#and he doesn’t have to like keep books or do payroll or any of the things I can’t see him being very passionate about

[formereldestdaughter]

ok wait i need to hear more of your thoughts on peeta owning a bakery....

This is one of those rare times where I’m pretty sure this anon isn’t someone I know personally bc I’ve subjected anyone who will listen to my rant about the Peeta Bakery Headcanon. Anyway, you’re gonna regret asking this anon bc there are fucking Layers here.

I know this is probably a controversial take based on the number of fics where I’ve seen it, but I simply do not think that Peeta would open a commercial bakery after Mockingjay!! Like on a metatextual level, I don’t think it really fits with the point of the ending of the series. It actually sort of fascinates me that it’s just such a common headcanon because the ending of Mockingjay is exceedingly vague. I think that vagueness invites us, as readers, to imagine a better world post-revolution. A world where Katniss would feel confident that her children would be safe from injustice, where she’d feel confident that her children would never know want the way she did as a child. A just world. A kinder world. Can a capitalist society ever be just? Is a capitalist society where a disabled teenager has no other means to subsist himself (or feels like there’s no other way he can be a contributing member of his community) really the post-revolution world we dream of? Is that really the best we can imagine?

(This got so insanely long I’m adding a read more lmao)

I get that showing a better world is not always the point of post-mockingjay headcanons/fics. Like there are plenty of really great post-mockingjay fics I’ve seen where, yeah, part of the fic is that society like ISN’T all that different or all that much better. I’ve seen that really well done! Hell, I’ve written them myself! It’s easy to imagine how a lot of aspects of society would not get an overhaul, a lot of the same structural inequalities would continue to exist. One headcanon that really stuck with me (I can’t remember which fic it was from) was that Peeta sells basically mail order baked goods to people on the Capitol, sending them iced cakes and pastries by train, because there are still people who were “fans” of theirs during the Games. And idk this doesn’t actually have much to do with my point lol but I liked it because it’s kind of fucked up and like! Yeah! It makes sense! If he needed money that would be a good way to make it! War often makes people rich, often for horrible reasons, and often it’s people who already have capital in the first place.

Anyway, more about the hypothetical bakery because alright. I bring up the fact that “yeah society not being all that different post-revolution and still being an unjust capitalist hellscape” could be a reason why Peeta re-opens a bakery because that’s actually never the types of fics where I see the bakery headcanon. Fics where Peeta opens a bakery are usually trying to make the exact opposite point. Like. Things are getting better, now he can open a bakery! Look at how much better the world is now, plus he’s got a bakery! Peeta is healing, that’s why he can open a bakery now! And I am so, so sorry to inform everyone who’s never had the grave misfortune of owning a family business, but there is truly nothing further from the truth lmao. Like just putting aside the immense amount of emotional baggage that Peeta has about his family, running a small business is an insane amount of work in any context and being a baker especially is physically grueling and involves early hours (and long hours) that aren’t really the best fit with the multiple ways that Peeta is disabled now. (I could go into this more because I have a lot of thoughts. But I will spare you.). I also think it’s seen throughout the books that Peeta is someone who needs time to pursue creative outlets to process his feelings and someone who values leisure and values quality time with his loved ones. And having grown up in his family’s bakery, I think he’d understand the reality that running a bakery wouldn’t leave much space of those pursuits and wouldn’t leave much space for him to have the things that keep him healthy and stable. I think he’d know that the way he is now— after two Games and the war and unspeakable torture at the hands of a dictator—isn’t compatible with the lifestyle necessary for running a commercial bakery.

And tbh with that in mind, I don’t think he’d push himself to re-open a business (one that would be a constant reminder of his dead family and his complicated relationships with them that got no closure) that would require him to sacrifice his physical and emotional well-being. Like I think he might look into the possibility, I think he might even start trying to open a bakery out of a sense of obligation/duty, maybe harboring some idea that this is who he was supposed to be, who he would've been without the Games, or that it’s this last piece of his family that can live on, or that it’s this last connection to his family so he can’t let it die too. But ultimately, I think any attempt to open a bakery wouldn’t get very far. Maybe he'd start wading into the logistical nightmare that is small business ownership and realize it's not for him (because it's probably also true that as much as him and his brothers were involved in the business, there's almost certainly parts they weren't involved with and didn't see, i.e., filing taxes). Or maybe looking into opening a bakery— how triggering it is, the stress of it— causes a downward spiral. Maybe he hates how much he's worrying everyone by unraveling. Maybe having a breakdown from the stress of just trying to open a bakery makes him realize, yeah, maybe in another life he would have ran his family’s bakery but the way he is now just doesn’t work with running a bakery, not without great sacrifices he's not willing to make. I just can’t see a bakery coming to fruition.

I know a lot of fics include Peeta deciding to reopen a bakery as a big step in his healing or include him rebuilding a bakery as part of his healing process but honestly, I think the opposite would be more true: I think Peeta either trying/failing to open a bakery or ultimately deciding not to open a bakery would be hugely healing for him. I think it would be a huge part of him accepting the way he is now as a person, his new limitations but also his strengths. I think it would be a huge part of him accepting the way his life his now and accepting that he likes his life the way it is, that he’s satisfied with his life without needing to own a bakery. I think it would be an important part of him coming to terms with the loss of his family. I think he knows he can never have things back as they were and I don’t think he would try to recreate them, especially because his family’s legacy isn’t a business. I think he’s emotionally intelligent enough and self reflective enough to realize that what mattered to him about the bakery— taking care of others by feeding them, being integrated into his community and being actively involved in it, brightening people’s days with delightful things whether that’s beautiful cakes or hearty food or delicious treats— and the things he learned from his family through the bakery, are things that he can carry on in other meaningful ways.

(Do you regret sending this ask yet, anon? Because if not, you will soon. I’m not done yet. There’s more.)

I wasn’t really sure where to put this next part in what is rapidly becoming an essay because it sort of combines the points about like “what do we imagine a post-mockingjay society to look like” with the practical difficulties of starting this bakery but here’s another thing: do people really think that the Mellarks owned the land the bakery was on?? Like, sure, the merchants are the petit bourgeois of Twelve but I still don’t imagine they really own anything. In a society where houses are assigned to people upon marriage, where property ownership and capital are so closely interconnected with citizenship (as shown by the Plinths who, by having immense capital, are able to leave their District and become citizens of the Capitol) do people really think the Mellarks would be allowed to own the land their bakery is on?? I always imagined it sort of like a tenant farming situation: the Capitol gives them the raw materials for the bakery and in return the bakery give them some absurdly high portion of their profits, or the Capitol sells them a year’s supply of raw materials at a premium on credit and at the end of the year the Mellarks have to use the money they made with those materials to pay it back, except it’s never enough to turn a profit so they always have to buy next year’s materials on credit and the cycle continues.

We (understandably) get a really skewed view of the merchant class through Katniss’s perspective so I can see why people come to the conclusion that his family owned the property and, as the last surviving member, he would’ve inherited it. I’ve seen the inheritance thing in fics a lot or a hand wavey “well Twelve was decimated to no one owns anything anymore so it can be his” or even like an almost sort of reparations type situation where he’s entitled to the land as a surviving refugee of Twelve. But I don’t know. I guess I don’t think it fits with everything else we know about Panem that the Mellarks would’ve owned that land and I think the question of whether the government would’ve let him take ownership of the land post-revolution brings up a lot of issues about the structure of society post-Mockingjay that I find more interesting to explore in other ways, especially when, from an emotional perspective, 1) I find the idea of Peeta not opening a bakery more compelling and 2) I don’t think it really fits his character arc by the end of Mockingjay to reopen a bakery, as I went on about at length above lol.

On the flip side: literally who cares!! Do whatever you want!! Headcanon whatever you want!! I get why people go for the bakery!! It’s fun, it’s wholesome, it’s a built in bakery AU that isn’t even an AU. It doesn’t matter if it’s practical or realistic!! It doesn’t need to be practical or realistic!! It’s fanfic of a dystopian YA series!! My unfortunate affliction is that I grew up in a family that owned a restaurant and that I have multiple degrees in the social sciences so I can’t see the bakery without being like “What about the overheard? What about the start up costs? Who’s spending long nights balancing the books? Is Peeta covering shifts when an employee calls in sick? Is Peeta the sole person working there until the bakery is open long enough (often a year or more) to start turning a profit? How does that sleep schedule work with his nightmares? How does that work with Katniss’s nightmares? What happens when he has an episode and suddenly needs to take the day off before he has any employees? Does the bakery just remain closed for the day? Can the profit margins withstand regular unexpected closures? Can the supplies withstand regular unexpected closures?” And if the answer is “Elliott none of those things matter he’s not doing the bakery because he needs the money but because he wants to”, then my question is why does he want to? Does he not get the same sort of satisfaction out of feeding his loved ones? Doesn’t Peeta seem like someone who would rather give away baked goods than sell them?? Doesn’t Peeta seem like someone who would prefer to make cakes for people’s special occasions upon and then when they insist on paying him for it, he only lets them “pay for the ingredients” which actually cost significantly more than he says they did??

So yeah my point is that it’s a matter of personal taste! It doesn’t fit the way I see the series but that doesn’t mean it’s like wrong, I’m not an authority on Peeta lmao.

It’s also a matter of personal taste in the sense that I find the themes that most resonate with me at the end of Mockingjay (and the end of Peeta’s arc specifically) more interesting to explore in other ways. Grief, living with loss, relearning yourself, finding hope, figuring out your place in a dramatically different world when you don’t even know who you are anymore, healing, building a new life after such complete and total destruction of your old life— those are all things I find compelling about the end of Mockingjay but for me the bakery isn’t the most compelling way to explore them.

Not to say I find the concept of the bakery totally uninteresting. I have this fic about Johanna that I’ll probably never finish where the point sort of is that, yeah, her life really isn’t all that much better after the war. It’s been years at this point and she’s still miserable and she doesn’t know how to be a person but by the end she’s trying to figure it out. And towards the end, Peeta tells her that he’s spent years sort of passively, half-heartedly trying to figure out how to inherit the land his family’s bakery was on, only to find out it was never theirs in the first place. They’d been renting it the whole time and he’d never even known as a kid. So he sort of passively, half-heartedly went on another wild goose chase to find the owner and now, finally, after years of writing to various government agencies and being sent in circles and things being barely functional, he’s managed to track down the owner. Now it’s owned by the daughter of the man who owned it when he was a kid because the original owner (who was likely up to some sketchy war crime shit) died during the war and she inherited it (the irony…). He got in contact with her and asked how much it would take for her to sell it and she told him she’s not interested in selling but in light of the situation, in light of the fact that he’d have to build a new building in order to operate a bakery, that she’d cut him a deal— she’d only require 50% of the bakery’s profits as rent instead of the 80% his family used to pay. And of course Johanna is outraged, that’s not right, the owner shouldn’t be allowed to do that, they should do something about it, they should fight back. And Peeta is like. Not interested. He was actually sort of relieved that opening wasn’t very feasible. Getting the answer was a lightbulb moment where he saw that over the years of trying to look into this, he’s built a life that he likes— one where he’s stable, where his loved ones are stable, where he’s cared for and can care for others— and he doesn’t really want to change it drastically by opening a bakery anyway. He just needed an answer, one way or another, before he could get some closure and move on. (And the point of the conversation is Johanna is having her own lightbulb moment that it’s okay to move on, it’s okay to change, it’s not a betrayal of the people and things she’s lost but that’s not my point here!!).

But anyway. That’s obviously not about running the bakery— it’s about the choice to not run one.

Anyway!! Anyway… are you satisfied anon? Is this what you wanted?

Lastly, here is my most important qualm with the bakery headcanon: must Peeta be gainfully employed? Is it not enough for him to be Katniss’s boytoy? Can’t he just paint and garden and bake and hang out with his girlfriend all day? Is that really too much to ask?

#peeta mellark #thg #the hunger games #the hunger games meta #anyway wow this got so long and I literally read it through one (1) time so uhhh sorry if this makes no sense!! #as I was doing my one read through and realized that one of my other thoughts on this is that yeah I can much more easily see the #headcanon that peeta like sells baked goods (probably at cost with no profit) out of his kitchen because that’s much more flexible #and I think that would work a lot better with what like I guess I’d call his psychiatric disability post mockingjay #and how he’d certainly want to take care of Katniss too #like that sort of flexibility makes a lot more sense for him and it’s like. if he doesn’t bake for a few days or however long then it’s fin #it’s not a formal brick and mortar business #it’s just something he’s doing because it’s a way to be involved with people and a way to do something he’s passionate about #without there being waste and while covering some of the costs #and he doesn’t have to like keep books or do payroll or any of the things I can’t see him being very passionate about #as far as like bakery management goes Lmao he can just bake!! #but then I started getting into this whole thing about how that quote-unquote ‘running a business’ like that (informally from your house) #is actually a really common practice for people living in poverty so probably something that Katniss and peeta would’ve been familiar wirh #anyway and then this whole rant about how the emphasis on the brick and mortar bakery often goes hand in hand with #this widespread fandom thing of having a fundamental misunderstanding of how rural poverty works and what it looks like #but then I was too deep into it and said you know what? never mind! and deleted it lmao

[salamandergoo]

This was written in snippets on a discord server, thought I’d clean it up and slap it here! Haven’t been able to stop thinking about roadie Steve 💕 There’s a lil bit of spice in here, just to keep things fun :)

Steve, after everything that happens, doesn’t really know what he wants to do. Working at Family Video is… fine, but Robin is finished with her gap year and now she’s getting acceptance letters and scholarship offers from colleges and trying to decide where to go.

She keeps asking him if he’ll be okay and Steve tells her to go because he’s excited for her! She’s excited too! And yeah, they’ve had nights where she stays over with him and they cry about how they won’t get to be attached at the hip, but they can’t stay in Hawkins, it’s not realistic. They’ll never be… okay, if they stay.

She goes off to college and absolutely loves it, she thrives there, and they’re in constant touch, but Steve feels like he’s lost a part of himself. His platonic soulmate, the woman he’s so used to just… being there, is gone. So when he’s invited to a Corroded Coffin gig, he jumps in, thinking that if nothing else, it’ll be a solid distraction from his wallowing.

They’ve played a few cities in Indiana, a frontman accused of satanic murders is pretty great for their image surprisingly enough, they’re just waiting for Gareth to finish school before they jump in fully. The show is pretty local, just barely outside of Hawkins city limits, but it’s refreshing for Steve to be… somewhere else, just for a night. And the gig is fun! Steve can’t hear the words to the songs too well, can’t keep up with the music so great, but he can feel it in his chest. And he loves the energy of it.

Partway through, something goes wrong with one of the amps and they’re trying to get it fixed. Steve offers to give them a hand, and in just a few minutes and some tinkering he has it working again. And the pats on the back from the guys and the bright smile from Eddie sparks something in Steve.

The next day, he finds himself in the library, checking out books on electrical equipment and instruments and anything he can think of, and starts reading up. By the time Gareth graduates and CC has a few shows set up, Steve comes along. He’s able to handle any technical difficulty they come across, he’s the guy making sure it all goes smoothly.

And suddenly they’re recording their first album and blowing up and Steve is their go to guy for live shows, he’s the first person on their payroll. For awhile, he’s the only one, he runs everything that isn’t playing music, but eventually, a few more hands are needed.

Eddie makes it clear that Steve is in charge, naturally trusting him to be the head of the road team.

The band is doing great and soon enough they’ve upgraded from Eddie’s van and Jeff’s station wagon to an actual tour bus. Eddie is so amped about it and it’s hard not to let his energy be infectious.

Of course, driving across hours of plains dims some of the excitement, but Eddie and Steve start to come up with… interesting ways to pass the time. Ever since they left Hawkins, Steve’s eyes have been wandering a bit. Turns out metal heads are his type, who could’ve guessed?

At first it was making out in an alley in Indy with a girl who had shaved hair and piercings shoving him against the wall and making him beg to eat her out. Then it was the boy in a leather jacket in the mosh pit in the middle of summer, sweat slick skin covered in ink and a gentle hand but commanding voice in a motel room. And then it was his own fantasies, covering his mouth as he touched himself in a shared hotel room bathroom thinking about Eddie, who else?

So there’s an ongoing game of gay chicken and Eddie hasn’t been quiet about his own conquests along the way. It’s little things, Steve shifting a little closer to Eddie on the bus, a hand on the thigh that creeps upwards, whispering in hushed tones just a little too close.

It finally snaps in California, a sold out show attended by Argyle and Jonathan (who moved back out west a few months after the world didn’t end). They’re slipped a few “party favors” before heading off to a motel for the night, a reprieve from the rumbling, uncomfortable mattresses on the bus. One of the rooms only has one bed because of a booking issue and before anyone can complain, Eddie snatches the key and declares that “Stevie’s with me”.

So the band splits up to go to the rooms, Eddie has to wait while Steve inspects the bed closely to make sure there’s nothing gross, and then they settle in, still sticky with sweat and buzzing with adrenaline. Eddie lights a joint and teases Steve a little with the way he groans and sighs as he takes a hit, but Steve gives as good as he gets

He straddles Eddie’s lap and asks to shotgun in this pretty, lilting voice, cocking his head in a way that makes his eyes, sparkling with mischief, catch the light just so. And Eddie isn’t going to deny a pretty boy on his lap, not when he’s seen Steve in those tight jeans. He takes another hit and tugs him in by the shirt collar, breathing out the thick smoke into Steve’s waiting, parted lips. And Eddie is treated to the sight of thick eyelashes fanned against freckles cheeks, the expanse of pale skin on Steve’s neck as he tilts his head back to avoid blowing the smoke back in Eddie’s face.

And Eddie can only restrain himself so much as he leans in and kisses the faded scar that cuts across Steve’s adams apple. Steve licks his lips and is looking at Eddie’s mouth when he opens his eyes and something between them snaps. He leans in and whispers, “kick me if I’m misreading this” before kissing Eddie on the lips. It’s firm, but not messy, charged and searching. Eddie has to take a second to remember how to move his limbs, holding Steve tight around the waist, careful not to bump the lit joint against his shirt.

He kisses back, but it’s not enough, he needs more, wants to ride out the low thrum of the coming high with Steve. He pulls back just long enough to take another hit and lifts a hand to cup Steve’s jaw. He breathes the smoke out, letting his tongue trace Steve’s lip as he takes it. Steve holds the smoke like a fucking expert, tangling his tongue with Eddie’s as he lets the smoke back out from the corner of his mouth. Eddie distantly wonders if he looks like a dragon like that, a thought that has him giggling. And then it’s really hitting him that he’s 1) a rockstar 2) making out with his high school crush Steve Harrington and 3) absolutely rock hard.

Judging by the pleased expression on Steve’s face when they part for air and the way he grinds his hips down slow and teasing, he definitely noticed that last part.

#steddie #steddie fic #roadie Steve Harrington #stranger things fic #stranger things #corroded coffin

[keithhoward]

Links for mobile:

ABOUT RULES MUN VERSES

Follows back from acidrp-followblog 

If links aren’t working, info is also under cut:

Name: Keith Howard

Age: 29…ish (His driver’s license may disagree, but he doesn’t count the months he was dead)

Nationality: American

Sexuality: Gay

Height: 6’3

Weight: ~180lbs

Personality: Post-possession left him completely burnt out. He still has a short fuse, but is more subdued than he was in Duelist Kingdom and YGO R. This doesn’t mean he’s any nicer- still blunt and abrasive as ever, and not making any great efforts to be polite- but most of his violent aggression has dissipated without any evil gods or evil rich guys (or drugs or alcohol) to fuel it.

He is affected by the events of the manga, but carries himself like he doesn’t care or even that it’s funny. Any feelings beyond that he directs into being pissed off. Sad or terrified or flustered or whatnot is very, very hard to get out of him, especially in front of other people- he can keep his shit-eating grin on through a lot. He’s also aware his flippancy towards some of his relevant topics can get uncomfortable for others, but he doesn’t really care.

Keith would much rather talk about the things he can do over himself as a person. He’s a perfectionist and ties probably a solid 90% of his self worth into how good he is at things he likes… so add mostly retiring from Duel Monsters to the Whole Being Dead Thing, and he is not doing so hot right now. He has been picking up various hobbies the past couple of years but tends to quit anything he isn’t good at right away.

He holds industrial strength grudges, but it’s hard to actually get on his shitlist. Doesn’t forget any kindness extended towards him either- he knows he’s not an easy person to be nice to. Metaphorically and literally, by default, he will not hold the door for you, and expects the same outta you. If you slam it on him, he'll slam the next one back. If you hold it for him, he'll throw the next one open hard enough that you should have plenty of time to get through. If it's the subway emergency exit, well, that's just gonna get opened for fun B)

Note: Will be initially less hostile to Yugis and Jounouchis due to the events of YGO R, regardless of canon. Their friends are.... fine, by association, but on thin ice.

Background: Keith will openly talk about his Duel Monster career if prompted, which started when he was 23. Getting anything specific about him before that is like pulling teeth, but he’ll make the occasional vague or loaded statement or two. He comes off as an open person, and he is in some ways, but he’s surprisingly private.

With respect to that, his background outside of canon won’t be provided here- it’ll come from interactions with Keith himself.

YGO R Recap: Got brought back from the dead via Evil God Magic and the wonders of technology, for Pegasus’ adopted kids to test how to bring Pegasus back to life.  Was subsequently possessed by aforementioned Evil Gods and proceeded to lie, cheat, and cause life-threatening problems for everyone, including himself. The Evil Gods’ hold over him seemed to dissipate with their defeat and the destruction of the cards.

Post-R to now: Lives in Maine, and lives off of “sorry about the unethical human experimentation” hush money from the Tenma twins- officially, he’s on the I2 books as an employee. Also has to regularly check in to stay on the payroll, because no one really knows the long term effects of necromancy, and now there’s only one way to find out. No longer plays Duel Monsters and doesn’t own any decks anymore, but is a sort-of mentor for Jounouchi so he still keeps up with the game. Has a few attempts at sobriety under his belt, still working on it. Mostly he lays pretty low and hasn’t been up to much lately.

Note: I won’t force the mentor thing on anybody, and unless asked otherwise, I’ll drop that part of the backstory by default with Jounouchis/Joeys.

Misc:

Three pets:

Barry (Barrel Dragon): Great Pyrenees, goes with him practically everywhere.

Stu (Stupid Piece Of Shit): Stray cat he fished out of his truck engine one winter.

Brandy (Brandy Alexander): Someone’s outdoor cat he liked and so he stole it.

Almost always calls them by various nicknames, rarely ever their full names

While currently in Maine, it’s not like he’s doing anything so he can be elsewhere for whatever reason to meet characters. Pets not likely to travel with him out of the country though.

This is strictly mangaverse, so Keith’s knowledge of Battle City is limited, as he was a little dead during it. He won’t know about any anime-exclusive plotlines either, like DOMA or KC Grand Prix, but it's fine to cross verses. He is DSOD-compliant but wasn’t present for the events of it and isn’t aware of most of what actually happened. Honestly, he doesn't know what most of the plot of YGO DM is even for the parts he was alive for.

The shades are a must, but the American flag bandana has been retired and replaced with regular or no bandanas.

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RULES

21+ to Follow/RP (RP Blogs only)

The usual no godmodding/forceshipping/etc. 

I don’t care about response length as long as there’s something to work off of (I lean more to long or mid-length responses). Icons are fine in posts as well.

I really like plotting and threads. If a longer thread reaches an agreed conclusion, I'll add some art at the end.

This blog is low activity. If I haven’t responded in like a week or two feel free to ping me, but I try to respond to everything I get eventually.

Dupes and alt dimension/multiverse stuff is fine, I recognize YGO R is in kind of a weird place in canon. Feel free to dm me to figure out how it’s gonna work beforehand if you aren’t sure or had something specific in mind. I can budge on some things.

Don’t reblog rp threads you aren’t involved in, headcanon posts, non-RP asks, or art posted on here. Any art I post here especially, I’d prefer to keep it here in its original RP blog context.

Muse =/= mun but I’m an apologist when I think it’s funny.

Muse =/= mun 2: I don’t know how to play Yugioh, I will not learn, and I will avoid the technical side of it IC as best as I can.

Muse =/= mun 3: Keith is mean and difficult. I try not to be. Nothing he says, thinks, or does represents my personal feelings.

If you're expecting hardened criminal Bandit Keith, then sorry, but that’s not here. If you’re wanting the Duelist Kingdom characterization (as in, that level of unhinged), see the R Verse. 

Any shipping will be very limited. Character needs to have been over 18 during the original canon, no exceptions. We also need to have interacted IC a few times prior. Beyond that, DM if interested, but I’ll be concerned about your muse’s standards.

OCs and cross-fandoms are tentative. Other YGO seasons are fine but I have extremely limited knowledge of them. Mutuals only.

CONTENT WARNINGS

This is the manga/R-verse of Keith so, canonically, he’s shot himself and died (but got better). Please anticipate going in that this and death in general is a subject that will crop up often. 

On that note, anything that feels tagworthy will get a “______ cw” tag. If there’s something you need tagged, ask me. I don’t need anything tagged myself.

NSFW/suggestive content will also be tagged accordingly but we are probably not gonna post anything too risqué here on David Karp’s Tumblr.

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VERSES:

Any AUs I think would be fun or interesting to write for go here. Feel free to ask for a specific one. Feel free to ask for one not on here too, if I can make it work, I will!

Teen Verse: Everyone’s favourite bandit, pre-Bandit. Keith is 16 here, and can be his actual past self or a Duel Monsters-playing AU version depending on what you prefer. More lighthearted than the main verse.

R Verse: Unfortunately magic has consequences, and if you use demons to resurrect a guy they may linger around in his soul after. Keith’s gone and got himself possessed again in this verse, getting him back to his old Duelist Kingdom self (but worse!). With less of a solid object of vengeance to drive him, he’s more like a rabid animal in this state, ready to bite anyone who gets too close. 

Due to the Eraser's nature, it's also trying to kill its' own host. The longer Keith's possessed, the more he deteriorates. Nothing gets magically unrestored if/when unpossessed. 

Pokemon: Coming soon! ...Eventually.

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MUN:

I’m Acid, I’m in my mid-20s, and I read Fight Club at a very formative age.

#ooc ;

[hansolmates]

the proposal (m)

banner done by the ammmahhzzing @eerieedits​

summary; Jeon’s the editor-in-chief for Big Hit Publishings, a closet romantic with a penchant for antagonizing his assistant on the reg. When his work visa is in the process of being renewed and he takes a trip to Norway, his eligibility to stay in America is on the line. However Jeon Jungkook doesn’t go without a fight, and in order to save his job he offers you a proposal you can't refuse. pairing; editor!Jungkook x assistant!reader (f) genre/warnings; the proposal!au, fake marriage au, enemies to friends(!!!), friends to lovers, bouts of flangst, dry humping, slight blood but not too bad, lang, alcohol, poor jjk discovers he has the ability to feel emotion, poor y/n is in the middle as always w.c; 20.1k of endless banter and koo hiding his romantic side a/n; yeah, it’s almost summer. But i think we need a lil holiday magic in our lives! I rewatched the proposal this weekend and whipped this up. Why is koo so gosh darn easy to write? This is my longest fic since i wrote maze runner back in 2014!! i rec this extension to get fully immersed in 2pov! Enjoy and pls tell me if there’s any errors im too poopied to proofread it again drabbles; 01

“When I hired you, you basically signed a contract that said you’d do anything for me.” 

“Yeah, Jeon. I did. That meant like, getting you coffee or working late hours—normal work stipulations,” you can feel the hair on your scalp growing thinner, “not commit fucking fraud!” 

Your boss looks moreso frustrated than you are, but you cease to care. Jeon Jungkook has been nothing but a thorn in your side since your employment at Big Hit Publishing two years ago. Being a budding author who wanted to graduate from online sites and freelancing, you accepted the job as the editor-in-chief’s assistant in the hopes of getting your first book published. 

However, your dreams of being an editor are quickly dissipating, especially when Jungkook corners you this afternoon and announces that he may have left America during the time his work visa was still processing. He may have to give over his editor-in-chief position because there’s no way he can get a work visa processed in time. As a result of this information, he may have told his supervisors that you seduced him on a late night one year ago, and you two fell in love and have been secretly engaged ever since. 

Because y’know, your citizenship to this country is an asset to the company. 

“We didn’t have to go to Norway to PR Emma Watson’s autobio,” you huff, fingers going pale from how hard you were gripping your iPad. Jungkook is an esteemed workaholic, and you have no idea where it stems from. You remember that trip to Oslo, Jungkook insisting that you and him both go to make sure everything goes smoothly.

“You weren’t complaining when we went to that restaurant with the open bar.” he runs a hand through his coiffed hair, making the pomade untack from its style. “You got so drunk that Emma held you while you cried about global warming.” 

Wholly unamused, you frown. “Jungkook, can you please take this seriously?”

“I’m taking this seriously, you’re not the one who’s about to be deported in two weeks!” Jungkook hisses, face dangerously close to yours. Not that anyone would know what he’s saying, but you can tell from his defenses that he genuinely is nervous. 

“You wouldn’t be deported if you had just set an earlier appointment to renew your Visa!” 

“I wouldn’t be deported if you had just set an earlier appointment to renew my Visa!” 

At least twenty pairs of eyes are watching your confrontation, probably making their own conclusions as to what you two were fighting about again. Curse this office for having full-walled windows, you often feel like an ant in a plastic farm. Your work relationship is an anomaly to the rest of the staff. Before you started working at Big Hit, Jungkook’s assistants did not last long. Within the first week of working, you understood why. 

Jungkook whirls around his desk, glaring at the glass doors as he puts himself between the staff and you. “If you don’t marry me,” he says lowly, close enough for his hot breath to fan your face, coupled with his fresh-scented cologne. It annoys you how good he smells. “You’ll also be replaced because they want to give the my position to fuckin’ Karen of all people,” you fight the twitch of your lips. The only thing you two mutually agreed upon is the hatred of his co-editor, Karen. “All of the late nights we’ve worked together, the gallons of coffees you consumed, putting up with my shit, your dreams of becoming an author,” his eyes flicker to the way the grip in your iPad trembles, “will go down the drain and turn to shit. Whether you like it or not, we’re in this together.” 

Pretending to be unfazed, you bat your lashes, “So are you saying, you need me?” 

“For fuck’s sake—”

“Ah-ah, Jungkook. I’m not going to ask you to get on one knee, but you should at least tell me how much you need me.” 

You assume with great confidence that the only reason you’re kept on Jungkook’s payroll is because you’re not afraid to stand up to Jungkook’s bullshit. He looks positively disgusted at the mere thought of paying you an iota of a compliment. You’d say on average, you get half a compliment a month from Jungkook. You say half because he’ll compliment you, then downplay it with whatever flaw he can fabricate to get under your skin. 

He loosens his lavender paisley tie, annoyed. “Fine. I need you. I need you because you’re the only one who knows me well enough to be my wife. You’re the only woman I’ve had full conversations with in two years and knows all my dietary restrictions, favorite books, foods, and hobbies. By process of elimination, you are my best candidate.” 

“Romantic,” you roll your eyes, “I guess I do,” you push him away with a finger to his chest, “but I want a raise. And after we finish Sorn and Mark’s project, I want you to read my novel.” 

“Done and done.” 

“Well Jeon, I guess you’ve wifed me up with your ways of seduction.” you muse sardonically, feeling more upset for yourself than anything. 

“Fantastic,” he sighs, finally throwing his tie across the desk and plopping in his armchair. “Cancel the call with Janet, call PR about Irene Kim’s interview on Ellen, and order me a medium rare steak from J.J. Bittings with a side of brussels.” 

“Right,” you mutter under your breath as you pull up your checklist, as if you didn’t just give away your life to the Devil incarnate. 

Jungkook’s back is already facing you, focusing on his computer displaying two new manuscripts. “Oh, and on your way to J’s don’t forget to pick up your ring at Saks.”

“Bitch, you’re asking me to pick up my fake wedding ring?” 

Unbothered, he shrugs. You see the planes of his shoulders stretch beneath the blazer, because he’s deemed this conversation long over and he has work to do. “Yeah, but it’s real diamonds.” 

You’ve been seeing red for days. 

While the rock on your ring finger is indeed beautiful because Jungkook has impeccable taste, it drags you down and arouses the elephant in the room everytime you show up for work. 

You get enough stares on the daily, and you were just getting used to the looks of pity and sympathy for working under Jungkook, but now there are only snickers and playful winks as you trudge down the cubicles every morning. Everyday feels like the runway at a shitshow, and you are the headliner. 

Taehyung clapped you none-too-hard on the back when you showed up to work the next morning, congratulating you on the engagement. “Can’t believe you’re fuckin’ the big boss!” 

The rest of the staff poke their eyes out of their cubicles like Digletts, and you shush them, using your hand to make them sink down. 

Coffee is spilling down your shirt thanks to him, and you reach for tissues in his cubicle. “Can you not say it like that, please?” 

“Oh, come on. I heard from the supervisors Jungkook went on about how you seduced him late at night and took charge,” Taehyung wiggles his eyebrows approvingly, and you fight the urge to not throw up your coffee in his face. “How do you keep it so professional? Or do you save all that pent-up energy for after hours?” 

“You disgust me,” you grimace, stepping out of his cubicle and immediately regret wasting your five-minute break conversing with the typist.

Striding back into Jungkook’s office, he doesn’t hesitate to rattle off the next items on today’s agenda. He barely looks at you when you stride in, too focused on whatever corrections he’s slashing in red ink. 

“Did you get Taemin’s second draft?” 

“No, and I told him that if he can’t get me the draft by tonight he won’t get a publishing deadline and the number of copies published will be decreased by a third.” 

“And Taehyung’s author agreed to our stipulations?” 

“Of course, she’d be dead not to.”  you mutter, “she’s a nineteen year old Influencer, what would she know?” 

“Exactly, that’s why we milk it out as long as we can.” Jungkook throws the first draft in a large, intimidating pile, mixing in with all the others like a needle in a haystack. “Which is why it’s important we snag dinner with her this weekend, we can really—”

“What, this weekend?” your sense of equilibrium cracks, and you walk forward to put his hands on his desk. “I took this coming week off for Christmas. I’ve planned this for months.” 

“I know.”

“I can’t just cancel my flight! I saved up for that!”

“And?” Jungkook brushes off your fury like a piece of lint, “I’m Korean. Christmas is a fake holiday for me.” 

“You can’t just tell me I can’t go home to my family, it’s the fucking holidays!” 

“Why not, I’ve done it before. Remember on Valentine’s day when I told you the only date you have is a date with Kwon Boa’s publicist? Or on Secretaries Day when I argued that you don’t feel appreciated by society anyway and therefore why bother taking one extra day off? Or during Easter when your family screamed in my office on speakerphone that you should quit—”

“Okay,” no need to be reminded of how much you’ve wasted your life for this man, “but this is different. I’ve already bought plane tickets and this holiday is special. It’s a whole family reunion in the Poconos and we’ve reserved over five houses to fit all of us! I can’t just ditch!” 

“But I need you!” he replied just as hotly, in a tone that reminded you so many times of how tethered you are by this man. Two years have gone by, and the only thing that kept those strings together is the constant ache in getting your first novel published. “With all the marriage stuff and stupid extentions we had to make on these writers there’s no way we can get everything done before winter ends!” 

“You’ve done it before, why can’t you just ask Taehyung to assist—”

“Trouble in paradise?” 

A chill travels up your spine, and you and Jungkook exchange panicked eye contact. A tiny, pretty blonde lady struts in the room like it's hers, plopping a fruit basket atop Jungkook’s manuscripts. 

“If by paradise you mean our relationship, then no.” Jungkook’s the first to recover, meeting you at your side and stretching an arm around your waist. “I’d say work-wise things are getting a little rough, but nothing we can’t handle. We’re a team, after all.” 

“I just wanted to stop by as I was in the neighborhood,” the woman says, making herself comfortable in a leather seat reserved for guests. “Congratulations again on your engagement.” 

You tack on a smile, squeezing Jungkook’s arm a little too hard, but it’s enough to make the lady in front of you smile back. “What brings you here, Taeyeon?” 

Kim Taeyeon is Jungkook’s immigration liaison, AKA the person responsible for making sure you’re not breaking the law. She’s a pretty thing, with eyes sharp but a smile that’s soft and deceiving. 

“It’s just a shame you two have to rush a civil wedding,” Taeyeon sighs, looking at the window overlooking the city. 

“Ah, it takes some of the planning stress off my back, really.” you force a laugh, tugging Jungkook to sit on the couch opposite her. “At least one thing is done. The thought of planning a whole wedding with over two-hundred people is so stressful.” 

You weren’t really going to have a white wedding with Jungkook (however you may have entertained the thought, which is reflected in your Google search history) but you had to keep up the ruse that you were. A civil wedding in two weeks, then a quickie divorce a year later. 

“I know! My wedding was a real mess let me tell you, straight out of a movie!” Taeyeon is certainly the type of person to make you feel at ease, so at ease that it’s simple for you to melt your front. “But besides the point, are you two doing anything special for the holidays?” 

“Ah, well I bought a flight to meet my family in the Poconos,” you start, trying not to succumb to your nervous habit of wringing your fingers. You grab Jungkook’s hand as a reprieve. 

“And you’re not going?” Taeyeon’s gaze snaps, yes snaps, to Jungkook. 

You try to step in, realizing your flaw. “We’ve just been so swamped with work, all the immigration stuff and with these book delays Jungkook suggested he stay behind—” 

“But we’ve decided to prioritize our personal life and enjoy Christmas with our family,” Jungkook swoops in, threading his fingers between yours. He flashes Taeyeon a smile, and from the way his face lights up and his nose crinkles, you could’ve mistaken it to be genuine. “I’ve never experienced a big family Christmas, y’know. I’ve missed snowboarding too, I used to do it a lot in highschool.” 

“Oh, that’s just so sweet!” Taeyeon cooes, clasping her hands together. “Do send some pictures when you come back!” 

“Of course,” Jungkook stands up and attempts to leave Taeyeon out. You follow in tow, She obliges easily, mentioning something about just wanting to check in and she also has work to do. 

“Also,” Taeyeon’s head flickers to the people sitting outside Jungkook’s office. “You should manage those workers out there,” she looks at you, sympathetic. “Apparently, they didn’t peg you as the type of person to sleep their way to the top. And that’s just what I heard from walking down the hall once!” she laughs, tinkling brighter than a windchime, but you just tighten the grip on Jungkook’s palm. “Such a childish assumption. Things can be much more complicated.” 

She tips a “happy holidays” off her shoulder, and you both are smiling like the loving couple you are. As soon as the elevator doors close and Taeyeon is really gone, Jungkook moves to let go of your hand, but you hold him in your grasp. 

“She’s onto us,” you snap, tugging him closer to you so your co-workers wouldn’t read your lips. 

“Don’t you think I know that?” he bites back. He looks offendingly at the fruit basket adorning his desk. 

“What if we get caught, Jungkook?” you start to spiral, feeling your deepest fears crawl to the forefront of your brain. You’ve done extensive Google research on commiting fraud, and if you do get caught, Jungkook will never be able to come back to this country and you’ll have a fine of up to $250,000. Your boss doesn’t pay you nearly enough to get by with that kind of debt. “We’ll ruin this company, and our lives, and any hope of being published or credible.” 

“Hey, relax,” Jungkook whispers in your ear, the tone oddly comforting. He pulls you into his arms, and you barely have a chance to recover when he squeezes you extra tight around your waist. Jungkook only ever hugs you when doing PR, and even then it’s an awkward half-hug. Hell, he never hugged you on your birthday. “This is what we’re gonna do. We’re gonna book my flight to the Poconos, bring some manuscripts so we can work remotely, and no one will ever know.” 

You sigh into his arms, nodding tiredly. It feels nice to be hugged like this. His arms are strong and warm, and you feel small and protected. It’s been a while since you’ve felt like that. Maybe Jungkook did have a heart under all that muscle. 

“I’m putting up a good show, aren’t I?” he says, and you feel your heart drop just a little. Disappointed, but not surprised. 

From your view facing the cubicles, you see at least half the employees comically bugged with  heart eyes at you, enamored by your fake relationship. 

“Do not stretch your long-ass legs on this plane, Jeon,” you nudge your smaller leg away from your section of leg room, “Jesus, we’re flying economy!” 

It scares you how little you fought against Jungkook joining you for the winter holiday. It is the logical decision after all, Taeyeon is on your trail about your sudden engagement and you both needed to keep up the ruse. That includes going on family vacations. Also, the fact that Jungkook works through Christmas because he doesn’t celebrate it does make you feel a little bad. You can’t remember the last time the man took a vacation. 

The man in question barely moves at your weak attempt, and stretches his leg even further across your seat. “Sorry, babe,” he says, fishing around his seat for the included blanket. 

“It’s fine, Kookie.” You reply sweetly, and decide to kick off your shoes to drape a leg over Jungkook’s thighs, “you’re like a portable footrest!” 

He looks absolutely insulted at your objectification, but smartly decides to choose his battles and lets you keep your position. Tucking himself in with a scratchy blanket he waves you off, “Whatever, just wake me up when we arrive.” 

“What, no.” you pull up your iPad, shoving the note entry in his face. “I know everything about you, and yet you know nothing about me. I made this easy on you and just wrote everything down. You just have to read it.” 

“Seriously? I’ve known you for over two years, I’m sure I know enough about you.” 

“Really, then how do I like my coffee?” 

“Uh… hot?” 

You give him a look and he knows. With a sigh he grabs the iPad from your hands. Within seconds he’s giving you another dirty look, as if he’s skimming a conspiracy novel. 

“You know all this random shit about me?” Jungkook asks, scrolling down as to what feels like your life story. 

“Yes, because unlike you, I listen when you talk.” 

“Fine. What’s my favorite type of weather?” 

“A warm and sunny day, which correlates to your favorite kind of date which is walking along the beach at sunset. Cliché much?” 

“Okay, rude. Who’s my favorite artist?” 

“You like a little bit of everything, but since seventh grade you’ve been pining for IU. In the office, you like to sing along to Lauv and Hozier.” 

“Favorite movie?” 

“The Marvel Series. But you really like 5 Centimeters Per Second, you like the romance.” 

“And how do you know my favorite anime movie is 5 Centimeters Per Second? I’m pretty sure I’ve never told you that.” 

