now trying your best to remember what struggling through your heat felt like.

 “She needs to keep quiet about stuff like that,” Lee told you quietly. “The First Order is very strict about relations between officers. She could get in real trouble for just saying some of that stuff.”

 “Then you need to be careful too.” A smirk crawled onto your face and you wiggled your eyebrows at him. “Did you think you and Miss Vanya were being discreet?” A light blush dusted his tan ears. You chuckled at his embarrassment and shook your head. “I didn’t need to hear the two of you in your office, but I did. You’re more of a screamer than I thought.”

 “I um, I just realized I still have a project I need to finish, so I’ll uh- we’ll talk later,” he scrambled to clean his area. “See you!”

 After he scurried off you kept your smirk and finished your soup. You checked the time to make sure you still had a bit before you needed to head back and lazily began to clean your space. A yawn escaped your lips as you started your trek back to your office.

 Lee and Avery were good people, very smart and hard workers. Avery had been your friend since your initial training, she had helped immensely with trying to get your upper body in shape. The two of you had been separated after initiation and reunited when they assigned you to this ship. Avery was now the trainer assigned to your section, working alongside or sometimes directly under you to help the newer programmers meet First Order standards.

 Lee had trained you in your original position when you first arrived on the Finalizer and now, he was directly in charge of the stromtrooper training programs and battle training designs. You were proud of him, even though his position meant you couldn’t see him as often. He was at Captain Phasma’s beck and call, coming up with the ideas that your department would bring to life via code. Again, you snickered thinking about his embarrassment at your discovery. You were determined to never let him live it down.

 Once you reached your office, you punched in your code and the doors easily slid open. Your main job was to receive orders and delegate the coding and programming to those under you. The paperwork was immense, and you hardly ever got to do any of the actual programming that you enjoyed, but you enjoyed the raise and respect the position brought you. Besides, if someone else didn’t understand or finish their work, it was up to you to do it so there were occasions when you got to do what you enjoyed, however rare they were. You slid into your desk chair quietly and got to work.

 Later in the evening, after your shift had finished, you entered your quarters and immediately knew something was wrong. The hairs on the back of your neck were standing, and your omega instincts were kicking into gear. Predator, your mind supplied. The faint scent of alpha pheromones tickled your nose and you shivered. The suppressants dulled your sense of smell, so you could not identify who it was, but you knew what they were. You took a tentative step forward, hands trembling and body on full alert. Who would have access to your quarters? Higher command had access, generals, captains, commanders. An alpha and a higher up, oh no. They must know. They’re here to kick me out, to kill me, they know!

 You took a few more steps forward, right outside the open entrance to your bed. They were in there, in your room, the smell was stronger in that direction. There was no sound, so they weren’t moving, but they were in there. A cold sweat broke out all over your body and you could take a guess as to who it was. It had to be the Commander. He was the only one who had been close enough to you to get a good whiff of your suppressed omega smell. Kylo Ren was absolutely going to murder you, no question. Still trembling, you resigned yourself to your fate, and finally stepped into your measly bedroom.

 And there he stood, in all his black and murderous glory. Kylo Ren was standing against the left wall, his visor was turned toward you, effectively intimidating you further. You almost squeaked under his intense scrutinizing and judging by the way his chest rose and fell a bit more deliberately, you knew he was taking in your scent. He took a large step forward; you took a frightened step backward. That cycle continued until you were no longer able to back up. He had you back up against your refresher door, his helmeted head literally pressed into the crook of your neck, one hand at you hip and the other holding your head back to further expose your nape. Your instinctual response was submission and following that instinct you craned your head away and further into his hold, effectively exposing your scent and bonding glands to him. I’m going to die, he’s going to strangle me, and I will die.

 And all at once, he pulled away.

[capitaine-bucket]

Pillows

Bucky Barnes x reader

My Masterlist

After Bucky asked you to move in with him, in his room at the tower you were so excited. He even said you could re-decorate to make it feel more like your space, and not just his. This was where you had a problem. Bucky had never been to your room, you always went to his, so he had no idea of what you thought good decore was. You may have been a highly trained assassin but under that hard exterior you were soft, Bucky just didn't know how soft.

Your room was, for lack of a better word, a cloud. You had soft cushions, and fluffy rugs, and fairy light around the room and all over your bed frame for when you read at night. You wanted to move in with Bucky but wasn't sure how he would react to your decorating style, so you didn't change anything. Bucky didn't say anything at first, thinking maybe you were planning out the space and wondering what to get. But after a month he was wondering if you were second-guessing moving in with him.

"Doll," he came at you one night while you were both lying in bed cuddling while watching a movie. "If you're not ready to move in yet, you don't have to, I will take this at your pace."

"What makes you think I don't want to move in? who said something? was it Nat?" You responded quickly.

"No one said anything, you just haven't moved anything, or tried to make this space ours with your own personal touches, it still feels like I am here alone, except you sleep here every night," he said softly.

"I like your style, and don't have any suggestions on the decore, it looks great," you said while gesturing around his room, that very much looks like a bachelor pad.

"But doll, I want your stuff here too," he whined, "you can't tell me this is what your room looks like"

"Well, no," you meekly say

"Then on the weekend, when I'm out on the mission please bring some of your stuff up here, and decorate how you want, and if I don't like it when I come back we can make changes, but I'm sure it will look great."

"Fine," you say and turn back to the movie which is almost over.

"Thank you" He whispers in your ear, giving you a kiss

The next morning you wake up to a note on the bedside table.

"Don't forget to bring your stuff up”

Love you Doll"

~Bucky

"uggghhhh", you roll over and flop back onto the bed.

After getting up, throwing on one of Bucky's sweaters you trudge on down to the lab coffee in hand to look for some boxes to move things with.

You find Tony exactly where you expected to, hunched over the computer, talking to J.A.R.V.I.S.,

"Hey," you say and put the coffee beside him.

"Its morning already?", he states.

"Yes sir, I told you to go to bed about 8 hours ago," J.A.R.V.I.S responds

"Tony go to bed, J.A.R.V.I.S. save and shut down whatever he is working on"

"Yes, madame" as the screen turns off.

"Hey, I was working on that," Tony says as he reaches for the coffee you left. You quickly grab it.

"None of that, you are going to bed"

"Why, your not the boss of me, actually I'm the boss of you, get out of my lab." Tony quips back, while trying to grab the coffee.

"Do I need to tell Pepper," who was away on a business trip.

"No," Tony says defeated, and heads out of the lab, hopefully to bed and not the kitchen for coffee.

Now you begin you search for boxes, as you walk into the back closet you hear

"Not in there."

"Pardon?" you ask looking around for someone until your eyes land on Bruce, over in the corner.

"I don't know what you're looking for but it's not in that closet unless you want radioactive material, which I won't let you take." He says without looking up from whatever he is working on.

"I'm just looking for some boxes," you tell him

"Over by dum-e, there should be some," he shakes his head in the general direction and dum-e waves.

"Thanks"

"So you and Bucky finally moving in together"

"Yeah," you respond, sounding a little more disappointed than intended.

"You don't sound enthused"

"Well, he wants me to re-decorate, but I don't know if he will like it,"

"I'm sure it will be fine," Bruce, says looking hopeful "You two are both dark and broody, how different could your styles be?"

"I guess you say" heading back upstairs, "oh, thanks for the boxes," you should back down. You don't catch what he says back, but it was probably along the lines of "no problem"

You wander back to your room, you haven't been here in a few days so there is some dust on the shelves, but your bed is still as fluffy as ever. You jump into it landing face-first into a pillow. You hum in contentment, sleeping with Bucky is great, he is your own personal space heater, but he isn't as fluffy as your large collection of pillows.

You get up and look around the room, and start to throw stuff in the boxes, starting with clothes, Stark had made everyone's closets too big in the first place so yours and Buckys clothes will both fit in his closet. It's mostly black, no surprises here, except the super fluffy black bathrobe, you finally get all your clothes in a box, tossing in the last sweater. And Grab the boxes to head up to Bucky's room.

As you are closing your door

"Want any help," of course America's righteous man would show up, when you need assistance, it's like is spidey sense to know when anyone in the tower could use help.

"Sure," you say accepting the offer, knowing he won't let you decline, as he is already picking up 3 boxes.

"You, leavin' us or something," He asks following your lead to the elevator

"Nah, me and Bucky are just moving in together," you say as you struggle to push the button to his floor.

"Congrats," he says "So why is this happening when he and Sam aren't here?"

"Welllll, he wants me to re-decorate, and I didn't want him around when I did it so it would be a surprise," man you can lie on the fly.

"Cool, well let me know if you need any more help," he says unloading the boxes onto the floor by the closet.

"Gotcha, capsicle"

Steve slips out the door, off to defend whatever justice next. You start to put your clothes in the empty side of the closet, slowly you get all your clothes hung up and put in drawers, once you're done you step back and realize that between you and Bucky there is almost no colour in this closet at all, it's like a black hole, and you love it.

After stopping in the kitchen for some quick leftovers from last nights dinner, you go back down to your room.

Staring into your empty closet, you feel a sense of satisfaction knowing that you got so much done this morning, you decide to take a break and flop amongst the pillows on your bed, and open up the book that was left on your nightstand.

After a few hours, you drift off to sleep snuggling your stuffed shark.

You wake up with droll on the side of your mouth, as you wipe it off you think "wow that's hot". You look at the clock, 11:00 blinks back at you through the dark. After careful consideration, and a quick consult with J.A.R.V.I.S., you decide everyone is tucked in for the night and it's safe to move some of your pillows and lights to Bucky's room. This is a secret mission, no one can know about your terribly soft side, Bucky is already aware that you like to cuddle, but he doesn't know what you cuddled before him.

You grab a few pillows and head up to Bucky's room, you aren't going to take them all in case this is too much and he finds it overwhelming, you still have some of your dignity.

You throw all of the pillows on the bed and consider taking some of them back to your room, maybe its too much, but as you go to open the door you hear someone in the hallway and decide to call it a night. You grab a quick shower and hop into bed.

It smells like Bucky, you grab your shark and snuggle into the pillows, enjoying being able to sleep amongst all the fluff that you missed.

You wake up early due to the nap from yesterday, you will have to work fast to get all the lights up before Bucky gets home today. You grab a cereal bar for breakfast and run down to your room, and start coiling the lights around your arm, you carefully place them in a box so they don't tangle, and throw a few of your favourite books and your super fluffy carpet.

Wrapping up the lights took longer than expected and you realize you missed lunch, not feeling hungry you decide to skip, and just get the job done.

Up in Bucky's room, you think about where to put the lights, he has a four-poster bed, so you start by wrapping around all the supports. Then you put a different strand all around the perimeter of the room, it gives it an ethereal glow. This is why you love the fairy lights, they can make even the most basic of places look magic. Looking around at your masterpiece, you adjust the pillows on the bed, as to make it look a little better, and not like a crazy person was here, you go to the kitchen for dinner.

After dinner you wander around the common area, waiting for them to come back, they should be here by now, you had been so busy all day that you never had time to worry about the mission, it wasn't difficult by any means, but you still worry about him.

Wanda, see you wandering around the living room, moving from couch to couch.

"Dude pacing the floor, isn't going to help, want to come watch a movie with me and Pietro" you agree its no good to worry about them and go join.

After 2 hours, the movie is almost over, J.A.R.V.I.S. announces

"Mr. Wilson and Mr. Barnes have returned."

You look at Wanda and Pietro apologetically, and run-up to the landing bay. Sam is taking off his gear.

"Where is Bucky," you ask, starting to worry

"Loverboy wanted to surprise you, but J.A.R.V.I.S. had already announced our arrival, so I'm guessing he ran to find you.

