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pin-k-ink · 22 days

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lilac // gojo satoru

tw ⇢ teacher-student relationship, implied age gap, dub-con, mentions of violence and injuries, a bunch of made up stuff about cursed energy, sex pollen, dry humping, kissing, biting, marking

wc ⇢ 5.8k

a/n: first time writing about sex pollen. i got too lazy to write full smut :/

The deep indigo sky was just beginning to lighten to shades of soft periwinkle and pale violet when you quietly made your way through the still-sleeping streets towards the designated meeting spot. The cobblestone paths were deserted save for a solitary street sweeper pushing a rickety broom. The crisp morning air carried the faint blossomy scent of the cherry trees lining the boulevard. You breathed it in deeply, savoring the peaceful tranquility before the mission's inevitable chaos.

Despite the early hour, an energetic current of nervous anticipation buzzed through your veins, making you feel awake and alive. After weeks - no, months - of persistent nagging and pleading with your mentor Gojo, he had finally agreed to bring you along on a real mission to neutralize a powerful cursed spirit that had been terrorizing a village. This wasn't practice or sparring. This was the real thing, and you could scarcely believe he was trusting you with this level of responsibility.

You had been studying under Gojo's guidance for three years now, quickly marking yourself as his most promising student. Your rapid progress coupled with your earnest enthusiasm clearly endeared you to the laidback master. When you first began apprenticing under him, you admired Gojo's effortless strength and nonchalant confidence. But the more time passed, the more your admiration deepened into something...more. An aching fondness that went beyond student-mentor. You did your best to bury those pesky feelings, but they surfaced anyway in your private moments when your treacherous thoughts strayed to Gojo's disarming grin, his melodic laugh, the gentleness in his touch whenever he adjusted your stance...

Shaking away those distracting thoughts, you turned your focus to the task at hand as you neared the city gates where Gojo said to meet him. You slowed your steps, not wanting to seem overanxious, and scanned the area. At first you didn't see any sign of your mentor. Then a tall, lean figure stepped out from the shadows beneath a flowering dogwood tree, seemingly materializing from the darkness itself. Your heart stuttered in your chest.

Gojo looked as casual and unruffled as ever in his trademark black jacket and fitted trousers. His silver hair was disheveled from sleep, the long bangs framing his angular face. The black blindfold covering his eerily bright eyes was already tied securely in place. He flashed you a teasing smirk as you approached, effortlessly exuding an aura of power and danger despite his relaxed demeanor.

"Well, well," he drawled in that deep, unhurried baritone that never failed to send a shiver down your spine, "Up before the sun, I see. That's my stellar pupil."

You rolled your eyes in an attempt to brush off the feeling of breathlessness that always struck you when he was near. "Like I could sleep after you finally gave in to my requests," you shot back, feigning nonchalance.

Gojo chuckled warmly, the rich sound resonating in your core. "Careful now, that eagerness will get you into trouble."

"I can handle trouble just fine," you retorted with a toss of your hair, steadfastly ignoring the flutter in your belly at his darkly amused tone.

In two long strides, Gojo closed the distance between you. Your breath hitched as he reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his fingertips grazing your cheek in a feather-light touch that set your heart racing wildly. His smile turned wolfish, as if he could sense the effect his proximity had on you.

"Getting awfully bold aren't we?" He murmured in a low rumble. "You'll need to rein in that fire if you want to keep up today."

You scowled and swatted his hand away, silently cursing the flush you could feel rising on your cheeks and neck. "I'm ready for whatever comes my way. You seem to be forgetting I'm the one who's been pestering you about this."

Gojo's smile widened in amusement at your feistiness. With a dramatic flourish, he produced a sleek black case from the inner pocket of his jacket. Your eyes widened in excitement as he flipped it open with his thumb, revealing a gleaming array of freshly crafted cursed tools nestled in plush protective inlays.

"Hard not to remember with how relentless you've been," he teased lightly. Fixing you with that intense stare despite the blindfold, he continued more seriously, "This cursed spirit we're dealing with is immensely powerful and extremely crafty. It won't be like the exercises we've practiced." His expression turned grim. "People have died already. You need to follow my lead exactly as I say, understood?"

You held his searing gaze steadily and nodded once in solemn acknowledgment of the stakes. "I'm ready."

The corner of Gojo's mouth quirked upwards in an approving smirk. "Then let's be on our way. I have a feeling this is going to be a day to remember."

With that ominous quip, he snapped the case closed and set off at a brisk pace. You felt a surge of exhilaration Course through you as you easily matched his long stride, the two of you headed towards the tree-lined path leading out of the city.

The streets were still largely empty, aside from a few bleary-eyed vendors beginning to unpack their wares and set up for morning customers. Gojo waved lazily to the fruit seller positioning bright pyramids of glossy apples and mandarins as you strolled past the market stalls. The salty tang of fresh baked bread from the bakery mingled with the sweet floral perfume wafting from the cherry blossom trees swaying overhead.

"This all seems so...normal," you remarked with a sidelong glance at Gojo. "Hard to believe we're about to go toe-to-toe with a monstrous curse just beyond the city limits."

Gojo made a noise of agreement low in his throat. "Tread carefully. Malignant energy has a way of seeping into the crevices of everyday life before you even realize."

His cryptic warning sent a fresh surge of adrenaline zipping through your bloodstream. You clenched and unclenched your fists in anticipation, feeling the thrum of your heartbeat pulsing with each step. The paved streets transitioned to a packed dirt trail as you passed under the high stone archway marking the city's eastern boundary.

Gojo slowed his pace, scanning the treeline with those uncannily sharp senses of his. You couldn't stop the small shiver of unease that rippled through you as the forest closed in on either side of the path, brilliant sunshine dappling the underbrush in patterned shadows. You couldn't see or hear any signs of disturbance, but an unmistakable feeling of being watched prickled along the nape of your neck.

Seeming to read your sudden tension, Gojo tilted his head towards you fractionally. "Do you feel that?" he murmured under his breath.

You gave an imperceptible nod, adrenaline singing through your veins as your fingers unconsciously drifted towards the compact cursed tools holstered at your hip. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Gojo's subtle hand signal gesturing to fan out. Instantly on high alert, you veered off slightly to the right, grateful for Gojo's extensive training in non-verbal battlefield communication.

Forward you pressed in taut silence, straining your senses for any indication of the curse's presence. The forest sounds of rustling leaves and trilling birdsong seemed suspiciously...normal. Too normal. That's when it materialized without warning - a towering, amorphous entity comprised of roiling black miasma that blotted out the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy.

You froze in place, fingers instinctively closing around the hilt of your sword as an involuntary tremor of terror lanced through you. The cursed spirit descended in a chaotic swirl, rapidly taking the vaguely humanoid shape of a towering bestial creature. Despite the lack of discernible facial features, you could sense the menacing focus of its attention zeroing in on you and Gojo. A deep, guttural snarl seemed to reverberate from every direction at once.

You snapped into action on sheer muscle memory ingrained from your training, launching a volley of carefully aimed cursed tools to box in the spirit's movement.

But this was no mindless monster. It was shrewd and evasive, more so than Gojo had warned. With a resonating screech, it abruptly shifted form and shot forward straight towards you in a thick miasmic tendril.

You instinctively hurled yourself sideways, the trailing edge of the curse's strike grazing your ribcage and sending you tumbling through the undergrowth. White-hot pain blossomed across your side. Gasping for air, you pushed yourself upright, fingers scrabbling for purchase in the loamy soil as you tried to blink away the spots flickering across your vision.

"Eyes on me!" Gojo's baritone bark sliced through the chaos.

You whipped your head towards the sound of his voice just in time to witness a mind-bending blur of movement as he engaged the curse head-on. Purple-black tentacles of miasma lashed out, only to get effortlessly parried and severed by Gojo's blindingly fast cursed energy. But for every whiplike appendage he disabled, two more seemed to sprout in its place, forcing him to unleash a furious barrage of cursed energy blasts.

Scrambling to your feet, you winced at the searing pain now radiating through your entire torso. Gojo's eyes may have been metaphorically blindfolded, but his hyper-attuned senses clearly tracked your distress. "Get back!" He snarled over the demonic shrieks of the curse.

Like hell you were retreating. You were Gojo's first pupil, his most promising student if the rumors were true. This was your chance to prove your mettle and earn his trust on the battlefield. Drawing your sword, you poured every ounce of cursed energy into enhancing its deadly blade and let it fly in a blinding arc directly at the curse's grotesquely shifting form.

For a fraction of a second, the world seemed to still, the eerie silence shattered only by the high-pitched whistle of your sword spinning through the air. Then, with an explosive impact, it cleaved straight through the curse's torso...or what you assumed to be its torso based on its vaguely humanoid shape. A deafening roar of anguish tore through the forest as the cursed spirit began to rapidly disintegrate, breaking apart into smoldering wisps of miasma.

You allowed yourself a triumphant grin and started to straighten, already picturing the look of approval and pride that would be written across Gojo's stupidly handsome face. But your burst of victory was short-lived. With one final desperate lash, a thick tendril of the curse's dissipating form whipped out and slammed into your chest with staggering force. You felt the air violently expelled from your lungs as you were sent hurtling backwards, back slamming against the trunk of a massive oak tree with bone-jarring impact.

White hot agony detonated through your body as you crumpled into a heap at the base of the tree, struggling to draw breath past the searing pain. Bright sparks of color danced across your vision, the world fading in and out around you in muffled fragments of sight and sound. You were vaguely aware of Gojo yelling your name, but it sounded distorted and distant, drowned out by the thunderous pounding of blood in your ears.

Then he was there, looming over you, those obscured eyes boring into you with intense focus you could practically feel. His mouth was set in a grim line as his large hands roamed over you swiftly but carefully, assessing the damage with deft surety. When he prodded your ribcage, a ragged gasp was torn from your lips and dark spots threatened to consume your vision entirely. You faintly registered his deep rumble of a voice, the words indecipherable beneath the overwhelming waves of agony crashing over you.

Something soft and sweet and floral tickled your senses through the roaring in your ears. You wanted to ask about the fragrance, but unconsciousness was rapidly closing in. The last thing you were aware of before slipping into merciful oblivion was the feeling of strong arms scooping you up, cradling you securely to Gojo's powerfully built chest as the forest blurred past in green and brown smears. Then, nothing.

When you slowly drifted back to awareness, it was to the sensation of being gently jostled by rhythmic movement. Your eyelids felt heavy as lead weights, too monumental an effort to pry them open just yet. But your other senses were able to slowly piece together your surroundings.

The slight swaying told you that you were being carried, carefully cradled against someone's firm chest and shoulder. Gojo's familiar sandalwood-and-citrus scent, now mingled with the cloying floral sweetness you'd caught a whiff of before losing consciousness, enveloped you. The subtle up-and-down rocking combined with the warmth of his body against yours and the even thrum of his heartbeat made you feel inexplicably cozy and safe, like being wrapped in a heated blanket on a chilly morning.

You let out a sleepy murmur, slowly blinking your eyes open. The forest canopy above was streaked with shards of brilliant afternoon sunlight peeking through the lattice of leaves and branches. Gojo glanced down at the sound, his striking features taut with lingering tension and jaw firmly set.

"There you are," his low voice rumbled with unmistakable relief. "Thought you were going to sleep through the rest of the day."

Your brow furrowed as flashes of memory trickled back - the curse, the fight, the searing agony as you slammed into that tree trunk with bone-rattling force. With a wince, you instinctively pressed a hand to your ribcage, which was heavily bandaged beneath the tattered remains of your uniform top.

"Wha...what happened?" you rasped out, throat feeling as dry and brittle as burnt parchment.

"You happened," Gojo replied, a hint of that familiar teasing lilt finally returning to his tone though his expression remained grave. "Disobeyed my order to fall back and instead flung yourself into the fray like a deranged chaos tornado."

Heat flooded your cheeks at his casually derisive words. You opened your mouth to protest, to try vainly justifying your reckless actions, but he swiftly cut you off with a look.

"No, don't even try denying it. Your impulsiveness nearly got you killed today." His jaw tensed, azure eyes hardening behind the dark blindfold. "We finished it off, but not before it inflicted some nasty parting shots."

Gojo paused long enough to gingerly shift you higher against his chest, his arm tightening fractionally around you before continuing in that deep, resonant tone that brooked no argument. "From now on, you follow my lead in the field. No more wild stunts, understood? I can't risk having to continuously bail you out of trouble."

You bit your lower lip, a mortified flush burning your cheeks at the well-deserved chastising. Of course he was right. You had blatantly disregarded his instruction to fall back, too wrapped up in your bravado and desire to impress him.

"I...yes, I understand. I'm sorry, sensei. I made a stupid mistake," you mumbled, shamefaced.

His austere expression softened slightly at your contrition. Slowing to a halt, he carefully resettled your position in his arms so you were fully cradled against his chest like a child. His fingers brushed a few stray tendrils of hair back from your face in an unexpected tender gesture, the gentleness of it causing your breath to hitch.

"We all make mistakes when we're learning, my dear," he said gruffly. "The important thing is to learn from them and become better because of it. You'll get there eventually."

His hand lingered against your cheek for the span of a heartbeat, and you found yourself subconsciously leaning into his calloused palm, savoring the rough warmth of it. Up this close, you could make out the tiny flecks of midnight blue scattered through his brilliant azure irises. His masculine, woodsy scent combined with the sweet floral fragrance clinging to his skin in a heady, intoxicating blend that made your head spin.

Then, abruptly clearing his throat, Gojo straightened and pulled his hand away. "We should get moving while we have daylight left. Don't want you catching a cold in that state."

With long, purposeful strides, he set off once more down the forest path, movements remarkably fluid despite your added weight cradled in his arms. You let your head loll against his shoulder, suddenly overcome with bone-deep weariness. A few times you drifted in and out of a light doze, the steady rhythm of Gojo's steps lulling you into a trancelike state.

Eventually, the forest began to transition to more manicured spaces - orchards and farmland marking the outskirts of a village on the horizon. The fragrance of ripening fruit and freshly turned soil perfumed the air. In the distance, plumes of woodsmoke rose lazily from the first chimney stacks. Gojo's pace slowed fractionally.

"Nearly to my lodgings," he murmured. "Then we'll get you properly patched up and rested."

You hummed a vague noise of acknowledgement, lacking the energy for more. Truthfully, you didn't want this blissful pocket of tranquility where the world seemed to narrow to just you, Gojo, and the hazy calm between breaths to end. Selfishly, you tugged the edges of this peaceful moment around you like a comforting blanket, unwilling to shatter the illusion of domesticity it created - Gojo carrying you home after an arduous mission, tender reassurances and gentle caresses freely given. In these hushed instants, it felt like anything could happen. Something deeper than typical student-mentor affection.

But you knew it was just that - an illusion. One that was rapidly fraying around the edges the closer you drew to your destination. So you allowed your eyelids to drift shut once more, committing every nuance to memory. The lean power coiled in Gojo's body with each step, the rhythmic cadence of his heartbeat against your cheek, the lingering traces of floral sweetness mingling with his familiar earthy scent.

All too soon, the reverie was shattered as Gojo's quiet baritone cut through the stillness. "We're here."

You reluctantly opened your eyes to find him gazing down at you with an inscrutable look, silvery bangs askew from your journey. As he swept inside and settled you on the bed with infinite care, you couldn't help but wonder if the tender way his fingers smoothed across your brow was simply your mind playing wistful tricks.

