#this is in reference to that jeopardy question

[inkedbydesire]

Love On The Brain Pt 2 (18+)

Jimmy Uso x Black Fem OC

(Part 1)

Warning: 18+ Content, detailed storyline with just SMUT, MINORS DO NOT ENTER

Summary: Somewhere between his irresistible smile, cheesy jokes, and mind-numbing sex, Navae's five-month whirlwind with Jonathan Fatu had turned her into that friend (the one the group chat secretly dragged behind her back). So wrapped up in her situationship, Navae didn't even notice how often she was flaking on plans, showing up late, ducking out early, or not showing up at all. It wasn't like her, and her friends noticed. Convinced Jonathan was the root of the problem, they staged a full-blown friendtervention. After being called out for trading in her day ones for a man she barely knew, Navae knew she had to make a change and fast. So when girls' weekend rolled around again, she vowed to be fully present and accounted for. Nothing was going to stop her from walking out her front door ….. except, of course, the case of her missing keys.

Word Count: 5k

A/N: It’s insane that it took me a month to come back with Part 2 but *refer to my bio*…. every plot I start I plan on finishing but the WHEN is in question. Anyways, I apologize in advance for any typos or grammatical errors.

*************************************************

"You got more than one set of lips, Navae."

"You're so freaking nasty... you do know that, right?" Navae asked the question to Jonathan, who delivered the absurd line with the utmost seriousness. And Navae could tell by his facial expression that he was indeed ..... serious. She shook her head slightly, fighting hard against the smile attempting to creep onto her lips. And fighting even harder against the slight throb between her legs that indicated that she secretly loved the vulgarities he regularly threw her way.

Usually, a man speaking vulgarly to her would be a quick turn-off, but it was a whole different ball game when she knew for certain that the man could back it up.

Jonathan was indeed that man.

Since being caught in his orbit, one thing she quickly came to learn about him was that he wasn't at all shy about using his words to convey his desires. There wasn't a bashful bone in his body when it came to her.

"Let me eat it before you leave right quick."

"Come sit on it for a lil bit before you go."

"I need it, Navae."

He always managed to utter the perfect words that would have her bent over the nearest surface instead of walking out the door like she willfully intended to. Once he consumed her mind and body, any plans she had made with her best friends would retreat to the far, far, far back of her mind.

That had to change tonight, or she feared she would be in jeopardy of losing them.

Which is why just entertaining a conversation with Jonathan instead of focusing on locating her keys was a bad idea. If Navae was going to make it out tonight, she had to get her head in the game, but unbeknownst to her, she was right where Jonathan wanted her.

"Yeah ... but that's why you was in love after only like ...... a week, right?" Jonathan questioned her with a raised brow, making sure to show the smile he knew Navae had a difficult time resisting. While she processed how to respond because she always got stumped when he brought that shit up and he knew it too, his hands gently traveled down to her bare thighs. The dress she was sporting left little to the imagination, causing only the thought of getting her out of the flimsy fabric to cloud his mind. He could barely stay focused long enough to think about anything else.

"I wasn't in love, I was just ...... caught in the moment," Navae responded with yet another feeble attempt to try to make sense of that shameful moment that he just refused to let her live down. Of course, she wasn't in love after only a week of knowing him. She was just more so in awe of how he made her feel that night. Jonathan knew that, but to Navae's annoyance, it didn't stop him from cracking jokes about it every chance he got.

"Yeah, whatever you say, Navae ...... can I get my kiss?" He asked, redirecting the conversation back to what he was aiming for before they got too far off track.

The look in his eyes and the firm tightening of the grip he had on her thighs is what shoved Navae's mind into stupidly considering his offer for a second. The very last route she needed to be going down if arriving at that club in the next 30 minutes to an hour was something she realistically intended to do.

And she did.

Didn't she?

But this was the first moment they'd had to themselves, basically all week long, due to their schedules. They were usually on each other like white on rice whenever or wherever the opportunity presented itself, so a week of waiting and anticipating felt like an eternity for them both. It never got any easier. All week, Navae had been tortured with nothing but sexual flashbacks that only got more intense and vivid when she was lying in bed without him.

Plus, she sadly couldn't seem to satisfy herself anymore in the wake of meeting Jonathan. Her rose that had been doing the trick long before he came along failed to even give her the tiniest bit of an orgasm these days. She couldn't replicate the same feeling she got with him, causing her to rely on him heavily for her pleasure.

She swore sometimes it felt like she was feening for him.

Which is why it became too easy to ditch her friends for him. Not seeing them for a week was something but not being near him for a whole week was damn near unbearable.

So if she was being completely honest with herself, the feeling was mutual. She wanted him just as bad as she could vividly tell he wanted her right now. Hell, maybe more. And she didn't particularly want to wait until the wee hours of the night or until the next morning either.

Momentarily, she wondered if she could kill two birds with one stone.  Give in to Jonathan a little and still show and prove tonight for her girls like she promised. But she knew the chances of that were slim to none. It was a mistake she had already made numerous times before. Thinking she could do something quick with Jonathan and still make her plans. It just wasn't possible. Once they got wrapped up in each other sexually, nothing or no one else mattered, and that was the issue she was currently facing.

Sacrifices were supposed to be made for the people you cared about, but for too many months, her friends had been receiving the short end of the stick. Which was a questionable turn of events because she barely knew Jonathan compared to them.

So everyone, including herself, was wondering how he got such a hold on her in only a handful of months.

She had no desire to continue fucking up her nearly decade long friendships but at the same time she didn't particularly want to end things with him either.

She desperately needed to find a balance between the two.

And she knew in her heart that balance could only come with her putting a halt to making herself so accessible to Jonathan. He had to learn to wait. That's all it was to it. She couldn't keep letting him have her the very moment he wanted her, like he had grown so accustomed to. Like she had allowed him to grow accustomed to.

"I don't have time for that right now. I got somewhere to be, Jon. We can get into whatever you want to get into later. I promise." She hesitantly stated to him in the firmest way possible, attempting to hold her ground. However shaky that ground was. This was the first time she was telling him he had to wait and actually trying to stand on it.

But Jonathan had already gone to the extreme of concealing her keys in his pocket, so he wasn't planning on making it easy for her. He knew what he wanted and by the way his dick was already hard just by looking up at her he knew he had to have it. 

So he knew he had to resort to the one thing that always got her to melt into his hands.

Begging for it.

"Please, baby," he spoke to her in an intoxicating tone as Navae watched his tongue run across his lips.

"You gone leave me like this?" he asked, drawing her attention down to his print that was bulging out of his sweatpants.

To have a man as fine as Jonathan, who wasn't above begging for what he desired from her, weakened Navae in unexplainable ways. Her clit pulsated in unbearable arousal as her eyes slowly moved from his bulge that seemed to be beckoning to her back up to his eyes that held every filthy thought that was running through his head.

Her resolve slipped between her fingers, and not even the sudden ringing of her phone in her purse on the coffee table could bring her mind back. Navae heard the ringing and knew it had to be Toni, ready to tell her that everybody was at the destination waiting for her arrival, but Jonathan had just won the little game that Navae didn't even know they were playing.

Because right now, she no longer cared who she had to disappoint for just a few moments of bliss with him.

Why wait for something she could get right now?

It seemed redundant.

A satisfied smirk danced on Jonathan's lips as he moved his hands under her dress and could feel just how much he had really won through her panties.

She was so wet for him, just how he liked.

Navae didn't have it in her to will herself to put up any form of protest as Jonathan took hold of her left leg and secured it over his shoulder. She just held on and braced herself for the ride. As her phone rang again, she did return to her senses long enough to feel a moment of guilt. She was about to do the exact thing that caused her to endure a whole "friendtervention" in the first place.

Choosing the way Jonathan made her feel over showing up for her friends which was a very shitty thing to do. Especially when it was a constantly repeated offense.

Navae knew it.

But reminding herself that Sunday Brunch was still scheduled tomorrow, and she could just make it up to them there was how she convinced herself not to worry about it.

"J-Jon," she stuttered out his abbreviated name as he brought her mind back to him as his fingers connected with her center. Sliding her panties to the side he marveled at her clit before placing a sloppy kiss directly on it. The taste ignited a powerful surge in him, causing him to quickly go in for another one. Instantly, he found himself having to multitask and hold onto Navae tighter as the sensation caused her to jerk in his arms. She never could maintain a still posture when he was pleasuring her. She couldn't help but move around, trying to find some way to cope with the feeling.

Navae's head fell back in ecstasy as her stomach churned and craved in as Jonathan's warm tongue slithered down to her entrance then back up to wrap around her sensitive and swollen clit.

Navae panted, cursed, and moaned repeatedly as Jonathan proceeded to feast on her like a survivor who had been stranded away from civilization without food or water for weeks. Navae tried to open her eyes and look down to watch the show as she often enjoyed to, but found it to be too much to handle when her eyes landed on Jonathan, who was staring up at her as his tongue worked her into a frenzy.

It felt like an eternity, but only after a few minutes of enduring Jonathan's tongue did Navae feel her thoughts jumbling together and heat seeping into her limbs, indicating that she was near her peak. Jonathan knew her body almost as well as he knew his own at this point, so he could feel the twist and turn of her body that showed she was close without her having to announce it.

Navae's juices were like his own personal brand of kryptonite, and he wanted nothing more than to have her lose herself right into his mouth.

But to be quite honest even though he was getting what he wanted he was still a little irritated that not even a full 15 minutes ago Navae was strongly entertaining the thought of being anywhere but on his dick. He was still feeling a way that she came close to denying him and making him wait. 

He couldn't just let that slide.

In the end, she would get hers, but he had to teach her a little lesson first.

So before she climaxed, he abruptly stopped and returned her panties to their previous position. It pained him to do so because the art of eating pussy wasn't one that he took lightly but he had to make sure Navae understood just how good she had it.

"Let's find your keys," he told Navae as she stood there completely stunned and confused as he gently placed her leg back onto the carpeted floor and adjusted her dress for her.

Navae was left feeling dazed because, for the first time since coming into contact with him, Jonathan had chosen to leave her unsatisfied. The same man who wouldn't turn her loose until she came at least 5 times was now leaving her unfulfilled.

It was mind-boggling.

Sinister almost.

"You got somewhere to be right?" Jonathan asked her as he stood to his feet. He could tell by the look of pure sexual frustration on Navae's pretty face that locating those keys had dropped in importance. He had just left her high and dry and knew she wasn't going for it. She was just as addicted to the euphoric feeling of climaxing as he was by being the sole cause of it.

"Right?" He questioned her when she didn't respond, prompting her to shake her head no at him, just as ironically, her phone started buzzing on the coffee table again.

"No?" He clarified, amused.

"No," Navae responded verbally, disregarding her 3 best friends like they were the lowest on the totem pole of things that were her concern.

Jonathan wasn't giving up the location to those keys, but in Navae's mind, he had just given her the opportunity to show up, but she tossed it aside.

She would be lucky if she still had any friends left in the morning, but currently, that didn't feel as urgent as Jonathan handling the job he had started.

"Alright then," he let out a light chuckle as he sat back down on the couch.

"Come here," he said, motioning to Navae, who took no time returning to her position in front of him. His tongue found his lips again as he took her in with just his eyes for a moment, while she did the same to him. It felt like the first time they laid eyes on each other all over again.

5 months in and it still always felt like they were seeing each other from across the room.

"Take everything off but these," Jonathan broke their silent stare off as he poked his index finger into one of the many decorative holes on her designer boots. Navae obeyed him and sensually pulled her dress over her head and tossed it to the side before doing the same with her panties.

"Good girl," Jonathan told her, causing her to get even more turned on as he reached out and pulled her down on his lap. Navae didn't even know anything about a praise kink or that she herself had one before running into Jonathan. But she had to come to terms with it when she could barely put into words how her pussy reacted to the sound of his voice commending her on how well she was handling his dick or how she only came sometimes when he told her she could because she deserved it.

A lot of times, she couldn't hold it in, but he praised her for that, too.

With her back pressed against his chest and her head turned to catch his lips, they made out slowly and messily, ruining the lip combo that took Navae quite a while to perfect. The same one she was so worried about messing up just a few minutes ago.

"Open up for me," he told Navae, whose body instinctively followed directions as she lifted her legs and spread them on either side of him. Jonathan took the time to play with and tease each of her nipples for a beat before his fingers dropped to her drenched core.

"It's mine, right, Navae?"' He asked into her ear as he slowly and deliberately started massaging her clit with his index, middle, and ring fingers as he used his other hand to travel back up to her nipples. Navae nodded her response of yes while her brows knitted together at the nearly insufferable feeling.

That's not what Jonathan was looking for.

"Say it," he told her as his fingers slid down to her entrance.

"S-shit.... it's ... it's yours, Jon," Navae moaned out as her eyes retreated to the back of her head as he sank two thick fingers into her. The feeling became unbearable as he rocked his fingers in and out of her, curving them each time he was inside to reach her spot, causing Navae to try to shut her legs.

"Don't do that," he said to her with authority. Obeying him, like she loved to do while in this position, Navae fought against everything within her to keep her legs open so he could get all the access he desired.

"It's mine anytime I want it? " He asked her.

"A-anytime," Navae moaned out into the air helplessly as he quickened the pace of his fingers, causing her to squirm on his lap, trying to come up with some way to just deal with the pleasure.

"I don't give a fuck about nobody else. When and wherever I want it, it's mine. Alright?"

What he was asking of her was absurd. The whole notion was ludicrous. How could he expect her to just give herself up to him completely above everybody else in her life? Especially when she hadn't even known him for a full 365 days. She had a life to live outside of him. But his fingers felt so fucking good inside of her that Navae found herself telling him whatever he wanted to hear. But the crazy part was something in her knew she meant it too.

"Y-y-yes... oh my God yes" Navae moaned out as she felt herself clenching around his fingers, signaling that she was reaching her peak again. Satisfied with her answer, Jonathan felt like she more than earned it this time around.

"You deserve it" he told Navae which she came to learn was his way of encouraging her to cum. His words opened the floodgates as Navae's body shook on his lap, caught in an explosive orgasm.

"Can I get another one?" Jonathan's voice inquired from her as she had barely come back down to earth. She was still getting her breathing in check as he used one hand to hold her leg in place as his fingers played in her cum.

"Jon .... I .... I ... I c-can't" she pleaded to him as he sank back inside of her, causing her head to drop back on his shoulder.

"Yes, you can, baby. I know you can." He told her, and sure enough, only after another minute or two of his fingers plunging in and out of her, Navae lost control of the tears she was trying to hold as she felt herself releasing all over his hand again.

"See, I knew you could, baby," Jonathan softly spoke to Navae as he guided her down from her high. With her heart threatening to escape her chest and her body still twitching uncontrollably, Navae willed herself to get it together because she knew Jonathan was just getting started. Weakly, she turned and watched him like she was caught in a trance as he cleaned her off his fingers with his tongue.

"You taste good," he complimented her before leaning in and pressing his lips against hers so she could taste herself. After sensually kissing for a few more minutes, Jonathan gently eased Navae off his lap and stood to his feet. He planted himself in front of the couch, towering over her as she remained seated.

Navae looked good to Jonathan when she got all dressed up. She looked good to him when she was just chilling around the house. But she looked fucking amazing to him when she was in the current state she was in right now.

Naked. Make-up ruined. Hair disheveled. Eyelashes wet from tears, and her eyes filled with nothing but lust. Just completely ready and open for him.

Nothing could beat that.

The sound of Navae's phone ringing for the 3rd or 4th time, no one was keeping count, went unnoticed as she became completely engulfed in watching Jonathan undress. It still amazed her just how quickly he could take off his clothes. His shirt went over his head in a swift motion, followed by him stepping out of his sweatpants and boxers, all the while holding eye contact with her. Navae broke the contact by dropping her eyes down to his dick that was sprung out standing at attention. Her whole body shuddered just thinking about all the marvelous things he was able to do with it.

"How you want it, Navae?" He asked, causing her eyes to flick back up to him. It took her no time to decide as she pulled herself to her knees and turned around on the couch. Propping her arms up on the backrest, Navae leaned forward as she looked back at Jonathan in an inviting manner. With a flash of his signature smile, Jonathan obliged her as he closed the distance between the two.

First, he slowly ran his fingertips down her spine with one hand, leaving goosebumps in his wake before firmly grabbing hold of her hip. Then he used his free hand to perfectly align himself with her entrance.

Letting out an audible gasp Navae's mouth fell agape as the tip of Jonathan's dick slid over her clit as he took his time coating it in her wetness before inching inside of her.

"Fuck" Jonathan muttered as his eyes fluttered shut when his full length was fully submerged inside of her. He stood there motionless for a moment, just basking in the feeling of having Navae tightly wrapped around him. There was no better feeling in the world. Or at least that's what it felt like anytime he got the pleasure of doing so.

Locking in Jonathan reopened his eyes dropping his focus down to watch how Navae's juices glistened on his dick as he slowly pulled out of her.

" Oooh .... s-shit Jon" Navae moaned lowly as he returned deeper inside of her as he began the process of fucking in the way that had her neglecting her friends for it. He started with slow, deliberate strokes that caused the countless moans and obscenities filtering out of Navae's mouth to get lodged in her throat.

"Tell me it's mine, Navae," he softly urged from her as she felt him grab a handful of her hair. He pulled her head back at an angle that she knew would cause her to be sore in the morning as he gradually increased his pace.

"It's y-yours" Her words were barely legible as his dick repeatedly came into contact with her g-spot causing her to tightly shut her eyes trying to hold off the climax she could already feel coming. Tight knots formed in the pit of her stomach, prompting her to use every ounce of the energy she barely had to not tap out yet.

"Say it louder for me, baby," Jonathan told her as he was now roughly pounding in and out of her, causing the sound of their skin connecting to sound off loudly in Navae's living room. Somewhere in the distance, her ringtone sounded off again, but it couldn't be heard over Navae's moans, nor was it cared about.

"It's yours J-Jon" Navae had to dig deep inside herself and force out as a new set of tears formed in her eyes as she received the best dick she had ever gotten in her life.

"IT'S YOURS, JONATHAN!" Navae screamed at the top of her lungs yet again, losing the battle to contain herself as her next orgasm hit her like she got caught in the middle of a tornado. Her whole body convulsed as her cum oozed on Jonathan's dick causing him to climax seconds after her.

The room was filled with heavy breathing as they both needed a few minutes to collect themselves. Jonathan always seemed to be the first one to pull himself together, and this time was no different. While Navae was still trying to mentally return to her body, Jonathan lifted her from the couch and carried her to her bedroom.

He helped her out of her boots before he helped her into bed. Turning off the lights, he then climbed into the bed, gently easing himself on top of her.

First, he planted a few pecks on her forehead before moving down to her lips.

"You ready to tap out on me?" He asked Navae, looking down at her, ready to go at it again but willing to let her rest if she genuinely couldn't handle anymore.

"Not even close" Navae cockily answered him knowing that he was going to make sure she ate her words and she couldn't wait to enjoy every second of it.

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"Damn Navae that nigga must be putting his dick in your lungs."

That was the first sentence of the voice note that Toni had sitting in the "My Girlfriendsssss 💅🏾" group chat when Navae awoke the next morning. Even though her choice of words were absurd and comical, Navae could still detect the irritation drenched in her voice. Toni was pissed and she knew Kaci and Lauryn had to be feeling the same way. But Toni had always been the most vocal of the 3, so Navae wasn't surprised that she was the one who decided to leave a 5-minute voice note that was most likely dedicated to chewing her out.

She woke up in Jonathan's arms about 10 minutes ago, surprisingly well rested despite the long night she had. She slid out of bed without waking him, fully intending on quickly hopping in the shower so she could rush out the door to Sunday Brunch. She had to show her friends that she hadn't completely lost herself behind a man she met 5 months ago. But that plan fell apart when she decided to stop by the living room first to check the time on her phone, which was still where she left it last night. On her screen were 5 missed calls from Toni. 1 new voice note in the group chat, and the time read 11:47 am. There were no words strong enough to describe the unimaginable guilt she felt when she realized that not only did she blow them off for Jonathan last night, but she had overslept through Sunday Brunch again. Because this wasn't the first time that Jonathan kept her up so long that she could barely get out of bed before noon the next morning.

It was approximately 47 minutes past the time she should've shown up at the small family-owned restaurant that she and her friend group frequented a few Sundays out of the month to catch up on each other's lives.

"I just don't fucking get it Navae. You don't find nothing wrong in saying fuck us so you can be laid up with a man that you've barely known for 5 months? He's not your husband. He's barely even your boyfriend, and you're acting like it's going to kill you to not be around the man for 2 seconds."

Tightening her robe around her waist, Navae stood to her feet from the couch. She let out a deep breath as she took in Toni's words, trying not to take anything she said to heart because she knew her friend had every right to feel how she felt. Toni was being way harsher than she was in that "friend-tervention," showing Navae that last night had officially pushed her past her breaking point. And Navae had to be woman enough to deal with the consequences of her actions.

"We sat at that club last night waiting for you for 2 hours. 2 freaking hours Navae and you didn't even have the decency to contact one of us to let us know that you weren't going to make it. You never make it to anything anymore since you've been messing with that man, and I bet when we all show up to Sunday Brunch in the morning, you won't even be there as usual."

Toni's voice travelled from Navae's phone and filled the silence in the living room as Navae decided to start cleaning up. She needed something to do while processing Toni's barrage of words that were hurting her feelings, no matter how hard she tried to tell herself that Toni didn't truly intend to hurt her. She was just mad and venting the best way she saw fit. Navae felt like a complete piece of shit as she grabbed her dress and panties from last night off the floor. She then moved over to collect Jonathan's clothes, too.

"You're a grown ass woman so I shouldn't have to tell you where your priorities should lie. But if you want to continue to act like you can't function without that man, then I'm going to let you. Me, Lauryn, and Kaci already had a conversation about it, and last night was it for us. Obviously, you love a man that you’ve known all of 5 seconds more than you value our friendship, so we're going to let him have it. We can't compete with him. So we won't continue trying. You know where to find us if you ever get off his dick long enough to miss us. Bye Navae."

Navae barely registered Toni's last few sentences due to being completely sidetracked by something falling to the floor when she grabbed Jonathan's sweatpants. She placed her phone down on the coffee table, then squatted down and found herself picking up her keys that seemed to have disappeared into thin air last night. Slowly standing to her feet, she looked down at the keys, completely perplexed.

What the fuck where they doing in Jonathan's pocket?

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This was only supposed to have 2 parts but I got another idea along the way so

To Be Continued ………

[lavenderleahy]

If the question was about destiel someone would have known the answer TRUST

[thebrokenmechanicalpencil]

@quibble-auk Sad Comet.

Im referring to him as "blue blanket" Comet in my head because he clings to that blanket. When he finally heals a bit, he ends up carrying a piece of it around or something to ground him.

Don't make fun of his blanket, Jeopardy will sic Dropmix on you. (later no siccing is needed, get death stared jerk)

His colors changed because of the shock, like hair going white from stress, or your angel fish idea! Poor guy is so tired, Jeopardy gets a half present roommate before too long. He's not used to sleeping alone, he started showing up late at night to his door asking if they could hang out or something.

Jeopardy has to let him understand he's totally ok with him coming whenever he needs something, or just wants company.

Later down the line, Dropmix is the only one awake in the medbay and Comet goes and just sits in the medbay with him. Totally stands outside the door and just hesitates. He doesn't want to make him angry, or uncomfortable, the whole things stupid he should-

"I can hear you."

They just sit quietly, Comet learns to really enjoy the music in the medbay. Helps keep his mind from rummaging through boxes.

Just reads or something, when its too crowded for him to just steal a berth suddenly there's an extra chair near Dropmix's desk.

Eventually he gets the honor of getting Dropmix's chair when its super busy and he needs somewhere to calm down and Dropmix doesnt need it.

The old man does find him asleep in it after a bad night.

Neither talk about it.

[scarletriddles]

Lost in the fire ˚༄ | S.R

↳ in which the team’s newest case puts your life in jeopardy, at your own accord.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader

genre: angst, sprinkle of fluff

warnings: general cm gore/case discussion, fire/arson, injuries related to fire, swearing, references to religion + greek mythology, friends to…? (they’re in la-la-la-love, your honour), some possible inaccuracies (sorry!), small jemily mention because lesbian rights, hopeful ending, use of she/her pronouns, no use of y/n, second person narrative.

word count: 4.3k

a/n: my first ever fic i’m very nervy🫣i’m not expecting this to gain any sort of traction, but lmk how you find it, i suppose!