"Thanks, Sam," you yell back at him while running down the hall, "J.A.R.V.I.S., tell Bucky to meet me in his room.

"He is already there madame"

"Damn it," you say while smashing the elevator button trying to make it go faster.

"Language," Steve says while stepping off the elevator walking towards the landing bay.

"How?!, whatever," you say hitting Bucky's floor.

You arrive at the door, it's closed, you carefully open it and see bucky sitting on the floor, still in full tactical gear, with a pillow in his arms, looking around at all the fairy lights. He looked magical, he turned around as he heard the camera click, your phone pointed at him, in his glory on the floor.

"Do you like it?" you asked softly

"Doll, I don't know what I expected but this wasn't it, this is so much better, it looks like a fairy tale in here. I refuse to ever let anyone else in again, where did you get all these pillows, we may have to get more," he can't stop smiling

"Well, this is why no one was allowed in my room, it was my secret place, and now we can share a secret, also we don't have to get more, I have more in my room," you say giving him a hug and snuggling into his chest.

"Then what are we doing here Doll, we need more pillows," he says walking with you to the door.

"No" you stop him, "No one can know that I am soft like this, I have a reputation to maintain."

"Okay Doll, we will go later, but for now we are having a shower,"

"But I don't smell" you state

"Yeah but I haven't seen you in a while and..." he doesn't finish as he throws you over his shoulder, and walks to the bathroom.

After you shower and Bucky gets something to eat, you sneak down to your old room, and you two grab the rest of the pillows and sneak back up. Flopping on the bed.

"Well I would say that was a successful mission," You say while burying yourself in pillows.

"Sure was, but one question, whats with the shark," he asks while grabbing it from you.

You sit up, "I like having a little danger in my life, also they are misunderstood, and more people should get to know them before judging them"

Bucky gives you a look "Doll, you are an assassin, and a shark pillow is the danger you want in your life"

"Yes." you state grabbing it back from him, "Now I would like to sleep now"

"Okay Doll, but with all these pillows I don't think you need me anymore"

You grab him and pull the blanket over you, "No, Bucky you are the most important pillow here, you might not be as fluffy as the others, but you are the warmest and nicest and are the best to cuddle," you finish with a yawn.

"Fine, but I get to hold the shark," he says with a chuckle, that you feel vibrate through his chest.

You snuggle in and go to sleep under the soft lighting of the fairy lights, sleeping among the clouds.

[milknette]

day 30 - roommates

promise me you’ll stay, beyond the sunrise.

tumblr month: @auyeahaugust

links: ao3 | ff.net

i.

MARINETTE doesn't know how he got her address.

She'd only moved in that day, after a haphazard decision to do so for independence and freedom in her own work. (Though the whole Ladybug-and-unexplained-disappearances thing when living her parents was a huge factor, too.)

Scratch that, it's probably the onlyfactor.

If it weren't for her parents' growing suspicion and concern due to her heroic escapades, Marinette would still choose to stay at home and with them; or at the very least, stay nearby.

She had to move a good distance away— a bus ride or so, in order to rationalize with her parents why she had to move out. ("But why do you have to leave?" "Moving would be easier for me to do my work! It cuts down on transportation time a lot.")

Never mind that as Ladybug, she can move from one side of Paris to another in mere minutes.

The apartment itself is quite modest, with enough space for her to live comfortably (but not much for anything else). Nino, Alya, and Adrien had helped her move in all her stuff, though quite a few were still left untouched inside their boxes.

It's more a reflection of Marinette's need for privacy than their helpfulness as friends, though— since a hefty amount of the items in those containers hold her carefully-curated collection of Adrien Agreste collectibles, limited edition items, and posters.

So. Many. Posters.

(It's been years, but her crush on him has only grown all the more intensely. She's grown out of her stuttering phase, fortunately, but the butterflies in her stomach don't fade, either.)

Exhaustedly, Marinette lies on her mattress.

They only left an hour ago… is it okay to miss them this much?

She's not accustomed to the quiet, especially with the bustling energy of her family and the customers that arrive for their daily dose of caffeine in the early mornings. The lack of aromatic scents of freshly-baked breads and desserts as she lays down is a stark reminder that she's not home anymore.

Marinette sighs to herself.

Maybe she's lonely.

Just a little bit.

It's in that exact moment someone comes knocking on her balcony door. The balcony is a good amount smaller than the one she had at home, only really enough for a few plants and one person—

Or one disguised cat-themed hero.

His smile's bright as she pushes away the curtain and opens the sliding door.

Chat Noir doesn't even wait for a verbal invitation; he walks inside, looking around in wonder.

"Wow, you've already unpacked a lot," he starts, noticing her sewing machine set up on a desk nearby. "You already took it out?"

An eyebrow raised. "Yeah… why?"

"I thought you were setting up your sewing area last," he starts, before absurdly coughing to himself at her suspicious glance. "I mean, considering that it's the only one without a designated space… I thought you'd do everything else first, because it's common sense, right?"

Hmmm.

"That was the original plan," she finally admits. "But I have commissions to work on, so I decided to keep it there. Temporarily, at the very least." Chat Noir nods, before Marinette gestures at him. "So… how did you find out about here?"

"What do you mean?"

"My apartment?" She asks, leaning upon the door frame. "I don't recall telling you where I was moving."

"Oh…," he pauses, sifting through her boxes. "Uh, superhero, remember? Ladybug and I make it a point to know where everybody is at all times. To protect the citizens of Paris and all that!"

Well, that's not even the slightest bit true, but it's not as if Marinette can rebuff him.

So, she nods in fake understanding instead and shrugs.

"That doesn't explain what you're doing here, though?"

Chat Noir smiles. "I figured that you'd meowss the company. You moved pretty far from your friends." He sounds almost sad at that revelation, and Marinette almost feels sorry.

(What would he be so sad for? It's not like she moved far away from him.

Though she wouldn't really know, if she did.)

"Well, I can't say that I don't appreciate you showing up." She smiles, eyes bright.

It's a sweet moment.

Until:

"You can help me unpack everything else."

(They spend the rest of the night unpacking things, but Marinette insists that one box be left alone. When Chat Noir accidentally sees a peak of an all-too-familiar model's poster flap out from its cover…

he thankfully decides against mentioning it.)

.

.

ii.

Chat Noir makes it a point to regularly stop by her apartment.

(Even at times he should be busy and on patrol— though more often than not, Marinette can't find it in herself to be angry at him.)

She still doesn't see her friends and family that often, but being with him, she finds, lessens the loneliness a lot; to the point that she finds herself more fulfilled, if anything.

At first, she figured that he'd get tired of him— seeing him both as Ladybug and Marinette, and so often, but it's the complete opposite. They talk about and do everything together, with her learning so much more about him than she'd ever expected to.

If anything, Chat Noir is good and fun company, even though she'll never admit it to his face.

It's a few months into their arrangement of random meetings when Marinette makes the mistake of going to her apartment straight home as Ladybug.

"… milady? What are you doing here?"

She pauses as she reaches for the balcony door, belatedly noticing that Chat Noir follows right after her. He's perched on the balcony railings, staring at her with confusion and almost suspicion.

Oops.

"Chat?! What are you doing here?" She points at him accusingly, almost stumbling backward. "I thought you said you were going straight home after the akuma!"

"Yeah…," he starts, eyebrows knitting together. "But I always stop by Marinette's to check on her if she's doing okay. She just moved away recently, and I just want to make sure she doesn't feel lonely or sad or anything." He pauses, realizing how his statement may sound. "I mean, speaking as a superhero, you know… I can't risk her getting akumatized! Especially since she's Multimouse and all…"

"That's actually… pretty sweet of you Chat."

He smiles softly, before suddenly narrowing his eyes. "That doesn't explain what you're doing here, though?"

She halts, evidently caught off-guard. "I— uh—"

"Ladybug… visiting Marinette… in her apartment… that means…"

"Wait, don't connect the dots—"

"Marinette's planning a surprise for me!"

"I'm not—

Wait. What?"

She's never seen Chat Noir look so excited.

"I knew she was planning something for me! You know, last time I came over, we were talking about birthdays, and I told her it was some time around this month… is that what the two of you were planning all this time? Ack, this is pawsitvely exciting my tails on end!"

Ladybug wonders how he can be so smart but so dumb at the same time.

(Well, whatever the case— it works out well for her.)

Ladybug smiles. "You know I can' tell you that!" Her voice is a notch higher than usual, as she playfully and awkwardly punches his shoulder. "… pal! Now go home and let us plan your surprise, okay?"

"Can I get a hint?!"

"Uh. Cats." She stops, almost similar to the way a robot would if they were to malfunction. "Yup. Cats. Like you. Now that's all!"

She pushes at him, before he finally relents and leaves the balcony.

The next day, Chat Noir comes to Marinette's apartment, and sees his surprise:

A cat-themed party.

Marinette looks absolutely exhausted, but seeing Chat Noir's bright smile— she doesn't quite mind it.

"Happy birthday, kitty: however old you are, and whenever your birthday really is!"

They spend the rest of the night celebrating together.

(Adrien's birthday happens a week later, and she's surprised to find out that he wants to spend it treating her out, just the two of them. She wonders why he doesn't want a birthday party, and he explains that he already had one— and nothing could top how perfect it was.

They spend the day going around together, and end it as he drops her off at her apartment. Alya and Nino insist it's a date.

Marinette vaguely wonders to herself if it was.)

.

.

iii.

Chat Noir stops by when Adrien doesn't.

Marinette rereads the text over and over again:

I'm so, so, sorry, Mari. My dad's not letting me out until I finish all the work I do. Let's hang out another time, okay? Miss you, Alya, and Nino a lot!

She sighs, walking over to turn off the oven. The scent of passionfruit macarons makes their way around the apartment, as she carefully puts them into a container. Her outfit, a nicely-fitted red dress— the one Alya calls the first date dress, shines in the room light.

It's a strong inner debate as to whether Marinette should call her friends, but she ultimately decides against it.

(It'd be mean to burst into their lives with last-minute plans, and she especially doesn't want to disappoint them with the news that her dinner-with-Adrien-and-confess-your-love plan had failed spectacularly— before she could even do anything about it.

Marinette figures that she'll just disappoint them later on.)

She raises the container of sweets to her face. "So, what should I do with this…?"

"I'd like to try them."

She almost drops the macarons as a sudden voice bounces off the walls, clutching her heart in evident surprise. "Chat? What the heck, don't scare me like that! How long were you standing there?"

He looks almost sheepish. "A few minutes… I tried knocking, but you seemed so distracted in your thoughts so I just came in." His expression turns concerned. "Are you okay?"

She shrugs. "Just a little upset, but nothing new, really."

"I'm sorry."

Marinette shakes her head. "What are you sorry for? It's not your fault." She sighs to herself, before offering the container to him. "Anyway, do you want to try this? I'm not sure if you'll like it because it's passionfruit, but…"

"Are you kidding me, I love passionfruit! It's my favorite flavor!"

He beams, before quickly taking a bite of the snack, and breathing dreamily to himself. "These taste amazing." Then, a pause. "But are you sure I should eat this? Didn't you make it for someone?"

Marinette laughs softly, then walks over to sit on the couch, gesturing for him to come next to him.

"Chat, do you love anyone?"

The question is upfront and straightforward, and he's evidently surprised by it.

After the initial shock, though, he smiles to himself. "Of course I do. She's the purrfect girl, andI think about her a lot more than I should," he says, staring at her for a good moment.

Marinette doesn't know how to describe how his stare makes her feel.

"I love someone too," she finally admits.

The words hang in the air, and Chat Noir doesn't know what to say.

"He's a lucky guy," he finally breathes, a sad look in his eyes.

