#this spent too long in my drafts and its just a silly little idea so im throwing it out into the world now

[atsoomi]

Assigning some of my favorite haikyuu boys fanfiction tropes >

☆ Atsumu - idiots to lovers

Look me in the eye and tell me atsumu wouldn't be the kind of guy to not understand why he feels a certain way towards you, you can't! His whole life he's had medicore social skills, and I hc that he's never really dated anyone before, so romantic relationships are an untouched territory to him. It's gonna take him a few reality checks from osamu to realize he likes anyone, even better if the person he likes is just as clueless.

☆ Osamu - mentor who's too attractive for his own good

Not in a professional setting. More in a "my friend said you could help me learn this recipe, can you pleaseee teach me" way. And he reluctantly agrees and he looks fine as hell cooking that you're barely learning how to make the actual meal. Better yet? "I don't know how to do this" "oh let me help you" And then he comes up behind you to guide you better.. chest against your back and everything (you're not learning anything)

☆ Kōshi - childhood friends to lovers

Everyone knows you're childhood friends and everyone knows there must be something between you. But neither of you act on it until one day you're asked out by someone and sugawara finally realizes "if I don't act quickly I will lose them" so he shows up to your house dramatic as hell in the rain and kisses you until you stop considering any other guy at all

☆ Tooru - rivals/enemies to lovers

You can't look at a guy who's this competitive, cocky, and petty, and not think he'd make a perfect rival love interest. Not only would he drive his opponent to do better and discover crazy things themselves (make them have a very dramatic realization moment), but the tension after either of them win is insane. He's like "I'll get you next time, be ready." And they're like "yeah sure pretty boy" and people have to stop and stare. The sexual tension is crazy

☆ Kiyoomi - reluctant friends to lovers

He doesn't want anything to do with them. At least for the first few times they meet. They follow him around like a lost puppy, looking for something or asking for instructions. And he's very cold to them on purpose, hoping they'd just leave him alone once he answers their questions. But then they start waving at him when they're standing with their friends, bringing him snacks he didn't ask for, speedwalking to catch up with him before he leaves, and he seriously has to reconsider why someone he saw as a pest is slowly growing to become a source of great comfort to him.

☆ Issei - best friends to lovers

It's essential to imagine being close friends with all of seijoh 4 and being especially close with issei to fully enjoy this. Since you're used to oikawa flirting with you here and there, and makki + issei himself always teasing you, it's not easy to tell when exactly his flirtations cross the line between platonic and romantic. No one is surprised when you start dating, actually they probably had a bet going on about it, and not much changes in your dynamic other than the fact that you and mattsun now kiss instead of joking about it.

#i didnt include kuroo because i already assigned a trope to sweetlem so he's hers forever now sorry i make the rules #this spent too long in my drafts and its just a silly little idea so im throwing it out into the world now #atsumu miya #atsumu x reader #osamu miya #osamu x reader #sugawara koushi #sugawara x reader #oikawa tooru #oikawa x reader #sakusa kiyoomi #sakusa x reader #matsukawa issei #matsukawa x reader #꒰ 𑄽 💌 ୧ ꒱ notes from el

[kitkatt0430]

2, 8, 18, 30 and 37 for the fanfic ask game!!

2.) Where do you get your fic ideas?

A lot of places really.

I get a lot of fix fic ideas from rewatching or replaying games. (Or first watch through for particularly egregious problems. *glaring right at The Flash*)

Sometimes I'll just turn certain plot elements from the show around in my mind until I come up with a way to remix the plot some how. That's how I got things like Gideon Vs The Reverse Flash where I took the idea that Gideon was more than the show lets her be and really ran with it. Sometimes it's a bit of a silly idea. Sometimes it's more serious, like with Flash Back where Barry tells Eobard more about the future than intended. Or I just completely rearrange the plot like in Neighbors and Butterflies.

Prompts help a lot for coming up with post canon and alternate canon fics too. A Touch of Forgetfulness surprisingly did not come from an amnesia prompt, but from these three prompts: Established Relationship, Domestic Fic, and Getting Together. I wondered how I could have both the two of them in an established relationship and getting together at the same time. And I landed on the idea of the two of them being married but one of them had their memories messed with so they have to get together all over again.

And I get a lot of fusion fic ideas from watching other media or playing video games or the like.

But honestly, there's just no telling what's gonna spark a weird idea that turns into my next fanfic. :D

8.) Post an out-of-context spoiler from a wip.

Savitar sings songs that play on the radio in 2023 when he gets anxious. It is not currently 2023.

18.) Do you enjoy research?  Which fic of yours required the most research?

Yes and no? Sometimes reality gets in the way of a good fic idea. But sometimes I learn really interesting things that... don't make it into the fic after all. And sometimes the realism I can add thanks to research makes the fic better. It can be frustrating when I do research and it winds up not being useful for whatever reason, but it's nice when it does.

I'm not really sure which fic required the most research. Though off the top of my head, I remember doing a lot of research for Hello Hadley about the different types of power of attorney - media often throws the term around like it's one single thing but surprise! it can actually refer to several different things. I also looked a little into the process of adoption when two people are already legally related - but I also left a lot up to poetic license.

30.) How much do you edit your fics?  Do you edit as you write or wait until you finish the first draft?

Um... sometimes what I post is the first draft. In fact... most often what I post is the first draft. Depends on how confident I feel about the fic on whether I do a second draft. I always edit for grammar and typos as best I can since I don't have anyone beta read for me. Since it's my favorite hobby, but still just a hobby, I aim more for fun than perfection. There are some cases where in retrospect i might wish I had spent a bit more time drafting, but I think maybe that just means I need to get more comfortable going back to edit fics later.

37.) What fic has been the hardest for you to write?

Any long (or long-ish) fic that's unfinished. I'm still struggling with not getting stuck in the middle of long fics. Complicated and Messy, Road Trip, The Day After the World Ended (It Continued to Spin On Its Axis Just Fine) ...

One of those days I'm finally gonna finish that last one, I swear. (It's been unfinished so long. *sniffle*)

#kitkatt0430 answers #fanfic writing asks

[gayhawkelatehomicide]

Nobility

Have a thing that's never getting out of my drafts otherwise, because maybe posting it will make me finish it (knock on wood)

***

Words: 1272

Rating: G

Additional Tags: pre-canon, character study, honestly a bit navel gaze-y, cw Rendon Howe mention, look i love my girl so here she is, wip

***

     The thing to know about Saffron Cousland is that she never was very good at being a noblewoman. She's always been too tall, too wild, and too energetic. Her handwriting is appalling, and she never could sit in one place long enough to listen through her lessons. She lacked the patience for needlework, though if allowed to take regular breaks to work off her excess energy, she could produce decent embroidery. Politics bored her silly, but she pestered her father incessantly for stories of the war with Orlais. As a little girl, she chased after her brother constantly, sneaking out of her lessons when her tutor's back was turned and running through the halls of the castle until she found Fergus, inevitably doing something that Saffron was discouraged from participating in. She'd pester him until he taught her how to do whatever it was, and her mother would eventually find her in the courtyard, practicing hacking one of the straw dummies to pieces while her brother called suggestions from the side. To the despair of her governesses, she was always climbing trees, sprinting everywhere, and playing in dirt. 

     As soon as she was big enough to sit a horse, Saffron started riding lessons. Her mother hoped the necessity of remaining calm atop a massive, nervous horse would temper her impetuousness. Unfortunately, the riding instructor proved as pliable to Saffron's cheerful wiles as every other guardian she'd ever encountered, and when the little girl absolutely insisted she had to ride the roan stallion with wild eyes, he'd allowed it. Defending himself to the aggravated arlessa later, he claimed he'd been sure the barely broken horse would throw Saffron, teaching her an important lesson about choosing an appropriate mount. Unfortunately for him, she'd climbed aboard the bad-tempered beast, placed a small hand on its neck, and leaned forward to kiss its ear. The horse, whose name was Fenedhis (not that anyone told Saffron that, she just knew him as Fen), had quieted immediately and begun a sedate walk around the courtyard. She was a graceful rider—though every horse in the Cousland stables other than Fen threw her at some point, usually while objecting to some insane route up or down a hill—and she never did learn that it was a bad idea to seek out irritable, half-wild mounts.

     At eleven, she began to learn to dance, and her mother heaved a sigh of relief as she finally found something ladylike to excel in. A few weeks of dedicated effort saw Saffron grasp, and then master, most of the popular court dances of the year. Then, she prodded her instructor into teaching her more. She spent weeks learning Nevarran dances, months on Tevinter's intricate hand gestures, and almost a year on Orlesian footwork. For a time, if Saffron couldn't be located, it was fair odds whether she'd be chasing Fergus around or practicing in the ballroom, dreaming of elegant parties. Arlessa Cousland, by all accounts a tolerant woman, did try to draw the line when Saffron started to practice Antivan dances which included a great deal of hip-shaking, but gave up when she caught the willful girl in the library after midnight, with a candle, peering at (thankfully tame) images in a book of Antivan dance. Horrified by the idea that her daughter might stumble upon some of the other illustrated texts produced by that country, the Arlessa relented and permitted her instructor to continue teaching. She also collected all the books in Antivan from the library and locked them in her husband's study, away from impressionable eyes.

     The local seamstresses despaired of keeping Saffron in dresses. She grew so fast through her early teen years that no sooner was a dress finished than a new one had to be started, or the first had to be altered. At one point, the Couslands' favorite dressmaker started sewing two extra inches into the hem of every gown she made for Saffron so that she could lengthen it more easily when the girl inevitably grew out of it. The problem wasn't only her ever-increasing height, however. Saffron was naturally athletic, but this didn't prevent her from falling out of trees, tripping into ruts in the road, and ripping suspiciously sword-shaped holes in her dresses. If they weren't torn within weeks of her having received them, they were stained with the remains of her desert, bleached by the unholy experiment she'd decided to perform with her soap because of something her tutor half-explained, or stretched over appropriated chairs to be makeshift castles for Noble Ser Saffron to rescue her playmates from. 

     Speaking of playmates, the other children in the castle flocked to her. A natural leader, Saffron was always the one coordinating the mischief she and her band of hooligans got up to. With her charming smile and quick tongue, she was equally likely to talk her way out of trouble as she was to stumble into it, but (to her father's quiet relief) she also insisted on being the one to take responsibility for any problems she and her friends caused. Saffron had never been the type to let others suffer punishments when she was the one who deserved them, but she began to step up and take responsibility for the actions of her subordinates—notably, this commendable trait manifested after Fergus had very seriously repeated a lecture from their father concerning a noble's responsibility to his subjects. Her mother's occasional efforts to insist that young ladies of noble status should socialize primarily with others of her own rank, however, seemed completely ineffectual. Saffron played with her semi-peers, her cousins, and the children of Arl Cousland's vassals, but she was equally content to spend time climbing trees and falling in streams with the servants' kids, the young elves from Highever's alienage, and anyone else who looked likely to play along with her wild schemes. 

     Arl Howe gave Saffron a mabari puppy for her sixteenth birthday, and her mother finally threw up her hands in defeat. The girl and her dog, named Teryn, were inseparable from the moment they met, and proceeded to get into more trouble together than either could manage separately. Saffron's education pivoted, finally, to include swordplay, tactics, and military history. Alongside Fergus, she practiced falconry, went hunting, and rode around the Arling to check in with the people. She became as familiar and welcome a sight in her father's domains as her brother, and both young Couslands were well-liked by their subjects—Fergus for his fair-mindedness and patience, Saffron for her bright, easy laughter and boundless enthusiasm. Neither was the type to sit idly by while someone else struggled, and so the siblings endeared themselves to those they would one day rule. 

     When the Grey Warden comes to Castle Cousland, Saffron is fascinated and worried in equal measure. She's heard the rumors of a growing darkspawn presence in the south, knows Fergus is heading off to join the king's army at Ostagar. But having a real Warden, a living character out of the legends actually visit her home, is like meeting a storybook come to life to tell you that the monster under your bed is real, and he's plotting to end the world. The Wardens, Saffron knows, rarely show themselves except for during a Blight. She suddenly doesn't want to see her brother leave, but she's nearly twenty now and is not going to show her unease in front of his wife and son. So she shows Duncan to his rooms, drags her dog out of the pantry (again), and makes friendly conversation with her father's guests.

     Then her whole world gets turned upside down. 

#dragon age #dao #my writing #Saffron Cousland #human noble origin #yet more attempts to peer pressure myself into writing #pre canon #character study #honestly a bit navel gaze-y #cw Rendon Howe mention #look i love my girl so here she is #wip

[sleepingwithinkink2-0]

Re-Re- Re- Re-Re-Surfaced"

"What if I let go"

I wrote this line a hundred times before.

Sitting outside on the steps in the rain

or

in my car,

Laying on my friends couch,

Picking at a loose piece of thread...

but I always ended up deleting

or

saving it in my draft box rotting away.

Chiseling away at it bit by bit

In quiet places...

Sewing new pieces

Cutting off limbs..

Re burying it,

but the thought of it was there in the silence, tormenting,

Whispering through the walls of this abandon wearhouse ..

To be honest it made me sick to my stomach to even even think it

"if I let go"

Wondering aimlessly ..

As I look back at the hundreds of poems I wrote,

when I rack my brain trying to figure out how long it's been...I get upset with myself...

Yet who would I be if our lives never collide.

I couldn't even imagine

and

yet I never tasted your spite.

Nor

Your blood between my teeth ..

It's amazing the effect people can have even without realizing it..

a tragedy in its own right..

It all seems so silly ..a boy who loves a girl ..Trying to write all the reasons why you matter seems so daunting , when you could just read my Tumblr it's there, it's always been there.

Hidden in plain sight,

Raw and grotesque

The pictures the quotes...

The thing is I never intended too

and

to explain all the reasons why seem pointless now...

As I look back now with new eyes..

instead of looking at what I wanted to see ,

I realize that is all it ever was a boy who loves a girl.

A feverous sickness ... Catching a cold with my head in the clouds..

You always ask how I know when your sad or how I know you better than most...it's because I took the time to see you. I wanted to know who you were, time spent with you was never time wasted. You always surprised me , with the little things you did without realizing it. A sentence or an action your ideas and your thoughts, that's what I admired above all else...

As I write this I wonder if I should let go...

Forgive me for this intrusive thought...

Testing these words out, swishing them around my mouth like fine wine....Could I really do it?

Could I ...??

I've been peeling back the skin on my forearms trying to pick out the white petals, and roots, but it seems all in vein, you run deeper than I ever could imagine... Wrapped around my dirt smudged heart.. the wildest daisies, suffocating and yet spectacular..

I know if keep you alive inside my head, I won't have room to let anyone else inside, but honestly your the one person I won't mind walking the corridors of my mind..opening doors,

Peeking through key holes

Reading the pages that litter the floor...

I know you would see what others fail to see..

You will see the beauty in this mess .

As I write this I contemplate if I should let it rot in my draft box for the hundred time

and

continue whatever this is we have

Writing till it fizzles out on its own

slowly breaking the joints on my fingers

One by one till till these words become unrecognizable..

because I m tired of trying,

but I'm also not one to give up.

Stuck in infinite loop between

science and reasoning ...

A choice I alone decided.

Keeping the memories alive,

mummifying them between the pages

Like pressed flowers..

I choice I have only myself to blame...

Haunted by a ghost with sapphire eyes

I m not sorry for falling, because I've learnt alot in these past years

Not dating anyone

Learning who I m

Without melting into another..

I m not sorry

For telling you how I felt the moment my feelings changed for you,

but I m sorry for the guilty I gave you.

What lingers stale on the roof of your mouth when it rains..

I know I cross your mind time to time

I see it in your words, puzzles and riddles beautifully designed...

but do you understand your own words..

Have you asked why?

Are you afraid of the answer,

The crime you will commit once you say it out loud..

If you read this , you know I decided to stay. I know in time I ll learn to let go of the idea we could be more than words...

I m sorry I've kept us alive,

As long as I have

Buried between these pages..

I was afraid to lose you...

-Danny Sheehan

11.16.22

12:06am

#to delete or not to delete #sorry #space station

[warmblanketwhump]

Idk if its too late to send this in but if it isn't, how about ⬤ and ✿?

✿: feeling so out of it, they need constant attention

⬤: being called soft things like baby, sweetheart or honey

(note: this MIGHT be cheating but my poor brain was stuck on ideas SO this is a part two to this prompt fill! would recommend reading that first for context, but pretty sure you can enjoy them independently :)

To any other person, the remote cabin would have looked like any old shack – slightly dilapidated, covered in moss, nested away among the trees. But to a lost, soaked, chilled-to-the-bone A, the cabin looks like a warm little slice of heaven, and it takes all they have not to run up the stairs. Instead, they slide an injured B off of their back and help them hobble to the small porch.

The pair limp across the threshold of the cabin and leave the pattering rain behind them, entering a small, spotlessly clean living room that smells of cedar and pine. A large, squashy-looking couch faces a dark fireplace with a tall stack of split logs nearby, and to the right of the doorway is a small kitchen. In the back, A spots a darkened bedroom, a tiny bathroom, and a linen closet. The cabin's rustic, so there's no electricity or hot water - just a single spigot and a gas stove for cooking.

They set a trembling B on the couch, pushing away the guilt of yelling at them earlier, of making them come out here in the first place.

“I’ll find us some towels and blankets. Can you start getting your wet clothes off?” Amid their violent shivers, B nods and starts shedding A’s raincoat and their own denim jacket with pruned, fumbling fingers. The sight nearly crushes A, but they know someone has to go find blankets to help them both get warm.

A pushes into the bathroom and locates several clean, threadbare towels, then heads to the linen closet. They nearly burst into happy tears when they see the large bundle of hideous plaid blankets and a couple piles of flannel and thermal clothing stacked neatly in the corner (forgotten by whoever rented it last, they guessed) and grab as much as their numb fingers can hold.

When they return to the couch, they find B in nearly the exact spot they left them - denim jacket off one arm, on the other, rain jacket fallen to the floor. They're hunched over, stiff with cold, arms crossed tightly.

“Oh sweetheart.…” A sighs, dropping the blankets on the couch and rushing to them.

“T-tried to ch-change. F-fingers won't-t work-k. I’m s-sorry-”

“B, you have nothing to be sorry about. I should’ve helped you in the first place.” A unthreads the soaked clothing from B’s shaking frame, gently patting their wet skin dry and lightly squeezing the water droplets out of their hair with a towel.

B’s eyes are bleary and unfocused, but they respond to A’s simple commands as they dress them in a pair of warm red flannel pants and a grey thermal long-sleeve. A casts a glance towards B's swollen ankle - it's not the worst injury they've ever seen, but it's definitely got to hurt. They dart back to the bathroom and locate a small first aid kit with a cloth bandage, and tenderly wrap up the sore ankle to immobilize it.

When they’re finished, they wrap B in two blankets: one around their legs and elevated ankle, and the other over their wet head and trembling shoulders. B sneezes, cinches the blanket tighter and groans.

“Look-k like a Russian p-peasant woman.” B grumbles, and A can’t help but let a chuckle escape. They really do look like a grandma, with only their face sticking out of the blanket cape.

“Alright, then, babushka. Let me get a fire started, and I’ll join you in a minute.”

Mercifully, it only takes a few minutes for A to get a roaring fire going. A drapes another blanket around B's shoulders and gives them a quick, reassuring rub.

“I’m gonna change, okay? You just worry about warming up.” B moans weakly and pulls the blanket over their nose, edging closer to the flame’s heat.

A peels off their wet clothing in the drafty bedroom, hurriedly drying their own cold skin and pulling on their own warm clothes - a cream thermal and blue flannel pants. The brief exposure makes them shiver, and they chafe their arms and legs to rub away the goosebumps and the damp chill that sinks into their marrow. For just a moment, they acknowledge how cold they are, too. God, they wish this place had hot water.

The adrenaline of the moment begins to fade, and several facts strike them at once. They were freezing. They were stuck in a remote cabin with no electricity for the weekend. This whole weekend was their idea - and all their fault. And they felt guilty as hell about it.

Squeezing their wet hair, they shove the intrusive thoughts from their mind and grab a blanket from the bed to wrap tightly around their own shoulders, along with a couple pillows from the bed for B.

On returning to the living room, they see B managed to hop on their one good leg over to the fire, leaving a trail of two of their other blankets behind. They’re huddled as close as possible to the warm glow, head resting on the hearth. A drops the pillows on the couch and kneels down, running their fingers through B’s damp hair, now exposed by the fallen blanket.

“Feeling any better, love?”

B gives a small, wan smile that fails to light up their peaked face and shakes their head, turning to cough. When they’ve finished, they shudder weakly, pulling the blanket tighter.

“Can’t shake the chill in my bones.” B coughs again. A can see them rubbing their arms under the blankets. “Heat’s bouncing right off me. And I ache all over, not just my ankle.” Another chill rattles their teeth, and they pull the blanket up to their chin. “I just can’t warm up at all.”

A pulls a shivery B into a hug, rubbing their shoulders and trying to share the little body heat they’ve created - unlike B, the fire’s warmth is beginning to thaw them out. In the dim firelight, A can see a sheen of sweat on B’s forehead, and alarm bells go off. Instinctively, A reaches out to press their cold hand to it. It’s warm now. Too warm for someone who just spent two hours trekking through the cold rain.

"Sweetheart, you're feverish. That’s why you’re achy and chilled.”

“S’pose it makes sense. I’m just freezing.” A gust of wind rattles the cabin, and a draft snakes its way into the living room, making B shudder and curl up even closer to A. “I’d kill for a hot shower right now.”

“Don’t go all ‘The Shining’ on me yet - we just got here.” A grabs a towel to try and further dry B’s damp hair. It was probably an old wives’ tale, but they didn’t have many options to keep a sick person comfortable out here, and wet hair couldn’t feel good.

B had complained about feeling a cold coming on a couple days ago, and mentioned that they might not want to go this weekend. A had made fun of them for it, joking about how someone like B never let a little cold get them down. And now, thanks to them, B was even sicker. They really were the worst friend in history.

“Do you think you could manage some tea?" A asks quietly. B closes their eyes and nods, laying their head back on the hearth.


It takes a few minutes, but A manages to light the gas stove and locate a kettle, along with a dusty box of herbal tea tucked away in a cupboard. Whoever they had rented from had stocked it high with all kinds of canned soups and dry goods, so at least they’d be prepared for the long haul.

A sudden glance out the window reveals that the rain has turned into fat, white snowflakes, whirling in the sky and dusting the porch. A rubs their hands together, holding their chilled fingers as close to the stove flame as possible. The kettle whistles and A pours two cups, reveling in the warm steam that tickles their nose.

Once the tea is brewed, they make their way back to the fireplace. B's too weak to lift their own head, so A sits behind them and props them up, holding the teacup and helping them take small sips of the warm liquid. Once the cup is empty, A helps B lay their head back on the hearth before adding a few more logs to the fire and starting on their own tea.

Despite the warm fire, A can feel the ambient temperature of the room dropping. There's no way B's going to stay warm enough in the bedroom, so they’ll just have to make do out here for now.

After pushing the couch until it's just inches in front of the fire, A sweeps B into their arms and helps them back to the couch, easing them gently onto the pillows they've laid and tucking a blanket back around them. Even this close to the fire, the brief movement had set off another round of bone-shaking chills in B, and they grip their blanket so hard A’s afraid they’ll tear it.

“A?" B's voice is weak.

“I’m right here.”

“A, can you hold me? Please?” The desperation is palpable. B’s breathing is hoarse and they're close to tears, arms wrapped tightly around themselves. “Shivering hurts, but I can’t stop. I know you probably don’t want to get sick from me-”

A’s heart breaks. “Don’t be silly. Of course I’ll keep you warm.” They slide onto the couch and wrap their own blanket around the both of them, pulling B’s fevered body to their chest. B clings to their body, and A can feel the shakes that ripple through them. A gently massages their arms and back in slow circles and B presses closer, the vulnerability almost too much to bear.

Finally, A says what’s been eating away at them for hours. “B, I’m so sorry for what I said on the trail. I shouldn’t have said it, and I didn’t mean it. I do want you here. And now we’re here, and you're sick and hurt and it’s my fault, and I’m sorry for that too.” The apology comes out in such a rush, and B is quiet for so long in their arms that they doubt B even heard it.

But then they feel B’s trembling arms squeezing their waist. “Nature’s not your fault, A. Besides, if being taken care of is a part of your apology, it's warm and I'll take it."

A grips B even tighter, fighting back tears. “Whatever happens this weekend, I’ve got you. You know that, right?”

“‘Course I do. You always have,” B mumbles as they slip into a restless sleep. In front of the warm fire, A reasons that the drafty bedroom was probably too cold for anyone to sleep in. No, they were perfectly content to stay right here with B - and not even the promise of a warm shower could lure them away.

#this is a damn novel but whatev #I loved it too much to stop #sickfic #sickfic prompt #whump prompt #cold whump #cabin whump #shivering #flu #fever #blankets #hurt comfort #lost in the woods #this was so fun to write #literally sat on this the entire holiday weekend #edited this SO MANY TIMES #this is what happens when you adore a trope #my writing

[its-deputy-caleb]

would u possibly do some NSFW morbell? where they're up in colter ( i loved ur original morbell post on them ) pls do more as i love ur blog 💛

this is an absolute mess oml i literally have no idea how to write anything smutty but here we go i guess. I love this pair but i kinda went off topic and centred this on a praise kink for micah. ANYWAY this is probably terrible since i'm melting, its literally 40 degrees and the aircon is broken so its unedited af and i wont look at it again until i have a cold drink. but pls enjoy some morbell <333

------------------------------------

‘Cold up in Colter’

Fuck, what a mess Blackwater had been. The Pinkertons were on them faster than ever and they found themselves fleeing from a blood bath.

That was almost three days ago and Micah hadn’t had an ounce of sleep. He’d been sent out with John to scout ahead, having found a homestead which ended up burning at the hand of O’Driscoll’s. Okay maybe house burning down was his fault but he tends to make stupid decisions when he’s had little to know sleep. And it was so fucking cold.

That didn’t stop heat rising to his face when he felt Arthur’s hands on his shoulder, pushing him back with a roughness he could only wish for in another way. Damn Arthur Morgan and his ability to have Micah curling in on himself and blushing like a virgin at the mere thought of a hand on his shoulder.

He should hate Arthur, really the two are nothing more than rivals, competing for the spot of Dutch Van Der Linde’s right hand. At the beginning, almost six months ago now, Micah couldn’t stand the sight of the man but somehow that anger tapered off into something more akin to admiration and that admiration slowly turned to desire.

He’ll never admit to how badly he wants Arthur but he won’t deny however that he’s pushed the man’s buttons more than once just to have an interaction with him. All he had to do start a silly argument over camp earnings or a bet at five finger fillet to have the man shaking him by the collar and threatening to break his nose.

It almost always ended with Micah sneaking off into the woods with half a bottle of whiskey and his pants bunched around his ankles as he thought of the way Arthur roughed him up by his shirt collar. Fuck he was pathetic sometimes.

There were other occasions where the two had actually managed to get along and that’s what pissed Micah off more than any threats of violence. Arthur just had to go and bring him a beer as he grabbed one for himself, letting their fingers touch accidentally. Or he went and offered him a seat by the fireplace where they ended up much to close for his comfort. Damn Arthur for always leaving him short of breath with a hole in his heart.

Despite what Micah did to impress Dutch, Arthur was still the camp’s favourite by a mile and he never failed to outcompete him in the eyes of the gang. Micah never minded much, not looking for anyone’s approval, but the thought of proving himself to Arthur, of being worthy of his praise is enough to have his wild side reined in.

Naturally that didn’t stop Micah from losing it from time to time and wasn’t surprised when his jealousy shot up again as Miss Grimshaw announced Arthur got his own cabin while he shared with the rest of the fellers. And he’d be damned if he had to share a room with Williamson who didn’t stop snoring.

That’s why he found himself huddled in the makeshift stables, choosing instead to wrap himself in his coat and down a bottle of whiskey to wait the night out. He cold planks he was sitting on offered little comfort and the draft in the room had his lip shaking. But at least he wouldn’t have anyone in his hair and he’d be left alone, just the way he liked it.

Of course that didn’t last long when the cranky wooden door was barged open, spooking some of the horses in the opposite end of the room. A broad figure entered the room, blocking most of the door way but that didn’t stop to whoosh of cold air flood into the room, draining even more colour from his face.

It wasn’t until the door was closed and the man stepped closer when he realised it was Arthur.

“Micah? What the hell are you doing in here?”

Arthur sounded surprised, with only a hint of concern in his voice.

“Sleepin’— what the hell ya doing here Morgan?”

There wasn’t much of a response from Arthur, only a quiet noise which was barely heard over the whistle of the wind between the planks. He walked over to the horses, checking over them and ensuring none of them were freezing to death. Micah watched in silence, scared to disturb the man as he patted along Taima’s neck.

It wasn’t until after Arthur had checked over all the horses did he turn his attention to Micah.

Micah watched as Arthur’s gloved hand extended out and offered itself to him, he hesitated before taking before taking it and being pulled to his feet. Arthur’s hand draped over his shoulder which he didn’t realise had shaking in an effort to keep warm, having drunk the remaining whiskey from the bottle.

“Common now, yer gonna freeze in here alone.”

Micah dug his heels into the ground, not allowing Arthur to pull him any further to the door as he tried to hold his voice steady. He’d be damned if he ever let Arthur know just how much he affected him.

“I ain’t sharing a bunk with Williams—“

Arthur tutted, pulling Micah out the door as he pushed him towards his cabin in the snow storm.

“Quit yer yapping, you’re sharing with me and I ain’t having any more folk die tonight. Now let’s go.”

Arthur didn’t utter another word until they were well and truely in his room, wrapped in a blanket that was barely big enough for the two of them. The bed wasn’t much bigger, having been made for one person which was evident by Arthur pressing against Micah’s back in efforts for them to fit. The only thing that kept them apart was the fabric of their jackets, otherwise Arthur would probably hear Micah’s heartbeat which was beating much to fast for his liking.

The uncomfortable silence was broken when Micah cursed under his breath which caused his teeth to chatter and Arthur spoke up.

“Yer still cold, c'mere”

Micah’s breath fell short as Arthur’s hands slid under his coat, resting his hands on his tummy to use his body heat as a source of warmth. In doing so Arthur had moved even closer, ensuring Micah’s back was flush against his chest.

Despite that Micah wanted to protest, to go straight to his default of arguing he couldn’t help but feel as he began to warm up and he slowly relaxed under his hands.

A blush rose high on his cheeks as Arthur also relaxed into their embrace, accidentally letting his hands drift lower until he felt the hard press of Micah’s straining erection against his knuckle.

Micah instantly sucked in a breath, panicking and trying to push his way out of Arthur’s hold.

“Shit Arthur I—“

Micah froze as Arthur gently pulled him back to the bed and rubbed slow circles along his stomach.

“S’alright Micah, I’m not mad…”

Arthur held him close, letting him relax before talking again before he whispered right into the shell of his ear.

“…This what you want? Is this why you’re always staring at me from across camp, why yer always picking fights and asking me to robberies?”

A high pitched noise left Micah as he shivered, feeling Arthur’s hot breath against his ear. His blush deepened as he pushed back slightly into him, whimpering at the feel of Arthur’s own erection pressed against his ass.

Fuck it, he thought as heat pooled in his abdomen and he finally allowed himself to have the one thing he’d been craving for months. He nodded frantically, grinding back onto Arthur’s clothed dick and squirming in his grip.

“Relax boy, gonna give you everything you’ve been waiting for— just be good and you’ll get it”

Micah nodded in agreement, a needy, desperate sound leaving him at the promise of praise. He wanted, no needed to be praised by the man so badly that he’d do anything for an ounce of it from the man.

“Oh god Arthur! I need it, need you. Fuck I can be good I promise.”

He knew he was probably being too loud but apart of him didn’t have it in him to care. He moaned softly as Arthur moved him to roll onto his back, towering over him but ensuring they were still kept under the blanket.

Arthur spent the next ten minutes undressing him without exposing much of his skin to the cold. He unbuttoned the lower buttons of his leather jacket, enough for Arthur to work his fly down and pull one pant leg off. He whined pitifully, grabbing at the lapels of Arthur’s coat in a silent plea for him to undress him properly.

Micah mentally scolded himself at just how desperate he was for Arthur to rip his clothes off and fuck him like a bitch in heat but he knew that wasn’t happening any time soon. Arthur however caught on pretty quickly to what he wanted, it seemed the man knew just what made him tick.

