#just drowned his wrinkly old ass

[charlietheepicwriter7]

R̸̜̈́u̵̟͘t̶̺̓ḧ̵͇l̷̟̋ē̶̘s̵̨̎s̵̩͒ṋ̵̋e̵͙̐s̵̡̈́ś̸͙

Get in the Water prompt Storm alternate version Animatic Fanart

There was a spell, Constantine had explained after his own trip to the afterlife. Something to contain Danyal's soul long enough to resolve his unfinished business, to keep him still and away from the influences of his fellow dead. And if that didn't work, Constantine continued, then there were ways to force a spirit to rest. It was better for a ghost to move on by themselves, but if there was no other choice...

Damian hoped Danyal would choose to rest on his own. That he'd let him explain, finally.

Danyal had been weak. Strong in a fight, but too weak to kill, and that infuriated Damian. But he was scared more than he was angry. Because that weakness would get Danyal killed, could get Damian killed, could get the League killed. Even the newest recruits had a stronger desire to kill than Danyal.

He was the weakest link in the chain. And while their mother had taught them to be ruthless, Danyal had remained limp with mercy.

They needed Danyal's body. It would be Danyal's tie to the earth, Constantine explained as he joined them on the Batplane. The souls of the dead don't often linger on the mortal plain. The magician had speculated that the only reason Danyal had managed to manifest in the waters below Gotham was because of Damian's presence, but his remains would keep him stable this side of life for however long it took to heal his soul.

But was that even possible?

"I don't know, kid," Constantine admitted during the plane ride. "Wish I had a better answer for you, but... Your brother is a siren now. And from the sound of it? He really wants you dead."

"Then why didn't he kill me?" Damian argued. "He had hours to do it... or minutes..." The time he spent in that green world felt longer than the ten minutes Father couldn't find him, but... "He had me in his grasp and let me go. Doesn't that mean he didn't want to-"

"Have you ever heard the phrase 'Playing with your food?'" Constantine asked instead. "Sirens aren't known for letting their prey go. If we're out here, its because he wants us here."

They--Damian, Father, Constantine, Grayson, and Todd--landed in Nanda Parbat after a few hours. There was a crypt inside for members of the Al Ghul family who didn't use the Lazarus Pits. It was there Danyal's body was entombed. They would have to steal it.

And it was unfortunate that Constantine got them caught within five minutes of entry.

Damian glared daggers at the man as they were led towards the Lazarus Pit. Constantine shrugged. "What? I don't want assassins chasing after me because of some light grave robbing! Besides, we need to explain the situation anyway-"

"And what, precisely, needs to be explained?" asked a woman from inside the chamber. The heroes were pushed inside, only to see Talia Al Ghul standing where her father should have been. The Lazarus Pit hissed and boiled behind her, casing the cave in a ghoulish light.

Damian could hear laughing.

Father stepped forward. "Talia. Where's Ra's?" Grandfather was the biggest threat to their plan succeeding.

Mother... looked away, unable to meet his gaze. "I do not know. At the present moment... the Demon Head is missing."

You could hear a pin drop. "What do you mean?" Father demanded.

"It's as I said; he is missing. Yesterday, he was alone in the Pit, and hours later, no one could find him." She glanced behind her, at the waters, before looking back at them. "I had assumed he'd left to care for the League's interests. Now-" She tilted her chin up, looking down at them. "What exactly do you need to explain? What is so important that you break into my home to tell me?"

Stepping forward, Constantine explained. Mother looked grim as he spoke of Danyal, but did not interrupt. "We want to put his soul to rest. But for that, we need access to his body-"

"You dare ask for such a thing?" Mother snarled. "As if I even believe you. My son would never-"

"Your son?" Grayson snapped. "From the looks of it, you didn't care for either of your children!"

As the group descended into an argument, Damian heard laughter again, Danyal's high pitched giggle harmonizing with something deep and bone shaking. The Lazarus Pits loomed over him, beckoning him, whispering. Damian took a step towards it as his mother said, "I don't even have his body!"

"What?" Damian snapped at his mother, focusing back on the conversation. "But the crypts-"

"After your brother's murder, the Demon Head ordered for the culprit to be found. But they were never discovered." Because the culprit was Damian, he knew, and no one else ever learned about it. "I wanted to place him in the Pits immediately, but I was ordered to stay my hand until the murderer was caught. But..."

"He never was," Damian finished for her. "And then you put Danyal into the waters?"

"Yes." She closed her eyes. "And he never came back out. Even if it was too late, he'd still come back as the undead, but he never rose from the waters."

"Then this is entirely my fault."

"Finally," Danyal whispered in his ear, breath chilling his skin.

Damian did his best to ignore it. Danyal was haunting him. Danyal needed to be put to rest. If they couldn't do it Constantine's way, then they had to put him to rest another way.

Grayson looked troubled. "Robin, it's not your fault-"

"I'm the one who killed him," Damian confessed. Everyone stared at him. Grayson, horrified; Mother, blank; Father, betrayed. Damian continued, "I overheard you and Grandfather arranging a fight to the death, and I knew who would win. I couldn't... I couldn't allow Danyal to die without the Al Ghul name, in disgrace as the one who wasn't good enough. So I killed him, assassinated him, and now he's haunting me for revenge." Damian looked at the Pit. "So go ahead, Danyal."

"Damian, what are you saying?"

"Danyal wants revenge on the person who killed him; I'm giving it to him." Todd was staring at him. Damian might not be able to see past his helmet, but he could feel the respect coming off the man. "Danyal, I know you're here. Please come out." If he focused long enough, he could just making out wheezing breaths. "I can hear you, please-"

Father grabbed Damian by the shoulders. "Damian, listen to what you're saying! You're offering your life up for nothing!"

"B's right." Grayson placed a hand on his shoulder. "There's got to be another way. You don't have to do this!"

"Yes I do!" Damian ripped himself out of Nightwing's grip. "I'm the one who killed him! I'm the one at fault! My brother is suffering because of me, I have to save him-"

Stepping between them all, Mother slapped him across the face.

And the Pit's whispers fell silent.

Damian stared up at his mother, cheek throbbing with pain. She glared back. "Cease this behavior at once," she snapped. "There's no need to get so worked up over a ghost, of all thing-"

"T̴̯̃al̵̬͂ị̴̿a̵̮̕ ̵̼͐A̴̗̕l̷͈̆ ̴͚̓G̵͎̀h̷̻͒u̶̜͋l̴͍̀."

This time, everyone could hear Danyal's voice, filled with static and corrupted. Damian swallowed as his dead brother continued,

"D̸͕͠o̶̪̅ ̸͍̆ỹ̵̗ö̸̲ũ̸̧ ̶͖̚k̶̻͊ņ̸͐o̸̹̚ẘ̸̙w̷̛̹ḧ̸͚́o̷͉̅ ̵͈̑I̶̪̽ á̵̞m̶͙̂?̸̻͂"

The cavern shook as the Lazarus Pit bucked, a wave forming in the absolute center of the water. The wave rose, pillaring up above their head and brushing the ceiling. A cold wind rushed through the room and blew out the torches on the walls, leaving only embers and the occasional florescent behind. Damian braced himself for the waters to rush out and flood.

Instead, the water fell back into the pit, like it had never risen in the first place, leaving behind a lone figure in its wake.

"Danyal," Mother whispered.

And the dead boy glared back at her with pure contempt.

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dcxdp #dpxdc #so i tried to find a permanent base for the league of assassins #and discovered that the Nanda Parbat I keep seeing is only a League base in the Arrowverse? #but it's the only one I could find so here it is! #c: damian wayne #c: john constantine #c: bruce wayne #c: talia al ghul #c: danny fenton #c: danyal al ghul #get in the water au #by the way danny straight up murdered Ra's #if anyone cares #just drowned his wrinkly old ass #Sorry if Talia and Bruce seem weird #I don't know how to write them #there will probably be more but this was already over a thousand words so whatev

[sunshine-daisies-library]

Request for John b routledge: reader and John b slow dancing while talking about their future together.

older | john b. routledge x fem!reader

summary: you and john b are the only ones that remain on the dance floor. the both of you can't help but reminisce on the past and look towards the future.

warnings: she/her pronoun usage, mentions of drinking and weed, partying

You weren’t sure how much time had passed by since you started swaying in John B’s arms. All you knew was that Sarah left a little after midnight with Kiara following suit, and Pope and Cleo went home soon after. JJ, ever the partier, continued through rounds of drinks and chasers until he ultimately ended up passed out on the couch. However, you and John B. remained awake, dancing along to the soft music playing from JJ’s speaker. You were grateful JJ was too far gone to complain that you connected your phone to his speaker and played something calmer for the end of the night. 

“What’s on your mind, pretty girl?” John B. whispered softly in your ear, his hand just barely grazing your hip. 

“Nothin’” you hummed. You allowed your fingers to loosen to play with the hairs at the nape of his neck. The mere sensation sent shivers down John B’s spine, delightful and exciting all at once. 

John B. pulled away to twirl you, your giggles filling the air and drowning out the soft melody playing in the background. “Don’t lie to me, y/n,” he says with a chuckle. The conversation was light, no harm or accusatory tones being displayed. He was merely curious about what was going on in that little head of yours. “You can talk to me, always.” 

“I know,” you relent, joining back together with him. “I’m just…content, is all.” 

John B. raised an eyebrow at you, a smirk dancing along his lips. The smell of cheap beer could be smelled from his breath, and his corny Hawaiian shirt reeked of weed. You weren’t any better, though, with your bloodshot eyes and racing heart from one shot after the other with JJ. Your Converse were matted with dirt and spilled White Claws, squeaking against the beer can littered floors of his living room. It was your perfect paradise, despite everything working against the two of you. Anything was paradise with John B. and your best friends at your side. 

You finally gave into his magnetic stare, his eyes your weakness. “I don’t wanna get older,” you sighed. “I don’t want to lose all of this.” You gestured to his small shack, complete with its unwashed dishes in the sink and sticky counter covered in God knows what. 

John B. could only laugh softly at your confession. “So you want JJ to stay on his drunk ass on our couch for eternity?” he joked, swiftly dodging your punch. 

“Not that,” you whined, but you couldn’t stop your heart from flipping at the way he called this place “ours.” That is what you didn’t want to lose. “I don’t want to get all old and wrinkly to a point where you don’t wanna love me. Or too old to go on adventures with the group and dive for random shit that tourons leave behind. Or too–” 

“Slow down, n/n,” John B. cut you off. He reached for the sides of your face, his thumbs grazing your cheeks to wipe away the tears that began to form. “None of that is gonna happen,” he reassured you. “Yeah, we’re gonna get old and gross, but that’s not going to stop us from doing stupid shit.” You choked out a wet laugh at his wording. “We’re still going to take the boat out any chance we get. We’re still going to try and fail to prevent JJ from cliff diving. We’re still going to go on adventures together, and we are still going to be in love, no matter how old we get, you hear me?”

You nodded, but a pout still remained on your lips. John B dropped one hand to grab yours and kiss it softly. “We’re gonna get old,” he whispered. “And you’re gonna be my girl forever. You’re gonna wear that cocaine colored wedding dress and walk down the aisle, and I’m going to cry like a baby through it all.” 

John B. pulled you in and began swaying again. Like clockwork, you rested your cheek against his shoulder. “I’m going to get a job, and we’re going to buy a house on a hill so we don’t have to worry about our basement flooding after hurricanes. We’re going to have three kids -no, four- and you can take care of them in that house.” 

“Like a housewife?” you snorted, shaking your head in disbelief. 

John B.  dipped you carefully, a boyish smile on his face. “Well, you can do whatever you’d like,” he reasoned. “If you don’t want that, we can be a team and raise them together. I can..can be a mechanic or engineer, and you can be a teacher. Or nurse, or doctor, or whatever you want. I just want you to be happy and never stress.” 

“We can cross that bridge when we get to it,” you decided, tears dried and frown replaced by a smile. “I guess getting older isn’t too bad, then.”

“With you?” John B. questioned as the song came to an end. “It’ll be worth it all.” 

#john b routledge x reader #john b routledge #john b x reader #john b #john b fanfiction #outerbanks #obx #obx fanfiction #outerbanks fanfiction #requests #john b fluff #john b routledge imagine #john b routledge fluff

[princess-of-thebes-1995]

I feel warm thanks to friends and supporters. Especially Lemonadeicesoda. Thank you. Enjoy this drabble

You huffed in annoyance as you clung to the bath towel closer to your wet skin. Your ex Navy Seal boyfriend or whatever he was to you. He kidnapped your ass.

Norman was lifting his weights. And he was making you watch him. He said he doesn't trust you alone without his watchful eye. He makes you stay. Even chopping wood.

You knew he was bullshitting you. That millionaire set up cameras all around his mansion. And his dogs and guns were there too to prevent you from running away... Again.

You tried but you were so pathetic. Norman easily caught you without anyone's help.

You gave up running away.

The punishment of his belt gave you bad memories.

You knew Norman couldn't stay away from you. You would have gushed from his attention. But, you didn't love that psycho bastard. And you also knew that jerk was showing off his strength. As if that would make you fall in love.

You scowled. You will never love that wrinkly old man. You didn't do anything. Norman used to be blind for months. He got surgery. Then demanded you to pay him for the cost. Ironically, he didn't want money. He has more than enough. As an excuse, he said he wanted your love and companionship as his girlfriend.

Now, here you were. Broken spirited. Norman looked at your beautiful sad face in the corner of his blue eyes. He wished you would smile. But, you seemed to always hate him. He didn't mean to slap or whip you for misbehaving and giving him attitude.

He wanted to marry you and give you children. You just had to give him a chance first instead of blocking him out.

The loud thud caused you to jump. The heavy weights fell on the floor.

He was leaving his home gym early.

You were not a sports girl. You took ballet from time to time as a small hobby. And would walk and hike.

But, your beautiful yet small and flat duck feet made you a horrid swimmer. Norman was so obsessed with survival training. You wondered why

You were definitely not thinking of Joining a military branch so why would this old man force his ideals on you like a dictator? As long as you live in his mansion you will obey his rules. You don't want to live with him and he will not let you go. Hypocrite jerk.

You simply cannot swim. Your own father gave up on you. He hired teachers and you failed to understand. Even kids were better than you. Which embarrassed your dad. As a last resort before giving up, your dad threw you inside the pool like he was by his cousins when he was a kid. Your dad sadly saved your pathetic ass from drowning. He gave up.

