#going back to law painting again but man i miss having some body mass to draw

[attyattlaw]

just look at this tiktok so i dont have to explain myself

#got distracted by a banger absol tcg card while posting this #op killer #massacre soldier killer #one piece #going back to law painting again but man i miss having some body mass to draw #killer my beloved

[meteorrogers]

the secret charm of forbidden things | a. b.

summary: you piss off your professor 

pairing: professor!andy barber x reader

warnings: professor/student relationship, student humiliation (nothing serious), fluff, smut (+18 pls), daddy kink, spanking, oral (f receiving), unprotected sex (and like the most unoriginal plot); let me know if i missed something!

word count: 3,478 (approx)

a/n: i really tried to avoid writing this shit but my brain just wouldn’t let it go, so i’m really sorry for this. also, i’m not a smut writer so this couldn’t be more poorly written. sorry for that too *nervous laughter* i hope there are some readers out there who enjoy cliché stories lol. oh and i know nothing about criminal law so i just skimmed through the Mass. laws and picked the easiest thing i could create a question of. anyway, if you do read this, i hope you’ll enjoy it and let me know what you think! every kind of feedback is appreciated!! 

You’re browsing the internet, looking for some quality e-shop that would offer lingerie you’d like. Or more importantly, he would like. And since your focus is completely on the phone that is hidden from the professor’s eyes (or so you think), you miss the call of your name.

“Miss (Y/L/N)!” the stern and this time louder sound of a male voice brings your attention to the man that it belongs to, standing only a few feet from your seat, thanks to its place in the front row. His expression is hard, a clear sign that you’ve been caught and you shrink into your chair, your cheeks becoming warm. “If you want to pass my class, I suggest you turn off the phone and focus on the lecture.”

You do as you’re asked and put the phone away but you don’t expect him to address you again.

“So since you seem to have enough knowledge that you don’t even need to listen to me,” he pauses and comes closer to you, crossing his arms. “Tell me what the punishments for organ trafficking are.”

You hold your breath, not even realizing it as you’re trying to think of the correct answer, however, that’s a little difficult with him towering over you, and your eyes can’t help but flicker to his crotch that is aligned with your vision. When you look up again, there is an amusement painted over his face which you almost miss to notice. 

“Um, imprisonment?”

The professor keeps looking at you expectantly and when you don‘t say anything more, his chest heaves in a deep sigh, and his eyebrows rise as he looks at the floor in disappointment. “You’ll be having a hard time getting clients, Miss (Y/L/N),” he tells you and goes back to his desk to lean his backside on it.

Okay, you weren’t paying attention but you also thought that the times when professors publicly humiliated students had been left behind. So, now you are not only embarrassed but also pissed.

You just roll your eyeballs and slightly shake your head, taking a pen and doodling in the open notebook laying on your desk in order to calm yourself down and trying not to think about the judgemental stares being sent your way.

“Does anyone here want to remind Miss (Y/L/N) the consequences of organ trafficking?” he asks, before fucking Amelia raises her hand with her all too sugary may I, professor Barber? and you nearly lose it. You watch him as he sweetly smiles at her and prompts her to answer. She does, correctly so, and while she’s going into details, he lets his eyes wander and rest them on you from time to time. You never avert your eyes, glaring at him, hoping he takes notice of the annoyance written all over your face, but he just smirks when she finishes talking and he looks back at her.

“You’re a brilliant student, Amelia. I think you deserve a reward for the hard work.” When he stresses the word reward, he gives you a glance, and you can’t keep your eyes from rolling, again.

“Alright, class, that’s it for today. Don’t forget to send in the paper that’s due Sunday. Enjoy your weekend.”

You pack your things, shoving them into your bag before storming towards the exit, but you don’t make it too far when the professor’s voice stops you in your tracks.

“Miss (Y/L/N), a moment, please,” he says as he gathers his things. You sigh, closing your eyes as you mentally prepare yourself for what’s to come. Turning around, you make your way towards him. 

“I believe we need to discuss your work ethic.” when you remain silent, he continues. “Great, since you don’t have any objections, you can follow me into my office.”

You do as you’re told and while you wait for him to unlock the door in the corner of the auditorium, you catch a glimpse of Amelia giving you a smug smirk. Mr. Barber finally opens the door and extends his arm, letting you in before him. You enter and stop in the middle of the office, nervously fiddling with the hem of your pleated black skirt as you hear a soft click signaling that the door is now closed, followed by the snap of the lock.

You gulp, your heart beating faster as you continue to stand there and try not to give away your nervousness. The only sound that follows is the echo of his footsteps as he walks past you and to his desk, putting his stuff on the wooden surface. He doesn’t say anything, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling the sleeves of his moss green dress shirt up to his elbows and the veins of his forearm are left on full display.

“Mr. Barber, I—“ you finally speak up but he cuts you off, making his way towards the comfy-looking couch sitting alongside the wall opposite of you. 

“You wanna tell me what that was about? You know I have a no-phone policy in my class, right?” he sits down and spreads his arms on the back of the sofa.

“I’m sorry, I was just—“

“You were just what? Looking for some skimpy underwear to tease me with during the lectures?” the blood rushes to your cheeks and you look to your left, not able to hold his gaze anymore. “As much as I’d enjoy that sight, I’m still a little disappointed in you. The question wasn’t that hard.” He’s closely watching your every reaction as your body squirms, your thighs discreetly rubbing against each other. “You know, Amelia truly is a great student. She’s slowly becoming better than you since you seem distracted for most of my classes. What reward do you think I should give her?”

And that is what causes you to run out of patience and your head to snap to where he is sitting. Bingo, Andy thinks.

“Are you fucking serious, Andy?” you say with a raised voice. If you blinked, you wouldn’t even catch the smirk that formed on his lips for like a millisecond.

“Hey!” he scolds “Watch your tone.“

You ignore him.

“Since when do you humiliate your students in front of the whole class, huh?” you confront him angrily “It was a dick move, Andy, you know that! And then the bullshit with Amelia? If you want her to wet your dick, just ask her, I’m sure she’ll be up for it.”

“Come here,” he says calmly which unsettles you because you expected him to be furious given the way you’d lashed out at him, but you roll your eyes anyway and turn to leave, however, the sound of your name coming from his lips stops you. “(Y/N).” you inhale deeply and turn back to him. “I said, come here.”

You come up to him, still keeping your distance so you don‘t stand between his spread-out legs. “What?” you bite.

He huffs out a laugh. “You’re walking on very thin ice, sweetheart.” He says and you feel your belly doing flips at the nickname. “How about you lose the attitude and come here like I instructed you to.” You cross your arms over your chest.

“How about you go fuck yourself.”

And that’s the last straw. Andy Barber is a very patient guy but when it comes to a bratty behavior like yours right now, he tends to lose his temper pretty quickly.

He swiftly leans forward and grabs your wrist, yanking you between his thighs. You have to catch yourself on his broad shoulders as you stumble from the firm tug, your stomach flush against his chest. His hand grabs the strap of your bag, putting it on the floor before his fingers fall to the back of your thighs, sliding up and up until they rest just below the cheeks of your ass, holding you against him.

“You wanna be a bad girl today, huh?”

You frown and click your tongue. “Jesus, Andy, I’m not in the mood for this.” You start pushing against his shoulders to put a distance between you, failing miserably.

“Sweetheart, you’re not even trying. You think I’m stupid or what?”

“I’m serious, let me go,” you say, but you don’t even sound convincing to yourself.

“You’re not in the mood, you say?” he asks and you nod your head. “Then why do I smell you all the way here, hm?” his fingers creep higher, playing with the lacy hem of your panties. He snorts. “You’re desperate to get fucked, aren’t you?”

By now, your panties are drenched. After what he did to you in the class, you tried so hard not to be turned on by him, but it’s impossible. Andy is a very attractive man, very intelligent and in combination with his sinful mouth, you just can’t bring yourself to not want to be fucked by him.

He doesn’t break eye contact when he hooks his fingers into your underwear and slides them down your legs, until he leans forward, his cheek brushing your hip so he can pull them all the way down himself. You step out of them and his back straightens up, putting the piece of ruined fabric into his pants pocket.

“Get over my knee.”

“Andy, come on. We’re in school. Can’t you just fuck me now and spank me later?”

“Oh, so suddenly you are in the mood?” he raises his brows “Get over my knee. Now. You don’t wanna piss me off more than I already am.” He says sternly.

You unhurriedly move from in between his legs but you’re too slow for his liking. Before you can react, he’s once again yanking you by your wrist, twisting your body in a way that makes you fall over his thick thighs. One hand gently settles on your throat, holding your head up, and the other starts tickling the back of your knee before slowly creeping up your thigh, tucking up your skirt, until you feel the cool air of the room brush against your wet pussy.

You clutch his pants in your hands, and when his palm leaves your skin you prepare yourself for the first blow. Instead, he gently sets it down on your butt again just to caress it, but even that unexpected touch has you jerking forward. He laughs and before you know it, the hand lifts itself up and strikes your right cheek. This time your body jerks rightfully but the fingers around your neck tighten, preventing you from moving too much.

“Not so tough now, huh?” he strokes the sore skin. “How many do you think you deserve?” you shrug as best as the restraint allows you to. “If I remember correctly” he pauses, just to brush his fingers against your pussy lips, smiling to himself when he feels the arousal leaking out of you “You weren’t paying attention in the class.” He spanks your other cheek. “You were using your phone even though it’s forbidden.” For that, the next hit lands on your right cheek again and you don’t think before you dare to open your mouth.

“Really? You are gonna lecture me about what is and isn‘t forbidden? You’re fucking your student for God’s sake.”

“Just for that, I’m adding 5 more to the ones for raising your voice at me, lying to me, and disobeying me.”

He spanks you for everything he listed, caressing your sore butt in between each hit and you are on the verge of crying, the tears in your eyes about to fall down your cheeks. When you think he’s finished, you release a relieved breath, but suddenly, he strikes you three more times, without any break and you cry out, squeezing your eyes shut, the tears finally rolling down.

“That was for the eye rolls I received throughout the day.” He says angrily before leaning down, brushing his lips against your ear as he whispers. “Now, what do you call me when we’re alone?” You just need a minute to catch your breath to reply but he’s not having it. “Answer me right now, or I’ll spank your ass raw, you won’t even be able to sit right. What do you call me?” he asks again.

“Daddy.” You whimper quietly and he smiles.

“Good girl.” He forces your body up with the hand on your throat and throws you on the couch, but before you can make yourself comfortable, he flips you on your stomach and grabs your hips, pulling you up so your ass is in the air.

His touch disappears for a moment and when you adjust your head to be able to get at least a little peek at him, your cheek pressed into the couch, you see him loosening his tie. He grabs your arms and crosses them at your wrist on the small of your back, tying them together with the piece of fabric.

He kisses each palm and then continues up your bare arm, licking, sucking, and biting, until his lips reach your shoulder covered by the short sleeve of your white t-shirt. “You okay, sweetheart?” He knows you are, but just to be sure.

“Yes, daddy.” You smile and he tugs the neckline of your shirt away for a second just to kiss your skin.

Then, he kneels on the floor behind you, coming face to face with your weeping cunt and he needs to adjust himself at the sight. He curls his fingers around your thighs and starts kissing them, getting closer to your core and his eyes close on their own accord when he inhales your smell. His lips finally make contact with your lower ones, his tongue licking a stripe from your clit to your entrance before he pulls away and hums, leaving you trembling. 

“Andy!” You whine from the loss as your frustration grows, and he bites the tender skin of your ass.

“Baby, call me Andy one more time and you won’t be coming for a very long time.”

Your breath shudders when you exhale. “I’m sorry, daddy.”

If it was any other time and any other place, he would take his time to properly punish you, but someone could knock on the door any second and he’s honestly been dying to devour you all day.

He spreads your cheeks and leans forward, finally burying his face into your cunt, his tongue finding the little bundle of nerves and you moan, your eyes rolling in your head from the feeling of his soft tongue relieving the ache combined with the feeling of his rough beard scratching your inner thighs.

Andy takes the bud between his lips, sucking harshly and you buck your hips, causing him to grunt and the vibrations go straight into your clit, more slick dripping from your hole. He doesn‘t let a single drop go to waste as he licks up to your entrance, slurping the juices along the way before he starts plunging his tongue in and out of you. You bite your lip, trying not to make too loud sounds.

“That feel good?” he pulls away to ask, replacing his tongue with his thumb as he waits for your answer, rubbing your clit in quick circles.

“So good, daddy. Let me cum, please,” you whimper and he smirks.

“You’re lucky we’re in my office right now, otherwise I’d take my sweet time to take this sweet pussy apart,” to emphasize it, he thrusts his thumb into you and pinches your sensitive clit between two fingers, another moan escaping your lips. “I wouldn’t let you cum until you were crying and screaming out apologies.”

He slides his thumb back down to your clit, quickly circling it as he dives into you again, massaging your walls with the soft muscle until the knot in your belly starts tightening and you bite on the cushion to prevent yourself from screaming as the dam finally breaks and you’re cumming, Andy drinking up everything your pussy has to offer and he needs to force himself to pull away, your taste almost too addictive.

Before you know it, the sound of his belt clanking reaches your ears and a moment later, you feel his hand on your hip while the other gets a hold of his cock, positioning the tip at your entrance before pushing himself slowly into your heat. He groans while you mewl, filling you to the hilt and giving you some time to adjust to his size.

He starts with slow thrusts once he feels you constrict around him and the hand that isn’t bruising your hip grips the knot that holds your wrists together, giving himself leverage when he begins to quicken his pace.

“Fuck, you feel so good, baby. So tight.”

And he feels amazing, too, his cock reaching all the right places, the familiar tingling reappearing again as your thighs start to quiver. He leans over you, his chest to your back as his hand on your hip slides down and starts rubbing your clit.

“You gonna cum, sweetheart?” his warm breath hits the shell of your ear. “You’re close, aren’t you? I can feel your pussy squeezing around me. God.”

“Please, daddy.” You mewl and he growls at your innocent voice, picking up his pace even more so, his thrusts becoming harder and your tied hands grasp his wrist. 

“Cum for me, baby. Cum for daddy.” He nips at your ear and with a few more thrusts, you’re cumming again, not able to hold in the moans anymore. He rides you through it, chasing his own orgasm and when you feel his hot cum filling you up, he stills, his breath brushing your cheek as he pants.

Once he comes down from his high, he kisses your jaw and stands up, pulling himself from your heat and you hiss at the feeling. He puts his cock into his boxers and zips his pants before he unties your hands, revealing the light red marks on your wrists. You stretch your hands a little before you bring them under yourself to lift yourself up, your skirt falling back down around your thighs and covering your now-glistening intimate parts.

Turning around, you stay kneeling on the couch, looking up at Andy with those big eyes that make him weak in the knees. The corner of his mouth lifts at the sight of your fucked out state, your hair is messy, there are imprints from the cushion on the cheek you were lying on, and the wet trails from your tears are almost dried.

He leans down and kisses you slowly and deeply as his fingers tangle themselves in your hair, his other hand gently cupping your cheek. Jesus, he doesn’t know how you do it but his dick is already twitching in his pants so he breaks the kiss because otherwise, he’d have to fuck you again. He pulls you up on your feet and bends down to pick up your bag, slinging it over your shoulder before his hands fall to your hips. You smile and adjust the strap.

“So, when will I see you in the new number?” he smirks.

“Well, I didn’t even get to pick any,” you reply with a smile and a raised eyebrow. “And I have Mrs. Harper next and I wouldn’t dare to use my phone during her class since her punishments are actual punishments.”

“Are you saying my punishments are ineffective?” he feigns shock.

“I’m just saying if you fucked every student for using their phone, they’d be doing it on purpose, professor.”

He laughs and pulls you closer. “That would be exhausting. But those kinds of punishments are reserved for my favorite student only.” 

“Should I be worried? You seemed pretty delighted with Amelia.” you joke, but half of you is a bit insecure because Amelia is a pretty girl with glowing skin and a brain big enough to impress him. And like the amazing person Andy is, he sees right through you and gives you an adoring smile before his lips touch your forehead, your eyes fluttering close. 

“You are my favorite student. Nobody else,” he assures you once he pulls away. 

Your smile widens and your belly twists at his sappiness, but you wrinkle your nose when you suddenly become aware of the slickness between your legs.

“I need my panties back.”

He snorts and shakes his head.

“I’m gonna keep them.” Your jaw drops. You have two more classes today, you can’t go that long with Andy’s cum leaking out of you! “Oh, you thought your punishment was over? I want you to come over to my place right after school. And don’t even think about going home to change.” His stern voice is back and he takes your chin between his fingers.

“I hope you finished your paper. We have a long weekend in front of us.”

the end.

a/n2: thank you for reading!!!!!❤️❤️my other works can be find under #writer luci !☺️

#andy barber #chris evans #andy barber x reader #andy barber smut #andy barber fluff #andy barber oneshot #andy barber imagine #andy barber fanfiction #chris evans imagine #defending jacob imagine #defending jacob #professor!andy barber #writer luci

[smoochkooks]

—the (un)holy cock-up (m.)

⟶ pairing: park jimin/reader

⟶ genre: smut, angst 

⟶ word count: 14.5k

⟶ warnings: explicit sexual content, oral sex (m receiving), dirty talk, profanity, unnecessary amount of biblical puns, some critic on catholic church, this is a heavy read be aware

⟶ summary: there is a quite long list of circumstances, with student loan and rent on the very top of it, that led you to work in the sunday’s spirit editorial department, a newspaper overally known among fellow catholic community of busan, with park jimin as your boss.

when your small cock-up goes unnoticeably out of your hand, you find yourself in a situation painted in all shades of wrong.

or, alternatively: when it’s forbidden, it tastes bittersweet.

a/n: please, before you read this: take the warnings seriously. this is not a light read, it touches some heavy and quite controversial topics. tit also involves a scene where a person in charge exhibits inappropriate behavior towards their subordinate which I do not condone, however it’s all done with consent.

ps. im really proud of this work so give me some love please:(

Fingertips typing furiously on the keyboards, sights focused on the computers’ screens, brows furrowed, minds utterly concentrated and all of this accompanied by angelic voices of various religious songs playing in the background.

This is how a typical day at Sunday’s Spirit editorial department goes by.

The newspaper is a local source of information for the catholic community not only in the city of Busan, but in the whole country. Its history starts in 70s, when Park Min-Sung with his wife started publishing the very first version of the Sunday’s Spirit, selling copies in front of churches. Young activists definitely hadn’t anticipated such a big success, especially due to hard times of the military dictatorship in Korea, but two decades later they have become one of the most affluent families in Busan. The newspaper remains the Park’s legacy till these days, being owned by Min-Sung’s son, with the original founder’s grandson Jimin as an editor-in-chief.

Sometimes you ponder how did you end up in this kind of situation. Sitting at your desk with eyes glued to the screen, working for the catholic newspaper with Mary did you know and other holy songs playing from the Spotify’s Blessed Hits playlist.

First of all, you aren’t quite a Jesus stan yourself. Not a regular churchgoer, Bible reader or a person who lives according to God’s will with Ten Commandments written on your heart and soul.

Someone may wonder, what a young, aspiring journalist like you is doing here? Yes, that’s right.

Money is the reason.

The perspectives of wealthy life as a presenter in the national television or a host in the radio were just a mirage, because after receiving your master degree in journalism you realised that, unfortunately, a bright future was bright only in your unreal dreams.

The case was simple. You needed money. Your bank account was literally screaming at you to get your shit together and figure something out before you end up under the bridge. So you started searching for a job, looking over various offers on the Internet for two weeks straight. A waitress? Nah, too clumsy for that. Jewelry seller? Definitely not, since you are a happy owner of a few pairs of earrings from etsy-like online shop that certainly have nothing to do with real gold. You were almost convinced you’re destined to be a sexworker but then you stumbled upon an offer from the Sunday’s Spirit.

It was your chance. A God himself decided to take pity on you.

In that exact moment the genre of the newspaper wasn’t important. The vision of bankruptcy was enough for you to wear knee-length black skirt, white button-up shirt and a pair of high heels you’ve never worn before and go on a job interview with plastered smile on your face, looking delightful like you have just given birth to Jesus Christ in Bethlehem.

All the Hollywood actresses could be put into shame after your Oscar-winning performance you acted out on the interview in front of middle-aged woman in checked jacket that no one wears since 90s. Your enthusiasm and assurance you live good, catholic woman’s life, along with your master degree and motivational letter (you added a quote from The Letter to Philipians at the end of it to spice it up) was enough to be accepted for the position of Ask and you shall find column creator.

The job itself wasn’t complex or tough. The newspaper on its online site has a page where people can create an account and send asks to the author of the column who responds to them. You did something wrong and you aren’t sure it should be considered a sin? Having problems with regular praying on mornings and evenings? Write to us and we will solemnly help you with the God’s blessing, it says.

This is basically how it works. Each week, the said journalist chooses the most interesting questions and answers to make an article to the Sunday’s Spirit’s next publication. Of course, you can’t answer those questions the way you would like. You must do it according to the catholic laws and God’s plan (the True God’s plan, not Drake’s). A woman who interviewed you even gave you a notebook full of already made-up responses and a list of things you definetely mustn’t write if you still want to be employed.

To be completely frank, you don’t hate your job that much. You actually feel kind of nice, helping other people with their problems. You’ve been doing this for six months now and during this period of time you got used to some things.

A ‘Jesus, I trust you’ framed picture you swore your mother gave you on your 16th birthday standing on your desk. Holy beats blasting through the speakers until you leave the office at 5pm. A big-ass cross hanging right in front of the entrance to the editorial. Lee Chin-sun, the Weekly News column author, rushing to Park Jimin’s bureau every day at different hours in her pencil skirts and high heels knocking on the floor.

There’s only the Pentecost in the middle of the office that could actually surprise you.

“Looks like our Mary Magdalene is going to Jesus cave again,” mutters Kim Taehyung, the newspaper’s main photographer, friend from your desk and, actually, the only friend you have here. Very much gay and just like you, in desperate need for money. “It’s her third visit today. I wonder what it is this time. New prayer to Pope Francis she found?” he whispers and you chuckle at that quietly, looking around if anyone pays attention to your conversation, but everyone seems busy doing their own stuff. “Maybe she’s sucking his dick right now and we all think they are playing Who said it? Bible edition,” he adds in a hushed tone.

You start thinking about it for a while. Is that really possible for someone like Park Jimin, the editor-in-chief of the Sunday’s Spirit to have a sexual relationship with his coworker? The man who has a smaller version of Pietà in his office?

“I mean look at him. I would smash that ass too.”

You roll your eyes at Taehyung words, going back to your previous task but every time you try to concentrate, the face of your boss appears in front of your eyes uncontrollably.

Truth to be told, Park Jimin was a sight.

Blond hair, always perfectly styled and simply parted in the middle, revealing his forehead. Dark, sharp eyes that seem to pierce right through your soul and full, plump lips which could only be described as kissable.

He wears only high fashion brands, wandering through the office in Prada and Tom Ford suits that hugs his sculpted body just right. You think that as for a person who never misses Sunday’s mass, Park Jimin has also nice thighs. And a fine piece of ass, as Taehyung would describe it.

Newest Rolex that costs probably more than you will ever earn in your entire life on his wrist, Mercedes who just got brought out to the international market standing on his parking spot in front of the building, an apartment in the most luxurious area in Busan.

Park Jimin inhales God’s mercy and exhales money.

You spoke to him more explicitly only once, on your first day at work. He greeted you and wished good luck, saying that everything will be fine because you know, God’s good. Since that day, Park Jimin seems out of your reach. You contact him only through email, sending articles for him to check and approve, occasionally receiving some short message from him to improve this and that. He rarely leaves his office during working hours but when he does, it’s either for business meetings outside the editorial or for a lunch at nearby restaurant.

There’s also one, special occasion, every Friday, that’s a sacred time for all the employees. The clock hits 12am and so it begins. The angelic voices stop singing and everybody shifts on their sits.

“Oh, Holy Judas. I almost forgot about my favourite part of the week,” Taehyung sighs, standing up from his desk. And by that, he means-

“Friday’s Bible contemplation lunch break, everyone please gather up at the cafeteria.” Park Jimin’s sweet as honey voice says through the speakers.

You stand up from your chair with reluctance. Taking food with you, you go to the cafeteria, following Taehyung.

That’s actually the next thing you got used to while working at Sunday’s Spirit. Bible contemplation meetings are, as you found out from Taehyung, Jimin’s idea after he became an editor-in-chief almost one year ago. Every Friday all the workers sit together, eat their lunches and listen to Jimin as he reads a certain chapter from the book with true admiration written on their faces. After that, he usually asks some questions holding a discussion among the participants who, unlike you, happily takes part in.

The cafeteria looks rather normal, like any other lunchrooms you see in offices. Painted in bright yellow colors, with a few tables and a typical kitchen set in the back. Except for one thing.

A replica of Leonardo da Vinci’s The Last Supper hanging on the wall.

You decided a long time ago that you don’t want to know how much money it cost Jimin to have something like that here.

The newspaper’s workers, almost like the twelve Apostles, sit together by the tables. Lee Chin-sun at the very front, looking completely mesmerized by today’s Park Jimin’s appearance. He’s wearing navy blue suit that Taehyung swears it’s from Hugo Boss. The place next to Chin-sun is always occupied by tall, black-haired guy named Choi Eunwoo, main graphic designer, hopelessly in love with her since his first days at work. Behind them there’s a group from emendation department, with their leader Min Yoongi and other journalists. You always sit with Taehyung at the back, near the kitchen, not necessarily paying attention to what’s happening in the front.

Jimin, as on every Friday, walks to the small podium, designed to look like a pulpit in the church and opens the Bible. But one thing is odd: Jimin ain’t no priest or altar boy himself and he certainly dosen’t look like one, flipping through the pages of what you think it’s New Testament this time.

From your point of view, you could practically see how Chin-sun sighs with content expression on her face, lacing her fingers together on the lap and straightening her back. Eunwoo, on the other hand, shifts uncomfortably on his seat, sending Chin-sun quick glances full of unspoken longing she never acknowledges, to his dismay.

Then, Park Jimin clears his throat and the whole cafeteria goes quiet.

Truth to be told, you never really listen to what he’s reading. This time is no different. You just chew on your avocado sandwich, occasionally taking a sip of coffee. Your boss’ smooth voice reaches your ears faintly but you don’t pay attention to it, focusing on eating and Taehyung’s hushed rumbling instead.

“Look at our Mary Magdalene, she looks like she might burst a nut just by listening to CEO Jesus,” he says, making you peek at the girl.

Mary Magdalene is a nickname that Taehyung made up for Chin-sun when he started working at Sunday’s Spirit, mainly because of her attitude and relationship with Jimin. It’s rather platonic, at least for now. She looks at him with pure admiration on her face and she literally melts everytime he smiles at her. But Chin-sun’s ‘stalking’ isn’t unreasonable. Her father is a well-known philanthropist in Busan. He donates catholic charities, churches and, what’s the most interesting – he has some connections with Jimin’s father, the owner of Sunday’s Spirit.

And here’s the thing: Chin-sun’s hare and hounds definitely have some hidden reason. Maybe the whole marriage thing that has become a gossip in the office is true. Which makes poor Eunwoo’s situation even worse.

“Sometimes I wonder why has he fallen in love with her in first place,” you whisper, pointing at the graphic designer. “He knows he stands no chance against Jimin.”

“What can I say, you can’t help who you fall in love with.” Taehyung muses almost poetically, shrugging his shoulders.

You hum at that, placing your coffee cup on the table and looking around the cafeteria. It seems like Jimin has ended his reading session for today and now he invites everyone to join the discussion about the topic. He flashes Chin-sun a gentle smile and you could swear the girl is biting her lip.

On the corner of your eye you see Taehyung smirking.

“What?” you ask.

Taehyung takes a sip of his coffee lazily (it’s always caramel macchiato), peering at Jimin. “Oh, nothing. I was just wondering if our boss really wants to settle not only with Chin-sun, but anyone in general,” he says languidly.

You furrow your brows. “What makes you think that? I mean, look at him. He probably waits with sex till marriage.” you snort.

Taehyung chuckles at your words. “Ah, sweetheart, you really know nothing about Park Jimin.”

“What do you mean?”

He moves closer to you, leaning towards your ear. “What I mean,” he whispers, “is that Park Jimin isn’t such a prude everyone thinks he is. At least he didn’t use to be.”

You raise your eyebrows at him with disbelief. “What? He’s secretly gay?” you mock.

Taehyung rolls his eyes. “I wish, but no, he isn’t,” he answers with a sigh. “Do you know Min Yoongi from emendation team?” he then asks, pointing at grey-haired man with feline eyes sitting behind Chin-sun.