"You'd think," she laughs to herself, almost bitterly. "But I don't think he feels the same way, or if he ever will."

"What do you mean— who wouldn't fall in love with you?! You're kind, and sweet, and pretty on a regular day but tonight you're absolutely stunning…"

"Haha, thanks kitty," she mutters, before holding on to her dress. "I even dressed up for him today…"

A quiet pause.

"Wait… the guy you were supposed to meet today is the one you're in love with?'

She nods silently. "Adrien Agreste. He's a good friend of mine, it's just that my feelings are something so much more than that…"

Marinette isn't looking at him directly, so she's surprised to notice him abruptly stand up.

"Sorry, I have to go."

"Chat? I'm sorry if this was too much but…"

"I'll see you around, Marinette."

It's the lack of a playful nickname that gets her.

Almost frozen, she somehow manages to nod.

And Chat Noir disappears into the night.

.

.

iv.

The next time they patrol, Chat Noir tells Ladybug they need to talk.

"Are you sure I can't reveal my true identity to anyone?"

Her answer is instantaneous. "Of course. It's too risky." She pauses, then almost careful: "Why do you ask?"

(Things have become more awkward since the last time Chat Noir went to her apartment; when he just left her without explanation and stopped showing up completely. They still meet as heroes, but it's become much more strained since then.)

He sighs to himself. "It's just… I'm in love." Chat Noir pauses, then immediately backtracks. "Not with you, of course. Not anymore. I respect that you love someone else, and I've finally fallen for someone different. And I don't want to reveal too much but… she loves me back."

Marinette feels happy for him, of course, but can't quite explain why her stomach churns uncomfortably at the idea of him being in love with someone else.

"Then, what's the problem?"

He laughs bitterly to himself. "She fell for my civilian identity."

Oh.

"So you want her to know you're the same person?"

Chat Noir pauses for a moment, as if in thought, then shakes his head. "No," he finally says. "I just want to be sure she loves the entire me, and not just the perfect character I keep up in real life. I want her to fall in love with Chat Noir, too. Because this identity's just as much a part of me as Adr— as my civilian self is."

Silence, again.

"As a superhero and the Guardian, I cannot stress the importance of keeping your identity secret. Even if it is someone you love." He winces, and she presses on. "But as your friend, I want you to be happy, kitty. So, do what you must." She smiles at him. "I know you'll do what's right."

The superhero smiles back, then abruptly gets up.

"Then if you don't mind, milady… I have somewhere to be."

By the time Chat Noir arrives at Marinette's apartment, she's already home.

"What are you doing here, Chat?"

"… for two things. Do you mind if I come in?"

She doesn't exactly willing to do so, but lets him in anyway.

"The first part is an apology." He looks at her, evidently ashamed of himself. "I'm sorry I just left like that back then. I shouldn't have left without an explanation, and it was one of the worst things I've ever done. I'm so sorry."

"As you should be," she only says, before sighing to herself. "And the second part?"

"An explanation."

"Better keep it short."

"I can summarize it in three words."

She looks up at him, suddenly intrigued. "Which is?"

"I love you."

(The dots connect themselves even without Marinette willing them to, and she catches on before Chat Noir even realizes the situation they're in.

Knowing about her address, his birthday celebrations, his love for passionfruit, the mysterious person he was in love with—is in love with, and his abrupt disappearance after her confession…

How did she not realize it before?)

The faces of two people Marinette love dearly start blending into one.

She never knew it would be possible to feel so much for one person.

Marinette starts laughing, tears in her eyes, as everything becomes that much clearer.

She smiles.

"I love you too—

Adrien."

(He almost falls off the balcony.

Fortunately, however— this time there's somebody around to catch him.)

.

.

v.

He knocks on the correct door, this time around.

And with him, a ton of boxes and containers that tower almost menacingly around his figure.

"Sorry I had to use this door," he starts. "But my stuff wouldn't fit through the balcony."

Marinette laughs, before putting her hands to fold in front of her chest.

"That's a lot of boxes," she observes. "I don't recall you having that much of a problem with my stuff back then."

"That's because I only stayed the night."

"And now?"

He smiles, then presses a sudden kiss to her lips.

"Hopefully, I'm staying the rest of my life."

She huffs at the sudden surprise, then smiles back softly.

"I wouldn't be opposed to that."

[haddonfieldproject]

1.1.2 HALLOWEEN NIGHT, SAME TIME

<<PREVIOUS ⏺ <<CONTENTS>>

2️⃣

Haddonfield, Illinois

Chelsea Keane heard a noise downstairs. She was pretty sure it was a door slam, although it was so far away in this big huge house that it was hard to tell. She took one more long pull off of the joint and stubbed out the roach in the ashtray that sat on the little wicker table in front of her. Beside the little ceramic disc decorated in scenes of Tijuana—now covered in soot, and the remains of her joint, sat her purse. It was a bag really, one of those reusable shopping bags from McNary’s Supermarket, covered in floral prints and little orange and yellow suns, birds, and bees, and little green leafy vines that formed letters which read: Earth Day 2014.

Chelsea rummaged in the bag, around tampons and makeup cases, the occasional lipstick, chapstick, selfie-stick, and ladies speedstick and found what she was looking for. A stick of Wrigley’s Gum. She unwrapped the foil, popped the piece in her mouth, balled the wrapper up between her fingers into a nice neat silver ball, and flicked it across the space in front of her where it landed between a hot water heater and the Centra-Vac system.

She returned to her purse, retrieving a small glass cylinder bottle of Dimension, the new perfume by Jennifer Love Hewitt, and bathing herself in the baby powdery aroma, thinking to herself of a Halloween, perhaps almost twenty years previous, when she had sat on this very couch and watched the actress run screaming across a square-shaped television screen while being stalked by a hooded man with a hook for an arm. Chelsea brought a DVD case out of her purse/bag. Ripe Blood. She turned it over and looked at the screenshots on the back…and the rating. Rated R for Graphic Violence.

Haven’t come much far sense my VHS copy of I Know What You Did Last Summer, she thought. Well, at least the picture quality would be better.

Hell..it’d be a lot better.

Ellen had her own theater.

Complete with a fifteen foot by nine foot screen, reclining seats, surround sound, and even a little kitchenette to nuke some popcorn and retrieve a few ice cold pops.

Lifestyles of the rich and famous, she mused.

Well, definitely rich, but only famous if you’re into watching people have sex on camera.

And there were plenty of people who were, and they paid good money for it.

What can you say? Sex sells.

And didn’t Chelsea know it too. Hell, if she hadn’t let Zeke Yates knock her up in the VIP room almost eighteen years ago, she’d probably be doing just as good as Ellen.

Well…probably not.

Chelsea tossed the DVD case back in her purse/bag and stepped toward the door at the far end of the room, careful to stay on the plywood flooring that designated Ellen’s “Smoking Loft” from the rest of the attic.

Ellen had been the smartest girl Chelsea had ever known. Chelsea presumed she would have ended up like her older sister Deborah, who also got her start in life as a dancer at the Rabbit-in-Red, although, perhaps not quite like Deborah. She didn’t see her son turning into a psychopath anytime soon and she didn’t see herself blowing her head off in the forseeable future either. Like her sister Deborah however, who was actually her half-sister, and nearly twenty years older than her, she had commited the Cardinal Sin of the biz.

“Don’t lapse on your birth control,” Deborah had told the young Chelsea and Ellen as they stood behind her on their first day at work, watching her attach fake lashes in the dingy mirror in the back haunts of the Rabbit-in-Red. “Better yet..don’t fuck the customers at all. VIP is for dancing, not fucking.”

She had pointed a picture of her kids, taped to the mirror then. “See those.”

The girls had nodded nervously.

“That’s what I got for fucking a customer.”

Chelsea had made the mistake, which hadn’t been such a big mistake afterall. She of course was quite fond of her son Joshua, but it was safe to say that the nine and a half pound baby had tanked her stripping career and any possibility of moving into the Adult Film Industry. Chelsea had packed on over a hundred pounds during her pregnancy, and post-baby had only been able to shake twenty of it. So she had settled down with Josh’s father, gotten married, enrolled in Illinois Central College, and got her bachelors degree in Communications.

Lou Martini, the owner of Rabbit-in-Red industries had hired her back—as an editor. That, combined with the few bucks her husband Whitey made around town doing the odd handyman job here and there had afforded them a decent life, with a decent house, another child, a beautiful daughter, and an overall pretty damn fine life for herself.

Chelsea stepped out unto the landing and pulled the door shut to the attic behind her and then descended the stairs toward the common room on the third floor. There was a white leather couch and a coffee table. A mini bar sat in the corner of the room with liquor that probably hadn’t been touched in years and a few pieces of modern art on skimpy end tables that probably hadn’t been properly looked at or analyzed in the same amount of time. The room was just for show, just like a giant, lifesize poster on the wall behind a thirty inch flatscreen VIZIO. Ellen in a bikini too small for her surgically enhanced breasts, sprawled on some exotic beach, sand on her knees and elbows.

Ellen was smart.

🎃

“So who is this person?” Penny Cornell asked, popping her bubble gum loudly before she spoke.

Josh looked at her in the soft light of the poolhouse. She was dressed as Velma from Scooby Doo, and he had gone as Fred, only they hadn’t bothered to get wigs or color their hair, so she ended up being a blonde Velma and he ended up being a Fred with black hair, which, in actuality totally ruined the ensemble and had in fact led to many of their peers on the streets that night during their Trick-Or-Treating run to ask, “So..what are you guys again?”

While Josh searched the cabinets in the pool house kitchenette for a proper shot glass for the Captain Morgan he had stowed away, from a mini bar that saw quite a bit more action than the one on the third floor of the main house, Penny circled the Pool Table, the stained glass lamp casting bright and blazing hues on the side of her face as she looked at the pictures on the walls.

Plenty of pictures of a certain blonde woman in lingerie. Some in a bathing suit. Some wearing nothing at all but a properly placed palm frond, or towel, in one, the handlebars of a motorcycle. Many had the blonde woman with various celebrities. Kid Rock, holding her by the waist, holding a cigar and smiling. There was one with Charlie Sheen, another with Myley Cyrus, and an older one, faded a little, starting to yellow, with future President of the United States Donald Trump. Penny’s face as she beheld these pictures was expressionless, her unassuming eyes taking it all in like a pediatrician examining the X-Ray of a kid who just broke his arm in two places.

“She’s known as Misty Dawn.” Josh said, finding a suitable shotglass, this one featuring the skyline of Charlotte, North Carolina. “She works for Rabbit-in-Red Industries. She’s a model.”

“I can see that,” Penny said, popping her gum again. Her eyes didn’t deviate from the pictures.

“She’s been in some movies too.” Josh added, unscrewing the top of the rum, “X-rated movies. Also done some webcam and stuff.”

Penny sighed and leaned against the pool table. “I see.” She said yawning, her pink wad of bubble gum visible in the corner of her mouth. “Porn must pay pretty well to have all this.” She said, waving her hand across the room to indicate that by “this” she meant this particular poolhouse as well as the mansion and the grounds beyond.

Josh poured a shot and held it out to her. “She’s kind of a star.”

Penny grunted and took the shot glass. She downed it, winced, coughed, and held it back to him. “And your mom knows her from work?”

Josh took the glass and poured another shot. “She and my mom grew up together. They were best friends in high school. Her real name is Ellen.”

Josh took the shot. He also winced and coughed.

The sound of heavy metal filled the room.

It was Josh’s ringtone for his cellphone. He pulled it from his pocket, looked at it, and then looked at Penny frowning. “It’s my mom.” He said and hit the green button on the screen.

“Yeah?”

