#i have guilt written down like 12 times

[whumpay]

babe wake up new whumpay prompts dropped. like last year, im posting early for more time to prepare

Welcome to Whumpay 2024! Up above you will see the basic prompt list and down below the cut you will see it written out in a list, as well as three mini challenges (and by extension, the extreme edition)

Rules are the same as usual

You only have to use one (Or two, if you’re doing the extreme edition.) prompt a day! But you’re welcome to use multiple if you want to, and it still counts for both.

I know the description of the blog says it’s a writing event, but if you want to draw or make other kinds of content, that’s cool too.

Have fun, tag content warnings (such as noncon, graphic violence, etc) and try not to be crushed by the mortifying ordeal of posting your writing.

This is a pretty chill event so you can start posting whenever but I’ll be reblogging posts made to the #Whumpay2024 tag throughout May. For real this time.

These all also apply to these three special mini challenges, consisting of a 7 day, a 10 day, and a 14 day prompt list.

EXTREME EDITION: This year's extreme edition doesn't have its own prompt list, but instead, youll be taking all three mini challenges in order along with the main prompt list. Some of these fit pretty well, others less so.

1 - Mad Science:

Day 1: Strapped To An Operating Table

Day 2: Paralytic Drug

Day 3: Made A Lab Rat

Day 4: Vivisection

Day 5: Truth Potion/Serum/Spell

Day 6: Russian Roulette

1 - Attacks, Mental & Physical:   

Day 7: Heart Attack

Day 8:  Asthma Attack

Day 9: Animal Attack

Day 10: Panic Attack

3 - Ineffective Medical Care:

Day 11: Medical Torture

Day 12: Withholding Medical Treatment

Day 13: Medication Tampering

Day 14: Injury Brushed Off

Day 15: No Anesthetic

4: Mindfuck

Day 16: Presumed Dead

Day 17: Memory Loss

Day 18: Stockholm Syndrome

Day 19: Phantom Pains

Day 20: Love Potion/Spell

Day 21: Role Reversal 

5. Nature's Revenge

Day 22: Slowly Running Out Of Air

Day 23: Natural Disaster 

Day 24: Struck By Lightning

Day 25: Snowed In

Day 26: Heatstroke

6. Traps & Trauma

Day 27: Caught In A Net

Day 28: Traumatic Touch Aversion

Day 29: Used As Bait

Day 30:  Flashbacks

Day 31: Choose Who Lives

Mini challenge #1: Torture

#1: Tortured For Information

#2: Whipping

#3: Branding

#4: Begging To Be Killed

#5: Recorded/Broadcast Torture

#6: False Execution

#7: Shock Collar

Mini Challenge #2: Dialogue

#8: “Why are you doing this?”

#9: “Don’t look.”

#10: “You look awful.”

#11: “Who did this to you?”

#12: “No one is coming for you.”

#13: “No one cares about me.”

#14: “Don’t lie to me.”

#15: “Stay with me, please.”

#16: ”You’re scaring me!”

#17: “You’re a monster.”

Mini Challenge #3: Aftermath

#18: Fighting Against Caretaker 

#19: Seeking Revenge

#20: Taking The Blame

#21: Barely Conscious

#22: Disassociation

#23: Carried To Safety

#24: Scars

#25: Unhealthy Codependency 

#26: Infected Wound

#27: Survivor’s Guilt

#28: Touch Starvation

#29: Abandonment Issues

#30: Cradled In Someone’s Arms

#31: Adrenaline Crash

Alt Prompts:

Death Game

Came Back Wrong

Attack The Injury

Healing Malfunction

Left For Dead 

Mistaken Identity

Dazed

Trapped Under Rubble

Drowning

Disowned By Family

Hostage Situation

Have fun everybody!

#whump #whump event #whump writing #writing #whumpay #writers #writing event #whump prompt #whumpay2024 #prompt list #whump prompt list

[indouloureux]

chateau (feel alright)

steve harrington x reader

summary: with your insomnia driving you insane, steve goes through the sleepless night helping you fall asleep in his arms.

word count: 3, 577

warnings: insomnia, fluff, smut mdni 18+

a/n: i was like halfway through my mcu peter fic then my brain stopped and told me to write steve??? anyway this is kinda short so bear with me pls hope you guys enjoy

MASTERLIST

explicit warnings: sleepy sex, slight choking, praise kink creampie, oral f receiving, fingering, multiple orgasms (like two lol)

-

1. shower, 12:34am

“(y/n)?”

Steve’s awakened by the soft pattering of the shower hitting the ceramic floor. His upper body cold with the lack of your warmth, and he immediately thinks that this was one of those nights – the unsleeping mind taking over your poor lethargic body.

He glances to the bedside table and faintly sees your notebook left open with a pencil on the edge. Steve scoots upward and takes the notebook into his large hands, opening the lamp to read your list. In the dim glow, your hand writing presents yourself to him in messy cursive written on the thin lined paper, a list you’d done years ago for nights like these.

It’s not your fault, really, rather it’s the Hawkins’ freakish encounters that keep you up late at night staring at the window, waiting for the inevitable. And a few weeks ago it had been okay – you’d been sleeping right on time, with the help of Steve's tactile touch and sweet loving.

Until right now. For some unknown reason. And he feels the guilt creep up to his chest at the thought that he may have not done enough.

Steve must have woken up too late because he hears the shower turn off. The light seeps through the bottom of the door, and turns off when the lock clicks. Steve places the notebook beside him and rubs the sleep off his eyes, bare chest nipped by the cold air that seeps through the ajar window.

You open the door, clad in a white towel that covers your body, residue water dripping down the carpeted floor. Steve frowns, pushing the covers off his legs to walk over to you, socked feet padding against the floor as he stares at your awfully pretty face that’s sunken by disappointment.

Your back is hunched with the upsetting weight of inertia on your shoulders. Steve places his hands on your shoulders and straightens them, rubbing the wet hair off your forehead. He cups your face, thumbs rubbing your eyebags.

“Hey,” you murmur. “Did I wake you?”

Steve shakes his head, smelling lavender and soap off your body, hands running up and down your shoulders. “No. Just woke up by myself, don’ worry.”

“Yeah,” you tell him, slipping on your underwear, not bothering to wear a bra. “It’s happening again, Steve. I’m sorry.”

Steve doesn’t care being late at night with you, as he’s told you many times before. But he does mind the sadness that creeps up your face when the tiredness can’t let you sleep in those opprobrious nights.

Steve doesn’t care being late at night with you, as he’s told you many times before. But he does mind the sadness that creeps up your face when the tiredness can’t let you sleep in those opprobrious nights.

He instructs you to raise your hands and slips on your shirt, careful not to hit your face and smiles when your head peeks through. “‘s alright, babe. I’ll stay up with you.”

Shaking your head, you secure the shorts around your waist and take the towels off his hands. Steve brushes your hair out of your face, running a hand through your slick tresses and untangle the knots. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he places a hand on the back of your neck and kisses your forehead, letting his lips linger on your damp skin before he pulls away to massage wipe droplets off your eyelids. “I’ll be with you till you fall asleep, doll.”

2. read a book, 12: 39am

Steve’s head rests on your shoulder, hair lit into a soft brown provided by the orange light of the lamp beside you. A blanket covering both of your enervated bodies, there’s a hand that runs through his hair, and a hand on your book.

He turns the pages for you when you kiss his forehead, fighting his slowly blinking eyes and tries to read with you. But he finds the book you’re reading awfully disturbing, and when he reads a part that snaps his eyes wide open, Steve looks at you with a befuddled gaze.

“Baby, that book’s messed up,” he mumbles, wrapping the blanket closer around him. The soft fabric tickles your skin, and whilst pushing the glasses up your nose, you kiss his forehead. “I’m not turning that page. Let’s read something else.”

“No,” you whine, pulling on his arm when he tries to get up. “Mike told me to read this and I promised him I’d finish it so I can tell him what happens.”

He snorts, pushing your glasses back up when it continues to fall down your nose. “You’re reading a book so you can tell him what happens in it?” Steve shakes his head. "That kid's spoiled rotten."

There’s an incredulous look on his face that mingles with amusement, because he can’t believe you’re doing this for Mike, of all people. “Yeah. I mean, it’s interesting. It’s a killing, shapeshifting clown.”

“Who eats children,” he points out. “Why don’t you read something friendly? Like…like The Polar Express.” Steve looks up at you with puppy dog eyes, excitement riddling in his face at the mention of a child's book being read.

Your heart melts and breaks at the same time, because you know his excitement for it comes from the lack of affection he gets from his ignorant parents. And just like him, you intend to give love to his empty heart.

But you'd do it on another day. “I’d rather not.”

You kiss his forehead again, and he finally flips the page. He remains silent for the whole time, because he craves more of your soft lips on his skin, and he quietly relishes in your loving hands toy with his hair.

At some point, he's requested for you to read it aloud and you do. Which is a thing he regrets as he's on the verge of falling asleep as you do so, especially when you start reading faster and the kisses become frequent.

The sleep’s phantom hovers but never really mingles, and Steve tries to help you fall asleep faster by kissing everywhere on your shoulder, like it used to work. But when it doesn’t, his arm comes across your waist and tugging you closer to him, hopefully giving you some of his sleep.

3. solve a puzzle, 1: 40am

The gelid water keeps Steve awake as he frowns at the missing puzzle pieces, fingers tapping on his chin as blurry eyes look for the tiny squared cardboards.

“Do you know what that is?” you tap his shoulder and tilt your head sideway, neck gauche in its position. “Looks like a deformed lamb, babe.”

He looks down under the table, the lack of light blending in the pieces onto the floor. Steve hears the rapid clicking of the rubik’s cube you’re trying to solve while you simultaneously look for the other pieces.

“Baby, why are you looking there? It couldn’t have gotten that far.”

“But maybe it got blown away,” you crouch and rest your upper body on the ground to peek beneath the sofa, and still with the darkness, you don’t see anything.

Steve drinks his water and looks at the puzzle. “It actually does look like a deformed lamb. Look, he’s missing his eyes. I-I don’t think this ones supposed to go there.”

“I don’t think this is tiring me out at all.” You stand up, back aching the slightest. Steve makes his way to you, a hand to your back to rub the ache off, offering you his water. “We can do number four now.”

You take a sip, Steve holding the glass for you as your boyfriend’s eyes brighten, and suddenly the sleep is fully off his body and now he’s tugging his shirt off. “Great. I’m gonna fuck your brains out.”

4. have sex, 1: 48am

Steve’s got his mouth hot on yours, kissing you wild like he's been starved as his mouth widens and pushes his tongue inside, touching yours before he closes his lips and sinks deeper.

Your hand comes up to tug on his hair, pulling on the back of his neck as his barely covered cock grinds on your clothed cunt, damp underwears colliding, friction eliciting a low moan on your warm mouths.

"Steve," you whimper, leg coming up to press your clit on his dick. "Touch me."

He inhales your scent, breaking away and kisses his way to your already sweating neck. "Where are your manners, doll?"

Panting, you grab on his shoulders when he starts biting on the juncture of your neck, suckling until he's certain a mark would leave. "Please, Steve. Please please please."

"You'll be a good girl?" the indentation of his smile on your neck tickles you, leaving feather light kisses on the spot you're the most sensitive to. "'d you promise to be a good girl when I fuck you?"

"Yeah," you nod, pulling his face back to yours and kiss his lips. Soft, effervescent. "I'll be a good girl for you."

And so he moves down, kissing his way down your clothed top until he bites on the garter of your sleep shorts, fingers hooking underneath to pull it down with your damp panties coming with.

"God, baby, your pussy's so pretty," he looks up at you, senses the heat rushing to your face and possibly everywhere. "Pussy's so pretty you should feel how hard my cock is."

Steve throws it aside, cock hardening at the sight of your cunt glistening from the minimal light the streetlights give. You're already panting despite the lack of touch he's giving you. With his eyes looking up at you with pupils in a dusk of lustful haze, his tongue sticks out and presses the flat of his thick muscle on your folds.

He moans at your sweetness, pulling back to slip the tip of his tongue between your puffy folds and dragged up in a slow pace that has you mewling with your back arched up against nothing. Steve doesn't stop until he's reached your clit, lazily wrapping his lips around the bud and suckling its arousal.

"You taste so good, baby," a loud, obscene sound created between his lips and your wetness. "So fucking sweet even early in the morning, hm?"

When you move too much at his teasing suckles, his hands slither beneath your thighs until they press flat on your stomach, legs spread as far as they could and thighs locked in place. Steve's access is wide and with his attainability does he take advantage of your cunt open and pretty for him, tongue dragging between your folds and clit but never really going to where you want him.

Hands stopping from clutching the ivory sheets, they go down to tug on Steve's hair, moaning lewdly. "Baby," you whimper. "Stop teasing."

"But I'm supposed to tire you out," he breaks away, lips covered in slick and spreads them around your inner thighs that he generously bites before he's greedily come back to eat your pussy like it's his last meal (like it's not about to be two am). "You gotta be patient, babydoll."

But despite his declaration, a hand leaves your stomach. With your eyes closed, you feel a finger tracing your hold, prodding at it but never sinking in. "Steve!"

Finally, he sinks two inside, slowly as your walls evade his limbs the way you would to his cock. You moan louder than you should, and cover it up by biting your forearm as Steve pushes his fingers in until they're at his knuckles. He rubs your spongy spot, one that has you mewling tumultuously, providing him better music.

"That's it baby, good girl," he curls his fingers, the same way his tone curls into an applaud. It's tantalizingly slow, the pads of his fingers pressing against your walls before they've come to graze your sweet spot over and over again.

With his pink lips wrapped loosely still on your clit, his pace quickens and shoves a third one in, the stretch painfully gratifying until you hear the all too familiar squelching sound of your slick cunt against his versatile fingers. Steve fucks them in with a vigor that you think is impossible for him to have in a very early morning, libido probably driven by the smell of your arousal and your appraising moans.

"That's it, baby," you purr, tugging on his hair and pushing him harder against your cunt. "Fuck! Don't stop,"

And when you feel that coil tightening on your navel, you tell him so that you're close. Steve sucks the living shit out of your clit, fingers using all it's mobility as thrusts them vigorously in a way that you love it, pinky finger slapping on your pussy at every hard thrust.

Steve feels the warm cum evade his three fingers, coating them like paint and doesn't stop until he's milked all of you. He slows his fingers down, lets you ride your high until you push his head away and pull him back up to you.

With a face half covered by your slick and tendrils of cum coating the shadow of his midnight chin, he wipes it off and licks a finger clean, groaning at your delectable nectar. "Like honey on a spring, baby."

He doesn't kiss you first, instead shoves his two cum-coated fingers inside your mouth and presses it flat on your tongue, going deep until you gag around them. You clean your cum off his fingers, swallowing. Steve smiles and pulls them away, replaces it with his tongue that still tastes of you.

Lips still on yours, you tug on his briefs and pull his cock out — all swell and hard for you. You pump him, from base to tip, squeezing until there's a bead of cum seeping through his slit.

"Oh, baby," his head falls into the crook of your neck when you gradually jack him off, jaw slacking at your light squeezes and thumb grazing his head. "Oh, fuck yeah, keep going,"

You do, the other hand coming down to fondle with his balls, squeezing like what you'd do to his shaft, Steve's hips moving and fucking your hand. You tut. "Baby, how 'bout I give you something better? Something tighter?"

Barely a minute of jacking him off and his cock's already twitching. "Baby, you're gonna be the death of me, I swear."

You remove your hands from him, licking his slick off your palm and moaning at his bittersweet taste. Steve props himself up with one forearm, a hand coming down to guide his helmet on your entrance and wastes no time pushing in.

Concomitantly, you both moan at the feeling each other — his cock stretching you out in the best way possible, and your tight walls clenching on his hard cock. You arch your back, clothes tits pressing against his chest but your nipples sensitive and hard from the simple friction.

"N-ah! So, so tight," he kisses your throat, a hand coming up to wrap around it with his thumb and index squeezing the sides. Steve's hips begin moving, pushing out fully with his tip still inside until he sinks back in in a rough force that emits a wet slap from the impact of your sticky thighs. "So good for me, baby. Taking me so well like a good girl,"

Your hands come up to scratch on his back, feeling his muscles flex at every trust he makes. Your legs come up to wrap around his torso, the heels of your feet digging on his fast to urge him to go deeper into your pussy.

"Faster, Steve," you mewl. "Shit—...go harder."

He does, obeying you by fucking your puffy cunt faster, balls slamming on your ass and cock stretching you wide open when he removes he takes his hands and brings them to the back of your thighs, spreading them open to drive his dick deeper into your pussy.

Your moans become high-pitched and short like petulant whines, nipping and kissing Steve's neck as his fucking has gotten to a point where the headboard slams on the wall.

"I'm close," Steve pants, eyes closed tightly and jaw slacked open with a sheen coat of sweat dripping down his forehead and his baby hair. "Fuck, baby I'm gonna cum."

"Then cum," you clench around him, as tight as you could as you bring him closer to his orgasm. "I'm coming with you."

And when his hips stutter and a loud moan leaves his slackened mouth, face scrunched into what is a calamitous orgasm, you whimper and moan as you cum around his cock, his alabaster ropes filling you up to the brim and mixing your cum with his.

Steve drops down on top of you, hands massaging your sides as his ass raise and pulls his softening cock out of your full cunt. He knows he's gotten hard at the sight of his cum leaking off your gaping, clenching hole.

"Fuck, baby," he runs a hand through his hair. "That's so hot."

"Um, Steve?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want another go?"

How could he say no when his cock suddenly springs up when you finally exposed your tits to him?

5. watch a movie, 2:55 am

"So you're telling me his mom is trying to bang his son?"

Marty McFly's bright red vest blinds you and Steve's straining eyes. Your boyfriend shakes his head, hand absentmindedly rubbing your inner thigh to massage the ache away. "No. Well, she didn't know."

"She didn't know he was from the future?"

"Yeah."

"Oh," you nod your head. "And you watched this with Robin?"

"When we were high,"

"When you were high?" you sit up, hands on your lap and looking at Steve with wide eyes. His hand stops moving and looks at you perplexingly. "I thought you stopped getting high, Steve?"

"I mean, by accident—!"

"I swear if I find out you're still taking marijuana, I will waterboard you, Harrington."

"Boobies or water, I don't care being waterboarded."

"It's called motor boating for the tits, dumbass," you smack his arm. "You know what? This isn't working."

You reach for the remote and turn the TV off. Steve's smile falls and lets himself sink in disappointment with you, because even sex didn't tire you out. Your eyes adorn a twilight of hopeless glimmer, and all he can do is wrap his arms around your tired body.

Steve sighs. "I'm sorry, doll. Wish I could help you better."

You shake your head. "You did well, babe."

Then an idea comes into his head.

Steve sits forward and reaches for your notebook, hastily taking the pen off the table and scribbles his thought loudly like he's in an exam.

6. eat those sleeping gummies dance with steve!

His capitalized, brazen handwriting next to your looped and poised calligraphy, you read his addition. Your eyebrows furrow, looking up at your boyfriend who's stood up and offered his hand at you.

"Yeah?" his hand tilts. "Gonna dance with me or what?"

You set the notebook down. "Sure this would work?"

"If it's my idea, it totally will."

You stand up and smack his chest. "Cocky bitch."

With bodies entwined and hearts tethered into the dark morning of your shared home, Steve wraps his arms around your waist, yours coming up beneath his armpits and grabbing his shoulders as he gentles you into his soft humming.

And you rest your ear on his heartbeat, his harmonious humming synchs your heartbeat with his, his warmth and faint elation melting with yours.

"So I turn back in time," Steve sings into your hair, bodies dancing into a rhapsodic song. "I'm at the chateau and I feel alright,"

"Cool song." you say. "You made it?"

"For you," he pulls his head away and looks down at you. Steve leans in and presses a gentle kiss of exhaustion against your lips. "Yeah. I made it."

-

Maybe his idea did work. Because now you're by the sliding door to his backyard, gazing into the naked night sky with the moon high and bright, providing the gentle haze of slumber of those who remain in a dreamless sleep in this nightmarish town.

Your back on Steve's chest, legs on either side of you and yours flat on the carpet as you lay upwards on the couch, his strong arms wrapped around yours with hands entwined in a protective action. The ghost of his lips lingering on your forehead, and you slip in easily into slumber in the arms of your lover.

reblogs and feedback are highly appreciated <3

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[wardenparker]

Down the Rabbit Hole - ch 2

Jack ‘Whiskey’ Daniels x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

When Jack accidentally shoots a civilian on a mission he takes on not only the guilt of the man’s death, but inherits his soulmate as well. To you, it’s a dream job with more perks than you can imagine - but for Jack it’s a nightmarish complication. Even more so when he starts to develop feelings.    

Rating: Mature Word Count: 20.6k Warnings: *Blanket warnings - mentions of deceased spouse, a lot of food and alcohol consumption, family recipes, age gap, cursing.* Canon typical violence, flirting, Jack can dance and I will die on this hill.  Summary: Your introduction to the world of Statesman comes with a flirtation, a job interview, a pool game, and an unexpected turn to the night after an unexpected day. Notes: I’m not even mad about how long this chapter is. I *loved* introducing this reader to Statesman and I hope you guys do, too!

Ch 1 ~ Ch 2 ~ Ch 3 ~ Ch 4 ~ Ch 5 ~ Ch 6 ~ Ch 7 ~ Ch 8 ~ Ch 9 ~ Ch 10 ~ Ch 11 ~ Ch 12 ~ Ch 13 ~ Ch 14 ~ Ch 15 ~ Epilogue

Three hours later to the minute, you're standing on the tarmac at Portsmouth International Airport with a backpack slung over one shoulder as you follow a flight attendant in a crisp Statesman uniform up to the stairs to board the jet bearing the company's logo in giant letters splashed across the side. It's really real. It's actually, really real. A discreet picture on your phone will be very quickly texted to your mom before the plane takes off, but for now you're listening to the attendant tell you that the flight will last two and a half hours and that anything you need will be provided on board. There's a man in a Stetson standing just inside the door of the plane as you walk up, and you have to hand it to these folks. They have truly committed to the cowboy aesthetic.

“Howdy ma’am.” Champ didn’t tell him who he was picking up when he called Tequila to his office and told him that he was being sent with the jet to pick someone up. He didn’t rightly think it was his business; but he has to admit that you’re cute. He smirks slightly as he tips his hat with two fingers and motions you towards the captain's chairs. “Want a drink before takeoff?”

"Just a bottle of water would be great." As much as a finger or two of whiskey would calm the hell out of your nerves right now, you don't know if drinking during what is technically one long-ass job interview would be considered very professional. You look around as the flight attendant whisks your backpack away, setting it on the end of a small sofa that serves as seating on the jet. "This plane is absolutely amazing..."

“Aw, come on now.” Tequila steps behind the bar and grabs the bottle of water to set on the shiny surface. “You can’t tell me you don’t drink? You’ll break my heart.”

You laugh, appreciating the man's jovial attitude and willing to admit to yourself that he's very attractive. Not your usual type, but there's nothing wrong with being leading-man attractive. You just normally go for more unique looking men - and older. "Experience tells me that drinking during a job interview is bad manners," you admit, taking a step further into the room. This plane has rooms. "But I've never interviewed for a distillery before, so maybe the rules are actually the opposite now."

“Drinking’s a job requirement.” He flirts, sending you a small wink and reaching for the bottle of ‘82 Special Selection. “Champ’ll have you with a glass in your hand by the time you get done shakin’.”

"Just a little, then." It doesn't matter that your tolerance is hellishly high, you're not aiming to get drunk at all during this trip. "So your boss...Champ? He, uh...he doesn't do things by half, does he?" You're curious about the man after finding next to nothing about him online. Even finding a photograph was like pulling teeth.

“No one at Statesman does.” Tequila grins proudly as he picks up the bottle and uncorks it to start pouring into the awaiting glasses. “So why are you coming to Kentucky?” He’s curious and as an intelligence agent, he’s never one to not ask questions.

“It’s…an interview?” You look up at the man in confusion and laugh, purely out of nerves. “Did your boss not tell you who you were picking up, or why?”

“Champ says go, you go.” You don’t scream ‘new agent’, but he’s been wrong before. “What’ll you be doin’, if I can ask?”

“I’m a pastry chef.” One hand curls itself around the glass he has poured for you, feeling the steadiness of the weight of cut crystal in your hand. “Mr. Rogers wants to expand the food that the distillery is able to offer to guests who take tours and come to events. So…he called me.” Which still seems sort of batshit insane, but you are good at what you do, and you love it. You’re even a good savory chef - but pastry really has been your passion.

"Pastry....like cakes and pies?" Tequila asks, tilting his head as he thinks about it. You nod, giving him a vaguely amused smile that he notices a lot on people around him and he purses his lips, nodding in agreement. "I like it. Although you're gonna be haunted by the ones with sugar addictions." He warns, thinking about Jack's hidden sweet tooth. Man likes to claim that his ever so softening belly is the result of his bad back, but the drawer in his desk that is devoted to candy would prove that is a lie.

“Well, I hope so.” It earns him a bright, genuine laugh with a smile. “Otherwise there would be no point in hiring an executive pastry chef for the distillery at all.” Feeling slightly more relaxed, you take a small sip of whiskey and hum at the gentle burn. The notes of vanilla and smoke in this particular vintage would make an amazing boozy caramel for that chocolate tart you’ve been doing at the restaurant. “Everyone has a favourite sweet. Something tied to good memories or a favorite person. Sometimes it’s a thing you had once and maybe never again, but you’ll just love it forever from that one taste. Sweets are kind of magical like that.”

"I guess." Tequila gives a small shrug, shooting you a grin. "I'm more of a red hots kind of guy myself. I like the heat." He's not overly fond of sweets, but he can enjoy a dessert every now and again. It's more like he would haunt your kitchens for you rather than your cakes.

“You’re telling me you’ve never had Mexican hot chocolate or a spicy sweet candied anything?” When the cowboy looks at you in wonder and shakes his head, you laugh again. Not to laugh at him, just because getting people to try new things is one of the best parts of what you do. “I tell you what. If I get this job, I’ll road-test a batch of my guajillo and cinnamon fudge brownies for the menu. They’ll knock your socks off.”

"If you say so." Tequila looks skeptical but gives a shrug. He's always willing to try anything once. "So you are willing to move to Kentucky to make cakes at a distillery?" He asks, trying to get a feel for you. He's cocky as an agent, but when he doesn't know the woman's background, he can be a bit shy.

“What’s life without adventure, right?” You shrug and take another sip of the drink you’ve been poured. Statesman really is quality liquor, you have to admit that. “It’s a great position and comes with a lot of freedom. Not everybody gets to develop their own menu and recipes at a facility like yours.”

Tequila chuckles, lifting his own glass up and silently toasting you before he takes a sip. "Thank God for freedom, right?" He is meaning his freedoms on a mission, but you don't know that. He wonders if you will be clued in on the real function of Statesman, or if you will just be another front for the intelligence agency.

“Absolutely.” It hits bittersweet, though, this time. Freedom in a general sense is great. But three days ago you were in the walk-in at work and dropped every single thing in your arms when a searing, unintelligible pain took over your entire body. Thinking it was a weird muscle spasm or an allergic reaction to the new body wash you were trying out, you ignored it until the end of the day. Of course, at the end of the day, you stood in your bedroom mirror and realized there was no rash. No reaction. The mountain range tattoo over your heart had disappeared along with the chef’s knife that had adorned the inside of your forearm, and all the scars from cuts and burns that had told you your soulmate had to be a chef were gone. Your brother had tried to be comforting. Told you that you were free now to love whoever you wanted. But that wasn’t the kind of freedom you had ever wanted.

He wonders about the sudden look of melancholy that washes over your face but he doesn't want to pry. You aren't a target and he wants to make sure that you are comfortable around him if you take this job. Something tells him that you will, but he's been wrong before. Hell, he thought Jack would have crawled out of a bottle by now, but when he had left, the man was still drunk from the night before.

The captain’s voice comes over the intercom, asking all passengers and crew to take their seats for take off, and the overly tall cowboy nods in response before leading you to your seat. “So what do you do at Statesman?” You ask, once you’re buckled in and he is sitting beside you. “If you don’t mind me asking?”

“Security.” He sits down and untucks his jacket from around his back with a small wink towards you. It’s the go-to cover position within the distillery workforce. At least where the civilians are concerned.

“And is this your uniform?” He makes it work, you’ll give him that. But you kind of want to prepare yourself for whatever you’re about to walk into. If you’re going to be wearing a cowgirl hat instead of a toque, you want to know ahead of time.

"Uniform?" He scrunches his nose and shakes his head. "No ma'am, we dress for comfort at Statesman." He tells you, although everyone had their own sense of business style, Tequila was still more comfortable in ranch hand attire than anything. Jack was on the one to wear fancy threads.

