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#i was so sure that my insurance was for the whole year not quarter by quarter what the fuck
nozunhinged · 1 month
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My Top 5 BL Kisses of Jan (& Feb) 24 + why
Okay, okayyyyy I'm doing this, no backing out. I offically accept that analyzing kisses takes up so much of my brainspace that I can write about it — so here it goes. I'M NOT HIDING ANYMORE BUT OWNING UP TO IT! (lol, chill)
Last year I complained that I didn't get a single perfect kiss since I started watching BL TV shows (until PhayaTharn turned up) and now we're not even a quarter into the new year and I already got FIVE I'm absolutely in AWE about!! FIVE!!
I don't know if it's the actors, directors or coaches who upped their game (probably all of them) but hot damn, all of these are beautiful.
And don't ask me why I'm into kiss-acting so much I have no fucking clue, my first guess is that it's an artform in itself to make this amazing, wonderful, intimate form of touching look as beautiful as it feels — bc let's be honest here, irl kissing rarely looks pretty no matter how great it is! So I think it's just dope when you can see this beauty translated on screen.
So I guess this is peak romance genre for me and with that being said, enough talking, lets get to the kissykissies!
5. TenPrem - Cooking Crush EP. 11
I have to be honest with you, I was a bit confused by the kissing in this show. The tippytoe kiss was cute as heck but we all saw how Off AND Gun awkwardly blinked because they probably had to stay like that for a looooong time. It took the whole magic out of the whole first-kiss-moment. Same with the forced in, reshot makeout-scenes. But the kiss in the kitchen? Looks like they FINALLY got to show what they got.
Ten gently pulling Prem closer, them smoothly moving against each other, Ten closing in even more, the slightly open-mouthed kiss with their lips perfectly caressing each other, Ten with a bit more force, Prem with a bit more heat resulting in the perfect mix...Loved it, mwah.
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4. PromNont - Playboyy EP. 12
They are my one Playboyy-couple where I'm like "if they don't end up married and running Playboyy together, starting the revolution of well-payed, insured and safe sex workers I'm gonna riot" even though I know this show will not end nicely for ANYONE.
Anyways, this kiss. Holy smokes they had so many good scenes but this one took the cake. Not just the sheer length of it (but still with perfect timing and breaks).
The slightest suck on Nonts upper lip, Prem literally making Nont sway, Nonts hidden desperation for Prom surfacing from his lips, them slowly but surely turning up the heat and last but not least, Prom grabbing Nonts face just to lean against him...UGH THEM!
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(I made those)
3. Myungha & Yeowoon - Love for Love's Sake EP 8
I know I'm not alone in how this show swept me off my feet and hit me right in the feels. But I've gotta say, this kiss hit completely different. Again they kissed for so long but not a single moment felt wasted. It felt like their whole story put in a single kiss. And — I mean that in the most loving and positive way possible — they kissed so amazingly gay. Do you know what I mean?!
There's just this level of love, care and happiness that only queer couples can convey. Sprinkled with a hint of tongue (I saw that Yeowoon 👀) — they absolutely nailed it.
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2. AlanJeff - Pit Babe EP. 11
The kiss that made me consider doing this post in the first place. I saw them and shouted THIS IS PERFECT just to realize that I did this a few weeks ago already and it made me spiral a little. In the best way possible because I felt truly blessed once again to have discovered the genre of BL in their golden era!
Because this right here is how you nail an open mouthed kiss my friends. Take notes BL producers. Put this in your textbooks! They both go at the same rythm (slow, careful but so, so loving JUST LIKE THEIR RELATIONSHIP UGH) and same level of touch so their lips caress each other perfectly. Furthermore, Alan knows exactly how to meet Jeff which is also a PERFECT EXTENSION OF HIS CHARACTER! Alan leads, Jeff follows but they meet perfectly and equally. TEN OUT OF TEN NO NOTES!
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1. PhayaTharn - The Sign EP. 9
I don't understand the meaning of the "Roman Empire"-thing but I think if I say they are mine, I am correct because they will be the end of me and that's what that means right? I may be biased AF but objectively speaking, this is just an insanely well acted-out scene, PERIOD! And we all know it's thanks to Billybabes out-of-this-world-chemistry!
Phayas desperation translated into this gorgeous lip-clash, so much yearning but softness at the same time but what really got to me was how Tharn immediately melted after their lips touched, how he immediately opened up to him and got completely overwhelmed by Phayas feelings. Chapeau to Babe for showing so much range in a single second. My favorite kiss of the whole series ❤️
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I also just realized all these kisses have one thing in common....hands on faces lol.
Well that was fun peeps, thanks if you made it until the end!
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eyeofnewtblog · 1 year
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Things that happen at home:
So, when I first met my SO, he was very clear that American Thanksgiving was his mom’s favorite holiday and going to her place was non negotiable. Every other holiday is up for grabs, but this is the one time a year his mom wants all of her kids around. My family doesn’t care: whoever shows up is welcome, grab a plate, do presents in private unless you’re under the age of ten, etc.
So, some highlights of spending time with my very redneck in-laws:
My brother in law, after a game of Yahtzee, in the most tipsy tired voice imaginable: I sure wish you could count without talking.
My mother in law and sister in law, repeatedly: IF YOU AREN’T HELPING THEN GET OUT. OUT!!!. (To be fair, it’s a pretty small kitchen so if you have two people cooking and one person washing the dishes it’s great but if someone comes in to chat or drop a dirty dish…dude, you chose to walk into the mine field.)
Me, having been given a giant Tupperware and told to make a lightly tossed salad with only tomatoes, cucumbers, avocado, and lettuce: *gets everything shredded and quartered into the giant Tupperware, snaps the lid on, clutches the entire container to my chest, and starts jumping up and down*
Husbo, sister in law, mother in law, brother in law (who at the time were all arguing over the proper making of brown gravy): *turn to look at me, bust out laughing*
Me: *still jumping up and down with a giant Tupperware of salad) You said you wanted it tossed and then didn’t give me any way to do that besides a lid and shaking! My arms are not strong!
My sister in law, trying very hard to not die laughing at me: At least it gets the job done!
Much later and a also lot of alcohol later:
Me: *consistently calls my brother in law’s fiancé the wrong name - Mattie instead of Meggy is honestly a perfect example without using real names*
The whole family: *corrects me first gently and then progressively more sarcastic like as the drunken misnaming continues*
Me, each and every time: Fuck, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean to do that. That’s genuinely my bad.
My totally chill future sister in law who is also a kindergarten teacher that parties hardy OFF of any social media: Nah, don’t worry about it, my students are worse, and at least you apologized for the mistakes.
Things that happen on Black Friday:
Husbo takes all of his siblings out for breakfast at the local greasy spoon…
Me, to my sister in law’s fiancé: so what do you think about the newest black panther movie and black Adam?
*proceed very interesting discussion on how celebrities effect/affect political demographics and why medical and mechanical insurance can and cannot be more similar *
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deluxewhump · 2 months
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The Scry
Prologue
(Originally posted in January 2023. This is a repost to rebuild the master list due to broken links I cannot fix! thanks for understanding.)
Summary: A sales team working for a large B2B insurance company receives a n unexpected Christmas bonus - an individual with powers of precognition, or foresight. They are tasked with making their company's purchase a lucrative one. But what are the precognitives? Is there a human cost?
Precognition: 1.foreknowledge of an event, especially foreknowledge of a paranormal kind.
-
“A precognitive,” Max Kelly said into his phone. “You’ve seen them in the news. Precogs?”
“Hang on,” Simon muttered. Background noise he’d been yelling over faded until it was a muffled thudding of bass from behind a closed door. 
“Did you just tell me you were given a precognitive by work?”
“For work, by work,” Max answered, pacing his snowy back patio. The December cold felt good on his skin. “They’re just going to drop it off in my office tomorrow morning. Like it's a new headset.”
“Here’s a fucking precog,” Simon mocked in his best bureaucrat voice. “NBD. Jesus H., dude. Those things just hit the market. Like, just.”
“I know,” Max sighed. “I hadn't really been following all that, but I just speed-read a few articles.”
“There was that whole thing about them being used for like, gambling and day trading, right?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Max put his friend on speaker and scrolled the article he’d been looking at again on his phone. “Says here that ‘the precognitives, or precogs for short, are an exceedingly rare sample of the population, consisting only of an estimated three hundred and fifty documented cases worldwide. After a 2019 slew of US and Canadian arrests citing unlawful use of precognitive powers, the US government has released up to one hundred fifty precogs for private sale in all fifty states. Among the first to hit the market will be the repossessed precognitives of the former stock and casino fraudsters.”
“And Spartan scooped four of them? A hundred fifty for private sale anywhere, and we’ve got four?”
“That’s what the email said, yeah. ‘You and four colleagues have been selected to be part of an experimental trial’ blah blah blah, each of you will receive a precognitive for personal and professional use. They framed it like our Christmas bonus.”
“I got a fucking watch.”
“The whole email is so nonchalant, like it’s a goddamn software update. I’m supposed to figure out how this thing works and utilize it to make more money, is the idea.”
“Oh, without a doubt. You must’ve made top four performers last year, then.”
“Last quarter notwithstanding, yeah. Could be.”
“What happened last quarter?”
Max rubbed his eyes with his free hand. “Oh, I just… bombed. Lost a few of my accounts, whatever. The email said we can either leave the precogs in this weird little room they made up for them, or take it home with me at night. To my house. What, do they charge? Do I need to hook it up at night like a Tesla?”
Simon was quiet for a moment. “You’d think they would’ve donated these things to medical research, you know? Cancer, Alzheimers. They ban using them on wall street or in casinos and then turn right around and sell them to private corporations- to the highest bidder. They don’t give a shit about anything, man. This is a prime example of why we have failed as a society.”
Max looked out over the bleak outline of winter trees at the edge of the lawn. The light was failing, like turning a dimmer switch so everything turned hushed and blue as the inside of an igloo. “Sure. Regardless. It’s my problem now.”
“Maybe not problem. It might just work. I don’t know how you drive one of those things, but you might be able to make a killing. They can see the fucking future. I don’t even know what they are.”
“Me either.”
“They’re born, right? They can’t make them in a lab or anything like that?”
Max raised his hand and let it drop as if Simon could see it over the phone. “No idea. Email said handling, care, and maintenance is your responsibility but any costs incurred will likely be reimbursed by the company. I just have to fill out a form and send it to HR. There’s nothing online that I can find about how to use one. Or how to keep it.”
“Well it was government only, before. Who knows what they were using them for. Who else got one? Do you know?”
“Elle Davenport. Blake Olson. Uhh, that Alex kid. The blond one?”
“What the fuck,” Simon breathed. “He’s fresh out of school, I thought. South Carolina guy. Clair, is it?"
“Been with us a year,” Max mused. “Must be killing it.”
“Can I come by your office tomorrow? Can I see it?”
“Yeah, yeah. Please do, I’m… I have no idea what to expect. Do me a favor and don’t tell anyone else though. It’ll be a whole thing.”
“No way, I got you. How much did we spend on these things?”
“I don’t even want to know. Listen, I gotta go.”
“Yeah man, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Max hung up. The cold still felt good, but now it was making his fingers stiff and his nose red. 
He had no idea what he was walking into in the morning. He went back inside the warmth of the house. Ingrid was on her phone, the tv flickering white and blue across her features. 
“Simon,” Max said, nodding to his cellphone. 
“I think they’re just… human,” Ingrid murmured, scrolling with her thumb. “It’s all been very weird and hush-hush when they were government projects, probably because they didn’t want anyone interfering.”
“Sounds about right. Pesky little thing called human rights.”
She looked up at him, making a face. “So they’re just gonna give you a person? Are they paying them?”
“You don’t typically buy things to turn around and pay them.”
“Max…”
He huffed, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I get it, babe. I’m… baffled. Let’s just withhold our judgment until I see what they bring into my office tomorrow morning. It’s all I can do.”
“You could refuse it.”
“And then performer of the year number five gets it in my place. It won’t make a bit of difference.”
“Have you talked to your mom about it?”
“She’s a personal injury attorney.”
“Operative word being attorney.”
Max rolled his eyes. That’s all he needed, was to invite his mother to be involved in this. “Let’s hold off on that, too. Tomorrow this time I’ll have a better read on this whole thing.”
Ingrid set her phone on her thigh. “Bring it home. I want to see it.”
Max grinned at her. “You’re curious.”
“Of course I’m curious.”
“Mmmm. You talk a big game, but deep down you’re just nosy.”
She aimed a kick at his leg, missing on purpose. “Shut up.”
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jessilynallendilla · 2 years
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Dylan Hollis Baking Quotes Without Context Part 2
“Hold on, I need to take my teeth out.”
“This is fascinating because it seems chronologically wrong to find this in a 1940’s cookbook which means it must be pretty special, or that time traveling, keto, athleisure influencers exist.”
“These are roof tiles.”
“How many eggs? Nine!”
“...I really just JFKed this cake.”
“You don’t want the sky beef, that would be scary.”
“Now I’m scared of lots of things including the IRS, clowns, and English Majors, but what I’m most afraid of is beans where they don’t belong.”
“Now we can serve this with anchovies or sardines, how about a swift death?”
“Quarter cup corn syrup...well be done by Christmas.”
“Into a jar...it’ll take just twelve years.”
“Mr. Cheese, I’m so sorry.”
“Take that Big Peppermint!”
“You were swimming in animal fat, how does it feel?”
“Also, an obscene amount of brandy, look away kids.”
“I feel like I’m exhuming a body.”
“So they look dead but my house smells amazing.”
“Beep at me one more time-!”
“Now this recipe calls for calf or mutton liver, but when I asked about mutton liver to the butcher he just asked if I was okay.”
“Let me get my lard bucket.”
“Well, it’s great, so long as you don’t have to eat it.”
“What do you think we garnish this with, did you guess mayo?”
“Call the police!”
“There’s no Jell-O in here just the dark arts.”
“One and half cups scolded-you useless-!”
“Eight inch is preferable, it sure is Betty.”
“Well drained of course, like my hope.”
“At least nothing hatched.”
“Well, some didn’t make it, which is unfortunate because it means some did.”
“Well, that was utterly horrendous, thank you.”
Handling multiple sausages. “Ah, yes, brings back memories.”
“Now we seal and shake vigorously, preferably to kill whatever demon we summoned.”
“What are we making, glue?”
“Let’s take a dump.”
“Then you get to bake your dump.”
“Then we add more ketchup.”
“In Australia and New Zealand this recipe is actually protected by law, bake it wrong? To Jail!”
“I love oats, they taste like grandparents.”
“I did have convert this entire recipe from grams into freedom units.”
“Now I say that disrespecting donuts should carry a life sentence so let's see if we’re going to jail today.”
“You know a lot of things start with potatoes, french fries, hashbrowns, famine...communism.”
“So, the stock market has crashed and we can’t afford any butter, eggs, or milk, but little Johnny still wants a cake for his birthday, selfish brat.”
“I chose this one to die.”
“Hello child, neugh, goodbye child.”
How did that not stick, are you a witch?”
“I told you not to trust me!”
“Now we get our can of spam and we cry.”
“Wonder what demon we’ll summon today?”
“Is life insurance expensive?”
“It’s well known, here in America, that they’ll deep fry anything that isn’t bolted to the earth, including zucchinis, hot dogs, and several species of large bird.”
“Are you ready to die?”
“A whole bag of potato chips!”
“Ruffage is what dead people called fiber, and this is enough to incapacitate one medium child.”
“And we leave this to soak for a half hour, just to make it edible.”
“Now we just-eeugh-try not to die...”
“How long does sadness take to cook?”
“There seems to have been a murder.”
“Have you no mercy?”
“Just imagine cooking this and telling yourself that everything is okay.”
“You don’t measure this in calories, no, you measure it years taken off your life expectancy.”
“Where’s Johnny?” “Johnny is gone.”
Part One
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junglyric · 5 months
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Okay so here’s a rant about my bias wrecker, Hyunjin. He’s my bookie boo. My pookie. A literal sweetheart. He doesn’t have a shewter personality.
I’m MAD as hell bc I just saw THAT Hyunjin video. Entitlement to idols’ for clout is at an all time high.
Idk about yalls countries, but in the USA, security staff can possess “security licenses” which carries insurance and allows them to use reasonable force to protect themselves and their artists. I feel like JYPE has the resources for this. We see other companies do it all the time. Even when used appropriately there’s still backlash, like when an NCT staff shoved a ssaseang who was RUNNING at a member then claimed they broke her rib, or the sasseang who said BTS staff bruised her up. Maybe they’ll think twice before trying to get “the perfect shot”. Idols are PERFORMERS, not zoo animals.
So that ASS who scared our pookie could’ve been beat tf up if Hyunjin were a western artist. He’s getting ate tf up online but it’s not enough imo. His channel needs to be GONE, bc apparently this is his whole brand. It’s like Sam pepper or Logan Paul. Just awful.
This isn’t the first time Hyunjin’s space has been violated THIS QUARTER OF THE YEAR !!! At KCON he was touched AND groped multiple times, and people were writing think pieces about seeing his cock and balls outline thru his pants months before that. There’s a time and place for everything. In our small smut community, sure, go ahead and talk about how you want them to dunk their balls in your mouth like dipping sauce. But it’s not appropriate to expect that kind of stuff irl. They’re human. ????
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servin-up-surveys · 11 months
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survey #140
Would you rather visit The Eiffel Tower or the Egyptian Pyramids? The Pyramids, easy. I would LOVE to visit Egypt.
Would you be surprised if your most recent ex called you tonight? Yes, considering her number is blocked and I also know she has zero desire to talk to me, and it's mutual.
Do you need to lose or gain weight? Lose. Trying so fucking hard and have been for years. It just teeters back and forth.
Do you think you have a disorder but haven't been properly diagnosed yet? Yes, and as of a few days ago I'm on the road towards an autism evaluation and potential diagnosis after suspecting myself of being a high-functioning individual for a VERY long time for a novel's length of reasons. I went to therapy and talked about it, and she will be trying to get me to see someone who can perform an evaluation.
What is the population of the city you live in? I'm not comfortable giving like, a super specific number, but according to Google it's a few thousand over 50k. Apparently it's bigger than I thought it was...
How many pairs of jeans do you own? Literally zero.
When did you last vacuum your room? Nothing less than astonishingly, only a few days ago. The next day I cleaned my ENTIRE room, and I've kinda stayed in this restless state where I'm just tidying things up a lot. Like don't get me wrong, it's fucking fantastic, but this behavior is VERY unlike me; like the immense majority of mentally ill people, I tend to have a shitload of trouble with cleaning, especially without my mother prompting me to.
Have you ever put on or lost a significant amount of weight? Both.
On a scale of 1-5, how often do you curse? Oh, "5" just feels like too small a number to rank how much I fucking curse lmfao
What is the worst thing you’ve ever smelled? My late dog Teddy's diaper if he'd pee in it while he also had this very large tumor that would also be closed within it, plus he regularly got insanely potent UTIs. This was towards the end of his life and he just in general had so much going on. It eventually got to where I physically couldn't be the one to change it if it hadn't been for a little while (ex., overnight), like the smell was one that would basically bring you to your fucking knees, I'm talking dizzyingly disgusting and would make me violently gag and heave. Not even decaying animals I've smelled matched this, and I'm sure being in such close quarters to change his diaper played a big role in just how terrible the experience was.
What’s your favorite social media platform? I think Tumblr's the most fun, but I like Facebook for keeping up with the lives of people I care about.
Name someone with brown eyes. Both my parents, both my immediate sisters... a whole lot of people.
Do you know what your next injection will be? No. There's talk going on about TRYING to get me approved for a very well-received weight loss injection since my pre-diabetes news, but the odds are low because of the kind of insurance I have but also because I'm pre and not actually diabetic. Giving you reliable health care only matters when you're basically dying in this country, y'know?
Does anyone call you darling? If so who? Uh I suppose it's possible Girt does sometimes, but that's definitely not one he says a lot. I'm pretty positive I've seen him write "darlin" in Discord, but I'm not positive if he's vocally used that term with me.
If you had to have a cartoon character tattooed to you what would it be? Um, I guess if I HAD to, I'd probably go with a Pokemon of some sort. Maybe a cutesy Charmander.
You have to dye your hair two colours, what do you choose? IF I knew the colors would take, right now I'd probably go with a pastel pink and light lavender to layer.
If you could would you look at your future self? I think I'd be too scared to.
Who was your first serious relationship? Jason.
If you had to cut a parent out of your life who would you cut out? I really, really, really fucking hate this question, but my dad.
If you had to get a piercing right now what would you get done? Right nostril redone.
Who is the #1 person/thing in your life? My boyfriend.
What are two things you wish you never did? Said certain things to Jason and my dad. Juuuust to name two.
Would you rather have three personal wishes or world peace? World peace, fucking easy.
What were/is your high school colors? Red and white.
When someone sneezes, do you say “Bless you,” or “God Bless you?” "Bless you," but I wish I said neither because of the religious implications. It's just become this social expectation that is completely meaningless, but I'm way too concerned about not looking rude. I've thought of just switching to "Gesundheit," but around here? That'll raise some eyebrows and I don't feel like explaining in the Bible belt of all places "oh I'm just not religious and it feels weird."
Do you ever look at someone cute, and automatically make a move? lol no, even if I was hypothetically single, that is totally not how I work.
What are two things you are excited to do in the near future? Get my tattoo finished, and actually that exact same day I'll be going to Girt's afterwards for the yearly dinner they have to celebrate his late date's birthday; they get together and make his favorite meal. I was there last year and literally cried over panic of being rude lmfao because I physically could not eat it, it was this pasta thing with chicken gizzards and also hearts. I immediately reminded Girt of this and told him I'm going to eat prior, and he said it wouldn't offend anyone but I still worry regardless. Either way I'm still excited to go, I don't see his family enough.
Do you live in a house, apartment, or another type of arrangement? A house.
Are you one of those people who like to spell out numbers? In English grammar (or at least, what I was taught), any number below 10 is technically meant to be spelled out, and depending on the context, I usually abide by that.
Who was the last person (if anyone) you said Happy Birthday to? Either my dad or a Facebook friend. I feel like the latter.
Do you have Photoshop? If so, how often a day do you use it? I do, and it totally depends. I'd say most days I don't use it at all.
Do you watch any shows that you know your parents wouldn’t approve of? lol no, I'm a grown-ass adult.
Leggings with denim shorts; yes or no? I think that mix is perfectly capable of being cute. Probably isn't always, but.
Do you think any bands/artists are trashy? So like here's the crazy thing, I know NO celebrities on a personal level!!! and especially with musicians, there is a tendency to develop stage personas that do not reflect who they factually are!!! but even if I knew any personally, they can do whatever they want w/ their own lives if it's not at the expense of others!!!!! hot take right????????
Do you plan your meals in any way? Not really, like I don't do meal prep or decide at the start of the day what foods I'm eating. I just go with what I want in that moment.
Were you in the scouts when you were young? Girl Scouts? Yes, with my older sister and maybe younger. I can't remember how long, though.
How many people could sleep in your home? (Not counting floor space; beds and couches only) Uh, I'm going to go with needing the ability to lie down versus just sit up, because people COULD do that on the couches... My bed and Mom's can comfortably fit two people each, the leather couch someone could just lay out on and be fine, and then our other one actually has a fold-out bed that could fit two people, but I'm doubtful it'd be comfortable. If we're counting all those, seven.
Have you ever made a hole-in-one at mini-golf? Yeah.
What genre was the last song you listened to? Who provided the vocals? Natively Rammstein is considered Neue Deutsche Härte, but if you want a familiar equivalent, some sort of harder rock for this specific song, I'm so bad with the bajillion different metal and rock subgenres. Their vocalist is Till Lindemann.
If an ex said they hated you, what would you say? Only going with the other two "serious" people I dated, and this is just what I think I'd say right this minute; I obviously wouldn't know until I was right in this situation. With Jason, I'm very confident I'd just say that I know and don't blame him. Sara, I would honestly likely point out that a person like her hating me is probably a good thing.
What would you do if you found out your most recent ex was in a relationship? Wouldn't affect me at all.