“Haley Bradstone, aged twenty-five, and Laura Kilmey, aged twenty-seven, are the most recent victims in a series of murders in Detroit, Michigan. Both victims were discovered four days apart, and only five miles away from each other, their bodies disposed of in black FIBC bulk bags that were left in trash-sites.” JJ pauses, her gaze flickering between the team, almost hesitant as her thumb circles the silver remote. But, with a clearing of her throat, she continues. “Cause of death for both victims has been ruled asphyxiation…by smoke inhalation.”

You abruptly halt toying with the frayed edges of the case file, your eyebrows shooting up and head lifting to look at her, and then also at the rest of the team - who look just as bewildered.

“Sorry, did you just say smoke inhalation?” You ask, genuine confusion weighing down your tone.

JJ nods, her expression dismayed as she eyes the two beaming faces displayed on the board. “Yes, as laid out in the case files, high levels of carbon monoxide, hydrogen cyanide and hydrogen sulphide were found in both victim’s lungs. The coroner also noted soot around the victim’s faces, and TBSA burns, all of which are synonymous with death via smoke inhalation.”

“Carbon monoxide poisoning is actually the leading cause of death in smoke inhalation - causing approximately 2,100 deaths in the U.S each year.” Spencer adds, followed by his familiar flat smile, which he usually does when he doesn’t know what to do with his face - which happens to be always.

You blink, with a slight quirk to your lips, despite the circumstances. Trust your good doctor to know just about everything.

“Were there reports of any fires around the general area?” Hotch pipes up, his face set in his usual stony expression, though his eyes betray his pensiveness.

JJ shakes her head, adjusting her stance. “No, which is what makes this stranger. The DPD reported no calls about any sort of fire on the days our victims were killed.”

“What? So our unsub just…lit a bunch of fires in plain sight?” Derek questions, with a flick of his brow, his gaze alternating between the board and the manilla folder in his grasp.

You huff, turning to face him with a slight smile, musing. “Must be one hell of a magician.”

Derek smirks in general bemusement, his dark eyes swirled with mirth, his tone light as a feather as he shifts in his scratchy office chair. “Looks like it, lil mama.”

Ever the smooth talker.

“Or, he could be using a secondary location.” Emily chimes in, her narrow-eyed gaze set firm on the file in front of her, her slender fingers fiddling with a bullet-point pen, and her lips contorted into a reflective pout.

“That’s plausible, but you’d think at least someone would notice.” Rossi adds, with a slight huff of incredulity, his calculating gaze sweeping across the entire room before him.

The two smiling faces are quickly joined by two more, both just as radiant, both just as nausea-inducing. Those poor girls.

“We don’t know for sure. But, the most recent victims join twenty-eight year old Sarah Holloway, and twenty-two year old Jessica Bailey. Who, similarly, were found four days apart, five miles away from each other and dumped in black FIBC bags, also ruled dead via asphyxiation. However, Sarah and Jessica’s dumpsites were around 14 miles away from Haley and Laura’s.” JJ purses her lips faintly, eyes still fixated on the crime scene photographs of four similar looking women who didn’t even live properly yet, robbed of the chance to, just like Poseidon robbed Medusa of her autonomy, on the marble steps of her deity’s temple. The thought alone just worsens the crease between her brows.

“four victims…why are they only just asking for our help, now?” Spencer ponders, features frozen in contemplativeness. His fingers sweep up to push his black-rimmed frames back to their previous position on the bridge of his nose.

God, you love his glasses.

JJ’s face morphs into a faint grimace, as she replies in a reluctant tone. “Unfortunately, the media managed to connect the dots on this one, they’re dubbing our unsub ‘the smoke-killer.’ But, the DPD really needs our help with this.”

You sigh, eyes trained on the gruesome imagery displayed on the silver screen. No matter how long you’ve been with the BAU, the violence never quite gets bearable for you, though you can’t bring yourself to look away - like witnessing a car-crash. You understand the psychology behind it, shock rooting the human body in place as the brain tries to comprehend that what it’s processing is real.

But, guilt still flows around in your system like the Noachian flood. Maybe, if you thought about it hard enough, you’d feel the ark bashing against your innards as it tries to navigate the brutal waves.

You suppose the violence doesn’t get easier for the team, either. Perhaps that’s what keeps you all tethered to each other, bonded. After all, the Greeks did beat the Trojans in unity - and disguised as a large, ligneous horse, but you digress.

Hotch nods, solemnly. “Alright, we can discuss further on the jet. Wheels up in 20.” And with that, he abruptly stands up, striding out of the room with a sureness in his step that only he could possess, effectively putting an end to the briefing.

The screen then goes dark, the car-crash finally being attended to. The sounds of chairs scraping across the frizzled navy carpeted floor and paper rustling bounces around the small space, as everyone heads out and into the bullpen, all but the exception of spencer, who remains seated, brooding over his manilla file as though he’s a modern day Thomas Aquinas. always thinking. You muse to yourself, though your eyebrow still raises in question nonetheless.

“Reid, you coming?” You probe gently, standing in the doorway with a faint grin. Your eyes flickering like fairy-lights all around his hunched-over frame.

Spencer startles slightly, craning his head up from the file and over to you - a rosy hue creeping up the nape of his neck from the sight of you alone. He swallows, standing up suddenly, and pushing his chair out with his hip, as he breathes out. “Uh, yea-yeah i’m…i’m coming.” He collects his things quickly, scrunching up his case file as he slings his satchel over his shoulder. Though, it doesn’t really matter, he’s already memorised it from start to finish. Eidetic memory and all.

He flashes you his signature flat smile once again, as his muddy hues rake over your appearance. You look pretty today, well he thinks you always look pretty, but today especially. Your hair swishes around your face in wisps like cotton-candy, your frame adorned in your usual grey fitted slacks, paired with a pink striped puff sleeved button down and black leather boots.

He believes you’re the personification of an angel, and with the way the abnormally-harsh office lighting is dancing around your hair in a nimbus-like manner, he’s probably right.

“C’mon then doctor genius, we have an hour long flight to catch.” Your voice rolling out with a teasing lilt, a subtle smile curled around the edges of your glossed lips.

Spencer usually loathes being referred to as a genius, namely because it’s said with such obvious sneer and condescension, like he’s an abnormal form, like he’s still that twelve-year-old high schooler. But, you never say it with thinly-veiled disgust, no, you say it with such reverence- like it’s something to be admired.

Yeah, angel.

He mirrors your smile, eyes soft and starry eyed as he follows you out of the room. “one-hour, 19 minutes and 45 seconds.” He corrects softly, always keen for specifics, his satchel smashing against his upper-thigh periodically as he walks beside you.

You huff in amusement, rolling your eyes in jest. “Right. My bad, one-hour, 19 minutes and 45 second long flight.” Your head tilts up slightly to look up at him, your irises dipped in unsubtle gaiety,

Spencer lets out a huffy laugh of his own, shaking his head in amusement. He loved when you teased him, though he’d never admit that. At least, not to you anyway.

“Oh, forgive me for being specific.” He sounds out, airily, like a dish-soap bubble crafted by small exploring hands, as he places his own ridiculously large palm on his chest in mock-offence.

“more like particular.” You reply, just as you reach your desk, in faux-annoyance, the curl of your lips betraying that fact.

Spencer puffs out another slight laugh in response, as he leans against the edge of your desk, watching you comb through it. His gaze doesn’t settle, darting around the array of trinkets and just general stuff aligning the glossy oak, including the multiple pots of bright pens - some looking vaguely like the ones he’s seen scattered around Penelope’s ‘bat-cave’ - and even a stick-figure drawing of him scribbled onto a canary yellow sticky-note, featuring overly large glasses and converse, which are more akin to clown shoes, alongside an equally as dramatised stick-figure version of Morgan, complete with a badly scrawled out six pack and huge biceps.

He feels a warmth blossom in his chest as looks over the cluttered space. It’s just so irrevocably you.

“particular or not, i still believe everything-“ He begins.

“-everything should be accurate, wherever possible” You mock affectionately, with a barely hidden smirk, still rooting through your things like a squirrel digging for an acorn.

A slight pout forms on his face, bordering on more petulant than anything. “How’d you even know I was going to say that?”

A faint effervescent giggle slips past your lips, your head still firmly pulled down, as your hands continue their wandering through your desk drawers. “ ‘Cause you’ve said that line at least a dozen times now, doc.” You drawl out, still grinning to yourself.

He wants that sound to be his morning alarm.

He rolls his eyes, only half-seriously, a smile lighting the corners of his mouth up like a vegas ‘welcome’ sign. “I have not said that a dozen times!” He huffs out, with a shake of his head at the injustice of it all, his dark curls springing with the movement.

You just smile, continuing to rifle through your desk before you locate what you were looking for, quickly straightening up and collecting the rest of your things before turning to him.

“Well, I’m all set doctor, lead the way.”

“Is that just so you don’t get lost again?” he replies, with an overt teasing twinkle.

You groan, blowing out like a whistle “that was one time! i was still new, and the hallways are confusing!”

He just bellows out a laugh, pushing up off the edge of your desk and beginning to walk - more like stride - his way to the elevators. You in tow, but just barely. His legs are way too long.

“I can put a sign on my back that says, ‘follow me’, if needs be.” He throws behind his shoulder.

“Oh, shut up!” You bark out, not really with any bite. Never with him.

It had been about three days since you landed in Detroit, Michigan. Most of that time being spent cramped up in the tiny makeshift office curated for the team, downing copious amounts of coffee, reading files until the backs of your eyes burned and dodging the borderline leering looks from the mid 40-year-old, beer gut endowed cops.

In other words, it was hell.

The team had made some progress, though. Narrowing down the profile to a white male in his early to mid thirties, who works a menial job, of average height and build, and who clearly dislikes women. Obviously, that didn’t narrow down the ‘Where’s Waldo’ search by much. But still, you really just couldn’t shake the obvious question…

Why go through all the trouble of burning these women, but not completely, just to dump their bodies?

And it seemed that question floated around the backs of everyone else’s mind, too. It was bizarre, to say the least.

Currently, the team is all stuffed in said aforementioned makeshift office space, like sardines in a can, no less. Emily and JJ sat at the table together, as usual, Derek propped up against the wall, Hotch and Rossi stood brooding in the corner of the room, quietly discussing something between themselves, leaving you and Spencer situated in front of the board, where the geographical profile is mapped out.

“He’s operating within a 20 mile radius, dumping the bodies within an area he’s comfortable in. He’s either going to strike here.” Spencer points to a spot on the map with his finger, tapping against it slightly before dragging it across and towards another spot, “or here.” His features were swamped in pondering thought, his honeyed gaze encompassing the sight in front of him.

“Yeah, but i still don’t understand why he’d go through all the trouble of burning them till they die from smoke inhalation, and then discarding the bodies. jus’ seems a lil’ pointless t’ me” Morgan drawls out, his stance wide and his arms folded, one of his hands resting on his chin.

“well ain’t that the million dollar question.” You reply, with a sigh lathered in perplexity, your arms folded in a similar manner, but with one of your hands rubbing up the side of your arm, in a absentminded fashion.

“Morgan’s right, it doesn’t make any sense.” Hotch pauses slightly, contemplating - like everybody else in the room. His dark eyebrows stitched together, and his lips set in a taut frown.

“None of it makes sense, i mean, even the dumping method, why bulk bags and not just plain ol’ trash bags?” Emily questions, sitting back in her seat with an exhale, her legs crossed with her boot-clad foot tapping against one of the legs of the rickety table.

You blink, a thought coming to you at her question. “Theres a Hardware store in the middle of town, right?” You throw out, hands stuffed into the pockets of your black slacks.

Hotch’s brows furrow, as he regards you. “Yes, why?” He says simply, almost curiously.

You shrug, “so then he’d probably be getting the bulk bags from there, since it’s easily accessible.”

Everyone goes silent at your question, seemingly mulling it over, before Morgan responds.

“If so, why wouldn’t he just buy trash bags?” He says, with a cock of his brow.

“Because he wants the victims to be found.” Spencer states, plainly, piling onto your train of thought and rocking back and forth on his heels, as his tongue darts out, swiping his slightly dry bottom lip.

“Think about it, a bulk bag is much more conspicuous than a simple trash bag, he wants his handiwork to be seen - maybe not right away, but he knows at least one person would find the presence of a large plastic bag near a dumpster to be…alarming, whereas no one would bat an eye at seeing a trash bag. Same goes for his M.O, he most likely has some sort of access to an incinerator, perhaps due to his job, which allows him to discreetly ‘burn’ his victims, before dumping them in a way which derives notice.”

His hands flail around wildly as he talks, an endearing habit that makes it seem like he’s so excited to talk about what he’s discussing that, at the minimum, one part of his body has to move with the speed of his mouth.

You smile - more of a secret thing, really, just for yourself - you love listening to that man talk. It’s the eighth wonder of the world, to you.

Everyone nods, the notion seemingly settling into their psyche without much problem, as logically, it did make sense.

“If thats the case, then we have a problem.” Rossi scratches the side of his jaw lightly, his head tilted and his bronze hues directed at the table.

Emily raises her brow, in clear need of clarification. “What problem?” She murmurs out, her head cocked to the side, questioningly.

“We have an unsub who wants attention, and will stop at nothing to get it.” Hotch adds on, sharing a brief glance with Rossi, his expression more grave than usual, before he fishes out his phone, dialling a number and setting the onyx Nokia down onto the table. “Garcia, you’re on speaker.”

“Hello, my favourite crime-fighters! To what do i owe the pleasure?” The shrill cheery voice of Penelope Garcia rings out, immediately bringing a small smile to your face. She really was like bathing in sunshine.

“We were wondering if you could take a look at a hardware store’s sales within the last month, more specifically of FIBEC bulk bags.” Hotch drags out, his arms still folded and his face betraying nothing but his usual stoicism.

“Oh, that i can do upside down with my hands tied, sir! just…one…second.” Penelope’s voice hauls out, followed by the rapid clinking of keyboard keys. “What’s the name of the store?” She asks, her tone focused.

“Sally’s Shack” Hotch replies, his tone equally levelled.

After a few moments, and a lot more keyboard clicking, Penelope finally pipes up again. “Ah-hah! so, it appears that our shack in question has sold six FIBEC bulk bags within the last month, all to the same buyer - well, at least the same credit card was used, ending in 4678.”

Hotch looks visibly taken aback slightly, before he asks “Can you get a name, Garcia?”

“Already on it, sir.” Penelope replies, with her usual peachy tone.

A tense silence follows, only sporadically broken by the clickity-clack of Penelope’s rainbow pastel keyboard. Then, she pipes up again.

“Okay…looks like the card belongs to a 33-year-old, Mr. Eugene Humphrey, who currently works at…” Her words trail off, obvious hesitance behind them “…burns funeral home and crematory, and owns a residence just in the middle of town.”

Everybody seems to pause, then. He matches the profile - Mid thirties, works a menial job which would give him access to a ‘discreet’ burning method and just so happened to purchase the same material used by the unsub, whilst also owning his own property not too far away from the hardware store in which the material was purchased…yeah that can’t be a simple coincidence.

“Pen, does he have a criminal record of any kind?” Your voice floats out, drifting through the confined space like Thumbelina on her shamrock lily-pad.

“I will have a looksie for you now, my sweet sugar muffin, just hang on one second-“ Penelope cuts herself off as her fingers begin their ministrations again, the keyboard rumbling with every tap, a smile edging on your face at the absurd term of endearment.

“Alright…looks like our guy spent six months in juvenile detention when he was sixteen for lighting his girlfriend’s car on fire, claimed he caught her cheating on him with his best friend, youch!”

You can practically see the cogs turning in your teammates heads, looks like you got your guy.

“Okay, thats good garcia, could you-“

“-send his information over? already done, sir.” promptly interrupting the low voice of your unit chief, in a way that is so Penelope, that he can’t really object.

“Thank you Garcia, We appreciate it” Hotch replies in his typical authoritative tone.

“You’re welcome, my gorgeous gods and goddesses, now go and save lives.” Penelope chirps out, swinging on her swanky desk chair, her hands now preoccupied with a bright pink fluffy pen.

“You’re the best, babygirl.” Morgan calls out, his tone suave and a smirk illuminating his features.

Penelope lets out a giggle, replying in her token-teasing articulation. “Only for you, my chocolate thunder, now ta-ta!” Her sing-songy voice sounds out with finality, before the line drops, indicating that she ended the call.

“Alright, everyone, looks like we’re scoping a funeral home. I’ll go inform the captain, and i need all of you to gear up, as a cautionary, is that clear?” Hotch demands, his gaze expectant.

resounding murmurs of “yes” fill out the area, to which the dark-haired agent replies to with a curt nod, before swiftly exiting the room.

You let out a breath, turning to the rest of the team with a faintly reluctant expression. “Let’s get this show on the road then, guys.”

Morgan flashes an easy smile, coming up behind Spencer and clapping him on the shoulder, his smooth voice infused with teasing. “You heard her, pretty boy, let’s get moving.”

Spencer has to resist an eye-roll, his cheeks immediately flushing raspberry red, whereas you just let out a small confused laugh - clearly not in on whatever inside joke that seems to be playing out - turning on your heel and prancing out of the room, leaving the two of them to squabble like 10-year-old brothers.

Though, on your way out, you swear you saw Emily squeeze JJ’s hand underneath the table…

Something went wrong. Terribly wrong.

You don’t know how - hell, nobody on the team knows how, but Humphrey somehow found out you were coming. He might’ve gotten some frustratingly accurate in-tell, or maybe he just… knew. After all, bad news attracts bad news, right? And being arrested for the murders of four women sure seems like pretty bad news. Or maybe he was a paranoid fuck. Either thought seems plausible, but currently pointless.

Ironically, Burn’s Funeral Home and Crematory, was well…burning. The two-story high foundation, which you’re guessing was once a depressing waxen colour, is now engulfed in orange. Bright, blazing orange, and for a moment, you almost believe the sun crash-landed onto earth.

The ignited shades dance across your features , making you look like you’re almost glowing. You hear Morgan let out a few curses, and Emily mutter something eerily close to “Oh my God” under her breath. But, the rest of you remain silent, devoid of speech, heads lifted up and staring at the fiery wreckage. Drawn in, entranced.

You can’t pull your eyes away, Not even when Hotch snaps out of his own silent gazing and begins to talk around you, shooting out instructions like darts to your co-workers. Well, until you hear a fire-man trudge past you, in full PPE and carrying a winding anaconda-like hose, writhing along the gravelled floor with each step he takes, similar orders being barked out of his mouth to his team-mates. But, that isn’t what grabs your attention, it’s the information coming from his radio.

A mother and her child are stuck in there, apparently looking for a casket for her husband before the building went up in flames, and they aren’t even going to attempt to save them - something about the fire being “too large, too risky.”

A mother and her child. Her 8-year-old little girl who just lost her father, and now is going to lose her own life, trapped in a scorching maze.

Not on your watch.

You will not, cannot, let this sick bastard take another girl’s life.

Your legs move before your brain even has time to catch-up, darting straight past multiple fire personnel who all try to stop you, but you dodge each one. Not even the sounds of the team shouting your name halts you, your figure retreating straight into the raging inferno.

What’s that saying? Moth to a flame?

Well, consider the molten-structure your flame. Because you won’t stop, will not stop, not until the mother and her daughter are out. Safe.

Either way, God appeared before Moses in the form of a fiery bramble. And maybe, he was doing it again, instead for their freedom, not yours or a 120-year-old man’s. You were getting them out of this desert, even if there were no miles of grainy-sand and the occasional tumbleweed, but instead hot, piercing, smouldering heat.

Spencer’s astute brain doesn’t take long to register what the hell you are doing. And, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so panicked. He practically screeches your name, moving to go after you, but with no such luck as Morgan and Hotch hold him back. But he fights, and he fights harder than he’s ever had in his life, because this is you.

“Let me go! she’s in there! you can’t just let her go in there!” He shrieks, every word sharpened with utter desperation.

Neither Morgan’s nor Hotch’s replies to his incessant wailing actually penetrates his mind. He feels like he’s underwater, succumbing to the depths of the Mariana Trench, fading black and blue.

The water freezes over the longer you’re in there. Trapped in that dismal, enflamed formation. He feels sick, but he knows spilling his stomach content won’t provide any relief, it’s a sickness that’s lodged itself into his bones, into his very being. He wonders if this is what the Woolly Mammoths felt like during the first coming of the glacial-period, just observing as they, one-by-one, all perished to the frost.

He can’t have lost you. Not before he-

…Not before he could tell you that you’re his first thought when he wakes up, and his last before he surrenders himself to the dark abyss of unconsciousness.

No, this can’t be it. He refuses, he downright rejects the thought.

He just stares, and stares at the lit up property, his whole entity screaming for you to just make it. His mind and mouth spinning prayers to god’s he doesn’t even believe in because if there was any chance of that turning the cards in your favour, then he’s taking it and holding on tight.

The seconds feel like minutes, the minutes like hours. Time is a fickle thing, always stretching and compressing back together again depending on someone’s emotions. But, that philosophy does nothing to distract him from the ache. Because a life without you in it, he grasps, isn’t a life at all. Not one that he wants to live, anyway.

Two soot-covered frames emerge from the fiery entrance, immediately being swept away by fire-personnel for medical treatment. And his heart stops, until he realises you aren’t either of those coughing figures.

Where are you? Why aren’t you coming out?

Time seems to stretch again, expanding like a black-hole over his fitful, beating heart. Ready to consume, ravage. But, maybe, that would be an act of mercy, anything would be an act of mercy compared to the waiting. Agonising, hoping and waiting.

Then…a third figure finally bursts out of the flames. He’s seen that mop of hair before, he knows that hair. Even at a fair distance, hunched over and simultaneously gasping for air and hacking your lungs up, tousled, with skin embedded in ash, You’re beautiful and you’re alive.

You’re alive.

He pushes his body forward and he runs, he sprints and goes to you. And this time, Hotch and Morgan let him.

[hannie-dul-set]

fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline) — FOUR.

SYNOPSIS. having fought tooth and nail out of high school, university, and law school, only to end up working for a law firm that basically serves as a clean up dog after the biggest organized crime group in the district, you thought you couldn’t get any lower than this. 

the bar is in hell, and yet you’ve managed to limbo six feet beneath that. alternatively— na jaemin is the personification of hell, and your very existence just makes him even worse than he already is. 

PAIRING. na jaemin x female! reader. GENRE. gang! au, lawyer! au, office! au, comedy, drama, romance, very light angst, this is a sitcom, hate to love(?), a somewhat questionable power dynamic, asshole! jaemin (my beloved…my kryptonite…) but he’s also an idiot, jaemin has an eye contact thing, inspired by the manhwas “weak hero” and “study group.” WARNINGS. an abundance of criminal activity (including but not limited to organized crime, fraud, blackmail, DUIs, unethical and illegal occupational practices, etc.), blood and violence, suggestive themes, eventual non explicit sex, jaemin with a tattoo, legal inaccuracies because i am not familiar with south korean laws, so i’m just using my own country’s as reference. also because this is just a stupid thirst fic. who gives a damn. WORD COUNT. 10k.

NOTE. whewwww so much happens in this. like a lot WAHAHAHAHAH. would love to hear your thoughts and comments, maybe even predictions HAHA. there’s a bit more violence in this than in the previous chapters, but y’all know what you’re getting into. anyhow, enjoy! CHAPTER FIVE.

THAT DAY WAS PERHAPS THE MOST EVENTUAL DAY YOU’VE HAD AT NALKEUTTA. It’s been two weeks since then, and in the past week you’ve been plagued by contract drafts and notarizing documents, meeting with the groups new clients (i.e. victims) to trap a few more poor souls into this burning death trap, and giving legal advice to Mark Lee whenever he calls and needs.

Honestly, if this was all that your job consisted of, you’d be a pretty happy camper, especially considering the zeroes your bank account is set to accrue. No more hearings every other day. No more angry clients trying to get a slap on the wrist for attempted assault or embezzling company funds or whatever shit. Your work at present is more peaceful than expected— that is, of course, if you exclude what’s been causing you to work overtime these past two weeks.