You nodd your head. Min Yoongi is a hard to read guy. Always suspiciously silent, practically never leaves his office. Something makes you wonder how did Taehyung end up befriending him enough to casually gossip about the boss. You will ask him about this on another occasion.

“So here’s the thing,” Taehyung begins, lowering the volume of his voice. “He used to study at the same university in Seoul with Jimin. They even had been together in the fraternity. Yoongi-hyung told me some juicy details about our boss’ life back then.”

You frown at his words. “And you are telling me this now?!” you hiss.

“I found out literally two days ago!” Taehyung exclaims, maybe a little too loud, so you quickly place your index finger on your lips, shushing him.

“Fine. Continue.” you whisper, looking around to see if anyone pays attention to you.

“Well, Park Jimin used to be a trouble back then. A golden boy of his family in Busan, but a campus fuckboy and obnoxious heartbreaker in Seoul. He smoked cigarettes, drank enormous amounts of alcohol, got wasted on every weekend, missed classes and changed hair colors as often as his girlfriends. By the way, don’t you think he would slay pink hair?”

“Taehyung can you please–”

“Okay, okay. Enough thirsting over Jimesus. So, as you can see, there was no place for Sunday’s mass and Bible contemplation meetings in his life. And here’s the awaited plotwist. His parents somehow found out his son wasn’t living good catholic life on his studies and got extremely pissed off. They simply gave him an ultimatum: if he doesn’t stop his shenanigans, they will cut him off their money and they won’t make him Sunday’s Spirit heir.” Taehyung stops his rumbling for a while, letting you proceed all the bewildering informations about your dear boss he has just revealed.

Your eyes simply widen at the revelations.

Park Jimin, the man who organises Bible contemplation lunch breaks, a regular churchgoer, someone who you always thought has a cross tattooed on his back, was a playboy who slept with a half of the female community in the university?

Interesting.

“Rest of the story is simple. He changed his behavior, got a master degree in journalism and came back to Busan to work here. What is funny, his first position was the same as yours now,” Taehyung ends his story with a light chuckle. “Now you understand why it’s hard for me to believe he really thinks about getting married and having at least three kids.”

You look up at Park Jimin, who’s standing now in the centre of the cafeteria, with his arms crossed over his chest, nodding at one of the journalists words. His gaze is so intense and filled with such an authority that makes you understand why Chin-sun literally squirms when he looks at her that way.

It’s not hard for you to imagine him in much different surroundings.

Him, standing with a cup of beer in his hand in the middle of the crowd of drunken people at some frat party. There’s a leather jacket on his shoulders and he’s wearing tight-fitting pants that hugs his gorgeous thighs much better than his usual slacks he puts on every day before he sets off to work. He scans the room with a mishevious smirk dancing on his features, biting and licking his lips as he looks for his prey for tonight.

He then spots her, his pick for the night. He runs his fingers through his silky locks and approaches the girl, whispering dirty promises to her ear as he sways their bodies to the rhythm of loud music blasting through the speakers. Later that night he has her underneath him, begging him to touch her. He fucks her hard, leaving bruises all over her limp, exhausted body. There will be soreness between her thighs in the morning and a few violet love bites on her neck, a gentle reminder that all of this wasn’t just a dream.

But there’s no warm body next to her she could wake up to, no ‘good morning, baby’ or a second round of love making between the sheets. Because Park Jimin isn’t like that. He waited until her breath slowed down and eyelids fluttered shut, drifting her off to sleep. He left in the middle of the night, a cigarette caught between his swollen from kisses lips. He fumed the poison and smiled to himself, wondering what his parents would think when they found out. A golden boy of his family, future heir of the Park’s legacy, coming back from one of his sexcapeds with girl which name he didn’t even remember.

The Lord himself must have already cursed him and he’s currently planning the punishments for him in depths of Hell. But does Park Jimin look like he really care?

You stare blankly ahead, imagining those scenes in your head. You can’t help but squeeze your thighs because God, yes, Park Jimin is hot, even if he reads Breviary before he goes to sleep. What a shame he has changed. 

A smooth like honey voice pulls you out from your airy-fairy slumber.

“Miss Y/N?”

You jolt in panic after hearing your name, glancing around and praying that wasn’t the person you think it was. But this silky, melodious voice you would recognize everywhere.

God hates you though, he knows what kind of scandalous things you were daydreaming about and now it’s his time to punish you.

Looking up, your gaze settles on no one other than Park Jimin, who stares at you with his left eyebrow raised, pursing his lips. He extinguishes the aura of pure dominance around him and you involuntarily blush, squirming under his intense glare. You’re royally screwed.

You clear your throat, trying to calm down rapidly beating heart. Without success.

“Yes, sir?” you manage to answer innocently. Certainly not like you weren’t thinking about being fucked by him minutes ago. You don’t even have time to be surprised he remembers your name.

Park Jimin looks unamazed by your sweet tone; he almost seems bored, but definitely irritated. “I asked you a question and I’m waiting for your response.” he says lowly.

Fuckfuckfuck. God have mercy on you. What was the question? Shit, you don’t even know what fragment he had read before.

In act of complete desperation you elbow Taehyung for help but this little shit pretends he has no idea what’s going on, looking at The Last Supper with sudden interest.

You are purely, loyally, utterly fucked.

You adopt the most charming smile you could muster, knowing that it will have zero affect on Park Jimin and ask, “Could you repeat the question one more time, sir? I’m afraid I didn’t hear you correctly.” Jesus, when has your voice become so high-pitched?

A cruel smirks forms on Park Jimin’s lips. He shakes his head, tsking. Taehyung mutters something under his breath that sounds dangerously close to “It was nice meeting you, sweetheart.” You gulp, waiting for your sentence and hoping Pontius Pilate will be gracious to you.

“My, my,” Jimin muses. It makes you feel like a little girl being scolded by the teacher due to her outrageous behavior. You bite your lip so hard you might draw blood, waiting for your boss’ next words. “Of course you didn’t hear my question, because you weren’t paying attention to our discussion.”

In the corner of your eye you see Chin-sun shaking her head with detestation. What a bitch, you think to yourself.

You take a deep breath then, nails digging crescent moons on the skin of your palms. You don’t like being in the spotlight, you never did, but now you have no choice but face the consequences. “My deepest apologies, sir. The behavior I exhibited was highly inappropriate,” you say, bowing your head. Jimin eyes your figure from head to toe and you might actually feel his burning gaze on your skin. Your cheeks flush in crimson even more.

The editor-in-chief seems to deliberate with himself for a while, turning his head slightly to the side, not breaking the eye contact with you. Finally, after a moment that seems to last an hour, he speaks.

“I think you need a lesson that will teach you to pay attention to our weekly discussions, miss Y/N. That’s why I want you to write a 4000 words long paper about the role of Mary Magdalene in Jesus Christ’s life which we had discussed today but you, unfortunately, didn’t acknowledge it.”

You freeze. Like a scene in the movie, everything stops. The embarassement you felt earlier is quickly replaced by pure anger and irritation. He wants you to write a fucking paper? What is this? University lectures?

Never before in your entire life have you felt so humiliated. All eyes are on you; you could practically sense how they are trying not to laugh out loud. Eunwoo and Taehyung look at you with apologetic faces while Chin-sun smirks, whispering something to Jimin’s ear.

“I apologize once again, sir,” you grit through your teeth with a forced smile. Jimin nods then, not even bothering to look at you again. You’re dismissed, that’s what his behavior is saying.

“Our meeting is over, you can go back to your work.” Jimin announces and walks away from the cafeteria with Chin-sun by his side.

You wait for everyone to leave and the you let out a groan of annoyance, burring your head in your hands.

“Hey, it could have been worse. He didn’t fire you after all.” Taehyung laughs but he quickly shuts up as soon as he sees your glare. You stand up from your chair with a scowl written all over your face, and storm out of the lunchroom.

And may the God help you.

Later that unfortunate day, you sit by your desk again, scrolling through the Ask and you shall find page absentmindedly and waiting for the new asks to come. Everyone has returned to their work like nothing has happened but it doesn’t stop you from feeling all those eyes constantly on your back. Maybe you weren’t fired but the humiliation and embarrassment of being told off by your boss publicly makes you want to disappear and never show up at the editorial again.

“Y/N,” Taehyung’s deep voice pulls you out of your thoughts. You look up at him and find the man smiling at you lightly. He’s wearing a long, camel coat and a big scarf around his neck with ridiculous patterns that reminds you of Persian diwans. He places his black camera bag on the desk, which means he’s leaving the office. “I’m free of office work for today so I just wanted to say goodbye.” he explains and you just nod.

“Bye, Taehyung. See you on Monday.” you say maybe a little bit to wryly and he feels that, letting out a long sigh.

Taehyung seems to deliberate with himself for a moment before he decides to speak again. He clears his throat audibly. “And I, uhm, I’m sorry. It’s my fault that you are in this situation. I started this conversation and I should be the one writing this stupid paper for Mister Prude.”

You can’t help but chuckle at the new nickname Taehyung gave Jimin. The anger you felt before drifts away from you slowly, and you smile at your friend apologetically. “Oh, God, Tae. I’m such a bitch sometimes, sorry,” you blurt out.”I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at him. Besides, maybe that’s good I’ve got homework. I don’t remember when was the last time I wrote some-”

Your words are interrupted by a loud laugh that resonates through the office. You look in the direction of the voice just to see Chin-sun with her manicured hand on Jimin’s chest, throwing her head back from the laughter, too dramatically for your taste. She seems to have changed her clothes, a black pencil skirt long forgotten and replaced by a red, bodycon dress. Her dark hair is also styled differently, curled and loose. She looks beautiful, matching Jimin’s appearance perfectly.

“Where are they going?” Taehyung whispers to you, furrowing his brows. You shrug your shoulders, tearing your eyes of Chin-sun and Jimin. “Maybe our Mary Magdalene’s plan to win Jesus’ heart is working. Poor Eunwoo,” he sighs, looking at his watch to check the time. “Anyway, I gotta go. I have to drive all the way to some shithole near the city to take photos of an old lady who swears she saw saint Francis or other dude with halo speaking to her,” he grumbles and you giggle at his words. “Good luck with your paper, sweetheart.” he leans and places a small peck on your cheek.

“Bye, Tae.” you say, watching him leave the office right after Jimin and Chin-sun.

You let out a long, tired sigh, counting the time to leave the office and finally be back home, with a bottle of red wine and new season of Game of Thrones that are waiting for you to watch the whole week. Then, when you’re about to stand up and make yourself another coffee, a new ask pops up in your inbox with the title ‘Sex S.O.S’.

You raise your eyebrows because honestly, what kind of title is this? Curiosity wins the battle with a hot cup of an americano and you click the show more button. You put on your prescription glasses and start reading.

Dear Sunday’s Spirit editorial,

My name is Kang Seoyeon. I study medicine at the University of Seoul, I’ve got an amazing group of friends and a loving boyfriend. And here’s where the actual problem begins. I’m from the catholic family with long traditions, and as you can guess, he isn’t.

We’ve been together for almost 2 years now and since my parents don’t want me to live with him before the marriage, there’s also no sexual life between us. I was actually surprised they agreed I can date a non-religious person in first place, so the rules weren’t that horrible at the beginning.

My boyfriend always seemed to be understanding about the fact that I’m catholic and he has never had issues against it because I stated this on the start of our relationship, but lately… he’s been distant. We meet up less often and I feel like simple kissing after 2 years isn’t enough for him. I even thought about initiating something that wouldn’t necessarily involve the real intercourse but I’m too inexperienced and shy for that. We are slowly drifting apart.

I don’t know what to do. I love him so much and I don’t want to lose him just because of some stupid rules I need to follow. I’m scared he will leave me for some other beautiful girl who wouldn’t have anything against sleeping with him, especially after considering the fact that he isn’t virgin unlike me and he experienced this kind of pleasure before.

I hope you will help me.

Yours faithfully,

Kang Seoyeon.

You blink once, twice. Read the message again and then, something snaps in you.

To Hell with these stupid, old-fashioned rules straight from the Middle Ages. To Hell with celibacy till marriage, masturbation prohibition and living according to God’s will. To Hell with Park Jimin and his ridiculous moral code (and his Bible contemplation lunchbreaks).

Unofficial eleventh commandment: If a girl wants a dick, she deserves to have it.

And that’s exactly what your response to the girl is in a nutshell.

Your blood boils in your veins with anger as you’re typing furiously on the keyboard, not even bothering to check if your sudden outburst makes any sense.

Dear Seoyeon,

It’s Y/N here, the journalist who you wrote this message to.

I don’t know what kind of response are you expecting from me but honestly? If you think I’m going to recommend you some praying to Saint Rita then you’re wrong. I’m done with this shit.

Let me make this straight: if you want to fuck your boyfriend, do it. Maybe God wouldn’t approve that but don’t worry, he won’t send you to hell because of some dick in your pussy.

They are plenty of worse things in this world than having sex with the person you love. Look at me. I’m literally writing to catholic newspaper while using words like ‘God’ and ‘Fuck’ in the same sentence. And that’s not even a small piece of what I’ve done in my life.

So you go girl, suck your boyfriend off. Make him beg. He will never leave you after this. You have my blessings and Jesus is giving you metaphysical thumbs up from above. Sex is amazing thing and you don’t have to wait for it until you say ‘yes’ in front of some guy in black cassock. Just go with the flow.

 May the God help you!

Love, Y/N.

P.S. Watch out that guy. He seems suspicious. If he’s been really sex deprived for two years he will die after you give him a head.

Sent.

You exhale loudly, staring at the screen. You did that. Six months into working in Sunday’s Spirit and the time when you lost your temper has finally come. You should probably feel ashamed or have some type of conscience pangs but actually you aren’t even near this state.

Grinning to yourself, you delete the message you had sent to the girl from your inbox and check the time. It’s almost 5pm and it looks like you haven’t even realised you’re the only person at the office right now. Since it’s Friday and Jimin has already left, seems like everyone has decided to set off earlier too.

You turn off your computer, packing your things to the bag. Wrapping a scarf around your neck tightly, you leave the building, welcoming the coolness of the early Spring evening in Busan.

When you’re about to cross the street, your phone buzzes in the pocket of your coat. You stop for a moment, smiling to yourself when you read the message.

[04:23pm] from Tae: hey

[04:23pm] from Tae: i know you are probably planning an evening with mary magdalene n jesus but

[04:23pm] from Tae: wouldnt u want to go for drinks with me tonight?

[04:23pm] from Tae: same place as usual

[04:24pm] from Tae: as a wise man once said: nothing helps better for the writer’s block than vodka

[04:24pm] from Tae: so what do u say?

You don’t need to think twice when you quickly type a response. Game of Thrones and wine can wait till another time.

[04:26pm] from me: how could i say no to kim taehyung and vodka?

[04:26pm] from me: see u there

Kim’s is a place like no one other in Busan.

You wouldn’t even know about its existence if it wasn’t Taehyung who took you there first when you started working at Sunday’s Spirit, solemnly promising free drinks. Who would you be if you didn’t agree to that?

When you arrived at the bar, it eventually turned out the alcohol was costless hence it’s his family business since over thirty years and his brother Namjoon is a bartender, not because Taehyung willingly decided to pay for you.

Kim’s is located in rather industrial part of the city, sandwiched between factories and huge housing estates, not looking really inviting at first glance, but the place has its own, unique charm. There are some stories, shrouding the building’s history in mystery. Some people say it used to be headquarters of the most dangerous mafia in Busan, some even believe it served as the secret arsenal during the Korean War.

But what’s definitely true, it’s the fact that Taehyung’s parents bought this place in swinging times of 80s for a small amount of money and turned the place into disco bar which had become a must-go spot for young people in Busan.

Kim’s on the outside, with its large red neon sign hanging above the entrance, looks more like a night club than a bar, but on the inside the magic of kitschy 80s still remains the same (Taehyung swears retro is in fashion these days and that’s why he didn’t let his parents redecorate when they wanted to).

You always feel like you’re traveling back in time when you visist Kim’s.

The place is quite big, with a large dancefloor in the middle and red leather sofas strewn around the place along with the tables. Walls are made of brick and colorful, vibrant neon lights are shimmering on them. Oh, not to mention the huge disco ball on the ceiling. Everything accompanied with the quality music provided by Namjoon.

There are few billiard and foosball tables in the corner of the bar, always occupied by the same group of middle-aged men on weekdays and university students on weekends. But the thing that attract attention of the customers the most, is the bar with Namjoon behind it.

When you enter the place, you spot Taehyung and his blond mop of hair immediately. He sits on one of the bar stools, talking to his older brother. He’s wearing beige pants and floral button-up shirt that seems to match colors with his pinkish-looking drink he holds. You notice a new pair of sapphire earrings and a huge ring from the same collection on his forefinger. Classy, as always.

Taehyung grins broadly when he sees you. He puts his drink on the counter and stands up to greet you. His breath smells like strawberries and vodka when he leans to place his usual, small peck on your cheek. “Hi, sweetheart,” he says with his signature smirk plastered on his face, scanning your figure. “You look gorgeous. Last time you did this kind of make-up you wanted to get laid.”

You rolls your eyes at his words, sitting on a stool next to him. “Hi, Taehyung. Thank you for appreciating my efforts to look like a decent human being but no, I’m not planning on getting laid tonight.” you answer, waving to Namjoon who makes drinks for a group of girls a few meters from you. He smiles bashfully at you, showing his dimples.

“I’m not saying you want a fuck, calm down. I just assumed since it’s not everyday that you put eyeliner on,” Taehyung explains himself. “So let me do that again,” He takes a deep breath, placing a hand on his chest in a dramatic manner. “Y/N, you look absolutely breathtaking. I could stare at you for hours and I wouldn’t mind that even a bit. My homosexuality is at risk right now.”

You ignore his exeggarated outburst, rolling your eyes. “I’m not using eyeliner everyday because there’s something called dresscode in our work, you know?” you say. “Besides, my mum says you should look good on every occasion because you don’t know when you will meet the love of your life.”

Taehyung puts a hand on his heart and sighs with relief. “Thank God I always look good.”

You chuckle and then your eyes wander for a moment to Namjoon, who seems busy listening to whatever the pink-haired girl is telling him with polite smile on his face.

“Here,” Taehyung nudges your side, bringing your attention back to him. He hands you the same pinkish drink as he was drinking when you arrived. “Hyung told me it’s their new specialty or something. It’s called Flamingo’s Beach,” he says and you take the glass in your hand. “I have no idea what Namjoonie-hyung put here but as long as it looks good, it’s good. Cheers!” Taehyung sips his one and watches you with raised eyebrows as you’re taking a generous gulp of the drink. “And…?” he asks.

You lick your lips, humming to yourself. “Not bad. Tastes like strawberries.”

Taehyung opens his mouth to say something but he gets interrupted by his brother. “Y/N, hi. How are you?” Namjoon approaches you with two beer mugs in his hands.

His hair is back to his natural brown color now, purple strands long forgotten since the last time you saw him. It looks like he’s been working out lately, his posture more bulky and it makes his black shirt stick to his body tightly. Namjoon’s good-looking, you always knew that, but he seems to be even more handsome now.

“Hey, I’ve been good, thank you,” you greet him with maybe too much enthusiasm for your liking. You always had a weak spot for him. “How’s the bar going?” you ask.

“Busy, as you can see,” he replies, chuckling to himself. “I would love to talk to you more but I have some work to do in back room, so…” Namjoon trails off sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head with his hand.

“Oh, it’s okay. We can catch up another time.” You smile at him and you could swear his cheeks flushed.

“I’ll be going. See you.” Namjoon stammers out, not even waiting for your response before he disappears from your sight.

The pregnant silence sets in between you and Taehyung, something heavy hangs in the air and you feel it, tapping your fingers on the counter to the rhythm of one of the ABBA songs, waiting impatiently.

Taehyung looks like he’s debating with himself in his head. You narrow your eyes. He’s adopted a face you know pretty well, too well even. He looks everywhere but keep avoiding your gaze. He wants to ask you something, you’re sure of it, but he doesn’t know how.

Finally, after a moment of awkward quietness, Taehyung finally opens his mouth. “So, here’s the thing,” he starts and you wait for the bomb to drop.

Last time when he approached you like that, he asked you if you would be down for a threesome with him and some guy he met on Tinder. Your eyes almost popped out of your head when you heard his blunt proposition. You were eating lunch at cafeteria and the words casually slipped from between his lips as he chewed on his egg sandwich, like he didn’t just propose you having sex with him and instead asked for a lift to home after work.

Taehyung begged you for a whole week, pleading and convincing it’ll be fun. When you eventually agreed (sex draught make people do stupid things), the other guy didn’t show up. You ended up drinking tequila shots with Taehyung that night in his apartment, and you can’t quite recall how it happened, but somehow you found yourself unzipping your friend’s pants and the rest is history. He passed out right after he came. Now when you think about it, you feel a sudden urge to ask him if he remembers that.

You will do it next time, you promise yourself.

Taehyung though doesn’t ask you about having a threesome or robbing Park Jimin’s house this time. His intentions are pretty much different.

“See, Namjoon split up with his girlfriend few weeks ago,” he says and you prick your ears. “He’s not in good condition right now, as you can see. It was a nasty break up, he found out she’s been cheating on him,” He lets out a long sigh. You bite your lip, imagining Namjoon’s disappointed face when he discovered the truth. What a bitch cheats on someone like him? “So, I thought maybe you could… cheer him up a little bit?” Taehyung ends hesitantly, with a glint of hope in his eyes.

You frown. Cheer him up? Did he just imply what you think about?

“Look, I get it, he’s sad and angry, but what the fuck, Taehyung? What do you want me to do? Do you want me to be his rebound? Make him forget?” you exclaim. Taehyung quickly shakes his head but you don’t let him say anything. “I feel sorry for Namjoon but I’m not going to take advantage of him when he’s literally still hurt.”

“No, it’s not like that!” Taehyung rushes to explain. “Well, maybe it sounded like that but I swear, I didn’t mean that!”

“Then what should I do? Wipe his tears? Tell him a joke? Or maybe-”

“Of course he wants you to suck his brother’s heartbroken dick, doll.”

A sudden, low voice interrupts your conversation. Your eyes follow the direction when it comes from, looking to Taehyung’s left where not even a meter away a very familiar grey-haired man with feline eyes sits.

“Min Yoongi,” you say matter-of-factly.

The leader of emendation team from Sunday’s Spirit editorial raises his hand in which he holds whiskey, greeting you and Taehyung. “Hello, doll. Hello, Taehyung,” he says, not even bothering to look at you.

You elbow Taehyung searching for explanation but he shrugs his shoulders, turning to face the man as well.

“First of all, since when do you call me ‘doll’? We have never spoken a word to each other. Secondly, how long have you been sitting here and listening?” you ask Yoongi.

He snorts, smirking. “Long enough to know how Taehyung comforts his brother after break up.” he simply answers and Taehyung’s cheeks blush in crimson at his words.

“You come here often? I’ve never seen you here before,” you continue, crossing your arms over chest.

Next to you Taehyung lets out a sigh. “Yes, he does. Albeit I haven’t seen him for a while here,” You look at him in confusion. “Yoongi-hyung is Namjoonie-hyung close friend from university days.” he clarifies.

You raise your eyebrows at that. “So Namjoon went to the same school as Park Jimin?”

“Not the same. We met under different circumstances.” Yoongi cuts in.

“They’ve been together in underground rap group, or some shit. Didn’t like each other at first but eventually stuck together till the end of studies.” Taehyung ends and grey-haired man nods.

You can’t help but chuckle at that.

“What’s funny in that?” Yoongi scowls.

“Nothing. I just imagined you and Namjoon in snapbacks, rapping about the unfairness of social hierarchy,” you say, grinning at him.

“Well, you may believe me or not, but we even made a mixtape.” Yoongi reveals proudly, taking a sip of his whiskey.

Your eyes widen in curiosity. “Then what happened? Why aren’t you in Seoul now, still producing music? Why do you work in this stupid newspaper and Namjoon’s a bartender?” you ask interrogatively.

“Life happened, doll. We didn’t have enough money to publish our works so we decided to quit it.”

“Oh,” you breathe out.

You could see the nostalgia written across Yoongi’s face. You feel sorry for him, for Namjoon. Everything is always about the money. That’s why you’re working in Sunday’s Spirit even though it was never your dream in first place. Even though you have much higher ambitions than being Ask and you shall find column author.

Ever since you were little, you loved writing. You never complained, not even once, when your teachers in school assigned you to write something. They kept saying you have an extraordinary talent and it would be a shame if you didn’t do anything with that.

During your high school years, you were the leader of school newspaper’s team, still writing your own works every time you didn’t have something different to do. After that, you got to the university in Seoul, your another dream came true. You got a master degree, an apprenticeship in the Korean version of highly popular, world-widely known magazine. And then, nothing. No job applications available. No newspapers or publishing companies wanting you, dismissing you right away because they didn’t have any vacant places.

This is how Sunday’s Spirit, even if that’s not your dream job, happened. And quite literally saved your ass.

“I’m sorry.” you say after a while.

Yoongi smiles but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Don’t be. What’s in past, stays in past.” he ends the conversation, drinking the rest of his whiskey.

You find this as a perfect possibility to do what you’ve come here for: get wasted, forget about this prick Park Jimin and his stupid assignment. You turn around on your stool to face the bar again, calling for the red-haired bartender named Hoseok who’s substituting Namjoon right now. You order a round of tequilla shots and quickly pours two of them in one go.

“Easy, tiger,” Taehyung teases, still sipping his pink drink as you wipe your chin with the back of your hand. Taehyung has stated a long time ago that he enjoys only casual drinking, which makes you and you lightweightness snort at him.

“Loser,” you mumble under your breath, deep down knowing you’re oh so much going to regret this after.

You focus your attention on the dancefloor now; technicolor lights glittering as the crowd of sweaty people bounce to old Madonna hits. You feel like your spirit might actually experience new kind of awakening during the chorus in Like a Virgin. You mouth the lyrics, the vodka already half-way to your bopping head. Your drunken self almost asks Taehyung and Yoongi if they would agree to be your backup dancers.

You eyes scan the room carefully and then, you spot him. He’s sitting in the corner, his arms splayed over the backrest of the red couch. A devil himself. A black horseman of the Apocalypse. A man who looks like every girl’s next mistake. Taylor Swift’s ‘we are never ever getting back together’.

A true sin.

Jet-black hair parted in the middle, onyx eyes and lucious smirk written across his lips as he bites them purposefully. He’s wearing a leather jacket and you wonder for a while if you would find inked tattoos on his body. He cocks his head to the side, his eyes glued to the same spot as he waits for something, or rather someone.

“Who’s that?” you ask, not even hiding your curiosity at this point.

Taehyung turns around as well, his eyes glancing to the dark-haired man briefly. “Ah, this, sweetheart, is Jeon Jungkook, Park Jimin’s best friend.” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You raise your eyebrows, watching as Jungkook’s face expression immediately changes when waitress approaches him. He says something to her that makes her roll her eyes. She tightens her grip around the tray she’s holding, asking him for his order.

“Don’t worry. You are not the only one thirsting over him. I would let him top me too,” Taehyung whispers to your ear and you flinch.

“I’m not thirsting over him! I came her for drinks, not to get laid, I told you.”

“Okay, okay, loosen up a little. Tequilla makes you aggressive. Besides, it looks like he’s got his pick for tonight.”

Jungkook stretches out his hand and fixes the waitress’ glasses that seem to rode down her nose a little. The girl frozes in place because of his action and he grins, calling her cute.

“He’s trying to ask her out for two months,” Yoongi interrupts suddenly, again. It looks like he has nothing better to do tonight. “I’m serious. He’s here every Friday. Normally, he would have given up after the second time she had rejected him but there’s might be something in this girl that makes his dick hard and his heart soft.”

Jungkook’s eyes girl’s body as she bends to pick up the glasses from other tables and maybe that’s the alcohol swimming in your veins but you could swear his face lights up when she sends him another irritated glare when he calls her name.

“Does Park Jimin comes here often as well?” you ask before you could stop yourself.

Both Taehyung and Yoongi shake their heads.

“I don’t think so. Jeon comes here because he lives nearby in this huge ass apartment complex. His father runs a chemical factory and he works there.” Taehyung explains.

Jeon? Chemical factory? Something clicks in your brain. Right, you know who his father is. The King of Washing Powder. Another rich as fuck Busan’s snob.

“God, I hate him. I fucking hate him. What a prick. Douchebag. Asshole of the century,” The string of profanities leaves poor waitress’ mouth as she walks to the counter with tray in her hands. “How’s your day, love? You look beautiful today, love. Fucking leave me alone, love!” she mutters to herself, taking the beer mugs from Hoseok abruptly which makes the bartender raise his eyebrows in confusion.

“How’s your assignment about Mary Magdalene going on, doll?” Yoongi asks then, startling you.