Penny pulled her own phone out to look at it. Josh replaced the cap on the Captain Morgan and went about replacing the bottle into the minibar and the shotglass into the cabinet from whence it came.

“We are back mom,” Josh was saying, “Penny and I are outside. You probably heard Maddie, Dylan, and Cammie come in.”

Josh rounded the bar and took his girlfriend’s hand, pulling her toward the sliding glass door that led to the pool deck.

“Yeah mom, we’re coming right now.”

He hung up the phone and slid the door shut behind them. Penny was looking at the pool and the adjacent spa.

“I wanna get in that hot tub.”

Josh put a hand on her butt. “I wanna get in there with you.” He smiled wryly.

“Shoot, it’s hot enough to get in the regular pool.” She said as they started toward the main house.

“You’re telling the truth.” Josh replied.

🔪

“You’re gonna fall and bust your head if you don’t stop running around with that sword!” Cammie Cornell, age eight, dressed like a bumble-bee, complete with clip on wings, said, standing cross armed on the hearth.

Dylan Rawls, age thirteen and dressed like a ninja, was chasing little Maddie Keane, age five, dressed as Princess Elsa from the animated Disney film Frozen. Dylan had a plastic sword and was waving it at Maddie as she ran away from him in a circle, laughing and screaming and all the while making motions with her hands in an effort to use her “powers” to freeze Dylan in ice like her character would have been able to do in the movies.

Dylan, despite having already started puberty, was not a very mature boy. This could have been due to a lack of attention given to him by his mother, or as some psuedo-scientists would have suggested, it could have been due to a diet high in processed foods and high fructose corn syrup. His mother had never had him tested for mental defficiencies, mostly due to a nagging worry that he would fail the thing. Dylan wasn’t mentally challenged, that wasn’t quite right. He had been tested for and diagnosed as ADHD by the time he was seven, but then again so many kids were and his mother hadn’t really believed in it or the medication that was supposed to, and probably would have, helped her son. Dylan was in ways a very bright child, better at all the household electronic devices than his own mother, but in other was he was just plain immature. Chasing around a five year old in a living room with a plastic sword dressed as a Ninja after acne was beginning to pop out on his face and sprouts of hair was beginning to pop out on his balls was just case in point.

Dylan stopped and glared at Cammie, about to display another example of his immaturity.

“Don’t tell me what to do, this is my house.” He said between panting breaths.

Maddie stopped and collapsed into the brown leather sofa that faced the fireplace. Her face was red and her breath was heavy, but the smile didn’t leave her little face, nor the brightness in her little brown eyes.

“Aren’t you a little old to be playing like that?” Cammie shot back.

Dylan was about to reply when they all heard a voice from behind them.

“Cammie! Get down from there.”

It was Chelsea, she was descending the stairs holding her cellphone in her hand.

“Maddie, off the furniture please.” She said.

“Yeah Cammie, get down!” Dylan added.

Cammie jumped down from the hearth and stuck her tongue out at Dylan. He returned the gesture.

“Where is all your candy?” Chelsea asked.

“We put it on the stove.” Dylan said, pointing toward the open kitchen with his sword.

“I see.” Chelsea said, her eyes beholding the three large hulking pillowcases.

“They got quite the big haul didn’t they.”

It was the voice of Josh. He and Penny entered the room from the opposite side.

“They certainly look like they made out.” Chelsea said, placing her cellphone in her pocket. She reached into her purse/bag and took out the DVD case and held it out for her son.

Josh snatched it up. “No way! Ripe Blood!? It hasn’t even stopped running in the theaters yet.”

Chelsea smiled, “The Rabbit uses the same packaging and distribution company as the company who made the film..Danger—something or other..”

“Dangertainment.” Josh corrected and passed the case to Penny who looked interested.

“Right,” Chelsea said, putting her purse/bag on the stove next to the three pillowcases full of candy. “Well they give all their clients some freebees as promotional items. That arrived this morning.”

“Are we gonna watch it?” Josh asked, eyes wide and bright.

“You better your ass we are,” Chelsea answered.

“In the theater upstairs?” Josh asked.

“Um…yeah.” answered Chelsea.

“I’m scared.” Penny frowned.

“You can’t be afraid of scary movies if you’re gonna date my son,” Chelsea said, “Joshua loves a good horror flick. He gets it from his mom.”

Josh hugged his mother. The sentiment surprised her, but she appreciated it.

“Can I watch it?” Dylan asked.

Chelsea shook her head. “It’s too scary for the younger kids Dylan. Why don’t you go upstairs and play with Maddie and Penny’s sister…” she looked to Penny, mind scrambling to remember the girl in the bee costume’s name.

“Cammie,” Penny corrected.

“That’s right, Cammie,” Chelsea continued, “until it’s time to go to bed.”

“You guys wanna see my playroom?” Dylan asked. “I have an Nintendo WiiU, a ballpit, a bouncy house, even some laser tag!”

“Yeah!” Maddie and Cammie replied in unison. The kids began to ascend the stairs.

Penny and Josh read the back of the DVD case together while Chelsea opened the fridge, looking over their snack options in regard to their theatre experience.

As Dylan, Maddie, and Cammie reached the top of the stairs, Maddie asked him.

“Can I take a turn at your Wii Dylan?”

Dylan looked back and smiled. “You can, but Cammie can’t!”

“Why not?” Cammie whined.

“I don’t let fat girls play!” Dylan replied, in another epic display of immaturity.

With their eyes on the DVD case, and her head in the fridge, Penny, Chelsea, and Josh didn’t notice or hear Cammie descend the stairs fighting back her tears and exit the front door of the home

NEXT>>

[livingmybestfictionallife]

Live Wire --The Dirt--

Little something I’ve been working on due to a lack of Douglas Booth!Nikki Sixx fics.

Summary: Wren Ledden, Tommy’s best friend from high school has had a rough life and she intends to keep the nitty gritty details of her suffrage to herself until the day she dies. Only Tommy has gotten her to open up about a small portion of her troubles, and it’s only Tommy who she trusts with her life. That is until her life gets turned around sneaking into a concert one night...the same night Motley Crue is born.

Since westward expansion and the Gold Rush, all anyone in the United States could think about were the promises that seemed to lie buried within the jungled streets of chaos in California. It was where everyone wanted to be—the ocean was beautiful, Hollywood was booming, the mountains up north were to die for, and the music scene was evolving before the world’s eyes. It seemed like the perfect place for anyone with a dream and the will-power to achieve it; however, for Wren Ledden, California was a cage that, since a young age, she promised herself she’d find her way out of.

Wren was smart, driven, and talented, but never seemed to be in the right place at the right time, and as everyone knows, timing is everything. School was all too easy for her and she even managed to complete all of her gen-ed courses for college while she was still a junior in high school. By the time she graduated with her high school diploma, she had her associate’s degree and a ‘the-sky’s-the-limit’ attitude toward the rest of her life. Sure, she didn’t have the money to attend a fancy college and she didn’t know what the hell she even wanted to study, but she knew two things: one, she’d worked her ass off throughout high school, and two, she deserved a break.

“Why the hell do you study so much?” Wren heard her one and only friend from high school grumble as she laid on her back and read from a Rolling Stone magazine.

“Do you even know what the hell I’m reading?” she huffed as she tossed the magazine at the lanky boy’s face.

“Rolling Stone,” he commented with an airy tone as he stole a glance away from his reflection to look at the magazine that rested beside him. “Cool. I just assumed you were being a nerd.” The all too familiar snarky laugh she had heard resonate through her friend’s lungs since middle school echoed against the walls of his room.

“Shut up, asshole.” Wren’s lips curled up into a smirk as she flipped over from her resting position on his bed to sitting cross-legged and watching her friend primp. “I still can’t believe you’re going to this concert with what’s her nuts and not me,” Wren sighed in exuberant frustration as her eyes drifted from her friend to the posters that littered the walls of his room.

“Oh, come on, Wren, give her a chance; I bet you’d like her! She’s really cool,” he whined as he turned around from the mirror and turned down the tape playing over the speakers.

“I bet,” Wren said dryly as her mind drifted from her friend’s new girlfriend to the band he was taking her to go see tonight. “I’m just pissed because I turned you on to London in the first place, Tommy.”

“And I know we always said we’d go together, but I’m trying to get her to give them a chance.”

“So you’re taking someone who may not even like the show over me, your best friend and musical connoisseur?” Wren shot Tommy a pained look and pretended to clutch her heart as she flopped backwards on his bed.

“Look, if it means that much to you, I can cancel tonight and we can go.” Tommy’s big heart was something that had drawn Wren to him in the first place. Throughout high school, she was an outcast; Wren had a different upbringing from many of her classmates, including Tommy, which led to her inability to trust others. Middle school band brought Wren the only friend she’d ever need, someone to share her interests, who was able to break down her walls, and whose family gave her what she lacked in her own familial life. Tommy’s chaotic extroversion saved Wren’s dry-humored introverted time and time again. Tommy had always been fond of Wren and he even found her cynicism humorous, albeit at first he was only interested in dating her, but as they grew closer as friends, both Wren and Tommy realized they were bonded for life.

“Go on your date, Tommy,” Wren sighed as she watched the slightest hint of disappointment cross his eyes.

“Meet me at the diner afterwards?” He asked with big, begging eyes. “I want you to meet her.” Wren considered her options: spend another night crashing in Tommy’s parents’ guest room and annoying his little sister, Athena, or meeting what would probably be another week-long girlfriend he had fallen head-over-heels for.

“Sure,” she sighed only to catch his infectious smile growing onto her lips. “But that’s only if I don’t decide to sneak into the show behind you like we did with that punk band last month.”

“Why the fuck don’t you just come with us?” Tommy asked as he jumped up from where he was sitting on the floor and spun toward where Wren was still perched on his bed.

“I’m not dressed for the strip,” she said as she tossed her arms out to the side and examined her attire. A black leather jacket hung from Wren’s shoulders as a hand-made cropped black shirt dangled around her torso, baring just a portion of her midriff as black leather pants hugged her legs and chunky boots were laced around her feet.

“Yes you are, and if we didn’t already know this,” he said and gestured between the two “would never work, I’d even say you were hot.” Tommy said as he pulled his own black leather jacked over the mustard yellow t-shirt he wore, and then stuffed his drumsticks through the loop of his studded belt.

“These are just my normal clothes; you know the slutty shit girls wear out there,” Wren continued, trying her hardest to keep from becoming a third wheel on Tommy’s day.

“I’ll even pay for you!” her friend continued to beg for her companionship.

“So you’re taking both of us out tonight?” Wren huffed with a cocky and teasing smirk on her face. As Tommy thought through his proposition, he raised his eyebrows and pointed at his best friend with a curious and playful look spreading over his face, however Wren was quick to shut his wandering thoughts down. “Just sneak off for a bit once you get there and come to that janky fucking door in the men’s room to let me in.”

“I can do that!” Tommy said as he opened his bedroom door and ushered for Wren to come with him down the hall and into the kitchen. As she paced through the halls of a home she’d come to know all too familiarly, she tried to avert her eyes from all signs that reminded her she lived there. She hated having to rely on anyone besides herself. Her own ability to provide for herself was all she had ever known. Even when she still lived at home, her parents were too self-indulged and too busy fighting one another to notice their only child. At eighteen, they threw her to the wolves, ready to be rid of her—the thing that in their eyes kept them from having the life they’d wanted—and claimed she would never make anything of herself. Thankfully, upon hearing of her misfortune nearly ten months after the fact, Tommy called bullshit on Wren’s parents and his family opened their home to her. Wren was beyond grateful for their generosity, but overwhelmingly guilty for even finding herself in the position to put someone out in such a damning way.