“I feel like I’ve been seeing you more often lately, attorney.”

Yeongdeungpo Police Station. Officer Jung tries to entertain you while waiting for Mark’s favorite mutt to get fished out of his cell. No shit, he’s been seeing you often. This is your third time this fucking week. “He didn’t get into any more trouble overnight, did he?”

“No, we made sure to put him in a single cell this time.” You sigh in relief. They should’ve done that the first fucking time. “Hey, attorney…this may be out of line, but—” 

“Then stay in line, officer.”

Maybe your neuroticism is finally slipping through your stiff mask. Your eyes flash up at Officer Jung. He appears taken aback at first, but nods, smiling, and maintains a respectful distance. Sure, he’s hot and all, but you have no intention of hooking up with a cop just to put your career, life, and safety in jeopardy. Mark has eyes everywhere. You’re pretty sure he even has a handful of the officers here under his control.

“Damn. My guardian angel came early today,” 

Enter the bane of your existence itself. He wears an annoying grin on his face while being escorted to you, free from handcuffs meaning he can with his hands whatever he pleases— which, unfortunately, is sticking a middle finger up in the air when the guy that he got into an altercation with passes by, and a second fight almost breaks out while you dumb ass of a, executive just cackles like a madman as the second guy gets held back by the officer escorting him.

You do nothing but yank on the sleeve of his arm, nails digging into fabric and the skin underneath. You’re not strong enough to dislocate him, but by god you wish you were. “Thank you, officer. We’re heading out now.”

Officer Jung smiles at you. “I’d say I hope to see you again, but I doubt you’d want to drive up here for the fourth time this week.”

“Haha.” It’s eight in the evening. You’re tired as fuck.

The moment you succeed in dragging him out of the station to avoid another count of misdemeanor, you wipe your hand on your blazer and quickly march to your car, not even checking if he’s following when you rip open the driver’s seat of your car and slam it back close. Unfortunately, he shoves himself into the front seat before you can lock it. 

“Whew,” he says, buckling himself in. You look at him through the mirror. He’s leaned against the window and his torso is pointed towards you. “Want me to take over the wheel?”

The rev of the engine. You hear Na Jaemin scoff and turn his head away.

“Tough crowd.” He props up an elbow on the window ledge, cheek resting on closed knuckles as you continue to drive to the office when you’ve clocked out three hours ago. “You were pretty chummy with that cop earlier. If I remember, the fucker is the same prick who jumps out of station to wag his tail in front of you whenever you drop by.” 

God, you don't have time for this. You block your ears. You continue driving. You just want to go home, but Na Jaemin isn’t done pissing you off yet.

“You’re pretty amazing aren’t’cha, attorney? That why it only takes a second for you to get us all out?”

Screeeeech!

“Whoa. You’re finally looking at me for once.”

That’s fucking it. You’re not dealing with his shit anymore.

“Get out.” With all this and that damned death threat letter you received, you haven’t exactly been in the most amicable mood. “Get out of my fucking car.”

Yet somehow, Na Jaemin just starts grinning wider in response to your death glare. “But the office is too far away, attorney.” You click your tongue, grip tightening on the steering wheel as you leer away. It’s the dead of night. You’ve pulled over next to a closed laundromat. Your body still refuses to look at the psycho next to you directly. One day, you swear you’re going to rip him apart. 

“Do I look like I give a fuck?”

“Well, I wouldn’t know.”

Your car lets out a loud honk when you slam your forehead into the car horn, breaking the peaceful quiet of the night. “Ugh.” You release a breath,the sound rasping against your throat. One day, you’re going to kill him. One day.

‎*‎

“Damn, attorney. You look like shit.”

The next morning, Lee Haechan interrupts your coffee break by being an asshole. 

“There’s no one worth looking hot for in this dump.”

“Now, I think that’s what you call a hasty generali—”

“Haechan, I don’t want to fuck you.” His face is a stiff smile, just on the verge of cracking from a fatal injury. You step aside to give him space on the coffee machine, swallowing an almost scalding gulp of your drink. Come to think of it, Na Jaemin isn’t the only idiot you’ve fished out of the police station. “Hey. Hold on. I have a bone to pick with you, bitch.”

Haechan’s mug makes a rattling noise when he prematurely drops it onto the counter. You see a trail of sweat trickle down his neck. “What do you mean?”

“You nearly ran someone over the other day,” you start. “If I have to bail you out for another DUI, you’ll be seeing your car in a landfill.”

They’re so lucky that none of their victims chose to press charges. Thinly veiled threats usually allow you to settle with a compromise for the barest minimum amount for the damages they incur, but your words won’t always work. Still. It seems like Mark doesn’t mind pouring out whatever amount of money to save his valued lap dogs. These mutts are so god damned spoiled.

“Monster! Don’t you dare touch my Penelope!”

You wanna bully him for naming his porsche Penelope, but that’d make you a hypocrite. You don’t want to give up the remaining integrity you have left, so you choose to remain silent instead and finish up your coffee. 

At the same time, you notice a third presence enter the breakroom, and you make the unfortunate decision of peering back, just in time to find Lee Jeno looming behind you. You nearly choke on your coffee. “‘Scuse me,” he says, voice low, and you waste no time scrambling to the side and coughing your lungs out.

Haechan talks to him while the latter pulls out a back container from the cupboards. “Hey, man. How’s the Daeghwang contract going?”

At that question, Jeno’s brows close together and you flinch when he replies with an annoyed grunt. “Bad.” He taps the open mouth of the container against the rim of a glass of water, white powder cascading out. “Cheongang is a pain in the ass.”

“That’s rough. Well, good luck. See you later."

He starts leaving with the glass and you can finally get back to breathing. Seriously. Na Jaemin may scare you and piss you off, but this guy is just intimidation incarnate.

“Hey, what was his fucking deal?” Your voice is both fear-stricken and appalled, pointing at the break room entryway the moment Lee Jeno’s shadow disappears from the floor. “Did I do something to him? He looked like he was gonna punch my teeth out for getting in the way of him and his creatine!”

Haechan has finally finished making his coffee. Instant coffee, which he brings up to his mouth to take a sip. What was the point of giving him way to the machine? “Oh, Jeno? That’s just his face. Don’t worry about it.”

“What?”

He shrugs. “He’s a nice guy, but Mark likes to bring him around when he’s out doing business. Adds to the aura.”

The fuck? Well. Now that you poke into your brain, you finally remember why Lee Jeno had seemed oddly familiar when you were introduced to him. That day you found out your (former) literati, over the bar crush was actually a fucking gang leader who’s actually kind of crazy. Jeno was the one with Mark carrying that big, suspicious duffel bag. That makes sense.

“He doesn’t look like it, but he’s actually very diligent and organized. He’s basically Mark’s secretary.” 

This is very hard to wrap your head around, but maybe you’re just being too judgmental. Huh. If this is the case, then Mark has formed a pretty well rounded inner circle for him. Lee Jeno’s the one helping him make sure the oil keeps running, pretty much an all-rounder. Huang Renjun deals with Nalkeutta’s external partnerships. Now, all this makes you wonder—

“Then…what about Na Jaemin?”

There’s a flicker in Haechan’s eyes. He looks at you, eyes peeking above his coffee mug, and you don’t break your gaze. “Curious?” he hums, setting it down onto the counter behind him. “What about me? Don’t you wanna ask about what my role is?”

“I already know that you’re a desperate son of a bitch. What else do you do?”

“God damn, you never hold back.” You know he manages most of the internal affairs. Gratified HR, but you don’t want to grant him the satisfaction that you give a fourth of a shit. “Jaeminnie’s our clean-up dog. Mark knows how to put his maw to good use.”

Clean-up dog. Hah. 

“If there’s anyone Mark needs to be beaten half to death, Jaemin’s the man for the job. The guy basically lives off of the adrenaline he gets from fighting. I think the money is just secondary to him, but who knows. Mark likes to keep him busy with chasing down debtors or else he’d take it out on the nearest Nalkeutta member within arms reach. He seems like a lazy prick, but he’s actually pretty competent and meticulous. Only when blood and bruises are involved, of course.” 

Now, that makes you feel like absolute crap. Not for him, but for you— finding out that you and a psycho have been relegated to essentially the same demeaning position, one judicially and the other extrajudicially. That’s a dig into your pride. It leaves a sourly bitter taste on your tongue, and you don’t even have any coffee left to wash it down.

“Well. That is until someone pisses him off. Then things get pretty messy,” Haechan continues with a drawl, checking out his fingernails. Then his eyes flicker up, tipping his head back to flash you a grin. “Which has been more than often lately. He’s been getting into a lot of unrelated fights and trouble. Wonder why.”

Your mouth folds up into a sneer. “Talk about yourself, you serial drunk driver.”

“Let me take you out on a spin with my Porsche next time, attorney. It’ll be fun.”

“And fucking die? No thanks.”

“Aww, cmon! I promise you’ll get the rush of the century, babe, you won’t regret—”

Swoosh!

Thwack!

“Ow, hey, what the the fuck!”

You jump back, gaze darting down to check out the flying object that was punted into Haechan’s temple right. You snicker. It’s a vape pen. You’re about to thank the culprit until you actually find out who it is: lo and behold, Na Jaemin at the break room entrance, looking as smug as ever, and he successfully ruins your day at nine in the morning. “Whoops,” he says, sauntering up to you both, ducking down to swipe the vape pen off the floor before holding it back up. He’s not looking at you. He’s looking at Haechan. “Hand slipped.”

Haechan’s expression gets twisted. “Oh, you wanna go?” The gap between them closes. Uh-oh. Time to find an opening to leave. “Been a while since our last fight, Jaems.”

“Yeah, you mean the day I used your fucking face as a windshied wiper? Was it fun? Wanna try it again, you little bitch?”

“If you idiots wanna paint the carpet red, let me leave first—”

“No, wait.”

Haechan grabs onto your arm. He beams. 

“We need a referee.”

And that’s how you got held hostage for a dog fight at the parking lot of your company building. It’s not even noon yet. These fuckers need to get sedated.

You question your existence as Haechan and Jaemin warm up, a considerable amount of distance between each other. Why are you even here? “I’ll make sure to give you a show, attorney.” You stare dead forward at the empty space in between, face not looking particularly entertained. And then he shrugs off his jacket, revealing his tank-topped chest, and you choke on your spit. His face lights up at your coughing fit. “Keep your eyes on m—”

Thwack!

“Whoops.”

Oh, what the fuck, you blink and all of a sudden Haechan has lunged forward to sock him straight in the kisser.

“Hand slipped.” Haechan draws back his arm, grinning. Oh shit. You’re unable to see the entirety of Na Jaemin’s face. His head is turned, eyes covered up by his hair. You watch as he hacks up his throat to spit out a blotch of red on the concrete ground. For a second there, you think he’s pissed.

Then he lifts up his head, revealing the crooked, blood-stained grin on his teeth.

“You been practicing for me, Donghyuckie?”

This guy just got punched. He just got punched in the face and he’s smiling. 

That’s when things start getting uglier and you’re forced to watch two grown men brawl as their favorite pastime. Wow, they’re just going at it. Haechan lands another hook into Jaemin’s jaw and he quickly jumps away before the former can grab onto him. From what you can tell, Haechan’s a very sneaky fighter, retreating after every strike— almost as if he’s buzzing around Na Jaemin and nipping at him like a mosquito 

“Oi.” Na Jaemin’s jaw is tight. “There’s no fun in this. Get over here.”

“Whoa!” Haechan manages to dodge another one of Jaemin’s attempts to grab at him. “No thanks!” 

Yeah. Now Na Jaemin is definitely getting pissed. You can almost see the vein popping out of his neck when Haechan fails to duck quick enough, allowing Jaemin to grab a fistful of his hair. Haechan lets out a pained grunt when Jaemin yanks his head down, allowing full access to his face— allowing you to witness the blood drain from Haechan’s face in real time, at the very moment.

“Quit running away, you fuckin’ rat.” 

Jaemin winds his arm back. You squeeze your eyes shut. And then you hear the sound of a fist hitting bone.

“That’s more like it.”

Jesus, his voice is nothing but pure elation. That’s it. You’ve seen enough of this demon’s madness to conclude that Haechan had just lost. This is where they differ— Na Jaemin doesn’t like fighting. He likes watching the willpower drain from his opponents eyes after each blow until they’re back and blue and have lost the will to live. A textbook sadist. The moment Na Jaemin has you in his grasp, you’re as good as a dead man. And that much is obvious with how much Haechan is struggling to get out of his grip without ripping a chunk of his hair off.

He looks like he’s having the time of his life “Grit your teeth, buddy.”

Haechan responds with a nervous laugh, dangling half on the floor. “Hey, man, I thought we were just sparring for fun, yeah? Let’s take it easy, ok— oof!”

Aaaaand, that’s your cue to stop watching. If the roles were reversed, then maybe you’d be more interested. You’ve seen this show and multiple encores back in high school already. So while they’re busy killing each other, you quietly sneak off to your car just a few parking spots away to retouch your lipstick. Maybe grab a snack from the glove compartment. Anything other than this mess, for sure.

Anything. Yeah, nevermind. Maybe not anything because the moment you reach your car, you notice something stuck on your windshield wipers.

There’s a wrinkly slip of paper there.

When you fold it open, it’s revealed to be a mortuary pamphlet. There’s scrawl all over it. Red marker. Count your fucking days, attorney. Wow. Not very up for interpretation. Does this fucker think you’re fourteen?

“Hey.”

You flinch. You turn your head back. You’re not sure how long you’ve been standing here, but apparently long enough for Lee Haechan to gather a collection of blood and bruises as he tries and fails to wiggle out of Na Jaemin’s grip.

The latter isn’t even looking at him. He looks at you as he jerks Haechan back to his knees.

“What’s the matter?”

It’s only now that you notice your hands are shaking. You hiss out a swear and crumple the sheet in the tight lump and stuff it into your slack pockets. “Some bastard left their trash on my car,” you grunt, stomping away from your car and back up to them. “Anyway, are you two done playing? Unlike you two, I have a semi-normal job here and still have work to do.”

“Not until you declare the winner, attorney.”

Na Jaemin finally decides to let the poor guy go. Haechan gets dropped to the ground with a thump, groaning in obvious pain. You look down at him, sighing. “Why’d you even provoke him if you were gonna lose anyway?”

Yeah, you’re not giving Na Jaemin the satisfaction. Haechan lets out a breath and a laugh as he settles on the parking lot floor, propped up by his elbows. “I thought I’d stand a chance toda.” He cracks at you. “But it seems like my plan backfired. Too bad.”

Although you refused to declare Na Jaemin the winner, it seems like his fight with Haechan was enough to pacify him for a while.

Seems like the bastard had his fill. You didn’t get any phone calls from Mark or the station nor did you receive any more threatening death threats over the weekend. It’s great. You hit 10,000,000g in Stardew and will soon have the same amount in your bank account. Monday rolls around again though, and you have to spend the entire day out of office to join Mark and Jeno for the Daehgwang meeting. 

It’s so peaceful. The thorns in your side have been so well behaved. Haechan’s porsche got seized by the government because he forgot to pay last month, meaning he no longer has a vehicle to drive under the influence with. Na Jaemin hasn’t even gotten into another altercation.

At least not for the past three days.

On Tuesday evening, you get another ring from the station. 

“It was a 5v1,” Na Jaemin informs you, grinning with a new busted lip on top of his bruises from Haechan. “I won.”

This time, you drive off before he could even get into your car.

‎*‎

“I swear to god, Renjun, it’s like he gets off from getting handcuffed and ruining lives.”

Renjun is your favorite Nalkeutta member so far. Meaning, he’s the unfortunate soul that’s stuck with hearing your whines and complaints over a jenga game in his office. It didn’t take much to convince him into joining you to get paid for goofing around on company time— however, you didn’t exactly advertise having to be your unpaid therapist for the time being.

“Who are you talking about again?” he asks after pulling out a successful block from the tower.

“Na Jaemin.” You crane your neck, squinting at the remaining blocks for an opening. “Does he die if he can’t get into trouble with law enforcement once a week or some shit? God dammit, this tower is tight.”

You’ve always known he was a sadistic fuck since high school. But you thought that only extended to physical pain. Apparently he has a penchant for inflicting psychological pain as well. “Uh-uh, sure he got into messes before— try that one.” You prod on the block he points at until it becomes loose. “But he wasn’t always this bad.”

The block slides out. You put it back on top and sit straight. “Haechan said something like that too.” Your brows furrow. “What exactly do you guys mean by that?”

Renjun shrugs, poking around the block tower. “He’d usually get into fights outside the job like twice a month max.”

He pulls out the wrong block. The tower collapses on the coffee table.

“I think it was around the time you joined that he got worse.”

It clicks. You understand now.

“Hey, let’s play again, that was a— wait, where are you going?”

You storm out of his office and stomp into your own. Na Jaemin doesn’t get off from ruining lives in general— it seems like he gets a special kick out ruining yours in particular. Fuck’s sake. You thought he was just a lunatic for getting into bar fights thrice a week. Apparently being his high school alarm clock for two years wasn’t enough. He needs you to contract occupational depression too. 

Inside your office now. You bang a hand into your desktop keyboard because the printer is taking too long to vomit out the shitty piece of paper. You rip it out from its mouth and march into Ganghak Division, heels clicking against the tile— a sound most have already attributed to your presence, but this time so, so loudly that heads turn at each hollow clack— and the sound halts the moment you see one of his employees that you’ve flagged as a pushover the moment he’d been admitted here.

“Park Sion.” You grab him by the shoulder. “Is your dickhole of a boss in?”

He flinches and blinks his wide open eyes at you, gulping. “Y—yes?”

You grunt and push past him, printout in hand. You spot the door that has a frosted glass window in the middle. You make a beeline and kick it open with a loud bang!

“What in the name of fuck—”

The words get cut out from Na Jaemin’s throat the moment you lock eyes, and the pissed off expression on his face gets replaced by the cold splash of surprise and something you don’t give a fuck to decipher. 

“A—attorney.” He clears his throat and tries to scramble himself back together. “Wow. Came to give a little visit?”

There’s someone else in the room— another Ganghak high schooler, standing straight and firm and nervous before his desk with a deck of papers pressed to his chest. You click your tongue barrel forward, shoving yourself between them and slam the piece of paper on his desk, a huff escaping your nostrils as you stare him down with the animosity of a thousand suns. He’s still a little shell-shocked, brows uplifted and eyes blinking before he looks down and slides the paper up to him.

“I hate your fucking guts,” he reads out your message printed in Cambria 14. You smile when he looks up from the page to meet your stare. It hurts your cheeks. Then you spin your heels and may your merry way out of his office in the best mood you’ve ever been since getting here— and this change of demeanour is very much noticed by every single Nalkeutta member that you walk past, turning heads of both horror and concern as you hum back to Huang Renjun’s territory.

Renjun turns his head to the door when you knock and swing it open.

“Whew.” You fall back onto his office sofa, causing his newly built jenga tower to tumble down. “Shit, that was cathartic. I needed that.” 

He stares at his fallen tower, a somber expression on his face. “Are you gonna share it with the class?”

You do, in fact, share it with the class alongside your hypothesis that Na Jaemin hates your particular guts to the point that he’s actively making your living hell. Renjun is attentive throughout your whole rant session— nodding along to your cries and swears while he rebuilds your tower, and he places the last block on top just in time for you to finally run out of steam. “I swear to god, he has it out for me, Renjun” you finish off with a huff, sinking deeper into his sofa.

That in itself is bad, but apparently it could get worse.

“He could be doing it because he hates you, sure,” he starts, prodding into the newly built tower. “But have you considered the opposite?”

Because Huang Renjun injects a truly horrifying idea inside your head.

“What?”

He hums, locking into the middle piece at the very bottom of the stack. 

“I’m not sure you’ve noticed, but on the days you give Jaemin the slightest bit of tolerant attention he doesn’t act out.”

He, then, slides the piece out.

“And whenever you flat out ignore him for the entire day, I get a colorful text from you that Na Jaemin is in a holding cell again and you’re on the way driving to get him out.”

He takes it into his hand—

“Maybe he’s just doing it to get your attention.”

—and finally sets it on top of the tower to restart the game.

“Your turn.”

You’re frozen in your seat. You carefully think back to all the times you’ve been plagued to bail him out— the first time, which was the night of the recruitment bullshit, and you did talk to him then. Granted it was to insult his smoking habits, but that completely debunks Renjun’s theory right? How about the other times— like the day after the first incident and you were far too pissed to even give him the light of day— wait. Wait. 

No fucking way. Did you see him the day you left with Mark and Jeno to deal with the Daeghwang contract? You did pass him by, but why the fuck would you have greeted him? Shit. Oh my god. This is the most depraved shit you’ve ever been cursed to consider and you’d once debated offing a man just to win a court case. 

You don’t want to believe it. There’s no fucking way.

So, you put it to the test first thing in the morning to make sure that Huang Renjun is nothing but a delusional fuck who just wants you paranoid.

You walk out of Mark’s office with him after a quick discussion on how to strengthen their loan contracts. He asks if you’ve been getting enough sleep lately and the answer to the question is in the very same hallway that you’re passing through, walking the opposite direction as the both of you.

“Jaemin-ah, good morning,” Mark greets him. The guy only stifles a grunt in reply before turning his attention to you.

You look at him. Not at him, but on the silver chain hanging around his neck because you don’t feel very brave at the moment. “Good morning, Na Jaemin-ssi.” Then you immediately scuttle away, leaving a nonplussed yet still pleasant demeanored Mark behind to catch up with you and bounce for coffee.

That entire day, you wait for a phone call from the station to arrive.

Night comes. You’re about to go to bed. Your phone does not make a single buzz. Nothing. 

You’re horrified. You’re really, truly horrified.

Listen, you’ve never been dense to a man’s advances. You’re not stupid. You know when someone has a crush on your because always a standard operating procedure, the cut and dry tactics of trying to take you out for a meal or a drink, calling you pretty, or whatever the fuck. No one fucking flirts by violating the law multiple times a week just so you’d pick him up from the police station. So, you can’t exactly be blamed when you never saw this coming.

This singular thought plagues you for the rest of the week. So much so, that you don’t exactly trust yourself driving almost an hour over the weekend to Gyeonggi to meet up with some friends from law school, so you take public transportation instead. 

The problem is, you couldn’t even enjoy your fucking brunch because they kept asking why you quit JSS, so all you could think about is all the men that have plagued you to ruination— one bastard standing out in particular.

“Seriously, is he a fucking lunatic or something?”   

“Who’s the fucking lunatic or something?”

You’d been waiting at the bus stop on the way back to Yeongdeungpo when a convertible you don’t recognize pulls over, but the person sitting in the driver’s seat definitely is. Your face sours. Then dread washes over.

“Heard from Mark that you needed a ride,” Haechan tips down his sunglasses, smiling. “Hop in. Let me take you out for a spin on my new baby, attorney. It’ll be fun.”

Oh no. Fuck. Your days of relative peace from the police are over. You need to hire someone to wreck this orange-painted nightmare before you’re forced to deal with an inevitable hit and run case. This thing is an accident waiting to happen. It needs to fucking go.

Not right now, though. You do need a ride. 

“Mind stopping by a pharmacy first? I think I’m having fucking indigestion.”

You also need to know where he parks this thing. You take a few steps back and snap your phone camera at his license plate before hopping in the car. “Why? Shitty date?” he hums, starting up the engine. “I can do you one better, sweetheart.”

“Shut the fuck and drive or else I’ll be needing more than just antacids.”

“Gotchu.”

It’s not that being a stuck-up bitch is your default. It’s just that you know better than to get yourself entangled into Nalkeutta more than you already are especially when the one thing you’re looking for is an out. The both of you make a stop at the nearest pharmacy in Gyeonggi and you pick up your medicine. Outside the store, Haechan spots a small hotteok stand to bribe you to hang out with him a bit more before heading back to Yeongdeungpo.

Ugh. You don’t wanna get back in there. That’s where Na Jaemin is and lately he’s been mentally perturbing you more than pissing you off or scaring you. You take a bite into the warm snack and start talking with a semi-full mouth. “By the way. Renjun told me something interesting.”

“Yeah, what’s up?” he muffles out. 