“Just curious,” you tell him honestly, adding a nonchalant shrug because you’re a little awkward about everything. “It seems like Statesman has its own culture about it, and I like that. Places I’ve worked before haven’t felt like a community at all.”

"You won't feel like that here." Tequila promises. "We're proud of what we do and it shows." Of course, there is a lot to that statement that you don't know how true it is but even the front of the distillery was worked with pride. He honestly felt like it was the best damn bourbon mash in all of Kentucky.

“We’ll see how the interview goes.” There’s no way you’re going to count your chicken before they hatch, but this job just sounds like an absolute dream.

Tequila snorts and listens to the engines power up before the large jet starts to roll down the runway. "Everyone who's ever worked for Statesman has probably said some version of that statement." He tells you, lifting a brow playfully. "And never left."

******

The flight seems short with such good company, and the man who cringes at his own name - Tex - brings you from the airstrip to the main building to actually meet Champ when you land. It’s been a mere six hours since that phone call this morning, but it feels days away. The Statesman campus is stunning. Everywhere you look are excited tourists and seemingly happy employees. Most wear some kind of western-influenced style but not everyone, although you do notice that everyone who does wear the cowboy look has beautiful quality boots and Stetsons. If what they’re offering to pay you is any indication, everybody here can definitely afford high quality pieces. There is a decent-sized cafeteria buzzing with eager patrons eating classic Southern favourites, and then there is the brand-new empty restaurant space where Tex introduces you to an older man in worn but well-cared-for western wear of his own, and you’re instantly certain that this is Champ.

Champ gives you an affable grin as he reaches out and takes your hand in his. "Richard 'Champagne' Rogers." He tells you by way of introduction. "But call me Champ." He looks away from you and towards Tequila. "I see that Tex has gotten you here without any emergencies." He nods towards the agent and then looks back you. "How was the flight?"

“Very comfortable, thank you.” He has a patriarchal vibe that leans more toward grandfather than anything else, and you feel yourself relax a little. Your own grandfather would probably fit right in here. Right alongside Champ Rogers. “The campus here is gorgeous. I’m excited to see the facilities you talked about this morning.”

"It's in the back here." Champ gestures towards an area that has been cordoned off and still has the air of being in the final stages of being remodeled. "We were going to do some kinda fancy steakhouse, but folks don't want another one of those." He explains.

“So you’re leaning in the direction of Southern tea house instead?” Following him into the kitchen, it’s easy to see the makings of a world-class set up here. Glistening appliances and brand-new surfaces wink in the bright light and the door to the walk-in is so new it still has film on the window. It’s just the dining room that has no personality yet.

"I want a place where people can come in and relax." Champ tells you. "Indulge and pair new things with old whiskey."

“New twists on old classics?” It’s something that is gaining a lot of traction these days, and you nod your head in agreement. “My style is a combination of things. French technique and American classics, with some British influence to polish it all off. And I can do savory as well as pastry.” If this whole place is going to be a functioning tea room of sorts, you don’t want him to make any mistake about your abilities. “Are you planning on hiring an executive savory chef as well?”

Champ frowns for a moment and shakes his head. "Naw...what's that sayin'? 'Two women in a kitchen's bad business'. You can head the whole thing."

If you had been holding anything, it would have gone clattering to the ground. Your own restaurant. This company is offering you your own goddamn restaurant. The second you start to process it you feel giddy and anxious - like you could actually fly from the butterflies in your belly. “Then I hope you like what I do,” you tell him with what you hope is a carefree laugh. “One more question, if I could? Before I get to work, I mean.”

Champ raises a brow at you and chuckles. "Shoot, girl, straight from the hip." He tells you. He likes the look of you and he can see why you would be Jack's new soulmate.

“I suppose it’s sort of a multi-part question,” you admit, hoping that doesn’t make you sound inexperienced or unprepared. “I’m wondering if this restaurant will be just for tourists and guests, or if it will also be a facility for your employees? And also what kind of events you anticipate being able to host here with the event space having access to a specialized restaurant.” Frankly, to you, it screams parties and weddings - but who knows what they’re expecting to be able to do?

"Isn't that up to you?" Champ asks, looping his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans and looking around the place again. He shoulda known Jack Daniels soulmate had a keen business sense and a good head on her shoulders. He woulda said the same about Jack until recently. "I mean, it'd be your rodeo, wouldn't you call the shots?"

It’s simultaneously terrifying, inspiring, and nerve-wracking to get that kind of answer, but you end up stifling a grin when Tex flashes you two thumbs up behind his boss’s back for encouragement. “You’d make a hell of a profit from weddings,” you tell Champ honestly, although that’s not why you like the idea of doing them. “Weddings, private events, corporate parties, live music events. From large scale down to small scale, they all run on the same principle. A restaurant staff can handle the catering demands, and we can work with other vendors and event planners to make sure the details are right. I’ve done it at my last two jobs with excellent results.” It’s a goddamn dream come true, that’s what Statesman is. You just have to work your ass off to make sure Champ likes your food.

Champ purses his lips and looks around like he's contemplating it. It all actuality, it would be whatever would make you stay here. As a senior agent, Jack's worth the investment of a business that might actually expand the Statesman brand. And if it keeps his soulmate on the grounds and protected, well that was just fine. "If you want to take that on, I don't see why we couldn't do it. Have the boys in bottling provide a special bottle for the occasions." He offers, knowing that an etched bottle of whiskey would be a perfect wedding thing. "If you don't, you could just have the little dining room."

“Provided you like my food, I would say the most pragmatic path would be to open the restaurant and start with small events first. Expand to weddings afterward.” It’s a big, demanding industry, but you already know you make a killer wedding cake and can manage the menus. It’s pretty literally your dream being laid out on the table here for you to prove that you deserve. “The menu I put together for the tasting can be done in just a few hours. I only need you to tell me how many I’m expected to feed and then I’ll get started.”

Reaching up, Champ rubs his jaw with his hand and hides a small smirk. "Oh I think enough for five or six should be enough." He tells you. "Yourself included."

“Very doable.” That’s just one batch of everything, and you can definitely pull that off without a problem. “Give me two hours, and come back hungry.”

"I'll send someone by in case you need something." Champ decides that he's going to give you space. He needs to fish your soulmate out of his bottle and sober him up a little before he meets you for the first time.

“Fantastic.” Two hours will be a hustle, but you know you can do it. There’s too much at stake here and too much potential on the horizon not to. Whoever this head hunter was that passed your resume on to Champ? You could kiss that person.

******

"Jack." Grunting, Jack tries to ignore the sound of his name being called. He hasn't slept, hasn't done much but drink and for the first time since that awful day Champ desked him, his eyes are closed on their own.

“Jack.” Champ growls his name on the fourth try, and when the best he gets from the noncommittal agent sprawled out on his own living room couch after living at the bottom of a bottle for two solid days is nothing - he holds up the pitcher of water he poured in the kitchen and unceremoniously dumps it directly on Jack’s head and chest.

"SHIT!" Jack sputters, coming up off the sofa in a shock of cold water like he's been hit with a defibrillator. Reaching for guns in holsters that aren't there. "What the — what the fuck?" He demands when he realizes that it's Champ and he slumps back against the now soaked sofa. "Go away."

“Get up.” Tossing him a towel from his other hand, Champ ignores Jack’s order completely. “You got someplace to be in…” he checks his watch. “An hour and thirty-one minutes.”

“Imma off d-desk duty already?” Jack asks, bewildered and he throws his hand over his eyes and groans in pain.

“No.” It would be funny if it weren’t troubling, and Champ shakes his head. “You’re gonna eat something. You, me, Tequila, Ginger, and Diana.” It’s as good a crew to taste test food as any, not to mention they’re generally Champ’s favourite people. His own soulmate is working just the same as any other afternoon, but he doesn’t think she’ll mind being stolen away for a surprise dinner. Diana Rogers is always a fan of surprises, so Champ makes sure to keep them locked and loaded for her at all times.

Disappointment rolls through Jack along with a wave of nausea. He’s not as young as he used to be and he’s gone through a least three bottles. “Not hungry.” He huffs, turning away from Champ and making to lay back down. “Another time.”

“That’s not an option, friend.” Producing a cup of coffee seemingly out of nowhere, Champ holds it out to Jack and hooks the thumb of his free hand into his belt. “I need you showered and lookin’ presentable. And reasonably sober if fuckin possible, so I’ll have Ginger bring you something to help with that if you can’t manage it yourself.”

“Shit.” It feels like a million little hammers from Satan’s army is pounding away inside his head, but Jack sits up slowly and belches. Groaning when the sloshing in his stomach feels like he’s at sea in a dingy during a hurricane. “Yeah.”

“Fine.” The older man nods and offers the coffee again, glad when Jack finally takes it and at least sniffs the brew. “You got clean clothes, or did you ransack your own house along with your desk?”

“I’m here, ain’t I?” Jack grunts at him, not quite making sense. “Why are you in my house?”

“You never shoulda given me a key,” Champ jokes, allowing himself to find a little humor in the moment.

“Remind me to get it back.” Jack scowls and takes a sip of the coffee, hissing when it burns his tongue.

“Now is that any way to talk to a man who’s feeding you dinner?” It doesn’t really have much to do with him and he knows it, but Champ is still going to tease his friend now that Jack is on the other side of the bottle.

“It is when you’re dragging me somewhere I don’t want to go to eat food I don’t think I can stomach.” Jack grouses, throwing Champ a halfhearted glare.

“You’ll manage.” He hadn’t wanted to use this as leverage, but it seems he’s going to have to. “She’s here, Jack.”

Jack blinks for a moment, the alcohol in his blood making him a little slower than normal and then he huffs. “Fuck, Champ, is that why you want me to have some dinner?” He demands.

“Yeah, that’s why.” He crosses his arms over his chest and looks down at Jack, studiously ignoring the indignant tone in his friend’s voice. “She’s cookin’ it, so you’re eatin’.”

There is a staring contest that last for about a minute before Jack sighs. “Shit.” He sets the coffee down and manages to stand, swaying slightly. “Let me shower.”

“She doesn’t know.” Champ tells him, putting out a hand to steady Jack a little before he heads to the stairs. “And it ain’t my place to tell her.”

“Well that’s something.” Jack mumbles, suddenly even less inclined to attend than before. “And nobody else better run their damned mouths.”

“Only you, me, and Diana know.” He has taken his concern for Jack home to his wife, knowing that the younger man wouldn’t judge him or be upset over it. “She’s here to interview for a job.”

“Jesus, Champ.” Jack jerks to a stop and even though he regrets it, his head whips back to look at him. “An interview? Whadya gonna do? Make her an agent?”

Champ huffs, hot air escaping his nostrils and making him feel like a goddamn bull on the charge. “Make yourself presentable,” he rumbles. “I’ll send Ginger to pick you up.” Without another word, Champ rocks back on his heel, pulls Jack’s spare house key out of his pocket, and drops it on his coffee table on his way out the door. If he’s gonna be an ass, he can be one on his own.

Jack blows out a sigh, feeling like an asshole now that the door slams behind Champ. He was out of line and regrets the look of disappointment that he saw in his friend’s eyes. Shuffling to the bathroom, Jack strips and looks in the mirror, disgusted with the reflection he sees.

******

Given what you set out to do, it's a testament to hard work and a small miracle that you have everything done in time. The very last thing to come out of the oven will be the soufflés, and those are scheduled to be done as the first course as soon as Champ returns with his four person entourage in less than two minutes. If there is any mercy in the world they might even come early and be witness to the tray coming out of the oven, because that would be an incredible flex. Everything has been carefully plated and arranged, and you've probably sweated out three pounds of water weight from all the running around you've done in this kitchen, but every single piece of equipment here is pristine and glorious. If you don't get this job you'll be more disappointed than you've ever been to miss out on anything, but at least you'll have gotten to cook in this amazing kitchen once.

Jack is as nervous as a foaling mare around people. He has shaven his cheeks bare and slapped aftershave on until it stung. Combed his hair and put on clothes that are clean and fresh. He feels like he should be confident, but he’s not. His stomach is rolling and it’s not from the alcohol. He had thrown that up in the shower. He’s nervous to meet this woman, this soulmate.

"Look who's up and about." Tequila gives Jack his most encouraging smile as he spots his friend walking up the path with Ginger at his side. "Champ invite y'all to join us for this thing?"

“More like ordered.” Jack mutters under his breath, but he gives a halfhearted shrug. “Guess he figured I needed some fresh air.”

"And he cleaned up all nice for us." Ginger jokes, trying to lighten the mood as best she can. She knows Jack has been inside his own shell for a few days, and why, but she knows that getting him out of the house is the best thing that Champ could have done.

He’s still slightly queasy, but it’s because of who he’s about to meet since Ginger had given him one of her magic hangover pills. “Yeah, yeah.”

"Good." Champ's voice booms over the distillery courtyard from the other direction as he skirts a tour group with his arm around his wife. "Everybody made it on time. Let's get in there and find out what we're eating, huh?" Satisfied to see Jack dressed and upright, Champ heads straight for the side door to the building that will let them directly into the remodeled kitchen.

Jack frowns and wonders why the hell they are eating in the kitchen but he follows suit, dropping back to walk beside Tequila. “How’d you get roped into this?” He asks the younger man.

"Volunteered." Tequila tells him cheerfully. The truth is that he would have begged to come to this thing after hearing you talk about your food on the jet, but Champ had obliged him easily. "Never gonna turn down a good meal, you know me."

Jack huffs at that truth. “You do think with your stomach.” He jokes, reaching over and slapping him on the shoulder. “Have you met her?” He asks.

"Picked her up this morning." There's a flash of something like being pleased on his face but he shrugs it off. He's made sure that he's cleaned up and even better looking - in his opinion - than he had been this morning. Just in case those flashes of smiles and laughter he'd gotten on the flight were for the same reason his were.

Jack’s eyes narrow slightly at the tone and stature of the man beside him. There’s something in his voice that has him on edge but he can’t put his finger on it. “From where?”

"New Hampshire." Tequila's strides are just a tad longer than Jack's or Ginger's and he has to keep himself walking slower to be in step with Jack as Champ pulls open the door. "Flew her down on the jet. Champ's orders." The younger man still didn't really understand why a chef needed a security detail, but he was glad to oblige anyway.

It registers that Tequila doesn’t know. Champ had told him that he hadn’t said anything to you, but he had thought the agent had been brought into the loop. Jack relaxes slightly, his shoulders pulling down and he wonders if it’s a mistake. If you were meant to be Tequila’s soulmate and it would all be cleared up by the universe or fate or whoever was in fucking charge of all of this.

"Well damn," Champ chuckles jovially as the party files into the kitchen just in time to see you taking one last pan out of the oven on the wall. "Smells incredible in here. Looks like we made perfect time, didn't we darlin'?" You whirl around at the sound of the now-familiar drawl, prepared to answer the old-fashioned term until you realize that Champ has a woman on his arm when he walks into the room. She's about his age, bright-eyed and beaming up at him as she smiles, and your heart wrenches a little. No doubt this is Mrs. Rogers - most likely his soulmate - and the pang of knowing you no longer have a soulmate of your own sticks in your gut harder than you would ever admit. "Welcome back." You force yourself to smile and focus on the matter at hand, wondering who else the elder cowboy has wrangled for your little audition tonight.

Jack hangs back for a moment, almost unwilling to look towards the voice that sends a shiver down his spine. His mouth is dry and he rubs his sweaty palms on his jeans. He doesn’t know what to expect, and he’s afraid.

“I’m set and ready to go, if everyone would like to take a seat?” You had taken the liberty of pulling six stools up to the end of one counter and setting out glasses of water right before you took the soufflés out of the oven, creating a small tasting table for everyone to sit at. “The first course is best served hot.”

There’s a moment where Jack just stands there. Unsure of himself and what exactly to do. His eyes looking from the table to the chairs and everywhere else until he finally looks up and sees you.

The small stack of plates in your hands hits the steel counter a little harder than you mean for them to when you glance up and meet the eyes of the last person to come through the door. He’s broad and lean, clean shaven except for an immaculate mustache and looking at you from under the brim of his crisp Stetson and your mouth runs dry almost instantly. As quickly as your eyes meet his you look away again, feeling your cheeks heat and the last thing you need is to be flustered while you’re trying to get through this thing. Just focus, you tell yourself, carefully laying out the plates to put each course on.

He feels like he’s been hit by a truck when his eyes meet yours. He hates it. Hates how his heart speeds up and his cheeks flush. Unable to shake it off as if it didn’t matter. The knowledge that you are his soulmate is weighing on him. He sees Champ shuffle, catching his eye and it makes him realize he had been staring. “What’s for dinner, darlin’?” He drawls out, as he would if it were any pretty woman.

"First course is a sweet potato soufflé with a blue cheese cream sauce." Carefully spooning the sauce over each soufflé and setting them down at the six places that you've set, you look around at the group and try very hard not to stare at this man you haven't met yet. "The play of natural sweetness with rich and complex cheese sauce makes for a dish that stands alone or compliments almost any protein."

Jack isn’t a fan of blue cheese and almost opens his mouth to say so, but there is something tantalizing about the smell. “Well shiiiiiiit.” Tequila speaks up before Jack can say anything. “That sounds disgusting but it smells like heaven.”

"I know blue cheese can be an acquired taste." More comfortable with the youngest of the men purely from having spent the most time with him, you shrug a little and chuckle softly. "But bold flavours are memorable flavours, and I believe in food being an important part of building positive memories." This meal is your sales pitch - selling yourself and your abilities to this company - and goddamnit a soufflé is just about one of the most technically difficult things to do perfectly. Which is exactly why you did it.

“Well I’m gonna dig in.” Tequila promises with a wink as he pulls a chair out to sit down. “Come on, Jack. You need to eat too.”

Jack. You do your best not to react with anything but pleasantness, and feel your shoulders relax as multiple sounds of enjoyment break out when people take their first bites. What starts out with hesitation from almost everyone turns into surprise and delight, and you have to admit that - if your portion is any indication - this is probably one of the best soufflés that you've made in an extremely long time.

There is something magical about the texture of this thing that he is eating. It’s creamy and sweet and savory. All of the flavors should clash but somehow they compliment one another and bring out the sharpness of the cheese and the sweetness of the yam. Jack groans after the first bite - surprised that it is not making his stomach do anything but demand more - and quickly goes in for a second bite.

“I think that’s a ‘yes’ from everybody, darlin’,” Champ chuckles, glad to see Jack acting like a human instead of a man-shaped bottle of liquor like earlier. Even if he’s not thrilled with his friend at the moment, it’s still good to see.

“It’s incredible,” his wife sighs, and she offers you a beaming smile. “I’d eat one of these every day for the rest of my life in whatever flavour you felt like.”

“Well, thank you very much, ma’am.” Even if she introduced herself as Diana on the way in, she’s still the spouse of the man making the decision about hiring you, so you’re going to be polite as hell. “They’re a particular favourite of mine, as well. I’m so glad you like it.”

Jack hates that he files that piece of information away, like he is memorizing your likes and dislikes. What does it matter? Your marks might be on his body but you aren’t his soulmate. His soulmate was Abigail Monique Daniels. Born April 24th 1976 and died August 12th, 1998. Instead of saying anything, he concentrates on his food, eating it faster than he anticipated, and slumps slightly when he’s done with the incredible soufflé.

When everyone has had what they like of the small first course, you collect the plates and deposit them in the sink before retrieving a set of six square plates from the fridge. Each has two petite sandwiches on them, and you set them in front of your panel of judges - for lack of a better term - with as much confidence as you can muster. “Our second course is dilled crawfish tea sandwiches. A distinctly Southern twist on a classic.”

“God, crawfish.” Jack groans, rolling his eyes and nearly drooling. It’s been awhile since he’s had the little mud bugs and he’s always enjoyed dishes with them in it. “This is— fuck—” He bites into the sandwich and his eyes widen in pleasure before they drift shut as he chews.

"I hate to agree with Jack," Ginger jokes, making everyone else at the table laugh. "But these really are excellent." Murmurs run through the group, but the buzz running through you is from Jack's very verbal reaction. Watching cowboys fluster and groan over little tea sandwiches is some kind of pleasure you never really expected, but it's gratifying in a very entertaining way. It's not, you tell yourself, that you find Jack incredibly attractive. Of course not. It's that this tasting is going so well. Yup. That's all it is.

“You’re gonna hafta make more of those.” Jack predicts, speaking to you for the first time. “Two ain’t gonna cut it once they taste ‘em.”

"They'll go straight on the menu, then." You may have been pushing the confidence a little bit until now, but this has you smiling immediately. This is going to work, you tell yourself, and ignore the little extra boost you get from someone you're attracted to liking your food.

“Damn.” Jack sits back when the sandwiches are gone, disappointed when everyone else is eating theirs, “I’d make a meal off of them.”

"Maybe sometime soon, you'll be able to." It's a hope, not anything cocky or pointed, and you don't even hear how it could be considered flirting as you take the second sandwich off of your own plate and place it on his when you get up to plate the next course.

He shouldn’t accept it, it’s part of your dinner, but he picks it up and nods towards you before he pops the sandwich in his mouth with a groan. The soufflé was good, but sandwiches like those are his weakness. Champ chuckles, leaning back on his hair with his arm around Diana. “Way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, ain’t it Jack?” He teases, making Jack glare at him.

"Sure is to mine." Tequila pipes up, oblivious to any underlying meaning in Champ's comment. "What's next on the menu, darlin'?"

"The last two courses are sweet." The plating for this has to be done right before serving because of the various textures at play, and you bring the completed plates over two at a time to take away the sandwich plates as you set down the next. "Buttermilk biscuits with strawberries macerated in honey, balsamic vinegar, and cracked black peppercorn. Topped with bourbon vanilla whipped cream." There was no way you were going to do this tasting and not make biscuits. As a staple of Southern cuisine, the quality of a restaurant's biscuits can make or break their entire menu.

“Bourbon whipped cream.” Champ grunts, looking impressed at the mention of a boozy addition to the meal. “It sounds good. Real good. Mighty glad we found you. We wouldn’t be eatin’ so well tonight.” He tells you lightly, looking over at where Jack is sitting.

“This is amazing.” The woman who introduced herself as Astrid hums in delight. "I never would have thought all these flavours could go together, but it's heaven." She grins at Champ before flashing you the same expression. "I might want this instead of birthday cake this year."

“Probably have something even better for birthdays.” Champ nods towards you. “She’s a baker. All things sweet.” That gets Jack’s attention, his love of sweets making him really interested in that.

"So far I haven't met a cake that got the best of me." It's not bragging, you decide, but selling yourself. This is still a job interview and a taste test, and these people need to know that you can rise to any occasion that might land in your lap. "What do each of you usually like to celebrate with?"

“Oh, red velvet.” Diana moans happily, leaning into Champ’s side. “It was our wedding cake, even though it was scandalous at the time.”

Champ chuckles and leans over to press a kiss to her forehead. “Always give my girl what she wants.” He jokes, winking at Ginger.

"Chocolate." Tequila's grin is impetuous, like the little boy who continuously got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Carrot cake, usually." Ginger smiles happily as she polishes off the last bite of her biscuit and its fruit sauce. "But I was dead serious about wanting this instead. That might be the best biscuit I've ever had."

"Well geez." You clear your throat, flustered at that level of compliment, while you file away the different kinds of cakes these folks might like to see pop up on a restaurant menu. "Th-thank you. Very much. That's an amazing compliment."

Jack squirms slightly in his chair. He doesn’t celebrate his birthday. It’s too painful. It’s a day he wants to forget exists. He hopes you don’t ask him about it.

“What about you two?” It’s like a horrific moment from some farcical comedy when you turn your bright smile on him and Champ. “No birthday favourites?”

Champ throws Jack a look and clears his throat. “I normally have red velvet, for the missus.” He tells you with a grin. “And Jack isn’t one for birthdays.”

“No?” This plate is a little larger, so there is more time to linger and talk. “That’s a shame.” But it also smacks of bad memories, so you just lend the man a sympathetic smile and try to ignore the twist in your gut that wonders if he lost his soulmate, too. “Well, I hope they start to be fun for you again sometime soon.”

Jack can’t offer more than a half hearted smile, doubting that very seriously but it’s nice that you care. Or at least make the appropriate noises. “Don’t think that’s gonna happen.” Tequila huffs awkwardly, giving a nervous chuckle.

Sensing the topic might be better left alone, you shut your mouth tight and stand from the table to collect empty plates. The last course is your ringer — your family’s favourite cake that gets made several times a year depending on who requests it for what occasion. Each small, star-shaped plate bears one large cupcake, decorated simply and beautifully. “The last course is coconut cupcakes with whiskey cream cheese frosting, using Statesman ‘82 Special Selection,” you explain as the last plate goes down. “I hadn’t tried it before, but Tex poured it for us on the flight here and the smoky vanilla notes are perfect for this application. Please, enjoy.”

Jack isn’t a coconut person. Never really cared for it, but his eyes close as he has a religious experience with a fucking cupcake. Groaning as he lets the flavors burst on his tongue and slowly chews.

Champ smirks, eyes crinkled in amused approval as he watches Jack fall in love with a goddamn cupcake. It’s damn good. He won’t deny that. But seeing Jack react this way when he knows his friend’s general aversion to the fruit is proof enough for him that even if you weren’t his soulmate, you’d still be the right person to hire for this job.

“I don’t even like coconut and I’d eat a hundred of ‘em.” Jack groans as he finishes up his cupcake and looks around the table at everyone else to get their input.

"How many times have you gotten men to propose marriage with this cake, honey?" Diana jokes, swiping up a missed blob of frosting with her finger so nothing is wasted. You laugh, an actual real, deep belly laugh, and shrug innocently. "Family legend says that it's how my Grandma Jane got her beau to propose," you admit. "My grandfather always said he was going to ask anyway, but we all think it was the cake." The family recipe is one of great important and great popularity, and clearly with good reason.

Jack shuffles in his seat, another damn fact to learn around you and he knows he won’t forget it. Damn mind is trained to remember facts and his brain seems to think that learning about you is a good thing.

"Your granddaddy'd be off his rocker not to ask after a taste of that." Tequila declares, leaving a completely clean plate in front of him. He's got a warmth in his chest and a pride in his smirk at having influenced something you made tonight, even if it's only by accident, and he swears to God that if Champ doesn't offer you whatever this job is, he'll hop back on that jet to New Hampshire himself to hear that laugh of yours again. "Dontcha think, Champ?"

Champ raises a brow at the obviously smitten cowboy and sneaks a glance at Jack who is studiously ignoring the entire conversation and drinking water like a dying fish. “Have to agree.” He chuckles, amused by the development and wonders how this little love triangle will play out.

"Well," you sit back on your stool, looking between the smiling, seemingly satisfied faces and feel your heart stick in your throat. You've done all you can do. If they like your food this much to your face but decide not to give you the job, then at least you put your best foot forward. "Thank you for your consideration. I'll clean up here and find my way to the address I was given to stay at tonight while you make your decision." The staffer, in her polo shirt and khakis, that had come by an hour into your cooking time had dropped off an address allegedly on the Statesman campus that would be yours for the night, but you didn't know yet if it was the same one that Champ had said on the phone would belong to the person who received the executive chef position. And right now you're far too afraid to ask.

“That sounds good, sweetheart.” Champ leans back in his chair and rubs his belly. “We’ve got some talkin’ to do, but thank you for a fine meal.” He turns towards the others, about to tell Jack that he should walk you to the accommodations you’re staying in, he should recognize there. But before he can, Tequila leaps out of his chair.

“I’ll walk you!” He blurts out, cringing a little at how loud he had gotten and gives a small shrug. “I mean, I’ll help you clean up and show you where to go, give you an unofficial tour.”

"That's very nice of you." He's sweet, this towering cowboy with the bright smile, and while Jack is far more your type, there's no denying Tex is attractive. "I'd appreciate the extra hand to figure out where I'm going. This place is kind of huge." If you've only got the one night here, it won't hurt to pass it in good company. As attractive as you find Jack, and as much as he seemed to like your food, you don't get the feeling that he likes you very much.

Tequila lights up and it takes everything in Champ not to snort at his eagerness. Jack looks like something’s stuck in his craw, his slight frown making the older man smirk as he watches the two of you gather dishes and carry them beyond the barrier into the belly of the kitchen. “You coulda offered, ya know.” Champ tells Jack, making the other man huff.

“I’m going back to my place,” He sulks, standing up and glancing towards the doors again, seemingly torn.

"At least say good night," Diana urges, seeing the hesitation on Jack's face. "She worked hard tonight and you liked what she made, so just...stick your head in? Say good night? There's no harm in being polite."

“Damn fool.” Champ hisses, making Diana turn and shush him. “Can’t see that it’s a damn blight on her memory to be actin’ this way.”

"Everybody mourns differently, Rick." Diana murmurs, shooting her husband a fierce look as they both watch Jack shuffle his feet at the turn of the long kitchen, debating whether or not to go in.