If someone liked you, would you want them to tell you? I mean it really wouldn't matter; they can say it, but it wouldn't change the fact I love and am loyal to Girt.
Truthfully, is there someone you used to date that you miss? There are memories with Jason that I miss and I miss how well we once upon a time meshed together; we were best friends that really, really loved each other. At least, for most of the relationship, on his end. He was a super, super silly and boldly him person (he was the complete opposite of me in the sense that he was an open book about who he was, things that made him happy, etc., and that was extremely appealing to me), like it'd be great if we could still be friends in each other's lives, but that's just not how it could ever work, and I know that. I don't want to date him again, there is WAY too much hurt over how he left and how he never communicated his feelings regarding my mental health, but in an ideal world, it'd be nice to still be in touch, but the world is rarely ideal. This way is better for me.
If you could go forward in time and see your life 5 years from now, what would you hope to see? Me being primarily mentally - and physically - well and having learned to love and be kind to myself, supporting myself decently enough with art, Girt and I living together/probably married by that point, lots of healthy and happy pets. Maybe even a hobbyist tarantula breeder for fun, extra income, and the tarantula hobby could use more breeders anyway.
Are you more comfortable with men or women? Women. If you ever meet a SINGLE woman who says she feels safer around men, hit me the fuck up and let me know so my jaw can drop off my face, through the ground, and into the core of the earth.
Who came over last? lol technically Jehovah's Witness. I warned Mom a group of them were wandering around our development (they are so obvious), and so when they rang the bell and then knocked as well, Mom just didn't even answer. They could very likely see me through the window blinds that I have open, but I gave no shits whatsoever. They eventually just left, thank fuck.
Has one of your friends ever tried to "hook you up?" Not exactly "hook up," but Colleen knew I was into Girt (this was obviously the first time, 2017) and she VERY obnoxiously tried to push us together, and I KNOW it made me uncomfortable, and I think Girt as well. There was one time we got together and went to Pizza Hut/Inn (idr) and this completely indecent bitch starts a sentence with (IN A BUSY RESTAURANT) "because I'm trying to get your dick inside her-" and this is THE CLOSEST I have ever gotten to smacking somebody, like I consciously had to stop myself, but the look I gave her should've melted her where her ass sat. She didn't even look at me though, so I know she didn't see it, and I was so pissed off and disgusted by her that I really don't even remember what happened exactly after, but I'm pretty sure Girt just decided to act like she hadn't said that. If you're curious, as a matter of fact no, she is NOT the reason we started dating, he asked me himself without her completely uninvited involvement later. God I am so glad we're not friends anymore, it's hard to even accept I ever was her friend. OH MY GOD WAIT!!!!!!!! She IS the reason Aaron and I got together in middle school, but I'll defend her enough in that back then, I wanted her help kinda getting things across, but we were literal children who didn't even know what "love" really was.
What is your card game of choice? Magic: The Gathering. I'd honestly like to play it again, but I'd need a shitload of refreshers, the amount of rules in this game is MENTAL. Even when I was rather familiar with it because of Jason, there was a lot of shit I still didn't get.
What is your favourite books series? Wings of Fire by Tui T. Sutherland. Finally read a good chunk more of the one I'm on the other day.
If you eat oatmeal, do you add water or milk to it and what’s your favorite flavor? I HAVE to use milk, and I only ever really enjoyed the apple cinnamon flavor.
Was the last video you watched on YouTube a music video and if not, what was it of? I'm watching jacksepticeye's replay of Until Dawn.
Has anyone you know personally ever won the lottery and if so, how much did they win and would you or have you ever played the lottery? No and no.
What was the last thing someone has sincerely thanked you for? I think Girt, for me letting him have "him" time when he wants/needs it. There are times where I'll invite him here and he just wants to be alone (we're both very introverted), and he knows very well he can always just tell me that and it won't bother me at all. The way he reacts to it I feel like he's had bad experiences with this offending former partners or something, meanwhile I'm just like dude if this was problematic to me then I wouldn't deserve him/a partner in general, his life doesn't and shouldn't revolve around me. Obviously it'd be concerning if this was something he did ALL the time since that would just seem like he doesn't want to see me, but that's not the case at all.
What band, celebrity, etc. do you know the most information about and who would you like to learn more about? Oh it's definitely Markiplier, haha. It'd be super cool to know more about the Rammstein boys, specifically the one (the bassist Ollie) that's always been very mysterious and quiet, he's known for how shy he is, however the older I've gotten, the less and less I've felt the "need" to know everything about celebs I love and/or admire, like they're ordinary people that deserve privacy; their lives aren't our business.
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termlifeguy · 2 years
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Boise Life Insurance Broker - Smokers Term Life Insurance Quotes - Chris Antrim - Tobacco Rates
Smokers & Tobacco Users Still Can Find Affordable Term Life Insurance!
Hi, Chris. With Boise Health and Life Insurance Agency. Today, we are going to do a video and some quotes for someone who currently smokes or chews any kind of tobacco product that could be vaping as well. Also, add cannabis, these days cannabis is considered, tobacco rates.
So keep that in mind as you're shopping, but we'll give you an idea here. Being a smoker or tobacco user is usually going to double your premiums just pretty much right up that, you know, and then everyone says to me, Well, I'm just gonna quit and then get life insurance ! 
Well from my experience you are better off getting the insurance in place, then quit using tobacco and then going back for a rate reduction on your policy. And I have seen customers and clients, where they waited to quit something, happens with their health and then they are uninsurable! So this is another one of my quote engines here, But you can always come to the website and come in here and click on life insurance.
Quote and up here you can go to the life insurance page. There's an actual online quarter that's right, embedded into the website right there um or just give us call. So, uh, this is a quick another little quarter. I used to show some rates. Now, this is gonna be a quick little video here today. Just want to give you an idea of what smoker life insurance rates may look like. 
This kind of show you the difference in rates here. So what I have is myself on 48 yr old male 20-year term life, which is probably the most popular product that sold for 250,000. Ah, a lot of times. And you get to be, you know, in your late forties, early fifties, you are just looking.
You might have some insurance in force already at work. You might have some other older, permanent, whole life policies. And you're just looking for something to supplement. Take you out for the next 20 years, make sure the kids get off the college. Uh, you, uh, the house gets paid off, or if you're a business owner, you get some business loans paid and taking care of.
If anything happened, so 250k is is a good amount there. So let's see here.  We're looking annual premium. Let's go. Let's just make this a monthly premium payment.  That's what just kind of gives you a better idea there. I like that.  So this is a standard plus, which is a general good kind of place to be. If you're an overall good general health standard plus non-tobacco rate would look pretty good.
Okay.  And this is a banner policy here, coming in about 52 monthly Pacific life , Principal, AIG & John Hancock, they're all pretty close to 50 to $56 a month. All these companies would be great companies to take a look at their We work with all of them. Some of them, you know, depending on if you've got any health issues. Some of them are little that was funny and quirkier that we make sure we talk to you about that before we apply.
Okay, these air nonsmoker rates, So standard. Plus, And then let's see here. Where's our first smoker rate? Here? It will be for the same. Probably gonna be for tobacco. So you can see here We went from the $52 a month to 1 39 for a preferred tobacco ray. 140.00 with AIG. And that's pretty normal. So that gives you an idea here if you can. If you can quit now, if you're currently using tobacco, uh, most companies want you tobacco-free for several years to get the best rates .
So, you know, you gotta quit now. But here's the good news. You even if you are a tobacco user. You know, you gotta be honest on these applications, number one, because you just have to, you know, you don't want any issues If something were to happen, you know that you're not being honest, and you're doing is two ccs full. So there can always be an issue with the claims.
So you always got to make sure you're being honest, that they'll find out, especially blood urine, and they look a doctor's records to on all that could be tied into your records. So be honest upfront, 139.00 a month. Really for tobacco rates, still not too bad. And then you can take your time. Make sure that you quit and do it the right way. And throughout a specified time, we can ask for rate reductions based upon how long you been tobacco-free to get those rates down.
So that's what you do. That's our suggestion. But that gives you an idea right there on the difference between a smoker and nonsmoker rates. It's a huge, huge difference, so but don't be deceitful when trying to apply for coverage, either with the company's it's that will never, ever work out in your favor. So give the office call.
Reach out to us. We can help you. Yes, if you're an occasional cigar user, that's a different story. If you're sure that is a tobacco rate, any kind of nicotine patches. Those are all tobacco rates and vapes with nicotine in it. Those air tobacco rates as well. And I did mention cannabis, which they are considered tobacco rates these days. But okay, folks, I hope you're having a great day and we will talk to you soon.
Thank you.
The Effect Of Tobacco To Your Insurance Premiums
Smoking tobacco comes with a lot of health risks, but did you know that it can also make your insurance premiums go up? That’s right – if you smoke, you’ll likely pay more for life, health, and auto insurance.
Tobacco use is the leading cause of preventable death in the United States. It’s estimated that smoking causes about 443,000 deaths each year. And those smokers pay about $1,200 more per year in life insurance premiums than nonsmokers.
Smokers are also more likely to develop health problems like cancer, heart disease, and stroke. These health issues not only shorten lifespans but also drive up healthcare costs. That means that smokers end up paying more for their health insurance than nonsmokers.
How Tobacco Use Affects Insurance Premiums
Tobacco use has been shown to have numerous negative effects on one’s health, but did you know that it can also affect your insurance premiums? insurance companies have long taken tobacco use into consideration when setting rates, and smokers can expect to pay significantly higher premiums than non-smokers.
In recent years, however, some insurers have begun offering discounts to smokers who quit, as studies have shown that ex-smokers pose much less of a risk than those who continue to smoke.
Why Insurers Charge More For Smokers
It’s no secret that smoking is bad for your health. But did you know that it can also make your insurance premiums go up? Here’s why: Smokers are more likely to get sick or injured than non-smokers. That means they’re more likely to make insurance claims. And when insurers have to pay out more in claims, they have to charge higher premiums to cover their costs.
Smoking also shortens lifespans, on average by 10 years or more. That means insurers have to pay death benefits to the families of smokers sooner than they do for non-smokers. Again, this raises the cost of premiums. So if you smoke, be prepared to pay higher insurance rates. But there’s good news: quitting smoking can lower your rates over time.
The Cost Of Smoking-Related Health Problems
Smoking-related health problems are expensive. They cost the average smoker $3,395 per year in medical bills and lost productivity, and they cost nonsmokers $622 per year in secondhand smoke exposure. In total, smoking-related health problems cost the United States $170 billion per year.
Smokers pay more for health insurance than nonsmokers. On average, smokers pay $1,051 per year in premiums, while nonsmokers pay only $415 per year. This difference is even larger for older smokers. A 65-year-old smoker pays $2,473 per year in premiums, while a 65-year-old nonsmoker pays only $837 per year. Smokers also incur higher out-of-pocket costs for their care.
Life Insurance For Smokers In Boise
 While some of you may wondering if an insurance companies can denied the smoker? The answer is no! Smoke can shop and purchase life insurance, but they must be prepared for the monthly premiums because premiums for smoker tends to increase. Because nicotine has a huge impacts to an individuals life expectancy.  The only chances you'll get deny on your enrollment is when you lie at your application about your lifestyle.
Learn more about life insurance about seniors, click our next article Boise Life Insurance - Seniors Life Insurance Policies - Quotes & Rates
Thanks For Watching Our Video And Visiting The Website!
Please let us know how we can help you with your life and health insurance needs!
Sincerely, Chris Antrim
Originally published here: http://www.goidahoinsurance.com/boise-life-insurance-broker-smokers-term-life-insurance-quotes-chris-antrim-tobacco-rates
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sheryllsblog · 2 years
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10 reasons why millennials should get a life insurance
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During my “invincible” young adulthood, life insurance was the furthest thing from my mind. Not only was I confident that the need for such a policy was a long way off, but I was also clueless about the many savings and investment benefits that can often be derived from certain types of policies.
Fast-forward more years than I care to reveal with any specificity, and I’ve learned the costly error of my earlier thinking the hard way. For a variety of reasons, obtaining a life insurance policy at this point would be a seriously pricey endeavor, one I simply can’t afford. Which is why I’ve set out to help others avoid a similar mistake. Millennials, in particular, should take heed.
While COVID-19 has raised awareness about the important role life insurance plays in families’ financial security, research from LIMRA shows that 42 percent of Americans would face financial hardship within six months if the primary wage-earner were to die unexpectedly. The very same study shows that young Americans are most at risk, as more than half of millennials have no life insurance coverage.
Here are five reasons millennials really need to consider getting life insurance sooner rather than later.
When you’re younger, life insurance policies are cheaper
Let’s start with the most obvious point, one you’ll hear like a steady drumbeat from nearly every life insurance expert or financial advisor: The earlier you get a life insurance policy, the more affordable it will be.
“Life insurance is cheaper and easier to get while you are young and healthy,” says Micah Metcalf, owner of Metcalf Financial, a fully digital insurance agency. “As you age, your health tends to age too, potentially bringing a whole host of medical complications that you may have never even thought about in your 20s. Things such as diabetes, depression, or arthritis can all bring about more difficulty with obtaining life insurance, which can make it much more expensive.”
To drive this point home, Metcalf rolls out the following dollars-and-cents example. If a healthy 25-year-old male were to obtain term life insurance right now, the monthly cost would be a mere $30. This is based on quotes from such companies as AIG, Protective, and Banner William Penn. However, if a 45-year-old were to seek coverage, those monthly premium costs are more than five times higher, ranging from $164 to $169 per month from the same insurance companies quoted for the 25-year-old.
While we’re on the topic of policy cost, it’s also cheaper to get larger policies less expensively when you’re younger, which is not an insignificant consideration.
“You can get more coverage for less,” says Jessica Lepore, the millennial founder of life insurance agency Surevested. “Larger policies are much cheaper to pursue when you are younger. Although you might not think that a $1 million life insurance policy is necessary when you live alone in your New York City studio apartment, think five, 10, 20 and even 30 years down the line. Your needs will for sure change by that point, and by pursuing coverage while you’re young, you will be saving much more money than if you waited until later in life to start coverage.”
Student debt galore
Raise your hand if you have student debt. Chances are, that hand is in the air right now, because as of the second quarter of the 2022 fiscal year, for borrowers ages 25 to 34 — a significant share of the millennial population — there was $498.1 billion in outstanding student loan debt, according to data from the Office of Federal Student Aid. Furthermore, the Harris Poll found that a majority, (68 percent) of older millennials are still paying down their student debt a decade or so later. Now, who will be charged with paying off that debt if something were to happen to you?
“Unfortunately, when we pass away, our debts don’t always go with us,” says Lepore, of Surevested. “Even if you’re not someone with a family or mortgage, you might have other debts like student loans. By taking out even a small life insurance policy when you’re young, you can ensure your family won’t be left with the burden of paying those debts back if something were to happen to you.”
And while we’re headed down this road, do you happen to have a co-signer on that student debt? All the more reason you should be thinking about these issues.
“If you had a co-signer on your student loans, that person could still be responsible for your debt even if you passed away,” explains Allison Kade, millennial money expert from the digital life insurance company Fabric. “If you want to make sure that your parents or other co-signers aren’t stuck single-handedly paying off your debt in your absence, you could get a life insurance policy that would give them money to pay off your loans.”
Retirement savings
Now put your phone and Slack messages on “do not disturb” and spend some time with this next point, so that you can fully absorb it: One of the least understood and most valuable benefits of life insurance is that it can be used as a lucrative investment vehicle to build significant cash value over the course of your lifetime. This is particularly important if you’re behind on saving for retirement.
Cash value life insurance, also referred to as permanent life, provides a death benefit and can be used to build cash (as opposed to term life insurance, which does not offer the cash value component). The money you put into these policies can be used to develop an investment portfolio that helps you accumulate wealth. And as you age, the cash in the policy can be tapped to cover retirement living expenses.
And here’s perhaps the best part: You’re accumulating wealth tax-free.
“This is the most misunderstood and overlooked benefit of permanent life insurance by the average consumer,” says Brian Carlson, a certified financial planner and vice president of wealth management with GCG Financial. “If utilized properly, a permanent life insurance policy can provide a tremendous value to a person’s long-term savings goals. The concept of FIRE (Financial Independence Retire Early) is hot amongst millennials, and the usage of a permanent life insurance policy fits perfectly into the FIRE strategy due to the ability to remove funds without taxes or penalties prior to age 59 and a half. Permanent life insurance policies have a tremendous benefit, in the form of cash value.”
A permanent policy provides the ability for the policy owner to grow funds on a tax-advantaged basis and remove funds in the future without incurring any taxes if removed properly, explains Carlson. But, like retirement accounts, the sooner you start contributing, the greater the account value will grow to be as you age.
As independent life insurance agent Susana Zinn explains, most millennials do not have a financial plan that’s robust enough to successfully cover their retirement. A life insurance policy can correct that shortfall.
“Seventy-one percent of millennials don’t think they will have saved enough at 65 to meet their retirement needs,” says Zinn. “And according to the National Institute of Retirement Security, 66 percent of working millennials have nothing saved for retirement. Instead, they’re busy paying down debt and covering their general living expenses, while saving for retirement is pushed to the bottom of their priority list.”
At the risk of beating a dead horse, life insurance can help you as a millennial ensure a financially healthy retirement.
“With life insurance, you don’t have to die to use it; you have flexibility with how the money is used, which can help with financial needs for both your planned and your unplanned expenses,” adds Zinn.
OK, you may now return to your regularly scheduled programming.
Protect your business after you’re gone
Actually, one more point. And it should be a point of pride. Millennials are one of the most entrepreneurial generations America has seen in a long time. A recent GoDaddy survey of 3,000 Americans — including 1,000 millennials, 1,000 Gen Xers, and 1,000 baby boomers, found that millennials lead the pack in entrepreneurial efforts, with nearly one in three millennials (30 percent) reported as having a small business or a side hustle. Securing life insurance can be a way to protect this legacy, making sure your business survives long after you’re gone.
If you share your business with another entrepreneur, for example, “that person could use the cash from your life insurance policy as a transition to keeping business flowing in your absence,” says Kade, from Fabric.
The financial burden you would leave behind
If all of the reasons already stated are not convincing enough, ask yourself this one last question: Would anyone have a financial burden if I passed away? No need to tell us the answer, just be sure to heed this final bit of advice.
“If the answer is yes, then you need life insurance protection now, so you won’t leave your family with thousands of dollars in lost income or debt,” says Metcalf.
Credits to: Mia Taylor
Date Posted: May 19, 2021
Source: https://www.realsimple.com/work-life/money/money-planning/retirement/life-insurance-millennials
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stevensaus · 2 years
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Crunching the Numbers: Minimum wage, rent, and childcare
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While I was making up my yet-again revised budgets thanks to my changing employment conditions, I started wondering where I would fare if I was in the same situation now as I was 25 years ago. The current federal minimum wage is $7.25; at 40 hours a week, that's $1160 a month (before taxes). The current average rent in the US is $997 a month, with a median value of $810. As you can see from the graph below, that's only seven states below $800 average rent... which means that even if you manage to get 40 hours a week at a minimum wage job, and if there is no income tax, and you live in those seven states... you still have only $300 a month to pay all the rest of your utilities, insurance, food, and gas. Everywhere else, it's even less, and in a third of the states, you literally are owing money every month. You do the math. No number of "skip the expensive coffee" is going to make a difference here.
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What about household incomes, then? Sure, let's presume that the household has two adults, with the same assumptions as above. That would increase the household income to $2320 (before taxes), and makes things a bit more doable. At least, until you figure in children. The current average cost of childcare in the United States is $930 a month, with a median of $908 a month. Many families who make the median income in their states cannot afford to send their infant or toddler to child care. In some states, child care costs can take up to 18% of their family’s income. In 28 U.S. states, the annual cost of child care exceeds the cost of college tuition. In Florida, for example, center-based infant care costs about $9,238 per year and public college tuition and fees cost about $4,455 per year. In Washington, D.C., infant care is $24,243 annual, more than four times the annual cost of college tuition. The chart below shows monthly average child care costs per state. In fully a quarter of all states, that average childcare cost eliminates any income gain from a second minimum-wage earner working full time, and in nine of them, it actually would cost money for the second adult in the household to work a minimum wage job. And that's if you only have one kid.
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I use these examples, because this is exactly where I was a quarter century or so ago, working a minimum wage job and trying to support my spouse and infant child. That wasn't enough money then - and in West Virginia! - even before my minimum wage job cut my hours drastically, forcing me to join the military in order to support my family. It's not simply a matter of education, either. While the cultural capital of knowing how to create a skills-based resume might have helped, I still didn't make enough to continue my college education at the time. Even when I did have the ability to go back to college years later, trying to attend college while working a full time job is freaking hard and will also put you further in debt if that education doesn't immediately pay off in terms of higher income, starting the whole cycle over again. (And let's not even mention "private" student loans.) I want to stop and be clear here: These things I'm describing are not intentional or a conspiracy . This is just free-market capitalism and people trying to maximize their profits inside that system. They're playing the game the way it's meant to be played. This is the way capitalism is supposed to work. It also, as a side-effect, keeps people who don't make a lot of money in a position where they cannot improve their situation. And that side-effect is really, really useful to the people who currently do make a lot of money. This information is really easy to find. It's really easy to add these bits of information together and see the bleak financial facing anyone who isn't already independently wealthy. It's pretty easy to see how keeping a bunch of workers barely able to stay afloat leaves them no time or ability to do anything but work for those who own the big businesses. And the fact that our politicians and business leaders continue to do nothing about this... well, that, my friends, is intentional. So what are you going to do about it? Featured Photo by Sharon McCutcheon on Unsplash
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Reflect on this as you hear "pro-life" politicians spew their rhetoric; if they cared about children, this would not be the case. With the possible exception of private student loans, which are universally tools of evil. Read the full article
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lunarianbeams · 3 years
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so you’re telling me that:
my mental health has gotten so bad that i withdrew from my school to focus on my mental health and do outpatient therapy so i don’t have to hospitalized
only for my insurance to be terminated because it’s through my uni and now am unable to get any of the services i need in order to literally survive
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chickenmcstucky · 3 years
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meet me in the hallway
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Bucky Barnes x reader
Light angst, fluff || 5.1k
Your bad day gets worse when your less-than-friendly teammate catches you having a breakdown over your shitty morning.
A/N: So this is the second work I’m posting, but actually the first I wrote. Inspired by my own bad morning, lol. Nothing like a little cathartic writing. I’d love feedback!
You had to physically stop your whole body from tapping along with your impatient foot. If you didn’t get out of here and back to your sunny balcony soon, you might actually die of frustration. Sure, the whole sunny day stretched out in front of you, waiting, but it was the principle of the thing. Wasting sun is sacrilege to you. Still, the young woman behind the counter was only doing her job as she gathered your prescription and searched for the coupon you asked for. Why was healthcare so expensive?
As your body cooled from the workout you’d finished just before hopping over to the pharmacy, your thoughts wandered to the lazy hours of writing, tanning, and listening to music you had planned for the day. The team was between missions and somehow the stars aligned and your time off brought gorgeous weather and some much-needed you time. The thought relaxed you as the woman finally rang up your total; as you swiped your card you put your Starbucks order into the app and prepared to finally get home and enjoy your day.
That is, until the card machine gave a deep chirp and the cashier informed you your card wasn’t covering the entire purchase. You balked - how could this happen? The insurance debit was loaded up for the year, ready for any medical purchases. It rarely ran out so early in the year, and it was just April! Your brain scrambled to make sense of it. Had the account rules changed and some of your purchase didn’t qualify? No, that couldn’t be it, you’d done this same process just a few weeks ago.
Your cheeks bloomed with heat as you realized the declined card was the only one you’d brought with you, convinced it would be a quick errand and seeing no reason to bring your whole wallet for the short trip down the street from the Tower. Fuck. And there were people behind you; you shuddered to imagine what they might be thinking of you in your sweaty workout clothes as you stammered to the cashier you’d have to come back. Just fucking great. You felt your good mood at the prospect of a sunny day slipping as you left the store as quickly as you could, trying to save a little face.