You wondered when Norm will give up on you. But that pervert must love looking at you in a skimpy bikini.

You used to take selfies on your Instagram and just pose next to water. But you would use life jackets to have fun with your friends. Now, you are regretting your actions. You were not a social media influencer. You wanted to be important rather than an entertainer. You wanted to be a linguist. Go to East Asian villages and study ancient and dead languages in rural places that has no technology.

But, here you were a kidnapped bride. Norman luckily promised to not force himself in you. Besides hugging and kissing.

Snapping back to reality, Norman sighed. "I know you're tired. Sleep now."

He picked you up from your sitting position bridal style and walked you to the bedroom you shared with him. He made you sleep next to him. That was all.

After making you remove your wet bikini and into your silk night dress. Norman was sitting on the bed waiting for you with a brush to untangle your long wet hair.

He kissed your bare neck after finished. He tucked you in.

You blinked in confusion. He will not join you? Giving you a sad smile, Norman traced your bottom fat lips with his thumb. He declared of some computer paper he has to type which will take hours.

He leaned in and you closed your eyes and said nothing as he kissed the tip your cute nose.

"Sleep well, doll."

You watched his muscled back walk out of the luxurious room then eventually slept.

Maybe... If you allowed Norman inside your heart, your new life will not always have to be the same boring routine.

Should you give it a try?

#stephen lang #don't breathe #don't breathe 2 #norman nordstrom #yandere #yandere x reader #love #obssesion #yandere x you #fan fiction #fanfiction #fanfic

[reytaliation]

「 waste of a lovely night. — bakugou katsuki 」

‣ genre — fluff, hogwarts au

‣ w.c — 1,5k

‣ warning — explicit language

‣ synopsis — katsuki hates you for the long time feud between your families. he hates you more now that you didn’t dance with him at the yule ball. 

‣ note — this piece has been modified from one of my writings on my main blog; if you find it familiar, this is probably why. 

only the celestial bodies above can know how melancholy katsuki is. but he’s met with a sky without stars tonight. 

with his head on his elbows, lips pressed into a straight, his gaze falls from the endless canvas of darkness to the hustle and bustle of students leaving the great hall to head back to their designated dormitories. an irritated sigh. he definitely doesn’t need to know what they’re going to do for the after-party. denki used to show him an article on this peculiar machine called ‘a laptop’ that the more you sigh, the faster you age. if you keep doing shit like this to him, he’s gonna be all old and wrinkly by the time you come here. 

if you’re going to show up at all that is. 

the moment he peels his eyes away from the overcrowded main gate, a figure is shuffling themselves through their drunk quidditch teammates, sloppy couples, and burnt out professors. they dash through the empty hallways to reach the spiral staircase, skipping three steps at a time, risking the chances of falling on their face just to get to him. 

pulling yourself to a halt at the last step, you see katsuki all curled up against the balcony railings and feel a pang of guilt wash over his innards like a wave. he’s pulling your legs toward his chest, defeated eyes gazing into the space ahead while his hair falls to his face messily. like he’s gone through the depths of the fourth dimension, struggling through dark matters and a rite of divinity at the end of the line. all for you. 

he’s beautiful. 

and the amount of affection that’s piling upon your rib cage? astronomical. 

his gaze is averted away; even with a slight scowl, sloppy clothes and messed up hair, katsuki still flares radiance. you think that if a meteor shower is happening right now, he can still outshine it. “you fucking came,” he mentions coldly. 

shit. he’s a lot less scary when he’s shouting and cursing at me. 

for once, you find yourself at a loss for words. “y-yeah,” you manage to swallow. yeah? what the fuck, y/n? is that all you’ve got to say?

“i-i’m sorry, katsuki. shoto accidentally mistook one of momo’s potions for his allergy medicine so i had to take care of that before coming,” you scratch your forearm awkwardly, head hung low with guilt. “i didn’t know it would take that long…”

katsuki pushes himself up, eyes rolling to the moon. “you were too busy taking care of icy hot that you forgot about your dance partner? the champions of the tournament were supposed to be there for the first dance, you dumbass.” 

wow, jealousy stinks, he chuckles internally. how old is he? three? 

“oh don’t even pretend that you wanted to be there for the first dance,” you huff in disbelief. 

he tilts his head, smirking. “and you couldn’t find yourself a proper partner.”

“i did, and i’m afraid he owes me something.” a slow smile begins to outstretch upon your facial muscles. “a dance, i believe,” you make a thinking face while striding toward him. 

coldly, katsuki yanks his tie loose. “i fucking beg to differ.” he’s not having it, you can tell. but will you ever give up? 

“a bet is a bet, katsuki.”

your hand fishes inside the pocket of your trench coat to take out your wand. your hand delicately gives it a swift flick; once, and twice followed by a low mumble from your lips. immediately, light pulses from the tip of the wand before shooting upward, disintegrating into a million bits as though a starry night is embracing the both of you. you repeat the same action again to cast a different spell. music laces through every fiber of air without effort, like honey being poured into your ears. 

“it’s just one bet,” you pout with a hand fully extended toward him. 

you should have realized how good katsuki looks tonight. a black dress shirt that’s buttoned below appropriate, matching trench coat, silver accessories lining his fingers and ears with naturally tousled hair. he looks so gorgeous that it almost suffocates you, that it almost makes you want to hiss ‘fucking unfair’ out loud. 

enchanted by his poise and grace, your body reacts without the consent of your mind. you seize up when you unknowingly place your hand on top of his, the touch sending electricity down his spine. a simple response has become all too complicated for his brain to process. 

you grow breathless the moment he grabs you by the waist and pulls you flush against him. “let’s get this shit over with, i’m tired,” katsuki remarks sarcastically to ease his nerves. 

“look, it’s not my fault that the goblet of fire chose me to participate in the tournament,” you chuckle lowly, eyes crinkling into crescent moon shapes while he sways you to the soft melody. dots of light continue to float around weightlessly, reflecting the golden flecks in his eyes. he’s ethereal in the worst way—the way that isn’t healthy for your heart. 

katsuki soon slaps on another scowl when he realizes you just reminded him of why he’s even here in the first place. if only he weren’t so salty about slytherin winning his team over at the final quidditch match before the holiday occurs. let’s just say he wasn’t exactly in the best state of mind after getting his ass kicked in his favorite sport. 

and you wasted no time to slip in between the line of comical humor and his ultimate torment. which results in—if katsuki gets to attend the triwizard tournament , you will leave him alone for the rest of his life; but if you are the chosen one, you get a dance with him at the yule ball. 

it’s really not all that bad if you think twice about it. dancing with bakugou katsuki, the gryffindor’s quidditch team captain, the student with perfect academics and (almost perfect) conduct for six years straight.

music threads through the atmosphere and lifts away gravity. you can’t count how many times you have stepped on his toes due to nervousness because you’re too much of a coward to look him in the eye. but he’s the only thing you can seem to focus on right now. 

“also, don’t you think this is a good opportunity to get rid of the tension between us?” you ask honestly, and this causes him to perk up. 

“what the fuck are you going on about?”

lights are twinkling with every step as katsuki spins you around gently, your dress billowing out prettily as your heels click against the cold concrete. after that, he swiftly pulls you back into his arms and you exhale in relief like you were meant to be there all this time. 

“don’t play dumb, you’re terrible at it. i know the only reason why you’ve been avoiding me since first year was because of our families’ stupid grudge. ”

his eyes are cast downward for a moment, his tone grows serious. “either way, my old geezers wouldn’t like to see me talking to you. and look at what we’re doing. we’re both fucked if they found out.”

“well, they can’t just magically appear now, can they?” you lean a little closer to lock your eyes with his. 

and katsuki breaks it seconds later. “we’re attending a magic school for fuck’s sake. anything is possible.”

“did they even tell you what the actual problem was in the first place?” you huff out in faint annoyance. 

he snorts audibly. “let me humor you. i don’t think they’d even remember.”

“then would you stop giving me that look as if i just shooed your owl way every time i said ‘hi’ on my way to class? have you ever thought about my feelings? about us being civil for once? like friends? or even more so?”

“fucking hell-“ 

his heart becomes all erratic at your words. it’s nothing like those fully-fledged, tear-jerking nor cheesyass confessions that he’s gawked at one too many times, but it makes his heart flutter and stirs up those cliché butterflies inside his stomach. this can’t be compared to the yule ball—it’s even better than that. because it feels as though you and him are the only presences that graze the surface of this land. there’s no one to judge, no fingers to point, no gossip spreading like wildfire. 

it’s perfect. almost. 

“whatever you’re planning for us, it’s not gonna fucking happen. it’s not supposed to happen. it’s not possible, y/n.”

wordlessly, you stop, move both of his hands to your torso, and wrap your arms around his neck. the sound of your heartbeat against his is so in sync they just drown out the music completely. time is frozen in place, leaving him to hang on the edge with you, hanging onto this single moment as thin as the red string of fate. he’s waiting for you to do something, say something. 

just then, you crack a wry smile and pull him closer by the nape of his neck, resting your forehead comfortably on his. 

“we’re attending a magic school. anything is possible.”

#bnha #mha #my hero academia #bnha imagines #bnha x reader #bakugou katsuki imagine #bakugou katsuki #katsuki headcanons #bnha bakugo katsuki #bakugou x y/n #bakugou x reader #mha bakugou

[ricaffeine]

𝐇𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐋𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 | 𝐓𝐰𝐨

an: in conclusion i suck at writing, this took far too long to write and i'm not impressed. fingers crossed that the next chapter will make up for it 🖤

leave a comment! i'd appreciate it a lot :))

CHAPTER THREE

The doors creaked open, screeching into the frosty silent of the night, before snapping loudly against the wall. In contrast of the dark night, the full moon shined proudly, its light gently twinkled through the glass ceiling of the room.

Followed by were firm footsteps, shoe soles tapped against the hardwood floor and fainted into the distant. He collapsed onto his arm chair, a sigh of relief washing over as he shifted his weight back.

A knock was heard twice, followed by a steady pace of footsteps that visited the room. Kangtae averted his vision to the man– no, the ghost. Polished in his neat blue uniform, reflecting against the moonlight was a silver half-moon shaped pin tucked above his chest.

"Mr. Moon, you're back." His voice emitted softly as he stopped right in front of the desk- exactly four feet away– accompanying in this hotel for over seventy years– the longest person aside from Kangtae yet to stay, he had his own merits. Jin Hyun paused reluctantly, his wrinkles creasing from concern, eyes wide alert. "What happened to your hand?"

At first a bit muddled, but realization crept after him and Kangtae sighed. Glancing at his blood-clothed hand– scenarios of red winded up in his head. "Ah.. this?"

That impulsive woman.

"Just some accident." His reply was simple– like the man he was and unlike the moon guest house's previous owner, he was, you can say, far less complicated.

Kangtae peeled at his clothed hand, anticipating as the blood wrenched skin morphed back to what was before, clean flesh took back its place. "Where's Manager Lee?"

He then reached for his whiskey decanter, filling up a quarter of the lowball glass. "Isn't she back yet?"

Jinhyun hesitated. "About that, I'm afraid to tell you that there had been a major issue regarding your latest purchase. But do not worry sir, Manager Lee will inform you once she has discussed with the–"

"Tell her to take the day off tomorrow." Kangtae spoke and sipped his glass, embracing the scorching burn that drained down his chest. "I'll manage it myself."

Although struck in confusion, the old spirit knew better than to question his boss's command. Jinhyun nodded reluctantly, made sure he would address the message to the mortal being.

"It's the full moon today, so I think we are expecting many guests."

Kangtae drained his glass and set it back on the table, jaw clenched at the comment– though it was swiftly masked away with his poker face. "Open for business, but don't accept the ones whose death were so gruesome. They're a pain in the ass."

Suppressing the urge to tell him that discriminations shouldn't be allowed, instead Jinhyun bowed, no interest to provoke any further into his bitterness. "I will take special care, so they won't get in your way."

He left with another steady bow, footsteps fell into the distant and Kangtae picked on the red stained cloth that layed flat on his desk. A blue flame lit up on its end, he watched waves of blue consumed all of it, before golden ashes swirled and vanished into thin air.

One speck however, did not follow and he reached out, trapping it between his pincers.

"Ko Munyeong, what should I do with you?"

Munyeong slapped her phone shut.

Frustration built up like a ticking bomb as she threw it behind her. It landed with a loud thud, but she could care less. Yesterday's event had bittered her enough and Sangin's repeating missed calls since 6 a.m. weren't brightening her mood any better. Tires screeched against the waxed floor as she struck a sharp turn into the parking slot, the reserved for CEO sign knocked into nowhere.

In her new prized possession, Munyeong stomped through the building, brave less employees– who ever barely had the guts to look at her on a usual day, shuddered twice as much–

"Good morning Ms. Ko!" The tiny body wiggled its way to block her off. A weary smile is served from Sangin's pesky assistant.

"Move aside."

Seungjae shuffled, hands suspiciously frantic as she spoke. "Mr. Lee just informed me that he will be here soon–"

Munyeong hissed. "And?"

"..And that you should go wait in his office." She finished meekly, unsure of her tone.

"Why would I wait there?" She pointed her finger foward. "The meeting room is right here."

Not intrigued for her reply, Munyeong nagged the girl's shoulder, rather she'd figure it out herself.

"Move."

She strolled across, then paused within her pace, eyes captivated by a figure. Leaning onto the metal rail, Prada purse dangling in the air, she hummed in her own favor.

Ah. Him again.

"What a sight." Munyeong said as she stepped down in her extravagant red mini dress, ballooned sleeves cuffed tight at her wrists, a plunging neckline where she proudly presents her new gold necklace. True to her words, he appeared just as fine. Black slacks– which to her favor, did an incredible job in displaying his godly thighs. Cuffed sleeves of his button up accentuated his broad broad shoulders, and the spectacular waistcoat that hugged his chest.

"You look more dashing in these clothes."

The man teared his eyes away from The Witch's Rose– another of her cash-claiming pieces. A work of watercolors and actual blood splayed onto the canvas, everyone who has seen it ends up in complete awe.

However his gaze was not purely admiration, rather laced with criticism– certainly something she never enjoyed from anyone. But there are some exceptions for some specific people, aren't they?

"I thought you were different, but I was obviously wrong." She crossed her arms. "How much did he offer you?"

His voice was rough, almost coarse even. "If you can't talk politely, at least try to not be so cryptic."

"Ah. Look at you talking so casually."