Jack has never had fucking sweaty palms, never. Not even when he was standing at the altar waiting for his sweet Abigail. Now, it feels like his hands are coated in baby oil. He can’t keep them dry, rubbing them on his jeans for the fourteenth time since he’s stood. “Damn Ginger and her hangover shit.” He mutters to himself, rolling his eyes over how juvenile he is being. Rolling his shoulders back, Jack assumes the bravado and cockiness that he is known for and pushes through the barrier to stride into the kitchen.

You practically jump when the door opens again, not having expected anyone to come in. Tex is beside you at the sink, loading the dishwasher after you rinse off plates, but when you spin around you're surprised to see Jack standing in the doorway with a charming grin painted on his face. "Jack." You swallow your surprise at seeing him along with the laugh that had been bubbling out of you when you heard him approach. "Can I help you with something?"

“I’ve got to get goin’ miss.” He murmurs, suddenly a lot less eager to escape, but it’s for the best. “Just wanting to thank you for the fine meal.” He reaches up and tips his hat towards you. “Have a good night.”

"Thank you very much. But hang on one second." Quickly running over to the fridge on the other side of the kitchen, you rummage for a few seconds before coming out with a container bearing the rest of the crawfish salad you had used in the sandwiches, and another bearing two more of the coconut cupcakes that he had ended up loving. "Take these with you," you insist, holding them out once you're in front of him again. "In case...in case I don't get the job, ya know? You seemed to really like these."

Jack opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out as he silently takes the containers. Touched that you would give away the extras because he had liked them. It’s only when they are against his chest does he remember that the entire point of him coming into the kitchen was to be polite. “Thanks, sugar.” He drawls quietly, looking down at the food. “I—I appreciate that.”

“It was very nice to meet you, Jack.” He seems slightly odd, or maybe just taken off guard, or maybe he’s sad. You can’t tell, but he was very nice about your food and you’ve always been the sort of person to return kindness with kindness.

Jack stares at you for a moment, conflicting emotions waging a war inside him as he does. Finally, he reminds himself that you don’t know who he is and he’s free to leave. He nods again and looks past you towards Tequila. “Behave.” Jack tells his younger friend, knowing that he can get rowdy when he wants.

“They call us Southern gentlemen, don’t they?” Tequila shoots Jack back a wink that you don’t catch and grins. “Y’all get home safe. I’m just gonna show our new friend here around the place.”

Jack frowns as he turns around and walks out of the kitchen, bitterness swelling in his gut and he hates it. He reminds himself that this isn’t his place. He killed your soulmate.

“He seems nice,” you observe, trying to shake off the odd feeling that washes over you when he looks sad again before walking out. Like you want to rush after him and give him a hug or something.

“Jack?” Tequila looks up from the pan he is washing and gives a shrug. “He’s a damn good man. Going through a rough time.” It’s not his place to mention it, especially to someone who’s not aware they are all agents. So he leaves it at that. “But he was right, those were some damn fine desserts.”

“Thank you.” The way that makes your cheeks burn is professional pride, you tell yourself unconvincingly. “I’m very hopeful. This…this job would be a dream, and everybody has been so nice. It would be…a real adventure, ya know? A big, fresh start.”

He chuckles and nods in agreement. “Workin’ for Statesman is never dull. Always havin’ an adventure or ten since coming on.”

Taking the last pan from him, you load it into the industrial dishwasher and shut the machine, pressing the button on the side before you wipe your hands. “What’s the most fun you’ve had working here?” You ask, wanting to see if you can get a feel for this place and these people and what their adventures might be.

“Well–” Any and all stories would have to be tamed down for your ears. Plus you don’t have a security clearance. “There was the time we had someone try to break into the facility to steal a barrel of the ‘65. It was personal then.” Tequila huffs. “Best damn batch we have.”

You’re about to ask how that could possibly be fun until you remember he’s security and you end up shaking your head and laughing. “Do you get that a lot? People trying to break in, or theft?”

“More than you’d think.” He snorts, knowing how it might seem crazy to a civilian. “It’s why our security system is so advanced. If you run across some hardware you don’t recognize, best to stay away.”

“Really? Wow. I wouldn’t have thought it would be that bad.” Leaning back against the sink, you stretch your arms and feel a little bit of satisfied soreness coming through your muscles after a job well done. “You must have a big team, then? Champ made it sound like a lot of employees live on the premises, but that would make this place absolutely huge.”

“Yeah.” Tequila hooks his thumbs through his jeans belt loops and grins at you. “Lotta technical stuff they do, don’t understand it, but the big brain was here. Astrid? She’s over our R&D.”

“Damn,” you murmur, impressed. “Well…are you up for that tour? I’d love to see the whole place.” Just in case it’s the only chance you get.

Winking at you, Tequila straightens and walks over to you to offer his arm. “Nothing like a nice night and a pretty girl to walk with.” He flirts.

“Why do I have the sneaking suspicion that I’m not the first girl you’ve ever said that to?” Not that you care, though. You’re not one of those uptight people who thinks people should only ever be with their soulmates. And even if you were? Well…you don’t have one anymore, so it’s kind of a moot point. Instead of lingering on it, you grab your bag from under the counter and take the arm you’re being offered with a smile. “Lead the way, cowboy.”

“Who knows, might be the last time.” Tequila murmurs, aiming another grin at you as the two of you make your way out of the kitchen and through the empty dining room. “This is going to be our newest venture.” He teases. “Some kinda tea room? With Whiskey? I don’t know but the food’s amazing.”

“Oh god, don’t curse it,” you groan playfully, wiping one hand down your face.

“Naaaaahhhhh.” He chuckles and opens the door for the two of you to walk out into the late evening twilight. “I can tell you’re gonna get it.”

“Either way, I’m glad I came.” Sure it’s different from New Hampshire. Drastically, in some ways. But you’ve lived your whole life on the sea coast and Louisville is a big city. It would be, just like this interview, a big adventure.

“You’ll be enjoyin’ the country and mountains in no time.” Tequila predicts, bringing you around to see the distillery up close.

The facilities are actually beautiful. Equally rustic and hyper modern depending on the building, with aesthetically gorgeous gardens lining all the walkways as far as the eye can see. The main building is full of offices, Tex explains, and even those are as beautifully kept as the rest of the grounds. It’s impressive, you have to admit it. You were absolutely right to think this place would make an amazing wedding venue. It will - for you or for whatever chef gets hired.

The path for housing is off the main distillery, secluded enough that people don’t feel like they are living at work. Trees and shrubbery separating the spaces so that it feels like a little relaxing oasis. The path way is lit, Diana insisting that it makes the entire area look romantic and of course Champ wasn’t going to deny her. “This is our housing.” He tells you. “We decided to go with the theme and model them after mountain ‘shine cabins. With modern conveniences, of course.”

There’s big houses and little houses, and what looks like a small apartment complex to one side of the neighborhood built on Statesman grounds. On the other side, beyond what you can only describe as a small park and grove of trees, are three much larger houses that smack of importance or seniority. “Who lives in those?” You ask, pointing toward the trio.

“Those belong to our senior staff.” He points at the largest. “That’s Champ’s in the middle and Jack and Ginger on either side of him.”

"Ginger?" Tilting your head at him slightly, you ask the quest with your brow slightly furrowed. "What does she do?"

Tequila winces, catching his mistake. “Astrid.” He corrects. “We just all call her Ginger. Nickname of sorts.” He can’t tell you that it’s her code name Ginger Ale.

"Got it." You nod, remembering that he had said Astrid ran the research and development department at Statesman - whatever that meant when it came to whiskey. "I'm guessing that one is hers?" The house on the right of Champ's is hyper modern with clean lines and very little of the mountain-aesthetic charm of the other houses around. It looks like it was made just for her with all the bells and whistles. Conversely, Jack's house to the left of Champ's looks like an almost Victorian-style ranch house with a wrap-around porch and a paint job as pristine as his mustache. It's much more your style than Champ's mountain cabin or Astrid's smart house, but since it doesn't matter at all you don't say anything about it. "Which one is yours?" The question is out of your mouth before you realize how exactly it sounds, and your eyes go wide with embarrassment just a split second later.

Tequila grins at you, sending you a small wink. “Come on, darlin’.” He drawls playfully. “I’ll give you the grand tour.” He knows you don’t mean it how it sounds, but he can’t resist teasing you. He moseys down the path and points to one of the small cabins. “That one there is mine.” He tells you proudly,

"It looks comfy." True to bachelor form, which you expected, the curtains hung in the windows are dark and 'masculine' in a deep shade of green, and a glimpse through into the garage reveals a large, shiny pick up truck that is probably his pride and joy.

“It’s where I hang my hat.” Tequila looks at the cabin fondly. It was probably the most secure he’s ever been in his life and he risks his neck on every mission. “And there’s where you’re stayin’.” He points at a newly built one off to the left, nearer to Jack’s. “It’ll be yours if you get the job. It’s furnished.” He rushes out. “So you won’t be sleeping on the floor or nothing.”

"We'd be neighbors," you laugh, as if everybody here doesn't live in the same neighborhood. It's a company town without feeling creepy or oppressive. This is the end of the road, both literally and figuratively, and you offer the man beside you a smile. "Thank you for the tour. And for being so friendly today. I've been nerve wracked since 9am, but whether you knew it or not, you helped calm me down. I appreciate it."

“No problem at all.” Tequila senses that you aren’t going to invite him in and while he’s disappointed, he’s not going to complain. Some women need to be wooed and you seem like the type to like the effort. “There’s a fresh bottle of the ‘93 in there, made sure of it. Lighter, but it’ll put you to sleep just like a baby.”

“Thank you.” There’s a hesitation, and though you can’t quite put your finger on why it’s there, you listen to your gut and squeeze his arm gently before slipping your hand out of it. You’ve never been one to fall into bed on a first date - and nothing about this very odd but fun day was ever a date to begin with. And hell, if you actually do get hired here, that could be a hell of an awkward situation. “Hopefully,” you shrug, feeling like if you don’t at least say something you’ll regret it later on. “I’ll see you again. Fingers crossed, and all that.” It’s so stupid when it comes out of your mouth that you almost wince. “I’m gonna retreat,” you announce, huffing at your own awkwardness and pointing a thumb toward the door of the little house you’re meant to stay in. “Before I embarrass myself or say something dumbass. Good night, Tex.”

“Goodnight, darlin’.” He sends you a wink and steps back from the cabin steps that you two had managed to drift towards. “Let me know if you need anything but I’m sure they put everything by you need in there.”

“I’ll come knock on your door if I need a cup of sugar,” you joke, reaching for the doorknob. Dumbass. You waited too long and said something dumbass. Chuckling instead of wincing, you say another good night and go inside. Time to call your family and tell them everything that happened today.

******

Jack tells himself that he is just making sure that you are safe. You are technically his responsibility now. At least until someone in the universe realizes they fucked up. Guilt is another reason why he’s standing in the shadow of the large oak tree, watching you walk into the cabin and close the door behind you. Tequila turns and strides towards his own cabin, whistling a jaunty tune under his breath and Jack sighs in relief when he doesn’t spot him.

The house is gorgeous. It’s simply decorated but welcoming, clean and crisp and clearly unlived in. The kitchen has a spectacular range and a huge fridge, which currently stands empty but has a map of the Statesman campus stuck to it with a Stetson-shaped magnet and there is a bottle of ‘93 on the counter as promised. Deciding to call home after you have a drink, you pour two fingers of single malt into a glass from the cupboard and continue to wander around the ground floor.

“You could always go talk to her.” Jack doesn’t react when Champ steps up next to him beside the tree. His own gaze fixed on the newly built cabin. “Can’t be more than thirty steps to her door.”

Jack purses his lips, unhappy that his friend is in his mind. “Champ…” He warns, not wanting to be pushed right now.

“Well,” the older man shrugs, a small smile on his face as always. Champ perpetually looks as if he’s up to no good - mostly because he is. “Somebody should tell her she’s got the job. Don’t see why she should be twistin’ til tomorrow morning.”

“You’re really going to do this? Open up some tea time type thing?” He huffs, unable to believe such a thing would go over well in the whiskey distillery. Even if you are an amazing baker. “Just to keep her here?”

“It’s a restaurant.” Champ reasons, hooking his thumbs in his belt as he watches you appear in an upstairs window. You’re on the phone now. “I wanted a steakhouse for the place, but Diana said it was boring.” He laughs, knowing his wife was probably right. “She’ll make a good run of the place, and she’s got a mind for expanding it to do weddings.” He glances down at Jack but doesn’t push the point. “Good head for business is what she’s got. We’d be lucky to snag her even if she weren’t who she is.” Or what you are to Jack.

Jack sighs, resigned to the fact that you will be here. He’s not opposed to the idea, he likes anything that makes money. But he knows this was catered to you so you would stay. “She’s gonna hate me.” Jack predicts, guilt hanging around his shoulders again.

“Maybe.” Though Champ chuckles affectionately. “Hell, you’re my best friend and even I hate you sometimes. But…she might surprise ya, Jack. Can’t know unless you try.”

“She’s not Abigail, Champ.” Jack whispers the words softly, almost shamed by them but he can’t help his feelings. He never expected to have another soulmate…ever.

“Of course not.” He answers immediately, brow furrowed over the very idea. “Nor should she be. You’re not the same man you were back then.”

“I– I don’t know how to be a soulmate anymore.” That’s his biggest fear. That he would be horrible at it, or God forbid, lose someone again. Jack is scared of nothing, but this has his heart hammering in his chest.

Champ sighs, softly and hopefully not enough for Jack to hear. “How about just bein’ her friend?” He suggests, wondering how in the hell this thing with Tequila was going to play out alongside Jack’s fears. You might end up being trouble for Statesman, he can’t know yet. “For all you know, this second soulmate of yours could be platonic and you’re worryin’ over nothing.”

Jack chuckles and it’s a harsh sound. “Have you ever known anything about me and another woman as pretty as her to be platonic? Few exceptions of course.”

“Only gorgeous woman you’ve ever been strictly friends with is Ginger.” Champ admits, snorting in amusement. “But I’d like to watch her wife whoop you for tryin’.”

This time, Jack’s laugh is lighter, more genuine. It was true that while Gabriella looks innocent, the woman could - and would - knock a grown man on his ass. He’s witnessed it at the bar more than once. “One if she crushes me with her thighs.” He jokes.

“I’m sure she’d oblige if you asked.” The two men laugh, feeling the tension dissipate a little, and Champ claps his hands on Jack’s shoulder in that brotherly way he’s become accustomed to do. “Tonight or tomorrow,” he tells Jack. “Tell her when you’re ready. But she’s goin’ home on the jet tomorrow to pack, not to leave for good.”

Sighing, Jack turns and watches Champ wander back towards his own house, Diana no doubt waiting for him. He should tell you tonight. Not let you wallow in misery and suspense. After you get off the phone, he’ll go knock on the door.

******

“I don’t know how it’s all going to turn out, but…I kind of love the people I’ve met so far,” you admit to your mother, sinking down in the window seat that faces the backyard of the little cabin that someone will soon be living in. The guest room has a beautiful reading chair and end table in it, but the master bedroom has a window seat so plush and comfortable that you could just sleep right here. “It’s beautiful here, too. It really is.”

“You said they loved it, that has to mean you are going to get the position.” As disappointed as she will be to have you move away, she knows that it would be fantastic for your career. “Your own restaurant! Just imagine what you could do without having to pander to someone else’s ego.”

“Dad will be thrilled to know the house has a guest room,” you joke, feeling hope flutter in your chest and staring out into the backyard with the now-empty glass still in your other hand. “And the yard could have room for a garden if I wanted.” You sigh, leaning back against the wall and wishing you didn’t have to wait until morning to find out. “If I don’t get it, we should bring him down here for his next birthday. Celebrate sixty-five with a distillery tour and a trip to Dollywood. It’s only a couple of hours from here.”

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.” She promises, smiling at the wistful hope in your voice. You want this position, that much is obvious. “Tell me – how did the coconut cupcakes go over?”

“Like gangbusters.” And your giggle is nearly triumphant. “The owner’s wife joked that it’s good enough to get a proposal so I told the story about grandma and grandpa, and…” you grin to yourself thinking of Jack’s ecstatic reaction. “There was one guy at the tasting who doesn’t even like coconut who was completely in love with them. I think I may have converted him.”

“You know…your grandpa didn’t like coconut either.” Your mother practically cackles. “Said she won him over. Only coconut thing he would ever eat.”

“Seriously?” That makes you laugh a little harder, and you wish you had just one more sip of whiskey in the bottom of that glass. “I don’t want to jinx it,” you tell her finally. “But I have a really good feeling about this place.”

“Good feelings inspire good outcomes.” She hums, hoping that you will call her with good news tomorrow. “I can’t see them not hiring you after sending a private jet.”

“I hope so.” You really, truly hope so with everything you’ve got. “Either way, I’ll be home tomorrow. Either to pack or to wallow in disappointment.”

“Either way, we are going to celebrate.” If there was one thing that was taught in the household you grew up in, it is that even losses are celebrated. Because it meant you tried, and it would make you try again.

“Okay.” Nodding against your phone, you sigh softly again and roll your shoulders back against the wall. “I’m going to pour myself another drink and watch a movie until I’m ready to go to bed. I’ll call you tomorrow?”

“Relax, sweetheart.” Your mother murmurs softly. “See if they have a soaker tub to lay in. You managed to work on your day off too.” She tells you that she loves you and ends the call.

She’s right, but you decide that whiskey and a movie sounds better than a bath and you wander downstairs again. The bugs sound different here. Kentucky air smells different from New Hampshire air. But still, somehow, it could very easily become home.

Jack sighs when he sees you walk back into the living room, phone not pinned to your ear. He should go talk to you. The first step seems to take forever - the length of time it takes you to pour a drink - before he starts slowly walking towards your house.

The knock is unexpected, and part of you wonders who you hope is on the other side of that door - Champ with his decision or Tex offering company. Or even Jack, handsome and slightly sad Jack, though you can’t figure out why he would visit you. “Coming!” You call out, leaving your drink on the kitchen counter and hustling through the living room. A split second before pulling open the door you decide you’re hoping it’s Champ more than anymore, but when you see Jack standing on the front step instead, your heart jumps a little. “Jack!” It makes your voice jump, too, and you groan inwardly about being awkward around him yet again. “I—I wasn’t expecting anyone. What do you…” Be polite, dammit. “Would you like to come in?”

Swallowing, Jack gives a small nod as he curses himself for being a fool. It’s talking to a lady, something he had no problems with. It didn’t matter that he is wearin’ your ink. “It’s not too late, I hope? I’m not interrupting anything?”

“Not at all. I was just going to have a drink and relax.” There’s no reason on earth he should make you so nervous, but he does, and you bite the inside of your lip. “Would you like to join me?”

“Sure.” He’s not going to turn down some whiskey, even though they should have left you a ‘82. Better year in his opinion.

You pace back to the kitchen, pour a second glass, and bring it back to Jack with a thick swallow. “To what do I owe the visit?” If it were actually your house, or even a hotel room, you would feel so much more comfortable and be more at ease as you motion for him to sit. As it is, you just feel like you’re trespassing in somebody else’s home.

“Wanted to see if you liked the place.” Small talk is a good place to start, he guesses. Taking the glass with a nod of appreciation, he looks around. “Not just the cabin but Statesman itself. The whole shebang.”

"Honestly?" Sitting on the edge of the sofa isn't exactly relaxed, but you perch there with your glass in your hands. "I kind of love it. I mean I'm trying not to get too attached until I know what's going to happen with the job, but...I really like it. Everyone's been so nice and the whole place is so welcoming." It's silly to feel that way, you know that. But even after only a few hours, you can't deny it. "I have kind of an instinct about places, most of the time. And I have a really good feeling about this one."

“That’s good, sugar.” The endearment slips out, not the first time, but he realizes it this time. “Would you accept, if you’re offered it?” He’s curious to know what you are leaving behind, what you might balk at. Maybe you don’t believe in soulmates and have a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend.

This isn't the time to get all emotional over manners. Southern men using pet names is normal, not something to get you all flustered. Even though it does - as evidenced by the stack of cowboy themed romance novels on your bookshelf at home. "I think I would," you nod, letting yourself take a steadying sip of your drink. "It's...pretty literally my dream job, if I'm honest."

Jack nods, swallowing a mouthful of the whiskey, enjoying the burn of the liquid. He’s hesitating and it annoys him. “Then I guess that it’s a good thing you’ll get to live out your dreams, sugar.” He tells you with a whimsical smile. “The job is yours for the takin’.”

"Wait." Your eyes dart up to his, going from staring down into your cup to blown wide and hopeful in less than a second. "A–are you serious? Is that why you came?" It would be entirely inappropriate to start crying in front of a complete stranger, but you're instantly so excited you could burst.

“Champ’ll want you to sign papers in the morning, but I’m serious.” He nods and gives a small shrug. “Figured I’d bring you the good news so you didn’t have to worry all night. I always sleep like shit if I’m ponderin’ something.”

"Oh my god." Your heart is pounding and you feel like the blood pounding in your ears is so loud that he can hear it too, but frankly you're just glad that you manage to put your glass down on the side table without spilling it all over yourself. "Oh– oh my god." The way you practically squeak with glee makes you clamp both hands over your mouth in embarrassment despite the excitement glistening in your eyes. "I'm sorry, I just... really? Champ said yes?"

The genuine excitement and happiness that fills your face and eyes has Jack grinning despite himself. Your little squeak was full of joy and he can feel you vibrate with energy from where he’s sitting. “Champ said yes.” He confirms. “Hell, I think he’d be a fool not to say yes.” Maybe a bit of an embellishment on his part, but that’s because he knows you would be offered a chance to stay regardless of your skills. However, you truly are talented and Champ wants to make this tea room a reality.

“That’s so kind of you.” Your hands slip down, resting over your heart as you try to contain your excitement. If this wasn’t a complete stranger in front of you, you would be literally dancing with joy right now. “That’s so unbelievably kind of you Jack and I—” Breathe. Don’t get so breathless that you embarrass yourself. “I swear I won’t let any of you down.”

His heart clenches, knowing you will be saying something far different if you knew what he had done. There wouldn’t be a sort of hero worship he sees in your eyes even though he just delivered the good news. “Sugar, you make sweets.” He jokes. “There’s no way you could let us down. Unless the cake don’t rise.”

You laugh, charmed slightly at the term of endearment that is in almost every one of your cowboy novels but somehow seems even more appropriate now that it’s be used pointedly with you as a baker. “I would never let that happen,” you promise him, crossing one finger over your heart like a solemn oath. “My Grandma Jane would sense it somehow, rise up, and come down from New Hampshire to see me straight.”

Of course you would be from New Hampshire. Jack manages to not react and instead he gives a small chuckle like he was supposed to. “Now you should be able to sleep like a baby.” He considers it for a second and shrugs. “Or not sleep at all because you’re excited. This will be your house by the way. So imagine how you’re going to move things around.”

“I might not sleep because I’ll be rearranging things.” You’re brimming over, practically giggling and tearing up as your heart pounds with excitement. “This is…it’s…” The breath you blow out comes with another barely contained squeak. “I feel like I want to celebrate but I have no idea where to go around here.”

Jack lifts a brow, surprised you don’t want to get back on the phone but he chuckles. “Well, there’s Shootouts, about five miles down the road.” He tilts his head. “It’s a rowdy place most nights. But it’s fun.”

“Rowdy sounds fun.” Most of the time, the dive bar you frequented at home was full of locals having shouting matches and screaming at the hockey game on tv or bitching at each other over a shot at the pool table. Working in kitchens, rowdy is par for the course. Most people just don’t expect that of you when they find out you make dainty little cakes for a living. “Do you…” you tilt your head at him slightly, wondering why your chest clenches at the thought. “Would you want to come with? Or do you have someone to get back to?” That big house of his must be lonely if he lives there all alone.

He shouldn’t but he also can’t leave you on your own at Shootouts. He could see that being a disaster in the making. “Warning.” He cautions. “They sell beer and whiskey, no mixers or cocktails.”

��You say that like you think I’m going to fan myself or be scandalized.” Which is what most people who don’t know you assume, so you can’t blame him. “But whiskey’s always been my favourite flavor.”

Jack smirks, automatically coming up with a dirty come back but he doesn’t say it. Flirting would be wrong, even if you are beautiful. Instead he tilts his head towards the door. “Get your jacket then, sugar.” He tells you. “We’ll take my Bronco.”

Glasses abandoned to side tables, you grab your leather jacket off the rack by the door and pat the pockets to make sure your cash and cards are inside before following him out the door. His house is a mere five minute walk from the – from your house – and you marvel excitedly at the neighborhood around you when you step outside again. This is it. Your new home.

“Don’t eat the bar nuts.” Jack chuckles as he motions you towards the Bronco. “Think they’ve been there since the 40s. Let me grab the keys and we’ll go.”

“Got it.” You chuckle as he heads into his house. It gives you a moment to quickly pull out your phone, tapping out a text to the family text thread to let everyone know you’re going out celebrating your brand new job.

Jack changes from his sports jacket into a black leather one that would be better suited for the bar. Unconsciously matching you slightly with your own leather jacket. He grabs his keys and heads out the door and jogs over the Bronco, showing off by hopping in rather than opening the door.

“So is Shootouts where you usually go to hang out?” Tucking your phone away, you slide into the Bronco’s soft leather seats and buckle up. Now that you know you’re staying here, you want to know absolutely everything.

“It’s been known to be taken over by Statesman personnel.” Jack grins. “The locals can be a bit much but they are half drunk most of the time.”

“I’ve spent years hanging out with line cooks,” you tell him honestly, settling back in the comfortable seat as he pulls out of his driveway. “So that sounds pretty relaxing to me.”

“From what I know about kitchens, that checks out.” Jack laughs as he starts driving down the road to lead out of the Statesman property.

The ride is cordial, and fairly short. You mostly listen to the radio together, comparing notes on mutual favourite classic rock bands and talking about Kentucky in general. Finding out that Jack isn’t actually from here surprises you initially, but it’s a fond reassurance that this is a place that people grow to love and feel at home in. Something that you’re already starting to do after just a few hours.

Pulling into the gravel parking lot, Jack throws the Bronco into park and turns towards you. “If it ain’t your style, lemme know and we’ll get outta here.” The jukebox is cranking out a country rock song and the noise from the bar reaches all the way past the shine of the neon light.

“Don’t worry about me.” You assure him. Jack is funny and sweet, you’ve discovered, when he doesn’t have resting sad face. You lend him a grin and point your thumb at the bar. “I like a good country tune and a little line dancing now and then.” It’s an understatement, considering how much you love to dance, but you’re trying not to be overeager or infodump.

“Oh you’re gonna be like a tornado in a trailer park, ain’t cha?” Jack huffs and he hops out of the Bronco and walks around to help you out.

“Maybe.” You grin, tip of your tongue between your teeth and nose wrinkled on a grin when he comes around to the other side of the truck. “Very gentlemanly of you.” It’s simple, and polite, but when you put your hand in Jack’s to accept his help in climbing out of the Bronco you nearly shiver at the contact.

Jack’s mouth is suddenly dry and he needs a drink. The tingling of your skin against his is subtle, so much that he swears he’s imagining it. “Right,” he clears his throat and closes the door behind you. “Let’s celebrate.”

It’s loud inside, raucous patrons and well-placed speakers blasting country rock as a few people dance and some play pool; but most are gathered in booths and around tables talking and laughing and having a good time. “I like it,” you declare unequivocally, sensing immediately that this place is full of the best kind of fun.

Jack smirks, appreciating that you can enjoy the lack of fussiness. It’s a rustic place and some, especially the women who came here from big cities, didn’t care for its appeal. “Then let’s get a drink.”

You’re not an unrealistic person, and no matter how often Jack or the crew from Statesman might come here, almost nothing gets a bartender’s attention faster than being flirted with, so you pull on the front of your blouse just enough to deepen the vee of the neck and sidle up to the bar. The man behind the bar makes the expected beeline for the unknown pretty woman batting her eyelashes at him. “Statesman Red Label for me, and a glass of whatever my friend wants,” you tell him, motioning to Jack just beside you.

Snorting in amusement at how fast the bartender’s eyes drop down to your cleavage before even giving him a second look, Jack raises his brow. “Just gimme a beer.” He tells him, knowing that he should pace himself, especially given how rowdy the place will work itself up to as the night goes on.

“What kind of beer do you drink down here?” Even as you all the question, you’re checking out the tap handles to see if there’s any you don’t recognize. After all, local beers change region to region. You’re not exactly betting they’ll have Sam Adam’s Summer Ale here when the weather gets warmer.

“They have all the domestic.” Jack tells you as he nods towards the draft handles. “But they also keep the Kentucky Bourbon Ale on draft.” He chuckles, knowing that it’s a bit of a cliche. “Best damn beer you’ll ever have.”