“That Na Jaemin deliberately gets into trouble to get my attention,” you flatly say, looking at the syrup you just wiped off your mouth before licking it off. “I need a dissenting opinion or else I might actually go clinically insane.”

“Oh, you just noticed?” he says, walking back to his car and you follow. “Everyone in the office knows he has a crush on you. It’s pretty obvious.” 

Well. No dissenting opinion. Guess you’ll have to go insane.

“I thought bringing you to our fight the other day would distract his messed up brain. But apparently the sick fuck just got more excited knowing that you were watching. He got bored when you went back into the office. I really should’ve known better.”

“Wait, if you knew that your insane friend has a fuckied up crush on me, then why have you been trying to hit on me in front of his face?”

The both of you get back into the car. Haechan spares you a glance and a grin.

“It’s funny,” he cackles. The car starts moving. Slower than you expected. It’s surprising that this guy is actually receptive to feedback, but you appreciate it nonetheless. “I never get a reaction out of him otherwise. And, I gotta correct you about something, attorney. There are no friends in Nalkeutta.”

There’s a soft breeze brushing past your ears. You peer at him, a tug on your lips. “So, we’re not friends?” 

You almost snort seeing the way his shoulders flinch. The first time you speak to him without an ounce of venom, this idiot folds.

“I thought we’d gotten closer recently, Haechan.”

There’s no missing the way his ears flare up despite keeping his eyes on the road. God, this is pretty funny. The reason why you’re not as creeped out by the idea that another one of your co-workers harbors a petty crush on you despite the fact that they’re both demented and violent is simply because one has singlehandedly turned your last two years of highschool into a traumatic hell while also not giving enough of a fuck to remember the trauma he caused, and the other has not. 

Still, you’re not indulging Lee Haechan any more than this because you still have some self respect. You wanna continue dicking around with this newfound power a bit more, but your high is quickly shut down by a shiver down your spine.

You jolt in your seat. Your eyes flash to the rearview. There’s a taxi trailing behind. 

“Haha, have—have we gotten closer…? I thought you were more friends with Renjun, and—”

“Haechan, turn right.”

“What? That’s not the route ba—”

“Just fucking do it.”

With a concerned yet suspicious furrow of his brow, Haechan obliges your abrupt request, and what do you know— the moment you guys make a turn, the vehicle behind you does the same. “Now, make another right.” Your narrowed eyes remain fixed on the back mirror. “Left. Keep going.” 

Your companion isn’t dull. He notices the same thing as you do at the third nonsensical turn. You hear him click his tongue, feigning annoyance, but no form of play pretend could even attempt to hide the wicked grin sprawling on his face in excitement.

Ah, shit. You instinctively clutch onto the seat belt straps as if you’re holding onto your dear life. “Hey, attorney,” he starts, shifting pedals. “Hold on tight.”

What the hell does it look like you’re doing? 

The blazing hiss of rubber screeching against asphalt. This might very well be the day you die.

‎*‎

“C’mon, it’s been two weeks! Are you still mad?”

Yes. It’s been two weeks since your latest near death experience and it wasn’t even at the hands of your stalker, whom you managed to shake off thanks to Haechan, but the fact that these very past two weeks was spent trying to settle with his fucking hit and run victim has clearly pulverized any semblance of gratefulness you felt towards him.

Right now, he’s trying to win your forgiveness over by dropping a box of macarons from the new bakery in the district onto your lovely desk Savannah. You flip the box open as aggressively as you can and rip apart the unfortunate pink cookie with your teeth while you stare at him dead in the eye. He flinches. He tries to form a smile but it’s all crooked and nervous. “Sooo…are we good now?”

You finish up the remnants of your first victim and pull open your drawer, and Haechan watches as you take out a few staples pieces of paper before handing it to him.

“What’s this?” 

He opens his mouth first before reading. You marvel at the decline of man’s average intelligence.

“It’s a contract,” you hum. “Sign it, and I’ll hang out with you again.”

“Oh, sweet!” he enthuses and fishes out a pen from your variety assortment, setting the sheet down onto the polished mahogany surface. He’s already started the first stroke of his legally binding signature when he actually inquires into the nature of the contract. “You should’ve just given this to me days ago, damn I even went to— wait. What’s this about impounding my car?”

You quickly try to snatch the paper back, but Haechan may be dumber than you but he is stronger. He quickly flits back to the first page, squinting at the fine print very close to his face, and after a moment of realization, he jerks his arms down to release a horrified gasp.

“Evil! Evil woman!” He points an accusatory finger. “How could you attempt to do this to me and my Josephine?!”

His curses fall on deaf ears. You remove a bushel of lint from your blaze lapels and flick it off into a corner of your office. “I think it’s a fair agreement,” you languidly say. “We get to be friends for so long as you refrain from getting into another traffic accident. Otherwise, say goodbye to your dearest Josephine.”

“No!”

A knock on your door interrupts the tantrum you caused. It gets quiet. A head peeks in. It’s Mark.

“Are you two busy?” he asks, likely having heard your…conversation from outside. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Immediately, you shift your attention away from the high speeding demon and straighten your back towards your boss. “Not at all. What’s the matter?”

Haechan quietly greets him as well in a grumble, stepping aside in order to surrender his spot in front of your desk to Mark. “Oh, it’s not at all a source of worry,” he assures with a hum. “It’s just that, it’s been over a month since you’ve graced Nalkeutta with your expertise, but we haven’t even thrown you a welcome party yet. Things have indeed been hectic with our clients one top with our ongoing problem with Cheongang, yet these issues aren’t justifications to prevent your warm welcome.”

There’s a smile on Mark’s face. Oh no. You know where this is going and despair befalls over your face.

See, you’re not exactly against company dinners. Back in JSS, it was a regular opportunity to get your bosses and partners blackout drunk so they don’t remember you recording their not-very-proud moments. But right now, you’re not exactly keen on going home late considering your whole stalker death threat situation.

“I already booked a bar near the bridge. Let’s all take the evening off.”

Well. Now that there’s no way out of this, all you can do is hope that today isn’t your due date yet.

Evening comes, and you’re suffered to be in Na Jaemin’s presence again. He’s in the company car that Mark ushers you into, sitting in the front seat next to Jeno and you two make a split second of eye contact through the mirror before stumbling into the car seat with an annoyed grunt. God, you’ve been so busy these past two weeks that you weren’t even given the chance to stress about him. Now you’re trapped with him for the rest of the night with little to know chance to escape.

Throughout the drive, you contemplate faking sickness again but unfortunately you never got the opportunity to set it up, so you just come up with your roster of excuses in case the amount of men inside the lounge starts becoming noxious to you.

“Cheers!”

The moment drinks start rolling in, they’re cheering for your name and title—- under duress, maybe, because it was preceded by a late welcome speech from the big boss himself. Mark pours you a drink and you’re obligated to swallow it down, burning your throat. Ugh. 

Obviously, not every Nalkeutta member is here right now. Aside from Mark and his four executives, two to three lower ranking members from each division have also been extended the invitation. You recognize Zhong Chenle from Hyeongshin and Na Jaemin’s favorite lackey, Park Jisung, held hostage by his boss in a torture chamber of shot after shot after shot.

“How are you holding up?” 

Renjun settles into the velvet seat next to you— unoccupied for the last hour because Haechan is still throwing a tantrum after your attempted vehicular slaughter, Na Jaemin maybe, finally took the eloquently worded message that you delivered the other week to heart, and the rest of Nalkeutta’s members are too intimidated to sit near the in-house lawyer that regularly stomps around in a flurry of swears throughout the office and your heel clicks harbors fear.

“Fantastic,” you deadpan, bringing the god rush you ordered to your lips. “I’m tipsy and cold and want nothing more than to knock myself out via head injury right now. You think if I announce that my period just arrived, they’d be too uncomfortable to stop me from leaving?”

“You’d probably succeed, but I don’t exactly recommend you leaving by yourself.”

“This is Nalkeutta’s territory, what kind of fucking idiot would try to jump me?”

“Well, things are precarious with Cheongang right now, and—”

You’re interrupted by a meek “Ex—excuse me,” from a Daehyeon subordinate. Lee Jeno’s subordinate. You look up and raise a brow at him. The guy’s face is embarrassed and he’s holding out a jacket. “The…the boss told me to give you this.” Your eyes flit down to the article, hanging sleeves barely brushing against the bare skin of your thighs that your pencil skirt is failing to cover, and you look up across the room to see the said co-worker conversing with Jaemin, now in a compression shirt when you could’ve sworn he was more covered up earlier. 

Again, you briefly meet eyes with Jaemin. You cough and look away, accepting the jacket with a thank you before the grunt scurries away. Then you recall Haechan’s words. He’s a nice guy. Man, if only you went to Daehyeon in high school, you’d probably be a lot saner today. 

“Anyway, as I was saying,” Renjun continues. “It’s a little dangerous right now and those guys are just across the bridge. They could be loitering around nearby.”

“Hey, I’ll be fine, I don’t go around unarmed you know.” You adjust the newly acquired cover on your lap. “Well. Maybe I do have something to worry about considering there’s a creepy stalker threatening to kill me.”

It’s like the entire room screeches into a tense halt.

“What?” Haechan finally decides to grow up and talk to you, marching up to your side of the lounge with a knitted look. “What do you mean stalker?” 

The repetition of the word attracts everyone’s attention if your first utterance hadn’t already. Drinks stop pouring. You notice eyes on you— particularly from across the room, which you promptly brush off to entertain Haechan’s question. “Oh, you know the day you ran over that grocery owner? The one I had to beg just so he wouldn’t sue you?”

“Yeah, I fucking know, but what do you mean you’re being stalk—” It hits him. “Fuck. The taxi. I thought it was just another one of my enemies training me!”

“Attorney, is this true?” Mark finally enters the conversation, uncharacteristically concerned. “And did you say this person is threatening to kill you?”

You meant to say it as a self deprecating joke. You didn’t expect these guys to actually clock your words and take you seriously.

“Attorney?”

You don’t answer verbally. Instead you grab your purse and pull out the envelope that’s been cozying up in there since you first got it. You set its contents down on the table for everyone to see, followed by the mortuary pamphlet you retrieved from your windshield. “This one was attached to my car in the company parking lot, but I’m pretty sure it’s a personal vendetta and has nothing to do with Nalkeutta, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

It’s disappointing, but this is all you have. There are no texts or phone calls. You have nothing on this bastard but a letter and a note.

Mark’s holding up the letter. You notice the pamphlet wrinkle in between Haechan’s fingers. “When did you get this?”

“Uhhh, the day Na Jaemin beat the shit out of you?”

“God fucking dammit.” He tosses it back to the table and throws his hands in the air before stomping off in frustration. Renjun scolds him and gives the note back to you, and you promptly fold it to return to your purse, along with the letter Mark offers back to you.

“There’s security cameras there,” he says. “Have you checked them yet?”

“I did and he was masked and covered up. Same with the footage from my building. I checked in with my landlady the day after I received the note at my doorstep, and she wasn’t around when it happened.” 

“He knows where you live?!”

“Jesus,” Renjun breathes out. “You’re practically buddies with the cops at the station, why didn’t you report it?” 

You simply sigh in your seat and set your purse aside. Honestly, you’re getting annoyed. Do they think you’re fucking stupid? Do they think you’re just letting this freak run around because you want to? Fucking ridiculous. “There’s barely any evidence to identify him, much less to penalize him for anything more than a fine and a warning. I thought I’d wait until I have enough under my belt to ensure a final conviction.”

“And continue risking your life? Are you fucking stupid?”

It’s Na Jaemin who says that.

He’s still sitting in the same spot as earlier, unmoving from his seat across the lounge, staring at you with a weight that practically digs into flesh and bone. Your jaw clenches. You ignore his insult with a roll of your eyes and you down the remaining half of your cocktail.

“This isn’t something we can just take lightly, attorney,” Mark tells you as though he’s genuinely concerned, but you call bullshit. He just doesn’t like the idea of losing his safety net from the law. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Your brows twitch. You firmly set the glass down on the mess of a table. “It seemed personal,” you answer, pointedly. “I didn’t think it concerned the company. That’s all.”

There’s quiet. You don’t look up from your seat, pouring yourself another drink. There’s a ticking in your ear. You’re frustrated. A groan scratches out of your throat and you quickly try to wash it down with a lean glass of whiskey, but Renjun manages to snatch it out of your hands with a disappointed click of his tongue before you succeed with your attempt. 

You snap your head at him. “What the hell are you doing?” 

“Maybe you should call it a night,” says, taking out his phone. “What’s your address? I’ll book an Uber.”

“He’s right, but you shouldn’t go alone,” Mark interjects. You look at him like he’s vomiting out shit from his mouth. He ignores it and instead turns back— gaze directed to the set of seats across the room. “Jaemin, make sure she makes it back home safely.”

“What?” Your voice is a shriek. You jolt onto your feet. “I understand you’re trying to look out for your employee, but why does it have to be him?”

 Na Jaemin is already pulling on a jacket. Your bite down your lip. You already have one crazy asshole knowing where you live. You don’t need another one.

“He’s the only one capable and hadn’t had anything to drink.”

“What about Renjun!”

The man in question looks the slightest bit sorry and embarrassed. “Listen, I don’t wish upon your death, attorney, but if that threat comes tonight, I can’t protect you. I already told you that I don’t fight.”

Fucking hell. You deflate like a balloon. Mark takes your lack of further complaints as surrender and nods at Jaemin, who promptly starts ushering you out of the reserved room. “I already know that you fucking hate my guts, attorney, but now’s not the time to be picky.”

“Just take your damned orders as is like a good dog and don’t fucking talk to me.”

Frankly, you’re heated right now. That entire situation was patronizing. You can’t stomach being treated like some goddamn helpless bitch who can’t handle her own dirty laundry when you’ve been cleaning up for them for most of your fucking career. You just need time. You just need enough cards and opportunities to fuck this stalker over. It’s not beyond your capabilities. It’s not something you need a dysfunctional circus gang to fix for you.

Thankfully, your guard dog doesn’t try to pick a fight throughout the uber ride home. He’s garnered enough tact this past week to figure out your sour mood.

It’s just as quiet when you finally arrive at your building. Na Jaemin follows you all the way to the entrance. The key remains slotted into the doorhole, unturned. “What are you doing?”

You hear him scoff from beside you. “Doing my fucking job like a good dog. Your stalker left the love letter on your doorstep. You think I’d stop here?” 

“Ugh. Fine.”

Begrudgingly, you lead him up to your unit. The moment you reach the door, you spin your heels to look at him without exactly looking him in the eye. “Alright, we’re here and I’m alive and not dead. Now leave me al—”

You stop. You stop because just when you’re reaching out for your doorknob— almost relieved that you can finally rest and end the day with a shower and good night’s sleep— you notice dents on the metal that weren’t there before.

Na Jaemin notices the same thing. His brows are furrowed. He brushes your hand aside and the handle rattles with a twist. It’s unlocked. You didn’t leave it unlocked this morning. 

You remain glued to the hallway floor as you watch Na Jaemin open the door. 

The moment an opening cracks, he gets smashed on the head with your wooden counter stool and you let out a squeak and yell.

“Fucking hell!” 

“W—wait, you’re not—!”

He hisses in pain but takes less than a second to recover, grabbing onto one of the chair legs to jerk the entire thing back and reach out for the extended arm of the person wielding it before he could let go. You hear a fit of fighting grunts from inside. The chair gets dropped to the ground. Na Jaemin disappears into your apartment with the thrashing culprit, exchanging threats and swears, and it takes you a moment to get back to your senses, the thumping in your ears becoming less and less deafening, and you take your few steps inside.

To say the least, your living room is a mess.

The couch is tipped over. Your rug is in tatters. This fucker was gracious enough to spare your T.V., and your wide eyes immediately dart over to the center of it all— the sight of Na Jaemin pressing the struggling culprit against your once clean floors. 

“Fuck, let— go! Get the fuck off me! Agh—!”

“Shut the fuck up or I’ll break your fucking arms.” Na Jaemin nods his head up, not even budging. “Hey, attorney. You call the shots. What do you want me to do?”

You stare at the man underneath him— the man responsible for making the mess out of your apartment and everything that preceded this very moment. You look at his face, bunched up in rage and shame and frustration, and that’s when you recognize him: your last case at JSS. The sweet, sweet old lady you helped pen her will. The same will that disinherited her two prodigal sons. You met them before. Both of them, because your client wanted to break it to them personally even though she wasn’t legally obligated to, all because she’s such a kind person.

That same person gave birth to despicable trash like this one.

They weren’t happy to hear the news. And since their mother is still under the protection order you arranged, this guy decided that the next best thing to take his anger out on is the lawyer that helped his mother screw them over.

Na Jaemin is still waiting for your answer. The right thing to do would be to take him to the station, finally file the report so they could force an admission of guilt. There’s a CCTV camera in the hallway and even if he was covered up, there’s still clear evidence of breaking and entering on top of everything he’s done to torment you so far. That’s the right thing to do. The legal thing to do.

But right now, you’re simmering. 

No, fuck it, your blood is boiling. You shrug off your blazer and toss it as a new addition to your messed up apartment floor. You roll back your right shoulder. You take a few more steps forward, staring him down on the ground. “Hold him up,” you tell Na Jaemin. It takes a second for him to register your instruction. But when it does, you couldn’t even miss the wild grin that stretches on his face— even if you wanted to.

“Since you asked nicely,” he says with a lace of amusement, ignoring the bouts of protest from the guy when he lugs him up to his feet like a ragdoll, locking him in place with two arms, and leaving him open and vulnerable. 

The first thing you do is yank his chin up by the hair. It’s a sight to see— the sheer hatred and animosity someone is capable of mustering on their face, even when they’re at someone else’s mercy. 

It’s funny. You sneer. Then you grab the other side of his head and slam his nose into your knee.

“Fuck!”

“Son of a bitch.” You jerk his head back up, watching the blood dribble down from his nostrils. “Did you have fun pulling your dumb ass tricks?”

He lets out a pained groan, but still has the strength to shoot you a glare. You let go of his scalp to grab him by the collar so you can have a better grip of slapping him in the face.

Smack!

“Shit—”

“May life is already a living hell dealing with these Nalkeutta fuckers every single day—” 

Whack!

“And then your ugly ass rears in to make things all the more worse.”

Thwap!

“Your disinheritance is none of my fucking business.”

Slap!

“To think I was scared and paranoid for weeks and weeks and weeks because of some broke ass pathetic prick.”

Crack! Your bloodied fist draws back from his jaw. He sputters out a bubble of red. You’re practically holding him up by the stretched out collar of his shirt. 

“Hey,” you say, giving him a rattle. “What gives you the right to do all of that to me, huh? Huh?”

When he doesn’t answer, you feel a tick in your temple. You go in for another smack to his face, but it doesn’t happen.

“That’s enough.”

You’ve always thought that if Na Jaemin were to grab you by the wrist, he’d immediately snap it into two.

“You’re gonna regret it tomorrow.”

The shock from the gentle fitness of his grip sends you back to reality, and you finally feel the dull throb on the knuckles of your right hand, the sharp tingle on the skin of your palms that seeps into muscle and flesh. You let go of him. You see splotches of red all over, and the eventual sores and bruises that’ll show up by the morning. 

You call your landlady. Na Jaemin accompanies you to the station to turn your stalker in along with all the evidence you managed to acquire. Officer Jung questions the state of the perpetration, and when you chalk it up as self-defense, he doesn’t press further and simply wishes you a good rest. 

The moment you walk out into the lobby and see Na Jaemin waiting, you’re hit with an uncomfortable whiplash at the unprompted role reversal. You don’t fight him or anything when he takes you back home. All you could do was muster a quiet, “Thanks,” when he tells you that he sent over some Ganghak members to clean up the mess of your apartment in the hour and a half that you spent at the precinct.

“Mark says you don’t have to come in tomorrow,” he tells you before you go on.

“Wasn’t planning to,” is what you say before finally closing the door on him.

‎*‎

Unfortunately, Na Jaemin was right.

“Ow! Shit! Fuck me!”

You are, indeed, regretting your whole fit of violence right now— over your bathroom counter with your med kit sprawled open. Your hands are a mess. You bandage yourself up before attempting to make breakfast. The attempt ends with you hissing in pain every time you try to hold something with your right hand, so you end up ordering something to eat instead.

While waiting, you plop down on your down fixed couch to answer the flood of messages that had been coming in since last night. Mostly from Haechan. One text from Renjun checking in on you. The last few from Mark telling you to take as much time off as you need— paid, he emphasizes. His fluency in your way of communicating is starting to scare you. You tell him you’d be clocking in back to work tomorrow. 

A new notification comes in telling you that your order is almost here. You groan and peel yourself off the couch, grabbing a pair of slides from the entryway before twisting open your already unlocked door. 

The moment you breathe the hallway air, you’re met with another commotion.

“Get out! Go away!”

“Ma’am, I’m telling you I know the resident here, I’m just— ow!”

Thunk!

“Don’t you lie to me, I know Miss Attorney doesn’t have any friends or a boyfriend! Get out!”

You stop by the doorframe, taking in the sight of your middle-aged landlady beating the high and mighty Na Jaemin with a convenience store bought frying pan. He looks so distraught shielding himself with his arms, before finally noticing you, and his expression shifts. “Hey! Tell this woman to stop, I’ve been—”

Thwack!

 “Attorney!” your landlady greets you after landing another metal blow to Na Jaemin. “This weirdo has been loitering around your unit ever since I got here! Should we call the police?!”

Your eyes flit over to Jaemin. He looks annoyed and pissed and disgruntled, but apparently even someone like him won’t raise a hand against a woman old enough to be his mom. You stifle out a short sneer, then turn to your landlady with a smile. “Ahjumma, it’s alright, he’s my co-worker,” you assure. “He’s the one who helped me last night.”

You hear him scoff. “Oh,” your landlady gasps. “I’m so sorry, dear. You just looked awfully suspicious.” Then she quickly forgets about him to address you instead. “I already called a repairman to fix your broken door. They’ll be here before lunchtime.”

“Thank you. I’ll handle it from here!”

“Take care, dear. Have a lovely morning.”

When she goes off up the staircase, you look at the weirdo loitering around your unit. You cross your arms, brow raised. “What do you want?”

He stares you down, and you catch his mouth twitch when he lets out an incredulous huff. “Your damn landlady should get heating in the hallway. My back’s all sore and all I get in return is attitude,” he snarks. “Can’t believe you had a good night’s sleep even with your lock broken after the shit that went down. I don’t know if you’re brave or fucking stupid.”

You’re hit by a sudden pang against your chest. Oh. Oh. You notice he’s still wearing the same clothes as yesterday. You let his insult slide this time, telling him to follow you downstairs to pick up your food. It’s a good thing you ordered enough for two meals today. You don’t thank him. Instead, you invite him in for a doenjang-jjigae breakfast.

“Want coffee?”

“You gonna spit in it?” he chides from the dining table.

“Just say no, you prick,” you grunt, dragging out a pitcher of water from your fridge instead and slamming it down onto the table. You’re starting to second guess your act of gratitude. You should’ve just let your landlady beat him to death with the pan.

He pours water into the two empty glasses while you struggle to open the delivery bags and containers. You curse the plastic knot getting in the way of your doenjang-jjigae, hissing every time the plastic brushes against your still raw skin despite the bandages. Na Jaemin seems to notice your struggle because he clicks his tongue and snatches it from you to do it himself. Your face grows hot. Your pride is in tatters.

You two start eating in silence. God, this is so fucking awkward. “So, uh,” you try to crack it. “The food is…great…right…?”

“Cut the shit, attorney. Just spit it out.”

“Jeez, fine, alright,” you set your utensils down a little too aggressively, and you feel the sting deep within your palms. Your glare zeroes in on the spot on his head that you recall getting ambushed by your counter stool. “Is your head fine? It didn’t bleed or anything, right?”

He just shrugs and continues slurping down the soup. “I’ve had my head split open before. It’s no biggie.”

You stare at him. Was…was that supposed to be a brag? How many concussions has he had? Is that the reason why there’s a screw loose in there somewhere? He’s so fucking insane.

“You worried, or some shit?” He sets down his spoon to fish out a ply of tissue from the box on your table, dabbing away at the shit-eating smile on his face. “That’s cute. Does it mean you don’t hate my fucking guts anymore?”