You roll your eyes at him. “I literally got it today, Yoongi. I haven’t started yet.” you answer, gulping another shot.

On the corner of your eye you see Yoongi’s smirking. “I’m surprised, to be honest. You aren’t the only one who doesn’t pay attention to shit Jimin’s says,” he trails off. “I work for him from the moment he started this ridiculous Bible lunch breaks and I swear, he’s never called out someone like that before.”

“What do you mean he’s never called out someone before?” Taehyung joins in curiously.

“Look, I slept through the majority of these sessions and Jimin knows it, but he has never lecture me about it,” Yoongi remarks. “Maybe you’re an exception. Or he’s become more strict because of this bitch Chin-sun.”

You furrow your eyebrows, confused. You know Chin-sun has been making heart eyes for Jimin for a long time but what why it might have an influence on his behavior?

“Lee Chin-sun? What the office’s Mary Magdalene has to do with that? Besides the fact that she’s drooling for his dick every time she sees him,” Taehyung snorts.

Yoongi chuckles lowly. “Oh, so you two really know nothing about what’s going on between them right now,”

“What’s going on right now? Spill.” Taehyung says abruptly. You sigh when you see the way his eyes flicker with mischeviousness. One thing Taehyung loves more than photography and fashion is gossiping (and dicks).

“First of all, Chin-sun is a fucking bigot. And well… she might be closer to being miss Park than we thought.” Yoongi muses.

Taehyung eyebrows practically disappear in his hairline. You’re sure you mirror his expression right now.

Yoongi asks Hoseok for another glass of whiskey and continues. “My friend Seokjin’s wife is Jimin’s personal assistant and secretary. She heard this and that, quite juicy things I must say,” he says in a lower tone, like he’s revealing government secrets to them. You lean closer into his direction along with Taehyung. “Chin-sun’s father recently bought the claims to the most popular, conservative TV station in whole South Korea. But, what is more interesting, it looks like Park senior has some shares in it as well.”

You’re astonished. You knew there’s something looming in the air but you didn’t expect this. A TV station? Even your slightly drunken brain can calculate it’s very interesting.

“So the marriage between Chin-sun and Jimin would be pretty convenient for their families, especially after considering the fact that Jimin is the heir.” Yoongi adds, gulping the first sip of his new whiskey.

“Poor Eunwoo,” you whisper to yourself.

“But why so soon? Why do they want to legalize their relationship so suddenly?” Taehyung asks.

Yoongi lets out a heavy sigh. “There’s a rumour going around that Jimin’s father isn’t in good condition right now. Seokjin-hyung mentioned something about the heart disease. So, if that’s really true, you have the answer why he wants his eldest son to settle down already. Everything’s about the money, I told you.”

Taehyung whistles. “Woah, so Mary Magdalene is really about to be CEO Jesus’ wife soon!” he exclaims, clapping his hands. “Brilliant. Finally something spicy is happening in this boring editorial.”

“I wouldn’t be so enthusiastic if I were you, Taehyung. This kind of business never ends well,” Yoongi says coldly, placing his glass on the counter and standing up from the stool. He glances at his watch and throws a few bills next to his empty glass. “I’ll get going. It was nice talking to you, doll.”

“What about me?”

“Shut up, Taehyung, you’re not pretty lady.”

“I feel offended.”

“And I don’t care,” Yoongi mutters. Maybe that was alcohol swimming in her veins but you saw Taehyung lifting the corners of his lips in amusement. Weird. “Good luck on your assignment, doll. See you all on Monday.” Yoongi glances to your way one last time, adjusting his jacket.

“Bye, Yoongi.” you wave to him and a small, even sincere smile appears on his face when he as well raises his hand lazily and leaves. “Why didn’t you tell me he’s actually nice, Tae? I was always too scared to start a conversation with him because I felt intimidated.” you say after a while.

“I’m sorry, should have I set you up for a date with him?” Taehyung mocks.

A groan escapes your lips. “Could you please stop insinuating things?”

“You need to get laid, seriously. Like soon-soon. You get easily irritated recently. You need a d i c k,”

“I don’t need a dick!”

“A cock, Y/N,” Taehyung emphasizes. “A penis in your precious vagina.”

“Shut up!”

Several shots and a few drunken dances to Cindi Lauper and Bon Jovi, you’re pretty much wasted. And maybe, just maybe, you need a dick. And Taehyung, like a dipshit he always is, thinks that’s actually funny.

“Don’t wanna homff,” you slur, supporting your weight on Taehyung’s arm that shakes with laughter at your drunken antics, as well as his whole body. “I wanna danfce witfh somebodyyy,”

“Holy Mother of Jesus, you must be really drunk if you started referring to Whitney Houston’s songs. And you smell like booze,” Taehyung mutters under his breath and you whine, tugging on his arm.

“TaeTae, Taehyungie, pffleasee, can we go back?”

Taehyung ignores your grumbling completely. He exists the bar, walking (or rather dragging) you to the cab. As he tries to push your body to the car, he sees in the corner of his eye Jeon Jungkook, standing in front of his black SUV. The waitress from earlier accompanies him as well. It looks like he’s trying to convince her to let him give her a lift to home. The girl shakes her head at first but eventually gives up, stepping into the car. Jungkook grins to himself then, clenching his fists in gesture of pure triumph.

“I fuckin’ hate Park Jimin and his stfupid newspaper,” you mutter incoherently as you bury your head in the crook of Taehyung’s neck in the back of the cab. Old, korean songs are playing in the radio when you’re driving back home. Taehyung smiles to himself, hearing your light snores. But then, he falters.

Ah, yes, he almost forgot. It is going to be a long way to the third floor of your apartment building.

Next day, you wake up in the middle of noon with raging headache and an abrupt need to throw everything up. Frankly speaking, you had worse hangovers during you university days but it doesn’t change the fact that the state you’re currently in still sucks.

“Oh, good God, what have I thought?” you mutter to yourself while standing in the shower, letting the water cool you down.

Truth to be told, a drinking escapade when you have a whole ass paper to write in two days wasn’t the smartest idea you could come up with. You know that for sure, when you’re sitting down in front of your laptop with prescription glasses on your face and a cup of tea in your hand.

There’s a blank document opened on the screen, with only your name written in the corner and the title in the middle. You feel pathetic and useless, staring at it for 30 minutes straight. If you keep sitting like this, you might actually call Park Jimin right now and beg him not to fire you due to your incompetence.

“Get your shit together, Y/N.” you say to yourself, clenching your fists.

At first you fought about making some mind-map, outlining the most important parts of your essay, as you always used to do when you were studying. But there’s a huge difference between what you’re working on right now and what you usually did during academic days. Above all, at that time you were writing about things you had more knowledge about, not about Mary Magdalene and her role in Jesus Christ’s life.

“Ah, fuck it.”

You open an online Bible page and quickly type ‘Mary Magdalene’ in browser. All fragments when she’s mentioned shows up in front of your eyes. You fix your glasses and before you could stop yourself, you whisper, “Let’s get it.”

You don’t know how much time has passed since you started reading, but when you glance a the clock it’s nearly 7pm.

You went through every single page in the Bible when Mary Magdalene appears or when for some reason her name comes up in conversations. You read two thesis in which you found quite interesting facts about the heroine of your work. Also, you watched some conspiracy theories on YouTube about her, in which people claim that she was actually Jesus’ wife. You were bewildered, even in your post-hangover state.

And after all of this researching, you have settled a plan. You’re a journalist for God’s sake, you’ve been writing your entire life and none assignment will break you. So you start typing on the keyboard, filling the blank document pages with words, hoping that Park Jimin will approve your efforts.

On Sunday, you look like a ghost.

You’re a mess, cured from hangover but still in bad shape, especially after spending the whole night writing in front of your laptop. There are bangs under your eyes and you hair looks like you could cosplay a scarecrow. Your eyes are sore from staring to the screen for so long and you feel like you might collapse anytime if you won’t drink coffee in five minutes.

In between writing next paragraphs, you answer a call from Taehyung.

“How’s your assignment going, sweetheart?”

You let out a long, exhausted sigh. “It’s fine, I guess.” you respond to him.

“That’s lovely! I knew you would slay this, babe,” you hear him saying.

“I’m not done yet, Tae. I still have like a half to write,” you mumble and then let out a yawn, closing your eyes for a brief second before you speak again. “I would love to talk to you more but I really need to get this shit done as soon as I can, so I could have some decent sleep before Monday. I don’t want to look like an old witch when I hand in the paper to Park Jimin.”

“I know, I know. You got this, sweetheart. I’m sure you will make Mister Prude’s dick hard because of this.” Taehyung assures you.

You crack a tired smile even though you know he doesn’t see you. “Thank you, Tae.”

“Anything for you, sweetheart.” he says and hangs up.

You take another gulp of your coffee and start writing again.

It’s a little past midnight when you’re, with your last amounts of force you posses, typing the last words of the paper. As you look at your laptop screen, eyelids half-closed, you dream about nothing but going to sleep.

You did that. You really did. You wrote this stupid paper for Park Jimin and you’re actually proud of it. You carefully save the document three times (to be hundred percent sure) and as soon as you close your laptop, you pass out.

Little did you know what is waiting for you in editorial in a few hours.

You stare at your reflection in small mirror you hold, thanking God that he has enlightened the person who discovered make-up. You won’t say you look stunning but, after five hours of sleep you had in last two days, you would risk it all and say you appear much more than decent looking. You’re wearing your new black jumpsuit that makes your legs look longer and you even used a different shade of lipstick, painting your lips in crimson red.

And all of this for nothing, because when you stormed into the Sunday’s Spirit editorial to give the paper straight to Park Jimin’s hands, his secretary with polite smile said he’s coming to work later today.

You pursued your lips and handed the woman your blood, sweat and tears (you’re actually sure a few tears rolled down from your face on the keyboard while you were writing it), wishing you saw your boss’ face when you place the printed pages on his expensive desk.

“I changed a little bit the topic of my work while I was outlining it,” you tell Taehyung as you both sit together by your desks later that day. “I focused more on a role of Mary Magdalene character in world ruled only by men. I showed how a powerful woman she was, standing at Jesus’s side even though the church for the centuries referred her to whore,” you explain.

“Wow,” Taehyung muses. “You turned Mary Magdalene into feminism icon fighting against patriarchy.”

“It’s not like that!” You hit him in the arm. “You may laugh as much as you want but I actually got into her story.”

Taehyung smirks. “Looks like being scolded by Park Jimin wasn’t that bad.”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up. I got humiliated in the middle of fucking cafeteria. I still hate him. And also, I don’t know what he thinks about my essay.” you say with a sigh.

“Don’t worry. He’s probably having an epiphany right now while-”

A voice from the speakers that certainly doesn’t sound like gospel choir interrupts him.

“Miss Y/N, please report to the Park Jimin’s office immadietly.”

“-or he isn’t.” Taehyung ends.

Once again, you’re frozen in place. It’s okay, you tell yourself, maybe he just wants to talk about my essay. But what if he didn’t like it? What if your sudden feminism outburst about Mary Magdalene was too much?

“Holy fuck.” you blurt out quietly.

Taehyung gives you an encouraging smile but he doesn’t look much convinced in positive intentions of summoning you to their boss’ office, he just doesn’t say it aloud. “Well, maybe it won’t be that bad! Maybe he wants to congratulate you,” he tries to comfort you, without success. You look horribly pale and scared to death.

“I repeat: miss Y/N, please report to the Park Jimin’s office immadietly.” Jimin’s stone cold voice pierce through the silence again. You shiver. The journalists in the editorial send you impatient glares.

“Whatever happens, remember that I love you.” Taehyung whispers, squizzing your hand, which makes you even more nervous. He gives you thumbs-up and you take a deep breath, trying to calm your trembling body. A whole Sunday’s Spirit team follow your movements with their eyes.

You stands from your desk on wobbly legs and walk to the door with golden sign hanging on its surface.

 Park Jimin

 Editor-in-chief

You take the knob in your shaking palm and twist, stepping into the lion’s den.

The atmosphere seems to shift when you walk into the room. You could hear your heart rapidly beating through the dead silence that lingers in Park Jimin’s office. “You wanted to see me, sir?” you ask after closing the door, subconsciously cursing yourself for sounding so weak already.

“Yes, have a seat,” Jimin says. “Give me a second. I need to finish something.” he adds when you sit down, not even bothering to spare you a look.

Jimin sits behind his desk, eyes glued to the computer screen. His hair is pushed back from his forehead, his jaw clenched. Oh, great, he looks pissed, you think to yourself.

He isn’t wearing his suit jacket like usually, which surprises you. His white shirt’s sleeves are rolled up, revealing a glimpse of veiny hands and his Rolex. This is the first time you see him like this. He looks so… unlike him.

Strange.

You use the time you have to take in your surroundings. Jimin’s office is painted in fair tone of grey. The rumors were actually right, there’s a smaller version of Michelangelo’s Pietà standing proudly on of the drawers. Behind the desk, on the wall, hangs a wooden cross with gold-plated figurine of Jesus Christ, and just underneath it there’s a framed picture of Lady of Fatima, which he once proudly showed to the whole editorial team on one of the lunchbreaks, saying his grandmother brought him this from her pilgrimage.

You focus your attention now on the wall filled with numerous diplomas and certificates, all of them signed with Park Jimin’s name.

You had read some of his works before you started your job in Sunday’s Spirit and you must admit: Park Jimin is a talented, smart journalist you aspire to be one day. It’s actually sad, you think, that he can’t pursue his career, wasting his abilities by working in catholic newspaper owned by his father. And as you know from Yoongi, his situation isn’t going to change soon. Maybe he was right after all. Money really does rule this world.

After a few minutes that seems to last forever, Jimin breaks the silence. “Do you know why are you here?” he asks, finally averting his attention to you. He stares so deeply into your eyes that you feel you might faint from the intensity of his aura.

You clear your throat, and then respond. “I do believe it’s about my paper I handed in to you this morning.”

Jimin raises his eyebrow at that. “Your paper? No, everything’s fine about it. I read it and I must say, you did a great job,” he says and you furrow your eyebrows. So if nothing’s is wrong with your essay then what does he want?

“Then… why did you call me in, sir?” you hesitantly ponder.

Jimin laces his fingers together and leans closer over the desk. “Well,” he begins, “Maybe you forgot or you really didn’t know about it, but I used to run the same column as you do now,” You nod your head, recalling what Taehyung told you recently. Jimin continues, “I was actually the one who created it. That means I am still, for this day, its administrator. Which leads to another conclusion: every single ask that is send to our editorial and your responses to them can be monitored by me.” he explains, gauging your reaction. You still don’t have an idea why is he telling you that, so you just sit still and wait.

Then, Jimin reaches for the paper that lays on the left side of his desk and hands it to you. “Could you please tell me what is this?” he asks, pointing at the paper.

You glance at it briefly. “These are the questions I got last week and my responses to them.” you reply straightaway.

Park Jimin doesn’t seem much satisfied after hearing your words. He then takes another paper and gives it to you as well. “And this particular one, Y/N? Could you please read it and tell me what is this?”

Ignoring his forego of ‘miss’, you take it to your hands and start reading.

Dear Sunday’s Spirit editorial,

My name is Kang Seoyeon. I study medicine at the University of Seoul, I’ve got an amazing group of friends and a loving boyf-

You gasp and immadietly put a palm over your mouth. Under Seoyeon’s ask there’s also, clear as day, your much inappropriate response to her. In which you persuade the girl to suck her boyfriend off.

Holy fuck. Jesus Christ. Shitshitshit!

Jimin said he monitors everything that people send to the editorial along with the responds. Of course he had to read it. Why have you been so dumb? How could you believe that simple deleting from your inbox would be enough? Why can’t you do something properly for once?

You gulp, trying not to cry because good God, he’s going to fire you. He will kick you out and write a bunch of negative letters to your future employees, in which he will explain in details how disobiedent, reckless of a worker you are.

“Did you also forget how to speak?” Jimin asks. You almost cry out right away from the coldness of his voice.

You muster up a courage and look at him, and that’s a huge mistake because as soon as your eyes meet his, you’re lost for words.”I-I don’t know what to say, sir,” you stammer out. “I have nothing for my defence. I can only apologize for my irresponsible and inappropriate behavior I exhibited.” you say, bowing your head down.

Jimin pursues his lips. He stands from his chair and walks to you, leaning his body on the desk. He takes the paper from you to his hands and starts reading. “If you want to fuck your boyfriend, do it. Maybe God wouldn’t approve that but don’t worry, he won’t send you to hell because of some dick in your pussy,“ he quotes your response to the girl and your cheeks flush in red; you wish nothing more than to disappear and never see your boss again. But he’s relentless and continues reading, spilling the crude words, humiliating you even more. “So you go girl, suck your boyfriend off. Make him beg. He will never leave you after this.“ Jimin chuckles to himself darkly and you shut your eyes. “Look at me when you are spoken to,” he demands. You quickly oblige, lifting your chin a little to meet his intense gaze. “Is that really how a good, catholic girl should act?” he asks in a mocking tone.

You shake your head. “No, it isn’t.”

Jimin clicks his tongue. “Do you think he really won’t leave her after this?” he asks out of the blue.

You furrow your eyebrows. What kind of twisted game is he playing now? “I don’t know, sir.” you answer honestly.

Jimin smirks. Devilishly, sultry and completely illegal. He then licks his lips and leans closer to you. You could swear his eyes are darken than before. Something has shifted in his demeanor; he looks daring. “Why don’t you show me then, how this poor girl should suck her boyfriend off, Y/N?” he whispers lowly.

Your eyes widen. Did he just-?

He didn’t. He can’t. Maybe you misheard him, maybe you started imagining things that aren’t real. Oh, sweet Lord, the look of absolute seriousness written on his face tells you very much different.

Park Jimin, your boss, the man who goes regularly on masses and reads Bible, wants you to give him a head. In his office.

May the God help you.

You should probably slap him in the face for his immoral proposition. You should save your dignity, leave and never come back again. But then, you clear your mind from all those twisted thoughts running through it and you realise that you’re walking on a very thin line. Line which is called unemployment and bankruptcy.

You think about your landlord who praised you recently for keeping up with rent every month regularly. You think about your student loans that you still need to pay.

And fuck, you hate Yoongi because he was damn right. Money wouldn’t buy you happiness, but it can provide you that.

That’s why you put away the humiliation, the what ifs. You shut your mind screaming at you and listing the future consequences. Maybe Jimin just tests you, but the way he looks at you denies it. He wants to see you on your knees in front of him. Perhaps he only wants to play before he fires you but you put that thought aside.

You at least need to try.

Jimin searches for any kind of protest in your eyes and when he doesn’t find it, he’s back to his domineering self. “What are you waiting for?” he asks, his voice an octave lower. “Get on your knees.”

He has a calm expression on his face and you wonder for a moment how many times has he been in similar situation before. Having a woman on his mercy and using her the way he likes. And now you know. All those stories you heard about, are actually true. Park Jimin isn’t a prude. He’s dirty.

You fall to the floor with a light whimper. Maybe it’s the last chance for you to leave, but the confidence that emanates from Jimin doesn’t falter your movements. You hate yourself for that but God, you want to see this man being a mess for your touch. Even if that’s fucked up.

And it’s wrong, so, so wrong, when there’s a cross hanging behind you, when he’s your boss who claims to be a good catholic, when you do that because you’re too afraid to lose your job. But in that moment, the morality doesn’t exist.

Jimin stands up to take his belt off, looking at you from the above as he slowly, purposefully pulls it from the belt loops. He doesn’t encourage you or say anything, he just waits. You gulp when he yanks his black slacks down, along with his underwear.

For a few, solid seconds, you just stare.

You aren’t a connoisseur of dicks. Dick is a dick, but Park Jimin’s length is just as perfect as the rest of him, semi-hard against his lower stomach. Your hands move to his sculpted thighs, running up and down, tracing the prominent lines of his toned abdomen. The muscles tense underneath your touch.

You don’t remember when was the last time you’ve gone down on someone. Maybe it was Taehyung few months ago when you were both too drunk to care? You can’t quite recall. Every move of yours is uncertain, but Jimin doesn’t mind. Maybe your uncertainty turns him on even more.

He watches as you take him in your palm hesitantly, hot and already stiff, stroking him several times until he hardens in your hand. The sight is purely erotic, filthy, and you lick your lips before placing a light kiss on his tip. Jimin hisses. That’s a warning. No teasing.

You pump him, trailing a thumb over his slit, spreading precum all over his cock. Jimin doesn’t say anything but from the shuddering breath he lets out you assume he likes it. You take a deep breath, wrapping your lips around his dick and swirling your tongue around the head.

Jimin groans, a guttural sound resonating through his whole body and you take it as a sign to continue. You ease more of him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and bobbing your head up and down around his length obediently. Some twisted and fucked-up part of you wants him to praise you, call you good girl with your lips around his dick and throbbing core. He does none of that. His hands tangle in your hair as he withdraws, and you know exactly what’s coming next.

It’s an unspoken question on his lips and your jaw falls slacks on command.

A forceful push of his hips and he’s burried deep inside your mouth till he hits the back of your throat. Tears brim in your eyes and you gag, breathing heavily through your nose. It hurts a little, a dull ache but the content sigh and fucked-out expression on Jimin’s face is worth it. So you let him fuck your mouth the way he wants, let him pull your hair harder, wreck you a little more. It’s so easy to submit to him, to let him overwhelm you in every sense possible.

Your eyes fall shut and Jimin stops his movements, pulling from your mouth. Drool dribbles down your chin and you wipe it with the back of your hand. Jimin lets out a shaky breath, staring down at you so intensely it makes your insides tighten, even if you don’t see him yet.

“Look at me,” he rasps and you do, how could you not. The sight of your boss’ flushed cheeks and sweat forming on his forehead will be imprinted in your mind forever.

You curse yourself for wanting him to fuck you senseless right against his deck, with a hand around your throat muffling your screams, fuck you so hard you won’t remember your name anymore, no matter how wrong it is.

“Good girl. You’re so pretty like this, letting me fuck your mouth,” Jimin nothing but purrs, filling you to the brim again, until there are tears forming in your eyes and running down your cheeks, until he hits the base of your throat again and again and you fight back choked gags every time. “Just like that, fuck-” he moans, lowly and beautifully, head thrown back and mouth parted.

He’s close, you could feel that, so you take him deep once again and when your throat tightens around him one last time, he lets out a gutural groan and comes. You swallow every drop of his bitter release and when he pulls out from your mouth, you nearly fall forward.

Jimin catches you, placing his hands on your shoulders, balancing your exhausted body. You look at him through your half-lidded eyes. He looks so young now, so innocent, his cold demeanor’s gone and replaced by pure bliss written on his face. For Park Jimin, cheeks rosy, disheveled hair and loosen tie, you would do it all over again.

He then does something unexpected. He reaches for your face, brushing your tangled hair away and placing the strands behind your ears. This is a loving gesture, something exclusive he definitely shouldn’t be doing. You’re frozen, you can’t move a muscle while he wipes your cheeks from the reminiscences of your tears. He trails his thumb over your swollen lips absentmindedly, faltering there. For a moment he looks like he might say something, but he quickly shuts his mouth, regaining his previous posture.

You take this as a sign to leave. You get up from the floor, your knees sore from the uncomfortable position you’ve been in. You walk to the mirror that hangs on the wall of Jimin’s office. You sigh, seeing your current state. There’s no way someone would believe you that you haven’t just sucked a dick.

Your cheeks are flushed in pink, there are smudges of mascara under your eyes and your lipstick is smeared in the corners of your mouth. Not to mention your hair is still a mess.

You are painted in all shades of wrong.

In the reflection of the mirror you see Jimin buckling up his belt and straightening his tie. He runs a hand through his blond locks and looks up, catching you staring at him. You quickly look away.

“Don’t worry. No one will notice anything. Everyone should be off for their lunchbreaks by now.” he says. He sounds so pathetically normal, yet there’s still a slight rasp in his voice.

You glance at the watch on your hand and check the time. It’s a little past 12. You brush your hair with your fingers quickly and proceed to leave, but you stop, remembering you have to ask about one last thing. You turn around to face him.

“Are you going to write a bad opinion about me to my future employees?” you ask, flinching at the hoarseness of your voice.

Jimin raises his eyebrows. “Bad opinion? No, absolutely not,” he answers, shaking his head. “I was never going to fire you in first place.”

You fight back the shocked expression that threatens to appear on your face. You quickly rush to leave this damn office and never look in his eyes ever again. What were you even thinking?

“And Y/N,” Jimin’s voice makes you stop with your hand hovering over the door knob. Single tear rolls down your cheek and you gulp. “I’m sorry.” it’s all he says.

You don’t ask him what he meant by that. You don’t deliberate if he was sincere or not. You leave the office as soon as you can, running to the nearest bathroom, closing the door behind you and leaning on it.

He wasn’t going to fire you. He just wanted to use you, demand to get down on your knees and please him the way he wants. It was all a game for him, and you became his plaything.

“I’m so stupid,” you mutter to yourself, burying your head in your hands. “God, I’m so stupid.”

You feel sick, used, but at the same time you can’t get away with creeping feeling that you enjoyed it, wishing he wanted you just as much as you wanted him in that moment.

You sigh, closing your eyes. You’re probably foolish for thinking it won’t have any consequences. You’re just about to face them.

The coldness of early Spring hits you when you exit Sunday’s Spirit editorial. You hug your body tighter with your coat, standing in front of the building awkwardly. You take a few deep breaths, trying to clear your mind, but nothing really works. There’s a vacant space inside your body, like your soul has drifted away and left nothing but emptiness.

You feel hollow.

You don’t know how long have you been standing there, inhaling fresh air and waiting for your blood to start circulating properly in your veins again. When you’re about to head to the underground station, on the corner of your eye you see Jimin’s black Mercedes. You probably shouldn’t stare but you helplessly do.

Probably if you didn’t, it would hurt less.

He approaches the car, looking perfectly fine as always, which you couldn’t say about yourself. And he isn’t alone.

You recognize dark curls of Chins-sun’s hair, contrasting her beige coat beautifully. The corners of Jimin’s lips lift when he sees her. You don’t know if it’s a honest smile or a forced one. You wonder for a while how does he look like when he’s truly happy. Maybe he’s happy now, when Chin-sun is by his side.

What you are really sure about Park Jimin, is that he’s a man of many maybes.

Something which definitely doesn’t look forced are his palms, cupping the cheeks of Chin-sun’s flushed face. He starts tracing circles on her skin in intimate gesture and murmurs something. Maybe he asks her how was her day. Your lips still tingle where he trailed his thumb over it bitten, swollen surface. Maybe he still remembers how they felt around his cock when he was relentlessly bringing tears to your eyes and stabs to your heart.

The way he leans and kisses Chin-sun’s cherry colored lips is purposeful, perfectly measured. Maybe he sighs into her mouth with content, a beautiful sound you have witnessed with your own ears, as you were working him to his climax. Jimin’s hands grip Chin-sun’s dark locks but it isn’t the similar manner he did to you earlier, as he laced his fingers through the strands, when you wished him to do nothing more than pull harder and harder, until the pain in you scalp was replaced by dull ache, until a whimper fell from your lips and eyes squeezed shut. He kisses Chin-sun lovingly and there’s no roughness in that. It’s gentle caresses and soft murmurs.

After a moment he breaks off, soothing his palms over Chin-sun’s shoulders. She sends him a smile and opens the passenger’s door, getting into the car. And then, when you swallow a lump in your throat, when you decide to turn around and go, run as fast as you possibly can, when you dream about nothing more but never seeing him again, you catch eyes with him.

Jimin looks pathetically apologetic. There’s something in his dark brown orbs you can’t read. Maybe it’s guilt, maybe regret. Park Jimin is a man of many maybes, yet he stares at you with expression you could only mistaken for sadness.

You wonder if he sees the way your eyes stare at him blankly. You wonder if he knows how he nearly wrecked your body and made you feel things you shouldn’t. If he hurts the same way as you do now. However, Jimin quickly diverts his head away from you, closing the door to his car behind him as well. You laugh quietly at the ridiculousness of this situation. A bitter laugh that escapes your mouth and deepen the hollowness inside you.

A hand touches your arm and you don’t even flinch, knowing already who it is.

“So you know the news,” Taehyung says, looking at Jimin’s car leaving the parking lot. How long has he been standing behind you?

“What news?” you ask, turning your head to look at him.

“Chin-sun is really going to be miss Park officially,” he replies. “Jimin proposed to her this weekend. The wedding is in may. But that’s not important right now. How’s your conversation with him, sweetheart?”

You feel sick. You excuse yourself, mentioning something about needing to catch earlier train and texting him later. Taehyung calls after you but you don’t listen. You start running.

You run until you couldn’t breathe, until there’s a soreness in your throat from the coldness of air. You run until you reach your apartment, stumbling into it on wobbly legs. Your back touches the wall and you slide off, sitting on the floor.

