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For you, the world turns black. Whether you know it or not, you lose consciousness, leaving thoughts of Isabelle behind as you feel a strange heat on your arm…

But the world moves without you.

As Isabelle kips up from the desk, prepared for a very one-sided beatdown, her fierceness gives pause to the cold, unfeeling eyes bearing down on her. Your arm slides behind your back, reaching for something in your back pocket. Thinking you’re about to pull out a weapon, Isabelle lunges forward to stop you, grabbing thin air as you switch places with a calm sidestep. She sees you instead holding a black marker up, as if to write on an imaginary whiteboard.

“The fuck..? Are you tweaked out on something, fuckface?”

Without words, you pop the cap off the marker, the tip darkening the room slightly like an inverted flare. Staring at nothing, you write onto the very air the two words that give you absolute control: Gavin Shaw. It floats impossibly between the two of you, spinning until facing Isabelle, so that she can read it.

“What sort of magic trick bullsh—”

With a snapping glance, you will your written name forward, zipping straight at Isabelle like an arrow. Slithering around her throat like a choker, the ink settles in place as if you’d written it directly onto her skin. The impact alone steals her words, a hand grasping at her neck and finding nothing to remove.

“Sit.”

She sits down immediately in the nearest chair.

“Still.”

You cap the marker and pocket it, taking the two steps forward it takes to close the negligible distance between you. Other than panicked eyes and increasingly frantic breathing, Isabelle doesn’t move an inch. You tap her chin with your finger, just enough to crane her head back uncomfortably to peer up at you.

“Strip.”

Eyes wide, Isabelle feels her hands move against her will, shaking with the **** of her meaningless resistance. Grabbing the hem of her hoodie, she twists and pulls it up and away, revealing a weathered tanktop that fails to conceal a well-packed black sports bra. Tears well up in her eyes, shaken by core-cracking fear.

“Stop.”

Frozen again, she watches you grab her hoodie and swiftly scrawl your name on it with a sharp single motion before tossing it to the side. You point to the desk, silently taking your original place again as Isabelle’s body moves her to her ordered location, sitting as your will alone demands.

You go to take a larger breath, to waylay her with an order that will leave her broken, but the burning glow on your arm distracts. Glancing down, you see the ink of your name starting to flake away.

Too Young. Too Soon. Not Yet.

Whoever is driving this Gavin-Wagon gives Isabelle one final look before closing your eyes. The words around her neck vanish in a flicker of light, giving her the freedom to breathe as desperately as she needed to.

You’re still on your feet, so you couldn’t have actually fainted. Maybe a blink of fear-induced dissociation? Shaking your head, you refocus and remember that life is about to end in mere seconds, thanks to how pissed you’ve made Isabeeeellle….

Um.

“Weren’t you… wearing a hoodie a second ago?” Maybe you were out for two blinks.

Isabelle winces at your words, hands tight on the wood of the desk she’s bracing against. Barely able to will herself to look away from you, her eyes flick to the hoodie on the floor nearby. In plain sight, even though it’s black ink on black fabric, she knows exactly what’s written on your hoodie. The hoodie that she had been wearing without your permission. She swallowed hard, a cold sweat beading on her forehead.

“Give it back,” she mutters through her teeth, more a growl than a whisper.

You trace her glances, bizarre as her behavior was, and see the hoodie in question. Unsure why you’re still alive, you slowly kneel down, pick up the hoodie and hand it over to her. She snatches it from you brusquely, looking at the writing both of you can barely see. When the heck did you have time to write on her clothes??

She barks at you again, but she’s lost her fire. “Let me wear it!”

“What?? Oh, yeah, sure, fine. I don’t care what you do with it.” Whaaat the fuck is going on?

Might as well ogle in your last bit of life. Though only for a moment, Isabelle’s arms are tangled over her head as she throws her precious hoodie back on. In that time, you have a better view of her muscular upper body. It isn’t fair to simply call her toned, no. With that much muscle, you can only call her buff, and yet she still sports a feminine albeit athletic shape. The fact that her sizable bust seems to fight against her bra and tank for freedom might be the cause. Sculpted abs don't work against her narrow waist, even if you think you could grate cheese on them.

With the hoodie back on properly, she slowly moves away from you, putting the desk between you two. Maintaining eye contact, she taps the folio firmly.

“We don’t leave until this is fixed.”

Really? Something clearly had her scared, and she wants to threaten you again? “Isabelle, are you okay?”

“No, I am not fucking okay, jackass! Just tell me what you want so we can leave!”

Isn’t this what you wanted? Isabelle is scared and willing to hear your demands! What else had you intended, planning this little **** plot? Sure, you don’t have the slightest clue why she’s scared or why she’s humoring you, but does it matter? You don’t care about her.

You swallow, steel yourself, and try to speak through your very dry lips. “Isabelle, all I wanted was for you to stop treating me like human garbage.”

“Done. Now fix it.”

“What, really? That’s it?”

“You fucking want it in writing? Notarized?!”

Somehow, you’ve got the ball rolling. Keep pushing while you can! “...No, I want something better. I want collateral.”

She flinches. Isabelle Arlington actually flinched at your words, failing to meet your eyes for a moment. “What kind of collateral?”

“Your hoodie’s a start.”

“You want to make a deal based on my hoodie?? What are you gonna do, huff it and fap your little—” She stops herself on her own, gritting her teeth to reel herself back. “Fine, if I bully you again, you can have my hoodie. Happy now?”

“Well, almost.”

Isabelle rolls her eyes, anger starting to compete with fear for supremacy. “Just spit it out already, quit wasting time!”

“The hoodie is just an… example” You’re not entirely sure where this idea came from, but perhaps you’d best listen to your gut and roll with it? “I own your hoodie. Your portfolio. The school locker that you and only you have been using for four straight years. All recently.” You let her gears turn again, only continuing when it clicks. “And I can keep taking things.”

A distant part of your thoughts wonder what Theresa would think if she knew you were using your powers to threaten someone. Then again, Isabelle’s a huge bitch, Tess’d probably think this is awesome.

“ 'Everything you have, want, and dream about.' ” You rummage around and find the marker in your back pocket. “Heck, I could just take the door to this room and forbid anyone from opening it. This office would be a prison cell for you.”

“How… how are you doing this? This is impossible.” And yet.

“Why would I tell you that, Isabelle? You’ve been nothing but a terror to me.” You point the marker at her for emphasis, causing her to recoil, back against the far wall and a hand clutched protectively over her throat. It gives you a moment’s pause. She knows what it does.

…

This doesn’t feel good. You’re not enjoying this like you thought you would. You wanted her nervous, not… weirdly afraid for her life. You think back to Theresa’s face when you’d accidentally claimed her and startled this whole mess.

“Remember this, Isabelle. And behave yourself.” Hastily, you pull the door open and slink away into the offices, disappearing from Isabelle’s view in no time. Miss Mullins stares at you in disbelief as Isabelle’s legs give out, leaving her winded on the floor.