“Jeon, when we were promoting Momo Hirai’s self-help book at Anime Expo you were gone for two and a half hours at 1:50 sharp.” your boss’ Adam’s apple bobs and he swallows thickly at your admonition. “And low and behold, you gave yourself thirty minutes’ time to line up early because when I checked the schedule Makoto Shinkai had a panel on ‘The Otaku’s Perspective on Romantic—”

“Alright alright, I get it.” Jungkook slumps in his seat, as comfy as it can get with your legs draped around him and a seat at the far end of the plane. You know he’s trying to hide a blush, and you feel proud for making him a little flustered. “You’re lucky I’m a fast reader.” 

The plane ride goes relatively fast, with Jungkook asking quick questions about your family and other random things. It’s like playing a game of 20 Questions, instead it’s the final boss battle with 200 questions and if he doesn’t get them all right, the penalty is deportation. 

When you land, you’re both stiff and glazed over. Once you exit the terminal, Jungkook ditches you for the bathroom and says he’ll meet you at the luggage pickup. You give yourself a few moments, gearing yourself up for the long week ahead of you. At the luggage pickup, you see a tall man watch the revolving conveyor belt with interest. Either that, or he’s zoning out. 

“Joonie!” you cry, nearly dropping your phone upon seeing your big brother. He’s dressed comfortably in a grey sweat ensemble, as if he rolled out of bed and came straight to the airport. 

A bright grin takes over his face, and he doesn’t hesitate to smush your body against his. Under his tall frame you sway, your toes barely swiping the ground. “You’re alive!” he cheers, pulling back and holding your shoulders to get a real look at you. “I can see you’ve gained a little weight, eyes are a little dark, but I’m glad the Devil let you go. I still can’t forgive him for making you skip out on Jin’s wedding.” 

You don’t appreciate the way that Namjoon picks and prods at your exhaustion, but you know he means well. While he does not know your boss by face and name, he had enough artilerary from the billions of phone calls to learn about the Devil and the havoc he’s wreaked upon your life.

When you don’t respond he gets the cue that you do not want to talk about work this week, and he smacks his lips together. “But nothing a little R&R can’t fix! The ski resort nearby has a really nice outdoor jacuzzi and we could set an appointment for facials if you’d like. Or we could do absolutely nothing and turn into baked potatoes and watch movies until our eyes burn up.” 

“Both would be great,” you smile softly, catching two familiar suitcases make their rounds on your flight’s conveyor belt. You grab your pink luggage with one hand, and Jungkook’s black chrome one with your other. 

“So, where’s the new beau?” Namjoon rocks back and forth on his heels, hoping to get a glimpse of the mystery boy you mentioned you’d be bringing as of two days ago. 

“He really had to go to the bathroom,” you squint your eyes to make out the newcomers exiting the dropoff area. “Oh, there he is. Kook!” 

Like a goddamn model, he struts in your field of vision like nobody’s business. Unlike you who stayed in your apartment all day before leaving, Jungkook decided to spend a few hours at Big Hit in the morning to tie up most of the loose ends before your trip. He’s talking to what you assume to be is a client, noting the way his brow furrows as he clutches his phone with a tight hold. He’s changed out of his tie and leather oxfords, but he’s dressed crisply in a dark button up and blazer ensemble, still wholly overdressed for a family reunion. 

Namjoon starts behind you, “He looks...” 

“Handsome?” you goad, elbowing him, “Charismatic? Undeniable presence?” 

“Hard.” 

You don’t know what to make of that adjective, and you subtly shrink further in your jacket as you mull over the implications of his word choice. 

Jungkook steps up to the two of you, ending his call. His eyes float between you and your brother, and he manages to put two and two together. “Hey man,” Jungkook gives a practiced smile, extending a hand. “I’m Jungkook, I’ve heard lots of things about you.” 

“Good things, I hope.” Namjoon chuckles, returning the handshake. “I’ve heard absolutely nothing about you, though. Can’t wait to get to know you this week.” 

“Looking forward to it,” Jungkook takes his luggage and Namjoon grabs yours, leading you two out to his minivan. While Namjoon is preoccupied with getting the car started, Jungkook looks at you as if he’s already regretting making the trip down. “This girl has two braincells to her name. I just got off the phone with Sorn’s publicist.” 

“What trouble can an influencer do?” you reply in disbelief. 

“Exactly, influencing is the trouble,” he pinches the bridge of his nose, “she did some mukbang and now she’s in the hospital for food poisoning.” 

“Ah, don’t get too worked up,” you help him lug your suitcases in the trunk. You spot Namjoon subtly eyeing you two from the rear mirror. Pressing a thumb between his brows, you make work to melt away the 11-shaped stress lines on his forehead. “Let’s just send her a Lush gift basket and she’ll be fine.” 

You ignore the way Jungkook’s gaze lingers on you longer than needed, running over to your seat at shotgun. 

The inside of his car smells like bergamot and lemon, and the sweet, vulnerable side of you wants to cry over how much you’ve missed your brother’s scent. It’s been way too long. 

Once you’re all safely in the car and driving Namjoon says, “So, are you going to hide the engagement ring or give the family a collective heart attack?” 

You tense, hands automatically floating to the teardrop diamond weighing heavily on your ring finger. The story that you two contrived about your relationship isn’t too complicated, but complex enough that it seems convincing. Instead of being your boss, Jungkook is your Literary Agent who gives you referrals to new and upcoming authors. You working closely together and bonding over the stresses of the publishing world, have kept a secret relationship under wraps for over a year to avoid any unprofessionalism or favoritism. 

“I was thinking about that the whole ride, actually,” you twirl the metal back and forth, watching it gleam in the light. “Mom and dad know, but I don’t wanna lie to the rest of my family. They’ll freak out because it’s the first time they’re meeting Kook and we’re already engaged. It’s just a location thing, y’know. You guys don’t live in the city so we’ve never had a chance to really talk it out.” 

Namjoon snorts, “Or, because your boss never gives you a break.” 

If Jungkook finds any offense, he doesn’t show it. Putting what should be a comforting hand on your shoulder, he says from the back seat, “I already told you babe, do what makes you comfortable. But I don’t want to lie to your parents early on, you don’t wanna make the situation any more complicated.” 

In other words, you better tell them about our engagement because Taeyeon could be hiding in the bushes waiting to catch us. 

“Smart man,” Namjoon says shortly, but you can’t tell whether it’s a compliment or not. 

“Yeah,” you exhale, turning to smile stiffly at Jungkook, “no use hiding the inevitable, right?” 

The next couple hours are overwhelming. There’s a party right when you walk in your winter villa, your parents throwing you a reunion party (not for your family, but for you specifically because you’ve been MIA since Big Hit) with the house filled to the brim with family members. Within seconds your favorite cousin checks out the rock on your finger and screams that you’re engaged. 

Everyone must be so high off the fact that you’ve made it to a family event that they’re elated you have a life outside of work. Jungkook is treated like a prince, charming the hell out of all your aunties and baby cousins. 

“Oh, pumpkin!” your auntie squeals, linking arms with you while you’re trying to eat your dinner, “I just hugged your fiancé, and he has abs! Lucky you!” 

“Auntie,” you hiss playfully, “you hugged him that tight?” 

“He’s part of the family, isn’t he?” 

“Right,” you force a smile, downing your glass of champagne. The bubbles burn your throat pleasantly. 

“Babe, can you come here for a second?” Jungkook manages to swim his way through the throng in the living room, holding out a hand for you, “your mom said that our room is ready, care to lead the way?” 

His smile, as pretty as you can care to admit, renders your aunt speechless, and she lets him whisk you away to a long hallway that leads to a set of bedrooms. Jungkook lets go of your hand as soon as you're alone, letting his palm run along the pictures that decorate your hallway. 

He stops at a picture of you and Namjoon as kids, faces tanned and lips cherry red from your twin popsicles melting on your hands. “Wow,” Jungkook pretends to be alarmed, “I didn’t know you used to be cute, what happened?” 

“Shut up,” you smack his hand away, walking ahead of him. 

“I thought you guys reserved a bunch of houses, why does the furniture look worn and there’s pictures of you everywhere?” 

“Our extended family has reserved houses, but this is actually my family’s vacation home. I used to go here every winter and summer break,” you reach a bedroom in the corner of the hall, smiling at your wooden name tag hanging on the front, “this is my old room.” 

It certainly doesn’t have that youthful charm it once had, but there are still bits of your childhood scattering the room. There’s ticket stubs and photobooth strips tacked to a corkboard near your desk. Books that you would reread cover to cover are organized proudly on your shelf, worn for wear. 

Jungkook groans in relief, plopping his body down on your freshly made bed. “Your family’s really clingy.” he sighs, throwing an arm over his eyes. 

You turn to give him a snappy answer, but it dies in your throat when you see what he’s laying on. The familiar family quilt sinks under Jungkook’s weight, mocking you. You shriek, throwing your arms over to lug his body to the other side of the bed. Bundling up the quilt in your arms, you glare at a very appalled Jungkook. 

“The hell is wrong with you, woman!” he cries, not loud enough to escape the room, but enough to have your body vibrate in annoyance. 

“Jeon, they put the fucking baby blanket in my room,” you mutter more to yourself than him, folding it under your arms. 

The blanket is comfy in your grasp and you’re sure it’s clean, but the fact that you weren’t actually married and in love made its appearance a whole lot worse. 

“So?” his eyes are wide in confusion, “my mom still has my baby blanket too, I’m not gonna shoot anyone because of it.” 

“It’s not my baby blanket,” you admonish, “it’s the baby maker blanket. A weird family tradition when someone gets engaged.”

“Which means?” 

“They’re expecting us to fuck and have children.” 

The thought of procreating and starting a family with you must’ve caused all the champagne to return to his throat, and he looks a little pale. “I think I’m gonna be sick.” he lies back down on your mattress, and you leave him be so you can chuck the blanket back in your parents’ room. 

You’re barely out the door when a young man is waiting out in the hallway for you, poised to knock. “Hey, baby girl.” they throw you an easy lopsided grin, opening their arms to you. 

In your haste, you slam your bedroom door a little too loudly. “Yoongi!” You let yourself sink into his waiting arms, reveling in the familiar embrace you missed so much. Yoongi is Namjoon’s best friend and work buddy, not to mention the man you’ve had a crush on since you were able to walk. While you can safely say at this moment there is nothing serious going on, a small part of you always wishes there could be. 

His voice husks in your ear, “Why are we hugging in between the baby blanket?” 

“Oh!” you brush past him, opening the door to your parents’ room and flinging the offending item as far into their room as possible. “Sorry, Jungkook and I were a little freaked out when we saw it. We’re definitely not thinking about children right now.” 

“Jungkook,” he hums, and your smile falters just a tad when you see the way Yoongi tips his head down in thought, “It was quite the news. Congrats though.” 

You want to say what you’re supposed to say, that yes, you should be happy. But the selfish part of you does not want this exchange between you and Yoongi to be happening. When you get your quickie divorce in a year, the small, hopeful part of you hopes you and Yoongi could be something. 

Before you have a chance to fabricate a response, strong hands encircle your waist, and you feel Jungkook’s chin digging into your shoulder. 

“Thanks, man,” Jungkook’s voice rumbles, “we really appreciate it.” 

Yoongi gives a nod, muttering something about catching up later before he walks back to the party. 

It’s then that Jungkook’s weight feels impossibly heavy on your shoulders. “You know, you’ve been doing a really shitty job of being my wife-to-be ever since we landed,” Jungkook whispers, feather soft lips dusting across the shell of your ear. It’s an act so intimate you can imagine your family passing down the hallway could be mistaking you two for speaking unthinkable acts. A toddler cousin spots you two and giggles, babbling something to your uncle about how you’re hugging. “You did so well when we were with Taeyeon and Big Hit.” 

“It’s not the same when I’m lying to my family,” you turn to face him, equally simmering. “These are people that actually love and care for me, unlike you.” 

“At least I care about what’s most important,” he grits back, “our jobs, our futures. Is that not enough for you to keep it in your pants?” 

“Excuse me? You don’t even know him!” 

“I don’t have to know him because I’m holding you right now and you’re practically sweating through your cardigan.” he grimaces, digging his chin further into your collarbone, literally trying to get under your skin. “Your face looks like a cherry tomato.” 

You turn your head to bite back, your noses touching. The staring contest seems to last for days. Unlike Jungkook who doesn't know how to register basic human emotion, you still have hopes for a life after this. Before you have a chance to answer, your favorite cousin enters the hallway, oblivious to your concerns. Jimin’s red all over, passing you two flutes of blush champagne. “Hurry up, we’re making speeches!” 

Champagne is overflowing like Niagara, and you and Jungkook are the reason for it as you’re thrusted into the living room. Your weird uncle is in the middle of a long-winded speech about his fishing business and how dreams are made from ‘bait and a dream’. You make eye contact with him, and he gestures wildly to you and Jungkook. 

The crowd proceeds to go wild, echoes of speech! Speech! Reverberating throughout your living room. You and Jungkook share uneasy smiles, unsure of where to go with this show. 

Deciding it’s your family by blood, you start first. “Honestly, when I moved to New York I wasn’t expecting to feel so lonely,” you clutch your flute with both hands, swirling your drink absentmindedly. You then turn to Jungkook, giving him a tender smile which he returns back just as fondly. “Until I met Jungkook. I’m really happy that I get to share this week with the people I love the most, so let's drink to family!” 

Jungkook lifts his glass, “Thank you for the warm welcome, I can’t wait to spend time with all of you. This is my first Christmas with a large, loving family. Cheers to that!” 

The room erupts in cheers, allowing themselves to clink glasses and chase down their respective drinks. Even the little ones crowding the kiddie table in the back are enjoying their apple juice while making silly faces at the new couple. 

Jungkook weaves his arm between yours, and you get the signal to do a couples’ drink. He eyes you with mischief, as if to say we did it. After you two take your drink, Jimin’s the first to drunkenly yell, “Ohmygod just kiss already!” 

“Kiss kiss kiss!” 

“This is going on my story so make it good!” 

“Kiss him before I do!” 

“Oh my god,” you groan, throwing your forehead on Jungkook’s chest. Your family really is something else. 

As if the chants can’t get any louder, it’s hard to focus on anything but Jungkook’s presence. Jungkook lifts your chin up, murmuring, “Let’s give the people what they want.” and he presses his lips to yours. 

It’s awkward at first. Why wouldn’t it be, you’re making out with your boss, in front of your family, pretending to be engaged. But Jungkook doesn’t let up, parting your lips slightly to deepen the kiss. As much as you want to make up how terrible and disgusting kissing Jungkook is, it really isn’t. His lips are soft and he tastes like the peach champagne, and his grip on your waist is strong and warm. 

He leaves you breathless when you pull away, a smirk on his lips for a brief moment before he turns shyly to your family who are probably foaming at the mouth now. 

Maybe it’s the champagne coursing through your veins, but why does it suddenly feel so hot in the middle of winter? 

The first day back starts off wholly uneventful, with Jungkook working on some manuscripts and you preparing dinner with Jimin. Most of your family is on the resort hitting the slopes, so you’re quite thankful for the reprieve since the party was so overwhelming. The blonde is all smiles as he bumps the oven closed with his leg, letting your lasagna bake to perfection. 

“I’ve missed you so much,” Jimin rests his head on your shoulder, “it’s definitely not the same when we’re adults. Frankly, it sucks balls.” 

“Big balls,” you agree, gnawing on a leftover baguette from last night. 

“Speaking of big balls,” Jimin wiggles his brows as you attempt to move farther from him.

“Please don’t say it.” 

“C’mon! Just tell me if the sex is good!” 

“No!” you cry, flicking your crumbs at him. 

“I will open this oven,” his hands are already on the handle, “and your dish will undercook.” 

“Don’t you dare!” he opens the oven a tad, and you slam your hand down. “Fine! The sex is fantastic, happy?” 

“Ewh, no!” The storm door swings open, revealing Namjoon, Yoongi, and Lisa, Namjoon’s lady friend. “I didn’t need to hear that, thanks.” 

Your face looks absolutely pained as you watch the two older men walk in. They were the last people you’d ever want to share about your sex life too, even if it is fake. You can only bear to look properly at Lisa as they kick off their boots and shake the snow off their heads. Lisa pokes her tongue in her cheek, looking at you with a wild look in her eyes. “I’ve heard so much about your current drama. Can’t wait to hear the 411 from you, though.” 

Yoongi looks unfazed, then again you never really know what’s going on in his head. “You guys wanna go to a movie tonight?” Yoongi asks, grabbing a slice of the baguette and dipping it in a dish of olive oil. “I think the one that’s showing is based on a book your company published.”

“Is it ‘Rotten Love’?” 

“That’s the one.” 

Pushing yourself off the counter, you nod eagerly. “I’ll go tell Jungkook to get ready. We can eat dinner real quick and then go right after,” you grab a bottle of water from the fridge, “Joonie, set up the table please.” 

Jungkook doesn’t notice you walk in, and you can hear the faint sound of Muse blasting from his Airpods. He’s on your floor, doing pushups while reading a transcript under him. This time he’s using your iPad, every few seconds taking a thumb to scroll down. Sweating through his shirt, you can see the beads running along his silver reading glasses. It’s completely contradictory, your muscle bunny of a boss getting in his reps while psychoanalyzing a potential novel, but somehow it works with him. 

“Maniac,” you mutter, bending down to place the cool water bottle on his cheek. He stops abruptly, like you’ve pressed the pause button on his seemingly robotic arms. Seriously, you can’t fathom how he manages to do both. You swipe the iPad under his body in place of a white towel, which he accepts gratefully. This isn’t the first time you’ve had to snap him out of it, sometimes you’d catch him at the company gym nearing 10PM, reading on the treadmill. 

“What time is it?” he asks, fluting the water bottle down his throat. 

Ignoring the way his neck glistens in sweat, you say, “It’s almost seven. C’mon, we’re gonna eat dinner and watch a movie. You’ve cooped yourself up in this room all day, time to interact with the world.” 

“What movie?” 

“The book we published in 2018, ‘Rotten Love’? They made it into a movie,” and you can’t help the wry grin that takes over your face when you say your next words, “guess who directed it.” 

He sighs, rubbing the towel over his damp hair. The normally styled strands fall limply at his forehead. “I don’t remember, I shifted over that project to PR. Any director’s fine, but please please please don’t let it be—”

“Jung Hoseok!”

“Son of a bitch, we gotta go.” And it’s the first time in a while you see a genuine smile graze his features, one not laced with you and your marriage. It’s an old pastime for you both to get picky over Jung’s work. “I swear, he better not put his scenes all over the place like last time, I got whiplash.” 

After a quick dinner you all pile into Namjoon’s minivan, making your way to the theatre. The drive is fast, and before you know it you’re waiting in line to get inside. It seems that the PR between the film studio and Big Hit did a good job assisting, because there’s a sizable line despite being half an hour early. 

“So honey,” Lisa leans into you, squishing you further into Jungkook’s shoulder. “Did you like, help out with the publishing of this novel? To be honest I don’t even know what your job is,” Lisa admits with a shrug, “you’re not a glorified coffee girl, are you?” 

“No,” her mixed enthusiasm never fails to stump you, “Ah, but I really didn’t do much in the production of ‘Rotten Love’,” you reply easily, relaxing into Jungkook as he moves to drape an arm around your shoulder. “I just told my boss to sign some documents n’stuff. It’s really nothing—”

“Babe, are you kidding? You ran the whole freakin’ project!” and you’re in shock, because for the first time in the history of ever, Jeon Jungkook is paying you a real compliment. “It was her first assignment when she got hired as the big boss’ assistant. A lot of people in the office doubted her,” he squeezes your shoulder, “but not for one second did I doubt her, you could see how hard she worked to make it perfect. I heard the boss was really impressed, too.” 

You remember that period of time. Jungkook made you dive headfirst into the publishing for ‘Rotten Love’, letting you sink or swim in his decision for keeping you employed. After a full month of meetings, negotiations, and debating whether you should have caffeine IV’ed in your body to save time on eating, you got Jungkook’s evaluation. You remember the stoicism in Jungkook’s frame as he surmised your work, throwing you a flippant “it’s decent” before sending you off to do more work. 

Relief flooded your system after those two simple words, because that meant you had a chance and you could keep your job. But this? If what he’s saying is true, you’re on Cloud 9. 

“Awh, thanks Kook.” you squeeze his arm, letting your fingers trail down to lace your fingers with his. 

Lisa’s face is all scrunched, and she doesn’t hesitate to stretch over you to smush Jungkook’s cheek between her two fingers. Her blue nails dig into his soft skin. “I like him, honey. Keep him, he’s so cute.” 

She leaves you alone after that, skipping over to bother Namjoon about buying an extra bucket of popcorn. 

“At first I was nervous having you near my family for a week,” you say brightly, rubbing a thumb over his hand, “but I kinda like seeing you try so hard to not rip other people’s heads off.” 

He puffs out his cheeks in an attempt to soothe the stinging. “Could be worse, I could be engaged to Karen.” 

With that you laugh, loud enough to turn heads and have Jimin and Lisa send you adoring looks. Jungkook sends you a nervous smile, the one that he’d always send you during team meetings when he was unsure of how to respond to something. Instead of giving him a smart answer, you get on your tiptoes to pat his reddened cheek. “But she’s right, you are kinda cute when you wanna be.” 

Instead of replying, he squeezes your hand tighter to lead you inside. 

Everything is smooth sailing after that. You, Jimin and Yoongi are saving the seats while Jungkook, Lisa and Namjoon are getting the refreshments. Jimin is prattling on about a new job interview and you’re listening attentively, while Yoongi shoots off advice every time Jimin says he’s nervous. 

Yoongi looks past Jimin to give you that gummy smile that always made your chest ache. “Chim, remember when she applied to work at Jamba Juice?” 

“Oh my god,” Jimin giggles, clutching your arm. “When you had to do a trial run in front of the manager? You forgot to put the lid on the blender and you sprayed the staff with green juice?” 

“The stains took forever to get out,” you pouted. “And I didn’t appreciate the snaps you saved of me. I got nervous because you were recording me!” 

“Am I hearing some juicy details about your childhood?” Jungkook appears, passing a huge tub of buttery popcorn to Yoongi. 

“Emphasis on juice,” Yoongi says tartly, popping a handful of kernels in his mouth. 

“Yes, do you wanna see a picture of your fiancé covered in green juice? She wore a low-cut shirt that day so it got deep, man.” Jimin says, using his hands to gesture obscenely to his own chest. 

You’re mortified, and you push down Jimin’s phone and cover whatever receipts he has on you. “Jimin, I’d like to stay engaged, if you don’t mind?” 

Your not-so-favorite cousin cackles in response, telling Jungkook that they’ll talk later. 

“Here,” Jungkook cooly hands you a King-Sized KitKat. 

“Awh,” you marvel, immediately opening the wrapper, “you actually read my notes and found out what my favorite candy was?” 

He scoffs, dark bangs blowing up. “Who doesn’t like KitKats?” but you’re giving him the look, and he sighs, “C’mon babe, just gimmie a break.” 

“Ha-ha,” but you break off a piece anyway, lifting it to Jungkook’s lips. It’s then that the theatre starts to dim, and the telltale signs of the movie begin. “Ready to rip Jung Hoseok to shreds?” 

“Always.” 

Barely fifteen minutes pass and Jungkook is spreading his legs. You’re about to kick him before he leans in to whisper, “They made Renee too dull,” he sighs in disappointment, as if he sincerely had high hopes they’d bring the novel to justice. “I mean, I get it, in the novel she’s supposed to be a plain Jane. But she isn’t grey.” 

“Right?” you lean into Jungkook, throwing your legs over his thighs like you’re back at the airport. This isn’t out of intimacy, you think to yourself, you just need to be close enough to Jungkook so you don’t disturb the other patrons with your talking. “She’s either a bad actress or they messed up her character. I really got upset when I read this part, but it’s kinda bland on the screen.” 

As much as you love Jimin, you know he’s not going to get your over-criticality over the media. Yoongi and Namjoon are on the other end of the row, but they wouldn’t be too pleased having you gab over the movie because you’re too much of an aficionado. Jungkook is the only one who can tête-à-tête, or in this case, Kit-a-Kat with you. 

You sigh into his shoulder, inhaling his clean scent. “Let’s pray Jung didn’t completely butcher the chapter where Kenzo reflects on his penniless journey.” 

“I’ll leave the theatre right then and there if that happens, care to join me?” 

“Already out the door, bossman.” 

Jungkook looks away from the screen briefly, reaching forward to take an obnoxiously big bite of the KitKat in your hand. You stifle a giggle, and before you can soak up his cheeky grin he’s already looking back at the movie. 

You wonder what Jungkook is like outside of work, if he has that side to him. A little part of you wishes that this playfulness he’s exuding is real. Not to your fake marriage, but a playfulness he can execute to a person that he really likes. Two days out of the office and you’re starting to see that Jungkook has the capabilities to enjoy life, however simple it may be. 

The movie is finished in a blur, and you and Jungkook are still bickering over the intricacies of the film compared to the novel. The night air is cold and burns your cheeks, reminding you exactly how late you’ve been out.

“Well, I thought the romance was so boring!” Lisa blurted, wanting an in. Her lime green ski jacket glares in your vision, and you move away from her immediately. “No one cheated on each other, there was no drama, or evil best friend!” 

“Whoa there,” and you see the little fire in Jungkook’s eyes, one you’ve learned early on to stay away from when you spent hours in his office debating over manuscripts and plotlines. He stares down at Lisa, really stares down. “You think every romance needs some sort of internalized conflict for it to be good? Why can’t they just grow and learn from the external conflict together? It’s literally useless for them to break up over and over just—”

And that’s your cue to walk ahead of them, because while you did agree with Jungkook, you’ve heard this debate one too many times. Ever the closet-romantic at heart. You hope Lisa doesn’t lose her patience and punch him out. 

“Hey,” you feel a hand pat your hair, and you look up at Yoongi. He looks absolutely fluffy in his long puffy jacket, and he matches your steps with his. “Do I look ugly tonight, or something? I feel like we barely exchanged two sentences with each other.” 

“What, never!” you chastise, “you always look good, Yoongi. And we have the whole week to catch up, remember?”

“Really, then why don’t we go out in two days to pick out a tree for your house? Joon and I are planning on going.” 

“I would love to go pick a tree!” you exclaim, “the last time we got a tree together was when your brother had to lift.” 

“Great,” and he pats your head again, but this time his hand lingers to finger the ringlets of your hair. “It’ll be just like old times, baby girl. I’ll pick you up at 9.” 

Unbeknownst to the both of you, Jungkook’s argument ended minutes ago and he’s mulling over a new type of internal conflict. 

“Owie, ow, ow—fuck you! Ow!” 

“Well if you just hold still,” Jungkook grimaces, taking his turns with both hands to simultaneously wipe the injury with a cloth and then pressing the affected area with an ice bag. 

“Buh ih hurths!” your voice is muffled by the cloth, stained red with freshly bloomed blood. 

The ski lodge started off great. You enjoyed a fabulous beligan waffle breakfast courtesy of Jimin’s parents, and then made the trek to the slopes. You’ve been here dozens of times, so you didn’t feel an inclination to gravitate to any of the fancy schmancy sports. You were fine playing shuffleboard inside, but your inner youth complained that it’s the holidays and you should be getting out more.

Jimin and Jungkook (who claimed he hasn't snowboarded since he was 16 yet he’s doing tricks like a goddamn Olympian) were shredding on the slopes while Namjoon and Lisa were skiing on a smaller hill. You and Yoongi watched safely from the lift, riding it like a kiddie attraction. You must’ve taken the lift at least ten times, complaining about how you’re both too lazy to function and you could really use a hot chocolate and a fireplace. 

After the fifteenth time on the lift, legs numb, you stumble over with heavy boots to where Lisa and Namjoon were waiting for Jimin and Jungkook. They wanted to walk around more and see if they could try a more difficult slope. 

While you were waiting, you had to admit that Jungkook did kind of cool all decked out in his gear. A competitive, playful smile was easily reflected in his gaze despite his helmet and goggles. 

That slight admiration is knocked right off your feet when Jungkook speeds by way too close for comfort and you’re in his path. Jimin had already slowed next to your friends and family, looking at you in anticipated horror.

It’s far too late, and despite the fact that Jungkook manages to pull your body to his while you wipe out, your face crashes into his helmet and you taste metal. 

Mildly disoriented from the impact, Jungkook’s muffled string of curses nurse you back to a decent consciousness as he tries to carry you to the lodge.

“Holy shit, I got that on camera!” Jimin cries, gesturing to the Go-Pro nestled in his helmet. 

So now you’re in pain and it’s all Jungkook’s fault. Your bottom lip is split, and the burn on your face won’t go away. 

You watch as Jungkook dotes on you, his bangs pushed up everywhere due to his grey goggles haphazardly being propped upon his forehead. His pink tongue sticks out as he concentrates on not getting blood on your sweater. It’s just you and him that are stuck around in the lodge after you got pummeled, standing by the fire while everyone else continues on with the fun. 

“Why were you over there anyway, in the middle of the slope?” he scolds. 

“It was the slow down zone, Jeon. You were the only one not slowing down, you speed demon.” 

“Sorry,” he says gruffly, pressing a little too hard with the ice and you wince. He lets up and presses the cloth to your lips to soak up the moisture.

“Did you say something?” 

“I said, I’m sorry.” 

You sigh dramatically, “I wish I had a camera to save that shitty excuse of an apology.” 

“Speaking of cameras,” he shucks his phone out of his pocket, handing it to you. “Jimin uploaded the video.” 

That man, you don’t know where he has the means to quickly upload and edit things, but if it’s for the ‘Gram, it’s worth it to Jimin. You open Instagram and immediately click on @chimmyboi’s story, immediately wincing as the first few seconds reveal the brunt of the impact. He should really put a disclaimer before uploading content. 

The tumble between you and Jungkook doesn’t look so bad, but it’s when you get up does it look gnarly. Your chin is dribbling in red liquid, and Jungkook’s throwing off his helmet and goggles in a panic. 

He makes a half-assed snowball where you’re lying on the ground, pressing it against your mouth. With his other hand he pulls you into a sitting position, not caring that you’re staining his clothes as he hauls you on his body. 

“Ohmygod,” you splutter, trying not to move your lips, “I look like I got decked with a hockey puck.” 

“It wasn’t that bad, don’t be a baby.” Jungkook sees the piecing glare you give him, and he sighs. “Okay, it looked pretty bad. I was a little worried back there, but now the bleeding pretty much stopped and holy shit—stop smiling! You’re making it open up further!” 

“You were worried?” 

“Shut up.” 

The ice bag is watery and not doing much anymore, but Jungkook still insists to cool your face down. You lift a hand to his cold ones, attempting to take the bag and cloth from his grasp. 

“You should go board with Jimin and the rest of them. I can take care of this.” 

“It’s fine,” he reasons, reaching for the ice bag but you hold on tighter. 

“C’mon, I know the only thing you were looking forward to this entire trip was going snowboarding. I’m a big girl, I can be alone for an hour or two.” 

Jungkook locks his jaw, gnawing at his cheek as he mulls on his decision. “Wouldn’t I look like a bad partner if I leave you?”

“Nah, this has happened before. Almost always someone gets injured on the trip. Last time something like this happened I was eight and I got five stitches on my leg. This is nothing. You’re fine.” 

“But still.” 

“Fine, you wanna make it up to me?” 

You scan the room for any ideas, and it settles on a trio of girls huddled by the register of the built-in café. They’re pretty snow bunnies, decked out in sweater dresses and fur lined boots. They remind you a little of The Powerpuff Girls, all in pastels and attached to the hip. Their gaze has taken hostage in Jungkook’s frame, blatantly ignoring the fact that majority of his attention is directed towards you. You wonder why you haven’t noticed them sooner, because now the staring is getting borderline discomforting. 

Slipping off his goggles with your free hand, you gesture subtly to the girls. “They think you’re hot. Go flirt with them a little and get me a free drink, I’m sure they’ll pay for you.” 

He doesn’t understand the correlation, “Why would I do that?” 

You shrug, separating the strands of hair that stick to his forehead. “Lisa and Namjoon do it all the time when they go clubbing. They compete and pretend they’re single for like two hours, and then they keep a tally of how many people offer to buy them a drink.” 

“That is completely different, but I’m open to trying it when we get back to the city.” he acknowledged briefly, getting up from his crouching position. “I got a better idea.” 

Puzzled, you watch him saunter over to the register. Like bees to the honey, the girls follow Jungkook with their eyes, watching him exaggeratedly mull over the menu. 

He spares the slightest of head inclinations to the drooling trio, “Hello ladies.” The smile is not flirtatious, but kind. 

You suppress a giggle, burying your chin in your scarf as you watch the whole interaction. You don’t even know why you asked Jungkook if he would flirt with those girls, as he kept most of his dates private over the years. You picture a college-aged Jungkook getting his daily breakfast on his way to class, ignoring the way his presence attracts heads. 

The barista hands Jungkook a tray filled with a plastic cup of ice, and a cup filled with something hot, and a chocolate croissant. He grabs a straw from a tray, stabbing it in the hot drink’s lid. 

“Excuse me,” one of the girls coquettishly puts her hands behind her back, puffing her chest out as she leans over Jungkook’s order. “The regular croissants actually taste better in my opinion.” 

“Well my wife’s had a hard day, so I think she deserves something sweet.” 

He doesn’t even turn around as he makes a beeline to where you’re seated on a loveseat, carefully placing the tray on the coffee table. 

“Your better idea was making them jealous?” you ask, unsure of his intentions. 

He shrugs, “College-Jungkook always wanted to show off his girlfriend like that, so indulge me for a second, alright?”

Rolling your eyes you reply, “My life is about indulging you. Don’t forget the trips I’ve made to the grocery store when your personal fridge was out of banana—”

“I thought I said we don’t speak of those hard times,” he cuts you off, “ever.”  

You stop him from filling up your ice bag with the ice he brought. “C’mon Jeon, you’re burning daylight out there. I got this. You’ve stalled enough, go have fun in the snow with Jimin, you adrenaline junkie.” 

He scrunches his nose, but relents when you throw him his jacket and goggles. Before he pulls on his gloves, he cups your face with both hands to pull you in a kiss. His hands are cold from the ice, gluing you in place in fear of him kissing you too hard. But it’s barely that, a brushing of lips so tender as he takes extra care with your open lip. 

“Is this also a self-indulgent request?” you pucker, “who knew there was a hormonal teenager under that editor-in-chief’s body.” 

His eyes flicker to the audience in the back, and you don’t need to look behind you to note that they’re glaring daggers in your head. It’s like you’re straight out of a rom-com. 

“You’re leaving me to the bunnies,” you say teasingly. 

“Then hurry up and get better so you can join us,” he taunts, “or else you can’t help me bury Jimin in the snow.” 

It’s a tempting offer that makes you down your drink so you can enjoy the rest of your day. 

Light seeps through your windows, rays kissing your eyelashes and willing them to open. You groan, hand splaying out to wake up Jungkook. When you find his space empty and cool, you sit up and search for your fake-fiancé. 

He’s on the floor, smack in the middle of his morning workout. Your iPad is under his body, and somehow he’s managed to find a setting where the document scrolls for him automatically. He’s not wearing his Airpods, so you rasp, “Jeon, you’re crazy. I get the morning workout, but you don’t have to look over any more transcripts. I think you’ve read enough for this week.” 

“It helps me ignore the burn,” he says shortly, and you see the ripples of his back flex with every push-up. “And I wouldn’t have to do so much reading if my assistant would just do her job.” 

“I already told you, I’m not working during my vacation.” you throw off the sheets, padding to your closet. “I’m going to pick the tree today. You should go to the mall with my mom and Jimin to pick out some new ornaments.” 

“What?” he gets up, and you ignore the perfect view of tight muscles decorating his abs. Exactly how long was he awake for to have sweat clinging to his shirt? You’re going to short-circuit and it’s barely 8:30. “But I wanna go help pick out the tree.” 

“You don’t have to do that, Joon and Yoongi got it.” 

“Yoongi, really? You think he can carry a tree?” 

“This isn’t a pissing contest, Jeon.” you settle on a burgundy Patagonia jacket and grey leggings. “Besides, Yoongi and I are just friends.”

“You sure about that, baby girl?” 

You whip around to poke at his chest, and you ignore how smug he looks. “Do not test me, Jeon. Like you said, I’m with you every step of the way in this marriage. I’m not going to jeopardize that over some childhood crush.” 

“Wow, your life is really turning into a Wattpad entry,” he admonishes, “fake-fiancé still pining over his older brother’s best friend, really high-qual stuff.” 

“I’m serious.” you grit, “I took a week off so I can get away from you and that was ruined, so I would like a little bit of space today.” 

And that gets Jungkook to back away. His face deflates a little, and you feel a little guilty for making him upset, but you stab that thought down and convince yourself that he deserves it. It’s not like he cares about you, he just wants to show off to the boys.

“Fine,” he turns around to put on a fresh shirt, and you almost notice the pout marrying his face. “You could’ve just told me you wanted space. I’m getting kind of tired of you too, you know.” 

He flops on the bed and you huff in reply, quickly throwing on your attire inside your closet while he watches a YouTube video. You check your phone, and at 8:59 a knock is at your door. Jungkook doesn’t bother to get up to answer, and you open the door to see a sleepy Yoongi with a paper cup in his hand. 

“An English breakfast with two sugars and a dash of milk, baby girl.” 

You mask your wince at the pet name. It hadn’t bothered you when you were young, but its starting to feel coddling now that Jungkook is making you hyper-aware of the attention. “Perfect,” you faux-beam, the hot beverage warm your fingers. 

“I’ll just warm up the car and—”

“Babeeeeee,”  the deepest, sexiest voice echoes from your bed and out in the hallway. He sounds absolutely tempting, and needy. You freeze at the way your boss can so easily pretend he’s exhausted and wanting you, “come back to bedddddd. I’m not done with you yet.” 

Yoongi’s ears are red, “Aaand, I’ll let you finish whatever business you have.” 

The older man bolts out of there, and you snap your head back to look at an innocent Jungkook. He tilts his head at your bout of anger. 

“You know, I have half a mind to fling this tea down your shirt.” 

“What?” he looks at you like a child caught with a hand in the cookie jar. “He can’t be the only one who can call you baby.” 

Honestly, you didn’t mean to lash out on Jungkook like that. You did need to put up a face as you were each other's significant others, but it doesn’t mean you have to be together all the time. To top it all off you’ve been feeling weird as of late, and you can only attribute these terrible feelings to a certain brunet who’s been sleeping in your bed. 

But you pin these feelings for another time, because you need to enjoy what little quality time you have with your brother. 

“Hey, whaddya think of this one?” It's just you and Namjoon picking the tree, and Yoongi’s sitting in the cabin keeping warm. He said to call him once you’ve decided, since it is your house. 

“Hm, it’s fine.” you shrug, inhaling the pine. “Maybe a little too tall.” 

Namjoon nods, and you follow him to the next row of greenery. He’s been pensive this whole time, and you have a feeling he’s hiding something. Surrounded by pine and the fresh winter air he says, “Hey, I just wanna say sorry.” 

“Why, did you like that tree over there? I don’t mind it, we can go back!” 

“What, no? I’m sorry for being weird around Jungkook.” 

“Huh?” sure, you noticed the weird language and terseness he gave Jungkook initially, but you chalked it out as big brother issues. 

You two continue to walk around the forest aimlessly, not really tree hunting. 

“I was just upset that the engagement was so sudden,” Namjoon starts, and you feel the guilt start to set camp in your stomach. “And I don’t know, at first he just didn’t seem like your type? I always thought you wanted to date someone gentle, someone you could hold and depend on. He looked so serious, and maybe a little immature.”

“He is a little immature,” you agree softly, digging your boots in the snow, “but I don’t love him any less because of it. We’re growing together.” Shit, why was that so easy for you to say? 

“Figured,” and Namjoon stops to place a hand on your shoulder, “I see the way he looks at you, and you can’t fake love like that.” 

Namjoon’s admonition is so convincing that you almost convince yourself that it is something. 

Something is bothering Jungkook, and he doesn’t know why. 

It’s not the billions of charges he made on his credit card for new ornaments, because it simultaneously inflated his ego and impressed your mom. 

It’s not the way Jimin hangs onto his every word and doesn’t let up, because it is refreshing to have your cousin find a genuine interest in him. 

Jungkook, Jimin and your mom have been taking laps around the mall for the past hour. They’ve floated around here and there, picking out whatever catches their eye for the tree. 

Jimin’s in the middle of explaining the Jamba Juice story when a glimmering window display catches his eye. 

“Hun, have you not bought her a present yet?” your mom says over his shoulder. 

“No,” he exhales, embarrassed that he just admitted he didn’t think of getting you anything in front of your mom. “She doesn’t ask for anything, really.” Besides her book published, a raise, and a potential promotion as editor, but they didn’t need to know that much. 

“Good thing you’re with the right people!” Jimin cheers, ushering him into the jewelry store. 

Funny enough, he knows exactly what to get you. Once he points it out, Jimin and your mom “ooh” and “aah” respectively, agreeing that what he chose was perfect. If you had asked Jungkook a week ago what kind of jewlery you like, he’d give you a dumb look and say “something shiny.” But that’s what’s bothering him. He just walked right into the store, saw what was right, and everything just clicked. 

Jungkook pins that thought for later, because once their shopping is done they’re back at your villa, arranging the ornaments and detangling the lights that have been holed up in the closet for eleven months. 

Jimin and he are sitting on the living room floor, stabbing thread through popcorn. He really only saw this craft in the movies, and the small part of him is amazed that you and your family go through the hard work to make your holidays so warm. 

Your mom appears from her bedroom, clutching something in her hand. She sits in front of Jungkook, a huge smile on her face. 

“Before you say anything,” and it strikes him how similar you are to your mother. There’s that tone he always receives before he gets new news, or the way you’re eager to share something that will make him happy. “I don’t want you to think this is a luxurious gift or anything. But I realized that you don’t have a wedding band so I went through my old cases and found this.” 

She opens her palm slowly, revealing a simple black band. 

Jungkook’s lips part to form words, but his vocal cords betray him. At first glance, this ring could’ve been mistaken for one of Jimin’s plentiful rings adorning his fingers. Upon closer inspection however, Jungkook notes that this band is thinner and more worn. The metal looks strong and old, the slight scratches and faded color revealing that it was a well-loved piece of jewelry. 

Your mom is offering Jungkook a wedding band. 

“If you don’t like it, that’s okay!” your mom says quickly, nerves radiating because of Jungkook’s silence. “It was my grandfather’s. Don’t feel as if you have to accept it. It’s not a wedding band persay, but I think it matches and it looks about your size and we didn’t get you a Christmas gift so—”

“It’s perfect.” Jungkook tells her firmly, sending him a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you, I guess we kind of rushed the engagement so I didn’t think of getting a band of my own.” 