“I know sweetheart, once we’re well and truly outta here I’ll get us a room and we can do this properly.”

Micah’s eyes beamed at the thought of Arthur taking him to a hotel in the future, panting as his mind raced with images of Morgan making him fall apart on his cock for hours on end.

While Micah was busy in his mind, Arthur took the opportunity to retrieve the gun oil from his satchel. It certainly wasn’t the best option but it was their only choice with their limited supplies.

Arthur draped himself back over Micah’s body, kissing at his jaw and nibbling as he coated his fingers. The air was cold, only making the oil feel colder as he slowly dipped his index finger past Micah’s rim.

A devilish grin came to Arthur’s face as he heard Micah sigh and take his finger easily, deciding to work his way up to two sooner than he was expecting.

“You’ve wanted this for a long time haven’t you? I saw you once, bout a week ago. Head down, ass up with three of yer fingers inside you while you cried out for me to fuck you. It all clicked in my head then when you started acting different around me at camp.”

Micah flushed a deep red, coughing on air as he realised Arthur knew about his little crush. He tried to think of an excuse, to weasel his way out of it but his thoughts died in his head when Arthur twisted his fingers, scissoring and stretching him open before adding a third.

Arthur dragged a lip along Micah’s cheek to his lip, ghosting his lips over his before kissing him properly. This time Micah didn’t even try to fight for dominance, opening his mouth instantly for Arthur’s tongue to enter. Instead he sighed into it, pulling his legs to wrap around his waist as his hands wrapped around his lover’s shoulder.

It went on like that until Arthur was satisfied that Micah was well prepped enough, simultaneously rubbing against Micah’s prostate while he kissed him deeply. He only pulled away to pull his own leaking member out, bunching his pants around his thighs so he had enough room to move but could stay warm. He coated the rest of the oil onto his member, jerking slowly as he stared down at the sight of Micah below him.

Micah looked like an absolute mess against the pillows already, his face was flush and the scarf around his head had unwrapped slightly, revealing his disheveled blond hair. His chest was heaving as he panted and his thighs shook from pleasure as the weakly wrapped around his waist.

“You look so pretty like this sweetheart”

To say that Micah hated the pet name was a lie, one that he didn’t try deny as he moaned softly. His back arched and he gripped Arthur’s coat tightly as he felt his cock slide between his cheeks and over his hole. He’s wanted this for so long now and yet somehow it still didn’t quite feel real as his mind was clouded with arousal.

Micah’s toes curled and he moaned when he felt Arthur push into him, slowly inching forward until he felt him bottom out.

“Ah— ah! Oh Arthur fuck! Please fuck me, I’ll be good I swear.”

Micah practically sobbed with pleasure as Arthur set up a fast pace, pulling almost all the way out till just the tip was left inside his tight hole before pushing back in quickly, brushing his prostate in the process. His cock twitched from where it rested against his tummy, pinned between Arthur’s jacket which caused a string of moans to fall from his mouth.

“Look at you, so good for me— fucking perfect Micah. Such a good boy”

Arthur’s hands came to hold onto Micah’s hips for leverage, pulling on his slight muffin top under the jacket to help pull him back to meet his thrusts. Beneath him he heard Micah whine and whimper at the praise so desperately needed to hear.

Micah bought a finger up to his mouth, biting on his knuckle to silence any more noises he deemed to be pathetic from slipping out of him. He hated how close he already was just from being praised by Arthur.

It seemed Arthur wasn’t having any of it when he pulled his finger away from his mouth before kissing him like he had done not that long ago. He swallowed every one of Micah’s noises, mindful of Dutch sleeping next door and slowing his thrusts to something deeper and slower.

His hands roamed all over Micah’s clothed body, breaking away for air and whispering praises down his ear.

“That’s it, make those pretty noises for me sweetheart.”

Micah eye’s rolled into his head as he cried out.

“You’re mine, all for me— my good boy.”

More moans slipped from his lips.

“Atta boy— taking me so well, so good.”

His back arched and he withered in his embrace

“So eager to please aren’t you? I’ll take care of you now boy.”

“—Arthur! I’m close— Ah, I’m gonna—“

“Go on sweetheart cum for me…that’s it good boy.”

Micah’s whole body when rigid as he finally came. His mouth hung open, tongue lolling out as his orgasm dragged out with each thrust Arthur delivered, eager to chase his own.

He collapsed into the pillow, thighs shaking as he whined at the oversensitivity. It didn’t last long before Arthur’s thrusts changed pace to something more erratic, picking up the pace as he spilled his load inside him.

Arthur groaned into his neck, pulling him close and collapsing into him as he regained his breath.

He pulled out slowly with a wet and obscene pop, sitting up and helping Micah put his clothes back on. Micah only weakly managed to fiddle with the button on his jacket while Arthur gently manhandled his jelly-like limbs to fit back into his pant leg. He used the blanket to wipe the cum off his tummy, a weak attempt at cleaning up and something they would both no doubt regret come tomorrow morning but for now they were keen to sleep after such a horrific and chaotic few days.

Arthur pulled Micah into their original position for the night, the only difference being that his face was now tucked into his chest. Arthur rested his chin of Micah’s head, littering his hair with kisses as he played with his hair between his rough fingers.

Micah was the first to fall asleep, curled up with his forehead against Arthur’s collarbone. Arthur wasn’t far behind him either, finally letting himself get some much needed rest but not before he pressed a soft kiss to his hairline.

#morbell #micah bell #arthur morgan

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

The Logical Epilogue

Epilogue to The Logical Progression

Pairing: Nathan Bateman x Reader Rating: Mature Warnings: Cursing; sexual innuendo; Nathan being Nathan Notes: Honestly was kinda stunned that so many people asked for an epilogue 🥺 Sorry it took so long!  Just as a note, the painter mentioned in this piece is entirely fictional Summary: At first, it was exciting.

Berlin worked.

Berlin worked for a while.

You settled into your new position, your new office. Your new boss, Mark’s replacement, was out in California, and the time difference was a little bit of a bitch, but you made it work.

You made it work for a while.

You saw Nathan most weekends, at first. Most, because he got consumed with his work so often, and so did you, sometimes. Truth be told, you couldn’t always take the time out of your schedule to take the two hour flight from Berlin to Oslo, and then the hour long helicopter ride from the airport to the drop zone near the estate, and then the forty five minute hike from the drop zone to Nathan’s house.

At first, you did.

At first, it was exciting. At first you were optimistic, and in love, and brimming with hope because this was a compromise—and sure, it wasn’t something that the two of you had come up with together; it had been your idea, but he had said yes. Yes to your idea, yes to Berlin, yes to your new title – in his company. You had carved out your own place in his company, gotten to where you were by your own merits. You were happy. He was happy.

It worked at first.

After the first few months, though, the bloom was off the rose.

It started with the travel. 

Four hours was a lot one way – and that was four hours if everything was running on time and the weather permitted. It was eight hours all told, round trip. Eight hours every weekend, back and forth, was a bit much. So after a few months, every weekend became every other weekend – and it was still a lot. Of course, any time you mentioned that to Nathan, he was unapologetic at best.

“If you’d just moved in with me like I’d planned, you wouldn’t be tired.”

The first couple of times, you’d laughed. The fifteenth time, it wasn’t so funny anymore. You finally stopped mentioning it to him.

Then, it was the work.

It took you four hours to get to his house. Four. Three flying and an hour of a hike – sometimes through the snow. Silly you, you’d thought the man might stop for more than a kiss and a, “Hey, honey,” when you got there.

At first, the two of you were fucking like rabbits. And then your visits became more infrequent, and even when you were there, Nathan was sometimes too locked in to whatever it was that he was doing to give you the time of day, so much so that you felt like his damn Jackson Pollack: you were around to be looked at occasionally, contemplated, and then left to your own devices.

You’d made the mistake of mentioning that to him, too.

“I’d have more time for you if you were here, honey.”

That had started as a tease, too, but you knew Nathan. Every little joke and jab had a thin layer of saccharine shielding the spike he really wanted to stick you with.

And it stuck.

It didn’t help that your work had felt stagnant since you’d moved. Blue Book was still flourishing; your performance reviews were all positive; the Berlin office was thriving, but… But ever since you moved, you just felt so disconnected.

-- 

“You’re not coming this weekend?”

Nathan’s voice didn’t manage to lose any of its petulance despite how tinny it sounded through your headphones.

“I can’t, we’re going through tissue sessions for the pitch on Monday,” You told him.

“I haven’t seen you in, like, a month.”

“Oh, you noticed that?” There was a pause on Nathan’s end before he dryly asked, “You driving at something, sweetheart?” “Look Nate, I’ve got work to do,” You retorted, “I’ll call you later and try to make it out next weekend, alright?” Nathan let out a scoffed laugh and hung up. No ‘goodbye’, no ‘sure’, no ‘noon will be fine’. Looking back, that should’ve been a warning. With Nathan, there wouldn’t be a goodbye. There would be a drift. The time between your trips to see him became longer and longer, and your countenance in one another’s company became more and more icy, more static. The trips stopped, the calls stopped, and then a box with the things that you left at Nathan’s place showed up at your door. No note, no letter from him, nothing. His Maya console was right at the bottom. He’d finally ripped it out of the fuckin’ wall. Mommy and Daddy had broken up and you got full custody. -- 

The decision to leave Blue Book wasn’t a result of the break up. You’d had other job offers before - Nathan knew that-- No. No, you told yourself to take Nathan out of the equation as you handwrote your resignation letter. Handwrote, because you were still under NDA, and you didn’t want the drafts of this to be caught in one of the regular data audits that Blue Book did. 

You weren’t leaving to join Google, Apple, or IBM, or any of the other companies that had offered you positions with them over the years.  One of the reasons that you had moved up in Blue Book as quickly as you had was your ability to look at a product release and translate the jargon-heavy language into something the average person could understand. You’d done it for a few friends in the tech industry on the side now and again, when they were getting started with their own companies. And as much as you liked Blue Book, you liked the idea of being your own boss more. -- Your last night at Blue Book was no less than a fiasco - you’d been there a long time, so they made an effort, a fuss. They threw a party at a swanky art gallery in Berlin. People had come up to you all evening, asked you what your plans were, if you were excited, what you would miss. You’d told them - you were going to become a freelance writer, focus on technical writing. You already had a number of jobs lined up. You were incredibly excited, but a little nervous. Blue Book had been one big cyber safety net. You’d be alone.

“You hear Bateman was here?” It was a whisper behind you - from one member of the sales team to another, but loud enough for you to hear, loud enough to distract you from the conversation that you’d been in the middle of. There was no way. You hadn’t heard from the man in months - four of them, if you were going to be precise. There was no way he would turn up at your going away party - to do what? Make a fucking splash? All eyes on him? You wondered exactly how much shit you’d get for leaving your own party. You heard the ping of Blue Book’s messaging system on your phone and you pulled it out of your pocket, going cold when you saw the message. N. Bateman: Ferrar room.

No. No, you wouldn’t let him do this. This motherfucker wouldn’t get the chance to just swan back in and sweep you back off of your fucking feet after he was such a shit. -- “So you haven’t plugged Maya in yet.” “...Well between my phone, laptop and the NDA, I’ve kinda already got enough of your spyware in my apartment.”

Nathan chuckled, still wandering around the little back room of the gallery. You’d had to ask an attendant where the Ferrar room even was - but it was full of some of the most vibrant work you’d ever seen. So maybe, for that reason, you’d briefly forgiven Nathan for not even turning to look at you since you’d walked in. And yeah, it had stung, but considering everything that had happened and-- and not happened -- considering the things that the two of you had never said and the fights that you’d never had, and the compromises that he’d never made and every single compromise that you had made, it was no wonder that the man didn’t bother to turn and look at you when there was canvas after canvas after canvas of life in vivid color all around him. “Armel Ferrar,” Nathan said, “French painter, born in Peillon in 1868. Moved to Paris in 1885. Heavily influenced by Seurat and Cézanne -- more Cézanne than Seurat. You can see it in the color use, but… the way he plays with light, that’s all Seurat.” You weren’t looking at the painting that Nathan was looking at. Hell, you weren’t even looking at the paintings. You were just looking at him - at the back of his fucking head. At the back of his fucking head, and the slight tapering that you could see of his beard; at the way his shoulders sloped, and where his hands were tucked into his pockets. Your eyes drifted up his back again, over his neck, his head. The painting he was looking at, whatever painting it was, had bursts of yellow - wheat, maybe, or stars, or the sun, it was difficult for you to tell at that distance. From where you stood, it was as though the man was haloed and framed. Bright and shining and on display, this man that liked to keep to himself and spent his days underground in his office. “Stayed in Paris, too--” He was still talking, of course he was still talking, “Most of his life, or what was left of it. Never married, had one kid outta wedlock… Died in 1891, same year as Seurat. His daughter, Marie-Thérèse, married a military man that moved her to Berlin after the second World War. She brought his paintings with her, that’s how they wound up here.” 

Nathan went quiet for a few moments before, “What do you think?” “...I’m wondering why you had me come back here when you very well could’ve given that TED talk to an empty room. Or better yet to any one of the people out there that are utterly fascinated with you. Either would suit, considering how much you love your own voice.” You had already turned yourself to look at a painting, made yourself distracted by the time you answered, because you’d known that that would get a look from him. You were right, too; you saw him turn to look at you out of your periphery. “Can we skip this part?” That bored tone was back. You dug your nails into the palms of your hands, letting your eyes hone in on the vivid splashes of red on the painting in front of you - petunias. “Which part would that be?” You asked. “The part where you tell me what I did wrong and I pretend that you’re right so that I can say sorry and we can get back to what we were doing.”

You laughed. You actually laughed. Not a fake one, not a haughty one, but a real peal of laughter left you in shock. “Wow,” You sighed once it had passed, “I forgot what a dick you are, you know that? I actually kinda managed to forget.” “Look--” “No,” You turned to face him, holding a hand up to stop whatever he was about to say, “If you came to fake some sincere bullshit, or to tell me that everything would’ve worked if we had done things your way--” “They would’ve--” “Shut the fuck up, Bateman,” You snapped, “You don’t know that, alright? You don’t. I don’t care if you have it in your head that it would’ve all been perfect because you said so.” 

“You really think my way would’ve been worse?” “Well, we’ll never know,” You shrugged, folding your arms over your chest. Nathan was quiet for a single, blessed moment. Then-- “Why are you leaving Blue Book?” “I don’t wanna sound egotistical here, but I kinda refuse to believe that you didn’t read my resignation letter.” “I did.” “Then you know the answer.” “Were those the only reasons?” You looked over his face for a few moments. “... It wasn’t you,” You shook your head, “I don’t know if you wanted it to be, or didn’t, but it wasn’t you.” “Why the fuck would I want it to be?” “Because you think the universe revolves around your beard.” 

He seemed to fight a smile for a moment, and your stomach twisted. You’d seen that look - the way he had to work to pull down the corners of his mouth - in the first video he’d ever sent you, yelling at Maya to remove you as an admin. Maya, which was still sitting in a box in your apartment, because you couldn’t bring yourself to get rid of the damn console. You didn’t want to plug it in, but you couldn’t just fucking throw it out. “...So, this new job,” He approached you slowly, and you were careful to hold your ground - not just because backing or turning away felt like weakness, but because stepping backward would mean knocking into the work of a French artist whose life sounded pretty fucking tragic. “Yes?” “You staying in Berlin?” You were quiet for a few moments before you shook your head. “I don’t know. I can do it from anywhere, so I haven’t really decided what my next move is going to be.” “Anywhere?” Nathan repeated. “Whatever you’re thinking, un-think it.” “Can’t unscramble an egg, honey.” “Don’t.” “Don’t what?” “Bateman, I’m serious. You think I’m just gonna crawl back to you?” “Who the fuck is doing the crawling? I’m here!” He snapped. “Oh, look. Nathan did one thing,” You cooed mockingly, “Nathan put on something other than sweatpants and left his estate--” “It’s a four hour trip--” “Oh, you cannot fucking tell me about the travel, Bateman, don’t you dare. I did that for months and you acted like it was nothing, you acted like I was nothing!” 

And then Nathan stopped. Nathan stopped and lowered his chin to his chest for a moment. “You’re not,” He spoke softly - so softly you almost didn’t hear, “You’re not-- You know that. That's your insecurities talking--” “Knowing and feeling are two different things. I’m not a console, I don’t run an OS, I can’t just go in and fix the buggy code that tells me differently,” You had to work to keep your voice steady and get the words out, “What you just did once to get here? I did that for months, Bateman. And that’s after I pulled my whole life up and moved to a new country. That trip, two days a week, every week, and half the time I was there, you acted like I wasn’t. I may as well have not been, so I stopped going.”  “You could’ve talked to me.” “...You know what, I’m not even going near that one, because I really don’t want to yell in here,” You managed through gritted teeth, eyes diverted to another painting. Nathan lifted his head then, looking you over before he stepped forward, muttering, “Stop that.” “What?” “That.” He reached out, taking hold of your hands from where they were crossed under your arms. He ‘tsk’ed softly as he uncrossed your arms and unfolded your hands, running his thumbs over the small half-moon dents that your nails had left in your palms. “... Alright, maybe gatecrashing wasn’t my best idea,” He glanced toward the door to the room before his eyes scanned your face. “I don’t think it even breaks your top five.” “Would you care to list that top five now?” “I would not, at the risk of puffing up your beard.” You heard him chuckle, felt his thumbs continue to smooth over your palms. “...You remember that first Rise of AI, when I told you why I’d pulled you up on stage to give that presentation?” He asked. You frowned, turning to look at him again. He was watching you closely over the top of his glasses, eyes knowing and dark. “You wanted to see what I'd do if you threw me in the deep end.” He nodded. “That was Blue Book, something we both knew. This…” He wrapped his hands around your, gave them a gentle squeeze, “This is new for the both of us. We jumped into the deep end and uh…Starting in the kiddy pool might’ve been better.”  “Did Nathan Bateman just admit defeat?” “No. No,” His gaze went stern, then, “Because kiddy pool or not, you’re still in the fuckin’ water.” You looked down at where his hands were holding yours still. “I want to try again,” Nathan crowded closer to you, “And I know-- I know that I am an asshole and that I fucked up, and you know what, I’m probably going to fuck up again,” He raised one hand to cup your chin, raising your head to meet his eyes, “But I wanna give it another shot. I just… I just need to know if that’s even an option here.” When the box of your things had arrived at your place, you’d told yourself that it wasn’t. You’d told yourself that Nathan was an asshole, and a shitstain, and a dickwad, and a douchecanoe, and a host of other derogatory names that you’d dreamt up in your most frustrated moments. Because, yeah, he could be those things. But that didn’t change the fact that you still had feelings for him. It didn’t change the fact that you’d made mistakes in that relationship, too. “So?” He prompted you as you looked at one another, “How do you think we’d do in the kiddy pool?” You gave him a small smile and murmured, “Swimmingly.” The force of Nathan’s kiss nearly knocked you off of your feet - your head would’ve hit a Ferrar if his hand hadn’t come up to cup the back and cushion it. (The gallery owner saw the two of you and was horrified.) (But Nathan bought that painting and like five others, so they got over it.)

Tag list: @spider-starry​ ; @mylittlelonelyappreciation​ ; @grogu-pascal​ ; @blueeyesatnight​ ; @kid-from-new-zealand​ ; @revolution-starter​ ; @kindablackenedsuperhero

#The Logical Progression #The Logical Epilogue #Nathan Bateman #Nathan Bateman x Reader #Nathan Bateman x You #Nathan Bateman/Reader #Nathan Bateman/You #Titled that way because i'm an asshole and it's what nathan would've wanted

[luvknow]

in another lifetime | lee minho

genre: ceo/iron man!lee minho x secretary!reader | ceo au ; superhero au ; alcohol mention ; blood mention summary: you and your boss were inseparable. no one could understand how you could work ungodly hours for such an inexperienced ceo. but your job was to stick by Mr. Lee for as long as you were getting paid, and that meant being his date to charity balls and helping him turn into the country’s best superhero. wc: 18.9k a/n: rewrite of that one w**jin fic cuz fuck that guy ~! the public has spoken.... lee minho has been chosen as the winner

Secretary was your title, but you liked to think you were more than just that. Perhaps secretary was just an umbrella term for amateur sommelier slash novice multitasker slash the only employee who knew how to drive stick. Whatever your job entailed, you were sure to list all of those tasks in your updated resume when it was time to pass the torch onto some other poor sucker because you would much rather die than be a secretary for life.

It wasn’t like your boss was a total ass, or anything. That was actually the scary part - the fact that your boss was one of the kindest and most attentive people you’ve ever worked for, yet you still hated this job! What made this so horrid was the amount of walking and running your poor feet had to do. And guess what? No sneakers were allowed in the office, so you were left with walking over forty-thousand steps in a day in toe-pinching sole-aching glossy shoes that were half a size too big for your feet because shoes like these always ran out in your size in the store.

“Good morning, Mr. Lee,” you greeted, walking into his private office at 8:00 am on the dot as normal. With tired eyes, he looked up from his stack of blueprints and gave you a warm smile. You don’t know how he does it, but he always managed to welcome your morning visits with a smile that almost made you consider your resignation. “Iced americano, extra shot.”

“You are a blessing,” he praised graciously. One sip of the liquid gold was enough to wake him up right away.

“Long night?”

“Yeah. You know how it took us hours to decide the wall colors for each floor in our building? Imagine doing that all over again, but for a superhero suit prototype.”

“But it’s just a suit this time, not fifty floors.”

“This isn’t just a suit, _____. It’s the suit of a man who’s going to save the world one day! A suit that everyone will lay their eyes on and judge me for my color choices.”

“You sound like a child.”

“An ambitious child, mind you.”

“Did you ultimately decide on a color?”

“Yes, two colors actually. Red and gold.”

“Wow, such a loud and loyal color choice.”

“Is it?” Your handsome boss pouted slightly while scanning his designs. “Seungmin said the same thing. Maybe I should change it -”

“No!” you interrupted for the sake of not wanting to look up Pantone’s thousands of shades of ruby and champagne. “Red and gold are perfect for you.”

Minho’s pouty lips melted into a proud smile. “If you believe so, then I trust you. Come take a look - what do you think of it overall?”

You walked around his ginormous custom-made walnut desk to peer over his shoulder. Minho could smell the familiar gardenia scent you wore for years and it immediately brought comfort to his panicking soul. Somehow your presence always calmed him down, no matter what stressful situation he was in. Maybe that’s why he wanted to have you around 24/7. How selfish of him.

Your couple minutes of silence were so agonizing that his nervous foot-tapping habit he told you about that he thought he got rid of in college broke through, which was your cue to answer.

“I like it. I like it a lot, actually,” you admitted honestly. “I would definitely feel safe if I saw you come to my rescue, although the helmet is a little concerning.”

“Concerning how?”

“Well, it has such a… A, uh… How do I put this politely? A dead expression?”

“‘Dead’ is a polite adjective to you?”

“I mean come on, Mr. Lee, there are two eyes and a flat line for the mouth where the corners curve downwards just slightly and it looks like you gave him little fangs. There’s not much life in the eyes, either.” 

“They light up when the suit is on!”

“Maybe I’ll like it more when I see it in person?”

“The helmet is the only thing I’m confident about, so nothing and no one can change my mind,” he said stubbornly.

“I’m sure everyone will love it,” you reassured while smoothing out the stress wrinkles on his indigo shoulder pads. “When do you plan on starting the build?”

“In half an hour.”

“What!?” Minho nearly spit out his espresso at your yelping and the frantic way you sifted through your massive planner and scrolling through your emails on your phone at the same time. Oh, so that’s what he forgot to tell you! He knew something felt off. “B-B-But I didn’t get an email that the shipment arrived!”

“I called the company at five in the morning just as they opened and demanded an expedited shipping of all the materials and they’ll be arriving in half an hour.”

“But did the quality department approve of the materials? Or your design at least?”

“You do know I’m the CEO, right?” Minho smirked teasingly. “That’s business talk for ‘fuck Quality’.”

Minho stood up from his black velvet Chesterfield chair to escape your nagging and briskly walked away towards God-knows-where. Like an obedient, push-over puppy, you trailed closely behind with a light jog and all you could think about was how it was too early for your feet to be aching this badly.

“I don’t like the idea of this,” you said firmly.

“You never do. Loosen up a little, will ya?”

“I will not! I looked the other way when you decided on signing a contract to collaborate with that ugly luxury car brand, I agreed with the proposal of a new smartphone that totally flopped in the end, and I barely allowed the approval for the development of the new branch in Taiwan! All of those ideas are whatever, arbitrary even, but this? This puts you at the front line of danger, Mr. Lee! What if something goes wrong, or the material is compromised? What if these companies take you for a fool for not checking in with the quality department first? What if you’re setting yourself up to be sabotaged, huh?”

Minho pressed the down button on the elevator, ignoring your pleas. Even though all you do is nag and play by the rules, he knew you were only doing so because he didn’t bother to. In the end, you were just looking out for him, and he couldn’t appreciate you more.

His gives you what he thought was a reassuring smile. To you, it looked rather mischievous “Lucky for me that you’ll be there the whole time, right?”’

“What do you mean…?”

“I mean you’ll watch the entire suit being built while you work. Then you’ll see how safe it is. I need someone to double check me, anyways.”

“Mr. Lee, I don’t think I’m qualified for that.”

“Don’t be silly, of course you are!”

Your engineering experience went as far as Physics I and II classes with a teaspoon’s worth in basic circuitry, so if Minho thought that qualified you to double check his work, then you might have to question his PhD degree.

The elevator welcomed you both into its vacant container. The lowest level this elevator could reach with a single button was the basement, but if the right person (or the wrong person) were to dial the buttons in the order of 4-4-1-9, they would be taken nine floors below the basement to the rumored ‘Super Office’ (ten was too much because Minho didn’t like the feel of the heavy pressure and eight was such a silly number).

The steel doors opened right into his Super Office which he designed to be five times larger than his executive office so he had plenty of room for building up new car designs and bringing his super suits to life for both him and his partners. His successful designs that were once worn but are now retired were placed on mannequins and stored inside a tall glass box on display for him to admire.

You walked up to your favorite one, eyes sparkled adoringly at Seungmin’s first Spider-Man suit.

“You always loved the red and blue,” Minho noted behind you. “Still not a fan of the black one?”

“The black one is scary! No one wants a hero dressed in all black, like that color does not exude the feeling of safe.”

“Duly noted for his next suit.”

Beside Seungmin’s old spidey suit was an empty display case you assumed was meant for this final draft of Minho’s Iron Man suit. Surrounding the two glass cases were dozens and dozens of wood and plastic demos that didn’t work out in the end, but Minho didn’t have the heart to take them to the dumpster.

“Looks like the shipment arrived early!” Your mature but easy-going boss jogged up to the piles of wooden crates and packages that were laid out neatly in the center of his work space. Without much patience, he took off his indigo suit jacket, tossed it to the side like it wasn’t worth two thousand dollars (to which you caught before it hit the ground), and took the crowbar on top of the pile to open the cases with ease. Sheets of metals, different tools, and a cool welding and soldering set scattered along the concrete floor. Minho gave you an excited grin that mimicked a child upon opening gifts on Christmas. “Let the building commence!”

There wasn’t room for any argument, so you took a seat at his desk where he normally would sketch the designs and worked off of his desktop with a heavy feeling of defeat. At least watching the process would be cool, right?

Maybe cool wasn’t the right word. Or watching.

For the next three months, from sunrise to sunset, you spent your day nine floors below the surface for almost twelve hours a day being his little helper. From holding pieces of metal in place while he flame torched them together to feeding him take out because his hands were covered in oil, you did it all and God, if Minho didn’t give you a raise or at least some meal tickets to the executive cafeteria, you might just quit on the spot.

“Done.” With a heavy and exhausted sigh, Minho clapped his hands together and marveled at his nearly-finished product. “We’re done!!”

“What about the red and gold paint?”

“I can’t work on this anymore or I’ll implode. I’ll just take this to my car guy and he’ll paint it exactly how I want it.”

“Not really a self-made suit then, is it?” you dared to challenge your boss.

He pointed an accusing finger at you. “Shut your mouth and give me my food.”

You handed a slouching Minho his box of take-out and wooden chopsticks. While you had a perfectly comfortable ottoman he could have sat on right next to you, he remained on the cold concrete, probably too sore and worn out to even stand up, let alone walk to a cushioned seat. Minho was a man with personality and many faces, but his face of satisfactory upon completing projects was when he was the most handsome. For a while, you two just sat in silence, taking in every detail of the flawless iron suit while slurping noodles. 

“So,” Minho began nervously. “What do you think?”

“It’s beautiful, Mr. Lee,” you say immediately.

“You mean it?”

For someone so intelligent and talented, it was a wonder how a man like him could be insecure about any of his creations.

“Absolutely,” you reassured. “Flawless. Is it fully programmed and everything?”

“Yup. I installed the software and artificial intelligence last week.”

“Sounds like the only thing you need to do is take it out for a spin.”

Minho hummed with approval. “... Can you do it for me?”

“What!? No!”

“I really don’t want to do it…”

“With all due respect, suck it up.”

“Isn’t it reasons like this why I hired you?”

“I was hired to be your secretary, not your lab rat.”

“To be fair, the job description was pretty vague.”

“Yeah, I definitely did not expect to be helping you construct a modern Knight in Shining Armor cosplay.” After wiping your mouth clean of all MSG and soy sauce, you tossed your dirty napkin in the trash bin that was a considerable distance away.

Minho followed suit, who was also able to get his napkin in the can. Then you tossed another napkin, and then him, and this went on until you were left to toss your boxes and chopsticks. The real challenge was tossing the plastic wraps of the fortune cookies.

“Whoever loses has to do whatever the other says,” Minho proposed.

Without hesitation, you nodded in agreement. “Fine, but I will not test that thing out if I lose.”

“Deal. Secretaries first.”

You did your best to crumple up and squish out any air that was left in the wrapped before whipping it like you were throwing the first pitch. The wrapper hit the rim of the can and fell to the side. But that’s ok, because there was no way your boss could even come close to -

“WOO!” Minho cheered, getting up from the floor while you were left slumped in the chair filled with defeat. Of course, whatever he wanted, he would get his way. “Man, I am super lucky today.”

“What the hell! Did you wrap it around a stone or something!?”

“Darling, I would never cheat ~”

“There’s no use in arguing. Just lay the consequences on me, boss.”

Minho scooted the ottoman closer - almost a little too close. Then, like a handsome little goldendoodle with his swooshy chocolate hair and sparkling eyes, he gazed up at you pleadingly before offering you your punishment.

Fear and flattery tickled your spine. “Spit it out.”

A grin followed. “You will accompany me to the ball next week.”

“The Children’s Charity Ball? The biggest charity ball of the century? The one where all the white-haired big shots attend with their dates who just barely turned eighteen?”

“The very same.”

“And you want me to be your date.”

“Yes.”

“Seems a bit lazy, doesn’t it?”

“Lazy how!?”

Not wanting him to see you blush, you began cleaning up the mess from the takeout. “Lazy as in why not find a real date? You know, someone you’ll have a good time with.”

“Hey, I always have a good time with you! And I’m doing you a favor if you think about it. If I wanted to bring anyone else, that would mean you’d have to flip through all of my contacts and have you choose the perfect date for me. So unless you want the extra overtime, I’ll expect to see you dressed to the nines?”

“Don’t you want to bring someone more suited for this role? Someone with much more finesse and elegance?” you said as you twirled dirty napkins in the air.

“If I’m being honest, I do not have the time nor do I want to put in the effort into bringing someone so bland.”

“Who says they’re bland? What if I pick out one of your supermodel friends or like a professor, or something?”

“All my supermodel friends like to toke up in bathrooms and what’s a professor going to do? Lecture me to death? _____, please, I am begging you - be my date? You know you and I are going to have a blast, I promise you. We always do when we’re together.”

A moment of silence passed while you shuddered in disgust. You couldn’t believe you were going to say this, but…  “So what should I wear?”

“Yes! That’s the spirit! Wear anything besides velvet because that’s my fabric of choice.”

“Can you at least do the picking for me? We should at least match in the slightest.”

Minho let out an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, fine, I’ll do all the work.”

“You’re a pain in the ass, Mr. Lee.”

“It’s what I do best.”

After cleaning up the mess and a last quick polish on the Iron suit, the two of you took the elevator to the level below the basement where Minho parked his favorite fancy shmancy foreign sports car you couldn’t pronounce. In its shiny and spotless all-white glory sat his coup in his executive parking spot where no other car or person was in sight.

“Quite showy for you, isn’t it?” you accused your normally toned-down boss.