The tofu you’re trying to eat stops midway into your throat. My god, you didn’t expect him to take that note so seriously. 

You swallow it down with water. “I just wanted to know if I had to reimburse you for any hospital bills,” you explain, somewhat defensive. “I still hate your fucking guts.” His past transgressions aside because he can’t even fucking remember them. “You were the shittiest and most stressful client I’ve ever had and I will hold this grudge until I die. I would’ve dropped your case if Mark’s very existence wasn’t a threat to my life.” All he does is cackle in response. You leer at him. “Fuck off, you treated me like crap then. I don’t get why you’ve been changing your tune lately. It’s throwing me off. Why the hell did you even help me?”

The ideas that Renjun and Haechan injected into your poor brain start to surface. Maybe he’s just doing it to get your attention. Everyone in the office knows he has a crush on you. You hope that’s not the case. You really hope it’s not— and now’s the opportunity to finally get the real answer.

Your heart is thumping like crazy waiting for Na Jaemin to open his dumb mouth. “Ah. The visiting room,” he starts, eyes wandering up like he’s reminiscing a pleasant memory. You don’t share the same sentiment and your expression sours. “I thought you were a pushover at first and it annoyed the hell out of me. Not a big fan of spinelessness and cowardice.”

Wow. You’re speechless. He’s this close to getting kicked out.

“But then you pulled me into that room during recess in court.” 

His eyes flicker over to you— forcing the eye contact that you’d always been running away from. The look on his face forces a lump in your throat. You gulp it down and feel a rattle in your bones. What is this? What’s his deal? Is he trying to fight? What in the name of—

“And then I realized just the kind of woman I was into.”

—fuck?

“Last night, too. But it would’ve been pretty inappropriate to tell you I was turned on considering the situation.”

You blink. You gape at him. You’re not sure if your face is steaming because of anger or embarrassment, so you chalk it up as both. 

“Get out.”

This is it. This is enough. It’s time to call it a day.

“Get out of my house.”

“I’m not done eating ye—”

You grab his glass of water and douse it over half-eaten stew, some of which spills and splatters over him. “Yes, you are. Out. Now.”

Na Jaemin lifts his brows and raises his hands up in surrender as he gets up from his chair without protest, an infuriating simper playing on his face, and it just all the more pisses you off. He makes a comment about your broken door lock before you tell him to fuck off and shove him out into the hallway, his cackles finally get muted the moment you slam the door into his face.

You press your back against the wood. You suck in a deep breath before releasing it as you slide down to the floor.

“This is nuts.”

Seems like you might need another day off. You text Mark that you’ll be coming in on Thursday instead.

fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline). © hannie-dul-set, 2025.

[reidsdimples]

Strictly Professional | Part 5 {Finale}

18+❤️‍🔥 MDNI ‼️

Spencer Reid x BAU!Reader

Time to confront the truth. Will you and Spence sink or swim?

Part 4 | Masterlist

“Hotch, what’s going on?” You hear Spencer say as he opens the door. You’re still in the running shower. “I have company so…”

Good, maybe Hotch will leave and not ask any questions. You decide to leave the shower on and start drying off and getting dressed. You were completely baffled, you had no idea what to do with yourself.

“I’m finalizing this case report and need more information on this part of your statement,” you hear them murmuring outside of the door.

A few minutes pass and you hear him leaving.

“Oh and one more thing,” you hear Hotch pause outside of the bathroom door. Your stomach sinks. “Y/N come on out,” he sounds exasperated.

Shit.

Fuck.

He knows, of course he fucking knows.

You open the bathroom door slowly, you’re pretty sure your face is flushed white as a ghost. Hotch looks between the two of you, his brow furrowed and his mouth set in a hard line.

“Do you understand this could jeopardize the professionalism of this team?” He shook his head, not angrily but more disappointedly. “The two of you need to have a conversation about what you’re willing to risk for one another. We will discuss the next steps back at Quantico.”

With that he turns and exits the room. You don’t know who is more stunned, you or Spence.

Spencer was about to tell you he wants more and now this. You could see his walls shooting back up, detachment becoming ever present in his eyes. He had made a home in solitude, grown cozy in loneliness’ embrace. Perhaps you had too.

“What are we-“ you start.

“There can’t be a we,” he levels his eyes on you, his tone stern. “This has to stop.”

“Are you serious?” You scoff at him. “We’re already caught Spence, we can’t undo it.”

“No but he can transfer or fire one or both of us. We can’t have sexual or romantic relationships with other members of the same unit. You know that,” he retorts.

“I get that it jeopardizes the team, you don’t think that worries me too?” You approach him and grab his arm as he turns from you. He jerks his arm away. “I think Hotch with work with us on this,” you plead.

“No. This is just too much,” he snaps.

“Fine,” you scoff. “I’ll see you in Hotch’s office tomorrow.”

With that you storm out of his room, with what little dignity you scavenge.

Tears sting your eyes when you crawl back into the far too big hotel bed. Why were you so stupid to think you could actually have him?

-

“Come in, sit,” Hotch’s stern face sends fear up your spine.

You glance at Spence who walks ahead of you, pulling his shoulder bag off and placing it on the floor. The two of you sit in the chairs facing Hotch’s desk, intimidated wasn’t a strong enough word.

Could your future at the BAU be in jeopardy? Never mind a future with Spence.

Hotch sits and looks between the two of you for a moment. Is he expecting on of you to speak?

You dare a look at Spencer, who by the looks of it, hardly slept either. At least he dozed on the jet.

“How long have you known?” Spencer asks.

“A while,” Hotch answers and scribbles something on a pad. “I realize I’ve paired you two up a lot this year. So I’m going to start there in the spirit of remedying this situation. First, the two of you will be partnered with other agents when we’re in the field,” he sighs.

“But you said yourself that we work great together,” you argue in reference to your recent evaluation.

“And I stand by that. This is about ensuring that your loyalties also lie with the other members of this team, not just one another,” his eyes bead into you.

“The manual says that it’s only forbidden once it proves to impact our job performance, it hasn’t,” Spencer says coldly.

You stare at the side of his head, was he actually fighting for this?

“It only says relationships are discouraged, but this is not a terminable offense,” Spencer adds.

“I’m not here to terminate either of you,” Hotch swears. “I’m here to ensure that this” he gestures between you. “Does not impact job performance in the future. I’ve been meaning to address this for a while.”

Spencer sighs, you do too. At least no one was losing their job.

“Now, apart from separating you two in the field…” Hotch pauses. “The team most likely already knows something is up. But don’t make it a thing, don’t make it obvious. I don’t need Strauss or the brass coming down on me about this. What you do in your off time is your business,” he says and writes something else on his notepad.

“Of course,” you nod when he glances up at you. Spencer just nods too.

“This also means no disappearing together into filing rooms or old offices,” he places his pen down and latches his fingers together. “Is that clear?”

Your face reddens. Oh fuck, he knew about that?

“Crystal,” Spencer swallows. His jaw twitches and feathers. Sex at work was definitely a terminable offense.

“Should I have to address this again, the consequences will be grave. Do not let your personal lives effect your job,” he says with finality.

You’re shaking, but you place your hands under your legs to stop it.

“Reid you’re going with Rossi and Prentiss to Dallas tonight to consult on a case there. Y/N you’re staying here with the rest of the team to work on a kidnapping in DC,” Hotch instructs and stands.

Both of you scramble to your feet like two kids in the principles office and confirm your understanding of your orders.

You leave first with your head down. You just way to focus on work, focus on the kissing kid. You meet JJ, Garcia, and Morgan at the round table to get started.

-

“Just come over,” Garcia whines later that night.

“Fine,” you laugh.

“I want to know all about what happened,” she smiles but rubs your back sympathetically.

The kidnapping case closed pretty quick, luckily the child was found safe and the unsub was taken in. You were thankful for an easier case after the last few darker ones.

Spencer would be in Dallas by now and you probably wouldn’t hear a peep from him until they got back. The two of you rarely texted, and you didn’t know where or how the two of you left things. Everything was up in the air.

Then again, you pleaded with him last night to fight for you. To some degree he did in Hotch’s office… or he was just fighting for his job. You sighed, you had no idea where his head was.

You just knew you felt sad, heavy. You wanted him, you wanted him to want you back. The whole thing sucked. Somewhere along the way you began wanting more from him while he seemed content just to have sex. The whole thing was getting messier.

You also knew you shouldn’t be telling Penelope any of this, per Hotch’s orders. But you trust her, she hadn’t told anybody when she found out.

“So he didn’t say anything to you when he left for Dallas?” Garcia sat on the couch and handed you your own ice cream.

“Nothing, barely even looked at me today,” you frown.

“I think he’ll come around. Especially since Hotch gave you guys specific parameters to operate within. He’ll work it all out in that big brain of his and come running back. I just know it,” Penelope huffed.

You hoped she was right. You weren’t sure. A big part of the excitement for both of you was the thrill of getting caught. What lay outside of that meant confronting the possibility of more, of a real relationship. Not just fun and games.

You and Penelope spent the rest of the night getting wine drunk and watching cheesy scary movies.

The following days drug on slowly with no contact from Spencer. You finally had a day off though and you were determined to make the best out of it.

You treated yourself to a massage, a mani pedi,a new hair cut, and new highlights.

By the time you got home you were pampered and worn out. You made short work of feeding your cat before wrapping your hair and getting in the welcoming hot shower.

When you had time to think, you always drifted back to Spencer. In your head though, it was Spencer without those damned walls up. The sweet and caring one, the fearlessly unafraid to be loved version of him. It was a side you rarely met. But you saw it, lying below the surface. That part of him that craved love, hoped beyond all hope that love would find him.

You found yourself hoping he found it one day. After everything he had gone through, after so much heartbreak, he deserved it. You just needed to be okay with the possibility of it not being with you. Selfishly, you weren’t there yet.

Steam billowed out of the shower as you dried off and wrapped your towel around you. You frown at the bathroom door, not recalling closing it. Weird.

Upon stepping out of the bathroom, you nearly have a heart attack.

“Fuck Spencer!” You scream. He’s sitting in the arm chair across from your bed, flipping through a book. “That’s it, give me the key,” you hold your hand out.

He looks up at you and smirks.

“No welcome back to Virginia?” He jokes.

“Na uh, nope. I’m still mad at you,” you reach down and snatch his keys from his lap. “Why are you here?” You cross your arms.

He looks devastating, he’s still wearing a FBI jacket, a tie, a checkered button down, and slacks. His hair is artistically messy, and he’s looking up at you with those big eyes.

“I-“ he hesitates, all humor gone from his face. “I don’t want to lose this.” It’s the most honest he’s been about ‘this’.

“And what is this Spencer? Huh? You don’t want to date me, but you kind of want more? I don’t get it,” you throw your hands up and walk away from him into the living room.

“I was afraid,” he grabs your arm and turns your towards him,

“Of losing your job?” You let breath hitches because of the physical contact.

“Partially, mostly because the way I feel about you is…” he trails off as he stares into your eyes.

“Completely unprofessional,” you smirk.

“Completely,” he exhales.

“What do you want?” You ask him.

“I want you to be mine, I want to take you out, and date you but in secret so the team doesn’t know. I want to stop pretending like I don’t care about you. Like I don’t spend every moment away from you hurrying to get back. It’s maddening,” he pushes his hand into your hair, caressing the side of your head. You blink as you try to take in the words you’d longed for for so long.

“This whole time I’ve just wanted you,” your voice is hushed, choked with the threat of tears.

He pulls you into him and crashes his lips into yours. You get the peculiar feeling that you’re kissing the real Spencer Reid for the first time. He’s gentle, vulnerable, soft, and starving for you. He’s not holding back, he’s running his hands up your body and discarding the towel. He whimpers when you pull his hair and push him into the wall.

“Will you be my girlfriend. Please,” he begs with his hands on your hips.

“Yes,” it’s breathless and you kiss him harder.

He hoists you up and wraps your legs around his waist before carrying you back to your room.

You giggle when he lays you on the bed and begins trailing kisses down your body. His soft lips clamp over your nipple, pulling a moan from you. His strong hands squeeze your thighs as his body hovers over your center.

He plants kisses down your stomach, on your hip bones, and then to your inner thighs. Your body comes alive for him, as if reaching for the deepest expanse of the universe, needing and needing more.

“Please,” you whimper as he kisses around your pussy teasingly.

“We’re not in a hurry this time baby,” he shushes you. The word baby feels like a sweet caress and has you whimpering for him.

You feel his middle finger run down from your clit to your entrance, spreading the wetness between your folds, before he pushes in into you. Those perfect fingers, you couldn’t get enough.

“Fuck,” you whine.

At which point he pressing his tongue into you as well, your whole body shuddering in response. He drags its upward, slowly until he finds your clit. He flicks and sucks at the sensitive bundle of nerves while he works a second and third finger into you.

You’re so wet that you’re soaking him, but he loves it, he devours you. He curls his fingers upward and starts lumping you harder and more violently.

“Cum for me, show me that you’re mine,” he begs. You glance down at him, his perfect fucking face between your legs and you’re done for.

You grip his hair, grind yourself against his face, and cum hard until you’re practically crying his name.

“Yours baby,” you whimper.

Then he’s climbing on top of you, still clothed but he’s undone his belt and pulled his cock free.

“Wait,” you whisper and start undoing his shirt. You both laugh at how clumsily you undo the buttons but you finally manage to strip him of it. “You’re so sexy, Spence,” you place your hand on his chest where you feel his heart hammering.

Somewhere in all of your hooking up you picked up on him not loving his thin frame. You wanted to make sure he knew that you did. He smiles shyly as you pull your knees back for him.

He hovers over you for a moment, as if just to look at the girl he now calls his. Then he slowly pushes himself into you, allowing you to stretch to his size, your walls tightening perfectly around him.

“Mine,” you arch your back and moan, feeling every inch of him.

It’s a declaration that means the world to him. He begins to roll his hips into you, more passionately and needy than he ever had before.

This was more than just sex, more than just fucking. He was relishing the feeling of you more than usual, he was taking his time. His hands held you close as though he were afraid he’d lose you, his lips couldn’t cover enough of your skin as if he needed to mark you. Then he did just that, he bite and sucks at your breasts while thrusting into you until you were coming apart for him.

He flattened himself on you, pushing deeper, needing to be closer until you were clawing at his back, until your legs wrapped his hips. You latched your mouth onto his chest and marked him for yourself. You greedily did so three more times, enjoying the sound of him sucking air through his teeth and locking eyes with you while he absorbed the pain.

You knew he was close when you came around him a second time. He pushed himself up on his palms, focusing with his mouth open, as he angled his hips to hit that sweet spot inside of you a few more times.

“Spencer,” you were practically begging for mercy.

A fourth orgasm would shatter you. But he wouldn’t accept anything less tonight. You both needed this.

He took one of your hands and laced his fingers between yours as he flatted it to the mattress next to your head. You watched his hips move as he pleasured you, as his cock moved in and out of you. Fuck, you would never tire of this, of him.

“Cum with me baby,” he breathes.

You do, your eyes roll back as the sensation seizes you, until you’re wound so tight that stars explode in your vision. You crescendo with him, shaking and screaming as he pumps into you.

“So good, you’re doing so good,” he’s moaning but you barely hear him. You feel out of body, you feel unreal, you’ve never felt so good is all you can think as your body starts humming.

When he pulls out of you and drags you against him, your limbs are jelly and you’re trembling.

You latch onto him and lay across his chest, listening to the sound of his heart, lost in the afterglow.

He gathers your hair from your face and pushes it back as he kisses the top of your head.

“You did so good baby,” he whispers again. You take his hand and kiss his palm gently.

“I like when you call me that,” you admit.

“Get used to it,” he smiles as his hand rubs lazy circles on your back.

“You get used to it. You’re stuck with me now Spencer Reid,” you smirk and kiss his chest.

He sits up suddenly.

“Is that rain?” He pulls back the curtain, then gets excited. “Throw something on, “ he smiles as he puts on his undershirt and pants.

“Why?” You groan.

“This is perfect,” he smiles and drags you playfully out of bed.

“Fine,” you laugh and tug on a tank top. “Where are we going?”

He grips your hand and pulls you behind him.

“Wait we’re not wearing shoes!” You squeal as he pulls you out of the house.

“Even better!”

He pulls you into the grass just outside, the rain coming down starts to drench you both immediately.

You try to run back to shelter but he seizes you around your waist and spins you around.

“Spence,” you squeak out a laugh. He turns you towards him, he’s smiling hard, his hair soaked.

“I’ve always wanted to kiss my girlfriend in the pouring rain,” he says and kisses you sweetly. He kisses you until you don’t care about the rain, until you know that you’re his and always will be.

A/N- thank you guys for following and loving on this fic 🫶🏻 it means the world to me that you guys loved it enough to keep asking for more!

Check out the master list on my page for other stories 🫶🏻

[anamericangirl]

Hi there!! Very supportive and grateful fellow pro-lifer here. (I've sent you inbox messages and dms before. 💛💕)

I read your recent reblog post in which you said the vast majority of pro-life people agree that abortion is necessary when the life the mother is in danger. I agreed with absolutely everything else you said in the reblog, but that gave me pause. I have a couple questions.

When you use the term abortion here, are you referring to the procedure to remove an ectopic pregnancy/embryo? Most medical professionals would call that a salpingostomy or salpingectomy. It's not an abortion. As a pro-life person, I prefer to maintain that distinction and hold the line against pro-aborts' tactic of hijacking the term abortion to additonally include things like this procedure and spontaneous miscarriages that are not abortions. They want to muddy the waters in order to try to make the case that anti-abortion law would be harmful for women experiencing these things; and in some cases with some folks they're succeeding in muddying the waters. I want to treat vocabulary as important and meaningful. I'm sure you and I could both get into explanations as to why these are not abortions if folks needed us to. An abortion inherently requires the active ending of a pre-born baby's life for that purpose. A salpingostomy to remove an ectopic pregnancy or embryo is not done with the motive to end the baby's life. The baby is in an environment that would make it dangerous for both the baby and mother for baby to continue growing there, so the procedure removes the baby from that environment. If they could save the baby they would, but this often happens much too early for that to be possible. It's a very sad loss of life, but it utterly lacks intentional killing. It's not an abortion. A miscarriage does not involve intentional human action in any way, let alone intentional taking of life. It's both tragic and spontaneous, and it's not an abortion. It is egregiously duplicitous and honestly highly disrespectful and inconsiderate for pro-aborts to try to include either miscarriage events or ectopic pregnancies under the umbrella of the term abortion. But of course we know well they don't care.

If you intend the term abortion here in a broader sense, I'd kindly encourage some research, and I offer the below short video by a doctor. Many medical professionals have tried to wave red flags and explain that abortion is never medically necessary in any health situation in which either the baby's or mother's health is in danger. Honest medical professionals with integrity will say that in any such situation, all holistic effort would be given to save the health of both mother and baby and that they would always induce labor and deliver the baby and would never even consider killing the baby inside the womb. I know folks get touchy about this because there's been so much fear-mongering about pro-life laws, and because they say we can't discuss things that medical professionals know better about. But medical professionals themselves are trying to stand up and be clear about this. The idea and claim that there are some instances in which killing the baby would save the mother is really and truly a terrible myth that has been heavily, heavily propagated for the purposes of the pro-abortion agenda. That's the truth. We have to stand up against that pervasive lie.

https://youtu.be/IfpRYxufxAM?si=vqvtiT2uyyxL8EFd

Just thought it would be great for your followers to read and think about this. You're doing great, and I stand with you and am very grateful for you!

xx fellow pro-life tumblr folk xx (We are HERE.)

Hey! Thanks so much for this and we are 100% on the same page here!

Because I've done a lot of research into the subject and listen to what doctors say, I know if a mother's life is in jeopardy during pregnancy, an abortion is never the answer. There's never a need to go in and intentionally kill the baby to save a mother's life. The mother certainly needs emergency treatment but killing the baby is never a life saving procedure. In fact, if it's an emergency situation, an abortion is likely to make it worse. She may need an early delivery but an abortion.

And I absolutely agree that it's important for this distinction to be made and the terminology is accurate.

The reason I say the vast majority of pro-lifers would agree to allowing abortion if the mother's life is in danger is because I genuinely think they would. Every time I've seen a pro-lifer questioned about it, every single one has said that is the one situation where it should be permissible. And I think that's because the vast majority of people, pro-lifers included, aren't fully educated on the different conditions that can arise and the prescribed treatments for these conditions so most don't have the knowledge of what the proper treatment is when an emergency condition arises. So even though plenty of us know abortion is not the solution even in an emergency (and more and more people are learning this) there's still a significant population that would agree to allowing abortion in these scenarios because they simply do not know what the alternative is.

So ideally, abortion would not be used in cases where the mother's life is at risk because abortion would not save the mother's life. But still, especially in debates, pro-lifers will relent to this one case in order to find common ground and address the overarching issue.

And realistically, if legislation was introduced that outlawed abortion in all cases except when the mother's life was in danger I would support it because it would drastically reduce the amount of abortions almost 100% and then the next fight would be educating people that abortion isn't needed even in those instances and getting rid of that allowance as well.

[fandomsmadness]

Late but

TBHX episode 4 rant

Okay if I had a nickel every time they ended an episode with Moon being shot in the head... we all know where I'm going and that's concerning. Two main thoughts about the cliffhanger:

THANK GOD EPISODE TWO WASN'T A FAKEOUT

I hate it, if only for the fact that it pulled our focus away from so many important things that happened in the chapter, hello??? I hate that our final takeaway is "Moon got shot again" instead of a number of other things

We start with the most important things first; last episode rant I was asking whether we should just resign ourselves to Lin Ling being unhappy as Nice for the rest of his life and lmao I have never been more happy to be given the most solid answer I could have hoped for.

However, important implication here; I believe this means trust value is a two way system. In order to work:

Trust must be given by people (fans believing in 'Nice'/Lin Ling)

Trust must be accepted by the other party (Lin Ling accepting that he wants to become/is 'Nice'/himself)

And this brings up a really fascinating question: "can multiples of the same hero exist?" The answer should be yes - we see in cases like The Johnnies that trust value can be given to a team as a whole instead of each individual component. Can the mantle of a hero also be split this way? Will that ease the burden?

And in that same vein, would any hero who decides they are no longer their moniker be able to step away from their burdens and expectations just as easily? If yes, which I believe it is, what happens to Lin Ling if he ever wants to go back to a regular life?

That being said I love the naming of this episode, absolute genius, and the way it was presented, absolute cinema. Personally I'm regarding this point as the conclusion of Lin Ling's current arc and I have to say, these last four episodes had us on a rollercoaster. Lin Ling realising he didn't actually want to be Nice, but a hero was peak and I love that he got to get to it on his own terms.

And while I love the introduction of Jeopardy (that song has no right being so badass) I found it interesting that in this particular scene when Lin Ling is finally defeating God Eye, it's Paragon that plays. He gave up being Nice. Why are we getting Nice's theme song here?

That's not all, we still have more questions: If Lin Ling is now 10, what rankings are the ones on the official website???

Why I'm not considering this part of the arc as of now is because it's unfinished, clearly there for cliffhanger value, and it's very likely that we will all change our minds about this later when more information is given because the whole thing is fishy. How does Moon recognize Lin Ling, who she's never seen before? Why is E-Soul or a lookalike there, and why are they positioned behind Moon while the shot came from the side? Was episode 1 a premonition, or was someone trying to warn Lin Ling? Time will tell.

And while I will be really mad if it turns out Moon is alive after that (AGAIN) part of me is hoping she is because give this girl a break man, wtf?? At least give her a proper vacation, or a death in dignity, as her own person, and not an accessory to a man!

Other (less important to me) things:

Blankster was an interesting study for several reasons, the biggest being how powers can evolve beyond their origin function, aka how strong punches evolved not just in strength but also in terms of memory loss. Given Blankster's boxer origins, this makes so much sense, and I thought it was a really clever way to reference concussions. Secondly, Treeman made it too easy for God Eye, come on! It also showed how corporate really doesn't give a shit about Moon as soon as she left; they just viewed her as a liability. From the episode's start, they didn't care about saving her.

It's also nice (haha, pun not intended) to finally have at least one name to these faces. So these are the hero agency heads. Interesting, and makes sense. Now we only need to figure out who the hooded figure is and the intro's main pain points will be less painful (not really).