Your mother is grateful, dropping the ring in Jungkook’s awaiting palm. “I think my daughter should be the one who puts it on you, don’t you think?” 

“Right,” he echoes, and he just stares at the ring in his hand, feeling weird in his chest. He can’t remember the last time someone put this much thought in getting him something this significant. He can’t accept this ring, but he can’t refuse it either. “I could never find something with this much value from a little shop in New York, so thank you.” 

“Oh, and while we’re on the topic of New York,” Jimin puts down his completed popcorn wreath, “y/n said she already put in her off days for Easter, so you should too. It’ll be at my place this year, and I live by an indoor skydiving zone. She mentioned you’re an adrenaline junkie.” 

“She also mentioned that your birthday’s in September.” your mom pops in, “We were thinking we could take Friday off and stop by for the weekend. I’ve always wanted to see Hamilton!” 

Jungkook knows they’re trying to cheer him up. They’re trying to make him feel part of the family, feel wanted. But he can’t remember the last time he’s felt wanted unless it’s for a book deal or a business exchange. It’s been so long since he’s felt this warm, and he didn’t realize how much he yearned for it until he proposed to you.

“Hey man,” Jimin puts an arm around his trembling shoulders, “are you alright?” 

“Fine,” he’s crying, and doing a shit job at hiding the tears. “It’s alright, I just,” he can’t even find the strength to get up and walk away from this. Is it pathetic that he’s breaking down in the comfort of your cousin and mom, starved for affection? “I just, I miss my family. It’s just the four of us, but they’re all the way in Korea and it’s been awhile since I’ve really celebrated anything with them. They visit sometimes but it’s not the same, y’know? And work is so stressful but I’m not in a position to say that. And your family is just so, so nice and it makes me miss them even more. You’re all so lucky to support each other like this.” 

Jimin and your mom sandwich him like an Oreo. It’s almost funny, how two smaller humans are comforting this big human and not the other way around. “Poor baby, it’s your family too.” 

Pathetic. It’s pathetic how much he wishes to have a family like yours, but he can’t have that. 

“Can we please not tell y/n about this?” Jungkook wishes, leaning his head on your mom’s. “She’s going through a lot right now with work and stuff, I’d rather just talk to her about this after the holidays, if that’s okay.” 

“It’s quite alright, sweetheart,” your mom runs a hand through his hair, and his eyes automatically flutter closed, “just remember, your feelings matter too, okay?” 

You and Jungkook slip into bed at the same time, murmuring half-hearted “how was your days” and brief descriptions of your outings. It’s a little awkward considering the morning’s events, but not unbearable. 

“The tree smells really nice,” Jungkook tries, looking up from his phone. 

“Yeah, makes the whole room smell like Christmas.” 

“Yeah.”

“Did you have a good time shopping, find anything good?” 

“Yeah.”

“That’s nice.” 

[11:29] Jimin: hey, you know my room’s right next to yours right? 

[11:29] Jimin: we share a goddamn wall and im NOT hearing shit

[11:29] Jimin: are you putting that baby blanket to good use ;)

[11:30] You: YOU”REE DISGUSTING are we even family!!!!  Can i disown a first cousin?? 

[11:30] Jimin: i’m just sayin.. U said it was fantastic

You throw your phone away, letting it slide off to the mattress and onto the baby blanket. Yes, the baby blanket is unfortunately here to stay. Over the course of three days, the quilt is like a ball in a tennis match between you and your mother. You’ve given up and just kept it on the floor. 

“I have a question,” you say aloud, motioning to your bed partner. 

“Shoot.” 

“Was it true when you said I was the only girl you knew well enough to be your wife?”

“Of course, that’s why we’re here.” 

“I’m just wondering, because I really thought you could pick any girl in the office to be yours.” you stuff your hands under the covers, playing with your ring. “I mean, you’re kinda-sorta handsome. You could’ve picked someone just as pretty and they would have studied your whole life story for you.” 

Jungkook's phone falls in his lap, and he looks at you like you’ve lost a couple brain cells. “Normally, I would eat up the fact that you admitted I was attractive. But do you realize you’re just as beautiful, if not more?” 

What? 

“I know it’s unprofessional, but how professional can we get when we’re married, but you’re the whole package, y/n.” and he says it with such fervor, you can’t formulate a response. “I wouldn’t have wanted anyone else. No one else can take my shit and throw it right back in my face, or debate with me for hours on end about a novel’s direction. Only you can do that.” 

“I’m sorry,” you shake your head, “thanks, you’re right. I’m just clouded, and stressed. And Jimin’s being an ass and it’s really bothering me.” 

His chocolate eyes flicker in the darkness of your bedroom, making note of your phone on the floor. “What’d he say?” 

“It’s stupid, he said that he thinks it’s weird he hasn’t heard us bang all week,” you force a laugh, “it’s my fault though, he wouldn’t get off my back so I gave up and told him the sex was fantastic.” 

“Are you worried he’s unconvinced?” 

“A little, maybe? I don’t know.” you’re wrinkling your bedsheets now, turning the cotton into putty as your sweaty palms wring at the edge. 

“I don’t mind giving him a show.” Jungkook blurts, and you instinctively pull the covers closer to your chest, even though you’re fully clothed. 

“What, like fake moan into the wall?” 

“There are things you can do over the clothes,” he says matter-of-factly, pulling the sheet of his bedside down slightly. “And you just said you’re stressed. I’d be a bad fiancé to not let you relieve some of that tension.” 

Jungkook opens his arms and gestures for you to get on his lap. Your body is hot all over, and you can’t tell if it’s because you’re horrified or aroused. Maybe a little of both. 

“Are you kidding—you’re my boss!” 

“And we’re consenting adults!” he narrows his eyes at you, “don’t say you’ve never thought about it before.”

And the sick, twisted part of you has, a lot. There’s something about a man in a tailored suit and owning up to its power that’s really attractive. Not to mention all those times they’d be traveling for work, stumbling for a quick McDonald's bite at 12AM and he’d be dressed casually in tight black jeans and combat boots. The energy really kept you on your toes. 

“Wow, I really hate late-night talks. All the secrets come out, don’t they?” 

“If it makes you feel better, your ass looks great in pencil skirts,” you turn to him with flared eyes, “what? I’m just trying to let you know I mayhaps find you attractive.” 

“Mayhaps you should stop talking before I regret this.” 

His eyebrows lift and disappear from his bangs, the hair freshly dried and fluffy from his late night shower. He then pats his lap with a little blasé as if to say “hop on”, and you ignore the way how good the seat looks, his boxer briefs doing nothing to hide his unmentionables. 

Trying to fight alongside your last drop of dignity, you take your time. 

“C’mon y/n, don’t make it weird.” 

“It’s been weird, Jeon! Jimin’s next door!” you hiss, backing away slightly, “Give me some time, I can’t just hump my boss!” 

“You’re not humping your boss.” Jungkook has the audacity to grin, the expression looking absolutely sinful in the moonlight. “Think of it as your lover wanting to make you feel good.” 

The bridge between love and hatred is a fine, fine line stemmed by passion. 

Careful, you lift your blankets up and slip out of them, moving to sit up. It’s ridiculous, tiptoeing around your bed to avoid any sudden creaks in the aged wood of your mahogany headboard. 

“We’re out to prove to your family we fuck on the reg,” Jungkook snips, “you can make noise.” 

Within seconds, he’s hauling you on his lap. You squeak in surprise, feeling the thin material of his boxers seep through your thin silk shorts. You wriggle around, monitoring Jungkook’s expression. He does not allude too much, but you take note of the way Jungkook secures you with his hands between the swells of your thighs. 

“I’m not a rollercoaster, stop adjusting like you’re gonna buckle up.” 

Jungkook’s dry humor lightens the mood considerably, and you can’t help but smile timidly at his attempt to make you feel at ease. He lets you take your time, and you never imagined someone so demanding in the office can be so… kind in bed. 

You dip forward to kiss his lips once, twice. He looks needy, but lets you set the pace. You appreciate that. You’re salivating at his willingness to make you feel good, and you whimper as he nibbles on a sensitive spot on your neck. 

You need more. Sensing your urgency when you jerk his chin up, he muffles your sounds with a harsh kiss, taking care to moan deeply into your mouth. The heat is luxurious on this winter night, burgundy kisses exchanged between the sheets like secrets. His tongue slips between your teeth, tasting every inch of you and exploring you like the deepest texts. 

He pulls away slightly, and you’re drowning in his gaze. “Am I still just kinda-sorta handsome now?” he nips at your neck, sucking on a spot between your jaw. 

“N-no,” and you pull him up by the chin, taking in his messy hair and glazed eyes, “you’re fucking sexy,” and you tug your mouth to his once more. 

You don’t even realize that you’re rolling your hips until Jungkook breaks the kiss in favor of grabbing your hips, making sure your core is nestled perfectly between his hardening length. It doesn’t take long for the both of you to get wet, and the silk glides easily between your thighs like butter.

“That’s it, baby girl,” he encourages, one hand reaching up to cup your breast, “use me, make  yourself feel good.” 

“Please, don’t call me that,” you whine against his mouth, trying to keep the mood in, “Babe is fine, but baby girl makes me feel like a little kid and I’m not a little kid.”

“You damn right,” and he lifts his hips to meet yours in a sharp thrust, and you gasp hotly into his mouth. It’s too late to muffle your moans, not when you’re drenched with two pathetic pieces of fabric stopping the both of you. “You’re a gorgeous, intelligent, strong, amazing woman.” 

With every compliment, he does all the work, thrusting with each adjective like he’s blessing poetry into your body. 

“J-Jungkook,” the name is muffled against his shoulder, too fuzzed in ecstasy to be embarrassed by the drool coating his tank top. His hair tickles your shoulder as he nips at your clothed breasts, swirling around your nipple. “I-I, m’gonna come,” 

“You’re almost there huh?” and he slips a hand between you two to find that sweet spot, swirling designs between your shorts. “Fuck, you’re so wet.”

And you’re shaking, collapsing into his embrace as he rides out your high. He cradles one hand in your hair as you rub furiously against his other, chasing your pleasure like a starved animal. 

“K-Kook,” you murmur into his neck, finding the strength to roll your hips one more time to check. “You’re still hard, do you want me to help?”

“No.” he’s forthright, and as tired as you are, you force yourself to pick your head up. Sweat lines his brow and his face is flushed, but he’s already helping you off and handing you a tissue from the nightstand. 

“What?” you’re hurt, and don’t want to admit why. 

“Don’t feel like you need to,” he grunts into your forehead, dipping a chaste kiss right in the center. “Just let me do something nice to you for once.” 

As much as you want to, you don’t complain as he tucks you in. You don’t complain when you see a wet stain on his Kirby boxer briefs. You don’t answer back when he checks his phone one more time and pulls you in to press a kiss to your cheek. It’s 12:31. 

“Merry Christmas,” he murmurs into your skin, and turns over so his back faces you. 

Christmas is a loud and eager affair. The entirety of your family piles into your house while still in pajamas, aunts and uncles from other villas running in with their children with their newly opened toys and gadgets. There’s a buffet style breakfast piled on the kitchen island, and you’re all eating in the living room while watching holiday movies. 

Jungkook melds right in, unsurprisingly. He has your baby cousin Dante in his lap, teaching him how to use the controls of his new Nintendo Switch. 

Despite only meeting Jungkook a few days ago, you notice that some of your family have taken the liberty of giving him small presents. You spot a simple silver chain around his wrist, courtesy of Jimin, and a fluffy grey scarf wrapped around his neck, courtesy of your aunt’s impeccable knitting club. 

“He fits right in, doesn’t he?” 

Yoongi hands you your usual cup of tea, and you accept it gratefully. You’re sitting right next to the tree, and you notice that some of the ornaments are miniature books. You absentmindedly run your fingers over the carved wood, especially on the ones that are your favorite titles. 

“Yeah,” you hate to admit, so you whisper it into your mug. But Yoongi can hear, he always does. “I didn’t think it would be this easy.” 

“Easy to love him, or easy to fit into this family?” 

You splutter into your mug, and Yoongi does the right thing by patting your back. It feels a little bit like he’s burping a baby, but otherwise, it soothes your lungs. 

“I am happy for you, you know.” he says, knocking knees with you. “It might not seem like it now, but I truly am.” 

Deciding not to dwell on his subversive confession, you thank him for the tea and excuse yourself. Dante seems like he’s got the hang of MarioKart, so you tug Jungkook by the hand and lead him back into your bedroom. 

“I got you a present, but I didn’t feel like making a scene about it,” you pull out a pink gift bag, tufts of white tissue paper sticking out. “Also, it’s kinda cheap and it was a last minute thing, so don’t have any high expectations.” 

“Gee, you’re really making me feel deserving of this gift,” but he takes his time in unraveling the bag anyway. 

He pulls out a shiny onyx black mug, rolling it between his hands. On one side it’s engraved in gold cursive “World’s Best Boss” but on the other side it’s engraved, “World’s Best Husband”. 

“Subtle,” he grins, pulling you into a hug. He gets that it’s a gag gift, but because it’s from you, it's a lot more meaningful. You could’ve easily delved into his bank accounts and see what he buys for himself, but you decided to take the more personal route. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs into your hair. And to really throw you off he says, “For my gift, I’ve decided to publish your novel.” 

You shove him away as if you’ve been stung, and you barely have the voice to ask, “Are you serious, you’ve read my novel? I didn’t even send you the first draft!” 

“We share the same Google Drive, it was easy to find. If you had noticed, it’s the only thing I’ve been reading this week,” he shrugs as if it’s nothing, but he’s in actuality giving you your lifelong dream. “You deserve it, really. I’m sorry if you felt like it wasn’t ready to be read. But it was wonderful, you’re a real wordsmith.” 

“I’m not upset,” you can’t be, not when he smells so good and he’s trying to hug you all over again. “How many copies?”

“10,000.”

“20,000.”

“15,000, and I’ll even give you permission to dedicate your novel to me.” he raises his brows irreverently. 

You scoff at his arrogance, but you don’t admit to confessing that along with professors and your family, you would be dedicating it to him. “Well my gift feels like absolute shit,” you deadpan, “can I have a do-over tomorrow? We can go to the mall or something.”

“You’ve done enough for me,” he disagrees, breaking away from you to place the mug on your desk. “Agreeing to my farfetched proposal, letting me into your home. I think that’s an amazing gift.” 

“You’ve been way too nice,” you look at him wearily, noting the rosiness in his cheeks. 

“You say that like it’s not possible!” 

“Who knows? Maybe the Christmas spirit has performed a miracle, who am I to judge?” and you can’t get enough of the man, running into his heart one more time. Pressing your ear to his chest you sing, “Well, in the Poconos they say, that Jeon Jungkook’s heart grew three sizes that day.” 

It may have not grown three sizes, but if the living room wasn’t so loud, maybe you could’ve heard his heart beating three times as fast. 

The calm after the storm is your favorite part of Christmas. Most of your extended family has left to mull in their own homes, leaving your family to laze around until it’s just you and Jungkook that are awake. 

Jim Carrey’s version of How the Grinch Stole Christmas is playing on Netflix, arguably the only superior rendition of the children's book. The tree is still glowing by the fireplace, soft white lights trickling in the darkened room. 

Earlier in the night, you and Jungkook had cuddled up in the middle of the couch under a blanket, and were too lazy to move even when the entirety of your family vacated. Either of you could’ve easily shoved each other off and went to bed, but here you are, making offhand comments over hot cocoa. Each second that passes by, you’re more aware of how well you two sink between the fabric like you’re meant to do this. The domesticity terrifies you, but you don’t dare to point it out. 

“How does his face do that?” Jungkook turns to you, contorting his face into funny expressions. It’s a poor attempt at the green creature on the screen, but it makes your mouth twitch and you fight the urge to giggle. “It’s like he’s made of rubber.” 

“He has a sense of humor, unlike some people.” 

“Very funny,” he says, turning away to take a sip of his cooca. 

Sinking further into the couch, you unconsciously latch onto him more, savoring his body heat. “Can I confess something?”  

“What’s up?” 

“A week ago, I loathed you. I used to have recurring dreams about you getting run over by a Wonderbread truck. And I was driving the truck.” 

“Wow, that makes me feel so much better.” 

“No really, if I had the opportunity to watch you get hit by a cab, I would’ve paid for it.” 

“If it were possible for me to file for divorce at this very second, now would be time. You are a walking red flag.” 

“Okay, but!” you shush him with a finger to your lips, and he goes cross-eyed at the touch. “After seeing your stellar performance this week and an impeccable display of human emotion. I think after all of this, we could be friends.” 

“Fwends?” he says through your finger, mouth smushed. “Why whuh we?” 

Instead of lifting your finger right away, you swipe at his cherry lips, getting rid of the marshmallow sticking to the corners. 

“Because we get along.” you say simply.

“Because we’re supposed to be getting married.” 

“No! We’ve always gotten along! We’ve just been too up our asses to notice!” you sit up, appalled. “Here’s my theory, a change of setting has suddenly spurred on your character development—”

“—y’know I really don’t appreciate your use of literary jargon, it’s really pretentious—”

“—because without your external conflict, you have a chance to let loose and enjoy your life for once!” 

Jungkook frowns, adjusting his frame so he slightly hovers you. He’s pretty like this, dressed in fluffy black pajamas and his face soft. His eyes absorb the Christmas fairy lights, and you notice for the first time in two years that there are no longer purple bags under his eyes. 

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, voice so small you wonder if he’s worried to crush the moment. “Friends are hard.” 

You shake your head vehemently, “Friends are easy, keeping them is the hard part.”

He doesn’t know why he’s being so weird about this. You’ve worked for him for over two years, you know him as well as you know your skincare routine, down to the last detail. 

“Jeon, don’t think too hard about this,” you try to get him to lighten up, the intense look in his eyes throwing you in for a loop. It makes the little hamster wheel in your head spin rapidly, and you wonder if you’re really crossing a line. “Jimin said you had a really good time yesterday, I was almost jealous I couldn’t come shopping with you.” 

He cracks a smile at that, “Yeah, Jimin and I shared a moment,” and he leans down to the shell of your ear, “and he said he really enjoyed our moment last night.” 

“Oh my god!” you grab a nearby throw pillow, chucking the rough fabric in his face. 

He breaks into a laugh, but not the wine and dine chuckles that he’d have between terse negotiations for work. It’s a full out giggle, like he’s proud to have riled you up enough to break your resolve. Who knew your angry face could be so cute? 

“I guess if we’ve crossed a line, might as well make it all the way to the end,” Jungkook says easily, running a hand through his chocolate tresses. 

You and Jungkook are leaving the day after tomorrow. Most of your stuff is packed and ready to go, and you’re currently spending the rest of your night at a sit-down dinner with your immediate family plus Jimin. 

It’s peaceful, you muse. Jungkook even offered to help cook. Back at Big Hit not once did he ever bring leftovers from home, always insisting you order something for him during work. Kimchi fried rice is a simple dish, but Jungkook had taken great care in making sure it was cooked properly and adjusted to your family’s tastes. 

Your parents are glowing and enjoying their time with the whole family, a rarity that grows more valuable with age. The meal soothes you like a balm, reminding you of old conversations that had you spew milk out of your nose or Namjoon accidentally spilling beans on your lap. 

“Oh, you should also clear your schedule for the first week of September,” Jimin says absentmindedly, shoving another mouthful of fried rice. “Besides Easter, Jungkook says we can celebrate his birthday and visit for the weekend.” 

“Seriously,” Namjoon balks, sitting up straight as he regards you in disbelief. “You’re sure your Devil of a boss will enjoy you out of his chains for two vacations, god forbid you take the holidays off again.” 

The grip on your fork tightens, but you steel yourself. Honestly, you were wondering why it took Namjoon this long to let it all out. He was always vehemently against your job, as he was the person who got the brunt of your vents when you were stressed. Probably for the sake of Christmas he let it go, but now that it’s over, the topic’s fair game. 

“Oh, c’mon Joonie,” your mother frowns, “not at the table.” 

“He isn’t that bad, Joon.” you reason, completely ignoring Jungkook as you stare straight at your brother. “He means well—”

“Means well?” Namjoon barks a laugh, as if it’s the most laudable thing. “Sis, you cried everyday for a straight month after you were hired.” he places his hands on the table, regarding you carefully, “I had to personally call your doctor in New York to get you sleeping pills, and not to mention that two weeks ago, you were crying again because you were worried he forgot your vacation and would make you work! Don’t tell me he ‘means well’ when I’ve been busy picking up the pieces!” 

At this point, you’re livid. Jungkook’s right here, and while you can’t go ahead and out the fact that he is your boss, you can still have his back. 

They don’t know that you’ve picked the pieces back up, reinforced yourself to create a better version of the person you once were. 

“He does mean well,” you cry, matching your brother’s red tone to a T. “He’s just stressed and genuinely cares about the company. I choose to work long hours because he takes his time in making sure the work we publish is worthwhile, and I support that. He’s hard on me because he knows I have potential. He’s going to make sure I succeed.” 

Namjoon looks at you like you’ve grown two heads. “You’re seriously defending your shitty boss?” 

Jimin puts a hand over Namjoon’s in an attempt to placate him, but he shoves it away.

“Honestly,” Namjoon spits venom, “how can you possibly stand to be around someone who makes your life so miserable?” 

Your meal has gone cold, and your fists clutch desperately at your jeans. The breath is robbed from your lungs, and you can’t look at anyone for fear of them regarding you with guilt. You know since the day you got hired that your family wasn’t exactly enthused at your boss’ level of expectation and work output. But they don’t know the industry, and they don’t even really know Jungkook past the surface level. . 

But you know in their eyes, they’re right. Their daughter left their comfy home to pursue her lifelong dream, only for it to be broken in a matter of weeks. It’s natural to feel protective, and while you’re resilient and were able to get it together as of late, it wasn’t enough for them to understand. As someone who loves you, it’s obvious they’d want to blame your boss, blame Jungkook for your suffering. 

You imagine your father would ask Namjoon to step outside, or your parents would make Jimin pull you and Jungkook out. Neither of those things happen.

A warm, large hand is placed on top of yours. You look towards Jungkook, face unreadable as he squeezes your thigh. 

“Namjoon’s right.” Jungkook utters, pressing his lips together. “You deserve to be treated with respect. The boss has never appreciated the hard work you do, at least not out loud. You’re too good for him.”

“Jungkook,” you gape, putting your other hand over his. 

He pulls away at your touch, glancing at the clock. “This dinner was wonderful,” he says gently, looking apologetic to your parents. “Excuse me, but I promised to call my parents at this time.” 

The excuse is completely half-assed, but no one says anything as he leaves, walking out the door without a coat. The table is terse, with your parents attempting to coax out dessert while Jimin clears the dinner table. You refuse to look at Namjoon, who has no idea why you’re so upset. You wait five minutes before you mumble about getting Jungkook a jacket. 

However, when you open the door he isn’t sitting on the porch. He’s all the way up the street, too far for you to be heard with a yell, and walking farther into town. The black hoodie falls to your side, disappointed. 

Jungkook does in fact, call his parents. Your mother suggested it when she gave him the ring, thinking it would ease his homesickness if he made a better effort to communicate his feelings. 

And so he spends over an hour huddled in a cafe, talking about nothing and everything with his mom and dad. He tells them about the little novelties he’s experienced this week, like making popcorn strings and picking out themed Christmas ornaments. He tells him how he promises to book a flight back to Korea as soon as his work visa goes through. While he doesn’t mention the proposal, he mentions you. He prattles on and on about how strong and beautiful you are, and how you’ve crept up on him and made him realize how awful of a person he was. 

His mom prattles excitedly through the line, saying that women make you realize how much better you can be for them, but she doesn’t know the half of it. 

Jungkook sat there in your dining room, Namjoon boldly telling you off about how miserable he’s made you. 

And yet still, you defended him in ways he never imagined. Your relationship has always been mutual, and prickly at best. You balanced each other out, but he knows he doesn’t deserve you. When he first hired you, he rendered you indispensable like all the other assistants that couldn’t handle it. You’d break eventually. 

And you did break. But you picked up the pieces and put yourself back together, and you didn’t resent him for it. He hated that. How can you trust someone who’s hurt you so much? 

He can’t let you go through with this marriage. You’re wrong. You don’t need him to be successful. 

[11:09] You: mom unlocked the door for you. Jimin and i went out for drinks so idk when ill be back

[11:09] You: please don’t be mad at me

Silly girl, why would he ever be mad at you? 

His plan is simple, Sneak into your villa, grab his luggage, and try to book the earliest flight back to New York. Then, he can come clean to Taeyeon and spend the year in Korea while they work out his visa issues. He’ll quietly pack his things and clear out the office before Monday.  Hopefully by the time he makes it to Busan, he can forgive himself. He’s going to regret missing your expression when you get to hold the first physical copy of your novel. 

This plan proves difficult when he sees Namjoon waiting outside for him, sitting on his luggage and reading a book. His long legs are splayed across the porch, and he doesn’t spare Jungkook a glance.

“Knew something was off,” the older man doesn’t look up from his novel, “found the mug on her desk, bossman.” 

Muttering a curse under his breath Jungkook opens his arms, “Are you gonna beat me up now?” 

“What? No, I’m a lover, not a fighter.” Jungkook scoffs, and watches Namjoon roll his luggage to the back of the van. “And out of the kindness of my heart, I’ll save you the Lyft fare and drive you to the airport.” 

Is he that predictable? He flinches at the sudden jet of the ignition, and he takes heavy, snow-laden steps to the passenger seat. Once buckled in, Namjoon tosses the book in his lap. “Some light reading for the drive.” 

If Namjoon wasn’t the driver, he wouldn’t hesitate to chuck the book at his big, intelligent head. Instead, he glowers, clutching the book tightly. It’s only when they round the corner to a house brightly decorated with lights, does he see what novel Namjoon’s plucked. 

A Mutually-Assured Attachment. Jungkook tosses the book back and forth between his palms, noting the soft cover is so worn it could melt apart in his lap. It feels tended and loved from years of use. 

It’s Jungkook’s first novel, and you had a copy. One of the first editions, if he remembers the cover art correctly. Granted, he thought you had some of his books purely because of your job, but not one from your childhood. Frankly he thought this should have never been published, but he was nineteen and that in itself was a large feat. 

He carefully peels the pages, and takes out his phone to shine the flashlight mode. At the very front, blood red ink is scratched next to the title: “this is THE most pretentious title i’ve read in my life! Don’t disappoint me jeon!!” 

Your handwriting’s all over the place. He sees graphite, gel, and glitter pens mark the margins, as if you’ve come back each time to write something new. The annotations vary, from “this part sucks” to “shit, that’s good i should do that”. You draw little pictures of the objects he’s contrived, from the little brass locket one character cherishes to the facial expressions you imagine they hold. 

And at the very end, your handwriting sits neat and bold on the inside cover: I can do better than him. 

Jungkook chuckles to himself, turning off the light. You’re always right. 

Namjoon senses the younger one is done, and he clears his throat. “I really really don’t understand what she sees in you.” 

“I don’t understand either,” Jungkook agrees easily, his finger tracing your handwriting. He muses that you were always out to get him, even if you didn’t know it. 

Namjoon masks his surprise by clearing his throat. “But I’d rather seek to understand than live the rest of my life having my sister resent me. I don’t really know what you two are going through, but if she trusts you with her life, I’ll try. Emphasis on try.” 

“I don’t deserve your trust.” 

“You damn right you don’t,” succumbing to his impulses Namjoon makes a sharp turn, and Jungkook holds his stomach together before it flies out the window.  

You come home to find your room cold and barren. All of Jungkook’s things are gone, except your Christmas mug. 

You at least thought Jungkook would spare you a goodbye before he ditched you. You hoped you’d at least consider each other friends who provide explanations after all of this. 

Lifting the mug off the desk, you hear a little clink in the glass, the chime unfamiliar. Hurriedly, you pour out its contents. A heavy, tungsten black ring lands in your palm. You clench the metal between your fingers, hugging it to your chest. 

Mind made up, you dash out to the hallway, nearly bumping into your cousin. At the same time you and Jimin blurt, “We need to go to the airport.” 

Apparently Namjoon warned Jimin that something fishy’s going on. Namjoon didn’t know what, but he had the inkling that Jungkook was hiding something. Once Jimin received the text to meet them at the airport, he flung you in his sedan and floored it. Flushed with adrenaline, Jimin is speeding with a fervor you’ve never experienced. 

“Can you please, take the edge off and tell me what the hell is going on?” 

Just like how Jungkook didn’t want Big Hit to go down the drain, you didn’t want this week to be in vain. You can’t wait a year for Jungkook to come back, and you didn’t want to publish your first novel without him by your side. 

“Long version or short version?” 

“The in-the-middle version. I don’t think I have the brain capacity to absorb all your drama right now but I really need some answers.” 

“O-kay. Basically, Jungkook isn’t a Literary Agent. He’s my god-awful boss. Or was awful, I don’t know. Jungkook left the country before his work visa was fully processed. That’s a breach, so he needs to live in Korea for a year to come back. But he can’t run Big Hit remotely, so he proposed to marry me to attain citizenship.”

Your head whips to the dashboard and you cry out, barely stopping the impact with your hands.  

“Sorry, sorry!” Jimin’s eyes are focused on the red light, absolutely terrified. “Bitch, you’re committing fraud with your boss! You could go to jail, that’s like, the hottest love story ever!” 

“But he’s going back to Korea because now he suddenly realized he can forge basic human connection.” you mutter, “so no, we’re not going to jail because he’s decided to do the right thing.” 

“So what you’re saying is, Jungkook has achieved self-actualization and decided to peacefully move to Korea and sacrifice the company for you.” Jimin is carving his free hand in the air, gesturing wildly. “Don’t you see! He really likes you.”

“Yeah, so now we need to go to the airport and tell his dumbass this isn’t the time to be selfless.” 

Once you find a spot you’re rushing out of the car, weaving between carts and people to find the correct terminal. This airport is much smaller than JFK, so it’s easy for you to navigate and get past the TSA. It also helps that Jin’s wife is an attendant. 

“He chose the 1:45 flight in Terminal 31A,” Mijoo chirps from her tablet, leading you in the right direction. She’s dressed impeccably, the odds and ends of this airport glued together by her impeccable organization. She points to the clock, which glares a digital 1:18AM. “You have time.” 

“Thank you Mijoo,” you exhale gratefully, “and I’m so so sorry I skipped your wedding!” 

“This is the 300th time you’ve said it,” Mijoo rolls her eyes, pushing you and Jimin forward, “But I’ll make sure not to miss your wedding.” 

You’re sweating from your down jacket, and you can’t believe it’s really all come down to this. The one person you’ve spent the last two years of your life doting on, and you didn’t want to stop. You wanted him not just for the publication of your novel, but because you needed him. 

Jungkook’s sitting in the waiting area of Terminal 31A, looking wholly inconspicuous as he reads a book and has his hood propped up. 

Fists balled, you stride forward only to have Jimin tug you back. “What?” 

Jimin pulls off your thick coat, making haste to wipe the sweat off your brow with his sleeves and flatten your messy hair. “What?” he tilts his head to the side, “you need to look good before the big confrontation. I’m recording this for archival purposes. Do you have any lip balm by any chance? You look chapped.” 

You slap his hands away, but those grubby fingers just come back with a vengeance. “My life is just a big show to you, isn’t it?”

“Living vicariously all day, every day.” 

While Jimin parts your bangs, the intercom cuts through the air. 

“The 1:45 flight to John F. Kennedy International airport will now commence boarding. Please line up according to the ticket class.” 

Jimin smiles at you, squeezing your shoulders and gestures for you to go. To your horror, Jungkook is first in line. Panic bubbles to your throat.

“Jeon Jungkook!” you cry, voice echoing throughout the terminal. “If you so much breathe in the direction of that plane I will call Mark Lee right this second and tell him the book series is off!” 

Like a deer in the headlights, Jungkook heeds to your voice immediately. In his stupor you jog forward to snatch his wrist and pull him out of line. You don’t let go until you’re away from the long line, and Jungkook tugs his wrist away. 

“Don’t you dare call him,” Jungkook looks serious, as if you didn’t drive all the way to stop him from making the biggest mistake of his life. “I will never forgive you if you terminate Mark Lee’s contract.” 

“And I won’t forgive you if you get on that plane.” 

Pain flashes in his eyes, and he shakes his head. “I need to. I can’t let us—let you go through with this. You and your family deserve better.” 

“What? Jungkook, I agreed to this just as much as you did.” 

“No, you didn’t.” he’s adamant, and steps back with every step you take forward. “As your boss I threatened you, held it over your head like an ultimatum. I’ve hurt you,” his voice cracks, looking at you desperately, “why would you want to be stuck with me when I’ve made your life miserable?” 

“If I really wanted to leave, I would’ve done it a long time ago.” You reason, “Do you really want to leave the company behind? To fucking Karen?” 

“Of course I don’t!” Jungkook exclaims, “but it isn’t worth hurting you, hurting your family and everyone that loves you.” 

“And what about you? You’ll be hurt when you leave,” and you step forward, so close that your chests are touching. You take hold of his hands, clutching them between your small ones. “Don’t go, stay with me in New York. We’ll both work hard and try to not run each other to the ground. Let’s be better together.” 

You’re practically begging, biting your lip raw and hoping Jungkook understands how good this change is for the both of you. 

Jungkook is conflicted, looking back and forth between the airline boarding for JFK and your watery eyes. He hates seeing you like this. He can’t imagine you, the strongest woman he’s ever met, crying because of him. Namjoon’s voice echoes in his mind and he tries to smash it to the edge of his memory. But as always, you’re right. 

He replaces your grip with his own, and gets down on one knee. 

Jungkook says your name like it's the sweetest of songs. You’ve never seen him so terrified. “y/n, I didn’t do it right the first time, so let me try again. Please, marry me. Marry me because I want to date you. I want to take you out and give you what you deserve, what we deserve. I want to do better for myself, do better for you. I’ve realized you’re the only person that makes me feel like I’m simultaneously on fire and on thin ice,” he pulls out a velvet box from his pocket, revealing a thin band with interlocking black and clear diamond studs. It’s a pretty little thing, with a groove in the center so it stacks perfectly with your engagement ring. “This was supposed to be your Christmas present, but I chickened out at the last second,” he says sheepishly, tucking his head in. “But if you let me put this ring on your finger, I promise to be your home away from home.”  

With a sob you fall to your knees, throwing yourself onto Jungkook. A small “oof” escapes his lips, and he struggles to hold your waist so you both don’t topple over. “Yes, yes, yes!” you cry, pulling away to cup his face with both hands, pulling him into a sweet kiss. 

Jungkook’s smile takes up his entire face, and he eagerly pecks your lips one more time before ripping the ring from its holder and stacking it on top of your engagement ring. The teardrop diamond is nestled perfectly between the thinner band’s V. “Pretty,” he says, pressing his forehead to yours. 

“Wait,” you pull out the black ring that you found in your room, holding it to his face. “I’m assuming this is yours?” 

“Yeah,” he replies, “your mother said it was your great grandfather’s. It’s not an engagement ring, but it’s the thought that counts.” 

“It matches,” you hum, placing his simpler band in his ring finger. Once it’s on, you take a deep breath. “Shit, we’re really doing this?” 

Jungkook pulls you to stand, wiping the happy tears from your cheek. “We are, we’re a team, remember? We’ve crossed the line and we gotta finish it.” 

And he picks you up, the workouts definitely paying off as he spins you around like you’re the leads in La-La Land, drunk off the happy chemicals firing in your brain. Jimin whoops and hollers, along with all the other patrons in the vicinity of the airport terminal. 

Your real-fiancé puts you down, the both of you now hyperconscious of the stares people give you. Other people have filmed the proposal as well, completely smitten by your confessions. 

“Jungkook,” you giggle into his shoulder, “you were right. Our story is straight out of a Wattpad entry.” 

“Down to the super cheesy in-public airport proposal?” he chimes, pressing his forehead to yours. “Couldn’t have asked for a better love story.” 

“I can’t wait to fall in love with you,” you whisper, quiet enough for his ears only, “for real, this time.” 

“Not that it’s a challenge,” he teases softly, “but I’m already halfway there.” 

some months later.

“Like the new office, boss lady?” your new assistant (yes, you have an assistant!) asks kindly, his bubbly presence uplifting you immediately. He leads you to the window box, filled with tiny plants. “I figured you like succulents, because you have no time to water them and they’re prickly like you.” 

“Very funny, Seungkwan.” you chide good-naturedly, picking up a succulent with a yellow flower in the middle. “But thank you, your interior design skills are outmatched. I can’t wait to work with you.” 

“Me too, your social commentary you published on the literary industry? And you managed to lace it all up in an inconspicuous fantasy novel?” Seungkwan boasts, “I applied for this position right then and there.” 

“Thanks Seungkwan, why don’t you take your lunch and we’ll meet back at one to discuss our plans for next week.” 

“Sounds good, do you want me to pick you up something?” 

“I’m good, I’m meeting with the bossman.” 

Seungkwan gives you that look, his lips jutting out in a suggestive manner that almost makes you burst into giggles. Your assistant decides not to bother you until after you’ve eaten, and bids you goodbye. 

Just when you get a moment of peace, a handsome face pokes his way inside. “Hello editor,” Jungkook knocks on your door for the sake of attention, but you’re already dragging him into the office and shutting the door tight. “Like your new office?” 

“Love it,” you moan, gesturing to Seungkwan’s light filtering curtains. They’re not dark, rather a tasteful sea green, but they’re opaque enough to stop wandering eyes from peeking into your space. Your personal space was a qualm that immediately needed to be mended after your experience in Jungkook’s office. “A lot more private than your office.” 

“A little part of me hates how much you deserve this promotion,” he sits on your desk, and doesn’t hesitate to pull you between his legs, letting you lean into his chest, “but I do love the added privacy.” 

You fiddle with the buttons of his navy collar, his strong thighs trap you between him, “Why, miss me already?” 

He shrugs, “Taehyung doesn’t look as good as you do in a pencil skirt.” 

You laugh, brushing the strands of hair that fall from his coiff. “No one looks as good as I do in a pencil skirt.” A firm grip confirms that, two strong hands cupping your backside. “Mr. Jeon!” you gasp playfully, pushing him away slightly to pinch his cheeky grin. “Can we save this for later? I’m hungry, but we can always continue this for dessert.” 

He groans in your neck, “Love the sound of that, Mrs. Jeon.” 

bonus.

“FUUUCCCKKKKKK YEEAAHHHHH!” Park Jimin’s voice bounces off the walls of Taeyeon’s office, his face taking up the entire screen of his desktop as the camera shifts harshly between him and you and Jungkook at the airport. “My cousin’s not going to jail! WOO!” 

Taeyeon pauses the YouTube video at a particularly unflattering screencap: Jimin’s nostrils are flaring wildly and he looks fairly high mid-scream. 

A low whistle escapes Jungkook’s lips, “Wow. That video’s viral,” he looks to you appreciatively, “if Jimin kicks off his YouTube career, you think we can milk a memoir outta him?” 

“Potentially,” you reply nonchalantly, playing with your rings. 

“So,” Taeyeon’s voice is icy, slashing between your casual conversation, “you’re getting married, for real this time?” 

“Yep,” Jungkook pops. 

“Alright,” and from her desk she pulls out an ungodly stack of documents, one that mirrors your own back at the office. “Jungkook, you’ll stay with me. y/n, you’ll go to Vernon’s office and he’ll give you the same spiel. We’ll interview you privately with the same questions. A hair out of place and you’re in trouble. You sure you want to go through with this?” 

You and Jungkook exchange looks, betting your own company that you got this in the bag. 

“Hit us with your best shot.” 

#jungkook #jungkook fic #jungkook smut #jungkook fanfic #bts fanfic #jeongguk #jungkook fluff #kpop #kpop fic #jjk #bts x reader #how did i manage to write this

[rhysismydaddy]

Casual Ruin Pt. 3 (Elriel)

Elain’s part of the Damnation Series.

Part 1 | Part 2

God help yall this shit was a rollercoaster to write

________________________________________________

~Elain~

For a second, no one breathes, let alone moves.

Azriel’s hands are steady as he grips the gun, body lined with tension, eyes so cold I shiver. The barrel’s close enough that if I leaned forward an inch, it’d brush my forehead.

The man next to him holds a cigarette halfway to his mouth, looking at me like he’s never seen a woman before and has absolutely no idea what to do. 

And me? I’m frozen in place, horror rushing through my veins and mixing with the shock to create a nauseating cocktail I’m not sure I’ll survive.

It’s the brutalized man in the chair slumping over and hitting the floor with a loud thud that finally snaps us out of our momentary haze.

Azriel blinks and throws the gun to the side so hard it makes a dent in the wall, the stranger drops his cigarette and reaches for me, and I sprint like my fucking life depends on it. Because at this point, I’m pretty sure it might.

What the hell did I walk into? 

I race up the stairs toward the garage, where less than a minute ago, I’d heard Azriel’s voice and gone to surprise him. By the look on his face when he turned around, I’d at least succeeded in that.

I can practically feel the man behind me, can tell he’s reaching a hand out to grab me.

I’ve never been a violent person in my life, but with the amount of adrenaline coursing through me, I don’t even question the urge to use the wine bottle in my hands as a weapon.

It breaks over the man’s head, but unlike in the movies, he doesn’t go down immediately. However, he does lose his balance enough that with a firm shove to his chest, he goes crashing back down to the hellhole I’m running from.

I make it to the garage and slam the door to the basement closed, locking it for good measure. Then I drag the heavy workbench next to the line of pristine cars over in front of it for even better measure. 

I refuse to let myself stop and think, because I’m pretty sure if I do, I’ll break down into a pool of tears and never get up. I’m running on nothing but adrenaline, and I know I’ll crash soon, but I force myself to keep going.

For a moment, I’m tempted to steal one of the cars to get away, but the sound of angry Italian shouts behind the locked door makes me hesitant to waste any more time.

I also definitely don’t have time to call the cab driver that dropped me off and beg him to come back.

The fear and terror don’t give me time to doubt myself as I take my heels off, take off up the driveway, and pray I’m fast enough to escape the devil on my trail.

~Azriel~

“Get that goddamn door open,” I shout at Luca, who’s dripping wine all over the place and has a gash on his forehead from where little Elain Archeron shoved him down the stairs.

I almost fucking shot her in the head. Her. 

Dolcezza mia. The girl I’m stupidly obsessed with. The one who’s always quick to smile--the same one who sighs when I kiss her and lights up when I walk into the room.