"That will have to be drink number two," you tell him, taking the recommendation seriously considering he - and you now - work for a distillery. You'll pace yourself, of course, but you're celebrating and can drink most line cooks you've known under the table. Two drinks is nothing. "The Red Label is always my celebratory drink. Well...normally it's a Red Label Manhattan, but you said they don't mix drinks here."

“We’ll have to make sure you have a bottle of Red Label then.” Jack leans against the bar and decides that it’s only polite to ask a question. “So Statesman isn’t a new whiskey to you, huh? Do you drink it often?”

"It's my dad's favourite. And became mine, too." He smells clean and woodsy and there's something musky like surprisingly high end cologne coming from him that makes you want to just curl into him and sigh in comfort - but that's a goddamn weird thing to think, so you just enjoy the sort of halo around him. "Today is definitely not the first day I've used Statesman in my baking. I just never knew much about the company before." You shrug slightly, trying to seem relaxed instead of like a damn cavewoman with goosebumps from being so close to him. "I guess that's going to change pretty quickly."

“Considering you can go into the distillery and draw some straight from the barrel to put into your cakes and pies, I’d say so.” Jack groans as he imagines it. “If you make bourbon soaked peach cobbler with vanilla bourbon cream, I’d sit up and beg.”

"That sounds like a hell of a twist to my peach cobbler. Bourbon soaked grilled peach cobbler with vanilla bourbon ice cream that also uses Bourbon vanilla." You hum a little, digging for your credit card when the bartender reappears with your drinks.

“Now you really expect to pay?” Jack might have his moments, but he’s a gentleman. “Put that away. Drinks are on me.” He tells you, turning to the bartender. “Put them on my tab.”

"As long as you let me pay next time we go out." You shouldn't get a little thrill at the idea, but Jack is the spitting image of every single cowboy love interest in every one of your books - or at least the way you picture them. Even if he's just a friendly face you see from time to time, you're damn well going to enjoy it.

He frowns but doesn’t say no. It’s hard to let someone else pay, especially when it was a woman. Not because he was sexist or some shit, but because his daddy would roll out of his grave and whoop his ass for letting a woman pay while she was out with him. Instead of making it a thing, he picks up his beer. “To new jobs and delicious sweets.” He toasts. “Cheers, sugar.”

"Cheers." The rim of your glass taps the neck of his beer bottle and you smile before taking your first sip, loving the familiar burn and cherry-caramel tones of this particular bourbon. There's a reason it's your favourite. "So tell me about Statesman," you ask, turning and leaning against the bar to face Jack. "How long have you worked there?"

Jack hums, thinking about it. “Since ‘99.” Champ had come around the year after Abigail had…. “So you can say I’ve been there awhile.” He interrupts his sad train of thought and quickly takes another swallow of his beer. “It’s turned from a two bit operation into what it is now.”

Since ‘99? You blanch a little thinking about how young you were then but decide not to say anything since it hardly matters anymore. Grown ass adults are grown ass adults. "Tex said you used to work security?"

He can't answer that. Or, doesn't want to so he merely grunts and gives a quasi nod. Delving into his background would reveal too much that he doesn't want you to see. Champ still hasn't told him what kind of security clearance you will have, if any, and it wouldn't be right to start unfolding how Jack had been recruited to the agency.

Okay…maybe not talking about work, then? He seems reticent and you don’t want to accidentally upset the man you came out with - for various reasons. Not the least of which is that you do not like being the reason people are upset. “He, uh– Tex speaks very highly of you,” you try again, steering it in a slightly different direction.

Snorting, Jack sends you a look of amusement and lifts his beer up before taking another sip. "He should, I got him the job." He tells you, remember the skirmish that he had gotten into and been surprised when the rodeo clown had been very cool under pressure.

“Yeah?” That would definitely account for some of the way Tex talked about his older coworker, and you have to wonder if more people at Statesman have close working relationships or if these two men are outliers. “That must be a good story.”

"Not much of one." Jack hums, giving another slight shrug. "Way he tells it is that I was having my ass handed to me and he had to come save the day. But I was holding my own. It was eight to one." He smirks and sends you a small, cocky wink.

It is extremely cavewoman of you to find that so sexy, you tell yourself, burying the way you have to bite your lip behind your glass to keep from saying something suggestive, and taking a sip. “What did you do piss off eight guys?” You ask instead, trying to look only mildly curious instead of on the edge of your seat.

He can't tell you that he was running down a human trafficking ring so he just sends you a small smirk. "They were pissed off that I hit on one of their girlfriends." He boasts, figuring it was as good of a story as any. The real story was that he had managed to get one of the women out and they hadn't been happy when they stumbled upon them leaving.

“Scoundrel.” It’s just teasing, and you don’t hear how much like flirting it really sounds as you shake your head at him in amusement. “I hope she was worth fighting over.” It occurs to you for the first time that he might have somebody waiting for him in that house on the edge of Statesman grounds and your stomach twists unpleasantly.

"Comes with the territory." He looks around for a moment, trying to ignore how your lopsided grin makes his pulse tick up. "You bringin' someone special with you?" He asks, telling himself he's just asking so he can assuage this guilt over killing your soulmate.

“Oh, sure.” You know what he means, but it isn’t the case. There hasn’t been much time for dating lately and with the disappearance of your soulmate’s marks, you’ve been processing the disappointment in knowing that true love is officially off the table - which might make you feel dumb sometimes but at least you’re honest with yourself about being disappointed to have to live without it. “I think my goldfish is really going to like the new house.”

Not sure if he’s relieved or even more guilty, Jack nods. “Sure think Goldy would like the eastern window, huh?” He asks, chuckling to himself as you take a sip of your drink. You’re easy to get along with and if it weren’t for who you are, he can’t even deny he’d be doing his damndest to take you back to his bed tonight.

“Yes, the Doormouse will love the eastern window,” you over-exaggerate, laughing as you think of walking your little fish tank around the house presenting the goldfish with multiple options for a view. “He’ll insist on a stroll around the garden each day, I’m sure.”

“You should build him an outdoor swimming hole.” He chuckles, leaning into the idea. “Maybe a stream so he can pretend he’s free.”

“I think the backyard of the house is too small.” It’s not something that bothers you at all, since you hadn’t even thought of it yet, but you hum over the image and let yourself indulge in the fantasy. “A pond with a little stream and a garden of flowers and herbs. That’s what he’ll get to adventure through one day. But maybe not yet.”

“Hell, that sounds like a good little adventure to me.” Jack muses, an amused little smile on his face.

“Should I call you the Doormouse, too?” You tease, even though you have a feeling that grin of his makes him more like a troublesome Cheshire Cat.

He realizes that you are making a reference to Alice in Wonderland and for a brief second, his mark - your mark - seems to burn. “Like the movie or the book?” He asks casually.

“Well…the Doormouse is in pretty much any adaptation of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland or Alice Through the Looking Glass.” The fact that he recognizes the character isn’t exactly niche, but it’s certainly not like you called him a Mad Hatter or something. “They’re…they’re my favorite stories. They have been since I was a kid.” As if to prove it, you pull up your right shirt sleeve and show him the tattoo on your arm. “I guess you can blame my obsession with tea parties on it, too, honestly.”

He learns a little bit about you, probably more than he would have if he guessed. “What’s the appeal?” He asks, curious as to why a child’s story has carried into adulthood.

“Haven’t you ever felt terribly ordinary?” To you, it seems like it must be a universal experience. Everyone, at some point in their life, has felt like the least extraordinary person in the world. “Maybe it’s juvenile, I don’t know. But the idea that Alice feels so entirely ordinary in her existence, and then falls into someplace entirely wonderful…even if it’s scary at first? It seems like that’s something everyone deserves. To find the place and the people that make them feel that life is extraordinary.”

“Have you found your wonderful place yet?” He can’t fault your logic, understanding now the ink that is in his own skin. “Or are you still looking?”

“I’m still looking.” Shifting your sleeve back into place, you shrug half-heartedly. You had thought that finding your soulmate would help you to that extraordinary life, but now that will never happen. If anything, you feel farther from it than ever. Although you’re not the sort to give up hope. “But who knows? Maybe it will be Statesman.”

“Statesman has a way of collecting a ragtag bunch of people.” Jack confides, knowing he is better because of his involvement with the organization. He would have been dead by now if Champ hadn’t come along. “And we have whiskey.” He adds, sending you a wink.

“And now you have crawfish sandwiches and coconut cake, too.” A little wink shouldn’t be anything to fluster over, but you can feel your cheeks heat instantly.

“For someone who said they are a baker, you make a mean crawfish salad.” Jack groans, wishing he had some right now.

“They’re even better when they’re on fresh baked bread.” You tell him, maybe a little smug even though you’re just being honest. “Champ said I get to design my own full menu, so I promise they’ll be on there.”

“I’ll be swinging by everyday for lunch if you’ll let employees eat.” Jack promises, lifting his beer to his lips again. “Have to start running again. Or beat the shit out of Tex in the boxing ring some more.”

That makes you snort - as inelegant a laugh as it is - and you’re just lucky you hadn’t taken another sip of whiskey yet. “What did the poor boy ever do to deserve a beating?” You plead his case for him since he isn’t here to do it himself. “If I didn’t know better I’d say you were brothers with that kind of threat.”

For a split second, jealousy rears its ugly head before Jack tamps it down. The defense of the younger man has him puffing up his chest slightly and he exhales on a laugh. “Near as, I guess. But I’m the older, more handsome of the two.”

Well…he isn’t wrong, and you’re not going to contradict him. Instead, you down the last sip of whiskey in your glass with a tip of your head and hold out your hand. The jukebox is playing good music and you’re feeling bold. “C’mon, older and more handsome.” You put your hand out to him, praying you’re not making a mistake. “Can’t celebrate without dancing a little.”

Jack doesn’t hesitate, but he’s cautious. Sure that he’s going to fumble and reveal something. “Don’t complain if I stomp on your feet.” He teases with a grin.

“I might be a bull in a China shop ” you tease, thrilled that he didn’t turn you down as you step away from the bar together. “Only one way to find out.”

“Only one way.” Jack murmurs, remembering Champ's words about getting to know you as he turns around and walks backwards onto the floor holding your hand. Before he pulls you into his arms, he twirls you around to the beat of the music.

You practically squeal with glee at the surprise of being spun around, expecting that he would be able to dance but not necessarily expecting he could move. Stevie Ray Vaughan is blasting out of the jukebox and you’re suddenly glad that one boyfriend in culinary school had been into swing dancing, because Jack definitely knows what he’s doing on a dance floor. He has this way of making you feel like you’re the only person in the room while you’re talking - which they also say about politicians and other charismatic characters - and it’s magnified when he dances. There’s something carefree about him like this, or maybe it’s that he makes you feel carefree. Either way, each time he spins you back into his arms or slides his hand around your back, you swear you hold on just a little bit tighter.

It’s been a long time since Jack has danced for the pure pleasure of it. For a mission, to seduce - he’s put himself out on the dance floor. But he’s not on a mission and he has no intention of seducing you so this is almost carefree. Making him grin when you give a throaty laugh as he swings you around again.

The song changes but the tempo doesn’t, and you’re having so much fun that you barely notice the other couples that have gravitated to the dance floor with the magnetic energy you and Jack are giving off in waves. ’Sharp Dressed Man’ seems like an anthem for the men of Statesman from everything you’ve seen, and you laugh happily at the whooping and hollering from the other patrons of the bar. As long as you’re attached to Jack somehow, everything else in the world just drips away.

There’s a softness in your laugh, the way you toss your head back that makes Jack relax. Right now he’s not thinking about soulmates or his sins. Just the pure pleasure of dancing with you. There are no ulterior motives here, no games. Nothing but joy and exactly what you came here for - celebration. But when Jack spins you back into his body and your arms fall around his shoulders to hold him to you on the last beats of the song, you swear your heart has leapt to your throat.

There’s a two second change from the songs. Suddenly slowing things down and the laughter of the moment gives way as your features settle, making Jack clear his throat. “Um, uh, you want to play some pool?” He asks, knowing that it wouldn’t be a safe bet asking him to slow dance with you. He can’t get pulled into the moment and he feels like that would happen.

“I—um…sure.” Disappointment. That’s what the bitter taste in your mouth is, you realize once you process the complete hundred and eighty degree turn the moment just took. It could not be more loud and clear if he had said it in words: Jack has no romantic or sexual interest in you whatsoever. Well, fine. If that’s the way he feels about it then you’ll just compartmentalize for now and deal with it later, as your disappointment definitely is a sign that you were on your way to feeling something. You step back, not wanting to crowd him and make him uncomfortable, and nod awkwardly as you wipe your damp hands on your jeans. “Let me just…grab us another round?” You can still be friendly, after all. There’s no harm in that.

“You go pick a table sugar, I told you that you ain’t paying for drinks tonight.” Jack gives you a friendly grin, seeing the disappointment in your eyes. It echoes the same sentiment that is beating in his chest, although he knows you would feel different if you knew the truth. “You want a beer this time?”

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” you nod, assuming he won’t have shitty taste in beer. Not if he works for a distillery.

“Be right back.” He can’t help himself, hand reaching out and squeezing your hip reassuringly before he turns to head towards the bar to get the beers. Maybe have a shot too.

Blowing out a gruff, annoyed-at-yourself breath, you turn in the opposite direction to find a pool table like Jack suggested. There’s a group of a half dozen or so men milling around with cues and drinks and you can’t quite tell which tables they’re occupying, so you figure it’s just easiest to ask. “Either of these tables free, fellas?” You ask, shoulders tipped back with your hands in your back pockets, figuring that tits subtly on display is just an easier way to cut into the conversation. It worked with the bartender, didn’t it?

The self appointed leader of the group, a tall, burly biker complete with leather riding vest and an American flag bandana on his head, looks you up and down and chuckles. “Do you want us to teach you, baby doll?” He asks, the thread of mocking obvious in his tone. Holding up his pool stick, he points to it. “You hit the balls with this. It’s a pool stick.” The other men laugh and snicker along with him.

“I’m sure you boys don’t wanna be bothered with some girl in the way, so I’ll just grab the other table for me and my friend.” It’s not worth explaining to these Neanderthals that you know how to play. That your first cooking job was in a bowling alley and pool hall that served the most amazing burgers and sandwiches of all time. The other line cooks and the chef had all been fans of the games and taught you all their tricks.

Chuckling again, he places his que on the floor and leans in. “How about you play with us, sweetheart?” He asks, grinning. “We’ll only bet small amounts.”

You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t. They’re assuming you can’t play and you’re absolutely certain you can hold your own — if not downright wipe the floor with them. But your pride is stinging a little from feeling like Jack rejected you, so you flick your eyes up to the leader of the group and shift your weight into one hip. “How small is small?”

Like a shark smelling blood in the water, the group of men seem to crowd around you. The talkative one rubs his chin and pretends to consider for a moment. “We’ll say…hundred bucks a ball?” He offers, like is the deal of a lifetime.

It's too good. They're too cocky and too blinded by their own ridiculous posturing to see that you have given them absolutely no reason to think you can't play. But hey - you started the morning playing patty cake with your niece, punctuated it by flying on a private jet and being offered your dream job, and now you're about to end it by whooping these idiots' asses. What does it matter that one handsome brand-new acquaintance didn't want to slow dance with you? This isn't middle school. Shaking off the urge to smirk, you put out your hand with full confidence. "You got yourself a deal."

Jack whistles to himself when he comes over, two beers and two shots in hand to see that you are around a table with the Broncos Bike Club. Assholes when they get beat and sore winners when they don’t. “Well sugar, I see we are in for some fun tonight.” He drawls as he sets the beers down on the side of the table and hands you a shot. “You know what you’re doin’?” He asks quietly.

"I wouldn't get sucked in on a hundred bucks a ball if I didn't," you whisper back, tapping your shot glass against his before downing the liquor and sighing happily at the burn. That definitely wasn't Red Label, but it was good. You'll have to remember to ask Jack what it was later.

Jack grins and gives you a small chuckle. “Lemme guess, they think you don’t know what a pool cue is? Did they call it a stick?”

"A pool stick." Nodding solemnly to keep from giggling, you pick up the beer that Jack brought you and take a sip. The choice earns a happy hum from you, and you reach for a cue and chalk from the rack on the wall. "All I did was ask if one of the tables was free."

“Morons.” Jack huffs before he moves closer and leans down towards your ear. He knows what the outcome will be but he encourages you anyway. “Kick their asses, sugar.”

"Oh, I will." Playful instinct tells you to smack a kiss to his cheek but you don't, figuring that there's no use in anything affectionate like that if he has no interest. And though you might be playful or casually flirtatious with your friends most of the time, you don't yet know if he is - so it's better to just not. Instead you chalk up your cue and turn to face the table. At a hundred dollars a ball, this is going to be a hell of a game.

“Well boys.” Jack puts his hands on his hips and chuckles. “Rack ‘em up.”

They make a big show of it, condescendingly pointing out the order of the numbers on the balls and laughing amongst themselves, and you swear it just makes you wish you were wearing heels so you could grind them into the floor with the spikes. "Are you gonna keep running your mouth or do you actually want to play?" You ask, leaning against the pool table with your beer in one hand and the cue in the other. At this point they're bordering on pissing you off.

Buster, the leader of the group, sends you a condescending smile and motions to the table. “Lady’s first.” He chuckles and looks back at his buddies. “Bet she can’t even break properly.”

Jack huffs, watching as you take a large swallow of your beer and set it down on the edge. Leaning over the table as you line up your cue, he can’t help but glance at your ass. Lord have mercy, you have a nice one. You set up on the right of the Baulk line and look up at him right before you take your shot. “Stripes.” You call before the cue ball even strikes the group and Jack watches as the 9 and 11 balls drop into the corner pocket.

“Damn.” Jack whistles, grinning at the sour looks on the boy’s faces. “Lucky break.”

"Beginner's luck," grumbles one of the other men, leaning back on a nearby table with his beer in one hand and several empty glasses nearby.

"No givin' her pointers," demands another, pointing at Jack threateningly. He saw the dandy checking you out when you bent over to break and dancing together before that. And he ain't an idiot.

Jack holds his hands up and makes a face of compliance. He’s not going to try to sway the outcome of this game, although he knows how it’s going to end up. Luckily, the bartenders and bouncers are used to Statesman agents quelling bar fights, or starting them only to finish them, so they never interfered. “Lady’s game.” He promises, watching as you walk around the table, analyzing your next shot before deciding that you would bank the cue ball off the left corner of the table to drop it into the right pocket. Jack sips his beer as you do exactly that.

Buster shifts the way he's standing with affected laziness, seeming as though he is barely paying you any attention while he actually watches to make sure you're not cheating. "At least do us the favour of bendin' further over the table when you shoot, babydoll." He chuckles, not giving a single goddamn ounce of care for manners. He takes what he wants, and right now he wants a view. You roll your eyes subtly at Jack, letting him know that you're not bothered, and intentionally squat at the table instead of bending as you check out the angle for your next shot.

Jack huffs in amusement, a small smirk on his face when he watches you sink the next two striped balls without so much as brushing by the solids.

One after the next, the striped balls drop into the pockets on command, and the men around you grow more and more flustered with every shot. By the time only the 8 ball remains, there is practically steam pouring out of their ears and one of them has all but literally thrown his hat on the ground, but you remain placid. No gloating or teasing that will make their moods worse is due here. The satisfaction of proving them wrong by winning is all you're aiming for.

“Now, if I ain’t mistaken things….” Jack drawls, rubbing his chin and staring at the table. “She sinks this, she wins. Right? Or are you wantin’ her to clear the table?”

The deliberation happens in grunts and glances, as Buster's minions decide that the best way to teach you a lesson is to have you do more of what you have amply proven that you're good at. They only need you to fuck up once for them to run you off the table with insults and heckling. "Clear it." Buster insists, somehow managing to follow the string of unintelligible sounds that the men around him made.

The smirk Jack gives you is smug and he nods. “You heard ‘em sugar.” He chortles. “You gotta clear the board to win. 15 balls.” It’s obvious that the numbskulls didn’t think about the fact that they would have to pay you an additional $700 for that, but Jack did. He sends you a small wink and an encouraging nod.

If, one day many years in the future, you're ever a famous enough chef for there to be a film of your life, you're going to insist that this pool game be a part of it. Each ball is its own geometric problem to solve, but you do it carefully, and you do it well. The expressions of sheer and utter dismay on each man's face turn to ruddy anger as you call “Eight ball, corner pocket” and sink the very last ball with a tiny tap, sending it spinning into the corner pocket that it was sitting next to. "Well, boys," you lean against the table with a satisfied grin and rest one hand on your cue. "Looks to me like this empty table is going to end up emptying some wallets."

Jack finishes the rest of his beer with a sigh, draining the mug and setting it down on the high top table a few steps from the pool tables. He knows what’s about to happen and his lasso and whip are tucked away behind his jacket, ready to go.

“You tricked us, you bitch!” Buster growls, backed up by the agreeing ‘yeah’s from the motley crew behind him. “You said you couldn’t play pool.”

“Did I?” Sure you’ve hustled a few times in your life, but you definitely didn’t tonight. Your head ticks to one side and you lean against the table easily. “Or did you just assume, because I’m a girl?”

From the way his face blanks for a moment, buddy boy knows that’s the truth but when it passes, there’s a decidedly mean look on his face. “I’m not payin’ a fucking hustling whore a fucking dime unless she’s sucking my dick.” He growls, making Jack’s jaw instantly tighten.

“Now Buster,” Jack slowly drawls out, turning their attention from you to where he is standing with his hand on his hip as he shakes his head. “You kiss your momma with that mouth?” He asks. “You owe the lady an apology and fifteen hundred dollars. Fair is fair.”

“She ain’t play fair!” The scrawniest of the group points at you like he’s about to accuse you of witchcraft. “Schemin’ cunt don’t deserve anythin’ but a lesson.”

There’s a lot of talk that Jack will let slide, especially in a rough and tumble place like this, but the boys don’t know they just fucked up. His eyes darken and go flat, the edge of a smirk on his lips has no humor in it. “You might want to take that back, Junior.” He spits, fingers itching to grab his whip. “No need for that or I’ll be teachin’ the lesson.”

“Jack…” Glancing back at the man you came here with, you can feel the change in the air here without hesitation. While it would not in any way be your first bar fight, you’re not sure that these are the kind of fellas you ever want to throw the first punch against. Not because you’re afraid of getting your ass handed to you, but because you don’t like the prospect of spending your first night in Louisville getting arrested.

“What the fuck are you gonna do about it, pretty boy?” The scrawny one - the one Jack called Junior - drawls as he reaches into his pocket. Out comes his hand again a second later, now adorned with brass knuckles. “Only thing you oughtta even be considerin’ is gettin’ this dried up cunt bitch out of our sight before we make her regret lyin’ to us.”

His chuckle is low, rusty and his own hand reaches behind his back to pull out the butt of his retractable whip. “Manners maketh man, Junior.” Jack hums. “That’s the lesson today.”

“The fuck does that mean?” Scoffs another man in the group - the broadest of all of them - as he cracks his knuckles in your direction.

“It means a Kentucky ass-whooping.” Jack declares, right before Junior decides to launch himself at Jack. With the single press of a button, the whip spirals out from the handle of the whip and Jack wastes no time cracking it through the air to wrap around the man’s throat as he yanks back on it to send the burly biker careening past him and into the table right behind Jack.

It all happens in a split second, and you’re smart enough and quick enough to dive behind Jack right before it does. You can defend yourself. You absolutely can, and have on multiple occasions. But fuck if seeing Jack step in for your honor isn’t one of the goddamn sexiest things you’ve ever experienced. Two of the bikers throw themselves at him on command, with just a glance from Buster, as Junior’s face comes into collision with the flat of the table.

A fight is like a well coordinated dance. Timing and footwork are everything. Jack flicks his wrist and the whip unwinds from around Junior’s neck to slash around and strike one of the two across the cheek, slicing open the skin as neatly as any knife. Causing the man to howl in pain and stop in his tracks as he grabs his face. The other keeps coming, making Jack smirk as he pulls back the whip and tucks it away before pulling out his lasso. He might be showing off as he twirls the rope, but he doesn’t look over for your reaction as the man charges towards him.

A barfight it’s not supposed to be sexy, you lecture yourself sternly, finding that you’re too mesmerized to even hide. The men clearly don’t feel the need to fight you, only Jack, so you’re left standing with your back to the nearest wall in awe of how fucking agile he is. But where did he—? Is that a lasso? What in the hell…

When Jack ropes the man, he drags him towards him. His fist coming out as he strikes him directly in the nose with one, two, three rapid punches.

“Fuckin pretty boy city slicker and your hustlin’ whore!” Buster’s patience has worn thin, watching his minions drop around Jack like so many fruit flies. He charges at the two of you like a bull, and for a second you’re certain he’s aiming to ram his head right into your stomach against the wall.

Jack looks over, whirling his lasso over his head now that the other man has crumpled to the floor at his feet. Snagging the table, Jack rocks back on his heel and heaves, the momentum dragging the lightweight table up and hurling it through the air towards Buster.

Ducking to your right, you dive out of the way just a second before the table connects with Buster’s side. It sends him in the other direction, propelling him into the wall and crumpling in a heap on his side as he clutches his bleeding head and howls in pain - bandana’d skull connecting with the sturdy wooden walls instead of with your abdomen and compounded with the force of splintering wood on his back.

There are two more that had decided that the better part of valor was staying out of it and Jack raises a brow at them to ask if they wanted to try their hand at him.

The older of the two remaining men clears his throat and straightens his back, knowing he doesn’t have a dog in this fight to begin with. “Pay the lady,” he orders his friend, a little under his breath.

Jack watches warily, coiling his lasso up as the other one begrudgingly pulls out a stack of bills. “Lay the bills out on the table and then get your friends out of here. They’re done for the night.” He tells them sternly. He doesn’t trust them not to try to cheat you out of the full amount and it’s also a lesson in humility.

The younger man bristles at having to be the one to pay, but he begrudgingly does as he’s ordered. Fifteen hundred dollar bills all lined up on the felt would be a big enough adrenaline rush even without everything that had just happened, and you watch him count them out carefully. Once the total you’re owed is sitting in plain sight you reach for the bills, tucking them into the front pocket of your jeans. “Well?” You nod your head toward the crumpled, groaning masses of their friends. “Pick ‘em up.”

Only when they turn to their friends and the atmosphere of the bar has turned friendlier as other patrons return to their drinks or conversations does Jack grin at you. “Weeeewh.” He huffs, reaching up and readjusting his cowboy hat with a cocky jaunt. “Kinda feelin’ like a tornado in a trailer park.” He jokes before he cocks his head towards the bar. “Want another round?”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you enjoyed that.” One eyebrow ticks up at Jack as you look around at the mess you made. One broken chair and one smashed table, with other things out of place - it could be much worse. You can’t help the way his sheepish smirk makes you smile, relieved laughter bubbling out of you. “Yeah,” you agree, feeling the pulse of excitement and attraction. Even if he’s not into you, you absolutely can’t deny being into him after that Purebred Cowboy display. “Let’s get another round. And I can give some of that cash to the bartender to pay for what we broke.”

Jack snorts and shakes his head. “It’ll go on the bill to Statesman.” He promises. “This ain’t the first rodeo in this place.”

“Hell of a first impression to make on my new employers,” you grumble ruefully, although you’re still grinning. “Or was that some kind of rite of passage I didn’t know about?”

Jack considers it for a moment and chuckles. “I guess it could be.” He shakes his head and leans against the bar again, lifting his hand to the bartender.

“You causin’ trouble again, Jack?” The bartender eyes him suspiciously. “Or did they deserve it?” He knows damn well those bikers are always trouble, but they drink their body weight and always pay, so he usually doesn’t fuss.

“They wanted to call the lady four dollar words and didn’t want to pay when they got beat at their own game.” He tells him, giving him a small shrug. “So I taught them some manners.”

“Long as they deserved it.” The bartender brushes it off. “Another round?”

Jack looks over at you for confirmation and when you nod he does as well as he turns back to the bartender. "Let's do another round of shots and beers." He tells him. "She worked up a thirst beating their asses at pool and I worked one up beating their asses."

The feel of being very pleased with yourself rolls down your spine like a drop of sweat and you sit up just a little bit taller on your barstool. Jack’s smug expression says that he’s just as proud of himself as he is of you, and you raise your shot glass to him in salute when it’s set down in front of you. “I am definitely going to like it here.”

______ Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @katheriner1999 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @hardc0rehaylz @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan

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#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal character fanfiction #Pedro Pascal fanfic #Jack Daniels #Jack Daniels x reader #Jack Daniels x you #Jack Daniels x female reader #Jack Whiskey Daniels #Agent Whiskey #Kingsman Golden Circle #soulmate au

[loserdiaz]

tagged by the lovelies @spotsandsocks @giddyupbuck @daffi-990 @wikiangela @exhuastedpigeon @buckaroosheart @eowon @evanbegins thank u!

this friday i said fuck it and started the ballad of songbirds and snakes buddie au i've been wanting to write since i saw the movie. (eddie will be nothing like snow, i promise. he's more like sejanus plinth) (also what does suzanne collins have with naming her characters with anus lmao)

here's a moodboard!

and a lil snippet (it's literally all i've written so far) <33

For the first time since the games were created the tributes would be assigned mentors. Twenty-four of the Academy’s best and brightest seniors have been tapped for the job.