Munyeong raised her chin and barged into his space, weaklings would have already shown signs of discomfort, but surprisingly he was remarkably unbothered. She dragged a finger along his shoulder, the curve of his skin firm beneath her touch, and tapped his bicep. "I practically stabbed you."

He swiveled around, this time his body directly faced hers. "What about it?"

"How much did Mr. Lee offer you to compensate and make sure your mouth stays shut?"

A short spur of silence fell before he let out an cocky ahh. "I'm guessing that method always works."

Her smile dropped. "Verbal consolation is bullshit, money is best."

"You really think so?"

She shrugged. "Then what do you want?" Eyes wide as she suggested. "Sex?"

In a swift moment he had drowned closer to her. His gaze burned at her, brushing at her lips and froze. "Is it worth that much?"

Admittedly he was good at getting on her nerves. Too good, though she'd never lose to anyone, including him. Munyeong let out a scoff.

"If you're not here for money nor sex, then what do you want?

He cocked his head slightly, his prominent eyes playing innocent and for a second Munyeong forgot that they were bickering. "A refund?"

A snap back to reality, her face laced with confusion. "What refund?"

He dodged her question and looked over her shoulder. "Ah. There it comes."

She turned around to see a Sangin entering with a box of not-so-secret cash in his hands.

"Good afternoon Mr. Moon Kangtae. I deeply apologize for what happened, what can we do–"

As usual, meetings with her always began with Sangin's devastated face– knowing all the trouble she is going to cost him– but today it did seem particularly worse.

Kantae lifted his hand, as if it was a sign to stop. "Let's cut to the chase– I want my money back."

Sangin's smile dropped, though immediately replaced by his appealing mask. "Yes, I understand–"

Kangtae stared at Munyeong, a smirk rising on the corner of his lips. "Including our little incident, I say it'd be 11 million."

Tragically, Munyeong had not noticed by the consequence of the appalling numbers. She snapped at the man to her side. "What the hell is he talking about?"

Sangin sighed. "Munyeong-ah, you see.. your little smashing session. It had wrecked The Nightmare Garden, therefore, we will have to repay our client. Mr. Kangtae is here to–"

Client?

Her eyes shot at him again, impossibly wider. "What do you mean client? Then who was that snobby lady?"

"Ms. Lee is my representative." Kangtae stepped in. "But it doesn't matter. The fact that you jeopardized my painting with that cheap wine-"

"I'm not giving up my money!"

"Well, there's nothing you can do." He smiled– devilishly and yes Munyeong would kill to wipe it off his charming face.

"You'll be hearing from my lawyers in a few days." Kangtae reached for his box of honey money, which was sheepishly handed from Sangin. "Until then, I'll take this."

With another amused– and irritatingly handsome smile, and piles of cash he headed off. Left in silence was a raging pit of fire and its hopeless manager.

Three hours and seven corspe employees later, Munyeong crumbled the paper cup in her hand. Furious was an understatement. How could she give her money back to him? She was set, eyes on her prize but just like a fucking clownery it vanished into thin air.

"Aish Moon Kangtae, that bastard." Munyeong trampled at the crumbled trash, letting out on a slice of her frustration. It was his choice to interfere with her, no one forced him to.

"Oh my my, you're a such a pretty girl." A squeaky voice giggled, penetrating into her quiet atmosphere.

She glanced at the lady, head to toe. Dressed in a horrifying shade of hot pink. Her frail grey hair was topped by a floppy hat- also in the same absurd color. She seemed to fond pearls, as it was accented everywhere, including on wrinkly her fingers where she had slotted a card in between. "Mr. Kangtae had asked me to pass this to you."

Her high-pitched voice rang like bells as she added. "He also said that he'd be willing to compromise, if' you go visit his hotel."

Munyeong raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

With a delighted smile, the lady nodded along and Munyeong promptly snatched it, ambiguous eyes interpreted onto the cursive blue lettering.

"Hotel.. Blue Moon?"

A condescending smile played on her lips. More so amused by the piece of paper and unaware of the soft breeze that swept past her.

Fine. If he wants to play with her, she'll play with him.

#it's okay to not be okay #psycho but it's okay #iotnbo #pbio fic #kdrama #kim soohyun #seo yeaji #hotel moon light #hotel blue moon #moon kang tae #moon gang tae #ko mun yeong #사이코지만괜찮아 #호텔 델루나

[that-one-girl-behind-you]

Illicio 16/?

Part 15

"Compel me, then. Ask." Martin looks at him in the eye, and Jon averts his gaze almost immediately.

"I wouldn't. Not to you," he mumbles.

"Then you'll have to take me at my word, I suppose." Martin gestures to the door. "Please."

"...Martin, I'm so sorry."

Stab the knife in. Twist it. Anything it takes.

"I'm not." Martin's heart aches, but it feels cold and far away, like everything else.

XVI

Gerry closes the door to Jon's office with a pleased smile, pushing his hair back into place.

"I must admit-" Tim says, immediately souring Gerry's mood. He's sitting behind a desk with his feet up on it, looking at him with a thoughtful frown. "I've known him for seven years, and I never thought I'd see the day he'd have a make out session in his office."

"Well, you never finish getting to know people. Did you need anything?" Gerry arches an eyebrow.

"Is Melanie going out with you today?" Tim asks, and Gerry scowls.

"How is that any of your business?"

Tim rolls his eyes, swinging his legs off the desk and climbing to his feet. "Apparently it's my business because Martin had to save your sorry ass from the hunters the other day, and now we have to have a buddy system, so thank you for that."

Oh. Oh, no.

It suddenly makes a lot of sense, why Jon pulled him back for a last, heavier kiss. Gerry feels like he's been had, and he somehow knows if he were to march back into the office to ask for an explanation, he would find an empty room.

"I don't need a babysitter, Stoker, and I definitely don't want you around meddling in my investigations." Gerry turns to head for the door, gritting his teeth when Tim comes to stand before him again. "Did Jon put you up to this? Because-"

"Don't be stupid." Tim snorts. "I couldn't care less about him-"

Gerry rolls his eyes. "Why don't you try selling that one to someone who didn't see you vaporize Manuela Domínguez?"

"-but Martin cares that you don't get killed, for some reason." Tim speaks louder to cover Gerry's words. "So you're going to have to suck it up, because I'm coming with you whether you like it or not."

Gerry crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back against Melanie's desk. "You have no idea how close I am to killing you every time you speak, Stoker."

"Why don't you try selling that to someone who doesn't know how whipped you are, Keay?" Tim's grin turns smug and he leans forward. "You can't touch me."

Gerry has to remind himself really quickly that decking him in the face wouldn't even bring the satisfaction of breaking something, and worse: it would make both Martin and Jon angry at him. It should be a relief, really, that Martin has a friend as dedicated to him as Tim.

It probably would be, if said friend wasn't this much of an asshole.

"Oh, they know you. They'll forgive me." Gerry narrows his eyes. "I just need to find a good excuse."

"So! Where are we going today, pal?"

-------------------------------------------------------------

The door to the office opens silently, and Jon has a spare moment to be impressed at Daisy’s handiwork again.

The room is both empty and silent, and Jon feels a pang of pain when he realizes Martin isn't... Gerry has been by the flat a couple times -much to Tim’s annoyance-, but there’s no sign of him other than the thick fog that seems to linger in any space Martin has claimed as his own.

“Martin?” he calls out softly; the fog swirls in tantalizing spirals, disturbed both by the open door and his passage through it and gathered more thickly around the imposing mahogany desk. “A- are you here?”

There is no answer; the dense fog drifts away from the desk like pushed by an unseen wind. Jon sighs. He could- he could call on the Eye. Nothing should be hidden from him, here at his place of power. He could See Martin, no matter how tight a grasp the Lonely has on him.

“But you don’t want me to See you, do you?” he mutters, more to himself than to the flaky idea of Martin’s presence. “This is- It wouldn’t be fair to intervene just because I miss you. I- I trust you’ll let me know if you need me.”

He turns away then, because Martin’s memory bites at his core like a rabid dog.

It feels like he last saw him was an eternity ago, instead of just two months or so. It has occurred to Jon before that they don’t work on the same time as the rest of the world anymore. Theirs is a time measured not in minutes, but in losses.

“Enough. I- that’s enough.” A tape recorder clicks to life somewhere in the office, and Jon smiles, grateful. “Yes, thank you. Just… just a slip.”

He feels like a magnet that is facing the wrong pole, as he begins moving across the office.

Something in his chest pulls at him when he takes a step in a direction it doesn’t like; the desk calls at him, no doubt full of statements and tapes the Eye considers inoffensive. When he moves towards the stationary cabinet by the corner of the room, it feels like his feet weigh a ton each, like the floor has become sticky and viscous and unwilling to let him go. Jon closes his eyes; maybe it’ll help if he doesn’t see where he’s going?

When he opens them again he’s standing at the threshold, facing the corridor.

“Harder than I thought…” Jon mutters under his breath, before turning to the office. At least he knows he’s on the right track now.

‘What are you looking for?’

“What am I looking for?” Jon mutters to himself, before he turns towards the cabinet again. “It’s there, isn’t it? The thing you don’t want me to see.”

‘There’s nothing in there. Just old papers, and some tapes.’

Jon nods. “Yes. Yes, that’s what I need.” Or that’s what the Eye doesn’t want him to have, and if Gerry’s right, that’s exactly what he should be trying to get.

It feels like a year before Jon takes the last of the ten steps that separate the door from the cabinet, and he pulls the doors open like they weigh a ton each. They slide noiselessly on their hinges, revealing the filing boxes full of yellowed paper, and a single cardboard box bull of shiny black tapes.

Jon’s hand hovers over them for an eternity before he shoves it in with a clatter of plastic against plastic. It comes back out with a tape held tightly in its grip, and for a moment Jon thinks of fishing birds, diving in from hundreds of feet in the air to catch unsuspecting prey.

’Is that what you wanted?’

“Yes. This- this is the one I wanted. The one I need.” Jon feels a surge of dark triumph looking at the unassuming tape. Whatever could be so important that the Watcher is so desperate to keep from-

The tape slips from Jon’s left hand, but his right comes to catch it awkwardly; his burned fingers twitching and spasming as his whole hand cramps in pain, and for a moment Jon is afraid he’s going to drop it in the pile again and lose it forever.

The doors to the cabinet swing closed with a slam.

Jon jumps back a little, giving the room another once-over. It looks just as empty as before, swirling fog and unfinished paperwork on the desk.

“...Martin?” he asks again, a little more hopeful this time. Maybe the office was never empty, maybe… He takes a step towards the desk. Is he imagining the scent of tea, the sound of rustling footsteps echoing his own? “Martin, are you here?”

’You need to leave, Jon.’

He does, doesn’t he? His hands want to let go of the tape, to chuck it out the window and hope a car runs over it and turns it into a million pieces. Whatever it contains, it’s dangerous, and he needs to hear it. The faster he does it, the better.

Before he closes the door behind himself, he gives the desk another look. He could swear there’s a figure profiled in the fog, but then again his wistful thinking has gotten the best of him before.

-------------------------------------------------------------

"You must be Martin then," says a clearly amused voice as he closes the door to the office, without locking it, because apparently that's as unnecessary as it is useless. "I must say, Peter definitely wasn't exaggerating."

Martin heaves a long-suffering sigh. He shouldn't have come today. The thought that Tim or Gerry would look for him at the flat was really the only thing that kept him from staying there.

Jon's visit last morning left him shaken, and he's been trying to call the Lonely back ever since without great results to speak of. It's a bit impressive how loving can complicate things so much, even when Martin is only faintly aware of what loving means anymore. A little like watching trees shake under a stiff breeze, but not feeling anything against his skin.

"Well, there's no need for that." The man chuckles when Martin finally lifts his gaze to him. He's old, is the first thing Martin thinks. Wrinkled and either extremely short or hunched over by age, the only thing suggestive of life is the glint of mischief in his sky-blue eyes. "I'm merely visiting, I'll let you go back to trying to drown in your own misery in just a minute, see?"

"Who are you again?" Martin arches an eyebrow. Manners are an effort he's not willing to make right now.

"Ah, of course. I forgot, my apologies." The man extends a small, wrinkly hand that Martin looks at pointedly for a few moments, before it's retracted. "Should've known, I suppose. Simon Fairchild, I trust you've heard of me?"

Martin has, a lot. Perhaps in the past the name would've been enough to scare him. Now he just stares at him warily, and feels the fog curl around him almost protectively.

"What are you doing here?" Martin asks. "I told Peter I didn't need any more convincing. I believe him."

"Do you?" Simon's eyes spark with something that reminds Martin of years ago, when Sasha -not Sasha, never Sasha, probably- teased him about a crush over the rim of a cup of coffee.

"Does it matter?"

"I rather think that's up to you, don't you?" Simon leans against the wall across from him, tapping his cane against his thigh. His entire posture is like a tightly coiled spring, ready to bounce into action at any moment with an energy disproportionate to his age. "But no. I was brought in as an impartial judge, so to speak. Wagers can get messy, between those two."

Martin sighs again, feeling the start of a migraine blossoming behind his eyes and yearning for the cool, soft embrace of the fog. "Listen, I have no idea what you're talking about. Please just say your piece and go."

"Hmmm I suppose that was it, if you look at it purely in terms of what Peter asked. You're well and truly taken, aren't you?" The man's fingers tap impatiently against the length of the polished cane. "Humor an old man, if you will. Since you're apparently convinced of Peter's little theory, what do you make of it?"

"I didn't take you for someone who'd care." Martin thinks back at the paperwork he's been completely useless at finishing ever since Jon stumbled in yesterday, and he's suddenly struck by the futility of it. Will anyone even mind if he doesn't finish it? If he fades away and leaves behind only the slight scent of humidity and salt on the half filled forms?

"Oh, I don't. Not really." Simon grins when Martin looks up at him again. "But it makes for good conversation, and I find that corralling you lonely folk into idle chat is very amusing."

"Hm. What do you want to hear, then?" Martin shrugs. "There is another fear, and it's apparently bigger and meaner than the ones we already have, because that's just what we need it seems."

"That just about covers it."

"I guess my only question is... why is Peter the only one that seems interested in stopping it?" Martin scowls. The question has been fluttering around in his mind for a while now, a remnant of his connection to the Eye probably. "I get that Elias doesn't believe him, but you apparently do. Why don't you care?"

"I'm afraid I don't really care for anything at all, lad, not really." Simon shrugs with an unapologetic smile. "Nothing, no one really matters in the end, does it? We're merely... pieces. Insignificant in the face of the great, grand everything."