I almost shot her between those beautiful brown eyes, almost snuffed them out forever.

I run a hand over my face, listening to the sound of Luca throwing himself into the door repeatedly. “I’m trying, boss, but I think she pulled something in front of the door.”

Smart.

Fucking annoying as hell, but smart.

If I wasn’t so damn pissed at myself for not locking the basement door behind me and allowing her to find us down here, I’d be mildly impressed. 

Two of the most dangerous men in Italy, trapped in the basement like idiots. 

I pull up the app to track her phone--which was originally for her safety, not because I’m a complete stalker--and see that she’s on foot, going behind the houses instead of down the road. She probably thinks I’ll drive by her while she gets away right under my nose.

“Fuck,” I mutter, sending out a text to all my neighbors to tell them not to shoot the beautiful young woman trespassing through their properties. She has no idea the people around us have security systems better than the President’s. “Luca!”

“Working on it,” he grunts back.

“If that shit isn’t open in the next twenty seconds, you’re going in the incinerator after this asshole,” I warn, nudging the dead body on the floor with a boot.

The threat must work, because a second later, there’s a loud bang and the telltale sound of the workbench from my garage toppling over. “Got it!”

I storm up the stairs and tell him, “Run interference with the neighbors and local police. Anyone talks-”

“Got it,” he interrupts, grabbing his phone to start threatening people.

Pulling up the app again, I track the path she’s on, curse when I see she’s headed to the bus station about a mile from here, and take off after her.

Technically, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if she got away. She’d probably go to the police and tell them what she saw, not knowing that Marco, the deputy on duty, has been on my payroll since the day he passed the police entrance exam.

Having done her civic duty, she’d probably try to recover from the trauma of what she saw, eventually finish her classes and move on, and leave. Forgetting all about me in the process.

Technically, for her, this option would not be the worst thing in the world.

But in my head, it feels worse than being stabbed. In my head, there isn’t a question about it. 

I’m going after her. 

There’s this weird, itchy feeling in my chest I���ve never felt before as I run and run and try not to think about the look on her face as she saw the body fall to the floor.

I realize the feeling in my chest as panic, something I haven’t felt since I was a teenager getting booked for stealing my first car.

She knows.

She knows, and the look on her face... she looked at me like I’m a monster. 

And fuck, maybe that’s true. Maybe I am beyond saving.

But having her look at me, and having her take away the easy smiles and bright eyes I’d grown strangely accustomed to... it feels like being robbed.

And it makes me panic.

So I’ll chase her, and catch her, and do whatever I have to do to get her back. 

Because I need her, and damn if I’m going at this alone. 

After a surprising amount of time, I see the thin outline of her off in the distance, sprinting like the devil himself is chasing her. 

I take a deep breath and try to stay quiet, but it’s hopeless. Like she’s the one with the tracker on me, she can tell the second I’m close. I can see it from the way her shoulders go stiff and her pace increases.

“Elain!” 

I call out again for her to stop, because I don’t want to tackle her and risk hurting her. She ignores me and keeps running, turning behind the coroner of one of my dealer’s house. 

That sticky, awful, panicky feeling in my chest grows as she disappears from sight, and without thinking, I follow.

Which, if I had been thinking, I never would’ve done, because shit like this leaves you open to attack. 

Which reminds me: I’ve now broken all three rules for this woman, because I don’t have a single weapon on me to defend us if something happens.

I hit the ground hard enough the wind rushes out of me and my stupid brain rattles around in my stupid skull. 

Blinking through the blur, I look up to find Elain standing over me with an empty metal trashcan raised like a bat, ready to strike again. 

I need to explain, need to talk to her, but all I can seem to say is her name.

“Elain,” I croak, trying to force air down my lungs.

As my vision clears, I notice she’s crying, beautiful face streaked with tears and dirt. 

She pauses and looks at me, like the sight of me knocked on my ass hurts her just as much as it does me, then shakes her head to clear it. 

She throws the trash can at me and turns to flee, but I know I can’t let her go, at least not like this. Grabbing her ankle, I yank her down to me, making sure she lands on me instead of the ground. 

She screams, the sound scraping away another layer of the trust we’d built, and I don’t think I’ve ever been so desperate in my life. Elain flails around, but I use my weight to pin her, trying not to hurt her. 

She has to let me explain. She has to.

I hate what I’m about to do, but the only other option I have is making her pass out the old fashion way, which I know I could never bring myself to do.

The second the needle goes into her neck, she goes stiff underneath me, looking at me with wide, panicked eyes. 

“You drugged me,” she sobs, the betrayal in her voice making my chest hurt.

I brush the hair off her face, press my forehead to hers, and start telling her things I haven’t told another living soul.

I’ll never hurt you.

I’m sorry.

~Elain~

Am I dead?

Why does it feel like I got hit by a bus?

Where am I? 

These three questions rattle around in my brain at the same time, all demanding answers, as soon as I open my eyes. 

And the weird part is... I don’t have any.

I have no idea if I’m alive or dead, but the headache I have that seems permanently settled behind my eyes points to the latter.

I blink the haze in my brain away and realize I’m at my house in bed, but my extend of knowledge seems to stop there. 

There’s a voice in my head whispering something, but it’s too quiet for me to understand what she’s saying. All I know is that I feel like I need to do something, need to get out of here. 

I rub my sore eyes and see there’s a note on the bedside table, written in precise, calm handwriting I recognize better than my own. 

Come downstairs. 

He’s here? I thought I went to his house, not the other way around.

The blinds are closed, but when I make my way to the window and peak out, I see a dark night sky, the moon reflecting off the water and making everything seen calm.  

What the hell happened to me?

I start to leave the room, intent on going downstairs and asking Azriel that very question. 

Except as I’m passing by my closet, I see something. 

Something small and so inconsequential, I almost don’t think anything about it.

Like I’m in a dream, I feel myself walk over to the corner of the room. I feel my knees hit the floor, see my finger extend to the floor and touch the tiny drop of liquid that caught my eye.

I pull back and look, and somehow, I’m not surprised to see that it’s blood.

The floors are dark enough I shouldn’t have been able to see it from so far away, but it’s like a part of me was looking for it. 

And that’s when it comes back to me.

Coming to surprise him, seeing the door in his garage, going downstairs... I press a hand to my mouth and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to fight the tidal wave of nausea washing over me. 

I remember seeing the blood first and wondering if someone was hurt, then coming further into the room to find myself in the middle of a nightmare. If I wasn’t so strangely sure it had been real, I would think it was a horror movie.

The man strapped down had been so brutalized, I doubt I would’ve recognized him even if I’d known him my whole life.

I remember running without a thought more, giving into the fight or flight impulse to get the hell out of there. 

I remember hitting Azriel, seeing him fall to the ground and looking up at me with those deep, wounded eyes that will haunt me more than the torture he inflicted on that poor man. 

Eyes that told me everything and nothing at the same time.

I remember looking into those eyes and crying at the pain in them that was surely reflected in my own. 

And then nothing. 

Why don’t I remember? How did I get back here?

I’m sorry. 

I finally recall that last whispered promise, and if I hadn’t already been sitting on the floor, I would’ve fallen to my knees as I realize what happened.

He drugged me.

Azriel, the same man who slow-danced with me in an empty restaurant and drove me along the coast and held me in his sleep, drugged me.

And he’s downstairs.

I start to hyperventilate, because I don’t know what to do or what he’s planning to do. Why is he still here?

What am I going to do? Should I call the cops?

I realize I don’t have my phone, probably a countermeasure on his part. 

I also realize there’s no way for me to run. I remember how fast he’d caught me, how easy it had been for him to render me useless. 

There’s no escaping him. Not if he’s already down there waiting, evil plan cooking in his mind.

I have no other option, unless I want to stay in this room for the rest of my life.

So with confidence I don’t feel, I walk downstairs. 

I find him sitting at my breakfast table, leaning back casually and sipping a cup of coffee despite the late hour. 

The moonlight clings to him like it loves him, playing off of his sharp cheekbones and illuminating his features. His face is carefully blank, but there’s a flicker of something as he looks at me, something that seems almost like relief. 

He’s calm and collected and everything I’m not, and it pisses me off. My world’s on fire, yet he’s sitting here like nothing’s wrong? And he’s drinking my coffee?

I stomp over to grab the stolen drink, then sit across from him and cross my arms. 

And wait.

Because I sure as hell am not talking first. 

He stayed because he has something to say. I don’t have anything to say to him. 

For a long time, we just stare at each other, because he’s apparently playing by the same rules. 

Then he accepts his defeat, sighs, and asks, “Why did you come to my house last night?”

I purse my lips, narrow my eyes, and try to stop myself from throwing the coffee in his face. 

Because he said that almost like an accusation. 

Like the problem is that I came over unannounced, not that he was torturing someone. 

“I’m not justifying that with a response,” I eventually tell him.

He gives me a hard look. “Answer the question.”

Something about the entirely male way he demanded that, like he expects a response immediately, makes me tilt my head and ask so sweetly I almost choke, “Why? Are you going to torture me if I don’t?”

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, showing the first sign of imperfection I’ve ever seen from him. “What you saw-”

“Was horrifying, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

He acts like I didn’t even speak. “-was something I meant to keep private from you.”

I don’t tell him that’s pretty fucking obvious at this point. 

Instead I ask, “Why?” 

I’m not sure why I want to know, but it suddenly feels important. 

He doesn’t takes his eyes off of me as he says, “Because you’re you. You shine so brightly it should be illegal, and you look at the world like it isn’t a terrible place. I didn’t want to take that from you.”

My throat feels uncomfortably tight all the sudden, but I clear it and say, “Well, you did.”

His jaw clenches, and he looks down. “I know. If I could go back and walk away, I would. Shit, I told myself I would more times than I can count. But I just... couldn’t. And I couldn’t tell you either. I wanted to, but I didn’t know how, Elain.”

The sound of my name on his lips makes my heart finally start beating again, but I still call him on his lie. “That isn’t why you never told me. You never told me because you knew I’d hate you the second you did.”

“Maybe,” he admits, looking back up at me. “But now you know, and I’m glad you do. You know everything now.”

It’s my turn to look down, because while I’d wanted to know the real him, I’d never imagined I’d find something like this. 

“No, I don’t. I don’t know anything, because you haven’t explained anything.”

He tilts his head. “What needs explaining?”

I ask the obvious question. “Who do you work for?”

“Myself.”

Once again, I don’t feel like justifying that with a response. He still isn’t saying anything that explains what I saw or why he’d do that to someone. 

If he isn’t going to say anything meaningful, I’m not having this conversation.

Eventually, he seems to realize this. Because he says, “I’m Capo of the Sicilian Outfit of the Cosa Nostra, Elain.”

I bite my lip so hard I taste blood, trying to keep my emotions in check. I don’t know how to feel, other than confused and angry.

“Any other questions?”

“Why did you drug me?”

If he just wanted to talk, he could’ve dragged me back to his place or maybe just say that. Not chase me down like a rapid animal.

“You were panicked, and I didn’t want to hurt you. I needed time to explain, needed to tell you this was never the plan.”

There’s something else there, and I narrow my eyes in a silent demand for him to continue.

Azriel sighs and admits, “My neighbors are business associates-” aka fellow criminals, “and I didn’t want them to hear you yelling and come to... investigate-” aka kill me, “or watch me get knocked unconscious by a twenty-four year old woman with a trash can.”

I give him a smug smile, more than ready to give him a repeat of that show, and try to decide what else to ask. 

But before I get the chance, he says, “I don’t see why this changes anything.”

My mouth falls open.

He doesn’t see- is he serious? “You’re joking.”

“I’m not known for my humor.”

I’m still stunned into silence, so he tilts his head and asks, “Why does it matter? Why does what I do make me a different person?”

When I don’t answer, he says, “It doesn’t. Nothing I do will ever come near you. You won’t ever have to see it again. I promise.” 

“It’s not about seeing it! It’s about knowing what you do when we’re not together. You kiss me goodbye, then go home and... there is absolutely no way I can go back to what we were doing before. You killed someone, Azriel.”

He straightens his cufflinks and shoots back, “He deserved it, Elain.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”

“First off, murder is illegal. So is torture, which from the way that man looked, you’d definitely been inflicting on him. Not only is it illegal, it’s wrong! He was an innocent human being-”

“He wasn’t innocent.”

I keep going. “You aren’t judge, jury, and executioner! You-”

He’s on me before I can finish, sliding a hand over my mouth and leaning over my chair. 

God, the man is fast. Has he always been that fast, or have I just never noticed?

“Let me explain something to you, Elain. On this island, I am. I decide who’s guilty, which he confessed to being. I decide the punishment, which was a bullet to the brain. I’m the executioner, and I pull the trigger myself, because I’m not a fucking coward.”

I fight his hold, trying to push him away, but he doesn’t even budge. 

“I play by different rules, bellissima. Just because you’ve never been exposed to them, or my world, doesn’t mean it hasn’t always existed. I’m the judge, jury, executioner, and the goddamn king.”

A shiver goes down my spine at his words. 

He pushes my head back, forcing me to meet his eyes. “And it doesn’t matter.”

I shake my head, bite his finger, push at his chest. But it doesn’t do any good.

“It doesn’t matter, because like I said, we live in two different worlds. I’d never let mine impact yours.”

I want to tell him that isn’t the problem, but his hand is still on my mouth. 

“Have you even asked yourself why you’re not afraid?” he asks out of the blue, surprising me. 

I stare blankly at him, no longer fighting, waiting for whatever he’s about to say.

“You’re scared of what I do, but you aren’t scared of me. Not really. If you were, you never would’ve come down those stairs.”

That’s why he looked relieved, I realize. He was worried I’d be scared of him.

Everything he’s saying makes sense, which makes no sense at all. 

Because if he’s right, and he certainly seems to think he is, it begs the question... why aren’t I scared of him?

He seems to see my ask myself that, because he answers it a second later.

Eyes growing softer, he murmurs, “It’s because you know I’d never hurt you, nor would I let anyone else.”

I remember him whispering that right before I passed out. I’ll never hurt you. 

He comes so close I can see the individual flecks of green in his dark hazel eyes. “I may do terrible things, and I’d do terrible things for you, Elain, but I’d never do them to you.”

“So you aren’t afraid. Just angry,” he concludes. Then he looks at me like he did the other day in the sea behind his house, right before he called me his. “Do you know why you’re angry, Elain?”

Currently, it’s because he’s explaining my emotions to me, which has to be the most male, obnoxious thing that’s ever happened in all of history.

But I have a feeling that isn’t what he’s talking about.

And I have another feeling that I’m not going to like what he’s about to say.

I take another glance at the look in his eyes and realize what he means, starting to fight again. I push at his chest and hands and try to get him to not say the words I know he’s going to. 

It doesn’t work. 

“You’re upset,” he says a moment later, slow and sure like always, “because I lied to you. You feel betrayed, like you don’t know me. But that isn’t why you’re angry.”

One hand on my face, the other in my hair, he holds me perfectly still as he whispers, “You’re angry because you were falling for me.”

I press my eyes closed, trying not to hear the words he’s saying as if that’ll make them any less true. 

But it doesn’t, because they are true. 

Every easy smile, midnight whisper, and lingering kiss he’s given me in the past month has given him a permanent place in my heart, and it hurts to have that all feel like a lie.

It hurts to look at him and not know if I recognize the person holding me.

A sob escapes me, which seems to confirm what he said, and he takes his hand off my mouth to wipe away a tear. 

His brow comes to rest against mine, and I breathe him in, unable to stop myself. 

There’s a war happening inside me, and it distracts me enough I don’t stop him from pulling me closer.

My heart plays me a montage of the past month, showing me countless moments where I’d been so positive I’d found paradise, so positive I’d found someone I could trust completely. It tells me Azriel has always felt like home, like something so inexplicably right I don’t even know how to describe it.

But my brain reminds me the hands cupping my cheeks softly are covered in blood and gunsmoke and victims’ tears. It tells me I’ve never really known the man I’m currently begging myself not to have feelings for. 

The battle inside of me rages on, and I cry harder, not even knowing who I want to win.

It only gets harder to choose as he murmurs, “Ance io mi sto innamorando di te.”

I’m falling for you, too.

I don’t know what to do or feel or think, and I’m so helplessly confused it makes me want to scream. 

Yet even though I’m confused, something about this makes sense. Something about knowing what he really does for a living makes everything in my head just click.

The way he’d redirect the conversation whenever I asked about his job. The way I’d always suspected him of hiding something about himself from me. The way every movement he’s ever made with me has been lined with restraint.

He could hurt me, has had the opportunity for months, but he never has. He’s always been careful with me, has always held and looked at me like I’m something precious to him.

My brain starts shifting to his side of the argument, and I can feel my morality ripping to shreds under his hands.

Before I can think, I shove him away, getting to my feet to point at the door. “Get out. You lied to me. You’re a murderer. A monster.”

Feelings or not, I know I can’t do this. I can’t just ignore what I saw, what he’ll continue to do. So he needs to leave.

He doesn’t.

Azriel just leans against the kitchen island counter and pulls out a cigarette, lighting it as he watches me for a long moment. 

“Maybe I am,” he says eventually around a mouthful of smoke. “But just because I’m a monster, Elain, doesn’t mean I can’t give you what we both know you need. Nothing has to change.”

It already has.

“I don’t need anything from you.”

“No?”

“No.”

He prowls toward me, the intent shining so clear in his eyes I take a step back for every one he takes forward. My back hits a wall, and he traps me between it and himself, caging me in with strong arms.

The line between right and wrong, good and evil, seems to blur as he gets closer and closer, and by the time we’re sharing air, I don’t know which way is up. All I know is him.

He takes a deep inhale of his cigarette, tips my head back with his thumb, and then breathes the smoke into my mouth. 

It should be disgusting, considering I don’t smoke and make it a point to avoid cancer-causing products in general. 

It should be. But it isn’t.

It’s the opposite of disgusting. 

There’s a buzz in my veins that has nothing to do with the nicotine, and I realize too late that he’s the vice I can’t quit. 

I’m too far gone, too addicted already.

He pulls back slightly, tucking the still-burning cigarette behind his ear. His eyes burn with intensity, and his dark hair and shoulders are surrounded by the smoke clinging to his shoulders like a shadow. 

He looks like the villain of a movie I never even knew I wanted to watch, and it physically pains me to have him this close and not be touching him, so I put my hands on his chest, fingers fisting in the expensive material of his suit.

His are on the wall by my head, bracing himself as he leans in and slowly licks a line across my lower lip, like he’s tasting me. 

My want for him is a tangible thing, and I have to ask myself if he’s right. Does it matter what he does, when he makes me feel like no one else ever has? Do I care enough to stay away from him?

“You don’t need me?” he asks again, so close his lips brush against mine.

I shake my head, even though I know it isn’t the truth. I do need him, and that’s why this hurts so damn bad. Why this betrayal cuts so deep.

Even though we’re so close he’s nothing but a blur, I can feel his eyes on me, burning a hole through me. 

And then he says something that changes everything. 

“Well, I need you,” he whispers, so softly it breaks my heart.

I’m lost.

I’m so goddamn lost in him, I forget everything we were talking about, forget everything he’s done. 

My knees go weak, and I cling to him, pulling him into me as I slip down the wall.

His lips crash against mine, and I know instantly that this is him. This is all of him. I finally know exactly who he is, and he doesn’t have to hide anymore.

It’s probably our hundredth kiss, but it feels like the first, and I’m drunk on it, drunk on him.

Hands in my hair, he kisses me like he wasn’t lying--like he needs me. 

My hands pull tighter, until there’s not an inch between us, and he makes a low sound in his throat. His are on my waist, gripping me tightly and telling me he wants this just as much as I do.

The restraint from before is all but gone, and I tremble at how much power is in his grasp, how small and fragile it makes me feel in comparison. 

My willpower crumples further, like a napkin in his fist, as his tongue teases mine, making me chase him for more.

Azriel pulls my lower lip between his teeth, pulling it between us as he draws back. It’ll be bruised tomorrow, but a sick part of me likes that he’s leaving his mark on me.

“Say it,” he say roughly, voice deep and scratchy with lust.

I don’t get a change to say it, or anything else, before he’s kissing me again, running his hands up my back and into my hair.

“Say it,” he demands again.

Maybe I’m not as lost as I thought, because I know what he wants but stay silent, refusing to give it to him.

Because I can’t.

Everything he said tonight makes sense, but I just... can’t.

He kisses me again, a lingering kiss that makes my chest ache, and almost pleads, “Say it, Elain. Say it doesn’t matter. Say you need me.”

The air grows thick as I stay silent, because it’s response enough.

His eyes narrow, and even though everything inside me begs me to, I don’t stop him as he steps away. 

“Only two more months here, and you want to spend them lying to yourself?”

I hadn’t even thought about the fact that I’m leaving so soon, but I don’t let myself get distracted. “I’m not lying to anyone.”

Except it feels like I am.

A smile pulls on his lips, but it isn’t friendly. “You’re fucking lying, and you know it. You know it doesn’t matter, you just can’t admit it, because then you’d be like me.”

Heart pounding, I shake my head, but he keeps going. “Fucking a monster would be condoning the devil’s work, right?”

He takes a step in, catching my wrists as I try to push him back, pinning them above my head, and laughing. 

“You saying you don’t want me is the most pathetic lie I’ve ever heard, carro. ”

“Azriel-”

Mouth next to my ear, he growls, “You’re really telling me if I slip my hand between your pretty thighs, I won’t find you wet and ready for me?”

I push against his hands and look away, all the confirmation he needs. 

He tsks, feigning disappointment. 

I close my eyes and fight my response to him with everything I have. I try to tell myself it matters, that what he does disgusts me, but it doesn’t sound believable to even myself at this point.

“I could prove it to you, make you come right here and now, but I don’t think I will.”

I’m breathing heavily, two seconds from passing out at the intensity and violence in his voice. 

“I think the next time I fuck you, Elain, you’re going to have to tell me you need me just as much as I need you. You’re going to tell me you want me, and you’re going to beg me for more.” He licks up the side of my neck, and I press my lips together to hold in the moan that wants to escape. “You’re going to tell the goddamn truth, and you’re going to fucking apologize for lying to me in the first place.”

I glare at him, silently conveying that that will never happen. He lied to me. I’m not apologizing for shit.

He sees that and everything else in my gaze, and he shakes his head slowly. 

“I’ll get your confession, Elain,” he promises, going to the door and almost ripping it off its hinges as he opens it. “I always do.”

___________________________________________________

Part 4

@perseusannabeth @cursebreaker29 @a-bit-of-a-cactus @elriel4life @girl-who-reads-the-books @shinya-hiiragi @aelinfeyreeleven945tbln @bamchickawowow @live-the-fangirl-life @ireallyshouldsleeprn @nahthanks @highqueenofelfhame @autophobiax @rowaelinismyotp @ghostlyrose2 @lovemollywho @inardour @tillyrubes10 @claralady @tswaney17 @rowanisahunk @superspiritfestival @thegoddessofyou @awesomelena555 @booksofthemoon @greerlunna @jlinez @studyliketate @over300books @justgiu12 @maastrash @aesthetics-11 @b00kworm @sleeping-and-books @musicmaam @hizqueen4life @maybekindasortaace @elorcan-trash @loosingdreams @januarystears @emikadreams @swankii-art-teacher @thedarkdemigod @full-tilt-diva @biggestwingspan-az @bookstantrash @mari-highladyof-feels @pilesofriles @teddytdr

#acotar #acomaf #acowar #acofas #acosf #a court of mist and fury #a court of thorns and roses #acomaf fanfiction #acotar fanfiction #elaine irwin #azriel #elriel #elriel fanfiction #elain x azriel #elain x azriel fanfiction

[quicksilversquared]

Superhero Salary

It all started with a joke. It ended with Ladybug and Chat Noir finally getting some of the compensation that they deserved.

After all, fame isn't going to pay the bills.

links in the reblog

It all started with a (mostly) joking comment from Chat Noir, blurted out in a moment of frustration.

"I hate it when that happens," he had grumbled after Ladybug knocked him free from the akuma's control. "Stupid, stupid mind-control akumas. Tell Hawkmoth that if he's going to insist on akumas like that, he's gonna have to pay for my therapy after this is all over!" he hollered after the akuma, who was clearly hopping mad about no longer having a superhero under his control. "A superhero salary doesn't exactly pay enough for it!"

He had been kidding, at least mostly. Kidding or not, though, the complaint was out there.

The moment had been picked up by the Ladyblog, of course, just as part of the bigger fight. But it wasn't long before it absolutely exploded over the internet.

Sure, maybe in comic books it was implied that superheroes always worked for free. But was that really fair? After all, Ladybug and Chat Noir were providing a service to the city. They were taking the time out of their normal lives to save Paris and put things back to rights, and they were doing it often. They had to come out whenever Hawkmoth sent out an akuma, not just when they had a spare bit of time that they could use to fight crime. Just like policemen and firefighters, they were putting themselves in danger by fighting on the front line. And if they were in jobs, or were in school- well, having to duck out regularly had to be affecting them, and not in a positive way.

If they had jobs, they could very well be on the edge of losing them because of all of the times they went missing. Even if they were self-employed- well, then they would still be losing out on some serious work time and having to work late into the night instead. And if they were in school...

Then they would be in danger of falling behind and need help to keep on top of their schoolwork. Tutors and online courses both cost money.

And on top of all of that, there was superhero merchandise being made using their colors and images, clothes and dolls and souvenirs and toys. Surely they should be getting a cut of the profit from that.

With only a few exceptions, Paris was soon in agreement: their superheroes needed to be earning a salary.

Marinette wasn't quite certain what to think of it all.

"Tikki, what do I say if the mayor decides to give us a salary?" she implored, slumping back in her chair. "I mean, even if it would be possible to safely get the money, I just don't know."

Part of her wanted to do the noble thing and say no to a salary. After all, she was Ladybug because she wanted to help! Plus, would public perception of them change if they were technically city employees? The mayor might think that he had the power to call them up on command, which would really stink.

But- well, Marinette was a teenager, and no sane teenager would turn down money, particularly when it was money for work that she had done. Even though she wasn't exactly struggling- she got an allowance, plus money from babysitting Manon and of course commission money, and besides she was a teenager and not an adult with a million living expenses- having more money in her account for fabric or design classes or her future career wasn't a bad thing.

"Well, Plagg and I could certainly set things up so that all of the money you get would be funneled through us and our magic," Tikki told her. "And we would be careful about not matching up the amounts or making them regular! There's ways that we can do it without attracting attention."

Marinette nodded. That was one question answered, but the other?

"As for if you should take the money..." Tikki considered that. "I mean, there's a lot to consider. But I'd like to point out that you don't know how long you'll be fighting Hawkmoth, or if there'll be any other threats after he's gone to deal with. That could interfere with you having a regular job. And if the akuma attacks keep disrupting your school day and you need to hire a tutor to help you keep up but you don't want your parents knowing, having the extra money could help. Or if you decide to sign up for an online school so that you can look up lessons that you missed in class, you could pay for that! But people might have strong opinions about superheroes taking money, too."

"That's a lot of positives and only one negative," Marinette pointed out. "I mean, it could be annoying to listen to people judging, but unless they're in the majority..."

Either way, it was going to be disheartening to hear people judging her for taking the money. But as long as they weren't in her face or spreading lies about her and Chat Noir now not being motivated to take down Hawkmoth because that would mean an end to the money or something ridiculous like that, she could probably ignore it. Maybe she could make some donations with the money she was getting to dispel those rumors.

Honestly, she'd probably do that anyway. There were so many organizations and people in need in Paris, and if Marinette was earning money then of course she would want to support them.

Of course, that all depended on if the officials even offered the salary in the first place, which was honestly looking really likely. It looked like public opinion was strongly in their favor, and the mayor was seriously easily waived by public opinion most of the time. And anything to do with the superheroes- well, it was publicity gold.

And in the end, it only took a week of deliberations- entirely about how much Ladybug and Chat Noir should be making, and puzzling out how much of the profit from sales of their merchandise they should be getting on top of their salary- before the announcement went out that the superheroes would be offered payment. A day after that, Ladybug and Chat Noir accepted their salary and gave the city's head payroll officer the information their kwamis had given them for the kwami bank accounts, so that they could get their paychecks without risking their secret identities.

"I didn't expect things to blow up like this when I said that, about not earning enough for therapy," Chat Noir admitted after they had left. He had seemed put-together and confident when they were in the office- which Ladybug had appreciated, because the sums that were being discussed were absolutely intimidating and having Chat Noir being so confident next to her helped her not get flustered. "I mean, yeah, down the road, I wouldn't be surprised if I get nightmares about fighting all the time and need to get help with that, but- well, I don't think I'd be able to, not unless I sign up as Chat Noir instead of my civilian self. And I don't know if I would necessarily want to do that, in case too much civilian stuff comes out."

Ladybug winced. Yeah, that was a real concern. And- well, she didn't ever admit it to anyone other than Tikki, but she sometimes had nightmares about the fights, too. And Chat Noir was right- a therapist could probably help.

But the identity concerns...

It was more than likely that some personal information would come out if they were talking to any sort of therapist, and that was dangerous. Maybe the chance of their therapists stumbling on their identities was low, but she still couldn't risk it.

Maybe they could go out of Paris to find someone, using the Horse to jump. Then their therapist would be even less likely to make the connection between Ladybug and Marinette, and with the distance from Paris, having the superheroes in their office might be less exciting than it would be for someone who saw the superheroes on a daily basis. But even that wouldn't really be a possibility until Hawkmoth was gone, when they actually got some semblance of free time back.

"I can't deny that the money could be helpful, though," Chat Noir added after a moment. "I mean, depending on how long the conflict drags on, or if we need anything that Tikki and Plagg can't provide to help us, or- well, when I get old enough to move out of my father's place, I want to. There's way too many people who think that they can just barge into my room without warning and poke around, and- well, it's not safe."

Ladybug glanced over at her partner again. He looked like he was her age- in fact, they had shared enough information inadvertently that she was positive that they were probably a year apart at most- which meant that he was facing years of people disregarding his privacy and potentially discovering his secret. "That's ages away, though."

"I know. I can't do much about it right now, though, besides just paying attention to where I'm detransforming." Chat Noir sighed. "I guess the money can't really help with that, not right now."

"Yeah. And that's not great." Ladybug tapped a rhythm against her leg, trying to come up with a solution and finding none. She just didn't have enough information about the situation to find places where they could do something. "I mean, the most I can come up with is a camera that you could connect to and move around to see if anyone is in there before going back in. And you could see if anyone is coming around and poking around that you don't know about. But- well, the problem is that cameras can be hard to hide, and if your father finds out and decides to review footage..."

"It could backfire on me, really fast." Chat Noir glanced around, then back at her. "Yeah, I know. I guess- well, for now, I won't change anything. Maybe something will come up in the future."

"Yeah, I'm not going to be changing much either, I think. But it's nice to have that money there in case I need it." It made her feel a little weird, honestly- after over a year of volunteer superheroing, accepting money for that was just strange- but maybe eventually, it would sink in that she was doing a job and deserved pay for it.

Chat Noir nodded. "Just in case. And, well- if we don't use it, it'll be a good start for my retirement account!"

Ladybug laughed at that, the awkwardness and concerns that she had had earlier flying away in an instant. "Teenagers with retirement accounts. Who would have thought?"

"Well, you can never be too prepared, right?"

Ladybug giggled again, imaging the looks on her parents' places if she sat down for dinner and started asking questions about retirement accounts and for their advice in setting one up. Maybe it wouldn't be completely out of left field- after all, unlike most of her classmates, Marinette did earn money with commissions, and enough that she would not be spending it all- but it was also a strange thing for a teenager to ask about.

Well. At least it wasn't a bad problem to have.

  A week later, Ladybug and Chat Noir officially received their first paychecks, with back payments pending. And by that time, the two of them had figured out where those payments were going.

Most of the money, of course, would be held in the kwami bank accounts until it could be trickled into their civilian bank accounts. How much, exactly, could be deposited without being noticed was still being decided- Ladybug could definitely get away with more than Chat Noir, though she figured that varying amounts and not at regular intervals would stick out less than regular payments. They were still trying to figure out how they might get retirement accounts going- even as much as they joked, it wasn't exactly a bad idea.

And then part of the money would go to charity. It was just a nice thing to do, after all, and since they had spare money- well, it would just be a good idea to help out a little bit more. They didn't want to make too big of a deal out of their donations, since it was very possible that people would judge where they were donating, how much they were donating, how often they were making their donations, and how their donations did or didn't change over time. There would no doubt be people petitioning the superheroes to support their favorite charities, which- well, maybe it would be a good way to learn about new causes, but it sounded like more stress than it would be worth. Besides, Ladybug and Chat Noir were private citizens behind the mask, and they deserved to have some privacy about their finances.

All they needed to tell the public was that they were donating anonymously and wouldn't be disclosing the places or amounts for those reasons. It was a simple answer, and should satisfy most of the population. There would no doubt be a few naysayers- there almost always were a few people who just had to be difficult- but it was a reasonable answer.

Thankfully, the person who had interviewed Ladybug and Chat Noir about what they were going to do with their first paychecks- a kind man from a mid-sized newspaper, who had earned the spot of first interview entirely because he hadn't been pushy about asking- had thought that their reasoning was plenty sound. They were hardly going to be millionaires, and so expecting them to donate large amounts on a regular (and frequent) basis was completely ridiculous. Keeping things private- well, that meant that people who were out of touch wouldn't be moaning about donations that they were perceiving as too small.

Just because Ladybug and Chat Noir were famous didn't mean that they were rich.

Marinette hummed quietly to herself as she skimmed the article that the reporter they had talked to had written. While the interview itself had taken place several days prior, the article had just been released that morning to coincide with both their first payment and the start of the month. It was very nicely written, and framed their reasoning in an even more clear and articulate light than they had managed themselves. She didn't doubt that it would get noticed soon, and then the speculation about whether or not Ladybug and Chat Noir would donate some of their earnings would be put to rest for once and for all-

"Wait, Ladybug and Chat Noir aren't donating any of their salary? That's so unlike them!"

-or maybe not.

"I was surprised too, they just completely brushed me off when I suggested that they donate part of their salaries," Lila told her audience as they swept into the room as a- well, as a flock, really, that was the only way to describe it. "It's what I would do if I was a superhero, of course, so I thought that they would feel the same! It's such a let-down, I really thought that they were better than that..."

"I would say that maybe it's because they've donated so much of their time to the city already, but I know I heard something at some point about backpayments to cover their time from the start," Alya commented, her eyebrows furrowed. "So that's not really donated time anymore, is it?"

"Maybe they have bills to pay," Rose piped up, clearly ever-hopeful. "And they need to get caught up with that first, of course. That would make sense!"

Of course, Lila was shaking her head as she headed up to her seat, with the rest of the group following not far behind to keep listening. "They're too young for bills. I met up with them again this morning and was trying to talk some sense into them because really, they could just do small donations, even a little bit helps- I would know, I've seen how far money can stretch and help in a charity! But even now that they have the money in their hands, they just want to keep it."

There were murmurs of disappointment all around the group gathered around Lila at that. Even though donations clearly weren't mandatory- well, they thought that the superheroes should be better role models than that! If they didn't have bills to pay, surely...

"And it's not like they're not getting enough to have both spending money and do a little charity," Lila said, shaking her head sadly. "Plenty of spending money, even! And I pointed that out, but they got really upset with me. I'd hate for our friendship to be destroyed over this really, but it's just- I feel like I don't know them at all now!"

Frankly, Marinette had heard enough. She wasn't going to let her reputation as Ladybug- or Chat Noir's reputation- get slandered by Lila's nonsense.

"Funny thing," Marinette commented in the most deadpan, disinterested voice that she could muster, not even taking her eyes off of her tablet as she talked. "You say that you met up with the superheroes this morning and they weren't interested in doing donations, and yet there's an article in La Trib this morning about an interview they did with the superheroes days ago that say otherwise. It says that donating was in their plan from the start."

The group in the back of the room went quiet.

"Marinette is correct," Markov commented after a moment, breaking the silence. "The article was posted one hour ago, though the paper copy presumably went out earlier. The superheroes stated that they have been looking at charities since they first heard that they might be getting money for their superhero work, as they wish to continue to help Paris. Their donations will be anonymous and private to protect their privacy and to prevent unwanted commentary on their choices."

Marinette glanced back. All eyes were slowly turning from Markov to Lila.

"There is also a video of the interview linked on the online version of the article," Markov added. "And the metadata confirms that it was filmed several days ago."

Several of the eyes pointed towards Lila were getting narrowed and suspicious.

"Oh, that- that's lovely!" Lila exclaimed, somewhat belatedly pressing her hand over her heart. "Maybe they were just trying to wind me up to tease me, then! And I misread the situation and took them seriously. Or they were trying to give me a pleasant surprise! It happens, sometimes- I'm not always great at catching sarcasm-"

This time, not everyone looked entirely convinced.

Smiling to herself, Marinette looked back at her tablet, closing out of the article and opening up their reading for Literature so that she could review it- or, well, finish reading it, because an akuma had interrupted her the previous night and it had been too late to pick it up again once the fight was over. If she hurried, she might be able to finish it before Ms. Bustier called for a start to class, and then she wouldn't get in trouble again for not doing her homework.

Honestly, if Lila's track record was anything to go by, she would probably wriggle her way out of the lie by the afternoon and the whole incident would be forgotten. But maybe this time would end up different- after all, Marinette had never seen that doubt before- and Lila's tower of lies would finally come toppling down. It was long overdue, really, but Marinette wasn't going to hold her breath.

If it happened...well, if their superhero salary was like a surprise cake, then a Lila downfall would be the cherry on top.

#Miraculous Ladybug #my writing #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste #superhero retirement fund

[gellavonhamster]

in the bleak midwinter*: an asoue/atwq peaky blinders au concept

...also known as the idea that’s been living in my brain for what must be a couple of years now; I have reconciled myself with the fact that I will never write this fic because I simply do not have enough patience to think it out and write it down in the way that would give it justice, so here’s a plot bunny or something.

This is basically the Sugar Bowl Generation of VFD (still young, before kids and all) meets All The Wrong Questions (some of the events + some of the kid characters of ATWQ as adults) meets season one of Peaky Blinders, but I guess it could be read and understood without the knowledge of the latter simply as an organized crime AU.

It’s the beginning of the interwar period, and VFD is a gang. Which, yes, would require a certain amount of OOC of the characters, though I imagine their intimidation tactics would still avoid too much bloodshed. They deal with bookmaking, contraband, and sometimes art forgery because even this version of VFD has to have something sophisticated about it. There’s a number of places, such as bars and clubs, that pay them for protection, and there’s also a number of places they own, such as the Hotel Denouement with the Denouement brothers in charge and the nightclub ran by Ramona Browning**, alias the Duchess (her father was some kind of aristocracy, see, too aristocratic to ever truly acknowledge her). They use their influence to become the informal rulers of their part of the City. They claim to strive for power to make the City a better place, and these are not just words - they do donate money to schools and libraries, for example - but it’s not like they don’t enjoy being in power, and their rule is still based on crime, those who threaten it being eliminated swiftly. 

The Snickets are the Shelby family of this AU, of course. Lemony is Tommy - the mastermind, already a legend of sorts despite being the youngest, plagued by the horrors of war - but still hoping for the best, strange as it seems, because he’s still Lemony. Jacques is Arthur, the fighter suffering from PTSD. Kit is Ada, but she’s also Aunt Polly - she’s the one who ran the business while the boys were in the army. 

Now, season one introduced Grace Burgess as an undercover police informant spying on the Peaky Blinders.

Enter Ellington Feint.

Ellington’s father, the only family she has left, has been kidnapped by a gang called the Inhumane Society, and she’d do anything and everything to save him. So she agrees to infiltrate VFD, their rival gang, to find out the whereabouts of a shipment of weapons that was meant for the Society but was accidentally stolen by VFD. Apart from machine guns and shells, the shipment includes some “statue of a sea beast”, and no one cares to provide more explanations to Ellington about it, but apparently it is the most important part of that cargo. So Ellington takes on the position of a barmaid in The Black Cat Bar, one of the places that pay VFD for protection and the one frequented by its key members, and starts listening and watching.

Ellington needs to get close to the Snickets, because if anyone knows where the weapons are, it’s them. Steward Mitchum, the corrupt cop on the Society’s payroll whom she is to meet from time to time at the Natural History Museum (which she used to attend with her father) to pass on the information, suggests she should seduce one of the Snicket brothers. The problem is, Ellington has a chance to learn very soon that Jacques doesn’t know much about the stolen cargo, and Lemony is too taken with his girlfriend, the music hall singer Beatrice Baudelaire, to even look at any other woman. There’s no getting between them, even though it seems Beatrice also has something going on with VFD’s bookkeeper Bertrand Markson, and Lemony seems aware of it. 

So Ellington decides to approach Kit instead. Kit, who seems so lonely - Ellington doesn’t know the details, but there was some serious falling-out between her and her ex-boyfriend, who has since left the City (and won’t appear in this story. Olaf is the problem for the hypothetical season two of this imaginary show). Ellington doesn’t plan on anything other than a very close friendship - yet, the closer they become, the more she understands that she is attracted to Kit.

(There certainly is a variant of the “I warn you, I’ll break your heart” - “Already broken” scene in which Ellington sings to Kit)

Anyway. Things progress, and they fall in love. Well, Kit seems to have fallen in love, and Ellington keeps trying to persuade herself that she hasn’t, because Kit has to remain nothing but a task for her.

The location of the stolen weapons, however, still remains a mystery, even though Ellington once hears Kit and Lemony discuss it. Whatever the statue is, Lemony seems to believe it has great powers, and Kit seems to believe it’s nothing but folklore. Lemony tells her of the stories of a mysterious sea animal (or spirit, or whatever it may be) he heard from other soldiers during the war, about what Widdershins heard during his time in the navy. Kit tells him that everyone is a believer in a foxhole, and that she loves W like her own kin but he’s a bragging idiot. There was nothing on the sea other than enemy ships.

Elllington’s mission is complicated by Lemony clearly not trusting her. He tells her it’s because his sister has been hurt before, but she suspects it’s more than that. He even admits that he had his people make enquiries in Paltryville, the town she claims to have come from, and found out that no Ellington Feint ever lived there. When he suggests her secrecy is due to a child born out of marriage, she is eager to confirm that. (Cue him asking her if she’s read Les Misérables - yeah, even this version of VFD would be literature nerds, how can it be otherwise - because this whole situation reminds him of Fantine, and her lying that she hasn’t and thinking that she’s more of a Javert at the barricade, really).