***
Making your way around the construction - why did they need to close the entire sidewalk? - you hastily headed back to the Tower to grab your wallet from your personal quarters, wondering all the way how this could happen. Why do the simple things always have to go wrong? Rationally, you knew this wasn’t a big deal. You would just pay the balance out of pocket and deal with the insurance later. But it was embarrassing and annoying and just plain inconvenient. Sure, you had the time and the money to spare, but why couldn’t things just work how they’re meant to? Your swirling thoughts brought you through the private lobby of the Tower and to the elevators that led to the personal floors; angrily jamming the button for your floor, you whipped out your phone to check the balance on the insurance card.
Your jaw literally dropped as your eyes caught sight of the balance. There was more than enough to cover the charge at the store! Now you were really upset. Jesus, why was this happening to you? Stupid, simple nature of the occurrence aside, you felt tears of frustration welling to the surface as you berated yourself internally. Why did you have to be lazy and only take the one card? If you’d just taken your whole wallet and been prepared, you could’ve saved yourself so much humiliation and frustration. And time. You’d brought it on yourself, you always did. Your frustration with the pharmacy and your anger at the insurance company quickly turned to annoyance at yourself and your lackadaisical ways. Why were you like this?
You shoved yourself further into the corner of the elevator, letting your head fall back against the wall as it ascended to the personal floors. You could feel your face was still ripe with embarrassment, your throat thick with unshed tears. God, why did everything have to make you cry? Embarrassment, anger, and frustration brought tears to your eyes more often than not, while sadness rarely wet your eyes. Of course, no one else knew that and you felt like a dramatic cry-baby every time you got teary-eyed in front of your teammates and friends. You were an Avenger, dammit! As the elevator signaled your floor and the doors whooshed open, you could only hope the walk to your room would be deserted. You wanted to make a quick exit before anyone saw your despair.
***
The hope was short-lived. You walked out of the elevator with your gaze on the floor, and smack into a well-muscled chest.
“Oh, sorry,” you mumbled, trying to scoot around the body without making eye contact.
“Walk much?” and if that wasn’t the last voice you wanted to hear. Of course, your card gets declined and you get humiliated to tears, and not only could the universe not provide you a painless return to your apartment, it also brought you face to face with Bucky Barnes. You were hardly in the mood to deal with him on a good day, let alone today. He rarely acknowledged your existence except to quip mockery at you, it seemed. At first you thought he was just like that, but you soon realized he was perfectly funny and friendly with the others, if quiet. So it was something about you; what, you didn’t know. And you’d accepted it. You didn’t need him to like you, honestly. His attitude towards you might have brought you to tearful rages sometimes, but only in the quiet solace of your room where you could freely wonder why he despised you so. His devilish good looks and killer smile didn’t help. Avoiding him was the best strategy.
“Can you just not?” you snapped at him as he blocked your way down the hallway, apparently hellbent on making sure you knew he was making fun of you. As if you weren’t painfully aware of how he felt about you. It didn’t help your girlish crush, the little voice in the back of your head always telling you maybe he was mean because he liked you. Bullshit.
“Whoa there, no need to get in a twist doll. Was just havin’ a little fun is all. What’s got you so worked up?” you heard the teasing lilt to his voice but the question forced your eyes to his anyways. God, the asshole was smirking, those gorgeous blue eyes glinting with mirth. Horrified, you felt tears welling up in your eyes again because the universe liked laughing at you, apparently.
“God Bucky do you ever fuck off? Honestly,” your voice broke on the last word as tears threatened their way out of your glassy eyes. “Just leave me alone, why do you always have to be so mean? What did I ever do to you?” the words tumbled out before you could stop them, your anger and hurt getting the better of you.
Realizing your outburst, you floundered in the hallway as Bucky looked at you with a confusing mixture of shock and hurt on his face. Did he really have the audacity to be upset with you? After the way he’s treated you, so often making jokes at your expense? In the back of your head, you knew the jokes weren’t that bad, nothing more than you’d say in a harmless rib against your other teammates. But they were your friends; Bucky was a menace. Not knowing what else to say as the shocked silence stretched on, you averted your eyes from his now stony face and tried to will your tears - and your anger - away so you could get what you came for, finish your errand, and try to salvage the rest of your day. How did things go so wrong so fast?
You didn’t notice as Bucky’s expression morphed from hurt to cocky as he prepared to deliver his next blow.
“Oh, woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning I see, sweetheart.” His smiling tone grated on your nerves - of course he was still making fun of you even after you yelled at him for just that. He couldn’t just be nice, could he?
“At least I sleep in a bed,” you spat, meeting his eyes once more. You knew it was a low blow, immediately regretting it as a pained expression flitted across his face. You sighed - only you could end up feeling guilty for dishing his own mockery back at him after months of his unanswered jibes. “Sorry,” you muttered, your eyes falling closed in shame and frustration at your inability to contain your emotions.
“Yea, okay, I probably deserved that,” you stopped yourself from mocking his ‘probably,’ refusing to dig a deeper hole for yourself, though the eye-roll was unavoidable. “I guess I’ll get out of your way then,” Bucky acquiesced, his voice quieter now.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw his flesh arm reach out as if to pat your shoulder, but he jerked it away as if he hadn’t meant it to move. He hesitated as he half-turned away; why wasn’t he leaving, and since when did Bucky get so unsure of himself? Usually he moved with a sure swagger that riled you right up knowing he thought so highly of himself. Of course, you knew he probably didn’t do it on purpose; your inner feelings about someone had always colored your observations of them and Bucky was no exception - sometimes you manufactured your dislike, but it was inescapable. He infuriated you.
Your head swirled with anger, leftover humiliation, shame at your words to Bucky, and confusion at why he was still in the fucking hallway. You stuttered, mouth moving without your permission but no words forming.
Bucky glanced back at you, and your downturned yet clearly turmoiled face brought an unseen soft, caring look to his chiseled face. It hurt him to see you upset, though you were unaware. He didn’t know why his words to you always came out so biting. He knew how to act around the rest of the team but for some reason you brought out his inner turmoil and apparently his coping mechanism was to just make fun of you. Was he protecting himself? But what did his feelings matter when he had so clearly hurt you? His heart broke realizing that your lack of response to his mocking over the weeks wasn’t good-natured but instead was silent hurt. Fuck, he’d fucked up.
“Honey, why don’t you tell me what’s wrong?” the softness in his voice was so foreign and surprising to you that you jerked your head up, meeting his eyes in shock. “Maybe…I can help,” he gestured awkwardly.
You must’ve pulled a face at that, because his head immediately rolled back as he quipped out, “what, is it so surprising I can be nice?”
“Well…yeah,” you half-whispered, your mouth once more speaking without your mind’s permission. Suddenly you couldn’t meet his eyes anymore, your gaze falling anywhere but his soft blues. Once again you felt shame flood through you, even though you had told the truth - it was shocking to see Bucky offer kindness, at least to you. Had you somehow misread him so horribly? Fuck, there were the tears of frustration again. As if you weren’t embarrassed enough, this time a few actually fell, carving their way down your burning cheeks as your breath hitched.
“Shit. Okay, please don’t cry sweet girl, I’m sorry. I know I’m an asshole. I - I don’t -,” he cut off, not knowing how to explain. At his saccharine tone and the pet name - this time caressed with gentleness rather than thrown with cocky disdain - you broke as tears fell down in rivulets, your body wracking with silent sobs. Why were you such a mess today? Sure, you wore your emotions on your sleeve, but even you could control yourself more than this. Bucky’s sudden softness had caught you off guard. Where on earth was it coming from?
Unsure what to do as you exposed your raw nerves to him like this, you wrapped your arms around yourself as Bucky twitched in front of you, hesitating before once more reaching out to you, with purpose this time. He tugged at your shoulders until you were pressed into his chest, hiding your face in his faded blue henley. You felt the tension bleed out of you as he slowly brought his arms around you, his flesh hand running up and down your back in comfort.
“Hey there, it’s alright,” he cooed quietly, “it’s okay. We can figure it out. I’m sorry sweetheart, I’m sorry.” It was tearing him apart, seeing you cry. You’d never reacted to his jokes like that, at least not to his face. He wondered how often you held your tears in until you escaped to your room, and his heart fractured. He hated who he turned into around you. He’d fix it, he had to. A pretty girl like you shouldn’t cry over a stupid guy like him.
You finally hiccuped to a stop, the tears no longer falling as his sweet ministrations calmed you down. Before more embarrassment over your breakdown could set in, Bucky grasped your shoulders and set you away from him so he could look you in your eyes.
“Now, you tell me what’s going on. I’ll fix it,” his hands gripped you tighter with his last words, assuring you. His sudden change of heart, while shocking, was strangely believable. You trusted his conviction that he wanted to help you.
Sighing shakily, you sniffled and began to explain. “It’s stupid really, Bucky. You don’t gotta worry,” you deflected, walls going back up even though you longed for his comfort, his friendship that you hadn’t allowed yourself to crave.
“Little darlin, it ain’t nothing if it makes you this upset. Please talk to me,” his soft eyes pleaded with you, the kindness floating in their depths piercing straight to your heart. Your resolve - built less from stubbornness now and more from niggling shame at letting him see to your core - crumbled.
“It was just gonna be a quick run to the pharmacy - I needed a refill - and then I was gonna come back here and sit in the sun and try to just enjoy my time off alone but my fucking card got fucking declined even though it has enough money and God, Buck, it was humiliating. And then I came back to get my wallet and -,” you cut yourself off, unsure, not wanting to accuse Bucky of making you cry. He had, but it was the whole situation that had really gotten you going. You didn’t want to point the finger at him when he was being nice for once.
Your sudden silence clued Bucky in to the rest of the story quickly enough, though he took sweet pause at the nickname that had slipped from your pretty mouth. He had the grace to look a bit ashamed, but continued on. “Okay, that’s not so bad then, huh? You can just go back and finish up, it’s still early in the day, plenty of time to relax,” Bucky assured you, thinking he’d figured this out pretty easily.
“Easy for you to say,” you grumbled. “You weren’t the one humiliated in front of multiple people thinking you couldn’t pay. I mean I basically ran out of there, Bucky. Why am I so - UGHHH.”
He very nearly laughed, covering himself by clearing his throat - now that you were talking to him and his dumb brain was letting him be nice to you, he wasn’t about to ruin things by upsetting you again. He wasn’t going to push you away. He found it endearing how open you were with your emotions, wishing he could be more like you some days when his melancholy got the best of him. Maybe then he wouldn’t have to suffer alone.
“I see…well I’m real sorry you had to face that. I’ve been there a time or two, it’s no fun. But it ain’t bad as all that - they weren’t paying you that much attention. It’s New York City, everyone is so self-absorbed I bet they didn’t even notice. That’s not to say you don’t deserve attention ‘cause you do - I mean - that’s not - …yea,” he trailed off, cutting his rambling before he really embarrassed himself. He met your eyes sheepishly, surprised to see a small smile there. His heart soared knowing he was the one to put it there, even at the cost of some embarrassment himself.
“Well, I don’t have much of a choice, I need the prescription today. And - fuck! Whyyyyyyy,” you groaned, your face scrunching as you whined. And damn if that wasn’t just the cutest thing, Bucky couldn’t help but think.
The lilting, light tone returned to his voice as he gently laughed at your groaning. “What is it now, then?”
You moaned, blood rushing to your face as you admitted the silly annoyance, “I forgot my drink at Starbucks. I ordered it while I was in line at the pharmacy, I was gonna grab it on my way back. God, it’ll be warm now - or gone. Icing on the cake, just what I needed,” you sighed, resigned to the wasted money.
Bucky smiled genially as he reached over to ruffle your hair, tucking a stray lock behind your ear with surprising softness. You weren’t sure you’d ever gotten this close to his metal appendage. Something deep inside you fluttered at the prospect of more gentle touches, exploring each other and - now where the hell did that come from? You were beginning to think this morning’s commotion had somehow addled your brain. You shook your head at yourself, emptying those thoughts and Bucky chuckled. This time, though, it felt like he was laughing with you rather than at you. That was….refreshing. Nice, even. You yearned to make him laugh more.
“Alright. It’s no big deal,” Bucky calmly spoke, again determined to bring that smile back to your face and maybe, just maybe, get to know you as a friend. Something about how you’d opened up to him gave him hope he hadn’t ruined things beyond repair with his boyish taunting. He’d treat you like you deserved, be a good man to you, if he could take this chance.
“How about this - you go back, get that paid for, and I’ll go get your drink. If it’s warm or gone, I’ll make them make you a new one. Then you can get on with your day, and I’ll, uh…get out of your hair, I guess,” Bucky trailed off, suddenly unsure. Would this truce be short lived, lasting only until you resolved your dilemma? He guessed he’d deserve it if so, but he couldn’t help but hope you’d stick around him. He’d just have to give it his best shot.
“That’s - wow Buck, you don’t have to go to all that trouble. It’s nothing, silly really, I told you,” you scuffed your feet along the floor, suddenly feeling burdensome. A fearful voice in the back of your head wondered if you were just giving him more ammunition for future joking.
“It’s no trouble darlin’. It’s…it’s the least I can do for ya. I guess I know it’s a miracle you even talk to me. I don’t know why I’m so..” he cut off again, still not sure how to explain without exposing his inner thoughts. “Now, what’s the order?”
“Oh, uhm…,” you balked, disbelieving at what you were about to have to say to Bucky. “It’s, uh, called a Pink Drink?” you let the name escape your lips uncertainly, waiting for the inevitable mocking. But to your surprise, the sweetest smile graced Bucky’s face, lighting up his eyes.
“Well, if that ain’t just adorable,” he gently joked to you as you gave a grudging smile. “One Pink Drink it is, honey.”
And wow, these sudden sweet names were getting to you. You felt your heart flutter as he winked at you before sending you on your way down the hall to your room, finally about to clean up the mess you’d made this morning. He even waited for you to get your wallet, escorting you back to the elevator and riding down to street level with you.
“Go on then,” he encouraged, seeing you hesitate again. “I’ll meet you back up there,” he nodded back towards the Tower.
You smiled softly, half at him and half at the ground you were once more staring at, before making your way back to the pharmacy.
***
You supposed the second trip was actually rather painless. Not a big deal at all, just as Bucky had assured you. Perhaps you could salvage your afternoon indeed, let the sun burn the frustration and embarrassment out of you. Though something told you your newfound confusion at Bucky’s kindness would soon take hold. You still couldn’t believe the gentleness with which he handled you, the kind softness of his words as he comforted you - was this really the same man who spared few words for you but for jokes and laughter at your expense? Something had…shifted. You pushed the uneasy, yet warm feeling away. No time to dissect that right now, you scolded yourself as you headed up the elevator once more, this time for good. You were determined to put this morning behind you and enjoy your rare sunny day off.
As you stepped off the elevator to head to your room, you absently wondered where Bucky was. Surely he had made it back before you - the Starbucks was much closer than the pharmacy. Yet he was nowhere to be found. You weren’t sure if you were bothered or relieved about that. Bothered that he might have abandoned his mission to help you, relieved you might not have to face him again. At least before, his unkindness was certain. You had learned to deal with it. Now, this new kind, gentle Bucky? Just what in the hell were you supposed to do with that? You didn’t know what to think.
***
These swirling thoughts stuck with you as you walked into your room; you were so distracted by your own internal monologue that the open door didn’t phase you, nor did the breeze coming in from the now ajar balcony door catch your eye. Absentmindedly you flitted around the room, putting away your wallet and goods. When the breeze coming in from the balcony caught a lock of your hair, blowing it across your face, you froze. Why was the balcony door open? You certainly hadn’t left it that way.
Peering out to investigate, you stopped right in your tracks at the sight that met your eyes. Your lounge chair was covered in one of your beach towels, bluetooth speaker already gently playing your sunshine playlist. And there on the table was your Pink Drink. You were flabbergasted - had Bucky come in and done this? For…you? The mere thought of him taking the time to set this up sent your heart soaring. But where was he? Perhaps your earlier thoughts were right - his sudden kindness had run out, and he was tired of being your friend already. Somehow, you couldn’t quite believe that to be the truth.
Determined not to let this chance go, because now that you’d had a taste of Bucky’s sweet side you would be damned if you couldn’t sink your teeth in, you set off in search of the brooding man. Wandering down the hallway, you steeled your resolve - you were going to thank him, and you weren’t going to get flustered this time. Maybe this could be a new start for both of you. Maybe he was more than you thought.
The door to Bucky’s room was open, and you heard the soft notes of Billie Holiday float into the corridor. You pushed your hesitation aside and walked in, not seeing him anywhere until your gaze fell upon a brunette head just peaking over the top of a chair on his balcony. Walking towards the glinting sunlight outside, you lightly knocked on the doorjamb to alert him to your presence, knowing he had probably heard you come in anyways.
“Hey,” he exclaimed softly, rolling his head to the side to glance at you. He seemed less…pompous than earlier, at least, but less energetic too. Like something had popped his bubble.
You stepped gingerly out onto the balcony, as if you were wary of startling him. As if you even could. Suddenly you were lost for words, the atmosphere awkward in a soft way. Unspoken words flitted between the two of you, both lost as to how to approach the new dynamic that crash landed in your laps earlier.
“Uh,” you started, lapsing into a giggle. “Thanks for the uh, for my drink. And stuff,” you finished uneasily, letting out a sharp laugh at your inability to articulate your appreciation for his earlier kindness. You still weren’t sure if there would be more where that came from, or if you had simply taken him aback with your tears and his sudden gentility was a stress reaction. You steeled yourself to be laughed out of his room, just in case.
“My pleasure, sweet girl,” he sighed, gazing out over the city. “Least I could do, really.”
“I - Bucky,” you heaved a deep breath and continued, “thank you, you really didn’t have to be so….sweet.”
He didn’t respond immediately and you wondered if you’d taken it too far, but before you could get too worried he spoke again.
“Darlin,” he started, the term of endearment dripping from his lips sweet like honey, “I owe ya a real apology. I never wanted to be unkind to you, but it felt like I couldn’t stop it. Whenever I see you I just…forget myself. It’s like I don’t know how to act, you scare the decency right outta me.”
Was this really happening? You gaped, “wha - Bucky, what?”
He held up a hand to stop you as he kept speaking, his words further shocking you yet sending a warm buzz up your spine at the same time. “I’m sorry I’ve treated you the way I have. I like joking with people but it’s not right that it hurt you and I kept on. I’m sorry I made ya cry. It ain’t an excuse but girl, you really terrify me. In a good way, I think, but I didn’t let myself see that. I hope it ain’t too late, you know…to be friendly?”
You were sure he could see the astonishment clear as day on your face, and you watched as his own expression contorted with unease. It wasn’t hard to see this admission was uncomfortable for him. But why? Because it pained him to admit he was wrong, or because…he was as afraid of rejection as you were?
“It’s not!” you blurted before you realized you had even spoken. ‘“It’s not too late.”
Bucky looked at you with a small smile, hope blooming in his eyes. You couldn’t believe your shit day had turned into this - who would have ever thought Bucky Barnes, the asshole next door, could be nice. Could apologize, even.
An idea struck you and before you could lose your confidence, you spoke, “Do you wanna come sit out with me?”
You left the invitation hanging desperately in the air as you shifted from one foot to the other, hoping he would accept.
“Only if you let me have some of that drink,” he laughed as he got up and ushered you back inside, through to your own room and balcony. You smiled to yourself but stayed quiet as you sat down on your chair; Bucky got comfortable in the chair next to you as the tune of a love song permeated the thick, warm air around you.
Silently grasping your drink, you handed it to him. It felt like a peace offering.
His rosy lips wrapping around the edge of the cup mesmerized you, a rivulet of condensation dripping from the cup down his arm as he swallowed.
His low laugh snapped you out of your reverie. “Well?” you inquired.
His lips stretched into a smile, “sweet drink. Perfect for a sweet girl,” a husky tone to his voice as he handed the drink back to you, your mouth agape once more.
A laugh ripped its way out of your throat, loud and boisterous and before you knew it you gasped out, “who are you and what have you done with Bucky? So charming, jesus.”
“Guess I have my moments. Gonna try harder to have them around you,” he let out a breathy laugh, still unsure how to act around you. But this felt better, lighter. For the first time in a while, he felt at ease within himself.
“I think I’d like that,” you spoke surely. Then a streak of courage hit you and you went on, “maybe next time, I could go with you? I mean, you could go with me - together, uh..”
Bucky smiled then, wide, “you askin’ me on a date there honey?” he cooed, joking but in kindness.
This time, you were ready to dish it back. “If you think one drink and some sweet talking is enough to get a date with me you got another thing coming, Barnes!” you jibed. “I was merely offering to return the favor,” you turned your face up with false haughtiness, but your laughter and the way you averted your eyes told him the truth. Turning over a new leaf and all that, he guessed.
“Well, I suppose that’s a start,” he laughed, hope bubbling in his chest. “That’s a start.”
As you watched the sun reach its midday summit, your mind wandered. What a day it had been already. You never thought you’d share such emotion with Bucky, that he’d be capable of handling it, or even sharing some in return. Maybe there was some truth to his words - you wouldn’t let the pain of his mocking slide so easily, but you felt he deserved the second chance he was craving. You deserved it, too.
You stole a quiet glance at him, your cheeks warming as you realize he’d been staring at you. He looked away quickly, but not before you caught a blush spreading across his cheeks. Perhaps, you thought, bad mornings weren’t so awful if they ended with afternoons like this.
***
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haraxvati · 3 years
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wip amnesty; tkem bakery a/u
This was going to be one-third of a longer bakery a/u story I was writing for @macgyver-sheriff, but I don’t think I can see it to the finish line, for various reasons. Here it is as a WIP-that’s-also-a-one-shot. I hope you enjoy it, A! I had loads of fun writing this and I'm happy to answer questions about some of the arcs I had planned for this before it got out of hand and then I decided to, er, take it back in hand.
My dear @drivingsideways made a playlist for this story, too: she did more for it then I did!
Sugar In My Bowl
TKEM, Jo Yeong/Kang Hyeon-min, 11,000 words, rated R.
“Now just a minute, dear,” Auntie Kim Seong-ae said. “I thought we were happy about the way things were going.”
“We were,” Hyeon-min agreed.
“We are,” Gyeong said unsympathetically. “We did not run the gamut of emotions that was hyungnim’s whole quarter-life crisis, which led him to drop out of the police force––leaving me all alone in that pit of cobras––and try for months to get into the Busan Culinary Institute. We did not get in and spend a year learning to bake by day and working all night, for free––”
“––It’s called staging,” Hyeon-min interjected. “I was a stagiaire.”
“––worrying every step of the way that it was the wrong decision and that hyungnim would never find a job to match his talents and ambitions as a pastry chef, only for him to get hired by the fanciest new dessert bar in town, to get into whose kitchens I’m pretty sure you have to commit murder––”
“Hey!”
“––and then be a little baby, about––” She frowned. “––whatever it is that’s you’re being a baby about. Actually you’re probably a third of the way through your life, minimum. It’s a one-third-life crisis. A tri-life crisis?”
“I’m sure our Hyeon-min knew it wasn’t going to be smooth sailing,” Auntie Kim, an angel whose good qualities were entirely absent from the character and disposition of her daughter, said. “Working in these modern restaurants looks dreadfully hard. Everyone says so on that show, what’s it called now? Cook’s Table?”
Hyeon-min looked around the Koo house, a one-room apartment behind the fish shop where Auntie Kim had brought up two children all by herself, without taking a day off work in the last thirty years, and hastened to say, “It’s not all that bad, really.”
“You bet your a––”
“Koo Seo-gyeong,” Auntie Kim said, warning.
“––absolute last won it isn’t,” Gyeong finished smoothly. “Eomma, don’t go by his long face. Our hyungnim’s gotten the job every dessert chef in Busan wants. It’s been six months since Azaleas opened and there’s still a line out of the door and around the block as soon as they open.” She pouted. “Chief Park makes me go stand in line at least once a week, and I still haven’t gotten in.”
“You complain about it every week,” Auntie Kim reminded her, gently.