Eddie fantasizes for a few seconds about refusing.

He knows it wouldn't help the tributes, though. The peacekeepers would most definitely drag him out and beat the shit out of him or— Eddie isn't sure if it would be possible but the president might want to make an example out of him and throw him into the arena along with all the other tributes. So, he stays silent and lets the guilt consume him. “And last but least, District Twelve girl, Maddie Buckley. . . she belongs to Eddie Diaz.” Eddie looks up to see a terrified girl— she couldn't be older than eighteen, this probably was her last year with her name in the reaping, what are the odds. She looks a little worn down, with some dirt on her cheek and what looks like an almost faded black eye. Her lips are visibly trembling as she takes slow steps towards the stage. And then—

"Stop! Stop!" A voice breaks through the thick silence and hands appear from the crowd. A few seconds later a boy is running towards the girl, being stopped by peacekeepers just seconds before he can reach her. "Maddie! Maddie!"

He has dirty blonde hair and eyes so wide and a dark blue that reminds Eddie of a relentless, force of nature, kind of storm. He looks a little skinny but Eddie gets glimpses of muscles under the two sizes too big shirt he's wearing when the officers pull him back and the piece of clothing stretches against the guy's chest.

The boy keeps screaming, his voice becoming hoarse, breaking everytime he speaks. "I volunteer! Let me volunteer!" The boy keeps fighting against the peacekeepers and the girl is now being held back but her arms are stretched out and reaching for him.

"Can he do that?" Chimney leans in, whispering so only Eddie can hear. "Can there be two boys as tributes?"

Eddie can't look away from the screen. He sees one of the peacekeepers punch the boy but that doesn't even deter him in the slightest.

"I'm not sure. I mean, maybe?" He frowns. "I guess the Capitol only needs kids to kill each other. Why does it matter if they're a boy or a girl, right?" He wouldn't be able to stop the bitterness and anger from slipping into his voice even if he tried. "Yeah,I guess you're right." Eddie watches as his dad and Jeffery Hudson, the creator of the games, talk in hushed whispers. It feels like an eternity until the cameras focus back on district 12.

"After careful consideration, we've decided to accept this boy's eager willingness and embrace him into the 10th Hunger Games." The announcer says. "District Twelve boy, Evan Buckley… belongs to Eddie Diaz. May the odds be ever in your favor."

tagging (no pressure): @monsterrae1 @hoodie-buck @buddierights @hippolotamus @maygrantgf @underwater-ninja-13 @honestlydarkprincess @bigfootsmom @spaceprincessem @eddiebabygirldiaz @the-likesofus @wildlife4life @jamespearce9-1-1 @watchyourbuck @malewifediaz @thewolvesof1998 @fortheloveofbuddie @weewootruck @prettyboybuckley @rogerzsteven @jeeyuns @rainbow-nerdss @911-on-abc @housewifebuck @disasterbuckdiaz @athenagranted @tails89 @messyhairdiaz and anyone else who wants to do it <333

#tbosas au #the hunger games au #evan buckley #eddie diaz #buck x eddie #buddie #buddie fic #911 fic #my writing #buddie wip #911 wip #911 abc #911 on abc

[boobo13cambridge]

Drifting Apart I | Kylian Mbappé

Pairing: Kylian Mbappé x f.Reader

Warnings: Angst, physical violence (Y/N slaps him)

Summary: Y/N and Kylian’s relationship is crumbling as they navigate the most difficult moments of their lives. Will they stay or fall apart due to the pressure?

A/N: Hello, everyone! This is the first time I’ve ever written angst, so I really hope you guys give it much love. As always don’t forget to like, comment, and repost! Enjoy, lovelies ❣️

Tired.

Exhausted.

Drained.

Three words that fully encompassed her emotions as she finally put the triplets to sleep after a long day of cleaning up dirty diapers and writing a thesis. Y/N felt close to tears as she felt overwhelming guilt for being worn out at taking care of her babies when she loved them with all her heart. To make matters worse, she and Kylian had been getting into a lot of arguments lately. She knew how important and stressful this year was for him, and in the back of her mind, she wished that they had waited a bit more before having kids.

After getting married in the summer of 2021, the young couple wanted to enjoy a few years together before starting a family. Getting married so young, at the ripe age of 20 and 22, came as quite a shock to some (which in her eyes didn't make sense because a lot of footballers had kids even younger), but they were in love, and despite their parents' skepticism, they tied the knot on July 12, 2021.

Fast forward a year, and Y/N found herself staring at the two dark lines indicating that she's pregnant. Getting pregnant a few months before the 2022 World Cup was definitely not part of the plan, but with the support of their families, they made it through somehow. Throughout her whole pregnancy, Kylian was the best husband any woman could ever ask for, always so attentive and understanding of her every need. When they found out they were having triplets, and all boys at that, Y/N almost had a mental breakdown because she could never in a million years understand how she could ever be a mom to one kid, let alone three. It took Kylian, her mom, and two nurses and a doctor to calm her down.

And needless to say, the triplets, or as Kylian loves to call them 'his perfect hat-trick,' were born on December 4, 2022, right when Kylian had scored two goals to qualify France for the quarter-finals. In all honesty, she really wished she could have just given birth in Doha, but she was under strict surveillance and wasn't allowed to travel. Needless to say, in the moment, she was quite happy that she was having a c-section instead of a normal birth but regretted that soon after as it took way longer to recover. Kylian was definitely devastated to have missed his sons' birth and was this close to booking a flight back to Paris. It took Marcus and Ousmane to calm him down and talk him out of it.

A couple of days after that, France lost the World Cup, which absolutely broke her heart, but she was happy that her husband would be by her side. Post-World Cup, Kylian Mbappé was a very attentive father and husband, but she knew how much the loss had affected him and tried her best to cheer him up. She was secretly glad he had injured himself because he would finally get a break from playing with such a shitty team. Now, back to the present, May 28th, 2024, Post-Transfer Kylian Mbappé was moody and had a frown permanently etched on his forehead.

Once again, she tried to understand, knowing he had so much pressure on his shoulders from transferring to Real Madrid. He was Kylian Mbappé, the current greatest footballer, and people never gave him a break, always demanding perfection every match. He had a huge burden to carry, with the fans pointing out every little mistake he made on the pitch. The Madridistas had long anticipated his transfer, and they were out for blood. If the fans were demanding, then Kylian was even more demanding of himself. It was like living with the shadow of her husband. Gone was the sweet man who would make her breakfast in bed and massage her feet. In his place was someone who only had one thing on his mind: winning everything.

La Liga, Copa del Rey, Supercopa de España, UEFA Champions League, Euros, Summer Olympic Games.

She was going crazy just thinking about it. Lately, it was as if the only thing on his mind was trophies, and she couldn't stand it. The day before the La Liga final, which was held at the Bernabeu just two days ago, Kylian had once again started an argument just because she told him that she was tired of putting his dirty clothes in the laundry and that he should do it himself. The argument was so bad that she didn't even want to be there at the last match of the La Liga season, but on the day of the match, Kylian had profusely apologized and begged, so she forgave him and came to see him lift the trophy. This morning, Kylian had woken up in a foul mood and just seemed to want to be an absolute dickhead. He nitpicked at everything she did before leaving for practice, loudly complaining that she had put too much protein powder in his shake.

The whole day, she tried to text him and call him, but he was ignoring her calls. She had had enough; she couldn't deal with it anymore. Time and time again, she had tried to be understanding, swallowing and smiling through every single complaint and whine he let out. So what if he had his first Champions League final with his new club in three days? She didn't deserve to be treated like such a nuisance.

As she went to the kitchen to grab something to drink, she broke down into sobs. It was too much. She hated feeling like she wasn't enough. Kylian hadn't kissed her, much less said, "I love you," before storming out. For months, all he did was complain, complain, and complain.

The young woman heard the door open and close, instantly recognizing her lover's footsteps. She tried to muffle her sobs so he wouldn't hear, but she forgot that the kitchen lights were on.

Kylian walked right through the archway leading to the kitchen and stopped in his tracks when he saw her teary face, instantly feeling guilty. He knew he had been treating her horribly these past few months and that he should stop, but he had been so stressed with everything that he took it all out on the love of his life and the mother of his children.

"Bébé, are you okay?" he asked slowly, approaching her and trying to wipe her tears, but she moved back. Her action pained him because he realized how much of a jerk he had been.

"What do you think? Do I look like I'm okay?" she snapped at him, wiping the tears with the back of her hand, her voice filled with frustration.

"I'm sorry, my love. I've been such an ass-" he said apologetically.

"Yes, you have! You have no idea what I've been going through because of you!" she replied angrily, her tone laced with resentment.

"Bébé, you have no idea how sor-" he tried to explain, but she cut him off.

"Save your fucking apologies, Kylian! I don't fucking care anymore. You've made me feel like the biggest piece of shit these past few months," she spat out, her words filled with bitterness.

"You know how stressed I've been with the transfer and-" he started to defend himself, but she interrupted him.

"AND SO YOU DECIDED TO TAKE IT OUT ON ME WHEN I-" she yelled, her tone conveying a mixture of anger and hurt.

"STOP INTERRUPTING ME! YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I'VE BEEN GOING THROUGH WITH ALL THESE PEOPLE PUSHING THEIR EXPECTATIONS ON ME WHILE YOU SIT AT HOME-" he retorted, his voice tinged with frustration.

"SIT AT HOME? WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU EVEN DO THE WHOLE DAY EXCEPT KICK A FUCKING BALL AROUND WHILE I TAKE CARE OF THE KIDS, CLEAN THE HOUSE, COOK FOOD, WRITE MY FUCKING THESIS, WHICH YOU NEVER EVEN BOTHER ASKING ABOUT BECAUSE OF COURSE THE WHOLE FUCKING WORLD TURNS AROUND MR. HOTSHOT HIMSELF!"

"KICK A BALL AROUND ALL DAY? ME DOING THAT IS THE ONLY REASON WHY YOU SPEND THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS BUYING USELESS SHIT-" 

"I USE MY OWN MONEY TO BUY SHIT, YOU DICKHEAD! AND THE ONLY USELESS SHIT I BUY WITH YOUR MONEY IS CLOTHES AND FOOD FOR THE CHILDREN YOU KNOCKED ME UP RIGHT AFTER I GRADUATED! I'VE SACRIFICED SO MUCH FOR YOU-" 

"SACRIFICED?! WHAT HAVE YOU SACRIFICED FOR ME, HUH? STOP ACTING LIKE I KNOCKED YOU UP WHEN YOU WERE MORE THAN WILLING TO SPREAD YOUR LEGS FOR ME!" 

SLAP.

The sound reverberated through the kitchen, accompanied by a sharp sting on Kylian's cheek. Pain radiated through his face, mingling with the shock that coursed through his veins. His hand instinctively reached up to cradle his burning cheek, his eyes widening in disbelief. The room seemed to spin as he struggled to comprehend what had just transpired.

Y/N's expression mirrored his own disbelief, her eyes wide with horror at the consequences of her actions. Tears streamed down her face, mixing with the remorse that consumed her. She trembled, overwhelmed by the magnitude of what she had done. It was a moment of raw vulnerability, where the line between love and anger blurred into a haze of anguish.

"Kylian, I'm so sorry," she choked out, her voice quivering with remorse. Each word dripped with the weight of her regret, desperate to erase the irreversible damage she had caused.

His throat tightened, a turbulent mix of emotions swirling within him. The pain on his cheek competed with the anger that burned in his chest. He fought to find his voice, to process the torrent of thoughts that assailed his mind. The apology hung in the air, suspended between them, as he grappled with conflicting impulses.

Gulping down the lump in his throat, Kylian felt the anger surge within him, fueled by his own frustrations and insecurities. The relentless stress, anxiety, and guilt that had plagued him clawed their way to the surface, intertwining with the raw ache on his cheek. It was a toxic concoction that threatened to consume him, driving him to respond with his own fury.

But beneath the anger, a part of him acknowledged his own culpability. He was not blameless in this dance of discord. The weight of his actions pressed upon his conscience, intertwining with the pain on his cheek. The realization of his own flaws clashed with the indignation that simmered in his veins.

In that moment, Kylian made a choice. A choice to channel the anger, the hurt, and the guilt into something different. Instead of lashing out, he took a deep breath, summoning the last remnants of self-control. The anger flickered in his eyes, but he suppressed it, focusing on the vulnerability before him.

He approached Y/N slowly, his steps cautious and deliberate. His hand reached out, hesitantly, aiming to wipe away her tears, but she flinched, pulling back as if his touch were a reminder of her own transgressions. The ache in his heart matched the pain on his cheek, the longing to bridge the chasm that had formed between them.

Words hung unspoken, heavy with unexpressed emotions. They both knew that apologies alone were not enough to heal the wounds they had inflicted upon each other. The room remained steeped in anguished silence, punctuated only by the echoes of their shattered love.

As the weight of the moment settled upon them, Kylian and Y/N stood at a crossroads. A crossroads where anger and remorse converged, where past mistakes collided with uncertain futures. The path forward was shrouded in shadows, their once-solid foundation crumbling beneath the weight of their anguished hearts.

Time seemed to stand still in the wake of their confrontation, the air heavy with unspoken words and shattered expectations. The kitchen, once a sanctuary of shared laughter and intimate conversations, now felt like a battlefield, scarred by the aftermath of their verbal warfare. 

Kylian's gaze never wavered from Y/N, his eyes tracing the contours of her tear-streaked face. He longed to bridge the distance between them, to mend the rift that had widened with each bitter exchange. The ache in his heart intensified, a poignant reminder of the love that had once bound them together.

Y/N's body trembled with a mix of regret, fear, and a longing for reconciliation. The weight of her actions bore down on her, leaving her feeling small and vulnerable. She yearned for solace, for the reassurance that their love could withstand the tempestuous storm that raged within them.

With measured steps, Kylian closed the physical gap between them, his heart pounding with a mixture of trepidation and determination. He reached out once again, his hand hovering in the space between them, a silent plea for forgiveness and understanding.

Y/N hesitated for a moment, caught in the crosscurrents of conflicting emotions. Her gaze met Kylian's, searching for a glimmer of the man she had fallen in love with—the man who had once cherished her and their family above all else. Slowly, tentatively, she extended her trembling hand, allowing their fingers to intertwine, a fragile connection in the face of their shattered trust.

In that delicate touch, an unspoken promise lingered. It whispered of their shared history, the moments of tenderness and joy that had been eclipsed by their recent turbulence. It spoke of a willingness to rebuild, to confront their flaws and the demons that haunted them.

The silence, once heavy with resentment, now became a sacred space for introspection and reflection. The unspoken words hung in the air, their weight acknowledged by both parties. It was a moment of surrender, a recognition that love could not thrive in the absence of vulnerability and forgiveness.

However, despite their fragile moment of reconciliation, the scars of their previous altercation still festered beneath the surface. The guilt and anger that plagued them now resided like smoldering embers, waiting for the slightest breeze to ignite their fury once more.

The following morning, the house was shrouded in an uneasy silence. Kylian moved cautiously, as if walking on eggshells, acutely aware of the tension that lingered in the air. Y/N, her face etched with traces of weariness and apprehension, busied herself in the kitchen, desperately trying to maintain a semblance of normalcy.

Suddenly, the sound of shattering glass pierced the fragile peace. Kylian's hand trembled as he gazed at the broken fragments scattered across the floor, his breath catching in his throat. The weight of his mistake crashed down upon him, triggering a surge of self-loathing.

Before Kylian could even react, Y/N's voice lashed out, sharp and cutting. "Kylian, how many times have I told you to be careful? You never pay attention to anything!" Her words dripped with frustration, a reflection of her own mounting resentment.

His heart sank, a mixture of shame and frustration swirling within him. The bitterness that had consumed him since their previous argument threatened to overflow. He could no longer bear the weight of his guilt and his bruised pride.

The room seemed to close in on them as Kylian's retort hung heavily in the air, each word a dagger aimed at Y/N's wounded heart. "Oh, what now? Are you going to slap me again, Y/N?"

The accusation cut through the air, leaving a palpable silence in its wake. Y/N's eyes widened in disbelief and hurt, her body trembling with a mixture of shock and anger. The triplets, sensing the rising tension, began to cry, their innocent wails intermingling with the growing storm of emotions.

Y/N's voice quivered as she fought back tears, her voice heavy with a mixture of sorrow and indignation. "How dare you say that, Kylian? I never wanted to hurt you, and you know it!"

The room trembled with their voices, each word a dagger aimed to wound, tearing at the fabric of their fragile bond. Kylian's face contorted with anger, his voice laced with a bitterness he could no longer contain. "Of course you never wanted to hurt me, right? You've done such a fantastic job so far!" Kylian spat, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Complaining and nagging every fucking day like I don’t already have enough of that every time I open social media"

Y/N's eyes filled with tears, a mixture of pain and disbelief etched on her face. She struggled to find her voice, to make sense of the torrent of emotions crashing over her. "I'm trying, Kylian. I'm trying so hard to hold us together, to be there for you and the kids. But it feels like nothing I do is ever enough!"

He scoffed, the bitterness in his voice turning his words into venom. "You? Trying hard? Don't make me laugh! All you do is complain and criticize. You're so quick to point out my faults, but what about your own? Or do you think you're perfect?"

Y/N's voice trembled with a mix of anger and hurt. "I never claimed to be perfect, Kylian. But I've given up so much for you, for our family. I've sacrificed my dreams and aspirations to support you, only to be constantly belittled and dismissed!"

Kylian's eyes blazed with fury, his fists clenched at his sides. "Oh, so now it's all about your sacrifices, is it? What about mine? What about the pressure I face every single day, the weight of expectations on my shoulders?"

Their words collided in the air, their voices filled with resentment and unspoken pain. The triplets' cries grew louder, their innocence caught in the crossfire of their parents' anguish.

Unable to bear the suffocating atmosphere any longer, Kylian turned on his heels, his voice dripping with disdain. "I don't have time for this. I have a plane to catch, a team to lead. Maybe being away from you for a while will do us both some good."

As he stormed out of the house, the door slammed shut behind him, leaving Y/N standing in a sea of shattered hopes and shattered glass. The anguished cries of their children echoed through the empty rooms, a haunting reminder of the fractures in their once-unbreakable bond.

In that moment, as the gravity of their fight settled upon them, both Kylian and Y/N were left with a hollow ache in their hearts, each tormented by their own regrets and the uncertain path that lay before them.

#kylian mbappe #kylian mbappe fanfic #kylian mbappe smut #kylian mbappé #kylian imagines #kylian mbappe imagine #kylian x reader #footballer blurb #footballer fanfiction #kylian angst #psg #kylian mbappe x y/n #kylian fanfic #kylian smut #kylian x oc #kylian mbappe x you #kylian mbappe angst #kylian mbappe fluff #kylian mbappé blurb #kylian mbappé fluff #kylian mbappé imagine #kylian mbappé x reader #kylian mbappé smut #france nt

[wongyuseokie]

Enough For You | Chapter 7: Restart

Summary: Wonwoo finally apologises. ☆ 18+ minors dni |☀︎fluff | ☁︎ angst |  ♥ completed works Word Count: 450 words

Age: 18+

Pairings: Jeon Wonwoo x Female Reader

Genre/Trope(s)/AUs: Angst and fluff

© playmetheclassics 2023. All rights reserved.

Wonwoo walked into Mingyu’s room, not bothering to knock, knowing you’d probably tell him to go away. Wonwoo’s heart sank when he found you sitting on the edge of Mingyu’s bed, tears streaming down your cheeks. Wonwoo felt guilt engulf him as he realised how much his actions had hurt you. 

“Hey, Y/N, are you okay?” Wonwoo asked softly as he shut the door behind him and approached you. 

“Wonwoo,” you mumbled, looking up at him, your eyes red and puffy. 

Wonwoo sat down beside you. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry for not returning your feelings,” Wonwoo apologised. 

“You think that’s why I’m upset? Wonwoo, I know you can't control your feelings, Wonwoo. But you scolded me, acted like I don’t know I was an inconvenience or something? If you didn’t want me here, you should have told me,” you explained tearily. 

“I do want you here. Look, I’ve been a dick. I’ve been dismissive and cold, and I have no excuse. I guess when things and emotions are unfamiliar to me, I can act that way, and I hate that seeing you cry was what I needed to get my shit together and apologise to you,” Wonwoo admitted. 

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. Just let’s pretend it didn’t happen. I’d rather have you in my life as a friend rather than not at all,” you explained. 

“I’d like that too. I’ll do better. I’m sorry, Y/N, it shouldn’t have come to this for me to apologise.” 

“I appreciate your apology, Wonwoo. I know you can't change how you feel, but knowing you won't be distant means a lot to me.”

“Thank you for understanding, Y/N. I value our friendship, and I don't want to lose you because of my mistakes,” Wonwoo thanked. 

“We can work through this, Wonwoo, as long as you keep your promise,” you promised. 

“I will, Y/N. I'll be more considerate and understanding from now on.”

“Come here,” Wonwoo said as he pulled you into to your feet and then into his embrace. You melted as you felt the strength of his arms around you. His scent, his cologne, envelops you. The world around you blurs, and it's just the two of you in this moment.

As you rest your head against his chest, you can feel the steady beat of his heart. It's a soothing rhythm, a counterpoint to the shuddering breaths you let out while crying. Wonwoo's fingers gently trace circles on your back, and you feel an overwhelming sense of comfort and belonging.

“Shall we head back?” You asked as you pulled away from his embrace. 

“In a minute? I just wanted to spend some time with you.” 

Main Masterlist 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 (written) | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | Epilogue

Taglist: @notevenheretbh1 @hoeforhao @gyuwoncheol @multi-kpop-fanfics @kwonhoeshi @dejavernon @dirtysvthoughts @meowmeowminnie @miriamxsworld @stayinhellevator @horanghater @wooahaeproductions @lesdevoeux @ohmygodwhyareallusernamestaken @carlesscat-thinklogic23 @seungkwansphd @persnyako @cherrybbycheol @septemberskies @dkluvrsclub @bitchlessdino @aaniag @morklee02

© wongyuseokie 2023. All rights reserved.

#seventeen #social media au #wonwoo social media au #svthub #kvanity

[scoobydoodean]

do you think Dean has survivor's guilt? I'm thinking mostly of 01×12, but I'm also wondering if there's a running theme there that I don't remember

Yes, I do. In fact, I think Dean blaming himself for the outcome of traumatic experiences he couldn't have changed or that aren't his fault is something that happens very frequently, because Dean has a very overactive sense of responsibility—primarily resulting from his parentification (and the people in his life don't always help—sometimes they do, but they also sometimes feed into it).

1.12 "Faith" sets the stage for the entire theme. Dean struggles to deal with Layla not being healed when he is, and how horrible it is that a man died in exchange for his life. At the end of the episode, Dean stops running from the reaper, planning to let it kill him so Layla can be healed, but it doesn't happen because Sam disrupts the ritual before Sue Ann can complete it. (Kya has a great gifset here). What tends to co-occur with Dean struggling with survivor's guilt is the idea that Dean has a job��a responsibility, even—to the rest of the world. This is both why he must survive, and also something that weighs him down with even more guilt in a vicious cycle.

DEAN Why? Why me? Out of all the sick people, why save me? ROY Well, like I said before, the Lord guides me. I looked into your heart, and you just stood out from all the rest. DEAN What did you see in my heart? ROY A young man with an important purpose. A job to do. And it isn't finished.

I've written about Dean's survivor's guilt in the context of season 2—how 1.12 and John's sacrifice in 2.01 are primary motivations for Dean making the demon deal in 2.22. We get dialogue from Dean in 2.04 actually apologizing to Sam for John's death, because he blames himself even though it wasn't his fault and none of this was his choice.

He also blames himself for Sam's death in 2.22, even though that also isn't his fault. The parentification aspect of all of this is screaming loud in the following dialogue from Dean in 2.22:

You know, when we were little— and you couldn't been more than 5— you just started asking questions. How come we didn't have a mom? Why do we always have to move around? Where'd Dad go when he'd take off for days at a time? I remember I begged you, "Quit asking, Sammy. Man, you don't want to know." I just wanted you to be a kid... Just for a little while longer. I always tried to protect you... Keep you safe... Dad didn't even have to tell me. It was just always my responsibility, you know? It's like I had one job... I had one job... And I screwed it up. I blew it. And for that, I'm sorry. I guess that's what I do. I let down the people I love. I let Dad down. And now I guess I'm just supposed to let you down, too. How can I? How am I supposed to live with that?

Dean even as a child felt responsible for Sam, and even for John. We see John blame Dean for his own failures as a father in episodes like 1.18 "Something Wicked" and 1.21 "Salvation", and we see the impact of that tendency reflected in how Sam sometimes treats Dean as well. Hell—we have indication that even before Mary died, Dean was "cleaning up [John's] messes" according to Sam (5.16). We see John apologize for Dean having to take care of him in 2.01 instead of the other way around—an acknowledgement that he knows this has been a source of harm to Dean for a long time... but it's too little too late—and ultimately is ruined by John's next actions, leaving Dean seething with resentment toward John for seasons to come even as he grieves and blames himself for John's death.

Dean's guilt for things that aren't his fault is further explored in episodes like 1.18 "Something Wicked", 5.11 "Sam, Interrupted" and 7.04 "Defending Your Life", where Dean is confronted by his guilt over Jo's death, and feeling responsible for Sam being a hunter, which is absolute horse shit despite the fandom also trying to insist this is the case frequently (see my tags #sam the hunter for a start). He blames himself for Kevin even getting involved with hunting to begin with. Dean blames himself for the havoc Michael is wreaking (14.03, 14.06, 14.14). Dean also blames himself and feels horrible guilt for torturing souls in hell, despite the fact that this happened under extreme duress and literal decades of torture and psychological conditioning—i.e., Dean had no actual choice—he's just presented with the horror of being made to feel that it was his choice when it was deeply and torturously coerced. The very worst part of Hell for him was that he tortured other souls, and I don't think he ever recovers from the guilt of that. He clams up about it after being called weak and pathetic for being guilty about it and then he never speaks about it ever again.

Dean certainly isn't the only one with these issues. Sam, Dean, and Bobby's survivors guilt is all explored simultaneously in 4.02 "Are You There God? It's Me, Dean Winchester" when people they couldn't save like Meg Masters and Victor are brought back by a curse.

DEAN It's my fault you're dead. I left you [Victor] behind. And the minute I heard about that explosion, I thought, "I should have known." I should have protected you.

This whole episode implicates hunters as a whole with serious survivor's guilt for the people they can't/don't manage to save. Multiple hunters die in the beginning of the episode, killed by the people they're haunted by not saving. This is a natural and understandable result of the work itself. You just barely don't get to someone in time, or you make a choice with an outcome you didn't forsee at the time, or you weren't fast enough or strong enough, or you dodged left when you should have dodged right, or you should have stayed, or you "let" the monster get away and it killed again. You are in a line of work where you are probably always left thinking, "If only I had done [insert hindsight judgement here]". Bobby blames himself for the deaths of two kids in 4.02. He blames himself for his wife Karen's death (3.10). Sam blames himself for Ava (2.11) and they all accept blame for the Devil's Gate even though that wasn't their fault either (and other hunters throw the blame on all of them too) (3.01).

The thing about being a parentified child is that you are, by definition, held responsible for things you are not equipped or qualified to handle—things that are too much for you, that are not actually your responsibility, and that are/were entirely out of your control. Combine growing up being blamed for things you did not actually have the power or authority to make happen or prevent from happening, with the overall tendency within the line of work hunters are in to feel survivor's guilt, and you get Dean. Add in that Dean cares deeply for other people—even strangers—and therefore feels an extra empathy when people are harmed for these things he thinks he could have prevented. You get someone whose moments of suicidal ideation are usually deeply connected to survivor's guilt or guilt more generally.

#1.12 #2.01 #2.04 #2.22 #1.18 #5.11 #7.04 #5.16 #parentification #1.21 #14.03 #14.06 #14.14 #spn revisionisms #projecting displaced aggression and scapegoating in spn #do i look like a ditchable prom date to you? #victor #ava #meg masters #cw suicidal ideation #mail #dean the narrative heart #the very touch of you corrupts #john #i dont deserve what he put on me

[icamefromthepinterestscreenshots]

CW: child whumper (sidekick), mentions of previous abuse. (If you find any more CWs I’ve missed, please tell me!)

Villain was feeling great. Todays plan had gone perfectly and now hero’s own sidekick was tied to a chair in front of them. Poor sidekick probably had no idea where they were, Villain smirked.