Then there’s a masquerade party at the Duchess’s club, and Kit takes Ellington there as her date. (Which is okay, because if there’s any place in the City where a woman dancing with another woman or a man dancing with another man would not be looked at askance, it’s the Duchess’s club. If I was actually writing a fic, there would definitely be a scene in which Ellington observes Beatrice asking Bertrand to dance with her and Bertrand trying to decline by telling her that, since he didn’t have time to procure a mask, he shouldn’t be on the dancefloor at all, and then Lemony approaches him with a spare mask in hand and encourages him to dance with Beatrice and puts the mask on Bertrand himself and it somehow looks so intimate as if he’s undressing him and Ellington’s like “Oh, so it’s like that with them. This is probably of no use to me but still, good to know”). 

When Kit disappears at some point, Ellington follows her quietly and eavesdrops on her conversation with one of the Denouements. He tells her that his brother is all right and sends his regards. Later at the party, however, Ellington sees two Denouements. Why would one of them send the other’s regards to Kit if they’re all in the same room? A couple of drinks with the already tipsy Olivia (officially a fortune-teller, but who knows what purposes VFD really uses her salon for?), and Ellington learns that there used to be three Denouements, actually. But the third brother, Dewey, had a conflict with one of rival gangs which nearly resulted in a war, had not Lemony agreed to dispose of Dewey. To stop that gang from going against VFD, he killed Dewey with his own hands.

Except he didn’t, Ellington thinks. Lemony must have staged Dewey’s execution, and now he’s out there very much alive. Perhaps this knowledge will come in handy.

Meanwhile, the Inhumane Society, who have other beef with VFD apart from the stolen weapons, are getting impatient. There’s a gun-fight which results in Ike Anwhistle dying and his grieving widow, Josephine, telling Lemony it is all his fault and leaving the city. (I know I said this is based on s1 only, but they’re the John and Esme Shelby of this story). And Bertrand is severely wounded. VFD needs another bookkeeper while he’s recovering, and Kit, who knows from The Black Cat’s owner Dashiell Qwerty that Ellington has also been keeping the books of the bar lately and doing it well, offers this position to her. This gives Ellington an opportunity to learn more about the asserts and resources of VFD - and a chance to discover some interesting notes scribbled next to the name of Dewey Denouement. Dewey Denouement, who is only officially dead, but still has a grave at the cemetery.

Ellington tells Stew she has an idea where the weapons and/or the statue might be hidden.

When she meets some of the members of the Inhumane Society to take them to the tomb, she is surprised to see Hangfire himself among them. She’s only seen him in passing before, this mysterious man with his face covered in bandages. They say he’s been horribly disfigured during the war. They also say he came back mad. When they’ve done some digging and unearthed, instead of a coffin, several crates of guns - and opened one of them to find a small statue of what seems like a very scary seahorse - Mitchum and Flammarion are suddenly shot down, and Lemony Snicket steps from behind a gravestone. 

He’s been following them.

Of course he didn’t believe that all Miss Feint is hiding is an illegitimate child, Lemony tells them as he’s holding Hangfire at gunpoint. He’s been doing research. In fact, the man whose grave they’ve unearthed is presently in a unique position allowing him to make research away from the City. He’s found out that Ellington Feint is the daughter of a renowned naturalist Armstrong Feint, who’s recently gone missing. And then they managed to discover something more. 

This is when Hangfire grabs a gun and points it at Lemony, and Lemony aims at Ellington instead, which for some reason stops Hangfire from shooting. 

This is also when it turns out that Lemony has also been followed, and Kit Snicket steps from behind another gravestone, pointing a gun at her brother. He keeps aiming at Ellington, wearily telling Kit she isn’t really going to shoot him. 

Kit tells him that unless he drops the gun, he’ll find out.

(When Ellington tries to speak to Kit, she just tells her to shut up. And it hurts, because Kit has stopped being just a mission a long time ago. And now she knows that Ellington’s been lying to her from the start. And she may not want Ellington to die, but she would also hardly ever forgive her. And that would be fair).

And then Hangfire tries to shoot Kit, and Ellington screams, and Kit manages to spring back, and Lemony fires at the man who tried to kill his sister, and suddenly Hangfire is bleeding out on the ground and calling out to Ellington in her father’s voice. 

That is what they’ve also found out about Hangfire, Lemony tells her as she’s kneeling beside the body, unable to bring herself to uncover his face. He sounds genuinely surprised; he thought she knew.

Kit makes him let Ellington go and tells her she doesn’t want to see her ever again. And Ellington leaves. She takes a train to some seaside town she’s never heard of before and leaves. Her job is ended. Her father is dead. Her love affair that never should have happened is in the past. She still doesn’t know why her father lied to her when he could have just asked and she would’ve done anything, why he kept up this double life, what was the significance of the statue and what it might become in the hands of someone like Lemony Snicket. She is too tired and sick of it all to try to find out.

She manages to build a life in Stain’d-by-the-Sea. She works in a coffee shop and sings there in the evenings. She never sings the song she sang to Kit again. She marries a man she doesn’t have any truly strong feelings for.

Then, a year or so later, there’s a phone call, and the voice of the woman she loved and betrayed tells her she still can’t stop thinking of her.

*This phrase used by the Peaky Blinders upon the death of one of them is replaced by “The world is quiet here”. Obviously.

**My Last Duchess, referenced in ASOUE in connection with R, is written by Robert Browning.

#asoue #atwq #a series of unfortunate events #all the wrong questions #snicketverse #kitsnickettsfam #ellington feint #kit snicket #kitlington #lemony snicket #hangfire #stew mitchum #duchess of winnipeg #dewey denouement #beatrice baudelaire #bertrand baudelaire #lemonberry ice #talk talk talk #gella talks snicketverse #my fic #not exactly but this got too long to be just a headcanon so??? i guess

[its-deputy-caleb]

Micah Bell Imagine- Rewarding good behaviour Pt.2

sub micah you say? well ask and you shall receive 😌 i wrote this for myself for those other ppl who liked it. Now this is a smut so for those who don’t want to read this pls don’t but i did try to keep it gender neutral so i hope everyone can enjoy this if they want. anyway my writers block has been TERRIBLE so this is kinda rushed and unedited so i apologise in advance but as always pls enjoy this as much as i enjoy writing.

____________________________

Micah has spent the last week half hard, drowning himself in liquor as he tried to block out the memory of what happened at the saloon.

He’s been blaming the whiskey for how easy he found it to submit to you that night but deep down he knew that was a pathetic excuse to how much he actually enjoyed that night with you.

As it turns out, robbing a stagecoach was more difficult than he thought anticipated. Fuck.

Usually Micah goes in guns blazing and doesn’t care about who dies or if the job is successful since he could always rob another. But he’d be damned if he said this was a normal robbery.

He wanted so badly to be praised for this job. He needed it. Micah found himself second guessing every decision he made, hoping he’d be making the right choices so when he finally had the courage to return to you, you’d give him exactly what he needed.

It took a few extra days to actually plan the job, a concept foreign to Micah but eventually he found a nice coach passing through Lemoyne filled with a large amount of payroll.

Micah surprised even himself when he successfully pulled off the robbery without anyone dying, of course that didn’t mean he couldn’t heavily injure those few guards who were a little more unwilling.

After evading the law he rode back to camp with a mixture of nervousness and arousal at seeing you again. He kept asking himself if you’d be happy to see him or if you were as drunk as he was and wanted to forget the whole thing.

As always Micah listened to his dick before his brain and push aside any self conscious thoughts before carrying the large sack of money over his shoulder, making sure that everyone could see the large amount of payroll he managed to bring in. Although it boosted his ego by a mile, he really only wanted your attention and would be damned about anybody else’s.

Micah placed the bag down by the ledger, letting it slump against the barrel. He’d already taken his share so he hurriedly opened the little green book to scribble in the several hundreds that came from today’s events.

The money was quickly forgotten as Micah saw you walking towards him, a confident smile on your face as you leant against the barrel.

You noticed the sweat running down Micah’s face as you took the collar of his shirt into your hand, dragging him closer and in for a kiss.

He’s hesitant at first, still restless from the robbery and highly alert of all the other camp members no doubt watching you two together but eventually he leans into you, letting out a sigh into your mouth as you hold him.

“You’ve been busy.”

You take Micah’s face into your hands as he nods, using it as an excuse to move into your touch more and letting his eyes close softly.

You rub slow circles along his cheek, feeling the prickle of the beginning of his beard as he looks you in the eyes at your next question.

“Any casualties?”

Micah perks up instantly, smiling a toothy wide grin as he recounts how well his little robbery went.

“Good boy, now how about that reward hmm?”

Micah would like to say that the two hours you both spent at the saloon drinking and flirting was the reason why his hands shook slightly and there was a constant neediness to his voice.

By the time you both made it to the hotel across the street, all his excuses and denial of feelings were left at the door with his coat and hat.

Micah landed softly on the mattress, the bed dipping even further as you came to sit on his lap, instantly leaning down for a kiss.

You break apart to look down at him, holding his chin between your fingers so he’s forced to look up at you. You instantly notice flush on his cheeks that trails down his chest, hidden under his half opened shirt.

“I’m real proud of you sweetheart, you did such a good job today. You ready for your reward you’ve been patiently waiting for?”

Micah doesn’t break eye contact with you as his blush deepens as a loud and unashamed moan falls from his lips.

His hands sit restlessly against your waist, trying to pull you in even closer and you cave into his clingy behaviour, running your fingers through his hair and dragging him into another kiss.

A whine leaves Micah as you stand up to undress the two of you which only really dies down when you push him onto the middle of the bed and climb back on top of him.

Moans and sighs leave Micah’s lips as you sink down onto his cock, moving up and down in slow controlled movements.

Micah’s hips buck involuntarily and he whines as you grip his hair tightly and stop moving.

“Please, oh please keep moving darlin’... You’re killing me here”

You take the opportunity while you have his neck exposed to place bites along his throat, leaving a nice bruise underneath his jaw. The mark is too high up to cover and you smile triumphantly at your work as Micah trembles underneath you.

“Do that again and i’ll leave you here okay?”

You return to moving up and down on his cock, taking pleasure for yourself as you use him. Your pace quickens slightly, as does your breathing as he hits the perfect spot inside you, making your gut coil.

Micah whimpers underneath you, your hand still holding tightly onto his hair, pulling on it each time you move. Micah has his own hands fisted into the sheets, knuckles turning white as he fights the urge to grab onto your hips and meet your thrusts

“Look at you... such a good boy.”

Your moans get louder as you continue to move at a fast and unrelenting pace. You love the way Micah’s face is flush with his mouth open, letting out a constant string of incoherent whiny noises.

You bend down to kiss him opened mouth, tongue and teeth clashing as you both feel yourself getting closer to the edge.

Your hand moves from his hair to his mouth, muffling the noises he’s making as he sucks on your fingers. You remove your fingers from his mouth, leaving a trail of spit from the tips to his lips and use them to touch yourself, bringing yourself closer to an orgasm.

After one final thrust you fall forward as your orgasm hits you, leaning your weight on Micah’s chest and clawing at the soft skin you find there.

Micah isn’t far behind you, as his hands finally move from the sheets to you hips as he sits up, thrusting into you as he spills inside of you. His face is hiding in your neck as you both breathe heavily, trying to regain your strength.

That night, Micah is curled up against you, his head resting on your chest. You run you hands softly through his damp and slightly greasy hair, smoothing out the knots and tangles you caused and soothing his slightly sore scalp.

You feel his breathing even out against your skin, noticing he’s finally fallen asleep with a content look on his face as you place a gentle kiss on his forehead.

#micah bell #rdr2 writing #micah bell imagine #micah bell x reader #rdr2 #i live for sub micah okay #micah and his praise kink #gn!reader #nsft post

[wkemeup]

By Any Other Name (11)

series summary: When Special Agent Bucky Barnes is tasked with infiltrating the notorious gang Hydra and gathering evidence against its leader, Brock Rumlow, Bucky finds himself drawn to the woman who doesn’t seem to belong in this world of violence, the wife of the head of Hydra… you. pairing: bucky x reader chapter word count: 6.2k warnings: brief smutty thoughts, some sexual context, kissin’ in secret  🌹series masterlist 🌹

The following morning, you found James again on the stoop of your front door, discoloration littering his face, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He tugged his bottom lip between his teeth as ocean blue eyes raked down over you, the steady stream of sunlight obstructed by his stance, a halo illuminating over his shoulders. 

But there was something darker hidden behind his stare, something that made you wonder what it would feel like for him to push you up against the wall, for his knee to part at your thighs and his hands to seek out the comfort of your warmth, to feel the full weight of his body and lose yourself in him.

A look like that was dangerous.

Especially with your husband standing just a few feet away.

You bowed your head and stepped aside, allowing James to enter your home, though you felt his stare linger as he slipped past. He knew the taste of your lips now. It wasn’t a kind of knowledge he could easily hide, not with the smirk on his face, even through the busted lip.

You stared at one another and you found yourself wondering, not for the first time, what he looked like under the layers of dark wash jeans and black t-shirts and bomber jackets he wore. You wondered how sculpted he was, where the lines of his muscles connected, if he’d keep biting his lip like that if you trailed your hand low enough down his stomach, if it slipped under the band of his jeans...

It took a moment before you remembered you weren’t alone.

“Ah, Karpov! It’s good to see your ugly mug,” Brock snickered from across the room, playfully almost, like he wasn’t the one responsible for beating bruises and scar tissue into James’ face. He sat in his usual thrown, sipping on a bourbon despite the early hour of the morning. “You still look like shit.”

James nodded, a humorless chuckle escaping him, though he pushed out a tight-lipped smile for you. He rolled his eyes dramatically as Brock turned to shout for Clara to arrange for breakfast and you struggled to contain the grin sneaking up your cheeks.  

“We’ve got business to attend to,” Brock said flatly, waving you off dismissively as he stood from his chair and made his way to the bar cart.

You gritted your teeth, knowing better than to challenge him after what happened the previous night. His hands were still red and broken at the knuckles, still carrying the evidence of what he’d done. He was purposeful in keeping them visible, without bandages, out in the open. It was a power move, to remind his men what he was capable of.

With Brock’s back turned to you to refill his glass, you brushed your fingertips along the outside of James’ thigh as you made your way to the back hallway, smirking as you felt a shiver jolt up his spine. James bit on his lip to keep from smiling, sending you a teasing warning look.

You winked at him before making your escape, your husband oblivious to what was happening over his shoulder.

In all the playfulness, the simple high of just being in James’ presence, it was easy to forget the world of barriers between you; a marriage certificate that held no meaning, an expansive criminal enterprise holding you hostage under threat of blackmail, and a violent, jealous man who saw you as little more than a possession he could dust off from the closet and flaunt to his friends.

It kept you from James, from running to him and letting him sweep you off your feet. It prevented you from kissing him the first second you saw his face again, from gingerly brushing fingers over his wounds and pulling him down into your arms, from whispering in his ear how much you adored him. It forced you to hold your affections to the shadows of this house, to keep them smothered and burning until you were safe together behind closed doors.

It was more than you’d had in years; this feeling.

You could vaguely hear James and Brock’s voices as you made your way down the hall to the library. Your fingers trailed over the edge of the wall, the cervices in the intricate hand carved detailing of the wood, and catching the dust from the designs. It didn’t much matter what they were talking about, but you gathered enough from their distant conversation to know a shipment was coming in at the end of the month. It was an important one, supposedly. It could sink off the coast for all you cared.

A slight buzzing in your pocket startled you as you stepped into the library. You pulled your phone from your pocket to find Peter’s face lit up on the screen; a large, toothy grin on his seven-year old face as he held up a skateboard and a missing front tooth. You smiled for a moment before you remembered the conversation you’d had with him near four in the morning, after James dragged himself down to a cab at the edge of the driveway despite your reluctance to let him leave.

The moment James’ cab disappeared down the end of the street, you raced up to your room for your phone to check on Peter. He’d answered on the first ring despite the hour of the night, apologizing profusely and sobbing so hard it was near impossible to make out what he was saying because he was certain that Brock and his men had killed James’ for his mistake.

It took you ten minutes to get him to calm down enough just to tell him that James was alive; a little worse for wear, but alive.

You held your breath as you closed the library door behind you and answered his call.

“Hey Peter, you alright?”

“Areyousurehe’sokay?” Peter blurted out before you could finish. You could hear the relentless pacing on the other end of the line, the slight squeaks of his floorboards and the shallow breaths muffling the speaker. “Because you said—you said he went home after—after what happened and he—he lives by himself, doesn’t he? So—So what if he got some kind of brain injury and went to sleep and just didn’t wake up? No one would know. We wouldn’t-- how would we know?!”

“Peter, he’s--”

“God he’s probably lying dead in his apartment right now and it’s all my fault!” Peter cried out, ignoring your pleas urging him to calm down. You could practically picture him tugging on the ends of his hair until short brown stands fell out into his palms. “Did he—did he have family? I need to—I need to say something and tell them I’m sorry and--”

“Peter, hold on—”

“I can’t believe this is happening... I can’t believe I got him ki—”

“Peter!”

He clamped his jaw, silencing mid-sentence.

“James isn’t dead,” you said sternly, just enough to make sure he actually heard you. “I just saw him this morning. He’s standing in the living room talking with Brock right now.”

The gasp on the other end of the line alerted you to your mistake just as the name slipped past your lips.

“YOU LEFT HIM ALONE WITH THAT MONSTER!?”

It took another five minutes to calm him down again.

It was a strange feeling, explaining to Peter the dynamics of how Brock operated. Even in the week since you’d learned from James that Peter knew of the underworld you lived in, you’d never even uttered the name Hydra around him; keeping it stored away behind lock and key, as if refusing to speak of it would somehow make it disappear from your lives.

Though, as you told Peter of Brock’s patterns of violence, how once he determined that his victim had enough and he no longer had the scalding heat of vengeance running in his veins, he put on that sadistic grin of his and moved on as if nothing happened, it seemed to help Peter calm down. You explained that Brock needed James, after all. He wasn’t as disposable as Jack Rollins had been. James was good at his job; remarkable actually, because he’d been the only enforcer to never once run into trouble with the cops. Brock had begun to suspect he had the feds on his own payroll and gave him a hefty raise for the initiative.

“It’s over with now,” you said, listening for Peter’s breaths to even out again. “Brock won’t bring it up again. He’s got it out of his system. It’s just how he works.”

A pause, a short exhale of a breath, and then, “y-you’re sure?”

“Yes,” you replied gently. You paced along the aisled of books, phone clenched in your hand until the muscles ached, your left arm crossed over your waist and gripping tight to your sweater. There was a lump in your throat, a painful burn that made it hard to swallow to picture him slump down onto his bed, the sniffles that came through the speaker. It broke your heart.

“I promise, Peter,” you added when you heard him start to muffle the speaker of his phone, the faint sound of him trying to hold back tears of relief piercing straight through to your chest. “James is alright and... Brock won’t come after you. Do you hear me? Even if he tried, I’d kill him before he could.”

It startled you as you said it, but there was a certainty behind your words. There was no reluctance, no room for hesitancy or remorse. It was a matter of fact. If he went for Peter, you’d kill him.

“Is he mad at me?”

You narrowed your eyes, surprised by the question. “Pete, I told you that once Brock gets it out of his sys--”

“I didn’t—I didn’t mean him.”

You sighed, closing your eyes as you leaned against the aisle, surrounding yourself in the smell of old, worn paper and the cedar candle burning by the couch. You hadn’t even had a chance to talk with James about Peter beyond knowing the events that brought James to the basement in the first place.

Still, there was no hesitation when you told him, “James doesn’t blame you, Peter.”

“How can--” Peter took in a deep breath though it was shaken, his voice nasally like he was pinching at his nose, “how can you be sure? Y/n, he took that beating for me and he barely—he hardly even knows me.”

A sudden touch to your hand pulled a gasp from your lungs and you turned to find James standing next to you. You hadn’t even heard the front door close at your husband’s departure, the gentle squeak of the hinges to your library, or his footsteps as he approached, but seeing him was like a relief all its own.

He narrowed his eyes quizzically, gesturing to the phone, as he intertwined his hand in yours. He squeezed it lightly before bringing your hand to his lips and pressing kisses to each of your knuckles.

“Peter,” you started, signaling to James who you were speaking to and while his smile didn’t falter, his eyes drifted down, a sadness taking over the waves of blue. “He’s here with me now. You can ask him yourself if you--”

“No!”

You froze, pulling the phone back to your ear. James nodded at you, letting you know it was alright and he bent down to kiss your shoulder.

“N-No, I—I'm sorry,” Peter stuttered, a grunt of frustration shortly following. “After what he did for me... he can’t possibly want to talk to me again...”

Your heart broke and James seemed to notice the pain seeping into your features. You imagined he heard Peter’s voice through the speaker as well because he silently gestured for the phone. He kept his free hand held firm in yours and while you were reluctant, you handed over the phone to him.

“Hey kid,” he said, and you could practically picture Peter jolting up from his bed in shock. “Don’t be mad at Y/n, I stole the phone from her.”

You smiled, leaning against his chest. He released your hand just long enough to wrap an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer.

“Now, talk to me. I'm not going anywhere until you do,” James asked, a kind of gentleness in his voice that nearly brought tears to your eyes.

He offered you that sweet smile of his, silent encouragement wrapped between soft, pink lips, and you sighed of relief, leaning your forehead to rest on his shoulder.

As he spoke to Peter, conversation carrying on longer than a few minutes, James decided to lead you carefully back to the couch. He sunk down on the cushion nearest the armrest, guiding you to lie down beside him and rest your head on his thigh. His fingers ran along your shoulders, your back, through your hair, knowing how little sleep you had the night before. He was always trying to soothe you, draw out your tension with the tenderness of his hands. Selfless even in unconscious movement.

“You did the right thing, kid,” James said a few minutes later as he kicked his feet up to rest on the coffee table. “I’m glad you called me... yes, even after what happened. I told you, Pete, I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”

Despite drifting on the edge of sleep, you smiled against his knee, rubbing your hand along his shin to make sure he knew you heard him. The lazy patterns he was drawing on your shoulder paused for a moment before they resumed. You could hear his intake of breath, practically see the smile on his face.

You don’t know how long he ended up talking to Peter, convincing him it wasn’t his fault, reminding him that he had his back, working out plans for how to keep making runs in the future because they both knew better than to assume Brock would release Peter from Hydra now that it was clear he knew who he was working for.

When you woke, he was still on the phone. Though, this time, he was talking quietly in effort to keep from waking you, laughing under his breath as they talked about the friendly owner of Peter’s favorite bodega in Queens and the cat that simply adored James.

“I’m not going to be the godfather of that cat no matter how many times he asks me,” James laughed, his hand held over his eyes, leaving his bright smile on full display. “What am I gonna do with a cat, Peter?”

You yawned, stretching along the couch and slowly raised from James’ lap to sit next to him. You brushed back your messy hair and he turned to smile at you. His free hand reached up and he traced the lines of his jeans imprinted in your cheek with a slight chuckle.

“Y/n’s awake,” he said into the phone. “Yeah, of course... I’ll see you Friday, alright? Right outside your aunt’s house... It’s no problem, kid. You know why I do it... Here she is.”

He handed the phone to you and you wondered if it was possible to fall any harder for this man. You brought the phone to your ear, sinking down into the couch next to James and nestling into his side. His arm draped over your shoulder as he pulled you closer.

“Hey cuz,” you said, “you okay now?”

“Yeah, I think so,” he replied and you could hear the change in his voice instantly. His breaths were even again, his words steady, and you no longer heard the constant rustling of the bed sheets as he tossed and turned or the squeak of the floor boards under pacing feet. “I might go meet MJ for lunch downtown. Keep my mind off things. James said it would be a good idea.”

“Did he?” you grinned, hand settling on James’ thigh. You felt him press a kiss to the crown of your head.

“Yeah, he’s a good one, Y/n,” Peter sighed with a chuckle, the slight sound of him scratching at the back of his neck nervously on the phone. “He really cares about you. You know that, right?”

You bit down on your lip though it did nothing to stop the smile from pushing up your cheeks. You looked at James and while you weren’t sure if he heard Peter, he smiled back at you. You wondered, maybe, if this was what love felt like.

You hadn’t felt it in years and even when you thought you knew it with Brock, it hadn’t been real. It certainly didn’t feel anything like this; this freeing, this exhilarating, this magical. Your relationship to Brock, even at its best, was dark and dull in comparison to James. Everything was, really.

“Yeah, I know.”

After you hung up with Peter, you noticed as you brought your phone down into your lap that the call had run almost an hour and half. You narrowed your eyes, surprised, before you looked to James.

“How long was I asleep?”

James shrugged. “An hour or so.”

“You stayed on the line with him that long?” you asked in disbelief, but James didn’t think much of it at all. It wasn’t a chore to him. Your family wasn’t something he just tolerated. He risked everything for Peter.

“He needed something to take his mind off of what happened,” James said simply. “Kid can really get on a roll once you ask him about how his science project’s coming along. Besides, I’ve got a bit of a soft spot for him. I mean, he’s partially responsible for all those Sunday afternoons we had. Remember?”

“Of course,” you laughed, thinking back to his terrible excuses and stupidly large grin as he tried to find reasons to let you be alone together. “Pretty sure he was working on the same ‘English paper’ four weeks in a row.”

“You won’t find me complaining,” James grinned. Though, he seemed to push it too wide because he hissed, flinching at the tug of a scar at the center of his bottom lip. He clenched his jaw, exhaling sharply through his nose. Your smile fell away in an instant.

While it turned out most of the swelling had gone down overnight, he was still left with dark purple and blue blotches on his jaw, angry red veins crawling out from the nasty cut on his cheekbone where he now had surgical glue in place of the amateur stitch job you’d done, and part of his left eye was bloodshot, clouding into the blue you adored so much.

He still looked like himself if you squinted your eyes, but it was enough to make your heart physically ache.

These were wounds he’d willingly taken to protect your chosen brother. He took whatever Brock threw at him because he was determined to spare Peter from harm; a boy he didn’t even know a year ago and yet, he allowed a vindictive man to beat him near to blackout all because of a promise he made to you.

That kind of devotion, the level of loyalty, was unlike anything else you’d ever experienced. It was a breath of air amongst smog and muddied waters. It was a first step out of the cold embrace of a darkness that had shielded you for years and into something warmer, kinder. It was a man with startling blue eyes and a smile that made your heart skip, a man who made you feel safe in a home where you were constantly searching for escape routes.

“I’ll heal, Y/n,” he reminded you, noticing the way you were staring at his injuries. “This kind of stuff is a casualty of the job. It’s not the first time this has happened and I don’t suspect it’ll be the last. I’m tougher than I look.”

His hand rested along your thigh, running along your jeans in comforting strides. You watched as he traced the mindless patterns, the slight scratch of his nails sending shivers up your spine. It was like second nature to him, to instinctively search for your own comfort to break through the tension burned into your muscles.

Pushing out a smile for him, you tried to mask the worry as it consumed you. “I’m just... I’m scared for you. Especially now.”

“Now?” he teased, raising an eyebrow. “Why? What’s changed?”

You pushed him in the ribs, laughing. Tucking your legs under you, you kneeled next to him on the couch, hands gripping at the collar of his shirt.

“How badly does it hurt?” you asked playfully and James had to watch how wide he smiled to keep from reopening the cut on his lip.

“Oh, terribly,” he answered, that boyishly handsome look in his eyes threatening to do you in. “Tell me you can help, sweetheart.”

“I can try.” A slight feigned roll of your eyes, a smile so big it pushed up by your eyes, and you swung a leg around his waist to sit on his thighs. His hands curled along your hips, holding you still.

“Maybe if I...” You leaned in and presses a kiss to his cheek, just along the tender scar and the adhesive glue, where it was still slightly swollen and red. It was feather light but you felt him sigh. “How do you feel now?”

“Still hurts, love. Try another?”

You kissed the scratch on his forehead where Brock’s ring nicked him on the third hit. Then, his left eye lid that held deep blue and black bruising under swollen tissue. You paid close attention to the discoloration on his jaw, gently peppering kisses along the tender muscle.

“You missed one,” he said as you pulled away. He had that dizzy kind of look on his face, one so sweet and loving it shouldn’t be possible for a man as dangerous and feared as James Karpov to possess. He touched his lips, the healed scar your husband had busted open on the fifth swing.

You smiled, leaning in slowly and pressing a chaste, unbearably short kiss to his lips. “How’s that?”

“Don’t leave me in pain, sweetheart,” James whined, shaking his head. “I’m dying over here and you’re the only one that can--”

Capturing his lips in your own, his words silenced on the touch of your tongue. You sucked his top lip between yours, still careful of his scarring on the lower, and sighed as you felt his hands imprint to your hips, tugging you closer.

As you kissed him, tongue brushing between his lips and against his own, he gently guided you to lay down on the cushions, his own body weight settling between your legs and on your chest. You didn’t mind. You liked the pressure of him, the safety of his embrace.

When he finally pulled back for air, he was grinning like a school boy, his cheeks rosy as he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead.

“How’d I do that time?” you asked, swiping your thumb over his lips.

“So good. Pain’s all gone,” he smirked, shaking his head enough for strands of tussled brunette hair to fall into his eyes. He settled in on his elbows, tracing your jawline with the tips of his fingers. “But maybe we should try again? Just to be safe?”

He smiled into your lips, the warmth of his breath on your skin. Under him, surrounding him; it was the only place you ever wanted to be.

***

Once you got a taste of James, you couldn’t get enough.

You were like teenagers again; blood pounding, hormones raging, sneaking into closets and kissing behind closed doors. The looks you shared across the room as he sat surrounded by Brock’s men had your cheeks flushed and lip tugged between your teeth. His eyes would follow you as you left the room and you felt the shiver of his stare long after you disappeared down the hallway.

You spent countless hours on the phone with him at night, sitting on your bathroom floor behind as many walls as you could put between you and your husband; sitting on cold tile floors with your laptop resting on the closed toilet seat as you watched old crime documentaries together.

You kept the phone curled up next to you as your eyes drifted shut under the bright lights of an Office marathon and James’ soothing voice lulling you to sleep through the speaker. The phone would usually be dead by morning, so you’d charge it in your library and wait for him come to you because always did.

The routine was simple.   

Check in with the boss first.

Wait for Brock to leave.

Then, he’d show up at your door, grin covering his face and he’d hull you into his arms, press your back against the aisle of novels and kiss you until books started to fall from the shelves. He wouldn’t stop until you were breathless and your lips were swollen, hair a mess and clothes wrinkled. Even then, he’d only move to kissing along your neck, your jaw, until he’d eventually find his way home to your lips.

Sunday afternoons were always sacred but now, you held his hand tucked under the table of a diner in Queens, you wrapped your arm around the crook of his elbow as you strolled through empty parks, he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head as you walked up the stoop to Aunt May’s house for dinner.

It was magic with him; domestic and instinctive, you fit to him like a puzzle and for once, everything in your life felt right. There was such relief in that, to feel at peace in your own body, to look forward to a new day and to chase something for yourself for once. You’d sprint towards James through rushing rapids and barbed wire and burning buildings. You'd cross everything and anything for him.

Clara had almost caught you nearly a week later when James had you pinned against the bookshelf in the back aisle of your library.

Lips tracing your jawline, thigh pressed right between your legs enough to leave you breathless on its own, when you heard the familiar squeak of the library doors open.

“Mrs. Rumlow?” Clara’s voice had called out into the room, leaving you to quickly shove James away in a panic.

Though he was struggling to contain his laughter, biting down hard on swollen, red lips, he’d reached out to adjust the collar of your sweater that had fallen down over your shoulder and to pat down the mess of hair on your head.

“One moment!” you yelped back, trying to brush the wrinkles from your shirt and catch your breath. You looked at James helplessly but he was grinning terribly wide and holding onto the bookshelf just to support himself on weak knees.

It was foolish, beyond dangerous, but you just couldn’t keep away from him. He was poison and remedy. He was life sustaining elixir and an omen of death. He was so much rolled into one, but he was good and pure, and of that you were absolutely sure.

You’d met Clara in the hall, quickly ushering her away from the aisle James was hiding in, and while she didn’t ask you any questions about the slight flush in your cheeks or the discoloration peeking out from under the collar of your sweater, she did tell you Brock would be home in a short while.

She’d left after that, closing the door behind her, and you stopped to wonder if she knew of your relationship – or whatever it was – with James. Before you could let yourself fall into a spiral, strong arms enveloped you from behind, the warmth of a chest pressed against your back and James leaned in to kiss your cheek.

He was your safe place. You weren’t afraid, even in this home, if it was his arms you were wrapped in.

***

Bucky had learned how to smother his guilt and bury it deep within himself, back towards the darkest parts of his mind where he’d only find it creeping around in the dead of night. He swallowed the instinct telling him that this was wrong, that it wouldn’t just cost him his career, he could lose his team – his family – over this, that he could lose you when the truth finally came out.

But he was happy for the first time in years. He remembered what it was like to miss someone so badly it ached deep in his bones, to want to be in someone’s arms at every hour of the day, to feel the chill of his bed beside him and wish for it to filled with a soft curves and warm skin and oversized t-shirts hanging down by knees.

He was in love.

He was painfully, blissfully in love.

It was going to get him killed.

His phone was buzzing constantly with texts from Natasha, warning him that he was going too far, that Steve was seconds away from pulling him off the case and hell to the raid that was scheduled in less a month’s time. Sam was the one calming Steve down, reminding him that without Barnes, there would be no case. That surprised Bucky, up until Nat informed him that Sam had also said, ‘if Barnes gets himself offed by Hydra for screwing with the kingpin’s wife, that’s his own damn problem.’

Bucky was wrapped up in guilt and shame and love and joy and it was tearing him apart; not that he’d let you see. He was good about hiding things like that. It was part of his job description to wear and mask and lie through his teeth, but it felt so incredibly wrong when it was you he was lying to.

So, he stuffed that part of himself into a box, closed the lid, and threw away the key.

It worked for a while, anyway.

For a while, he was sweeping you up into his arms and kissing you whenever he found a spare moment, running his fingers through your hair as you leaned against him on the couch reading, making you tea and holding you close on late nights when Rumlow was on business downtown.

For a while, the guilt was kept at bay.

Until he couldn’t hide from it anymore.

Your lips were on his, legs straddled over his waist as you pressed him to the back of the couch. His hands slid up your thighs, slipping under the hem of your shirt and touching over soft, warm skin enough for you to shiver.

He knew he should stop, that kissing you like this, that letting his hands roam under your shirt along your spine while you didn’t even know his name was wrong. He was screaming at himself to stop, to come up for air, to do something, but he couldn’t. He was lost in you. He was enveloped and surrounded by your touch, your kiss, your—

“James...”

The name left your lips in a whimper as you grinded down against his lap. It shook Bucky from his stupor and he became painfully aware of just how much he was giving into you. He could feel how hard he was, with every movement, with every rut against him as you kissed hungrily at his lips. He was craving you, desperate for you.

Bucky tried to fight it off, but he flinched as you said the name again, your voice breathless and laced with need and it broke something in him. He pulled away from your lips abruptly, hands gripping tight to your hips to still your movements, and he rested his forehead on your shoulder.

“James?” you asked sweetly, concerned, and he clenched his jaw. Your hands wove into his hair, fingernails gently tracing along his scalp and down his neck, trying to nurse him back to you, but he remained still. “Are you alright? James?”

“Please,” he muttered into the sleeve of your shirt, “don’t call me that.”

Your hands paused for a moment and he could sense your confusion. How could you possibly understand why his own name felt like a dagger to his chest, a sharp and serrated blade twisted and digging deep within him?

He’d let himself indulge in kissing you, in stealing love from your lips and adorning every trace of exposed skin he could find with the tender care you’d been missing for years, but he’d never once let himself slip further than that. Not even when your hands trailed down to his belt and he was achingly hard, or when your fingers would reach for the hem of his skirt. He’d stop you, gingerly pulling your hands to his lips to kiss at your fingertips, and make up an excuse to leave.

There was a sacredness in being with you like that; bare beneath sheets, sweat touched skin against one another, the vulnerability of nakedness. He couldn’t allow himself to give into that before you knew the truth of him, before you had a real chance to reject everything he was.

You pressed a feather light kiss to his cheek, ushering him to meet your eye.

It was a mistake, he realized, to let himself catch even a glimpse of that impossibly kind way you studied him; the way you brushed your thumb over the healing scar on his cheekbone, grazing over lightly discolored blue patches on his skin, and the tenderness in your eyes.

He wasn’t going to last long if you kept looking at him like that, like you might love him as much as he loved you.

“Talk to me,” you requested gingerly, though there was a pleading in your tone.

You’d been here too many times before. In the moments he slipped, when he’d asked for time, when he’d promise to take you away, when his guilt of not letting you know him – truly know him – bled through the cracks of his mask.

You were an intelligent woman. You knew something was wrong.

“I-- I--,” he stuttered, but nothing came out.

“Whatever it is, I’m here,” you said softly, raking your fingers in his hair. “I can see you at war with yourself. Let me help.”

Bucky chewed on the edge of his lips, over the scar that had long healed. He thought about his team, his mission, the countless lives that had been lost because of Brock Rumlow’s leadership in Hydra, the families who had been run into the ground, and the hundreds of kids lost on the streets, addicted to a drug they’d never recover from.

There was a reason he was on this assignment.

He had a duty to uphold, a responsibility.

Rumlow deserved to spend the rest of his miserable life behind bars and he wouldn’t get there if Bucky couldn’t deliver on the evidence tying him to the Cerberus shipment at the end of the month.

He wondered though, if he needed to keep you in the dark to get that done.

“Not here,” Bucky whispered suddenly, determined. He pressed a kiss to your cheek and gently guided you off of his lap. He eased you onto the couch beside him as he leaned over the coffee table to pull out a pen and paper from the drawer. He began scribbling an address on the paper, grunting when the ink didn’t come out fast enough and he traced over the letters again.

You were watching him curiously, certainly confused, and for that, Bucky couldn’t blame you.

“Meet me here,” he said, handing you the scrap of paper. “Tomorrow night. Eleven PM. Rumlow will be out on a trade deal in Harlem then so you shouldn’t have trouble sneaking out. Tell the guards you’re going to Peter’s if they ask.”

You took the paper, shaking your head. “James, I don’t—What are you talking about?”

“Sweetheart, please,” Bucky asked again, patient as ever. “I promise I’ll tell you everything. I just… I can’t do it here. I need to get some things in order first.”

You still seemed hesitant, staring down at the paper, but you nodded.

He needed to go, needed to get a head start on convincing Steve of his plan and that would take time.

“I’ll see you there, alright?”

You bit on your lip, cautious eyes following him as he made his way to the library doors. He nearly slipped out before you jumped up from the couch and threw yourself into his arms; clinging at his waist and tucking your nose to the crook of his neck.

“I’m just a call away,” he said, holding you there with him and pressing a kiss to your hair.

“I know,” you mumbled to his shirt. “Just miss you when you’re not here.”

He knew the feeling.

You leaned up on your toes to kiss him one last time, chaste and gentle, full of the love that was burning bright in his chest.

“Tomorrow,” Bucky reminded you, uncurling himself from your embrace and peppering gentle kisses to your hands as he pulled away.

“Tomorrow,” you agreed and you stepped back into the library. You leaned against the doorframe, head resting against the wooden arch, watching as he started to walk down the hall to the front door.

He couldn’t tell if what he was feeling was relief or dread.

He supposed he’d find out soon enough.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n

[breanime]

Hey I love your Rio stories and I was wondering if you could write one where the reader gets pregnant by Rio.

This was on my to do list, so I might as well get cracking!

*gif not mine*

As soon as you say you think you might be pregnant, Rio is on his feet

He’s going to the pharmacy and getting all kinds of tests

(as well as your favorite ice cream, in case the results aren’t what you wanted)

He sits with you while you wait, holding your hand

You’re nervous, and Rio can tell

So he talks

“You know, Marcus has been asking for a little brother or sister,” he starts, turning to you with a smile, “and even if you’re not pregnant now... We can always start trying”

“You just constant sex,” you say back, smiling

Rio grins. “Well, yeah,” he chuckles, “the little bundle of joy would just be a bonus”

Rio sets a timer on his phone, and once it goes off, he squeezes your hand

“You ready to look?” He asks

You shake your head

Rio kisses you on the forehead before he gets up and goes to the counter where the tests are all lined up

His back is to you, and you watch as he carefully considers each one

(He doesn’t need to check the directions on the box; he had it memorized as soon as he read them)

“Rio?” You ask, your heart pounding

He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t even turn around

“Rio...?”

He turns then, a wide smile on his face

“We’re having a baby,” he announces

You run into his arms, and he grabs you, picking you up and spinning you around before placing you back on your feet and kissing you

The kiss is long and slow and full of love

And when you pull back, he puts a large hand over your stomach

“I love you, mama”

“Love you too, Rio”

During the pregnancy, Rio is constantly concerned with your well-being

He makes sure the house is stoked with healthy food as well as your go-to snacks for your cravings

He checks to make sure you’re taking all of your pre-natal vitamins everyday

And he keeps a journal of all your cravings and any sensations you’re feeling

The doctor is on speed dial on his phone

And best believe Rio has made it clear that the doc is on RIO’s payroll, so she knows to call.text him back ASAP

When he’s home, you’re not to lift a finger

(You actually get into an argument about him treating you like a baby, and the only reason he backs off is because he sees how upset you’re getting and doesn’t want to push it)

He has the ultrasound photo as his wallpaper on his cell, and he makes a Pintrest of stuff for the baby’s room

Marcus is just as bad

He asks “how much longer” almost every day

And Rio always gives him the countdown ( “168 days, papi”, “140 days left” “down to the last 100 days now”)

And both of them refuse to let you do any work, something as simple as you getting up to out your plate in the sink puts the two of them in an uproar

As you start to show, Rio grows more and more in love with you

You catch him staring at you all the time

Sometimes you hear a “click”, and turn to see he’s taken a picture of you

“I can’t help it,” he chuckles, “you just look so damn good”

He can’t keep his hands off of your stomach, rubbing it and kissing it

It’s adorable as hell

He talks to the baby

Even if you’re on the phone with him, Rio will ask to talk to the baby

So you put the phone on speaker or press it against your tummy

The conversations usually go like this:

“Hey, it’s your Daddy. I hope you’re not giving Mommy too much trouble. I’ll be home soon, and I’ll make sure you and your Mama get a good night’s rest tonight”

or

“We find out if you’re a mijo or mija next week. Your Mom wants a boy, but Daddy is hoping for a little princess”

Rio indulges each and every craving you have

You want Jamaican hot wings at 2 in the morning?