Gojo's touch lingered for just a moment, calloused fingertips lightly tracing the curve of your cheekbone before he drew his hand back. You tried not to read too much into the tender gesture, reminding yourself it was simply his way of assessing your injuries. Still, you couldn't quite banish the fluttering warmth it sent blossoming in your chest.

"Get some rest," he rumbled in that deep, unhurried drawl that never failed to send a shiver skating down your spine. "I'll fetch supplies to properly dress those wounds."

With that, he rose in one fluidly graceful movement and swept across the small but meticulously tidy room towards a hallway presumably leading to a washroom or storage area. Left alone, you allowed your eyes to drift closed on a weary exhale, suddenly acutely aware of the throbbing ache pulsing through your ribcage with each breath.

The familiar scent of sandalwood and citrus mingled with the lingering floral notes was everywhere, surrounding you in Gojo's uniquely masculine essence. You breathed it in deeply, willing it to soothe and relax you as your mind began to drift.

You weren't sure how much time had passed before the sound of footfalls broke you from your half-doze. Gojo reappeared in the doorway, sleeves neatly rolled up past his elbows and arms laden with a basin of steaming water, a sheaf of clean linen bandages, and an assortment of glass bottles and ceramic pots. He set the supplies down on a low wooden table beside the bed with studied meticulousness.

Unable to contain your curiosity at the sweet floral aroma that clung to him in a delicate cloud, you found yourself asking, "What...what is that fragrance?"

Gojo flashed you an enigmatic half-smile as he settled on the edge of the bed, deft hands already working to remove the makeshift bandages you'd hastily applied in the forest.

"Cherry blossom poultice," he replied, carefully peeling back the soiled linen wrappings to reveal the vivid mottling of blues, blacks, and purples marring the skin across your torso and ribs. You couldn't stifle a pained hiss of indrawn breath at the inflamed sight. Gojo's mouth tightened into a grim line. "That curse may have been a crafty adversary, but it was also saturated with poisonous flora and fauna. A full-body dose could be lethal if left untreated."

Your eyes widened in muted horror at the thought of how narrowly you'd skirted death yet again today. Gojo must have sensed your sudden spike of unease because his next words were spoken in a low, soothing rumble meant to reassure.

"Easy now, you're alright. I managed to mostly deflect and dispel the curse's attack with a barrier before it could fully envelop us." A wry twist of his lips. "Though I did get a hefty face full of the damned pollen for my troubles."

Gojo worked in silence, deft fingers gliding over your skin with the gentlest of touches as he secured the fresh bandages around your torso. You released a shuddering exhale, doing your best to avoid tensing under his careful ministrations. The cloying floral fragrance enveloping you both made you feel slightly lightheaded, senses heightened to an almost dizzying degree.

As Gojo leaned in closer to wrap the linen binding around your ribcage, you inhaled deeply—and immediately regretted it. The intoxicating aroma of cherry blossoms flooded your senses, viscous and sweet, simultaneously making your head spin giddily while liquid warmth unfurled low in your belly. You bit back a small, strangled sound of surprise at the overwhelming sensation.

Gojo froze, hands stilling against you. His head cocked ever so slightly, blindfold shifting as his brow furrowed. You watched his nostrils flare subtly as he scented the air, drawing in that same cloying fragrance.

"Gojo...?" you breathed his name, unable to disguise the husky rasp twining through it.

His strong jaw clenched visibly, throat working on a tight swallow. Those brilliant azure eyes you knew burned too intensely behind his blindfold suddenly seemed to smolder from beneath their obscuring veil. Without a word, Gojo resumed winding the bandages around you with deft efficiency, but his movements had grown noticeably stiff and stilted, muscles taut like finely drawn bowstrings.

You couldn't tear your gaze away from the rippling cords of tendon in his throat, mesmerized by the way they contracted and released with each tight swallow. An insistent throbbing had taken up residence low in your abdomen, sending molten tendrils of liquid heat licking through your veins. The lightheadedness grew more pronounced until you felt almost drunk on the addictive floral sweetness clogging the air.

Then, as Gojo shifted to secure the end of the bandage, the lightest whisper of his knuckles grazing your ribs made you Release a shuddery gasp that seemed indecent in its rawness. His head whipped towards you, body going preternaturally still, as if scarcely daring to breathe.

"Gojo," you rasped again, desperation fraying the edges of his name as that smoldering heat consumption you quickly intensified into a raging inferno. "I...I don't know what's happening, but I feel..."

You trailed off uncertainly, lips parting on shallow pants as your body waged a losing war with itself, nerves alight and senses overwhelmed by conflicting waves of need and fear. What was this feverish madness burning through your veins? Despite the blanket cocooning you, you felt deliriously overheated, skin flushed and tingling with hypersensitivity.

Gojo made a low, gravelly sound in the back of his throat - not quite a growl but infinitely more feral. In one blurring movement, he snatched your wrist and pressed two fingertips to the thunderous leap of your pulse point. You could have sworn his calloused digits seared your flesh with the intensity of his touch. He hissed a sharp curse through gritted teeth.

"Pollen toxin." The words emerged as a rumbling snarl more befitting a caged beast than a human. "Accursed flora. Aphrodisiac compounded by healing catalyst."

His hand was shaking almost imperceptibly where it still gripped your wrist in that punishing hold. When he raised his gaze to yours, it glittered with barely restrained hunger behind the smoldering azure glare - a predator watching its prey with hyperfocus intensity.

You instinctively shrank back slightly, fear and arousal swirling through you in a dizzying cyclone. "W-what do we do?" You stammered breathlessly.

Gojo's jaw worked furiously, each knotted tendon in his broad shoulders standing out in bold relief as if it were taking every ounce of his formidable willpower and control to hold himself back. When at last he spoke, his voice was low and strained to the point of breaking.

"We quell the toxin's influence..." His tongue flicked out to wet his lips in an unconscious, devastatingly sensual gesture that transfixed you. "By any means necessary."

The weight of his words - that deliciously sinful promise laced through the graveled rasp - slammed into you with staggering force. You let out a tremulous whine past your parted lips before you could stop yourself. That seemed to be the hairline fracture in Gojo's restraint.

He moved with the liquid grace of a predator, surging forward to cage you beneath his powerful frame with one corded forearm braced on either side of your head. The wild silver veil of his hair brushed your fevered cheeks as he leaned down until his mouth hovered a hairsbreadth from yours, ragged breaths mingling hotly.

"Last chance to tell me no, little one," he rasped harshly. "Because I won't be able to stop once I've tasted you..."

Instead of voicing protest, you arched helplessly into him with a keening mewl, already intoxicated on the delirious friction of your bodies aligned from abdomen to thigh. Gojo's jaw tensed, a muscle leaping beneath the stubbled hinge as he visibly wrestled the last dregs of his restraint. Then, with a low, defeated groan, he crushed his sinful mouth to yours in a branding kiss of pure liquid fire.

The moment Gojo's lips crashed into yours in that searing, desperate kiss, it was like a thousand lit matches had been set blazing through your veins. You opened for him in a broken gasp, welcoming the velvet rasp of his tongue as it stroked deep to taste you in a carnal claiming.

Gojo kissed you with a ferocious, unbridled hunger—all hints of his usual teasing restraint obliterated by the toxin blazing through his system. He devoured your mouth like a man dying of thirst, coaxing whimpering mewls from your throat with each greedy lap and nip of his talented lips and tongue.

Broad palms mapped the curves of your sides and waist in rough, possessive strokes before cradling the base of your skull to tilt your head for an even more scorching angle. All coherent thought disintegrated under the merciless onslaught of pure sensation as Gojo thoroughly plundered the recesses of your mouth, savoring your taste and scent like it was the elixir of life itself.

When the urgent need for oxygen became too great to ignore, he tore his mouth from yours with a guttural growl, harsh pants ghosting humid over your swollen lips. There was no reprieve, however, as Gojo immediately latched onto the slender column of your throat, laving and suckling at the thundering pulse point with fervent ardor.

You cried out sharply at the exquisite sting of his teeth grazing the sensitive skin, fingernails raking blunt crescents down his powerful back muscles in unbidden retaliation. If anything, it only seemed to stoke the smoldering fire in Gojo hotter and brighter. He ground his jaw against you, low rumbling groans of pure masculine satisfaction vibrating against your neck as he mouthed and laved a path of molten open-mouthed kisses across your collarbones.

Just when you thought the unbearable tension crackling between you would surely snap and consume you both whole, Gojo captured your lips again in an inferno of a kiss. You melted helplessly into the scorching heat of it, thighs parting instinctively as he settled his solid weight more firmly over you. A ragged whine tore from your throat as the hard ridge of his cock ground against your aching pussy through too many maddening layers of clothing.

With a frustrated growl vibrating in his chest, Gojo pinned you with his hips and reached between your bodies to tear at the wrappings securing your clothing. You watched with rapt fascination as those wickedly deft fingers made quick work of the fastenings and laces, exposing more and more fevered flesh to the slick glide of his calloused palms and mouth's scorching caresses.

Under that searing azure gaze obscured by the blindfold, you had never felt more bare, more exquisitely possessed by the intensity of his focused want. Gojo mapped every quivering inch of you with insatiable focus—branding a path of stinging love bites down the swell of your breasts, laving at the juncture of your inner thighs until your startled cries spiraled high into shamelessly wanton keens.

"Satoru...ahh! Please...I can't—" you gasped out in a wavering plea, trembling with the effort of withstanding the relentless onslaught on your senses. Every nerve felt scorched raw and electrified, each glancing caress igniting liquid fire in its wake. It was maddening, this exquisite torture of your senses being drawn out to the brink of snapping.

Drunk on the honeyed elixir of your combined intoxicating scents, Gojo only growled hungrily and rose to capture your lips once more. He poured every ounce of his elemental yearning into the plundering strokes of his tongue and nips of blunted teeth until you keened into the kiss with unbearable abandon, utterly overwhelmed.

Desperate, you wound your fingers into the thick silver tresses at his nape and tugged sharply—half plea, half demand swallowed by the ravenous crash of your joined mouths. To your shock, Gojo answered with a full-bodied shudder and an incoherent rumble of pleasure. He dragged himself inch by scorching inch away from you, lips clinging to yours until the last possible moment.

When you finally surfaced for air, Gojo was watching you with heavy-lidded intensity, chest heaving visibly. Stray tendrils of snowy hair fell in disheveled disarray framing his chiseled features, thoroughly wrecked and devastatingly sensual. You drank in the sight of him like the most tantalizing of ambrosia, lips swollen and kiss-bruised, unruly black cloth now tented obscenely over his straining cock.

"...not done with you yet," he rasped in that low, gravel-and-smoke tone that cinched desire into an exquisite knot at your core with each rumbled syllable. "Not even close."

Then, with a leonine grace at odds with his wild dissolution, Gojo prowled up your body to press you into the bed once more.

Gojo's intense gaze smoldered with undisguised hunger as he loomed over you, body taut with simmering restraint. His kiss-swollen lips curved into a wolfish grin, fingers trailing featherlight paths down your fevered skin until you trembled beneath his smoldering touch.

"So responsive," he rumbled in that gravel-toned rasp that seemed to vibrate straight through you. "I'm going to take such sweet torment unraveling you piece by exquisite piece, my dear."

True to his dark promise, Gojo set about blazing a scorching trail of open-mouthed kisses and teasing nips along the sensitive peaks and valleys of your body. Each maddeningly light caress and rasp of his stubbled jaw seemed to stoke the banked embers of want coiling low in your core into an inferno. You writhed shamelessly against him, desperate for friction, for release, for anything to douse the liquid flames licking through your veins.

But Gojo was relentless in his unhurried torment, heedless of your increasingly desperate pleas that dissolved into tremulous whimpers. With skilled hands and lips and teeth, he steadily unraveled your restraint into boneless want until all you could do was fist your fingers into the disheveled silk of his hair and hang on for the exquisite unbearable ride.

At last, when you teetered at the precipice of shattering into a thousand incandescent shards, Gojo claimed your lips in a searing, possessive kiss, swallowing your cries.

Gojo's kiss consumed you utterly—a ferocious melding of questing tongues and nipping teeth that robbed you of breath and higher cognition. You could only cling to the bunched muscles of his back and surrender yourself to the relentless onslaught of sensation as he mapped every ridge and plane of you with fervent ardor.

Calloused palms branded searing paths over your fevered skin, stoking the flames of desire raging through your veins ever higher until the air felt too thick to breathe. Every graze of Gojo's lips and roll of his powerful hips against yours ripped open-mouthed cries from your parted lips, urgency mounting to a crescendo.

You lost all sense of time and space, the world contracting to encompass only the joined rhythm of Gojo’s cock sliding against your soaked pussy, the heated rasp of entwined breaths, the exquisite drag of sweat-slicked skin against skin. Wave after wave of delirious sensation swelled and crested, carrying you under until only Gojo's name remained—a breathless litany falling from your lips over and over like a fevered prayer.

At last, when you teetered dizzily on the brink of your orgasm, Gojo's mouth found that electrifying confluence of nerves at the juncture of your shoulder. He suckled at the thundering pulse point, teeth grazing in a stinging promise, and you instantly shattered apart into thousands of fractal aftershocks. A broken, sobbing cry was torn from your very core as you felt a gush of fluid.

Through the whiteout haze, you were dimly aware of Gojo following you over that dizzying edge with a hoarse, guttural shout muffled against your sweat-dampened neck. He collapsed against you in a boneless sprawl, harsh breaths sawing from his heaving chest and mingling with the heated puff of your panting exhalations.

For long, suspended moments, you simply clung to one another, bodies thrumming with residual tremors of release. Gradually, your scattered senses began knitting themselves back together, awareness expanding once more beyond the microcosm of tangled limbs and mingled heartbeats.

The potent floral aroma still hung thick in the air, but its cloying, dizzying influence seemed to have finally abated from your brutally overwhelmed senses. You became aware of a dull throbbing ache reclaiming the space between your temples—the first tugs of an impending pollen sickness headache, no doubt.

Beside you, Gojo stirred with a low groan rumbling deep in his chest, blindfold slightly askew to reveal a sliver of those bright azure irises heavy-lidded with satiation. It was clear the toxin's hazy, lust-fueled madness had finally burned itself out in the wake of your animalistic humping. In its place remained a bone-deep lassitude weighing your tangled limbs into pleasant heaviness.

Gojo nuzzled against the slick curve of your throat, lips ghosting across the wildflower petals scattered there—faint purpling bruises in the shapes of his fervent mouth's passage. His voice rasped low and grave when he spoke at last.

"Well...that was certainly one way to burn through the excess pollen."

You startled into a soft huff of incredulous laughter that soon bubbled into fuller peals. Grinning wolfishly despite his apparent exhaustion, Gojo angled himself higher to bestow a lingering, openmouthed kiss that persisted even as your laughter slowly faded into blissful, languid quiet.

#jjk smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader smut #jjk x reader smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #gojo satoru x reader smut #gojo x reader smut #gojo satoru smut #gojo satoru x reader #gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojou satoru x reader #gojo satoru

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jmdbjk · 13 days

Text

Come Back to Me.