“You’re not a burden to my folks,” Tommy would always say. “They love you like the daughter they never had; because their real daughter is nice and sweet, and not anywhere near as fucking metal as you.”

Tommy and Wren’s friendship was an odd one—everyone who saw the pair together could see that much. He was a colorful person who expressed everything outwardly, whereas Wren was often described as dark and introspective. At shows, Tommy would be flailing his limbs around, letting the music speak to his body while Wren let the rhythm and lyrics fill her soul. She’d tap her foot and bang her head on occasion, but would never lunge herself into the mosh pit and crowd-surf among other fans as Tommy had on more than one occasion. However unlikely the friendship maybe, it was strong and, on many occasions, too strong for Tommy’s dates to handle. Girls who dated Tommy never understood how he could be so close to Wren without wanting to fuck her, and their suspicion always got the best of them. This always led to an end in the relationship after a huge fight over an ultimatum between Wren or whatever flavor of the week he was tasting.

Regardless of the Bass family’s insistence on Wren’s presence being nothing but welcome, she found herself ridden by guilt each night she ate their food and took up space in their home. Getting out of the house and going to see London with Tommy—even if they wouldn’t be together during the show—could be exactly what Wren needs to get out of the mental funk she’d been finding herself returning to for months now.

Wren was fine with the sneaking around and the ridiculous plots Tommy would find himself cooking up on how to avoid “the Wren issue” with his dates while also making sure he’d have a good time if his date abandoned him at a show. It wasn’t uncommon for many of the girls Tommy brought around to cower away from the rock scene, and as much of a people person as Tommy was, he hated being at shows by himself. Tonight wouldn’t be the first time Wren hung around at a concert waiting for her best friend’s date to bail at the sight of a fight, and she knew it wouldn’t be the last. Overall, she had fun: it was fun to sneak into clubs to watch her favorite bands, it was fun knowing that she was Tommy’s ride or die—the one who he knew would always be there to keep him company—and it was a hell of a lot more fun when the stuck up bitches bailed and she got to break out of her shell a tiny bit and join Tommy in the mosh pit for a song or two. Deep down, in the pit of her stomach, as she held her arms close and tried to ignore the subtly cool breeze floating through the Los Angeles streets, she knew tonight was going to be fun too.

“Fuck, Tommy, where are you?” she grunted. Wren leaned her back against the brick wall and kicked the bathroom door with the heel of her boot, impatient as to why it was taking him so long to come and get her. She accounted for the five-minute drive to his girlfriend’s house, and the five-minute drive back, but after standing in the chilly air for over twenty minutes, she allowed herself to grow impatient at Tommy’s tardiness. She knew in reality he was probably still waiting in the long ass line out front, so she tried to suppress the temper that usually came with her impatience. Tilting her head up and gazing at the sliver of sky between the buildings surrounding her, Wren let the cool air flow over her hot cheeks. Just as she was about to step away from the wall and peer around the corner to see if she could spot Tommy’s leopard printed ass in the sea of people waiting to get in, she heard the rusty creak of the alley door open and poked her head inside.

“Finally,” she sighed as she made the small jump from the ground up through the slightly elevated bathroom floor. “I thought you forgot about me Tomm—you’re not Tommy.” The bar was always dark and dingy, and the bathrooms were even more so than the rest of the establishment, however she was always easily able to distinguish her friend from other men. A tall man, no more than three or four years older than her, stood before her with a cigarette between his lips and a lighter in his left hand as his right hand grasped what appeared to be a glass of either whiskey or bourbon on the rocks. He wore a dark leather jacket with what appeared to be a dark shirt underneath and dark leather pants. His overall demeanor seemed to be in stark contrast of Tommy, and Wren straightened her posture and tone from hunched over joking banter to straight-line intimidation standoff.

“What the fuck are you doing?” the man asked once the alley door closed. He assumed that she wouldn’t want a confrontation and that she’d retreat from the venue out of submission or intimidation, but Wren’s eyebrows quickly stitched into a skeptical glare as she stood her ground. The man before her still had his lighter flicked open and a small flame burned in his hand while his hazel eyes peered down at the young woman. He tried to stand up straighter in order to intimidate her into explaining herself, but he got a sense nothing would make her stand down. She had fierce, cold eyes that seemed to cut right through him and in an instant of impatience, he opened his mouth to repeat himself, only to have her speak over him.

“What does it look like?” she scoffed and folded her arms over her chest. The man’s narrowed eyes, tense jaw, and teased, long black hair was nothing more than an obstacle keeping her from having a good time at a show she’d been dying to see.

“Looks like you’re sneaking in,” the man said with an arrogant smirk as he cocked his head to the left and took in the woman’s appearance.

“Congratu-fucking-lations,” Wren smirked, “you regular Sherlock Holmes.” Dropping her arms to her side, Wren took a long step forward to side-step the man in front of her only for him to take a quick step to his left and puff out his chest. “Come on, man,” she sighed. “You can’t be that much of a dick!”

“That’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart,” he smirked devilishly. He was certain the woman would crack and turn away to save herself the humiliation of continuing to linger in a men’s room, but the self-assured grin that traveled onto her face only caused his eyebrows to furrow in curiosity.

“You may be a dick, but you’re nothing but talk,” Wren stated and placed her hands gently on her hips, allowing herself to be in as vulnerable of a position as she could be in a situation like this in order to show how unafraid she was of the man before her. “I, on the other hand, have the balls to follow through. So, thanks for the, whatever the fuck public decency lecture that was, but I’m going to step around you now and watch what I expect to be a kick ass show that I’m, frankly, too damn broke to afford to see the ‘appropriate’ way,” Wren stated while using air quotes. “I’m also too damn broke to afford a drink, even in a hole like this, so,” without any warning, she slipped her fingers around the glass the man was holding, plucked it from his hand, and sent the burning, icy liquor down her throat in one large gulp, “thanks for the Jack, even if it is a pansy-ass whiskey if you ask me.” With nothing more than a light shoulder check, Wren took a long stride past the man standing in her way, and carried herself high as she paced past the line of men at the urinals watching the scene unfold, before she emerged into the bar.

It only took her about ten minutes to find Tommy in the masses of concert goers, and throughout the night, she managed to keep him in her sights just in case his date bailed; although at the end of the night, she was still pressed against the back of the venue, being forced to squint in order to make out which band was playing, while Miss Blondie hung close to Tommy. Wren had to hand it to the girl, she wasn’t like the other chicks Tommy brought to shows in hopes of turning them on to the rock scene. Even when the bassist of London threw a heavy hitting punch at the band’s lead singer, she didn’t run off like Wren had expected. Sure, she jumped back in awe as the rest of the crowd shouted either obscenities of shock or encouragement, but she didn’t run, and that deserved at least a little respect from Wren.

As bouncers rushed toward the stage to separate the two band members, other employees of the bar acted as ushers to escort the numerous patrons of various stages of intoxication out of the venue and into the streets to have a better chance of breaking up the fight without a brawl. Wren tried to call out for Tommy’s attention, but a slight panic came over her as she noticed a cop picking out another sleazy freeloader who had snuck in through one of the other weak points in security. Wren retreated the way she had come in—through the dank and abysmal restroom, leading into a dingy alley—and then disappeared into the crowd that dispersed along the sidewalk of the Sunset Strip.

Continue Reading: Next Chapter

[did-he-just-hiss-at-me]

"You're My Hero" Pt 1

Warnings: getting robbed, minor injures, homophobia mention (lmk if i forgot any)

Summary: Virgil is a superhero crushing on Logan. Logan is crushing on the hero. Chaos goes down.

Ships: Analogical

AU: Superhuman!Virgil (NOT the same as my Supers AU)

Notes: idgaf if someone's done this already now enjoy. fic is inspired by this drawing so thank u op for drawing this!!!

Taglist: @bean-of-cheese @watchoutforthefanfics @notalwaysthebadguy @imnotalwaysthebadguy @tottalynotgayatall @phantom-moonfire @theoffical-virgilsanders @ayesthoughts @ollyollyoxinfree @aleiimm @virgil-is-baby-boi @ballisticfan123 @rosiethephoenix @thestarswelcomemewithopenarms

-----

Virgil Deckett was a hero. A hero with beautiful black feathers that faded to white. Flying above the city, on his usual patrol, he started monologuing.

"My name is Virgil Deckett. I have been a hero since my senior year of high school. I was blessed with large wings that I can hide at will.

Just like any traditional super hero story, I have a crush that I try to hide my hero identity from. Unlike other comics though," Virgil stopped to chuckle, "I'm gay."

"And my crush is my roommate, Logan Everton. I've known him since middle school and I realized I had a crush since my freshman year of high school. I got kicked out my sophomore year and went to live with my cousin, Patton Harper. That's when I discovered I had wings."

As Virgil continued to glide around, he glanced down at the ground below. He was right above Logan's workplace, Virgil subconsciously flew here. Logan.

Virgil could almost never get him off his mind. That crush has been there for ages, festering. Virgil wanted to be with him so bad, but it was risky, due to being a hero.

Later that day, Virgil arrived home. He walked in exhausted, only to find Logan on the couch watching something on his laptop. "Hey, L. What'cha lookin at?" came from the emo's mouth as he lazily flopped onto the couch beside the nerd.

Logan's face turned red a little bit as he confessed: "More... superhero bits from the news..." A nervous chuckle came from Logan. "To be more specific, it's today's footage of The Raven, my personal favorite." he giggled.

Virgil's face blushed red. Logan may be a big comicbook & superhero nerd, but no hero has never topped The Raven when it comes to Logan's favorite.

Virgil is The Raven.

Flashback to late sophomore year...

Virgil knocked on Logan's door. It was his first time ever going to his crush's house and he was nervous. You could even tell by the sound of his knocking, it was shaky.

Logan opened the door. "Hello Virgil." emptily came from the nerd's mouth. Back in high school Logan was a lot more closed off emotionally, but he still was friendly, it's just his lack of showing emotion was off-putting.

Logan went for a hug but stopped in his tracks. "Oh, is it ok if I hug you?" "O-oh, heheh, sure!" nervously agreed Virgil. He didn't expect that, and was completely freaking out on the inside, but he didn't want to ruin anything.

After the hug, Logan brought Virgil inside. He got to meet Logan's parents, then they went to Lo's room. When Virgil walked into the room though... He saw a big poster of himself. Or rather, The Raven.

Fear sunk into the pits of his stomach. Virgil knew Logan loved heroes, but he had no clue that The Raven was his favorite, despite him only being famous for three months now. It made Virgil shake some more. Not because it was bad, though.

Logan noticed Virgil staring at the poster and mistook it for the feeling of wonder. "Oh, you like the poster? I got it commisioned from Roman for my birthday last month." Virgil shook out of his state and looked at Logan.

"Wait, Roman, as in Roman Aveyard, the leader of the art club and frequent star in the school's plays?! No way!"

"Yes way, the Aveyard twins are actually childhood friends of mine."

"That's crazy! You think you could introduce them to me sometime?"

"Sure, although it's not that hard, they're super friendly and welcoming. Well, Remus is a bit more difficult because of, y'know."

Virgil chuckled. After time passed, and years went by, Virgil was used to Logan's obsession with his hero self.

Virgil snapped away from the flashback. "Haha, of course you are..." Virgil mumbled loud enough for Logan to hear. Logan looked away from the screen for the first time since Virgil got home only to see his reddened face. "Wow, are you ok? You look tired."

"Yeah, I'm fine, just a long day." Virgil yawned to sell the 'tired' excuse. "How was your day at work?"

"Boring. Though I did see the Raven fly over my workplace, so that was cool." Logan smiled. It was a beautiful smile, in Virgil's eyes.

Virgil so wished he could just tell Logan. But it would be weird since he's also The Raven. The thought just made Virgil's stomach twist. Not yet. It's not safe.