You don’t cry. The tears don’t strain your eyes. It’s only this damned, dull hollowness.

There’s written in the Bible that a guilty person is the one who broke God’s law, who committed a sin. The said person will be judged by their actions after their death. Because every human being has a conscience, the thing that sets the line between good and bad, so when we did something wrong, we should feel remorse.

When you sit on the floor and stare blankly in front of yourself, you know you have sinned.You both did. You wonder if he, trailing patterns of tender touches on his fiancee’s skin, feels the same as you. You wonder if guilt eats him up as much as devours you. Maybe there’s hollow ache in his chest, just like in yours. Maybe he doesn’t feel anything.

And may the God help you both find your redemption.

#jimin smut #bts smut #ksmutclub #smutcentralnet #btswritingcafe #bangtanarmynet #bangtanhq #btsbookclub #maknaesmutsociety #btswriterscollective #bts fanfic #bts scenario #jimin angst #bts jimin #jimin #jimin fic #jimin x reader #jimin scenarios #bts #my writing

[writingwitheli]

GrandMech

Most mechs were hard to function, even with experienced pilots.

They didn't move like people do, the mechanics don't really allow for that. You have to know the engineering intimately to clearly envision how the thing was going to react to your direction. Most pilots spend months learning their piece before going into the field. There were simulators, and for a while the board argued for mechs to be built in a uniform manner for faster learning.

But technology went a bit too fast for that. And the things were way too expensive to mass produce.

Grandma Katersfield knew this well. It was her life's work.

I mean she wasn't my grandma. But she kinda was. She was everyone's grandma, in a way. Most mechs these days still have her work in them, even if there were scraps rebuild around it. Some people called it practical. Pilots called it good luck. The engineers called it "Finally someone who knows what they're fucking doing."

When she passed away, in her garage (had she ever existed anywhere else?), the military held a funeral. Most of the planets held a funeral. The board, somewhere in their core-planet bunkers, held a meeting.

The war wasn't over, and we weren't winning. And we'd just lost our best engineer. It was a big fucking hit for morale. There were losses everywhere.

Presumably after sending a swarm of government drones through the property, the board very quickly touted "Katersfield's Final Work", and "The culmination of everything she's ever done". Some people pointed out the public images that showed how the thing was half-done. But enough people wanted hope that everyone gradually bought into the idea.

The board appointed Katersfield's daughter to lead the finalization of the thing. Ann wasn't exactly an engineer, but they knew how the public would read it. They gave her a team of their best to work with.

When construction was nearly done, the board officially announced that Katersfield's son-in-law would be piloting it. Everyone expected it; he was the only striped pilot in the family. But it hit the top of everyone's news anyways.

The public test run was expected to be simple, and broadcasted live as far as the outer-space colonies.

It… didn't go so well.

Okay, it went very badly.

I mean.

Bad.

What followed was a lot of media confusion. The board hastily tried to put the blame on over-eagerness. People were fired. We lost four moons while our squadrons re-evaluated their lives.

Mark and his husband, Will Katersfield, had a very public divorce. Some people argue it was the media pressure. Some people suspect that the board forced them apart. I think it was a long time coming.

For a while the board pushed forward other candidates. They ran competitions for new mech designers and engineers and electricians. Offered an absurd amount of money and resources. A lot of cool stuff came out of it, but nothing really compares to Katersfield's work.

It was three years after that when media went into a frenzy over a low-grade video of the mech doing cartwheels over the family farm. Fucking cartwheels, man. I can't even do those in my own body most days.

Every news ship went down there as quick as they could. A bunch of civilians, too. Granny says a board member actually showed up in person.

Everyone was immediately on Ann about it. She was the only one that really stayed on the farm. She knew the machinery well enough. And maybe she'd inherited the pilot skills of one of Katersfield's late spouses.

To the dismay of the board, Ann insisted that the pilot was Thoma, one of Will's children. The media went ballistic. Kids weren't even supposed to be piloting mechs in the first place.

Thoma gave an interview to their school teacher and described the sensation of piloting upside down as "even better than going all the way around the bar on a swing and then having Grandma's cookies with two scoops of ice cream!" Their wide grin with missing teeth was eventually made into metal-cards for soldiers to attach under their breast plates and remind them of home.

At some point, Ann made the mistake of admitting that she'd taken it out for a test-run while she was tuning up some joints (she hadn't been an engineer when this started. But things change).

The board came down hard. They publicly announced that Ann was the cartwheeling pilot, and further that she'd accepted a high raking military title with absurd honors and enough pay to buy a moon. They posted a date with a public countdown clock for her departure to the front lines.

Now the way Granny tells it; Ann didn't know about any of this until her neighbor came by with the milk and a congratulations. Granny would probably piss on the board if she still could. Don't let her try it.

Ann did go. She didn't have many options, really. Her bio-logs phrase the situation as "the board made a decision. I complied."

We pushed back the front by two whole planets. Ann wasn't much of a pilot; she spent too much time thinking, but the war pushed around her. Most of the time it only took a three second clip of her unnaturally smooth landing and quick gravity adjustment to a new planet. My old mech would take two minutes to land and readjust. A lot can happen in two minutes.

The official report says Ann died on Mitas 9. The board will probably censor this whole damn thing if I try to explain what happened, but just remember that official reports are. Well. Official.

The mech was commandeered immediately. They cleaned it up, threw on a new coat of paint, and put their highest ranking pilot in the hotseat.

Everyone was in a hurry to get back to it and have a plan ready before Ann's death was publicly announced. Yeru knew the schematics by heart and spent one month living with the mech every hour of every day to make up for lost time. The board went as far as making them legally exempt from standard reports. Yeru's bios were never made public, but you can pull them from the military archives in Section B. They clearly knew their way around a mech, and honestly seemed to be a good person as far as I can tell.

The board had seemingly learned from prior incidents. The Generals hosted a secluded military showing of the first test-run. Those archives are probably deleted, but all you really need to know is that Yeru never made it off the ground.

For a few months, the military looked into sabotage. Yeru's bio-post about the joints being "just plain creaky no matter how much I oil the thing" convinced a bunch of higher-ups that the mech had been swapped out or something.

I know. Creating a whole fake mech to replace it with? Somehow managing to swap the thing out with as much board, military, and media surveillance as it has? Absurd.

Also I'm sure you're well aware that plenty of good mechs have creaky joints. I hear you ran Sacrifice 2 for a while there. Lt. Jen complained about how loud that thing was for months after he shared a hangar with it near Osylus. Not sure if that was your time or not. I'm going to tell him it was, so he'll have something to complain to you about. When he does, ask him about the wardrobe cloning incident. I'm sure he'll know what you're talking about.

Anyways.

The news about Ann went public, and the board pushed it down the feeds with reports about a new Stealth Carrier that would move faster than a pilot-ship. It did. Everyone loved it. I'm sure it's shit compared to the last carrier you were on.

Thoma, meanwhile, had grown up and gotten their way through military school. It might seem strange to you now, but Thoma actually didn't touch a mech the first decade of their service. They had a few friends and plenty worshipers, but still hadn't officially earned enough stripes to be a pilot. The Generals wanted to make sure Thoma was knocked down enough to keep from getting big-headed about it. But Thoma didn't really care.

Thoma fought hard and studied harder. They proved themselves again and again. You can look up the public records of their medal-acceptance speeches. Every damn time they would say "This is a great honor. Can I trade it in for a mech?"

Pissed a lot of people off, but it was fucking hilarious if you ask me.

Eventually Thoma led a fairly large squadron and took a half a continent in a week. When I asked them about it, they said they had sent a text message to the Generals saying "I could've gotten all of it, if I had my own mech :,(". I know them well enough to know they probably actually sent a frowny-face emoji to the Generals. Don't do that. It's hilarious. But, Don't.

Probably.

For now, anyways.

The board reluctantly let Thoma break the mech out of some museum somewhere as a reward for their service. They weren't intending for Thoma to actually run as a pilot since Thoma had already gotten to be in charge of things. It would be a media mess, at best, a military loss at worst.

Thoma did a fucking backflip over live media.

Anyways the board and the Generals argued about it for a week, but eventually did the only thing they could do. They made Thoma a pilot. There were lots of assurances that Thoma would still be holding their responsibilities as Planetary Sergeant. No one cared. Thoma had done a fucking backflip; the Katersfields were at it again.

I'm told that week of debate consisted of at least fifteen other pilots trying the mech out and reporting up failures of various kinds. Don't worry about that, you'll do fine.

I'm sure you know most of the story from there. Thoma took Belet 5 through Belet 11, and some other smaller planets along the way. Majestic. War hero. Idol. Etc etc.

The board immediately pushed Thoma’s son, Madene, into the military and straight into pilot's school. They make a lot of dumb decisions, but even the board could see the pattern here.

You might not have read this about me, but I used to be an electrician. I worked on Thoma's team for a while. The Generals gave Madene special permission to visit us sometimes so he could learn the mech hands-on. He'd always wanted to be an artist or a planetary refurbisher. That was clear from the first day we met.

I'll tell you this now, it's not part of public record: Madene ran the mech just fine when it was just us around. Thoma would give some long drawn-out speech about minding your manners and being careful with her. It was their Grandmother's soul in that machine, after all. Madene didn't really listen, but the mech ran just fine anyways.

When Madene was nearing graduation, the Generals sent their scouts around to see how things were going. The mech ran straight into their drones and fell convulsing onto the ground.

It was a hard time for a while, Thoma was upset with Madene and Madene was embarrassed. There were lots of arguments, and the Generals tried to pretend Madene just didn't have enough experience as a pilot. The idea that Madene did it on purpose didn't get recorded, but it's what a lot of people assumed. I don't think that's what happened, anyways.

Madene tried really hard after that. He pushed himself in school, and as a result they let him try out a bunch of other mechs. He proved he could handle it just as well as some of our better pilots. He took Entrapment marching around the school-system planet four times.

Thoma tore their knee in a pretty brutal fight, and since they were nearing retirement anyways the board arranged for a public hand-off of the mech.

I used to talk to her when I worked. My old pilot - the one I worked electricity for before Thoma - had always been superstitious about this sort've thing. She used to spend a good half-hour reassuring it before she's let me do any work on it. I guess I'd picked up the habit. You might want to pick it up, too, if you haven't already.

I'd asked her to help Madene out. He'd worked so hard and I could tell Thoma was slowing down.

You might have seen the media of that. Afterward Madene was particularly… verbal. Even if you didn't see that, I'm sure you heard about what happened to him after. Don't be too harsh on him, it's really not his fault. We were all too hard on him.

All the media says the Generals did a lot of research and realized I was better suited as a pilot and they shifted me over. How that actually happened was… well. A little boring.

One of their scouts had caught me helping her move over so I could get a better angle at the spinal wiring.

Blah blah blah. I'm sure you know the highlights from there.

So here's where we get to the advice that was the whole point of this message:

I admit the public eye is a little difficult to get used to. Honestly I recommend you just ignore it. They'll say shit no matter what you do.

Don't call her by the name the board gave her. I know that's what you learned in school and in training. Don't do it.

Don't piss her off.

Be patient - her memory isn't what it used to be.

Don't tell her what to do. I read your file, you have a lot of experience. I know this will be the hard part.

If the mediacom switches to one of those awful family gameshows. Just. Let it happen. No, they do not get less annoying to listen to. Yes, she knows they're all the same.

The internal heating will be On when you're on any below-regulation temperature planet. I know you're from the outer colonies. I know that will be too warm for you. Get over it and try not to dress down too much; she's easier to maneuver when you're in layers.

The one exception to the above is her tune-ups and maintenance. She doesn't like it. She never does. We have four crews to make it easier and I still do it myself sometimes to help her get over it. You're going to have to get good at negotiating.

If you leave a battle with a sudden craving in your neurons for hot and hearty soup, go get some hot and hearty soup. She'll get stubborn with you next time if you don't.

Granny will take care of you from there.

-Captain Layfar

#writing #scifi #mecha

[inmyownlittlecorner5]

libera nos a malo Chapter 3: Holly Wreathes and Humbug

A fanfic Novel by la-topolina

Rated for Mature Audiences

Warnings: Language, Violence, Sexual Content

Chapter 3/20

libera nos a malo Masterpost+

Unstoppable Force/Immovable Object Masterpost+

<< Chapter Two+

Chapter Four+ >>

Miranda landed in Mr Clarke’s General Store in the little hamlet of Edgewood at one o’clock in the morning, Kansas time. She held onto the ruby slipper long after the portkey had stopped glowing, letting her stomach settle from the trip. The store hadn’t changed much in the two years since she’d last seen it, when she’d been making ready for her expedition to the United Kingdom and beyond. The wooden floors were laid in a herringbone pattern, and they gleamed from their weekly polishing. The smell of cinnamon brooms and the warmth from the radiators wrapped around her, and she smiled to see the barrels of Christmas candy amid the more practical necessities of life that were piled neatly on every surface.

“My Lord, Miranda, but it’s been a long time,” said the sturdy man behind the counter. He was dressed in faded denim and a plaid flannel shirt, unchanging as his store.

“Mr Clarke, it’s good to see you,” she replied. "Thanks for staying up to meet me, I know it’s after hours.”

“Not a problem at all, I’m happy to do it. Gave me a chance to polish the floor before the Christmas rush.”

She brought him the slipper and he headed into the back to lock it in the iron safe—one of MACUSA’s stipulations to his being allowed to have it in the first place—and she perused the shelves while she waited for Finn to arrive. Although she could easily have Apparated the few miles to Gortpúca, her parents' farm, it was tradition for her to wait to be collected in the No-Maj fashion. She fingered the bright-colored linens, and selected sugarplums and marzipan for her nieces and nephews, recalling other Christmases when she’d waited here for the sound of the old pick-up truck ready to bear her home.

“How’s business?” she asked when Mr Clarke returned from the back.

“Can’t complain,” he replied, perching on his stool and watching her fondly. “England treating you well?”

“It’s been fine.” Much as she liked the kindly shopkeep, she didn’t want to unload her problems on him tonight. She started flipping through the record bin standing between the paperback novels and the latest films on tape, feeling like she’d left her mind back in the UK. “Has Seamus already been through this box?”

“He has, but I kept one hidden for you to give him.”

“Perfect. I’ll take the candy and the record then.”

He added up her purchases and she paid him in galleons instead of greenbacks. While he was wrapping everything in crisp brown paper, a flash of yellow light reflected off the gold painted letters in the frosty window. Soon the old pick-up truck was idling outside, and a tall figure emerged from it, sending the bell jingling as he ambled indoors.

The new-comer was careful to stomp the snow off his work boots before venturing from the welcome rug, and his sharp blue eyes were shining as he shook his dark brown hair out of his face. He wore it just long enough to bother their sister-in-law, and he hadn’t troubled himself to slick it back with the hair pomade he favored tonight. He had acquiesced to the demands of the weather and put on his leather jacket; but he steadfastly refused the tyranny of a hat. He’d hacked off the jacket’s right sleeve at the elbow the winter that he’d lost the majority of that same arm in a job gone sour, and he liked to see who blanched at the jagged edge, and who pretended not to notice.

“You look a mess, Mira,” he pronounced after giving her a once-over.

“So do you, Finn,” she replied, leaving her packages on the counter in order to fling herself into his embrace.

He smelled of tobacco and hay, and her heart felt so warm that it hurt. When he let go of her, she could tell that he was blinking back tears, and he brushed past her, gathering her packages like he didn’t want her to see.

“Let’s get you home. It’s late and Mama’s not going to go to bed before she sees you.”

“Fine by me. Goodnight, Mr Clarke.”

“G’night Miranda. G’night Finn,” the shopkeeper called after them.

The air was cold and heavy, and the clouds were hanging low over the quiet downtown, reflecting the lights from the street lamps and promising snow. Miranda climbed up into the passenger seat, slinging her bag into the back and buckling in out of long habit. The inside of the truck was warm enough that she cranked down her window, lighting a cigarette and letting her arm dangle as Finn pulled out onto the empty road. The Christmas lights in the store windows and winding along the lampposts thrilled her now just as much as they had when she’d been a little girl, and she watched them flash by until they were out on the country roads, looping away from town.

“I missed you, Finn,” she said, glancing over at his lanky form lit by the glow of the dashboard.

“Yeah, I know,” he replied.

There were many words hanging between them; and they knew them all by rote. Miranda reached over and turned on the radio, letting the music fill the cab as they flew through the night.

“That old fashioned Christmas is a sweet memory, except for all the Christmas that you weren't there with me…”

*****

Gortpúca clung to the one group of hills interrupting the miles upon miles of flat Kansas farmland. She was bounded by a forest to the north and a river to the south. Her cattle pastures and horse runs were scattered over the lowlands, while the house and the outbuildings claimed the high. By the time Finn parked the truck in the carport near the brick farmhouse, the snow was falling lightly; adding to the piles already covering the frozen earth. Miranda was barely out the door when a pair of golden retrievers rushed her; jumping and barking wildly as she attempted to pet both of them at once.

“Down Failinis! Down Banshee!” she ordered, but she was laughing too hard for either beast to take her seriously. Defeated, she knelt down between them; scratching behind their ears and accepting kisses from their eager tongues.

Finn whistled sharply, and the dogs sat long enough for Miranda to regain her feet and start towards the house. After a few steps, the delighted animals came bounding behind, their nails clicking on the hardwood floors of the entryway as they came into the kitchen by the backdoor. The lights were dimmed to a soft glow, and the breakfast table was set with hot cocoa, clementines, and cheese. Walls were hung with garlands of fresh holly, there was chicken stock bubbling away on the back burner of the range, and Mama was putting the last touches on the marinade for the roast they’d eat later in the day.

“Everything looks just right, Mama,” Miranda breathed, wrapping her arms around the shorter woman and savoring the smell and the warmth of home.

“It does now,” Monica replied, hugging her daughter fiercely. “How was your trip?”

“Fine. Fast. It’s going to be a long day. As far as my body’s concerned it’s eight in the morning.”

The three of them sat down at the table together, helping themselves to plates of food and mugs of cocoa. Miranda swore she could feel the house enfolding her in its protective circle as though she’d never left.

“Please sleep whenever you need to,” Monica said.

“I will. I’m good at catnaps, remember?”

“I do. You take after your father that way. I’ve never been able to nap myself.”

Miranda patiently worked at the peel of a clementine, trying to bring it off in one spiraling strip. “Is Papa working tonight?”

“He is. But he shouldn’t have to do much for the rest of the time you’re here. Patrick’s with him, too.”

“That’s good. Which Mass are we going to?”

“The late one. And then Patrick and the girls will come over for the afternoon. And everyone will be here on Christmas Day.”

“That sounds perfect.”

Monica stifled a yawn and ruffled Miranda’s hair. “I’m going to head to bed now that you’re here. Do you need anything before I do?”

“No, I’m good. See you in the morning.”

She kissed both of her children goodnight and the stairs creaked softly as she went up to bed. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed the hour, and Finn and Miranda sat quietly together, soaking up each other’s presence.

“You should get some sleep too, Finn,” Miranda said at last.

“I will when I want to,” he replied. “Besides, I hear you’ve got a lot to tell me.”

“I guess I do. What do you want me to start with? The vampires or the wizards?”

“The wizards. Mama’s been going on and on about some professor you’ve been seeing on the sly. Says he’s saved your sorry hide more than once.”

Miranda’s heart sank. “Oh, him.”

“Yeah, him.” Finn took a drink from his mug, and his shrewd eyes glinted at her over the rim. “Why didn’t he come with you?”

Leave it to Finn to go for the jugular. “He’s busy.”

“So busy he can’t be bothered to meet your people for a day or two?”

She shifted in her chair and kept her hands occupied peeling another clementine. “I didn’t really ask him to come. I didn’t think he needed to be subjected to a family Christmas at this point in the proceedings.”

Finn let her excuses hang in the air until they sounded like the paper tigers that they were.

“What’s he like?”

Her cheeks were starting to get hot. “He’s an ass.”

“Figures. What’s his name again?”

“Severus Snape.”

He snorted. “Wizards have some ridiculous names.”

“I like it. It suits him.” She wished she didn’t sound so defensive, and she let out her breath in relief when Finn took mercy on her and turned the topic.

“How long are you staying?”

“I have to go back early on St Stephen’s Day. I’ve got an appointment at St. Mungo’s and a job later that night.”

“You never stop, do you?”

“Nope. It’s the Rose way.”

He plucked a clementine off the platter, working it until the peel snaked off in a neater spiral with his one hand than Miranda could manage with two; and he flipped half of the segments to Miranda with a flick of his thumb. She caught them easily, and reflected that clementines always tasted better this way.

“I was thinking I’d come back with you,” he said, his casual expression daring her to contradict him.

“You were?” She raised her eyebrows; this brother wasn’t one to travel.

“Yeah. I’ve never been to England. And if you’re thinking of setting up shop there, it’s probably worth a look.”

Her defenses snapped back into place. “I wouldn’t say I’m setting up shop.”

“No? You been there almost two years,” he said pointedly. What would you call it?”

“I’d call it a good business decision. There’s a lot of work there.”

“And Severus Snape.” Finn adopted a foppish posture as he lisped through the name. Miranda kicked him under the table for his trouble.

“Fine. Come if you’re coming. It’ll be fun.”

“Glad you agree, cause you didn’t have a choice.”

“Whatever. But you aren’t tagging along on any of the jobs. Things are hot over there right now.”

“Why am I not surprised?” He stretched like a cat and rolled out of his chair, kissing her on the top of her head with a gentleness that was at odds with his sharp exterior. “I’m gonna hit the hay. See you when the sun’s up.”

“Night Finn. Sleep well.”

She lingered in the kitchen for a long time, petting the dogs and resting in the quiet. The clock struck the next hour before she got up to do the dishes. Too restless for sleep, she wandered into the parlor, admiring the naked fir tree that awaited the frenzy of decorating that the next days would bring. The fire was nearly burnt out, but she coaxed it back to life with another log and a quick charm before curling up in her father’s favorite chair. Banshee laid down at her feet and promptly went to sleep, and Miranda stared into the fire, putting her decisions on trial in a way that she rarely bothered to do.

She knew that, if she had asked him earlier, or if she’d pressed the matter, Severus would have come with her. Much as he liked to snipe at her, she had a sneaking suspicion that he would do almost anything to please her, and that knowledge chilled her to the bone. She hadn’t asked for his heart—and she was trying not to break it—but she knew the prognosis was grim at best.

She could bluff with a pair of deuces as well as any Rose—but when you’re up against a Royal Flush, you’ve got to know when to fold.

*****

Narcissa Malfoy’s ability to maintain a stiff upper lip never ceased to amaze Severus. She was the embodiment of the unruffled hostess tonight, blond hair tidy, dress robes pressed, an expression of gracious solicitude for her guests' comfort on her face. When he saw her this way, it was sometimes hard to remember that day when she’d thrown  herself at his feet in anguish for her son.

That same son was sitting at the foot of the table, sullenly refusing to contribute anything to the conversation beyond a sneer or a monosyllable. The fish was superb though, and Narcissa had apparently troubled herself to read the latest issue of The Potions Journal. She was feigning an interest in the retrospective on Nadia Angouleme so well that Severus almost believed her sincere.

“Of course, Nadia took umbrage with the Journal for implying that she was living in complete retirement,” he concluded.

“I quite understand,” Narcissa replied. “I would certainly have wished for the Journal to refrain from painting me as being firmly in my dotage if I were in her place.”

Bellatrix scoffed loudly. “Really, Cissy, don’t you think the four of us should be discussing something more important than magazine articles?”

“I would never presume to dictate the dinner conversation; however I had thought that we all might desire this evening to be filled with recreation rather than business. Draco only returned home from school on Saturday, after all, and the Holidays are short this year.”

Before Bellatrix could offer an opinion on the state of the Holidays, Severus stole the conversation away from her.

“However short they may be, a reprieve from the students is always welcome,” he said wryly. “Although Horace has seized the opportunity to conscript me into inventorying the potions supplies.”

“One would think you have enough to do teaching the DADA classes,” Narcissa observed sympathetically.

“I would agree with you, however Horace had other plans.” Severus paused long enough for the house elves to scurry through the room, changing the fish course for the Beef Wellington before he continued. “Horace was concerned that someone was pinching hemlock from the store cabinet, but he did not wish to make any accusations without being reasonably sure of the offense.”

He let his eyes fall on Draco, and the boy shifted uncomfortably in his chair. If Narcissa understood the implications of the moment - and he did not think her so dense that she would fail to grasp them - she did not show it.

“How disturbing,” she said. “What did you conclude?”

“There was a mistake in the ledger, nothing more,” he replied. “I will say that I am pleased to have the privilege of confining my potions work to my own office and my private stores at last.”

“It must be a relief for you to experiment without being bothered by the students, sir,” Draco said, breaking his silence with a pointed barb.

Severus raised an eyebrow at the boy. “Indeed it is. And I, unlike Horace, am sure to protect my store cabinet with the Slytherin password.”

It was heavy-handed, and Severus covered his grimace at his own bluntness by indulging in the excellent dinner. But he did catch the glimmer of a smirk that crossed Draco’s face, and he doubted that he would have to concern himself further with covering the boy’s tracks, at least as far as Horace Slughorn was concerned. Merlin, he hated it when Miranda was right. It made her insufferable.

Bellatrix would be denied no longer, and she launched into a diatribe against the current Ministry and Wizard culture at large. She was as dull as she was passionate, and Severus allowed his mind to drift from the conversation to Miranda in the bosom of her family. As he imagined the bustle his lover was no doubt surrounded by, he was once again surprised by the strength of his urge to join her there. Had he gone, he would surely be suffering from a migraine by now; but even that would be preferable to this evening’s strained play-acting. It was not so much that he disliked Narcissa’s company; he simply wanted to be wherever Miranda was with a desire that shamed him with its strength.

When the crêpes Suzette had taken the place of the empty dinner plates, Severus pulled his mind back to the room and attempted to divine a subject that would derail Bellatrix’s harping. He was debating the idea of inquiring after her husband, when one of the cut-glass doors to the dining room flew open with a violence that caused it to crash into the wall behind it. The four of them shot to their feet immediately, and Severus’s wand was in his hand before he registered the Dark Lord, gliding over the marble floor like Death come to collect his due. Nagini slithered in after him, her scales rippling and twisting to hypnotic effect. Severus, Draco, and Bellatrix immediately fell to their knees where they stood, bowing their heads, and allowing Narcissa, as acting head of house, to speak first.

“My Lord,” Narcissa said, dipping into a deep curtsy before him, “you honor my house with your presence.”

“Do I?” Voldemort’s high voice dripped with irony, and Severus could not stop himself from tensing in response.

Narcissa did not waver in voice or body. “Would you care to eat? It would be the work of a moment to bring dinner for you.”

Without releasing any of them from their obeisance, the Dark Lord circled the group, letting the hem of his robes brush against them as he passed. Nagini lagged behind, swaying drunkenly from side to side, her black tongue testing the air. Suddenly she darted under the table, snatching the blue-furred Russian cat hiding underneath, and swallowing her whole. Severus heard Narcissa cough softly, and he remembered how Lucius had gone on and on for months about that feline and how he was going to surprise his wife with it for her birthday.

“How good of you to offer, Narcissa. Nagini, as you can see, is happy to take you at your word,” Voldemort commented, completing his circuit to stand before Lucius’s disgraced wife. He put the tip of his wand under her chin, guiding her to stand. “I think I will join you, after all.”

“Thank you,” she replied.

He kept his wand beneath her chin for another moment, and then withdrew, allowing her to see to the mundane business of conjuring another chair, and summoning a house elf for a repeat of dinner. When all was ready, they gathered again at the table; with Voldemort accepting Narcissa’s place at the head of it, and Draco sequestering himself between his mother and aunt, that Narcissa might take his place at the foot. Voldemort ate with surprising gusto and paltry manners while Bellatrix gazed at him adoringly, and the other three kept their expressions as neutral as possible. Even Draco, new to this game of hiding his thoughts, presented as blank a mask as could be expected of one so young, and with so much to lose.

“What a comfortable party this is,” Voldemort said, picking his teeth with his dinner knife. “To think I might have missed it.”

Narcissa could not ignore this prompt. “I beg your pardon, my Lord. I had not thought…”

“I realize that you did not think, dear Narcissa. Such a gathering of my faithful friends—how could I wish to miss it?” His red eyes flickered in the candlelight. “Or, perhaps you intended to discuss matters without my knowledge.”

“We would never do such a thing, my Lord,” Bellatrix insisted fiercely.

“No? That remains to be seen.”

Voldemort held Narcissa’s gaze for a painfully long time, and she gasped softly, sinking back in her chair when he turned his eyes to Draco. The boy put on a brave face, but soon he was trembling and clinging to the edge of the table.