"That's a very lonely way of thinking."

"The overlap again, I suppose. Our patrons aren't really that different, don't you think Martin?"

"My question stands. If the Lonely wants to stop this new fear-"

"You're presuming an awful lot there." Simon gives him a knowing grin."I hardly think the Lonely wants to stop anything. This is all Peter's endeavor. And yours, of course."

"Mine." Martin sighs.

"Don't think the irony's lost on me, by the way. Two followers of the Forsaken, trying to save the world? You can't write a joke like that."

Martin arches an eyebrow. "What's the punchline?"

"Why, that no matter how much your entire existence is based around not caring, you very much do, it seems."

Martin rolls his eyes, shaking his head. "I used to." And he did, didn't he? Simon is not entirely wrong, it's a dark, bitter joke that Martin chose to sacrifice his humanity out of love. Is he still doing this for that reason, or is he just going along with it now because there's really nothing else to do anymore? With the fog wrapped so tightly around him that he can't see further than a step ahead, is there even a path to deviate from anymore?

"Martin?" Gerry's voice washes over him like a pail of cold water, and Martin flinches. The man is frozen at the end of the corridor, no doubt on his way to the office to try and wrest him out of the Forsaken again. His eyes are narrowed in suspicion as they jump from him to Simon, and Martin tenses a bit more. "Everything alright?"

"And you must be Peter's little headache." Simon's face lights up in delight.

"Simon Fairchild." Gerry doesn't really ask, stepping up to the two of them with steady, confident footsteps. Martin remembers quite abruptly that he too is a creature of the Eye, and this is very much his home turf. "What are you here for?"

"You're not the slightest bit intimidated, are you?" Simon chuckles. Martin's ears pop, and he focuses on Gerry's hand squeezing his arm to ignore the sudden nausea. "I can see why Peter is so annoyed with you."

"I'm flattered." Gerry says dryly. "Need me to show you the way out? I'm sure Martin needs to get back to work."

"Hm… I was planning on just leaving, but I suppose it's always good to stockpile on favors." Simon's eyes glint mischievously again as he pushes off the wall. It's sudden reminder that he's not merely a kooky old man having fun at Martin's expense.

"I'm sure Simon can find the exit by himself, actually." Martin says firmly, taking a step forward. Whatever is Gery thinking anyways, squaring up to Simon Fairchild himself? He has to have heard of him, he has to know how insanely dangerous he is. "And I think we're done with our chat, too."

Simon being on Peter's side probably means he will not hurt Martin, but he somehow doubts Gerry will be granted the same courtesy.

"See what I mean?" Simon chuckles. "Can't write a joke like that."

Martin rolls his eyes, but at least the man is focused on him. He takes another step to position himself firmly between the two of them. "You've seen whatever it was Peter wanted you to see, haven't you?"

"And a bit more too. Just a delightful conversation, if I do say so myself." The tip of the cane taps against the polished hardwood floors, one, two, three. "Hope to have another one soon. Have a nice evening, Martin."

He walks away then without sparing them another look, with the familiarity of one who's traversed these corridors countless times.

"Don't forget to close the window." Gerry says in a low grunt, and Martin rounds on him.

"Shut up." Martin snaps. "What were you thinking?"

Gerry arches a pierced eyebrow, his eyes unimpressed. "Unbelievably stupid, huh? Just up and having a chat with an avatar of the Vast. Can't think why anyone would-"

"Oh, cut it." Martin rolls his eyes. "What do you want?"

It takes a moment, but Gerry seems to deflate. "I wanted to check on you. Maybe ask you to call Tim off."

"Yes, because this really convinced me you don't need someone to keep you out of trouble."

"Implying Tim is not trouble." Gerry snorts. His lips remain curled in something that can't quite be called a smile, but almost the suggestion of one. "You're looking a bit more like yourself."

"...I guess I am." Martin sighs; his hands look a bit less blurred, and he guesses the rest of him does too. "That's not necessarily a good thing."

"It is in my books." Gerry shrugs. "Do you- should I leave?"

Martin arches an eyebrow. "Are you really asking for my opinion on the matter?"

Gerry's smile comes in full now, and it's blinding. It's easy to see why Jon fell in love with him; they deserve each other.

"I had to at least pretend, didn't I?"

-------------------------------------------------------------

"Is that the same tape you've been staring at since yesterday?" Helen asks, her voice echoing curiously from somewhere in Jon's desk.

His mouth twitches into a smile, and he pulls the drawer open to see Helen's face peeking out from the bottom-turned-door. "Have you been watching me?"

Helen gives him a sharp smile, all fractured, amused angles. "Isn't that what one does here?"

"I suppose." Jon nods simply. There is not much that can be done to stop Helen from popping in wherever she wants to, really. One just has to deal with her; at least she's noticeably less prone to stabbing than her predecessor.

"Well, why haven't you listened to it?"

"Someone doesn't want me to, I think."

"Which one?" Helen asks, and Jon gives it a moment's thought.

He doesn't not want to listen to the tape, which probably takes the Mother of Puppets off the equation. Instead, it feels like every particle in his body -a body that he's very aware was kept from death by the Beholding- is recoiling at the idea of pressing that button. Perhaps it would be easier, Jon thinks, if he hadn't allowed himself to change this far.

"The Eye, I think. Whatever's in there, it doesn't particularly want me to know."

"I thought the tapes were yours." Helen hums thoughtfully; it's several frequencies and rhythms at the same time, and Jon feels the beginnings of a headache start to pound at his temples.

"They are," Jon says. 'But I am the Eye's,' he doesn't add. It's not something he wants to declare. Not something he wants to call. His patron already has much too tight a grip on him without him declaring allegiance.

"Hm. Well, you only had to ask, dear." Helen grins.

A long fingered hand climbs its way out of the drawer like a flesh-colored spider, and Jon can't help but to snort in amusement. This is probably the only thing the entities could never plan ahead for.

"Thank you, Helen," he says as a too-sharp finger presses down on the play button, before the hand retreats back into the drawer.

"My pleasure." Helen's laughter echoes around the inside of the drawer as it slides shut on its own.

'Right. No use putting it off further.' Gertrude's voice is dry and businesslike as usual, and something in Jon immediately screams for him to throw himself against the tape, stop it.

This is the traitor, who never called herself the Archivist but used their powers to her own gain. The one that sought knowledge not to add to the Archives but to destroy the delicate balance of the entities, to sow war and destruction under the banner of the Eye in hopes of painting a target at its core. This is the one that hurt his Gerry, left him behind like a broken toy, bound into painful non-existence. This is the Enemy, turn it off!

Jon doesn't. Instead, he focuses on his predecessor's words to fend off the Eye's insidious whispers.

'And so Eric Delano ended.'

Oh.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Click.

"Oh. Hi." Martin lifts the stack of papers to reveal the tape recorder waiting underneath. "You know? I've always wanted to catch one of you on the move. I put those papers there ten minutes ago and you weren't under them." He taps the tape recorder like one would boop a cat's nose, and the device clicks contentedly.

It's been... an odd week. Between Jon's visit, having to actually speak to Tim to convince him of keeping an eye on Gerry, and then Gerry himself coming to try and pick a fight with Simon, he's feeling like he's standing with a foot on each side of the line.

The Lonely still has its hooks in him, enough so that Martin wants it back, but not enough that he can actually walk in and out of it like he did when the Hunters were threatening Gerry.

"Is that what you're here for? Do you want me to talk about my state?" he asks the recorder. "That's really the only thing I've got now. No new statements, no-"

A suspicion starts taking shape in his mind, and he narrows his eyes. "Peter? Are you-" The door to the office flies open, and Martin jumps back and to his feet, heart hammering in his chest. "Who-?!"

"Martin?" Jon all but trips his way to the desk, and Martin takes him in with a concerned look. His face looks ashen, his lips almost white; his hair is a mess, like he's been running his hands through it, and his hands themselves are shaking. His eyes are wide and frantic, halfway through going back to his natural color and swimming with something as he looks up at Martin. "I- it's great you're here, I-"

"If you're going to break into my office on the regular, I preferred the other way." Martin snaps; his heart's still racing, and he can feel the Lonely trying to pull him back.

"The other- oh. So you were here. I- I thought I heard your voice, I- I followed it instead of the Eye."

"Jon-"

"Right. Right, I- sorry for startling you. It wasn't my intention." He looks a bit lost now, like the wind has been taken from under his sails, like he hadn't planned as far as finding him here. His gaze has always held weight, but as his eyes run over his face Martin feels like he's standing under a spotlight. "I- I've missed you."

Martin winces, the three words imbued with a meaning he doesn't know how to process.

"Jon-"

His eyes burn on Martin's skin. Is this how his victims feel, or is the fear of being wanted different from the fear of being known?

Jon reaches a still shaky hand towards him. "I'm- I know what you said, I- I trust you. I know you know what you're doing and Martin, you-"

"Jon, what do you want?" This way is easier. It hurts, but he has to send him away. For his own good; for everyone's.

His hand drops, but Jon's eyes are still glued to his face like Jon's afraid if he stops looking for a single second, Martin will fade away.

"I think I found a way for us to leave the Institute."

"...What?" is all Martin can force out, his brain screeching to a halt. "Jon, what-"

"Gerry's father, he- he quit the Institute Martin. We could do it too." Jon sidesteps the desk, unsteady on his feet, just unsteady in general. Martin's mind is still trying to process the words.

"I- Gerry's father used to work here?"

"Martin, you're not listening!" Jon's hands clamp around his wrists, and Martin's mouth clips shut so fast he nearly bites his tongue off. "We could- we could leave."

"But- Jon, how?" The Beholding is not like the Lonely, you can't keep it at bay by being around other people, if anything that makes it worse. There will always be fear and suffering around, and as long as you can see it-

Oh. Oh, shit.

"...You're joking," Martin breathes out. It's the only thing that makes sense, because otherwise Jon would be suggesting-

"It's... I realize it's pretty drastic, but-"

"It is! Have you- did you tell the others or-"

"Uhm... n- not really." Jon's grip falters, like the breath has been punched out of him. "You're the first."

"I'm- why?" Martin asks. Perhaps the fact that he thinks he knows the answer is the scariest thing of them all.

"I thought-" just like that, Jon's hands drop from his wrists. "We could leave here, Martin."

"I- this is too much, where- Gerry, where is he?" Martin stutters out. He'll know if this is real, if it would work. He's been in this world for far longer than any of them and-

"He's by St. Paul's, with Melanie" Jon responds almost immediately, and even just the thought of Gerry seems to be enough to ground him a little. "They haven't found the Corruption book yet. They're- they're coming back now, but they're thinking of stopping for food."

"Stopping for- Jon he doesn't know?!" Martin runs a hand through his hair. All the fog is gone from the room, and dear lord, how he misses it. "Jon, what were you thinking?! Gouge your eyes out and just leave him to find you?"

"I haven't- he wasn't here," Jon mutters, averting his gaze. "Martin, it doesn't- Gerry's not tied to the Institute, he's tied to me-"

"Yes, by the Eye!" Martin snaps. "What, you think it's going to let you keep him after you do this?!"

"I-"

"A-and then what? Is he just- what is he going to do? Just... take care of two blind men for the rest of his life? That isn't fair, not without asking him!"

"What is the alternative, then?" Jon cuts in, and when Martin finally looks down at him, he looks positively devastated, the eyes of a drowning man that sees a ship take the wrong turn. "What are we going to do, Martin?"

"... Don't do this, Jon," Martin sighs, and Jon flinches back like he's been slapped. "I can't- don't make it my choice. I can't choose for- for you, for him."

"Martin-"

"Could you even survive at this point? Because- because if you die, he dies too. Have you thought about it?"

And what if he did? What if Jon did think about it, and he decided he'd rather be free, even if it meant not living? If everything Martin has done is for nothing, because saving the world has absolutely no meaning if Jon's not in it? If-

"Martin?" Jon's voice has a broken quality to it when it reaches him, and Martin opens his eyes -when did he close them?- to find that oh, the fog is back. "Martin, don't- please don't go."

"Please leave, Jon."

"I- What?"

Yes. This... this feels better. Even the heartbreak is numbed. What does it matter if Jon leaves him behind, if he's always been alone? If he wants to be?

"Peter is bound to come back soon, Jon. I'd much rather he doesn't find you here." Martin exhales, and mist breezes past his lips.

"I don't care. Martin, please- come and talk to Gerry with me. We can- we'll figure something out, we will."

"You made me a promise, Jon." Martin looks towards the door. "You said you trusted me."

"A- and I do! You know that, but Martin, I- we could go. Together, please-"

"I don't think it's something I want anymore." Martin shrugs. "And you need to respect that. I thought you'd moved on with him, I thought you'd leave me alone."

"Is- I don't believe it. I can't believe that's what you want." Jon's voice is soft like the caress of the fog on Martin's skin. This is it. This is- he could make him leave. Maybe forever, and if this crazy self-mutilation plan of his is right, maybe, just maybe, he will be safe.

"Compel me, then. Ask." Martin looks at him in the eye, and Jon averts his gaze almost immediately.

"I wouldn't. Not to you," he mumbles.

"Then you'll have to take me at my word, I suppose." Martin gestures to the door. "Please."

"...Martin, I'm so sorry."

Stab the knife in. Twist it. Anything it takes.

"I'm not." Martin's heart aches, but it feels cold and far away, like everything else.

-------------------------------------------------------------

Jon is antsy.

It would be obvious even if Gerry couldn’t taste the anxiety in the quiet 'Thank you' that Jon gives after he helps him out of his coat. They usually talk on the way home, but this evening went by with Gerry narrating his and Melanie's hunt for the Corruption book to a mostly silent Jon.

It's... it's alright, he decides as he goes into the bathroom for a shower. Jon promised not to lie to him; if it's something he needs to know, then he trusts he will tell him. He's pretty much forgotten about it by the time he comes out in a cloud of steam, his hair still pinned up on a loose bun to keep it out of the way and wearing a loose t-shirt comfortable enough to sleep in.

Still, his stomach falls to the ground when a pair of arms come to wrap around his middle as he stands before the kitchen counter, brewing himself a cup of coffee.

"I'm here," Gerry says before Jon can even voice a question, because that's what matters. Anything else they can fix together. "What's bothering you? Did- is everything alright with Martin?"

Jon's forehead comes to rest between his shoulder blades, and Gerry lays a hand over Jon's tangled fingers on his stomach.

"Nothing is alright with Martin. But this- I- this is not about him."