As the first scene opened, my very initial reaction/feeling was overwhelming relief. Is that a weird feeling to feel first thing? With all that's happened these past few weeks, this seemed like this is finally a tangible thing to fight back with. I don't know if that makes logical sense but I guess I have been angry and frustrated and feeling helpless.

The party scene that opens the MV and which he returns to toward the end, perhaps this symbolizes his chosen career/life? At the beginning, he's tired and over it... "leave me alone, I need to step away." So he gets up off the couch. Yet the lyric says "I told you I'm fine, staying good..." (He has told us several times after Festa 2022 that he's fine, he's good.)

He stares (with longing?) at the mysterious door with three little glass windows.

"Spring's always been here." I know the lyric on the MV says Spring, but he clearly says "spring's always been here."

Then he is interrupted again so he strides away from the party and suddenly he's in his bathroom with his little family who are brushing their teeth.

The ideal scenario. Nice, perfect little smiling family, perfect little home.

The door to the bathroom has four little windows on it...

His little girl (Namjoon is a girl-dad) pulls him into the bathroom to join her and her mom. He is confused.

Lyric: "I forgot to shower, 세수할 시간도 아까워 or sesuhal sigando ahkkawuh" and translates to "even washing my face feels like a waste of time." He made the Korean lyric rhyme with the preceding English lyric.

Why just this line in Korean? The concept of "face" has a specific cultural meaning in Asia which includes Korea (but is not limited to this). Everyone's heard of "saving face", to save your honor or protect from humiliation. Its more than just a sense of honor though. There is much more to it, if you want to read something, here is one article that attempts to explain the cultural significance of it.

In the context of these lyrics, I think he means, as a Korean, he thinks keeping his face clean is a waste of time.

If we were to think of it as his attempt to keep his idol image clean, to be the kind of person everyone thinks he is, to uphold the honor of everything that some want to put on him and make him represent... that's gotta be a huge amount of pressure and its a waste of time for him to try to be the perfect man in his perfect home with his perfect family. Because he's not perfect. "You don't have to be the anything you see....Trying not to be that something in this sea."

As we've seen recently, what a challenge it would be to constantly be trying to uphold such a perfect image in the midst of so much shit being thrown from all directions from multiple entities.

Moving on.

He goes through another door and has to duck because something is being thrown at him.

The imperfect relationship. Conflict, anger, a lot of turmoil. The room is a total wreck. He attempts to diffuse the situation but she's mad, accusatory. The lyric he's singing: "I told you I'm fine tonight, staying good." Obviously not. She is dressed in some sort of cocktail dress, a little bit of glamour within this chaos.

Interestingly, the walls throughout this MV usually have some sort of box-like shapes embellishing them. Or the furniture is angular/rectangular. The wallpaper in this room looks like a maze. Each of these rooms could be considered a box.

They struggle, she grabs a lamp. He runs. The door to that room has no little round windows on it.

The hallway he walks down is lined with doors, some open, some closed, some with little round windows in them, some without.

He goes into an open door and then immediately comes back out, the woman in the previous room following, trying to pull him back in. What does she represent? Personal relationships? The aspects of his life that are tempting but toxic?

He tries to open the door with three windows. He cannot. It is locked to him. He keeps running and finds himself suddenly in a baby crib?! The wood bars resemble a jail cell.

What's up with the orange on his pillow? Oranges are given as gifts in Korea for good luck. The parents peering over the top of the crib entice him to come to them.

"You are my pain, divine, divine, get, get, get to the divine, divine, so fine." This part has stumped me. He's being treated like a baby, or he feels like a baby. Parents looking down at their baby boy... he is unfazed at their adulation... he covers himself with a blanket to shield himself from their attention, they are disappointed and leave him be by walking away... the lyrics: "You are my pain divine, divine, get, get, get to the divine, divine, so fine." Could it be the celebrity life he leads, the perception he's young and naive, a baby? Trapped in a box, not able to get out on his own terms? Endure the pain of it all in order to get to the divine of it all? I don't know.

When he uncovers himself, the blanket has turned into a big leaf from a houseplant, and. he's in a nice room which resembles his real home.

A different woman enters the room, seemingly searching for something. She's dressed in a drab looking dress.

He contemplates her while she is still in the room.

She doesn't see what she's looking for and leaves the room hurriedly.

The lyric is a repeat of forgot to shower, waste of time washing my face.

He follows her.

She doesn't seem to be aware he is there. He senses her but just misses seeing her slip away.

And he seems to make a circle and ends up back in the room he just left. And he turns around, and comes face to face with himself.

"I told you I'm fine tonight, Spring's always been here, I will sleep in her eyes." The camera pans to his other self and back and he's turned into the woman who was searching for something. They found each other.

Who does she represent? His alter-ego? His life? The balance he's been searching for? Does she represent us? his fans? or maybe all the people who support him and he depends on. She represents his center, his stability?

When they find each other, they are happy. There is a beam of sunlight that quickly moves across the wall behind them when they go to sit on the couch. They don't sit close to each other. Very platonic. Does she represent happiness and comfort, his guiding light?

Once they connect, his smiles are so big, he's laughing, he's happy once again and he returns to all the other rooms happy, settled, content even.

Hard to see but the baby in the crib who represents RM, is holding up the orange to his mother.

"I see you come back to me, you are my pain divine. You are my pain divine, divine." The last sentence repeats over and over as he rises and sees the happy sunlight woman again, beckoning him to come to her and he nods as if he knows its time to go with her.

He goes to her. As soon as he enters that atrium where she is standing, the sun comes out and we see both of their clothing has changed, he in a hanbok-like outfit and she back in the dress we first saw her in. The outfits are made of similar material and they are both barefoot. I am sure being barefoot has some cultural connotation. Getting back to basics, to a natural state perhaps? Simplicity.

"You are my pain, divine, divine" keeps repeating and "I told you I'm fine tonight, staying good, Spring's always been here." He is reassuring, perhaps indicating he knew he had to take this journey of self-discovery, or self re-discovery knowing there were those who supported him, the Spring would always be there no matter how challenging it is.

She seems to ask if he's ready and he takes a deep breath and they both go through the door and the light becomes brilliant.

As the camera pulls back while they walk amongst the corridors, we see a vast maze of similar rooms.

Navigating life or a career can be like a maze. The future is unknown, no telling which room he will enter next. But he has his alter-ego, happiness, support, his light, accompanying him through the journey, through his pain, divine.

When it was over, I was a little emotional. The production was flawless, so many details I'm sure I missed dozens of them.

It wasn't until the second watch did I realize the song was all english except for the one line about washing his face.

Remember when Namjoon came on Weverse live and he told us about how he got the cut over his eye? Here is a great interview of the director of the MV, Lee Sungjin and he explains how it happened and the experience of working with RM.

Edit: I just realized the "party" room is the same room as the one that resembles his home.

#rm x come back to me #namjoon #bts chapter 2

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sobeautifullyobsessed · 2 months

Text

A Khan By Any Other Name

a prequel to Star Trek: Into Darkness

mystery, suspense, danger ~ romance & NSFW material to follow

summary: Seraphina DiPietro is wise in the ways of the world of world; she has to be, as she travels the California coast as a torch singer in pubs, bars, and nightclubs. She knows how to take care of herself and stay out of trouble--most of the time. When trouble comes, it's usually because she lets her kind heart overrule her common sense. Stopping to check on a handsome stranger stranded roadside in the Mojave Desert, her curiousity is piqued as much by his classic, mint-looking Mustang, as by its driver--a tall, dark, mysterious drink of water, whom she quickly learns is so much more than he appears.

characters: Khan Noonien Singh (aka: John Harrison), Seraphina DiPietro (OC)

word count: 2.4k

Chapter One

Her first mistake had been slowing down to have a second look. Three plus years with a vintage car enthusiast (her ex now, thank god; three months gone and good riddance to him, her mantra whenever he crossed her mind) had ingrained the habit in her. The habit, frankly, plus an appreciative eye for the sweetest of rides. Thanks to Simon (and his obsession), she could distinguish in seconds between the genuine article and that which easily fooled the masses, a cunningly detailed replica—and the sleek ragtop that looked to have skidded to the side of the road, leaving a spray a gravel and black, burnt rubber in its tracks, was absolutely the real thing.

So she’d slowed down, only half meaning to, cataloguing the fine details and quickly estimating its worth, while admiring its classic lines and the bright flash of its chrome detailings. Seraphina couldn’t keep from grinning, thinking about how instantly covetous Simon would be in the face of such a find, and how jealous he would feel to know that she had stumbled upon it with no effort whatsoever.

The man bending over the open hood

straightened as she passed, arresting her attention with a commanding, steely gaze that left her feeling like a marked woman. As though he not only saw her, in her every visible feature, but somehow inexplicably knew her—and needed her. Vitally, and immediately. Despite the lick of common sense apprehension that fluttered through her vitals, simple curiosity and a deeply embedded tendency to act the good Samaritan had Seraphina making her second, even bigger, mistake of the afternoon--pulling over to park her hovercraft several feet in front of his stalled vehicle.

She looked into her rearview mirror; he had turned to watch how she would proceed, holding his hands up with his fingers splayed wide, surely his way of expressing she could approach him safely. “Not so fast, buddy,” she murmured, “I wasn’t born yesterday…and I’ve seen your kind before.” Sera cut the engine, pulling the keys from the ignition and flicking the lock mechanism off the small can of mace dangling from her keyring. She wasn’t so foolhardy as to face the tall, well-built stranger unprepared; nearly a decade of travels up and down the coast of California, performing in seedy, small town dives, then upscale pubs and bars, and finally city nightclubs, had taught her well to be ever on her guard.

And she’d learned a few tricks in the course of her career, for if the mace should fail; she could—and had—flipped a drunk onto his back a time or two, who’d tried to cop a feel when she passed across a darkened dancefloor; and she knew all too well how much force was necessary, knee to groin, in order to incapacitate those pigheaded brutes who wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer when they followed her out to the parking lot at the end of a gig. Handsome he might be (decidedly so, she mused, angular features, piercing eyes, thick, dark hair, an errant lock strayed upon his brow; such a striking combination!) but she was not fool enough to ever judge the book by it’s cover.

The stranger stood motionless a moment more, the light breeze ruffling that wayward lock until he brushed it back, a swift yet languid move that spoke of cat-like grace and an elegance that didn’t fit the setting or the way that he was clothed. He was straight-backed, slim-hipped, long-legged--and poised with a confidence befitting a prince, and not the work-a-day posture of a blue-collar joe or road-weary drifter. Yet the smile he gave her did not reach his eyes; Sera found it a little feral, and felt her pulse increase as a taste of adrenaline—that trusty “fight or flee” response—hit her system.

But she was already committed, having left the safety and cool comfort of her two-seater; if he was an actual threat, the worse that she could do was show the weakness of timidity now. Sera left her sunglasses in place, determined he would not read a bit of doubt in her eyes or bearing, the can of mace tucked neatly in the palm of her left hand, and walking forward into the dry, baking, Mojave Desert heat.

Sera gave a low but audible whistle, advancing as casually as she could, finally calling out to him, "She's a real beauty--and someone's taken serious loving care of her too." The 300-year-old Mustang appeared as close to mint as any vintage vehicle she had ever seen; given its obvious value, she had to wonder why the hell he would even have it on the road--especially in desert conditions. That instinctive voice of warning sounded an answer in her head: that's because it's not his.

Okay, Sera, she cautioned herself, give him the benefit of the doubt; he could have come by that automobile in any number of ways. She stopped a half-dozen steps from where the stranger stood, aiming to read his reaction as she asked, "Early 21st century, right?"

The man smiled--more sincerely this time--and nodded. "That she is," he replied, sparing a brief look at the stalled car, "Unfortunately, she's not going anywhere, anytime soon." His smooth, deep voice was as pleasant to the ears as his form was easy on his eyes, and his accent distinctly British, leaving Sera to ponder how and why he'd found his way into the midst of the Mojave. "I believe it's the transmission," he added.

In an instant, his eyes flicked downward, as though he registered that small, innocuous movement. She rushed to fill the vacuum of silence that hung between them, hoping to distract him from whatever suspicions her little move might have awakened. “I know collectors,” she told him, running her right hand through her hair, fluffing it a bit, hoping to draw his eyes upwards again “…fanatical ones, who would pay a small fortune to make such a treasure theirs.” She leaned toward him, adopting a confidential tone, honest in her curiosity, “However did you manage it?”

Sera could hear the tick of the internal combustion engine as it cooled, informing her he hadn't been stranded long. Surveying the area behind the Mustang, she spotted several telltale puddles of transmission fluid in the car's wake. "Looks like you might've blown a hose," she speculated, indicating the fluid spotting the back trail. "Those kind of parts are few and far between these days...but I bet we can find a mechanic who might be able to juryrig something enough to get you on the road again."

She turned back to find him watching her, his exotic-looking eyes narrowed. Appraising her in a way that made her feel...exposed. Unnerved. Vulnerable. Sera squeezed her hand against the reassuring weight of the small, defensive weapon cupped in her palm.

He inhaled sharply, a fleeting look of calculation crossing his face. “It was an unexpected…” he paused, studying her carefully, “…but well-timed acquisition of…convenience.” Such a reply was far too vague to answer her question—but didn’t surprise her in the least.

“Then you must be a man of remarkable luck, Mr…” Sera let her voice trail off with the question, fully expecting there would be little truth in his answer.

And then he was moving past the safe cushion of space between them, extending a large, powerful looking hand towards her, as way of introduction. “Harrison. I’m…John Harrison.” His grip was firm, not too tight, but Sera sensed—felt—a strength restrained that fit his bearing perfectly. Intimidating, but not frightening; confident—and intriguing her beyond her good sense should allow; and his eyes were locked on her, regarding her with such curiosity and healthy appraisal, that she slipped her sunglasses atop her head without a moment’s hesitation, meaning to meet his gaze directly.

Sera hadn’t realized she was staring until he cleared his throat. “And you are?” he asked, smiling warmly, surely feeling the advantage now of having gotten past her bravado. Her mouth felt dry—it had to be the arid atmosphere and not embarrassment over her awkward reaction to him--so that her tongue actually stuck a moment before she stammered out her name. “Seraphina.” She said it rather breathlessly, then bit her lip against revealing her surname.

Harrison had not released her hand, although his grip was gentle, and the warmth of his skin pleasant against her own. “Seraphina,” he repeated, the small smile creases bracketing his mouth deepening, and a hint of his true smile finally reaching his eyes. “Lovely name, Seraphina. Exotic in its way, and as rare and fetching as a desert rose.”

Ordinarily, Sera would laugh off such obvious flattery; she’d had enough of it--and insincere at that--throughout her years as a torch singer. This stranger—John Harrison—looked a better class of man than those who usually tried to ply her with compliments. That was no reason, of course, to take him more seriously than any of the others. And yet she felt a sort of…solemnity…about him; a dignity and self-assurance that spoke of a far more purposeful life than those of plain, ordinary men. He was damned attractive too, enough to have her a bit flummoxed at so dear a distance.

"Seraphina,” he reiterated, teasing the syllables along, the depth and richness of his voice making her shiver a little despite the desert heat. “A derivative of seraphim, the highest order of celestial beings in religious myth. Heavenly, fiery, winged immortals, tasked with surrounding and praising the throne of god.” He leaned nearer, well past that unspoken barrier of personal space, closing his eyes while inhaling deeply through his nose, seeming to seek her essence by scent alone.