“Tut, tut, my child,” Voldemort chided. “Aunty Bella said you were her best student. How disappointing. But what is this—you’re angry—with Severus. What has he done? Don’t bother hiding; that meager defense will not shield you, and it will hurt more if you resist.”

“Let him in, Draco,” Bellatrix ordered. “I didn’t teach you Occlumency so that you could hide things from him.”

The boy put his chin up, and Severus could see him bracing himself for another assault, but the Dark Lord broke eye contact, leaving Draco to collapse like a marionette with its strings cut.

“I do not wish it to be said that I never consider the needs of my followers,” Voldemort said solicitously, but Severus knew better than to trust the sudden change of demeanor. “Of course you would want the company of the Potions Master to while away your lonely hours when your loving husbands are languishing in prison.”

Bellatrix made a sound of disgust, and Narcissa kept her eyes on her hands in her lap. Severus was hard at work shuffling his mind into an order fit for the Dark Lord to see, but he was having difficulty bringing it under control. Voldemort’s eyes drifted over to his, and he tensed for the invasion. Miranda was being especially stubborn tonight; flashes of her scent and her smile kept breaking across the fore of his mind like lighting across a summer sky. But the time he spent cloaking them in memories of Lily left him vulnerable to Albus’s secrets springing up like mushrooms after a storm. Given a choice between the two, he would have to leave Miranda to fend for herself and focus on keeping his allegiance to the Dark Lord crystal clear. Perhaps he would not care to waste time upon the women of Severus’s fantasy world. Perhaps he would not notice how desperately Severus wished he were ensconced in a Muggle farm half a world away.

“Leave us Severus. I have nothing to say to you tonight,” Voldemort said at last, dismissing the professor like an unwanted servant without bothering to enter the younger man’s mind at all.

“As you wish, my Lord,” Severus replied, rising from his chair and bowing low to the ground before taking his leave of the company, his hands shaking as his relief crashed through him.

Voldemort started talking again as though Severus were no longer present. “Narcissa, I trust that you will be pleased to know that I have decided to make Malfoy Manor my new residence.”

“We are honored beyond our deserving, my Lord,” Narcissa replied.

“And now, Draco, I think it is time we discuss your lack of progress, and how we might encourage you to do better.”

Even Narcissa’s practiced calm could not withstand the Crucio the Dark Lord cast upon her next. Her screams followed Severus out of the Manor, and he kept his pace unhurried, that they might lacerate his spirit. There was nothing he could do to help her now; interfering would only inspire the Dark Lord to dole out the punishment with a heavier hand.

But he cursed himself for a coward all the same.

*****

By afternoon on Christmas Eve, Rachel had given up trying to put Maggie down for her nap. The busy seven-month-old was far too excited, somehow sensing that it was not a day for trivial things like schedules. She was sitting on the shag rug in the living room, playing with a brightly painted peg doll Nativity set while Rachel hurried to put the last ornaments on the tree; guiding them into place with careful wand flicks. The Nativity set had been meant to be a present for Christmas Day, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

The arms of the tree were too full to hold anything more, and Rachel stepped back to admire her handiwork. Maggie was still engrossed in her project, and Rachel was weighing out the likelihood that the new toy would occupy her little one long enough for her to make some afternoon tea, when a knock at the front door interrupted her musings. She scooped up Maggie, who protested briefly, clinging to the gray donkey and the shepherd girl in in the pink pinafore as they made for the door.

“Narcissa! It’s been so long. How are you?” Rachel said, balancing Maggie on her hip while she opened the door.

The pale witch gave her a polite smile, but her eyes seemed miles away as she drifted into the kitchen, murmuring, “I’m sorry to disturb you. Is it nap time? I should have sent an owl before I came.”

“You’re not disturbing me at all,” Rachel insisted. “Maggie’s refusing a nap today, so as long as you don’t mind if she starts to fuss, we’d love to have some company.”

Narcissa absently stroked one of Maggie’s plump arms and the child dropped the shepherdess doll in order to catch hold of an elegant finger. “She’s grown so much since I saw her in May.”

“Would you mind holding her while I make tea?” Rachel asked, studying the other witch’s pinched forehead.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Narcissa replied, taking the child eagerly. Maggie started to babble and soon exchanged Narcissa’s finger for a lock of her shining blond hair.

Rachel sent the the shepherdess back into the living room with a flick of her wand, and set the water boiling for tea with a second flick. A quick rummage in the icebox produced a collection of sushi, and there was an extra tin of ginger snaps that she thought she could sacrifice to the afternoon. Narcissa was fully absorbed in a game of peek-a-boo with Maggie, and it wasn’t until the tea things were placed in the living room, and Maggie set up in her high chair with some biscuits to gum, that Rachel was able to converse properly with her unexpected guest.

“I’m so glad you came by today,” Rachel said when she and Narcissa were settled on the sofa. “I’ve missed our teas.”

“So have I,” Narcissa replied. “I didn’t want to be bothersome. I remember being so tired when Draco was a baby.”

“I am tired, but it’s getting better.”

“I’m happy to hear that.”

Silence fell, and Rachel was debating the best way to bring up the topic that must be pressing heavily on Narcissa’s heart. She didn’t want to pry, but she didn’t want to seem indifferent either.

“Is Draco home for the Holidays?”

“He is. He’s at his friend Vincent’s for the day, so I thought I’d finish some shopping in Diagon Alley.”

“It must have been so crowded.”

“It was. I’m happy to have some quiet here.”

Maggie dropped one of her biscuits and started wailing loudly, and Rachel’s cheeks pinked as she hurried to send it back to the tray with a wave of her wand. This did not please the little one, who refused to be consoled until she was released from the prison of her highchair to nurse at her mother’s breast.

“What was that you were saying about quiet?” Rachel asked, embarrassed.

“She’s perfect,” Narcissa reassured her. “Every day felt endless when Draco was Maggie’s age. He started crawling and walking so early, and he wanted to explore everything. I spent most of my days trying to keep him from hurting himself, and I would be so exhausted at the end of them. Then I blinked, and suddenly he was nearly grown and thinking he doesn’t need protecting any longer.”

“Maybe he does think he needs protecting, and he’s afraid to show it,” Rachel said carefully. When she saw how bright Narcissa’s eyes became, she decided to take the plunge. “I’m so sorry about Lucius.”

“Are you?”

“Of course! It must be terrible for you and Draco to have him in Azkaban. I wouldn’t wish that place on my worst enemy, let alone my friend’s husband.”

Maggie had fallen asleep at the breast, and Rachel gently unlatched the child and adjusted her clothing. Narcissa was watching her with a closed, calculating expression, and Rachel wondered if the English witch were in more trouble than she was letting on.

“Thank you for that. I have been somewhat wanting for friends of late.”

“Then please don’t forget to count the Lees among their number. If you need anything, you only have to ask.”

“That means more to me than you realize.”

They sat together for a few moments in a silence that was heavy with questions that Rachel was too circumspect to ask. It seemed that Narcissa was weighing out the risks of saying more, but she set down her teacup and saucer on the coffee table without venturing any further into what might have been an enlightening conversation.

“I should be going,” she said. “Thank you for the tea.”

“Anytime, and I mean it,” Rachel replied. She carefully laid Maggie on the sofa and cast a Shield Charm to keep her from rolling onto the floor while she slept. “Let me see you to the door.”

They passed through the kitchen in silence, and Narcissa hovered on the threshold, seeming uncertain.

“Would you and Draco like to come over for dinner on Christmas Day? We’d love to have you,” Rachel offered.

“Thank you, no. I’m afraid we are otherwise engaged,” Narcissa replied distractedly.

“I understand. I hope you’ll come back for tea sooner next time.”

“I’m afraid I can’t make any promises about that.”

There was something ominous to that answer, and Rachel put a hand on Narcissa’s shoulder, wishing there were more she could do.

“Narcissa,” she asked carefully, “are you safe? Because I meant what I said. If you ever needed help, Aaron and I would do everything in our power to give it to you.”

Narcissa’s eyes widened and her lips parted, and Rachel held her breath as she waited for the other woman’s answer.

“I appreciate your concern. Please be assured that Draco and I are quite safe,” she replied calmly. "Good afternoon, Rachel.”

“Good afternoon, Narcissa.”

Rachel had a difficult time tidying the flat from the last-minute decorating and the impromptu tea after her guest had departed. Her mind was working furiously, turning over their conversation, searching it for clues. She had a strong suspicion that Narcissa was lying, or at least not telling her the whole truth. After the third time she’d washed the same teacup, she abandoned the sink to curl up on the sofa next to her sleeping baby. The worries of a new mother suddenly seemed trivial when compared to the worries that the mother of a grown child faced. Now it was easy to keep her daughter safe; but one day she would be grown, and Rachel would not be able to protect her from harm with a kiss and a Shield Charm.

It was a humbling thought, to say the least.

*****

“Nowell, Nowell, Nowell, Nowell sing we loud! God today hath poor folks raised and cast a-down the proud!”

The spacious parlor in the farmhouse at Gortpúca was ablaze with life late in the evening on Christmas Day. The space was decked with holly and evergreen, and candles burned in the window, lighting travelers home. The fresh-cut fir tree presided over the whole, bearing all of the ornaments that Monica had collected through the years. It was a charming mishmash of boughten trinkets, blown glass, multicolored lights, and handmade treasures that ran the gamut from the whimsical efforts from childhood, to the smoothly executed carvings of Conor and Seamus.

The turkey had been eaten, the plum pudding flamed, the presents all opened and admired. A merry tumult of song, lead by Conor with his trusty fiddle and Seamus with his custom-made guitar, reigned over the din of conversation and laughter. Finn was in an armchair, cradling Anna and Patrick’s youngest girl, who was somehow managing to sleep through the chaos, and the dogs were panting at his feet, worn out from the madness. Miranda and Anna, her favorite sister-in-law, were dancing with the children, spinning round and round like tops over the kilim rug. There was a collision at the end of the carol, and Miranda went down under a pile of her older nieces and nephews, sending the company into shrieks of laughter.

“Levicorpus!” she shouted gamely, lifting Chiara, the second eldest of Anna and Patrick’s brood, up by her ankle and dropping her on the sofa with the counter spell.

This only increased the riot, with children crying out for their turns and Anna spotting them as they rolled off the sofa and out of the way for another go. Miranda could feel her shoulder start to pinch as she fought to keep up with the demands of her kinfolk, but Severus wasn’t there to chastise her, so she forced her magic a little and let the laughter wash over her in a warm, silvery wave.

“Who wants cookies?” called Monica, braving the storm with an enormous tray.

“Me!” was the unanimous response, and the children dashed towards the coffee table, descending on the cookies like a swarm of locusts.

“I’m sorry that Patrick had to run off,” said Anna as she helped her daughter Veronica manage the mug of cocoa and the peanut blossom cookie the child was clutching. Veronica was a beautiful girl of five, with her mother’s dark eyes and hair.

“I know how it goes. Work doesn’t stop just because it’s Christmas,” Miranda replied, taking little John on her knee, and holding his mug for him while he gnawed on a jam-filled pastry that was so big it required two of his tiny hands to hold. “Did he say when he’d be back?”

“He’s going to try to be home by midnight. That’ll give you a little time before you have to go back to England.”

Miranda let her eyes drift around the room, drinking in the sight of the family she’d missed. “I wish I could stay longer. But the Healers at St. Mungo’s are drill sergeants.”

“Good. You need a firm hand.”

“Don’t all the Roses need a firm hand?”

“Patrick certainly does!”

“Thank you for the chess set Aunt Miranda,” said Brendan, the second oldest of Seamus and Susan’s progeny. Tall for a nine-year-old, and studious, he had been one of the most excited to see his aunt come home at last.

“You’re welcome. I’m glad you liked it,” Miranda replied.

“Do you think we could play before you go back?”

“Of course! Why don’t we set it up in the kitchen, it’ll be easier to think in there.”

“Great! I’ll go get my set.”

He trotted off to his father’s old bedroom, where the coats and sundries were being stored, to gather his present, and Miranda waded through the mass of children with John on her hip and Chiara trailing behind. Soon John was perched on a chair before a fresh plate of cookies with Chiara close at hand to prevent his curious fingers from upsetting his older brother’s game, and Brendan was setting up the polished wood figures that Miranda had labored over during her convalescence. Susan, a woman so beautiful it hurt your teeth to look at her, was at the sink, avoiding the madhouse in the next room by burying herself in the dirty dishes.

“You’re going back tonight?” she asked without looking up from her work.

“I am. I’m sorry I’ll miss your dinner tomorrow,” Miranda replied.

Susan shrugged. “I’m impressed you managed to tear yourself away even for this long. I was starting to wonder if you were ever coming back at all.”

Chiara made a face at her aunt’s sharp words, and Brendan’s freckled cheeks pinked at their tone.

“I’ll always come back, no need to worry about that,” Miranda said evenly. “You can leave the dishes too, if you like. I’d be happy to finish them off when the party’s wound down a little more.”

“I don’t mind doing them. We get along fine all by our No-Maj selves, you know.”

“I do know.” She turned her full attention to the children at her elbows, and left Susan to stew alone. “Alright Brendan, your move.”

*****

As the clock drew near to midnight, the children were finally tucked into their sleeping bags in the upstairs parlor for a Christmas sleepover, and Susan had gone home to prepare for the next day’s festivities. Anna, Monica, and Conor had said their goodbyes to Miranda and headed to bed as well; and Miranda was sitting with Seamus and Finn before a dying fire, waiting for Patrick’s return. Seamus’s fingers drifted over the strings of his guitar, strumming idly while the three of them watched the embers glow. None of them spoke; and none of them needed to.

When they heard the sound of a truck pulling up next to the house, the siblings gathered their boots and outerwear, meeting Patrick, the eldest of their number, as he came into the kitchen. The spitting image of their father, he stamped snow from his boots, but didn’t venture beyond the welcome mat in the doorway.

“How cold is it?” asked Miranda, coming to meet him.

“Not too bad,” Patrick replied, chucking her chin lightly with his fist. “The wind’s let up, and you can see every star in the sky tonight.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Come on, you lazy bums, gimmie a hand with these,” said Seamus as he attempted to balance mugs, a whiskey bottle, and a tin of cookies.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Finn replied, swooping in to snatch the whiskey bottle while Miranda took the mismatched mugs.

“What time do you have to be at Clarke’s?” Patrick asked as they headed out into the starlit night.

“Not ’til three. I hate getting him up, though. MACUSA is so obnoxious about scheduling,” Miranda replied.

“You know he don’t mind.”

“How was our little friend tonight?” Seamus asked.

“Same,” Patrick shrugged. “I think we can wait until the morning. Let the fella have one more Christmas at home before we haul him in.”

The waning moon soared through the sky, flanked by her celestial cohort, and the snow crunched under their feet as they tromped over the length of Gortpúca. The other inhabitants were all abed, animal and human alike; although they could hear the lonely yipping of a coyote in the distance from time to time. The cemetery was bright when they reached it, nestled in a grove of naked apple trees. The gravestones huddled together in meandering rows, and each one was decorated with snow-dusted holly. They stepped lightly over the path that their parents had tread earlier that day, until they reached a bench facing the lone marker in an open patch of snow. Here Miranda drew her wand, conjuring blankets and casting warming charms as she and her brothers settled down on the bench and wrapped up tight. She charmed the cookie tin to hover before them, in arms reach of everyone, and Finn poured measures of whiskey into the mugs as she passed them around.

“In the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan. Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone.”

Seamus intoned their fallen brother Columba’s favorite carol, and the others joined him by the end of the verse. They had spent far too many Christmases without Columba, and this graveyard visit was but a shadow of the joy they had experienced when their family had been whole. But in this vale of tears, sometimes a shadow is the best you can do.

A heavy silence fell for a time after the carol was over, and the whiskey burned through the tightness in Miranda’s throat. Her eyes were fixed on the Celtic cross and the Fiat Voluntas Tua carved into Columba’s headstone; for she knew that if she looked at her earthly brothers, she would find their eyes wet with tears.

“I think Brendan might be like you,” Seamus said ruefully, as though hesitating to disturb the quiet.

“Really? What has he done?” Miranda replied, unsurprised.

“Little things. His lost books and toys always seem to show up in a place you know you’ve already looked for them. And last week Susan got rid of this ratty t-shirt he loved to wear. I saw her put it in the trash right before the garbage truck came to take it away. Come Monday, Brendan pulled it out of his drawer, like it’d never been gone.”

“That’s auspicious. Susan won’t be happy about it though.”

“You leave Susan to me. She’ll be fine once she gets used to the idea.”

If anyone could handle Susan, it was Seamus. “I’m sure she will. What do you think about it?”

Seamus shrugged. “It’ll be an adventure, that’s for sure.”

Miranda finished her whiskey and balanced the mug on her thigh while she pulled her cigarette case out of her pocket. Finn immediately snatched it out of her hand, his eyes glinting deviously.

“Hey, I was going to share. No need to be grabby,” she grumbled good-naturedly.

“Never mind that, what have we here?” Finn mocked.

The sphinx mosaic was rearranging itself into a coded message, and Miranda groaned inwardly, even as her cheeks grew hot.

“Give that back!” She made a grab at the case, but Finn easily held it out of her reach, craning his neck to make out the message.

“What is it?” Seamus asked eagerly, while Patrick looked on, obviously entertained by the shenanigans.

“Don’t look now, boys, it’s from Severus Snape.” Finn lisped the professor’s name in a high-pitched sing-song, drawing snorts of amusement from his brothers.

“Oooo,” Seamus said, “What does he say? Does he miss is widdle wove bird?”

“Ahem.” Finn cleared his throat dramatically, and Miranda crossed her arms, indignant but resigned. “Miranda, Miranda, wherefore art thou, Miranda?”

“It does not say that!” Miranda snapped, lunging for the case again.

Finn swung over the back of the bench, dancing out of her reach, but Patrick intercepted him and plucked the case out of his brother’s hand.

“Give it back, Patrick,” Miranda demanded, but Patrick ignored her, studying the message.

“He wants to know what time you want him to come over, and to wish you Happy Christmas. And he misses you. And damn, but he writes like he’s got a stick up his ass,” Patrick reported.

“Just because he has a decent vocabulary and doesn’t have to cuss every other word doesn’t mean he has a stick up his ass,” Miranda countered defensively.

Patrick flipped open the case, distributing cigarettes which Seamus lit with a rose-embossed Zippo lighter. He surrendered the case when he came to Miranda, and she confirmed the message before quickly returning her property to the safety of her pocket.

“Aren’t you gonna answer him, Sis?” teased Seamus.

“He can wait a few minutes,” she replied, her face still hot.

“Cold.”

“Can’t wait to meet him,” Finn said devilishly.

“You’re going to hate him,” she observed tartly.

“Yep, reckon I will.”

“Look, it’s not serious.”

“Whatever you say, Sis,” Seamus said, ending the debate. “Finn, while you’re over there, there’s a record I need you to pick up for me.”

The conversation mercifully abandoned the topic of Miranda’s thorny love-life in favor of the much more important one of music. From there it was a short skip to discussing the children, and from there the only place left to go was business. By the end of their second round of cigarettes, the cookie tin was empty and the warming charms were beginning to fade.

Miranda vanished the blankets and Seamus refilled the mugs. The four of them gathered close around Columba’s headstone, and Patrick led the toast.

“Merry met, and merry part, I drink thee with all my heart,” he said.

“Sláinte,” his siblings replied, clinking their mugs and sipping deeply, before pouring out a libation over their sleeping brother’s grave.

Without her having to ask, Seamus emptied the whiskey bottle into Miranda’s waiting mug. She cradled it close to her heart as she broke away from her brothers, padding over the snow to a pair of matched headstones in the row beyond. These two were also decorated with holly and evergreen, and she crouched down before them.

David Nathaniel Clearwater b. April 25, 1965 d. May 1, 1985 More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world

Isaac David August 21, 1985 His eye is on the sparrow

She pulled a little wooden bird from her pocket, the last of the toys that she’d whittled during those dark November days, and placed it carefully on the raised edge of Isaac’s marker. As she murmured a sticking charm to prevent it from falling over, or being snatched away by a curious creature, her heart turned to lead in her breast.

“I miss you,” she said to David’s stone, unable to bear the sight of their son’s name heartlessly inscribed in granite for the weather to beat into dust.

The snow melted in spirals as she poured out a libation for her dead. Her limbs were stiff when she pushed herself up from the ground, and the snow stung her hands where she’d touched it. Finn was at her shoulder, wrapping his arm around her and bringing her back to the here and now.

“It’s time, Mira,” he said gently.

Her throat was so tight that it hurt to talk. “Let’s go then.”

The temperature had dropped as they made their way back over the empty fields. Miranda’s cheeks grew raw, and her breath floated before her in white puffs. She didn’t bother to look back, knowing that she would find neither David’s nor Isaac’s spirits waiting to comfort her.

They had crossed over long ago, and taken her heart thither, with them.

*****

End Notes:

Gortpúca: Pooka field. Pookas are spirits from Irish folklore that bring luck, both good and bad.

The song quoted playing on the radio is “Christmas With You” by Johnny Cash.

St Stephen’s Day is December 26th.

The carol that the Roses are singing in the parlor is “Masters in this Hall” by William Morris.

The carol that Miranda and her brothers sing in the graveyard is “In the Bleak Midwinter” by Christina Rossetti.

Fiat Voluntas Tua: Thy will be done (from the Our Father prayer)

The toasts are both traditional Irish ones. Sláinte literally means health or safe.

The epitaph on David’s grave is from the poem “Dirge without Music” by Edna St Vincent Millay:

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground. So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind: Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely.  Crowned With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned. Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you. Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust. A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew, A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost. The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,— They are gone.  They are gone to feed the roses.  Elegant and curled Is the blossom.  Fragrant is the blossom.  I know.  But I do not approve. More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world. Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind; Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave. I know.  But I do not approve.  And I am not resigned.

The epitaph on Isaac’s grave is from the hymn of the same name; the full line runs:

His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.

*****

libera nos a malo Masterpost+

Unstoppable Force/Immovable Object Masterpost+

<< Chapter Two+

Chapter Four+ >>

#ocappreciation #harry potter #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanfiction #snape #pro snape #snape x oc #snape fanfic #snape fanfiction #severus snape fanfic #severus snape fanfiction #romance #adventure #espionage #ilvermorny #second wizarding war #christmas

[sweetheartjeongguk]

rosy cheeks

pairing: namjoon x reader

genre: fluff, a sliver of angst, parents au 

rating: pg-13 (cursing)

warning(s): mentions of sex, language, namjoon gets his feelings hurt a little bit

word count: 2.4k+

summary: a tale in which two newly-wed 24 year olds tackle parenthood. 

a/n: i just wanted to post a cute little story for namjoon’s birthday! hope you enjoy, sorry if it’s a little short! 

masterlist

If you told your 13-year-old self that you were going to marry your middle school sweetheart and get knocked up less than 2 months after the wedding, you’d probably run out screaming about some crazy lady spewing nonsense about the nerdy kid that sits at the “nerd” table during lunch and stole your cheeseburger.

Truth be told, the 13-year-old you was an asshole so maybe it would have served you right to smack you headfirst with a major glimpse of your future.

But there’s no doubt in your mind that you wouldn’t have believed that you wouldn’t have married Namjoon. After all, he was your first love and after declaring his love for you (of course, after your little cheeseburger debacle) through numerous hand-written letters and personal songs sung just for you, you know that he’ll be your last.

That’s why you approach the pregnancy situation with a light yet fluttery heart. The night the two of you had sex – you knew that you didn’t have a condom with you. Since you two of you are already married, it kind of seems like a no-brainer. Namjoon used to be a major stickler for condoms (even though you had to work a little bit harder since latex isn’t Little Namjoon’s most favorite thing in the world), but he seemed to forget all about that after you finally got hitched.

One night when you come home from work just before your husband, you decide to put together a cute little box filled with little candies and chocolates that you know Namjoon adores before adding the picture of the ultrasound underneath the mass of confectionery. Namjoon stares at you warily when you hand him the box, knowing full-well that his birthday wasn’t for a couple weeks and you (despite trying your best to act nonchalant) buy his gift the day of.

“You’re kind of scaring me, babe,” Namjoon says jokily, but there’s a hint of hesitation in his tone. “don’t tell me they’re divorce papers. I told you I’d fix the toilet when I get to it.”

“Babe, no, that’s not it.” You laugh but stop abruptly at the last bit of information. “Also, I’m holding you against that last part. This is why you don’t invite your drunk friends over because all they do is break things and forget to flush their shit down the toilet.”

“Alright, alright…” Namjoon waves a passive hand before going to open the box.

You bite your lip in anticipation as he rips open the cardboard and stares into the space filled with sugary goodness. His eyes light up in happiness at the little Ryan-themed candies and the rich chocolate he came to love when the two of you went abroad to Europe and spent the whole day eating authentic chocolate at a fancy ass store that practically ate up your savings.

“Honey, this is great! Thank you so much.” He leans over to kiss you sweetly. “My tummy and I will cherish them.”

“You’re missing something!” You point at the bottom. “It’s the most important thing in there!”

“What?” Namjoon chuckles in confusion. He digs around until he feels an edge of what feels like a photograph brush against his knuckles.

Your palms sweat as Namjoon pulls the photo out and puts it up to his face. There is a long period of silence where you can’t tell his expression – mainly because the man shoved the entire picture in his face. It isn’t until you see his shoulders shaking and little droplets drip from his jaw that you know.

“Aw, Joon…”  You pull Namjoon’s arm down to take in his tear-soaked face.

“Babe, we’re gonna be parents?” He chokes out, eyes trailing down towards your seemingly unnoticeable baby bump.

“Yes, honey…” You chuckle wetly. “We’re going to be parents.”

The next thing you know, you’re being body-slammed by Namjoon’s large frame, practically drowning in his tight embrace. His crying calms down for the most part, but you can feel his body twitch from the residual hiccups. You smile to yourself – in that moment, you know that you found the right one for you.

“Oh no…”

You tilt your head up from Namjoon’s chest to stare up at his worried expression.

“How are we going to pay for a child?”

Both of your eyes widen in realization.

Well, shit.

At most, your combined salaries make up a decent amount – not something that immediately pay for a trip to the Bahamas twice a year, but enough to get by each day.

Children are a different story. No matter how money you have, you’re still going to spend a fortune on that little bundle of so-called joy – more like soul-crushing, money-smuggling tiny adults.

Diapers run out in a blink of an eye. Formula costs an arm and a leg, especially if you want that good stuff that basically claims to make your baby into Einstein by the time he’s up and walking. Doctor appointments and babysitters are going to be a pain in your ass. You could always ask your parents for some help whenever the two of you are stuck at work, but you don’t want to become one of those parents that never see their kid.

All of the stress of parenthood suddenly comes crashing down, and you can’t help but fall with it.

Your mini breakdown happens four months in your pregnancy. The two of you are painting your child’s bathroom a pretty purple color, and you get a few strokes in until your thoughts eventually catch up with you.

“I can’t be a mother.” You cry, throwing your paintbrush down. “I’m going to fail miserably, and our child is going to hate me. You’re obviously going to be Father of the Year while I’m stuck here looking like a bloated clown.”

Namjoon looks up from his own painting at the sight of you babbling on and on about your incompetence, black tears falling down your cheeks. You look a little funny, but Namjoon knows better than to mess with a pregnant lady with makeup smeared on her face.

One wrong look, and it’s sleeping on the couch for two weeks. Namjoon didn’t want to endure that (again).

“Baby, look at me.” Namjoon puts down his brush to cup your face in his hands. His warmth heals the tiny worry in the center of your chest – but just barely. “You’re going to fail.”

“Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence, Kim.” You grumble heatedly. “Guess whose bed you’re not sleeping in tonight?”

“What I meant to say is…” Namjoon cuts your words off before you can ramble again, “you’re going to fail from time to time. That’s normal for parents to screw up – you’re not going to be perfect, and you shouldn’t make our child think that.”

“But…I just want to be good.”

Namjoon smiles weakly. “I know, honey. But life’s not that easy. The best that we can do is to teach him or her how to be loving and how to love. That’s all you need in life, after all.”

“How corny.” You snort, but the smile slowly but surely returns. “Also, it’s a he. I can feel it.”

“Liar.” Namjoon squints accusatorily. “I can sense it, and it’s a girl.”

“How can you sense it? I’m literally the one growing this thing like a sea monkey.”

“Please don’t refer to our child as a sea monkey. At least not in front of our parents.”

The months go by fast – a little too fast in your opinion. While you’re happy that you’ll be rid of the giant baby bump, you’re now in the stage of anxiety about actually giving birth. You take advice from any book or website that looks credible, but nothing can soothe the panic zipping through your veins. Advice from your mother and mother-in-law never helps – you’re sick of watching old baby videos and cooing about your future as a mother.