"Then?" Gerry asks, even though he's got pretty clear feeling of who it is about. Jon shifts behind him to reach up and press a kiss on the back of his neck. "Jon-"

"I stole a tape from the Institute."

Gerry scowls. "I hardly think you can steal something that's yours, Jon."

"I'm- this one is not mine." Jon's arms tighten around him, and Gerry runs soothing circles with his thumb over the burn-smooth knuckles. "I- I think you should listen to it."

"Is it about me?" Is it about someone he couldn't save?

Jon steps back, and waits until Gerry's turned to face him to tentatively brush a hand against his.

"It's- it's a Gertrude tape." Oh. Well, those are never easy. Gertrude is still a can of worms Gerry doesn't dare look too deeply into, she- "She's calling your father from the book."

Gerry freezes.

The words echo around in his mind as he tries to connect them in a way he can process, in a way that he can deal with. How come his chest feels so heavy when there's not a heart in there?

"I'm- s- so he was in there after all," he says. His voice sounds strained, and he clears his throat, his gaze stubbornly fixed on Jon's collarbone. "I always wondered."

Jon says nothing, simply looks over to the little breakfast table tucked in against a corner. A single tape recorder waits there, like a miniature coffin containing the only remains of a man he never knew.

"How did you find it?" Gerry asks, and fuck, his voice is hoarse again. "I- did it come to you?"

"The- I went into Martin's office yesterday after you left. It- I was looking for things the Eye didn't want me to see." Jon's free hand comes to rest at Gerry's hip, and Gerry can feel his gaze on him, trying to catch his eye. "You don't have to listen to it if you don't- I can tell you what he-"

"No," Gerry blurts out so suddenly it startles even himself. "I'm- I'll do it. "

"Would- I can leave if you want me to. I'll wait at the living room, or- please look at me?" Jon's voice sounds thin, almost begging, and Gerry shuts his eyes for a second just to get his bearings, before opening them again.

"I'll- stay. Please."

Jon nods once, firmly. Gerry can't help but to marvel at the thought that all he needed to do was ask for what he wanted for Jon to do it. That Jon won't think he's weak for it.

The tape recorder still looks deceptively harmless when they come to sit at the table. Gerry lifts a hand to it, and is quietly surprised at how steady it is; is all the chaos confined only to his head?

"I'm here," Jon whispers by his side when he hesitates over the button. Gerry nods. It's- that's all that matters.

Click.

-------------------------------------------------------------

His father sounds like him, is all Gerry can think for the first few minutes.

Not- not exactly like him of course, but enough that if you heard them talk closely after the one another, you'd know they were related. There's a similar cadence to their words, a rhythm in the way they start their sentences, and- Jon's hand wraps around his again, and Gerry abruptly remembers to pay attention to the actual words being said.

'You should've seen what she did to my body afterwards.'

Ah.

It's... he's known she killed him for a long time, but the confirmation still hurts a little. Would his life have been any different if he'd found the page himself? Maybe a little less lonely.

'So why did she give me to you?'

'I- I don't know. She seemed to think it was a gift.'

Gerry doesn't think he ever heard Gertrude sound so dubious, so lost. Not the woman that strolled into Pinhole Books and single-handedly got rid of his mother, the one who took him around the globe with her, hunting avatars, stoping rituals.

He misses her, he thinks with a full sort of ache in his chest. What is it that Eric -his father- just said? Aware of the heartbreak, but not really feeling it.

'So? What did they not want me to know?' Gertrude asks in the tape, and Gerry's lips curl into a bitter smirk. Of course she wouldn't like to be kept in the dark. It's poetic, really.

'I quit.'

Everything in Gerry's mind comes to a screeching halt at those words. It's- you can't quit the Institute, he Knows that. The Beholding has its chosen tied to its place of power more tightly than any other entity.

But... but then why was the Eye so determined to not let Jon find this tape? If- if there's a way to get him out, to get Melanie and Martin out-

'I want you to find my son. If Mary is- if she's gone, or worse, I want you to make sure he's alright.'

...Oh.

"Turn it- turn it off," he blurts just as Gertrude concedes that he might be useful. "Jon-"

"Ger- are you alright?" The tape clicks to a sudden stop, and Gerry realizes he's closed his eyes only when he has to open them again to look at Jon. "I'm-"

"Gertrude knew." The words weigh like two lead blocks placed over his chest. He takes as deep a breath as he can, though it comes in shaky as he pushes his chair away from the table and leans on his knees, burying his face in his hands. "All that time- she knew what happened to him. And she never told me."

What else is new? She moved him across a board she never allowed him to see. You're not supposed to ask questions, Gerard, you don't want to lean more into the Beholding than you already are, do you?

"Gerry, I'm-" Jon chair screeches against the floor when he stands from it to crouch before him, his face framed by the long black curtains of Gerry's hair. His hands stop a few inches short of reaching him; Jon hasn't hesitated to touch him for a while now, but teetering on the edge of a breakdown would do it, Gerry guesses. "Gertrude-"

"Don't. Please don't talk about her," Gerry interrupts, because he's not sure if Jon's words will be attacking or excusing Gertrude, and he can't for the life of him work out which he'd rather hear less.

"I won't, I'm- sorry." Jon's hands finally come to rest at his knees and he stays there immobile, just staring up at him like Gerry's all that's ever existed. He gets the odd, dispassionate thought that not many beings have been looked at this intensely by an Archivist and felt reassured instead of terrified. "I'm- I'm here."

"She never- I knew she'd known my father. I found a photograph of her old team, with Michael and Emma and h- but she never-" Gerry tries for another deep breath, but it feels like no air is actually going into his lungs, and he shoots to his feet so abruptly Jon almost topples back. "She was the last person to see him. She- she went to find me because he asked her to."

It's infuriating, to feel gratitude towards a man he never knew. To grieve a voice in a tape without the slightest hint of what Eric- what his father was really like.

He's aware he's been pacing the room only when he stops, his back thumping harshly against the wall because at least physical pain is something he knows how to deal with. Jon comes to sit by his side when he slides down to the floor, like that day at the Institute so long ago when Jon got marked by the Flesh.

"He loved her." Gerry's voice is heavy and slow, like a drunk man trying to sort out through the hazy memories of past nights. "Even- she did all those things to him, and he still loved my mother."

"Did- did you notice?" Jon's voice is just a weak murmur, no Archivist here, just a man that cares for him, hard as it may be to believe.

"What?" Gerry darts a sideways look at him, tired. Jon's hands are stretched the slightest bit towards him, like he wants to touch him but doesn't dare to; his face is a mask of empathy, as sad for him as Gerry has never seen him look for himself.

"He- Eric... your father called you Gerry." Jon's lips curl into a small, careful smile, and Gerry breaks.

Surely he's too old an adult to crumble down in tears for the ghost of a man he never knew, but Jon clumsily reaches to wrap his arms around him, and Gerry thinks that maybe, just maybe he can be weak for once, in this hug that feels like home.

-------------------------------------------------------------

"We don't- you don't have to listen to the rest of it, if you don't want to." Jon's voice is almost too quiet, like he's afraid to break the silence they've fallen into.

Gerry looks up at him from where he's resting his head on Jon's lap; the kitchen floor is unforgiving on his back and shoulders, but the slight discomfort helps in keeping him grounded. "Is it true?"

"Hm?" Jon pushes a lock of hair away from his face, and Gerry leans his cheek into his palm.

"Is there a way to quit?" Gerry asks. The shock of piercing, migraine-like pain that strikes his mind is enough of an answer.

"I- apparently. It's not- I don't know if- I might be too far gone."

"What do you have to do?" It's on the tape, he knows, but he can't- maybe one day he'll be able to listen to the whole thing, but for now all he can think of is this pained ghost that only wanted to make sure his son was alright.

Jon exhales slowly through his teeth, before bringing his free hand up to his face and making a plucking motion with index and thumb just an inch from his eye.

"Oh." It makes sense, Gerry guesses. No eyes to behold with, problem solved. "Will you do it?"

"I'm- I can't leave Martin there." Jon sighs again, a bit more defeated this time. "I'm sorry, just-'

"I get it." Gerry shrugs, tangling his fingers with Jon's over his cheek. It's no good. Either all three get out, or no one does. "is that what happened then? He said no?"

Jon nods once, slowly. "I think it was too much for him, in his state. He- he was worried about you, though."

Huh. That's- logically, Gerry knows Martin has worried about him before. It's been twice now that Martin steps between him and an avatar with bad intentions. Still, it comes as a pleasant surprise that Martin cares not only when in the heat of the moment.

"About me?" he asks, because it's a bit easier than to make heads or tails of everything he's feeling right now. "I'm not an Institute empl- oh. Huh. I guess it is very likely that I'd die if you quit."

Jon scoffs. "I didn't- it's stupid, but I forgot all about that in the moment. I just- you're mine, you're not tied to the Institute. I forgot the Eye-"

Gerry snorts when Jon cuts himself abruptly. "What was that?"

"I'm- I didn't-" Jon sputters, his face growing red. "I didn't mean it that way, I'm-"

Gerry laughs, delighted.

It still hurts, the not-quite memory of the father that was ripped from him. The chain around all of them, and the terrible condition to break it off. The fact that Martin is keeping them at arm's length to try and save the world, when they'd much rather save him.

But it all looks a lot less grim when watching Jon try to regain his composure after the slip. When he remembers that for once, he's fighting not just to harm the entities, but to keep the ones he cares for from them. When he thinks about how for the first time in his life, other people are interested in protecting him for a change.

"Stop laughing!" Jon snaps, smacking softly at Gerry's shoulder. "I didn't mean-"

"It's alright. You could've." Gerry catches his struggling wrist, and brings it up to his lips to lay a kiss on the palm of his hand. "I kind of am yours."

"I- what?" Jon freezes.

The problem with these things, Gerry decides, is that they're often painted as the culmination of a whole journey. The last thing you say before the credits roll, the last words on a final page.

He doesn't want that, a tale of hardship with the suggestion of happiness at the very end. He wants his story to be a promise, a challenge to a world that, no matter how hard it tries, can't take this from him.

"I love you."

#jongerrymartin #vit writes #illicio #jgm

[collectionofdestiel]

Life is Weird

Prompt from Chagnon1022: A story where castiel assumes dean is cheating based on a phone call he over heard but it turns out dean was talking to his brother Sam so he could  him advise to propose to cas

~

Days turned quickly to months which unfolded rapidly into years. It felt as though one day Castiel was alone in this world with little in the bank and a less than stellar outlook on life, then the next he was sharing life with who he believed to be his soul mate. Life was weird, he decided, as he procrastinated starting his day by laying in their shared bed with only a wrinkly sheet flung across his skin. Weird in a way that it felt like yesterday he had none of what he had now.

Finally deciding that thinking over his lonely past was only going to make it that much harder to get out of bed, he threw his feet from the bed and onto the floor. His body twisted a little too fast so he took a moment to sit and wait for his head to clear. There was nothing on the schedule for today which meant that he and his boyfriend could spend a lazy day together.

That thought caused a slow smile to grace his features and gave him the motivation he needed to finally stand. After throwing on a pair of clean boxers he padded from their bedroom toward the kitchen, already smelling bacon and eggs.

“I don’t know, I mean, how did you do it?” Dean’s rough voice broke through the crisp late morning air.

Castiel stopped his feet in the hallway, curiosity perked his ears. Maybe it was a work call? It was odd that Dean would be on the phone on a Saturday especially before noon. There was no secret Dean wasnt a morning person, and it also wasn’t a secret he hated talking on the phone.

“Well, I cant do that.” Huffing a laugh, Dean’s voice then dropped to a whisper. “I can’t just tell him that.”

Curiosity peaking ever higher hearing the low tone of his boyfriend’s voice, Castiel tip toed so he could pressed himself against the wall beside the doorway. He knew he shouldn’t spy, and should definitely make his presense known, but for some reason that old feeling of lonliness started to flood his system and make his body feel too weak to dare make a move.

“I mean, I love you, but that is dumb. Just cause it worked for you doesn’t mean it will for me. One, how the hell am I supposed to do that without him knowing since we have a shared bank account and two, that’s like a four hour drive.”

It took all of his will to not gasp, to not succumb to the ice water now plunging through his veins and freezing over his heart. Had he misheard?

Dean sighed deeply and almost comically. “Tonight? I can’t do it tonight. I need more time to… think it over and get everything ready.”

Castiel didnt notice how his body gave out, his knees easily supporting his descent to the ground. It was subconscious how he curled himself into a ball and listened as the love of his life cancelled plans with someone else, someone who Dean loved.

“Don’t give me that, alright? I’m not scared… I’m just… How am I supposed to say it? I’m gonna sound like an ass.” Dean’s words were so tender, so lost and desperate, that for a moment before Castiel realized the weight of it he felt bad for Dean.

He wanted to reach out and hold onto him, beg him to not leave, scream and plea until his soul was nothing but ash. Castiel wanted to grip onto Dean and shake him and demand why he wasnt good enough, why they couldnt have made each other happy and live together forever.

A clank from dishware broke the delicate tension in the air. “Because I said so! Look, forget I called you, ok? I can handle it. I’ll see you at the Roadhouse on wednesday, ok? We can talk more then about it.”

Castiel let the loneliness find it’s home in his chest. He stood up, too numb to feel him going through the motions. Standing in the hallway he listened for the goodbye, the farewell between lovers, before he tried to decide what his  next move was. Was there a next move? What was left in his desolate world now that he found himself where he was all those years ago.

“Yeah, yeah, I love you, too. Talk to you soon.”

Life’s weird isn’t it, Castiel thought to himself void of emotion, that in what feels like a blink of an eye everything is suddenly different.

It wasn’t until a light humming from the kitchen broke the silence did Castiel dare move. He stepped as quietly as he could from around the corner, his eyes falling immedietly on his boyfriends back. Tears erupted before he could stop them, flowed so violently that he lost his breath and choked.

Spinning around, Dean met his eyes. The surprised green soon turned worried and panicked. Dropping the spatula onto the skillet Dean rounded their island and started toward Cas with open arms. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

Just before they could come in contact Castiel shook his head and took a step back, the tears starting to soak his collar bone. With a heaving breath he curled his arms into his chest and tried so desperately to claw him way out of his panic.

“Cas? Hey, I’m right here. Talk to me. Breathe.” Dean’s voice was so broken, so loving that it was the final crack in Castiel’s resolve.

Clearing the tears from his vision, Cas looked into Dean’s eyes with no emotion. “I’ll be going to the market in a couple minutes. If you could pack your things before I get back I think that would be best.”

