#fuckin. decimates me. after these three months

[drev-the-procrastinator]

oh. damn that writing sure can resonate with feelings can't it

#a t/oh thing i wrote about flap and hunter post ttt. #fuckin. decimates me. after these three months #u kno losing my dog and my grandma and then my cat all in a fun timespan of under 3 months #i re-read that thing and. oh. oh. how the fuck did you know past me #this did also happen in 2019 when i lost my grandpa #i'd written a thing - home front fic thing - about grief n stuff just a couple months before and then when i read it again after i was like #oh. this character's way of coping with grief? that's me. how the hell did you know past me. h o w #i mean i do keep kinda writing about the same things over and over again so figures it'd happen sooner or later but like. damn #''where nothing can hurt ever again'' GIRL (gender neutral) what the FUVK hghhhhhh #my heart #sht man #can't wait to get this damn thing done someday so i can inflict it on you all #ack oops it ended up in the tag i think sorry everyoneeee

[wherevermyway]

roller rinks and raspberry berets (1/2) // jeongbin // 18+

chapter one: heaven and back navigation: next chapter [in progress]

pairing: seo changbin x yang jeongin | past bang chan x seo changbin rating: explicit! 18+ warnings/tags: explicit sexual content, recreational drug use (LSD, weed), 1980s AU, strangers-to-lovers, the roller skates stay on during sex, past infidelity, phone sex, masturbation, semi-public sex word count: 11,606 also on AO3

originally posted: 16 november 2021

It’s 1987, and the party scene is as vibrant and lively as the neon rainbow everyone is painted in.

Several months after a nasty breakup, Seo Changbin’s friends set him up with a mutual friend, Yang Jeongin. They speak on the phone a couple of times, then decide to go through with the blind date set up for them at a local roller rink. Changbin realizes he never really learned how to skate, but with Jeongin's hands guiding him, anything's possible.

They take some questionable substances and sparks start to fly when the lights drop and the music gets louder.

It's neon night at The Roxanne, and things are about to liven up, in more ways than one.

disclaimer: this is a work of fiction! any reference to persons in this work of fiction are purely coincidental. the characters referenced from Stray Kids are  interpretations loosely based on their personalities in the group and do  not represent the real people behind the personas. if this, or any of  the content included in the warnings above make you uncomfortable,  please stop reading now.

A murky haze surrounded two men lying on a shag carpet in a rundown apartment. The stench of scorched marijuana and incense clung to the walls like the dingy wallpaper that was slowly starting to yellow and peel. If it wasn’t for the Madonna calendar hanging up right next to the fridge that had “MAY 1987” emblazoned in big, blocky orange letters, it would seem like the place was stuck in 1973.

“You’re gonna want this,” a young man with spiky, neon orange hair passes off a dime bag with a couple of tiny blotters in it to the other young man with shaggy black hair. “Neon night at The Roxanne always gets fuckin’ dope, but if you’re not trippin’ on something, it ain’t as good.”

“Word,” the man with black hair rubs his eyes and tosses the bag onto his chest. He brings a joint up to his lips, taking a deep inhale, before passing it back to the other man. The smoke hangs in his lungs for a few moments, before he carefully exhales the vapour into the air, letting the smoke feed into the cloud hovering above them. “You really think this Jeongin is as rad as Seungmin keeps hyping him up to be?”

The orange haired man coughs while he laughs. “Dunno, dude.” He takes another hit from the joint, and a wide grin spreads across his face. “I’ve met him a couple times. He plays the electric bass some band and thinks he’s good at surfing. Seung keeps telling me ‘Oh, Changbin’s gonna love him, Jeongin’s got a collection of weird records and refuses to use cassette tapes’ like it means something.”

Changbin fumbles himself upright and points at Minho, dime bag sliding off of his chest and down to the floor. “He’s got a point, dude,” the younger man, despite looking higher than a kite, attempts to look totally serious. “I told you, records just sound better. Don’t give me that shit about cassette tapes. The only shit tapes have for them is that they’re convenient for road trips. Sound-wise, it ain’t the same.”

The two of them stare at each other before bursting into a fit of the giggles. They laugh until their stomachs hurt and the cherry burns out of their joint.

“Anyway,” Minho wipes the corners of his eyes and pulls a slip of paper out of his back pocket, “you should give him a call before your date. Might make things a little less awkward.”

Changbin takes the slip of torn notebook paper and stares at it. He was doing fine until he saw the ten digits and ‘Jeongin’ on the paper, then his palms started to sweat a bit. “You really think he’s gonna like me?”

Minho relights the joint between his teeth and smirks, giving Changbin a coy glance. “Everyone likes you, dude. Chill out.”

Changbin didn’t get the courage to call Jeongin until Wednesday night, two days before their blind date. Minho was out for the night, going to some lame house party with Seungmin again. The two were practically attached at the hip, unsure if they were going to ever officially become an item or not; they had been on-again, off-again for nearly a year now. Minho was seriously considering asking Seungmin if they should settle down, take things seriously, but then Chan had broken up with Changbin, and it made everyone question if relationships were really worth it.

“Man,” Changbin sighed as he flopped down onto his bed. He reached over to his nightstand and cracked his knuckles before he scraped together enough weed to roll a quick joint. Minho was always better at it than him, but he tried his damnedest. As long as he could smoke up enough to forget about frantic college students contemplating the true meaning of Shakespeare’s work while he helped them search for reference materials, he didn’t really care what exactly the joint looked like.

It turned out a little crooked, but it didn’t matter. As long as it got the job done, right? He took a stray match from the tray and struck it against a matchbox, spinning it around the end of his joint as he took a deep inhale, then shook the match until the flame went out. As he watched the smoke leave his lips, he chewed on his lip a bit.

Tonight was the night. It had to be. There were only two nights to go.

His eyes fluttered down to the same scrap of paper that Minho had handed him a couple of days ago, sitting right next to the phone on his desk. When they first moved into this apartment, Minho teased him for having a rotary phone, instead of something with real push buttons. “Dude, you’re, like, twenty-five and you’ve got an old ass rotary phone. You’re fitting that old, crusty librarian stereotype, now you just need twenty cats and argyle-patterned wool sweaters covered in your cats’ fur.”

Minho earned the elbow in the ribs that Changbin gave him for that.

Changbin wasn’t sure how long he sat and stared at that scrap of paper, but it was long enough for him to get through his entire joint. Would Jeongin really like him? Could he handle the weird, nerdy rants Changbin could go on about the Dewey Decimal Classification when he got really baked? Did Jeongin even do, much less like, drugs?

Okay, if he was friends with Seungmin, he absolutely had to be fine with the last concern. That was one fear off of the list, alleviating his concerns a minute amount.

After Chan got sick of Changbin’s oddities, he was nervous that his next partner would be overly critical of everything he did. Afraid that he would spark an argument over something stupid, like the way that their albums were organized, or whether or not plates should be on the bottom shelf of a cupboard, or the second shelf.

Domestic life with a partner was stupid, and being stuck in the middle of one’s twenties, when someone supposed to be in the prime of their youth, was not the time to argue over fucking dinner plates. Changbin figured that now was the perfect time to drop acid on a date with some dude he never met, even if he wasn’t sure if the stranger was even cute or not. It didn’t matter.

Fuck it.

He placed the remnants of his burnt out joint on the metal tray, pushing it out of the way as he stood up, grabbing his phone and the paper off of his desk, dropping them onto his nightstand. Hopefully, this conversation would be long enough for him to be able to relax up against the wall, to get comfortable and bond. Even if it wasn’t a guarantee towards forever, Changbin would let his guard down just a little, let someone in again. It had been several months, nearly a year at this point, and it was time.

His fingers were slightly clammy, holding the flimsy paper in between his thumb and index finger. He took in a sharp breath, then brought the receiver up under his ear, propping it up with his shoulder. Subconsciously, Changbin furrowed his brows and stuck the tip of his tongue out through the corner of his lips as he punched in each digit into the rotary, letting the dial spin and click between each number.

After the tenth number was in, he sat back a bit, listening to the dial tone trill in his ear.

Once.

Was this the right number?

Twice.

Would Jeongin pick up?

Three rings.

Was he even home?

Four.

Was this a good idea?

Five. Five was making Changbin nervous, more nervous than he expected.

“Hello?” The voice on the other line was breathy and he heard a couple of small pants. It was easy to get distracted, Changbin getting lost in the possible reasons as to why the other voice was so… occupied.

“H-hi,” he stumbled over his words, forgetting how to form a coherent sentence. Shit, this was awkward. “I’m looking for Jeongin. Yang Jeongin. Do I have the right number?”

“Heh,” the other voice chuckles. “Depends on who’s asking.”

Arrogant. Changbin liked that. “Seo Changbin. Apparently, we’re going on a date on Friday, thanks to our friend Seungmin.”

“Damn,” the other young man sighed, “took you forever to call. Seungmin said he wasn’t gonna give me your number, that I should wait for you to call.” There’s a sound of something metallic clattering against a hard surface. “I don’t like waiting, but I figured I’d give it a chance. I’m tired of dating guys that have dated guys I’ve dated already.”

Changbin swallowed hard, not sure of what exactly he should say.

“That was a joke, dude.” Jeongin sighs, and there’s a bit of shuffling on the other line. “Please tell me you know how to laugh. If you don’t know how to laugh, I don’t know how this is gonna work out.”

“Yeah,” Changbin squeaks, “I just, I dunno, I’m not really good at talking over the phone unless it’s for, like, work or something.”

“Oh yeah!” The other man exclaims, and a slap against a hard surface comes through the tinny receiver. “Seungmin told me you’re a librarian. You don’t hear of many 25-year-old librarians, much less ones that are dudes, and even fewer that don’t have cats. Weird.” He laughs a little bit, a cute, light, floaty laugh. “Why did you become a librarian, of all things? Sounds kinda nerdy.”

Without thinking, Changbin grits his teeth in nervousness, reminded of all of the shitty jocks in high school giving him shit for spending all of his free time in the library, nose in some nonfiction books about music theory. None of those bastards got anywhere in life, anyways, so who was really laughing now? “It’s because I am a nerd,” he says, a bit colder than he should have, “but I like organization, helping people find things, and, honestly, just being able to feel a little smarter than most people sometimes.”

The weed was starting to really have an effect on him, allowing him to physically relax, but also be a bit more open. Perhaps he was a bit too open.

The two men share a brief pause over the phone and then Jeongin laughs. “So, you think you’re pretty smart, huh?”

“I mean,” Changbin leans up against the wall, tangling the phone cord aimlessly between his fingers, “I don’t have two degrees in this for nothing.”

“Ha,” Jeongin’s laugh bubbles up again, “dweeb.”

They chat aimlessly for a while, and Changbin finds out that Jeongin is, indeed, a musician. Dropped out of university to be a bassist with a couple of his friends, but he works in a pawn shop half-time.

“Pays the bills and it lets me get first pick of all of the good, barely-played records,” Jeongin quips. “Even if sometimes people wanna try to steal shit and we get threats of armed robbery every couple weeks. Stressful, but I got a copy of The Wall last week, brand new and unopened, for way cheaper than my boss would’ve sold it for, so that makes up for it.”

Changbin found Jeongin startlingly fascinating. They seemed like total opposites on some things, since Jeongin was an extrovert and Changbin was an introvert, but they agreed on important things, like music. “That reminds me,” he slid down to lay up against his bed and stare at the ceiling, “my roommate, Minho? He tried to tell me there’s no auditory difference between records and cassette tapes.”

“Dude!” Jeongin scoffs with offence. “You need a new roommate. What a shitty opinion.”

“I know, I know,” Changbin curls into himself a bit, a wide smile on his face as he laughs. “Minho doesn’t get it, man. I tried playing a couple different things, but he still didn’t get it.”

The two of them share a laugh over the line. It had been so long since someone other than Minho made Changbin genuinely smile and laugh like that, and he was starting to have a bit less reservation about Jeongin. Maybe this would work out, after all.

“So,” the other man clears his throat, trying to calm himself from laughing so hard, “I gotta ask. What’s your favourite year in music so far, since ’80? Don’t get me started on the 60s and 70s, because I have a lot of opinions.”

“That’s tough.” Changbin bites his tongue and squints, rolling his eyes back and forth, scanning the ceiling as if it would give him some sort of answer. “’84, if I have to pick. I mean, dude, look at Queen; they’re fucking killing it. ‘Radio Ga Ga’ is still playing everywhere. Don’t even get me started on ‘Take On Me’, either.”

Jeongin politely chuckles. “Alright, man, I gotta disagree. ’85. ‘Raspberry Beret’ is so good, like, it’s my favourite by Prince. ‘Don’t You Forget About Me’? Come on, man, The Breakfast Club. You can’t tell me that’s not iconic.”

“That’s one of my favourite movies, man.” Changbin’s face starts to hurt from smiling so much as he quotes the film: “‘We’re all pretty bizarre. Some of us are just better at hiding it, that’s all.’”

There’s a soft laugh on the other line, something different about it, like the mood has shifted into something a little more serious. “Ah, Changbin. I knew I’d like you, not just for your opinions on records and cassette tapes. You seem pretty neat, and I wanna get to know you more.”

The blush that creeps up on Changbin’s face is uncomfortably hot. They had to have been on the phone for about an hour, but everything was starting to unravel naturally, comfortably, and it was exciting. His gaze falls as he turns his head to the side, eyeing the metal alarm clock on his nightstand.

“I’d like that, Jeongin,” he says, nearly whispering it. “I’ve gotta head to bed here in a bit, since I’ve got an early day of being your local resident nerd at the campus library tomorrow.”

“I haven’t seen you yet,” the other man lowers his voice, practically growling into the phone, “but you might just convince me that librarians and nerds can be hot and sexy, after all.”

Changbin practically chokes on his saliva at that comment. His eyes widen and he shakes his head a few times, almost comically. “I wouldn’t say that I’m either of those things, but I’m curious to hear what you think of me. Maybe we could pick up this conversation tomorrow?”

“I’m free all night, baby. Call me up whenever.”

The two of them offer impolite farewells, then Changbin softly hangs up the phone. He checks his alarm clock to make sure his alarm is set, then pulls the drawstring on his desk lamp, turning it off.

“Nerds can be hot and sexy, after all.” Jeongin’s voice echoed in his head, and just the thought of the way he said that caused his nerves to come to life, for his breath to quicken. What did this mysterious pawn shop clerk by day, musician by night look like? Was he any good in the sheets? Was he aggressive, was he soft?

If he wasn’t so tired, Changbin would’ve let his mind run a little more wild, maybe let his hands wander south. Instead, he quickly fell asleep, losing himself in the memory of Jeongin’s voice and the possibilities they had ahead of them.

The next day went by slower than it should have, and it was completely unfair. It was two in the afternoon when things came to a complete standstill. It was Thursday, and a lot of students would likely be in the middle of exams, so there wasn’t much to do, other than daydream about Jeongin while aimlessly thumbing through a catalogue of items for archiving.

Changbin stood at the archiving desk, the area completely emptied out and quiet. The lack of people meant there was a lack of work, allowing for his mind to travel to some interesting places: imagining bony fingers scanning his body, running down his torso, grabbing his hips. He subconsciously gripped the red pen in his hand a little tighter, leaning against the desk as he bit his lip, trying hard not to rut against the oaken wood beneath him.

He should be focusing on the lengthy parchment in front of him, waiting to be indexed. Waiting, like he was, to be aimlessly fucked into. It had been over a year since he last slept with someone, and it was starting to become tiresome. It usually didn’t bother him, but Jeongin’s voice and his words had been dancing around in his head all day, making his entire body tingle and tense.

Their blind date was tomorrow night, but Changbin wasn’t sure if he could hold out on getting off for one more day. He had to know more intimate details about Jeongin, and, nerves be damned, he was going to work up the courage to find out tonight.

Changbin nervously paced around his empty apartment, soles of his feet dragging across the shag carpet in the living room. He told himself he wouldn’t call Jeongin until 19:30 at the earliest, and calling him at exactly 19:30 would just be overkill and stupid. He couldn’t come off as needy or desperate, so he waited. Every couple of minutes, he would anxiously look up at the clock that hung up on the wall above his prized record player.

19:24.

“Dammit all to hell,” Changbin grumbled, nibbling on his thumbnail as he continued to pace. Kate Bush’s ‘Cloudbusting’ was nearly finished playing, which meant he was going to have to flip the record over to side B, but he decided against it. No, he’d suffer in silence until 19:33; an arbitrary time, but random enough to seem unsuspicious. That meant a little under eight minutes to wait impatiently. He’d get through it, he figured, even though it would be painful.

As the song ended and Changbin went to shut off the record player and slip the vinyl back into its papery packaging, the phone rang. A gasp silently escaped his lips as he looked up at the clock. 19:26.

No, it couldn’t be Jeongin. Changbin didn’t give him his phone number. Still, he ran off to his bedroom. He shouldn’t get his hopes up, but it was better to be prepared just in case. He slammed his door behind him and rushed to grab the receiver, anxiously bringing it up to his ear.

“Hello?” He tried so hard to stay calm as he answered the phone.

“Hey!” Changbin frowned as he realized the voice on the other line was Minho. “It’s just me. I’m gonna be at Seungmin’s tonight. We’ve got, uh,” he lowers his voice, “I’m probably not gonna be home until, like, Sunday at this rate. Seungmin’s got plans.”

He tried really hard not to, but Changbin still rolled his eyes in envy at his roommate. “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, “have fun getting the life pounded out of you. Hopefully you can still walk by the time you come home on Monday.”

“Oh come on,” Minho scoffed. “According to Seungmin, don’t be surprised if Jeongin’s got similar plans for the both of you if you two hit it off.”

Changbin shook his head and instantly flushed at the thought, his brain malfunctioning. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s nothing.” There’s some shuffling on the other end of the line, and then Minho gasps and laughs. “I gotta go, dude. Good luck this weekend, bye!”

Before he can say anything in response, Minho hangs up, leaving Changbin staring blankly at the receiver. He slams it down on the phone and groans loudly. A few moments pass before he decides to turn his overhead light off, and turn his desk lamp on. 19:30. There was only a little bit longer before he wouldn’t be worried about calling Jeongin, so he stared down at the drawer of his nightstand.

“Just in case, right?” A nervous scoff left his lips as he whispered into the air.

He pulled out a small bottle of lube, and set it down next to the phone. Even if his conversation with Jeongin didn’t go the way he was hoping it would, he wouldn’t let himself fall asleep unsatisfied tonight. There was no way.

19:31.

Two minutes to go until—

The phone rang again, causing Changbin to jump in place, nearly out of his own skin. “What the fuck?” He shouted to himself as he picked up the receiver. “Dude, Minho, I get it, you don’t have to rub it in my face.”

“Changbin?” The other voice was decidedly not Minho. No, it was too familiar, yet unfamiliar all at once. Painfully new.

“Jeongin? How did you…?”

The younger man chuckled. “I was with Seungmin today. Told him about our conversation yesterday, and he thought it’d be fine if he gave me your number. Maybe call you a little earlier, throw you off your guard.”

Changbin scoffed and flopped down onto his bed unceremoniously. “Well, it worked.”

“Clearly.”

There was a bit of an awkward silence, and Changbin bit his lip, trying to think of what to say next. He had all of these great topics for conversation run through his head while he was at work, but now they were all gone, like they never existed. The only obvious option that came to him was about their date tomorrow. “About our date tomorrow,” he starts, aimlessly watching the second hand tick away on his alarm clock, “how are we gonna know how to find each other?”

Jeongin hummed a mindless tune for a moment, likely contemplating his plans. “Wait for me at the bar. I’ll be there, wearing a neon pink shirt. I’ve got freshly-dyed teal blue hair, so you might need to get your eyes checked if you miss me.”

A soft smile crawled its way up Changbin’s face. “That sounds eclectic.”

“Comes with who I am; the whole package deal is a little unconventional. Hopefully you can handle that.”

“Hmm,” Changbin hums, then tsks, “might be a little difficult. A neon-clad, blue-haired musician and a boring, black-haired librarian that only owns dark clothes. We’re gonna be quite the duo.”

“Come on,” Jeongin whines, “you’ve gotta have a little neon in that closet of yours.”

“Nope. You can be the neon, and I’ll be the night, since it’s neon night, after all. Yin and yang. Light and dark.”

There’s a soft chuckle on the other line. “Can’t have the day without the night, huh?”