Sometimes, you just want to throw it all away and just think your own thoughts for once.

“Is giving birth even worth it anymore?” You sigh with a hand propped underneath your chin.

Your best friend Chaeyoung stares at you in disbelief. “What’s this Debbie Downer attitude, Mrs. Kim?”

“I don’t know, Chae…” You run your fingers through your hair in frustration. “I’m so ready to stop being pregnant, but my whole new life begins right after that and I’m…”

“Scared?” You nod sadly. “Honey, that’s okay. You’re allowed to be nervous, it’s part of life. If nobody was nervous, don’t you think a lot of reckless shit would be happening around here more often?”

“It’s just that…Namjoon’s so happy and excited, and I feel guilty because I don’t feel like that right now…” You feel a pang in your chest at the thought of Namjoon’s cheery grin flash behind your eyelids every time you blinked.

“You’re the one pregnant, of course you’d be feeling more anxious about it. Guys just have to stick their dick in you, and their job is done.” Chaeyoung shrugs her shoulders.

“You know, sometimes, I think I’m just going to go to Jisoo for my problems.”

“Jokes on you, Jisoo and I share one braincell.”

“Push!”

Namjoon watches in full-fledged panic as you struggle to push through the pain of delivery and birth your child. Your face strains with effort, and your erratic breathing makes it sound as if you’re two seconds away from passing out.

You glare darkly at your husband when you feel his hand awkwardly pet the side of your face.

“You’re doing great, sweetheart.” Namjoon chuckles nervously. “You got this.”

“Thanks, coach. I won’t let you down.” You grit your teeth as another wave of pain floods your body like a violent tsunami.

“First kid?” A nurse jokes, her eyes not leaving your crotch as she helps assist – now it’s even more awkward.

“Um, yeah…” Namjoon wipes away the sweat on his palms.

“And last.” You snarl through another push.

“Ha-ha…she doesn’t mean that.” Namjoon rubs at the back of his neck.

A tiny sting tugs at his heart at your words, but you’re quick to write it off as him mediating the awkward energy in the room. Namjoon’s been pretty vocal about having two, maybe even three kids. To hear the possibility of there never being another opportunity to give life to something the two of you created together…

It kind of hurt.

“You’ve been quiet.”

Namjoon looks up from the tiny human resting in his arms to glance back at you who he thought fell asleep half an hour ago. You’re laying back in the reclined bed with your cheek pressed against the soft pillow Namjoon grabbed from home for you. It’s the one thing that helps you sleep at night, and you’re silently grateful for the thoughtfulness of your husband.

Even in the heat of the moment, Namjoon still remembers what you need most.

“Oh…I’m just admiring our little sunshine…She’s beautiful just like her mother.”

You can sense there’s something he wasn’t telling you. “No offense, but I thought you’d be jumping for joy after finding out your prediction was right.”

“Oh, yeah, that.” Namjoon tries to laugh, but it feels too hollow. He doesn’t even try again.

“Babe, what’s wron—”

“Do you really not want to have another kid with me?” Namjoon winces as his voice cuts through the silence of the hospital room.

Thankfully, your daughter doesn’t wake up from her nap. If anything, she seems to snuggle further next to her father’s warmth.

“Honey…” The corners of his mouth dips into a pout.

“It’s really okay if you don’t want to…it’s your body.” Namjoon quickly adds. “I don’t want to be that guy that forces his wife to just be a baby-making machine and make her out as only being important for that because you’re so kickass in everything you do.”

You keep silent as he continues, albeit with a blossoming smile.

“It’s just that…I really enjoyed the things we did together for the baby. I liked painting the baby room with you and smearing paint all over your face. I liked going to the boring doctor appointments with you just to see your face light up when they show you our baby on the screen. I liked when you’d wear my hoodies and I can see your little bump underneath.”

Namjoon pauses with a sigh. “I guess…I just loved knowing that you’re mine and that we created this beautiful life together. It made me happy to do these things with you, and I…really want to keep doing it.”

Your heart thumps unevenly. Your eyes glisten with tears, but you don’t want to cry – not right now. Right now, you want to stare at your entire world in the form of a tall beanpole of a man and the tiniest dumpling with clear vision. You want to look into Namjoon’s eyes and see the light behind them that you fell in love with at the tender age of 12 in the lunchroom when he stole the last cheeseburger and you stomped on his foot when he laughed at you. You want to stare at your baby’s face and only see the future ahead of you – the future with you, her, and Namjoon together.

“Joon…” Namjoon still holds a dejected look. “I know what I said was harsh, and I’m really sorry about that. The pain of it was insane, and all I could think about was that I don’t want to feel like that ever again.”

You pick yourself back up in order to erase the seemingly permanent discomfort from your husband’s face. You don’t want him to think that you’re blaming him for the pain. “But looking at the two of you together…it made me remember that it’s all worth it in the end. Just as long as I can see you smile at the end of the day.”

In this moment, he reminds you of how grateful you are that your fate found itself tied up with the red string of Namjoon’s life. Anytime that you try to think of a life without him – whether it’s when the two of you are fighting or if he’s been gone on a business trip for a couple days and the days just feel a little bit too long – it feels like poison coursing through your body. It makes you sick to think of a life without Namjoon by your side. He’s been through it all – the good times and the bad. He’s selfless in that way – the perfect attribute for a father.

“Maybe another kid doesn’t sound half as bad…” Namjoon brightens up at your words. “Just not right now because my uterus may have exploded, and my tits are too sore.”

“Beautiful imagery, honey. You should be a poet.”

“You know what, I take that back. Try getting another kid out of me again, Kim Namjoon.”

Needless to say, your twin boys were born the following year.

#bts fanfiction #kim namjoon fanfiction #kim namjoon fic #kim namjoon fluff #kim namjoon #namjoon fanfiction #namjoon fic #namjoon fluff #namjoon #rm fanfiction #rm fic #rm fluff #rm #kim namjoon x reader #namjoon x reader #rm x reader #bts x reader #bts fluff #parents au

[deepbutdazzlingdarkness]

hiiii! i was wondering if u had any recommendations for best caps fics? dirty or not. ALSO LOVE UR BLOG

First of all, THANK YOU FOR ASKING! I loove giving fic recs. Second of all…this is gonna be LONG lmao. I gave some Kuzy and Willy/Latts recs earlier here, so these are gonna be primarily Nicky/Ovi recs, with some smaller pairing ones too, and I’m gonna sort them by pairing that way.

SO, Nicky/Ovi (including some poly recs, which I’ll list the pairings for):

-First of all, literally EVERYTHING by Ferritin4. They were the first Caps author I read after blood pressure, and I’m going to limit myself to linking just three of them, but really, READ EVERYTHING.

King Meby Ferritin4 [E, 12k]

In which there is a small tragedy, a great success, and a lot to learn about someone Sasha thought he knew awfully well.

Dream the Right Dream by Ferritin4 [E, 14k]

They don’t do it like that in Sweden, which Nicklas mans up and valiantly explains to the room after he makes it back from camp. They don’t use humans as tools. All people are people, and Nicklas would never — he couldn’t imagine having a teammate inside him every time he fell into heat, however willing they might be. His body is his own, and they all touch him far more than enough already.

What Will Survive Of Us by Ferritin4 [E, 26k]

It’s going to be a big deal, his mother had told him, and Nicklas had listened.

His mom’s not an idiot.

It’s going to be a big deal, she’d promised, if and when you find them. It’s going to be more than you thought it would, and if and when you know it, you’ll know it for sure.

-Another author you should read everything by is screamlet. They have some non-Nicky/Ovi fic I will rec later, so I’m just gonna post a few of the Nicky/Ovi ones now

the arrival of 290287 backstromby screamlet [M, 18k]

Nicky has an asteroid named after him; that’s just the beginning.

the washington royals by screamlet [M, 45k]

Sasha doesn’t remember the very first time he met Nicky, but Michael Nylander is kind enough to remind them when he arrives to meet the team, carrying an honest to fuck laminated newspaper clipping of the first time Prince Alexander visited Sweden to meet his future husband, Prince Nicklas.*An arranged marriage—or, an arrangement and a marriage.

-One more author to mass rec: angularmomentum! They’re not solely a Nicky/Ovi author so I will be linking them more down below too, but for now:

running from the weather by angularmomentum [E, 21k]

Alex starts playing for Dynamo at sixteen.

kithbyangularmomentum [E, 12k]

Sasha makes prefect in his second to last year. It’s earlier than anyone but him expected, but right on track for his two year plan, which is: be head boy, get a contract to play Quidditch professionally, and beat Bäckström off in the baths.

-For the rest of these, I’m gonna sort them by rating! Lowest to highest (G-E)

Soft Hands by sadhockeytrashbaby (allofthefandoms)[G, 1k]

Alexander Ovechkin walks into the Capitals dressing room with a collar and the entire Washington sports press corps grinds to a stunned stop.

Eight + Eight (+ Nine) bysockitup [G, 2k]

Active players have started waking up in bed with retired players who wore the same number when they need relationship advice. It goes some kind of way.-*-Teemu pulls back and kicks forward at the same time so violently that he knocks both Paul and Ovechkin out of the bed.

street’s an empty stage by grim_lupine [G, 4k]

Over their heads, in this little dream world Nicklas has built, the sun is blazing at it’s peak, searing them where they sit. The light bathes Alex a molten gold. He couldn’t look any other way in Nicklas’s head, of course.

Nicklas is cracked open, exposed.

so play on, play on, play on by carissima [2k, G]

“Gonna give you the cup first,” Alex says, still too close. He’s in Nicke’s space like he always, always is. He’s grinning and Nicke’s grinning because they finally won the goddamn cup but his head is spinning now. “Brooks already had cup. Your turn first.”

raise my hands (paint my spirit gold) by seaqueen [G, 1k]

They break apart with chests heaving for air, and when Nicke looks Alex is burning with it, fierce joy and agonizing victory painted in every line of his body and Nicke loves him so, so much.

pledge my allegiance and bite my tongue by spock [T, 5k]

It’s a given that all droids will develop some form of their own unique idiosyncrasies, but none of them are as decidedly too much as Ovi’s is. He’s got too much style, too much personality; it’s a well known and much maligned fact that he’d nearly been recalled not all that long after his activation, but the test groups had loved him so much that he was granted an exception.

cherish the moonlight by haipollai [T, 6.5k]

“What is wrong, pup?” He asks again, wishing desperately that he could actually get an answer. Instead he settles for holding his hand out, palm up until Nicky takes the hesitant step forward to nuzzle against him.

The Dog Days Are Over by xihale [T, 8k]

In which alternate universe Boston had 4th pick and Washington had 5th pick in the 2006 draft, and in which alternate universe the NHL is kind enough make accommodations for players’ personal circumstances. For instance, to allow Washington to pick Alex Ovechkin’s absolutely true, definitely not fake, 100% not-made-up fiancé to come play for the Caps.

“You what,” Alex says. “Alex Ovechkin’s who?”

—and its aftermath, through the years.

Demons, Ovechkin and other Superhuman Forces by stumblebee [T, 2k]

Sometimes Nicky wonders, usually in moments like these, if there is something to it, if you need Canadians and the horrible things they chose to do to themselves as children to win it all. Maybe Don Cherry is right, at the end of the day, maybe you just can’t win without demonic assistance. Without sacrifice, as that insufferable spray tanned dinosaur always puts it.

something old, something newby bropunzeling [T, 5k]

“You,” Alex says, pointing at him. “Me,” he continues, pointing back at himself. “Married.”

“Oh,” Nicky says. “Oh.”

[It doesn’t go any smoother after that.]

Wait Until Tomorrow (You’ll Be Fine) by sunshinexbomb [T, 8k]          

In which Nicky is an accident-prone Auror and Alex is the Healer that always seems to be coming to his rescue.

Red is the Color (of Your True Love’s Blood) by Saebrin [T, 2k]

What are the odds that all of Jakub’s teammates are serial killers? Like, statistically that has to be impossible, right?

Literally by xabier [T, 4k]

In which Nicklas Backstrom is literally Andre Burakovsky’s father.

to have and to hold by oops_ohdear [T, 6k]

The problem with putting a fake engagement photo, complete with stupid smiles and a bottle of champagne, on Facebook, is that sometimes someone’s mother sees it.

This is not a problem Nicklas ever had before he knew Alex.

This Alone Is The Real Treasure by leyley09 [T, 10k]

A defiant trip to the Olympics gets Alex outed. The solution is obviously to marry Nicky.

Obviously.

Whatever happened to all this season’s losers of the yearby Thorne [T, 9k]

Alex loves his kids, he really does, but he also might kill them. That is, if they don’t put him in a goddamn early grave first.

(Cop bribing, theft of public property, and how to photoshoot your dick properly in order to seduce a teammate: all part of a captain’s responsibilities to his rookies.)

Baby Boom by WeagleRock [M, 7k]

Having babies gives you dad power. Dad power helps put hockey teams on the road to Sir Stanley. Sid sired a herd of little Penguins before Pittsburgh won its Cup. Toews might as well be running a Blackhawks baby factory.

Now it’s Ovi’s turn. If only someone had told him that impregnating your fuckbuddy might make things a little weird.

String Theories by WeagleRock [M, 14.5k]

Nicky knows what’s expected of him: Set up goals, mentor rookies, provide a steadying backbone for a struggling team …  and never, ever look at other men.

Then Ovi surprises him with a kiss, and Nicky doesn’t know anything anymore.

The Brook Horse by WeagleRock [M, 11.5k]

Nicklas Bäckström is a good person. Nicklas Bäckström would never risk Ovi’s life just to stay human.

It’s really too bad he isn’t real.

Holding Onto You by somethingnerdythiswaycomes [M, 6.5k]

“You can’t be picked if you’re married,“ Nicky says, like it’s obvious.

“I’m not married,” Alex replies.

“You’re marrying me,” Nicky says, his jaw set.

“You haven’t proposed.”

the laws of the world never stopped us once by punkassbookjockey[M, 6k]

Sasha points at him with his chopsticks. “Your powers,” he says. “Snowzilla comes, suddenly everyone’s mutants? Something happened there, no other explanation.”

Fault Lies by hoosierbitch [M, 6k]

Alex kneels.

“You’re smarter than me,” Trotz says to Nicky, “but I do know what I’m doing.” Right now, Nicky is fairly sure that he’s wrong on both counts. “Let me be his coach. Let me take care of him.”

no it’s not nirvana but it’s on the wayby ghosthunter [M, 4k]

Sasha does not miss the way Backy looks at him then, sharp and angry, and Sasha knows he deserves it. They sit in awkward silence until the waitress comes to take their drink orders.

A More Fascinating Name by pukeandcry [M, 38k]

Although Sasha had never made the younger Mr. Backstrom’s acquaintance, he was at least familiar enough with his reputation to know that chief amongst his qualities was the quite publicly known fact that Mr. Backstrom was as notoriously uninterested in achieving an advantageous marriage as Sasha himself.

Something, then, must have upset the order of things. What that was he could not say, but Lord Backstrom was now, it would seem, in active search of a husband for his son.

Better Than Heartbreak by the_glow_worm [M, 1.5k]

It’s morning in Vegas, technically, but Nicke and Alex aren’t about to go to sleep anytime soon.

Kärlek Redux by Saebrin [E, 3k]

“A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, always with the same person.” —Mignon McLaughlin

A.K.A. Four times Nicky (re)fell for Alex.

Perfect For A Person by mlyn [E, 18k]

Alex Ovechkin is near the end of his 30th year and still not married. In the US, that means he’ll either have to find a spouse at a Transformation Hotel before his birthday, or he’ll check out transformed into an animal.

Not if Nicklas Backstrom has anything to say about it.

You and me, Drenched in greenby xihale [E, 18k]

Nicky’s an omega with a heat problem. Ovi volunteers as tribute.

tell me in the morning by haipollai [E, 4k]

Nicky yanks himself back and away, almost hard enough to tip his chair. “You don’t know why I’m scared my very Russian friend and teammate is suddenly asking questions about me dating men?” He snaps.

anchor by pavses [E, 2k]

They’re not going to make up the three-goal deficit, but Alex sure as hell is trying to single-handedly score a hat trick in a minute.

You’re a work of art, baby by sirona [E, 7k]

FBI Agent Alex Ovechkin doesn’t mind working with others. He even likes working with Malkina every so often. What he doesn’t like is being lead by his dick nose. And yet, he can’t stay away from the Gray case.

Wolfborn by waspabi [E, 60k]

A wolfborn on an airplane was either unbearably reckless or a hockey player. Most of the time, both.

if you’re needing something by atrytone [E, 5k]

Nicke hates losing, but he’s grown out of letting it black out everything else in his mind. Alex can’t seem to do the same thing, not when they get on a roll like this, not when nothing he tries seems to make a difference.

Luckily, he has Nicke to help.

touch by itsahockeynight [3k, E]

When Alex does turn up, he walks across the locker room and straight into Nicke’s arms.

Eleven Years by waspabi [E, 2k]

The door inches open. Alex, of course. Bloodshot eyes, rumpled suit. His Conference Champions cap with the sticker still on the brim, the fucking Prince of Wales Trophy still clutched in one big hand.

Nicky/Willie Nylander:

weekender by screamlet [M, 5k]

William couldn’t imagine that Toronto would ever love him the way Washington loved Nicky.

Fingertips Putting On A Show by sunshinexbomb [E, 1.5k]

In which Nicky finds comfort in William during Worlds.

make me wanna hold on (make me wanna be all yours) by Pinkmanite [E, 4.5k]

It’s like Will instantly melts into a well-worn mold, one he’s been in many times before. The switch is flipped and he’s standing up straighter, painting on that pretty smile, the one Nicky loves so much, pentimento on the overworn canvas of his cheeks. He angles his chin so he can look up at Nicky through his lashes, batting them in the way that he knows gets Nicky all worked up.

Nicky/Ovi/Willie Nylander:

the elementary disposal of weighted objects by angularmomentum [T, 14k]

William, at eleven, was primed to tip over the cusp into nascent adolescence. He was big for his age and very competitive, and had no real idea that his obsession with beating Nicke was actually an obsession without caveats, because infatuation was a word he didn’t know.

right there where we stood was holy ground by babygotbackstrom [NR, 4k]

The revamped Tre Kronor line, of Nicky and his soulmates, is mesmerising.

Sasha is jealous again, and it is ugly, even though the team is leading the division.

copenhagen by screamlet [E, 10.5k]

William had already casually texted Nicky a photo of the sunset, a cool little haha bet you don’t have this in GÄVLE, but there was no response. Gävle had Nicky and William didn’t and it was bullshit.

Andre/Nicky and/or Ovi:

say all that you’re feeling by screamlet [T, 43k]

Andre Burakovsky/Alexander Ovechkin, Nicklas Backstrom/William Nylander

Much had happened in the past year, enough that Andre sat on the hill overlooking the lands he had been naive enough to call home until he pledged himself to Lord Laich and left his friends with barely a note. Now he had returned and—Who would want Andre now?A flash of lightning in the distance illuminated the one house he hadn’t yet considered.After a moment’s thought, Andre rode south.

a hundred dollar bottle of champagne like me by Pinkmanite [E, 6k]

Nicklas Backstrom/Andre Burakovsky, Andre/Various Caps

Nicke’s got a beer in one hand, uses the other to wrap his arm around Andre’s waist, grips his hip and pulls him in close, as close as he can be.

He tucks his face in the crook of Andre’s neck and hugs him tight, exactly like he’d done on the ice just hours before.

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” he murmurs, raw and genuine, just for Andre to hear.

Don’t You Worry Child by Capbuckyang [M, 2k]

Nicky pats his thighs and Andre drops, just like that. It’s not like it was the first time, when the boys all watched in a hushed silence, but it does quiet down a bit.

It isn’t that hard, boy, to like you or love you by Two_for_Slashing [M, 3.5k]

Nicklas couldn’t pinpoint exactly when he had become desirable.

Lop-sided on the Side of the Angels by babygotbackstrom [NR, 2k]

The sun doesn’t make vampires sick anymore but that doesn’t mean Nicklas Backstrom is a morning person.

for the taking by chartreuser, thegraceinyoureyes [E, 4k]

Of course Nicky knows Andre wants him.

Nicky/Ovi/Other:

Sharp Suits and Sly Smiles by SomebodyOwens [T, 5k]

Nicky/Ovi/Holtby

He chased them so hard that they caught him.

A seduction in 5 (+1) parts.

Wayward Mayday by xihale [E, 6k]

Nicky/Ovi/TJ

Nicky and TJ are fucking around, and one of them starts mouthing off about Ovi, how Ovi might join the two of them, how hard he’d hold them down, how hard he’d ride them.

Naturally, Ovi walks in.

intermittent melting by blushingsweet (sunflowered) [E, 3k]

Nicky/Ovi/Tom

“I don’t think he wants to leave,” Nicky says, looking up at him, smug and a little cocky. “Do you want to leave, Tom?”

“No,” Tom says. He’s pressing his hands into his jeans, shifting on the floor. Alex wonders if his knees have started hurting yet; Nicky’s kept him there for a long time.

Andre/Holtby:

-These are all part of a larger Caps ensemble series w/ a variety of pairings, but I’m singling the Andre/Holts parts out, which can fit together w/o reading the whole thing

All We Are Is by somethingnerdythiswaycomes [M, 5k]

Braden notices everything in the dressing room.  He’s seen enough that, sometimes, he can guess what’s brewing before it really erupts in the locker room.  And maybe, because he saw Brooksy and Burky, that’s why he wasn’t able to see himself and Andre.

Just to Please Them [E, 3k]

Andre’s in a tank top and jeans and his neck is tantalizingly bare.  Braden keeps staring at it, and Andre keeps catching him and honestly it’s getting a little embarrassing.

Don’t Think About Why [E, 13k]

Andre Burakovsky/Brooks Laich, Andre/Holtby

“What about Brooksy?” Andre asks quietly.  Nicky’s fingers still on the back of Andre’s head, and then start petting over his curls again a second later.

“He has a reputation,” Nicky says carefully.

Or: Andre tries, and then tries again.

Comfortability [E, 6k]

Andre/Holtby, Andre Burakovsky/Braden Holtby/Nathan Walker, Braden Holtby/Nathan Walker

“How’d you sleep last night?” Braden asks Walks, when they’re all sitting down for breakfast.

“I hope we didn’t keep you up,” Andre says innocently, and Walks chokes on his omelet.

Match Your Weakness With A Name by leyley09 [T, 4k]

In which Braden gets talked into playing spin-the-bottle with his teammates and - surprisingly - doesn’t live to regret it

Words Just Get in the Way by somethingnerdythiswaycomes [T, 8k]

“You’re pretty gone on him, huh?” Mike asks him.  Andre nods.  “And you don’t know anything about him?” Andre nods again, glumly.

“This is the semester,” Mike proclaims with enough conviction that Andre almost believes him. “This semester, you’re getting him.”

 field testby matskreider [M, 1.5k]

When he cracks his eyes open, he sees a rather determined pout coming from Nicklas’ favorite underling, a new guy called Burakovsky. “Sorry, 0070. I was going to offer to debrief you, if you were waiting for Q. He’s, um…going to be busy for a while.”

Andre + Willy and/or Latts:

Kickstart The Fight by MermaidSmiled [T, 9k]

Tom watches as Andre’s knuckles scab over and heal and split again after a hard practice until they’re finally healed, pink and shiny. He watches Andre’s eye blacken where a fist or an elbow caught him and charts the flow of the blood pooling under the skin as the days go by.

It’s something so unfamiliar to Tom, seeing these things he’s used to seeing when he looks down or in the mirror on Andre. He ignores it as best he can.

come under the covers by ghosthunter [M, 4.5k]

Andre meets him at the airport. He has a tan and he looks good. Not that Tom thinks he, himself, does not also have a tan and look good, but he’s not picking himself up at the airport in a foreign country either.

Something So Pleasant About That Place by somethingnerdythiswaycomes [E, 5k]

Tom turns his head to look at Andre, sprawled out on the other bed dicking around on his phone.  “Hey, wanna fuck?”

Andre glances at him, and rolls his eyes.  Tom doesn’t know if he should be offended by how not-surprised Andre is.

Or: Andre and Tom have a ‘List of Cities We’ve Fucked In’

#capsexroomiesby forks[E, 7k]

André doesn’t mind living in his own place now, but sometimes he does miss seeing Mike and Tom being sexy together.  Good thing he has his new camcorder along this time so he’ll be able to watch whenever he wants.

Tale as Old as Time by Kerfluffle [E, 5k]

Andre breaks his hand. Tom provides an assist.

champions by angularmomentum [E, 2k]

Tom had a problem. To be more accurate, Tom had several problems but that was the way of Tom’s life. He often had a few running in tandem. Tonight they included but were not limited to: bruised knuckles (regular problem) forgot his toothbrush (also a regular problem) and a boner for Burky (definitely NOT a regular problem.)

Andre/Other:

conversation superseded by by ghosthunter [T, 1k]

Andre Burakovsky/Christian Djoos

Somewhere along the line, some signals got crossed.

or: andre is dumb

sugar by ghosthunter [M, 4k]

Nicklas Backstrom/André Burakovsky/Marcus Johansson

Nicke’s almost ready to leave, his jacket still off, his tie around his neck. “He’s fucking with you,” Nicke says quietly, coming to stand next to Andre as he ties his own tie. “And you looked at his ass when he walked away.”

So Press Record, I’ll Let You Film Me by Petalpants [E, 3k]

Andre Burakovsky/Brooks Laich

Hey, ur hot! If ur interested in doing sum amateur porn, lmk ;)

Ergo: Homo by R_Gunns [E, 14k]

Andre/Various Caps, Andre/Original Male Characters, Andre/Original Female Characters

In which André no-homos his way through casual sex, bro-snuggles and the discovery of something between his captain and his A, before Braden kindly hits him with a clue bat.

Or: self-discovery is a bitch.

TJ/Carly:

press my nose up to the glass around your heart by nighimpossible [T, 6k]

“I swear to God,” TJ says, covering his face with his hands, “if I get an inkling that a bond is starting to form, I’m truly going to kill you, John Carlson.”

“It’s Carly,” Carlson grins, leaving him behind in the locker room. “And I’d like to see you try.”

toss, turn by alotofthingsdifferent[M, 3k]

John’s neighbor – the one who has a lot of loud, enthusiastic sex – is really, really hot.

John is in so much trouble.

do you even know the miranda rights? by nighimpossible [E, 9k]

Sidney Crosby’s brother swap program is going to be the death of TJ.

Inside My Bones by somethingnerdythiswaycomes [E, 3k]

TJ’s riding the high of winning a Stanley Cup Final Game, before John’s hand comes down hard on his shoulder, gripping him tight through his pads.  He knows what that hold means, what it means when John’s fingers dig into the soft spot just next to his armpit through the gap in his pads.

“You’re lucky we won,” John murmurs in his ear, hot breath fanning over TJ’s neck.

but then you say “please” by Anonymous [E, 2k]

“Quite the charmer,” TJ goads. His feet are a little more under himself now. “Bet you could get anyone you want, kissing them like that.”

“Cut the shit,” John says, but he’s smiling, running a thumb over TJ’s cheek.

TJ/Other:

hold me tight and i’ll sink in by thermocline [NR, 2.5k]

Willy/Latts/Oshie, Oshie/Carly, Oshie/Various Caps

The thing is, it’s happened a few times, during the season and mainly during first round.

TJ’s always been touchy. Not needy. Just better when he’s given touch. He works best when he’s receiving.

i’m a prisoner to my decisions by orphan_account [E, 1.5k]

Oshie/Willy

Lauren makes him forget the things he’s been running from since high school.

Tom makes him remember.

staying put by thegraceinyoureyes[E, 7k]

Nicky/Oshie, Oshie/Various Caps

There are bodies—hands all over him, all around him.

Other:

Covered in the Colors by sunshinexbomb [T, 12k]

Nicklas Backstrom/Mike Green

In which Nicky and Greenie pretend to be soul bonded so they can be road roommates.

Taste of Bavaria by JessamyGriffith[T, 7k]

Philipp Grubauer/Braden Holtby

Philipp Grubauer is a tour guide, resigned to spending yet another day introducing American tourists to the beauty of Bavaria.

Braden Holtby, star goaltender for the Washington Capitals, is looking forward to a nice day seeing the sights of Munich on his vacation.

Happily, neither of them is going to have their day go quite as expected.

drop by savedby [T, 2k]

Devante Smith-Pelly, Ensemble

five times the Washington Capitals welcomed DSP to the team and one time he did it for someone else

Tell The World by sunshinexbomb [M, 10k]

Nicklas Backstrom/Braden Holtby

Three times somebody finds out about Nicky and Braden and one time they decide to tell someone on their own.

feels like summer by Thorne [M, 30k]

The unglamorous fact of the matter is that lifeguarding, particularly at a community swimming pool, is much less about the dramatic rescues and slo-mo dives into the water that Baywatch has tricked people into believing, and much more about janitorial work that’s either tedious or gross, spiked with the occasional scraped knee or elbowed nose or no-holds-barred ice cream vendor death-match in the parking lot.