‘I bet your praying hero is going to show up and save you. I assure you they won’t. They don’t even know where my lair is; besides, do you really think they’ll go through all the effort just to save their stupid little sidekick who got themselves kidnapped?’

Sidekick was shaking. Terrified. Now completely at the villains mercy, their identity was going to be revealed, they just knew it. And then it wouldn’t just be sidekick that will die, but their loved ones too. Hero has told sidekick about villain. Sidekick knew villain was a ruthless killer. Their fear mixed with their guilt for having endangering not only themselves but their friends too. Hero would be so disappointed in sidekick. Villain was right, hero would never bother to save them. It was their own fault that they had messed up and gotten themselves kidnapped.

Villain crouched down and reached out to sidekicks face-

‘Let’s see who’s under this disguise- which I must say, is rather pathetic. Could you not have come up with a better costume for yourself?’, villain joked.

-Sidekick flinched away, but villain swiftly grabbed sidekicks mask and roughly pulled it off their face.

‘I bet you’re-‘,

The villains grin dropped along with their stomach. This was not what they were expecting. Rage shook through villain. Sidekicks face showed nothing but absolute fear.

‘A child. You’re just a child’

Villains face softened as they tried to hide their anger from the kid that sat before them. Hero had sent a child to fight them. A child. How could hero do this? And who was responsible for sidekicks black eye? Villain knew it wasn’t them. Was it hero? When villain got their hands on them-

But that could be dealt with later. Villain needed to focus on the terrified face in front of them.

‘I’m not a child. I’m 15’

‘Who told you that was old? Was it hero? You can’t even drink yet, darling. You’re a child.

And to be clear, I am not going to hurt you. I know hero’s probably told you horrible lies about me, but I can assure you, they’re not true… at least most of them aren’t true. But I would never intentionally hurt a child’

Sidekick was shocked by the softness of villains voice, which was completely different from the roughness it had been filled with 2 seconds ago. It was just an act. It had to be. Sure, hero could be harsh to sidekick, but sidekick deserved it right? Hero was just training sidekick.

‘Are you hungry? Injured? Let me patch you up’

Villain gently brushed sidekicks hair out their face to get a better look at the purple bruises forming on their forehead. Sidekick flinched away from the hand, letting out a small whimper.

That was it. Villain vowed they would destroy hero next time they saw them. But first, they have got to help the poor kid.

————————————————————————————————

This was my first time writing something like this, so any feedback and help would be appreciated. In fact, it think this is the first time I’ve written a story outside an English lesson (which I haven’t done as a subject since GCSE’s) since I wrote a short Harry Potter headcanon when I was 12 lol. I still remember that headcanon tho, and I’m pretty sure it might still be on tumblr somewhere 🫡

#child sidekick #villain and child hero #villain and child sidekick #evil hero #whump writing #I am terrible at grammar feel free to point out any mistakes I made (also I sincerely apologise lol) #whump #villain x sidekick #hero x villain #caretaker #caretaker villain #idk what else to tag #idk what im doing #in case anyone was wondering the headcanon was about teddy tonks sneaking into headmistress mcginagalks office to look at memories #of his parents in the pensieve

[topguncortez]

WELCOME TO “WHUMP THE MUSICAL” 2024 :) created by @whumpthemusical

MY RULES:  

One topic/day will be assigned to one character for that day (i.e Jake gets Day 1, Rooster Day 2, Floydsin Day 3). I will not be doing more than one character a day.

ABSOLUTELY NO MINORS. As these topics all fall under the WHUMP category, there will be heavy content written and shared. Fics will be tagged accordingly, but no minors are permitted to interact. If I find you are a minor interacting, you will be blocked immediately. 

During this time I will not be posting any other fics/blurbs/one-shots or taking requests, primarily because I’ll be writing a lot and posting a lot and I don’t need that added stress.

You can either send requests into my inbox directly OR fill out the request form. 

My normal requesting rules still stand: if you are a blank blog, a minor, a character I don’t write for, or exceed the two-three sentence limit, your request will not be fulfilled

I will update the calendar/character list on SUNDAYS, so you know what days are left. 

ALL REQUESTS MUST BE DONE BY: THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 22ND 

CHARACTERS:

Top Gun Character & Pairing List

Rip Wheeler

Kayce Dutton

Rhett Abbott

Jay Halstead

Will Halstead

CALENDAR:

DAY 1: Cats  Sabotage • Second Chances • "I Can Dream Of The Old Days."

DAY 2: Wicked Mob Mentality • Propaganda • "No Good Deed Goes Unpunished."

DAY 3: Jesus Christ Superstar  Whipping • Betrayal • "Then I Was Inspired, Now I'm Sad And Tired."

DAY 4: Les Mis Survivor's Guilt • Failure • "Drink With Me To Days Gone By."

DAY 5: Heathers Poison • Reluctant Whumper • "Wanna fight for me?"

DAY 6: Newsies Chronic Pain • Exploitation • "Let 'Em Laugh In My Face, I Don't Care."

DAY 7: The Last Five Years Infidelity • Gaslighting • "I Will Not Lose Because You Can't WIn."

DAY 8: Hadestown Deals • Doomed Narrative • "Doubt Comes In."

DAY 9: Sweeney Todd False Imprisonment • Razors • "Have You Decided It's Safer In Cages?"

DAY 10: Rent CHARACTER: FLOYDSIN Substance Abuse • Poverty • "Feels Too Much Damn Like Home."

DAY 11:  Bare: A Pop Opera Outing • Religious Trauma • "Please, See Me."

DAY 12: Waitress  CHARACTER: JAKE SERESIN Unplanned Pregnancy • Abuse • "She Is Broken And Won't Ask For Help."

DAY 13: Tick Tick Boom  Atychiphobia • Working To Exhaustion • "Is This Real Life?"

DAY 14: Dear Evan Hansen Deception • Broken Bone • "Words Fail."

DAY 15: West Side Story  Star-Crossed Lovers • Prejudices • "A Boy Who Kills Cannot Love."

DAY 16: Come From Away  Stranded • Aftermath • "Blankets And Bedding And Maybe Some Food."

DAY 17: Spring Awakening Withheld Information • Suicide  • "I Don't Scream, Though I Know It's Wrong."

DAY 18: Hamilton Hurricane  • Dueling • "I Will Kill Your Friends And Family To Remind You Of My Love."

DAY 19: Falsettos Sickness • Identity Issues • "Death Is Not A Friend."

DAY 20: Into The Woods  Blame • Lost • "Nothing But A Vast Midnight."

DAY 21: The Great Comet Abduction • Letters • "Did You Love That Bad Man?"

DAY 22: In The Heights Grief • Homesickness • "I Know That I'm Letting You Down."

DAY 23: Be More Chill  Mind Manipulation • Panic Attack • "Everything About Me Makes Me Want To Die."

DAY 24: Moulin Rouge  CHARACTER:  JAY HALSTEAD Class Differences • Sex Work • "Come What May."

DAY 25: Chicago  CHARACTER: JAY HALSTEAD Cold Blood • Trial • "He Had It Coming."

DAY 26: Six CHARACTER: BRADLEY BRADSHAW Execution • Trauma Bonding • "Playtime's Over."

DAY 27:Ride The Cyclone Unexpected Tragedy • Forgotten Whumpee • "I Hear The Anguish Of The Street."

DAY 28: The Rocky Horror Show Obsession • Wrong Place, Wrong Time • "I've Seen Blue Skies Through The Tears."

DAY 29: Nerdy Prudes Must Die Bullying • Ritual • "Who Will Pray For You?"

DAY 30: Jekyll And Hyde Duality • Good Vs Evil • "If I Die, You'll Die."

DAY 31: Phantom Of The Opera Disfiguration • Shunned • "My Power Over You Grows Stronger Yet."

#top gun #top gun fan fic #top gun imagine #top gun maverick #top gun maverick fan fic #top gun maverick imagine #Jake seresin #Bradley Bradshaw #natasha trace #Bob Floyd #javy machado #beau Simpson #Pete Mitchell #tom kazansky #nick bradshaw #hangman #rooster #phoenix #bob #coyote #cyclone #maverick #iceman #goose #jay halstead #will halstead #rip wheeler #kayce Dutton #one Chicago imagine #Chicago pd imagine

[stereopticons]

wip wednesday

Thanks for the tags, @kiwiana-writes @hippolotamus @hgejfmw-hgejhsf @apothecarose! I definitely thought I was not going to have anything to post because I hadn’t written anything in a few days but I finally made myself open a few documents to see if I could at least make one sentence and I did a little more than that. So, with 12 minutes left of Wednesday in my part of the world, here is a (completely unedited) snippet from the Manhattan exes to lovers fic:

The problem is that Ray really likes to chat. And worse, he really likes to ask probing questions, the kind that prick and poke at Patrick’s heart until he feels so raw, he could scream. Ray even penciled him in to his podcast schedule for the spring, though Patrick’s not sure he’ll be here that long.

It isn’t much of a surprise, then, when Ray pops his head into Patrick’s room (without knocking) to ask if he’s planning on going to Twyla’s New Year’s Eve party at the cafe. Patrick hadn’t actually been planning to attend—the memories of this time last year are resting heavy on his chest and he thinks he’d much rather be alone with them than in a crowd of people he can barely even call acquaintances. But when he tells this to Ray, he lists all the invitations that Patrick has turned down in the last few weeks. It goes on long enough that the guilt pushes Patrick to give in.

Which is how he finds himself in the cafe at ten minutes to midnight with the strap from a paper party hat cutting into his chin and a glass of zhampagne (and a raisin) in one hand, even though his thoughts are six hundred miles away.

Tags under the cut

@ramonaflow @l56895 @mostlyinthemorning @beaiola @jamilas-pen @rmd-writes @likerealpeopledo-on-ao3 @myheartalivewrites @indestructibleheart @alienajackson @jettestar

#wip wednesday #schitt's creek

[rude-harmonixer]

I was originally going to write on Twitter but character limits are too much of a bother so here I am. This will probably be very messy but I'm dealing with media that probably 10 people are familiar with, so... Whatever!

I've recently found this site: https://nervetower.neocities.org/analysis.html

It has a bunch of translations and essays on the game Baroque, originally released on the Sega Saturn.

This specific bit of info has made me OBSESSED with thinking about the game.

Sure the game was literally written in burst of inspiration by drawing tarot cards because the writers had a deadline and writer's block at the same time, and the protagonist being canonically trans was only in a draft for the prequel material, but the game is surprisingly consistent with its themes and the symbolism can still be read through a trans lens.

And because it's not confirmed and ambiguous, the protagonist can be read through multiple gender povs.

But like, why is this such a big deal? Well, Baroque and its prequel material just so happens to have one of the most incredible anti-bigotry narratives I've ever seen in a game. Specifically anti-ableism and anti-eugenics, among probably some questioning of organized religion and how corporations use it to further alienate the public into a cycle of oppression towards marginalized people. etc.

The protagonist is mass produced and manipulated by the Archangel to "purify" whatever he deems should be "purified", using guilt (the Christians/Catholics favorite thing) to do so as the protagonist is made to not remember anything besides their immense guilt over something.

For the game to progress the protag must regain their memories and find out they're a copy of who knows how many other copies, a human made into a product basically, made to feel special because they won't be distorted by their desperate delusions to escape a world destroyed by corporate greed like all the rest and have the power to "purify" things, when in reality they're just emotionally and genetically manipulated into being that.

A perfect pawn.

Now where is the trans symbolism? Well, aside from how little bodily autonomy the protagonist has, here's where things really get interesting:

In Baroque, God is presented as a woman. Before the Great Heat (aka apocalypse), God's Sense Spheres (her omnipresence, transferring data like the world is a body) assured that no great distortion would come to the reality humanity lived in, God would feel pain and know there was a wound to heal. Then the Archangel, who's really just some scientist, started fucking with the population's mental health on purpose because he wanted to kill God and create his own perfect little world. That's the short summary anyway.

At one point, with a lot of brainwashing using God's screams of pain, he created the Order of Malkuth to help him. But later the members woke up from the brainwashing and organized a desperate attempt to stop the Archangel: they would fuse Koriel number 12 (presented as a boy) with God so she could communicate in data that humans could understand. What they didn't expect however is that Koriel 12 had their own problems, and with Archangel interrupting the fusion, those problems were very amplified.

Koriel 12's guilt over being alive and God's suffering made shit hit the fan for good with the Great Heat.

And that's how the protagonist becomes mute and receives the power of God and anim- I mean, "purification".

The game begins and despite Koriel and God being now two parts of the same being, the Archangel tells Koriel to go to the bottom of the Nerve Tower, where the "Mad God" is basically imprisoned, and "purify" her with a rifle (with ammo made from the embodiment of her pain hormones).

The Archangel is literally making Koriel kill a part of themselves that's already literally buried deep into a mind tower that goes down instead of up but still has the image of a tower instead of a hole. He's basically forcing Koriel to bury the closet with them inside it because the closet isn't enough apparently.

Koriel also can't speak for themselves anymore but their thoughts can be read by the Horned Woman, which she just says out loud without explaining anything and unless you're thinking about it you won't even recognize those are "your" thoughts being spoken by another person.

Jumping ahead, when Koriel gets to the bottom of the tower, you can either do what the Archangel tells you or can just walk towards God and unite with her.

When you do this after some dying and finding out, you'll receive the true ending, in which it is made clear that while it is in a state at which it's harming everyone, the "distortion" is actually the natural way of the world, everyone needs to cope at least a little to survive, the Archangel's eugenicist campaign was the greater problem here, not the people "distorted" into representations of their suffering and coping mechanisms by his actions.

This is primarily focused on ableism and particularly the stigma around mental health.

With a trans reading, it forms a bridge so it can also just mean bigotry in general too.

Why? Well, since the 70s or something, trans people basically have to be diagnosed with a disorder to be granted legal access to transition, that's even truer for Japan, which literally puts it on paper as a disorder. And overall, transphobia and ableism go very hand in hand.

This game is now the closest I've come across to finding a game that's secretly about trans people too like The Matrix.

And this has greatly developed the brain worms 👍

#baroque game #my gaming ramblings #if you're insane enough please try the game #not the ps2 or wii versions tho they're terrible and even if you don't care about most changes you'll most likely care about- #it more than doubling the amount of floors from the psx version which already was bigger than the original and like #please don't do that to yourself the game is already not that fun don't subject yourself to those versions #spoilers i guess but really who even cares #it's not like the surprise really does anything in-game really #you'd just be very confused playing it 100% blind trust me #also there's a whole lot I didn't talk about this is just an incoherent rambling which some might decipher maybe #if you've read all this you're very based and I'm so sorry ahsbsjenzbx

[wardenparker]

Down the Rabbit Hole - ch 5

Jack ‘Whiskey’ Daniels x female reader Co-written with @absurdthirst

When Jack accidentally shoots a civilian on a mission he takes on not only the guilt of the man’s death, but inherits his soulmate as well. To you, it’s a dream job with more perks than you can imagine - but for Jack it’s a nightmarish complication. Even more so when he starts to develop feelings.    

Rating: E for Explicit. 18+! Word Count: 9.6k Warnings: *Blanket warnings - mentions of deceased spouse, a lot of food and alcohol consumption, family recipes, age gap, cursing.* Sexy shower time, a whole truck load of anger, fisticuffs, a bunch of angry people being upset with each other. Summary: A blissful morning becomes a whirlwind nightmare when Tequila sees your tattoo. But the biggest revelation doesn’t come until you’ve gotten all the way back to Louisville. Notes: Guys, I just...this chapter happens very fast and there is a *lot* of stuff going on. And I just love absolutely everything about it. 😂

Ch 1 ~ Ch 2 ~ Ch 3 ~ Ch 4 ~ Ch 5 ~ Ch 6 ~ Ch 7 ~ Ch 8 ~ Ch 9 ~ Ch 10 ~ Ch 11 ~ Ch 12 ~ Ch 13 ~ Ch 14 ~ Ch 15 ~ Epilogue

Sunlight streaming through the curtains is what wakes you, traffic on the busy Boston streets leaking into the beautiful calm of your room and heavy arm around your waist anchoring you to the mattress. Tex is curled around your back like a huge koala, holding on and nuzzling into the back of your neck in his dreams. The general lack of clothing and ache between your thighs would be telltale if you had been drunk when everything happened, but you since you weren't it's just a lovely reminder. Every second is catalogued away in your memory, right down to the moment you both collapsed, sweaty and satiated, and fell asleep in each other's arms within minutes.

Humming, Tex is aware the second you wake, stirring from his own deep and satisfying sleep. "Good morning." He grins and kisses the back of your neck without even opening his eyes. "Did I manage to convince you?" He asks playfully, telling you last night before falling asleep he was going to demand an answer on if you preferred cowboys in the morning.

"Got a secret for you," you mumble, turning over in his arms to curl into his chest. If not for the damn family brunch you're supposed to be at this morning, you would be very happy not to move from this bed. "I've always liked cowboys."

Tequila barks out a sleep rough chuckle and pulls you closer, rolling onto his back so that you are sprawled out on top of him. "That so, cowgirl?" He huffs playfully.

“Always.” The nod you give him is solemn, even if your grin is playful. “Watched Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid the first time when I was eleven and never got over it.”

You would make a perfect spouse for a Statesman agent then. Tequila knows he can't tell you about things until it becomes more serious, but he winks at you. "Well then, I guess you're in luck." He teases, leaning in and kissing you while he reaches up to grab his hat off the bedpost. He pulls away and sets it on your head.

“It’s about as subtle as a heart attack.” His hat shades you like a beach umbrella when he pops it on top of your bed head and you laugh, dopey on attraction and good dreams. “I like it though. Might have to get one of my own eventually.”

“No need to be subtle.” Tex grins at you and rolls his hips up, letting you feel the very unsubtle thing that is hard between you. “Not when I’m showing my hand.”

“Good.” When you look down at him again you hum a little, bowing your head to steal another kiss. “I hate games. One hundred percent honesty all the way.”

He would pull you against him for another round, but he got a copy of the itinerary, same as you, and he knows that you need to be there for the brunch. “How about we explore in the shower while we get ready?” He poses, smirking against your lips as he squeezes your ass.

“Sexy and responsible. I like it.” You sit up reluctantly, knowing that it will have to be a quickie since you’re supposed to be downstairs in the dining room in half an hour. “C’mon, cowboy. I’m sure the shower has enough room for two.”

“I made sure of it.” Tex sits up as you scamper off the bed. Hating that you are walking away from him, but admiring the way your ass shakes. “Plenty of time to make sure your knees tremble when you walk.” He growls confidently before he throws himself out of bed to chase after you.

“Planning on seducing me, were you?” Even though you make it to the bathroom first, his long arm reaches past you to turn on the shower head and you smirk at him over your shoulder. “Have I been seduced?”

“Have you?” Tex winks at you and grins. “You tell me.”

"Fifty-fifty," you decide, after giving him a good, long look up and down. Tex isn't shy about anything, least of all his body, and he gives you a flex for good measure. "Call it a mutual seduction."

"I can't deny that." He chuckles and glances down pointedly at his groin for good measure.

"If you want more, you gotta get in here." One step backward and you're in the shower, tipping your head back to luxuriate in the fierce spray of hot water. "Otherwise we're gonna be late."

"Wash first, play after." Tex promises, sending you a wink and ducking his head down to lick a line of water off your chest, perilously close to your nipple.

"How is that after?" You whine, gasping at how close he comes to where you wish he would have directed that troublesome tongue of his.

He chuckles again and straights up, sending you a small wink. "You don't want me to wash you?" He asks with a play pout.

"Well...if you're offering." The nearby facecloth is in your hand immediately, getting soaking wet under the hot water to hand over so he can lather it - and you - up.

Taking the washrag, Tex smirks and motions for you to turn around. "Back first." He tells you, reaching out to slap your ass when you obey him.

"Yes, sir." Giggling, you shake your ass for him before stretching your arms and giving a contented sigh. This is pretty close to a perfect morning, as far as morning after scenarios go, and you're planning on enjoying the hell out of it.

He tucks his tongue between his teeth and starts to wash you. Just because he's copping a feel here and there - okay, a lot of feels - doesn't mean he isn't going to wash you properly.

It's nearly hypnotic, aside from the distracting hands grabbing and squeezing and making both of you giggle or moan, alternately. When he finally gets to your other arm, he starts rubbing at it like he's trying to scrub your skin clean off and you laugh again. "Sometimes the makeup gets smudgy before it comes off," you explain, having entirely forgotten that you covered your tattoo in the first place. There were different, much more fun things to think about. "I got the heavy-duty stuff a while back. Like what they use on movie sets for actors."

Tex frowns, not commenting as he works the layers of makeup off your skin. Thinking that the placement is odd as he swipes at it with the cloth. He doesn't want to hurt you but there is a knot of dread that is starting to build as the ink starts to slowly become visible under the flesh colored makeup.

"You don't have to be timid about it." Turning half around, you reach for the cloth but see the utter dismay on his face. "Don't tell me you're against ink?" That would be...extremely inconvenient. But it's not like you have Eat Me written above your cunt or something. Although that would be fucking hilarious. "I know everybody at Statesman is into the clean-cut look, but I've had this for years."

Tex shakes his head, unable to explain why this tattoo has him floored. "I—I don't." He murmurs softly, standing up and stepping back from you. His heart aches and he hates that he's seen it. Wishing he didn't know who else sported this tattoo. "I—shit." He shakes his head and closes his eyes on a sigh.

"What's wrong?" He looks like he's seen a ghost, which makes you cringe a bit and suddenly wish you weren't both standing naked in such an intimate setting. "I—I don't...have a soulmate. If that's what you're worried about. I used to have a bunch more tattoos and a couple of weeks ago they...they just disappeared. And that only happens when...when your soulmate dies. So don't think you've got, ya know, competition or anything."

His jaw rocks when he realizes you don't know. You don't fucking know. Confusion mars your beautiful face and he knows that you are going to be hurt. Hell, he's hurt. Jack didn't fucking let him know and he knows that motherfucker was aware of his interest in you. It wasn't like they hadn't prowled around together enough to know when the other had taken a shinin' to a particular woman.

“I’m really gonna need you to say something.” He looks angry and it’s unsettling in the very worst way, making you tense up and cross your arms over your chest in a protective stance. “Like now, please.”

"I've - I've seen that tattoo." Tequila admits, hating how the weekend is now over. Of course it is. "Recently."

“What?” Standing still and perfectly stable, you nearly fall over from the way that seemingly simple news rocks through you and makes your heart skips beats on its way up into your throat. Second soulmates are supposed to be a fairy tale. “On who? When?”

"I—I can't tell you." Tex can't say anything, not without getting into the classified details and Champ's already riding his ass for being 'too lax' with classifications. "Not yet."

“Well that’s un-fucking-acceptable.” And definitely makes you think he could be lying or creating an excuse to get out of seeing you again when you get back to Kentucky. Which is both hurtful are extremely fucking disappointing. You had thought Tex was a better man than that. Of course - you had thought Jack was a better man, too. Maybe you’re just a shit judge of character. “Second soulmates are impossible. If you saw my tattoo on someone then maybe my soulmate didn’t die. They just…had plastic surgery or something?”

You're her. The woman that put marks on Jack's body. The same one that your soulmate was killed by Jack just a few weeks ago. No wonder Jack kept running from you, guilt written on his face. "I—I'm sorry, darlin'." Tex shakes his head and swallows harshly, aware that you are pissed. "It's…it's classified."

“What the fuck does that mean?” It’s too much to digest, after how much fun last night was and how much Jack disappearing into thin air hurt you earlier in the week, to think that Tex is just wriggling his way out of things after getting what he wanted.

He doesn't like the hurt on your face. Not at all. Reaching up, he cups your cheek and stares into your eyes. "I promise you that I'm not trying to hurt you." He chokes out, his heart clenching and he fucking hates that he ever suggested a goddamn shower. He could have been blissfully unaware of who's soulmate you are. "It— it'll make sense soon."

Instinct takes over, making you recoil and slap his hand away the second it touches your skin. The tears are hot and angry, pressing against the backs of your eyes like prickling needles when you shove him out of the way to get out of the shower - half-clean and half-mortified. “If you wanted a one-night thing I would’ve been fine with that,” you tell him flatly, even though it’s a fucking lie. You don’t look back as you pull open the door of the shower and step out, grabbing for the closest towel to cover up with. “You didn’t have to be fucking mean about it.”

"I'm...” Tex sighs and his head drops down between his shoulders. "That's not what happened." He whispers as you march out of the bathroom.

******

Brunch is excruciating, making excuses for his absence to your family because you hadn’t wanted to spoil the morning after your cousin’s wedding with being outwardly angry. Instead you simmer all morning with too many mimosas, and on the plane with your headphones jammed into your ears staring stock forward so he doesn’t dare try to talk to you on the way back to Kentucky.

No more cowboys. You lecture yourself sternly, hauling your weekender bag up onto your shoulder the second you deplane and speed walking away from the broad-and-tall frame of the cowboy who had driven you both to the airport. You’ll take an Uber, thank you very much. Now more cowboys and no more putting your heart on the line. Getting it bashed with a proverbial sledgehammer twice in one week is plenty enough to learn your lesson.

Tequila sighs, jogging up to you and grabbing your bag. While he understands you hate him, he can't let you go off on your own. Not when he knows who your soulmate is. It's a security risk and he wonders if that's why Jack sent him to the wedding with you. "Come on, you don't have to talk to me, but don't be dumb."

“Give it back.” Fury doesn’t usually last this long for you, but you’re seething with it to cover up how disappointed and hurt you are.

"No." Tex shakes his head, pulling it back out of your reach. "Get in the damn truck." He tells you. "I'm gunna get you back to Statesman unharmed. Then you can never talk to me again."

“Why do you even care?” Considering he’s taller, faster, and stronger than you, it’s not like you can overpower him and get your bag back, so you stare him down instead.

"Because I care about you." He insists. "You might not believe that, but I do."

“Bullshit.” Still, you pull open the door of his enormous pickup truck yourself because it will annoy him that you didn’t wait, and swing yourself up into the passenger seat. You’re mad enough to you’ve moved over to spiteful, but at least he hasn’t seen you cry. “Just take me home.”

"I will." Tex clenches his jaw as he climbs into the truck and his fist curls around the steering wheel hard enough to make the plastic groan. "Bet your ass I will."

Fucking dramatic ass cowboys. You sink down in the seat and squeeze your eyes shut, desperately wishing you were going home to New Hampshire to sit with your sister or out to New York City to hang out with your brother. Anything but the little house halfway in between the two men who have kicked you to the curb like last week's garbage.

As the truck barrels its way towards Statesman, the anger inside Tequila builds. Pissed at Jack for what he's done. The selfish son of a bitch caused you to hate him. He stews with every mile that the tires eat up, nearly red faced by the time that truck turns onto the road that leads towards Statesman housing.

As soon as he pulls into your driveway you jump out of the truck, grabbing your bag from the cargo bed and heading straight inside. The sooner you can get into a bath with an army of scented candles and a bottle of something much stronger than watered down mimosas or airline nips, the better. You can just wash away the horrific memories of this weekend and never speak of it again.

The moment the front door of your cabin slams, Tequila throws the truck in reverse, the tires squealing from how hard he stomps on the gas. Fury making him sling the truck around and gun it as he throws it into drive. Hearing the engine roar with a grim wince of satisfaction as the V-12 lurches forward.

******

The door to Jack's office slams open under his palm, a satisfying creak and groan of heavy wood mirroring the stomp of Tequila's boots. His vision is so tunneled by righteous anger that he doesn't see Champ lounging in the armchair off to the side of Jack's heavy desk - only focused on the man he came to confront. There's no hesitation in his step, singularly motivated by the boiling in his blood when he storms forward and swings, connecting with Jack's jaw with flawless precision. "You son of a bitch!"

Jack goes sprawling to the floor, shocked but he's quickly bouncing back. "What the fuck!" He shouts, picking himself up off the floor and glaring at his friend. "Have you lost your fucking mind?"

"Have you?" Tequila spits back, slamming his fist into Jack's desk next. The crash is satisfying in an entirely separate way. "How could you not tell me?!"

"Tell you what?" Jack demands, frowning and shaking his head to look over at Champ. "What the fuck didn't I tell you?"

"Her!" Tequila bellows, towering over Jack with a red face and hurt eyes as the older man gets back to his feet. "Did you think I wouldn't find out she's your fucking soulmate?"

Shit. The anger drains out of Jack's face and he stares at Tequila. "She's— it's a mistake." He chokes out. "I'm not – I can't be her soulmate." He insists, begging the younger man to believe him. "You know that."

"I saw her fucking tattoo, Jack." He doesn't even notice that Champ has jumped up to slam Jack's office door shut, containing the noise as well as the news. Tequila is too wrapped in his own fury to notice anything at all. "You knew and you didn't say a fucking word and now she's furious with me because you went and shoved your head in the goddamn dirt."