“When you put it that way,” Changbin starts, but lets his voice trail off. Musicians sure seemed to be good with words. He couldn’t help but wonder, with a silver tongue like that, if Jeongin wrote the lyrics for the small punk group he was a part of. Come to think of it, a punk bassist in neon was an interesting mental image, almost some sort of visual dissonance.

“What are you wearing?” Jeongin pulls Changbin from his thoughts, voice a bit lower than it was prior.

The question perplexed Changbin as he mentally thumbed through the clothes in his closet. “I dunno, probably my Bad Religion t-shirt so I’m noticeable and some ripped skinny jeans. Think it roughly fits the non-neon aesthetic. Is that fine?”

“Perhaps I should’ve phrased that better.” A laugh. “That’s not what I meant.”

Changbin knots his eyebrows together and cards a hand through his hair. “I don’t know what you mean, then. I figured it would fit for the location, and—“

“I meant right now.” The bluntness in Jeongin’s statement is jarring.

“Oh.” Changbin can’t manage much else, his brain slowly grinding its gears around as he tried to get back into the right mental space for… this.

This was really fucking happening. Not just a delusional fantasy he had hoped for.

He must have taken too long thinking about it, because Jeongin frantically starts stuttering on the other line. “Wait, no, sorry,” he starts, “that was abrupt. I’m sorry, like, shit, we’ve barely spoken for more than an hour to each other and I’m already trying to pull something like this and I probably just came off as—“

“What do you want me to wear right now?” It comes out a bit too naturally, too smoothly off of Changbin’s tongue, like it was obvious he wanted to see where this would go.

A beat passes. “Ideally?” Jeongin quietly whispers, shuffling a bit on his end. “I’d want you naked. But I don’t think I want you there yet.”

Changbin’s heart was about to beat out of his chest and his dick responded in kind, slowly pressing up against his briefs more and more as his blood coursed through his veins. “Not yet, you say? How come?”

“I don’t like instant gratification. If you can’t work for it, what’s the point?”

“Interesting. Am I working for it, or are you?” Changbin’s free hand slips down to the hem of his shirt, playing with a loose string, rolling it nervously between his thumb and index finger.

Jeongin hums. “Tonight? I don’t usually do this, since I like to be the one in control, but it’s been so long, I’ll make an exception.”

In the seven years that Changbin had been an adult, he had only tried phone sex once, and it was awkward. Chan was in northern California for work, and they were both drunk and lonely. They tried to make it work, but the pacing was off, the phrasing was awkward, especially since Chan didn’t try to experiment with dirty talk, and they ended up falling asleep on each other.

This, though, simply felt different and exciting.

“What if I don’t want you to be naked?” Changbin tugged harder at the string, starting to rip it from the hem, slowly unravelling it and ruining the stitching of his shirt. It didn’t matter, he hardly noticed. He could tear his shirt apart completely and he still wouldn’t have cared.

“Seems like you like to make people work for it, too.” Jeongin shuffled on the other line again, his voice a bit clearer, like he was closer to the phone. “Maybe you like to do questionable things in questionable places. I don’t know you well — at all, actually — but I just get this feeling about you. The quiet ones are always the fun, adventurous ones.”

“It must be true, then.” Changbin pauses to take in a breath, to calm his nerves over what he was about to say to a stranger over the phone. “I thought about you today while I was working on a catalogue for our archives. It’s a boring, thoughtless job sometimes, allows me to have a lot of time to let my mind wander. I was leaning up against the desk, pen in hand, and all I could think about was how pretty your voice would sound as I slowly fucked into you, made you beg to me to go faster, but I’d just slow down.” The string detached from Changbin’s shirt, yet he continued to roll it between his fingers.

Jeongin’s breathing started to pick up on the other end. “What else?”

Changbin discarded the string haphazardly and nestled the receiver in the crook of his neck, shuffling his shorts and briefs down just enough for his dick to spring out. “I’d bite the back of your neck all the way up your ear. Tell you to stay quiet, since you were being too loud and whiny, that you’d be the reason we’d get caught.”

“Yeah,” a pant, “can’t have us getting caught. It’d be quite a rush, getting fucked by the hot, nerdy librarian when he’s supposed to be working.”

He couldn’t take it anymore. Changbin grabbed the bottle of lube from the nightstand, haphazardly squirting some of it all over his crotch, somewhat missing his dick in his rush. “The only thing I’d be working would be your cock in my hand. Make you whine, make you fucking miserable as I bring you so close to coming but keep you hanging, begging for me to let you come.” He tossed the bottle on to the floor, then mopped up some of the stray lube off of his stomach, then moved to stroke himself a bit hastily. It had been so long, and to actually have an intimate connection with another human being, albeit over the phone, was enough excitement to have him close to the edge already.

Jeongin must have had a similar idea, because his laboured breathing comes over the line in a constant rhythm. “Maybe I don’t wanna take it slow.”

“Maybe I don’t care.”

“Oh,” the other man sounded a bit shocked, gasping quietly. “You’re interesting, mister sexy librarian. What if I decided to push back? Literally? Bring my hips back up against yours, grind my ass up on you and make you whine and make you fucking miserable?”

“Shit,” Changbin growled, not expecting that kind of reaction. “I might have to grab you by the hair, push you down into the desk and give a needy little brat like you exactly what you want.” The thought was almost too much. He knew he was getting close; he should’ve slowed the pacing down with his hand, but he couldn’t stop. Instead, he was increasing his pace and tightening the grip at the top of his hand a bit more. “How would you like that?”

“Fuck,” Jeongin sounds like he’s completely lost in the moment, breathing erratic and letting full gasps and moans escape now. It sounded like some sort of wildly inappropriate choral music. “Changbin, that’s so fucking hot. I wish this was your hand around me instead. It feels so good, but it’s not enough.” Changbin lets out a choked whine, lost in the thought of what Jeongin looked like as he jerked himself off. “Ah, Changbin, I need you so badly. To feel you around me, inside me, and I—“

Suddenly, the light on the edge of Changbin’s desk went out and Jeongin’s voice went silent. The ambient humming that usually filled his apartment was dead. It appeared as if his part of LA got wrapped up in a sudden blackout, since everything everywhere was dark and quiet.

This couldn’t have come at a more horrible time.

Changbin let out an exasperated, desperate yell in frustration. As he angrily tossed the receiver to the side, causing the entire phone to go flying, he stared up at the ceiling in the darkness and swore that he was never going to try phone sex again.

Zero for two. Phone sex was cursed.

Even though today was the day that Changbin was finally going to meet Jeongin for their date, he was in an absolutely dreadful mood. Sure, after the power went out for the entire night, he had managed to get himself off, but it was lacklustre and nowhere near as good as he was anticipating it to be with his conversation with Jeongin. The pathetic way that the younger man mewled his name followed him like a shadow all day, echoing in the space between his ears all day.

“Changbin,” the voice taunted him, “I need you so badly.”

He groaned and leaned up against his archive desk, not even bothering to try to pay attention to his work. There was no way he was going to get anything done while he was too distracted thinking about fucking this stranger up against it, pushing his face into the mass of open books and large parchment. They would knock off all of the paraphernalia, pens clattering like raindrops against the ground, sound being absorbed by the walls of books surrounding them. God, how good it would be to hear his name coming from those lips one more time.

“I wish this was your hand around me instead.”

His eyes lulled to the corner of the table, pushing up his glasses to better focus on a cheap digital clock showing 15:40 in bright red lights. “Goddammit,” Changbin grumbled to himself and let his head collide against the open book in front of him. The tension in his slacks was causing time to inch by impossibly slow, like he was stuck in molasses. He had less than five and a half hours to go until he would finally meet the man the engrossed his entire mind for the past 48 hours and he couldn’t wait to give Jeongin a taste of the thoughts that consumed him.

Only a bit over five hours, now. He could do this.

Changbin had to have mentally pored over his entire appearance several times as he showered. Glasses? No, those would just be a nuisance; it’d be best to just suffer with a little bit of blurry vision for distant things. Besides, he was going to be seeing crazy shit halfway through their date, if they hit it off well enough to trip together.

So, no glasses. One thing off the list.

After his shower, Changbin thumbed through his closet, lost in a sea of black and indigo clothing, with a couple of odd white button up shirts that were frequently ignored. His graphic shirts were towards the left-hand side, reserved for his days off and the nights he’d go out with Minho and Seungmin, where he tried to look as normal as possible, and not like the dweeby librarian everyone knew him to be. It took several flicks of the thumb, but he eventually found the Bad Religion shirt he promised he was going to wear. That, and the torn up black skinny jeans he already had on his bed, were the only things Jeongin had to go off of.

Changbin was desperately hoping that Jeongin would find him in the sea of people that would be there. If this date flopped, he was going to hide for weeks in embarrassment, showing up to something so high energy looking like a black cloud of doom and gloom and dateless. The first half of that was tolerable, but to be dateless after all of that would be devastating to his ego.

Thankfully, Jeongin was going to be the visual antithesis to Changbin’s all-black attire. He was going to be like a dark cloud, a shadow to be passed over, and Jeongin would be that bright ray of vivid neon pink and teal blue. They’d be eyesores in their own rights, but it wouldn’t matter. Nobody would really be paying close attention to them tonight; neon nights were always the nights where people would get drugged out, smoke weed openly and fuck in the washrooms, and everyone would let go of their faux daily life personas and be carefree for one night.

It didn’t take long for Changbin to change into his outfit. He turned his head to look at his nightstand, squinting to make out the time on the clock. 19:52. All he needed to do was fuss over his appearance in the mirror while he would throw on some eyeliner. He would then fix his hair, gelling it into some sort of puffed out “just woke up” look that would just deflate after an hour of hanging around a humid, cramped environment packed with people. Maybe he’d wear those knee-high platform combat boots he only wore once to a concert a couple years ago.

First impressions were important, even if he knew he’d look like a mess at the end of the night. He wanted to prove to Jeongin that librarians could, in fact, be hot and sexy, even if it wasn’t in the conventional ways society would prefer.

The platform combat boots were a bad idea.

It wasn’t a far walk, but as Changbin waited in line outside of The Roxanne, he was constantly adjusting his feet and kicking the toes of his boots against the firm concrete of the sidewalk. He knew he’d be off of his feet soon enough, but getting to that point was proving to be brutal. The line slowly moved, people gradually being allowed in after paying the cover fee. Changbin flicked his arm, looking at the silver Royal Oak decorating his wrist, eyeing the time. 21:05.

He huffed, furrowing his brows and staring at the gunpowder grey backdrop of his watch. This was his lucky watch that his parents gifted him for graduating with his master’s degree last year. It was what he wore for his interview at UCLA, almost positive he wouldn’t get the entry-level librarian position he applied for, since it was heavily competitive, but he somehow managed to get it. It was the watch he wore when he and Minho signed for their shoddy apartment. It was what he wore when he gained the courage to call Jeongin.

Maybe superstition was stupid, but Changbin really wanted to put all of his cards on the table and risk believing in it tonight.

The line continued to shuffle forward, and Changbin’s nerves started to really consume him. On the outside, he tried to look cool and composed, his thumbs gently tucked into the belt loops of his pants, shoulders tucked back, head propped upright. Internally, however, he was very much the opposite of the cool-guy persona he was putting on. If he could scream and still be seen as sane, he absolutely would.

Another couple of steps. Changbin pulled out his wallet from his back pocket, sliding out his driver’s licence and a fiver as he approached the sturdily built man that stood outside of the front door. The man didn’t bother looking at his licence and just took the bill from him. They exchanged no words, the man just tilting his head towards the door, and Changbin simply walked in.

His fingers trembled a bit as he anxiously jammed his licence back into his wallet, exchanging it for a ten-dollar-bill, and returned the billfold to his back pocket. A long sigh escaped his lips as scanned the room, seeing no one with teal hair and a bright pink shirt as he approached the bar, finding a spot where he could keep an eye on the front door. He waved down one of the bartenders, who glided over towards him on her skates as she smiled at him.

“Hey there, what can I get ya?” She smiled at him, excitedly tapping her hands on the wooden countertop.

Changbin passed her the cash and shrugged. “A gin and tonic is fine. I don’t care what kind of gin you use.”

“You got it,” she skated away, off to make his drink.

Again, Changbin looked down to his watch. 21:21. The lights flickered off nine minutes early, UV lighting illuminating the entire rink, save the halogen lights by the washrooms, entrance, and most of the bar. The bartender returned with Changbin’s drink and his change.

“Quinine sure is fascinating, ain’t it? I love anything with tonic water on neon nights. Lemme know if you need anything else, buttercup.” She smiled, then skated away to her next customer before Changbin could make any sort of commentary. He stared wildly at his drink, literally glowing in a nuclear shade of blue, wondering if it had been adulterated. Quinine. He recognized the word from one of his organic chemistry texts from university, but the details of it escaped him.

Fuck it. Might as well just drink it.

He fumbled the cash into his right pocket, not bothering to stuff it back into his wallet. There was no way he was going to stand up in these fucking shoes unless he absolutely had to. Another glance to his watch. 21:24. Changbin grumbled under his breath, bringing the glass cup to his lips, biting the plastic straw between his teeth as he sucked up some of the toxic-looking liquid and he looked to the door. The drink nearly went everywhere as his eyes went wide and he saw a human glow stick walk in.

Neon pink shirt. Hair as violently blue as his own drink, topped with a purple beret. This was his human glow stick. It was fucking Yang Jeongin, actually here, in the flesh. Changbin didn’t even try to doubt it.

The black-haired man dipped his head down in nervousness, his heartbeat thrumming so loudly, it overtook the music being played over the loud speakers behind him. He had gotten this far, but Changbin had no idea what to do now. These men had essentially fucked over the phone just the night prior — well, they had attempted to, for all intents and purposes.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

How do people do blind dates? In the six years he spent studying research and analysis, he never came across something like this in his texts and papers. The countless nights he spent researching the human connection and other psychological and sociological theories had meant jack shit when it actually came to experiencing them in person. If his hair wasn’t well-coiffed, Changbin would be nervously running his fingers through his hair and biting off every single fingernail he could. It had been years since he dated, and this could go very poorly.

Something inside of him compelled him to look again. Perhaps the human glow stick was a figment of his imagination, the wrong person. Something. Anything. Anyone other than Yang Jeongin. Changbin sucked down another large swig of his drink, and turned his head slightly, and saw that the glow stick was scanning the bar. Changbin was about to turn away out of nervousness when they made eye contact.

He hadn’t consumed any questionable substances other than a couple sips of his drink, but it was like a fire had been set alight within him, burning away some of his anxiety and replacing it with a sense of confidence. That was definitely Jeongin, the gaze they exchanged with each other left no room for question.

The younger man smiled, biting his lip as he excitedly trekked up to Changbin. He stopped in front of him, gazing down at the older man’s shirt, then wiggling a bit in joy as he opened his mouth.

“Please tell me you’re Seo Changbin, otherwise you’re going to be very disappointed tonight.”

“Well,” Changbin couldn’t help but half-smirk with a bit of a cocky arrogance he didn’t know he had. He set his drink down on the bar and leaned on his elbow, slowly looking up at the neon-clad man. “That depends on who’s asking, don’t you think?” He used the first words Jeongin spoke at him against him, and the younger man giggled.

“Yang Jeongin, at your service. Raspberry beret included. Still the best year in music this decade.” The blue-haired man winks and leans in close, very close to the older man, as he then rests his arms on the countertop, flagging down the same bartender as before. She nods and starts working on a drink without even talking to him. The young man sits back on his heels and boldly slaps a hand on Changbin’s thigh. He moves in, right up next to the black-haired man’s ear, lips practically touching it as he lowers his voice to a whisper. “You know, Changbin, librarians aren’t supposed to be hot and sexy, but man, am I glad I’ve been proven wrong.”

Changbin may have been nervous as all hell just a few minutes ago, but now he had a sneaking feeling that maybe, just maybe, this date was going to work out after all.

The two of them share a couple of drinks at the bar, really hitting it off. Jeongin doesn’t lift his hand from Changbin’s thigh, which the elder doesn’t mind, slowly getting the courage to place his hand on top of it after their second drink. At some point, Jeongin sticks his tongue out in defiance, showing off a neon green tongue ring on bright display, and Changbin is impressed.

“I’m full of a lot of secrets, you know.” The younger man teases, aimlessly biting on his straw.

“I guess I’m gonna have to slowly unwrap you in order to find out all of those secrets, huh?” Thanks to the alcohol, Changbin’s a lot smoother than he thinks he is, realizing that the words sounded a lot less innocuous than he intended. He blinks rapidly and stumbles over his words. “Sorry,” he apologizes, then rubs his forehead with his free hand. “I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”

“That was a good pickup line,” the blue-haired man giggles into his drink, emptying the contents of the glass, then slamming it down on the counter. He takes his newly-freed hand and rests his head in his palm, happily smiling at the man in front of him. “Now what?”

Changbin gently sets his drink on the counter, then reaches into his left pocket, scooping up the dime bag from the other day, tucking it into the palm of his hand. “I got these from Seungmin the other day. Kind of a strange question, but,” he looks up to the younger man and licks his bottom lip, “you trust me enough to get a little tripped out?”

Jeongin excitedly shimmies his shoulders back and forth a couple of times. “You’re friends with Seungmin, so that’s good enough for me. Whatcha got on the menu for tonight, hmm?”

“Something pretty to go right up next to that tongue ring of yours.” Changbin takes his hand off of Jeongin’s, inconspicuously fiddling with the bag. He pulls out a small baby pink square of paper, briefly flashing it at the younger man. “I can take it first if you don’t trust me.”

Jeongin doesn’t say anything, only moving in a bit closer, and he sticks his tongue out, mouth wide open, everything shiny with saliva and on full display. He looks up to Changbin with pleading eyes and makes a little cooing noise.

Changbin let his eyes flutter shut for a brief second as he sharply inhaled through his nose and then shifted in his seat in mild discomfort. “You’re dangerous,” he whispered, eyes half-lidded as he grabbed Jeongin’s chin, lightly tugging him closer for a moment, as he pressed the paper onto the moist, warm tongue in front of him. “I’m ready to get burned with fire, though.” He wastes no time to pluck the second piece of paper from the plastic bag, pressing it against his own tongue. “Let everything chill out on your tongue for a while, alright?”

“You say that like you think I’ve never dropped acid before, dude.” The younger man smiled widely, then tugged at Changbin’s hand, pulling him up to his feet. “Let’s go get some skates and roll around while we wait.”

Changbin’s eyes went wide and his feet screamed at him as he was jostled upright. It was going to hurt, but it didn’t matter. A bit of discomfort would be worth it to see the joyful look on Jeongin’s face as they glided around on the polished floor, waiting for the colours to slowly meld together and wrap around them in a hazy, yet incandescent rainbow.

“Wait a second,” Jeongin cackles and drops the laces of his skates. “You mean to tell me you’re twenty-five and you’ve never been good at skating? Dude. Your childhood must’ve been boring as shit.”

“Come on,” Changbin drawls, sighing as he pouts at the younger man. “The only physical activity I really like is weightlifting, and that’s not even a frequent hobby of mine. I’d rather get baked after work and listen to records while laying on the floor.” The two men stare at each other for a minute, then burst into laughter.

“Alright, I can see you getting baked, but weightlifting? As if, man.” Jeongin shakes his head and bends back down to finish tying his laces. “Librarians aren’t supposed to be buff and shit, that’s not how that works at all.”

A sarcastic huff escapes Changbin’s lips. He drops to the floor, grabbing Jeongin’s hands and looking up to the younger man, his face getting dangerously close, close enough to almost brush their lips together. They stare at each other for a moment, the air stilling around them, before the older man moves to touch their cheeks together, lips against Jeongin’s ear. “You also said librarians aren’t supposed to be hot, but I proved you wrong with that, too.” Changbin lets go of Jeongin’s hands, moving them to dance his fingertips against the top of the neon man’s thighs. “Let me see how many times I can prove you wrong tonight.”

Jeongin lets out a shaky gasp, pressing his cheek up against the older man’s, moving in close as if he was about to kiss him, but Changbin pulls away too quickly, winking at him before he moves down to help tie his laces. “God,” the younger man sighs, throwing his head back and subtly rolling his hips in his chair to readjust, “you’re a tease, man. That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair sometimes. Gotta have the dark to appreciate the light.” Changbin smirks to himself as he finishes knotting the laces in his hands. He makes his way to his feet, awkwardly stumbling a bit before he reaches his hands down in front of Jeongin. “Shall we?”

Jeongin takes one of Changbin’s hands and helps himself upright. “Awfully confident for someone who can’t skate.” He smiles, then gently tugs the older man towards the open air of the entrance of the rink.