(Or, Karl’s in love with his best friend, all the local community pools in the Metropolitan county are at prank-war with each other, and also there are ducks.)

Oh, but how were we to know? by orphan_account [NR, 12k]

Tom Wilson/OMC

“How’d it feel skating with Gavin for the first time as teammates?” a reporter asks in the locker room after their first preseason game, played against the New York Islanders. “He cites you as such an integral part of his development into a player. It must be rewarding to see it come full circle.” 

When condemning the whole body by anonissue [E, 6k]

Braden Holtby/Nate Schmidt

There’s more than one way to cure the hiccups, as Braden Holtby has the misfortune to find out.

Wide Open by Ferritin4 [E, 2.5k]

Braden Holtby/Nate Schmidt

Braden opens his mouth again, because he’s glad it’s okay but he didn’t mean no, he just meant give me — give me a minute, give me —

#washington capitals #hockey rpf #nicklas backstrom #alex ovechkin #braden holtby #andre burakovsky #william nylander #tj oshie #john carlson #nate schmidt #tom wilson #michael latta #christian djoos #devante smith pelly #fanfiction #hockey #FINALLY IT'S DONE #this took....awhile lmao

[unsettlingshortstories]

The Striding Place

Gertrude Atherton (1896)

Weigall, continental and detached, tired early of grouse-shooting. To stand propped against a sod fence while his host's workmen routed up the birds with long poles and drove them towards the waiting guns, made him feel himself a parody on the ancestors who had roamed the moors and forests of this West Riding of Yorkshire in hot pursuit of game worth the killing. But when in England in August he always accepted whatever proffered for the season, and invited his host to shoot pheasants on his estates in the South. The amusements of life, he argued, should be accepted with the same philosophy as its ills.

It had been a bad day. A heavy rain had made the moor so spongy that it fairly sprang beneath the feet. Whether or not the grouse had haunts of their own, wherein they were immune from rheumatism, the bag had been small. The women, too, were an unusually dull lot, with the exception of a new-minded débutante who bothered Weigall at dinner by demanding the verbal restoration of the vague paintings on the vaulted roof above them.

But it was no one of these things that sat on Weigall's mind as, when the other men went up to bed, he let himself out of the castle and sauntered down to the river. His intimate friend, the companion of his boyhood, the chum of his college days, his fellow-traveller in many lands, the man for whom he possessed stronger affection than for all men, had mysteriously disappeared two days ago, and his track might have sprung to the upper air for all trace he had left behind him. He had been a guest on the adjoining estate during the past week, shooting with the fervor of the true sportsman, making love in the intervals to Adeline Cavan, and apparently in the best of spirits. As far as was known there was nothing to lower his mental mercury, for his rent-roll was a large one, Miss Cavan blushed whenever he looked at her, and, being one of the best shots in England, he was never happier than in August. The suicide theory was preposterous, all agreed, and there was as little reason to believe him murdered. Nevertheless, he had walked out of March Abbey two nights ago without hat or overcoat, and had not been seen since.

The country was being patrolled night and day. A hundred keepers and workmen were beating the woods and poking the bogs on the moors, but as yet not so much as a handkerchief had been found.

Weigall did not believe for a moment that Wyatt Gifford was dead, and although it was impossible not to be affected by the general uneasiness, he was disposed to be more angry than frightened. At Cambridge Gifford had been an incorrigible practical joker, and by no means had outgrown the habit; it would be like him to cut across the country in his evening clothes, board a cattle-train, and amuse himself touching up the picture of the sensation in West Riding.

However, Weigall's affection for his friend was too deep to companion with tranquillity in the present state of doubt, and, instead of going to bed early with the other men, he determined to walk until ready for sleep. He went down to the river and followed the path through the woods. There was no moon, but the stars sprinkled their cold light upon the pretty belt of water flowing placidly past wood and ruin, between green masses of overhanging rocks or sloping banks tangled with tree and shrub, leaping occasionally over stones with the harsh notes of an angry scold, to recover its equanimity the moment the way was clear again.

It was very dark in the depths where Weigall trod. He smiled as he recalled a remark of Gifford's: "An English wood is like a good many other things in life—very promising at a distance, but a hollow mockery when you get within. You see daylight on both sides, and the sun freckles the very bracken. Our woods need the night to make them seem what they ought to be—what they once were, before our ancestors' descendants demanded so much more money, in these so much more various days."

Weigall strolled along, smoking, and thinking of his friend, his pranks—many of which had done more credit to his imagination than this—and recalling conversations that had lasted the night through. Just before the end of the London season they had walked the streets one hot night after a party, discussing the various theories of the soul's destiny. That afternoon they had met at the coffin of a college friend whose mind had been a blank for the past three years. Some months previously they had called at the asylum to see him. His expression had been senile, his face imprinted with the record of debauchery. In death the face was placid, intelligent, without ignoble lineation—the face of the man they had known at college. Weigall and Gifford had had no time to comment there, and the afternoon and evening were full; but, coming forth from the house of festivity together, they had reverted almost at once to the topic.

"I cherish the theory," Gifford had said, "that the soul sometimes lingers in the body after death. During madness, of course, it is an impotent prisoner, albeit a conscious one. Fancy its agony, and its horror! What more natural than that, when the life-spark goes out, the tortured soul should take possession of the vacant skull and triumph once more for a few hours while old friends look their last? It has had time to repent while compelled to crouch and behold the result of its work, and it has shrived itself into a state of comparative purity. If I had my way, I should stay inside my bones until the coffin had gone into its niche, that I might obviate for my poor old comrade the tragic impersonality of death. And I should like to see justice done to it, as it were—to see it lowered among its ancestors with the ceremony and solemnity that are its due. I am afraid that if I dissevered myself too quickly, I should yield to curiosity and hasten to investigate the mysteries of space."

"You believe in the soul as an independent entity, then—-that it and the vital principle are not one and the same?"

"Absolutely. The body and soul are twins, life comrades—sometimes friends, sometimes enemies, but always loyal in the last instance. Some day, when I am tired of the world, I shall go to India and become a mahatma, solely for the pleasure of receiving proof during life of this independent relationship."

"Suppose you were not sealed up properly, and returned after one of your astral flights to find your earthly part unfit for habitation? It is an experiment I don't think I should care to try, unless even juggling with soul and flesh had palled."

"That would not be an uninteresting predicament. I should rather enjoy experimenting with broken machinery."

The high wild roar of water smote suddenly upon Weigall's ear and checked his memories. He left the wood and walked out on the huge slippery stones which nearly close the River Wharfe at this point, and watched the waters boil down into the narrow pass with their furious untiring energy. The black quiet of the woods rose high on either side. The stars seemed colder and whiter just above. On either hand the perspective of the river might have run into a rayless cavern. There was no lonelier spot in England, nor one which had the right to claim so many ghosts, if ghosts there were.

Weigall was not a coward, but he recalled uncomfortably the tales of those that had been done to death in the Strid. Wordsworth's Boy of Egremond had been disposed of by the practical Whitaker; but countless others, more venturesome than wise, had gone down into that narrow boiling course, never to appear in the still pool a few yards beyond. Below the great rocks which form the walls of the Strid was believed to be a natural vault, on to whose shelves the dead were drawn. The spot had an ugly fascination. Weigall stood, visioning skeletons, uncoffined and green, the home of the eyeless things which had devoured all that had covered and filled that rattling symbol of man's mortality; then fell to wondering if any one had attempted to leap the Strid of late. It was covered with slime; he had never seen it look so treacherous.

"This striding place is called the 'Strid,'     A name which it took of yore; A thousand years hath it borne the name,     And it shall a thousand more."

He shuddered and turned away, impelled, despite his manhood, to flee the spot. As he did so, something tossing in the foam below the fall—something as white, yet independent of it—caught his eye and arrested his step. Then he saw that it was describing a contrary motion to the rushing water—an upward backward motion. Weigall stood rigid, breathless; he fancied he heard the crackling of his hair. Was that a hand? It thrust itself still higher above the boiling foam, turned sidewise, and four frantic fingers were distinctly visible against the black rock beyond.

Weigall's superstitious terror left him. A man was there, struggling to free himself from the suction beneath the Strid, swept down, doubtless, but a moment before his arrival, perhaps as he stood with his back to the current.

He stepped as close to the edge as he dared. The hand doubled as if in imprecation, shaking savagely in the face of that force which leaves its creatures to immutable law; then spread wide again, clutching, expanding, crying for help as audibly as the human voice.

Weigall dashed to the nearest tree, dragged and twisted off a branch with his strong arms, and returned as swiftly to the Strid. The hand was in the same place, still gesticulating as wildly; the body was undoubtedly caught in the rocks below, perhaps already half-way along one of those hideous shelves. Weigall let himself down upon a lower rock, braced his shoulder against the mass beside him, then, leaning out over the water, thrust the branch into the hand. The fingers clutched it convulsively. Weigall tugged powerfully, his own feet dragged perilously near the edge. For a moment he produced no impression, then an arm shot above the waters.

The blood sprang to Weigall's head; he was choked with the impression that the Strid had him in her roaring hold, and he saw nothing. Then the mist cleared. The hand and arm were nearer, although the rest of the body was still concealed by the foam. Weigall peered out with distended eyes. The meagre light revealed in the cuffs links of a peculiar device. The fingers clutching the branch were as familiar.

Weigall forgot the slippery stones, the terrible death if he stepped too far. He pulled with passionate will and muscle. Memories flung themselves into the hot light of his brain, trooping rapidly upon each other's heels, as in the thought of the drowning. Most of the pleasures of his life, good and bad, were identified in some way with this friend. Scenes of college days, of travel, where they had deliberately sought adventure and stood between one another and death upon more occasions than one, of hours of delightful companionship among the treasures of art, and others in the pursuit of pleasure, flashed like the changing particles of a kaleidoscope. Weigall had loved several women; but he would have flouted in these moments the thought that he had ever loved any woman as he loved Wyatt Gifford. There were so many charming women in the world, and in the thirty-two years of his life he had never known another man to whom he had cared to give his intimate friendship.

He threw himself on his face. His wrists were cracking, the skin was torn from his hands. The fingers still gripped the stick. There was life in them yet.

Suddenly something gave way. The hand swung about, tearing the branch from Weigall's grasp. The body had been liberated and flung outward, though still submerged by the foam and spray.

Weigall scrambled to his feet and sprang along the rocks, knowing that the danger from suction was over and that Gifford must be carried straight to the quiet pool. Gifford was a fish in the water and could live under it longer than most men. If he survived this, it would not be the first time that his pluck and science had saved him from drowning.

Weigall reached the pool. A man in his evening clothes floated on it, his face turned towards a projecting rock over which his arm had fallen, upholding the body. The hand that had held the branch hung limply over the rock, its white reflection visible in the black water. Weigall plunged into the shallow pool, lifted Gifford in his arms and returned to the bank. He laid the body down and threw off his coat that he might be the freer to practise the methods of resuscitation. He was glad of the moment's respite. The valiant life in the man might have been exhausted in that last struggle. He had not dared to look at his face, to put his ear to the heart. The hesitation lasted but a moment. There was no time to lose.

He turned to his prostrate friend. As he did so, something strange and disagreeable smote his senses. For a half-moment he did not appreciate its nature. Then his teeth clacked together, his feet, his outstretched arms pointed towards the woods. But he sprang to the side of the man and bent down and peered into his face. There was no face.

[neversaw-youcoming]

The Mysterious Death of Mildred Button

“I just do not understand why you wanted to come to this sort of distasteful spectacle, Charles.” Emma Darwin sighed.

“Now darling, you are always asking me to get out of my study and spend more time with you and the children. It’s supposed to be a fun day out for us.” Charles Darwin looked at his wife eagerly. “And this way I do not have to get on another boat to the colonies to study these exotics savages like I did in my youth on the Beagle.”

Excitement glistened in Darwin’s eyes as he walked up a dusty path to a large striped tent ahead, with the words Behold, Human Freaks! painted in large letters on the sign hung above. “Some of my colleagues have mentioned there is this girl here that is covered in hair like an ape! They say she is the missing link that will turn my next book into an even bigger breakthrough than On the Origin of Species! Oh, I do hope they are correct.”

Emma held her tongue when she saw how excited her husband was. She hated his work and how it drew a big wedge between him and God, but what was she to do she had no control over him? The nights she had spent aching and praying for his soul seemed countless. It took a while but she had come to terms with the fact that he was not going to stop his research, for it was a hunger inside to learn that drove him.[1] She had come to accept his work with animal species, but hearing that he was trying to broaden his theory to people made her scared and wistful for the time when mollusks and barnacles were all he talked about.

“Run along children, and do not touch anyone!” she called ahead, squeezing her husband’s hand a bit tighter as he paid and they ducked under the flap into a dark space lit up by torches on the walls of the tent. The Darwin’s stood together by the back of the tent as their vision adjusted to the dim lights. The murmur of the crowd grew louder as the curtain on stage shook.

A man in a top hat and a dirty brown suit waltzed onto stage, “Ladies and Gentleman!” the booming voice echoed around them.

“Here we go!” Charles said pulling out an old notebook and pencil from his coat pocket. He flipped through pages and pages of notes scratched into the paper for his next book, The Descent of Man. He settled on a blank page when the crowd hushed.

“What you are now about to see is proof of the remarkability of man!” the announcer bellowed. “My name is Tom Norman and I’m here to show you the one and only Mr. Joseph Merrick, the Elephant Man!”[2] The curtain dropped and the crowd gasped at the sight of the deformed man on stage.

“Good heavens!” Mrs. Darwin exclaimed, hiding her face in her husband’s chest, the wool fabric tickling her face.

“How fascinating!” Mr. Darwin said, stepping forward through the crowd to get a better view.

“Oh you are mad as hops!” Emma called after him, but is drowned out by the murmuring spreading through the crowd from the sight of the man on stage in front of them. Merrick stood in his refined Sunday’s best, breathing loudly like a dog panting in the sun. A couple of women ran towards the exit at the sight of him, and a mother was shushing her crying child.

“Now do not be afraid me friends!” Mr. Norman exclaimed. “Do not to despise or condemn this man on account of his unusual appearance. Remember,” he asserted, “we do not make ourselves, and were you to cut or prick Joseph … he would bleed, and that bleed or blood would be red, the same as yours or mine.”[3] An air of awe swept over the crowd as Merrick gave them a bow. “I want you to look into your hearts and see that this man is the most remarkable human being ever to draw the breath of life! For he is not a monster but a master work of nature!” [4]

Charles scribbled a description of Merrick into his notebook, “enormous and misshapened head. From the brow there projected a huge bony mass like a loaf, while from the back of the head hung a bag of spongy, fungous-looking skin…”[5] Mr. Norman continued to work the crowd in the background, telling them how Merrick was a working man from right there in England, and earned his living just like the rest of us.[6]

The Darwin’s walked hand in hand together, looking at the other freaks on display, waiting for the next one on the main stage. The torches flickered on the wall. “How about that? Do you think it was some sort of accident?” Emma asked Charles.

“Actually ma’am, I was born this way.”

“Oh my! I am sorry I did not think you could hear me.” Mrs. Darwin said, startled to be interacting with the man that appeared to have no arms or legs at all. Sat on a trunk, he wore a garment that resembled a sock along his whole body.

“Happens all the time don’t worry about it,” the man said in a gruff voice, “the name’s Prince Randian but I’m known here as The Snake Man. Want to see me roll a cigarette?”[7] He grabs a small glass jar of tobacco with his mouth from the side of his trunk and used his shoulder to hold the paper in place as he sprinkled the tobacco inside.

“My good sir, where do you come from?” Charles asked.

Prince Radian managed to get the cigarette into his mouth and light it. “British Guinea.”[8] Darwin scribbled in his journal.

“Now, may I have your undivided attention as I present the missing link in our evolution, all the way from Laos, Krao!”[9] Norman bellowed once again on stage.

“Oh I must see this!” Charles said, grabbing his wife’s hand and weaving his way through the crowd. “What a fascinating find!” he sighed, observing the girl on stage covered completely in thick dark hair. The show had dressed her up in a blue dress fitting of a girl her age, something Mrs. Darwin would have made their daughter Annie wear.

“Krao here is an eight year old girl, and a perfect specimen of the step between man and monkey!”[10] Mrs. Darwin was appalled at the claim this dirty freak show owner was making, who seemed to be a big fan of her husband. “Who here has read On the Origin of Species?” Norman asked the crowd. Charles eyes lit up with glee as he turned to his wife when a light cheer ran through the audience, not letting the several sounds of displeasure get to him. “Well, I am sure Mr. Darwin would agree that this girl here with her primitive, hairy body, fits his theory to a tee.”

“What a remarkable creature!” Darwin turns to his wife as the stage show continues. “This is exactly what I needed to finish my evidence collection on my next book. It is the key to my theory.”

“You know how I feel about this, Charles.” Emma sighed.

“I am sorry, my dear, but no honorable man shall accuse me of concealing my views once I finish this book.”[11] He says triumphantly. “My views have often been grossly misrepresented, bitterly opposed and ridiculed.” [12]

“Maybe you should write a clarification of what you believe next, if you are so concerned about your legacy here on earth.” Emma rolled her eyes at her husband.

“You are angry with me?”

“The habit in scientific pursuits of believing nothing till it is proved, influence your mind too much. The situation that has befallen that girl is likely to be above our comprehension. The existence of God cannot be proved in the same way as all your studies.”[13]

“Darling, I cannot deny my own mind. When I am dead, know that many times, I have kissed and cried over this,[14] but I cannot avoid the belief that man must come under the same law.”[15] He put his arm around Emma just as a crash echoed from the stage.

           Gasps ran through the audience with the realization that the Bearded Lady, who had just walked on stage, collapsed. Her pink dress was strewn across the floor and Tom Norman was knelt next to her, lightly slapping the sides of her face to try and revive her. He stood up, “Alright now, stay calm everyone. Some find the Lady Isabella!” he shouted over the commotion. The Bearded Lady came to, and was handed a glass of water by Krao.

           Suddenly, a woman in a purple and orange oriental gown and turban burst through the flap of the tent.[16] Distressed and hands covered in blood she yells out “Mildred Button is dead!”

Chaos erupted in the crowd, which Norman started to usher out of the tent. “Sorry folks, due to unknown circumstances the rest of the shows are canceled for today!”

Two men in suits approach Norman, “Excuse me, we were here for the show but we are detectives with local law enforcement and are here to help with this apparent murder of one of your performers is it?”[17]

“Yes, yes,” said Norman, still in shock. He grabbed one of the detectives by the arm and said, “she was our only dwarf in the show. Look, I have as little information as you do we are going to have to talk to the Lady Isabella.” Tom Norman began to steer the detectives towards the Lady Isabella while Emma Darwin gathers her kids to leave. Charles started to follow behind them when the detective with a mustache stopped him.

“I am sorry, sir, but do you happen to be Charles Darwin? I recognize you from the paper,” the detective remarks.

“Oh yes, lovely to meet you. I will be getting out of your way.” Darwin tried to duck past the man.

“Actually sir, I was wondering if you would stick around for the investigation? My friend here Arthur Weaver is a consulting detective for the force whose a scientist and we have found that the more scientists we have at an investigation the faster we can solve it.”[18]

Darwin hesitates for a moment, “alright then, but I must get back to my family soon.” The detective holds out his hand to Charles “The name is John, John Fisher. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”

The two walk over to Norman and Isabella who was animatedly talking to Detective Weaver. “She claims she went into the female freak’s tent to talk to Ms. Button about the show they were doing together tonight and found her bleeding heavily from between her legs,” Detective Weaver says to his partner.

“She was dead when I found her! There was no way she was pregnant or nothing! She never even had her first menarche the doctors think she was too small,” Lady Isabella explained to the detectives.

“Lady Isabella is basically the manager of the female freaks here, knows all their medical information and keeps them all fresh and healthy for the shows,” Norman said.

“Actually I feel her spirit here with us!” Lady Isabella exclaimed.

“Huh?” said Darwin.

“She is also out in house medium. Sell out shows every week,” Norman said proudly.

“A medium, say,” Fisher inquires, “why don’t you just talk to Mildred’s spirit and she can tell ya why she is dead.”

“Yes! We must hold a séance!” The two detectives nod in agreement as Darwin tried to figure out he became a part of the side show act.

All but one torch was blown out and the five of them sat around a table with Lady Isabella at the head of it. “I ask you to all join hands and open yourself to the realm beyond,” the Lady Isabella said. Charles Darwin could not believe the scene he had gotten himself into but decided to play along and close his eyes.

“I call to you Mildred Button. Come to us and illuminate what brought you to such an untimely end.” The Lady Isabella started to take larger and larger breaths and it seemed that everyone else had stopped breathing. This single torch on the wall flickered fast. “Yes, my girl! Speak through me!”

           A shiver seemed to pass through Lady Isabella as the table started to shake. Suddenly the table stopped and the Lady Isabella’s eyes snapped open. Her whole demeanor changed from commanding to scared.[19] “There was this doctor…” Darwin’s eyes snapped open at the voice. It had come from the Lady Isabella’s mouth but it was not her own. This voice was timid and of a higher pitch, not unlike a little girl or dwarf women he assumed. Goose bumps spread up his arms, he tried to tell himself it was the body’s natural reaction to the unknown and he was not actually afraid there was a spirit talking through the women beside him.  

           “There was this doctor who said he was going to cure me,” the voice continued. “He had come to check on all of the women, but he spent extra time on me because I was feeling down about work and had these coughing fits recently. I heard the mention of hysteria. I am not crazy!” [20]the voice seemed distressed.

           “Who was the doctor, what happened?” Detective Weaver asked.

           “I do not remember much, but it was very painful and when I woke up I no longer felt like a women.” A tear rolled down Lady Isabella’s face. “A week of pain went by that just got worse, and today I could not even walk. The incisions he made down there in me were swollen, and then there was a tearing, and the blood would not stop coming. I tried to call for help but everyone was at the show.”

           “Do you know who the Doctor was, Mildred Button? We cannot solve your murder unless you tell us who treated you here,” Fisher exclaimed.

           The Lady Isabella had tears streaming down her face. The voice came through with the sound of pure anger. “It was Dr. Baker Brown,” it hissed.

The Lady Isabella’s head collapsed onto the table. She looked up, appearing to be out of her trance. “God Almighty in heaven, rest her soul. That was the man who saw the Bearded Woman! I heard her go on and on about some cure, I thought she was talking nonsense!” Lady Isabella explained, voice back to normal.

The detectives looked back and forth at each other. “Are you thinking what I am thinking?” Detective Fisher asks his partner.

“That is the man we had been getting multiple reports about!” Detective Weaver shouted, slamming his palms on the table and getting up. “We can use Mildred Button’s death to finally end that Ratbag! This will make our careers!” He slapped his buddy on the arm.

The detectives shook the hands of Norman and Lady Isabella. “We will try to pin him for murder, but if that does not stick we will at least be able to get him for destruction of property for your freak show because you lost an act,” Detective Fisher said. “We must get going but we will update you guys when we can.” The two detectives ducked out of the tent together.

“I best be going,” Darwin said. “I am glad you will be getting justice for your friend Mildred, a man as dastardly as that deserves to be off the street for good. You cannot force evolution by removing part of a being.” He shook hands with Norman.

Charles Darwin turned to Lady Isabella. “I do not know what you just did there ma’am, but my wife is always telling me that there are things on this Earth that are truly beyond our comprehension and I think you might be the first proof I have found of that.” She smiled at him as he walked out of the tent to tell his wife and kids a new fantastic story to match those from his youth.  

[1] Charles Darwin, The Autobiography of Charles Darwin, 1958, 197.

[2] Nadja Durbach, “Monstrosity, Masculinity, and Medicine: Re-Examining the Elephant Man,” Cultural and Social History, 2012, 201.

[3] Durbach, “Monstrosity, Masculinity, and Medicine,” 201.

[4] Ibid, 201.

[5] Ibid, 194.

[6] Ibid, 202.

[7] “Prince Randian: Biography,” International Movie Database, 2017.

[8] Ibid.

[9] Nadja Durbach, “The Missing Link and the Hairy Belle: Krao and the Victorian Discourses of Evolution, Imperialism and Primitive Sexuality,” Victorian Freaks, 2008, 1.

[10] Ibid, 1.

[11] Darwin, The Autobiography of Charles Darwin, 107.

[12] Ibid, 103.

[13] Ibid, 198.

[14] Ibid, 199.

[15] Ibid, 107.

[16] Arthur Conan Doyle, The Sign of Four, 2001.

[17] Ibid.

[18] Conan Doyle, The Sign of Four.

[19] Alex Owen, “The Darkened Room: Women, Power, and Spiritualism in Late Victorian England,” The New Cultural Studies Series, 1990.

[20] Isaac Baker Brown, “On the Curability of Certain Forms of Insanity, Catalepsy, and Hysteria in Females,” 1866.  

#writing #story #history #historical fiction #freak show #charles darwin #the mysterious death of mildred button #victorian england #victorian era #victorian era fiction #personal #mine #i had to write this for class and since i havent posted any writing in awhile i thought id add it to my list lol #fic

[mamepwrites]

Ebb and Flow

Below is a short story I wrote for a creative writing class last year. Inspired in part by southern gothic/film noir.

(This has since been rewritten and expanded.)

Ebb and Flow, by Mesba Bhuiya

The sun was too goddamn hot today. I could’ve sworn the surface of the bayou was boiling with the way it steamed, or something like that. I’m no weatherman.

“You there yet?” buzzed the radio.

“Just about, chief,” I said back. “I’ll be done soon enough.”

“Way out there in the middle of hicksville nowhere. Watch out for the river.”

The worst had passed, but would come again: the fens upriver kept reaching for the road, like tendrils. Every glance I got of them made the hair on my neck stand on end. Along with that, the drive was a good forty minutes already. I couldn’t take the 333 here, not on this side of the river. And the dirt roads down here were nameless. No signs, no nothing. I should have been used to this by now.

I saw a man in the distance, wearing a red cap and a plaid shirt which bursted open from his pot belly as he ran out of his house, flagging me down.

“You came, sheriff,” he said, breathless.

“I’m not the sheriff, just Deputy Serrafib. Are you Mr. Fora–Foret, was it?”

“Foret. Bill Foret.” The T wasn’t silent, I thought, making the correction on my index card. We went inside his home.

“I was told you called about a missing child. Is that right?”

“Missing? He might as well be...My boy, yeah. Mason’s been gone since yesterday, around the afternoon. Shit, he took my car too.” He lowered to a mumble. “I’mma beat his ass when I find him.”

“Now, Mr. Foret, why’d you call us directly? 911 is fine for missing persons.”

“I did. Twice. Something must have been wrong with the line, or they hung up. I went to Beth Dufrene down the road to try again, but she said I should call you, that the folks up in Esther don’t do jack for us.”

Someone down the road, in this phantom town. I shifted slightly, peeking behind Bill’s head. The heat of the zenith covered the rest of the “town” in a highway mirage, but I knew what those huts were. Drug dens. A dark mist began to cover my eyes and the huts. I shook it out.

“Did you see which way he took the car, sir?”

“He went thataway,” he said, pointing behind me. Figured the dens could be ruled out. Thank God.

“Well, it’s a hell of the trip from Abbeville to here, Mr. Foret. Can you tell me about your son?”

Bill gestured to the stairs, and we walked. “It’s not the first time he’s taken off in my car, I can tell you that. But he’d always come back by midnight.”

“I mean physical details, sir.”

“Oh. Well he’s tall for his age, over six feet now. What was he again, seventeen, nineteen?”

I gave him a blank stare at the turn of the staircase.

“Nineteen,” he said. “His hair’s like sand, and on his arm he’s got a tattoo of...Sky—of...well...”

“A tattoo of what, Mr. Foret?”

“A tattoo of a woman, deputy. Curly blonde with a small nose, head in the clouds.”

***

“Come on, you can go—un—slower, sha. I wanna enjoy this too.”

“Shut your mouth.” I pushed. I wasn’t here to enjoy things, though her bouncing curls were fun to watch. But I thought of the tendrils again. So I closed my eyes and pushed.

I threw the rubber in the trash, where the others were. Lying back on the bed, I lit a joe while she grabbed me with a bit of spit, pulling up and down.

“How come we never talk no more, Tony? You always had so many things to say to me about your cases, Mr. Poe Leese.”

I glanced at her from the side of my eye.

“You ain’t ploughing me no more, least you can do is speak.” She pulled harder.