And finally, God Eye. I can't help but feel he fell kinda flat. Last ep I had high hopes for him being set up as Lin Ling's nemesis, and he did to an extent, embody that with his "there are no real heroes in this era" talk but then along came Lin Ling shedding the Nice persona to prove him wrong. Where does that leave him? Was he only a gimmick for the Lin Ling arc? I feel there should be more.

After all, we still don't know whose fear is channelling God Eye, and how it came be taken away. By making him a laughing stock, perhaps?

I knew episodes 5-7 were going to be E-Soul centered, but I have to hand it to the team, this was one hell of a way to transition viewpoints.

[daresplaining]

hello! ive been reading comics daredevil features in (finished all his title comics) and recently read defenders (2017) but i was wondering if you could confirm if that was based on the netflix defenders instead of the other way around? were matt, luke, danny and jessica ever on a named team together before?

thank you so much for your time!! your blog is amazing

Hello, and thank you!

Yes, the 2017 Defenders series, while set in the regular 616 comics universe, was directly inspired by the Netflix Defenders shows and was created to draw in readers from that audience (and while I don't have the actual sales numbers, I think it worked? It felt like everyone was reading and talking about this series when it was coming it. It was a very fun time).

The answer to your second question is twofold:

1. A team called the Defenders has existed within the Marvel Universe since the 70s. However, it was not this team, or even anything like it. The roster has changed over the years, but the original line-up included the Hulk, Dr. Strange, Namor, Valkyrie, and Nighthawk. The concept behind the team was that they were a group of powerful heroes who would only actually come together in secret, when the safety of the planet was in jeopardy (the original Defenders series refers to them as "the greatest non-team in history"). They often dealt with cosmic threats that other heroes couldn't necessarily handle. In 2011, a new Defenders series was introduced that slightly revamped the team and added Danny as a core member. He is the only Netflix Defenders character to have been an official part of that team. Luke and Matt teamed up with the Defenders once or twice over the years, as have many other heroes (one of my favorite Daredevil cameos of all time, in fact, is in Giant-Size Defenders #3, where he gets recruited to help the team fight aliens and then dies almost immediately). But as far as the Netflix Defenders go, there is no real connection; somebody (Jeph Loeb?) decided these guys needed a team name and just slapped the "Defenders" label onto them for no clear reason beyond the fact that it hadn't been used yet in the MCU.

2. Yes, these four characters have teamed up before, and more! Luke and Danny—Power Man and Iron Fist, the original Heroes for Hire—are one of Marvel's longest-held and most distinguished duos. They have been partners/best friends/chosen brothers/queer-subtext-generators since the 70s and have headlined series together on-and-off for the past fifty years, including the CLASSIC Power Man and Iron Fist volume 1, which is one of those comics that I recommend to everybody because it's just that good (pleeeease read it, and then come talk to me about it!). And Jessica, while a much newer character with a non-traditional superhero career trajectory as far as teams go, has been married to Luke since 2006. Luke, Jessica, their daughter Dani, and her namesake Uncle Danny are not just a team, they are a family.

Left: New Avengers vol. 2 #23 by Brian Michael Bendis, Mike Deodato, Will Conrad, Rain Beredo, and Joe Caramagna Right: Power Man and Iron Fist vol. 3 #6 by David Walker, Flaviano, John Rauch, and Clayton Cowles

And Matt is...one of their many friends. In this regard, I've always found it funny that he was included, because as far as their comics relationship dynamic goes, he's very much a third wheel in this scenario. He's just a guy they know. But they are all members of the NYC street-level hero community, and they've teamed up in various capacities over the years. Luke, Jessica, and Danny have all done bodyguarding work for Nelson & Murdock, and Luke and Danny were part of the team that helped bring down Demon Matt during Shadowland. As far as named teams go, when Luke and Jessica were leading the New Avengers (with Danny, of course), Matt was temporarily a member, and they were also part of the Marvel Knights team, a street-level group that was a key inspiration for the tone and concept of the Netflix Defenders.

So yes, this is a very long way of saying that anytime you see a comic that uses the name "Defenders" to refer to Luke, Danny, Jessica, and Matt, that comes straight from the MCU and not the other way around.

[a-deceptive-calling]

Delilah "Delz" Edwards | Updated Reference Delz is your local punk rock loving tomboy who just so happens to live a couple blocks away from the recently announced horror attraction in town, Fazbear’s Fright. Wanting to get all the spooky deets for her YouTube channel before anyone else, she and her friend Harry become a pair of trouble making teens as they break into the abandoned, poorly ventilated building, unearthing something much more than what they bargained for. They found one. A real one. This is SURE to gain her a boat load of clout! Since her parents suddenly divorced, she’s been struggling a lot mentally, having trouble making friends with kids her age and getting into a lot of horror related media as of late. Her dad tries his best despite having some serious depression of his own to deal with, even if she pushes him away. Her shaky status with her father would only be further thrown into jeopardy with the friendship she forms with the animatronic they "borrowed" from Fazbear's Fright, going by the name of Mr. Bonnie. She’s a rather nosy girl, always asking Mr. Bonnie about his tightly guarded secrets, trying to pry more and more out of his mysterious past as she’s left with more questions than answers. Instead of being suspicious about him, she sees this as an interesting allure to his character; Fazbear’s Fright really must know what they’re doing, huh? Oh man, just imagine all the views her videos will get!

Little does she know, Mr. Bonnie is not as innocent on the surface as he seems, gaining her trust with nothing but sinister intentions behind them...

[siflshonen]

when you say there is nothing of substance in regards to izuku, what exactly are you referring to? what would you have liked to see in the ending between bakugo and izuku?

It actually has less to do with Katsuki and more to do with Izuku and everyone else.

I would have liked to see him talk more with All Might about life after all for one and the possibility of loss. I would have liked to explore the drama of Izuku being the last wielder a little more from a personal perspective. It seems like Katsuki did most of the work exploring how Izuku returning to quirkless life would be a big adjustment.

I would have liked to see Izuku grapple more with understanding that while Shigaraki is someone he wanted to save, he also hated him. I would have liked to see him realize that besides just saving Shigaraki, he might have to spare a thought about what might happen next even if it didn’t happen. Ochako did, even in passing.

I would have liked to see more emotional impact regarding Izuku having the epiphany that he wants to save someone who has wronged him in a permanent way that matters. That wasn’t Katsuki, but Shigaraki/All for One, who have put Katsuki in jeopardy three times and Toshinori in the same position at least twice when Izuku was present. We go through this briefly, but it’s more like watching it go by as something we’re meant to expect rather than something we explore.

I would have liked to see Izuku, Ochako (with Ochako lurking on the sidelines and keeping her thoughts to herself a little, just as she was), AND Shoto discussing the very real possibility that the people they might try to save will die, and the public WILL try to martyr them a la Curious to Himiko, and they WILL have to discuss their actions. In the epilogue it seems Ochako has found a way to talk about Himiko with the public without talking about Himiko directly, which is its own thing, but I would like to see Izuku actually try to handle the consequences of his sudden fame since it is directly affected to what Heroes (career Heroes) value and strive for.

Katsuki, I think, also has an opportunity to act as a counterpoint because he killed his opponent and it was never some deep, emotional debate. I wouldn’t expect it to give Katsuki any existential angst, because I feel like it would be absurd if he OR the public gave TWO SHITS about whether All for One lived or died, but he and Izuku did enact two differing functions and methods of Pro Heroing that have to be discussed. Izuku can feel however he likes about his role in Shigaraki’s death, but he should also recognize that the people around him and that he respects and love did arrive with the intention to kill, and even that Katsuki put himself in that position SO IZUKU DID NOT HAVE TO HANDLE IT.

I would have liked to see Izuku questioning, at many points throughout the series, what it is exactly a pro Hero does and what they protect and value before he thinks about extending that nebulous definition to include trying to save Shigaraki Tomura. I don’t even necessarily want him to have to try and fix it in the story, but I would like for him to identify it beyond being “kinda weird”. From Ochako’s comments on finding Himiko a potential heroic purpose (meaning, the fact that she knows saving Himiko must be justified to the public to have some kind of purpose, or even that it COULD be) I think she understands what she is grappling with much better than Izuku does.

I don’t mind or disagree with him being a teacher, but I don’t get the sense how helping pro Hero students, who still have to be incredibly powerful to qualify for the career, apparently, makes him heroic. What the hell is he teaching them if I’m not convinced he learned much besides the taste of failure in his own heroic story?

I’d like for Izuku Midoriya to have more going for him as an individual character with a more extreme internal monologue and desires with fears, doubts, and explored resolutions to any of these things. He has them at the start, but by the end I personally don’t find them interesting or or well explored, and he does not connect with me.

And, yes, as a cherry on top, I do wish he had the balls to tell Kacchan that he has value in his life as something besides a rival. He can smile and have his shiny eyes all he likes and let it be implied or self-evident all he likes, but I would like for him to acknowledge it instead of always being a recipient. It was pretty gratifying to see him take the time to go speak with Ochako and tell her how heroic she is, finally, now at the end, but it would be nice if he did that for Toshinori, his mom, Katsuki, or a slew of other characters who have always saved him, helped him, or held their feelings inside for the sake of him or others.

While he uses stupid machismo and yelling, Katsuki has hidden his true feelings a lot not just as a shield for his fragile ego in the second half, but to keep Izuku from worrying. So nice of you to notice, Izuku.

[thehothcast]

cassian andor general romance hcs

word count: 994

warnings: none, just a miniscule reference to sex

message from the authors: first post on the account! love that for us. we both (okay just me, fine - grace) went a little feral writing these, enjoy the show! (i was moral support for grace and additional idea giver, hope u love! - rosa)

--

ok so! i think cass is very easily scared off when it comes to this kind of thing: love. he’s skittish when he’s unsure, and although romantic dalliances aren’t new to him, approaching a situation where he’s not privy to if you reciprocate or even if you ever could, is new to him. he’s always been the one in control of the dynamic, or at the very least an equal, with both participants on the same page (or thereabouts, see him and bix i suppose.)

the man seems a lil avoidant, like he’s just wary of people in general so i'm not so sure how well he’d respond to hearing from a third party that you had a crush on him, whether that be a close friend of yours or an unfamiliar group of fellow rebels. he’d immediately feel like expectations were being pushed onto him and people were anticipating him to react in a certain way. he doesn’t like that, it feels like someone's yanked open the curtains that were obscuring him from the bright light of perception? so even though he returns your feelings for sure, he’s not going to react well to that kind of direct address/situation and would most likely pull away from you in an attempt to take back the control he feels he’s lost.

in the end i think if one of you were to make a move to further the relationship, it would have to be him because he doesn’t like feeling caught off guard or put on the spot. even then, he’s definitely not confessing the true extent of his fondness for you (even though it totally consumes him, this is a man that feels deeply, just look at those eyes babe). 

cassian is someone who expresses their love through actions and deeds, not so much words, at least not immediately, that’s a little too vulnerable for him at the moment.

let's be honest, his version of getting the message across to you is patting you on the shoulder and telling you “that’s really good” as he oversees your group’s blaster training. like the affection is there and you totally get free passes where others don’t, but overall there’s really nothing concrete to suggest he thinks of you as anything other than a friendly comrade, which is probably how he likes it for now.

again, addressing it head on either by yourself or having another person plant the notion into his mind is not the way to go about this. he’s like a stray animal, you see him from across the street and desperately want to pull him close and love up on him, but even the most careful approach will have him skirting away from you in a flash after one wrong move.

honestly the only way to go about this i think is to just let him do his own thing, find a quiet and subtle way let him know you’re open and will be waiting with open arms, and he’ll come to you eventually. i’d say he’d come to you in his own time, and I wouldn't be lying but let's be honest, that first really meaningful look (see elevator scene in rogue one 😩) and pleading of your name is going to come in a moment of high-stakes and danger. what can I say, there's nothing like a life threatening situation in which either one or both of your lives are in jeopardy and desperation and stress infect every decision made, to provoke a momentary lapse in resolve and allow some painfully concealed concern and devotion to seep out of one's every orifice <3.

then there’s the subject of his name. obviously he introduces himself as cassian (unless he’s undercover but that’s a whole other can of worms, you’d get there in the end), so you’ve not really any reason to suspect otherwise until you pose an innocent question about the origins of his name, which leads him to hesitantly surrender his birth name to you. this is only something he’d ever consider doing if he truly, deeply trusted you and felt ready to open up even just a little bit. again, it’s all in his own time, there’s no pushing cassian. psst, don’t be afraid of using his real name, he’ll answer to it…just pick the right moments iykyk

when on missions, clashes tend to happen. cassian believes he knows best (and maybe he does. he probably does lets be fr we’re dumbos), so you’ll every now and again notice him speaking for you or making decisions on your behalf. obviously as an independent entity, this will most likely get on your nerves so it’s an issue that’ll have to be addressed in a sit down session with him. he honestly doesn’t mean it in a controlling way, he probably sees it as him relieving you of any unnecessary burdens, so you’ll have to make it clear to him you’d appreciate it if he lets you stand on your own 2 feet and would, well… for a lack of a better phrase, ‘just butt out’. at the end of the day, you’d rather be equals, partners in crime, not so much some micromanaged talent. come on, it’s understandable cass.

just for funsies... he’s probably unbuttoned his shirt a little more than necessary at least once. just to see if you’d respond to it. he’d seen the style begin to take off amongst the more cocksure pilots (that’s what he tried to tell himself. it was really just fueled by a shy desire to have you look at him like that, like the rebel full of swagger that he knows he isn't). it lasted a grand total of 12 hours before he caught a glimpse of his reflection and cringed a little bit, vanity be damned. the next time you saw him, his shirt was buttoned back up all the way again and he will never acknowledge the fact ever again. 

[felidrae]

Theory on Cesare’s redemption arc

Worthikids is a big fan of references & in Bigtop most notably it’s shown in the character Cesare.

If your unfamiliar he is based off the character Cesare, a hypnotized man who the Doctor (Dr. Caligari) claims to see the future, in “The Ballad of Dr. Caligari”. The silent horror film (made in Germany, 1920) is about two male friends Francis and Alen attending a Carnival where they encounter Dr. Caligari & his somnambulist Cesare. Alen asks the hypnosised man when he will die to which Cesare proclaims tomorrow, the next day Alen is found dead making Cesare the prime suspect & chaos ensues; It’s later revealed that Cesare doesn’t see the future but simply follows the orders of Dr.Caligari. The Zomburger Crew also have little Easter eggs regarding the film: Frances is Francis, Doctor is Alen(& his custome is a portray to Dr. Caligari) and Conrad is the name of Cesare’s actor Conrad Veidt.

Now you may ask, what does all this have to do with Cesare’s possible redemption? Interestingly enough if you look into the symbolism of the film it reveals hinted roots of Cesare’s character/story.

Cesare is arguably a solider, a nobody in a long line of nobody’s that’ll watch the World til the end of time & doesn’t question Upper Management as seen in “UP” (“I don’t control who they think is a menace”); When he is finished his position will be quickly replaced by someone else. His character arc, unlike his film counterpart, will be one where instead of mindlessly following orders he will revolt against his superiors.

However that now begs the question how will this happen?

Back to the Zomburger crew, their names having references to the film hints that they will also play a part in Cesare’s redemption arc. As I’ve stated before, Cesare has a hidden soft spot for the Zomburger crew, more so Doctor (Allen), though he denies it to even himself so there will be no strings attached & It’s already been shown that Doctor (Allen) is Cesare’s Morality Pet trope; unlike his film’s counterpart who is immediately killed off by film Cesare by the orders of Dr. Caligarli.

Cesare’s job is one where they watch over the Earth from “menaces” & presumably do not want them nor their mission to be known in the living public eye; now that 6 living humans know the existence of two SEPARATE entities as well as magic it’s not hard to consider that upper management wouldn’t be pleased keeping these loose ends alive. They are now menaces to the secrecy of the underground organization.

Prediction: Cesare will be ordered to cut off these loose ends himself or overhear someone else will do so; this will cause him to spiral into a moral crisis. He will realize he cannot follow/allow the order to go through & will most likely team up w/ Steve since his own crew will be in jeopardy also; freeing him from his cell.

This will correlate with how in the the film Cesare falls in love with Francis’s wife & is unable to follow through with his order to kill her- kidnapping her & running away until he’s too tired to run anymore.

[lokavisi]

*~Housekeeping~*

Hail and welcome! The intro blurb at the top of the page tells you a bit about me but I wanted to get a little more in depth about the blog. My goal is to make my little corner of the internet here as safe and welcoming as possible, so I wanted to make some disclosures and set some boundaries. (Please read, especially for personal policy regarding minors!)

-First and foremost, Heathenry is for everyone. No matter your race, gender, sexuality, age, or ability. Fascism has no place here or anywhere else in Heathenry. I will not tolerate any such ideologies being spread here.

-A newly ignited passion of mine is fostering future generations of Pagans and Heathens. For that reason, I am accepting of minors interacting with this blog with some caveats. These are to protect ourselves and foster healthy boundaries.

1. Please limit interactions to likes, public comments, reblogs, or asks; no private messages. This keeps us both accountable for the appropriateness and intent of our interaction. I do not have the option for anonymous questions for this reason (and to generally try to deter trolls). I ask that these interactions stay related the topic of the post being responded to, working with Loki, or things relating to Heathenry/my other religious identifiers. I do not want anyone to ever question my intentions in wanting to educate you or other youth, nor do I want to put your safety in jeopardy.

2. Speaking of safety, the only time I will respond to private messages from minors is for questions regarding gender transition. As a trans person, I fully understand the need to discuss those things more discretely if it is not safe for you to do so publicly. I understand how challenging it can be to find safe adults and accurate information about the process. I am here to educate as best I can. If you have questions about the transition process, I will do my best to help you get accurate information. Please understand, however, that I am not a therapist and I will not discuss personal details with you. This is for our safety. The most I will ever share about my personal life is whatever is relevant to getting you accurate information (such as the process I went through to change my name or pursue surgeries).

-Related to the previous point, I will do my best moving forward to either tag and/or indicate at the top of my posts what may not be suitable for minors. (This will be based more on content than things like language. I figure if you're old enough to be online, you're probably familiar with a few choice words.)

-A lot of what I share on here is related to my UPG (unverified personal gnosis), practices, and beliefs. It is absolutely ok if your UPG or beliefs do not align with mine. However, I will not tolerate anyone trying to discredit my, or anyone else's, experiences. Keep all discussion civil and respectful. I hate doing it, but I will block people if harassment and the like becomes a continual problem.

-Life is too short to have a stick up your butt about comics and movies that people enjoy, so we respect Marvel fans around here. This does not mean that we are equating the Gods to Marvel's interpretations of Them, nor are we equating Tom Hiddleston with Loki. I am under no delusions here. That said, some people came to these Gods through Marvel material and it is something that can be enjoyed in and of itself. I have made a few posts about how the Gods can sometimes sneak Their way into that stuff and that's just fun (for me, at least) to see. Sometimes Thor likes watching those movies with me. I found watching the Loki series to be a surprisingly devotional act because of the character arcs and material correlating with a lot of the work I've done with Loki. None of this has to be your jam. Just don't be a jerk about it. (Also, if I use a Tom-Loki gif as a reaction or to indicate a vibe Loki's giving me, that's all it is. No need to get worked up.)

Other general notes:

-I tend to refer to Loki with He/They pronouns because of how They generally present around me. Whatever pronouns you use to refer to Loki are absolutely fine.

-If you are curious, the meaning behind the name Lokavisi and my choice to use it can be found here.

-Loki and Their family tend to get the most of my attention, but I have had experiences with and some connection to other deities in the Norse pantheon and beyond. I am also looking to "shake hands" with more deities and spirits for my own edification and oracular practices. (If I'm going to be sharing messages from Someone, I feel like it helps to know Them at least a little.)

-My main blog is @bifuriouslyqueer. So if you see that blog following you or liking your posts, it's me. If you care to follow (and it is absolutely ok if you don't), that's a little more DNI for minors. It is full of my pop culture hyperfixations, mental health and political woes, and general trash memes.

-Banner art is "Loki's Children" by AnywhereButReality on DeviantArt. Profile pic art is from @jessiarts

-If you would like a tarot, rune, or oracle card reading, please visit my Ko-Fi! If cost is a barrier for you, please do not hesitate to reach out so we can work something out! While I am broke and need money, I don't want to be inaccessible.

Alright, enjoy the blog!

[yourneighborhoodporg]

The Guardian

Chapter 9: Ancient Implements

Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader

Warnings: Angst, fluff, banter, medical scans/lingo, reference to injuries, exhausted Reader, descriptions of violence, anxious/concerned Obi :(

Summary: Following a rainy conversation, Obi-Wan accompanies you to the Jedi Infirmary in hopes of finding some answers about your condition from Healer Rig Nema. Consequentially, in the face of new discoveries and futile coping mechanisms, the Master Jedi is driven to finally intervene. Through an unconventional strategy, nonetheless.

Song Inspo: Broad-Shouldered Beasts — Mumford & Sons

Words: 9.4k

A/n: Hope everyone celebrating enjoyed New Year’s! Some references to events/thoughts in Star Wars: Wild Space here. No context needed, just some short moments not covered in the Prequels/TCW. So, this chapter very much sets us up for the absolute DOOZY that is the next one, so best to buckle up LOL. My bad about the delay in this one. I had to teach myself brain chemistry 🤪 (sorry to any med students reading in advance). Made up for it in length 💀

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Series Masterlist

The earth laughs in flowers — Ralph Waldo Emerson

Obi-Wan reclined, allowing his back to press against the inner glass of one of the Infirmary’s privacy dividers as he folded his arms snugly across his chest.

Internally, the Master Jedi was hoping to disguise the slight unease that crawled up and down his spine for deep concentration, furrowing his brows as if he’d entered a profound state of thought or meditation.

But no matter how carefully he postured impressions of levelheadedness in the face of your paled features, Obi-Wan couldn’t ignore the low thrum of concern that occasionally tugged on his sternum. He couldn’t help but feel the air around him thicken from newly discovering a weeks-long affliction impacting The Guardian.

Impacting you.

A being, that if ever unwell, could place a critical prophecy in jeopardy.

A being, on account of those responsibilities, he promised to protect.

It was to the point where his steadily swelling desire for some answers had languished passing minutes into what seemed like hours. All while he waited across from you for your examination to be completed.

However, once Kenobi glanced at the chronometer’s green glow on the opposite side of the observation room, he soon realized the actuality of how much time had elapsed. Obi-Wan couldn’t believe it’d only been twenty minutes since he escorted you to the Infirmary. Twenty minutes since you were both welcomed with open arms by one of the Temple’s prime physicians, Master Rig Nema, at the facility’s main entrance.

As a Healer known not to waste time, she immediately submitted an inquiry into why you were visiting. But it wasn’t until Master Nema took in your slightly sluggish form, that the doctor was quick to usher you both into a private cubicle, barely enabling the bearded Jedi to finish his symptomologicol report as he was whisked away alongside you.

Clearly, the presence of painful headaches pervading for weeks on end had stoked the Master Healer’s intrigue just as equally as it steamed Obi-Wan’s smoldering wariness. A fascination so zealous, that she pointed to and instructed the infirmary’s only two available medical droids to carry out a number of cranial scans as you all walked down the hall. Their wheeling bodies materializing by your side once the three of you entered one of the far observation rooms. Whirling and weaving to gather that first set of images before you even had the chance to sit down.

Master Kenobi couldn’t argue with the efficiency with which Master Nema accomplished her work. Nearly all of the ordered scans had been completed in a relatively short time.

But the urgency with which the doctor questioned you, while a whirlwind of droids circled your head like a pack of strike-Vultures, still had the repercussion of stoking Kenobi’s apprehension to the point of slowing down time itself. The longer Master Nema professionally fired query after query while dissonantly beeping droids traveled to and fro, the more Obi-Wan’s mind drifted to the idea that something really was wrong. And his anticipation of that theory swelled enough to knock each minute beyond his reach. As if shore waves towed sequential seconds farther out to sea.

Of course, as a broader consequence, Master Kenobi could already feel the delicate kindling of a faraway guilt emerge in his gut. Especially once he considered his delay in approaching you.

Had he spoken to you sooner, would the doctor have found her concerns to be less pressing? Would the results you were both still awaiting have proven to be more favorable?