Changbin sucks air in through his teeth as he starts to move, flailing his free hand a bit as he awkwardly shuffles his feet to help him move with a bit more purpose. They step on to the glossy hardwood floor, and Jeongin spins around, skating backwards as he pulls Changbin along. He reaches out for the older man’s other hand, which Changbin carefully reaches down and grabs. They interlace their fingers together, staring longingly at each other.

“I trusted you with the acid,” Jeongin says at a volume just loud enough to carry over the song roaring through the speakers, “now trust me with the skating, yeah?”

Changbin nods, his face slightly wrinkled up in nervousness. He bites his lip, starting to get the hang of the way they slid around the floor, only having some issues with the rounded corners. People were flying past them, but it didn’t matter. The only thing Changbin wanted to focus on was Jeongin.

“You’re getting it,” the younger man smiled, standing totally upright and pulling the older man closer to him, maybe just a few centimetres away from each other. They smile softly at one another, slowing down a bit as Changbin started to get lost in the way the brilliant lighting warmed against Jeongin’s face, highlighting his high cheekbones and his soft lips.

There was nothing more that Changbin wanted than to kiss those lips.

As he was leaning in, Jeongin let go of his hands. “You teased me earlier,” he scoffed, “now you’ve gotta earn that kiss.” He looks over his shoulder, then turns back and smiles. “You’ve gotta make one full loop around: from the entrance and back. Then you’ll have earned that kiss from me.”

Changbin opens his mouth to protest, flailing around a bit, and Jeongin winks and practically flies away on his skates. He grits his teeth and huffs. “I’m gonna show you, goddammit.” The black-haired man frowns in determination, getting bolder with each stride he takes. Jeongin loops around again when he’s about halfway through, sticking his tongue out and blowing him a kiss as he spins around and jumps up into the air, landing perfectly back onto his feet. The younger man is off in a flash again, a trail of pink following him as he rolls away.

Oh. Changbin shakes his head as he comes around a corner. The acid had started to kick in and things got a little brighter, colours blurring together in the distance, lazily trailing around in a stutter as he moved around. He stared at the entrance of the rink, maybe fifty metres away, smiling to himself as he got closer and closer. At about twenty metres, Jeongin flew past him and veered off towards the wall, waiting with a smile.

As he approached Jeongin, Changbin intentionally didn’t slow down as much as he should have. He slowed a bit, and the younger man winced a bit and recoiled, preparing for a rough impact. However, the crash never came. Changbin pressed his hands into Jeongin’s chest as he got close, gently colliding against him, both of them landing against the wall.

They didn’t say anything. Changbin snaked a hand to Jeongin’s hip, and another up under his jaw, pulling it up into his. Their lips danced up against each others’, and there’s an electrical feeling that runs through Changbin’s veins, a spark between them. Their noses brush, nuzzling into the other as their lips open.

Jeongin tastes like lemon-lime soda and vodka, his tongue feeling almost like it was still covered in carbon dioxide as it rolled around Changbin’s. The older man digs his thumb into the younger man’s hip, causing a muffled squeak to roll up into his throat. An explosion of yellows and greens cloud Changbin’s vision as sounds start to translate into colours and haptic sensations.

It almost feels like they’re meant to be. Jeongin is the treble to Changbin’s bass. The light to his darkness. He is the neon glow stick to his dark, unlit candle. It may have been the drugs and the alcohol heightening everything, but from the way their humour complemented each other, to their oddities being so different yet similar, to the way that how sweet Jeongin’s kiss was against Changbin’s sour lips, everything was perfect.

“You’re perfect,” Changbin breathes into Jeongin’s mouth. “I don’t know why,” he pulls the younger man’s bottom lip gently between his teeth as he pulls away, staring up into half-open eyes, “but I just feel it.” The synth music beating along in the background practically pushes them closer, inviting them to stay wrapped up into one another.

Jeongin pushes back up against Changbin’s lips for a quick, hasty kiss that feels like electric pink and sparkling green. “It’s the drugs, but I’ll take the compliment.”

“I’m serious,” Changbin smiles at the sweetness of Jeongin’s lips against his again. “Like, your cheekbones. They’re so prominent, sharp, perfect. Your whole face just radiates brilliance. It’s like all of the colours dance off of your face and wrap it in this warm energy that demands attention.”

“Your lips are perfect,” Jeongin retorts with a laugh. “The way that your face wrinkles up when you smile. I wanna take that in, make you laugh for hours just to watch you scrunch your face together. Listen to the way your laugh staccatos discordantly against the music playing in the background.”

A warmth spreads in Changbin’s stomach, deep purples and pinks blending around the edges of his vision. It was time. He decides to finally bite the bullet, swallowing hard as he tries to keep his volume low enough for only Jeongin to hear him, “I wanna hear you say it again.”

There’s a short pause as Jeongin stills. “What’re you talking about?”

Changbin pushes Jeongin into the wall, rubbing his waist against the younger man’s. “Last night,” he trails his lips up Jeongin’s cheek, all the way up to his ear, “you told me you wanted me. Needed me.”

There’s a burst of orange as Jeongin laughs. “That’s right, isn’t it? Whatcha gonna do if I tell you that again, now that I have you here in my hands?” His hands quickly slap up against Changbin’s ass, grabbing it tightly. “We’re still in public, baby.”

A strangled moan accidentally comes from Changbin, feeling every nerve in his spine erupt in baby blues and jarring yellows at the younger man’s touch. “I don't care where we are. I’m gonna give you what you want,” he whispers, nibbling on the earlobe in front of him. “I’m going to steal you away, pull you away into the washroom, and I’m gonna fuck you up against the tiling or the wallpaper or whatever dingy shit they’ve got in there.”

It was like nobody was around, not that anyone was paying attention, anyways. The two of them ground up against each other, practically fucking as everyone went along with their lives around them. They were far from the only ones becoming so acquainted on the hardwood floor, but it didn’t matter. As far as Changbin was concerned, they were the only two people in the room, in the entire building, in the entire world.

“It’s tiling,” Jeongin whispers and bites Changbin’s ear, causing a neon rainbow, rippling in time to the music around them, to cloud his vision. “I let you take control over the phone last night, so I’m gonna do the fucking tonight. Come on.”

Changbin doesn’t have the wherewithal to protest as he’s dragged away by Jeongin, pulling them off towards the flickering, nauseatingly yellow-tinted halogen that illuminated the washroom door. Somehow, they had gotten lucky and nobody was in the entire washroom. They roll into the large stall towards the back. Jeongin locks the door behind them and pushes Changbin against the back wall, crashing their lips together.

The weird mixture of normal lighting with blacklight paints a strange picture against the back of Changbin’s eyelids. Each grazing of Jeongin’s teeth on his lips causes purple lines to streak down a backdrop of orange and crimson.

Warm. Jeongin was warm. Everything about him radiated warm colours and energy, even if his hair was the opposite of that.

Jeongin trails his lips down Changbin’s neck, and he grazes his teeth against the soft skin. “Wait,” the older man quietly protests, “don’t do anything that’ll leave a mark there.”

“Why not?” Jeongin looks up to the older man and smirks. “Afraid your coworkers and students are gonna find out you’re actually a bit of a freak who wants to get fucked in public?”

“Actually,” Changbin huffs, “kinda, yeah. Anything below the neck is fair game, though.

“I respect that.” Jeongin huffs, tugging the loose neckline of Changbin’s shirt down, exposing his collarbone. “Oh,” he pauses, cocking his head to the side. “781?”

Changbin hums, flushing in slight embarrassment, as he feels Jeongin’s eyes on his tattoo. “Dewey Decimal Classification. Music theory call number. That’s why there’s a treble clef next to it.”

“God, you’re such a fucking nerd. That’s hot as hell.” The younger man groans, then starts desperately sucking and biting up against the sensitive flesh.

Changbin doesn’t try to hide a needy whine at the sensation of Jeongin’s teeth against his skin. His hips roll up subconsciously, craving for some sort of stimulation against his growing erection. “Jeongin,” he whimpers, “I don’t wanna wait anymore.”

The younger man relinquishes the skin from his teeth. “Funny,” he says, standing up and looking down at the older man, pressing their hips together. “Neither do I.”

They wantonly kiss each other as they fumble with their pants. Jeongin tosses his beret to the floor, pulling out a condom and a small, travel-sized bottle of lube out from his back pocket. “As much as I love kissing those lips of yours and looking at your face,” he pulls away, quickly pressing a kiss to Changbin’s forehead, “this is gonna be a lot easier if you turn around.”

A nervous laugh bubbles up from Changbin as he somehow manages to roll around, pressing his hands up against the clammy tiling. He bends over slightly, pressing his hips against Jeongin’s crotch, eliciting a small groan from the younger man. Within a moment, thumbs are haphazardly tugging his waistband down, exposing his skin to the warm, open air.

“Your ass is really nice,” Jeongin takes in a quick breath and ghosts his fingers over the smooth skin.

“You say that now,” Changbin whispers as streams of green drift up from the corners of his vision, “but wait until you’re actually inside me.”

A desperate huff comes from Jeongin. “Fuck,” he groans, squeezing some lube on to his fingers and bringing his hand up to the older man’s perineum, dragging them up slowly to rub against his entrance. “I’ve been thinking about this nonstop since you told me you’d fuck me against your stupid work desk.” He coaxes a finger inside, and Changbin whines, rubbing his cheek against the dingy washroom tile. “I was ready to come right then and there. I didn’t know you’d be that much of a freak when Seungmin told me you were a librarian.”

Jeongin’s finger curls around a bit as he explores around, causing Changbin to let out soft little pants as his skin stretched against the finger. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he manages to grumble in between pants, “or how freaky I am. Maybe one day I’ll show you my collection of glass sex toys I keep hidden under my bed.”

Another finger slips in, and another moan loudly comes from the panting librarian. “Keep it down. Don’t wanna get kicked out with a hard-on, do you?” Changbin weakly nods, his eyes rolling back as he bites his lips and moves against Jeongin’s fingers. The younger man continues to stretch the sensitive skin as he gently rolls both of his fingers around, occasionally separating them in a scissoring-like motion.

Changbin bites back a loud, throaty moan, bringing his hand up to his mouth so he can bite on his knuckle. Colours rippled around in discordant patterns, roughly clashing up against each other, sparks of white popping up at random. “Jeongin,” he whines out, voice slightly muffled.

The younger man shudders at the sound of his name being uttered, and he slips his ring finger inside. As soon as the finger is completely inside of Changbin, the older man throws his head back and slips a bit on his skates. Jeongin grabs his hip tightly with his free hand. “Don’t worry, baby,” he whispers, in a soft, loving voice, “I’m not gonna let you fall. I’ll keep you safe right here, so let yourself go.”

Changbin’s hand leaves his mouth and slams up against the wall, curling his fingernails into the grout between the tiles. He closes his eyes tightly and loses himself in the sensation of being filled by three fingers, slowly working his way up to being prepared for whatever Jeongin’s dick was going to feel like inside of him. What he wasn’t prepared for, however, was when Jeongin’s middle finger curled up against his prostate and he arched his back in surprise.

“Jeongin,” he panted, rubbing his cheekbone into the tile, “fuck, there, right there.”

“Don’t worry,” the younger man reassures him, “all in due time. Trust me, a bassist knows what he’s doing when it comes to his fingers.”

“That’s,” Changbin pants again, “a terrible fucking pun.”

Jeongin rubs all three of his fingers in a circle, causing the older man to writhe under him. “Yeah, yeah,” he coos, “you don’t seem to actually be complaining, though.”

“I’m only gonna complain if you don’t shut up and fuck me here soon,” Changbin whines through gritted teeth. “I don’t wanna come unless it’s from your dick, alright?”

“Fine,” Jeongin grins, removing his fingers slowly, making sure to drag them down the walls of the sensitive skin around them. He pulls them out one by one, causing Changbin to twitch under him. Once his hand is free, he wrangles his cock from his pants, then rips the condom from the foil packet, sliding it onto him. He pulls the bottle of lube from his pocket, squirting a bit more onto his hand, stroking it on his cock. “You ready for me?”

“Yes,” Changbin turns his head, staring down Jeongin with half-lidded eyes. “I need you, Jeongin, please.”

The younger man smiles, then lines himself up against the elder’s entrance. “Whatever you want, babe.” Jeongin slides in, and the composure held in his face falters, lips parting and eyes rolling back a bit. His slick hand grabs Changbin’s other hip, digging his pinky and thumb tightly into his skin as he slowly makes his way completely inside. “Yeah, you were right. Your ass is much nicer now that I’m inside of you.”

“I know, I know. Jeongin, please, shut up and fuck me,” Changbin whines, rapidly panting as he’s filled. “I just wanna feel you fuck me senseless.”

“Needy,” Jeongin hisses through his teeth as he pulls back, then slams back into Changbin, the sound of skin against skin echoing throughout the tiling and linoleum, overtaking the muffled sounds of the electronica from the other room.

Everything felt and looked so much more vibrant thanks to the acid. Every thrust was another colour splattered up recklessly in Changbin’s vision. Sparks of light went flying every time Jeongin hit his prostate. Sex usually felt wonderful to Changbin; he wasn’t sure if it was because of the drugs specifically, or if it was Jeongin, or if it was both, but he was sure of one thing: this was an out-of-body experience. His mind was floating up in the sky, up along the stars, as if he was the main character in some bad science fiction space film.

“Jeongin,” he panted, continuing to cry out the younger man’s name like a mantra.

The blue-haired man panted heavily, taking the hand previously inside Changbin and wrapping it around his cock, stroking it in time with his thrusts. “You feel so good, baby, I’m gonna make a mess out of you.”

The colours in Changbin’s vision slowly started to turn white, ribbons of pink and blue in the shades of Jeongin wrapping around the edges of his sight. “Shit,” a throaty moan escaped his throat, “I’m gonna come, Jeongin, don’t fucking stop. Fuck, please don’t stop. Don’t stop. Ah, god, fuck, I—“

His back arched, fingernails dragging down the walls as Changbin tried, and failed, to keep himself from shouting Jeongin’s name at a loud volume. The younger man pumped him one last time, and cum splattered up against the wall, dripping down onto the floor, as the older man collapsed into the tiling.

“Fuck, that’s so good, you’re so good, Changbin,” he pulled back and then slammed into the older man one more time, curling into his back a bit, stabilizing his stance by gripping Changbin’s hip. He spilled his cum into the condom, and the two of them stood there and panted for what seemed like forever.

After several minutes, Jeongin pulled out, shakily standing back upright. “What the fuck was that, dude?” He laughed, and Changbin managed to stumble himself back up to a vertical position.

The older man rapidly blinked as he came back down from space, and he let out a long sigh. “Amazing, that's what that was,” he pulled his pants up from off of the floor, haphazardly fastening the button of his jeans together just enough. Changbin awkwardly rolls a bit, then pulls Jeongin into him by the neck, the two of them exchanging a warm, soft kiss with each other.

They kiss for only a moment or so. “We should probably clean up a little bit and then get out of here.” Jeongin chuckles once. “You kind of made a mess and I’m sure we probably scared off some people.

“You’re the reason I made that mess,” Changbin quips. “Besides, we’re not the only ones that have fucked in here tonight, I bet. We won’t be the last, either.”

After a bit of awkwardly shuffling around in skates, some commentary about never fucking in roller skates again, and a bit of cleanup, they emerge from the stall. Jeongin rolls over to the sink to wash his hands, smiling at Changbin through the mirror. “I think I’m gonna like you,” he says, and the older man makes eye contact with him through the mirror, then rolls up next to him.

“Yeah?” He presses a kiss up to the younger man’s cheek and adjusts the beret on his head. “You say that now, but wait until I go on a rant about the Library of Congress’ organizational system versus the Dewey Decimal Classification, or about how dumb university students can be.”

Jeongin turns his head and gently kisses Changbin’s lips as water drips down from his hands. “It’ll be cute, I bet. You had me hooked at listening to records and smoking weed while laying on the floor, but nerdy ranting? Icing on the cake, man.”

Changbin scoffs and grabs a couple of towels from the dispenser behind the younger man. “Stop dripping all that water over my skates, dude. Maybe you should come home with me and we can find out just how fun that all actually turns out to be.”

“I think that’s—“ Jeongin starts to speak, taking the towels from Changbin, until they’re distracted by the loud squeaking of the washroom door. They both turn to look at the noise, and Changbin’s not really sure if he’s imagining what he’s seeing due to drugs.

“Changbin?” The voice of the intruder sounds as shocked as Changbin feels.

“Chan?” Jeongin squints as his face as he looks at the man that walks in.

The three of them awkwardly stare at each other, and Changbin frowns. “You know him?” He asks Jeongin, who stares back at him with wide eyes.

Jeongin shrugs his shoulders. “It was, like, a year or so ago, but yeah. You slept with him, too?”

#roller rinks and raspberry berets #sks smut #skz fics #seo changbin x yang jeongin #yang jeongin x seo changbin #jeongbin #changbin x jeongin #jeongin x changbin #wherevermyway

[dumbbelle]

robber!Minghao

In the end, Chan’s the one who says it best: “So… What you’re telling me is that you broke into Y/N’s house to steal a painting, and walked out having stolen their heart instead?”

Seokmin raises his hand for a high five. “Smooth man, smooth.”

Minghao Robin Hoods the frick outta his life, and quite literally bumps into you in the process. 

✄ Word Count: 3402 ✄ T/W: Swearing, attempted robbery, cute shit ✄ A/N: Heyo it’s Belle, I’m back with something that nobody asked for but I thought was necessary.

Masterlist

Contrary to what his best friend and roommate says, Xu Minghao insists that he’s a decent person.

(“And Mingyu can go fuck himself with his morals, the asshole’s the most notorious bootlegger you’ll find on campus”)

But honest, Minghao is a simple college boy.

He came to Pledis University when he was 18 as an international student, double majoring in Visual Arts, and Korean Language and Culture.

He’s there mostly on scholarship but he also has financial support from his parents, so he’s never really had to worry about his economic status.

He’s not the most social of kids but he’s also not the most introverted, so he always has just enough friends and just enough parties to attend as to not get bored.

But he gets bored anyway, because he’s always been an active child itching to do more.

So really, this whole mess started when he decides that he should pick up his old hobby:

Breakdancing

It’s mostly just a passing thought that comes to him when he comes back home for holiday and rewatches a VHR tape of an old b-boying competition.

But it lingers and every once in awhile he considers the possibility of him just quitting school and becoming a b-boy star like he once dreamed of.

After all, he was pretty damn good.

(He accidentally thinks this out loud during dinner and his mother throws her chopsticks at him)

Anyway, he returns to college for the new year and he’s almost completely forgotten about his old dreams.

Luckily enough (or maybe unluckily enough, depending on the perspective), there is a campus b-boy squad that he happens to stumble upon during his second-year clubs fair (as in, they barrelled into him with a flier and bombarded him with questions).

To be truthful, it seems pretty lame and Minghao’s sure that if he went underground, he could probably find a cooler scene,,,

But also, they said that there would be snacks at the interest meeting,,,

And so he makes the considerate decision to attend.

The interest meeting is where he meets Seokmin of all people.

The acting major makes a scene when he announces that he’s not there as Lee Seokmin but as Kang Hajoon, a lower-class high school drop out who finds his way through the power of breakdance.

(“Nobody knew who you were in the first place, dipshit–“

“–I said to call me Hajoon–“

“–Just sit down.”)

And people are snickering at Seokmin because they find his method acting lame.

But Minghao finds that lame so he proceeds to sit down right beside the boy and stare daggers at any jerk who directs a snide comment their way.

He hangs around just long enough so that he can decimate the rest in a b-boy demonstration, pretty much showing them all what they’re going to miss out on.

And then he gets up and leaves the meeting, Seokmin following behind him.

They grab some chips on their way out and properly introduce themselves.

“Hey sorry about all of that in there, Seo- uh, Hajoon. B-boyers usually aren’t assholes… Just them. Don’t let that bleed into your portrayal, you feel? I’m Minghao, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

“Don’t worry, I’m over it. Thanks for what you did back there... It’s nice to meet you too. And you can call me Seokmin now, I’m done with Hajoon for the day.”

Which starts an odd, but well-oiled friendship.

Seokmin introduces Minghao to all of his friends, and that’s how Minghao ends up with an incredibly,, diverse,, friend group.

And by diverse, he means that he’s positive his friendship with them will likely result with him going to jail.