Dean coiled back as if struck. “Wh-what?”

“I don’t think we need to make it any bigger than it needs to be. I’m giving you the out. You don’t have to be so worried about telling me. Just leave.” Castiel turned his eyes downward and took a shuddering breath that burned the bottom of his lungs. “I’m sorry that I wasn’t enough.”

Dean Winchester stared at his boyfriend. Nothing came from his mouth though he tried to open it to get something out, to question why and to demand an answer to this sudden turn. Instead he stood there, in nothing but his own boxers and an apron, barefoot in their kitchen. He was too shocked to feel the way his entire world was collapsing around him.

“Please.” The word was broken and hitched falling from Cas’ lips. “Please, Dean, if you loved me at all during these few years you will just leave.”

“Why?” Finally his brain started to catch up to the situation. And though he wanted to be angry, angry that Castiel was doing this, he stayed calm. He took deep breaths and stayed calm because whatever was happening it couldnt be blown any farther out of proportion or there wasn’t going to be a possible fix.

Blue eyes soaked in heartbreak flicked up to meet defeaning green. “Because I love you and I can’t stand here and pretend that you didn’t fall in love with someone else.”

“What?!” Dean’s voice cracked from the pressure of the single word.

“I heard you.” Cas waved his arm toward the cell phone sitting on the counter. “Talking to your… your…”

“Brother?” Dean finished the sentence with a pointed look. “Just now? I was on the phone with Sammy.”

Castiel tilted his head as he met Dean’s eyes. “I listened to you make plans behind my back.”

Swallowing visibly, Dean wiped the back on his hand across his forehead. “Sweetheart, there’s a reason-”

“Right.” Castiel nodded, feeling anger flare up his spine. “You really want to lie to me, Dean Winchester?”

“No!” Dean shouted in frustration. “I’m not lying! I fucking love you and I haven’t so much as thought about being with anyone since I met you.”

His eyes drifting back to the phone, Castiel wanted to believe him, wanted to stop this now and hug him and live happily ever after. But that wasn’t life. It wasn’t life when his mother used to believe all his father’s lies. And it wasn’t life when he watched his brother be cheated on by multiple partners.

“Castiel.” Dean took a slow step toward his boyfriend. “I love you more than you’re letting yourself believe right now. And I know that you have issues with cheating and your self worth and so… I need to tell you. Even if we both regret it later. But, sweetheart…”

Fingers slid under his chin, a little force tilted his head so that he could see Dean right in front of him, their muggy breaths mixing between them. All Castiel could see was love, he felt as though he was drowning in it, sinking so low that he might never resurface.

“I’ve been carrying around a ring. I’ve been putting a little of my paycheck away toward it for about a year now. And this morning I called Sam because I have been killing myself over not finding the right moment to ask you. So I called him to ask how he asked Jess, and how he knew when the perfect moment would be.” Leaning forward slightly, Dean wrapped his other arm around Cas’ shoulders to bring them closer without losing eye contact. “I want to marry you, Cas. I want it to be just you and me forever if you’ll let me.”

Castiel’s face collapsed in a sob grimace as his shoulders started to shake and he threw himself against Dean’s chest. His body gave out as he cried and cried and let the waves of emotion roll through him. After minutes ticking by of Dean holding him and whispering to him and pressing kisses to his hair, Castiel finally pulled back.

With a shaky smile he whispered, “I want nothing more than to marry you.”

Dean’s lips turned up into a face splitting smile before he closed the distance between their lips.

Years later, in what feels like a blink of an eye, Castiel is standing in the hospital with his eyes trained on a small sleeping form wrapped in a pink blanket thinking that it feels like just yesterday he said ‘yes’ to a lifetime of happiness.

#destiel fic #destiel fanfic #dean winchester/castiel #castiel/dean winchester #hope you enjoy!!!!

[ilytuan]

Keep You Safe ː 1 「bambam」

genre › guardian angel!au ︱ gang!au ︱ fluff ︱ angst

pairing › reader ︱ bambam ︱ mark tuan

word count › 5,158

warning › drug mention ︱ language

synopsis › you can’t fix the already broken or heal the wounded, but it doesn’t stop you from desperately trying; bambam just has to keep you safe. 

{part 1} ⇥ {part 2}

A chorus of loud chatter erupted the moment the school bell rung, signalling the end of the two-hour lecture. The lecturer, who was a tall and balding man, stood at the top of the hall, his voice drowning out amongst the sea of students who crowded the door to leave, bustling with each other to make it out first.

“Make sure you read up to page 348 of your textbooks! There’ll be a quiz on Monday morning!” He tried to speak loudly, but towards the end his voice became strained and cracked, effectively catching the attention of zero students.

You took your time to pack your tattered tote bag, stuffing each book and folder in carefully to avoid crumpling any papers that could be of importance. A small black pencil case was laid wide open at the end of your row of desks, untouched and thrown aside, long forgotten by its owner. Everyone had already filed out but you and the professor.

Cautiously picking it up, you glanced to the lecturer who was now crouching over his podium stand, packing his laptop bag equally as slow as you. An awkward silence permeated the air of the large hall and you gulped, suddenly very aware of it. There was nothing more you hated than awkward silence.

Expensive pens and stationary were inside the pencil case, and the material felt like it was made of fine, authentic leather. The professor coughed right when you were about to bring it up close, abruptly causing you to drop it and the pens spilled out all over the floor in a clutter like a flock of birds fleeing.  

Your eyes shut tightly, cheeks burning as you felt his intensive stare on the side of your face. Thankfully your bag was fully packed so all you had to do was pick up the pens and leave. “Sorry, Professor. I’ll just pick this up and go.” You could see him pursing his lips from the corner of your eye before he turned to leave, like the students. You were left alone.

Exhaling a breath that you didn’t know you were holding, you took your time to pick up the pens, quietly wondering if you should keep it to find the person or return it to the ‘lost and found’ corner of the front desk, which was all the way on the other side of campus.

Whoever these pens belonged to, they were definitely quiet wealthy and must have some really nice notes, judging by the equipment they had. Most of the stationary you saw were those that were advertised for businessmen or given as complimentary gifts in those prestigious banquets held by large corporations. You couldn’t imagine anyone you knew to be of that high class.

Craning your neck under the desk where you spotted a gleaming gold, ink pen to be laying, you stretched your hand out to reach for it but failed due to your short limb. Curse you for being so unluckily proportioned. You tried your luck at it anyway, stretching your hand out even further when you suddenly lurched forward and into the back of a chair, landing with your forehead on the backboard and your hand on the shiny pen. It was cold to the touch and your forehead ached from the impact. When you backed out from under the wooden desk, you hit the backside of your head against it too.

“What is wrong with me today?” You muttered under your breath, groaning in pain as you finally backed out without hurting yourself for the third time. Sitting on your knees, you zipped everything up into the grand pencil case before you noticed a neatly folded piece of paper under the desk too. Was that there before?

Picking it up, you subconsciously took a look around the room before opening up the slip of paper, the words which were inscribed onto the page felt ominous and you felt a shiver run down your spine. “Meet me behind ‘Midnight Blues’ at 10:03pm sharp.” You read it aloud, goosebumps forming with each word you read.

Midnight Blues was the most frequented club by students in your university, and it was notoriously known for being where drug dealings took place. It was reasonable that whoever this exchange was between wanted to meet there, but at such a specific time and behind the club no less, was so suspicious and alarming.

You shoved the note into the pencil case, zipping it shut and shoving it into your bag before you finally made haste and left the room, leaving behind the chilly air that somehow made its way in while you were reading the note.

˞˞˞˞

A chill seemed to follow you all the way home.

Your huge scarf which was a gift from your high school friend Yugyeom, was secured tightly around your neck and even pulled up as far as to just below your eyes, shielding your whole face from the cold front that braced the country and your thick winter boots were resting snuggly on your feet.

The scarf was a gift from when he confessed to you early in the winter. Selfishly, you accepted the gift but not his feelings.

Even the oversized winter jacket you had on was tightly fastened around your waist, trapping in your body heat and not allowing any cold to penetrate through. Yet you were still cold.

The journey home was calamitous. Normally, your train and bus ride home were easy going and required nothing more than walking a few metres from each stop to get to your house. But today for some odd reason, your train and only your train, was closed and under construction for the day.

It was working perfectly fine this morning, and there wasn’t even a notice to explain the strange incident. In turn, you ended up having to take three extra buses to get to your usual bus stop, adding on an additional two hours to your commute. You lived forty minutes away from the university.

Getting onto the bus was fine, but you ended up falling asleep while standing up and got rudely awoken by a kid who was demanding for your specific spot and refusing any other place, his mother nowhere to be seen. He ushered you onto one of the elderly reserved seats, seeing as there was no other seat available, and he didn’t let you get up even once. Lashing out at a child wasn’t the best thing to do, but right when you were about to stick up for yourself, a particularly grumpy older woman entered the bus and gave you the dirtiest look she could muster.

With the kid pushing you down every time you attempted to stand, and the woman nearing the seat, you were stuck in a predicament. You found it hard to believe that you were that easy to be pushed around and when you raised a hand to lightly push the kid away, his mother appeared from thin air and caused commotion about you raising a hand to hit her child. You weren’t going to, but you admit that it would’ve served him right.

After the mother took the kid away and successfully managed to get everyone on the bus to shoot you dirty looks and disapproving nods, the doors closed when you were supposed to get off and drove away, furthering your trip by another ten minutes at least.

The woman was then standing in front of you, hands on her hips in a sassy manner while a plastic bag full of groceries hung from her frail and wrinkly wrist. Either her wrist or the thin handles were going to snap soon. “Are you not going to give up your seat? Don’t people learn manners these days?” Her wrinkled eyes were old, but held a tenacious gaze, daring you to defy her.

A traffic light turned red unexpectedly when you moved to stand up, causing the driver to press on the brakes with a loud screech and hurling you into the disabled standing section of the bus where a mother with her baby pram were situated. You went tumbling down into her, crushing the shopping bags which were by her feet and landing painfully onto your knees.

Snickers were heard, and your cheeks burned in embarrassment, scrambling to get up from the awful position and straighten yourself up before anything worse could happen. You pressed the stop button, apologising to her profusely before turning your head to glare viciously at the still snickering old woman. Karma is going to come back and bite her in the ass one day, you hoped.

Amidst the hurling and falling, your purse had unknowingly tumbled out of your bag and landed on the dirty bus floor. You failed to realise in time and happily hopped off the bus with the rude passengers, glad to be free from their scrutinising gazes and the woman’s victory smile at your misery.

When you reached the corner store just before your apartment, you figured you could buy a can of beer or two to help ease your tensed muscles, but when you reached for your purse and returned empty handed, only more stress was added, and the cashier refused to let you get away with it just this once. He was a newbie.

Unfortunately for you, all your credit cards and cash were in that purse, along with your travel cards and IDs. You were going to have to get them cancelled before whoever picked it up decided to have a shopping spree with everything or even fabricate their identity using you. There was enough chaos going on in your life.

Upon entering your run-down apartment building where the rent was far too expensive for what it was worth, your landlord was waiting in the lobby like he always is. His tall structure was similar to that of your professor, and you were briefly reminded of the note in the pencil case that you took earlier. Maybe this is your karma for taking someone’s belongings.

But all those thoughts were buried when your landlord put out his hand, wiggling his fingers as he waited expectantly for something. “Your rent, Y/N? Or did you forget it again?” You blinked back dumbly at him for a few seconds before all colour drained from your face and your hands shook with frustration. You sighed loudly in defeat, smacking a cold palm to your forehead which was starting to bruise from the hit earlier.

A huge wad of cash for your rent was stored in your purse. Which was now not in your possession. “Please don’t evict me, I can explain! I had the rent this morning, but you weren’t here when I left, so I took it to school and I was going to give it, I swear! But my purse has been stolen so now I don’t have it.”

His eyes held suspicion and you knew he wasn’t going to believe you. It wasn’t the first time you’ve used this excuse, but it was the first time it was actually true.

If there was really a God up there, you hoped he would come through and give you at least one good blessing today. But it didn’t look like that was very likely. “I’ll give you one day only. Do you know how behind you are on payments?” You nodded, too afraid to speak because maybe there really was a God, but he was going to need to help you find some money, quick.

˞˞˞˞

The club was completely packed. Bartenders were rushing around frantically, juggling tens of drinks all at once in order to get enough orders out in sufficient amounts of time and not lose customers.

Students who you could recognise were drinking happily at the bar, rushing off towards the dance floor as soon as they had their fair shares of intoxication. Sparkling dresses, stiletto heels and far too much makeup. You cringed at the façade they put on but decided it was not your place to judge. You weren’t exactly dressed well either and life is too short to not have fun.

“What is such a pretty lady doing here alone? Come with me, I’ll buy you a drink.” You flinched away violently from the contact of the man’s hand snaking around your waist, a fierce glint in your eyes as you dared him to touch you again. He raised his hands in surrender, a dark chuckle escaping his mouth at you.

“Hey, hey. I mean no harm, just let me buy you a drink, beautiful.” You sized him up and down, noting his expensive designer shoes and dress shirt that was half unbuttoned, a result of the girls clamouring onto him. You didn’t need a drink from him, let alone anyone.

“No thanks.” You turned on your heel, briskly sliding in between dancing bodies and grinding figures. The ghost of his hand around your waist caused a shiver to run down your spine and you shook it off, feeling the same chill from earlier. It was too hot in this place.

After the confrontation with your landlord earlier, you collapsed onto your bed in a heap, shoulders deflating immediately as you were finally able to relax. No matter what happens next time, you were not going to take the bus. Ever again. You’d rather walk the fourty block distance home than have to deal with pesky children or cantankerous elderlies again.

You had phoned the bus company, asking if they found your purse on the bus and luckily for you, someone on the bus had picked it up and it was brought to the lost and found box of your school; they knew since it was stated on your student ID.

Some angelic person had the decency to go as far as to bring your purse to the school, though they didn’t even know you. When you called the university to check if it was still there, they confirmed and said that the person who brought it was a young man, maybe early twenties which wouldn’t be any older than you.

The receptionist described him as tall, lanky, and having incredibly long legs. His nails were painted a silver colour, his hair was a white shade and he had sparkling eyes. You were able to go and collect it right before they closed for the weekend, all your money and cards still intact and untouched. You wondered if he was truly an angel sent by God.