Such unexpected intimacy left Seraphina speechless, every instinct she had telling her to give ground a step or two—yet she remained still, for when he opened his eyes, she found herself fascinated by their changing hue. Seraphina had never seen such striking eyes on a man before; and she’d have sworn that they were blue. Pale blue when she’d seen them from a distance, in the bright, unfiltered sun; then a surprising, piercing, azure when she met him face to face. Now they seem to shift unpredictably from purely blue to nearly green with however the light played upon them, with flecks of gold speckling around the pupils.

“I wonder,” he mused, almost to himself, while Sera remained entranced and silent, unable to look away despite knowing she must look utterly foolish, “Might you be the angel of mercy I’m in such desperate need of?”

Befuddled, Sera sputtered back, "I...um...what?", finally taking a step back and pulling her hand from his grasp.

"I mean to say how fortunate I am, you came along precisely as you did. " Harrison shrugged and took a step back as well, his manner self-effacing enough to lend sincerity to his words. "And that your nature is a kind one--I imagine most women would have cruised by without a care for my predicament, given this isolated location and the potential threat I could embody."

Regaining her composure, Sera lifted her chin proudly, "I've managed to look after myself for many years now, and in dodgier situations." Her usual insoucience restored, she asked the most vital of questions, looking him squarely in the eyes to read the truth before he even answered, "Do I have reason to fear for my safety, Mr. Harrison?"

His eyes widened and he grinned, and then he began to laugh. Heartfelt, and deep in his throat; the rich sound of melted, dark chocolate--the rare sort of sweet that was supposed to be healthy for one, but only if consumed in moderation. A woman could lose herself in such a laugh, she realized, and I'll bet he knows it too.

"If there was any reason at all, you've quite disarmed me already." Now it seemed he was sizing her up beyond first impressions--and liking what he saw, by the look of satisfaction on his face. "I promise you, Ms..."

"It's just Seraphina for now please, if it's all the same to you. " Sera pressed her lips thin against the smile that wanted to break forth, enjoying both his unspoken surprise at her overall boldness--and what she dared to believe was an appreciation for her physical charms.

Harrison acquiesced with a tilt of his head. "Then I promise you, pretty Seraphina, that I harbor no ill intent towards you. And I would be deeply indebted to you for the aid I am sure you intend to offer me."

She felt her cheeks flush at his easy compliment--not taken in, but happy to accept it nonetheless. "Well, it's a shame to have to abandon her here, but the closest hope you have for a spare part--and a mechanic with working knowledge of antique cars--is at least a hundred miles away."

"Alright then," he affirmed, moving past her to slam shut the Mustang's hood, "We should probably be on our way."

"Of course." Sera turned to follow him, wanting a closer look at the rare vehicle before they drove away. "You should put the top up too; you may not make it back here until tomorrow at least."

He nodded again, striding to the driver's side door to start the car and raise the top. Something not quite right here, she thought, frowning; I could swear that this model and the ones that followed, had a remote on the key fob to control the mechanism. It reminded her that she'd initially thought the car did not belong to him--and that somehow she had allowed his charm cause her to lower her guard.

She stepped to the passenger side, hoping for a peek inside to confirm her growing suspicion. "You ought to raise the windows, too," she told him, leaning close enough to peer inside the passenger side window, "No telling what might find its way inside here once darkness falls. It gets pretty cold here at night..." Sera swallowed hard when she got a look at the ignition cylinder; it had been removed from its place beneath the steering wheel and hung down by several wires. The wires themselves appeared to have been rearranged.

Her heart in her throat, Seraphina searched her memory for the word to describe exactly what she was seeing. Hotwired. That's what they called it; a quick and easy way to boost a car. Simon had educated her, marveling at the skill of those he'd read about who could do do in under a minute. She'd never dreamed of seeing something like it up close. Yet there it was, and the man who'd done it clearly hadn't wanted her to see it. Which meant...

He was faster than her by far; almost preternaturally fast. Harrison had grabbed her left arm ( --- damn, he had noted she was carrying something there! --- ) through the window opening, his iron grip digging into her flesh painfully. "Drop it," he ordered her, "Drop it now. I can explain everything if you just remain calm, Seraphina."

She didn't mean to, but she whimpered softly, not only at the discomfort he was inflicting, but also for the cold menace in his eyes. Had she thought them beautiful, compelling, alluring, just moments ago? Now it seemed to her they were the deadliest eyes she had seen in her life.

(to be continued)

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loadedberetta · 8 months

Text

5 Minute break // Ghost x Reader (fem no body desc)

cw mentions of smoking, guns and shooting

You planted your back against the tall brick wall just below the sign that proclaimed this very spot as a smoking area. A tall tree hung over the top of the wall, shading the whole parking lot. It filtered out most noises of the city, making the inner courtyard a cosy little space. From the other three sides, a tall, glassy apartment building encased the little asphalted eden. Smoke almost always rose from the spot you stood at, as all the people working in the multi-storey office building came down to have a break. As you did too. But the people close to you in the office knew you didn't smoke, and stopped offering you cigs long ago.

"You wan' one?" A new voice asked from moderately far away, as you just finished guessing the daily word in the game on your phone. As you registered someone coming closer to you, you looked up. He was a Brit, comfortably in his 40s. If you wouldn't have been an expert in men his age, you would have easily taken him to be a bit younger.

The thick but carefully trimmed locks of dirty blonde hair suited him, sometimes even falling towards his forehead, covering some of the gathering wrinkles below them. His browbone directed your gaze down to his eyes, brown pools of mature coyness. If dark chocolate, coffee, and brown leather had a lovechild, it would be that colour. His nose bent in a sharp line, that set a commanding effect to every small movement with his head, you imagined. Disappearing below a cloth mask that was pulled up to cover his ears halfway too, hid an angular and sharp face; that was all you could figure out before he pulled down the mask. His mouth angled downwards, pink lips contrasting the scars littered across his face, one particular one tearing into the supple flesh of his upper lip.

You noticed yourself staring when he disrupted the line of his mouth with the white, slim body of a cigarette. It stuck to his mouth as he spoke:

"Hey, I asked d'you wan' one? You look like you need it."

Shaking your head a little, you looked up embarrassed, to meet his inquisitive eyes. As soon as you saw he read your gaze, his crow's feet deepened, and he nudged your limp hand beside you with the box.

"Take one."

You finally found your voice again. Or so you thought. The words came out breathy and cracked.

"I don't smoke, thank--" You coughed into your elbow a few times, thanks to the small amount of saliva that you inhaled when trying to clear your throat. So much for first impressions. He didn't bat an eye, but his hands did stop mid-air.

"No, it's fine, light it." You told him after clearing your throat one last time. He lowered his hand, however.

"I'm fine actually. I'm… trying to quit."

Looking up at him with sorry eyes, you flashed a weak smile at him, not knowing what to say. He pulled out the box again and put the white stick away. You had just noticed how he was wearing all black. Boots, trousers, and shirt. All black. Something still showed through it all. A concealed bulletproof vest was comfortably hugging his frame. And to top it all off, the belt you mistakenly took for a utility belt until now, holstered a standard issue pistol, some cuffs, and other accessories of a security officer.

"…head security officer."

Dumbfounded yet again by him in the last two minutes, you looked up at him, meeting his eyes that harboured a strange darkness in them, as if they could tell a thousand stories.

"I'm the new head security officer. Simon Riley."

Finally coming to your senses, you managed to answer without swallowing saliva into your lungs. In the next moment, you had to realize though, that you have in fact swallowed nothing into your lungs. It felt as if he created the air unbreathable around you but in a good way. When you realized you were supposed to tell him what you were doing at the complex, his hand was already out to shake yours. You barely managed to blurt your own name back. He practiced it once, and a small smile settled on his face as he pronounced it back correctly.

"I'm… the sales director at John Rigby on…"

"…the third floor. I know."

Ah, he probably knows it from…

"…the safety briefings. I had to learn the place from the inside out, including all the people who work here. It's sort of… compulsory." For the safety company. A gun manufacturer's sales office is a bit conspicuous and would stand out for every trained eye. Just like his, as they were surely trained on you. From the first moment, he was surveying you. Breaking you down to sheer components, and putting you back together, without as much as saying a word. And you could deal with him, picking you apart. You wanted to remain composed and divert his attention from your features, so you commented snarkily on his appearance:

"Why have you got a safety vest then, and I don't?" You crossed your arms, coercing your delicate breasts upwards, forcing him to choose between talking while looking into your eyes or talking and staring at your tits. He chose the obvious third way, and darted his eyes with painful precision across your body, raking in every last drop of the sight.

"Because bodies like yours don't get shot at." When the compound higher-ups hired this new company, you had high expectations. Optically, they were in the clear so far, and you filed away that for later.

"And what if they do?"

"Then we did our job fucking poorly." He said with a hint of swagger, yet still sounding responsible and capable. After all, he was your new security officer.

After a moment of silence, you decided your break was up. If you spent any moment more out here, you were sure your clothes would have melted off of you, you were so hot. Despite the sun not being able to reach you through the high concrete walls around the spot, you felt hotter than ever, a damp patch growing in your panties with each passing moment prompting you to leave urgently.

For now... As you knew you hadn't seen the last of him yet.

my first long-ish work in a hot minute, I'm very insecure about it. have at it I have more thoughts on security guard Ghost. not betad by a long shot; it might contain some mistakes for which I apologize, this was like a year-old piece I renod

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caernys · 11 months

Text

i only dream (when i'm lying down)

relationship: spencer reid x reader, romantic pairing (part one)

summary: you're an agent of the violent crimes division of the fbi and you’ve fallen in love with spencer reid.

notes: part two! also posted on my AO3 account, kitkat_katsuki

warnings: vague mention of dead body (the shooter) and mild use of firearms

part one -> part two

you don’t shake hands. it’s a thing you’ve had since childhood— an aversion to touch and skin to skin contact. it’s stupid, you know, but everytime you go to peel off your gloves another statistic goes clicking through your head (a study conducted by researches at the institute of biological, environmental and rural sciences at aberystwyth university showed that a handshake passed about 124 million colony forming units of e-coli) and you’re pulling back your palm to wipe nervously on the hem of your shirt.

it’s been interpreted a lot of ways. a sense of superiority, some propose. others spit about a god complex, or just a plain old lack of basic etiquette. it doesn’t help that immediately after you’re proudly introduced as a “genius” by your ssa, left to stand there awkwardly while stevens brags about your iq (192), how fast you can read (30,000 words per minute), or your photographic memory (eidetic, you’re always itching to correct).

but you’re used to it. before your mother passed, she used to pull you tight at night and work her hands into your neck, whispering about how you were perfect just the way you were. it wasn’t your fault people got threatened when confronted with someone they perceived to be above them. it didn’t stop the harsh, barbed words that would always be hurled at you, but it did soften the blow.

your mother had always said you were meant for greater things than your dinged up apartment in la and your run down elementary school. she’d urged you time and time again to go where your brilliant mind was taking you, but you always turned her down. just because you could memorize a dictionary in seven minutes didn’t mean you couldn’t enjoy the fifth grade.

when she got stabbed for refusing to give over her purse in a mugging (and subsequently bled out over the dirty pavement, screaming and alone) you cried for the first time in years. you’d never been one to cry— your father had beat it into you long ago before your mother had managed to whisk you away half across the country. you gave yourself forty eight hours. then you dried your cheeks and took a placement test.

the administrator had been shocked, at first. you knew you had aced it. it hadn’t been that hard. when she had told you with slightly shaking hands that she recommended skipping you all the way to highschool (college was on the table too, she said, but you just shook your head. that was a bit too far of a jump). she enrolled you into your senior year of highschool, and you had rocked back on your heels with a satisfied grin. it was a tribute to your mother, you told yourself. one day you were going to stand at the top of the world and you were going to be able to tell her that you had let your brilliant mind take you all the places she had told you about. (of course, she hadn’t mentioned some things.)

you got thrown into a locker the first day of school. they were seventeen, going on eighteen— you were eleven. as smart as you were, it wasn’t hard to put together the conclusion that harassment like this was always going to be inevitable. unavoidable.

you’d swing by the drug store on the way back from school, buy a tiny tube of concealer to dab on in the denny’s bathroom before heading back to the “flavor of the month” foster home. you got bounced around a lot. couldn’t blame them.

you were three months into your senior year when you met austin. she was pretty. long, auburn hair and natural make up. high cheekbones and sharp, angular lines that made up her face. she told you she had lost her parents young, and she fostered to give other kids the childhood she never had. you didn’t trust her. you never trusted anyone.

she was, surprisingly, the first one who finally got a clue. it doesn’t match your skin tone, she’d told you, rubbing the concealer off your face with a wet rag. you didn’t flinch away from her touch and she smiled all soft at you. she was alright, you guess.

austin offered to step in. she might not be your actual parent, she had vowed, but she could make hell in the school system until those kids were reprimanded. you had laughed, assured her it was fine. it wasn’t, but this was one of those things you had to deal with yourself.

she’d been frustrated, but understood. after a couple more days of you coming back a little rough around the edges, though, she had snapped— and offered to teach you how to fight. you had accepted. seemed like a valuable skill to have, didn't it?

austin owned a gym a twenty minute drive from your house. the mats in there quickly became a safe space for you, a shelter of training and quiet and peace. you took to taekwondo immediately, transitioning from there into hapkido and jiu-jitsu, muay thai and just about anything else you could get your hands on. your frame began to fill in with wiry muscle and you began to catch the punches before they hit you.

after you beat harry summers into a bloody pulp by the water fountain after he tried to reach a hand up your skirt, people began to back off. you’d been suspended for five weeks but austin had squeezed your shoulder proudly on the way to the car. you’d let her. she would adopt you five months, three days, four hours and thirty two seconds later. (an eidetic memory did have its perks.)

the fbi recruited you when you were fifteen and at mit, hacking their servers on a drunk dare. you had done it after eight shots, and they had never been more delighted to their code so mercilessly destroyed.

they couldn’t take you on as an agent until you were of age, so you stayed a shadowed consultant for the three years, sorting through case files between lectures and research papers.

you signed away your life to them when you were eighteen and got a badge and a gun in exchange. it was an even trade, you mused. (the first time you would fire that gun you were quivering and bloody, beaten and scratched, but your hands were steady when you pulled the trigger. grayson davids, a serial murderer, died that day. when you got to hug a mother and tell her the man who had taken her daughter would never hurt anyone again, you found that you didn’t regret it.)

austin would always force you home on weekends. she’d moved to dc to be closer to you, and you would spar for old times sake in the living room, tackling each other over pillows and chasing around the kitchen counter. you found that you loved her, one rainy saturday when you were 19. you called her mom for the first time a week later, and you both cried.

you met penelope garcia at a party and you were instantly enraptured. technology seemed to bow to her will and you’d spent the entire night together, drinking and laughing and dancing. you kissed her in the bathroom and she’d sighed all pretty, leaning forward to snake a hand around your neck.

you’d left the party happy and floating for the first time in years. (though you loved penelope to pieces, you two had parted as friends that night.)

she’d often call you with questions or invite you over with movie nights, though you’d always end up bent over a computer with her, nudging each other and laughing as your fingers flew over the keys. she never asked about your job. you never asked about hers. it was widely understood that penelope garcia’s house was a serial-killer free space.

at least, it had been until she’d gotten shot on the steps of her apartment. you’d gotten a call from her late the next day, and you had flown into a nervous panic. you couldn’t lose her– couldn’t bare to lose anyone ever again. at the hospital, she’d held your hands and cried into your arms, and assured you that there would be police outside of her house. you had dismissed that, offered to stay over, but apparently a member of the fbi had already beat you to it.

you’d asked her if she trusted him. she’d responded, “with my life.”

so you had relented. gone home, took your phone off of silent, set it right next to your bed. she didn’t call, so you assumed everything was alright. (it wasn’t).

the next day you swung by her office with a jar of peanut butter cookies to leave on her desk. she loved them, and you’d figured it was a nice thing to come back to.

instead you found a police officer with a gun pressed to the temple of an fbi agent, and two men from penelope’s team standing in front of him, hands raised. you recognized him from a sketch an artist had made penelope complete the other day at the hospital. you shot him in the back of the head, bullet shattering the glass.

the room was silent. the man was dead. your hands, as always, were steady.