“I had a hunch that today was going to be the day we finished, and low and behold, we did. Soojung the Spyder always brings me good luck,” he patted and praised his prized roadster.

The distance from the office to your apartment was a solid forty-five minutes away by public transportation, right on the edge of being not too far, but not close enough, but by car it was only twenty-five minutes. During your first couple of years with the company, you enjoyed the lonely rides and getting lost with your thoughts, but there were moments you got so lost that you missed your stop a couple too many times and sometimes the winter made waiting outside so unbearable. It wasn’t until you started to clock in tons of overtime that Minho was nice enough to drive you home from then on.

--

“C’mon, _____, just get in the car,” Minho begged for the twelfth time, holding the passenger door open with one hand and an umbrella with the other. He parked his car illegally right in front of the bus stop that so many other employees used. Why did it matter that you were using it while it was thunderstorming and past 10:00 PM? “The heat is escaping the longer we argue.”

“It’s fine! I don’t live too far away,” you lied. “Please go home, Mr. Lee, your puppy must be worried sick.”

“Hazelnut can wait, but I can’t. As your boss, I order you to get in my car!” Though the statement was serious with his booming voice, his pouty lips made it much less intimidating.

“With all due respect, I have clocked out for the day and I don’t have to listen to you until 7:00 am tomorrow.”

“I can’t believe you’re making me break the law.”

“What do you mean?”

The blinding lights of the bus flashed irregularly, a polite way of telling Minho to get the fuck out of the way. But he didn’t move in the slightest. He patiently waited for you by the passenger door, not moving a muscle and looking like a car model dressed in his long, warm and tan pea coat. The patient and smug look on his face let you know he wasn’t playing around and that he’d dare tell the bus to wait until you got in.

“Mr. Lee, get out of the way!”

“Not until you’re in my car,” he shook his head stubbornly. “The bus is getting closer ~”

Your anxiousness hiked up exponentially when the driver held the horn long and loudly, not looking like they had much patience in them and indicating that they were very, very annoyed. For the sake of not inconveniencing the butt-load of passengers and the driver and securing your job, you hurried into his car, cursing up a storm that rivaled the one outside. A triumphant and smirking Minho followed suit and sped away at a dangerous speed, perhaps breaking a second law that night. For those twenty-five minutes (or maybe it was fifteen with Minho’s driving), the car was silent because your reckless boss focused on cutting every civilian off on the highway and you were too busy covering your eyes in fear.

--

“You were so dramatic back then,” Minho snickered at the seemingly-harmless memory.

“Me!? You were the one who parked in front of a bus stop and begged me to get in!”

“You were the one who wouldn’t get in the damn car!”

“How does it look to on-lookers that a secretary is getting into her boss’s car!?”

“It’s not like anyone knows our relationship.”

“Oh please, someone like you driving a beautiful shiny car picking up sad ol’ me at the bus stop - of course on-lookers may not know me and my relationship to you, but they definitely know who you are at the very least.”

“I could not give more than zero fucks of what people think.”

“Yes, that much is clear.”

“_____, you can’t always worry about what everyone thinks ~”

You sighed loudly, as if you’d explained this to him a thousand times already. “Worrying is the basis of my entire title, Mr. Lee.”

“And will you drop the ‘Mr. Lee’ once and for all? We’re the same age!”

“Same age, but different titles and a massive pay gap. You and I are not equals.”

Minho reached over to mess up your hair. “You’re so formal, it’s so cute!”

“Ah, stop it! You’re swerving!!”

Minho had dropped you off and walked you up to your apartment more times than you can count, but you don’t think you’ll ever get over the embarrassment of your humble abode. Of course you’ve visited his mansion just as many times, since you participated in the designing of it, and him having to see such a sad home in comparison is, well, terrifying each and every time.

“Ok, bye,” you dismissed quickly.

A handsome laugh escaped your handsome boss’s lips. “Still hate having me so close to your home? You know, it’s quite rude you’ve never invited me in and yet you’ve been in mine hundreds of times!”

“My home doesn’t have marble statues or glass refrigerators and I can’t hire you to redesign the interior.”

“You know I don’t care about that stuff.”

“But I do!”

His tongue tisked disappointedly. “What a shame. I thought we were friends.”

“We are, but friends don’t break sensitive boundaries.”

He passively waved you off. “Fine, fine. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Bright and early.”

“Excellent. I have one request.”

It was your turn to pout. What could he possibly want this time? “Already? At least let me sleep peacefully.”

“It’s nothing complicated, I promise! In fact, it’ll save you thirty minutes. Don’t bring me my coffee tomorrow.”

“Don’t? Are you on a caffeine cleanse again? You know how badly that went last time - you barely lasted two days and you fired someone, to which I had to convince you for forty minutes to hire them back.”

“No, not a cleanse. Just come in a bit earlier. Let’s get coffee together.”

“Do you have time for that?” Knowing how packed Minho’s schedule was in the mornings, you wondered his sanity for making time just so the two of you could grab a cup.

“I’ll make time. Actually, you’ll make time. Can you pencil us in for some coffee?”

“U-Uh, yeah!” With nervous and shaky hands, you pulled out your work phone and squeezed in half an hour of coffee time. “Done.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Don’t be reckless driving home.”

“No promises.”

Before going into your apartment complex, you watched Minho wave goodbye before blasting music with a deep bass and speeding off, leaving a smokey trail from burning rubber.

“I hate him,” you smiled to yourself.

--

“I hate him,” you said to yourself upon walking into Minho’s office.

Like an artificially intelligent robot that didn’t know of its purpose, Minho dressed in his Iron suit walked around his office doing regular office things, like dusting the blinds and tidying up loose papers on his desk. It was a little difficult to do smaller tasks with his stiff and massive iron hands, so you’re not entirely sure what your boss was doing.

“G’morning!” he greeted cheerfully. “Just taking this baby out on a test drive.”

You had just noticed the paint job was completed on the suit which meant that it was good to go. However, you didn’t think this was the ideal way to ‘test drive’ a superhero suit. 

“Good morning, Mr. Lee. Is this really the right way to test drive?”

“I got too excited when my car guy told me it was done. He did it so quickly and precisely, too. Look, he even engraved it with my signature! She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

“Yes, very shiny. The gold and red are much prettier than I imagined.”

“Right!? Not too Gryffindor-y, is it?”

“Not at all,” you said sincerely. “Do you want to get coffee now? We should hurry, you have a conference call at 8:00.”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

Minho followed you to the door with a trail of heavy iron steps. You turned around quickly and gave him an incredulous look, one he’s seen much too often. “I don’t want coffee anymore.”

“Why not!?”

“I’m not going out in public with you wearing that thing! You look ridiculous!”

“That’s so rude of you to say about my pride and joy! This also took me thirty minutes to put on!”

“Mr. Lee, we’re just getting coffee!”

“You are not fun at all.”

It took only five minutes to get your boss stumbling out of the suit because the button for the release was hidden under a metal panel on his wrist, but at least it was painless.

“I thought you didn’t want to reveal Iron Man until you tested it and got your seal of approval?” you asked the child-like man.

“That’s still the plan, but I’m just so excited! I think we should test it tonight.”

“Tonight? Already?”

“Yup, and I need you here with me in case I die, or something.”

“And to think I was gonna relax and take a bubble bath tonight.”

“It won’t take long, I promise.”

“I’ll believe it when I drop my bath bomb in my tub.”

In your whole time working here, you’ve spent more time together with Minho at both the office and at his home than working alone. The ratio was about seventy-five percent at the office, fifteen percent at his home, and ten percent miscellaneous, like going to business lunches or simple walks to the coffee shop like today. The long work hours were brutal on your feet and your social life, but the money was way too good to pass. You swore you broke the world record for ‘quickest payment of student debt’ with your hard work.

To anyone else, your job sounded so unappealing that no amount of money could ever convince them to do what you’re doing. ‘So brave’, they tell you, but it’s not that you’re brave, it’s that you’re loyal and as much as you hate to say it, you had the best boss. Yes, he’s a little goofy and yes, maybe a bit naive because he’s so young, but he treated you like you’re his equal and not someone so beneath him who takes all of his notes and takes his laundry to be dry cleaned. Plus when he compensated for your time so handsomely, how could you hate your job? Every day was new and exciting when you were with Minho.

The day went along as normal, from conference calls to lunch and finishing the day with an interview with the press. The very second everyone clocked out at 5:00 pm, you followed a speedy boss to wherever he led you.

“Are we going to test it out now?”

“No, silly, it’s still too bright out! We have to test it once the sun sets.”

You knew that sounded too good to be true. You held a light jog in order to keep up with him. “Where are we going then?”

He turned and gave you a suspicious grin. “Shopping!”

“For what!?”

“You and I need matching outfits for the charity ball, remember?”

“You know, I was just kidding when I said that… We don’t have to match…” The last thing you want is for someone to mistake you as your boss’s date instead of his secretary, but to be fair you don’t know many guests going that bring anyone that isn’t a date, so you kind of shot yourself in the foot when you didn’t make that shot into the trash bin.

“We are matching and I am not arguing with you.”

A defeated sigh escaped your lips before entering the backseat of Minho’s car where his driver would take us anywhere he pleased. He told him a cross section that sounded familiar, but not enough for you to guess where you’re going, so from here on out until you were home taking a hot bath, the rest of today would be a surprise. 

The car stopped in front of a glossy black DIOR building. You expected nothing less from Minho.

“You would pick Dior,” you scoffed, completely amazed at how someone so rich could have so much brand loyalty to one company.

“Hey, they are consistent and beautifully crafted, don’t judge me.”

“Mr. Lee and Lovely _____!” An older, graceful lady came running to greet both of you with a warm smile dressed in a hot red shade of lipstick. You recognized her voice to be the owner from all the times you called to ask about any pieces Minho could reserve before they hit the runway and were snatched up by the ‘I Have Daddy’s Credit Card and Inheritance’ private-school boys. This was your first time seeing her in person and her calming voice matched her mature appearance perfectly. “This piece has been waiting for you ~”

“I can’t wait, Auntie,” he smiled back graciously like an obedient nephew rewarded with cookies.

She led the two of you to the very back where the private dressing and tailoring area was, where the mirrors went from the floor to the ceiling. The store owner walked in with Minho’s fabric of choice, a velvet jacket with crisp black pants and a white button-up that had the slightest sheen of silver from metallic strands woven into the shirt fabric. In the shadows, one would think the velvet was black, but in the light or at certain angles, there was the slightest sheen to it that showed the darkest shades of indigo and green, like an oil slick. You couldn’t believe the amount of detail in the velvet that your eyes looked like they were popping out of your sockets.

Your boss was so eager to try it on that he was taking off his pants before you were warned. Quickly you turned around and shut your eyes, pretending that you didn’t see his KakaoTalk-patterned boxer briefs.

“M-M-Mr. Lee! At least warn me if you’re going to strip!!”

“Sorry ~” he apologized unapologetically.

A couple of zips and rustling of fabrics later, Minho tapped your shoulder to turn around. Your eyes bulged out of their sockets again while looking at your boss dressed in a suit that was clearly made for him and him only. It didn’t look like any tailoring was needed at all! He looked like he walked right off the runway. There had to be some enchantment spell in the fabric because you swear you’ve never seen any man more handsome before this moment.

“I take it you like it?” Minho teased.

Your cheeks tickled with red when he caught you staring. “You look amazing as usual, Mr. Lee.”

“You think so?” You knew so. “It’s not too flashy, is it?”

“Not at all. I think you have the perfect amount of flash. How does it feel?”

“Like a glove. It’s already perfectly tailored!”

“I know your measurements by heart, my dear,” Auntie bragged. “Of course I had it ready to go already.”

“You’re the best.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek and a tight hug. “What would I be without you?”

“Not GQ’s best dressed man under thirty, that’s for sure.”

“Could you do me another favor? Do you perhaps have something for _____ to match? We have a charity ball next weekend.”

“Mr. Lee, this is really unnecessary -”

“I know exactly what to pull.”

Before you could object, Auntie ran to the back of the store where all the hidden inventory was held. You glared at your cheeky boss, still dressed in his sexy outfit and it was hard to keep your glare when he looked so damn good, that handsome bastard.

“I’m not wearing whatever she brings out.”

“You will and you’ll look great and we will buy it, so don’t embarrass me.”

“Embarrass you!? I am not your doll!”

“I’ve got it!”

Both you and Minho whipped your heads to see Auntie running in with a blacker than black satin and silky outfit that was simple but elegant. Nervous goosebumps spread through your arms and straight to your wallet. You already knew this was going to be the most expensive outfit you’ve ever worn.

“It’s beautiful,” you gasped so slightly.

“Try it on!”

Minho followed Auntie out of the dressing room but not before shooting you a triumphant wink. I mean, who were you to deny your boss and the store owner, right? So with ease, you put on the cooling fabric that clung to your body in all the right spots. The mirror did all justice and perhaps it was a magical mirror that Dior spent millions on to convince their customers to buy everything because damn, you look hot! With your face as red as Minho’s Corvette, you presented the outfit to the two judges.

“Oh, it fits perfectly!” Auntie gushed with wide eyes.

Minho stayed silent with his mouth ajar and eyes scanning you up and down like you were a precious gem discovered in a deep cave beyond a waterfall. It was hard to differentiate between feeling flattered and feeling like object, but at least you were a desired object, right?

“You look amazing,” Minho admitted sincerely, no longer looking at you with awe and rather content.

“Really? I look ok?”

His handsome smile shined brightly at you. Whether you were dressed in your formal work clothes that screamed ‘absolute virgin’ or you were head-to-toe in Dior, you were never just ‘ok’. You always had the attention of everyone in the room once you walked in, especially his. You were always stunning, no matter what. Validation from your boss always came easy and calmed you quickly because he only had eyes for you.

“You look just fine,” he lied, because ‘fine’ didn’t come close to how you looked to him.

“We’ll be the best dressed at the ball, huh?”

“Absolutely.”

The car ride home was quiet other than the trot music playing on the radio from the driver’s playlist. Minho seemed as cool as a cucumber, but you were at the edge of your seat feeling a bit awkward and ugh, unintentionally sweaty. Compliments from any man was one thing, but coming from your boss? A whole different level of weird, especially if they weren’t work related! What did ‘you look just fine’ even mean!? Was that a good thing? Were you too average-looking? Whatever it was, from now until you fall asleep at ungodly hours, those words were going to circulate your thoughts, perhaps haunt you for days.

At exactly 7:03 pm, just as the sun set below the horizon revealing the indigo night sky, the driver pulled up to the back entrance of the building that led to a secret elevator that would take you straight to the underground office after punching in the code. A giggling and grinning Minho was the first to hop out of the car and ran towards the door.

“Mr. Lee, hold on!” you whined as you struggled to get out of the tall car.

“Hurry up, _____! Now’s the perfect time to earn that OT!”

“This time-and-a-half pay better be worth it…”

Upon entering the elevator, you were ready to punch in the 4419 code, but Minho had already pressed the button to the top level, which led to the roof slash helipad.

“Why are we going up?”

“We can’t test the suit inside, silly. Seungmin came by earlier to pick up his suit after I recalibrated it last night and I asked him to take the suit to the roof.”

“How, that thing weighs like a ton!”

“Not when you’re wearing it.”

“You let him wear it before you test drove it!? Mr. Lee, that’s extremely reckless!”

“Relax, I trusted he wouldn’t mess anything up, and look! It’s right there!”

The glass elevator made a slow stop to reveal the red and gold suit standing proudly in the center of the helipad. As soon as the doors panned open, Minho handed you his suitcase before running out and tossing his blazer onto the floor before hastily stepping into the suit.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” he said, running back to your frazzled state. He took the leather suitcase from your hands and popped it open so he could give you a glass tablet. “This is for you.”

You looked at the shiny slab of glass with wonder. “What is it?”

“It’s like a control center. You’ll see what I see in terms of my stats and where I am in the city. If anything goes wrong, like say the jets give out, I need you to send a command to manually turn on the back-ups.”

“And what code is that?”

“Not important, we’ll study those later.”

“Later!? What if something happens tonight!?”

“Nothing will happen I promise, I’ll see you in a bit ~!” his cheering faded away the further he ran from you and to his beloved suit.

There was no use in fighting your boss, so you did as you were told and touched the tablet to reveal the control panel. It was black for a few moments before the screen showed your tiny self off in the distance looking down at the tablet which meant that Minho was able to put on and turn on the suit super quickly without any problems.

“What do you see?” he asked you through the speakers of the tablet from his built-in microphone in the helmet.

“I see me in the distance, the battery level of the suit, and all other weird liquids and commodities at one hundred percent.”

“Perfect!”

You turned to look at your boss who was stretching and feeling out the suit as if this wasn’t his 50th time wearing it. Still, he looked so excited and proud of his hard work, it was hard to tease him about how childish he was, even if he was trying out his yoga poses he just learned. 

“How does it feel?”

“It feels incredible! Totally indescribable now that I’m out in the open. And it’s surprisingly lightweight.”

“How were you able to make it feel light with all that metal?”

“I don’t know, if I’m being honest…”

You rolled your eyes. “The work of a genius, huh?”

“You’ve got that right. Are we ready to take off?”

“I believe so. Are you ready to take off?”

“More than I’ll ever be, baby!!”

Before you knew it, you saw the camera’s view on the screen wobble and turn towards the edge of the building. Terrified, you saw your child-like boss get a running start before he dove off the edge and into the sea of the city.

In a panic, you ran and took a peak over the edge, hoping the jets or whatever kept the suit flying would operate properly and leave you without any worries. At first, Minho was but a dark red speck falling beneath the shadows, but a second later, he came flying up at lighting speed doing tricks and flips with ease and whooping loudly, as any normal CEO of a software company slash wannabe superhero would do. You could hear him giggling through your tablet, and like a spectator watching the most spectacular aerial performance, you watched him with a smile on your lips.

After his solo, he glided back down to you and hovered beyond the edge just at your eye level. You couldn’t see any features behind the glass of his eyes so you were left awkwardly staring at his expressionless helmet with those signature weird fangs. After all you and Minho have been through together, even with an idea like this being so ridiculously obscure, he could always rely on you to support him no matter what. He saw how your eyes sparkled with wonderment and how your cheeks dusted a soft pink and it was then that he knew you would stay by his side for even more ridiculous shenanigans to come.

He would never let you leave, anyways. Even in another lifetime, he’d have you by his side forever.

“How cool do I look right now?” he asked. His voice sounded deeper and electronic through the helmet, like he was a robot or had his voice programmed through a phone like Siri. You imagined an idea like that was how Minho planned on becoming immortal one day.

You raised a brow. “You look kind of… scary?”

“Scary!? Why?”

“I don’t know, if I saw a flying robot come at me at rocket speed, I think I’d be terrified!”

“Well, if I come to your rescue, at least you’ll know it’s me.”

“I suppose. So what are you going to do now? Throw a reveal event? Press conference, perhaps?”

“That, or wait for a Demon-Level threat to pass through our city. I don’t know, whichever comes first.” Minho shrugged nonchalantly. “Wanna see something cool?”

Before you could agree, Minho held his palm to the sky before a neon blue blast shot out of it, disappearing into God-knows-where. You could feel the heat from the beam of light radiated around you and fear sparked inside your chest.

“What the hell was that!?” you exclaimed.

“Isn’t that so cool!? Gonna hit some suckers and fry them up like bacon!” Your boss blindly shot another beam of light into the sky and you prayed to someone out there that no planes would disintegrate in the process.

“Hey, careful! What if you hit a satellite or something!” In the process of grabbing Minho’s iron hand so he’d stop being so reckless, you burned yourself upon touching the hot metal opening like a total dumb ass and yanked your hand back. “Ah!!”

“Oh, shit.”

Quickly and haphazardly, Minho landed back on the helipad and climbed out of the iron suit. In the process of running back to your aid, he untied his black silk necktie to use as a temporary band aid on your scalding palm. Gingerly, his cold hands took yours and ran a thumb over the scarring semicircle.

“Ah ah ah stop!!” you cried with tears of pain and embarrassment streaming down your cheeks.

“Sorry! Here,” Minho wrapped his tie around your palm and tied it tightly. The pure silk felt cooling against the burn and soon your tears stopped and you couldn’t do anything else besides sniffle. “Let’s go back inside. My office has a first aid kit.”

Your mumbling and cursing boss led you back to his office with urgency, blaming himself for being so stupid and recklessly playing with what could be considered a weapon of mass destruction. And now his favorite person, the one person who believed in his iron suit, was hurt in the process, pouting cutely and holding your burned hand like you were an injured puppy. This was one of his greatest fears upon completing this project.

You sat on his sapphire blue velvet couch with the bronze-gilded frame that looked like it belonged in the Ravenclaw common room trying to alleviate the pain of the burn in Minho’s ice bucket (for his white wine, of course) while he shifted through his drawers to find the first aid kit you gave him a couple years ago.

“Do you remember when you got this for me?” he asked as soon as he pulled it out from the bottom drawer. You shook your head, too lightheaded and in too much pain to remember. He sat next to you and began to tell the old story while patching you up. “It was your third year working here, but my first day as CEO when I took over for my Dad. I got so many paper cuts from all the paperwork I had to read and sign and I got a massive headache afterwards and I just wanted to eat something because all I had that day was an iced americano. It was so late and by the time I was finished, it was maybe 7:00pm -”

“8:00 pm,” you corrected in between sniffles.

“Ah, so you do remember! At 8:00pm, you waltzed into my office wearing your comfiest clothes with a bag of take-out in one hand and the first aid kit with a million bandaids and Tylenol in the other. That night, you sat in my office and helped patch up my fingers, fed me lo mein, and helped me with the rest of the paperwork for two hours. I thought of you as my guardian angel since that day and vowed to myself that no matter what, you and I would stick by each other’s side and be the dynamic duo that we are forever. Oh, how the tables have turned tonight. Now I’m the one patching you up.”

Minho had finished wrapping your palm at the end of his story. Something about his proclamation didn’t sit right with you. Something about staying here forever, clocking in massive amounts of overtime and being subservient to the same men sounded like your own personal hell.

“I can’t be your secretary forever, Mr. Lee.”

“I know,” he admitted. “But I don’t have to think about that for quite some time, right?”

“Maybe.”

“I hate change, you know.”

“I, more than anyone else, know that.”

Your handsome boss chuckled lightly at the heavy subject. His curly coffe hair covered his eyes as he looked down at your hand and traced small shapes on the bandaid. You knew that he knew you didn’t want to stay here forever, and he couldn’t blame you, but it didn’t make the thought of you leaving any less heartbreaking.

“Does it feel any better?”

“Much better,” you said truthfully as the cooling gel felt like a magical potion.

“This first aid kit is the only practical gift I’ve ever received. All others are for the aesthetic.”

“Do you prefer practical gifts, Mr. Lee?”

“Of course! The fuck am I going to do with a VVS diamond-encrusted chain?”

“Flex on all the other young CEOs?”

“And partake in their pissing contest? No, thank you.”

“You’re telling me you won’t be doing that this weekend at the Charity Ball?”

“When I have you next to me, I don’t need VVS diamonds,” Minho grinned flirtatiously.

You hit his arm with your good hand and he flinched upon his correct prediction. “I am not an accessory!”

“Of course not! You are my beloved intelligent sidekick that all other big wigs tell me they wished they had! But when you look like that, it’s bonus points ~”

“Ugh, your kind are all the same!” you scoffed, trying to collect your things and storm out the door.

“It’s a compliment!” he teased. Minho managed to chase after you and grab your things to carry to his car so he could drive you home for the 1106th time.

--

After a long and tiring rest of the week helping your boss do target practicing with the iron suit on, Saturday had arrived and now you had the honor of accompanying said-boss to a Big Dick contest disguised as a Charity Ball. The main event was for the sake of the children of course, but the real show was to see who was wearing what designer with what accessories and who pulled up in the fanciest sports car with the youngest and sexiest date in their arms. You were so, so lucky to be working for someone who liked to stay low key, despite always being the center of attention.

“Why are you so nervous?” Minho teased, nudging your arm as you both walked up to the front doors of the venue. “This isn’t the first time you’ve played as my date.”

“I know, but it doesn’t get any easier,” you admitted, shyly covering yourself from the much-more revealing outfit now that it was tailored to fit.

“You and I look fine! Muted colors, minimal diamonds, low key attitudes - we’re perfect! No one will even notice we’re here.”

That was a complete lie, because the second you walked in, a swarm of gossip columnists and magazine writers circled around the two of you, bombarding you both with the same questions you were so used to.

“Mr. Lee, who are you wearing?”

“Mr. Lee, who’s your lovely date?”

“Mr. Lee, what’s the best way to lock in that your date will go home with you?”

Minho raised his hand slightly and all that could be heard were the cameras clicking. God, the power he has… 

“Dior, a close friend, and be so irresistible that they can’t say no.”

Without another word, he gently took your bandaged hand and led you out of the circle of gossipers who were silent in awe. With your free hand, you covered up your ugly laughing.

“You’re such a cornball!” you said in between a fit of giggles.

“An irresistible cornball, at least. Now, walk me through all these people again?”

Minho was young and when it came to networking, he still had the mentality of being the CEO’s son rather than the CEO. That meant that Minho didn’t care much in remembering other CEO’s names and relied on you to remind him of all the people he should have remembered three years ago. It was a consistent hour of introductions and small talk about future goals, collaborations, and golfing, all of which you were able to expertly tune out while sipping prosecco and snacking on caviar tarts. Years of experience thankfully made these events easier.

“Did you practice your speech for your donation?” you reminded Minho after taking a seat at the prestigious Table 2. Since the company was one of the Charity Ball’s biggest sponsors, the CEOs were always invited to say some manufactured speech.

“Yeah. I even practiced it in the shower. Hopefully I get the charity organization correct this time.”

“It’s amazing how you even got this far.”

The Charity Ball should have been named See Who Can Donate the Most Money Ball because every speech given by a CEO of some company tried to out-do each other. Luckily, your company’s speeches were always last and your touch of humanity written on paper always had the audience in awe with the Minho’s compassion. To pass the time, you and Minho played rock-paper-scissors and whomever lost had to drink champagne. Let’s just say Minho ended up having the infamous Asian Glow.

His face was still blushy by the time it was his turn and you almost felt bad because the pictures with the flash turned on probably wouldn’t be so flattering in the magazines, but that wouldn’t matter because he still looks like the most stunning man in the room. All eyes were on him as he made his speech, but he had his eyes on you. Probably because he would piss his pants if he saw how many people were looking at him. You gave him two thumbs up for encouragement.

“It is the greatest honor to be here and giving a speech for the third year in a row. Children are the source and future for a better world, and it is our duty to -”

You blanked out for most of it since you wrote it. It was hard to focus anyways when his eyes were so piercing, so you averted his gaze and counted the number of peppercorns on his unfinished steak. At an alarming fifty-three, you glanced around the gallery to see if anyone was actually paying attention. Many, if not all, of the guests around your age were paying attention with dreamy eyes and pouty lips, all wishing they were in your position tonight. Some even dared to make eye contact with you as if to say, ‘how DARE you NOT pay attention to the sexiest man alive!?’ The older, more powerful guests seemed genuinely interested in the amount Minho was donating and the older dates seemed to care more about their reflection on the back of a spoon.

The fattest check with a bunch of zeros was walked onto the stage. A standing ovation was in order of course, and you conformed with the crowd, even though applause always made Minho visibly uncomfortable.

“He throws a big, fat check to charity and yet he still doesn’t like the attention, huh?”

As the clapping died down and the noise faded into the smooth hum of the live piano and jazz music, you turned to face the owner of a familiar sly voice. The man that stood before you was the famous doctor slash art collector slash playboy who you’ve come to know after attending all of these flashy events.

You smiled slyly at the man. “If it isn’t GQ’s Bachelor of the Month, Dr. Park Seonghwa.”

The raven-haired man gave you his signature smirk. Then he took your hand and kissed it tenderly like the prince he is. “Lovely _____, pleasure to see you as always.”

“Have you been doing that to all the other guests you frequent at these events?”

“Of course not! Just the beautiful ones.”

You let out a loud scoff. “You and your way with words.”

“Are they enough to convince you to finally go out to dinner with me?”

“Not quite.”

Seonghwa sighed tiredly and dropped his head as if this was the first time you’ve rejected him. Guess every time felt like the first time. The handsome raven held his hand out to you. “If not dinner, how about a dance?”

Hesitantly, you searched for your boss like you were trying to sneak away from a parent. He was busy shaking hands and catching up with The Important People’s Club, so you didn’t think one dance would hurt, though once you feed a dog a treat, he’ll be begging for more forever.

You took his hand. “One dance.”

“Five.”

“One.”

“Three?”

“Dr. Park!”

“What!? Ok, fine, one dance, unless you’re really feeling it and then we’ll dance some more.”

“Maybe in another lifetime, Dr. Park.”

The young doctor led you to the dance floor before you could object further. For someone not-so-smooth with pick-up lines, he was definitely smooth with his moves. With one gentle hand on your waist and the other holding your hand, you two glide around the white tiles like the Royalty of the ball, and truly, for a few moments, it really felt like you were the star of this fairy tale.

Seonghwa let out a tired sigh. “Intelligent, beautiful, loyal, and good at dancing? How are you so good at everything?”

“Stop that.”

“I mean it! Yet no man swept you off your feet.”

“Just because I won’t say yes to you, doesn’t mean I’m not waiting for that special someone.”

Seonghwa held your hand up high and made you do a little twirl. “You might be waiting for a while, beautiful.”

“Why do you say that?”

“With Mr. Minho by your side twenty-five hours eight days a week, there is no man that has the courage to come in between such a strong relationship.”

“Even you?” you challenged.

“Even I. Unless you want me to -”

“Nope.”

“Ice cold heart as always…”

Song number one melted into song number two and it passed you both as you continued to discuss the hot topic of why you’re still single. It’s a conversation topic that you thought was reserved for nosy family members for you to brush off, but coming from another man who has begged for your number since you both met really put your love life into perspective. Perhaps you were too loyal to your boss…

While engulfed in the heated debate, Minho was desperately searching for his right hand where he thought you’d be - either at your seat or by the bar, but you were at neither. After receiving his order from the bar, he let the expensive gold liquid over ice flooded through his bloodstream, which led him to a group of gawking gossipers whining and gazing at the dance floor. What was all the hype about?

The sight of you in the arms of the world’s most arrogant doctor didn’t sit too well with him. The scene made him see green.

“You’re such a liar!” Minho heard you laugh aloud. “I did NOT give you so-called bedroom eyes at Yuta’s house warming!”

“You’re telling me you weren’t eyeing me up and down like a barbecued piece of pork belly dipped in sesame oil?”

“That’s because you had sesame oil on your white shirt!”

“Excuses, excuses.”

Minho took another sip of his golden drink before putting it down haphazardly and waltzing towards the dancing couple. To onlookers, this scene looked like it was straight out of those cheesy love triangle dramas. The gossipy gals wondered - would Minho punch Seonghwa? Would he grab your hand harshly and drag you away to scold you and tell you how much he cared about you? Would he kiss you!?

You saw your uncharacteristically stern-looking boss approaching, and even though you’re unsure of his intentions, you still smiled brightly, as you always did whenever you saw him. Minho lightened his heavy, angry steps. Even with another man by your side, you still looked at him. How could he be mad at you?

“Hello, Mr. Minho,” Seonghwa greeted, holding out a hand for him to shake. You knew your boss wasn’t the biggest fan of Seonghwa, but he politely returned the gesture anyways. Somehow you felt your heart beating in your throat - the tension on the dance floor was too high, too powerful, and you were but an awkward and nervous secretary standing on the side while two powerful men duked it out.

“Dr. Seonghwa, nice to see you again.” Minho was good at lying, but his lies never passed you. The amount of discomfort knitted in his eyebrows almost made you snicker. “Long nights at the hospital still?”

“As always, but at least it’s rewarding and enjoyable. How are your long nights at the office?”

“Can’t get enough of them, right, _____?”

“What? You’re still doing that much overtime?” Seonghwa asked worriedly. Now, was he worried because you were overworking yourself or was he worried because you were spending so much time with a man that wasn’t him?

You shrugged unapologetically. “I love that overtime pay.”

“_____, that’s not good for your health -”

“I tell them that all the time,” Minho interrupted defensively. He was always like this whenever anyone questioned the amount of work you had. To you, it was not much of a burden at all, but to anyone else, they couldn’t fathom your work hours but if they saw your paycheck, maybe they’d understand. Even your boss felt bad whenever your friends blamed him, but  no matter how much he tried to convince you of a normal 40-hour work week, the duties of being his secretary never added up to just that. Therefore, your boss always felt the need to defend you and him for the sake of making sure you weren’t portrayed as his slave. “But you’re just so stubborn, aren’t you?”