"You didn't have to fuck her!" Jack shouts back, anger surprising him although he had known what would happen if the other agent went with you. He had known that Tequila was attracted to you, but he had ignored it. "You coulda kept your dick in your pants for once in your goddamn life."

"I wouldn't have if you had said something!" The outrage on both ends is obvious, but Tequila feels it twisting in his guts like something ugly. "I'd have kept my damn mouth shut and kept her company and kept my fucking feelings to myself if you had just said something."

"Feelings?" Jack scoffs and shakes his head. "Since when is horny a fucking feeling?"

"Fuck you." Tequila bites out, but Champ grabs his arm before he can wind up for another good hit.

"Cut the shit, both of you." He orders, tone short and sharp and brokering no insubordination. "What the hell happened?"

Jack snaps his head around and blows out a breath, realizing that Champ is the room still. He had completely forgotten about the older man after Tequila busted into the room like a pissed off bull in a china shop. "I don't have a fucking clue." He spits, glaring at Tex and nods towards him. "Why don't you ask the hot head?"

"Agent Chicken Shit backed out of taking his soulmate to a wedding this weekend and asked me if I could take her instead." Tequila wrenches his arm out of Champ's firm grip, feeling like he's been caught breaking his brother's nose by his father all over again. "Knowing goddamn well that I—I'm in love with her." Saying it out loud makes him wish he could just storm back across the Statesman campus and explain everything to you. To beg you to believe and forgive him. But it's not his place. Not at all.

Jack snorts and rolls his eyes. "Wantin' to fuck ain't being 'in love'." Jack spits back, furious to hear those words out of his mouth and worse, he wonders if you feel the same way. It pisses him off and he wants to punch the righteous fucker in the nose for touching you.

"When have I ever punched you over wanting to fuck the same girl?" It's not as though they hadn't, after all, but Tequila still glowers at Jack across the desk.

"Can't recall you ever even using the word 'love' before," Champ comments, interested to see exactly how red in the face Jack is going to get.

His teeth are about to crack he's clenching his jaw so hard. Nearly growling at the way that Tequila flusters. Breathing heavily as the younger man turns towards Champ with a shrug of his shoulders. "Because I ain't felt it before." He admits, shaking his head. "But there's somethin' about her."

"She does seem to be a point of fascination." Champ's no fool. He hasn't missed Jack's attentions being centered on you, or Tequila's stolen glances. He hadn't missed the flirting - both intentional and not - and he had listened diligently to what Diana told him without over-divulging or betraying your confidence.

"She's a shiny new toy." Jack hisses, puffing up his chest and glaring at Tequila, ready to throw a few punches of his own considering what he's done. "He'll get tired of her, just like every other woman he's ever taken to bed."

"Look who's goddamn talking," Tequila hisses back. "Barely took you a week to get sick of her and without even the good manners to tell her you why."

"I was trying to PROTECT HER!" Jack roars, his own fist slamming down onto the table as he lashes out. Picking up the bottle of '87 and throwing it against the wall, shattering it and splashing whiskey over the walls.

"Alright, the both of you!" Champ doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to. The disapproval and the anger in it clear without needing more volume. "Tequila, you take your ass up to my office and you stay there until I come talk to you. I want both sides of this and it ain't gonna be clear with you shouting over each other like beasts."

Jack glowers, staring down Tequila as he marches out of his office and hisses as the door rattles on its hinges from the force of him slamming it shut behind him. "She didn't need to know." He defends roughly. "She doesn't need to know."

"What the hell happened?" Champ turns his eyes on Jack, knowing Tequila will do as he's been told and wondering what catalyst had pushed Jack to run the way he had. "You got embarrassed that Diana caught you in an amorous moment? That's nothin' to be ashamed of."

"She's NOT my soulmate!" Jack shouts, fury making spittle fly out of his mouth and his voice cracks in his desperation for someone to believe him. To convince himself.

"That's up to you." And Champ won't push him to admit otherwise. "But she's human. And she deserves a damn apology. Di said she was beside herself upset at you walkin' out, even if she hid it well. I can't imagine Tequila spurning her now is going to make her feel any better, although it ain't your fault the boy lost his nerve when he realized."

"He wants a soulmate." Jack mumbles, his shoulders rounding at the reminder that he had treated you abysmally. They had done a lot more than just been each other's wingman for picking up women over the years. There had been plenty of serious conversations between women and glasses of whiskey. "He's not going to be with someone else's if he knows them."

"So you thought letting him discover it on his own would...go smoother?" He's not even going to go into how jumpy Jack is being about his own attraction to you.

"How was I suppose' to know that the fucking idiot didn't know?" Jack huffs defensively. "I showed him the damn mark on my skin. It's not like the fucking things on her tit. I thought he saw it on her."

"Alright, alright." Champ shakes his head and groans, feeling like everybody's damn father and not for the first time. "I'll go deal with him, but you..." He could just order him to apologize. To walk over to your house right now and make things right. But he knows that won't actually help things, it will only make Jack dig his heels in harder. "Whether you're ready to tell her or not, she still deserves an apology."

"For what?" Jack spread his hands up helplessly before he props them on his hips. "For killin' her soulmate? For her being stuck with me? For kissin' her and running away? For keepin' it from her?" He asks, not sure which sin he has to ask forgiveness for.

"You gotta decide that yourself." He had just meant the bit about running off, but as long as Jack is willing to entertain the idea of actually telling you the truth, he's not going to discourage it.

"She deserves better, Champ." Jack murmurs quietly. "Better 'in me. Hell, better than the kid."

"That's not up to you to decide." Champ's voice is just as quiet, but far gentler. "It's up to her. And if she's rightfully pissed at the both of you after this week, then that's that. But at the very least, she should know that you didn't run off because of anything she did. Y'all are actin' in her best interest as far as you're concerned, but all she can see is two men makin' her feel good and then acting like she did wrong for following down the paths you set."

"Shit." Jack closes his eyes, pissed off at himself for being a fool and giving Tequila the opportunity to hurt your already bruised feelings. He should have just taken you.

"Clean up this mess," Champ points to the broken liquor bottle on the floor. "And then go clean up the one you made with her. I'll deal with Tequila."

Jack stares at him for a moment, nodding quietly before the older man turns around and leaves the office. Leaving Jack in the wake of the mess he had found himself in.

Champ heads down the hall with purpose, shaking his head at the ridiculous state his two agents have made of things. He knows he brought you here to be protected, but apparently he should have been protecting you from their dumb asses as well. Thankfully, Tequila is waiting in his office like he was ordered, leg bouncing with nerves but no damage done. "Alright," he huffs, shutting the door behind him. "Your turn."

"Now Champ..." Tequila springs to his feet, aware that he should have handled things better than he had, but he's mad. "Whiskey didn't tell me she was his soulmate. I wouldn't have gotten involved with her if he had of."

"Don't think I know that?" The boy's sense of propriety is usually aces, even if his common sense can lack. "That's not why you got put in time out, Tequila. I can't punish you for makin' a fool of yourself with a lady. Either of you. Even if you deserve it."

"Then why am I here?" There is an edge of defiance in his voice, residual anger from the entire ordeal.

"Because you attacked a senior agent without provocation." Champ tells him flatly. "And I can't be sure y'all won't piss each other off enough that it will happen again."

"He fucking deserved it, and you know it." Tequila argues, standing up and putting his hand on his hip.

"Not the point, son." He can't make a judgement call on this if he ever wants it to get resolved. "It's insubordination and you know it."

Tequila rolls his eyes and huffs before he begrudgingly acknowledges that what Champ is saying is true. "So what's my punishment?" He asks. "Week scrubbing the warehouse?"

"Manual labor ain't gonna prove a point to you." Champ knows that. The kid comes from honest labor and hard work. It rolls right off his shoulders. "You're gonna take an assignment for me. Give you time to cool off and separate yourself from our fascinating lady so you can cool the hell off."

Opening his mouth in protest immediately, he manages to catch himself before he says something. Closing his mouth and just standing there. He knows he deserves it, even if he doesn't say so.

“Kingsman proposed an agent swap about a month ago.” Moving around him, Champ motions to Tequila to sit before plopping down in the large wingback chair behind his desk. “Been debating who to send. Looks like you just gave me my answer.”

"What am I gonna do in London, Champ?" The Texan whines, giving his boss a horrified expression. "They don't know the first thing about ropin'."

“So you’ll teach ‘em.” The side drawer of Champ’s desk holds the folder of papers from Kingsman as they rebuild, and Champ flips it open to skim through the paperwork. “Change of scenery and company might do ya some good, Tequila.” He glances up with one eyebrow half-raised. “After an apology.”

"I'm not apologizing to that fucker." He doesn't care how long Champs sends him to 'Merry ol' London', he will never apologize to Whiskey for belting him like he deserved.

"Not to him." Champ nearly laughs, but he catches himself. He's meant to be angry. A disciplinarian. At least for right now. "To her. She didn't ask for any of this shit."

"I can't apologize without telling her why I backed away." He reasons with Champ. "If that asshole had just manned up, this wouldn't be an issue."

Seeing as he can't actually argue with that, Champ sits back in his chair and eyes Tequila for a second before he lets an approving nod escape. "At least tell her you're goin' and that it has nothin' to do with her. Don't let her hear it third hand and wonder what the hell she might have done to make both of you run." He's gonna have to pay a visit to you himself, he thinks, and make sure you get something nice for the restaurant or let you hire a second-in-command, or something. Anything. Just to make sure you don't resign and he loses the ability to protect you.

Tequila nods and shuffles his feet slightly. "I'll go over there now and explain." He mumbles. "But it might have to be through a door. She's really fuckin' mad at me because I wouldn't tell her where I'd seen her tattoo."

"Can't say I blame her." Hell, if he were a woman, he'd have given them both far more hell than you seem to. "Do what you gotta go tonight. You're on the jet no later than 0900 tomorrow morning."

"Yes sir." Tequila nods once and turns on his heel. He needs to apologize to you before he goes; and put these feelings that he has for you to bed. There can't be a future with you. Not when Jack wears your tattoo.

******

The bath was a good idea, and you bundle up in clean pajamas after crying your damn eyes out and throw on an extra sweatshirt for comfort. You toss a bowl of leftover chili into the microwave and hunt down the bag of tortilla chips to eat it with, figuring you’ll turn on a movie and try to forget that the rest of the world exists.

Tequila decides that it would better to walk over to your place rather than pull up in your driveway. Walking along the way until he is standing on your porch and sighing softly. Hesitating for a moment before he reaches out and knocks on your door. Anticipating that you won't even answer.

“Fucking hell…” Muttering under your breath all the way to the front door, you check the peak hole before opening it and end up groaning. “What do you want, Tex?” He’s the actual last person you want to see right now, but if he’s got an explanation you want to hear it.

“I—” Tex shifts on his heels and reaches up to rub the back of neck in embarrassment. “I owe you an apology.”

Yes. He certainly goddamn does. You pull open the door halfway and look up at him expectantly. “How about an explanation, while you’re at it.”

"That's where you're gonna be mad at me." He bites his lips and shrugs. "It's not— I can't tell you who but I can tell you that I've seen that mark on someone I know. And I—I didn't know when I went after you."

“Unless it’s one of your brothers or something, I can’t see what the big deal is.” Having decided, over the course of the last few hours, that he’s probably lying to try to get out of a relationship, you just shrug your shoulders. “Fine. It is what it is.”

"Believe me...I wish I could tell you." He sighs. "I— I came to apologize because I'm being punished." He grunts. "Being sent overseas on an assignment."

“What did you do to get punished for?” That intrigues you enough to step back, leaving the front door open for him to come inside. He’s rowdy, sure, but you can’t see him being brash enough to put his job in the line. He loves his job.

"I punched someone." Tequila grumbles quietly, his brow furrowing, and he won't admit that his hand is aching. Jack Daniels has a fucking jaw of steel. "In front of Champ."

“And he’s banishing you to another country for it?” First of all, it’s news to you that Statesman even operates in other countries. But who the hell could garner that kind of punishment for something that— It’s like the entire world stops spinning for a second, screeching to a halt as you stand in your foyer next to one frustrating cowboy realizing the entire conversation just turns back around to a second one who is even more frustrating. Your eyes snap up to Tex’s, wide and full of so much shock that it’s nearly embarrassing. Because the second you put the pieces together, it couldn’t have been clearer. “Jack…” His name is barely better than a murmur, but it’s firm. “It’s Jack. Isn’t it?”

Of course you would figure it out. Not only are you funny, beautiful, and talented in many, many ways; you are also smart. Probably a hell of a lot smarter than he is. Your eyes betray your feelings, the stunned anguish in them, and the hurt that you are feeling shining out at him. It makes him want to pull you into his arms and comfort you. But it isn't his place to do that, and he's already hurt himself by getting involved with you. It would just make it harder to let go of you. "I can't tell you who." He shakes his head and sighs. "Just please, please believe me. I never wanted to hurt you."

You never wanted to think he was lying, but now that you know who it is that’s wearing your mark, you can see why he backed off immediately. That’s his mentor. One of his closest friends. And while Jack running off might have been a shitty thing to do, that now makes a lot more sense, too. “Maybe when you come back, we can try hanging out again?” It’s a weird situation for anyone to be in, but you do enjoy his company. “Just as friends?”

Tequila swallows, knowing that it might be hard for him for a while but he nods, giving you a small smile. "I'd like that darlin'." He admits softly. "I-I wish it could be more, but I know you woulda gotten tired of my ass." He jokes, not wanting to make it awkward, but he does want you to know that he had been serious with his intentions. "I'm sorry for ruinin' the brunch."

“I told everybody you were too hungover,” you smirk, already knowing that that is the ultimate blow to his manhood as a Statesman employee. But you were plenty mad this morning and didn’t care.

"Shit." Tequila hisses, shaking his head as he absorbs that blow. "I deserve that, but damn, you pack a low blow."

“Not sorry.” And you won’t pretend to be, either. You meant it when you told him you don’t play games. “But…it does suck that you’ll be gone for a while. Try not to fuck up too much shit wherever you’re going, okay?”

"I'll be alright, darlin'." He boasts confidently. "They should be worried about me."

“I’ll be sure to call and warn them, then.” You laugh softly, shaking your head, and one hand unconsciously rests on your front door.

He's smart enough to take the hint, nodding politely at you and takes a step back. "Well, I'm gotta go pack and I'm sure you're wantin' your peace back, so...I'll see you, darlin'." He offers, tipping his hat to you at the edge of the stairs.

There’s no use telling him that you had fun before this morning. If he actually liked you it will just be cruel and if he didn’t it just makes you sound clingy, so you say good night and shut the door, sighing to yourself as you pace back to the kitchen. That bowl of chili is already getting cold after being heated up, and you’re going to need several drinks to digest the information you’ve just been handed.

Jack.

Jack is your soulmate. Your second soulmate, which is supposed to be impossible. Why? How? Who the fuck even has answers to something like that?

******

Jack moves slower than molasses as he starts to clean up the mess he had made with his temper. The mess he had made of your life was going to take a little time and finesse. He doesn't know what to say. The anger and jealousy swirling in his gut at learning that you had slept with Tequila had surprised him, but he can't fault you when he had practically thrust the boy into your arms. Taking an hour to make his office spotless again, Jack leaves the Statesman offices to start walking back to the cabins to talk to you.

After dinner you stack up the dishwasher and grab one of the key lime tartlets from the test batch you made on Friday, curling up under your blanket on the couch with the second half of your movie and a second glass of spiked lemonade. Relaxation won’t come no matter how hard you try, though, and as if encouraged by your own restlessness - the doorbell rings again.

“Coming.” You call out, grumbling to yourself as you get up, only to deflate when you open the door. “Jack…” You hadn’t expected this, honestly. You thought it was Tex again for some unknown reason or other. “H—hi.”

"Hey, sugar." It's a chicken shit move, to pretend like nothing happened, but the way his eyes light up when he sees you isn't something he can control. "How are you doing?"

“Um…well, honestly I’ve been better.” Shifting in your doorway, you step to the side to let him in and clear your throat before cautiously pointing to the bruise blooming on his jaw. “But I think you have it worse at the moment.”

Jack snorts and shakes his head. "Nah, barely felt this." He lies, his jaw aching and he swears that Tequila loosened a few teeth. He shoots you a grin that is less confident than it appears and scrubs his hands up and down his thighs. "Can I come in, talk?" He doesn't blame you if you say no, but he wants to at least try.

“That’s…probably a good idea.” While you doubt that Tex went back and told him that you might have figured things out, you want to hear it from Jack. Either confirmed or denied, whatever the truth is. This man owes you the truth and an apology and that is the very least of it.

Jack steps into the cabin and lets you close the door behind him. Nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, he turns towards you to see where you want to do this. He's in your territory and is willing to follow your lead.

"Do you want a drink?" It's a compulsory thing, always feeling like you should at least offer a drink to someone who's going to stay more than five minutes.

"I don't think you want to give me a drink, sugar. But I appreciate it." He would actually love a stiff drink, but he's not going to impose on you more than he has to.

"If you came to apologize, you get a drink." The nervous way he shifts has you worried, but you smile despite your churning stomach. "If not? I guess...just say what you came to say? I don't know, Jack. This whole thing is very awkward and I'm trying to figure out how to make it less so."

"Then I guess you better pour us a double, sugar." Jack mumbles, not quite meeting your eyes. The eyes that have haunted him for the entire week that he's stayed away from you.

"Come on in." Nodding to the living room, you disappear back to the kitchen for a second to grab a glass and the open bottle from your counter. He idles by the armchair beside your couch so you put the bottle down on the coffee table after you've poured him a drink, and hand him the glass. Your own drink is sufficiently spiked, you hope, for whatever he has to say. At least Tex already accidentally dropped the biggest bomb that might come up in conversation.

"I— hell." Jack takes a nervous gulp of his whiskey and sighs. "I owe you a large apology, sugar." He starts out. "I've acted like a tee-total ass and I regret that. I've hurt you; I know I have and I never meant to."

"Well...thank you." It being the second time tonight that you've heard something like that, you have to admit that the hole in your heart made by Jack's cruelty was much larger. Maybe that's something you ought to be ashamed of, but it's just how you feel. "I feel like there's more, though?" Even if you didn't know there was, the way he shifts his eyes all around the room to everywhere but you would have been a giveaway.

Damn you’re intuitive. Or Tequila ran his big fucking mouth. Both of those could be true. He sighs and taps his fingers against his knee and contemplates what to tell you. "Yeah." He admits quietly. almost inaudible.

"Do you...maybe want to start with why you ghosted me after we kissed?" After grappling with that one for an entire week on your own, you'd like an actual answer. A real, honest, from him answer.

"You scare me." The words fall from his tongue easier than he imagined them. Tumbling out quickly and earnestly. Truthfully. He rocks his jaw and nods. "You scare me, sugar."

That makes you huff, shifting in place on the sofa nervously. "Can't quite see the logic in that," you admit, tapping your fingers on the glass in your hands and smearing the condensation in ugly patterns. "Since you kicked the asses of a half dozen bikers the day we met and I couldn't even do that in my wildest dreams."

"Not that kinda scared, sugar." Jack chuckles at your logic, unable to find the fault with it and is a little pleased with himself for that fight still. "I'm meanin' that it's— it's complicated." He settles for that. "I didn't mean to hurt you because of it though."

"Jack..." The sigh that escapes you is nearly a groan. Or at least something bordering frustrated. "I don't think it's a secret that I like you, okay? I wouldn't have kissed you back if I didn't. I just...even if this - whatever this was - ends here? I just need you to be honest with me. Whatever the truth is, whether it's hard or easy or complicated or simple. I just...I need you to show me that much respect."

"Okay." Jack agrees to that easily enough, nodding his head and waiting for you to continue.

"For the record." The shifting seems to be endless, and you close your eyes for a second against the nerves. "Tex didn't say anything. He kept his mouth shut and protected you. I put two and two together myself." Glancing up at him, you have to remind yourself to breathe. "Will you show me your arm? Please?"

Jack's mouth is suddenly drier than the Sahara desert. Closing his eyes for a moment before he nods and stands up. He will have to roll up his sleeves or take the damn thing off. He shrugs out of his jacket and unbuttons his sleeve. "You are smart, sugar. Don't doubt that."

"I never do." It might be the wrong time to be sassy, but the response is automatic. Your mouth is dry as dirt by the time Jack rolls up the sleeve of his plaid shirt, and it's only partially because watching a man roll up his sleeve is like having a woman put on a push up bra as far as sex appeal goes. The first glimpse of your own tattoo on his skin steals any breath you had left in your body, and you swear you're lightheaded at the actual sight of it. Your mark on someone else's body. It's enough to make you break right down and cry, but you have a feeling that wouldn't exactly help the situation.

The cat is out of the bag, and Jack shows you the marks that are on his skin briefly before he starts to roll his sleeve down again. "Now you know why you scare me." He is leaving a hell of a lot out, but it's a truth you might be able to swallow.

"It's supposed to be impossible." Even with evidence, you have to keep yourself from reaching out and touching his skin just to prove to yourself that it's not make up or Sharpie or something.

"It is impossible." Jack tells you, shaking his head at the entire situation and reaches for his drink.

"Obviously not." It definitely does explain some things. Like the way the two of you can't seem to stay away from each other even when he was obviously not wanting to be around you.

"It damn sure is when I killed your original soulmate." Jack snaps out without even thinking about how those words would land.

"You what?" The glass in your hand goes crashing to the floor, cracking and spilling bourbon and lemonade in every direction but you can't do anything but stare at him: wide eyed and terrified and more confused than you've ever felt in your life. "Wh-wha—you—?" The tears pricking at your eyes are a surprise, but only because you never considered that this would ever be a sentence you would hear in your life.

"Fuck." Jack hisses, realizing he's stuck his ass all the way in the fire and the only way he's going to get out is to tell you everything. "Sugar, I— Statesman— is an independence intelligence agency. I am an agent. The last op I was on, he - your soulmate - was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Innocent bystander." He tells you bitterly. "I killed a civilian by accident."

The blatancy of it nearly knocks you over, to the point where the tears spill over unfiltered. "Fuck off, Jack." You hear your own voice, full of anger for the second time today. "I asked you to be honest with me."

"I am being honest with you!" Jack growls, pissed off that you don't believe him. "How do you think I took on a half dozen men without a scratch? Do you need to have it confirmed?"

"Sure. Confirm it for me. Why the fuck not." You might as well be rolling your eyes at him, and maybe it's childish, but you're sick of being disappointed. Especially so many times in one week.

"Ginger." Jack speaks up, knowing that saying her name will activate his communication link in his watch. "Lock down my soulmate's cabin." He orders. "Code Orange."

There is a brief pause and Astrid's voice comes through the built-in speakers in your cabin. "Roger Jack, Code Orange." Immediately, the soft lights of the lamps switch off and bright emergency lights flicker on. The door lock flips and there is a mechanical whirling as solid metal shutters roll down over your windows and door. The bookcase that you have stuffed with cookbooks in the little breakfast nook pops open, showing an opening behind it that will lead to a safe room.

"What the fuck?" Jumping backward further into the sofa, you curl in on yourself as the lights beat down on you and the windows cover with steel. The bookcase in the corner makes you flinch again, and you look around like you're trying to figure out where the cameras are that are filming this prank. "W-was that...Astrid?"

"Astrid's codename at work is Ginger Ale." Jack tells you. "Just like my codename is Whiskey. Agent Whiskey. It's also the reason why I have no tattoos or scars on my body. No identifying marks."

"Because you're..." Searching for the word, you can't even find a real-world scenario in which you've ever said it before without referring to fiction or a game. "A—a spy?"

"I guess that's the easiest way to look at it." Jack nods.

"What's...that?" The door behind your bookcase is a special kind of scary. That shit only happens in movies or when it's a bomb shelter.

"It's a safe room." Jack provides. "A place where you can go in the case of an emergency. So you are safe from harm. Nothing short of a nuke would get you in there."

Stock still with equal parts shock and the need to process all the information you've been given in the last three minutes, you gulp inelegantly and wipe one hand down your face. "So..." It's a whole lot all at once and you stare forward when you open your eyes again. "You...after..." Deep breath. "How?" You ask finally, not really knowing how to ask about someone's murder.

"Your real soulmate was a chef." Jack tells you quietly. "He was on the loading dock of the Whitney smoking a cigarette." He knows you will recognize the hotel as the one you had just left. Another reason why he couldn't go to that damn wedding reception since he had just had a shootout there. "I saw a gun and I just...reacted." He admits quietly, staring down at his hands because he can't look up and face the blame he knows he will see in your eyes. "There were two men on that dock, one innocent and one trying to kill me. And I took them both out."

"So you just...got it? Just like that?" It doesn't make sense, but it's not like anyone really knows how soulmates get chosen in the first place. "Y-you shot him and got me as a prize?"

"I'm guessin'." That part has him stumped so he just gives a small shrug. "Lucky you."

"Shit..." Neither one of you can look at each other, but the flood lights and steel shutters are sure to attract attention, and you clear your throat softly. "Can you...um...make it go back to normal?"

"Oh shit, uh yeah." Jack shakes his head and speaks again. "Ginger, Code Green. Repeat, Code Green. All clear." He knows that she knows that there wasn't an emergency, but it was still protocol to use the codes.

"Thanks." The weight of reality feels exhaustively heavy on your shoulders, but you press your thumbs into your eyes and sigh. "So..." It's getting to be too much to process but the conversation just isn't anywhere near over. "So, what does this mean?"

“I don’t understand.” Jack admits, not sure if he’s getting what you are asking. “What does what mean?”

"Well, we're—we're soulmates." Whether either of you likes it, or the circumstances, is beyond the point. It is what it is and all you can do is deal with it.

“You don’t want to be my soulmate, sugar.” Jack promises you. “My soulmate has been dead and gone for a long time.” The guilt of her death weighs heavily on him.

"I'm not trying to replace her." The thought actually appalls you, knowing that plenty of other people might try to do just that. "She was your wife, I just—" When you finally muster enough courage to look at him, he won't meet your eyes. It's all at once that any hope you might have had shatters, and you remind yourself that he killed the man you were supposed to love with all your heart. "I just want to know if you're gonna keep ignoring my existence or not."

“You’re here, aren’t you, sugar?” Jack answers glibly. “If I was going to ignore your existence that wouldn’t be the case.” He doesn’t mention that Champ was the one who found you and brought you here. “You’ll be safe.”

"Safe isn't the same as—" You shake your head before that word can come out of your mouth. "Okay. I'm safe. And you won't ignore me. Fine." The wave of bitter disappointment that rips through you is angry and you hate it, but it's overwhelming. "So why exactly did you scare Tex off if your top thought is safe?"

“I didn’t scare Tex off.” He is immediately pissy at the idea that you would want that boy. “He came in yelling about marks and punching me in the jaw when I damn sure showed him the new fucking marks on my body.”

"Yeah, you showed him, but you didn't tell him who I am." That might be what stings the most. That he didn't acknowledge you in any way whatsoever until he was forced to. "He nearly had a panic attack in the shower this morning and I got to cry my eyes out for the second time this week."

The pain of knowing he made you cry is like a swift, sharp knife to the chest. “What was I supposed to tell ‘im?” Jack demands. “The girl who will hate my guts when she learns the truth is my soulmate? Or better yet, the universe decided that despite me being unable to protect my real soulmate it’s given me the soulmate of the man I killed as a laugh.”

"Right, but I'm safe here?" Just because you have no idea what he's talking about doesn't mean you're not still upset, and you can fire back just as nastily as he can. It makes you feel like you're being torn apart at the edges, so why not just lash out? Surely that will help.

"Yeah, you are." Jack huffs, not sure exactly what you expect from him. "You've got a job you said you always dreamed of, a house to call your own, and all the security that Statesman can provide you." He holds his arms up and then drops them down onto his hips and stares at you. "What else do you want?"

“Someone to spend my life with.” It’s what you’ve always wanted. More than anything. And getting every other dream in the world without someone to love who loves you with equal ferocity just feels like a slap in the face. You have a career and security, but not love. And that makes the other two things just seem lonely.

"I like you, sugar." Jack admits quietly. "I really do. But that ain't me." He doesn't say anything more than that, knowing it's not necessary. His life ended the day it began ironically enough, he's just been a dead man walking ever since.

“I’m starting to get that.” He’s clear and honest about it, you have to at least give him that. But it still feels like he picked up that broken glass from the rug and sliced your chest straight open to get at your heart. Like the universe replaced your real soulmate with a security guard, not a partner. And you still don’t even know why the fuck you need a security guard.

“I’m sorry.” Jack tells you, hating the way the light has just vanished from your eyes and he wants to rush across the room and pull you into his arms. But he doesn’t move. “I wish it could be different, but…” he shakes his head again and stares at his belt buckle. “We don’t always get what we want.”