(you would meet spencer reid exactly twenty five minutes and thirteen seconds later.)

#romance #fic #Spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #no yn #x reader #fem reader #spencer reid #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fandom #reader is super smart #smart reider #see what I did there #ok im making a lot of stuff up and its kind of obvious

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assortedseaglass · 9 months

Note

For The Seamstress & The Sailor, questions 2, 3, 4, 9, & 10, please 💜

Thank you most lovely person! Got carried away with the answers...

2: What scene did you first put down?

The opening scene! I wanted to write a Tom fic for a while. But wasn’t sure who to pair him against. I’d also had an inkling to write about three sisters, and eventually one day they came together.

Really, the story is about Bess more than Tom, and so I wanted her world to feel fully fleshed out before I launched people into their relationship with each other. Having the sisters sitting on the front step with their neighbours, I wanted to portray every key player in the story from the outset!

It’s no surprise to anyone that has read anything by me that I love world building and a huge part of that is the characters.

3: What's your favorite line of narration?

I really enjoy writing how Bess and Tom see each other. They’ve known each other so long there’s an existing intimacy that is fun to write. And that doesn’t always mean it is loving. I enjoyed Bess’ perspective here;

His head was leant against the brick of the house, exposing the lean muscle of his neck. The cigarette in his mouth was barely lit, and he pursed his lips to puff it into life. Bess watched the smoke unfurl in the air and caught site of his shadow against the wall. Sharp, harsh and angular. He looked like a Roman statue. Not one of a great emperor, mind. One of those spoilt man-childs that fucked their way around Rome before dying of syphilis. Bess snorted and sat on the bench beside him.

I also like writing Tom because I find him quite hard to read. I’ve said it before but even though Tom is a brash character, EM plays his emotions with such subtlety it's fantastic. I like this observation of Bess from his view;

Bess sat beside him and he passed her his cigarette. She placed it between her lips, Tom watching as she did. He didn’t comment on her dress, though admired it all the same. Her rosy face glowed in the low afternoon light and the smoke she exhaled cast a shadow around the plump lines of her face. Her long eyelashes were bare, as was the rest of her face. Youth exuded from every pore but, as always, her eyes were dark and focused. Bess seemed to have lived a million lives before she was given this one.

4: What's your favorite line of dialogue?

Basically anything Dot says! She is so open emotionally she just says whatever she’s thinking and I love that.

My all-time favourite bit of dialogue, though, goes to Claudette. I wanted Tom to have this realisation that he loves Bess, and for that to come when he meets this woman very similar to her seemed like the perfect time. And just as Bess always seems to floor Tom with what she says, Claudette does the exact same thing.

“You must love her very much. To see her faults and love her as you do,”

“You what?” Tom spluttered as he made to sip the flagon of water. “I-what? I mean, Christ-”

“Falling in love is easy,” Claudette continued. “People do it all the time. But staying in love, that’s a choice. The more we know someone, the more we see their faults. To want them despite that, that’s real love.”

It also seemed to resonate with people, and that is always lovely when we put writing out there.

9: Were there any alternate versions of this fic?

Were there! There were a few alternate ideas but mostly they went out the window pretty quickly because they didn’t make any sense!

The biggest change was that I was going to kill Fergal at the end of Volume I.

I made him an air raid siren with the intention that it would help his alcoholism, and that just as he had reformed himself he would be killed in the Manchester Blitz. However, the arc with Tom and Bess towards the end of Volume I is quite plot heavy, with Tom escaping occupied Europe, so I wanted to wait until Volume II.

My mum and I had a theory leading up to Word on Fire series 2 that Douglas would be killed in the blitz, then lo and behold Julia Brown revealed it was true! I grappled with killing both Douglas and Fergal, changing the story so that it was just Fergal who died, or keeping it in line with the canon of the show. I went with the canon because I think Douglas’ death is devastating to both Tom and Bess, and that is going to be interesting to explore.

I do miss him, though, and I really miss writing him. RIP Douglas <3

10: Why did you choose this pairing for this particular story?

I’m cheating here and taking my answer from your amazing Interview with a Writer series which everyone should read!

My take on Tom is that he was a confident child, and took this confidence and started to act out after his mother died. He says what he thinks and doesn’t worry about the consequences. War wakes him up to is faults.

Bess, on the other hand, was not confident as a child, and only grew in confidence as an adult. She became sure of her place, whereas Tom started to question it. She rarely speaks her mind, only when she feels it is needed. War wakes her up to her strengths.

In that way they are different, but they have common ground too. Both are incredibly loyal, lost their mothers young and have things to prove. Tom, that’s he’s not just a petty criminal with no direction, Bess that she is worthy of a place despite her difference to her peers. Both of them also want to prove that there is more to the working class than what society expects of them.

I think those core elements that are similar, but the small differences that challenge each other, make them an ideal fit.

Fanfic Asks

#answered #tom bennett #moot moot

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iicarusflew · 2 years

Text

Fault Lines

Hermione holds her breath as they reach the precipice of the ever enfolding hill, the bridge burning in hungry, merciless orange flames, the fault lines dwindling between him and her, always rippling.and changing, always pulling them apart. His cheeks flood with colour. Suddenly, he looks much younger.

OR,

[Draco realises a gnawing truth about their year long search for the dark artifacts known as Horcruxes.]

The room feels cold when she apparates.

Colder , at least. After one week in a low-rent, non air-conditioned, objectively awful apartment by the coast in Markree, County Sligo , she is suspicious that her general sense of acceptable temperature has gone down at least three degrees.

Still.

Hermione’s fist involuntarily tightens around the handle of her wand as she shivers, the hairs of her arm rising, bristling with newfound electricity between her skin and the starchy, uncomfortable fibre of her cotton shirt. She can feel the stem of her wand trembling, glowering with her magic. She presses her lips in a thin line and lets the insidious trepidation—that has found a home in her, this trapped, grovelling monster, part of her life since the last three years—take control of the next few steps. Hermione is almost at home with it, the tension, the gut clenching sense of dissociation when she lands in a place not entirely safe, not entirely her scene, where a wrong foot means losing that foot.

This isn’t supposed to be one of those places, though.

With the tip of her wand gleaming a threatening red, she takes a careful step. There’s the familiar Rochester Lamp burning at the corner of the room, beside the dressing table. The golden flame flickers with the sporadic onslaught wind from the open window, making shadow and light dance inside the small, mediocre motel room. The bed is made, there’s a torn parchment on the writing table beside the window. Hermione dwindles between relief and distrust at the smells of cedarwood and vanilla—candles she remembers buying. Underneath it, like an afterthought, the sweet, sharp smell of parchment scribbled with fresh ink. He has a habit of making notes almost with religious desperation. In the early days of their… cooperation, she thought it was his incorrigible neatness.

Now, though.

There’s a sound of water running in the bathroom, muffled by the closed oak door. Hermione is afraid to call out his name. This is an unusual time for him to come here, more unusual, almost criminally uncharacteristic, is the cryptic note he sent her. Doubt simmers under her blood. Should she cast a stupefying charm? Strong enough to stun someone unsuspecting, but harmless... well, relatively harmless to recover from? An invasive image flashes through her head. A clipped off toenail. Hermione shakes her head determinedly. Better safe than sorry.

She raises her wand. The tip glowers with a bright scarlet light.

The door opens. A tall, rather angular figure comes out of the shower.

“You came,” Draco Malfoy says pointedly.

The relief leaves Hermione in a strangled breath. Her ears ring, blood rushing to her head as she takes a step back, then another, almost choking on the silent gasp. She hadn’t realised how tightly she had been holding onto her wand, hadn’t realised that her heart was pumping so ferociously, ready to combust, or fight.

Both, a nagging voice chimes in her head.

Draco, on the other hand, looks obscenely calm. He has wrapped a towel at his waist. The only piece of clothing on his slick, shiny body. The water dripping from his head makes the silvery blond hair a shade darker. Cool metal.

He cocks his eyes at her raised arm.

“I was going to hex you, you moron,” she hisses, dropping the wand instantly. A soft, harmless whistle splits out from the abandoned weapon as it hits the ground.

“You could’ve been hit.” The words would probably sound more menacing if she weren’t so busy trying to steady her breathing. Still, she glowers at him in anger.

He scoffs. “So I see.”

The unresponsive parts of her senses finally flood into her as she regains her composure. Her stomach is caught up in a bout of empty fists. She hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast. The one glass of glucose water she downed sourly now sloshes uncomfortably in her stomach as she watches Draco shrug, reaching out to the side of the dresser for another towel, calmly drying his hair.

Hermione blinks hard against the distraction, his calm demeanor, the light from the bathroom beaming lazily over his hair like a halo, and wrenches out the hair band to let the curls fall free. Her hairline prickles with sweat, it drips on her fingers as she feels the taut muscles of her shoulder. It’s been a terrible day , she tells herself. That’s why I’m so suspicious . She walks over to Draco. The light from the bathroom shadows him to her. She can’t read his expression without standing in her tiptoes.

“Is the water still warm?” She pulls out her dragonskin gloves—a gift from Draco for her twenty first birthday last year. When she takes off her shirt, a warm waft of damp sweat makes her cringe.

He hums.

The hairs on her arm pricks against the stale air. She shivers. The room is still cold, even after the adrenaline has done its course. An unnatural, insidious chill slithering on the slope of her curves. Like trepidation. Disturbingly invasive. The dried scratch of wound on her left wrist prickles uncomfortably.

“What’s wrong?” she asks. “Why did you call me at this—”

He tilts his head. The light glints on his cool grey eyes, and she finds him studying her with a blunt expression. “I found another one today.”

Her breath hitches. Her entire body turns rigid at the instant. It feels as if a cool sleet of ice has passed over her, crystallising her blood. Of course . It makes sense now, the time gap, the tightness, the marrow deep, senseless chill.

“Where is—?”

“It’s safe.” He raises his hand, twirls a strand of her hair away from her face. Instinctively, she leans up. “Perfectly safe.”

The last sleepy trail of her heartbeat picks up its pace again at his words. The slick velvety softness masking the bleak… disconcertion. Anger. His eyes flick over hers before he bends down. His lips are cool, and the kiss feels dry.

“What’s wrong?” she asks again, hating the ever constant timbre in her voice; something he is able to scratch out every time. Every useless emotion she feels through the day, every sparse, renegade bit of fear, anger, dread, anxiety, relief bulks up in a nauseating clot and hover at the back of her throat. Like a patchwork map of her psyche, a secret aching to bleed out. Most of the times she lets it out by fucking him, most of the time she cries until she can’t feel her eyes.

Most of the time, he lets it out by fucking her, other times it’s by breaking walls—the muggles here have exceptional rule of discretion for the depleting witches and wizards. Mostly due to obliviate .

Feeling gravity betray her when he drops his hand suddenly, Hermione gulps down the dread to make room for logic. Rationality. She tries to stand still as he walks away to the bed. He flicks his hand and the piece on the flies to her.

Hermione catches it with her heart in her throat. It’s her own handwriting, graciously juxtaposed by the slant, looped scribbles of his own. Numbers and code names and incantations pulsing off, linked together in a mess of briar-patched words around her own, interconnecting under the ubiquitous eye that could be found in every piece of paper he sends to inform The Order, to her.

The ink bleeds off when she touches the side of the eye. A lash smudges out.

She smells the sharp, kerosene-likesmell. She coughs before saying, “This is the coordinates to the place I—”

“I’ve been thinking,” he starts calmly, just like he always does, no matter the subject. It’s the result of a ruthless self remodeling routine, his demeanour. Hermione has only seen it slip in this room. “About what you said the other day.”

“About what?”

His voice drops lower, becomes silky, intent, “Horcuxes.”

____

She had been obsessing over the pieces of dark magic when he came along to the other side. She remembers the night. The ungodly storm bellowed hardest as ever when the knock came at the shell cottage. Six wands flew at once, aimed menacingly, meticulously at his chest. Hermione’s was not among them only because she was too weak to do so. A poisonous hiss, a call for blood and bruising before… Bill made them stop.

She forgot the topic of discussions and repercussions and what it was that made them finally come to a grudging compromise, but she could never forget his eyes when he stared at her for the first time in the homely cottage. It was almost dawn. The putty grey-blue light of the unborn sun shimmered into the kitchen. His lips trembled before he looked up and straight into her eyes. It was the first time she realised how grey his eyes were, how colourless. Ethereal. Something unspeakable passed through them. More than apology, more than shame. It was guttural, his regret. It had moved something in her. She agreed to give him the chance.

Sometimes she wonders if that was a mistake, for him and her. If the connection was a noose for either of them.

Both of them.

____

Horcruxes.

“What about them?” She tells him so much now, it’s hard to keep track. It’s an insidious mistake, she knows. Even though he’s risked his life for her—for them —more times than she could count, she knows they’re only on borrowed time, imbalanced resistance. One wrong word to the wrong person, and everything falls apart. She reminds herself of this truth fruitless when he tells her about his day, whatever dark spells he cast, how many pieces of his souls are forever tainted to its velveteen touch. How much he still hates his father.

His favourite sweet is sherbet lemon. So is hers.

“About their origin. How they’re made.”

“And?”

The initial theory of Dumbledore has long proved to have been wrong. Voldemort didn’t create just seven horcruxes, as they realised when Draco came to them carrying an archaic family ring dripping with dark, disturbingly familiar magic. Hermione has since been studying numbers to figure out exactly how many horcruxes might be out there. The number, as she is suspecting, has a disturbing chance of being among three figures.

“And how Nagini is one of them.”

She flicks her fingers to close the window. “Yes, I think—”

“So.” He drags his nail on the line of his jaw. “I was thinking about another live thing that could have been—”

Her breath stutters. She has to sit down by the side of the bed before she can process anything else. Oh she can tell where he’s going with this. The temperature in the room drops down a few more notches.

“He’s one of them, isn’t he?”

Hermione closes her eyes determinedly. The rapid, thumping beat of her heart picks its pace with a vengeance. It feels as if it actually wants to tear itself out of her. She doesn’t even have the energy to try and act coy, as who he is talking about. She clamps her hand on the soft, warm duvet. Silk fluttering on her skin.

Her wrist pricks .

“Yes,” she whispers, conjuring the image of the bright green eyes and a smile that leaves nothing a secret.

“Ingenious,” he says sourly. “What’s a more resilient weapon than a live —”

“Don’t talk like that,” she snaps. The image disappears into darkness.