“Alright, alright.” I gave her a few cigs. The place already smelled like rot and cancer anyway. “You know anything about a Mason Foret? Tall, sandy hair. He come to you?”

“Oh, he comes to me every weekend,” she said, chuckling. “He’s a big guy.” She squeezed at the top.

“Cut the shit, Skylar.”

“I’m serious! Every Saturday at nine o’clock.” She giggled. “Oh, the whispers he gives in my ear...Say, what’s your time this week? Six minutes? You could learn a thing or two from him about technique. He tips well, too. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he loves me.”

“That don’t sound like love, Skylar. I’m here every Sunday and you don’t hear me whispering jack to you.”

“Well you should. A lady like me wants more...worthwhile friends. Ones who can reciprocate.” She moved my hand over her breast and made me squeeze and play with the nipple.

“Skylar.”

“Fine then.” She dropped my hand, but kept pulling with her other. I felt like I was going to burst.

“What can you tell me about Mason?”

“Well, he came here last night with his boys. He’s been bringing his camera a lot lately. It’s the instant kind, he’s a bit old fashioned. Sometimes I don’t know whether he’s paying more attention to me or the viewfinder.”

“Do you study photography or something? Whatever, Skylar, his room’s covered in your pictures.”

“As a matter of fact, I majored in pho—hold on, did you say covered?”

“The kid’s dad went batshit when he first saw it. So he said.”

“For real, Tony? I was just joking, I didn’t think he was that obsessed…”

“That, and missing. We’ve got patrols going around for him, posters  and all. Have you any idea where he is?”

“Hmm...before his boys left him last night, he said something about some junkyard...in New Iberia, I think. They were gonna shoot up or smoke. I don’t know.”

I swung my legs off the bed and pulled my pants up. There was difficulty in buckling the belt, so I let her finish me off and clean up.

“You stay safe, now,” she said. “He’s a rowdy one.”

“It’s not like I’m mowing his lawn.” I scoffed. “Before I go, how much was it for the Percocet?”

“For you? Ten a pop.”

***

Now, New Iberia was out of the Vermilion Parish, and so it was outside of my jurisdiction, but I checked it anyway. Going plainclothes saved me trouble, since sheriffs around here had a nasty tendency to get pissy about their territory, and my boss up in Abbeville was no exception. Yet here at the junkyard, it felt like no man’s land. By the time I came closer to the bonfires, already I saw three people tussling, with rusted knives, brass knuckles, and whatever else they scrounge up from the trash heaps. A tire was thrown somewhere. The only law enforcement here was whoever was still standing by the end of it.

The shadow of the bonfire crawled along the ground, entangling those teens laying limp on the ground with vomit crusting at their cheeks. For a moment the fire went dim and damp like a shrouded sun, and all I saw were the kids floating on the surface of the junkyard. All I could think to do was finger my gun, but step by step I made it out. Mason Foret was not here.

It’d been a few days since the kid’s dad called, and with all of my other leads snapped from the strings they hung from, I made the drive back the next day, and in uniform again. I still hated these goddamn fens. I should never have come to Louisiana.

The Forets’ front door was wide open, creaking in the wind. The house was otherwise quiet. Rain was about to fall soon. I drew my M1911 and went in. The house was dead as a dodo, and so was Bill Foret. Body at least two days old, leaking everywhere. Bled out from his gut and groin, long dried. Weapon missing. The kid’s room was now devoid of all features except for one.

COME FIND ME

It didn’t smell like paint. The red was dry on the wall, mostly covering up the spots where Skylar’s pictures once were, but you could still see some of the dust lines. The window was wide open, and through it I saw the huts in the distance, stealing my eyes. I radioed the chief for backup and drove off, deeper into the shades of this once-town. Deeper into the mist’s maw.

Ruins of old homes hit by years of storms dotted this edge of land, and in them were the dregs of the parish. I should have checked here sooner. The gun quavered in my hand just as the the black mist’s writhing fingertips probed my skull. Trigger control, trigger control. Behind the door was a wide room where the air felt...cracked, disjointed. Teenagers lay on one side of the room with crusted vomit on their mouths and eyes wobbling, trying to lock onto me. Middle-aged men lay on the other side, sprawled out wide, clothes stained black. Some even had skin falling off. They were all floating on the surface like a mass fish death. There was another room to the side, its wood splitting and salt-worn. I heard bated laughing.

“Hands behind your head!” Finger off the trigger.

He splashed in the depth of his polaroids, faded blue.

“I said hands behind your head, now!”

“Oh, Tony...Tony!” You’re the cop that’s been haunting me?” He shook his sandy hair back into the pile of photos. “Well I’ve been hunting you, but honest to God am I surprised it’s you. All I could get from Skylar was that it was a cop. She wouldn’t tell me your name.” He grasped the knife at his side, bloodied back.

“Mason, let go of the knife.”

“Alright. Alright. You just answer me one thing, Tony. One thing.”

I said nothing.

“Why’d you dirty her like that, Tony?” His voice scratched. “She’s my woman!” He started crawling, clawing at the floor with his cracking fingernails to pull himself forward. The black tendrils came slithering behind him.

“You stay the fuck back, boy!” I heard sirens in the distance.

“I’ll gut you and paint the walls with you, Tony. All the others did it with her once, maybe a few times. You and me, though?” He shook his head. “No way I’m letting you leave.” He grasped his knife again. I heard rumbling in the other room, but the bodies were still. My vision became muddled. Mason reached across the waters made up of the woman, pulling himself closer and closer to my feet. His eyes looked bulging and bulbous, and his skin scaly and pasty.  He grabbed the knife again, sticking it in the floorboards to pull on. The rusty thing broke and cut his face.

“You won’t take me from my Sky, nor my Sky from me.”

He kept screaming that as we dragged him out, handcuffed and wriggling.

“You doing okay there, Serrafib?” the sheriff said, arriving shortly after. I was on the threshold of the deep, with its dark arms reaching and pulling for me.

Ebb and flow.

Thousands of fish lay dead on the water.

#writing #short story #ebb and flow #southern gothic #film noir #original story #mamep #mamepwrites

[yourobedientslytherin]

The Upper Hand: Jefferson x Reader {Part 8}

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

Hamilton -- Modern Au (Law School)

Jefferson x Reader

1,676 words

We have finally made it, everyone! The final chapter of The Upper Hand. It’s been a long road for the reader and Thomas, filled with animosity, bad blood, rivalries, miscommunication, and misunderstandings. But this is the good part. I can’t wait to hear what you think of it!!

When you stumble through your door in the wee hours of the morning, you did not expect to find not one, but two men sleeping at your apartment. It had been a long, painful weekend, filled with avoiding your troubles with alcohol and going over the scene in the restaurant over and over. You had skipped a day of classes, needing some more time to process your life, which you couldn’t do if you saw Alexander and Thomas. Now, after all that emotional upheaval, you just want to go to sleep in the comfort of your own bed and not think about this until morning. But Alex is asleep on your couch, lying on his stomach with one arm hanging over the floor. He snorts lightly and readjusts his position when you close the door loudly behind you. His presence makes you suddenly realize the consequences of cutting off contact with all your friends. They must have been so worried about you. At the least you should’ve let Laurens or Herc know that you were okay. You set down your overnight bag next to your shoes and cross the floor to Alex. Your hand on his shoulder jerks him out of his sleep, and he looks around, confused and scared, for a moment. “Hey, Alex, it’s okay,” you say softly, comforting him. Recognition smooths the wrinkles in his forehead. “Y/N, you’re back!” You nod, unable to speak because of the tightness in your throat. “I’m so sorry,” he says. He sits up on the couch and runs a hand through his messy, loose hair. “I totally overreacted about Jefferson. And I let my bad feelings toward him get in the way of your happiness. Apparently.” At the questioning look in your eyes, he clarifies. “Laurens may have had a talk with me.” “I accept your apology, Alex. And I should apologize to you, too. I overreacted, especially by not answering your calls or telling you that I was okay. I just needed a few days to think about what I wanted, and I couldn’t do that if I talked to you or Thomas.” “Y/N, we were so worried,” Alexander says, touching your shoulder gently. “We thought you’d been kidnapped or gotten into an accident or something.” “I didn’t realize…” You felt sick. How could you not have let your own friends know that you were okay? How selfish were you? “I’m so sorry.” He wraps an arm around your shoulders. “Everyone went out looking for you, even Jefferson.” “Thomas?” your heart lifts. You were afraid that he had moved on. His last message sounded like he had given up on you. “Y/N, he really likes you.” Alex tries to keep his emotions under control. “We stayed here just in case you came back.” “We?” “Oh. Jefferson’s in your bedroom. He passed out by the time I came back.” He tries to stay upset with Jefferson, but the light in your eyes makes it hard for him not to smile. “He made a mess in your kitchen.” Your heart skips a beat. He’s here. You’d been over this scene countless times in your head—explaining your need for some time to yourself, apologizing if you confused or hurt him, hoping and praying that he would be willing to start over. The longer you went without talking to him, the more you missed him. You’d played his voicemails over and over again, relishing his sexy, constantly sleepy-sounding voice. Your heart hurt being away from him. Alex senses your longing and gets up off the couch, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Y/N, I’m gonna go call everyone and let them know you’re okay.” After a moment of contemplation he adds, “And I’ll go home too.” “Alex, are you okay to drive? You still stay on the couch. I don’t want you to feel like I’m kicking you out.” “Nah, I’m fine. Good luck, Y/N.” After he gives you a quick hug, he gathers his belongings. You leave him in the living room, making your way to your bedroom. The door’s partially ajar, and you can see the comforter has been displaced by a large mass. Thomas is lying in the middle of the bed on his back, one arm draped across his forehead, the other perpendicular to his body. The blankets cover his legs and waist, exposing his six-pack abs and toned chest. He’s a very attractive man, enough to get your heart racing and weaken your legs. All confidence leaves you, and you consider letting him sleep until a normal time of morning. It’ll give you more time to think about what you’re going to say to him. You sneak another look at him, feeling like you’re gazing on something you’re not supposed to be looking at. His expression is so relaxed, you’d hate to disturb him. You’ll just speak with him in the morning. You turn to leave and accidentally stub your toe on your dresser. An involuntary yelp leaves your lips, loud enough to wake up Thomas. He jerks up in bed, clutching the covers to his chest. “You better have a good reason for waking me up at the ass-crack of dawn,” he growls. You take a step back, affronted. That was really rude. He blinks away the sleep from his eyes and peers into the darkness. You realize he can only see your silhouette, not your face. He doesn’t realize it’s you. “Thomas,” you say quietly. “It’s me.” His expression fades from irritation to surprise. He slowly gets out of the bed and turns on the lamp on the side table, bathing the whole room in weak yellow light. He’s only wearing boxers, you realize, blushing. “Y/N, where have you been?” he asks, standing with his hands by his sides. His eyes search your face and body intensely, looking for any signs of harm or injury. “Angelica’s,” you whisper, guilt creeping into your gut. “Laurens called her. She said she didn’t know where you were.” “Apparently she has something against both you and Alex, so she was okay with lying to you guys.” “Why didn’t you call? Even just a text would have helped me stop worrying.” “I’m sorry. I just—I wanted some time to think everything through.” “I was so scared, Y/N.” The pain in his eyes brings tears to your eyes. “I thought you’d been kidnapped or murdered or had gotten into an accident.” “I didn’t realize.” Your voice cracks as your throat tightens. “I’m so sorry.” A tear slips down your cheek, and in an instant, Thomas closes the distance between you. He wipes the tear away with the pad of his thumb, conveying some deep emotion in his gaze. He loves me. His strong arms wrap around your shoulders, pressing you into his chest. You melt into his embrace, squeezing him as tightly as he holds you. You stay that way for a long time, listening to his rapid heartbeat . And then, he pulls away, his hands cupping your face gently. “Please don’t ever do that to me again,” he whispers. You promise with a nod. Slowly, softly, he dips his head toward yours, your lips brushing each other. You sigh and your arms find his shoulders, pulling his lips close for another kiss. This one is deeper, more urgent, more needy. One of his arms wraps around your waist and pulls you into his body, the other cradling the back of your head. You feel like you can fly as you kiss him. You and Thomas break apart, breathing heavily. He rests his forehead on yours and smiles. “I’ve wanted to do that since the moment you threatened me in Washington’s class,” he admits, his thumb stroking your cheek. “You didn’t take me seriously?” He laughs. “Oh, no, I did. I was scared shitless. But it also kinda turned me on.” You blush and swat his arm. “Thomas!” “Come on, baby. You know you like it.” He winks, and you roll your eyes at his cocky attitude. “Dating you is going to try my patience.” “So you want to go out with me?” he asks pseudo-innocently. “I do, Thomas. You owe me a French meal. And a new dress!” “Oh, baby, you’re gonna get so much more than just that.” He picks you up and twirls you in a circle. You shriek and laugh. “Thomas, put me down!” “Only if you say the magic word!” “Please?” “No…but it rhymes with please.” You narrow your eyes as you think. A grin spreads across your face as you get an idea. “Mac ‘n’ cheese?” “Correct!” He puts you down but keeps an arm around your waist. “Are you hungry?” “Just the idea of mac ‘n’ cheese makes you hungry?” “Definitely! But I’ll settle for some waffles and ice cream.” “As you wish.” You take his hand and lead him to the kitchen. As you cook with Thomas, you realize you’ve never been more content and satisfied in your whole life. He constantly touches your waist, wrist, elbow, jawline, anywhere he can reach. And he kisses you any place he can find. Everything he does and says is to make you laugh, and you do laugh. Mostly at him because he’s ridiculous and has the same punny sense of humor as your father, the kind that makes you groan and hate yourself for laughing at because it’s so bad. Most of all, he looks at you like you’re the most beautiful girl in the world, like he can’t believe he has you. Like he desires to know you in every way, your attention, your humor, your goals and dreams, your weaknesses and strengths, your preferences in the bedroom, your embarrassing moments and your triumphs. As he tries to paint a face on you with whipped cream, you realize that you can be satisfied with this man for the rest of your life. And with that realization, you pull him close and kiss him with as much passion and desire and love as you can possibly have inside your soul.

A/N: Hey! I hope you enjoyed The Upper Hand. I know I definitely enjoyed writing it and hearing feedback from you guys, my amazing readers :) I planned on writing a cute fluff epilogue for The Upper Hand, but I won’t do it unless you guys ask for it. If you want another short scene of Thomas and the reader being freakin’ adorable and #relationshipgoals let me know and I’ll write it up!

Also, stay tuned for more oneshots and a future Jefferson x Reader x Lafayette three part! I also really want to write any requests you guys have, so don’t be shy!

#hamilton #thomas jefferson #thomas jefferson x reader #the upper hand #daveed diggs

[tsw-story]

Chapter 64 - Power Overwhelming

Five rumps were resting upon furnishings in Deena's living room. They were far from relaxed, no matter how comfortable the sofa was, because it was two twenty according to the clock that echoed with the clicking sound of a second hand. Not knowing was almost worse than a loss—how powerful was the Ley Point, would Eldrian be able to stop Tyreth from stealing it, what was happening now?

Kevin thrust up from his seat. “I can't stand it! Why didn't we go too?”

“I understand, though some battles do need finesse,” Daveon responded, and readjusted his cap. “Remember what we talked about weeks ago. It's dangerous enough that this many wizards are in cahoots, so the last thing we need to do is charge into another country as an army. Next time, Kevin. Next time there's a big demon stomping through the land, we'll fight it together.”

He cursed beneath his breath. His fingers toyed with the band around his wrist, and he tapped his toe in painful anticipation, but he knew that it wouldn't make the clock move faster. It was inching closer to the time the Ley Point would apparently make its appearance.

“Kevin,” spoke the calm voice of Arlandria.

Was she truly calm? Kevin eyed her over, and he thought not. It was simply how elves sounded when they talked, despite the scenario. Perhaps that's why Tyreth was so intimidating.

“You're sweet for worrying about him. But that also means you have to trust him.”

Kevin shook his head. “I know,” he muttered beneath his breath, and then he maneuvers himself back down to sit uncomfortably on the couch. “Thank you. I do know that.”

“I trust him!” Renatta burst out. “He did not die that time I tried to kill him, so I think he is quite talented at living.”

“Though it's weird to say it like that,” Kevin replied with a chuckle.

Deena wasn't occupying the conversation in the slightest. She had a hefty tome, the Nekonomicon, resting over her lap as she sat alone on a seat beside the rest. Her eyes never left the pages. The way she sat back, much of her face was covered as well. None of them were given the chance to read her.

“It's time,” spoke Arlandria. “Two twenty-two. The Ley Point is here.”

***

Eldrian had no comprehension of where he was—what anything was. There were only flashing colours in every direction he turned. His feet were touching nothing, yet he gave no effort to fly, and all of his exhaustion and pain was nonexistent. He felt no hunger, thirst, or sadness. He felt very little, actually, almost like his mind and body were numb.

The prismatic light around him was blinding. At least, he figured it would be, but he had no need to avert his eyes. He stared in awe at the beautiful display, but it wasn't long before he felt its effects.

The power. The unbelievable power. It was far too much for his small body to contain, and he began to feel the sensation of a pressurized bottle ready to shatter in the freezer—one someone filled too full with water before placing it inside. He felt like he could destroy mountains, like an atomic bomb was within his chest, waiting to free itself, though he also knew he couldn't let that happen.

If he unleashed all the power of the Ley Point, he could kill the others that were there, and maybe more. He might eliminate a nearby town, or even worse. He had no idea the strength of this energy.

Sandoval squinted open his eyes and gazed both in terror and magnificence at the glory of the light that had appeared before them. It was a sphere of rainbow up in the sky. Eldrian was nowhere to be seen, but the rest were forced against the ground by this sun's intense aura.

“ Dios Ojo,” he uttered. “It's gorgeous.”

“God damn!” shouted Whitfield.

“If that boy doesn't unleash that power, it will destroy him.”

“So what if he does?”

“Then we're all dead, I'm afraid. No spellbreaker can stop this.”

“What about that other wizard? He can open a portal—Damn! He's gone. The little snake slipped away when we weren't looking, didn't he? Classic Canadian.”

Tyreth's blood vessels were near bursting. He grit his teeth, and as he lay on his back, he stared at the massive ball of power swirling in the sky. It was supposed to be his, and worst of all, the person inside of it was a human.

His arms trembled. His breathing was rapid. Finally, he forced his body up into the air, forcing the thick air aside with a ward emitting from both of his palms. The focus required caused him to scream out like a feral animal, and given the fury in his eyes, he wasn't far off.

“This isn't over!” he yelled. “You're not stopping me now. I got my grandfather's sword. There's other artifacts out there just waiting to be taken, and I'll be damned if I let you take what's mine!”

Eldrian began to panic. He had no idea what was happening on the other side. The Ley Point's energy was welling up inside of him, trying to find its escape, most certainly in the means of mass destruction.

“This is too much,” he said aloud. “What do I do? This is far too much! Tyreth doesn't have it, but now that I do, what now?”

A noise of whirling winds increased steadily in volume, even if the air seemed still within his sphere. It grew along with the rising levels of power, and from the outside, light shot out the sides like crackling bolts of lightning to strike various parts of the soil.

He tried to steady his breathing. “No. This is magic. I'm a wizard. I write reality with my mind. No, my imagination. All I need to do is concentrate. If I can't overcome this, then I'll never be able to call myself something like an archmage.”

Eldrian took a few deep breaths. “If anyone's listening, I don't usually talk to myself,” he whispered, and exhaled deeply.

He needed to direct the power—his focus cut off. There was no longer a struggle against the power, for in that moment, he was one with magic. He knew what he needed to do, even if it wouldn't be a smooth ride. Eldrian the wizard seized control of the Ley Point's energy and moved it like a puppet—his brain pumping, and now actually aching despite what was happening before.

As he forced the storm from his body, there was still some resistance, but he tore it like a bandaid from himself. Though things were even stranger now. He saw before himself a shadow, and it was clearly his own, which departed forwards, like his vision was struggling to comprehend the anomaly.

It happened quickly for those waiting outside. Suddenly, the entire landscape was bathed in colours, like a tsunami of paint, and a beam of outstanding strength fired straight up into the sky. It parted the clouds above them. Tyreth, however, was being enveloped by bands of light. He struggled against him to no avail, and he felt himself being pulled away not to a different location here, but a different world entirely.

His body started to shimmer. Then, he vanished away, cursing Eldrian in his native tongue one more time. It all began to fade shortly after, leaving behind only a swirl in the sky, and Eldrian was hovering several meters above them.

Eldrian descended slowly into a cloud of dust a distance away. The rest groaned and stood, and not only were they still alive, but they felt better. It was like their injuries had subsided. Sandoval gave Whitfield a nasty look, but it was only them remaining now.

That's what they thought. Two figures stood ahead, and it was a man and woman. They appeared lost and confused. The last thing they remembered was the black blade of Tyreth, cutting them open on their date.

“Are those two them corpses?” Whitfield asked.

“Yes. I believe there were two deceased folks here from the beginning.”

“Where's that kid that did all that?”

“I think he's gone. I can't see him anywhere.”

***

“Eldrian!” screamed Kevin as his best friend stumped through the magic door.

He embraced him, and to their surprise, not a scratch was on his body. No arms were missing. He wasn't bleeding out. Even his clothes were intact. He was still garbed in his costume, though his hood was pulled down to reveal his exhausted face.

“What happened?” Arlandria asked.

Eldrian fell into leaning against the back of the nearest chair. “Nobody got the Ley Point. I think Tyreth is back in the Elf World. That's where I was trying to send him, anyway. And nobody saw my face.”

Daveon sighed and leaned back on his seat. “Thank goodness.”

“Now I just feel like I've been torn in half. I think I need a nap.”

***

Various cells lined a polished marble hall. Each of them was blocked by a powerful ward that was nearly invisible to the eye, even to an elf. It was like glass one could speak through, yet had no hope of ever piercing. This is where those went that disobeyed the law of the land. Murderers, thieves. They existed here, even in Heaven.

Yaelos rest his hand on the outside of the cell wall. It felt cold.

“So, how did it happen?” he asked.

The black-haired man was a mess. He sat on the floor against the wall, despite there being a bench a couple meters away. His calm demeanour fell flat, and his hair, despite seeming to be perfect always, was a bird's nest of loose strands and knots. He stared a piercing, icy glare from a single, uncovered eye through his bangs.

“He broke you,” Yaelos said. “Didn't he?”

“No. I broke a long time ago.”

Yaelos lowered his head, and the two remained in silence for an incredibly long time. The guards wondered why he stayed if he wasn't going to speak, but he remained regardless. There was finally a time for him to depart, and he did so without saying a word.

Tyreth spoke instead. “Earth does have lakes like that one.”

He went home, knowing he may never see that man again. But then he remembered that he lost his friend far before all of this. When he arrived, he saw the only thing he needed to see—the only smile that mattered anymore. Eldrian stood there with Arlandria beside him. The wizard fulfilled his promise, just like he said he would. He thought to himself then, that humans truly are fascinating.

#action #adventure #fiction #fantasy #serial #magic #wizard #writing #story

[jansegers]

Simple English Word List

SIMPLE1540 : a simple English wikipedia word list based on the XML export of all articles related to the nine major groups: Everyday life, Geography, History, Knowledge, Language, Literature, People, Religion, and Science and retaining all word forms appearing 7 times or more in this corpus. The total number of words in this corpus is well over the 100.000 words. a A.D. ability able about above absence abstinence abstract academic academy accent accept access accord account across act action active activity actual actually ad add addition adherent adjective adult advance advice affect after again against age agnostic agnosticism ago agree agreement agriculture air alcohol all allow ally almost alone along alphabet also although always amateur amendment among amount an analysis ancient and angel animal annals anonymous another answer anthropomorphism any anyone anything aphasia appear apple apply approach archaeology architecture area argue argument around arrange art article artificial artist ask aspect associate association astronomy at atheism atheist atomic attack attempt attribute audience author authority available average avoid award away B.C. baby back background backpack bad bah balance band baptism base basic basis battle BCE be bear beautiful beauty because become bed bee before begin behavior behind being belief believe believing belong below best better between beyond bias biblical bibliography big billion biological biology birth bit black blind blood blue body book born both bottom boundary box boy brain branch bring brown buffalo build building bull burn business but by c. ca. calendar call can cancer canon capital caption car carbon card carry case cassette cat category cathedral catholic cause cell center central century cerebral certain change chapel chapter character chemical chemistry child china China choice choir choose chronicle church circumcise circumcision cite citizen city civil civilian civilization claim clan class classical cleanup clear clergy click climate close closer clothes clothing coast coauthor code codex cognitive col cold collection college colonization colony color column com come commentary commission common commonly communicate communication communion communist community companion company compare competition complete complex compose composer computer concept conception concern condition confuse confusion congregational connect connection conquer conquest consciousness consider consistent constitution construct construction contain contemporary content context continent continue contrary control convention conversation conversion convert cook cooking copy core correct could council country course court cover covered create creation credit crime critical criticism crop cross crust cultural culture current currently daily damage dark data date day dead death debt decadence decadent decide declaration decline deconstruction deep define definition deity demonstrate denomination department depth describe description design detail determinism developed development device devil diagnosis dialect dictionary die difference different difficult difficulty diphthong dipstick direct directly dirt disagree disambiguation disbelief discipline discover discovery discussion disease disorder 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orthology other others our out outer outside over own oxygen p. pack pagan page paint palace paper paradigm parent parish park part participant particular particularly party pas pass past pasta pattern pay peace peer penguin penis people per percent percentage perception performance perhaps period peroxide persecution person personal personality perspective persuasion pet phenomenon philosopher philosophical philosophy phoneme phonetic phonetics photo phrase physic physical picture piece pilgrimage place plan planet plant plat plate play please poem poems poet poetry point pole police policy political politics polytheism polytheistic popular population position positive possession possible possibly post power powerful pp. practical practice praise pray prayer precise predict prediction prehistory present preserve press prevent priest primary principle print printing private probably problem process produce product production professional program project pronounce pronunciation proof property prophet propose prose proselytism protection protein provide province psychological psychology public publication publish publisher publishing punishment pure purpose put pyramid quantum question quickly quite quote race racial rack radiation radio rain range rate rather read reader real realism reality really reason receive recent recently reclamation recognize record recreation red ref refer reference referred reform reformation regard region reign rejection relate relation relationship relatively relativity reliable relic religion religious remain remember remove renaissance replace report republic request require research researcher resource respect response result resurrection retrieve return revelation revert review revision revival revolution rhetoric rich right rise ritual river rock role room royal rule ruled ruler run rural sacred sacrifice safe saga sage saint salad same sample satellite saw say schizophrenia scholar school science scientific scientist scope sea search second secondary section secular see seek seem selection self sense sent sentence separate sequence series service set seven several sexual shall shaman shape share she short should show shrine side sign significant silence similar simple simply since single situation six size skill skin slavery sleep slightly slow small smell smith snake so social society sociology soft soil solar soldier solid soliloquy some someone something sometimes song soon sortable sound source space speak speaker special specie specific speech speed spell spirit spiritual spirituality split sport spread square st. stage stain standard star start state statement station statistic statistical statue status stick still stone stop story strange strap strong structure struggle stub student study stutter style subject successful such sugar suggest sun sung sunlight superior superiority supernatural support suppose supreme sure surface survey surveyor sushi sustainability sustainable sweat symbol symbolic system table take talk tam tan task teach teacher teaching technique technology tectonics teeth tell temperature template temple ten term terminology territory tertiary test testament text textual than thank that the their theism them themselves then theology theoretical theory therapy there therefore thesaurus these they thick thing think third this those though thought thousand three through throughout thumb thus ticket tight time title to today together toilet tolerance toleration tongue too tool top topic total towards tower trade tradition traditional train translation transport travel treat treatment tree trench trial tribe tried trig true truth try turn twentieth twenty two type typical typically ultimate ultraviolet under understand understood union unit united universal universe university unknown unsortable until up upon upper urban urbanization usage use useful usually valley value van vandalism various vassal vegetable verb verbal verse version very video view violence virgin visit vitamin vocabulary voice vol. volume vowel vs. wale wall want war warm warmer wash waste water wave way we weak wealth wear weather web website weight well what when where whether which while white who whole whom whose why wide widely wild wilderness will window wisdom wise witch witchcraft with within without witness woman word work worker world worship would write writer writing wrong yam year yellow you young your

China, March and May made this list because china, march and may are on it and I didn't want to decide in favor of the common noun or the proper noun; all other proper nouns have been omitted (even the ten other months that met the criterium of appearing more then 6 times). #SimpleWikipedia #SimpleEnglish #wordlist #English #words #level1540 #Inli #nimi #selo1540

#SimpleWikipedia SimpleEnglish wordlist English words level1540 Inli nimi selo1540