-----

It was another long day for Logan. He was walking home from work after working overtime, since it wasn't too long and Logan needed the exercise. He had been thinking about Virgil, who was probably home already, when he heard a cry for help.

Logan turned his head. It was coming from an alleyway beside him. He dashed down it only to get side sweeped and ended up falling on his face. His glasses were cracked on one side but the other side stayed safe.

There were four masked figures in all black in front of him, one them female. The woman, in a normal tone, went "Oh, help me! I'm soo scared!" and laughed maniacally. Logan had been tricked.

One of the men picked him up by the back of his shirt, while another man and the woman held his arms and legs so he couldn't escape. The remaining guy walked up and got semi-close to Logan's face.

Logan tried to get away but it was pointless. The man up in his space was quiet but still scary-sounding. "Alright you pathetic little nerd, cough up everything you got and we'll let ya go with just a broken ribcage at the rarest. If you don't comply, you'll never live long enough to make it home."

Logan was starting to cry at this point. He squirmed as much as he could, so much that his glasses fell off. He spat out "Heck no! Leave me alone!" only to to get a rough slap and a punch in the nose.

As the man who wasn't holding him dug through his bag, picking out every valuable he had and ruining everything else.

He was in major distress at this point. There was only one thing he could do.

Logan cried for help.

-----

[Good Ending]

[Bad Ending]

[artificialqueens]

Run My Mouth (Monet x Monique)- Ortega

a/n: i actively refuse to type the word Momo into existence bc i refuse to associate that fucking horrendous face with these cute af idiots. this is my entry to the fic challenge bc someone wanted Monet x Monique and i wanted out of the Branjie emotion pit! this is filling the cliches 3 (enemies to lovers) and 7 (A has a sexy dream about B) and also is of course a lesbian au bc that seems to be the only currency i deal in. it’s also set within the Just The Game We’re In universe if anyone’s interested, and is also probably horrendously ooc. christ i’m good at selling my fics!! credit where credit’s due, the “holy trinity of why” was stolen from The Thick Of It, the song on Monique’s insta story is Own It by Ella Mai, and “panini head” is stolen from Gordon Ramsay. hope u all enjoy!

Summary: Guardian journalist Monet X Change arrives at the Ministry of Defence to run a piece on Shea Coulee. She didn’t expect to be distracted by a bad-tempered band 1 comms girl who seems intent on driving Monet to distraction entirely through sarcastic remarks, tattoos and acrylic nails.  

***

Journalism. What did it all actually mean? When it came down to it, all it was was writing about stuff that happened in the world. All it was was retelling a story. But then nobody ever really seemed to view it that way, Monet thought to herself, as she scuffed one high heel against the rough, sandpaper-like carpet of the lobby and continued to wait.

It was never as simple as just writing, though. Fuck, if that was all journalism was then how many horrific atrocities could have been avoided just through the lack of coverage and platforming alone? There was always an agenda to push despite Monet’s personal feelings on the situation, and she always just had to put up and shut up. For example, today. What Monet really should have been writing about was the Ministry of Defence’s catastrophic overspend, but someone high up in the party (probably Bianca Del Rio, Monet reasoned) had made some sort of deal with Bob to avoid excessive coverage of it. This surprised Monet as, before she’d started working at The Guardian, Bob had been part of Phi Phi O’Hara’s party as their press secretary. Still, even if Monet didn’t know the finer details of how politics worked she knew what a threat or a bribe looked like, so instead of writing about anything juicy or remotely interesting she was here, in the offices of the MOD, waiting on Shea Coulee. Bob had sent Monet out to do some private life piece, some sort of day-in-the-life of a department minister thing that was set to last for a fortnight. Shea would hate it as it meant Monet would be exposed to all sorts of potential party fuck-ups. Monet would hate it because it was a bunch of writing which was of absolutely no consequence. The Guardian’s readers would hate it because it was an article attempting to humanise a politician, and Monet knew people hated those, so there it was. The hat trick of fuck.

She waited dispassionately in the lobby, her heels swinging and scuffing the carpet with every passing second. She didn’t know how long she’d been doing it, or how many times, but there suddenly came a voice from one end of the corridor.

“‘Scuse me, ma'am.”

She didn’t turn around at first. In all honesty, Monet’s ego meant that she thought that anyone in the building would be addressing her by her last name, with a Ms. in front of it. So she kept swinging and scuffing.

The sound of heels came down the corridor. “Ma'am!”

Monet whipped her head around, slightly startled at the louder sound. She was met with a girl- early twenties, she would guess, in a smart black pencil skirt and suit jacket combination with a bright white shirt underneath. Her black hair was pinned up in a neat bun with a few strands helping her fringe frame her face, which was currently set into a scowl. Monet initially thought the girl was there to take her to Shea, however seeing the tray of coffees she was carrying made her second-guess. She frowned up at her from her position on the small sofa-lounger-thing she had been perched on. Monet’s back was already up and she hadn’t even said two words to her.

“Yes?”

The girl’s scowl deepened. “Are you aware that this is a ministerial department?”

Monet bit back a laugh. “Yes.”

“So you know that if you’re waiting here, you can’t sit and wear the carpet out like a pacing bear in a zoo, correct?” a smile finally came over the girl’s face, albeit a fake one. Monet briefly noted her eye makeup- bright and extravagant, a bit much for a day at work but still pretty and expertly applied. She decided to return the fake smile.

“Well thank you so much for that advice! I’m always really keen for pointers on office decorum by girls that look like their makeup was done by a blind toddler playing with dried up poster paints. Now,” Monet sighed lazily, pleased at the way the girl’s jaw had visibly dropped. “can you please make yourself useful and find me somebody that works for Shea Coulee? Because I’ve been waiting here a while.”

The other girl’s face was stony as she addressed her. “I work for Shea Coulee.”

Monet’s heart bunjee-jumped into the pit of her stomach. Shit. Okay, fuck, she didn’t need to panic. She was still holding the coffee tray, so that clearly didn’t indicate a senior position. The other girl’s face was set into a shit-eating smile, clearly happy to have scared her. This only served to rile Monet further. “Well, could you please check that she’s ready to see me? I’m Monet Change, I’m from The Guardian. I’m doing a piece with Ms. Coulee.”

The other girl narrowed her eyes in distaste. Monet noticed that they were deep brown, making them seem huge. “You got an ID?”

Monet rolled her eyes. Briefly, she cast an eye to the girl’s hand. “Are the office coffees not getting cold, tea girl?”

The girl looked briefly as if she’d been slapped in the face. Monet snorted. This was fun. She watched as the girl looked nervously down the corridor, then at the drinks in her hand. Monet almost felt sorry for her, until the girl frowned at her again.

“We’re living under a severe and constant terror threat, Ms. Change, and precautions are precautions,” she pouted, her face like vinegar. She held her hand out and Monet cast an eye over a set of neon green acrylic nails. With a small jump to her heart, she noticed that the nails on her index and middle finger were cut shorter than the others. She looked up at the girl and caught her eye. Another fake smile came her way. “ID.”

“Well how should I know you even work for Shea Coulee? Where’s your ID?” Monet answered back, taking far too much delight in the way the other girl pouted before taking her free hand and sticking her middle finger up in Monet’s face.

“There’s my ID, bitch! Do you want me to go get Ms. Coulee or not?”

“Monique, what the hell are you doing?” came a sudden voice from up the corridor, making the girl jump. A little splash of coffee jumped out from under the lid and landed on her wrist, and Monet didn’t miss the way she hissed a little through her teeth. She felt bad. Turning her eyes up the corridor, Monet saw who the voice was coming from- real and in-person Shea Coulee, with her neat dreads cascading down her shoulders and back and over her red shift dress. She radiated power, and Monet felt suddenly intimidated. The girl opened her mouth to speak, but Shea simply raised a hand and gave a light shake of her head. “I think you’d better get back to the office, don’t you? I don’t think any of us ordered an iced latte.”

The girl nodded sharply and walked briskly down the corridor, but not before she gave one final look to Monet that was mixed with anger, annoyance, and something else she couldn’t quite decipher.  

“Ms. Change, isn’t it?” Shea turned back to Monet and held out her hand, smiling as she took it to shake. “Pleased to meet you, I’m excited to be working with you. I have to apologise for Monique’s behaviour, she’s a complete hothead and she shouldn’t even have been interacting with you.”

Monique. It was a nice name.

Monet picked up her bag as Shea began walking down the corridor, quickening her pace to follow her which was tricky in her heels. “So uh, she’s not one of your advisors?”

Shea snorted a laugh. “Please. She’s a junior civil servant. You’ll meet my advisors, they’re just in the office.”

Monet thought for a moment. “So I don’t really need to interact with Monique at all during my time here then?”

“Oh, no. Don’t worry about that. You’re not going to be in with the little people,” Shea dismissed her with a wave of her hand as she walked into the bright and airy office space.

Good. It was good that she wasn’t going to be seeing Monique. Following Shea through to her office, Monet’s eyes scanned the room and somehow came to rest on Monique’s brown ones. Monique blinked once in surprise, then gave Monet a nasty look.

She was a total bitch, anyway.

***

Day five, and the end of week one. Monet would be lying if she said the whole thing was as boring as she’d thought it would be. Sure, the actual writing itself was boring. It turned out that a private life piece on Shea Coulee at work unsurprisingly consisted of Shea Coulee doing lots of work. Monet had met her advisors, Asia and Vixen, and they were nice enough girls but they were there to work too. So in lieu of anything interesting to do, Monet had had to invent her own fun.

Which consisted of annoying Monique.

It hadn’t started out like that, Monet always defended herself internally. She’d tried to make amends with her on the first day- stopped by her desk on the way out and asked her how her wrist was, but all she was met with was a wordless sneer. The next day, Monet had made a point of saying good morning to her, again met with no reply. She’d then complimented her hair when she came to Shea’s office to ask about a press release, but the only reply Monet got was a flip of it. So after that, the gloves were off. Monique had had three strikes, and now the bitch was out.

Monet could have just ignored Monique. That would have been the mature thing to do. But something about the girl had got under her skin and niggled away at her, like an annoying splinter. Plus Monet was competitive, and there was a need to get even.

On Tuesday, Monet got teas and coffees for the whole comms team apart from Monique. She didn’t miss the widening of Monique’s eyes then the disappointed pout that followed when she realised there was nothing for her. It made Monet’s skin prickle in satisfaction.

On Wednesday, Monet came into the department and walked up to Monique’s desk. She made sure Monique had locked eyes with her, made to smile at her, then fixed her eyes very pointedly on her cheek and frowned deeply, feigning concern as she walked away. She cast a glance at Monique over her shoulder as she walked away, who was furiously checking her reflection in her phone screen.

Yesterday, they had both been in the kitchen together. Monet had been grabbing a fork for her lunch when Monique had walked in, her eyes darkening upon seeing Monet. Monet felt a slight curl in her stomach when the other girl brushed past her and reached for a teabag, a rich, woody scent clinging to her like the black dress she was wearing.

“Morning, Monique,” Monet smiled, leaning against the countertop and smiling. “Hey, how are Cerberus and Hades this morning?”

Monique cast her a glare. She spoke after a beat of silence. “I don’t follow.”

“Guardians of the underworld?” Monet elaborated, receiving a tight smile in return.

“Oh, cute. Contemporary reference,” Monique bit back, reaching up to take a mug from a cupboard. “Should you not be, you know. Writing? Like an actual journalist? Are you an actual journalist or just a child pretending to be a journalist?”

“As opposed to you, who’s a child pretending to be…an adult?” Monet blinked, delighting in the way Monique visibly tensed up.