“Clearly.” The word is choked and bitter, you know it is, because what you want is sitting right in front of you telling you that you can’t have him. This could be easy. Or at least less complicated. It could be so many things that aren’t this. Instead, Jack is sitting there telling you that you’ll never have the most basic and cherished thing in the world. Love. “I’ll just…try not to get in your way, I guess.”

“I’d like us to be friends, sugar.” Jack shuffles slightly and manages to look up at you. “But I understand if you can’t.” You don’t answer him and the ache in his chest gets heavier, prompting him to move towards the door. “I’ll let you be. I’m really sorry.” He whispers. “For everything.”

“I’m sure I’ll see you around.” It’s a dismissal. Maybe even a cruel one. But right now you’re feeling so defeated that you don’t even care. You just want to be alone - a state you’re apparently going to have to get used to.

Out on the porch, Jack wonders why you taking his refusal so easily stings. Wondering if he wanted you to fight, even though it would do nothing but hurt you. He knocks on the front porch pillar as he starts down the stairs slowly to walk to his own house. “See you around, sugar.”

The floodgates open as soon as the door shuts behind him, giving you the freedom and the privacy to weep as openly and as long as you need. As horrifying and complicated as everything is turning out to be, you would have been so glad to love Jack. To get to know him and grow with him and find out what smooths those sharp edges. You would have loved to love him. To have that privilege would have been extraordinary.

But you’ve been dumped before you ever knew what you had. So who knows what will happen next?

______ Master Tags: @pixiedurango @chattychell @winter-fox-queen @lady-himbo @artsymaddie @princess76179 @paintballkid711 @missminkylove @pedrosbrat @ew-erin @sarahjkl82-blog @sharkbait77 @justanotherblonde23 @lv7867 @recklesswit @mylittlesenaar @f0rever15elf @gallowsjoker @steeevienicks @athalien @sherala007 @skvatnavle @thatpinkshirt @jaime1110 @girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @goodgriefitsawildworld @greeneyedblondie44 @katheriner1999 @littlemousedroid @harriedandharassed @churchill356 @ajathegreats-blog @hardc0rehaylz @beardsanddetectives @kirsteng42 @ladykatakuri @adancedivasmom @madiebear @tanzthompson @emilianamason @bigsdinger @xocalliexo @pedr0swh0r3 @avaleineandafryingpan @charlyrmv @avidreader73    

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My Masterlist!

#Pedro Pascal #Pedro Pascal character fanfiction #Pedro Pascal fanfic #Jack Daniels #Jack Daniels x reader #Jack Daniels x you #Jack Daniels x female reader #Jack Whiskey Daniels #Agent Whiskey #Kingsman Golden Circle #soulmate au #love triangle #Tequila x reader #Channing Tatum

[patscorner]

THIS HOUSE IS NOT A HOME PART8

Summary: Arlo was a closed off person, but when Sturniolos walked into his life, it got harder and hard to hide what's going on at home. Eventually, Arlo's troubled home life comes to life, as well as unexpected feelings for an unexpected person.

TW: kissing, making out, mentions of alcohol, mentions of vomit

______________________________

Nick opened his eyes slowly, squeezing them shut immediately. The light coming from the window was already too much for his hungover mind to handle.

His head was pounding so loud he was certain any nearby outsiders could hear it. As the pain slowly went away, Nick noticed how thirsty he was and how he felt like he couldn't move.

Nevertheless, he got up anyway, swaying on his feet, having to use the nightstand for stability. Nick looked around the room, trying to figure out how he got home.

All he can remember is going to a party and suddenly feeling really sad... but he couldn't remember why. He shook his head, immediately regretting it as a giant wave of nausea hit him like a truck. He stumbled to the bathroom, immediately falling in front if the toilet, gagging harshly.

As he lay on the cold tile, memories from last night came back to him. Nick remembered drinking... and drinking some more... and then yelling at someone. He remembered watching Arlo walk into the night...

Arlo. Shit.

Nick got drunk, and that probably fucked with Arlo's head. Nick couldn't even remember why he drunk that night. He knew he was sad, but he didn't know what the reason was.

Nick's face dropped, suddenly feeling guilty. Yelling and drunkenness probably isn't something Arlo needed. Nick had convinced him to go to the party, only to get shitfaced and not actually hanging out with him.

Nick sat up and gagged once again. This time, only bile came up. Tears fell from his eyes as he started to sob, the sharp pain behind his eyes only making it worse.

How could he do that? How could he get drunk? It's so irresponsible. He didn't even know why he drank. He rarely did, especially enough to barely remember what he'd done. Something had happened, and he didn't remember what and why it affected him the way it did.

Nick lurched forward, finally throwing up. Soft cries left his mouth as he laid back and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Suddenly, the door opened, and an arm rubbed patterns on Nick's back. He didn't know who it was, but he was thankful that he wasn't alone anymore. "Shhh, it's okay... let it out, bud."

Nick froze. Arlo.

Nick looked up to see his best friend, sympathy written all over his face. Nick felt a wave of guilt, causing him to start to cry again. He fell back into Arlo's arms, helping guide him to the wall.

Nick closed his eyes as more tears fell, Arlo quickly wiping them up. Arlo was still upset, but he wasn't gonna leave Nick by himself. A comfortable silence fell between the boys, as Nick recovered from losing everything he'd consumed in the last 12 hours.

Nick finally opened his eyes, looking over at Arlo, who was looking and fidgeting with his hands in his lap. "I'm sorry." Nick croaked out.

Arlo looked up, sadness in his eyes. He looked back down. "I know." He whispered. Silence engulfed the boys as they got used to the cold tiles.

"Why?" Arlo asked, staring in Nick's blue eyes. Nick shook his head, feeling too bad to look at Arlo any longer. He didn't know why, that's the fucking problem.

"I don't know. I don't..." Nick swallowed, trying to keep his tears at bay. "I don't remember." He said, barely audible, but Arlo heard him.

Arlo nodded. "Tito's will do that to you." He smiled softly, looking at Nick, who still wasn't looking at him.

Arlo brought his hand to Nick's chin and forced it towards him, causing Nick to look at him. When Nick finally did, a small tear fell from his eyes.

"Don't cry, it's okay. You didn't mean it." Arlo spoke, carassing Nick's jaw, wiping his tears.

Nick smiled a bit, leaning to Arlo's hand. All of a sudden, Arlo had the urge to kiss Nick, to feel his lips on his own. To know what he tasted like.

"Can-" Alro took a deep breath, trying to keep his composure. "Can I kiss you?"

Nick raised his eyebrows in shock. He wasn't opposed, just surprised. He nodded, and with that, Arlo leaned in, gently pulling Nick's face to his, interlocking their lips together.

Butterflies immediately erupt in Nick's stomach. He didn't even realize he was ignoring his feelings about Arlo until right now. If it were anyone else, it would've been just a kiss, but Nick felt something he'd never felt before.

Arlo immediately got lost in the kiss, just like Nick. Neither of them realized it, but they were falling for each other, this kiss confirming it. Arlo moved his other hand to Nick's jaw, carrassing the light stubble he had growing in.

After a minute, Arlo pulled away. "Holy shit..." He breathed out. Nick laughed lightly. "Again?"

Alro smiled before leaning in and kissing Nick once more. This time, more hungry and more passionate. Arlo moved his hands to Nick's neck, pulling him in closer, causing him to gasp slightly.

Arlo took the opportunity to slip his tongue into Nick's mouth. Nick returned the favor, fighting for dominance and ultimately losing. They pulled apart to breathe, only to connect their lips once more. This time, Nick wasn't gonna lose.

He pushed Arlo onto the cold tile floor, hovering over him. Nick looked down at Arlo before reconnecting their lips, which quickly turned into a heated make out.

Arlo's hands moved up and down Nick's sides, as one of Nick's rested on Arlo's waist, the other holding himself up. The kiss became sloppy, both boys breathing heavy and saliva all over their lips.

Finally, Arlo pulled away, resting his forehead on Nick's, his eyes closed. The boys breathed hard, staying where they were for a minute.

Nick finally moved off of Arlo, sitting back where he was. Arlo followed suit, sitting back in his original spot. It got quiet, both boys unsure of what to say.

Arlo cleared his throat. "Breakfast?" He asked. He and Nick burst into laughter, doubling over.

"Seriously, though. That's what I came in here for in the first place." Arlo said after the laughter subsided. Nick smiled. "I don't think I eat even if I tried."

"Come." Arlo said, standing up and holding his hand out for Nick to grab, which he does.

Arlo slowly led Nick, who was reminded of his hungover once he stood, down the stairs to the kitchen. Matt and Chris were both sitting on the couch, empty plates in their laps, phones into their hands.

They didn't even notice the two walk in until Arlo started speaking. "I made waffles, but I see these fucking morons had them." His voice causing the boys to look up. "How about eggs?" He asked.

Nick just nodded.

"Hey, Nick, how are you feeling?" Matt said, looking up from his phone, voice laced with concern.

Chris just rolled his eyes and looked back at his phone. Nick noticed Chris's attitude but didn't say anything. He figured Chris would say what he needed when he felt like it.

"I'm... I'm okay. Gotta a huge fucking headache, though." Nick said, sitting down at the island.

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock. You had a fuck ton of Tito's." Chris scoffed, standing up and stomping down the stairs, slamming his door.

Nick's eyebrows raised in surprised, looking at Matt, who shrugged. "You threw up on his favorite shoes. Give him a minute."

Nick shook his head. "That's crazy because I remember when he threw up on my pants and gave me a black eye." Matt laughed. "I don't know, dude, you were fucked up last night."

Nick looked at Arlo, who immediately looked at his shoes. "I wasn't that fucked up... I remember everything." Nick looked back at Matt.

Arlo shook his head, his heart starting to ache. Nick didn't remember it. Nick didn't remember telling his best friend that he was in love with him. He didn't remember almost getting into a fight. He didn't even remember throwing up on Chris's shoes. He didn't remember.

"Not everything." Arlo scoffed quietly, but Nick still heard him.

He turned around, facing Arlo. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"Nothing, Nick. Look, if you want him to stop being grumpy, go clean his Jordan's." Arlo turned around, quickly changing the subject.

"And my fucking car." Matt chimed in. "We film today, and I don't want to smell fucking Tito's and tacos."

"Fine, Jesus. I'll clean it all up." Nick spoke, eyeing Arlo, who'd moved to the stove to make eggs.

____

After Nick cleaned Chris's Jordan's and made Arlo help him clean the car, they all piled in and drove to their favorite parking lot to film.

"Okay! So today, we don't actually have a topic, but we can do this or that. Sound good?" Nick said, looking around at everyone, earning sounds of collective agreement.

"We also have a guest to join us, one that we know and love, Arlo!" Matt said, grinning.

Arlo smiled and waved at the camera, ignoring Nick's eyes on him. "Hey, everyone."

And with that, the video continued, flowing smoothly, like usual. Nick and Chris bickered, while Matt and Arlo sort of just watched in amusement.

Nick would look at Arlo occasionally, forgetting that they were filming and forgetting how crazy their fan base is. As Matt and Chris conversed, Arlo watched, listening intently.

Nick wasn't even trying to listen to his brothers. He was staring at Arlo, admiring his face of concentration.

He stared until Arlo's phone buzzed. Arlo ignored it at first, assuming it was his job group chat. But then it kept going, buzzing over and over again.

"Turn the fucking phone off, Jesus Christ!" Chris turned around in his seat, looking at Arlo.

Arlo rolled his eyes. "Fucking relax Chris. It's not that fucking deep." He grumbled as he pulled his phone out to put it on mute. But as he opened his phone, his heart dropped as he read the contact name and the message.

Fuckface

Come get the rest of ur shit bitch boy. Since u don't wanna come home u arent welcome home.

Arlo's breathing hitched, his heart dropping to his toes as he read the message.

Fuck, he thought he was done with this.

______________________________

#nick sturniolo #chris sturniolo #nick sturniolo fanfic #nick sturniolo x reader #nicolas sturniolo #sturniolo triplets x reader #matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo x male reader #chris sturniolo fanfic #thnh #this house is not a home #nick sturniolo imagine #nick x reader #nicolas sturniolo x male reader

[youmakemyhearthowl]

Punk Princess

Ao3| Part 1| Part 2| Part 3| Part 4| Part 5 | Part 6| Part 7| Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10| Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 (Next Part)

Also please go check out THIS fan art done by @heavenlycrashes

Steve was about ready to vibrate out of his skin. He was absolutely over the moon when he woke up Friday, pulling on the Hellfire shirt Eddie had given him, and El had taken a bunch of fabric paint to, adding pastel hearts and flowers to it, mixed in with deep red and black ones. The pants he wore on the El and Max shopping trip slipped on easily, with the new patchwork pastel pink he’s sewn into a few places.  He’s got his fishnets under it, so they peek out through the massive hole on the left thigh that Dustin had said he should add and not patch for the vibes of it all.  He slips his jacket on with his vest over it and sighs.

Today, he was gonna ask Eddie out.

He was only mildly worried Eddie might say no. 

And like Steve wasn’t an idiot, alright. He knew that Eddie liked him too, knew that Eddie would say yes. But while he wasn’t stupid, Steve had learned he was a bad boyfriend. Even though he’d tried, like really tried with Nancy, to make her happy, and make sure she wasn’t alone with the guilt about Barb.

It was all just bullshit though. 

And he’s not really sure why that had hurt so bad, when Nancy and him had only dated a few months, before she went and slept with Jonathan at the end of the school year, and told Steve that everything about him was bullshit. Maybe it was because she was the first person he’d been really truly himself with, opened up to her in a way he never had, and to her the real him, was bullshit. 

He should have just let her go the first time he thought she cheated on him.

But he really had loved her.

And he’d gone off the fucking deep end after that, the bender, the bar fights, all of it, just pushed on by the fact that the first time he’d started to let his guard down he still wasn’t enough.

All this to say, he was terrified to ask Eddie out.

But he was going to do it. Today.

“You look like you’re going to throw up.” Robin chirped, slamming the car door as she climbed in. “

“I think I am probably going to throw up. Jesus Christ.” Steve leans his face on the steering wheel, “I’m gonna ask him, Buck. Today.” The fucking pitch of the squeal she lets out, turning towards him and grabbing his shoulders in each hand.

“Steve! Yes, oh thank god, I was so tired of telling people ‘no they’re just friends.’ Gareth owes me 20 bucks!” She's positively beaming at him, shaking him slightly as she babbles. “Steve, this is so big! Okay, okay how are you going to do it?” The unfiltered love, and excitement she has written all over her face makes his chest squeeze, God he loved her.

“I was gonna just…. Ask?” She pulls her hands off his arms, throwing them up in the air to emphasize her groan, scream, whatever the fuck that noise is she’s making. Steve makes a distraught noise at her in return shoving her back over towards her side of the car so he could put it in gear and start making their way towards the school.

“Steve, Steve , you have to do something like, weird and out there to ask him! It’s Eddie! I mean, you could write it in mud and he’d definitely say yes, but come on, this is months, months  in the making, Dingus!” Her hands are flying all over the place as she speaks, bouncing in her seat. “This is so good, I can not wait to rub it in Gareth’s face that you asked first!” That startles a laugh out of Steve as he pulls into the parking lot, looking over at his best friend while he puts the car in park.

“You’re gonna ruin it either way if you don’t chill out about it.” He can feel his face stretch into a smile, his anxiety pushed down in favor of the giddiness Robin is emitting around her. He reaches out and squishes her cheeks between his hands, her lips puckering slightly under the pressure, and she tries to glare at him, but the effect is, simply, not there.

“I’ve got a plan babe. He’ll lose his mind.” He smirks, placing a kiss on her forehead before releasing her face and climbing out of the car. Robin's excited energy always has a way of rubbing off on him and bringing any mood he was in, out of the gutter. He was bound and determined to hold onto that excitement and not dwell on the failed relationship of the past, when a hand lands on his shoulder just after Robin kisses his cheek goodbye before she bounds over to where Chrissy is waiting for her at her locker. 

“Steve.” 

It’s like thinking about her had somehow summoned Nancy Wheeler out of wherever she’d been the entire school year. 

His stomach clenches. 

They hadn’t spoken since the break up the day before summer break. Hadn’t even been in the same room as each other, even when picking up Mike. Mike always met him at the end of his driveway so Steve wouldn’t have to interact with her, but somehow the same day he’s finally ready to push forward and move on, her Wheeler senses tingled and there she was in all her Nancy glory.  He turns to face her, indifferent mask carefully sliding into place on his own face as their eyes meet. 

“Nancy.” He nods, tilting his head to tell her he’s not about to actively participate in this conversation unless she’s the one initiating everything. 

“I’m really worried about you Steve.” 

Steve’s muscles lock up suddenly, not really knowing what to expect from her, but definitely not her pinched smile or the judgment in her eyes. 

“And why, pray tell, is that?” God he’s been hanging out with Eddie too much, if he’s starting to talk like him too. He can feel his expression hardening from indifference to aggravation as she begins speaking again. 

“This isn’t you Steve. This whole look, and attitude you have going on. I don’t know what happened to you over the summer, and I was willing to let it slide for a while, figuring you were working through some things, but Steve what the hell is going on with you?”

Steve feels white hot anger inching into every crevice of his body, boiling around and seeping into the ache Nancy usually leaves in his chest. 

“You were willing to let me do this? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He’s vaguely aware of Robin and Chrissy making their way closer to him at his raised tone. And he’s distinctly aware he wished Eddie was here too, because Eddie calms that anger that flickers in him sometimes. Eddie, although not a calm person, always brings calm and warmth with him. 

“Steve, you look like a-”

“A what? A freak? Yeah come on Nancy you can say it. Although I didn’t hear you complaining about freaks when you cheated on me with one.” He snaps, his hands balling into fists. He doesn't really feel bad calling Jonathan that, but it still brings an uncomfortable feeling to his gut. It feels like a flash of who he used to be, but he and Jonathan have long since buried the hatchet between them, Jon explaining that Nancy had told him she was already broken up with Steve when they had slept together. He’d felt just as betrayed as Steve but was happily committed to his long distance boyfriend Argyle now, and Jon and Steve actually would meet up once a week for a smoke sesh these days.

Nancy’s looking at him like she used to when they were together and he’d messed up something he wasn’t even aware could be messed up, and Steve felt like he was going to vibrate out of his skin with anger. Nancy had no right to him, or any part of him and here she was pretending like it was okay for her to speak her mind about his new everything. She takes a slight step back, like he’d slapped her but keeps her expression level. Ever the journalist. 

“Steve, what has gotten into you. It’s like I don’t even know who you are anymore.” 

“You don’t. And frankly I’m starting to realize maybe you never really did. Save your fake worry over who I’m becoming and keep your opinions on it to yourself.” Robin is at his side then, sliding under his arm into her spot there at his side, Chrissy surprisingly on his other side, uncoiling his hand and holding it in her delicate one. 

“I happen to really like who I’m becoming and I won’t let people, won’t let you try to tell me who I am anymore. It’s all bullshit anyways isn’t it?” He finishes, the anger gone at the contact of his friends, just a cool bored tone seeping back into his voice. 

And that’s the thing isn’t it? Nancy never really did know him. Sure, he’d been softer and kinder with her, hopelessly romantic and in love, but she was only ever wrapped up in her own desire to act out, which is why she’d dated resident party boy King Steve to begin with. She wanted to rebel and show people she wasn’t who they thought she was, so she only saw Steve as exactly who everyone else did, no amount of anything he had done was going to change that. And when Barb died, Nancy was so understandably wrapped up in the pain of that loss, she stopped giving a shit about anyone else’s feelings or anyone else really at all.

“Actually,” he starts as Nancy goes to turn around and walk away, “Thanks for doing this today. It helped settle some things in me that I needed to realize so I could move forward.” He tossed the last part over his shoulder as he wrapped his free arm around Chrissy’s shoulders and tucked her into his other side, making their way towards where the Hellfire club usually bumbled along in the mornings. 

“Steve, I’m so proud of you.” Robin smiles, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I know how hard that must have been” 

“You know what Robs, I’m really proud of me too. I realized a lot of things from all that. And honestly can I just reiterate to you how thankful I am for your friendship over the last year.” He places a kiss on her temple before turning to Chrissy. “And that totally wasn’t your battle, but thank you for the support and comfort you offered. It helped a ton.” He hesitates for a second before he just decides fuck it and places a kiss to her temple as well. Chrissy giggles at the soft affection.

“Us ex.preps gotta stick together Steve.” Her face takes on a serious look, nodding to herself before continuing, “Speaking of, let’s meet up sometime this weekend, Hellfire and us, I wanna pick your brain about some things.” Robin beams at the other girl and Steve chuckles softly. He’s way better off now then he ever was before. 

And Yeah, sure, he was still terrified he was going to fuck everything up with Eddie. But the fact of the matter was he liked Eddie, and he wanted to be happy, and with his two girls under each arm he felt like for once, maybe he deserved that.

—

Originally, Steve was going to ask Eddie out first thing that morning, but Robin was right, Eddie deserved something more than a simple ask and he was bound and determined to make this perfect. It had been hard to not just blurt it out when Eddie had wrapped around his back like an octopus at the lockers, but he’d held his tongue because this needed to be perfect. He was so excited, he’d skipped his first few classes of the day, sneaking over to the middle school to hopefully corral his gremlins to offer him some help on his quest. 

Oh man he was calling it a quest now, he’d really been falling into the nerd herd with the rest of his favorite people. Not that he was complaining really, DnD although hard for him to really follow still sometimes, was one of his favorite things of the week, whether it was watching Eddie walk the kids through their campaign, or playing in the one on Fridays at Hellfire. 

And DnD was important to the people he loved, and it was an integral part of Eddie, so he knew a general idea of what he wanted to do with this ask, but he also knew he’d need the kids' help to really nail it down. 

He hoisted himself over the fence at the back of the middle school, over to where he knew the kids usually hung out when they were ditching class or if they had a free period. Usually, the little dorks didn’t skip classes often, unless it was gym or history, and lucky for Steve that was the first two classes of Dustin’s day today, so he was perched casually on the swing set over here, a DnD manual open on his lap, while he hurriedly wrote notes down into his notebook.  Steve smirked to himself, sneaking up behind him silently, and sucking in a deep breath ready to yell in the younger boy's ear, when Dustin let out a dramatic sigh.

“Steve, those boots are like a negative 12 to your stealth.” Steve blows out the breath he’d taken in, loudly groaning as he throws himself onto the swing next to his sudo little brother.

“I’m great at being sneaky, these boots make like no noise.”

“Well then maybe it's all the metal on your clothing I heard.” Dustin beams over at him, shoving his notebook into the DnD manual to hold his place in the text. “Or the metal in your face, Jesus, when did you get a nose ring Steve?” Steve’s hand instinctively goes up to his nose, touching the hoop gingerly. 

“I’ve had it for a while now, I got it the same time as the rest, I’d just lost my hoop for it and have been wearing the one that makes it look like a freckle. Not my fault, no one noticed it.” Dustins rolls his eyes as Steve speaks, twisting the swing he’s on back and forth. “Also you really shouldn’t be skipping class right now.”

“You’re one to talk!” Steve snorts, ruffling the hat on top of the younger boy's head.

“Yea okay that’s fair, and really I shouldn’t complain too much, cause if you weren’t here I wouldn't be able to ask for your help.” Steve turns in the swing, planting his feet to hold it in place facing Dustin, and Dustin mimics his exact movement. Steve braces himself for whatever reaction his next sentence it’s going to get outta the younger boy. 

“I need to find a nerd way to ask Eddie out.” He watches as the words sink in, Dustin’s eyes growing wider until he’s throwing himself off the swing and bouncing up and down on his feet.

“Fuck yes! I knew it! Although Lucas and Max were pretty sure you’ve been dating for months now. Oh this is so good. Yes!” Dustin’s practically sprinting around in circles in his excitement, pulling a loud happy laugh from Steve as he watches.

“So you guys are okay with it?”

“Okay with it? Steve! Me, Will, El and Max have been basically planning your wedding to Eddie since like January.” Dustin’s smile is toothless and happy, and so, so young, it sort of hits Steve again that these kids are like 14. Fuck, it’s so nice to see Dustin act his age. Steve lets out another bark of laughter, motioning for Dustin to come and sit back down.

“Alright, alright, well if you ever want it to get that far, I need your help on how to ask him out.”

“Oh I have the perfect idea!” Dustin lisps out, throwing himself back into the swing. “It’s a great way for you to not have to make all the choices, cause I know you kinda hate that, but that's sorta the whole point of asking someone on a date you planned right?” He spins the swing around and around as he’s talking, all excited energy. “But, The Party we have a great way to plan our hang outs! And it involves rolling a D20, so Eddie’s gonna looove that.” Steve’s just listening, a large smile over taking his face at the fact that not only do the kids seem to support this, but that Dustin is so ready to help, it makes Steve’s heart feel warm in his chest. These kids mean everything to him, and to know he means that much back its a little overwhelming, but in the best fucking way possible. 

“So basically, what I think you can do is, write a list of places to eat, places to hang after or before, and outfits to wear! Then have Eddie roll the D20 and whatever number it lands on is what you’ll do! That way, Eddie is still a part of the picking places process, but it’s still your date to plan!” Dustin lets the swing unravel from where he’d twisted it all up, spinning quickly round and round in circles. Steve watches with amusement, as Dustin tries to get his bearings again after spinning so much before he continues talking.

“Steve, seriously, this is the best news. Eddie is a super cool dude, and he seems to make you really happy. I’m like, ecstatic that this is happening.” Like a fawn trying to walk, Dustin stands on wobbly legs before throwing himself into Steve’s arms. 

“I still have dibs on being your best friend though.”

“That’s Robin.” Dustin groans at his response.

“Then I’m your brother, which means you’re stuck with me for life . And I get to be the best man at the wedding.” Steve’s pretty sure the entire middle school could hear his responding laughter.

#Oh look I finally established a more cohesive timeline #I love my babies #punk princess fic #punk steve #punk!steve #Punk Steve Harrington #Steve Harrington #Eddie Munson #Steddie #Steddie fic #Steddie fanfiction

[khepiari]

LuLaw Fic: The Seventh Wife Of Emperor Nika

A.U. DILF Luffy x DILF Law. Emperor x Healer. Slow-burn. Miscommunication.

Inspired from Bluebeard’s Seven Wives

Written for @truffyfest 2023.

This is my first ever time participating in a Zine project! The story is extremely precious to me, I couldn’t have finished it had @quackquackcey not supported me throughout the process. It was an honour to be part of the fest! I finally found courage 12 years after becoming a LawLu shipper.

You can download A New Dawn: a One Piece Lawlu/Lulaw Zine- here.

Or read the entire collection on Ao3.

Trafalgar D Water Law was heartbroken.

The man he loved, his one true love, his soulmate, was married. Married not once or twice, but married six times.

And as if the pain of this information was not enough, his family was not consoling him either, instead, they wanted him to accept the position of being the Emperor’s seventh wife, in his case male-wife.

“I really can’t understand you, child, you are almost forty, why can’t you agree to this marriage?” Law’s father huffed as he wrote down the list of raw materials they needed to buy the next morning. “Your mother told me you are crying every night if you love him so much, why are you wallowing in this pain? People die of heartache, you know? You can be the ruler of this empire, but you choose to suffer in overthinking!”

“Yeah, tell him, Dad!” Law’s younger sister Lamy added her support from one corner of the backroom.

Law had no answer, he was at his wit’s end. Heartbreak couldn’t be justified easily, in his case he had explained to his family multiple times, that he didn’t wish to be someone’s male-wife, wife, husband or spouse, if they already had six wives in their castle! Now he was suffering from guilt, guilt of loving someone so magnificent that he felt selfish.

“You better say yes, before that Emperor Lover of yours does something drastic!” Law’s mother walked into the backroom carrying the fresh herbs and minerals, that needed to be dried under the scorching afternoon sun. “Lamy, take these out! Dry this girl.”

Without a fuss, the teen took the herbs and walked out quickly, only to return even faster. “Why are you back with these?” Their mother asked. Lamy had returned with a pale face, as if a ghost had visited her in their kitchen garden.

“Answer your Mom.” Their father scolded, finding no reaction, the head of the family continued, “Look at this girl, she learned her attitude from Law”

Finding no reply, the elder brother went to his sister, “Lamy what happened?” Law pressed his palms on his sister’s cheeks. “Why are you cold?” The teen girl stood there like a statue in front of her family, clenching hard on the tray of herbs.

“Did something happen?” Both parents rushed to the teen, fearing the worst. “Did anyone hurt you?”

After a long pause, the teen spoke, “The sun is gone!”

Continue reading The Seventh Wife Of Emperor Nika Ao3

#one piece #LawLu #lulaw #lawlu fanfic #lawlu fanart #lawlu headcanon #luffy x law #law x luffy #one piece luffy #one piece lawlu #one piece law #truffy #truffy fest #truffy fest 2023 #one piece zine #op law #op luffy