But these thoughts only had the effect of stimulating a dull ache throughout Kenobi’s already tensed back, tightening around his spine like sentient vines as your short conversation with Master Nema reached its end.

Even as the Healer excused herself, his constant mix of disquiet and curiosity about your condition drove his eyes to follow the doctor, all the way up until her marbled head crest disappeared around the corner framing the narrowed doorway. As if her vanishing figure held the answers he sought.

Still, your mysterious affliction was not the only item that’d stoked an air of unease in the resting Jedi. Returning to the inside of the Infirmary’s borders had yanked back memories of his last dalliance with its muted decor and antiseptic aroma. The wounds he’d earned from the Battle of Geonosis were tended to by a similar set of droids in the chamber parallel to this one. A sliver of glass scarcely separated him from recollections of bruised ribs, broken bones, and an exceptionally disorienting concussion.

And, transparently, with reminders of discomfort came booming echoes of the harrowing days that bookended that medically invasive afternoon.

Memories he didn’t want to explore again.

Admittedly, in addition to masking this compounding unease, Master Kenobi had other motivations for his steadily declining posture, amplified as he leaned further back into the sturdy, sleek dividers that bordered you both. It happened to also be the only way Master Kenobi could offer you any semblance of space in such a cramped compartment. One that was so obviously designed for a single patient and no visitors.

You were tiredly perched on the infirmary bed’s side, legs dangling loosely. All while the last stubby medical droid completed a few final, even waves around your head with its hand’s built-in scanner. Yet, despite being planted in the opposite corner from the Master Jedi, the two of you still stood mere feet away from each other. A fact that was further highlighted by that same, pesky droid bumbling into Obi-Wan’s resting elbow for the fourth time as it maneuvered between you and the short wall of green luminescent data screens installed to his right.

Indisputably, it would’ve been easier to vacate these tight quarters to solve such a matter.

But Obi-Wan decided against it. He was still reticent to leave you completely alone.

Both of you knew Master Nema would be returning soon. The Healer had assured you that she’d only be gone down the hall for a few minutes to scan your results from the datapad in her private office. Yet, despite this mutual understanding, Obi-Wan immediately clocked from your shifting eyes toward the empty doorway that her brief withdrawal had fueled second thoughts about your decision to come here. This, in combination with the subtly doubting expression that stuck to your face the whole journey here, had easily convinced the Jedi Master that stepping out would’ve electrified that arch as a beacon of escape, driving you to follow those faintly perceptible impulses.

So, hence this observation, Master Kenobi decided it best to instead act as a tenuous deterrent, marking his territory between you and that sweet exit with an additional cross of his legs as he settled further into the glass wall.

The quiet beeps of scanning droids and ding of pinging monitors faded into a duller tone as Obi-Wan released his mind to wander through the events that led up to this point. It was true, that the Master Jedi had long been pondering what exactly was plaguing you in the time since you’d arrived at the Temple.

The bearded man was quite observant, first catching signs of sleeplessness during those few days on the shuttle back. And in those instances, the occasional flicker of despondency that cursorily contorted your features at the mention of his former Master’s name.

But those rare moments had never succeeded in dulling that reassuring spirit and attuned presence he’d become so accustomed to these past few weeks. It’d never challenged the composed strength that saturated your being so absolutely that it leaked from every inch of exposed skin like water from a wringing towel.

At least, not until the last week or so.

It was around then, Obi-Wan soon realized, that something had changed. And while he didn’t quite understand what exactly was occurring, he did know that some undisclosed element was uniformly snatching away threads of light from those two bright, silver eyes of yours. A physical feature that he’d recently registered as having one unintended effect:

They refreshed his senses from a mere glance alone.

Master Kenobi couldn’t deny to himself that after only a month or so of war, he’d become exhausted by not only the newly amplified duties placed upon him, but also by their militaristic, warlike nature. Missions of peace and humanitarianism had quickly devolved into defending free territories from heavily encroaching enemy lines.

The Council meetings that followed only stoked more of the same. Strategizing troop movements, assigning interplanetary campaigns, addressing casualties…

Had Obi-Wan had the ability to expose his former Padawan self to this future, he knew that young Kenobi would’ve never believed that the Jedi could ever be so entrenched in the politics and military responsibilities of a conflict at this scale.

But when he caught a flash of silver reflection from down a hall? At the corner of the refractory closest to his quarters? Near the edge of his vision in the Temple Gardens?

That weight suddenly felt just a little bit lighter.

The General wasn’t entirely sure why he became so overwhelmed with this sensation just at the mere sight of you. A sudden ease, a calmness that permeated his being in a way he’d never been able to summon on the battlefield.

Though he did have a few guesses.

You had always carried an air of serene confidence, of compassionate power, that struck at Obi-Wan’s core. Yes, these were all attributes expected of a Jedi. But your being didn’t simply carry these characteristics, Kenobi maintained. It was as if you had the artistry to will these qualities into existence from deep within your being. Like the vivid, lapping flames that encompass the entire mass of any radiant star.

And, to him, you wielded such strengths with absolute grace.

It was one such instance that Obi-Wan was still trying to wrap his head around. During your first duel with Anakin, the inclusion of one, brief conversation about his emotionally-charged behavior seemed to have knocked more sense into his impatient former Padawan than Kenobi had ever personally precipitated.

When he later inquired about the dialogue, The General readily respected your decision to keep the specifics of the exchange private. But it was when you relayed to him the vague takeaway of the power of compassion that Obi-Wan realized the reality of your statement.

That had he been in your same boots, applying that same dogma, Master Kenobi still wouldn’t have had much success.

The blue-eyed Jedi had always tried to be considerate with his former Padawan. He was hard on him at times, sure. And the two of them certainly had their many rows. But in the end, Obi-Wan always aimed to keep Anakin’s past in perspective.

He’d tried to protect him by teaching him of the importance of letting attachments go. Dispelling his fiery emotions, his ruffled history, and the people that were now a part of his past.

He tried to be a friend to him. A gentle reminder here. A reference to the Code’s importance in the life of any Jedi there. Yet still, the results were never so transformative.

And it was hard for the Master Jedi not to blame himself for that.

Though that load was slightly lifted by the hope your presence imbued.

Truly, Kenobi was thankful that one of Qui-Gon’s previous Padawans had emerged to partially aid him in fulfilling that deathbed promise he’d made to his former Master so long ago. Even if it was during a time following Anakin’s Knighthood.

Training the boy encompassed not only combat, but also the mastery of softer elements pertaining to becoming a wise Jedi capable of realizing The Chosen One prophecy. It was those latter skills that Obi-Wan never found complete success in communicating as Master to Padawan, having himself become an instructor the very same day he’d completed the Knighthood trials.

Yet, it seemed that addressing those weaknesses in his teachings came to you with relative ease. Something that made him wonder how things may have differed on the day of Geonosis had he discovered your existence earlier.

It was his inability to properly drill the importance of patience in the young boy that later led to the loss of his arm. Obi-Wan was convinced deep down, despite Anakin’s self-punishments, that in the end, it was his own fault. Kenobi’s fault for not equaling your effectiveness in addressing these matters.

Kenobi’s fault for the loss of Anakin’s arm.

Had he found you sooner, could it have all been avoided? Would you have made a connection with little Ani and trained him out of that nearly fatal mistake before he made it?

And what of the days that followed? When Anakin was recovering from that calamitous wound in this very Infirmary.

Obi-Wan vividly recalled the striking images from when he first visited his former Padawan after the battle’s devastation. He could never forget the complete agony that radiated off Anakin’s gnarled face as he stirred from a nightmare. He could never shut out from his mind those words that chestnut-haired Jedi screamed at him, red-veined eyes pulsing as he let slip his mother’s passing.

“And it’s all your fault!”

His heart clenched at the memory.

He didn’t know the details of her death, but he understood vaguely the visions which plagued Anakin in the leading days. Specters that he didn’t realize pointed to a surmounting danger.

And Anakin blamed him for it.

Would you have figured it out faster than him?

If so, then maybe, things could’ve been different.

The possibilities dashed by the delay in rescuing you from that desolate ice planet only lengthened the Jedi Master’s perceptible regret. Possibilities that would’ve become attainable through some mastery of connecting with Anakin’s being. Some familiarity so remarkable that it must’ve been willed by the prophetic elements of the Force itself long ago, Obi-Wan convinced himself.

A conclusion that left him to wonder why you were having an oddly similar effect on him.

Perhaps it was due to your separation from the war. Your lack of experience on a real battlefield freed your being from the weights chained to every Jedi who’d experienced its turmoil. Because even when news of ongoing skirmishes trickled in through visiting clones— tempering moods and gradually effervescing the bubbling anxieties among him, Anakin, and Ahsoka— you still appeared to ignite the surrounding air with sparks of anti-gravity the moment you entered the room.

When any one of them expressed concerns about the front, your soothing smile, teasing jabs, and intelligent reassurances had soon acclimatized the bearded Jedi to associate those hopeful eyes with your comforting existence, and the relaxation it imbued in him.

It was probably also why now, much like the last week in a half, Obi-Wan felt particularly disconcerted.

Without fail, he would be the first to catch on to those subtle dips in your lips in the refractory. The uncomfortable quirk of your brow in the Archives. Sometimes, even, an unexpected twitch of the nose while strolling down a Temple walkway. Always to be followed by a quiet farewell and your quick yet controlled retreat, leaving him without the opportunity to inquire about your condition without necessitating chase.

So it goes without saying that the Master Jedi was particularly relieved when Anakin approached him. Of course, not by the story of your incident in the Starfighter. But by the fact that he finally had a valid excuse to seek you out and investigate this ongoing issue. A trouble that he’d originally surmised as related to Qui-Gon before he was proven to be severely wrong.

Your reality was quite more bothersome.

Honestly, had you not been a force-sensitive being, Obi-Wan would’ve been less concerned. Headaches can be quite normal for the average individual.

But for a Jedi?

It had far more serious possibilities.

Pain in the mind could’ve pointed to an imbalance in the Force. And considering your true identity, and Qui-Gon and the Council’s reasons for hiding it, Kenobi had reason to take note.

Still though, you‘d been through a lot these past few weeks. The death of a Master. Leaving a home you’d known all your life only to be thrust into a far busier and more complicated environment. Finally facing down a dangerous legacy with galactic implications. It was an existence far more demanding than was expected of the average Jedi. Perhaps these migraines were simply a reflection of that fact, he considered.

Nevertheless, Obi-Wan wanted to make sure. He was no specialist in the medicinal aspects of the Force nor in how its energies physically manifested. And that meant the only other option was to consult someone with more expertise. Someone he equivocally trusted to make the right determination.

Qui-Gon was right. Kenobi did think about the future a little bit too much.

“Obi-Wan, if you keep staring at me like I’m about to drop dead, I’m gonna kick you out.”

Master Kenobi’s vision instantly refocused, lips parting slightly as he realized his gaze had accidentally wandered and stuck to your subtly dulled, silver orbs.

Immediately, he used his back to push off the screen, summoning a hand to check his beard’s placement in hopes of hiding the chilly embarrassment that ever so slightly crimsoned his cheeks. No matter, he doubled down, approaching you in a few steps with broad shoulders declaring self-assurance.

“You’re not getting rid of me quite that easily,” he casually quipped, dropping his arm loosely to the side once certain that brief flush drained from his ears.

At the same time, the pine-green medical droid stationed before you embraced this sudden split in the previously long-held silence as his cue. The machine wheeled around Obi-Wan, this time rudely knocking into the back of his leg in its scurry toward the screens spread out on the far wall. All the while releasing a flurry of affirmative beeps to signal the examination’s completion.

Of course, Obi-Wan’s eyes were careful not to reflect his mild agitation at the droid’s lack of spatial awareness while his gaze followed it.

Continuing to observe the green machine, Kenobi spoke, paying careful attention to its arm’s mechanical tendrils that extended into the wall’s receiver.

“I was taking the time to consider your situation.”

“What situation?” You emphasized rhetorically.

Obi-Wan’s features sobered in an effort to remind you of the potential gravity of your symptoms.

But you brushed aside his hardened brows, instead bouncing your gaze toward the uncoordinated droid as it finished retracting its arm from the console. Your vision remained locked, following its triangular head while the machine spun toward the room’s doorway, clipping the frame with an unfortunate clunk and shocked beep before reorienting itself to swerve down the parallel hall.

Even then, you extended the interval, allowing its buzzing gears and occasional clicks to grow more distant before continuing with a lowered voice.

“I went from living my life on an ice planet to now spending weeks in a much warmer climate. I’m probably not used to this environment yet. That’s all.”

The unconvinced man spied your eyes soften.

“I’d rather not be wasting medical resources for something that’s probably nothing. Especially in the middle of a war.”

Master Kenobi’s mouth twitched into a frown. “It’s not a waste if it provides the answers you’re looking for.”

“I’d agree if I believed the answers were medical,” you argued.

“This is a Jedi Infirmary,” he spotlighted. “Master Nema will be considering all phenomena that may affect a force-sensitive. Even an imbalance.”

Your brows fluttered inquisitively at this. “Is that what you think is happening? Some sort of imbalance?”

He hummed, hand reaching for his chin as his eyes drifted in thought. “I’m not quite sure. The mind of a Jedi is a complicated thing. The way in which it realizes our connection to the Force is often unpredictable. But headaches resulting from an imbalance are not unheard of,” he exhaled. “Although, I don’t feel anything strange in the space in or around you.”

Obi-Wan cocked his head, stretching out to the swirling energies around you both to confirm his observations from the last few weeks before meeting a familiar wall in the connecting strands.

“But I must admit, I do have trouble sensing your mind within the Force. So, I may be wrong.”

The nearly imperceptible sigh that escaped your nostrils drew his searching orbs back toward your lowered gaze in an instant.

“However,” he readily subsisted. “These are no ordinary scans. If these headaches are related to an imbalance, Master Nema would be the first Healer I trust to make that determination.”

But the one-sided stillness continued. The General spied your eyelids fold shut while you breathed deeply into the emptiness, kindling your despondency in such a way that it intensified Kenobi’s own discomfort. Mostly because he was growing more and more convinced that his reassurances were clearly making things worse.

“I know it’s not what you want to hear—“

“That’s ok, Obi-Wan,” you smiled at him tiredly, legs stretching as your gaze drifted toward your knees. “I heard something similar from Master Windu. If these scans don’t reveal anything, I’ll just return to those meditation sessions he suggested. They’ll have to reveal something eventually, medical or otherwise.”

Once again, Obi-Wan crossed his arms, a silent protest to the security you placed in that impractical solution. Assuming he’d properly understood your version of events from that earlier, rainy conversation, meditation had only made your migraines more unbearable.

A notion that certainly disturbed the seasoned Jedi.

Throughout his life, Master Kenobi took great comfort in connecting with the everlasting serenity that was the Force. Even as a youngling, when his imagination wandered less and less into daydreaming realms, he’d cherished these moments of silent outreach as a way to center his mind and hone his presence in the Galaxy.

But for you, in the last few days, it had only caused you pain. For you, these headaches actualized a blockade, sequestering your being from one of the most sacred acts known to any Jedi. Isolating you from peace.

And he refused to allow that to continue

Obi-Wan was dragged from his thoughts as your straightened legs limply fell back against the bedside, drawing his blue eyes toward spots of perspiration on your now stretching neck and sinking eyelids.

Seeing you like this, pushing yourself to the physical brink as a last-ditch attempt to tame these incidents, heaved upon him a draining atmosphere similar to those that weighed him down more heavily in these months of war.

Sensations he was still trying to put a name to.

But Obi-Wan didn’t need a title to know that his being was firm in at least one judgment— he didn’t want this affliction to torment you any longer.

Those words…

Name. Title.

It drudged up an abrupt thought in the ruminating Jedi. It was something you’d said. Or more, he soon realized, something Mace Windu had instructed you to do.

“Remind me,” he began with a punch, drawing your sparkling eyes toward his as he unstitched his shoulders. “Master Windu advised you to give a name to these incidents, yes?”

You nodded, eyes wandering toward the doorway as Obi-Wan continued steadfastly in his speech

“Silvey,” he called softly, drawing your attention back to him.

“What was the name—?”

“I’ve had a chance to review your scans, Silvey.”

Master Nema spoke resonantly as she materialized, carrying a polished bearing while pivoting through the open-aired doorway and toward your seated figure. Her cerulean-tinted eyelids and lips stood in stark contrast against lime-green shoulders, a distinction emphasized by bowed eyes that held affixed to the blue glow of the datapad in her dominant hand.

Regardless of the thickly sliced air, the Healer continued to evenly scroll through the device, having unknowingly cut off the previous exchange before you’d even had the chance to absorb Kenobi’s inquiry.

“And I don’t see anything of note. Just some heightened activity here.”

Obi-Wan watched as the gray-robbed Halaisi finally raised her gaze, extending the datapad toward your now curious form.

Taking the device, you scanned it quickly, eyes squinting while you mulled over some image stamped at the screen’s center beyond Kenobi’s view. Though you only mulled over the datapad for a few seconds before glancing up at the Healer candidly, a somewhat sheepish expression attempting to push through your unbending forehead.

“I’m not very familiar with the anatomy of the brain,” you admitted.

Shimming to your side without bumping into the bedside, Master Nema pointed a long, viridescent finger at the datapad. “This brighter, center portion here consists of your amygdala and hippocampus. They are responsible for several functions related to memories and emotional processing.”

She glanced at you.

“May I ask you to describe the weeks leading up to these migraines? Primarily, I’d like to know which locations you’ve visited and the activities you were engaged in.”

Obi-Wan sighed internally, biting his tongue. Even before Master Nema had finished her inquiry, the bearded Jedi was swift to realize a new issue— that your inevitable yet necessary response may undermine the accuracy of the Healer’s determinations.

And for an instant, Kenobi nearly imagined that you’d read his mind.

Not a second later, you subtly glimpsed at The General’s now very watchful stare, only to confirm with determined eyes that you knew what you needed to do.

And that he had no chance of changing your mind.

Because Master Yoda and Master Windu advised that such truths must remain hidden. As revealing your real identity could amplify the very real threat to your life. So, without their permission, your predetermined fabrication needed to become the truth to Master Nema as well.

“I’ve recently returned from a years-long mission for the Council,” you dispassionately parroted. “However, I’m unable to discuss it in detail.”

Master Nema nodded unflinchingly, having become long accustomed to the importance of discretion in most Jedi matters.

“I understand,” she relayed, retrieving the datapad from your outstretched hand. “Can you share if you’ve had any occurrences similar to these during your assignment?”

Unblinkingly, you confidently answered.

“I did not.”

“Good,” she expressed, satisfied. “Further details will not be needed.”

Lowering her arm to rest the datapad by her side, the doctor angled herself more fully toward both you and Obi-Wan as she delivered her diagnosis.

“From these symptoms and affected regions, and with no other indications of illness on your scans, I understand that you are experiencing a side effect of prolonged stress.”

Obi-Wan covertly peered at your reaction, curiously taking in the unexpected neutrality that characterized your countenance.

“Stress?” You repeated, asking for confirmation.

“Yes,” Master Nema established, unbothered by your unconvinced manner as she turned away and strolled toward the gentle green glow of busily flashing screens plastered by Obi-Wan’s side.

“It’s quite common,” she maintained, her exposed upper back greeting you both as the displays’ ceaseless stream of looping data commandeered her sight.

“But I must admit,” she noted. “I’ve only seen these cases more recently, since the war began.”

Cunningly rearranging several charts of what Kenobi saw as an assortment of disparate numbers and calculations, the Jedi Healer soon centered on a corner window before beginning the long trial of analyses inputs, gathered from the occasional glance toward her purposefully angled datapad as she expounded.

“The Jedi are involved in prolonged duties of war that they were never meant for. And without time for meditation, it has caused many to internalize these experiences. This is why the symptoms of these strains usually begin after returning to the Temple. When their bodies are given a chance to rest and connect with the Force, the effects of prolonged stress are then allowed space to materialize.”

“Materialize as headaches?” Obi-Wan questioned from his once quiet perch.

Master Nema broke away from the left screen mid-data entry, angling to face the bearded Jedi with golden-rimmed eyes and a forthright manner.

“This is the first time I’ve heard of headaches as a symptom,” she admitted. “But from the general history described, the causes appear to be the same. Also, the hippocampus and amygdala are known to respond to stress-inducing environments. And headaches are not a far stretch from the primary indicators. Lack of focus, exhaustion…”

Master Nema stretched to eye your figure thoughtfully.

“I believe you’re showing the latter.”

At that remark, Kenobi immediately noticed a chink in your impartiality as a flake of disappointment slipped past the corners of gently pursed lips.

His forehead crinkled at the trickle of confusion dripping down his hairline. Obi-Wan thought you’d be relieved to hear that this affliction was not as dire as it had the potential to be.

It appeared that the Jedi Healer must’ve noticed the same shift in expression as she offered you a diplomatic smile. Those that are often reserved by doctors for their more unfamiliar patients.

“Rest, Silvey. Meditate. Do something to take your mind off of the stresses of your mission. It’s over now.”

And, in response, you offered a simple nod.

“Thank you, Master,” you relayed sincerely, offering a flash of amicability. “I’ll try to do that.”

You pushed off the medical bed with sudden haste, toes landing on the floor gingerly as your legs briskly steered through and out the doorway. The skilled maneuverings easily drew Obi-Wan’s attention, compelling him to detect a precise shift in your most noticeable features as you passed by.

How your eyes submerged into a subtle, gray glaze, and how your jaw inappreciably tightened.

It was enough to provoke him to launch a pursuit of his own, hoping to make up for the past few weeks of mistakes in not doing exactly this. All with the intent to close the distance with your quickly departing being after exchanging a parting nod with Master Nema.

“Silvey,” he projected, pacing toward your weaving form beyond the last few cubicles that pointed to the Infirmary’s exit like an arrow.

He caught your gate slacken as you entered the connecting Temple walkway, casually pivoting toward his quick steps while you waited for him to catch up. Still, you didn’t give Kenobi a chance to finish his approach before beginning to speak unapologetically, offering a straight face and a hand on each hip as you made a particularly bold statement

“It’s not stress.”

Had he not been present in the observation room, Master Kenobi would’ve unequivocally believed your statement right then and there. From three, fearless words alone. Spoken with such sheer simplicity that it was as if you were reminding him that Coruscant’s sky was, in fact, blue.

Still, disregarding the momentary speculation your confidence imbued, Obi-Wan held onto the reality of your situation. Or, more accurately, the relative soundness of Master Nema’s diagnosis while his pace effortlessly eased by your side.

“You don’t know that,” he contested as you pivoted, carrying on your trek down the pillared and lilac-carpeted walkway while his legs seamlessly moved in sync with yours. “The history you provided may not be accurate, but that doesn’t mean stress isn’t the source. Master Nema said the scans support her diagnosis.”

“It’s not stress,” you reflexively repeated, the same, unshakable conviction as pulsing as before that locked Kenobi’s gaze onto you while you continued.

“Stress is natural. It’s our being’s way of telling us something. Reminding us to take a break. To take time for ourselves. But whatever this is,” you gesticulated into the air, hand twirling as if it was conjuring the very affliction from the surrounding pillars’ essence. “It isn’t natural. It’s different. Deep inside me, but not. Disconnected—“

From a lightning flash of sliver, Obi-Wan was temporarily taken aback as he was forced to absorb your stilled yet rich perseverance. Bleeding through eyes that whipped over to challenge his stare, drawing you both to a sudden halt.

While emphasizing each consonant, you calmly declared once more your obstinate verdict.

“It is not stress.”

For a few seconds, the Master Jedi searched your face, keeping an eye out for any inkling of a quiver in your fortitude. Any sign of withheld doubts. Any indication that there was something you weren’t comfortable sharing.

But quite immediately, The General realized that even if he’d stood there for days, all would’ve remained the same. There were no hints that you could’ve been convinced otherwise. No way for him to persuade you that stress affected the body just as mysteriously as the Force.

So, he acquiesced.

“Alright,” he acknowledged, a gentleness enveloping his tone. “For now, let’s agree that it may not be stress. You’ve been managing them with the same approaches Master Nema suggested, no?”

“I have…” you skeptically concurred. “But it’s not sustainable.”

The sound of your exhale roped Obi-Wan’s attention as you reached up to rest a palm on your eye. Your cheeks sagged in resignation, subduing your voice while you spoke.