“Jesus, I can’t wait til you leave,” she muttered, Monet able to hear the eye roll in her voice. She gave a chuckle.

“Well get used to me, princess, because I’m here til next Friday,” Monet beamed at Monique as she turned around, her gaze frosty and making Monet shiver a little.

“I’m not your princess,” she said, her voice low and dark and giving Monet a small heart palpitation. With a sudden flashback to their Monday meeting, Monet remembered the nails on Monique’s right hand. A shiver ran down her spine.

“No, you’re right,” Monet said, dropping the pitch of her voice to match Monique’s. She took a step forward, closing the space between them. “You’re a little brat.”

Monique’s eyes bored into hers. There seemed to be something hanging in the air. After what could have been seconds or minutes, Monique scrunched up her face and spun around on her heel, leaving Monet on her own in the kitchen.

Monet had gone home and replayed their little confrontation in her head on repeat. It especially taunted her just before she was about to fall asleep, when she was lying in bed in the darkness with a dull throb between her legs that she tried her best to ignore. Monique was attractive, that was just a fact. She had a beautiful face and a little tiny waist and the most amazing legs, and when she wore short sleeved tops Monet could see the tattoos that went all the way up her arms, and she’d always been into tattoos. But Monique was also a total dick. So why was that so hot to her?

Monet found herself turning over in bed, switching the light on, grabbing her phone and typing xvideos into her search bar.

The next day everything seemed to be even more charged between the two girls, although that could have been Monet’s imagination. From the moment she walked into the department she had felt Monique’s eyes on her like a trained sniper, a blush hitting her cheeks that stayed there for most of the morning to the extent that Shea had asked her if she was feeling alright. Monet could hardly concentrate on the departmental she was sat in and was glad of the recorder she’d utilised to catch the meeting, because the only thought that seemed to run through her head was how do I get her alone again?

It turned out she didn’t have to wait very long. Monet was taking a phone call from Bob and she’d ducked into one of the small stationary cupboards to talk to her when Monique came in halfway through, her face curling up when she saw her. Monet’s heart gave a leap and, finding an excuse to finish the phone call earlier than needed, she pocketed her phone and turned to the other girl.

“Looking for some relevance?” Monet asked as she watched Monique bend down and open a cardboard box. The other girl narrowed her eyes at her as she stood up.

“Leave me alone, Monet. I’m serious,” she snapped, Monet crossing her legs together where she stood. Fuck, she could be bossed about like this all day.

“Oh, we on first name terms now? I’m a guest in your department, you should be addressing me properly,” Monet folded her arms and leaned back against the shelves behind her. Monique snorted and quirked a smile.

“Of course, Ma'am. I’m so sorry! Would you prefer Bitch, or Ms. Bitch?” she smiled sweetly. Monet couldn’t help but run her tongue over her bottom lip and then bite it softly, and she didn’t miss the way Monique’s eyes darted to it or the way her stare faltered.

“You know, you really shouldn’t be throwing around that word so casually, Monique, especially since I’m working with your boss.”

“Why are you doing this?!”

Monet exhaled. “Because I’m bored, it’s funny, and I hate you. There you go. The holy trinity of why.”

Then Monet got a shock as Monique suddenly took a step towards her, closing the gap between them in the already tiny cupboard, and if Monet leaned forward she would be able to feel Monique’s body against hers. Her eyes were dark as she scowled at her. “You think you can just walk into this department with your perfect hair and your perfect outfits and your perfect body and just talk shit to everyone after a week?”

Monet held back a gasp as Monique’s expression faltered, almost as if she’d given something away that she shouldn’t have. Her heart gave a jump. She’d really just said all that? Monet touched her caramel curls self-consciously. She looked at Monique from under her lashes. “I don’t talk shit to everyone, just you.”

Monique’s harsh stare was back. “Well you better stop.”

“Or what?”

“I’ll do something I regret,” Monique hissed. Monet blinked. It was so hard to read the situation. She couldn’t tell if Monique was genuinely threatening her, but she seemed to have got closer because Monet could feel the heat of her body just millimetres away from her own. She swallowed thickly. Just then she noticed Monique’s eyes dart quickly from her eyes to her lips and back up again. It made her decision for her.

“Dare you, princess.”

Quicker than Monet could blink, Monique had suddenly closed the minute gap between them, pressed her body up against Monet’s own, and was kissing her with more passion than she’d ever been kissed with before in her life. It was as if Monique’s lips were made of fire, and Monet moaned as she felt her hands tear roughly through her hair. Monet was so stunned that she was almost unable to kiss back, until she felt Monique suck gently on her tongue and lust flood through her whole body. Monet brought her hands, which had been resting on Monique’s waist, up to cup her jaw. Monique noticed the movement and Monet’s heart thudded quickly as she felt Monique take one of her hands in hers, lace their fingers together, and move it from her face down to-

“Monique! You still in there? I found a bunch of staples in the top drawer of- oh,” came a voice- one of the other comms girls, Monet recognised. With a speed that she didn’t think it was possible to move at, she leapt back from the other girl and thanked God that the comms girl on the other side of the door’s entry to the cupboard had been stopped by a huge box full of spiral-bound notebooks that Monique had moved to get better access to what she was looking for.

Monique ran her tongue over her lips and cast her eyes to the floor as she spoke. “Oh, thanks Vanessa! I’ll be out in two seconds, just need a couple more things.”

Monet hadn’t realised she was holding her breath until she released it when she heard the girl walking away down the corridor. Keeping her face neutral, she looked at Monique whose cheeks were dark pink and her eyes embarrassed.

“I should, uh,” Monet began, moving to the door in an effort to ease the awkward tension that had been created.

“Yeah, sure,” Monique nodded furiously, rubbing her forehead with one hand and averting her gaze. Without a second glance, Monet was out the cupboard and walking briskly up the corridor and back onto the meeting room she’d left when she originally took the phone call. Sitting back down in her seat, she was pleased that Shea was already talking so that nobody needed to acknowledge her arrival.

Just when she thought she was off the hook, Asia turned to her and murmured. “Girl, where the fuck did you take that phone call? A hedge?”

She declined to reply.

***

Monet walked into the department on Monday with a cocktail mixer of excitement, nerves, trepidation and readiness being shaken up in her stomach. Her mind had been a complete mess all throughout the rest of Friday, and Monique seemed to have been good at avoiding her because she hadn’t seen her at all for the rest of the day. So Monet had gone home at the end of the day with her head in a spin, her hair still a complete mess, and a burning need to be absolutely railed. She wasn’t able to stop herself from scrolling instagram when she was alone in her flat with a glass of wine, and her fingers were typing in Monique’s full name (which hung on the nametag around her neck each day) before she could stop herself. She found her instantly, and a guilty feeling built in Monet’s stomach as she found herself looking through the girl’s page, gorgeous selfie after gorgeous selfie making her stomach flip over and her palms grow hot. Suddenly, she saw the circle around Monique’s profile picture turn pink. Her thumb hovered over it, unsure if she wanted to graduate to full-blown instagram stalker creep status. Well, she’d come this far.

A mirror selfie of Monique filled the screen, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders and out of the ponytail it had been in earlier. She was smiling, and Monet found herself wishing she had that smile directed at her more often. With a pang she noticed that the wine in Monique’s glass was red, matching the crimson liquid in her own glass. As if she was afraid of being caught, Monet tapped off the story and buried her phone underneath one of her couch cushions.  

On Saturday, Monet met with her friend Bri for coffee, which was probably a good thing as it would serve to distract Monet from the dream she’d had last night of Monique, perched up on her desk in a black lace bodysuit and high heels talking in extremely explicit detail about what she wanted Monet to do to her. Meeting with Bri would stop her from lying in bed in her own filth masturbating herself into oblivion and obsessively checking Monique’s instagram like a complete loser. On the other hand, all Bri seemed to want to talk about was some French politician she’d slept with whilst she was over there as a correspondent for the BBC during the European Parliamentary elections, and it wasn’t really helping.

“…and like, I’d never really been one for strapons before- because, hello, big dicks usually aren’t really the selling point of lesbianism- but Jesus Christ, Monet, I swear I saw God. In fact, I fucked God. God was her. Hey, panini head, are you even listening to me?”

Monet blinked twice as she tuned back into the conversation. Her friend was staring at her intently, her blonde hair slightly all over the place with how animatedly she’d been telling the story. Not too far away from their table a family of four looked on, horrified.

“Oh my God, Cracker, it’s ten in the morning,” Monet rolled her eyes, utilising the nickname she sometimes hit out with for her friend (“Because I’m thin, white and salty?” “No, because it doesn’t take much for you to snap.“).

“So?! You can’t put a time limit on fucking a hot girl.”

“No, but you can put a volume limit,” Monet raised her eyebrows, as a Dad with a pram walked into the cafe. Bri rolled her eyes.

“Jesus, would you stop being such a prude? You need to get laid,” she sighed, then narrowed her eyes as she saw Monet shift in her seat and cross her legs, the memory of her stationary cupboard encounter flooding back into her head like a tsunami. “Unless you already have…? Monet?”

Monet took a sip of her coffee. She put it back on the saucer and tried to ignore Bri’s piercing eyes. “What?”

Bri jumped back in her seat and almost knocked a tray of tea out of the hands of a woman passing behind her. “Oh my God. You’re not telling me something. Tell me. Tell me now, or I go into more detail about my night with Aquaria Palandrani at double the volume I was using before.”

“How can it get more detailed?!” Monet cried in dismay, then frowned. “Whatever, I don’t want to know. Ugh, there’s nothing to tell, honestly.”

Bri leaned forward in her seat expectantly. Monet rolled her eyes and couldn’t help but laugh.

“Look, it’s honestly nothing! It’s just this girl-”

“A-HA! That’s not nothing! That’s a girl!” Bri gasped, excited. “More details, please.”

“You know I’m doing that piece on Shea Coulee for Bob? She works for her department, she’s a comms girl. We didn’t really see eye to eye at first…I mean, I guess we still don’t. But she’s fucking beautiful, and her attitude’s just really hot, you know? Even though it’s meant to make me not like her.”

“Ooh, hate fucking,” Bri gave her eyebrows a little wiggle, causing Monet to slap her on the arm.

“Shut up! I’m trying to get her to like me first.”

“Don’t. Hate fucking’s the best. Did I ever tell you about-”

Monet tuned out again, her mind now occupied by Monique now that she’d been talking about her. She wondered how she would play things on Monday, and how Monique would approach things with her. Even though she would be happy if Monique had had a personality transplant towards her, there was a small part of her that couldn’t help but long for one of her sarcastic clapbacks that drove her absolutely insane.

That night as she tried to write up things for her article, Monet couldn’t help but feel her phone in her jean pocket like an itch she had to scratch. Giving in, she opened up instagram and made her way to Monique’s page again, top in her search history. She saw a new post on her story and her heart gave a thud. Tapping, she was admittedly disappointed to see a song’s cover art pop up on the screen. She was about to tap off again when two emojis caught her eye, with a completely undeniable double entendre- tongue and squirt. The small clip of the song rang out in Monet’s living room before she could even adjust her volume.

“I put the na-na in naughty

Begging for it, got you on your knees

Didn’t make it to the bedroom, but we can do it there too

Whatever’s your fa-”  

“Oh my God, fuck off,” Monet yelped involuntarily, throwing her phone out of her hands so that it landed on the sofa cushion beside her. She didn’t know how the hell to interpret that, or if it was even about her, but all she knew was that she was more confused than ever.

***

Monet took a deep breath before she stepped into the offices on Monday morning, straightening her spine and walking in confidently, despite the fact she felt as if her legs were made of jelly. On her way into Shea’s office she passed by the desk that hadn’t been far from her mind all weekend (footage from her dream flashing through her head as she walked past) and out came the simple phrase that she’d rehearsed saying for hours.