When you emptied the contents of your bag after a short nap that relieved you of all the fatigue and collected stress of the day, the black, leather pencil case came plunging out and landed right in your lap. The nicely folded note was sitting idly at the top of so when you opened it, the club’s name flashed at you.

Meet me behind ‘Midnight Blue’ at 10:03pm sharp.

That’s why you’re here now. Weaving through the sea of moving bodies and squeezing your way past kissing couples who couldn’t seem to get enough of each other. Your rent had been paid propitiously and there was enough money for you to buy yourself a drink, but it was almost ten o’clock.

Sneaking past the busy bartenders and the huge bouncer who was walking around the perimeter of the club, you heaved as you shoved open the black door, cold air hitting you square in the face. If the owner of the pencil case was supposed to meet someone here, then you’d be able to meet the owner here and return his lavish belonging.

“Curiosity kills the cat,” you murmured under your breath, not expecting anyone to hear you but then a figure came out from somewhere in the dark, scaring the living shit out of you. “It really does, little one. I don’t remember arranging a meeting with a girl.” He said the word girl with a sickly twist, the corners of his mouth turning upwards from what you could see.

His hair was shaggy, and he adorned a fitted black suit, a contrast to his dirty black and white Converse. His eyes looked a little dull and lifeless, rimmed with dark circles and bloodshot eyes, lips pale and his cheeks lacking colour. If it weren’t for his moving features blinking and smiling at you, you’d think he was spiritless.

“I’m not here for any meeting. I just wanted to return this pencil case to its owner.” You lifted it up into the air for him to see, your hands growing clammy with the intensity of his gaze. He barely even glanced towards the object, instead staying on you with a passive look.

“Don’t you know how dangerous this place is, little one? You should run along before it kills you.” The breath from his words fanned over your skin as he edged closer to you, his lips right next to your neck in a few seconds. If you were in some supernatural movie, you’d believe he was a vampire about to bite and suck your blood, but this was real life and you were genuinely scared.

You have no idea what possessed you to stay there and continue talking, but you hated whatever it was. “Are you meeting the owner? Can you return it for me, or will I stay until then?”

He chuckled, pulling away from his close proximity and this time, his eyes glinted with slight amusement. It had been a while since anyone entertained him, and you surprised him greatly. Again, you weren’t exactly dressed to be at a club and anyone could tell that you were a quiet, shy person who never spoke much.

“If you’re going to stay, why not tell me your name, little one?” You debated it in your head, seeing no harm in telling him just your name. It wasn’t that big of a deal. “Y/n, what’s yours?”

He looked like he was debating it too, only speaking after a brief moment of silence. It was only fair that he shared his name with you. “Mark. My name’s Mark, but if anyone asks, it’s Bunny.” You contained a laugh at the name. Bunny?

Taking one good look at him, the laugh you tried so hard to suppress erupted and you burst into a hysterical fit of laughter, unable to hold it in. The funny thing was that he really did look like a bunny, especially when he puffed out his cheeks and pouted at you.

“It’s not nice to make fun of someone’s name, y’know.” He glared playfully at you and it only resulted in causing you to laugh again, though calming down much quicker this time. “It’s also not everyday that you find someone with the name Bunny.”

It was his turn to let out a laugh, though he did it quietly. You were totally right. This was the first time in almost a year that Mark didn’t need to take a whiff of his drugs to feel this enlightened. He beamed at you, his cold heart comforted by your warm smile.

“So, why Bunny? Is it some sort of code name for ‘I am a su-‘” He clamped a hand around your mouth, stopping you from finishing your sentence. When he was sure that you wouldn’t say it, he let go of you. The close contact was warm and when he pulled away, the unwelcome cold air hit you again. “How long do you think we’ll have to wait?”

It took a moment for the question to register in his mind. He was a bit slow at everything, you noticed. “He probably chickened out and decided not to show up. It’s almost eleven o’clock, y’know.”

You looked at him with wide eyes, completely unaware of how much time had already passed. The club was close enough to your apartment but if you were going to leave any later than this, you’d probably be attacked on the way home.

Clearing your throat, you turned your body fully to face Mark, who was smiling softly with hooded eyes at you. His fingers were trembling slightly, and you searched your mind for what to say. “I have to get going then. It was nice to meet you, Bunny!”

The corner of his mouth twitched when he heard the nickname and he nodded towards you, “likewise, Y/n.” He brought a hand up to wave goodbye to you.

˞˞˞˞

Mark missed you the moment you left the dark alleyway of the club. He missed your warmth, your smile, your voice and your ability to make him crave less. He took two lines of coke after you were gone, unable to stop his urges as he replayed your voice over and over again in his head. It was drilling holes into his memory and he took another, unable to control himself.

He trailed after you. Mark knew Yugyeom wasn’t going to show up tonight. He looked too prim and proper to be in a place like this, let alone buying drugs. Mark was able to read people easily due to his quiet and introverted personality. That pencil case was Yugyeom’s, but he knew it was best to keep quiet about his clients lest he get into trouble with his boss.

Bunny was his nickname simply because he knew how to be fast and sneaky. Every deal of his was sealed and done within minutes and customers were always happy. He raked in big money for his boss, Jaebum, and there were never any complaints or worries. Keeping his real name a secret was important, but he wanted to share it with you.

For some reason, he wanted to share everything with you. He became addicted to drugs a year ago and even when he wasn’t on them before that, no one had been able to connect with him. It was the reason why he got obsessed with you and the drugs so quickly. He wondered why you didn’t come into his life sooner.

Halfway through your journey home, you had a sneaking suspicion that someone was following you and turned to a different route, although it was much longer than the shortcut you were taking. The footsteps turned silent and disappeared after a while, and for that you were thankful.

A gust of wind swept by you. “Don’t get involved with him, Y/n.” Your head whipped around to find the voice, but the streets were quiet and empty. You brushed it off as exhaustion and simply hearing things, continuing the walk home albeit much quicker this time, footsteps hurried.

It came again when you were almost at your building. “He’s bad news, Y/n. Stay away from him.” The voice was soft and soothing, almost as if it was lulling you to sleep. You were definitely tired.

That night, you dreamt about angels.

˞˞˞˞

You yawned tiredly, shutting your notebook and zipping your pencil case shut. Yours was tattered and scribbled over, filled with pen marks from your doodles and brisk notes. It reminded you of the lush leather one you found last week. At the start of class, when the seat was unoccupied, you placed it onto the desk and unzipped it, leaving it exactly the way you found it.

Throughout the entire lecture, your view of the owner was blocked but you could see his hands constantly reaching for different pens and assorted markers. His hands were big, and his fingers were slender but that didn’t help you identify him at all.

He left before you were able to catch him, and he left his pencil case was abandoned there again, ajar and welcome to whoever wished to take it. Much like last week, you took your time to pack your bag and picked it up, not dropping it this time.

A crisp, white note was there.

This time, it was scrunched up and ripped in half. Putting the pieces back together was easy, “meet me behind ‘Midnight Blues’ at 10pm sharp. Don’t chicken out this time.”

You smiled, pleased by the idea of possibly seeing Mark again, though you would use the excuse of returning the pencil case. He didn’t need to know that you missed him or that he had left an impact on you. Ever since you met last night, you had been dreaming about angels and hearing things all day long. Whatever it was, you hoped it would stop if you met Mark again. It started with him, after all.

“Don’t go, Y/n. He’s dangerous.” The owner of the voice appeared whenever you thought about Mark.

His voice was always soft and calm, despite the words he was saying. It was medium toned and silky, smooth and fluent. It sounded familiar and it always rung in your head. If you could describe it in any way, it was like a mother’s voice soothing a baby’s cries. Whenever he spoke to you, all thoughts of Mark disappeared, and you thought about him instead.

He was almost like, a guardian angel?

You knew his name to be Bambam. He revealed it to you when you laid awake one night, unable to sleep because of a raging storm outside that wouldn’t let up on your windows and the weak, dilapidated building of your apartment.

Conversation with him flowed so easily, though he was only an imaginary figure in your head. You didn’t know exactly what he looked like, but his voice especially was so mellow and soothing to listen to. It was what got you through the whole week of the storm that was hammering and disturbing you every night.

You had dreams where you were able to see glimpses of his face and put an appearance to his voice, but it never got very far with you being so unimaginative. If anything, you imagined him to look like the man who the receptionist described to you; the one who returned your purse last week after the whole day had been a disaster. He was your saviour that day, and you could only conjure up that much. Angels were all beautiful anyway.

When you reached the club’s back doors and pushed them open, Mark was nowhere to be found. There was only a small roof for shelter above the door and it did little to nothing in shielding you from the pouring rain. It was also freezing cold and you made the mistake of not bringing a jacket with you, afraid of melting in the burning hot club full of half-naked dancing bodies.

“I brought you an umbrella,” Bambam’s voice appeared from nowhere, surprising you at the abruptness of it. You could barely hear his quiet voice over the pattering rain, but it was ringing in your head, like it always was.

Turning to your right, a tall figure was right there, holding a large umbrella above your head. Almost magically, it protected you from getting wet. Not even the smallest droplet touched your bare arms. “Thank you,” it came out in a whisper, but he heard you nonetheless.

A pleased smile bloomed on his face, although you could only scantily see his face. His skin looked smooth and it was glowing among the dark night, a stark contrast to Mark’s pale skin. When you thought about him again, almost getting lost in your whirlwind mind, Bambam’s voice cut through. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Y/n. I’m Bambam, but you know me as your guardian angel.”

It didn’t make any sense. The man in front of you was moving his lips and he was speaking, but you could only hear the voice in your head. He kept speaking and speaking, but you couldn’t actually hear him.

You were insane. You concluded that you were insane and not to be trusted by anyone, including yourself. That easily explains why you’re hearing voices in your head all the time and why some strange man appeared to you, claiming to be an angel; because you’re insane.

But things in life are not easily explained. And most questions don’t even have a legitimate answer. Like, is God real? or who created the universe? or even where do we go after we die?

Bambam’s presence is like that. How do you explain a guardian angel? You couldn’t wrap your head around it at all. Unexplained, foreign and strange, otherworldly. You can’t describe what he is or what he does, but he’s always there to protect you and keep you safe. His voice would always be ringing in your head, making you have rational and sensible thoughts and keep you sane. He kept you from going insane.

That must be why he was always telling you to stay away from Mark, he’s dangerous, Bambam would always tell you. But you didn’t understand why. Then again, you didn’t understand a whole bunch of things, so this was nothing new. Bambam knows things that most people probably don’t, and he definitely knows you better than you know yourself. He’s practically lived in your mind for your whole life.

Mark was dangerous, and Bambam was trying to keep you safe. But how he was dangerous was what you really couldn’t understand.

Sure, he was a drug dealer. His eyes were lifeless, and he looked dead all of the time, but wasn’t life so draining all the while too? It was understandable, to you at least. That much you could grasp. Or maybe it was the drugs he took that made him look like that and cause his hands to tremble like that. That part wasn’t comprehendible to you.

Bambam says that everyone has a guardian angel in them, from birthday to death. Only a small handful of people are lucky enough to have them come in human form and truly protect them from the dangers of the world, but everyone had one spiritually.

Some people lose theirs through doing bad deeds or not listening to their angel, so they become dangerous. That’s what Mark was. Bambam explained to you that his angel tried to stop him from doing drugs and becoming part of the dark side of town and joining the gang, but Mark never listened. It all got too much, and his angel disappeared, so there was little to no good left in him.

You were the fortuitous one to be blessed with a real life guardian angel, in the form of Bambam. He was apparently going to stick to you for life and protect you from any menace in the world, unless you were to become evil and lose him. But he thought highly of himself and trusted that he would do his job right and good at protecting you.

When he explained all that to you, it was too much to fathom and you passed out with all the cold from the rain and the absurdness of it all. Bambam caught you and brought you home unharmed, the first step to proving himself to you.

#s:keep you safe #bambam #got7creators #kwritersworldnet #thekpopnetwork #got7 #bambam scenarios #bambam fluff #bambam fanfic #bambam series #got7 scenarios #got7 fanfic #got7 fluff #got7 angst #got7 series #got7 bambam #mark tuan #got7 mark

[k-p-p-d]

Stay: Think About You (A)

Pairing: Jisoo x Male OC (feat. Bobby)

Summary: Jamal knew breaking up would be difficult, but he knew she would be better off for it.  What he didn’t know was how he’d ever be able to keep himself from ever regretting letting her go...

Length: 2k

A/N: Listen to this while you read! @blackinkfics This has been a year in the making and I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get to a point where I felt comfortable enough to post it.  I’m also sorry that this is how far I’ve gotten in all this time, but I hope it lives up to your expectations.  Ily~ #LongLiveJJ

                                                     Jisoo POV

Jamal stared blankly at his phone. The screen was still aglow with the notification of a received message, allowing his eyes to fixate on the name he tried so desperately to keep out of his heart and off his tongue. God, he knew he shouldn't have thought of her. He knew it. But he had and in a cruel twist of fate she had made her unwelcomed but desperately craved grand entrance into his isolated world with a text.

His conscience was torn straight down the middle. He didn't want to open it because he didn't know if he was ready to have a conversation with her just yet; if he was being honest with himself, he really didn't want to try to talk to her. But what if he didn't open it? Would she realize he was purposefully ignoring her? Would she be further hurt by him? Would she never try to speak to him again, and would spurn all his future attempts to strike up a conversation when he was ready? But what if he did open it? Would he be hurt by what she said? Would he be forced to defend himself against her well-deserved but still painful attack? Would he have to break her heart again by cutting short her attempts of reconciliation, give her some bullshit and noncommittal answer to make it seem as if he was significantly more unaffected than he was? What if he was the one who tried to reconcile but she shunned him? What if, what if, what if?

Those two words and the countless possible outcomes they preceded echoed loudly through his head, only drowned out by the pounding of his aching heart. He snatched off his hoodie and threw on his headphones. Tapping the side of the ear cuff, he silently thanked the Lord for wireless technology as the song began to play without him ever sliding open his phone. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, surrendering himself to gently crescendoing song. He couldn't help but wonder if she still used this trick like he had taught her so long ago. The bright image of her smiling appreciatively at him as she thanked him, her beautiful voice ringing through his ears and making his heart soar. Jamal grunted as his eyes flew open, "Channel it!" With the first drop of the hard beat, he flung soul first into the music and he let himself be consumed by the banging deep bass. With every powerful move, he roughly shoved aside his haunted thoughts. With every sharp hit, he sliced through his pervasive regrets. With every precise step, he chased away his conscience until he was blissfully numb, only sensitive to the familiar ache surging through his exhausted muscles.

