Fandom: Mystic Messenger Pairing: Jumin Han/Reader [you] Summary: Jumin recollects memories and thoughts that torment him. As result, a pleasant dinner turns really hot, really fast. Rating: MATURE NSFW, this is smut. This means I’m giving explicit details. You’ve been warned, y’all.
There may not be anyone who loves their job as much as Kris. It’s practically a license to be a child again: playing duck, duck, goose, singing and dancing nursery songs, drawing pictures that his kids laugh at, and above all: training children how to love and play basketball. Sometimes, it’s frustrating trying to calm down so many young children, but when their eyes light up finally in understanding or when a whole group rushes to hug his legs and grab his hands, so excited to see him, it makes every little problem fade away.
Ticklish to the point that you don’t even have to touch her; just raising a finger and drawing it close to her sides will make her squirm. She laughs that uncomfortable, manic giggle and draws up into herself, the defensive stance of an armadillo, and it’s hilarious and adorable.
And I guess this makes me a bad person, but the more she begs me not to tickle her, the more I want to.
If she didn’t make such a big deal out of it, you know?
I catch myself thinking about it sometimes when we’ll be out in the park, or riding in a car together, or strolling past the shops down on Main Street. I’ll see the expanse of her side, the way her shirt bunches up against her torso, and I’ll get the urge to poke her.
But it’s like she has a sixth sense about it; before my hand can get in close, she’ll jerk away and laugh and squirm, but I could swear sometimes I see something else in her eyes. Some dark, hooded look, like fear.
Still, the urge to push my luck was overwhelming. It was like curiosity, that terrible gnawing feeling of wanting to know what’s on the other side of a locked door.
But I got her good, finally.
She was sitting on a park bench, reading a book in the fading afternoon sun. I crept up behind, quiet, stealthy, barely holding in my own laughter; it abbreviated each breath into a stifled pant. But she didn’t seem to notice my approach, and when I came within reach I lunged, extending both hands to reach around from behind.
I goosed her, fingertips dancing up and down her ribs like playing a xylophone.
But she didn’t laugh.
She didn’t squirm.
She sat bolt upright, as though frozen in place, and let out a breathy gasp of shock. From my angle, partway beside, partway behind, I could just make out the edge of her eye - wide and rimmed in white.
She began to writhe. Or - no. Her skin writhed. It rippled as though something were trapped beneath it, thick ropes twisting just under its surface, pushing outward. Her mouth opened, as if to scream; her eyes widened further, impossibly huge, the eyeballs rolling backward and revealing whites lined with bulging red veins.
The flesh of her face seemed to rearrange, somehow, like butter softening in the sun; her features melted and sagged. Her mouth fell in an asymmetrical gash, chin dropping to her chest, teeth coming loose in sagging gums and protruding up at odd angles before falling. They hit the grass with a soft patter.
I stood, frozen in horror, unable even to withdraw my hands, as the ropes beneath her skin twisted and bulged and, finally, burst free.
I felt the the warm spatter of blood wash over me; it felt like a viscous goo, and it seemed to spread and slide over my body in a way that didn’t feel like blood at all. It felt like globs of semi-liquid gelatin that clung to my clothes and pores and, somehow, spread.
But I was distracted from that by the… thing… standing before me, where my friend had once been.
The park bench sat on its edge, knocked aside - despite being solid concrete, despite likely weighing several hundred pounds - and standing near it was…a thing I have no name for.
It was about my friend’s height, but broad. At first, it seemed hugely fat - and then I understood that what I was seeing was not its body but tentacles, hundreds of them, thick muscular ropes of flesh that writhed like snakes. That’s what I had seen under her flesh; that’s what had burst out of her body, spattering me with gore.
The creature’s actual body was slim and shapeless, more like a tube of meat than anything. Tentacles waved, snakelike, from all directions; they were the purplish-pink hue of uncooked steak, and dripping with the same viscous gore as now covered me.
It turned to face me, if you could call it that - for it had no face. Merely a wide, misshapen mouth, with a single huge white eye centered above it, lidless and staring.
The huge white eye fixated upon me, and its gaping mouth gaped ever wider. Tentacles twisted toward me, extending, and in my mind I heard a thought, crystal clear, as though spoken into me by telepathy.
On the twenty-third of November, the Chat Noir Fan Club
officially met for the first time. It was an incredibly prestigious and
important event, where to get in, one had to sign their name – print was
acceptable; few had actually perfected cursive at this time - take a pledge –
“Chat Noir is my hero and has a purr-etty face” - and memorize the secret
codeword – cataclysm, so secret that no one outside the club could possibly
guess it. Seven girls and four boys showed up, as well as Patch the
neighborhood cat (after being convinced to come inside the small shed the club
was held in with a bit of catnip Martin brought from home), so twelve members
total were recorded, all age six save for Samantha (a proud seven year old) and
Patch (whose real age the world might never know). It was impressive, to say
The meeting started once everyone was inside and signed up,
proudly wearing homemade cat ears or tails in honor of their hero. The first
order of business was to scrawl whiskers on each other’s faces with a permanent
black marker. It was messy, crude, and a few members ended up with beards or
mustaches, but overall a success. That complete, the club members then began
creating letters and pictures with two sixty-four packs of crayons (the ones
with sharpeners in them because of course this was a very elite club) to send
to Chat Noir to tell him how much they loved him. Some drew his stick-figure
image proudly, others drew sketched hearts and wrote I love you’s, and a few doodled
pawprints and ladybugs and let him know they were rooting for him in his
pursuit of Ladybug’s heart.