“Good morning, Monique,” she said quickly, catching the other girl’s surprised eyes before sweeping past her desk and going straight into the Minister’s room, not giving the other girl a single chance to respond. Her heart beat rapidly all morning as she sat through meeting after meeting, a small triumphant smile on her face.

At quarter past twelve, Monet made her way to the elevators, ready to head out to grab some lunch. She cast her glance to Monique’s desk hopefully, only to find it empty. Her disappointment was short-lived, however, when she walked into the lift and heard the click-clack of high heels running to catch the it before it left. Monet pressed the button to hold it and her stomach flipped over when Monique, wearing a black, calf-length bodycon dress, ran into the lift beside her. She shot Monet a quick glance, then looked up to the ceiling and avoided her gaze. The lift doors closed and it began its journey down the many, many floors towards the lobby.

“Thanks,” Monique said, after a few beats of silence. Monet cleared her throat.

“No worries.”

There was another pause. Monet couldn’t tell where it was going, if anywhere, and the awkward atmosphere built. She tossed some of her honey curls out of the collar of her shirt and rubbed the back of her neck, embarrassed.

“So, uh,” Monique spoke up, inspecting her nails. “You have a nice weekend checking up on me?”

Monet felt as if someone had poured a freezing cold bucket of water over her head. She wished she could control the horror that was almost definitely slapped across her face. “What?!”

Monique gave a small smile. “It’s okay, Monet, I know I look good. The least you could’ve done is shoot me a follow, you know?”

Monet wanted the bottom of the elevator to drop off so she could fall directly down the lift shaft.

“I wasn’t…oh my God,” she trailed off, realising there was no way she could explain her way out of this one. She placed both her hands on her face, covering her eyes. “How did you-”

“You know it tells you who views your stories, right?” Monique’s voice came, a slight laugh to it that served to make Monet feel both more and less embarrassed. “Hey. Don’t worry about it. Happens to the best of us.”

Monet couldn’t muster a reply. She didn’t even think she could take her hands off her eyes.

“I mean, I gotta admit. I had a lil’ sneak on yours too,” the other girl said quietly, causing Monet to finally take her hands off her eyes and look at Monique who was leaning lazily against the bar on the lift. “You look like a snack when you’re not in those work clothes, girl.”

Ohhh, shit.

Monet tossed her hair over her shoulder and smirked at Monique. The conversation was finally going down the route she wanted, and she found herself squeezing her thighs together in anticipation. “I don’t know, baby, you seemed pretty keen on me when I was in them too.”

She watched as Monique laughed, looked up at the ceiling again, and shook her head. “That was a necessary step I had to take to stop you running your fuckin’ mouth, and it worked.”

Monet tilted her head as Monique finally made eye contact with her. She bit her lip and shrugged. “Can’t have worked that well, ‘cause I’m still talking.”

Monique smiled smugly, taking a single step towards her. “And what?”

Monet blinked, taken aback. “Well. Maybe you need to shut me up again.”

Monique twirled a strand of her hair around her finger. “Is this a big, powerful, high-up Guardian journalist begging a Band 1 Civil Servant to make out with her in an elevator?”

“Oh, Jesus,” Monet laughed, feeling the heat between her legs build up as Monique came to a stop beside her, deliberately standing a little too close. “You’re a bitch. Fuck, no, I’m not begging.”

“Mm, you wanna beg me so bad,” Monique smiled teasingly, and Monet had never wanted a lift to break down more in her life. Turning quickly so that she had one arm on either side of Monique and effectively trapping her, Monet saw a quick, wicked flash in the other girl’s eye as she leant in and dropped her voice.

“I bet I could make you beg me to do a lot of things.”

Monique flashed her a look from under her lashes. “Like what?”

The lift suddenly stopped and the doors slid open, making Monet flinch and Monique jump beside her. To her relief, nobody was waiting to walk in and she couldn’t help but laugh, the other girl rapidly joining in. After a few seconds, Monet realised they had to get out of the elevator and so she reluctantly walked out, Monique following behind her. Now that the moment had been shattered, it was back to being slightly awkward, but Monet really didn’t want to lose what they’d just created. She found herself stopping abruptly, turning around to face Monique who had stopped beside her and was gazing at her hopefully.

“Hey. Do you want to grab lunch just now?” she asked, her heart soaring as she saw Monique’s smile grow wider and more beautiful.

“Sure,” she beamed, Monet smiling back and feeling like a total lovesick idiot.

They started walking again. “Where do you wanna go?”  

Monique ran her tongue over her teeth and shrugged. “Well…my flat’s five minutes away and my flatmate isn’t home.”

Without missing a beat, Monet took Monique’s hand and led her out of the building, part of her hoping she would be able to shut Monique up and part of her really not wanting to.

[fimblo]

Observations and reflections - DevOpsDays Stockholm 2019

Last time I attended a DevOpsDays conference was in Gothenburg, 2011. At the time I worked as an Operations engineer, and the conference was really inspiring and useful for me for my day-to-day work.

When I heard that DevOpsDays was coming to Stockholm some six months ago, I decided to treat myself with it - with the hope that it would be just as good as last time. I had my doubts - after all, in the eight years since I last attended, I had worked mostly as a manager and toward the end, an Agile Coach.

I needn't have worried.

If you put lots of awesome people in a venue, give them space to talk, feed them and supply them with interesting subject matter in the form of presentations and lightning-talks, the result can't be anything less than motivating.

Here are some of my observations and reflections - some of them organisational, some of them technical, and the rest perhaps a little random.

The understanding of DevOps culture isn't as pervasive as I thought

After all my years at Spotify, where we built up this devops/agile/trust-based culture over time, it's easy to forget how it was at other workplaces. The wall between developers and operations. The paperwork and risks involved in deployments.

After working at a place where devops was so ingrained in how we worked, it became so easy to take it for granted. The problems some participants brought up in the Open Spaces were nightmarish - and I was surprised over how surprised I was.

It was a humbling experience.

Your "code" in your VCS for a project/epic should (must) be more than just the business logic. Your code needs to include config, tests, deployment logic etc.

This should be obvious, but I guess it isn't in some orgs. If you need to go back in time in your VCS to get a earlier working version of your project, you'll likely want to see how that version of your business logic was brought to life in prod.

DevOps is a culture where everyone works together to deliver and operate a feature for the customer.

… and automate the crap out of everything.

If your Definition of Done doesn't include the code hitting prod, you're misleading yourself.

Also, something something "adoption by at least one user"

If you have a dedicated DevOps team alongside your Ops, Dev and QA teams, you're doing it wrong.

… congrats, you just added another silo in your org.

Overheard: References to "Accelerate" by Nicole Forsgren et al

… awesome book, not surprised it came up here. If you haven't read it and you're an engineer(developer,sysadmin,tester,etc), or you're a manager or agile coach, it's definitely worth the read.

Some participants didn't see the connection between Agile/lean and DevOps

… while for others, of course, it was so obvious that it was difficult to explain, much like a mathematical axiom. Both require concepts such as:

Continuous improvement through reflection, sharing, and experimentation

Relationships based on trust

Feedback culture between individuals and teams

Failing fast.

Two different mindsets in orgs: Role and Mission mindset

Role mindset: I do what my role prescribes. This works (?) in orgs operating in ossified commodities markets, where the org/product/technology doesn't change very often.

Mission mindset: I do what I can to achieve the mission. This mindset works if you're doing something new, experimental, or risky. If you don't know what the market will look like tomorrow. Why limit yourself to a role generated by an organisational system designed (even with the best of intents) to solve yesterday's problems?

Overheard about hypergrowth: Throwing people at a problem only introduces more handovers.

Fun way of expressing the problem. Here are my thoughts on what happened during early Spotify days on the matter:

Growing the engineering org to add capacity often leads to people using recruitment as an excuse to not have to sort and truncate the epic backlog, leading to an org unable or unused to the difficult task of prioritisation and saying no to important initiatives.

Also, hypergrowth will unfortunately lower capacity initially thanks to time spent on recruitment and onboarding. The more you hire during a short period, the deeper and longer the cost in capacity. Also, # of incidents due to lack of tactile knowledge will rise, pulling focus away from new deliveries in favour of stabilising the system.

Was surprised when I found out that a Post-mortem at Google was a document, not a meeting

At Spotify, the term "Post-mortem" refers primarily to a meeting. At Google, it refers to a document. The purpose of the two are the same - to fix the root cause(s) and enable learnings from failures. The main difference IMO seems to be the scope of the post-mortem. At Google, the post-mortem document is written primarily by one person and shared with the whole org and posterity. At Spotify, the result of a post-mortem is a shared understanding among engineers and stakeholders of why and how the system failed. The focus is on raising empathy thereby lowering the threshold for sharing learnings in person.

Even if I knew that Google conducted post-mortems, it had never occurred to me that it could be done differently. How many other assumptions have I made over the years?

Overheard: Can DevOps culture happen in a centralised command-and-control org?

This question was discussed or touched upon multiple times during the two days, and the discussions leaned strongly toward the opinion that the engineers who write, test, deploy and maintain the code are best suited to make the decisions necessary to do their work. If they are given relevant information (business info, purpose of the project, who the end-users are, budget, etc) they will make good decisions.

My own musings on giving people mandate, or empowering people:

What we want to do to enable the above is to remove the obstacles which hinder people's natural propensity to take initiative. If you are discussing 'giving mandate' or 'empowering' your staff, there's already something iffy IMO. Mandate isn't something which is given - it's something humans innately possess. Instead of telling someone they now have mandate, consider how your organisation removes mandate from a person. What control mechanisms do you have in place? Identify these, and for each consider why said mechanism is in place. What problem did they solve? Is the problem still a thing? Is there another way of solving the problem without depriving mandate from your teams?

Also - What is the social cost of failure in your org? How do formal and informal leaders react to failure? People can have all the mandate in the world and still feel disempowered if they are scared of public shaming.

Overheard: "Distributed monolith"

In the attempt to transform a backend from monolith to microservice, there's a risk of ending up with a distributed monolith - where one suffers the disadvantages of both monolith and microservices.

If your microservices operate with knowledge of the internals of other services,

If your microservices know what services exist upstream,

If many microservices share a database (or worse, share tables (or gasp, write to the same tables)

… then you probably operate a Distributed Monolith.

On scary deployments

Fear of failure drives out creativity and smothers innovation. And you're likely to be working in an environment where innovation and creativity is paramount. Fear isn't binary - it's a spectrum with with gradually increasing magnitudes - from slight nervousness all the way up to sheer panic. So you might not be terrified when about to deploy something to prod, but anxious. Or nervous.

But this tension shifts our focus from what we like to do - create, experiment and learn. From the company perspective, the fear of failure in teams leads to deploys once every couple months, during a weekend, in the middle of the night.

So what we want to do is change how we do things to decrease our fear and raise our confidence. Each thing below can help you and your team do this:

Release smaller changes: This will make it easier to review your code and understand it. Also, the potential risk of failure becomes smaller since the release is a small one.

Release often to production: You'll find bugs in your release process much more often if you go from one release a month to multiple a day. And you'll start to trust your process more if you do it often,

Automate your release process to reduce human error.

Use feature flags to apply your changes to a smaller demographic, and to be able to decouple deployment of code from when it impacts the user.

Write tests to verify the knowns.

Ensure that monitoring of the service exists from the get-go to detect early signs of system failure or degradation and to get data for troubleshooting and later, for your blameless post-mortem.

All in all, the conference was fun and inspirational. It felt good to be able to both learn from others and at other times, to share my experience and thoughts with others. 10/10, will definitely do this again :)