“Anyone who’s anyone wants to be seen eating a financier or macaron from there.” She pursed her mouth and rolled the French words in her mouth with comic glee. “You know Prime Minister Mo herself stopped by for a cream puff on the day they opened?”
“I have an Instagram, dear,” Auntie Kim remarked off-hand. Hyeon-min blinked. He saw panic briefly grip Gyeong, whose own Instagram account was ninety percent thirst traps aimed at Busan’s unsuspecting female population.
“And to top it all, the staff’s allowed to join the Restaurant Workers’ Union, so he gets paid properly, has insurance from work, and now he has better working hours than he did when he was a cop.”
“It’s still fifteen hours a day, six days a week,” Hyeon-min pointed out.
“Only because you want to be first in and last out, like the nerd you are,” Gyeong said.
“I must say it all sounds very sophisticated and much better than things were when Mrs Moon next door opened her first pocha in the 1990s,” Auntie Kim said. “I don’t doubt it’s very busy indeed. Mrs Moon and I took the tram down to see it the other day. The crowds! So we went around the back and found a young man in the alley behind the shop, having his smoke break. We gave him our money and made him get us a box of those mille-feuilles they were going on about on the news the other day.”
“Eomma!” Gyeong said, outraged.
“You have to be resourceful about these things,” Auntie Kim told her daughter. “I thought they taught you this in the police academy.”
“It still feels too fancy for me,” Hyeon-min said.
“Well, they charge euro rates,” Gyeong said. “They better make you feel like you’re in St Boulevard of Quartier de Coco Chanel in your mouth.”
Auntie Kim turned her gentle smile on him. Then her eyes sharpened, hawk-like, in a way that reminded Hyeon-min uncomfortably of Gyeong’s sister, a brilliant lawyer who was twice as beautiful and ten times as mean as Gyeong. But she said nothing, only turning her back on them, to go back to stirring her big pot of clam broth on the stove.
Gyeong, who’d never made anything in her life other than half-cooked ramyun, looked between the two of them, and cocked her head.
“What am I missing?” she said.
Hyeon-min looked at her, then put his hand out and measured her forehead between thumb and forefinger. “Your whole brain,” he said, with a straight face.
That was all, he thought. But then: “You left out the most important part,” Auntie Kim said, later, over dinner. “What’s Jo Yeong like?”
+++
The Busan Times: Azaleas has become a phenomenon unlike any other in the Corean restaurant world. What’s the secret to your success?
Jo Yeong: Thank you. We work hard, and we’ll try to continue to earn the love of our customers.
TBT: People are saying that you’ve brought a slice of Paris to Busan in a way even Pierre Hermé and Le Meurice opening branches in our city’s French Quarter could not.
JY: I was fortunate to have been accepted to a good school and then to apprentice in kitchens where I could learn from great chefs. Corea and France have had two hundred and fifty years of trade relations, so I don’t consider myself a pioneer of any sort.
TBT: Yet that is exactly what you are. There is no other patisserie in Busan, or all of Corea, which doesn’t have chocolate in any form on its menu.
JY: I didn’t realise that was the case.
TBT: But why did you do it?
JY: I don’t like chocolate.
TBT: That’s unusual. Some would say brave.
JY: Thank you. I don’t consider myself as such.
TBT: How interesting. Tell us, Captain. You’ve been an athlete, a soldier, a war hero, and then you disappeared from the public eye for three years. People wondered where you were.
JY: To call me a hero of any sort is unfair to the courage of those who lost their lives in the line of fire, or those who remain on the line, safeguarding this kingdom, every day.
TBT: Apologies. You do have an Order of the Plum Blossom.
JY: I would prefer to talk about something else.
TBT: You were telling us where you were all these years that you were absent.
JY: I believe you know the answer already. I was in the kitchen.
“Oh reporter-nim, you’re so talented, you really got him to open up,” Azaleas’s business director, a pretty, deceptively wide-eyed young woman named Myeong Seung-ah told the Busan Times journalist after the interview ended, and Jo Yeong vanished back into the kitchen, leaving the journalist to recover with a glass of ice water. “He’s the quiet sort otherwise, you know.”
“Miss Myeong,” the reporter said, mopping his brow, “that was the most unnerving interview of my career in food writing.”
“You’re so modest,” Myeong Seung-ah said, beaming. “He really liked you, I could tell.” She slid a box of choux pastry across the dessert bar. It was the signature Azaleas confection, impossible to get hold of unless you queued up an hour before store opening. “Please come visit us when we inaugurate our summer menu, thank you so much! Bye! Lovely to meet!” She slammed her fist on the counter as soon as the door jingled shut.
“You,” she said to Jo Yeong, who was coming out with a tray laden with fresh palmiers to stack in the wicker baskets of the north window, “are a menace.” Then she smiled. “I love it. I’m lining up three more interviews this week for you.”
“I’m unavailable,” Jo Yeong said.
“That’s exactly what I want you to say,” Miss Myeong said, fingers flying across her phone screen. “‘Austere and high-handed, with his military bearing and movie-star good looks, Chef Jo Yeong, a graduate of Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, is curt to the point of being rude…’” she trailed off, the click-click of her manicure on glass taking over. “You’re making this easier for me than I thought.”
Hyeon-min kept his head down and worked on setting up the window display, a rainbow of tea cakes and biscuits the kitchen had baked in advance of their afternoon hours. He had a long way to go in the job, but one of the things he’d already learned was to mind his own business around the boss-man. Jo Yeong was a good boss: people who’d worked at Azaleas for longer than Hyeon-min were apt to say he was a great boss. But there was a transparent wall of reserve between him and the world, and Hyeon-min had lived long enough, and seen and done enough in his time as a cop, to know that lives depended on that wall not being breached. Well, unless you were rich and beautiful and a childhood friend of his, the way Myeong Seung-ah was rumoured to be.
“Was this your idea?” a quiet voice said in his ear. “It’s very plain.”
“I’m a plain sort of guy, Chef,” Hyeon-min said, suppressing the shiver that went up his spine at that ocean-in-a-seashell murmur. He turned around to look at Jo Yeong, with his unreadable expression and spotless blue apron over his chef’s whites. Hyeon-min had been brought up with palace perfectionism thanks to his mother, and was a hospital-corners and sparkling-counters sort of guy himself. But there was always something about Jo Yeong that made everyone in his vicinity look and feel dishevelled.
“Plain sorts of guys work at gastropubs and quick service restaurants,” he said now, to Hyeon-min. He tipped on his toes and tweaked the arrangement of a top-shelf display: a minuscule adjustment that somehow got the light to hit the glaze differently and visibly make the whole arrangement shine. He looked over at Hyeon-min. “You are a patissier. Please think like one.”
“I cook like one,” Hyeon-min, who’d never been taught to shut up when it was good for him and hadn’t bothered to try, said. But it was a few minutes before he could shake that gaze off, and Jo Yeong had disappeared back into the kitchen. A whiff of sweetness lingered in his wake.
+++
“––posture, please. You can’t cut fruit in straight lines if you’re not standing straight yourself,” Hyeon-min heard as he entered the kitchen after his coffee break, which he still took two blocks over at the Subway next to Haeundae P.S., with whoever of his old comrades was available. It was Jo Yeong, instructing the nervous new prep cooks. The shop had shut after morning service, and the kitchen was getting ready for the afternoon; cleaning, prepping, watching the ovens, and taking turns to sit down to staff meal.
“Who brought this?” Sous-chef Park said, pulling the pound cake out of the fridge and peering at it: “It’s yours, isn’t it, hyungnim?” Hyeon-min was older than most of his Azaleas staff, and once they’d met Gyeong everyone in the kitchen, from the nutritionist interns to Jo Yeong’s assistant chef, irrespective of age and gender, called Hyeon-min hyungnim.
“You know it,” Hyeon-min smiled. He’d made the cake in a fit of insomnia, left it to set for a day in his tiny fridge before bringing it over. It was an ungainly thing, a polka-dotted red and yellow circus of a cake: he’d made it over a grill, then separated its layers, punched out little rings breadthwise and filled them with plum sauce before stacking them back together.
“I call dibs!” There was a minor scuffle in the kitchen as the cake was brought to the meal table and the second-shifters looked over and yelled to save a piece of it for themselves. Hyeon-min felt like a doofus admitting it to himself, but the truth was that of all the good things that came out of working for Azaleas, the best feeling, the most heartening and exciting and delightful one, was that his co-workers were fantastic, and they all seemed to love his food.
The Azaleas menus were impossibly elegant, set to high standards and exceeding the grand style of classic twentieth century pastry. But the staff meal was where everyone came to play. Like every restaurant in Haeundae, the employees of Azaleas came from all over the world; they were Thai and Indonesian, Chinese and Russian, and their meals reflected their backgrounds. They made sour cream pancakes and mee goreng, grilled meat and fruit in the backyard of the patisserie on nice days and cooked up huge woks of rice and soup on rainy ones.
Hyeon-min liked to bring them the messy, stick-to-your-insides desserts that were his favourite things to cook, stuff too ugly and unclassical to make it to the shop front: rice-cooker cakes and clafoutis, galettes and milk puddings, sweets that used barley flour and tapioca and the fruits that Auntie Geum at the farmer’s market below his flat put aside especially for Hyeon-min every Saturday. He made wafers with fruit and preserves with spices; custards that used cream rather than milk, that went into breads and biscuits.
There was a moment of silence as Sous-chef Park and Sous-chef Adamou cut a piece of the polka-dotted cake, then pinched off bits with their fingers and glommed it.
“Well?” Hyeon-min said, tying his apron at his waist.
“Do something about this guy,” Sous-chef Park swallowed her bite and said Sous-chef Adamou, who glared at him, then snapped her fingers while blatantly appropriating the whole wedge for herself.
“Make it again,” she said, in her accented Corean. “We are putting this on the tea service today.”
“No, no,” Hyeon-min said, trying hard not to smile. “I’m not ready.”
“When will you be ready?” Sous-chef Adamou shouted. Sous-chef Adamou was the only person in the whole establishment who lost her temper in classic chef-style. This, given that she was a twenty-three year old who looked like a seventeen-year old and also regularly shouted in an idiomatic Cameroonian French that almost no one in the kitchen could follow, was not quite the terrifying spectacle it ought to have been. “This is a good dessert! We serve good desserts! What for did we rescue you from the porcs, if not to make and sell good dessert?”
“You hired me to make pastry, chef,” Hyeon-min said. He let the dig at his police service pass. Restaurant workers everywhere hated cops because of grift, which he had to admit was a legitimate reason. “This cake isn’t our style, anyway.”
“But if we made cupcakes like so, and put the sesame-seed tuile you’ve been working on, in such a pattern––Chef, Chef, over here,” she said, as Jo Yeong walked over and took up a fork. He swiped a chunk of the wedge on her plate before she could object.
Hyeon-min held his breath. Jo Yeong looked up at him, his dark eyes unfathomable for a moment. Then they creased slightly at the corners, as his mouth ticked upwards in a rare, barely-there smile.
“It’ll remind every Corean of the slice cakes they used to sell outside of school,” he said, which made Hyeon-min exhale and duck his head to try and get control of his own smile. Compliments from Jo Yeong were few and far between, but the kitchen cherished them for a reason. Hyeon-min had been playing on the gooey, slightly greasy memory of those dense little treats kids used to save their pocket money for, back in the day.
“But also, it is intellectual,” Sous-chef Adamou objected. “The texture of the sauce, the tartness of the fruit, and the gloss of the––come on!” she said, as Jo Yeong took his fork away to the sink to wash and sanitise it. “He made persimmon galettes that they would serve at the gates of heaven the other day and you just let him say ‘I’m not ready’ then, too!”
“Keep up the good work, Mr Kang,” Jo Yeong said. He threw a look over his shoulder at Hyeon-min, a brief, piercing look. “Enjoy your lunch, everyone.”
Sous-chef Adamou whipped her head around and glowered at Hyeon-min. “You!” she said. “One day I will throw you in the, how you say it, deep end of the sea!”
“Okay, Chef,” Hyeon-min said, and folded himself away to the bread station, tuning her out as she complained to Sous-chef Park, “That military man, he spent years making life miserable for everyone around him, but with all of you, he is soft like a baby! Bah!”
“Mil––military man?” one of the new prep cooks, a Taiwanese girl, asked Hyeon-min nervously. “Was Chef in the army?”
“Chef’s a decorated war hero,” Sous-chef Park, passing behind them, interjected.
“What?”
“Welcome to Corea,” Sous-chef Park said, exchanging a look with Hyeon-min. “He doesn’t like to talk about it.”
“How did he become a patissier, then?”
+++
“––and, to cut a long story short, after two long years studying patisserie and boulangerie at Le Cordon Bleu and apprenticing with the masters of French pastry, he decided to come home and gift Azaleas to the city of Busan,” Myeong Seung-ah said to a TV journalist, smiling, as Hyeon-min squeezed past the two-camera set-up next to the cake counters.
She repeated the story every day, multiple times, in more languages than Hyeon-min could tell apart, to everyone who would listen. She was always smiling, never switched off; always ahead of the next story and social media trend. It was one of the downers about working at the hottest pastry shop Busan, and possibly Corea, had ever seen.
Hyeon-min knew what hype was. It was one of his earliest memories, from a few horrible days when he was eight years old, and every newspaper in Busan told and re-told the story of his broken home; his beautiful, suicidal mother, and the certain death from which he was saved by Buyeong-gun.
The memory of that spate of notoriety had never left him: a frothy, scummy, too-full feeling. It had taught him to distinguish between appreciation and attention early in his life. He knew it was a good thing, an amazing thing, to be able to make things that people seemed to genuinely love, but god, he hated the hype.
“You’re a grandpa, and also a baby,” Gyeong told him, unsympathetically. Gyeong also commandeered Hyeon-min’s phone from time to time to make sure that he hadn’t deleted the flattering and unblushingly horny profile she maintained for him on Grindr. (He couldn’t complain. It was doing its job.)
“It’s not just that,” Hyeon-min complained to her. He got it, he did. The restaurant business was brutal, and hype was everything in a cutthroat metropolis. But the no-chocolate thing really bothered him. Sure, fruit was important to the Corean sweet tooth, and they were doing a service to fresh local produce, and the world’s greatest patissiers proved their worth with nothing more than flour, sugar, butter and eggs: blah blah blah.
“But chocolate,” he told Gyeong, “is chocolate. When a customer comes into a bakery looking for something to really satisfy them, something that would get them through a bad day or make a good day unforgettable, more often than not they’re looking for chocolate.” At Azaleas, they gave their customers everything –– the light-as-air puff pastry, the crackle that burst against the roofs of their mouth and the crunch that was music to the inner ear, daintiness and silken smoothness and texture and taste.
But Jo Yeong didn’t like chocolate, for some mysterious reason. So Azaleas didn’t do chocolate, which made Hyeon-min feel like a fraud of a baker.
“Then go work somewhere else,” Gyeong shrugged and started to unwrap her hands, leaving Hyeon-min to unhook her punching bag along with his to stow it away. “What about Paris Brioche? I heard they deliver bread to the palace.”
“Ugh,” Hyeon-min said. Paris Brioche had hundreds, maybe thousands of outlets around Corea, the most popular bakery chain in the country’s entire history. They sold every conceivable kind of dessert through their chains, were enormously successful every time, and were entirely soulless.”
“They don’t make me stand in line for hours to get a cream ppang when I feel like one,” Gyeong said. “And what do you mean ‘ugh,’ that’s my brother-in-law’s shop.”
“I’ve heard you say a lot worse than ‘ugh’ about your brother-in-law,” Hyeon-min pointed out. Gyeong’s older sister was married to the heir of the KU Group, which made everything from satellites to computers to brittle-crusted and kind of disappointing breakfast loaves. Paris Brioche were so big that they could afford to send offer letters to everyone who graduated from the Busan Culinary Institute, year after year, just back-loading their operations with highly qualified chefs and bakers, who then spent their workdays making literally cookie-cutter retail products.
Hyeon-min had friends who were rotting in the tiny back-offices and soulless kitchens of a dozen places like that. They fed hundreds of people a day. They brought joy to maybe a dozen or so, in their way. But at the end of their time as cooks, they’d be worse at their jobs than they’d been when they started out, spoiled by boredom and lack of ambition.
At Azaleas, no one was bored for a minute. Hyeon-min had spent his first ten days on the line just prepping creams and custards, and it’d been terrifying and exhausting and more enlightening than the entire six months he’d spent in the kitchens of the Culinary Institute. He’d been moved to the bread station after that, and then he’d made parfaits and pound cakes and madeleines and macarons, and every time he did something new it kicked his ass and humbled him and made him feel like he’d done the right thing, after all. His years spent trying to be anything but a pastry chef had taught him the most valuable lesson of his life, that this was the work he was meant to do, and that this was what it meant to be happy.
“Oh, I bet it makes you real happy,” Gyeong purred, and sidled up next to him as they rode the bus back downtown. “I bet you love Jo Yeong standing over your shoulder, telling you to make it nice and buttery, ooooh, hyungnim, won’t you knead it with your big strong hands…”
“You’re harassing me,” Hyeon-min told her. “This is harassment.” He was trying hard not to blush. Jo Yeong did look over Hyeon-min’s shoulder ever so often, in his quiet, watchful way. It was the third thing that Hyeon-min found unbearable about his new job.
Azaleas wasn’t like other pastry establishments. They didn’t cut corners or cheat their customers; no one was underpaid or made to meet impossible targets. Most miraculously, unlike the kitchens in which almost all of Hyeon-min’s classmates worked, it was almost entirely free of assholery. No one was encouraged to fight or compete beyond their abilities; there was no reign of terror, no bullwhip of insults or unkind words, not even from Jo Yeong, whose workplace experience in the military probably consisted in large part of being yelled at for no reason by his superiors, because army guys were the biggest assholes Hyeon-min had ever met.
But he’d never heard Jo Yeong raise his voice or lose his temper, not even when firing a kid he’d caught stealing from the supplies, or when Myeong Seung-ah pushed him over the edge. He just ran the kitchen with iron discipline and unfailing courtesy. “Would you say the effects of blending dry ingredients overlaps exactly with sifting them?” he’d asked Hyeon-min, one night soon after Hyeon-min had joined the staff.
“It’s much better than sifting unless you’re breaking something down for impurities,” Hyeon-min had said, mouth going a little dry as Jo Yeong leaned an elbow on the tabletop beside him and looked up at him with his dark, unfathomable eyes. “It saves time and combines ingredients far more evenly.”
“True,” Jo Yeong had agreed. “But depending on the sieve you use, the process is much more about aeration as much as it is about combination. To distribute liquid evenly through a slow bake, that’s important. On a fresh, original piece of pastry––”
He’d continued in his soft, clipped tones, demonstrating his arguments in quick, deft movements. He’d laid his hand on Hyeon-min’s wrist as they flicked through the flour and sugar, talking, and Hyeon-min had gone home with the softness of powdered sugar on his fingertips and the faint, faint smell of Jo Yeong’s cologne in his nostrils.
That was his most embarrassing and most cherished secret. He, Kang Hyeon-min, high school head prefect, officer-class civil servant, former member of the elite Team 3 of the Violent Crimes squad of the Busan Police Department and currently junior pastry chef at the most popular bakery in Busan, had the biggest crush of his life on his boss.
KU-TV: Some say Azaleas has been the most successful opening in the city of Busan this year, even though it’s not a restaurant. In fact, you don’t even have seating.
JO YEONG: We hope to offer a takeaway coffee service soon.
KU-TV: Is it your ambition to be as big as Paris Brioche one day?
JO YEONG: We try to meet the standards we set for ourselves, every day.
KU-TV: A fine answer. Can you share with us why you decided to open this remarkable experiment in Haeundae, which has a reputation for being an overcrowded tourist trap in the eyes of some?
JO YEONG: I grew up not far from here. It is my neighbourhood market.
KU-TV: Coming to that, can you share with our viewers how the people in your life, including your illustrious family, viewed your decision to become a pastry chef?
JO YEONG: I cannot.
KU-TV: Were they upset? Disappointed? Excited?
JO YEONG: I prefer not to discuss my private life.
KU-TV: Has your best friend his Majesty come to Azaleas yet? We hear he’s something of a foodie himself.
JO YEONG: Please direct all questions about the royal family to the palace.
KU-TV: You’re very protective, Chef Jo! Or do you have something to hide?
JO YEONG: Thank you for your questions.
KU-TV: Is it true you’re not friends with the king any more? Chef Jo? Chef Jo, thank you for talking to us, it’s been a pleasure! Dear audiences, that was the remarkable, the chic, the ice-prince celebrity who’s returned to us as the most talked-about pastry che––
+++
Long, long ago, when Hyeon-min was a boy, before he’d ever joined a boxing gym or gone to the police academy or decided it wasn’t the life he wanted for himself, the two most famous people in Corea were children.
The first was the king of the nation. That was self-explanatory. The second was a bowtie-wearing, bowl cut-sporting dumpling of a baby aristocrat named Jo Yeong. Jo Yeong was the heir of one of Corea’s oldest families. He was also the dimpled, irresistible little jester who was always besides the quiet, orphaned boy king, always smiling or making others smile whenever he appeared in a photo in the newspaper or on TV.
That was how his Majesty and Jo Yeong grew up: in the hothouse of public attention, always beside one another, always happy to be in each other’s company, always gracious, always polite, always handsome, always popular.
Then, when Jo Yeong was twenty-one, the nation went to war.
It was a brutal two-month skirmish with Russian insurgents along the Tumen river that broke out just as he left the National Military Academy, a freshly-minted lieutenant in the Royal Marines. Lieutenant Jo was deployed to the battlefield.
Then, shockingly, he was lost for a year. When he came back, it was with a captain’s bars on his uniform, and the most famous smile in the country vanished, seemingly for good.
His parents, back together after a messy public separation, had given him two siblings in the meanwhile. The king’s secretariat, eager to give the palace a boost after a national security crisis, and no doubt eager to reunite his Majesty with his best friend, recommended his secondment to the Royal Guard, an order that had to pass the joint chiefs of staff, a parliamentary committee on military affairs, and, toughest of all, the Office of the Royal Household commanded by Head Court Lady Noh.
Jo Yeong passed the tests with flying colours. Then he turned down the job, and vanished again. This time, when he came back, it was in chef’s whites, out of every shadow that had accompanied him in his former life. His family was nowhere to be seen. It was more or less confirmed on the news that he had severed all ties with the palace, and with his former best friend.
And that, Hyeon-min confirmed on a late spring day, parking his bike behind the kitchens before dawn, was why the news was completely bullshit.
He’d taken off his helmet and was unloading the crate of fruit he was bringing in for the day when the grilles of the back entrance crashed open, and Jo Yeong, in running gear and tousled hair, appeared, scowling.
“Why the hell are you here?” he said, but before Hyeon-min could recoil at the inexplicable hostility, the best-known voice in Corea sounded behind him, and he whirled around just in time to leap out of the way of a couple of extremely sharp suits, flanking a tall man in florid silk pajamas.
“How completely,” Lee Gon said, just as Hyeon-min bowed, “you’ve forgotten your manners.” He crossed Hyeon-min without appearing to notice him, though his handsome northern Corean captain, on whom Gyeong had a crush, offered a fraction of a nod as he passed Hyeon-min.
“Forgive me,” Jo Yeong said, and Hyeon-min realised the scowl wasn’t an expression of anger. “Why in royal hell is Your Majesty here?”
“You never call, you never write,” Lee Gon said, looking around him with interest. “What do I have to do to get a pastry from Corea’s hottest new sweetshop?”
“There’s none for you,” Yeong said, uncrossing his arms and standing aside as Lee Gon entered the shop kitchens. “You refused to take my cookie.”
“At the time, I thought you were mocking me in my pain,” Lee Gon said, and Hyeon-min tried not to react openly to the king of Corea and Jo Yeong making jokes about their extremely famous and traumatic childhood meeting in his hearing. “Show me around.”
“What are you, a health inspector?”