It doesn’t last very long; most members had naps to take and
snacks to munch, so they wave and say goodbye and promise to meet the next
weekend. Overall it was considered a success, and they all couldn’t wait for
the next week.
In the next meeting, the members were buzzing with excitement
after a recent akuma attack. They had crowded inside Samantha’s house around
the computer, constantly refreshing the Ladyblog to watch their hero in his
battle against evil. At last, the video is uploaded, and they quickly press
Ten minutes later, their happy, excited faces were replaced
with disappointed frowns, grumpy scowls, and the threat of oncoming tears. Chat
Noir had appeared in the video a single time, when using his cataclysm, and
even that was cut off to watch Ladybug do her thing. The report beneath the
video was full of nothing but praise for Ladybug (Samantha read while her
mother corrected her pronunciations), without a single sentence about their
Obviously, this meant war.
The meeting after they went to work, using bits of cardboard
Cody had snatched from his recycling to write how they felt. “We want Chat
Noir!” one proclaimed. “Chat Noir’s our hero!” another declared. Cries for Chat
Noir were scrawled down on the cardboard in neon green marker, the words
spell-checked by Samantha, and though there were a few backwards r’s and
smudged n’s, the members believed they got their point across.
Miss Alya, founder of the Ladyblog, was Tina’s babysitter, so
she led the Chat Noir Fan Club members (including Patch, held struggling in
Martin’s arms) to her house. Once they arrived, the held up their signs and
shouted at the top of their lungs.
“Where’s Chat Noir?!”
“We want Chat Noir!”
“Chat Noir’s our hero!”
“Chat Noir’s the best!”
“You forgot Chat Noir!”
It took some time, but eventually Miss Alya opened the door
and, after snapping a few pictures of her protesters, tried to make peace with
the Fan Club. She apologized for not having so many shots of Chat, and promised
to make more of an effort to include him in future reports. Satisfied that they
had succeeded in their first club protest, the members went home happy and
At the next meeting, they were surprised and delighted to find
themselves on the Ladyblog, holding up their cardboard signs. “Chat Noir fans
stand up for their hero,” Samantha read, and the members cheered and
high-fived. They had done it! They won!
Their cheering stopped at a knock on the door, and they
crowded around to see who it was. Martin had the deepest voice, so he asked the
intruder, “What’s the secret codeword?”
There was a pause, a soft chuckle, and then, “Would it happen
to be… cataclysm?”
The members gasped and threw open the door, in wide-eyed
amazement when there stood Chat Noir himself, grinning down at them. He waved,
tail curling slightly as he looked them over. A moment passed, then two, and
then there was a scream.
“You’re Chat Noir!”
In an excited wave of tiny arms and legs, the children
launched themselves at him, to hug him or touch his tail or hold out one of
their pictures for him to see. Chat laughed and kneeled down to their level,
making sure to gift everyone (even Patch) an official Chat Noir hug and let
them touch his suit as they pleased. He looked at each and every letter and
picture, gathering them up and promising to put them all over his walls at
home. He signed autographs on balls or favorite toys, on random pieces of paper
and even on cheeks. Throughout it Chat was laughing and grinning, happy to see
that he had fans who actually liked him for him and not for Ladybug.
Eventually they dragged him inside the shed, explaining that
today’s game was Duck Duck Goose and insisting he be first. The members sat in
a circle on the floor, and slowly Chat touched the top of each person’s head
before selecting a “goose” and dancing around the circle. They played several
rounds – he made sure other children were picked and not just himself – and
Chat let them catch him every time.
The day slowly came to a close and Chat said he had to get
going, but he asked when the next meeting would be and promised he would be
there again since it was so much fun. Each member hugged him goodbye, sniffling
slightly but he brushed away every tear with a wink and a grin. After giving
them a salute, Chat took off for the Parisian rooftops.
Chat Noir always came to every meeting after, sometimes
bringing gifts or snacks for his fan club to enjoy. They in turn would give him
more drawings and advice on how to get Ladybug to like him. He let them “patrol”
with him sometimes, and slowly Paris got used to the sight of Chat Noir being
followed by a pack of children with whiskers on their faces while Ladybug
stared, unsure whether to find it adorable or concerning (adorable, of course,
and soon the club received an anonymous gift box of handmade Chat Noir hoodies
with cat ears on top). She’s happy for her partner, and the grin on his face as
he parades them around proudly is worth every extra pun from the Kitten Noirs.
Not many know this, but Chat Noir carries around three
pictures in his pocket at all times. They are there to remind him why he
fights, why he continues to do what he does, who he’s protecting. The first is
of his classmates, their first class photo, with each new friend he had slowly
and awkwardly made. The second is of Ladybug, a Ladyblog photo that he had decided
did some justice to her radiance. The third and final, though, is of a group of
children in cat-eared hoodies and a cat held in the middle, grinning up at the
camera. They are the Chat Noir Fan Club, they are his Kitten Noirs, and they
are why he fights.