“Only because it’s you, Mr. Lee,” you said like you’re reading a script. Somehow that doesn’t translate through the ears of the two powerful men in front of you, as your boss smiled triumphantly and Seonghwa couldn’t help but shake his head.

“If you ever want to take me up on that date, Lovely _____, you know who to call.” The most handsome man who’s ever flirted with you took your hand gently and planted a sweet, soft kiss that sent little tingles all up your arm. You don’t think you’ll ever reciprocate his feelings, but the feeling of being desired and wanted by a man really kicked up your ego and really made you think - when was the last time you ever liked someone, or someone ever liked you?

Park Seonghwa disappeared into the crowd and perhaps left the Charity Ball all together. Until next time.

Your boss turned to face you, whose stern face quickly melted into innocence as he knew what was coming by the look on your annoyed expression. “What?”

“What was that all about?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You shook your head and mumbled under your breath, “Ugh, you are unbelievable, Mr. Lee.”

As you tried to escape, the desperate man caught your hand. “Wait, where are you going?”

“Away from you for just five minutes, can you let me do that?” you snapped in a hushed volume. “Or do you need to watch over me and speak on my behalf, since you’re my Father apparently!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to act like that.”

“You say that every time, especially when I’m talking to another man and even more-so when I’m talking to Dr. Park. When will your sorries mean something?”

“You know I get protective over you.”

“Again, you are not my Father!”

“I know, but -”

All of the attention that was once focused on the handsome CEO and his secretary shifted to the glass ceiling that was now shattered to pieces upon the force of some dozens of masked strangers dressed in all black. Minho instinctively, though harshly, forced you down so he could hover over you so none of the glass hit you. What followed seemed to be too numbing, as all of the stimuli in the banquet hall was too much to handle.

“Get down,” Minho instructed while pushing you under one of the tables. “Don’t move until I come back.”

“Wait, but where are you -”

“I’ll be back in ten minutes!”

“Mr. Lee!”

Of course, he didn’t listen, as Mr. Lee always did what he wanted, right? Which would normally annoy the fuck out of you, but who has the time to panic about what your boss was up to when you’re stranded under the table and shrouded by cheap table cloth linen?

Since those people had invaded and fallen from the sky, you noticed that no gunshots or any sort of violence outside of melee were heard. No purpose of the attack is even known yet, but the signs were promising, until the famous alarm was heard throughout the whole town.

“Threat level: Dragon. Please stay inside until all threats have been cleared. Threat level: Dragon. Please stay inside until -”

“Ah, yes, the richest of the rich gather here today to donate the smallest percentage of their some billions of dollars to charity,” a booming voice tisked through a microphone. “Do you feel good about your good deed of the year? Are you proud of yourselves?”

For some unknown reason, the voice paused, as if waiting for an answer or a reaction from the people. Nothing was heard besides shrill screaming and crying, which was probably what the wannabe-vigilante wanted. For the first time, you peaked through the slits of the table cloth. At the stage where Minho gave his speech was a now-broken stage with the foot of a giant robot through it. It was a very top-heavy robot that looked like it had a large cavity in its belly, whose odd shape probably served some weird purpose unknown to everyone.

“Perhaps you’ll be proud of your donations for once when we capture you all and milk you of your every last penny!” The man laughed evilly at the head of the robot. “Down with the rich!”

“Down with the rich!” his people cheered in unison.

The oddly political turn of events made the scene less jarring - it seemed like an over-exaggeration of townspeople coming together to fight for higher taxing of the rich. Then you were reminded of the Dragon-level threat by how the minions loaded up the richies with a gun pointed to their heads and the complex mechanism that loaded them up to the belly of the robot. Somewhere among the mass of people you saw Seonghwa in between another surgeon and a senior engineer at Tesla before he disappeared behind the walls of metal.

“Hey, I found another one!” someone yelled close by. “Under Table 2!”

Shit. “Fuck.”

Perhaps all those years of advance self defense classes that Minho’s father enrolled you in would come to good use this time.

By your glamorously-strapped heel, one of the masked men dragged you out from under the table. There was no use in struggling, and the man seemed quite satisfied with how you complied.

“Let’s go, darling.”

With your free foot, you dug the pointy end of the studded heel into his groin. Luckily, you can only ever imagine how painful something like that could feel. He was in so much pain that he doubled over and let go of your foot, leaving you to flee to God-knows-where after you stole his police baton.

“Don’t fucking call me darling,” you spat as a farewell.

There were too many men in between you and the emergency exit, so you had to fight your way through like in those cheesy American action movies. A bunch of kicks in the groin here and a couple baton to the knee caps there were enough to get you by half way, but then they started double-teaming on you. Of course, this was much harder, but Senior Mr. Lee didn’t give you the best sensei in the damn nation for no reason. You felt invincible even after defeating multiple double teams, but it was the triple teaming that got you stuck. You can only kick and baton so many groins at one time until two men held each of your arms and the other stole the baton.

While struggling to break free, you managed to knee the one in front of you in the chin, causing him to cut his lip with blood dripping on his cheap leather shoes. After realizing what had happened, he punched you in the cheek as punishment. Was that a bone you heard cracking?

“Try me again, bitch,” he seethed.

Out of nowhere, your knight in Iron armor landed before the one who punched you and returned the favor, sending his body through so many walls of this building that you worried about the foundation and how long you had before it collapsed.

Minho’s red and gold helmet swung sharply and the empty eyes were staring into the souls of your captors while at the same time not.

“Who’s next?” Minho threatened with his super cool and inaccurately deep robotic voice.

Both men fled the scene as quickly as possible, losing their grip and throwing you to the floor. The penny taste finally registered in your brain that yes, you were definitely coughing and spitting out blood.

The cold metal of Iron Man’s hand helped you to your feet while the other cupped your quickly-bruising cheek gently. The underlying tenderness of your boss’s touch somehow healed all pain, or perhaps it was the cooling iron. Gestures like these were so foreign that you almost forgot it was your boss behind the mask and not some handsome stranger who was ready to sweep you off your feet. It was instances like these where you wished the latter was real.

“Are you ok?” he asked gingerly.

“I’m fine,” you promised. “Go save your investors.”

A light chuckle came from Iron Man. “My driver’s already waiting outside. Are you able to run?”

“I’m not leaving without you.”

“C’mon, _____, now’s not the time -”

“Do not argue with me until you save everyone, Mr. Lee.”

Minho shook his head tiredly. He knew there was no use arguing with his headstrong secretary. “You’re so stubborn. Just promise you won’t get into any trouble this time.”

“No.”

“I’m cuttin’ down on your work hours!” he yelled, blasting off to fight the giant robot thing so he wouldn’t have to hear you argue back again.

You were left with a couple of masked minions who still had the balls to attack and capture you as if you were worth more than your surprisingly above-average five-figure salary. Your copper saliva mixed with your boss trusting you enough to not die in the middle of a Dragon-level threat really pumped the adrenaline through your veins, so as one man sprinted to attack, you managed to dodge it and kick him in the throat before he could try something else. The other guy tried to sneak up behind you, but you were quicker, swinging the baton hard enough to the head to knock him out cold. The power you felt coursing through your body left you on a major high. Where were all the other minions? No way was that all…

In the middle of the banquet hall was the face-off of the century, rivaling any and all story lines from DC and Marvel combined. A tiny seven-foot-something intricately crafted and painted sheet of metal was about to fight a giant several-stories tall and several-dozen-tons heavy hunk of junk with dozens of guests they managed to scoop inside. Now how was Mr. Lee going to save the day this time?

“Lee Minho, the man of the night,” the man controlling the ship scoffed. “You will look like my childhood favorite action figure once I stuff you in a glass box in my office! A prized treasure is what you’ll be. How does that sound?”

“Sounds kinky.” You could just sense the smirk behind his mask. “Then what will you do to me?”

“Milk you of all your assets, of course! Liquidation of its truest definition! The redistribution of wealth will come easy to the people, especially with your earnings in the mix!”

“Fine, take my money. But let these people go.”

“Absolutely not! I need all the money I can get! How do you expect me to change the distribution of wealth of the entire world with just one CEO’s salary!? Mr. Lee, I thought you knew that, silly.”

“Ok, fine. You take all of our money and then what?”

“Well, kill you, of course.”

A chorus of gasps and crying were heard from the belly of the machine.

The philosophical man continued. “People like you are the very reason there is a large pay gap. You sit on your ass drinking cocktails and eating caviar and you donate to some profiting charity only a tiny percentage of what you make while all the good hard-working people are the ones bringing the big bucks into your bank account! And what do they get? Small paychecks and four hours of sleep!”

Yeah, this guy was bad, but he had his points, so you’ll cheers to that, am I right?

“Well, then where will you get your money after that? Hm?” The captain stayed silent. “Where will you get more money to sustain this utopia? Certainly not from the hard-working people who have no experience leading or handling such a huge sum of money. And certainly not from you, right? Ha! With your five-figure salary paychecks that barely get the bills paid on time.”

A heavy arm swung to try and snatch up your boss. Though the arm was so large and heavy, Minho barely managed to escape his grasp. By the silence of the once-chatty leader of the pack, you could tell that he was bothered by the words spat by the youngest CEO in the room. How dare Minho mock his hard-earned pay when his earnings were given to him on a VVS diamond-encrusted platter!? There were a couple of times where he landed a couple of hits on your boss and you should feel worried, but you couldn’t help but think he deserved it. You hated to be on the enemy’s side, but you, too, were one of those five-figure salary paycheck owners that are barely scraping by with their bills. And of course you were all for the redistribution of wealth, but this guy definitely went a little too far…

You would think that the sheer size of this oddly-shaped hunk of metal wouldn’t be able to move so fast, but it managed to capture Minho by digging its claw to the wall and sandwiching Minho in between. He couldn’t even wiggle his way out between gaps because the thing was pressing too hard against the wall. Minho could feel the metal bending from inside.

“People like you will never understand the worth of the dollar,” the captain seethed. “Not when stacks come to you in baskets sewn with gold and jewels commissioned by your Daddy. People like you, and everyone captured, need to be humbled a little. Maybe you all can learn a little something from the working class.”

“Then we die, is that right?”

“Of course! But at least you’ll die a hard-working man, Mr. Lee.”

“I will. But I’ll die a hard-working man with billions in my grave before I let you take a penny!”

The blue beam of light that you once cursed for burning a half circle on your palm you were now thankful for, as that beam of light shot your boss up in the air and freed him, taking a few fingers off of the hunk of metal with him. A couple more shots of incinerator beams later, and both arms of the robot had been severed and half disintegrated. Minho kicked the glass where the leader sat and pulled out the defenseless lump of flesh that spoke the harsh truth about the wealthy. The leader was a young man who was not much older than either you or your boss, who didn’t look afraid in the slightest. Perhaps he expected, or even wanted, to go out this way - fighting for what he believed in.

The police, who had been waiting outside for all the ruckus to die down, came in and cuffed the leader and a few of his minions who cowardly hid under the tables. Minho helped all of his investors safely come out and among the crowd you saw Seonghwa, safe and sound.

You thought after a traumatic attack that now was not the time and place to reveal who Iron Man was or even associate yourself with him, so you tried to mix in with the crowd and book it to the driver like he asked you to do before. But of course your flaunty boss wanted to do the exact opposite.

“_____, wait!”

No, no, no, no, no, what the hell! Really!? Right now!? was how Minho read your expression as he walked to you with the suit on. When the seven-foot something Iron Man stopped before you, the face of his helmet slid open to reveal an out-of-breath Minho. The entire banquet hall echoed with gasps.

“Are you ok? You’re not hurt, are you? Your bruise is getting worse!”

You could not feel anything on the left half of your face besides intense pain and somehow numbness at the same time and your limbs felt like jello and over-kneaded dough. But you couldn’t let your boss worry about you - he needs to take care of more important people right now. You’ll be fine come tomorrow once you sleep on a frozen bag of peas.

“I’m fine, I promise,” you said convincingly. “Looks like you have an impromptu press conference to deal with.”

To Minho’s dismay, all of the cameras and press and the phones of his business friends captured his face inside the Iron suit next to his famous secretary that all his business friends wished they had. He knew you hated press conferences because even though you never said anything, you were always by his side and that meant the cameras were pointed at you also.

“I can deal with them. Go to the car and go home.”

“I can stay with you.”

“I won’t allow it. You need to go home and ice your face.”

“I said I -”

“I said go.”

Minho never raised his voice at you ever because he never had a reason to. You were always hard-working and loyal and you always did everything correctly and did it with his best interest in mind. He’ll allow small things that might be detrimental to your health, like all the over time you loved to have and the unhealthy amounts of coffee you drown yourself in. But when the arm that’s supporting your body weight was shaking, your left cheek was the color of aubergine, and you had blood splatters on different parts of your body, that’s when he had to draw the line. Worry was knitted into his brows and his lips were a flat line and you only ever saw his face like this whenever he talked with his father. It was terrifying to see him almost mad at you and it made your heart sink a little that you did something wrong.

He softened his expression upon seeing your glossy eyes. “Take Monday off to rest. I’ll see you on Tuesday, ok?”

“But -”

“I’ll pay you for your time off, so don’t worry about the money. I just want you to rest. Can you do that for me?” You could only nod. “Thank you. Go home - I’ll text you when I’m done cleaning up tonight.”

Minho plastered on his happy television face and returned to the fawning crowd and overly-thankful investors. You were blinded by the flashing camera lights and that was your cue that you didn’t belong there anymore.

The trot music-loving driver hummed the whole way home while driving on auto-pilot, as he had memorized the path to your apartment long ago. Sitting in the back seat covered head-to-toe in the finest satin wasn’t as luxurious when you were alone as opposed to having your equally-luxurious boss next to you. You imagined what it’d be like if a giant robot didn’t crash the party this evening: you’d probably yell at him more about how you needed space and that he was overreacting with the whole Seonghwa deal; then he might try to bribe you with food or dessert so that you’d stop pouting like a child (and you’d totally cave in); and finally, he’d walk you up to your doorstep begging to come inside once more and you’d deny his entry, only for him to leave you with a comment about how you were the most stunning person at the ball tonight.

In short, as much as you hated to admit it, the ride home was lonely. Can you believe that? Your short time alone away from your boss was fucking lonely. Not peaceful, not relaxing, not mind-clearing, but totally and completely lonely. So much so that your heart ached a little, and to put these feelings in the simplest terms, it was because you were so used to being by his side that the emptiness to the seat next to you mimicked an unfamiliar cavity in your heart. It’s a painful feeling, really, because that meant leaving this job would be much harder than you hoped.

As if he planted a tracking device in your phone, Minho texted you upon locking the front door to your place.

The Money Man [01:03 am]: did you make it home ok?

An involuntary smile spread across your lips.

You [01:04 am]: just got home. are you stalking me?

The Money Man [01:04 am]: you didn’t think the phone i gave you was completely harmless and bugless, did you? ;)

You [01:05 am]: i should have known better. how’s the impromptu press conference? are people surprised that it’s you?

The Money Man [01:07am]: they are, but at the same time it’s not. ppl keep asking me questions and won’t let me take the suit off, can you believe that!? it’s hot as balls in this thing!!

The Money Man [01:07am]: shit, gotta go - gotta somehow convince these idiots this is definitely NOT something to invest in.

You [01:08am]: text when you’re home.

The Money Man [01:08am]: yes, darling.

‘Darling’ has a nice ring to it.

--

Having Sunday all to yourself was normal and you did what you always did every weekend: cleaned your place, took your time making a nice meal, organizing all of your work papers, and ended the night with a hot shower and an ice pack to your cheek. Monday, on the other hand was a disaster. You were so bored! Your fingers were itching to scribble down your boss’s agenda and you were so tempted to log into your work laptop, but you knew Minho would chew your ear off for not listening to him and resting as you should. It wasn’t your fault that you were a work-a-holic!

After looking in the mirror and hating the way your face looked for the fiftieth time, it was time to accept that the bruise wouldn’t disappear for at least a couple more weeks. Sunday was at its ugliest, where the center of your cheek was a deep purple and there was this off-colored halo around the perimeter. Now, the swelling went down and it wasn’t as purple or painful, but still equally ugly no matter how you looked at it or tried to cover it up.

After a lonely and boring Monday afternoon, your doorbell rang around 5:00pm. You weren’t expecting any visitors or deliverymen, so upon peaking through your viewfinder, you were surprised to see your boss on the other side.

“What are you doing here?” you asked surprised.

Minho was glad you didn’t seem disgusted by his presence since he was the one who told you to take the day off and you must be tired of seeing his face by now. He whipped out an oily bag from behind his back with a child-like grin on his face. It was an unusual sight to see a man dressed in a several thousand dollar business suit carrying a twenty dollar bag of dinner.

“You and I have some business to discuss.”

“Hold on, let me get this straight - you tell me to take the day off, rest up, ice my bloodshot cheek only for you to come into my home and say I need to work?”

“Yup,” he claimed unapologetically, squeezing past you to get through.

“Yes, please come in, Your Highness,” you rolled your eyes, though he was already setting up at your dinner table.

“Your home is nice. Why are you always so embarrassed whenever I try to come in?”

“I mean, look at it. It’s nowhere near as nice as your home.”

“It’s as more of a home than my place will ever be, no matter how many velvet cushions and arcade games I ask you to buy for the place.” Minho whipped out two bottles of beer, his favorite chaser to wash down the oiliness of the fried chicken, and poured them into glasses. “How’s your cheek?”

“By the look on your face, I guess not so good?”

He adjusted his twisted expression upon your teasing. Blood and bruises were never his thing, so any variation of the sort just looked bad in general. “It just looks so painful… Have you been icing it like I asked?”

“I have, and it’s not as painful as it looks!”

“Oh, yeah?”

Minho challenged your claim by standing in front of you and lowering his head to see you at eye-level. His face was way too close to be considered appropriate for CEO and Secretary relationship behavior, though you knew he never cared for those formalities. His eyes were always so sparkly per usual and that gave him that dreamy stare all the ladies in the office loved. You never saw the appeal to it until now, with only a few centimetres in between.

He poked your bruised-like-an-apple cheek.

“Ow, what the hell!” you screamed, swatting his hand away.

“Not as painful as it looks, my ass.”

“Well, people don’t go around poking my cheek all day!”

“Do you need pain killers? My doctor can write you a prescription for the best one on and off market.”

“That’s ok, I only trust Dr. Seonghwa.”

Minho gave you the same look he gave a former intern who got his breakfast and coffee order incorrect. Let’s just say the intern started crying on the spot. You, on the other hand, could barely hold in your snicker from his death glare. You were never on the receiving end of the infamous death glare and now that you were, it was hard to take it seriously.

“Ha ha,” Minho fake laughed. “Not funny.”

“What exactly do you have against him, anyways? It’s surprising that you’re threatened by the likes of a doctor and not some other hot shot software company CEO.”

“I don’t have anything against him.”

“You’re such a liar!” you scoffed, taking a swig of the ice-cold beer. “If you didn’t have a problem with him, you wouldn’t have acted so defensive at the charity ball.”

“I don’t like the way he looks at you,” he said shamelessly. A vigorous bite of a chicken leg came afterwards. “He looks at you like how I look at chicken legs.”

“Well, maybe I like the way he looks at me.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Stop doing that.”

“You deserve it for acting like my Dad that night.”

“I said I was sorry! I even bought you dinner and cold beer to make up for it!”

“Oh, so this is not because you said that me and you have some business to discuss?”

“Well, that, too.” Minho wiped his greasy fingers on his silk handkerchief that he kept on the inside of his breast pocket before whipping out his phone to show you multiple news articles on the night of the charity ball. “Watch these videos.”

Almost all of them were exposing your boss who was behind the genius that is Iron Man, but what preceded the reveals were clips of you kicking major ass. The sources came from both paparazzi and the security tapes at multiple angles and it was hard to hide the fact that it was you as all angles captured your facial features quite clearly. Headlines and whole articles talked about how the mighty CEO and his secretary were the perfect unstoppable duo and they weren’t wrong - you kicking ass in a sexy outfit with a man of iron handling the big guy? Definitely a story worth selling.

Your brows furrowed worriedly because you had no idea how Minho felt. “Are you mad…?

“Mad?” Minho paused the current video and placed his phone face-down on the table so he could focus on his good chicken and better company. “Why would I be mad?”

“I don’t know! What’s the point in showing me these videos?”

“To show you how bad ass you look! Where did you even learn these moves!?”

“For some reason, your father thought being a secretary was dangerous enough that he decided to enroll me in some classes. I actually really liked it a lot, so I kept at it and I guess I got to a pretty advanced level.”

“Pretty advanced is definitely a misnomer, love. Well, it’s good to hear that Father has made one good decision in his reign.”

“Is this the business you wanted to speak about?” you asked shyly, hoping that the beer was a good enough excuse for your blushing cheeks. You’ll never get used to Minho praising you.

“Sort of. I have a proposition for you.”

“What, that you want me to be your sidekick?” you scoffed. When Minho remained silent with only the same sly smirk on his lips, you could see your worst fears coming true. “Oh, God, you’re not serious.”

“I am one hundred percent serious.”

“Are you out of your damn mind!? I am not sidekick material!”

“You totally are! You and I are already the perfect duo! Why not take it up a notch!?”

“No, Mr. Lee, I cannot be your secretary again, but in a different form and outfit!”

“Why not!? It’s not like I’m not going to pay you for it.”

“The pay is not the problem. The pay is never the problem. It’s…”

How do you put that the pressure of keeping the entire country safe and being by his side twenty-four/seven sounded like your own personal purgatory that you could never escape for as long as you lived, or until you died by the hands of some Demon-level threat monster?

“It’s a huge commitment, I know,” Minho admitted. “Too huge to even put a price on it. But can you at least consider it? I can’t imagine anyone else by my side except you.”

Now only if a man who wasn’t your boss said that to you without any underlying superhero context, you might have considered the proposal.

“Mr. Lee, I can’t…”

You hesitated getting the right words out, but Minho knew why. You’ve been bringing up how you couldn’t stay his secretary forever, and although he knew this was true, he couldn’t help but try to keep you anyways. You’ve been loyal to him for so long that he often forgot how to treat you like a friend and not his subordinate. But the thought of you leaving? Soon, at that? It was something he didn’t want to think about just yet. He wanted to keep you by his side for as long as he could.

Minho downed the last of his beer before whipping out his phone again. This time a slow song played over the speakers. He stood up and offered you a hand.

You raised a brow. “What are you…?”

“You and I never got to dance on Saturday. So dance with me.”

“Here? Right now? In my small ass apartment?”

“The next charity ball isn’t for another month and I don’t think I can wait that long.”

His impatience was just shy of flattering - if only you weren’t so afraid of being within close proximity to him. It was one thing when he helped ease the burn on your hand, it was another when he touched your cheek while inside his iron suit, but the two of you alone dancing in the middle of your living room was a whole other level of intimacy that needed to be hidden from human resources,

You took his hand and he led you to the living room. One hand on your waist and another holding the one with the scabbing half-circle. The two of you swayed in silent contentment for several songs. It was a comfortable silence, but there’s some hidden sadness to it that you couldn’t explain - something along the lines of him missing you dearly, despite you being right in front of him, and you missed him dearly, too. So much that your nerves made you squeeze his hand harder, asking him to not let go of you for a long time.

Then your boss pulled you in close enough that it felt like he was hugging you.

“S-Sir?” you stuttered nervously.

“Thank you,” he began. “For always being there.”

“Well, that’s my job,” you snickered.

“Not just as my secretary, but as my friend.”

“You think of me as your friend?”

“I do. Don’t tell Vice President Chan this, but I consider you one of my closest friends.”

“You’re quite soft, aren’t you?” It took a moment to register that he was definitely not joking. The tension in your shoulders diminished and you were able to relax in front of the equally-vulnerable man. “I consider you one of my closest friends, too.”

“Really?”

“By association though. After all these years being by your side, it’s only natural that I came to like you.”

“I like you, too,” he chuckled, tucking some hairs behind your ear. “A little too much, at that.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“In another lifetime, I feel like you and I would be soulmates.”

“You don’t think we would be in this lifetime?”

Were you hoping to be? “Perhaps. By association though, right?”

You didn’t want to press more about any underlying meaning to his statements, so instead you looked down embarrassed. In another lifetime, in this lifetime, in multiple lifetimes, Minho thought you and him would be each other’s soulmate no matter what, because a lifetime with you sounded perfect.

A thumb gently ran over the perimeter of your cheek bruise and it tickled rather than burned, so that was a good sign that it was healing. A loud tisk came from your boss.

“God, do I really put you through this much pain!?” he cried aloud.

“Huh? You didn’t cause this - those dumbass followers did!”

“I guess, but I was the one who brought you to that event! And what about the scar on your hand, huh? I definitely caused that one.”

“Well, yeah, but -”

“That’s it, I can’t be hurting you like this anymore. I can’t be putting you through all of this danger like you’re my bodyguard. I have to let you go.”

You knew he was joking when he couldn’t hold in his cheeky smile. “That is not probable cause to fire me, Mr. Lee.”

“Really? Dammit.”

“No matter how many times I get hurt, you can’t get rid of me that easily, ok? I go out on my own terms!”

“So strong willed… I almost hate it.” Minho sighed exaggeratedly before pulling you in for a real hug this time. His arms squeezed your waist tightly, letting you know that he didn’t want to let you go even if he tried. “Just make sure to give me a two weeks notice, all right?”

“Anything for you, boss.”

“I’m going to miss hearing that from you the most when you leave.”

You hit his chest lightly, but he caught your hand and held it for a few moments before leading you back to your kitchen to finish up dinner. The rest of the night wasn’t you and your boss - it was you and your closest friend enjoying dinner and some ice cream you had in your freezer.

In another lifetime, huh? Too bad you were stuck in this one.

--

Work has mellowed out in terms of paperwork and actually work and has instead transitioned into more press conferences and meetings with government officials regarding Iron Man. In theory, the meetings sounded cool, but you wouldn’t know for sure, as your boss decided to take one of the newer girls as his assistant for these meetings.

The first time he denied your company, you were only a little confused, but it soon passed when he said there was a lot of paperwork he only trusted you to complete on his behalf. But when he would bring her to every event - whether it was out of habit or on purpose - for an entire month, and her only, it really made your blood boil.

No, you weren’t jealous…! You weren’t jealous he was hanging out with someone younger and prettier and more his type! Definitely not! You were upset that your boss, whom you called one of your closest friends in a time of vulnerability, was already replacing you before you could put your two weeks in! And you knew this to be true when he denied your invitation to get lunch and instead you found him in the cafeteria laughing and flirting with the new girl at the table you and him would always sit at.

For a whole month, without even knowing it, you were slowly getting left behind and replaced for someone better - someone who would actually heed his every word and never argue. Someone who would keep their mouth shut for once. Someone who wouldn’t mind taking order from him forever.

It had been a month since you were living in this limbo, and tonight, the night of the Animal Cruelty Charity Ball to which Iron Man would be making a guest appearance, was when you knew he no longer needed you.

“You’re taking Ryujin…?” you repeated, as you couldn’t believe your ears.

“Yes, so you can go home early if you want,” Minho said as he fixed his bow tie in the giant mirror in his office. He then turned to present to you with an ignorant grin. “How do I look?”

“Why are you taking her?”

“She’s been working hard this past month, so I thought I’d reward her with tonight and have her practice some networking skills.”

“How generous of you,” you mumbled bitterly to yourself.

“Hm?”

“Nothing.”

“Can you help me put on this chain necklace thing? The clasp is so damn tiny…”

Reluctantly, you helped clasp the silver jewelry. While you thought your boss was heavily admiring himself in the mirror, he instead was focused on you and how your face was uncharacteristically stern.

“Are you ok?” he asked sincerely. He pressed a firm hand to your forehead. “Are you sick?”

You harshly swatted his hand away. “I’m fine.”

He shrugged it off, thinking that you probably had a bad week with all of the boring work he’s been having you deal with. A lot of weird and unsettling energy was pent up inside of you for the past month, so before you exited Minho’s office for the weekend, for some reason you thought this was the appropriate time to speak on it.

“Actually, I’m not fine,” you blurted out. Minho gave you his full attention for the first time that month. “I… I’m putting in my two weeks.”

His eyes went wide. “What?”

“I’m giving you my two weeks notice.”

“Do you have a job lined up?”

“No, but I will figure that out later.”

“You don’t have another job lined up but you want to quit? Where is this coming from?”

He didn’t sound angry. He wasn’t - he was more hurt than anything else that you wanted to leave without a proper explanation. He thought you and him were doing well… What changed so suddenly?

“I can’t do this anymore,” Minho noted how your voice was shaking. “I was fine when you had me staying ungodly hours, I was fine when you had me get you coffee every morning and your dry cleaning every Monday, and I was fine when you involved with the Iron Man project, but now all you’ve given me lately is paperwork and shit that the new hires should be doing and not myself!”

“_____, language -”

“And why is that? Why do I feel like I’m starting to get left behind already, or-or why do I feel like you don’t appreciate anything I do!? It’s clear to me that you’ve already begun to replace me, so what’s the use of me staying here when you don’t want me anymore?”

Minho was silent. You couldn’t tell if he was angry or sad or surprised at your sudden outburst. The tension in the room was suffocating and his silence even more so, like this was his ideal form of psychological torture. Minho didn’t seem to care for your feelings anymore as he turned back to face the mirror.

“Your two weeks has been noted,” was all he said.

You left the room in tears, with your blood still boiling and your heart crushed. But this was a good thing. In the end, this would be a good thing, is what you were trying to tell yourself, because this lifetime wouldn’t let you be with Minho.

--

Another month passed by and you were left in a worse limbo than you began with a month and a half ago. No one was contacting you about any job offers so you were left to ‘self-reflect’ or some bullshit this self-help book told you to do for the past two weeks. Luckily, all the overtime you put into your savings account had vastly accumulated into an unthinkable sum that would support you far beyond whatever the government noted as a proper unemployment time. Like, you didn’t even know what to do with the money sometimes - thank Minho for time-and-a-half, huh?

On days where you couldn’t help yourself - when you felt like torturing yourself - you would look up Minho on all the tabloid sites. Surprisingly enough, this happened way more than you’d like. Of course, as you speculated, Ryujin had quickly taken your spot as his secretary and God, did you like to shit on how terrible she was! You didn’t have to be at the office to know that Minho must be frustrated with her by the crookedness of his ties and jackets and how she must have forgotten to schedule a salon appointment by the look of his roots and unruly brows.

Ha! That’s what he fucking gets for not being grateful! That dick!

What a shame your relationship with him had come to. To spend what felt like an entire lifetime with him to being complete strangers, it was like you were reborn into this new and fresh carefree person. So carefree that you hummed on the way home with a bag full of fresh produce from the local market.

Perhaps you should have been less carefree, as a stranger snuck up behind you and knocked you out cold.

--

“Ryujin, where’s my document-signing pen?”

“Um, in your drawer?”

“Which drawer?”

“The one with all the other pens…?”

Minho sighed loudly, running a hand through his curly locks and staring intently at the mess of papers that scattered on his desk. His desk hadn’t been this messy since the first day he started when he had to sign all of those official documents that transitioned him to CEO. The same day when he fell for you.

Ryujin, who was nothing close to a secretary compared to you, was only getting on his nerves these days. Perhaps yes, he’s been a little too harsh on someone who’s still fairly new, but in truth he just didn’t have a way to express his frustration about you leaving all of a sudden. Where had he gone wrong?

“Take the rest of the night off,” he told his subordinate.

The poor girl bowed obediently and scurried out the room.

Another sign left the young man’s lips. This time it was because he was tired. He couldn’t deal with anymore bullshit tonight.

An anonymous FaceTime call rang his phone. Who could be wanting to FaceTime him at such an odd hour of the weeknight?

When he swiped to answer, all he saw was you tied up roughly to a splintered chair with tape covering your mouth. Minho nearly dropped his phone.

“Good evening, Mr. Lee,” a familiar voice sang. From the shadows behind you emerged the fake vigilante that led the invasion of the Charity Ball. “I see that you’re doing well.”

“What do you want?” he demanded quietly.

“I think you know what I want.” A shiny knife drew a line across the other cheek, small drops of blood seeping through and mixing with the dried tears and dirt. Minho’s heart felt like it was collapsing. “A blank check addressed to little ol’ me.”

“If I see another scar on them, I’ll kill you,” he threatened.