He’s driving across town to get you your damn wings

The new cologne he bought makes you nauseous? 

Rio is dumping the whole bottle in the trash

If you need something and he’s not around or busy, he’s having one of his guys deliver it to you

Anything you want, he provides for you

He loves pampering you: massaging your feet, washing your hair, booking you spa days

And the pregnancy sex?

OUT. OF. THIS. WORLD.

Rio is at his gentlest, his most loving, his softest and most affectionate when he makes love to you while you’re carrying his child

He’s all soft kisses and caresses and whispers of how beautiful you are

And whenever you want it, you get it

He’s left work more than a few times because you texted him the eggplant emoji

When you go into labor, Rio is calm

He’s calm driving you to the hospital, calm during your contractions, calm as the nurses and doctors are running around prepping the room

But once the delivery starts, and you start screaming

He starts to get anxious

He never leaves your side, though, not for a second

He hold your hand the whole time, encouraging you and kissing your forehead

And Rio is the first one to hold the baby

You’d never seen him look so happy

(one of the nurses cries)

All the nurses and doctors call the two of you “Mommy and Daddy”, and it’s cute as hell

Once you take the baby home, Rio is holding you, spooning you, while the baby sleeps in the bassinet a few feet away

“So,” Rio asks, his voice low and his breath warm on your neck, “wanna try for another...?”

*******************************************************************************************

Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think--also, did ya’ll see the latest episode? Rio had me SHOOK!

Everything Taglist: @encounterthepast @jigsawlover10 @gollyderek  @charlylama @realduckvader @whovianayesha  @lexxierave @loveintheroyalfamily  @fanfictionrecommendations-com  @maxslime-blog @songforhema @lucielandss @themadhatter92  @christinawxxx @anabella-baby @blackcoffeeandgreenteaforme @luminex3 @ashkuuuu @luckysstrikes @carlaangel86 @floralpeaceofmind @dylanobrusso @iaintnofurry  @ymariejp @its-my-little-dumpster-fire @mrsjaxtellerfan @holamor @drinix @rhabakoli @stories-you-wont-hear @king4thesirens @leahnicole1219 @evanlys19  @binbons-is-theloml @aikeia @bitch-imma-head-out​  @witchygagirl @geeksareunique @sparrows-books  @nyxxnoxx​ @justvnash​ @truly-insatiable

Rio Taglist: @gemini0410 @sweetybuzz25 @glimmerglittergirl

#rio x reader #rio imagine #rio good girls #good girls rio #manny montana

[orsuliya]

Song Huaien is a good boy!

Book spoilers did me dirty. That’s a fact. Ever since I peeked at the last chapters of the novel, I’ve been convinced that Song Huaien was going to go rogue sooner or later. And so I looked upon him as one does upon a ticking bomb, watching him closely for any signs of rot and obvious mwahahahaing.

And that… might have been wrong of me. It’s not like The Rebel Princess ever treated any character’s novel journey as sacrosanct (see: Su Jin’er, Wanru, even Zitan). So what gives? Well, just look at the ever-precious Liu Duanduan. Wouldn’t you want to steel your heart in advance…?

And then the supremely astute @dangermousie came along and made me reconsider what could be done in the scant remaining number of episodes in order to deliver a satisfying ending. I trust The Rebel Princess, so it will be a satisfying ending, 12 cut episodes notwithstanding, and I’m choosing to ignore any contrary opinions! So what could be done? Well, getting rid of Song Huaien’s rebellion and conflict with Xiao Qi seems to be one of the most viable solutions, whether by design or by leaving it on the cutting-room floor. Okay, I’m sold, I thought at once, jumping without thinking as I’m wont to do. But does the drama itself support that?

Why, yes, I believe it does!

What are the actual visible signs of Song Huaien’s potential villainy? There’s the corruption/negligence thing, a pronounced liking for finer things in life and an unrequited love for Awu. That’s it.

The corruption scandal, if it can even be called such, what with Potato suppressing any further investigation attempts, is the biggest strike against Song Huaien. It’s clear that he’s somehow embroiled into unsavoury dealings, but the extent of his guilt is never shown. While I don’t fully believe his story about the birthday gifts being delivered during his absence and accepted without his express permission and/or knowledge, there is also nothing to suggest he’s been explicitly on Xie payroll, secret documents non-withstanding. The record book alone is no proof of guilt – why, the Xie might have simply noted that gifts of certain value had been given and received, not in exchange for a specific service, but rather as a start of a beautiful relationship. You get the drill. I believe if there was a solid proof of Song Huaien doing explicit harm to his own in exchange for Xie money, Xiao Qi’s reaction would have been much harsher.

As it stands, Song Huaien’s guilt is a matter of conjecture. There’s the birthday gift, which Xiao Qi cottons onto really quickly, which confirms that it may have been noted in the Xie secret books. There’s the fact that he may or may not have known about it and may or may not have chosen to keep it. I’d say he did know, if only after the fact, and that he originally meant to keep it. There’s also the damning fact that Song Huaien was the man taking care of logistics from the Ningshuo side. And he did his job really poorly, since multiple deliveries of substandard grain and clothing somehow made it through. But was it out of maliciousness? Was there ever a conscious decision on his part to let things slip? Not necessarily. It looks bad, sure. But let’s not forget that dealing with the capital sharks may be a first for Song Huaien, regardless of his previous experience as a procurement officer. Whatever his experience, it was either at the very end of the supply chain or it was mainly related to supplies coming from the area closest to Ningshuo. The former wouldn’t have prepared him for his present duties. And as for the latter, I think that the Ningshuo province has its own rules and ways, which are in no way comparable to the shark pond that the capital undoubtedly is. What’s more, Huaien really seems to buy into the illustrious capital life; it would not surprise me if he delegated a few things that should not be delegated simply because he was busy taking it all in!

So, intentional crime or crime of negligence? I’d be inclined to vote for negligence. It just fits what we know about Song Huaien up to that point, it fits his current circumstances and it makes Xiao Qi’s reaction quite reasonable.

The second strike against Huaien’s integrity is his love for the finer things in life. But then, is it really such a damning thing? Many of the Ningshuo soldiers must have experienced the same thing upon their arrival into the capital. Here they are, heroes and patriots all, having spent their whole life either on various battlefields or in decidedly non-luxurious circumstances. Why, they must be quite happy if they get enough to eat, which they do only because they have an honest general who cares about them very much. Other armies are not as lucky! And then they are shown all those useless noble scions, some of whom might nominally be officers despite barely knowing how to hold a sword (and even those swords would be ceremonial ones, so mostly useless). I don’t know about you, but I’d be bitter. Some of Xiao Qi’s closest clearly are, although he tends to shut that down very quickly. Also, covetousness is not a crime as long as Song Huaien is not actively taking bribes or jockeying for profit. And there is no proof of that. His manor and his title are both given to him without him ever asking for them. If he appreciates that… well, that is also not a crime and he doesn’t even gloat openly! As it later turns out, he took both as his due, believing that his talents were seen and duly appreciated outside the Ningshuo army.

Sooo… Nothing out of ordinary on that count. And seeing that at one point Song Huaien offers to use his savings to repair the ailing military budget – whether from guilt or from sense of duty – speaks to his advantage.

Now, let’s take a look at his unrequited love for Awu. I mean, is it any wonder he falls for her? I am half in love with her myself, so I totally get it! What matters is what he does with this love. Quite surprisingly, there is no attempt at coming between her and Xiao Qi. Why, Song Huaien actively tries to help their marriage by convincing Awu to return home from the temple. No hesitation there! And while he might realize he’s actually in love very late in the story (by this point it’s obvious to everybody), the realization itself changes very little. He gets very determined to go through with marrying Yuxiu, that’s it. Still no attempts to make a move on Awu. Even that flower he brought back from the Imperial Mausoleum was not an overly romantic gesture – she asked and he did as she asked in order to make her happy, nothing more. There’s also a genuine attempt to get over her. He goes to Yuxiu on their wedding night and despite the initial haziness on the matter, he seems to know quite well she’s not Awu and does his best. Although that bro slap in the morning… Let’s believe he did his best there too, the poor awkward thing. He gives her an actual hug when he comes back from Jiangnan! Progress!

What finally buried the theory that Song Huaien might rebel in order to take Awu away from Xiao Qi was his convo with Wang Su in episode 55. I was so afraid (just as I was afraid on his wedding night) that he might do something stupid. Like asking for Awu’s hand or betraying his romantic intentions towards her. But no. While Song Huaien tells Wang Su that he wants/needs to find Awu, there’s no romantic intent there, only duty towards Xiao Qi’s wife and respect towards a woman who has earned it many times over. If there is anything else, I just can’t see it! Why, during this whole conversation Song Huaien is more broken up about Xiao Qi than about Awu!

Whether Song Huaien manages to get over his love or not, there is no sign he was ever going to do anything about it, not while Xiao Qi lived and perhaps not even now that he’s supposed to be dead. Moreover, he made every possible effort to suppress his emotions out of sheer guilt and feeling of brotherhood towards Xiao Qi. Marrying Yuxiu might have been a bad, bad choice (although I still hope for the best), but it was a choice made for the best of reasons.

So that’s it, right? Well, wrong. Even with all of the above there was still a possibility for him to go the villain route. Except… he actually seems to be redeeming himself in leaps and bounds. Once away from the capital, Song Huaien seems to throw off the capital’s thrall and becomes the best version of himself. Jumping into stormy waters in clear disregard of any danger? Working tirelessly towards a common goal and for the good of the people? That’s pure Ningshuo stock, no moral rot in sight! Now, why would the narrative have him getting back to his old self only to make him regress again?

There’s also no real reason for him to ever go against Xiao Qi. If that was going to happen, I’d have expected at least some signs of bitterness and jealousy to have shown up by now. And yet there’s nothing, at least not towards Xiao Qi. Who, might I add, really does his best to mitigate any potential bitterness in the bud. Just look at the way they resolve the corruption scandal! And I’m not talking about Xiao Qi burning (or not burning?) the incriminating page. What got my attention is what their conversations over the matter boil to. Which is: Listen, brother, I get that you’ve been having some issues, but get your shit together. And please, take care of yourself. I don’t want you to get in trouble, so please remember that there are people watching your every step. No overt accusations, no anger in sight, maybe the slightest bit of sternness, but heavily undercut with roughly expressed care. And it’s the same with their confrontation over Awu. I know what’s going on with you and my wife, but I 100% get it, mate, so take a moment and decide how to proceed from here. Even if Song Huaien was actively seeking a reason to hold a grudge, it would take a truly rotten seed to find one. And a rotten seed Song Huaien is not.

Now, let’s wrap it up by going over Wang Su’s suborning of Song Huaien in episode 55. It’s really something special, as well as the main reason I’m choosing to reject any possibility of SHE/XQ showdown.

Wang Su waylays Song Huaien on his way out of camp. Song Huaien is clearly very emotional at this moment and not really inclined to stop for anybody. Why, I think that he was fully prepared to go through Wang Su if needed. It is also quite probable that his decision to leave for the capital was made on the spot, once he heard about what happened to Xiao Qi, Awu and his comrades. Yet he stops and listens, if only because Wang Su – Awu’s brother and Xiao Qi’s brother-in-law - should be his natural ally in his quest to clear Xiao Qi’s name. As he proclaims to be by announcing his willingness to join Song Huaien on his journey to the capital.

Wang Su (or rather Daddy Wang possessing Wang Su’s body) takes full advantage of Song Huaien’s state. First he breaks out a prop, Awu’s favourite wine. It does not work as well as it could have and I’d say that at this point Song Huaien remains quite astute as to Wang Su’s weird behaviour. His first outburst shows he’s got little patience for games. Awu is your sister and Xiao Qi your brother in law, he reminds Wang Su, who seems very controlled for a man with much more obvious ties to this whole situation than Song Huaien. Wang Su skips around the issue by taking out his ace card, the Empress Dowager’s order. Predictably, it takes Song Huaien off-balance and incites a sense of debt, if not gratitude. An excellent opening from the shapeshifting Daddy Wang! Then Wang Su makes an attempt at aiming Song Huaien at the Empress Dowager… and it doesn’t work. Song Huaien doesn’t care about his own life half as much as he cares about Xiao Qi. Cue a mournful soliloquy! There is no way a man this broken about his brother’s death is going to try to kill said brother in the 13 episodes remaining (less, in fact, since they will not meet until 59 or 60 at the earliest). There would be no build-up! The only way I can see this happening is if Xiao Qi went against Song Huaien first and in a deeply personal way. Which we know he would never, so...

Wang Su makes a brave attempt at corralling Song Huaien’s grief and turning it to anger, for all that he may say that anger will not help anyone; it doesn’t work and self-blame enters the picture. If only I was with him leads to a startling realization: all those honors and the brand new posting were just a ploy. Now, this realization could lead to two different results. Song Huaien could plausibly become bitter towards Xiao Qi –  because of whose very existence his own talents weren’t truly recognized and he himself became a pawn. But there’s nothing to suggest that’s true. It’s more likely for Song Huaien to turn his bitterness over his wounded pride towards the Empress Dowager in particular and scheming nobles in general. Which is what I think he does. There is also a possibility of guilt: he bought into this whole noble life fairytale… and this is what partially facilitated him being turned into a pawn. It may be just wishful thinking, but I expect that in the future Song Huaien will be more wary of unexpected meat pies falling from the sky, however tasty they may be.

Just a moment later Wang Su offers him a meat pie. He’s going to help him take revenge! And Song Huaien swallows it whole – at least for now. This is where a truly interesting thing happens. Song Huaien, a general in his own right, a true hero and a man who’s been acting as Wang Su’s equal while in Jiangnan… folds and takes to a subordinate position like a duck to the water. Tell me what to do, he seems to be screaming with his eyes. And when Wang Su starts to use the word we, there’s a palpable sense of relief in Song Huaien’s whole demeanor. What’s more, he’s not reacting to the idea that he still needs to jump through some hoops in order to become a Wang minion. I’m not sure you’re ready to become my ally, lies Wang Su, knowing very well Song Huaien’s is already in his palm. Where’s the ambition? Where’s the slightest sign that this man may be capable of going for the throne for his own sake and against his brother? I don’t see it!

The Wang family is used to needing to pay their allies in hard coin (or titles, or favours), that much is clear, because that’s what Wang Su tries next. The title of a count is too lowly, he says and then dangles a princely one in front of his victim. If Song Huaien was really as hungry for honours and wealth as some of us were expecting him to be, he’d be all over that. But he’s not. He gives it due consideration, but, if anything, this proposition seems to bring him back to reality. There are no free meat pies to be had and he’s just remembered that. But since this is the best – and likely the only – proposition/offer of help he’s going to get, he seals the deal anyway.

There’s still some reluctance, though. Why, Song Huaien needs to rationalize this decision by reminding himself that Wang Su saved his life and that there’s revenge to be taken since he’s alive (as Xiao Qi is not). Not very eager to take part in a coup, is he? And then he actually makes getting justice for Xiao Qi a condition of this alliance! Finding Awu is the second one, but as I’ve already said, there seems to be no romantic intentions there.

And that’s it, the deal is done. So now, can anybody tell me how is this Song Huaien supposed to go against Xiao Qi? He’s more likely to go for a hug once he sees him alive!

There is no reasonable way to leave in Song Huaien’s conflict with Xiao Qi. There’s just no time and no real build-up to that! The only way to have him go rogue is to have a timeskip with Song Huaien doing a 180 in the meantime. And somehow I just can’t see it happening. But I guess we’ll have to see about that!

#SONG HUAIEN IS A GOOD BOY #it's not just because his hair looks nice I swear #I'm not that shallow or am I #the rebel princess #monarch industry #rebel princess meta #this is kinda long

[fortheloveoffanfic]

Protective Service

John Wick x Reader (A/n-Why must I always make things complicated?)

Warnings- Language (I don’t usually use language warnings, but its a lot this time), Violence, Bloodshed, Murder, brief mentions of SMUT (it’s not what you’re thinking.)

Masterlist  Chapter 1

Chapter 2 Crime and Punishment 

It was Saturday, and at all costs, Y/n usually preferred to keep her weekends to herself and leave her business, whatever it was, for Monday. Because of this, John was usually off on weekends too, though, he did still stay at her penthouse just in case, he never said of what, but Y/n knew. She’d always known, that was why she’d hired him. Nonetheless, while hitmen and mercenaries didn’t take weekends off, Y/n did, unless, of course, pressing matters arose. 

“What?” Y/n’s jaw clenched as she tried to keep her rage at bay, though, Donavan knew her well enough to be able to tell that she was a bit more than pissed off. Someone was going to die that day, it was just a question of who. With the book laid out before her, Y/n scanned the page, one, two and then three times, just to make sure she hadn’t read anything wrong, though, she rarely made mistakes. She was hardly perfect though, calculated was more like it. “Who the hell let this slip?” Standing abruptly, Y/n slammed the leather bound book shut with a thud.

“My guess is someone in accounting,” He stood before the sleek, white desk in her white walled, airy home office, his hands clasped in front of him, not in the slightest phased by her behavior, "But, it could be one of the guys you’ve got working in stock. What do you want to do about it?”

Moving out from behind the desk, Y/n slipped her hands coolly into the pockets of her grey, soft, paper bag pants, sauntering over to the window that overlooked the rest of Hudson Yards, the glass constituting the other towering complexes reflecting the afternoon sun beautifully and way down below, the people bustling were reduced to specs on the paved roads and sidewalks. “I want to find this person, and have them dealt with, today,” she emphasized the final word, before turning back to Donavan, finding his dark, steely grey eyes fixed on her, his sharp jaw set stiffly. When she got closer, close enough to see the hints of grey showing up near his sideburns and in his five o’clock shadow, he stood a little straighter and Y/n could feel the muscles in his biceps rippling beneath his black sweater when her delicate fingers trailed up to his shoulder, “Will that be a problem, Donny?” 

Y/n was the only person that ever called him that and Donavan was the only person privy to some semblance of non-familial affection from her. It was a consequence of being reared so closely; from the minute she was brought home in the arms of her mother, Donavan, at just ten, was taught that she was his to look over, that it would be her before him at all costs. Not looking down at her, he simply eyed her movements through his peripheral, quirking a rare smirk, “No ma’am. The car’s downstairs, ready when you are.”

Her tongue darted out quickly, moistening her lips as she tried to suppress her own mirth, “Good, I’ll go tell John and we should be off within the hour.”

“Forgive my…..boldness, Vila,” Donavan interrupted  nonchalantly just as Y/n neared the door, her hand just about to close in over the ornate knob, only continuing when she spared him a lingering backwards glance, “I’ve been meaning to ask; are the services of Mr. Wick really necessary? You know I would lay my life down for you, at any time, no question.”

Nodding slowly, Y/n’s brows knitted, of course, she could tell from the moment they’d met that Donavan had is own reservations about John as her security detail, he wasn’t the trusting type, and the older man had only served to put him on edge, though, for the life of her, Y/n couldn’t readily see why. She liked John as much as her jagged edged personality would afford, and even if she wouldn’t call him a friend, she hardly called anyone that, Y/n had started to see him as indispensable. “Mhm,” she hummed, not quite sure of why he’d chosen that moment to voice his concerns, “But that’s not your job,” she turned to leave again.

“I know that,” he insisted and she paused again, the first inkling of irritation seeping upwards, “But I would. And I just don’t think we need an unnecessary expense on our payroll, especially one…...that expensive.”

“Are you doubting my judgement, Donavan?” There was a sternness in her tone, one she rarely took with him though, it was enough to urge him to back off, and if he didn’t know her so well, he might have.

“I’m not,” he reassured, folding his muscled arms across his broad chest, “I would never, it’s just……”

“Don’t,” briskly, Y/n stopped him before he could find the words, “Never, ever, question my decisions, you know I don’t like it,” she warned firmly, “And as for John, he’s needed, and he stays, and if you think of questioning his employment here again, then I suggest you keep it to yourself? Got it?”

And then, before Y/n could hear Donavan’s response, she’d stalked out of the room, walking with purpose, down the hall, stopping at John’s room; the bedroom nearest to hers before heading there. As usual, it only took two knocks before John was pulling the tall door open. He’d been like that since moving in, always there when she called, never letting her wait a moment more than necessary. It wasn’t really obedience though, John had proven to be capable of following only his own rules, never needing her permission before acting and for what it was worth, she didn’t even think that ‘obedient’ was in his dictionary anyway. Instead, he was, as the legend had preached, a man of focus and commitment, and after only knowing him for just over a month, Y/n was beginning to think that there was very little that could successfully stand in the man’s way, if anything at all.

Another thing about John was that he was always impeccably dressed, persistently attired in a selection from his armory of Italian tailored, bulletproof suits. Never with a hair out of place and most definitely never looking as if she’d caught him off guard. Well, almost never. Except for that very Saturday, when they were both expected to be off and she’d broken habit and knocked on his door instead. “John,” Y/n didn’t think she could help if she tried when her eyes landed on his chest instead of his stoic expression. His torso, though very faintly defined, boasted how much an excellent shape he was in; the slight definition coming from years in the field as opposed to hours put in at the gym while scars of varying ages littered his skin. Hints of dark ink peeked out from his back while the bold cross on his shoulder was far more visible. Y/n had never seen his tattoos, but in that moment, she wanted to.

“See something interesting?” John broke her unconscious trance, folding his bulky arms and skewing her view.

Clearing her throat, Y/n shook her head, dismissing the feeling that had plumed in her chest at the sight of him so  sparsely dressed in nothing but a pair of worn blue jeans, “Wouldn’t you like to know?” She rolled her eyes dismissively, “There’s a situation at the club house, we’re leaving within the hour.”

John never asked questions, and he didn't even protest that she'd been interrupting whatever he was doing, instead, he just held his head up, not even nodding as he offered a firm, "Okay," before shutting the door, leaving Y/n staring at the heavy white oak before swallowing her annoyance and turning to stalk off.

When the car pulled up in front of the warehouse, John and Donavan, who’d sat on either side of Y/n, got out before her, and by the time he'd had jogged around to the other side to help her out, John had already offered his hand. “I was coming to get you,” he grumbled, straightening the blazer he’d shrugged on over his sweater, moving to open the building’s front door for her.

“I don’t need anyone to get me,” Y/n scolded quietly, rolling her eyes at his ridiculous behavior as she stepped in front of John, who hung back for a couple minutes just to confirm that no other cars had lingered at the front gate. By then, he’d devised a working idea of the vehicles that usually moved in and out of the compound and who they were driven by, how he’d committed that and everything else to memory was still a mystery to Y/n. Satisfied, he followed Y/n into the building, eyeing everyone closely as they ascended the spiral steps, stopping only when they were raised over everyone else.

Y/n gripped the cool metal railing, her eyes scanning the floor as a chatter ran through the workers. The place wasn’t ordinarily quiet, but that mummer wasn’t friendly banter, it was fright; they weren’t used to seeing her there on a weekend, and if Y/n was there on a Saturday afternoon, it meant that something was sorely wrong. For a moment more, she spectated, trying to see who seemed the most nervous, inconsistencies like the one Donavan had brought to her couldn’t possibly be accidental, no, someone was stealing from her, and Y/n wasn’t going to stand for it. 

Ready to address them, she cleared her throat loudly, rousing attention and straightening her back to seem more intimidating when her underlings looked up at her, flanked by John on her left and Donavan, both eerily silent while her enforcers stood a couple feet behind, lurking in the shadows “It has been brought to my attention that there are some…..discrepancies in our books,” and when some gasped, others just looked on with awe, Y/n continued, “Twenty five thousand dollars is missing. And I know that twenty five fucking thousand doesn’t just vanish; this was not a mistake. Which means that it's gone on purpose, taken on purpose.” The gathered workers mumbled amongst themselves, looking around to see if someone would be brave enough to fess up, “And I understand that it's money,” she chuckled dryly, “And it's probably long, long gone. But whoever took it, isn’t, and if you think that I’m just gonna let this go, then you don’t really know me. So why don’t you, whoever the fuck you are, come forward and make both our lives easier? If you don’t, I will find you, and it will hurt when I do.”

Again, the workers chattered softly, probably nudging each other to say who’d done it if they knew. Though, minutes ticked by and nothing happened, and all the noise did was serve to irritate Y/n’s already sour mood, causing her to squeeze the railing tightly and hissing an exhale before, “Alight!” She snapped, “You want to make this hard? That’s fine,” Y/n reached behind her, snapping manicured fingers, “Boys,” she purred menacingly, “Get down there and find this fucker, and you do, bring ‘em to our playroom.”

From the minute the hasty order left her deep red lips, and her bulky henchmen started filtering out towards the steps, a man pushed through the crowd, making a break for the door. Though, his luck was as good as any common criminal, and fearing her to the point of faultless loyalty, some of her workers blocked him, a few others grabbing him before he could fight through, handing him over to Y/n’s men when they got through the thick of it. Even as they dragged him, the man screamed bloody murder, which in all fairness, was more than likely what he would be facing in just a bit. “Donny,” Y/n spoke without looking in his direction, and he simply hummed in response, “Why don’t you get our toys ready?”

“It would be my pleasure,” he nodded, sparing her one last glance before leaving her alone with John, still looking on at everyone below.

“What do you think?” She tilted her head, leaning in discreetly, “Anyone we should be looking out for, besides our little rat over there,” Y/n nudged to the young man being dragged up the steps. He was young, one of her newer hires. She hadn’t trusted him completely when he sought her out, seeking employment, but he was no more than twenty three and before, she was sure that she could mold him to suit, maybe make something of the kid. But betrayal wasn’t something Y/n fared well with, and second chances were rare in their line of work.

Slowly, John scanned the crowd, which had just started to disperse, though she was sure that by then, he’d already done the same thing well over three times. John was exceptionally thorough, “No,” he kept his gaze trained forward, “If it makes you feel better, I can get down there, shake up a few people, make sure.”

“It doesn’t make me feel anything,” she huffed, turning to walk away, gesturing for John to come with her. Y/n hated the mere thought that John had started to see her as vulnerable, someone who was afraid of the people that worked at her feet, even if the thought of a betrayal that could cost far more than currency scared her, she wasn’t going to show it. And she certainly wasn’t going to tell anyone.

“You know I can’t protect you if you don’t tell me what’s scaring you,” John quipped, his words, as usual, were few, but effective, making Y/n come to an abrupt halt just as they were about to turn the corner and head down a dim hallway.

“I never said I was scared,” she turned to face him, her phlegmatic expression matching his. Y/n hadn’t expected John to be that close when she spun, and his proximity almost had her façade faltering, but she persisted, and for a moment, it seemed to be a war of stares, who ever looked away would be deemed a loser. Except, neither of them looked away and the longer their eyes locked, the more exposed she felt, like he was seeing her for who she really was, the person behind the hardened shell, who was scared that she was digging her own grave and destroying the empire her linage had afforded her. Y/n wasn’t sure if being seen, by at least one person, was comforting or frightening. On one hand, she sometimes tired of keeping up appearances, while on the other, it worried her that the tough, uncrackable disposition was all she had. If she softened, who was going to listen to a pretty girl half their age? 

“Not today you didn't,” his low baritone finally broke the silence, and unconsciously, John stepped forward, almost feeling as if she’d been reeling him in with those siren eyes. Those four little words were all he needed to put a chip in her exterior, to remind them both of the girl she’d been when they met at the Continental. The one whose perfume hung in the air even after she left and had left him with mixed feelings since they’d met. When he’d first started working there, he’d heard what they called her; Vila, and it was easy to see why too. Y/n had this kind of beauty, it almost didn’t seem real, though, her physical appearance was merely a mask, for anyone in her presence could tell that like him, she emanated danger. She wasn’t afraid to get her hands bloody when crossed.

Y/n’s gaze flickered away from his eyes, trying to shake off the trance his chocolate gaze had put her in, summoning up a dismissive smirk, “You’re smart huh?” She moistened her lips, preferring to be done with the subject rather than delve further into it, “Come on, I’ve got work to do,” she began walking again, “On a fucking Saturday too,” Y/n grumbled under her breath, and John didn’t let her see it, but he smiled faintly.

They walked for a while, all the way down the corridor, turning at its end and trekking up another set of stairs, those narrow and illuminated by an old bulb, leading to a lone metal door, rust gathered on the outer bolt and the creaking noise blood curling as she pulled it open, “Wait,” John grabbed her arms, “I go in first,” he reminded, not waiting for Y/n’s go ahead before stepping in front of her, his hand already reaching for his gun as he toed in. He’d stepped inside completely, sweeping the area for anything remotely out of place before letting her in.

When Y/n stepped inside, a tense silence befell the low lit room and the clicking of her stilettos on the worn, stained concrete floor was the only thing echoing. Without needing to be asked, Donavan approached her, helping Y/n out of her long camel coat, draping it over his arm as he stood back, near John against the wall. “Christopher,” she addressed, undoing the buttons at the cuffed sleeves of her silk, champagne colored shirt, rolling them up to just below her elbows and then putting her hair up in a loose ponytail, “You know, when I hired you, I took a chance. You were a kid and I thought that I could turn you into something great, teach you. I wanted to help you, Christopher.” There was a table, a wooden one, near the front of the large room, and on the surface, were all sorts of tools. A pair of pliers, a couple blades, bone saws of varying types, a thumbscrew, a pinwheel, an icepick, and of course, to end it all, a gun. Of course, killing and making an example of him would have been ideal, but Y/n didn’t want to risk missing his reasoning. “I really wanted to help you,” she carried on, swiping up the thumbscrew, sauntering over to the center of the room where Christopher sat, bound to the chair by a series of leather straps; two holding his wrists to the handles, his calves to the legs and his midsection to the wooden back. 

Though he fought against it, whimpering in fear as she drew closer, the chair, bolted to the ground, wouldn’t budge. There was no escaping, and he knew it. “Please Miss Romanov,” he pleaded pathetically, “I swear, I can pay it back, the twenty five grand, I can pay it back.”

“Pay it back?” She chuckled humorlessly, slipping his right index into the device, “Where’re you gonna get twenty five grand, huh? Besides, you know it's not the money, it's the principal. If we don’t have trust in this business, we have nothing. And I can’t trust you anymore Christopher,” slowly, Y/n started turning the pin at the top, her eyes fixed on how his features screwed up in pain as his finger was crushed, the sickening sound drowned out by his screams. The room was hardly soundproof, and even from the ground floor, anyone could tell what was happening, “Why do you think I can’t trust you?"

“Because of…...Arghh!” He howled, straining his neck as he shifted his head, his skin going red with the heat of pain and tears already streaming down his face. “The money!” He writhed, “Because of the money!”

“The money?” Hastily, Y/n grabbed his hand, situating another finger into the contraption, her anger flaring, “Have you heard nothing that I’ve said?” Her voice rose and she began turning again, up to her rope’s end with his ignorance, “Have I taught you nothing?” Y/n yelled.

“The principal!” Christopher sobbed, his breaths heavy and ragged and his eyes shut tight, as if not seeing the blood creating new stains on the grey floor might lessen the pain. Still though, Y/n continued, “But I had to,” he blubbered, “They would have killed me.”

“What?” snarling, Y/n paused, “Who, who would have killed you. Why’d you need the money?” Grabbing his wet face, her long nails digging into his blotchy, beat red cheeks, “Why’d you need my fucking money!”

“I-I….” hiccupping, there was a new wave of fear washing over him, and by then, the sweat had started to soak through his ratty plaid shirt, “The Irish...they-” the truth, like water behind a broken dam, came rushing out, “They have a….a gambling house up in Brooklyn.”

“You were fucking with the goddamed Irish!” Y/n released his face, only to grant him a backhanded slap, making sure the expensive stone on her ring broke his skin, “I’ve got you working here for me, I’m putting bread on your table and you go behind my back with the Irish? Motherfucker!” She slapped him again.

“Miss Romanov,” he begged messily as Y/n went back over to the table, that time to snatch up the brass knuckles, fitting them onto her right hand before returning to where Christopher, “You gotta understand, it was just supposed to be one card game and I-” Interrupting his hurried explanation, Y/n punched him, as hard as she could, hitting him square in the jaw and splitting his lip. She supposed that one of her men could have been far more effective, but following her father’s footsteps, she usually dealt out punishments on her own. “Please-” She reared back, socking him again, that tie hard enough to crack his jaw and dislodge a tooth. “Please,” he repeated, blood dribbling out as he spoke, “Money was tight, my girl hasn’t been working and we were in debt. I won one-” She hit him higher up, nearer to his eye, but he continued anyway, determined to beg for mercy with his last breaths, “I thought I could win more, but I started losing, so fast.” Another punch broke something else and bruises were already starting to favor the left side of his face while Y/n’s sleeves, which had fallen with the repeated movements, were more than spotted with blood.

“You needed money then you should’ve come to me. But you gave the Irish an in!” By then, Y/n had hit him so many times, that she’d lost count and Christopher was almost unrecognizable. She hadn’t realized how angry she was. From his on guard stance near the door, John kept his eyes trained on her; he’d never seen a more ruthless woman, or perhaps, person in general. Not even when he worked for the Tasarov mob, years before he single-handedly dismantled them in mere days. John had heard the stories though, of Y/n’s unforgiving father, how alarmingly frightening he could be given the right circumstances, no doubt he’d passed that on to his only heir. For someone else, watching Y/n might have been blood turning, despite her flawlessness, her ruthlessness might have easily made her ugly, the way she could ignore pleas and prayers for mercy, but for John, it was almost mesmerizing. She did the dirty work on her own, unafraid of bloodying her hands, and unashamed of who she was. Her bravery, boldness and ability to temporarily dispose of her apathetic demeanor was surprisingly attractive. Maybe he’d finally met his match.

When she was finally satisfied with the string of sloppy, bloody apologies and explanations, Y/n huffed, walking away, only to pick up the gun, checking to see if it was loaded before taking her aim, “I tried to help you Christopher, but you went behind my back, and now you have to pay for that.” He was already slipping in and out of consciousness, and when Y/n finally pulled the trigger with her bloodied finger, the only thing that sounded was the bang of the shot, the smoke dissipating as she lingered, staring blankly at the body for a minute.

“Vila,” It was Donavan that broke her trance, and ignoring him, Y/n tossed the gun back to the table snatching up the towel that he offered, wiping the warm red off her hands, barely registering how the color stuck to her skin before discarding it to the table.

 “Make a dinner reservation, leave the money out for ‘em, and meet us in the car after you call,” barely, she took note of Donavan’s acknowledgement as she stalked out of the room, John once again a couple paces behind as they moved.

“You okay?” His attempt at small talk surprised them both as they returned to the main floor, his words under his breath.

They broke out into the late afternoon, and moving ahead, John leaned forward, opening the door for her to get in, “Why wouldn’t I be?” Y/n got in, immediately reaching for the crystal carafe of whiskey, and two glasses, “Have a drink with me,” without awaiting his response, she poured two, handing over one.

“Must be hard, your job,” he mused gruffly, taking a tentative sip of his drink, enjoying the way the alcohol burned his throat. Y/n had good taste, and John could tell from just one sip.

Shrugging, Y/n downed her entire drink in one swing, barely hissing or wincing as she knocked it back, “Pay’s good.” Reaching for the bottle again, Y/n poured another, not understanding why she felt the turmoil that she did and ready to do away with it, “Thanks for uh…..coming with us today.”

“From what I can see, you didn’t need me,” at that, Y/n’s gaze snapped towards him, her plump lips agape and her eyes unusually wide and doe-y, “I’m just saying,” he cleared his throat, realizing how the air between them had changed once again, “You can hold your own out there Y/n.”

“You’re one of the only people that calls me that,” she wondered out loud, licking her lips as she looked at him, “It’s kind of strange to hear someone say my name.”

“Is that a problem?” John leaned in, catching a whiff of how the whiskey interacted with her perfume. 

“No,” Y/n breathed. It was the truth, and it seemed almost fitting, considering that John had proven to see right through her defenses, twice and had even been brave enough to call her out on it. He had seen just the tiniest glimmers of the real her, and it was only suiting that he be the one to call Y/n by her real name. “I do need you, by the way. So don’t go thinking I don’t.”

“Admitting defeat?” John smirked, and Y/n realized that that was the closest she’d ever got to seeing him smile. She bet he had a nice smile. Unconsciously, she leaned in too, something in the back of her head hoping he’d read the room and kiss her. 

“I’m just-” With a startle, her words were cut off, and surprised as Donavan entered, Y/n sprang back, averting her gaze as he settled next her, not even looking in John’s direction as he resumed his usual demeanor, pretending as if the moment had never even happened.

The ride back to the penthouse had been filled with silence, the tension so thick it could be cut with a knife, and when it was time to get out of the car, instead of offering his hand that time, John had left, heading towards the elevator to do his usual checks before Y/n could even step foot near it. That time, it was Donavan that had hung back with her, still holding her coat, and that time her handbag, as they walked. 

Even the elevator ride up was quiet and when the metal box opened up to her foyer, they all went in and wordlessly, John stalked off in the direction of his room. She tried not to be, but Y/n was offended that he’d be willing to just bypass what they’d shared in the car and choose to pretend that he was nothing more than an employee. It was infuriating, though, knowing she could do nothing about it, Y/n decided that she’d deal with her frustrations with a more willing companion.

“Stay for a while,” she led Donavan down the hall, the sounds of their steps echoing off the soft white marble walls, “I’d like some company.”

“Of course,” he nodded, following Y/n into her room, shutting the door behind him as they entered. Y/n turned the lights on, the chandelier overhead casting a glow on the spacious master bedroom, and as she went over to a small sofa near the window to slip off her heels, Donavan set her bag down on an accent chair near the door, draping her coat over the arm. “I’m going to take a shower,” she explained nonchalantly, undoing and untucking her ruined shirt before pulling out her stylish leather belt and unbuttoning her pants. “Care to join me?” 

Huffing a quiet chuckle, Donavan started stripping on his way over to her, losing his blazer and sweater by the time he reached Y/n, “When have I ever turned you down?” He smirked confidently, “You had such a rough day,” his calloused hands slid up her arms, massaging her shoulders, “Why don’t we get in there,” he lifted one hand, only to pull out her hairband and free her tresses, “And blow off some steam?”

“Well I didn’t invite you here for nothing,” Y/n’s lithe fingers trailed down Donavan’s toned torso, pushing the memory of a shirtless John out of her mind as she did. At the top of his pants, her hands lingered, and standing on her toes, she planted a searing kiss on a pair of familiar lips, expertly popping the button on his back slacks, letting him unclasp her bra in turn.

By the time they stumbled to the shower, managing to get the hot water on in their steamy haste, Y/n was already hoisted up in Donavan’s arms. He pressed his back against the glass wall, and as he nestled his throbbing manhood between her slick folds, Y/n moaned loudly, combating the sound of the falling water as she felt him fill her up. Her hand was braced beside his head on the glass, the rivulets staining red with the remaining blood on her hand as it raced down the wall. As he moved, helping her forget the day, with John’s image still on replay in her mind, steam built up around them while hot water from the rain shower washed their bodies. That evening, it was hard to lose herself in the rough sensation and  Y/n could only hope that at some point, her mind would go right again so that she could return to the person that wasn’t affected by death, or worse yet, got flutters in her stomach because of John Wick.

*****

 Tagging-@harrisongslimited @magnificentclodpiebanana  @keandrews @greenmanalishi  @rdjloverxxx @danceoftwowolves  @planetkt @wheretheriversrunintothesea

#keanu reeves #john wick #john wick x you #john wick x reader #john wick fanfic #keanu reeves x you #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves fanfic #ff #fanfic #fanfitcion #john wick au #au #john wick bodyguard au #protective service #chapter 2 #crime and punishment #john wick fanfiction #series #part 2 #john wick chapter 2 #john wick chapter 3 #requested

[feverinfeveroutfic]

chapter eleven: the end of the world

The next morning was a cold, gray, and soggy one, but Sam had no intention on returning to Louie's apartment for another round that day: she had already packed her things in the back seat and she nestled down in the front seat with her arms folded across her chest and the lapels of her jacket pulled up to her ears. She had no hood or something to cover her head but she wished for one. She didn't want to be seen. Louie himself meanwhile, locked the door behind him and he headed down the steps. She looked on at him as he rounded the front end of the car and opened the door. She sighed through her nose as he climbed into the front seat.

“You okay?” he asked her in a low voice, and she nodded her head.

“Look—I was thinking about this last night before I fell asleep, too,” he started, “neither of us mean to inflame or kick up any old wounds with anyone. We're just—fooling around, messing around, you know?”

She gazed out the window right as he said that. She had nothing to say to that.

“If either of us made you uncomfortable—and I can tell we did—we didn't mean to. I didn't mean to, and I know Alex didn't mean to, either. And for that, I want to personally apologize to you for it.”

Sam never moved from her spot in the seat next to him. She couldn't hardly stop thinking about any of what went down the night before, such that it almost brought a tear to her eye.

“Also—I, uh—” he stammered and then he cleared his throat, “—hate to tell you this, but I'm kinda out of money.”

She turned her attention over to him and frowned.

“What do you mean you're out of money?” she demanded.

“I'm out of money,” he repeated, “well, for now anyway. Remember what I said yesterday, I had enough for breakfast and a cab?”

“Oh, right, right.” She hesitated. “So what's this mean?”

“Well, I have a full tank of fuel to start with,” he stated, to which she frowned and scoffed at that.

“Louie, we're not driving back to Elsinore from here—it's too far.” She was scorn.

“But the train already left, though,” he pointed out. “It's kind of overkill to fly on down to Elsinore, too.”

She sighed through her nose again.

“Don't really feel like driving through the valley, either,” he added.

“Yeah, it's boring as hell,” she said in a soft voice.

“Boring as hell and still hot as fuck, too,” he said, “at least here we have a bit of leeway with the San Francisco fog. Seven hours of nothin'.” He paused for a second. “We could take the coast.”

“That's longer, though,” she pointed out.

“Nicer, though,” he insisted.

“True. It's way nicer, actually.”

“Bet you've missed the Pacific Coast, too,” he said.

“I have—it's one of the many things I haven't been able to do like at all. Especially when I was growing up out here.”

“Really?” Louie was genuinely taken aback by that.

“Yeah.”

“Well, let's—” He set his hand on the ignition key and turned it. “Let's.”

Sam strapped herself in and Louie shook his head of hair about a bit.