“How else do you want me to talk? How else could I possibly talk about it?”

She blinks. His face is hidden inside his hand. She thinks it’s probably better that she can’t see the venom in his eyes. “Draco—”

“I have been risking everything to assist you in your quest for Horcruxes. Everything. ”

A broken bone, its white, dome shaped head jutting out of his knee. The healer said he won’t be able to play quidditch anymore. A blasted toe, deep, dark blood spraying over his ankles.

“I know—”

“And now I realise that no matter how much I suffer… how much you suffer, it’s worthless .”

“This is not worthless. What we do is—”

“I come back home.” It pierces her heart that home means the rented, squalid hotel room. “And my girlfriend is not even honest with me.”

Her lips curl involuntarily.

A terse silence.

“ Oh .” He sneers. “So you’re not even my girlfriend. Fuck buddy, then. A vessel to leak out your frustrations. That’s what I am to you people anyway, right?”

“No. You are more,” she bleats. “You know you are—”

More than just a vessel, more than a body. He is the bright bold freshness after a weary day. A splash of colour in the bleak reality. He is the boy waiting for her in this make-believe home.

Most of the time, he is all that she looks forward to.

“I get it, OK? I get why your people think I am… but I thought we had honesty between us, I thought you weren’t going to send me to my fucking death—”

Always the worst raids, always the more brutal tortures. Make that death eater blind. Take the hand. His nights are endless nightmares alternating between things he’s already done to things he would do, would have to do. The scar on her wrist lights up like a candle. Hermione notices all this with her one eye open. One hand clasped tight around her heart. She tells herself that this means more than them, more than any of them.

“It’s not like that, Draco,” she finds herself saying, almost begging. “I wasn’t sure how you’d take it. I wasn’t sure how to even think about it.”

“Does he know?”

“He suspects.” She takes a shaky breath. “I suspect, too, you know. There’s nothing indefinite to say that he is a… a—”

“Yes there is.” He snaps his head up, stares right at her. “It all fits. ”

That was their code word, wasn’t it? The both of them used to put the wretched world together like puzzle pieces, accepting bleak truths no one else was willing to accept. That was what drew them together, wasn’t it? It was not about lust or anger or resentment, at first. It was about understanding . The morbid, intelligible realisation passed over them across bread and butter. Recognising the tired animal in each, staring at it without blinking. Touch came later. Much later.

“Do you think,” he says now, across the bed, across an ocean, “when the time comes, you’ll be able to kill him? Will anyone ?”

“How can… how can you ask me that?”

“I’ve been bombarded with tough questions ever since I’ve joined the lighter side, Granger. Now I get to ask questions about dubious allegiances.”

Will you be able to kill your aunt, Malfoy, if it comes down to it? Or will you change sides again, craven? How about your father? What if we have to use your Manor for shelter of muggleborns, of mudbloods? Could your pureblood walls take that?

That was, of course, before both of his parents turned up dead at a suspicious fire that burned down half of the Malfoy estate.

“Will you be able to do that for the greater good?”

She is near hysteric as she fishes for a coherent answer. Heart beating in a mad, mad frenzy. The words are too fast and slippery for her to grasp. “It won’t be like that! I swear I… I’m trying to find an alternate way. There will be, there has to be —”

“You saw what happened to the diary. The locket and my ring . There is no way to destroy the horcrux without completely destroying the vessel. Beyond repair.”

“Harry is not a vessel,” she hisses, the words sound menacingly wrong even as she says them.

“Then what is he?”

“My friend.”

His entire face twists at this. As if it suddenly dawned on him what he had been asking. His lips press into a thin line, quivering. Hermione holds her breath as they reach on the precipice of the ever enfolding hill, the bridge burning in hungry, orange flames, the fault lines dwindling between him and her, always rippling, always pulling them apart. His cheeks flood with colour. Suddenly, he looks much younger.

Almost as young as his age.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” He did.

“I know.” She does.

The moment swirls, shivers into something like a dream, not entirely real. They shouldn’t be talking of these stuffs, of lambs and slaughters, of sacrifice disguised as goodwill, of the greater good. This is a safe haven, this is a place where they are different people, not what the war spits out, broken and tired. Jagged. Suspicious. Wrong. Seeing enemies in strangers, blood in water. In this room, they are whatever they want to be. And what a glorious dream that is. What an enchanting person he becomes. Someone who belts out Latin when he’s righteously outraged, someone who has the Epic of Gilgamesh memorised like the back of his palm, someone funny, mischievous, with a mind as deep as it is wide. Hermione likes to speak in codes with him, she likes to melt in the warm, warm sheets and wonder about stardusts and evolution, not worry about him catching up to her thoughts. He is always there.

Draco offers his hand. In the flickering light, she can see his fingers trembling.

The room is still cold. But, Hermione imagines, his arms would be warm. “Come here.”

____

Late at night, as she tries to regain her breathing, he plays with her now fresh hair. The lamp has long been extinguished. What little light remains in the room stands as only the testament to the resistance of the moon. Hermione watches sheets of dust wrinkle in the silvery light breaking through the window, a soft, fresh smell of mint now invades her senses. An iridescent glow hovers above. She wraps her hand around the one he has draped over her stomach, taps lightly on the bend of his elbow. She can feel his eyes on her face, on the shallow dip of her collarbone. Careful. Contemplative. She can tell he’s still searching for forgiveness.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Hermione closes her eyes. Breathes in deep. “It’s alright. You… weren’t wrong about me holding back. I’m sorry about that.”

“I just… I want to be good. I want—” His voice breaks. He wants to be so many things, she’s afraid she won’t get a glimpse of most of them. She’s afraid, when the war is over— if, a terrible, gnawing voice in her mind says, if the war is over —they wouldn’t know where to pick up from the mess they’re making at this place. Every touch is an attempt at coping. Every promise seems like a rope to hold onto.

“I want to be good. But most days, I don’t see the point. Of hunting horcruxes, putting my life, your life out there… How does Potter do it, anyway? I feel I’d pitch myself off the astronomy tower if I had to…” He chuckles sourly. “But that’s a lie, isn’t it? I’m still here. Still living.”

“Not just living. You’re doing something good. Something that matters..”

“Yeah, sure.”

She tilts her head to stare. Her eyes linger on his nose, the hollow under his eyes, the sharp angle of his face, always standing out in challenge. The pale skin gleams in the shallow light. His eyes are calm, liquid silver. His sort of beauty always puts people off guard. Not entirely homely. Not easy to look away anyway.

“We all need to come to terms with difficult boundaries,” she says softly.

“Yes, but... you shouldn’t have to. Not you.”

Hermione tries to be innocent to his intentions. But she knows. He is protective of her. He tries to make her choices easy, every time they go on excursions. She remembers finding the sixty-fifth horcrux with him. The woman they had to kill to get away. She knows he tries to tackle her morality, how fragile it is in times like this. He treats it like the centre of his gravity; if someday she slips, she knows with a piercing certainty that he will fall right into her.

A briar patch pain slather in her chest. They should’ve been here sooner. They should’ve had this sooner. All the things that separated them, blood, name, houses sound so frivolous she wants to cry.

A plague on both your houses , she thinks grimly. Look what you made of us.

“We all have boundaries.”

Faulty lines crackling under the weight of reality. Somehow she has landed herself in a world where nothing is constant. The lines keep shifting, shrivelling, changing with foreign, nefarious interferences. Once Draco Malfoy stood at the far end of the other line. She wonders how many of the lines will shift, new boundaries emerging, taking her—taking them —further and further away, before they turn into someone they don’t even recognise.

If she never met him— again, if she hadn’t met him again— the world would have looked easier to navigate. Every action and every resolution could be placed neatly into boxes of good and evil. But now…

“We do.” He brushes away her hair to kiss her neck.

“I can’t forsake... everything to this war.”

Not Harry. Not Ron or Ginny or... him.

“I know. I have boundaries too. I just… they’re so different from yours that I… forget. I slip.”

But are they? Different? Hermione remembers that stormy night in Cheshire. A flock of rouge dementors hounding over them. She fell flat on the ground, feeling the cloying stickiness of blood dribbling down her neck. Draco could’ve left. He could take the amulet on his hand that wasn’t injured and apparate. No one could blame him, not really. Hermione was hoping for the bleeding to quicken, deplete the oxygen level of her body so when the dementors finally came she would be far away in her mind.

When the bright silver warmth of his patronus broke in, it felt like the sun. It felt like being born. She swore that day, feeling his angry tears on her cheek as he was chiding her about her lack of protection and general sense of self-preservation, that she would return the favour. The warmth of the sun. Rebirth.

She knows he isn’t ready to hear of these promises; the world is too chaotic, too uncertain. Right now they can only find solace in an obscure room in a muggle motel.

“I can’t lose the people I love,” she whispers, praying that he knows it includes him, fearing that he doesn’t. “It’s selfish, I know. But I can’t be made to make these decisions.”

She’s too young. She’s given so much already. Not this not this not this too.

“I understand.” He does. Always did. That’s what drew them together. Something about the tar black parts of her soul, the one not strong enough, the one cursing at the universe with undignified tears, the one using sex to deflect from the ever encroaching void in her chest—the ones too ugly to look at, he places his fingers on them, brushes away the soot and dust and denial and looks right at the eye. He likes her eyes, she knows. He draws them on every piece of parchment like it’s a charm on its own.

Hermione takes a shaky breath. “Where do you draw the line?”

His eyes flick over her face. In the moonlight, the colour transforms. From something cold and unattainable to something soft. Almost melting.

“You,” he whispers, as if it’s a secret, as if she doesn’t already know . “Only you.”

____

my other dramione stories :)))

Serendipity

Soulmate

Magnolia

Catch-22

Astronomy

Spring, Autumn, Winter, Summer... and Spring Again

Trouble

#dramione short fic #dramione one shot #dramione fanfiction #dramione #one shot #draco malfoy #hermione granger #draco x hermione #angst #fanfiction #angst and comfort #harry potter #requited feelings #light angst #hurt/comfort #canon divergence #second wizarding war canon divergence #draco switchtes sides #horcrux

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whtwclf · 8 months

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𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐍 , 𝐎𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐌𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍 his deathbed if not for the keen medical savvy of Bones, it was wild to James how so many could presume Vulcans – or at the very least Spock specifically – were somehow emotionally bankrupt. Emotions hung on Spock like ornaments to a tree, they just didn’t come in the way people – very specifically humans – anticipated or even understood. James did have an edge in that arena; a coded part of spycraft is learning the language of emotions – how to suppress them, use them to lie, hide a truth, cause pain. The otherside of the coin was knowing how to read them on the opposition with equal accuracy and fluency. A subtle art for a specific kind of warfare conducted on an entirely subliminal, even meta, theater. This was an art James Buchanan Barnes was conditioned by the most barbarous of methods and extremes to understand to perfection. It was an art he still had to make use of in the current war. Conversely, in moments like these that bloomed inside the pocket existence he held with Spock; it served as a tool with which he would use to observe art. Because that was what Spock often exhibited to James; 𝐴𝑅𝑇 𝐼𝑁 𝐴𝐵𝑆𝑂𝐿𝑈𝑇𝐼𝑂𝑁.

The angular lines of his face that undulated only imperceptibly so or the slight and slow twinge in his left under-eye, faint drops or lifts appearing at the points of his mouth – vanishing as quickly as they came, but above all else was the entire commotion of feeling anyone could find swirling around in dark, earthy eyes looking back at them. It all was there in clear and present sight – a beautifully threaded tapestry of complex emotions disciplined to a unique extreme.

It just required someone to know what they were looking for, possess the patience to wait for it, and a wisdom stoic enough to know what lay exposed when presented.

James wouldn’t have called himself a wise man, but he would call himself a man in love; and while he didn’t believe that love could replace wisdom – he did believe it was the rhythm for the brain to follow so it can keep a harmonious beat with the heart, so together they might allow James to intuit and understand the soft and subtle mysteries of the man before him.

Love also has a habit of eschewing pragmatic threads of thought away; instead allowing a person to simply feel their way through a thing as opposed to thinking.

That moment had James feeling the tips of fingers against his wrist and he did nothing in the way of thinking or thought when his only three functional digits clumsily scrambled to lace themselves through the spaces of the Vulcan’s long, tapered fingers and clamp down firmly.

Something in that igniting spark of touch lent to a piercing ache in his chest that was the ghost of pining left on the field of a ruined planet, the screaming caution not to leave, a sudden and vivid rush of the night spent together knotted-up inside long limbs and hard breathing – it was sight without seeing and only feeling. The rapid succession of emotions felt to such high tiers they serve as a hallmark to navigate memory, and in so many memories that were false and manipulated, it was always a sense of feeling, something in the gut, that was a mile marker for truth.

𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇 ; James loved him. He loved him in a way that felt irrevocable.

He wanted to say that. But he didn’t.

Instead he took in a very sharp breath and leveled his eyes to fall on Spock’s, “– 𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝑺𝒑𝒐𝒄𝒌 ,” he couldn’t hide the warmth that layered around his words like honey, “ 𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰’𝒎 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏’𝒕 𝒂𝒇𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒊𝒆 𝒖𝒑 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒎𝒆 .”

There was a smile there that walked somewhere between cheshire and wolf, trying to mask the subtext of solemness that was inherent to his sentiment.

“ 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒖𝒙𝒖𝒓𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒆𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓; 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒔 𝑰 [ 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑐𝑜𝑜𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑦 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑠 𝑜𝑓𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑 ] 𝒈𝒐𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒓𝒖𝒏 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒔𝒍𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒔 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒚 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅 ,” it was worth mentioning the lazarus-like vigor of James B. Barnes’ charm.

Even in his own depreciation, he still had time to flirt with his Vulcan.

𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝’𝚍 𝚠/ @fasciinating 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

#✩ 𝙵𝙰𝚂𝙲𝙸𝙸𝙽𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶 :#✩ 𝙲𝙾𝙼𝙼𝙰𝙽𝙳𝙴𝚁 𝚂𝙿𝙾𝙲𝙺 :#✩ 𝙲𝙾𝙾𝚁𝙳𝙸𝙽𝙰𝚃𝙴𝚂 : 𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚁 𝚃𝚁𝙴𝙺 𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙴 #“𝑜𝑓 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡ℎ𝑒 10 － 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑤ℎ𝑜𝑙𝑒 𝑚𝑢𝑙𝑡𝑖𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑎𝑙 𝑤𝑎𝑟“

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dustedmagazine · 11 months

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Henry Threadgill — The Other One (Pi)

The Other One by Henry Threadgill

Over the last five decades, Henry Threadgill has been creating a singular body of work, as both a distinguished reed players and an inimitable ensemble leader. Early on, Threadgill cultivated his sense of ensemble arranging and playing as member of AACM in the trio Air and in groups lead by Muhal Richard Abrams, Anthony Braxton and Roscoe Mitchell. But from X-75 Volume 1, his first recording under his own name released in 1979 with a group comprised of four woodwind players, three bassists, piccolo bass and vocals, he revealed a penchant for creating improvisational frameworks around distinctive voicings. Since that time, he’s honed his approach with long-standing ensembles, each building on his ear for angular, contrapuntal themes extended through open group interplay.