“I was recently honoured by the Department of Health for my exemplary service in raising awareness for community hygiene, so I’m as good as,” Lee Gon said. “Also, I am the lord of all I survey, within international boundaries. Put on some coffee, will you, Yeongie? I was up reading an appalling paper on infinite space, you simply couldn’t imagine it passed peer review.”
“We’re having words,” Jo Yeong muttered to––Captain Seok Ho-pil, that was his name––but he appeared to accept defeat, and went to set up the old-fashioned kettle and filter that kept the Azaleas staff caffeinated at all times of the day. Lee Gon set off at an amble around the kitchen, running his finger over their (spotless) counters, peeking inside the ovens that Hyeon-min was just about to turn on, looking through the dark windows of their pantry shelves at the doughs and batters the late-evening staff had readied for use today. He lifted the lid of the crate of cherries and cherry tomatoes with which Hyeon-min had staggered in, and cast a beady eye over the produce.
“Major Ji’s farm in Jeju grows the most superior cherries in the country,” he sniffed, and closed the box. He came over to the bottling station at the far end of the work area, to which Hyeon-min had retreated in order to keep a low profile.
“Oh, clementines,” the king asked Hyeon-min, looming over him. “You’re pickling them?”
“No, sir,” Hyeon-min answered, with the professional courtesy he’d learned at the police academy. “These were dehydrated a few weeks ago and preserved in sugar. They’re now being rehydrated in verjus. That’s––”
“Unripe grape juice,” the king nodded. The royal brow creased. “So it enhances the juiciness of the fruit––”
“––and jacks up the acidity,” Hyeon-min nodded.
“And then you dust them with sugar, I suppose. What do they go with?”
“I’m just experimenting with it, for now,” Hyeon-min said. “It might make a garnish.”
The king looked straight at him for the first time, and cocked his head. “Fascinating,” he said. “The chemical reactions alone––”
“Stop terrorising bystanders and come eat this,” Jo Yeong called. The coffee was ready, and he’d pulled out one of the gateaux that had become a craze as soon they’d been launched, a vanilla and almond crème meringue set with caramelised roast chestnuts. Lee Gon perched at the counter and picked up a spoon.
“Poisoned?” he said, and something like a silent joke passed between the two of them. Hyeon-min noticed an odd expression cross Jo Yeong’s face as the king bent over his dessert plate: something like anxious fondness, and also relief.
They weren’t just friends, Hyeon-min realised. They were family; perhaps––perhaps more.
The king ate a spoonful of the gateau in silence, then another. “Very Gaudard,” he remarked, with surprising acuity. “The chestnuts are a good addition, Yeongie. I can see why it’s so popular.”
The cop part of Hyeon-min, the area of his mind attuned to the intelligence work of reading people for the unspoken truths of their lives, watched the two of them, fascinated. They were sizing each other up, warmly, critically, letting a dozen things pass unsaid between the lines.
“I bet you don’t do any work around here,” Lee Gon said, dabbing his lips with a tissue, one of Azaleas’s’ now-famous lemon-yellow paper napkins. “Your staff must be responsible for all this.”
“That’s me, a born shirker,” Jo Yeong said. He was smiling that small, genuine smile of his again, and oh, Hyeon-min was a fool for letting a lick of jealousy flare up at that. He looked away. “Mr Kang, would you put some of yesterday’s milk bread on for a pain perdu?”
Hyeon-min looked back at him.
“Don’t worry about the croissants, I’ll get them started,” Jo Yeong told him. “Ho-pil, Seung-ri, sit down and eat.”
That was how Hyeon-min ended up making breakfast for the king, who finally looked him in the eye and said thank you. He even told him to sit down and join them, though it was so clearly a polite afterthought that Hyeon-min had to make the effort not to laugh in his face. Hyeon-min wasn’t a monarchist, and didn’t much care for bowing and scraping, but he could appreciate that Lee Gon was an okay sort of guy, under all the obvious maths-and-pajamas weirdness. He could see why his own mother, who’d worked at the palace for over two decades, had never had a bad word to say about him.
And there was something about the way that the guards sat down to eat French toast with him in the middle of the Azaleas kitchen that made it clear there was more to their relationship than the king occasionally condescending to eat with the servants. Hyeon-min knew better than to join them, of course. There was such a thing as a king’s order, and then there was slacking off while your boss went around waking up the kitchen, pulling out the trays of sleeping dough and firing up the ovens, turning on the lights and setting the rhythms of the day in motion.
“Satisfactory,” Lee Gon said, after he’d practically licked a plate of French toast clean in his casual, airy way. He got up from the table in the manner of a man who had done the establishment a giant favour. “Though it isn’t, of course, a real kitchen if there’s no chocolate in it.”
“No chocolate allowed,” Jo Yeong said, his back turned to the table. Lee Gon looked fondly at him––it was a mirror, Hyeon-min thought, of the way Jo Yeong looked at Lee Gon. Then he sighed, and turned to Hyeon-min. “Mister Hong, was it?”
“No, sir,” Hyeon-min said, and didn’t bother to correct him.
“Right,” the king said, unperturbed. “I’d like to try your pickled clementine. What’s that, not ready? I’ll just take whatever is then,” and then actually did walk over to the bottling station and peer through the glass of each jar of fruits Hyeon-min had been tending for weeks now. “What’s this? Prunes? Fascinating. I’ll send you notes with my reactions.”
“Oh!” There was a flurry at the door, and Sous-chef Park, looking flustered, had stopped in her tracks to bow deeply at the waist.
Sous-chef Adamou, who came in behind her, stomping her feet, looked the king up and down, said, “Hey, what’s up.”
“Yvette––I mean, Sous-chef Adamou!” Sous-chef Park hissed. “This is his Majesty the king of Corea.”
“Yes, I have seen the banknotes,” Yvette said. “And monsieur is also a watermark on my visa.” She smiled politely, and muttered “Louis,” under her breath.
“I’d love to chat, but I must go rule my country now,” Gon said. “Chef Jo, I look forward to your working hard and acquiring a royal warrant to supply bread to the palace,” he said and wiggled his eyebrows unsubtly. Jo Yeong visibly suppressed the effort to roll his eyes and bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Look after your staff well. I wish you all good luck,” he added, and left, pausing only to loom over tiny Sous-chef Adamou for a moment, then twinkle at her and say, “Je ne suis pas mort; mais la patrie, c’est vive.”
“What was that?” Sous-chef Adamou said once the royal motorcade had zoomed off. She turned to Hyeon-min. “What did he do? What did he say? Did he––did he steal your prunes?”
Hyeon-min looked at Jo Yeong, who was watching him. His smile had been tucked away, but there was a lingering warmth in his eyes, and Hyeon-min felt it lick under his skin, subtle as the first flare of a struck match. He hadn’t seen the whole, or even a part, of whatever Yeong shared with Lee Gon, he realised. But all of it had been deeply private.
“Hyungnim?” Sous-chef Park asked.
“He said the cherries are better at Major Ji’s farm outside Changwon,” Hyeon-min said.
“And so?” Sous-chef Adamou was shouting, upset. “The counters have fingerprints on them now! The dining table is a mess! Many congratulations to this Major Ji, but what have we, hard-working citizens, to do with him? Bah!”
“Park In-young,” Jo Yeong said, “Go look up a cherry farmer.” But he was still looking at Hyeon-min.
+++
But it wasn’t Park In-young who ended up on the overnight ferry to Jeju, after all.
“Look at you!” retired, grey-haired Major Ji said, when Hyeon-min landed up at her doorstep a week later. She was all smiles, holding out her hand as he bowed. “What a baby you were when I last saw you, and now you’re as tall as your father.”
“Thank you, Major,” Jo Yeong said, smoothly, from beside Hyeon-min, and straightened from his own bow in some elegant and mysterious way that ensured that Major Ji’s rough, work-reddened hands ended up in his own. “My father will be glad to hear you remember him.”
Major Ji recovered quickly from her mistake and laughed, “I know that face, too! Do you know I came all the way up to Busan to see your mother’s taepyeongmu at the summer festival two years ago? I still get chills thinking about it. Come in, come in. And who are you, young man?” she turned. “I spoke to a Park In-young on the phone, but I’d be surprised if you were she.”
“I’m Kang Hyeon-min, ma’am,” Hyeon-min said. He was feeling stand-offish, as he always did around unaffected old money types. The affected ones were worse, to be sure, but at least they knew there was something wrong with them.
Sure enough: “Oh?” Major Ji surveyed his face again, and said. “From General Kang’s household, perhaps? One of the Chaeryeong Kangs?”
“Mister Kang is one of the stars of our kitchen,” Jo Yeong said, smoothly, before Hyeon-min could descend into a fit of temper. The only Kang patriarch he’d ever known was a wife-beater who’d died of cirrhosis before he’d ever apologised to his family for nearly driving them to their deaths. “He has a Prime Minister’s medal of valour from his time in the Busan police.”
“My, my,” Major Ji smiled. “I’ll take that from you, shall I?” she said, and unhanded Hyeon-min of the icebox he’d been deputed to carry––“Like your very own baby,” Sous-chef Adamou had instructed him––without dropping on the eight-hour journey from Busan. It was full of cracked ice and confetti and a box of half a dozen puits d’amour, which took a full day to make and were the way the Azaleas team wheedled the best produce out of their suppliers.
Sous-chef Park usually made these scouting trips. Hyeon-min had gone with her a couple of times: everyone at Azaleas did a bit of everything, but out of long habit and in the frustrating absence of chocolate, Hyeon-min had become garde manger of sorts, keeping their pantry stocked and interesting.
But Sous-chef Park’s girlfriend had turned out to need an emergency appendectomy just before she was due to take this trip, so Jo Yeong had simply shrugged and said, “Is she covered on your health plan?” and decided to come with Hyeon-min instead.
That was new. It shouldn’t have made Hyeon-min nervous at all, except for how it did, a bit. He was on Jeju, with a man with whom he traded looks, now; a man who didn’t speak much more than he ever did, who continued to watch Hyeon-min at work, and listened to Hyeon-min’s ideas and corrected his methods, but with whom everything now felt like it was a secret, somehow.
“You’re being an idiot,” Hyeon-min told himself in the mirror of the little bathroom in Major Ji’s stone house. “He doesn’t like you. He is dating Lee Gon, or something. You’re going to put your head down and pick fruit and do the job he pays you to do.”
It was one thing to talk sense to yourself in a mirror and another to be out under the blue sky and sparkling air of the island. It turned out Lee Gon had been right about the fruit. Whatever else there was to Major Ji, she was an outstanding farmer, hard-working and imaginative. They wandered along her estate with her marvelling at the trees in bloom all about them, the greenhouses a riot of flowers and herbs, and the vines full of berries and tart, juicy early grapes. They plucked and ate them in handfuls, and even Jo Yeong was smiling like a little boy before they’d gone too long––“Now that’s what I like to see,” Major Ji said, appreciatively. “Bet you didn’t think an old warhorse could end up doing anything good with her hands, did you?”
“Not at all,” he said. But he was looking up through the trees, laden with nodding, sleepy cherry blossoms: the last of the year, a full week after they’d disappeared from the rest of Corea.
“To be honest, it’s as much of a fight as anything else,” Major Ji said. “There are a bunch of us small farmers all along the island, getting ready for a fight again once KU-Agriculture sinks its claws into the island. They’re leasing land from old tenants all along the west and south, you see,” she told Hyeon-min. “It’ll be all over for Jeju once they start turning it into farmland. It’s all over for us amateurs.”
“I didn’t think the land laws allowed them to do that,” Hyeon-min said. It was one thing for small farmers to till the land on Jeju, where you could grow crops that the rest of Corea was simply too cold for; quite another for big companies to come along and squeeze both land and farmers for profits.
“You don’t get to be the fourth-largest economy in the world without letting chaebols ignore land laws,” Major Ji said. “Now! All our workers eat breakfast together, and we have a very nice tofu stew today, but we don’t have extra for tourists.”
They went, laughing, to deweed flower beds and pull up vines on which the first melons of the year had ripened, tearing them open and handing out the segments, half-eating, half-drinking them like they were children who’d gotten to break into a wedding feast. With sticky fingers, Hyeon-min took photographs to send back to the Azaleas team, and to his buddies: of the cherry blossoms and the kiwi flowers, glittering in the morning sunshine; of the dark, chocolatey soil under his feet and the emerald grass that bordered the crop beds of the farm, of the other workers, who turned out to be almost all old women, off-duty from fishing and stronger and faster than any human beings Hyeon-min thought he’d ever met. They seemed to like him: he’d accepted half a dozen follow requests on Instagram before they sat down to lunch.
He got Jo Yeong too, smiling at a halmeoni as he loaded up her basket, a stray cherry blossom in his perfect hair. He kept that to himself, and tried not to look too starry-eyed when Yeong turned to him.
“I can take a picture for you, if you like,” he offered. “Are you sending them back to Inspector Koo Seo-gyeong?”
“She says I’m terrible at posing for pictures, which is true,” Hyeon-min said, after a minute. “Your background check was really thorough, huh?”
“Always,” Yeong said. “But in this case, it was simply In-young’s news that everyone went drinking with the Haeundae officers the other day, thanks to you. She said you were––”
“We’re not dating,” Hyeon-min said, hastily; Gyeong and he were always having to correct people about that.
“––an old married couple,” Yeong finished, smiling, “but I think she was joking.”
“Are you married to Lee Gon?” Hyeon-min asked, before he could stop himself. He bit his tongue at the look Yeong gave him.
“We aren’t together,” he said, though. “Or not in that way.”
“It’s all so different from what I know,” Hyeon-min said. “Was it rude of me to ask?”
“You’re always rude,” Yeong said, leading them to the far end of the long picnic table on which the kitchen workers had brought out banchan and rice, large plates of fried fish and salad. “But it’s because you’re a straight arrow.”
“Did that turn up on my background check, too,” Hyeon-min asked boldly, and remembered Yeong intervening for him before Major Ji: he has a Prime Minister’s medal for valour. “Did you find out a lot about me?”
“I know you studied chemistry at college,” Jo Yeong said, and when Hyeon-min made a face at him, ladled him a bowl of stew and said, “You have a taekwondo black belt, but you gave up the practice for boxing in recent years. I know you volunteer at a domestic violence shelter between Christmas and Lunar New Year, when incidence rises, every year.” He was quiet for a moment, respecting the privacy of Hyeon-min’s service, and his motives for it.
“I know,” he continued, “that you and Inspector Koo are in an eighties cover band.”
“You found the YouTube videos,” Hyeon-min groaned.
“I also know you haven’t been to practice in months, and they’re mad at you as a result.”
“Hang on,” Hyeon-min said. “I didn’t agree to be surveilled when signing my contract, did I?”
“No,” Jo Yeong said, “You just keep the same work hours as the rest of us.” He laughed at Hyeon-min’s face, then, and that was it, really, the moment Hyeon-min remembered always, long after he’d forgotten or tried to forget everything else: the laugh, and Jo Yeong’s face, and the other workers flocking around them as they all sat down to one of the best meals Hyeon-min could remember in his life. Every single thing felt fresh and wholesome, and there was laughter and good cheer all about them. The air was purer than he ever remembered breathing in Busan, and Jo Yeong’s foot, under the table, was sliding against his.
When the sun climbed higher in the sky, Yeong went inside to talk business with Major Ji, and Hyeon-min went to the kitchen, to cool off in more ways than one. It had emptied out after the morning meal, and the steward gave him the run of the place. He found flour and new eggs, and he took out the butter they’d also brought as one of their gifts, and the kabocha in the pantry. He spent the morning simmering a thick, sweet hobakjuk, of the sort he remembered from chilly mornings on New Year break, when eomma was home, and made him hot chocolate and this pumpkin porridge, sometimes with a smidge of powdery vanilla from the local department store, sometimes with pillowy marshmallows.
He kneaded the dough, trying to get it soft and stretchy without trapping too much air within, then put them aside to rise and got to work on the kabocha porridge, stirring in the milk and sugar, letting it cook slowly to silkenness. It took hours, enough time for the dough to puff up to twice its size, and then to proof as he portioned it off, then rolled out each bun and ladled in the creamy, cooled-down soup, folded down the buns, and set them to cook, in great batches, in the creaky old ovens of the farmhouse kitchen. Major Ji, who came in to set up a carafe of coffee, sniffed at the air with wide eyes. She accepted a bun when Hyeon-min offered one, and made a noise of supreme satisfaction when she bit into it.
“Good for me that I concluded business with your boss before you made these,” she said. “I’d have given away a quarter of the farm for this. I’ll have to come to Magnolias for more of these!”
“Azaleas,” Hyeon-min said. “These aren’t for sale, ma’am, I’m very new to the job.”
“I can see why you gave up police work,” Major Ji said, thoughtfully. “You have a real talent. But then I should have known that Jo Yeong wouldn’t favour people without good reason.”
“You know Chef well?” Hyeon-min said, because he was unsure of how else to react to that, and felt a little bit like needling her for mixing them up when they’d first appeared at her doorstep.
Major Ji fixed him with her frank, direct gaze, weighing him in her balance.
“There isn’t a person worth their salt in military intelligence who doesn’t know Jo Yeong,” she said. “Not everyone knows what he did during the Tumen conflict. I don’t know everything myself, and I was on the line then.”
“Oh,” Hyeon-min said.
“I do know that in the deadliest, ugliest part of that winter he single-handedly helped rescue a vessel from capture mid-river and brought it back safely to shore,” she continued. “His actions saved eighty lives that day.”
Hyeon-min put his hands flat on the table where he sat, to give them something to do.
“I didn’t know that,” he said. He’d been up north once. It’d been a ski trip; nothing like the bitterness of the Siberian border, where soldiers went to lose their lives and sanity regularly to frostbite and ice, just to be able to keep control of a sliver of land that mattered to the country. War: he couldn’t imagine it.
“I daresay there’s a lot on his record that he can’t talk about,” Major Ji said. “The rest he won’t talk about, because he’s his father and grandfather’s son, and I suppose he wants to put it all behind him, now that he’s home and running this bakery business. There are men and women all over this country who’re alive only because of him, though.” She smiled. “It’d be a pity for you mainlanders to forget that.”
Hyeon-min nodded, to avoid answering. His heart was in a churn for a reason he couldn’t easily identify. “Where is he, now?” he asked.
“He went out to the old Jo homestead,” Major Ji said. “There’s a bus that runs every hour down the east road, but he said he wanted to walk. Are you going after him?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Hyeon-min said. He stopped to wrap up some ppang in parchment paper, and met Major Ji’s knowing look as innocently as he could.
“Take a rain jacket,” was all she said, though. “There’s a storm coming up in the evening.”
Hyeon-min had brought his motorcycle over on the ferry, and he set off down the road as the sky kindled with the first threats of a storm. The air grew still and deep, and the warmth of the day started to rise from the fields and groves all around him. He stopped at the local post office to which his GPS took him, then followed their directions to a bus stop.
At the bus stop, someone said “The Jo place? What’s––oh, you mean the plum tree house,” and that took him down a deep green lane, then a bylane, and then a little mud track between two tall hedges, which opened up all of a sudden into a field golden with the vanishing sunshine, ringed with plum trees and a wire fence with a wooden gate in it.
It was the backyard of a little stone house, still standing amidst the dry grasses and flowering weeds that had overgrown the place. There was a stream cutting across the far edge of the place, and there, under the plum blossoms, Jo Yeong was sitting on the bank, with his trousers rolled up and his feet in the clear green water.
I know something about you too, Hyeon-min wanted to say, but he cleared his throat, to signal his presence. He held out the pumpkin bread and a bottle of coffee he’d bought at a gas station on the way.
“Thanks,” Jo Yeong said, looking surprised and––and pleased, and oh, that was bad for Hyeon-min’s heart; he liked it when Jo Yeong looked pleased, he realised. He sat down when Yeong unwrapped the buns and sniffed them, approving, then tore into one and made a noise of joy, then chased the filling as it spilled out, gooey and warm, over his fingers and down the inside of his wrist, pale and oddly delicate against his air of implacable solidness.
“Do you like it?” Hyeon-min said. Yeong didn’t answer, or he did, after a fashion, concentrating his whole attention on the eating, then licking his fingers after it was gone before rinsing his hands off in the brook and sighing.
“I don’t tell you this enough, Mister Kang,” he said. “But you’re one of the most talented cooks I know.”
Oh, Hyeon-min thought, and his heart flipped inside him, delighted: this was Jo Yeong, saying Hyeon-min’s work was good. This was Jo Yeong––this was Yeong, and Yeong liked––that is, Yeong liked––
“Why don’t you tell me enough?” he asked.
Yeong was quiet for a while, enough that Hyeon-min thought he was going to ignore the question. Then: “I think you know why,” Yeong said, softly.
Hyeon-min retreated at that, without an answer: he did know, after all. Yeong cracked open the coffee and drank a draught, then offered it to him, and they shared it until it was gone.
“Did you have family over here?” Hyeon-min asked him. Yeong shook his head.
“My grandmother’s people sheltered here for a while, during the Japanese occupation,” he said. “They bought the lands afterwards, from the family that took them in––they’d lost their parents in the war, and were going to Hong Kong. People came and went here for years, but there was no one to really look after the land, except tenant farmers, in some years. No one’s been to the house in a while; there’ll be no one to care about it, after my grandmother.”
The wind started to pick up, but neither of them moved.
“You’re a Busan boy, too,” Yeong said.
“My mother works at the offices of the Royal Household,” Hyeon-min answered, and was unsurprised when Yeong nodded.
“On the hospitality staff,” he said. “Madam Park. She was kind to me when my horse threw me, once, and I had to stay overnight in the East Palace.” He looked over at Hyeon-min. “I forgot about that, until you came to work for us.”
The sky was wholly clouded over now, and the sea was making itself heard in the distance, in a murmuring sweep. “There’s going to be a storm,” Hyeon-min said.
“I can tell,” Yeong replied. He didn’t take his feet out of the water.
“We should get back.”
“Is that why you came after me?” Yeong asked him.
He knew the answer, though, and Hyeon-min let him wait for it in those last moments of stillness, before he told him: “I think you know why.”
The wind came up and the light extinguished itself overhead, dappling the waters of the stream through the leaves of the trees before it winked out. Yeong got up and held out his hand, after a while, and they rolled Hyeon-min’s bike into an empty woodshed. The first big drops of rain fell over their heads just as they doubled back and ran towards the house, which Yeong had unlocked, opening its windows, in the sunny afternoon. There was an enormous crash as they entered, and the rain swept over the house in a wave, blotting out the light.
Hyeon-min took his shoes off and went to the kitchen to find candles and an old box of matches. “Just a minute,” Yeong said, and went out again.
Hyeon-min closed the windows against the wind and the rain, and then found briquettes in the coal scuttle next to the stove, and hefted one out just as Yeong came back in. He was soaked to the skin, and had a storm lantern in each hand. “Just remembered these,” he said, pleased.
Hyeon-min looked Yeong over, and then put the coal in the stove and lit it up. It took a moment to kindle, then flared red and warm. A light sprang up over the room, then another: it was Yeong, lighting the lanterns, then criss-crossing the room to hang them up opposite each other. Hyeon-min went to close the kitchen door. Then he crossed over to Yeong, leaned down to take his face in his hands and kissed him.
There was no hesitation, no spark or slow kindling. He was aflame instantly, like a wick, and Yeong; Yeong was melting in his arms as soon as he was held. They had been preparing to burn, Hyeon-min thought, and it should have been painful, but it wasn’t. It was easy. It was so easy that they were laughing, entwining their hands; smiling into their kisses as they peeled Yeong out of his wet clothes before he enclosed himself again in Hyeon-min’s arms, naked and un-selfconscious. “Hey,” Hyeon-min breathed, revelling in the feeling of his skin, soft and heated against Hyeon-min’s own damp shirt. “Hey, beautiful.”
Yeong’s smile grew wider against his cheek. “Hello,” he said, and rubbed his nose against Hyeon-min’s, “beautiful.”