He should’ve realized it when the de facto leader Seungcheol introduced himself as “S.Coups” and made him sign a waiver of liability before joining the group.

It was scribbled on to the back of a receipt but yeah, it should’ve been a little concerning

But Minghao just kinda rolls with it.

And this is how he finds himself inducted into their so-called “League of Good Doers Doing Not So Good Doer Things”.

It’s a working title; LoGDDNSGDT for short.

(“What do you do, Seokmin?”

“I’m a recruiter!”

“… That’s fair.”)

It takes him a few months to solidify his role in the group (he’s the last to join), but in that time he manages to become especially good friends with Mingyu, so much so that he becomes his roommate.

Mingyu’s known for using his technical abilities to bootleg high quality concert footage, videos, textbooks, and whatever else you need.

(“We’re all just a bunch of broke college students with a bunch of broke college student needs. We’re just making those needs realities.”)

Also alcohol, he sells a lot of alcohol.

And though Minghao initially scoffs at this, it also makes him check his privilege a little

He’s always been fortunate enough to grow up with money and be smart, free to do whatever he wants when he wants.

Growing up, he’s had a lot of interests and a lot of phases, all of which he more than excelled in.

Gosh, there was even that one ninja phase…

THE NINJA PHASE

He’s eating a brownie that’s probably been laced with weed one Friday night as he watches tv with Mingyu and Seokmin when he remembers the ninja phase.

He remembers how stealthy he is and just how good he is at picking locks.

And so he decides to Robin Hood the frick outta his life, robbing the expensive belongings from the richer students and pawning their items off so he can donate to the poor.

He excels at this too, much to Mingyu’s chagrin (“the kid’s just fuckin’ good at everything!”)

It definitely alleviates him of his boredom, and he’s so subtle and precise with it that most of the time, people don’t even notice when things are missing.

He’s become some kind of town legend, and so many people idolize this mysterious robber that the authorities aren’t even too concerned.

He’s also somehow acquired this odd nickname?? The8?? They say it’s because you never know how his crimes begin or how they’ll end.

Like the only thing anybody knows about his victims is that they’ll be wealthy (but gosh, Pledis U has too many of those roaming the place),,,, but then next thing you know the underfunded art department will suddenly get a donation of a few thousand, or the Culture Club food drive will find a gazillion non-perishable cans when they come back the next morning.

Minghao likes to think he's spontaneous.

Now this is where you come in (“finally,” I can hear you sigh from behind your screens)

Unlike everyone else around you, you do not have the biggest crush on this mysterious figure.

(“Just for the record, ‘The8’ is literally the dumbest robber alias I have ever heard.”

“How many have you heard before?”

“Not. The. Point.”)

All he does is go around and undermine people’s hard work, invading their personal space and infringing on their privacy.

All so that he can make a quick buck.

And sure, maybe he’s not spending all that money on himself, but to make students feel unsafe and unprotected in their own freaking homes and dorms?

And to have nobody do anything about it?

Absurd.

It becomes such a constant source of ire for you that you rant about this almost daily.

But it’s like you’re the only one who understands the gravity of the situation.

Your closest friends are all about this guy, singing his praises and commending his selflessness.

Your junior, Chan, is particularly adamant about the quality of his character (you have no idea about his involvement with the LoGDDNSGDT, of course; after all, he also had to sign the receipt contract).

So you’re a party of 1 in the Anti-The-8 Movement.

He’s three months into it when he makes a rather stupid mistake:

He decides to rob you.

Minghao will later complain that anybody could’ve gotten the wrong idea.

He sees you for the first time in his Korean History class.

He doesn’t exactly know how he missed you before.

First of all, you’re fucking gorgeous

First of all, there is a certain air that you carry yourself with–

It’s poised and self-assured and kind of breathtaking.

You raise your hand to read a passage and even the way you speak is levelled and controlled.

You remind him of royalty some of the other wealthy kids on campus.

Probably trained to uphold a certain degree of eloquence so that you can one day take over your parents’ company and maintain good business relationships. 

And socialize at those hoity-toity parties with the little hors d'oeuvres.

His thoughts are confirmed after class when he overhears you talk with your friends.

You’re asking your friend to take notes in place for you when you go off to vacation with your family next week.

“Heading off to the island?” Your one friend chirps.

“Yeah, dad just finished a successful case and we’re celebrating.”

And wait, an island? These guys must be fucking loaded.

Your friend lets your name slip and it’s all starting to make a lot more sense.

Now he’s heard of your name around campus.

Your parents are lawyers who built an empire, opening up law firms around the country.

They’re known for being ruthless and never sharing their wealth.

In short, they’re prime targets!!

Minghao feels like it’s Christmas– this will be his biggest catch since that one kid who was the heir to the electric toothbrush company.

He trails you and your friends for a few minutes just to confirm the details and then he’s off to plan.

Fast forward a week later to when you should be going off to vacation.

But instead you come down with the stomach flu, and not a pretty one either.

You experience the full range of systems:

Vomit, fever, dizziness, fatigue,,, There’s no way your parents are letting you tag along on the trip.

And you’re too busy vomiting to argue.

So they ditch your ass and head off to vacation by themselves, once you assure them that you’ll be fine on your own.

After all, you are a certified GDI who can take care of yourself.

… Who just so happens to be dressed up in a onesie, cuddling a large teddy bear as you watch Netflix from your nest of pillows on the couch.

You’ve scrolling through your recommended feed when you hear it:

The door opening

And you have to wonder if the vacation ended early because who else… Would…

You gasp when you realize what’s going on, rushing to turn off the television as to eliminate all sources of sound.

All your nightmares are coming true, and you haven’t even fully developed a game plan to approach this awful situation.

Now you’re not dumb, you’re not gonna run headfirst into a situation where you don’t have the upper hand.

Instead, you’ll hide and discreetly notify the authorities when you activate the alarm system.

And so no, you’re not dumb,, 

But you are clumsy.

You’re trying to navigate your way to your bedroom, remote in hand as a backup weapon, checking over your shoulder at every possible moment.

Perhaps you’re checking over your shoulder a little too much, because next thing you know you’ve crashed into a wall.

Except the wall moves and you know that it’s definitely not a wall.

The wall makes a sound, a little grunt and you snap your head back around so quickly, you think you hear the whip of the wind.

The man in front of you is tall and skinny, and seems oddly familiar even with his ski mask on.

You don’t have too much time to contemplate this however , as you’re too busy trying to whack the heck outta him with your remote.

“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE YOU ASSBUCKET.”

It's all just too much, and you're surprised you haven't shat your pants because of how scared you are.

But,,,, The8 is kinda just taking it??? He's trying to block you of course (and mostly succeeding to, the jerk) but he's not trying to fight back. What kind of shitty robber…?

You're c o n f u s e d, which is why you stop to look up at him expectantly.

“You done?” His voice incites a whole new wave of panic to wash over you, and you raise your remote to start hitting him again but The8 quickly raises his hands in surrender. “Hey, hey now, I'm not here to hurt you.”

You're skeptical, of course you are. But you think back to all the gossip you’ve heard about The8, and realize that you can’t recall any accounts of violence.

This doesn't change the fact that this asshole is robbing you, so you use the remote to gesture towards his ski mask.

“Take it off.”

And he sighs, as if it's inevitable, but holds up a finger and starts to negotiate,,,, as if he has any right to in this current situation,,, and gosh, how is he so damn calm right now??

“Okay, but if I do, promise you won’t call the cops immediately.”

You don't know why you agree to his terms– you're sure it won't make a difference.

He’ll get the cops called on him sooner or later.

But if it gets him to cooperate… You agree with a swift dip of your head.

The tension in the room is palpable, and you have to remind yourself to breathe as he starts to take off his mask.

And oh fuck you know who it is you know who it is you know who it is.

You recognize him immediately as the cute guy in your Korean History class, the one you've had a crush on since forever and a half ago.

The one that's always hanging out with that group of loud kids…Chan's Precious Seniors

And somewhere in your subconscious, you're freaking out about the possibility of Chan being involved in a crime syndicate.

And further freaking out about how you’ve confided in Chan about your crush in Xu Minghao, who just so happens to be The8 and holy fuck you can’t believe it’s him.

You really don’t have much time to dwell, because the shock and overexertion of the situation starts gets to you, and you’re starting to feel dizzy. It’s like the fever finally catches up to you–

And then you’re falling, fainting–

The last thing you hear before you pass out is the startled cry of your name.

…

You wake up to the smell of broth, and the feeling of a damp cloth pressed to the top of your forehead.

Your headache is devastating, but you’re otherwise positioned comfortably

It takes you a minute to process that you’re back on your living room couch, low hum of the television sounding from somewhere to your right

You try to locate the smell of broth, which is when you meet eye-to-eye with a very timid looking Minghao

He’s more tense than earlier, as if he’s scared you’ll jump up right then and there to attack him

And you would, honest, but the broth,,, smells,,, so,,, good,,,

You motion for him to give it to you and he relaxes before quickly complying, letting you sit up before gently placing the bowl in your hands.

He settles into a stool beside you– one that definitely wasn’t there before, but it’s whatever.

You sit there in silence for a good couple of minutes, Minghao watching the drama playing on TV as you drink your broth.

It’s kinda nice

Minghao’s the first one to speak.

“Please don’t exert yourself like that if you’re sick. You could’ve had a heart attack or something.”

He sounds so small that you just manage to resist throwing the rest of the hot soup at him in the sudden bubble of anger that erupts from you in the form of a hiss.

“Um, my memory might be wrong here but wasn’t it you who broke into my house in the first place, assbucket?”

He chuckles at that, and you’re slowly losing that sliver of self-restraint.

“Assbucket, that’s a new one.” You notice that his accent is more prominent when he’s amused.

“You deserve worse, you assbucket.”

At that he really laughs, and you have to look away to distract yourself from how attractive the sound is.

“You’re cute, you know that?”

You’re not sure what to say to that, and Minghao can tell. He quickly changes tact.

“Listen, I get why you’re mad.” Oh, now wouldn’t that be the understatement of the year.

“But I promise I’m not here to hurt you. I-I won’t even steal anything from here anymore. But please, please don’t make yourself more sick because of me.”

And man, fuck Minghao for making it damn near impossible to call the police on his ass. You don’t say anything more until you finish up your broth.

“Why… Why do you do it?”

Minghao shrugs. “Just because.”

“Just because? You’re violating my home, Minghao. This is my private space, and you’re infringing upon it without my consent.”

Minghao furrows his eyebrows, as if he’s never considered it before. And God, why did it have to be him?

Minghao finally hums. “Would you miss it?”

W-wha… “Huh?”

Minghao nods towards an abstract modernist piece that hangs high up on your wall. “Would you miss it?”

Your silence is more than enough to answer his question.

“But I’m sorry, you know. I truly wouldn’t have come around if I was aware you’d be home. Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation?”

“. . . Minghao, that’s creepy. Don’t do that. Besides, how do you know my name?”

“How do you know mine?”

The fucker. You blush, shrugging and dropping the subject completely. You’re avoiding his eyes so much that you miss the fond smile on his lips. He’s about to say something when a phone sounds. You realize it’s coming from Minghao’s pocket and watch as he takes it out, curious.

Minghao checks his phone and immediately scowls, closing his eyes in what seems like exasperation.

“I… I have to go, so sorry. My roommate just did something unbelievably stupid because he’s unbelievably stupid.”

You refrain from asking; you really don’t wanna know.

“Will you be alright by yourself? I’m worried… I’ll try to stay longer if you don’t think you will… I mean, if you want. Or I can call someone to come or–”

Where was this bashful kid an hour ago? For the first time that evening, you let out a small smile. He sees it and is stunned, momentarily blinded by your beauty.

“I’ll be fine Minghao, go help your roommate.”

He nods, getting up to leave, but not before taking your phone from the coffee table. He holds it out so that you can unlock it, and you do, though the question hangs in your eyes.

“I-I’m not taking it, just wanted to give you my phone number. In case you start to feel worse. Call me or don’t... It’s whatever.”

And so you do.

...

Bonus:

Three months later, you’re recounting the tale to the rest of the boys during one of their weekly movie nights. (You don’t dare touch the brownies, Minghao tells you they’re fucked.)

In the end, Chan’s the one who says it best: “So… What you’re telling me is that you broke into Y/N’s house to steal a painting, and walked out having stolen their heart instead?”

Seokmin raises his hand for a high five. “Smooth man, smooth.”

Your boyfriend ignores it, though Seokmin stubbornly keeps his hand up and waits for anyone to complete the exchange. You tap your palm against his in pity.

“Actually,” Minghao starts, nuzzling his nose into your hair, “I would say Y/N is the one who stole my heart instead. Just had to fall straight into my arms like that… A true master of seduction.”

You giggle, turning your head to peck his lips. The boys groan, losing interest in your story and turning back towards the movie.

From somewhere in the corner, you hear Mingyu fake a gag.

(Perhaps it’s the brownies, you can’t really tell.)

Masterlist 

#seventeen #seventeen imagines #seventeen scenarios #seventeen reactions #kpop #svt #seventeen fic #seventeen fanfic #xu minghao #minghao #seventeen minghao #the8 #seventeen the8 #seventeen the 8 #mine #seventeen headcanons #kpop headcanons #dumbbelle #the m8 #dumbbelle headcanons

[sunlightdances]

Love Laid Down (Part Five)

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader Rating: M (This part) Words: 5K+ (this part) Summary: Dean and Sam are running out of time to do a summoning ritual and kill whatever’s hunting you down as you’re held captive. Dean also realizes he might be running out of time to tell you how he really feels. Author’s Note: This is it! The last part! This part was what I actually had written first, as a potential one-shot that ended up inspiring all five parts. I can’t thank you all enough for your continued love and support as I’ve worked on this. Thanks so much!

Catch up here: Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four

.

When you come to, there are dark shadows moving around you, and instinctively you kick out, trying to free yourself. Your feet are tied together, and your hands are bound.

“Don’t hurt yourself.” A voice says, and you grimace, looking up at the harsh light, wiling your vision to calm down so you can see properly. You’re dizzy, and can’t piece together what happened to you. “You know,” the voice says, “we’ve never heard of the Winchesters. Hard to believe, right? A group of famous hunters show up right on our doorstep, and we never even blinked. You almost had us fooled.”

“What are you talking about?” You ask, deciding to play dumb.

“There were a group of us, in Burkitsville. Over ten years ago now. They prayed to a different sort of God than we do, sure, but the idea was the same.” The woman comes into view, her face angry. “Your husband and his good for nothing brother almost wiped that town out.”

You wrack your brains trying to remember Sam or Dean ever telling you about a case similar to this one, and you’re coming up blank. There’s so much about the brothers that you still don’t know. You only joined them a few years ago, and their backstory is so fraught with tragedy that you’ve tried not to pry.

“We’ve worked so hard to do this the right way,” the woman says, and you recognize her vaguely, having seen her with Melissa a few times. “We tried to just grow our crops and promote our tourism. But no one came, and a drought wiped out everything. What were we supposed to do? Abandon it? No.”

“So what.” You interrupt, your voice rough from lack of use. “You’re praying to some… some pagan God?”

“First of all,” she points at you. “I didn’t start this. I’m just trying to keep this place afloat. If Pastor Williams and his wife don’t want to take responsibility for this, then I will.”

“You’re sacrificing people.”

She shakes her head sadly. “Don’t think of it that way. They volunteered! It was only this month that people started to question things. Our own pastor questioned everything, just because his wife talked him out of it.” She smiles cheerily at you then, her mood changing on a dime, “But then you and your husband came to town! And you were so nice, coming to Church and being all friendly. We should have known what you were really up to.”

“Well, you didn’t.” You mutter, and then she’s right in your face, pulling your hair to yank your head backwards so you can see her eyes.

“No, we didn’t. But it doesn’t matter now. Because you and Dean are going to be the next couple to appease our Saviour.” A crazed look enters her eyes.

“He’s not dumb enough to come after me. We know it’s been taking couples. If he doesn’t come here, your plan won’t work.”

“We’ll just have to convince him to come, won’t we?” She says, and advances on you.

.

.

Dean’s entire body is tense with nervous energy. He fuckin’ hates this. This entire plan was put together on the hope that the three of you didn’t get separated, and now he has no idea what will happen if they summon this pagan God without you here. With only two people, it’s less of a chance that it’ll go off without a hitch.

Sam is just about to start the ritual when someone starts pounding on the door. Dean grabs his gun off the table and heads over, a storm brewing in his eyes, especially when he opens the door to see Pastor Williams there.

“You better have a reason for being here, or so help me--”

“You can’t do the spell.” The Pastor says. “Please.” Over his shoulder, Dean sees a short woman who must be Connie Williams, and he softens, just a fraction.

“Get inside before someone hears you.” He says, moving out of the way and checking down the street to make sure no one is following them. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Sam stands. “Why wouldn’t you want us to end this? Isn’t this thing after your wife?”

“The entire town will be decimated if we go back on our deal. If we stop praying… I don’t know what will happen.” Pastor Williams says, and Dean laughs, bitterly.

“You’re really going to put your wife’s life at risk?”

“To save the town. We’ll do what we have to do,” Connie says, finally speaking up for the first time since coming through the door.

“Look, no dice. Sorry, but this thing has my--” Dean catches himself, “-- my wife, and I’m not going to sit around waiting for it to try to kill her.”

“It won’t kill her. All you have to do is pray, and you can appease it.”

“You’ve been sacrificing couples this entire time! That’s the only reason the praying has worked! You can’t possibly be--” Dean trails off, seeing the stricken looks on the Pastor and Connie’s faces. “You didn’t know. You didn’t do it.”

Sam looks at Dean, confusion on his face. “What?”

“They didn’t know. They really thought their prayers were working.”

“We--” Pastor Williams interrupts, swallowing hard. “We knew we weren’t praying to our true Lord. But we thought-- we thought that by praying, we were doing what it wanted. We thought the disappearances were coincidence. We thought if we kept praying, we could keep the economy up and pray so no more people would go missing.”

“A coincidence? Really?” Sam mutters.

“We don’t have time for this.” Dean growls. “We’re going to summon this thing, and we’re going to kill it. No more people are going to go missing.”

“Dean, wait. If they’re not actively doing the sacrifices--” Sam says, ignoring Connie’s quick breath of air at the word, “-- someone is. All the lore I’ve found says that the prayers won’t be answered unless there is a sacrifice, and someone has to facilitate it.”

“If it’s not you two…” Dean says, looking at Connie and her husband. “Then who is it? Who else knows about this?”

“Melissa.” Pastor Williams says. “Melissa and--”

“Amanda. Her daughter.” Connie says, sounding like she could cry at any moment.

.

.

When Melissa finally comes into view, you could weep with relief. You suspected her from the beginning, but she doesn’t look like someone ready to make a sacrifice. She looks scared.

“Amanda--” She starts, “Maybe we should re-think this. What if he doesn’t--”

“He’s going to come,” Amanda says firmly. “They’re attached at the hip. Besides, he’s a hunter. He’s not going to waste an opportunity to make a valiant rescue.” She laughs.

“This is too much. These are strangers--”

“Aren’t you tired of losing people, Mom?” Amanda asks, and you jolt at the word. “Everyone that’s gone before her… they’ve been people we know. Friends. We don’t have to do that anymore! We found out it doesn’t care who the couples are, just as long as someone is sacrificed when we pray.”

“Pastor Williams--”

“Pastor Williams started this! It’s his fault that we’re stuck at the mercy of this--” Amanda says loudly, before she stops, trying to calm herself down. “It wants Connie and Pastor Williams, and they’re not willing. They don’t have to be. We can do this. We have to do this.”

“You know,” you interrupt loudly, “Trying to tell yourself that killing strangers will make you feel better about this whole thing won’t work.”

“Stop talking.”

“You’ll keep trying to tell yourself that because you don’t know me, it feels different, but it doesn’t. You’ll still have nightmares.” As you’re talking, you slowly start to twist your way out of the ropes. It burns like a son of a bitch, but you can’t just sit here while they bicker over how fast they want to kill you.

You hope you’re right - you don’t need Dean to play the White Knight right now. You need him to summon this thing and kill it, and then come and break you out of here before these crazy people try to sacrifice you to a god that doesn’t exist anymore.

.

.

The summoning went wrong. Dean doesn't know how, or why, but as far as he’s concerned, they’re all lucky that they got out of there in one piece. He’s so angry at himself because now this thing is out there, and if crazy Amanda has already started the sacrificing ritual, it’s only a matter of time before it gets to you.