First up was The Henry Threadgill Sextet (a seven-piece group designated as a sextet because he saw the two drummers as a single percussion unit) featuring his alto sax along with trumpet, the low-end double bass/cello/trombone, and a percussion duo. A foray into social dance music, his Society Situation Dance Band, went unrecorded but his next ensemble, Very Very Circus, with sax, two tubas, two electric guitars, French horn, and drums added a pulsing groove while expanding on his multifaceted ear toward hocketed lines and intricate, stratified voicings. Make a Move and Zooid pared things back a bit in the size of the ensemble while still incorporating intriguing instrumental choices like paired acoustic guitars and cellos, accordion, oud and tuba. Then, with Double Up, Threadgill mixed in paired reeds, paired pianos, cello, tuba and drums, expanded even further with 14 Or 15 Kestra: Agg. With each of these ensembles, he extended his compositional approach, diving in to the timbral and dynamic opportunities afforded by an increasingly orchestral instrumental palette. All of this doesn’t even touch on the various commissions for orchestra, string quartet, and chamber ensembles he undertook.

In May 2022, Threadgill presented one of his most ambitious projects to date at Roulette Intermedium in Brooklyn, New York. The composer prepared a three-movement composition entitled “Of Valence” for a twelve-piece ensemble made up of three saxophones, violin, viola, two cellos, tuba, percussion, piano and two bassoons. The piece, inspired by Milford Graves and his integration of the human heartbeat as a source of rhythmic understanding, is a meditation on human transience based on his observations of the exodus of people from New York City during the Covid pandemic. The performance incorporated an array of multimedia components including video, projections of paintings and photographs, electronics and recordings. Each performances was split in to two sets providing varying takes on the composition, the first set titled “One” and the second titled “The Other One.” This release, Threadgill’s eleventh for the Pi Recordings label, captures the second set of one of the performances in scintillating fidelity.

The three-movement piece begins with spare, stabbing notes and rumbling open chords on piano, intently traversing the foundational angular motifs. The reeds join in setting up the entrance of the full ensemble. Threadgill maximizes the sonic breadth provided by the full range of strings and a broadened reed section. His conducting is supported by tubist Jose Davila, cellist Christopher Hoffman, pianist David Virelles and drummer Craig Weinrib, all veterans of the leader’s groups who collectively help helm the ensemble through the intricately evolving piece. Themes are introduced, fragmented, inverted, and hocketed as sections elastically play off of each other and branch off into sub-groupings as the densities of the piece ebb and flow. Threadgill’s proclivity for utilizing underlying galvanic pulse is an anchoring element, buoyed in particular by tuba, cellos and drums as the music bobs and weaves along with the countervailing, keening melodic threads.

Threadgill’s pieces demand exacting execution, and the group fully embraces the compositional form while each displaying adroit capabilities exploring the inherent opportunities for improvisation. While Threadgill sticks to conducting here, the influence of his instrumental voice is readily apparent throughout. Milford Graves’ influence is heard most overtly at the start of the second movement where violinist Sarah Caswell, violist Stephanie Griffin and cellist Mariel Roberts each play their parts while listening to a playback of their own heartbeats as recorded previously by a cardiologist. The result is that the pulse of each individual players’ lines intertwine, mutably moving in and out of synch while maintaining an unwavering, galvanizing flow. One third of the way through the 16-minute section, lissome sax lines are introduced segueing to the entrance of the full ensemble. While density builds, there is a transparency to the orchestration as lines and instruments come to the fore and then recede. Midway through, sizzling transducer-activated cymbals play off of abraded cello overtones setting the stage for a freely lyrical tenor solo which wends to a closing section with percolating pizzicato strings and pattering percussion.

The final movement kicks off with a short interlude for strings and drums, leading in to a section of abstracted melody, with alto and bassoon lines snaking around the ensemble voicings. Interludes for solos are woven through as the pacing constantly morphs. Here, sections are clear successors to the approaches that Threadgill worked through with Zooid and Double Up, inheriting the underlying coursing flow and arcing lyricism but shading and extending it with timbral orchestration, the bassoons being a particularly astute addition. In the final section, intertwined piano and tuba and the shifting shuffle of cellos and drums set the stage for an all-in re-statement of one of the central themes, leading to the finale of the piece for the full ensemble, crescendoing to dramatic intensity. Listeners have benefited from Pi Recordings’ dedication to Threadgill’s evolving and burgeoning oeuvre. The release of The Other One is a significant addition to these efforts and essential listening for those interested in Threadgill’s music.

Michael Rosenstein

#henry threadgill #the other one #pi #michael rosenstein #albumreview #dusted magazine #jazz #AACM #air #improvisation #composition

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gorematchala · 1 year

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Playing PLA again I'm reminded of the prerelease era when we were seeing leaks of the new pokemon, particularly the regional starters, and my slow acceptance of what has become one of my favorite pokemon, Hisuian Samurott. Samurott itself being one of my least favorite. A lot of what I love about the Hisuian version is how little they changed, which served to confirm all the problems I had with the original design so I had grounds to tell gen 5 stans I told them so

My problems with Samurott were many. Primarily that its built like a mic stand. It has 4 big chunky legs splayed out at a weird angle, and a long thin neck supporting an obnoxiously huge *thing*. Having not been in on the ground floor of gen 5 I saw the design separate from the Pokémon's name and assumed that the head thing was supposed to be a ship mast or something and that the beard was like an old timey ship captain beard. Realizing that it was meant to be a samurai I had questions like "huh?" And "what?"

It has swords hidden in its arm guards which protrude at an angle that would be impossible for its three fingered fat fuck flipper hands to reach, and it would have to fight on 3 legs because its back legs arent long or thick enough to support its gigantic upper half, but it has two swords?? It also has weird lines on its chest that I think are supposed to be muscles even though they dont look like muscles. It doesn't look powerful, or sturdy, or agile. I can't envision in my head how it would look in a fight. It's just kind of a mess.

HISUIAN Samurott shows up and says your daughter calls me daddy too. My only criticism of the this design is that the shape of its beard makes no sense, but I can overlook that because this guy is Water EVIL type. Its a ronin. It's a Bad Dude.

What they did is make the whole thing thinner overall, which does a lot on its own. They shrunk the helmet, they made the shape of the armor panels more interesting, they turned its feet backwards which makes it look more like a sea lions rear flipper feet and makes the whole Pokémon look sturdier. The horn and its swords are now wavy flamberge style blades which IS dumber, but dont forget that he is a BAD GUY. And you know he's a bad dude because there's what looks like an arrow stuck in its helmet, which I assume is a reference to a story about a samurai that I'm not familiar with.

They also removed the weird chest muscles and changed its eye shape. A recurring design element I hate in gen 5 is the anime eyes they put on everything. Terrakion, Shamin Sky, Virizion, and original Samurott all have just like anime human eyes and its weird. And I know what youre thinking but theres something different about Voltorb or Shiftry. Gurdurr has gen 1 Pokémon eyes, Terrakion has a human face stamped on a cow body. Hisuian samurott has a more angular cool eye shape, and the bright red accents contrasting with its dark blue and black is much more visually impressive than the originals ocean blue, tan, black, and orange.

Hisuian Samurott looks proud and strong and if it slapped my girls ass at the ancient japanese bar thats his girl now. And you can't fuck with a move called Ceasless Edge. Especially because at the end of the day it is just Samurott plus edge. But the result is a Pokémon I like vs one that I don't

#pokemon #samurott #pokemon legends arceus #character design #analysis #long post

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andrew37109 · 2 years

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Airport.

In the bar painted yellow sits a man in a grey shirt. Above him are strange triangular lights. They dissipate thin angular lines on the walls.

A woman walks past. She speaks a language you do not know to some companions. She stops momentarily to put something in the bin. The wrapper falls from the overflowing can. But she does not notice. She is already three steps away. Moments later the attendant arrives on a motorised scooter which trails an even bigger trash can. He scoffs at the mess and cleans up. No one else seems to notice. Maybe no one else has noticed…

The man at the bar has made a friend. Though from this distance it could be an enemy. Conversation takes place. Pleasantries… most people gaze at their phones, their fifth limbs. I do the same. I content myself with writing this nonsense, supercilious to these other humans. Are they real? Do they think as I do about what they see around them?

I read somewhere a theory that only some people are awake to reality. Only some people are embodied characters, truly possessed by a soul. The rest are NPC’s of a sort. Perhaps the former are the artists. Perhaps that is pretentious. Or we are all awake. All one in the same. Ignorant in different realities.

Next to me sits a woman. She sits for a while not doing much. She raises her boot onto her knee, scrolling the endless streams of the online world. And there, in the gap between boot and Jean, is a tattoo. It’s a clam shell. Beautiful. Evidence that she is indeed a customised playable character. A few metres across from us two older companions sit. They share chocolates and laugh a little. An anecdote from a life I’ll never know. Even if I were to approach, to ask what they were just discussing, it would make no sense to me. Even if it was in English.

Now there is a boy, straight ahead. He is plugged in fully. Headphones glued. Laptop on knees. Fingers tapping. Maybe he is creating. Maybe he is doing what I’m doing. I think the beauty is I don’t need to know. His jumper is oddly cream coloured. For some reason that bothers me. His eyes flutter. It’s not my style I suppose…

The player lobby grows.

One man sits at a pedal powered electric port. He types while eating an apple. Points for style. In the forefront a well dressed Asian man pours over something on his device. Emails perhaps from his expression. But that could be just his face. I wonder who he is. How are the family who await his return with loving anticipation… or dread.

The grey shirted man at the yellow bar has made another friend. Maybe he is a player. Or perhaps he is a quest giver…

A pretty NPC walks past. Bright coloured jumper in a dreary airport lounge. A spark of colour in our grey non social environment. Strange. So many people. So little conversation. Not so strange… I look up.

Blue eyes. Piercing. A wonderful sign of life. A smile. Slight. Eyes dart away. We may be discovered. What a rush.

Weirder is the attendants. Players in jobs in the background of the pre game player lobby. The ones who keep the lights on and the coffees pouring. Some are friendly. Some are just getting on with it.

It’s late nights working in the lobby.

For a moment I stop. And when I do I hear a man sneeze, like the way you impersonate an elephant for a child.

Time to board.

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pefa-blog · 2 years

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Chapter 8: Sky path

Landing noiselessly in a bare three-by-three meters room, made from bare concrete slabs, Chuu glanced around. Completely empty sans a bland postament and a sign above it, dimly lit by a lone wall lamp. A rupor in one of the corners looked like a relic of the previous decades, big and angular. Coming from a crouch, she noticed a single digital watch on the platform.

A solitary route, then, Chuu nodded to herself. Good.

“The Sky Path. Long road and patient enduring lays ahead of you,” she read off of the tableau, her eyebrows flying high at the brevity and lack of instructions. She put the bracelet on her wrist, over the glove. It counted down the remaining time, but had nothing else of interest.

A nondescript door opened loudly, revealing a path in what previously looked like a solid wall. From it, notably stale air slowly filled the room.

Chuu left the room with the silent rupor behind, and began making her way down the hall, trying to hear any noise from the tower.

It was, unsurprisingly, silent.

Concrete structures were nice this way.

This route was a much-needed change of pace, far from any imminent headaches or worries as long as she focused on her task and her task only. Girls and Hisoka moved to the background, unreachable, silent and completely out of her hands. Whether they were fine (hopefully, girls) or not (she could dream, Hisoka), was impossible for her to know now.

Given how spread out were the entrances they found, chances that others were also on solitary routes were high. That included Hisoka - Chuu made sure to keep track of the direction he wandered off. Unless there were merging routes further down the line, they wouldn’t encounter him.

And afterwards, if they were lucky, Hisoka would ignore them as he did up to this point, for the rest of the exam. If he was also inclined to act professional - Chuu snorted - he would include her in that list.

As she neared a dead end of the long hall, a door opened, leading her to a waide staircase that went on and on, before obscuring after an especialy abrupt turn. The path looked like someone just threw sharp and curved turns at random. Which probably was almost true - this was a prison-made-frequent-exam-ground. This staircase was likely an afterthought, accommodating various obstacles and trap rooms on other paths.

Chuu listened again, flooding her ears with nen, a trick she picked up long ago, from but there was still no sign of other participants. As it dissipated, her senses returned to normal and she was reminded once again of the stale air. Chuu frowned at that, but continued on.

She knew Hisoka's standards well enough by now, from all the commissions they ran for him. Starting with search for new possible opponents from more closed-off circles and unknown communities (even if he rarely followed up on the information they provided, despite paying for it a special price - doubled, for him), to finding the fruits that he left for later, for a rare check-up on their progress.

Chuu was also familiar with his standards because she used herself as a gauge more often than not. He loved suggesting a fight to her every single time he contacted them. Being the most combat-oriented out of the three of them, she carried the brunt of his attention. Yves was a pretty decent fighter too! But, uh, Chuu had to admit that their leader was nowhere close.

They sometimes joked about Go Won stealthily assassinating him, but all of them knew that would never happen.

Regardless, he was tolerable as long as they weren’t meeting in person. He was one of their regular customers, after all.

She felt confident in her assertions regarding Hisoka’s targets. HeeJin - pass, sweet fortunate girl. HyunJin - who knows, Chuu didn’t actually notice anything special about her, sans higher endurance, physical strength, appetite and shortened recovery period. That all looked uncomfortably familiar, but nothing exceptional either, not yet, at least.

Choerry... Only God knew what she was and what she could do.

Earlier, when threatened with failure at cooking stage, Chuu had to shield both HyunJin and HeeJin from a certain death. Choerry, hopefully unknown to herself, oozed nen so potent and malicious, the closest unlucky examinee to their group keeled dead there and then. A couple of others were stuck gasping for air in frozen panic, but ultimately lived... albeit none of them walked out of the airship to make another attempt at a second phase. No doubt, they were physically scarred.

It wasn’t as bad, per say, as Hisoka’s bloodlust, but not that much better either.

Either a solid mediocrity in terms of fighting abilities with short temper... or someone gave her some stellar education and the girl was much more dangerous than Chuu first assumed.

She really, really hoped Choerry was just unaware of her actions at that time.

If not... Well. Chuu probably should warn Go Won and Yves that she might have to resort to an emergency exit, huh?..

She stopped.

Hm. Not a minute passed, tete-a-tete with herself, and her mind began filling the space between her steps on its own volition.

When did she become such a worrywart?

That was rhetoric.

Chuu inwardly sighed and continued walking.

She preferred to have company on missions, whether friendly or not, for this exact reason. Chuu obviously could keep track of Yves and Go Won from anywhere (she brushed over their tags again, on the other side of the world, calm, confident, bored, not physically active), but this exam proved already that her need for a company was worse than she assumed.

...On the second thought, maybe the solitary route wasn’t all that great for her.

A stair gave out from under her foot.

Thank God! - flashed in her head as Chuu lunged forward, pushing off of a step over, as the next one already started to careen to one side.

The spikes beneath those steps pointed at her invitingly for a split second, before she was gone.

Even without nen, Chuu ran faster than most could track, leaving steps to fall far, far behind her, breezing through the never-ending staircase.

The tower was known to be deadly for an average wanna-be Hunter, sometimes even more than the other phases. Chuu was curious to see what level Judging Committee deemed as an entry-level.

She already heard about the Trick Tower from Yves when she had her exam. She landed on a path of two, that, a quarter away from the finish line, stated that only one goes further. Her co-examinee was so determined to force Yves to forfeit her chance, that he never stepped out of that room again.