Their hands were roving over each other’s skin, and then they were on the floor, which was cold and hard. It didn’t matter. He had Jo Yeong in his arms, and nothing was ever going to matter again, Hyeon-min thought; not like this, not like what it felt like to look at Yeong in the dappling light of the little fires they had lit everywhere. He crawled on top of him and framed his face with his hands, touching his lips to Yeong’s. It took him a moment, because he was overwhelmed. But it was fine; it was great. Yeong was anchoring him, keeping him from flying apart with the sweetness of his kiss, with his hands on Hyeon-min’s buttons, undoing his shirt and jeans.
“Please,” he murmured, as his his thigh knocked against the inside of Hyeon-min’s knee, asking to be held and surrounded and touched and kissed. They wrapped themselves around each other, kissed and rubbed off; Yeong reached down to unzip him, and took them both in hand, and that was how they came the first time, spilling over Hyeon-min’s jeans as they rocked together, with Yeong breathing Hyeon-min’s name into his ear. Hyeon-min got up and took his clothes off after that, too, and Yeong smiled up at him. “Hold on,” he said, then sat up and, kneeling, took Hyeon-min into his mouth and got him hard again, and licked and sucked him and made him come a second time, spilling into and a little out of Yeong’s mouth, which was––god, which was gorgeous, Jo Yeong was gorgeous, and the sight of the heat in his eyes as he sat back on his feels and smiled up at Hyeon-min––he wasn’t recovering from that, Hyeon-min thought, he was never recovering from having Jo Yeong.
Time went hazy and syrupy after that, day clouded over into night, and the world outside blocked by the rain and the winds. Yeong got up and opened the kitchen door, and came back with blankets from some chest where they’d stayed in mothballs, and they lay back down together and curled up like animals, seeking each other’s warmth and softness. Yeong kissed down Hyeon-min’s breastbone and dipped his tongue into his navel, then took Hyeon-min’s hands and kissed them, breathed them in. Hyeon-min laid his palm against Yeong’s cheek, then slid it into his hair and ran his fingers softly over his scalp as Yeong kissed Hyeon-min’s hipbone and then snuggled down against him with a happy sigh.
“I have wanted that,” Hyeon-min said, “for so long.”
“How long?” Yeong asked. ran the tip of his finger over the thin skin at Hyeon-min’s hip, making him shiver.
“Since I saw you, maybe,” Hyeon-min said. “Since you came and loomed over me”––Yeong huffed a laugh––“while I was cutting fruit and said, ‘if you don’t stand straight, you won’t cut fruit straight.’”
“You’re taller than I am,” Yeong said.
“In some ways,” Hyeon-min answered, and then laughed at himself, because he was talking nonsense. Yeong laughed at him too.
“Mr Kang,” he said, and there was something in his eyes that shone out at Hyeon-min. He looked the way Hyeon-min felt, like he had got something he’d not dared to hope for for a long time.
“Chef,” Hyeon-min said softly, and tightened his arm around Yeong’s waist.
“I can’t date an employee,” Yeong said, softly. He didn’t seem to want to let go, either.
“I see,” Hyeon-min said, and breathed deeply, hoping that Yeong wouldn’t feel his heartbeat pick up the pace.
“I know you will,” Yeong said.
“I could,” Hyeon-min said, and then stopped. He thought of Auntie Kim, and of Gyeong, and of his jars of pickling fruit in the pantry at Azaleas.
He swallowed the thought. “I got accepted to Paris Brioche,” he said to Yeong. “My senior’s a director in their city division.”
“But you’re meant to be at Azaleas,” Yeong said.
“And not with you?”
“And with me,” Yeong said.
“I don’t understand,” Hyeon-min said.
EPILOGUE
One year later
“Welcome!” Hyeon-min said from behind the display case, before he looked up and dropped the tongs he was holding, the bowed, flustered, and bent to pick up the tongs before bowing again. “That is, I mean, hi. Noona. Hello.”
Chairman Koo Seo-ryeong of the KU Group, peered at him over her fabulously pouty red lipstick and giant Yves Saint-Laurent sunglasses. “You look well,” she said. “How do you stay thin when you work at a pastry shop?”
“I box,” Hyeon-min said, feebly. “I try to eat a protein-rich diet––sometimes I go for a run––”
“Inspiring,” she said. “Tell me something, which of your co-workers can I steal away to run Paris Brioche?”
“None!” Hyeon-min yelped, but she took off her sunglasses and rolled her eyes.
“Kang Hyeon-min,” she said. “You’re a talented, successful person of integrity who heads a worker’s collective that runs the best bakery in Corea.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“I, on the other hand, am the chairman of Corea’s second largest corporation, a position I acquired after uncovering a vast and dangerous network of financial crimes in the name of my father-in-law and husband, both of whom I have sent to jail, and ousted from the family and company registry in a case that just made legal history,” she said.
“We are not the same,” Hyeon-min agreed, subdued.
“Correct,” she said. “Tell me quickly. I want a woman. Big personality, good with human resources. I’ll give her equity.”
“At Azaleas, we are deeply passionate about the work we do,” Hyeon-min began. “Our food is a reflection of the bonds we have with each other, and our commitment to our own talent and capacity to innovate.”
Koo Seo-ryeong didn’t say anything.
“I’ll think about it,” Hyeon-min said. He stifled a sigh. It’d be a big loss. He, In-young and Yvette had come together to co-own and run Azaleas, and while each of them enjoyed responsibility and took it seriously, losing Yeong’s presence in the kitchen had been a massive challenge. He didn’t like the thought of showing up to work without one or both the others there. But he’d had his big lightning storm, his unlooked-for stroke of luck, last year. His friends deserved their own, even if it came in the form of the scariest woman in Corea.
“There’s a dear,” she said. “I’ll take an iced Americano to go, please.”
“Have a macaron,” Hyeon-min said, going to make her a coffee. “They’re Auntie Seong-ae’s favourites.”
“I don’t eat, Hyeon-min,” Seo-ryeong told him, loftily. “I survive on the heart’s blood of my enemies.”
“Must be abundant,” Hyeon-min muttered; it was like being around Lee Gon––Hyeon-min refused to call him hyungnim––all over again.
“I heard you got married,” she said. "I'll be godmother to the children, if you're having any." She went looking over the display cases, where Hyeon-min had just arranged the morning’s bakes: quiche lorraines and fruit custard buns, milk bread and sausage ppang, granola, made with berries and buts, buckwheat and––
Seo-ryeong frowned. “I read your bakery didn’t do chocolate,” she said.
Hyeon-min smiled. “We found a supplier,” he said.
That weekend, on Jeju:
“Where’s the boss?” Grandma Ho asked Grandma Pan, working fast on packing the soil and manure around the flourishing young cacao trees at the Plum Tree Farm. “He’s usually at work in the greenhouses at this hour.”
“You airhead, it’s a Saturday,” Grandma Ryu said, working faster than either of them. Grandma Ryu generally worked hard and fast, because the boss was a young fool with fairytale ideas. “When I ran a bakery in Busan,” he’d told them, “we never used chocolate, because there’s just no way to buy chocolate ethically––it’s entirely exploitative and criminal. I want to change that. I need your help.” They were pretty words, but being Corea’s first small-batch cacao farmers and chocolate makers was no mean feat. He paid them well and let them have a union, of course. He was a nice boss, as bosses went: a clever and diligent man, and talk had gone around Jeju that he was a national hero.
Still, Grandma Ryu knew that for Plum Tree Farm to succeed, it’d be on her and the other fools with flapping gums working the soil to pull it off.
“What about Saturday?” Grandma Yang, who’d joined them just this week, asked curiously.
“It’s baking day,” Grandma Ryu said, before going back to work. But then tea time came, and Grandma Yang got to sit down with the rest of the girls on their break to eat plum buns and orange zest ice-cream at the test kitchen that the boss’s husband ran when he came down on weekends.
“How do you like it?” the boss asked Grandma Ryu as he stopped by. There was mud on his boots and sap under his fingernails, like always. He usually looked pristine and put together in spite of it––some city-boy magic, she thought. But there was the seed of a melon on his cheek today, and his hair was ruffled out of its usual coif, like someone had run their hands through it.
That was good, Grandma Ryu thought. She didn’t respect Farmer Jo Yeong––she was too old and too stubborn for that––but that didn’t mean she didn’t like him. The door to the kitchen swung open and his tall, handsome husband came out, smiling, with a large platter of yuja cha profiterole and white chocolate ice cream, made from the milk of the cows from the next farm over.
“It’s nice not to be hungry, dear,” she said.
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Foto: Panorama Helsinki / Finland - Dom und Parlamentsplatz (by tap5a)
“We only do this for Fergus!” is a short Outlander Fan Fiction story and my contribution to the Outlander Prompt Exchange (Prompt 3: Fake Relationship AU: Jamie Fraser wants to formally adopt his foster son Fergus, but his application will probably not be approved... unless he is married and/or in a committed relationship. Enter one Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp (Randall?) to this story) @outlanderpromptexchange​
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Chapter 1: Life offers you many surprises
Berlin, Französische Straße Friday, 25 July 2025, 8.50 a.m.
         Five minutes earlier, Claire Elisabeth Beauchamp had entered the large, light gray house, built in the neo-Renaissance style that dominated the whole Forum Fridericianum. In the lobby, which was dominated by marble and dark wood, Claire was greeted by a receptionist. She was asked to sit down for a moment in one of the dark leather armchairs, of which four were grouped around an elegant round table. As she waited, her eyes wandered up the high walls of the entrance hall. A few steps of a staircase led out of the hall through a large glass door that ended in a round arch at the top, reminiscent of a gate entrance. Above it was a large ornament of dark stones inlaid in the light marble. The ornament showed a circle, which, as it seemed, was formed from a belt. The words "Je suis prest" could be read in the curve of the circle and in the center of the ornament was the head of a stately stag, which looked directly at the observer.
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“Französische Straße Berlin” by Jörg Zägel / CC BY-SA (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)
         Claire knew that the French motto meant "I am ready!", but just as she was wondering what the sign meant, an older lady approached her. She introduced herself as Mrs. Fitz-Gibbons. This employee, whose blue costume gave the impression of a uniform, led Claire down various small staircases and long corridors to the room where she was now sitting. Wherever they had gone in this house, it had been extremely quiet. The heavy, dark red carpets that covered all the stairs and hallways, had swallowed every sound of their footsteps. Now she sat in a room whose furnishings were characterized by dark wood and light brass and whose dimensions were more like those of a hall. But it was the antechamber of the CEO’s office of "Fraser & Son International" and behind the large double-winged door that Claire was now looking at was the study of Dr. James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, one of the country's leading business owners.         Until two weeks ago, Claire did not know the man's name or that of his company. She didn't care about the gossip press, which also reported on the local "high society" in Berlin. But then Geillis Duncan, her best friend, came by one evening and showed her a job ad from the "Wirtschaftswoche" newspaper. At first Claire was completely surprised. How did Geillis, who loved to read the gossip press, come to show her an ad from Germany's leading weekly magazine for managers?
         "Dave left it on the kitchen table, and since I didn't have anything else at hand, I looked into it while having breakfast. But now take a look at this job ad!"
Geillis had emphatically pointed to an ad that featured the same ornament as the one she had seen in the lobby.          Claire had started reading. A pedagogically trained caregiver was needed for an almost seven-year-old child. The woman should speak fluent German, English and French. Further foreign language skills were welcome but not required. Furthermore, an extensive general education and an impeccable curriculum vitae (i.e. no entries in the Federal Central Crime Register) were expected. Special emphasis was placed on the knowledge and practice of the literature written by Adolph Freiherr Knigge. Three times the current monthly salary was offered, 30 days paid vacation, free board and lodging, private health insurance 1st class.
         "Just imagine Claire!" the girlfriend had exclaimed enthusiastically, "If you got this job and worked there for a few years, all your problems would be solved!”
         Geillis was right, well, almost. Surely not all her problems would be solved. But the financial problems she had to deal with could at least be significantly reduced by this job. She had to acknowledge that and so Claire, Geillis and her friend Dave met that very evening to write a letter of application. Dave, who worked for a large media company at Potsdamer Platz, immediately agreed to help her with his knowledge. The next day, Claire had sent off the application. Then she had bought an updated edition of "The Knigge" and started reading it. Shortly after, Geillis came and brought her a large pile of current newspaper clippings so Claire could learn all she needed to know about the person of James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser and the family business he ran.
         She learned a lot about the company from various business magazines, but the person of James Fraser seemed almost like a phantom. It seemed to her that this man also didn't care about the so-called "high society" and obviously he didn't deliver any headlines to the gossip press. There was neither an article about him nor a photo of him on the company's homepage. Even a Wikipedia article with his name only gave the basic data (birthday, place of birth, family, studies) and otherwise dealt more with the globally active company. "Fraser & Son International" was one of the few family-owned companies that to this day had no shareholders and, having invested in a wide range of economic sectors, not only survived the financial crisis of 2008 well, but had even emerged from it stronger. In this Wikipedia article, however, there was a photo by James Fraser. It showed him with a group of business leaders at a national conference. However, this picture was over eight years old and also very pixelated. At some point everything turned in Claire's head and she hoped that she had not learned all this information for nothing. If she would at least be invited for a job interview.          Ten days later, she hadn't dared to hope that she would ever hear of Fraser & Son International, and to her surprise, her smartphone rang just before the lunch break began. A Dr. Ned Gowan called on behalf of the company, explained that he was the lawyer for "Fraser & Son International" and asked if she could come for an interview at the company's headquarters two days later at 9:00 am. She told him that she had to ask her department head to give her time off first and would call back. As the summer vacation period was over, it was no problem to get a day off and so she called Dr Gowan fifteen minutes later and agreed to meet him (and Dr. Fraser!) two days later. Claire had to be extremely restrained not to cheer out loud. This would have immediately drawn the attention of her colleagues in the department, and she definitely did not want to tell them about it. During lunch break, she left the clinic and sat down on a bench in a nearby park. From there she called Geillis and told her the good news. Right after the end of her shift, the friends met in the parking lot of the clinic to go into town together and pick out a suitable "outfit" for Claire's job interview. Geillis, who had worked as a freelance fashion consultant for many years before she met "the rich Dave", dragged her friend directly to the fashion department of the KaDeWe. There, after a while, they found a muted dark green business costume that emphasized Claire's figure but still looked respectable.
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“Kaufhaus des Westens (KaDeWe) - Foto by Avi1111 dr. avishai teicher / CC BY-SA (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)
         "That's perfect," exclaimed Geillis as Claire stepped out of the dressing room.          "Yes, perfectly too expensive for me. Have you seen the price?"          "Don't worry about that," Geillis replied. Then she whispered:          "I'll pay for it. If the job doesn't work out, we'll just give it back afterwards. And if you get the job and want to keep it, you'll give me the money back when you get your first salary.”
         They bought the costume and also a matching blouse and shoes. Claire was not allowed to think about the amount of money they had spent within a few hours or she would get sick.          But that was all forgotten at that moment. Now it was time to concentrate and make a good impression.          Mrs. Fitz-Gibbons had led her into this room and instructed her to use one of the twelve large brown leather armchairs. With the words          "You will be called in when it is your turn,"          she had said goodbye.          Claire had taken a seat and scanned the room as inconspicuously as possible. Seven other women sat in leather armchairs of the same type, which were set up on three side walls of the room, each separated by a small table. On the tables were glasses and bottles of mineral water, but none of the other women had made use of them. Claire had not intended to drink anything either. She was far too excited to drink, and she was afraid that she might have to go to the bathroom in the middle of her upcoming job interview. Slowly, her gaze wandered across the light-colored carpet to that large, two-winged mahogany wooden door. On each of the wings was a coat of arms, divided into four sections. On the upper left and the lower right quarter were three white flowers on a blue background. The upper right and the lower left quarter each showed three red, pointed crowns on a white background. Behind this door, Claire assumed, must be the director's room. What would she expect there? She did not know. Why had she only gotten involved in this thing that Geilis Duncan had suggested to her? Out of desperation? She wasn't sure. Only one thing was sure: she had never thought that she would have to have another job interview at the age of almost 30. But that was her life. Much of what had happened in her life had not been planned, nor had she ever expected her life to be like that.          Claire Elisabeth Beauchamp, almost divorced Randall, had lost her parents in a car accident when she was five years old. For the next fifteen years she was raised in the loving care of her uncle 'Lamb'. Dr. Quentin Lambert Beauchamp, an archaeologist and Egyptologist whose research focus was on the Old Kingdom of Egypt and who was highly revered by his students, came to Berlin in 2015, where he taught at Humboldt University in the last years before his retirement. There Claire had also met her future husband, Dr. Frank Randall. He had been assigned to her uncle as a research assistant. Randall had courted her like no man before and they had already married in May 2016. The first four years of their marriage had gone in a way that Claire would still describe as happy today. Although, she was no longer quite so sure. What did happiness actually mean? Was there a definition for this term? And even if there was a definition for the term "happiness", was it really valid for all people? In any case, the first four years of her marriage had not been very negative. Together they had made regular trips to Paris, Madrid, Prague, Budapest, Dubrovnik, Palermo, Venice, Turin, Marseille, Amsterdam, Florence, Milan, Barcelona and Bruges.
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“Palermo/Sizilien” by  nataliaaggiato 
         Claire enjoyed getting to know these cities and experiencing their cultural particularities. When Lambert Beauchamp died unexpectedly in February 2019 as a result of a stroke, Frank had been kind and, in her opinion, very sensitive to her needs. But in the spring of 2020, a strange development had set in with him. At first Claire had blamed it on the effects of the corona pandemic. After the start of the lockdown, Frank was mainly at home, giving lectures via Zoom and otherwise writing a new book on the history of the Scottish Jacobite uprising in 1745. Claire, on the other hand, was working as a nurse in the children's clinic of Berlin's Charité hospital, as she had been before the crisis. Frank had insisted that Claire should give up her job. The possibility that she could become infected with the virus seemed too high to him. But Claire could not bring it over her heart to leave her fellow nurses alone, especially in such a severe time, and thanks to the strictly observed precautions she got through this difficult time without any problems. While she could be happy about the successes in her profession, the problems in her marriage with Frank seemed to become bigger and bigger. At some point, she felt that Frank was becoming more and more monosyllabic and that they were drifting apart rapidly. But evem then she thought this was a temporary phase that would end after the pandemic at the latest. At least she hoped so. When a vaccine against the virus was finally found in July 2021 and became available in December 2021, Claire breathed a sigh of relief. She and Frank would get vaccinated and then they could travel again. This would change Frank's mind and make her marriage blossom again. But it all turned out differently. Once they were vaccinated, Frank suddenly didn't feel like traveling anymore. Again and again he put off his work. Regularly he worked until late at night at the university and sometimes he spent whole nights there. It was always about important analyses, which he published in specialist publications and for which there were tight deadlines. Even on evenings when Claire was off, he was rarely at home, and whenever she tried to initiate a little marital tenderness, he was too tired for that. In the spring of 2022, they had slept together for the last time. A few months later, Frank had stopped kissing her goodbye, as he usually did when he left the house.          What happened then had the potential to throw her completely off track. By the fall of 2022, a hunch that Claire had suppressed again and again had been confirmed. Frank had a mistress. When she returned from her work at the children's hospital one evening in October, she saw Frank saying goodbye to a slender blonde at the door of their shared house, kissing her intensely. She stood there frozen. Everything inside her urged her to turn around and run away. But then the anger that built up within her gained the upper hand. Like a burning ray that shot out of her stomach through her whole body, he took a breath. She ran to the front door, unlocked it and found Frank standing at the sink in the kitchen, where he was just rinsing out two wine glasses. He turned to her in surprise, but before he could say a word, Claire's purse hit him in the left half of his face with full force. Frank had lost his balance and had fallen over. His glasses had come off his head and had broken when he hit the kitchen floor. Claire no longer knew what insults she had used to call him. Frank had picked himself up and collected the parts of his glasses. He had not even set out to explain the situation or apologize.Claire would not have listened to him either. She had turned on her foot and had run into the shared bedroom. When she arrived there, she had taken Frank's bed linen, run back downstairs with it and threw it all into his study. Then she ran back into the bedroom again and locked herself inside. She did not know how long she had cried angrily. But before she had fallen asleep, she had made a plan. The next morning she went on the morning shift. During a break she called a lawyer and that same afternoon she went to see her to discuss the formalities of a divorce.
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“Brille” by  jottbe
         Frank had had the injuries Claire had inflicted on him treated, but had not reported them to the police. It was only later that he let it show that he had orchestrated the whole situation. He had simply been too cowardly to have a conversation with her about a divorce, as two adults normally do. He probably wanted to make her feel guilty, too. Claire was convinced of that, at least. Frank had always been against her going back to work. When she accepted the job at the children's hospital a year after their wedding, he had expressed himself very negatively about it. What kind of impression would it leave on his colleagues if the wife of a prospective professor went to work? And in the last year of their marriage he had not missed any opportunity to tell her how much he felt neglected.            It took three months before Claire was able to move into a small room in one of the Charité nurses' homes. During these three months she did everything she could to avoid Frank as much as possible. Anything she couldn't take with her to the nurses' home, she stored in her friend Geillis Duncan's basement. Claire hoped that the divorce would be finalized in October 2023 after the obligatory year of separation and that she could finally start a new life. But this time, too, everything turned out differently than she had hoped.          It was a rainy autumn day in September 2023 and it was to be the last day in the life of Dr. Frank Randall. On a country road near Lübeck, where he had attended a conference for historians, Frank's car skidded for some unknown reason. The car broke through the barrier and then came to a halt in a field. There it was discovered the next morning by a farmer. When the police arrived at the scene of the accident, Dr. Frank Randall was strapped in the seat belt and sat in the driver's seat as if nothing had happened. He was uninjured and even still wearing his hat. But Frank Randall was dead. An autopsy performed later revealed that Frank had had a heart attack that caused him to lose control of the car, causing it to veer off the road. It was, as the police later said, very lucky that no other car had been hit. Claire was shaken.
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“Lübeck”  by scholty1970 
         But an even greater shock struck her on the day of the reading of the will. On that day, the notary told her that she would not inherit any money, only debts from Frank. Her still-husband had bought a condominium for his mistress for 250,000 euros, which he had signed over to her. For this gift Frank had gone into debt and Claire, who was still married to him by law, inherited his debts. It was one big nightmare. Although Claire had also inherited the rights to Frank's books, these reference books sold only in very manageable numbers and brought in little money. With her salary as a pediatric nurse, it would take her decades to pay off Frank's debts. Meanwhile, Sandy Travers, this  bleached ...., was sitting in her apartment, probably enjoying herself with her next lover. Once again the anger about Frank rose in Claire's heart, but before she could think about him any further, a familiar voice tore her from these thoughts. 
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Make ME
Title: Make Me Creator: Purple_ducky00 Rating: Teen Warnings: none applicable Relationship: Sam/bucky Square Filled: O3 – Undercover Mission for @samwilsonbingo Summary: Sam and Bucky get under each other’s skin, and neither of them can stand the other. How long til these idiots learn that it’s not hate, but love between them? Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29754915
Prompted from this post by @rambeaus
“Who died and made you king?” Bucky grumbles.
 Sam throws up his hands in annoyance. “For fuck’s sake Barnes! You know this is the best way to do this!”
 “No, I don’t! This way has many flaws. The slightest movement could set off a chain reaction of…” Bucky’s tirade is cut off by Natasha walking between them with sterile gloves and picking up the mouse trap, sticking the remains of the mouse and the trap in a plastic bag.  She rolls her eyes at them and walks out of the kitchen.
“Do you see what you just did there? This could have all been taken care of if you just listened to me!” Sam growls.
 Smirking Bucky turns away. “Bite me.”
 Sam’s temper flares as he watches Bucky walk away. What is it about the soldier that makes Sam’s blood boil? Every interaction they have ends in an argument… And for some reason, Rhodes had put them on the same team! When a few deep breaths don’t calm him down, Sam heads to the gym. Might as well let out some aggression on something he can’t hurt.
 ++++++++ “What were you thinking putting those two on the same team?” Tony laughs as he lays down in his husband’s lap. “The UST is off the charts. They are going to finally snap and either kill or fuck each other.”