He and Sam are speeding the Impala to the church, his knuckles so tight on the steering wheel they’re white. “I knew I should have gone after her the minute I saw her go missing.” Dean growls.

“You had the right idea. We didn’t know the spell would go wrong.” Sam says, trying to be reassuring.

“If we’re too late--”

“We’re not.” Sam says, firm. “We’re going to get to her in time. We always do.”

When they get to the church, Dean swears when he sees one of the doors half off the hinges. “It’s already here.” He says, and Sam doesn’t say anything this time.

.

Amanda’s crazed expression brightens when the rumble of the Impala can be heard over the noise of the lights flickering. “He came to save you after all!”

“Yeah, well. Too bad for you, I guess.” You said. “You’re not worried about all this?” You ask, gesturing towards the flickering lights. “Seems like the guest of honor is here.”

“I’m doing this for him.” She says, eyes narrowing. “Let’s not keep him waiting.” She advances on you, and for a half second, fear courses through your veins. You struggle against the bonds still on your ankles, and the door bursts open just as Amanda is about to take her knife to you, making her miss your chest. She still gets you, the knife sinking into your shoulder, and you let out a strangled scream as Dean and Sam run in, guns drawn.

“Put the knife down, bitch.” Dean’s voice makes a tear partly of pain and partly of relief slip out of your eye, and while Dean has his gun trained on Amanda, Sam rushes over to you, cutting through the ropes keeping you bound quickly.

“You’re going to be okay.” He says softly, “let’s get you out of here.”

“It’s a trap. Sam, it’s--” You say loudly, panicking when you see Melissa coming out from a shadowy corner behind Dean. “Duck!” You yell, and Dean does, just in time.

“Melissa!” You shout, “It doesn’t have to be like this.” You tell her, trying to be placating. “You said it yourself. This was never supposed to go this far.”

The lights flicker again, and Melissa meets your eyes with her own tear-filled ones. “I’m sorry. But he’s here, and he’ll be so angry. We can’t--”

“Too late,” Dean growls. “He’s already angry. Considering I tried to kill him fifteen minutes ago. So here’s how this goes. You let my friend out of here and we’ll try to get you out too.” He faces Amanda. “Even though you don’t deserve it.”

The steps to the basement creak ominously, and out of habit, Sam shoves you behind him, mindful of your shoulder. Dean lunges for his duffle and grabs the holy oil, pouring it in a generous circle around the five of you.

“You really think that’s going to work?” Sam asks, and Dean glares at him.

“We’re running out of options. The spell didn’t work, and last time I checked, we don’t have a pagan god-killing knife handy.”

“Just light it!” You hiss, “Or we’re all dead anyway!”

Dean lights the ring, and tosses an angel blade to you and Sam. “Closest thing we’ve got.” He mutters, getting inside the circle next to you. “Hang in there, sweetheart.” He says, eyeing your wound. You’re applying pressure, but the pain is almost unbearable.

“Wait.” Sam says, suddenly. “Dean, the Vanir in Indiana that we killed before. We had to find that tree, where it got its power from. You remember?”

“We lit it up.” Dean agrees. He turns to Melissa and Amanda, who look genuinely terrified. “What is it? What’s keeping this thing ticking?”

“I--” Melissa stutters, “I don’t know, we don’t know all the details--”

“Think!” Sam yells, “There has to be something. Something old, something that’s protected in this town.”

“The fountain.” Amanda says. “In town square. There’s a tree-- it’s planted in the middle and the fountain was built around it. It’s been there forever.”

“How are we going to get out?”

“A distraction.” Dean says, a grin on his face. “Gods love me.” He winks at you, and you shake your head.

“It’s a suicide mission, Dean.”

“It’ll get you out.” He says quietly, eyes locked on yours. Something is charged in the air between you, and he looks away, swallowing hard. “Let’s do this.”

Dean runs out of the room, up the stairs, and you hear something let out a ear-splitting screech. You cover your ears, and barely register Sam tugging on your arm, pulling you up the stairs behind him.

“Get in the Impala. I’ll take care of this. Dean will kill me if I let you fight with your arm like that.”

“I can handle myself!”

Sam groans, “I know you can, but--” A loud crash from the front doors of the church makes you stop your argument, and you turn quickly to see Dean running as fast as he can.

“Hurry the hell up!” He shouts, and Sam takes off, already dousing the tree with gasoline by the time Dean catches up. Dean’s got his lighter out, but before he can do anything, it’s knocked from his hands by an otherworldly force, causing you to swear as you watch from the curb.

“Goddammit.” You mutter, rifling through the trunk of the Impala quickly until you find some matches. Looking up, you see Sam and Dean in a literal wrestling match with this thing, and you run full speed towards the tree while they’re all distracted, ignoring the searing pain in your shoulder.

You light the match as you scramble over the fountain, uncaring about the hems of your jeans and boots getting wet, and you fling the lit match towards the tree. It takes a minute to catch, but when it does, you breath a sigh of relief when you hear another loud shriek, seeing it literally go up in flames before it disintegrates.

Dean and Sam look up at you as you all try to catch your breath, and you glare. “That’s why you don’t try to sideline me.” You say.

“Kid, come down from there before you--”

“I don’t feel good.” You mumble, the pain in your arm finally more than you can take. You see Dean and Sam both lunge towards you, but then everything goes black.

.

.

You wake up in the bedroom you’ve been staying in at the house, confused. Your arm hurts, and your head hurts, and you can’t remember the last couple of hours during the hunt.

“You’re awake.” Dean says from the chair next to the bed, and you look at him, taking in his two-day stubble and dark undereye circles. “You’ve been out for awhile.”

“What happened?”

“What happened is you ganked the monster, sweetheart. Kicked it in the ass, like you always do.” He smiles sheepishly. “Sam told me he tried to tell you to wait in the car.”

“Yeah, well. I passed out, so he wasn’t wrong.”

“Still. You saved our sorry asses.”

“How-- how’d you work out where I was?”

“I knew you were in the Church. I just missed you when I went to check on you during the service. We came back here figuring if we did the summoning and killed it, we’d stop it before they could hurt you.” His eyes linger on the dressing over the stab wound on your shoulder, and his face darkens. He clears his throat. “That part didn’t work out so well.”

“It’s not your fault.” You say, your hand landing on his on top of the blankets. A clink noise draws your attention to the fact that both of you still have your fake wedding rings on. The sight of them makes your heart rate speed up.

He tells you everything -- how Pastor Williams and Connie came to the house, and tried to stop Sam and Dean from doing the summoning, to how the summoning spell went wrong, and they had to hightail it back to town to get to you in time.

You frown. “I heard Pastor Williams with Amanda before they-- well, I assume it was them. Before someone hit me in the head and I blacked out. He was in on it, Dean. I heard her telling him about it.”

Dean’s face darkens even more. “He came here asking for our help. Tried to convince us not to do it.”

“Amanda kept saying that the Pastor and Connie weren’t willing anymore. Did they explain any of that to you?”

“Not really. They seemed to not know the extent of the ritual. I think they just thought that people were being taken to participate.”

“But Connie… her entire house was protected, like she knew it would kill her if it found her.”

“I don’t…. I don’t know the whole of it. I’m not worried about them anymore.” Dean says, reaching for your shoulder gently. “We killed the thing. It’s gone. Now we just have to get the hell out of here and get you healed up.”

You lay back on the mountain of pillows behind you, still feeling unsatisfied. You have so many unanswered questions, but you think Sam and Dean were right the entire time. These people were just doing whatever they could to keep their town afloat, and somewhere along the way, they stopped caring who they hurt by doing so.

“So this whole fake marriage thing wasn’t an entire waste of time, then.” You say, joking, but stop smiling when you see the look on Dean’s face. He seems… hurt.

“Not a total waste, no.” He agrees, quietly. “I’m gonna get more painkillers. I’ll be right back.”

He leaves before you can say anything else, or figure out why you want him to stay so badly.

.

.

Dean’s halfway to his bedroom to go through his bag and scrounge for some painkillers when he stops in his tracks. He’s tired of the act. He remembers the look on your face when they finally got to you, the relief that was gone in a split second as you were stabbed right in front of him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget that.

He turns around, heading back to your bedroom, steps determined, even though he feels shaky. This could make or break one of the most important things in his life… but he’s tired of feeling lost all the time. He’s tired of feeling like he has nothing and no one left. Cas is back, sure, but the pain of losing Cas, and his mother… it’s too much. He can’t let more time go by without you knowing how he feels and risk losing you, too.

You look up, startled, when he comes back in, but he doesn’t give you any time to say anything. He’s still worried he might talk himself out of this.

“Dean?” You ask, sounding like you know something’s up, and he thinks it’s just another thing to add to the list of why you’re it for him. You know him, like almost nobody else does, and he’s suddenly angry at himself for waiting for so long, for not listening to himself months ago when he first started to feel like maybe you were more to him than a friend.

“Look, all this -- almost losing you, I…” Dean takes a shaky breath. “I can’t pretend anymore. I don’t want to pretend anymore.” His stomach swoops and pulse starts pounding as he takes a half step closer to you, trying to get the words out as he continues talking, his voice hoarse. “I can’t go back to the bunker and wake up every morning and pretend that I don’t want you.”

Your mouth opens like you want to say something, and then closes again. He almost laughs, because he’s not really sure where to go from here, either. “You… kid, you’ve been with me through all the shit we’ve had to deal with over the last five years. I’ve--” his voice wavers, “I’ve lost everything. You’ve been there the entire time, and you didn’t run from me, not even when I was lost in booze, and…” he trails off. “I’m crazy about you, kid.” He says, smiling sadly. “I’m just tired of you not knowing that.”

You laugh, the sound making his insides twist, and he watches as your face transforms into a smile unlike anything he’s ever seen from you before. “I can’t believe you’re telling me this when I’m laid up with an injury.”

He grins. “Why, you gonna jump me?”

“Maybe.” You say, throwing his entire world into a tailspin. It’s one thing to know that you have feelings for him, but to admit that you’ve been lusting after him like he has for you… well, that’s another thing entirely. “Come here.” You say, your words quiet, but the order behind them clear.

Dean comes closer, sitting on the edge of your bed until he can reach out and touch you gently, tucking your hair behind your ears. He leans closer, hand sliding up until it’s cradling your jaw, his mind going blank with how close you are. “Kid--” He starts to say something, to reassure you somehow, but you stop him.

“Shh.” You say, before using your free hand to grab the hem of his shirt, pulling him down to meet you, your mouths fusing together like this is the only thing either one of you are meant to be doing for the rest of time.

Dean’s entire body goes taut with lust and love as he pours everything he’s been feeling for months into his kiss -- his arms shake with the emotion of it as he tries to hold himself up and keep his weight off your injured shoulder. You lost so much blood earlier, it’s hard to believe you’re able to kiss him like you are.

Your mouth meets his over and over again, opening under his until he slides his tongue inside, causing both of you to groan into each other’s mouths. He puts his left knee on the bed for leverage, causing you to arch up to meet him, the sight of you underneath him almost too much for him to handle. “Hold on, hold on…” he murmurs against your lips, trying to catch his breath. “We have to slow down.”

You frown up at him, the wrinkle between your eyebrows so endearing that Dean can’t help but place another sweet kiss on your temple. “Do we, though?” You ask, mischief shining in your bright eyes, and Dean groans.

“You’re gonna kill me.”

“Not my intention, but I’m just saying… I’ve never known you to want to slow down.”

Dean runs his thumb along your full bottom lip, eyes zeroing in on the way your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath, too. “Maybe slow is all I want right now.” He says, his voice a low rumble.

“Is that right?” You ask, voice coy. Dean wonders idly if he’ll ever be able to look at you again without imagining you like this - warm and flushed underneath him.

“Mmm.” He says, nose dragging up the side of your jaw until he can nudge your hair out of the way, pressing kisses to your ear. “Think I wanna take my time with you.” You shiver, a full-body shudder that has him grinning as he captures your lips again. “You like the idea of that, huh?”

“Want you any way I can get you, Dean.” You admit, blush forming on your cheeks.

Dean shakes his head in wonder. “You’re perfect.” He whispers, “Should have done this months ago. Should have taken you to bed as soon as I admitted to myself that it wasn’t just your brains I liked.”

“Oh yeah? What else do you like?”

Dean chuckles, hands slowly undoing the buttons of your flannel shirt. “You want a list?” He hums absently. “Well, I like the way you don’t take any shit. Not from me, not from Sam, not from anyone. I like the way you take care of me, even when I don’t know I need it yet.” He finishes undoing your buttons, slowly sliding your shirt off your shoulders, being careful of your bandages. “I like the noise you make when I touch you right here.” His fingers drift over your collarbone, feather-light, and you let out a moan that he swears he’ll be hearing in his dreams for years.

He stops talking for awhile, content to kiss you and touch you and let you do the same to him. Both of your hands are wandering until the kisses ratchet up in intensity, leading to your legs parting to make room for him as he settles between your thighs, your hips bucking into his when he hits a particularly sensitive area.

At some point the two of you roll over so you’re on top, and he stops for a breathless moment to stare up at you, and take it all in.

.

.

Dean is almost frozen underneath you, and the way he keeps looking at you is sending fire through your veins every time you catch his eyes. He looks at you like he never wants this moment to end, like he’d be content with letting the foreplay go on forever as long as it meant you’d be here with him.

It’s almost too much, but it’s perfect. It’s Dean. You’ve never seen him as vulnerable as he was when he came to you earlier to confess how he felt. His admission of having lost everyone was too much for you, and you hope he never has to feel like that ever again. Not while you’re around.

You take his clothes off slowly, admiring every single shift of his muscles and the way his slightly tanned skin looks in the evening light through the single window in the room. You laugh lightly when your breath tickles his stomach, causing his muscles to jump, and your heart races as the predatory look in his eyes when he sees you laughing.

“Do something, sweetheart.” He says, not quite begging, but the words hit you heavy regardless. Your entire body tightens, listening to him, and you don’t say anything as you scramble off the bed to rifle through your bag to find some condoms. You come back to the bed as fast as you can, quickly rolling it on him before you can feel nervous. “Hey,” he says gently, hand on your jaw, “It’s just us here, okay? Nothin’ to worry about.”

You nod, and kiss him quickly before lowering yourself on top of him, the drag of him inside you enough to make you see stars as your head tilts backwards. Dean lets out this half-groan, half-moan, and you immediately want to hear the noise again a hundred more times.

“Move, baby. Please, move.” He says, and you listen to him this time, quickly finding a rhythm that has the both of you panting in a few minutes. “You’re so tight. So, so tight.” He says, almost to himself, and you groan his name, hands finding purchase on his shoulders as you pick up your pace.

“Dean…” You say, warning him, knowing it’s not going to take long before you’re spent. You’ve wanted this for way too long.

“Me too,” he groans, “Let me feel you. I want it, sweetheart. Come on.” He whispers, encouraging words lighting you up from the inside out until you’re left feeling nothing but euphoria from the tips of your fingers all the way down to your toes.

Dean keeps you upright, despite him struggling to catch his own breath, and slowly you both come down from your high. Eventually, you pull off him, laying down next to him, happy when he immediately pulls you close to his side, his arm going around your uninjured shoulder.

His left hand finds yours, holding up your fingers in the dimming light. “You should keep this.” He says, thumb rubbing over the ring still on your finger. Your pulse spikes, and he’s quick to elaborate, “Just… you don’t have to wear it. But keep it, okay? It’s… it’s been in the family for a long time. It’s good luck.”

“I can’t--”

“I want you to have it.” He says, and there’s something there again, that vulnerability that you know no one but his brother has ever seen. You could weep with how special you feel that he’s picking you to be the one he shares it with.

“Okay.” You whisper. “What are you going to do with yours?”

You feel him smile against your hairline. “I don’t know. I used to wear it. After a while I didn’t want to anymore. Felt like… I don’t know. Felt like all the extra weight I carried around, I didn’t need this thing too.”

“Still… seems handy.” You say, tilting your head up so you can see his face. “At the very least, you could open up a couple beers with that thing.”

Dean tilts his head back as he laughs, tugging you closer. “A girl after my own heart, truly.” He says, leaning down to kiss you again. “Things are going to be tough, you know.” He says, after, somberly. “Things are going to come after you once they get wind of us.”

You roll your eyes. “I can handle it.”

“I know you can. I’m just saying… you’re sure you want to?”

You flip over onto your stomach so he can see your face. “I’m in it for the long haul, Dean. Try to get rid of me. I dare you.”

He smiles at you, green eyes blazing. “I think I’ll keep you around, kid.”

“Good.” You say, linking your hands together again.

“Good.” He echoes, before kissing you, igniting the fire between the two of you once more.

.

.

A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who’s stuck with this! I truly had the the best time writing this and hold this story really close to my heart. Please check out my masterlist to see everything else I’ve written - and leave me a note if you’d like a prompt filled or have any questions! Thanks again!

Tags: @pickupthatamulet, @tardis-full-of-fallen-angels, @martraidor, @castianityislife02, @blue-eyed-devil, @whatareyousearchingfordean, @pureawesomeness001, @letsgetyourdeanon, @littlemexicanscorpion, @angelicc-bliss, @carryonmywaywardcaptain, @mecca814, @shipinthedesert, @ashrey95, @deanssweetheart23, @nerdwholikesword, @wise-words-of-a-dumb-brunette, @graceis-lost-at-last, @kmt03010, @jnhforlife, @ultrafandomcat, @emmazach, @ginasellsbooks, @blackcherrywhiskey, @sylverminx, @faithfullpanicmoon, @nrx7, @cassburger215, @kbl1313, @abmariexo, @sneaky-midnight-adventures, @dramaqueenrolf

#lld fic #spn reader insert #dean x reader #dean x you #dean winchester x reader

[redditnosleep]

I'm A Search And Rescue Officer For The US Forest Service, I Have Some Stories To Tell

by searchandrescuewoods.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 (Final)

It's been way too long since I posted an update, and I'm sorry about that. There's also been some confusion about the new formatting requirements on the board, which I've cleared up. So these next few stories are going to be posted a little differently! They'll be in chronological order, and I'll do my best to tie them into each other as much as I can so it doesn't skip around too much.

When I started out as a rookie, no one had told me a lot about the job in terms of weird things that could happen. I'm assuming this was largely to prevent me from freaking out and abandoning the park. But a few months into my service, when I was still a rookie, a friend and I were drunk at a party, and he opened up a bit: "Yeah, it can get a little crazy out there, I guess. I think the worst are the ones where people die when they just shouldn't, you know? Or when we find 'em dead like ten minutes after someone says they saw them last. 'They were fine when I passed them on the switchback, I swear!' That sort of shit. Like, take this guy who I found one spring out on a really popular trail. Someone comes into the VC freaking about about some guy who's lying in the middle of the path in this giant pool of blood. So we run out there, and we find this guy dead as a doornail. Which he absolutely should be, because the back of his head is like mashed potatoes. The skull is decimated, brains are leaking out like custard filling, and they guy's old so you figure yeah, he probably fell and hit his head. Old people fall all the time, it's no big deal. Except that this area where he fell doesn't HAVE any big rocks. There's not even any stumps or big branches. And on top of that, there's no blood trail, so he clearly died where he dropped. Now that's when you'd turn to murder, but there were people just out of line of sight with the guy. If someone came up behind him and murdered him, there's no way someone wouldn't have heard. And again, even if someone had, there'd be a blood trail, spatter all over the place. But everyone on the scene said it looked exactly like he'd fallen and smashed his head on a rock. So what the fuck did he hit his head on? And then there was this lady I found in a different park about five years ago, back when I was upstate. We found her in the middle of a stand of big junipers, curled around the trunk, like she was huggin' it. We pick her up to move her, and a fucking waterfall comes out of her mouth, splashes all over my shoes. Her clothes are dry, and her hair is dry, but the amount of water in her lungs and stomach was phenomenal. Unreal, man. Coroners report? Says the cause of death was drowning. Her lungs were completely full of water. This, even though we're in the middle of the high desert, and there isn't a body of water for miles. No puddles, no nothing. No signs of anyone else being out there. I mean yeah, it's possible they were murdered. But why go out of the way to do it like that? Why not just stab 'em and be done with it? I dunno, it just sits weird with me."

Now of course, that freaked me out a little. But we were wasted, and I guess I sort of wrote it off as a fluke. I also assumed there was exaggeration there, since, you know, we were wasted.