The man held his hands up high in defensive mode and took a step away from you. “Fine, I won’t touch them! Just give me what we want near the docks.”

“I’m on my way.”

“Oh, and one more thing - come dressed in Iron Man and I’ll slice their throat. Bye!”

The line cut dead and Minho had no choice but to leave empty-handed with only a blank check in his pocket.

The air inside the enclosed cargo bed was hot and suffocating and your rising panic did not ease your pain or heavy breathing one bit. It didn’t help that the guy and his minions were playing with your hair and playing with their knives, dragging the dull edges on your arms and neck. Normally, you wouldn’t be so weak and crying to the point that the tape around your mouth was loosening up, but life these days was tough and perhaps an event like this, causing Minho major inconvenience once again, was what you deserved.

Scurrying and uneven footsteps were heard from outside and you really, really hoped it was Minho not dressed in Iron Man.

“Here already? He must like you,” the leader teased.

The back of the cargo bed opened up to reveal that the sun had fallen a long time ago and the light of the moon outlined your plain and simple hero. He didn’t give the leader a second passing glance before blindly shoving the blank check to his chest and rushing by your side to untie you. First, he ripped off the tape and you let out loud gasps of air and cries.

Minho’s shaking hands take hold of your face to try to calm you down. “Hey hey, shh, I’m here. Are you ok? Are you hurt?” You shook your head vigorously, whining and trying to break free from the ropes tying you down. “Hold on, I got you.”

Before Minho could untie your hands, one of the minions hit him on the back of his head the same way they knocked you out. But your boss was stronger than that - his head was harder than his iron helmet. At the failed attempt, Minho hurled the guy over his shoulder and out the cargo bed. Your bad ass boss got up like it was nothing, but he was breathing heavily.

Not because he was tired or weak, but because he was furious.

Three more guys tried to kick his ass and it was then you realized that your boss wasn’t just some fake hiding behind an iron suit who could program it to fight. He truly was kicking their ass! Like, raw strength and all! If you weren’t scared to death, you might have thought this was kind of hot. But then Minho punched one of the guys too hard and it sent him flying over to you, to which you fell over and broke the chair. The rope was no longer tied to anything and you were free.

Yet another one of the lame-o sidekicks tried to capture you again, but now you were equally as furious, if not more, than your partner in crime. How dare they sneak up on you and not even give you a chance to fight back!? That was the definition of a weak-ass group of villains! So of course you had to show them a lesson and kick a few balls and some asses. But the number of asses was infinite and you were getting really tired. They had enough people to fight you and Minho until you couldn’t keep up and then they’d kill you easily.

“Mr. Lee, now would be a good time for one of your brilliant plans!” you begged between kicks and breaths.

“Ten seconds tops. But when I say so, I need you to hold my hand, ok?”

“What!? What are you planning!?”

“Just trust me!” You and Minho saw the leader direct the last ten of his minions to finish the job. “Ready? Three… two… one!”

A heavy force on the outside pushed the cargo bed off the edge of the pier and into the ocean with the purpose of drowning everyone in it. The only sensation you felt was ice cold water freezing your blood flow and Minho grasping your hand for dear life while trying to swim up to the surface. Before blacking out from lack of oxygen, you felt the ripples of something entering the ocean and saw a faded red and golden glow of light. Not a second later, a hollowed Iron Man on autopilot rushed you and Minho to the surface and placed you gently on the sand just under the pier. The silent night was filled with a chorus of ugly coughing fits from you and your boss. What a wonderful CEO slash ex-secretary couples activity this turned out to be.

As soon as your breathing returned to a rhythmic beat, a wet, crying, sand-covered Minho held your face in his still-trembling hands. He didn’t say a word - he simply held you and pressed his forehead to yours, making sure that yes, this was real, and not some unconscious dream where he was still in the middle of the ocean drowning. Yes, you were there with him and you were alive.

“Why are you crying? I was the one kidnapped,” you joked, hoping it’d lighten up the mood if but a little bit.

Minho laughed between sniffles and shivers, but couldn’t stop crying. He was smiling, but still crying, and if that didn’t perfectly depict this situation, you’re not sure there’s anything out there that did. Haphazardly, he planted a cold kiss on your forehead before pulling you into a hug.

“I’m so happy you’re ok,” he whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Why? You had nothing to do with this.”

“I’m just sorry in general. I’m sorry I took you for granted. I’m sorry for making you feel like I was replacing you. I’m sorry for not buying you that cappuccino three years ago. I’m sorry for -”

What’s the only way to silence your sexy boss in a heartfelt moment like this that would complete this superhero plot line? Kissing him mid-sentence, of course. You kissed your loving boss fully, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your whole body into it. It took him a while to register that yes, his secretary was definitely kissing him, but once it did, he kissed you even harder, enough to make you fall back onto the grass with him on top of you.

You’re left breathless the moment your lips parted. “I-I, uh, I forgive you…”

“How could you ever think that I could replace you?” he muttered. “I could never. Not in this lifetime.”

“You also said that me and you wouldn’t happen in this lifetime,” you challenged.

“Lifetimes can merge into one, I guess.”

Iron Man returned to Minho’s basement as soon as his job was done, so your favorite driver picked you two up in ten minutes with plush hot towels and dry clothes to change into. The pajamas you wore already had your initials monogrammed over your heart.

“Yeah, uh, about that,” Minho began awkwardly on the car ride home. “I was going to gift them to you a couple Christmases ago, but you said that monogrammed clothing was cheesy and stupid, so I abstained…”

“... They’re not so bad,” you admitted truthfully. “Very soft.”

Coming home to Minho’s felt so wrong, yet so right. You’ve only ever been inside for business reasons, such as redesigning his closets and kitchen pantry, but now that you were here on leisure - well, after almost fucking dying - it was kind of weird. But Minho holding your hand reassured you that you were wanted here - that he needed you here, damp with salt water and all.

“Take a shower upstairs. I’ll go make some tea.”

You gladly obeyed, using your favorite shower that you helped design. The door and the walls of the shower were made of glass and the shower head hung from the ceiling, making your long, hot shower feel like it was raining. Your body was covered in cuts and bruises and it was really ugly, but you’ve never felt more badass and in control in your entire life.

You left the shower smelling like orchids and eucalyptus and entered the kitchen that smelled like ginger and honey. Minho, who had also showered, followed shortly after, stealing a kiss on your cheek that was cut up earlier that evening.

You followed Minho to his giant marble island while he poured tea into white mugs on the other side. This felt so… domestic. This felt so right. This felt like home.

“I have a business proposition for you,” he smirked slyly.

Well, that ruined the moment. “What, no ‘how have you been the past month since I replaced you with some other chick’?”

“I promise I’ll ask that after, but I need to ask you this.” Your hard-headed boss was all giddy just at the idea of it and it was the first time in a whole month since you’ve seen him smile like this. He was so, so cute.

“Fine, what is it?”

“I want to hire you back.”

“Mr. Lee, I already told you, I can’t -”

“As the Head Director of the Iron Man project.”

Your eyes widened at the prestigious title. “Head Director?”

“You stayed by my side through all the criticism and the praise and I can’t imagine a better person for the position.”

“So it’s not just a fancy title for like, super mega ultra secretary, right…?”

Your handsome man chuckled. “No, I promise.”

“Head Director, huh?” your lips slowly spread into a grin. “I like the sound of that.”

“Is that a yes?”

“On a few conditions.”

“Hit me.”

“Higher pay with time-and-a-half.”

“Obviously.”

“I get my own secretary.”

“Only if you don’t fall in love with them like I did.”

You rolled your eyes and continued. “An extra week of vacation.”

“You’re pushing it.”

“Last one. I’m your date to every event from now on.”

Minho raised his eyebrow teasingly. “Oh? And if I say no?”

“Then I say no.”

“Jeez, I’m kidding! So strict. Of course you can, on two conditions.”

“Fine.”

“You call me Minho from now on. Or boyfriend, or soulmate, or sexiest man alive, or whatever suits your fancy.”

“Deal.”

“Second,” Minho leaned in and puckered his pink lips. “Seal this with a kiss.”

You start your new job next week - after Minho cashed in one week of vacation to spend with his soulmate.

#minho #lee minho #lee know #skz #stray kids #lee minho imagines #minho imagines #lee know imagines #lee minho scenarios #minho scenarios #skz scenarios #stray kids scenarios #stray kids minho #i still hate the ending idc tho #if i had time i would rewrite it... too sleepy lolol

[justforbooks]

The many lives of John le Carré, in his own words.

An exclusive extract from his new memoir, The Pigeon Tunnel.

How I write

If you’re ever lucky enough to score an early success as a writer, as happened to me with The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, for the rest of your life there’s a before-the-fall and an after-the-fall. You look back at the books you wrote before the searchlight picked you out and they read like the books of your innocence; and the books after it, in your low moments, like the strivings of a man on trial. ‘Trying too hard’ the critics cry. I never thought I was trying too hard. I reckoned I owed it to my success to get the best out of myself, and by and large, however good or bad the best was, that was what I did.

And I love writing. I love doing what I’m doing at this moment, scribbling away like a man in hiding at a poky desk on a black clouded early morning in May, with the mountain rain scuttling down the window and no excuse for tramping down to the railway station under an umbrella because the International New York Times doesn’t arrive until lunchtime.

I love writing on the hoof, in notebooks on walks, in trains and cafés, then scurrying home to pick over my booty. When I am in Hampstead there is a bench I favour on the Heath, tucked under a spreading tree and set apart from its companions, and that’s where I like to scribble. I have only ever written by hand. Arrogantly perhaps, I prefer to remain with the centuries-old tradition of unmechanized writing. The lapsed graphic artist in me actually enjoys drawing the words.

I love best the privacy of writing. On research trips, I am partially protected by having a different name in real life. I can sign into hotels without anxiously wondering whether my name will be recognised, then, when it isn’t, anxiously wondering why not. When I’m obliged to come clean with the people whose experience I want to tap, results vary. One person refuses to trust me another inch, the next promotes me to chief of the secret service and, over my protestations that I was only ever the lowest form of secret life, replies that I would say that, wouldn’t I? There are many things I am disinclined to write about ever, just as there are in anyone’s life. I have been neither a model husband nor a model father, and am not interested in appearing that way. Love came to me late, after many missteps. I owe my ethical education to my four sons. Of my work for British intelligence, performed mostly in Germany, I wish to add nothing to what is already reported by others, inaccurately, elsewhere. In this I am bound by vestiges of old-fashioned loyalty to my former services, but also by undertakings I gave to the men and women who agreed to collaborate with me. It was understood between us that the promise of confidentiality would be subject to no time limit, but extend to their children and beyond. The work we engaged in was neither perilous nor dramatic, but it involved painful soul-searching on the part of those who signed up to it. Whether today these people are alive or dead, the promise of confidentiality holds.

Spying was forced on me from birth much in the way, I suppose, that the sea was forced on CS Forester or India on Paul Scott. Out of the secret world I once knew, I have tried to make a theatre for the larger worlds we inhabit. First comes the imagining, then the search for the reality. Then back to the imagining, and to the desk where I’m sitting now.

My Father: conman and inspiration

It took me a long while to get on writing terms with Ronnie, conman, fantasist, occasional jailbird, and my father. From the day I made my first faltering attempts at a novel, he was the one I wanted to get to grips with, but I was light years away from being up to the job. My earliest drafts of what eventually became A Perfect Spy dripped with self-pity: cast your eye, gentle reader, upon this emotionally crippled boy, crushed underfoot by his tyrannical father. It was only when he was safely dead and I took up the novel again that I did what I should have done at the beginning, and made the sins of the son a whole lot more reprehensible than the sins of the father.

With that settled, I was able to honour the legacy of his tempestuous life: a cast of characters to make the most blasé writer’s mouth water, from eminent legal brains of the day and stars of sport and screen to the finest of London’s criminal underworld and the beautiful creatures who trailed in their wake. Wherever Ronnie went, the unpredictable went with him. Are we up or down? Can we fill up the car on tick at the local garage? Has he fled the country or will he be proudly parking the Bentley in the drive tonight? Or is he enjoying the safety and comfort of one of his alternative wives?

Of Ronnie’s dealings with organised crime, if any, I know lamentably little. Yes, he rubbed shoulders with the notorious Kray twins, but that may just have been celebrity-hunting. And yes, he did business of a sort with London’s worst-ever landlord, Peter Rachman, and my best guess would be that when Rachman’s thugs had got rid of Ronnie’s tenants for him, he sold off the houses and gave Rachman a piece. But a full‑on criminal partnership? Not the Ronnie I knew. Conmen are aesthetes. They wear nice suits, have clean fingernails and are well spoken at all times. Policemen in Ronnie’s book were first-rate fellows who were open to negotiation. The same could not be said of “the boys”, as he called them, and you messed with the boys at your peril.

Ronnie’s entire life was spent walking on the thinnest, slipperiest layer of ice you can imagine. He saw no paradox between being on the wanted list for fraud and sporting a grey topper in the owners’ enclosure at Ascot. A reception at Claridge’s to celebrate his second marriage was interrupted while he persuaded two Scotland Yard detectives to put off arresting him until the party was over – and, meanwhile, come in and join the fun, which they duly did.  But I don’t think Ronnie could have lived any other way. I don’t think he wanted to. He was a crisis addict, a performance addict, a shameless pulpit orator and a scene-grabber. He was a delusional enchanter and a persuader who saw himself as God’s golden boy, and he wrecked a lot of people’s lives.

Graham Greene tells us that childhood is the credit balance of the writer. By that measure at least, I was born a millionaire.

Sixty-something years back, I asked my mother, Olive, how prison changed Ronnie. Olive was a tap you couldn’t turn off. From the moment of our reunion at Ipswich railway station, she talked about Ronnie nonstop. She talked about his sexuality long before I had sorted out mine, and for ease of reference gave me a tattered hardback copy of Krafft-Ebing’s Psychopathia Sexualis as a map to guide me through her husband’s appetites before and after jail.

“Changed, dear? In prison? Not a bit of it! You were totally unchanged. You’d lost weight, of course – well, you would. Prison food isn’t meant to be nice.” And then the image that will never leave me, not least because she seemed unaware of what she was saying: “And you did have this silly habit of stopping in front of doors and waiting at attention with your head down till I opened them for you. They were perfectly ordinary doors, not locked or anything, but you obviously weren’t expecting to be able to open them for yourself.” Why did Olive refer to Ronnie as you? You meaning he, but subconsciously recruiting me to be his surrogate, which by the time of her death was what I had become.

There is an audiotape that Olive made for my brother Tony, all about her life with Ronnie. I still can’t bear to play it, so all I’ve ever heard is scraps. On the tape she describes how Ronnie used to beat her up, which, according to Olive, was what prompted her to bolt. Ronnie’s violence was not news to me, because he had made a habit of beating up his second wife as well: so often and so purposefully and coming home at such odd hours of the night to do it that, seized by a chivalrous impulse, I appointed myself her ridiculous protector, sleeping on a mattress in front of her bedroom door and clutching a golf iron so that Ronnie would have to reckon with me before he got at her.

Ronnie beat me up, too, but only a few times and not with much conviction. It was the shaping up that was the scary part: the lowering and readying of the shoulders, the resetting of the jaw. And when I was grown up, Ronnie tried to sue me, which I suppose is violence in disguise. He had watched a television documentary of my life and decided there was an implicit slander in my failure to mention that I owed everything to him.

For the last third of Ronnie’s life – he died suddenly at the age of 69 – we were estranged or at loggerheads. Almost by mutual consent, there were terrible obligatory scenes, and when we buried the hatchet, we always remembered where we’d put it. Do I feel more kindly towards him today than I did then? Sometimes I walk round him, sometimes he’s the mountain I still have to climb. Either way, he’s always there, which I can’t say for my mother, because to this day I have no idea what sort of person she was. I ran her to earth when I was 21, and thereafter broadly attended to her needs, not always with good grace. But from the day of our reunion until she died, the frozen child in me showed not the smallest sign of thawing out. Did she love animals? Landscape? The sea that she lived beside? Music? Painting? Me? Did she read books? Certainly she had no high opinion of mine, but what about other people’s?

In the nursing home where she stayed during her last years, we spent much of our time deploring or laughing at my father’s misdeeds. As my visits continued, I came to realise that she had created for herself – and for me – an idyllic mother–son relationship that had flowed uninterrupted from my birth till now.

Today, I don’t remember feeling any affection in childhood except for my elder brother, who for a time was my only parent. I remember a constant tension in myself that even in great age has not relaxed. I remember little of being very young. I remember the dissembling as we grew up, and the need to cobble together an identity for myself and how, in order to do this, I filched from the manners and lifestyle of my peers and betters, even to the extent of pretending I had a settled home life with real parents and ponies. Listening to myself today, watching myself when I have to, I can still detect traces of the lost originals, chief among them obviously my father.

All this no doubt made me an ideal recruit to the secret flag. But nothing lasted: not the Eton schoolmaster, not the MI5 man, not the MI6 man. Only the writer in me stuck the course. If I look over my life from here, I see it as a succession of engagements and escapes, and I thank goodness that the writing kept me relatively straight and largely sane. My father’s refusal to accept the simplest truth about himself set me on a path of enquiry from which I never returned. In the absence of a mother or sisters, I learned women late, if ever, and we all paid a price for that.

A trip to Panama

In 1885, France’s gargantuan efforts to build a sea-level canal across the Darien ended in disaster. Small and large investors of every stamp were ruined. In consequence there arose across the country the pained cry of “Quel Panama!” Whether the expression has endured in the French language is doubtful, but it speaks well for my own association with that beautiful country, which began in 1947 when my father, Ronnie, dispatched me to Paris to collect £500 from the Panamanian ambassador to France, one Count Mario da Bernaschina, who occupied a sweet house in one of those elegant side roads off the Elysées that smell permanently of women’s scent.

It was evening when I arrived by appointment on the ambassadorial doorstep wearing my grey school suit, my hair brushed and parted. I was 16 years old. The ambassador, my father had advised me, was a first-class fellow and would be happy to settle a longstanding debt of honour. I wanted very much to believe him.

The front door to the elegant house was opened by the most desirable woman I had ever seen. I must have been standing one step beneath her, because in my memory she is smiling down on me like my angel redeemer. She was bare-shouldered, black-haired and wore a flimsy dress in layer after layer of chiffon that failed to disguise her shape. When you are 16, desirable women come in all ages. From today’s vantage point, I would put her at a blossoming thirtysomething.

“You are Ronnie’s son?” she asked incredulously. She stood back to let me brush past her. Laying a hand on each of my shoulders, she scrutinised me playfully from head to toe under the hall light and seemed to find everything to her satisfaction.

“And you have come to see Mario?” she said.

If that’s all right, I said.

Her hands remained on my shoulders while her eyes of many colours continued to study me. “And you are still a boy,” she remarked, as a kind of memo to herself.

The count stood in his drawing room with his back to the fireplace, like every ambassador in every movie of the time: corpulent, in a velvet jacket, hands behind him and that perfect head of greying hair they all had – marcelled, we used to call it – and the curved handshake, man to man, although I’m still a boy. The countess – for so I have cast her – doesn’t ask me whether I drink alcohol, let alone whether I like daiquiri. My answer to both questions would anyway have been a truthless “yes”. She hands me a frosted glass with a speared cherry in it, and we all sit down in soft chairs and do a bit of ambassadorial small talk. Am I enjoying the city? Do I have many friends in Paris? A girlfriend, perhaps? Mischievous wink. To which I no doubt give compelling and mendacious answers that make no mention of golf clubs or concierges, until a pause in the conversation tells me it’s time for me to broach the purpose of my visit which, as experience has already taught me, is best done from the side rather than head on.

“And my father mentioned that you and he had a small matter of business to complete, sir,” I suggest, hearing myself from a distance on account of the daiquiri.

I should here explain the nature of that small matter of business which, unlike so many of Ronnie’s deals, was simplicity itself. As a diplomat and a top ambassador, son – I am echoing the enthusiasm with which Ronnie had briefed me for my mission – the count was immune from such tedious irritations as taxation and import duty. The count could import what he wished, he could export what he wished. If someone, for instance, chose to send the count a cask of unmatured, unbranded Scotch whisky at a couple of pence a pint under diplomatic immunity, and the count were to bottle that whisky and ship it to Panama, or wherever else he chose to ship it under diplomatic immunity, that was nobody’s business but his.

Equally, if the count chose to export the said unmatured, unbranded whisky in bottles of a certain design – akin, let us imagine, to Dimple Haig, a popular brand of the day – that, too, was his good right, as was the choice of label and the description of the bottle’s contents. All that need concern me was that the count should pay up – cash, son, no monkey business. Thus provided, I should treat myself to a nice mixed grill at Ronnie’s expense, keep the receipt, catch the first ferry next morning and come straight to his grand offices in the West End of London with the balance.

“A matter of business, David?” the count repeated in the tone of my school housemaster. “What business can that be?”

“The £500 you owe him, sir.”

I remember his puzzled smile, so forbearing. I remember the richly draped sofas and silky cushions, old mirrors and gold glint, and my countess with her long legs crossed inside the layers of chiffon. The count continued to survey me with a mixture of puzzlement and concern. So did my countess. Then they surveyed each other as if to compare notes about what they’d surveyed.

“Well, that’s a pity, David. Because when I heard you were coming to see me, I rather hoped you might be bringing me a portion of the large sum of money I have invested in your dear father’s enterprises.”

I still don’t know how I responded to this startling reply, or whether I was as startled as I should have been. I remember briefly losing my sense of time and place, and I suppose this was partly induced by the daiquiri, and partly by the recognition that I had nothing to say and no right to be sitting in their drawing room, and that the best thing I could do was make my excuses and get out. Then I realised that I was alone in the room. After a while, my host and hostess returned.

The count’s smile was genial and relaxed. The countess looked particularly pleased. “So, David,” said the count, as if all were forgiven. “Why don’t we go and have dinner and talk about something more pleasant?”

They had a favourite Russian restaurant 50 yards from the house. In my memory, it is a tiny place and we are the only three people in it, save for a man in a baggy white shirt who plucked at a balalaika. Over dinner, while the count talked about something more pleasant, the countess kicked off a shoe and caressed my leg with her stockinged toe. On the tiny dance floor she sang Dark Eyes to me, holding the length of me against her and nibbling my earlobe while she flirted with the balalaika man and the count looked indulgently on. On our return to the table, the count decided that we were ready for bed. The countess, by a squeeze of my hand, seconded the motion.

My memory has spared me the excuses I made, but somehow I made them. Somehow I found myself a bench in a park, and somehow I contrived to remain the boy she had declared me to be. Decades later, finding myself alone in Paris, I tried to seek out the very street, the house, the restaurant. But by then no reality would have done them justice.

Now I am not pretending that it was the magnetic force of the count and countess that half a century later drew me to Panama for the space of two novels and one movie; merely that the recollection of that sensuous, unfulfilled night remained lodged in my memory, if only as one of the near-misses of interminable adolescence. Within days of my arrival in Panama City, I was enquiring after the name. Bernaschina? Nobody had heard of the fellow. A count? From Panama? It seemed most improbable. Maybe I had dreamed the whole thing? I hadn’t.

I had come to Panama to research a novel. Unusually, it already had a title: The Night Manager. I was looking for the sort of crooks, smooth talkers and dirty deals that would brighten the life of an amoral English arms seller named Richard Onslow Roper. Roper would be a high-flyer where my father, Ronnie, had been a low one who frequently crashed. Ronnie had tried selling arms in Indonesia and gone to jail for it. Roper was too big to fail, until he met his destiny in the shape of a former special forces soldier turned hotel night manager named Jonathan Pine.

Working with Sir Alec Guinness

“We are definitely not as our host here describes us,” says Sir Maurice Oldfield severely to Sir Alec Guinness over lunch. Oldfield is a former chief of the secret service who was later hung out to dry by Margaret Thatcher, but at the time of our meeting, he is just another old spy in retirement. “I’ve always wanted to meet Sir Alec,” he told me in his homey, north country voice when I invited him. “Ever since I sat opposite him on the train going up from Winchester. I’d have got into conversation with him if I’d had the nerve.”

Guinness is about to play my secret agent George Smiley in the BBC’s television adaptation of Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and wishes to savour the company of a real old spy. But the lunch does not proceed as smoothly as I had hoped. Over the hors d’oeuvres, Oldfield extols the ethical standards of his old service and implies, in the nicest way, that “young David here” has besmirched its good name.

Guinness, a former naval officer, who from the moment of meeting Oldfield has appointed himself to the upper echelons of the secret service, can only shake his head sagely and agree. Over the Dover sole, Oldfield takes his thesis a step further: “It’s young David and his like,” he declares across the table to Guinness while ignoring me sitting beside him, “that make it that much harder for the service to recruit decent officers and sources. They read his books and they’re put off. It’s only natural.” To which Guinness lowers his eyelids and shakes his head in a deploring sort of way, while I pay the bill.

“You should join the Athenaeum, David,” Oldfield says kindly, implying that the Athenaeum will somehow make a better person of me. “I’ll sponsor you myself. There. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” And to Guinness, as the three of us stand on the threshold of the restaurant: “A pleasure indeed, Alec. An honour, I must say. We shall be in touch very shortly, I’m sure.”

“We shall indeed,” Guinness replies devoutly, as the two old spies shake hands.

Unable apparently to get enough of our departing guest, Guinness gazes fondly after him as he pounds off down the pavement: a small, vigorous gentleman of purpose, striding along with his umbrella thrust ahead of him as he disappears into the crowd. “How about another cognac for the road?” Guinness suggests, and we have hardly resumed our places before the interrogation begins: “Those very vulgar cufflinks. Do all our spies wear them?” No, Alec, I think Maurice just likes vulgar cufflinks.

“And those loud orange suede boots with crepe soles. Are they for stealth?” I think they’re just for comfort actually, Alec. Crepe squeaks. “Then tell me this.” He has grabbed an empty tumbler. Tipping it to an angle, he flicks at it with his thick fingertip. “I’ve seen people do this before” – making a show of peering meditatively into the tumbler while he continues to flick it – “and I’ve seen people do this” – now rotating the finger round the rim in the same contemplative vein.

“But I’ve never seen people do this before” – inserting his finger into the tumbler and passing it round the inside. “Do you think he’s looking for dregs of poison?”

Is he being serious? The child in Guinness has never been more serious in its life. Well, I suppose if it was dregs he was looking for, he’d have drunk the poison by then, I suggest. But he prefers to ignore me.

It is a matter of entertainment history that Oldfield’s suede boots, crepe-soled or other, and his rolled umbrella thrust forward to feel out the path ahead, became essential properties for Guinness’s portrayal of George Smiley, old spy in a hurry. I haven’t checked on the cufflinks recently, but I have a memory that our director thought them a little overdone and persuaded Guinness to trade them in for something less flashy.

The other legacy of our lunch was less enjoyable, if artistically more creative. Oldfield’s distaste for my work – and, I suspect, for myself – struck deep root in Guinness’s thespian soul, and he was not above reminding me of it when he felt the need to rack up George Smiley’s sense of personal guilt; or, as he liked to imply, mine.

Lunch with Rupert Murdoch

One morning in the autumn of 1991, I opened my Times newspaper to be greeted by my own face glowering up at me. From my sour expression, I could tell at once that the text around it wasn’t going to be friendly. A struggling Warsaw theatre, I read, was celebrating its post-communist freedom by putting on a stage version of The Spy Who Came In From The Cold. But the rapacious le Carré [see photograph] wanted a whacking £150 per performance: “The price of freedom, we suppose.”

I took another look at the photograph and saw exactly the sort of fellow who does indeed go round preying on struggling Polish theatres. Grasping. Unsavoury appetites. Just look at those eyebrows. I had by now ceased to enjoy my breakfast. Keep calm and call your agent. I fail on the first count, succeed on the second. My literary agent’s name is Rainer. In what the novelists call a quavering voice, I read the article aloud to him. Has he, I suggest delicately – might he possibly, just this once, is it at all conceivable? – on this occasion been a tad too zealous on my behalf? Rainer is emphatic. Quite the reverse. Since the Poles are still in the recovery ward after the collapse of communism, he has been a total pussycat. We are not charging the theatre £150 per performance, he assures me, but a measly £26, the minimum standard rate. In addition to which, we’ve thrown in the rights for free. In short, a sweetheart deal, David, a deliberate helping hand to a Polish theatre in time of need. Great, I say, bewildered and inwardly seething.

Keep calm and fax the editor of the Times. His response is lofty. Not to put too fine an edge on it, it is infuriating. He sees no great harm in the piece, he says. He suggests that a man in my fortunate position should take the rough with the smooth. This is not advice I am prepared to accept. But who to turn to?

Why, of course: the man who owns the newspaper, Rupert Murdoch, my old buddy!

Well, not exactly buddy. I had met Murdoch socially on a couple of occasions, though I doubted whether he remembered them. I have three conditions, I say: number one, a generous apology prominently printed in the Times; number two, a handsome donation to the struggling Polish theatre. And number three, lunch. Next morning his reply was lying on the floor beneath my fax machine: “Your terms accepted. Rupert.”

The Savoy Grill in those days had a kind of upper level for moguls: red-plush, horseshoe-shaped affairs where in more colourful days gentlemen of money might have entertained their ladies. I breathe the name Murdoch to the maître d’hôtel and am shown to one of the privés. I am early. Murdoch is bang on time. He is smaller than I remember him, but more pugnacious, and has acquired that hasty waddle and little buck of the pelvis with which great men of affairs advance on one another, hand outstretched, for the cameras. The slant of the head in relation to the body is more pronounced than I remember, and when he wrinkles up his eyes to give me his sunny smile, I have the odd feeling he’s taking aim at me. We sit down, we face each other. I notice – how can I not? – the unsettling collection of rings on his left hand. We order our food and exchange a couple of banalities. Rupert says he’s sorry about that stuff they wrote about me. Brits, he says, are great penmen, but they don’t always get things right. I say, not at all, and thanks for your sporting response. But enough of small talk. He is staring straight at me and the sunny smile has vanished.

“Who killed Bob Maxwell?” he demands.

Robert Maxwell, for those lucky enough not to remember him, was a Czech-born media baron, British parliamentarian and the alleged spy of several nations, including Israel, the Soviet Union and Britain. As a young Czech freedom fighter, he had taken part in the Normandy landings and later earned himself a British army commission and a gallantry medal. After the war, he worked for the Foreign Office in Berlin. He was also a flamboyant liar and rogue of gargantuan proportions and appetites who plundered the pension fund of his own companies to the tune of £440m, owed around £4bn that he had no way of repaying and in November 1991 was found dead in the seas off Tenerife, having apparently fallen from the deck of a lavish private yacht named after his daughter. Conspiracy theories abounded. To some, it was a clear case of suicide by a man ensnared by his own crimes; to others, murder by one of the several intelligence agencies he had supposedly worked for. But which one? Why Murdoch should imagine I know the  answer to this question is beyond me, but I do my best to give satisfaction. Well, Rupert, if we’re really saying it’s not suicide, then probably, for my money, it was the Israelis, I suggest.

“Why?”

I’ve read the rumours that are flying around, as we all have. I regurgitate them: Maxwell, the long-term agent of Israeli intelligence, blackmailing his former paymasters; Maxwell, who had traded with the Shining Path in Peru, offering Israeli weapons in exchange for strategic cobalt; Maxwell, threatening to go public unless the Israelis paid up. But Rupert Murdoch is already on his feet, shaking my hand and saying it was great to meet me again. And maybe he’s as embarrassed as I am, or just bored, because already he’s powering his way out of the room, and great men don’t sign bills, they leave them to their people. Estimated duration of lunch: 25 minutes.

A meeting with Margaret Thatcher

The prime minister’s office wished to recommend me for a medal, and I had declined. I had not voted for her, but that fact had nothing to do with my decision. I felt, as I feel today, that I was not cut out for our honours system, that it represents much of what I most dislike about our country. In my letter of reply, I took care to assure the prime minister’s office that my churlishness did not spring from any personal or political animosity, offered my thanks and compliments to the prime minister, and assumed I would hear no more.