 Rhodey shakes his head. “I know. And that’s why I put them on the same team. I’m sick and tired of them skirting around the issue. No use delaying the inevitable. They both have too much of a sense of duty to not complete the mission, and I’m going to assign a mission leader to go with them to keep them on track. Now, who should that sucker be?”
 “I would tell you Steve because I love trolling him, but he would only stop them from doing either. Give the job to Sharon. She deserves it after the whole blow-dryer incident.”
 “Tony, that was five years ago.”
 The retired superhero sits up to glare at Rhodey. “I’m still not over it.”
 “Ok, ok. I’ll send Sharon. She’s close with them anyways. Hopefully, she knocks some sense into them.” Rhodey concedes.
  +++++++++++++++++
Sam and Bucky are seated across the table from each other in the conference room, listening to Sharon’s plan. “So, we’re going undercover as actors in the Bachelorette.  We have intel that the host of the show is somehow funneling contraband drugs and black-market arms for HYDRA. Bucky, Tony made you a flesh-like sleeve for your arm, and we are all going to be using holomasks to cover our identity. Do you both have your characters memorized?”
 “Yes. I am Tucker Acktenbee. Raised by my mother and her sisters, I know how to appeal to the feminine side. Growing up in Massachusetts, I love seafood and cranberry jam and pies. Before I applied here, I graduated from LSU with a bachelor’s degree in English. I am twenty-six, and my birthday is October 19.” Bucky says as he pulls the holomask over his face. He looks like a completely different person.
 Sam rolls his eyes and does the same. “Hey, baby. My name is Joshua Perkins. Born and raised in New Orleans, I also share an affinity for seafood, but my insides can handle the spice. No one’s going to want a bland piece of white bread like Tucker when this bombshell is available. With a master’s degree in psychology, I’m here to help with whatever emotional needs a woman has. I’ll be twenty-seven on April 15th.”
 “Good. Good.” Sharon nods. “Just so you remember, I am going to be in the camera crew so my ears will be open for any rumors. Pack your stuff. We have to be on set in 24 hours to rehearse.”
 “I don’t know about you, Barnes, but I’m going to win that Bachelorette’s heart.” Sam nudges Bucky with his shoulder.
 “Better a fake relationship than none for you, I guess.”
 This man makes him so angry! “Fuck you.”
 “Nah, better leave that for Miss Bachelorette.” Bucky sends him a syrupy grin and walks out of the room before Sam can reply.
 “Arrrgh!” He groans, and Sharon looks at him strangely. “Sorry, Shar. He just gets under my skin so easily. I just want to strangle him sometimes!”
“Yeah… strangle him…” She nods slowly.
 “What are you implying?”
 Raising her hands in surrender, Sharon backs up. “Hey, I’m not kink shaming. You do you, my friend. Just don’t tell me about it.” She picks up her clipboard and tablet. “Wheels up in nine hours.”
  Kink shame? What the fuck? Needless to say, Sam is very confused.  There is nothing kinky about his and Bucky’s relationship. They clash at every turn. If he slammed the door when he stormed out of the room, he’ll never admit it.
 ++++++++++++
“Hello and welcome to The Bachelorette! I am your host, Chris Harrison. Join me as we find this year’s Bachelorette a husband. At age 28, Penelope Darnea previously worked in insurance but is looking to branch out to another occupation. She loves baseball and the beach and is always down for a margarita. Now, let’s take you to our woman of the hour as she greets the contestants!”
 Bucky is one of the first contestants to the mansion. Penelope Darnea is a beautiful woman with societal “perfect” features. As he walks up the stairs to the mansion, she greets him. “Hello, welcome to the mansion! Tucker Acktenbee?”
 “Yes, it is.“  Bucky leans down to kiss her hand. “Can I tell you just how ravishing you look? The man you choose will be incredibly lucky indeed.”
 Blushing, Penelope waves him on. “I can tell that you’re a charmer.” Bucky is escorted to a room in the mansion as Ms. Darnea greets the next contestant. He uses the time he has to think about the mission. Somehow, they have to act as contestants for the Bachelorette and figure out how they are funneling the money without the network realizing. And he has to do it with Sam.
 His therapist once asked him “What does Sam do that gets on your nerves?”
 “The better question is what does he do that doesn’t get on my nerves?” Bucky had replied. They always have the stupidest of arguments about the most meaningless things. Both of them hate to lose. His head perks up when he hears someone in the hall. “Here is your room, Mr. Perkins. If you need anything, please ring the bell.” The host goes through everything as he did in Bucky’s room.
  “Thank you, sir. Much appreciated.” Oh fuck. That’s Sam’s voice. Bucky understands why they would put Sam beside him in case a quick update to the mission is needed, but to hear that voice at all times of the day? He can only take so much torture. Thankfully, a host comes to get him for an “exclusive” interview. Bucky stays true to his character but does not miss Sharon manning the camera.
 After the interview, he is told that he can fraternize with the other contestants, but he cannot use someone else’s set time with the Bachelorette for his own. That is an instant disqualification. Bucky confirms his understanding and returns to his room. Changing into a new outfit, he decides to take a walk through the house. He’ll let Sam come to him first.
 ++++++++++++++++++
A week goes by, and the second rose ceremony is coming up. Both Sam and Bucky make sure to spend time with Ms. Darnea, but also meet up in Bucky or Sam’s room every night to see if they’ve seen anything suspicious.
 Bucky has kept a close eye on the host but so far nothing looks fishy. Sam has been scanning other cast and crew members and has come up with nothing. They are quickly running out of options, but there are still a good portion of contestants left.
 “Why don’t we check the host’s quarters? He has to have something there.” Bucky suggests. That was the dumbest fucking thing Sam has ever heard in his life. “Dude. There are cameras everywhere. If we get caught, our cover is blown. We have to just wait for some kind of shipment to get here. The set can’t have had enough food stocked for a month.”
 “But what if we can’t wait that long? What if he’s getting stuff out another way? Then HYDRA has supplies, and they’ll hurt more people. We can’t let them do that.”
 Sam scoffs. “What do you think they have? Air ducts under the mansion?”
 “Go fuck yourself.” Bucky gives him the finger.
 “Make me.”
 Bucky’s eyes darken in anger. “I just might….” He cannot finish his sentence before there’re is a knock on the door.
 “Mr. Perkins, your date is set up.”  Someone calls through the door.
 “Now if you’ll excuse me,” Sam smirks and straightens his collar, “I have a woman to seduce Tah tah! Have fun!” And then he sashays out, enjoying the look of pure anger on “Tucker’s” face.
 He walks down the hallway with the camera crew following him to the porch outside where Penelope is waiting. “Well Joshua, what date do you have planned for us tonight?”
 “Well, my lady, you say you like excitement, correct? I have bought us tickets for skydiving. Does that sound enjoyable to you? Once done, we will grab dinner at that new Italian restaurant, Sal’s, I think? They serve the best tiramisu.”
 “Oh, that sounds lovely.” Penelope purrs, rubbing his arm with her hand.
 Crooking his elbow, Sam offers his arm. “Shall we go?”
 It is long after midnight when the couple returns from the restaurant. Sam looks up and sees the curtains are halfway open in Bucky’s room. That means he has some news. “I dd not realize they like you stay the entire night.” Penelope marvels. “Wow, Joshua, you are so cultured.”
 “Oh, it’s nothing. “Sam waves it off. “Just something I’ve picked up in my travels. Have a good night Beautiful. I hope to see you again tomorrow. Water aerobics class?”
  “Why yes. I do love water aerobics.” The bachelorette pokes his shoulder with hard, bony fingers. It hurts! Taking his leave of the lovely Bachelorette, he goes back to his room until the cameras leave. Then he walks over to Bucky’s, who updates him on the next shipment coming in. They will be ready then.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++
It is the day after the latest Rose Ceremony. There are only five contestants left. We have gathered these remaining contenders to give another “exclusive” interview. “So how are you feeling about the contest?” The host asks each participant in their interviews. Here are the responses.
 “I’m feeling pretty good about it. Ellie and I have had many a good date together. I do think she will choose me in the end.” Carlton Hayweather comments.
 Nathan Abbey snorts. “Well, there are five of us left, so she can only pick one, right? And the amount of time Perkins and Acktenbee spend in each other’s rooms, we really don’t have to worry about them. So basically, there’s three of us.”
 “I’m feeling confidant,” Joshua Perkins leans back in his chair. “I believe I have made her laugh the most, and I do believe humor and friendship are major keys in a relationship.”
 Terrance Filippo tilts his head. “Eh, if I win, I win. If I don’t, I don’t.”
 But it’s Tucker Acktenbee who wins the hearts of most watchers. “Penelope is a very strong woman. I trust that she knows who is best for her. I do hope it is me, of course, but should she choose another, we must all concede fair and square. We have to stop assuming we know what women want or need. She is capable of knowing it herself, and I wish her the best.”
 Are you excited for the next round? I am!
 ++++++++++
“Tucker, Joshua? The producers of the show would like to meet with you.” An event manager pulls them from the pool area.
 When they arrive in the office, the head producer, Carole Teller, claps her hands. “Great acting out there! Have you seen this interview?” She shoves a tablet in front of their faces. Nathan Abbey’s face is centered on the screen.
 “Oh, he thinks we’re gay?” Bucky asks.
 “Yes, and if you are, we don’t discriminate, although I wonder why you’re here if you are. But it doesn’t matter. The question is, would you be able to pretend at least for the screen? I don’t mean a full make-out session, but maybe the camera catches a glimpse of you two in the corner. Ratings will go up, and there will be added drama.”
 Bucky is about to object when Sam shrugs. “Sure. We can do that. Is that all you need?”
 “Yes. Thank you for coming in. Good work out there!” She chirps and then turns her full attention onto something else.
 “I guess we’re dismissed.” Sam shrugs. “Come back to my room. We have to strategize.”
 Once they get back to Sam’s room, Bucky pushes Sam up against the wall. “What the fuck did you agree to that for?” He hisses. “First of all, that means the show is queerbaiting and I don’t like that! Second of all, how is this going to help us?”
  “We can hide in little alleyways and closets. Who knows what clues we could find there? Do you hate me that much that we can’t play nice and kissy for a week or so?”
 “I can kiss you. I am a great actor, thank you very much.” Bucky leaves go of Sam.
 “Then do it. Kiss me.” Sam challenges. “Make me.” Bucky thinks the conversation would be ended there, but Sam grabs him by the face and plants a deep kiss on this lip. Caught off guard, Bucky is not ready for that, but quickly kisses Sam back.
 “Wow. That wasn’t so bad after all.” Sam says, wiping his face with his sleeve.
 Bucky scratches the back of his head. “Not… too… bad, I guess.”
 Now that one kiss has been made, many more are to come. Bucky and Sam take advantage of their “hidden relationship” to sneak into closets and hallways. They find that the next shipment will be coming in early the next morning.
 Bucky is taken away to get ready for his date. The dinner and show are quite enjoyable, and Penelope asks him back to her room. Bucky agrees. Once inside the door with the cameras off, she pushes him to a machine and flips the switch. The electricity runs through him and holds him to the machine. Tsk what am I going to do with you?” Penelope asks. “You shouldn’t have come, Asset.”
  “You can’t…. control me. The words don’t…. work anymore.” Bucky forces out through his pain.
 “True that might be, but I can break you. My mother broke you the first time. Don’t think I don’t have her notes.” She smiles wickedly. “Too bad you had to snoop in places you just didn’t belong. Now I’m going to take you and all my goods< and I’m taking you back to base where we can finish our experiments. How does that sound?”
 “Like we got it all on tape!” Sam bursts through the door. “Hands up Lady. We’ve got you.” He rips off his holomask, showing his face.
 “Drop the gun, or I electrocute him.” Penelope warns.
  Sam puts the gun on the floor and slides it halfway over to the villainess. As she bends down to get it, Bucky summons his strength to break free of the current and kicks her. Immediately, Sam tackles Penelope to the ground and wrestles the switch from her, accidentally setting it on high. Bucky convulses and screams. In panic mode, Sam clicks off the current and frees Bucky, who falls to the ground, unmoving. Quickly chaining the Bachelorette to the machine, Sam works on reviving Bucky. “Bucky! No! You can’t die. I just realized that I love you, and if you don’t wake up and get up, so help me I will kill you myself.”
  Bucky’s lips move minutely, and he whispers something. Sam leans down to heard Faintly, Bucky whispers with a grin, “Make me.”.
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Breakable Heaven (pt. II) - p.l. dubois
Part I
Part two is here! Things start to heat up in this chapter, exciting stuff’s happening! I hope you guys like reading it as much as I’m loving writing - please slide into my inbox, let me know what you think! Reblogs are amazing too, it’s how we know people are liking what we’re putting out and helps to reach more people! (Plus it’s one of the joys of my life to read the tags. Seriously, so much fun.)
Part II (7.2k)
June 18 (fri)
“If we’re going to do this, we’ve got to sell it,” Laurel said, running a hand through her hair. “The fewer people who know the truth, the better.” 
Pierre nodded. “Agreed.” He sat back in his chair. “What do you think your parents will say?” 
Laurel laughed. “Uh, they think I’m seeing someone, actually.”
 “Oh?” 
“Yeah,” she nodded, “it was easier to just say I had a boyfriend than deal with their endless pestering, you know?” 
“So they’d buy it if you just told them you were getting married?” 
She shrugged. “I think so. You know we’re not particularly close, they haven’t met any of my boyfriends since I was in high school. So if I told them I was engaged, I don’t think they’d bat an eye, if I’m honest.” Pierre could sense there was more to the story, more that she wasn’t telling him, but he didn’t want to press. “What about yours?” she asked. 
“Well, we’ve got a couple options,” Pierre said, cracking a smile and leaning back into the cushions. “It was a drunken mistake.” 
She raised her eyebrows. “Then they’d just tell us to get a divorce.” 
“We fell in love after the first date.”
“Even less believable,” Laurel said, the corner of her lip twitching. 
“Or…,” Pierre said, kicking his feet up on the ottoman, a wicked grin on his face, “I got you pregnant and want to do the right thing.” 
Laurel snorted. “Little issue there.” 
“What?” 
“I’m not pregnant.”
Pierre ducked his head, blushing. “Right. There’s that.”
She nodded. “There’s that.” She tapped her fingers on the coffee table. “I’ve got it.” Pierre looked up. “We’ve been friends for a long time, couple years or something. Madeline went to York, so we met when you and Patrice came to visit. We realized we had feelings for each other a few months ago, everything moved super quickly since we already knew each other and had that foundation.”
“So we thought ‘why wait,’” Pierre finished. 
“Exactly,” Laurel said. “Why wait, if we already knew.”
“It’s a classic friends-to-lovers story, a tale as old as time,” he sighed wistfully. 
Laurel slapped his shoulder. “This is serious,” she said, but she was smiling all the same. “Okay, so we’ve at least got that worked out. Madeline and Patrice will obviously know, but other than that…” She trailed off. 
He nodded, and an understanding passed between them. “It’s a need-to-know basis.”
“It is.” Laurel shifted her laptop on the coffee table, squeezing closer to Pierre so he could see the screen. “So, we have to go down to the courthouse for a meeting with the court clerk who will perform the ceremony, bring birth certificates and ID, and —”
He glanced over at Laurel, her tongue caught between her teeth. “And?”
“You have to publish a declaration of intent to marry twenty days before the wedding. Online. In public.” 
Pierre looked oblivious. “So?”
Laurel rolled her eyes. “So, it has the date of the wedding and our full names and our whole entire addresses. And in case you’ve forgotten, you’re kind of a professional hockey player.” 
He shrugged. “All due respect, Laurel, but,” he glanced at the website, “who actually checks these things?” He had a point there, she thought, but she wasn’t about to let him win. 
“But your address, you’re not worried about that getting out there?”
“Maybe a little,” he admitted. “But my building’s got a receptionist and I’ve got locks on my doors. And plus,” Pierre added, “I’ve really never had much of a problem flying under the radar here. When I go back home, back to the suburbs, sure. And a little bit in Columbus, obviously. But there’s what, two million people in Montréal? I’m not on the Habs, so even the hockey fans here really couldn’t care less.”
She laughed. “Fair enough. Also, uh, living situation. We should probably talk about that.” 
“You’re moving in with me?” He said it like a question, but not as if it was something that would surprise him, or something he was opposed to. He said it like it was something he already knew the answer to. “I’ve got three rooms, plenty of space, Phil and Georgia would love to have a new sister. You and Piper would fit right in,” he said, reaching down to scratch her behind the ears. “Plus it’s got a great gym in the lobby, you can cancel your membership to that seedy place downtown with that trainer who always stares at you when you do weights.” Laurel’s ears perked up; she was surprised he remembered. She did have a gym downtown that she tried to make it to a few times a week, and there was that one creepy trainer, but she had only mentioned it to him once in passing. “Plus it has hot yoga once a week, and I know you’ve been dying to try.” That much was true. 
“At least let me help pay for rent,” she tried to bargain. 
“Nope!” he said, wincing a second later. “I didn’t mean it in like a patronizing way, I know you’re perfectly capable of pulling your own weight. I meant like I bought it outright, so there’s no rent to be paid. I’ll let you pay the electricity bill if you want?”
Laurel grinned. “That would make me feel better, thank you.” After looking at her computer for a minute, she spoke again. “How long have you had the apartment for?”
Pierre scratched his chin. “Couple years? I bought it after signing the contract this year. Some guys buy a Lamborghini, I bought an apartment. I don’t own the place in Columbus though.”
“How come?” Laurel asked, though she was pretty sure she already knew the answer. 
“Even with the contract, so much is up in the air. I could get traded in the middle of the season, or in the summer or whenever, and I don’t want to have just bought a house when I’ve got to move to Vancouver or wherever when the ink hasn’t even dried on the papers.”
This time, it was Laurel’s turn to leave with an unsaid question. “Is tomorrow good? To go down and get everything squared away at the courthouse?”
He bobbed his head. “Yeah, I’ve got some off-ice training in the morning, but any time after noon or so is good for me.”
Laurel nodded, making a few taps on her computer. “Okay, I’ve got us booked in at one, that good?”
“Yeah,” Pierre said, nodding in affirmation. “Now I’ve got to come up with an excuse to drive to my parents’ and get my birth certificate.”
---
It didn’t actually turn out to be all that difficult for Pierre; he made the drive back to Saint-Agathe-des-Monts later that afternoon, telling his parents he needed it to renew his health insurance card. He wasn’t sure they actually believed him, but his mom didn’t bat an eye before handing it over. Pierre spent the rest of the evening at home, cooking pasta, petting the dogs, and wondering what in the hell he had agreed to. He wasn’t second-guessing himself, not by a long-shot, but when she clicked that button to book their appointment, the gravity of the situation finally started to hit him. In less than a month, he was going to be getting married. 
June 19 (sat) 
Laurel met Pierre on the steps of the Montréal courthouse at a quarter to one the next day, clutching the straps of her tote like a lifeline. “Woah, Laurel, you’re holding that like you’ve got a bomb in there,” Pierre said. 
She flashed him a nervous smile. “No bomb, just very official very legal documents. Don’t want to lose it.” 
He held out his hand. “You ready?” 
Laurel was surprised at the gesture. Not shocked that he was being kind, but that he was cognizant enough to recognize that she was nervous, and wanted to do something about it. She took his hand. “Ready.”
It only took a minute to find the office, and a few more before the receptionist called them back to the clerk’s office. She introduced herself as Juliette Bergeron, congratulated them on their engagement, and asked to see the paperwork. Passports and birth certificates were handed over, signatures were signed on dotted lines, and half an hour later, they walked out of the courthouse with an appointment for a wedding on July 10. 
“Well, there’s that crossed off the checklist,” Laurel said, leaning up against the handrails as they stood on the courthouse steps. They had actually made a real checklist, a series of tasks on a shared Notes page of everything that needed to be completed before the wedding. Book the ceremony and post the public notice were done, but there were still a dozen-odd tasks left before they actually could get married. Starting with telling their parents. While they had developed as airtight a cover story as she supposed one could when they were committing what would charitably be referred to as citizenship fraud, they had agreed it was going to be far less messy to “come clean” as fiancés than after the wedding. Laurel had wanted to text them the news, or call so early they’d still be asleep and she could just avoid the conversation altogether, but Pierre had convinced her to FaceTime. “I know you guys aren’t super close, but I think they deserve that much, Laurel,” he had said, and he was right. Deep down, she knew he was right. 
“Ready?” Pierre asked, rubbing her back soothingly. 
Laurel flashed him a tight smile before pressing her mom’s contact. “As I’ll ever be.” Three agonizingly long rings later, her mom picked up. 
“Laurel? What are you doing calling, honey? Is everything okay?”
She let out a nervous giggle. “Does something have to be wrong for me to call my parents?”
“No,” Cheryl clucked, “but to be fair, you don’t call often.”
Laurel rubbed the back of her neck in discomfort. “That’s true. Uh, anyways, is dad there?”
“He’s in the kitchen,” her mom said, starting to catch onto the fact that maybe this wasn’t quite your run-of-the-mill check-in call. “What’s this all about, pumpkin?” 
The old term of endearment, one she hadn’t heard in years, brought tears to the corners of her eyes. “Can you call him in? I’d rather tell you both at the same time.”
Cheryl nodded, worry crossing her brow. “Doug? Laurel’s on the phone, she’s got something to tell us. Sounds important.”
“Coming,” Laurel heard her dad say in the background. A moment later, he padded into view. “Hey, Laurel, Mom said you’ve got some news?” 
Laurel nodded. “Yeah, just something I thought you guys should know. It’s not bad, you’re just going to be surprised, so I need you to keep an open mind, okay?”
“Who is he?” Doug asked, rubbing his forehead with an exasperated expression. 
She blanched. “He? Who’s he?” There’s no way he guessed...right?
“The jackass who got you pregnant, who else?” 
Laurel almost choked on her own spit. “Pregnant? Who said I’m pregnant? I’m not pregnant!”
Both of her parents let out an audible sigh of relief. “Well, Laurel, what conclusion did you expect us to jump to when you called us out of the blue and said you had important news?”
Laurel bit her lip; they had a point. “Fair. But, uh, rest assured, I’m not pregnant. I’m smarter than that.” She paused, steeling her nerves. “Remember that guy I told you I was seeing a few months ago?”
Her mom squinted like she was looking into the sun. “Vaguely? You didn’t really tell us much about him. Just that he was tall, nice, you met through friends.” It was a believable enough explanation back then, and Laurel was beyond grateful it dovetailed perfectly into the story she and Pierre had conjured up. “You didn’t even tell us his name.”
Laurel reached out her free hand, the one that wasn’t holding the phone, and made a grabby motion for his hand. He interlaced his fingers with hers. “Well, his name’s Pierre-Luc Dubois—”
Doug interrupted. “Very French.”
She grimaced. “I do live in Québec, Dad. But anyways, his name’s Pierre-Luc Dubois and we’re getting married.”
They sat still on the other end of the call, so still that if it weren’t for her mom’s rapid blinking she would have thought the call had been dropped. “Married?” her mom asked softly. 
“Yes, married.”
“How long have you even been seeing each other?” Doug asked, dumbfounded. 
“A little under six months. I know it’s not long, and I know it seems sudden, but we’ve known each other for a long time, you know? We met when I was still back in Toronto at university, Madeline introduced us.” Her parents nodded; Madeline, they knew. Madeline, they had met. Madeline, they trusted. “And we finally realized a little bit after New Year’s that we had feelings for each other, and it’s sort of been zero to a hundred ever since. We thought, if we knew we loved each other and we knew we were done looking, then what was the point of waiting for a year or two for it to be a ‘socially acceptable’ time to get married.” Laurel finished. 
Cheryl wrapped her hands around her mug of tea, eyelids still shooting rapid-fire blinks at the screen. “But, Laurel, we haven’t even met this boy, we barely know anything about him!”
Pierre squeezed her hand. “Actually, he’s just off-camera. Want to say hi, P?” 
He walked into view, waving politely at the screen. “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Klerken, it’s so nice to finally meet you. Laurel’s had nothing but wonderful things to say.” A little flattery never hurt anybody, he thought. 