Now, I don't like talking about this next case very much. It was an awful one that I've done my best to forget about, but of course that's easier said than done. This happened about six months after the conversation with my friend at the bar, and up until that point I hadn't had a lot of really weird shit go down. A few things here and there, and of course the stairs, but it's amazingly easy to get used to stuff like that when it's treated as if it's normal. This case was a little different.

A guy with Down's Syndrome in his 20s went missing after his family lost sight of him on a major path. That was odd in and of itself, because this guy never left his mom's side. She was absolutely convinced he'd been kidnapped, and unfortunately a Ranger who isn't with the park anymore insinuated that no one was going to kidnap someone... well, with that kind of disability. Not very tactful, to say the least. We wasted a lot of time trying to calm her down enough to get information about him, and then we put out an official missing persons call. Because of the urgency of the situation, him being mostly unable to function alone, we had local police come in and help us. We didn't find him the first night, which was heartbreaking. None of us wanted to think of him being alone out there. We assumed he'd just kept wandering, and was staying ahead of us. We brought out helis the next day, and they spotted him in a little canyon. I helped bring him back up, but he was in bad shape, and I think we all knew he wasn't gonna make it. He'd fallen and broken his spine, and couldn't feel his lower half. He'd also broken both his legs, one at the femur, and he'd lost a lot of blood. He was confused and scared while he was alone, so he'd probably exacerbated the injuries by dragging himself a little ways. I know it sounds awful, but while I was riding in the copter with him, I asked him why he'd wandered off. I just wanted something to tell his mother, to let her know it wasn't her fault, because he was fading fast and I didn't think she'd get to ask him herself. He was crying, and he said something about how 'the little sad boy' had wanted him to come play. He said the little boy wanted to 'trade' so he could 'go home'. Then he closed his eyes, and when he woke up again, he was in the canyon. I'm not sure that's exactly what he said, but it was what I thought the gist of it was. He kept crying, asking where his mommy was, and I held his hand and tried my best to keep him calm. 'It was cold out there.' He kept saying that. 'It was cold out there. My legs was frozen. It was cold out there. It's cold in me.' He was getting even weaker, so he eventually stopped talking, and he closed his eyes for a while. Then, when we were about five minutes from the hospital, he looked right at me, with these big tears running down his face, and he said 'Mama won't see me no more. Love mama, wish she was here.' And he closed his eyes and he just... never woke up. It was horrible, and I don't like talking about it. That case was one of the first ones that really rattled me badly.

Because of how badly it affected me, I reached out to a senior Ranger, and who ended up helping me through it. As time went on, and we got to know each other better, he ended up sharing one of his own stories with me. It was disturbing, but it helped to know that I wasn't the only one affected by the things going on out there. "I think this must have happened before you got here, because I think if it had happened while you were here you'd have remembered it. I know it didn't end up in the news, for some reason, but I think most people who've been here long enough know about it. The park sold off a portion of land to a logging company, and it was a really controversial thing. But it wasn't that large or old of a plot, and it was right after the recession, so we needed cash bad. Anyway, they were felling this plot of land, and we get a call that we need to get our supervisors out right away. I don't know why, but they ended up sending me and a few other guys along with the heads, I guess for power in numbers, to see what was up. We got there, and all these guys are crowded around a tree that they've just cut down. They're all pissed off and freaking out and the foreman comes over and says he wants to know what we think we're up to. "What the hell y'all think this is, some kinda sick joke? You've got a lot of fuckin' nerve pulling this shit, we bought this land fair and square!" Well we don't know what the hell he's talking about, so he brings us over to this felled tree and points at it and tells us that when they cut it down, it was just like this, and they'll be damned if they put it there. The inside of the tree was all rotted out and hollow in one spot, and when they'd cut it down it had exposed that chamber, and inside it is a hand. Like a perfectly severed hand. And looks like it's actually fused with the inside of the tree. Well now we think THEY'RE pulling a joke, so we tell them that we don't like being fucked with, and we start to leave, but they tell us they've already called the cops, and that they'll go right to the media if we don't stick around. Well that gets the heads' attention, so they stick around and talk to the police about it. Everyone is denying that they put the hand in there, and besides, how would anyone have even done it? It's clearly a real hand, but it's not mummified or skeletal. It's brand new, probably not even a day old. And it is definitely fused with the wood, you can see that it's coming right out of it. The loggers, they insist that they didn't put it there. Somehow, this fresh human hand ended up fused to the inside of this living tree. The cops have them cut up that section of tree into a movable chunk. Then they take the hand away, and the area is closed off. There was a pretty big investigation, but I know they didn't find get any answers. Now it's become this legend, and as far as I know we haven't sold any more property for logging."

As you all know, I went to a training seminar recently, and heard some amazing and horrible things there. One of the guys I talked to while I was there told me a story when we were all around the campfire one night. We were both pretty drunk, you'll see a pattern here, and we were swapping stories. He told me this one: "Me and another guy were out on a field search because some campers reported screaming noises at night. So we head out there to look for whatever fucking mountain lion has wandered into the area, and I'm pissed. We've had three of them show up in the camping areas that year alone and I'm getting tired as hell of constantly having to deal with them. Plus, I just don't like them anyway. They're a pain in the ass and they're loud and they scare the shit out of me. Fuckin' cats. Pieces of shit. I'm groanin' about it to the guy I'm with and he thinks it's a real fuckin' riot. So we're seeing all these broken branches and what look like dens and we're pretty sure we know where this thing is. I call in and they tell me to confirm if possible, which you know just means they want to you to step in a big pile of shit and use that as proof. I'm not seeing any, though, so I basically just tell 'em to shove it, I'm done. We know that damn thing's out here somewhere, even if I'm not stepping in its shit or inside its mouth or whatever. Guy I'm with wanders off to take a piss or whatever, and I stay behind watching this little burrow under a tree to see if maybe a fox or somethin' is living under it, 'cause I love foxes, man. They're cute as hell. But anyway, I'm watching this tree and I start hearing branches crackling and it's coming from the direction my partner went opposite of. Now I've got my pistol, but you and I both know that's not gonna do shit against a cat. I cock it and holler for my partner to get his dumb ass back, but he's too far and he can't hear me. I stand up and get my sights on where the thing is approaching, and I shit you not, man, I just about peed myself. This guy is coming toward me, and he's back-flipping through the fucking woods. Like, instead of walking, he's doing these crazy fucking back-flips, and I swear to God he cleared every fucking log and bush in his path, it was like he knew right where he was going. I yell at the guy to stop right where he is, that I'm pointing a gun right at him, but he keeps coming, and I just kinda lost it. I shot at the ground in front of him, and it was a dumb fuckin' thing to do, but man I didn't want this guy anywhere near me. When I fired, he was about fifty yards from me, and as soon as the gun goes off, he whirls around and goes off, back-flipping back into the woods. My partner hears my gun go off and runs back and asks what's up, and I tell him there's some fucking weirdo out here hopped up on God knows what, and we need to get the hell out of Dodge. I let the cops know what happened, and I didn't get in any trouble for firing, but man, I don't know what that motherfucker was on but I've never seen anything like that before. Shit was absolutely butt-fuck crazy."

I think we can agree that there's stuff going on out here in the woods, and while I'm not going to spout off about what it could be, or offer any theories, what I want people to take away from all of this is that it is so damn important to be safe when you're out there. I know a lot of you think you're invincible, but the fact is that you CAN die out there, or be hurt, or go missing. It's easier than you'd ever imagine.

I apologize for this relatively short update, guys, I will do my absolute best to continue this series as soon as possible. Thanks for all your continuing support, it means the world to me!

#search and rescue series #creepy #horror story #series

[sunbrights]

fic: by the claw of dragon (2/7)

fandom: danganronpa characters/pairings: natsumi kuzuryuu, fuyuhiko kuzuryuu, peko pekoyama + 77th class ensemble, et al. kuzupeko. character tags will be updated on AO3 with plot-relevant characters as chapters are posted. rating: m summary: The Kuzuryuu Clan stands on the precipice of the greatest era of its history. Kuzuryuu Natsumi promises to be the strongest leader the clan has ever seen, the Overlord of the South born again. That Hopes’s Peak Academy would select her for it’s 77th class was assumed, not hoped for.

To the younger Kuzuryuu son, everything is as it’s meant to be.

One class turns into three, and then five. Natsumi still thinks she got the better end of the deal, but she has to hand it to Yukizome: the classes aren’t terrible. They’re still useless, but at least they aren’t boring.

One day Souda and Nanami push all the desks to the sides of the room so that they can set up a video game tournament, and the whole class gets riled up over some stupid game where cartoon characters fight each other. Natsumi lingers in the back with Peko, and watches Nanami wipe the floor with them round after round after round.

“Kuzuryuu-san.” She’s texting when Nanami turns around in her seat. When she looks up, Nanami has one of the controllers held out toward her. “Do you want to play this round?”

Souda mutters, “What, seriously? Her? But she’s—” and Natsumi throws him a glare that makes him choke on the rest of it.

“What? Are you boring yourselves already?” Nanami smiles when she snatches the controller from her hand. “Fine, fine. Give it here. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“So…. That means we need two more players.” Nanami looks up at the rest of the room. Natsumi focuses on selecting a character. She can’t decide between the pink blobby thing and the one that looks like a giant, ugly dragon. “Who else wants to play?”

The room meets her with silence.

Peko makes to step forward, but Natsumi pins her back to her place against the wall with a look. Having her be the only one to volunteer would be worse than no one volunteering at all.

She can feel Nanami looking at her.

���Well,” she says, “We could play one-on-one, but….”

“What the hell! You guys are holdin’ up the game!” Owari shoulders through the crowd and falls cross-legged onto the cushion next to Natsumi. “Gimme that, I’ll play again.”

“Then I shall play as well!” Sonia descends onto the last empty seat, and pushes her sleeves up to her elbows. “Be prepared, everyone— this game is about to ‘get lit’!”

Natsumi ends up picking the pink blob.

Owari decimates her.

“Bullshit!” she shouts, the fourth time Owari’s character flings hers off the screen. The rest of the class has crowded the TV to watch; someone in the back whistles as her blob flies into the distance and disappears. “That move is cheap and you know it!”

“It’s actually a pretty sophisticated technique,” Nanami says. Her fingers don’t break rhythm on the buttons as she talks; she’s ahead of all of them by at least three lives. “It’s difficult to control, but once you master it, it’s extremely powerful and reliable.”

“Shut up!”

“Hear that, Kuzuryuu? I’m a master.” Owari elbows into her space, and Natsumi elbows back. At this point she may as well be smashing her entire hand against all the buttons, for all the good they’re doing her. “Now c’mere so I can knock you out of this once and for all!”

“Shut up!”

“Do not feel bad, Kuzuryuu-san,” Sonia says. “I was eliminated ages ago. At the very least, you will get third place!”

“Shut up!”

It doesn’t last long at all. Her blob has barely respawned before it’s being flung again to the other side of the map, and all it takes is a few fumbled button presses for her last life to go down the drain.

Owari whoops. Natsumi throws her controller on the ground. The rest of the class leans away from the TV to wait for the round to finish; anyone versus Nanami is interesting to nobody.

“Aw, man.”

“What, were you seriously rooting for Natsumi?”

“I mean, kinda, yeah. She’s totally right about that move, it’s a frickin’ nightmare.”

“Can we kick this dumb-dumb out yet? I’m getting sick and tired of her always winning. She’s just pressing the same buttons over and over again!”

“She’s not winning, though.”

“Losing to Chiaki-chan basically is winning to the rest of us!”

“Let us play one more round. A ‘redemption round,’ if you will,” Sonia says, after Nanami has beaten Owari into a pulp, and the final tally screen is up to tell them how much worse they are in comparison. “Kuzuryuu-san and myself versus Nanami-san and Owari-san, for honor!”

Nanami starts to say something about rotating classmates and giving others fair turns, but Owari drowns her out. “You’re on!” she crows, and bullies her way over to swap seats with Sonia. “You and me, Nanami, let’s do this!”

Sonia settles into the seat next to Natsumi, and offers her discarded controller back. “What do you say, Kuzuryuu-san? Shall we teach them who is ‘boss’ and who is not? A true ‘Coming Back Special’!”

Natsumi rolls her eyes. “Jeez, if you’re gonna talk like that, you might as well not talk, Sonia-san.” She snatches the controller, and their classmates swoop in to crowd the TV again. “I just want to get this idiot to shut up.”

“Eat it, Kuzuryuu! You’re goin’ down!”

It goes about as well as any of them expected.

*

The irony of going to class on a daily basis is that now she has to do all her actual work on her own time. But the plan is simple enough, once she puts all the pieces together. It might be basic, but that’s only because she perfected the strategy years ago, and it hasn’t let her down since. She knows what she does, and she does it well.

She lays it out for Fuyuhiko the next time they talk, step by step.

“‘Novoselic’?” he echoes, when she’s finished. “Bullshit. That’s not a real place.”

“If things didn’t exist just because you didn’t know about them, then Aunt Miyū was a ghost until last year.“

“Will you give that a fucking rest already?”

“Look it up!”

“I am looking it up.”

She sits through watching him search for all the info she knows already. (She drums her nails against the body of her laptop when it takes too long. He snaps, “Cut it out,” and she starts tapping the microphone directly instead.) The fourth time he sighs like the computer is a personal imposition on him, she gives up.

“What’s your problem now?”

“I can’t find it on the goddamn map is the problem!”

Natsumi groans into her hands. “No, stupid, that’s the point.” The distance is such a massive pain in the ass; this would be so much easier if he were just here with her. “Whatever! Look it up on your own time. Just listen to me. The country is miniscule, okay? Like, beyond tiny. Most people don’t even know it exists, and most map makers just totally skip over it. But their military is loaded. Every single person learns how to use military-grade weapons as a regular part of school.”

She watches for his reaction, but he’s focused on another page on his computer. She reaches for the folder on the shelf above her head, the one with all her notes and printouts. He hasn’t interrupted her yet, and she doesn’t intend to give him the chance.

“Think about it. Who’s going to notice if there’s a few extra crates of handguns going through a place like that? If we had a waypoint for Europe, we can ship directly from there. Cut down on the trip for anything coming in or out. Man it with our own people.“

“And if there’s a monarchy to validate it,” Fuyuhiko finishes, “who’s going to think twice about it?” He must have switched back to the video chat, because he focuses again on the camera. “You think you got an in with the princess?”

“All politicians are the same,” Natsumi says. “Whether they’re a princess or some greasy local stooge. They all want the same things. They’re all afraid of the same things.” She leans back in her chair. “I can get her to say yes.”

“If you say so.” He squints down and to the right— at his desk, or maybe his phone— and then he says, “By the way. Niijima’s old lady’s in the hospital again.”

Natsumi hums. “How many times is that?”

“Three. He’s a fuckin’ mess, you should’ve seen him in here earlier. Couldn’t keep anything straight. I don’t think he’s slept in days.”

She can hear it in his voice. He’s fishing, trying to wheedle something out of her. It’s never worked; she doesn’t know why he still tries. “Spit it out already. What are you trying to say?”

He bristles. “I’m saying maybe it’s about time we take Niijima off that route. Let one of the other three take point. They can handle it.”

“What for? His mom isn’t the one making the drops, is she?”

“Shut up. I’m being serious,” he says. She resists the urge to roll her eyes. “He’s going to fuck it up for the rest of them if he goes. I was surprised he figured out how to tie his shoes this morning. If it’s not this drop, it’ll be another one.”

“I’m being serious too,” she snaps. “We’re not running a charity. He’s been slipping for months, he needs to start earning his keep. If he can’t do that, he’s gonna have to deal with the consequences.”

Fuyuhiko glares somewhere past the camera. He’s gritting his teeth when he says, “Fine.”

“If somebody fucks up, tell me.” Natsumi gathers her papers back together in a pile. “Until then, I’ve gotta focus on this.”

“Fine,” he says again, clipped. “I gotta go.”

The screen goes blank, and Natsumi doesn’t resist the urge this time.

*

As it turns out, Sonia’s schedule is easy to tap into. She usually eats lunch either in a huddle with some of the other girls in their class, or with Tanaka. It makes getting her alone annoying, but not impossible: Tanaka is always late to lunch (he insists on visiting his animals first, every single day) and Koizumi is the lynchpin of her little entourage. There are days when she goes somewhere else for lunch, and on those days the rest of them take ages to get their act together.

All Natsumi has to do is show up.

It’s a few minutes before lunch on a Tuesday, and Natsumi lets her tray clatter against the table where Sonia is reading. She doesn’t jump or flinch; she just looks up, one finger gently against the inner spine of her book to keep her place. “Sonia-san! Mind if me and Peko-chan sit here today?”

Natsumi’s already sitting by the time Sonia gets through saying, “No, not at all. There is plenty of room for the both of you.” Peko slides onto the bench next to her, and Sonia smiles up at her, too. “Good afternoon, Pekoyama-san.”

Peko only nods.

Sonia doesn’t seem bothered. She sets her book aside, picture perfect politeness. “I must admit, I am a little surprised,” she says. “I thought you and Pekoyama-san preferred to eat together just the two of you.”

Natsumi shrugs. “Yukizome-sensei says we should be ‘branching out.’” She manages half air-quotes, one handed. “So, we thought, why not, you know? Not all of you are completely terrible, I guess.”

“Well, I am honored to be the first,” Sonia says, and she really does seem it, chest puffed up and shoulders straight. “But I think you will find that everyone is very agreeable, if you give them a chance.”

Natsumi eats instead of answering. She tries not to let her curiosity get the better of her, but she can’t help it; she doesn’t actually know where Koizumi goes, on days like this. “Speaking of everyone,” she says, swallowing, “where the heck are they today? Don’t you normally eat with Koizumi-san and her little friends?”

“Ah. On Tuesdays and Thursdays Koizumi-san goes to the West building to eat lunch with a friend of hers in the Reserve Course. Sometimes the others are… delayed, in her absence.”

A friend in the Reserve Course. Peko looks at her, but Natsumi only bobs her head. “Ohhh, I get it. That’s how it is, huh.”

Sonia is quiet for a moment. She hasn’t started to eat yet, but she fidgets with her chopsticks. “Forgive me for saying so, Kuzuryuu-san, but I cannot help but notice… there is a certain amount of animosity between the two of you, is there not?”

Natsumi focuses on stirring her food. “With who, Koizumi-san? Pfft.” Her chopsticks clatter around the edges of her bowl. “That’s all in good fun, you know? We went to middle school together.”

“I see. With you and Pekoyama-san?”

“No,” Peko says. She doesn’t say anything else. Sonia looks at Natsumi instead.

“Me and Peko-chan didn’t go to the same school then,” Natsumi fills in. “We were home schooled for a while, but after that my parents decided to send me to a regular middle school.”

“Fascinating! I myself had never attended a quote normal unquote school before Hope’s Peak Academy.” Sonia doesn’t even attempt the air-quotes. “Did you find it difficult to acclimate to the change?”

Natsumi remembers the first day of middle school, how it had been the first time she could remember without Peko behind her left shoulder. Her teacher had been spineless, and the other girls in her class had gotten upset when he let her cut class and talk back without so much as a reprimand. None of them had known to watch their step or their mouths, not at first.

(She’d learned how to teach them the lesson on her own.)

“Nah,” she says. “It was a breeze.”

“Oh.” Sonia looks down at her tray. Natsumi slurps her lunch and lets her stew. “I must admit… I am having more difficulty acclimating than I anticipated, myself. There is so much I do not know already, and some days I feel I may never catch up. Perhaps if I had started in the school system earlier, I would not be having as much trouble as I am now.”

Natsumi doesn’t look at her. She eats, and thinks about how her middle school teacher, white faced and stammering. “You can tell yourself that if you want, but that’s not how it works,” she says. “You could’ve gone to preschool if you wanted and it would’ve been the same. Probably worse. You should be glad you started out here.”

“How so?”

“You’re a princess. Out there, that’s all you are.” She shrugs. “At least in here it’s the same for most of us. You don’t have to try so hard when everybody else is just as weird as you.”

“I see.” Sonia smiles. “I believe I understand. Thank you for the advice, Kuzuryuu-san. I wonder—”

Peko’s phone buzzes on the table. She lays her hand over it to quiet it, and it buzzes again. She pulls it into her lap instead. “Apologies. I did not mean to interrupt.”

“Oh, no, no need to worry, Pekoyama-san—”

Natsumi cranes her neck over to peer at the screen. “Who’s that?”

“Fuyuhiko-sama,” Peko answers. “Would you like to hear the message, young mistress?”

“Pass,” Natsumi says. She grins around her chopsticks. “He can text whatever he wants. I’m not his babysitter.”