“I guess I’ll just try to get some rest.”

Obi-Wan’s brows creased in an unpleasant recognition.

Those disjointed eyes? The carefully constructed monotonousness you’ve held since making your escape from the Infirmary?

Unfortunately, Obi-Wan was quickly becoming a master at pinpointing the signs.

“It’s happening again, isn’t it?” He delicately inquired.

You shook your head incredulously, a small smile inching out of the corner of your mouth as you peeked at him.

“Is it that obvious?”

Obi-Wan wasn’t sure exactly why he did it. Why his arms reached for your shoulders, grasping their cold frames with a pleasant squeeze. As if some foreign entity now controlled and commanded both limbs with a set of knotted strings. A mind other than his own that believed the only way you’d hear his words was through physical and visual touch alone.

For a split second, at the base of his subconscious, with eyes locked onto yours, Kenobi speculated that perhaps it was a piece of Qui-Gon left behind that commandeered his actions. You’d mentioned to Obi-Wan that your former Master believed your stubbornness to be a considerable strength, yet a ramifying weakness. Something the bearded Jedi certainly recognized as he spent more time with you in the past few weeks.

Knowing the dearly departed, your at times cloaked stubbornness on such affairs plausibly necessitated Master Quinn to rely on similar measures to finally break through.

So why not do the same?

“Let me help you. You’re not on Hoth anymore. There are beings that can assist you here,” he frustratingly exhaled. “You told me yourself that rest has done nothing. I can provide a suitable distraction, if you’d allow me.”

Kenobi’s careful gaze caught the minute disorientation that blinked from reactive brows. You clasped your hands and, for the first time since he’d known you, an air of timidness encircled your ears.

“I appreciate the offer,” you began conscientiously, displaying a thankful smile “But that wouldn’t be fair to you. I know that there are probably a number of Council tasks you’ve sacrificed to check on me, which I appreciate. But I shouldn’t keep you away from those responsibilities any longer.”

“You and I both know that the Council’s activities have laxed since the incident with the communications system,” he securely reminded you as the bud of a perfect excuse blossomed into the puff of levity that captured his voice.

“Besides, this would be more of an exchange than a sacrifice.”

“Oh?” You uttered.

Your demure smile stretched into an infectious smirk, which only amplified Obi-Wan’s gaiety through brightened cheeks.

“You seem to have forgotten your promise,” he bantered.

Your head tilted.

“My promise?”

“The Muntuur?”

The bottom half of your face instantly transformed into a broad grin.

“Ah, yes,” you exaggerated teasingly. “How could I’ve forgotten a promise as dire as that.”

“Then you agree?” He quickly inquired. “You instruct me on how to use the device, and you can be confident that I will ask enough questions to keep your mind occupied.”

“I believe you may be on the better side of this deal,” you poked.

Kenobi watched as your eyes wafted toward the far-reaching Temple ceilings in thought. And in pondering his request amidst the absurdity of this exchange, Obi-Wan was fortunate enough to just barely catch your attempt to stifle a laugh.

“Alright,” you feigned defeat, silver orbs flickering as you glanced at him.

“I agree.”

—

Kenobi drifted deeper into his settled posture, legs folded in angled balance as he extended his deliverance into the swirling energies of the Force. Straightening his back, his focused mind welcomed the omnipresent stream to encircle him in the empty training dojo, never to be hindered by its milky white walls nor wood-bordered panels.

Wherever he was, The General sensed this to be true. That the Force would always be with him.

Rationally, Obi-Wan knew that any second, you’d be strolling through those two gray sliding doors to join him, Muntuur in hand after retrieving it from your quarters per his request. Yet still, Kenobi found that even in the most cursory of moments, meditation proved to always be a feasible endeavor. Despite sometimes having only a few seconds to fully connect with his surroundings, Obi-Wan found that stretching into the constant flow would still center his mind in a manner that could last for hours. Perhaps days, if he’d found particular focus.

But he hadn’t always had the aptitude to enter those cavernous reflective states so rapidly. Especially as a Padawan, when his mind took a little bit more tugging to wrench it away from concerns of the future so to focus on the here and now. It was a realm he always had to strive toward. A speedy existence he’d been further compelled to master had he any hope of engaging in such comforts during the ceaseless activities of war.

A lifestyle he knew he’d be returning to soon.

From the final review of the Temple’s security system this morning, it was ultimately discovered that there had, in fact, been a leak in the communications system. Specifically, an exposed transceiver code. And, of course, of the many technical specialists and machines tasked with rooting out the issue, Artoo, Anakin’s prized blue-and-white droid, was the one to discover it.

Due to Count Dooku’s formerly wide access to sensitive Temple data, Master Yoda had decided to alter all related security measures so to ensure that the Separatists were not given a tactical advantage after The Battle of Geonosis. That included identifying and deactivating the extensive array of transceiver codes that Dooku was aware of.

But, unfortunately, it seemed that one was missed. A single line of digits once only privy to Council transmissions during Dooku’s short stint as a member, long before Obi-Wan’s time. An easy mistake that proved to have significant consequences, setting back the Republic’s stance by forcing the Jedi off the battlefield as clone battalions temporarily took command.

And just after they’d finally gotten one step ahead of the Separatists following the Republic victory on Christophsis, no less.

Either way, The General understood that he’d soon see the damage himself once given his first return assignment. A mission that would include you, considering Master Yoda’s decision to separate you from Anakin on the battlefield for the time being.

But there wasn’t time for such considerations any longer. No more musings about what the future held. Not in a time when he should’ve been blending his mind with the rippling stream.

A time cut short.

The whoosh of an automatic door releasing tickled his ears, followed by a cool gust of creeping air that further drew Obi-Wan out of his concentrative state. A quick wrench akin to similar interruptions by Commander Cody during those off-world campaigns in the months prior.

His eyelids peeled open at the new, subtle presence before him. And in the moments that followed, it didn’t take long for Kenobi to take note of your more upbeat figure, revitalized by the prospect of the coming distraction in the form of teaching a lesson on ancient implements, Obi-Wan hoped. A divertissement to be governed by The Muntuur whose glint caught the bearded Jedi’s eye.

“Excellent,” Master Kenobi expressed, raking his gaze over the half-circle metal headpiece that hung loosely from your fingertips while he untangled, placing a hand on his knee to help him stand. “Now tell me how it works.”

Obi-Wan spotted a quirk in your brows as you steadily approached, a token of entertainment at his eagerness, no doubt.

You hummed flippantly. “It would be easier to just show you, you know.”

And Master Kenobi wholeheartedly agreed, but that wasn’t why he was doing this. He couldn’t deny that he’d been ardently waiting since you told him about The Muntuur to put the apparatus to the test. But, right now, he had more important matters to address than his budding curiosity.

To focus your mind on easier topics. On the intricacies of a long-lost Jedi device. And on the concentration required to explain it to him.

And that meant putting some skin in the game.

“I’d much rather hear it from your own voice,” he contended, nonchalant gaze somewhat lowering to meet yours as your shorter, slightly amused figure stalled within arms reach of his chest.

And with your quick-beat response, it was clear to Obi-Wan that you’d in some measure caught on to his ruse.

“Well, how could I deny such a charmed request?”

A tickled smile crawled across Kenobi’s features at your faintly sarcastic tone. An expression that persisted fervently despite noticing a sincerity wash away your brief masquerade.

“I must warn you, Obi-Wan. What I’ve learned about this device was through significant trial and error. Not even Qui-Gon really understood it.”

Still, the Jedi Master’s encouraging regard never quivered. A long-held desire to grasp and digest your knowledge radiated from his being. Strong enough, it seemed, to persuade you to continue as you held up The Muntuur for easy viewing.

“If you have the imagination, and the specifications, you can program it to simulate virtually anything. Any drill or duel you can imagine. Any environment. Any foe. As long as you know the strengths, behaviors, and appearances involved in your desired program, then it can be created by inputting them here.”

Obi-Wan adjusted as you turned your back toward him to display the device’s rear. Specifically, the small, anciently designed input panel whose miniature screen emitted an amber gleam between your secured fingers.

He craned his neck farther over your shoulder, the fragrance of star jasmines wafting from your loose hair and into his nostrils as he strived to take a closer look.

“My holobooks often provided enough information for me to recreate their contents for training purposes,” you continued to explain. “Honestly, I’ve used The Muntuur so much that I still have a number of designations memorized. Including…”

Master Kenobi scrutinized the tiny display as your fluttering fingers tapped away, making selections and adjusting parameters so expeditiously that it was as if an invisible memory bank of numbers and terms were stored in your wrist. You readied the device so expertly, in fact, that the brief trailing off of your voice was smoothly picked up following the short, concentrative pinch.

“…this little guy.”

He watched while your thumb danced to the small, circular black button resting in the panel’s corner, pressing and holding it down until a startling beep cheered from the device. An unexpected noise that swiveled your figure back toward the Master Jedi, arm outstretched in offering as a barely hampered enthusiasm elevated your features.

However, with an undetermined inspection narrowing on the instrument, Obi-Wan suddenly felt hesitant to accept.

He often found comfort in understanding the more nuanced aspects of unknown technologies before diving right in, unlike his former Padawan. Consequently, The Master Jedi had honestly been anticipating a more detailed explanation. But from the rapid fire of input codes and language specifications that manifested from your exceptional proficiency, Obi-Wan now realized that, even with your guidance, such in-depth adroitness was sure to take weeks if not months.

Time he, unfortunately, did not have.

“Don’t worry,” you brightly assured, arm still extended with the gleaming metal headpiece. “The safety protocols are engaged. It won’t bite.”

Kenobi’s stare snapped toward yours as he cautiously took the device.

“Safety protocols?” He inquired, turning over the cold metal in his palms as he observed its ornate craftsmanship. “I’ve never heard of a simulation creating a safety issue.”

“It’s more than a simulation,” you elucidated, jutting a thumb toward his grasp. “Notice how there’s no visor?”

Obi-Wan flipped the device, realizing the accuracy of your statement as his befuddled eyes met its rather barren fore.

“It functions by triggering the electrical impulses in your neurons. Because it creates the simulation with your mind, certain programs need to be active to prevent the more subconscious parts of your brain from confusing artificial injuries with reality.”

“That is…quite fascinating…” Obi-Wan uttered, taking one last scan of the unique instrument before glancing at your intrigued features, captivated by a typhoon of ruminations on the device’s remarkable functions, he assumed.

“So I won’t feel pain?”

You shook your head heartily, emphasizing each word that followed. “No, you’ll certainly feel pain. But you won’t receive any grievous injuries.”

And the General’s spine stiffened from shock at this. Eyes wide as he searched your matter-of-fact countenance for clarification.

“Silvey, are you saying this device can cause real-world harm?”

“Only if the safety protocols are off,” you undauntedly reminded before your voice relaxed into a fonder, more reminiscent timbre.

“I learned that piece of programming the hard way,” you chuckled. “Qui-Gon almost threw the whole thing away after I nearly bled to death from a stab to the shoulder. A fairly treatable wound in the likes of Coruscant, I’m sure. But when you have no choice but to work with a few, expired bacta pads, it can become a little dicey.”

Master Kenobi’s once intrigued disposition had slowly devolved into a frown.

He knew this implement was old. Likely used by ancient Jedi who followed a widely contrasting set of rules in a lawless world of dark adversaries. But he never predicted that their training equipment would allow for such risk in the name of growth. There was a reason younglings learned on training sabers. So that they need not face the same life-threatening dangers that you seem to have faced every day at their age. Whether through an unpredictable apparatus or the nature of your icy asylum.

Obi-Wan barely noticed the thickening of a faintly simmering temper, mixed with frustration and confusion as he finally considered the reality of your upbringing. The bearded Jedi cared for his former Master deeply, and he clearly understood that Qui-Gon had done his best to protect you under severe circumstances. But the auburn-haired man couldn’t get over the sheer recklessness that characterized his decision-making as your custodian.

Had he not checked this device thoroughly before handing it off to a child? That didn’t sound like the wise man he’d known for all his life. Though Qui-Gon did have many responsibilities on top of your secret existence. Most of which likely prevented him from imparting the same thoroughness and circumspect to which he gifted Obi-Wan.

Still, it was no excuse.

And the longer he sat with that realization, the more your recollection ruffled Obi-Wan. Especially when your cavalier attitude proved your innocence to the underlying issue that Kenobi was so peeved by.

A reaction that you just seemed to notice, but failed to correctly attribute.

“Obi-Wan.”

You spoke gently, reaching out a cold, comforting hand to rest beneath his, providing a little extra lift in supporting the gadget’s portable weight. His eyes followed your arm, naturally landing on the two, strikingly silver orbs that relaxed his tensed muscles and unsettled thoughts with mollifying memories of uncomplicated talks and silent company.

“I promise you, you’re not gonna get hurt. I would never have agreed to share The Muntuur with you had I believed for a second it would cause serious harm.”

And there it was again. Those gentle, sparkling features that cozily blanketed Obi-Wan’s line of vision with honest poise. Accompanied by relieving words that freshly astounded him in every instant they fell from your lips.

Your life. Your upbringing. Devoid of connection and saturated with harsh dangers in an inhospitable habitat. Yes, a Jedi was expected to forgo all attachments, but this isolation had been to an extreme.

Yet every day. In every moment he had the chance to grace your presence. To get to know you. You’d shimmer like a being who’d known unconditional love from the galaxy, and was simply acting as a conduit to relay that benevolence onto others.

But that wasn’t your reality, Obi-Wan reminded himself. Besides Qui-Gon’s disbanded guidance, you had only known the cold.

Still, even that jarring refuge was likely more enticing than the prospect of facing a dark nemesis too soon.

You’d only known struggle, yet diffused compassion.

You really were something.

“I trust you,” Master Kenobi finally spoke, raising The Muntuur to secure its chilly, rigid form atop his head.

While his hands lowered, Obi-Wan felt a slight dig as the device morphed to fit his skull’s dimensions. A low, mechanical purr was followed by strange tingling sensations that danced across his temples like docile Endorian ants.

But after a few, stagnant seconds, in which a stillness recouped the air, nothing else occurred.

The Jedi Master knew that you’d intended for some program to run, yet he saw nothing. Just the dojo’s durable, cream-tinted walls supported by pillars of hickory brown wood.

“How do I know if the simulation has begun?” Obi-Wan questioned, eyes glancing toward your figure as you purposefully ambled backward to grant more clearance to the focused Jedi.

A delighted smirk tugged up at your countenance from chin to ears as you slowed to a halt about twelve meters away.

“Oh, trust me. You’ll know.”

A deep, guttural roar bellowed from behind, provoking a somewhat startled Master Kenobi to detach his lightsaber mid-whirl as he faced the blare with the blade’s instantly ignited, blue glow.

Coiled into a stalking pose at the opposite wall was the brown-gold body of a particularly irate Nexu. Its four, beady red eyes pierced Kenobi’s senses, drawing considerable attention to the broad set of dagger-like teeth that stretched across half its face as the beast soon began to circularly prowl. The inchmeal movements of its sharp claws and flicking tails quickly compelled Kenobi to step into a cautious counter, sidestep after sidestep so to avoid closing that precarious gap.

“I believe we have different definitions of what qualifies as a ‘little guy!’” Obi-Wan sarcastically called out, his readily extended saber maintaining the standoff while he kept a slow, methodical distance.

“I think he’s kinda cute!” You gushed.

Obi-Wan’s head whipped to stare at you in utter disbelief, hoping to communicate his complete disagreement with such a statement. In fact, he manifested with his eyes alone the question of whether you were truly seeing the same ghastly brute as him.

But any answer he sought would have to wait, it appeared. The momentary glance at your chuckling figure was cut short by the beast’s consciousness of Kenobi’s brief distraction.

Its paws struck the ground with a sharp crack, signaling the Nexu’s powerful charge toward Obi-Wan as the latter’s attention snapped back toward the rapidly closing-in creature. One, he now noticed, whose approach could be viscerally sensed, further persuading the Master Jedi to poise himself for the coming strike that he felt through the surrounding flow.

“I can feel its movement within the force!” He called out while dodging a quick slash of the right set of claws. “How is that possible?!”

“It’s part of the programming,” you leveled candidly while Obi-Wan sprinted for a better vantage point toward the far wall, slithering beast on his tail.

“I think that’s why Qui-Gon assumed it was built for the Jedi,” you continued. “Never could figure out how that part worked.”

Drawing on the stream around him as he reached the dead end, Kenobi leapt onto the wall, maintaining his momentum while he followed its architecture around the training room.

Still, the slobbering huffs of the Nexu stayed close behind, especially once the creature’s biting claws lodged into the same partition, empowering it to launch into a rather slippery chase while its talons fought against the smoother sectionals.

However, the agile Jedi persisted, formulating a plan as his eyes locked onto an abruptly nearing corner.

With the blustering beast just a few steps behind, Kenobi broke away toward the opposite intersecting wall. Then, with cold air resisting against his face, Obi-Wan exercised the boost to reach and thrust against this new push-off point, barreling into a flip back toward the growling beast that still struggled to skitter across this raised vantage point.

Swiftly, while the Master Jedi glided midair, Kenobi brought down his blue luminescence to slash at the Nexu’s back. It was in that instant, that he successfully severed several of its sharp quills, a pink ooze soaking the creature’s fur while it wailed out in agony.

Embracing the Force to cushion his descent, Obi-Wan partially floated to the stone floor, toes centering his landing as the beast once clawing across the dojo wall writhed into a short plummet, striking the floor with a boom just meters beyond his feet.

Kenobi watched on while the Nexu pitifully rolled to its side, emitting a flurry of pained squeaks and whimpers in its parade to expose its underside, a symbol of surrender.

But that white flag wasn’t what prompted Obi-Wan to abruptly unfasten The Muntuur from his skull and end the program, leading the now docile Nexu to fade into nothingness as the device hummed through its deactivation.

No.

Instead, the slightly panting Jedi’s attention was seized by a sudden burst of laughter from the far corner, flinging his bewildered yet slightly curious gaze toward your bent-over form leaned against the dojo’s gray doors.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh. It’s just, this is the first time I’ve seen someone use The Muntuur from an outside perspective and I’m—” Another fit of giggles poured out of your gut, squeezing Obi-Wan’s brows to raise in delight at the sound.

“I’m just now wondering how Qui-Gon kept a straight face! With nothing there for me, it just looks like you’re running around in circles, and—“

Another howl of laughter colored the air, touching his chest with a strangely familiar sensation. One that he couldn’t quite clearly recall, but knew still that it had been something he’d experienced a couple times a year as a young Padawan.

On those few evenings in the fall when his training had ended early for the day, young Kenobi would run off to the Glitannai Eslpanade to experience the Festival of Stars. And while he appreciated the joy of dancing beings and the artistry of performative acrobatics, he’d only really had one motive for sneaking off with a nut brown robe tightly concealing his Jedi identity amongst the bustling crowds.

It was to gawk at the falling Ithorian rose petals, flung from the sky like euphoric tears at each year’s parade on Coruscant.

A sight he could never drag his eyes away from, no matter how hard he tried.

This wasn’t exactly what Obi-Wan had planned when he decided to focus your mind on matters separate from those stress-induced headaches. But he certainly wasn’t going to complain about finding success through other means. The undeniably beaming expression on your face meant that something he did had lessened the headache that’d emerged following your infirmary visit, at least.

Perhaps that was what gave rise to his inner appreciation for your enlivened state. Because when he heard your laughter spring throughout the room, it confirmed for him that he’d finally taken a little bit of your pain away.

And that idea alone tugged fiercely at his facial muscles, coaxing him to give rise to a smile.

But Obi-Wan shoved that down, instead adopting a rather unimpressed gaze as his voice oozed with sarcasm.

“I’m pleased you find my defensive techniques so amusing.”

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[justinspoliticalcorner]

Tristan Snell:

Shortly after the release of the Jack Smith report on the January 6 case against Donald Trump, every major legacy media outlet released its “takeaways” from the report. And every single one of those outlets missed the two most glaring problems about this case. First, there is either an elision or a mischaracterization of DOJ’s internal memoranda that concluded that a sitting president may not be prosecuted. The elision is simply not to mention it at all, gliding right over it with an oh-well assumption that because Trump won the election, the case must die. The mischaracterization is to refer to the memos as “binding” without further explanation, when the memos do not have the force of law. They merely constitute internal guidance within the department. These policies can and could have been changed at any time. Not to be too flippant, but in the same way that DOJ could change its policies around casual Fridays and how parking spots are allocated, they could change their policies around whether they’re allowed to indict their boss. It was a make-believe policy in the first place — relics of the two next most recent times that a president was in legal jeopardy, Richard Nixon during Watergate and Bill Clinton during the Lewinsky scandal. Those two times, DOJ decided that they did not want to indict their boss. Rather than admit that that was their motivation, they passively-aggressively pinned it on the burden it would supposedly cause. Oh, gosh, it would be such an inconvenience for him — it’d really mess up his schedule. He’s just way too busy to get prosecuted. And now? DOJ’s cop-outs have risen into a Frankenstein’s monster of a legal argument, taking on a life of its own, climbing off the table and setting off on a murderous, arsonous rampage. At the very least, DOJ could have issued a new memorandum clarifying that its policy eschews indictment of a sitting president — but that an indicted individual may still be brought to trial even after becoming president. After all, DOJ’s spurious argument is that presidents must not be distracted from their constitutional duties by a prosecution — it’s really about attention and surprise. I have to run the free world, and now you want to indict me! But that argument does not hold up if an already-indicted person becomes the president. The criminal cloud above them was already there. By seeking the presidency, they already knew what they were getting themselves into — that they would have to deal with the case while in office. The White House should not be an asylum from which to escape criminal consequences. None of this has been discussed or questioned in any serious way by mainstream outlets — and this is an absolutely appalling lapse, another example of our sleepwalking into a lazy, cozy fascism of failing to question authority. Yet there is a second glaring problem with the DOJ case against Trump — and again it is somehow getting missed. Why didn’t anyone else get indicted? Smith’s indictment identifies and numbers six co-conspirators, who appear to be:

Donald Trump

Rudy Giuliani

John Eastman

Sidney Powell

Jeffrey Clark

Boris Epshteyn

All of these other individuals have been implicated in Trump’s conspiracy and its various crimes — with the ultimate goals of stopping or delaying the January 6, 2021 certification of the Electoral College results, with fake elector documents waiting on standby, so that the election could be thrown to the House of Representatives, where Republicans would likely prevail and vote Trump into office despite very obviously losing the election.

[...] And exactly zero of these people are immune. None of the arguments for presidential immunity apply to any of the president’s aides, no matter how senior. In fact, even in DOJ’s misguided memos on presidential immunity, they determined that even the vice president lacks any such status and can absolutely be prosecuted while in office. So why weren’t any of these people indicted? When Trump was indicted in August 2023, it seemed like a shrewd move only to indict Trump. To have a sole defendant would streamline and speed up the trial calendar — it made Jack Smith’s January 6 case the most potentially lethal of the various cases against Trump that emerged that year. That all changed with the Supreme Court’s involvement in the immunity issue: not only the decision itself but the delay that it injected into the process (which, of course, was really the primary goal of Trump’s lawyers). Yet SCOTUS issued its immunity ruling on July 1. Over six months ago. As soon as that decision came down — with its mandate that the district court engage in a fact-intensive inquiry as to whether the various acts alleged in the case were “official acts” of the presidency — the need for speed in the case went out the window. At that precise moment, there was no longer a rationale for only indicting Trump. Literally everyone I spoke to about this case that summer expected that DOJ was busily hammering out indictments of the other co-conspirators and that we would see those indictments by the end of the summer, or by September at the latest. They never came. I cannot fathom what happened here. Was there just such a devastating blow to morale that prosecutors could not figure out what to do? Was there a worry that indicting the other co-conspirators would look too politically motivated? The latter does not make sense. To indict Trump — the actual candidate for president and leader of the Republican Party — but not his underlings, for fear of appearing political? Yes, the election season was in full swing by the summer, but DOJ could have stood firm on the position that the timing of the additional indictments was driven by SCOTUS, not the election. Once again, as has been the tragic tale throughout this case and many of the others, prosecutors’ Hamletian excess of caution has been fatal.

The DOJ’s decision to not prosecute Donald Trump’s co-conspirators was a terrible decision.