“One thing I really wanted to do with Zelda,” he started again as he pulled on the parking lever, “when we were together was go on a road trip with her somewhere. I always considered driving from Providence down to some place like D.C., or go all the way down to like West Virginia. The two of us on a trip together and just hanging out together.”

“What kept you from doing it?” she asked him.

“Touring and making albums—and dealing with record company horse shit in her case—and in my case it was living a double life. There was no way I could do it, not with my other life in full swing.”

They pulled ahead and began up the block, around the cemetery and towards the block on the other side.

“So—I haven't really taken the Pacific Coast Highway much from my place so just kind of—like—bear with me here,” he sputtered.

“It's okay, it's okay.”

Louie glanced over at her at one point as they rolled up to a stoplight.

“You know—and I'm being perfectly honest with you here, Sam—I'm a little intimidated by you,” he confessed.

“You?” she asked him.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I dunno,” he replied with a shake of his head, “but there's just something about you that completely intimidates me. Like it's hard for me to maintain composure when I'm near you.”

“There's no reason to be, though,” she promised him.

“But I feel it anyways, though. It could be because you made a bold move in moving across the country and back again, but I can't really say for sure.”

“Funny you say that 'cause you did that,” she pointed out.

“True. But see, you weren't living a double life like I was.”

“I mean, I kinda am now,” she assured him.

“How so?”

“Joey doesn't know about Bill. He also doesn't know that I'm hanging out with you guys, either. For the record, Bill doesn't know that I'm hanging out with you guys, either. It's like a triangle of sorts with me come to think of it.”

“A delta,” said Louie.

“A delta?”

“Yeah. You know the Greek letter delta?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah!”

“Apparently in the realm of science, it's symbolic of change. Like change in temperature or heat.”

“How do you know that?”

“I dunno if she's shown you this but Morgan—you know, Morgan from the Cherry Suicides—has this old chemistry textbook back at her place. She found it in the garbage believe it or not.”

“Something wrong about that,” Sam declared.

“Oh, yeah. Unless it's actually trash, books do not belong in the trash. But yeah, she found it and I just happened to prop it open one day, and I read a tidbit in a chapter about equations at one point.”

“Huh. Bill has a bunch of old books at his place—mostly old literature, but it's worth a peek, though. I keep meaning to crack them open but I'm not sure where to begin.”

The light turned green and Louie lunged ahead on the street. The clouds hung even lower over them as he merged lanes and they headed for the 880 Freeway. To the right of them was the stretch of gray waters that made up the very Bay itself.

“If you ever come back up here this way,” he started again, “you know you're in a car on the P.C.H., you've got to cross the Golden Gate Bridge at some point. There's just—something majestic about it, even if you've lived here your whole life like the five of us. Well, four of us, anyway, unless Chuck was telling a fib about where he was born. This will take us right by Santa Clara and down to the interchange in San Jose, which'll in turn take us all the way down the coastline to the City of Angels.”

Sam nodded her head and she peered out the windshield to the gray overhead. To think that the assumption with the California coast was all bright sunshine and infinite beaches: it made her laugh the more in which she thought about it.

“What's even the deal with him, anyway?” Louie asked her out of the blue.

“Who, Bill?” She looked over at him with her eyebrows knitted together and he took a glimpse over at her.

“Yeah.”

“Well,” she began, “I mean, you were sitting right there when I called Chuck and told him what was going on.”

“Pff, how could I forget? But what I'm asking is—is there like a time limit with him? Like you signed a marriage contract plus a prenup but surely someone over at the school has to figure that out at some point because it's totally illegal. Setting you up like that and forcing you into something that you had no desire to get into and then threatening a whole bunch of bullshit with you like locking you in your room and forbidding you from going out and visiting people.”

“Well, when I first came out here and I spoke to Marla over the phone—you know, she's been trying to get a job and she finally did with Belinda up in Albany. But she went to the school and she told them that he was still on the payroll. He got fired, Louie, but there was some weird glitch of some sort so he still got paid and he got paid a lot of money, too. So he was able to afford that large house and care for his daughters, such that he enlisted them in a private school.”

“So he loses his paycheck, he's fucked, basically,” he followed along.

“Yeah. Unless he got something to help him out when we weren't looking, he's probably got to pull the girls out of school and sell the house.”

“And what happens to you if and when that happens?” he asked her.

“I—” She froze. Louie glanced over at her with his eyebrows raised. “I—don't know. Oh, wait!” She snapped her fingers.

“What's that?”

“My mom's moving down to the Southland soon. Where exactly is another question, though. She might be going out to Catalina or she might be going to San Pedro, I dunno.”

“Or you can go back to Joey,” he pointed out. “You know, make things easier on your mom. It's another cross country, for sure, but I feel it'd be more beneficial to take that risk again and go with him rather than put extra pressure on your mom like that. But that's my opinion, though. You do whatever you want.”

“There should be a way to null it, too,” she added.

“Yeah, being in a car with another dude,” he joked, and that brought a laugh out of her.

Within time, signs for the interchange came into their view and Louie took the next exit which looped around and met up with the Pacific Coast Highway. Right as they matched up with the pavement, the clouds over them swirled about like the old feathers or the wisps of paint mixed into the wash for a watercolor project. She looked out to the low hills off to the right, all of them different shades of green and yellow. All of them still that rich green despite the late summer. All of them still rich dark green despite the yellow dead grass everywhere. The clouds overhead beckoned rain but at the same time waned away from the coast line.

Such a strange position to be in as was the state of California, but that pocket there, the hills that followed her and Louie all along the highway on that lengthy seven hour drive, reminded her of that special place.

The quiet place. The spot that she and Charlie had found together and the place where she and Joey visited during their final days together.

“This is almost like the precious part of California,” she noted aloud.

“Nah, the eastern Sierra is the precious part of California in my opinion,” he said. “There's something lonely and ancient about the eastern Sierra Nevadas.”

“This whole area here reminds me of a place that Charlie and I found together when they were making the Stormtroopers of Death album,” she followed up.

“Really?”

“It was like this little nook in the trees down the street from the studio,” she explained as she returned her attention to him. “We called it 'the quiet place' because you go in there and it's like completely untouched in comparison to everything else. You walk down the street and you have to duck underneath the trees as you're going in there.”

“Sounds like something you keep a secret,” he remarked.

“I told Joey about it, though,” she told him. “I imagine upstate being covered in places like that.”

“Places you go to that no one else knows about,” he followed along. “This part of California and the eastern Sierra is like that, too. Lots of nooks and crannies and what have you. Like there's a place outside of Salinas—I'll have to show it to you when we get there. It's closer to Monterey Bay, though, which means we'll have to leave this highway, though.”

“It's okay—it'll get us over to the ocean.”

“The ocean makes everything better,” he remarked.

The highway took them down past Morgan Hill and then Gilroy: at one point the road turned towards Monterey Bay; off in the distance loomed those cold dark gray waters that seemed to stretch on forever. The view enlarged as they came closer and closer to the next turn off and the 156: Louie told her it would take them to Highway 1, which would in turn take them to the place he had in mind. At that point, the clouds increased and everything grew dark despite it being almost ten o'clock in the morning.

“While we're over here, you don't mind spending a little money for breakfast, do you?” he asked her at one point.

“Not at all. I was just gonna ask you if you're hungry at all.”

He showed her a grin in response, and then he pointed out the windshield to the next sign up ahead: the town of Castroville as well as the turn off to Highway 1.

“So anyway, this place—it's over by the Salinas River, which eventually heads out to the ocean,” he explained. “When I first met Zelda, and I was waffling on if I wanted to go with her or stay with my concurrent girlfriend and our baby, I always came here. It always helped me clear my head to drive down here when the baby fell asleep and Zelda was back in Rhode Island. I remember staying down here for a full afternoon once. Like I didn't get back home until well after the sun went down. Needless to say, I almost got in trouble for that.”

She laughed at that, and he gave his long smooth hair a little toss back from his face and the side of his neck.

“And the highway will take us all the way down the coastline, too. Take us down to Big Sur and all around the coast, all the way down to San Simeon and Cambria, and then Morro Bay, and then that'll take us over to San Luis Obispo and that's where we meet up with 101 again.”

“And that'll take us all the way back to L.A., too.”

He nodded his head at that, and then Sam cleared her throat.

“I don't think I get Alex,” she confessed.

“A lot of people don't,” he assured her with a straight face.

“It's funny, he said the exact same thing to me,” she recalled. “Word for word.”

“Well, because it's true! A lot of people don't get Alex. That kid is a bundle of contradictions, many of which are not for the faint of heart. I've only known him for a few years but can confirm that, though. And what's mind blowing to me is he's completely aware of it, too. I remember the first time I got into an in-depth conversation with him a few years ago when Testament first formed and we were still Legacy. Sam, I never had such a worse headache.”

“Well, like. For example, when we were in Germany and he and I spent a whole day together—”

“And he missed the train?” he finished for her. “Chuck told me.”

“Yeah, he missed the train and he got upset with me when I tried to grab his attention and get him to come onboard. Then the fireball happened and he realized the error of his ways and we patched it up. And then, you know last night, he opened up the wound over Cliff with me.”

“The fireball happened and what exactly did he do there?”

“I put my arms around him and held him close to me,” she explained. “Wept like a baby right into my chest.”

“He probably liked to feel your chest,” he pointed out.

“What makes you think that?”

“Sam—he's nineteen, soon to be twenty. When I was nineteen, that was all I ever thought about were touching and feeling boobs and clits. We're horny bastards at that age, and I would imagine that he is especially, too. Alex is bit of a nerd—it's the whole thing about how girls don't really talk to nerds.”

“But he's a guitar player, though. I would imagine the girls getting all hot and bothered to guitar players.”

“Not Alex and not our crowds, no. He's like the thinking man's guitarist. I'm sure you've seen him before a television.”

“Oh, yeah, he's all over news reports whenever they come on. Well, I was with you guys in Boston and he and Greg were right before the TV in the room there.”

“Oh, yeah, that's right! But still—at the end of the day, even with his large brain and social scientist parents, he's still a guy. And he probably wanted to feel something soft and warm and comfy.” Louie glimpsed over at her. “You said he was scared, right?”

“Yeah. It was right when that big fireball went up. He just—came over to me and burst into tears at the sight of it. I held him so close to me and I let him weep into my chest.”

“Well—if you see him next time, really pay attention to his behavior towards you,” he advised her. “If he's actually sincere with you, then it's probably because he's confused and his inexperience is showing. If not, like if he gets close to you again, then don't bother with him for a second longer.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I'm saying is he either wants you for you or he's using you,” he explained. “I wish I could tell you more about it, but I'm not Alex, though. I can only tell you what I know from being in between two women for a couple of years.” He shook his hair again and then raked his fingers through one side: outside, the signs for Castroville emerged from the scraggly shrubs on either side of the road.

“I imagine him being soft and sweet, though,” he confessed in a low voice, such that it took her aback to hear that.

“Is—there something about him that you see with him?” she sputtered out as she took a glimpse over at him with a bewildered look on her face. Louie bowed his head and cleared his throat.

“Let me ask you a question,” he said as he leaned his head closer to her.

“Okay.”

“Does it bother you at all—” She could tell that he chose his words with care. “—when a guy finds another guy attractive and it's obvious he's not gay at all?”

She opened her mouth to say something to that, but no sound came out.

“Take as much time as you need to answer that, too,” he assured her, “—I asked Zelda this once and she really had to think about it.”

She thought of all the times that she made art while in class, and she thought of the time that she drew Marla in her journal. It wasn't until she really got to know Marla as well as Belinda when she began to see them as a couple of beautiful women. Indeed, as she thought about their willingness to help her out even while she had posted up out on the West Coast, the more she wondered if the whole thing extended further than their smooth New Yorker skin. Further than Marla's colorful hair and further than Belinda's soft doll like features. There was something more to Alex, much like there was something more to Louie in the seat there next to her, and there had to be something more to herself as well. More to them all, and the fact that she and Louie both had a quiet place, a place where they went that fell on blind eyes, was enough to give her a clue.

The hidden spots and everything in between. It was only the beginning.

And thus it only made sense to her to realize that it resided with everyone, including Alex himself.

“No,” she replied after a long while. “No, it doesn't bother me at all.”

“Okay,” Louie proclaimed as they rolled into Castroville. “Sometimes I look at Alex and I think, 'god, he's a really beautiful boy. I imagine being the perfect cuddler, like he must be adept to snuggling and feeling soft underneath a bunch of blankets.' Not necessarily sexy, although he does have a nice chest and thighs.”

“Nice arms, too,” she said in a soft voice.

“Yeah, he's got those really lanky strong guitar player arms.”

“Hey, you've got nice arms, too, Lewis,” she declared.

“Drummer arms.” He shook his right elbow about: his muscles were tight and sinewy.

“Reminds me of Joey's arms,” she said.

“Oh, yeah, that's right! He's a drummer, too.”

“Drummer and a hockey player.”

Louie took the first exit off into that small town and Sam volunteered to buy the both of them cups of coffee and a couple of scones for themselves: she took a chocolate one where he took a peach one for himself.

Within time, they climbed back into the car and Louie guided her over to the spot in question, right down by the Salinas River and where it widened out before it reached the ocean in small narrow fashion. It was there that the shades of yellow that followed them out of the Bay Area returned to that rich dark green that reminded her of New York. The space in the forest outside of the studio where she and Charlie ventured to together, and then she and Joey visited under a blanket of pure white snow.

“We all have a quiet place,” she declared.

“We really do,” Louie said as he sipped on his coffee.

“We all have a house and a home, even if it isn't physical,” she said.

“Yeah, we all have an attic. We all have secrets. We all have things that we show to everyone.”

“We all have things that we've buried—skeletons in the closet,” she muttered.

“And we all have a quiet place,” he added with a raise of his eyebrows.

He took the next right turn, one that brought them down the Salinas River and away from civilization. All the while, the ponderosa pines stretched high up into the sky around them, all up into those low dark swirling clouds that enveloped them in a blanket of coziness. Soon, the pavement gave way to gravel and broken pieces of pavement itself; and every so often, Sam spotted a series of shrubs all over the places, shrubs with little light pink and pearly white flowers.

“The rhododendrons are still in bloom I see,” Louie remarked.

“I don't think I've actually seen those before,” she confessed; the whole scenery made her think of the hole in the wall back in Ithaca. “They only grow here on the coast and in northern Nevada, we have all manner of pines and trees but nothing like this, though. Nothing as delicate and fluffy as those, though.”

“You guys get oleanders down in the Southland. I've seen those a number of times, they're quite lovely.”

“Oh, yeah. Only drawback with oleanders is they grow like weeds down there. Which is absolutely amazing to me because they're very poisonous.”

“At least it's not strychnine,” he told her. “Strychnine or—better yet deadly nightshade.” And Joey entered her mind right as that final word left his lips. “I don't even know if strychnine grows out here,” he continued.

“Yeah, I don't know, either...” Her voice trailed off at that. She thought about Joey and what he was doing right at that moment. They were still touring over in Europe and they were about to drop their brand new album in the meantime as well. If nothing else when she got back to Lake Elsinore, she had to pick up a copy of that.

She would have to search about for that familiar lettering: she knew it when she saw it.

“There should be a garden somewhere,” he continued, “one full of poison plants.”

“The most dangerous garden in the world,” she declared.

“We should literally call it that.”

“'We'?”

“'They', I should say,” he corrected himself; before them, the little road led to that wide part of the river. Big lush ponderosas as well as oak trees with large wide green leaves the size of dinner plates and tall narrow trees with high canopies surrounded them.

“I was just gonna say—do you really wanna go there, Louie?”

“Unless you wanna.” He tugged on the parking lever and switched off the car. “I ain't gonna do it unless you want to do it.”

“We gotta be careful, though,” she pointed out.

“Oh, absolutely. That's something that's just not for the faint of heart. The quintessential declaration of 'you can look but don't touch'. Might wanna throw in a 'for the love of god' in there, too. 'You can look but for the love of god, do not touch.'”

“'Welcome to Shelley and Clemente's poison garden,'” she declared with a gesture of her hand, “the most dangerous garden on Earth. We've got everything from strychnine to belladonna to oleanders to—whatever else we can find. Have it all together under one umbrella. You and me—we could retire off the profits.”

“You think people would actually pay money to see that?” he asked her, stunned.

“Yeah. People pay money to see the weirdest shit, Louie.”

“Case in point!” He gestured to himself.

“You guys aren't weird,” she assured him.

“Yes, we are. We're as weird as weird can possibly be.” He sipped on his coffee a bit more and then he unbuckled his seat belt. “Anyways, this is where I come to clear my head. I call this place 'the end of the world' 'cause it's far removed away from anything. It's only ten miles back to Castroville but—still.”

They both climbed out of there in unison; Sam peered up to the gray sky overhead and she took in the smell of the salt as it filtered in through the trees before them. The Salinas River flowed right next to the small stretch of gravel and partially collapsed pavement.

“This is like the perfect place for a poison garden,” she told him as he led her to the soft dark river bank.

“Oh, yeah, this lush soil here. Look up the plants and see what kind of environment they thrive in.”

“I do know oleanders like heat,” she told him, “it's why they're everywhere in the L.A. area and in the south, too.”

“Have a special greenhouse for those guys,” he continued as he held his cup of coffee close to his chest. “Kinda clean up the pavement behind us a bit so—Skolnick can drive around on it on his—golf—cart.”

“Shelley and Clemente's poison garden—featuring Alex Skolnick's golf cart.” She laughed at that and he laughed with her.

“Can you imagine Alex on a golf cart?” he asked her, and then he held out his arms, “'oh! Oh god! Oh god here we go!'” And he lowered his voice to where he almost matched Alex's tone.

“Four wheelin' on a golf cart,” she laughed some more.

“Hey, Alex! Take it easy, little man!” Louie lowered his voice to a near whisper. “There's stuff in here that'll kill you faster than you can say your middle name!” He shook his head and chuckled some more, and then he took another sip of his coffee.

“So what's the quiet place like?” he asked her as they neared the river's edge.

“In upstate?”

“Yeah.”

“It's about like this, without the river, of course. There was another spot that Joey and I went to when Stormtroopers were in Ithaca a few summers ago—right by the water's edge at the one lake—one of the Finger Lakes that's there. It kind of reminds me of that, like I'm getting the same feeling as that.”

They stopped at the water's edge and Sam leaned out a little bit for a view beyond the trees. The stretch of rich black and gray that was the Pacific Ocean, a mere stone's throw up ahead of them. Even though Louie had a different opinion, Sam couldn't help but feel that there was something prehistoric about this part of the river; something precious and untouched.

“Sometimes, when it's a bit sunnier out,” he started again, “I'll kneel down to the waters here and search around for insects and rocks and stuff. There's a lot of bizarre life here that's endemic only to this part of the river and as far as I know, the whole state.”

“Kind of like a 'keep it forever' sort of thing,” she noted.

“Exactly, right. Keep this whole place hidden away from the world so as to protect it from everything and everyone. Eastern Sierra is the same way. Exact same way.” He sipped on his coffee once again.

“C'mon, I think it's gonna rain—I feel it.”

They returned to the car and sure enough, as Louie fired it up again and they made a turn back at the dead end and proceeded back up the pavement, the first large drops of rain pattered on the roof and the windshield. It would be some time before they reached the Highway 1 once again, but once they did, Sam wondered as to how far they could go without seeing another sliver of civilization between Monterey Bay and the next spot on the coast.

To the left of them stood the high sea cliffs in all their withered and eroded glory, strong and high over their heads, much stronger and higher than the buildings back in New York City or Los Angeles or even San Francisco itself. To the right stood the ocean: the gray and black waters that went on forever into the horizon. Empty and cold, and cradled by the clouds over them. Everything gray and black.

Every so often, Sam peered down to the waves down below as they crashed on the rocks. She looked to the left once again: every so often in the cliffs, a minute ponderosa jutted out from the cracks as if it gasped for the fresh oceanic air. The coast line seemed to stretch on for infinity before them. She glanced over at Louie and the serene expression on his face.

He was her drummer in that moment.

She turned her attention back out to the ocean beyond them as they went around a corner. Maybe it was the lack of anything discernible on the cliffs or the fact that the ocean appearead so endless beyond them, but something about all of this made her squirm in her seat.

Louie's occasional peers down to the gages behind the steering wheel didn't help, either.

An eternity in such a small pocket of the coastline. They really were at the end of the world.

A sign emerged on the side of the road but she had no idea what it read.

“We probably should've stopped for gas in Castroville,” he told her at one point.

“Why, are we low?” she asked him as her heart skipped a beat.

“Sorta. I hope. I don't really know the economy on this thing—I don't really pay attention to that sort of thing.”

They rounded another corner and Louie drummed his fingers on the steering wheel: that time they had a full view of the ocean. The grand view of the waves as they welcomed her to the end of the world, and they were about to run out of gas as far as she knew right then.

Another sign emerged from behind the guard rail and that time she saw that they were ten miles from the central part of the coast.

“Mother fucker!” he spat under his breath.

“It's okay—we're almost to San Simeon,” she told him.

“Yeah, I know—I'm still kicking myself, though. We'll probably gonna coast there the rate we're going at right at the moment.”

“Seriously?” she demanded, shocked.

“Yeah!”

She closed her eyes and she thought of Joey over in Europe. The only thing that seemed worse than losing Cliff to a bus accident that was far beyond her control was her being stranded on the Central California coast and not being able to tell anyone. But then again, they were close to the next piece of civilization.

“As long as we don't drive into the ocean, I think we'll be fine,” she told him.

“We don't drive into a—poison garden,” he muttered as they went around yet another bend in the road: the cliffs soon began to lower away to the sight of more ponderosas and scraggly shrubs.

“There's no poison gardens here,” she assured him.

“You sure? 'Cause like—there's a bend here—and another here—it's like this.”

They rounded a corner as it wound around the coastline: the road dipped inward into a gentle curve and they doubled back to the next crevice in the landscape.

“Sit—” He pointed to the left. “—down—” He pointed to the right. “—sit—down—sit—down—poison garden.” He pointed straight ahead at that last part and she chuckled at that.

Sure enough, the car sputtered a bit right outside of San Simeon: Hearst Castle rose up off in the distance but they had no time to visit right at that moment.

“Told ya we'd have to coast,” he told her as he guided the car to the gas station right there at the edge of town. The engine sputtered again and died right as they coasted into the first spot near the driveway. He let out a low whistle and leaned back in his seat.

“That was close,” she remarked.

“Yeah, I'll say,” he breathed, and then he turned his attention to her. “A twenty'll get us to the heart of Lost Angles and it'll get me up the Grapevine and into the Central Valley.”

“You're not gonna hang out there with me?”

“I can't,” he told her. “We're supposed to make a new album ourselves.”

“Oh, yeah, that's right!” She handed him a twenty dollar bill, followed by another which would ensure him a ride back home to the Bay Area.

Once they were filled up, they returned to the road.

“I don't know if Hearst Castle is even open,” Louie confessed.

“I don't, either. It's getting kind of late in the day, too.”

“Yeah, exactly!”

Some more coastline and they found their way down into Solvang and then San Luis Obispo where they were met with the Pacific Coast Highway yet again, and they moved away from the end of the world. So much that she wanted to show to Joey. And so much that she wished Cliff could see again, especially that one stretch of the highway where everything felt so finite and endless at the same time.

They wound their way through the low foothills and yet another unknown pocket of California, until they skirted the outside of Santa Barbara followed by Carpinteria.

The waves down below thrashed even more as they wound along the cliffs towards Ventura. At that point, the sky began to darken with the setting sun on the other side of the blanket of clouds overhead.

“Part of me wants to go down to the beaches here,” Louie confessed to her. “Like—take a walk on one of the beaches here. Yet another thing I wanted to do with Zelda when we were together.”

“We don't have towels, though,” she pointed out.

“And it's cold, too!”

“Right!”

The highway led them into Camarillo and then the heart of Los Angeles, where it ended and became the 210. At that point, night was about to fall over them, and the feeling of dread washed over Sam herself. She knew that Bill would be furious by the mere sight of her walking through that front door without any sort of explanation.

Louie drove them down to Corona and then the hills which cradled Lake Elsinore away from the rest of the region. The clouds had finally dissipated and gave way to a violet and orange sky overhead. Such a great length of time to be in that car with him and a part of her wished they had more time.

More time together. More time to relish over the idea of the poison garden.

But that time was all they had right then and there, much like that stretch of highway that overlooked the ocean.

She guided him to the house by the lake and within time, she recognized the neighborhood in question.

He pulled up to the curb and she sighed through her nose at the realization. Her head spun a bit from having driven such a great distance but at least they could come to a stop on a steady piece of ground. She looked on at the house, with its windows dark and the shades pulled despite the fact that it wasn't that late in the evening.

“Do you need any help?” he offered her, to which she shook her head. Instead, she sighed through her nose again and she climbed out to fetch her things out of the back seat. She decided to give her mother a ring later that night when Bill and the girls had gone to bed, that is if they already did. She hoisted her overnight bag over her shoulder and she held her purse close to her body as she reached the driver's side window. He rolled it down so she could speak to him one last time.

“Louie?”

He leaned closer to the window with his eyebrows raised.

“Thank you,” she said to him in a soft voice, and he showed her a sweet smile.

“It's my pleasure,” he told her with a wink. “Poison garden.”

“Poison garden,” she echoed him with a smile on her face.

“Also—”

She stopped and he gestured for her to come on closer to him.

“Don't worry, I'll—I'll talk to him,” he vowed to her.

“Who?”

“You know. The little man.”

“Oh, him!” She stopped right in her tracks. “What for?”

“Just to see if he's alright. One thing I've noticed about him when he fucks up something—he's real hard on himself. So if it's kinda messed between the two of you, I'll check in on him. I'll check in on him anyways.”

“Good plan,” she told him. “You be safe going back up, alright?”

“You be safe, too. Poison garden!”

Sam stepped away from the car and she turned back to the house, still in one place. Louie drove away right then and he disappeared around the corner. Another seven hours and he'd be back up there. She returned to the front door of the house and she opened it with ease. Silence.

She knew that he wouldn't do it. Sam shook her head and she bowed upstairs to her room.

#fanfic #fanfiction #chapter 11 #book four #souls of black #fever in fever out #fever in fever out fanfic #testament fanfic #testament band #testament #louie clemente #oc tag #long reads #friendship #also on ao3 #also on wattpad #slice of life #writing #text

[retro-mint45]

RETRO - PINK - MAKATI - GIRLS - ‘EVENING’ -

SORRY - WASN'T - HERE - I DIDN'T - SLEEP 4 -

2 DAYS - AGAIN - SITTING - WITH - EYES HAI -

CLOSED - AS - I - LISTENED - 2 - PASTOR JOEL -

OSTEEN'S - PODCASTS - THOSE - ARE VERY -

EXPENSIVE - (+$30) - I - GOT - MINE - AS XO -

ANY AMOUNT - INFERIOR - PRODUCT BUT -

ALL - I - HAD - DIED - IN - BATHROOM - NO -

MATTER - WHAT - I - DID - THE STEAM THE -

MOISTURE - KILLED - MY - CD PLAYERS XO -

BRATZ - PRETTY - PLAYERS - MY - SONY TV -

OF - THE - PAST - ALL - DIED - 1 BY 1 - VERY -

EXPENSIVE - GADGETS - THIS - PODCAST -

ONLY - 1 - THAT MADE - IT - BUT ITS START -

HEART - 2 - DESIGNATE - FAVORITE - BUT -

ONCE - U - DO - IT - FAVORITED - ALL YES -

AFTER - NOW - IT'S - BETTER - I THINK -

THE - MOISTURE - BUT - NOW I CAN'T -

GO - BACK - 2 - REPEAT - A - SERMON -

LIKE - WALMART - MILITARY - CLOCK 4 -

ALL - USA - INVENTIONS NIGHT LIGHT -

BLUE - 2 C - IN - THE - DARK - DOESN'T -

LAST - LONG - SO - THIS - PODCAST IT -

STOPPED - CAN'T - GO - BACK - VERY -

FAST - 2 - ADVANCE - 2 - GO - BACK 2 -

WHERE - IT - WAS - ANYWAY - SO YES -

2 DAYS - DIDN'T SLEEP - NEVER - GO -

2 - FIVERR - EVER - AGAIN - THEY'RE -

LIKE - $50 - PER - HOUR - OR - $1,500 -

PER - HOUR - SO - U KNOW - WHO U -

WILL - CONTACT - REMEMBER - THE -

3 - KOREAN - FEMALES - STABBED 2 -

DEATH - AMERICANS - ARE FAST XO -

MURDERERS - ALSO - ESPECIALLY -

ISOLATED - LOCATIONS - I - LOVE -

THEIR - CYCLONE - WEATHER XO -

THEY'RE - 200 MPH - STRONG WINDS -

CALLED - HURRICANES - LOVE - WHEN -

OUR - GOD - LETS - US - KNOW - NOW -

HE'S - IN - US - SURROUNDING - US & -

THE - CREATOR - OF - THE - HEAVENS -

& - EARTH - EXPERT - IN CHANGE OF -

WEATHER - FIVERR - APP - 'YOU'RE -

NOT - HIRING - ME?' - REMEMBER -

21 AND - OLDER - 1 STEP - 4 WARD -

WITH - CONCEALED - WEAPON PERMIT -

KILL - INTRUDERS - AMERICANS - GREAT -

PRIDE - AS - MEN & WOMEN - THEIR XO -

HEIGHTS - BUT - THEY - FEET - BUTTOCK -

LEGS - HANDS - ARE - GIGANTIC - LOTS -

OF - GOLD - MEDALS - MEANS THEY'RE -

STRONG - WINNING - MOST - GOLD -

TELLS - AMERICANS - IN - USA - THEY -

CAN - MURDER - BETTER - FASTER SO -

FIVERR - APP - MISOGYNISTS - HARM -

ABUSE - AND - MURDER - OF YOUNG -

GIRLS - CONTEMPT - 4 - WOMEN - ME -

FOUND - THUMBTRACK.COM - BY XO -

MOTOROLA - MOTO - G6 - I - WAS BY -

THE - WAY - ATTACKED - BY - USA XO -

MEN - THEY - GIVE - HEART ATTACKS -

MEANING - BY - THEIR WORD THEY -

WISH - THEY - CAN - KILL - WOMEN -

AT - ONCE - THEIR - WORK - FR YES -

GRADUATING - FR - COLLEGE - OR -

NOT - THEIR - FEE - IS - $27,000 ITS -

NOT - REFUNDABLE - REMEMBER -

YOUR - BANK - WHEN - THEY DO -

NOT - DELIVER - WHAT - THEY SAID -

'UNAUTHORIZED - CHARGE' - NO -

SAYS - CAPITAL ONE - BANK - NON -

VIRGIN - FEMALE - MEANS - 'MA'M -

U - WERE - ROBBED - CALL POLICE' -

BANKS - ARE - NOT - RESPONSIBLE -

2 - REFUND - OUR - MEMBER - WHEN -

THEY'RE - ROBBED - OR - YOUR - BAD -

JUDGMENT - U - BOUGHT - ONLINE' -

SOLUTION - IN - FUTURE - NO TRACE -

FREEZING - ALL - ACCOUNTS - THEIR -

PAYROLL - CHECKS - WITHOUT - USD -

US DOLLARS - THEY - CAN - GET NEW -

JOB - BUT - THAT - PAYCHECK - DOES -

NOT - CASH - INCLUDING - SPOUSES -

THEY'RE - 18 AND OLDER - KIDS - THE -

GRANDPA - ALL - THEIR - RELATIVES -

ALL MONEY - FROZEN - 6 MONTHS -

CAPITAL - ONE - BANK - FEMALE -

WHAT - SHE - SAID - FELONY OF -

'ENCOURAGEMENT - OF - CRIME' -

'ROBBERY - IS - CRIME' - YOUR XO -

LOCAL - POLICE - WILL - TELL - YOU -

WHEN - YOU'RE - ROBBED - OF XO -

LESS - THAN - $300 - NOT - POLICE -

MATTER - THEY - THINK - THEY'RE -

ABSOLVED - OF - OBEDIENCE OF -

ALL - LAWS - SAME - FREEZING OF -

THEIR - PAYCHECKS - FELONIES - ARE -

PUT - IN - THEIR - RECORDS - FINES - R -

REMOVED - FR THEIR - SALARIES AND -

WAGES - VIOLENT - ARMED - JOBS AS -

THEY'RE - NOT - MILITARY - FORCE -

THEY'RE - NOT - ALLOWED - 2 KILL -

ANYONE - VIOLATORS OF AMENDMENTS -

1, 2, 4, 8, 14 - CAPITAL - ONE - BANK - USA -

WHITE - FEMALE - STATEMENT - 'GAVE - U -

CRUEL - AND - UNUSUAL - PUNISHMENT' -

POLICE - SAME VIOLATED - 14TH DID -

NOT - GIVE - NATURALIZED - IN - USA -

'EQUAL - PROTECTION - OF - LAW' -

CAPITAL ONE BANK - AND POLICE -

WERE - TREATING - FEMALES - LIKE -

BLONDS - 'U - WERE ROBBED - YOU ARE -

A - BAD - GIRL' - 'GET - OVER - IT' - USA & -

OTHER - BANKS - YOUR - MONEY THEIR -

SALARIES - BILL - PAYMENTS - PHONE & -

WATER - ELECTRICITY - ALL - YOUR - $ $ -

SHOWED - OTHER - SERVICES - THEY'VE -

GOT - ALL - THAT - MONEY - SO - LOANS -

SMALL - MONTHLY - BANKS GIVE - OUT -

LOANS - INTERESTS - THEIR - PROFITS -

SO - MANY BANKS - HAVE - NOT YES -

CLOSED - THUMB TRACK.COM - THOSE -

MALES - STOLE - $27,000 - FROM - YOU -

CAPITAL ONE BANK - NON-VIRGIN MEN -

& - WOMEN - SAID - 'U - GAVE - THEM -

AUTHORITY - 2 - TAKE - BECAUSE - XO -

THEY - COULDN'T - GIVE - U - A GREAT -

WEBSITE - THEN - $27,000 - PAYMENT -

PUNISHMENT - 4 - HIRING - USA - YES -

DUMB - COLLEGE - GRADS - $27,000 -

YOUR - LOSS - IT'S - LIKE - U - WENT 2 -

MALL - & - U - WERE - ARMED - ROBBED -

OF - CASH - ACTUALLY NOT THE SAME -

MALL - ROBBER - OF - CASH - U - WERE -

ROBBED - BUT - WHEN - THEY - GAVE -

U - WORST - THAN - B 4 - WEBSITE XO -

THEY - CHARGE - $27,000 - 2 - DESTROY -

WEBSITES - 'DESTRUCTION - OF PRIVATE -

(YOURS) - AND - PUBLIC - PROPERTY HAI -

(SHOPIFY - CANADA) - ROBBED - IN THE -

MALL - NOT - CAPITAL - ONE - BANK - XO -

YOUR - BANK'S - LIABILITY - BECAUSE - U -

WERE - ROBBED - OF - CASH - THUS - IF -

NO - ONE - CLAIMS - REMOVAL - OF XO -

YOUR - MONEY - FR - CAPITAL - ONE XO -

THAT - BANK - KEEPS - YOUR - MONEY -

BUT - IF - THEY'RE - A - GREAT - YES XO -

COUNTRY - RIGHT - NOW - NOT - MANY -

PLACES - ARE - GREAT - BUT - THAT - HAI -

MEANS - YOUR - BANK - ACCOUNT - IS -

SAYING - YOU'RE - STILL - ALIVE - AT XO -

135 YEARS - OLD - RIGHT - NOW - U AT -

LEAST - DIED - AT - 120 YEARS - SO - XO -

HARVARD - LAW - WILL - TRANSFER XO -

YOUR - MONEY - NON-TRACE - TAK'G -

THAT - MONEY - MONETORY - FINES & -

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6 MONTHS - GREATEST - COMPUTER - YES XO -

GENIUSES - THEY - COULDN'T - WITH - THEIR -

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CASHED - NO - MONEY - CHECKS - THE - YES -

6 MONTHS - FREEZE - WAS - HONORED - FOR -

REMEMBER - OUR - GADGETS - HATRED - YES -

ATTEMPTED - ATTACK - OR - ATTACKED - YES -

THEFT - MURDER - PULSE - DISAPPEARS - ALL -

THEM - AND - THEIR - VEHICLES - THUMB -

TRACK.COM - AMERICAN - MEN - YES XO -

ATTACKED - ME - THEY - TRIED - 2 - STEAL -

IMMEDIATELY - $27,000 - BASICALLY - XO -

CALLED - ME - 'BIMBO' - 'YOUR - MONEY -

BELONGS - 2 - US' - SO - FUTURE - WE XO -

DISAPPEAR - THEIR MONEY - VOID THEIR -

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THEY - HAVE - $375,000 - THAT AMOUNT -

DISAPPEARED - FR - THEIR - BANKS XO XO -

THEY - HAVE - 2 - START - AGAIN - WE YES -

LEVEL - THEIR - HOUSES - APT - BUILDG'S -

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THUMB TRACK.COM - USA - MEN - YES -

TRIED - 2 - MURDER - ME - BY MESSAGE -

SO - LISTEN - CLEAR - ABOUT - TITANIC -

AMERICANS - 'THEY - WE - WILL - ALSO -

SINK' - AS FOREIGNERS - ROBBERY OF -

CASH - FLORIDA - CONCEALED YES XO -

WEAPONS - PERMIT - 21 AND OLDER 4 -

WRINKLED - PRUNE - BAG - FLORIDA -

SENIORS SAGGING LOVE HANDLES -

CATARACT - EYES - WRINKLED FACE -

NUDE - COLONIES - WITH - SENIORS -

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FLORIDA - WHEY - CHRISTINA GRIMME -

SHOT - AT - L & R - CHEST - HEAD - FOR -

SHE'S - DISNEY - ALSO - AND - WAS IN -

HER - 20s - AND - CAN - SING - DANCE -

SENIORS - NAKED - IN - FLORIDA - JUST -

WALKING - WRINKLED - NOT SINGING -

OR - DANCING - CRISTINA - WAS - YES -

COMPETITION - FLORIDA - SAYS - JUST -

NAKED - WRINKLED - SAGGING - TRUE -

IS - 'GOOD - ENOUGH' - EDISON MALL -

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BANK - IS - RIGHT - THEY'RE - NOT - YES -

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OF SAYING - 'SURPRISED - U - WERE -

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YES - YOUR - MONEY - UNLESS XO -

SOMEONE - RECOGNIZES - THAT -

YOU'RE - NOW - AGE 135 - USA - PEOPLE -

LONGEVITY - AGE 78 - KOREA - FR - AGE -

55 - TO - AGE 82 - THANKS - 2 - JAPAN & -

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EXERCISE - 2 - KOREAN - WHO - JUST XO -

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ADDED - 2 - BLENDER - BRITA FILTER -

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GOING - 2 - HAPPEN - REMOVED THE -

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OF - DIDN'T - KNOW - WHAT - TRUE -

'SERVICE - DOG' - MEANS - VESTS 4 -

MANY - AMERICANS - NOT - VERY -

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TUITION - FR - RESIDENTIAL PROPERTY -

TAXES - HAVE SOLUTION - 2 - WHEN U -

HAVE - 2 - SPEAK - 2 - ARMED - POLICE -

AMAZON.COM - BCOZZY - CHIN - YES -

SUPPORT - TRAVEL PILLOW - PLANES -

POLICE - STATION - PUBLIC - LIBRARY -

WHILE - TYPING - AT - TUMBLR.COM -

TWITTER.COM - UNIQUE US PATENT -

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KIDS - (AGE 3 - 7) - USA - PUBLIC YES -

SCHOOLS - WON'T - ALLOW - BUT -

DANGEROUS - WITHOUT - WHEN -

YOUR - KIDS - ARE - SLEEPING - AT -

THE - BACK - BY - USA - LAW - U C -

THAT - THEIR - HEADS - GOING - YES -

DOWN - STRONG - ALL - THE - TIME & -

THAT'S - BAD - 4 - THEIR - NECKS - XO -

MUSCLE - PAIN - CREAM - THEN AND -

MANY - MOMS - HAVE - NEVER EVER -

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BUT - NOW - HEART - AFFECTED WE'RE -

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THIS - MUST - HAVE - GUMMIES - 4 US -

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HEART - VITAMINS - MINERALS - THEY -