Sonia pats her mouth between bites with a cloth napkin. Natsumi doesn’t even know where she found a cloth napkin. “Is that a member of your organization, Kuzuryuu-san?”

“My little brother.”

Sonia inhales sharply. Her napkin gets crushed in her fist. “Brother! I see.” She scans the dining hall: left, then right, then back over her shoulder. Then she leans in on both elbows, her voice low and expression intense. “Kuzuryuu-san. May I ask you a personal question?”

Natsumi chews. “I guess.”

“I have watched a great many television dramas that delve into the life and culture of the yakuza in modern day Japan. There is always a great struggle for power, rife with deceit and violence and betrayal. It is most dramatic!” She’s talking so fast Natsumi can barely keep up, and she’s leaning so far across the table her hair might fall in her food if she weren’t a princess. “Tell me, did you struggle within your family to achieve the position you have now?”

Natsumi has to screw her face up to keep from laughing. “I beat my brother at being born, I guess. And I usually beat him at pachinko, does that count?”

Sonia’s face falls. “I see.” She settles back in her seat, and pokes at the remaining rice in her bowl. “I know this is an improper thing to say, but… I must admit to some disappointment.”

“You shouldn’t watch trash like that,” Natsumi tells her. “I can guarantee I have at least five stories that are way better than anything else you’ve watched.”

“Really?!” Sonia grips the edge of the table with both hands. She nearly bounces in her seat. “Please do share! I would be fascinated to hear of your experiences, Kuzuryuu-san.”

Natsumi starts with the time she and Peko had been kidnapped and stranded in the mountains, and Sonia hangs on every word.

*

They eat together every Tuesday after that. It turns out to not be unbearable; Sonia is simultaneously everything Natsumi understands a princess to be, and everything she understands a princess to not be. She tells Natsumi about Novoselic’s labyrinthine traditions, and Natsumi tells her about the last fist fight that broke out in one of her family’s casinos.

It’s going well— which, Natsumi reminds herself, is all that matters.

Sonia leans across the gap between their desks one day, during afternoon homeroom. “Will you and Pekoyama-san be going to the dojo again after class today?”

“Probably! Peko-chan’s gotta get those reps in.” Natsumi tips her head back. “Right, Peko-chan?”

“Yes.”

“Why? You wanna come watch?”

“Well… yes and no,” Sonia says. “I have ‘reps’ of my own I must get in, actually. I have read that while most modern yakuza do not carry firearms on their person, many are still trained in their use, especially those in senior positions. Is that accurate to your experience, Kuzuryuu-san?”

“I know how to shoot,” Natsumi says.

(She’d gotten her first gun on her thirteenth birthday, a slim white revolver with gold plating around the chamber. Her father had taken her out to the compound’s practice range that same day; he’d knelt with her and shown her how to hold it, how to stand, how to bend her elbows just enough to absorb the force of the shot.

“Be patient, but don’t hesitate,” he’d said, big hands on both her shoulders. “When you have your target, take it.”

She’d screamed the first time she pulled the trigger. The gun had jumped in her hands, sudden and hot and violent, and her arms had ached all over afterwards, like she’d just spent an hour doing handstands. Her father had made her take the shot again, over and over, until she learned not to be afraid.)

“Excellent!” Sonia is delighted in a way only a princess can be, hands clasping instead of clapping. “I am afraid that since arriving in Japan I have been inexcusably lazy in practicing my marksmanship. I was hoping you might want to practice with me, Kuzuryuu-san.”

“You want to have a shootout,” Natsumi repeats. “With me?”

“‘Hells’ yes! It would be a fascinating comparison of our relative skillsets, do you not agree? Plus I believe it would be a— ‘bomb-ass’ good time!”

It’s been months since Natsumi practiced last, too. Students are allowed to bring whatever tools they consider necessary to furthering their talent, including personal weapons, but Natsumi had left her revolver at home when she left for school. (“There’s no need for her to carry another weapon when she already has one with her,” her father had said.)

“Okay,” she says, and Sonia’s face lights up. “But if I win, you never get to say ‘bomb-ass’ again.”

“And if I win, I may say ‘bomb-ass’ as many times as I like from now on without complaint. Agreed?”

Natsumi clasps her hand. “Done.”

When class lets out, they have to detour to the weapons cages; the school keeps practice weapons of all kinds in the dojo, but unlimited access is restricted only to students whose talents require the use of them. Any other students require approval

Sonia marches straight up to the supervisor without a single inch of guile or hesitation. “Hello. My name is Sonia Nevermind, and my associate is Kuzuryuu Natsumi.” She bends into a shallow, formal bow. “We would like to borrow two firearms for practice purposes, please.”

The supervisor is a skinny senior with glasses, a student volunteer. He references a small tablet behind his desk. “The Ultimate Yakuza—” Natsumi smiles at him from over Sonia’s shoulder. He can’t look at her for longer than a second or two. “And, uh, the Ultimate Princess.” He frowns. “Is markmanship really part of your curriculum?”

“We are young women poised to become proud and powerful leaders in our respective societies,” Sonia tells him, grave and, Natsumi thinks, entirely serious. “How would this not be part of our curriculum?”

“I— I mean, I guess, but the weapons are really intended for the athletes…”

Natsumi lays her palm flat on the counter. “Gee, Sonia-san, it almost sounds like this guy is trying to tell us what our talents are for,” she says. “But that can’t be right. I mean, they’re our talents, right?” She tilts her head at him. “What would he know about it?”

“Right.” His adam’s apple bobs uncomfortably. “No, right. You’re right.” The door to the cage buzzes, and Sonia swings it open with a smile. “Just, uh, keep them in the shooting range, and make sure to sign them back in when you’re finished.”

Natsumi had only seen the cage containing the swords, knives, and other bladed weapons before, because that’s the cage Peko has access to. The firearms cage is a veritable arsenal; Natsumi steps back to snap a picture with her phone to send to Rin later.

She chooses a sleek, lightweight pistol, the closest equivalent she can find to her revolver. Sonia chooses a massive bolt-action battle rifle. “An excellent choice, Kuzuryuu-san!” she says, when she slings the wide strap over her shoulder. “It is truly ‘adorbs af.’ Here, you must not forget these, either.” She hangs a pair of brightly-colored ear muffs around Natsumi’s neck. “Safety is of the utmost importance.”

They take their positions at the far end of the shooting range. They must look out of place, still in school uniforms; some of the other students give them sidelong glances. Natsumi glowers back until they look away.

Sonia pounds her rifle against the floor. “These are the rules, should you choose to accept: you take a shot, and I must duplicate it. Then I take a shot, and you must duplicate mine. We go back and forth until one of us fails or we both run out of bullets.”

Natsumi cocks her pistol. She lifts both arms, elbows bent just enough, and sends a bullet straight into the heart of the target. “Okay,” she says. “You’re on.”

“Excellent.” Sonia hefts the butt of her rifle against her shoulder, and barely takes a moment to steady the barrel. Her shot flies straight down the center, a perfect match. “Now! How about a true challenge, hm?”

They go back and forth, shot for shot. Sonia throws plastic rings into the air and shoots through them. Natsumi ricochets her bullet off of the broad side of a training dummy. None of it is at the level of the Ultimate students the guns were actually intended for, but for once that doesn’t matter.

Sonia drops to her belly for her final shot, the body of her rifle flush against her cheek. She aims high, and when she pulls the trigger the bullet bounces off the top edge of the target and shatters just one of the clay pigeon targets in storage behind it.

“That’s garbage!” Natsumi shouts. Other students around them glare. “That was all luck. No way that counts!”

“That is how we do in Novoselic, Kuzuryuu-san!” Sonia pumps her fist, her cheeks flushed. “Do you forfeit?”

Natsumi drops to the floor. “Hell no. What do I look like, huh?”

Her bullet finds its target. Sonia nearly explodes with delight when it does, which for her boils down to shouting “Amazing!” when the pigeon shatters.

“It looks like we are at a draw,” Sonia says, when Natsumi is back on her feet. She bows, her fist over her heart. “Excellent shooting, Kuzuryuu-san. You are a formidable opponent!”

Natsumi doesn’t bow in return. She rolls her eyes when Sonia isn’t looking, instead. “Yeah, yeah. You’re not bad either, I guess.”

They drop the guns back off together. (On the way they agree a draw means that Sonia can keep saying whatever she likes, and that Natsumi can keep complaining about it.) The skinny supervisor is still there, and his palms are sweating when Natsumi turns the pistol back over to him. The whole desk shudders when Sonia drops her rifle onto it.

“What do you think, Kuzuryuu-san?” Sonia asks, on the way back. “Shall we have celebratory ‘frozen yo’ in wake of our competition?”

“I need to wait for Peko-chan,” Natsumi answers. She’s missed enough of Peko’s training already. She doesn’t need to sway Sonia enough to miss the rest of it, and froyo makes her stomach hurt, anyway.

Sonia doesn’t seem offended. She only nods. “Yes. Of course. I shall leave you to it.” She dips into another, shallow bow. “Thank you for joining me, Kuzuryuu-san. It is always more enjoyable to practice with a partner. Perhaps we may practice again sometime?”

Natsumi could use the practice here and there, and she’s always liked target shooting besides. There’s no reason to say no. “Yeah, okay,” she says. “Why not?”

Sonia leaves, with a wave and a nearly literal spring in her step, and Natsumi slips back into the dojo. It’s mostly emptied out by now, save for Peko, still pacing through her forms. She must have started them as a cooldown, but Natsumi came in too late to follow them from the beginning. Peko is moving sure-footed and fast; Natsumi can’t read the transitions.

Natsumi sits by the lockers to wait. (The notification light of Peko’s phone blinks from underneath her pile of clothes.) She watches for long minutes, but she still can’t find a seam between anything.

“Hey,” she says eventually, only because there’s no one else in the room. “Peko?”

Peko doesn’t acknowledge her out loud, but her head does tilt in her direction. Her movements get longer and slower, until Natsumi recognizes the form in its final stage. (Gohon-me.)

Natsumi nods, and pulls out her phone to start tapping through her texts. Peko’s pace swings up back to normal.

*

There are times when Yukizome disappears, for up to an hour at a time. It’s never when it counts— she’s always on time for class or after-school review sessions— but sometimes during lunch, or breaks, or before the school day starts, someone will look for her and not be able to find her.

(Hanamura had insisted that she was out having clandestine meetings with some faculty member from the Reserve Course, and Mioda had shouted for a while about how she was definitely, definitely a secret agent.)

What’s important is that 1-B is empty sometimes during lunch, and that she and Peko can have free reign of it if they feel like it. It’s quiet, and private, and closer than either of their dorm rooms if they need to talk during the day without anyone else shoving their nose in.

Also, Sonia keeps wanting to eat with them any time they’re in the dining hall, and it’s starting to get inconvenient.

Peko brings lunch. They turn the chairs around so they can sit together at the same desk, and she sets places for the both of them. “Have you decided on a time to make our proposal?”

“No,” Natsumi says. “We’ve got a couple weeks. And I want to make sure we time it right.” There are two deadlines to think about: first, the deadline from the new contracts (of which there are now fourteen), and after that, the school’s practical exam. They’re close enough together that by the time the practical exam rolls around the deals will be finalized and polished, but recent enough for consideration. It’s a perfect arrangement.

She just has to get Sonia to say yes.

“We’re not going without a backup plan, either,” Natsumi goes on. “I’m not wasting a bunch of time doing damage control when she says no the first time.” She bends over the front of Yukizome’s desk and pops the drawer open. Yukizome had spent an entire class earlier in the week going over the practical exams: what to expect, how long they would have, where the judges were being selected from. It’d been the most bored Natsumi had been in weeks, but it also meant— “Here we go.” It’s buried under grading scales and flyers for student performances, but she finds it: one of the temporary student schedules for the exams.

The schedule is still rough, but this close to the exams it must be in its final stages. Natsumi’s is tentatively scheduled for day three; Sonia’s is for day five. “Hmm.” Natsumi drums her fingers against the desk. “Hey, Peko. What d’you think a practical exam for a princess is like?”

Peko turns in her seat to answer, but before she can, Natsumi’s phone buzzes in her pocket. A few seconds later, so does Peko’s.

fuyu-chan 12:33 niijima got picked up by the cops

fuyu-chan 12:33 not gonna say I fucking told you so but

fuyu-chan 12:33 I fucking told you so

Natsumi feels her stomach bottom out. The drops on that route had been going off without a hitch for months, even with all the things Fuyuhiko had said he was worried about. She types with one hand and tries not to crush the exam schedule in the other.

me 12:34 are you kidding me? why are we even wasting money on the cops over there???

me 12:34 what the FUCK happened

When she looks up, Peko is frowning down at her phone. “What?” Natsumi demands. “Did he tell you something about Niijima he didn’t tell me?”

“No,” Peko says, and dims her phone without responding to the message. “It’s— unrelated. What happened to Niijima-kun?”

“He’s a moron, that’s what happened to him.”

fuyu-chan 12:34 turns out everyone else on that route has been covering for him

fuyu-chan 12:34 on his own he’s a fucking mess

fuyu-chan 12:35 the cops aren’t going to look the other way when he’s got the goods hanging out of his goddamn coat pocket like an amateur

She doesn’t have time for this. She wants to throw her phone or scream or make the drive all the way back to the compound just so she can punch them all in the jaw.

“Natsumi.”

Koizumi is watching her from the doorway. She has a lunch box hugged against her chest, wrapped in cute pink cloth with a rabbit design on it.

Peko stands, but Natsumi holds her hand up. (Peko doesn’t need to be told to hang back, but there’s no harm in letting Koizumi draw her own conclusions.) “Hi, Koizumi-san.” She mimes checking her phone. Fuyuhiko’s message glows back up at her, unanswered. “Wow, you’re late today, huh? Better hurry. If you keep disappointing Satou-san like this, she’ll never put in a good word for you with the Reserve Course.”

“Cut it out. What are you doing in here?”

Natsumi pulls herself up to sit on the edge of Yukizome’s desk. “Me? I dunno.” She flares the exam schedule in front of her face again. “Maybe I wanted to go somewhere quiet for lunch. Maybe I wanted to soak in all the good class memories. Maybe I wanted to ask Yukizome-sensei something.” She stares at Koizumi over the edge of the page. “Who says it’s any of your business?”

“I’m not going to just ignore it when you’re obviously up to something,” Koizumi snaps back. She grabs at the schedule, and nearly twists it out of Natsumi’s grip. “These are our classmates. Is there seriously no one who’s off-limits to you?”

Natsumi slaps her hand away. Koizumi loses her grip on her lunch box, and it tumbles out of her arms; rice and cooked vegetables spill out when it cracks against the floor. The sound reverberates back out into the hall, but any students who care enough to peer inside turn their heads away when Natsumi glares back out at them.

The silence is thick. “So what if there isn’t?” Natsumi says, just for the satisfaction of snapping it in two. She slaps what’s left of the temporary schedule back on Yukizome’s desk and leans into Koizumi’s space. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Koizumi turns her face away first. The room is silent again when she crouches to gather her lunch back up. “You know,” she says finally, “I used to think that you’d changed. That something must have happened to make you this way.” She reties the knot, even with the fabric lopsided and stained, and glares. “Now I understand. You just became the person you always were, deep down.”

“Good,” Natsumi says. “It’s about time you figured it out. We’re not in middle school anymore, you know? Who knows what would’ve happened if you didn’t?” She leans forward, and sunlight from the windows throws her shadow in a sharp line across the floor. She drops the airy lilt of her voice. “Try it again. See what happens.”

Koizumi doesn’t say anything else. She takes her lunch and leaves— but she’s not quick enough to keep Natsumi from seeing the way her confidence withers, the way her eyes get big and the tips of her fingers turn white when she clutches the box back against her chest.

She thinks she walked out brave, but Koizumi always thinks she knows better than everyone else. She doesn’t know anything.

Natsumi leans back over to put the schedule back where she found it. “Peko.”

“Yes.”

“I changed my mind. We’re going to see Sonia tonight, after dinner. I’ve got what I need.”

“Yes, young mistress.”

Natsumi steps over what’s left of the mess of rice and vegetables on the floor, and taps out her response to Fuyuhiko.

me 12:42 send someone to get him. make whatever deal they want

me 12:42 i’ll handle him

#natsumi kuzuryuu #fuyuhiko kuzuryuu #peko pekoyama #kuzupeko #danganronpa #whew #sorry for the wait on this one #six chapters?? who said six chapters??? #my outline?? #my outline's not my real mom it can't tell me how to live my life #on the upside i have a buffer now #laughtrack dot wav #fic: by the claw of dragon #sunwrites

[jimpatrickmurtagh]

My Friend Michael

The first time I met Michael was when I went back to Fordham for a night to coach a practice for my old improv team, Stranded in Pittsburgh. I was nervous and felt weird about returning to my old campus and old team to run different exercises with them for two hours and offer advice as if I had any more reason to coach than they did. At that point Michael was the only person on the team that I had never performed with. He was gigantic, confident, and so immediately funny. The first thing I ever heard him say was a long winded half sarcastic speech about how he didn’t understand the point of condoms. As most of Michael’s soapbox speeches ended this one ended with an exhausted, “I mean whatever, dude”. The next time I saw Michael was in my apartment in Harlem. I had just been asked to a produce my first show out of college a club in the East Village. I barely knew any comedians in the city yet and so went to my friend Stephen at Fordham to have him recommend some people. Michael was the top of his list. That night in my apartment all the comics I had booked for the show were going over material and pitching ideas. Most of the comics were old friends who hadn’t performed in a couple years. Michael was quick to offer feedback and punch up jokes. He encouraged everyone in the room. When it got to Michael’s turn to pitch his jokes he took out his phone and said loudly and confidently as if he were on stage, “I tell ya I love livin in New York City cause everybody’s got somethin to say!” It decimated. The whole group of us started cracking up through both confusion and genuine love for the joke. Michael told that joke about 3 times at the show the following week and at least once at every following show for a solid 8 months. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=errDGLQaKQ8 After that first show we did together he and I hung out a bit outside. He smoked a cigarette, asked me about other shows I do and what other stuff I do around the city. It came up that we were both musicians but neither of us had been in bands for a while and were trying to get back into it. On my way home he texted me asking if I wanted to come to Brooklyn that following Sunday to his buddy’s studio to play some songs. He recruited my friend Troy who had attended the stand up show and also hit it off with Mike and our friend Sam from Fordham. That was the first time we played together as Skinny Blonde.  It was clear that Michael had a vision for that band and was driven towards a specific goal and specific sound. He wanted it to be noisy and fun for us and the crowd alike. While he had a clear idea of what he wanted he never was one to shut down input. He wanted us to be a band, to all have a say. Playing in that band on and off for the better part of a year will forever be some of my favorite memories. Whether it was the show we played in a public park where Michael shouted defiantly into the microphone, “Dude, like, no one needs guns. It’s so ridiculous.” or our Christmas show at the now defunct Shea Stadium (a dream venue for weirdo New York musicians like us) playing in that band was our real outlet for a long time. Lugging amps from Connecticut to Brooklyn, taking smoke and beer breaks in the studio backyard and talking conspiracy theories, and driving over the Kosciuszko Bridge yelling in thick Brooklyn accents “NOT GONNA HAPPEN! THEY AINT TEARIN THIS BRIDGE DOWN! NOT IF MY FUCKIN UNION GETS A WORD IN EDGE WISE!” The days with Skinny Blonde were some of the greatest ever.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JWFz9eG2-Vc As the band dwindled Mike and I’s friendship only seemed to grow stronger. The last few months of the band were right on the tails of Michael trying to get clean again. He had been using for a few months in Fall 2016 and was finally getting some help. Just as Michael was struggling with sobriety I was struggling with the worst case of anxiety and depression that I had had in years. Though working on himself and getting better Michael was more supportive of me in those months than anyone could have been. I would constantly text him when I was struggling to leave my apartment, if I was afraid I was going to hurt myself, or if I hadn’t eaten or showered in days. He wasn’t judgmental, neurotic, or dramatic. He listened and offered advice and would often end conversations with “But honestly dude, you’re just being a pussy so whatever.” I laughed every time. Michael was the one who finally pushed me to get the help I needed. If I ever texted him a joke during that time he’d respond with a second beat followed quickly by “Also call that doctor”. I don’t know where I’d be right now were it not for his support those few months.  In Spring 2017 we started out sketch team Best Good Boys with our friends Connor and Dayton. While short lived Michael contributed some of the funniest sketches I’ve ever read to that group. Michael wrote the first sketch we ever did and when I first got the script had to take a break three lines in because of how much it made me laugh. This was the opening page: 