It wasn't until he was stooped over and dripping with sweat that he felt the presence of someone else in the room with him. A pang of bitter disappointment pierced his heart as his eyes met familiar grinning slants sparked with amusement. But they weren't those of his dazzling starlight. "You gonna keep staring or come up here, big boy?" Jiwon teased, waggling his eyebrows and poking out his tongue.

Jamal groaned loudly, unceremoniously dropping onto the edge of the oversized bed. "What do you want?"

"Oh, nothing," came the response with its shoddy veil of feigned innocence sliding off each word.

"Whatever you're thinking, don't."

"So you're saying I shouldn't send you this dope ass beat for you to dance your girl problems away--"

The elder snappily interjected, "I don't have girl problems."

Jiwon shook his head, "No, you don't have a girl. But you got 99 problems and a--"

"Watch it," Jamal growled fiercely.

"--chick is the source of all of them. Jeez, lemme finish talking at least once, will you?"

"You're a lot more respectful when we're in Korea," the exhausted dancer griped, allowing himself to slip from Korean to English as his brain was too worn to properly translate.

"That's because we're usually surrounded by 50 million other people and a shit ton of cameras," Jiwon pointed out in English before tacking on a quick, "hyung."

"True," the dancer conceded as he lay back onto the uncomfortably soft bed. His eyelids drooped to a close and he lay there for a few moments just listening to his breath while Jiwon tapped away on his phone. "So," he flipped over onto his stomach, "are you going to play this beat for me or just hog my bed instead?"

The rapper lightly flicked his shoulder with his foot and stuck out his tongue, cheekily quipping, "You should be happy to have a body in your bed!" Jamal snorted derisively, a habit he hadn't realized he'd picked up from Jis--

Her.

He shook his head as if to erase the name he almost thought. If he said the name, the pain he had been trying so desperately hard to beat back and ignore would rear its ugly head and rip the sloppy stitches of time and distance from his still-bleeding heart. So it would always have to be simply "her" until he could no longer recall the sensations of her silken raven hair twisted around his fingertips. Or until the sounds of her voice stumbling over his name no longer made his breath hitch and eyes prick hotly with tears. Or until he could look at himself in the mirror without seeing the pain and confusion and loss in her eyes glaring back at him.  "Ass," he mumbled bitterly to himself as he pushed himself off the bed to retrieve his phone, the closest thing he could hold that directly linked him to her.

Luckily, Jiwon mistook who the comment was directed towards and defensively shouted, "Hey! Just because I have a great ass doesn't mean you get to call me one!"

With a roll of his eyes, the elder dismissively retorted, "Your ass is flatter than your chest so chill out."

"That's not what my fans say..."

"The ceiling fan doesn't count."

"Asshole."

"Dickhead."

"Shitface."

"Ugly bunny ass, gapped tooth ass, head ass, fake punk ass, weak ass, lame ass--"

Jiwon clutched his chest and whined, "Shit, man! That was below the belt. Why you gotta roast me that hard? What did I ever do to you to deserve such hate?" Jamal's eyes scrunched shut and his cheeks bunched upwards as his mouth fell open in laughter, head tilting back involuntarily as howls of laughter ripped through him. Jiwon beamed brightly as he watched his friend finally laugh so fully for the first time in what felt like eons. He'd really missed this sound. He knew it was already hard enough on Jisoo to go through this split, so he could only imagine how rough it was for the man before him to pretend he was alright despite so clearly still being completely in love with the woman whose heart he willingly broke to save.

Jiwon cupped his hand on Jamal's shoulder, making the elder look at him with misty eyes from laughing so hard, before he brought him into a tight bear hug. The aftershocks of laughter causing the dancer's strong shoulders to tremble faded into quiet sobs of loneliness. The younger man held him much tighter than before and began gently rocking him hack and forth. "Let it out, hyung," He mumbled softly. "Let it all out." 

Amidst his tears, Jamal hiccuped, "Y-y-you're supposed to tell me not to cry."

Jiwon shrugged, the movement causing Jamal's head to rise and fall, "Nah. That's some macho bullshit old, wrinkly ass men like to spout because some even older, more wrinkly assed men used to repress them by telling them that."

"Smart ass," came the harmless quip in response. Jiwon only chuckled, loosening his grip on the older so he could step back and look at him. Jamal wiped away the  sniffled, "Thank you, Bobby."

"Any time, bro." The two men sprawled across the bed once more, but something caught the younger's eyes. "Hey, hyung?"

"Yeah?"

"You've been clutching your phone hella hard. Did you get some nudes or something?" Despite his attempt to make his friend smile again, Jiwon watched a crestfallen grimace pull across his lips. "Oh."

"She texted me, but I can't open it. I just...it's too hard and there's too many what-if's and I've already hurt so much and I don't wanna be hurt and I'm scared I'll make things worse but I'm damned if i do and damned if I don't and I'm just--"

Jiwon interrupted, "Then don't open it."

"What?"

The younger shifted so he was eye-level with his friend. "Don't open it. Knowing Jisoo," Jamal flenched at the mention of her name, "she isn't expecting an immediate reply. She probably isn't expecting anything for a couple of days or so. She likely had something on her mind that she needed to voice right then and there or else it would've eaten her alive. You know I'm right so don't stress about it. Open it when you're ready." With that, he eased the phone out of the other's tight grip and tossed it to the other side of the room as he stood up. "Now, you need to get some sleep. We've got a concert tomorrow and I'll be damned if your old ass makes me look bad."

Jamal snorted, "Those shitty ass, fake ass dreads you got do that enough as is.  I'm only 25."

"First of all, that's old as shit. Second of all, Taeyang-hyung said they looked cool-"

Jamal tossed back, "You really gonna trust him considering those tattered yarn strands he called dreads were blocking his eyes half the time? I know yaki hair works best for fake locs; but damn, homie really looked like a whole yak."

Jiwon self-consciously reached up to pat his hair, which luckily was no longer twisted together in fake locs; though the sting of the verbal dragging he just endured still hurt. "Well, shit, Jamal. Tell us how you really feel next time."

Smirking, Jamal held open the door, "Gladly. Now get outta my room, dumb ass."

"Last time I ever cuddle you," Jiwon mumbled bitterly under his breath as he left.

Jamal rolled his eyes and retrieved his phone; he stared at the screen for a couple moments then brazenly unlocked it before his mind could further rationalize the decision.

“Are you home?”

Jamal deflated, releasing the breath he hadn't even realized he had been holding. She had forgotten he was on tour now. He didn't know what hurt more: The fact she had forgotten about him or that he couldn't be there with her now. He read the message again, trying to come up with a perfect response that would neither hurt her nor reveal how lonely he also was. But maybe... Maybe he was missing some deeper meaning she had meant for him to glean from it. That had to be it, otherwise this gaping chasm in his soul would only grow wider and wider until it consumed him wholly and drowned out any chances of happiness he might have someday. 

“Are you home?” could easily mean, "When can I see you again?" Or perhaps, “Do you still think of me?" Or maybe even, "Do you miss me as much as I miss you?" Or, if he squinted just right, "You're always on my mind, day and night, hour after hour, minute after minute."

But there was nothing else to it. It was just a straight forward question: "Are you home?"

That was it. That was the message. That was all that was said. No "hi," no "how are you," no "I miss you," no "I hate you," no "why did you do this to me," no "I forgive you," no "I'll never forgive you," no "I'll never give up on you," no "I love you," no "do you still love me because I love you."

It was all too much to bear so he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, drowning out the cracking of his heart to the sharp synths and crisps beats of the track Jiwon had crafted for him. Slowly, he left himself slip away into a restless sleep.  Maybe one day, he’d wake up and his heart would heart less...

—Admin Lily

#blackpink #blackpink kim jisoo #blackpink jisoo #blackpink scenario #blackpink fic #blackpink jisoo scenario #blackpink angst #blackpink scenarios #admin lily

[dustbunny195]

Role Play

Do you (not that anyone's aware of my existence) ever pretend to be someone else? It’s fun.

I’ll show that good for nothing turtle head! Worthless is what he is. Would lose his head if he could he would. He’ll be fucking that camera for now on, he sure as hell ain’t getting into me! Not even close! Him and his tired old wrinkly ass aren’t deserving! Sigh… I’m going to leave this washroom, put on my seductive moo moo, walk past that naked fucker waiting in our bed and head to the fucking grocery store! I hope his thirsty body feels every stomp I make on the way out! I won’t even look at his pink pig-like nasty blotchy flesh.

Open the door abruptly. Scare the camera fucker. Fucker didn’t even look, well off I go. I’ll just take my moo moo offa’ the floor and put it on downstairs. I can’t believe him! Oh, he left his camera on the nightstand. I’ll just take this with me and throw it into the river while I drive across the bridge. It’s an expensive DSL camera too, where did this come from? Camera fuckers keeping money from me? Well, I’ll keep my vagina from you. Camera fucker!

He’s not calling out to me? What the actual fuck! I’m almost to the front door and I’ve got his camera. He really doesn't care about what he’s done does he? Or perhaps he wants me to drown his camera. Perhaps he knows he’s in the wrong. He could never communicate. Always shutting down when I want nothing but to talk. To clarify. To respect the love we’ve spent so much time grooming. Well no more, this time I won’t text him, call him, email him, voice message him, visit his work demanding him to talk, walk into his useless business meetings dragging him out, no! I won’t even attempt at showing how much I fucking care! I won’t say a thing! Because I DON’T CARE!

Alright, moo moo is on, but I don’t have anything on underneath. Whatever. This moo moo is somewhat transparent but you can’t see my vagina anyway. It’s hidden under all that bush, so I’m secure. Whatever. I’m a bad sexy bitch anyway! I’m proud of my curves! No one will take this from me. Not even camera fucker! Now, where are my keys? Ah, here they are, just where I left them, next to the onion.

It’s so cramped in this car. What the fuck is he doing up there, the light is now off! Did he go to sleep? Wow, he really isn’t bothered by what he did. Building me up to feel sexy then burning down my sexy bridge! That turtle headed, piggish fleshed camera fucker! Tomorrow I’m going to look into his bank accounts to see what he’s been hiding! How was he able to purchase this camera? What the fuck, now he’s in the living room, SMOKING? You’re so dense, haven’t even noticed I’ve left the driveway yet. And you’re smoking in the living room! The LIVING ROOM! INSIDE! I can see you through the window moron. I have the nerve to go confront you. WHEN DID YOU START TO SMOKE? Fuck, what is wrong with you!?! Die for all I care, I’m leaving. Choke on all that tar! I’ll turn my high beams on, let him know He’s been spotted!  He didn’t budge, just took another slow drag. He really doesn’t care. Not one bit! I’m out of here! He’ll learn to regret this...

I’ll teach him how to love.

There’s the bridge, I’ll open my window and throw this away! The breeze under my moo moo is somehow freeing… Ha! How do you like that you camera fucker! Think you can use this to make me feel less than!? You think you have the right to ridicule my body, to interpret every protruding fleshy bit on me? I look this way because of you! This is all your fault! Each and every pound is an accumulation of life with you! You did this to me! I’ll show you! I’ll show you just how “unappealing” I can be! I’ll eat the entire grocery store if I must!

I’ll show that good for nothing turtle head! Fat!?! Ha, I’ll show you fat! I’ll make it so you have to be an Olympian weightlifter just to get to my vagina! I’ll ensure you have to spend YOUR money to expand each door frame! To hire a personal nurse who makes house calls! To… spend your money catering to my every need! Before you know it, you’ll be taking care of me full time, soon after your money has drained. A forklift would be needed to get me out of the house. I’ll become a wretched stereotype. That would mean no more grocery shopping! No more picking up your medication! No more fucking me! With every pound I gain, that’s another wad of cash down the drain! I’ll show you!

You have the nerve to bust out your camera, ask me to pose for you, make me feel sexy, only to show me your zoomed in photos of fleshy bits to “make a point” that my health is in jeopardy!? Perhaps it’s the other way around. You are the one jeopardizing my health. You’re not sensitive to the power you have over me. I’ll show you!

I have all the control here.

You could use a workout anyway. You yourself have got some flabby bits along your underarm. They flap back and forth as you call the waiter over for the bill. I’m doing you a favour! Don’t you get that! Through making my vagina harder to access, you’re weight lifting! This belly of mine, is a tool to help you. I’m always thinking of you, you you YOU! And you only see me as fat. “Unappealing”. I’m fat because of you! I’m fat FOR you!

This is love.

You’re blind to it.

This grocery store is depressing. The smell is horrid, Why don’t they fix the lights, it’s utterly dim in here. I can hardly tell what I'm holding. Which aisle am I in? Ah, this taste is unmistakably twinkies. Stuffing one after the other into my fat unapologetically loving  face, imagining each and every one adding another 10 pounds to my existence. I don't care that cream is pouring out from the other end, pouring onto my seductive floral moo moo as I stuff them into my gaping cock sucker. Well, it used to be a cock sucker. I’ve deprived him of that too! God, I wish he would be my feeder. Then, all would be resolved. HE DOESN’T SUPPORT ME!

Those three people… I've seen them before in this supermarket. So… unusual. The father is always wide-eyed with fear, in nothing but blue, robotic, his steps erratic, a man on a mission. The little girl, so… dirty. Her face in a scow, yellow teeth highlighted by pale white skin that looks to have never seen the sun. Always in pyjamas, her hair is a tangled nest housing various butterfly barrettes. Her lifeless eyes bloodshot as though she just finished crying for an eternity. And the boy… just creepy. I can’t even swallow this twinkie! Always wearing that red t-shirt. His eyes, so… sharply focused. On what… his father’s shoes? His face, an unsettling brimming smile ear to ear, never wavering. The three of them oddly step in a cautious yet routine fashion. Always the same path it would appear.

They’re getting closer, fuck! Not again, each time they walk by me I feel as though something heavy had slipped under my feet. How can I feel weighed down from something beneath me? A weight below that of mine. Something much, MUCH heavier than me. As though a very thin carpet is sliding itself beneath me, only to immediately be pulled out the other side. Please, this can’t be why you lose your balance and get dizzy. They're just an odd family grocery shopping together. Anyway, I’m finished with this box of twinkies. I need to get to the dairy aisle for chocolate milk. Rinse this shit down! I love you so much.

#monologue #role play #spilled ink #spilled words #short story #wordporn #writing #my writing #see me #writers on tumblr #words #writers