The staircase ended, turning into a long and twisty hall, but Chuu kept her speed. Her hope was that the next room had better air, because at this point it was turning a little bit into annoyance.

Involuntarily, her mind made a guess on how HeeJin and HyunJin would fare here. She didn’t ask for it and while the answer wasn’t a definite death, this thought stirred her carefully pushed-out fear.

Okay, so, admittedly, HeeJin was in more danger here. HyunJin was tenacious. She completed all of the previous phases on her own, not much to be worrying about past the general what-ifs and Hisoka.

But that didn’t mean that HeeJin was helpless, far from it - if there was a fight, she would have a rather good chance to win against random examinee. Chuu haven't seen her sable in action, but the way HeeJin maneuvered around the great stamp during the second phase, spoke of great balance and dodging skills. A bit slow for her taste, but everybody starts somewhere.

Chuu saw how the girl led it to a rock and leapt on top of it, pushing off of the mossy surface, leaving the boar to barrel right into it. The impact against fortified snout did no damage, but the momentarily pause from it let letting HeeJin land a solid hit with the scabbard.

And that was after the marathon earlier! HeeJin looked dead when Chuu and Choerry caught up with them before the cooking phase, for goodness sake!

At the first glance, she would have never labeled the definitely pampered girl as “determined” or “resilient”, but Chuu was proved delightfully wrong.

Well... It was not completely unexpected. HeeJin had a good reason to persist, after all.

A sudden need for a document from a well-raised, well-fed, well-cuddled (have you seen that flawless scarless skin and sheer quality of that waist-low hair?) girl who had shaky knowledge of the basic basics of cooking? Yeah.

Chuu tsked. She won’t be prying, since she was in a similar position once. The difference was that none of them sought legal sources or extra comfort. And also were a trio of professionals who didn't need anything, really, but that’s beside the point.

However, she still wished Choerry would poke HeeJin just as she was poking Chuu at first. Alas, it looked like the purplehead wasn’t as nosy with those two. Unfortunate, but understandable.

On this note, she ceased being annoying towards Chuu after swamp altogether, now that she thought about it. Was that a permanent thing or were they just taking a break?

Either way it was nice, even if it was fleeting.

...She. Looped back to these thoughts again.

This was precisely why Chuu wasn’t keen on the whole “get new friends, its healthy for you” idea. The ones who weren’t on her skill level were too worrisome, haunting her with the worst scenarios of what could happen to them. The other ones, who could stand their ground? Her trust in the wrong person could put all of them in danger. And the stronger the person was, the more likely they were to become a problem.

Chuu grimaced. It was so hypocritical of Yves and Go Won to tell her to “get new friends” while doing none of that during their exams!

She took a sharp turn and saw that the hall morphed back into stairs.

That went upward.

“Ah,” thought Chuu. “‘Long road’.”

Air continued to be stale as she entered the next hall, the door opening when Chuu was right in front of it and closing immediately as she passed. If anything, it became even heavier. The tendency was uninspiring and she mentally labeled air “oxygen-deprived”, since “stale” description didn't describe it properly.

But it wasn't the only annoying thing here.

Chuu was the first to admit that she was bad with distances and measurements outside of nen application, but if she had to guess, the stairs led her to almost the same level that she started on.

The new hall was wide and lined from wall to wall with the pressure plates on the floor, each having a pattern on it. Chuu could barely see the door on the opposite end of it.

She scratched her temple. This one she could just ignore, but if mental exercise and low oxygen air was where this all was heading to, this route was about to be changed from “bothersome” to “bullshit”.

“Congratulations,” said Chuu to nobody in particular. “You are promoted”.

Rupor on the ceiling, pointing towards a long, slowly descending in a barely-noticeable curve ramp, stayed silent. She had a sneaking suspicion it went around the whole tower.

How wonderful.

As time passed, Chuu had come to several conclusions. First, she had to begrudgingly admit that low oxygen was a decent hindrance. Even to her. Strong and resilient she might be, there was nothing she could do to avoid being affected. Chuu pushed off of the platform she was on with a bit more force than necessary, leaving a footprint in the cracked concrete. It wasn’t detrimental to her, but it was annoying nonetheless, being sluggish and slightly disoriented for seemingly no reason.

Credit where it’s due, it was a decent handicap for examinee of almost any level.

Second conclusion - “traps” on her path could be generally broken down in two types.

There was a general transitional type with some traps sprinkled over it for flavor: falling stairs, dropping ceiling, slowly pushing together walls, hidden pressure plates in thin hallways, triggering anything from darts to electrocution, depending on the noticeability of it, etcetera. It forced the examinee to be constantly on alert, battling the spinning head and decreased patience. Having gone through many tests and training grounds in her youth, Chuu intellectually respected the thoughtfulness of how well it all worked together.

She just wished someone else got it.

Passageways were long, as a rule, going in every direction, including straight upwards, halls and stairs and ramps. Their sole purpose was to waste her time and grate on her nerves.

The second type of obstacle, though, was uncomparingly worse in her personal opinion. As Chuu only encountered reactionary traps, she assumed she got this in the bag.

Until she walked into one of those "stuck until you solve the puzzle" rooms for the first time as a naive little creature, and emerged as a beast.

The room greeted her with a large tableau on the wall and a horizontal panel with nine on nine depressions placed in a grid under it. In the corner, close to the tablet, stood a barrel full of colored rocks with slightly varied pictograms drawn on them.

Air, unsurprisingly enouh, was the same as it was before.

Upon closer inspection, tableau was a series of thin slabs placed one after another. The top one had a three by three matrix of symbols with a row of four question marks placed vertically to the right of it.

Realization dawned on her.

Who was responsible for designing this path?!

Chuu messaged Go Won in hopes for some cheating but there was no reply. She paid attention to her hatsu and it seemed that both the princess and their leader were patiently stealthing in Zetsu for whatever reason. Negotiation failed or was that already a follow-up?...

Whatever. Chuu resigned herself to being stuck here for a while, considering the number of tablets underneath the top one.

Huffing, she turned the barrel over, scattering the stones on the floor. Kicking some of them out of the way, Chuu placed a make-shift stool in front of the tableau. Pouting at the puzzle, she took out a small promotional notepad, somewhat ready to tackle the obstacle.

She was done! Done done done done done done! With the puzzle, her route, the tower, other examinees, with herself, with the fucking air, Chuu was done!

She didn’t care about the examiners and their opinions, about the sadistic architect of the trial, she was done with this bullshit of a puzzle and God help her if they put another one in front of her! Chuu would punch every encountered door into debris, she was heading to the base of the tower and she was racing.

The observers better open the doors according to her speed or start ordering new ones now.

An hour! A full hour passed in that goddamn room! At some point she had to meditate to calm herself down because her head was starting to spin and there was no vents leading into that room. Chuu went through so many different variants, she was this close to tearing the room apart!

She was leaving this path behind her as fast as possible and nobody could stop her.

After hours of running and crawling through hallways covered in dust from what seemed years of disuse, feeling much calmer, Chuu stared at the hatch in the floor. This was new.

Chuu pushed it open and stared down in the abyss. Rough in-built ladder went down, disappearing somewhere deep, where even nen-enhanced eyesight couldn’t reach.

Chuu jumped in, grabbing metal handles, methodically climbing down and further away from the entrance. Lights lit up only when she was rather close, lighting up just enough to get to the next one, so there was no tell how of far the shaft went. She contemplated prying one of the handles off and throwing it down to have at least an estimate. On one side, it didn't matter, on the other, it was some destruction and Chuu would greatly appreciate some destress, but also examiners might not approve...

She grabbed the handle above her and tore it out of concrete, bending it under the force.

Its clanging went on and on and on...

Hah. Its fall lasted so long, Chuu got absolutely nothing from it!

Except some petty satisfaction. Which was a win in her books.

To be fair, the tunnel in and of itself was great - Chuu was beginning to feel she made almost no progress vertical-wise and, unless there was a second tunnel she would have to climb up, this helped her by leaps and bounds!

After ten or so minutes of climbing, Chuu scratched her nose.

How fast she could climb at her fastest?

Was it faster than gravity or?..

Chuu let go, falling freely for a couple seconds, before catching handles again with both her hands and feet. She let go again. And again...

In two minutes she reached the floor. Dusting off her dress, she patted herself on the shoulder, both mentally and physically, - climbing would’ve taken ages!

On the side of the shaft a door opened and she stepped through into, oooh, something new! A maze!

Most of her way down was spent in either that puzzle room or on stairs and halls. Given how many of the noticeable doors ignored her, she suspected that she got the longest route of them all distance-wise.

Chuu wouldn’t be surprised if her path went through at least half of the halls in the tower.

She rushed through the traps: another pressure plates on the floor puzzle, one puzzle that had the floor fall underneath her, one wall-climbing that, by her shaky estimation, went back up somewhere around a quarter or a fifth of the previous ladder and another two goddamn pattern puzzle rooms. Linking all of them were long halls and staircases that Chuu fondly regarded as time-suckers and just sprinted through. Crawling tunnels made sprinting troublesome, but she went as fast as possible in those too. Oxygen-deficient air was no longer so grating for her, serving instead as a reminder to end this quicker.

Still, the hours ticked by. If Chuu assumed that restrooms were spread roughly six to seven hours of estimated successful progress away from each other, she had to be getting close to the bottom of the tower.

She arrived at a square room that looked like an arena next. On the opposite side of the room, there were draped silhouettes in tiny cells, five in total, thick bars separating them from the main room.

Please be what Chuu thought it was.

For the first time in her descend, a rupor turned on, with click that made her wince.

“To proceed, win three rounds. Prisoners are deciding on victory conditions, you pick the opponent before the rule reveal.”

Chuu squinted, trying to discern shapes behind the bars. She picked the burliest, pointing a finger at them. “The first door on the right from the entrance.”

“Please challenge me to a fight”, she thought. “Please challenge to a fight.”

Bars from the selected cell slowly moved up and a two-meter tall figure quietly approached her. Slow steps, each made with ease and confidence in themself.

“I challenge you to a fight!" boomed masculine voice as he threw off a hood, revealing a weathered tattooed face. A crooked smirk, dripping with superiority, split his face. "To the death!”

Chuu grinned.

“Second to pass - applicant ten! Time elapsed: nine hours, forty minutes!” Announcement was loud enough to be heard through the rumble of the door and Chuu let out a small victorious yelp.

She stepped into a huge round room with a almost six meter tall ceiling and dozens upon dozens of doors on the perimeter. The room was brightly lit by sparse lamps in the walls and four raised bowls with flame in the center, making it almost well-lit. The best part of the room was in its air - a normal blessed air that wasn’t tampered with in any way. Bless!

Across the room from her, was Hisoka, now staring directly at her. Two blood streaks from his wounds stood out on his top, stark contrast with icy-blue color of his suit.

There was only Hisoka.

Oh no.

As the door went back down behind her motionless form, Chuu rankled through her memory. Did wounds make him more excited. Did it affect him outside of battle. When was he ever interested in acting professional.

Tense seconds passed with neither of them moving.

In silence, extremely slowly, Chuu walked to the side and sat against the wall, not breaking eye contact with Hisoka for a split second. Her biggest interest was whether he would want to fight right now more or to keep them as their informants. It was a heavier, less funny thought now, when it grew into a very real concern.

He smiled and waved at her.

Chuu made a small wave in return.

Hisoka broke the eye contact and pulled out a deck of cards, shuffling them. Chuu waited, ready.

In a second, he began building a tower, playing by himself.

After two minutes of watching his peacefulness, Chuu tore her gaze away and took out her phone, automatically opening Yves’ dialogue. Partially to ask for guidance, partially as a distraction.

Alas, no matter how big the room was, being one on one with Hisoka was an uncomfortable experience. She hoped more people would come in soon.

Over sixty-two hours left until the end of the third phase.

-Extra-

Previous day, 7th of January

Application Pestercard

[embroideringCutie] opened a temporary dialog with [vanillaMiracle] at 01:40

[EC]: WHY DIDNTYIU REMIND ME ABOUT HIM

[EC]: HE IS HERE

[VM]: Who?

[EC]: HYSKOA

[EC]: HISKKA

[EC]: THE PSYCHTIC GERDENER

[VM]: I’m sure I warned you

[VM]: Wait a moment, Ill ask DT

[VM]: She says i told you after my exam

[EC]: HE IS RIGHT HERE OH GOD V VM HE IS NEN WINKING AT ME

[VM]: He is not, he wouldnt be too obvious

[EC]: HE TOOK OUT HISCARDS

[VM]: Siiiiiiiiiiiiii

[VM]: iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

[VM]: iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

[EC]: VM!!!

[VM]: iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.

[VM]: Just move further away, there has to be a lot of participants at this point

[EC]: Wonnilla

[EC]: he is 44th

[VM]: Suiting

[EC]: there arent nearly enough people here!

[EC]: ????

[EC]: nmd

[EC]: returning to the topic

[EC]: WHY DIDN’T YOU REPEAT YUOR WARNING

[VM]: I thought it wasn’t needed, miss how-dare-you-doubt-my-memory

[VM]: Just censor Hisoka out. Go say hello to someone, get to know someone passable, forget about him

[VM]: It is too early here

[VM]: Annoy someone disposable

[VM]: OR a better idea

[VM]: You can make some friends for a change? Hmm?

[VM]: Remember that DT explicitly asked you to?

[EC]: friends, sure

[EC]: like you did? :I

[VM]: He ruined that possibility for me!

[VM]: And FORGET about him already

[EC]: unnie, its impossible

[EC]: no one is able to forget about him!

[VM]: Except you, apparently

[EC]: (╥﹏╥)

[EC]: theres just a lot on my mind,

[EC]: Wo-nni-lla

[EC]: I know you are tying to fall back asleep! :<

[EC]: get back here and keep me company!

[EC]: welp, you are asleep

[EC]: Im

[EC]: so

[EC]: boooooooooooored

[EC]: ugh

[EC]: this is a circus of fashion disasters

[EC]: and not only in fashion

[EC]: I look around and might as well see zombies, they look HOPELESS VP

[EC]: HOPELESS

[EC]: wastes back home showed more promise then they do!

[ EC]: when are you going to wake up again :C

[EC]: it HAS to be one of the dullest halls ive EVER been stuck in. We are just standing in big dark dull room underground and everyone is SO grumpy

[EC]: okay fine got it Ill patiently wait for your princess sleep to end

[EC]: :D!!

[EC]: morniiiing!!!!

[VM]: I can keep you company until we need to get going

[VM]: But don’t expect any excitement. If you forgot, we’re in the same timezone

[EC]: one weirdo here offered me to drink some canned juice he brought. Is he stupid? Stranger danger aside, who would take a drink from a stranger at the HUNTER EXAM?!

[VM]: Ah, him. Joy. If you could kill him off subtly without any examiners noticing, youll do a favor to future generations

[EC]: I mean I did obviously, got curious what was in i

[EC]: ??????

[EC]: wow

[EC]: good morning, you are clearly still asleep this is hunter exam killing is allowed

[VM]: Yes, but having a good impression would be nice, E C

[EC]: huh?

[VM]: You told me to play nice the previous year, remember?

[EC]: oh, right

[EC]: !!!!!

[EC]: THERE IS A CUTE GIRL INCOMING

[EC]: MY AGE NOT FASHIOM DISASTER PIGTALES SISTER GOTTA GO BYEE