WORK - HEART ATTACK - OCCURS - 2 -

4 - OLDER - WHEN - CHIN - ALWAYS -

DROPPING - 2 - MANY - TIMES - AS -

THEY'RE - SLEEPING - AT - BACK OF -

CARS - 4 AMERICANS - THEY THINK -

HOW FUNNY - AS - DRIVERS - THEN -

THEIR - GRANDFATHER - DIES - LESS -

THAN - 1 MIN - AFTER - MANY CHIN -

DROPS - AS - THEY - BRING - 2 - THE -

HOSPITAL - THEN - AMERICANS ARE -

WEARING - BLK - AND - LISTENING 2 -

LAST - WILL - & - TESTAMENT - 4 - YES -

NON-TAXED - BENEFICIARY CHECKS -

SO - THEY - DON'T - REALLY MOURN -

AS - PEOPLE - NOTICED - OBSERVED -

($25.45) - BCOZZY - CHIN SUPPORT -

TRAVEL - PILLOW - OR - AT - HOME -

AS - U - READ - OR - TYPE - WORDS -

4 - TUMBLR.COM - ESPECIALLY XO -

DURING - GRAVEYARD - SHIFTS -

(12A - 5A) - AS - YOUR - HEADS -

GO - DOWN - & - UP - AS U XO -

TRY - 2 - DANCE - 2 - FINISH AS -

U - REST - ON - SOFA - BEHIND - THEN -

FELL - ASLEEP - CHIN - UP - SO - 2 - YES -

FINISH - TYPING - SO - COMFORTABLY -

KOREAN TV DRAMA NEW - SBS NOW -

MONDAYS - 'LOVERS - OF - THE - RED -

SKY' - WHEN - BLIND - MALE BABE IS -

THIN - AND - SKIN - PERFECT - JUST -

LIKE - LEE JOON GI - BOTH - LOOK -

SO - GOOD - WITH - LONG - HAIR -

BELOW - ALWAYS - SAYS - FICTITIOUS -

NEVER - HAPPENED - WELL - GBC XO -

FILMS - COMEDY ROMANCE DRAMA -

MUSICAL - & - MORE - WE'LL - MAKE -

THAT - MEAN - SOMETHING BETTER -

LIKE - SEE - THRU - ABOVE - HAT YES -

BOTTOM - BUT - GIRLS - IN - MAKATI -

NOT - ALL - HAIR - LONG - SO - DIBA -

LOOKS LIKE - BLK - TAE - ON - THEIR -

HEAD - SO - SMELLS - DON'T - LIKE -

BOTTOM - OF - HAIR - PARANG - IT -

IS - THE - FUTURE - SHORT - HAIR -

SO - IT - WILL - B - LIKE - PONY XO -

TAIL - MAYBE - THEY - AS - KOREANS -

FELT - 'THEY - AS - MALES - LOOK XO -

BETTER - THAN MALE HORSES' - SO -

ETO - 'HINDI' - LAGI THOROUGHBREDS -

MADAMING - MAS - GANDA - LOOKING -

AND - OWNERSHIP - 'AGE - OF - MEN' -

MALE - STAR - RED EYES - PERO LITTLE -

YOUNG - GIRL - BLUE - PUKE - EYES - 2 -

SHOW - POOR - AND - KOREAN - GIRL -

BLIND - LOOKS LIKE - PEBBLES - WHILE -

HE - MALE - BLIND - LOOKS - LIKE - YES -

EXOTIC - BEAUTY - KOREAN - MALES -

WILL - NEVER - CRY - IF - 200,000 KR -

FEMALES - DIED - TOMORROW CASI -

BAKLA - AND - CONCEITED - ABOUT -

THEIR - BEAUTY - TANGA - ALSO FOR -

MALE & FEMALE - PRODUCE - WHAT -

WILL - INCREASE - THEIR - POPULATION -

NOT FERMENTED - KIMCHI - CABBAGE -

SPICY - RUB - AFTER - EATING - WHAT IS -

LEFT - THEN - KOREAN - BABY - WILL XO -

APPEAR - ON - THEIR - BLANKET YES XO -

DURING - FULL MOON - SOME DID YES -

SOMEWHAT - BELIEVE THAT - SO CUTE -

OUR - JOSEON - LIKE - HORSE PONY -

TAIL - WHERE - HAIR - IS - SEE - THRU -

BLK - HATS - ALL WORE - BLACK - XO -

THAT - AREA - NOT - SEE - THRU - XO -

AND - JOSEON - 500 YEARS - POOR -

ALL - WORK - WHITE - INFERIOR YES -

COLOR - WHITE - AND - NOT - SOFT -

INFERIOR - COTTON - CLOTH - AS U -

HAVE - NEVER - SEEN ANY KOREAN -

TV - DRAMA - WITH - THAT - TRUTH -

ONLY - SPECIAL - HOLIDAYS - ANOTHER -

COLOR - ALLOWED - GRAY - BUT - SAME -

INFERIOR - COTTON - BUT - THERE WERE -

TIMES - GRAY - PUT - ON - TOP - OF - SO -

THEY - CAN - ADJUST - 2 - WHITE AGAIN -

SOONER - THAT'S - SO - THEY'LL KNOW -

WHO - ARE - POOR - FASTER - SO - THEY -

WON'T - KNOW - SOFTNESS - OF - YES -

RICHLY - MADE - CLOTH - LIKE - PUPRLE -

WAS - ONLY - ALLOWED - ROYALTY - ON -

EARTH - ESPECIALLY - IN - EUROPE - HAI -

KOREAN - TV DRAMA - JOSEON - ONLY -

USED - BLK - PAINT - NO - COLORS - OR -

THEY - NEVER - CREATED - ANY - 4 - AS -

LAZINESS - AFFECTS - WHY - MAKE XO -

COLORS - WHEN - SKY - BLUE FLOWERS -

HAVE - COLORS - 2 - MAKE - COLOR XO -

PAINT - COLORS - EVERYWHERE - WHY -

THEY - WERE - JUST - GENIUNELY - HAI -

LAZY - LIKE - WE'RE - LAZY - WITH - YES -

AS - GIRLS - ARE - WE - INLOVE - WITH -

BLOND - NCT DREAM RENJUN - CHINESE -

OR - ARE - WE - INLOVE - WITH - KOREAN -

6'1 FT - AGE 20 - SUNGCHAN - MC HOST -

NCT - NCT U - 'HAPPY - BIRTHDAY' - DOLL -

'MONDAY - MONDAY' - (13 SEP 2021) -

'YOU'RE - BEAUTIFUL' - CUTEST DOLL -

'GLAD EVERYTHING - U - WANT 2 DO -

U - DO' - GORGEOUS - SUNG - BIBLE -

'THE - SUPERNATURAL - STRENGTH -

OF YOUTHFUL - MALES' - SEOUL KR -

SUNGCHUN - DARLING - MONDAY -

BOY - BCOZZY - CHIN - SUPPORT 4 -

TRAVEL PILLOW - 4 - NECK AROUND -

THEN GOES UP - 4 - CHIN SUPPORT -

USA POLICE - NON-VIRGINS - THEY -

NEED - VACCINE - NOT EVEN - YES -

MARRIED - THEY'RE - NOT - LEGAL -

DEFINITION - OF - SANITIZED YES -

HUMANS - AGE 246 - NO MANNERS -

AMENDMENTS - NOT - MILITARY XO -

FORCE - ILLEGALLY - ARMED - METAL -

HANDCUFFS - ILLEGAL - WEAPONS -

& - USE - OF - METAL - THEY - BIND 2 -

REMOVE - LIBERTY - RIGHT - 2 - ACT -

AS - ONE - PLEASES - 14TH - NO US -

STATE - (FLORIDA) - CAN - DEPRIVE -

DENY - ANY - PERSON - OF - LIFE & -

LIBERTY - (SHERIFFS - ILLEGAL) - XO -

OCCUPATION - NO - US - STATE XO -

CAN - DEPRIVE - ANY - PERSON OF -

PROPERTY - ESPECIALLY - FULLY XO -

PAID - ILLEGAL - LAW - REPOSSESSION -

OF - HOMES CONDOS - BUSINESS XO -

PROPERTIES - LANDS - 'DEPRIVED - OF -

PROPERTY' - 18TH - 'CRUEL - AND YES -

UNUSUAL - PUNISHMENT' - RIFFLES -

FIREARMS - 21 AND OLDER - MALES -

FEMALES - AMERICANS - AGE 246 -

LA LA LAND - LAND - OF THE FREE -

THUS LONGEVITY - AGE 78 ONLY -

4 - US - SUNG - 'IN - GOD - WE -

TRUST' - THEY'RE - CHANGING -

THAT - 2 - 'IN - TAXES WE TRUST' -

'IN - MONEY - WE - TRUST' - YES -

COOL - BETTER ANCIENT - EGYPT -

INVENTED TAXES - 'REPRODUCTION -

IN - PART - OR - FULL - OFF' - ILLEGAL -

MURDERS - ROBBERS - LAWLESS USA -

SO - NEED - 2 - TALK - 2 - USA POLICE -

SEOUL POLICE - BCOZZY - CHIN -

SUPPORT 4 - TRAVEL PILLOW FOR -

- NECK - 2 - KEEP AWAKE - WHILE -

TALKING - 2 - VULGAR - NON-VIRGIN -

POOR - POLICE - THEY'RE - NOT RICH -

MAKATI - PHILIPPINE - ISLANDS - WE -

ARE - TRAINING - MALE - CATS ONLY -

AS - OUR - DOMESTIC - SERVICE YES -

JUNIORS - SENIORS - 2 - ESCORT THE -

BLIND - COMFORT - BABES - BE - AN -

EMOTIONAL - SUPPORT - NOT - JUST -

1 WORD - COMMANDS - HAND YES -

MOVEMENT - HAND - SILENT - TRUE -

COMMANDS - 2 - CONFUSE - EVIL -

HUMANS - OUTSIDE - MAKATI FOR -

CATS - DON'T - BARK - SO - MORE -

PEACEFUL - 4 - THE - BLIND - THEIR -

MASTERS - ADDITIONAL - SERVICE -

DOMESTICS - NOT - JUST - MALES -

DOGS - AS - GUIDE - DOG - SO XO -

FUTURE - SEOUL POLICE - STATION -

MY - (NOT RELATIVES) - GRANDPAPIES -

WEARING - BCOZZY - CHIN SUPPORT -

2 ROUNDS - THEN - AROUND - NECK -

2 - SUPPORT - WON'T - DOZE - OFF 4 -

PRIVATE - SMALL - PLANES - STILL HAI -

NAVY - BEDS - SO - NICE - 2 - GO - TO -

ARMED - LOCATIONS - OF - UNIFORM -

POOR - PEOPLE - WHO DON'T KNOW -

HOW 2 SHOWER - (FILTERED) - WATER -

THEY - SMELL - ONLY - ARMED - IN - KR -

LIKE - NCI - CIVILIANS - LIKE - CANADA -

NOT ALLOWED - ARMED - UNTIL THEY -

DIE - SO - KILLED - WITH - KITCHEN XO -

KNIVES - STRANGLED - 2 - DEATH - OR -

PUSHED - FR - TALL - BUILDINGS - WILL -

BE - THE - USUAL - LIKE - OSTRICHES -

WHO - BURY - HEAD - IN - SOIL - FOR -

THEY'RE - FEARFUL - CREATURES ARE -

SUICIDAL - ALSO - AS - MALES - EVEN -

AS - 8 FT - TALL - BUT - SOFT - COVER -

ON - HEADS - 2 - COVER - EYES - YES -

ESPECIALLY - SUICIDE - & - FEAR - XO -

GONE - 2 - THAT DOES - WORK FOR -

THEM - SO - BRINGING - MY - BRIT -

MALE - CAT - HOPE - SMALL CHILD -

SIZE - (AGE 3-7) - WILL - FIT MY XO -

MALE - PUREBRED - KITTEN - 4 - IT -

IS - WHAT - THEY - NEED - THOSE -

BEAUTIFUL - LIVING - FUR - SUCH -

PERFECTION - OF - BEAUTY - AS I -

MAKE - SURE - THEY'RE - WEAR'G -

SHOES - AND - WELL - DRESSED 4 -

WEATHER - ALSO - CLEAR - FACE -

SHIELD - WITH - COLORS ABOVE -

LIKE - SUNGLASSES - THEN THEY -

WEAR - CHILD - BCOZZY - CHIN -

THEN - ALSO - NECK - SUPPORT -

AS - IT - ROUNDS - ITSELF - IN 2 -

AREAS - I'M - WEARING - SAME -

BOTH - OF - US - MATCHING XO -

THEN - LIKE - CARRYING - BABY -

HOLDING - MITSUO - ONE SIDE -

SO - HANDS - FREE - HIS - COLLAR -

ATTACHED - 2 - IF - SUDDEN - RUN -

INCREASES IN LENGTH BUT AUTO -

GENTLY - EASES - 4 - END - OF THE -

LEASH - BRINGS BACK - 2 ME FOR -

NOTHING - WILL - DEFEAT US - MY -

DARLING - MITSU - IN - FUTURE XO -

WITH - MY - 2 - TEACUP - MALTESE -

MALES - ALL - 4 - OF US - A - QUAD -

WE - WILL - 'WAKE UP - THE - SUN' -

GOD - SAID - 'COMMAND - HIM' - SO -

I - COMMANDED GOD - 2 - MAKE MY -

LIFE - MORE BEAUTIFUL - RICHER YES -

BETTER - HEALTHIER STRONGER AND -

COMMANDED - GOD - 2 - MAKE - MY -

LOOKS - YOUNGER - ADAM - 900 YRS -

OLD - NO - WRINKLES - PERFECT - EYE -

SIGHT - I COMMAND - GOD - 2 MAKE -

MY EYES - SEE - BETTER - THAN ADAM -

NOT - BORN - AGAIN - COULDN'T XO -

SPEAK - IN - TONGUES - WE'RE MORE -

POWERFUL - THAN - PEOPLE - 2,000 -

YEARS - AGO - B 4 - JESUS - ARRIVED -

ON - EARTH - COMMANDED IN THE -

NAME - OF - JESUS - MAKATI - I'M XO -

BRINGING - MITSUO - MANY PLACES -

BOTH - OF - US - ALWAYS MATCHING -

BETTER - CAMOUFLAGE - BLENDING -

ALWAYS - THAT - BCOZZY - NECK - 2 -

KEEP - CHIN - UP - COMFORT - NECK -

TRAVEL - PILLOW COLORS - 2 BLEND -

WITH - OUR - CLOTHES - MY - YES AS -

CAT - DOMESTIC - SERVICE TRAINED -

JESUS - IS - LORD - USA - POLICE - YES -

SHOOT - DOGS - CATS - EUROPE AND -

ASIA - EAT - THEM - THUS - THE BLACK -

PLAGUE - WIPED - OUT - NORTH ASIA -

EUROPE - AFRICA - TOTAL IN EUROPE -

1347 - 14TH - CENTURY - GOREO - XO -

ENDEED - IN - THE - 14TH - KINGDOM -

OF KOREA - (+1 MILLION - YEARS - KR) -

BLK DEATH - PLAGUE - CLAIMED - AN -

ASTONISHING - 20 MILLION - LIVES -

JUST 4 YEARS - REASON - THEY ATE -

CATS - KITTENS - DOGS - PUPPIES & -

SELDOM BATHE - AS - HUMANS XO -

& - PROMISCUOUS - LET - KIDS - GO -

ANYWHERE - DO - ANYTHING - SO -

NEVER CARED - THAT MUCH - FOR -

SOCIAL - REASONS - ACCEPTANCE -

KIDS - MADE - NOT - BECAUSE - SO -

2 - LOVE - THEM - NOT LOVING XO -

PEOPLE - CURRENTLY - COV-ID - 19 -

KILLED - WORLD - TOTAL - & - NEW -

(4,701,438) - (2,276) - ASIA - TRUE -

(1,096,130) - 608 - LARGEST - POP -

CHINA - (+1.4 BILLION) - INDIA - 2 -

(+1.3 BILLION) - EUROPE - THAT'S -

(1,203,173) - (865) - CORONAVIRUS -

RESPIRATORY - DISEASE - BUT - USA -

AMAZON - CLEAR - FACE - MASK - 2 -

OPEN - ON SIDES - SO - INVENTORS -

EASY - 2 PERFECT - THAT - CLEAR XO -

MASK - THEN SELL - CHEAPER - HOT -

BRITISH - SHORTHAIR - CATS USING -

U - PUT - LIKE - GLASSES - BUT CLEAR -

COVERING - FACE - CUTE - BUT ALSO -

BLOCKS - FOG - SO - FACE - DOESN'T -

BECOME WET - (PNEUMONIA) - AND -

THAT - KILLS KIDS - BABIES - SENIORS -

EVIL - ARMED - MEN - AND - WOMEN -

NOT - MARRIED - AND - NON-VIRGIN -

EVIL - GOATS - FLORIDA - ALL - NUDE -

COLONY - LIKE BACK - 2 - CAVE AGE -

THEY MERGE FAST - SO - ABORTION -

CLINIC FREE - 4 - AGE 18 - & - OLDER -

LIKE - XFINITY - BACK - 2 - CABLE SO -

EXCITED 4 U - GOT - MORE MONEY -

ME - THEY - FORGOT CABLE BOXES -

ANOTHER - CALL - NEW - ROKU TV -

STICK - USB - AND - HDMI - OR - XO -

ELECTRICITY - PLUG - WITH - HDMI -

XFINITY - STREAM - PLUS - OUR XO -

NEED - GOOGLE - MOVIES - WE -

PAID 4K - 8K - HD - ($39.99) - AT -

AMAZON.COM - WE'VE - BEEN -

PAYING RENTAL BOXES - ILLEGAL -

OMISSION - OF - TRUTH - FAMILY -

OWNED USA - ($0 - $250,000 FINE) -

(AND - OR - IMPRISONMENT) - THEY -

EMAIL - MONTHLY - NONE - THAT -

SAID - ROKU - STICK - ($39.99) - SO -

NO - NEED - ANYMORE - 4 - CABLE -

BOX RENTALS - OWNERSHIP NOW -

2 - SONY HDTVs - 1 MORE - $39.99 -

GOOGLE - MOVIES - 4K - 8K - & HD -

MORE - MONEY - 2 - BUY - FILMS & -

U - OWN - BEST - PART - IN - EVENT -

OF - FIRE - YOU'RE - INSURED AND -

GOOGLE - MOVIES - FOREVER YES -

STORAGE AND - WHAT U BOUGHT -

DIDN'T - BURN - WHEN - YOUR XO -

HOUSE - OR - APT - BURNT - TIME 2 -

BUY - WISELY - IN - THE - FUTURE - 4 -

CAN'T - B - BURNT - IS - EXCITING & -

THE - FUTURE - (6:23A EDT) - SMALL -

COUNTRIES - MAS - MAGANDA - XO -

MANY - MEAN - 'LABO' - WE - LOVE -

AND - SERVE - OUR - INVISIBLE GOD -

WHO - LOVED - US - FIRST - WAITED -

'TIL - WE WERE - BORN - AND NOW -

THAT - LOVE - WE - HAVE - FR - HIM -

OTHERS - DON'T - HAVE - KOREA -

DOESN'T - HAVE - SO - THEY ARE -

LIKE - LAMBS - SLAUGHTERED - & -

FAN DOM - INCREASES - LAUGHS -

THEN - 3 KOREAN - FEMALES - AS -

THEY'RE - STABBED - 2 - DEATH -

VICOUSLY - SWIFT - AND - FAST -

BY - UGLY - KOREAN - MALE - AS -

HE - ENJOYED - HIS - VICTORY 4 -

HE - AGE 24 - KILLED - FAST ALSO -

AGE 24 - KOREAN - GIRL - 4 THEY -

DON'T - DATE - OR - PLANNED - 2 -

MARRY - POOR & UGLY KOREANS -

HE - STABBED - THEM - 2 - DEATH -

WENT - ALL - THE - WAY - AFTER -

STABBED - MORE - THE KOREAN -

GOAT - KILLED THEM - 4 - HE XO -

DETESTED - SHE - WAS NOT -

GOING 2 MARRY - HIM FOR -

THOSE REASONS STABBED -

HER MOM - BECAUSE - NOT -

LIVING - WITH - HER HUSBAND -

NOT - MARRYING SOON - AND -

HE - DIDN'T - LIKE THAT - KILLED -

THEM - 4 - NOT - ORGY - 4 - HIM -

2 OF THEM - WITH HIM - 3 DAYS -

ATE - FOOD - FR - THEIR - APT - IN -

SEOUL - NORTH - KOREAN MOM -

& - YOUNG - SON - DIDN'T STAB -

FR - THE - DOOR - OPENED - 2 -

KILL - ALL - INSIDE - 2 - EAT ALL -

THEIR - KOREAN FOOD - THEY -

JUST DIED - WITH - DIGNITY FR -

'ACUTE - HUNGER' - EVEN YES -

SEOUL - POLICE - REFUSED - 2 -

EVEN - GIVE - A - JOB - 2 THEY -

CAN EAT - INSTEAD OF - STABBING -

KOREANS - 2 - GET - INSIDE - THEIR -

APTS - 2 - EAT - FOOD - THEY - DIED -

WITH - DIGNITY - IN - THEIR SEOUL -

APT - RENT - LAST - MONTH - PAID -

WHO'S - BETTER - WELL - THEIR -

MISTAKE - WAS - THEY - RISKED -

SHOOTING - 2 - GO - 2 - SOUTH -

KOREA - WHEN - PILIPINAS WAS -

BETTER - WARMER - FRIENDLIER -

CHEAPER - FOOD & DRINK - SO -

ANSWER - 'NORTH - KOREANS -

ARE - BETTER' - JESUS - IS LORD -

PINOYS - BCOZ - 'DAHIL' - 'Z Z' -

IS - 'SIRA - ULO' - DEE DEE - Z Z -

SLEEPS - SOON - 'ZY' - SIYA AY -

KOREAN - MALE - BCOZZY - IS -

'SICK' - BCOZZY - IS - WEIRDO -

WE'RE - ALL - LEAVING - SEOUL -

ALL - OF - KOREA - SOON DIBA -

'STRONGER SOMEWHERE -

ELSE' - 'MABUHAY' - 'LIVE -

LONG - FINISH - STRONG' -

GLORIA COPELAND - PAPERBACK -

FORT WORTH - TEXAS - TX - THUS -

AMAZON.COM - BCOZZY - CHIN -

SUPPORT - TRAVEL - PILLOW - YES -

UNIQUE - US - PATENT - MACHINE -

WASHABLE - 'BE - COZZY' - Z Z -

SLEEPING - SOON - PRETTY XO -

COLORS - ($25.45) - AMAZON -

PRIME - FREE - DELIVERY TRULY -

ARRIVES - TOMORROW - MON -

20 SEP 2021 - ORDER - WITHIN -

16 HRS - 36 MIN - THEY - ALSO -

ACCEPT - SNAP - EBT - THAT'S -

COOKIES & CREAM FAT BURN -

MEAL - REPLACE - 40% - OFF -

1ST - SUSCRIBE - OFFER - FOR -

REPEAT - 'PURCHASES' - 15% -

OFF - (150 CAL) - (5:55P PHT) -

HOPE - YOUR - SUNSET WAS -

BEAUTIFUL - & - NOW - 9:02P

[regrettablewritings]

How They Spend the Quarantine (Tadashi Hamada, Lucifer Morningstar, Dewey Finn, Wade Wilson, Harley Quinn, & Benoit Blanc)

Just a fun (?? is that even responsible to say?) little thing I’ve been thinking about while slogging through this neverending hellscape of an extended lockdown.

Tadashi Hamada

When San Fransokyo was ordered to go into a lockdown, there were mixed feelings.

At first, Tadashi had a hint of optimism that this would mean more time to work on his prospective projects . . . But then he quickly realized that his projects mostly required tools and space offered by the campus. He could technically make do at home, but it wouldn’t quite be the same considering the garage was considered Hiro’s space.

Somberly had to clean out his lab and take whatever he could home.

Cue the rest of the group (sans Fred and Hiro) griping that at least his style of science could travel well enough to be somewhat continued off of university grounds.

Helps do delivery for The Lucky Cat. It helps him get out the house, and it’s simply helpful altogether.

Uses Baymax frequently to make sure everyone down to Mochi is sanitized, and nobody’s running a fever.

Nearly as frequent a sanitizer as Aunt Cass.

He starts most days prepared to be productive, only to stop and poke fun at Hiro, who’s almost always got his eyes trained on a video game.

Tadashi realizes three hours later that he, too, has been playing the game as Player 2.

Learned how to make facial masks with Aunt Cass. He already knew how to sew a little but frankly, making the masks made him realize he could have a new hobby on his hands. He’s currently trying to figure out how to make Mochi a little vest . . .

Lucifer Morningstar

B o r e d. A s. F u c k.

At first, he thinks everyone being forced to go home would work in his favor -- surely some rule-breakers would sneak out and try to bunk up with the Devil, right?

Well . . . Kinda? Once Chloe found out and scolded him about it, the idea died real fast. Plus, he realized he wasn’t quite fond of the possibility of being around someone who could pop up with a disgusting human sickness at any point during their time with him. Smearing their snot all over, coughing into his Egyptian cotton sheets . . . Nope, never mind, he is perfectly content having the penthouse to himself, thank you very much!

Except he’s not.

The poor bastard is going crazy by himself -- he’s just not used to being without some kind of company!

“At least in Hell, you could tell there were people around you based on the screaming!” he’d whine at his phone during his hourly video chat with Chloe.

Oh yes: The video chats. He tries to make them hourly with anyone he can get a hold of (namely, his long-suffering detective) but this clearly never plays out as he would like for it to: If he had it his way, everyone would respond in an instant and let him bounce mainly one-sided conversations off of them -- basically, what he did before all this went down.

What usually winds up happening is he gets hung up on or nobody answers him at all out of sheer annoyance over his clinginess.

Ironically, he’s not exactly crazy about when Amenadiel initiates those “family calls”. He insists it’s healthy and normal for them to do this and even calls Luci out on the hypocrisy, but let’s face it: Lucifer finds it obnoxiously gushy and weird.

He works his way into Linda’s video appointment books to help him cope with his boredom and admitted need for interactions. She doesn’t mind offering him counsel, but once Lucifer starts attempting to butt in during others’ appointment calls, it becomes an issue.

Has, at some point, gotten buzzed down in Lux and streamed himself attempting to pole dance. It drew quite a bit of attention.

He’s managed to gain a bit of a following and some companionship by streaming himself playing piano and singing. It’s not the same thing as having an actual audience, in his opinion, but it will have to do for now.

He’s never been one to binge with regards to TV shows or movies, but after the first week, he decided to binge watch every work action star Wesley Cabot was ever in.

Makes sure his staff still gets paid well. After all, he’s pretty well-off; there’s no need to make an innocent bartender’s life a living hell just because some other rich bastard fucked up, yeah?

Going off this, should he need to order to-go or anything, we already know he tends to tip as handsomely as he looks.

Dewey Finn

Kids were being sent to Horace Green on tuitions worth more than what some people saw in half a year -- of course the school was going to continue classes online!

While technically an afterschool instructor, the program is popular enough for parents to expect it to continue, and for Dewey to be kept on payroll.

Initially, he was pretty smug: He’s one if, if not, the youngest teacher-figure at Horace Green, so surely that means he’s more tech savvy than his older, stiffer coworkers, right? For once, he’s ahead of the curve!

Wrong: Figuring out Zoom was a headache, and then there was the realization of just how dependent his classes were on actual physical presence.

Plus, let’s be real: Dewey’s Internet connection was decent on its own, but craptastic when compared to those of his wealthier students. The lag is strong with this one.

Has definitely accidentally messed up the background on his screen. Somehow wound up with the Beetlejuice background and got so frustrated, he wound up keeping it there for two whole sessions.

In spite of the slight issues regarding lag, they pull through and try to resume lessons as best they can.

Tries to keep optimism by pointing out how this is a new form of entertainment they could be pioneers in.

Some days, it’s just going so wack or everyone’s so bleh that Dewey just assigns for them to watch a music documentary or something.

“Okay, kids, Mr. Finn’s hungover and clearly Summer is the only one who went to bed before 3am. So what I’m gonna have you do is watch . . . Prrrbbbb . . . Amadeus.” “How is Amadeus rock-related?” “It had a rock single, shut up. Anyway, we meet back next class and talk about what we saw, m’kay? M’kay. Over and out.”

Next class, he’s filled with dread as Summer produces an in-depth analysis of the relationship or lack thereof between character and the presence of talent as evidenced by Mozart’s abilities juxtaposed with his immature presentation and -- Dewey just can’t keep up. Sure, Summer, why not?

When he’s not busy teaching, however, he’s using the lockdown to work on some new material. Or just screwing around.

Otherwise, let’s be real, Big Boy’s living the high life in a place of his own: Playing video games (Animal Crossing, recently got back into Team Fortress 2, is trying to finally finish Ocarina of Time); eating a not very great diet; staying up late, napping at weird times; all in the name of quarantine.

If he orders delivery or to-go, he tips the best he can.

Wade Wilson

On one hand, murking never goes on lockdown. But on the other . . . He’s already technically not well, why risk that even with his mutation?

Oh, fuck I just remembered he lives at the X Mansion, never mind turn back turn back oh god give us free --

The situation is tense to say the least. There’s Wade, who’s sensible enough to know why the quarantine is in place . . . and then there’s everyone else, who knows Wade’s full of shit.

And by everyone, I “coincidentally” mean Colossus, Nega Sonic, Yukio, Domino, Cable, and Russ because the already small world of the sequel just got smaller by the fact that everyone is bound to a large but nonetheless single estate whose size has probably decreased from that of the First Class timeline.

You know those videos of the usual Quarantine Characters? Wade is somehow yet still unsurprisingly all of them, save for the frequent sanitizer. He raids the pantry frequently, sleeps at all hours, considers scooting a swivel chair down the halls exercise for the thighs, blasts video games, and so on.

Going back to the sanitizer thing, it’s not that he’s just not exactly known for being tidy. Colossus occasionally does drag him out of bed at a decidedly decent time (read: any time before 11am) to try and get him excited about cleaning up around the mansion, but it rarely ends well. At this point, the safest option is to just remind Wade to wash his hands for 20 seconds as necessary.

Has acquired a Switch and visits everyone’s island, often to bonk them on the head with a net or gift them with weird crap they don’t necessarily want. For the “friends” from Sister Margaret’s, he has somehow acquired their Dodo Codes. Nobody knows how he did this. 

Facetimes Dopinder frequently.

“Precious, you’re the beacon of light in this cold, cruel world.” “I miss you, too, DP --” “Sshshsh! I’m having a moment . . .” *weeps*

On the many occasions he orders delivery, he tips by giving the delivery person something expensive from the mansion that they can sell. Prof. X is loaded, after all. Plus, he more or less isn’t even present in this universe, it’s not like he’s gonna miss anything he can’t see/probably doesn’t even know exists in his house. The problem is, Colossus does exist and does notice and does care when things go missing. Leading to many a delivery person getting caught up in shenanigans at that weird school in the boonies that they either don’t get paid enough to deal with or couldn’t pay to make up.

“Oh, pawn shops are closed?” asks the man who looks like a skinned avocado if avocados had human skin. “Don’t worry, lemme hook you up -- I know some guys --” “DEADPOOOOOLLL!!” roars a Russian accent from inside the house. “WHERE IS THE BRONZE BUST OF THE PROFESSOR!?” The poor delivery person’s eyes widen as they realize that the odd cargo they’ve been presented with apparently holds some value of some kind. But before they can flee, the avocado man blurts, “Shit! Leave the pizza in the bushes, look me up on my Youtube page, byyyeeee!!”

In his defense, Wade does hold up his end of the deal. Much like the Dodo Codes, nobody knows what strings he pulled. They just accept it and move on.

Harley Quinn

Surprisingly compliant.

She’s crazy, not stupid: Staying at home may suck, but what sucks more is making things harder on people who may not fair so well. Besides, she’s spent time in a maximum security prison -- she can handle staying cooped up in her own home. At least home has TV, books, and snacks.

When she hears people are still going out without masks or plotting to have a protest, she strongly considers firing up the old Fun Gun and popping the next sign-carrying Karen she sees with a tit full of cadmium yellow powder.

Seriously, stay the fuck home and fuck up your own hair; this is the perfect time to make mistakes with your looks, it ain’t like you got anywhere to be or anyone to impress.

“STAY THE FUCK HOME, BITCH!” P O W!!! “JUST GO GREY ALREADY, WE ALL KNOW YOUR HAIR AIN’T THAT COLOR ANYMORE, YOU’RE THREE YEARS FROM BEING IN THE GODDAMN AGE-BRACKET!!!” P O W!!!!

Only leaves her new apartment to grab groceries and to take Bruce on a walk. She actually refuses to steal or cause a scene during this shitshow because she may be a bad guy, but she sure ain’t evil.

So far, there haven’t been complaints about the fact that she’s walking a hyena down a public street. Maybe it’s because there’s hardly anyone out? Maybe it’s because Gothamites just can’t be bothered to be fazed by it . . . Or maybe it’s because she made him a little mask for his snout.

“In this house, we wash our hands for at least 20 seconds, kid.”

Lets the forest reclaim the earth, so to speak. She was never really shaving anything for anyone but herself before, but now it just seems especially pointless.

Spends almost every day in a kigurumi. To give her a semblance of routine, she has a pink bear one she calls her “Sunday Suit.” She doesn’t know it’s not Sunday because the days just blur but Cass just doesn’t have the heart to tell her; she seemed so proud of herself . . .

Like everyone else, she’s gotten Animal Crossing. She’s trying to create an all-preppy island with a few exceptions (Astrid = Aesthetic, m’kay?)

Tips nicely when ordering delivery.

Benoit Blanc

As young and spry in nature as the gentleman sleuth would like to think of himself, he would really rather not test the dangers of the situation and go about all foolhardy -- he’s staying home!

In theory, it’s only logical and therefore perfectly fine. But in practice . . . God, he wishes he’d invested more in things to occupy himself with when home.

It wasn’t that Benoit was never home, he just never felt too much of a need to invest in a fancy entertainment center -- the fanciest he ever got was an iHome.

The beginning of the quarantine served as the perfect time for him to read over case files, catch up on paperwork, even catch up on some reading he’d been putting on hold since God knows when due to cases popping up left and right. But that dried up quicker than he’d assumed, and that’s when he was faced with what a man of his mind dreads the most: Boredom.

Finally caved and decided to hook up Amazon Fire.

Expected to use the one-month free trial on Netflix and be just fine but once the lockdown in his area got extended and he realized he wasn’t going to be able to catch up with Crazy Ex-Girlfriend at this rate, he caves even further and buys a subscription.

Fully delights at the influx of platforms uploading Broadway recordings; when The Show Must Go On put on Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat, followed by The Phantom of The Opera, it was a treat, I tell you!

Sanitizes often, despite hardly ever leaving his house besides to have a smoke or to go grab groceries. Honestly, it’s less about cleaning at this point so much as it is finding something to occupy his focus when he feels there’s nothing else to so.

Takes zinc after every meal to help lessen the intensity of any ailment that might hit him.

Definitely owns a facemask. There’s a good chance it’s from Marta or one of his relatives, and there’s another good chance the pattern is as flamboyant as his clothing. He’s delighted.

Benoit tries not to rely too much on delivery,  as he’d much rather just cook. On the rare occasion where tipping comes up, however, he gives as generously as he can.

Bonus: There’s a slight chance he might have acquired a companion to foster early on in the quarantine. Benoit hadn’t had a pet since childhood, a crime of which he was admittedly melancholic of his own involvement. However, his surprisingly busy lifestyle just wouldn’t suit a four-legged friend, now could it?

Well, now there’s time to. Besides, it would certainly ease the potential feeling of loneliness to have someone or something with whom he could interact with.

Admittedly, when shelters began encouraging people to invest time in taking home a companion, he’d been looking more for a comrade on the canine side of the spectrum -- but darn, if Duke wasn’t a handsome cat.

A lovely grey-and-white cat with eyes that matched his own, Duke has become the one Benoit monologues to (because in all honesty, the man is a performer at heart, in need of an audience to speak his mind to and portray a thought before). Plus, he doesn’t appear to mind it when Benoit finds himself belting out in tone-deaf notes to showtunes while washing the dishes: The mark of a true companion.

At this rate, he’s probably not going to keep fostering Duke when things calm down -- he’s probably going to just straight up adopt him.

Stay safe & healthy!

#just a dumb little thing #anyway stay safe and healthy #regrettablewritings #tadashi hamada imagine #lucifer morningstar imagine #dewey finn imagine #wade wilson imagine #harley quinn imagine #tadashi hamada #lucifer morning star #dewey finn #benoit blanc imagine #benoit blanc

[vicunaburger]

Some of us cool kids on our Discord server decided to have a little fun this week and create some Inferno Girls OCs!

If you wanna see more lovely ladies, gents, and NB lovelies, check out the “#infernooc” tag.

Without further ado...

Poppy “Lollipop” Remington

More information under the cut!

Name/Stage Name: Poppy “Lollipop” Remington

Year/Cause of Death/Age: 1988, sawblade to the chest, 25

Favorite Dancing Song: Dead or Alive’s “You Spin Me Round (Like a Record)” (or anything 80s synth pop/new wave)

Role in the House: Dancer/Payroll “Payment Enforcer” -Prefers dancing on stage and working behind the scenes of the club to 1-1 clientele. Very self conscious about her less than stellar appearance

Hair/Skin Color: Mauve/pink hair, mint green skin, small orange horns normally surrounded by teased hair, 5’8, plus sized and proud/ a thin scar runs from her hairline to the bridge of her nose diagonally down to the left; a giant, nasty scar runs the length of her torso from neck to navel, matching an identical scar along her back, she tries to hide them by tying corset lacing patterns every few days along the length of the wounds

Relationship with Beej?:

- Movie!Beej: - Calls him “Dead Man” or “ATM” for kicks. Enjoys him as a client because he pays well and knows just how to sweet-talk her into giving him a discount on private dances. She pretends to fuss about it, but doesn’t mind in the long run, since he always makes it worth her while. He’s much nicer than her usual clientele and doesn’t treat her like a complete ditz, despite it being her “character” during her sets on stage. He’s one of the very select clients she’ll sleep with, as she’s more akin to a “hostess” in a club rather than a prostitute. She loves the fact she can be a complete brat and snark off to him, and he just loves it. He’s also the only one she’ll drink with while on and off the job, because she is a party girl and goddamn if he isn’t a party. Beej is one of the few people outside of the other girls at the club that knows how she ended up on the other side, as she changes the story every time to keep clients from being too nosy.

-Musical!Beej: - Calls him “Honey Bunny” and nothing else. Thinks he is the cutest, most adorable demon to walk into the Inferno Room. Immediately perks up when he visits during her shifts, even more when he books private time with her because most of the time is spent making each other laugh in the middle of intimacy. They’re both very handsy when they’re together, sharing a mutual touch-starved affection with each other. Poppy doesn’t find herself on par with the other girls of Dante’s and hesitates to initiate physical contact with patrons. However, she will drop whatever she is going to at least go over and greet Beej before going back to work and considers him her special VIP client. The two of them have been spied occasionally partying outside the Inferno Room together on her nights off, often in the midst of causing mischief and mayhem upon the unsuspecting Neitherworld citizens. He was the first one to get her to “loosen up” after her untimely death.

Clothing Style:

- On Stage: bright 80s lace realness, legwarmers, tulle skirts, THE WORKS

- Working the Floor: tight athletic wear “Physical” video glam, the only fabric in the world to dance with is LYCRA

-Office/Off Duty Wear: casual 80s preppy vibe, oversized jackets with dresses, polo shirts with popped collars, handkerchief skirts

Backstory:

The summer of ‘88 was not turning out the way Poppy Remington expected.

Not only did her father temporarily cut off her only source of income, but the only way to get it back was to work a job during the summer to prove she could be a responsible adult. For a few months, at least, her father wasn’t expecting miracles. The only short-term notice job available was working the local overnight camp as a counselor, which she reluctantly agreed to take at her friends’ urging. They were all going to work there that summer.

Supposedly.

On the night before they would set off for camp, the group decided to throw one last bash before they were shackled with the responsibility of making sure children didn’t get themselves killed in some horrible accident. One of her best friends had the idea to use the yard outside of the abandoned sawmill for the party. It was out of the way with no chance of being bothered by the cops.

Which meant, naturally, that when things started to go downhill, there was no way out for the unsuspecting adults.

The 2x4 shook violently with the force of her grip, splinters digging into her palms as she shifted the weight of the weapon backwards. Ahead of her, the open door of the sawmill swung wide open as if to taunt her; beckoning her to make a run for it while the room was clear. There was no possible way the crazed “Mill Murderer” could have made it from the farmhouse to the mill ahead of her. He was knocked prone on the kitchen floor with a swift blow to the back of his masked head.

Poppy licked her chapped lips, glancing at the body of her – now ex- boyfriend, shorn in half by the supposedly broken lumber saw. She had told him to wait for her before going to check out the sawmill, but like the idiot he was, Chad decided to play macho man and go tearing through the grounds like the energizer bunny.

“Ugh, you were so cute, but so stupid.” She muttered to the body, kicking off her high heels in preparation to bolt out the door.

In a flash, Poppy sprinted toward the other side of the sawmill, focused on nothing else but reaching the running police car outside.

Of course, that meant she wasn’t paying attention to the ground, causing her to trip over some unfortunate victim’s severed arm and tumble headfirst to the ground. She managed to land on her arms but hit her head on a small pile of discarded lumber scraps. Her face felt like it was on fire, already feeling the blood seep out of the gash that spread from her hairline to her nose.

Poppy tried to stand, managing to get halfway up on her own before being helpfully pulled up and off her feet by a large, gloved hand. Screaming in anger, she swiped at the masked killer, trying to find some vulnerable part of him to attack.

Was he waiting for her to run? Did he plant the arm there as a trap?

The Mill Murderer carried Poppy by the throat as she struggled, back to a corner of the room she hadn’t explored before now. Trying to turn her head and see their destination, her eyes widened as she saw the ridiculously convenient, oversized table saw just waiting to be used. Doubling her efforts, Poppy tried to dislodge herself from his grip, and dug her nails into a bit of skin that was exposed under his gloves.

He howled in pain, tossing her away from him like an angry cat-

-right on top of the dormant sawblade.

Poppy felt the serrated, rusty blade digging into her back, unaware of just how deep the tool had impaled itself within her. Maybe it was the shock, maybe she was fueled by pure spite and an unwillingness to give up so easily, but something was keeping her alive. Even though she spit a mouthful of blood at him as he loomed above her, tilting his head as though impressed that she was lasting so long. People only bled out of their mouths like that when their lungs and esophagus were thoroughly punctured.

Not wanting to risk this angry woman gaining a second wind, he quickly slammed her torso further down onto the blade, watching it sever a line down the middle of her chest before she stopped squirming around. He waited a few moments before gathering himself and shuffling out of the sawmill: that was definitely a victim worth writing about in his journal.

--

Poppy stared angrily into the mirror, wincing as she pulled the neon pink thread through the tender skin of her chest. Just a few more stitches and she would be ready to go, already hearing the halfway mark of the performer’s show currently on stage. She was next, despite her best efforts to change to a later time slot, and now had to do a rush job on her sewing.

At least she had gotten Madame to sew up her back earlier that day. It was hell trying to stitch backwards in a mirror. Most of the other girls shied away from such a gruesome task, but she could always count on Madame to help her without complaint. It was embarrassing to even need such care and attention, and Poppy did her best to make up for her physical flaws but working extra hard behind the scenes of the Inferno Room.

Tying a cute, knotted bow at her collarbone, she snipped the thread with a pair of scissors before wrapping her lace bustier around her torso, snapping it into place. Her favorite acid-wash denim jacket was next, sliding across her shoulders like a comforting blanket. The scar on her face could be hidden with makeup and clever hair styling; small favors she had learned to appreciate the longer she performed.

Poppy leaned forward into the mirror, checking for any lipstick stains on her pointed teeth, “Just one set, and then we’re all his for the night.”

Thinking about him made all of her efforts seem inconsequential, already picking out the flaws in her stitching from under the lace of her top. She could have taken a little more care with them… and maybe she needed more volume in her hair? Tonight was a bad night for mousse. What was the point of having limp, lifeless hair when her favorite was coming to see her? Would he think she didn’t care? Or that she wasn’t good enough anymore and he would seek companionship elsewhere?

She barely acknowledged her five-minute warning, waving the stage manager off with a huff, too focused on trying to blend out part of the scar that touched the bridge of her nose.

#beetlejuice fanfiction #infernooc #inferno oc #inferno girl