I was wrong. In a second letter, her office struck a more intimate note. Lest I was regretting a decision taken in heat, the writer wished me to know that the door to an honour was still open. I replied, equally courteously I hope, that as far as I was concerned the door was firmly shut, and would remain so in any similar contingency. Again, my thanks. Again, my compliments to the prime minister. And again I assumed the matter was closed, until a third letter arrived, inviting me to lunch. There were six tables set in the dining room of 10 Downing Street that day, but I only remember ours, which had Mrs Thatcher at its head and the Dutch prime minister Ruud Lubbers on her  right, and myself in a tight new grey suit on her left. The year must have been 1982. I was just back from the Middle East, Lubbers had just been appointed. Our other three guests remain a pink blob to me. I assumed, for reasons that today escape me, that they were industrialists from the north. Neither do I remember any opening exchanges between the six of us, but perhaps they had happened over cocktails before we sat down. But I do remember Mrs Thatcher turning to the Dutch prime minister and acquainting him with my distinction. “Now, Mr Lubbers,” she announced in a tone to prepare him for a nice surprise, “this is Mr Cornwell, but you will know him better as the writer John le Carré.”

Leaning forward, Mr Lubbers took a close look at me. He had a youthful face, almost a playful one. He smiled, I smiled: really friendly smiles. “No,” he said. And sat back in his chair, still smiling. But Mrs Thatcher, it is well known, did not lightly take no for an answer.

“Oh, come, Mr Lubbers. You’ve heard of John le Carré. He wrote The Spy Who Came In From The Cold and…” – fumbling slightly – “… other wonderful books.”

Lubbers, nothing if not a politician, reconsidered his position. Again he leaned forward and took another, longer look at me, as amiable as the first, but more considered, more statesmanlike.

“No,” he repeated.

Now it was Mrs Thatcher’s turn to take a long look at me, and I underwent something of what her all-male cabinet must have experienced when they, too, incurred her displeasure. “Well, Mr Cornwell,” she said, as to an errant schoolboy who had been brought to account, “since you’re here” – implying that I had somehow talked my way in – “have  you anything you wish to say to me?”

Belatedly, it occurred to me that I had indeed something to say to her, if badly. Having recently returned from South Lebanon, I felt obliged to plead the cause of stateless Palestinians. Lubbers listened. The gentlemen from the industrial north listened. But Mrs Thatcher listened more attentively than all of them, and with no sign of the impatience of which she was frequently accused. Even when I had stumbled to the end of my aria, she went on listening before delivering herself of her response. “Don’t give me sob stories,” she ordered me with sudden vehemence, striking the key words for emphasis. “Every day people appeal to my emotions. You can’t govern that way. It simply isn’t fair.”

Whereupon, appealing to my emotions, she reminded me that it was the Palestinians who had trained the IRA bombers who had murdered her friend Airey Neave, the British war hero and politician, and her close adviser. After that, I don’t believe we spoke to each other much. Occasionally I do ask myself whether Mrs Thatcher nevertheless had an ulterior motive in inviting me. Was she, for instance, sizing me up for one of her quangos – those strange quasi-official public bodies that have authority but no power, or is it the other way round? But I found it hard to imagine what possible use she could have for me – unless, of course, she wanted guidance from the horse’s mouth on how to sort out her squabbling spies.

• This is an edited extract from The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories From My Life, by John le Carré, published next week by Viking at £20. Order a copy for £15 from the Guardian bookshop.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

#JUST FOR BOOKS #John le Carré #The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories From My Life

[amessywritersmind]

Sunrise, Blue Eyes - Frodo Baggins

Summary: A spur of the moment decision to see the sunrise turns out better than Frodo could have ever hoped for.

Word Count: 1636

Note: Hello everyone! I’ve already gotten some requests, which I’m super excited about!! Before I start working on those though, I wanted to start finishing up stories that have spent months in my drafts! Most of them are almost done, just needing a few paragraphs to close them out, so I will be finishing those up and then getting to work on those requests asap!! Anyways, enjoy! 

Blonde hair billowed out behind her as she ran, Frodo hot on her tail. How Laurelia had this much energy this early in the morning, Frodo would never know. Why he even agreed to be out here at such a time, an hour before sunrise, when he could be curled up in his warm bed in Bag End was beyond him. Really though, he knew the answer to that question without even having to try.

She had asked him to come with her to a great hill overlooking Hobbiton, hours before the sun was in the sky, and without asking why, Frodo had agreed right away. It was something he often found himself doing, agreeing to her impulsive and sometimes outrageous ideas without knowing fully what he was getting himself into, though he didn't see that changing anytime soon. He didn't know why, but it was like he just couldn't help himself.

Shaking these thoughts out of his head, Frodo focused his attention back towards the bubbling girl in front of him, winding through the tall grass of a field, glowing with excitement at whatever she was dragging him to.

"Hurry! We can't be late!" she exclaimed breathlessly.

"Well, Lia, not all of us wake up with the energy of the sun itself inside us!" Frodo grumbled out in fake annoyance, though the smile in his voice was not lost on her.

At his comment, Laurelia turned back slightly, her face radiant with mirth, and grabbed Frodo's hand with a laugh, tugging him faster up the hill in front of them.

"Only a little further, my sleepy head, and then we'll be there and you can rest to your heart's content." she promised sweetly.

"and i'm using you as a pillow!" he shot back, a smirk now prominent on his face. He couldn't stay mad at her for long, not even fake-mad.

Finally, they reached the peak of the hill, sitting down in the cool, green grass. Once Frodo had caught his breath again, he took in the sight in front of him. From this view point, he felt like he could see all of The Shire. Little smials, lit up with front porch lamps, scattered the rolling hills, a few stars still twinkled above him, and he was sat in the middle of it all, right next to his bestfriend, and long time love (though nothing was official just yet). It took his breath away.

"Woah..." he whispered, almost to himself.

"It's beautiful isn't it? Just wait, when the sun comes over that horizon line. The whole valley glows. The way the sun reflects off the dew drops on the grass, the roosters crow to announce the start of the day, the birdsong to welcome you as the sun rays say 'good morning'...it's all so...magical." Laurelia spoke aloud as the first rays of sun split over the horizon.

A light breeze fluttered past the pair, rustling the branches and leaves of nearby foliage. Frodo felt himself shiver, the movement catching Lia's attention. Without saying a word, she tucked one arm under Frodo's nearest to her, looping it through in order to hug herself to him. She placed her head gently on Frodo's shoulder, taking in a deep breath and closing her eyes, his chocolate curls tickling her forehead lightly. He was instantly warmer.

He rested his head on top of her own as a bird, the first sign of life aside from the two of them, flys past, landing on a little bush near the edge of the hilltop. Frodo watches as it plucks the leaves and little berries from the bush, not seeming to mind the world going on around it. 

“I’m glad I decided to come” he found himself stating quietly. 

“I am too” Laurelia all but whispered. 

After a few more minutes of silence, the sun now half way above the horizon, Lia spoke again. 

“Do you remember when we met?” she wondered aloud. Frodo chuckled at the memory. 

“Yes. I had just moved in with Uncle Bilbo that day. Infact, I had barely finished getting settled before you were banging away on the front door, demanding Bilbo introduce us.” He laughed, nudging her lightly with the shoulder she was resting upon. She tapped his arm lightly at that. 

“Aren’t you glad I did? I, my friend, have saved you from a lifetime of boredom, which you inevitable would’ve had, had it not been for me” Laurelia continued joking. Frodo laughed in agreement. 

“You were so cute back then, what with your curly hair and your wide, curious blue eyes...” she trailed off, suddenly feeling extremely nostalgic. “that’s what first drew me to you y’know, aside from the fact that you were new in town.” she finished, squeezing his arm once more. 

“What? My blue eyes?” He asked, genuinely curious now. 

“No, silly! Well, ok yes, but not just the color. It was something more. I’ll never forget how I felt when I saw those eyes of yours for the first time...” She began, looking up at him briefly. He gazed back at her with the same intensity she had felt on that very first day. She cleared her throat and looked back out at the sunrise, the glow of the sun illuminating the rosy tint that had appeared across her cheeks. 

“Something in them spoke to me that day. For one reason or the other, I looked into them and it was like they were the only thing I could focus on. They told me of a kindness, a special kind that only the purest of souls can posses. They made me feel safe, and welcomed. I knew instantly that I could trust you in that moment. They told me of a love, a love that you give so selflessly and freely, a love that I’ve been lucky enough to receive ever since.” Laurelia spoke her mind freely, not stopping once to think about how this all must sound, spilling out of her mouth in the early hours of the morning. A secret meant only for her ears, and his. 

“And what do you see now? When you look into my eyes...”Frodo whispered almost dreamily. 

Laurelia pulled away from him slightly, enough to look him in the eye, but not enough to sever their connected limbs completely. She took her time getting lost in those eyes, ones she’s become so familiar with over the years. She tried to find a string of words that would describe what she saw, no, more like what she felt when she looked into his eyes but it was as if all speech had evaded her. Finally, a single word came to mind. The clarity of it hit her like a wave.

“Home.” she stated simply, there was no other way to describe it. 

Frodo couldn’t help the ragged breath that fell from his lips at that answer. 

“Home.” he stated again, tasting the word on his tongue. He came to the conclusion long ago that by her side was the place for him, and he stuck by that thoroughly, but to hear her say this gave him hope. Hope that maybe, she felt for him like he did her. There was only one way to find out. 

Frodo hadn’t noticed how close they were to each other, but the longer she looked him in the eye with so much intensity and admiration as she was now, the more he felt physically pulled to her. And her to him. Before either them knew what was happening, their lips had touched. 

Warmth flooded the both of them, the tenderness of the moment and the glow of the valley below, illuminated by the rising sun, was enough to make Frodo feel as if his heart was about to burst out of his chest. Not with the sadness Frodo felt when remembering his parents, nor with the anxiety he sometimes got when the town began stirring up new rumors about he and his uncle. No, this feeling was different, more pleasant. It was love.

As the two pulled away, the sun had finished its rise over the hilltop, its rays reaching the blushing couple. 

“I love you” Frodo found himself whispering, a rooster sounding far off in the distance. 

“And I, you. Always have.” Laurelia admitted gently, facing forward again and returning her arms, and head, to their previous positions. 

Down below, Hobbiton stirred to life. Farmers got to work in their fields, merchants began setting up their stalls in the town square, the morning air was full of peace and happiness, and most importantly, Frodo had his home resting her head on his shoulder. 

“I really am glad I came.” he found himself saying after a few moments of silence. 

“I knew you would be! And look, you didn’t even fall asleep once!” she exclaimed quietly, giggling lightly. 

“Now, we best get back before your uncle notices I’ve stolen you away again!” Laurelia began, getting up. Frodo stood as well, stretching his limbs slightly to regain feeling in them. While he was doing so he could help but see Lia staring at him with eyes full of love and a hint of something else. 

“What?” Frodo laughed out. The only reply he got was Lia stepping closer, wrapping her arms around his neck. His arms moved without thought, snaking themselves around her waist. Before Frodo could question any further, Lia leaned in close, right past his lips and to his ear.

“Race ya” She whispered with a smirk before planting a kiss on his cheek and taking off down the hill. Frodo was stunned momentarily before finally regaining his senses. Shaking his head, a smile unable to leave his lips, he raced down the hill after her, following after those billowing blonde curls once again. 

#Frodo Baggins #frodo baggins x reader #Frodo Baggins imagine #Frodo Baggins imagines #Frodo baggins fanfiction #frodo x reade #frodo x oc #lord of the rings #lord of the rings imagine #lord of the rings x reader #lord of the rings imagines #lotr #imagine #frodo baggins oneshot #Frodo baggins one shot #frodo baggins fluff

[inked-out-trees]

⭐ for The Keep Going Song? Thanks! :)

(anh i would die for you)

Thank you for asking! I am going to be talking about the whole thing because it's fun, and because there's not really many ~secrets~ within the text to ramble about, just little fun snippets!

I'll do it under a cut because I will definitely ramble. Woohoo!

I came across The Keep Going Song (the song) after my Lookout 3 Companion Playlist (& my spotify discovery) introduced me to the Bengsons. The effect was almost instantaneous - it's the kind of warmth I try to encompass in everything I do, and for the next few days I had it on repeat as I worked. This was around the time I was finishing my Lookout script, and I had been toying with the idea of writing a Cornleyverse fic after absolutely devouring all 10 fics in the tag. What I knew was that I wanted it to be sweet, I wanted it to pull them all together, and I wanted it to be a progression. Despite only having seen the Goes Wrong Show, jumping into the fandom made me want to dimensionalize these characters and give them a story beyond everything that had already occured.

I also watched Christmas Carol before / during the writing process, but to date I have not watched Peter Pan or the full-length TPTGW. My prior knowledge comes from Wikipedia, the delightul amateur TPTGW production on YouTube, a friend's excellent transcription of the Haversham Manor script, and tumblr meta analysis. I think I did a reasonable enough job pretending I knew what I was doing.

Let's get going!

I knew off the top that it was going to be vignettes - they would give me room to spread the story over the long period of time it takes for a group of people to grow into something resembling a family. Like I said in the original author's note, there was supposed to be more of the early, snippy days - but I got so focused on making them kinder that I found I couldn't properly write a fight. In hindsight, it probably would have been easier if I tried writing that first, but, well. Once I realized that it was too late. The alphabet idea came later, once I had them all finished: I wanted to organize them somehow, but numbers felt too open, too infinite - closing the story on an organizational endpoint was just really satisfying.

a - Every good story needs a good beginning.

c - Starting with the end of Peter Pan is my sneaky way of slipping past the fact that I haven't seen the earlier shows! The Max and Sandra storyline is just so sweet, and I wanted to let it exist a little bit in between our jump from Peter Pan to Christmas Carol. This vignette came so easily when I wrote it and I love love love the feelings and the tentativity about the whole thing.

f - This was actually the last vignette I wrote. I realized I needed some front-end padding because otherwise my angst plot came rather abruptly, and what better way? At this point, too, I was trying to bring in POVs from each one of our characters, and when deciding on Trevor's POV I thought the exasperation-excitement combination would be an excellent choice. It turns out Trevor is my favourite to write, mostly because I can find his voice a lot easier than some of the others - and probably also because I hold a lot of fondness and nostalgia for stage crew work. Also, I wrote most of this one on a long evening walk in the notes app on my phone. Fun fact.

h - I did my original idea slam in a draft tumblr post, and this one just says "birthday party but one without all the drama of christmas carol". And what do you know, that's exactly what it is! I definitely took the birthday party (in CCGW as well as in this fic) as a kind of proof that they really do like each other, if they're doing things like this and if they want to do things like this - and that theme of okay, they want to be here formed the basis for this part. I think it's exceptionally sweet that Dennis came looking for friends and ended up finding, well, something. And I popped in a little MMNI reference with "one of the Janines" - Backwards Janine? Frontwards Janine? Original Janine? Who knows! It's one of them!

l - The thing about this plot is that it's actually one of the first ideas I had when dreaming up this fic, and I couldn't quite let it go. The point was, what if I somehow split them up? How can they get on when half the society is out of commission? And the most reasonable way I could find to actually get half of them out of commission was the car accident. To be honest, this one is mostly filler - it's also the second vignette I wrote, and it found its birth in the email drafts of my work laptop.

m - Trying to map out this little plotline without overdoing it might have been the most difficult part of this fic, and I'm still not 100% sure I succeeded. This is our explanation for the unease from the vignette above, and it took me 3 rewrites before I finally found something that settled in my brain. "Dennis gets chased by a goose" might be one of my favourite lines in the fic though.

Also, putting these letters right next to each other made me feel really clever for no reason.

n - My Jonathan perspective also took a few stutter-steps in its beginning, but this one ultimately came from the promo video's reveal that Robert and Dennis live together, and me playing with the continual idea of the remaining cast members being rather unmoored in their injured castmates' absence. Robert in particular because I love his character and I love making him Feel Things(TM) (fun hint: this will also be a small theme in the new cpds fic I have in the works!) and I want to see so much from this odd relationship between him and Dennis. Obviously they have to tolerate each other if they are willingly roommates - how far can I go with that? I love how this one turned out.

o - All I have to say about this one is that I still really love the sweetness between these two, and they deserve the world. Also, at some point during writing this I was really caught up with how striking Dave's face silhouette is (don't ask) so that ended up making it in somehow.

q - Girls' Night is SO important to me. After all the work they've done to make these gals friends I needed to capture it, and a pleasant night in just made a lot of sense. This one is the home of a few of my headcanons - Annie has a chef roommate and Max does a lot of the cooking, thus the "neither of us are the usual household cooks" comments, and I also think they're at the point where they can joke about their previous failures (especially with these three together) so the nod to A Trial To Watch (my favourite gws episode) was so fun. Also, Waking Ned really is a silly pick-me-up of a movie - would recommend. Special thanks to CBC for giving us Canadians quality British TV alongside our occasionally questionable homegrown programming.

r - It wouldn't be a fic about progress and growth with this crew without a disheartening moment turned into gold. I wrote this one while barbecuing, another fun fact, and no joke the hardest part was figuring out what to name the play they were doing. I kept pace with the whole "Jonathan can't get onscreen" gag, which was personally hilarious and made me cackle as I wrote it, and the rest of it just felt good. I will always have a soft spot for comfort and reassurance in a story and getting to write it has just been an absolute delight.

t - This was one of my other unplanned vignettes. It was originally to fill out Robert's POV, but also to express a bit of how things have changed in Chris's attitude towards his cast - if there's one thing I would change from Mischief's characerisation thus far, it's this brand of almost-kindness that I consistently need to write him with. It takes the aftermath of the car accident and uses it to kind of make him understand - this is a valuable group of people and I don't want to lose it. But of course he's not the type of person to actually express that in any way, so I thought the frenetic hovering was a good way to get the point across. As well, the kind-of-bonding between Chris and Robert - the two of them are such powerhouses of insistent personality that conflict so easily but they've also got a more secret kind of friendship that deserves to be explored a little more. I really like this vignette and how it ended up portraying how they are around each other, how they really do know each other, especially when they're not fighting. Makes me soft.

w - This is the first vignette I wrote! I honestly didn't realize until writing this just how much I identify with Annie - best of both worlds re. crew and cast, a bit of tenacity regarding getting through things, overall personality - I just love her so so much. She also seems like the most sensible of the cast, so the collective "why are we really here?" moment with Trevor really spoke to me. I love their friendship, I love the kind of quiet vibe this vignette gives off - this is one of the ones I can feel most strongly, the one I can step into and exist inside. I also spent most of my old drama rehearsals and classes without shoes, so that had to make it in just by virtue of the sock brigade (me).

z - One thing I knew for sure since the inception of the fic was that it needed to end on a victory. I took the images I had of this victorious adrenaline, everyone together having a good time, kind of getting smashed, and karaoke (I really wanted the karaoke, for some reason) and went the obvious route: the wedding. Ending on Chris POV also felt so right - possibly because he's the one with the most growth in this fic - and getting to finally feel this triumph with him after all these other trials and tribulations was an absolute joy. The wedding hall, in my head, looks like the one my cousin used (it was at a zoo... my sister and I went on a night walk and heard a lot of screaming peacocks) and I definitely threw all my wistfulness, all my love for the characters I'd developed, and all my love for this fantastic fandom into this part. The incorrect lyrics that Annie sings are exactly what I think every time I hear that song, because I've never looked up the lyrics before and my brain likes to play Mad Libs with my super-questionable auditory processing. And the image of the ballroom staff getting really exasperated with them and shutting all the lights off came to me at night and is hastily scribbled on a sticky note (it's a wonder it's legible) but I still strongly believe that it's the perfect, perfect way to end. I still get the warm feelings when I reread this part, even now, after so many reads.

And, finally - our end quote is exactly what started this whole thing. What is this drama society if not a rough beginning? But the concept that we'll make it through, that we can just take a step and then another and it'll be okay because we're together... it's hard to describe just how much it means to me, to my place in the world, to the world itself. I think one of my rather consistent aims in writing, no matter what it is, is to be able to have this collective - characters that become family, people that are important to each other, this constellation to lean on - because it's all I can say for the human experience. It's probably quite a bit of wishful thinking (as I said to another friend, "I am apparently letting loose on all my repressed social feelings of the past year and shoving them into fics") and a sort of subconscious confirmation that if I write it, I can be it. So this force of understanding and kindness and ultimately good people helping each other through the world is something I can't help but include, something that means the absolute world to me.

I'm so glad to have been able to share this fic with everyone, and extra glad that it's been able to touch some people along the way. I've found such an incredible community in Mischief and coincidentally I think The Keep Going Song represents that warmth, too - the community I've been so lucky to exist inside, how we're helping each other along, step by step. What a beautiful thing to be a part of! Thank you for reading and allowing me to give you a bit of my heart. 💖💖

#director's cut #the keep going song

[drunkserval]

A Fresh Canvas: Incomplete Preview

Quite some time ago I did a silly little thread on Twitter, and I’ve always wanted to take that and actually make something out of it. Well it was a little harder than expected, but it’s coming along!

When I have the entire thing done I will be uploading it to AO3, but for now it seemed seasonally appropriate to at least drop this.

I wanted to have this posted yesterday but festivities kept me busier than expected! Story is below the cut. Keep in mind that this is still technically a rough draft, and will receive its final beta pass before the full story hits AO3.

(Tentative) Title: A Fresh Canvas Fandom: Scum Villain’s Self-Saving System by MXTX Rating: G, No Warnings Apply Summary: Shen Jiu and Shen Yuan are neighbors in the same modern apartment complex who, despite looking similar enough to be mistaken for each other, couldn’t be any more different. Or so they think.

----------------

Shen Jiu and Shen Yuan were neighbors in the same apartment complex. They lived on the same floor, in the same hall, and were often mistaken for one another due to this proximity combined with how similar their appearances were.

But there were key differences, as both would readily point out to their neighbors. Shen Jiu’s hair hung shy of his shoulders while Shen Yuan’s was shorter and lighter in tone. 

And still the mix-ups kept happening, particularly if they were at some distance or facing away. The misunderstanding would very rarely last past the first glance since Shen Jiu would snap and take immediate offense, and Shen Yuan would just sigh and say, "Sorry, wrong one."

Shen Yuan had no idea why Shen Jiu got so offended over it. Surely he didn’t look that bad, come on!

The neighbors eventually started learning to look at the clothes first--or to at least look for Shen Yuan’s thick-rimmed glasses. 

Both men carried and dressed themselves so differently. Shen Yuan dressed in hoodies and jeans--well, if he was planning on going any further than the mailbox, that was. Otherwise why bother changing out of pajamas or sweatpants?

On the other hand, Shen Jiu didn’t touch anything that wasn’t from a known designer. 

Shen Jiu spent proudly--and why shouldn’t he? Because he at least earned his money!

That Shen Yuan kid down the hall? Rumor was that his parents were paying his rent and he'd never had a real job in his life.

But because he never went out, Shen Yuan was one of the only people still hanging around the apartment complex when Shen Jiu went around knocking during a major holiday. 

In Shen Jiu’s arms was a box containing two fluffy black pups.

Shen Yuan’s eyes widened at the sight of them and he completely forgot to greet his neighbor until Shen Jiu cleared his throat. The dogs were like little storm clouds with feet and stubby tails, staring back at him with big black eyes. One started wagging its tail with such vigor that its whole back end wiggled about.

It took Shen Jiu a moment to find his voice as he followed, such was the state that his neighbor had chosen to answer the door in. Hideous cucumber-print pajama pants, a tacky anime shirt covered in snack crumbs, and unkempt hair had greeted him. But the continuous movement of the box in his arms reminded him of his mission. 

“I found... ” Shen Jiu shifted the box in indication as Shen Yuan shut the door behind them, “these, out by the garbage.”

Shen Yuan blinked as the other passed by him, “Have you tried calling any nearby shelters?”

“Of course I have,” Shen Jiu scoffed at the implication that he was so simple. “You try getting a real person on the phone today, though. It’s impossible. I could only leave messages.”

Shen Yuan put a finger to his lips, “Oh, right. Today is…” Glancing at a wall calendar almost as ugly as his shirt he nodded, “Right. Right.”

Did this kid ever so much as leave the building? Shen Jiu was starting to wonder. Shen Yuan dressed like he’d just rolled out of bed in the latter part of the daytime. And he hadn’t realized it was a major holiday. And then there were the countless odorous takeout boxes covering every available surface in his apartment.

Shen Jiu wrinkled his nose but still asked in spite of his rapidly growing doubts, “You don’t know anyone who can take these little mutts in for a day or two, do you?”

Shen Yuan shook his head and heard Shen Jiu sigh. His neighbor set the box down to give his arms a rest… but Shen Yuan couldn’t seem to rip his attention away from one of the pups. It hadn’t stopped staring at him, or shaking its fluffy little behind, for a moment.

“What if we take them in?”

Shen Jiu’s tone was flat, “What.”

Shen Yuan picked up the excited little pup and it immediately started wiggling in his grasp. Not struggling, however--just trying to get closer to his face, paws waving in the air and its little pink tongue darting out to reach for him even though it was still well outside of range. He had to fight back the urge to laugh at the silly little storm cloud. 

“The building allows us to have one animal per unit, right?” Shen Yuan shrugged, “so what if we each took one, even just long enough to find them new homes?”

Shen Jiu frowned. Taking in a dog, or really any animal, had never been on his agenda. He liked his nice clean apartment and intact furniture unlike a certain someone. Plus he was more partial to cats. He moved his gaze from the overexcited animal back to the box. Though the pups looked identical on the surface this one was clearly the calmer one. It looked up at his scowling face but put forth no such ridiculous display… thank goodness.

Who knew? Maybe Shen Yuan’s idea wasn’t so bad. And if it was, it was only a temporary arrangement, in the end. He might be able to get rid of the animal as soon as tomorrow if it was truly intolerable.

Tentatively, Shen Jiu reached out to pick up the dog…

And felt tiny teeth close around his fingers.

Jerking his hand backwards, Shen Jiu sneered down at the animal. “What, you ungrateful little beast!” 

Shen Yuan finally stopped cooing at his own pup to look over and said, “Maybe he doesn’t like your cologne?”

“And what’s wrong with my cologne?” Shen Jiu snapped, voice raising.

Stepping back, “Nothing, nothing!”

“It was a gift, you know!”

Shen Yuan barely avoided tripping over a haphazard stack of game cases as he kept moving away. “P-perhaps it’s just too strong for a dog’s nose, that’s all!”

This time Shen Jiu moved quickly, snatching up the dog by its middle before it could get its ridiculously tiny muzzle around anything, and he stared directly into the animal’s eyes.

“Do that again, and I’ll put you back out in the cold where I found you. Understood?”

The dog stared back at him, placid and indifferent… until its tongue darted out and licked the end of his nose.

“...good enough.”

----------------------

It was a few days before the two of them crossed paths again. 

It’d seem they both had decided to keep their newfound pets and they were both out that day to take the dogs for walks.

The air in the park was warm, so they sat themselves on a bench to enjoy it for a bit longer and soak up some of the sunlight that was so rare that time of year. Shen Jiu’s pup sat like a sentry at his feet while Shen Yuan’s pup curled up on his lap the moment he sat down. 

It was through the ensuing conversation they realized they both gave their dog the same name by sheer coincidence.

One was too lazy and the other was too stubborn, so neither changed it. At least they’d bought different-colored collars. But this brought to light a new revelation, and Shen Yuan just had to ask…

“How did you come up with it?”

“It was just the first thing to come to mind,” Shen Jiu had explained, “from something I’ve been reading, probably.”

"Wait, you read that too!?"

As he suspected! That name was from one of the top-rated web novels that year, from its stallion protagonist: Luo Binghe!

Shen Yuan couldn’t imagine someone as outwardly prim as Shen Jiu reading trashy webnovels, but it turned out to be true. It was just a quick, easy way for him to kill a few minutes of downtime at work, Shen Jiu reasoned in his defense.

Whenever they met up from that point forward, Shen Yuan talked his ear off about his various grievances with Proud Immortal Demon Way.

‘Villains that dig their own graves but don’t bother finishing! Women that lead the protagonist on a three-chapter long subplot just to get to their lewd scenes, only to never see them again! And every single character lost all of their intelligence when the protagonist came around!’ 

And yet he had nothing but praise for said protagonist… almost excessive praise. 

Shen Jiu is annoyed at first but he starts enjoying the company. Which is good because the dog turns out to be a menace.

Well, both dogs could be counted as menaces, just in different ways.

Bing-mei (as they come to call him) would start whining so pitifully when Shen Yuan shut the door between them, thus he often just gave up and took the dog with him whenever it was feasible.

Bing-ge, on the other hand, broke his toys within days, climbed around on furniture he wasn’t allowed on--sometimes when Shen Jiu was looking right at him, too--he barked, he scratched furniture, he tore up pillows.

Despite all the trouble he was causing for his master, Shen Jiu would no longer entertain the idea of giving him up. Not after Bing-ge tore up three separate muggers on three separate occasions and growled at the person who kept taking his parking space until it never happened again.

But the biggest takeaway from their conversations, for Shen Jiu, wasn’t webnovels or dogs. It made him start to realize how lonely he'd been. 

The only other person he really spoke to was halfway around the world for their work and they only spoke a couple of times a month. Now that Shen Yuan was around, Shen Jiu actually started to have things to look forward to besides the monotony of work--knocks on the door, long walks with the dogs, the occasional cup of tea afterward on colder days...

Shen Jiu was never the sort to be up-front with his feelings, so he found a way to show his gratitude by helping Shen Yuan with his confidence issues. He started encouraging him to go out more, and to put a little more effort into his looks when he did. This morphed into helping clean up his squalid apartment since Shen Jiu could barely stand to look at it when he came over. 

Months later, Shen Jiu’s recommendation had helped Shen Yuan to land an entry-level job. That, and a steady habit of going out once a week, gave them something else to do and talk about.

Progress was slow, but visible. Shen Yuan seemed a little less awkward in public with each passing week.

One night they were leaning on Shen Yuan’s balcony. It was a night of celebration, for he’d just earned his very first promotion, and Shen Jiu had brought over wine for the occasion.

He found himself leaning closer to Shen Jiu, telling himself it was just to get a better look at him in the dim light of the city night. His focus wasn’t the best even when he was sober after all. Yet Shen Yuan didn’t stop. And when Shen Jiu turned to look at him in confusion, and their lips met, he didn’t withdraw for several seconds.

Neither did Shen Jiu.

Shen Yuan tried to flee as soon as he realized what he’d done only for Shen Jiu to pull him back saying:

"Don't run, take responsibility. We talked about this."

#svsss #svsss fic #mxtx #modern au #bingpup #shen jiu #shen yuan #jiuyuan

[fleckcmscott]

Bewitching Hour

Summary: October has been a blissfully busy month. With Halloween around the corner, Arthur and Y/N have some planning to do.

Warnings: Swearing

Words: 4,665

A/N: Special thanks to @hhandley80​ for this request! You've been so supportive and sweet. I truly appreciate you and hope you enjoy it!

On a side note, my oneshots will be more sporadic. I'm still writing but life has been life. Also, I've finished the first draft of another multi-chapter featuring Arthur and Y/N. It's going to take time to rewrite the subsequent drafts and edit, edit, edit. The chapters will go up once the story is ready. Thanks for your patience and support! 🙂 I heart you all!

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask! 

Arthur's suggestion that they make plans to celebrate Halloween should not have been a surprise. He loved starting traditions with Y/N, and she prized adopting them with him. "It's been awhile," he'd said as they'd walked arm-in-arm to the laundromat. "I think it'd be nice."

Holidays had been a source of merriment most of her life. The beauty of red and green decorations at Christmas. Turkey and mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving. An egg hunt and chocolate rabbit at Easter. The togetherness of family during them all.

Halloween, though, wasn't a favorite.

As a child, she'd had fun trick-or-treating, riding her bike from house to far-flung house. And she hadn't minded escorting her little sister as a teenager. Y/N's homemade witch costume had been passed down. She could still recall the sleekness of the ribbon between her fingers as she'd secured the pointed hat under Mabel's chin.

But the magic had fallen away. When married to Jeff, she'd had to attend his boss's annual party. After receiving an apologetic shrug and kiss, she'd be relegated to hanging out with the other wives. They'd included her in their recipe swaps, in their exchanges of mild gossip. Her natural friendliness made chit-chat easy, far easier than having a good time. Those evenings had been spent nursing a glass of wine and willing the clock to go faster.

During the period she'd cared for her father, she'd tried to hand out candy. She liked being a good neighbor and imparting kindness in the form of bite-sized sweets. As his health had declined, the porch light had gone dark. Random rings of the doorbell would result in shouting and swearing. Repeated attempts to explain the door's lock wasn't broken. Festivity would transform into drudgery. It hadn't been worth the trouble. Instead, she'd watched terrible TV specials while her thoughts wandered to a future far from Boonville. A future she'd doubted would ever be.

"I don't know if it's your thing," Arthur had continued, bringing her back to the present. "But you might enjoy it with me." The response he longed for was evident in the worrying of his pocket, outlines of his knuckles visible through the tan cloth.