It was everything a Michael sketch was right up top: simple, insane, silly, and effortless. The sketch only got better from there and maintained to be the favorite of anyone who knew about our channel. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-3VECUyphPg Once we all got busy doing other things and Best Good Boys dwindled Mike stayed determined. He decided that Summer that every week once a week he would come to my house. I would film a sketch for him and he would film one for me. Even if we never used some of those sketches we kept our word. We filmed a lot of insane things this past Summer. Maybe the best one we filmed (or at least the one that makes me laugh hardest) was Mike’s simplest idea yet: What if an asshole tried to rip off “Comedians in Cars Getting Coffee”. Mike had been playing around with this character Colton Kelly for a long time. A frat guy from Quinnipiac, Colton was determined to become a figurehead at Barstool and work with some of his favorite comedians such as Tosh, Jeselnik, and Bam Margera. Michael and I sat in his car with the engine off and the windows up in deep deep Summer heat for over an hour. As I sat there caked in sweat laughing but begging to stop the video, Mike continually said “No, we have to get this dude.” He was right and we got it.   https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nk7hpTPipoo The Summer ended with Mike’s most ambitious creative pursuit yet. After both being rejected from a fellowship writing position at Clickhole, Michael said to me “We have all these articles we know are funny. I’ll just make my own site and you can send stuff to me if you want.” That website was “Off the Horn”. 

https://www.offthehorn.com/ If there’s one thing to understand about Mike’s drive to be creative it’s this: Mike never wanted to be a writer on the show. He wanted to be the founder of the new network. Mike’s ideas were always bigger, louder, more aggressive, and simply better than anything the rest of us could come up with. Yet with that he used his drive, his talent, and his power to carry his friends along with him. While “Off the Horn” was his baby he regularly gave a spotlight to old friends and new. Anyone that had an idea Mike deemed funny had a place at “Off the Horn”. In the last couple months Mike grew what we all believed would be a fun little project to keep us all writing into an insane instagram account with the most bizarre loyal following any of us had ever seen. He had teenagers across the country taking videos of themselves covered in paint screaming to his song “Spider in My Room (I’m Tryna Fuck It)”. He had kids in the midwest going after Nazi meme accounts in Mike’s name often writing “dont steal shit from off the horn you racist scumbag #pissgang #cumgang” Mike had become the founder and leader of the #Pissgang #Cumgang movement. It was beautiful and insane. 

https://soundcloud.com/eddiebagels/spiderinmyroom It would be unfair and take a decade to try to explain all the ways Michael touched myself and all of those around him. His commitment to his friends was unparalleled. He simply cared. He just fucking cared more than anyone I have ever known in my life. He picked up everyone around him and was quick to silence judgment and negativity of any kind. It’s not hyperbole to say I know that I will never know another person like him. He was the best in every possible way and every day that he’s not with us will be worse for it. With that I will say this. If there’s anything I know about Michael it’s he wouldn’t want for one second to us to put our humor and our joy aside in order to grieve. Keep laughing, keep hugging, keep yelling, keep loving and if there’s one thing to remember it’s this: The only reason the average person eats 6 spiders a week in their sleep is because Michael used to fucking eat thousands of spiders every night before bed.  Rest easy, Mike. I’ll love you forever.

[zerosuspensiongogo-blog]

Double Sided Coin || Self

Gogo wasn’t Hogwarts’s biggest fan, but she always dreaded when it ended. It wasn’t necessarily what she’d be missing: her small group of friends, easy access to knowledge and resources, or the freedom of the grounds.

No, it was what she would be forced to gain. Which was the presence of the man waiting for her when she stepped off of the train on Platform Nine and Three Quarters. He was tall with broad shoulders, salt and pepper hair, and a scruffy beard matched his somewhat scruffy getup. He had thick, dark eyebrows that mirrored Gogo’s own and they raised when he saw her. A forced smile tugged at his lips as he waved her over. Her stomach churned but she ignored it, sluggishly shuffling towards him while blowing a large bubble. The popping noise rang with distaste.

“Hey kiddo! Long time no see. You ready to go?” He asked, his voice saccharine to the point that she wanted to gag.

“Mm,” was all she responded with, giving a half-hearted shrug. She could see his features twitch a little as he sighed deeply and held out an arm. She glared at it, purposefully not moving for long enough to be inconvenient but not long enough for him to say anything. Then, she merely stepped back.

“Can do it myself now,” she said simply. He blinked in surprise.

“I didn’t know you got your appiration license.”

“My birthday was in April, I turned 17,” she reminded him in a deadpan voice.

“Ah, right. I knew that,” he added quickly at the end. And indeed, she had gotten a card from him with the bare minimum “Happy Birthday From Dad” on it on time, but she was sure at this point that he had some sort of timer and forgot about the date at all other times.

“Are you sure you want to try apparating all the way to the portkey? It might not be safe--”

“I got it.”

“I really don’t think--”

“I got it!” She snapped more aggressively, shooting him a glare. He frowned deeply but then shook his head with a sigh.

“Alright...you go first and I’ll stay behind in case you splinch anything.”

‘Maybe I’ll get lucky and splinch my fucking head off,’ She thought to herself, without an inch of sarcasm. With a loud, resounding crack, she disapparated.

Much to her misfortune, she apparated in the right place, body parts and all.

Her father owned a small house in the Irish countryside. Some would call it cozy, with worn architecture and massive fields of wheat going in all directions. A dirt path several kilometers long would eventually take one to a small muggle town, where the locals gathered in the pub every night to communally drink and make merry.

Or to drown out the misery of their shitty lives, Gogo thought to herself. The sparse, insect infested home was a prison for the Slytherin girl, one that she’d been subjected to for months on end ever since her parents separated. It had only been for holidays and winter break when she’d started school. But after her mother lost her job, she couldn’t afford to raise Gogo in the summer months while also taking care of her ailing parents. So after some good old fun custody disputes, she was forced to waste her summers away in a home that she hated with a man she hated even more.

Most of the time, she’d walk, bike, run, skate--whatever method of escape she could use to travel into town. But there were only so many times you could cycle through the same handful of buildings before you wanted to blow your brains out. And Gogo was already way past that point.

So she sat in her father’s garage--no, it was a joke to even call it that. First of all, they didn’t have a car. Even if they did, it would have to be one of those smart cars if it ever hoped to fit. Instead, it was just a crappy dusty room littered with miscellaneous crap. Gogo was pretty sure there was garbage in here that she’d tossed out last summer. But, it was one of the few spaces that had a halfway decent fan and that she sat under, working on some schematics for an invention she’d been working on for awhile now. She’d been reading up on magnetic levitation and had some ideas on how to combine it with magic to create even faster methods of transportation. Many of the first editions had been duds but she had a feeling this time it would be different.

However, she had to stifle a groan when she heard the door open up behind her. She didn’t even bother looking up from her notebook, nor did she stop her sketching. She could just feel his ooze creeping up behind her, breathing down her neck.

“What’cha drawing there, kiddo? Is it anime?”

Her grip tightened on her pencil, her knuckles turning white. She took a deep breath and tried to force herself to relax, just continuing her work as if he wasn’t there.

“No. They’re schematics for an invention I’m working on. It’ll use electromagnetic suspension and free-form levitation charms to reduce friction and enhance speed and maneuverability,” she replied dryly. She could feel her father shifting uncomfortably behind her.

“Ah. Right.” A silence fell between them. She hoped that he would take a hint and go away. He did not.

“So, how did quidditch go this year? Did Slytherin win?”

Gogo felt her jaw clench. “How should I know? I’m not on the team.”

“Aw c’mon, but you have to at least watch, right? Y’know, you should really consider trying out again. I’m sure you’re better now than you were a couple years ago.”

“It wasn’t because I wasn’t good enough, it was because people on the team fucking hated me,” she growled, her pencil strokes becoming a little harsher.

“Merlin, Leiko, not everyone is out to get you. It’s alright that you didn’t make the cut the first time around, you don’t have to go blaming it on everyone else.”

She could already feel her hands beginning to shake in anger. No one else could get her as worked up as he did--and in record time too. He didn’t have a fucking clue what he was talking about but here he was, spouting off his unwarranted and nonfactual opinion. And as much as she didn’t want to argue about it, there was still something she couldn’t let go.

“I told you, it’s Gogo now.”

The condescending chuckle behind her made her want to shove her pencil through the notebook. Or his face. “Are you still going by that? C’mon, don’t you think you’ve outgrown it? I mean, ‘Go-go’,” he repeated in a mocking tone, “Sounds a bit ridiculous in’nit?”

“Just as ridiculous as ‘Kris-to-fer Dun-nuh’,” she repeated back in just as mocking a tone. His silence was enough to tell her that she’d managed to get under his skin as well. He sighed deeply, running a hand through his greying hair.

“Are we really going to do this again this year? Really?”

“What thing is that,” Shed asked, deadpan.

“The thing where you treat me like absolute shite and I’m supposed to just laugh it off like ‘Hoho, that’s my girl!’ because you report even the slightest hint of discipline as abuse?”

Gogo couldn’t help but give a ghost of a smirk at that. “No, yeah that sounds about right.”

“Fuckin’ hell--” He muttered angrily to himself. She could hear him start to pace around behind her. “You know, I’m actually fucking trying here.”

She inhaled sharply through her nose, practically scratching her pencil and nearly ripping the paper. “Are you? Because you came in here and degraded my drawings before immediately changing the subject to something that only you care about, pretended to have a clue what goes on with me at school, and made fun of my fucking name!”

“Well what the hell do you want me to say!? I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about half the time!”

“You never even tried to learn! All you’ve ever done is try to get me interested in the things that you like, you have never once tried to relate to any of my interests or hobbies or anything that goes on with me!”

“What the fuck do you expect when all you do is sass me and treat me like fucking garbage!” There was a part of her, the teeniest, tiniest sliver that almost felt bad for him. In his eyes, he probably didn’t realize why his daughter hated him so much. He didn’t know that she knew things that she wasn’t supposed to. But those things that she knew far outweighed any semblance of pity into pure malice. “Y’know, any other parent would smack you across your smart mouth for saying half the things you do!”

“Yeah, let’s see how well that works out for you,” she growled dangerously, hunching over her work as she furiously drew. At this point, she’d all but completely decimated any decipherable measurements. Now she was just drawing angry scribbles and furiously stabbing at stick figures that resembled her father.

She thought that would be the end of it. By now, he usually gave up in a huff and that would be the last they’d speak to each other for several more days before the cycle continued. But instead, she could hear footsteps coming up behind her.

“Y’know, you should be fucking grateful for the life I’ve given you. I work hard, every day so that I can earn money to support you, despite the fact that you treat me like dirt. And I let you get away with being an ungrateful, spoiled little--”

He was interrupted by Gogo throwing her notebook and pencil on the desk in front of her and loudly slow clapping. “Oh, congratu-fucking-lations, you’ve done the bare fucking minimum by being a decent human being and taking care of the spawn that your reckless behavior made,” she drawled sarcastically, finally turning to glare at him. His face was bright red by this point and he was fuming just as much as she was.

“Hey, I didn’t have to come back to support you or your mother! But I did because, despite what you seem to think, I actually do give a shit about you!” He yelled at her, aggressively. Yeah, some way to show love and care.

“Do you? Or did you do it because you’re trying to convince yourself that you aren’t a shitty, terrible human being?” His eyes widened and he straightened at that, looking almost like she’d slapped him. With the verbal upper hand, she continued. “’Cuz yeah, I tried to do that once too. But shocker, you’re terrible and I’m your terrible fucking child that you brought in the world. Guess you’ve got to deal with the fucking consequences!”

He stood there in a stunned silence. She glared at him before spinning back towards her work, drawing it close to her body again. Surely this time he would take the hint and piss off. But no, much to her chagrin, he started speaking again.

“Wha-- What the fuck is wrong with you? Who says this kind of stuff?!”

“Me, apparently,” she replied dryly, the anger draining from her voice. The anger was always quick, and then it would subside, replaced by emptiness. No, she’d replace it with something else. With racing thoughts, or invention ideas, or anything else. She turned to a new page and began to lightly sketch, trying to fill the void. But her father wouldn’t let it go that easily.

“What, you can’t even be grateful that you’re fucking alive? That’s how much you want to spite me?!” He demanded. She could practically feel the heat radiating off of him. She scowled, every muscle in her body tense and itching to explode. But she ignored him, remaining silent as she continued to sketch. He stood there, waiting for an answer. One that she refused to give. Finally, fists and jaws clenched, he took a step back and shook his head.

“Bloody hell, if that’s the case, then you might as well fucking kill yourself, eh?” He huffed. It was supposed to be sarcastic. It was supposed to be a joke, the same kind of dark, destructive and hurtful humor that she’d been throwing at him for years now. But those words, strung into that exact sentence, in that exact tone, seemed to set something off in her. She didn’t mean to say it, but the words slipped out of her mouth.

“God, I can only hope someday!” They both stopped in that moment. She sat there, frozen, feeling his eyes boring into the back of her head--searching her, trying to figure out what truth hid under a mountain of sarcasm and cynicism. But after a moment, he scoffed.

“Can you not be sarcastic for like, a minute in your fucking life?” Gogo had to keep herself from giving any visceral signs of relief that he wasn’t going to push her on this. That like everything else, this was clearly just another one of her facetious statements.

“Maybe someday,” she retorted with a hollow tone. His glare worsened but he shook his head, seemingly finally giving in.

“I don’t fucking get it with you. No, you know what? I do. You were upset about the separation and you’re upset that you have to come live with me in the countryside instead of being in London with your mother. I get how that can be annoying. I get that you’re a teenager, and it’s ~fun and edgy~ to rip your parents a new one. But y’know, someday you are going to realize and appreciate just how hard I work to provide a roof over your head, food on the table, and money for your education. I don’t even ask for you to thank me for that, it’s all coming to you and your mother in the form of child support. All I do is give and let you verbally beat me down and do whatever the fuck you want. Maybe you don’t realize just how fucking lucky you have it, but you will someday.” With that, she heard him turn and start to walk back towards the main house.

And normally, she would leave it at that. She’d be grateful that he was backing off and leaving her the fuck alone to do what she wanted. But there was something about the condescension in his tone and how she knew that it was all bullshit that seemed to trigger something in her. She didn’t mean for it to come out, but just as he always did, he managed to bring the worst out of her.

“Forgive me for not pitying your hard work, but I’m sure you’re plenty fine if you can own two houses,” she said, her voice dripping in acid. As she turned to him, she caught a glimpse of him absolutely freezing in his place. When he turned back to her, his eyes were wide in a way that she’d never seen before.

“Excuse me?” 

“You heard me, Mr. Shwartz,” she spat the name that had sat on her tongue for so many years. For so long, she’d imagined his reaction for when she finally revealed her knowledge to him. Much like her fantasies, all the color drained from his face, and his whole body tensed. His mouth even fell open. But instead of feeling empowered and rectified, she only felt seething rage and pain boiling in her gut.

“Wh-- I-- Ho-- What the fuck--” He started to stammer. She wanted to feel triumphant but instead, she just cut him off.

“What, you really didn’t think I knew?” She hawed skeptically. The utter bewilderment on his face was enough of an answer. But she gave a few of her own, scoffing. “I looked around the school. No signs of a ~star Slytherin quidditch player~ named Christopher Dunne, but there sure as hell was a Christopher Schwartz. Not to mention the fact that all the letters you get while we’re here are mailed to a different address. Combined with the fact that you’ve never introduced me to any family members and this place doesn’t look like it’s touched except when I’m here...it’s not fucking rocket science.”

Her father just stared at her. It was almost hard to read his expression. There was confusion, anger, shock, but also hints of something else that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. In between a clenched jaw, through gritted teeth, he finally demanded. “How long?”

Gogo scoffed again, folding her arms and leaning back in the chair. “Years now,” she rebutted simply. The color seemed to come back into his face, a deep red flush rising.

“And why the hell did you wait until now to say something?!” The more he spoke, the more loud and unraveled he seemed to become. Gogo seemed to do the same.

“Because, up until now I’ve needed your fucking money to survive!” She shot back, verbally throwing him off guard. He blinked and looked to her with that stupid fucking bewilderment again. She sighed sharply. “Child support, dumbass.”

The insult seemed to kick him right back into his fury as he squared his shoulders. “What-- you think if you told me earlier I wouldn’t pay child support?!”

“Uh, yeah?”

“Merlin, Leiko, I would never do that! I’m not the fucking monster that you think I am!” He screamed, a vein now pulsing in his neck.

“Could’ve fooled me with all the fucking court cases in my life! And I told you, it’s Gogo!”

“It’s stupid!” He roared, violently swinging his arm out. It wasn’t anywhere close to her, clearly just a way to blow off some steam, but she felt her muscles instinctively tighten. “Any disputes in child support were because your mother wasn’t spending the money on you! Wasting the money on her leech parents--”

Something seemed to snap in Gogo and she slammed her hand on the table, going to stand. “Don’t you dare even put their names in your mouth! ‘I’m not a fucking monster’, look at you! You can’t just knock someone up and then try to drop everything except your shitty seed!” 

“I tried to make things work with your mother! But she was too--”

“Too what?” Gogo started, pushing herself off of the desk and towards her father. The man twitching with violent aggression. “Too muggle?”

“Wha-- No!” He shouted. Gogo caught a glimpse of his fist tightening, the muscles in his arm tensing.

‘Do it. Hit me.’

She gave him a sickening smile as she drew closer. “Too or-i-en-tal?” She emphasized each syllable with a hideous broken English accent.

“No!” His face was bright red by now and his body was trembling.

‘Do it old man. See what fucking happens.’

“That’s why you have the fake name, right? And the second house? Why your family is “estranged”? Because we’re the estranged family not good enough for your hoity-toity, stuck-up, inbred, garbage pureblood family! But guess what, Kris-to-fer Schwartz, you aren’t as fucking smart as you think you are! In fact, I’d say you’re a right fucking dumbass! You go out, shoot your load without protection like a fucking moron and then spend the rest of your life floundering about trying to deal with your mistake so you don’t have to face the reality that--Oh that’s right! You’re a terrible fucking human being who’s too much of a ballsack coward to commit to either being a fucking father or being--whatever the fuck a Schwartz is! But that’s you! That’s who you are! And nothing is ever going to change that!”

By the time she was done ranting, she was standing in front of the seething man. With every sharp inhale, every pulse of the vein, she waited for anything. A twitch--any movement to indicate a violent reaction. In her eyes it was a win-win-win either way. Either she would have an excuse to beat the ever-loving crap out of him or he’d somehow get the upper hand and she’d get him thrown in jail. Or the third option was that he’d go completely fucking nuts and just murder her but again--win-win-win.

He inhaled sharply through his nose and she braced herself. With his exhale, he spoke sharply through bare, gritted teeth. “You-- have NO fucking idea what you’re talking about!”

And then a crack echoed throughout the room. Gogo acted on instinct, bringing her arms up to block herself, just like countless sparring matches had taught her. But nothing made impact. In fact, when she lowered her arms, she saw that the garage was now empty.

He’d disappeared. No, more actually, he disapparated.

He was running away.

Just like he did with everything fucking ELSE!

The thought roared in Gogo’s mind as she spun around, harshly kicking the chair across the room. It clattered against the far wall and fell over, but Gogo didn’t dare stop moving. She couldn’t. She grabbed her notebook and raced up to her room, grabbing her bag and hapharzardly throwing in whatever was in her reach. Clothes, toiletries, her wand, various tools and supplies that she’d transfigured into much safer, travel-friendly form. Then she practically flew to the kitchen where she raided the place for food that wouldn’t expire--taking her father’s favorite snacks just to spite him. Then when all was said and done, she returned to the garage and grabbed her favorite form of transportation that she so rarely got to use at school--her bicycle. It was one of the first one she’d ever made magical modifications on, with tires that could change their tread depending on the terrain. All but slamming the button to open the door, she mounted the cycle and peddled off into the night as fast as possible.

Sure, it probably would have been much easier to apparate to the portkey that would take her from Ireland back to London. But for once in her life, she wasn’t going to take the fastest route possible. She was going to peddle, and push, and force out every horrible toxic thing out of her body until she was nothing but an empty, exhausted shell.

Besides, she could afford to take the time. Because now she had the summer all to herself.

#fhogself #god this should be dated back to june sorry for the lateness yall #npc: christopher