“Lovely to meet you, Pierre-Luc,” Cheryl said. “Forgive us if we’re still a little shocked, Laurel’s not normally one to spring things on us like this.”
He laughed. “Perfectly fair. I’m sorry we haven’t had a chance to meet until now, but we’ve been trying to get used to the idea ourselves.”
Her dad leaned forward from his spot in the couch, giving Pierre as much of a once-over as he could from nearly 1500 miles away. “I’m not able to give you the normal talking-to I have with any of the other boys Laurel or Maggie have introduced us to, so this is going to have to do.” Maggie? Laurel had primed Pierre for the inevitable grilling, telling him that if it was anything like it had been in the past, it would be all bark and no bite. “So what do you do for work, Pierre-Luc?”
“I’m a professional hockey player in the NHL, I play for the Columbus Blue Jackets.” 
Doug’s eyebrows went up. As much of a front as he tried to put up, he was still a middle-aged man from Minnesota, and there were few things that impressed middle-aged men from Minnesota more than their daughters being suddenly engaged to NHL players. “NHL, huh? That’s very impressive. So you’re from Québec, then?”
“Yes, sir,” Pierre answered. “My hometown’s a little outside of the city, but I live in Montréal now. My mom’s from Georgia, though, so I’ve got dual citizenship and some family still down there.” 
Her parents didn’t take too kindly to the news that the wedding was in three weeks, since it was too tight a fit to be able to get time off, but promised to visit later in the summer to make a proper introduction to their new son-in-law. Her father continued to pepper him with questions about his hobbies, family, and how he takes his steak — according to the Doug Klerken rules, any man who orders anything above medium is not to be trusted — until Laurel mercifully cut him off, telling her parents they were late to meet up with some friends. “That wasn’t so bad,” Pierre said as Laurel slipped her phone into her purse, immediately plugging it into her portable charger as the FaceTime had drained all but 18% of her battery. 
Laurel made a face. “They’re good people and they care about me, but…” She trailed off. “They never really understood why I’d want anything more than I was given. Anything more than the status quo. And it’s just caused a lot of friction between us.” Her eyes flashed as she remembered something. “One more thing.” Pierre’s ears perked up. “If and when you ever talk to my parents again, just...don’t bring up politics.” Laurel grimaced. 
“Republicans?” he asked sympathetically. 
She nodded. “Trump-supporting Republicans. It’s another one of the reasons we don’t talk much anymore. I’m liberal, I’d probably be NDP if I could vote here, and we just don’t share the same values on a lot of things.”
“That’s got to be pretty rough on you,” Pierre said.
“Yeah,” Laurel admitted. “Probably more than I want to let on, but I think it helps that I’m able to get some distance.”
Pierre took a deep breath in. “Your, uh, your dad mentioned something that I wanted to ask you about.” 
Shit. Laurel had been able to avoid the conversation for long enough, but she was beginning to push her luck, and she couldn’t run forever. “Maggie?”
He nodded. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, but I thought I should ask.”
“Yeah, no, I get it,” Laurel said. “Um, long story short, Maggie’s my sister. It’s July, so…” she did the mental math in her head, “she’d be almost 31. Total free spirit. She left town pretty soon after she graduated, came back every so often but not nearly enough. Last I heard, she was an au pair in Italy.”
“And when was that?”
“Two years ago.” Pierre figured that was as good a time as any to drop the subject, so he did. They had decided that, while they were still downtown, it would be a good opportunity to get the ring shopping out of the way. Pierre looked up the highest-rated jewelry store on Yelp, and they set off on foot. 
Pierre opened the door for her as they stepped inside, greeted by a slightly over-enthusiastic salesman. “You paid for the ceremony fee, so I’m paying for the rings, okay?”
Laurel scoffed. “Hardly a fair trade, don’t you think?”
“I’ll live,” he said, smirking. 
Laurel had been wandering around by the solitaires for a few minutes when Pierre walked up behind her. “I know this isn’t going to be the wedding you’ve always dreamed of,” Pierre said, “but we’re going to make it the best we can.” He looked down at the cases, Laurel’s fingers dancing over the edge of the glass cover. “When you were in high school, or university, did you ever think about what kind of wedding you wanted?” Laurel gave a small nod. “And what kind of ring did you have?”
“I’ve always liked halo cuts,” she said softly.
Pierre inched his hand towards hers, wrapping his fingers around hers. They tensed for a second, but then relaxed into his grip. “Then let’s go get you that halo cut.”
There was no one else in the store aside from the salesman, so the couple was enveloped in a comfortable silence as they browsed. Her eyes stopped on a beautiful floral halo ring with an oval diamond. Pierre nodded to the salesman, who carefully took it off of its stand and handed it to Pierre, who carefully wiggled it onto Laurel’s fourth finger. If she closed her eyes, she was almost able to pretend that it was a proposal. Laurel brought her thumb to the ring, delicately running it over the pavé band with the ghost of a smile on her face. “What do you think?” Pierre asked, as if he couldn’t already tell her answer from the look on her face. 
Laurel looked up at him. “I love it. It fits perfectly.”
“Like Cinderella’s slipper.” He turned to the salesman. “Combien ça coûte?” (How much does it cost?) Laurel heard a number that made her swallow hard, more than anything she’d ever have bought for herself, but Pierre insisted it was a non-issue as he handed his card over. “He said that they’ve got another sample one in the back, and you’re welcome to just wear that one out if it fits.”
“Sounds good.” The salesman handed over the bag with Pierre’s ring and her matching wedding band, thanking them for their purchase before opening the door back into the sunny Montréal afternoon. Laurel craned her neck to try and sneak a peek inside the bag. “Don’t I get to see yours?”
Pierre cracked a wry grin. “Gotta wait until the wedding, babe. Can’t a man have a little mystery?”
“Fair enough,” Laurel said, not missing his use of the pet name but brushing it off as simply a spur-of-the-moment choice. “Do you want to do the honors?” she asked, referring to the all-important checklist. 
Pierre opened his phone with his spare hand, deftly navigating to the app and tapping twice. “Four down, seven to go. We’re on a roll. 
June 24 (thurs)
Surprisingly, telling Pierre-Luc’s parents hadn’t been nearly as intimidating as breaking the news to her own, at least for Laurel. They were shocked — and confused, and had a lot of questions — but were welcoming nonetheless. Patrice was almost like a second son to them, and the fact that she already came with his stamp of approval went a long way into calming them down. “He’s always been quite the romantic, the type to wear his heart on his sleeve. And he cares deeply about the people in his life. That’s you, now,” his mom had said. They drove up to meet them that Sunday, having brunch in his childhood home. That was, in essence, their first real “test” as a couple. They had never had to sell their relationship to anyone before; even when going out with Madeline and Patrice after their “engagement,” nothing ever seemed like it had changed. This time was different. This time had to be different.
His mom fawned over her engagement ring, asking her to spare no details in retelling the story of the proposal. Lucky for her, however, Laurel was the former president of the University of Toronto improv club, and coming up with background stories with exactly zero minutes to prepare was something of a specialty for her. Laurel immediately gushed about how unexpected it was; she was just expecting an evening walk through downtown until they turned down one of the piers by the basilica, reached the end overlooking the river, and Pierre dropped down on one knee. “I think I knew that he was the one way sooner than that, but it’s nice to finally have it be official,” she had said. 
Laurel shook herself out of her memories, turning the door into the locker room. She grabbed a pair of scrubs out of her shared locker — she had never met Alice, the other nurse who used it, but they had made a habit of leaving each other Post-it note greetings — and stripped off her t-shirt and jeans. Shimmying on her scrub pants, she tied them, leaning back into the locker to get her bag as the door shut behind her. She glanced over to the door, waving to Claire. Claire was sweet, a transplant from Vancouver who had lived in Québec as a child and decided to come back to work. She was sweet, having just started working at the beginning of the summer, but she was young, even younger than Laurel. And while her perky and energetic nature lent itself well to the dynamics of the floor, it was a lot for her to get used to. “Hey!” Laurel said, waving as she pulled a chain out of her purse, trying to discreetly unhook it. 
“Hey!” Claire responded, perky as ever. “How has your week been?” She worked Mondays and Thursdays with Laurel, but had the Saturday night shift as well. 
Laurel threw her hair up into a bun. “Good, good, busy. Met up with some friends yesterday, so that was nice, but not much. Took Piper to the dog park.” With my fiancé, she neglected to add. She twisted her ring off, trying to slip it onto the chain without Claire noticing. Like most of her married colleagues, Laurel had taken to wearing her engagement ring on a chain around her neck while at work instead of on her finger. It was under her scrubs most of the time, keeping at bay the questions she wasn’t yet ready to answer, and made it much easier to pull on and off gloves when the occasion called for it. But Claire was eagle-eyed, catching the sparkle of the diamond just as she slid it onto the chain.
She audibly gasped. “Is that an engagement ring?” 
Laurel had to think fast; once again, her improv skills were called up to bat. “No? It’s, uh, it’s a family heirloom, it was my grandma’s. Guess I didn’t think too much about which finger I put it on.” She could tell Claire didn’t quite believe her side of the story, but thankfully, she didn’t press. 
“If you say so,” she said, giving a not-so-subtle wink. 
June 27 (sun)
Laurel was sat in her living room, her TV on in the background as she scrolled absent-mindedly through her phone, savoring her last few hours before she had to go to bed for her 5:30 wake-up call. On a whim, she opened her Twitter. It wasn’t an app she used all that often — mostly just to keep in contact with the handful of high school and college friends who didn’t use Instagram — and she was well aware that she’d probably have to limit her use for her own sanity when she and Pierre went “public” after the wedding, but she liked being able to keep up with everyone. She followed her friends, a handful of celebrities and a few journalists, but her timeline wasn’t flooded with updates. Then she saw the little blue alert on the bottom. One new message. Clicking to her inbox, Laurel saw that it had been sent by Madeline four minutes earlier, a link to a tweet that just had the caption: “you should probably see this.”
Chewing the inside of her cheek, Laurel pressed the link. What could be so important that Madeline would have sent a message with that kind of urgency? And why didn’t she just text it? God, I hate puckbunny blogs, Laurel thought as she read the handle. Her eyes raced across the screen. So I was looking up the address of my friend’s wedding earlier since I lost my invitation and didn’t want to tell her, and saw this under??? I know he can be a private guy, but tell me you guys don’t think this is for PLD. Her eyes froze as soon as she finished reading, praying that somehow they were talking about a different PLD, that they hadn’t been found out and their cover hadn’t been blown and she wasn’t about to have a panic attack for the first time since junior year  — and then she saw the screenshot. Of their wedding announcement. Their public wedding announcement that not only had their full names and places of birth, but the location of the ceremony, the time, and their addresses. God, this is exactly what Laurel had been worried about. She immediately reported the tweet for exposing personal information, then made the poor decision to look at the comments section. Some people insisted it was legitimate, some convinced it was just photoshop, some were convinced that it couldn’t be Pierre-Luc even it looked like him, because he was training in Columbus for the summer, right? Thank God, it didn’t seem like anyone had done a deep enough dive to figure out who she was; there weren’t any screenshots of her accounts or photos of her in the comments section. It was eight minutes from the time she reported it to when it was taken down, and while Laurel was grateful for the quick response, she felt like she was on a cliffside, one foot off of the edge, until it had been deleted. 
Her phone lit up with a text notification from Pierre. Funny thing happened today. 
Oh God, Laurel thought. Had he seen it? He hadn’t.
My mom asked what you were planning to do about flowers and got very upset when I said we didn’t have any plans. She let out a tense breath. Flowers, she could do. She wanted to get your number to send over the names of a few florists she knows in the area, but I thought I should check with you first to make sure that’s okay. 
Laurel smiled, her right hand draped over the side of the couch to scratch Piper behind the ears. That sounds great, P. 
As promised, his mom texted Laurel soon after, coming armed with recommendations of Montréal florists. She echoed her son’s words almost identically; You deserve to have the wedding you’ve always dreamed of even if the circumstances are different, she had written. Her eyes pricked with tears as she fell asleep. 
July 3 (sun)
It was a week before the wedding, and Laurel had started to pack up her apartment. It seemed much more practical to do it in stages then try to finish everything the weekend of the wedding. So she sat with Pierre on the floor of her bedroom, moving boxes between them as they packed away into the next season of her life. Some things, she obviously couldn’t put away yet — she still needed clothes and toothpaste, and they hadn’t been able to get all of her pots and pans down to the Goodwill yet. But books and keepsakes could be boxed up, and unless there was a snowstorm in July, she didn’t need her parka either. 
“Oh, what’s this?” Pierre asked as he pulled a few more volumes off of her bookshelf. Laurel groaned  when she saw what was in his hand. 
“The 2013 Cloquet Senior High School yearbook. My sophomore year.”
He burst out laughing. “This, I’ve got to see.” He opened the cover. “Your mascot was the Lumberjacks?”
Laurel ducked her head, her cheeks heating. “Regrettably, yes. That’s what happens when your whole area used to be milling towns.”
Pierre’s brows furrowed. “I thought you said everything was about the mines, doesn’t your dad work in the mines?”
“He does,” Laurel said. “They had to figure out something to do after all of the trees had been cut down, you know?”
Pierre got the feeling it was really more of a rhetorical question. “What was your school like?” 
She placed one of her old Harry Potter books into the box. “Small is the first word that comes to mind. My graduating class couldn’t have been much bigger than 150 or so? We’d get snow days a couple of times a year, most of the time if it wasn’t a blizzard everyone would end up going down to the school anyways, we’d all have big snowball fights on the football field. Actually,” she said, pulling out her phone from her back pocket, “I think I might still have a clip of one.” She pulled up her videos, scooting over to Pierre and leaning into his side so he could see the screen. Raucous laughter filtered through the speakers; the only things in sight were snow forts and the tiniest bits of beanies peeking over the top. 
“THIS. IS. WAR!” 
Laurel snickered. “I think that sounds like Nicholas, he was the varsity quarterback for a few years. Usually was the one leading the sieges.” She put her phone away a minute later after the clip ended. “But other than that? There were actually a lot of pretty interesting elective classes, I got to take photography, work in the preschool on campus, take a class on Anishinaabe studies.”
“Anishinaabe?” Pierre questioned. 
“There’s a Native American reservation in town, the tribe’s Ojibwe so that’s the language family we studied. A lot of kids at the school, including one of my best friends Kristen, live on the reservation, so I think they wanted to not only have the class available for Native students who maybe wanted to learn more about their culture, but also for non-Native kids like me, so we’re able to gain a respect for whose land we’re living on,” Laurel explained. 
“Makes sense,” he said, flipping through the pages. He snorted. “This photo might be the best thing I’ve ever seen.” 
Laurel peeked over his shoulder, cringing at her school picture. “I really couldn’t have dressed any more 2012 if I tried, Pierre. Aggressively off-the-shoulder top, one of those godforsaken hair feathers, I bet you’d find dark wash skinny jeans if you could see from the waist down.”
“Hey, don’t talk about my fiancée like that,” Pierre said. “I like the look, I swear. You were such a cute kid, oh my God.”
She rolled her eyes. “I know. What happened to me, right?”
He looked at her from the side. “Nope.”
 June 9 (fri)
 It was the day before the wedding, and Laurel was trying to find a dress. She had been planning on wearing one — even if it was a courthouse wedding, she still wanted to look nice — but then she had spilled red wine onto the light blue one she had been thinking of wearing as she ironed it in the living room, and she didn’t want to put all of her eggs in one basket if the Oxiclean didn’t end up working. She called Madeline in a panic, who promised to be over as soon as she could with a few dresses of her own to see what she could do. There was a knock on the door, and Laurel practically flew across the room to fling it open, gathering Madeline in a hug even before she had crossed the threshold. Madeline patted her clumsily on the back. “There, there, Laur. It’s going to be okay, we’re going to fix it.”
Laurel ran one hand through her hair, her curls as frazzled as her mind. “It’s got to be. Half of my stuff’s already over at P’s place, what, do you want me to wear a,” she opened up her dresser, eyeing its meager contents, “bralette and lacy thong to my own wedding?”
Madeline shrugged. “I doubt Pierre would mind,” she said casually. 
Laurel almost choked on her own spit. “What do you mean?”
“Men are visual creatures, and you’re hot as hell, Laurel,” she stated matter-of-factly. 
“Still,” Laurel said, opening her closet and grabbing every single left over dress from its hanger, trying to distract herself from Madeline’s words, “I’d rather not be arrested for public indecency. I’m trying to stay in the country, remember?”
Madeline rolled her eyes. “I remember.” She thumbed through the dresses on Laurel’s bed. “You’re not wearing a black dress to get married,” she said pointedly. 
“It’s pretty?” Laurel tried to reason.
“It is, but it’s a wedding, not a funeral.” She moved onto the next one. “Bright red bodycon is great for the club, but not sure coquettish seductress is the look you’re going for.” The next one was a striped sweater dress; it was the middle of summer, so according to Madeline, that meant it was out. There was a navy shift dress that “could work, but it’s a little too much work and not enough play,” her friend had said. Laurel tried on Madeline’s dresses, but seeing as how she had three inches on her, the hemlines weren’t exactly in her favor. Madeline pulled out the last of the stack, gasping softly. “This one’s beautiful, where’s it from?”
Madeline looked at it, a knee-length ivory lace dress, rolling her eyes good-naturedly at Madeline. “It was for Aurélie’s bachelorette party last year, probably explains. You were drunk off your ass that night.”
“I’m hurt by that characterization, but I don’t remember enough to correct you,” Madeline said. “It’s perfect though, why didn’t you choose this one in the first place?”
Laurel rubbed the back of her neck. “I’m not sure?” Madeline gave her a look. “Fine, it just seems...It seems too much like an actual wedding dress. It’s white, or close enough, anyways,” she noted, fingering one of the delicate straps, “and gorgeous, and formal, and I’m worried if I wear it it’ll seem too real, and I’ll start thinking this is more than it is. Because all it is at the end of the day is a friend doing me a really, really big favor,” she finished, huffing and falling back onto her mattress. 
“At the end of the day, it’s still a wedding,” Madeline corrected, laying down next to her. “And you’re still a bride and he’s still a groom and you deserve to feel beautiful and cherished and special on your wedding day, no matter its circumstances. And who knows? Maybe you two stay married, and fall in love, and you live happily ever after with your half-dozen dogs and 2.5 kids on some farm out in the suburbs.”
Laurel snorted. “As if.” But two hours later, long after Madeline had already left, she sat back on the bed, hand ghosting over the lace of her now-wedding dress, thinking that maybe, just maybe, Madeline had a point.  
June 10 (sat) 
It was the morning of the wedding, and Laurel was pacing her room in her sweatpants, Piper looking at her in confusion from the doorway. It was just past 7 and the appointment wasn’t until 10, but she still had to get dressed and do her hair and makeup and pick up the flowers and eat and — her internal monologue was interrupted by the doorbell. Still half-asleep, she ambled over to the door, pulling it open without even really checking to see who it was. 
“Surprise!!” Patrice shouted, walking through the door, followed by Madeline and Pierre. “Madeline mentioned that you seemed a bit overwhelmed yesterday, so we thought we’d come over and get ready over here!” 
Laurel shuffled out of the way as Piper jumped on Pierre, who laughed and calmed her down with a few scratches on her chin. She had really taken a liking to him and his two dogs, which had initially been a point of nervousness for Laurel. But they got along great, shared space well, and she seemed to love her new brother and sister. “That’s really nice of you guys, I appreciate it,” she said sincerely. “Um, I don’t have much food left because of the move, but I think there’s some cereal in the cupboard?” 
“Silly you,” Pierre said, holding out a paper bag. “Did you think I’d leave my bride hungry on our wedding day? I got you sourdough french toast, should be on the top.” They had gone out to brunch once and she had ordered it, audibly moaning at how incredible it tasted. He remembered. 
“And raspberry mochas!” Madeline said, presenting her with a cup. 
Laurel took it, wrapping her spare arm around Madeline and kissing Pierre on the cheek. “This is incredible, guys. Really. I didn’t expect anything like this.”
“Exactly!” Madeline said, a perky expression on her face. “It’s a surprise!” She drifted into the kitchen, pulling out plates from Laurel’s cabinet and forks from her drawers. “Breakfast is served!”
Laurel let out a laugh as she grabbed the box with her french toast, taking a sip of her mocha. “I think the credit goes to the chefs at the restaurant, but whatever you say, Madi.”
Madeline rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but we ordered it. 
By the time they had all inhaled their breakfasts and cleaned the kitchen — Laurel and Pierre tag-teamed the dishes — it was almost eight, and Madeline whisked her into her room to get ready. “There should be a couple beers in the fridge, help yourselves!” Laurel shouted out the door as Madeline tried to wrestle her into the ensuite. For the most part, Madeline was good at listening to Laurel’s pleas against a dramatic makeup look. Muted rose lipstick, filled in her eyebrows, delicately pulled back her hair into a twisted bun. “Where’s your setting spray?” Madeline asked, rooting through her makeup bag. 
“Top drawer on the left. Are you finally going to let me see?”
Madeline pulled the drawer out, uncapping the bottle and spritzing it over Laurel’s face. “Go for it.”
Laurel turned around, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. “Oh my God,” she said, turning her head so the glimmer of her highlighter caught in the early-morning sun streaming through the open window. “You’ve outdone yourself.”
“Don’t say that until you’ve put the dress on,” Madeline said, pulling it off of its hanger and draping it across the chair. Sweats came off and the dress went on, Madeline carefully pulling up the back zipper and straightening out her hem. Laurel bent down to put on her shoes, threading the silver straps through the tiny metal clasp before giving her leg a good shake. Madeline looked at her sceptically. 
“What?” Laurel asked innocently. “I don’t want it to fall off halfway down the aisle.” 
There was a knock on the bedroom door, Patrice’s voice floating in from the other side. “It’s 9:20, you two about ready to head out?”
“Coming!” Madeline called back, pulling Laurel up from the bed. “You ready, Laur?” Laurel gave a nervous nod. “Let’s go get you married.”
She stepped out into the living room, reaching up to her neck and fingering the silver filigree of her grandma’s wedding necklace, one of the only things she had left to remember her by. If she wasn’t able to complete the whole rhyme, at least she’d have her something old. “Who’s driving?” she asked. 
Pierre wheeled around, mouth gaping like a fish when he saw her. Laurel immediately looked down to her dress, wondering if she had spilled one of her pre-wedding mimosas. “What is it?” she asked frantically. “Is there something in my teeth?”
He shook his head, tugging at the sleeves of his navy blue suit. “No, there’s nothing in your teeth, it’s perfect. You look beautiful.” They were in the car five minutes later, picked up the bouquet from the florist five minutes after that, and were outside of the courthouse by 9:50. Laurel took a deep breath, looking up at the glass doors of the Palais de Justice. Pierre threaded his fingers between hers, giving a reassuring squeeze. “You good?”
Laurel nodded, nervous but determined, sure that she was making the right decision. “Ready.” She barely remembered signing in, barely remembered going back to the clerk’s office, barely remembered her reading the mandated articles of the civil code. She gripped Pierre’s hands, giving him as much of a reassuring smile as she could, as the vows were read. 
“Pierre-Luc Dubois, do you take Laurel Elizabeth Klerken, here present, to be your wife?” Juliette asked. 
“I do.”
“Laurel Elizabeth Klerken, do you take Pierre-Luc Dubois, here present, to be your husband?”
“I do,” Laurel said, voice steady. 
Juliette continued. “By virtue of the powers vested in me by law, I now declare you, Pierre-Luc Dubois, and you, Laurel Elizabeth Klerken, united in the bonds of marriage.” Patrice passed over the rings; Laurel slid Pierre’s onto his ring finger, he gently twisted hers to rest on top of her engagement ring. “You are now legally married. Allow me, on my own behalf and on behalf of all those present, to offer you our best wishes for your happiness. You may now kiss the bride.”
Laurel panicked for a moment, before looking up and meeting Pierre’s eyes. In the span of a second, she communicated her unspoken agreement with the tiniest nod of her head, and his lips were on hers. His arms were against the small of her back, hers wrapped around his neck, and even enough it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, it felt like hours. It felt like coming home.
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