Everything they'd experienced together had soothed the sting of those wasted years. The hesitancy lurking in her was silly. Unwelcome. Less than either of them deserved. She'd met his keen eyes and half-smile. The sudden mental image of him dressed as a cowboy or pirate, eyepatch and all, prompted a laugh. Convinced her as she dug out her dry-cleaning stub. "It isn't my thing," she'd said. "But you are."

Relief had relaxed his wrinkles, save for his crows feet, which had deepened as he'd returned her happy expression. A slender arm wrapped around her waist, drew her against his solid frame. Once the clerk disappeared through the swinging doors to retrieve their clothes, Arthur grasped her chin and kissed her. The tender explorations were soon sloppy, and she'd giggled, his enthusiasm becoming her own. Their noses had met, his lashes resting on his wide cheekbones. "I think you're the sweetest treat, Mrs. Fleck."

Currently, Donahue's Department Store, Gotham's number one retail emporium (if the ads were to be believed), was bustling with last-minute shoppers. Weary mothers escorted their babbling children through the aisles. Clerks swapped out displays for the changing blue light specials. Lines went for yards. Patricia and Y/N sought refuge at a corner table in the café on the top floor. The warm glow from the pendant lamps provided a relaxed ambience, one that matched the hot cider and pumpkin spice cake they were savoring.

"I've got my grandson on Sunday," Patricia said between bites. "My daughter's going to a party with a medical records tech from Gotham General. Met him when she missed the bus. They split a cab and hit it off." Chuckling, she lifted her mug. "Speaking of, how's married life been so far?"

Memories of the past week quickened Y/N's heart, until she thought it might stop. How Arthur had gripped her replacement Social Security card, just to read her new name. The way he'd grab her for a twirl whenever they were in the kitchen. The reverence in his gaze when they'd lay together after sex, a look that both thrilled and made her blush. "The bills for his medication and appointments will no longer make us cringe," she deadpanned. She lowered her fork. "When we met, I was kind of blindsided - I'm not the type to fall in love quickly." The corners of her lips tugged up. "Being married to Arthur feels like a habit. A habit I should have learned twenty years ago."

"I'm glad you found each other." Patricia reached across the light brown table and covered Y/N's hand, gave it a squeeze. Then she wiped frosting from her mouth and nodded in the direction of the escalator. "Now let's find a costume that'll drive him nuts."

Beyond the colorful cosmetics and pungent perfume counters, they sorted through racks of vinyl smocks and plastic masks. Pop culture icons and princesses. Vampires and spooks. Knockoffs of classic movie monsters. Most were poorly made and decidedly uninteresting. Y/N pawed through accessories in a nearby basket, a cigar here, a patched hat there. "How about a hobo? I could steal Arthur's tie."

"This was his idea. Give him something a little exciting." After a roll of Y/N's eyes, Patricia held out a plastic display bag. "Found it."

The white font on its blue label declared she should "Create a unique look!" A woman in a leopard-print leotard and bow-tie wore black cat ears and a tail, the only two items included in the set. Y/N's nose wrinkled. "I don't think so, Patricia." She rummaged through another bin and examined a hockey mask. "I don't show a lot of skin."

"You show Arthur." Patricia ignored Y/N's glare, continuing to shove it at her. "Every man loves a woman dressed as a cat. Our next lunch is on me if I'm wrong."

Patricia could be relentless, but Y/N had to admit she was usually right. She arched a brow as she eyed the costume. Maybe she could find a solid body suit instead of animal print. The kit was only $2.98. And her friend had made it a challenge. "You're on. But I'm not wearing a bow-tie." She crossed her arms across her chest and tapped her mouth. "Your turn. Would Robert like you as a French maid or a go-go dancer?"

~~~~~

It was a busy season for performers. Arthur remembered HaHa's talent agency being booked solid for October by the end of August. Myriad functions at nursing homes, parties, and children's organizations took place throughout the city. Amusement Mile had a series of special events, allowing Arthur to work extra hours before the slowness of winter dragged in. Once the holiday was over, he'd buy make-up and props on clearance.

He'd always assumed he would like Halloween - if he'd had the chance to celebrate it properly. It was about connection, something he'd never managed. The customs gave him a pretense, a template to meet people, rather than leaving him wondering how to go about it. Provided a hiding place for his seeming inability to act normal.

Recollections of the day were few but vivid. When he'd been around eight, there'd been a party at school. The teacher had made brownies and given the students a half-hour respite from lessons. (A welcome relief, since he wasn't very good at most of them.) But he hadn't had a costume. Hadn't known how to reply when the other kids asked where it was. Not wanting to be left out, he'd pocketed a watercolor pallet and sneaked to the bathroom.

The teacher (he wished he could remember her name) had walked in as he'd smeared green and blue on his face, a pathetic attempt at a turtle. Fear of punishment had caused his laughter. But her kindness as she knelt, wiped away tears and pigment with a scratchy, brown paper towel, had calmed him. "Wait here," she'd instructed. It had taken all his courage not to run home.

After some minutes, she'd returned, an old white sheet in one hand, black marker and pair of scissors in the other. "The nurse won't miss this." She'd traced eyeholes, helped him cut them out. She'd asked questions. About his mother and what it was like at home. Questions he was at a loss for how to answer. Finally, she'd draped the cloth over his head. "There," she'd declared. "Gotham Elementary has its own ghost."

Even as he'd gotten taller and the sheet no longer went beyond his knees, that costume had remained his go-to. He'd venture out to the rest of his building, knocking on paint-chipped doors and pushing broken buzzers. Having learned to stay away from doors that yelling or funny smells emanated from, he hadn't gotten a lot of candy. What he had collected he'd shared with Penny. The wax lips became a free toy. He wasn't sure his memory of startling his mother and being tickled until he couldn't breathe was real or imagined.

At twelve, he was told he was too old to go trick-or-treating. He'd starting scrounging for change to buy hard candies at Helm's Pharmacy. They weren't particularly appetizing, but they'd been what he could afford. Only a few kids rang, a number that dwindled further every year. Most neighbors kept their distance, likely aware he was troubled. Cinnamon discs and butterscotch drops had loitered around the apartment for months. He'd sucked on them in an attempt to cut down on his smoking, just to save money. It hadn't worked.

Y/N hadn't spoken about the holiday, not the way she had other special occasions. At first, he'd thought it had slipped her mind. Work, planning their honeymoon, completing the red tape required to meld all aspects of their lives had taken up much of their time. But, given her reluctance to talk in detail about her past heartache, he'd come to assume her Halloweens had been unpleasant. He was certain he could change that.

Sitting on the dingy, dark green plastic seat of the train car, he giggled to himself, chest puffing up as he straightened. They'd been man and wife for eight whole days. Movies and songs said love was supposed to be somewhere between serendipitous and fated. A happy accident that was meant to be. Lying awake at night, he would find himself wondering where they were on that scale. If the emotions swirling through him - the excitement of belonging, the fear of fucking up - were what every newlywed felt. Then Y/N would snuggle closer in her sleep, murmur nonsense into his skin, and for a few minutes he'd be at peace.

Years had been spent trying to figure out who he was. Trying to find an identity, his role within the world. While he was still searching, it had been far easier to become accustomed to the role of "husband" than he'd dreamed.

Teaching his wife about events across the city had been a delight. Gotham Village's Annual Costume Extravaganza was a parade that went all the way to Gotham Square. He'd participated a couple of times, never formally registering but slipping into the clown section. It had been exhilarating. Had allowed him to pretend, for a little while, that he was being seen. That the crowds lining the sidewalks were cheering for him. Signs for extravagant balls were plastered on billboards and lampposts throughout the streets; he'd have gladly attended and shown her off. A haunted house was being held in a building in his old neighborhood, a fundraiser for the orphanage. He hadn't brought that up.

In the end, once he'd explained trick-or-treaters went from apartment to apartment, they'd decided on a cozy evening at home. The details had been left to her. Whatever she'd plan, he'd love it. He wondered what she'd disguise herself as. Would she be a sexy devil or nurse, like he'd seen on a sit-com? The notion sparked a fire in his cheeks.

Given how busy he'd be, he'd stay dressed as plain, old Carnival. Part of him regretted accepting two gigs, especially on a Sunday. He would have preferred her company. But he wanted to put the money towards the wedding band he'd put on layaway. (Even though they had one account, he wasn't going to let her chip in for it.) He should already be wearing it for all of Gotham to see.

The lurch of the subway prompted him to rise and grasp the pole grip. His stance widened as it came to a halt, knees bending with the instinct of a man who'd ridden public transportation since he was a boy. As soon as the graffiti-covered doors parted, he stepped out onto the platform and ascended the stairs, eager to share his new insurance information with Dr. Ludlow.

~~~~~

Scratchy violins and the hum of a theremin. Shrill shrieks and cracks of thunder. A cackle resounded, then a pipe organ, playing a melody in a minor key.

There was no doubt about it. Halloween spirit had saturated 4A.

NCB's Movie Marathon Mayhem had begun at 10:00 AM. Y/N had had it on since getting out of the shower, hoping to catch a horror classic while she decorated the apartment and prepared Bloody Mary mix. As she hung cotton batting between the television's rabbit ears, creating a long, narrow spider-web, she realized they were only playing cheesy B-movies. Giant insects threatening buildings. Science experiments gone wrong. Alien invasions. Oh well. At least she wouldn't have to pay much attention to get the gist of the plots.

The orange plastic platter, black bats along its edges, had been an impulse buy. She thought its array of sugary skeletons, candy bracelets, and Jolly Jack chocolate bars would be well received. But having seen only one or two kids in the lobby, she had no idea how many children lived in their building. She hoped she'd bought enough.

The cardstock window decorations she'd found were festive and matched Arthur's sweet nature. One portrayed a warted, green witch flying on a broom past a full moon. On the other, a ghost and mouse shared a pillowcase of candy and wished a "Happy Halloween." She held the tape dispenser between her teeth as she stuck them to their white front door.

Just then, the elevator dinged. Glancing to her left, she saw Arthur stroll down the cheerfully lit hallway. Buoyant expression on him, despite his white, blue, and red make-up being streaked from sweat. Striped prop bag on his shoulder and carved pumpkin cradled in his arms. "The store owner was going to throw it out," he explained with a half hug. "But he let me have it as a tip."

Classic, triangular eyes evoked the annual carving contest her parents had taken part of back home. Her father had been well-known in the community, being the town's only doctor. Entering the competition had been expected. They'd never won but enjoyed it all the same. Y/N had picked out the patterns and scooped out the squash's slimy innards. Her mother had baked the seeds. Peals of their laughter echoed in her ears, and a lump formed in her throat.

She swallowed hard against it. Dammit, Y/N. Get it together. This was supposed to be a special night for Arthur and her. She needed to distract herself. One of his curls peeked out from under his bald-cap and green wig. She twirled a strand around her finger. "With that toothy grin, it just might be your twin," she said. He pecked her temple, the kiss sticky from greasepaint. She lit the half-melted candles using his red lighter and put the jack-o-lantern just outside their door.

While he freshened his paint in the bedroom, she slinked into the bathroom to change. Arthur's and her routines were closely aligned; keeping her costume hidden had not been easy. The headband holding the furry cat ears was quite stiff, its teeth a tad sharp on her scalp. Once it was in place, she hid it under her hair. The lint on her form-fitting stretch top and leggings reminded her why she rarely wore all black. She retrieved her brown eyeliner from the nearby shelf and started in on her whiskers.

Arthur's footsteps neared, heavy due to his clown shoes, and Y/N turned to lean back on the sink. His thin lips parted as he scanned her body, forehead furrowed in pleasant surprise. His reaction planted a seed of bliss in her belly, one that bloomed every second they regarded each other. The lunch she'd have to spring for was well worth the pink shells of his ears. Eventually, she held out the fluffy, wired tail and a safety pin. "Would you pin this just below my waistband?"

Fingers grazing hers, he took it and sat on the toilet lid. He cupped her hips and pulled her closer, positioned her until the dampness of his breath hit a bare sliver of her back. "Hold still," he murmured, his voice sending a tingle through her. At his gentle ministrations, the spandex of her leggings felt snugger. "Did you- Did you read my journal?"

A faint click of metal as the pin closed. "No." She colored the tip of her nose, frowned at how lackluster the shade was. "I'd never do that. Even if I'm dying for a preview of your material. Why?"

"No reason." A soft huff, his shy smile clear in his answer. "I have an idea." He handed her a washcloth and hurried out of the room. She was patting her face dry when he returned, a fine tipped brush and pot of black greasepaint in his hand. "This'll look better."

Her brow arched. She'd only had her make-up done once; Patricia had invited her when they'd first met. Such an outing was not her preference, but Y/N had accepted, being new in town and wanting to learn about her colleague. There'd been champagne at the counter, which she'd sipped until she'd spent too much on eyeshadow and apricot scrub. The next morning, she'd put the products and a note on Patricia's desk: "I'll never forgive you. Thanks!"

The heat radiating from Arthur prompted her to close the gap between them. She craned her neck towards him, slid her palms to his yellow vest until she held him just below his ribs. His forefinger curled under her chin, lifted it slightly and angled it to the right. The cool, wet brush met her fevered skin. The dusty smell of the greasepaint blended with a whiff of stale cigarette smoke and traces of his sweat. She licked her lips.

The vibration of his chuckle was felt before heard. "I really like your costume," he said lowly. Two more ticklish caresses of the bristles on the apple of her cheek. "If you're not careful, I might werewolf and go wild."

She stretched closer to him, the fervor in his tone going straight to her center. Though he'd been growing bolder, his cocky side wasn't often revealed. She wanted it, thirsted to see more of the wild horse kicking inside him. Her touch ran over his chest, until she dipped under his black suspenders and pulled. "Are you going to gobble me up?"

Teasing strokes on her nose. "Maybe." Then his thumb whispered along her jaw and guided her face upwards. His kiss was supple, slow, a drag of his mouth as his tongue sought entry. She yielded, the simmer of anticipation bringing her to her toes. He groaned deeply and palmed her thigh, then fondled the curve of her rear-

The ding-dong of the doorbell halted them. He lifted his head and laughed, gaze sparkling. "I got paint on you."

She twisted in his arms and looked in the mirror. The whiskers caught her eye, embellished at the ends with dainty curlicues - his skill never ceased to impress her. Red brightened her lips and streaks of white were on her cheek. "It's all right. They'll just know I've been necking with a clown."

~~~~~

The sound of the bell continued. Over and over and over. More than it ever had in Otisburg. There were mummies, ghosts, a couple of skeletons. A superhero proudly displayed his red cape and blue tights, and a kid in her karate robe went on about her yellow belt. A tiny clown, too young to walk, was brought by her sister. As Arthur made funny faces, the baby cooed and tried to take his red, foam nose. Arthur parted with it gladly.

Only one member of the Wayne family appeared, slicked back hair and pompous pout making the disguise complete. The man accompanying the boy introduced himself as their upstairs neighbor and shook their hands. After one look at Y/N, he nudged Arthur's bicep. "So, she's the one keeping half the building up at night. Good on you, pal." Arthur blinked in confusion as she ushered the guy away, red-faced and muttering about his nerve.

Arthur was overly generous, giving out fistfuls of sweets while taking a few extra seconds to gather his nerves and compliment the costumes he liked best. It felt good to interact with strangers without constantly second guessing himself. Y/N would rub his arm or kiss his shoulder and tell him what a great job he was doing. "Kids are easy," he said, refilling the candy dish. But he reveled in her praises, anyway. And the knowledge that meeting the neighbors was going well.

Clean-up required little effort. The jack-o-lantern sat on their kitchen table, flames flickering as the wicks burned away. The door decor was packed safely for use next year. His plaid blazer was slung over the back of a dining chair and his wig was off. Y/N's decision to leave her whiskers on pleased him - she made a damn sexy cat. He pocketed the last few pieces of candy to snack on during the remainder of the evening.

The Sunday Night Special Presentation she'd picked out, a made-for-TV horror movie, began at 9:00 PM on GBC. Most of its airtime was punctuated by her tipsy snickers and legal wisecracks, which was typical when they watched something stupid. Yet, as the show went on, she grew quieter, barely speaking between sips of her third cocktail. As they sat on the sofa, her posture stiffened. Forearms crossed over her breasts. Her nails dug into her upper arm.

The change started two-thirds of the way into the show, when the plot about a doll running amok twisted into a story about a professional woman trying to assert herself against the demands of her mother. Against the expectations of availability. To fight for the simplicity of having dinner and peace and quiet. It resonated with him, which felt weird. Especially when the film cut to black, the implication being the mother would meet a violent end at the hands of her possessed daughter.

A cheerful jingle came on. Puerto Rico was a direct flight from Gotham Airport, it advertised, a flight that lasted "two hours and fifteen tropical minutes." They should get out while the weather was still good. The juxtaposition of mood broke him out of his ponderings. He flicked off the blaring television with the remote. Then he heard Y/N sniffling.

She set her glass on the coffee table, a slight tremble in her hand. "I need some air," she whispered as she rose, then went out onto the fire escape.

Arthur rubbed his thigh and pressed his lips together. He wasn't used to seeing her cry. Not from sadness. Should he follow her? Give her time? Both had worked previously, depending on the situation. But he wasn't sure what had upset her, what situation they were in now.

Exhaling sharply, he grabbed her glass and dumped the rest of the drink down the kitchen sink. Rinsed their dinner plates and put the slow cooker in the fridge. When he'd finished making decaf coffee ten minutes later, she still hadn't returned. He ambled towards the ajar glass door and stepped out.

Moonlight outlined her shapely figure and reflected off her hair, the silver a contrast to the orange glow of the streetlamps illuminating her face. Her stare seemed fixated on the street below. He followed it to see a group of ghouls and goblins spraying shaving cream on a shop window. A couple, one he'd see occasionally when out for a cigarette, walked down the sidewalk. A woman was half-carrying a drunk man towards a bus stop.

Upon clearing her throat, Y/N spoke. "I may not look like it, but I had a great time with you tonight. The movie just got to me." Relieved, Arthur sidled next to her, wrapped his arm about her back. Her head fell to his shoulder and she smoothed her hand over his stomach. "I don't mean to hide from you. Someday you'll know the details of my earlier life." She scoffed. "When I'm ready to think about them." He entwined their fingers and kissed her hairline, avoiding the wired tips of her cat ears.

Shivering, she took a shaky breath. "There are no skeletons in my closet. Only disappointments." Her voice cracked as she beamed at him, cupped his cheek, and pressed her face to his. "Knowing I'd get to have you would have made those years so much easier."

He held her tightly, massaging between her shoulders. She'd been speaking about herself, but he couldn't help thinking it was about him, too. His years with Penny. His stints in Arkham. The loneliness, the isolation, the endless anger and yearning to be more than a speck of dirt no one cared for. His journal was full of questions about where the hell his one and only was. If he'd known she'd be real, tangible instead of a figment, would existence have hurt less?

Wincing, he tried to push through those thoughts. To focus on her instead of himself. What mattered was that Y/N needed him. Perhaps a joke would cheer her. "I was thinking the other night of how easy it is to smile around you," he said. "You tickle my funny bone." Amusement bubbled in her throat, music to his ears. She released a contented sigh and nuzzled the crook of his neck.

Peaceful stillness ensued as the minutes passed. Though the breeze was chill, goosebumps forming on his pale skin, her affection kept his heart warm. His fingertips rubbed circles into her lower back, and she offered a pleasured hum. Across the way, footsteps pounded. He glanced to see a kid darting up the street, plastic pumpkin pail in tow. The boy's scream was filled with boundless energy: "Happy Halloween, Gotham!"

Snorting, Y/N took Arthur's hand and led him inside. The cheap tail she wore bounced with every exaggerated swivel of her hips. "I've behaved all evening, which your werewolf comment made extraordinarily difficult." She looped her arms around him and flashed a come-hither stare. "May I have a goodie?"

The scrape of her nails on his scalp coiled a knot in his abdomen. "Aren't you supposed to say 'trick-or-treat?'" he asked huskily.

"Your pussycat needs a petting or two." She closed the bedroom door behind them. "Maybe even a mauling."

His brows shot up on a hitched giggle. Then he palmed her hip while she started in on his buttons. Before she got too far, he traced a whisker with the pad of his thumb. Let their foreheads meet and pecked her eyelids. "Only if you give me something good to eat." He pressed into her, his enjoyment relentless, not waiting for her reply before devouring her mouth.

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​, @howdylilflower​, @sweet-nothings04​, @stephieraptorr​, @rommies​, @fallenstarsabyss​, @gruffle1​, @octopus-plasma​, @tsukiakarinobara​, @arthur-flecks-lovely-smile​, @another-day-in-chuckletown​, @hhandley80​, @jokerownsmysoul​, @mrscarnival​

#arthur fleck #arthur fleck fanfic #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x ofc #arthur fleck x female reader #joker 2019 #watchwhathappens

[pinkanonwrites]

I loved the animal crossing vs karasuno boys hcs u did!! Do u think u could do another one with a different team? Maybe nekoma but u can choose whatever!! Thank u 😊

AAAAAAHHH This has been sitting in my drafts almost-completely finished for MONTHS and I’m FINALLY GONNA POST IT! Thank you for the request, I love Nekoma so, so, so much! (Fukunaga please call me. I’ll do all the talking)

(( Also also since I did all boy villagers in the Karasuno one, this one has all girl villagers))

LONG POST BELOW!

Kuroo Tetsurou

“Celia is so pretty!~ I love her so much!”

Kuroo’s attention snapped to you, doing his best to keep his face neutral as his brain went rocketing off in the worst direction possible. Pretty? Pretty girl? You like a pretty girl?

He had no room to judge, he also liked pretty girls. But there’s no way you liked this pretty girl more than you liked him, right? Right?

He pulled his attention back to the practice match just in time to avoid getting wailed in the face with a volleyball, able to turn it into a clumsy receive at the last possible second. If his teammates noticed, they were at least kind enough not to call him out.

When he sidled up to you at the end of practice he did his best to sound fake concerned, not legitimately worried.

“You replacing me with some cute girl? I could hear you mooning from all the way on the court, you know?”

You just laughed and shook your head, lifting your phone to show a character from the game you and Kenma had been gushing about. Your phone lockscreen had been set to a picture of an, admittedly adorable, cartoon eagle.

“I finally found someone who had Celia in their town. I wanted her so bad!”

Kuroo snorted, ruffling the top of your head. “Well I’m glad you got her. Next time give me a warning before you start going all mushy for video game birds, alright?”

Kai Nobuyuki

“Oh, Lily! Lily, you’re so beautiful!”

Kai barely gave more than a twitch to indicate that he’d heard what you’d said. He’d heard you gush about celebrities or anime characters you’d liked before, but not to the degree that you’d call them just by their first name.

“New favorite character?” He offered, continuing to pack his practice bag and try not to look too curious about who you were fawning over.

Luckily for him, you were more than happy to supply the answer yourself, squiggling under his arm and holding your Switch up to his face so he could see your colorfully-dressed character sitting at a picnic table with an adorable cartoon frog.

“She’s so cute! I can’t believe I got her in my town.” “I didn’t know you liked frogs so much.” He breathed a silent sigh of relief, feeling silly for letting himself worry, even the tiniest bit.

“Yeah, well she’s the cutest frog!”

“Cuter than most frogs I’ve seen.”

Kai fought a smile as you began passionately debating the cuteness of real life frogs, tugging you a little bit closer with his arm.

Yaku Morisuke

“Ah, Cleo! How could anyone ever be so cute?”

Yaku didn’t much enjoy it when you called him cute, but hearing you call somebody else cute was somehow a thousand times worse. He could swear he felt his own blood pressure spike with that sentence alone.

“Ooh! Who’s cute?”

And there’s Lev. So much for his blood pressure.

You held up your phone screen to Lev and he began nodding along in agreement with you, which somehow made Yaku feel even more irritated than he already did. A stray volleyball rolled across the floor near him, and he sent it spiralling into Lev’s lower back with a kick.

“Quit talking about cute girls and focus on your receives, shithead!”

“OWWWW!!! Yaku-senpai, so mean! You could’ve missed! Then how would you feel?”

“Get back on the court, Lev.”

“I’m sorry!” You said when you pulled Yaku aside after practice. “I just was just really excited about Animal Crossing, I didn’t mean to distract Lev.”

“Animal….. Crossing?”

“Yeah! I got a really cute villager!” You held up your phone and showed Yaku a picture of the pastel horse that had just moved into your village.

“...Oh. Cleo.”

“Mhm!... Are you okay? You’re turning a little red. Maybe you should drink some more water.”

Kozume Kenma

“Rosie! Oh, Rosie is definitely best girl.”

Despite being very well-versed in Animal Crossing, it still caught Kenma off-guard for a half a second to hear you so openly mooning about your favorite villager. Luckily for him the two of you had been talking about Animal Crossing since the new game was announced, so he’d had plenty of time to get to know your favorites.

“Did you find someone to trade with you?”

“Yep! I just need to get Egbert to leave so she can move in! Get outta here, chicken!”

Resting his chin on your shoulder, Kenma watched with a small smile as you started building cliffs around the perimeter of Egbert’s house, determined to get him to move away. Maybe someday he’d have to deal with the discomfort of hearing you openly moon about someone attractive. Thankfully, today was not that day.

Fukunaga Shouhei

“You’re so perfect, Ellie! Don’t ever leave!”

Fukunaga glanced at you and quirked an eyebrow, but you were far too immersed in your Switch screen to notice. Your expression had dropped into this soft, moony-eyed gaze, one that Fukunaga wasn’t used to seeing directed at anything that wasn’t him when you thought he wasn’t looking.

It felt… weird.

“Oh! Shouhei, do you wanna see?” You finally seemed to notice him glancing in your direction, scooting over to show off your screen. “Ellie was moving out of Kenma’s town and he let me take her! Isn’t she cute?”

While your character ran circles around the little tan elephant all Shouhei could do was watch you smile with a warm, fuzzy feeling blooming in his chest.

“Second cutest here.” He quietly replied.

Yamamoto Taketora

“Molly! She’s so cute I can’t even handle it!”

Normally Yamamoto would find the idea of you fawning over a cute girl to be equally cute. That way the two of you could fawn over cute girls together!

But it was significantly less fun when it meant that one hundred percent of your attention was on your phone and zero percent of your attention was on him. He spent the majority of the day landing awesome spikes only to snap his attention towards you and see you fully immersed in your phone screen.

Finally his not-so-quiet grumbling about your lack of attention got the better of Kuroo and he hollered over to you, asking what you were looking at. Before Yamamoto could shush him you raised your phone, showing off an adorable cartoon duck.

“I finally got Molly in my town!”

Kuroo burst into laughter as a blush crawled its way across Yamamoto’s face and up to the tips of his ears, taking a swing at Kuroo to try and get him to shut up.

Haiba Lev

“She’s so stoic and cool. How can you not be completely in love with Whitney?”

“I can be stoic and cool.” Lev grumbled.

“She’s got such pretty white hair and sharp eyes.”

“I’ve got white hair and sharp eyes.”

“I should get her some flowers.”

“Can’t you get your boyfriend some flowers?”

“Hm? Lev, hun, did you say something?”

He’d been quietly murmuring under his breath since you started gushing about Animal Crossing but honestly, how could you not? Whitney was one of your dreamies and finally, after many a Nook Mile Ticket spent, you finally had her on your island. Maybe you had been going on about it for a bit, though.

“I’m sorry, Lev! I’m just excited. I wanna know what you said though!”

Lev puffed up, jabbing his thumb into his chest. “I’ve got all those things you love about this Whitney girl so much, so you shouldn’t need anyone else!” You stared at him in disbelief for a long, painfully awkward moment, before snorting hard as you dissolved into laughter.

“H-Hey!”

I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh!” You choke out between giggles, just silently holding up your Switch to Lev’s face to show off your character presenting some roses to a cartoon wolf…

… Named Whitney.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen someone turn that shade of red before.

“W-W-Well she must be your favorite because she’s so much like me! Right? Right?!”

Good save, Lev. Good save.

Inuoka Sou

“Piper’s just so cool and chill! That’s why she’s my absolute favorite.”

Oh. Oh! You liked cool and chill people? Inuoka had no idea. But that’s okay! He can be cool! He can be chill!

“Dude, you okay? You’re like… Vibrating.”

At least, that’s what Inuoka had thought at the beginning of the day. Truthfully he had no skill when it came to containing his energy, especially since every time he saw you it felt like his heart was doing the equivalent of spam texting you a dozen lines of heart emojis. By the time he had gotten to the end of practice he felt jittery and uncomfortable, like he’d been holding a lid down on a boiling pot of water. He just hadn’t been acknowledging it until Yamamoto pointed it out.

“Sou?” You had been waiting for him outside the gym! Waiting! For him! His heart felt like it did a kickflip off the inside of his ribcage as he enveloped you in a hug.

“I tried! I tried to be calm and chill like you like but I just can’t do it! And whenever I see you my heart goes a RAAAAAHHH so it’s basically impossible anyway! I hope you don’t mind!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hang on.” You cupped his face in your hands and he melted into your hold, smiling like an idiot. “When did I say I like calm, chill guys?”

“This morning, you were talking about some girl named Piper and you said she was so calm and cool and that's why you liked her so I thought if I could be like that you’d like me more too and-”

You pressed a finger to his lips and he couldn’t help but sigh, turning to putty at your merest touch.

“Babe, I was talking about a character from my game! You know, the one with all the animals?”

“Really?”

“Really?”

“So I don’t need to act all calm and cool for you to like me?”

“Of course not! I love you just the way you are.”

“Heehee~… I feel a little silly.”

“You are a little silly, babe.”

Shibayama Yuuki

“I’m in love! Flora is so perfect! I’ve never loved so much in my life!”

Shibayama stumbled over his own two feet when he heard you professing your love of this ‘Flora’ to one of your classmates during lunch. Glancing just around the door to your classroom, you were holding your phone in one hand and wildly gesturing with the other, leaving your friend chuckling at your excited antics.

He felt an uncomfortable sort of chill in the pit of his stomach, making his just-eaten lunch feel more than a bit unwelcome. Did you even like this Flora more than...him?

It was easy to tell that Shibayama was a bit out of it at practice, doing his best to stay focused but still uncharacteristically quiet. It wasn’t until you met him after practice to walk home that everything was cleared up to him.

“S-So, um… Who’s Flora?”

“Huh? Oh! Oh, lemme show you!”

You pulled out your Switch and ran your little character over to a flamingo and began talking to her, and Shibayama felt all the tension in his body rush out in a single breath. He let out a small chuckle as you fawned over the character.

“Yeah, she’s pretty cute!”

#haikyuu #hq #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuucreations #nekoma #kuroo tetsurou #kai nobuyuki #Yaku Morisuke #kozume kenma #fukunaga shouhei #yamamoto taketora #haiba lev #inuoka sou #shibayama yuuki

[tae-cup]

Cupid’s Blind Eye | Of Eternity and Euphoria (3)

Pairing: Park Jimin x Reader

Summary: A demigod looking for love meets the god of love himself. 

Warnings: N/A. This might be the fluffiest one so far. wait I lied it’s not fluffy at all. It’s really angsty. I’m sorry. 

Word Count: 5.4k words 

A/N: I have a lot of ideas for this series. So much so, I’m ignoring my other series. Like Hamartia and The Pact which I was s u p p o s e d to start by now. Smh this is what happens when I have too many ideas. I’m planning a spin off series for a Male!reader for this...I also wanted to tie this more into the overarching plot, but it’s okay, I’ll get you more park jimin okay. Consider me your supplier.

AS:ASJFLKWJQ:W it deleted my first draft >:( 

Other:

Series Masterlist

Normal Masterlist

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; and therefore is winged cupid painted blind - William Shakespeare

-

-

Your knees hurt already. It had been all of 15 minutes, but the gravel under your legs wasn’t exactly comfortable. You had spent the last hour praying for the god of love to show himself and you fell to your knees desperately in the last 15. 

“Oh, god of love.” You drawled sarcastically, ready to leave the dilapidated altar. “Answer my prayers.” You practically rolled your eyes, sick of this nonsense. 

You stood slowly, realizing he probably wasn’t going to show himself any time soon. You swiped the gravel off your knees, not noticing the presence behind you. 

“You should know not to be so disrespectful to your gods, darling.” A sly voice called. You froze. No way. When you turned to look, a man leaned against the pillars of the altar. He radiated lust and love, an inhuman aura. There was no doubt this was the god of love, lust, and passion. 

And unlike him, you radiated a sort of pure aura; compared to him, of course. It drove him mad. 

“Oh.” You were at a loss for words. His build was literally of the gods and his face, oh his face. You couldn’t find a single flaw in his face. From his adorable nose to his plump lips. You found yourself staring at his features for way longer than necessary. He smirked. This was a typical response to his appearance. 

“Why do you seek me out?” He stepped forward, peering into your eyes. 

“I want to know my soulmate.” You clenched your fists. Everyone you knew already found theirs. Your friend, Jennie, had explained that the god of love had helped her, but you didn’t believe her. You thought she was pulling your leg. The god quirked his head to the side. 

“Why do you need to know that?” 

“Because I’m sick of being alone.” You admitted, mouth feeling awfully dry as you nervously shifted from foot to foot. 

His gaze softened, heart thumping. 

“You won’t be alone forever.” 

“It feels like it sometimes.”

“You’re a demigod.” It suddenly clicked. Your blatant disrespect of the gods, the odd aura surrounding you. Almost godly, but not quite. Not many demigods had a good connection to the gods. They were often cast aside, looked over, thought of as wannabes when many just wanted to live their lives. His altar wasn’t any different than the other crumbled ones around, the only indicator was the Greek letters above, but only a demigod would be able to read that. 

“And you’re a god. I’ve come to learn that it doesn’t matter who you are, we all die in the end.” You frowned, thinking of your godly parent, one that had faded a long time ago, sentenced to eternal darkness for the atrocity of giving birth to you. However, being a demigod came with its perks. As long as you stayed healthy, you had longer lifespans while staying youthful. You had stopped aging around 25, but now you were around 60. You would likely begin aging around 100 and then die around 200. You had lived a long life so far without finding love. At first you thought it was possible, but as the years went on, no one gave you that spark, that burning sensation, that claimed them as your soulmate. 

“Listen.” You sighed, “I just want to know if they exist. I’ve spent years searching and I thought fate was supposed to bring us together. Are they to be born in another timeline? Shall we never meet?” 

The god of love frowned at your lack of faith in him as a god. He stepped forward, close enough for you to make out his face in detail. He radiated love, lust, and passion. His eyes were intense, but you didn’t find yourself scared. In fact, it was almost comforting. He was the definition of love. 

“Do you have so little faith in me? Fate has brought you here.” He gently reached out and touched your shoulder. He just needed to check. It was silly to think that the god of love, could not seem to find his lover. There. That spark, that burn. It spread like a wildfire, consuming your everything. It felt like your atoms had rearranged, yearning to be completed by him. 

You couldn’t do anything except stare at him. There was no way you were fated to one of the gods whom you so dearly despised. The gods had abandoned you as a child. Was this some cruel punishment? He softened his expression, taking in your frustrated form. Scared, worried, and anxious were reactions he expected from his soulmate, but anger was not one. 

“I don’t have to be with you, you know?” You said bitterly. “I can choose to stay away. Not all soulmates stay together.” 

Your words clearly had an effect on him because he nodded and stepped away. His eyebrows knitted together in confusion and hurt flashed across his face. 

“I won’t force you to join me, but please reach out if you change your mind. You know where to find me.” He gestured to the altar. He, out of everyone, knew that you could put two perfect people next to each other in a room, but you couldn’t force them to love each other. Love was a tricky thing and Jimin knew it best. “Just ask for Jimin.” 

Then he was gone, the wind seemingly taking him away. You rushed forward, looking for that sneaky god, but you couldn’t locate him. You had to admit you felt bad about reacting that way. He didn’t expect this either. With a sigh, you called out to the stones. “I’m Y/N. Lovely to meet you, Jimin.” 

And of course he heard you. His eyes trailed your back as you ran back into your small town. It was one of the last towns who truly believed in the gods, that’s why so many had altars up. A smile made his way onto his face. Now it was just wait and see. 

-

-

“Oh come on. You are way too boring, Jimin.” The fiance (I’m sorry I don’t have accents on this computer >:( ) of Yoongi rolled her eyes. 

“___, You must understand, love just doesn’t work like that, You have to let it happen.” 

“I bet she wants you to chase after her.” ___ continued. “Here, invite her to the wedding. She can be your plus one!” 

“You’re too kind. I fear she may be afraid of the underworld.”

“Didn’t you say she’s a demigod?” Yoongi’s fiance quirked her head to the side. She was a human before a goddess. She had no bias against demigods and Jimin felt she was the best to approach about his encounter. 

“Yes.” 

“Then I doubt she’ll even bat an eye at the underworld.” She viewed her nails, thanking the workers and standing from the salon. “You came all the way to the human world just so you could whine about your love life to the goddess of the underworld. Seems right.” 

Jimin scoffed, crossing his arms defensively. He was at a loss for words, however, and he bit his lip. “I came to you because she seems more human than god and I wanted to know your experience.” 

“Well, Yoongi basically kidnapped me, but not really. I just knew I wanted to go with him. Then he and I hit it off from there. I fought with Taehyung, stirred up some shit, and now I’m going to be the downfall of Olympus.” 

The other gods didn’t like her joking about the downfall of Olympus, but Jimin could always laugh. 

“At least my nails will look good while it happens, yeah?” 

The love god laughed along with her and the two walked over to the park. The park, known as Plyosum Park, was a great hotspot of godly energy. It was the quickest and easiest way to get to Olympus. 

“Now, I must be going.” She smiled, “But, have you ever thought, Jimin, that she’s no more human than she is god? Maybe she just wants to be treated as the person she is; a demigod. That’s why I don’t think I can help you much. I wish you luck, however.” She sent a small wave to him before ghostly hands reached up and dragged her under.

 Jimin sighed. She had a point. He’ll just treat you like any person. He let his wings grow out as he prepared to travel back to Olympus. They were a feathery white with golden flakes scattered in between. Many called him cupid for this, but he preferred the name Eros. 

-

-

You opened the letter with caution. It had appeared on your desk when you arrived home and it definitely hadn’t been there before. The handwriting looked familiar, though you couldn’t place your finger on it. 

Dear Y/N, 

         I am writing to you today because the god and goddess of the underworld are getting married. They have requested I bring along someone and of course my first thoughts were of you. It would be lovely if you are able to join me, but it’s quite alright if you don’t feel comfortable. Please consider my offer, but I will not hold it against you if you choose not to come. 

                                                                                     Best,

                                                                                    Jimin

You had to chuckled at his formal phrasing, but you couldn’t blame him. He wanted to give you space and you respected him for being so cautious to your boundaries. It wasn’t expected of the god. After all, he was a god. He could have just kidnapped you on the spot. Maybe he just understands love doesn’t work like that. That made more sense. You carefully wrote back. 

My dearest Jimin, 

               I would be honored to attend such a momentous occasion. Sadly, I seem to be at a lack of formal wear suitable for this kind of event, what do you suggest?

                                                                                      Best,

                                                                                     Y/N

Of course you had to shoot back with your own formal tone. You hoped he understood the sarcasm in it as you hiked to the only place you knew he visited. His altar was old, crumbling, very un-beautiful for the most beautiful god you knew. Then you remembered that you would be meeting many beautiful gods and goddesses in a short time. 

You placed the far messier letter down at his altar and hurried back to the village. Jimin was waiting, hoping to catch you, but you were gone before he could even speak. He bent down and slowly picked up the letter. He hastily tore it open, smiling fondly at your words. It was a shame he didn’t get to see you properly before you rushed off. 

It was in your nature, as a demigod, to be skiddish around most things; though you seemed to have more of a fight in you than other demigods. The issue was that demigods didn’t fit in anywhere. The gods despised them and regarded them as abominations, hybrids, wannabes. The humans weren’t much better, fearing anything they considered other. Demigods would rarely be able to rest without being hunted by one group or another. 

Jimin looked to the middle distance, thinking about what outfit would best suit you. He wanted you to fit in with the other gods and goddesses. While he was a great believer in “love is love” other gods may try to bring you down simply because you were a demigod. It made him feel ill to think of what terrible things could come your way because of your mother’s mistake, not that you were a mistake. He mentally scolded himself. He was constantly on the fritz of checking himself and making sure he said the right things. 

He shook his head, returning to his place in the clouds. 

-

-

When there was a knock at your door, you jumped in surprise. It was not often that the village people visited you. You lived a lonely existence, but you decided this was fine. 

“For: Y/N.” You read carefully, surveying the package on your doorstep. You glanced around, eyes flicking to the house next door and traveling down the empty road. Hurriedly, you grabbed the package and hauled it inside your house, slamming the door shut. 

The box was more of a rectangle. It was long and flat and there was no return address. You had a feeling you knew who had delivered it. You walked to the kitchen and grabbed a pair of scissors. Then you approached the package, unsure of how to open it. If this was what you thought it was, you didn’t want to damage it. You gnawed at your lip, brows furrowed in concentration as you painstakingly cut through the thin strips of tape. This is ridiculous, just rip it open. You couldn’t bring yourself to do that, however. You didn’t want to rip the contents. So you continued your work before the box flaps finally undid themselves. 

Your breath caught in your throat as you looked at the dress. It was a light pink, an innocent color. You rushed to your room to try it on. Of course it fit perfectly. It had a tight bodice, hugging the upper half of your body in a flattering way. Then the rest of the material flowed from the bodice. Layers of tulle and silk fluttered to the ground. In the box also came a delicate silver crown, headband, thing. The silver was twisted into delicate branches that curved every which way, forming a sort of bramble. It looked so elegant and graceful. The accessories that came with the dress included silver earrings and bracelets. The most important was a necklace. It was an graceful, thin, silver chain, but at the bottom it was weighed down by a light pink gemstone. It seemed to glow, like a beating heart. You didn’t expect anything less from the god of love. You were stunning. 

You couldn’t wait to wear it to the wedding in a few days. Jimin would surely be impressed. You found yourself blushing girlishly at the thought of impressing him. You wanted him to want you. To see his eyes light up when you entered a room. To kiss him. You gently placed your fingers on your lips, thinking of his plush ones on yours. You knew he would oblige you if you asked, but you had only met the once and the soulmate bond was inexplicably strong already. You were worried it would consume you if you let it. Would you still be standing if it did? 

-

-

Days go by and now you stand at his altar. It’s desolate, looking lonelier than ever before. You shift nervously, having done your makeup to reflect the lightness you were sure he wanted to portray. You knew he was trying to get the other gods to like you and you were still wary of meeting them. However, you promised yourself that you would try, even if the other immortals didn’t. You didn’t want to pace, having already painstakingly made sure your dress wasn’t muddied on the way up. Where is he? 

You were beginning to worry. Little did you know, Jimin was freaking out. He was pacing and getting far too worked up for a god. 

“Hyung! What if-what if she gets scared and doesn’t want to see me again?” He whined to the sky god. He strutted up and down the hallway that led to his altar. He knew you were there, he could feel it, he just couldn’t bring himself to step through. 

“Jiminie, she’s a demigod, she’ll be okay.” Jin squeezed his younger friend’s shoulder. Jimin had trusted Jin enough to tell him about you. He thought of telling Namjoon, longing for the elder’s advice more than anything, but there was something sneaky about that god that held him off. 

“What if she doesn’t like me?”

“Why would she show up if she wasn’t interested?”

Jimin ran a hand through his hair and Jin could tell he was about to complain more so he stepped in. 

“Hey, you’ll be okay.” He said softly, pushing the god of love towards the door. Who knew that such a suave man was so...scared of love? “If you’re worried about jumping off the deep end and drowning,” Jin had heard that falling for your soulmate often felt that way. “Then it’ll be okay. You’ll learn how to breathe underwater.” 

The elder god then took the, now quiet, god by the shoulders and steered him down the hallway. The god of love took one heavy step after another. “Go, you’ll be late otherwise and that won’t do any good to lighten the other gods’ positions on her.” Jin said, almost scolding. The younger god just kept his mouth shut, nodding way too easily to his friend. 

“Wait, Hyung-”

“Go.” 

Then he was shoved through the doorway. 

-

He stumbled straight into you, hands reflexively reaching out to stable you. You gasped in surprise, heat rising to your cheeks. 

“Jimin! I thought you weren’t coming.” You said in a huff. The god stood there sheepishly, scratching his head. 

“Right, I’m so sorry, I was...” Honesty is the best in any relationship. “...I was nervous.” 

You tilted your head to the side. Usually it was the other way around with all the assholes you’d dated in the past. They were always entitled, never asking you about anything. 

“Oh, I see.” You said awkwardly. “Well, it’s getting late.” You drifted off. Then you noticed him staring at you. Your cheeks flushed pink again at his gaze. It was intense, searching, as it took in your outfit. You heard him let out a soft breath. 

“You look...ravishing.” He breathed, finally putting into words how he felt. But nothing could describe how you looked. You looked like a goddess. Perfection, beauty, grace, intelligence, all in one. He swallowed, trying to keep himself in check. He held out his hand, “Well?”

You hesitated, looking at his soft hands. Hands that had never worked a day in their lives. You cautiously place your hands in his and he pulled you close. 

“Let’s go.” He murmured. How he managed to make two words sound so enticing was lost on you. 

-

-

“Pleasure to meet you, Ms...?” The goddess in front of you purred, holding out her hand. She somehow made it seem condescending. You and Jimin had been glued to the hip since you arrived, but he had briefly left to get drinks, leaving you to fend for yourself. Every god and goddess in the room was intrigued by you. You just kept thinking back to how extravagant the ceremony had been, but you had been more taken with how gracious the bride was. She was so bright compared to the god of the underworld, but somehow they got along. 

“Y/N.” You smiled, your lips pressed together. You looked, and in someways were, like a goddess, but everyone knew there was something different. Your impostor syndrome was driving you mad. 

“Right.” The feline-like goddess strolled away. You turned, trying to ignore the headache you had, only to bump into another god. He looked startled, jumping back quickly. He had an airy quality of innocence and bright light around him. He was handsome, devilishly so. 

“Oh! I’m so sorry.” You exclaimed genuinely, looking at the god with confusion. He had this air of familiarity about him that you couldn’t quite place. 

“No, no, it was my fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going.” He said shyly. Then an arm wrapped around your waist, a drink being handed to you softly. The man before you got visibly more pale at the sight of the god holding you. He didn’t seem scared, just sad, maybe even heartbroken. “Oh, I see.” He nodded quietly, mood doing a whole 180.

Jimin grimaced as he watched the other man retreat. He felt his heart strings tug, but pushed the pained feeling away. You could sense the tension so you carefully unwrapped yourself, taking his hands. 

“Let’s dance.” You said softly. You weren’t sure what just happened, but it didn’t feel like your place to pry. As you place your hands on his shoulders and he planted his firmly on your waist, he let out a sigh. 

“I know you’re curious, you can’t hide things from me.” He glanced around as you both blended into the crowd of other couples slow dancing. “That was Agape.” 

You nodded slowly. That’s why you felt so familiar. Anyone who was close to Eros understood Agape well. 

“Is that was he goes by?” You knew Agape to be the innocent love, the first love, and Eros to be a more sexual love, one filled with desire. You also knew that Jimin didn’t go by Eros, he went by Jimin. People often got him mixed up with Agape, claiming him as cupid, but Agape usually handled first love scenarios. 

“No.” He said quietly, as if losing his will to speak. “He... he goes by-” He suddenly cut himself off. “Actually, he doesn’t like it when people refer to him by his real name. Just know that I like you now. You don’t need to worry about him.”

You frowned, eyebrows knitting together. “I never thought he would take you away from me? I was just interested.” 

“Ah, yeah, there’s been...tension.” He didn’t give you any more explanation so you sought to change the topic. 

“Tell me about the other gods.” 

He seemed glad to change subjects. Instead, he told you about Seokjin, the friendly sky god who knew of your predicament. Then he went on about his Taehyungie, Kookie, and then his hyungs. You smiled warmly at all his fond remarks, discussing them as if they were his blood relatives. It humanized them, though you weren’t sure if that was intentional on his part. You had just warmed up to the idea of meeting these gods when someone screamed. 

-

-

It wasn’t a happy scream. It was a blood curdling, ear piercing, shriek. A goddess ran from the entryway, clearly alarmed. You jumped and Jimin’s hold on you tightened. 

You could see Taehyung pull his lover closer and Yoongi pushed his wife behind him. Other gods were taking defensive stances, eyeing the goddess warily. She was obviously a low level god, her aura faint and you were sure she was to die out soon. Seokjin carefully approached her like a wounded animal. Being the oldest, he had this responsibility; to meet all threats to his circle with full force. 

“Ah, Ms. Lee, what troubles you today?” 

The entire room stilled, watching Ms. Lee carefully. Seokjin spoke calmly, but there was a fierceness to his voice, a demanding power. 

“We’re under attack up above. They’ll be here any minute!” She was inconsolable. You gripped Jimin’s arm and he held you impossibly closer. And attack? By who? The enemies of the gods were long gone and any god who tried to cause trouble was sure to be eliminated quickly. All the gods seemed troubled except a certain war god.

“Great! Then we’ll go to war!” He shouted, anger in his voice. Being the war god, you were sure it was his natural voice. Jimin started radiating a more dominating aura. You realized then that he had hidden most of it as to not freak you out. Now he glowed a luminescent light pink. You knew he was quite literally a lover, not a fighter. 

“Now, now, how do we know this isn’t just a set up?” Yoongi narrowed his eyes, clearly not wishing to discuss war on his wedding night. 

“Well either way we’d still be under attack.” The girl beside Taehyung breathed. She had a point, you couldn’t deny that. Jungkook’s eyes met briefly with Taehyung’s lover and you could almost see the spark of tension despite being a little ways away. Taehyung put himself between the two subtly. You had a feeling there was a story there. 

“Jimin?” Your voice was a whisper as to not break the very thin surface tension of the room. He squeezed your hand in response to tell you he was listening. “Are we in danger?” Your heart beat rapidly. You knew you were the most human here. You were strong, but you wouldn’t last a second against a god. Okay, scratch that, you might last two seconds, being a demigod, but you were still severely disadvantaged. You didn’t want to a) be a burden and b) be killed. 

“I’ll keep you safe, love.” He murmured quietly, leaning down and pressing a kiss on the top of your head. You felt your body heat up, wishing those lips to be on yours. You just nodded along, not trusting yourself to say anything else. Then there was a bang outside and the sound of the guards running. You turned to him. eyes wide. 

Taehyung was already pushing his lover and Yoongi’s wife together, having another god usher them somewhere safe. You paused, wanting to join them. You even saw Yoongi’s wife turn and look at you expectantly. All the gods and goddesses who valued their lives were running. There was another bang and it was chaos. Those who had been frozen in place were now running and those who wished to fight were materializing their weapons. Jimin looked between you and the door, clearly debating. You gently pushed him towards his friends, knowing he wouldn’t want to leave his brothers. 

Then you pressed a quick kiss on his cheek. He flushed red. 

“Maybe you’ll get a kiss on the lips if you come back unscathed.” You joked, winking playfully as if he wasn’t about to go out and face...whatever was behind that entryway door. He didn’t respond, just nodding firmly. You rushed to join the other two women who were considered V.I.P.s because of their status and relationships to the inner circle. As you were ushered out of the room, you heard the door burst open and you prayed Jimin was safe. 

-

-

You shivered, the dress not doing any good to keep you warm. The women beside you had hardly spoken a word to you except one, who was the bride herself. She had introduced herself to you and then gone quiet. Obviously, she was worried for her new husband. The other woman was shaking like a leaf. You were surprised the relationship between her and Taehyung worked, but you knew love worked in mysterious ways. The bride offered you a small smile, pulling off her pristine white cardigan and handing it to you. You thanked her lowly before resuming your staring contest with the wall. 

It was a nice room, a library somewhere even more underground than the underworld. The goddess of the Earth was obviously more wary of you than the one of the underworld. Though, from what Jimin had briefed you on, she had once been a human too. You were all worried sick for your loved ones, of course. No one could think of much else. The constant shouting was driving you over the edge. You just wanted some peace and quiet. 

Having always been introverted, you didn’t enjoy crowds for long periods of time. Keeping to yourself and staying out of the way was the best. As much as you disliked the gods, you and the women in the room were sharing a bond. A bond of fear. You were quite the opposite from Jimin in that way. He was a very social person, always going out of his way to talk to people, his words always smooth and graceful. You, on the other hand, were just...there. You stumbled over your words, rambled, and had trouble concealing your emotions as well as him. 

There was a knock on the door. You all looked at each other, eyes wide and waiting for the password to be spoken. There was none. It’s not them. You mouthed. The door flew open before you had time to react. You counted your seconds. Two seconds against a god. You had two seconds. 

You were just confused, however, when you were met with a familiar face. 

“Mom?” 

-

-

The long forgotten goddess didn’t even flinch at the anger in your expression, nor the tears that betrayed your pain. It was all too much. She had changed so much. Once the goddess of wisdom, the original goddess long before Namjoon, she held herself with grace. But her frame all bones, no fat, her face was gaunt, and she looked liked she had just walked out of a halloween store. Your breath caught in your throat as she grasped your arm, hard enough to cause a whimper of pain. The other women were forced to follow along as well. 

She escorted you out to the ballroom. You felt yourself go pale, stomach dropping to the floor as you surveyed the room. Blood, everywhere. You couldn’t tell whose was whose. Gods are gods, but they bleed. And when they die, they must wait to be reborn once more. You felt your heart clench, seeing the inner circle on their knees. They looked defeated. Seokjin was comforting a sobbing girl, only to have her ripped away and whisked somewhere else. This made the elder god snarl, but he stopped almost immediately after looking at their captors. And who wouldn’t? 

They were ghastly creatures, looking like demons out of a novel of pain and horror. Some of them had melted skin, others had hollow faces and haunting stares. All brandished with various “K”s on their bodies. You noticed your mother had one on the side of her neck. The gods were arguing with someone, but you couldn’t make out everything, the argument in full on Greek. Then there was a loud cough. Your mother threw forth the other two girls first. You watched Taehyung and Yoongi’s eyes go wide, before going back, completely feral, to arguing. Then your mother pulled you in close. 

“Y/N.” She said coldly, despite her seemingly motherly embrace. “You have disappointed me greatly, I pray Kronos spares you.” Her lips were a thin line as she threw you to the ground too. You tripped over the debris and landed on your hands and knees. You looked up, meeting the eyes of Jimin. 

You saw a quiet fury. You knew Jimin was diplomatic, he wouldn’t yell, but you could feel his anger from across the room. He mouthed ‘I love you’. And you frowned a little. This was not where you wanted to be confessed to. You wanted him to say to you, alone, and secluded. You selfishly wanted that. Now the enemy had stolen your first I Love Yous as well. 

“Put her with the others.” You understood that part. The masked leader gestured to an underling who unceremoniously dragged you over to the other women. You huddled together as they shoved you into a cage with the crying girl from earlier. Yoongi’s wife wasn’t crying, but she did seem to be in a state of shock. Taehyung’s lover was crying, trying to conceal her sniffles. You gently shrugged off the cardigan from earlier, handing it to her. She took it quickly, hiding her face. You even heard the smallest thank you. Underlings surrounded you like specimen, watching you like you were zoo animals. 

“Yoongi!” The bride called out, panicked. You felt it too. There was something bad coming. Then the cage moved and you felt nauseated from the sudden movement. You panicked fully for the first time. Where were they taking you?

“Jimin!” You screeched, hand stretching out. His eyes widened farther. 

“Y/N!” He called back, fighting the restraints and lunging towards the cage. 

Taehyung’s girlfriend sobbed loudly and Taehyung looked over, concern evident as he struggled to reach out, mental focus just on getting to his lover. 

“I love you!” You cried. “Please look for us, don’t give up on us.” Came out your broken plea. 

“I’ll search the ends of the universe just to see your face, Y/N.” You heard him say. The underlings restrained him and you sat back, feeling defeated already. The others knew you weren’t a goddess and they immediately babied you, knowing your body to be far more fragile from theirs. Tae’s girlfriend shot you small smiles of encouragement and you did so in return. Yoongi’s wife rubbed your back and the third mystery woman remained silent as you were driven to gods know where. 

-

-

Last minute A/N: OKAY OKAY I admit it, I didn’t give this...a great happy ending. BUT BUT BUT I promise you a happy ending in the future-

#bts #tatawrites #of eternity and euphoria #bts x reader #jimin #park jimin #jimin x reader #fluff #god!BTS #God!Jimin #Demigod!reader #love #proof reading is dead to me #I'll just fix it later if I have the guts to reread my work

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Prompt: Cry me a river, I cried a river over you.

Part ONE:

The train northbound was packed, not unusual, but it made Claire feel exposed. She’d begun crying the moment she’d received the phone call and hadn’t stopped since. It was the reason she was using public transport in the first place and not driving - the last thing she needed was to be involved in a car accident because of her impaired vision.

Adorned with inappropriately large sunglasses on a dismal day, with her scarf wrapped tightly around her neck to hide as much of her face as possible, she had boarded at Oxford, her chest tight as it suddenly dawned on her that she was trailing all the way up to Glasgow and she wouldn’t be seeing Lamb alive.

“Christ…” she sighed under her breath, her eyes tingling once more as the tears began to build.

Her uncle, Quentin Lambert, had been settled in Scotland for some time - something quite odd for him, he was definitely more of the travelling sort. He’d started on a memoir that he’d meant to publish and had, on several occasions, asked for Claire’s companionship and assistance. Caught up in her own drama, she had declined and the guilt sat low in her belly making it almost impossible to eat or sleep.

A gentle Irish train guard pulled her from her dark thoughts and she quietly pulled her ticket from the small purse that sat open on the food tray in front of her before going back to staring out of the window.

Parents both dead by the tender age of twelve, Claire had been sent to live with Lamb. His life as a traveling archeologist was not suited to raising a child and he had tried to place Claire in a boarding school - though she had other ideas. Smiling, she thought back to the day she’d finally pushed the headmistress of the school too far causing uncle Lamb to have to cut short a sudden trip to India and return to England to fetch her. She remembered fondly throwing the stupid boater she’d been graced with as part of the uniform into a nearby hedge as they’d driven away down the long drive. Her formative years had been spent in the desert - surrounded by her uncles peers, graduates and students, she had learned to fend for herself.

Though she had good memories of her mother and father, it was Lamb who had raised her through her most difficult teenage years and at the end of his life, when he had so desperately wanted to involve her in his hobbies once more, she had forsaken him for silly follies.

Lost to her guilt and self-loathing, she completely lost track of time and it wasn’t until the young woman sat next to her rose from her seat that she realised the train had come to a grinding halt.

The battle through Glasgow Central train station gave her a moment to focus on something else, her heart racing and her hands clammy as she pulled her rather large suitcase through, nudging and shoving tourists and locals alike in order to make it out onto the street.

Her name shone in bright red ink, the sign hiding the face of the man who held it as she shook her head.

“I h-hadn’t called anyone?” She said, shocked that there was anyone here who would know her.

“Aye, ye did. The other day. I thought it would be easier for ye if someone was here to collect you rather than spend more time on yer own.”

“Oh.” She replied. The word stuck in her throat as she recalled the very short phone call she’d made to the funeral director a few mornings prior when she’d booked her train ticket. A simple nod to the man who’d been emailing her and organising as much as he could with her hundreds of miles away. “Are you with the funeral company then?” Claire found it odd that any of them would be worried enough to come out and collect her personally - but was grateful at the same time. Riding in the comfort of a car without having to hunt down a taxi, make inane conversation and then struggle to find her uncles address made the end of the journey just a little easier.

“Ah,” he replied, finally pulling the sign low enough that she could see the bright mop of red hair that sat proudly above a glowing set of blue eyes, “nah, I’m no’ with them. I’m Jamie,” he continued, holding out his free hand for her to shake. “Jamie Fraser. I was working on the book with yer uncle. I work with the publicist he’d hired. Did he tell ye?”

When she didn’t respond, he simply smiled and continued as if the small twitch of her lips was enough. “I’m a ghost writer. He was struggling to write himself, so he hired me to type whilst he spoke, told me all sorts of stories and I, in turn, edited it, re-worded it sometimes or just added it to the appropriate section of the book.”

Guilt reared its ugly head again, making Claire understand more fully why Lamb might have wanted her company so badly and she bit her lip to contain the tears. Repeating herself, she swallowed audibly and nodded, “oh…good.” Making it sound sincere, she smiled as much as she was able before allowing him to place his arm softly around her waist and guide her towards his waiting car.

The ride itself was quiet and uneventful. Claire needed the time to decompress the situation, her brain going from nought to one hundred in the short twenty minute car journey. They approached the quaint brownstone property on the outskirts of the city with little to no issue. It had its own private garage and Jamie flicked a switch on a small remote to open and close the large grey-brown door. Taking the stairs in a small passage way, they made their way up onto the first floor, Jamie opening and closing everything behind her as well as carrying her heavy case.

“So,” she spoke, her voice husky from her constant sobbing, “how long have you known my uncle?” Though she knew it must have been long enough for him to entrust the lad with a key to his home and his car.

“Nearly three years now, going on for four. We were…” stopping, he wiped his eyes on his sleeve clearly choked up by recent events himself, “well, we were so very close to finishing. Part of me thinks it should be me who writes the ending, ye ken, for his memory. But I dinna even know where to start.”

“Shit.” Cursing, she turned her back on Jamie and held her hand over her mouth. She wanted to scream, to cry, to punch something…mostly she wanted to turn back time and relive all of the times she’d said no to coming up here and turn them into a yes. Just once would have been enough, and she knew it. Just one time, she would have arrived and never left… “I should have been here.”

“He spoke of ye often. Yer in the manuscript, if you want to read it?” Avoiding her self flagellation completely, Jamie placed his hand on her shoulder and offered her an olive branch. Though he couldn’t deny her deprecating words, it wasn’t his place to say what she should or should not have done. He could see the guilt drawn plainly on her face, though he couldn’t see her eyes he knew that they’d be red rimmed and she seemed so incredibly tired that he couldn’t bring himself to add any more blame at her door.

“T-thank you, Jamie. For everything. For clearly being here for him when I wasn’t. I’m sure you were a dear friend.”

Knowing her uncles proclivities - even from a young age - she knew his interest in young men rather than ladies and part of her, in her grief, wondered whether he had become more than just a friend to Lamb. But her instincts told her now was not the time to pry.

“I would really love to read it.”

“We have a few days until the funeral, how about I email you the first draft. It’s open ended, mind, so dinna worry about the sudden stop.”

“Thank you.” She said again, taking his hand, bringing it to her mouth and kissing it softly as she turned to find her way upstairs. Halting at the door she assumed to lead her that way, she turned -removing her glasses as she did so. “I’m so rude, sorry, is there a guest bedroom here? Somewhere I’d be alright staying for a few weeks?”

“Of course! And dinna be daft, ye arena rude at all. Ye’ve just lost someone dear to ye. I’m all over the place too, so I canna imagine how you feel.”

Though she got the distinct feeling that he could.

“Can I ask how long ye intend to stay for Claire? If ye dinna mind?”

Having been a trust fund child living off the money gifted to her from her parents’ death, she’d had no worries in the years after her graduation. The estate had been in the family for hundreds of years, friends of the family the same, and she had finished both her BSc and her Masters in History before going on to complete a few of her own independent research papers whilst living off that inheritance. Oxford, although her home for many years, held little to return to and her heart almost stopped at the realisation as the dread crept along her veins.

“A month, maybe. Once the funeral is done I want to stay and finalise his estate. The lawyers have already been in touch but it might take a while to go through everything that was in his name, notify them and so on. Do you live here, Jamie?” She added her question quietly, as if the asking of it might infer something else.

“Ach, no. I moved in for the last few weeks. I think he kent it was nearing the end and wanted the book finished. He insisted that was the best, so that we could work day and night as we needed. But I have my own place across the city.”

‘I should have been here…’ the statement rattled around in her head once more, the ghost of it returning to haunt her. If she had, things might have been different.

“First on the right as you get to the top of the stairs,” he whispered, seeing her pupils dilate and her lips clench as she lost herself in thought. He could see that she desperately needed some time to herself, to cry and to deliberate on all the things left undone and unsaid between her and Lamb, “it’s got a double bed and an en-suite. He meant for ye to have that room and it’s all been made up for ye.”

Nodding, she held her purse tightly and rushed off up and away from him, leaving her suitcase there. Seeing the room, she let herself in, closed the door and flopped against it - her body feeling boneless as she slumped down and curled herself into a ball, crying as the words of the last song she’d heard on the radio, a Michael Bublè classic to add some irony to the situation, in the kitchen swirled around her crowded mind.

#Anonymous #;Mod MBD #Cry Me A River #Jamie X Claire #Outlander Ficlet